Dr. Alfonso Morales exited Garma's room, closing the door behind him and
taking Octavio by the arm. "It's more than just [i]turista[/i]. He seems
to have picked up a virus as well. There's not much we can do, really,
besides what your grandmother here has been doing. Keep feeding him
tortillas with salt and spearmint tea. As long as he doesn't get
dehydrated, he should get over this fairly soon."
"Should I inform Kishiria?"
Morales noticed that he was still wearing his stethoscope and took it off. "I don't see why. It will pass soon enough. Just let him get enough rest."
Duarte thanked the doctor, who left. Duarte went out into the kitchen for a last glass of water before going to work. Abuelo was out. Abuela was hand-sewing some clothes in the living room. Luisa was still washing the breakfast dishes. He stopped to give her a kiss and fetched his hat.
When Octavio entered the hangar, he was soon met by Pablito. The pint- sized mechanic was cleaning some of his tools when he asked, "Hey, did Garma manage to tell you anything about new mobile suits in between runs to the bathroom?"
Tavi looked down at his cousin and pointed to Garma's MS-06F. "Does that look like the most recent model to you? No, he hasn't said anything
"Damn. Well, let me know if he does. I've been reading about the new [i]Goufs[/i], man, they sound cool."
"I'm sure Ranba Ral in Southeast Asia will enjoy them," Chavez added, coming up behind them with a can of the local grape soda in his hand. "That was the last piece of information I heard in California Base."
"Ranba Ral? Who's he? Garma's the [i][pinché[/i] viceroy, for Christ's sake. They gotta give him one of the new mobile suits. They're making it in California Base, right under his nose."
Chavez shrugged. "Don't you think he would have one by now, instead of that antique?"
"That's bad news," signed Pablito.
"Well, I'll give you some good news, then," Duarte said. "Today's more ground exercises. Everybody to the briefing room."
"Don't be making no extra work for me!" Pablito called after his cousin as he vanished from sight.
***
Another day, another bone-bruising session of avoiding vans, burros, and archaeological sites. Duarte came home rumpled and exhausted, coming down from his usual adrenaline high. On returning to the house, Duarte went straight to Garma's room. The visit was turning out to be a complete hash, so the least he could do was make sure the boy was all right. Duarte could tell this was a person who did not like being reduced to a helpless, infantile state. He prepared for a sulky and demoralized young prince and knocked.
Duarte entered on Garma's "Come in!" Inside, the viceroy was sitting up in bed. He still looked slightly green and his tan-brown t-shirt had sweat stains under the arms. Nonetheless, he had a stack of photos and documents on the covers in front of him and his laptop was open by his side.
"Has your fever left you, sir?"
"Almost. The herb teas are helping." Garma laid some surveillance photos in a row in front of Duarte. "I've been looking at these. They're spy satellite shots of the Feddie bases outside Oaxaca."
Duarte pulled the chair to beside the bed and looked at them, nodding. He chose to say nothing, unsure of where Garma was going with this.
"I notice that their defenses seem rather weak. Look. They have a good number of aircraft, but they're mostly Tin Cod. They have some Fly Manthas, and even one is bad news, but I notice they keep them towards the shore, probably so they can scramble them against the port of Veracruz. Since we hold Veracruz, the Feddies must want it back, seeing as it starts the invasion route into the Valley of Mexico. It seems to me they're arranging their offenses for that possibility." Garma's finger tapped lightly at several points on the glossy color pictures, as if by punctuating his statements he was entering them into unshakable reality.
"What are you suggesting, sir?"
Garma looked up at Duarte, smiling with boyish innocence. . .and mischief. "Oaxaca. I think we could liberate it."
"Sir!" Duarte felt himself break out into a sweat. What was this crazy [i]chamaco[/i] planning?
"Not us alone, of course. We'd have to engage our friends the Benito Juarez. I was supposed to visit them next anyway. We need to protect that warm-water port and it bothers me that the Feddies are sitting so close. Oaxaca is the southernmost major city in Mexico, and I think it would benefit us to free it and push the Feddies back into Maya territory. Let the current crop of Zapatistas handle them. They're tough guys."
"Have you run this plan past Princess Kishiria?" Duarte had a sudden nightmare image of being at the receiving ends of one of Kishiria's infuriated screeds, the nut of which would be, "What the HELL did you let my baby brother just DO?"
Garma snorted. "Why? I'm the ruler here, not she. What's the point of me even being here as commander of the North American forces if all orders have to bypass me and go straight to her? Believe me, Colonel M'Quve in Eastern Europe doesn't have to, and he handles more activity than the simple liberation of a city. Tavi," Garma leaned conspiratorially towards Duarte. "We have the weaponry, the insight, and the heart. Furthermore, the Feddies won't be expecting it; they're expecting to wage the offensive against us first. We can do this. For Mexico."
Duarte weighed his words carefully. "This is the land of my birth. However I'm sworn to defend the Jion throne."
"I understand that, and as its representative, I appreciate your words. But I also know that you were one of the immigrants forced to Side 3 and I have no illusions that this," he gestured to the window, "is where your heart truly lies. Better we hold it than the Fedichos, ¿verdad?"
Duarte nodded. "Yes." He frowned. "How did you know about my being one of the forced immigrants? Have you been reading my files?"
"Nothing so crass," Garma assured him with a smile. "Your grandfather told me. He's been keeping me company and telling me all kinds of things."
[i]Ay, carajo[/i], thought Duarte to himself. "Good. I wouldn't want you to be lonely or bored."
"I'm not. Everyone's been very kind." Garma was quiet for a moment, and then got a strange, uncomfortable expression on his face. He whisked the covers off and swung his bare feet to the floor. "Excuse me."
Duarte watched Garma scamper out towards the bathroom. He turned to the photographs and picked one up. He'd seen them all before, of course; he had this set and several others in his office. He'd always looked at them for signs of unusual movement, of more supplies being brought in or of new aircraft. He'd never examined them from an offensive standpoint because he'd never been told to, and he preferred to stick faithfully to his orders.
But now, looking at the placement of the bases, he could see what Garma did. The Fedichos were arranged for a fast strike on Veracruz. Oaxaca was far from wide open, but it could be taken, yes. That would push back the line of defense and move the Fedichos back towards Jaburo. Then, they could stay as a united force with the Benito Juarez in Oaxaca to protect against the inevitable counter-strike.
This couldn't wait even long enough for Garma to finish flushing the john. Duarte grabbed a handful of photos and headed immediately for the Falling Eagles' TOC.
***
"Incredible," Leobardo Magadan said as Duarte showed Garma's intelligence photos on the overhead projector. "It's so obvious that this is possible."
"It gets better," said Duarte. "What we stand to do is drive the Fedichos down from Oaxaca State into Chiapas or Tabasco. It won't send them out of Mexico completely, but it'll send them into some very unpleasant territory to face some very unpleasant people."
"Those Fedichos won't be Earth elite," Lopez said. "They'll be spacenoids mostly. The unpaved roads, the jungle, the mud.they'll be like lost children down there."
"Even if they're Earth elite they're screwed," Chavez said. "You won't see this SoCal surfer in the bush."
"At least they'd be smart enough not to drink the water, unlike some people we know," Magadan quipped.
"You talking about me or Garma?" asked Villalobos.
"Be that as it may," Duarte said, "we're not going to pursue them until they're backed up against the rough terrain. We're just going to drive them down to where they have no place to land their planes, so they'll have no choice but to retreat to their next airbase, which as far as we know is Jaburo."
"Oaxaca's the southernmost major city anyway," said Hernandez. "Nobody would call San Cristobal de las Casas all that useful for supplies."
