Carnifex

12/1/467 AC, Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia

James K. Malcolm should have been President. Everything he'd ever done in his life, from serving in the armed forces, to taking initially unpopular anti-war and progressive stands, to his series of marriages to increasingly wealthy and connected women, to being photographed windsurfing off the coast of Botulph; everything had been geared to one sole end, that he should rest his feet on the presidential desk and guide the country to his version of a progressive future.

But it had not yet come. He'd had his chance and blown it almost three and a half decades before he'd made his runs. Twice he'd tried. The second time he'd even failed of nomination, despite his latest wife's money and even a substantial portion of his own. He'd been offered the vice-presidential slot and turned it down, instead taking the job of secretary of war, an infinitely more important job than Vice President as long as the country was at war. He had one more chance at the office of President, and SecWar seemed the best place to spend his time before he took that chance.

And to do that, I need to be remembered as the man who ended the war in Sumer. Moreover, I need the extreme Progressives to see me as the man who surrendered. I also need to be seen as the man who disengaged favorably by the Independents. And I need to do that without at the same time looking like I surrendered to the Federalists.

I also need to be the one who oversees final victory in Pashtia. For that is what will be remembered in eight years.

After having been announced via intercom by the receptionist, Malcolm politely knocked at the door to the President's office, then waited patiently to be asked in. When he entered he affected not to notice that the President was rearranging his trousers even as a female intern was reapplying her lipstick.

After a second's more fussing with his belt line the President stood and advanced, offering his hand. The intern slipped out a side door.

"Good of you to come by, James," President Karl Schumann said as the two shook hands by the desk. "Please have a seat," Schumann indicated a couch on the other side of the Trapezoid, as the presidential office was known.

After Malcolm had seated himself, and Schumann had taken a chair opposite, the President asked, "What are we going to do about Sumer and Pashtia?"

"As far as Sumer goes, Karl, we can do pretty much as we like. Their election two weeks ago of a man who has expressly vowed to get rid of the parliamentary constitution we gave them fairly well absolves us of any further obligations there. On the other hand, I am reliably informed that that man, Adnan Sada, is very capable and very ruthless and quite possibly doesn't need any more support from us. Win-win, and we can start pulling out in a couple of months."

"All to the good," Schumann agreed. "What about Pashtia?"

"That one we must fight out," Malcolm said. "It's the only campaign in the war that has strong bipartisan support. Moreover, the last administration, mostly by virtue of invading Sumer and sucking up jihadi money and fighters that would otherwise have gone to Pashtia, made Pashtia look like it was won already."

"And wasn't it?"

"No, Karl," Malcolm said. "With Sumer lost to them, the Ikhwan know they must fight it out in Pashtia or give up all claim to legitimacy. Moreover, the money and fighters that used to go to Sumer will now go there. Worse, they have developed other sources of funding. Worst of all, the programs the last administration tried to use to interfere with that funding we caused to be destroyed to discredit the Federalists in order to regain power. We can hardly use those programs ourselves."

Schumann chuckled. "Are you really a man of principle, James? Is that even possible? Never mind; the same media who undermined the last president to get us back into power will completely ignore anything we do that helps us stay in power."

"I'm not so sure of that, Karl."

"Never mind that, either, James. I am sure. The press has a price though."

Malcolm cocked his head, inquisitively.

"The mercenary group from Balboa must go. The editor of the First Landing Times was explicit about that."

"Oh, Mr. President, they're going."