A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  "We cannot be directly involved, Mustafa. Understand that much from the beginning. We can guide you, help you, partially fund you and give you a certain amount of intelligence. But we will not get directly involved under any circumstances."

  Barely, Mustafa restrained the urge to pronounce UE's high admiral a "coward." Then again, the Salafi doubted that the word would have meant much to the high admiral. Mustafa was certain that the idea of cowardice had left the UE lexicon every bit as completely as had the concept of courage. Besides, coward or not, the man was an infidel, an atheist, and that was, in Mustafa's opinion, infinitely worse.

  "Money?" Mustafa sneered. "I have money. Intelligence? Allah will provide victory to us or not, as he wills, without your "intelligence." I am wasting my time here."

  "Not so fast, son of the desert." Robinson was really thinking son of a bitch but that would have been impolitic to say. "Our aid means more to you than you imagine."

  In one of those little quirks of fate that sometimes happen, the Fleet chaplain, Druid though he was, had proven of more value than all the rest of Robinson's other counselors. The Druid, at least, understood Islam, though it could hardly be said he approved of it.

  "Allah will provide," Robinson echoed. "Allah will provide your weapons, then? Or will you have to find them yourself? Allah will make the Federated States complacent, or will you have to be clever on your own behalf and in His cause? How do you know, Mustafa, that Allah did not provide me? Or do you question that all things, to include me, come to pass only through his favor? I am shocked, shocked, that you think to spurn the gift He has provided."

  Robinson keyed the intercom on the table at which he and Mustafa spoke. "Bring my car around for my guest. My business here is concluded."

  "Wait," the Salafi said, holding up a hand. "Perhaps I was hasty. We may yet be able to do business together."

  Atlantis Base, Earth Year 19 June, 2511

  Unni Wiglan was thrilled, thrilled, that the high admiral had invited her, personally, to return to Atlantis Base for consultations. The prestige alone was invaluable. And the comfort of being in the one place on Terra Nova which gave proof that her values were true? Priceless.

  She'd shown the high admiral her gratitude, too, in a number of ways.

  Better, the high admiral had shown himself to be a man of both caring and culture. He'd been nothing but questions and concern about the very things Unni herself cared about: improving the low regard in which the World League was held, limiting the anarchic and archaic "sovereign" rights of Terra Nova's two hundred and twelve nation-states, the plight of the people of Filistia, groaning under the heel of Zion, among other worthy causes. She'd been especially pleased when the high admiral had dismissed Zion's claims with the words, "Bloody Jews."

  United Earth had no more Jews; they'd all been either killed or sent off world to the colony the Arab League had given them to entice them away.

  And then there was the great concern the high admiral had shown for the Terra Novan natural environment. He'd himself noted that in the last two hundred years Terra Nova's mean temperature had increased a staggering .3 degrees Celsius. "It just can't go on, my dear Unni. Why, in a thousand years the planet will become uninhabitable. And did you know, my people say you may already have reached the tipping point; that, or you soon will. There's no time to waste."

  Here, finally, was a representative from Earth who understood, who cared. For the first time in her life, Unni Wiglan thought there might be some hope for peace for her planet.

  UEPF Spirit of Peace, Earth Date 28 June, 2513

  "Computer, view screen on," Robinson ordered. Immediately the computer turned on the wall-mounted Kurosawa. "Find me the news, Federated States. Make it the Global News Network."

  ". . . and it's a bright and sunny day here in First Landing, Hudson," the announcer said. "Not a cloud in the sky and . . . What the fu—? Oh, dear God . . . there's been a terrible accident at the Terra Nova Trade Organization."

  Robinson winced as the view switched from the studio to a tall tower, standing alone but with other, similar ones in the background. The tower had a gaping hole near the base from which smoke poured out. He winced again when another airship slammed into a second building and then again when a third skyscraper was hit. Both of those shots were seen distantly, as the second and third towers were across the city.

