"He also comes by here, sometimes," Arti continued, "mostly for free eats. At least, I think the one that comes by here is the father."
Casa Linda, Balboa
Two turbaned guards stood outside the conference room. Two others were within. There were always that many, or more, for when the boy slept two of them slept on thin cushions to either side of his bed while two more stood awake and watching, arms in hand, their pale green, gray, and blue eyes barely blinking.
They did other things, too, those guards. Hamilcar Carrera-Nuñez, eldest child of Patricio and Lourdes, was already a crack shot, could fight with fist, dagger or lance, at least within his weight class, or even a bit above it, and could ride like the wind. The guards seemed to take a personal pride in passing on the lessons learned by their tribe of nearly three thousand years of combat on two planets.
Despite the guards' surpassing paranoia where his safety was concerned, Hamilcar was not in the conference room for safety's sake. Rather, he had learned to hijack the computer to play wargames from the Legion's educational programs on the conference room's big Kurosawa screen. On that screen now, thousands of electronic shadows were dying as a young student of the art of war swung in his flanks onto the opposing exposed flanks and smashed his cavalry into the computer enemy's rear.
It's a lot better, now, thought Hamilcar. Much, much better since dad snapped out of it. Mmm . . . mostly snapped out of it, the boy corrected. I can hear when he screams at night no less than mom can. And she doesn't really know, not the way I do, why he screams. After all, I was there.
Poor dad; when I'm a little older I'll be able to take some of the burden away.
Hamilcar knew, because his father had discussed it with him, that within a year, a year and a half at most, he would be going to Pashtia on his own—or, rather, with his company of guards—to grow some in ways the local schools could never teach. He suspected that it had more to do with getting him someplace comparatively safe than it did with furthering his education. Not that Pashtia was precisely safe, or perhaps ever would be. But there he would be guarded by hundreds, really thousands, of fanatics, every one of whom from the chief down to the least little girl milking a goat would eagerly die to prevent anything from happening to "Iskandr, avatar of God."
"Which is nonsense," the boy muttered aloud, his fingers sending a recall command to his light cavalry. "I'm not an avatar of any god. I'm just eight years old. With maybe some skills and knacks. And a slight resemblance to a nearly three thousand year old image on a gold plate in a dusty cave somewhere in Pashtia."
On the big screen, trapped shadows, nearly eighty thousand of them, continued to die.
Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova
From the island, the sea today might as well have been an expanse of blue painted glass, with waves drawn on. Close in, one could see that the waves were real enough, but very gentle. They rolled in to a smooth sandy beach, dominated by a hill with a couple of natural caves in its face.
"We could butcher them down there," said Alexandr Sitnikov, late of the Red Tsar's Fifth Guards Tank Regiment, as he pointed from the shallow cave mouth down to the beaches to the north, northeast, and northwest.
Carrera nodded but said, looking around the shallow cave, "I expected you would have made more progress than you have, Alexandr."
The short and balding Volgan looked sheepish. (All Volgan tankers were short, though baldness was optional.) "I know," he said. "And I'm sorry. But I ran out of money last year and Esterhazy"—the Legion's Sachsen-born comptroller—"wouldn't shit me any more money without your express order."
Carrera thought, Query to self: Despite what was intended to be a training program that developed vast individual initiative, did my behavior the last couple of years before I cracked make people defensive and rob them of initiative? Ask Mac and Xavier; no one else will answer honestly. If so, how do I fix it?
He nodded his understanding, agreeing, "Fair enough. Not your fault. The money will be forthcoming. Can you finish preparing the island for defense within three years?"
Sitnikov could remember a time when Carrera had been so worn out with the struggle, so tired, that he'd have lashed out viciously over any failing. The rest did him good, I think. Which is good for me, too.
"It will cost more," the Volgan answered. "The old rule still applies: You can have it quick or good or cheap; pick any two. And, of course, some preparations cannot be completed, per your guidance, until war is impending or has already begun.
Sitnikov's face took on an uncharacteristically mulish cast. "And besides that, I've got the problem of running the cadets. They're a goddamned division all on their own, Patricio. I've been juggling the two for years, probably to the detriment of both. You really need someone to do both, separately."
"I know," Carrera agreed. "And I am sorely tempted to make that someone Esterhazy, who is not only a trained engineer but also the fucker who should have taken the initiative and given you the money." He sighed. "But if I did, who would be comptroller?"
"That, happily, is your problem. I didn't sign on with you to specialize in personnel management."
"You didn't sign on to run herd on teenagers or design a system of fortifications, either," Carrera answered, drily, "but you never bitched about either one."
"Actually," Sitnikov corrected, "I signed on to teach your first troops to operate White Eagle tanks. You just bribed me into staying on for the cadets and this island."
"Mere details."
"Hmmm . . . details . . . tanks . . . I've got a demonstration for you, if you're up to it."
"Demonstration of what?" Carrera asked.
"Bunkers, actually," the Volgan answered. "If I didn't have the money to build them all, I did have enough to build some of the prototypes we first discussed and to test a few of the designs."
* * *
"Best put these in," Sitnikov said, taking a pair of earplugs from a pocket and handing them to Carrera. He took another set out, rolled them in his fingers to collapse them to narrow cylinders then stuck those in his own ear canals. Carrera did similarly.
In front of them a Jaguar II (formerly "White Eagle") tank sat with the tank commander's upper torso sticking out of the turret. Sitnikov gave the tank commander, or TC, a thumbs up. Immediately the tank commander dropped down into the turret, hurriedly closing the hatch behind him.
Sitnikov shouted, "This is going to—"
KABOOMMM!
"—sting."
Before the last word was out, indeed, before the concussion from the muzzle had dissipated, a concrete bunker downrange was blocked from view by the evil, black smoke of a good-sized explosion. Eight seconds later, after the turret had traversed a few degrees, the same thing happened to a second bunker, then, another eight seconds later, a third . . . a fourth . . . a fifth . . . a sixth.
"Jesus, I hate those things," Carrera muttered, completely unheard by anyone but himself. "Sting," was something of an understatement. The Volgans made great guns, of tremendous power and range for their weight and complexity. A major downside, however, was that the muzzle blast from those guns was somewhat incompatible with maintaining human health.
The TC of the tank emerged and made an all clear signal. Sitnikov nudged Carrera's arm, even as he dug into his own ears to pull out the plugs. "Come, let me show you." The Volgan picked up a box and began to walk toward the still smoke obscured bunkers.