The Rods and the Axe

by Tom Kratman

  Interesting problem, though, thought Lourdes. If the FSC knew the UEPF wanted war, as I know from our cabin girl defector—Jesus, what will Patricio do when he finds out who that girl looks like?—they would threaten war to force peace. Since they think the UEPF wants peace, they’re slightly on the side of continuing the war. It’s very strange.

  The missing party was the Tauran Union, their delegation being composed of the president pro tem, Gaymard, and General Janier.

  And Janier I cannot read more than a little, thought Carrera’s wife, who, like many women, took an entirely justifiable modicum of pride in her ability to read men. This may be because he is not too sure any more of what he believes, himself.

  Hmm . . . I wonder why they’re late, the Taurans. Patricio sent something through Triste about some dirty trick we’ve pulled on the TU, but there weren’t any details. I suppose there couldn’t be.

  She’d wondered why it was a general here, representing half of what the Tauran Union could bring to the table, rather than the civilian chief. Triste had explained it: “Elisabeth Ashworth is a corrupt, deep-at-the-core Tsarist-Marxist, ennobled for political connections and loyalty rather than acumen. She speaks no languages but her own, and that not especially well. She is barely educated. She could not be elected dogcatcher of a dogless town, hence has relied on appointments to advance herself. She has never held a job in or out of government for which she was not totally out of her depth. She spreads ignorance and chaos wherever she goes. She has no idea about defense, and couldn’t tell the difference between a pair of boots and an aircraft carrier. She would have been an embarrassment to the Tauran Union. Nobody understands why she is in the position she is in, least of all herself. And all of that is the opinion of those who like and support her. Her political enemies are much more negative.”

  “Oh.”

  “She is alleged, however, to be likeable and even charming.”

  “Oh.”

  “Though those who allege it may be prejudiced in favor of politically connected idiocy.”

  Lourdes was still musing on the unquestioned benefits of not having Countess Ashworth at the peace conference when the Tauran delegation, Gaymard and Janier burst in. The president pro tem wore a look of utter fury on his face. The soldier, however, struck her as having a very difficult time of it keeping a broad smile from appearing on his.

  “One hesitates to insult a lady,” said Gaymard, with a sneer, “so take this as an insult to your entire people, and not to you, specifically. You filthy, lying, treacherous, uncivilized, unprincipled, rude, ill-mannered, sorry excuse for a people. Barbarians! Uncultured! Un—”

  “I think it was a very clever trick,” said Janier, earning a fierce glare from his nominal president.

  “What are you people talking about?” asked Wallenstein. At about that moment her communicator beeped. It was Richard, earl of Care, back aboard the Spirit of Peace.

  “High Admiral,” said the ship’s captain, unheard by any but the high admiral, “I think you should check the news down there. In Gaul and Sachsen, especially.”

  As if on cue, Gaymard stomped over to the television, turning it on and setting the channel to the Global News Network. The scene shown was of burning automobiles and burning buildings, of policemen under glare-lit barrages of rocks. “This is your good faith,” said Gaymard, accusingly, to Lourdes and Esterhazy. “This is your integrity. You lie to us about casualties then go directly to our people, pinning the blame for your lies on us.”

  “What in the name of God are you talking about?” Lourdes asked, in French at least as good as his. “You fool!” she added, since she’d imbibed a fair amount of the culture with the language.

  While Gaymard sputtered, Janier explained the barrage of letters and the damage they’d done to sundry Tauran Kosmos, or cosmopolitan progressives. “It’s not as openly bad in Sachsen,” he added, pointing at the screen, “since they’re a much more disciplined people than mine. But they have a history of boiling over when least expected.

  “You really didn’t know?”

  “No,” Lourdes insisted. “And if it were deliberate, I am sure my husband would have told me.” Unless, of course, he wanted me to be able to feign innocence. For that, he told me just enough.

  “All right,” said Janier, though he didn’t quite believe it. “Well, you, your husband, and Balboa have both acquired a raft of new enemies as well as new friends.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  “Count me as a friendly enemy,” Janier answered.

