Mine, preparing to fight theirs, or theirs, preparing to fight mine, I wonder. No matter. No one is going to fight anyone right now. With their leader incapacitated, the locals won't start anything—more's the pity—and with my political masters unwilling to fund me or give me the troops I need, I can't start anything. That Wallenstein woman was wasting her time telling me not to do something I can't do anyway.
Still, this is all a house of cards. I sit athwart the Transitway. Ultimately, the Balboans—the ones in power—won't accept that state of affairs. The Balboans who will accept it rule over a tiny corner of the country and dream of ruling it all again. And why should they not dream? There's little for them to steal where they are. And theft is in their very genes.
The general ceased slapping his baton into his palm. He shook his head. As is crime, generally. Even now, they fund themselves—they think I don't know, the fools—by assisting in the drug trade and taking their cut.
Well, if they're criminals at least they're good at it. They cover their tracks well. All the pressure to stop the trade, all the pressure coming from the Federated States, falls on those who have nothing to do with it. And them, the peasant Parilla and his defunct renegade Carrera? They can't deal with the real problem because that real problem is guarded by us and guaranteed by the Federated States.
A house of cards; let one thing come loose and it will all crumble.
On the other hand, the sinister hand, if it all crumbles while the Balboans—the enemy Balboans—are ready and I am not, I just might lose. No glory, no name, no place in the history books. Simple defeat and a footnote to avoid my example. That is intolerable.
Perhaps things will improve when the permanent High Admiral of the United Earth Peace Fleet comes to us, be it Wallenstein or someone else. At least the filth in the Tauran Parliament will listen to him or, if Wallenstein's appointment becomes permanent, her.
SS Hildegard von Mises, Lago Chagres, Balboa Transitway, Balboa, Terra Nova
A dozen or so miles to the southeast of Janier's headquarters there was a ship anchored in the lake, rocking violently in the wind-driven waves. It was well guarded at all times, though the guards only changed at night. It hadn't moved in at least a year. Someday, it would, but only to get rid of the last traces of evidence when it was finally sunk into a deep ocean trench.
Whether the ship would have any people aboard when it went down was a matter of some speculation for the group of guards who manned it in rotation. They reported to Carrera's chief of intelligence, Omar Fernandez, and he was noted for tying up loose ends neatly.
Loose ends?
* * *
There was an evil-looking, weasel-faced man waiting in one of the ship's offices when former High Admiral Martin Robinson and the Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit, were escorted in. Both of the Old Earthers bowed deeply and respectfully to the man. They'd long since had their arrogance beaten out of them.
"I have a little problem," said Legate Omar Fernandez, weasel face splitting in an unpleasant grin.
"A problem, sir?" asked Robinson, worriedly. Arbeit merely shivered in place. Though both measured their years in centuries, and both, as Class Ones and members of the Peerage, had received the best anti-aging therapy Old Earth could offer, both looked to have aged like cheese left in the sun, all wrinkled and hard and dry. This despite neither of them having been subjected to real torture in many months. Indeed, they'd been wrung dry long ago.
"A couple of problems, really," Fernandez said, his eyes flickering once at Arbeit, and then a second time, at Robinson. "One is that we haven't been able to get your old shuttle working again. I don't suppose you know anything about the flight computer?"
Robinson gulped. "No, sir. It wasn't anything in my training. I can fly one but . . ."
Arbeit shivered still more; her naval rank came from her civil position. She didn't even know how to fly one.
"Pity," Fernandez said, in a voice that seemed to contain real regret. "Well, there goes one reason to keep you both alive."
Arbeit crumpled to her knees then, bending until her face rested on the floor and weeping as softly as she was able. Fernandez felt a certain pity for the woman. Had he known her life story; he'd have felt nothing but disgust. He tortured. He didn't generally enjoy it.
"Are there other reasons?" Robinson asked, hopefully. "Could there be?"
Fernandez shrugged. "Possibly. Much depends on whether or not the two of you, or either of you alone, has seen the error of your old ways and decided to join our cause for the betterment of humanity.
"You see," Fernandez continued, "we're getting rid of this ship and what it represents. It should have been done a while ago, but . . . well, never mind.
"The current storm is expected to last another three days. The ship sails in the morning out into the Shimmering Sea where a terrible accident will take place. The crew and your guards, of course, will be evacuated in time . . . since they're mine."
Arbeit heard. She had the sudden image of herself chained in her cell below decks as the waters arose and the rats scurried across her body and face and then the bubbles began leaking from her nose and . . .
She screamed, once, a very long and drawn out, "Nnnooo . . ." before she began to vomit with fear onto the floor.
Robinson was more composed, if only slightly. "Please, Legate," he begged, getting to his knees and clasping hands together, "tell me whatever I can do to help. Anything. Anything!"
Arbeit didn't have words. Even so, the pleading look she gave Fernandez, as she raised her vomit-dripping chin from the floor, echoed Robinson's words, "Anything."
Casa Linda, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
I wish there were something I could do, Lourdes mentally sighed. Anything, really, to bring my husband back. It's so lonely, despite Artemisia, Alena, and the kids. I need my man again.
An unpleasant thought intruded. What if I am the one holding him back? I mean, I thought I was doing the right thing when I chased off Xavier Jimenez with one of Patricio's guns . . . but what if he needs the work and the purpose more than the rest? I just don't know . . . I just don't know.
* * *
Carrera heard nothing, what with the lashing rain, the driving winds, the thunder and the pounding of the surf below. Still, he became aware slowly of a presence or, rather, several of them on the balcony with him. One, he felt, in the chair next to but slightly behind his own, was very small.
"Hello, Ham," he said, over the natural roars surrounding them.
"Dad," the boy answered.
"What are you doing up?"
"Thunder woke me . . . my guards said you were out here . . . didn't think you should be alone."
"You know," Carrera said, "for an eight year old, you're a pretty bright kid."
"Chip off the old block," the boy answered, as if by rote. "But, really, Dad, you shouldn't be alone up here."
"Maybe not," the father half conceded.
"I like the storms, too," Hamilcar said. "Or, at least, I'm drawn to them."
" 'Chip off the old block,' " Carrera echoed, adding, more softly, "and in more ways than that."
The boy looked out over the trees to the sea. A flash of lightning showed fierce waves. "Will our boat be in any danger?" he asked. The boat he referred to was the family yacht, at fifty-four feet nothing too extravagant compared to what could have been purchased. Rarely used, and then more often by Carrera's staff than by anyone else, the boat rested in a small harbor at the base of the steep slope that led from the casa to the sea.