Carnifex

by Tom Kratman

  He could just see it, actually. Carrera folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket closest to his heart. He'd answer in a few days when he got back from visiting the troops.

  The next read was Parilla's.

  . . . And so Professor Ruiz tells me that, against our expectations, we might lose. I know I don't have to tell you how bad that could be. Would it be bad enough? Would it be worth establishing a Legion-supported welfare state? And if we did, how would we ever escape it?

  One thing that did occur to me that we could do, Patricio, is to announce we're expanding the reserves and dropping—better we should say "modifying," I suppose—the entrance standards enough to let come in maybe half the people who want in. Maybe we can open up some more to women. What those would do to the quality of the force I cannot say. Yet I do wonder if quantity does not have a quality all its own . . .

  "I'll consider it, Raul," was all Carrera said, and that only to the air.

  Lourdes' was important to his mental well being. Parilla's to his political future. Fernandez's, though, was important to everything. He never sent a message that wasn't absolutely critical. Carrera began to read.

  Oh, God, thought Carrera, if Fernandez's supposition is right, then the stakes just went through the roof.

  He looked back to the report, hand carried by trusted messenger to this remote firebase in the Pashtian foothills.

  He read:

  Patricio,

  The events in Xamar make it clear, as clear as anything can be clear, that the UEPF has completely sided with the enemy, which we suspected, and is actively aiding him, which we did not know but feared. Looking backwards in time, I cannot say how long this has been going on. I can, however, state that it has been going on for a long time and may, indeed, have begun before you're family was destroyed. It may have been part of that destruction. I am reasonably certain it was part of the murder of my daughter.

  Consider the following:

  We have acquired testimony, partial intercepts of communications, and a device by which communication took place between the pirates of Xamar and the UEPF.

  We have partial intercepts of communications between your enemies in Pashtia and Kashmir and the UEPF.

  We have recorded conversations, obtained by bugging the current President's office, in which the ambassador from the UE has participated in planning to split the country, or outlaw the Legion, or both.

  We have acquired a new intelligence source . . .

  Carrera read that intelligence source and could only say, "Holy shit."

  He then continued and didn't stop reading until he'd digested the message completely. It wasn't exactly a shocking surprise, except for the new source of intelligence. He'd known that the UEPF had been at least unsympathetic. But outright enmity? Helping the enemy kill innocent women and children without overwhelming good cause? What could be their motivator? Then again, did it even matter what their motivation was? Didn't the facts of the matter say all that needed to be said?

  So I'm not just going to war with the TU someday, I am going to have to deal with the UEPF as well. And I don't know how I can even touch them . . . oh, yes I do. God, that would suck. But would it work?

  Carrera closed his eyes and summoned up a mental image of the Mar Furioso, to include the Island of Atlantis. After long minutes of contemplation he answered himself, Yes, it would probably work.

  That, however, is for the further future. In between I have to deal with the Taurans and probably the Zhong. That's already being worked back home. So besides tonight's patrol, what do I have to worry about except the UEPF?

  UEPF Spirit of Peace, 12 January, 2522

  Robinson had begun to worry as soon as the robo-drone from Earth had come in with the monthly dispatches and he'd been given the set marked "Eyes Only: High Admiral." Earth rarely communicated anything to the fleet beyond the merest routine, what parts would not be available and would have to be procured locally, what money would not be forthcoming, what art would be sent for auction, how many slaves would be on the next boat out and their quality. Slaves from Old Earth were always a dicey commodity. They had to be physically attractive, but also both ignorant and stupid lest they give away more of the conditions on Old Earth than the Consensus wanted known.

  In any case, that sort of message was all routine. This—with its "Eyes Only" qualifier—just had to be bad news. He took the dispatches and, Wallenstein in tow, went to his cabin to read them.

  "Shit. It's worse than I imagined," Robinson muttered, after scanning the first few lines of what appeared to be the only non-routine message among the group.

  "What is, Martin?"

  Robinson handed over the dispatch but explained verbally anyway. "The Inspector General is coming to pay us a call."

