Carnifex

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'Well . . . . skipper. It's not like we have any girls aboard.'

From the stern continued the chant, 'meg . . . meg . . . meg . . . '

6/2/468 AC, The Big ?

'Mmm . . . . mmmph . . . . oh . . . ah . . . ' Jaquie's and Marta's bodies were covered in sweat and intertwined on one of the two narrow naval bunks in their quarters. Jaquelina was half on top, with her left side resting on the bed and her right leg and hand between Marta's legs. The hand moved gently but deftly; teasing, rubbing, flicking the little button revealed by the splaying of Marta's legs. Those legs began to twitch even as the last 'ah' began to morph to a very loud and piercing, 'Aiiiiii.'

And that's my cue, thought Jaquie as she clamped her mouth over Marta's, forcing her tongue between the other girl's lips and making a seal that was air tight and scream proof. She held that seal while Marta's own hand reached down to cover and control Jaquie's. Marta's body thrashed wildly atop the thin mattress.

The shuddering grew less, giving Jaquie a chance to come up for air before again covering the other girl's mouth with her own and again using her fingers to lift Marta up to and past the peak. After three or four repetitions, the larger girl arched her back and then slowly subsided, relaxing, to the mattress.

'Oh, God, that was wonderful,' Marta whispered into Jaquie's ear, before flicking it with her tongue and then plunging as much of her tongue as would fit into the canal. Jaquie had the most wonderfully sensitive ears. It was her turn to shudder as Marta's tongue set the nerve endings running wild. Jaquie purred like a kitten before reaching up both hands to grasp Marta's head and pull it down to where it could do the most good.

'I love you, Jaquelina,' Marta whispered just before burying her face between Jaquie's legs.

Jaquelina, fortunately, was not a screamer.

7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number One, Isla Real, Balboa

'Miss Lourdes,' for McNamara had never quite gotten over calling her 'Miss Lourdes,' even when she'd become 'Senora 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 flowing 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.'

7/2/468 AC, Quarters Number Two, Isla Real

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 simply 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