Carnifex cl-2

by Tom Kratman

  "Señor Carrera, aqui!"

  "Bring him out, Pedro," Belisario said. He was almost embarrassed for the prisoner when he smelt the odor of shit. Then he realized the man had not shat himself and sympathy changed to disgust.

  The tent material wriggled and distorted.

  "Whoever you are, come out," Pedro ordered.

  The boy emerged, pulling his threadbare trousers up.

  "Chico, Belisario asked, "were you with this man by your own will?"

  The boy spat at Duff-McQueeg and said, "They stole me from my village."

  Belisario nodded grimly and said, to Pedro, "Get a rope."

  The boy, with a look of utter hatred in his eyes asked, "Can I have a gun?"

  Chapter Eighteen

  There is no love untouched by hate

  No unity without discord

  There is no courage without fear

  There is no peace without a war

  —Cruxshadows, Eye of the Storm

  8/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia

  Rachman was terrified; Tribune David Cano could see it in his eyes. Yet the fierce Pashtun would rather die in horrible agony than ever admit to feeling the slightest fear.

  And why the hell shouldn't he be terrified, Cano thought. Poor bastard's never been up in a helicopter before. He's never even flown before. If I were him, I'd be shitting myself. What a great people these are. What a formidable people.

  It had been this way since he'd first been assigned to the Pashtun scouts. Everything about them impressed Cano. Everything about them he liked. Were they rough men? Yes and so was he. Were they crude and uncultured, ignorant and savage?

  Well, what was I but an ignorant ridge runner before the Legion picked me up and sent me to school? My only skill was riding a horse. But these people aren't stupid, no more than I was. They're just uneducated . . . and that can be fixed.

  Cano had the oddest feeling, in accompanying Rachman and a hundred and nineteen of his fellow tribesman going to their home villages on leave, that he was going home as well. He'd fit in so well with these men, enjoyed their company and their comradeship so much, that he just knew he was going to belong, and perhaps better than he'd ever belonged anywhere before.

  He felt Rachman's fist pounding his shoulder and looked over. The look of fear in Rachman's eyes had disappeared as the Pashtun gestured enthusiastically at what appeared to be a nothing-much village a few thousand feet below.

  "Home," Rachman announced over the thrum of the Volgan-built IM-71. And again, with a mix of satisfaction and exuberance, "David, we are almost home."

  8/7/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Hajipur, Sind

  The moons Hecate and Eris were high, the former full and the latter in three quarters. The bay of Hajipur was bright under the light of the moons.

  In the bay, surrounded by her escorts seaward and her infantry force on the dock, with sailors and Cazadors manning the guns, Dos Lindas sang with the ring of the hammers and the rushing crackle of the welding machines. She sang, too, with the sing-song speech of the local shipfitters who still swarmed her like industrious bees.

  "She be good as new, soon, Skipper" said the master of the shipfitters. "Better den new."

  Fosa knew it was true. Not only had the local boys, and a few girls, patched her up, they'd identified weaknesses and worn spots in the hull, seen a few places that wouldn't be the worse for a little extra bracing, and fixed all that as well. The laser topside, blown off by the near miss of a cruise missile, was replaced, as was every wrecked forty- and twenty-millimeter cannon, and .41-caliber machine gun. Even the lost crew, aviators and Cazadors were up to strength, though there had been an awful price to pay back home to do so.

  All that was needed now was the rear elevator. And that was coming soon, this very night, in fact.

  We shall see home again, you and I, Fosa thought as he stroked a railing atop the tower rising high above the flight deck. We could fight even as we are. Yes, we could not launch aircraft half so well, but we could still fight, we could still avenge our fallen comrades.

  But we'll have our elevator, my dear ship. Tonight it comes to us. And a new sister to fight at our side. And then we go back for revenge.

  Fosa looked up at a bright flash at the entrance to the bay. A split second later came the report of a large caliber gun. This was followed, thirty seconds later, by another flash and another boom. Again: flash . . . boom. It went on through twenty-one blank shots, a custom that had followed man to the stars.

  The speakers on the bridge barked, "Barco del Legion Dos Lindas, this is BdL Tadeo Kurita. We're escorting your elevator. And we've got ten six-inch guns. Let's get you up to one hundred percent. And then, let's go hunting."

  10/7/468 AC, Wilcox's Folly, FSC

  Micah Fen was fat. That was the one thing everyone noticed about him. Indeed, it was the one thing impossible not to notice about him. At least, it was the one thing impossible not to notice until one came close. Within ten feet, perhaps even twenty-five if downwind, one was subjected to the foul odor of obesity necrosis that hung about him like a cloud of gnats about a dead dog's anus.

  Khalid had spent, oh, a lot of time on the GlobalNet researching his targets. And I never suspected how much the filthy swine would just plain stink. I wonder if his mind is half so rotten as his skin.

  For the first several months in the Federated States Khalid had done nothing but research and planning. He already had hit plans for most of his potential targets at obvious places, their homes, their offices, their lovers' homes. He still worked on those, but spent more time now looking for the excuse to execute the hit and leave the blame on the Salafis.