  Wallenstein's eyes flew wide. "The Marchioness of Amnesty is coming here?" Hmmm, another supporter for my bid to enter Class One? Possibly. Have to find out her tastes. I'm sure Robinson wouldn't mind sharing me for a worthy cause. And she's by no means an unattractive woman. "Any hint of why?"

  "None. It's got to be bad, though. A visit from the IG is always bad." Robinson's face grew contemplative. After a bit, he continued, "Fortunately, she likes girls as well as boys. I want you and . . . let me think . . . the Marchioness is also a Domme, so . . . yes, you and Khan and Khan's husband, to be her escort party."

  "How long do we have to prepare?"

  "Two months."

  "No problem then. I can set up a dungeon and order appropriate costumes from Atlantis Base in that time."

  "Good girl, Marguerite. I knew I could count on you."

  "Hmmm. Should I order up a slave or two from below in case the IG wants to actually damage a playmate?"

  "Excellent thinking, Captain. Better make it one of each."

  5/2/468 AC, Santisima Trinidad

  "It's been sixteen fucking days, skipper," said Francés in a tone of unutterable boredom. Even the speed of the ship, a modest and fuel saving eight knots, was dull.

  "I can count, XO," answered Pedraz.

  "Business" had dropped off radically since the coastal raid on the village of Gedo. Pedraz didn't know why, but suspected it had something to do with the prisoners the Classis had taken.

  Is Fosa capable of saying, 'We'll hang them if you give us a scintilla of trouble?' Pedraz wondered. Oh, yes. And would Carrera—God bless his black heart—back him up in that? Puhleeze.

  All of which suggests there won't be a lot more business hereabouts. Which means we're stuck here on a tiny movable island for the foreseeable and indefinite future. Fuck. Well, fortunately the Legion has no rules against drinking and the beer locker is full.

  From Santiona on the rear deck came the cry, "I've got one!"

  And the fishing's not bad either. On the other hand . . .

  Santiona's rod was bent so far that . . . well . . . honestly Pedraz couldn't remember seeing a stout sport fishing rod ever bent so far. Good thing I insist on the men tying themselves in with safety lines. Idly, Pedraz wondered what it might be. Then he saw the fin.

  And then he saw more of the fin. And still more. And more still. And . . .

  "Oh, fuck. It's a MEG!"

  * * *

  The aliens—the "Noahs"—who had seeded the planet of Terra Nova with Old Earth life forms some time between five hundred thousand and five million years prior had been thorough; you had to give them that.

  The Noahs had brought over some of everything, so far as the colonists could tell. There were sabertooths and mammoth, orcas and phororhacos. They'd also managed a very impressive array of sea life.

  * * *

  "Meg, MEG, MEEEGGG!"

  "Fuckfuckfuck. XO, gun it!"

  "For where, Skipper?"

  "Who the fuck cares? Just move!"

  Until he turned, Francés hadn't see the shark's fin, now standing over two meters above the water and plowing a furrow in the waves. When he did see it, about three hundred meters abaft the boat, his jaw dropped and his hand automat
ically pushed the throttle full forward. The previously purring engines roared to life as the boat's nose rose measurably. At the same time, Santiona and most of the rest of the crew were thrown to the deck.

  Santiona began sliding off. Desperately, one-handed, he clawed at the plywood of the deck, shrieking the whole time, "Meg, Meg, Meggg!" As his head went past the deck's edge, he felt the safety line about his waist suddenly begin to tighten.

  It did not tighten enough to stop him, however, before he'd gone over the stern bodily. Coming to a sudden and painful stop, Santiona hung there, chest down and feet in the water, while that huge fin got closer. He couldn't take his eyes off the thing, but stared at its approach as if possessed. All the while he screamed, "Meg, Meg, Meggg!"

  The head lifted above water. A flash of sunlight told that the shark was hooked. It never occurred to Santiona to drop the rod; oh, no. He held on to that as tightly as the rope constricted his waist. In seconds, the fish was close enough to see its saucer sized eyes and the glittering rows of jagged, ivory in its mouth. The scientists insisted that the carcharodon megalodon transplanted to Terra Nova never went over forty-two feet. Nonetheless, ever after, for as long as he lived, Santiona would insist that they grew to one hundred and twenty. That size could grow to two hundred if he'd had a few.

