Refuge - 8. Chapter 8: Company Eagle

Company Eagle

Grim-visaged Mars hath smoothed his wrinkled brow . . . .
—William Shakespeare, in “Richard III”
Earth Analogue V

Calvin

The day was already hot, at just 8:00 AM. It was Saturday. Casey and his boyfriend, Aiden had popped in from Chicago for the weekend. They were at the lake with half-a-hundred other boys. Not our “private lake”; that was too far away and still a secret shared only among our closest friends. That circle was growing every day, though.

Gary and Nemesis, as well as Richard and Zhang would arrive later. We were going to do a “grand opening” for the Dave and Busters that had just been completed at Refuge Ranch. My daddy, who was Uncle George to all the others and Death when he was working had stayed at home today to be ranch foreman. He would slip in time, tomorrow, to make up for it. I used to worry about that, until I understood that the mundane job of running the ranch was actually good for him. Nemesis and I had talked a lot about not letting our daddies burn out, and we both kept a close eye on them.

Daddy was riding Impala. The horse was coal-black except for a tiny star over his right eye. I was on Silver, a registered gray. We were about a mile from the cantonment area, just looking around, making sure everything was going smoothly. Daddy abruptly pulled on the reins; Impala stopped and snorted. I think I saw fire come from his nostrils. Not sure . . . it could have been, of course: Impala was a god-horse, with his own powers, just like Silver.

“Something . . . something . . . wicked?” Daddy looked puzzled.

“Mars?” I asked. It hadn’t been that long ago that Mars had come to deliver the first of several semi-trailers full of weapons and military supplies. He’d surprised us, especially since Mars and Daddy were old . . . adversaries isn’t quite the right word, but they certainly weren’t friends.

“Not Mars,” Daddy said. “At least, I don’t think.” He tapped Impala in the flanks with his heels. “Come on, let’s . . . .”

Before he could finish the sentence, and before either Impala or Silver could take a step, a boy in a tunic and sandals popped in front of us. That didn’t surprise us. All the gods and spirits could translocate. What surprised us was that we didn’t recognize this one.

USA Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, Anacostia, DC

There was more joy in Mudville than in the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home when the results of the election were announced. Obama had broken his promises to veterans within weeks of taking office the first time. Given the worsened fiscal situation, and the depths of depression into which his failed policies had driven the country in the past few years, none of us were hoping for anything better in his second term. Staff at the home had been cut. Months would pass before anyone could see a doctor; people died as a result. Prescriptions went unfilled; people died as a result. The guard force had been cut. No one had died, yet, but I knew it was going to happen when the thugs and druggies who surrounded us in the slums of DC discovered the lack of security.

Those of us residents who were ambulatory pitched in to help those who were bedridden. We all tried to get old friends and family to help, to lobby Congress and the Veterans Administration, but there weren’t many friends and family left. Most of us were here because we no longer had living relatives to care for us. The average age was 88.

I had been a corporal in World War II, a sergeant during the Korean conflict, and a Chief Master Sergeant during the Indochina war. Nothing I had seen in any of those wars prepared me for what was waiting for me that Monday morning.

I pushed my walker in front of me on the way to the cafeteria. I would take trays, one at a time, to seven bedridden soldiers before getting a meal for myself . . . if there were anything left by then. I nudged open the doors to the cafeteria with the walker, and walked into chaos. Patients, many of them in pajamas and robes, were milling around; voices were raised. I looked toward the steam tables where breakfast was laid out, to find that it wasn’t, and that the cafeteria workers weren’t there, either.

Looking around, I spotted Harvey. He’d been a military policeman and had served in Afghanistan, guarding prisoners. He still wore the whistle that had been part of his uniform. I rolled toward him. “Harvey! Your whistle! Get them quiet,” I said.

His grin told me he understood. The whistle pierced the hubbub. “At ease, everybody!” Harvey shouted in the silence. “Sit down and listen up!”

The mob that had once been soldiers seemed to come to their senses. Men and the few women took seats at the tables. I stood against a wall so that it would help me project my voice. “Okay, people, one at a time. What’s the problem?”

“Breakfast isn’t ready, and there’s no one in the kitchen,” Sheila said. Her voice was strong and a little husky from years of smoking, but level. She was a nurse, and had been on the second wave to reach the beaches at Normandy.

