The Lotus Eaters

SS Hildegard von Mises, Lago Chagres, Balboa Transitway, Balboa, Terra Nova

A dozen or so miles to the southeast of Janier's headquarters there was a ship anchored in the lake, rocking violently in the wind-driven waves. It was well guarded at all times, though the guards only changed at night. It hadn't moved in at least a year. Someday, it would, but only to get rid of the last traces of evidence when it was finally sunk into a deep ocean trench.

Whether the ship would have any people aboard when it went down was a matter of some speculation for the group of guards who manned it in rotation. They reported to Carrera's chief of intelligence, Omar Fernandez, and he was noted for tying up loose ends neatly.

Loose ends?

* * *

There was an evil-looking, weasel-faced man waiting in one of the ship's offices when former High Admiral Martin Robinson and the Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit, were escorted in. Both of the Old Earthers bowed deeply and respectfully to the man. They'd long since had their arrogance beaten out of them.

"I have a little problem," said Legate Omar Fernandez, weasel face splitting in an unpleasant grin.

"A problem, sir?" asked Robinson, worriedly. Arbeit merely shivered in place. Though both measured their years in centuries, and both, as Class Ones and members of the Peerage, had received the best anti-aging therapy Old Earth could offer, both looked to have aged like cheese left in the sun, all wrinkled and hard and dry. This despite neither of them having been subjected to real torture in many months. Indeed, they'd been wrung dry long ago.

"A couple of problems, really," Fernandez said, his eyes flickering once at Arbeit, and then a second time, at Robinson. "One is that we haven't been able to get your old shuttle working again. I don't suppose you know anything about the flight computer?"

Robinson gulped. "No, sir. It wasn't anything in my training. I can fly one but . . ."

Arbeit shivered still more; her naval rank came from her civil position. She didn't even know how to fly one.

"Pity," Fernandez said, in a voice that seemed to contain real regret. "Well, there goes one reason to keep you both alive."

Arbeit crumpled to her knees then, bending until her face rested on the floor and weeping as softly as she was able. Fernandez felt a certain pity for the woman. Had he known her life story; he'd have felt nothing but disgust. He tortured. He didn't generally enjoy it.

"Are there other reasons?" Robinson asked, hopefully. "Could there be?"

Fernandez shrugged. "Possibly. Much depends on whether or not the two of you, or either of you alone, has seen the error of your old ways and decided to join our cause for the betterment of humanity.

"You see," Fernandez continued, "we're getting rid of this ship and what it represents. It should have been done a while ago, but . . . well, never mind.

"The current storm is expected to last another three days. The ship sails in the morning out into the Shimmering Sea where a terrible accident will take place. The crew and your guards, of course, will be evacuated in time . . . since they're mine."

Arbeit heard. She had the sudden image of herself chained in her cell below decks as the waters arose and the rats scurried across her body and face and then the bubbles began leaking from her nose and . . .

She screamed, once, a very long and drawn out, "Nnnooo . . ." before she began to vomit with fear onto the floor.

Robinson was more composed, if only slightly. "Please, Legate," he begged, getting to his knees and clasping hands together, "tell me whatever I can do to help. Anything. Anything!"

Arbeit didn't have words. Even so, the pleading look she gave Fernandez, as she raised her vomit-dripping chin from the floor, echoed Robinson's words, "Anything."