When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains . . .—Kipling, "The Young British Soldier"
It was only partly the playmates the fleet could make available to her in essentially unlimited numbers , and without any wagging tongues, that had kept Lucretia Arbeit, Marchioness of Amnesty and Inspector General of the UEPF, from going back home to Earth. Far more important was that this was exciting, as nothing on Old Earth could be exciting anymore, while still being safe. Oh, yes, the continuous pressure of the barbarians from the reverted areas could be exciting, but that was decidedly unsafe. (And even the gladiatorial combats that the Duke of the International Solidarity Movement staged, for special occasions, grew dull after a while.)
Arbeit, after all, was a Domme, not a sub. And the barbs back home had some odd and unpleasant ceremonies they were said to engage in whenever they got a representative from the Consensus in their hands.
No, no, she thought, sitting on a couch in High Admiral Martin Robinson's quarters. Much better here. Much safer here.
The ship wherein Arbeit sat orbited peacefully, from below looking like nothing more than a silvery crescent in the shadow cast by Terra Nova and the local sun. Inside it was not so peaceful, however.
"You're not seriously going to give those maniacs nukes, are you, Martin?"
Wallenstein, the speaker, was agitated and plainly upset. She'd gone along so far for the possibility of jumping a step in caste among the elite of Old Earth. She'd been willing to overlook a lot—even to do quite a lot, frankly—to advance that worthy goal. Turning nuclear weapons over to religious fanatics was pushing the boundary of cooperation and aid. Even the months that had passed since Robinson first broached the idea had not made it a bit more comfortable or acceptable.
"I don't see what has you upset, Marguerite," Robinson answered calmly, turning away from his computer monitor. "We've shunted the Salafis money, arranged for arms and explosives, used our contacts and supporters down below to serve as hostages to get more Salafis freed and to shunt them even more money. Nukes are just a matter of scale and degree."
"No they're not just a matter of scale or degree. Nukes kill whole cities!" she practically screamed. "Don't you realize the Feds down below will fucking nuke us to gas if one of their cities goes up in a mushroom cloud?"
That got Arbeit's attention.
Ignoring the sudden look of concern on Arbeit's face, Robinson shrugged. "I considered that, of course, my dear. But these will be Volgan, Hangkuk, and Kashmiri, hence not traceable to us. So . . . what difference?"
"Millions of dead people," she insisted. "Millions! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"If you will the end, Marguerite, you will the means. Would you rather millions of dead barbarians and lowers here or millions of dead elites back on Earth?" Now it was the high admiral's turn to become heated. "You've seen the projections yourself, Captain. In one hundred years the barbarians below will be beyond control. In one hundred years this fleet will have fallen apart around us. For the sake of the Holy Office of the secretary general don't you realize why I had to buy local nukes? Ours can't even be relied on anymore. Like this damned ship, like this damned fleet. It's all coming apart and it isn't going to get any better. Ever! We break the independent nations down there to our ways or they come out and break us.
"Just picture it, Marguerite: their soldiers marching through the Louvre, and our own proles pointing out the more valuable artworks for them. Our class reduced to servitude. Earth groaning once again under an unsustainable population and the proles put in charge."
"But nukes?"
The marchioness of Amnesty interrupted. "Marguerite, it has to be nukes. Martin is right; Mustafa and the Salafis are losing, slowly but surely. I've seen enough to know that. They need to hit back. We need them to hit back to break the will of the Federated States and its allies. Once that is done the local World League can become a real government just like the UN did back home. Then the Columbians, the Anglians and even the stinking Balboans will slowly but surely be forced into the fold. With the World League running Terra Nova and ourselves running the World League their population can be cropped, their industry and scientific base can be crippled. Their foolish insistence on popular rule can be thwarted. Most importantly, they can be disarmed. It has to be nukes . . . the Salafi have no other hope...and we have no hope but them."
"That's one possibility, Lucretia," Robinson said. "It's also possible, and for us much better, that the Salafis should dominate the planet."
Arbeit shrugged. To her, it really didn't matter.
"When?" Wallenstein asked, weakly.