“Well, hell,” I said, drawling out the words, “Ain’t one of us not been on KP at one time or another.” I looked around. “Red? You take charge of the kitchen. Pick whoever you need and put them to work. The rest of you, just sit tight until Red and his crew have things organized. Sheila, you’re with me.”

She nodded, and followed me out of the cafeteria and toward the administrator’s office. It was as empty as had been the kitchen. I flipped on the TV; Sheila and I watched with growing horror: much of Anacostia was in flames; the bridges that linked it with the rest of DC were barricaded by mobs on the Anacostia side and soldiers on the city side. The staff of the Home must have known: the ones that lived elsewhere couldn’t get here; the ones that lived in Anacostia were probably part of the mobs. We had just looked up from the screen when that mob attacked the Home.

Although we were all soldiers—well, except for Sheila and a few other nurses—we weren’t allowed to have weapons. Another of Obama’s broken promises. No time to worry about that, now.

# # # # #

When it was over, I was the only one left alive, and I knew I wouldn’t be for long. The mob had looked for drugs and were outraged when they hadn’t found any. Then, they’d looted the food and turned to the few possessions that we had. There wasn’t much for them. They’d taken out their frustration on the residents—slaughtering the bedridden, overpowering and killing the ambulatory. Then they had vanished almost as fast as they’d arrived. I lay in the administrator’s office. I’d been shot. Once in the leg and once in the abdomen. I prayed to Mithras for an easy death, and nearly shit my pants when he appeared.

As it turned out, it wasn’t Mithras.

“Mithras is no longer in this place,” the man said. “However, he left his Authorities and Attributes with me. You know me, do you not?”

“Mars,” I gasped. My stomach was bleeding, my sight was blurring, and I knew I didn’t have much more time.”

“Yes,” the man said. I studied him: dark camo; a circle of five, matte-black stars on each collar. Combat Infantry Badge and jump wings, also matte black. I wondered where he’d earned those. He wore several badges and insignia I didn’t recognize. And a pair of pistols that looked to be nine-millimeter. I couldn’t be sure since my vision was fading.

He touched me briefly, and I felt a lot better.

“I have not done the job I should have done,” he said. “My role as god of war changed, but I was unable to change with it. It is mete that someone else have a chance to do a better job. Find Death, and tell him. He will lead you to others who will help you. Do you understand? Find Death.”

An arc of light moved from him to me. Then, he was no more, and I was no longer a ninety-year-old man in pajamas with two bullet wounds, but a healthy twelve-year-old boy in a tunic . . . a tunic that barely covered me. And, I didn’t know who “me” was.

Death? He said to find Death. I thought real hard about that, and wasn’t in the Home, any longer, but in bright sunshine looking at a couple of dudes on horseback. Dudes? Where did I learn that word?

Death

“Mars?”

The boy’s brow furrowed and his lips compressed for a moment before he spoke. “Not the one you knew, I don’t think.” He paused again as if thinking. “A lot of people, soldiers, were killed. I was the only one left alive. He appeared. Told me he’d not done a good job, and that I should try to do better. And, that I should find Death. Are you he? I’ve seen a lot of death. You don’t look like Death.”

“And you don’t look much like Mars. Do you mind?”

The boy squinted like he was thinking. “Mind what?” he said.

I didn’t answer, just dressed him the way Mars usually dressed: starched, dark cammies; 9-mm pistols; and Mars’ trademark circles of five stars on his collar. I didn’t add other insignia. He said he’d been a soldier. He’d know what he was entitled to wear.

“Way cool!” the boy said. “Um, I don’t think I usually talk that way.”

At this point, Calvin giggled. He jumped down from Silver.

Calvin

Daddy wasn’t handling this well. He and Mars had been unfriendly for so long he didn’t know what to do. He was trying too hard, I think, to understand and accept this kid. So far, it was working but I figured I had better do something before Daddy messed up. I hugged the kid.

“My name’s Calvin. Do you have a name besides Mars?”

The kid stiffened for a second, and then relaxed. He didn’t try to break out of the hug, which I took to be a good sign.

“Yeah, I used to be . . . Allen.”

He paused, and his brow furrowed. “Funny, I don’t remember my last name.”

I squeezed a little. “Don’t worry, please? You know you’re different, now, right? I mean, you just translocated to Refuge Ranch in Texas from wherever you were. Please don’t worry about last names, just yet!”

