A Desert Called Peace (89 page)

Olivetti nodded, seeing the men quiet down in the ranks.
That's why you're still here, Montoya. You can't lead for shit. Your squad has carried you through every leadership phase you passed. But you're a tough little bastard and you don't quit. Your legion has use for those, too.
At his signal, the three, much truncated, student companies began to shake out into tactical formations, separating and moving toward their objectives. Olivetti fell in with the center company, talking on his radio as he did so.

Overhead, real artillery, not simulators or preplaced charges, began to rumble across the sky toward small impact areas offset from the objectives. Though frightened, the men grinned. It was almost over.

The school commandant, Major Broughton, FS Army (retired), stood on a low reviewing stand. He looked over the ranks, 331 men of six hundred and ten who had started. Four were dead, about par for the course, most of the rest dropped with prejudice or quit. Some of those dropped were medicals. If they recovered, these would have a chance to continue the course with another class. A few others, hospitalized with wounds from the final exercise, would be graduated, and decorated, in their beds later in the day, their squads in attendance.

Broughton walked up to the microphone and began to speak. At his command the class stood at ease. He told the graduating students how tough they were, and brave; how they represented the best of their countries, and some of the best in the world. He said he expected great things of them, as they had proven themselves capable of great things.

Cruz whispered to Montoya, standing at his left, "You feel tough, bud?"

Montoya answered, likewise in a whisper, "He must be talking about some other people. I don't feel tough."

Broughton finished, calling the class to attention and ordering the school adjutant to call the roll.

The adjutant took Broughton's place at the microphone and began to read off names.

"Optio Enriquez."

The entire class answered, as rehearsed "Here!"

"Signifer Trujillo."

"Here!"

The adjutant finished the last names on his list of dead, each with the rank he would have held had he finished Cazador School and the next course for which he was scheduled. Following the last "Here!" he gave the command, "Open ranks, march!"

As the companies opened their ranks, the CIs of Camp Gutierrez trotted out, one to each rank of each platoon, each CI carrying a cloth bag draped over one shoulder. Olivetti came to attention to Cruz's right front.

"Present the tabs!"

Olivetti took one step forward, halted and faced left. He nodded, "Cazador Cruz?"

"Blood tab, Centurion." In the school's short life no Cazador had yet failed to ask for a "blood tab." It was an article of faith among the students that the first one to do so would have his name publicized across the entire legion.

Olivetti reached into the cloth bag and pulled out a full color black and gold half circle with the word "CAZADOR" spelled in bold, gold letters. A safety pin ran through the tab. Olivetti unlocked the safety pin, grabbed Cruz's sleeve near the shoulder, and drove the pin into the emaciated flesh beneath before withdrawing it, pushing it through the cloth, and hooking it back onto itself. Cruz controlled his flinch.
What's a little more pain, after all?

"Good job, Cruz." Olivetti held out his hand.

"Thank you, Centurion. You, too." Cruz shook the hand with real feeling.

Olivetti passed on to Montoya.

Montoya smiled. "Blood tab, Centurion." He held his smile as the point pierced him.

"You're a shithead, Montoya. But you're a damn fine soldier. Congratulations."

When the last of the tabs had been awarded, Broughton returned to the reviewing stand. "Pass in review!"

Without further fanfare, the platoons faced right and began to double time past the reviewing stand. They only dropped to a walk when the last of them had passed. The students—no, full fledged Cazadors now—began to sing as they walked back to barracks.

Once he arrived back in
Las Mesas
, Cruz was very pleased to discover that his impotence was only temporary. Caridad was
very
pleased, as well.

The acting commander of Atlantis base was at wits' end. High Admiral Annan was gone; reported dead. The Marines and shuttle he had borrowed were gone as well and he had to presume them to be dead or captured, likewise the Supervisory Office in Balboa colony. He had no more Marines to spare. He had no more shuttles and only three helicopters. And until a new ship came in system he had no way of getting any more, either.

It was bad enough that Anglia colony, for now, reported only to its home government back on Earth. No one ever expected anything different from the stinking Americans beginning to fill up Southern Columbia, or indeed anyone from Earth's Anglosphere except for the people settling Secordia. But the colonies from the Earth's Third World? These were
supposed
and expected to stand by the UN, to toe its line, to build one-world government here to match the one building back home. Otherwise, Terra Nova would become just another twentieth-century Earth. And that, the acting commander knew, spelled danger.

"Commander?" an aide broke in, giving the honorific despite doubt about whether the title would become permanent. "News from our office in San Jose colony. They're under attack by hundreds of men armed with modern weapons."

"Shit!"

"It gets worse, Commander. The rebels are broadcasting from the radio station at our Balboa office—what used to be our Balboa office—calling on everyone to 'throw off Earth's chains.' And we have little or nothing to stop it."

That bastard, Annan,
the acting commander thought.
He could have bought all the little girls he wanted from the Yithrab, or even bought them from Earth at one of the open markets and brought them here. But
nooo
, the cheap son of a bitch had to go outside channels and avoid paying the little bit asked for. God save me from hereditary bureaucrats and their offspring. Now I get to sit, helpless, while the world we wanted to construct here falls apart around me.

"Can we contact the leader of the . . . rebels?"

The aide thought about that for a minute. "He's probably directing the attack in San Jose colony, sir. We can probably contact him
after
he's finished storming it."

"Great," the acting commander muttered, leaning his weary head down to rest it in his hands. "Advise the office in San Jose to surrender. Tell them to
ask
him to speak with me. Maybe I can make a deal to keep this from spreading."

"
Comandante,
" Pedro said, "the Earthpigs want to talk to you. They want to arrange a ceasefire before this war spreads."