"A couple of weeks," Robinson answered. "The Salafis are making a place where we can shelter a shuttle for the delivery. Making it by hand, as a matter of fact, the yokels," Robinson sneered. "They'll all be better off once we're in charge. Only the Class Ones have the wisdom to run a world properly, let alone two of them."
Reminded, she began to ask, hesitantly, "Have you . . ."
"Have I put you up for Class One yet?"
"Yes, that."
"Of course. Speaking of which, Marguerite, I'll want you personally to see to my security down there." Robinson smiled and continued, "In the interim, I have other uses for you. Get your uniform off and get on all fours."
"And get your lovely head over here," Arbeit ordered, sliding her posterior toward the edge of her seat.
Afterwards, Wallenstein lay on her side in the high admiral's bed, sandwiched between the two of them. She kept two knuckles in her mouth on which she bit down. Normally, Robinson was content to use her mouth or vagina. This time he'd wanted her ass and it had hurt. It still hurt.
It will all be worth it, she consoled herself, when he and Lucretia sponsor me for Class One. Everything will be worth it then. All the perks . . . all the lower castes having to kowtow to me rather than me to the high caste. The best living arrangements. Servants. Proles to use as I've been used all my life. Respect.
Arbeit slept silently. The high admiral snored. He'd fallen asleep as soon as he'd finished using her body, she thought, but the snore meant he was truly asleep. Still naked, she gently slithered out from between them and over to the computer the high admiral had inadvertently left running while he'd turned his attention to her.
Must see how their recommendation reads.
A captain had access to everything in his or her ship's computer files, ordinarily. She knew the admiral had sequestered some files concerning the operations to influence the planet below. Hopefully he would not have thought to sequester the report on her.
She typed carefully, quietly. There it was, in the recent files section, a report labeled "Wallenstein." She pulled up the file and began to read.
As an officer Marguerite Wallenstein is adequate, but no more than that, she read. Skipping ahead, feeling nauseated, she saw further, While she has a obsession with reaching Class One status, nothing in her background and breeding suggests she would be a suitable candidate. She has too many lower caste and even prole attitudes to entrust any portion of the direction of a world to her marginal capabilities. On the plus side, she uses her mouth well and will gladly and even eagerly do anything in bed her superiors direct her to do. I earnestly recommend a tour as military aid to a high ranking Class One, male or female as the captain does not discriminate, followed by retirement as soon as she becomes tiresome.
The report was countersigned by the IG, Arbeit.
Feeling wounded, as near to raped as she ever had in her life, Wallenstein returned to bed.
By the next morning Wallenstein had herself under full control. She awakened before either of her partners from the night before, then showered, dressed, and went to her own cabin prior to ascending to the bridge. On the bridge she took the morning report and gave a few orders to the bridge crew. After that, she turned control over to her executive officer and withdrew to her day cabin.
When Robinson showed up, she greeted him with her usual sweet smile and said, "I have had a complete sensor search done of the Salafi base area and there is nothing unusual to report, Martin. I've also put your personal shuttle into maintenance to make sure it is ready."
This was all true. It was even the whole truth . . . so far.
The truth was that the Salafis were fairly rotten soldiers, as the term "soldier" was understood over most of the globe. Hopeless marksmen, most of them, their rifles were ordinarily little more than noisemakers. Hopeless, they were too, on the battle line. A culture that values family above all things in this life cannot produce military units where nonblood-related men must generally trust in, even love, one another enough to make them risk death for their comrades. And it took a very rare leader—Mohammad had been one such; to a lesser degree Sada, back in Sumer, was another—to get them to rise above that.
On the other hand, unlike any number of military skills and values, patrolling was something that did come more or less naturally to most of the Salafis. Oh, the softly raised city boys of Kashmir and Yithrab were fairly hopeless, at first (even they could be taught, eventually, though). But the desert Bedu and the hill runners of Pashtia? They grew up with the possibility of having their little encampments raided at any time for livestock and women. They grew up, from earliest boyhood, with the idea of walking around outside their camp's perimeter at night to catch any such raid, or scouts for a raid.
Those Salafis went out every night through gaps in the wire and mines around the camp to make sure there were no unfriendly strangers waiting in the darkness. Some of them even stayed out days at a time, carefully and nervously walking the hills and valleys around the base.
