The Lotus Eaters cl-3

by Tom Kratman

  They weren't lovers, surprisingly. At least Marguerite was surprised. But Esmeralda was quite young and Richard, in this as in other matters, quite decent. Also, as he'd admitted to Wallenstein when she'd asked, he was for a Class One rather inexperienced.

  In time, perhaps.

  Richard pressed a button on the chair, close beside the zero G coffee cup. "High Admiral, this is the captain. The tugs are ready. We're ready. Three hundred second countdown to begin maneuver out of the lunar shadow begins in . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . now."

  * * *

  Further aft in the ship, in the admiral's bridge, Wallenstein fretted far more than Richard did. The big Kurosawa screen on one wall was split into a dozen frames, showing the Captain, several different views of the rest of the bridge, forward of the ship, the tugs, the former colonization vessel, Jean Monnet, trailing, with its tugs, and certain critical ship's charts.

  Marguerite fretted, I've drilled the boy silly, hand carried him as much as I could, pushed him into the deep water when that seemed a good idea, mentored and nagged and . . . Elder gods, I hope I prepared him well enough.

  The speakers concealed in the walls announced, "two-thirty-seven . . . two-thirty-six . . . two-thirty-five . . ."

  Marguerite concentrated on the image of Richard's face. He's doing pretty well with the whole "confident look" thing. And his voice is steady. The crew seems not too worried. And I'm being an old woman.

  Marguerite felt the ship shudder around her as the tugs took magnetic hold. It wasn't, strictly speaking, necessary to use the tugs. Yet saving reaction mass for emergencies was always wise.

  "One-twenty-two . . ."

  * * *

  "Seventy-seven . . . Seventy-six . . ."

  "Stations report," Richard ordered, his voice much calmer than he really felt. He remembered all the simulation he had screwed up, and remembered them deep in his bones.

  "You're doing fine, Richard," Esmeralda whispered again. She still hadn't left the side of his command chair. He found a considerable comfort in her proximity, more perhaps than he consciously recognized.

  "Navigation nominal, reaction mass temperature and pressure optimal . . . Engineering, ninety-six percent power, captain . . . Life support, air mix optimal . . . Medical . . ."

  "Fifty-two . . . fifty-one . . ."

  "Lunar laser boost station reports ready to push, Captain."

  "Forty . . . thirty-nine . . . thirty-eight . . ."

  "A little music, captain?" asked the chief petty officer of the ship.

  "Do it, chief."

  Almost immediately the speakers began to blare Verdi's triumphal march from Aida.

  "Twenty-six . . . twenty-five . . ."

  * * *

  I can't believe it, thought Esmeralda. I can't believe I'm really here . . . in a starship . . . going to the world of exile. She smiled inside. To be honest, I can't believe I haven't had my heart cut out and my body turned into a stew for the Azteca with all the choicest parts saved and sent back to Count Castro-Nyere.

  I will not fail you, father, sister. I remember.

  * * *

  "Take a seat and buckle in, Esma," Richard ordered. "Quickly, please."

  She did, pushing off with one arm towards the rear of the bridge, to an unoccupied seat next to the chief. The chief buckled her in.

  "Twelve . . . eleven . . . ten . . . nine . . ."

  "This is your first trip, honey," the chief, a capable Class Four, said. "It might be bad or it might be easy; there's no telling in advance."

  "I know," Esmeralda answered. "I'm hoping for the best."

  "Good girl," the chief said. "I think we'll be okay."

  "Six . . . five . . ."

  "Tugs report full power, captain."

  "Understood . . ."

  "Two . . . one . . .

  "Bring us out of orbit," ordered Richard, Earl of Care.

  * * *

  The deployment of the sail always gave Marguerite a thrill. This time was no exception. Almost she could hear the snap as gas filled the ring and expanded the thing to pull against the lines.

  And the boy's doing well, she mused. When was the last time I had occasion to be proud of a Class One? Has it ever even happened?

