The Lotus Eaters

Sergeant Major-General of the Legion, while Carrera's battle dress carried only his name, his service, and, on his collar, two small pin-on eagles surrounded by wreaths for his rank. He didn't even bother with the gold-buckled leather belt that most senior legates wore. The trappings of rank and power had never meant much to Patricio Carrera.

'You look nervous, Patricio,' Raul said.

Carrera grunted and gave a curt nod. 'Simple explanation: I am nervous. I loathe speaking in public. Always have.'

'That's not quite true, you know,' Parilla corrected. 'I've seen you warm to your audience and your subject before. What you hate is waiting to speak in public, fearing you won't do very well. Though why this should be, I don't know.'

'He's right,' Mac added. 'And on that note, gentlemen, if you'll permit, I go announce you.'

Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Bldg 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa

'Malcoeur, you fat, slimy toad,' shouted General Janier, the Tauran Union commander in Balboa. Tall and slender, handsome after a fashion but for an unfortunately large nose, the general was dressed in his favorite costume, a replica of that of a marshal of Janier's hero, Napoleon.

'Oui, mon general?' the toady answered as he filled the lower half of the door to Janier's officer with his wide and short bulk. They called the Gauls, 'Frogs,' and in Malceour's case, the description was apt, from his wide bulk to his shortened, frog-like, pug face. The toady, a Tauran Union—which is to say Gallic Army—major, served as the great man's aide de camp.

'What is this meeting the locals are holding? Why was I not informed? Twenty thousand of them show up on our doorstep and I wasn't informed!'

'We had no warning, mon general. Apparently the word went out late last night and—voila!—they were suddenly here.'

Janier gave Malcoeur a suspicious look. Was it possible the toad was enjoying his commander's discomfiture? No, impossible; so Janier thought.

'Nonsense, you fat fool,' the general said. 'This is an army of uncultured, uncivilized barbarians, people without tradition or experience or higher military education. They do not simply give orders and move. Even we could not assemble such a force so quickly.'

We likely could not, agreed the aide, silently. But they seem to be able to. One suspects there are standing orders and plans in place to move like that, though we do not have adequate access to their plans and operations department. And we would have informed you a bit sooner, except that you were busy fucking your mistress in the apartment you carved out for her from military offices, just down the hall.

Malcoeur was an ass-licker, so all on the staff agreed, but he was an ass-licker who could still think. And he was enjoying Janier's feeling like a fool.

'Go and fetch me the G-2'—the intelligence officer for the Tauran Union forces in the Transitway—'and bring the miscreant to me by the scruff of his neck,' Janier ordered. 'I am confident that after we have a little chat he will not in the future be so remiss.'

Rome, Province of Italy, Old Earth

Almost, almost, Marguerite felt confident enough of her position to skip proskynesis before the SecGen. But, no, this is too important to both the Earth and myself to let pique and arrogance get in the way.

Moore stood beside her at the grand door to the former Papal apartment. The two waited while the major domo announced, 'Captain and Admiral pro tem Marguerite Wallenstein, Class Two, for an audience with the Secretary General.'

Moore said, 'I'll be waiting when you've finished, Marguerite.'

Clutching a valise in one hand, Marguerite nodded and advanced alone. She showed more confidence than she truly felt. The soft, plush rug underfoot muffled the sound of her high, black uniform boots. At a spot on the carpet about a dozen meters from the SecGen's large and ornate desk, Wallenstein placed the valise down and dropped to her knees. Leaning forward, she then placed both hands on the carpet ahead of her. Keeping eye contact until the last second, Wallenstein then bent and kissed the carpet three times, on the last kiss leaving her forehead to the floor. She straightened out until her breasts and belly were flush to the carpet and stayed that way.

'Arise, my child,' the SecGen called. As gracefully as possible, under the circumstances, Wallenstein did. When she did, she was able to note certain things about the SecGen. He was young in appearance, very young. Well, you would expect that from the very best anti-agathics, she thought. Such as are available to Class Ones, she added, with bitterness in her mind. She thought he must have had extensive plastic surgery, too. No man could be that  . . . pretty. Not naturally. Lastly, and most oddly, the SecGen shimmered, as if his skin had been freshly dusted with gold. Which it probably has been, she thought.

'Come closer, Captain,' the SecGen said. Marguerite felt her stomach sink.

If he's using my permanent rank then maybe I won't be prorogued into the Admiralty. Shit.

The SecGen made a subtle but imperious gesture with his left hand. Marguerite thought she heard the door closing behind her and suddenly felt as if the major domo had left her alone with the SecGen.

'My dear friend, the Marchioness of Amnesty, wrote to me of what wonderful command of your tongue you had,' the SecGen said, twisting his chair to one side. 'Before we discuss weightier matters, show me.'