The Lotus Eaters (12 page)

Carrera still used the
Casa
for business, and would eventually return to it full time, once the legions had finished deploying from the island to the mainland.

"Sig" Siegel caught him on the upper back balcony of the house, the balcony that looked out over the sea. Carrera was yawning so deeply that he wasn't aware of Sig's arrival until Siegel gave forth an artificial cough.

Carrera stifled the yawn and looked up at the slightly portly, teddy bear look alike. "Oh, sorry, Sig," he said.

"You all right, boss?" Sig asked, his voice full of concern.

Carrera nodded. "For certain values of 'all right,' I am. I'm just tired all the time. You would think a year of fucking off and doing nothing would have been rest enough but . . ." He let that sentence die, incomplete, then said, "The funny thing is I'm slightly
less
tired since I got back to work."

Siegel noticed a four pointed sort of jack Carrera was twirling in the fingers of the hand he had not used to stifle the yawn. "Caltrops?" Sig asked. "Is that what this is about, boss? Caltrops."

Carrera tossed the thing, casually, to the table top, next to a closed notebook atop which was a manila file folder. One sharply pointed arm ended up oriented directly upward. Given the shape defined by the points, it was the only possible orientation.

"That, and a few other things I want you to take charge of."

"I'm listening, boss."

"We need something to erect a wide area, instant obstacle. Scatterable mines are out, since the Tauros watch sales of those closely. Besides, I'm not at all sure that scatterable mines can't be remotely sensed, given a sophisticated enough set of sensors." Carrera's eyes shot upward, toward the United Earth Peace Fleet.

"We suffer from a serious dearth of reliable allies, Sig," Carrera said, conversationally. "I trust Sada in Sumer. Pashtia is sort of"—Carrera stuck out one hand over the table, palm down, and wriggled it—"reliable. I don't trust the Federated States past any given election. And the Taurans are, of course, the enemy. Zhong Guo might be.

"Our ability to do things in secret here in Balboa," he continued, "is limited; too many eyes on us. Other states in Colombia del Norte and Uhuru are overrun with Kosmos"—Cosmopolitan Progressives—"who stick their unwelcome noses into everything. Our Volgan contacts are good for some things, not so good for others, and we always have to wonder who's reporting what to whom.

"On the other hand, sometimes the enemy of my enemy really is my friend."

About that Siegel said nothing.

"I've made a deal with Cochin," Carrera said, "to provide us with labor, some manufacturing ability, and testing grounds. What I want you to do is to go there. Make contracts to produce these things, tens of millions of them. Then run some experiments to perfect a way to spread them over a considerable area in massive numbers."

Carrera moved the file folder to one side and opened the notebook, reorienting the latter to show Siegel a sketch drawing of a barrel, stuffed with caltrops, with a linear shaped charge to cut the top from the barrel and an explosive base to expel the contents. The caption on the sketch said, "Briar Patch."

Siegel looked it over and exclaimed, "That's a very cool idea, sir. But there are some problems."

"More, maybe, than you imagine," Carrera said. "These things are going to have to be stored, some of them in the open, for anything up to years. And in one of the wettest countries on the planet."

"That's what I meant," Sig explained. "A high explosive for a projecting charge will damage the contents. And low explosives tend to ruin themselves over time by absorbing water."

"Right. Figure it out."

"Why not hand this to
Obras Zorilleras
to develop?" Sig asked.

"Fernandez tells me there's at least one informer in OZ, but probably only one."

"Oh. Oh, fuck."

"It's not that big a deal," Carrera said, with an indifferent shrug. "Better one we know about than one we don't. But some things, really secret things, we can't send through OZ anymore."

Siegel nodded. "You said three projects, boss."

"Right. Actually, I said, 'A few
more
.' Here's another one." Carrera flipped the page to a different sketch, this one captioned, "Sarissa."

"I want you to develop a barrage balloon, to be used in mass, and suitable for making it very hazardous for jet aircraft to overfly an area without going to a height that makes them vulnerable to air defense. Also, I want you to develop a very large fuel-air-explosive mine that can be pre-emplaced, but not filled until needed. And it has to be able to be remotely detonated"—again Carrera's eyes shot upwards—"and not by radio means." The sketch for that said, "Volcano."

