The Lotus Eaters cl-3

by Tom Kratman

  "Thank God, at least you're still alive." She had her arms around Carrera's body, her face pressed against his neck. Carrera, too, had his arms around her, but was too weak to hold very tightly. He assumed she didn't kiss him because his lips were such a ruin.

  "Roca'er'i tol' me 'ee ha' somewhu 'ape you. I swear 'ee'll pay, Lour'es."

  She hesitated a moment, collecting her thoughts, then backed off to look in his eyes. "I wasn't raped, Patricio." Which is the truth if not the whole truth. "I'm fine." Also something less than the truth.

  Carrera twisted his head. "Rau'?"

  "Here, Patricio," Parilla answered.

  "Don' le' anywhu execu'e t'e bas'ar's, please? No' ye'."

  "Of course, my friend."

  Carrera stirred again. "Lour'es, wha' abou' Mac?"

  "He . . . he died, Patricio. And Linda's trixie, Jinfeng, too, was killed for trying to give us warning."

  After that, Carrera couldn't speak for a very long time. When he did, it was to say, "Ah'm goin' to crucify t'em all."

  Academia Militar Sergento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Maria Muñoz had asked Chapayev to bring her to the school chapel as soon as they'd arrived from Fort Williams. She wanted to pray for her father and his men, she'd told him. Now, while he waited in a pew in the back, she, on her knees, talked with her God.

  And, Heavenly Father, the girl prayed, after taking care of familial and regimental duties, please forgive me for being a vile, rude, nasty bitch to Victor Chapayev. He saved my father, and quite possibly myself, and I promise to be a much nicer girl to him than I've ever been in the past. She crossed herself and began to stand, but then went back to her knees again.

  Which is not to say, O Lord, that I won't have to come here and beg forgiveness for myself for some of the very nice things I intend to do for him. First, though . . .

  Ciudad Balboa Beach, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The conspirators had been tried by the full Senate. For the main ones, the ones about whom there could be no doubt of their guilt, the trial hadn't taken long. The sentences had been something of a surprise.

  Rocaberti was first in the procession, a wooden timber over his shoulder and iron chains about his ankles. Behind him came his own two rump vice-presidents, Pigna, his chief of police for the old city, Barletta, the entire set of teams who had captured Carrera and Parilla—such as could be taken alive, the one survivor of those who had tried to grab Muñoz-Infantes, and about three score of the remnants of Rocaberti's police force, excepting only those Rojas had bargained for. Armed men, legionaries, not Volgans, marched to either side. Closer in, still other legionaries used cattle prods liberally.

  Along the beach nearly one hundred stout posts had been driven into the sand and wedged in securely. The posts had U-shaped, steel fixtures attached. Unsurprisingly, these were of a shape and size to accommodate the beams carried by the condemned.

  Pigna was almost unique in the party in that he didn't weep along the short march from the prison to the beach. For this reason, Carrera, seated on a wheel chair, pointed to him and said, "This traitor first."

  Pigna was seized, striped down to shorts, and his arms were bound together at the wrists. His beam was placed in the U-shaped fixture. Then he was hoisted up, his bound hands hooked over the upright, and allowed to drop. This hurt, but not enough to raise a cry. Indeed, he said not a word until his ankles were pulled into position and first steel spike was driven through into the wood below.

  After that, Pigna cried more than had most of the others. At least until their turns came to be hooked over and nailed up.

  The TV cameras caught all of it.

  * * *

  Rocaberti's turn came last. "Why?" was all the ex-president could come up with.

  Carrera had healed enough, and had enough dental work done, to speak easily.

  "You know," he said, to Rocaberti, "I don't think your nephew ever got to rape my wife. She killed him, you see. That much is certain. And she denies having been raped. Now, is it possible he raped her beforehand and that she's lying about it? Sure; it's possible. And that's one reason why you're going up on that cross, just in case she needs to feel thoroughly avenged. As important, I want anyone who might even think about siding with the TU to realize that they can't be relied upon at all and that the penalty for doing so is extreme. Lastly, I just hate your guts.

  "Take him."

  Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Lourdes watched the televised crucifixion dry-eyed and unsympathetic. She'd changed a lot in the last month, so much so that she hardly recognized herself. These people had threatened her and hers, nearly killed her husband, nearly raped herself. They had killed someone her husband looked up to almost as if a father. Other innocents, too, not least the Garzas and their men, deserved their revenge. Those men could hang there and die by inches over days and that was just fine with Lourdes de Carrera.

  Artemisia was staying at the casa. "I just can't go home yet, Lourdes," she'd said. "Not until I can look at something of Mac's without breaking down." Of course, she was welcome to stay forever, if she liked.

  Someone, Lourdes hadn't a clue as to who, had rearranged Moises Rocaberti's corpse before anyone could see that he'd been partially undressed. Whoever it was, Lourdes thanked that person, silently. It would never do for Patricio to think anything had happened to be for which he would blame himself. Better to hold it inside.

  For that matter, oral sex was the only kind she would give her husband now. I told him it was because I didn't want to damage his setting bones. And that's true . . . as far as it goes. Mostly, though, I want to wash the taste of that bastard's cock out of my mouth. And that is going to take a lot of washing.

  Her reveries were interrupted by Arti. "Lourdes, that satellite call to Pashtia went through. Ham's on the line."

  She rushed for the phone.

  Ham spoke first, in a voice on the edge of puberty and cracking on about every fifth word. "Mom, what the hell is going on back home?"

  "We had a coup attempt," she answered, "but we came through it all right."

  "Do you need me to come home?"

  "No," she answered, "but there is something you can do for me."

  "Anything, mother."

  "I've discovered we can't trust people. I'd never have believed that before, but it's true. I need some guards, maybe two hundred of them."

  "You want me to send some of my people to you?"

  "Could you? Please? As trustworthy as you can find."

  "Well . . ." the boy hesitated, then continued, "these people take blood and marriage ties pretty seriously. Would two hundred sons in law and nephews and cousins in law do?"

  "Where would you . . . WHAT?"

  "I'll have to ask my wives for their recommendations, of course . . . Mom? Mom, are you there? Mmmooommm?"

  Epilogue

  UEPF Spirit of Peace, Rift Point, Terra Novan side

  The rift was fixed in space. The planet, however, moved. That's what made timing a rift jump tricky. Pass the rift too early and a ship could end up chasing a receding planet even while trying to slow down, and having a harder time slowing down because the lasers on the far end were running away, hence more attenuated. Come too late and spend a year or two swinging around the local sun, and then having to chase a receding planet.

  Wallenstein—rather Richard, Earl of Care, acting under her instruction—had timed it rather well. Peace would assume orbit around the new world in just about seven months. Already they were in communication with the fleet, though there was a not inconsiderable time lag—just under eight hours—between messages. This would shorten as the ship closed on the planet and the planet continued in its orbit.

  Not that every message took that long. Not long after Peace came out of the rift, Wallenstein ordered a tightbeam opened with UEPF Dag Hammarskjöld, Captain Bruce Shi (Class One), Count of Wuxi and Knight Commander of the Order of the Sun, commanding.

  "Captain Wallenstein," S
hi began, with a small nod of the head. Raising his head and eyes, Shi looked more carefully. "Ah, Admiral Wallenstein. Let me be the first this side of the rift to offer my congratulations, Marguerite."

  "Thanks, Bruce. From you, that means something." Wallenstein gave Shi the smile she normally reserved for former lovers, still on good terms.

  "Honestly, Marguerite, I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again . . . in this turn of the wheel. You convinced the Consensus, then?"

  "I convinced the SecGen," she answered. "He convinced the Consensus . . . or enough of it. But Bruce . . . things are getting really bad at home. Bad in ways . . . well, you might not believe me without seeing for yourself."

  "More areas reverted?" he asked.

  "That, yes, but . . ."

  "But?" he prodded.

  "Let me tell you a little bit about the Ara Pacis and the Burning Man . . ."