Perhaps they'd grown a little slack, what with all the months and years in the Base and never a sign of the enemy nearby. But a "little slack," for a Bedu or a Pashtun securing his immediate home, wasn't really all that slack. It might have been slack enough, for example, to miss a small hide, well camouflaged, on a hillside. To miss men entering and exiting that hide? To miss men exiting that hide every night?
Sevilla was both furious and frightened. The idiot signifer was out again, having taken three men with him this time. What the young fool expected to find out there was beyond the sergeant. Briefly, he considered sending a burst message to higher to get someone to order the signifer to stay put. This seemed disloyal, though, and the legion stressed loyalty to immediate higher authority.
The sergeant stiffened when he heard the rustle of rock below. Hands tightening on his rifle, a standard model, he flipped down his monocle and used the rifle to peer out from the hide. He relaxed again, as much as one could relax on a long range detached mission in enemy territory with an idjit for a leader, anyway, when he made out Somoza's familiar shape in the darkness.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Sevilla lifted the overhead net carefully and only enough to allow the patrol to reenter the hide. In a whisper the signifer passed on what they had found. This was, as the sergeant expected, precisely nothing.
I'm getting too old for this shit, thought the twenty-seven year old Sevilla. Maybe it's time to go back to my home tercio, the Third Infantry. They might—probably would—stick me in the recon platoon and have me doing the same basic shit, but at least I wouldn't be out here eighty fucking miles from help. Besides, line cohort recon platoons are almost always led by centurions. Better, way better, than having my balls in a shavetail's hands.
The overhead net rustled suddenly as something hit it from above. Sevilla looked up for an instant, saw a glowing spark, and pulled his head down under his protecting hands while shouting, "Grenade!"
Grenades were fairly high tech items, pricey and of limited shelf life, to boot. There were some in the Base's deep bunkers, of course, even many. But they were rarely issued, the mujahadin preferring to make their own. One typical "grenade" consisted of a one pound block of TNT, dipped in glue and then rolled in small ball bearings, BBs, repeatedly until a decent amount of shrapnel had been built up. Into the fuse well of the TNT was placed a nonelectric blasting cap with a short bit of fuse, the fuse connected to a pull igniter, and the whole thing heavily duct taped to keep it both together and waterproof. Some of the grenades were fitted with a piece of rope tied around to allow a much longer toss. In a pinch, and much like an industrially made hand grenade, the thing could be turned into a booby trap or mine with minimal effort.
Of course, such an assembly was heavier than a grenade, a lot heavier. On the other hand, what with having many times the explosive and shrapnel it was just the thing for taking out a bunker or trench.
Or a hide.
The leader of the mujahadin patrol hadn't been certain, at first, that it even was enemy. After so long without a contact he'd begun to believe that the crusaders and their mercenaries had given up on the Base. Who could be out here, then? Probably it was only another patrol like his own. Or maybe some herders got lost. Or . . .
"No . . . it's the infidels," he whispered to his men once he caught sight of the distinctive silhouette of a Helvetian-style helmet. "Come. We'll follow."
They almost lost sight of the crusaders several times. The mujahadin were confused by the fact that the hide was nowhere one would reasonably expect an observation post to be, thus the route the infidels followed was nothing like the route they would have expected. They were persistent, however, and their persistence was rewarded when, unexpectedly, one of the enemy stood a little too high before crouching down to slither into the hillside.
The leader of the patrol had no idea how many men might have gone below. He only had five of his own with him. Best to be safe then.
Spreading his men out in a line above the hide, he took from a small bag slung around his neck one of the homemade grenades. He motioned two of his men to do likewise. Each unwound the roughly meter-long cord tied around their devices.
"All together now," the leader whispered. "Pull together, spin together, throw together. Ready . . . pull."
There was the small sound of three spring-driven firing pins being released and the only slightly louder pops of the pins hitting the primers. All three fuses caught immediately. The men whirled their charges by the cords and released them at about the same time. They sailed through the air silently to land either in or around the spot where the crusaders had been seen to enter the earth.
