Carnifex

24/8/466 AC, Isla Real, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova

A solar chimney dominated the island's skyline, rising several hundred meters above its highest elevation, the otherwise unnamed Hill 287. From the base of that chimney, a thick tube of reinforced concrete, ran an extension northward, toward the equator, along the side of the hill. This ended at one of the three largest greenhouses on the planet, the other two also being the foundations for solar chimneys. Fixed mirrors, sighted to reflect the maximum amount of sunlight into the greenhouse with the least expense and for the least effort, sparkled on the hillside.

The greenhouse contained air heated by the local sun. The air escaped along the tube that ran along the ground and up the hill before making its final exit at the top of the chimney. Along the way, the wind thus created turned turbines that produced the electricity needed for the island's twenty-one thousand legionary personnel and their families plus those of the thirteen thousand legionaries deployed to the war. Intended, eventually, to provide electricity almost twice that many, the chimney operated at less than half capacity.

There was probably money to be made in connecting the island's own electrical grid to the larger grid of the host country, the Republic of Balboa. Moreover, there had in the past been murmurings from the mainland about forcing the owners of the island, the Legion del Cid, to do just that. The response of the Legion, having several times the coercive power of the Republic, to the idea of being forced into anything was silence containing a heavy admixture of wry contempt.

Still, in a spirit of "one enemy at a time," the Legion had instead constructed another solar chimney on the mainland, one which it continued to own and the electricity from which it sold. There were plans for a third and fourth, and vague interest in building a fifth through fifteenth, though these would really be more than the largely agrarian Republic needed. Still, one never knew when a couple of extra terawatts might come in handy.

On the other hand, at nearly seven hundred million FSD, Federated States drachma, each, solar chimneys were not cheap. Even with the money saved by running significant portions of the chimney along the ground and up mountains, the cost remained very high. It was especially high in land as individual Balboan landholders parted with their patrimony most reluctantly. After that initial capital investment, however, fairly abundant electricity, in the range of two hundred megawatts per tower, was available more or less continuously for no more than the price of occasionally replaced turbines, and the personnel who oversaw them and kept the jungle at bay.

Contemplating from his office window the vapor cloud at the top of the island's chimney, Patricio Carrera wondered if the effort and expense were worth it. On the other hand, what price is too high to be free of energy blackmail by the Salafis?

Toward that end, the Legion had also funded, and made some profit on, a number of thermal depolymerization plants about the Republic. These took waste—mostly agricultural waste but also human sewage and even old tires—and converted it into oil at a rate of about two and a half to three barrels per ton from the best feedstock. Not every stock was of the best, however. The average yield was much less. Even so, the TDP plants, too, had gone a long way toward getting the Legion's host, Balboa, out from under the Salafi thumb.

And that is always worth doing, Carrera thought with satisfaction. And even if Sada—no Salafi, he—were able to supply us with oil someday, the supply would still be in other's hands. Though, I suppose, with us taking whatever sewage and garbage can be shipped in from some of the larger cities of South Columbia and Colombia del Norte, our supply is still partially not in our own hands.

Carrera, once known as Hennessey, had aged much more than the seven years that had passed since his family's murder in the great terrorist attacks that had begun this war. Hair once black had gone mostly gray. The sun and wind and rain had begun turning his face a tough leathery brown. Only the eyes, a bright and clear blue like the sky on a cloudless summer day, remained youthful, and even those were framed by crows' feet at the corners.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. "Tribune Esterhazy is here, Duque," announced Carrera's aide de camp.

"Send him in," said Carrera, looking up at the heavy, locally manufactured, mahogany door to his office. The door had been ornately hand-carved with military scenes at a factory, the Fabrica Hertzog, a couple of hundred miles up the coast and a bit inland. There was a contract between the Legion and the factory for a certain number of discharged legionaries to be apprenticed there, with the Legion picking up the tab of their training. The door had been made by these apprentices.

The scene-carved door opened, held by an aide. In walked Matthias Esterhazy, formerly a major in the Airborne Assault Engineers of the Army of the Federal Republic of Sachsen on the continent of Taurus, later an investment banker with SachsenBank, most recently comptroller and chief of investments of both the Legion del Cid, SA and Carrera's own family's corporation of Chatham, Hennessey and Schmied. He had other duties, as well; most significantly, Esterhazy was the direct representative of the Legion to the War Department of the Federated States of Columbia.