"The last thing I want is prepackaged light artillery. Kuralski has rounded up some seven hundred 85mm guns, surplus from the Great Global War and in pretty good—actually depot rebuild—shape. Apparently they've been . . . umm . . . 'lost' from the Volgans' books. I want half of them, a decent load of ammunition for each, plus fire control equipment, packaged for long term storage in shipping containers and put on ships. The rest will be shipped here openly."

Again, Carrera showed Siegel a diagram. "I don't have a name for this project," he said. "The Volgan 180mm started as a naval gun and was turned into a heavy field piece. I've put our friends in Volga to work designing and building a railroad carriage. In some ways it's the simplest thing. We're going to take receipt of thirty-two of them, openly, that we'll mount in the old bunkers the Federated States left behind. I need you to receive sixty-four of these, secretly, break them down into shipping containers, and send them to the
Isla Real
. Don't sweat ammunition; that's coming separately."

"Sig, these are your babies. Go to Cochin. You don't speak the language, I know, but you do speak French and all the educated Cochinese do, as well. Make whatever contacts you need, pay whatever bribes you must, buy whatever talent and materials are required. Get me those five things. I'll send ships to pick them up when you have a worthwhile load.

"While you're at it, nose around for any redundant military supplies and equipment we might be able to get cheap. In particular I am interested in aircraft."

Siegel looked confused and torn. "Can I bring my wife?"

Sadly, Carrera picked up the manila folder and passed it over. "These are transcripts of some phone calls. Also some events in your wife's recent history. She's been passing on information, too, Sig. To the Tauros. And, yes, Fernandez confirms you didn't know."

Carrera sounded like he meant it when he said, "I'm sorry."

* * *

"Sig looked terribly upset when he left, Patricio," Lourdes said.

Carrera didn't answer except to bite his lower lip and nod.

"You're not going to tell me about it?"

Still biting, he shook his head, 'No.'

Lourdes sighed, sadly, and began to turn away.

"It's personal to Sig," Carrera explained, hurriedly. "I've no right to tell anyone, not even you. If it were . . . Lourdes, please sit down."

Carrera hesitated. This was going to be hard . . .
hard.

"Lourdes, how much have you guessed about why I collapsed?" he asked.

"You mean besides the obvious, like burning both ends of the candle for ten years?"

"Yes, besides that."

She smiled slightly. "Well, let's see. What am I supposed to make of it when you ask, in your sleep, 'Would you prefer, Mustafa, that I obliterate Makkah al Jedidah and the New Kaaba?' Or when you say, 'Cheer up, old man. You still have one son left: Me'? Patricio, I
know
you nuked Hajar."

"Oh."

"Oh."

"And your feelings on that?"

"I sometimes think of men like Adnan Sada and women like his wife, Rukhaya, and think, 'They could have been my friends, too, those people Patricio killed.' But then I think, 'could have been is not the same thing as
were
.' And I think, 'how many people that
are
my friends have been saved because you terrified the Yithrabis into ceasing their support of the
Salafi Ikhwan
?' "

"It wasn't just adults like Adnan and Rukhaya I murdered," Carrera said. "There were children in that city, maybe half a million of them." He looked down at the hands he loathed. Holding them out, he said, "There's the blood of half a million kids on these hands, Lourdes."

"And
my
children and the children of my friends, to include Adnan's and Rukhaya's, are safer because of it."

Lourdes stood up and walked the step and a half to the stone railing around the balcony. "Patricio, if you're asking me for absolution, I can't give it. I'm not only not a priest, I'm not even Catholic. But if you're asking me if I understand that you did what you had to do, that the world is a safer and perhaps better place because of it, then, yes, I do understand that."

"That's not exactly what I'm asking," he said. "I'm asking if . . ."

She turned around, placing her shapely posterior against the stone and folding her arms across her chest. "Of
course
, I still love you, you idiot."

