Carnifex

by Tom Kratman

  * * *

  Clavell switched his fire to single shot, traversing left to right and then back again, raking the gunwales. By this time he knew that his shipmate was hit. Clavell was in no mood for the niceties. His shells smashed in the wooden bulwark, knocking pirates down like ninepins. Especially did he concentrate on those who seemed most willing to fire; for them he would sometimes donate a second shell.

  After about thirty rounds of 40mm, two .41-caliber heavy machine guns, one amidships and the other near the stern, kicked in. At that point Clavell felt free to concentrate on the stern and the engine compartment. Four shots and the thing was not only dead in the water and sinking, the parts still above water were beginning to burn. Pirates, such as still could, began dropping their weapons and jumping overboard. Many of those who could not rise to jump began to pray and scream as water rose or fire spread around them.

  "Cease fire! Cease fire!" Pedraz ordered. "Cris, hard a starboard. Let's go help Agustin."

  * * *

  Lungile trod water fifty or sixty meters away from the ruin of his boat. His heart seethed with hate for the enemies that had killed his men, robbed him of his first command, and caused him to fail his father.

  "I'll make you pay, infidel filth. I swear I will."

  That would have to wait, however, for Lungile's next incarnation. Since the Salafis did not believe in reincarnation, it might have to wait forever. Lungile, struggling in the water, looked over to see an impossibly large shark's fin towering above the surface and veering towards him.

  So much for oaths, the Xamari thought, sadly and hopelessly.

  The shark slowly cruising a few feet below the water, and not very far from Lungile's scissoring legs, didn't really care about revenge or reincarnation. It did care about lunch and it did care about the invigorating aroma of blood in the water. Mostly it cared that lunch was, apparently, served.

  I love Uhuran food, thought the carcharodon megalodon, as it slid over onto its side to take Lungile at the waist, slicing him crudely in two and filling the water with the invigorating scent of very fresh blood.

  Interlude

  Clichy-sous-Bois, France, 6 June, 2100

  The immigrants had served their purpose. They had bought time for the populations to be regularized. They could go now. According to the papers, they should have gone ten years prior.

  Spain and Italy were Islamic now, except for the Vatican in the latter. And the Vatican's independence was merely formal. The imposition of sharia law had allowed the central and important European powers, the core of the EU, to cast those southern Latin states out. Both sides were happy enough with that, though the dethroned Pope, residing in a dank dungeon beneath Saint Peter's while awaiting his ritual burning at the stake, was not.

  Give the people in charge their due, though; this was not to be a racist pogrom. Former Moslems who had cast off their worn shackles and joined the secular humanist majority of Europe were welcome to stay. It was only these, these wretches still resident in the cramped and filthy banlieues of France, or the slums of England and Germany, who had to go.

  Moslem Spain and Italy would not take any. They were poor enough and growing poorer still by the day. There was no room within either of them, or both together, for the forty or fifty million disenfranchised Moslems of the central powers. Switzerland, perhaps the premier military power of the Continent, had said, "Nein," and massed its troops on the borders.

  That left only one outlet . . .

  * * *

  While French troops went to England, mostly via Calais, for the great clearing out, and English Guards regiments landed at Bremen before marching to surround the Moslem quarters of Berlin and Stuttgart and Frankfurt; German troops, a full corps of them, had rolled to Paris on a mission that the EU called, "Human Hygiene." It was believed that the troops—German, French, or British—would be as harsh as necessary only if they did not share a language with the bulk of the people they were to uproot. The Scandinavians and the Benelux had likewise exchanged troops for the same reasons.

  Gendarmes waved—well, not all the French were always sorry to see the Germans roll into Paris, after all—as the grenadiers and pioneers of Second Panzer Division relieved them of responsibility for securing that portion of the electrified wire perimeter. While grenadiers climbed ladders, and others stood by their armored vehicles, the pioneers cut a portion of the wire fence for the rest to pour through.

  From loudspeakers mounted atop heavy vehicles came the command, "Kanacken . . . RAUS."

  Chapter Eight

  And all the time—such is the tragi-comedy of our situation—we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more 'drive', or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or 'creativity'. In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful.

  C.S. Lewis

  The Abolition of Man

  27/6/457 AC, Xamar

  Abdulahi was stuck in three ways. All three were exquisitely painful. In the first place, he found himself forced to pay compensation to the families of the men he had lost at sea a couple of weeks prior. In some cases this included coming up with new dowries for old wives, always an expensive proposition. Secondly, he had to deal with Lungile's bereaved mother. This was particularly bad as she had no other children. The reason, however, that she had no other children was that after the first she had become unpleasantly and unattractively fat. Abdulahi had never been able to bring himself to touch her again, given that he had younger and slimmer wives, concubines and slave girls to spend his time on. But now, in good conscience, he had to give her some of his . . . attention. Worst of all was that he had neither the means of retaliating against those who had so unrighteously slaughtered his men and his son, then stood by smiling as sharks took care of the survivors, nor could he even go to the world press for justice. If he did, the news that it was possible for pirates to be made to suffer so severely would have most of his followers back to farming and hauling fishing nets in no time.

