The Lotus Eaters

Quarters One, Gutierrez Caserne, Ciudad Cervantes, Balboa, Terra Nova

None of the planet's three moons were up. The land was illuminated only by the streetlights, whatever light escaped through windows, and the occasional passing motor vehicle. Power for the former there was in plenty, from the half dozen solar power stations that now dotted the nation's northern shore, their greenhouse complexes connected to the mountain top chimneys by sturdy, half buried concrete tunnels. Even at night, with the sun down, heat differential let them continue to produce power.

The softly cooing antaniae loved the moonless nights, for those were the vile creatures' best chance to find unguarded prey. Legate Pigna could hear them calling outside, mnnbt . . . mnnbt . . . mnnbt. He wasn't worried about them, however, he'd already checked the doors and window screens to ensure that the children were safe inside, and the antaniae out. Now he sat, portable computer on his lap, continuing his planning.

Every now and again the magnitude and the dangers of the project Legate Pigna had undertaken would get to him and he would being to fret, even to choke up. Three things kept him at his task. One was the burning memory of a wad of paper thrown in his face as if he were an unruly school boy. In itself, perhaps this should not have rankled quite so much as it did. After all, the Legion was a rough service, and harsh. He'd chewed out subordinates before, if never quite so viciously as Carrera had inflicted a mass chewing upon his subordinates.

Sitting in his office at his home, sipping a higher end rum, Pigna thought, But I was one of the bastard's most loyal supporters. I deserved better. I deserved, at a minimum, not to be entrapped with that fucking flypaper report. And he should know better than to wound a man in his pride. If he doesn't, he's not fit to command.

Deep down, the legate knew that was rationalization. Wounds heal, and his had long since, except when he ripped off the scab to open the wound again. He did that because . . .

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't pull out now. They've got me on video and I have no doubt that that video would go to Fernandez the day, the hour, maybe the second I try to back out. Carrera might forgive me. Fernandez would never give him the chance. I, my family, we'd all disappear.

So much for fear, and so much for honor, or at least the avenging of dishonor. But what ultimately kept Pigna at his task was . . .

And, then too, with the corps commanders, Carrera, his personal staff, and Parilla gone, why shouldn't I become the new commander? I will be first among equals. I'll have the gratitude of the old families. And if I can do that, why not president myself, someday? Why shouldn't I watch out for my own interest?