Carrera's head sank onto his chest. "Thank you for that, my love," he said, softly.

Lourdes walked to the side of his chair and took his head in her hands, pressing it to her abdomen below her breasts. She said nothing but contented herself with stroking his hair and his cheek. After a time Carrera consulted his watch.

"It's a bit over an hour before the select committees get here," he said. He stood up and took her hand. "Let's go to bed."

* * *

Carrera looked, oh, a
lot
better on leaving the bedroom he shared with Lourdes than he had for a long time. For her part, he thought the smile on her face might have to be surgically relaxed. Sighing contentedly, he closed the door behind him and walked briskly, with more energy than he'd felt in seeming
ages
, down the broad steps, around a corner, and down a narrower set into the basement.

Carrera's first thought, as he entered the conference room in the basement, was,
I should have held this somewhere else. But where? No place off of the island is as secure.
The reason he thought that was . . .

"Gentlemen . . . ladies . . .
please.
You are not supposed to stand at attention for me anymore." Carrera's voice went low and he sounded wistful as he added, "That's not the purpose of this at all. Now, if you would
please
take your seats."

Parilla, the only one present who had not stood to attention, tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to contain a wry,
I told you so
smile. Whether that smile was directed at Carrera, at the Senatorial Select Committee, or at the legislators who had followed the Senators' lead, wasn't entirely clear.

The group was almost entirely male. There were two women from the Legislative Assembly, true, but even some of the legislators tended to be ex-legionaries, hence typically male, since many had run on Parilla's presidential ticket, and been elected on his coattails. Of those, most had volunteered for the select committee. On the other hand, the initial Senate had been handpicked from Legion veterans. Those were mostly male and, of the women who had passed through the Legion, none had really had the chance to shine.

Where 'shine,'
thought Carrera,
equals the opportunity to lose eyes and limbs. In any case, they haven't had the chance
 . . . yet.

His eyes swept over the small assembly, counting human appendages. Of the twelve senators of the select committee, there were only nineteen arms, seventeen legs, and twenty-one eyes.
I sure hope none of them lost their balls,
too. Their average age was a bit over thirty-five, a deliberate effort on the part of Parilla and Carrera, who had done the hand selecting, to make the Senate as mature as possible, given the constraint that the Legion was mostly young.

After the committee members had taken seats, Carrera took his own. "Senators," he began, rather than
Conscript Fathers
, which had been his first instinct. They really were too young for that title, in any event, even though they had been conscripted. Then, nodding at Parilla, he continued, "
Princeps Senatus
and President, legislators, I've
asked
you here"—Carrera put a very strong emphasis on the word, "asked"—"because we are facing a war, a very hard war, and there are things I am no longer willing to take on, myself, things I no longer trust my own judgment with."

"You want us to be your conscience?" asked one of the Senators, a dark skinned ex-legionary turned farmer by the name of Robles.

"That among other things," Carrera answered.

"
Duque
, that will never work," Robles said. "We all know you and we all know you
well
. Listening to others is not your strong point. At least, it isn't if you don't have to. And you
don't
play well with others. I remember a certain bridge in Sumer."

Carrera smiled shyly at the memory. Once, during the invasion of Sumer, ten years prior, Carrera had bombed a bridge out of existence under the very noses of his allies, and for not much more reason that to avoid the difficulty of actually having to coordinate with those allies.

He forced the smile away and nodded. "I know. I'm just going to have to learn."

Robles looked very doubtful. Still, he shrugged his doubt off for the moment. Maybe, just maybe, Carrera could change.
But
—

"And what happens,
Duque
," Robles asked, "when you want to do something and we say, 'No'?"

In answer, Carrera took a folder from atop the table and opened it. Inside was a sheaf of white paper, stapled at one corner. He signed at the bottom of the first page, flipped that and signed the next, then the next, until he reached the last page which his signed in the middle. Wordlessly, he slid the packet over to Robles who began to read.

"Holy fucking shit!" the senator exclaimed before he was halfway through.

"What is it?" asked one of the legislators, Marissa Correa. The short and stout woman's light brown eyes flashed with curiosity.