SALTAROS: Shadows and Light

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CHAPTER ELEVEN: ...But Not Insane

 

 

Ambros woke in his tent in the swamp. He sat up, stretching, and rolled his shoulders. He crawled out of bed.

 

He stood and did an abbreviated set of stretches and calisthenics, then sat on top of his sleeping bag. He assumed the position he called ‘quarter-lotus’, which was an excellent passive stretch for his legs and hips.

 

As he stretched, he pondered: “I was never able to reach the Full Lotus position, however hard I tried...”

 

He tried it again, and, somewhat to his surprise, achieved the goal: “Ahhhh!” he cried out, briefly in intense agony. He had to use his hands to pull the upper leg off of his thigh before he could unwind himself.

 

He sat a while, stunned: “Okay,” he said: “I’ve been exercising and stretching a lot more lately...it’s not just something I do for myself. Now it’s part of my job...”

 

He sat nodding, adding up all of the little changes that he’d noticed over the past five months.

 

‘It’s not just that I’m exercising and stretching,’ he thought: ‘The Combat Medical treatments I’ve been getting are having more and more effects as time goes on. Each treatment adds stuff, and the effects are cumulative.’

 

He realized what that was leading up to: “I’m not Superman, and I won’t ever be...but with that armor, that tech…”

 

He shook his head, dismissing the disturbing train of thought. “Enough fantasies. I got work to do.”

 

He knew he was putting off an important insight: “Who cares?’

 He tapped his MPS alight and looked over the Calendars, separating and merging them and thinking about all of the things he had to do. A quick check showed him the time in the Commonwealth: “First bell plus fifty leptae...forty-five minutes past 7:30 AM...eight fifteen USIT time. I slept in.”

 

 

“It’s Wednesday,” he said, under his breath: “It’s the fifth of December...today I hang for a while at Camp Arlen, maybe visit Borderboro, to check on Diana and the D sisters...tomorrow is that big Archarae Tournament in Athino...”

 

The year in the Commonwealth was arcing towards the Solstice, the Commonwealth’s New Year: in addition to other forms of celebration, tournaments in various Martial Arts marked the solar holidays. He had agreed to help marshal the Archarae Buckler and Sword Tournament, one of several such tournaments that led up to the City Championships on the eve of the Solstice.

 

“Besides,,” he said quietly: “I have a dozen students entering; I really ought to be there to observe their performances anyway.”

 

He thought briefly about Nikodemos’ memoirs, and all the documents on the old man’s thumb drives: ‘Just set that aside for now,’ he thought: ‘The old man’s not dead yet, and I can’t make any of that public until he croaks.’ He thought about Aunt Clem, and again he put that confrontation off. He donned his Wellies.

 

He left his hidden campsite and slogged through the mud and open water towards Camp Arlen.

 

Mark and Arlen sat at the chessboard, Arlen in complete command of the game. Ambros nodded, grinning: ‘Mark has a headlong style of chess, and Arlen is the best defense in camp...still, Mark must be off his game today.’

 

He got some loaves of bread out of his pack and set them on the communal table. Hungry kids immediately assaulted the plastic wrappers, tearing the packaging away and distributing the slices among themselves.

 

“I wish we had some butter,” said one little girl, gnawing on the crust of some kind of sourdough.

 

“Hey Red, you got any buttah?” shouted a boy, already chewing on the slightly stale rye slice he’d grabbed.

 

Red’s voice came from the kitchen tent: “Nah, we ain’t got any right now.”

 

Ambros called out: “How bout a little olive oil, maybe in a shallow bowl, with a pastry brush?”

 

Red grumbled for a moment, then stuck his head out: “Yeah, I could do that, I think...It’ll be canola oil, though.”

 

“Good enough,” said Ambros.

 

A few minutes later Ambros was able to show the kids how to do their bread Arab-style: “If you dip it, it just drips all over. The Bedouins in the desert in Arabia do it like this: hold the brush like this and swipe it across a couple times. Just right! You kids oughta eat some of these carrots before they go all limp.” He ate one himself.

 

The chess game ended. Mark headed back to his tent, looking haggard. He and Ambros bumped fists as Mark passed.

 

“He not feeling good?” Ambros asked.

 

“I guess not,” Sarge muttered: “He ain’t hungover, he’s stayed on the wagon.”

 

“Huh. Hope nothing serious is going on.”

 

Sarge shrugged: “While he was drunk most of the time, I couldn’t see anything wrong. Always buzzed, usually happy.”

 

“I know you’ll keep an eye on him,” said Ambros.

 

“Yeah,” Arlen nodded: “At least one eye.”

 

Arlen tipped his head to one side, indicating the barricade at the entrance to the campsite. Ambros followed him over. Arlen picked up a chainsaw and pointed it at a hunk of telephone pole: “Can you put that on the sawhorses there?”

 

Ambros raised an eyebrow; he estimated the center of balance on the twenty-foot creosote-soaked monster.

 

‘I think I could, actually,’ he mused: ‘I’m stronger than I’ve been in a couple decades, thanks to Commonwealth medical tech and a lot of exercise.’

 

He decided not to tip his hand, and said: “No.” He and Arlen wrestled the pole into position.

 

Sarge started yanking on the rope, trying to start the saw. After about ten pulls, the rope jammed: “Shit!” Sarge exclaimed.

 

“Oh, no,” said Ambros: “Either the spring locked up, or the engine is frozen.”

 

“Yeah,” said Arlen, and then began to rant quietly: “Damn modern, POS machinery.”

 

Arlen drew the saw back, waist high, and heaved it in the direction of the Amazon Canal.

 

Ambros moved even faster than he‘d realized that he could, snatching the handle of the saw just as it left Arlen’s hand. He turned in place from the sheer momentum of his body and the weight of the saw, and set it down on the ground.

 

“Let’s not get all that petroleum in the water,” he said, mildly.

 

Arlen stared at him for a moment, nonplussed. Then he shook his head and went over to a pile of tools that lay by the end of the barrier. He pulled out a handsaw and came back.

 

He and Ambros stared for a moment at the pole. Ambros went to one end, grabbed the thing about a foot in, and nodded.

 

Arlen began to saw it in two, cutting diagonally across the centerline.

 

After a while Arlen stopped for a break. “Big dustup over at Borderboro couple nights ago.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Kinda wished you were around.”

 

Ambros shrugged: “I got a full schedule. What was the argument about?”

 

It was Arlen’s turn to shrug: “Drunk morons arguing over women. Joanna heard the fuss, woke up Mark and me, we busted it over there. Andy O’Malley seemed to have things under control, at least the fighting part. Some nitwit named Matthew had started a fight, Andy put him on the ground.”

