by Tom Kratman
Cruz's girlfriend, Caridad, sat next to him. He had his arm around her. Unlike more usual occasions, now she had to make no effort to keep his pawing teenaged hands away. She really liked Ricardo so she didn't always fight very hard. But even token gestures were important and she was a little disturbed that she needn't make any.
He was a good looking boy, was Ricardo, his appearance marred only by somewhat unevenly prominent ears. Olive of skin and brown of eye; at five feet, seven inches, Cruz was a bit taller than the national norm. He towered over Cara's five, one.
"Ricardo," Cara insisted, "stop fretting so. You are only seventeen. There's nothing you can do to help. Only the gringos can avenge us."
Cruz said nothing, but his mind seethed and stomach churned at the harm done his country and his people. The idea of some other country doing the job that he felt deep inside was his own didn't sit well either. He'd always been a boy to take personal responsibility for things.
A fourteen year old Ricardo heard the girl crying. He heard, too, the predatory laughter of what had to be at least three or four boys. Neither the laughter, nor the jeers, nor the numbers much affected him. The crying, however, did.
He began to walk briskly to the door of the three-bedroom adobe house he shared with his parents and three siblings. On the way he paused to consider taking with him the machete he used to help with the harvest in season. It was a good tool, strong, flexible, very sharp and not too heavy. But was it the right tool?
Better to have it and not need it, he thought, than to need it and not have it.
He took the machete.
On the front porch of the house he saw them standing in the road. There were four, plus the girl. They were well-dressed, rabiblanco- dressed.
Money, he thought. Money come to have a little fun with the farm girls.
He didn't recognize any of the four boys but he'd seen the girl before in a class a grade behind him. He thought her name was Cara and that she lived a couple of miles down the road farther away from town. There were books lying in the dirt of the road, a cheap orange backpack, as well. He thought they must be hers since none of the boys looked the type to care much for schoolbooks.
One of the boys held the girl—yes, Cara's her name—from behind while another unbuttoned her white, schoolgirl's blouse and felt inside. The last two stood to either side until one of them bent down to grab her legs and pick them up. She struggled and cried for help as they began to carry her off to the woods abutting the road.
"I don't think so, maricones."
The three carrying Cara stopped and looked. The fourth member of their party lay face down on the road, blood pouring from his scalp to mix with the reddish dirt of the road. Some lunatic stood over that one, with a bared machete one hand, the scabbard in the other, and a remarkably serene look on his face. The punk with the machete was considerably younger, they thought, and considerably smaller, they could see. This didn't seem to bother him any more than did the fact that they were still three to his one.
"Keep hold of the meat," said the leader of the boys to the one holding Cara's arms. "Come on, Manuel, let's show this campesino piece of shit who he can and can't fuck with."
"Si, Eduardo," answered Manuel.
Little Cruz might have been. But his young arms had been strengthened by many seasons' hard labor with the machete. What work had the rabiblancos ever done much harder than lifting a poor maid's skirt? Young Cruz stood his ground as Eduardo and Manuel advanced on him.
And stopped dead when he didn't run. In that moment's hesitation Cruz sprang forward like a panther. Eduardo was the nearer. Cruz feinted high, then swung the machete around Eduardo's upflung arms and cut inward, below the ribs. The rabiblanco gasped and looked down at where his blood welled out from his deeply sliced side, pouring over the silver metal blade. Eduardo screamed and promptly fainted.
Cursing, Cruz tugged at the machete. Crap, it's caught on the ribs. Shoulda cut even lower. While he was worrying at the machete, Manuel's fist—he was perhaps made of tougher stuff than his chief, Eduardo—struck Cruz beside the head, knocking him to the dirt and causing him to see stars.
With Cruz apparently out of commission, Manuel bent low to see to Eduardo's wound. This was found to be rather a bad mistake as Cruz, stars or not, launched himself directly from the road to crash into Manuel's side. The two went tumbling over in a flurry of punches and kicks, a mix of Manuel's punches to the farm boy's face and Cruz-delivered knees to the groin. Two or three such were one or two more than Manuel's gonads could take. Cruz left him puking in the dirt and walked— staggered, really—to where Eduardo and the machete lay joined.