  I'd really never expected this one to come up within my hit parameters. Fen's been so consistent in his support of the Salafi Ikhwan, so thoroughly in their camp, I just never imagined he'd do something that would—Il hamdu l'illah—allow me to actually kill him.

  It would have been better, of course, if Fen had brought his busload of gays to a mosque rather than a Nazrani church, Khalid thought. But that, I suppose, would have been asking for too much. After all, if nothing else, Fen can hardly have risked exposing the gays to the 'righteous, Godly wrath' of the Salafis he wants them to support. So . . . a Nazrani church it had to be and a Nazrani church will have to do.

  Besides, Khalid thought, even if imperfect it's still worthwhile even to just suggest to the gays here who support Fen that they're supporting a man who would turn them over to people who would crucify them.

  Khalid liked all the targets he'd been assigned, qua targets. Even so, it was especially pleasing, much more so than his usual hit, to be assigned to take out Fen. Who, after all, encouraged the people who blew up my family, who murdered my mother, my brother, and my angel, my poor innocent little Huriyyah. Who better deserves to die?

  "You never really thought about it, did you?" Khalid asked. "You never realized that, if terrorism works, it can work on you and yours?"

  Fen said nothing. He couldn't; his mouth was duct taped closed even as his wrists and ankles were duct taped to the heavy chair on which he sat. Nonetheless, his piggish eyes were full of pleading terror.

  Only fitting.

  "You really never had a second thought for your safety, did you?" Khalid asked. "However much you lambasted your country in film and print, however much you lied, however many people you caused to be killed by encouraging their murderers, you never thought that any of it could ever come back on you?

  "Sure, I understand," Khalid said, genially, removing a small roll of duct tape from a satchel and placing in on a table near Fen. "You're Micah Fen, star. Retribution is for little people. You only kept a bodyguard to keep away your adoring fans."

  "It was easy, you know," Khalid continued, as he checked his digital camera once again. "Get on the GlobalNet, find your touring schedule, check for chartered flights, watch for the press throng, spot you, and then follow you to your hotel. You've got security at home, and you do travel with a bodyguard." Khalid's head incline
d towards the cooling corpse of Fen's bodyguard, spreading crimson on the suite's thick carpet. "But outside of your cocoon, you were really very vulnerable."

  "I put on a service staff uniform I took from a hotel storage closet and checked with room service to see which room had ordered the most grotesque quantity and quality of food. That had to be you. I came to this floor and bludgeoned a maid—she'll be fine; don't worry—then hid her in a closet and took her a passkey.

  "With the passkey, I just entered your suite and shot the bodyguard, twice in the chest and once in the head, with a silenced .45. By the time you woke up, you pustule, your mouth was gagged and your arm twisted behind your back. I doubt you would even have woken up if I hadn't dragged you to that chair you're taped to by your arm and shaggy hair. You would like to know why, wouldn't you?"

  Glaring at Fen's piggish face, Khalid removed from his pocket a wallet containing a family photo. He opened this and showed it to his victim. "This little girl was my sister, Huriyyah. You praised and encouraged the men who murdered her. That was enough. I'd have sucked Fernandez's dick for the chance to kill you, but he—fine man—gave me the chance for free."

  Fen shook his head emphatically. Khalid paid no attention. Instead, he put away the photo and wallet and drew from his pockets a clear plastic bag, a nail and a press release concerning Fen's pro-gay activity. Khalid had scrawled a message in Arabic on the press release. He'd use his pistol to nail the press release to Fen's forehead after the fat fuck was dead.

  With the camera, Khalid took a photo of his victim, bound and gagged. He then put the camera aside and pulled a couple of inches of the duct tape roll free.

  "This is really going to suck," he said to Fen, happily. "It's going to suck for you, I mean. I, on the other hand, am going to really enjoy it. Take a deep breath, why don't you? No sense in making this too quick."

  After placing the clear bag over Fen's head, which elicited a garbled set of pleas for pity and mercy, Khalid took the free two inches of tape and began to wind the sticky stuff around Fen's neck, sealing the bag. The rolls of fat about Fen's neck made it a tougher job than Khalid had anticipated, causing him to have to make three extra winds to ensure a good seal. Fortunately, he'd brought more than enough tape.

  Khalid stepped back and picked up the camera. Already Fen had the bag billowing, as he tried to suck in oxygen to feed his almost incredible bulk. In a short time the actor-producer's head was whiplashing back and forth and side to side as he exhausted all the oxygen trapped in the bag and went into a full panic.

  While snapping a picture of Fen's purpling face, Khalid was struck by a smell even worse than Fen's normal, unsavory aroma.

  "Oh, you shit yourself, didn't you?" Khalid sneered. "What a pig! Aren't you embarrassed?"

  In answer, Fen's head only whipped the more frantically as it fruitlessly sought escape from the bag which had cut off its air.

  10/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia

  Nobody in the village fired his rifle into the air. Instead, the men, Samsonov rifles and clones held easily in their hands, clustered around Cano and Rachman, forming a circle. The women of the place stood behind their men, but that appeared more a defensive arrangement than a mark of low status. Oddly, the women were not veiled.