  He didn't really feel it, though, until the camera on site focused on people beginning to jump from the upper stories to avoid burning to death. Shivering, he remembered back to the smoke-filled cabin of the shuttle, to the face of the crew chief suffocating in the faulty EV suit.

  "Poor people," he whispered. "But what am I to do? Wait until you're strong enough that it becomes my people jumping from burning buildings? I'm sorry for you; truly I am. But it was necessary.

  "I hope, I really do, that no more, or not much more, will be necessary."

  Interlude

  31 January, 2050,

  Turtle Bay, New York, New York,

  United States of America, Earth

  The speech was televised. Moreover, it was watched with keen interest in certain quarters.

  Margot Tebaf had prepared long and hard for the occasion. The best speechwriters available to her had taken her thoughts—hers and Dominique's, who had quickly become rather more than a casual fling—and turned them into shining prose, a beacon to light the dark night and turn it to day.

  Margot's speech was, from the progressive point of view, exactly on point. Perhaps many, even most, viewers thought it full of pious platitudes, inanities and wishful thinking. She and they simply didn't share the same concepts, even the same vocabulary. In that sense it was a failure, but a predictable one. Moreover, those people really didn't matter. In the more important sense, for people who did share the same world view and did matter—the news media, the European Parliament, the various humanitarian aid and human rights activist organizations around the world (of which there were hundreds of thousands, large and small), and the increasingly hereditary bureaucrats at the United Nations—the speech was a resounding success.

  They could read the code phrases put into the speech by Margot's speechwriters. They knew that "increased political stability" was a nicer way of saying "deportation of troublemakers." They knew that "fair distribution of human talent" meant "keep the highly talented from emigrating out of their own hellholes to the United States."

  Moreover, the insightful among the viewers saw something that Margot grasped, if at all, only in embryonic form. If they could cut off the flow of immigrants to the United States, and make this new world the only permissible outlet for people who simply didn't care for transnational governance, that would be good. But what would be infinitely better would be the effect of moving those same people out of their home countries in even greater numbers than the United States had ever been willing to accept. For each one that left, say, Europe weakened the resistance to supranational and transglobal governance while each weakening of resistance led to more supranational and transglobal governance. This, in turn, led to more people wanting to leave which, if allowed, would still further weaken resistance to transglobal governance.

  It was, the viewers saw, a perfect solution, an elegant solution. Moreover, it did not have the distressing side effect of increasing resistance, and providing an unfortunate counterexample, within the United States. To one another they said, "What's not to like?"

  And so the consensus grew—for it was a consensus, not a conspiracy—this new world is the solution to our problems here on Earth.

  Chapter Ten

  Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.

  —Machiavelli, The Prince

  Casa Linda, 29/9/459 AC

  If one picture was worth one thousand words, how many words were saved by half a dozen, in living color? The pictures fronted a newspaper that lay unopened upon the desk. There was no need to open it. That front page said everything necessary with it
s display of dismembered arms and legs, broken bleeding children, and people burned and blasted almost beyond recognition.

  They have given me what I asked for, thought an inexpressibly saddened Patricio Carrera. But I will not thank them for it. I wish they had not.

  His eyes wandered down again, down to a picture of a little girl. This one, at least was alive. Bloody, she was; covered in blood from head to foot. In the picture her skin showed through only at the twin tear tracks on her cheeks. The little girl was standing perfectly well. She was quite unhurt.

  The baby's mother, however, was a ghastly, exsanguinated ruin— torn and bloody meat—lying on the street before her.

  Though Carrera was saddened, an element of celebration charged the air of Casa Linda. Men passing in the hallways of the house spontaneously lifted their hands to "high five" as they passed. The Boss can do it now! We're going to war! Daugher and Bowman butted heads, literally and for the sheer violent joy of the thing, every time they passed in a hall.