Using two hands, Cruz roughly pulled the machete from the now moaning Eduardo's side, bringing forth another scream and a renewed flood of bright red blood. Bloody machete in hand, still staggering, Cruz began to close on the last member of the rape party, the one holding the girl. This one lacked Manuel's sense of determination. Having seen three of his friends—all older, bigger and stronger than the little demon who'd attacked them—the last of the would-be rapists simply took to his heels, leaving Cara alone.
She ran to Cruz. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou for saving me!"
"You're welcome," he answered. "But now could you lead me home? My eyes have swollen so badly I really can't see."
Cara shuddered, remembering the way she and Ricardo had met. He's the bravest boy I've ever met, she thought. If he goes to war, he'll surely be killed.
Cara took a very personal view of things. She liked Ricardo . . . a great—oh, a very great—deal. She didn't want him killed. She couldn't even stand the thought of him being hurt. And the Federated States could be counted on to fix the problem without Cruz's help. So why should he leave her and risk his life, even if it were possible?
Finca Mendoza, Las Mesas, Balboa, 1/10/459 AC
A mere dozen miles from where Cruz had sat with Cara, another Balboan boy, Jorge Mendoza, sat alone in front of a television. In his hand he held a memento, a set of collar insignia, from his brother, Arturo, fallen a dozen years ago in battle against the gringos.
To say that Jorge did not like Federated States was an understatement. His brother had been a hero to him, a great smiling, kindly presence. Ever since Arturo's death beside his commander, Captain Jimenez, Mendoza had hated the Federated States, its people, and everything the two stood for.
Not by any means alone among the population of the underdeveloped parts of Terra Nova, Mendoza had been neither shocked nor even particularly disapproving of the attack on the Federated States a couple of months previously. To him, the people killed had had no faces. They were merely the great, opposed, other which had done his beloved big brother to death.
Other people did have faces though, faces as clear as Arturo's. Those faces smiled out at him from the television; faces of men and boys, young and old; faces of mothers and daughters; faces that could have been his own family's.
Mendoza's hatred for gringos ebbed a bit. Only so much hate could a heart hold and his had to make room for the Salafi Ikhwan.
Vice-Presidential Palace, Ciudad Balboa, 2/10/459 AC
"That bastard!" fumed Balboa's new president, Guillermo Rocaberti, pounding the tabletop. Rocaberti had taken the oath of office as president, but had not yet had time to move into the presidential palace. The palace needed considerable repair anyway, so he was in no hurry.
Surprised at the unexpected bang, the president's aide looked up from the screen. He asked, "Which bastard, Señor Presidente?"
"I'm not sure which one. Whoever put that goddamned 'public service message' on the television."
Rocaberti pointed at a silent television showing row on row of small portrait pictures of the victims of the Constitution Day attacks. Had the TV not been deliberately silenced, a voice would have been heard calling for rearmament and vengeance.
"That is not entirely clear, sir. Ex-General Parilla is reported to have a hand in it, but there is also supposedly some gringo involved."
"Gringo?"
"Yes, sir. There is a small group of them, a couple of dozen or so, we think. They've kept a low profile since they came here a few months back. We don't know much about them except that they have ties to Parilla."
"Soldiers?"
"Maybe ex-soldiers . . . mercenaries, perhaps."
"Why wasn't I told? Are they planning a coup?"
"Told what, sir? They haven't done anything. And Major Fernandez has reported them to be harmless, on extended vacation, actually."
"Wonderful! Fernandez! Do you think for a moment that Fernandez is anything but an outright enemy of this government? Never mind answering."
What's that bastard Parilla's plan? A new Balboan Defense Corps? A new Guardia Nacional? He half won the plebiscite seven years ago, so we were never able totally to get rid of the armed forces. On the other hand . . . hmmm. Maybe this might be a way to get them out of the way for a while. But they'll be back. Eventually, they'll be back. They always are. So, no, unless I can figure out a way to make sure they never come back, I've got to fight this.
