Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ancient gods used to "kill us for their sport," but modern Olympians are content to regulate and preach at us.

—John O'Sullivan, Gulliver's Travails

UEPF Spirit of Peace, Earth Date 20 August, 2515

"Oh, Hammerskjold," Robinson laughed in the privacy of his quarters, "That's just priceless."

 

Robinson sat on an overstuffed brown chair he'd had purchased from below and brought up. The matching sofa held Captain Wallenstein, who leaned on one arm of the piece, her breasts poking through a thin negligee and her long legs folded under her.

"She was almost one of ours," the captain pointed out, with residual anger in her voice, "hand picked by our own Amnesty to do our work below among the savages."

"Oh, I know," Robinson agreed, sobering. "And surely we can't just let this pass. But on the other hand, what can we do about it?"

"Not much," Wallenstein admitted. "She's asked for asylum for herself and her family. It seems that, not content with just publicly humiliating her, the locals have made threats which, based on their record to date, they'd carry out in a heartbeat."

"Have you spoken with the woman?" Robinson asked.

"Not personally," Wallenstein answered. "I sent one of my people to see her though. She has some very . . . quaint notions of life on Atlantis, aboard ship and on Earth. Her idea of her place in the big scheme of things is even farther off base."

Robinson made a tent of his fingers, tapping them together under his nose. "Is she attractive? Could we get enough for her as a slave on Earth to justify the expense of shipping her and hers back?"

"Not a chance; she's not much to look at. There are some prole positions on Atlantis, cooks and maids and gardeners and such. Shall we send her and her family there?"

"Whatever you think best," Robinson answered, now grown very serious. "Just so long as she has no chance of ever escaping. Wouldn't do for her to tell the local progressives just where progress is going to lead them now, would it?"

Wallenstein laughed in agreement before changing the subject. "Speaking of progress, how is the war down below going?"

"Mixed bag," Robinson said, putting out his hand and wiggling his fingers. "The invasion by the FSC and the coalition went a little better for them than I had hoped. On the other hand, they haven't found any of the weapons that provided some of the excuse for the invasion. I've passed the word to our people below who deal with the press to play that up and play down any of the other reasons for the invasion. It's been hard, though, to get the anarchist bastards to pay much attention what with all the atrocities they've fixated on that are taking place in the Balboan sector."

"Well . . . won't that hurt the FSC?"

"Yes and no," Robinson said, further explaining, "there are two ways to look at it. In the first place, the Balboans are doing a much better job of controlling the insurgency than the FSC or the Anglians are. If the press would play that up they might have more of an impact on undermining support for the war effort in the FSC simply by making them appear inefficient. But, on the other hand, by playing up the Balboans' war crimes, the press is helping build an unbreachable wall to further participation by the states of the Tauran Union. It's a hard call and I don't know which way to nudge it," the high admiral admitted.

"What is the deal with the Balboans anyway?" Wallenstein asked. "I looked them up. They've got no really modern military tradition though they were a serious pain in the ass to us four centuries ago. Tied to trade as they are, you would think they'd be more globally minded, more like the Taurans. Yet they've got a larger percentage of their population over there fighting than anyone else, about three times larger."

"I wondered about that, too," Robinson admitted. "Computer?"

"Working, High Admiral," a speaker answered.

"Bring up the file on Patrick Hennessey."

The Kurosawa view screen, previously taken up with a soothing show of geometric patterns, changed almost instantly to show a somewhat grainy picture of Carrera.

"He caused it," Robinson explained. "You can look his file over later at your leisure."

Unconsciously, Wallenstein ran her tongue over her lips. "Can't we control him, then?"

"I'm not sure how," the high admiral admitted, shaking his head with frustration. "He's got no family to threaten, or none that he cares enough about anyway. He appears to have no civilized moral constraints; he's a pure barbarian, in other words. Nor is he hurting for money. Actually, he appears to have more money than he really knows what to do with."

"A direct attack?" Wallenstein suggested.

Robinson exhaled, forcefully. "I wish, but no. He's an important enough ally of the Federated States that they might consider taking him out to be an act of war by us on them. And that we can't afford."

"I suppose not," Wallenstein conceded. "They're touchy swine. How about having one of the Novan states take him out for us?"

"It's highly questionable whether they even could," Robinson laughed. "Outside of a very few of them the rest are unlikely to be able to field a force of a competence or size capable of getting through his security. On the other hand, that does give me an idea . . . but it will take some time to set that up.

"In any case, the insurgency is going reasonably well," the high admiral continued. "They're terribly short of money, though. So Mustafa told me last month on Atlantis." Yes, he'd had to bring Wallenstein in even on that.

"Is there any way to funnel them funds?" Wallenstein asked.

"Probably, but the FSC has gotten almost incredibly good at ferreting out their accounts. Anything we did would have to be very discreet."

