The Lotus Eaters

Anno Condita 471 Headquarters, 22nd Tercio (ex-351st Tsarist Guards Airborne) Centro de Entrenamiento Legionario, Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova

The little convoy consisted of a wheeled armored car in the front, with another taking up the rear, a truck carrying a score of fierce visaged, turbaned riflemen, and a single armored Phaeton sedan carrying Carrera, a gravid Lourdes, and their eldest, Hamilcar. As the sedan came to a halt in front of the brown and green painted, arched metal building that served as the headquarters for the 22nd Tercio, ex-Volgan Colonel, now Legate, Ivan Samsonov stood on the wooden steps fronting the Quonset hut and rendered a hand salute. The legate's wife, Irena Samsonova, stood by one side, his adjutant by the other. Irena was a stout women, kindly faced, and dressed in a simple white, knee length frock, suitable for the climate. Of Legate Samsonov's daughter, Yelena, there was no sign.

The turbaned Pashtians were out of the truck and surrounding the convoy before Mitchell even had turned off the sedan's engine. Carrera emerged, too, and held the door for Hamilcar and Lourdes. She looked radiant despite, or perhaps because of, the prominent bulge in her midsection.

Carrera stuck his head in the sedan's still open door and said, "Mitch, we'll be a while. Why don't you take a break and try some Volgan food?"

Mitchell was easily bright enough to break that code: Nose around and check on everything from morale to hygiene.

"Roger that, boss," the Warrant answered.

A company of Volgan paratroops sang a martial song as they marched by the headquarters. Carrera could make out the syllables but couldn't understand the words. To him it sounded like:

'Put' dalyok u nas s toboyu,

Veselej, soldat, glyadi!

V'yotsya, v'yotsya znam'a polkovoye,

Komandiry vperedi.

Soldaty v put', v put', v put'!

A dlya tebya, rodnaya,

Est' pochta polevaya.

Proshaj! Truba zov'ot,

Soldaty - v pohod!

The Pashtians of Hamilcar's guard and the Volgans had a history of cutting each others' throats. Carrera glanced from singing paratroopers to glaring riflemen and decided, No, probably not today.

Catchy tune, Carrera thought. I'll have to have Samsonov have it translated into Spanish. He also observed that the Volgan troops were not acne faced young conscripts. They looked older, more mature, more confident; professionals, as advertised. As Opposing Forces for the Legion's training center, the Volgans of the company passing by wore the dark, Sachsen-designed tarnung, or camouflage, uniforms. Others wore different uniforms at different times. Samsonov, himself, wore the legionary pixilated tiger stripes in jungle colors. The 22nd was one of only three regiments on Terra Nova with its own costume department, the others being Fernandez's intelligence Tercio and the 14th Cazador Tercio. Not particular tall, the Volgan commander gave the impression of vast solidity and strength, topped by a round head, itself fronted by a face that looked both highly sincere and very intelligent.

Noting Carrera interest in the passing company, Samsonov asked, "You like singing, Duque?"

Carrera nodded, "Yes, Ivan, for its own sake and as a weapon of war both."

"Yes, well, they not that good. Someday you come, hear Regiment's chorus. They are good."

"I'll do that," Carrera agreed, while thinking, If I can find time to wipe my ass, anyway. "As a matter of fact, if the chorus, or even a part of it, is available, I wonder if your lovely wife wouldn't escort Lourdes . . ."

"Excellent idea," Samsonov agreed, smiling broadly. He said something to his adjutant in their own tongue, causing the adjutant to nod briskly, then turn on his heels and enter the building behind.

He didn't have to say anything to Irena; she understood the English her husband and Carrera shared well enough. She floated off the steps with a grace and fluidity surprising in a woman of her solidity.

As Irena took Lourdes by the arm and began to lead her off, Hamilcar cast a glance at his chief of guards. Protect my mother. At the guard chief's word, a quarter of the twenty guards immediately fell out of their perimeter and formed around Lourdes and Irena.

Carrera watched only for a moment, to make sure Lourdes was comfortable, before turning his attention back to Samsonov and asking, "By the way, what does the song mean?"

Samsonov stopped and thought for a moment. "It means . . . 'The march before us with you is long . . . soldier take livelier look . . . regimental banner whips and twists . . . commanders are up front. Soldiers on march'—that chorus—'And for you your own field mail is waiting but . . . Listen? . . . no, Hark!', maybe Hark . . . 'trumpet calls . . . and soldiers march on.' "

"Have one of your people send a copy to Professor Ruiz, would you. Along with some trooper with a good voice to sing it for him."

