The Lotus Eaters

fuckfacedrefugeesfromthevendorsoffatlittleboys are going to lower it, open it, and reassemble the big gun you disassembled back in Prey Nokor. You will then fix the gun on the railway mounting in the big metal box. Don't try to pretend ignorance. You semengarglers took the things apart and packaged them up. Now if you backpassagewhoreswhodon'tevenknowenoughtochargeextraforaswallow can do that before dinnertime, I might, and the operative word is 'might,' tell our gracious and beloved boss'—she turned and gave Sig a blinding smile—'that you deserve to eat real food tonight.

'What? What? I could have sworn I told you shiteatingtrollops to get moving . . .'

Oh, Han, Sig thought, smiling broadly, himself, wherever have you been all my life?

Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova

All my life, I suppose, Carrera thought, with a sigh, his eyes glancing back and forth from the printout on his lap to the map on the wall, all my life I've wanted to lead a lot of men in a great, desperate battle. And in this particular case, that battle—the final one, not the one to toss out the Taurans— looks like a losing proposition.

The figures don't lie. On my eastern flank, all those coastal ports along the Mar Furioso—little enough, individually, but collectively enough to support an army—mean I'm going to be facing a corps or two—Zhong or Tauran, but most likely Zhong—and I'll have nothing left to face them with. Everybody else will be committed.

And recruiting is about maxed out. I can finish building the force, and financing it, but that's it. No more. In any case, a regiment of two of men would stand out like a sore thumb in a area full of refugee camps loaded with women and children.

Kuralski's plan of moving the civilians, mostly women and kids, out of Ciudad Balboa to provide a block is a clever one . . . maybe cowardly, but clever. The invaders will have to feed those civilians, and a half million mouths to be fed, at a distance from the ports, makes the logistic problem insurmountable.

For a couple of weeks, until whoever it is forces the civilians to move nearer the ports. Which guerillas could interfere with, maybe even defeat, as long as the guerillas could blend in. Which, being men, they won't be able to.

Women. I've got women troops but no women combatants to speak of. And even if I wanted to raise a tercio of women fighters, who would train them? Who would . . . hmmm.

He put down the print out and stood. Rocking his head from side to side, muttering—thinking out loud, really— he walked up the stairs to his office. There, he used the secure phone to dial Parilla's office.

'Raul? Patricio. I've had a kind of an odd thought. I think it might be useful. See, I want to raise a regiment of women, and, to train those women, a regiment of gays . . . no, I'm not crazy . . . yes, I've thought about it enough . . . trust me . . . yes, I know it might cause a rift with the Church . . .'

Cathedral of Santa Maria, Ciudad Cervantes, Balboa

'Pull over there,' Pigna said to the driver of his command vehicle, a mottled green painted, one quarter ton, open top and sides, four wheel drive job made by a factory in Volga. The factory was partly owned by the Legion, with a local subsidiary to make spare parts. Eventually, it was intended that the parts manufactory would begin assembling entire vehicles. The troops called them 'mulas,' or mules.

'By the church, sir?'

'Yes, right by the church.'

The driver shrugged, turned on his directional signal, motioned with his hand for the trucks following to keep on going, and turned the wheel. He eased through traffic, in itself no mean feat in the busy square in the middle of the city, made worse by the passing convoy on its way to Fort Cameron. The square was, in fact, the same square where a gringo, Patrick Hennessey, had once shot a number of Moslem, precipitating the wars that followed.

Once the mule stopped, parallel to the curb, Pigna got out and walked the dozen or so steps across the wide concrete sidewalk to the cathedral's main door. This he pulled open, then entered. Even as the door opened he could hear the choir at practice, singing something he didn't recognize but which sounded vaguely Gregorian.

The interior was dark, lit only by early morning light filtering through stained glass windows. The legate took a few moments to let his eyes adjust. Once he could see well enough, he dipped the three middle fingers of his right hand in the holy water font, used his thumb to spread the liquid out, and crossed himself.

He then walked to a rear pew, genuflected, and knelt. With his hands folded together, Pigna began to pray nervously for the success of the coup he intended to launch in a very few weeks. He began, Thank You, God, that that bastard, Jimenez, will be down in La Palma visiting his troops. Thank You, too, that . . .

Chapter Twenty-seven

But then why just a military test? There are so many things of value to society, so many of which are difficult and even dangerous. And where would we be without mothers and motherhood? How impossible a life without the farmers' produce? Civilized life without dentistry is unimaginable, without entertainment so dull as not to be worth living.

And so what? We wouldn't be here without air, either. Shall it vote? By mass or by volume? Or would by molecule be more fair and just? We need meat and bread. Shall the cows and buds of chorley vote?

People pay taxes. Why should they not have a say? Because if paying taxes is sufficient, and not a cover for some other status, like being a warm body with a temperature around 98.6, then logically those who pay more should vote more. And yet where is the civic virtue in wealth?

—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,