"Or not," the captain answered, cryptically. "I think I know a way."

 

Ciudad Balboa, 26/8/461 AC

Jorge Mendoza handed a roll of bills to the girl who sat next to him in the taxi. She counted out the fare, rounded it up for a tip, and paid the driver. The driver attempted to return the money but a look from Marqueli and a vigorous shake of her head told him that Jorge would be insulted if the driver refused his fare. The driver nodded his understanding and took the money with a sincere "Muchas gracias, señor." Then Marqueli gave the change to Mendoza and opened the door on her side of the taxi.

 

Mendoza slid across the seat towards the open door. His metal and carbon fiber legs caught briefly on the transmission hump in the middle of the taxi floor. He unhooked the flexible metal feet at the end of the tubes that ran up to join the remnants of his own legs, then swung them out onto the street. Marqueli took his arm to help him stand. Passersby stopped momentarily to look over the smartly uniformed soldier being led by a tiny girl. An off-duty policeman saluted Mendoza's wound badge and the ribbon—all he was allowed to wear—of his "CC en Acero" and continued on his way. Marqueli nodded to the policeman in recognition of the salute. As the taxi pulled away, Mendoza took a moment to secure his balance. Then he followed Marqueli to the door of the restaurant, lifting his artificial legs especially high to avoid the rise of the sidewalk.

This was Mendoza's first time in public since being equipped with his prosthetics. Understandably he was nervous about it. But, at his doctor's prompting, Marqueli had taken him out. Some of the other troops of his ward had gone over his dress uniform with a fine tooth comb. Everyone there was just pleased as punch to see one of their own with a beautiful girl.

"'Queli, I feel like people are staring at me."

"It's only your imagination, Jorge. However, they are staring at me; I'm sooo pretty." She laughed at herself. The sound was like the bubbling of a newly discovered jungle stream, infinitely joyful and refreshing. "Now relax. I won't let you fall. Okay, you can start lifting your legs now. There is a staircase in front of us. Here, put your hand on the rail, right here." With one hand on the rail, the other held by the girl, Mendoza was just able to make his way up the stairs without making it look too difficult.

At the top of the steps, Marqueli opened the door and held it for Mendoza to enter the restaurant. A waiter appeared to escort the two to their table. The table was next to the long windows that looked out over the Bahia de Balboa and towards the Isla Real.

"The view is so lovely here," said Marqueli. Then she realized that Jorge couldn't see any of it. "Oh, I'm sorry, Jorge. I forgot." She reached over to hold his hand lightly. The touch surged through Mendoza like an electric jolt.

He said, "That's all right. Tell me what you see and I'll try to imagine it."

"If you like. We are sitting in a restaurant, at a table with a white table cloth. To your right is a clean window. Below the window children are playing on a slanted rock wall that runs from street level down to the water. The water doesn't look too clean this close, I'm afraid.

"But just a ways out there are boats. Let me see . . . I count . . . ah, seventeen of them. All waiting to go through the Transitway or to leave. There are a few small boats moving among the ships. And I see crewmen working on the ships too."

Mendoza wrinkled his brow in concentration, willing his mind to see what his eyes no longer would. "I think I can hear the children playing. And maybe the engines of the small boats."

Marqueli smiled and gripped Mendoza's hand tighter. "There is a boat you can't hear. A big sailing ship with . . . three, no four masts. It's painted white and has none of its sails set. There is no one on that ship that I can see. It just rocks there, with the waves. It's a beautiful ship."

"I can almost see that."

The waiter came and placed menus down for the couple. Marqueli just took them and asked "Why don't you let me order for both of us, Jorge?" The soldier agreed without comment. Marqueli looked over the menu, decided lobster was impossible, and settled on something that didn't require sight to eat neatly.

While they waited for their meals to be prepared, Marqueli continued to chatter on, describing the bay to Mendoza. "Far away, on the other side of the bay, Jorge, there is a row of white buildings. I can't make out much but there seems to be movement around the buildings."

"That's probably the police cavalry squadron. I remember that they keep a base there."

"Yes, you must be right. I don't remember that the legion has one there, anyway. But the base really looks lovely from here." Marqueli was silent for a while, looking out over the tranquil scene.

Mendoza too was quiet. If things had been different, if I hadn't been hurt, I might have been able to find a girl like this someday. But if I hadn't been hurt, it would not have been this girl. And, when she is with me, it feels like it must be this girl, not some other. But it can't ever be this one. I wouldn't saddle her with a cripple.

Marqueli looked over at the boy. Can he tell when I stare at him, I wonder? If she were still alive, my mother would say I was crazy, if she thought I was beginning to fall in love with a cripple. Am I falling in love? I don't know, I've never been in love before. But it hurts, inside, when we're not together. And Jorge isn't crippled in any way that matters. We could have children. He could be a good husband and father. And he needs me. I like being needed . . . by him. But he's not going to ask me. I'd better tell him myself.

