The Lotus Eaters

Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova

The Volgan gate guard had been uncertain about letting the taxi in. It was Lourdes who had the clout to talk him into calling for the staff duty officer. That man, a junior tribune, had arrived quickly from Samsonov's headquarters to show them the way. He recognized Lourdes from the pre-Santander raid dinner, though she couldn't pull up a memory of him from the sea of faces of that night. The taxi followed the Volgan staff duty vehicle, passing it when it parked to deposit Lourdes right at the front door. Samsonov, alerted by the staff duty officer, was waiting to greet her.

"You've got to help us," Lourdes exclaimed, as soon as she saw the Volgan commander.

"Shit," Samsonov said as soon as she had explained. In turn, he explained, in his slow and strained Spanish, "This is . . . touchy . . . umm . . . touchier than you may know, Mrs. Carrera. We not part of . . . regular Balboan forces. Not sure what Federated States do . . . if Volgan regiment intervene. Not like we . . . best of friends or anything, you know. We could end up doing . . . more harm . . . than good.

"Worse . . . not sure we legally . . . can . . . intervene. Or what Volgan Republic do. Most men . . . still Volgan citizens.

"And this thing . . . this coup . . . very advanced. Have word now other president, not Parilla, going to speak tomorrow morning, nine A.M. Shit."

"Can I speak to those who aren't Volgan citizens?" she asked. "Please, Legate. Please. I have to save my husband."

"You speak," Samsonov agreed, then, after a minutes' reflection, shouted out something in Russian to the staff duty officer, waiting outside his office.

"Give twenty minutes," the Volgan said. "Then I bring you to mess."

* * *

The faces that met her at the mess were stony. She looked at them and was just certain they wouldn't listen to her, that they just didn't care. In fact, she was wrong. The problem wasn't that they wouldn't listen, or didn't want to help, but that Samsonov was the father of the regiment and, without knowing which way he would go the officers and praporchiki didn't want to open their great Volgan hearts to a hopeless cause.

Still, whatever Lourdes thought, she gave it her best. As she passed men sitting in the small officer's mess, she greeted those she knew by name or sight. A name spoken here, where she knew it, a warm touch on a shoulder where she didn't. She had a feeling that whatever Samsonov had said to his staff duty, it had included at least a truncated version of recent events. They'd had that version, she could sense from their faces and somewhat shamed expressions.

No sense in repeating what they know, she thought, so she didn't. Instead taking a position next to Samsonov at the head table, she reminded them of all they owed Carrera. She spoke of what she knew of the raid on Santander and how he had saved one of their companies. She explained that, no matter what the politicians might promise them, they could have no faith in those promises. She moved them, she could see, but not enough. Finally, she walked over to where Menshikov, one time translator and aide to Carrera, stood.

"Miro" she said, giving him the nickname he would have had had he been born Balboan but with the equivalent first name, Vladimiro. Menshikov had been promoted to Tribune II and had taken command of Chapayev's company. "Miro, where would you be now, if not for my husband."

Menshikov couldn't answer. He hung his head in shame, thinking, In a dead end job in a dead end country . . . that or really dead and probably unburied in Santander.

Samsonov, sitting at a table with his face cupped in his hands, looked thoroughly miserable. Then, briefly, his face lit up as he seemed to have an idea. Sure. Why not. Fuck 'em.

He lifted his chin from his hands and spoke, "You know, gentlemen, this is really a mercenary organization. All through history, regiments like ours have been noted for their lack of discipline, their almost democratic structure. I really don't know what I could personally do if, say, Menshikov here decided to take his company and help Carrera against my orders. Or even if a maximum of one other platoon decided to go with him . . . oh, say, yours, Chekov. Why, if even one of your tank sections elected to disobey orders and go with them—Dzhugashvili, are you paying attention?—it would only further the point. Why, in an undisciplined organization like ours, I wouldn't be surprised if my own Operations Officer decided to take the lead." Samsonov looked pointedly at that man, Rostov. "And, of course you would need to have the cooperation of one of the anti-aircraft boys in case the Taurans decided to try to stop you from the air."

"But if you gentlemen decided to disobey orders, and take Mrs. Carrera to the nearest television station, and capture and hold that station while she broadcast an appeal for help from the legions, the rest of the regiment could hardly be held to blame. But, of course, you couldn't do any serious planning for such an eventuality with me sitting watch over you. Besides, it is quite impossible for you to do such a thing, undisciplined as you no doubt are, before the President speaks at zero nine hundred, sharp."

Samsonov consulted his watch. "Oh, my" he said. "I have summary punishment to administer in just a few minutes. My wife's cat is going to be given extra duty and have his rations docked for failure to catch a mouse that's been pestering us. So I must be hurrying along to take care of my administrative duties. Good day to you, gentlemen."

Lourdes didn't understand a word that was spoken, as it was all in Volgan. But as soon as Samsonov left, Menshikov let out an "Urrah!". Officers clustered around him and Lourdes, smiling and laughing. The ones mentioned by name by Samsonov, or implied by their commander's name, smiled more ferociously than the others.