by Tom Kratman
If, that is, I can stop the barbarians on Terra Nova from springing out of their hole like Temujin's hordes and upsetting everything here before we can right ourselves.
That's my advantage over Martin. He could only think of a way to make Terra Nova cease being a threat to us as we are. That's why he had to be so absolute. I, on the other hand, can think of a way to make us something Terra Nova will not be a lethal threat to . . . given the power and given the time.
Wallenstein looked around at her temporary quarters, which went way past adequate and even opulent all the way to decadent. And there are some perks to the effort.
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
"We've kept Quarters One open for you, on the Isla Real," McNamara said.
Jimenez snorted. ""We'd have had a mutiny if we tried to fill them." More seriously, he added, "Really, Patricio; we've been able to keep things going as well as we have in good part because we could tell the troops you would be back. That's been getting pretty threadbare for a while now."
"I've missed the boys," Carrera admitted with a sigh that sounded as if it were of longing. "But you might as well have turned the quarters over to the commander of the Training Legion. And your own, as well."
"Why's that?" Mac asked.
"Because we're going to have to move the legions and tercios—yes, almost all of them—from the Isla Real to the mainland."
"We're?" Jimenez asked.
Carrera sighed once again. "Yes. 'We're.' Bastards.
"And I'll need to talk to Raul . . . and the leaders of the legislature. I'm not taking sole responsibility for the shit that I do anymore, if only because I don't quite trust my own judgment anymore."
Chapter Three
Valid moral judgment is not a question of saying, "Wouldn't it be nice?" or observing, "Isn't it so awful?" and then insisting that the universe be or cease to be whatever the speaker thinks would be nice, tomorrow, or is bad, today. Valid moral judgment must also be realistic judgment. It does not become so merely for taking a favored fantasy and insisting it is reality. And yet so many, throughout human history, have done just that.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Furiocentro Convention Center, Balboa City, Terra Nova
Nearly everyone who really mattered in the Legion was there: Four thousand officers, six thousand optios, centurions, and sergeants major, about four thousand warrants, and as many junior non-coms as could be spared from their day to day duties. Even the schools had been shut down for two days to allow the cadres and some senior students to attend, while key civilians who worked for the Legion had also been dragged in.
The Golden Eagle of the overarching Legion del Cid, plus those of the legions, themselves, First through Fourth, also golden, stood in a rank on an elevated dais, legionary eagles flanking the sacred eagle of the entire Legion. Ahead of those, and slightly lower, were sixteen silver eagles. Ten of these belonged to the ten tercios, or regiments. Then there were the eagles for the classis, the fleet, and the ala, the aviation regiment. The two for the training units, initial entry and leader and specialist training, stood alongside that of the Opposing Force Tercio, composed mostly of highly combat experienced expatriate Volgan paratroopers. Technically the Volgans were not part of the Legion, their official contract being with the Foreign Military Training Group. Some of the Volgans were now citizens of the Republic, others not. Lastly, on the left as the eagles faced, was the eagle for the Tercio de Cadetes, the elite youth regiment, itself nearly twelve thousand strong, in six schools, and not counting the adult cadres for those schools.
The place was stuffed to roughly twice its capacity; there were no chairs as there hadn't been room. (All the chairs sat outside under tarps.) Moving everyone to the Center, too, had been a logistic task of no little magnitude, involving use of busses, airplanes, airships, hovercraft, helicopters, Balboa's one useable train line and, in a few cases, privately owned vehicles and even movement by foot.
Every military man and woman present wore either undress Class B khakis or the mostly green, pixilated tiger-striped, slant-pocketed battle dress worn by the Legion when at home in Balboa. Mufti-clad civilians were present, most of them either propagandists for Professor Ruiz's propaganda group, operating out of the university, or scientists and researchers from Obras Zorilleras, the Legion's research and development arm.
Standing in the back, behind closed doors, Raul Parilla, Presidente de la Republica, and Patricio Carrera waited with McNamara.
