by Tom Kratman
There had once been more species but, man being man, many of those which had been saved by the Noahs and gone extinct on Old Earth tended to be driven to extinction on the new once man put down roots.
Besides those living relics of Old Earth, other species, plant and animal, were either native to Terra Nova, or had been transplanted from some other world or worlds by the Noahs, or were even the product of genetic manipulation. Some of these appeared to have been created expressly to prevent the rise of intelligent life on Terra Nova. The septic mouthed, winged reptiles called "antaniae," or moonbats, were one example. More sinister still was the fruit of the tranzitree. Very sweet, tranzitree fruit contained a toxin that was deadly to beings with highly developed brains. Moreover, the toxin built up in the flesh of food animals. Eat a steak from a cow that had been eating of the tranzitree fruit, or its kin the bolshiberry and progressivine; die in shrieking agony, brain inflamed and swelling until it seemed it would burst from your skull.
These were clever traps and might have been sufficient, on their own, to prevent the rise of intelligent life on Terra Nova. They had proved generally ineffective against colonization by intelligent life, however.
* * *
The archaeopteryx ate greedily, beak scraping on a metal tray on the floor. Carrera continued to pat it while looking out the glass door. Off in the distance, he saw a mid-sized airship winding gracefully through the air on its way from somewhere in Colombia del Norte down to Southern Columbia. An airship had been the instrument of the murder of his Linda and their children, so he always looked at the things with feelings, at best, mixed.
Every feeling I have, he thought, with a sigh, is mixed these last seven years.
He stood, leaving the trixie to eat, and walked the few steps to the window that overlooked the solar chimney. Am I doing right, he wondered, trying to bring Balboa into the fifth century. After all, the Oil Yithrabis have been spending money right and left to try to do the same there, while keeping the culture of thirteenth century Old Earth. Hasn't worked for them for beans.
The difference, he thought, between Balboa and, say, Sumer or Pashtia . . . or even Yithrab, isn't one merely of religion, but also one of degree. The Arabs and Pashtun put family above all except religion . . . so do the Balboans, and only to a somewhat lesser degree. Breaking them of that . . . well . . . difficult. I have not succeeded yet, and I may never entirely succeed. Even in the Legion . . .
Even in the Legion there were connections that mattered. He'd combated that, or tried to, in a number of ways. It was perhaps the only armed force on the planet that insisted on a complete family tree for four generations back before enlistment, and that only to organize cousins out of the same units to prevent them from taking care of each other to the detriment of the organization as a whole. He'd had leaders turned out and even shot for preferring cousins and brothers over better, but unrelated, men. Even then, it still popped up, this preference for family, or amoral familism. And even the appearance of it was dangerous.
More dangerous is that even I am infected with it, he thought. My only saving grace is that the number of people whom I will favor for familial relation is very small: Lourdes, and the children. Of course, I was infected with it as a boy, when my parents and their friends tried to turn me into a cosmopolitan, too.
Which helped explain his bad mood and his need for the cows to calm him. Lourdes, his second wife and arguably the reason he retained as much sanity as he had, had spoken to him the night prior to try to get him to help a member of her extended family. Her cousin, Marqueli—Carrera had met the girl once, beautiful little thing—was married to one of his soldiers. That soldier was on the medically retired list which, in the Legion, only meant that he was given some other duty out of his normal regiment. In Marqueli Mendoza's husband's case, those duties for the last several years had been going to school, at Legion expense, at the university to earn his baccalaureate.
Jorge Mendoza, former tanker in what was then the Mechanized Cohort, Carlos Martillo, was blind and missing both legs, the result of enemy action in the Sumeri city of Ninewa, early in the war.
The boy—well, he was only twenty-two or three—wanted to continue his studies. His wife, Marqueli, had spoken to Lourdes, apparently, and Lourdes to Carrera, about giving Jorge Mendoza some special help with that.
He wanted to help the boy, of course, anything to help one of his legionaries and especially one who had given up so much in the cause. But he hadn't a clue how to do that, consistent with his principles, and the Mendoza's were due at his office any minute.
* * *
Actually, though Carrera didn't know it, the couple was already there, sitting nervously in the anteroom while Carrera's aide de camp, or AdC, waited for the time to tick away until their last minute appointment was due. They were both very nervous.
Jorge Mendoza showed it. Marqueli didn't, even though she was more nervous for her husband's sake than he was for his own.
"It's a good idea you have, Jorge," she insisted, placing a warm and comforting hand on his arm. "Duque Carrera will see that; I'm sure of it. My cousin was sure of it, as well. She agrees it's a wonderful idea and that her husband will support it."
"Maybe," Mendoza admitted just as the AdC looked up and said, "Time, Candidate."
Into the speaker box on his desk he announced, "Duque, Warrant Officer Candidate and Mrs. Mendoza are here to see you."
* * *
Barring exceptional circumstances, Carrera would have had tossed from his office anyone who brought his wife along. Mendoza, legless and sightless, was such an exceptional circumstance.
