Carnifex

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 the 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.