Carnifex (76 page)

Khalifa knew a little, but only a little, of the outside. She knew she and her sisters were pitied by the women of the industrialized world who believed them to be little more than chattels. She could not for the life of her understand that. Oh, yes, there were men, even Salafi men, who abused their wives. But didn't those "modern" women understand that every Salafi girl had a father and brothers who loved them so long as they were worthy? A father and brothers, uncles and cousins, too, who would not only take a very dim view of their female relatives being abused but were very likely to abuse right back? Salafis who mistreated their wives tended to wind up dead. Fortunately,
her
parents had chosen well.
Her
husband cherished her.

It was with that thought; that, and the warm glow still remaining from the night before, reinforced by anticipation of the night to come, that Khalifa ground the beans for the morning's coffee happily and with a smile.

"Well, you check out," an unsmiling Noorzad announced to Bashir, alone, over the morning coffee. The rest of the company had already eaten and drunk and was back at work on the cavern.

"You are remembered both at the camp from which the lost column set out and in your home area. But I have some very bad news . . . " the grizzled old fighter hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Your family has been taken by the infidels."

Bashir had to feign shock. He inhaled sharply, then allowed himself to exhale as his chin sank down upon his chest. "Have they been . . . "

"No," Noorzad answered. "No word of a trial. None of any murders, either. They're just being held, apparently for questioning."

"How . . . ?"

"The infidels have their ways," Noorzad answered. "They can find your whole life story and family tree from the smell of your camel's three-day-old fart, so say some. If they took your brother, or even the smallest part of his body, they can find out where he came from."

"The crusaders will know I am missing," Bashir wailed. That, too, had taken practice. "They'll torture my parents to tell them where I am."

"No matter," Noorzad answered with a shrug. "Your parents don't know. Nothing they can say can hurt the cause. Besides, the infidels rarely bother to torture, no matter what we might say to the contrary, unless they have some particular reason to justify the effort."

Bashir restrained himself from saying,
They'll beat the crap out of you for the slightest lie, or the merest failure to come clean, if they've got an interest.
After all, he wasn't supposed to personally know that.

But I really want to know, need to know, what the hell is supposed to fit into that huge cavern we're excavating. Unfortunately, I can't ask
you
about it, just like I can't ask you about . . . or maybe I can.

"Will Mustafa want to speak to me again do you think?"

Noorzad shook his head. "Not this week. Maybe next. He often commiserates with those who either have given, or may soon give, much for the struggle."

"Okay . . . well, if he won't need me any time soon, I'd just as soon join the rest of the company at work."

"Good lad," Noorzad answered with a personable and friendly slap to Bashir's shoulder.

No matter how closely or how much Carrera stared at the model of the Salafi base, he found no solution.
It's logistically impossible. Impossible!

He tried picturing the attack under the most promising scenario developed to date.
The Cazadors jump in by NA-32s—damn the broken ankles—and get by with nothing but air for fire support until the artillery is in range and ready. The helicopters move in the whole artillery cohort, except for the rocket launchers, which can move themselves, then go back for an infantry cohort. By the time they come back with an infantry cohort the enemy is completely ready. Any guests they may have—and Mustafa—are long gone. So we keep shuttling in the troops until we can reduce the place, get in a war with Kashmir, and after we take it we pull out, fight a border war while the diplo-shits try to patch up a peace . . . and do it all over again in a year or two.

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Maybe if I wasn't so fucking tired all the time . . . 

All right . . . lets start at the beginning. What do I want for an end state? I want to kill or capture every Salafi in the area, and especially their leaders, destroy the base, and pull out before it becomes a Kashmir-Legion ground war. That means I need an infantry cohort in the center, two more plus the artillery to make a breach and peel the edges, and Cazadors and Pashtun scouts to seal it off.

Ok . . . the Pashtun scouts could go in over a period of days by air. Some might even just cross the border on horseback. Let's see . . . eighteen Crickets of which fifteen work at any given time. Each carries three Pashtun. Do it over a period of days? No . . . not a chance. The longer they're out there the more certain it tips my hand, alerts the enemy and warns Kashmir. And they could be there for fucking
weeks
before we get word that the leadership will be there. Skip that idea.

