The Lotus Eaters

Misery, misery.

* * *

'High Admiral on the bridge,' the junior watch officer announced as Wallenstein stepped out of the elevator and through the oval hatchway.

She looked grumpy. No one knew why and few thought they could make even an educated guess. After all, hadn't the strange woman dispensed with the hallowed tradition of proskynesis? Who knew what other bizarrenesses lurked in her feverish brain. She'd never been so hard to figure out when she'd been a mere, non- ennobled captain.

'Report,' Marguerite ordered, taking her seat and then listening with only half an ear and a quarter of a brain as the watch officer went through the daily log.

Note to self, she thought. This is not my job. Captain for the Spirit of Peace: Appoint, soonest. But who? My old exec isn't up to command and knows it.

'High Admiral, this completes my report,' the watch officer said, finally.

Wallenstein nodded. She looked up to determine that the relief was already on station, then tilted her head toward the hatchway and said, 'Dismissed.' She stood, saying, 'I'll be in my day cabin if I'm needed.' Even though I really should be down in the Admiral's Bridge, planning for the future.

* * *

'Call from His Excellency, the Secretary General, High Admiral,' the intercom announced. 'I am piping it through to you now.'

'Only to me,' Wallenstein ordered.

'Of course, High Admiral,' the intercom announced.

'My dear Marchioness,' the SecGen greeted as his face appeared on Marguerite's viewscreen.

'Your Excellency,' she returned.

'I've been thinking about your personnel problems and I believe I have a partial solution for you.'

'Indeed?' Wallenstein tried and, so she supposed, likely failed, to sound enthusiastic.

The SecGen's face split in an I've-got-just-the-car-for-you grin. 'Why, indeed, yes. I have a nephew, the Earl of Care, a wonderful boy, of the very best breeding. He's always been enthused about space. He's in the Academy's class of 2526 but, I thought, given his flawless parentage and the precedent you've set with graduating the Class of 2525 early, that he'd be just perfect to command the Spirit of Peace. And the boy could hardly hope for a better mentor than yourself.'

'A spy, you mean.' Marguerite kept her face carefully blank.

'A spy,' the SecGen happily agreed. He then added, somewhat ruefully, 'Marguerite, he's the price I have to pay to keep your little program going. Be thankful I was able to come up with someone in my own family. The World Food Organization faction wanted to put up the Count of TransIsthmia, Julio Castro-Nyere. I was only able to beg off by citing to the growing troubles there.'

Marguerite sighed and said, 'I appreciate your intervention, Your Excellency, but have you any idea just how troublesome an untrained captain commanding my flagship will be to me.'

'I do, actually,' the SecGen agreed, nodding shallowly on the screen. 'Some idea, anyway. Have you any idea how troublesome Count Castro-Nyere or one of his children would be to you?'

Wallenstein smiled thinly. 'Since you put it that way, Your Excellency, I look forward to the assignment of the Earl of Care as Commanding Officer, UEPF Spirit of Peace, with enthusiasm.'

'I knew you would understand . . . Marguerite, Richard's not a bad boy; trust me on that. And remember, we didn't make the world, we just have to deal with it.'

No, she thought. We didn't make it; our great-great-grandparents did. The bastards.

* * *

'Not a bad boy,' Wallenstein thought, eyes closed and body leaning back in her chair. I wonder what 'not a bad boy' means in a day when diadems are the latest fashion statement and our ruling class gathers about a monument to peace to watch young girls have their hearts torn out while the cameras transmit the lesson to the masses. Does he restrict himself to pulling the wings from flies? Is that what 'not a bad boy' means in this enlightened age?

On the other hand, based on intelligence reports from TransIsthmia, Count Castro-Nyere would never content himself with pulling the wings from mere flies. That is one sick branch of the human family tree, arguably even worse than my predecessor as Marchioness of Amnesty.

Briefly, Marguerite indulged in a daydream of a future in which she could return to Old Earth, triumphant and vengeful, weeding the ruling class out with a fine tooth comb and elevating to power decent Class Twos and—who knew?—perhaps even some worthy Threes.

But I won't cut their hearts out, she thought. The Earth has plenty of rope and plenty of trees. Those will be good enough.

Wallenstein's face suddenly brightened. Well . . . let's suppose Richard, Earl of Care is a right bastard. So what? I'm High Admiral, after all. If I must, I'll just space the little wretch once we're underway.

* * *

In the shadow of the moon, Jean Monnet's sail began to unfurl as gas was released into the inflatable ring about its perimeter. Had anyone bothered to dig into the records they would have discovered