Kaboom! Kakakakakaboomoomoomoomoom!
Camp Balboa, Sumer, 26/10/461 AC
Carrera found Fernandez weeping quietly and staring at the photo of his daughter. A faxed message sat, crumpled on the desk, alongside a color newspaper page from home showing the carnage.
Beautiful girl, Carrera thought. She must have resembled her mother. What a goddamned fucking waste.
He placed one hand on his intel chief's shoulder, in sympathy. "I just heard, Omar. There are no words…"
Fernandez looked up, not trying to hide his tears. "She was all I had after her mother died. And then these…"
"… bastards," Carrera supplied. "We'll get them, if we can, Omar. I wish I could promise you-"
"It's for me to promise you, Legate. We'll get them, all of them, no matter what it takes."
Of all men, Patricio Carrera probably best understood Fernandez's suffering. And one had to be impressed with the conviction behind his promise.
Aeropuerto Internacional Herrera,
Ciudad Balboa, 3/1/462 AC
You had to be impressed. The fund-starved and despised armed forces of the various states of the Tauran Union had never managed to deploy much of anywhere without the FSC not only footing the bill but providing the taxis… and the lunch counters… and the fuel… and the bulk of the ammunition… the administration… the medical support, the… ah, but why be petty? Nonetheless, in what was lightning speed by TU standards, the first troops of the Kingdom of Castilla and the Republique de la Gaule arrived in country within a fortnight of the second series of attacks.
These had been directed away from infrastructure and towards people. This focus was not exactly unusual, for the terrorists, but it was critical here. Had they actually succeeded in destroying the Balboa Transitway, the above-sea-level canal that connected Terra Nova's two major oceans, there might not have been a reason to deploy. Moreover, killing people (and they killed many in attacks on churches, especially) was much more likely to garner sympathy.
Best of all, from the Tauros' point of view, was that no one at home could object to sending soldiers to protect Balboa. This was as plainly a nonaggressive move as one could conceive of. Even the pacifists approved.
The FSC had very mixed feelings, of course. The Transitway was theirs. They'd paid for it, built it, defended it, and even once invaded to make sure the Balboans didn't soon forget who really owned it. On the other hand, the FS really didn't have available the troops required to defend it, what with running two campaigns in Sumer and Pashtia. Even worse, with the growing insurgency in Sumer, the legion couldn't be released to defend their home turf.
There wasn't much to do but acquiesce.
Las Mesas, Balboa, 3/1/462 AC
Jorge would never surrender to being a mere cripple.
But your problem, old son, is that there is only so much you can do that's fun. Mendoza laughed at himself. Okay, there's only so much you can do… period. The fun part could wait. Seriously though, I can't take her swimming outside of a pool. And I'm not comfortable in a pool. Movies are less than ideal for me and so she doesn't enjoy them as she should. The worst are the ones in English with Spanish subtitles. Long walks are out for the next few years. But this horse has advantages over walking anyway.
Actually, thought Mendoza, my body-what there is of it-isn't so big a problem as the fact that I am scared to death of Marqueli… or rather of losing her. I'd love to tell her how I feel, but what if she just ran away from me? A cripple for a friend is one thing. But for something more than a friend…?
It was Marqueli who hit upon the idea of horseback riding. She had gone to her uncle who raised horses and asked him if he could provide a couple of gentle ones. The uncle, being told of Carrera's interest in Mendoza and eager to stay on Carrera's and the legion's good side, had agreed immediately.
So Marqueli asked the doctor in charge of Jorge's recovery if a car and driver could be provided, telling him why they needed them. "Piece-o-cake," the doctor had answered, snapping his fingers.
A few days later Mendoza and Marqueli found themselves staying in separate rooms on her uncle's ranch. Every day began with a ride. Marqueli took along a picnic lunch. As she and Jorge rode she described the scenes they passed and warned him of any undulations in the ground that would affect his horse. Sometimes they just rode in silence.
He's remarkable, thought Marqueli. He never complains, he never whines. How many men would take such a beating from life and still be trying?
She asked, "Jorge, what are you going to do now?"
Mendoza didn't answer immediately. When he did, his answer came slowly, as if he were still thinking. "There's the beca the legion is offering to badly wounded troops. It's generous, much more so than the one being offered to regularly discharged legionaires. I've been thinking along the lines of taking them up on that offer… going back to school, to the university."
The girl clapped her hands together, startling the horses slightly. "That's wonderful. To study what, do you think?"
"History, maybe. The legate and Dux have said they'd need teachers at the schools they're starting. It would carry a warrant- officership when I finish. I'll keep drawing my regular pay until then. Only problem is… how do I write a paper when I can't see the typewriter?"
"Oh, Jorge don't be silly. I'll type your papers for you, once we're married." The girl said it so matter of factly that Mendoza didn't at first realize what she had said. He answered "Well, of course you could… did you say married?" He reined his horse in tightly.
"Yes, silly. Do you think I spend all my available time with you because I hate you? 'Married.' Why not?"
"Pity?" Mendoza asked.
"When you start feeling sorry for yourself, maybe I'll feel sorry for you, too. In the interim, since I do plan on children, and since I plan on them being yours, and especially since my family would disown me if they were illegitimate, then 'married.' To you. Or don't you want me?" She leaned over Mendoza's horse and kissed his cheek.
Speechless for the moment, Jorge just inclined his head at an odd angle. "Married. Senora Marqueli Mendoza. Children. Oh, wow… I love you 'Queli."
"I know. I've known for months. Though why you never said so… well! "
"Married." He whooped and gave a nudge to his horse's midriff. The horse picked up to a trot, heading down the road.
Marqueli followed, reaching to grab Jorge's horse's leads. "You damned fool. A broken neck might be a little bit too much, don't you think?"
Marqueli, being not much past sixteen, needed her family's permission to marry. This was forthcoming once Jorge explained to her uncle that, despite his injuries, he would be able to maintain a wife and family. Following that step, the next had been to introduce Marqueli and his mother.
His mother had wept, of course, at first. She'd wept, too, when she'd first heard the news of his loss and then again when she'd seen him at the hospital. The image of her fine strong son, bedridden and crippled, had been just too much. However, where before she had wept in despair, now it was with relief and even happiness. And married? To such a fine girl?
While the driver had taken Marqueli to her family's house, not too far away, Jorge and his mother were left alone to talk.
"Oh, she's a wonderful girl," Mama Mendoza said. "A beautiful little thing. How in the world did you ever find her?"
"She found me… sort of, Madre. It seems she's the cousin of the… to be honest, the mistress of Legate Carrera."
"Really? Well… she's not only beautiful but she has a very nice singing voice," the mother said innocently.
" What?"
"You're the girl?" Jorge asked, as his horse sauntered besides 'Queli's mare.