"Well the point is not so much just to drive out the Feddies from a usable city," Duarte said. "It's to push the Feddies away from Veracruz, which we expect to become even more important to our efforts as the war goes on. Our naval power is increasing, remember." He looked to the side. "Luna. You've been unusually quiet."
"Yeah, you didn't even defend Garma when Villalobos made his [i]turista[/i] joke," said Provi Alcaraz.
Luna looked up from her desk, her eyes uncharacteristically sad. "This is so much more important than that. It's even more than keeping Veracruz out of Fedicho hands. We all know what the Fedichos are like when they occupy a place. We've seen how afraid the [i]Conejos[/i] always are of them, the condition they're in when we find them. I've always thought of how much suffering must be going on there. I'm glad to hear these plans, for the sake of the people in the city." She smiled a little nastily. "So what's our approach going to be, and how are we going to act when we get there?"
***
Oaxaca sits on a plateau within the junction of four valleys. The airport that had been converted by the Federation into a base sat directly south of the city, nestled between the grooves of the Ocotlan and Tlacolula valleys. Regular patrols made it easy to tell what was going on to the northeast, just over the Jion/Federation border where the Benito Juarez guarded the approach to Veracruz.
However, it was impossible for them to be looking in all directions at all times, especially when confronted with the news that squadrons of Dopp fighters and Gattle bombers had come tearing in from over the Gulf of Mexico to attack the airfield itself. It was a further unwelcome surprise when five [i]Zakus[/i] suddenly came into sight from the northwest. Even more surprising was the fact that the five [i]Zakus[/i] were led by an MS- 06F, bearing the crest of one of the royal family.
Despite the surprise attack, the Federation base managed to get what planes they could into the air. From where Chavez sat, close behind Duarte's suit, flanked by Luna's, he could see Tin Cods and Fly Manthas going up. One craft about every two minutes, and some had been in the air even before the battle started, he was sure. From what he'd been told, there would be armour behind, Type 61s, known for doing serious damage to a [i]Zaku[/i] if they hit with one of their twin 150mm main guns.
Chavez knew Duarte was chewing glass over this. Pushing back the Fedichos would be a great triumph, but the knowledge they were doing it with the favourite child of Degin Zabi leading the assault was not comforting.
They hadn't had much of a chance to practice, not with Garma at any rate. He'd worked with them as much as they could in the short time they had, and he'd done well. The problem was that his suit was not the right tool for the job. The MS-06F was meant for space use, and its cooling systems and joints were badly tested by the Mexican late-spring climate.
"Don't worry," Garma had told Duarte, "I've got an angle."
Sgt. Maria Franco marched her mobile suit into the assault with her usual resigned calm. She was eager to take out aircraft, with her [i]Zaku[/i]'s 105mm cannon at the ready. When the first planes appeared, the gun was up and out. She kept her eyes unblinkingly on the sights and her thumb unerringly on the "fire" button; the rhythmic roar of the high-velocity rounds spraying into the sky was calming. Each explosion above her head she dedicated to her fallen friends, and for her husband. Maria wasn't a particularly vengeful woman, but this was not something she would deny herself in the name of forgiveness.
The ground force rolled up to support the aerial ones, despite being at a disadvantage: the Jion held the high ground. Duarte turned to his radio and said, "Alcaraz! You and your team hang back and take care of those Fedicho aircraft from behind us. Leave the tanks to the Gattles; we'll finish off what's left."
Shielding their cockpits, Duarte's team moved forward. At least on Earth radar worked because of the lack of Minovsky particles. If it hadn't been for that, they'd have been close to blind from the smoke and dust in the dun-coloured air. His other suits were sticking close enough together for skin talk as needed. Their advantage over the tanks was height, but it was not easy defending against the Fly Manthas above and the Type 61s below, even if the Fly Manthas' numbers (he had counted about twenty to start) were being thinned and distracted by the Dopps. Nonetheless, they kept their grim march moving forward, making careful use of crackers against the tanks when they could free up one hand.
Sixty tanks to start with. The Gattle were good at hitting their moving targets, but that still meant only about ten down. There was an explosion to Duarte's left.
"Magadan! Was that you?" He saw a [i]Zaku[/i] spilling end over end as it rolled down the hill in an avalanche of steel, soil, and toppled trees. The scene obscured when the [i]Zaku[/i] stopped its descent with an outstretched arm.
"Yes, Captain. I'm hit in my right arm, it's disabled, but I'm okay."
"Fall back." Duarte opened another channel. "Lopez, I need you to change place with Magadan."
"Yes, sir." Lopez's [i]Zaku[/i] came jogging up from behind. It was still firing upwards when a shot from a Type 61 hit him square in the cockpit; the armored canopy sprouted two mushroomed holes before a wash of flame spread across the [i]Zaku[/i]'s distintegrating torso. The explosion sent two other suits flying, but hopefully not to a similar fate. Duarte leaned forward. No, they were picking themselves up again. One was Villalobos, the other Hernandez. He couldn't tell what condition they were in.
"Duarte, I'm sorry!" Garma's voice called through his speakers.
"We'll deal with it later, Your Highness." No time for a bereavement therapy session now. "I see over twenty tanks and only about six fighters over head. Keep going!"
Garma's mobile suit had been slowing steadily during the fray although the Vulcan cannons mounted in his [i]Zaku[/i]'s head were turning out to be a real advantage against the aircraft. It was impossible for his paint job to have gone unnoticed, and there was a blast from a Type 61. The [i]Zaku[/i] went down, toppling into a river. There was a huge boiling in the water as a blast of white smoke erupted from the riverbed.
There was dead silence for a moment from the Falling Eagles. Even the Federation assault slowed in confusion.
"Stay the course!" Duarte commanded. Nonetheless, he saw that four of the tanks were going over to the river in order to confirm what had happened. He leaned on the trigger of his [i]Zaku[/i] cannon with one hand and let loose with another grenade, stopping them.
The Federation soon appeared puffed with confidence on seeing Garma's [i]Zaku[/i] fall. Their attack was still fierce, but careless now, assured of victory. In spite of their confidence, the Cuauhtemocs began to drive them back as they struck rough terrain that they'd made careful note of earlier, their tanks foundering in the hillocks and riverbeds, their maneuverability shot. As at the battle of Puebla in 1862, the Mexicans had counted on the Federation not being prepared for the rough. It was a gamble, but it paid off.
The Federation forces had to have decided they were beaten, because they began a fighting retreat down the Valley of Tlacolula., away from the base they were unable to reach.
"Did it work?" asked a familiar voice in Duarte's cockpit.
"Yes sir, it did. You almost had me fooled. What did you--?"
"I knew my suit was going to overheat, so I plunged it into the river, let all the cooling systems vent at once, and climbed into my normal suit to wait." Like the 505th, Garma had gone into battle in his shirtsleeves. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. Now let's lead that charge onto the plateau and finish this little adventure off, shall we?"
By the end of the day, the 505th stood at the Federation base south of the city. By sundown, Garma stood outside of his muck-covered [i]Zaku[/i], watching as prisoners were brought to him.
"What will be done with them, sir?" Duarte asked.
Garma stared into the faces of grimy, grey-clad soldiers. "We'll fly them to California Base for interrogation. I will decide what to do with them from there.
The fear on the prisoners' faces was very real. Duarte saw Garma smile at it. The lad was five foot eight in boots, and as beautiful as a girl. To inspire fear must be a rare and heady thing for him.
But Chavez and his team had yet another. Chavez exited his [i]Zaku[/i] and crossed the tarmac to Garma. He knelt on one knee and said, "Your Highness, it is my great pleasure to announce that the city is yours."
