Carnifex

Transitway? When they've tried it just meant huge bribes for private profit.

Sada continued, 'I am of a mind to de-socialize most of those things the previous government took control of; agriculture, construction, liquor distilling. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to buy a decent local beer and whiskey someday, rather than having to rely on the Legion's unofficial imports.'

Sada was not one of those Moslems who took the proscription against alcohol too very seriously.

'In any case,' Sada finished, 'I will deliberately wreck this doomed-to-fail, absolutely impossible experiment in parliamentarianism and work to create what can work, a federation of the tribes with a national army. And, after all, what the hell difference what kind of government we have provided it doesn't try to govern much? I will never be able to eradicate corruption so I'll just have to work with it, even to regularize it.'

That sparked a thought for Carrera. When the day comes, as it will, when the government of Balboa has to go, how will Parilla and I organize the country? Around the provinces that, outside of Valle de la Luna, don't mean much? Around the tercios of the legions? It's something to think on. Of course, first we'll have to fight the Taurans who are only in Balboa to ensure we can't get rid of the government.

Carrera's thoughts were interrupted by a loud cheer and some warbling from the female serving staff at the club, which included several dozen Sumeri hookers, war widows mostly, that the Legion had taken under its wing. He looked up and saw that the main screen showed election returns from Pumbadeta and its environs; a sweep for Sada.

'They appreciate that, as far as they can tell, I saved them from you,' Sada commented, with a grin.

It was true enough. Without Sada's personal example and intervention Carrera had been determined to kill every Pumbadetan male capable of sprouting a beard. And they'd known it.

Nice to see they pay their debts, Carrera thought.

There was another cheer, and more female warbling, as the results for Ninewa were shown on the screen. It was rather more subdued, though. There had never been any doubt of how the base province for Sada's own force, now a near mirror image of Carrera's, would vote.

'Babel is the real question,' Sada observed. 'It's going to be close.'

The officers and senior non-coms—centurions, sergeants-major, signifers, tribunes, and legates—couldn't have been more interested in watching the election results on the main room's four meter projection screen than they would have been if the election had been held in their base country of Balboa. After all, it was their man, their ally, Adnan Sada, running for the highest office in the Republic of Sumer.

Surrounded by the others, Carrera's and Sada's fingers continued to drum. Watching the numbers shift was as nerve wracking as any battle.

No, thought Carrera. It's more nerve-wracking than a battle. For in battle I have control, a control I know how to use to good effect. Here, with this election, I have little. Unconsciously, he stopped the drumming with his right hand, moving the thumbnail to his teeth to nibble.

Sitting to Carrera's left, Sergeant Major McNamara noticed the nervous biting and, thinking to kill two birds with one stone, poured a fresh drink into the crystal glass on the arm rest between them. The whiskey made tinkling sounds as it splashed over the ice.

Thank God, John McNamara thought, that he's cut down on the drinking since seven years ago.

Still unconsciously, Carrera stopped his nail gnawing to pick up the glass. Unseen by Carrera, Sergeant Major McNamara smiled slightly at the Sumeri, Qabaash, seated behind Sada. Qabaash rarely smiled outside of battle. He did offer his glass behind Carrera's back to McNamara for a refill.

'Heretic,' Carrera whispered when he turned saw the drink in Qabaash's hand.

'It's not what you Nazrani would call a mortal sin, sayidi,' Qabaash answered. 'Besides, Allah is the all merciful, the all- forgiving, despite what some Salafi assholes would have you believe. And He knows I need the bloody drink now, if ever I did.'

Carrera nodded, then replaced his own drink on the arm rest. Re-fixing his attention on the screen he went back to his gnawing. This time McNamara gave off an 'ahem' to remind his chief of the proper decorum.

'Well, dammit,' Carrera answered, 'this election decides the war. If we win it, we'll have won. If Sada loses . . . '

'Civil war,' Qabaash supplied. 'There is no one else to hold the country together, just a bunch of corrupt tribal and sectarian idiots who'll pull us apart. And no, I don't mean random terrorism; I mean civil war.'

Carrera and McNamara tactfully refrained from mentioning that civil war in Sumer was potentially just another employment opportunity for the Legion del Cid. Besides, they really did want to win the war in Sumer. It wasn't as if there would be a lack of other employment opportunities, after all, not in the long run.

'Il hamdu l'illah!' exclaimed Qabaash. To God be the praise.

Carrera looked back at the screen. The precincts for Babel had begun to report in. The few initial reports quickly became a cascade. Mentally echoing Qabaash, he thought, Thank you, God or Allah, or whatever name You prefer to go by.

Turning to Sada, Carrera offered his hand. 'Congratulations, Mr. President.'

The hookers' warbling grew to a torrent of sound to compete with the thunder of slapped backs and smashed crystal.

12/1/467 AC, Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia

James K. Malcolm should have been President. Everything he'd ever done in his life, from serving in the armed forces, to taking initially unpopular anti-war and progressive stands, to his series of marriages to increasingly wealthy and connected women, to being photographed windsurfing off the coast of Botulph; everything had been geared to one sole end, that he should rest his feet on the presidential desk and guide the country to his version of a progressive future.

But it had not yet come. He'd had his chance and blown it almost three and a half decades before he'd made his runs. Twice he'd tried. The second time he'd even failed of nomination, despite his latest wife's money and even a substantial portion of his own. He'd been offered the vice-presidential slot and turned it down, instead taking the job of secretary of war, an infinitely more important job than Vice President as long as the country was at war. He had one more chance at the office of President, and SecWar seemed the best place to spend his time before he took that chance.

And to do that, I need to be remembered as the man who ended the war in Sumer. Moreover, I need the extreme Progressives to see me as the man who surrendered. I also need to be seen as the man who disengaged favorably by the Independents. And I need to do that without at the same time looking like I surrendered to the Federalists.

I also need to be the one who oversees final victory in Pashtia. For that is what will be remembered in eight years.

After having been announced via intercom by the receptionist, Malcolm politely knocked at the door to the President's office, then waited patiently to be asked in. When he entered he affected not to notice that the President was rearranging his trousers even as a female intern was reapplying her lipstick.

After a second's more fussing with his belt line the President stood and advanced, offering his hand. The intern slipped out a side door.

'Good of you to come by, James,' President Karl Schumann said as the two shook hands by the desk. 'Please have a seat,' Schumann indicated a couch on the other side of the Trapezoid, as the presidential office was known.

After Malcolm had seated himself, and Schumann had taken a chair opposite, the President asked, 'What are we going to do about Sumer and Pashtia?'

'As far as Sumer goes, Karl, we can do pretty much as we like. Their election two weeks ago of a man who has expressly vowed to get rid of the parliamentary constitution we gave them fairly well absolves us of any further obligations there. On the other hand, I am reliably informed that that man, Adnan Sada, is very capable and very ruthless and quite possibly doesn't need any more support from us. Win-win, and we can start pulling out in a couple of months.'

'All to the good,' Schumann agreed. 'What about Pashtia?'

'That one we must fight out,' Malcolm said. 'It's the only campaign in the war that has strong bipartisan support. Moreover, the last administration, mostly by virtue of invading Sumer and sucking up jihadi money and fighters that would otherwise have gone to Pashtia, made Pashtia look like it was won already.'

'And wasn't it?'

'No, Karl,' Malcolm said. 'With Sumer lost to them, the Ikhwan know they must fight it out in Pashtia or give up all claim to