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Chapter Fifteen

 
They imagine they're the wave of the future, but it's only sewage flowing downhill.

—Lois McMaster Bujold, Shards of Honor

Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa, 29/4/468 AC

"Magnificent, mon General," Malcoeur toadied. He was not talking about architecture.

"Quoi?" Janier asked, in a tone that meant, shut up, fool.

General Janier never really thought the old headquarters for the FS Army in Balboa was quite grand enough for his own, indisputable, magnificence. Oh, yes, the arched gate underneath his office was all well enough, even if not quite the triumphal arch the general would have preferred. And the building was solid; you have to give the Columbian pigs that. But it was such a utilitarian structure, no marble, few mirrors . . . no quarters for a mistress. How could a people even think of themselves as civilized who could build a headquarters for a senior general and not provide quarters for his mistress?

"Ah, well," said Janier aloud, "we'll soon have that fixed."

"Sir?" asked Malcoeur, cupping one hand to his ear to ward off the sound of hammers and saws coming from the just down the hall where Janier had evicted much of his staff to create an apartment.

"Nothing for your ears, Malcoeur, you rotund little swine," Janier sneered. He pointed at the aide with his marshal's stick with its thirty-two gold and silk embroidered eagles and ordered, "Bring me my topper." The top of the baton was engraved, "Terror Belli, Decus Pacis."

While the toady scurried off to Janier's desk to fetch the general's headgear, Janier admired himself in the mirror. It was understandable; he did cut quite a fine figure in the blue velvet and gold- embroidered informal dress uniform of a marshal of Napoleonic France. Hundreds of golden oak leaves covered the facings, the collar, the shoulders, and ran down each sleeve.

Janier fingered one of the eight gold buttons on the coat, adjusting it minutely. He then tugged and twisted at the stiff, high collar. It was beastly uncomfortable. By the time Janier was satisfied with the collar Malcoeur, the "rotund little swine," had returned with the headdress.

It would be unseemly for the general to bow his noble head to a fat little wretch like Major Malcoeur. Instead, as Janier admired himself in the mirror, the major pulled up a chair, stood upon it, and gently lowered a replica of the golden laurel wreath worn by Janier's hero, Napoleon I, for his coronation.

 

The drone of saw and wham-wham-wham of hammer were distant in the conference room at the other end of the long, white stuccoed and red tiled building. Indeed, so distant were the sounds that President Rocaberti was hardly aware of them. What with the election coming up, the numbers, country-wide, still running against him, and the near certainty of criminal charges if he lost; well, one could understand why the president wasn't aware of much.

Thus, Rocaberti barely noticed when all the Gaulic officers and functionaries present stood to attention around the conference table and the chairs lining the walls. Only he, his nephew, his minister of police, and the ambassador from United Earth remained seated. They remained that way, that is, until Rocaberti caught sight of Janier, his porcine little aide standing behind, glaring down at him from his nearly two meters of imperious height. The aide made little gestures with his hand, Arise.

Does he have any idea how ridiculous he looks in that outfit? Rocaberti wondered. Why is he glaring at me? Does he expect me, the chief executive of a sovereign nation, to rise for him? The Frog bastard; he does.

Rocaberti, never among the staunchest of men, stood, along with the other Balboans who had accompanied him. Only the UE ambassador remained seated and to that worthy Janier gave a respectful nod before seating himself.

"Report," Janier ordered.

The operations officer answered, "Preparation for flying in three more infantry battalions two days before the election are complete, mon General. An additional battalion of light armor has loaded ship and will arrive at about the same time as the light infantry. The government has already approved."

"What of the TU?" Janier asked.

"Why would we inform them? They'll be presented with a fait accompli once it's accompli."

On cue, the public affairs officer added, "Mon General, the news in both the TU and the FSC runs at ninety-seven percent that this election is in the process of being stolen by the mercenaries. Public opinion polls are in line with this."

"We have completed occupation of the former FSA facilities," said Janier's S-4, or logistics officer. "There will be adequate living space for all our troops, once they arrive."

"Very good," the general said somberly. "Where did the locals who bought the housing go?"

"Who cares?"

"Indeed," Janier agreed.

"We have to care," Rocaberti interjected. "Those people were among our prime supporters."

Janier shrugged. The opinion of this future colonial subject could not possibly be important. Nonetheless, for the benefit of his own people, he spoke, and naturally in French. "Gentlemen, the Balboans who support the current administration have served their purpose, though that administration will remain valuable as a convenient cover for our rule. Have we not maintained virtually all of our old empire in Colombia del Norte, Uhuru and Urania in just this way?

"For our part, we will simply be here, in force—real or potential— greater than the local mercenaries would willingly wish to face. When the election procedure is shown to be compromised, as President Wozniak will attest to, the government will refuse to abide by it. We shall offer it our full support, of course . . . all in the interests of democracy—" every Gaulic officer present broke out in unfeigned and unforced laughter "—of course. We shall move our battalions, of which there shall be eight, to defend what can be defended, Balboa City and the Transitway area."

The ambassador of La Republique de la Gaulle said, "I am sure we can count on the Federated States' Department of State intervening on our behalf to threaten the mercenaries with severe sanctions should they initiate fighting."

"As I had supposed," Janier said.

