Carnifex

accompli once it's accompli.'

On cue, the public affairs officer added, 'Mon general, the news in both the TU and the FSC runs at ninety- seven percent that this election is in the process of being stolen by the mercenaries. Public opinion polls are in line with this.'

'We have completed occupation of the former FSA facilities,' said Janier's S-4, or logistics officer. 'There will be adequate living space for all our troops, once they arrive.'

'Very good,' the general said, somberly. 'Where did the locals who bought the housing go?'

'Who cares?'

'Indeed,' Janier agreed.

'We have to care,' Rocaberti interjected. 'Those people were among our prime supporters.'

Janier shrugged. The opinion of this future colonial subject could not possibly be important. Nonetheless, for the benefit of his own people, he spoke, and naturally in French. 'Gentlemen, the Balboans who support the current administration have served their purpose, though that administration will remain valuable as a convenient cover for our rule. Have we not maintained virtually all of our old empire in Colombia del Sur, Uhuru and Urania in just this way?

'For our part, we will simply be here, in force—real or potential—greater than the local mercenaries would willingly wish to face. When the election procedure is shown to be compromised, as President Wozniak will attest to, the government will refuse to abide by it. We shall offer it our full support, of course . . . all in the interests of democracy . . . ' –every Gaulic officer present broke out in unfeigned and unforced laughter—' . . . of course. We shall move our battalions, of which there shall be eight, to defend what can be defended, Balboa City and the Transitway area.'

The ambassador of La Republique de la Gaulle said, 'I am sure we can count on the Federated States' Department of State intervening on our behalf to threaten the mercenaries with severe sanctions should they initiate fighting.'

'As I had supposed,' Janier said.

'There is one major problem,' Rocaberti insisted. 'Within Ciudad Balboa there are some thousands of mercenary reservists. They may fight no matter what.'

Janier sneered. As if some raggle taggle undeveloped world part timers could pose any serious problem for the professionals of his force. Absurd. Laughable. Impossible.

2/5/468 AC, War Department, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia

Rivers sighed and said, 'This word you keep using, Secretary Malcolm? I don't think it means what you think it means. It might be 'impossible' for Pat Hennessey'—for Rivers still thought of Carrera as Hennessey—'to go to war with the Tauran Union. He'll do it anyway. He'll hit them wherever we can, as hard as he can, in as terrible and terrifying way as he can, and nothing we can do, short of nukes, will stop him. Nukes might not either.'

Rivers neglected to mention that the intelligence people had been hearing rumors that Hennessey was, himself, a nuclear power. So far the rumors had been fairly well squashed, mostly because if he had them they could only have come from one place, Sumer. And if they'd come from Sumer that meant that everything the Progressive Party had said about the lack of cause for war with Sumer back in 461 was a lie. That, of course, would never do.

'Even now,' Rivers continued, 'the Legion del Cid is redeploying two full legions plus support, nearly thirty thousand men, from northern back into southern Pashtia. They could have been moved simply because the large contract is about up. But Hennessey doesn't appear to be in any hurry to move them out of Pashtia, despite what it must be costing him extra to support them in country.'

'But what can he do? It's absurd!' Malcolm shouted.

So hard to maintain calm with this man, River thought. 'If fighting breaks out in Balboa, Hennessey will attack the Frogs there, in Pashtia, and everywhere else he can get at them. The battalion the Frogs keep in pristine comfort and safety in the southern part of Pashtia? He'll attack and extinguish it. If other Taurans interfere, he'll destroy them, too. If we interfere, he may not be able to destroy us, but he will fight us. And, Mr. Secretary, he has a more powerful force in the country than we do.'

'But . . . but he can't,' SecWar insisted. 'He's one of us.'

Like you, with your love affair with the Gauls, are one of us? You really don't see it, do you?

Rivers clasped his hands behind him and walked to the window. From this he stared out for long minutes, silently, while Malcolm seethed behind him. How to explain this?

Turning around, gesturing frantically with one hand, Virgil Rivers began, 'In the first place, he's not one of us. You may think, because he actually was raised to be a Kosmo, a cosmopolitan progressive, that he's one of you. But that would be false, too, Mr. Secretary.

'Oh, he never learned love of country as a boy; that's true. Instead, he was taught that all distinctions between men are arbitrary. He told me this himself, once. He was deep in his cups at the time.

'He told me, 'They tried to convince me, when I was young, that the only possible non-arbitrary grouping was the family of man. Why they never realized that that was as arbitrary a group as any other, I don't know. How does it make sense not to hate people because they look a little different but love them because they look a little the same? Either is mere appearance.'

'Mr. Secretary, he also said, 'The only truly non-arbitrary group is the group one chooses for himself. I chose the Army.'

'But, Mr. Secretary, even the Army was never so kind, so loving, or so warm and comfortable as the force he has built for himself. He is not, sir, not in any meaningful way, a citizen of the Federated States or a soldier of the Federated States Army. He's a true Kosmo, perhaps the ultimate manifestation of Kosmoism. He's loyal to his own group . . . and nothing but.

'So, yes, sir. He would fight even us. Maybe there's some lingering affection; maybe he'd prefer not to. But he still would.'

Malcolm's eyes grew wide with sudden understanding. 'Fuck.'

5/5/468 AC, Kibla Pass, Pashtia

'Up the fucking hill, soldier-boy,' said the youngish centurion as he smacked a dawdling legionary across the buttocks with the stick that was his sole badge of rank.

Several things are required to make an army so that it can displace quickly. It must have limited baggage, not merely for ease of transport but for ease of breaking down and loading. It must have transport, of course, but not more than it can keep moving. It must have a staff capable of planning the movement with considerable efficiency but allowing for the inevitable screw ups. It must have soldiers willing and able to march hard. It needs officers and non-coms, pitiless in their drive to obey their orders and meet their march objectives. It needs a mindset, as an army, that inclines it to rapid movement.

Above all, perhaps, it must have a commander willing to give the order, 'Move it, you fucks.' As Carrera stood on a rocky outcropping overlooking the metalled road through the pass, he whispered just that: 'Move it, you fucks.'

There were still bandits in the hills. Aircraft circled over head to watch for them, out to a distance of seven kilometers—mortar range—from the main column. Pashtun scouts and Cazadors, with dog teams, likewise secured the long, winding triple eel of men, machine and animals from interference. Even Carrera let himself be surrounded by half a dozen bodyguards; sharp men, well armed and armored and each one a match for him in size and color.

It was hardly secure, though, not against an enemy who would die, eagerly, if he could just take one infidel with him. If the legions hadn't caught so many of the Ikhwan's fighters and annihilated them or driven them far away, the passage over the mountains would have taken a lot longer.

One had to wonder, as some of the legionaries wondered, just how long Carrera had been planning the upcoming confrontation with the troops of the Tauran Union in Pashtia.

I've been considering it for the last five years, Carrera thought, to no one in particular.

Below, in tactical road march order, with trucks and other vehicles in between, the men sang. Carrera heard them singing a new song, Rio Gamboa, which was mostly about getting back home:

 . . . Centurio viejo, aun en la marcha.