  Carrera, himself, was rather more restrained. He had a plan. He had all the diagrams. He had tables of manning and equipment, pay scales, grade requirements, training schedules . . .

  And I have guilt. Is it my fault, my doing, that these people were attacked? Or would it have happened eventually, anyway? I suppose I'll never know.

  Lourdes interrupted his thoughts with a cup of coffee. She pretended not to notice as he quickly wiped a forming tear from his own eye. "What happens now, Patricio?"

  "I don't know, not for sure. I don't yet have the authority. I don't have the money; I don't have the equipment, I don't have the men. I don't have the land to train on. I don't have the uniforms, the ammunition, the barracks . . . even tents we lack. All I have is a plan and control of some money, with more on the way . . . that, and a few connections."

  Lourdes glanced down at the newspaper, then back to her boss. "But you and General Parilla have an appointment with the acting president in just three days, Patricio. Isn't that about getting all those things?"

  "Yes. But Parilla and I both have our doubts about how easy it will be. Even after this," he said as his hand gestured towards the paper.

  "I have faith in you, Patricio. You will get what you need."

  He sighed. Maybe the girl was right. "Lourdes . . . you're a reasonable girl, as reasonable as anyone in the country. Do you believe we . . . Balboa should go to war over this?"

  Lourdes' eyes flashed pure Castilian fire, glowing hot with rage and hate. This fire would have been commonplace during the Reconquista, the centuries-long drive to rid Spain of the hated Moslem. On Cortez's march to Tenochtitlan to conquer the Mexica a similar flame had lit the eyes of his conquistadors. Aboard the ships of the Holy League the night before the bloody naval battle at Lepanto, Don John's sailors' and marines' eyes had shone so. It was the very fire that had once made Spain "the nation with the bloody footprint."

  "Oh, very much, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Her foot stamped. "You must make them pay for this!"

  Carrera nodded, satisfied. A hand reached out for a cigarette. "Lourdes, would you get Professor Ruiz on the phone for me? Then call Parilla's secretary and see when he will be available."

  Saint Nicholasberg, Volga, 30/9/459 AC

  Smoke curled up from half a dozen vile Volgan cigarettes to gather and congeal along the ceiling and walls of the room. A small buffet— and that was not vile at all—sat pillaged on a table near the room's only door. Inside, men no longer young argued over their state's future.

  "Stefan Ilyanovich, I tell you for the last time there is no more foreign exchange to be had." The speaker, Pavel Timoshenko, a sub- minister of finance for economically moribund Volga, spoke, on behalf of his chief, to an assistant to an industrial minister.

  A note of something like hysteria crept into Ilyanovich's voice. "Our factories are crumbling. We are losing even the ability to extract our own oil. We are in desperate need of the technology that only the East, the FSC and the TU, or Yamato can supply us. And you tell me we cannot even buy it." Ilyanovich looked despondent, almost crushed. He hung his head in despair.

  Timoshenko, not wanting to appear unsympathetic, said, "My friend, it is not that we would not buy it if we could. It is not even that the East will not sell to us. Since the Reds"—for the tsar who had instituted Tsarist-Marxism in Volga had, like his philosophical predecessors, chosen that color to symbolize his social revolution— "have been gone, the East, most of them at least, are quite willing to sell. But they will not give it away. Welcome to the free marketplace." He reached over to squeeze Ilyanovich's shoulder.

  Ilyanovich looked up. "Then sell something, before we have nothing left to sell."

  Timoshenko shook his head sadly. "That's just the point. We have nothing but the very raw materials to sell. And no one wants to buy. The world is glutted. Even the price of gold is down, what with all the precious metal the UEPF has dumped, or we would sell that."

  "Weapons?" Ilyanovich held out his hands in plea.

  Timoshenko shook his head, shrugged. "Ordinarily we could sell our weapons. But all of our former clients deserted us as fast as we deserted them. It doesn't matter; they have no money. And those who can buy don't want what we have. They want newer, more modern, Columbian or Tauran arms."

