Carnifex (20 page)

Things were never as bad as the doom mongers had predicted, of course. Things never
could
become as bad as they predicted. Even so, they were bad enough. What helped Japan out more than anything was that their old folks were, generally speaking, willing to work until they were carried feet first out of their offices and factories.

This, however, only delayed the inevitable. There came a time when, despite the best will in the world, the older ones simply couldn't work anymore and had to be supported. And with so few young being born, the burden became too great. Japan, like Europe, had had no choice but to permit large-scale immigration. Too, like Europe, Japan couldn't assimilate them.

"We must take it all with us, when we leave," Soichi said, his gaze sweeping across the expanse of the shrine. "There will be none left behind to pray to the spirits of our
eirei
."

"In principle, I agree, Watanabe shrugged. 'But we can fit five thousand colonists? Ten thousand? Maybe twenty thousand, for all this weight of wood and stone and bronze."

"We must take . . . "

"All," Watanabe supplied. "I suppose you're right there, too. And the
sakura
?"

"Cuttings, and perhaps a few trees. And then there are the living national treasures . . . "

"A fair sampling will come," Watanabe said, "As will a prospective Son of Heaven."

"Who?" Soichi asked,

"Higashikuni . . . "

"Oh, damn. Not
that
branch."

"Best I could do. Besides, what difference that his multi-great grandfather was screwing some French whore?"

"Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached."

—Emperor Manual II Palaiologos

The bodies, or what was left of the bodies, were still there when the Tauran, specifically the Tuscan, column arrived, about midday. Flies clustered on those of the women and girls in thick, black, buzzing clouds. Even the nine-year-old, legs splayed, appeared to have grown pubes, so thick were the blood-lapping flies.

Tuscan Brigadier General Claudio Marciano stepped from his vehicle, took one look, and promptly threw up.

"Animals," he muttered as he wiped traces of vomit from his lips and face. "Only animals could do something like this."

Marciano's aide de camp,
Capitano
Stefano del Collea, didn't answer. Instead, standing next to the vehicle, he simply went pale and shook with hate.

The two were mountain troopers,
Ligurini
, members of an elite corps. They were the best infantry Tuscany on Terra Nova produced and some of the best in the world. Other mountain troopers from Marciano's command, the Brigada Julio Caesare, worked their way cautiously through the town.

There was no firing as the
Ligurini
swept through, only sullen glares from the villagers.
You promised what you could not deliver. You failed us.
So the villager's eyes seemed to accuse.

"What the
fuck
can we do, Stefano? With three battalions of infantry here in our sector I don't have enough to put even half a squad in every little village. I don't have enough even to put in a single man."

"We could go hunting," del Collea suggested. "We're better men than they are. They may know
these
mountains but we know
mountains.
"

"It's the only way," Marciano agreed, "The only way and I am forbidden to do it." The general smashed a fist into his palm in sheer frustration. "Forbidden to so much as fire a shot except in point self-defense. 'No offensive operations,' the government says, Stefano. 'Don't risk casualties.' Tell me, Stefano, what the
fuck
is the purpose of even having soldiers if it isn't to risk casualties?"

The captain just shrugged. He was as helplessly frustrated in this as his commander.

Marciano took off his green, feathered hat and wiped his brow.
This was just a demonstration of frightfulness. But the word will get out. By this time tomorrow, day after at the latest, every school and clinic we've built, every well my sappers have dug, will be torn down or filled in. No one will risk this kind of obscenity just to have a nicer building to be sick in or a western style school desk. All the good we've thought we'd accomplished will be undone.

"If I could transfer my commission," del Collea said, "I'd join the FS Army. They, at least, are allowed to fight."

"If I could transfer my commission," Marciano rejoined, "I might join the Balboan mercenaries and take the entire brigade with me. They go out of their way to fight."

"They do have mountain troops, you know, General."

"I know . . . but they're not
our
mountain troops. I would miss the Ligurini, Stefano."

To that the captain had nothing to add. He left his general to his own thoughts for some minutes. When Marciano spoke again it was to say, "Fuck 'em."

"General?"

"Fuck the politicians. Tell the commander of the company—Romano, isn't it?—to follow those sons of bitches and kill them."

The device Noorzad carried, the same one brought by the messenger from Mustafa, beeped low. He answered it.

"Noorzad? Mustafa. Some friends inform me that there is a company of infantry on your tail."

The device was surprisingly static-free. Though unmarked, Noorzad was pretty certain it had come from off world; that, or was an offworld technology perhaps manufactured on Terra Nova.

"I can handle a company of infantry," the guerilla chief said.

"Yes, I am sure you can. But you cannot handle the battalion that will descend from the air if you are found, or the air strikes that will come. They are already gathering."

Unseen by Mustafa, Noorzad shrugged. "I understand. I will split my men up, ditch most of the weapons. We can take shelter in the villages nearby."

"You are not concerned they will turn you in?" Mustafa asked.

"After what we did in Jameer? No; word will have spread like the lightning. They'll be too afraid to go against us."

Jesus, this shit terrifies me
.

Ricardo Cruz had his left hand jammed into the crevice of an otherwise nearly sheer rock wall. The hand was formed into a fist, effectively locking him to that wall. His other hand searched for further purchase higher up while his booted feet rested precariously on a couple of finger-widths of ledge. A rope was coiled around his torso.

Cruz's job was to get the bloody rope up the cliff, attach a snaplink to whatever could be found, and create a belay system so that the rest of the men could follow safely. On the way up Cruz mentally recited the very unofficial and much frowned upon version of the Cazador Creed.

Considering how fucking stupid I am . . . 