The waiter brought out two steaming trays and set them on the table. Marqueli assisted Jorge by cutting his meat first and then switching plates.

"You said you were a soldier's daughter, 'Queli?" he asked, while she cut.

"Yes." She sighed, sadly. "My father was killed by the gringos when I was very little. I don't remember much but broad shoulders and a big smile for me. A couple of years ago my mother died, too. I don't think she ever got over losing him."

"How did you . . . ?"

"Oh, we went to live with my uncle and my mother worked to support us until she died. If Legate Carrera had not begun supporting those of us who lost family in the invasion I don't know what I'd have done."

"He's a gringo, you know," Mendoza said. "He was even in on the invasion. It may have been him, or his men, who killed your father . . . or my brother."

"I know . . . but . . . if he did, he's gone a long way to make up for it."

"That's true," Mendoza admitted. "And he's done all right by me." Better than all right.

"In more ways than one, Jorge," she amended.

Now the only question is tell him or trap him. Marqueli turned to her dinner with a grin unseen by Mendoza.

 

Babel, Sumer, 28/8/461 AC

Her given name meant "assistant." It was fitting.

 

Senta Westplatz waited impatiently at the corner of two busy streets. Though Sachsen-born, Senta was a Muslim. Like virtually all of those around her, Westplatz wore the hijab. Since it was important that she also be recognizable, her outer covering was olive on the outside, with enough of a sky blue lining showing to mark her as distinctive. Between that, her light eyes and her Sachsen features, she hoped the freedom fighter coming to claim her would have no problem.

Though Sachsen-born, Senta had lived long in Sumer. She had friends there, many of them. Many of those friends were involved, deeply involved, in the resistance. It was a case of like attracting like.

She'd done odd work for the resistance from time to time, her cover as an aid worker giving her free access throughout most of the country, though the BZOR remained problematic. The mercenaries seemed to neither have, nor permit, any illusions about the humanitarian Kosmos.

Senta was a committed pacifist. Though willing to help, she had drawn the line at transporting weapons or explosives, instead acting as a courier, transporting fighters under cover of her humanitarian organization, providing medical supplies and occasionally spying. Then, too, some of the FSA's civil-military affairs personnel were more civil than military and gave away more information than they should have.

When some of her Sumeri friends suggested to Senta that she might help the resistance by voluntarily becoming a hostage for ransom, she'd jumped at the chance. She could think of no better way to help the cause.

Simply taking her off the street would have been easy, especially given her intention of helping in her own kidnapping. On the other hand, such a kidnapping might be inherently suspicious. To allay that suspicion, Westplatz had reported to the occupation authorities that she had received nonspecific threats. That way, her side and her country—nominally, very nominally, allied to the FSC—could also blame the FSC for failing to provide security for her when she was taken.

The automobile, when it pulled up, proved to be a nondescript dirty white four door sedan made in Yamato. There were three men inside. Each pulled his keffiyah, the traditional checked Arab headdress, across his face and tucked it into the opposite side as the car slowed to a stop.

Once the car stopped, two of the men emerged waving pistols. They simply grabbed Senta as she stood there and bundled her into the car.

 

Potsdam, Sachsen, 31/8/461 AC

The old, gray, stone building rang with the sounds of workmen engaged in restoration. It was slow work but much had been accomplished already. The key officers of the cabinet of the Sachsen Republic, for example, all had habitable offices.

"They want five million Tauros and the release of Ali Mahmoudi," the chancellor's greasy-looking assistant, Herr Hoyer, said, in the secure confines of his chief's centrally located suite of offices. Even to the chancellor, Hoyer seemed to be something of a Schmierfink.

"Ali Mahmoudi . . . ?" The Chancellor groped for a memory. "Oh . . . him."

"Yes, him. The FSC seems to know some of the details of the offer," the assistant advised. "Well . . . after forty years of occupation and keeping us from liberation by the Volgan Empire, while preserving our own fascists, it's no surprise they have their friends in Sachsen, too. In any case, they're already pressuring us to turn Mahmoudi over to them before we can release him. Of course, we would have turned him over years ago except that two of our own people are being held hostage in Mahmoudi's old stomping ground in Bekaa. We were promised that they would be killed if we let the FS have him. This was obviously a political impossibility."

The chancellor was no friend of the Federated States, less still a supporter of the war in Sumer. Deep down he wasn't even a supporter of the war in Pashtia, though he had had to send some forces. Even there, he'd made sure their rules of engagement were such as to make them as useless as possible, all under the guise of preserving Sachsen life.

Notwithstanding any of this, however, he had his domestic opponents who were sure to take advantage of his discomfiture whichever way he rolled. And roll he would; there was no doubt about that. The only question was the direction of the roll and the degree of spin that would be needed. And there really wasn't much question about the direction, either.

