Carnifex

name, even now being painted in two alphabets on the stern, was Qamra, Arabic for 'moon.' Almost, almost, Marta had suggested calling it the Queer, but since the crew had been so understanding of her and Jaqueline's love affair— at least to the point of ignoring it—she thought better of rubbing it in their faces.

'It's worse than that, you know, love,' Jaquie had explained. 'We're the only ones getting any aboard and that has to be hard, no pun intended, on the rest of the crew.'

'Well we could do something about that,' Marta countered.

She was joking, but Jaquie took her seriously. 'Do you think we should? I mean, it isn't like it would be anything new for either of us. We might not enjoy it all that much but it would be foolish to pretend it would hurt us any. And we could assemble quite a little nest egg for when we're discharged. I think the guys would appreciate it.'

In fact, though the transfer from the auxiliaries had brought a certain amount of respect from the men, it had been a pay cut. Much of that loss would be made up, in time, through the deferred benefits that came upon release from the Legion. Still, their joint bank account hadn't been growing at the rate it had aboard Fosa's Fornication Frigate.

'Do you miss it?' Marta asked, seriously. 'Guys, I mean.'

'Honestly?' Jaquie looked at Martha carefully to see if the answer would hurt. 'Not as much as I love it with you. But, yes, I miss it.'

'We'll talk to Rodriguez then,' Marta said. 'But if he says it's okay you can only do it if I get to watch.'

'Ooo, that would be fun.'

24/4/468 AC, MV Hoogaboom, Kolon Thota, Anula

Kolon Thota was about as neutral a port as one could find in this war. Oh yes, the island of Anula had its share of civil strife and civil war, but neither Moslems—nor the Salafi fanatics among them—nor Christians were implicated. There were, of course, a fair number of Moslems on the island. Enough of them were Salafi, too. But the decision had been made early on by Mustafa to keep the island as neutral territory, a safe harbor and entranceway for the Ikhwan's operatives into the rest of the world. The port was modern, fully equipped, and well staffed by skilled shipwrights and chandlers.

It was, thus, a perfect spot for the Hoogaboom to have made its final preparations for the attack on the Dos Lindas. It was also a perfect spot for Abdul Aziz to intercept the ship with his hand- carried change of orders.

The captain looked terribly . . . disappointed. Abdul Aziz could well understand that. When one works oneself into a mind set to commit martyrdom for the cause, any delay is hardly to be tolerated. For one thing, delay brings with it the doubt that one will have the courage to endure the imminence of death—even with the certain promise of Paradise.

'But there's nothing for it, Captain,' Abdul said, sympathetically. 'The enemy fleet has moved. There is no real chance of catching them at sea. Moreover, at the Straits of Nicobar our chance of catching them as we have planned is even greater than it would have been off the Xamar coast.'

'Success or failure is in the hands of Allah,' the captain intoned.

'That's true, of course, Captain,' Abdul agreed. 'Yet the mullahs are gradually coming around to the idea that Allah cares about how hard we try, and the cleverness we bring to the fight. Mustafa and Nur al-Deen are convinced of it.'

'Seems impious to me,' the captain said. 'Still, orders are orders and the Koran enjoins obedience. We shall wait.'

After a moment's reflection the captain asked, 'Would you care to inspect the ship?'

'Please. Mustafa expressly ordered me to see that you lack for nothing. Indeed, I've brought half a dozen Tauran slave girls for the enjoyment of your crew.'

The captain thought on that for a moment. 'We appreciate the slave girls, of course, but . . . should we keep them until the day? Sell them off just before? Kill them?'

'Anything but selling them beforehand, Captain, would be fine.'

25/4/468 AC, Matera, south of the Nicobar Straits

Parameswara and al Naquib rested on a fallen log under a deep, dark jungle canopy. Both men were soaked with sweat. For all that, they weren't so wet as the gangs of loincloth-clad slaves struggling under the lashes wielded by al Naquib's company of Ikhwan. A road paralleled the route of the column, about five kilometers to the east.

The slaves' burdens were conexes, or things that looked remarkably like conexes, painted in a mottled pattern and rolling on smooth, even logs cut down from the jungle. Moving the logs left behind as the conexes progressed was nearly all the rest the slaves got from their back- and heart-breaking labor of pulling on the ropes that moved the metal boxes forward.

'How much further?' the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib pulled out a small device, not much larger than a cell phone, and consulted it. 'About three hundred kilometers, by the Global Locating System,' the Ikhwan answered. 'Call it forty or fifty days . . .  if the slaves last through it.'

'Do you think I should go ahead and move out to arrange relief crews?' the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib thought upon that. After a few moments reflection, he answered, 'That, yes. But not only for us. The people coming from the north, on the other side of the Straits, will need help as much as we will. But I am also concerned that you not leave a power vacuum behind you.'

I love this Arab, Parameswara rejoiced. He understands my problems without my so much as voicing a complaint.

26/4/468 AC, Puerto Lindo, Balboa

Two Suvarov Class cruisers had been subjected to a greater or lesser degree of refit. Neither had been given a new name yet but had to make do with their old Volgan ones. They'd be christened with legionary names later on.

Of the two, one was complete only to the extent of having serviceable guns and being generally livable. Like the second light aircraft carrier, this one would go to the Isla Real and serve as a stationary training vessel. The other was intended to join the Classis as a warship.

'Doesn't lack for much, does she?' Sitnikov asked of the chief of the port's shipfitters.

'Well . . . she really isn't fit to stand in line of battle alone, if that's what you mean, Legate,' the shipfitter answered. 'Her guns are fine though, along with her armor and her new AZIPODs. Radar's okay, of course, and being old Volgan it's actually better than newer stuff if she's looking out for stealthy aircraft. The sonar's the pits, though.'

'Got to compromise somewhere,' the Volgan answered. 'And she's not sailing without a good escort with better sonar. How about the other three ships?'

'How about the concrete emplacements for them on the island?' retorted the fitter.

Sitnikov put out a hand, palm down with fingers spread, and wriggled it. 'Carrera sent me an odd idea that he wants me to think about before we commit to a design for the coastal artillery. I'm thinking about it, too.'

'I don't suppose . . . '

Sitnikov considered for a moment before answering, 'No; I really can't discuss it. I can say that it won't matter to the ships' turrets; that it won't change what you have to do.'

'Fair enough. Well . . . when you say the concrete pads are ready we can tow the ships to the island. I've got crew ready to remove the turrets and a ship with a crane rigged to lift them off and transfer them to land.'

'That's all we need of you. The Legion will see to the rest.'

28/4/468 AC, University Hospital, University of Balboa

The doctor looked utterly befuddled. He closed the file on his desk and said, 'Jorge, I haven't a clue why you can see again. Your records indicate there was never any physical reason for your blindness. If there was no physical reason, then the blow you took in the brawl two weeks ago can't have been the cure, or at least not the physical cure. Your