Buccari spent hours hiking in solitude. Often she climbed to the top of the valley and walked in the fields of wildflowers mottling the grassy, humpbacked ridges. Hunters were always with her, sometimes soaring far above, sometimes hopping along behind. Always with her, always armed and vigilant, and she was glad for their silent company.
A familiar double sonic boom sounded far overhead. Buccari searched the deep, cloudless blue skies and presently saw the EPL gliding across the landscape, on final for a landing beyond the river. Her forearms tightened involuntarily; her fingers curled as if grasping heavy flight controls and power quadrant. She watched the EPL, so small in the distance, enter its landing transition, flames belching in vivid colors. Smoke and debris momentarily hid the craft from view. Her stomach sagged with the sensation of deceleration, and she vicariously sought the comforting contact of touchdown. Engine noises racing across the wide river valley and the intervening distances finally reached her ears. She looked down at her feet and the solid ground beneath them.
She exhaled and turned back toward the path. She had official responsibilities now, but she laughed as she realized Runacres— Fleet Admiral Runacres—would have to ask her permission to step foot upon the planet. Her new status had become a private joke between them, but the admiral had also offered her command of a corvette squadron. That she took seriously. She walked faster.
The chaplain finished the memorial service, and Admiral Runacres looked up from his prayer. Honeybees buzzed in the warm stillness, and a gentle breeze, cool and welcome, came off the lake, stirring the waters of the cove and refreshing the gathered mourners. They were assembled beneath the spreading tree that stood alone in the clearing before the blackened walls of the stockade. Runacres signaled the honor guard and seven Legion Marines sweating in full battle rig fired volleys over the graves of the fallen. The ceremony was over. There was no bugler, but the crying babies, frightened by the rifle reports, made their own accommodation.
Deep in somber conversation, Buccari and the towering Et Silmarn marched away from the rock cairns. The momuments were grave markers for Scientist Lollee, Lander Boatswain First Class Jones, Sergeant-Major Shannon, and Private Petit. The surviving crew, except for Nash Hudson, who was in a hospital bed aboard Tierra del Fuego, broke from their loose formation: Gunner Wilson, Terry O'Toole, Nancy Dawson, Jocko Chastain, Sandy Tatum, Billy Gordon, Winfried Fenstermacher, Pepper Goldberg, Tooks Tookmanian, Toby Mendoza, and Beppo Schmidt. The survivors wore new uniforms, but beards and ponytails more than offset the martial ambiance. Leslie Lee, the only crew member not in ranks, sat on a tree-shaded blanket, taking care of the complaining infants. The formalities over, she let the toddlers move off the blanket and stood to follow their movements, gently rocking her own sleeping baby. Dawson and Goldberg walked to the blanket. Dawson, disconsolate, sobbed on Goldberg's shoulder.
The other dead were not forgotten, their resting places just farther away. Commander Quinn, Warrant Officer Rhodes, and Private Rennault lay in peace, buried on Hudson's Plateau, so long ago and far away; Corporal MacArthur and the cliff dweller known as Captain, along with sixty-three hunters and thirty-eight konish soldiers, were buried under the wildflowers below the pinnacles high on the valley shoulder—the fallen heroes of battle. Certainly not forgotten.
"Touching," Sarah Merriwether said. "They have gone through a great deal."
"Yes, they have," Runacres replied, walking down the gentle slope toward the lakeshore. "And no doubt they have much more to face."
"How soon is your meeting with Et Avian?" Wells asked.
"Buccari tells me we're scheduled for two months from today. It's actually with the Planetary Defense Council," Runacres answered. "That's what Buccari and Et Silmarn are discussing right now, whether or not that's too soon."
Runacres told himself to wait patiently. He sat down on the grassy slope and looked over to where Buccari and Et Silmarn were conspiring. Merriwether and Wells followed his lead, with Commodore Wells displaying exaggerated chivalry to the flagship's commanding officer. Merriwether giggled adolescently causing both men to grin stupidly. It was a beautiful day.
"How many people will be allowed to settle on the planet?" Merriwether asked.
"I can't get a straight answer," Runacres said. He had petitioned to immediately transport more humans to the surface of Genellan and to establish a schedule for future immigration and a base for fleet operations. There was no shortage of volunteers within the fleet, and he knew what the response would be when he returned to Earth; there would be riots. Graft and corruption would reach new heights for the rich and powerful that desired to emigrate, for surely only the rich and powerful would have access. But that was not his concern. He discovered planets; he did not govern them. In that respect, he felt sorry for Buccari.
"Rumor says that Et Silmarn doesn't like your schedule," Wells said.
"Actually, I think it's Buccari that's objecting," Runacres laughed. "And I'm proud of her for that. I look forward to getting her back in harness."
"Has she really agreed to return to duty?" Wells asked.
"She'll be back," Runacres said. "She's too good a pilot to grow roots."
"Admiral, have you thought about it?" Merriwether asked. "Growing roots?"
"Thought about it, Sarah? Yes," Runacres said. "But no, not yet. I'm too old to be a Boy Scout. I'll give this paradise a few more years. Besides, humanity's biggest problems may still be ahead."
"How so, sir?" asked Wells.
"You haven't forgotten Shaula, have you?" Runacres asked. "There's an old and belligerent race out there. It attacked us twenty-five years ago, and it probably attacked this system over five hundred years ago."
"You think it's the same race?" Merriwether asked.
"Who knows?" Runacres replied. "Regardless, there's a great danger out there. I have a feeling we'll face it again in our lifetimes." He listened to the happy noises of the children and envied their bliss. He ran their names over in his mind. They would be famous: the oldest, Honey, ran along the beach cove, splashing the lake waters; little Adam followed, waddling in her footsteps; the youngest baby—Hope—still in her mother's arms, was just awakening.
Epilogue
She breathed deeply. Beach smells redolent of wet sand and seaweed—the odors of ocean tides—rose to meet her. Her senses responded to a symphony of stimuli. She touched warm ocean waters with bare toes and, listening carefully, heard plaintive sounds drifting inshore, inshore through the fog. The sweet sounds of Trident's horn, soft and temporal, lingered but for seconds before trailing into the background—a mysterious sound. Genellan had many mysteries.
Buccari stared seaward, into the thick bank of fog standing offshore, a curtain of inscrutable gray cotton obscuring the distance to the open horizons, but she knew a horizon was out there somewhere. Overhead, morning skies bespoke the coming of another balmy day, and at her feet the surf frothed softly, a comfortable, metronomic hissing sound—water gliding over sand. The breeze freshened; the fog bank receded. She could not feel the wind, but she could see it; clusters of tiny ripples marred the mirror-smooth surface of the low swells and gentle waves. Cat's paws, the ripples were called, and she understood why.
The breeze wandered ashore, blowing her dark hair, fine and lustrous, across her face. She reached up innocently and brushed it aside, touching the long scar on her cheek. Her fingers lingered, as they often did—the scar a bittersweet memory. She slowly dropped her hands, and they fell naturally, with fingers spread around gravid belly. She felt the burgeoning existence, a reminder of the past and an element of the future. A wonderment.