  “Fair enough,” she said, believing him.

  “Come along, General,” insisted Monsieur Gaymard, tugging on the general’s sleeve. “I refuse to sit at the same table as this . . . woman.”

  And that, for the day, was that. At least in that conference room that was that.

  In Marguerite’s quarters, where the Zhong security types had escorted a twisted-armed Gaymard, Janier leaned against the wall, arms folded, enjoying the show. The empress carefully inspected her nails, pretending to ignore the show. Marguerite was the show.

  Towering over Gaymard, she held the president pro tem by his necktie, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. As she shook she continuously berated him, “You stupid, insipid, miserable excuse for a man.” The shaking and berating occasionally were interrupted for a brisk slap! or two . . . or three . . . or a full body smash, or a series of them, against the wall. So, thusly: “You stupid, insipid, miserable excuse for a man.” Slapslapslap. “Who the fuck do you think you are, you elder-gods-damned ground bound fucking peasant?” ThumpthumpTHUMP against the wall. “I hold the fucking power of life and death over you and yours, you piece of shit!” Slapslap. Thump. Slap. THUMP. “Do you want to see yourself at age ninety, if you live that long?” ThumpthumpTHUMP. Slap. Thump. “And if you think your fucking whore of a wife is marginal now, give her a few decades.” Slap. Slap. Slapslapslapslapslap. Punch. “Ooof.” “Fuckhead! Imbecile! Moron! Walk”—slap—“out”—thump—“of”—punch—“ooof!”—“my”—thumpthump—“fucking peace conference”—thumppunch—“ooof” slapslap—“will you?”

  At that point Janier was smiling more broadly than ever. Marguerite let the president pro tem out of her grasp. Tears slid down his face as the Gaul slid down the wall. But for his own tailored trousers, he’d have left a more obvious streak on the wall than the tears did on his face.

  “Tomorrow,” she ordered Gaymard, “you will be there and you will be polite to that woman. Is that clear? You will apologize! Now get out!”

  Unable to speak, the Gaul merely sniffled and nodded. He started his progress to the door on hands and knees, rising only when he passed a chair against one wall.

  “No,” she said to Janier, who had begun to leave with Gaymard. “You stay.”

  “I am confused,” said the general, after Gaymard had left. “I want peace, yes, since I have reason now—serious reason, you will agree—to doubt our ability to wage war successfully. But you want war, High Admiral; deny it though you may. How does flogging that bureaucratic nonentity get you closer to your goal?”

  “His anger at Mrs. Carrera was professional before. It will be personal now, thoughtless now, consumed with rage now. That makes it more likely that the TU will say or do, or fail to say or do, whatever is needed for war.”

  “Ah. I see,” said the Gaul. “But why won’t that hate turn on you and the Peace Fleet?”

  “Because I and it are everything he aspires to. He could no more turn on us than your current Black Pope could on the real pope.

  “And besides, the weasel wants that rejuvenation more than anything. And I am the key to that. So he has to turn his hatred elsewhere, and the most convenient ‘elsewhere’ remains Balboa.”

  Janier said nothing about that, though he agreed she probably was right. He did say, after a moment’s reflection, “I’d better go see to the weasel.”

  “Please do,” said Marguerite.

  Janier walked to the door. As he was pull
ing the door shut behind him he thought he heard the empress huskily saying, “You have been a terribly naughty girl. You must be punished . . .”

  Sometimes, thought the general, as the door clicked shut, sometimes I wonder if, if only one could get valid and true answers, sex wouldn’t explain everything there is to know about people, both as a species and as individuals. Or perhaps it would only show that nothing is understandable at all.

  Ah, no matter; whatever her personal predilections, I do like the high admiral.

  Gym Dorado, Cedral Multiplex Shopping Mall,

  Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova

  Esmeralda wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Can I ask a question?”

  “You can ask,” replied Aragon, “but I might not know the answer and, even if I do, I might not be able to tell you.”

  “Oh. Well, then, I’d better save it for a question I think you know the answer to and might be able to tell me.”

