By Force of Arms by William C. Dietz Page A

the tribes encouraged young warriors to join the organization, others continued to fight it Just as they fought each other. Patrols were subject to ambush, sentries had been killed, and the occasional SLM slammed into the fort. Many of the chieftains would like nothing better than to bag a general. The box could contain anything … including a bomb.
    Tan read his expression and shook her head. “No, sir. The package is clean. I had the demolitions folks check it out.”
    Booly nodded his thanks and took a moment to remove the protective wrappings. The gar wood box had been decorated with crudely cut semiprecious stones. Such containers were common among the Naa, and he had seen hundreds of them. But not like this, not with the cap badge of the 13 th DBLE carved into the lid, above the motto:
    “Legio patria nostra.” (The Legion is our country.)
    Booly had watched his father bum the words into the wood with a laser pen. Then, long after his mother had opened the present, and remarked on how beautiful it was, he had seen it on her dressing table, next to her bed, and on her desk. For this was the box in which Connie Chrobuck kept small treasures. He remembered them welt: one of her mother’s earrings, a rock her son retrieved from a riverbed, a holo of her sister, some small, extremely sharp scissors, and, Algeron being what it was, some stray rounds of ammunition. Those and other things had lived in the box. Now, at long last, they lay before him.
    The officer turned, discovered that Tan had left the room, and was grateful. Generals weren’t supposed to cry—everybody knew that—but the tears continued to flow.
    Booly closed the door, wiped his face with his sleeve, and sat at his desk. Was the box empty? Did it contain the odds and ends she had kept there? Or had they been looted? Or more likely lost? Treated like what most would think they were: junk.
    Carefully, lest his suddenly clumsy fingers betray him, Booly opened the box. It was empty, except for his mother’s scent, and a note written in her neat hand. “I knew you would return as surely as a brella must return to its roost. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t born on Algeron, and lack your father’s blood, his mother taught me many things… Among them was the importance of a peaceful heart, the beauty that dwells around us, and the way of the Wula sticks.
    “They speak of a great chief, the Chief of all Chiefs, and of great sadness. A battle lies ahead, a great battle, the one you were born to fight. No one can be sure how it will end, not even the sticks, but look at the map. Follow it and find that which you seek.
    “We love you—and always will. Watch your six …
    Your mother and father.”
    Booly laughed, wiped the last of the tears away, and examined the reverse side of the note. The map was good—but me officer didn’t need one. He’d been there before. He departed two hours later.
    It was dark at the moment, but that made little difference to the Trooper n, who, thanks to a full array of sensors, could “see” quite well indeed. She had light amplification equipment, infrared sensors, and the benefit of a highly accurate Global Positioning System, which, thanks to high quality maps, displayed her position to within three inches. More than enough data for a little stroll in the boonies.
    The cyborg went by the name of Wilker, although her real name was something else, and was glad to clear the fort. Yeah, the rider was a pain, but what else was new? Anything beat garrison duty. She scanned the terrain ahead, spotted the heat that radiated from some recently deposited dooth droppings, and headed that way.
    First Sergeant Neversmile had ridden on cyborgs before and knew better than to tighten up. The best thing to do was stick boots into the slots provided for that purpose, lean backwards, and allow the harness to take your weight. Then, with knees bent, the motion was easier to take.
    Wilker followed the trail down into a gully and up the