The Lotus Eaters

Estado Major, Balboa City, Balboa, Terra Nova

Warrant Officer Achmed al Mahamda's job was, frankly, torturer in chief, even though the title he held was merely "Senior Interrogator." Most of the time, in fact, he really didn't have to resort to torture, though he always made the threat or promise to do so plain enough. An immigrant from Sumer, and former senior interrogator with the late dictator of that country's secret police, he got more results than any three of Fernandez's other interrogators, and did so much more quickly and reliably. "It's a shitty job," he admitted, "but someone has to do it."

In relation to his job, he took the private elevator from the sub-basement, where interrogations and, it must be admitted, the occasional killings were done, directly up to the waiting room outside Fernandez's personal office. As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he sniffed something odd but still familiar.

Gunpowder? Here? "Legate?" he called out.

Mahamda walked briskly into Fernandez's office, took one look and the body on the floor, and rushed over. Though unconscious and ghastly pale, he saw that the chief of intelligence was at least still breathing. The red froth oozing from his chest said as much.

On autopilot from his own otherwise none too impressive basic training in the Sumeri armed forces, Mahamda went through the drill: Clear the airway, Stop the bleeding, Treat for Shock, Protect the . . . Screw that for now.

He picked up the phone with bloodied hands and discovered it was dead. Shit. Now what? Maybe . . .

The internal intercom was not dead. In practiced Spanish Mahamda said to the guard room, "I want an ambulance here ten minutes ago! If you can't get one, get something—anything!—that will fly or roll. And I need a medic and four men with a stretcher in Legate Fernandez's office five minutes ago. Move!"

Only then did he rifle the desk, such part of it as wasn't locked, and come up with something non-air permeable. This he slapped over the exit wound that seemed to be frothing the most.

Fernandez's eyes opened. They were glazed and unfocused.

"Who did this?" Mahamda asked.

"Bar . . . B . . . Barlet . . . Barletta."

"We'll get him," Mahamda said.

"S . . . Screw him. Save the black box."