The boy squeezed me, then, he stepped back. “Texas?” he asked.

“Yep, Texas,” I said. “What happened?”

The new Mars sketched a story. It was obvious that he had few memories of his past life, including the events that had brought him here. Impressions, vignettes, mobs attacking old people. He remembered clearly seeing Mars.

“Oh, and he had the powers of Mithras, too. I remember praying to Mithras. I must have been wounded . . . .”

Mars

Calvin helped me understand a lot. His daddy—who really was Death—helped, too. That afternoon, I met Gary and Nemesis, and a bunch of others, who all made me feel part of them. For now, Calvin said I should just relax, let my new knowledge settle in and memories to resurface, and join everyone for pizza at some restaurant I’d never heard of.

It wasn’t until after that, and I’d gone to bed in a spare room of Calvin’s house that the next critical event happened.

“Allen?” It was Calvin’s voice. He was standing at the door to the bedroom I’d been given. “Daddy’s at work—his other job. Um, I don’t like to sleep by myself. May I sleep with you? Can we cuddle?”

I remember when Calvin had jumped from his horse and hugged me. At first, I didn’t want it. Then, I realized? felt? understood? that he was just trying to comfort me, and I was okay with it. Now, though? My mind roiled.

“Oh, you wouldn’t like that.” Calvin said. I felt him turn away.

“Wait!” I called. “Please, wait.” Calvin’s form, barely visible in the darkness, stayed still. “I think I’d like that, if you would?”

Calvin slid under the sheet and hugged me. I returned the hug and realized that he was naked. His bare skin was hot to my touch. His face was only inches from mine. I saw his eyes, even in the darkness. They held a question. Then they closed. He wrapped his arms around my pajama-clad body. “Cuddles,” he whispered. And fell asleep.

I woke the next morning with an erection like I hadn’t had in—how many years? A flicker of memory, myself as an old man straining to piss through a flaccid penis, despite a full bladder. Then it went away, and I saw Calvin staring at me.

“You’re really cute,” he said. “I’m gay. But I don’t think you’re sure. It’s okay, you know.” He squeezed me and jumped out of bed. I stared at his butt as he walked out the door. It was a cute, strong butt, and my erection throbbed. Maybe I am gay, I thought, and delved for memories that just wouldn’t surface.

An hour or so later, I was dressed in clean fatigues and had strapped on the pistols Death had given me. Don’t know where they came from, but I had field-stripped and reassembled them like I knew what I was doing. They were functional, and loaded. I found Calvin in the kitchen, at breakfast with four other boys. I remembered Casey and Aiden from last night at the pizza place, but I didn’t recognize the others.

“Daddy’s gone to his regular job, today,” Calvin said. “This is Bobby and Kevin. They’re my boyfriends. They were working, last night.” He gestured me to the table. A woman brought me a plate with bacon, sausage, and blueberry pancakes.

“It’s a tradition,” Bobby said, pointing to my plate. “After Gary rescued me, he promised that I’d never again have just dry cereal to eat. He made blueberry pancakes for breakfast. We do it for all our new friends.”

Friends, I thought. I saw Death and Calvin glow, yesterday. Last night, almost all of the men and boys had the same glow. Now, Bobby and Kevin. Are they all gods?

Calvin must have heard my thoughts. “Yes, Allen, everyone with that glow—including you—is a god or spirit or avatar. Casey is god of the hunt; Aiden, the patron of lawyers. Bobby and Kevin and I are the Norns. Do you know about them . . . us, I mean?”

While we ate, Calvin and the others gave me a rundown on who-was-who, and promised that I’d meet the others, in time.

“First, however,” Calvin said, “there’s something that falls into your area of responsibility. A busload of Junior ROTC cadets from Erewhon will arrive in about an hour. They’ll be—perhaps in shock to find that they’re in Texas, and got here from Chicago in only a couple of hours. They’re orphans or kids who were thrown away by their parents, and like hundreds of others, are being relocated here, to Refuge Ranch. Will you help?”

He told me enough that when they arrived, I was ready. A long, yellow school bus pulled into the parking lot. The door opened and boys jumped off and ran into formation. The last four off the bus were obviously the officers. They stepped, rather than jumped, from the bus, and lined up in front of the ranks of boys. When they were ready, I walked toward them.

