The Lotus Eaters

Anno Condita 471 Presidential Palace, Old Balboa, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova

The government which had been electorally defeated by Raul Parilla, running with the support of the Legion, the same government which had been kept alive by the Tauran Union and the Federated States, didn't control much of the country. It owned some of the police. It had most of the old city, which was but a fraction of the new, and not the largest fraction at that. It had some government buildings, the national cathedral, a museum, a few monuments, an opera house, and some very nice urban residential areas along with some wretched ones. Also it had the Presidential Palace, a sort of Venetian palazzo, complete with courtyard, and even some trixies. Wire mesh over the courtyard kept the trixies in and the antaniae out. Neither species was very happy about that.

"I want him dead! I want the ijo de puta dead!" The patriarch of the Rocaberti family fairly shrieked at his son in law, Belisario Endara-Rocaberti. Belisario had been named for the republic's greatest hero, Belisario Carrera, multi-great grandfather-in-law of Patricio Carrera. No one, least of all Belisario himself, thought he quite deserved the name. Frankly, at five feet, six and with a girth of two thirds of that, he just didn't look the part. Nor was he, as he'd have cheerfully told anyone, the stuff of which heroes were made. Sometimes women found that honesty charming. Other times, for some women, his not inconsiderable wealth and prominent family name were more attractive.

Still, he had his virtues. Realism was one of them. Young Endara-Rocaberti walked to his uncle's second floor office window and drew the curtains.

"Do you remember whose statue is out there, uncle," he asked.

The pseudo-president scowled, his jowls trembling with rage. "Of course I know. Your namesake. The peasant bastard."

"Not just my namesake," Endara-Rocaberti corrected. "My mother and father just gave me the first name. That's not too uncommon, really. But your great enemy, your dangerous enemy, has the last name."

"He's no blood of the original."

"No, he's not," the nephew agreed, shaking his head. "He's worse for us. He gave up his own country and citizenship. He adopted the name of the clan he married into, the real Carrera clan. He became one of the people and as one of the people he's defended the people.

"Uncle, he's popular, he's dangerously popular."

"Fine. Now tell me something I don't know," the rump president said, bitterly.

Belisario Endara-Rocaberti remained silent.

Forcing himself back to a degree of calm, the eldest of the family continued, "Two days ago Donati at the Aduana disappears. This morning several hundred kilos of uncut, prime huánuco was seized. Uncut, I tell you! And it's all the doing of that motherfucker Parilla and his dog with the pilfered name, Carrera. Whatever it takes, however you have to do it, make those two disappear. And soon.

"On the plus side, at least Donati didn't tell them anything of the major stash in the city."

Belisario chewed on his lower lip for some moments before answering. "I have a warning, Uncle. I can find the men to do this. Our friends in Santander will probably be willing to help. Or perhaps the Taurans. But such a thing would not be without risk. How do you suppose they got Donati to talk so quickly? How do you suppose they got to Donati so quickly? Parilla and Carrera, especially Carrera, are men of complete ruthlessness. If we try and fail the penalty will be great. I think you should wait until Pigna is ready and in position."

"No. Just get rid of them and let me worry about the risks."

"I shall try, Uncle. On your head be it." Except it won't. It will be on all our heads.