  Among the villagers, Rachman and his men were well known. All eyes were on the stranger, Cano. From the encircling crowd one old man emerged and walked toward the group.

  "Father," Rachman said to the old man, "we have returned in glory, all but for Filot who fell in battle and was buried on the field. I have brought with us our hectontar, that our people might rejoice to see the leader of their sons and to see that that leader is worthy. Father, David is one of us."

  Cano followed the conversation, more or less. The word hectontar was new to him, but he assumed it was local dialect and thought no more of it. He was, in any event, much more interested in the fact that the villagers were not using their rifles as noisemakers; in that, and in the unveiled women he saw behind the men. He saw a pair of bright green eyes atop a swaying, willowy shape, but lost them in the crowd.

  "Since my son says you are worthy," said Rachman's father, offering his hand in greeting, "I welcome you to our village. Come; the day is warm. Let us sit and talk in the cool of my courtyard."

  While the rest of the group split up to follow their own families home, Rachman and Cano followed Rachman's father, Cano's eyes still searching for that willowy shape.

  * * *

  The courtyard was walled. Even so, the house was built on the side of a steep hill. From the courtyard's fountain, Cano could see out over wall to where a group of the village's young men were busily fighting over the corpse of a sheep, from horseback.

  The game looked interesting, and even fun, though Cano had no idea of the rules. Based on the number of boys he saw being carried off the field, dripping blood, he wasn't entirely sure there were any rules.

  Rachman's father saw Cano's interest and said, "It's for you, you know."

  "Well, it is entertaining," Cano replied.

  "No, not that," Rachman said. "The young men are trying to impress you with their skill and courage." Seeing Cano really didn't understand, Rachman huffed and added, "So you'll hire them on to join the scouts. We haven't had a good war that we had a chance of winning in . . . well, in a very long time."

  "Ohhh." Cano shrugged. "I'm not sure how to even go about that. I don't know if the Legion is interested in expanding the Scouts, though they might be. No, they should be. I'll ask—"

  He stopped suddenly as a willowy young woman, technically more of a girl, really, stooped gracefully to set a tray of assorted finger food—fruit, olives, Terra Novan olives with their wrinkled and gray skin, flat yellow chorley bread, honey, some other green and red sauces in bowls—between the three of them. She was unveiled and when she turned her head to smile and Cano saw her green eyes . . .

  God in Heaven; she's beautiful, Cano thought. Those eyes . . . that face . . . that shape . . .

  Rachman smiled, though his father laughed aloud.

  "This is my sister, Alena," Rachman explained. "She's fifteen."

  Cano immediately looked crestfallen, which raised a laugh from both of the others. "Fifteen," Rachman said, "is not a problem."

  Did Cano understand from that what he thought he did? He knew they'd never offer the girl—no, the woman; he'd seen that in her eyes and her smile—for anything dishonorable. It would be as a wife or nothing. But fifteen? He looked again.

  The next time I see a fifteen-year-old that looks like that—even back home where the girls grow up fast—will be the first.

  Cano shot an inquiring look at Rachman, then at the father. Yes, they do mean it.

  He thought that, and then immediately looked even more crestfallen than he had before. "But I'm not a Moslem," Cano said. "And I can't give up the faith of my fathers."

  All three of the Pashtun, father, son and sister, broke out in gales of laughter. Rachman eventually ended up on one side on the ground, shaking with mirth. The sister, Alena, sank to her knees and held her sides. Cano looked on, cluelessly. (But doesn't Alena have a wonderful laugh?)

  Rachman's father recovered first. He picked up a wedge of chorley bread, dipped it into a bowl holding some sauce made from holy shit peppers, and said, just before popping the wedge into his mouth, "Son, take your war chief to see the hieros, why don't you?"

  10/7/468 AC BdL Qamra, Hajipur, Sind

  Though the sun had not yet set, Hecate shone indistinctly on the eastern horizon.

  To the west, the fronts of the Hindu and Buddhist temples lining the waterfront were in shadow.

  "They've got a god or goddess for everything, I think," Marta said to Jaquelina, the two sitting side by side on the forward deck, arms around each others' waists. Marta was relaxed enough but Jaquie seemed to her lover to be very stiff.

  "Are you feeling all right, love," Marta asked.

  Jaquie said nothing, but shook her head and leaned into Mart
a, tucking one shoulder under the larger woman's arm.

  "Tell me," Marta commanded.

  "It's nothing."

  "Tell me."

  Jaquie nestled closer in and admitted, "Honestly, I'm scared."

  "Oh."

  There wasn't a lot more to say. The carrier was still under repair. The other escorts were needed to secure it in a place that was something less than secure. Even so, the contract with the zaibatsu required, at a minimum, that the classis maintain a presence in the Nicobar Straits. All that was available, or would be available before BdL Tadeo Kurita unloaded Dos Lindas' elevator, was Qamra.

  Fosa had given the word the previous day. "Take Qamra out to the Straits and see if you can't take out one or two of the smaller pirate boats. We'll be along as soon as we've fitted the elevator. We'll all be along."