  That future "ever after" would have to wait as the fish gained on the boat.

  * * *

  The shark was actually a tad under thirty-six feet, by no means an unusually large specimen of its type. Its brain was no better than the species norm, either. It had smelled the hooked fish, all rotten and wonderful, and just naturally taken the offering.

  It was about ready to say, "Foul and slimy with just a hint of risqué decomposition; my compliments to the chef," when the hook bit.

  Ouch . . . now that's hardly sporting.

  * * *

  "No!" Pedraz shrieked at a sailor uncovering a heavy machine gun mounted port side, aft. "Don't shoot at it; you might piss it off. Get over here and help me with Santiona."

  The skipper was hauling on the rope. Sadly, he was getting nowhere with Santiona's considerable mass on the other end. The fish was still gaining slightly. For his part, Santiona just kept screaming, "Meg! Meg! Meggg!" while bouncing—thump-thump-thump—off the stern and keeping a death grip on the rod. "Meg! Meg! Meggg!"

  Another sailor, and then a fourth, scuttled along the deck to take hold of the line. With four strong men pulling even Santiona's bulk began to rise.

  "Meg! Meg! Meggg!"

  * * *

  The fish was confused. The thing ahead of him, trying to run away, really didn't look like the baleen whales that made up much of its diet. It didn't smell quite right either. Only the spurt of urine rushing into the water from the thing dangling off the back really reminded it of its normal prey.

  And those cheap bastards are trying to haul it in. Well, we'll just see about that. The fish sped up.

  * * *

  "Christ! The fucking thing is speeding up!"

  "Meg! Meg! Meeeggg!"

  "XO?!"

  "I'm giving it all she's got, skipper."

  "C'mon, you lazy bastards; PULL!"

  * * *

  So close . . . sooo close . . . one more effort . . . . .but . . . no . . . tiring . . . life's just so unfair. Sigh.

  * * *

  Pedraz breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the space between boat and shark widen. After a time the fin turned away. Then it disappeared. Santiona's cry had grown softer, "meg . . . meg . . . . meg." The rest of the crew alternately swore or just stood or sat, drained.

  "Doc?!" Pedraz called.

  "Here . . . skipper," gasped one of the line haulers, lying on his back nearby.

  "Huh? Oh . . . didn't know you were so close. Doc . . . go break out a bottle of medicinal rum." He looked over at Santiona—"meg . . . meg . . . meg"—and thought, "No . . . make it two bottles. Prescribe to the crew as you think they need it."

  "Aye, aye, skipper."

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, Pedraz staggered to the cockpit. "And you were bitching that you were bored?" he said to Francés.

  "Well . . . . skipper. It's not like we have any girls aboard."

  From the stern continued the chant, "meg . . . meg . . . meg . . . "

  6/2/468 AC, The Big ?

  "Mmm . . . . mmmph . . . . oh . . . ah . . . " Jaquie's and Marta's bodies were covered in sweat and intertwined on one of the two narrow naval bunks in their quarters. Jaquelina was half on top, with her left side resting on the bed and her right leg and hand between Marta's legs. The hand moved gently but deftly; teasing, rubbing, flicking the little button revealed by the splaying of Marta's legs. Those legs began to twitch even as the last "ah" began to morph to a very loud and piercing, "Aiiiiii."

  And that's my cue, thought Jaquie as she clamped her mouth over Marta's, forcing her tongue between the other girl's lips and making a seal that was air tight and scream proof. She held that seal while Marta's own hand reached down to cover and control Jaquie's. Marta's body thrashed wildly atop the thin mattress.

  The shuddering grew less, giving Jaquie a chance to come up for air before again covering the other girl's mouth with her own and again using her fingers to lift Marta up to and past the peak. After three or four repetitions, the larger girl arched her back and then slowly subsided, relaxing, to the mattress.

  "Oh, God, that was wonderful," Marta whispered into Jaquie's ear, before flicking it with her tongue and then plunging as much of her tongue as would fit into the canal. Jaquie had the most wonderfully sensitive ears. It was her turn to shudder as Marta's tongue set the nerve endings running wild. Jaquie purred like a kitten before reaching up both hands to grasp Marta's head and pull it down to where it could do the most good.

