Carnifex cl-2

by Tom Kratman

  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.

  18/5/467 AC, HQ, Legion del Cid, Isla Real

  "Gentlemen, I need a plan," Carrera announced at a special meeting called with certain key staff officers.

  This was no big deal; his staff was used to it. They knew, too, that whatever he wanted they could almost certainly deliver on. After all, they'd never failed him yet. His next words, however, were a bit out of the ordinary.

  "Rather," he continued, "I need a transformation plan, one that converts the legions as they are into a corps. I need to be able to do that without irreparably breaking the system that we have. I further need to be able to transport that corps to the southern border of Pashtia with full supplies for six months' intensive operations. After that takes place—in fact I need it before the deployment takes place—we need to be able to fight our way from Mazari Omar to Chabolo. Following that, we will need a plan to redeploy most of that corps, leaving a standard legion behind for interdiction and counter-insurgency."

  Now that was ambitious. The staff sat silent until Dan Kuralski whispered, "Holy shit."

  Kuralski looked up, asking, more loudly, "Do you have any idea what you're asking, Pat? To transform from legions to a full corps, to get those to an inland railhead . . . We'll screw everything up, organizationally. Do you have a contract for this?"

  "Not yet. But my family senator tells me that Hamilton, FD, is getting into a panic. The Taurans are crumbling in Pashtia. The Progressive Party administration can't commit more FSC troops without crumbling, too. That leaves us. Harriet is pushing—and, yes, it is costing us, costing me, to have her push—for them to rehire us for Pashtia. By the time they do that the country will be half lost. I could be convinced otherwise but for now I think nothing less than a corps can fight its way to Chabolo and retrieve the effort there. Do you think we could get by with less?"

  Kuralski didn't answer that question. Instead he started thinking aloud on what a corps might look like.

  "We could take three legions. Then we strip off the mechanized cohorts and the Cazador cohorts—maybe minus one maniple each—to create a brigade of each. For headquarters and support for those brigades we can raid the schoolhouse for cadre, the head of the Armor School and Cazador School and their staffs becoming brigade headquarters. Maybe we should do the same with the air alae from those legions. That leaves the infantry legions with four infantry cohorts, a heavy maniple and a Cazador maniple, the combat support and artillery cohorts, and the service support and headquarters cohorts. Maybe, too, we strip off one maniple of heavy artillery each to form a corps artillery, the Artillery School providing headquarters, as well. We could do something similar with the other combat support branches like engineers, air defense and MPs. We can probably curtail courses for the D echelon legionary cadre to fill in gaps. God, though, that leaves little enough here."

  "I know," Carrera agreed. "Assume we'll actually call up some of the reserves for the first time. Assume that we'll leave D echelon to fill up to replace the corps later on. Beyond that, you're chief of staff. So go staff it, chief. I want to see a preliminary OPLAN within . . . oh, two weeks."

  26/5/467 AC, Barco del Legion Dos Lindas, Xamar

  "I once wanted to see this sight so badly," said Kurita, looking out at the steaming Uhuru coast from the bridge of the Dos Lindas. "Back during the war we tried so hard to get this far. And then the FS Navy caught us in the open, far from land based air support. And they butchered us. My ship escaped, barely, along with half a dozen destroyers and two light cruisers. The rest went down."

  Fosa contemplated how that must have felt, saw in his mind's eyes his own fleet going down in smoke and flame, sailors trapped below decks slowly drowning, some struggling in the oil covered water as the flames lick along the surface to drive them below to death. He shivered, though if Kurita saw it, he affected not to notice.

  Instead, Kurita asked, "What's next, Captain-san?"

  Interlude

  Finca Carrera, Guayabal, Panama, 5 January, 2091

  Belisario Carrera shook with rage. "This land has been in my family for nearly five hundred years. What the fuck do you mean that the UN is taking half of it?"

  The uniformed policemen, local boys all, escorting the executive assistant to the Deputy Special Representative for the Secretary General to the Republic of Panama, looked down at the ground, ashamed and disgusted. They understood that attachment to the land. But what choice had they? They had their own wives and children to think about.

  "There is no call for profanity, Mr. Carrera," said the sweating, suit-clad bureaucrat, stiffly. His accent was strange to Belisario, his Spanish clipped and harsh. "No call at all. Your democratically elected government has agreed to allow the United Nations to assist it in better apportioning your nation's wealth for the betterment of mankind. That your ancestors stole this land for themselves does not mean, sir, that you own it. It is part of the common heritage of the Family of Man."

  Belisario's thirteen-year-old daughter, Mitzilla, chose that moment to come out of the house to stand beside her father. "Get off our land, you bastard," she said.