 

“Doesn’t sound like there was anything for me to do...”

 

“Maybe. Mark said that after I left there was a bit of grumbling about Andy’s...leadership style, I guess you’d call it. Couple of folks left Borderboro, probably for good. Others are asking themselves about...I don’t know...”

 

Ambros interrupted: “...I do know. See, Borberboro is a strongman operation, but Andy is not the only strong personality over there. Sooner or later they’ll figure out how to hold a meeting and Andy will learn how to listen to other folks’ ideas. That, or...any number of bad outcomes, up to and including the break-up of their community.”

 

Arlen started to saw again, apparently concentrating on that. Ambros remained deadpan.

 

Arlen took another break: “So, you been leveraging your good rep in Camp Arlen to push us towards your own ideas about process and governance.”

 

“Mark talk to you?”

 

“No,” said Arlen: “Should he have?”

 

“That’s up to him...”

 

Arlen nodded. “You gonna do anything about the situation at Borderboro?”

 

“Like I said, I got a full schedule. Talk to Mark. Or Joanna.”

 

“What, you delegated Borderboro to my main man?”

 

“And to Joanna. Got a problem with that?”

 

Arlen went back to sawing; the pole fell in two, cut diagonally so one end of each half had a point.

 

“Help me carry these things around front.”

 

“Sure thing, Sarge,” Ambros said. They hoisted first one, then the other and carried them to the front of the partially built barricade. One by one they dragged and shoved them into holes dug diagonally into the piled mud and rocks, displacing a fair amount of water over the outer face.

 

Arlen braced each one with rocks and clay, so that they faced the street at a twenty-five degree angle, threateningly.

 

“Okay. I’ll get the concrete for these tomorrow.” Arlen fingered the end of one of them, thoughtfully.

 

Ambros stood back and looked at the wall: “You need another half dozen poles, huh?”

 

“I’d like ’em. I don’t know where I’ll get ’em.”

 

Ambros nodded: “I’ll get some for you.” It was in the nature of a peace offering.

 

Arlen raised an eyebrow.

 

Ambros said: “Okay, I get it. To you, Mark is an aide de camp. To me, he’s a smart man with a good knowledge of everything that’s going on out here in the Swamp. And he’s starting to get a clue about my ideas, and why I do what I do. Borderboro is the perfect place for him to exercise his smarts.”

 

Arlen nodded in his turn: “Okay. I’ll talk to Mark and Joanna about Borderboro.”

 

Arlen led him back to the main shelter. He said: “How ’bout a game?”

 

“Don’t mind if I do.”

 

They sat down at the chessboard and began.

 

 

 

 

Late that afternoon, he stood outside Borderboro’s back gate. The heavyset man sitting guard there didn’t know him.  The guard let out a piercing whistle.

 

Andy poked his head over the hedge-like barrier of shrubs and then nodded at the guard.

 

Ambros strolled nonchalantly into Andy’s territory. Andy offered his hand and Ambros shook it.

 

Andy had clearly been out in the rain earlier. His hat had soaked through; his long curly grey and black hair had fallen into ringlets at his temples. His beard dripped. He led Ambros along the muddy back path to the main gathering area. The Borderers had three of the metal framed plastic garage tents to camp Arlen’s one, but theirs were in much rougher shape: the cross poles sagged, the tarps across the tops were ragged and leaky, and they hadn’t done a very good job of repairing the several damaged corner pieces. As a result, Ambros could see places inside the shelters where water had leaked in streams and dug small potholes.

 

They settled in chairs by the main fire: “You hear about our little riot the other night?”

 

Ambros shook his head: “I just heard about that today. But I was planning to pay you a visit, even before I heard.”

 

“You concerned about that idiot Matthew?”

 

Ambros snorted: “Not at all. Why, did you break him?”

 

Andy grinned: “Just his wrist. He pushed me a little.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

“Y’know, he talks a lot of smack about you.”

 

Ambros snorted: “I bet.”

 

“Doesn’t bother you, eh?”

 

“Neither breaks my leg nor picks my pocket. Right?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“If he says something to my face, especially any fighting words, then maybe I’ll take notice. Gossip is not interesting to me.”

 

“Okay. I won’t pass it on to you, then.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

They sat quietly while the sky grew darker. Night fell early in the days before the Solstice, and as it darkened, people gathered closer around the fire.

 

When about half of the population of the entire village had gathered, Andy spoke again: “That Joanna and old Mark, they been poking around here a lot the last few days...talking about ‘process’ and ‘democracy’.”

 

Ambros smiled wryly and gazed silently at O’Malley.

 

Finally Andy continued: “You got anything to do with that?”

 

“Why ask me? Mark is Arlen’s man.”

 

“Yeah. Right.”

 

Another silence ensued. People were looking at each other knowingly, and Andy looked a bit uncomfortable: “You think I need to hold more meetings?” The last word was laced with sarcasm.

 

Ambros shrugged his most noncommittal shrug and said: “Ask your people. They know, I don’t.”

 

Sharon Kennedy piped up: “Yes, we need more meetings. We need one tomorrow. Women got things to say.”

 

Andy made a face, but said: “Okay, set it up.”

 

Sharon said: “Tomorrow noon. Andy and I will run it. Men need to keep yer mouths shut and listen.”

 

A wave of amusement swept across the men, but Sharon said: “I mean it. Y’all better pay attention.”

 

KJ started to speak, but Andy said: “Shut up, dickhead. You are one of the worst.”

 

KJ got up and stomped off; Andy called out after him: “Be at that meeting, KJ, or else pack up yer stuff and git.”

 

Somebody had opened a bottle of booze, and it made the rounds. Sharon made a point of taking a solid swig and passing the bottle to another woman.

 

Ambros glanced at Andy, who grinned and winked: “I ain’t just some hillbilly nitwit.”

 

“Never thought you were, Mr O’Malley.”

 

“Well, I can see what’s in front of my face.”

 

“That’s extremely good news,” Ambros said. He offered a fist, and O’Malley bumped it.

 

They settled down to telling stories and tall tales.

 

Ambros mostly listened silently, trying to pick out the tensions and dissonances that Andy had to deal with. Beyond the obvious gender divide, he could detect a challenging attitude from some of the younger men toward Andy and his style of leadership.