Can't criticize a man who suffered as much as he has in my service just for bringing along some help. Besides, she's awfully easy on the eyes.
The door opened, allowing the Mendoza's to enter. Yes, she's just as pretty as I remembered. Poor Mendoza, that he can't see that. Then again, he's a fine-looking boy, too. I can see why the girl was drawn to him.
Instead of meeting them at his desk, Carrera stood and indicated a couch for the couple, then took for himself a well-stuffed chair opposite. Mendoza's artificial legs whined slightly as they bent to allow him to sit.
"You want to continue your studies, I am informed," Carrera began.
"Yes, sir," Mendoza answered, turning his head to face Carrera. His eyes remained unfocused. "I had thought to take up teaching at one of the military schools when I finished. But it hit me when I was reading a book that there was something more, something better, I could do. Actually, Marqueli was reading the book to me," he amended.
Note to self: Library, Braille, pass on to Professor Ruiz to investigate the possibilities, Carrera thought. Even if not worth it to us, maybe it will be good public relations for the Legion.
"Something better?" Carrera asked.
Marqueli pulled a paperback from her purse. Carrera saw that it was one he had had printed by the publishing house he'd had set up under Professor Ruiz's propaganda department. He saw, too, the title: Tropas del Espacio and the letters, "RAH."
"How'd you like the translation?" he asked Marqueli.
"It was so-so, I think," she answered. No one but Carrera and Ruiz knew that Carrera had personally translated the first third or so of the book.
Both deflated and wryly amused, Carrera sighed. Oh, well, can't win 'em all.
"But the original thoughts," Marqueli continued, "well . . . tell the Duque, Jorge."
"History and Moral Philosophy, Duque. There is a need for such a book, a need all over this planet. Balboa needs it as much as anyone."
Ohhhh, so that's his idea. Not bad. Can I tell myself with a straight face that I am doing this, if I do, for one of my soldiers and not for a man married to my wife's cousin? For my adoptive country and not for a relative? For the world and not for nepotism? That would help.
"And you want to write this book, Candidate Mendoza?"
"I do . . . but it will take time. That, and more education than a baccalaureate."
&n
bsp; "In English," Carrera said, "PhD stands for 'piled higher and deeper.' Still, I see your point."
Carrera then went silent for a while, unconsciously leaving the Mendozas to squirm. If I do support this will I be breaking my own principles? No, I am doing it for one of my troops which is absolutely consistent with my principles. But . . . even worse, maybe I'll look like I'm breaking my own principles. But what if . . .
He smiled broadly. It's such a joy when the answer just jumps out at you. "Candidate Mendoza . . . Mrs. Mendoza. I think your idea is a fine one, especially if you broaden it to the question of which one should place first, family or nation or civilization or religion." It's a question to which I need an answer myself. "There is a new program for the Legion." Damned straight it's new since I just thought of it. "It's so new we haven't even had a chance to advertise it yet. Actually, we haven't even yet worked out the application procedures. But we are going to offer, annually, a half a dozen scholarships for higher education to deserving veterans of the Legion. There will be a battle- or service-connected disability preference."
Am I quick on my feet or what?
"You'll have to apply and be interviewed by either myself or Duque Parilla and a board we will designate. At that board you will have to make a presentation of your intended project. The first board will meet in about six months. I suggest you have your presentation ready by then," he finished, standing to indicate the interview was over.
Marqueli, too, stood, followed by Jorge once he felt her lift from the couch.
"Thank you, sir," Mendoza said. Until Marqueli nudged his right arm he was uncertain as to whether to offer his hand to a superior and could not see that Carrera had thrust his own out. At the nudge he did offer his hand, which Carrera took and shook warmly enough.
The tiny Marqueli waited until the handshake was done, then launched herself at Carrera, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her lovely head to his chest.
"Thank you, Duque," she said, tears of gratitude shining in her eyes for the favor she was certain had just been done her husband. "Thank you."
15/9/466 AC, Ninewa Province, Sumer
The farmer plowing his field waved at the passing column of legionary infantry. Newly promoted centurion, junior grade, Ricardo Cruz, taking up the rear, waved back. Curiously, the farmer kept waving, even after Cruz had returned it. Cruz's eyes narrowed and he looked more carefully at the farmer. Yes, the man's wave was definitely exaggerated.
"Thank you muchly, Mister Farmer," he muttered.
"Platoon leader," he said into the earpiece-cum-microphone he wore. It was a minor modification to a civilian system, a short-range wireless that ran through a longer ranged one. The Legion had adopted the communication system, or Comsys, it because it was cheap, effective, and available almost immediately.
Almost immediately a voice answered, "Centurion Arredondo. What is it, Cruz?"
"That farmer we just passed. I think he's trying to give us a warning, boss."
"Maybe," Arredondo answered. It was even likely. As time had passed and the insurgency weakened, more and more civilians had proved willing to help both the Legion and the Sumeri National Forces to flush out more of the enemy. As more of the enemy had been flushed out, more civilians had become willing to help. The guerillas were really on the ropes over most of the country. Worse, they knew it and so did the civilians among whom they tried to operate.
