Wallenstein slowly shook her head. But I think it has more to do with the emotional satisfaction of having triumphed over a stifling Christianity and taken the Vatican for ourselves. Certainly, when the last pope was burned by the Ara Pacis, we at least half-intended to show that we were the power in the world . . . and Christianity was dead.
Of course, Christianity is demonstrably not dead on Terra Nova, though it is rather arguable how Christian it is. And it wasn't just Christianity we wanted to extirpate here; all the Abrahamic religions had to go, except for Islam which had earned itself a place.
Marguerite shivered, unconsciously, in fear for her planet. At least it wasn't very "Christian" of Carrera to nuke an Islamic city in revenge for his first wife and their children. I wonder what he'll do if and when he finds out that Martin was at least partially responsible for that. Can a couple of hundred light years be space enough to shield Old Earth from a vindictiveness of that magnitude?
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
A great black shape stood in the open doorway to the casa, framed by two of the guards the Legion still kept on Carrera's person and residence, part of the couple of hundred in and around the house. The guards were Pashtian Scouts in the Legion's employ. From their point of view they were actually there to guard Carrera's son, Hamilcar, whom some of them, or perhaps all of them, had decided was the avatar of God. They could hardly do that without at the same time guarding Carrera.
The black shape was Sergeant Major John McNamara. Though considerably older, old enough to have retired from the Federated States Army a dozen years before, and though considerably less good looking, Mac was otherwise a near twin for Jimenez. Both were tall, black, whippet thin, and simply mean looking. Appearances, moreover, were not the only points of relation. McNamara was married to Jimenez's niece, Artemisia, about four decades his junior and pregnant with their second child.
A former Miss Balboa, even pregnant Arti still turned heads and made younger men groan with desire.
"He's inside," Mac said. "I got Arti to take away Lourdes' submachine gun. She wouldn't shoot a pregnant woman . . . though she just might have shot me. They're together now in the kitchen with Tribune Cano's wife, Alena."
Speaking English, his native tongue, McNamara had a lilting Maiden Islands accent and a tendency to mispronounce the diphthong "th." Speaking Spanish, as they were now, he was accentless.
Under the cover of returning the salutes of the guards on the door, Jimenez affected not to notice the sigh of relief breathed by his driver, Rico, at the news that Lourdes had been disarmed and was, so to speak, being watched.
"Have you talked to him?" Jimenez asked.
Mac shook his head. "I figured it would be better if we double teamed him, while Lourdes is out of the picture."
Jimenez nodded slowly. While neither man had much doubt that he was much smarter than McNamara, likewise neither had any doubt that the Sergeant Major General of the Legion was much the wiser, much the better at handling men, much the more "people smart."
"Where's Patricio?" Jimenez asked.
"Up on the back porch, drinking." Mac switched to English to mutter, "He does too fockin' much o' t'at."
"Let's go up and chat, then, shall we?"
"I'll grab anot'er bottle and some glasses," Mac replied, still in English. Then, switching to Spanish, he said, "Rico, you can park the car around back. You know your way to the guards' mess, right? Hope you like Pashtian food."
"I got used to it, Sergeant Major," the driver answered.
Rome, Province of Italy, United Earth
Old Earth transportation was, for the most part, fairly conventional. The styles might have excited comment on Terra Nova, the mechanics would not have. The big difference was that, at least on the reasonably prosperous parts of the other world, private conveyance was common. On Old Earth, it was the perquisite of the high and mighty.
"The SecGen wanted to chat with you before you made your presentation to the Consensus the day after tomorrow," said Wallenstein's escort, another Class Two named Moore, as their car sped through Rome's uncrowded streets. "He told the Admiralty to stuff it, that they could see you after important matters were taken care of."
In appearance, Moore seemed a near brother to the captain. Albeit a bit taller, he was likewise blonde and blue-eyed, as were most of Old Earth's ruling class.
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" she asked. "Gravity aboard ship is less than here and I find I'm very tired."
"He assumed that," Moore answered. "You're set to meet tomorrow, over lunch."
Lunch with the SecGen? Wallenstein mused. Or am I supposed to lunch the SecGen? Well, whatever the market will bear. I'll bring kneepads in a satchel, just in case.
"How did he take the news of the loss of the High Admiral and the Marchioness of Amnesty?" Marguerite asked. Note: I didn't say "deaths;" I said "loss."
Moore sighed. "Rather hard, actually. He and the Marchioness were very close."
"Did he . . . ?" Wallenstein let the question trail off.
"Yes," Moore answered. "The entire Consensus accepted your version of events." He knew from her tone that Wallenstein had been worried about that.
Now Marguerite sighed, and hers was with relief. If there had been any suspicion that she had turned the High Admiral and Lucretia Arbeit, the Marchioness, over to the Terra Novans, she'd have been for the chop, she was quite sure.
Fortunately, the only people who know that are myself and another Class Two who wants a caste lift. Oh, and Carrera back on Terra Nova . . . but he's not likely to tell anyone.
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera didn't look up as McNamara and Jimenez took seats to ether side of him around a small wooden table on a largish balcony that overlooked Terra Nova's greatest ocean, the Mar Furioso. Indeed, he didn't acknowledge their presence until Mac placed another bottle of whiskey, along with two glasses, next to the nearly drained bottle sitting by the ice bucket in the middle of the table. At that, Carrera only said, "Welcome."
Jimenez thought, It's funny; despite the gray hair he actually looks younger than he has in years.
Mac filled the silence that followed Carrera's one word by taking the open bottle and pouring what was left, half and half, into the two glasses he'd brought from the bar.
"Lotsa history made right here," Mac commented, as he transferred ice from the bucket to the glasses.
Eyes still affixed on the ocean in the distance, Carrera said, "That's so lame, Top. You couldn't come up with a better opening line than that?"
"Man's got to play the hand he was dealt, sir," McNamara said, while plinking ice into his own glass.
"I suppose," Carrera conceded. He turned his eyes from the ocean to McNamara's dark, seamed face. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you? Lourdes won't buy me any. I haven't felt up to driving in a while. And she's threatened all the help with death if they give me one."
Tobacco on Terra Nova had been infected with a local virus that tended to make it much less carcinogenic than was the case on Earth. Even so, it couldn't precisely be called good for anyone.
"Sure, boss," the grizzled older man said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a pack of Carrera's preferred brand, Tecumsehs, imported from First Landing in the Federated States, and a lighter. These he slid across the table.