"There is one major problem," Rocaberti insisted. "Within Ciudad Balboa there are some thousands of mercenary reservists. They may fight no matter what."

Janier sneered. As if some raggle taggle undeveloped world part- timers could pose any serious problem for the professionals of his force. Absurd. Laughable. Impossible.

War Department, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia, 2/5/468 AC

Rivers sighed and said, "This word you keep using, Secretary Malcolm? I don't think it means what you think it means. It might be 'impossible' for Pat Hennessey"—for Rivers still thought of Carrera as Hennessey—"to go to war with the Tauran Union. He'll do it anyway. He'll hit them wherever he can, as hard as he can, in as terrible and terrifying way as he can, and nothing we can do, short of nukes, will stop him. Nukes might not either."

Rivers neglected to mention that the intelligence people had been hearing rumors that Hennessey was, himself, a nuclear power. So far the rumors had been fairly well squashed, mostly because if he had them they could only have come from one place, Sumer. And if they'd come from Sumer that meant that everything the Progressive Party had said about the lack of cause for war with Sumer back in 461 was a lie. That, of course, would never do.

"Even now," Rivers continued, "the Legion del Cid is redeploying two full legions plus support, nearly thirty thousand men, from northern back into southern Pashtia. They could have been moved simply because the large contract is about up. But Hennessey doesn't appear to be in any hurry to move them out of Pashtia, despite what it must be costing him extra to support them in country."

"But what can he do? It's absurd!" Malcolm shouted.

So hard to maintain calm with this man, River thought. "If fighting breaks out in Balboa, Hennessey will attack the Frogs there, in Pashtia, and everywhere else he can get at them. The battalion the Frogs keep in pristine comfort and safety in the southern part of Pashtia? He'll attack and extinguish it. If other Taurans interfere, he'll destroy them, too. If we interfere, he may not be able to destroy us, but he will fight us. And, Mr. Secretary, he has a more powerful force in the country than we do."

"But . . . but he can't," SecWar insisted. "He's one of us."

Like you, with your love affair with the Gauls, are one of us? You really don't see it, do you?

Rivers clasped his hands behind him and walked to the window. From this he stared out for long minutes, silently, while Malcolm seethed behind him. How to explain this?

Turning around, gesturing frantically with one hand, Virgil Rivers began, "In the first place, he's not one of us. You may think, because he actually was raised to be a Kosmo, a cosmopolitan progressive, that he's one of you. But that would be false, too, Mr. Secretary.

"Oh, he never learned love of country as a boy; that's true. Instead, he was taught that all distinctions between men are arbitrary. He told me this himself, once. He was deep in his cups at the time.

"He told me, 'They tried to convince me, when I was young, that the only possible nonarbitrary grouping was the family of man. Why they never realized that that was as arbitrary a group as any other, I don't know. How does it make sense not to hate people because they look a little different but love them because they look a little the same? Either is mere appearance.'

"Mr. Secretary, he also said, 'The only truly nonarbitrary group is the group one chooses for himself. I chose the Army.'

"But, Mr. Secretary, even the Army was never so kind, so loving, or so warm and comfortable as the force he has built for himself. He is not, sir, not in any meaningful way, a citizen of the Federated States or a soldier of the Federated States Army. He's a true Kosmo, perhaps the ultimate manifestation of Kosmoism. He's loyal to his own group . . . and nothing but.

"So, yes, sir. He would fight even us. Maybe there's some lingering affection; maybe he'd prefer not to. But he still would."

Malcolm's eyes grew wide with sudden understanding. "Fuck."

Kibla Pass, Pashtia, 5/5/468 AC,

"Up the fucking hill, soldier-boy," said the youngish centurion as he smacked a dawdling legionary across the buttocks with the stick that was his sole badge of rank.

Several things are required to make an army so that it can displace quickly. It must have limited baggage, not merely for ease of transport but for ease of breaking down and loading. It must have transport, of course, but not more than it can keep moving. It must have a staff capable of planning the movement with considerable efficiency but allowing for the inevitable screw ups. It must have soldiers willing and able to march hard. It needs officers and noncoms, pitiless in their drive to obey their orders and meet their march objectives. It needs a mindset, as an army, that inclines it to rapid movement.

Above all, perhaps, it must have a commander willing to give the order, "Move it, you fucks." As Carrera stood on a rocky outcropping overlooking the metalled road through the pass, he whispered just that: "Move it, you fucks."

There were still bandits in the hills. Aircraft circled overhead to watch for them, out to a distance of seven kilometers—mortar range—from the main column. Pashtun scouts and Cazadors, with dog teams, likewise secured the long, winding triple eel of men, machine and animals from interference. Even Carrera let himself be surrounded by half a dozen bodyguards; sharp men, well armed and armored and each one a match for him in size and color.

It was hardly secure, though, not against an enemy who would die, eagerly, if he could just take one infidel with him. If the Legion hadn't caught so many of the Ikhwan's fighters and annihilated them or driven them far away, the passage over the mountains would have taken a lot longer.

One had to wonder, as some of the legionaries wondered, just how long Carrera had been planning the upcoming confrontation with the troops of the Tauran Union in Pashtia.

I've been considering it for the last five years, Carrera thought, to no one in particular.