Parilla, short and stocky, with brown skin highlighted by steel-gray hair, wore mufti, as befitted a civil chief magistrate. Conversely, Mac and Carrera wore their battle dress, Mac carrying his badge of rank, the baton of the Sergeant Major-General of the Legion, while Carrera's battle dress carried only his name, his service, and, on his collar, two small pin-on eagles surrounded by wreaths for his rank. He didn't even bother with the gold-buckled leather belt that most senior legates wore. The trappings of rank and power had never meant much to Patricio Carrera.
"You look nervous, Patricio," Raul said.
Carrera grunted and gave a curt nod. "Simple explanation: I am nervous. I loathe speaking in public. Always have."
"That's not quite true, you know," Parilla corrected. "I've seen you warm to your audience and your subject before. What you hate is waiting to speak in public, fearing you won't do very well. Though why this should be, I don't know."
"He's right," Mac added. "And on that note, gentlemen, if you'll permit, I go announce you."
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Bldg 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa
"Malcoeur, you fat, slimy toad," shouted General Janier, the Tauran Union commander in Balboa. Tall and slender, handsome after a fashion but for an unfortunately large nose, the general was dressed in his favorite costume, a replica of that of a marshal of Janier's hero, Napoleon.
"Oui, mon general?" the toady answered as he filled the lower half of the door to Janier's officer with his wide and short bulk. They called the Gauls, "Frogs," and in Malceour's case, the description was apt, from his wide bulk to his shortened, frog-like, pug face. The toady, a Tauran Union—which is to say Gallic Army—major, served as the great man's aide de camp.
"What is this meeting the locals are holding? Why was I not informed? Twenty thousand of them show up on our doorstep and I wasn't informed!"
"We had no warning, mon general. Apparently the word went out late last night and—voila!—they were suddenly here."
Janier gave Malcoeur a suspicious look. Was it possible the toad was enjoying his commander's discomfiture? No, impossible; so Janier thought.
"Nonsense, you fat fool," the general said. "This is an army of uncultured, uncivilized barbarians, people without tradition or experience or higher military education. They do not simply give orders and move. Even we could not assemble such a force so quickly."
We likely could not, agreed the aide, silently. But they seem to be able to. One suspects there are standing orders and plans in place to move like that, though we do not have adequate access to their plans and operations department. And we would have informed you a bit sooner, except that you were busy fucking your mistress in the apartment you carved out for her from military offices, just down the hall.
Malcoeur was an ass-licker, so all on the staff agreed, but he was an ass-licker who could still think. And he was enjoying Janier's feeling like a fool.
"Go and fetch me the G-2"—the intelligence officer for the Tauran Union forces in the Transitway—"and bring the miscreant to me by the scruff of his neck," Janier ordered. "I am confident that after we have a little chat he will not in the future be so remiss."
Rome, Province of Italy, Old Earth
Almost, almost, Marguerite felt confident enough of her position to skip proskynesis before the SecGen. But, no, this is too important to both the Earth and myself to le
t pique and arrogance get in the way.
Moore stood beside her at the grand door to the former Papal apartment. The two waited while the major domo announced, "Captain and Admiral pro tem Marguerite Wallenstein, Class Two, for an audience with the Secretary General."
Moore said, "I'll be waiting when you've finished, Marguerite."
Clutching a valise in one hand, Marguerite nodded and advanced alone. She showed more confidence than she truly felt. The soft, plush rug underfoot muffled the sound of her high, black uniform boots. At a spot on the carpet about a dozen meters from the SecGen's large and ornate desk, Wallenstein placed the valise down and dropped to her knees. Leaning forward, she then placed both hands on the carpet ahead of her. Keeping eye contact until the last second, Wallenstein then bent and kissed the carpet three times, on the last kiss leaving her forehead to the floor. She straightened out until her breasts and belly were flush to the carpet and stayed that way.
