Carnifex (60 page)

"Convince them of what?" Rivers asked.

"Of the danger," Malcolm answered. "Of the need for mediation. Of the need to throw our weight
against
whoever fires the first shot."

"Then you had best hurry, Mr. Secretary," Rivers said. "The Frogs"—
Oh, how I love saying "Frogs" to this puke who so loves the Frogs
—"are flying in major numbers of troops and the Legion's regulars and reservists are falling in on assembly areas on both sides and both ends of the Transitway area. The news is full of enough accusations of violence, corruption and fraud in the election process that either side can claim to have 'won.' If nothing changes, I predict a blood bath starting by midnight."

"Then why not just threaten the stinking mercenaries if trouble breaks out?" thundered the secretary of state, Mary Darkling, a woman short, shrill, and seriously overweight. "We all
know
they're trying to steal the election down there. Wozniak is convinced of it. The global press insists upon it. Our allies, the Gauls, are certain of it. By taking the side of the mercenaries against our
real
allies we're undercutting the tradition and understanding of
decades.
It's absurd!"

Malcolm shook his head. Inside he felt precisely what Darkling openly insisted upon . . . but, "I'm with you in this, morally, Mary. But the practicalities are such that we just
can't
let this thing spiral out of control. I adore Gaul as much as you do. I want to help them, to induce them to help us. I want to try to overcome the suspicion and hostility that built up under the previous administration. But . . . 
we're dealing with a maniac here!
The leader of the mercenaries is not susceptible to reason. He won't even take bribes at this point. I believe that, were he capable, he'd destroy the entire planet before backing down an inch. He's got an army and he's
going
to have a country . . . or he's going to fight to take one."

Darkling shot an accusatory glare at the President.
It's
your
fault for keeping us in that utterly illegal war in Pashtia.

Schumann, the President, understood the glare. He smiled and said, "The one thing keeping us from losing the center again and being run out of office, Mary, my dear, is that we promised to win in Pashtia. For that, for reasons largely logistic, we need the mercenaries. For reasons entirely political, we need them to bleed rather than ourselves. When I asked you for a diplomatic solution to Pashtia you gave me a blank stare. I'm a Progressive, Mary; I'm not an idiot. We
must
win in Pashtia or we must
lose
here."

Turning to Malcolm, Schumann said, "We need to force a delay until Pashtia is won and we can dispense with the mercenaries. So . . . I want you ready a major expeditionary force to Balboa. Sail them, post haste." He shifted his attention to Darkling and said, "Here's what I want you to tell our ambassador . . . "

Had it not been for the position of the Legion within Balboa, Ambassador Thomas Wallis would have been most unlikely ever to see the lofty rank he held. Medium height, medium build, nonpatrician, he had none of the connections within the Federated States' diplomatic service that were normally an absolute requirement for admission to the inner circle.

He had had one greatly redeeming feature, as far as the previous, Federalist, administration had been concerned. Wallis had spent many years in the armed forces before retiring and entering the diplomatic corps. He was, thus, a natural for dealing with that part of Balboa most of interest to the Federated States, the Legion. He considered it only a matter of time, though, before the Progressives booted him.
The fact that I'm ex-military is enough to make me suspect to the Progs.

Interesting
, thought the ambassador,
that Muñoz-Infantes is sitting on the Balboan side of the conference table.
Very
interesting. I wonder what's going on there.
Wallis looked at Janier.
The Frog looks ready to shit himself.

Is that Castilian bastard trying to tell me something
? wondered Janier, for the nonce without his imperial marshal's uniform or laurel wreath.

How far is the Castilian willing to go to support us?
wondered Parilla.

"Gentlemen," began the ambassador, softly and genially. With the utterance of the word he was immediately greeted by a storm of swears and accusation from both sides of the conference table. Conspicuously, Muñoz-Infantes kept quiet.

Soft and genial won't cut it, I see.