Garma threw his head back and laughed. . .but all Duarte could see was Lopez's dead suit, and he wondered if this had been worth it at all.
***
Oaxaca had come back to life. Its citizens stood along the main street in front of their brightly-painted colonial buildings, cheering the Jion liberators. People threw flower petals from their wrought-iron balconies as dogs barked from rooftops.
Duarte tried to absorb all this attention while clinging to the pommel of his saddle, trying to not fall off his horse. He had expected Garma to use one of the base jeeps for his entry into Oaxaca, or to ride in an open tank like Fidel Castro. Instead, the viceroy had insisted on riding horseback. "Much more Simon de Bolivar," he'd explained. Luna had not wasted time in explaining that riding horses was one of Garma's hobbies.
Duarte and Garma were towards the end of a line begun with Jion troops in jeeps and trucks, followed by several rows of light armour, then finally Garma and Duarte on horseback with the Eagles and the Benito Juarez in personnel carriers behind them. A few large military police rode along with Garma, keeping back the hands that reached out to touch the prince or his horse.
No one asked about the empty third horse that Duarte led by the reins with a hand. Boots were stuck backwards into the stirrups.
People were throwing flowers down under the hooves of Duarte's mount too, which was strange enough for him. Garma looked as if he was not only used to this kind of adulation but soaking it in like a sponge. He wore the short-sleeved khaki uniform he'd been using since his arrival, including the white canvas hat which was now heavily covered with flower petals. Beneath it, his grin was enormous.
The parade wound its way to the centre of town. Duarte was very grateful to see the cathedral looming in front of them because even Garma wasn't going to be so showy as to ride his horse into the church itself. He rode through the gates to the great colonial double doors where he dismounted, handed his reins to a soldier, and then passed his hat to him too. From there, Garma and his troops walked down the aisle, with Garma reaching out his hand to touch the fingers extended towards him from the pews.
As with any Mexican celebration, it was unthinkable that a mass not be said. Duarte and the other officers stood to the right of the nave, and were grateful to be doing so. Garma knelt on the flagstones in front of the altar rail. Glancing around, Duarte could make out that people were murmuring approvingly about their viceroy. Clever Garma. Duarte had figured out that being royal involved heavy amounts of theatre, and he wondered what spectacles the other Zabis were prone to producing. Garma had now presented himself as king and conqueror, so what was next?
Judge. As evening started to fall, Garma arranged himself comfortably in the courtyard of a 17th century home near the zocalo. Colonial chairs were made small, so even in the ornate oaken monstrosity in which he was sitting, Garma looked comfortable. He'd changed from the khaki uniform into his greens again and looked particularly official with his white gloves and tall boots. The flags of Jion and Mexico hung on poles on either side of him.
He looked impressive to Duarte, so he couldn't imagine what impression he was making to the group of peasants who were standing in front of him as supplicants. They looked much like the peasants in the areas occupied by the 505th, with the men in work clothes with white straw Stetsons. The women made the difference, as they all wore the traditional Oaxaca headdress, a heavy colourful scarf folded into a square and pinned atop the hair with the rest of the scarf hanging down their backs.
The mayor of Oaxaca, clad in a neat blue suit and sash of office, said to Garma, "These indigenous people have a case they would like to put in front of you, sir."
Garma nodded and gestured for them to approach. An older man and his wife were the spokespeople for the group. The woman carried a blue and red woven shopping bag that contained something heavy.
"My name is Pascual Mazatl Gomez," he said, taking off his hat and holding it uneasily in front of him. "My co-citizens and I are here to ask Your Highness to give back what is ours."
His wife started to approach, whereupon two Jion soldiers stepped forward and crossed their weapons in front of her. Garma glowered at them slightly and asked in English, "Wasn't that bag properly inspected before they all came in?"
One of the soliders turned his helmeted head towards the prince. "Yes sir, but-"
"Then let her approach. I should be able to trust in my own security, shouldn't I?"
The soldiers backed up. The woman came over and reached into the bag. She pulled out a weathered metal box that bore more than a few traces of red earth on it. To Duarte, it seemed that the box had been buried, and suddenly he knew what was in it.
He leaned forward and whispered into Garma's ear, "Take these very seriously, sir."
Garma reached forward for the box. The woman immediately whisked her scarf from her head, placed it under the box, and handed it to him so that he wouldn't dirty his slacks.
Garma opened the box and removed the first of several papers that were folded into tight squares and tied with cords. He began handing them to the officers around him. Duarte picked at the knot for a moment before the fragile cord disintegrated, and the others around him had the same result.
Someone turned on the string of white lightbulbs that were hanging around the perimeter of the courtyard. Garma took one of the papers and squinted at it.
"All I can see is the date," he admitted. "1670." He tipped his head to the side, examining the writing, then said, "What are they?"
"From the looks of them, and the way they were buried, deeds of land ownership."
"I will adjourn to a better lighted room. See to it that these people have a comfortable place to wait, some coffee and so on."
The room selected was a dining room, but even here lamps had to be put on the table. Garma spread the documents out, holding them gingerly with his gloved fingertips. Finally he said, "I can't read this. It's too spidery."
"Permit me, sir." A young priest in civilian clothes who had been watching the procedures came over to the table. "I took my degree at the UNAM in Mexico City, and I had some classes in colonial writing." He glanced at the documents over Garma's shoulder.
"They're land deeds, as Captain Duarte said. What has happened here is a story that is repeated in Mexican history. The Spanish deeded land to the indigenous peoples, and were very careful to document this. The indigenous peoples, not being very trusting, made sure to keep the deeds buried safely. In the 19th century, the Mexican government for the first time took their lands away from them, and they were only restored by the Archduke Maximilian when he was installed as emperor by Napoleon III. In the early 20th century, their lands were seized again, and the one who took their side was Emiliano Zapata, who led their uprising. Now, the Federation took their land."
"Then it sounds as if it's my turn to restore it." He looked up at the mayor. "I'll need lawyers to write up the documents assuring them that the Jion crown is restoring the land this time." He smiled over at Duarte. "And it falls to you to be the ones to guard it, in the name of my father."
"It will be our honour, sir."
Garma returned to the courtyard. It was solidly night now, and the exposed lightbulbs cast shadows that kept the people and objects within half shrouded in darkness. Garma took his seat again, and in a few minutes, the native petitioners were led into his presence.
"My people, good citizens of Oaxaca," he began, "you have suffered a great injustice. It is, I'm afraid, the key of Federation policy to force people off their land and then take it. It is a theft not only of one's property but of one's past, one's identity, and one's heart.
"Therefore, I am pleased to tell you that I am honouring these land grants that were made up for you by the Spanish so long ago."
Duarte watched as the faces of the Oaxacans lit up, the wife of the head man grabbing her husband's arm. Had they been expecting rejection?
"I am giving back the deeds for safekeeping," Garma went on, gesturing for the box to be brought to the people, "but don't bury them again yet. You'll need to add some documents from me to them first. I'm signing that land to you in perpetuity, to be supported by the military forces under my command. As long as I can back up the promise, the land is forever yours."
The head man stepped forward and reached out a hand. Garma extended his own hand and allowed him to kiss the back of it. The others followed.
They remained in Oaxaca for another week. The 505th, along with the Benito Juarez, hung around and soaked in the adulation, soured though it was by losing Lopez, which only Garma had seemed to have forgotten. At every turn there were free clothes, free food, and free booze. Garma was busy of course, still hearing land claim cases now that it was known he was amenable. He also found himself carrying out one duty he had not expected as he was asked over and over to serve as godfather to Oaxaca's newborns. To Duarte's amusement, he split his time between the city hall and the cathedral's baptismal font.
