by Tom Kratman
"All right," Carrera conceded. "That's a bit high for us. But I do like the idea. Send us a budget request for R and D only."
Pislowski nodded. "There is one other thing, Duque. We are getting into the realm of things which countries might classify as top secret. I . . . "
"You think you need a more secure location than the city," Carrera supplied. 'I agree. It will take about a month to prepare things but at the end of that time I want those working on your more . . . mmm . . . let us say your more clandestine projects to move to the Isla Real."
4/10/466 AC, Isla Real, Quarters #1
The evening breeze cooled even as it kept off the mosquitoes. In the distance could be seen the lights of half a dozen merchant ships plying their trade between The Federated States, Atzlan, and Secordia, at one end, and the various republics-in-name-only, at the other. Still other ships pulled into and out of the Transitway.
"You really think it's going to come to a fight with the Tauran Union, Patricio?"
Carrera sighed and looked at his host. Parilla was short, stocky and dark. Pushing seventy, his hair was still mostly the jet black of the indians and mestizos who made up much of his ancestry. Only a distinguished frosting of gray at the temples betrayed his age.
"Eventually, yes, Raul," he answered. "We might be able to hold it off for a few years. But, in the long run, they're here for the purpose of confronting us, of supporting the civil government in confronting us."
"But why? I don't understand. We're fighting the fight they should be fighting. We're protecting them. It doesn't make any sense."
Carrera reached for the bottle of scotch sitting on the table between the two as he answered, "That's an interesting question. I thought for a while that it was the Gauls. After all, they've never quite forgiven the FSC for building the Transitway after they, themselves, failed to. And the Gauls are vindictive, make no mistake about it. But that vindictive?"
Parilla held his own tumbler out to be filled. "Okay, maybe not the Gauls. But they did send their troops here. They did entice the rest of the TU into sending their troops here."
"All true," Carrera conceded. "But think about the TU; how do they see themselves except as an organ of the World League. And what is the World League an organ of? What do they see as their spiritual foundation?"
Both men looked skyward to where the United Earth Peace Fleet mixed its lights with the stars beyond.
4/10/466 AC (Old Earth Year 2521), UEPF Spirit of Peace
High Admiral Robinson looked drearily from the window of his cabin at the green and blue planet spinning below. The planet spun in both senses, objectively, around its own axis, and subjectively, from the spinning of the ship around its axis to produce a practical artificial gravity. On the whole, the image would have made Robinson ill even if what went on, what had gone on, below hadn't sufficed.
So frustrating that I've lost in Sumer. Ah, well. At least I haven't lost the war, Robinson thought. He then amended the thought, Yet.
Robinson turned from the window onto space and looked instead at a map projected on the main screen of his cabin, a local product that—maddeningly, infuriatingly—came from a factory in Yamato, down below. "Kurosawa Vision Solutions," was written in small letters across the silvery frame of the screen.
The map was of Sumer, one of the many wretched, little nation-pustules that dominated the globe below. Once again Robinson played out in his mind the reasons he had decided to assist a group of radical barbarians to confront the major power—some below said the "hyperpower"—of Terra Nova.
We are stagnant on Earth. In one hundred years, or maybe as few as twenty years if Peace's engineering officer is to be believed, the Novans will be able to launch ships and do to Earth what Earth did to Terra Nova; colonize it. The big difference being that TN wasn't occupied by people and Earth is. Our system couldn't resist and won't survive. I could nuke them now, we still have some capability. And that knocks Terra Nova back five hundred years so that when they come looking for us in five hundred and twenty they'll have blood in their eye. And this fleet won't be here to stop them because if I nuke Terra Nova the Federated States of Columbia will nuke this fleet to ash. But Earth's Consensus won't build another fleet to replace the one lost here. They won't even pay to keep up what we have; for that I am reduced to selling art and, sometimes, slaves.
Robinson sighed deeply and wearily. He had upon his shoulders the whole burden of protecting his civilization and the class, his own class, which ran it. It was a crushing load.
We sell art. We sell slaves, the refuse of Earth's sixth class. And that just to keep my ships running and my crews and their families fed, paid and clothed. Must I run drugs next?
I had hoped to wear down the hyperpower below with a series of costly and indecisive wars. The problem with that is that they appear to be winning. Who would have imagined a single nation-state with that kind of sheer . . . . ooomph? Formidable swine. What they lack themselves they can buy.
At the thought of the Federated States being able to buy what it needed, Robinson's thoughts turned to the soldiers the FSC had bought. Most were wretched, of course, or, if not, banned by their government from doing anything that might lead to casualties. The FSC paid for the upkeep and deployment costs of these, but nothing more. It got about what it paid for, or perhaps a bit less.
But then there are the others, those little brown Latin mercenaries. Those the FSC pays top drachma for and gets full value, too. I wonder how the war in Sumer would have turned out without that ruthless mercenary Legion. Better; of that much I am sure.
