Kendra saw the news that morning. Calan had died in a particularly grisly fashion. His family had hired an investigator, but very diplomatically admitted there were tens of people who might want him dead. The cost of a detailed forensic investigation wasn't really warranted, since none of his inheritors had accused any other. It was assumed to be dealings from the war that had gotten him killed, or perhaps some data he held from his association with the UN had been covered up. If nothing obvious turned up, it would be dropped shortly. Just chalk it up to the war.
Rob came downstairs then, looking tired but cheerful. "Calan is dead," she said to him, gauging his reaction.
"Oh?" Rob replied, looking genuinely surprised. "I assume that's okay? You aren't bothered by his loss?"
"Rob!" she said, demanding.
Rob shrugged. "I didn't want him sliming out of things. It would be hard to quantify damage and he'd probably try to claim it was all a ploy to discredit him. The evidence is too slim."
"That was murder, Rob," she said.
"I killed an enemy agent who was still a threat. Do you deny he was?"
"Dammit, that's not the point!" she shouted, beginning to cry. "I've seen enough suffering to last several lifetimes. Whether he deserved it or not, it was
my
choice as to how to punish him."
Rob looked a bit guilty. Just a bit.
"Do you need more therapy?" she asked, half as a threat.
"I'll never fly again, partly because of data that shitball
gave
to the enemy as a bargaining chip. You were put in a position where you were hunted like a dog, then thrown into a vicious battle. And Marta . . . and this bottom feeder was
profiting
from it! I think it was
excellent
therapy," he finished. They stared at each other for long seconds.
Marta opened her door and came down to see the tableau. "Hey, what's up? I just heard that someone sliced Calan to pieces. I guess you weren't the only one with a grudge, huh?" she said to Kendra.
Kendra sat still for a few measured seconds, then replied, "I guess so." She looked at Rob as Marta eased by him. Then she looked away.
Marta swung past Rob as she headed for the kitchen. Unseen by Kendra, she winked at him, a grin flashing for just a second and then gone. She hummed softly in the kitchen. "So, who wants eggs?"
"The exquisite gut-wrenching beautiful painful joyful sorrow I feel when I look at the ways of my people makes me want to soar like an eagle, or kill myself, depending upon what day it is."
—Michael James
"Senior Sergeant Pacelli reports," Kendra said, with a sharp salute and a brisk snap to attention.
"Kendra," Naumann acknowledged with a nod. "Relax. Why so formal?"
"Well, Comman—uh, Colonel," she stammered slightly, "this is important, so I want to make sure it's done right."
"Very well. What can I help you with?"
"I want to resign," she said quickly, gulping.
"I see," he replied. "Well, ordinarily, I'd say 'no' out of hand; we are desperately short of good personnel and you've been one of the best. But what are the circumstances?"
"I've killed more than my share of people. Been wounded and hurt. Hated by people on both sides. I don't even know which side is mine anymore. My family is dead," she started crying, "partly because of my actions. I've done my duty and plenty more. I've taken more than anyone has a right to expect."
Nodding, Naumann said, "I can't begin to empathize. But can I ask the favor of you taking leave for a month or two and then reconsidering? I really need good people and I hate to lose you. At least stay until we demob at the end of the year."
Shaking her head and blinking tears, she snapped, "No. It won't change my mind. There's another thing. I've been offered a chance to return home."
"You can't," Naumann said. At her confused look, he explained, "Oh, you can return to Earth. But do you think anyone will accept you after you've served here?"
"I wasn't planning on telling anyone."
"I see," he said. His face was a mask. "So one of the bravest, most honorable careers in the Forces is going to be buried like a mistake . . ."
"Stop it
!" she snapped, loudly. "I've earned my way home. You can keep me here . . . but I want to go. Please."
"Sorry," he said. "I have my own feelings and shouldn't have dug at you." He shuffled and keyed as he spoke. "I'll grant a release, on conflict of interest. Effective today. And an account for expenses until we get the snarl of the finance system cleared up." He scrawled a signature and handed the documents over.
"Thank you, sir," she saluted again. She accepted the package and his return of her salute, then turned and left quickly.
Sitting once again in Liberty Park, which was gradually being restored to something that might eventually approach its previous splendor, she took stock. First, she'd need lodging. Then, she'd need to say her goodbyes. The last scheduled UN returnee flight was in six days, after that, the traffic schedule got hazy. It would be best to lift then. She'd need to pack her still meager possessions and arrange to transfer her funds. Her sword she'd leave to Marta, her other hardware to Rob. Her uniforms she'd burned. Not out of disgust, merely as a symbolic breaking of ties. Realizing the Druidic symbology of such an act, she clenched her eyes and sat motionless for a few minutes. Calm again, she shuffled through her documents.
An honorable discharge. A chit for Cr5000. A Citation for Courage, a service medal, six battle stars and three Purple Hearts. She mused as she walked. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the old Earth oaks, now graffiti-scarred and with broken limbs. Somehow, that bothered her more than the shattered buildings across the street.
"Wine cooler, Kendra?"
She looked up, startled, and realized her feet had taken her to Stanley's. Some of it was boarded up and the sidewalk was a mess, but he was doing his best to get his business restored. "Thanks, please," she agreed.
"And is there a promotion in the works for you? It seems everyone else is getting bumped a number or two." He slid a drink to her.
