Carnifex cl-2 Read online

  "Yes it will." Unless I'm lucky enough to be killed before it does.

  "Speaking of the future, what's on for tomorrow?" Lourdes asked.

  "Mass review of the Corps of Cadets at Puerto Lindo, then rechristening of the old HAMS Venganza. Want to come watch? The boys are bussing in from all over."

  "No . . . no. I'm not comfortable with turning fourteen-year-old boys into soldiers."

  "I love you for that, too," Carrera whispered, "for that among many other reasons."

  Lourdes never asked if her husband loved her more than he had his first wife, Linda. She was much, much too afraid of the answer.

  Interlude

  Munich, Germany, European Union, 15 May, 2077

  The first thing Martin Hoyer the Third noticed about the envelope was that it was pink and flowered on the outside. How like the government to send bad news in such bright packaging, Hoyer thought. Perhaps if grandfather had not been such an untalentierte teilzeit schmierfink we would have had enough money of our own not to have to rely on the state's largess to see us through our old age. Instead he wasted his life writing books no one would read . . . even in German.

  Not that Martin or his wife, or their one—unemployed —child, were particularly old. He and she were only fifty-seven and had been drawing on the state's pension scheme for a scant two years. The boy, Martin Hoyer the Fourth, received unemployment compensation, despite never having worked a day in his life. But even in two years they had seen the system go from penny-pinching to outright miserly.

  At least we haven't been reduced to eating dog food. Yet.

  He opened the envelope and began to read:

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  In accordance with the European Union Directive 2076/015 for the preservation of the public fisc and extra-planetary colonization, you and you spouse have been identified for reduction of benefits or transportation, with assets, to the planet of New Earth.

  Hoyer took a quick glance at what "reduction of benefits" meant in concrete, Euro, terms and thought, Dog food.

  You and your spouse have thirty (30) days from the date of this letter to decide. Thereafter, should you decline transportation, on each anniversary of this letter you will have another thirty (30) days to change your minds, transportation schedule permitting.

  Hoyer read the missive through, sighing frequently. He put it down and called for his wife. As he waited, he went through the rest of the mail.

  Interesting that there's a letter too for our lazy-as-dirt son, he thought.

  Chapter Three

  The Helen (H): that amount of beauty required to launch one thousand Achaean ships of approximately eight tons empty displacement each, or approximately eight-thousand tons of shipping, and to destroy one city.

  The milliHelen (mH): a more convenient measure than the Helen, that amount of beauty required to launch one ship and burn down a single house.

  The Linda (L): a more up to date measure; that amount of beauty required to launch eight-thousand tons of shipping in a single ship and destroy a city.

  Dos Lindas: (ex-Venganza) an antique aircraft carrier of sixteen-thousand tons unladen displacement, restored and recommissioned to take part in the war waged against Salafi terrorists and their supporters by the Legion del Cid (qv). Destroyed cities: TBA.

  From Baen's Encyclopedia of New and Old Earth,

  Terra Novan Edition of 475 AC

  1/10/466 AC, Academia Militar Sargento Juan Malvegui, Puerto Lindo, Balboa

  The original port had been raided and burned by pirates almost three centuries before. Its crumbling walls, what remained of them, huddled at one corner of the rectangular bay, held up in places by nothing but friction, gravity and the binding, green and brown tendrils of jungle that interwove among the stones. Shacks, too, sat within the ruins, sometimes surrounded on three sides by the chewed walls.

  Outside that original town, or the ruins and shacks that remained of it, a certain amount of newfound prosperity could be seen; new houses, some few stores with bright glass windows, paved streets. This was to be expected when one trebled the population of a not very populous place, and considerably more than quadrupled the average income of an otherwise rather impoverished place. The new population and the new money had come from two sources. The first of these was the Academy, especially its fairly well paid (by local standards) professors and military cadre. The second was the shipyard built to refit the old aircraft carrier—the ex-HAMS Venganza—the Legion had purchased for a song, albeit at three and a half million FSD a rather pricey jingle, one step ahead of the breakers. There were other ships in port waiting for the shipyard's attentions.

  Carrera had made some efforts to keep the old town as it was, buying up properties to fix and preserve the ruins. He'd wanted the boys of this first military school to have the lesson always before them: This is defeat; avoid it. (Another school sat on the other side of Balboa, right next to the equally ruined Balboa Antiguo, also sacked and burned but by Old Earth's UN. That one, the Academia Militar Belisario Carrera, was sited by the ruins for much the same reason as was the Juan Malvegui.)

  The school itself was on the other side of the bay from the town, near the bay's mouth. When the fog was not heavy or the rain was light, the boys could see the ruins from the battlements of the old stone fortress—Fortaleza San Filipe—that dominated the bay, the school, and the old town.

  There was no rain and only a very light fog as Carrera's staff car wound through the street. It was both preceded and followed by armed and armored vehicles. There was a battalion of Castilian troops at Fort Williams, not so far away. Relations between the Legion, on the one hand, and the government of Balboa and the Tauran brigade of which the Castilians were a part, on the other, were, at best, strained. Moreover, the Tauran dominated Cosmopolitan Criminal Court had a standing warrant for the arrest of Carrera and his nominal chief, Raul Parilla, for various alleged crimes committed by the Legion during the initial campaign in Sumer.