  The bureaucrat looked down at Mitzi's face and then continued on. When his eyes reached her chest they opened wide with surprise and desire. He tore them away, most reluctantly, and returned his attention to her father. He said, "Perhaps, for a suitable consideration, something can be worked out, Mr. Carrera."

  Belisario said nothing. But he looked at the UN representative in a way that said, without words, You are a dead man.

  * * *

  It was a UN court that sat in judgment over Belisario. A national court simply could not be trusted to give a proper judgment. In neither case, though, would the sentence have been death.

  "Belisario Carrera," said the judge, "you have been found guilty of the premeditated murder of Robert Nyere. We have no death penalty, as we have grown above such barbarisms. If we did, I would certainly have no choice but to sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead. I would enjoy passing such sentence, Mr. Carrera, as the man you murdered, a flawless and faultless gem of mankind, was my nephew. As is, I sentence you to transportation for life to the colony of Balboa, on the Planet Terra Nova. May the planet kill you in a way I am forbidden from doing."

  "Bailiff, take him away."

  Long Island, New York, 15 April, 2099

  It wasn't bad enough that Detective Juan Alvarez, as a city employee, had to pay tax to the city of New York, along with the State of New York, and the United States. No, no; that wasn't nearly bad enough. Now he had to pay as well, after filling out a half inch thick stack of virtually incomprehensible forms, to Earth's United Nations.

  Actually, it was worse than that. The UN didn't collect a single tax. This would have been too simple and employed far too few bureaucrats. Instead, Alvarez had to pay to the General Assembly Fund, the Peacekeeping Fund, the Food and Agricultural Organization Fund, the Arts and Humanities Fund, the Reparations to the OAU for the Loss of Human Capital Fund . . .

  "For Christ's sake," Alv
arez blurted out, putting his head down and running thick fingers through thinning hair, "my family were goddamned serfs to the Spanish. Most of my wife's were serfs to the English. Why the hell are we paying the descendants of people who made money selling slaves for having sold those slaves?"

  There was no answer, of course, or none that would satisfy. The real, and unsatisfactory, answer was that money was collected to go to the Organization of African Unity, in order to employ bureaucrats who knew nothing and did nothing, and pad the accounts of the chiefs of state of the countries that made up the OAU and those of their families.

  With a sigh, Alvarez wrote out a check and attached it to the Human Capital Fund return, then added those to the pile. The next form was the tax return for the Repatriation Fund for non-Islamic citizens of the Zionist Entity. This, however, was an optional tax, mostly paid by Islamics across the world. Alvarez crinkled up the form and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  UN direct taxation was not something federally mandated, nor even approved. Instead, over the last fifteen years, a growing number of states of the United States had adopted UN taxation within their state tax codes. They received a percentage back, much as private corporations and companies did with the sales tax, for what they collected on behalf of the UN. There was talk of an amendment to the Constitution. Certainly the Supreme Court had been no help since it had unilaterally decided it was subject to the laws and rulings of various international tribunals.

  "I could move down south," Alvarez said aloud. "They don't collect for the UN, yet. But . . . " He shook his head, no. The language of the American Deep South was now mostly Spanish, and Alvarez didn't speak Spanish. Not much work for a police detective in North Carolina who couldn't speak Spanish, less still in Texas.

  "Besides, they're a mess down there; Mexico in confederate gray. I couldn't afford the bribes to get on a police force even if I did speak Spanish. No wonder great-great-grandpappy wet his ankles in the Rio Grande. No wonder . . . "

  Alvarez felt one of those rare epiphanous moments that happen, sometimes, when two or three different little reminders hit all at once. The Jews are leaving Israel en masse for Terra Nova, and the more that leave, the more want to. When the going got tough in Mexico, not that it was ever likely to have been too easy, Great-Grandpappy lit out for greener pastures. And there's not too much fucking bureaucracy on the New World.

  "Honey?" he called out to his wife. "I just had an idea . . . "

  Chapter Seven

  Set a thief to catch a thief.

  —Gallic Proverb

  Set a lawless non-governmental organization to destroy a lawless non-governmental organization.

  —Patricio Carrera

  UEPF Spirit of Peace, 27/5/467

  "Computer, center on target and enhance scale."

  At Robinson's command the image on his Kurosawa screen shifted, then changed, going from the western half of the continent of Uhuru and the eastern half of the Sea of Sind to a narrow view of Xamar Coast and, finally, to the little flotilla comprising the Dos Lindas task force. It was in real time; he could actually see the aircraft taking off and landing.

