“I doubt that.” Jorge shook his head. “I found the
chaaz’maha
, all right, but I didn’t come back with him. And Inez . . .”
“Stayed behind to be with her father.” Seeing the surprised look on Jorge’s face, Sawyer smiled. “Just because I’m no longer the Corps CO doesn’t mean I’m entirely out of the loop. I saw the preliminary report you sent while in transit from the starbridge. I’m sorry that you lost a man and that Corporal Sanchez has elected to remain on Earth, but otherwise it appears that you achieved most of your mission’s objectives.”
“Sir? I mean . . .” Jorge’s mouth fell open; he appeared to be struggling for words. “With all due respect, but . . . that’s not the way I see it. I didn’t bring back the
chaaz’maha
. . .”
“You ascertained that he’s still alive.” Again, Sawyer smiled. “That alone is enough for the president to claim that your mission was a success. Believe me, once Edgar learns this, he’ll waste no time trumpeting it from the Government House rooftops.”
“But . . . our access to Earth is still closed. The Terra Concorde reopened Starbridge Earth only long enough for McAlister and me to make the jump home, and the
chaaz’maha
told me . . .”
“He wouldn’t reopen it until his people have stabilized things back there.” Sawyer nodded. “I read that part of your report, too. The president might not like it very much, but he can leave it to Manny to explain things to the Talus . . . and I bet that the
hjadd
, for one, will be pleased to know that the
chaaz’maha
has a firm hand on things back there and won’t allow any more vessels from Coyote to visit Earth until he’s good and ready.” He favored Jorge with a wink. “It all comes down to politics, Lieutenant. In politics, anything that maintains the status quo is usually perceived as a victory.”
Jorge scowled. “That’s a rather cynical way of looking at it.”
“Sorry.” Sawyer let out his breath, gazed out the window again. The coupe was approaching Liberty’s city center; as it passed an elementary school, he noticed that the Federation flag hanging from its front post had been lowered to half-mast. “It’s been a rough day,” he murmured, “and there’s not a lot for me to be happy about.”
Jorge didn’t reply. He was quiet for a couple of minutes, apparently lost in thought. “If you don’t mind,” he said finally, “maybe we should have that drink later. Right now . . .”
“You need to see your family. I understand.” Sawyer reopened the window. “Change of plan, driver,” he said. “Take us to the university hospital, please.” The driver quietly nodded, then took the next right, heading for the University of New Florida campus. “But I’d still like to have that drink,” he added. “Maybe tonight, once everything has calmed down . . . ?”
“Yes, sir. I’d like that very much.” Then Jorge smiled for the first time. “And I’m sorry, General, but you’re just going to have to get used to me calling you that. Some things shouldn’t change.”
Sawyer wanted to return the smile but found that he couldn’t. “Don’t count on it,” he said.
Lew’s Cantina stood at the edge of Liberty’s historic district, where
it had been ever since the early days of the colony. Built by Lew and Carrie Geary, the
Alabama
’s agricultural specialists, it was Coyote’s oldest tavern, and had remained open after both the Gearys passed away. Over the years, a few changes had been made—the cloverweedthatch roof replaced with mountain briar, the goat pen that had once been out back finally torn down—but the new proprietors continued to brew their own sourgrass ale, and the blackwood-log main room was still heated by a stone hearth. Nonetheless, it had been decades since the tavern was the center of Liberty’s social life; it had remained largely as a piece of history, its patrons mainly nearby residents and a handful of curious tourists.
It wasn’t Jorge’s first choice as a place to go for a drink; his favorite pub was on the other side of the city. But his father had insisted upon going to Lew’s Cantina. After all, it was a place where Jorge’s grandparents had spent a lot of time during their youth; perhaps it was appropriate that the family pick this location for a small, private wake.
Susan had refused to come along, though. She was still upset, and President Edgar’s announcement that afternoon hadn’t helped matters at all. Jorge missed having his mother join him and his father, but when the front door opened and Sawyer Lee walked in, he was relieved that she wasn’t there.
The cantina wasn’t crowded that evening, and the few people who were there paid little attention as Sawyer hung up his jacket by the door and strolled across the room. Jorge and his father had taken a table near the hearth; they looked up as Sawyer came over, and Jon waved him to a vacant chair.
