The Lotus Eaters

better, High Admiral,' he whispered.

Odd, Wallenstein thought. I feel sorry for the boy. Do I actually rather like him? Maternal instincts, so long held in check, resurfacing? Elder gods, wouldn't that be funny? Me, feeling something beyond contempt for a Class One? Then again, the boy's not a normal Class One, is he? No, he's actually pretty human.

And, thinking of Class Ones, I do wonder what that inbred idiot I had to leave in charge of the fleet is doing in my absence.

Gods! It was so hard to leave the fleet in that dolt's care. Not that I had any choice.

UEPF Spirit of Harmony, in orbit over Terra Nova

It has been said, and often repeated, that military and naval officers fell into one of four categories: A) active and intelligent, who made good staff officers, B) lazy and intelligent, who made good commanders because they, being lazy, would always find an easier way, C) lazy and stupid, who could be put to good use by clever staff officers and commanders, and D) active and stupid, who should be shot for the improvement of the breed.

It should be noted that, in a command context, stupid is a fairly relative term; many people, though more than ordinarily bright, are still far too stupid.

* * *

Harmony was not Battaglia's ship. Rather, that worthy normally commanded UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood. Still, he was in charge; he was responsible.

'He wants to count widgets,' the captain of Harmony said to his exec. 'Widgets and flight line and azimuth cores. He also wants to inspect whatchamacallit maintenance and framistat compliance. Likewise dingas calibration and our ship's ever-critical frobnis program. Similarly, oojamafrip orientation.'

'Sirrr?' the exec asked. 'Sir, I have not the first frigging clue what you're talking about.'

'Neither do I,' the captain said, with a shrug. 'Neither does he. Neither does anyone. What the Earl of Pksoi really wants is to fill up his time by wasting ours.'

'Ahhh. I'll get right on it, sir. I'll have the crew polishing widgets and calibrating dingases in no time.'

The captain smiled. 'See that you do. And don't forget the oojamafrip orientation.'

'Oh, yes, sir,' the exec agreed, false enthusiasm shining in her face. 'Very important to orient our oojamafrips. Or it would be if we had any . . . whatever they may be.'

The skipper chewed his lower lip for a few moments, thinking very dark thoughts, and then added, 'Remember, we've only got to put up with this shit until Wallenstein gets back.'

'If the Consensus doesn't space her, sir.'

'Well . . . yeah.'

'But, sir, what if they do?'

* * *

Did ever a man talk so much and say so little, wondered Harmony's skipper as Battaglia droned on, and on, and on, for the third hour of his little post inspection pep talk. 'Vanguard of order and peace' . . . yeah . . . that's gonna resonate. 'Inadequate maintenance'? Get my crew some fucking spares asshole. 'Ration accountability?' What the fuck; do you think they're selling the shit dirtside? Dropping it in containers? Getting the payment exactly how? Oh, elder gods, spare me the attentions of the First Class.

Gods; what if the Consensus really does space Wallenstein?

UEPF Spirit of Peace, Lunar Starship Holding and Storage Area

High Admiral Marguerite Wallenstein stood in the light. There was minimal gravity in this chamber, perhaps fifteen percent of Earth normal. She held onto a rail with one hand. In the simulation room, Richard, Earl of Care, sat in the silent darkness of a virtual reality helmet that completely enclosed his head. Moreover, he sat on a complex gimbaled chair. Wallenstein hit a button, beginning the disaster response program called, for reasons lost to antiquity, the 'Kobayashi Maru.'

* * *

The exercise was supposed to be disconcerting. Some very fine minds, psychologists' minds, had gone into making it so, back in the days when the Peace Fleet had mattered to more than a few.

It began with sensory deprivation. All sound was cut off by the helmet. The comparative lack of gravity made the command chair, and the straps that held Richard to it, something less than real. The stars, or, rather, their images, swirled before his eyes, making it seem as if he were tumbling, end over end, lost and alone. Richard felt nausea begin to rise. He tried to focus on one star alone, in an effort to keep the nausea at bay. It didn't work; they were clustered too close together to blot out the rest.

A voice began to drone in Richard's ears, explaining the situation. He knew he was supposed to pay close attention but with his rising gorge he was barely able to make out the general scenario.

He did catch a few things, '. . . first ship to transit . . . new star system . . . disaster . . . no relief or rescue possible . . .'

It was sufficient for the program that Richard's vital signs show nausea. It wasn't strictly necessary that he actually vomit. Accordingly, as soon as he'd reached the necessary threshold, the stars cut out, being replaced by