  I know we're going to have to fight them, eventually, Carrera admitted to himself. But I want that fight to be on our terms, not brought on by well-meaning troops trying to save Parilla or myself from incarceration. So . . . best not to tempt the Taurans . . . yet.

  Though no one but Carrera knew it for a fact, the boys of the Brigade of Cadets were part and parcel of the plan for meeting and defeating the Taurans when the day came. Some others had guessed some of that plan. Alexander Sitnikov, in particular, was, as commander of the cadets, well aware that the boys spent two days a week training on strictly military subjects, that the three schools thus far built had their buildings connected by tunnels, and that those tunnels led off the school grounds to well concealed spots in the jungle. Sitnikov knew, too, that the three schools still building shared these features. Lastly, any fool with a map could see that four of the six schools were well sighted to serve as springboards to attack into the Taurans' base area, the ten mile wide strip through the country that contained the Balboa Transitway, an above sea level canal. Of the other two, one was in excellent position to defend the country's main airport, west of the capital, from ground or airborne attack, while the last was near enough to the former—and future—military base at Lago Sombrero to effect the same purpose.

  Sitnikov kept his insights to himself. He had few qualms about using fourteen year olds as soldiers, and none whatsoever to using fifteen- through eighteen-year olds.

  Formerly a colonel of armor in the army of the Volgan Republic, and before that in the Red Tsar's Guards, Sitnikov had been sent to Balboa early on, to train the new legionaries in the complexities and nuances of Volgan-built tanks, as well as their techniques and tactics. He'd come over, liked what he'd seen, liked the larger paycheck on offer for switching nationalities, and so had elected to stay. That had been more than five years ago.

  He'd been as bald then as he was now. Nor had he aged otherwise. Everything in Balboa agreed with Sitnikov, from the weather to the work to his new Balboan wife, a smoky beauty fr
om this very town. The work especially agreed with him. His lifetime's ambition had been to command a division—tank or motorized rifle; it mattered not—in war. He was reasonably certain that, under the table, Carrera had given him the first half of that ambition, the division in the form of what was soon to be nearly thirteen thousand cadets. The other half, the war, was almost certainly coming.

  Sitnikov and his key staff met Carrera at the base of the terreplein over which had been erected a reviewing stand. Behind the reviewing stand stood the fort's massive stone walls.

  "At ease," Carrera ordered, after casually returning the mass salute.

  Sitnikov led the group up a smooth granite stairway, then along the grassy terreplein to the stand. There were already some dozens of spectators; one of them, Carrera was surprised to see, the Castilian colonel commanding the Tauran battalion at Fort Williams.

  Idly, Carrera wondered if Colonel Muñoz-Infantes was here as a spy or perhaps in sympathy. He didn't know enough about the man.

  Note to self: Muñoz-Infantes, check into, task for Fernandez.

  Slowly Carrera walked the line, shaking hands, patting shoulders, smiling. When he reached Muñoz-Infantes he was somewhat surprised to see the Castilian colonel brace to a stiff attention, click his heels, and announce, "Legate Fernandez intervened with Legate Sitnikov to invite me to this ceremony, Duque."

  "Did he indeed?" Carrera searched into the man's face for some insight. No use, it was as blank as a stone slab. "Well . . . welcome, Colonel. Enjoy the show."

  "Fernandez thinks he can be turned," Sitnikov whispered later, once he and Carrera were seated. "Muñoz-Infantes is a Falangist. He hates the Tauran Union, hates the wogs, hates the Gauls, hates the World League, hates United Earth, hates cosmopolitan progressivism, hates . . . "

  At that point Sitnikov was interrupted by a fanfare of trumpets, emanating from both sides of the reviewing stand. This was joined a few moments later by massed drums on the fort's parade, below the terreplain.

  Then came the singing. From three gates to the northeast the six thousand—soon to be over twelve thousand—boys, aged at this point fourteen to seventeen, marched onto the parade singing the theme song chosen for the youth:

  "Think, boys, think on all that matters most:

  Your homeland, the Legion, your flag and your faith.

  Hold them holy, holy in your hearts

  Pure as the morning light.

  Juventud adelante, cantando feliz

  Si hay sol o si llueve

  Juventud adelante, cantando feliz

  A muerte o victoria

  Assaltamos el mundo con pasos fuertes . . . "

  "Is there anything he likes?" Carrera asked.

  "Huh?" Sitnikov looked puzzled.

  "Muñoz-Infantes; is there anything he likes?"

  "Ah. Yes . . . according to Fernandez. They include Castille, the Spanish language, the Catholic Church, the Castilian Army . . . and, apparently . . . us."

  * * *

  The ceremony concluded, the boys were still singing as they marched off the field.

  "Juventud adelante,

  No camino tan duro.

  Gritamos "Ave Victoria!"