"We can afford to just drink this all up," said Franco as she, Villalobos, and Provi Alcaraz enjoyed a round of free chocolate in a café, "We go home in a couple of days and it's up to the Benito Juarez to hold the line."
"[i]Those[/i] guys," snorted Villalobos, "couldn't hold their tequila without having their daddies holding the limes for them." He downed his chocolate in a single swallow. "The Fedichos will come back and hack their manhoods off with shovels."
He pointedly ignored some of the dirty looks others in the café were giving him. Franco touched Villalobos' arm in warning. "What is the [i]matter[/i] with you, 'Lobo? You [i]trying[/i] to get us kicked out of here?"
Villalobos' eyes were angry. "What's the point in [i]staying[/i], [i]compañera[/i]? We did all the bleeding for this place, but we don't get to keep it? We lost Lopez taking it, and all we're going to do is fall back and leave it to a bunch of half-rates? Why'd we [i]stop[/i]? We could've kept going!"
Provi Alcaraz chuckled into her mug. "And done what? Gotten the [i]Zakus[/i] sandsucked in a Belize swamp or a Guatemalan jungle? Only comfort there'd be that the Feds wouldn't have to shoot us to take us out."
Villalobos was not amused. "You saying this was a waste of ammo, too?"
Alcaraz shook her head. "Never sayin' that. Just 'spensive, was all." And with that, she went silent again.
Franco knew that Villalobos' point about Lopez was the root of this matter. "'Lobo, we're going back to where we came from because there's no one else there. The Fedichos will come back, but the rules don't say they gotta come back [i]here[/i], [i]mijo[/i]. Don't you got a wife back at the base?"
[i]That[/i] shut him up, but anyone could see what was going on in Villalobos' mind as they sat there, silent.
[i]Garma comes and goes, and so do we, but when will get to STAY[/i]?
***
Those days passed and they made a return to Teotihuacan. The 505th stayed on alert, but life returned to normal. During the time they had been in Oaxaca, there had been no sign of Federation resurgents creeping into the area. It seemed that the Federation was more than happy to leave that piece of Mexico to the spacenoids.
The morning after their return, Duarte woke up comfortably beside Luisa. He rolled onto his back and had the urge to dress immediately. After placing a kiss on her shoulder in case she was awake, he put on jeans and a white t-shirt and headed outside.
The day was already bright, with a little mist high above the ruins. Duarte walked down the big stone plaza, heading towards the Temple of the Sun. Eventually he heard the sound of a guitar and realized to his dismay that it was coming from the summit. He stopped, stretched his quadriceps several times, and started climbing.
It was Garma, sitting with the Duarte family dog by his side, playing the guitar he'd brought with him.
La luna me dice una cosa,
Las estrellas me digan una otra,
Y la luz del día me canta
Esta triste canción
Esta triste canción.
Los besos que me diste mi amor
Son los que me estan matando
Ya las lagrimas me estan secando
Con mi pistola y mi corazón
Y aqui siempre paso la vida con
La pistola y el corazón.*
"Pretty melancholy song for a guy like you who just freed Oaxaca," Duarte panted as he reached the top of the pyramid. "Hey.how'd you get Alberto up here?"
"He followed me. I'm going to have to carry him downstairs in my backpack, though. Those stairs are as steep as a ladder." Garma scratched the dog's furry ears.
"So, mind if I join you?"
"As long as you don't have an obsidian blade in your back pocket." Garma watched as Duarte settled down beside him on the rubble-covered top of the pyramid. "I've got a few things to kill my good mood, so I'm up here hiding from them for a little longer. First, I sent off The Letter to Lopez's family in Nuevo Aztlan last night. The times I've done that before, it's just been me signing a form for a soldier who chances are I've never met. This was personal; I know his family's names, I've seen their pictures. So that was hard. I don't think, 'Your son is a hero' will go down very well, even if it is completely true."
Octavio nodded, noting the melancholy tone of Garma's voice, and he kicked himself mentally. He didn't forget after all. Garma didn't forget, in the middle of his triumph, what it had cost to gain. "I will be sending my own as well."
"I'm very worried about something, Tavi. That attack went far too easily. We took almost no casualties. That's good, but it implies some unpleasant things."
"Specifically?"
"I heard from Intel last night. There are more Feddies in this area than we previously thought." Garma made the comment so offhandedly that at first, Duarte didn't catch the implication. Then. . .
Shock made Duarte's voice crack as he exclaimed, "What?"
"The information is already in your inbox. It looks as if they have been pulling their forces away from Oaxaca, in order to begin an assault on Veracruz. They need that warm-water port more than we do, after all, although that's changing as we build our own navy. Ultimately, our freeing Oaxaca may just have been a feel-good gesture.and that is NOT what I came here to do!"
Duarte started a little at the steel in Garma's voice and the anger in the younger man's eyes. "So what do you propose, Your Highness?"
"Unfortunately, I'll be able to advise from California only. My time here is up. I leave Mexico tomorrow. I would stay if I could, but it appears that I will have to leave you to defend against this larger Fedicho force on your own."
Duarte felt his heart sink. "Sir."
"I'm so, so sorry about this, Duarte. I don't even have any mobile suits to give you. But you know that."
"Yes."
"It's not fair and not right, but that's out of my hands. My older siblings control where the mobile suits being built under my own nose go. There is only one thing I can offer you, to put you under my protection."
That night, a rectangle of tall torches marked off the area for the ceremony. Once again, the 505th were in their dress uniforms in the muggy heat of the Mexican night, but this time their families were there to watch. Garma, seated yet again in an ornate colonial chair, held Duarte's hands between his own as Duarte knelt in front of him, reciting the oath of fealty on behalf of his company.
"I, Octavio Duarte Garcia, do swear myself as a liegeman to you, of life and limb and every earthly worship, against all manner of folk. So help me God."
"So help him, Our Lady of Guadalupe!" someone cried out from the rear.
"Amen!" came the response to the cry.
Garma leaned down to kiss Duarte on the cheek and raised him to his feet. Standing, he put his hand on Duarte's shoulder and said, "As a member of the royal family, I have the right to declare a company as being my very own. You have all proven yourselves worthy of this honour, so I bestow upon you the title of 'royal' and the privilege of being known as the Prince Garmas. Let the Royal Cuauhtemocs continue to terrorize the Federation until the day when they fall down beneath our feet!"
"[i]¡Viva el principe Garma de Jion![/i]" shouted Chavez.
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
"[i]¡Viva[/i] Degin Rey!"
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
"[i]¡Viva la familia real![/i]"
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
Even in the orange light of the torches, it was clear that Garma Zabi was blushing.
Authors notes: As we say in French, this chapter was "une grande misère" to write. I've done at least one space battle in "Gundam: Reconciliation" but this was the first time I've attempted a land one, and in territory that actually exists. I rapidly found myself in a quagmire of ignorance. Zinegata and His Divine Shadow hand-held, advised, and encouraged in a way that was pretty close to "above and beyond the call of duty" in my opinion, and I am very, very, very grateful to the both of them for it.
Zinegata corrected the aircraft I used, replacing the Dodai with Gattle, gave me tips on how to "colour-commentate" on a battle, and reminded me constantly to keep score of kills. His Divine Shadow, in the face of craziness at work and a nasty computer crash which has slowed down his OWN fanfic, took the time to edit what I'd written based on Zine's corrections and to make some text insertions. The whole conversation in the café is his contribution.