 

Majrit, Castilla, Terra Nova, 21/9/461 AC

Of course, the Sachsen chancellor did release Mahmoudi. There really had never been much question about that. Whatever physical harm the terrorist might do in the future was unimportant compared to the damage that would be done to the chancellor's domestic political power in the present were Westplatz to be killed. This release of the terrorist had to be made public though every effort was made, largely unsuccessfully, not to link the two as having been the subjects of a trade.

 

The trade couldn't be hidden, really. What could be, and was, hidden was the amount of ransom money paid over. This was the full five million Tauros that had been demanded. Even with the obvious linkage between Westplatz and Mahmoudi, the chancellor was a believer in Abraham Lincoln's truth: you can fool all of the people some of the time.

Of course, thought the Chancellor, it's much easier when all of the people desperately want to be fooled.

The money went to a number of useful places. Some purchased influence in Sumer and elsewhere. Some went to arms inside the country and out. A fair amount went to explosives, detonators, the odd book bag and backpack, and living expenses for certain persons inhabiting various parts of the continent of Taurus.

It was amazing how far a few million Tauros could go when overhead was low, arms and explosives cheap, and with most of Salafis within Taurus already being supported by the generous doles provided by the Tauran Union's member states and some lesser amounts from Yithrabi-funded madrassas and mosques.

Some small percentage went to fund a critically important operation in Castilla.

The operation had cost less, far less, than holding a Kosmo conference at a five star hotel on the picturesque island of Melosia concerning the dreadful problem of forced assimilation of migrant widget pickers in Eastern Westfuckistan. (Or perhaps it was Western Eastfuckistan. No matter; the point was never really to solve the problem, so much as it was to have a lovely conference by a lovely beach at someone else's expense. Why, if the problems were actually to be solved the free luxury conferences might end. That would never do.)

In any case, Fadeel's organization was able to plant fewer than a dozen bombs, kill under two hundred Castillanos, and drive that country completely out of the coalition in Sumer. Rarely in history had such a significant strategic objective been achieved at so little cost, though the Salafis would remember when it had, if anyone would. Westplatz agreed that the lives lost, while regrettable, had been well spent. Even so, she slept poorly for three entire nights over it, she felt so badly, and felt very virtuous at her own suffering thereafter.

 

UEPF Spirit of Peace,
Earth Date 19 September, 2515

"I've got to confess, my dear Captain, that your plan was brilliant, brilliant, I say!"

 

"Why thank you, Martin," Wallenstein answered, preening. "It gets better, too. Our collaborators down below have rounded up dozens of people willing to be 'kidnapped.' We've got news reporters, humanitarian aid workers, international lawyers, priests and ministers. There are even two rabbis and as many homosexuals as one could imagine. I never thought that would happen. I really don't see us ever running out of people, actually. And every one taken means five or ten million transferred to the resistance in Sumer and even in Pashtia. Of course, some of it will go to Taurus, too, and while I don't expect anyone to fold as readily as Castilla did, governments will fall, alliances will be weakened."

"I've been thinking a bit myself," the high admiral said. "I think the best way to handle the success the Balboans have been having is to split the effort in the media, with half comparing them to the FSC to the latter's detriment and half insisting that the FSC boot them out of the country and arrest their leaders for war crimes."

Wallenstein sipped at her drink. "Not sure I follow."

"The people down below who support us engage in a very interesting form of double think," Robinson answered. "They seem to have these little mental compartments in which they store their hatreds. The compartments let in or reject evidence, but seem never to objectively analyze it. They accept anything they hear that fits their world view or supports the ends they believe in, and reject what does not, logical consistency be damned. Thus, they're perfectly capable of believing both things as true at the same time, provided they hear them from different sources.

"It's like those homosexuals you mentioned who are willing to be kidnapped as hostages. They're going to help people who would string them up by their necks in a heartbeat. Why? It can only be mental compartmentalization amounting to insanity."

Wallenstein thought that very witty. She added to the high admiral's thought, "Well, our ancestors, the ones who took over Old Earth, didn't compartmentalize. Like us, however, they were very capable of using those who did."

"Quite," Robinson agreed. "In any case, I do intend to push their Cosmopolitan Criminal Court into having the Balboan leaders arrested, if possible, but it has to be at the right time. That time is not quite yet. I am, however, working on the Balboan government. Apparently the agreement under which they agreed to sponsor the forces in Sumer allowed them a total of one thousand FSD per man per month from the profits. This is about twice what an individual private in that force is paid, by the way. It's also become a substantial portion of the government's revenues, about seven percent and rising. The government, however, sees no reason anymore that they shouldn't be receiving all of it, which would increase their total funding several times over."

"So what stops them from simply issuing a decree and taking over?" Wallenstein asked, confused.

