"Katana wa samurai no tamashii."
(The sword is the soul of the samurai.)—Ancient Yamatan Saying
No operation is perfect. Several score men from the butchered column made it back to Abdulahi with wild tales of frightful airplanes and equally frightful infantry swooping in to massacre his followers. None could say what had happened to their chief's heir and the uncertainty was an ulcer eating at the old pirate's innards.
Uncertainty ended shortly thereafter as a single Cricket landed at Bimali's dirt airstrip. From it emerged three armed Cazadors and a legionary naval officer in dress whites. The naval officer was the same one, Tribune Puente-Pequeño, who had served as judge at Gedo.
"Bring your chief, Abdulahi, here," was all the naval officer said.
It was several hours before Abdulahi made an appearance. By that time, the Cazadors had set up a tarp and prepared tea. The naval officer and Abdulahi sat under the tarp and sipped tea for some time before the pirate chief spoke.
"What happened to my son?" he asked.
"Abdulahi, the junior? We have him."
"I want him back."
"Your son was captured while leading an armed band en route to prevent a legitimate action against piracy," the naval officer said. "As such, he is an accessory after the fact to piracy. Thus, he has been sentenced to death, along with all his men. They are being held pending review of the sentences. After review of the sentences, they will be hanged and their bodies dumped at sea."
"You can't do that!?" Abdulahi insisted.
"Why not?" the naval officer answered. "Who's to prevent it?"
Abdulahi's mouth opened to answer, but no words came out. In fact, there was nothing to prevent it. The enemy fleet, what he knew of it, was no great shakes as fleets went. But it was still infinitely superior to anything he had. The World League? No, there was nothing there. They couldn't even prevent his former country from dissolving into anarchy; they surely couldn't do anything now. The United Earth Peace Fleet? No, the Pig in Space, Robinson, had made it clear he could not intervene directly. Indeed, without the advice of the High Infidel, his main striking force would never have been destroyed. Yes, he'd have lost a village and the way in which he'd lost it would have terrified his followers. But he'd lost that anyway and his followers had been terrorized anyway.
"What do you want?" Abdulahi asked hopelessly.
"That's simple. You must cease all piratical activity against shipping under our protection and return all hostages held. Your son will not be executed, though he will be held for some years, if you comply. Otherwise, he will hang, along with a number of his men, the very next time there is an attack at sea. More will hang with each further attack. When we run out, we'll grab more. After all, you're all guilty; we can take anyone we want. We also want your means of communication with the UEPF. We will know if you retain the means, I assure you."
And what good did the supposed "intelligence" I got from space do for me? Nothing. I can give that up. But end our attacks at sea . . . ?
"I cannot control my followers," Abdulahi answered. "If I once could have, that ability was lost to me when you destroyed my column. There will be more attacks," he mourned, "and then you will hang my most beloved son." His chin sank on his chest. Barely, the heartbroken old man restrained his tears.
"I think," Puente-Pequeño countered, "that after the example we just set in your town of Gedo you will have less problem controlling your people than you suspect. Besides, we didn't say you must stop all piracy, only that you must never again touch a ship under our protection. Some shipping we want you to attack."
"Eh?" The pirate's chin lifted and his eyes lost a part of their mournful look.
Smiling the naval officer said, "There are certain shippers who have paid you not to attack their shipping, is this not so?"
Warily the pirate chief nodded.
"Good. Who are they?"
Abdulahi rattled off the names. Mentally, the naval officer checked off all those known to have been buying off the pirates, plus some others who had been unknown. There was only one missing.
"You forgot Red Star Line," the officer said.
"Oh, yes. Sorry. It's just that they've been paying us so long . . ."
"No matter. We want you to attack them, all those who paid you off, until such time as we say 'halt.' As you attack them, we shall make them pay a great deal for protection, all they should have paid us this last year plus interest and penalties. By the time they have broken, you should have enough of a ground force built up that you can maintain control in the future. Moreover, we will send some first rate infantry to protect you and your family, and to help you keep control, while you rebuild."
Abdulahi looked wonderingly. He had thought himself powerful and ruthless. He had followed Mustafa because he thought he had found one even more powerful and ruthless than he was. But these mercenaries? They were beyond anything he or even Mustafa had contemplated. And their power, though small in the big scheme of things, was magnified by their callousness, lack of pity, mercilessness, cruelty and heartlessness to terrifying heights.