Therefore, if you haven't read "Forgotten Fleet", "Last Sons of Delaz", "In Vain Doth Valour Bleed" or "In Course Reciprocal", DO IT NOW. I cannot plug these guys' works enough. Muchas gracias, amigos y compañeros, y grandes embrazos.
"Should I inform Kishiria?"
Morales noticed that he was still wearing his stethoscope and took it off. "I don't see why. It will pass soon enough. Just let him get enough rest."
Duarte thanked the doctor, who left. Duarte went out into the kitchen for a last glass of water before going to work. Abuelo was out. Abuela was hand-sewing some clothes in the living room. Luisa was still washing the breakfast dishes. He stopped to give her a kiss and fetched his hat.
When Octavio entered the hangar, he was soon met by Pablito. The pint- sized mechanic was cleaning some of his tools when he asked, "Hey, did Garma manage to tell you anything about new mobile suits in between runs to the bathroom?"
Tavi looked down at his cousin and pointed to Garma's MS-06F. "Does that look like the most recent model to you? No, he hasn't said anything
"Damn. Well, let me know if he does. I've been reading about the new [i]Goufs[/i], man, they sound cool."
"I'm sure Ranba Ral in Southeast Asia will enjoy them," Chavez added, coming up behind them with a can of the local grape soda in his hand. "That was the last piece of information I heard in California Base."
"Ranba Ral? Who's he? Garma's the [i][pinché[/i] viceroy, for Christ's sake. They gotta give him one of the new mobile suits. They're making it in California Base, right under his nose."
Chavez shrugged. "Don't you think he would have one by now, instead of that antique?"
"That's bad news," signed Pablito.
"Well, I'll give you some good news, then," Duarte said. "Today's more ground exercises. Everybody to the briefing room."
"Don't be making no extra work for me!" Pablito called after his cousin as he vanished from sight.
***
Another day, another bone-bruising session of avoiding vans, burros, and archaeological sites. Duarte came home rumpled and exhausted, coming down from his usual adrenaline high. On returning to the house, Duarte went straight to Garma's room. The visit was turning out to be a complete hash, so the least he could do was make sure the boy was all right. Duarte could tell this was a person who did not like being reduced to a helpless, infantile state. He prepared for a sulky and demoralized young prince and knocked.
Duarte entered on Garma's "Come in!" Inside, the viceroy was sitting up in bed. He still looked slightly green and his tan-brown t-shirt had sweat stains under the arms. Nonetheless, he had a stack of photos and documents on the covers in front of him and his laptop was open by his side.
"Has your fever left you, sir?"
"Almost. The herb teas are helping." Garma laid some surveillance photos in a row in front of Duarte. "I've been looking at these. They're spy satellite shots of the Feddie bases outside Oaxaca."
Duarte pulled the chair to beside the bed and looked at them, nodding. He chose to say nothing, unsure of where Garma was going with this.
"I notice that their defenses seem rather weak. Look. They have a good number of aircraft, but they're mostly Tin Cod. They have some Fly Manthas, and even one is bad news, but I notice they keep them towards the shore, probably so they can scramble them against the port of Veracruz. Since we hold Veracruz, the Feddies must want it back, seeing as it starts the invasion route into the Valley of Mexico. It seems to me they're arranging their offenses for that possibility." Garma's finger tapped lightly at several points on the glossy color pictures, as if by punctuating his statements he was entering them into unshakable reality.
"What are you suggesting, sir?"
Garma looked up at Duarte, smiling with boyish innocence. . .and mischief. "Oaxaca. I think we could liberate it."
"Sir!" Duarte felt himself break out into a sweat. What was this crazy [i]chamaco[/i] planning?
"Not us alone, of course. We'd have to engage our friends the Benito Juarez. I was supposed to visit them next anyway. We need to protect that warm-water port and it bothers me that the Feddies are sitting so close. Oaxaca is the southernmost major city in Mexico, and I think it would benefit us to free it and push the Feddies back into Maya territory. Let the current crop of Zapatistas handle them. They're tough guys."
"Have you run this plan past Princess Kishiria?" Duarte had a sudden nightmare image of being at the receiving ends of one of Kishiria's infuriated screeds, the nut of which would be, "What the HELL did you let my baby brother just DO?"
Garma snorted. "Why? I'm the ruler here, not she. What's the point of me even being here as commander of the North American forces if all orders have to bypass me and go straight to her? Believe me, Colonel M'Quve in Eastern Europe doesn't have to, and he handles more activity than the simple liberation of a city. Tavi," Garma leaned conspiratorially towards Duarte. "We have the weaponry, the insight, and the heart. Furthermore, the Feddies won't be expecting it; they're expecting to wage the offensive against us first. We can do this. For Mexico."
Duarte weighed his words carefully. "This is the land of my birth. However I'm sworn to defend the Jion throne."
"I understand that, and as its representative, I appreciate your words. But I also know that you were one of the immigrants forced to Side 3 and I have no illusions that this," he gestured to the window, "is where your heart truly lies. Better we hold it than the Fedichos, ¿verdad?"
Duarte nodded. "Yes." He frowned. "How did you know about my being one of the forced immigrants? Have you been reading my files?"
"Nothing so crass," Garma assured him with a smile. "Your grandfather told me. He's been keeping me company and telling me all kinds of things."
[i]Ay, carajo[/i], thought Duarte to himself. "Good. I wouldn't want you to be lonely or bored."
"I'm not. Everyone's been very kind." Garma was quiet for a moment, and then got a strange, uncomfortable expression on his face. He whisked the covers off and swung his bare feet to the floor. "Excuse me."
Duarte watched Garma scamper out towards the bathroom. He turned to the photographs and picked one up. He'd seen them all before, of course; he had this set and several others in his office. He'd always looked at them for signs of unusual movement, of more supplies being brought in or of new aircraft. He'd never examined them from an offensive standpoint because he'd never been told to, and he preferred to stick faithfully to his orders.
But now, looking at the placement of the bases, he could see what Garma did. The Fedichos were arranged for a fast strike on Veracruz. Oaxaca was far from wide open, but it could be taken, yes. That would push back the line of defense and move the Fedichos back towards Jaburo. Then, they could stay as a united force with the Benito Juarez in Oaxaca to protect against the inevitable counter-strike.
This couldn't wait even long enough for Garma to finish flushing the john. Duarte grabbed a handful of photos and headed immediately for the Falling Eagles' TOC.
***
"Incredible," Leobardo Magadan said as Duarte showed Garma's intelligence photos on the overhead projector. "It's so obvious that this is possible."
"It gets better," said Duarte. "What we stand to do is drive the Fedichos down from Oaxaca State into Chiapas or Tabasco. It won't send them out of Mexico completely, but it'll send them into some very unpleasant territory to face some very unpleasant people."
"Those Fedichos won't be Earth elite," Lopez said. "They'll be spacenoids mostly. The unpaved roads, the jungle, the mud.they'll be like lost children down there."
"Even if they're Earth elite they're screwed," Chavez said. "You won't see this SoCal surfer in the bush."
"At least they'd be smart enough not to drink the water, unlike some people we know," Magadan quipped.
"You talking about me or Garma?" asked Villalobos.
"Be that as it may," Duarte said, "we're not going to pursue them until they're backed up against the rough terrain. We're just going to drive them down to where they have no place to land their planes, so they'll have no choice but to retreat to their next airbase, which as far as we know is Jaburo."
"Oaxaca's the southernmost major city anyway," said Hernandez. "Nobody would call San Cristobal de las Casas all that useful for supplies."
"Well the point is not so much just to drive out the Feddies from a usable city," Duarte said. "It's to push the Feddies away from Veracruz, which we expect to become even more important to our efforts as the war goes on. Our naval power is increasing, remember." He looked to the side. "Luna. You've been unusually quiet."