 

One older fellow, whose name was Stanley but who went by the cognomen “Stoosh”, told a crazy tale:

 

“So, couple years back I was caretaker at this trailer park out Highway Ninety-five. This one asshole rented a trailer out there, he was all about meth and smack and he actually started selling outta his trailer. Well, I knew about that and passed the info up the line and eventually he got evicted...but before that happened...” Stoosh cracked up for a minute, a sign of his drunken state.

 

“Anyway, where was I?” He snickered again, then got hold of himself: “So one day this druggie—let’s call him ‘Opie’—Opie comes out of his trailer while I’m doing the rounds and picking up trash and all and he says: ‘Dude, I went over to my ex-girlfriend’s house last night and got into the garage and I stepped on a dead body.’

 

“’Okay,’ I says: ‘Are you sure? I mean it was dark and all, right?’

 

“He says: ‘Dark as a pit, man, but I’m sure. It was a dead body.’”

 

“I says: ‘Whoa, man that’s weird. What’d ya do? You call the cops?’

 

“’Oh, no, man,’ he says: ‘Cops’d be all over me if I called that in.’

 

“So I’m in pickle, right? I only got one conviction on my record, but it’s a felony, right? But we’re talking about a dead guy...so I let it sit for a couple days. It kinda nagged at me though, y’know?

 

“So I finally grabbed Opie and I said: ‘Let’s go over to your ex’s place and check this dead guy out, okay?’ He says yeah, but not very enthusiastic, right?”

 

Andy chortled a bit: “Probably not too much, I guess.” Some of the drunker folks had begun laughing.

 

“Yeah, right,” Stoosh continued: “So we get over there and Opie jimmies the garage open and we go in...and sure enough, it smells to high heaven—dead guy, damp garage, middle of winter type stink, okay?

 

“I says, ‘Shit, man let’s get outta here.’ Opie points out that it was my idea to check it out...we went back home.

 

“So I gotta think about this. Couple more days go by. Finally I decide that I gotta call it in. Cops come down on me like a ton o’ bricks right? ‘You killed that guy, what for? We’re gonna nail you, SOB,’ all that kinda stuff. After a couple days, they figured out it wasn’t me killed the guy, and laid off me, started really investigating.

 

“But so then they decided I was a hero then, cuz I called the body in, and they all got credit for solving a dead missing-person case. And for the murder conviction, too. I didn’t even know he’d been declared missing...”

 

Someone asked: “Who killed the guy?”

 

“Oh, Opie’s ex. It was her landlord; she couldn’t pay the rent so she killed him.”

 

Hilarity ensued, for the moment, then everyone who’d laughed sat looking a little bit sheepish. Someone started to talk but Stoosh said: “I ain’t done yet.”

 

They all settled back to hear more of the tale:

 

“So about two weeks after they finally arrested Opie’s ex, I’m getting ready to run some errands, I’m about to pull out onto Ninety-five, and I look to the left and there’s this huge double trailer tanker truck hammering down at me, doing at least seventy in a forty-five, and my brakes ain’t so good so I’m already into the traffic lane, so I says: ‘Shit.’

 

“So ’steada backing up, I just floored it and peeled out in front of the thing and headed north as fast as the old heap would go...and there’s a cop right there behind the hedge by the driveway.”

 

Groans then, as most of the group empathized with Stoosh’s fate.

 

“’Course, he has to wait for the truck, but then he comes screaming out onto the road, all flashers and sirens and all, and flags me over...gets out, walks up to my car. I roll the window down and he says: ‘I gotta see your license and registration and insurance,’ all that rot, y’know?  So I start to open the glovie, and he says: ‘Just a second, sir. Aren’t you that guy who called in that body over in Santa Clara?’”

 

“So I says: ‘Yeaah...’ and he says...” Stoosh paused for effect: “’You’re outta here,’ and he waves me down the road.”

 

That laid everybody in the aisles. “That’s a shaggy dog story for the ages,” said Ambros, when he’d recovered somewhat.

 

“Yeah?” said Stoosh: “But it’s true, y’know?”

 

“That just makes it funnier,” said Andy.

 

Ambros caught Stoosh’s eye: “You mind if I use that in one of my stories?”

 

Stoosh frowned. Andy said: “Yeah, this mook is a writer, can y’all feature that?” He jogged Ambros with his elbow.

 

Stoosh was still frowning: “What’s he doing living at Camp Arlen?”

 

Ambros shook his head: “Sorry if you got that impression. I got a tent out there,” he waved vaguely in the direction of the Amazon, “but I don’t stay there all the time.”

 

At that Stoosh shrugged: “Guess it don’t really matter. Use it if you wanna. Can’t stop you anyway.”

 

Sharon started in on a story about the birth of her first child, which also involved police, false accusations, a dead person, and a traffic stop. Each speaker tried to top the others; some of the storytellers were good, some not so.

 

After an hour or so, Ambros took a final sip from the circulating bottle and got up: “I gotta go. See y’all soon.”

 

He trudged off towards his campsite, making plans for the morrow, and thinking about the complexities promised in the month ahead.

 

“Sleeeepy,” he said, in a sing-song tone. As soon as he was out of sight of Borderboro, he Saltated to the street corner a mile from Rose House.

 

‘It’s a bit of a walk home from here,’ he thought, as he strolled along. ‘But damned if I want to put a Path right to the door of the house.’

 

He’d used that drop-in spot many times, and always just walked on by the huge building that stood on the southeast corner of the oddly canted intersection of Ninety-five and Rosefield Avenue. He slowed and gazed up at the three story high wall, unbroken by windows or vents of any sort. He could see, even in the dark, a roof of sorts, mansard-like. He stopped and looked around, suddenly curious.

 

“I can’t believe I never checked this out...what the hell is this building for?”

 

He turned right at the intersection and climbed the overpass, occasionally looking down at the railroad tracks below: nearly derelict boxcars and flatcars sat on sidings and a switching engine—identifiable by it’s split-level profile—idled away the nighttime hours.

 

When he reached the top of the overpass, he turned and looked behind him, to see what he could see.

 

“It’s a ballpark...” He stared at the view, amazed. The outfield wall and the fences around the rest of the lot were topped with three strands of razor wire, presumably to discourage the homeless and desperate from climbing. He could see the diamond, the infield dirt marred by off-season weeds. The outfield, not mowed for months, heavy with rainwater, glistened in the reflected and refracted light of streetlamps and security lights. The grandstand, roofed in metal shingles, loomed over the scene; its back wall was the three-story frontage on Rosefield that he’d passed by so many times.

 

He realized how little he knew of the layout of his new home town: ‘I know where I am at all times, but I know almost nothing about what’s around me most of the time.’

