by Tom Kratman
Fadeel was not hanged on the spot. Neither was he shot. Instead, at an interview with Carrera and Sada, he was told, "Friend, you are going to take a long, long cruise."
Even then, Fadeel was most uncooperative, despite the threat and reality of pain, until his parents, kidnapped in an operation long planned, were brought to him aboard the Hildegard Mises.
Epilogue
I
With Hecate and Bellona hurtling overhead, from just outside the cave's mouth that led down to his underground command post, Mustafa min Sana'a, Prince of the Ikhwan contemplated a bleak present and a bleaker future.
Why, O' Merciful One, do you try me so? Why do you seem to favor the infidel? Why have you caused us to lose in Sumer? Is it my failings? Or is it that the Sumeris, themselves, are unworthy of your redemption? Or is it, perhaps, that you required us to lose there so that when we win this world, as we eventually must, we and our descendants will be in no doubt that it was You who gave us the victory, and not by our own efforts?
Oh, yes, we will hang on in Sumer for a few more years, perhaps even a decade. We are a stubborn people, as You made us to be, and an optimistic one. But the tide is against us. I know this, no matter what I tell my followers. And the chief of the space infidels, the pigs from Old Earth, likewise assures me that our cause there is lost. He tells me that terror met terror there, and the greatest terrorists won.
Who would have believed it; that an infidel from the greatest of infidel states should have become a greater terrorist than even the bloody handed Fadeel al Nizal?
Curse him, O' Mighty One, this filthy pig, Carrera.
And were is Fadeel, anyway? He has disappeared from the world and left no trace. I think he must have been taken, though. Too many cells around the world of which only Fadeel and I and my closest associates knew have likewise gone into the ether. Too many accounts with too many millions in them have also gone. I think Fadeel must have lived and I think he must have talked.
What could make a man like Fadeel talk? Oh, he was a lion, despite our occasional differences. No ordinary interrogation would have broken Fadeel. This Carrera swine must be deep into Shaitan's clutches if he could make Fadeel betray trusts.
Unconsciously, Mustafa's teeth ground together with the sheer hate and frustration of it all. He began to pace the mouth of the cave, hands clutched tightly behind him.
Allah, we've got to win. I have been to Taurus, I have been to the Federated States. I know what they are like. I know . . . You know, how they have begun to contaminate even the faithful.
It is an abomination. Especially is it an abomination where women are concerned. Women working outside the home? Women choosing their own mates? Women free to fuck whom they will without marriage, even within marriage? Women baring their bodies in public like wantons? Women learning to read? Women voting? Women free?
Abomination, abomination, ABOMINATION!
You have created the one above the other, the man above the women, just as You have placed the faithful above the infidel and the dhimmi. And these infidels would seek to recreate the worlds in ways contrary to your will? Forbid it, Almighty Allah! Help us to forbid it and to bring your just rule to this world, to this universe.
You, O' Allah, are the greatest plotter of all. Help us and guide us, your faithful servants.
Mustafa had a sudden and unsettling, even an awful, thought.
He asked aloud of the night air, "Is it my fault that we have lost, my God? Is it my misspent youth? The days of uselessness and the nights of drunkenness and debauchery? I regret them all, O' Most High. I know they all should have been either my wives or those held under my right hand before I touched them. I humbly ask – I humbly beg – Your forgiveness. I knew not then what I know now."
Facing toward Makkah al Jedidah, Mustafa prostrated himself, bowing repeatedly and whispering his prayers and his penance. When he was finished, his mind was clearer, clear enough to think upon the future which looked so bleak.
So we have lost in Sumer. So be it. What is there to gain, then? How shall we proceed?
Further attacks on the Federated States? The last one didn't work out precisely as planned, now did it? Why was this? I had thought them much weaker than they proved to be. I had thought them as weak as the Taurans. No, then; no more attacks on the FSC until and unless I can make them truly crippling. No more threats unless the threat is so deadly even they will not face it.
But what is left then? What is left when they have won in Sumer?
There are the Xamar pirates. They owe me, many of them. Perhaps they can be persuaded to integrate their individual efforts, to join the higher holy cause. I will dispatch Abdul Aziz to that end as soon as possible. Perhaps the pirates of the Nicobar Straits, too, can be brought into the fold. Most of them are of the faithful, after all.
And then there is Pashtia. Yes . . . perhaps Pashtia can be reopened as our major effort. After all, the mujahadeen and the money that would go to Sumer otherwise are still available; will still be coming. And then, too, Pashtia has few roads and railroads, no ports, not many airports. Can the infidels even supply a larger force in Pashtia? Perhaps not, the Volgans never could.
Yes, Pashtia is where we shall fight them. Pashtia is where we shall crucify the swine.
II
Carrera half lay on a supply pallet outside the field hospital at Balboa Base. His legs hung off with his feet on the ground. Both arms were outflung on the pallet, the hand on the right one holding a smoldering cigarette. Under the other arm was strapped a pistol in a shoulder holster. He looked up at the stars and the moons, speaking to Linda in his mind.