  "We've laid on a little reception, partly for ourselves but mostly for guests and the families of the boys transitioning to senior status next year," Sitnikov announced. "Perhaps you might want to chat with Colonel Muñoz-Infantes . . . "

  Carrera thought on it briefly before answering, "No . . . I would if I could but I can't. The Dos Lindas is supposed to be recommissioned tomorrow morning and I have another speech to rehearse in my mind. You feel free to feel him out, though, Sasha. Just don't commit to anything and don't let him send anyone to snoop around our facilities."

  "I understand, Patricio," Sitnikov answered.

  Carrera was reasonably sure that the Volgan understood perfectly.

  * * *

  Most of the tonnage of the Legion's not-so-very-small fleet was, for the time being, here at Puerto Lindo. Besides the aircraft carrier, which dominated all the others, there were five ex-Volgan Suvarov Class cruisers, purchased from a scrap dealer for a total of eleven million FSD, along with thirteen more former Volgan ships, one destroyer, two submarines, six obsolete frigates, one mine-countermeasures ship, and three corvettes.

  The Suvarovs had been out of commission and slated for scrapping for over a decade but, in the confusion attendant on the collapse of the Volgan Empire, no one had ever gotten around to actually scrapping these last five. They were virtually scrap anyway, all but one of them, or possibly two. That best one had been kept up longer than the rest to serve as a flagship. Carrera thought that still something might be done with the rest. The one that was in fair shape was being restored in a somewhat desultory fashion. The others? Even if scrapped for their steel, the gun turrets, five dual six-inch mountings each, might be emplaced on concrete pads around the Isla Real's perimeter.

  The other warships were newer and in better shape. Among these were even two titanium-hulled submarines, formerly nuclear but in fact as dead as chivalry with the reactors and anything to do with them torn out. Carrera didn't actually know to a certainty what he would do with any of them, but the price had been right. Nobody wanted Volgan ships, not even Volga.

  There was a second carrier out there, also an ex-His Anglic Majesty's Ship, the Perseus, the Legion had an option on. It was in truly awful shape though, since some light scrapping had actually commenced before the Legion bought its option. It might, at best, serve as a stationary training ship. It was certainly never going to sail again; it would have to be towed to Balboa to be any use at all.

  Though Carrera didn't know what he was going to do with most of the hulls he'd bought; he did know what he was going to do with the Venganza.

  We're going to commission it.

  The ship had started out as a bargain. Purchased for three and a half million FSD, and needing about twelve times that in overhaul, it had seemed like a relatively cheap, and potentially highly profitable, way of transporting aircraft to the war zone and perhaps even suppressing Salafi piracy in various areas of the globe that had fallen under it. Then the cost of Yithrabi crude had hit eighty FSD a barrel and an oil powered ship had seemed rather less of a bargain. Just moving the ship, slowly, halfway around the globe used about six and a half million FSD worth of diesel. And there was no guarantee that the price wouldn't go up. There wasn't even a guarantee of an adequate supply. Nor were the thermal deploymerization plants –built or building—so far in Balboa really up to more than domestic consumption. Indeed, they didn't even cover most that that, yet.

  Someone suggested nuclear. But it was not that big a ship, at about two hundred and twelve meters in length and twenty-four in beam, measured at the waterline. Oh, sure, this was much larger than some of the nuclear submarines in use by the Federated States, Volga, Zhong Guo, Anglia and Gaul. But the submarines didn't have to account for a flight deck, or fuel for aircraft. In any case, no one except the Volgans was willing to sell a militarily capable nuclear reactor to a private military organization for an essentially private warship. It just wasn't going to happen. As far as the Volgans went, they had lots of redundant reactors from their rusting fleet, but nobody really trusted their reactors.

  I wonder if the FSC or Anglia would have been more cooperative if they'd known the Legion was already a nuclear power, mused Carrera, standing by the dock.

  Enter the Republic of Northern Uhuru, which had a new design for which they needed money. This design used tennis ball-sized spheres of mixed graphite and uranium instead of the more dangerous, expensive and difficult to dispose of uranium fuel rods used by others. The RNU was willing to sell. Even better, since the reactor design was modular, and not all that large, it could be constructed inside the ship. Hooray!

  Except that even one miserable module provided more than five times the power the ship needed. Worse, each module cost about one hundred and twenty-five million FSD. Talk about cost overruns. The RNU
went back to the drawing board, coming back some months later with a much smaller design, costing about seventy-five million, and producing only twice the power actually needed. Carrera had been offered two of the things for one hundred and thirty million so perhaps that one Suvarov Class cruiser might someday sail again, after all.

  * * *

  "But that's still twice as much as we need," Carrera had railed at the design team.

  "Yeah, Duque . . . but . . . see . . . there are things we can do with the extra power. Lasers."

  "Laaasssers . . . ," the ship's redesign team had echoed when their chief said that.

  "Lasers?"

  "Oh, yes. Lasers. Shoot down incoming missiles . . . aircraft . . . cruise missiles . . . even shells. Lasers."