Below, in tactical road march order, with trucks and other vehicles in between, the men sang. Carrera heard them singing a new song, "Rio Gamboa," which was mostly about getting back home:

 
. . . Centurio viejo, aun en la marcha.
No tiene compassion. No tiene humanidad.
No tiene miedo del enemigo.
Y sigue Carrera a la battalle,
Como siguemos. Porque siguemos?
Porque somos el Legion, somos en la marcha . . . 

"Pretty downbeat," Carrera muttered to himself, listening to the dreary but moving tune. "Well, that's fitting. It isn't, after all, like we're going to fight anybody but men who should be our friends, most of them."

 
Y somos cansado de la guerra sucia,
Y de la batalle . . . 

"I'm sick of it, too," sons. I'm sick of it, too.

 
Tenemos esposas, tenemos niños,
Todos queridos . . . 

"I know, boys, I know," the legate whispered. "And I can't tell you when you can go home either, nor even what kind of home you'll find when you get there. I can only tell you that I'm trying to make it a home worth living in."

Still the song went on. Mentally, Carrera translated:

Our legs are aching

And our backs are in pain

Over the mountains we sweat and strain.

Ruck up, boys.

Weapons off safe.

We're heading off again to earn our pay.

But old Centurion, he keeps on marchin'.

He fears for nothin', not even dyin' . . . 

And that, Carrera thought, is a pretty good summary of the centurionate. In a force approaching fifty thousand, itself already pretty elite, only about twenty-five hundred made the cut to centurion. They were awesome men when we started all this . . . and they've grown.

This portion of the column passed by, struggling and straining, sweating and cursing, up the steep and winding pass. Some of the men recognized Carrera and waved. A grizzled centurion saluted, informally, with his stick. The waving became general and was accompanied by a different song:

 
Adelante, hijos del Legion.
Adelante, legionarios gloriosos.
Conquiste cada obstaculo . . . 

Carrera stiffened to attention, and saluted in return. He watched the column crest a rise and then turn around a bend. When the last man had gone from view he looked again at where they'd come from and saw a tank, a Jaguar II, being winched, literally, up the pass.

Gonna have to buy a shitload of new power packs and even new armor after this one's done, he thought. These things just aren't made to—

The thought was cut off as a metal cable, seemingly strong but apparently defective, snapped, approximately between the winch and the tank. Both ends went flying at extraordinarily high speed. One was harmless. The other hit a walking legionary in the legs just above his knees. The cable cut through as if the legs weren't even there. The legionary tumbled, end over end, in a spray of blood. It was too quick for him even to feel pain, yet. That, however, would come.

Freed at one corner, the tank lurched back unevenly. The weight now was too much for the single cable remaining. It, too, snapped. In this case, since everyone but the one unfortunate man caught in the legs had fallen belly to the dirt, that cable passed overhead harmlessly. The tank, itself, began sliding back, while men behind frantically tried to get out of the way.

With considerable presence of mind, under the circumstances, the driver applied brakes to one side only. This caused the tank to veer and slam into a rock wall at which point it stopped. Before the shaken driver could emerge, a medic was attending to the now legless trooper, while a maintenance team by the winches began pulling two more cables from the back of a truck.

"Dustoff's already on the way, sir," one of Carrera's radio carriers announced.

Poor bastard, Carrera thought, with that part of himself he allowed to actually feel. Neither you nor I wanted you to go home like that.

Cruz Residence, Ciudad Balboa, 5/5/468 AC

He's been this way for the last three and a half weeks, thought Cara, unhappily, as she did the evening dishes by hand.

Her husband, with a smile on his bruised and battered face, sat on the living room floor playing with the children. He seemed content with the world, as he had most definitely not been content since he'd left the regulars.

And I know why he's this way, too. He got to fight. He got to be a man among men. He was able to test himself and rise above the normal human plane . . . if only for a few minutes. Oh, Ricardo, what have I done to you?

Putting the last of the plates on a rack to drip dry, Cara went and sat on the couch overlooking the rest of her family. She sat there, in inner turmoil, for about a quarter of an hour before saying, "Children, go out and play until it's dark. I need to talk to your father."

Cruz looked at her curiously until the kids were out the door and she began to speak.

Cara wasted no time. "I'm sorry, Ricardo. I didn't know what I was doing when I made you leave the regulars. I didn't understand how much you need it. So . . . if you want to go back, I won't interfere and I'll do my best to put up with the separation and the fear."

"What brings this on?" Cruz asked, raising one very suspicious eyebrow.

Cara sighed. "I'd hoped I could be enough for you. But you were miserable. And then I saw you fight, and you were happy, and you've been happy for weeks. But how long can that last, Ricardo? You need the fight, the struggle. You need it in your memory; you need it in your present; and you need the anticipation of it in your future. I see that now. I should have seen it then. I should have known it since we first met and you saved me from those rabiblanco assholes. You were meant to be a soldier first and a husband second. The man I love is meant to be a soldier first and a husband second. And . . . I'm going to have to learn to live with that."

"Can you learn to live with that?" Cruz asked.

"I don't know. I can try."

