Carnifex

sitting there smug and apparently cheerful as he quaffed his sinful drink. Carrera noticed Mustafa's glare and raised his glass in salute.

'You might have won, you know, old boy,' Carrera taunted, loudly enough for the Salafi to hear. 'The margin of victory for the Federated States in Sumer was that close, close enough that without my legion added to the mix they probably would have lost or given up in war-weariness. You saved them from that by freeing me to help them. Congratulations on earning your place in history.'

Mustafa had learned enough about Carrera's personal history to understand that this might be so. It made him sick to his stomach to think that he had caused all this himself.

Even so, he still could not see that he had created Carrera, or freed the monster within him, at any rate. Cause and effect were confused within his mind. At a purely emotional level—and in this, at least, Mustafa was intensely human—all the harm that had been done to him existed in one part of his mind as if it had always been there, while the harm he had done, in turn, seemed very small and very late. And only just.

You don't really understand do you? Carrera asked silently, looking intently into Mustafa's face for some sign of comprehension. He found none. Oh, well; it's the common lot of humanity and always has been. In the mid to late twentieth century on Old Earth, Japanese deeply resented the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They forgot their own previous attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, and the murders of guiltless prisoners. Conversely, Americans remembered that attack, would continue to remember it for centuries, and justified the nuking of two cities by it. The Americans, in their own turn, forgot that they had been in the process of turning Japan back to the stone age, prior to Pearl Harbor, when the Japanese had struck. The Japanese remembered the embargo, the freezing of credit, and the threat. They invariably forgot the brutal murdering, raping and thieving sojourn in China which well predated the American embargoes.

Carrera understood, even if Mustafa did not. This was mankind's way from times immemorial. People measured right and wrong, typically, as a function of whose ox was being gored, and when. What our side did was good and justifiable and therefore what the other side did was evil and reprehensible. Salafis, even on Terra Nova, still harked back to the loss of Spain to the Reconquista. They rarely if ever remembered that they had stolen Spain in the first place. It was a form of Orwellian double think, but one that required no party Pravda to bring about.

21/8/469 AC

The sun stood up just over the mountains to the east. At Carrera's nod, Masood sent his men around with heavy steel bars. In groups of two, forty Pashtun scouts walked the lines of burdened crosses. At each they stopped just long enough to take one or sometimes two swings with the steel bars, breaking the shins of the condemned. Half the men on the crosses were too far gone to so much as scream when their bones were splintered. The loudest sound was often the grunt of exertion followed by the dull thud of heavy steel on thin flesh and thick bone.

'Never underestimate the benefits of a classical education,' Carrera quipped, half drunkenly, to Mustafa.

Thereafter, all that stood between the victims and death was whatever strength remained in their weakened arms. For most, this was little enough. They hung down freely, the position of their arms forcing their chests out to where exhalation was almost impossible. Within an hour and a half all were dead and cooling. The Pashtun went around, prodding the bodies with bayonets to ensure they were indeed dead. Once satisfied, they took the corpses down and carried them to a mass grave.

With each thud, and then with each body removed, Carrera felt himself weakening: Click . . . click . . . click . . . click . . . . click. Soon he was almost as drained of life and energy as his victims had been. His chin slumped down on his chest. His breathing became labored. His eyes closed and he dreamt.

* * *

He found himself in the same chair. Now though, all the crosses were emptied. The Pashtun were removing them from the earth and stacking them in bundles. Distantly he heard helicopters coming. He thought it must be to remove the last of his troops and the few prisoners they'd kept alive.

Carrera stiffened at feeling a too-long-absent hand on his shoulder. He heard a voice say, 'Don't turn around, Patricio, my beloved.'

'Linda?' he asked. 'What will . . . '

'Shshsh,' she answered. 'It's almost over now. Soon, no more war for you, not for a while, anyway. Go home, home to Balboa. Enjoy your new family. Live your new life. When the time comes, we will be waiting for you.'

He shook his head and answered, 'I have done awful things, Linda, here not least. How can I . . . '

'You did what you were required to do. That part is done now. You will not be well for some time, but you will recover. In time, you will come to join us. We will be waiting.'

'There is one more thing to do,' Carrera said. 'A terrible thing.'

'We know.'

A second hand came to rest on the other shoulder, along with the sensation of six smaller and lighter ones . . . . and, too light to be sure, maybe a seventh and eighth. Then Carrera felt a gentle kiss on the top of his head and . . . they were gone.

Interlude

5/32/435 AC, Headquarters, Project Themistocles, Federated States of Columbia, Terra Nova

Deep, deep in a huge bunker buried far under the granite of the Dragonback Mountains, uniformed men and woman bent over radar screens, control panels, and communications nodes.

A woman announced, 'We have liftoff . . . . identified as a Class Two robotic courier vessel . . . leaving Atlantis now.'

'Mark as target one,' ordered a two star general of the Federated States Air Force. 'Alert Launch Pad Seven to be prepared to fire.'

'Target marked,' said the woman. From a different section of the bunker a man relayed, 'Launch Pad Seven has the target and is prepared to unmask and fire.'

The two star nodded at that. So far; so good. 'Pass on to all Themistocles assets to prepare to unmask and paint the enemy fleet.'

'Target One is approaching optimum engagement range,' the woman said. 'Optimum engagement range in . . . four minutes.'

'Commence countdown.'

'General, stations one through two-hundred and forty-nine, except station twenty-nine and one-five-two, report ready to unmask and paint.'

'What's wrong with twenty-nine and one-five- two?'

'Cooling leak in the missile on twenty nine . . . telemetry error on one-five- two.'

'Fuck.' Well, it doesn't matter. We have plenty still.

It would not do to demonstrate the ability to take out just one Earthpig asset. The Federated States needed to at least imply the ability to take out many and to scour Atlantis base free of life. The nukes they had, of course.

A screen on one wall came to life. It showed the President of the Federated States at his desk. The President looked as frightened as any man might, on the verge of possibly plunging his world into nuclear holocaust. Behind him, ranged in an arc, were all of his chief advisors. They looked, if anything, more frightened still.

'Mr. President,' the general said.

'General Rogers,' the President returned with a slight bow of his head. 'I have a message for you, General.'

'I am prepared to receive, sir.'

From his desk the President lifted a piece of paper. From it he read:

'By oppression's woes and pains,

By our sons in servile chains,

We shall drain our dearest veins.'

The general nodded and answered, 'I understand, sir. 'But they shall be free,' Mr. President.'

'People! You heard the man. ICBMs, unmask. Submarines, up to launch depth. Project Themistocles, unmask and paint that alien fleet,' Rogers snarled.

Then, finally, 'And clear that courier ship out of our space.'