"Fear, I think. They've only got a few thousand under-equipped police in country. The mercenaries match that fully with their secondary formations of soldiers, damned well-armed soldiers, too, being raised under the government's nose. Still, let's let the ambassador see what he can do. No need to tell him in advance how unlikely success is."

 

Embassy of United Earth, Ciudad Balboa, 1/10/461 AC

"What you ask is, sadly, impossible," President Rocaberti insisted. "Yes, Mr. Ambassador, I would very much like to see those two bastards out of the way. I lack the power even to get at the one that's in this country. If I tried, I'd soon find myself decorating a lamppost."

 

The ambassador of United Earth to the Republic of Balboa was nonplussed. A small man, very dapper and precise, he found it hard to imagine a semi-private military force able to ignore a genuine government, though he understood that nonmilitary nongovernmental organizations did so with impunity all the time. That was different though.

"I really don't understand," the ambassador admitted.

"It's like this," the president explained. "I have about eleven thousand police, most of them civil rather than military. Of the military police there are about four thousand, a quarter of which are brand new. They lack heavy weapons and training for combat. Moreover, those most suitable for combat were let go to join this "legion" Parilla and Carrera—that's not his real name, did you know that?—set up. We've since made up the numbers, but not the . . . oh, I suppose 'quality' is the best word. Worse, there are strong ties of affection between the Civil Force and the Legio del Cid. My police are, frankly, unreliable to me.

"In Balboa now, there is a second legion forming. My people tell me this legion is about half strength in the units—call it twenty-five hundred soldiers—and has about as many still in training. They are led by what are now rather experienced and rather good combat commanders; so I'm told. They're frighteningly well armed, too. They'd go through my skeleton of a military police force in days . . . maybe hours. If the police didn't just go ahead and join them.

"So you see, I can neither arrest them, not even the ones in country, nor do a damned thing to force them to pay a fair share of their revenues."

The ambassador almost asked whether it might not be possible to have the FSC, the ultimate guarantor of Balboan democracy, or what passed for it, force the change in receipts and likewise reinforce the police to make the arrests. He started, and then realized that there was no chance—zero, zip, zilch, nada—that the FSC would do a blessed thing to undermine their real allies in the conflict that currently mattered. Still, there was something, something just at the edge of conscious thought.

Rocaberti saw and understood the fleeting look that crossed the ambassador's face. "Yes, that's exactly right. Under the circumstances of this war, with the Balboan legion being the third, soon to be second, largest contingent, there is no chance of any support from the gringos. My best hope is to keep the legion for the most part out of the country."

The ambassador half closed one eye, cocking his head and twisting it on his neck as he struggled for that something which seemed to be eluding him. Aha.

"Mr. President," he asked, "what if Tauran Union troops came to secure your government?"

 

UEPF Spirit of Peace, Earth Date 13 October, 2515

"Now isn't that an interesting idea?" muttered Robinson as he considered the ambassador's proposal. "It would never work on its own, of course. But if there were to be another attack on Balboa, then the legion they have overseas would have to be sent home or other security forces would have to be brought in."

 

"Which security forces, Martin?" the captain asked. "The FSC can't, they're already overstretched in the first place but in the second place, after a century of occupation and an invasion, the people there would not welcome their troops."

"After I looked over the file on this Hennessey or Carrera person, I also looked into the country he's recruiting from. I doubt their president could politically stand the uproar if he invited the FSC back."

"I know," Robinson agreed genially. "That's why the ambassador suggested that Tauran Union or other coalition troops be used."

"You would have to be careful," she cautioned. "The Yamatans are notable for being dicks when overseas. The Sachsen Army, whatever its government might feel, is still at heart a staunch ally of the FS. The Anglians? I'm not sure why but the Balboans seem to not much like the Anglians. What's that leave? Gauls and Castilians?"

"Yes," Robinson agreed happily. "And some few others. Precisely those who are no friends of the FSC and those who are most friendly to us and our aspirations. But there will need to be an incident to justify calling for help. And if it kills some civilians down below, it's still better than people of our classes being killed, eventually, back home."

 

Ciudad Balboa, 25/10/461 AC

Not every asset available to Mustafa had been used in the attacks of two years prior. He still had his command and control team which had never been used and was perfectly capable of easing the arrival of other, operational, teams.

Those teams, two of them of three men each, came in on a single large yacht that anchored at one of the country's many yacht clubs, debarking their hidden passengers at night.

Moreover, the passengers fit right in once they were ashore. It was elegant, really. There were a dozen good Salafis from Castilla who spoke Spanish and needed to get out of the country. There was a job for half that many men skilled with explosives in a country where one needed to speak Spanish. Sometimes problems had a way of solving each other.

The men had escaped from Castilla barely ahead of the police and hidden out in Bilad al Sham for some weeks. From there they'd flown via that nation's national airline service to Farsia. Once in Farsia they'd languished for a bit, their informal leader, Mohammad Ouled Nail, doing his best to keep their spirits up after the ecstatic excitement of the attacks.

