Carnifex

UEPF Spirit of Peace

Where the uniformed woman under the Dragonbacks had seemed preternaturally calm and determined, the woman in uniform aboard the starship went instantly white. Her voice was full of panic as she called out, 'Admiral? High Admiral? We've got radar and lidar illuminating us from the surface . . . dozens . . . no hundreds of emitters. And—oh, shit —we've got a launch. It appears that the target is robot courier 117.'

The High Admiral, Martin Robinson's predecessor, went as white as his crewwoman. 'Red alert.'

Almost immediately, red lights began flashing not only aboard the flagship, but also aboard every other ship in the fleet. Klaxons added to the sense of panic. The United Earth Peace Fleet was never really intended to fight a war. None of its crews ever really thought a war that could directly affect them was even possible.

'Message from below, High Admiral,' said the communications officer. 'The chief of the FSC wants to talk to you.'

'Put the barbarian on,' the High Admiral snarled.

The President wasn't smiling when his image appeared on Spirit's bridges main viewscreen. His words were icy.

'We've had enough of you,' he began, most undiplomatically. 'For twenty-five years we have been working, in secret, and well. We are ready now. I've ordered the destruction of one of your robotic couriers to demonstrate that you are vulnerable. I've also ordered my strategic nuclear forces to prepare to engage your fleet, and to scour your base on the island of Atlantis free of life if there is the slightest retaliation for the destruction of that courier.'

'Try and nuke our cities again, you miserable son of a bitch.'

Chapter Twenty-seven

The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

—Ecclesiastes 1:9

Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

—Galatians, 6:7

Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave whither thou goest.

—Ecclesiastes 9:10

25/9/469 AC, Punta Cocoli, Isla Real, Balboa

Though the sun was long set, still heat emanated in choking, stultifying waves from the tarmac of the airfield. Under a double-roofed hangar a Nabakov-21 transport waited for its load. With the Nabakov likewise waited a profusely sweating Omar Fernandez, along with a section of utterly reliable guards and a score of dripping men of the Tercio Jan Sobieski, seconded to Fernandez's department, who would be accompanying him on the upcoming flight.

Fernandez had reason to sweat, and it wasn't just the heat. What Patricio told me to do? My God, does he understand the risks? This is the genie in the bottle. That . . . or perhaps he is right and it is that cap that seals the genie into its bottle. Even so . . . 

A three-ton tactical truck stopped behind the hangar and began disgorging troops who raced to surround the half of the hangar nearest the airfield. Two more trucks, hauling forty foot conexes, pulled up to the hangar on the side away from the airfield, the side toward which the Nabakov's loading ramp faced. The trucks' air brakes squealed loudly as they shuddered to a stop. A fourth truck stopped, this one, like the first, carrying security men. Those men took up positions around the far side of the hangar from the airfield, completing the circle. Inside that perimeter, the first of the heavier trucks began to back up to the Nabakov's ramp to transfer its cargo.

Fernandez watched the transfer closely. I hope dearly that Patricio is right and we can keep this part of the secret secret. Obras Zorilleras worked hard on these. And we will need them still to be a surprise if . . . no, not 'if,' when it comes to open war with Taurus.

Open war? I'm preparing for that well enough. Whoever is in charge—we can only hope it's that frog bastard, Janier—when the war starts he will be very surprised at the loyalty of some of the people working for him. That's for the future, though, and a lot may change. Be nice if we could ensure Munoz-Infantes were in command on that day. We could just relax; war over and won. He won't be though. It'll be a Frog, Janier or some other one. I mean, it has to be a Frog or the mistress' quarters in Building 95 on Fort Muddville will be totally wasted.

Fernandez smiled at his own silent jest. It would never have done for him to make an open joke. And it was hard enough for him to smile at all. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a small picture, that of his young daughter, murdered by Salafi terrorists years prior.

Baby, he thought to his daughter's image. Baby, by now you know everything your father has done and does. Do you still look up to me, even as you gaze down upon me? I can hope so. What I do, I do for la Patria. And I rarely take any joy in it.

The crew chief of the Nabakov found Fernandez deep in his reveries. 'Legate,' the chief said, 'we're ready to board you now. The crews for the cargo are already loaded.'

28/9/469 AC, Xamar Airport, Xamar

Carrera, Hamilcar standing beside, met Fernandez at the airport. 'You have them?' Carrera asked. 'They really work?'

'Tested against the best radar we could find to test them against, Patricio. They work. Mitchell and Soult came along, too. The package?' Fernandez asked.

'It flew in with me, along with my son. I didn't have all of the things in hand when I sent you the other shipment. One we took later. We'll marry up the package and the drone, here, then do the launches.'

'I have a man watching the compound,' Fernandez said. 'He's a Sumeri, one of those who've been herding the targets for us. He's a good man, a tremendous asset. I'd like to pull him out before it's too late. I don't have to be explicit; I can tell him we think someone's on to him and to be prepared to flee at a moment's notice. Then we give the notice, maybe two hours before H Hour.'

Loyalty to one's subordinates is . . . proper, Carrera thought. 'You can pull him out but not more than one hour before time.'

Fernandez shrugged. He'd split the difference. Whatever it takes to keep Khalid in play.

He'll split the difference, Carrera thought. Fernandez is nothing if not loyal.

'We're really not going to be able to keep this secret, you know?' Fernandez said. 'Too many people are too much in the know about too many parts. At best we might have plausible deniability.'

'At some point in time,' Carrera pointed out, 'we're going to want the word to

get out. For now, only your people know. Obras Zorilleras only knows they had to give up two models of Condor. The aircrew that brought the Condors here only know they brought conexes. The crew that brought myself and the package knew they're carrying something odd, but no more than that. And they're used to me traveling with some baggage, at least sometimes. The crew of the Qamra that will take me out to the von Mises won't know anything. And if I can't trust your people to keep quiet then we're fucked anyway.'

'You're really sure about this, Patricio? This is . . . ' Fernandez struggled for words and found none.

'Horrible?' Carrera supplied. 'Monstrous? Inhuman? It's all those things, Omar. Are you worried for my soul? Despite reassurances otherwise, I'm rather certain that that's forfeit anyway. And I can think of no other way to end this. We have to raise the stakes to a level the other side can't handle.

'And besides, Omar,' Carrera continued, 'our mercenary days are almost ended. We have another war to fight and for that we must have all the force at our disposal in Balboa. This war must end, now.'

* * *

Hamilcar had hardly said a word in weeks. It wasn't so much that he was in shock