  He'd expected the infidel mercenaries to broadcast the news of their success. It was quite a surprise that they had not. Perhaps those for whom they worked had vetoed passing on the news. Or perhaps the mercenaries had some reasons of their own for keeping quiet. It was something to think upon.

  Mustafa had promised him that it had been a fluke, that the mercenaries couldn't repeat their trick. Abdulahi had his doubts. Already he could think of a couple of ways, a couple of different tricks, that his enemies could use against him. He'd had rumors from ports and ships up and down the coast of helicopters flying in heavily armed, uniformed men to stand guard on certain ships. He'd placed those ships off limits to his followers, of course. But what of the armed men he didn't know about? What of the loss in revenues from ships he could no longer attack safely?

  Dear God, what if the shipping companies paying the Jizya decided to pay the mercenaries for protection instead? Will I have to cut my tolls? Can I afford to cut my tolls? Will some successor rear his head if I do, and if I have to reduce the stipends to my followers?

  Abdulahi shivered at the thought. In the hard world in which he had grown up and lived, the rule of the wolf held sway. If he lost his power, he would also lose his life.

  I must go to Mustafa, Abdulahi thought. He has the ships and the trained men to handle this problem.

  29/6/467 AC, The Base, Kashmir

  "Can we take out this enemy?" Mustafa asked of his assistant, Abdul Aziz.

  "From what I've been able to gather, Prince, it will be very difficult. They have a good group of escorts and an absolutely amazing array of machine guns and anti-aircraft cannon—missiles, as well—to guard their major ship. Moreover, the pattern of their attack on Abdulahi's men suggests that th
e Federated States Navy is committed to assisting them, even if under the table, so to speak."

  "Perhaps a submarine from heretic Farsia?" Mustafa suggested.

  Abdul Aziz shook his head. "Too noisy. Even if the mercenaries lack sophisticated anti-submarine warfare capability, the FSN is the definition of sophisticated. For that matter, the mercenaries may not lack the capability. We simply don't know."

  "Hopeless, then?"

  Abdul Aziz shook his head. "No, Prince, not hopeless. But . . . very difficult. At the very least, taking out their aircraft carrier will be very, very difficult. I do have an idea."

  "Let me hear it then."

  "We would need to expend a reasonably fast freighter and probably its crew."

  Mustafa shrugged. Ships and mujahadin were replaceable, hence expendable. He had twenty-seven ships and nearly a thousand seamen, all dedicated to the cause.

  "We would need to load the ship with explosive—I am not sure of the best mix—and ram the carrier."

  "I don't have anything that fast," Mustafa answered.

  "I know, Prince. We would also have to attack the carrier's propellers. I found a short bit on the GlobalNet that said the carrier has AZIPOD drive. This is very good but also, I think, more vulnerable if we can detonate a ton or two of explosive near the carrier's stern. If we can, we can jam, or perhaps even totally destroy, the drives. This would leave it vulnerable to ramming. Still, Prince, this in only an idea . . . almost off the top of my head. I need to plan more, much more. But before I can plan, I need to know if you are willing to expend a freighter, several smaller fast boats, and perhaps ten or twenty million FSD for torpedoes and missiles . . . and for something else, too."

  "Define 'something else'," Mustafa said.

  "It occurred to me, Prince, that one way to get a ship close to the enemy carrier would be to pay them for protection as some other shippers are doing. Our ship could be 'running from' Abdulahi's men toward the protection of the carrier. Or, at the very least, pretending to keep close under protection of the infidel ship. The small fast boat could be lowered over the side when they got sufficiently close. Torpedoes and missiles could be fired to add to the confusion. This is all very rough, of course."

  Finished, Aziz bowed his head, awaiting Mustafa's decision. The chief thought hard for some time, in silence. He smoked two cigarettes, sipped absently at his coffee. In the end he decided.

  "Make your plan carefully, Abdul Aziz."

  29/6/467 AC, El Hipodromo, Balboa City

  Parilla had retired the week before. There'd been a parade, Carrera serving as Commander of Troops for the event to honor his friend. Speeches had been made, and more than a few tears shed. Lourdes and Mrs. Parilla had cried. Indeed, Raul Parilla, himself, had had to wipe a few unfeigned tears away at leaving the finest military force he'd ever been part of, and the only one with which he had shed his blood.

  His final comment had been, "If I didn't feel I had to do this, both for the Legion and for Balboa, you would have had to carry me off this island feet first."

  Running a presidential campaign from the island seemed like a bad idea from any number of perspectives. On the other hand, Parilla's old home in Ciudad Balboa was too dangerous a place for him to stay anymore. After all, the government still hated his guts. The Tauran Union's pet creature the Cosmopolitan Criminal Court—in effect a Tauran court, masquerading as a world court, for the prosecution of non-Taurans—still had a warrant out for his arrest. There were Tauran Union troops along the Transitway to execute that warrant, too, if he ever grew sloppy.

  Carrera had turned the original "home" of the Legion, the Casa Linda, over to Parilla and his wife, rent-free. It had stood empty for the last several years, ever since the Legion's Headquarters had moved out to the Isla Real. It, and Parilla, would be the better for it being occupied again. From there, and with a couple of maniples of legionaries around it for security's sake, Parilla would run his campaign for President of the country.