All three grenadiers hurled themselves to the ground and waited for the explosions. There was only one brief cry from the enemy before the bombs went off. The five men of the mujahadin patrol began to fire as soon as the last of the homemade grenades had exploded, then charged forward still spraying the ground to their front. There was no return fire.
It was critical, Wallenstein knew, that she not only continue in obsequious pleasantness to the high admiral and the IG, but that she also continue to eagerly seek out opportunities to make her body available to them. This was no problem; she could feign passion while reading a book. She did so now, while plotting both revenge and her own advancement.
"Unh!" I am senior in the fleet, after Robinson. Arbeit has civil rank but not line rank. "Oh!" If anything were to . . . "Mmm." happen to them . . . "Ahhh." command would devolve on me. Screw this . . ." Ung" I can think better with his cock in my mouth than with him lying on me.
Impatiently, she pushed him off her and bent over to take him in her mouth. Her head motions were thoughtless, automatic, the result of many decades of practice.
He's got to be operating on sealed orders. The Consensus must have given them to him before we left Earth. They're probably locked in his computer in a way even I can't get to. But I have records enough of his orders to date to make a good case for thinking there were sealed orders and carrying through with them, even if there were not. Plus, Arbeit's going along with him makes my case even better.
Automatically, she pulled her mouth away to run her tongue under the shaft a few times before she returned to her sucking-on- autopilot.
Besides, the Governing Council, even if they knew nothing of the state of Terra Nova today, would certainly approve of initiative shown in eliminating a threat. There's probably no better way, no better way left to me, to reach Class One than to eliminate such a threat.
Robinson began to moan and writhe under her ministrations. Now she did concentrate, moving her head and mouth briskly up and down to get the business over with. She still had much thinking to do, and could do without further distractions.
Bashir looked up from his digging, distracted by the apparition of five bound and bloodied men being led into camp by ropes tied around their necks. He recognized the uniforms, despite the blood, and had a sinking feeling that his sole contact with the foreign infidels had just been lost. With it, quite possibly, his family was also lost.
He managed to keep the despair from his face, to feign mere curiosity. When Noorzad invited all the men excavating to come and witness the punishment, he even managed to look cheerful as he walked over, still carrying a heavy sledge hammer in his hands.
A substantial crowd had gathered by the time Nur al Deen, Mustafa's lieutenant, emerged from a cave to stand on a rock overlooking the scene. He looked down upon the captives and spat, eloquently. Then he began to speak in Misrani-accented Arabic. The Arabs among the crowd understood perfectly well. The Pashtun and Kashmiris were totally lost, most of them.
"He says their punishment is written in Sura Five of the Koran," one of the men standing near Bashir announced" 'Thus be it to all,' he says, 'who bring disorder to the world, who fight against the Prophet,' peace be upon him."
Bashir was no Islamic or Salafi scholar. He wondered, What punishment is given in Sura Five? Then he remembered the crosses.
Sevilla had picked up a little Arabic in Sumer, but this accent left him completely baffled. It didn't help any that he was suffering from a severe concussion, and that he had multiple bits of metal lodged in his flesh.
Through waves of concussion-induced nausea he looked around at the crowd. They looked dangerously cheerful, though not so cheerful as they became once the ugly old man in the turban standing atop the rock stopped speaking.
Rough hands grabbed Sevilla and the other four remaining and half-dragged and half-carried them to a flat spot by the base of the central massif. Others disappeared into caves, emerging in moments carrying large wooden beams and posts. Injured as he was, it took Sevilla long moments to identify the purpose of the wooden members. As soon as he did, he began to fight, to resist. It did no good, a few tugs on the rope about his neck caused it to choke off blood to his brain for a moment, taking consciousness with the fresh blood.
When he awakened it was to find himself tied hand and foot to a rough wooden cross. Looking left and right he saw that his comrades were likewise tied. He struggled weakly with the bindings and to no better result than to chafe his wrists and ankles.
Looking down across his chest, Sevilla saw someone take a sledge hammer from another. This one walked forward, accompanied by a man holding four silvery-gray, six-inch long spikes and a like number of wooden squares in his hands. The sergeant's struggles with his bindings grew frantic.