Perhaps the deal is not such a bad one.
Commodore's Quarters, BdL Dos Lindas, 25/1/468 AC
One of Kurita's ancestors, back on Old Earth in the early twenty- first century, had had an interesting theory. Possessed of an ancient sword, a family heirloom dating back to before the Sengoku Jidai, the Period of the Country at War, that ancestor had observed that the sword was old and "tired," as the Japanese said. It had seen too much use, had been polished too many times. It was thin and most of the high carbon layer had gone from it.
"All weapons are living beings," had said this ancestor, "This is merest revealed truth. They have souls. Is my family's sword less alive because it has lost weight? I think not. I think that all it ever was is still contained within that weary core of metal. And yet, does it not look sad?"
The ancestor had mused upon this, neither resting nor eating nor drinking, for three days. At last, with his mind free of normal mortal limits, he had had an insight. "We live as well. And we do not become different, or lose our souls, by changing our kimonos. Perhaps this sword merely wants a change of clothing."
Kurita's ancestor had spent two years searching out the right swordsmith for the work he had in mind. In Japan's revival of its ancient art, many swordsmiths had appeared. Few were of sufficient artistry for his family sword, however. Of those few, none initially would undertake the job. Screams of "Heresy! Blasphemy!" arose wherever he'd tried.
At last he had found one, a smith willing to try new things or—in this case—old things in a new way.
For two more years this smith studied the Kurita family heirloom. Looking at the temper line, the little dots of pearlite and martinsite, he saw back to the technique used by the earlier smith, saw the painting on of the clay wash, saw the precise glow of the charcoal in the brazier.
The smith took a gunto sword, a relic of Old Earth's Second World War, and experimentally attempted what Kurita's ancestor had wanted with it. He was disappointed to find that this really told him nothing, that the solid make up of the new sword did not replicate the problems of recladding a properly layered sword. Moreover, he found he had wasted much of the rare and expensive tama-hagane, the traditional steel produced from iron rich sands in the last remaining tatara smelter in Japan, in Shimane Prefecture.
Next the smith had experimented on a worn out tanto, or dagger, though not one as old as the Kurita sword. This tanto, unlike the Gunto sword, had been made in the traditional manner. The result worked, for certain values of work. Still the smith was not satisfied.
Armed with the insights gained from working on the tanto, the smith then obtained a sword forged in the seventeenth century and falsely labeled as the work of the great smith, Kunihiro. The forgery had been well made—how else could it even hope to pass itself off as the great master's work?—and much was learned from resheathing this.
At length, the smith felt ready. He took several pounds of tama- hagane and from it forged a four thousand layer, high carbon skin, or kawegane. Using the old Kurita sword for the base, he forged around it this new skin, welding the two together with heat and the strokes of his hammer. Did he hear the sword scream under the pounding. No matter; I scream in the dentist's chair, too. Then he tempered it in such a way as to recreate a temper line, or hamon, essentially indistinguishable from the original.
Last of all, the smith added every distinguishing mark found on the sword prior to recladding it. A warrior is, after all, entitled to the honor of his scars.
Fosa and Kurita sat opposite each other, cross-legged on a rice straw mat on the floor of the commodore's quarters. The sword lay between them on a silk scarf. Though it glowed from the daylight streaming in through the portholes, to Fosa is seemed to glow with an inner light as well.
"It's . . . beautiful," said a stunned Fosa, stunned because the commodore had never before shown him the sword. He did not wear it aboard ship.
"It's unique," Kurita corrected. "The smith who did this was hounded from the art for tampering with tradition. Eventually, he borrowed the sword and killed himself with it; so say the family legends. My father gave it to my care when I took over command of the Battlecruiser
Oishi. I have no heir, and all my nephews are swine. I imagine I will send it to the restored Yasukuni when I feel my time is upon me. After all, though the shrine boasts nine and ninety rocks from my people's battlefields now, it has never had a rock from a naval battlefield. It does have that one forty-six centimeter shell but that was never fired, of course. A sword, however, should do well enough."
"You should wear it," Fosa said. "Here on the ship. I think the men would approve." Hah, they'll think it's great.
