The Lotus Eaters

Anno Domini 2525–2526 Anno Condita 471 UEPF Spirit of Peace, Lunar Orbit

Maneuvering in zero G, while carrying a cup of coffee, was no mean feat. Fortunately, the cup was sealed and Esmeralda had had some chance to practice. She smiled shyly as she placed the magnetic-bottomed cup into an indentation in the arm of Richard's command chair.

The Earl of Care couldn't help but notice how the girl's midnight hair billowed out in a sort of halo framing her face. He thought she was unbearably lovely.

"Thank you, Esma," Richard said warmly. "Any last message from the High Admiral?"

Esmeralda leaned close and whispered, "She says, 'Do it. Now.' "

The Earl of Care and Captain of the Peace sighed. "I was afraid of that. Wish me luck."

"You know I do, Richard," said the Isthmian girl.

They weren't lovers, surprisingly. At least Marguerite was surprised. But Esmeralda was quite young and Richard, in this as in other matters, quite decent. Also, as he'd admitted to Wallenstein when she'd asked, he was for a Class One rather inexperienced.

In time, perhaps.

Richard pressed a button on the chair, close beside the zero G coffee cup. "High Admiral, this is the captain. The tugs are ready. We're ready. Three hundred second countdown to begin maneuver out of the lunar shadow begins in . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . now."

* * *

Further aft in the ship, in the admiral's bridge, Wallenstein fretted far more than Richard did. The big Kurosawa screen on one wall was split into a dozen frames, showing the Captain, several different views of the rest of the bridge, forward of the ship, the tugs, the former colonization vessel, Jean Monnet, trailing, with its tugs, and certain critical ship's charts.

Marguerite fretted, I've drilled the boy silly, hand carried him as much as I could, pushed him into the deep water when that seemed a good idea, mentored and nagged and . . . Elder gods, I hope I prepared him well enough.

The speakers concealed in the walls announced, "two-thirty-seven . . . two-thirty-six . . . two-thirty-five . . ."

Marguerite concentrated on the image of Richard's face. He's doing pretty well with the whole "confident look" thing. And his voice is steady. The crew seems not too worried. And I'm being an old woman.

Marguerite felt the ship shudder around her as the tugs took magnetic hold. It wasn't, strictly speaking, necessary to use the tugs. Yet saving reaction mass for emergencies was always wise.

"One-twenty-two . . ."

* * *

"Seventy-seven . . . Seventy-six . . ."

"Stations report," Richard ordered, his voice much calmer than he really felt. He remembered all the simulation he had screwed up, and remembered them deep in his bones.

"You're doing fine, Richard," Esmeralda whispered again. She still hadn't left the side of his command chair. He found a considerable comfort in her proximity, more perhaps than he consciously recognized.

"Navigation nominal, reaction mass temperature and pressure optimal . . . Engineering, ninety-six percent power, captain . . . Life support, air mix optimal . . . Medical . . ."

"Fifty-two . . . fifty-one . . ."

"Lunar laser boost station reports ready to push, Captain."

"Forty . . . thirty-nine . . . thirty-eight . . ."

"A little music, captain?" asked the chief petty officer of the ship.

"Do it, chief."

Almost immediately the speakers began to blare Verdi's triumphal march from Aida.

"Twenty-six . . . twenty-five . . ."

* * *

I can't believe it, thought Esmeralda. I can't believe I'm really here . . . in a starship . . . going to the world of exile. She smiled inside. To be honest, I can't believe I haven't had my heart cut out and my body turned into a stew for the Azteca with all the choicest parts saved and sent back to Count Castro-Nyere.

I will not fail you, father, sister. I remember.

* * *

"Take a seat and buckle in, Esma," Richard ordered. "Quickly, please."

She did, pushing off with one arm towards the rear of the bridge, to an unoccupied seat next to the chief. The chief buckled her in.

"Twelve . . . eleven . . . ten . . . nine . . ."

"This is your first trip, honey," the chief, a capable Class Four, said. "It might be bad or it might be easy; there's no telling in advance."

"I know," Esmeralda answered. "I'm hoping for the best."

"Good girl," the chief said. "I think we'll be okay."

"Six . . . five . . ."

"Tugs report full power, captain."

"Understood . . ."

"Two . . . one . . .

"Bring us out of orbit," ordered Richard, Earl of Care.

* * *

The deployment of the sail always gave Marguerite a thrill. This time was no exception. Almost she could hear the snap as gas filled the ring and expanded the thing to pull against the lines.

And the boy's doing well, she mused. When was the last time I had occasion to be proud of a Class One? Has it ever even happened?

A portion of the screen on the Admiral's Bridge suddenly flared, as the lunar laser batteries opened up, giving the Peace a slight but perceptible shove. This would continue, and be reinforced by the batteries of the asteroid belt, until distance and attenuation made too little a difference in the light to keep it up. The lunar batteries were multiple, and spaced around that body. These would take turns, firing and shutting down, as rotation masked them.

Wallenstein's eyes turned to the portion of the screen devoted to the Jean Monnet, aft. Already the tugs were moving back, though the Monnet wouldn't get underway until the following day.

And she's coming stuffed to the rafters with nearly everything I need to get the Peace Fleet back to Bristol Fashion, plus enough shuttles and parts for them to keep it supplied from the surface, even with all the ships fully manned. Hah; Martin, you dickhead. That's better than you ever even dreamt of.