"Get me Ford Williams on the phone. Now!" The aide quickly dialed the number of the country's second vice-president.
The National Assembly,
Ciudad Balboa, 3/10/459 AC
It had cost Parilla no money but much political capital to arrange this meeting with Guillermo Rocaberti and his Cabinet. This was to the good as, with the cost of the extensive advertising for which he and Carrera had personally paid, immediate funds were beginning to run low. He had no choice but to get the government to agree to send a military formation to the war. Pending funding from Carrera's uncle's estate, neither he nor those who supported him could afford to do this again if the propaganda campaign didn't work. In the president's conference room, richly paneled and decorated, Parilla was being grilled by a very suspicious group of politicians.
"General Parilla, what difference does it make if the Federated States wins this coming war with us or without us?"
Parilla turned his attention to the Minister of Police. "Señor, it could make all the difference in the world. If we help with the upcoming war, to the extent of our abilities, we will have a claim on the Federated States. We can expect further aid, possibly money to improve the Transitway, jobs . . . a greater prosperity.
"Leaving all that aside, however, the major reason to help them is that we have been fucking attacked. Our people have been murdered. The blood of our innocents has run in our streets."
Parilla pointed to Carrera while addressing the group. "My friend here believes that the FSC is likely to be generous under the circumstances."
The minister of police looked dismally at Carrera. "No blood would have spilled, most likely, had this man not killed six Salafis."
No more than had Jimenez did Parilla want Carrera to say a word about that. He just might tell the truth; that he had been angry and half mad with grief and so had baited the Salafis into attacking him. Not that Carrera had ever admitted it. Indeed, everyone close to him avoided asking precisely because they were sure he would admit it. That particular truth must not get out.
Parilla merely answered, "That was self-defense . . . so said the investigating officer. So said that officer's commander, Xavier Jimenez."
The policeman lifted a scornful and skeptical eyebrow.
Greasy looking, though said to be an honest man, Balboa's minister of justice, Ruben Arias, turned to Carrera. "You are from the FS, so no doubt you have a claim to understanding them greater than ours. But tell me this; we have a long and unfortunate history of military rule. If we let you and General Parilla bring about this force you have spoken of, what is to keep them from restoring military rule once again?"
Carrera stroked his own face lightly while formulating his answer. "You ask a good question, Señor Arias. I have thought upon it much before coming here today. I think, in the first place, that the lesson of the invasion twelve years ago—that the FSC will not tolerate military rule in this continent—will not soon be forgotten by the soldiers.
"Nor are we speaking of keeping a large standing force. This will be a one time only event. When the war is over you could disband the force or reduce it down to a manageable size, fold it back into the Civil Force or even turn it into a reserve formation." Carrera brought his hands together to illustrate. Of course, since the war is going to last at least a century, reduction in force is a most unlikely possibility. Besides, You'll get rid of my army over my dead body.
Arias continued on that point. "That is very easy to say, señor. But what if they won't lay down their arms afterward?" He folded his arms, looking triumphant.
Parilla took up the challenge. "Who controls the spending in the country? Surely, Señor Arias, you do not think that the men who volunteer for this expeditionary force are going to want to continue in arms if they are not paid?"
Arias saw an opening. "And that is another thing. How are we to pay for this? We are financially . . . well, if not prostrate, then by no means in good shape."
Without elaborating on Carrera's part in the planning, Parilla answered, "My people have estimated the cost of this operation at just over four hundred million drachma a year over and above the aid we can expect from the FSC. That is, it should be about that if we scrimp a little. Before the invasion Piña was taking almost three hundred million per year in illegal taxes from the Cristobal Free Trade Zone alone. You gentlemen can make that illegal tax a legal one . . . and a larger one, too. That alone would pay for the operation. But it is still very unlikely that we will have to pay for the whole thing ourselves. The Federated States can be expected to provide support if we ask."
