make of them, the five key members of the Tsarist-Marxist Party of Santa Josefina who had entered the recruiting station uninvited and without an appointment. On the other hand, he didn’t, for the nonce, have anything better to do so, why not? Just because we’re opposed doesn’t mean we can’t speak together.
Opposed? Yes. It wasn’t that the Timocratic Republic of Balboa was without serious streaks of socialism; indeed, it was in some ways quite heavily socialized. But the socialism of Balboa was, at core, in opposition to the man-as-malleable ethos of socialism, all forms of leftism, really, as they’d developed on two planets. Balboa and the legion didn’t try to change anybody, though they certainly fertilized some soil for people to change themselves if they wished, and to self-select if they wished.
Conversely, the five people standing in front of Morales’ desk were convinced that, given enough training and education, enough propagandization and relentless bloody nagging, along with the power to remove the inequities and inequalities of all the rotten societies of the planet, they could, nearly anyone could, make of man exactly what they wished.
“May I help you gentlemen?” asked Sergeant Morales, though they struck him as young and scruffy. University weasels, I imagine. “Did you come to join up?”
“No,” said the central and senior one of the five. He introduced himself as, “Ernesto Gonzalo,” and his companions as, “The steering committee for the “Popular Front for the Liberation of Santa Josefina.”
First I’ve heard of this crew , thought Morales.
“And we won’t be part of some perversion of socialism,” Gonzalo announced. “We demand the real thing. But first we demand that the Taurans get the fuck out.”
“And?” Morales queried, with an eyebrow raised. “What? Do you want us to invade?”
“No,” said Gonzalo, obviously appalled at the thought. “But we could use some money and some ability to do some printing. And maybe a little advice.”
“I’ll get back with you,” said the sergeant. After all, how often does one find a band of scruffy, bearded, university student who are willing to ask for, and maybe even take, advice?
CHAPTER FIVE
A sincere diplomat is like dry water or wooden iron.
—Stalin
Palacio de las Trixies, Ciudad Balboa,
Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
With so many men, and not a few women, called to the colors, the background sounds of the city were muted and, to a degree, warped. The street hawkers were mostly gone. Commercial traffic was at a minimum or, arguably, even less than a healthy minimum. Instead of the muffled sound of the limousine gliding through this wealthier part of the city, the walls reverberated with the sound of heavy diesel-engined trucks, barely muffled and doing nothing good to the cobblestones of the street as they crawled over them. At that, the diesels were a merciful cover for the sounds of weeping widows, still breaking forth with frightful regularity. There were occasional electronic wails as air raid sirens were mounted and tested. People wailed as well.
And even the wails of heartbroken women and children were to be preferred over the “spontaneous” patriotic demonstrations taking place several times a day under the guidance of the nation’s minister of information, which was to say, of propaganda, Professor Ruiz. Carrera, leaning against a bookcase in the president’s office, could, as Dux Bellorum, escape the torture. Parilla, however, was pretty much stuck.
If , thought Raul Parilla, president of the Republic of Balboa, I hear the triumphal march from Verdi ’s Aida, one more time I swear I’ll shoot myself.
With the national symphony only three blocks away, the reappearance of Radamés remained a continuing threat.
And the day is young .
Of course, there were worse things than opera in the streets. And bagpipes. Fucking bagpipes. All hours of the day and night. I used to like them
Opposed? Yes. It wasn’t that the Timocratic Republic of Balboa was without serious streaks of socialism; indeed, it was in some ways quite heavily socialized. But the socialism of Balboa was, at core, in opposition to the man-as-malleable ethos of socialism, all forms of leftism, really, as they’d developed on two planets. Balboa and the legion didn’t try to change anybody, though they certainly fertilized some soil for people to change themselves if they wished, and to self-select if they wished.
Conversely, the five people standing in front of Morales’ desk were convinced that, given enough training and education, enough propagandization and relentless bloody nagging, along with the power to remove the inequities and inequalities of all the rotten societies of the planet, they could, nearly anyone could, make of man exactly what they wished.
“May I help you gentlemen?” asked Sergeant Morales, though they struck him as young and scruffy. University weasels, I imagine. “Did you come to join up?”
“No,” said the central and senior one of the five. He introduced himself as, “Ernesto Gonzalo,” and his companions as, “The steering committee for the “Popular Front for the Liberation of Santa Josefina.”
First I’ve heard of this crew , thought Morales.
“And we won’t be part of some perversion of socialism,” Gonzalo announced. “We demand the real thing. But first we demand that the Taurans get the fuck out.”
“And?” Morales queried, with an eyebrow raised. “What? Do you want us to invade?”
“No,” said Gonzalo, obviously appalled at the thought. “But we could use some money and some ability to do some printing. And maybe a little advice.”
“I’ll get back with you,” said the sergeant. After all, how often does one find a band of scruffy, bearded, university student who are willing to ask for, and maybe even take, advice?
CHAPTER FIVE
A sincere diplomat is like dry water or wooden iron.
—Stalin
Palacio de las Trixies, Ciudad Balboa,
Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
With so many men, and not a few women, called to the colors, the background sounds of the city were muted and, to a degree, warped. The street hawkers were mostly gone. Commercial traffic was at a minimum or, arguably, even less than a healthy minimum. Instead of the muffled sound of the limousine gliding through this wealthier part of the city, the walls reverberated with the sound of heavy diesel-engined trucks, barely muffled and doing nothing good to the cobblestones of the street as they crawled over them. At that, the diesels were a merciful cover for the sounds of weeping widows, still breaking forth with frightful regularity. There were occasional electronic wails as air raid sirens were mounted and tested. People wailed as well.
And even the wails of heartbroken women and children were to be preferred over the “spontaneous” patriotic demonstrations taking place several times a day under the guidance of the nation’s minister of information, which was to say, of propaganda, Professor Ruiz. Carrera, leaning against a bookcase in the president’s office, could, as Dux Bellorum, escape the torture. Parilla, however, was pretty much stuck.
If , thought Raul Parilla, president of the Republic of Balboa, I hear the triumphal march from Verdi ’s Aida, one more time I swear I’ll shoot myself.
With the national symphony only three blocks away, the reappearance of Radamés remained a continuing threat.
And the day is young .
Of course, there were worse things than opera in the streets. And bagpipes. Fucking bagpipes. All hours of the day and night. I used to like them
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