Aha! There was a little outcropping of rock. He grabbed tight hold of it and began working his left leg to another little spit of a ledge.

Appreciating the fact that nobody lives forever . . . 

The ledge and the outcropping held. Heart pounding, Cruz unballed his left fist, removed it from the crevice and began feeling up and along the wall for another place to anchor his hand before he risked moving his lower foot.

Zealously will I . . . 

Cruz's foot slipped.

There were actually four legions now, since the last, but probably not final, reorganization. The field legions were numbered I through IV; plus the air
ala
and the naval
classis
, which retained their
tercio
numbers, and the training and base legion, which was not yet numbered at all. At the moment, two of those legions, I and II, were at or just over full strength. The other two were at roughly seventy percent, for III, and forty percent, for IV.

Under the reorganization, which had been implicit from the start, the
Legion del Cid
would operate on a four year cycle. While one legion was fighting or ready to go, another was at full strength and training to fight, while a third was building up to full strength and training at lower level unit and individual tasks. A fourth was, practically speaking, broken up with its personnel either in school or supporting school. Since this was the year the married soldiers could actually be home nearly every night, sometimes Carrera referred to the fourth, or school, year as the Legion's "Reproduction Enhancement and Divorce Reduction Program."

Legio
IV was currently in school, hence the forty percent strength. It would be replaced by I after the terms of service of that legion's one term volunteers ran out. Arguably, during the school year, a legion was not really a legion at all, since it consisted only of cadre and those were mostly in school or supporting the training legion or other units. But, since the school year legion had an Eagle, had a chain of command, had equipment and
would
be filled to strength at some point, it was still considered a legion.

What was not generally considered, outside of by Carrera and his staff, was that, since there was a reserve clause in the enlistment contract, every legion could be brought up to strength in a matter of days. This presupposed that the troops would come back voluntarily as Carrera had no legal way of making them return.

I think that's a safe bet though,
Carrera thought.
And besides, their business and student loans all go into default if they fail to answer the summons.

Legio
III's cadre had completed their refresher training the previous year and was in the process of building up to one hundred and five percent strength.
Legio
II was at roughly one hundred and five percent strength, and was working up to divisional operations.

Legio
I, recently returned from Sumer, still had seven months left on the enlistment contracts of the sixty percent of its strength that were one term volunteers. Rather than waste the time, or let the men go slowly crazy from boredom, Carrera had them training. To be more specific, he had them training to return to the war, but in Pashtia.

As a young officer in the Federated States Army, Carrera—then under the name Hennessey—had acquired a fine loathing for general officers. Oh, yes; he'd known a few he thought were better and more useful than sandbags. He'd even known a few he genuinely admired. But those few had been few indeed.

One of the distinguishing marks of worthwhileness, a
sine qua non
of good generalship, in Carrera's view, was that the general ought not let
himself
become a hindrance to training. Since people became, frankly, freaky when a general—or a senior legate or a
dux
—showed up with all his entourage and all his pomp and circumstance, Carrera thought a general could assist training best by, in most cases, seeing while not being seen. Thus, while Cruz inched up the wall, Carrera and Soult hid in a sheltered draw and watched through binoculars. They'd parked their vehicle two miles distant and walked in guided by map and compass. Carrera loathed being dependent on the Global Locating System.

Soult, a senior warrant officer now, as was Mitchell, had stayed on. Most of Carrera's original group, those still alive, had.

"You're pretty confident, aren't you, boss?"

"Confident about what?"

"That we're going to be rehired by the FS. I mean, why else go through the expense of training at this . . . intensity?"

Carrera adjusted the focus on his binos to key in on a youngish trooper scaling a wall. He spoke as he turned the adjusting wheel.

"I
am
somewhat confident, yes, Jamey. But I'd have the troops training like madmen anyway just because I think it's the right thing to do, that it's . . . 
immoral
for soldiers not to spend every possible minute and every dollar, every drop of gas, and every round of ammunition you can spare on it."

"What's more . . . ah, fuck."

Soult looked into his binoculars until he saw what had caused his chief's outburst. When he did see it—a climber who'd slipped until he hung by his fingertips from a small rocky outcropping—he repeated, "Fuck."

 . . . try to fuck every female I can talk into a horizontal . . . FUCK!

Cruz felt his lower foot slip vertically. That put excess demands on the other one, which likewise lost its hold on the rock ledge. His left hand hadn't quite found purchase. In much less time than it takes to tell about it he found himself hanging by the fingertips of one hand, and not even all of those. His body slammed the cliff face, almost causing him to lose his death grip on the outcropping. Moreover, while his helmet protected the bulk of his head, in slipping he had managed to scrape the left side of his jaw along the rough rock wall. He felt hot blood drip down his neck.

His first instinct was, frankly, akin to panic. It lasted milliseconds before training and experience took over.
I've been scared witless before and overcome it. I can again.

As Aristotle had said, "We become brave by performing brave acts." This Cruz had done often enough to deserve the title of "Brave."

The first thing Cruz's questing fingers found was a tiny little spur of rock. It would never do to support his entire weight but, gripped by two fingers and a thumb, it was just enough to take some weight off of the overstrained fingers of the other hand. His heart began to slow, if only slightly.
Ok . . . so I have at least two or three more minutes of life. My fingers will hold that long. A lot can be done in two or three minutes.

Next, his foot found the previous ledge it had occupied. He was unwilling to take quite the same perch he had had previously. He spent some of his one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty seconds feeling around for the best position he could find. When he found it he tested it, spending a few more precious seconds. He then allowed his foot and leg to take some weight from his whitened, tired fingers.