The Last Post
Cody, clone CC-2224, formerly marshal commander of the 7th Sky Corps of the GAR and later commander of the 501st Legion of the Stormtrooper Corps, knelt in the dirt before a loose circle of purple hyacinths. The light scent of raspberry blossoms on the bushes that formed a hedge around his small garden mingled with the heavy fragrance of the hyacinths and the rich aroma of warm earth. Tenderly he positioned the last dahlia tuber between a pair of hyacinths and scooped velvety loam over it. The hyacinths would fade long before the deep burgundy of the dahlias appeared, but that was no matter. The meaning was the same. To complete this little memorial, he gently shook zinnia seeds around the outside of the circle with all the attention he had once given battle plans and mission briefings.
The alarm jolted him out of his reverie.
Time already? It was early. Then again, any time before late afternoon always felt wrong. At least this year the anniversary fell in the spring. Somehow it was easier to face when he could spend the day outdoors among growing things. Winter two years ago had been a hard one.
He rose stiffly to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands. Motions deliberate, he went about his preparations as he had done every year on this day, ever since the compulsion had been removed.
When all was ready, he returned to the garden to place the simple teapot and matching pair of cups on the small, round table. The sun was almost harsh, sharp and insistent. It glinted off the polished surface of his armor, unworn now these ten years but for this one day. Quietly, he took up his post at attention, facing west.
As the anthem played from a small speaker, Cody brought his hand up in a crisp salute. Refusing to allow his eyes to mist, he maintained the pose until the final brassy note had faded.
"Rest in peace, General Kenobi. Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." He swallowed the tightness that was certainly not a lump and whispered the forbidden blessing. "May the Force be with you."
Removing his helmet, he took his seat beside the little table and, with all the ceremony the General had taught him, poured the tea. Steam curled up toward that bright, bright sun. He sipped, still looking to the west. A wistful smile crossed his face. The General would have approved of this year's blend.
Mando'a vocabulary:
Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. "Not dead, merely marching far away." A Mando'a funeral proverb.