While they'd languished, however, the Farsian intelligence service had been very busy, preparing identification and passports. Properly documented, the six chosen reboarded an airplane, the first of a series that ultimately saw them arrive in San Vicente, not far from Balboa. There they were met by a representative of some local import-export business known locally as M-31. This business imported money and exported illegal drugs. They imported a bit more money, some small portion of what was paid for Senta Westplatz, for seeing the six by sea to Balboa and providing them with certain useful materials and implements. Business was business, after all.

Kaboom! Kakakakakaboomoomoomoomoom!

 

Camp Balboa, Sumer, 26/10/461 AC

Carrera found Fernandez weeping quietly and staring at the photo of his daughter. A faxed message sat, crumpled on the desk, alongside a color newspaper page from home showing the carnage.

 

Beautiful girl, Carrera thought. She must have resembled her mother. What a goddamned fucking waste.

He placed one hand on his intel chief's shoulder, in sympathy. "I just heard, Omar. There are no words . . ."

Fernandez looked up, not trying to hide his tears. "She was all I had after her mother died. And then these . . ."

". . . bastards," Carrera supplied. "We'll get them, if we can, Omar. I wish I could promise you—"

"It's for me to promise you, Legate. We'll get them, all of them, no matter what it takes."

Of all men, Patricio Carrera probably best understood Fernandez's suffering. And one had to be impressed with the conviction behind his promise.

 

Aeropuerto Internacional Herrera,
Ciudad Balboa,
3/1/462 AC

You had to be impressed. The fund-starved and despised armed forces of the various states of the Tauran Union had never managed to deploy much of anywhere without the FSC not only footing the bill but providing the taxis . . . and the lunch counters . . . and the fuel . . . and the bulk of the ammunition . . . the administration . . . the medical support, the . . . ah, but why be petty? Nonetheless, in what was lightning speed by TU standards, the first troops of the Kingdom of Castilla and the Republique de la Gaule arrived in country within a fortnight of the second series of attacks.

These had been directed away from infrastructure and towards people. This focus was not exactly unusual, for the terrorists, but it was critical here. Had they actually succeeded in destroying the Balboa Transitway, the above-sea-level canal that connected Terra Nova's two major oceans, there might not have been a reason to deploy. Moreover, killing people (and they killed many in attacks on churches, especially) was much more likely to garner sympathy.

Best of all, from the Tauros' point of view, was that no one at home could object to sending soldiers to protect Balboa. This was as plainly a nonaggressive move as one could conceive of. Even the pacifists approved.

The FSC had very mixed feelings, of course. The Transitway was theirs. They'd paid for it, built it, defended it, and even once invaded to make sure the Balboans didn't soon forget who really owned it. On the other hand, the FS really didn't have available the troops required to defend it, what with running two campaigns in Sumer and Pashtia. Even worse, with the growing insurgency in Sumer, the legion couldn't be released to defend their home turf.

There wasn't much to do but acquiesce.

 

Las Mesas, Balboa, 3/1/462 AC

Jorge would never surrender to being a mere cripple.

 

But your problem, old son, is that there is only so much you can do that's fun. Mendoza laughed at himself. Okay, there's only so much you can do . . . period. The fun part could wait. Seriously though, I can't take her swimming outside of a pool. And I'm not comfortable in a pool. Movies are less than ideal for me and so she doesn't enjoy them as she should. The worst are the ones in English with Spanish subtitles. Long walks are out for the next few years. But this horse has advantages over walking anyway.

Actually, thought Mendoza, my body—what there is of it—isn't so big a problem as the fact that I am scared to death of Marqueli . . . or rather of losing her. I'd love to tell her how I feel, but what if she just ran away from me? A cripple for a friend is one thing. But for something more than a friend . . . ?

It was Marqueli who hit upon the idea of horseback riding. She had gone to her uncle who raised horses and asked him if he could provide a couple of gentle ones. The uncle, being told of Carrera's interest in Mendoza and eager to stay on Carrera's and the legion's good side, had agreed immediately.

So Marqueli asked the doctor in charge of Jorge's recovery if a car and driver could be provided, telling him why they needed them. "Piece-o-cake," the doctor had answered, snapping his fingers.

A few days later Mendoza and Marqueli found themselves staying in separate rooms on her uncle's ranch. Every day began with a ride. Marqueli took along a picnic lunch. As she and Jorge rode she described the scenes they passed and warned him of any undulations in the ground that would affect his horse. Sometimes they just rode in silence.

He's remarkable, thought Marqueli. He never complains, he never whines. How many men would take such a beating from life and still be trying?

She asked, "Jorge, what are you going to do now?"

