'However?' Carrera prodded.
'However,' Sitnikov continued, 'I cannot say as much for all of your officers. You have some very good ones, to be sure. Tribune Jimenez, in particular, would be a credit to anyone's army. There are others. Would you like to see what my instructors have to say about the legion's leadership?'
At Carrera's nod Sitnikov turned over a list of the Legio del Cid's commissioned leadership, tactfully without including any of Carrera's hand-picked old friends. Comments were written beside each man's name. Most were in blue, and terse. Carrera quickly gathered that these the Volgans considered good enough. Others, the best, were in black. Jimenez's name appeared in this way. About twenty names were in red. The Volgans viewed these very unfavorably. Carrera noted that Manuel Rocaberti was on that list before he passed the sheets to Parilla without comment.
Parilla noted it too. 'We can't dump Tribune Rocaberti, Patricio. Too well connected, he and his family. He's the president's nephew, after all. And the president must have his spy in our ranks. At least with Manuel, we know who the spy is.'
'Ummm,' Carrera answered doubtfully. 'Sitnikov, this about matches my own assessment. Which is why I called you here today. We have a shortage of effective, combat capable officers. I would like to make up some of that shortage from you. Also some of the maintenance deficiency. What do you say?'
Sitnikov sat silent for a long minute. When he answered, it was a deliberate, measured response. 'Some of my men, maybe even more than half, would probably like to stay. Many have found girlfriends. Two, to my certain knowledge, are planning on getting married. I do not know how my government would react to that, however. If they say no, the idea of being stateless does not appeal.'
Carrera looked to Parilla. Parilla gave a nonverbal assent, a shallow nod.
'What if you men could become citizens of Balboa, Aleksandr, with jobs and ranks in the LdC roughly commensurate with-okay, maybe a bit below-their current ranks in the Volgan Army? Would that sway them, do you think?'
'Some of them have wives, children. They would not leave them behind… well… most of them wouldn't.'
'Do you think the current regime would let the men's families emigrate?' Carrera asked.
Sitnikov couldn't know for sure, but thought it likely. He reminded Carrera that not all of the Volgans were, themselves, first class military material. He had been forced to take some marginal characters, men whose only real qualification was linguistic, to meet the numerical requirements of the training mission.
'Yes, I know,' answered Carrera. 'I wasn't planning on keeping all of you. Moreover, while I can offer you pay and rank, I must insist that Balboans and my own people fill all combatant command positions. Most of your men will be on staff or in support. Some may be serving in positions either below their grade or below their ability.'
Sitnikov laughed. 'That, Legate, is no problem. It would help, though, if you could hold out a promise of equal opportunity to command once we've been citizens for a few years.'
'I can do that,' Carrera agreed readily. 'Now find out who will stay and who will go at the end of the training period. Get me a list as soon as you can… say, by the end of the week. I expect you to weed out the trash yourself. Give it directly to me as the sergeant major and Tribune Kennison are going over to al Jahara to look things over.'
At that moment Carrera spied his slender secretary through a door. Jesus, what a nice rear end. He called, 'Lourdes, have you finished making the flight arrangements for Carl and the sergeant major?'
She bridled for a moment. 'Have you got the reservations, Lourdes? Where's that personnel file, Lourdes? Why don't you shrink your tits and ass so there's absolutely no possibility I ever notice you are a woman, Lourdes?'
That wasn't fair and she knew it. How would I feel, how would I act, if the person I'd loved most in the world had been murdered? If my children had been murdered? It will take him some time… I suppose.
She answered, calmly enough, ' Si, Patricio. I have the tickets, visas and the press passes. And I've gotten yours to go to Hamilton, FD, the day after. I will brief them when you are done here.' Her voice held not more than a trifle of anger or sarcasm, and the anger may have been directed at herself. If Carrera noticed, he didn't let on.
Carrera didn't wake up screaming as often anymore, nor did he scream as loudly as he once had. Usually. There were exceptions.
There was a low fire burning in the great stone fireplace in the living room. The troops insisted on calling it the 'Dayroom' to Lourdes' immense confusion. This was an English word she had never learned and found distinctly odd, since it was almost never used except at night. The fire was unnecessary, as far as warmth went, but the men seemed to find it comforting in ways she only distantly understood. There was, in any case, never a need to designate anyone to cut firewood or build a fire. It just happened whenever any substantial group of them were in the casa.
Sitting across the coffee table from McNamara and Kennison, Lourdes said, 'Sergeant Major, Carl, you are accredited to the Estrella de Balboa, our major newspaper. In theory you are going over there to cover preparations for the war. What you will actually do, I do not know and I know you can't or won't tell me. Your accreditation has been passed through the attache at the FS embassy and is approved by the FSC's War Department.'
McNamara smiled broadly and blindingly and was about to thank her when an ear-splitting shriek echoed through the casa. Lourdes looked terribly distressed. Kennison hung his head. The sergeant major muttered something about, 'Poor bastard.'
'What's wrong? What makes him do that?' Lourdes asked.
'Nightmares,' McNamara answered. 'I've been next to him twice when it's happened. I think… no, I am sure, he is seeing his family die over and over again.'
'But he didn't see…' Lourdes began before stopping herself. 'Oh, I see. That makes it worse, doesn't it?'
McNamara nodded, sadly. Hmmm. I wonder what might make it better. He looked once, intently, into Lourdes' huge brown eyes, measuring her. Then he looked upstairs in the direction of Carrera's quarters and back again at the girl.
She looked back, eyes narrowing inquisitively. Do you really think that would help?
The sergeant major's unspoken answer was, How could it hurt?
Flustered and not a little embarrassed, Lourdes went to the bar and poured herself a stiff drink. This was very rare for her. She then left the 'Dayroom' and went to her own room. Undressing and lying down atop the covers with her head propped on pillows, she sipped at her drink and asked herself, How could it hurt?
She lay that way for half an hour, thinking, sipping, wondering, sipping… perhaps even daydreaming. Then she arose, pulled a robe around her, and walked to Carrera's room.
She didn't knock. She just put her hand on the doorknob and, after a moment's nervous hesitation, turned it and pushed the door open. Enough moonlight entered through the windows to the room that she could make out Carrera lying on his side, his body shaking.
Walking as quietly as possible she moved to stand beside the wide bed. Then she took off her robe, letting it cascade to the floor around her feet. Her undergarments followed quickly. Again she hesitated, but only very briefly, before pulling the bed clothes down and climbing in behind Carrera, sliding between the sheets to mould her body to his back. She slid one arm around the still-shuddering form and whispered, 'There… there… it'll be all right. Sleep…'
She felt his body spin inside the grasp of her arm. Suddenly her lips and face were being covered with kisses. Hands reached out, stroking… grasping… squeezing. Fingers probed, not always gently. She felt herself growing wet and warm. Soon-too soon, perhaps-she found herself on her back with her legs spread and Carrera hovering over. She smelled whiskey strong on his breath.
'Patricio… slowly… please,' she gasped, 'I've never… ooowww!'
She bit her lip to keep from crying out any louder. And then the strangeness of having someone inside her, thrusting, moving, took over. This was following by a spreading warmth, a sort of glow that seemed to begin between her legs and spread to every distant part of her body. She found herself thrusting back. Hard.
'Lie… on… me,' she grunted. 'I want… to… feel the weight… of your… body… on me.'
She felt the strange thing inside her begin to pulse and throb. It grew as the thrusting increased in depth and