"Not likely, Rupe," she grinned sadly. "I just resigned. I can't take any more of not knowing whose side I'm on."
"Oh!" he said, shocked. "I always figured you were on the side you morally supported. Even if that side was only you."
"I'm sorry, Rupe, I don't want to be rude, but I don't want to talk about it and I don't want people feeling sorry for me. This is what I need."
"No offense," he agreed. He drifted into the background, but maintained his usual courteous customer contact.
This is it, Kendra thought, as the alarm woke her. Lift in two divs. Or should it be five and a half hours?
Marta had been polite, understanding and turned cool. She clearly felt Kendra was running out on them, but did not voice her feelings. Rob had finally given in and argued, pleaded, been logical, all to no avail. She still didn't fit in here. She loved the planet and wanted to, but it was not her society.
As she gathered her few personal belongings and packed them, her phone rang. She reached for it, then decided to let it record. She'd be dumping it at the port, anyway. Earth used different frequencies and a different system. Then she reached for it anyway.
"Pacelli."
It was a recorded message from Naumann. She let it play.
"Wanted to catch you before you left," he said. "This is from two years ago at the commanding officers' dining-in. The campaigns have changed and the pace certainly quickened in two and a half millennia, or even the six centuries since this was written, but I think it is still appropriate. Keep it in mind when you get home."
The scene cut to a podium. Naumann stood there, dressed in mess dress, only wearing commander's rank. He stepped in front of the podium, stood firmly to attention and began to recite:
Legate, I had the news last night—my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall.
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night, I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid—my wife—my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?
For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful northern skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze—
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?
You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!
You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but—will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?
Let me work here for Britain's sake—at any task you will—
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.
Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!"
The image faded. Kendra looked off into the brilliant sky. "You
bastard
," she muttered. She didn't recognize Kipling's "The Roman Centurion's Song," but it reached inside her. Blinking at tears, she saw a sudden kaleidoscope of images. The gate closing behind her at Langley. Jelsie's weapon pointed at her. Rob and Marta The mountains, ocean, riverside and hectic cities they'd shown her. The life-changing challenge of recruit training. The assorted residents and militia who'd looked suspicious upon hearing her accent. Rupe, Ms Gatons and Dak and the others who'd accepted her as she was.
So where is my home
? she asked herself. She fretted for several segs, then shook her head. Resuming her pace, she headed to the tran station.
Arriving at Jefferson Starport, she walked calmly up to the InterTrans desk. "I need to postpone my departure," she said, sliding her credchit across.
"Certainly Ms Pacelli. There is a cancellation fee at this late time, I'm afraid."
"I understand."
She'd left her bag in storage at the 'port. She'd walked here, to Laguna Park. Five divs, she'd sat in silence. Io had set, the sunset brilliant behind her. She stared at the darkening violet of the east as the kittiwakes circled and dove for fish. The breeze increased slightly and gusted, and she played the message again. Clouds tumbled and swirled and she stared at Gealach as it rose, a lopsided, angry orange ovoid, taking shape and brightening, riding above the clouds in three-quarter phase, bluish and bright, though smaller than the Moon seen from Earth. The waves crashed on the rocks to the north and hissed on the sand below. The beach was still unblemished by "improvements," and she marveled at the vital smell of salt air.
She was still sitting there as the flashes of false dawn gave way to gray-blue and eventually dull orange as dew dripped coldly off her clothes. Io finally appeared, a sliver of gold fire that widened and grew. She stood but stared still, mesmerized by the slow, majestic sunrise, unlike anything visible on Earth. She played Naumann's message once more and mumbled along with it.
Finally, she made her way back to the base. Only seven kilometers. She smiled at the concept of anyone on Earth walking more than a hundred meters or so. Her new decision was
right
, she was sure. Life would be a bit less complex; it would certainly not be easier.
At the gate to Heilbrun, she had to get clearance to enter. Then she had her bag searched. She tolerated it knowingly, wondering how many Freehold civilians would see it as an invasive act. She walked to headquarters, entered and found Naumann in his outer office, dealing with subordinates.
"Get that done, and quickly, please," he said to one, dismissing him. "Well, Ms Pacelli, how can I help you?" he asked, formal and correct as usual. He ushered her into his office.
"I thought your message was a slimy trick, Naumann," she said.
"You're here. It had an effect of some kind apparently," he observed.
"So what message where you trying to send?"
"Just that we all wish to return to the past, but it never happens. I wanted you to think about where your accomplishments have been, there or here, and then make an informed decision."
"I'm staying," she said.
He nodded. "I think that's the right choice. But you had to decide," he agreed.
"But you aren't above some prodding in the direction you think best."
"No."
She expected more, but he left it there. "I'd like to resume my duties," she said.
"Can't. Sorry," he said with a shake of his head. "I filled your slot immediately. I can't have holes in a vital area like logistics."
"Then I'll take whatever you have open. 'A marsh to drain, A road to make,' I believe the quote is? I never was a civilian, I see that now. I'll go wherever you need me," she said, feeling a ripple of adrenaline again. Would he actually refuse? She
had
made a big issue of leaving when he clearly needed her.
"I can use you. You can't be a senior," he said with a slight grin.
"That's fine," she agreed, relieved. She belonged again and it didn't matter where she was from.