Carnifex

the atomic bombs. What a bargain it would have been if we had been able to surrender after only losing a couple of hundred thousand instead of twenty million.'

'No, Roderigo-san; if I hate someone over it, I hate those who prevented the FSC from following through and making us surrender when it was possible and cheap. I hate the UEPF.'

Interlude

Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America, 19 April, 2085

Students are young. Thus, they are subject to the fads and fashions of the young. Perhaps more importantly, they are fickle and generally contrary. If the older generation is traditionalist, patriotic, religious, the students will anti-patriotic, non-traditionalist, and irreligious. If on the other hand . . .

* * *

There was snow on the ground. Not that this was particularly unusual in Boston in April. But for there to be so much snow on the ground? The students were pretty sure— indeed the consensus of the world's scientific community was—that it was the dread phenomenon of global cooling, caused by failure to create more heavy industry in the Third World, in accordance with the mandates of the Kyoto IV Treaty.

Nonetheless, that phenomenon of global cooling was not what had the students out in their thousands in protest. Rather, it was the restrictions on free speech explicit in the latest UN Treaty on the subject.

And so, to show their defiance, as university students are wont to do, some thousands of them crossed over Harvard Bridge on their way to Beacon Hill, bearing banners stating such seditious and anti-progressive sentiments as, 'Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the Freedom of Speech' and 'The Declaration of Independence was Hate Speech.' Tsk.

The protestors' intentions were to cross all three-hundred and sixty four point four smoots (and an ear) of the bridge, then proceed up Massachusetts Avenue to Commonwealth Avenue. From there, they were to march by the site of the Boston Massacre, then go to the Common where they would present their grievances.

* * *

Students in Massachusetts came from all over, even the dreaded red states of the deep South. The Governor, however, was a home girl. As such, she, too, was progressive. And the plain and open expression of all those unenlightened banners was anathema to her. Fortuitously, however, she was the commander of the Massachusetts National Guard.

'The adjutant general says his birds are ready to lift now, Governor,' announced an aide. 'Flight time about twenty minutes.'

'Tell him to hold,' the governor ordered. 'We don't want to miss anyone.'

* * *

There had been a lot of research into non-lethal weapons, over the years. There had been developed rays that caused the skin to suddenly feel painfully hot. Similarly there was ultrasound that stunned and disoriented. Some caused an unbearable itching and still others created nausea. All of those, however, tended to disperse crowds, rather than drop them in their tracks for convenient collection. So there was gas . . .

* * *

The choppers came in low, skimming the townhouses of the Back Bay. Dropping to treetop level they skipped over the Public Gardens. At Charles Street they began loosing a gas, invisible, tasteless, odorless. Wherever they crossed protestors dropped in their tracks.

Watching the scene from her office, the governor misrecited:

'By the rude bridge that ached the flood,

Their unprogressive flag unfurled,

Here once the protesting students stood,

And got gassed and shipped to another world.'

'Where do we send them, Governor,' the aide asked.

'First to jail, then to court and then to Southern Columbia,' she answered. 'It looks like that's going to be our dumping ground for unenlightened malcontents.'

Chapter Six

These, I take it, were the characteristic acts of a man whose affections are set on warfare. When it is open to him to enjoy peace with honour, no shame, no injury attached, still he prefers war; when he may live at home at ease, he insists on toil, if only it may end in fighting; when it is given to him to keep his riches without risk, he would rather lessen his fortune by the pastime of battle. To put it briefly, war was his mistress; just as another man will spend his fortune on a favourite, or to gratify some pleasure, so he chose to squander his substance on soldiering.

—Xenophon, On the Spartan, Clearchus, The Anabasis

2/5/467 AC, Quarters #2, Isla Real

The nightmares had started coming again, since Carrera had returned from Sumer. They'd been bad—horrifying, really—before he'd begun to gather the means of revenge. Then they'd tapered off, even becoming somewhat rare. Whether this was because he was actually doing something to destroy those who had murdered his wife and children or because he was typically so exhausted at the end of the day that he had not even the energy left to dream, he had no clue.

Then the fighting had begun and the nightmares had gone almost completely. Again, he could not say whether they had stopped because he was advancing the cause of vengeance —he didn't delude himself that he was really in search of justice—or because of exhaustion, of for some other reason or reasons.

He never told anyone, not even his closest friends and especially not Lourdes, his second wife, but he was a superstitious sort and a part of him really felt the dreams came from the shade of Linda, reminding him not to let the murderers of her children get away.

Whatever the case, since returning with his troops from Sumer the nightmares had begun coming again with increasing violence and frequency. They were repetitive, as well. Tonight's was one of the worst; the one where he had just met Linda for the very first time and she burst into flames before his eyes. He awakened from that one screaming, as he always had. Lourdes held him tightly until he calmed down.

It was perhaps one reason that he loved Lourdes as much as he did. She should have been jealous that her husband was still in love with Linda. She probably was jealous that he was still in love with Linda. After all, what woman likes being in second place? But she understood that the world was imperfect and was thankful for what she did have.

Besides, she took care of him. He needed her, even if he was gone most of the time. He needed her, even though he was more at home in the field with the Legion. He needed her, even though she could never completely replace Linda.

Perhaps he loved her most because she loved him as much as, perhaps more than, Linda had. And he felt terrible, terrible guilt that he couldn't, not quite, fully reciprocate.

* * *

He spent virtually all early mornings out with one or another maniple, joining that ever-so-lucky tribune at daily physical training. That meant he would be able to see every maniple commander at PT about once every two years.

More often than not he would go directly from PT to his office, shower, grab a quick bite at the Headquarters mess, and then either go look at training or attend one of the meetings that he did his damnedest to limit. This morning, given the performance of the previous night, he thought he probably ought to have breakfast with Lourdes. The eldest boy—little Hamilcar was four years old now and in pre-kindergarten—would be at school. The younger, still just a baby, would likely be asleep.

As he drove himself to his quarters, he thought, I wonder if it's even a good idea for me to join them at PT. How much stupidity do these kids go through on the off chance I might show up? Maybe it would be