"Arise, my child," the SecGen called. As gracefully as possible, under the circumstances, Wallenstein did. When she did, she was able to note certain things about the SecGen. He was young in appearance, very young. Well, you would expect that from the very best anti-agathics, she thought. Such as are available to Class Ones, she added, with bitterness in her mind. She thought he must have had extensive plastic surgery, too. No man could be that . . . pretty. Not naturally. Lastly, and most oddly, the SecGen shimmered, as if his skin had been freshly dusted with gold. Which it probably has been, she thought.
"Come closer, Captain," the SecGen said. Marguerite felt her stomach sink.
If he's using my permanent rank then maybe I won't be prorogued into the Admiralty. Shit.
The SecGen made a subtle but imperious gesture with his left hand. Marguerite thought she heard the door closing behind her and suddenly felt as if the major domo had left her alone with the SecGen.
"My dear friend, the Marchioness of Amnesty, wrote to me of what wonderful command of your tongue you had," the SecGen said, twisting his chair to one side. "Before we discuss weightier matters, show me."
Furiocentro Convention Center, Balboa City
Jorge Mendoza, warrant officer, and Ricardo Cruz, Senior Centurion, saw each other, recognized each other, and immediately pushed through the ranks of the men to wrap each other in grand bear hugs, pounding each other on their backs. Cruz was careful not to knock Mendoza over. Jorge's legs, both of them, were made of artificial carbon fibers, enhanced with computer control. Mendoza and Cruz had been pretty tight for some years now, ever since Jorge, though blind at the time, insisted on joining in a political street battle at Cruz's side. Guts like that, Cruz tended to appreciate.
"Jorge!" exclaimed Cruz, "I haven't seen you since—"
"Not since you were in the Senior Centurion's Course and took my class in Historia y Filosofia Moral," Mendoza supplied.
"It was a good class," Cruz complemented. "I got a lot out of it."
"Thanks, Ricardo. I appreciate that. I had—"
Mendoza was interrupted by a familiar voice, McNamara's. "Gentlemen, the President of the Republic and the Commander of the Legion."
The enormous room hushed to a deathly stillness as every man braced to attention. The stillness was soon broken by the sounds of Carrera's and McNamara's boots, tap-tap-tapping down the stone walkway. Parilla's softer civilian shoes made no comparable sound.
A murmur began right at the inner corners of the mass of humanity where the stone walkway divided them. It spread from there, across the rear rank and down toward the front like a wave. Too, like a wave, or perhaps a tsunami, the volume grew as more and more of the legionaries heard and passed on, "He's really come back to us. Our dux bellorum has returned."
Discipline held until Carrera, Parilla, and Mac were almost two thirds of the way to the stage on which rested a podium and the gold and silver eagles. At that point a junior centurion along the central aisle twisted and looked over his shoulder and said to himself, To hell with it; I'm going to shake the commander's hand.
The centurion broke ranks and stood right in Carrera's path with his hand outstretched. "Welcome back, sir," he said.
Another commander might have been angry. Carrera was . . . more than touched. Tears glistening in his eyes, he took the centurion's hand in a firm grip, pumping it and saying, "Thank you. It's good to be back."
At that point, the thing became a near riot, with legionaries jostling and pushing to get close to the man who had led them to victory through two wars and a police action of sorts on three continents. Even McNamara's voice couldn't get the men back into order until Carrera had shaken five hundred or more hands, and endured more back-slapping than was, strictly speaking, healthy or safe.
In the end, Mac had to use his size and presence—he towered over the average legionary, to force his way past the throng, up onto the stage and to the microphone.
"Enough, you bastards," he said, the words reverberating from the walls. "Cease and desist. You'll kill the man and here we've just gotten him back."