"Yeah, you didn't even defend Garma when Villalobos made his [i]turista[/i] joke," said Provi Alcaraz.
Luna looked up from her desk, her eyes uncharacteristically sad. "This is so much more important than that. It's even more than keeping Veracruz out of Fedicho hands. We all know what the Fedichos are like when they occupy a place. We've seen how afraid the [i]Conejos[/i] always are of them, the condition they're in when we find them. I've always thought of how much suffering must be going on there. I'm glad to hear these plans, for the sake of the people in the city." She smiled a little nastily. "So what's our approach going to be, and how are we going to act when we get there?"
***
Oaxaca sits on a plateau within the junction of four valleys. The airport that had been converted by the Federation into a base sat directly south of the city, nestled between the grooves of the Ocotlan and Tlacolula valleys. Regular patrols made it easy to tell what was going on to the northeast, just over the Jion/Federation border where the Benito Juarez guarded the approach to Veracruz.
However, it was impossible for them to be looking in all directions at all times, especially when confronted with the news that squadrons of Dopp fighters and Gattle bombers had come tearing in from over the Gulf of Mexico to attack the airfield itself. It was a further unwelcome surprise when five [i]Zakus[/i] suddenly came into sight from the northwest. Even more surprising was the fact that the five [i]Zakus[/i] were led by an MS- 06F, bearing the crest of one of the royal family.
Despite the surprise attack, the Federation base managed to get what planes they could into the air. From where Chavez sat, close behind Duarte's suit, flanked by Luna's, he could see Tin Cods and Fly Manthas going up. One craft about every two minutes, and some had been in the air even before the battle started, he was sure. From what he'd been told, there would be armour behind, Type 61s, known for doing serious damage to a [i]Zaku[/i] if they hit with one of their twin 150mm main guns.
Chavez knew Duarte was chewing glass over this. Pushing back the Fedichos would be a great triumph, but the knowledge they were doing it with the favourite child of Degin Zabi leading the assault was not comforting.
They hadn't had much of a chance to practice, not with Garma at any rate. He'd worked with them as much as they could in the short time they had, and he'd done well. The problem was that his suit was not the right tool for the job. The MS-06F was meant for space use, and its cooling systems and joints were badly tested by the Mexican late-spring climate.
"Don't worry," Garma had told Duarte, "I've got an angle."
Sgt. Maria Franco marched her mobile suit into the assault with her usual resigned calm. She was eager to take out aircraft, with her [i]Zaku[/i]'s 105mm cannon at the ready. When the first planes appeared, the gun was up and out. She kept her eyes unblinkingly on the sights and her thumb unerringly on the "fire" button; the rhythmic roar of the high-velocity rounds spraying into the sky was calming. Each explosion above her head she dedicated to her fallen friends, and for her husband. Maria wasn't a particularly vengeful woman, but this was not something she would deny herself in the name of forgiveness.
The ground force rolled up to support the aerial ones, despite being at a disadvantage: the Jion held the high ground. Duarte turned to his radio and said, "Alcaraz! You and your team hang back and take care of those Fedicho aircraft from behind us. Leave the tanks to the Gattles; we'll finish off what's left."
Shielding their cockpits, Duarte's team moved forward. At least on Earth radar worked because of the lack of Minovsky particles. If it hadn't been for that, they'd have been close to blind from the smoke and dust in the dun-coloured air. His other suits were sticking close enough together for skin talk as needed. Their advantage over the tanks was height, but it was not easy defending against the Fly Manthas above and the Type 61s below, even if the Fly Manthas' numbers (he had counted about twenty to start) were being thinned and distracted by the Dopps. Nonetheless, they kept their grim march moving forward, making careful use of crackers against the tanks when they could free up one hand.
Sixty tanks to start with. The Gattle were good at hitting their moving targets, but that still meant only about ten down. There was an explosion to Duarte's left.
"Magadan! Was that you?" He saw a [i]Zaku[/i] spilling end over end as it rolled down the hill in an avalanche of steel, soil, and toppled trees. The scene obscured when the [i]Zaku[/i] stopped its descent with an outstretched arm.
"Yes, Captain. I'm hit in my right arm, it's disabled, but I'm okay."
"Fall back." Duarte opened another channel. "Lopez, I need you to change place with Magadan."
"Yes, sir." Lopez's [i]Zaku[/i] came jogging up from behind. It was still firing upwards when a shot from a Type 61 hit him square in the cockpit; the armored canopy sprouted two mushroomed holes before a wash of flame spread across the [i]Zaku[/i]'s distintegrating torso. The explosion sent two other suits flying, but hopefully not to a similar fate. Duarte leaned forward. No, they were picking themselves up again. One was Villalobos, the other Hernandez. He couldn't tell what condition they were in.
"Duarte, I'm sorry!" Garma's voice called through his speakers.
"We'll deal with it later, Your Highness." No time for a bereavement therapy session now. "I see over twenty tanks and only about six fighters over head. Keep going!"
Garma's mobile suit had been slowing steadily during the fray although the Vulcan cannons mounted in his [i]Zaku[/i]'s head were turning out to be a real advantage against the aircraft. It was impossible for his paint job to have gone unnoticed, and there was a blast from a Type 61. The [i]Zaku[/i] went down, toppling into a river. There was a huge boiling in the water as a blast of white smoke erupted from the riverbed.
There was dead silence for a moment from the Falling Eagles. Even the Federation assault slowed in confusion.
"Stay the course!" Duarte commanded. Nonetheless, he saw that four of the tanks were going over to the river in order to confirm what had happened. He leaned on the trigger of his [i]Zaku[/i] cannon with one hand and let loose with another grenade, stopping them.
The Federation soon appeared puffed with confidence on seeing Garma's [i]Zaku[/i] fall. Their attack was still fierce, but careless now, assured of victory. In spite of their confidence, the Cuauhtemocs began to drive them back as they struck rough terrain that they'd made careful note of earlier, their tanks foundering in the hillocks and riverbeds, their maneuverability shot. As at the battle of Puebla in 1862, the Mexicans had counted on the Federation not being prepared for the rough. It was a gamble, but it paid off.
The Federation forces had to have decided they were beaten, because they began a fighting retreat down the Valley of Tlacolula., away from the base they were unable to reach.
"Did it work?" asked a familiar voice in Duarte's cockpit.
"Yes sir, it did. You almost had me fooled. What did you--?"
"I knew my suit was going to overheat, so I plunged it into the river, let all the cooling systems vent at once, and climbed into my normal suit to wait." Like the 505th, Garma had gone into battle in his shirtsleeves. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. Now let's lead that charge onto the plateau and finish this little adventure off, shall we?"
By the end of the day, the 505th stood at the Federation base south of the city. By sundown, Garma stood outside of his muck-covered [i]Zaku[/i], watching as prisoners were brought to him.
"What will be done with them, sir?" Duarte asked.
Garma stared into the faces of grimy, grey-clad soldiers. "We'll fly them to California Base for interrogation. I will decide what to do with them from there.
The fear on the prisoners' faces was very real. Duarte saw Garma smile at it. The lad was five foot eight in boots, and as beautiful as a girl. To inspire fear must be a rare and heady thing for him.
But Chavez and his team had yet another. Chavez exited his [i]Zaku[/i] and crossed the tarmac to Garma. He knelt on one knee and said, "Your Highness, it is my great pleasure to announce that the city is yours."
Garma threw his head back and laughed. . .but all Duarte could see was Lopez's dead suit, and he wondered if this had been worth it at all.