  * * *

  Richard, Earl of Care, was burning up inside. And I know why, he thought, I know the exact cause. She's brown and petite and hourglass shaped, with a face like an angel and a disposition so different from the Class One women I've known that she shines their superior in every way that matters.

  Of formal education she has not much, though once she learned to read she began picking things up at an amazing rate. Surrounded by mostly classes above Four, her Anglic has gotten to be something no Class One would have to be ashamed of back home. And such an adorable accent!

  Elder gods, she terrifies me. What if I approached her? She couldn't reject me by law and custom but it would be meaningless for her to accept me unless I gave her the freedom to reject me in advance. And if I did that she might reject me. She's no cause to have any love for my class.

  * * *

  It was too far away to see the new world with the naked eye, but Esmeralda could see the bright dot of the sun of this system from the observation deck.

  Just a few more months, Richard told me, until I'll be able to see Terra Nova. I can hardly imagine; a place where Man is free of the uppers that tyrannize poor Earth.

  Richard, she sighed. What am I going to do about Richard. He loves me, I think. And, though I hate his class, I can't hate him . . . nor even, maybe especially, the High Admiral. What am I going to do. If I become his lover, as he plainly wants to ask me to become, could I then do what I must? Should I push to become his lover so that I will be in a better position to do what I must? God, I don't know.

  I only know that my sister who took my place a few days before the High Admiral freed me . . . took my place to have her heart cut out on their filthy altar, made me swear revenge.

  She thought upon it long, weighing advantages and disadvantages, conflicting duties and responsibilities. Finally, still undecided, she stood and began walking the ship's corridors, in the direction of the captain's cabin.

  Ammunition Supply Point, Legionary Base Lago Sombrero, Balboa, Terra Nova

  All three moons were up, Bellona, Hecate, and Eris. They bathed the world beneath them in a bright and, because of their spacing, virtually shadowless light.

  Under those moons, just outside the door of bunker number twenty-three, a huge meter-thick assemblage of old and very, very strong concrete, Duque Patricio Carrera gazed up into the night sky. Though trees blocked his view of the ground to the south, he knew he could see the airstrip if he wanted by just climbing to the earthen, treed roof of the bunker. He didn't bother; he already knew exactly what it looked like.

  Carrera's title, Duque, was a military title rather than a title of nobility. It signified that he was the commander of the Legion del Cid, the originally mercenary, or more technically auxiliary, force that had been raised in the Republic of Balboa, adopted by Balboa, and which had adopted Balboa in return. Ultimately, the title derived from the Latin "Dux Bellorum," Commander of Wars. The Legion took many of its traditions from ancient Rome on Old Earth.

  A set of night vision goggles hung by their straps from Carrera's neck. The goggles rested high on his chest, itself covered with the peculiar custom-made, slant-pocketed, pixilated tiger-striped camouflage that the duque had selected for his legions' jungle wear. Between the two was the Legions silk and liquid metal lorica.

  Above goggles, lorica, uniform, and chest was a salt-and-pepper haired, deeply tanned face, with striking eyes, a narrow, aquiline nose, and more wrinkles than Carrera's years should have accounted for.

  The sky was clear, unusually for Balboa's wet season. Mosquitoes droned in Carrera's ears. From further off the nighttime cries of the antaniae, Terra Nova's winged, septic-mouthed reptiles, came softly, muffled by the surrounding jungle. Mnnbt . . . mnnbt . . . mnnbt. As with the mosquitoes, Carrera likewise ignored the moonbats. Besides, they were fairly harmless except to children, the physically disabled, and the feeble minded. Cowardly creatures, they were.

  Carrera stole a quick glance at his watch—forty minutes past midnight. He stood in the small area defined by the bunker's door, the berm of concrete-revetted earth that was designed to protect the contents of the bunker from either an accidental explosion or a near miss from a deliberate attack, and the two angled projections from the door to the access road. In this little trapezoid, hands clenched behind his back, Carrera paced out his frustrations and anxieties.

  "Duque?"

  Carrera turned to his driver, just emerging from the shelter of the bunker. Without another word Warrant Officer Jamie Soult handed his commander a cup of coffee, black and bitter. It was an old routine. "Sir, how do you know they're coming?" Soult asked.

