yes?'
'Yes,' Annan confirmed. 'Mostly medical and electronic. Some primitive firearms.'
'I made that mistake too,' admitted Lubbing. 'Forget the flintlocks; they're making their own now. If you had something modern perhaps…'
'No. That particular ban I thought it wise to keep. Tell me, what are the chances of picking up slaves for concubinage at a fair price?' Annan asked. 'Female slaves, of course. Oh, yes, I know I couldn't keep them in Europe; appearances and all. But in Kumasi? No problem.'
'Very small,' Ludding said. 'Oh, there are some, particularly among the Salafis of Yithrab. But the prices are high and the quality comparatively low. And don't try raiding. The locals will fight. In any event, you can get better deals in the Balkans, Africa, or the Arabian Peninsula back home. If you are willing to pay well, then you could find a girl or two among the Salafis, something you could make do with, at least, here. But I really don't see the point. The entire female staff of the mission here on Atlantis-to say nothing of the fleet as it grows-would, I am sure, be happy to be at your disposal.'
Chapter Twenty-Seven Ancient gods used to 'kill us for their sport,' but modern Olympians are content to regulate and preach at us. -John O'Sullivan, Gulliver's Travails
UEPF Spirit of Peace, Earth Date 20 August, 2515
' Oh, Hammerskjold,' Robinson laughed in the privacy of his quarters, 'That's just priceless. '
Robinson sat on an overstuffed brown chair he'd had purchased from below and brought up. The matching sofa held Captain Wallenstein, who leaned on one arm of the piece, her breasts poking through a thin negligee and her long legs folded under her.
'She was almost one of ours,' the captain pointed out, with residual anger in her voice, 'hand picked by our own Amnesty to do our work below among the savages.'
'Oh, I know,' Robinson agreed, sobering. 'And surely we can't just let this pass. But on the other hand, what can we do about it?'
'Not much,' Wallenstein admitted. 'She's asked for asylum for herself and her family. It seems that, not content with just publicly humiliating her, the locals have made threats which, based on their record to date, they'd carry out in a heartbeat.'
'Have you spoken with the woman?' Robinson asked.
'Not personally,' Wallenstein answered. 'I sent one of my people to see her though. She has some very… quaint notions of life on Atlantis, aboard ship and on Earth. Her idea of her place in the big scheme of things is even farther off base.'
Robinson made a tent of his fingers, tapping them together under his nose. 'Is she attractive? Could we get enough for her as a slave on Earth to justify the expense of shipping her and hers back?'
'Not a chance; she's not much to look at. There are some prole positions on Atlantis, cooks and maids and gardeners and such. Shall we send her and her family there?'
'Whatever you think best,' Robinson answered, now grown very serious. 'Just so long as she has no chance of ever escaping. Wouldn't do for her to tell the local progressives just where progress is going to lead them now, would it?'
Wallenstein laughed in agreement before changing the subject. 'Speaking of progress, how is the war down below going?'
'Mixed bag,' Robinson said, putting out his hand and wiggling his fingers. 'The invasion by the FSC and the coalition went a little better for them than I had hoped. On the other hand, they haven't found any of the weapons that provided some of the excuse for the invasion. I've passed the word to our people below who deal with the press to play that up and play down any of the other reasons for the invasion. It's been hard, though, to get the anarchist bastards to pay much attention what with all the atrocities they've fixated on that are taking place in the Balboan sector.'
'Well… won't that hurt the FSC?'
'Yes and no,' Robinson said, further explaining, 'there are two ways to look at it. In the first place, the Balboans are doing a much better job of controlling the insurgency than the FSC or the Anglians are. If the press would play that up they might have more of an impact on undermining support for the war effort in the FSC simply by making them appear inefficient. But, on the other hand, by playing up the Balboans' war crimes, the press is helping build an unbreachable wall to further participation by the states of the Tauran Union. It's a hard call and I don't know which way to nudge it,' the high admiral admitted.
'What is the deal with the Balboans anyway?' Wallenstein asked. 'I looked them up. They've got no really modern military tradition though they were a serious pain in the ass to us four centuries ago. Tied to trade as they are, you would think they'd be more globally minded, more like the Taurans. Yet they've got a larger percentage of their population over there fighting than anyone else, about three times larger.'
'I wondered about that, too,' Robinson admitted. 'Computer?'
'Working, High Admiral,' a speaker answered.
'Bring up the file on Patrick Hennessey.'
The Kurosawa view screen, previously taken up with a soothing show of geometric patterns, changed almost instantly to show a somewhat grainy picture of Carrera.
'He caused it,' Robinson explained. 'You can look his file over later at your leisure.'
Unconsciously, Wallenstein ran her tongue over her lips. 'Can't we control him, then?'
'I'm not sure how,' the high admiral admitted, shaking his head with frustration. 'He's got no family to threaten, or none that he cares enough about anyway. He appears to have no civilized moral constraints; he's a pure barbarian, in other words. Nor is he hurting for money. Actually, he appears to have more money than he really knows what to do with.'
'A direct attack?' Wallenstein suggested.
Robinson exhaled, forcefully. 'I wish, but no. He's an important enough ally of the Federated States that they might consider taking him out to be an act of war by us on them. And that we can't afford.'
'I suppose not,' Wallenstein conceded. 'They're touchy swine. How about having one of the Novan states take him out for us?'
'It's highly questionable whether they even could,' Robinson laughed. 'Outside of a very few of them the rest are unlikely to be able to field a force of a competence or size capable of getting through his security. On the other hand, that does give me an idea… but it will take some time to set that up.
'In any case, the insurgency is going reasonably well,' the high admiral continued. 'They're terribly short of money, though. So Mustafa told me last month on Atlantis.' Yes, he'd had to bring Wallenstein in even on that.
'Is there any way to funnel them funds?' Wallenstein asked.
'Probably, but the FSC has gotten almost incredibly good at ferreting out their accounts. Anything we did would have to be very discreet.'
'Or not,' the captain answered, cryptically. 'I think I know a way.'
Ciudad Balboa, 26/8/461 AC
Jorge Mendoza handed a roll of bills to the girl who sat next to him in the taxi. She counted out the fare, rounded it up for a tip, and paid the driver. The driver attempted to return the money but a look from Marqueli and a vigorous shake of her head told him that Jorge would be insulted if the driver refused his fare. The driver nodded his understanding and took the money with a sincere ' Muchas gracias, senor.' Then Marqueli gave the change to Mendoza and opened the door on her side of the taxi.
Mendoza slid across the seat towards the open door. His metal and carbon fiber legs caught briefly on the transmission hump in the middle of the taxi floor. He unhooked the flexible metal feet at the end of the tubes that ran up to join the remnants of his own legs, then swung them out onto the street. Marqueli took his arm to help him stand. Passersby stopped momentarily to look over the smartly uniformed soldier being led by a tiny girl. An off-duty policeman saluted Mendoza's wound badge and the ribbon-all he was allowed to wear-of his ' CC en Acero ' and continued on his way. Marqueli nodded to the policeman in recognition of the salute. As the taxi pulled away, Mendoza took a moment to secure his balance. Then he followed Marqueli to the door of the restaurant, lifting his artificial legs especially high to avoid the rise of the sidewalk.
This was Mendoza's first time in public since being equipped with his prosthetics. Understandably he was nervous about it. But, at his doctor's prompting, Marqueli had taken him out. Some of the other troops of his ward
