by Tom Kratman
Kurita's first stop was at the door to Fosa's quarters. He knocked and, when Fosa answered, passed over the plain text note and said, "Encode this and send it to the highest placed intelligence officer in your organization, Captain-san." Then he left a stunned looking Fosa and walked to the radio room to send the encoded message to Messers Saito and Yamagata.
Most of the crew members barely noticed the sword. Perhaps it was just that, for the first time, Kurita seemed fully dressed. Of those who did actually notice it, the uniform sentiment was something like cooolll.
When the message was received, in distant Yamato, and had been decoded and presented to the Zaibatsu representatives, a very confused Yamagata read it off for Saito.
"I want a sword made, or bought, if one be found suitable." said the message, "Make it a katana. It should be made by a master smith, and in the old Bizen style. Full furnishings should be provided, with a blue lacquer scabbard and blue-wrapped tsuka. Inscribe on the blade . . . "
26/1/468 AC, Casa Linda, Balboa
Balboa had seen its share of rule-by-lunatic before. All things considered, rule-by-kleptocrat was to be preferred. Parilla's presidential campaign faced that, fear of political lunacy, as its greatest handicap.
"It's not a completely groundless fear, Raul," Professor Ruiz advised. "Yes, we can and we have put a lot of emphasis into the public works the Legion has sponsored. Yes, we can show a lot of pretty girls to catch attention. Artemisia Jimenez, in particular, seems to be an attention grabber." Both Parilla and Ruiz unconsciously sighed, Ah, Artemisia . . . what a delight! "Still, you can talk the good fight, talk national rebirth, talk anti-corruption. But the longer the campaign goes on, the more people are exposed to counterpropaganda, the more a lot of people become afraid of you, afraid of the Legion, and afraid of what you might do with both the presidency and the military power. Most of them are middle class, but some are poor."
Parilla shook his head, uncomprehending. "But we've done so much for the poor."
Ruiz's mouth formed a moue. "Ah . . . no. You've made a minority of the poor fairly middle class by bringing them into the Legion del Cid. You've also left a much larger number behind. You've actually given very little and most of the benefits are either general, clinics and such, or indirect. Some of the support we had may have slipped away because you've never once mentioned creating a social democratic welfare state here."
"Social democracy? Patricio controls the money and that he will never go for. I start talking welfare state and I'll lose his support. Come to think of it, I start talking social democracy and I probably wouldn't vote for myself. How bad are the numbers?"
"It isn't that they're bad, exactly," Ruiz answered. "Just that they're down from where they were and where they should be. I don't like the trend. I also don't like the effect of the advertising campaign the other side is using. They're getting a lot of mileage out of comparing you to Piña. And then there is the number of people put to death by the Legion, starting with Rocaberti back during the initial campaign in Sumer and continuing through today. Forget the number of Sumeris we've strung up; how many legionaries have been executed for one or another crime?"
"Maybe a hundred," Parilla admitted. "Or a bit less. But most of those were for crimes that would warrant death even outside the military."
"Not here they wouldn't," Ruiz corrected. "And the idea of applying the death penalty here, if the government changes, has a lot of people scared. Piña had people killed; you and Patricio have had people killed. Some don't see fine distinctions like the fact that he killed political opponents and you've shot or hanged traitors, deserters, rapists, and murderers."
Parilla bridled. "Now that is unfair."
"Politics is supposed to be fair?" Ruiz asked, rhetorically.
"Point taken," Parilla said with a shrug.
"Another thing," Ruiz added. "The advertising the other side is using is sophisticated and, because there is so much of it, expensive. I think they're getting a fair amount of financial backing from the Taurans. Our ruling classes have two distinguishing features. One is that they're corrupt. The other is that they're cheap; cheeseparers, at best. They'd never spend this kind of money on their own, though they'd be perfectly happy to let someone else do it on their behalf."
"Yeah, I know them," Parilla agreed. "What are the numbers looking like."
Ruiz was actually an art—or, at least, cinema—professor. He'd run the Legion's propaganda program since inception. As such—with politics being as much about propaganda as about reality, and perhaps more—he'd been tapped for the political campaign. Starting with no real background in the subject he'd surrounded himself with other professors from the university who did have such a background. The numbers came from them.
"We're expecting a relatively high turnout, on the order of eighty percent."
"That is high," Parilla agreed. "We haven't seen a turnout like that since the vote on the Transitway Treaty with the Federated States."
"Yes. Of those, right now we can count on maybe fifty-five percent, including absentee ballots, voting our way. That's down about nine percent from where we thought we were when this started. Another drop like that and we're toast."
Parilla bit at his lower lip. "Worse, if the current party can show that kind of support no amount of bribery will keep them from outlawing the Legion, here."
"High stakes, indeed," Ruiz agreed. "So what's left? Social democracy is out. More sensitive military laws and regulations are probably out."
"I've got to discuss that with Patricio."
28/1/468 AC, Firebase Pedro de Lisaldo, Pashtia
His aide had brought three messages to Carrera while he visited the firebase before going out on a patrol with one of the platoons that shared it with the artillery. One was from Fernandez. It had been hand-carried in coded form, translated back at headquarters in Mazari Omar, then brought forward. The second was from Parilla. It, too, had gone through encode and decode. The last was from Lourdes. Carrera read the last first, smiling halfway through then laughing outright when Lourdes passed on some of the news of their son's latest antics.
So I caught Hamilcar carting off one very unwilling kitten in his arms. As soon as he saw me he just opened his arms and let it drop to the floor. Then he put his head down like a man on his way to the firing squad and walked back to bed without a word. You should have seen it . . .
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 no
t 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 automatically 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 jus
t 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!"
