Carnifex

13/2/467 AC (Old Earth Year 2521), UEPF Spirit of Peace

Going after the filthy capitalists, down below, was one thing. After all, how much sympathy could one summon for a class always eager to underbid each other for the rope that would be used to hang them all? But going after non-governmental organizations, the shaft of Robinson's spear; that was something else again.

"It's pretty depressing," observed Peace's captain, Marguerite Wallenstein. "Bad enough that the local office of Amnesty, Interplanetary was defanged. What do we do when one part of our overall program attacks another?"

Robinson nodded his head glumly at the tall blond. Though Wallenstein was approximately a century and a half old, anti-agathic treatments kept her looking, and acting—in bed at least, like a twenty-five year old. Overall, Robinson much preferred her to the other crew with which he made do from time to time.

"Depressing is hardly strong enough," he said with disgust.

The news was all over television, down below. Likewise, the local net was eaten up with it; a hospital ship captured, its safe robbed, a dozen of its crew butchered for the cameras. Even now the broadcasts showed a long line of impressed civilians in the former capital of Xamar unloading everything from crates of morphine and antibiotics to X-ray machines to cots.

Worse, the captors had announced that unless ransom was paid the crew would be auctioned off as slaves. Since the going ransom was what had become the standard of late, a million FSD a head, no one who was willing to pay was also in a financial position to. No more was Robinson, even had he been inclined.

On the other hand, the new progressive administration in the Federated States, which did have the wherewithal to pay, simply could not for political reasons.

Wallenstein rested her chin on slender, graceful hands. "The cheapest way to get them back, you know, would be to send someone to bid on them ourselves. They couldn't go for more than twenty or thirty thousand FSD each, not at open auction."

Robinson smiled. "Aren't you clever, Marguerite? But that's still more than we can lightly pay. This fleet operates on a shoestring, as you know as well as anyone."

"Not us . . . but what if we drop a hint in a friendly ear?"

"Whose ear? The World League couldn't even pay that; it might mean they'd no longer be able to have servants to fill the water carafes at their meetings. The Taurans aren't interested since the crew is Columbian. And the progressives in the FSC would be turned out of office if they paid or even if they bid."

Wallenstein began to smirk, then snicker, and finally to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" asked Robinson.

"Well . . . I was just imagining the World League killing two birds with one stone. They bid on the captives but then keep them as slaves to fill the water carafes at the meetings."

Though Wallenstein was joking, Robinson considered it seriously for half a minute. Sighing, he answered, "Nah . . . they'd need to keep them either at the headquarters in First Landing or at the other one in Helvetia. Slavery's illegal both places."

"I was only joking," Wallenstein insisted.

"In any case, the problem appears insoluble without intervention. No, not the problem with these captives. They really matter for little, whatever happens to them. But we must damage Terra Novan commerce even while the Kosmo movement damages the social cohesion of its nations. Make me an appointment with Mustafa, would you Marguerite? And have my shuttle prepared to bring me to Atlantis Base for that appointment."