 

To his left he saw a very old-fashioned cast concrete railing. He turned to lean on that, the elbows of his wool coat resting on the rough surface. Memories flooded his mind: sweat trickling down his chest and back as he squatted in the dust, weighed down with protective gear...the way his left hand remained bruised for weeks—for the whole season—from catching Tommy Valdez’s fastball in practice...his low status on the team as a senior third-stringer...playing in games that were already out of control when he went in, to rest the starting catcher...the way his arm felt that day in his sophomore year when Jake Olmstead from Clearwater High crashed into him at the plate and dislocated his shoulder...the feel of a foul ball hitting his mask at a hundred miles an hour, knocking him clean over and leaving him dizzy...the courage it took to squat down and lower his fingers, calling for the next pitch...

 

“Here comes a deuce, knucklehead. Hit this...” Catching Jodie’s curveball for strike three, wiping sweat out of his eyes as he stripped off the gear for his next at-bat.

 

He heard a patrol car sigh up behind him. The engine idled a little roughly, and he could smell the exhaust. A spotlight glared at his back: “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

 

“Just looking at the ballpark, officer. Never realized it was there...”

 

“Turn around, sir...” The officer exited his vehicle, hand on his pistol.

 

Ambros sighed, and turned slowly. He raised his hands, held them out so his palms showed clearly.

 

“Can I see some ID, sir? And I’d like you to lower your hood, so I can get a look at you...”

 

“It’s raining...”

 

“I noticed. Lower your hood, please. Show me your ID.”

 

“I don’t have the patience for this,” said Ambros. He reached slowly into the patch pocket of his trousers, as though fetching his ID, and touched the Shifter. The officer unsnapped the holster. Ambros looked over his shoulder, concentrating on the dark tunnel to the left of home plate, and geo-Saltated down to that spot. A faint echo of the pop his disappearance caused drifted over him where he stood, looking around. He gazed at the plate; he nearly stepped out and settled behind it, but quashed that impulse. He glanced up at the cop car.

 

The officer had drawn his gun, and looked around frantically, seeking his prey. He ran back and forth short distances, peering over the rail at the ground below. Ambros shook his head.

 

He strolled along the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. A faint hint of mildew and old sweat filled his head as he breathed deeply, calming himself. The locker room doors were secured.

 

He used the MPS and Shifter to open the padlock on the home locker room, and went inside. He saw lockers, benches, tattered and moldy posters; he felt an air of accomplishment and desperation. He recalled the sticky feel of catcher’s gear when he put it back on after an at-bat...

 

“I never could hit very well...which is why I never got a starting spot, even as a senior.” It occurred to him that he probably could hit a baseball, easily, even a curveball, at his current age: “Way better than I ever could as a teenager, thanks to Commonwealth tech and training.” He shrugged: “What’s with the nostalgia, old man? You were happy enough to get shut of your teammates, back in the day. Happy enough to graduate high school and leave all the racism and troglodytic BS behind, hit the road for a new life.”

 

High school wrestling had hardened his body, though it hadn’t, to his disappointment, gotten him laid. The school baseball team had taught him about teamwork; hunkering behind the plate and calling pitches and defenses had awakened his interest in strategy and tactics.

 

‘Coach Raleigh had the smarts of a box of rocks. My many arguments with him were another reason why I never got a starting spot. Of course, looking back on it...I was usually right. Valdez needed that change-up. He never did learn it...’

 

He found a dirty, somewhat moist program from the previous season’s campaign; he looked it over, seeing the batting averages and hometowns listed. ‘Your hometown Eugene Larks, the greatest show on dirt!’ He read it silently, imagining the public address announcer’s artificially cheerful tones...

 

“Here’s a kid from Illyria, Ohio,” he muttered: “Hope he’s a good glove man, cuz his BA stinks...OPS ain’t bad, though. Must get a lotta walks.”

 

The names of last season’s players still remained above the lockers. He counted down the rows until he found the kid from his old neighborhood: “At least he got a whole season in A ball...”

 

He spotted the logo on the wall nearby: a fierce-looking songbird, with a bat in its talons, surrounded by the words “Eugene Larks, a Class A affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles.”

 

The last locker at that side of the room, near the entrance to the showers, had a black wooden bar across the front. He peered inside; a large portrait hung there, a fellow with sleek hair and a rangy figure, sitting on a bench in catcher’s gear. The inscription read: ‘Cliff Dapper, first manager of the Larks 1950-53.’ A 1950’s style catcher’s mask hung just above.

 

“Huh.” He shrugged: “Maybe I’ll come see a game next summer.”

 

He stood a while in the darkened entrance to the tunnel behind home plate, watching as a half-dozen cops swarmed over the bridge and its immediate environs. After they’d searched all about, even beneath the overpass, they gathered around the first patrol car, shrugging and gesturing.

 

Eventually they gave it up. Their cars dispersed, off to the southeast towards downtown, or to the northwest.

 

He used his MPS and Shifter to find a new drop-in spot, near the other end of Rosefield. He Shifted over there, and began his approach to home from that direction.

 

 

 

 

Ambros dropped into the War Room bright and early the next day. He shortened his usual tour of the premises, since he had a busy day ahead and not enough time to prepare for it.

 

He made his way by the usual route to Anni’s field in the Red Skolo complex. He greeted the Archarae as they arrived to armor up for their big day.

 

“Good morning, Kari...how you feeling, Narsos? Good day, Archaros...Kala epitixio to all of you.” With everyone armored, he followed the parade as they headed for the arena.

 

The Archarae led the way through the City; soon a woman with a flute joined the procession, piping in time with the slow walk the students adopted.

 

Students of other teachers converged upon the route, gathering from various entrances to the Skolo. A small contingent of Archarae from the Black Warrior Skolo joined the trooping students, walking in the back of the parade.

 

The kopelae led the way through the Gates in each of the Walls: the Old Roman Wall that surrounded the temple district; the Themistoclean Wall, made of stones worked even longer ago than the Romans; and the Outer Wall, mostly built during the early years of the Commonwealth. Once out the last Gate, they could see the Arena. The youngsters began to bounce in excitement, and many of them began to stretch and limber themselves as they walked.

 

Once they entered through the open end of the Arena, Ambros excused himself: “I must go join the marshals,” he said: “Good luck and battle fortune to you all.”

 

They waved and cheered him as walked off, then went on to the warm-up zone, where they continued their preparations.