“Good to see you, General. Welcome.” He turned to raise a hand to the bartender. “Another round, please.” Looking back at Sawyer, he tapped a finger against the nearly empty pitcher on the table. “We’re drinking ale tonight, if it’s all the same with you.”
“Ale’s fine . . . although I might start with a shot of bearshine.” Sawyer pulled back the chair and settled into it. “Looks like you’ve already got a head start on me. I’ll have to catch up.”
“No need to rush,” Jon said. “Take your time . . . we’re in no hurry.” Jorge noticed that his father’s voice was slightly slurred. It had been a long time since he’d gone out drinking with his old man; Jonathan Parson had never been a lightweight, though, and Jorge knew that he could hold his liquor. “We’re catching a cab home after this, so . . .”
“You’re going back to Traveler’s Rest tonight?”
“No.” Jorge shook his head as he reached for the pitcher. “We’re staying at our place in the city.” He poured the rest of the ale into his mug. “My mother is . . . um, kinda busy just now.”
Sawyer didn’t say anything as a waiter came by with another pitcher and a mug for him. Jorge was vaguely aware that it was the third pitcher he’d brought to the table. Sawyer took the opportunity to ask for a shot of bearshine. “How’s she doing?” he asked, once the waiter was gone. “Better, I hope.”
“She’s no longer crying all the time, if that’s what you’re asking.” Jon poured ale into the fresh mug, placed it in front of his old friend, then refilled his own glass. “Now she’s just mad.”
“What about?” Sawyer didn’t pick up his mug; he was waiting for his bearshine.
Jorge sighed. “I take it that you didn’t hear the president’s announcement this afternoon.”
“Sorry, no. I’ve been”—an uncomfortable glance at Jon, who calmly gazed back at him—“working out the details for the change of command,” he finished, his voice low. “A lot of stuff needs to be done before, y’know . . .”
“General . . .” Jon slowly let out his breath. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this. The last thing I ever wanted was . . .”
“I know, I know.” Sawyer shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re going to do fine.” A wry smile briefly crossed his face. “But like I told your boy, stop calling me ‘General.’ I’m a civilian again, for better or worse.”
“What are you going to do now?” Jorge asked.
An offhand shrug, but Sawyer didn’t say anything until after the waiter returned to the table with a small glass of bearshine. “I dunno,” he replied, once they were alone again. “Maybe go back to being a wilderness guide. Good money in that.” A reflective pause, then he scowled. “Sure as hell won’t be a bounty hunter, though,” he quietly added. “I think I’ve had enough of tracking down wanted men. It’s not worth it.”
No one spoke as he lifted the shot glass to his lips, flung back the bearshine. He hissed between his teeth. “That’s for Wendy,” he murmured, then he looked at Jorge again. “So . . . you were saying something about our wonderful president?”
Jorge started to speak, but his father beat him to it. “Our wonderful president, once again proving that he always has the best interests of the Federation at heart, announced this afternoon the details of Wendy’s funeral. In accordance with her standing as a former president, her body will lie in state at the Grange . . .”
“Say
what
?” Sawyer’s mouth fell open as his eyes involuntarily turned in the general direction of what was now the historical museum. “Where?”
“You heard me right.” Jon nodded. “The Grange Hall. In fact, she’s already there. A squad of blueshirts in full-dress uniform showed up at the hospital and took her away before we had a chance to object.”
“For the love of . . .” Sawyer shook his head. “And you didn’t . . . I mean, Edgar didn’t ask if you . . .”
“No, he didn’t.” Jorge’s tongue was becoming thick with alcohol, but he picked up his mug anyway. “Her body will be on display in an open casket at the Grange for the next two days, so that the public will have a chance to visit her one last time. Then the casket will be placed on a horse-drawn carriage and be carried . . .”
“In a full military cortege,” his father added.
“In a full military cortege through the city until it returns to Government House, where the president will preside over the official memorial service.” Jorge took a drink, then went on. “After that, she’ll be buried in front of the building, right beside Captain Lee’s statue, where a bronze plaque will be . . .”
