again, as breakfast neared its end. "Don't get me wrong. I think you did the right thing. I admire you dumb bastards, I did even then. But it was hopeless."
Jimenez sighed and shrugged. "We knew that. But what's a principle worth? What's honor worth, Patricio?
"Not everybody did stay in the Comandancia , you know. Truthfully, I do not know how many took off as the screen between the Transitway Zone and the Estado Mayor collapsed. For a certainty, very few of the real thugs Piña brought in stayed."
"We found well over a hundred bodies inside," Hennessey reminded. "And only the five of you that were too badly wounded to fight were taken prisoner."
Jimenez winced. "Oh, I know, Patricio."
"Damn shame. You had some good kids with you that day."
Jimenez smiled. "Yes. They were the best, the ones who wouldn't give up."
Parilla interjected while spreading butter on a piece of toast, "You will note, young Patricio, that those were men Herrera and I trained, for the most part—the old guard. I wish to hell we had their like again in the uniform of the country."
"We do, General," Jimenez objected. "The Civil Force boys are as good as what I commanded in 447." He grinned ruefully. "One of the good side effects of having been abandoned by most of their officers is that a lot of good men survived who would have been killed had they been properly led."
Parilla scowled as he buttered a bit of toast. "But they aren't an army, Xavier. A country needs an army."
Jimenez looked down at his own plate and, nodding, frowned. "Yes . . . well we're not going to get an army again; so we have to make do."
"We could have an army again, if . . ." Parilla didn't finish the sentence.
Hennessey thought for a bit, then said, agreeably, "You have good people. They make good troops. If you ever get an army again and need a little help . . ."
"Yeah, well," Jimenez said, "no one believes that here. We lost, after all."
"So did the Sachsens in the Great Global War," Hennessey objected. "Xavier, General . . . you know I was in the Petro War, too?"
Jimenez nodded as did Parilla.
"Well, let me tell you this. Six companies and fewer than a dozen independent platoons of Balboan light infantry—outnumbered, outgunned, hit without warning in the middle of the night—gave the FS Army more trouble than fifty divisions of heavily armed Sumeris. That's the truth; from someone who fought both. Your boys had nothing to be ashamed of."
Parilla smiled with pleasure. In truth, the Armed Forces of Balboa—be they called "Civil Force," "Defense Corps," or " Guardia Nacional " had been and remained his one greatest love. To hear good words of an organization and tradition for which few in the country had much use anymore did him a great measure of good.
Just as Parilla was touched by the admission, so too was Jimenez. Normally a block of black ice to the world, still his voice choked a bit as he tried to formulate fumbling words of thanks. Before he could get those words out he was interrupted by Lucinda, gone suddenly pale, bursting in on them.
" Señor, señores . . . come quick. Something terrible in the Federated States. On the Televisor . Come quickly!"
Exchanging worried glances, the three arose and hurried to the television room.
Columbian Airlines Flight 39, 0827 hours, 11/7/459 AC
Legs splayed, the stewardess lay face up with her open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling of the first class cabin. Her throat was raggedly slashed and a great pool of her blood stained the carpet around her. The blood likewise stained the back of a now abandoned guitar.
Forward of the stew's corpse, halfway up the flight of steps that led to the bridge of the airship, was another, smaller, pool of blood. It dripped from the steps down onto its donor, the airship's purser. His throat had been cut at leisure, after he'd been beaten senseless. It was a much neater slash.
At the head of the stairs, there was a bolted door that now sealed off the
Jimenez sighed and shrugged. "We knew that. But what's a principle worth? What's honor worth, Patricio?
"Not everybody did stay in the Comandancia , you know. Truthfully, I do not know how many took off as the screen between the Transitway Zone and the Estado Mayor collapsed. For a certainty, very few of the real thugs Piña brought in stayed."
"We found well over a hundred bodies inside," Hennessey reminded. "And only the five of you that were too badly wounded to fight were taken prisoner."
Jimenez winced. "Oh, I know, Patricio."
"Damn shame. You had some good kids with you that day."
Jimenez smiled. "Yes. They were the best, the ones who wouldn't give up."
Parilla interjected while spreading butter on a piece of toast, "You will note, young Patricio, that those were men Herrera and I trained, for the most part—the old guard. I wish to hell we had their like again in the uniform of the country."
"We do, General," Jimenez objected. "The Civil Force boys are as good as what I commanded in 447." He grinned ruefully. "One of the good side effects of having been abandoned by most of their officers is that a lot of good men survived who would have been killed had they been properly led."
Parilla scowled as he buttered a bit of toast. "But they aren't an army, Xavier. A country needs an army."
Jimenez looked down at his own plate and, nodding, frowned. "Yes . . . well we're not going to get an army again; so we have to make do."
"We could have an army again, if . . ." Parilla didn't finish the sentence.
Hennessey thought for a bit, then said, agreeably, "You have good people. They make good troops. If you ever get an army again and need a little help . . ."
"Yeah, well," Jimenez said, "no one believes that here. We lost, after all."
"So did the Sachsens in the Great Global War," Hennessey objected. "Xavier, General . . . you know I was in the Petro War, too?"
Jimenez nodded as did Parilla.
"Well, let me tell you this. Six companies and fewer than a dozen independent platoons of Balboan light infantry—outnumbered, outgunned, hit without warning in the middle of the night—gave the FS Army more trouble than fifty divisions of heavily armed Sumeris. That's the truth; from someone who fought both. Your boys had nothing to be ashamed of."
Parilla smiled with pleasure. In truth, the Armed Forces of Balboa—be they called "Civil Force," "Defense Corps," or " Guardia Nacional " had been and remained his one greatest love. To hear good words of an organization and tradition for which few in the country had much use anymore did him a great measure of good.
Just as Parilla was touched by the admission, so too was Jimenez. Normally a block of black ice to the world, still his voice choked a bit as he tried to formulate fumbling words of thanks. Before he could get those words out he was interrupted by Lucinda, gone suddenly pale, bursting in on them.
" Señor, señores . . . come quick. Something terrible in the Federated States. On the Televisor . Come quickly!"
Exchanging worried glances, the three arose and hurried to the television room.
Columbian Airlines Flight 39, 0827 hours, 11/7/459 AC
Legs splayed, the stewardess lay face up with her open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling of the first class cabin. Her throat was raggedly slashed and a great pool of her blood stained the carpet around her. The blood likewise stained the back of a now abandoned guitar.
Forward of the stew's corpse, halfway up the flight of steps that led to the bridge of the airship, was another, smaller, pool of blood. It dripped from the steps down onto its donor, the airship's purser. His throat had been cut at leisure, after he'd been beaten senseless. It was a much neater slash.
At the head of the stairs, there was a bolted door that now sealed off the
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