Salusa Secundus glimmered like an oasis in the harsh wilderness of war, a sanctuary where Xavier could regain his strength before going backout with the Army of the Jihad. Now, though, as he sped by groundcar away from the Zimia Spaceport, he hoped he was in time. He had just arrived backhome from the Ixian battlegrounds.
For months he’d known that Octa was pregnant— apparently their lovemaking on the night before his departure for Ix had been quite surprisingly successful— and her delivery was now imminent. He had not been present for the births of Roella or Omilia— his duty to the Jihad always came first— but his wife was forty-six now, causing her delivery to be fraught with a greater than usual potential for complications. She insisted that he should not worry, which made him all the more concerned.
Xavier sped along a winding road into the hills toward the Butler estate, while the sun dropped lower in the western sky. He had made contact as soon as the ballistas entered the home system, and had received regular reports on Octa’s condition. He was cutting it quite close.
Octa had chosen to deliver at home, as she had done with her two older children, because she wanted the resources of the medical centers to remain available for the war, especially for the wounded who were receiving replacement organs from the generous Tlulaxa organ farms.
After parking in the courtyard and racing through the main gates into the echoing foyer, he called out with more emotion than he usually allowed himself to show. “Octa! I’m here!”
One of the servants met him excitedly, pointing up the stairs. “The doctors are with her. I don’t think the baby is born yet, but it’s very—”
Xavier didn’t hear the rest as he hurried upstairs. Octa lay on the large four-poster bed where they had conceived the child. It was another small victory, a symbol of human persistence and triumph. Now Octa was half-sitting, her legs spread, and her face was streaked with sweat and contorted in pain.
Seeing him, though, she smiled, as if trying to convince herself it was not a dream. “My love! Is this… what I have to do… to get you home from war?”
At her bedside, the professional midwife smiled reassuringly. “She’s strong, and everything is normal. Anytime now you should have another child, Primero.”
“You make it sound too easy.” Octa groaned with another contraction. “Would you like to switch places with me?”
“This is your third child,” the midwife said, “so it should be easy for you. Maybe you don’t even need me.”
The expectant mother grabbed the woman’s hand and held on tight. “Stay!”
Xavier stepped forward. “If anyone’s going to hold her hand, it should be me.” Smiling, the midwife backed away, letting Octa’s husband take her place.
Leaning close, Xavier thought about how lovely his wife still was. He had been with her for many years, and away from her for too much of the time. He marveled that she could be so content with this patchwork marriage.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“About how beautiful you are. You’re glowing with happiness.”
“That’s because you’re with me.”
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t been the husband you deserve. Even when we’re together, I haven’t been attentive.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she touched her large belly. “You must be somewhat attentive, or I wouldn’t be pregnant again.” She grimaced when a contraction struck, but fought through the pain with a brave smile.
But he wouldn’t let himself off so easily. “Honestly, I’ve spent too much time brooding, concerned with this damned war. The real tragedy is how long it took me to see what a treasure I have in you.”
Tears streamed down Octa’s face. “I have never questioned you, my darling. You are the only man I have ever loved, and I am happy to accept you on any basis.”
“You deserve more, and I’m…”
But before he finished his sentence, Octa cried out. “This is it— hard labor,” the midwife said, hurrying to the bedside. “Time to push.” And Xavier knew the conversation was over.
Twenty minutes later, Xavier cradled his third daughter in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. Octa had already chosen the name while he was away at Ix, with his approval.
“Welcome to the universe, Wandra,” he said. And for a moment, he felt complete.
ON HIS SPRAWLING estate Manion Butler had always tended the olive groves and vineyards, and in between war engagements, Xavier dabbled as a gentleman farmer himself, much as ancient Roman officers had during times of peace. He took pleasure in being home, spending time with his family and forgetting about the evil thinking machines and the horrors of the Jihad… if only for a short while.
Xavier always made certain there were enough field hands and crop supervisors to make the cultivated hills a productive enterprise, but he loved getting his own hands dirty, feeling the sunlight on his back and the sweat on his skin from simple, straightforward labor. Long ago, Serena, too, had loved gardening, tending her lovely flowers, and now he understood what had drawn her to the soil and growing things. He felt a purity of purpose without political considerations, treachery, or personality complications. Here, he only had to focus on the fertile soil and the fresh-smelling vegetation.
