The Lotus Eaters

Anno Condita 471 Restaurante MarBella, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

The restaurant was small, clean, and perhaps a little quaint. Moreover, it looked out over the sea to the north. Over the mud flats exposed by the receded tide, seagulls whirled and dived in the warm wet air. Past the seagulls, an airship soared majestically just below the clouds, carrying passengers and cargo from Colombia del Norte to the Federated States to the south. On the open air veranda, the proprietors had cleared away all the customers, seating them inside.

Alone but for his guards, Carrera waited for a man self-described as an "Emissary of Peace" from a group that claimed to wish nothing but prosperity for and cordial relations with Parilla, Carrera, and Balboa. Carrera had chosen the MarBella as the meeting place because it served, as far as he was concerned, the very best corvina—a particularly savory type of fish—in the Republic.

Soult and Sergeant Major McNamara entered the veranda, followed by a quite light skinned Santandern wearing an expensive looking Tuscan suit. Mitchell followed the Santandern. The Sergeant Major pointed out Carrera, then gathered up Soult and Mitchell and sat a table nearer the entrance.

Carrera watched the Santandern approach. Odd, really; he doesn't look like a particularly bad sort. Just a regular working stiff, seems like. Maybe a little better fed and better dressed than most. Hmmm . . . who was that Old Earth philosopher who talked about "the banality of evil?" Maybe this one's a good husband and father? Oh, well; no matter.

The Santandern was a lawyer by the name of Guzman. Guzman officially worked for the former law firm of the rump President of Balboa, Rocaberti. Unofficially he thought of himself as the Counsel General of the Huánuco Processors, Shippers, and Vendors Free State. Guzman didn't much like what he did. He didn't even much like himself. But he had a family to support and debts to pay.

The lawyer looked Carrera over carefully as he approached his table. Another brainless soldier? he wondered. Corrupt? Somehow I think . . . not. Wordlessly, Carrera motioned for Guzman to sit. As the lawyer sat, he thought, Too dainty a hand to go with his reputation. A Napoleon, making up for a physical defect with aggression? Possibly.

Carrera brusquely asked, "Why are you here and what do you, or the people you represent, want?"

None of my contacts informed me that the bastard was rude, Guzman thought. Or maybe he doesn't think he is being rude. Be flexible.

Guzman decided to go directly to the point. "I am here to offer you . . . you and General Parilla, a substantial amount of money for you to stop hindering the people I represent."

"Indeed?" Carrera lifted an eyebrow. "Santander, Atzlan, or both?"

"Both, actually, although I normally answer to someone in Santander."

"And your offer . . . your principal's offer?"

A waitress approached. Guzman shut up and pretended to peruse his menu. "What's good?" he asked.

"Most anything, really," Carrera answered. "I'm having the corvina al ajillo."

Guzman closed his menu and said to the waitress, "That sounds fine."

The lawyer had come prepared to bargain. He began low. "Three million drachma per month, each, to you and General Parilla, for you to stop interfering with our business."

Carrera just laughed, surprisingly mildly. "You insult me, señor."

Well, thought the Santandern, that's a nice start. No screaming rage; just staking out a bargaining position.

"Very well, then. I'll double it to six million."

"I don't think so."

"Well what do you want?" Guzman asked.

"I want the shit kept out of Balboa and its territorial waters. Where it goes I couldn't care less about, as long as it doesn't come through here or to here. Moreover, I want you to get control of any, shall we say, 'random elements,' and force them to the same rule."

Guzman snorted. "You want us to take on the guerillas? That would be even more expensive than bribes. How about ten million? One hundred and twenty million a year."

The waitress returned, bearing their plates. These she set down in front of each man, the garlicky smell rising into their nostrils.

It's almost tempting, thought Carrera. Even Parilla might want go for it. We could buy a lot of training, a lot of equipment, and a lot of caring for our people with that much. But the cost is far too high. How many low level bureaucrats will be corrupted with bribes if we took them, even if we didn't keep them? How many soldiers and policemen will start getting in the habit of looking the other way? It isn't that I care a shit what happens to drug addicts in the Tauran Union or the Federated States, except insofar as I think the planet would be better off without them. I didn't care about them even before I came here. But this would be just a sort of moral disease in Balboa. Besides, even if I were whore, we'd still have to haggle over my price.

The lawyer tried hard to read Carrera's face. It was, after all, a good part of his job to read what people were thinking from their expressions. If I up it by another million or two now, he'll go for it.

Guzman decided on two. "Duque Carrera, for your cooperation I am prepared to offer you twelve million . . . each . . . every month . . . to both yourself and Presidente Parilla. Of course, for that amount, we would require a certain degree of active assistance."

Carrera frowned, shook his head, and answered, "Eat. Your food's getting cold."

Something in the tone suggested to Guzman the phrase, "And the condemned ate a hearty last meal." He suddenly lost his appetite, placing his knife and fork down on the plate with finality.

"Not hungry?" Carrera enquired, his voice full of false concern. "What a pity." Carrera beckoned to McNamara. The tall, slender, well aged black sergeant major took long strides to the table."

"Sergeant Major, Mr. Guzman seems to have lost his appetite. Arrest him, please, and deliver him to Legate Fernandez for questioning."

The Santandern immediately blanched.

McNamara hesitated, thinking, We just got him back. We've got him nicely cocooned in . . . well, for lack of a better term, "righteousness." It isn't worth throwing that away for whatever little advantage we might get from destroying this Santandern.

The sergeant major's expression must have told. Carrera asked, "You disapprove?"

"Sir . . . I t'ink t'at's a really bad idea. Sir, whet'er he represents an official country or not, he's still a diplomat. Wrong not to let him go, sir. Bad precedent. Even if he is a scum-sucking lawyer."

Carrera took in a half breath, then bit off a retort. If Mac says it's wrong, he thought, then there's a good chance that it's wrong. He rocked his head from side to side a few times in indecision. Finally he admitted, "I suppose you're right, Sergeant Major. Please escort Mr. Guzman to the airport; he has an airship to catch. And Mr. Guzman? Don't come back to Balboa uninvited; I won't be responsible for your safety. And tell your people to keep their shit out of my country."

On a whim, Carrera reached up and took from around his neck a golden crucifix on a chain. "Give this to your masters," he said, handing it to Guzman.