The funeral invitation sat on my desk, already opened. My report on Humanity's complex relation with atomic power to the Council of Species had created some waves. No one had said anything, but I figured that several dozen secret weapons projects were already underway.

I checked my calendar for the fifth time, confirming that the date was clear. I never bothered to remember the old human's name. Never bothered to learn if he had any family. Only left the one business card after one interview.

And yet the invitation had found me. There it sat on my desk, addressed to me at my office. Why I would get an invitation, of all people, I had no idea. Why I felt compelled to go, to remember the human who had blessed and cursed the Council with such a gift of knowledge, I could not fathom.

I left the needed memos, collected my coat and headed home. I had some packing to do.

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I had expected a big cemetery, filled with monuments to the honored dead. What I got was smaller, more humble, but far more beautiful. A small family plot atop a green hill, overlooking a great lake, and topped with a single bent ginkgo tree providing shade.

There were the usual family and friends, more than a few in uniform. I stood in silence near the back, an outsider looking in.

The mood was somber, fitting for the passing of a loved one. But it was not sad, and that puzzled me until I heard the opening phrases of the first speech.

"We are gathered he today to remember the life and love of Bran Taggart. It is a blessed thing indeed to say of someone that he lived his life without fear. That those he knew were better for knowing him."

The ceremony did not last long. Few more words were spoken. The color guard fired three volleys in the air, the flag was folded and presented to a young man in a dress uniform. The undertakers moved in to move the earth back, and the family gathered around a great grill.

I followed, drifting with the crowd, listening to snippets of a life I never saw. The loving father. The good friend. The tales from younger days, coated in the golden glow of never-was.

The young man, a son I presumed, noticed me and came over with a pair of dark beers in one hand, and two plates piled high with food in the other. He stood tall and strong, though dark shadows lurked in the backs of his eyes.

I had seen those shadows before, in the backs of his fathers eyes as I recorded his stories of The War.

We sat down together in the shade of the old ginkgo tree, looking out over the lake.

"Flynn Taggart," he introduced himself, "and you must be Durmindin. My father spoke highly of you, a being unafraid to ask what needed to be asked and say what needed to be said."

"I am. I was surprised at the invitation. I confess I did not know your father well, and had not heard of his passing."

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"Nor did he of you. Not until your report came out and I let him read my copy of it. He remembered you then, even on his deathbed, and told me that he had misjudged you. When you interviewed him, he thought you, no offence intended, a paper-pusher seeking to fill in a gap in a database. When he read your report, read the research and digging back into old Terran history, the unwavering dedication to not sugar-coat unpalatable truths, he asked me to see if I could contact you for him."

"Then I am doubly sorry that I never made the time to find him again."

We talked on for some time, enjoying the good beer and better food.

Eventually, the name and uniform registered on me. "Wait are you the Flynn Taggart of the Mars Incident?"

Flynn sighed, "I knew this would come up. Yep, that's me. Your department has been hounding after me for some time, asking for stories."

"That's my job, but I'm thinking about retiring."

"Why?"

I blew out a long breath. "The stories I keep getting assigned to. War after war, disaster after disaster, death after death. It's grinding me down."

"Then perhaps I can give you one last story, a note to end your career on."

"If it is anything like your father's stories, then I am more than willing to hear it."

Flynn gave a lopsided grin, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "You may not welcome it. It begins with me waking up on the red soil of Mars..."

He shook his head again, and took a long swallow of black beer. "Too many friends lost, too much pain and horror. It needs telling, to drag the horrible stinking mess back out into the light so that it might dry out and turn to dust, but it needs the proper introduction. Tell me, have you heard the saying about war being hell?"

I blinked at the non sequitur. "Something to that effect. Certainly every conflict I have interviewed people about has had some parallel. But I know that look well. It was the look on your father's face as he told me his stories."

Flynn nodded. "Then pardon me for bastardizing an old quote of his then. War is war, hell is hell, and war is infinitely worse. You've seen it for yourself, as have I. There are no innocent bystanders in hell. I know, I've been there. In war, there are almost nothing but innocents."

"We the unwilling, led by the unqualified, to kill the unfortunate, die for the ungrateful?"

"Yes."

"I always found that sad. Why should species war with themselves or with each other?"

"Because there is always someone mad enough, or power-hungry enough, or stupid enough, to try and command things beyond their scope. I saw that on Mars. Let me begin again then. Of what is now known of the Martian Incident, my part begins with me waking up upon the red dirt..."

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Several hours and beers later, I had heard the actual story of the Martian Incident from someone who was actually there and survived.

Flynn Taggart had fallen silent for some time, letting me digest what I had heard.

"I can't believe it. No way that all happened."

"It did."

"It will never be published, because no agency will admit to what was there, and no one wants to take responsibility for all of those deaths."

Flynn held out a single spent .303 rifle casing. "Then don't publish it. But remember those of us who served."

I took the casing.

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I still have it to this day, on a small brass chain around my neck. I also had the machinist who did the modifications cut a small fragment of an old Terran Song into the brass, a reminder to myself.

'When the war has been won, / and our march home begins, / what awaits has not yet been revealed. / What was won? What was lost? / Will our deeds be remembered? / Are they written on stone or in sand?' [1]