 

Ambros joined the adult contingent; all of them were coaches and marshals. He went over in his mind the way of these tourneys: ‘One marshal stands at each corner, with two flags...we indicate points with the flags, one flag representing each competitor...a clean hit with the edge is a point...three out four marshals must indicate the same point for it to count...the senior marshal will start and stop fights...first combatant to three points wins.’

 

The Archarae formed lines at each of the dozen fields on the sandy floor of the Arena. Ambros found himself shuffled to a field and assigned as senior marshal, which surprised him. He shook off the surprise and resolved to do the job.

 

He beckoned the first two combatants onto the field: “Ready? Salute…Archizete!”

 

A Commonwealth hour went by, in which perhaps one hundred and fifty fighters passed through the lists at his field. Six of them were students of his; his other students had started at other fields.

 

“Hear this! The first round is completed!” called a herald: “Those who lost their fights may play at pick-ups until the lists are prepared for the second round!”

 

An official of the Skolo stopped by, in part to relieve Ambros of the senior marshal’s baton: “You are to remain on this field,” that worthy told him: “Master Orsos will take over the senior position.”

 

With half of the competitors eliminated, several fields closed down, and some others remained open for those eliminated from the tournament to play. Ambros watched some of the newer Archarae from his group begin at that, making notes upon a paper tablet.

 

The heralds called out the first pairing for his field. He ran to get in position then, taking up the flags of the office. The sounds of wooden swords clashing with steel bucklers and thumping on armor filled the air again, as one pair of fighters followed another. Two of his students advanced to the third round.

 

The same official stopped by again: “You are relieved of duty, Spathos; thank you for your service. Enjoy the rest of the contests.”

 

“Thank you,” he said: “I am honored to serve.”

 

With three quarters of the combatants eliminated, teachers of Master Status took all of the remaining marshal’s slots. He and many others strolled about, trying to keep track of their own students.

 

He watched the last of the Archarae from Anni’s class eliminated over the next two rounds. “Narsos and Kari made it to the fifth round,” he said, as Anni approached him.

 

“Not bad,” she said: “In the top forty, both of them. You should be pleased.”

 

He shrugged: “I suppose so. I haven’t had that long to work with them...”

 

“All the more to your credit,” Anni said: “Regulos never took them that far.”

 

“Really?” he said, surprised: “But Kari is a natural, and Narsos soaks up coaching like a sponge.”

 

Anni looked at him, sarcastically.

 

“Okay, the coaching is better and more real when it comes from me. Reg is an idiot.”

 

“Yes,” she said. “Now, I have a message to deliver. Voukli says to meet her at the entrance to the Arena, right away.”

 

He frowned: “Something up?”

 

It was her turn to shrug: “Obviously. But whatever it is, it’s above my Status. Got it?”

 

He got it: “It’s above your Status but not above mine?”

 

“Maybe. Or just of some personal interest to you.”

 

He went towards the entrance at a quick walk. He found a tense little huddle of people gathered with Voukli at the northern side of the wide opening.

 

‘Arrenji, Megálos, Ke’akani...Klementos and Nikoletti.’ His heart skipped a little: “Uh-oh. Nikodemos must have died...”

 

He stepped in close to the group, and Voukli spotted him.

 

“When did he die?” Ambros asked.

 

“Last night, I guess,” said Nicolette, through her tears.

 

“He was breathing when he threw me out, around Fourth Night Bell,” said Clement, more stoic than his sister. He shrugged: “Blew another artery in his brain, I guess.”

 

“One of us should have been with him,” said Nicolette.

 

“Nikki, I’m sorry he’s dead, but it’s not...”

 

“We should have been there!”

 

Clement shrugged, his own tears beginning to flow: “Maybe. I think...”

 

“What?”

 

“He was done, Nikki. He knew something was going wrong, and he didn’t want us there to try to save him. Again.”

 

She sighed: “I suppose you are correct.”

 

Arrenji waved a thumb drive: “His last will: he wanted a fast and private cremation, and no public announcement until after.”

 

Clement took his sister in his arms: “We’ll do it his way...”

 

“He should get a hero’s funeral!” Nicolette cried. She sighed then, and said: “We’ll do it his way, one last time. Tomorrow, Second Bell.”

 

Ambros glanced at Voukli, from the corner of his eye. She said: “That question you asked in your last message to me...”

 

He turned his eyes to her.

 

“The answer is ‘Yes.’

 

He nodded: “I’ll see to it.

 

After tendering his condolences to the siblings, he headed for the Command Complex, to get his Shifter and some items from his locker.

 

 

 

 

Very early the next morning, he strolled along Rosefield towards the liquor store, where he customarily Saltated away from the Line. The sun rose slowly over the scene, and he reflected on new days, death and rebirth, beginnings and ends: ‘It’s all so trite,’ he thought: “and yet completely right, and more or less inevitable. Even though I hardly knew him, he’s had an effect on my life...maybe more than I know.’

 

Once he stood out of sight of the street, he drew out his Shifter and Jumped to a spot south of town: “Used this place before,” he muttered: “And I’m sure to use it again.” He continued to berate himself as he climbed up and down, approaching the mansion from the east, where the outer door to the ladies’ apartment lay:  “Shoulda come here earlier...now I have to open my play with very bad news...my own fault for procrastinating...no excuse for it...”

 

He stood upon the stoop, beneath a very small overhang, and rang the bell. After some time, a tall woman in a babushka opened the door. She stood silently regarding him, eyes narrow and suspicious.

 

‘Looks to be about sixty...’ He acted on a guess, and spoke in Greek: “Sherete, kyría. I just called your phone...I want to speak to the Ladies Clementine and Eleanor. I have news...sad news.”

 

“Who is there, Helen?”

 

“A man,” said Babushka: “He says bad news.” She stepped aside and allowed Eleanor to see Ambros.

 

“Oh,” said Eleanor: “Mr Rothakis. He’s dead then?”

 

Ambros bowed his head: “Yes, Miss Eleanor. Not last night, but the night before. I thought you’d want to go to the funeral…”

 

“Of course. We must go and tell Clementine, right away. Tea Helen, as soon as may be, and bring those gluten-free biscuits that I purchased last week, please.”

 

“Ma’am.”

 

‘This way, sir.” Eleanor led the way, upright in bearing, almost regal.

 

‘She’s sturdier than Clementine, even if not much taller,’ thought Ambros.

 

They entered a small sitting room. Clementine looked up from her book; seeing their faces, Eleanor’s tears and Ambros’ grim expression, she knew.

 

She burst into tears, nearly falling from the chair. Ambros moved swiftly and caught her, raising her up and embracing her. When Eleanor reached them, he transferred his burden to her and stepped back a pace.