About Carrera's height, five-ten or so, Esterhazy's appearance, like his name, indicated a heavy admixture of Magyar along with his predominantly Sachsen heritage. He was, by nature, darker than Carrera. The natural dark could not easily be seen, however, except in the eyes. Contrasted to Carrera's icy blue, Esterhazy's were hazel.

The Sachsen's skin was only slightly olive in tone. While Carrera's had tanned to a dark finish to match his office door, as one would expect with someone who spent nine months in ten under the pitiless sun of the Sumeri desert, Esterhazy had paled under the weak sun and indoor lighting of the metropolis of First Landing, the largest city in the Federated States.

Carrera shook hands over the desk and indicated a seat with the other hand. He pushed aside a map. Had anyone looked, the map would have shown a one to two hundred-thousand scale topological view of Pashtia, a half mountainous-half desertified half-failed state south of Kashmir and north of the Islamic glacis states along the border of the Volgan Republic. There was a war going on in Pashtia, a sister campaign to the one being waged in Sumer.

"Good news and bad news, Patricio," Esterhazy began, after seating himself. Carrera noted that Esterhazy's Sachsen accent had almost disappeared under the influence of seven years of living in the city of First Landing in the Federated States.

"Bad news first."

Esterhazy had anticipated that. "In a few days the Progressive Party is going to win the next election in the Federated States. Yes, it will be close but they're still going to win. Their most likely candidate for SecWar is James Malcolm. I have spoken with Malcolm, at a fund raiser. The Legion's contract for Sumer will not be renewed. No possible campaign contribution, or even outright bribe, that we could offer will change that. I have also spoken with your family senator, Harriet Rodman. She says that getting it renewed is beyond her power and that it doesn't matter what you pay her; it would still be beyond her power."

Carrera shrugged. "I expected that. The campaign in Sumer is pretty much over, anyway. That Harriet can't help is . . . disappointing. But she's always been up front with me and if she says she can't then she probably really can't. Pity. And the good news . . . ?"

Esterhazy, uninvited but welcome, took a cigarette from a pack on Carrera's desk. Lighting and puffing it to life, he continued, "Financially, you can continue to support the force you have, and even expand it to the full fifty thousand you want to. But that is all; you don't and won't—not with anything low risk that I can do, investment-wise—have the means to continue the war at the current level. At least you won't be able to continue it indefinitely."

"Details?" Carrera asked, likewise reaching for a cigarette and leaning back to put his feet up on the desk.

"I've been conservative, as you wished me to be," Esterhazy cautioned. "Right now, legionary assets are on the order of fifty-two billion FSD. The income from this, after adjusting for inflation and the limited tax we pay, is about two billion FSD per year. This pays for the force but for almost nothing else. It absolutely will not pay for maintaining a full legion of over thirteen thousand men deployed and at war without invading the corpus. In the long run, that is death."

Carrera thought, In the long run, we're all dead anyway.

"There is," Esterhazy continued, "a way to substantially increase the amount I have to work with, if you are willing."

Carrera's eyes narrowed. Whenever Esterhazy used the phrase "substantially increase" it always meant "risk." Carrera was not particularly risk averse, in most respects. Risking money, however? That went against his family's grain. Besides, he understood the kind of risks he took willingly. Those were military risks. He didn't, quite despite upbringing, really understand finances.

"Go on," he said, warily.

"Well . . . you need to start making your own money," Esterhazy announced. He hastily added, "Not money for street commerce. I mean—and I've thought on this a lot, Patricio—that you can increase your assets by converting some of it to precious metals and then offering precious metal certificates, PMCs, for X quantity of gold, silver, platinum, palladium and rhodium to people—rich people—who feel the need to have escape money or even just a hedge against inflation or economic collapse. There are a lot of people like that in the world, you know. There are, for example, something on the order of half a trillion FSD"—Federated States Drachma—"out of circulation around the globe, many—perhaps most—of them held for just those reasons. All the inflation on that money represents profit, risk-free profit, for the Federated States."

