The Lotus Eaters

the redesign work to bring the Mosaic almost into our day and age.'

* * *

'Something still bugs me,' Carrera said. 'Two things, really. I don't understand: Why so cheap and why so many?'

Grishkin shrugged, answering, 'For the latter question, the Red Tsar never threw anything away and neither did his allies and clients. For the first question . . . basically, nobody wants them anymore so their value is reduced to not much more than the metal . . . and even metal prices are down. Everyone's looking for the most modern planes, whether or not they can maintain them and whether or not they've got the training system and the social system to procure sufficiently high quality human material for pilots. Over much of our world, it's a prestige thing, mostly, a way to keep the sons of the ruling classes amused and give them more reason to strut and better ways to talk girls into bed.

'The average air force, in the world, is nothing but an expensive indulgence. There are only a few air forces that even matter. One of those, sadly for you, is the Tauran Union's.'

'Yeah . . . no shit.' Carrera hesitated, perhaps only due to an innate conservatism, before agreeing, 'Fine. Lanza, get your cost estimates to the Estado Major. We're going to go for it.

'And God help the poor kids who will, I have no doubt, volunteer in droves for this.'

* * *

Carrera looked genuinely happy as he slunk out the entrance to the real offices of BYC, into the trashy alley, and then into the nondescript car driven by Mitchell and guarded by Soult. The latter two shared a look that said, Dunno why but it can't be bad.

'Estado Major building, Mitch,' Carrera said.

'Sure thing, boss,' Mitchell said, turning the key and bringing the engine to life. 'Umm . . . boss, if you don't mind my asking, why so chipper? It just ain't like you.'

'Two reasons,' Carrera answered. 'One is I've got a little more hope of survival than I did have. The other is I'm going to cut a little cancer out of the system at the Estado Major. Meanwhile, ignore me for a bit. I have to work myself into a fury.'

El Estado Major, Balboa City, Balboa, Terra Nova

There were over a hundred senior officers and non-coms present. Of those, only two, Jimenez and McNamara, knew what was the occasion for the assembly. Even Jimenez's Chief of Staff and Sergeant Major hadn't been told by their commander. As for Mac, Letting out the word about the boss going to the island so he can have a proper reception is one thing. But this . . . this really needs to be a surprise.

Legate Pigna of the Seventh Legion, recruited and based in the east by the border with Santa Josefina, thought if anyone knew what was up, it would be Carrera's Sergeant Major-General. He walked over and asked Mac directly.

'No clue, sir,' McNamara lied, then retrieved his integrity by adding, 'which means I know exactly, but am forbidden to say. I'd tell you if I could.'

Mac actually rather liked the Seventh Legion commander, both at a personal and a professional level. He consider Pigna somewhere around the bottom of the top third of legion commanders and knew Carrera shared approximately the same opinion. Moreover, the Balboan legate looked like a soldier, from narrow waist to broad shoulders to strong chin to pencil thin mustache. If the man was a trifle ambitious, and Mac thought he was, that ambition tended to come out in the form of pushing the troops hard. This, the Sergeant Major didn't disapprove of. He wore a high decoration for bravery at his neck, the Cruz de Coraje en Oro con Escudo, so Mac couldn't fault him on his combat performance either. If Pigna had any flaw, in the sergeant major's opinion, it was perhaps that he had a trifle too much personal pride.

Pigna sighed. 'I hate being surprised.'

'I understand, sir.' And I wish I could warn you that this is going to be a really unpleasant surprise, too.

Jimenez's voice sounded off, 'Gentleman, the Duque, commanding.'

* * *

I so wish, thought Jimenez, while braced at attention, that I had never taught Patricio to smile while chewing ass. It's unnerving, being on the receiving end.

Carrera had been chewing for a while by now, and the tongue lashing showed no sign of flagging.

'I thought,' he sneered, 'that you were all soldiers . . . real soldiers . . . not neversufficientlytobedamned pimps! Not bendoverandgreaseyourass whores for bureaucracy!'

A good ass chewing is a rehearsed operation. Carrera had spent days rehearsing this one.

Present, besides Carrera, were the five corps commanders, thirty-two commanders of legions and sub-legions so far designated, the chiefs of staff and sergeants-major for all of those, plus six members of the primary Legion staff, including the acting chief, standing in for Kuralski. McNamara was there, too, but he stood behind Carrera, immune to and exempt from the ass chewing.

Kuralski, himself, had been sent one of those letters that sometimes drives the recipient's blood pressure up into the Never Never land of apoplexy and cerebral stroke.

Pounding his fist on a table with each syllable, Carrera continued, 'I turn my back on you for one miserable year and you revert to pencil pushing bureaucrats?' The pounding ceased and his voice took on almost the quality off weeping. 'God! God! God! Where did I fail? How could I have been so wrong about you all?'

It could be worse, Jimenez thought, philosophically. Napoleon, back on