The Lotus Eaters

all.

'Sufficient skill' is, of course, a relative matter. A solid basic combat training is adequate for this, when those who lack the vote (because lacking in civic virtue) have no such training. Beyond that, whatever jobs are required by society should suffice. If what society needs for the foreseeable future is a mass of infantry, armor, artillery, and combat engineers, then that is where the prospective citizen should go, and those the branches into which he or she should train. If building roads in the hot sun is more valuable, that is where they should go, consistent with the need for roads. Work of any kind, done primarily in a comfortable building, without danger, stress, and hardship, should not qualify. Nor should they be given any real choice in the matter.

—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,

Historia y Filosofia Moral,

Legionary Press, Balboa,

Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468

Anno Condita 472 SdL Megalodon, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova

You could cut the stress with a knife, and the Tauran—really the Gallic—battle group was still nearly twenty miles away.

From his command chair, mounted on a low dais overlooking the stations of the crew, to either side of the sub's bridge and forward, under the main screen, Chu followed the Orca's progress on an electronic sea chart. The other sub moved at a speed of twenty-one knots, so said the display, which speed the Meg matched. This was slow enough for the Orca to have no practically detectable sound of its own, through the thermal layer that separated the two. Only the clicker on the sub sounded, as it sailed two hundred meters up and about eight thousand forward.

Though much progress had been made, over the last few decades, in stealthing surface warships, they were still much noisier than submarines. Even here, below the thermal layer, the noise of the battle group and the frigate moving to meet it were detectable enough for the sonar man, aided by computer, to mark their positions on the screen with a considerable degree of certainty.

'But I still haven't heard shit out of the sub that's escorting that battle group, skipper,' sonar announced softly through the boom mike that connected him to the rest of the on-duty crew. The sonar man, Antonio Auletti, thought, And if that doesn't worry you, it sure as shit worries me. Not that I expect to be able to do much about it. Though it's not, I suppose, as if we were sailing unarmed.

'Okay,' said Chu, 'Orca's on her own. Set intercept course for the carrier.'

SdL Orca, Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova

The torpedo man didn't expect to be used, this cruise, and so sat back in his very comfortable chair— comfortable enough to allow sleeping at battle stations if one cared to put it into its reclined position—with his fingers intertwined behind his head. His control board, in any case, showed nothing but green, fourteen lights for fourteen torpedoes carried external to the pressure hull, just inside the oil-smooth outer fairing.

Seated behind the weapons station, Miguel Yermo, Orca's chief of sonar could hear the Gallic flotilla much more clearly than could Auletti on the Meg. This was to be expected, as the Orca was considerably closer to the surface and, more importantly, above the thermal layer under which Meg sailed. Sadly for Yermo, he, too, hadn't the first, faintest clue as to the location of the submarine presumed to be escorting Charlemagne. He didn't like that lack of knowledge any better than did Auletti, presumptively still trailing his own boat by about eight kilometers.

And I have to guess at that, because a) my bloody sonar is primarily oriented forward, b) the towed array is just that, towed behind us, and c) the Orca is not using its clicker and is as quiet as . . . well . . . as quiet as if it wasn't even there.

And . . . what the hell's that? Yermo wrapped one hand over his headphones and pressed, listening intently.

'Skipper I've got sonar contact . . . faint . . . about . . . a thousand feet down, under the layer . . . bearing . . . one-seven-seven . . . three to three and a half kilometers range.' Yermo's finger requested the sonar computer to match the sounds coming off the contact. 'She's moving fast to pass underneath us. I make it an Amethyst Class, skipper.'

'That assumes the recordings the Volgans sold us are accurate,' answered the Orca's captain, a young man named Quijana with a very fatalistic outlook on life. Truth be told, Quijana was quite certain he should have been dead years ago, along with the entire crew—minus himself, of course—of his first boat, the Santisima Trinidad. Only luck and a commander who wanted to save what could be saved had spared him.

'I believe the Volgans, skipper,' Yermo replied. 'And anyway, what other class would it be with a Gallic fleet? The Pike Class isn't due to launch for another two years.'

'Fair enough,' Quijana agreed. 'What's she doing away from her carrier, though?'

The XO of the boat, Dario Garcia, ventured a guess. 'Training, skipper. The Amethyst Class is going to try to break through the cordon to get in a position for a shot at the Charlemagne. Hell, we're slated to do the same thing next year with Dos Lindas.'

'Yeah . . . or maybe they're looking for us.'

Garcia thought not. 'Skipper, with the clicker going nobody has to look for us. They already know where we are.'

The Exec thought about that for a moment, then said, 'But, you know, since we are that noisy, when we want to be, they really shouldn't be ignoring us like they are. It's odd.'