Carnifex

often?'

'No . . . not often,' answered the other, digging in his ear, casually, for grit. 'It's been months, actually. The last one was an infiltrator from the government in Peshtwa. He was young and strong like those. That was the one that lasted five days.'

9/8/469 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace

In four days Wallenstein had come no nearer a solution to her problems than she had been when she'd found the High Admiral's computer left on. She'd played the scenarios out in her mind many times. One more time couldn't hurt, she thought.

Option one: I inform those people down below that Robinson is delivering nukes to the Salafis. Result: whether they get the bombs or not the Federated States of Columbia probably launches an attack on this fleet which we could not survive.

She sighed, deeply, attracting the attention of her bridge crew. A casual glare put their attention back on their duties.

Option two: Arrest Robinson before he can deliver them and hold him on charges of delivering weapons technology to the Terra Novans. This is a clear violation of regulations and the Governing Council would uphold me.

Right. Sure they would, with Arbeit screaming 'treason.' Two chances of that, after humiliating two Class Ones: slim and none. Besides, the crew knows the game as well as I do. I couldn't count on their support. Worse, he really might be acting on sealed ordered. I'd be arrested. Sent home, and find myself as guest of honor at one of the Duke of International Solidarity's gladiatorial combats, like as not.

No one paid any attention when she sighed once again.

Option three: Sabotage his shuttle. Forget it. I don't have a clue about making a bomb with what's aboard ship. The most I can do is not see if it hasn't been properly maintained. And, if he notices—and he's been very touchy about the entire subject since that fire that nearly killed him—the bastard will space me so fast . . . 

And . . . that seems to be it. Stop him here; stop him en route; or stop him below. And none of those choices work. Fuck.

11/8/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Territories

He was alone now, the pain almost entirely gone. With the pain had gone his strength, of course. Sergeant Sevilla was barely able to stand to change the angle of his arms to allow himself to breath.

The signifer had passed first, two days prior. Sevilla didn't know why. Perhaps it was the injuries he'd taken when captured. He forgave the boy his idiocies. What good could holding on to anger and hate do now?

The other three had all gone silent yesterday; their bodies hanging dark, cold and unmoving. Even the children seemed to have lost interest in them. There was little diversion, after all, in tormenting a corpse.

And I'm near enough to a corpse, Sevilla thought hazily. Not much fun left in me for them, either. Almost, he laughed at the thought.

He wondered sometimes if he wasn't already dead and had just gone to Hell. He saw things, things he knew weren't there. His mother came to him in those visions, weeping for her boy. He whispered to the vision, 'Don't cry, Mama, it will all be over soon and I can join you.' The visions didn't last. The feel of the rough wood on his back, the evening cold biting his exposed skin, the soreness where the nails had penetrated his flesh, spilling his blood and splitting his bone . . . all these told him he was still alive.

Unfortunately.

Tomorrow, I'll die, Sevilla thought, with utter certainty. Under the circumstances, he looked forward to it.

UEPF Spirit of Peace

Wallenstein and a collection of her officers stood at the broad, thick plexiglas window of the shuttle deck as Robinson and Arbeit boarded the Admiral's gig. The lower classes of the deck crew were on their faces in full proskynesis before the Marchioness of Amnesty. Robinson turned once, to wave jovially, then entered the hatch which closed behind them. The lowers arose and evacuated the deck.

The ship began to hum as air was pumped out of the bay. Wallenstein watched the pressure drop on the gauge intently, even as the balloon expanded. She hoped that the shuttle's seals would fail and the crew suffocate along with the High Admiral. No such luck . . . unfortunately.

At her nod, the officer in charge pushed a button. This caused a hydraulic whine to begin as the bay doors began to open. They stopped with a kachunking sound.

'Son of a bitch,' the OIC cursed. 'You two,' he pointed at two prole crewmen, 'Get on the manual crank.'

With straining and grunting effort, the proles forced the bay doors open by main force. The shuttle pilot applied the smallest amount of power to vertical lift, just enough to raise the Admiral's gig a half meter off of the deck. Soundlessly, as far as the watchers could tell, it rotated until it was facing directly outboard. Gracefully, and still soundlessly, the shuttle moved forward until it was far enough past the ship for it to start main engines safely to descend to Atlantis Base.

Wallenstein's last thought as the shuttle departed was, Crash, you bastards. It was a hopeless prayer.

Atlantis Base

The small Class One terminal by the landing field was, Unni Wiglan thought, the epitome of good taste, well maintained. More a salon than a transportation facility, the walls were decorated with art from Old Earth, the floor—except where gold-flecked, polished marble showed through—covered with expensive local rugs from Yithrab, Kashmir, Farsia and Pashtia. Rather than even the superior, upholstered seating she was used to in the VIP sections of Tauran Airports invariably reserved for the very rich and officials of the Tauran Union and World League, plus some other select progressive organizations, the seating here was positively homelike, leather sofas and chairs with ottomans, fronted and flanked by coffee and end tables of rare silverwood.

Slightly smiling, blank-faced proles from Old Earth puttered about, sweeping and mopping, dusting and polishing. Unni gave them no thought; they were like the lower classes of the Tauran Union, there to serve and be cared for and not to be overly noticed. The proles were as much furniture as anything else in the terminal.

The years had been kind to Wiglan. She'd kept her slim shape and, if she hadn't quite won the war against gravity, she seemed to have arranged an armistice. She kept her hair shorter now, off her shoulders as befit her age. The few gray streaks detracted not at all from her appearance.

Unni's heart fluttered with excitement. A portion of that was anticipation of the thorough fucking she expected to receive soon at the High Admiral's command. After centuries of practice, he certainly had some technique. Then, too, she was going to be introduced to the Marchioness of Amnesty, said to be a fine looking woman. Unni wriggled with anticipation.

More excitement, though, came from the sheer danger of the enterprise upon which she had, at Robinson's behest, embarked.

It had not been easy for Unni to overcome her personal revulsion with the Tauran Union's military. Moreover, she'd had little personal to trade beyond whatever prestige there might be in association with, and the occasional bedding of, a TU minister. Still, she'd been diligent in her High Admiral's cause and he had funded her lavishly.

The results of that association, those beddings, and that funding waited outside in a Yamato-manufactured truck surrounded by tough looking, armed, UE Marines: from Hangkuk, four nuclear weapons, from Volga, another four, and from certain persons in Kashmir's nuclear program, four more.

A wall speaker chimed thrice and announced in a sexless voice, 'Marchioness of Amnesty and High Admiral of United Earth Peace Fleet's launch arriving in five minutes.'

Unni looked skyward, expectantly. She was surprised, therefore, when the Marine band outside began to play Earth's Hymn to Peace and she looked down to see the familiar pumpkin seed shaped launch with its blue- and white-enameled symbol of United Earth roll up almost silently to the terminal and stop.

The symbol split to reveal Robinson, in full regalia. He stepped down onto a small staircase that had thrust out simultaneously with the opening of the hatch. Three steps and the High Admiral's feet