  Soult, tall, slender, and rather large-nosed, had been with Carrera in two armies, over as many decades. He was more a son or a younger brother than a subordinate. Even so, the term that best described the relationship was probably "friend."

  The corners of Carrera's mouth twitched in something that vaguely resembled a smile. "Jamie, I know they're coming," he said, "even if I don't know which units or in what precise strength, because they think they've no choice. I made them think they have no choice."

  In point of fact, Carrera actually did have a pretty good idea of who was coming, the units and the strength. After all, his enemies in the Tauran Union only had so many airborne units of the requisite quality.

  Anglian paras or Gallic, he thought. Sachsen, just possibly. But I don't think so. Probably Gauls.

  Over the hill that separated the Ammunition Supply Point, or ASP, from the rest of the base, blocked from Carrera's view by the thick, intervening trees, was the bulk of the cadre of the First Legion. At current mobilization levels, this amounted to the cadres, the very senior cadres, of two of the mechanized tercios, or regiments, of the legion, supplemented by a small number of select reservists. In terms of strength, these made up roughly the equivalent of six fairly small companies.

  Mostly dug-in in a ring around the base; the reinforced cadres were there as bait. Good bait, however, ought not resemble bait too much. Therefore, some of them actively patrolled the perimeter. This patrolling had an additional, and vital, purpose. The one thing Carrera feared—not just here but in half a dozen places around the republic—was that the Taurans would find out that something beyond the obvious was waiting for them at Lago Sombrero . . . or at the airport . . . or at Fort Williams . . . or at any of half a dozen spots where, in fact, a major ambush or surprise attack was waiting for them.

  Aerial reconnaissance wouldn't tell them enough. He had flown over the base himself that very day and there wasn't a sign of any special reception. Even the United Earth Peace Fleet, orbiting overhead and de facto allied with the Tauran Union, was unlikely to see what Carrera wanted to remain unseen and unsuspected. He had some measure of the capabilities of the UEPF. In this case, though, he believed he'd met and matched those capabilities.

  Still, the Taurans might send in a ground team, scouts or pathfinders, to check things out before their main invasion force dropped down on the Balboans. That ground team might just stumble onto something Carrera wanted kept secret. Hence, the patrols.

&
nbsp; Carrera didn't expect the patrols to necessarily catch or stop a ground recon team. Rather, he thought that they should make one as concerned with personal survival as with finding out anything important.

  "Nothing's perfect," the Duque said, sotto voce.

  * * *

  Around the airfield proper, four Volgan-built self propelled air defense guns stood; one at each end of the strip and two to the sides where the Inter-Colombian Highway bisected the strip. Sandbagged in on three sides, the guns were unmanned. Still their radar was turned on. Other, simpler, air defense guns stood manned by solitary Balboan soldiers. These were in the open; they had to be manned to be credible. More bait.

  Within a radius of fifty or sixty miles of the base more than twelve thousand reservists and militia of the First Legion (Mechanized) waited in their homes or clubs with pounding hearts and with their issue rifles at hand for the call to report to their units at Lago Sombrero. Some of the legion's wheeled vehicles had already been dispersed to pickup points to bring the reservists in a hurry when called. Still others had their private vehicles and pickup rosters. Some would go to pre-planned pickup zones to await helicopters, assuming any survived the initial Tauran onslaught. Busses from what Carrera liked to think of, and hoped was the case, as the "hidden reserve" would take still more.

  All this was known to both the Taurans and the UEPF. Indeed, it was knowable, in broad terms, to anyone who cared to study. Without the threat of those reservists, and hundreds of thousands more like them, waiting for the trumpet's call, the Taurans would probably never have jumped.

  Not everything was known though. Carrera would have bet—in fact was betting—that six secrets had been kept. Inside the ammunition bunkers was one of those six real secrets. Hidden away, as they had been for the last three days, roughly eleven hundred young Balboan troops waited, unknown to anyone outside of a very small circle. They were little more than boys, most of them; the average age was just under sixteen.