Carnifex cl-2 Read online

  Carnifex

  ( Carrera's legions - 2 )

  Tom Kratman

  A Desert Called Peace, Volume II: CARNIFEX

  (The Butcher)

  Tom Kratman

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  CARNIFEX: Copyright © 2007 by Tom Kratman

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4165-7383-6

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-7383-8

  Cover art by Kurt Miller

  First printing, November 2007

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  t/k

  Printed in the United States of America

  WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE (Anno Condita -23 through 462):

  In the year 2037 a robotic interstellar probe, the Cristobal Colon, driven by lightsail, disappeared enroute to Alpha Centauri. Three year later it returned, under automated guidance, through the same rift in space into which it had disappeared. The Colon brought with it wonderful news of another Earth-like planet, orbiting another star. Moreover, implicit in its disappearance and return was the news that here, finally, was a relatively cheap means to colonize another planet.

  The first colonization effort was an utter disaster, with the ship, the Cheng Ho, breaking down into ethnic and religious strife that annihilated almost every crewman and colonist aboard her. Thereafter, rather than risk further bloodshed by mixing colonies, the colonization effort would be run by regional groups such as NAFTA, the European Union, the Organization of African Unity, MERCOSUR, the Russian Empire and the Chinese Hegemony. Each of these groups were given colonization rights to specific areas on the new world, which was named—with a stunning lack of originality—"Terra Nova" or something in another tongue that meant the same thing. Most groups elected to establish national colonies within their respective mandates, some of them under United Nations' "guidance."

  With the removal from Earth of substantial numbers of the most difficult portions of the populations of Earth's various nations, the power and influence of transnational organizations such as the UN and EU increased dramatically. With the increase of transnational power, often enough expressed in corruption, even more of Earth's more difficult, ethnocentric, and traditionalist population volunteered to leave. Still others were deported forcibly. Within not much more than a century and a quarter, and much less in many cases, nations had ceased to have much meaning or importance on Earth. On the other hand, and over about the same time scale, nations had become pre-eminent on Terra Nova. Moreover, because of the way the surface of the new world had been divided, these nations tended to reflect— if sometimes only generally—the nations of Old Earth.

  Warfare was endemic, beginning with the wars of liberation by many of the weaker colonies to throw off the yoke of Earth's United Nations.

  In this environment Patrick Hennessey was born, grew to manhood, and became a soldier. As a soldier, he married, oh, very well.

  Hennessey's wife, Linda—a native of the Republic of Balboa, was killed, along with their three children, in a massive terrorist attack on Hennessey's native land, the Federated States of Columbia. The same attack likewise killed Hennessey's uncle, the head of his extended and rather wealthy family. As his dying testament, Uncle Bob changed his will to leave Hennessey with control over the entire corpus of his wealth.

  Half mad with grief, Hennessey, living in Balboa, ruthlessly provoked and then mercilessly gunned down six local supporters of the terrorists. In retaliation, and with astonishing bad judgment, the terrorist organization, the Salafi Ikhwan, attacked Balboa, killing hundreds of innocent civilians, including many children.

  With Balboa now enraged, and money from his uncle's rather impressive estate, Hennessey began to build a small army within the Republic. This army, the Legion del Cid, was initially about the size of a reinforced brigade though differently organized. For reasons of internal politics, Hennessey began to use his late wife's maiden name, Carrera. It was as Carrera that he became known to the world of Terra Nova.

  The Legion was hired out to assist the Federated States of Columbia in a war against the Republic of Sumer, a nominally Islamic but politically secular—indeed fascist—state which had been known to have supported terrorism in the past, to have used chemical weapons in the past, and to have had a significant biological warfare program. It was widely believed to have been developing nuclear weapons, as well.

  Against some expectations, the Legion del Cid performed quite well, even admirably. Equally against expectations, its greatest battle in the campaign is against a Sumeri infantry brigade led by a first rate officer, Adnan Sada, who not only fights well but stays within the rules and laws of war.

  Impressed with the Legion's performance (even while loathing the openly brutal ways it has of enforcing the laws of war), and needing foreign troops badly, the War Department of the Federated States offered Carrera a long term employment contract. Impressed with Sada, and with some of the profits from the contract with the Federated States, Carrera likewise offered to not only hire, but substantially increase, Sada's military force. Accepting the offer, and loyal to his salt, Sada revealed seven nuclear weapons to Carrera, three of which were functional and the rest restorable. These Carrera quietly removed, telling no one except a very few, very close subordinates.

