The Lotus Eaters

Executive Complex, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova

The Honorable Thomas Wallis, Ambassador to the Republic of Balboa from the Federated States of Columbia, shared few of the values of his more enlightened kindred. Wallis was an ordinarily friendly faced, medium height, slightly heavyset man, who wore his suit somewhat uncomfortably. There were reasons for that, as there were for the lack of shared values, as there were reasons why he had been made ambassador, to the complete surprise of himself and everyone else.

The reason for the lack of comfort when wearing a suit, and for the rest, was that Wallis had been a career soldier before entering his country's foreign service. Surprise or not, given how badly the Federated States had needed the troops of the Legion for the campaigns in Sumer and Pashtia, and given how few career soldiers it had in its ranks, Wallis had been a natural. Parilla and Carrera could talk to him, with confidence that what they said would be understood, and that their concerns would find a sympathetic ear.

"Ambassador," Carrera began, ". . . Tom, I don't know what you and the Federated States want from us. We're already doing everything possible to stop the trade through or near Balboa. The classis is engaged almost entirely in drug suppression."

"Which the Federated States pays for," Wallis corrected.

"Which the Federated States pays most, but not all, of the operating costs for," Carrera further corrected. "Which is a drop in the bucket, anyway, compared to salaries, food, wear and tear on the ships . . ."

"Which you would have to pay for anyway," Wallis finished.

"Which we would have to pay for anyway," Carrera conceded, with a sigh. "But that doesn't change that we're still doing everything we can."

"And yet the drugs still get through," Wallis said.

Parilla suppressed a sneer, not so much at Wallis as at the policies of his country. Still, he said, "They wouldn't if you hadn't split our country."

"The Tauran Union is not running drugs," Wallis insisted.

"No, they're not," Parilla agreed, with a shake of his old, gray head. "At least so far as I know, they're not. But the stinking corrupt oligarchs you people insisted have a safe base in the capital are running the drugs."

Wallis inclined his head, skeptically. "Can you prove that?"

"We're working on it," Carrera answered.

"Right. And you know what the rump government says?"

"I can imagine," Parilla said. "But they're lying sacks of shit."

"I could stop the drug trade," Carrera said, a wicked, nasty tone in his voice. "I could stop it easily."

Don't go there, Patricio, thought Parilla. Though his friend was a lot better, a lot more human, these ten or twelve local months, there was still a monster lurking inside him, Parilla believed, which monster could emerge without warning. He sensed that monster's presence now.

"I'd just take all the drugs we seize in a year," Carrera continued. "Then I'd poison them—I might have to go to Volga for a suitable poison, something with a delayed effect, and then sell them to distributors in the Federated States and Tauran Union. No living drug users; no drug problem."

He sighed and Parilla sensed the monster retreating.

"Fortunately or unfortunately, though, I've given up the power to do that."

Fortunately, Wallis thought. Because whether that would solve the problem or not, it would likely be considered an act of war.

"Will the Federated States support us if we take measures against the rump government?" Parilla asked.

Wallis shook his head. "In the absence of overwhelming proof that they're guilty, probably not. Even with that proof, many in my government would not believe it. And even if they did believe it, the Tauran Union would not let you take serious measures against their charges. There is a minority in the FSC—a large minority—that would like you to simply disappear."

"And still you expect us to do something about this beyond what we're doing," Carrera said. "Well fine, but you won't like that either."

Wallis answered, "The way you might be inclined to do it? Probably not. But Pat, it's not like the Federated States isn't willing to foot the bill in exchange for a little control. And we'll help you with any intelligence we have."

* * *

Later, after Wallis had left, Parilla asked with exasperation, "Why Patricio? Why the Hell do you feel compelled to say things like that?"

"Because it's the truth," Carrera shrugged. "When the Federated States invaded this country all those years ago—and remember, I was part of that invasion—we killed your people, now my people, because of a problem that originated in the Federated States. I didn't care too much about that at the time, but I do now. It was wrong and it was useless. The sheer fact that Wallis has a reason to come and bitch at us now shows us how useless it was.

"I mean, really, Raul; the sheer arrogance of the bastards, blaming Balboa for their own weakness." Carrera practically spat out the last word.

When Patricio goes native, Parilla thought, he really goes native.

"I need to talk to the full Senate," Carrera said.

And when he says he's going to subordinate himself to something; he keeps his word . . . even if he has to wrap himself in chains to do it.

"I'll set it up." Parilla chewed on the inside of his cheek for a few moments, eyes darting upwards as he pulled up a mental calendar. "They're not meeting in full session for about four days. Will that do?"

"That would be fine. Thanks, Raul."

Parilla nodded, briskly, then asked, "Just out of curiosity, what do you want from the Senate and, since I preside over it, me?"

"We need to do something ostentatious to keep the FSC at least neutral."

Parilla coughed. "Ostentatious?"

"Yes," Carrera agreed. "Ostentatious. An official declaration of war would be 'ostentatious.' "