by Tom Kratman
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."
2/6/468 AC, Nicobar Straits
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 h
elp 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."
Chapter Sixteen
The winds of Paradise are blowing. Where are you who hanker after Paradise?
Motto of the Ikhwan
As a soldier I will fulfill my duties brilliantly. I die with a smile on my face with the deep belief that to meet my end on the kamikaze battleship Yamato is the ultimate honor.
Chief Petty Officer Yoshiaki Ogasawara Mikoto
KIA 7 April, 1945 (Old Earth Year)
3/6/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Nicobar Straits
Except for having gone to a much heightened state of alert, and maintaining a lookout for Gallic vessels of war, the election had not much affected the carrier or her escorts. They, like the single legion now deployed on the border between Pashtia and Kashmir, had a contract to fulfill. Now, without the specter of a major war with Taurus in the offing, the classis was able, once again, to concentrate solely on pirate hunting.
Which was . . . disappointing. Since the flotilla had arrived on station piracy in the straits had dropped to, essentially, nothing.
"It's almost as if someone's told them to lay off," Fosa said, looking enquiringly at Kurita standing on the bridge overlooking the calm waters.
"Someone has," Kurita answered, cryptically. "We don't know why. It could be as simple as the hope that if there's no piracy for a while the zaibatsu will curtail your contract and send you home. It could be just fear—well founded fear, too, I might add—of what the classis will do if there are any incidents. It could be . . . " Kurita's eyes looked skyward.
Fosa's eyes, too, traveled upward. Fucking Earth-pigs.
UEPF Spirit of Peace
High Admiral Robinson (Wallenstein understood perfectly that UE senior officials were always "High" in order to make clear to the rest of humanity that they were low) and Captain Wallenstein sat comfortably in the silverwood paneled ship's conference room, along with a few others that were in on enough of the secret to trust. None, of course, barring only Wallenstein, knew everything. Ordinarily, Robinson might have enjoyed the show in the privacy of his own quarters, watching it on the big, crystal-clear Kurosawa. Still, in odd little ways the staff had helped quite a bit and were entitled to their reward.
On the wall past the end of the conference table—the table, like the paneling, brought up from below—a vision screen showed a small flotilla moving majestically through some jungle-lined straits. It was the dry season in that part of the world below, Robinson knew. Even if he had not known, the fires raging uncontrolled that send thick clouds of smoke across the straits, often blocking the view, would have told him.
The ship was not only too far up to see in this much detail with its own sensors and camera; it was also in the wrong orbit. Instead, the real-time images were being sent by a skimmer launched by the UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood a few hours before daylight had arisen on the straits.
MV Hendrik Hoogaboom, Nicobar Straits
The captain of the Hoogaboom looked behind him, watching the last sunrise he would ever see in this life. The sun's light shone red, a result of filtering through and bending around the smoke that dominated the straits. In his hand the captain held a picture. It was a family picture, with the females' faces exposed. As such, it was not to be shared. The picture showed the faces of his wife, his two daughters and his three sons.
The captain knew that, by dint of his coming sacrifice, they'd be taken care of, in this life as well as the next. Whatever else might be said of the Ikhwan, it had to be admitted that it took very good care of its martyrs' dependants, lest the supply of martyrs dry up. One of the things that had hurt the movement, indeed, perhaps that infidel action that had hurt the most, was the sequestration, impoundment, and outright confiscation of funds for just that sort of reward. Living single men were cheap. Weapons and ammunition, even explosives, were cheap. To support the families of the fallen was expensive.
Thank Allah, thought the captain, that the infidel press tipped the movement off to what their governments were doing when they went after the money. What would we ever do without the First Landing Times? I could never take the action I am about to if I could not be sure my family would be cared for. Thank You, too, Beneficent One, for the money given in humanitarian aid that frees up money for the fight and to care for the families of those fallen in Your cause.
The captain looked at the covered switch on his control panel, next to the ship's wheel. It led down to the roughly two thousand tons of ammonium nitrate-fuel oil, hydrazine and aluminum powder mix in the bunkered hold. A second switch in the Hoogaboom's informal CIC likewise led to the explosive. The captain's executive, a Kashmiri fanatic named Ishmael, controlled that for the time being; later they would switch. Lastly, below the water line and out of the line of direct fire, was a pressure detonator. If every man on the ship were to be killed or incapacitated, as long as the Hoogaboom was well aimed enough to manage to hit the target or to ground near it, the ship would explode.
The captain looked at the chart of the Nicobar Straits that lay on his plotting table. It showed the positions of the major enemy vessel, and of the two torpedoes, the six cruise missiles, and the dozen fast speedboats that rocked hidden in the jungle inlets to either side of the straits. It also showed his own ship, moving, as was the enemy, to intersection with those speedboats.
Turning again and taking a last deliberate look at the sunrise, the captain told his radio man, "Per our contract"—which raised a slight giggle from the radio operator—"inform the infidels that we are making our passage and should pass them by within two hours. Don't call them 'infidels' when you do."
BdL Dos Lindas
Ash floated on the breeze, some of it still smoldering. Because of that, Fosa had ordered that all refueling and rearming operations take place below, on the hangar deck. There were some obvious downsides to this; for one thing, the ship reeked. But it was just unwise to take the risk of a deck fire from a stray spark.
Fortunately, the Finches had very long legs, tremendous endurance. It was not difficult to keep two aloft continuously, along with another brace of Cricket Bs. The Crickets kept fairly close to the ship, patrolling the edge of the water where it met jungle.
Annoyingly, one of the Crickets hadn't called in in a while and failed to respond to any radio calls to it. Fosa had already given the order to send out another to replace it.
The Finches he had further out, in case a merchant ship under contract for protection should be attacked. Indeed, each Finch aloft was paired with a corvette, operating at a distance of about twenty five miles southeast or northwest of the main classis. Even further away, to the southeast, the Qamra, formerly The Big ?, churned along in leisurely fashion, trolling for pirates. Unfortunately, the best bait, the girls, had to be kept below for the most part. Nobody was going to be nude sunbathing on the deck with all the smoke and ash on the breeze. It would have been inherently suspicious had anyone tried.
Sealed in by thick, shatterproof glass or not, the reek of smoke still penetrated the bridge. It had to; the Dos Lindas was not a spaceship; it drew its air from its surroundings. Fosa was on the bridge, as was Kurita. Both scanned the waters, such as were visible, for threats or targets. There were none, just the enveloping smoke with occasional clear patches.
Unaccountably, and unk
nowingly imitating the captain of the Hoogaboom, Kurita pulled out a wallet from which he drew a plastic encased black and white photograph. Fosa stepped over to look. He saw a much—a very much—younger Kurita, in dark naval uniform, surrounded by kimono-clad wife and children. The children were beautiful but Fosa was struck mostly by the wife. He knew the story, of course; Kurita had long before explained that his family had been caught in the nuclear bombing of Yamato by the Federated States near the end of the Great Global War.
Your life must have been hard without her, my friend, Fosa thought. Like our Patricio, losing a woman like that is like having your soul torn out.
As if reading Fosa's thought, Kurita said, "Yes . . . it was . . . difficult."
"Well," the captain of Dos Lindas answered, "perhaps you shall reincarnate together, someday."