I almost murdered a city, love. I was ready to. I had everything needed to destroy it. I'd have given the order in a few days if one bloody mullah hadn't saved me from it. What do I owe, do you suppose, to a man who kept me from getting more blood on my hands than I could ever wash off? I'm building him a new mosque, a grand one. But I don't think it's nearly enough.
Carrera didn't bother to stifle a yawn.
I'm tired, Linda, so tired. Not just of the work but of the means. My boys are great, they do whatever I want them to. But they can do it only because the sins are all on my head.
It was easy, baby, when I first began. Then it was all abstract; I didn't have to think. And I was too full of hate to feel much else.
I wish it were over. But it never will be, will it? Not in my lifetime.
He stopped thinking for a while, feeling the cool night air, seeing the twinkling stars, and conscious of the pistol strapped to his chest.
That would be the easy way, wouldn't it. And I'd like to; I really would. But I can't do that either. I owe it to you and the babies to continue the fight. And I owe it to my men not to abandon them.
I owe it to Lourdes, too, her and the new baby. And . . .
Sada materialized next to the supply pallet. "Rukaya says it's time, Patricio."
Sitting up, Carrera tossed the cigarette. It would never do to bring fire inside a place where pure oxygen flowed. He stood and turned to follow Sada to the maternity ward. At the door, a nurse helped him into a hospital gown. Sada stayed outside as Carrera entered.
The look on Lourdes' face was one of pure excruciation. Standing in the adobe field hospital, wearing the hospital gown to cover his battle dress, Carrera took her hand. He felt every contraction and spasm right along with her. Though Sada was not allowed into the delivery room, his wife, Rukaya, held Lourdes' other hand, stroked her damp hair and forehead and whispered words of encouragement to her.
Carrera had tried to send Lourdes back. In this one particular, though, her will had been iron.
"My mother bore four children with never a doctor in attendance," she'd said. "My grandmother had eight and all in her own bed, on her own and my grandfather's farm. Without even electricity. I'm no wilting flower, either. I am your woman. My place is with you and I WILL NOT GO!"
It was a surprising show of resistance from such a normally serene and cooperative p
erson. He'd known he was not going to win that fight. Instead, bowing to the inevitable, he'd flown in an obstetrician from Balboa. At some level he'd felt a certain guilt about that; using his position for special consideration for his own family.
Am I becoming like the Balboans, placing family first? Am I becoming like the Islamics? Certainly Adnan and Rukaya, Fernandez and Jimenez, and – so far as I can tell – each and every one of the troops, approved. I must think on this . . . later.
To his own question he'd had no answer or, in any event, not one that satisfied. He'd sent the doctor out, always under heavy guard, to deliver babies all over the BZOR to try to give the appearance of having brought specialist medical aid for the mission and not for his own sake or that of his new wife.
And in that, too, it seems I am becoming more like my enemies. Do I care so much about appearances? I never did before.
And that was another thing. A few days before he'd had one of his horrible nightmares. This one was different, though. Linda had been there, as usual, along with Julio, Lambie and Milagro. But so had Lourdes and the baby.
It was the picnic nightmare, again, only with the oddity that Lourdes and Linda, both, were his wives and seemed quite content with that situation. It was positively Islamic and even worse than usual when all six screamed and turned to rotten meat, then crumbling bones, before his eyes.
His reveries were interrupted by a loud, piercing, wailing scream from Lourdes and a painful squeeze of his hand. Her head was up off her pillow, bobbing as she gasped for air. In a few moments of hard struggle it was over. Lourdes' head returned to her pillow. She still gasped and – Carrera had no doubt – was still in agony. Compared to agony of actual delivery, though, what she felt now was probably small beans. Indeed, by comparison it was likely pure relief. He could see that on the smile that shone through her tears.
Carrera heard a slap and then one very, very affronted wail. He was distantly aware of the flash of a scalpel and of the baby being passed to Rukaya.
"Behold, Patricio," Rukaya said, flicking a miniature penis with an index finger, "you have a son."
Before placing the child at Lourdes' breast, Rukaya held the boy's tiny ear to her mouth and whispered, "La illaha illa Allah; Muhammadan rasulu Allah." There is no God but God; Muhammad is the prophet of God.
Carrera let it be. On the other hand, What religion should the boy be raised in? I'm a Catholic, if a bad one. Lourdes is Baptist, and a good one. But, who knows; maybe Rukaya has a point.
Nah.
He looked at the boy again, now nuzzled into his mother, and felt something he had not felt in a very long time. It wasn't love; he loved Lourdes and had for a lot longer than he'd been willing to admit it. If she was not Linda, she was still the finest – and based on her just concluded delivery one of the toughest and bravest – human beings on the planet.