  The men present looked to the representative of the ministry of defense. After finishing off the caviar-laden cracker in his fingers, and wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin, Vladimir Rostov answered the unspoken question.

  "We make good weapons," he said. "Yes, they're different from the East's but, in the main, about as good—in some cases better, used properly—and always much, much cheaper. How could they not be when we pay the workers who produce them about ten percent of what their western equivalents earn? But after decades of selling "chimp models"—they look the same as the best equipment but have all of the really good features taken out—no one wants to buy who can afford better. Forty years of our arms, in Moslem hands, being bested by Zion and the FSC hasn't helped matters. We have managed to sell some heavy rocket launchers to al Jahara, true, but that is all. When they wanted tanks they went for FS models. When they wanted infantry vehicles they bought Anglian. They could have good, top of the line, T-38s—hell, I would sell them T-48s!—for what they can afford to pay. But they aren't even asking."

  This was a bad sign indeed. For forty years the old empire had bartered its weapons for hard currency, needed raw materials, and political influence. Now its successor, the Republic of Volga, couldn't sell them even without the political strings. And weapons were about all it had to offer. Millions upon millions of tons of finished arms and munitions sat rusting, unused and unwanted, in military storage yards all over the country. The times were bleak.

  Rostov tapped the table top in anger. "It is worse, even, than the picture I have painted. The FSC are already beating the Salafi fanatics in Pashtia like they own them. As soon as that is done they'll be going after the next state on their list; quite possibly Sumer again. Then they'll go after another. Then another. In a few years, not more than six the General Staff thinks, most of our former ex-clients are going to get the living shit kicked out of them by the Federated States-Kingdom of Anglia Alliance. The Sumeris still have almost exclusively Volgan heavy equipment. Even what we didn't build ourselves is mostly based on our systems; closely enough that few can tell the difference from the outside. They're almost all "chimp models," but who will care about that? When the FSC and the Anglians are through, our reputation for making arms will be destroyed for a century. Two centuries!"

  Rostov rubbed a chin perplexedly. "Hmmm. I wonder if . . . no, I suppose not."

  Ilyanovich reached for a glass of hot, overly sweet Volgan tea. "Is there no way to save that reputation? We have the arms, thirty thousand tanks in storage or more, enough possibly to see us through some of the hard times ahead if we could sell them for even a fraction of their value, at something better than scrap metal value anyway."

  Timoshenko held
up his hand to silence the others. He had studied and traveled in the East, even during Imperial days. During that time he had picked up a few decidedly un-Volgan ideas. One such was coming to him now.

  "Comrades, it occurs to me that there is one chance. If we can somehow show that our arms are second to none—okay, okay . . . at least good enough—we can sell them in the future. The money we get from that will give us the ability to buy some high technology, enough to continue getting our oil and other minerals out of the ground. That will bring more hard currency and a favorable, or at least less unfavorable, trade balance. We must have positive advertising. Can we not get our forces to Pashtia?"

  It was the representative of the Foreign Ministry's turn. "Forget it, Pavel. We are definitely not invited in any major way. Border and convoy guard maybe. Probably not even that."

  "Not even that." The one soldier in the group added, "It wouldn't make much difference even if we sent in the Guards. Since we left Pashtia and since the breakdown of the government, our army is a wreck, good soldiers—some of them anyway—in a broken organization. Besides, the point Pavel wants us to make is, I think, that our weapons are good in rich undeveloped world hands. This point cannot be made if they are in Volgan hands."

  Timoshenko ended the discussion by suggesting, "Comrades, let us await developments a bit, shall we? Perhaps the horse will learn to sing after all."

  Las Mesas, Republic of Balboa, 30/9/459 AC

  Young Ricardo Cruz looked into and past the television screen. It cannot be said he really even saw the images. He had no need to. He had seen them before, or others much like them, over and over, perhaps one hundred times in two days.