The Lotus Eaters

'Are you all right, hon?' he asked, sitting up and opening his eyes.

She twitched again, as if half in surprise and half in pain. A literally expectant smile lit her face. 'I'm fine, Patricio, but could we perhaps go to the hospital rather than home?'

'Mom,' Hamilcar asked, 'are you going to have the baby now? Cool.'

* * *

Ah, good, thought Victor Chapayev, as he pulled up his email and saw that he had a message from his wife, Veronica Chapayeva, back in Saint Nicholasburg, in Volga. In Balboa he lived the life of an aesthete, sending most of his pay home to maintain her. No whore's for Chapayev. Little vodka either. He worked, he studied, he wrote her every day. Indeed, it was in good part the tribune's dedication that had caused Samsonov to elevate him to a company command (as an official part of the Foreign Military Training Group, the 22nd still organized by battalions and companies rather than by cohorts and maniples) rather rapidly.

Chapayev stifled a yawn. It had been a long day with his company, commencing with physical training at six in the morning and just ending now, well after sundown, after the after action review that followed the day's training mission.

Opening the email, Chapayev scanned the short missive. It was even shorter than usual, a bare five sentences: I miss you. I love you. When are you coming home? My mother is ill. I need more money.

Chapayev shook his head, thinking, My little Veronica, you never were much for the literary. He fired off a quick response, though at that it was still longer and more thoughtful than the message he'd received, then opened up his bank account and made a transfer of a couple of hundred FSD to the joint account he held with his wife.

That transaction completed, Victor shut down his computer and walked to the radio. Turning it on to the only station in Balboa that played classical music, he sat beside it, closed his eyes, and indulged his only real interest besides his wife and his job. With the stars rising, and the murmur of the antaniae outside—mnnbt, mnnbt, mnnbt—Chapayev closed his eyes and let the music take him to sleep.

Hospital Ancon, Cerro Gorgia, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova

Lourdes awakened without her baby and almost immediately began to panic. Then her husband walked into the room, smiling while holding a tiny child cradled in his arms, with Hamilcar and her eldest girl, Julia, on either side.

'Ah, you're up,' Carrera said. 'Good, because this little darling is in need of lunch. Which, as it happens, you're extremely well equipped to provide.'

'Not that well equipped,' Lourdes said, looking down at her chest. 'Well . . . maybe a little better equipped than I am normally.'

'Well enough equipped for my complete satisfaction,' Carrera replied. 'Though my preferences have to take second place for now, since she's the baby and she wants to be fed.'

He leaned down, kissed his wife atop her head, and passed to her her newborn. Lourdes took the baby and began to undo her top to present her breast. 'What are we going to call her?'

Carrera rocked his head from side to side. 'Even though I did all the really important work, I think you get to choose. Mother's privilege, let's say.'

'Hmmm.' Hamilcar's position is secure. Julia has her father more or less wrapped around her finger. This one will need a little something extra to compete, I think.

'Then we'll call her 'Linda,' ' Lourdes said.

For just a moment before affixing herself to her mother, the baby made a gurgling, happy sound.

Carrera sighed. 'Linda, it is then, by popular acclaim. I suppose—'

He never quite finished the thought, as the skyline outside Lourdes' hospital room was suddenly lit with fireworks.

'What the—?'

'Mac passed on that you had dropped another one,' he said. 'The troops are celebrating. Noisily.'

Lago Sombrero Ammunition Supply Point (ASP), Balboa, Terra Nova

The facility was soundless but for the roar of a powerful engine and the cries of the antaniae. Under a moonless, overcast sky, beneath a long metal shed that blocked out all overhead view, and surrounded by earthen walls that covered the bunker entrance from ground observation, one uniformed man guided another in driving a blacked out, unnumbered Ocelot infantry fighting vehicle cum armored gun system down a ramp and through wide spread bunker doors. Only when the doors were sealed tight did the first man turn on a light to guide the vehicle to park in its proper place. Under the light, the bunker walls seemed moist, with mold growing in the corners.

'Jesus Christ, Centurion! What is all this?' asked the driver after he'd dismounted.

'Officially, its bunker number 17, Lago Sombrero Ammunition Supply Point,' answered the centurion.

'No, no. I mean 'what is all this.' ' The driver spread his arms wide to take in the dozen armored vehicles, two of them tanks, that the bunker held.

'Oh . . . that.' The centurion gave a friendly smile. 'This is a hide for equipment, one of many here at Lago Sombrero and some other places. What does is look like?'