 

Clementine drew a deep breath, seeking and finding control, then stood erect, with that firm posture that Ambros recalled from their first meeting.

 

“Sit down, sir, if you will, and tell us what you know.” She said it with no quaver in her voice, though her tears still flowed.

 

By the time they all seated themselves, Helen had arrived with the tea. The ritual involved in the preparation and serving of the stuff gave them all a much-needed moment to gather themselves.

 

When Helen had effaced herself and vanished, Clementine spoke: “He’s dead, then.”

 

“He is,” said Ambros.

 

“Were you there?”

 

“I was not. I knew he was near the end, but not how near.”

 

“I...see. You met him then?” Eleanor spoke calmly, belying her tears, which yet marked her face.

 

“I did. He had information that I needed for my...missions. I expect he’d never have agreed to see me, otherwise.”

 

“Ah,” said Clementine: “He always was a bit difficult about strangers, and his own missions.”

 

“He had reason,” said Eleanor.

 

Clementine’s clenched fists were the only sign of her distress by then: “I know. Was he...I mean... did he mention...?”

 

“I have every confidence that he thought of the two of you every day since you parted from him, and I don’t doubt that his last thoughts...” Ambros found himself unable to finish.

 

Clementine sobbed for a few minutes, and Eleanor turned and embraced her. When they broke the embrace, Eleanor said: “What other news have you for us?”

 

“The funeral—a cremation—will occur today,” he said, glancing at his MPS: “In an hour and a half, our time. My mentors assert that it is now safe for you to visit the Commonwealth, for a short time. If you desire it, I will convey you...”

 

“Yes, of course,” said Eleanor, consoling Clementine as a fresh bout of tears overcame her.

 

“Women wear green for funerals in Hellas,” said Ambros.

 

“I see,” said Eleanor. She rang a bell and Helen appeared immediately: “Clementine will need her heavy green silk gown, and the matching worsted cloak, with its hood attached. Boots in black or gray, I believe. I will dress myself. Bring the extra-strength dramamine from the upstairs bathroom for Clementine.”

 

“Ma’am,” said Helen.

 

Clementine reached for him, and he hastened to her.

 

“Will you await us here, sir, or should we see you fed?”

 

“I am fasting today, until the ceremony is over.”

 

“Very well. We will return here when we are appropriately dressed.”

 

He bowed a trifle: “I will await you.”

 

They left him there. He returned to his seat, musing on mortality: ‘I often used to say I wanted to live on the Númenorian plan: two hundred years of vigorous life, ten of slow decline, and then an easy death. Nikodemos did not get the easy death part...’

 

He rose and circled the room. He averted his eyes from the surfaces of the several desks and writing tables, feeling that they might bear things the ladies would not wish him to see. He felt no such compunction about the contents of the bookshelves. He felt some pride when he discovered a complete set of his own novels on one shelf, minus one.

 

He glanced in the direction of Clementine’s chair and saw that the missing one sat there, alone, upon the side table: ‘She was reading my stuff...’

 

Clementine entered the room, in the dress Eleanor had described. Ambros bowed deeply, compelled by her beauty and recovered reserve.

 

She said: “Thank you. Eleanor will be along very shortly.”

 

He gestured to the novel beside her chair: “I should thank you. It’s nice to find a book I wrote in a friend’s house.”

 

She smiled: “You made something of an impression upon us, sir. It seemed convenient that you had written such easily acquired novels; Eleanor and I felt we might learn a good deal about you while perusing your fiction.”

 

“An astute surmise.”

 

“You wrote most of your books before you were recruited to the service of the Commonwealth, did you not?”

 

“I did. I became aware of the actual existence of the Multiverse only in the middle of this last July. My fiction...”

 

“...Is remarkably accurate, for all of that. I don’t doubt you have adapted to Commonwealth society quite easily.”

 

He gave a very small shrug: “I’ve had a few hiccups. Nothing serious.”

 

Eleanor arrived: “Take your medicine, dear...”

 

“I did.” Clementine addressed Ambros: “How are we doing for time?”

 

“We’d best set forth at once,” said Ambros: “I’ve a few details to deal with before the ceremony.”

 

“Very well,” Eleanor glanced at Clementine, who nodded.

 

“How do we go about it?” Clementine asked. “Has anything changed since...”

 

He said: “Stand as close to one another as you possibly can.” He approached them, saying: “I apologize for this perhaps undue familiarity; I must embrace the two of you rather closely.”

 

Eleanor glanced at Clementine with an expression of fond remembrance: “We recall the process, sir.”

 

He pulled out his Shifter, wrapped his arms around them, and Saltated the three of them to the War Room.

 

He stepped back, drawing them off the receiver: “I apologize again; I know you are dizzy, but I must rush you along without any explanations at this time...’

 

They gazed about, stunned, and looked at one another, open-mouthed. Clementine swallowed, several times, looking somewhat pale and weakened. The pulsing screens, the way the people worked, waving and signing, standing before the machines…often standing or sitting inside the holograms. He remembered how strange it all had seemed, when he saw it for the first time.

 

He led them through the glowing energy screen and they followed, along darkly paneled hallways and around corners to his favored locker room.

 

“You may sit here, or follow,” he said: “I must dress for my part in the ceremony...”

 

They sat down and he hustled to his locker. He looked back, realizing that there was no door or curtain across the entry; they could still clearly see him.

 

He shrugged mentally and stripped. He palmed open his locker and swapped his street clothes for a red jumpsuit and gambeson, ceramic-like scale armor in gleaming white, and a helm that looked exactly like his battle helm, save for its white color and lack of a face shield. He attached a steel sword to his belt. Around his shoulders he cast a long white cloak, lined and trimmed in green.

 

He jogged back to the ladies and raised them one on each hand: “Let us proceed.”

 

Clementine pulled her hood down over her face as they exited the building. Eleanor remained upright, though she held her hat down firmly as the wind swirled about the street.

 

There outside the Command Complex lay a transparent coffin, and within it the ravaged form of a once-mighty man.

 

Clementine gasped; Eleanor stumbled forward and knelt beside the bier.

 

“Aunt Eleanor...” Nicolette stared: “Mother? ”

 

Clement stepped forward and drew his mother close, then the long-sundered family fell into one another’s arms.

 

Ambros turned away: ‘This is not my affair...they don’t need my eyes upon them...’

 

After some time, Voukli’s voice came to him: “Ambros...”

 

He turned. Clementine was rising to her feet. Clement engaged himself with closing the coffin; Nicolette spoke ardently to Eleanor. Laughter and tears mixed with the family’s words.