Both of the approaching men spat down on Sevilla's face before kneeling next to him. He felt a wooden square against the heel of his left hand. The square grew heavier as a fist holding a spike came to rest upon it. Frantically, he looked away as the hammer rose and fell and . . .
Oh . . . God . . . Blood ran from the sergeant's mouth where he bit halfway through his tongue. A few more agonizing blows finished driving the spike through wood and hand, affixing that arm firmly to the cross member of the crucifix.
Sevilla wished he could faint, but there was no such mercy. He was still conscious as his right arm was likewise pinioned. Mustn't scream . . . mustn't cry out . . . don't give them the satisfaction. Oh, God, help me.
He didn't scream, either, until the third spike was driven through his right heel. That's when the crowd began to laugh.
Bashir was sickened. Thank Allah they didn't make me drive the spikes. This? This, was what I was serving?
Guiltily, Bashir spared a glance at the five men hanging on the crosses. Their arms were raised above forty-five degrees when they hung limp. Obviously this impaired their breathing, for they forced themselves to put weight on their tortured heels every few minutes and gasped in air desperately when they did so.
They'd been up there for hours now, with no sign of an approaching, merciful death. Children clustered around the bases of the crosses, poking the men with sticks and throwing rocks, dirt and shit at them. Women stood a little farther off. They threw nothing, just stared and pointed and sometimes laughed when the crucified men wept, as they sometimes did.
"How long?" Bashir asked one of his comrades, pointing to the crosses with his chin.
"Two days," was the answer. "Minimum two days. I've seen them—one of them, anyway—last as long as five."
"We do this often?"
"No . . . not often," answered the other, digging in his ear, casually, for grit. "It's been months, actually. The last one was an infiltrator from the government in Peshtwa. He was young and strong like those. That was the one that lasted five days."
In four days Wallenstein had come no nearer a solution to her problems than she had been when she'd found the high admiral's computer left on. She'd played the scenarios out in her mind many times. One more time couldn't hurt, she thought.
Option one: I inform those people down below that Robinson is delivering nukes to the Salafis. Result: whether they get the bombs or not the Federated States of Columbia probably launches an attack on this fleet which we could not survive.
She sighed, deeply, attracting the attention of her bridge crew. A casual glare put their attention back on their duties.
Option two: Arrest Robinson before he can deliver them and hold him on charges of delivering weapons technology to the Terra Novans. This is a clear violation of regulations and the Governing Council would uphold me.
Right. Sure they would, with Arbeit screaming "treason." Two chances of that, after humiliating two Class Ones: slim and none. Besides, the crew knows the game as well as I do. I couldn't count on their support. Worse, he really might be acting on sealed orders. I'd be arrested. Sent home, and find myself as guest of honor at one of the Duke of International Solidarity's gladiatorial combats, like as not.
No one paid any attention when she sighed once again.
Option three: Sabotage his shuttle. Forget it. I don't have a clue about making a bomb with what's aboard ship. The most I can do is not see if it hasn't been properly maintained. And, if he notices—and he's been very touchy about the entire subject since that fire that nearly killed him—the bastard will space me so fast . . .
And . . . that seems to be it. Stop him here; stop him en route; or stop him below. And none of those choices work. Fuck.
He was alone now, the pain almost entirely gone. With the pain had gone his strength, of course. Sergeant Sevilla was barely able to stand to change the angle of his arms to allow himself to breathe.
The signifer had passed first, two days prior. Sevilla didn't know why. Perhaps it was the injuries he'd taken when captured. He forgave the boy his idiocies. What good could holding on to anger and hate do now?
The other three had all gone silent yesterday; their bodies hanging dark, cold and unmoving. Even the children seemed to have lost interest in them. There was little diversion, after all, in tormenting a corpse.
And I'm near enough to a corpse, Sevilla thought hazily. Not much fun left in me for them, either. Almost, he laughed at the thought.
