Carnifex

12/8/469 AC, The Base

Robinson had slept in better places. Indeed it was hard to remember ever having slept in a worse.

Oh, the Salafis had tried to make him comfortable. They'd laid out for him and the marchioness a bedroll of stacked rugs and provided blankets. They'd even made provision of a slave girl—Volgan, Robinson thought—to warm the bed and entertain their guests.

She might have been more entertaining but for the whip marks Arbeit had added to her bare back; the girl already had a fair collection. Robinson had to turn off the light to keep the disturbing image of the girl's criss-crossed back out of his view.

The girl spoke no English. Neither did Robinson speak Arabic or Volgan. He'd had to make do with pointing and signs. She seemed to understand those well enough. In any case, she cooperated, albeit without any noticeable enthusiasm.

Which is perfect, thought the High Admiral, drifting off to sleep with the detonation device clasped in his hand under his pillow. The more of this world chained to these dolts the less of this world that will be a threat to mine.

* * *

His sleeping arrangements were considerably less luxurious than the High Admiral's. Bashir made do as best he could against the cold and rocky ground with a couple of blankets and his pack for a pillow.

Having sent his message and—wonder of wonders—received an answer, Bashir was more than certain that an attack was imminent. This had its good sides and bad.

I've done my job; done everything they asked. My family should be safe now. But what about me? When they attack they're going to see that their men have been crucified. They'll kill everything moving. Allah knows, I would. Shit.

So how do I keep them from killing me, too?

He hadn't come up with an answer before sleep took him. As he nodded off, Bashir wondered if he'd see the next sunrise or if a bomb would kill him while he slept.