  Aragon sighed. “Don’t be silly. It’s not a rationing scheme. If you want to know something, ask. If I know and can tell you, I will.”

  “Is there any way for your country to get to Old Earth to liberate it?”

  Goooddd question, thought Aragon. But, “No, I don’t think so. At least I’ve never heard of any and can’t imagine any way for us to.”

  “Could anybody on the planet?”

  “The Federated States would if they could,” Aragon replied. “And they probably could if they could get the Peace Fleet out of the way for a couple of years, without getting themselves nuked in the process. Right now, though, the FSC is stymied.”

  “No they’re not,” said Esmeralda.

  “What?”

  “They’re not stymied. They’re bluffed. So far as anyone knows, there is not a single, reliable nuclear weapon in the Peace Fleet or on Earth. The high admiral had demanded that some new ones be manufactured, or some old ones be refurbished, but when we left, the SecGen—that’s the ruler, but he’s not an absolute ruler—was still fighting over it with some of his supporters.”

  “Oh, my God.” Cass Aragon went speechless for a few moments. Then she said, “Debriefing’s over. I have to get this to my people. Now.”

  Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

  There was a rectangular indentation in the concrete over the entrance to the underground shelter. Eventually, it was supposed to carry the shelter’s name. Since the shelter didn’t yet have a name, however . . .

  The faintest ghost of a smile lit Fernandez’s face as his powered wheelchair rolled across the concrete between the heavy steel blast doors, followed by Warrant Officer Mahamda and some of Mahamda’s men. Some of Mahamda’s men carried some large beams. One had a hammer. Another had a pack on his back that clanged metallically as he walked.

  The doors were big enough to accommodate a UEPF shuttle. Despite the lack of a name, Fernandez tended to think of the facility as Fortress Robinson. It was here that the former high admiral was housed under guard, he having been captured in Pashtia in the course of trying to deliver non-Earth-built nuclear weapons to the Salafi Ikhwan, the now-defunct terrorist group. It was here that he and the former inspector general and marchioness of Amnesty, Interplanetary, Lucretia Arbeit, had trained several Balboans to pilot the legion’s deepest secret—deeper even than their small nuclear arsenal—that they had a UEPF shuttle and that it worked.

  Making it work had been problematic. It had, in the first place, been badly shot up where it had been sheltered, in a cave in Pashtia. What damage the bullets hadn’t done, had been done when infantrymen and combat engineers, none too skilled, had been put to taking it apart and carting it off in pieces. Worst of all, seemingly insuperable, had been that the control box had been utterly toasted, ruined beyond redemption.

  I imagine, thought Fernandez, though I can’t prove it, that the reason the Earthpigs never mentioned the shuttle is that they know the control box was ruined—last minute “I am under attack” squawk maybe—and know it can’t be flown without it.

  The innate conservatism and lack of innovation of Old Earth, which lack was driven by the need for stability, had saved the shuttle. Five centuries before, in the course of winning his colony’s independence from Earth’s United Nations, Carrera’s multi-great grandfather-in-law, Belisario Carrera, had taken a shuttle.

  Finding that had taken recourse to Belisario’s personal diaries—a Carrera clan treasure—plus thousands of man hours hunting through old probate records, before the control box for that old shuttle had been found, stashed away in the bowels of a museum, under the care of its curator, Professor Alfredo Figueredo. The museum really had no clue of the importance of what they’d had and mostly forgotten they’d even had it. Only Figueredo had been able to remember where the damned black box was hidden.

  And, to Fernandez’s near surprise, the old control box had fit, fit perfectly. Better, it had still worked. Matched to the shuttle, and the latter powered up in its Faraday-Cage-writ-large of a hangar, and suddenly Balboa had become not only a nuclear power, but, in whatever tiny a sense, a space power.

  And, within a few years, the legion even had pilots trained by no less a personage than the captive former high admiral and inspector general of the Peace Fleet.

  Which children of whores, fumed Fernandez, neglected to mention to us that the fucking Peace Fleet had no nukes.

