While waiting for his drink, Cruz's boss rubbed the scar on his cheek. He looked at Cruz's face, then at the rum and coke. Adding one somber face to one rum and coke he came up with the perfect question: "You have a problem, Ricardo?"
"Bad one," Cruz answered, succinctly "Cara wants me to leave the Legion. I don't want to. But if I don't, I think she may leave me."
"Oooo, that sucks."
"No shit."
"How are you leaning?" Arredondo asked as the bartender set a frosty mug down in front of him.
"I'm not," Cruz shrugged. "I have no clue what to do. If I leave the Legion, I'm going to be miserable. If Cara leaves me, I'm going to be miserable."
"Switch over to one of the reserve cohorts of the tercio?" Arredondo asked, helpfully. Each tercio had several reserve cohorts, composed of discharged regulars and volunteers who joined expressly for the reserves. The reserves only served one three-day weekend a month, plus a month a year, for which they were paid at standard rates and were entitled to a reduced scale of benefits. They were obligated to come when called but, so far, there had been no call up.
"I considered it, Scarface, but it wouldn't really be the same. I'd feel second-rate. I'd see the regulars often enough to realize what I was missing, too."
Arredondo absentmindedly bit at the right quadrant of his upper lip. "What's her problem?" he asked.
Cruz shook his head. "I . . . think . . . yes, I think, that it's a mix of things. Mostly, though, it's that I'm gone a lot and she doesn't want me to get my ass shot off."
"Well, you can understand—"
"I do understand. That doesn't make it any easier."
"Could you buy her off if you took some other kind of duty? Like . . . mmm . . . maybe took over a slot as a combat instructor or basic training platoon centurion? I think I could arrange that."
Cruz had considered it, but, "I don't think so. That would still keep me gone much of the time and there would still be the chance that I might get sent back to the war."
Arredondo tilted his head to one side. "It would be more than a chance, Ricardo," he admitted. "We've got a little break going now while the Tercio Don John takes up the fight at sea, but that can't last. We'll be back at the war within a couple of years, I figure."
Nodding, Cruz agreed, "So does Cara. I think that's part of her reasoning, if reasoning is the right word to use when discussing a woman's thoughts. Right now, while the ground forces are not in the war, I can leave with a good conscience. If we were still engaged, our boys still under fire, I probably couldn't . . . wouldn't anyway. She knows that."
"'Women are stupid but clever and bear considerable watching,'" Scarface deliberately misquoted. "Did you tell her you're probably moving up to take over the platoon? That it would mean a promotion and a not-exactly contemptible pay raise?"
"I mentioned it. She wasn't impressed. Hell, Scarface, if it were about money then she'd have to admit I make more here than I am likely to on the outside, even with reserve pay tacked on to whatever I might make as a civvie."
Cruz sighed deeply. "It really comes down to the fact that she wants me home and she doesn't want me hurt or killed. And I don't know how to argue against that. She wants me out."
5/5/467 AC, Ciudad Balboa, Presidential Palace
Presidente de la Republica Rocaberti had problems.
The Republic of Balboa had a Gross Domestic Product, exclusive of the LdC and its various enterprises, on the order of just over twelve billion FSD a year. Of that, the government managed to squeeze out about a tenth. Thus, the loss of income from legionary contributions, amounting to roughly one hundred and sixty million a year, hurt. Not only had services had to be curtailed, but—far, far worse, from the point of view of those families that actually ran the country—the rake off potential had virtually disappeared. Those chief families were not happy about it, either.
That was one reason why the government had acquiesced in the Legion's creation of half a dozen military schools. It had not only reduced expenditures, it had also left more to disappear down the rat hole of familial corruption.
The Legion had done other things, too, that reduced government expenditures and made more available for graft, even as it made the graft more obvious. The reserve formations did a great deal of what was sometimes called, "civic action," building clinics and schools, road improvement, opening factories, and such. Admittedly, the factories just flat refused to hire anyone who was not either a reservist, a discharged regular, or the spouse of a slain or disabled legionary (indeed, that requirement was the biggest single limitation of legionary economic expansion within the country), but there had been quite a bit of trickle down. The Civil Force, Balboa's police force cum armed force, was also given full post-service employment rights as a matter of courtesy and good public relations.
Of course, the downside was that the Legion was buying affection at a greater rate than the government could hope to. Then again, the Balboans were a realistic people. They knew their government was unutterably corrupt from the word go. They basically had no affection for it. It had been put in power by foreign, gringo, arms. It was maintained now by foreign, Tauran Union, arms. It was simply despised.
And now there are rumors that Parilla was going to retire from the Legion and enter politics, thought the President. That's intolerable. Not only is Parilla a frightfully honest man, but he's a peasant, a stinking campesino. He has no connection to the old families. Worse, he's approximately as ruthless as his pet gringo, Carrera. A Presidente Parilla means many true gentlemen in prison or in exile, including, most likely me. If he applies legionary rules retroactively, it might mean many true gentlemen put against a wall and shot.
President Rocaberti shivered at that thought. The Legion, back when there was only one, and that one at one third strength only, had had not the slightest qualm about shooting his nephew; shooting him like a dog without the slightest regard for the man's clan or its position. How much more ruthless would they be with four regular legions, the equivalent of as many in reserve, and owning the government?
Shoot me? Rocaberti thought, fingering his neck. No, I'll be lucky if they don't hang me, along with every adult member of my clan that ever took an illicit dime. They've got to be stopped.
He said it aloud. "They've got to be stopped."
"Quoi?" asked the Gallic commander, General Janier, of the Tauran Union brigade stationed in the Transitway area.
Janier was a tall, elegantly slender, but sadly toad-faced officer who understood Spanish perfectly well but refused to lower himself to speaking it. His country's contribution consisted basically of himself and his headquarters, plus a commando battalion. The line combat battalions were provided by other, lesser, TU members, in rotation. This had become a national pattern for the Gauls, to provide low risk headquarters troops and commanders, plus a small elite force, but leave the bulk of combat capability for others. To give them their due, they were good at that sort of thing. Why, despite having one of the least competitive economies in the TU, they still managed to take a central position in that organization and ran the thing to suit the Gallic Republic to a tee.