Carnifex

2/5/467 AC, Mendoza residence, Avenida Central, Ciudad Balboa

Marqueli's little hands shook as she opened the envelope from the Legion's higher education board. What it would do to Jorge if his thesis proposal were not accepted . . . she didn't know and was afraid even to think about it.

They must accept. They must. What Jorge wants to do, it's important. Carrera sees that. And even though Jorge's blind, he sees more clearly than anyone with sight.

She inhaled, exhaled, and then forced herself to open the envelope.

The contents were printed on very nice paper; she could feel it in her fingertips. Still not daring to unfold the letter, she wondered, Do they waste good paper on rejections?

With trembling finger she began to unfold. As soon as her eyes reached the line, "We are pleased to inform you . . . " she shouted, "Jorge!"

* * *

She hadn't needed to shout. Since losing his eyesight Jorge had, like many of the sightless, developed remarkably keen hearing. Still, half the joy of the thing was listening to Marqueli's little feet dancing around their small, Legion-provided, apartment in the city. They'd been assigned those quarters when Jorge had entered the BA program for disabled legionary veterans. They would remain in it as part of the new program. The building was both near the University of Balboa and more than large enough to accommodate the eighteen disabled PhD candidates, six per year at a standard three years per course of study. At seven floors with four apartments for each of the top six floors, it could have held twenty-four families.

The apartments weren't huge, each having a small kitchen, combination living and dining room, two decently-sized bedrooms and a small office. Each also had a balcony looking towards the campus. There was an elevator that ran from the parking lot, which was in a stilted area beneath the building, to the top floor. They were furnished, if sparsely, and, all in all, could have been called "comfortable." Since all but one of the candidates was anything from disabled to severely disabled, the building was modified for handicap accessibility. The bottom floor was devoted to an academic advisor, on one side, and a "club" on the other.

For the most part the first six doctoral candidates selected had been free to choose their own subjects. That is to say, those selected were those who wished to study and write on something Carrera wanted written. One candidate would write on "Combat Ecology," which had absolutely nothing to do with the natural environment but would deal instead with the way social factors, technology, doctrine and tactics fed upon each other and caused each other to develop, often in odd ways. Other candidates wanted to explore subjects like "Command in War," "Technology in War," "Organizing for War," and "Supplying War." (That last candidate was a former supply clerk who'd lost both legs in Sumer to an improvised explosive device.) Jorge's proposal, "History and Moral Philosophy," had also been accepted.

Jorge sat on the Legion-provided sofa in the living room. He'd been at his desk, braille-reading a text on Old Earth's ancient Rome, when he'd heard Marqueli's shout.

He couldn't see to read the damned letter, of course; Marqueli had had to read it to him. (Well, that was her job. The Legion also hired the spouses at a small stipend of one hundred and ten FSD a month to be "assistants" to their husbands. It helped defray the greater expense of living in the city and without making the relatively simple finance and accounting system of the Legion del Cid any more complex than necessary. The one candidate who was unmarried was also given a girl-hire. They would soon be sleeping together.) Still, Jorge Mendoza sat with the letter held lightly but firmly in his hands. The letter made the dream real.

Now I can do some good. Now I can be heard, he thought.