Belisario considered.
Should I? I could stop the carnage now, probably. But then, what prevents them from using the bases they retain to come back? What do I owe my fellow colonists languishing under the heel of the UN Birkenstock? How will my wife and our children ever sleep safely with slavers and tax gatherers hovering at the edges of our domain?

"Tell the pig to kiss my ass, Pedro," Belisario answered. "The war goes on until we are, all of us, free."

Resolution 4999 (2127)
Adopted by the Security Council on its 16128th meeting,
On 1 June, 2127
The Security Council,

Recalling
its previous resolutions, in particular resolution 4547 of 2107 and 4569 of 2108, concerning the situation off world among the colonies of Terra Nova,

Reaffirming
its commitment to peace, prosperity and freedom as expressed and implied in the Charter,

Welcoming
a just resolution to the ongoing conflicts on the planet of Terra Nova,

Acknowledging
the difficulties inherent in administering and securing a world light years away,

Reiterating
in the strongest terms its desire to accord self-determination to all mankind,

Stressing
the importance of the recent peace accords between itself and various insurgent governments and movements on Terra Nova,

Welcoming
the joint communiqué between its representatives on Terra Nova and the representatives of the United Front for the Liberation of New Earth,

Expressing
its continuing responsibility toward the peoples of that world and its firm commitment to their continuing welfare,

Determining
that the maintenance of its rule on the world of Terra Nova is beyond its abilities,

1)
Retires
its offices and security facilities to its base on the Island of Atlantis on the new world,

2)
Requests
a cease fire from all still-engaged armed or political agencies, governments, organizations and movements on the new world.

3)
Reiterates
its request for prisoner of war exchange and repatriation,

4)
Directs
the redesignation of its fleet around the new world as the United Nations Peace Fleet, to be further renamed the United Earth Peace Fleet at such time as the General Assembly may direct, and

5)
Declares
the conflict on the new world to be at an end.

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,

—Kipling, "Gentlemen Rankers"

Fadeel al Nizal's problems had multiplied. On the plus side, though, at least Mustafa was no longer one of them. If anything, the relationship had reversed itself with Fadeel becoming a major financial supporter of the rest of the movement and Mustafa being along mostly for a distant form of moral support. Not that the movement didn't have money. It had a great deal, most of it untouchable for the infidel accountants who watched for the slightest excuse to freeze suspicious accounts. Even Fadeel had lost money that way.

He'd have gladly accepted a great deal more of Mustafa's former chiding if he could have eliminated some of the other things bearing down upon him.

For a while it had seemed that the willing cooperation of the Kosmos—the cosmopolitan progressives who believed in one-world government, under
themselves—
were the answer to most of his prayers. With the money gained from the crusader governments with the progressives' cooperation, his organization had flown as high as the aircraft he had managed to bring down early on in the campaign.

For a while, rather than having to listen to lectures from Mustafa, Fadeel had found himself in a position to repay the start-up money he'd received and even to make a substantial gift to his principle. That gift had been gratefully received, Mustafa having fallen upon rather hard times. Moreover, he'd managed to knock one crusader state, Castilla, almost completely out of the war. He'd failed to knock Balboa out of the war. That rankled. Worse, they were hunting down and killing his men. And the damnable locals seemed to be helping them do it, which was worse.

Unfortunately, the supply of Kosmo hostages had dried up completely. There were no more Taurans willing to volunteer, nor had there been since that one woman, Giulia Masera, had been fed feet first into a wood chipper and a tape of the murder turned over to al Iskandaria News Network. Fadeel was still puzzling over what had caused al Iskandaria to broadcast the tape. After all, they'd been wise enough to refuse to show the death of one of Masera's countrymen when he had defied Fadeel just before his well-deserved execution. At the time, Fadeel had been rather angry at the television network for refusing the tape. On reflection, though, he had come to agree that showing a citizen of the crusader coalition dying bravely and well would have been damaging rather than helpful.

At that, it would not have been nearly as damaging as broadcasting the death of Masera. She had been emulsified from the bottom up, her mouth opening and closing like a fish stuck out of water as she sank feet first into the wood chipper, her reddened, lumpy remains spitting out the bottom. Fadeel had rather enjoyed the show, naturally, but even he had seen it was a dangerous move for whichever comradely organization had been responsible.

That was another puzzle. Fadeel didn't know and had not been able to find out who was responsible for that execution. He'd thought at first that it must have been one of his own cells, naturally under very loose control due to the circumstances of the fight for God in Sumer. Not one of his people, however, had been willing to admit to it. Nor had any of the ransom money shown up.

I could surely have used another twenty-five million Tauros in the fight against the crusaders.

Not everything was going against him, fortunately. He'd had a few bad moments there, when the satanic Federated States had introduced automatic explosive sniffers. A number of bombs and great quantities of bomb-making material had been lost to the cause of the righteous and the just that way. Then the local mercenaries had brought in dogs to hunt for and warn of bombs.

The solution had been both beautiful and elegant in its simplicity. Fadeel had set some hundreds of young boys with small spray bottles to randomly spraying wheel wells of automobiles and trucks with water with which minute quantities of powdered explosive had been mixed. When everything smelled of bomb then nothing smelled of bomb. The dogs and the operators of the sniffing machines had been driven half insane, Fadeel and his followers had had a few good laughs, and more than a few crusaders had been enticed into the range of actual bombs.

Now the dogs were used only for tracking and the sniffing machines sat uselessly in a warehouse somewhere in Babel. Better still, the flow of explosives continued as it had before the infidels had tried their clever tricks.

Thinking about that, about the machines sitting idle and useless, set Fadeel to laughing yet again.