The Lotus Eaters Read Free Page B

assumed everyone else did, too.
    Cara glanced about the walls of the living room. On two wooden pegs driven into one wall rested Ricardo's rifle, an F-26. Below it, on similar pegs, was his very first rifle, a simpler and cruder Samsonov, purchased for a very nominal price from the Legion in which her husband served, as a memento of that service and of his first campaign. On the opposite wall hung his battle scarred and stained lorica, the silk and liquid metal body armor he worn for years. Cara tried to keep the thing clean. But not too clean. I love the smell of my man.
    On a third wall hung Ricardo's decorations. She heard the citations read off for some of them, those awarded formally when he was home from the wars. The knowledge of the things her husband had done both filled her with pride and chilled her to the marrow. She never read the citations themselves, lest that refreshed knowledge drive her to try, once again, to talk Ricardo out of the Legion. She'd done that before. He'd acquiesced, too. The loss of purpose had nearly killed him.
    He must be free to do the work he loves , she reminded herself, glancing over the wall holding the awards. He must be free if, for no other reason, because when he's miserable, I'm miserable.
    And, too, it's not like I'm ashamed when other women come over, and have to pass under his corona civilis to come into the house. I like their envy of the courage of my man. Is that so wrong?
    "What's wrong, Ricardo?" she asked. "Did the thunder awaken you?"
    Cruz shook his head. "No . . . I never really got to sleep." Seeing that that wasn't really an answer to her question, he added, "Things are not right with the Legion since the duque had to . . . take a sabbatical. It worries me. We are not the kind of force that deals well with inaction."
    "But the war is over," she said. "We won."
    "One war is over," Ricardo corrected, picking up the baton again to admire it. "There will be others." He seemed very certain of that.
    Please let it not be so, God , the wife silently prayed, even as she knew the prayer was futile. For there would be other wars, and her man would fight in them. It was the way of the world just as it was the way of Ricardo Cruz. Between the Santandern guerillas infesting Balboa's province of La Palma, the Tauran Union troops occupying the Transitway, the old government cowering in the old section of Ciudad Balboa under Tauran Union protection, or the drugs passing daily through the country, there would be war.
    Cara shivered at the thought. "Any word on the duque ?" she asked, changing the subject slightly.
    "No, none. I'm tempted sometimes to ask you to presume on your friendship with Lourdes . . ."
    "I can't. She has enough troubles."
    "I know," he agreed.

Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa
    No matter what that Old Earth bimbo told me before she left, I know I could take these peasants out now . So thought an elegantly slender man dressed, perhaps absurdly, in the reproduction blue velvet uniform of a marshal of the army of Napoleon. Impatiently and repeatedly, General Janier, Army of the Republic of Gaul, slapped his unawarded marshal's baton into the palm of his left hand. The baton, like the uniform, was reproduction. Fake or not, both captured something of the spirit of the man, as did his hawk-like, pugnacious nose.
    Not that Janier had much of the republican sentiment of a Lannes or the family fidelity of a Davout (Janier's mistress lay asleep nearby in a suite of offices he'd had converted to an apartment for her) or the stoic loyalty of a MacDonald. He had some of the sheer courage of a Ney. And he had the one thing virtually all of Napoleon's marshal's had shared, love of glory.
    And why shouldn't I? I am related to half of them and descended from more than one.
    Sad, sad it is; to be a man of my inclinations and breeding, and be saddled with the wretches who rule the Tauran Union. Pacifist swine. Eunuchs,