Lourdes' gift was in a box, about three feet long—or a bit more, and four inches on a side. When Carrera had removed the paper he found that the box was wooden. He removed the lid to discover a sword, old and, from the inscription, Spanish.
Lourdes said "I had to send all the way to Taurus to find it for you. It is from the 16th century on Old Earth. The dealer told me it wasn't the sword of anyone famous. But he believed and showed me why he believed that it once belonged to a Conquistador. I thought it would go well with your collection. I hope you like it."
Carrera took the sword from its box. He drew the blade from the scabbard. It was very well preserved, he saw, for something nearly a millennium old and made of steel. The lights from the tree gleamed along the shimmering metal of the blade. Carrera made an appreciative sound. "It's wonderful, Lourdes. You understand, though, it's too rare for me to carry around."
Holding the sword to catch the light better, Carrera saw small flakes of rust and that the blade was, in a few places, pitted. This was no surprise. He said softly, to no one in particular:
"How dull it is, to pause, to make and end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use,
As though to breathe were life."
By his tone, and his eye, Lourdes knew he was pleased. She paused, took a deep breath. "I have another present for you, Patricio. I hope you like it as well. But you can't have it for a while."
Carrera raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I'm going to have another baby . . . in about seven months."
"Really?" he asked, then, smiling broadly, said, "Coool."
"Well," she said, eyes sparkling and lips turning wicked, "it's not like you've left me with my legs together too often lately.
"Just making up for lost time."
University of Balboa, Ciudad Balboa
The university was rapidly becoming as split an entity as the country which supported it. True enough, most of the facilities were here on the main campus, in what many were beginning to call "Free Balboa," as opposed to "occupied Balboa." Even so, that portion which was in the Transitway Area, plus the few buildings in the small portion of the city owned by the rump government of Rocaberti and his cronies, had pretty much ceased responding to anything emanating from the University Rectory.
Professor Ruiz, de facto propaganda minister for the Legion and the rest of the country, at the moment not only did not but could not care a bit about the split in the country or the split in the university. He was nursing a splitting headache, courtesy of the New Years' party held by his department the night before.
Still, work had to go on, even on Terra Novan New Years' Day. Work, in this case, consisted of reviewing a series of two minute long commercials the Legion's junior military academies.
This was a tough one, Ruiz thought, through the pounding in his head. We couldn't show the military side of the cadet program . . . too likely to frighten away parents. Besides, Carrera was explicit that that was to be downplayed. So all we have is some martial music, staged pictures of fourteen and fifteen year olds dressed up in gray fatigues while attending class, and a few shots of kids marching in parade. Still, though, the Legion is so tightly woven into the fabric of the country by now that all they need is a reminder, I think. And for that, these commercials will do well enough.
* * *
Not many miles from where Professor Ruiz underwent his ordeal by hangover, a poor boy from a poor family sat through an interview. The boy's parents and his own teacher conversed while trying to find a way to pay for the boy's continued education. The family was named Porras; the boy went by Julio. He was a handsome kid, if a bit on the skinny side. Porras' family had not always been so poor.
Although education was free in the Republic of Balboa, the uniforms and books required were not. The Porras family had been able, by scrimping and saving, to send Julio's three older siblings to school properly attired. But Julio's younger brothers and sister also needed school clothing, and the father was without a steady source of income. There just wasn't enough money.
The teacher said, "Señor and Señora Porras, I wish I could help. But I have only a teacher's salary. It isn't too generous. Julio is my best student, my best by far. And a good boy, too."
Not a tremendous fan of the military, less still of military education, the teacher was reluctant to suggest to the boy's parents that he try to go to one of the new schools the Legion had started.
Still, the teacher thought, for a bright boy like this even a military school would be better than nothing.
"There is a possibility. I don't know how you would feel about it. Maybe you should ask Julio. There are schools run by the Legion del Cid that provide everything . . . books, uniforms, room and board. I understand there's even a small stipend for the boys, though I'm sure it's nothing lavish. But you must understand, this will be a military school. It is intended to educate young men so that they can volunteer for and serve in the Legion upon graduation."
Julio's father asked "Will the boys be soldiers as soon as they enroll?"
"No, I understand they will receive some military training, mostly as an exercise in character building. But they are not supposed to be a part of the Legion until after they graduate. Even then, I've heard, it will be up to them whether they actually join or not."
The teacher turned to Julio. "Would you like to go to that school, son? It will be difficult."
Julio, who knew better than anyone the struggle his parents faced every day just to feed him, assented without a second thought. "Madre, Padre, I would like to go to one of these school. Very much."
The mother asked "Do you think Julio can get into this school, Señor? Will he be far from home?"
The teacher reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. "It lists here the desirable qualities the school is looking for. Grades? No problem there. Extracurricular activities and leadership? Julio has captained our soccer team, and won the school prize for a writing competition. Teachers recommendation? If you are truly willing to let him go, I will give him as good a recommendation as anyone will receive. I think he should be able to get in. As for being far from home, I understand that the Legion assigns boys where it has an opening, without much regard for where they may live."
The father asked the last question. "How soon must Julio leave for the school?"
"This paper says initial cadet training begins on the 31st of this month. We have until the 14th to have Julio's application in."
Balboa City, Intersection Via Santa Josefina and Via Belisario Carrera, Balboa, Terra Nova
Drivers honked with gleeful abandon. Honking right back, Mitchell used the greater mass and intimidation power of his rather beat up vehicle to force his way through traffic to a spot not far from an office building's door. Wordlessly, Carrera got out. Equally wordlessly, Mitch drove off and turned the corner.
The sign on the door said, "Balboa Yacht Corporation, S. A." The sign was a bit of misdirection. Not only did the BYC have little to do with yachts, it rarely had much to do with the sea, though there had been at least one significant exception to this.
BYC was a front, a wing of Obras Zorilleras, or 'OZ,' the Legion's research and development arm. More specifically, it was that section that dealt with the aerial combat and the air defense of the Legion and the Republic. Moreover, it dealt with them in their material, tactical, and systemic aspects, all three.
BYC was a front in more ways than one. The door with the sign did lead to a suite of offices that could, for example, tell the prospective yacht purchaser, "Oh, no, señor, we are much too busy—Julio, you lazy swine, did you finish the drawings for the Duke of Belgravia?—as I was saying, señor, we could not hope to—Marissa, you wretch, I said get in touch with Borchadt Marine Engines now!—Where was I, señor?" and keep that up indefinitely or until the prospective buyer walked off in disgust.