by Tom Kratman
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."
29/7/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Lands
"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."
Interlude
United Earth Organization Resolution 5417 (proposed)
Resolution 5417 (2131)
Proposed before the Consensus on its 16728th 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.
Chapter Twenty-one
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
5/8/469 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace
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 s
hip, 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."
"That's one possibility, Lucretia," Robinson said. "It's also possible, and for us much better, that the Salafis should dominate the planet."
Arbeit shrugged. To her, it really didn't matter.
"When?" Wallenstein asked, weakly.
"A couple of weeks," Robinson answered. "The Salafis are making a place where we can shelter a shuttle for the delivery. Making it by hand, as a matter of fact, the yokels," Robinson sneered. "They'll all be better off once we're in charge. Only the Class Ones have the wisdom to run a world properly, let alone two of them."
Reminded, she began to ask, hesitantly, "Have you . . . "
"Have I put you up for Class One yet?"
"Yes, that."
"Of course. Speaking of which, Marguerite, I'll want you personally to see to my security down there." Robinson smiled and continued, "In the interim, I have other uses for you. Get your uniform off and get on all fours."
"And get your lovely head over here," Arbeit ordered, sliding her posterior toward the edge of her seat.
* * *
Afterwards, Wallenstein lay on her side in the High Admiral's bed, sandwiched between the two of them. She kept two knuckles in her mouth on which she bit down. Normally, Robinson was content to use her mouth or vagina. This time he'd wanted her ass and it had hurt. It still hurt.
It will all be worth it, she consoled herself, when he and Lucretia sponsor me for Class One. Everything will be worth it then. All the perks . . . all the lower castes having to kowtow to me rather than me to the high caste. The best living arrangements. Servants. Proles to use as I've been used all my life. Respect.
Arbeit slept silently. The High Admiral snored. He'd fallen asleep as soon as he'd finished using her body, she thought, but the snore meant he was truly asleep. Still naked, she gently slithered out from between them and over to the computer the High Admiral had inadvertently left running while he'd turned his attention to her.
Must see how their recommendation reads.
A captain had access to everything in his or her ship's computer files, ordinarily. She knew the Admiral had sequestered some files concerning the operations to influence the planet below. Hopefully he would not have thought to sequester the report on her.
She typed carefully, quietly. There it was, in the recent files section, a report labeled "Wallenstein." She pulled up the file and began to read.
As an officer Marguerite Wallenstein is adequate, but no more than that, she read. Skipping ahead, feeling nauseous, she saw further, While she has a obsession with reaching Class One status, nothing in her background and breeding suggests she would be a suitable candidate. She has too many lower caste and even prole attitudes to entrust any portion of the direction of a world to her marginal capabilities. On the plus side, she uses her mouth well and will gladly and even eagerly do anything in bed her superiors direct her to do. I earnestly recommend a tour as military aid to a high ranking Class One, male or female as the captain does not discriminate, followed by retirement as soon as she becomes tiresome.
The report was countersigned by the IG, Arbeit.
Feeling wounded, as near to raped as she ever had in her life, Wallenstein returned to bed.
* * *
By the next morning Wallenstein had herself under full control. She awakened before either of her partners from the night before, then showered, dressed, and went to her own cabin prior to ascending to the bridge. On the bridge she took the morning report and gave a few orders to the bridge crew. After that, she turned control over to her executive officer and withdrew to her day cabin.
When Robinson showed up, she greeted him with her usual sweet smile and said, "I have had a complete sensor search done of the Salafi base area and there is nothing unusual to report, Martin. I've also put your personal shuttle into maintenance to make sure it is ready."
This was all true. It was even the whole truth . . . so far.
6/8/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Lands
The truth was that the Salafis were fairly rotten soldiers, as the term "soldier" was understood over most of the globe. Hopeless marksmen, most of them, their rifles were ordinarily little more than noisemakers. Hopeless, they were too, on the battle line. A culture that values family above all things in this life cannot produce military units where nonblood-related men must generally trust in, even love, one another enough to make them risk death for their comrades. And it took a very rare leader—Mohammad had been one such; to a lesser degree Sada, back in Sumer, was another—to get them to rise above that.
On the other hand, unlike any number of military skills and values, patrolling was something that did come more or less naturally to most of the Salafis. Oh, the softly raised city boys of Kashmir and Yithrab were fairly hopeless, at first (even they could be taught, eventually, though). But the desert Bedu and the hill runners of Pashtia? They grew up with the possibility of having their little encampments raided at any time for livestock and women. They grew up, from earliest boyhood, with the idea of walking around outside their camp's perimeter at night to catch any such raid, or scouts for a raid.
Those Salafis went out every night through gaps in the wire and mines around the camp to make sure there were no unfriendly strangers waiting in the darkness. Some of them even stayed out days at a time, carefully and nervously walking the hills and valleys around the base.
Perhaps they'd grown a little slack, what with all the months and years in the Base and never a sign of the enemy nearby. But a "little slack," for a Bedu or a Pashtun securing his immediate home, wasn't really all that slack. It might have been slack enough, for example, to miss a small hide, well camouflaged, on a hillside. To miss men entering and exiting that hide? To miss men exiting that hide every night?
* * *
Sevilla was both furious and frightened. The idiot signifer was out again, having taken three men with him this time. What the young fool expected to find out there was beyond the sergeant. Briefly, he considered sending a burst message to higher to get someone to order the signifer to stay put. This seemed disloyal, though, and the Legion stressed loyalty to immediate higher authority.
The sergeant stiffened when he heard the rustle of rock below. Hands tightening on his rifle, a standard model, he flipped down his monocle and used the rifle to peer out from the hide. He relaxed again, as much as one could relax on a long range detached mission in enemy territory with an idjit for a leader, anyway, when he made out Somoza's familiar shape in the darkness.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Sevilla lifted the overhead net carefully and only enough to allow the patrol to re-enter the hide. In a whisper the signifer passed on what they had found. This was, as the sergeant expected, precisely nothing.
I'm getting too old for this shit, thought the twe
nty-seven year old Sevilla. Maybe it's time to go back to my home tercio, the Third Infantry. They might—probably would—stick me in the recon platoon and have me doing the same basic shit, but at least I wouldn't be out here eighty fucking miles from help. Besides, line cohort recon platoons are almost always led by centurions. Better, way better, than having my balls in a shavetail's hands.
The overhead net rustled suddenly as something hit it from above. Sevilla looked up for an instant, saw a glowing spark, and pulled his head down under his protecting hands while shouting, "Grenade!"