Carnifex (54 page)

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.

"
You
have done this, my friends. You will do this. Both things, what you have done and what you will do, you have done under the command of Roderigo Fosa."

Kurita went silent for a moment as Ramirez quietly lifted the top off from the engine crate and removed from inside a long, silk-wrapped package. This he handed to Kurita.

Taking the package firmly in the center with his right hand, Kurita used his left to remove the wrapping. Silk cord and silken wrap fell away to reveal a sword, its scabbard gracefully curving from the tip to where it met the handguard, or
tsuba.
A low gasp came from Fosa, the staff and the crew, minus Ramirez and the mail clerk, both of whom smirked broadly.

"Capitán Fosa, front and center," Kurita ordered.

Gulping, Fosa moved to stand in front of the Yamatan. Kurita drew the sword. Its gleaming surface shone in the lights of the hangar deck, drawing Fosa's eyes down. He saw inscribed in miniature upon the blade a gold-filled eagle, a tiger, and a shark. Guessing what was to come, Fosa's eyes began to mist.

"Your organization grants broad rights to its units to establish their own traditions. Captain-San. You—though I think you did not realize it at the time—established one such when you granted me permission to wear my family sword here aboard your ship."

"This sword is newly made. Well . . . all traditions must begin somewhere. New or not, it was made by a master smith, working in the old ways. That is, he worked in the old ways except to memorialize upon the blade the forces you have commanded in the service of the commerce that binds man and feeds his children. Thus you see the eagle, for the air wing of this vessel, the tiger, for the
Cazadores
who dominate the land, and the shark for the ship and fleet."

Kurita expertly returned the point of the sword to its scabbard and deftly slammed it home. Taking Fosa's left hand with his own, he turned it palm up and placed the new katana into it. Fosa's hand closed automatically.

Leaning forward, Kurita whispered, "The sword is the soul of the samurai. Draw your new sword, Captain Fosa."

Stepping back, Kurita drew his own and raised it high overhead, his left arm likewise rising. Fosa, still in shock, mimicked the action.

"Banzai!" the Yamatan shouted, his cry ringing through the hangar deck.

Behind him, Ramirez also shouted, "Banzai!" throwing his own hands up.

"Banzai!" Kurita again shouted, this time extracting a weak, "Banzai," from the crew.

"Banzai!"

A little louder, the crew answered, "Banzai."

"Banzai!"

Still louder, "Banzai!"

Ramirez piped in, in his sergeant major's bellow, "Banzai, motherfuckers!"

"Banzai!"

"BANZAI!"

"BANZAI!"

Thus did the
classis
and
Tercio Don John
acquire a new tradition.
Banzai, motherfuckers.

The plaza rang with shouts.
"Viva Parilla! Viva la Republica! Viva los Legiones!"

Part of the crowd, Jorge and Marqueli joined in the shouts. It was, after all, their Legion, too, just as Parilla was their candidate.

There'd been some question about whether they'd attend the rally. The streets weren't precisely safe for the politically involved of late. Of course the incumbent government condemned the violence, even while President Rocaberti plotted it with his political cronies and the Gaul general, Janier, even while they drummed up radical students (not to say that Parilla wasn't himself radical, after a fashion), and hired thugs with Tauran Union money.

It was to be noted, though it almost never was by Terra Nova's Kosmo press, that the government, the Tauran Union, and the World League only condemned the violence that occurred when the reservists in the legions were out in enough force to pound silly the students, the thugs, and the dregs hired by Rocaberti and Janier. When the thugs had the numbers—and they needed a lot of numbers to outnumber trained men, even reservists—there was nary a word.

This rally the dregs weren't supposed to have the numbers, what with two entire reserve infantry maniples—four hundred men, almost unarmed, but mean and very, very willing—standing by, mixed in with the crowd. Still things sometimes go wrong, intelligence fails, threats arise suddenly and . . . 

"Oh, crap, Jorge; it's starting."

From where the couple stood, on some broad steps leading down from street level to the flat, Marqueli saw a crowd of not too well organized, rather scruffy looking types (though there were also a couple of hundred better dressed males of college age and demeanor) entering the plaza from two sides.

Cruz had the nearly fifty men of his reserve platoon around him, none of them uniformed except for the uniformly grim looks on their faces. Half the men had wives with them, as did Cruz. All of them had small clubs, truncheons, concealed under their working shirts and guayaberas.

"Second Platoon, Third Maniple! To me!" shouted Cruz. Instantly the men shuffled the women to form a cluster behind Cruz and formed themselves in a thick line between the women and the swarming thugs and students. Cruz pushed Cara to join the rest of the women.

"Stay with them,
miel
," he said. "They won't get through us."

Parilla's followers at the edge where the thugs swarmed went under more or less quickly, though the
legionistas
took a few, or rather more than a few, down with them as they fell to the ground, bloodied and broken.

