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 smalclass="underline" 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.