The wall of the display room had been shrouded in darkness, but now soft lights warmed a large photo graph. It was of the curator, when she was young, with thick dark hair. She was surrounded by her four sons. All four children had big smiles and white teeth like their mother. They ranged in age from a man almost grown to a small boy of about seven or eight.
"My eldest son Utos stayed on the frontline to help a fallen comrade and was blown apart along with the enemy by friendly fire. The last survivor, my baby, Yotos, tried to play a man's role as well, and ran away, leaving a note. It said: ‘I love you, Mama. And I'll come back to you. I promise.’ But he never came home. He was nine years old.”
The curator's tone never wavered from its relentless detachment. In the dim light, she almost appeared to be smiling. "As always, the war ended without any clear victor. But we knew it would start again soon enough. We could no longer see the point of this cycle of war. Why continue killing each other again and again with no results? I sent four sons to the battlefield and lost them all and because of that I achieved a certain measure of fame. I used this position to appeal to everyone. 'Let us end the war,' I said.”
"Did anyone listen?" asked Hermes.
"Not at first. Of course, I knew my appeal was never going to stop war completely. If wars could be stopped that easily, they would have ended long ago. I knew there had to be a realistic alternative to war, so I proposed one.”
"'You proposed the slaughter of the Tatana people? That was your idea?" The word s left Kino's mouth before she could stop them.
"Yes. The Tatana are a proxy for the enemy, and whichever side kills the most is the victor in that war. This way, our competitive spirit, our animosity, and our brutality can all be released. By a staggering coincidence, at the same time that I proposed this plan, a woman on the other side proposed a remarkably similar plan."
The curator walked forward a short distance, beckoning Kino to the next display case. Kino's feet were reluctant, but she followed.
"I met her fifteen years ago. She showed me a picture of her children. They were all beautiful, handsome boys. You could see they were her heart's delight. They too had all died in the war."
On the monitor was a newspaper photograph of the curator, much thinner then, embracing another woman of roughly the same age.
"Our plan was tested and put into practice. That was fifteen years ago."
The next monitor the curator switched on showed Veldeval as it was now – a very peaceful town with happy residents like the ones Kino saw when she arrived.
"Since that time, our two cities have not had a single real war. They have developed, and our populations have expanded. Young mothers today need never again experience the loss I suffered. They can bring children into the world and raise them in happiness, without ever fearing that they will have to attend their children's funerals. People die in the order in which they are born. This is the meaning of peace; this is what our country has today, Kino. And this is the end of our tour."
The curator folded her hands at her waist and smiled. "Thank you for visiting."
Kino said, "May I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"What about the Tatana people you kill? Don't they have lives and families? Children as innocent and as beautiful and as full of promise as your sons?"
"I imagine they do. But there is a cost for peace. There must be some sacrifice, or true peace can never be reached. In the past, that sacrifice was my precious children. Young soldiers would fight on that hellish battlefield, and die to protect their country. But things are different now. The Tatana people are unable to fight back. Our children no longer need to die on the battlefield. This is a wonderful thing. If we did not sacrifice the Tataria, Kino, Veldeval and Relsumia would go to war with each other again, and the number of victims would be far greater than the number of Tatana who die now."
The curator had dearly chosen each word carefully. Now she repeated, "Peace requires sacrifice. We will not allow that sacrifice to be our children. If our peace can be achieved through the death of a few Tataria, then we welcome that with open arms."
Kino thought about this for a moment, then said, "Curator, I don't understand your reasoning. Perhaps in the new version of war the combatants don't die but innocents do. At least with the old way, those who died were those who fought. And their deaths were, in a way, of their own choosing. The Tatana people have not chosen to fight or to die."
The curator's brows had drawn together in a frown, but now she smiled. She stooped slightly, put her hands on Kino's thin shoulders, and said gently, "No, clearly you don't understand. But when you're a little older, you will."
"Will I? How so?"
"When you bear your own children, Kino. When you feel that life gr owing inside you... then you will know the impossibility of sentencing them to die in war. You will understand."
The girl called Kino looked up into the face of the curator and saw another mother, her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth, as she watched her husband attack her only daughter with a knife. That girl could never have understood or responded.