***
Oaxaca had come back to life. Its citizens stood along the main street in front of their brightly-painted colonial buildings, cheering the Jion liberators. People threw flower petals from their wrought-iron balconies as dogs barked from rooftops.
Duarte tried to absorb all this attention while clinging to the pommel of his saddle, trying to not fall off his horse. He had expected Garma to use one of the base jeeps for his entry into Oaxaca, or to ride in an open tank like Fidel Castro. Instead, the viceroy had insisted on riding horseback. "Much more Simon de Bolivar," he'd explained. Luna had not wasted time in explaining that riding horses was one of Garma's hobbies.
Duarte and Garma were towards the end of a line begun with Jion troops in jeeps and trucks, followed by several rows of light armour, then finally Garma and Duarte on horseback with the Eagles and the Benito Juarez in personnel carriers behind them. A few large military police rode along with Garma, keeping back the hands that reached out to touch the prince or his horse.
No one asked about the empty third horse that Duarte led by the reins with a hand. Boots were stuck backwards into the stirrups.
People were throwing flowers down under the hooves of Duarte's mount too, which was strange enough for him. Garma looked as if he was not only used to this kind of adulation but soaking it in like a sponge. He wore the short-sleeved khaki uniform he'd been using since his arrival, including the white canvas hat which was now heavily covered with flower petals. Beneath it, his grin was enormous.
The parade wound its way to the centre of town. Duarte was very grateful to see the cathedral looming in front of them because even Garma wasn't going to be so showy as to ride his horse into the church itself. He rode through the gates to the great colonial double doors where he dismounted, handed his reins to a soldier, and then passed his hat to him too. From there, Garma and his troops walked down the aisle, with Garma reaching out his hand to touch the fingers extended towards him from the pews.
As with any Mexican celebration, it was unthinkable that a mass not be said. Duarte and the other officers stood to the right of the nave, and were grateful to be doing so. Garma knelt on the flagstones in front of the altar rail. Glancing around, Duarte could make out that people were murmuring approvingly about their viceroy. Clever Garma. Duarte had figured out that being royal involved heavy amounts of theatre, and he wondered what spectacles the other Zabis were prone to producing. Garma had now presented himself as king and conqueror, so what was next?
Judge. As evening started to fall, Garma arranged himself comfortably in the courtyard of a 17th century home near the zocalo. Colonial chairs were made small, so even in the ornate oaken monstrosity in which he was sitting, Garma looked comfortable. He'd changed from the khaki uniform into his greens again and looked particularly official with his white gloves and tall boots. The flags of Jion and Mexico hung on poles on either side of him.
He looked impressive to Duarte, so he couldn't imagine what impression he was making to the group of peasants who were standing in front of him as supplicants. They looked much like the peasants in the areas occupied by the 505th, with the men in work clothes with white straw Stetsons. The women made the difference, as they all wore the traditional Oaxaca headdress, a heavy colourful scarf folded into a square and pinned atop the hair with the rest of the scarf hanging down their backs.
The mayor of Oaxaca, clad in a neat blue suit and sash of office, said to Garma, "These indigenous people have a case they would like to put in front of you, sir."
Garma nodded and gestured for them to approach. An older man and his wife were the spokespeople for the group. The woman carried a blue and red woven shopping bag that contained something heavy.
"My name is Pascual Mazatl Gomez," he said, taking off his hat and holding it uneasily in front of him. "My co-citizens and I are here to ask Your Highness to give back what is ours."
His wife started to approach, whereupon two Jion soldiers stepped forward and crossed their weapons in front of her. Garma glowered at them slightly and asked in English, "Wasn't that bag properly inspected before they all came in?"
One of the soliders turned his helmeted head towards the prince. "Yes sir, but-"
"Then let her approach. I should be able to trust in my own security, shouldn't I?"
The soldiers backed up. The woman came over and reached into the bag. She pulled out a weathered metal box that bore more than a few traces of red earth on it. To Duarte, it seemed that the box had been buried, and suddenly he knew what was in it.
He leaned forward and whispered into Garma's ear, "Take these very seriously, sir."
Garma reached forward for the box. The woman immediately whisked her scarf from her head, placed it under the box, and handed it to him so that he wouldn't dirty his slacks.
Garma opened the box and removed the first of several papers that were folded into tight squares and tied with cords. He began handing them to the officers around him. Duarte picked at the knot for a moment before the fragile cord disintegrated, and the others around him had the same result.
Someone turned on the string of white lightbulbs that were hanging around the perimeter of the courtyard. Garma took one of the papers and squinted at it.
"All I can see is the date," he admitted. "1670." He tipped his head to the side, examining the writing, then said, "What are they?"
"From the looks of them, and the way they were buried, deeds of land ownership."
"I will adjourn to a better lighted room. See to it that these people have a comfortable place to wait, some coffee and so on."
The room selected was a dining room, but even here lamps had to be put on the table. Garma spread the documents out, holding them gingerly with his gloved fingertips. Finally he said, "I can't read this. It's too spidery."
"Permit me, sir." A young priest in civilian clothes who had been watching the procedures came over to the table. "I took my degree at the UNAM in Mexico City, and I had some classes in colonial writing." He glanced at the documents over Garma's shoulder.
"They're land deeds, as Captain Duarte said. What has happened here is a story that is repeated in Mexican history. The Spanish deeded land to the indigenous peoples, and were very careful to document this. The indigenous peoples, not being very trusting, made sure to keep the deeds buried safely. In the 19th century, the Mexican government for the first time took their lands away from them, and they were only restored by the Archduke Maximilian when he was installed as emperor by Napoleon III. In the early 20th century, their lands were seized again, and the one who took their side was Emiliano Zapata, who led their uprising. Now, the Federation took their land."
"Then it sounds as if it's my turn to restore it." He looked up at the mayor. "I'll need lawyers to write up the documents assuring them that the Jion crown is restoring the land this time." He smiled over at Duarte. "And it falls to you to be the ones to guard it, in the name of my father."
"It will be our honour, sir."
Garma returned to the courtyard. It was solidly night now, and the exposed lightbulbs cast shadows that kept the people and objects within half shrouded in darkness. Garma took his seat again, and in a few minutes, the native petitioners were led into his presence.
"My people, good citizens of Oaxaca," he began, "you have suffered a great injustice. It is, I'm afraid, the key of Federation policy to force people off their land and then take it. It is a theft not only of one's property but of one's past, one's identity, and one's heart.
"Therefore, I am pleased to tell you that I am honouring these land grants that were made up for you by the Spanish so long ago."
Duarte watched as the faces of the Oaxacans lit up, the wife of the head man grabbing her husband's arm. Had they been expecting rejection?
"I am giving back the deeds for safekeeping," Garma went on, gesturing for the box to be brought to the people, "but don't bury them again yet. You'll need to add some documents from me to them first. I'm signing that land to you in perpetuity, to be supported by the military forces under my command. As long as I can back up the promise, the land is forever yours."
The head man stepped forward and reached out a hand. Garma extended his own hand and allowed him to kiss the back of it. The others followed.
They remained in Oaxaca for another week. The 505th, along with the Benito Juarez, hung around and soaked in the adulation, soured though it was by losing Lopez, which only Garma had seemed to have forgotten. At every turn there were free clothes, free food, and free booze. Garma was busy of course, still hearing land claim cases now that it was known he was amenable. He also found himself carrying out one duty he had not expected as he was asked over and over to serve as godfather to Oaxaca's newborns. To Duarte's amusement, he split his time between the city hall and the cathedral's baptismal font.