"Certainly, Duque," the Volgan agreed. "And now, breakfast, yes? Men eat better here than they used to. And we don't have to grow food ourselves. So when they get fat, I have more time available to work fat off. It more than evens out." Samsonov called something into the headquarters and positioned himself by Carrera's left side.

Carrera walked with head cocked, hands clasped behind his back. "Tell me about your regiment's capabilities, please. And with no fluff; if you can't do something, I need to know."

Samsonov shrugged, "As you wish. We were one of better parachute infantry regiments of former Tsarist Army. You know this. Possibly we are best. Towards end, with your help, we could pay and feed men when rest of division going to scrap heap. Many good men transfer over to us from other regiments in 117th Guards Airborne Division before we leave Rodina. NCOs, Praporschiks—you would say 'warrant officers'—and officers; most have much combat experience. Some older ones fought in Pashtia. Other's on borders during break up of Empire. Most other ranks too. All volunteers. Many long service troops. I am prejudiced, I know, but I think we are better than same number from FSC 39th Airborne Division, maybe not so good as FSC Rangers. . . . Then again, maybe."

Carrera nodded. "Pay?" he asked.

"Very good, by Volgan standards. My privates' five hundred and twenty-five Federated States Drachma a month is five or six times as much as mid level manager in Volga now. This part of reason morale is high. Plenty to send home, plenty to have good time here when not on duty."

"Problems?"

"Still we have no Orthodox chaplain. Many men do not care. More do."

"I am looking into that. Kuralski has some prospects. He's had a hard time finding one to suit. Thought he had one, but that priest wanted to be made a captain."

Samsonov did not understand. "So make captain."

"No," Carrera shook his head emphatically. "I don't generally commission lawyers, doctors, pilots . . . specialists like those can be, should be, warrant officers or enlisted. Only leaders of men get commissioned. No commissioned chaplains unless they go through the same route as other officer candidates. I don't suppose your regiment had a combat experienced Orthodox priest?"

Samsonov snorted. "In Tsar's Army? Hah! Psalm singers stayed behind while men went out to fight."

"Thought not. We'll keep trying."

Seeing that Samsonov was content with that, Carrera changed the subject. "Ivan, what kinds of mission are your men capable of? I don't mean being an Opposing Force to train my troops. What kinds of combat operations can you do?" Carrera looked down at Hamilcar and added, "You can speak freely in front of my son."

Samsonov answered, "We can do air parachute drops to seize vital targets: airports, bridges, chokepoints. Airmobile operations also, if someone else provide helicopters and aircraft. We get helicopters?"

Carrera nodded. "Working on that, too."

"We do also most typical anti-guerrilla missions: ambush, raid, reconnoiter, counter-terror. I don't usually care for counter-terror, bad for discipline."

Carrera knew that counter-terror meant to the Volgans pretty much what it had meant to himself and the Legion in Sumer and Pashtia. It meant not just destroying terrorists so much as inflicting greater terror than terrorists on the same target population: hangings, burnings, mutilation, massacre. Never, officially, rape but that had happened, too. Which often led to more hangings, of course.

"How about amphibious landings?"

"Difficult. That was mission of Naval Infantry. Perhaps we could if beachhead not contested." The Volgan considered that for a moment more, then amended, "Probably we could, with a little practice."

"Would your men fight for Balboa?"

The Volgan hesitated. He said he wanted and honest answer, but can this one take an honest answer? Deciding that Carrera likely could, he said, "Realistically, no. They do not think of themselves as mercenaries. Even though they—we—are. They don't know any more of Balboa than jungle they are training in. Those . . . and bars and brothels. But they fight for me. And if good reason, I will fight for you. Do not expect suicide mission from me, my regiment is my country; I must preserve it above all. Is most important consideration. But I would be willing to undertake some real operations. It would be good for Regiment. They get . . . soft . . . without some fighting."

Carrera was content with that for now. Reaching the mess hall, Samsonov called the mess to attention and led the way to the officers' area. Carrera did not really approve of interrupting the troop's meal, nor of the fact that he, Hamilcar, and Samsonov sat down without waiting in line. An orderly brought them their meals: kasha—a sort of porridge with meat or fish—meat in this case, bread, butter and jam, Balboan sausage, hard boiled eggs, some kind of pastry, and glasses of hot tea. At a glance and nod from Samsonov, another Volgan officer, also sitting for breakfast, hurriedly finished and left. The officer hid his distaste at passing between two of Hamilcar's Pashtians on his way out. There was one more Volgan there; a youngish looking Tribune whose name tag read "Chapayev." The boy ate mechanically, with no real interest in his food, as if greatly preoccupied with some difficult problem. Oddly, Samsonov didn't indicate that Chapayev should leave.