No . . . it's not love that I feel anew. It's . . . it's . . . He struggled with the concept before realizing, It's a sense of future, of having a continuing place in the march of Man. I lost it when the Linda and the children were killed. Lourdes has just given it back to me.
With his right palm stroking Lourdes' hair he bent over her and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you Lourdes," he said. "In all this world I love you and our child above all. You, and he, have given me my future back."
And for that future I will fight.
Carrera rested his head upon hers and lay that way for several minutes. At length, he became aware of a hubbub of sorts coming from outside the field hospital.
Sada stuck his head in the door. "Patricio, there are over a thousand soldiers outside, maybe two-thousand, including mine, and they want to see the baby."
Looking at Lourdes, Carrera saw her smile again and head nod, weakly. "Show them, Patricio," she said.
The doctor shrugged and said, "I think it's safe enough. There are some stairs down the hallway that lead to the roof. You can use those."
"Show them, Patricio," Rukaya agreed.
Gingerly, for he had not held a newborn in a very long time, Carrera took the still naked child from Lourdes' breast and placed it on his own shoulder, one hand under the baby's head. The baby – they'd already agreed he would be named Hamilcar Xavier Adnan Carrera-Nuñez – took it pretty well, not crying but peering curiously at the out-of-focus, barely perceived world around him.
Lots different from my last digs, thought little Hamilcar. Might be fun. And there's so much more room to grow here.
Still cradling the baby, Carrera gave Lourdes another warm and gentle look. Then he left the delivery room and walked to the stairs, Sada and Rukaya following. These they ascended. At the top of the stairs they emerged onto the roof, itself surrounded by a low adobe wall built in the Arab fashion. Stars shone down on the roof, as did Hecate and Bellona. There was a murmuring sound, as if coming from thousands of throats. The sound was gentle and quiet, though, as if, also, those making it were reluctant to disturb the new mother.
New mother or not, the murmur arose to a roar when the legionaries of el Cid and the askaris of Sada's brigade saw Carrera's head, then shoulders, and then the baby.
To the roar of the men was added a round of mass applause. Good job, Legate. Fine work, Lourdes. Welcome to the legion, little one.
Carrera placed one hand, then the other, under Hamilcar's arms and gently lifted him overhead, to display to the troops. The applause and the cheering grew louder still, which seemed not to bother the baby one bit.
Behold my son, Carrera thought. Behold: I have a future. And for that future I will fight.
Carrera looked up at the sky once again, looked at the stars, and wondered which of them were ships of the UEPF.
On the horizon, Eris was just beginning to rise anew.
III
Robinson sat on the observation deck of Spirit of Peace watching as Eris rose and Hecate prepared to plunge behind the planet. In his hand he held hard copies of dispatches from the Consensus on Earth.
The future is black, he thought. Everything is going black. I should nuke Terra Nova now, while I can.
It wasn't just the situation in Sumer that had Robinson's mood down in the pits. The dispatches from home were at least as depressing: riots in Rome – the Caliph had been torn limb from limb by a mob. Raiders from the reversions – those areas on Old Earth that the Consensus lacked the means or will to keep civilized – had struck civilization in three places; just west of the Dahlonega Glacier, along the edge of the Arabian reversion area, and at the mines in central Africa. The Consensus itself was split, with some advocating further pullbacks from the reversions and others – notably the druids and neopagans – demanding an increase in the strength of the security forces to roll back the reverted areas.
So they're compromising by ordering me to send back half my security force. How the hell am I supposed to even guard Atlantis Base with half my troops, such as they are, gone? What will be next; ordering me to send back half the fleet to nuke the reversions into submission?
Oh, Holy Annan, what am I to do?
Robinson placed his elbows on his thighs, rested his head in his hands, and tried desperately to think.
All right, my best way of guarding Atlantis Base is probably bluff. I think I can keep the locals from sensing half my force is gone by ordering the remainder to be more aggressive about their patrols and enforcing the exclusion zone to surface shipping and air transport even more rigorously than we do. That will help . . . for a while, anyway.
Robinson's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of elevator doors whooshing open, then closed, and soft footsteps on the deck behind him. He recognized the footsteps.
"Hello, Marguerite," he said, raising his head from his hands but staring out the large rectangular viewport rather than turning to see her.
"High Admiral," Peace's captain answered, with an unseen nod. She knew what was troubling him; she'd seen the dispatches from Earth before he had and she knew that Sumer was, from the Earth's and Robinson
's point of view, a failure.
She gracefully took a seat on the padded bench next to Robinson. There she remained, quietly, allowing him to continue to think undisturbed.
Robinson broke the line of silence by saying, "It's odd, isn't it? That, outside of Europe, it is the first areas of home to come under real Consensus control that were also the first to revert? That, outside of Europe, it is the areas that came in last that provide the core and the strength to our system?"
Wallenstein shrugged. She tried not to think about that, nor about what it implied for the system as a whole.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, changing the subject.