Carnifex

It was even more useful since it was readily absorbed through the skin.

Khalid could have purchased simple cigarettes or cigars to prepare his mixture. There was, however, a simpler way, taught to him by his Volgan instructors. This was to purchase a commercial insecticide and distill out the impurities, leaving fairly pure nicotine sulfate. This he had done, achieving a highly concentrated and extremely deadly form of the stuff, with only enough liquid to make it free flowing.

In his hotel room he attached a baby's snot sucker to some clear, flexible tubing cut to the length of an umbrella. With the squeeze bottle at the end of the snot sucker, he vacuumed an appreciable quantity of the nicotine sulfate solution into the tube. This he plugged with a small cork, very tightly. The entire assembly he then taped to the cane of the umbrella, making a small slash in the material to allow the corked tube to protrude through slightly.

The umbrella stood by the hotel room door. Meanwhile, Khalid, his hair lightened and green contacts covering his own brown eyes, studied the picture in the folder he'd been given. The picture was of one Ishmael ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana, a very minor scion of Mustafa's clan, currently attending school in First Landing. The boy was only twenty and lacked both the finely developed paranoia of the older members of his clan, as well as their money to hire guards and drivers.

Boy, thought Khalid. Boy, I don't know why you have to die. Nor do I care. But enjoy the morning, even so. You will not see the sunset.

With that, Khalid closed the file and stood, walking to his bag to place the file within it. He closed and locked the bag. With that he left, taking the umbrella with him and placing a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the room's door.

Outside the hotel, Khalid hailed a taxi which brought him to the corner nearest Ishmael's small, student apartment. He waited a short time, then saw the boy leave, smoking a cigarette.

Which is why I chose this method. It will take a while for them to notice the outrageous amount of nicotine in your system. With doctors in the Federated States as they are now, they may not even care to look. After all, you are one of those utter unmentionable, those vile untouchables. You smoke, boy, and it's going to be the death of you.

The boy, Ishmael, disappeared into a nearby subway entrance. Khalid followed him down, neither so closely as to be obvious nor so far behind that he couldn't run to catch the train should his target enter one.

There was no train. There was, however, a fair crowd. Using the crowd as cover, Khalid moved to within two feet of Ishmael. Then he settled down to wait for a train.

Unfortunately, the next train entered the subway on the other side. Khalid really wanted not just the noise, in case the nicotine caused the boy to cry out. He also wanted everyone's attention focused on the train's arrival, and movement to begin in the crowd, to cover his own withdrawal.

As expected, the next train arrived on his side, with a tremendous rattle. Nearly everyone but Khalid turned their attention to the train, and about half-lurched forward half a step, as if to gain an advantage for boarding.

Khalid was prepared to make a similar half-lurch, if his target did. This proved unnecessary. He pointed the tip of his umbrella at the boy's calf. At the same time, he reached the other hand over and gave a squeeze to the snot sucker. As little sound as the popping cork made, there was no chance of it being heard over the sound of the train. The nicotine sulfate sprayed out, soaking the target's cloth-covered calf. Khalid immediately turned away, and walked into the mass of humanity gathering by the edge of the platform.

When Khalid turned and looked through the window of the subway car, there was a small crowd gathering around a prostrate, quivering form.

4/7/467 AC, St. Ekaterina Caserne, Fuerte Cameron, Balboa

The stiffly marching Volgans sang in voices designed to knock birds dead at a mile.

'Pust' yarost' blagorodnaya

Vskipaet, kak volna

Idyot voyna narodnaya,

Svyaschennaya voyna!'

'Catchy,' Carrera complimented. 'What's it mean?'

Samsonov, the Volgan colonel of paratroopers Kuralski had contacted and hired—along with the bulk of his regiment—some years back, puzzled over the translation for a moment before answering, 'Comes from Great Global War . . . but maybe older than that. Not sure. Means . . . mmm . . . something like, 'Let waves of righteous fury . . . Swell up as never before . . . And spur us to the victory of . . . Our sacred people's war.' You like?'

'It's excellent. Can you have one of your men make a translation and send it on to Professor Ruiz. Maybe send him a small chorus to demonstrate, too.'

Samsonov, old, stout and blond where he wasn't balding, answered, 'Easy . . . not those men singing now, though.' He gestured at the company marching by. 'Those men aren't bad but . . . regimental chorus much better.'

'As you prefer.'

The Volgans, roughly thirteen hundred of them, weren't on the Legion's official strength. Rather, they were employees of Abogado's Foreign Military Training Group, a subsidiary of Chatham, Hennessey and Schmied, that had provided training expertise to the Legion since the beginning. Most of FMTG now was, in fact, Volgan since the Balboans and other Latins were long since capable of conducting Initial Entry Training and most specialty training, along with the Cazador School and other leadership courses. With the bulk of the aircraft being Volgan and a fair number of the ships of the classis likewise, those departments were staffed almost entirely with Samsonov's countrymen, as well. Even for the aircraft bought from the FSC, the instructors were a mix of qualified Volgans and Balboans.

Samsonov's regiment, and it was a reinforced Volgan parachute regiment in organization, provided both the Controller-Evaluators and the opposing forces at the Legion's Centro de Entrenamiento para el Ejercito Expedicionario, or CENTIPEDE. The CENTIPEDE had served to put the finishing touches on cohorts just before they deployed to the war. Even without a contract, for the nonce, training continued. Being elite soldiers from an Army with an impressive tradition, this suited the Volgans just fine. It suited them even better that they weren't in Volga, anymore.

It was possible that there was a more anti-Tsarist-Marxism leaning group in the world than Samsonov's paratroopers, indeed someone had once suggested as much. No one had ever proven it, though. Samsonov's men loathed Marxism as only those who'd lived under it could. They likewise didn't much care for the corrupt rump of the Volgan Empire that still lived.

One reason they were pretty content to be in Balboa was that they earned standard legionary wages—for the enlisted men about fifteen times more than Volga paid its army—and lived and ate, oh, much better.

Many had married into the locals and some had even transferred over to the Legion. In turn, there were now to be found the odd Garcia and Gomez, seconded from their home tercios and standing among the Gureviches and Gregoriis of Samsonov's regiment. In time, Carrera expected something like complete assimilation. The notion that FMTG was anything but an arm of the Legion was rather fictive, anyway.

'These dirty rotten Fascist pigs

We'll shoot between the eyes.

The garbage of humanity

Is headed for demise.'

'What's the title?' Carrera asked.

This time the translation came more easily. 'We call it . . . 'Holy War' or . . . maybe better, 'Sacred War.''

'Oh, yeah' Carrera smiled. 'I want that in the Legion's song books.'

By the time the marching company of Volgans had passed out of earshot, Samsonov was leading Carrera into the regimental headquarters. They passed by banners more or less dripping with battle honors from the Great Global War, the Volga-Pashtia War, and everything in between. Carrera stopped to finger the streamers, respectfully.

'An honorable regiment,' he whispered.

Samsonov answered the whisper. 'Was my father's regiment . . . uncle's before