"Fair enough," her husband answered. Then he went silent for a while, apparently thinking. "You know," he said, "I've fought with and shed blood with the men of my reserve cohort, too, now. There's a good chance that fighting will break out here, come the next election. They'll need me then, if it happens. There aren't that many senior centurions in the reserves. How about if I stay with them, in the seventh cohort of the tercio, until this term of school is over? That will be after the election and we'll know what the future holds a little more clearly. If it looks best to go back, I'll go back. If it looks like it's best to stay with the seventh cohort, I can do that instead."

"It's only a reprieve for me," Cara pointed out. "One way or the other you're going where the fighting is going to be."

"Yes . . . but I promise to try really hard not to get killed."

 

Matera, south of the Nicobar Straits, 7/5/468 AC

Pour encourager les autres, thought al Naquib. He spoke excellent French, after all.

The spark for the thought were the dozen slaves, now made redundant by the arrival of the first of the relief parties provided by Parameswara. The slaves had spent the previous evening digging their own graves under the watch of al Naquib's troops. Now they knelt by those graves. Their hands were tied behind them. Most of the slaves wept. A couple pleaded weakly. The rest remained in a sort of catatonia induced by their coming obliteration. The slaves had been chosen for their weakness.

"The rest will work that much harder, afterwards," al Naquib had explained to his men. "We've already lost nearly a dozen. These are the ones next mostly likely to die. Best we get some use from them first."

Behind each slave stood one of the Ikhwan, one hand holding a slave by the hair and the other clasping cruel knives poised at the victims' throats.

Al Naquib raised a hand and then lowered it, quickly. The knives were drawn across emaciated flesh. Blood from a dozen living fountains spurted forth to the jungle floor in an audible gush. The weeping stopped immediately.

"For the rest of you," al Naquib announced to the other slaves standing by to witness the executions, "let this be your warning: the weak and the slackers will be put to death with no more mercy than I would show a scorpion or an antania. Pull your lines as if your lives depended upon it. They do."

Academia Militar Sargento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa, 9/5/468 AC

A long line of twenty tanks stood outside the physical training shed cum classroom. Inside, a Volgan instructor droned on in marginal Spanish about the capabilities and limitations of the Jaguar II tank and the Ocelot light armored vehicle Behind and slightly to the right of the Volgan was a table. Upon that table a black cloth covered an object.

Like many another fifteen-year-old in the wide shed that served as classroom and physical training pit, Cadet Sergeant Julio Acosta paid little attention. For one thing, the information was already in his cadet handbook. For another, the Volgan instructor would surely put him to sleep in no time if he actually tried to listen. The walls were decorated with cadets who'd been caught nodding off. Their feet were against the walls, about four feet in the air, and their hands widely spaced on the sawdust of the pit. From experience Acosta knew, and hated, the modified push-up position used by the academy cadre.

Instead, while pretending to take notes, Acosta wrote a letter home. He wrote:

"Dear Family,

In the first place let me apologize for not having written in over a month. But, as I told you the last time I wrote, we are given little free time. Monday through Thursday we cram five days of academics into four. Friday and Saturday we train as soldiers. Sunday is parade, church, and inspections in the morning; getting ready for the next week in the afternoon and evening. I couldn't write now except that I am in a class that I really don't need to pay attention to.

Thank my sister, Betania, for the cookies she sent. My whole platoon enjoyed them. (And no, sister, I didn't want to share them, but we are not allowed to keep any kind of food in the barracks.)

To little Eduardo; you tell me you want to be a soldier. I must tell you back, it is hard, little brother, very hard. Never enough sleep, running, marching, harassment all the time. If you are still interested when you turn fourteen in three years, we will talk about it again. In the interim, just keep your grades up in school and obey our parents. That is the best preparation you can do.

Mother and Father, I will be home the week before Christmas until three days after the Intercalary.

Not everyone will be returning to the Academy. Of the eighteen hundred who started here with me, six hundred are already gone. Some of the others remaining will be invited to leave. Do not fear that I will be one of those. My grades are high and my evaluations for leadership also good enough to be retained. I would not fail you, you can be sure."

Acosta stopped writing as the Russian instructor was replaced with a Balboan one, a rather short type. As usual the cadets began to chatter quietly among themselves the moment one class ended. The new speaker was a Cristobalense, Julio thought. For one thing, he was black. For another, the cuff band on his sleeve said "Barbarossa" which the cadet knew was the local tercio. A silvery cross hung by a ribbon around the instructor's neck.

For a few moments the new man just stood on the podium, looking out over the cadets. Then, turning to the boys with their feet upon the walls, he said, "Take fockin' seats, chicos."

Gradually, the talk died down as the diminutive black instructor continued to glare out over the crowd. As the last whisper died away, the instructor began to speak.

He said, in a hypnotically melodious voice with the accent of the islands of the Shimmering Sea, "Close you eyes, my children. Close you eyes and come with me.

"You in a tank; a big fockin' Jaguar. You out in de desert. De sand be blowin', de rain fallin'. Cuz, yes, my children, even do it never rain in de legion, even out in de desert it rain on de Legion. You be wet and chilled to de bone. You eyes be full of dust and grit. It be darker dan t'ree foot up a welldigger's ass . . . at midnight. You can'd see notin'. De end of you gun barrel is a misty haze."

Eyes closed, Acosta could see it.

