The Lotus Eaters

walked down the stairs and out of Veronica Chapayeva's life without a backward glance. He didn't trust himself to look at her again.

It wasn't until he was in the relative solitude and safety of a taxi that the young Volgan pulled his coat over his head and, as quietly as possible, began to weep.

UEPF Spirit of Peace, Solar System

Richard was being very talkative. Seated at her own mess with the ship's captain, Marguerite suppressed a smile. Watching Richard trying—painfully trying—to keep his mouth moving and his eyes off of Esmeralda had become more than amusing.

Except that—Dammit!—I've come to care for the both of them. But he's a Class One and she's just a peasant girl I rescued, barely rescued, from slavery. Where do they have a future together in our world? Not even in the computer generated pulp romances they print for the lower classes. Not even on the public television shows.

And anyway, while his face shouts that he's in love, hers is much harder to read. Our class nearly killed the poor thing. I doubt she has much room for love for us. I foresee pain in Richard's future, much pain.

Should I try to help? Hell, no. I'm no kind of matchmaker. I know not the first little thing about romantic love, never had any room for it, what with being at the beck and call of whatever Class One wanted me bent over a desk or down on my knees.

She suppressed a bitter thought. I wonder what life might have been like if one of them had ever looked at me the way Richard looks at Esmeralda . . .

She couldn't help sighing at dreams she'd never really been allowed to have.

'High Admiral?' Richard enquired at the sigh.

'Nothing, Captain,' Marguerite answered. Well, why not give them the chance, if only for a bit, to have some of what I never did?

Wallenstein pushed the plate away from her and stood. Richard began to follow until she gestured him back to his seat.

'I've got a little work to do,' she lied. 'You finish your dinner, Captain. Esmeralda, please see to the Captain's needs.'

'Yes, High Admiral,' the serving girl said, with a curtsey.

* * *

Immediately as the door whooshed shut behind Wallenstein, Richard shut up, turned his reddening face down towards the plate, and commenced eating mechanically.

I can talk with her in public, on the bridge, he fumed. Why can't I speak with her in private?

The silence went on for several awkward minutes before Esmeralda asked, 'Would you care for some more wine, Captain?'

Richard, in mid chew and not expecting the question, choked . . . literally. He began to choke so badly, in fact, that Esmeralda had to put down the carafe she'd picked up and rush to his side to pound on his back.

His choking ended, but not the sense of embarrasment that made him think, Why couldn't I have just died? Muttering something unintelligible, Richard, Earl of Care, stood and left the Admiral's mess for his own quarters.

Quarters One, Gutierrez Caserne, Ciudad Cervantes, Balboa, Terra Nova

None of the planet's three moons were up. The land was illuminated only by the streetlights, whatever light escaped through windows, and the occasional passing motor vehicle. Power for the former there was in plenty, from the half dozen solar power stations that now dotted the nation's northern shore, their greenhouse complexes connected to the mountain top chimneys by sturdy, half buried concrete tunnels. Even at night, with the sun down, heat differential let them continue to produce power.

The softly cooing antaniae loved the moonless nights, for those were the vile creatures' best chance to find unguarded prey. Legate Pigna could hear them calling outside, mnnbt . . . mnnbt . . . mnnbt. He wasn't worried about them, however, he'd already checked the doors and window screens to ensure that the children were safe inside, and the antaniae out. Now he sat, portable computer on his lap, continuing his planning.

Every now and again the magnitude and the dangers of the project Legate Pigna had undertaken would get to him and he would being to fret, even to choke up. Three things kept him at his task. One was the burning memory of a wad of paper thrown in his face as if he were an unruly school boy. In itself, perhaps this should not have rankled quite so much as it did. After all, the Legion was a rough service, and harsh. He'd chewed out subordinates before, if never quite so viciously as Carrera had inflicted a mass chewing upon his subordinates.

Sitting in his office at his home, sipping a higher end rum, Pigna thought, But I was one of the bastard's most loyal supporters. I deserved better. I deserved, at a minimum, not to be entrapped with that fucking flypaper report. And he should know better than to wound a man in his pride. If he doesn't, he's not fit to command.

Deep down, the legate knew that was rationalization. Wounds heal, and his had long since, except when he ripped off the scab to open the wound again. He did that because . . .

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't pull out now. They've got me on video and I have no doubt that that video would go to Fernandez the day, the hour, maybe the second I try to back out. Carrera might forgive me. Fernandez would never give him the chance. I, my family, we'd all disappear.

So much for fear, and so much for honor, or at least the avenging of dishonor. But what ultimately kept Pigna at