  A portion of the screen on the Admiral's Bridge suddenly flared, as the lunar laser batteries opened up, giving the Peace a slight but perceptible shove. This would continue, and be reinforced by the batteries of the asteroid belt, until distance and attenuation made too little a difference in the light to keep it up. The lunar batteries were multiple, and spaced around that body. These would take turns, firing and shutting down, as rotation masked them.

  Wallenstein's eyes turned to the portion of the screen devoted to the Jean Monnet, aft. Already the tugs were moving back, though the Monnet wouldn't get underway until the following day.

  And she's coming stuffed to the rafters with nearly everything I need to get the Peace Fleet back to Bristol Fashion, plus enough shuttles and parts for them to keep it supplied from the surface, even with all the ships fully manned. Hah; Martin, you dickhead. That's better than you ever even dreamt of.

  Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Fernandez knew why he'd spared former High Admiral Martin Robinson's life. The swine had some skills that were useful. He wasn't nearly so sure why he hadn't left the former Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit, in the hold to drown as the old Hildegard von Mises went down without a trace. Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age. He considered that for a moment and thought, Nah, that's not it. Must be a reason, even if I can't think what it was. No matter; it'll come to me. In the meantime . . .

  Wish to hell I knew why Patricio was so determined to get this shuttle working again. Some things he won't share with anybody.

  * * *

  "It would help, sir," Robinson said, head bowed in humility, "if I knew why you wanted the shuttle."

  Robinson wore prison stripes, as did Lucretia Arbeit. Both were kept, under guard and in separate cells, under the central hill of the island, just off from the hangar cave wherein sat the rebuilt but still unserviceable shuttle. Their complexions were pallid from lack of sun.

  "Never mind," Fernandez barked. "You don't need to know at this point. Just get the dozen men selected for training as able to fly one as you can."

  Robinson shrugged. "As you wish, sir. They're already fully capable of pre-flighting the thing. And they've theoretical understanding of the nuances. I've drilled them into the ground on the inert simulator."

  "How's programming on the flight simulator coming?" Fernandez asked.

  Again, the former High Admiral shrugged. "It's a simulator. By definition, it won't be as good as the real thing. If you could get a replacement flight computer . . ." Robinson let the thought trail off.

  "Working on it." Which is to say, beating my head against a wall. Patricio's pet senator in the Federated States couldn't help, or wouldn't, which amounts to the same thing. And we can't fix the bastard. Butter-fingered damned infantry.

  "No matter how well I train the pilots," Robinson reminded, "the thing still won't fly without the flight computer."

  "Working on it."

  Robinson slumped his shoulders, clasped his hands together in front of himself and bobbed his head briskly three or four times. "Yessir. Sorry, sir."

  One of the worst things about torture, thought Fernandez, is that when it's over—assuming you don't just off the fucker, of course—you've got something less than a human being to deal with. Then again, this one wasn't much of a human being to begin with.

  * * *

  Fernandez, since his own offices were in Ciudad Balboa on the mainland, had borrowed a driver and vehicle from a friend once he'd arrived on the island. Since the Legion's move to the mainland was still somewhat incomplete, and since full facilities were likewise incomplete and would be for some years, the main military exchange remained on the island, not too far from the Punta de Coco airfield. He had the driver take him there.


  There wasn't much he needed, actually, that couldn't have been purchased in the smaller exchanges near the city but, "Since I am here, I may as well."

  No ID card was required on the island since it was almost entirely military. The few civilians around, mostly in one or another version of the "entertainment" industry, were allowed privileges as a matter of courtesy. Fernandez walked through the main doors and headed for the liquor section. That was one area where the prices and selection beat the both the military and civilian facilities of the city hands down.

  On the way, Fernandez passed by the book store and decided to pick up some reading material. It was one of Carrera's tenets that a major reason that most of the armies of Colombia del Norte stank to the high heavens was that they had far too limited a selection of military reading in their native tongues for effective self education. Legionary Press, a wholly owned subsidiary of Legiones del Cid, S. A. , made good that lack in Balboa, having translated and printed, so far, about a quarter of Carrera's personal library along with more than a thousand other militarily significant works.