Robinson thought back on the extraordinarily clever scheme Captain Wallenstein had come up with whereby sympathetic citizens of Tauran states had given themselves up as hostages to force their governments to pay ransoms to the insurgents in Sumer. It had been clever, but it had ended when someone started kidnapping Taurans for ransom and then feeding them feet first into wood chippers for the nightly news, even after the ransoms had been paid. The supply of volunteers had dried up very quickly after that and even real hostages had not been bargained for anymore. He was reasonably certain that the mercenary Legion had been involved in all that.
But there's never any proof. Bastards.
And then there was the humiliation inflicted on the cosmopolitan progressives of Terra Nova by the Legion, from torture stings to simply ignoring the Kosmo press no matter how loudly it howled.
Never mind, I must think to the future.
"Computer, change display," Robinson commanded.
"To what, High Admiral?" the artificial, and vaguely feminine, voice had answered.
"World view. Show me incidents over the last thirty-five local days."
The image changed. Robinson studied.
Nice to see that things are taking a turn for the worse for the FSC in Pashtia. And the piracy along the western coast of Uruhu is encouraging . . .
"Computer, connect me with the intelligence office."
A male face appeared in one corner of the screen. A male voice answered. "Lieutenant Commander Khan here, High Admiral. Did you want me, sir, or my wife?" Iris Khan's husband meant, do you need another blow job or do you actually require intelligence support. He wasn't offended or judgmental about the matter, either way. The UE was very casual about both sex and marital relations. Moreover, it was considered bad form to use someone's wife for sex and not at the same time watch out for the husband's career.
"Khan, tell me about piracy on Terra Nova."
"Yes, High Admiral." Khan played with his computer to bring up some data. "Though piracy exists all over Terra Nova, there are four main nexus for piracy down below." One is the islands and coasts on both sides of the Republic of Balboa. This is mainly concerned with retail robbery of yachts and then reusing those yachts for drug smuggling, along with occasional kidnapping for ransom. A second is the eastern shore of Uhuru which, because of the nature of the trade there, tends to take entire ships and cargo. Ships plying that trade are smallish. A thir
d is the Straits of Nicobar, which is not generally concerned with drug smuggling or theft of cargo but more with ship's safe robbery and kidnapping for ransom. There is some religious element to the Nicobar piracy, at least in the sense that a bare majority of the pirates are Islamic and seem to use Islam as a justification for piracy. They would still be pirates if they worshipped Odin. The last nexus is around the area of Xamar, on Uruhu's western coast. This is not new but has grown substantially over the last several years. Xamar piracy is also, officially, Islamic in intent though, once again, they would be pirates even if they were pagans."
Khan, the husband, pulled up more data from his screen. "Officially, piracy costs the economy down below about twelve to sixteen billion FSD annually. It is believed, however, that the actual incidence of piracy is understated by a factor of about twenty . . . though it is doubtful that the costs are quite that understated."
Robinson scratched his head. "Interesting. Thank you, Khan. Tell me, did your wife enjoy our session?"
"She says she did, Admiral, but wishes you had pinched her nipples more and come in her mouth rather than her throat. She likes that sort of thing."
"I'll remember that for next time. In the interim, I want both you and she to look into the long term potential for both squeezing funds from and ruining a large scale economy through unchecked piracy. Robinson, out."
5/10/466 AC, Xamar Coast, Western Uhuru
"This is becoming tedious, sayidi," said the Helvetian banker representing a Tauran shipping firm, the Red Star Line. The banker looked rather like a gnome, short and stout and bearded. It was his job to negotiate the release of a dozen merchant sailors taken from a Red Star Line refrigerator ship two weeks prior. The sailors, bound and filthy, lined one corner of the sparsely furnished office near the center of the city.
Within the office tea and dates were served by tall, slender women with amazingly large, dark eyes. The women, some of them slave girls, likewise set out a tray of thin bread made from the flour of the chorley, a non-Old Earth species that resembled a sunflower that grew just above ground level, accompanied by local shoug, a mix of ground peppers ranging from "Holy Shit" to "Joan of Arc," with a very small admixture of "Satan Triumphant."
Of the women, the eyes were all that could be seen, that, and the seductive swaying even their robes could not conceal. They didn't matter though; the gnome had little use for women.
"Indeed," agreed the formidable, even fierce, looking Hawiye tribe chief seated on a cushion opposite the banker. Like the women, the chief was tall and quite slender, despite his years. "As I have told you many times, retrieving your people from these thugs costs me. It costs in money; it costs in arms; it costs in favors and in influence. I would prefer to put our relationship on a more formal and regular basis. But you people . . . "
It was all a polite fiction. The Hawiye chief, Abdulahi was his name, didn't actually ransom anyone himself, nor did he have the slightest objection to groups of his underlings seizing infidel shipping. In fact, he sent them out to do so and then maintained, for form's sake, that he was only acting as an intermediary for the return of the crews. This face-saving arrangement was workable, but far from ideal.
"I know, sayidi. And I have spoken to my superiors at length on the subject. They've finally agreed to a more . . . regularized, arrangement."