He wondered sometimes if he wasn't already dead and had just gone to Hell. He saw things, things he knew weren't there. His mother came to him in those visions, weeping for her boy. He whispered to the vision, "Don't cry, Mama, it will all be over soon and I can join you." The visions didn't last. The feel of the rough wood on his back, the evening cold biting his exposed skin, the soreness where the nails had penetrated his flesh, spilling his blood and splitting his bone . . . all these told him he was still alive.
Unfortunately.
Tomorrow, I'll die, Sevilla thought, with utter certainty. Under the circumstances, he looked forward to it.
Wallenstein and a collection of her officers stood at the broad, thick plexiglas window of the shuttle deck as Robinson and Arbeit boarded the admiral's gig. The lower classes of the deck crew were on their faces in full proskynesis before the marchioness of Amnesty. Robinson turned once, to wave jovially, then entered the hatch which closed behind them. The lowers arose and evacuated the deck.
The ship began to hum as air was pumped out of the bay. Wallenstein watched the pressure drop on the gauge intently, even as the balloon expanded. She hoped that the shuttle's seals would fail and the crew suffocate along with the high admiral. No such luck . . . unfortunately.
At her nod, the officer in charge pushed a button. This caused a hydraulic whine to begin as the bay doors began to open. They stopped with a kachunking sound.
"Son of a bitch," the OIC cursed. "You two," he pointed at two prole crewmen, "Get on the manual crank."
With straining and grunting effort, the proles forced the bay doors open by main force. The shuttle pilot applied the smallest amount of power to vertical lift, just enough to raise the admiral's gig a half meter off of the deck. Soundlessly, as far as the watchers could tell, it rotated until it was facing directly outboard. Gracefully, and still soundlessly, the shuttle moved forward until it was far enough past the ship for it to start main engines safely to descend to Atlantis Base.
Wallenstein's last thought as the shuttle departed was, Crash, you bastards. It was a hopeless prayer.
The small Class One terminal by the landing field was, Unni Wiglan thought, the epitome of good taste, well maintained. More a salon than a transportation facility, the walls were decorated with art from Old Earth, the floor—except where gold-flecked, polished marble showed through—covered with expensive local rugs from Yithrab, Kashmir, Farsia and Pashtia. Rather than even the superior, upholstered seating she was used to in the VIP sections of Tauran Airports invariably reserved for the very rich and officials of the Tauran Union and World League, plus some other select progressive organizations, the seating here was positively homelike, leather sofas and chairs with ottomans, fronted and flanked by coffee and end tables of rare silverwood.
Slightly smiling, blank-faced proles from Old Earth puttered about, sweeping and mopping, dusting and polishing. Unni gave them no thought; they were like the lower classes of the Tauran Union, there to serve and be cared for and not to be overtly noticed. The proles were as much furniture as anything else in the terminal.
The years had been kind to Wiglan. She'd kept her slim shape and, if she hadn't quite won the war against gravity, she seemed to have arranged an armistice. She kept her hair shorter now, off her shoulders as befit her age. The few gray streaks detracted not at all from her appearance.
Unni's heart fluttered with excitement. A portion of that was anticipation of the thorough fucking she expected to receive soon at the high admiral's command. After centuries of practice, he certainly had some technique. Then, too, she was going to be introduced to the marchioness of Amnesty, said to be a fine looking woman. Unni wriggled with anticipation.
More excitement, though, came from the sheer danger of the enterprise upon which she had, at Robinson's behest, embarked.
It had not been easy for Unni to overcome her personal revulsion with the Tauran Union's military. Moreover, she'd had little personal to trade beyond whatever prestige there might be in association with, and the occasional bedding of, a TU minister. Still, she'd been diligent in her high admiral's cause and he had funded her lavishly.
The results of that association, those beddings, and that funding waited outside in a Yamato-manufactured truck surrounded by tough looking, armed, UE Marines: from Hangkuk, four nuclear weapons, from Volga, another four, and from certain persons in Kashmir's nuclear program, four more.
A wall speaker chimed thrice and announced in a sexless voice, "Marchioness of Amnesty and High Admiral of United Earth Peace Fleet's launch arriving in five minutes."
Unni looked skyward, expectantly. She was surprised, therefore, when the Marine band outside began to play Earth's "Hymn to Peace" and she looked down to see the familiar pumpkin seed shaped launch with its blue- and white-enameled symbol of United Earth roll up almost silently to the terminal and stop.
