Carnifex cl-2

by Tom Kratman

* * *

  Qabaash had quickly sprinted ahead of the lead squad, then slowed to a jog. Though he carried a sniper rifle—a good commander is entitled to his little eccentricities—he held it low, rather than to his shoulder, and pumped out a single round every fourth step. The first squad took their cue from their brigade commander—that, and the way they had been trained to execute marching fire in the past—and likewise sprinted to catch up to him, then slowed to a jog. In their case, they fired short bursts rather than single rounds and fired them every other step, using the interval to bring their rifles back more or less on target. The remaining two squads of the lead platoon did likewise until there was a fairly thick—thick in battle terms—line of men screaming and cursing and putting out roughly ten thousand rounds a minute into an area not more than one hundred meters by two and with ricochets off the ground thrown in to increase the effect.

  A few of the people in the trench tried to surrender. The Sumeris weren't really interested. By the conduct of the great Salafi conspiracy across Terra Nova and especially within Sumer, these men had put themselves beyond the pale. By joining that conspiracy they had assumed personal responsibility for all the crimes committed in its name.

  The short version of which is that most of those who probably wanted to surrender were simply shot down. The Sumeri troops had learned the laws of war from the Legion.

  Qabaash dropped back as his troops swept across and over the trench. He looked behind him to see the remainder of the lead company racing up. Hearing a piteous, mewling sound he looked down and saw one of the Salafis cowering and shivering in the trench. A strong odor of human shit arose from the Salafi. Obviously he had no fight left in him. Just as obviously he had not made manifest his desire to surrender. As such . . .

  "God is great," whispered Qabaash as he placed the muzzle of his Draco against the back of Muamar's head and pulled the trigger.

  The commander of the lead company, Naquib al Husseini, trotted up to stand beside Qabaash. Al Husseini looked down at the exploded skull of the Salafi in the trench and grimaced, then shrugged.

  "Amid, you should not do that. Your job is not to lead charges but to direct them," the naquib chided.

  "Time and place for everything," Qabaash answered, adding his own shrug. "I don't think there will be much more resistance. Push your men hard for the pass, Husseini."

  "Aywa, Amid." Yes, Brigadier.

  * * *

  In the west the sun was setting on a day of disaster. It was said that the infidel had already pushed fifty kilometers to the north from his starting line in southern Pashtia. The summit was lost, of course. Noorzad had seen that happen himself, escaping with about half his followers—and almost none of them the dirty Yithrabi city boys he so generally despised.

  The enemy had used none of their "EE-EM-PEE" bombs on his communications. No matter; by this time Noorzad's cadre knew to keep spare phones and radios in metal boxes called "Faraday cages" to protect them from the effects of the bombs. The enemy had had an equally dirty trick, though. Somehow they'd managed to dial every telephone number for every cell and satellite phone the mujahadin had set to detonate explosive devices along the highway. They'd done something similar with wide-spectrum radio. Between these, the infidel had detonated virtually every explosive device. Noorzad suspected they'd flown a plane up the road at high altitude to do this.

  Bastards. Sons of whores. Is there no end to their iniquity?

  There were about one thousand mujahadin caught between the enemy's point of advance in the south and the summit he had already seized. If they were smart they'd give up the defense of the pass as a bad job and simply fade into the surrounding mountains. Some would be that smart, Noorzad suspected. Others would not. Such was life. Of those who tried to escape, some would fall to the sniper teams the infidel scattered about so liberally. Others would not. That, too, was life.

  The cave in which Noorzad and the remaining six-score of his followers sheltered was dark and dank and, overall, miserable. It did have some virtues, though. While expanded inside, it was a naturally occurring cave with only a crawlspace for an entrance. Thus, there never had been the usual crowd of trucks and workers outside it to tell the spying eyes overhead that it was there. The best proof that the enemy didn't know about it was that they were all still alive. Almost as important, the cave contained food. This, the men would need for their upcoming trek down the mountains and back to the Base. The cave also had money and that, too, would be needed.

  "And so, what now, Noorzad?" asked Malakzay.

  "And now we split up and return to the Base," answered the chieftain. "There we rebuild and then we do it all again . . . and again . . . and again until the last of our lands are freed of the invader's polluting footsteps. They will grow sick of it before we do because, after all, we have no place else to go and they do."

  25/3/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir

  "Try to understand, Mustafa, there was no place Abdulahi could run to and they had his chief son and heir," said Nur al-Deen. "He had to give in to them. And, at least, he had the good grace to send us a message detailing all he has been forced into and what the enemy has not thought to force him into. He also promises to return to the fold as soon as possible."

  "Did he tell them about our little project for the enemy fleet?" asked Mustafa.

  "He insists he has not, but has begged us to delay our strike until he can identify the ships his people—especially his son—are being held on and to avoid those ships or ship if at all possible."

  "Easy enough to promise," Mustafa sneered. "When the time comes we will act as we must."

  The Ikhwan chief turned his attention to Abdul Aziz. "How goes that program?"

