Carnifex

were firmly planted on the purple carpet that was reserved for Earth's highest and noblest officials. The Marchioness followed.

While Robinson strode the purple carpet the truck pulled around to the far side and a crew of Marines in plain fatigues began to transfer its contents to the shuttle's hold. The other Marines, the armed ones in full dress uniform, marched smoothly at port arms to surround the small ship and line both sides of the purple carpet. They then faced outward on command.

Wiglan shivered to see the Marines march, their bodies stiff and their faces cold, hard and emotionless. How much more pleasant to be surrounded by the blankly smiling proles!

* * *

The High Admiral entered, Arbeit on one arm, lighting the salon with his smile. 'Unni, my very dearest,' he said, enthusiastically, after introductions, 'how can I, how can Earth and Civilization, ever repay you? You're a marvel!'

He swept her into his arms and whirled her in a complete circle before setting her on her feet again.

'It was only my duty,' she answered, demurely, once she had regained her balance. 'Will you be here long?' she asked, her voice husky and full of hope.

'Sadly not, my dear. I'm off to meet Mustafa as soon as my shuttle is loaded.'

Seeing the disappointment written plain across her face, Robinson amended, 'But the Marchioness and I will be back in two or three days. In the interim, make yourself at home in my quarters here on Atlantis Base. It's been too long and we have much catching up to do. For now though, Unni, I must leave and deliver our cargo to the forces for progress.'

Camp San Lorenzo, 11/8/469

The NA-21 lacked the range to make the flight from the Isla Real, back in Balboa, to Pashtia in one hop. In fact, no less than three stops had been required to take on fuel and rest the crew. Flying a Nabakov, any Volgan aircraft, actually, was a comparative bitch. At each stop security men from Fernandez's department debarked and nonchalantly took positions around the aircraft, weapons hidden under clothing.

Now the plane came in blacked out, spitting flares and with its full anti-surface to air missile suite activated. It touched down on the hard-surfaced field, bounced twice and reversed thrust. The plane's nose began to point down and its tail to rise as it slowed.

Safe landing accomplished, the plane was met at one end of the airfield by vehicle-mounted military police who had absolutely no clue as to its contents. These formed a wide perimeter around the plane as it turned in place at one end of the runway. Turn completed, the MPs closed up and escorted it to a hangar which they likewise surrounded. What went on after the hangar doors were closed they knew not.

Carrera watched the plane as it moved down the runway, turned, taxied and stopped. He'd been sweating this moment. A messenger reported to him and saluted. He returned the salute casually and took a piece of paper from the messenger's hand. The note read: 'Targets at objective tonight and tomorrow.'

Click.

Interlude

30 April, 2155, Cygnus House, Chelsea, London, European Governing Region, Earth

The marquis of Amnesty, a lit candle with barbed wire wrapped around it, was emblazoned across the front of the mansion. The light of the candle was false but the barbed wire looked very real. Only fitting, thought Louis Arbeit, the Marquis of Amnesty, as his chauffeur opened the door to his limousine.

Once out of the limo, the Marquis looked around with considerable satisfaction. It wasn't merely satisfaction at the quality of residence he'd acquired. No, the really thrilling part had been that his organization paid the entire bill, from mortgage to taxes to servants to gardeners to utilities to food. Add in the other perks that commonly went with being a senior part of Earth's new royalty and, well, it was worth much more than even the three quarters of a ton of gold he'd paid for it.

Life is good, the Marquis thought, reaching for the handle of the ornate double door out front. And with the newest anti-agathics, it will be long, as well.

'Daddy!' Arbeit's young daughter, Lucretia, screamed as he came through the double front door. The girl launched herself at her father, wrapping him in a tight hug. She then took his hand and led him out to a patio overlooking the garden.

'I supervised the cooks making dinner myself, Daddy,' Lucretia announced, proudly. 'Though I had to beat one for being naughty.'

'Good girl, Lucretia,' he father congratulated. 'I hope you didn't damage her.'

Lucretia hung her head slightly. 'Not much, I didn't, Father. I will need a new riding crop, though,' she added, brightly.

'That's my girl.'

Chapter Twenty-two

And although it appears that the World has become effeminate and Heaven disarmed, yet this arises without doubt more from the baseness of men who have interpreted our Religion in accordance with Indolence and not in accordance with Virtu. For if they were to consider that it (our Religion) permits the exaltation and defense of the country, they would see that it desires that we love and honor her (our country), and that we prepare ourselves so that we can be able to defend her.

—Machiavelli, The Discourses, Book Two, Chapter II

10/8/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir

As he usually did, Bashir lay down for the night with his yellow radio's earpiece in his ear. Also, as usual, he punched in the code, hoping against hope that tonight there'd be an answer. There had been none since those five poor devils had been taken and crucified.

The coded message he sent out was simple: 'tonight . . . tomorrow . . . tonight . . . tomorrow.' He punched it in and pressed the key to transmit in a burst. This message must get through or my family is dead, he thought. Closing his eyes after the message went out Bashir was almost shocked to hear in the earpiece, 'Message received. Thank you.'

11/8/469 AC, Camp San Lorenzo, Pashtia

The chill early morning breeze raised dust across the regularly laid out encampment. By the airfield, in the tall, sandbagged control tower, Carrera scanned past the high earthen walls.

There were eyes on the camp. There were always eyes on the camp. You couldn't stop them from seeing. You couldn't stop their owners from reporting. The trick, then, was to make them think they saw something different, to make the unusual look normal and even the normal unusual.

The Legion had since its arrival kept at least one cohort operating along the Kashmir-Pashtia border. That could remain there. Indeed, moving them without replacing them would have been inherently suspicious. Also, there were always at least four Pashtun Scout maniples and two to three Cazador maniples operating somewhere in the Balboan Zone of Responsibility, or BZOR. Few units operated without being in range of some kind of artillery or heavy mortar support.

Both Pashtun Scouts and Cazadors operated further from camp than line infantry, and were much more likely to rely on air support than artillery or mortar fire if they found themselves in a jam.

Leaving one infantry cohort and the bulk of the service and support troops to guard the camp, Carrera had sent out one infantry cohort to replace the Cazadors and part of the Scouts. This was done slowly, over a period of days, so as to incite