"We can afford to just drink this all up," said Franco as she, Villalobos, and Provi Alcaraz enjoyed a round of free chocolate in a café, "We go home in a couple of days and it's up to the Benito Juarez to hold the line."
"[i]Those[/i] guys," snorted Villalobos, "couldn't hold their tequila without having their daddies holding the limes for them." He downed his chocolate in a single swallow. "The Fedichos will come back and hack their manhoods off with shovels."
He pointedly ignored some of the dirty looks others in the café were giving him. Franco touched Villalobos' arm in warning. "What is the [i]matter[/i] with you, 'Lobo? You [i]trying[/i] to get us kicked out of here?"
Villalobos' eyes were angry. "What's the point in [i]staying[/i], [i]compañera[/i]? We did all the bleeding for this place, but we don't get to keep it? We lost Lopez taking it, and all we're going to do is fall back and leave it to a bunch of half-rates? Why'd we [i]stop[/i]? We could've kept going!"
Provi Alcaraz chuckled into her mug. "And done what? Gotten the [i]Zakus[/i] sandsucked in a Belize swamp or a Guatemalan jungle? Only comfort there'd be that the Feds wouldn't have to shoot us to take us out."
Villalobos was not amused. "You saying this was a waste of ammo, too?"
Alcaraz shook her head. "Never sayin' that. Just 'spensive, was all." And with that, she went silent again.
Franco knew that Villalobos' point about Lopez was the root of this matter. "'Lobo, we're going back to where we came from because there's no one else there. The Fedichos will come back, but the rules don't say they gotta come back [i]here[/i], [i]mijo[/i]. Don't you got a wife back at the base?"
[i]That[/i] shut him up, but anyone could see what was going on in Villalobos' mind as they sat there, silent.
[i]Garma comes and goes, and so do we, but when will get to STAY[/i]?
***
Those days passed and they made a return to Teotihuacan. The 505th stayed on alert, but life returned to normal. During the time they had been in Oaxaca, there had been no sign of Federation resurgents creeping into the area. It seemed that the Federation was more than happy to leave that piece of Mexico to the spacenoids.
The morning after their return, Duarte woke up comfortably beside Luisa. He rolled onto his back and had the urge to dress immediately. After placing a kiss on her shoulder in case she was awake, he put on jeans and a white t-shirt and headed outside.
The day was already bright, with a little mist high above the ruins. Duarte walked down the big stone plaza, heading towards the Temple of the Sun. Eventually he heard the sound of a guitar and realized to his dismay that it was coming from the summit. He stopped, stretched his quadriceps several times, and started climbing.
It was Garma, sitting with the Duarte family dog by his side, playing the guitar he'd brought with him.
La luna me dice una cosa,
Las estrellas me digan una otra,
Y la luz del día me canta
Esta triste canción
Esta triste canción.
Los besos que me diste mi amor
Son los que me estan matando
Ya las lagrimas me estan secando
Con mi pistola y mi corazón
Y aqui siempre paso la vida con
La pistola y el corazón.*
"Pretty melancholy song for a guy like you who just freed Oaxaca," Duarte panted as he reached the top of the pyramid. "Hey.how'd you get Alberto up here?"
"He followed me. I'm going to have to carry him downstairs in my backpack, though. Those stairs are as steep as a ladder." Garma scratched the dog's furry ears.
"So, mind if I join you?"
"As long as you don't have an obsidian blade in your back pocket." Garma watched as Duarte settled down beside him on the rubble-covered top of the pyramid. "I've got a few things to kill my good mood, so I'm up here hiding from them for a little longer. First, I sent off The Letter to Lopez's family in Nuevo Aztlan last night. The times I've done that before, it's just been me signing a form for a soldier who chances are I've never met. This was personal; I know his family's names, I've seen their pictures. So that was hard. I don't think, 'Your son is a hero' will go down very well, even if it is completely true."
Octavio nodded, noting the melancholy tone of Garma's voice, and he kicked himself mentally. He didn't forget after all. Garma didn't forget, in the middle of his triumph, what it had cost to gain. "I will be sending my own as well."
"I'm very worried about something, Tavi. That attack went far too easily. We took almost no casualties. That's good, but it implies some unpleasant things."
"Specifically?"
"I heard from Intel last night. There are more Feddies in this area than we previously thought." Garma made the comment so offhandedly that at first, Duarte didn't catch the implication. Then. . .
Shock made Duarte's voice crack as he exclaimed, "What?"
"The information is already in your inbox. It looks as if they have been pulling their forces away from Oaxaca, in order to begin an assault on Veracruz. They need that warm-water port more than we do, after all, although that's changing as we build our own navy. Ultimately, our freeing Oaxaca may just have been a feel-good gesture.and that is NOT what I came here to do!"
Duarte started a little at the steel in Garma's voice and the anger in the younger man's eyes. "So what do you propose, Your Highness?"
"Unfortunately, I'll be able to advise from California only. My time here is up. I leave Mexico tomorrow. I would stay if I could, but it appears that I will have to leave you to defend against this larger Fedicho force on your own."
Duarte felt his heart sink. "Sir."
"I'm so, so sorry about this, Duarte. I don't even have any mobile suits to give you. But you know that."
"Yes."
"It's not fair and not right, but that's out of my hands. My older siblings control where the mobile suits being built under my own nose go. There is only one thing I can offer you, to put you under my protection."
That night, a rectangle of tall torches marked off the area for the ceremony. Once again, the 505th were in their dress uniforms in the muggy heat of the Mexican night, but this time their families were there to watch. Garma, seated yet again in an ornate colonial chair, held Duarte's hands between his own as Duarte knelt in front of him, reciting the oath of fealty on behalf of his company.
"I, Octavio Duarte Garcia, do swear myself as a liegeman to you, of life and limb and every earthly worship, against all manner of folk. So help me God."
"So help him, Our Lady of Guadalupe!" someone cried out from the rear.
"Amen!" came the response to the cry.
Garma leaned down to kiss Duarte on the cheek and raised him to his feet. Standing, he put his hand on Duarte's shoulder and said, "As a member of the royal family, I have the right to declare a company as being my very own. You have all proven yourselves worthy of this honour, so I bestow upon you the title of 'royal' and the privilege of being known as the Prince Garmas. Let the Royal Cuauhtemocs continue to terrorize the Federation until the day when they fall down beneath our feet!"
"[i]¡Viva el principe Garma de Jion![/i]" shouted Chavez.
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
"[i]¡Viva[/i] Degin Rey!"
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
"[i]¡Viva la familia real![/i]"
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"
Even in the orange light of the torches, it was clear that Garma Zabi was blushing.
Authors notes: As we say in French, this chapter was "une grande misère" to write. I've done at least one space battle in "Gundam: Reconciliation" but this was the first time I've attempted a land one, and in territory that actually exists. I rapidly found myself in a quagmire of ignorance. Zinegata and His Divine Shadow hand-held, advised, and encouraged in a way that was pretty close to "above and beyond the call of duty" in my opinion, and I am very, very, very grateful to the both of them for it.
Zinegata corrected the aircraft I used, replacing the Dodai with Gattle, gave me tips on how to "colour-commentate" on a battle, and reminded me constantly to keep score of kills. His Divine Shadow, in the face of craziness at work and a nasty computer crash which has slowed down his OWN fanfic, took the time to edit what I'd written based on Zine's corrections and to make some text insertions. The whole conversation in the café is his contribution.
Therefore, if you haven't read "Forgotten Fleet", "Last Sons of Delaz", "In Vain Doth Valour Bleed" or "In Course Reciprocal", DO IT NOW. I cannot plug these guys' works enough. Muchas gracias, amigos y compañeros, y grandes embrazos.