"So where would our profit come in?" Carrera asked.

"In two ways," Esterhazy answered. "As it is very unlikely that everyone in the world is likely to ask for their precious metals all at the same time, we can sell a lot more of the certificates than we actually have precious metals on hand. Equally important, I can play the market, buying up certificates and metal when the value of, say, gold is down and selling them when it's high. This is all really just playing the market, but with the added features of leveraging a smaller amount of metal and ourselves becoming something like inside traders. I am good at what I do, Patricio. I will make you money."

"And how much of our fifty-two billion would you like to put into this?"

"Ideally all . . . " Esterhazy was stopped by Carrera's vigorously shaken head. " . . . but I know you won't go for that. How about twenty percent then?"

"How about five percent and we'll see how it works?" Carrera countered.

Esterhazy sighed. "With a mere two and a half billion, Patricio, I can't exercise the kind of leverage that would really generate a profit. How about that amount over and above what I need to generate sufficient operating expenses for the full force . . . say . . . . five billion?"

Carrera considered quietly for a few moments. "I could accept that amount . . . maybe. But see, Matthias; I am not really worried about our being unemployed for very long."

"But I just told you . . . "

"Never mind that," Carrera interrupted, reaching for the map he had earlier pushed aside. "The FSC's War Department may not want to renew our contract for Sumer. I can hardly blame them. But there's still a piracy problem at the edges of the Islamic and Salafi world and the old Venganza"—a Great Global War era aircraft carrier the Legion had purchased for a song—"is about to be recommissioned . . . though we still haven't got a name for the ship. I think they, or somebody, may hire us for that. Moreover, they're going to need a good infantry division for Pashtia here," his finger indicated the map, "before too very long. More specifically, the FSC is going to need a good infantry division capable of operating with very constrained logistics. We're the only ones who fit that bill, the only ones on the planet."

Esterhazy contemplated that. He had good reason to trust Carrera's military judgment. He had no reason to trust his financial instincts, however.

"Patricio, if you are that certain of a renewed contract, why not take the greater chance on the PMCs?"

Carrera's eyes narrowed as he glared at Esterhazy. "Sneaky fucking Magyar."

"With Magyars for friends you don't need enemies," Esterhazy quoted. "Still, I am your friend and this would be a tremendous opportunity."

"You want to put ten billion FSD into metals? Ten billion?"

"Patricio, I can use that much and triple it."

Carrera sighed, deeply. Yes, he was that sure of a new contract for Pashtia. He just couldn't be quite sure of exactly when.

"Two and a half billion now," he offered. "I'll double that in six months if it's working out. When I get a contract for Pashtia I'll go for the rest. Fair enough?"

Esterhazy nodded, shallowly. If it wasn't quite fair or quite smart, he could still work with it.

"Good. Do it. By the way, when's your flight back to the FS?"

"Tomorrow morning. Airship from Herrera Airport direct to First Landing."

"Excellent. Dinner with my family, then, tonight. Say . . . nineteen hundred."

"I'd be honored, Patricio," Esterhazy answered. "By the way, who did you leave minding the shop back in Sumer?"

"Sada."

"You trusted an Arab to be in charge?"

"Matthias, everybody trusts Sada," Carrera answered warmly. "He's as reliable as the moons and as strong as the sun. Has he got his own agenda? Sure; he wants to run the country. And, to the extent I can, I intend to help him do just that. If everyone over there were like him—"

Esterhazy didn't know Sada very well. They'd only met a few times, those rare occasions when Carrera sent Sam Cheatham on leave and let the Sachsen-Magyar come out and fill the duties of legionary chief engineer. He did, however, know Carrera very well.

You need Sada, Esterhazy thought, don't you? Not just because he's a fine soldier and a better politician than you. You need him because he's your proof to yourself that you haven't gone all the way over the edge, that you're not a genocidal maniac, that you can humanly and humanely distinguish between enemies and those who just share some form of a religion.

"Speaking of being over there," Esterhazy said, "what do I have to do to get the fuck out of First Landing and do another tour?"

Carrera thought on that. At length, he answered, "I don't think you do, not in Sumer anyway. I do have some things I need a competent engineer to look at for me in Pashtia, though."