"You try to wipe de sand out of de eyes, but as fast as you wipe you eyes dey fills up again with dat goddamn' sand. So you closes you hatch and you tries to look t'ru de tank sight. You can'd see notin'. Den you looks again. 'Wat de fock be dat?' you asks.

"It a tank, out dere in de desert, you tinks, but you looks again. Oh, shit! No it be t'ree tanks, no six...no eleven...no, over twenty fockin' raghead tanks and dey all be comin' to kill you little Balboan ass! 'What I goan do?' you asks. 'What de fock I goan do?'

The Cristobalense let the question hang, briefly.

"Open you eyes, children, open dem up and I tells you what you goan do. You goan reach deep inside youself, to where all you little fears and nightmares be. You goan think about callin de white Christ to save you ass. And you calls but you gets de busy signal. So dere you be, one little Balboan boy feelin' all alone in de desert wit' twenty tanks coming to kill you and no God to help.

"And you looks over at de gunner, you eyes wide like saucers in you head, and you asks him, 'What kind of load we be carryin, gunner?'

"And de gunner, he answers, 'Eight ronds HE, t'irty two ronds anti-tank.' And den you knows what you do?"

All the cadets looked up at the instructor with considerable interest. No, they didn't know what to do. And the instructor's face lit up with something that looked like religious devotion. Lifting his arms to the sky as if in prayer, the instructor said, in a voice that thundered across the shed:

"I tell you what you goan do. You goan call on de great Voodoo God: SABOT!" The instructor reached out and deftly pulled the black cloth away to reveal a small glass tray and a brightly polished round of tank ammunition, a sabot round, long alloy penetrating rod surrounded by a plastic sabot, or shoe. When fired, the rod would discard the sabot, cutting down wind resistance greatly, but more importantly putting all its kinetic energy against the very small portion of the target's armor struck by the point of the rod. Penetration of the armor, and death of the crew—a hideous, flesh melting, burning death—usually followed.

To this sabot round, however, anthropomorphic features had been added by a crude hand. The instructor lit a cigar and placed it on the tray in front of the round, pretending to make a small obeisance to it. "Say it wit' me now boys. Sabot!"

And the cadets answered "SABOT!"

"Sabot!"

"SABOT!"

"But de Voodoo God, he no hear you. And den you knows you needs anudder voice to pray wit' you. So you calls on you gunner to pray, too. You says 'Gunner—'"

"GUNNER!" the boys answered.

"Sabot!"

"SABOT!"

"Tank!"

"TANK!"

"Pray wit' me, boys! Gunner, sabot, tank!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

"Gunner, sabot, tank!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

"Louder so de great Voodoo God hear you!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"

As the cadets turned the "prayer" into a chant the instructor stuck his right arm straight out, fist clenched, as if it were the barrel of a tank's main gun, and rotated his upper body like a turret. Between each rendition of the chant he pulled his fist straight back to his shoulder as if it were a recoiling tank cannon. The cadets joined him, sticking their own arms out, rotating them, then pulling them back for recoil, all the time laughing their heads off.

Soon, some of the boys thought, or perhaps merely felt, that a recoil should be accompanied by an explosion. The chant gradually changed to "GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"

"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"

The instructor let the chant go on for some minutes before raising his arms to quiet the cadets again. When he was satisfied that he had whipped the boys into enough of a chanting and laughing frenzy to carry them through the unavoidably boring mechanical training to follow, he lowered his arms and said "De great god Sabot be pleased by you devotion. Five minute break. Den fall in on de tanks outside."

On his break Julio took the time to finish his letter:

"But, as hard as this is sometimes, it can also be a lot of fun—and very funny, too—but I'd still rather be home.

Love,
Julio"

Casa Linda, Balboa, 1/6/468 AC

One of the peculiarities of Balboan democracy was that elections were set for the most densely miserable part of the wet season. Whether or not it really had been the theory behind this date that fewer of the wretchedly poor would vote if the price for voting were to be standing in a long line in the middle of a deluge, that was clearly the effect. It was, even so, hard to credit Balboa's moneyed class with that kind of foresight.

"And it's going to hurt us," Parilla said, staring out into the downpour from the covered back terrace of the casa, the one that looked north towards the Isla Real. The sun was up, but only just, to his right as he faced. Soon enough the entire country would be a dutch oven, with a combination of about one hundred percent humidity and over one hundred degrees, Fahrenheit, of temperature.

Ruiz sipped at his coffee and shrugged. "It will and it won't. Sure, some of the very poor who might otherwise vote will stay home. But the legionaries could care less about a little rain or heat or sun. And they'll all vote. And if one in a hundred of them votes for someone besides you I'd be very, very surprised."

"A wash then, you think?" Parilla asked.

"About that."

Indistinct in the thickened air, a helicopter—Parilla recognized the sound of a Legion IM-62—churned its way eastward toward Ciudad Cervantes, carrying several hundred legionaries to their home town to vote. On the return trip the chopper would take a like number of already-voted reservists, with their arms, to guard the island. Still other reservists had assembled at the polls before sunrise, leaving their arms nearby and under guard. These would later march to the borders of the Tauran controlled areas around the Transitway and the pro-Rocaberti enclaves of Ciudad Balboa.