They were wearing dark camo like mine, but spotlighted by bright belt buckles: gold, with a silver eagle raised from the surface. I made minor adjustments to my Aspect and stepped in front of the leading cadet.

“Sir! Company Eagle ready for inspection, sir!” the boy said. He was perhaps fourteen; his staff looked about that age or a little younger; the ranks were filled with kids from perhaps ten to fourteen.

“Lead the way,” I said in a formula as old as soldiery.

I stopped in front of each boy, read his nametag, memorized his face, and moved on to the next. I don’t think the commander expected a real inspection; but he was prepared to accept it . . . and his troops were prepared to undergo it. It was impossible to make cammies look as sharp as a Class A uniform, but these kids came awfully close. I saw that some were wearing marksman badges. Normally, one didn’t wear such on cammies. I figured I was going to have to learn some new rules.

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut when I stepped in front of the seventh kid. Alberto! It was he, but it could not be! Alberto and I had been friends when I was a young teen. This boy was the perfect image of Alberto. Yet, I knew that more than seventy years had passed. Seventy-six, to be exact. He and I had been twelve. It could not be; yet, it was. I knew he could not know me; yet, it seemed as if he did. His eyes got wider, in any case.

After I’d walked through the ranks, the cadet leader took his position in front of his troops. I stood facing him. “Captain Anders, you can be proud of your men. Now, please put them at ease, and allow me to address them.”

The boy returned my salute, executed a perfect about-face, and called, “Parade rest! Stand easy.”

He turned back to face me, but before he could salute, I interrupted. “Thank you, Jon. Please stand beside me.” The boy shot me a look that said how did you know my name? But I didn’t have time for that, yet.

“Company Eagle! Welcome to Texas. Yes, you left Chicago about two hours ago. You encountered a fog bank. When the fog cleared, you were on a two-lane road rather than Interstate-55. That road led you here . . . here as in Texas. This is Refuge Ranch. It is a place of safety. At least, we are going to make it one. You are going to be important in ensuring that. I know that you are soldiers and that some of you have received weapon training. We will arm you. We will expand that training and extend it to those who have not yet received it. We will do that only with volunteers.”

I paused for a minute for them to catch up with what I was saying. “Most of the people at the ranch are youngsters. The average age is thirteen. There are some adults who will be part of our militia; however, there are not enough of them to do it by themselves.”

I continued the speech on the same lines; in fact, I cribbed some lines from Henry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech, and Lee’s farewell to his troops. At the end, I asked, “Are you with me?”

As one, the boys snapped to attention and yelled, “Sir, yes sir.”

I don’t think I’d ever been as proud of a unit as I was of them. Of course, I didn’t really remember, either.

There were forty members of Company Eagle. Most of the group homes were built for thirty-six pople. I don’t know how he knew, but Tom Clancy had built one with twenty-two bedrooms. And, it was still empty. Rather than assume coincidence, I put it down to Casey and Kevin’s planning. It had been Kevin who had told me about it at breakfast.

“Captain Anders? Will you walk with me and have your troops march behind us to your new home? The bus will deliver luggage but after their ride, I suspect they’d like to stretch their legs. Besides, they’ll see more from ground level.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” After giving instructions to his deputy, he gestured. “Please, sir, lead the way.”

There was a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice. I caught that, and chuckled. He was going to be a good person to work with.

I led the boys through town where we stopped traffic. People lined the sidewalk to watch the boys march down Main Street. Some folks waved and applauded. Good. I wanted to make an impression. Besides, I was going to work those boys’ tails off, and I wanted them to know that they were something special. Next time, I vowed, we’d have a color guard with . . . “Captain? Do you have a unit flag?”

“No sir. Never needed one.”

“Well, you do, now. Need one, that is. Please get a design to me by 0800 Friday.”

Jon was surprised, but seemed happy. “Yes, sir.”

As we approached the house, I lowered my voice. “Jon, this house has twenty-two bedrooms. Each room is equipped for two people. Please assign your people, including yourself and your staff, to twenty of the rooms. Reserve two for potential house parents. I don’t know who that might be. For now, you’re on your own. Cooks will come in to prepare meals until things settle down. You should talk to them about some KP duties for your people.

“Your soldiers will be expected to keep their own spaces clean, including cleaning latrines, doing laundry, and so on. It will be up to you to see this is done. Also—”

“But sir,” the boy interrupted. “Aren’t you in charge?”

