Carnifex

9/5/467 AC, Indicus Koh Mountains, Central Pashtia

The winding mountain pass was sheer-sided, and strewn with rocks on both sides. Behind the rocks, and dug in where there was enough soil for that, Noorzad's band awaited the arrival of the point of the enemy column at the marker, a scraggly tree, which would signal the beginning of the ambush.

At the other end of this road was a Tauran Union base camp. Cutting the road would not cause them to starve. It would, on the other hand, make life difficult as supplies had to be flown in by helicopter.

Life was good for Noorzad and his band. Still, while his men enjoyed the benefits of battlefield success, honor, respect, trophies and—best of all—female slaves, he was quite indifferent to the material rewards. Oh, yes, he made use of the slave girls. That was under the advice of the Prophet (PBUH) and, so, was not only not a vice, it was a positive religious virtue. And religious virtue mattered to Noorzad. The only thing that mattered more was the triumph of his religion, submission to the will of Allah across this globe.

He knew his followers were not so pure of heart at he was himself. Some were here for revenge, after losing family. Others were in it for the money or the excitement. Some wanted to wipe out the shame caused by so many centuries of defeat of the sons of the Prophet by the bastard children of Christ. Some were in it for the robbery and rapine. Most were a mix.

Of all his band, only he was in the war purely for the advancement of his faith. Oh, yes, he liked the action, just as he liked the use of the women his men captured. But he would have done it without the women and, if he'd had a talent for anything but action, he could have done it from behind a desk.

Fortunately, he didn't have to do anything for which he lacked talent. All he had to do was fight. As he was about to do, as a matter of fact, with the Tauran Union column moving through the pass below.

* * *

The first sign of the ambush, to the Tauran troops in the truck column, was a large explosion at the point that blew a goodly boulder right through the cab of a truck, turning the driver and the column commander into so much strawberry-colored paste. The two soldiers who had been in the bed of the lead truck disappeared in the smoke and dust from the blast. Alive or dead; none could say.

Not that anyone cared to say. The explosion was the signal for riflemen, machine gunners and RGL gunners lining both sides of the pass to open up. Trucks exploded in living technicolor as machine guns set white-skinned soldiers to dancing the ballet. Many ran in panic, with no obvious regard for direction. Others froze in shock where they were, oblivious to what cover there might have been. Some tried to return fire but, with the leaden hail coming from both sides and above, the only cover available either left one open to fire from the other side of the pass or put one in a position—under a truck, typically—where no return fire was practical.

* * *

Noorzad didn't laugh at the plight of the Taurans; killing the infidel was too serious a business to laugh over until the job was done. These, at least the ones in the backs of the trucks, were Royal Haarlem Marines, so he thought. They weren't panicking, though under the circumstances their resistance was marginal. Little by little it was beaten down.

When he was satisfied that resistance was completely crushed, Noorzad gave the order to sweep into the kill zone. The sweep was not a precision movement. By ones and twos his men arose from their rocks and walked carefully downhill into the kill zone, rifles at the ready. Noorzad followed at a distance; for this he didn't need to lead from in front. Scattered shots ahead told him that his men were finding wounded.

He watched calmly as one of his men put the muzzle of his rifle to the head of a prone Tauran. The enemy soldier simply closed his eyes; not even having the will anymore to try to resist.

And that is why Taurus is doomed; their people no longer have the will to resist, but only to close their eyes to the reality around them. I wish the FSC were as accommodating.

Noorzad walked the line of trucks, many of them aflame. From somewhere—perhaps one of the trucks had contained personnel files—papers billowed in the smoky wind. Around him his men were stripping bodies of weapons, money, watches and boots. Still other parties ransacked the trucks for useable supplies. Much could not be used, of course, and would be burned or detonated in place. Still, there was much valuable loot.

He gave a few curt orders to his men, reminding them of their priorities. Then Noorzad spotted the prisoners. He was surprised, really; he hadn't expected any.

* * *

Private Verdonk was not a Marine. To understand that is to understand what followed. The Marines believed in something, even if it was only a faith in the Korps Mariniers, Haarlem's Brigade Princess Irene. Verdonk had never believed in anything. He'd known few people in his life, and none of those at all well, who really believed in anything. Believing in things—in people, in religions, in one's country and one's culture—this had fallen out of favor in Haarlem. Instead, from kindergarten to old age, one was expected to believe in everything. The problem with that was that faith in everything meant no special faith in anything; to love all mankind was to love none of it.

Love? What did Verdonk know of love beyond some hasty thrusting on a moldy mattress with some girl who meant even less to him than she did to herself? His people? How can you love a people that have given up on themselves? His country? What was a country within the Tauran Union except a lower mechanism for collecting taxes and redistributing income, for obeying and enforcing the diktats of the bureaucrats? His culture? His people had given up on that when they'd given up on themselves.

It was fair to say that, inside Verdonk, feeling was a vacuum awaiting fulfillment. He'd joined the army in search of that, joined it and discovered that the army was no better than the people from which it sprang.

And I didn't have the courage to join the Marines. But then, few do.

* * *

Noorzad looked over the baker's dozen prisoners his men had taken. Seven, he saw, were female. One was quite attractive; the others acceptable. They would become slaves. In fact, they already were.

The men were of more interest to Noorzad. Whether women submitted to the Faith or not was more or less irrelevant, so long as they submitted to the rules. A whip was a good enough tool for that. And Mary the Copt had made a perfectly acceptable slave for the Prophet, peace be upon him.

But the men? He'd been toying with the idea, of late, of seeing if any of the prisoners could be converted to the true faith instead of being killed. He'd never before tried but had heard rumors that others had had success with the attempt. It was also said that the fundamental emptiness of Tauran lives made such people truer converts, once they had had the chance to experience the richness and fullness of being in submission to the will of Allah. He thought it worth a try.

After all, they can always be killed later if it doesn't work.

He spoke a few words to his followers. The women were separated and hustled away. Then he spoke to the men, even as the cries and screams elicited by the mass rape of the women began. That the Haarlemers almost always spoke English rather well helped.

"Are any among you here Christians or Jews?" he asked.

All the Haarlemers were afraid to answer affirmatively. There were no Jews and, as a matter of faith, no real Christians among them anyway. Some might have answered that they were, since they went to services on rare occasion. But they were too afraid of being killed as infidels.

"I see," said Noorzad softly. He'd expected them to be either too faithless or too afraid to announce a faith if they had one. That was part of his plan. More loudly, he announced, "Then you are all either pagans or atheists and must be killed." He began to turn away.

"Wait!" pleaded Verdonk.

That, too, was part of Noorzad's plan.