Carnifex

for the little boys they keep for him.'

'We'll see about that when the fighting starts,' the Kaur answered, automatically killing a mosquito that had landed on her wrist.

'I don't know fighting ever start,' said Company Sergeant Major Rambahadur Thapa, of Pandey's company. 'We are end of supply trail, sahib. And jungle boys pretty good at keeping away.'

That was true enough; Pandey's shrug admitted it. So far into the jungle and so far from any road was the task force that resupply depended on helicopters and shuttles. But the force was literally at the maximum distance the helicopters available could support. Another kilometer and the excess wear would begin to overwhelm the maintenance staff.

'We could drive twice as far or more without the OAU acting as a dead weight,' Amita said. 'Though in that case the task force commander would have no little boys. Worse, he'd be with us.'

Dhan Singh Pandey opened his mouth to speak when the jungle erupted in heavy automatic fire coming from the direction of the OAU bivouac. He was about to call for his radio bearer when Amita held up her hand.

'I didn't hear anything,' she said. 'Sergeant Major?'

'Not me.'

'Sir, call from the OAU,' the radioman announced.

Pandey thought about that for half a second and said, 'I'm sure you're mistaken, Naik.'

* * *

Belisario hadn't rushed it. New weapons were fine. New weapons his men didn't know how to use were just expensive clubs. He'd spent a month just in training with the new rifles and machine guns and another two weeks in feeling out the enemy. In the process, he noticed something interesting. The Gurkhas would come running to help the Sikhs, and vice versa. But when he probed the OAU, or someone sniped at them, both Gurkhas and Sikhs indicated a profound disinterest.

This night, he'd decided to risk an attack. A full attack.

* * *

In the privacy of his tent Duff-McQueeg held a local boy, down on all fours, firmly by the hips while moving his own in a steady, rhythmic stroke. He was suddenly interrupted by the sound of heavy gunfire. He was tempted to ignore it, but then Warrant Officer Bourguet ripped open the tent flap and announced, breathlessly, 'Sir . . . sir . . . the enemy . . . '

A large red stain suddenly blossomed on Bourguet's t-shirt, visible through his unbuttoned uniform jacket. Wordlessly, the warrant officer crumpled to the ground. His hands remained gripped to the material of the tent, which followed the heavyset warrant to the ground. Duff-McQueeg, and the boy, were trapped underneath. By the time Duff-McQueeg could extract himself from both the boy and the tent, he emerged to find a smoking muzzle pressed to the side of his head.

'Senor Carrera, aqui!'

'Bring him out, Pedro,' Belisario said. He was almost embarrassed for the prisoner when he smelt the odor of shit. Then he realized the man had not shat himself and sympathy changed to disgust.

The tent material wriggled and distorted.

'Whoever you are, come out,' Pedro ordered.

The boy emerged, pulling his threadbare trousers up.

'Chico, Belisario asked, 'were you with this man by your own will?'

The boy spat at Duff-McQueeg and said, 'They stole me from my village.'

Belisario nodded grimly and said, to Pedro, 'Get a rope.'

The boy, with a look of utter hatred in his eyes asked, 'Can I have a gun?'

Chapter Eighteen

There is no love untouched by hate

No unity without discord

There is no courage without fear

There is no peace without a war

—Cruxshadows, Eye of the Storm

8/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia

Rachman was terrified; Tribune David Cano could see it in his eyes. Yet the fierce Pashtun would rather die in horrible agony than ever admit to feeling the slightest fear.

And why the hell shouldn't he be terrified, Cano thought. Poor bastard's never been up in a helicopter before. He's never even flown before. If I were him, I'd be shitting myself. What a great people these are. What a formidable people.

It had been this way since he'd first been assigned to the Pashtun scouts. Everything about them impressed Cano. Everything about them he liked. Were they rough men? Yes and so was he. Were they crude and uncultured, ignorant and savage?

Well, what was I but an ignorant ridge runner before the Legion picked me up and sent me to school? My only skill was riding a horse. But these people aren't stupid, no more than I was. They're just uneducated . . . and that can be fixed.

Cano had the oddest feeling, in accompanying Rachman and a hundred and nineteen of his fellow tribesman going to their home villages on leave, that he was going home as well. He'd fit in so well with these men, enjoyed their company and their comradeship so much, that he just knew he was going to belong, and perhaps better than he'd ever belonged anywhere before.

He felt Rachman's fist pounding his shoulder and looked over. The look of fear in Rachman's eyes had disappeared as the Pashtun gestured enthusiastically at what appeared to be a nothing-much village a few thousand feet below.

'Home,' Rachman announced over the thrum of the Volgan-built IM-71. And again, with a mix of satisfaction and exuberance, 'David, we are almost home.'

8/7/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Hajipur, Sind

The moons Hecate and Eris were high, the former full and the latter in three quarters. The bay of Hajipur was bright under the light of the moons.

In the bay, surrounded by her escorts seaward and her infantry force on the dock, with sailors and Cazadors manning the guns, Dos Lindas sang with the ring of the hammers and the rushing crackle of the welding machines. She sang, too, with the sing-song speech of the local shipfitters who still swarmed her like industrious bees.

'She be good as new, soon, Skipper' said the master of the shipfitters. 'Better den new.'

Fosa knew it was true. Not only had the local boys, and a few girls, patched her up, they'd identified weaknesses and worn spots in the hull, seen a few places that wouldn't be the worse for a little extra bracing, and fixed all that as well. The laser topside, blown off by the near miss of a cruise missile, was replaced, as was every wrecked forty- and twenty-millimeter cannon, and .41-caliber machine gun. Even the lost crew, aviators and Cazadors were up to strength, though there had been an awful price to pay back home to do so.

All that was needed now was the rear elevator. And that was coming soon, this very night, in fact.

We shall see home again, you and I, Fosa thought as he stroked a railing atop the tower rising high above the flight deck. We could fight even as we are. Yes, we could not launch aircraft half so well, but we could still fight, we could still avenge our fallen comrades.

But we'll have our elevator, my dear ship. Tonight it comes to us. And a new sister to fight at our side. And then we go back for revenge.

Fosa looked up at a bright flash at the entrance to the bay. A split