Carnifex (57 page)

"Many of them really are too stupid to get that message, I think," Khalid said. "Moreover, most of their target audience is too stupid to understand and accept that the press, the academics and the progressives are simply putting out blatant propaganda on behalf of the enemy. They are all progressives and Kosmos, are they not, these pols, reporters, editors and professors? The target audience cannot even accept that they are held in as much contempt as they are by the people you want me to kill. In any case, under the rule you have given me, some of them
will
simply stop giving off any message that is remotely critical of the enemy and most of their audience will not even notice."

"We understand this," Fernandez agreed. "That is the other set of choices. For those who will not get the message we will want you to have evidence that the people you killed
were
assassinated. We can show that evidence, without turning it over, of course, to certain persons among the classes of targets in order to spread the word in an unprovable way. Imagine, if you will, Khalid, that you kill . . . " Fernandez took the folders and rifled through them until he came upon one in particular. "This woman, say."

Fernandez opened the folder to show Khalid a picture of a woman, taken from her own GlobalNet site. She was well dressed in a cream colored suit, and, if a bit overweight, all in all, by no means unattractive.

"This is Sarita Iapes. She is not only highly critical of the war effort but of the Legion and President Sada in particular. She's been a nexus for anti-war effort reporting for years. So, say, someday you wait in ambush in an automobile and simply run her over, a routine hit and run. But you have a camera going so that you can give us a picture of her in the moment before you kill her. We show that picture to, again, say, David Prefer, one of her reporters, and explain to the wretch that she
was
killed, and, approximately, why."

"Understand, Legate," Khalid said, shaking his head doubtfully, "I merely want to understand the mission perfectly so that I can execute it perfectly. Okay, so you do that. All it does it shut them up. It does not make them report on us favorably."

"We don't need favorable reporting," Fernandez explained. "That would be overreach. The danger with these people is that they are not a neutral asset. They're with the enemy, even if they don't know it. It would be, oh . . . too much to expect them to change one hundred and eighty degrees. It is sufficient that they merely stop harming us and helping the other side; no need to help us and harm the other side. Indeed, if they did that, they'd be in as much danger from the
Ikhwan
as they are from us and they likely
know
it. In that case, they'd probably take their chances and continue to support the
Ikhwan."

"So . . . we are going for the minimal but achievable goal?" Khalid asked.

"Yes. Moreover, if two years goes by without ever a negative comment from one of them on either us or the enemy, then you may assume they have taken the hint and shut up. In that case, put them on the inactive target list."

"Cle-ver," Khalid said.

"If you are captured, of course . . . "

Khalid snorted. "
Allahu akbar!
Long live the Salafi jihad."

"Quite. The Kosmos down there will insist on superior treatment for you as long as you can credibly claim to be on the side of the
Ikhwan
. Just remember, Khalid, they must be made to feel the hard hand of the war they support."

"These bandits must be made to feel the hard hand of the war they have brought upon themselves," insisted Bernard Chanet, with the pounding of his fist upon his desk.

Major Dhan Singh Pandey, seconded to the UN Peacekeeping Force for Terra Nova (UNPFTN), from the Army of India's 11
^th
Gurkha Rifles, said nothing. His colleague and discrete lover, Amita Kaur Bhago, 32
^nd
Battalion (Pioneer), the Sikh Regiment, scowled and unconsciously reached for the
kirpan
, or sword, she wore at her side.

She was not so even tempered as Pandey. And the sneering look this UN swine had given the work
her
troops had put into rebuilding the compound already had her tomcat-ready for a fight. Pandey reached out with his own hand to place it atop her lighter one. "Not yet, lioness," he whispered.

"I don't like this greasy bastard," she whispered back. "What does such as
he
know of the hard hand of war?"

"We'll discuss it later. Now take your hand
off
of your
kirpan."

Chanet noticed the byplay, though he couldn't hear what was said. Especially did he notice Amita looking him over as someone the world would be a better place without. He'd noticed, too, what a damnably handsome woman she was. But seeing the white knuckled hand gripping the hilt of the long dagger she wore killed any lust before it could quite form.

Chanet had shuttled in earlier in the day from the main base at Atlantis, bringing with him the Deputy Special Representative for the Secretary General, Tariq Lakhdar, age twenty-four. It was Lakhdar who would see to the local efforts, under Chanet's overall direction. And why not? Chanet had owed a favor to Lakhdar's uncle, after all.

"I don't like the look of the other greasy bastard, either," whispered Amita.

"
Later
."