Back and forth the argument went. For each objection raised by the Cabinet, Parilla and Carrera had an explanation of a benefit to be derived. As the opportunity arose Parilla dropped narrow hints of the personal gains that might accrue to the men present if they were to approve. "Just think of the benefits to our economy, gentlemen. We'll take several thousand young, aggressive and unemployed—hence dangerous—men out of circulation for a while. They will earn money that they will spend freely, being young men. Soldiers eat a lot! This can only help our many farmers." Parilla knew that many in the room had significant agricultural interests. "Farmers—and they make up much of the country, you recall—will buy more. New shops will be opened and old ones thrive. And gentlemen, one way or another foreigners will pay for it all. Even if we get not one centavo in aid, these are solid gold to us. My own financial interests will advance as will those of everyone here."
Parilla thought, And if I didn't act as if I were in this for my own financial benefit you would all be certain I was planning a coup, wouldn't you? Then you would fight us even harder. Well, believe the worst of me; it's no more than I know is true of you. To most of you bastards there's no good reason to do anything except for a personal or family profit. So if you want to think Patricio and I are in it for the money so much the better. You probably don't know that Patricio himself is on the verge of enough wealth that any petty graft available in Balboa shrinks to insignificance by comparison.
Still, despite best efforts, Parilla and Carrera could see the politicians weren't buying. Parilla turned to Carrera and said in a whisper, "I told you they wouldn't be reasonable. Fortunately we've planned for such a contingency."
Before going in to confront the president and Cabinet, Parilla had insisted on preparing another means of persuasion. As he had told Carrera, "Patricio, you know how to raise, train, and use military forces for military objectives. Trust me when I say that I know how to use them for other objectives. I've had practice. And I've understudied some of the best."
Parilla gave a signal to Jimenez, who had accompanied them to the meeting. Jimenez slipped out quietly to make a brief telephone call. Within twenty minutes the men in the meeting room could hear the sound of singing, the measured tread of booted feet. Marching men approached.
Outside of the National Assembly Building two thousand former membe
rs of the Balboan Defense Corps, most of them also current members of the Civil Force that had replaced the BDC, marched in formation to positions surrounding the building. They were all uniformed and armed.
At Parilla's orders, Jimenez and Fernandez between them had done all the necessary coordination to bring every conveniently located unit—police and paramilitary, both—into position to threaten the government ministers. To any within sight of the demonstration it looked exactly like an impending coup d'etat.
Parilla had not been content merely to show a greater force at his disposal than the government could muster. A very substantial bribe had insured that the president of the Republic's own guard—constitutionally distinct from the Civil Force—would ostentatiously leave the assembly building and join the rest of the demonstrators. Perhaps if Rocaberti had had longer in office to cement his ties with the Presidential Guard they would not have defected. As it was, he did not have those ties cemented.
Loudspeakers carried by the leaders of the units began to state the demands of the defenders to be sent to the war to crush those who had attacked their country.
Looking from the window of the meeting room the assembled cabinet ministers saw their only supporting military force leave to join the demonstrators. Arias was the first to realize that the men meeting with Parilla and Carrera were now defenseless.
"I suppose you planned this?" he accused Parilla, banging his fist on the conference table.
Parilla shook his head and answered, quite untruthfully "No, señor, I did not plan, though I knew it might happen." None present believed him. He hadn't expected them to. The lie was for politeness' sake only.
"This won't get you anywhere, you know. Even if you force us to approve your plan, we are not the Assembly. They must vote on it."
Parilla didn't answer but looked out the window to where a series of automobiles were disgorging a carefully selected quorum of the National Legislative Council, the seventy-two member body that had the power to approve the essential elements of Carrera's plan. It had taken a fair amount of the time he'd had available to determine who would support the move to send an expeditionary force to the war. Two were members, somewhat distant members, of Carrera's late wife's family. Her father, at her mother's insistence, had persuaded them to vote in favor. Others had been bribed or promised bribes for their votes. A fairly large number hadn't needed much persuading. In all, Parilla had assembled enough legislators to both constitute a quorum, just, and to insure that he would win the vote.