It could easily have gone the other way, had certain things not come to pass some years before.
"Did he give you any specific indicators?" Arredondo asked, then continued, " . . . Ah . . . never mind. The pooch's already alerted. They're in the wheat growing to our left front."
Cruz couldn't see the attached scout dog from his position in the back of the platoon, but did see the men sinking to their bellies along the dirt road that led between the irrigated fields. He joined them.
"Artillery?" he asked Arredondo over the Comsys.
"No . . . no. I don't want to fuck up the farmer's crop; be a damned poor way to repay him for trying to help. What's available for air?"
Air support was well out of the range of the Comsys, which were, by design, limited to no more than a mile in range. Cruz turned to the chief of the forward observer team, bellying down beside him.
"What can we get from the air?" Cruz asked.
The corporal made an inquiry over his longer ranged radio. A few minutes later he answered, "We can have a brace of Turbo-Finch Avengers"—crop dusters reconfigured for the close air support role—"in about twenty minutes, or there's an armed Cricket recon bird we can have in five. The Avengers are carrying some flechette rockets and a gun pod each. Mostly they're carrying bombs though."
"Can we have both?" Cruz asked. After all, we don't necessarily have to use the bombs.
"Don't see why not."
"Get 'em both. We'll let the Cricket flush them and use the Avengers to help us pursue. Rockets and machine guns only though." He passed the same on to Arredondo via the Comsys.
"That's fine, Cruz," Arredondo answered. Cruz then heard him say, "O Group," or orders group. All four squad leaders immediately answered with their ordinal numbers, "First . . . Second . . . Third . . . Fourth." Fourth was also known as the weapons squad.
Cruz himself announced only his name, and that only to let the squad leaders know he was there and listening.
"Here's the deal," Arrodendo announced. "I think we've got a group of guerillas up ahead in the wheat to the left. They probably know they've been spotted by the fact we took cover. That's ok. We're going to kill them anyway."
"We've got air inbound in five . . . no, about four now . . . minutes. Once that's overhead, we're going to start moving forward by bounds, by squad. Second Squad will bound first. Once we take fire we'll return it and develop the situation a bit. I want to flush them into the open where the air can kill them. Questions?"
"First, negative . . . Second, no questions, Centurion . . . Third, roger, out . . . Weapons, no sweat."
"Centurion, this is Cruz. The machine guns can range the wood from the road and can see it, too."
After a short pause to think, Arredondo said, "Right . . . keep weapons by the road, Cruz. You stay with them to control the air. Now, good hunting, gentlemen. The war's been dull of late. This should give the boys a little much-needed excitement."
* * *
The Cricket was heavily muffled. Cruz didn't see or hear it until the pilot came up on the radio to announce he'd arrived.
"Keep out of light missile range," Cruz cautioned. "We're going to try to flush them out of cover."
"Wilco," answered the pilot. "Hey, Cruz, that you?"
"Montoya?" Cruz asked in return.
"'Oh, Cazador Buddy,'" Montoya answered.
"I didn't know you were going to flight school."
Montoya sighed over the radio. "I didn't do well enough in school"—he meant Cazador School, a miserable exercise in starvation, sleep deprivation, danger and sheer hard work; it was also the Legion's sine qua non for leader selection—"for them to actually trust me as an officer or centurion. So I hung around the Cazador Tercio until someone came to talk to me about becoming a pilot. So it's Flight Warrant Officer Montoya now."
"Good job," Cruz answered, and meant it. Unlike most armed forces the air component of the Legion was a part and parcel of the whole; treated like crap the same as everyone else, rather than as spoiled children with too many privileges. There was, therefore, quite a bit more affection between ground and air than was true of most armed forces. The air loved the ground because they were the honorable edge of battle. The ground loved the air because there was none of this "our pilots are too precious to risk" and "but we need our crew rest" nonsense and because they'd always be there when needed, even at the cost of pilots' lives.
"Yeah," Montoya agreed. "Besides, I'm a better pilot than I was a grunt. I'll be standing by and watching," he concluded.
* * *
The enemy opened fire first, at
a range somewhat long for the rifles and light machine guns they carried. From the road, about twelve hundred meters away from the wood, the legionaries had no trouble returning fire with their excellent .34 caliber machine guns. Three medium guns, belting out three to four hundred rounds per minute, sustained, between them, and coupled with return fire from the infantry squads closer in, were more than the insurgents really felt up to dealing with. They began to run.
"Cruz, Montoya; I see them and I'm on it."
"Get some, Montoya."
For the first time that day Cruz heard the thrummm of the Cricket's engine as Montoya gunned it to close to range. Then, mere moments later, he heard the steady sound of cloth ripping as the dual machine gun mounted to side-fire from the Cricket opened up. He couldn't see if they hit anything, as the enemy was running away. He could see the rest of the platoon rise to their feet and begin to run forward, firing from the hip, urged on by Arredondo's wide-carrying shout.