Mendoza didn't answer immediately. When he did, his answer came slowly, as if he were still thinking. "There's the beca the legion is offering to badly wounded troops. It's generous, much more so than the one being offered to regularly discharged legionaires. I've been thinking along the lines of taking them up on that offer . . . going back to school, to the university."

The girl clapped her hands together, startling the horses slightly. "That's wonderful. To study what, do you think?"

"History, maybe. The legate and Dux have said they'd need teachers at the schools they're starting. It would carry a warrant- officership when I finish. I'll keep drawing my regular pay until then. Only problem is . . . how do I write a paper when I can't see the typewriter?"

"Oh, Jorge don't be silly. I'll type your papers for you, once we're married." The girl said it so matter of factly that Mendoza didn't at first realize what she had said. He answered "Well, of course you could . . . did you say married?" He reined his horse in tightly.

"Yes, silly. Do you think I spend all my available time with you because I hate you? 'Married.' Why not?"

"Pity?" Mendoza asked.

"When you start feeling sorry for yourself, maybe I'll feel sorry for you, too. In the interim, since I do plan on children, and since I plan on them being yours, and especially since my family would disown me if they were illegitimate, then 'married.' To you. Or don't you want me?" She leaned over Mendoza's horse and kissed his cheek.

Speechless for the moment, Jorge just inclined his head at an odd angle. "Married. Señora Marqueli Mendoza. Children. Oh, wow . . . I love you 'Queli."

"I know. I've known for months. Though why you never said so . . . well!"

"Married." He whooped and gave a nudge to his horse's midriff. The horse picked up to a trot, heading down the road.

Marqueli followed, reaching to grab Jorge's horse's leads. "You damned fool. A broken neck might be a little bit too much, don't you think?"

 

Marqueli, being not much past sixteen, needed her family's permission to marry. This was forthcoming once Jorge explained to her uncle that, despite his injuries, he would be able to maintain a wife and family. Following that step, the next had been to introduce Marqueli and his mother.

His mother had wept, of course, at first. She'd wept, too, when she'd first heard the news of his loss and then again when she'd seen him at the hospital. The image of her fine strong son, bedridden and crippled, had been just too much. However, where before she had wept in despair, now it was with relief and even happiness. And married? To such a fine girl?

While the driver had taken Marqueli to her family's house, not too far away, Jorge and his mother were left alone to talk.

"Oh, she's a wonderful girl," Mama Mendoza said. "A beautiful little thing. How in the world did you ever find her?"

"She found me . . . sort of, Madre. It seems she's the cousin of the . . . to be honest, the mistress of Legate Carrera."

"Really? Well . . . she's not only beautiful but she has a very nice singing voice," the mother said innocently.

"What?"

 

"You're the girl?" Jorge asked, as his horse sauntered besides 'Queli's mare.

"The girl?"

"You sang in the choir, didn't you? You wore a white hat and a yellow print dress."

"Sometimes. How did you know?"

"I didn't, I had no idea until my mother mentioned it. I always stayed in the back and I used to watch you, you were so beautiful."

Marqueli's heart leapt. He remembered.

Interlude

Earth Date 16 May, 2104 (Terra Novan year 45 AC), Continent of Southern Columbia, Balboa Colony, Isthmian Region, Terra Nova

The raiders had come before, though not to Belisario Carrera's newly founded settlement of Cochea. Still, even with word of mouth and jungle telegraph, he was not surprised when one of the village boys ran to the center of the spread out, ramshackle town to breathlessly report that a helicopter was disgorging armed men.

 

Taxes? Belisario wondered. No, not that. We have nothing much to take. These are looking for something else.

At that moment Belisario's beautiful wife—she would one day have a multi-great-granddaughter named Linda who would be her very image—emerged from their hut. He knew then what the armed men were coming for.

"What is it, husband?" she asked.

"Trouble," he answered. "Raiders. Gather up all the women and children, except for the boys over twelve. Take them to the caves downstream from here to the east. Send the men and the older boys to me. Tell them to bring their guns and bows."

 

Trade is all well and good, Kotek thought, but why trade for what you can take?

The base was already well established. Command of the Amistad took little of his time; after all, he had "people" to do that sort of thing for him. So Kotek spent much of his time hunting. He'd already bagged half a dozen saber-tooths, well over a score of impressively tusked mammoth, and sundry other bits of wildlife useful for their pelts and feathers (the antifur fetish on Earth—as with all such fads— having long since passed into mere quaintness).

Indeed, he'd grown rather tired of the game. There really wasn't much challenge in shooting stupid animals and the rewards, while reasonable, were far off in time. What Kotek wanted was more immediate satisfaction.

Besides, while he had purchased a couple of female slaves from a reputable Yithrabi dealer, they were poor, drab and miserable things. Anything beyond bending over or kneeling down and quietly accepting was beyond them. No, Kotek wanted some females with a bit of life in them. And for those, he had to go hunting himself, as his ancestors in distant Ghana had hunted to feed the slave markets of Virginia, Panama, Cuba and Brazil.