“No, Captain, I am not. In the next few days, I will talk to you, privately, about that; however, I am not your commander. When you go into combat . . . and you will go into combat . . . I will be with you. Still, I will not be the one giving orders. That may be someone else or it may be you.”

I felt the boy’s pulse quicken in surprise and fear. “Do not let that bother you,” I said. “We would never send you to a place for which you were not prepared.”

Jon Anders

Gary had briefed me that morning. What he said had prepared me, but not well enough. Gary said we’d be moving to a place of safety. I figured maybe Canada or Montana. There were enough right-wing survivalists in Montana to give cover to our outfit, maybe even let us join them. He said we’d be met when we arrived. But not much else. So, I was surprised as hell when the bus came out of the fog bank into 98-degree heat, and drove through desert for a couple of hours before unloading us in what looked like an old west town. I was even more surprised when a kid met us. The kid looked about eighteen, but wore the five stars of a General of the Army. That was originally a war-time-only rank until the Pentagon brass got so bloated they decided the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff should have five stars. And, they were about to make the chairman a six-star “general of the armies.” I wasn’t sure what to do, but military customs and courtesies, tradition, and formality filled in. Until he addressed me by my first name. And confirmed what I knew: we weren’t anywhere close to Chicago, Canada, or Montana.

Something in the way he said things: that we were in Texas, that we were safe, that my boys were going to be soldiers, and the tears of pride I saw in his eyes when the boys responded so enthusiastically to his speech, that all made me feel okay. He must have figured out how I felt, because he seemed happy and pleased with me as we walked down the street toward our new home.

Then, he threw in a monkey wrench by telling me that I was still in charge, even though I was a captain and he was a five-star general. And that I might be in charge when we went into battle. I knew he must have figured I was scared, because he reassured me, not like I was a kid, though. I liked that, too. I couldn’t wait for the private talk that he promised.

Mars

The Scions of Hermes would always have a role in the defense of Refuge; however, they had other responsibilities, including teaching a few thousand kids how to be farmers and ranchers. Their job had been made easier when Demeter arrived. She was one of the old gods, but she’d not been active in a long time.

She wasn’t going to live here. There were other refuges. The gods . . . including I . . . knew where they were. Demeter and others would spend time in more than one refuge. I knew that I, too, would have to visit the others.

First, however, I had to solve the problem of Alberto. He took the first step.

The boys had had supper, and it was growing dark. The dry, desert air cooled quickly when the sun went down. I was standing at the edge of a broad expanse of grass about fifty yards from Company Eagle’s home. While trees surrounded the house, this broad park was treeless, and absolutely level. A parade ground, I thought. It’s a parade ground. Who was responsible for planning this? And, are we going to have more boy-soldiers to fill it?

I heard footsteps on the porch of the house, and knew who it was. I turned, slowly, and watched him approach. He stopped six paces away, came to attention, and saluted.

“At ease, Alberto,” I said.

“Sir, how did you know my name? My last name is on my nametag, so you might have known that.”

“What is my name, Alberto?” I asked.

The boy scrunched up his face. His voice was a whisper when he said, “Allen . . . sir. Your name is Allen. I can’t see the rest of it.” Our hug was spontaneous; I could not tell who initiated it or the kiss that was its logical successor.

Jon

All of the boys were settled in their rooms, polishing shoes and brass, ironing uniforms, or just shooting the bull. All except Alberto. Private ________. I hadn’t told them not to wander. I went looking for him, and found him in a serious hug with the general. Holy shit, I thought. It wasn’t that they were kissing: all of my boys and I were gay, but I had read a lot about relationships between officers and enlisted—they were prohibited in most cases—and I really didn’t need this. I stood on the porch until the kiss was over. The general swatted Alberto on the butt. I heard what he said. “Your captain is on the porch. He and I need to talk, and you have shoes to polish. We’ll talk, perhaps tomorrow.”

Alberto scampered back to the house, slowing to a walk to salute me as he passed, and then skipping into the house. I walked toward the general.

“Sir? I don’t know your name,” I said.

Mars

“Actually, Captain, I don’t know my last name,” I said. “Alberto might, but even he isn’t sure. When you and I talk informally, please call me Allen. Formally, you may say general. Neither is who I am.”