Carrera dipped a spoon into the kasha, trying to hide a lack of enthusiasm. Again he changed the subject. "How goes your training?"

Samsonov pointed at the tribune. "Victor, tell the duque how training goes in your company."

Chapayev gulped before answering. "My Spanish is . . . atrocity. Casus Belli, all on own. I try."

Nodding, as if searching for words and discovering that, perhaps, he had enough, if only just, Chapayev continued, "Is great problem, learning be like Tauran infantry. Some have many drill . . . no . . . drills. We, too. Others . . . none."

"That's so," answered Carrera. "Also, it's hard to be what you're not. I understand that. Also, I don't want you to lose everything you already have, just for a little more accurate presentation of the various Tauran forces."

"Tell me, how are you training for helicopter missions without helicopters?" That question was directed at Samsonov, who answered that his troops were doing most of their work on mock ups, maps, blackboards.

"Fine for now. Kuralski is working on recruiting more helicopter pilots for your detachment of IM-71s when they arrive."

* * *

"What did you think of the Volgans, Ham?" Carrera asked as the convoy sped over the gravel road in the jungle-striped, fast diminishing light.

"Besides that some of my Pashtians hate the Volgans guts, Dad, they seemed pretty decent."

The father looked directly at the boy, raising one eyebrow.

"Oh. You wanted an assessment. Okay, Dad. Morale seems high, probably because however shitty—"

"Hamilcar!"

"Sorry, Mom," the boy sniffed, then turned his attention back to his father. "However poor their living conditions now, they're a lot better than they were back in Volga. They seem disciplined, Dad, maybe a little too disciplined. And they put too much into appearances. Lots of painted rocks and tree trunks at Fuerte Cameron. They know they're an elite group and like that a lot. Proud, I think. From the demonstrations Legate Samsonov gave us, they seem pretty sharp on the attack."

"They rehearsed all that, you know," Carrera said. "Don't take it at face value."

The boy nodded. "I figured they probably did, Dad. Even so, they couldn't have done so well, even with rehearsals, if they weren't pretty good to begin with. I mean, that mortar fire was close to their assault line."

"Good," Carrera said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the Phaeton's cushions. "Very good."

He felt Lourdes stiffen suddenly, next to him.

"Are you all right, hon?" he asked, sitting up and opening his eyes.

She twitched again, as if half in surprise and half in pain. A literally expectant smile lit her face. "I'm fine, Patricio, but could we perhaps go to the hospital rather than home?"

"Mom," Hamilcar asked, "are you going to have the baby now? Cool."

* * *

Ah, good, thought Victor Chapayev, as he pulled up his email and saw that he had a message from his wife, Veronica Chapayeva, back in Saint Nicholasburg, in Volga. In Balboa he lived the life of an aesthete, sending most of his pay home to maintain her. No whore's for Chapayev. Little vodka either. He worked, he studied, he wrote her every day. Indeed, it was in good part the tribune's dedication that had caused Samsonov to elevate him to a company command (as an official part of the Foreign Military Training Group, the 22nd still organized by battalions and companies rather than by cohorts and maniples) rather rapidly.

Chapayev stifled a yawn. It had been a long day with his company, commencing with physical training at six in the morning and just ending now, well after sundown, after the after action review that followed the day's training mission.

Opening the email, Chapayev scanned the short missive. It was even shorter than usual, a bare five sentences: I miss you. I love you. When are you coming home? My mother is ill. I need more money.

Chapayev shook his head, thinking, My little Veronica, you never were much for the literary. He fired off a quick response, though at that it was still longer and more thoughtful than the message he'd received, then opened up his bank account and made a transfer of a couple of hundred FSD to the joint account he held with his wife.

That transaction completed, Victor shut down his computer and walked to the radio. Turning it on to the only station in Balboa that played classical music, he sat beside it, closed his eyes, and indulged his only real interest besides his wife and his job. With the stars rising, and the murmur of the antaniae outside—mnnbt, mnnbt, mnnbt—Chapayev closed his eyes and let the music take him to sleep.