Wallis injected steel into his voice. "GENTLEMEN! Be quiet!"

Those present shut up, not always with good grace. Wallis continued, "I am advised by the President, speaking through the secretary of state, to inform you that two carrier battle groups are en route here. Moreover, two reinforced regiments of Federated States Marines are, even as we speak, boarding ship to come here. One division of paratroopers is likewise being readied. Their orders are—consistent with Federated States policy with regard to the Transitway, and also consistent with our treaties—to engage whichever side shall first initiate hostilities in or around the Transitway area."

The ambassador raised his nose at an underling. Immediately, a map of the Transitway appeared on a wall mounted plasma screen. On it could be seen two bright red lines, delineating boundaries. They corresponded closely enough to the old Federated States boundaries, with the exception that they also ran though
Ciudad
Balboa, chopping off the Old Cuirass district, wherein lay the presidential palace, from the rest of the city.

Understanding the implications, both Rocaberti's party and Parilla's once again burst into open argument. Janier's group of diplomats and officers, however, remained silent. The boundaries drawn would, for the time being, suit.

"Gentlemen, quiet!" the ambassador repeated. "These are not subject to argument. This
is
where you will maintain your forces and your political control until some more amicable settlement can be reached."

Infuriated, Rocaberti shouted, "Your own ex-president has said those bastards stole the election!"

"He never met a governmental thief he didn't love," retorted Parilla.

"None of that
matters
," insisted the ambassador. "What matters is that this is what we, the Federated States, have commanded. Gentlemen, in this 'our voice is
imperial
.' What matters is that two carrier battle groups and two regiments of Marines are on their way here to enforce our commands, and a division of paratroopers stands ready to reinforce them."

"But you
can't
split the City like this," Rocaberti pleaded. "It's . . . obscene."

The ambassador sighed. "Mr. President you are missing the point. That point is that hostilities must not break out. The boundary as drawn separates out the Tauran Union forces from what we believe to be over twenty thousand Balboan reserve legionaries. Crossing over it will cause those legionaries to fight"—
Goddamn right
, thought Parilla.
And it's closer to thirty-five thousand.
—"and
causing
that will be taken as initiation of hostilities."

"But you're putting them in control of three quarters of the population!"

"More like seven eighths. President Rocaberti. Let there be no bullshit between us," the ambassador continued. "There is good reason to believe that that is close to the true percentage of the areas where a majority of the voting populace went for Legate Parilla. Yes, quite despite ex-President Wozniak's claims. Be grateful, Mr. President, that we have left you with a safe enclave where
President Parilla
cannot prosecute you."

There is no safe harbor except in silence,
thought
al Naquib
, watching out over the polluted waters of the Straits and coughing from the smoky haze that dominated it.
There is no safe harbor when the enemy can listen in on every word spoken on a phone or a radio, not when our ranks contain informers and spies.

The down side of silence, though, is coordination. Everything,
everything,
depends on getting the word at the proper time from a ship's captain I have never laid eyes on nor even spoken to. And to add to the uncertainty, half my force is on this side of the straits, half on the other.

Worries, worries . . . my life is worries. What if my boats are spotted? What if the conexes with the missiles are spotted? What if the
Hoogaboom
has a delay. What if; what if, what if?

Al Naquib
pulled out a compass and oriented himself toward Makkah al Jedidah. Prostrating himself, he prayed,
I have done what I can, Lord, all that is in my power to do. It is in Your hands now. My men will do their duty. They are among the best of the faithful. My machines have been cared for, as the new learning says they must be. So, Beneficent One, I ask . . . I plead . . . I beg for Your favor tomorrow as my men go into battle. And, Lord, even if you withhold your favor from our undertaking, I ask that you see to the souls of my men who serve you.

Warrant Officer Bourguet, seated in a metal folding chair, smiled down at the half-starved, eleven-year-old girl kneeling between his legs. She had tears in her eyes. Bourguet neither knew nor cared whether they were caused by shame or by the little brown wretch choking on his penis. The tears, themselves, pleased him almost as much as the girl's mouth.

