Carnifex

perfectly, the severe consequences would be administered to both.

'Absolute truth from each of you is your only salvation,' the interrogator had explained.

Bashir had only told one lie, that concerning the whereabouts and names of his family. Unfortunately, he and Salam had never been given the chance to work out anything between them. Bashir would remember the beating that followed for years. Even after he'd told the truth the beatings had continued until, apparently, Salam had likewise come clean. Or perhaps they'd continued just on general principle or to see if they'd come up with different answers. Bashir didn't know.

Their parents, plus their brothers and sisters were brought to the camp two days later, though they were apparently well treated. Neither attempted the slightest lie after that.

* * *

Fernandez spoke, through an interpreter, to Bashir first. The man looked pretty badly off, face bruised and eyes half-swollen shut. He walked like a much older, indeed a very old, man. That would pass, Fernandez knew. The guards were expert and had been under firm instructions to do no permanent damage.

He had the guard remove Bashir's manacles and offered the young man water and some food, legionary rations, in fact, which Bashir choked down, greedily. He especially liked the one-hundred-gram bar of honey-sweetened halawa, seven hundred calories of crushed sesame seed goodness in just over four ounces.

While he ate Fernandez made a show of looking over his file. 'Ah . . . I see you tried to join us once.'

'How did you—?'

'Your picture was taken when you were interviewed. We matched that to your picture taken when you were first brought here. The computers do that almost instantly. Hmmm . . . rejected, I see . . . well . . . no, not rejected. We placed you and your brother on the wait list. We'd likely have taken you in a couple of months.'

'The recruiter didn't tell us that,' Bashir answered. 'He said if we could come up with a bribe he might get us a position in a couple of months.'

Fernandez smiled evilly. Corruption was always a problem, though it was a problem the Legion dealt with very severely. In reality there was only one punishment, death.

'Did he indeed? We'll see to that. I understand you tried to lie to us,' Fernandez said.

'What fool would give you the names of their people?'

'Good point,' Fernandez agreed. 'We'll forgive you the lie though, of course, you and your brother are under sentence of death for aiding our enemies. Their guilt became yours when you agreed to help them.'

'We've never been tried!' Bashir objected, hotly.

'You will be . . . if necessary. Do you doubt the results of that trial?' Again Fernandez smiled, though not so evilly.

'No,' Bashir said, with resignation.

'Still . . . ' Fernandez hesitated, 'you did cooperate fully once you realized you had to. And . . . then, too . . . what good is a boy who won't take a beating to protect his family?'

It was a slender reed, barely to be perceived. The Pashtun grabbed it anyway. 'I could cooperate more.'

'There would be great risks,' Fernandez cautioned, 'and not merely for yourself . . . great rewards, too, of course.'

* * *

Later, after Bashir had been brought back to his cell to think a bit, Fernandez interviewed Cano and Alena, privately.

'Tribune,' he said, 'there is something very weird going on here. You were not supposed to be at that ambush. It was miles away from your patrolling area. Yet there you were. I checked back over the last couple of years. Your group of scouts is always nearby whenever trouble crops up and you are even remotely in range. You've got the highest kill rate of any group in the Legion. Why?'

Cano just looked at Alena and said, 'My wife's a witch.'

Fernandez looked intently at the Pashtun girl.

'I'm not a witch, exactly,' she said, looking up at the wood paneling of Fernandez's office. 'At least I don't think I am. But I do pay attention . . . '

Interlude

1 Easton Street, London, England, European Union, 11 January, 2126

In his plush office, all woods and wools and crystal, Louis Arbeit stretched like a satisfied cat after a kill.

The nature of the kill? Fifty-thousand small arms smuggled into various spots on Terra Nova in aid of the various insurgencies there. More on point; the payment received for them.

It was perfect, Arbeit self-congratulated. Amnesty can go anywhere there; even the guerillas accepted us because we brought them arms. Oh, not directly, of course. That would have been too dangerous. Instead, we bought space from the Food and Agricultural Organization from what was set aside for them for cargo on the resupply, reinforcement and resettlement ships. And my father made sure that space was considered 'hands off' by the crews. After all, it was only 'food.'

The real food and the arms went to the colonies in Southern Columbia and Northern Uhuru. They paid us and then delivered the arms to the guerillas and the food to whoever needed it.

Arbeit sighed with contentment. And at two-hundred grams of gold for an obsolescent rifle and one thousand rounds, we robbed those bastard guerillas, too.

Looking up and out the window of his office, Arbeit thought, sadly, A shame about the old man, though. I wonder if the guerillas would have assassinated him if they'd known how important he was to their supply of arms and munitions. Fortunately mother is taking it well.

He stood and began to pace about the spacious office. The thing is, though; where should I best invest the money? Even after paying off my helpers, generously, I've still got four tons of gold just sitting in Switzerland.

Maybe it's time to talk to SecGen Simoua about making my posting for life. A single ton of my gold should be enough to remind him of his promise to my father. Then again, the Swiss are said to have some new anti-agathics. New and pricey. Since the old SecGen died, finally, I am reminded that I am mortal and need them. Perhaps Simoua would settle for half a ton, or three quarters.

Chapter Twenty

God helps a man as long as he helps his brother.

—Muhammad (PBUH)

22/7/469 AC, Tariq Pass, Kashmir

This was not one of the big passes. Narrow and rugged, untraversable by vehicles, it had three major advantages. It was located about where Bashir could have gotten to if he had begun the trek back the night of the ambush. It had a small, flat plain on the southern side just large enough for a Cricket to land with two men and take off again with its pilot aboard. Lastly, it was not much used by anybody. Thus, it was unlikely that the Cricket would be seen, less still reported.

The pilot brought the plane into the rough field slowly, not much faster than a man could run, Bashir thought. He was thankful beyond measure when the thing touched down. His only previous flight had been on the helicopter that took him into his brief captivity. He'd hated that, but at least he hadn't had to see the ground below him or the clouds around. The Cricket gave no such mercy.

With hand gestures, the pilot directed Bashir to help him turn the plane around to face into the wind. They did this by the simple expedient of picking up the tail and shuffling sideways, pivoting the plane around the fixed landing gear. Then he'd clapped the Pashtun on the back and bid him on his way.

As Bashir caught his last ground-bound glimpse of the plane, before turning along the rock-strewn path, he saw the pilot pouring fuel into it from a twenty liter fuel can. When next he looked, the plane was already airborne.

Bashir didn't know why he had been selected. He was, and he knew