Whether they would be needed remained to be seen. Observation posts in the towns by the Vera Cruz training area, overlooking the old FSAF base at Bruja Point, reported a Tauran Union aircraft landing every forty minutes, not counting combat aircraft. Some carried troops; some carried supplies. One and all, though, they suggested that neither the Tauran Union nor the corrupt government it backed by backing Gaul was going to acquiesce lightly in any election that turned over control to Parilla and his mercenaries.

Both Parilla and Ruiz looked skyward at the sound of what had to have been a very large jet making a leisurely turn to the west. "What's Patricio doing about this over in Pashtia?" Ruiz asked.

"He's kept one legion to interdict the border, just as our contract calls for," Parilla answered. "The other two, while on their way home, he's maneuvered into position to crush the Tauran Union forces in Pashtia. The Taurans appear to know it, too."

"They've got to be shitting bricks," Ruiz chuckled. "He's holding their people there hostage for the good behavior of their people here."

Parilla smiled, saying, "Well, Patricio learned about taking hostages from the main enemy. And we've all seen how the TU reacts when someone is holding Tauran's hostage. The only problem is that the FSC can see what we're doing and is really pissed about it."

Ruiz disagreed. "I don't think they're pissed so much as they're worried. A war here shuts down the Transitway. That hurts them nearly as much as it hurts us. After all, about seventy percent of the cargo passing through here either starts in the FSC, ends there, or both. And then if fighting breaks out here, they have to know Patricio will hit the enemy wherever he finds him and in the most destructive way he can. That would make a shambles of an already pretty shaky alliance in Pashtia. And then . . ."

"Yes?" Parilla prompted.

"Well, emotionally the FSC doesn't really give a shit about us. If anything, the ruling Progressive Party resents us because Wozniak lost his presidency, at least in part, over the Transitway. And their current government just adores the Taurans, and especially the bloody perfidious Gauls. Even though we're much, much more valuable to them, I don't think that emotionally they can do anything but take the Frogs' side of things."

"Idiots to go with their hearts rather than their heads," Parilla said.

"Idiots to set their hearts on the Taurans," Ruiz amended.

Panshir Base, Pashtia, 1/6/468 AC

The shell holes were long since filled in. The troops were well fed and had even been able to put on a little fat. All the ruined tents had been replaced. Even so, the Ligurini Brigade of Claudio Marciano was digging in frantically, entrenching, filling sandbags, breaking down ammunition.

They had reason to. Lightly armed as they were, they didn't stand a chance if the legion surrounding them should attack. That it should have come to this, and so quickly . . . 

Seating in a canvas folding camp chair, deep in his bunker, Marciano sighed even more deeply. "I don't know what the idiot Gauls' game is, Patricio. They're playing their cards awfully close to their chests this time."

Carrera looked up at the roof of the bunker. Pretty solid. Won't stop a 160mm though. He looked at Marciano's altogether Roman face and asked, "What are your government's instructions if it comes to a fight between us and the Frogs? I mean . . . if you can tell me, that is."

"I can't tell you, exactly, Patricio, buuut, if you think about it . . ."

There are no Tuscan troops in Balboa, Carrera thought. So fighting there need not spread here as far as they're concerned. But, as far as I'm concerned an attack there by the Frogs means general war and I won't be held back from destroying their forces here.

"I'm going after them here, Claudio. If it's war then it's war to the knife and the knife to the hilt . . . wherever they may be. I'd leave your boys out of it, if I could, but I can't leave a strong enough force to guard you here. I'll have to destroy you so that I can redeploy that legion to take on Haarlem, Sachsen, Anglia, Secordia and the rest." He actually had a hard time accepting that "the rest" might include the FSC troops in country.

"And we have mutual defense treaties with them," Marciano said. "Mine is an honorable country, even if not all our allies are honorable."

Carrera thought, "And Romans in Rome's quarrels . . . spared neither land nor gold . . . nor son nor wife nor limb nor life . . . in the brave days of old." And Claudio, here, is a true Roman. I wouldn't insult him or his men by suggesting surrender.

"You've got good troops here, Claudio, but . . . you know it won't take a full legion more than a few hours to overrun this base. Please, tell your government that. Explain to them that the stakes are much higher than the Frogs are suggesting."

"I have. They find it hard to believe."

War Department, Hamilton, FD, FSC, 1/6/468 AC

It hurt, deep inside, for Malcolm to admit it. "Okay, Rivers, I'm convinced. I'm a believer. If we don't intervene to keep fighting from breaking out in Balboa then Pashtia is lost." And with it, my chance to become president. "I've got a meeting set up with the president and the secretary of state. I will do what I can to convince them."

"Convince them of what?" Rivers asked.

"Of the danger," Malcolm answered. "Of the need for mediation. Of the need to throw our weight against whoever fires the first shot."

"Then you had best hurry, Mr. Secretary," Rivers said. "The Frogs"—Oh, how I love saying "Frogs" to this puke who so loves the Frogs—"are flying in major numbers of troops and the legion's regulars and reservists are falling in on assembly areas on both sides and both ends of the Transitway area. The news is full of enough accusations of violence, corruption and fraud in the election process that either side can claim to have 'won.' If nothing changes, I predict a blood bath starting by midnight."

