Carnifex

5/2/468 AC, Santisima Trinidad

"It's been sixteen fucking days, skipper," said Francés in a tone of unutterable boredom. Even the speed of the ship, a modest and fuel saving eight knots, was dull.

"I can count, XO," answered Pedraz.

"Business" had dropped off radically since the coastal raid on the village of Gedo. Pedraz didn't know why, but suspected it had something to do with the prisoners the Classis had taken.

Is Fosa capable of saying, 'We'll hang them if you give us a scintilla of trouble?' Pedraz wondered. Oh, yes. And would Carrera—God bless his black heart—back him up in that? Puhleeze.

All of which suggests there won't be a lot more business hereabouts. Which means we're stuck here on a tiny movable island for the foreseeable and indefinite future. Fuck. Well, fortunately the Legion has no rules against drinking and the beer locker is full.

From Santiona on the rear deck came the cry, "I've got one!"

And the fishing's not bad either. On the other hand . . .

Santiona's rod was bent so far that . . . well . . . honestly Pedraz couldn't remember seeing a stout sport fishing rod ever bent so far. Good thing I insist on the men tying themselves in with safety lines. Idly, Pedraz wondered what it might be. Then he saw the fin.

And then he saw more of the fin. And still more. And more still. And . . .

"Oh, fuck. It's a MEG!"

* * *

The aliens—the "Noahs"—who had seeded the planet of Terra Nova with Old Earth life forms some time between five hundred thousand and five million years prior had been thorough; you had to give them that.

The Noahs had brought over some of everything, so far as the colonists could tell. There were sabertooths and mammoth, orcas and phororhacos. They'd also managed a very impressive array of sea life.

* * *

"Meg, MEG, MEEEGGG!"

"Fuckfuckfuck. XO, gun it!"

"For where, Skipper?"

"Who the fuck cares? Just move!"

Until he turned, Francés hadn't see the shark's fin, now standing over two meters above the water and plowing a furrow in the waves. When he did see it, about three hundred meters abaft the boat, his jaw dropped and his hand automatically pushed the throttle full forward. The previously purring engines roared to life as the boat's nose rose measurably. At the same time, Santiona and most of the rest of the crew were thrown to the deck.

Santiona began sliding off. Desperately, one-handed, he clawed at the plywood of the deck, shrieking the whole time, "Meg, Meg, Meggg!" As his head went past the deck's edge, he felt the safety line about his waist suddenly begin to tighten.

It did not tighten enough to stop him, however, before he'd gone over the stern bodily. Coming to a sudden and painful stop, Santiona hung there, chest down and feet in the water, while that huge fin got closer. He couldn't take his eyes off the thing, but stared at its approach as if possessed. All the while he screamed, "Meg, Meg, Meggg!"

The head lifted above water. A flash of sunlight told that the shark was hooked. It never occurred to Santiona to drop the rod; oh, no. He held on to that as tightly as the rope constricted his waist. In seconds, the fish was close enough to see its saucer sized eyes and the glittering rows of jagged, ivory in its mouth. The scientists insisted that the carcharodon megalodon transplanted to Terra Nova never went over forty-two feet. Nonetheless, ever after, for as long as he lived, Santiona would insist that they grew to one hundred and twenty. That size could grow to two hundred if he'd had a few.

That future "ever after" would have to wait as the fish gained on the boat.

* * *

The shark was actually a tad under thirty-six feet, by no means an unusually large specimen of its type. Its brain was no better than the species norm, either. It had smelled the hooked fish, all rotten and wonderful, and just naturally taken the offering.

It was about ready to say, "Foul and slimy with just a hint of risqué decomposition; my compliments to the chef," when the hook bit.

Ouch . . . now that's hardly sporting.

* * *

"No!" Pedraz shrieked at a sailor uncovering a heavy machine gun mounted port side, aft. "Don't shoot at it; you might piss it off. Get over here and help me with Santiona."

The skipper was hauling on the rope. Sadly, he was getting nowhere with Santiona's considerable mass on the other end. The fish was still gaining slightly. For his part, Santiona just kept screaming, "Meg! Meg! Meggg!" while bouncing—thump-thump-thump—off the stern and keeping a death grip on the rod. "Meg! Meg! Meggg!"

Another sailor, and then a fourth, scuttled along the deck to take hold of the line. With four strong men pulling even Santiona's bulk began to rise.

"Meg! Meg! Meggg!"

* * *

The fish was confused. The thing ahead of him, trying to run away, really didn't look like the baleen whales that made up much of its diet. It didn't smell quite right either. Only the spurt of urine rushing into the water from the thing dangling off the back really reminded it of its normal prey.

And those cheap bastards are trying to haul it in. Well, we'll just see about that. The fish sped up.

* * *

"Christ! The fucking thing is speeding up!"

"Meg! Meg! Meeeggg!"

"XO?!"

"I'm giving it all she's got, skipper."

"C'mon, you lazy bastards; PULL!"

* * *

So close . . . sooo close . . . one more effort . . . . .but . . . no . . . tiring . . . life's just so unfair. Sigh.

* * *

Pedraz breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the space between boat and shark widen. After a time the fin turned away. Then it disappeared. Santiona's cry had grown softer, "meg . . . meg . . . . meg." The rest of the crew alternately swore or just stood or sat, drained.

"Doc?!" Pedraz called.

"Here . . . skipper," gasped one of the line haulers, lying on his back nearby.

"Huh? Oh . . . didn't know you were so close. Doc . . . go break out a bottle of medicinal rum." He looked over at Santiona—"meg . . . meg . . . meg"—and thought, "No . . . make it two bottles. Prescribe to the crew as you think they need it."

"Aye, aye, skipper."

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Pedraz staggered to the cockpit. "And you were bitching that you were bored?" he said to Francés.

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

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