At last, thought Abdulahi. Protection money. Or "Danegeld," as my instructors in Anglia would have called it.
"Here is what I propose," said Abdulahi. "Your firm will inform me in advance of when it will have a ship passing within this area. You will pay me an amount based on cargo—"
"The displacement," interjected the Helvetian. "My principles are not going to accept allowing your people aboard to inspect cargos. Besides, we could not really be sure they even were your people without you meeting every ship."
"Fair enough," Abdulahi agreed. "Displacement. That can be checked objectively. Moreover, it has a direct, if uneven, relationship to crew size, and therefore ransom potential, as well as docking fees, which likewise bears on money carried in the ship's safe. This is fair and simple enough."
"In any case," the Hawiye pirate lord continued, "You will pay a reasonable fee—yes, we will have to agree on what constitutes 'reasonable'—in advance. I will use the money to pay off the pirates who infest our coast."
"They will, of course, be free to attack the ships of other firms," added the Helvetian. Which is absolutely necessary to us or those firms will be able to ship cheaper than we can.
"Naturally."
"The question remains, however, can you control the pirates."
Abdulahi simply laughed.
6/10/466 AC, Zioni Embassy, Ciudad Balboa
The Jewish Brigadier, Yonatan Bar El, laughed aloud. "Yes, Duque," he answered. "I do rather understand the problems inherent in the Legion using Zioni equipment in Arab lands. Even your friends—and we in Zion are amazed at some of the friends you've made—wouldn't, just as you say, know whether to support you or shoot at you. Still, you must admit, our Chariot is a tank infinitely superior to the Volgan dreck you've been using."
"The Volgan stuff is better than you admit, Yoni," Carrera replied. "After all, don't you use every piece of Volgan equipment you can get your hands on, after a quality rebuild."
"We do," the Jew admitted.
"Well, we have a substantial, if not quite controlling interest, in the Kirov tank factory. They do a quality initial build. We're pretty happy with our equipment, with a few exceptions."
"Which exceptions," the Zioni inquired. Maybe there was a sale to be made after all.
"Lighter but longer ranged artillery would be nice. Small arms are acceptable but . . . " Carrera shrugged eloquently.
"But the Volgan Bakanovas don't really have the range you would like."
"They lack range," Carrera admitted. "They lack penetration—"
Lourdes, wearing a long, silk sheath dress interrupted. "Patricio, Mrs. Bar El asked me to her family quarters. Do you mind if I slip out for a few minutes?"
The other half of the sales team, Carrera thought, answering, "Not at all, miel. I'll still be here when you return."
Lourdes pecked chastely at Carrera's cheek before turning to sway away. Yoni Bar El's eyes followed for just as long as politeness permitted, while thinking, Yum.
"We have a new small arms system in Zion . . . " he said, once he could tear his eyes away from Lourdes' seductively swaying posterior.
"I know. We've looked at the SAR-47. Not interested."
"Yeah . . . our troops don't like it either." It was Bar El's turn to shrug. "Though I expected them to like the grenade system that goes with it."
"Now that looked to have promise," Carrera agreed. "But what we really want is something that takes advantage of all the recent developments in small arms: super fast burst rates to make burst fire practical—the Bakanova has that, but only for two rounds, a cartridge firing a bullet with really superior ballistics, combustible casings, electronic ignition, integral limited visibility sights."
"It's funny, isn't it?" the Zioni observed. "There really are a number of major . . . oh . . . possibilities out there, and nobody seems interested in pursuing them. You would think that the FSC—"
"That much I don't really understand myself," Carrera said. "I served in the FS Army for quite a long time. The rifle my troops were last issued wasn't any better, really, than the rifle I'd been first issued. And it was a twenty-year-old design then. But they don't seem able to come up with a new one. This would be fine if the old one were great. But it wasn't."
"In any case," Bar El said, "we've blown our small arms design budget on the SAR-47 and we're stuck with it. And it's not a bad weapon, really. But now, we've got our designers reduced to making oversized pistols for Columbians with penis envy."
It was Carrera's turn to snicker. Then he turned serious. "You know, Yoni, I still do have money for small arms development. Maybe we could arrange something."
15/10/46
6 AC , The Base, Tribal Trust Territories, Kashmir,
"A superb arrangement, Abdulahi," said Mustafa ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana. The news was enough to launch Mustafa up from his usual misery to something like hope, maybe even happiness.
The years had been unkind to Mustafa. Naturally tall and vigorous, disaster heaped upon disaster has shrunk him, even as a lingering illness weakened him. With good news so hard to come by, the news brought by Abdulahi was welcome indeed.
Communications for the movement were never secure. The only way to be certain of a secret was to carry it in person. Even the infidel press could not balance out that inferiority, though they tried. And using couriers, too, had its problems, as any number of mujahadin grabbed without cause or warrant from airplanes and airports around the globe could have testified. It was infuriating, and—Mustafa had to admit—unexpected, for the infidels to fail to follow their own rules. It was worse when the Kosmos weren't able to shriek, scream and nag their own governments into compliance in their own suicide.