“Stop.” His face writhing with disgust, Sawyer raised an impatient hand. “I got the picture. And I take it that this isn’t what you . . . the family, I mean . . . wants.”
“No. Not at all.” Jon angrily shook his head. “And we don’t think this is what Wendy would have wanted, either. Problem is, she never really told anyone . . . not me, not Susan, not even Tomas . . . what she wanted to be done with her after her death. She left behind a will, all right, but it didn’t specify any funeral arrangements.” He let out his breath, shrugged. “She was always like that. ‘Just throw my body in the river and be done with it,’ she’d say. ‘I really don’t care one way or another.’ ”
“But if the family doesn’t want it this way, then why can’t you stop it?”
“It’s not about what we want,” Jorge said. “It’s about what Edgar wants. And if what he wants is a full-dress state funeral for a former president that’ll make him look good, then he can make it stick.”
“Susan’s over at Government House right now,” Jon said. “She and Tomas are trying to argue with the Chief Magistrate.” He reached for the pitcher; his hand shook slightly as he poured himself another drink, slopping ale across the table. “I doubt they’re going to get anywhere. He’s one of Edgar’s appointees, so he’s not going to want to do anything that’ll piss off . . .”
“It’s like what you told me,” Jorge murmured, remembering something Sawyer had said earlier in the day. “In the end, it’s all about politics.”
“The hell with politics . . . and the hell with Edgar.” Sawyer slammed a hand down on the table. “If Wendy didn’t want to go out this way, then it’s not his right to say otherwise.”
“Oh, I agree . . . but what can we do?” Jon shrugged. “I don’t think we’re being given a choice.”
Jorge had fallen silent. Perhaps it was the ale taking control of his thoughts, but he found his mind was not turning to his grandmother, or President Edgar, or his parents, or Sawyer, but rather to something that Inez had said to him. Back on Earth, in the greenhouse dome when they’d shared their last moments alone together.
“It’s your life,” he muttered. “It’s your choice of what to do with it.”
His father peered at him. “What did you say?”
But Sawyer had heard him. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “We
do
have a choice.” He paused. “Why, do you have something in mind?”
Jorge hesitated. “Did you get around to returning the keys to the Grange?” he asked.
Jon’s eyes widened as a crafty smile spread across Sawyer’s face. “Y’know,” he said, “come to think of it . . . I don’t think I ever did.”
Bear had fully risen in the cloudless night sky by the time they left
Lew’s Cantina and walked across the historic district to the Grange. The windows of the historical museum were dark, but the light above the front door revealed the two Militiamen standing guard outside. They looked bored and cold, and no wonder; not only had they been given a thankless task, but someone had also insisted that they wear their dress uniforms, which were appropriate for official ceremonies but were hardly warm enough for a Gabriel night.
Sawyer was counting on that. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said, careful to keep his distance so that the blueshirts couldn’t smell the bearshine on his breath. “Keeping busy?”
The soldiers peered at the three men walking toward them; it took a moment for either of them to recognize Sawyer. “Hello, General,” the master sergeant on the right said as they snapped to attention, their rifles at their sides. “We’re doing fine, sir.”
Sawyer nodded, trying not to smile. Apparently they had not heard that he’d just resigned from the Corps; he’d been counting on that, too. “I’m sure you are,” he said drily as he fished his key ring from his coat pocket. “Just paying a little visit, if you don’t mind . . .”
“Sir?” A querulous expression crossed the face of the corporal on the left. “We weren’t informed that you were planning to drop by.”
Neither he nor the sergeant moved away from the steps, but instead regarded Sawyer and the other two men with bewildered expressions. A quick glance at Jonathan and Jorge, then Sawyer stepped a little closer to the guards.
“I realize that, but . . .” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, I don’t know if you recognize these two, but they belong to President Gunther’s family. That’s her son-in-law and grandson, and the kid just returned from an important offworld mission, so he wasn’t here when she died. I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d let us in, then make yourselves scarce so he can pay his respects in private.”
The corporal nodded, but the master sergeant was reluctant. “I understand that, sir,” he said, keeping his voice low as well, “but we have orders to . . .”