Carnifex

Gunoz Karez, 800 feet down, 13/8/462

Water there was in plenty; all one had to do to drink was stoop. Since it was well above ankle-deep, one didn't even have to stoop that far. Food was another issue entirely. And, since there was none to issue . . .

'There will be food ahead,' Nur al-Deen promised. The word filtered up and back the long line of refugees. 'Food ahead . . . food ahead.'

Progress would have been slower but that the karez was dark enough that the women and older girls could lift their burkhas up out of the water and away from tangling their legs in wet folds of cloth. In the light they'd have been too fearful to do so. In Salafi lands girls had been forced to roast to death rather than leave a burning building improperly clothed.

On the other hand, it was a long walk. The men and women simply had to go to the bathroom. Since there was no way to fully undress, no privacy at all but the darkness, they simply pissed and shat themselves. The stench made Robinson gag. Arbeit's vomit added to the stench.

I've never really understood these people, he thought, not until now. I was a fool even to think of trying to make a world government here. All I ever really needed to do was help the Salafis to take over. They'd have knocked this world back so far into the stone age that they'd never have gotten off planet and become a threat to us. When . . .  if I get back, I am going to throw all the backing I can to the Salafis. It's Earth's best hope.

Trying to get his mind away from the stench, Robinson contemplated his flagship and his fleet. Wallenstein must be in a panic. She would have seen the attack from space. No doubt she is frantically trying to rescue me, poor little girl.

UEPF Spirit of Peace

Wallenstein had the radio traffic from below piped directly into her day cabin. She exulted with grim satisfaction at the news she received. Cheat me, will you, you piece of rat filth?

She pressed a button on the intercom atop her desk. 'Intel, can you identify the frequency the enemy commander is using?'

'They're using frequency hoppers, Captain, but we can copy it,' the Intel officer answered. 'If I can ask, why?'

'Never mind that. Send the key to communications. Communications?'

'Here, Captain.'

'When you get the code, patch me through to the ene . . . coalition commander down below. Direct from him to my cabin here with no other listeners, understand?'

'Roger, Captain. Only take a few.'

The Base

The RTO's brown eyes went as wide as saucers. 'Duque? There's someone on our push who says she's in command of the United Earth Peace Fleet.'

Except for color Carrera's eyes became a mirror of the RTO's. He put out his hand for the microphone.

'Carrera.'

'This is Captain Marguerite Wallenstein of the UEPF ship, Spirit of Peace. In the absence of our High Admiral, I am the ranking officer in space, Duque. I just called to offer my congratulations.'

'For?'

There was a moment's hesitation on the other end before Wallenstein came back with, 'You did find the . . . packages, did you not, Duque? The twelve packages? You do have my High Admiral in captivity, do you not.'

'I found your packages, Captain,' Carrera admitted. TWELVE Packages? Shit. 'As for your High Admiral, I am still looking.'

'Look well, Duque,' Wallenstein suggested. 'The packages were his idea, not mine. Besides, if you find him there'll be a gap in my social schedule I'd be happy to let you fill.' Though he didn't know anything about the captain, Carrera could almost see the sultry smile on the other end.

'That's all right, Captain. I think I'll be looking very carefully even without such a tempting offer. On the other hand, assuming you would prefer for your High Admiral never to return, as this conversation suggests, perhaps you can help me find out where he's gone.'

'Always willing to help in the 'spirit of peace,'' Wallenstein quipped. She sounded positively thrilled to help.

Some interesting politics going on above, Carrera thought. Pity Rivers hasn't been able to deliver the location of the enemy, yet. He asked, 'Can you scan for unusual heat signature coming out of the ground in an area of about twenty kilometers around me?'

'Piece of cake, Duque.'

'Get me that, then, and I can guarantee your High Admiral won't be coming to take command ever again. Until then, Carrera, out.'

To the RTOs he said, 'Not a word, ever, to anyone.'

Interlude

21 June, 2390, UEPF Spirit of Peace

The huge lightsail was deployed to brake the ship as it assumed orbit around Terra Nova. Down below the year was 334, AC.

Times there were actually pretty happy. The Federated States of Columbia, a generation past the bloodletting of the Formation War, enjoyed unprecedented prosperity. In the Volgan Empire the Tsar was experimenting with the freeing of the serfs. The continent of Taurus had not seen war on its soil for two generations, which was something of a record. Moreover, the Moslem and Salafi portions of the globe were, by and large, under the rule of the Taurans, a result of the crushing of the last Salafi jihad. The discovery of oil on the Yithrab peninsula was still a dozen years away.

The rate of technological progress, down below, was worrisome, though. This was why, after much hemming and hawing, the Consensus had finally agreed to build the last four starships—Spirit of Peace, Spirit of Unity, Spirit of Harmony and Spirit of Brotherhood—required to bring the fleet up to the strength that had been decided on centuries before.

It isn't so much that the Consensus acts slowly, mused the new commander of the fleet, High Admiral Jonathan Saxe-Coburg, as that it thinks so slowly. Something about the anti-agathics seems not to help with the mind after the third century, or at least it doesn't help with a number of us. His Excellency, the SecGen, seemed particularly badly effected when last we spoke. And the Caliph of Rome? Hopeless.

Or maybe it isn't the failure of the anti-agathics. Maybe it's the sheer stultifying boredom of Old Earth that slows the minds of the people who brought us to where we are today. I confess, I don't know.

And I don't know what I'm going to do about the problem of Terra Nova, either. We haven't changed, technologically, in centuries. You can watch the change as it happens down there. Sure, they're at the level of breech loading small arms, railroads and steam, right now. Where will they be in another century?

Chapter Twenty-five

Bloomin' loot!

That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot!

It's the same with dogs an' men,

If you'd make 'em come again