Carnifex

7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number One, Isla Real, Balboa

"Miss Lourdes," for McNamara had never quite gotten over calling her 'Miss Lourdes,' even when she'd become 'Señora Carrera,' " for t'e love of God, please tell t'e boss to call me forward. I just can' fockin' stand it no more. And I ain't got so many years left to me that I can afford to be here when t'e fightin's t'ere."

* * *

Rank and position are curious things. In any given military organization there are usually five or six people that run it. Sometimes it's the commander. Sometimes—and usually unfortunately, if so—it's the commander's wife. Sometimes, at the company or maniple level, it can be one lone sergeant, and not necessarily a senior one, in the training NCO slot.

In the case of the Legion one of the true movers and shakers was the Sergeant Major, John McNamara. Part of this was that he had Carrera's ear. Much of it, though, was what the man was, himself.

* * *

Lourdes sighed. Patricio had asked her to be a shoulder for the sergeant major to cry on if—no, Patricio had said "when"—being left behind got to be too much for him. He must have told Xavier, too, for it was Jimenez who'd asked Lourdes to ask McNamara for lunch. He'd come, of course, and sounded like he'd been happy to. But he'd come with his craggy black face a mask of utter misery.

"What's the problem, John?" she asked. She avoided answering the question because one of the other things Pat had told her was, "I need him to stay here, to watch over the Legion's base and over you and the kids, too. I need him to keep watch out for Parilla. I need him here."

It was McNamara's turn to sigh. Yes, sure as shit the boss told Lourdes already that I can't come and play.

"It everyt'ing, Miss Lourdes. Jimenez don' need me here; his legion, t'e Fourth, and his sergeant major can do just fine wit'out me. T'e Training Legion don' need me eit'er, with Martinez running t'ings. So I end up helpin' Parilla with t'e presidential campaign and . . . well . . . it just ain't me. It's dirty shit, nasty, no place for a soldier to be."

"And besides all t'at, Miss Lourdes, since t'e kids grew up and t'e wife passed on I've had nobody to fight wit'. I'm bored."

"I don't think I can help, John. Patricio never has anyone do anything without a good reason. If he wants you, myself and Xavier here, it's for a purpose. I don't think we can buck him in this."

* * *

Artemisia Jimenez had only just caught sight of McNamara's vehicle as it pulled into Quarters Number One's driveway. She was too late to actually say anything to the sergeant major. Still, she raced to put on gardening clothes and posted herself nearby so that when he emerged . . .

"Why hello, Sergeant Major," she purred, looking up as he neared his auto. "If I'd known it was you visiting Lourdes, I'd have popped over."

Most women simply stood. Artemisia was fundamentally incapable of simply standing. Instead, like a fast action movie of a flowing plant, she blossomed onto her feet.

McNamara was not made of stone. Watching the sheer presence of Artemisia Jimenez blooming so closely would have taken the breath from any man. It did with him, as well. It did so, so completely, in fact, that McNamara simply bid her a nervous good day, got in his auto, and drove away.

* * *

If I were not more than twice her age, if I were no so old and seamed and gangly and outright ugly, Mac thought, I would never have left there.

* * *

"Shit," Artemisia said aloud, watching the car drive off. "What did I do wrong? Damn, and he's so perfect."