The small assembly held the leadership for the entire peacekeeping force for Balboa. Besides Chanet and Lakhdar, the civilian leaders, and Pandey and Bhago, from the Army of India, there were four captains from the Organization of African Unity, one German, seconded from 5
^th
Panzer Division, a Belgian Commando, a Ukrainian aviator major, and David Duff-McQueeg, a British Royal Marine artilleryman, in overall command.

Amita liked none of them, finding the Africans undisciplined, the German arrogant, the Belgian grotesquely beery, the Ukrainian incomprehensible, and Duff-McQueeg, who . . . "Stupid, rude, limey bastard. No wonder they couldn't hold on to India. I never really understood the American Revolution, or our own resistance, until I met that piece of shit."

"Amita,
later!"

Duff-McQueeg stood up and announced, "We've driven off the main guerilla band. But we'll never get full control until we can cut off their food. The first thing we're going to do is to establish ration controls,
tight
ration controls, here in the city. That means no, you bloody Sikhs will
not
be giving out food at the temple I am sure you intend to establish . . . "

They imagine they're the wave of the future, but it's only sewage flowing downhill.

—Lois McMasters Bujold,
Shards of Honor

"Magnificent,
mon General
," Malcoeur toadied. He was not talking about architecture.

"
Quoi
?" Janier asked, in a tone that meant,
shut up, fool.

General Janier never really thought the old headquarters for the FS Army in Balboa was quite grand enough for his own, indisputable, magnificence. Oh, yes, the arched gate underneath his office was all well enough, even if not quite the triumphal arch the general would have preferred. And the building was solid; you have to give the Columbian pigs that. But it was such a utilitarian structure, no marble, few mirrors . . . no quarters for a mistress. How could a people even think of themselves as civilized who could build a headquarters for a senior general and
not
provide quarters for his mistress?

"Ah, well," said Janier aloud, "we'll soon have that fixed."

"Sir?" asked Malcoeur, cupping one hand to his ear to ward off the sound of hammers and saws coming from the just down the hall where Janier had evicted much of his staff to create an apartment.

"Nothing for your ears, Malcoeur, you rotund little swine," Janier sneered. He pointed at the aide with his marshal's stick with its thirty-two gold and silk embroidered eagles and ordered, "Bring me my topper." The top of the baton was engraved, "
Terror Belli, Decus Pacis
."

While the toady scurried off to Janier's desk to fetch the general's headgear, Janier admired himself in the mirror. It was understandable; he
did
cut quite a fine figure in the blue velvet and gold-embroidered informal dress uniform of a marshal of Napoleonic France. Hundreds of golden oak leaves covered the facings, the collar, the shoulders, and ran down each sleeve.

Janier fingered one of the eight gold buttons on the coat, adjusting it minutely. He then tugged and twisted at the stiff, high collar. It was beastly uncomfortable. By the time Janier was satisfied with the collar Malcoeur, the "rotund little swine," had returned with the headdress.

It would be unseemly for the general to bow his noble head to a fat little wretch like Major Malcoeur. Instead, as Janier admired himself in the mirror, the major pulled up a chair, stood upon it, and gently lowered a replica of the golden laurel wreath worn by Janier's hero, Napoleon I, for his coronation.

The drone of saw and
wham-wham-wham
of hammer were distant in the conference room at the other end of the long, white stuccoed and red tiled building. Indeed, so distant were the sounds that President Rocaberti was hardly aware of them. What with the election coming up, the numbers, country-wide, still running against him, and the near certainty of criminal charges if he lost; well, one could understand why the President wasn't aware of much.

Thus, Rocaberti barely noticed when all the Gaulic officers and functionaries present stood to attention around the conference table and the chairs lining the walls. Only he, his nephew, his minister of police, and the ambassador from United Earth remained seated. They remained that way, that is, until Rocaberti caught sight of Janier, his porcine little aide standing behind, glaring down at him from his nearly two meters of imperious height. The aide made little gestures with his hand,
Arise.

Does he have any idea how ridiculous he looks in that outfit?
Rocaberti wondered.
Why is he glaring at me? Does he expect me, the chief executive of a sovereign nation, to rise for him? The Frog bastard; he does.

Rocaberti, never among the staunchest of men, stood, along with the other Balboans who had accompanied him. Only the UE ambassador remained seated and to that worthy Janier gave a respectful nod before seating himself.

"Report," Janier ordered.

The operations officer answered, "Preparation for flying in three more infantry battalions two days before the election are complete,
mon general
. An additional battalion of light armor has loaded ship and will arrive at about the same time as the light infantry. The government has already approved."

"What of the TU?" Janier asked.

"Why would we inform them? They'll be presented with a
fait 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.

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.