The Lotus Eaters

at being led kindly by the hand by his father. They walked along a path marked with the flaming torches towards the marble obelisk that marked the grave—though it was more memorial than grave, really—of his dead half-siblings and their mother, Linda.

Before moving to the memorial Carrera had shown the boy pictures of Linda and their children, explaining their names and telling him stories about them in life. He'd also told the boy how they'd been murdered.

'That's why I spent so much time away from home, Son,' the father explained, 'hunting down the men responsible.'

'I understand, Dad,' the boy said.

Perhaps he did, too. He was a bright lad, extremely so. Carrera expected great things of him. Kid will likely be tall, too, given that his mother's 5'10.'

Around the obelisk were several close friends: Kuralski, Soult and Mitchell, as well as Parilla. Jimenez, McNamara and Fernandez were in Pashtia. Those present were uniformed and stood at parade rest as Carrera led the boy forward by the hand.

Soult brought out a bible, which he handed to Carrera. Releasing Hamilcar's little hand, the father knelt down beside him, holding out the book and saying, 'Place your left hand on this and raise your right. Now repeat after me.'

'I, Hamilcar Carrera-Nunez . . .'

'I, Hamilcar Carrera-Nunez . . .'

'. . . swear upon the altar of Almighty God . . .'

'. . . swear upon the altar of Almighty God . . .'

'. . . undying enmity and hate . . . to the murderers of my brother and sisters . . . and the murderers of their mother, my countrywoman . . . and to the murderers of all my country folk . . . and to those that have aided them . . . and those that have hidden them . . . and those who have made excuses for them . . . and those that have funded them . . . and those who have lied for them . . . wherever and whoever they may be . . . and whoever may arise to take their places. I swear that I will not rest until my fallen blood is avenged and my future blood is safe. So help me, God.'

'Very good, Son,' Carrera said, handing the bible back to Soult and ruffling Hamilcar's hair affectionately. 'Now we are going to have dinner with my friends, back at the house. The day after tomorrow we go back to getting ready for the next war.'

Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia

'God,' muttered the President. 'God, but I would like to teach those people a lesson.'

About a couple of hundred slaughtered Balboans the Progressive Party, currently in power in the Federated States, cared not very much. Half a dozen murdered citizens, however, and their friends and relatives, to say nothing of a fickle press baying for blood, were of considerable concern.

The President of the Federated States of Columbia, Karl Schumann, was sufficiently concerned with that problem that he hardly paid any attention to the zaftig intern kneeling between his legs with her raven-tressed head bobbing. Ordinarily, the President would not have been able to think clearly while the intern was so engaged. Under the circumstances, he had no trouble thinking but considerable trouble concentrating on her efforts.

The Office of Strategic Intelligence, Justice and State tell me the Santanderns are responsible. The Joint Chiefs are not so certain some radical group in Balboa didn't do it. Me; I think it was the Santanderns, the drug running Santanderns.

What do I do? Tell the Army to go after the drug lords with special operations people? We don't know which one to go after, which one gave the orders. We don't even know which cartel. Bomb them? Same problem. And if they are this ruthless outside of Santander, what's to stop them from coming after me. The Secret Service reminds me daily, in word and deed, that I am vulnerable. And the drug lords' resources are certainly adequate to get me if I provoked them.

In that last it was possible that Schumann was giving the cartels too much credit. Then again, possibly he wasn't, either.

No. I'll just let make a statement. People will forget in time. They always forget in time. It was only six of our own killed. Hell, they were probably Federalists, anyway.

Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket; ride it out. And thinking of riding it out.

'Honey,' the President of the Federated States said, 'head's nice and all, but I'd rather you shuck out of your skirt and panties and get on all fours.'

Executive Complex, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

Parilla's secretary, Luci, turned her office chair and crossed her legs to reveal as much thigh as possible. It was an automatic gesture, as well as a needless one. Few men bothered to look at her legs when there was such a bounty of breast to catch the eye.

Carrera forced his own eyes away, sighing as he often did when passing through the President's door. I wonder if she even thinks about it, or if it's all genetic autopilot. Hmmm . . . I wonder if Parilla's fucking her. He's an awfully young old man and a man is, after all, only as old as the woman he feels.

Mitchell stayed behind in the anteroom as his chief went in to consult with the President, the door clicking shut behind him. It was one of the perks of driving or guarding Carrera; flirting with the President's secretary.

Just flirting though, Mitchell thought. Chica's enough woman for me.

Even so, Mitchell sat on the corner of Luci's desk, making small talk and taking in as much of two of Balboa's greatest natural wonders as possible.