"Perhaps I should."
"You still have people who make such weapons in Yamato, do you not, Commodore?"
"Yes. It has experienced something a rebirth of late."
Again Fosa looked at the sword, admiringly. "Is there one you might recommend?"
"I shall enquire," answered the commodore. "They live, you know? Swords, ships, rifles, too. All the weapons of man have their own souls, their own spirits. Thus the wise men of Yamato teach. And I have always felt it was true."
The sun had gone down and the quarters were empty except for Kurita and the sword. The sword was still out, though now illuminated only by the candles the commodore had lit.
Is the sword my agent, the old man wondered, or am I its? It's a good question. Am I the Zaibatsu's agent to the legion . . . or have I become the legion's agent to the Zaibatsu? I do not know. I do, however, know that the mission here for which the legion contracted is about over. Yet I have told my principals none of this. Why should this be?
The commodore cleared his mind and concentrated on the dim glow of the sword before him. After a long time he looked up, with a smile.
Ah . . . now I understand. It is because after all these years away from the sea and my calling, I am again at war and happy. And the legion has made it so.
The next morning Kurita awoke, as always, very early. He dressed himself, as always, but added a sash. He prepared and encoded one message. Then he prepared another in plain text. Through the sash he stuck his family heirloom, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure it was adjusted to the perfect angle.
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 . . ."
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 anticorruption. 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."
"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."
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' letter 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 your 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:
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."
"It's been sixteen fucking days, Skipper," said Francais 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, Francais 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 for him 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, 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 had been 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 Francais.
"Well . . . Skipper. It's not like we have any girls aboard."
From the stern continued the chant, "meg . . . meg . . . meg . . ."
Quarters #1, Isla Real, Balboa, 7/2/468 AC
"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 flowering 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."
Quarters #2, Isla Real, 7/2/468 AC
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.
After a sigh he said, "Arti, Mac's a fine man, but he's old enough to be your father . . . maybe your grandfather, if he was precocious."
Am I that obvious? Or am I only that obvious to my older male relations?
"I don't care, Uncle. Ever since I saw him at the hippodrome, I've been fascinated."
"He's not rich, Arti, though I have no doubt that Patricio would fix that if he ever saw a reason to, or Mac asked. And he is old, nearly sixty. There's no guarantee he could ever father children on you."
Artemisia sniffed, pointedly. "Trust me, Uncle; women can tell. He could still father a score of children. Give him ten women and he could father two hundred. Uncle, the sergeant major is a man."
Jimenez smiled at his niece. "Well . . . yes, I suppose he is. But what makes you think he might be, or even could be, interested in you?"
Artemisia didn't have to blossom for her uncle. A simple tilt of the head and half pirouette sufficed.
"Well," the legate conceded, pulling on one ear ruefully. "I suppose he could be at that."
Jimenez's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Young lady, you go hurting McNamara's feelings and you will find you are not too old, not too high and mighty, to find your old uncle pulling you over his knee and paddling you so that you cannot sit for a month."
Horrified, the niece shook her head. "Hurt him, Uncle? No . . . oh, nonono. I'm serious about this one. I intend to make him the happiest man in the world. Don't you see? He just . . . smells right. He's the right one. I swear; I'll never hurt him."
Still looking suspicious, Jimenez had to concede that Arti seemed sincere enough. "Very well then. You can hunt him, my little Diana. Though I foresee much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the Bachelor Officers' Quarters."
"Will you help, Xavier?"
"Brazen hussy. What is it with you and older men?"
"They're real men, Uncle Xavier, not boys. Besides, I was in love with you when I was a little girl and I guess that just typecast me for impossibly old men."
Slightly embarrassed, Jimenez thought about that, his head bobbing from side to side. At length, he had to agree. God knows, he'd been not nearly as much of a man at age twenty-five.
"Well . . . I suppose that my own sergeant major could use a little more advice . . . and perhaps I could, as well. And then there's the whole . . . well, never mind. I suppose I have been underutilizing this most impressive training asset. Niece, please invite Sergeant Major McNamara, Sergeant Major Escobedo and his wife, and Legate Guttierez and his wife to dinner, next . . . mmm . . . let's say next Friday. Mess dress? Yes, that will give us an opportunity to show off your not unimpressive . . . assets and give you a chance to see just how impressive Sergeant Major Mac can be in full regalia."
