The Lotus Eaters

Individual Combat Training Center, Eighth Legion, Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

Esteban Escobar, late of the Frente Nacional Liberacion Santandereño, shivered in the early morning fog and the salty sea breeze. His thin physical training uniform was no help at all. And somehow the gravel underfoot was sharp enough to hurt his feet, even through his shoes.

Even if he'd been more warmly clothed, or the air had been warmer, the former guerilla might still have shivered. The corporals, sergeants, optios, and centurions he'd met so far might have made any man shiver.

Beasts in human form, was Esteban's learned judgment. Was that ferret-faced bastard, Fernandez, doing me a favor when he pulled a couple of strings to let me enlist?

Well, that's not fair. He did get the judge to dismiss the charges against me, and without even a hearing. That, at least, was a favor. Though, then again, I might have gotten credit for time served while I was being held in Fernandez's headquarters. In which case . . .

The fog was too thick to see the source of the command, "Maniple . . . Atten . . . SHUN."

Thought forgotten, Esteban stiffened to attention, head and eyes locked to the front. He heard the command, "Open ranks . . . MARCH!" and automatically took two steps forward to allow the squad behind to take a single step.

Esteban heard the leaders of the other three squads in his platoon give the command, "Parade . . . REST." His own first squad remained at attention. Keen ears heard the sharp gravel crunching under booted feet, somewhere off the right. He couldn't turn to see, but assumed that was the new first centurion they'd been warned about, inspecting the troops.

Vicious bastard they say he is, too.

Someone, the top of his head being at about the level of Esteban's chin, stepped in front of him and faced sharply to the left.

"I don't fucking believe it."

Esteban looked down, slightly, and his previous blank expression was replaced by a very nervous smile. "Hello," he said, lamely. "Ummm, Centurion."

Ricardo Cruz put the tip of his centurion's stick, his sole badge of rank, under Esteban's chin and pushed upward until his head was back in the proper position.

"I will someday want to know the rest of your story, Private Escobar," Cruz said, sternly. "But it can wait. In the interim, do try"—for punctuation, Cruz tapped his stick twice, hard, against Escobar's chest—"do"—tap—"try"—tap—"to remember how to stand at the position of attention."

"Yes, Centurion. Sorry, Centurion."

"And shut up."