The Lotus Eaters

'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.