"What I understand," said Kino, "is that it would be impossible for me to sentence anyone's children to die in war."
Kino and Hermes left Veldeval with a grand sendoff attended by everyone in the city. The sun was still fairly high in the sky as they drove straight across the prairie, a trail of dust rising from beneath Hermes' wheels.
They kept a high speed from the time they left the walls until late afternoon, but the scenery did not change at all. Brown earth, bare mountains in the distance, and the occasional large metal can that whisked by, were all left behind. So Kino was greatly surprised to see a gathering of people on the road ahead of them.
Hermes spotted them as well. "Welcome party up ahead."
Kino slacked off the accelerator. They were the Tatana, and they looked far from welcoming. A number of sturdy young men had blocked the road. They carried staffs taller than themselves, and hefty axes hung from their belts. A group of about twenty unarmed villagers clustered behind them, minding the camel-like animals they had apparently ridden there.
Kino brought Hermes to a stop several yards away from them and dismounted. She unbuttoned her coat to quickly access the Cannon, and pulled off her goggles and hat.
A young Tatana with a staff took a few steps toward Kino. He said, "You will come to our village."
"Why?"
"So we can cut you into pieces and watch you die."
Kino looked at the gathering behind him. There were women, children, and even elderly people. Their faces wore expressions of rage, anguish, and fear.
"Why?" asked Kino again.
"Revenge. We must have some kind of revenge, no matter how insignificant."
"I am not from Veldeval or Relsumia," Kino said calmly.
The young man spoke slowly, holding back strong emotion. "We know. You are a traveler. I don't know if you're aware of our hatred for the inhabitants of that city. They kill us without reason. They throw our dead where we cannot reach them to honor them. We can't even bury our loved ones. But we cannot fight the city-dwellers. We have not the means. They are too powerful. And we are like animals before them."
"Yes," murmured Kino. "Yes, you are."
"So anyone who passes this place – it doesn't matter who – we torture to death to appease our rage. We have no hatred for you. You were just unlucky to have come from that place to this."
With their talk apparently at an end, the young man slowly approached Kino. He was a handsome boy and reminded Kino of the curator's second son.
Hermes said, exasperated, "Good grief, Kino! Are you gonna let them eat you?"
Kino did not answer. Instead, she raised her voice, addressing all the Tatana people. "I understand how you feel. I was sickened by what I saw in Veldeval. But if you kill me without reason then you are no better than those you despise. I don't wish to die here. I don't deserve to die here. But as I go on my way, I will not forget you. I promise you that." She bowed to the Tatana and turned toward Hermes.
The Tatana came after her, swinging his staff. Kino spun around and their eyes met. He might have touched her, if he'd only reached out his hand, but instead, he swung the staff at her head.
Kino twisted out of the way, pulling the Cannon from its holster with blinding speed. She fired. There was a sharp crack as the bullet broke the staff. A puff of white smoke from the liquid explosive spread out on the breeze and was gone.
The young man froze, staff raised before his face. And then he fell over backward, slowly, raising a cloud of dust around him when he landed. Blood oozed from his chin, staining his chest red.
She had me ant only to break the staff, but the bullet had deflected. She started to say something, to deny that she'd intended to kill, but she could only watch silently as the thirsty earth swallowed up his blood.
The other Tatana swiftly mounted their animals and fled. Kino watched until they were out of sight, the Cannon still in her hand.
"What should we do with him?" asked Hermes after a while. "Bury him?"
Kino replied, "No, they'll want to come back for him. To honor him."
She put the gun back in its holster, then stood and looked at the body for a moment. When she moved, it was to pull something out of the netting around Hermes' overloaded carrier.
"What's that?" he asked.
“A gift... for the spirit of the dead.”
Kino knelt by the dead man and placed her silver cup on his breast. Then she mounted Hermes again and put her goggles and cap back on. Leaving the body behind them, they drove away.
A cloud of dust rose in their wake. It covered the body of the young Tatana. Kino gave him a parting glance in Hermes' side mirror.
Which side gets to count this one? Kino thought, as she drove Hermes due west.