Blackbirds flitted among the gray-green leaves of the olive trees, eating berries the pickers had missed. At the end of each row of grape vines stood a cluster of giant orange marigolds. Xavier strolled down the narrow, leafy corridors, his head just tall enough to rise above the twisting vines that curled around the posts and support cables.
As expected, he found his father-in-law working among the vines, caressing the clusters of green grapes that were ripening in the dry, warm weather. Manion’s hair had gone white and his once fleshy face was now lean, but the retired Viceroy exuded a calm contentment that he had never displayed when he had served the League Parliament.
“It’s not necessary to count every one of the grapes, Manion,” Xavier quipped. He walked forward, and grape leaves brushed against his sleeves like the outstretched hands of an adoring throng during one of his victory parades.
Manion looked up and tilted back the straw hat that shielded his eyes from the sun. “It is because of the care and attention I shower upon these vines that our family vintages are the best in all the League Worlds. This year I fear the Zinagne will be a bit weak— too much water in that acreage— but the Beaujie should be superb.”
Xavier stood next to him and looked at the grape clusters. “Then I’ll have to help you sample the vintages until we’re both convinced of their excellence.”
Workers went up and down the rows of grapes, using hoes and rakes to turn the soil and remove the weeds. Each year when the fruit ripened to perfection, crowds of Salusan laborers toiled around the clock in the vineyards, filling baskets and carrying them to the winery buildings behind the main house. Xavier had managed to participate in this riotous harvesting activity only three times in the past decade, but had enjoyed it.
He wished he could stay home more often, but his true calling was out in space battling the thinking machines.
“And how is my newest baby granddaughter?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to see for yourself. I’ve been called out to join the fleet again in a week, and I’m counting on you to help Octa. As a new mother, she’ll have plenty to do.”
“Are you certain my bumbling assistance won’t cause more problems?”
Xavier chuckled. “You were the Viceroy, so at least you know how to delegate responsibility. Please make certain Roella and Omilia lend their mother a hand.”
Blinking in the bright Salusan sun, Xavier sighed as the weight of his life seemed to press down on him. He had already spent time with old Emil Tantor, who was pleased to be sharing his lonely house with his daughter-in-law Sheel and her three children.
Though Xavier had his own family and plenty of love, he felt he had lost something along the way. Octa was quiet and strong, a sanctuary in the turmoil of his life. He loved her without hesitation, though he recalled the carefree passion of his brief relationship with Serena. The two of them had been young then, fired with romance, never imagining the tragedy hurtling toward them like a meteor from the skies….
Xavier had stopped regretting the loss of Serena— their lives had diverged long ago— but he could not help but regret how much he himself had changed. “Manion,” he said in a quiet voice, “how did I get to be so rigid in my ways?”
“Let me ponder that for a moment,” the retired Viceroy said.
Troubling thoughts assailed Xavier. The optimistic and passionate young man he had once been now seemed a total stranger to him. He thought of the difficult tasks he had undertaken in the name of the Jihad, and was unable to condone them all.
Finally, Manion answered with all the seriousness and importance he had ever used when giving a speech before the League Parliament. “The war made you harder, Xavier. It’s changed all of us. Some people, it has broken. Others, like you, it has made stronger.”
“I fear my strength is my weakness.” Xavier peered deep into the thick, green vines but saw only memories of his numerous Jihad campaigns… space battles, mangled robots, massacred human beings who were victims of the thinking machine onslaughts.
“How so?”
“I have seen what Omnius can do, and have devoted my entire life to making sure the machines never win.” He sighed. “That it is the way I’ve chosen to show my love for my family: by protecting them. Sadly it means I am almost never home.”
“If you did not do this, Xavier, we’d all be slaves to the evermind. Octa understands, as do I, as do your daughters. Don’t let it weigh too heavily upon you.”
Xavier drew a deep breath. “I know you’re right, Manion… but I don’t want my relentless determination for victory to cost me my own humanity.” He looked intently at his father-in-law. “If people like me are forced to become like machines in order to defeat the machines, then the whole Jihad is lost.”