  The former government of Sumer had a cadre and arms for an insurgency in place before the Federated States and its allies invaded. In Carrera's area of responsibility, this insurgency, while bloody, was contained through the help of Sada's men and Carrera's ruthlessness. In the rest of the country, however, the unwise demobilization of the former armed forces of the Republic of Sumer left so many young men unemployed that the insurgency grew to nearly unmanageable levels. Eventually, Carrera's area of responsibility was changed and he was forced to undertake a difficult campaign against a city, Pumbadeta, held by the rebels. He surrounded and starved the city, forcing women and children to remain within it until he was certain that every dog, cat and rat had been eaten. Only then did he permit the women and children to leave. His clear intention was to kill every male in Pumbadeta capable of sprouting a beard.

  After the departure of the noncombatants, Carrera's Legion continued the blockade until the civilians within the town rebel against the rebels. The former he aided to take the town. Thereafter nearly every insurgent found within Pumbadeta was executed, along with several members of the press sympathetic to the rebels. The few insurgents he—temporarily—spared were sent to a ship for rigorous interrogation.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  But my dreams

  They aren't as empty

  As my conscience seems to be

  I have hours, only lonely

  My love is vengeance

  That's never free

  —The Who, Behind Blue Eyes

  25/10/462 AC, United Earth Peace Fleet Starship Spirit of Peace

  The traditional Christmas orgy was in full swing on the hangar deck. Since it was supposed to be a time to celebrate universal brotherhood, even the proles were invited. Indeed, so universal was the sense of brotherhood implicit in the season that Lieutenant Commander Khan, the fleet's sociology officer, was laying, rear up and breasts down, on an ottoman with a prole at each end, one in each hand and short lines emanating in four directions. Khan's husband cheered her on. And why not? He had bet a month's salary on her performance for the night.
r />   Sitting on a plain chair on an elevated dais, High Admiral Martin Robinson, Commander of the United Earth Peace Fleet, watched through his blue-gray eyes without much interest. In truth, Robinson was bored silly by the whole thing. It's as bad as a party back home. Same old faces, same old events . . . same old, same old. Bah. Never anything new.

  Robinson had reason to be bored. Though he looked to be in his mid-twenties, face unlined and back unstooped, the High Admiral was a beneficiary of the best anti-agathic therapy Old Earth could provide. His blond hair was untouched by gray and without any recession in his hairline.

  On the other hand, Robinson had had better than two centuries in which to grow bored, two centuries of peace, two centuries of orgies, two centuries of . . . Well . . . nothing, really. Nothing until I came here. This, at least, hasn't been boring. It's been frustrating.

  Frustration wasn't the half of it. Mixed in, and perhaps in greater quantity than the frustration, was fear; fear for his class, fear for their rule, and fear for his planet.

  And there's nothing for it but to change the cesspool down below from a near cognate of Earth, as it was, into a perfect clone of Earth, as it is. That, or plunge the whole thing into a Salafi sect dark age. Either would be acceptable. Indeed, having the planet fall under the Salafis would probably leave my world safer. Let them be content to pray five times a day to a non-existent god via a rock in a building in a nothing-too-much city. Let them keep better than half their people as cattle. Let them keep themselves poor and ignorant and, above all, incapable of space flight.

  But if I fail, if the non-Salafi barbarians down below achieve interstellar travel, my home will be taken and pillaged, my class will be cast down, and my entire civilization will be plunged into barbarism. And Khan—here Robinson looked up to see that Khan was an easy half dozen partnerings ahead of her nearest competition—Khan assures me that when a civilization like that meets one like ours, ours hasn't a chance. If they can get to us, they can and will ruin us.

  Unconsciously, Robinson lifted a thumb nail and began nervously to chew.

  So I do what I must, dirty my hands, as I must, and fight . . . well, fight though others, of course; I can't risk the loss of my fleet. That, above all, I must preserve.

  Robinson laughed at himself. I must preserve it until it falls apart around me. Preserve it while the Consensus back home does nothing to maintain it.

  Dropping his thumb and shaking his head at the bloody damned frustration of it all, Robinson stood to leave the hangar deck. He'd call the captain of the ship, Marguerite Wallenstein, later, if he needed sex. For now he just needed to be alone.

  Ahead of him, an oval hatchway dilated to permit the High Admiral passage. As the hatchway leading off the hangar deck whooshed shut behind him, Robinson heard Khan frantically pleading for more.

  25/10/462 AC, Parade Field, Balboa Base, Ninewa Province, Sumer

  The troops in the camp stood in ranks and sang lustily and in their thousands:

  "Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;

  When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

  Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me."

  Patricio Carrera, commander of the troops of the Legio del Cid in Sumer and of their thousands of compadres in training back in Balboa, didn't join in the singing. Any other song and he might have. But this song, a favorite of his late wife, Linda, figured prominently in one of the recurrent nightmares he endured of her death, and of the deaths of their children. He just couldn't sing it. It was all he could do not to cry. Instead, his blue eyes, normally fierce, became indescribably sad as, indeed, did his entire face.

