The Lotus Eaters

Saint Nicholasburg, Volga, Terra Nova

On Old Earth, the Russians had always been a deeply spiritual people. Not even three generations of the vilest forms of Marxism had ever been able to erase that. Moreover, with Marxism fallen, at the end of the 20th century, the major churches of old Russia had surged once again to prominence, their adherents knowing that, after all, God had not deserted His people.

The people God may not have deserted, but it certainly came to seem that he had turned his face from the Earth. Thus, when Christianity had become once again a suspect religion, and its enemies had introduced various forms of persecution, the faithful of old Russian had begun to leave for the new world.

Other colonies, in the early days of human settlement of the planet, might call their cities "First Landing" or "Drop Dead" or any of myriad other names. But for the faithful Russ, fleeing religious persecution, there could be no doubt of the name of their first city on Terra Nova. It had to be named for their patron saint, Nicholas of Myra.

As the Russians had said, "Even if God dies we'll still have Saint Nicholas."

* * *

". . . and," said the speaker overhead, "for those of you on the port side, that's Saint Nicholasburg coming up ahead. For those on the starboard, if you look carefully you can see the glow where the Pripyat Nuclear Power Station fulfilled the Red Tsar's Five Year Plan for energy generation in four nanoseconds."

Chapayev had tuned out the purser's voice—at least he thought it was the purser's—as he ticked off the sights to be seen on various legs of the aerial journey. For the neon-glowing Saint Nicholasburg, however, he paid attention, closing his wallet and shutting away the picture of his wife that he'd kept with him through the years of separation.

It was a lovely portrait, but not one for general viewing. For one thing, Veronica, the wife, was half, or rather more than that, nude, her breasts—delicate things—on full display. Her skin was creamy and smooth. Cornflower blue eyes stared out, innocent as a new baby's, under midnight bangs that turned into a long cascade down her otherwise bare back. Even after several years of marriage, the image still sent a shiver of desire up the young Volgan's back.

In a way it was better to put away the picture and stare at the town, below. For one thing, Chapayev was reasonably sure of the town. Of the woman in the portrait he was much less so.

* * *

The reasons that airships on Old Earth had never, so to speak, taken off was that, despite the advantages in fuel consumption and cargo load, they'd required excessively large and expensive ground crews and been terribly vulnerable to sudden and severe changes in weather, especially when near the ground. On Terra Nova, conversely, which had much less axial tilt to it than had the world of Man's birth, the weather was more predictable and, generally speaking, less severe. The better weather had made airships a better bet, long enough, for systems to be developed to reduce the size of the ground crews. The airships had never quite eliminated the need for fixed wing, heavier than air, craft, but they had proven a more useful supplement to those on New Earth than on Old.

They were still far too vulnerable in war to be used for anything but lifting heavy loads, and then only to and from very safe areas, and along safe routes. In practice, the ACCS was not an exception to these rules.

* * *

Chapayev barely noticed the shudder and the metallic clangs as the airship let go half a dozen cables. No more did he notice as the cables were grasped by claws mounted on half a dozen heavy trucks. Even when the trucks carried the cables off to be affixed to the mules—heavy and heavy-duty railway cars—that would take the ship in to the landing pit and hold it steady while the ship winched itself down, the tribune paid no mind.

With the terminal building rising next to his ship, Chapayev laughed at himself. If I wasn't afraid in Santander, why am I so afraid now?

* * *

Until he'd heard Chapayev's local accent, the taxi driver had been inclined to cheat the young officer. Once he'd heard it, and learned a little of the man's background, it had been hard to get the driver to take even an honest fare.

"I served the motherland, too, sir," the driver had insisted.

"Then take the money as a gift for your family," Chapayev had answered.

Once through the stone-framed doors to the old Tsarist building, converted to apartments, Chapayev was surprised to discover that the elevators actually worked. Hmmm, he'd thought, I wonder if the reds are back.

The answer to that question could wait. The doors opened and Chapayev walked as quietly as the bundles in his arms would let him. Reaching the door to his and his wife's apartment, he carefully placed his burden down without making a sound. Then he reached into his pocket for the keys. Everything was more difficult because of his bandaged shoulder.

It wasn't the sore shoulder, though, that caused Chapayev's hand to tremble, the key poised just outside the tumbler. It was—

I am afraid. It's been two years. What if . . .

