Carnifex

make sure it was firmly attached and the hook working properly. He jumped off of the ammunition and gave a thumbs up to the guide.

The guide then whirled one arm over his head and pointed into the direction of the wind. With a sound of straining engines, the helicopter lifted up, shuddered a bit at the load once the straps connecting the donut roll and the ammunition pallet lost their slack, then pulled the net off of the ground and began to move forward, gaining altitude and leaving a whirlwind of dust, rocks and vegetation behind.

The Base

Dust spurted from each of the wheels as the column moved up the winding pass. Some had broken down on the way and been abandoned, their passengers can cargo being stuffed into the other vehicles as time and space permitted. Cavalry rode to either side with Cano on the left and his brother-in-law, Rachman, leading the right. For this mission, both for her own safety and the intelligence insight she could provide, Alena was back at the Camp San Lorenzo.

Jimenez, riding in front with Masood, recognized from aerial photographs taken by the RPVs of the Legion the steep sided pass that led into the enemy fortress.

The trucks and buses were adorned with white banners painted in black and green. 'There is no God but God,' said some. 'Mohammad is the Prophet of God,' proclaimed others. More than a few carried the message, 'The sword is the key to Heaven and Hell.' Still others proclaimed, 'Death to the infidel.'

'The horns, do you think?' asked Jimenez. 'Really? Isn't that overkill?'

Masood shook his head in the negative. 'If we were what we proclaim ourselves to be, we would announce our presence among friends fearlessly. That means, yes, sir, the horns and the cavalry firing their rifles into the air.'

Swallowing, Jimenez then said, 'The horns then. Let them know we're coming so they won't guess who we are.'

Interlude

4 July, 2206, Cygnus House, Chelsea, London, European Governing Region, Earth

It had once been something of a day of mourning, in London, the anniversary of the Declaration that had utterly screwed up the proper ordering of the world. It was a happy day, now. And why not? The United States of America had ceased to be decades prior. It was now split among four governing regions, each with its own UE-appointed archduke to rule them. The world celebrated the Fourth of July now in memory of what wasn't.

Lucretia seemed to her father even more jubilant than the day called for.

Louis Arbeit, the Marquis, had barely aged in all those years since he'd first assumed the mantle of leadership for Amnesty, Interplanetary. He'd spent those years well, moving the company from the relatively unremunerative harassment of unfriendly governments to more solid, sounder, and infinitely more profitable business arrangements. If there were political prisoners languishing in prisons and psychiatric facilities now, and there were, they were unenlightened, anti-progressive opponents of the UE. Amnesty had no interest in such.

One would hardly know that Lucretia was, herself, well along in years. She, too, had had the best anti-agathics available. She could, and did, pass for twenty-two or - three, regularly. She bounced out to her father's favorite patio, bearing with her their morning coffee. The coffee came from the highlands of Panama where High Judge Nyere maintained extensive holdings farmed by the serfs that had been made of the locals. That land included what had once been the ranch of Belisario Carrera. It was worked by, among others, Belisario's collateral descendants, laboring under the lash.

'I made it especially for you, Father,' Lucretia announced. They were still a very close family, even though Louis had stopped fucking his daughter decades ago.

He smiled, picked up and sipped at the coffee. Ah, just right.

Lucretia's lips smiled around her own cup. She, too, sipped, then said, 'The world really is wonderful now, for people of our class, isn't it, Father?'

'Well . . . of course,' Louis agreed.

'It's not so wonderful for people of my generation though,' she said. 'We have to wait and wait and . . . '

'We've had this conversation before, Lucretia. You'll just have to wait until . . . '

'No, I won't, Father,' the daughter said. 'I'm glad you like your coffee.'

It was at about that time that the Marquis of Amnesty noticed that his vision had become very narrow, and that his hand trembled as he lifted the cup back to his lips.

Chapter Twenty-three

De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace.

Napoleon, quoting Georges Jacques Danton

12/8/469 AC, Cricket 4-15

The scout plane carrying Carrera and his small party flew alone. Above it, the thundering transports, gunships, and attack aircraft moved in formation. Below, flights of helicopters, some the huge IM-62s, ferried men, supplies and equipment forward.

Carrera's mind wandered a bit, as it sometimes did these days. He thought of his original group and where they were now. Most were still with the legions in one capacity or another. Kennison had left when his term was up and, sorry though he'd been to see him go, Carrera had understood. Soult and Mitchell were warrants now, teaching on the Isla Real. Well, they'd gotten a little too old and senior to carry my radios but . . . I do miss not having those boys here with me. Daugher and Bowman had been killed, in different actions. They'd died as they'd liked to live, fighting to the end. Tom Christian had taken a second retirement and then immediately gone to work for the legions as a civilian. Greedy bastard, Carrera thought, smiling slightly. All the others were still on the job, most of them in uniform back on the Isla Real. Parilla was President of the rump of the Republic.

In the Cricket, Carrera used half his attention to keep a mental tally of where everyone should be, modified by the rarely broadcast code word for a delay or advance in the schedule.

Just shy of the Kashmiri border the Cricket dropped down behind some mountains and began to circle. A dozen helicopters passed, turned a few miles to the north, and began to set down their loads on a barren and fairly flat hilltop.

1^st Maniple (Heavy Mortar), Artillery Cohort, in firing position. Check.

UEPF Spirit of Peace

Wallenstein sat her command chair on the ship's bridge fuming. It wasn't enough that she'd sold her soul to Robinson in exchange for a jump in caste. No, that price might have been worth it. But to be cheated out of her price? There was a reason that people used to say 'Hell hath no fury . . . '

'Captain, we've got a lot of Novan air traffic near where the Admiral set down,' announced one of the lower caste sensor operators, turning away from his console to face his captain.

'Identification?' she asked.

The intelligence officer piped in half a second later. 'Almost total radio silence, Captain. Based on flight paths I'm pretty sure they're coming from the mercenary base near Jalala, Pashtia. Their target looks to be the Salafi base in southern Kashmir.'

Oh, my. Wallenstein was never so lovely as when her face lit with a smile. She looked particularly beautiful now. Revenge will be sweet.

'Ignore them,' she commanded.

'But . . . '

'Ignore them!' she insisted.

'But shouldn't the High Admiral be warned?'

'He knows,' she lied, forcing her brain to think quickly. 'This is