  "Everything is ready and the ship sails for the Xamar Coast even as we speak, O Prince. Buuut . . . "

  "Yes?"

  "The infidels' foul work off Xamar is basically done; Abdulahi's message tells us as much. Will they stay there? I think not. I think they must head for the Nicobar Straits and very soon."

  Mustafa stroked his own beard in contemplation for some moments. "Do you think they will leave before we can strike?"

  "Not before we can, Mustafa, but perhaps before we should. That accursed aircraft carrier will be more vulnerable in or near the Straits then it would be off Xamar, being confined at the one but with the entire Sea of Sind to run through at the other."

  More beard stroking ensued, followed by extensive moustache tugging, and even some hair twirling.

  "You are risking losing the assets we gained along the Nicobar Straits," Mustafa objected, still tugging at his beard.

  Abdul Aziz's head rocked from side to side. "We are also risking them if we take this one shot at the infidel fleet and miss."

  "He speaks truth, Mustafa," said Nur al-Deen. He'd come around. "We will only have the one chance."

  "Let it be so, then," agreed the Prince of the Ikhwan. "I shall inform Parameswara and al Naquib of what we need."

  Interlude

  7/6/47 AC (Old Earth year 2106), Terra Nova, Balboa Colony

  "Tanks? Are you sure, Pedro? Tanks?"

  "Jefe," Pedro answered, half offended, "you know something big as a house that still moves and has a gun even bigger 'roun' then my dick; you let me know."

  "Shit. Tanks." Belisario paused, then said, "Sorry, Pedro. It isn't that I didn't believe you. It's that I didn't want to believe you. Shit. How the hell do we fight tanks?"

  Pedro shrugged and answered, "We no fight, jefe. We stay the fuck away. They only three of them, anyway. Or maybe four; Pedro not sure."

  Belisario shook his head. "Easy to say, Pedro. It's not that easy to do. I don't know much about tanks but I do know that they can go a lot of places you wouldn't expect. They can also move faster in anything but the thickest jungle than we can on horseback. And, then, where the tanks really can't go the helicopters we both saw can."

  "They got airplanes, too, jefe."

  21/7/47 AC, Balboa Colony, Terra Nova

  Bel
isario never heard them coming. He had no clue as to how they found his band through the thick jungle canopy overhead. One second he was riding his horse, half asleep and letting the animal pick its way along the jungle trail. The next, the world seemed engulfed in explosions as salvo after salvo of rockets came in on his narrow little column.

  As quickly as the attack had come it passed, leaving only the screams of the wounded men and horses.

  "How the fuck do I fight that," Belisario cursed aloud.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Your opponent can't talk when he has your fist in his mouth."

  —President William Jefferson Clinton

  35/3/468 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace

  Transfer between ships was always a pain for someone. Given the nature of the cargo, it was critically important that whoever it was a pain for, it not present the slightest difficulty or discomfort for the hereditary Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit. One of the crew of the shuttle already had a bright red welt rising on her face from the Marchioness' leather riding crop. Arbeit was an absolute stickler for protocol and the unfortunate Class IV had regrettably failed to go belly down in full proskynesis as Arbeit passed through the shuttle's portal.

  There were two ways to make transfers when two spinning ships were involved. One was very difficult, involving lining the ships up stern to stern, killing rotation in both, docking and then recommencing spin, with one spinning opposite to its usual direction.

  That was almost never done. Instead, shuttles were used, the receiving ship taking control of the shuttle and matching its spin to that of the ship. This was the method used to bring Arbeit aboard the Spirit of Peace.

  The hangar deck could only accommodate a few dozen in the reception party. They, excepting only High Admiral Robinson, executed full proskynesis as the Inspector General emerged from the shuttle. Proskynesis was for lowers; among Class Ones a broad equality reigned. He and the imperious Marchioness settled for shaking hands as the crew ungracefully arose from their supine positions of homage.

  "Lucretia, how truly delightful to see you once again," Robinson said with no obvious insincerity. Then again, Old Earth's elites learned to mask their feelings quite young.

  "Martin, dear boy, you cannot imagine what a simply ghastly trip this has been and how pleased I am to see you at the end of it."

  Robinson smiled warmly. "May I present my staff and crew?"

  "Please."

  Turning, Robinson introduced Wallenstein first. She bowed, saying, "At your service, madam." Then, as she lifted her head, she also licked her lips slightly just in case the IG had any doubts as to how completely at her service Wallenstein intended to be.

  "Charmed, Captain," Arbeit answered with a nod and a subtle swipe of her tongue across her own lower lip.

  "My ship's sociologist, Lieutenant Commander Kahn."

  Kahn the wife practically quivered in anticipation of the pleasurable beatings she expected the IG to administer. "I'm sooo thrilled to meet you, Admiral," she gushed.

  "My operations officer . . . "

  * * *

  Later Robinson said, "What I don't understand is why you are here, Lucretia. The IG practically never visits the fleet here. It's been over a century."

