No unity without discord
There is no courage without fear
There is no peace without a war
—Cruxshadows, Eye of the Storm
8/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia
Rachman was terrified; Tribune David Cano could see it in his eyes. Yet the fierce Pashtun would rather die in horrible agony than ever admit to feeling the slightest fear.
And why the hell shouldn't he be terrified, Cano thought. Poor bastard's never been up in a helicopter before. He's never even flown before. If I were him, I'd be shitting myself. What a great people these are. What a formidable people.
It had been this way since he'd first been assigned to the Pashtun scouts. Everything about them impressed Cano. Everything about them he liked. Were they rough men? Yes and so was he. Were they crude and uncultured, ignorant and savage?
Well, what was I but an ignorant ridge runner before the Legion picked me up and sent me to school? My only skill was riding a horse. But these people aren't stupid, no more than I was. They're just uneducated . . . and that can be fixed.
Cano had the oddest feeling, in accompanying Rachman and a hundred and nineteen of his fellow tribesman going to their home villages on leave, that he was going home as well. He'd fit in so well with these men, enjoyed their company and their comradeship so much, that he just knew he was going to belong, and perhaps better than he'd ever belonged anywhere before.
He felt Rachman's fist pounding his shoulder and looked over. The look of fear in Rachman's eyes had disappeared as the Pashtun gestured enthusiastically at what appeared to be a nothing-much village a few thousand feet below.
"Home," Rachman announced over the thrum of the Volgan-built IM-71. And again, with a mix of satisfaction and exuberance, "David, we are almost home."
8/7/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Hajipur, Sind
The moons Hecate and Eris were high, the former full and the latter in three quarters. The bay of Hajipur was bright under the light of the moons.
In the bay, surrounded by her escorts seaward and her infantry force on the dock, with sailors and Cazadors manning the guns, Dos Lindas sang with the ring of the hammers and the rushing crackle of the welding machines. She sang, too, with the sing-song speech of the local shipfitters who still swarmed her like industrious bees.
"She be good as new, soon, Skipper" said the master of the shipfitters. "Better den new."
Fosa knew it was true. Not only had the local boys, and a few girls, patched her up, they'd identified weaknesses and worn spots in the hull, seen a few places that wouldn't be the worse for a little extra bracing, and fixed all that as well. The laser topside, blown off by the near miss of a cruise missile, was replaced, as was every wrecked forty- and twenty-millimeter cannon, and .41-caliber machine gun. Even the lost crew, aviators and Cazadors were up to strength, though there had been an awful price to pay back home to do so.
All that was needed now was the rear elevator. And that was coming soon, this very night, in fact.
We shall see home again, you and I, Fosa thought as he stroked a railing atop the tower rising high above the flight deck. We could fight even as we are. Yes, we could not launch aircraft half so well, but we could still fight, we could still avenge our fallen comrades.
But we'll have our elevator, my dear ship. Tonight it comes to us. And a new sister to fight at our side. And then we go back for revenge.
Fosa looked up at a bright flash at the entrance to the bay. A split second later came the report of a large caliber gun. This was followed, thirty seconds later, by another flash and another boom. Again: flash . . . boom. It went on through twenty-one blank shots, a custom that had followed man to the stars.
The speakers on the bridge barked, "Barco del Legion Dos Lindas, this is BdL Tadeo Kurita. We're escorting your elevator. And we've got ten six-inch guns. Let's get you up to one hundred percent. And then, let's go hunting."
10/7/468 AC, Wilcox's Folly, FSC
Micah Fen was fat. That was the one thing everyone noticed about him. Indeed, it was the one thing impossible not to notice about him. At least, it was the one thing impossible not to notice until one came close. Within ten feet, perhaps even twenty-five if downwind, one was subjected to the foul odor of obesity necrosis that hung about him like a cloud of gnats about a dead dog's anus.
Khalid had spent, oh, a lot of time on the GlobalNet researching his targets. And I never suspected how much the filthy swine would just plain stink. I wonder if his mind is half so rotten as his skin.
For the first several months in the Federated States Khalid had done nothing but research and planning. He already had hit plans for most of his potential targets at obvious places, their homes, their offices, their lovers' homes. He still worked on those, but spent more time now looking for the excuse to execute the hit and leave the blame on the Salafis.
I'd really never expected this one to come up within my hit parameters. Fen's been so consistent in his support of the Salafi Ikhwan, so thoroughly in their camp, I just never imagined he'd do something that would—Il hamdu l'illah—allow me to actually kill him.
It would have been better, of course, if Fen had brought his busload of gays to a mosque rather than a Nazrani church, Khalid thought. But that, I suppose, would have been asking for too much. After all, if nothing else, Fen can hardly have risked exposing the gays to the 'righteous, Godly wrath' of the Salafis he wants them to support. So . . . a Nazrani church it had to be and a Nazrani church will have to do.
Besides, Khalid thought, even if imperfect it's still worthwhile even to just suggest to the gays here who support Fen that they're supporting a man who would turn them over to people who would crucify them.
Khalid liked all the targets he'd been assigned, qua targets. Even so, it was especially pleasing, much more so than his usual hit, to be assigned to take out Fen. Who, after all, encouraged the people who blew up my family, who murdered my mother, my brother, and my angel, my poor innocent little Huriyyah. Who better deserves to die?
"You never really thought about it, did you?" Khalid asked. "You never realized that, if terrorism works, it can work on you and yours?"
Fen said nothing. He couldn't; his mouth was duct taped closed even as his wrists and ankles were duct taped to the heavy chair on which he sat. Nonetheless, his piggish eyes were full of pleading terror.
Only fitting.
"You really never had a second thought for your safety, did you?" Khalid asked. "However much you lambasted your country in film and print, however much you lied, however many people you caused to be killed by encouraging their murderers, you never thought that any of it could ever come back on you?