Cruz's eyes swept over the crowd, following the progress of the thugs and opposition students. Some of his men turned to look at him.
What do we do, Centurion?
In answer he just spat at the ground and removed a small club from under his shirt, holding the club up to advise his men to do the same.

The mass of the people at the rally, caught by surprise, ran away from the swarm. Like water they parted and passed around the solid seeming mass of reserve legionaries. Some drew their own clubs, brass knuckles and a couple of knives and fell in with Cruz's men. Some fell in with the double line brandishing only their fists and the sneers on their faces. Still others, from well behind the skirmish line, ran over to join. In moments Cruz found himself commanding the equivalent of a full maniple, over two hundred men.

"I'm Centurion Ricardo Cruz," he shouted to be heard over the panicked sounds of the fighting and the crowd. "Hold your position until I give the word."

He was pleased to see the newcomers turn and nod. Most of them were also soldiers, he suspected. He took a moment to look behind him. Cara nodded.
I trust you to defend me, my husband.

"There are some soldiers forming a line, Jorge," Marqueli said.

"Lead me to them," he answered with grim determination.

"Don't be ridiculous . . . "

"Woman, obey your husband.
Lead
me to them. For this I don't need to see. I just need to be able to hit."

Marqueli started to object, then stopped herself with her mouth still open.
He's still a man, still a legionary, eyes and legs or not. I can't take that away from him.

With a deep sigh she took his arm and said, "This way. You fool."

"Warrant Officer Mendoza reporting for duty," Jorge said to Cruz as Marqueli stepped back out of the way.

"Cruz. Centurion. But . . . "

"I can still fight," Mendoza answered, his chin lifting proudly, before Cruz could finish the objections.

"All right," Cruz agreed. He'd rather have a blind legionary with him than any other dozen sighted men. "Stand by me. And Miss . . . "

"I'm his wife," Marqueli answered.

"If you would stand with mine and the other women then, Mrs. Mendoza."

Reluctantly, fearfully, Marqueli turned away even as Cruz turned his attention back to the thronging political thugs. Her head kept twisting back to look at Jorge even as her unsteady feet carried her to where the other women waited.

There really wasn't a set of commands to govern this situation, so Cruz made it up as he went. "Look at me, you assholes!" he shouted, pointing at Mendoza once he had the men's attention. "This man is one of ours. Blind, and not afraid to fight. Blind, and still able to see that it's better to fight than to run. Now . . . maniple . . . 
attención
. Dress right . . . . DRESS. Prepare to engage in melee . . . move."

The stiffening of the skirmish line to attention likewise caused the mixed group of students and hired street rumblers to stiffen and stop for a moment. Cruz took advantage of their loss of momentum by ordering, "Charrrge!"

Instantly his little command lunged forward, leaving Mendoza behind. Not to worry, though, as within seconds the sound erupted of breaking bones and teeth, ripping flesh, and the screams of the beaten. Mendoza, with his keen hearing, followed that. He could have followed it easily enough with normal hearing.

He heard someone very close shout, "Death to the fascists!"

That's identification enough
. Jorge's fist lanced out precisely at the origin of the sound, catching a student in the face and sending him to the concrete of the plaza. Jorge's keen ears picked up the sound of his foe landing. He grunted with satisfaction and advanced . . . right into the flailing fist of another hireling. Mendoza blinked, was struck and then dropped like a sack. He never heard Marqueli's scream.

Cruz had to admit it; he was having the time of his life. Why, there were no end of targets, no end to the opportunity to work off his frustrations. He was squatting over one victim, a student he thought, alternately throwing lefts and rights—his club was lost somewhere behind him—at the young man's rapidly disintegrating face—and laughing maniacally the whole time.

"Motherfucker!"
Wham
. "Piece of privileged shit!"
Kapow
. "Pampered momma's boy!"
Crunch
.

Teary-eyed, Marqueli knelt with her husband's head on her lap, cradling his head and sobbing his name repeatedly. Frantically, one hand tried to wipe away the blood that poured from a gash on his head. She nearly burst from inside with relief when she saw his eyes flutter open.

It took him a few moments for his head to clear. When it had he looked up directly into her face.

"I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you singing in the choir in church back home," he said, groggily. "You've improved."

The Tauran Kosmos were out on the streets of Balboa in force and with all their normal self-righteousness intact. Was there a street brawl in the course of the campaign? (And there were many.) Rest assured, the progressive, TU-supported incumbent regime partisans were the innocent bystanders in every case. Such, at least, was what was reported in the cosmopolitan progressive press. Moreover, no less a personage than the former president of the Federated States of Columbia, Johnny Prince Wozniak, was on hand to give his stamp of accuracy and approval to every claim of the press that tended to put Parilla's followers in a bad light or elevate the standing of the incumbent faction. Wozniak had never met a corrupt politician, dictator, or terrorist faction from the undeveloped parts of Terra Nova that he hadn't instantly loved.