 

Inside the coffin, Nikodemos’ face glistened with tears.

 

Voukli gestured to the right rear corner of the casket; Ambros got there in time to lift in concert with Arrenji, Voukli, and Clement. Passersby paused and bowed their heads or saluted.

 

‘Not because they’ve any idea who this corpse is,’ thought Ambros: ‘there’s been no publicity about this funeral at all...’

 

But three people in Sacred Band regalia helped to bear the pall: that commanded some recognition.

 

They carried their dead along the Street of Winds, and across the bridges and through the Gates. Just outside the Outer Wall they paused, and men in the all-green outfits of the crematory staff relieved them of the burden.

 

The funeral party followed the coffin into the crematorium.

 

The staff put the dead man on a pier that jutted into the hall.

 

One of the staff asked: “Is there a priest?”

 

“He was not religious,” said Clement.

 

“Will anyone speak?”

 

Ambros and Voukli declined; Arrenji said: “I’ll begin.”

 

She placed her hand upon the coffin and said: “I had the honor, for five years, to serve as Nikodemos’ Chief Assistant. In that capacity I learned the things that have kept me alive for decades since. I recall no easy times in his company. Whole areas of his life I knew nothing of, until long after,” here she bowed to his family: “but he endowed me with his wisdom and ferocity, and I am a better person for having served him.”

 

She stepped away.

 

Before anyone else could speak, Ambros stepped forward. He went to Clement: “Klementos, Nikoletti: here are the memoirs that your father put into my care. I read them, and I have a copy, which I need for my vocation; I cede to you two the executorship that your father laid on me. I never sought such a position. It’s yours by right.”

 

Clement nodded, accepting the small black case. Nicolette dried her tears a little, took his hand and squeezed it. 

 

He bowed to the older women: “I will wait outside. You ought not have a stranger such as I intrude upon your elegies.” He strode out the door and looked around. A lone coffee/teahouse stood a little ways off.

 

He walked slowly in that direction, pondering all of the little he knew about Nikodemos and his life. He received his drink and went to sit down, robotically, not really present.

 

He stared at the wall, his expression bleak: ‘That old man spent, what? Two hundred years all told, fighting in one way or another for the preservation of the Commonwealth and the betterment of other Lines. How does one go on for that long, in the face of failure and the obstinate stubbornness of real life? What makes me think I can do any better than he did?

 

‘Okay, there are places where the situation might have been a lot worse without the old man’s work...is that the best we can hope for? To keep things from getting worse?’

 

He shook his head: ‘Irrelevant. So, I can’t create a revolutionary situation by my own deeds, nor can anyone else? But I study, prepare, and train, so when the moment comes, I can leverage the situation in the “right”...or “correct” direction...’ He shrugged: “Do the next thing.” He drank his tea, and contemplated the course of the next few hours.

 

‘I’m due to be at Magistri Anni’s training ground for a workout with Voukli,’ he thought. ‘I don’t know if that’s really going forward now, with the funeral on and all...but she didn’t cancel, so she’s probably on her way over right now.’

 

He rose and shook himself all over, trying to get loosened up a little. He peeked out the window at the front of the teahouse and saw some of the mourners outside the crematory, chatting. Voukli was not among them.

 

He headed for his lesson.

 

 

 

 

He arrived at the training ground, and stopped short in surprise. Voukli was nowhere to be seen, but Magistri Arrenji stood there, at ease and relaxed.

 

“Magistri Arrenji...”

 

“Spathos. I studied the holo-videos that Voukli sent me. I want to try you out,” She put a fist by her ear: “I’m not taking you on as a student yet...”

 

“I hear you,” he said. He went over to the armor racks and armed and armored himself to match her: Padded tunic, light mail, heavy leather gauntlets and arm-guards. He chose his second-favorite bated sword from the weapons rack, since Arrenji had chosen his favorite.

 

He put on his coif and helm. He walked slowly into the arena, tapping lightly at the wooden post to his right as he passed.

 

Arrenji stood in front of him, head wobbling, her arms hanging at her sides from utterly relaxed shoulders. She drew her sword.

 

He drew his, rolled his shoulders and took the Fiore Posta “Bréve”, switching quickly to “Boar’s tooth” when she lowered her weapon.

 

He could see her grinning through the mesh grill on her helm. He grinned, too.

 

She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, then began moving from side to side, circling him and changing direction unpredictably. She had her sword in both hands, but her arms wobbled and the tip of her weapon sketched a line in the sand of the arena. She seemed utterly unprepared to attack or defend.

 

He settled his weight, sinking into the ground mentally, and relaxed his shoulders and tightened his gut. He began to twist his hips from side to side, tracking her movements.

 

She grinned.

 

Her sword clashed against his helm, startling him. He stepped back: “I didn’t think you were even in range.”

 

“I wasn’t, until I was.”

 

He nodded: “Got it.”

 

“I doubt that…” She jumped to one side and he swung at the place she had just been. He flipped his sword sideways and took most of the impact out of her attack, but then felt the bated blade strike his leg.

 

She bounced around, once again completely out of range, grinning.

 

He tapped her sword and stepped back, hoping to lure her into entering the space he’d vacated. It didn’t work.

 

He laughed and attacked, missing completely as she rolled her upper body out of the way of his downleft cut without moving her feet at all. Then she swept his front leg with hers, nearly bringing him to the ground. He put his left hand down and pushed up, springing back to his feet just in time to get another smack to the helm.

 

He stepped backwards, feet together, intending to follow that with a step forward and to the left, and with a downright cut to her knee. She cut to his ribs and smothered his sword block before he could even start his attack.

 

With his next attack he not only missed, but twisted his knee a little. He winced and altered his movements to prevent that from happening again.

 

She never struck him again, but only because she never tried to. Whenever he initiated an attack, she either disappeared from the path of the sword or countered his intended movement before he could even begin it.

 

“That’s enough,” she said, at last.

 

‘She’s not even breathing hard...’ he thought, appalled.

 

He gasped and his shoulders heaved. He could feel the intensity of his humiliation all the way down to his toes. “I thought I was pretty damn good at this game,” he muttered.

 

She stood staring at him for just long enough for him to reach a state of complete misery, and then she said: “Well done. I mean that.”

 

He stood still, breathing slowly again, thinking: ‘Calm, relax”. He let all of his emotions sit in his mind, but he did his best not to react to them. He gradually ‘pushed’ them until it seemed that they sat above his head, out of his sight.

 

She watched, seeming to approve his actions.

