The former government of Sumer had a cadre and arms for an insurgency in place before the Federated States and its allies invaded. In Carrera's area of responsibility, this insurgency, while bloody, was contained through the help of Sada's men and Carrera's ruthlessness. In the rest of the country, however, the unwise demobilization of the former armed forces of the Republic of Sumer left so many young men unemployed that the insurgency grew to nearly unmanageable levels. Eventually, Carrera's area of responsibility was changed and he was forced to undertake a difficult campaign against a city, Pumbadeta, held by the rebels. He surrounded and starved the city, forcing women and children to remain within it until he was certain that every dog, cat and rat had been eaten. Only then did he permit the women and children to leave. His clear intention was to kill every male in Pumbadeta capable of sprouting a beard.
After the departure of the noncombatants, Carrera's Legion continued the blockade until the civilians within the town rebelled against the rebels. Having a rare change of heart, Carrera aided the rebels against rebellion to take the town. Thereafter nearly every insurgent found within Pumbadeta was executed, along with several members of the press sympathetic to the rebels. The few insurgents he—temporarily—spared were sent to a surface ship for rigorous interrogation.
With the war in Sumer winding down, the Federated States, now under Progressive rather than Federalist leadership, unwisely fired Carrera and his legions. And, as should have been predicted, the terrorist money and recruits that had formerly been sent to Sumer, where the Salafi cause was lost, were instead redirected to Pashtia, where it still had a chance. The campaign in Pashtia then began to flow against the Federated States and its unwilling allies of the Tauran Union.
More than a little bitter at having his contract violated and being let go on short notice, Carrera exacts an exorbitant price from the Federated States before he will commit his forces to the war in Pashtia. That price being paid, however, and in gold, he didn't stint but waged a major—and typically ruthless—campaign to restore the situation in Pashtia, which had deteriorated badly under Tauran interference and faint support.
Ultimately, Carrera got wind of a major meeting taking place across the nearby border with Kashmir between the chief of the United Earth Peace Fleet and the Emir of the terrorists, the Salafi Ikhwan. He attacked and in the attack and its aftermath killed thousands, captured hundreds, and seized a dozen more nuclear weapons, gifts of the UEPF to their terrorist allies. One of these weapons Carrera delivered to the capital of the major terrorist supporting state of Yithrab. When detonated, this weapon not only killed the entire clan of the chief of the Salafi Ikhwan, but also at least a million citizens of that city. In the process, he framed the Salafis for the detonation.
That destruction, seemingly at the hand of an Allah grown weary of terrorism, along with the death or capture and execution of the core of the Salafi movement in the attack across the Pashtian-Kashmiri border, effectively ended the terrorist war on Terra Nova.
The price to Carrera has also been heavy. With the end of the war with the terrorists, and having had more revenge against the murderers of his family than any man ought desire, he has collapsed.
Unfortunately, he is still needed by his adopted home of Balboa.
Chapter One
How is Man to be well-governed? How is he to govern himself? Many approaches have been tried and many more proposed. Some of these have been, in the words of a philosopher of Old Earth whom we know of only as R.A.H. , "Weird in the extreme." None have worked; none have lasted. All have ultimately failed and usually in the most disastrous ways imaginable.
It must be admitted, as we begin our inquiry, that it may be that there is no answer. Possibly man cannot be well governed, or not for very long. Possibly he cannot govern himself very well for very long, either.
And yet, there may be a clue in the words of another philosopher of the home world, the man we know of as Sherlock Holmes (which is probably a pseudonym). Perhaps, just perhaps, if we can eliminate the impossible, what will then remain, however improbable, might be the answer.
Let us, then, begin our inquiry.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 470 United Earth Peace Fleet Spirit of Peace
Against the tapestry of stars the ship, its lightsail furled, spun on its own long axis. Below, likewise spinning, though at right angles to the ship, was the unimaginatively named blue, green and white world of Terra Nova. Between the world and the stars, past the ship's geosynchronous orbit, whirled the moons Hecate, Eris, and Bellona.
Inside the ship, on the low gravity observation deck, through a thick, transparent viewing port, Captain and High Admiral pro tem Marguerite Wallenstein searched for familiar constellations, mostly hidden in the bright sea of stars.
Eyes squinting, Marguerite managed to pick out the first of the five stars that formed the fangs of the constellation Smilodon. The head, however, was beyond her ability to perceive among the mass, even with those five to guide her. After a while, she gave up on the rest of Smilodon and began to search for the Leaping Maiden. This one was easier to see with the naked eye, situated as it was to the galactic north, in a field less dense with stars.
This is a waste of time, Wallenstein half-chided herself. But for the nonce it's easier than thinking. For the moment, thinking was sending her blood pressure up and giving her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
A leggy, blue-eyed blond who had missed beauty by an almost imperceptible fraction, Wallenstein was, despite appearances, well over a century old. The extra years and youth were the gift of Old Earth's anti-agathic medicine . . . that, and her position within the second highest of the home world's six castes.
In her hand, resting on her thigh, Wallenstein grasped a paper copy of a message received just that day via courier drone. The paper ordered her home for "consultations."
Still, I must think. What the fuck do they want of me, back on Earth? wondered Wallenstein. What could the Consensus ask of me there that they could not just as well ask me via courier? I don't like this. Does the Consensus suspect I had a hand in the disappearance of my predecessor? Do they know I did? Do they know I helped one of the barbarians below to capture him and the Marchioness of Amnesty? Do they know about the nukes? If they do, if they know any of that, I'll be going home to a quick court-martial, a quicker trip back to space, and an even quicker trip out an air lock sans suit.
But it's not like I have a choice. They've already designated my stand in. If I don't go, the Duke of Pksoi, Battaglia, will certainly have me arrested and that trip out the airlock will come even sooner.
Elder gods, if we knew of even one more world, I'd just take my ship there, colonize it, and set up in business for myself.
Sadly, we don't. It's Old Earth and New, and the rift that joins them, and that's it.
I can't even mutiny here. Senior in the Fleet I may be, but unlike most of the ships' captains I'm not in the peerage. A mutiny would have me and Peace and maybe a couple of others against the rest. That's a losing proposition, too. My own crew would space me if I tried it.