Within a few hours copies of the tape were on their way to Yamato . . . and al Iskandariya news.
12/2/467 AC, MV Uhuru Mercy, off the Xamar Coast
To the four hundred and seventy-four crew of the Mercy there was no choice. Rather, the choices were either continuing on, canceling their mission to the small and impoverished Uhuran state of Mpende, asking one of the world's navies to grant an escort, or hiring armed guards themselves. Abjuring violence, they chose, not without a certain nobility, to remain true to their principles and continue on, without escort or guards, and even with the warning that piracy along the Xamar coast was growing completely out of hand.
There was no large cross—hateful symbol to the pirates—to mark the ship. Neither was there a large red star. The cross would have been little more than an aiming point but the star would have declared the ship quite off limits.
The Xamari pirates came at night, a night virtually without moonlight. The engines of their three small craft were muffled. They had arms in their hands.
Their boats, too, had been muffled, with rubber inner tube bumpers around the prow to absorb the shock and sound of coming close alongside a target ship. The boats' captains eased back on the throttles as they came alongside, matching speed with the Mercy.
At each boat's prow a man stood with a grapnel and rope. These they swung to a blur before launching them upward. Two of the three took hold immediately. The third took two tries before it found purchase.
As fast as the grapples were set, other men, one per rope, scampered upward bearing rope ladders on their backs. A single good climber, armed but otherwise unencumbered, followed the ladder bearers and stood guard while the ladders were affixed.
It all went very smoothly after that. A dozen men climbed up one rope ladder, fifteen up a second, nineteen up the third. Once assembled on the deck their leader, a son of Abdulahi by a not very important wife, gave his last minute instructions.
"Go forth from top to bottom. Capture all and assemble them here. Kill only when you can't help it or when the infidels disobey. Rape none of them; there will be a fair division of spoils later. Report to me here when you have found the ship's safe. Destroy none of the medical equipment or supplies; they can be sold. Now go forward and do your duty by your clan and your faith."
13/2/467 AC (Old Earth Year 2521), UEPF Spirit of Peace
Going after the filthy capitalists, down below, was one thing. After all, how much sympathy could one summon for a class always eager to underbid each other for the rope that would be used to hang them all? But going after non-governmental organizations, the shaft of Robinson's spear; that was something else again.
"It's pretty depressing," observed Peace's captain, Marguerite Wallenstein. "Bad enough that the local office of Amnesty, Interplanetary was defanged. What do we do when one part of our overall program attacks another?"
Robinson nodded his head glumly at the tall blond. Though Wallenstein was approximately a century and a half old, anti-agathic treatments kept her looking, and acting—in bed at least, like a twenty-five year old. Overall, Robinson much preferred her to the other crew with which he made do from time to time.
"Depressing is hardly strong enough," he said with disgust.
The news was all over television, down below. Likewise, the local net was eaten up with it; a hospital ship captured, its safe robbed, a dozen of its crew butchered for the cameras. Even now the broadcasts showed a long line of impressed civilians in the former capital of Xamar unloading everything from crates of morphine and antibiotics to X-ray machines to cots.
Worse, the captors had announced that unless ransom was paid the crew would be auctioned off as slaves. Since the going ransom was what had become the standard of late, a million FSD a head, no one who was willing to pay was also in a financial position to. No more was Robinson, even had he been inclined.
On the other hand, the new progressive administration in the Federated States, which did have the wherewithal to pay, simply could not for political reasons.
Wallenstein rested her chin on slender, graceful hands. "The cheapest way to get them back, you know, would be to send someone to bid on them ourselves. They couldn't go for more than twenty or thirty thousand FSD each, not at open auction."
Robinson smiled. "Aren't you clever, Marguerite? But that's still more than we can lightly pay. This fleet operates on a shoestring, as you know as well as anyone."
"Not us . . . but what if we drop a hint in a friendly ear?"
"Whose ear? The World League couldn't even pay that; it might mean they'd no longer be able to have servants to fill the water carafes at their meetings. The Taurans aren't interested since the crew is Columbian. And the progressives in the FSC would be turned out of office if they paid or even if they bid."
Wallenstein began to smirk, then snicker, and finally to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" asked Robinson.
"Well . . . I was just imagining the World League killing two birds with one stone. They bid on the captives but then keep them as slaves to fill the water carafes at the meetings."
Though Wallenstein was joking, Robinson considered it seriously for half a minute. Sighing, he answered, "Nah . . . they'd need to keep them either at the headquarters in First Landing or at the other one in Helvetia. Slavery's illegal both places."
"I was only joking," Wallenstein insisted.
"In any case, the problem appears insoluble without intervention. No, not the problem with these captives. They really matter for little, whatever happens to them. But we must damage Terra Novan commerce even while the Kosmo movement damages the social cohesion of its nations. Make me an appointment with Mustafa, would you Marguerite? And have my shuttle prepared to bring me to Atlantis Base for that appointment."
Parade Field, Isla Real, Balboa, 13/2/467
It had actually taken closer to three weeks, rather than the two Carrera had said it would, to pull the deployed legion out of Sumer. At that, they'd left a bit under twenty percent of its strength—one reinforced cohort—behind to serve as a palace-guard-of-last-resort for Sada as he assumed the extraordinarily dangerous job of President of the Republic.
Even then, it wasn't precisely a moneymaking arrangement for Carrera. Sada and Sumer just couldn't afford to pay what the FSC had paid. Instead, they paid only the operational costs. Fortunately for all concerned, these were low now since the serious fighting had ended.
"Adnan," Carrera had told Sada, "look at it this way; it isn't a gift. I'm not losing any money on the deal. Besides, you're our ally. We have few enough in the world that we're not about to let one go under. Besides, I just hate to lose."
Less that not-quite-twenty-percent, the rest of the legionaries were back in Balboa in time to celebrate the sixth anniversary of their baptism of fire back at Multichucha Ridge in Sumer. That celebration had begun with a parade. The parade was now ending.
"Pass in review," ordered the legionary adjutant.
Immediately the drums picked up a marching beat, followed by the pipes playing The Muckin' o' Geordies' Byre. The order was repeated and modified by the cohort and maniple commanders.