The Trapezoid, Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia, 1/6/468 AC

"Then why not just threaten the stinking mercenaries if trouble breaks out?" thundered the secretary of state, Mary Darkling, a woman short, shrill, and seriously overweight. "We all know they're trying to steal the election down there. Wozniak is convinced of it. The global press insists upon it. Our allies, the Gauls, are certain of it. By taking the side of the mercenaries against our real allies we're undercutting the tradition and understanding of decades. It's absurd!"

Malcolm shook his head. Inside he felt precisely what Darkling openly insisted upon . . . but, "I'm with you in this, morally, Mary. But the practicalities are such that we just can't let this thing spiral out of control. I adore Gaul as much as you do. I want to help them, to induce them to help us. I want to try to overcome the suspicion and hostility that built up under the previous administration. But . . . we're dealing with a maniac here! The leader of the mercenaries is not susceptible to reason. He won't even take bribes at this point. I believe that, were he capable, he'd destroy the entire planet before backing down an inch. He's got an army and he's going to have a country . . . or he's going to fight to take one."

Darkling shot an accusatory glare at the president. It's your fault for keeping us in that utterly illegal war in Pashtia.

President Schumann understood the glare. He smiled and said, "The one thing keeping us from losing the center again and being run out of office, Mary, my dear, is that we promised to win in Pashtia. For that, for reasons largely logistic, we need the mercenaries. For reasons entirely political, we need them to bleed rather than ourselves. When I asked you for a diplomatic solution to Pashtia you gave me a blank stare. I'm a Progressive, Mary; I'm not an idiot. We must win in Pashtia or we must lose here."

Turning to Malcolm, Schumann said, "We need to force a delay until Pashtia is won and we can dispense with the mercenaries. So . . . I want you ready a major expeditionary force to Balboa. Sail them, post haste." He shifted his attention to Darkling and said, "Here's what I want you to tell our ambassador . . ."

Embassy of the Federated States, Ciudad Balboa,
1/6/468 AC

Had it not been for the position of the legion within Balboa, Ambassador Thomas Wallis would have been most unlikely ever to see the lofty rank he held. Medium height, medium build, nonpatrician, he had none of the connections within the Federated States' diplomatic service that were normally an absolute requirement for admission to the inner circle.

He had had one greatly redeeming feature, as far as the previous, Federalist, administration had been concerned. Wallis had spent many years in the armed forces before retiring and entering the diplomatic corps. He was, thus, a natural for dealing with that part of Balboa most of interest to the Federated States, the legion. He considered it only a matter of time, though, before the Progressives booted him. The fact that I'm ex-military is enough to make me suspect to the Progs.

Interesting, thought the ambassador, that Muñoz-Infantes is sitting on the Balboan side of the conference table. Very interesting. I wonder what's going on there. Wallis looked at Janier. The Frog looks ready to shit himself.

Is that Castilian bastard trying to tell me something? wondered Janier, for the nonce without his imperial marshal's uniform or laurel wreath.

How far is the Castilian willing to go to support us? wondered Parilla.

"Gentlemen," began the ambassador, softly and genially. With the utterance of the word he was immediately greeted by a storm of swears and accusation from both sides of the conference table. Conspicuously, Muñoz-Infantes kept quiet.

Soft and genial won't cut it, I see.

Wallis injected steel into his voice. "GENTLEMEN! Be quiet!"

Those present shut up, not always with good grace. Wallis continued, "I am advised by the president, speaking through the secretary of state, to inform you that two carrier battle groups are en route here. Moreover, two reinforced regiments of Federated States Marines are, even as we speak, boarding ship to come here. One division of paratroopers is likewise being readied. Their orders are—consistent with Federated States policy with regard to the Transitway, and also consistent with our treaties—to engage whichever side shall first initiate hostilities in or around the Transitway area."

The ambassador raised his nose at an underling. Immediately, a map of the Transitway appeared on a wall-mounted plasma screen. On it could be seen two bright red lines, delineating boundaries. They corresponded closely enough to the old Federated States boundaries, with the exception that they also ran though Ciudad Balboa, chopping off the Old Cuirass district, wherein lay the presidential palace, from the rest of the city.

Understanding the implications, both Rocaberti's party and Parilla's once again burst into open argument. Janier's group of diplomats and officers, however, remained silent. The boundaries drawn would, for the time being, suit.

"Gentlemen, quiet!" the ambassador repeated. "These are not subject to argument. This is where you will maintain your forces and your political control until some more amicable settlement can be reached."

Infuriated, Rocaberti shouted, "Your own ex-president has said those bastards stole the election!"

"He never met a governmental thief he didn't love," retorted Parilla.

"None of that matters," insisted the ambassador. "What matters is that this is what we, the Federated States, have commanded. Gentlemen, in this 'our voice is imperial.' What matters is that two carrier battle groups and two regiments of Marines are on their way here to enforce our commands, and a division of paratroopers stands ready to reinforce them."

"But you can't split the City like this," Rocaberti pleaded. "It's . . . obscene."

The ambassador sighed. "Mr. President you are missing the point. That point is that hostilities must not break out. The boundary as drawn separates out the Tauran Union forces from what we believe to be over twenty thousand Balboan reserve legionaries. Crossing over it will cause those legionaries to fight"—Goddamn right, thought Parilla. And it's closer to thirty-five thousand.—"and causing that will be taken as initiation of hostilities."