He forced himself to insert the key and slowly to turn it. He tried to keep it quiet. Despite his best efforts the massive but poor quality lock clicked loudly, once, and then again, louder still, as the bolt retracted. Chapayev pushed the door open slightly. It made a creaking sound.

"Darling, is that you?" Veronica's voice made Chapayev's heart leap. He pushed open the door the rest of the way, then turned to drag in the gifts.

As he straightened from moving the bundles into the apartment he looked up and saw his wife standing in a doorway wearing nothing but a shocked expression. "Victor. I didn't know to expect you."

Chapayev looked from Veronica's face down to where a slight bulge told of an early stage of pregnancy. His eyes grew wide with unwelcome understanding. He looked around the cramped apartment for something, anything, to look at other than the bulge in his wife's belly. His eyes stopped on the picture of a man, his own age but somehow soft looking.

Walking over to the picture, Victor picked it up. "Darling?" he asked, holding the picture where Veronica must see it.

Recovering a portion of her composure, she answered, "Well, what did you expect? You left me here alone for months and years on end with nothing to do."

"I sent you every grivna I made. I waited for you."

"And so? The more fool you for waiting. The money you sent? A small enough price to pay for the silly, silly love letters I had to write to keep you happy, off with your colonel and your wars." She walked forward, taking the picture away from Chapayev and putting it back in its place of honor. "Leonid here is just the latest. He manages a Columbian ice cream parlor and makes more than you ever did. . . . And spends it on me, too."

" 'Just the latest,' " Chapayev echoed.

"Yes. Just the latest. How do you imagine I kept my job and our apartment here. While you were off playing cowboy with your stupid soldiers, I've had a very fine time, I don't mind telling you. I've screwed half of the city by now. Sometimes, for fun, I even get paid for it. Ask anyone important in Saint Nicholasburg where to go for the very best. He'll say 'Veronica Chapayeva. Her husband's off at the wars and she misses him so badly she'll make do with anyone.' Oh, yes, my very dearest. While you were on hands and knees in the mountains I've been on hands and knees—sometimes just knees—right here."

"Slut!"

"So? And what are you? Just a waste of a soldier nobody has any use for anymore, least of all me." Veronica reached for a robe and pulled it on. "So leave me now. I don't need your money anymore. And I never needed you." She went to where the bundles lay, pitiful offerings, and proceeded to throw them back out into the hall. In doing so, she turned her back on Chapayev.

* * *

Victor saw himself reach under his coat for the knife he had been advised to carry while walking through the city's no longer safe streets. More silently even than he had crept to his wife's door, he crept up behind her now. Like an automaton, with no control over his own actions, his left hand reached for her long, midnight hair and grasped it.

"What do you think you are doing, you cretin?".

Chapayev didn't answer. He just lifted Veronica by her hair and moved the knife to the left side of her neck. She froze as she felt the icy touch.

"Victor, don't?" she pleaded softly.

"Bitch!" he whispered into her ear. Then he drew the knife across her white throat in one smooth movement. Blood, bright and red, spurted from Veronica's throat to splash the wooden floor. Chapayev dropped her body as soon as he felt her go limp. He gathered his bundles, closed the door, and left.

* * *

In the real world, Victor found himself still standing in the middle of the living room. Veronica Chapayeva still knelt by his pile of packages, tossing them one by one into the outside hall. He thought about killing her, and decided she wasn't worth dirtying his hands over. Besides, my shoulder is still such a mess I'd probably make a hash of the job. He gathered the shreds of his dignity around himself and walked past her and through the door. Before he turned his back on the woman for the last time, Chapayev faced her.

In a voice colder than any Volgan winter, he said, "Veronica, I probably won't be able to stop this month's pay from reaching your account. Consider it a divorce settlement. I also will not go through the trouble of staying here for a divorce. You can do what you like about that. I don't care. Maybe I should hate you. But then, you can't help being what you are . . . and what you are not. I won't wish you well. Good-bye."

Victor turned and left the bundles where they lay, scattered between apartment, threshold, and corridor. He walked down the stairs and out of Veronica Chapayeva's life without a backward glance. He didn't trust himself to look at her again.

It wasn't until he was in the relative solitude and safety of a taxi that the young Volgan pulled his coat over his head and, as quietly as possible, began to weep.