  "Yes, I know, Martin," Arbeit agreed in the intimacy of the guest VIP suite. "The Consensus sent me. They've heard things are going badly here. Things are not going so well at home, either. We might need you to bring the fleet back."

  "The reverted areas?" Robinson asked.

  "Yes . . . but not the way you might expect, Martin. There was a raid on Buenas Aires from some barbarians in the Pampas reversion. The city was taken and sacked. For three days it was sacked."

  "My Annan!" Robinson exclaimed. "Buenas Aires? That's . . . "

  "Inconceivable?" Arbeit supplied. "Impossible? Nonetheless, our last outpost in southern South America is gone. We've had to pull out of everything south of Montevideo."

  "But . . . well . . . Lucretia you can't take any of the fleet away. You just can't. Let me explain."

  Robinson proceeded to lay out the situation on Terra Nova and the long term threat it presented to the ruling caste on Old Earth.

  "I had no idea things here were so dangerous for us," Arbeit said.

  "Some of my staff think I'm being optimistic in believing we even have a chance to eliminate the Terra Novan threat, long term," the High Admiral answered glumly.

  "Be that as it may, I may still have to take some of the fleet back home with me. What good does it do to eliminate a threat here and lose our home and position there? And even if I decide I can't do that, I'm going to need some excellent reasons for not doing so when I report to the Consensus."

  "I can understand that," Robinson agreed. "I'll even escort you down below, myself, so you can see."

  "Will you escort me through my little games, too, Martin?" Arbeit asked with a smile.

  "Sorry, Lucretia, but they're not to my taste. Wallenstein will take care of that."

  "Your lovely ship's captain? What is she, a Class Two? She looks like fun."

  "Oh, she's great fun for a lower," Robinson agreed. "Just don't damage her. I need her too much for that."

  "Don't worry, Martin," Arbeit assured. "I never damage a playmate over Class Four. Now if you have some slaves you don't need . . . "

  "Already taken care of, Lucretia. Though they haven't yet been told they're lost souls."

  "Not a problem, Martin. I love explaining to lowers that their future has become grim."

  1/4/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Sea of Sind

  Xamar was lost to view behind them. The weather above and around the ship was foul, winds howling through the wires of the ship's island and white-capped waves pounding the hull. Only a few crew stood watch above and those took care always to have a hand grasped to something, lest a freak wave wash them over the side. The aircraft were struck below. Rather, they were struck below and more or less compressed to one end of the hangar deck; the space thus freed being filled with several hundred of the crew, all that could be spared from necessary duties.

  The forward elevator was lowered almost flush to provide a speaking platform. On it, where they could be seen by that portion of the crew assembled, stood Kurita, Fosa, and a few of the staff, each man, like the assembled crew, unconsciously swaying with the roll of the ship. There was a large wooden box to one side, marked as being an engine for one of the Crickets. There was nothing unusual in there being a major assembly for one of the aircraft sitting on the elevator that joined the flight and the hangar decks.

  The ship's senior centurion, Sergeant Major Ramirez (for—except for the position of captain and honorary rank of commodore—the Legion's classis maintained the same rank structure as the ground and air components), stood in front of the Cricket engine crate. Above the crate and the deck, above the captain, commodore, sergeant major and staff, an aramid fiber tarp stretched taut over the elevator to keep out the wind and keep off the rain. Rain still dripped in places, causing the men standing on the elevator to adjust their positions to keep dry. Ramirez barely kept a smile off his face, for he was the only one on the ship besides the mail clerk who was in on Kurita's little scheme.

  For his part, Fosa's own face bore something of a clueless expression. Kurita had asked for permission to address the crew and, while the captain had had no objections, he also had no idea of why the Yamatan would wish to. Congratulations from the Zaibatsu that had hired them?

  Why bother? We've got what we need with the expansion of the contract to the Nicobar Straits. Decidedly odd.

  At a nod from Kurita, Ramirez walked from in front of the crate to the edge of the elevator. He called the crew to attention, then turned and reported to the Commodore, "Sir, ship's company present or accounted for."

  Kurita returned the salute. Ramirez dropped his own and walked back to his post by the crate. Stepping forward Kurita began to speak, his left hand resting lightly on the tsuka of the sword thrust through the sash about his waist.


  "Somewhere in Uhuru," Kurita began, "a child sleeps tonight with a full belly. A year ago the odds were good that that child went to bed hungry to the point of pain and with no guarantee of awakening the next morning. That belly is tonight full—the child can be sure of waking up tomorrow—for one reason; that commerce again flows uninterrupted. Commerce flows to and from Uhuru for one reason; that you have destroyed those who would prey upon it, interrupt it and destroy it."

  "This day we sail to another theater, to continue the good work we have left completed behind us. For know this, my comrades of the classis; there are children in Sind who will go hungry tonight for the inability of their parents to send the product of their hands overseas to purchase food. There are children who will go hungry because the oil that powers the farm machinery that helps grow their food is also cut off or bought too dear.