Carnifex

19/2/467 AC, High Admiral's Quarters, Atlantis Base

In the end, Mustafa had refused to travel unless the UEPF sent a shuttle for him. Even a private charter was impossible, especially so as—whatever their other failings, national security-wise were concerned—the FSC's Progressive administration was even more fanatically dedicated to getting him than even the Federalists had been. Mustafa didn't know that the Progressives were so determined to get him precisely so they could have an excuse to call off the war. There had been days when, had he known this, he might just have turned himself in, if only in order to take pressure off of his movement to allow it to rebuild from the twin disasters of Pashtia in 460, Sumer beginning in 461, and continuing on to the current day.

The shuttle, a pumpkin-seed shape, had come almost silently in the night, to a spot Mustafa had picked that would be safe from prying eyes. There he had boarded through the lit rectangle of the hatch, been strapped in by the crew chief—an act Mustafa felt deep down to be highly impious—and then been flown at a very high speed to the UEPF's base colony on the island of Atlantis, in the middle of the Mar Furioso. A darkened limousine bought by the UEPF from Sachsen had picked him up at the landing field and whisked him briskly to the High Admiral's quarters.

Most Salafis, most Arabs or Moslems of whatever sect, would have sent anywhere from hours to days in small talk, beating around the bush, before getting to the point. Mustafa was not like that. Perhaps it was his nature, perhaps merely because he was not a well man and felt he might have little enough time left. Whatever the case; when Robinson went directly to the point Mustafa picked right up without further waste of time.

"You've got to stop this decentralized mayhem, to assert real control over your movement, and to begin to seriously plan, not just leave everything up to the will of your god," Robinson began, after the usual, but curt, greetings.

"I know," Mustafa said, and then lit a cigarette.

"You've got to begin a campaign of finan . . . what did you say?"

"I said that I know. The Nazrani have taught me; Allah helps those who also help themselves. Faith is still key, of course. Yet the Maker of Universes would not have allowed us to fall as low as we have, despite our perfect faith, unless He also wanted us to think, work and plan for our own good, and His."

"Oh . . . " Robinson was momentarily nonplussed. "Well in that case, we can begin to plan and fight a war, together."

"Before that, infidel, tell me why. Why are you willing to help us?" Mustafa raised his hands as if fending off a blow . . . or a lie.

"And do not speak falsely. I know you have no love for us. Not only do you not share our religion you do not share any religion."

Robinson poured himself a drink. And why not? If the Salafi can smoke, a custom I abhor; I can drink. And, indeed, the Salafi said not a word. That, too, suggested a very changed outlook.

"I don't really care who wins." The High Admiral admitted. "Or if anyone does, provided that the Federated States and the civilization they share with the Taurans . . . oh, and Yamato, too, of course . . . provided they all lose. If the cosmopolitan progressives win this planet they will turn it into something that is not dangerous to my home, Earth. If you win you will turn it into something that would not have been dangerous to my world even a thousand years ago. Either is acceptable to me and I see no reason why it would matter if both of you got half a world. I care only that those who could be a threat to my world never become one."

Mustafa, lips pursed, rocked his head from side to side for a minute, thinking about that. "Are you so sure my people could never become a threat?"

"Yes, I am that sure. To be a threat you must travel space. To travel space you must progress technologically. And that kind of progress is everything your movement abhors. That much, at least, you share with the Kosmos. At least your side is honest about it."

Robinson hesitated briefly before adding, "And . . . frankly, the Kosmos have little long-term chance of global success, not here. They only succeeded on Earth because immigration patterns to Terra Nova pulled away more and more of the traditional, religious and nationalist sorts, leaving the Earth behind for my ancestors. There is no new world such people can leave for from here."

Mustafa nodded. That wasn't important. "And you wish to help, more than you helped with the attacks that began this war?"

"I will help more, much more. Still no nukes, though."

Mustafa shrugged an indifference he did not truly feel. Nuclear weapons . . . what a dream to have them and use them on the Nazrani and the atheists.

"Details?"

"First, I need your support in taking over the direction of the pirates operating off the coast of Xamar and the Straits of Nicobar. They can—"

"Xamar I already control," Mustafa interjected. "The Nicobars listen to no one. I've tried."

"Then the question is whether they should be attacked and brought to heel or if they can be induced by incentives."

"What sort of incentives? And how do you provide incentives to ten thousand men, every one of whom considers himself a chief answerable to no one?"

"By helping one chieftain to become paramount, to rise above all others."