There had been a short period of time when the hungry girls had stopped coming to the camp to provide service for food. After a little inquiry, Bourguet had discovered that the bloody Belgian commandos down the road had begun to offer more, to drive up the price.
Neo-colonialist bastards
.

The solution to the shortage was elegant in its simplicity. Bourguet had simply dispatched two soldiers to lie in wait for one of the colonial girls to approach the Belgian camp. When, the next morning, a small group of different girls had found a head and a pair of hands mounted on a stick beside the trail, they'd immediately turned around and gone to the OAU camp in search of something to eat.

Bourguet laughed aloud. Then he twisted the girl's hair in his fingers, pulled her head away and slapped her face to make sure she was paying attention.

"You," he said. "All fours. Like dog."

News traveled slowly on the new world. Rather, true news traveled slowly.

"But you can get the UN's lies right away," said Ollie Rogers to his assembled family and a few guests, over dinner.

Ollie now had five wives. One had died but three more, along with another seven children, five of them from those three wives, had come his way from the survivors of the wintry disaster that gave the bay its name. Of his thirty-one living children, natural and adopted, three had children of their own. Ollie considered it a mark of God's special favor that he had been so blessed with offspring. Though it wasn't as if he would not have been elected as leader of the colony even if he'd been a bachelor.

One of the guests, Benjamin Putnam, asked, "What do you believe, Ollie? Do you think it's true about the UN troops using or raping little girls up in Balboa?"

That rumor—really that set of rumors, for there were several variants—had become quite widely told over the last few months. The least of the variants told of pre-pubescent prostitutes being dismembered and their bodies put on display near one of the UN's bases, to drive their trade to where the money was less.

Rogers arose from the table and walked to the cabin's sole window, a wavy glass that the colony was just beginning to produce. Looking outside he saw a small cemetery, with a tree growing in the middle of it. They'd named the tree "the tranzitree," and the white wooden crosses around its base reminded Rogers that the tranzitree's fruit, with its bright green exterior and poisonous red interior, killed.

"Ben," Rogers answered slowly and deliberately, "we've both heard a lot of propaganda in our lives. That one has the ring of truth to me."

"Disgraceful," judged Gertie. She'd grown rather plump the last couple of decades but her husband still found her among the best of all women.

"Disgraceful, it may be," agreed Rogers. "But what can we do about it?"

"We can help them; the people the UN is trying to suppress, I mean," said Ollie's oldest son, also called "Oliver" or just "Junior."

"You have children of your own to watch out for," the patriarch reminded.

"We don't," said three of the boys, simultaneously.

Sheriff Juan Alvarez's son, too, spoke up, "And neither do I." Before the lawman could object, his son added, "And if we don't stop the UN up there, how long before they come here? Father . . . Mr. Oliver, you both left the homes you had because of them. Where do you . . . where do we . . . go . . . if they come here, too?"

"You'll need better arms than we can provide," Rogers said. He didn't say it like he thought it would be impossible to get those arms. "We have, after all, found quite a bit of gold here."

The winds of Paradise are blowing. Where are you who hanker after Paradise?

Motto of the
Ikhwan

As a soldier I will fulfill my duties brilliantly. I die with a smile on my face with the deep belief that to meet my end on the kamikaze battleship Yamato is the ultimate honor.

Chief Petty Officer Yoshiaki Ogasawara Mikoto
KIA 7 April, 1945 (Old Earth Year)

Except for having gone to a much heightened state of alert, and maintaining a lookout for Gallic vessels of war, the election had not much affected the carrier or her escorts. They, like the single legion now deployed on the border between Pashtia and Kashmir, had a contract to fulfill. Now, without the specter of a major war with Taurus in the offing, the
classis
was able, once again, to concentrate solely on pirate hunting.