 

When he felt that he had reached a state where he could do so without weeping he said: “Explain that, please.”

 

She stepped off of the field, beckoning him to follow. They took off their helms and gauntlets and she sat on a bench: “Sit here, if you will.”

 

He did. They stared off into the distance, not looking directly at each other. ‘This is a “guy” way of interacting,’ he mused.

 

After a while she said: “Once you said something about if I wasn’t holding back, Voukli was my equal with a sword.”

 

He contemplated that. “Okay. You were holding back.”

 

“In a way.”

 

He waited her out.

 

“I do not hold back on speed or power or even trickery when I practice with Voukli.”

 

He waited again. He could see her nodding out of the corner of his eye.

 

“One day, when I was about twenty-nine years old...I was practicing with reedswords with old Nikodemos. We usually wore eye protection and heavy tunics when we fought in those days. He was a damned hard hitter, and I always dreaded the day after practice, when I’d be all bruised up.”

 

Ambros nodded: “Been there.”

 

“I’d wager that you have. Anyway, that day I entered the field in a foul, nasty mood. I really didn’t care at that point whether I got hit or not.”

 

“That’s fine for practice.”

 

She nodded again: “It’s different when the other guy wants to kill you.”

 

She sighed: “That day was the first time I ever practiced with a simulated weapon where I simply didn’t get hit.”

 

“...okay…”

 

She caught his eye and grinned: “Besides not caring, two other things happened that day.”

 

“Tell me one, please.”

 

“I had been working earlier that morning on a kind of ‘deep relaxation’ exercise that I had found useful when facing emotional turmoil. The relaxation exercises had, as an inherent part of them—and this is the key point—a significant inquiry into the...the ‘nature of being’, I guess you’d say.

 

“Never before that day had I arrived at a sword lesson immediately after one of those sessions. My session that day had not gone very well—one of the reasons for my foul mood—but unbeknownst to me, I had made some significant progress.

 

“As a result, though I didn’t put the cause and effect nature of the day’s events together consciously for a couple days, I found that I could see everything Nikodemos was thinking of doing before he did it. I saw the little tiny ‘tells’ that even an adept of his skill gave off. I could ‘smother’ any attack before he could begin it.”

 

He raised his chin: “Like you were just doing to me.”

 

“Exactly.” She sighed: “I also found a level of relaxation I’d never felt before on the practice field. I found that any blow that I let the old slacker start, I could evade by footwork or upper body movement.”

 

He nodded: “I saw that, too.”

 

“Good job.” She nodded again, as though satisfied: “After practicing these techniques for eighty years, I have gotten fairly good at them. When I practice with Voukli, I tie one hand behind my back, so to say. I do not smother her attacks in their embryonic stages, and I rarely evade her blows by footwork. Under those conditions, she is close to my equal with a sword.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I believe you do.” She grinned: “What will you do about it?”

 

He shrugged: “I’d say, ‘Teach me, Magistri,’ except you have already begun to do that. So I guess…” I believe I’ll take this revelation for what it is, and learn what I can from it.”

 

“When you master these concepts, what will you do?”

 

“If I master these concepts, I suppose I’ll practice them for eighty years, and then see if I can beat you.”

 

She laughed. “I’ll have had another eighty years to practice as well, by then.”

 

He also laughed: “I’ll have some catching up to do, for sure. And until then...”

 

She smiled at him, kindly, with no trace of Sacred Band irony or bitterness. She said: “Voukli is still working on catching up. You have a lot of work to do before you will be worth my time on a regular basis.”

 

He paused, then said: “You are correct.”

 

“You need to begin your own meditations on the nature of reality...body-being, and beyond. Re-start them, I should say. No one who hadn’t at least begun such an inquiry could have done as well as you did today. You need to go deeper, though.

 

“We, you and I, will only work on this advanced, ‘mental’ martial art on occasion. Most of the time, you will still be working with Voukli.

 

“I usually bring out the whole bag of tricks with her once or twice a season...I’ll do the same for you.”

 

He nodded: “Good.”

 

She also nodded, looking deep into his eyes: “Start again at the beginning. Ask yourself: ‘Who Am I?’ and seek the answer to that. Don’t hold anything back from yourself. ‘Who Am I?’”

 

“That’s a rhetorical question...”

 

“It is the rhetorical question, in a way. You don’t need to tell me, or anyone else, what you discover. But some people will notice, when you reach a conclusion.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She got up: “Starting now?”

 

“First...I need to integrate the emotions you brought to the fore with that butt-kicking you just administered. Then I can go forward from there.”

 

She nodded yet again; she went to the racks and stripped off her armor and returned the sword to its usual spot.

 

She took one last, long, penetrating look at him, then saluted and left.

 

He sat there, rubbing his sore knee. He doffed his armor and racked his sword, and then walked slowly back to the Command Complex, thinking on two levels: slowly and carefully considering his performance that day, the few good parts as well as the many bad; and thinking a mile a minute about his throbbing knee.

 

He showered. No one said a word to him or even saluted. He abode for that time in a place all his own, where no other person’s words or attitudes could penetrate.

 

As he dressed in clean clothes from his locker, he came to a conclusion of sorts. Sitting there on the bench in front of the locker, he laid his Pismo on his lap and wrote:

 

Given: that Combat Medical personnel can repair or replace even a badly damaged knee by cloning bone and tissue cells from the injured person;

And Given: These repairs can be expedited when need be, such as when the injured person is crucial to an operation;

Nevertheless, is there any good reason why we have not yet incorporated prophylactic knee bracing into the design of our leg armor?

And Furthermore: Is there any good reason why we have not yet incorporated some kind of internal bracing for the knees of operatives whose work includes unarmored combat or espionage in hostile Timelines?

 

He stared at his query for a few seconds, wondering if he ought to write any more, then shook his head: “No more need be said. This is a rational society. Send it.”

 

He addressed it to the War Guilds’ discussion site on the Kyklo, and sent a copy to Averos, and then another to Combat Medical. It took him a minute or two to find that last address: ‘Oh, I see. Combat Med is a Deme of the Medical Guild, not a separate address...’

 

With that message sent, he put the issue out of his mind: ‘I have a lot to deal with. Best get to work...Tomorrow is the 5th of December, and I’m taking the day off. And I do mean OFF. Laze around, read a book. Maybe even watch TV. And perhaps a roll in the hay may occur. Be nice to be going at that when I’m not exhausted. Yeah...but right now...’

 

He rubbed his knee again, then rose and stretched: “RNA study with that Dissenter History Master. Let’s go.”