Then, too, it was reputed that there was a great deal of gold found in these parts and that would be even more negotiable upon his return to Earth than matched pairs of mastodon or mammoth tusks.

The helicopter had landed Kotek and two squads of UN Marines, nineteen men in total, not far from a small village set in this mountain-fringed part of Balboa colony. One squad of Marines Kotek sent sweeping south of the village to set up a cordon while he and the other prepared to drive the inhabitants out of their village and into the net. The Marines were armored and armed with both lethal and nonlethal weapons, the better to take worthwhile females and young boys alive.

I might get a decent price on some of the boys, too, Kotek thought, or at least be able to trade them to the Yithrabi for a better class of female.

Kotek Annan stood up when he and the Marines had reached a line within two hundred meters of the village. They began firing immediately, but only over the heads of the villagers. They assumed the sound would panic the people into running into the cordon. It was a great surprise for Kotek when, instead of panicking, the people disappeared and began returning fire with their primitive rifled muskets. His accompanying Marines looked, if anything, more surprised. But the next surprise, a few minutes later, was better, as two dozen or more clouds of smoke suddenly bloomed to Kotek's right flank.

Even so, the best surprise was the .57 caliber ball that smashed into Kotek's right thigh, rending the flesh and smashing the bone. It also nicked the femoral artery but not so badly that Kotek didn't have the chance to see a hard, hate-filled face, lighter than his own but still quite dark, that came up to glare down at him. The face spoke some words in a language Kotek didn't understand.

 

Belisario was no soldier. Still, he had three great assets, common sense, knowledge of the lay of the land, and the sure knowledge that he had to kill these raiders or see—or rather more likely not live to see—his wife and daughters dragged off to serve foreign masters. This much he had learned on Old Earth; the progressives who said they came to do good only came to do well.

It also didn't hurt that his enemies were clumsy, being unused to genuine field work. He heard their twin columns, even as small as they were, before he ever saw them.

"One coming from the north, one from the south. They won't attack from two directions at once; that might cause them to shoot each other. So . . . one's a driving force, the other's a net. We hunt that way, sometimes, after all. But which is the net? South, I think, on the other side of the river."

South of the town there was a river that ran east to west. It was down this Belisario had sent his wife and the other women, girls and very small boys. His wife had carried her own escopeta, or shotgun, as had some of the others. The town itself was a mere twenty-three huts holding perhaps one hundred and fifty people of all ages.

Belisario counted heads at the people assembled around him, their faces looking frightened but determined. Sixty-one men and older boys with rifles, another dozen with homemade bows and arrows. All right. The raiders are . . . not many, based on little Pablo's report, but they'll be better armed.

Dividing his men into three groups, Belisario explained his plan quickly. No one interposed a better one. Leaving one group—about a quarter of the total—behind at the village, he sent another quarter downstream to cross the river at a ford he knew and which the raiders were unlikely to. The others he, himself, led to a tree line to the northeast.

"Keep low, dammit," he whispered. "For your lives, your wives and your children, for God's sake keep low."

The men following Belisario through the woods lay down along the edge and waited. Surely enough, ten men, nine of them armored and all of them armed, emerged into the open and began firing generally at the village. The group that had been left there went low and returned fire, generally ineffectively.

That doesn't matter, Belisario thought. I don't want you to be effective. I want you to be enticing.

The skirmish line advanced toward the village, their own rifles firing low now to suppress the defenders. Belisario waited . . . waited . . . waited . . .  "READY . . . Fire!"

Over the sound of their own fusillades, the raiders didn't hear him. Thus, it was with considerable shock that the heavy bullets slammed into them, knocking half down immediately. Some of the villagers had climbed into trees to fire down on their enemies. Soon enough, there was not a single man left unhurt among the UN Marines.

"Reload," Belisario ordered before leading the men with him out. "Kill them all, then we'll go after the other group." Desultory firing to the south told him that the cordon, too, was being engaged.

One man, differently clothed from the Marines and less well armored, lay on his back trying to staunch the flow of blood that poured from a shattered thigh. Belisario walked up to him, kicking the man's expensive looking rifle away from his reach. The man put one arm up, either begging for mercy or trying to fend off the machete Belisario drew from a scabbard at his waist.

"I should burn you alive," Belisario said. "I should burn you alive, you bastard, but there isn't time. Still, you won't live to gain revenge for this." He raised his machete high.

Four hundred and fourteen local years later all that remained of a very beautiful woman, one of Belisario's many multi-great grandchildren, would be interred very close to the spot where High Admiral Kotek Annan's hand and head rolled free of his body.

(And that, boys and girls, was how the office of High Admiral of the UN Space Fleet and its successor, the UEPF, was rendered nonhereditary.)

Back | Next
Framed