  "From here we could toss a rock down and destroy their flagship, but . . . "

  "But," Wallenstein interjected, "the FSC has made clear that any direct military action on the part of the UEPF on any target down below will be an instant casus belli. No matter the party in power, none have ever wavered from it. They'd be hounded from office if they did."

  Robinson sneered, not at Wallenstein but at the memory of his predecessor, the High Admiral who had scorched two of the Federated States' cities.

  "I wonder if he knew the trouble he would cause us."

  Wallenstein shook her blonde head. "I doubt it. It's easy to forget how quickly an uncivilized and uncontrolled people can advance if they have good reason to."

  "Which reason my predecessor certainly gave them. And all for nothing since they won that war anyway. The only difference was that there were twenty or thirty million fewer Yamatans to see the end. Oh, well, spilled milk and all. Besides, he paid with his life, after a fashion."

  Robinson turned his attention back to the Kurosawa. "I can't attack them directly. I can; however, make sure they not able to attack anyone else."

  Wallenstein made a quizzical sound.

  "It's simple, Marguerite. That contemptible little fleet can only affect the sea it occupies and about three or four hundred kilometers around it. Even that three or four hundred, though, is constrained by the speed of their aircraft and the chance of being in the right place at the right time. We get to choose whether those times and places will be right."

  Robinson's voice changed to the neutral, uninflected tone used for talking to machines. "Computer, connect me with Abdulahi."

  To the High Admiral's mild surprise, the answer came almost immediately. A melodious voice said, "Yes, High Admiral; Abdulahi here."

  There's a shock; one of those down below actually listening to instructions.

  Whatever his thoughts, Robinson confined his words to business. "Friend, that new threat I told you of has taken up station off your coastline."

  "I see that, High Admiral," the Xamari answered. Robinson had transferred to him, as he had to Mustafa, the means of tapping directly into UEPF surveillance and sensing systems. "We can easily avoid them."

  "Excellent, Abdulahi."

  4/6/467 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Xamar Coast

  "This is superb, Commodore," Fosa complimented Kurita on the sushi the Yamatan had prepared from fish he'd caught himself the night before.

  Kurita smiled, slightly, and nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

  Fosa looked around at the Yamatan's quarters. In warship terms they were the height of luxury, measuring all of about three hundred and twenty square feet. Even Fosa's own were not quite so large. They were furnished well, as warships measured such things. Kurita had hung on one wall a portrait of the emperor he had served ably and bravely in the Great Global War. That emperor had long since joined his divine ancestors. His memory retained Kurita's loyalty, even so.

  It wasn't the size or the luxury, nor even the portrait of the emperor and what it said of Kurita, the samurai, that impressed Fosa. It was the unbelievable cleanliness of the quarters.

  He'd asked of his senior naval centurion how the place had gotten so completely sanitized. The centurion had shrugged, "Got no clue, Cap'n. He never asked us for anything but a mop and bucket, sponges and some rags. Oh, and liquid cleaner."

  Fosa was left with the only possible solution; that Kurita, at nearly a century old, had gotten down on his ancient hands and knees and made quarters fit for his emperor's portrait. That was rather humbling.

  "I saved it from my battlecruiser," Kurita had said in explanation. "When we had to . . . surrender"—and the word came out only with painful difficulty—"I took it last, as I was leaving. Every day I apologize to it that I and my comrades failed in our duty. Perhaps someday the emperor shall forgive us."

  Which helped convince Fosa, not that he needed much convincing, that the Yamatans were not just odd, but admirably odd.

  "How goes the hunt?" Kurita asked.

  "Not well," the captain said. "Admittedly we've only been on station

  two weeks but . . . "

  "But given the frequency of reported piratical attacks near this section of the coast a week should have seen at least two," the commodore supplied.

  Fosa nodded. "Yes, but there's been nothing. Attacks north of us, yes. Attacks south of us, yes. Nothing here."

  The Yamatan quoted, "All warfare is based on deception. Therefore, when capable, feign incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you are far away; when far away, that you are near. Offer the enemy a bait to lure him, feign disorder and strike him. When he concentrates, prepare against him."

  "Musashi?" the Balboan asked. "The Book of Five Rings?"

  Kurita shook his grey head. "Sun Tzu."

  "Do you think someon
e is reporting on our positions and dispositions, Commodore?"

  "Unquestionably," Kurita answered. "The only real question is who."

  "Not the Federated States Navy," Fosa said. "Even if the Legion is in bad grace with their government their armed forces are still strong friends."

  "I agree," the Yamatan said. "That leaves the Tauran Union, the Volgans, the Zhong, and the UEPF. In any case, it hardly matters who, for our purposes. What matters is the fact that that someone, to all appearances, is reporting on us."