  Fernandez’s wheelchair stopped. Four of Mahamda’s men continued on, into the depths of the shelter, while the rest dumped their loads to the concrete floor of the top deck. The stuffed pack clanged even more metallically when tossed to the concrete. Under Mahamda’s supervision, the remaining men began assembling the wooden beams into two large crosses.

  The last trace of the ghostly smile had flitted away by the time Robinson and Arbeit were dragged to the top deck. They were tossed to their knees on the concrete at Fernandez’s feet, their hands bound. Head inclined, Fernandez stared first at Robinson, then at Arbeit.

  “Refresh my memory,” he said. “When I spared your lives rather than leaving you aboard the Hildegard von Mises as it sunk, it was on the condition that you would cooperate actively and eagerly with us, was it not? That you would withhold nothing, would volunteer everything?”

  “Yyyeesssss . . .” Both of the Old Earthers hissed their answers out together.

  “Ah, good,” said the intel chief. “And so I want to know the complete status of the fucking Peace Fleet’s nuclear arsenal.”

  “No one really knows,” said Arbeit, licking her lips nervously as her eyes flitted from Fernandez’s feet to the twin crosses, “least of all, since we haven’t been aboard ship in years, us. But he can tell you more than I can.”

  The former high admiral gulped, then said, “I told you, sir, why I had to borrow nukes from Kashmir and other places to give to the Salafi Ikhwan. Because I couldn’t be sure.”

  “So if someone said that the Peace Fleet has not a single, functioning nuke aboard any of its ships?” Fernandez asked.

  “Legate Fernandez,” Robinson continued, “please believe me. Please. I don’t know if there are no functioning nuclear weapons in the fleet. I only know that the ones we had were questionable. I told you about why I obtained the Volgan, Kashmiri, and Hangkuk bombs.”

  “Is it plausible,” asked Fernandez, “that every last one of them is defunct? Think carefully on your answer, because if I don’t believe you, if I think you’re trying to withhold information, if I think you’ve broken your word to us . . . to me . . . then you and this psychotic bitch of an ex-marchioness are going up on crosses. In two days we’ll start asking questions again. If then you’ve answered everything in exactly the same way, even though you’ll be hanging separately, then on the third day I’ll let you down. If you have not, you stay there another day, and your legs get broken.”

  “No nails?” asked Mahamda innocently.

  “Oh, no,” replied Fernandez, “we’ll just tie them up. It hurts more that way, you know.”

  “Yes, sir . . . but what a
bout tradition?”

  “Trust me, it’s traditional. Robinson?”

  “You have another source somewhere aboard the fleet, don’t you?” asked the ex-high admiral. He was trying his best to remain calm and helpful, but Fernandez was pretty sure he was inches from gibbering.

  “Yes,” Fernandez agreed. “The cabin girl to High Admiral Wallenstein, your replacement.”

  Mention of Wallenstein’s name converted some of Robinson’s terror into hate in an instant. He was a lot easier to deal with that way.

  “Okay,” Robinson said, “ . . . what we’re talking about is, to a degree, semantic. You said ‘cabin girl,’ so probably a lower caste girl, not well educated and unlikely to pick up fine nuances. But consider, Legate, that a nuke that cannot be relied on is not, in fact, useable. Try to use one on, say, the Federated States, or even one of its allies, and let them discover that the bombs don’t work, and the Peace Fleet becomes radioactive debris in orbit. Fast! That would be true even if that were the only defective one and all the others were good.

  “When I was in command, I had hundreds of nukes. Statistically, based on records of old testing, over a hundred should have worked. In practice, I could not tell which ones would and which would not. I couldn’t even rely on the test sets to tell me, since they were older than even the fleet was.”

  “So how many,” asked Fernandez, “could be expected to work now?”

  Estado Mayor, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “He doesn’t know,” said Fernandez to Carrera. “He says he doesn’t and I am inclined to believe him.

  “That said . . . I am not entirely sure I trust what I believe,” Fernandez admitted. “The way I went about it was nonstandard . . . and a mistake in procedure. It may be, sir, that you need to replace me.”