  "I love you, Jaquelina," Marta whispered just before burying her face between Jaquie's legs.

  Jaquelina, fortunately, was not a screamer.

  7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number One, Isla Real, Balboa

  "Miss Lourdes," for McNamara had never quite gotten over calling her 'Miss Lourdes,' even when she'd become 'Señora Carrera,' " for t'e love of God, please tell t'e boss to call me forward. I just can' fockin' stand it no more. And I ain't got so many years left to me that I can afford to be here when t'e fightin's t'ere."

  * * *

  Rank and position are curious things. In any given military organization there are usually five or six people that run it. Sometimes it's the commander. Sometimes—and usually unfortunately, if so—it's the commander's wife. Sometimes, at the company or maniple level, it can be one lone sergeant, and not necessarily a senior one, in the training NCO slot.

  In the case of the Legion one of the true movers and shakers was the Sergeant Major, John McNamara. Part of this was that he had Carrera's ear. Much of it, though, was what the man was, himself.

  * * *

  Lourdes sighed. Patricio had asked her to be a shoulder for the sergeant major to cry on if—no, Patricio had said "when"—being left behind got to be too much for him. He must have told Xavier, too, for it was Jimenez who'd asked Lourdes to ask McNamara for lunch. He'd come, of course, and sounded like he'd been happy to. But he'd come with his craggy black face a mask of utter misery.

  "What's the problem, John?" she asked. She avoided answering the question because one of the other things Pat had told her was, "I need him to stay here, to watch over the Legion's base and over you and the kids, too. I need him to keep watch out for Parilla. I need him here."

  It was McNamara's turn to sigh. Yes, sure as shit the boss told Lourdes already that I can't come and play.

  "It everyt'ing, Miss Lourdes. Jimenez don' need me here; his legion, t'e Fourth, and his sergeant major can do just fine wit'out me. T'e Training Legion don' need me eit'er, with Martinez running t'ings. So I end up helpin' Parilla with t'e presidential campaign and . . . well . . . it just ain't me. It's dirty shit, nasty, no place for a soldier to be."

  "And besides all t'at, Miss Lourdes, since t'e
kids grew up and t'e wife passed on I've had nobody to fight wit'. I'm bored."

  "I don't think I can help, John. Patricio never has anyone do anything without a good reason. If he wants you, myself and Xavier here, it's for a purpose. I don't think we can buck him in this."

  * * *

  Artemisia Jimenez had only just caught sight of McNamara's vehicle as it pulled into Quarters Number One's driveway. She was too late to actually say anything to the sergeant major. Still, she raced to put on gardening clothes and posted herself nearby so that when he emerged . . .

  "Why hello, Sergeant Major," she purred, looking up as he neared his auto. "If I'd known it was you visiting Lourdes, I'd have popped over."

  Most women simply stood. Artemisia was fundamentally incapable of simply standing. Instead, like a fast action movie of a flowing plant, she blossomed onto her feet.

  McNamara was not made of stone. Watching the sheer presence of Artemisia Jimenez blooming so closely would have taken the breath from any man. It did with him, as well. It did so, so completely, in fact, that McNamara simply bid her a nervous good day, got in his auto, and drove away.

  * * *

  If I were not more than twice her age, if I were no so old and seamed and gangly and outright ugly, Mac thought, I would never have left there.

  * * *

  "Shit," Artemisia said aloud, watching the car drive off. "What did I do wrong? Damn, and he's so perfect."

  7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number Two, Isla Real

  Artemisia thought her uncle was possibly the second-most manly man she had ever seen. The first was . . .

  "Uncle Xavier, could we ask Sergeant Major McNamara over to dinner? I saw him visiting Lourdes Carrera today and he looked extremely sad and lonely."

  Jimenez was no fool. His niece's tastes in men had proven decidedly odd over the years. And she'd never shown the slightest interest in any of the young men who sniffed about the balconies so regularly. Jimenez folded his daily paper and put it aside.