  All publications were made available, down to maniple level, by the Legion, without cost to the units. For people who wanted their own copies, however, or wanted, at least, not to have to wait—since the free distribution system was never quite as timely as the "for cost" system—the books were available via the exchange.

  Hmmm, Fernandez thought, gazing over the shelves of the "New Editions" section, already have a copy of Intelligence in War, and besides, the author now works in my shop. Ah, I see Marqueli Mendoza has something out under her own name, Family and State. I'll get that, he decided, fingering the book from the shelf and placing it under one arm. Aha, a new, unabridged edition of Complete Verse of Rudyard Kipling. Absolutely got to have that. And . . . what's this? Memoirs of Belisario Carrera (Abridged). That might be interesting. And, lastly, since I can't carry any more conveniently, not and have room for a couple of bottles of cognac, I'll get Poetry of the Great Global War.

  That should do for a while.

  Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Though Volga had plenty of doctors, product of the Red Tsar's emphasis on quantity, it was the considered opinion of the 22nd, which certainly had enough experience of Marxist medicine, that the Legion's medicos were both better trained and much better equipped. Thus, the wounded from the operation in Santander, generally speaking, preferred to do their convalescence in Balboa rather than home. There was, however, at least one exception.

  * * *

  The 22nd was not only a hard fighting regiment; it was a hard drinking one as well. All the regiments of the Legion drank, of course, even if not all of its members did. The combat rations came with a rum ration integral to them. Legionary rum, at 160 proof, was considered pretty vile unless highly diluted. It was especially vile to the Volgans who much preferred vodka.

  A bottle of vodka, imported from home, sat between Samsonov, Pavlov, and Chapayev on a cloth-covered table in an alcove of the 22nd's Officers' Club. Chapayev drank with his left hand. His right shoulder was still immobilized with bandages and a cast.

  "I've a list of things we need, Victor," said Samsonov, pushing a file folder over towards the tribune, "and a regimental credit card for you to purchase them and ship them here. Also a list of contacts in case you have any trouble finding what we need. Also, if you are amenable, there is a list of people I'd like you to interview for possible accession into the regiment. If you agree to the last, I can extend your convalescence by half a day per applicant you interview, plus travel time. We did have some losses we need to make good."

  Chapayev replaced his glass on the table and answered, "No problem comrade col . . . err . . . comrade leg . . . err . . . sir. I've seven weeks to convalesce. Even with the time I intend to spend on . . . err . . . with my wife there should be some occasion for some shopping and even interviewing."

  "What's it been now, Victor? Almost two years? That's too long."

  "Yes, sir, I agree. I'm hoping she'll come back here with me when I return."

  Samsonov nodded. "One hopes she will, Victor. Duque Carrera told me he is sending a crew especially to build you a house to raise a family in. 'We need that boy's children,' he said to me. You've made quite a friend there."

  Chapayev said, "He's a good commander, isn't he? I owe him for my company, I think." The Volgan's face grew somber then. Slowly and carefully, he added, "I don't know if she is coming back for sure. The last time I got a message . . . you know how the mail is from home, even the electronic mail . . . was before we went to Santander. She didn't seem overly enthused about coming here. Maybe when I show her the drawings of the new house she will change her mind."

  Chapayev pulled an architectural drawing from a satchel. It showed a medium size, single floor bungalow, built on stilts to form a carport under the main house, the house itself stuccoed and roofed with red tiles. Based on the size of the windows, the house looked to be about thirteen or fourteen meters on a side, perhaps one hundred and eighty or so, overall. By Volgan standards, it was palatial.

  "No question but it's a better place than she's likely to find at home," Samsonov observed. "You might also mention to her that on your pay here she can afford a maid and cook, and a car if you wish."

  "Yes, sir," Chapayev agreed. "That might help. Duque Carrera also offered to let me use one of the spare places on his land until my house was complete."

  "He told me about how you fought in Santander," Samsonov said. "He thinks very highly of your abilities . . . and your courage under fire. I would cultivate him, were I you."