  * * *

  The city's racetrack was one of only two places in the country that would really do for Parilla to announce his candidacy. Capable of seating upwards of fifty thousand, or perhaps even sixty in a pinch, the hippodrome was surrounded by open fields and parks, as well as a broad series of parking lots.

  The other potential spot, the Furiocentro convention center, was not as scenic and was also in an area a bit too built up for safety. After all, that CCC warrant was still hanging around out there. The real advantage of the Furiocentro, that it was easily reachable by public transportation, could not outweigh that disadvantage.

  There was no sense in running for President once the country was already plunged into a civil war. One way to prevent civil war, or rather to prevent a skirmish with the Taurans that might degenerate into foreign invasion and perhaps then civil war, was to present a threat too great for the Taurans lightly to risk confronting it. That way came in the form of one hundred and sixty-four helicopters, a mix of IM-71s and heavy-lift IM-62s, carrying three full cohorts, two infantry and one Cazador, to the Hipodromo's parking lots just at dawn. These landed and disgorged their roughly three thousand troops, then lifted off to various points around the country from which they would bring in about five thousand prominent supporters of the legions, and avowed Balboan nationalists, to help fill the racetrack's stands.

  Some of the Legion's naval assets, in particular the dozen large Volgan hovercraft used to transport recruits to the island for initial training and legionaries to the mainland for R and R and leave, were set to bringing in campesinos from outlying provinces. Still others would meet any of the several hundred buses chartered by the Legion at various spots within the city and the Transitway Zone. Fixed-wing aircraft, as well, were sent to pick up supporters from outlying airfields.

  Just to cover all bases, the Legion had further paid to have on hand thirty-four hundred off-duty police to help with crowd control. It never hurts to have the cops on one's side.

  By ten a.m. the troops and police had a cordon around the area, one tercio was formed up inside to parade, the stands were filled past capacity, and the television studios had their news and camera crews waiting for Parilla to emerge.

  * * *

  Carrera and McNamara sat in the private room in the Hippodrome while Parilla went through his paces calmly.

  "You're not the least bit nervous, are you, Raul?" Carrera marveled.

  "Nervous about what?"

  Parilla really didn't understand the question. There was a crowd; he was going to speak to it. He'd done it a thousand times before. Hell, he'd been dictator in all but name before. What was to worry about making a speech?

  Carrera smiled and shook his head. Some people had the political bug and the talent to pull it off. He didn't. Though he liked to teach, he hated making speeches and rarely finished one, on the few occasions he had, when he didn't feel like a fool. Even when he had to talk to troops—and those were the only crowds he was remotely comfortable with—he kept his words short and to the point, the better to get off stage as quickly as possible.

  Then Parilla understood. "God doesn't give everything to one man, my friend. You're a soldier, unquestionably the finest I've ever known. I'm not half the soldier you are and I never could have been. But politics? That I can do."

  I'm glad one of us can, Raul, Carrera thought.

  Turning to McNamara, Carrera said, "Sergeant Major, let's take our place outside so the future President of the republic can make a proper grand entrance."

  Meanwhile, the opening show was beginning.

  * * *

  She was as black and as glowing as high quality anthracite. Her color was made the more remarkably and beautifully striking by the large red blossom she wore in her wavy, midnight hair and the long dress that matched the flower. With huge brown eyes, high cheekbones, a body to die for and a smile that made one think of Heaven; she was Miss Balboa, 466. Today was the day she repaid the Legion for funding her win of the national crown and her almost
successful attempt at the Miss Terra Nova title.

  Artemisia Jimenez, legionary Legate Xavier Jimenez's niece, was going to repay her debt by her presence, her speech and her singing, today. She would add her support later on and throughout the campaign. Her voice, clear and sweet, had been her talent for the beauty pageants.

  Professor's Ruiz propaganda department had come up with the song. It was not new, by any means, but had, like many others in the legionary repertoire, been scavenged from the history of Old Earth. In its translated form it was called "Mañana Sera Mejor," Tomorrow will be better.

  The band played a medley of legionary tunes as Artemisia mounted the dais. The selections included small excerpts from Juventud Adelante and Canto al Aquila, the Hymno Nacional and El Valle de las Lunas. The tune from Mañana Sera Mejor was interwoven with the others to accustom the audience to it and, with the program sheets that had also been passed out, make it easier for them to follow along and join in.

  Artemisia gracefully removed the light shawl she wore and draped it over a microphone stand after she removed the microphone. As she did she saw two uniformed men emerge from a side door and enter the stand. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The crowd hushed; even at a distance her flesh exuded an aura of untouchable, ultimate femininity that one could only admire, desire, or aspire to.

  Stealing sidelong glances in the general direction of the men in uniform, Artemisia began to speak an introduction for Raul Parilla that either came from the heart or was a first-class imitation. She could have been reading the menu from any given restaurant and the people listening would have been as rapt.

  * * *

  "That fucking bastard," President Rocaberti fumed at his short, pudgy nephew. "That miserable fucking peasant piece of low class shit. The filthy swine."