With a yelp of joy—with her uncle on her side, poor McNamara didn't stand a chance—Artemisia launched herself to wrap her arms around Xavier and squeeze him tight enough to collapse lungs. After a moment she backed up and looked at him seriously.
"Xavier," she said. "If you had not been my uncle, I would have gone after you."
The shuttles came down in broad daylight, the better to intimidate the population.
Belisario Carrera, watching from a jungle-shrouded perch overlooking the ciudad, counted them as they descended. Multiplying by twenty-four, he came up with a number of new opponents that set his teeth to grinding and his stomach to churning.
Still, there's no way to tell from here, Belisario thought, how many are actually aboard, what their equipment is like, or what kind of soldiers they are. Hmmm . . .
"Pedro?" Belisario called, summoning a short, stocky and dark, loincloth-clad fighter.
"Si, jefe?" Pedro asked when he had crawled up to his leader's observation post. He massaged a sore shoulder as he lay upon the ground, gift of a captured UN rifle with altogether too much kick.
"I want you to . . ." Belisario began and then stopped. Pedro was a cholo, an indian, but he was also very nearly the brightest of Belisario's followers. He was among the bravest. If Belisario asked Pedro to go into town and spy, Pedro would certainly do it. But the risk?
I must risk it. I must risk him.
"Pedro," Belisario continued, "I need to know what we're facing. Can you go into town and look around for me?"
The cholo didn't say much, ever. He didn't now, either, but just nodded and began to slither backwards.
Belisario returned his attention to the town below and the parade of descending shuttles. So even here I cannot escape Earth and its corruption. Ah, well, at least here I can fight and have a chance. But I do wish that before I left I'd killed more slowly that UN bastard who wanted to trade me my own land for my daughter.
The ciudad wasn't really much of a ciudad. Even Pedro, cholo or not, knew that. Only the stone church had any real presence, at least since Belisario and his men had attacked and burned to the ground the local UN offices. It wasn't difficult for Pedro to keep a smile off his face as he passed the ruined UN compound. After all, there was a substantial group of uniformed men busily working to rebuild it.
Looking carefully at the soldiers, Pedro engraved on his mind the image his eyes saw. Big, strong, tough looking. Red cloths wound around their heads. Cloths look pretty neat. Might get one. Keep rifles close by or slung across backs. Hotter than shit and they still haven't taken off shirts. I smell trouble.
Pedro had his basic letters and numbers. He counted, in all, about one hundred and fifty before moving on.
I thought other fucking UN bastards looked tough, he thought, a few hundred more yards down the street. He, like the civilians of the town, rapidly got out of the way of another group of soldiers, marching silently in three files and about fifty ranks, separated into five groups. They short shits, like me. Eyes different, though. Skin lighter. But little fuckers look mean. And them big fucking curved knives they carrying? Scary.
After three hundred of the toughest looking men he had ever seen, Pedro breathed a small sigh of relief as he got close enough to see the next group, just emerging from the shuttles.
Hah, that more like it. Them look like Botswanan fellahs we kick shit out of while back. Smell worse, though. Jesus, nobody tell dirty fuckers "Cleanliness next to Godliness?" I mean, I know water tight on fucking transport ships but . . . ewwww. It ain't like you sweat any in deep freeze. Them nasty fucks musta been stinky when board ship.
Then Pedro smelled something he had only ever smelt once before in his life. That time had been at Tocumen Airport, in Panama, on old Earth, as he had been about to board the aircraft that would take him to the United States to be shuttled up to the Amerigo Vespucci. He didn't know what caused it. At first he thought it might be the helicopters roaring by overhead.
But, no . . . them too far away . . . downwind, too.
A horn sounding behind him half scared Pedro out of his coppery skin. He turned quickly, and found himself staring into eyes that just emerged above a long, green painted, solid-looking slope. He looked above the eyes, looked further up to what appeared to be a pipe sticking out of a half a trash can stuck on front of the universe's biggest frying pan. Up; a machine gun mounted atop a flat roof, with a soldier nonchalantly resting one hand on the gun, while waving with the other for Pedro to clear away.
Oh, shit; they got tanks.