"But you're putting them in control of three-quarters of the population!"

"More like seven-eighths. President Rocaberti. Let there be no bullshit between us," the ambassador continued. "There is good reason to believe that that is close to the true percentage of the areas where a majority of the voting populace went for Legate Parilla. Yes, quite despite ex-President Wozniak's claims. Be grateful, Mr. President, that we have left you with a safe enclave where President Parilla cannot prosecute you."

Nicobar Straits, 2/6/468 AC

There is no safe harbor except in silence, thought al Naquib, watching out over the polluted waters of the straits and coughing from the smoky haze that dominated it. There is no safe harbor when the enemy can listen in on every word spoken on a phone or a radio, not when our ranks contain informers and spies.

The down side of silence, though, is coordination. Everything, everything, depends on getting the word at the proper time from a ship's captain I have never laid eyes on nor even spoken to. And to add to the uncertainty, half my force is on this side of the Straits, half on the other.

Worries, worries . . . my life is worries. What if my boats are spotted? What if the conexes with the missiles are spotted? What if the Hoogaboom has a delay. What if; what if, what if?

Al Naquib pulled out a compass and oriented himself toward Makkah al Jedidah. Prostrating himself, he prayed, I have done what I can, Lord, all that is in my power to do. It is in Your hands now. My men will do their duty. They are among the best of the faithful. My machines have been cared for, as the new learning says they must be. So, Beneficent One, I ask . . . I plead . . . I beg for Your favor tomorrow as my men go into battle. And, Lord, even if you withhold your favor from our undertaking, I ask that you see to the souls of my men who serve you.

Interlude

1/8/48 AC, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa Colony, Terra Nova

Warrant Officer Bourguet, seated in a metal folding chair, smiled down at the half-starved, eleven-year-old girl kneeling between his legs. She had tears in her eyes. Bourguet neither knew nor cared whether they were caused by shame or by the little brown wretch choking on his penis. The tears, themselves, pleased him almost as much as the girl's mouth.

There had been a short period of time when the hungry girls had stopped coming to the camp to provide service for food. After a little inquiry, Bourguet had discovered that the bloody Belgian commandos down the road had begun to offer more, to drive up the price. Neo-colonialist bastards.

The solution to the shortage was elegant in its simplicity. Bourguet had simply dispatched two soldiers to lie in wait for one of the colonial girls to approach the Belgian camp. When, the next morning, a small group of different girls had found a head and a pair of hands mounted on a stick beside the trail, they'd immediately turned around and gone to the OAU camp in search of something to eat.

Bourguet laughed aloud. Then he twisted the girl's hair in his fingers, pulled her head away and slapped her face to make sure she was paying attention.

"You," he said. "All fours. Like dog."

5/10/48 AC, Desperation Bay, Lansing Colony, Southern Columbia, Terra Nova

News traveled slowly on the new world. Rather, true news traveled slowly.

"But you can get the UN's lies right away," said Ollie Rogers to his assembled family and a few guests, over dinner.

Ollie now had five wives. One had died but three more, along with another seven children, five of them from those three wives, had come his way from the survivors of the wintry disaster that gave the bay its name. Of his thirty-one living children, natural and adopted, three had children of their own. Ollie considered it a mark of God's special favor that he had been so blessed with offspring. Though it wasn't as if he would not have been elected as leader of the colony even if he'd been a bachelor.

One of the guests, Benjamin Putnam, asked, "What do you believe, Ollie? Do you think it's true about the UN troops using or raping little girls up in Balboa?"

That rumor—really that set of rumors, for there were several variants—had become quite widely told over the last few months. The least of the variants told of pre-pubescent prostitutes being dismembered and their bodies put on display near one of the UN's bases, to drive their trade to where the money was less.

Rogers arose from the table and walked to the cabin's sole window, a wavy glass that the colony was just beginning to produce. Looking outside he saw a small cemetery, with a tree growing in the middle of it. They'd named the tree "the tranzitree," and the white wooden crosses around its base reminded Rogers that the tranzitree's fruit, with its bright green exterior and poisonous red interior, killed.

"Ben," Rogers answered slowly and deliberately, "we've both heard a lot of propaganda in our lives. That one has the ring of truth to me."

"Disgraceful," judged Gertie. She'd grown rather plump the last couple of decades but her husband still found her among the best of all women.

"Disgraceful, it may be," agreed Rogers. "But what can we do about it?"

"We can help them; the people the UN is trying to suppress, I mean," said Ollie's oldest son, also called "Oliver" or just "Junior."

"You have children of your own to watch out for," the patriarch reminded.

"We don't," said three of the boys, simultaneously.

Sheriff Juan Alvarez's son, too, spoke up, "And neither do I." Before the lawman could object, his son added, "And if we don't stop the UN up there, how long before they come here? Father, Mr. Oliver, you both left the homes you had because of them. Where do you—where do we—go . . . if they come here, too?"

"You'll need better arms than we can provide," Rogers said. He didn't say it like he thought it would be impossible to get those arms. "We have, after all, found quite a bit of gold here."

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