The Lotus Eaters

Military Academy Sargento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova

Two white men, Volgans, in mufti, stood on a spit of land on the west side of the old town's roughly rectangular harbor. A centuries-old stone fort watched over the harbor's mouth, as it had for all those centuries. The fort's seaward gun ports were sighted to intersect and interlock with those of another fort across the water on the eastern side. At the bay's mouth was a tree-covered island. It seemed to float on the water. For that matter, people who had stared at the island long enough had been known to say the thing was moving.

Behind and around the two men, more or less surrounding the fort, arose the barracks and classrooms of the academy. Work still continued on some buildings, an irregular pounding of hammers interspersed with a drone of heavy machinery.

Sitnikov, leaning with one hand resting on a verdigris covered bronze cannon, asked, "Well, Victor, what do you think?"

His companion, Victor Chapayev, nodded. "It is adequate."

Chapayev wore an air of inestimable sadness. Sitnikov knew as much of Chapayev's story as Samsonov had thought he needed to know. He could guess at the rest.

"If the duque is happy with it," Chapayev amended, "who am I to complain?"

"You were with Carrera in Santander, weren't you."

Chapayev nodded.

"What did you think?"

"He seems decent enough. He's been decent to me. He might have saved my company down there, after I was hit. Probably did, in fact."

"So he seems. Decent that is. Let me tell you something, though, Victor. Carrera will treat you well right up to the day you cross him. Then, he's no different from the Red Tsar. I've seen it. Boy, have I seen it. His goals are not normal."

"You think he's a Marxist?" Chapayev asked.

Sitnikov shook his head. "No . . . not a Marxist. Not a capitalist either. He's . . . I don't know that there's a word for it; but he wants to change this country as much as the Red Tsar ever wanted to change Volga, and to change it as profoundly. But what he wants to change it into . . . I don't know. It's as if he doesn't let it be known so that no one can resist him in achieving his goal.

"The Red Tsars let everyone know what they wanted and applied pressure to force the society into the mold they picked. Carrera doesn't. He seems to be eliminating some things, true, but then he mostly entices people to fit themselves into a mold they can't even see. He's a community organizer, and no one in the community seems to realize they're being organized.

"Think about it, Victor," Sitnikov continued, "to get anywhere, these days, a Balboan must associate with Carrera's army; to become a part of his team. The Red Tsars used the power of the state to force change. Carrera is making the state irrelevant. Balboans who need or want something are getting out of the habit of looking to the government. More and more they turn to Carrera, or rather, the Legion. But that is the same thing now. And he's every bit a ruthless as the Tsar was."

Sitnikov pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "Despite which, I'll continue to work for him because . . . because he's . . . a terribly good soldier. Do you know how rare that is; in any army, to work for a really good soldier?"

Chapayev said nothing. Sitnikov asked, "Is that why you are here, too? I asked Samsonov, but he wouldn't tell much of anything except that you were one of his best officers. Still, I had to wonder . . . why would he let one of his best go? You were back in the rodina not long ago, weren't you?"

"I found I didn't belong there anymore." Chapayev cut off that line of conversation.

"Nor any of us, I suspect."

Sitnikov ignored that. He asked, "So is Balboa your home now? Do you even have a home, Victor?"

"I won't know until I find it, will I, sir?"

Sitnikov shrugged. "Would you like to make this your home for a while?" He once again cast his arms out to encompass the school.

"Why not?" Chapayev said with no noticeable enthusiasm.

"Fine. The day before we open this school for the next semester, you are promoted to Tribune III. I believe that makes you one of the dozen or so youngest Tribune IIIs in the country. You will be the assistant to the Balboan legate who commands the school, but you will report to me, as he does. I want you, in particular, to concern yourself with the light infantry training of the cadets."

"How much time will I have for their training?"

"The boys spend two military days a week. Monday through Thursday are for academics. Friday and Saturday are their military training days. Sunday is parade, church, and inspection. By the way, how is your Spanish coming?"

"It needs work."

"You have two months. Make that your first priority."

"Sir."

"I suggest that the best way to learn might be to find yourself a horizontal dictionary," Sitnikov added.

"A what?"

Sitnikov shook his head, smiling at Chapayev's innocence. "A girl, Victor, go find a girl." Sitnikov cocked his head slightly, musing on something. With a broad smile, he said, "Now that I think about it, Victor, the Castilian, Colonel Muñoz-Infantes has a very good relationship with us here. I think perhaps you should also become our liaison to him. That will give you a bit more motivation and opportunity to work on your Spanish."