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Bldg 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa
The G-2's name tag read de Villepin. He entered Janier's office confidently. And why not? He was at least as politically well connected as the general and could do at least as much damage to Janier as the latter could do to him, rank notwithstanding. Moreover, Janier knew it. His words—"by the scruff of the neck"—had been for his toady, Malcoeur's benefit. And Malcoeur had basically shrugged that off.
Before Janier could say a word, de Villepin raised a hand and said, "I didn't worry about telling you, or order that your time with your mistress be interrupted, because, however large it may be—and yes, it's almost twice the size of our little pocket division—it's not equipped to attack anybody. I have people inside, besides.
"More importantly, the reason for the assembly is that their old commander, Carrera, is back. I had thought, we had all thought, he'd retired. Apparently this is not the case. The assembly is likely his little way of announcing he's back and in charge."
"You say you have your people inside?" Janier asked.
"Well . . . people who work for me, about eleven of them, if every one managed to attend." De Villepin smiled sardonically. "Technically and legally, I suppose they're Carrera's people. I'll have an admittedly incomplete report by tomorrow evening at the latest. More details will follow as more of my spies check in. It may be a week or so."
"So late?" Janier asked.
"If they aren't careful, Carrera's intelligence organization will catch them." De Villepin added, ruefully, "That ferret-faced bastard, Fernandez, is pretty good at what he does . . . and has methods available to him that are not permitted to me . . . usually. What would happen to my people if he caught them would not be strictly in accordance with the World League's Charter of Human Rights."
"Whatever it takes, then." Janier agreed, with a shrug.
Rome, Province of Italy, Old Earth
Though she'd come prepared, in more ways than one, to do whatever it took to secure her ends, Wallenstein balked, for the first time in a long life. It surprised no one more than herself, too. Still, memories of servicing her "betters" since she'd been a teenager had risen to the surface. So, too, had memories of being betrayed and abandoned by those "betters," once they'd had their fill of her. I've prostituted myself for well over a century and what do I have to show for it? Nothing? No, not nothing, but not enough, either. And enough is enough. Diadems are enough. Teenagers being cut up on the Ara Pacis is enough. Enough! The confusion, uncertainty, and indecision on her face was replaced with a steely hard determination.
"No," Marguerite said to the SecGen. "You don't need me for that and doing it would say nothing positive about my ability to deal with the problems you and yours have created and let fester. You want your cock sucked; ring the bell for the major domo. I've had enough of you Class Ones and your puerile obsessions with your genitalia."
Without bothering with a departing proskynesi
s, Marguerite turned on her heels and began walking, head proudly erect, to pick up her valise.
"Stop," the SecGen commanded. Unseen, he smiled, the smile possibly having an element of satisfaction to it. "Have a seat. You are, of course, right. I don't need you for your mouth but for your mind. You're also right that we have problems of our own making."
Wallenstein did stop. Her chin raised in anger. "I have conditions," she said, without turning.
"Let us discuss them, then," the SecGen agreed. "And you may assume that whatever may happen with the general meeting with the Consensus tomorrow, my word will carry."
Furiocentro Convention Center, Balboa City
Carrera, a bit battered perhaps but beaming all the same, ascended the stage and walked to the podium with its microphone. He already knew, from McNamara's command to the boys to "Cease and fucking desist," that the volume was properly adjusted anyway.
Well, you'd expect little things like that to go right with a good organization.
"Without belaboring the obvious," Carrera began, "It's good to be back. I'm . . . I'm truly sorry it took so long." He shook his head slightly. "I'm not going to give you any explanations. That's not because you don't deserve them; it's that there aren't—"
A warrant officer near the front shouted out, "We don't need any explanations, sir. It's enough that you are back."
Carrera smiled, half shyly. "Thank you, then, again, for that. So let's get to the meat of it; where do we go from here and why?
"The why should be obvious, our base, our country, is under occupation, both by foreigners and by an illegal rump of a corrupt government that those foreigners protect. To get rid of them requires at least the threat of war, and possibly the actuality. They know this, and so we can and must assume that they, too, are preparing for war.