Carnifex

you had them. He quoted the price you paid, did he not? And then a nuke goes off at ground zero, right inside your family compound, a place you conceivably might have stored one. That, alone, will make your movement very unappealing to the bulk of even young, idiot, male Salafis.'

'But there will be doubts, too. 'Maybe,' people will say, 'just maybe it was a deliberate attack.' Now if that attack were to be from someone identifiable, then there would be a great cry for vengeance. But when the attack seems to come from nowhere? When they can't even identify a target for vengeance? No, old friend, that will be truly effective terror. That will have no focus for revenge. That will have your people shitting themselves at the thought of retaliation and beating their sons the first time the little bastards shout 'Allahu akbar' a bit too enthusiastically. It's perfect; don't you see? And you gave me the means. That's perfect, too.

'Lastly, I think that when the King of Yithrab—whoever ends up as king, the day after tomorrow—has to spend money to rebuild his capital, he'll find he can't afford both a capital city and madrassas all over the planet.'

Carrera went silent then, leaving Mustafa in torment as the clock displayed on the left hand screen ticked down.

After that long silence, with the clock down to under five minutes and Mustafa's face showing mental agony beyond agony, Carrera said, 'I could change the target now, I suppose. Tell me, would you rather your family die en masse or would you prefer that I obliterate Makkah al Jedidah and the New Kaaba?'

Mustafa cringed, both inside and out. 'Devil!' he spat. 'Spawn of Shaitan!'

'Which really doesn't answer the question,' Carrera observed, still genially. 'Would you rather I obliterate your family, your entire family, or that one stone building, which includes but a single stone from the original on Old Earth, should go up in smoke? I remind you that the number of civilian dead will be about the same.'

Deprivation, stress, physical torture, and now this. Mustafa felt his heart begin to crack even as it had not cracked previously. To lose my entire family . . . to destroy the sacred Kaaba? He sank; physically, as he slumped and drew in on himself, mentally, as the weight Carrera had laid upon his soul bore him Hellward.

'Destroy . . . Makkah,' Mustafa forced out. 'Spare . . . my . . . family.'

'No.'

'But . . . '

'I said I could,' Carrera's genial tone changed to one of pure cruelty. 'I didn't say I would. Your family dies, as you murdered mine. I would kill them anyway, if only to terrorize any in the future who might contemplate going down the road you traveled. I just wanted both God and yourself to know that your faith, your personal faith, was a fraud. I may join you in Hell, someday, Mustafa. Indeed, after this, I probably will. But at least, if I do, it won't be because I betrayed my God as you have just tried to betray yours.'

Mustafa's jaw went slack, his eyes wild. As the clock on the screen wound down, he began a wordless moan. When it reached zero, and the image on the screen changed to a single enormous flash, the lesser terrorist in the cabin aboard the von Mises began a horrible keening. It was the sound of a man who has lost everything, in this world and the next.

Carrera arose to leave. 'Cheer up, old man,' he said. 'You still have one son left. Me.' To Mahamda he gave the order. 'Turn him into what he despises, a woman. Then crucify him . . . her . . .  it.'

'And the Earthpigs?'

'Let's save them for a while and see what use we might make of them.'

Bridge, UEPF Spirit of Peace

Life is looking up, Wallenstein thought, as she lounged in her command chair. Robinson is gone. I am in command here, now, so it seems very likely that I shall be raised to Class One. All in all . . . 

A crewwoman at a sensing panel started back as if the panel were passing electricity through her body. 'Captain, I've got a nuclear detonation on the planet's surface!'

Wallenstein's eyes grew wide in horror. Policy, long established, was that the fleet would retaliate for any nuclear weapons use . . . but that would mean nuclear war with the FSC. Oh, Annan, I don't want to die, not now, not when I'm so close to my dreams.

'Where? Who?' she demanded, lurching strait upright.

'Yithrab, Captain. City of Hajar. Devastation is near total. There must be a half million dead. Hell . . . maybe two million. As for who . . . '

'Yes?'

'Unknown. The analysis is different from any we have a record of. All I can say is it wasn't one of ours.'

'Get me a line to the President of the Federated States,' Wallenstein ordered. That son of a bitch, she thought. He promised he wouldn't tell the FSC that Robinson was trying to give nukes to the Ikhwan. And, so far as I can tell, he didn't. But he never said he wouldn't use one. And he just did. And I thought I was ruthless . . . 

BdL Hildegard von Mises

Except for a couple of men who sat a bench near the superstructure of the ship, the small party accompanying Carrera stood in a group by its port side. In the distance, they could see Qamra approaching. A ladder had already been let over the side to allow them to climb down.

Soult and Mitchell watched Carrera as stood on the deck, while waiting for the Qamra to come alongside to pick them up. Carrera looked, to say the least, unwell. Soult worried about the 'old man's' trembling hands. To Mitchell, the major concern was the glassy, mindless stare.

If the boss said it was right to nuke a major city and kill upwards of half a million people, that was enough for them. Still, though they, themselves, had no particular problem with the nuking of Hajar, perhaps it was bothering him.

Whatever he was feeling inside, though, could not be good. And then . . .

Ah, Jesus,' Mitch thought, he's crying.

It was true, not some fluke of the light nor even some bits of detritus in his eyes. Trembling, staring down at the sea; tears also coursed down Carrera's face. He didn't seem to notice.

'Other side of the ship,' Soult said to the other guards and seamen standing around. 'Now! We'll take care of him.' He looked at the boy, Hamilcar, and appended, 'Stay here, son. Maybe it will help your father.'

Hamilcar nodded but thought, I don't think anything much that I can do will help.

'He's just relieved that it's finally over,' Mitchell insisted to the soldiers and sailors scurrying away. He called to their backs, 'And if you mention a word of this to anyone, your grandchildren will have nightmares.'

Both men moved in to stand close to either side. It was as well that they did; Carrera's knees buckled and he began to fall to the deck. They caught him and half carried him backwards to the bench.

'Boss? Sir? Pat?' There was no reaction, except that the tears were joined by sobs.

'What do we do, Jamey,' Mitchell asked, desperately.

'Get him to a doctor? Get him home? Hell, I don't know. We've seen him in bad shape before, but this?'

'I think we'd better call the Sergeant Major.'

'And my mother,' Hamilcar added.

2/10/469 AC, Herrera International Airport, Ciudad Balboa

Carrera, Hamilcar, Mitchell, and Soult came in by chartered jet. The plane landed on the military side of the airport and was immediately surrounded by troops of the 1^st Tercio, Principe Eugenio. Lourdes, Parilla and McNamara boarded, along with a dozen others. Inside they found Carrera stretched out on a medical litter, either asleep or comatose. Lourdes knelt before her son and hugged him tight, then turned and placed one hand against Carrera's face before bending to kiss his forehead.

'Home now, my love,' she said. 'Home now . . . forever.'

If Carrera heard he gave no sign, but continued to stare straight up as if he were someplace else entirely.

'Doctor,