The Lotus Eaters

UEPF Spirit of Peace, Luna Starship Holding and Storage Area

A large cargo shuttle, recovered from one of the abandoned transports, was having obvious difficulty maneuvering to dock at that transport. The shuttle, Marguerite saw from the manifest, was carrying one hundred and twelve early-graduated midshipmen and cadets from the Fleet Academy, along with about ninety tons of Class Fours and Fives for scut work.

The problem, Marguerite thought, watching from the observation deck of Peace as the shuttle applied reversed thrust and backed off for a second attempt, is half that none of my people are used to dealing with the unusual or the unexpected. There's no surprise there and maybe not any blame either. After all, the Fleet spent centuries in orbit about Terra Nova and in all that time there were precisely two unusual events. At least only two that made it into the records. The other half is that I just don't have enough qualified people, for all my brave talk to the SecGen.

She watched further as the shuttle missed its second attempt, pulling up this time and barely missing a collision with the edge of the open bay.

Marguerite shook her head with disgust. Reaching over to a small box mounted next to the large, clear viewing port, she pressed a button and said, "Operations. Here's a general rule for you. Write it into the SOP, as a matter of fact. WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO TRAIN PEOPLE RIGHT NOW ON THE FINER POINTS OF—ELDER GODS PRESERVE ME!—DOCKING WITH A STATIONARY, NON-ROTATING, SHIP. Have the comp take over docking on shuttle flight"—she glanced down at the manifest—"number one seven two.

"Training we'll have time for when we've got a full recovery crew aboard the Jean Monnet. Until then, priority is personnel and materials. Got it?"

"Aye, Aye, High Admiral," answered the voice from the box. Before the box went silent again, Wallenstein heard a different voice commanding, "Shuttle One Seven Two, Shuttle One Seven Two. Halt in place and get your butterfingered hands off the controls. We are taking over your docking from here."

* * *

One problem I didn't anticipate, thought Marguerite, alone in the High Admiral's quarters, was that I can't get laid! For all my planning, I just completely missed that little inconvenience.

It was never a problem before, not since I took command of the flagship. Here, there was always a High Admiral to fuck . . . or whatever. Now, I'm in charge and the only way to have sex is to use a subordinate. Even if I were willing to do to someone aboard what's been done to me for so long—and I'm not—how the hell does someone take me seriously after they've seen me panting like a dog in heat or moaning all the idiocies people do in the throes of passion? How do they even look at my face without remembering the last time they saw a dick growing out of it?

Might not be such an issue with a woman, I suppose, but that is not my actual preference. Besides, the only one I find really attractive is Khan and she's a submissive. And, in bed, I prefer to be the submissive, as a relief from having to be in charge all the rest of the time. Fuck.

I foresee a miserable decade or two ahead.

Hmmm . . . bring a boy toy up? It's permitted but . . . no . . . that's contemptible. Then everyone would imagine seeing a dick growing out of my mouth but would not associate the dick with a real man.

Misery, misery.

* * *

"High Admiral on the bridge," the junior watch officer announced as Wallenstein stepped out of the elevator and through the oval hatchway.

She looked grumpy. No one knew why and few thought they could make even an educated guess. After all, hadn't the strange woman dispensed with the hallowed tradition of proskynesis? Who knew what other bizarrenesses lurked in her feverish brain. She'd never been so hard to figure out when she'd been a mere, non-ennobled captain.

"Report," Marguerite ordered, taking her seat and then listening with only half an ear and a quarter of a brain as the watch officer went through the daily log.

Note to self, she thought. This is not my job. Captain for the Spirit of Peace: Appoint, soonest. But who? My old exec isn't up to command and knows it.

"High Admiral, this completes my report," the watch officer said, finally.

Wallenstein nodded. She looked up to determine that the relief was already on station, then tilted her head toward the hatchway and said, "Dismissed." She stood, saying, "I'll be in my day cabin if I'm needed." Even though I really should be down in the Admiral's Bridge, planning for the future.

* * *

"Call from His Excellency, the Secretary General, High Admiral," the intercom announced. "I am piping it through to you now."

"Only to me," Wallenstein ordered.

"Of course, High Admiral," the intercom announced.

"My dear Marchioness," the SecGen greeted as his face appeared on Marguerite's viewscreen.

"Your Excellency," she returned.

"I've been thinking about your personnel problems and I believe I have a partial solution for you."

"Indeed?" Wallenstein tried and, so she supposed, likely failed, to sound enthusiastic.