  Chapayev smiled. "Yes, sir. But first, I have to think about how to cultivate my wife. And on that note, I have shopping to do in the city before I catch my plane. Menshikov is driving me to town and the airport."

  Pavlov added, "There are a few things I'd like to add to your shopping list, Victor."

  "Sure, sir."

  "You are going by airship, Victor?" Samsonov asked.

  "Yes, sir. The Legion paid for round trip fare for one, and one way for another, plus a generous allowance for shipping personal goods."

  "Well," said Pavlov, "if the rumors of how much Carrera succeeded in squeezing from the Santanderns are even half correct, the Legion is pretty flush, right about now."

  Chapayev smiled. "Certainly the combat bonus the duque paid the regiment hasn't hurt."

  Saint Nicholasburg, Volga, Terra Nova

  On Old Earth, the Russians had always been a deeply spiritual people. Not even three generations of the vilest forms of Marxism had ever been able to erase that. Moreover, with Marxism fallen, at the end of the 20th century, the major churches of old Russia had surged once again to prominence, their adherents knowing that, after all, God had not deserted His people.

  The people God may not have deserted, but it certainly came to seem that he had turned his face from the Earth. Thus, when Christianity had become once again a suspect religion, and its enemies had introduced various forms of persecution, the faithful of old Russian had begun to leave for the new world.

  Other colonies, in the early days of human settlement of the planet, might call their cities "First Landing" or "Drop Dead" or any of myriad other names. But for the faithful Russ, fleeing religious persecution, there could be no doubt of the name of their first city on Terra Nova. It had to be named for their patron saint, Nicholas of Myra.

  As the Russians had said, "Even if God dies we'll still have Saint Nicholas."

  * * *

  ". . . and," said the speaker overhead, "for those of you on the port side, that's Saint Nicholasburg coming up ahead. For those on the starboard, if you look carefully you can see the glow where the Pripyat Nuclear Power Station fulfilled the Red Tsar's Five Year Plan for energy generation in four nanoseconds."

  Chapayev had tuned out the purser's voice—at least he thought it was the purser's—as he ticked off the sights to be seen on various legs of the aerial journey. For the neon-glowing Saint Nicholasburg, how
ever, he paid attention, closing his wallet and shutting away the picture of his wife that he'd kept with him through the years of separation.

  It was a lovely portrait, but not one for general viewing. For one thing, Veronica, the wife, was half, or rather more than that, nude, her breasts—delicate things—on full display. Her skin was creamy and smooth. Cornflower blue eyes stared out, innocent as a new baby's, under midnight bangs that turned into a long cascade down her otherwise bare back. Even after several years of marriage, the image still sent a shiver of desire up the young Volgan's back.

  In a way it was better to put away the picture and stare at the town, below. For one thing, Chapayev was reasonably sure of the town. Of the woman in the portrait he was much less so.

  * * *

  The reasons that airships on Old Earth had never, so to speak, taken off was that, despite the advantages in fuel consumption and cargo load, they'd required excessively large and expensive ground crews and been terribly vulnerable to sudden and severe changes in weather, especially when near the ground. On Terra Nova, conversely, which had much less axial tilt to it than had the world of Man's birth, the weather was more predictable and, generally speaking, less severe. The better weather had made airships a better bet, long enough, for systems to be developed to reduce the size of the ground crews. The airships had never quite eliminated the need for fixed wing, heavier than air, craft, but they had proven a more useful supplement to those on New Earth than on Old.

  They were still far too vulnerable in war to be used for anything but lifting heavy loads, and then only to and from very safe areas, and along safe routes. In practice, the ACCS was not an exception to these rules.

  * * *

  Chapayev barely noticed the shudder and the metallic clangs as the airship let go half a dozen cables. No more did he notice as the cables were grasped by claws mounted on half a dozen heavy trucks. Even when the trucks carried the cables off to be affixed to the mules—heavy and heavy-duty railway cars—that would take the ship in to the landing pit and hold it steady while the ship winched itself down, the tribune paid no mind.