The Flag-Bearer
The commander's tent of the Malpais Legate was spartan but efficient, a reflection of its owner. There were no ornaments or fineries, no luxuries. Nothing but instruments of war. Charts, maps, and enough weapons to supply a centuria, all organized in various states of repair. There appeared to not even be a cot for sleeping, so efficiently utilized was the space. In truth the Malpais slept on crates of ammunition. He was a hard, prickly man, and to earn his respect was more difficult than conquering a hundred tribes. The Flag-Bearer was one of the few to draw his praise.
He entered the Malpais' tent silently, patiently waiting for the Legate to acknowledge his presence. The Legate ignored him for some time, absorbed in the fastidious cleaning of a machete gladius. Without looking up the Legate spoke in his intimidating baritone.
"There are six things the lord hateth," the flickering light of the torch lamps made him into a silhouette, his back turned to the Flag-Bearer, "and the seventh his soul detesteth."
The Flag-Bearer assumed the Legate was referring to Caesar every time he talked about the lord. It was a grandiloquent way to discuss the head of the bull, befitting of a man whose legend was growing from the bones of the wasteland like the thorny vines that seemed to be the only crop in the four states wasteland.
"The seventh," the Legate continued, polishing the gladius with a bloody rag soaked in oil, "is him that soweth discord among brethren."
The Flag-Bearer remained silent. The Legate set down the Gladius. He slowly rose from his chair, "'In whose heart is perverseness, who deviseth evil continually, and who soweth discord.'"
"Gloria Mars," the Flag-Bearer knelt when the Legate turned to face him.
"Report, Flag-Bearer."
"I have done as you asked. I have seen the whisper's source, I have no doubt," the Flag-Bearer rose to his feet, standing slightly taller than the Legate, but not prouder. "I followed the robots trail to a fertile valley. It is a place not meant for my eyes, nor for the eyes of any man. Had it not been my orders, I should never have looked at all, and even as I did I quickly looked away."
The Flag-Bearer recalled the valley from which the security robots that had attacked the camp originated from and even in memory he could barely stand it. It was a place of unstained beauty, a place unfit for the wasteland. He knew in revealing its location to his brothers he had assured its destruction. Another burden for his soul to bear in service to his Legion, a burden he carried proudly if not sadly.
"The eyes of God see all," the Legate said cryptically, then turning away said, "Thank you Flag-Bearer. You are dismissed for now."
The Flag-Bearer made a polite bow and left the Legate's tent. The Legate then called in his quartermaster.
As soon as the quartermaster entered the commander's tent the Legate demanded to know, "How much napalm is left in our stores?"