Again he glared down at the terrain model,
willing
it to provide answers. Obstinately, the model refused.

Make a major effort to clear the area up to the border before we strike? That way we could march most of the way and cut the amount of lift needed. But . . . no . . . that will tip off the Salafis and Kashmir just as much as a bunch of my Pashtun wandering in their territory will. If only the base was in Farsia there'd be no problem; they're an open and avowed enemy and I can cross their border at will. If only Kashmir wasn't so completely in the Salafis' pockets while pretending to be a part of the alliance against the Salafis . . . 

Wandering in their territory? In their pockets? Pretending? And . . . . nukes.
Carrera held the thought for a moment, searching for an answer that was almost at his fingertips.
My God, could it be that simple?

His hand reached for the intercom. "Get me Subadar Masood and Tribune Cano from the Pashtun Scouts. And Jimenez . . . . and Fernandez."

"But what the hell is this damned thing
for?
" Bashir asked plaintively of no one in particular. The work crew had hit a particularly tough section of rock. No one thought his question particularly out of place.

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't know," he answered, resting on the sledge hammer he'd been using to drive wedges into the stone. "And I don't suppose I need to. But this shit is
tough!
"

"Well," his comrade began, conspiratorially, "I heard that the chief of the Old Earth infidels is coming for a visit. All very hush-hush, mind you? This cave is to hide his shuttle . . . the little ship that usually carries him between the UE Peace Fleet and their base on Atlantis Island . . . from prying eyes." The comrade's eyes went up and he made a sign as if to ward off either the Old Earthers or the Columbian's spies in the sky.

"All this trouble for one Old Earth infidel? Makes no sense," was Bashir's judgment.

"Nor to me, brother. Perhaps Mustafa thinks to wheedle some help. Allah knows, we could use it."

"Well, at least that explains why we have to dig this thing. But what's the hurry?"

"I heard from my cousin who works in headquarters that it's set for two weeks from today."

"Two weeks? Two fucking more weeks in this hole!" muttered Sevilla. "Shit!"

"Never mind, Sergeant," the signifer said. "Just advise headquarters. Meanwhile, I'm going to take Somoza out tonight after the moon goes down and have a look around."

"Bad, bad idea, sir."

United Earth Organization Resolution 5417 (proposed)

Resolution 5417 (2131)

Proposed before the Consensus on its 16728
^th
meeting,

On 13 June, 2131

The Consensus (formerly known as the "Security Council"),

Maintaining
the spirit implicit in the Noblemaire Principle for the remuneration and reward of its professional personnel,

Realizing
that stability is no less important to peace, prosperity and freedom than is progress,

Recognizing
that equality among persons is necessary to peace and progress,

Acknowledging
the custom that has arisen of enfoeffment of certain offices and positions among the progressive class,

Reiterating
in the strongest possible terms that progress is dependent upon the actions and authority of members of that class, supported by the peoples of Earth, as represented by this Consensus and the General Assembly,

Stressing
that the Organization, and its affiliates and subsidiaries, must remain one "open to talents,"

Welcoming
the support for this measure given by such organizations as Amnesty, Interplanetary, Doctors Across Worlds, the Interplanetary Association for Progressive News Reporting, Food is a Human Right, Inc., various transnational corporations, the European Union, the Organization of African Unity, The Chinese Hegemony, etc.,

Expressing
its delight at the trust and confidence shown by the peoples of Earth and by their progressive representatives,

Determining
that the peoples of Earth cry out with one voice for a class to lead them into a bright future,

1)
Confers
upon its own officers honorary titles in accordance with the schedule at table one, attached,

2)
Confers
upon the chief officers of those organizations listed in table two, attached, similar honors as shown in that table,

3)
Reiterates
that such honors shall be open to whosoever shall arise to such positions, in perpetuity,

4)
Directs
that the title of "Secretary General" shall be the highest such honor, and

5)
Declares
that such honors, that they may be open to the peoples of the Earth, shall be hereditary, also in perpetuity.