Then, I hit him between the eyes. “Jon? Is there room in your heart for magic?”

The boy recovered quickly. Rather than answer my question, he questioned me. “Is that how we got here from Chicago? Is that how you know my name?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was magic. The magic of translocation brought you here from a fog bank south of Chicago. Magic allows me to hear some of your thoughts, to know your name.”

“Then, sir, there is room in my heart for magic,” the boy said.

I nodded. “You are still uncertain, but that is enough, for now. Please, come sit with me.” I pointed to a bench under one of the trees near the house. When we were settled, I began.

“Jon, yesterday morning, I was made successor to the god of War, a fellow you may have heard of. He is known as Ares in the Greek tradition, as Mars to the Romans. He’s been going by Mars for the past couple of millennia. The nature of war, however, changed, and he was unable or unwilling to change with it. He gave me his Authorities and Attributes as well as those of one of his deputies, and moved to another place . . . another plane of existence, I think.

“Before this happened, I had been a soldier. I remember that, but little else about myself . . .” I looked at the expression on Jon’s face. It was not unlike a steer that had been pole-axed.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” I asked.

The boy’s breath drew in as if through dense reeds. There was a whistling.

“I guess I have to . . . .” he said. But he was thinking, how can I get my boys away from this place?

“Jon, please believe me: you and your boys are safe. I could make you believe that—the gods have that power—but I won’t do that. But I will show you.”

I grabbed his hand, pulled him to his feet, and translocated us to the Middle East where it was nine hours later and the dawn of a new day. We were in the middle of a battle between two rival religious factions. I felt Jon tense, and squeezed his hand. “We are inviolate. They cannot see us or harm us.”

Ten yards in front of us a bullet found its target and a boy, no older than Jon, crumpled. The wound was fatal, but not immediately so. The boy was in great pain. I pulled Jon toward him. We knelt. The boy’s lips moved. I let Jon hear and understand his words. I summoned then the power of Mithras, and touched the boy’s forehead. His face relaxed as all his pain left him. He was still dying—I had no power over that—but it would be a painless death.

Speaking of Death, I felt his presence. Jon gasped. He pulled himself tight against me as if for protection. Death stood next to the dying boy.

“Mars,” he said. “And Captain Jon Anders. I will not say well met or any pleasantry, for you both know why we are here.” He touched the dying boy and took his soul to speed it on its way. I felt Jon’s reaction as he saw the peace that accompanied that.

“You are Death,” Jon said. “And you,” he looked at me, “You really are Mars, and Mithras?”

“You know the old gods, boy?” Death asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jon said. “I know the gods of the soldiers and of battle. I know Mars, Mithras, Death. I know Hephaestus—”

“He goes by Vulcan, now,” Death interrupted. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jon giggled. I exchanged looks with Death, and we popped to another place. It was noon, it was quiet, and there was a spring bubbling from the ground. After drinking, we sat on the grass, facing one another. I let Death begin. He’d been at this a lot longer than I had.

“Jon, we are truly the old gods or, if you prefer, their avatars. You met others: Casey, Gary, Nemesis, Calvin, Aiden, in fact, most of the men and boys at their table, last night are gods. Most of us work for a lady named Dike, she’s the god of Justice and pretty much acts for Zeus, who’s the real boss. Dike has charged us with creating this place of refuge. We’re back in Texas, only it’s noon. You and your boys are about ten miles, that way, moving into your house.”

He chuckled. “We’ll go back to tonight when we’ve finished talking. You may be a little extra tired, tonight. You and your boys—yes, they’re soldiers and they’re going to be called upon to be fighters and perhaps to die, but they’re still boys—are going to be the cadre of the forces that will defend Refuge. You’ll receive some of the best training possible from some of the best soldiers in history.”

“But only if you agree,” I added. “Remember, I said volunteers.”

Jon nodded. “I understand, and I believe you. Uh, I don’t know anything about worship? What must—”

“Worship?” Death interrupted. “Mars, you’d better take this one.” He chuckled.

“Jon, I do not demand—.”

“No,” I interrupted myself. “No, I forbid you and your boys to worship me. Your belief in who I am, and your loyalty are all I ask.” Something I’d learned years ago came to mind. “You command your boys’ loyalty, but you must earn their respect. Do you understand the difference?”

Jon nodded.

“That is all I ask of you.”