The SecGen's face split in an I've-got-just-the-car-for-you grin. "Why, indeed, yes. I have a nephew, the Earl of Care, a wonderful boy, of the very best breeding. He's always been enthused about space. He's in the Academy's class of 2526 but, I thought, given his flawless parentage and the precedent you've set with graduating the Class of 2525 early, that he'd be just perfect to command the Spirit of Peace. And the boy could hardly hope for a better mentor than yourself."

"A spy, you mean." Marguerite kept her face carefully blank.

"A spy," the SecGen happily agreed. He then added, somewhat ruefully, "Marguerite, he's the price I have to pay to keep your little program going. Be thankful I was able to come up with someone in my own family. The World Food Organization faction wanted to put up the Count of TransIsthmia, Julio Castro-Nyere. I was only able to beg off by citing to the growing troubles there."

Marguerite sighed and said, "I appreciate your intervention, Your Excellency, but have you any idea just how troublesome an untrained captain commanding my flagship will be to me."

"I do, actually," the SecGen agreed, nodding shallowly on the screen. "Some idea, anyway. Have you any idea how troublesome Count Castro-Nyere or one of his children would be to you?"

Wallenstein smiled thinly. "Since you put it that way, Your Excellency, I look forward to the assignment of the Earl of Care as Commanding Officer, UEPF Spirit of Peace, with enthusiasm."

"I knew you would understand . . . Marguerite, Richard's not a bad boy; trust me on that. And remember, we didn't make the world, we just have to deal with it."

No, she thought. We didn't make it; our great-great-grandparents did. The bastards.

* * *

'Not a bad boy,' Wallenstein thought, eyes closed and body leaning back in her chair. I wonder what 'not a bad boy' means in a day when diadems are the latest fashion statement and our ruling class gathers about a monument to peace to watch young girls have their hearts torn out while the cameras transmit the lesson to the masses. Does he restrict himself to pulling the wings from flies? Is that what 'not a bad boy' means in this enlightened age?

On the other hand, based on intelligence reports from TransIsthmia, Count Castro-Nyere would never content himself with pulling the wings from mere flies. That is one sick branch of the human family tree, arguably even worse than my predecessor as Marchioness of Amnesty.

Briefly, Marguerite indulged in a daydream of a future in which she could return to Old Earth, triumphant and vengeful, weeding the ruling class out with a fine tooth comb and elevating to power decent Class Twos and—who knew?—perhaps even some worthy Threes.

But I won't cut their hearts out, she thought. The Earth has plenty of rope and plenty of trees. Those will be good enough.

Wallenstein's face suddenly brightened. Well . . . let's suppose Richard, Earl of Care is a right bastard. So what? I'm High Admiral, after all. If I must, I'll just space the little wretch once we're underway.

* * *

In the shadow of the moon, Jean Monnet's sail began to unfurl as gas was released into the inflatable ring about its perimeter. Had anyone bothered to dig into the records they would have discovered that the orbit that kept the ghost fleet on the dark side of the moon had been chosen for the boneyard precisely so that the sails could be inspected without the worry of the sun's light pushing the ships out of orbit. The little light reflected from the Earth, at the current angle, was not expected to be a problem for the duration of the exercise.

The hull of the Monnet was lit now, in places, both from navigation lights and, emanating from the interior through portholes, light from recovered and repowered cabins. There was still no gravity inside, a situation that in some ways aided but more generally interfered with recovery efforts. Neither would there be any gravity, barring only the moon's insignificant tug, until the crew was certain enough of Monnet's structural integrity to begin to spin her up. And, should they discover that there were problems with the hull, that spin up would not take place until the ship was maneuvered to the only site in the solar system capable of dealing with such problems, the toroidal shipyard just sunward from the system's asteroid belt.

And if we've got to use the shipyard, Marguerite thought, we're just screwed. At least with Monnet. I picked this one because it seemed likely to be our best and easiest recovery. I don't have—Earth doesn't have—the skilled space workers to do a serious repair anymore. I'm hoping that these repairs will go some ways towards fixing that lack.

The sail continued to spread as the filling gas forced the sail's ring further and further outward. It was really quite magnificent in its way, as much so as wind filling the sails of wet navy ships had been in an earlier day. Whatever the Monnet's sail lacked in ruffle and snap, moreover, it more than made up for in size. It was simply huge, even staggeringly huge. Looked at from the side, it utterly dwarfed the ship it was designed to propel, even though that elongated, egg-shaped ship was approximately the size of an old style, wet navy super carrier.