The symbol split to reveal Robinson, in full regalia. He stepped down onto a small staircase that had thrust out simultaneously with the opening of the hatch. Three steps and the high admiral's feet were firmly planted on the purple carpet that was reserved for Earth's highest and noblest officials. The marchioness followed.
While Robinson strode the purple carpet, the truck pulled around to the far side and a crew of Marines in plain fatigues began to transfer its contents to the shuttle's hold. The other Marines, the armed ones in full dress uniform, marched smoothly at port arms to surround the small ship and line both sides of the purple carpet. They then faced outward on command.
Wiglan shivered to see the Marines march, their bodies stiff and their faces cold, hard and emotionless. How much more pleasant to be surrounded by the blankly smiling proles!
The high admiral entered, Arbeit on one arm, lighting the salon with his smile. "Unni, my very dearest," he said, enthusiastically, after introductions, "how can I, how can Earth and Civilization, ever repay you? You're a marvel!"
He swept her into his arms and whirled her in a complete circle before setting her on her feet again.
"It was only my duty," she answered demurely, once she had regained her balance. "Will you be here long?" she asked, her voice husky and full of hope.
"Sadly not, my dear. I'm off to meet Mustafa as soon as my shuttle is loaded."
Seeing the disappointment written plain across her face, Robinson amended, "But the marchioness and I will be back in two or three days. In the interim, make yourself at home in my quarters here on Atlantis Base. It's been too long and we have much catching up to do. For now though, Unni, I must leave and deliver our cargo to the forces for progress."
The NA-21 lacked the range to make the flight from the Isla Real, back in Balboa, to Pashtia in one hop. In fact, no less than three stops had been required to take on fuel and rest the crew. Flying a Nabakov, any Volgan aircraft, actually, was a comparative bitch. At each stop security men from Fernandez's department debarked and nonchalantly took positions around the aircraft, weapons hidden under clothing.
Now the plane came in blacked out, spitting flares and with its full anti-surface to air missile suite activated. It touched down on the hard-surfaced field, bounced twice and reversed thrust. The plane's nose began to point down and its tail to rise as it slowed.
Safe landing accomplished, the plane was met at one end of the airfield by vehicle-mounted military police who had absolutely no clue as to its contents. These formed a wide perimeter around the plane as it turned in place at one end of the runway. Turn completed, the MPs closed up and escorted it to a hangar, which they likewise surrounded. What went on after the hangar doors were closed they knew not.
Carrera watched the plane as it moved down the runway, turned, taxied and stopped. He'd been sweating this moment. A messenger reported to him and saluted. He returned the salute casually and took a piece of paper from the messenger's hand. The note read: "Targets at objective tonight and tomorrow."
Click.
The symbol of Amnesty, a lit candle with barbed wire wrapped around it, was emblazoned across the front of the mansion. The light of the candle was false but the barbed wire looked very real. Only fitting, thought Louis Arbeit, the Marquis of Amnesty, as his chauffeur opened the door to his limousine.
Once out of the limo, the marquis looked around with considerable satisfaction. It wasn't merely satisfaction at the quality of residence he'd acquired. No, the really thrilling part had been that his organization paid the entire bill, from mortgage to taxes to servants to gardeners to utilities to food. Add in the other perks that commonly went with being a senior part of Earth's new royalty and, well, it was worth much more than even the three quarters of a ton of gold he'd paid for it.
Life is good, the marquis thought, reaching for the handle of the ornate double door out front. And with the newest antiagathics, it will be long, as well.
"Daddy!" Arbeit's young daughter, Lucretia, screamed as he came through the double front door. The girl launched herself at her father, wrapping him in a tight hug. She then took his hand and led him out to a patio overlooking the garden.
"I supervised the cooks making dinner myself, Daddy," Lucretia announced, proudly. "Though I had to beat one for being naughty."
"Good girl, Lucretia," he father congratulated. "I hope you didn't damage her."
Lucretia hung her head slightly. "Not much, I didn't, Father. I will need a new riding crop, though," she added brightly.
"That's my girl."