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains

—Kipling, The Young British Soldier

It was only partly the playmates the fleet could make available to her in essentially unlimited numbers , and without any wagging tongues, that had kept Lucretia Arbeit, Marchioness of Amnesty and Inspector General of the UEPF, from going back home to Earth. Far more important was that this was
exciting
, as nothing on Old Earth could be exciting anymore, while still being safe. Oh, yes, the continuous pressure of the barbarians from the reverted areas could be exciting, but that was decidedly unsafe. (And even the gladiatorial combats that the Duke of the International Solidarity Movement staged, for special occasions, grew dull after a while.)

Arbeit, after all, was a Domme, not a sub. And the barbs back home had some odd and unpleasant ceremonies they were said to engage in whenever they got a representative from the Consensus in their hands.

No, no
, she thought, sitting on a couch in High Admiral Martin Robinson's quarters.
Much better here. Much
safer
here.

The ship wherein Arbeit sat orbited peacefully, from below looking like nothing more than a silvery crescent in the shadow cast by Terra Nova and the local sun. Inside it was not so peaceful, however.

"You're not seriously going to give those maniacs nukes, are you, Martin?"

Wallenstein, the speaker, was agitated and plainly upset. She'd gone along so far for the possibility of jumping a step in caste among the elite of Old Earth. She'd been willing to overlook a lot—even to
do
quite a lot, frankly—to advance that worthy goal. Turning nuclear weapons over to religious fanatics was pushing the boundary of cooperation and aid. Even the months that had passed since Robinson first broached the idea had not made it a bit more comfortable or acceptable.

"I don't see what has you upset, Marguerite," Robinson answered calmly, turning away from his computer monitor. "We've shunted the Salafis money, arranged for arms and explosives, used our contacts and supporters down below to serve as hostages to get more Salafis freed and to shunt them even more money. Nukes are just a matter of scale and degree."

"No they're
not
just a matter of scale or degree. Nukes kill whole cities! " she practically screamed. "Don't you realize the Feds down below will
fucking nuke us
to gas if one of their cities goes up in a mushroom cloud?"

That
got Arbeit's attention.

Ignoring the sudden look of concern on Arbeit's face, Robinson shrugged. "I considered that, of course, my dear. But these will be Volgan, Hangkuk, and Kashmiri, hence not traceable to us. So . . . what difference?"

"Millions of dead people," she insisted. "
Millions!
Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"If you will the end, Marguerite, you will the means. Would you rather millions of dead barbarians and lowers here or millions of dead elites back on Earth?"

Now it was the High Admiral's turn to become heated. "You've seen the projections yourself, Captain. In one hundred years the barbarians below will be beyond control. In one hundred years this fleet will have fallen apart around us. For the sake of the Holy Office of the Secretary General don't you realize why I had to buy local nukes?
Ours
can't even be relied on anymore. Like this damned ship, like this damned fleet. It's all coming apart and
it isn't going to get any better. Ever!
We break the independent nations down there to our ways or they come out and break us."

"Just picture it, Marguerite: their soldiers marching through the Louvre, and our own proles pointing out the more valuable artworks for them. Our class reduced to servitude. Earth groaning once again under an unsustainable population and the
proles
put in charge."

"But nukes?"

The Marchioness of Amnesty interrupted. "Marguerite, it has to be nukes. Martin is right; Mustafa and the Salafis are losing, slowly but surely. I've seen enough to know that. They need to hit back. We need them to hit back to break the will of the Federated States and its allies. Once that is done the local World League can become a real government just like the UN did back home. Then the Columbians, the Anglians and even the stinking Balboans will slowly but surely be forced into the fold. With the World League running Terra Nova and ourselves running the World League their population can be cropped, their industry and scientific base can be crippled. Their foolish insistence on popular rule can be thwarted. Most importantly, they can be disarmed. It
has
to be nukes . . . the Salafi have no other hope . . . and we have no hope but them."