Valid moral judgment is not a question of saying, "Wouldn't it be nice?" or observing, "Isn't it so awful?" and then insisting that the universe be or cease to be whatever the speaker thinks would be nice, tomorrow, or is bad, today. Valid moral judgment must also be realistic judgment. It does not become so merely for taking a favored fantasy and insisting it is reality. And yet so many, throughout human history, have done just that.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Furiocentro Convention Center, Balboa City, Terra Nova
Nearly everyone who really mattered in the Legion was there: Four thousand officers, six thousand optios, centurions, and sergeants major, about four thousand warrants, and as many junior non-coms as could be spared from their day to day duties. Even the schools had been shut down for two days to allow the cadres and some senior students to attend, while key civilians who worked for the Legion had also been dragged in.
The Golden Eagle of the overarching Legion del Cid, plus those of the legions, themselves, First through Fourth, also golden, stood in a rank on an elevated dais, legionary eagles flanking the sacred eagle of the entire Legion. Ahead of those, and slightly lower, were sixteen silver eagles. Ten of these belonged to the ten tercios, or regiments. Then there were the eagles for the classis, the fleet, and the ala, the aviation regiment. The two for the training units, initial entry and leader and specialist training, stood alongside that of the Opposing Force Tercio, composed mostly of highly combat experienced expatriate Volgan paratroopers. Technically the Volgans were not part of the Legion, their official contract being with the Foreign Military Training Group. Some of the Volgans were now citizens of the Republic, others not. Lastly, on the left as the eagles faced, was the eagle for the Tercio de Cadetes, the elite youth regiment, itself nearly twelve thousand strong, in six schools, and not counting the adult cadres for those schools.
The place was stuffed to roughly twice its capacity; there were no chairs as there hadn't been room. (All the chairs sat outside under tarps.) Moving everyone to the Center, too, had been a logistic task of no little magnitude, involving use of busses, airplanes, airships, hovercraft, helicopters, Balboa's one useable train line and, in a few cases, privately owned vehicles and even movement by foot.
Every military man and woman present wore either undress Class B khakis or the mostly green, pixilated tiger-striped, slant-pocketed battle dress worn by the Legion when at home in Balboa. Mufti-clad civilians were present, most of them either propagandists for Professor Ruiz's propaganda group, operating out of the university, or scientists and researchers from Obras Zorilleras, the Legion's research and development arm.
Standing in the back, behind closed doors, Raul Parilla, Presidente de la Republica, and Patricio Carrera waited with McNamara.
Parilla, short and stocky, with brown skin highlighted by steel-gray hair, wore mufti, as befitted a civil chief magistrate. Conversely, Mac and Carrera wore their battle dress, Mac carrying his badge of rank, the baton of the Sergeant Major-General of the Legion, while Carrera's battle dress carried only his name, his service, and, on his collar, two small pin-on eagles surrounded by wreaths for his rank. He didn't even bother with the gold-buckled leather belt that most senior legates wore. The trappings of rank and power had never meant much to Patricio Carrera.
"You look nervous, Patricio," Raul said.
Carrera grunted and gave a curt nod. "Simple explanation: I am nervous. I loathe speaking in public. Always have."
"That's not quite true, you know," Parilla corrected. "I've seen you warm to your audience and your subject before. What you hate is waiting to speak in public, fearing you won't do very well. Though why this should be, I don't know."
"He's right," Mac added. "And on that note, gentlemen, if you'll permit, I go announce you."
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Bldg 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa
"Malcoeur, you fat, slimy toad," shouted General Janier, the Tauran Union commander in Balboa. Tall and slender, handsome after a fashion but for an unfortunately large nose, the general was dressed in his favorite costume, a replica of that of a marshal of Janier's hero, Napoleon.
"Oui, mon general?" the toady answered as he filled the lower half of the door to Janier's officer with his wide and short bulk. They called the Gauls, "Frogs," and in Malceour's case, the description was apt, from his wide bulk to his shortened, frog-like, pug face. The toady, a Tauran Union—which is to say Gallic Army—major, served as the great man's aide de camp.
"What is this meeting the locals are holding? Why was I not informed? Twenty thousand of them show up on our doorstep and I wasn't informed!"
"We had no warning, mon general. Apparently the word went out late last night and—voila!—they were suddenly here."
Janier gave Malcoeur a suspicious look. Was it possible the toad was enjoying his commander's discomfiture? No, impossible; so Janier thought.
"Nonsense, you fat fool," the general said. "This is an army of uncultured, uncivilized barbarians, people without tradition or experience or higher military education. They do not simply give orders and move. Even we could not assemble such a force so quickly."
We likely could not, agreed the aide, silently. But they seem to be able to. One suspects there are standing orders and plans in place to move like that, though we do not have adequate access to their plans and operations department. And we would have informed you a bit sooner, except that you were busy fucking your mistress in the apartment you carved out for her from military offices, just down the hall.
Malcoeur was an ass-licker, so all on the staff agreed, but he was an ass-licker who could still think. And he was enjoying Janier's feeling like a fool.
"Go and fetch me the G-2"—the intelligence officer for the Tauran Union forces in the Transitway—"and bring the miscreant to me by the scruff of his neck," Janier ordered. "I am confident that after we have a little chat he will not in the future be so remiss."
Rome, Province of Italy, Old Earth
Almost, almost, Marguerite felt confident enough of her position to skip proskynesis before the SecGen. But, no, this is too important to both the Earth and myself to let pique and arrogance get in the way.
Moore stood beside her at the grand door to the former Papal apartment. The two waited while the major domo announced, "Captain and Admiral pro tem Marguerite Wallenstein, Class Two, for an audience with the Secretary General."
Moore said, "I'll be waiting when you've finished, Marguerite."
Clutching a valise in one hand, Marguerite nodded and advanced alone. She showed more confidence than she truly felt. The soft, plush rug underfoot muffled the sound of her high, black uniform boots. At a spot on the carpet about a dozen meters from the SecGen's large and ornate desk, Wallenstein placed the valise down and dropped to her knees. Leaning forward, she then placed both hands on the carpet ahead of her. Keeping eye contact until the last second, Wallenstein then bent and kissed the carpet three times, on the last kiss leaving her forehead to the floor. She straightened out until her breasts and belly were flush to the carpet and stayed that way.