  Carrera's closest friends stood or sat around his office, drinking Christmas cheer that had, until that moment, seemed very cheerful indeed. Yet the mood the song brought to Carrera instantly transformed the mood of every man and the two women in the place.

  Two of those closest friends, Sergeant Major John McNamara and Legate Xavier Jiminez, both coal black, very tall and whippet thin, looked meaningfully at each other. Note to the chief chaplain: next year that particular song does not go in the Christmas program. The two women, Lourdes and Ruqaya, exchanged glances as well. As much as the two blacks resembled each other, one could at least be certain they were unrelated, Jiminez being frightfully handsome and McNamara . . . . well, the best one could say of him was that he looked his part, the quintessential grizzled sergeant major, his face heavily lined and never exactly lovely.

  Lourdes and Ruqaya, on the other hand, might have been sisters, or at least close cousins. Both were tall and slender. Both had amazingly large and melting brown eyes. Skin color? About the same. Faces? Different, of course, yet each was in the range of symmetrical attractiveness that tended to resemble. However, whereas Mac and Jimenez had shared the same thought, the woman's thoughts were only somewhat related. For Lourdes: Poor Patricio. For Ruqaya: Poor Lourdes; having to share her man with a dead woman.

  "Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?

  I triumph still, if Thou abide with me."

  Carrera gripped one of his disgustingly small, distressing soft, and nauseatingly dainty hands around a tall tumbler of scotch and drank deeply. For the things I do, he thought, and the things I allow to be done, somehow I doubt that the Lord will abide with me.

  33/10/462 AC, Hildegard von Mises, Sea of Sind

  The conex inside the ship rang with the helpless shrieks. It practically reverberated with them. The conex, soundproofed, also kept in the stench of voided bowels and bladders, and the iron-coppery stink of blood.

  You wouldn't think one man could scream that much, especially with the tongue

  protector installed, mused Achmed al Mahamda, the chief of interrogations. Mahamda, quite unperturbed, casually munched a Terra Novan olive, the fruit of an odd palm with green trunk and gray fronds. The olive, itself, was gray and about plum sized. Its taste was similar to, but slightly more astringent than an Old Earth olive. Mahamda loved them, as did many of his people.

  He put the olive down and wrinkled his nose as the victim, Fadeel al Nizal, lost sphincter control. The assistant applying electricity to Fadeel's genitalia looked over at Mahamda. Should we clean him up before we continue? This is pretty vile.

  Genial seeming, a little fat, and—appearances notwithstanding—utterly ruthless,

  Mahamda had been an interrogator for the secret police, or Mukhabbarat, of the old regime in Sumer. When that one had been tossed out the year before by a coalition led by the Federated States of Columbia, Mahamda had gone into hiding. Eventually, one of Sada's people had found him and offered him a job—with a raise, no less, and protection from the Coalition forces searching for him—working for some of the infidels. He'd had to give his family as hostages but, since he'd only gone back to work to ensure they were fed, this seemed not unreasonable.

  Mahamda shook his head at the assistant's unvoiced question. His look said, If you want to work in this line, you're going to have to learn to accept foul smells.

  Shrugging you're the boss, the assistant turned a dial to increase the juice. Impossible as it might have seemed, Fadeel's screaming actually increased. His eyes seemed ready to burst from his head as his teeth ground against the rubber bit installed in his mouth to keep him from biting off his own tongue.

  It's a shame what we have to do to squeeze out the last little bit of useful intelligence and propaganda, thought Mahamda But this is that kind of war. Let those who began it take the blame. And it's not like this sniveling wretch deserves any better.

  Once stocky, and even with a bit of midriff fat, Fadeel was already beginning to waste away under the torture. Though near enough in appearance to the captive that they could have been cousins, Mahamda felt no pity. Fadeel was one of those who had begun and advanced the kind of terrorist war being waged in Mahamda's homeland of Sumer. His list of atrocities was long, the coating of blood on his hands deep, the stain indelible. Mahamda f
elt nothing but loathing for the Bomber of Ninewa, the Butcher of Pumbadeta.

  While Mahamda sat in a comfortable swivel chair bolted to the floor of the ship-borne conex, Nizal was strapped firmly to a dental chair, with an electrode stuffed up his anus through a hole in the chair and his penis firmly affixed into something that still looked much like the droplight socket from which it had originated. Nizal's body quaked with the electric jolts surging through it, wrists and ankles straining at the thick leather straps that held him in place. Helpless tears coursed down his face while an inarticulate "gahhhhhh" poured from his mouth.