Carnifex

eyes which were said to resemble those supernatural creatures, he seemed to them the embodiment of vicious malevolence, much as the Blue Jinn of legend.

'It was the grace of Allah and the courage of my brother that allowed me to bring word,' Bashir supplied.

'Indeed. We will remember your gallant brother in our prayers. For the word and the warning you have brought us, you have our thanks. How may we repay you?'

Bashir shrugged. 'To allow me to continue in service to the cause is repayment enough, Sheik. To allow me to repay the infidels for my brother . . . '

'So be it then,' Mustafa agreed. 'You will stay here and join our fighters for now. In time you may be sent back to continue the holy campaign to drive out the crusaders, and to gain your just revenge. For now . . . eat, rest, grow healthy, and train to serve the cause.'

Mustafa turned his attention to the guards. 'Assign him to the company of . . . Noorzad.'

The guards led Bashir away. After he was gone Nur al-Deen announced, in his Misrani accent, 'He's lying.'

'Why do you say so?' Mustafa queried.

'That's the problem; I don't know why. But he is lying. I sense the touch of the Blue Jinn or one of his evil minions upon him. He should be killed.'

'And lose a likely gallant fighter for the cause? I think not. Besides, my friend, you forget.' Mustafa's finger pointed towards the ceiling. 'We have the greatest of plotters on our side. If this man is lying, or a spy, Allah will point him out to us before he can do more harm than He is willing to permit.'

A religious argument was the most difficult to refute. Nur al-Deen bowed his head slightly, in acquiescence.

Changing the subject, Mustafa asked, 'How progress the arrangements for greeting our guest?'

'The new cave in which we will shelter his craft from observation'—now it was Nur's turn to point a finger skyward—'is almost complete. We're having to do it by hand as an explosion that size would be bound to attract unwanted attention from the infidel. Fortunately, we do not need to build an airfield.'

'As I said, Nur. We have the greatest of plotters on our side.'

* * *

Noorzad's company proved to be made up entirely of other Pashtun, Bashir discovered. Whether that was a cause for relief or not, let alone rejoicing, remained to be seen.

The commander, himself, was little cause for joy. Short, stout, ugly and taciturn, Noorzad had little to say to the newcomer. He looked Bashir up one side and down the other with a single cold, suspicious, blue eye. He asked a couple of questions, then announced, as if daring contradiction, 'Marwat tribe.'

The commander was frightening. Bashir bobbed his head in agreement. 'Yes, sir, from around Daman. Speen-Gund. Begu Khel.' Daman was a small settlement in north-central Pashtia. The later two terms were subdivisions of the Marwat tribe, Speen-Gund harking back to an acrimonious (and bloody) split within the Marwat on Old Earth. Seven centuries and a few thousand light years were no reason not to keep up a good feud.

Turning to one of his lieutenants, Noorzad commanded, 'Get the names of his people. Send word to our people in Daman for anything that is known of this man. In the interim, he can dig. Take his rifle and give him a pick.'

For the first time Bashir was glad that Fernandez had taken in his family. It was the custom of the Legion to punish the families of their opposition. They also had a considerable ability to identify the proper family from what they called 'DNA.' Bashir didn't really understand that, though he believed it. It was said by his people that, even with a suicide bombing, if the infidels found so much as a scorched bit of bone or hair, or a drop of blood, they would visit vengeance on the family responsible.

Since his brother's body had been reported as found and immolated at the site of the ambush where they were captured, there would be nothing inherently suspicious about the disappearance of his parents and siblings. That was the infidel way. That it was also close to the time honored tradition of his tribe and his larger people only gained respect for the infidels.

* * *

Bashir did not have to labor alone. With picks and shovels, litters and wheelbarrows, it seemed that Noorzad's entire company—of about ninety fighters, Bashir thought, though he could not count that high—was involved in the labor. 'Labor' was an understatement.

The rock overhang underneath which they excavated pushed out perhaps four meters, or maybe even five, from the vertical. The men had chipped their way in about twice that, so that there was a cave of sorts fifteen meters deep and twenty five or thirty in breadth. Not that Bashir counted in meters.

'What is this for?' Bashir asked a squad mate, as he heaved the heavy pick up for another strike at the rock face.

'Not sure,' the other answered, between pick-swinging grunts. 'Some say there's a meeting scheduled between Mustafa and some of our key supporters around the world.'

Bashir swung the pick, knocking away a not very satisfactory chunk of the gray rock. He lowered the pick, pausing briefly to rest on it. 'Lot of work for a mere meeting.'

The other just shrugged. 'Speak of the devil,' he announced, pointing his chin towards a nondescript, off-road vehicle leaving the fortress in a cloud of dust, 'there goes Mustafa now.'

'Tall bastard, isn't he?' Bashir commented. 'Where's he going?'

'Who knows,' said the other, wiping sweat from his brow with a filthy shirtsleeve. 'He almost never spends two nights in the same place. The locals here are all supportive, all armed to the teeth, and each little family has its own fortress. The collaborators of the Kashmir government don't even try to come into this area anymore. Last few times they did, they got run off with a bloody nose.'

Shit, Bashir thought. I am supposed to pin a man down to being here on a precise day, at a particular time, and that same man makes it impossible to do so.

And my family's life depends on my doing so. Shit.

* * *

Bouncing along over what passed for a road in this part of the world, Mustafa thought, Shit. Nothing seems to work out the way it should. When I launched the attack on the Federated States I knew they would come here and I expected to be able to bleed them white and drive them out in shame and disgrace, the same way we did the Volgans.

Didn't happen.

Then I saw the hand of Allah in their invasion of Sumer. Surely, I had thought, that with the best army and the most militarized people in all the Ummah the crusaders would meet their doom.

Didn't happen.

Oh, it attracted the mujahadin in vast numbers, to be sure. And the crusader coalition killed them in vast numbers, too. It seemed so close. But with their allies and mercenaries they always had enough troops to meet any success we had while they built up a new government—whores that owe their souls to the infidels, the lot of them—capable of standing on its own. Meanwhile, we were barely able to hang on here.

I thought then that Allah had truly turned his face from us. Two campaigns; two victories for the enemy. That only shows how foolish I was, for God is the greatest plotter of them all. With the cost of their victory in Sumer, the FSC has lost almost all stomach for the fight. Even now, the bulk of their forces in Pashtia are the Tauros—more albatross than ally—and these mercenaries. These we can defeat. And so Allah shows his omnipotence and his wisdom while mocking our lack of faith. We lost here, to lose there, so we could win here and recreate a base for establishing His law in the world in a more perfect and secure fashion.

Curse me to Hell if I ever doubt the wisdom of God again.

* * *

Damn all shavetails.

Sergeant Sevilla, 3^rd Cohort, 6^th Cazador Tercio, hated having his signifer along on a mission. The kid—he was only nineteen—was just so damned ignorant. Oh, sure; he'd come up through the ranks just like all the others, proved himself in combat, gotten through Cazador School and SCS. And Sevilla had to admit, it was the right thing to do for him to have come with his most forward deployed squad, on his platoon's most dangerous mission. It showed the right kind of heart.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a heart mission; it was a head one. And the next new signifer Sevilla met who had his head in the right place would be the first. Oh, sure; if they lived they learned. And tribunes and legates, who really were important to the Legion, had to come from somewhere. But the price in lives among the enlisted men, non-coms, and centurions was pretty damned high to produce those absolutely necessary higher officers.

Why, why, WHY did it have to be my platoon that got stuck