Carnifex

2/5/467 AC, Quarters #2, Isla Real

The nightmares had started coming again, since Carrera had returned from Sumer. They'd been bad—horrifying, really—before he'd begun to gather the means of revenge. Then they'd tapered off, even becoming somewhat rare. Whether this was because he was actually doing something to destroy those who had murdered his wife and children or because he was typically so exhausted at the end of the day that he had not even the energy left to dream, he had no clue.

Then the fighting had begun and the nightmares had gone almost completely. Again, he could not say whether they had stopped because he was advancing the cause of vengeance—he didn't delude himself that he was really in search of justice—or because of exhaustion, of for some other reason or reasons.

He never told anyone, not even his closest friends and especially not Lourdes, his second wife, but he was a superstitious sort and a part of him really felt the dreams came from the shade of Linda, reminding him not to let the murderers of her children get away.

Whatever the case, since returning with his troops from Sumer the nightmares had begun coming again with increasing violence and frequency. They were repetitive, as well. Tonight's was one of the worst; the one where he had just met Linda for the very first time and she burst into flames before his eyes. He awakened from that one screaming, as he always had. Lourdes held him tightly until he calmed down.

It was perhaps one reason that he loved Lourdes as much as he did. She should have been jealous that her husband was still in love with Linda. She probably was jealous that he was still in love with Linda. After all, what woman likes being in second place? But she understood that the world was imperfect and was thankful for what she did have.

Besides, she took care of him. He needed her, even if he was gone most of the time. He needed her, even though he was more at home in the field with the Legion. He needed her, even though she could never completely replace Linda.

Perhaps he loved her most because she loved him as much as, perhaps more than, Linda had. And he felt terrible, terrible guilt that he couldn't, not quite, fully reciprocate.

* * *

He spent virtually all early mornings out with one or another maniple, joining that ever-so-lucky tribune at daily physical training. That meant he would be able to see every maniple commander at PT about once every two years.

More often than not he would go directly from PT to his office, shower, grab a quick bite at the Headquarters mess, and then either go look at training or attend one of the meetings that he did his damnedest to limit. This morning, given the performance of the previous night, he thought he probably ought to have breakfast with Lourdes. The eldest boy—little Hamilcar was four years old now and in pre-kindergarten—would be at school. The younger, still just a baby, would likely be asleep.

As he drove himself to his quarters, he thought, I wonder if it's even a good idea for me to join them at PT. How much stupidity do these kids go through on the off chance I might show up? Maybe it would be better if I do what I do in the field; watch but almost never let them know I'm watching. Something to consider, anyway. And, then, too, what the hell is the point of watching something once every two years? I don't know that there is any. Do I get a picture, or just a false picture?

As Carrera turned his sedan into the parking lot for Quarters #2, he sighed to himself. This garrison crap is a new playing field and I probably still have things to figure out. I wish . . .

He didn't finish the thought. Had he, it would have been, I wish I could go back to the war.

Carrera eased the car under the columned carport to the right side of the white-painted quarters. Once underneath, he stopped the car with a gentle touch on the brakes, turned it off, and exited. Hearing the door close, Jinfeng, the trixie, stuck her brightly feathered head out from a bush and screeched a welcome.

It was eighteen steps along the side and front of the wraparound porch—like the porte cochere, also columned—to the centrally located front door. He'd not had the Legion skimp on anybody's family quarters, and his was nearly eleven thousand square feet on three floors. He didn't need it. Lourdes didn't need or want it and slightly resented having to have domestic help to keep the place up. But there were social obligations that went with command and some of those social obligations involved space. A full half of the first floor was a ballroom and industrial kitchen. Even that was only just big enough to accommodate the occasional dinners he threw for senior legates, their sergeants-major, and their wives.

The household kitchen was much smaller and cozier. He found Lourdes there, hunched over a computer, ordering supplies from the main commissary. Although Legion pay was generous by local standards, it didn't necessarily permit two cars, or even one, per family. He'd made arrangements for a local company to provide a delivery service. For some it was a necessity. For others, like Lourdes, it was a damned nice to have convenience.

Carrera's steps were catlike, virtually silent. It wasn't anything he tried to do; in fact, he'd tried to cure himself of it since it tended to give people unpleasant shocks when he materialized behind him. Lourdes didn't know he was even standing behind her until she felt his hands cup her breasts. She immediately inhaled sharply and leaned her head back against his waist, near his groin.

"Coffee, breakfast, or me?" she asked.

"You."

"Good, because coffee would make a real mess on the bed."

* * *

She knew he wouldn't be long. Even on those rare mornings when he came home after physical training he was invariably out the door by 08:15. That left her perhaps half an hour to enjoy the post-coital nearness of her man. Over the last two years, ever since she'd turned up pregnant in Sumer with their second child and he'd put his foot down and insisted she go home where she and the children would be safe, opportunities to be together had been all too infrequent.

Infrequent! She mentally snorted. A couple of weeks twice a year. No, less than that; one year he didn't come home for eight months. Then there was this last Christmas.

And now? Now he's home for a while. Maybe it will be a long while. But it won't—she felt a tear begin to form; she stifled a sniffle—it won't be forever.

The thing is, and the tear rolled across the bridge of her nose and then down the cheek on the other side, that he leaves me because he has to avenge her. He still loves her. More than he does me? I don't know . . . probably. He must because he leaves me even though that will never bring her and her children back.

Then, too, why do I love him. Because the little DNA analyzer in behind my nose tells me he's a good genetic match? Probably . . . . somewhat. Because he's rich and powerful? No, he wasn't either of those things when we met. Because he's good looking? He isn't all that good looking.

No, it isn't any of those things, or not them entirely, anyway. I think it's . . . because he has honor. Honor? What a rare concept now. Who can even agree on what it means anymore? It's not what it once was, in the olden days back on Earth or the early days here, when it was all appearance only. A man was honorable if he had high repute, never mind if he deserved it or not. A woman could screw half the world but, so long as no one ever found out, she was honorable.

No, Patricio has honor inside. He doesn't care what the world thinks of him. He knows what's right. He knows that it's not right to turn the other cheek to a movement of homicidal maniacs, and he does what he can to fight it.