Carnifex

1/4/468 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Sea of Sind

Xamar was lost to view behind them. The weather above and around the ship was foul, winds howling through the wires of the ship's island and white-capped waves pounding the hull. Only a few crew stood watch above and those took care always to have a hand grasped to something, lest a freak wave wash them over the side. The aircraft were struck below. Rather, they were struck below and more or less compressed to one end of the hangar deck; the space thus freed being filled with several hundred of the crew, all that could be spared from necessary duties.

The forward elevator was lowered almost flush to provide a speaking platform. On it, where they could be seen by that portion of the crew assembled, stood Kurita, Fosa, and a few of the staff, each man, like the assembled crew, unconsciously swaying with the roll of the ship. There was a large wooden box to one side, marked as being an engine for one of the Crickets. There was nothing unusual in there being a major assembly for one of the aircraft sitting on the elevator that joined the flight and the hangar decks.

The ship's senior centurion, Sergeant Major Ramirez (for—except for the position of captain and honorary rank of commodore—the Legion's classis maintained the same rank structure as the ground and air components), stood in front of the Cricket engine crate. Above the crate and the deck, above the captain, commodore, sergeant major and staff, an aramid fiber tarp stretched taut over the elevator to keep out the wind and keep off the rain. Rain still dripped in places, causing the men standing on the elevator to adjust their positions to keep dry. Ramirez barely kept a smile off his face, for he was the only one on the ship besides the mail clerk who was in on Kurita's little scheme.

For his part, Fosa's own face bore something of a clueless expression. Kurita had asked for permission to address the crew and, while the captain had had no objections, he also had no idea of why the Yamatan would wish to. Congratulations from the Zaibatsu that had hired them?

Why bother? We've got what we need with the expansion of the contract to the Nicobar Straits. Decidedly odd.

At a nod from Kurita, Ramirez walked from in front of the crate to the edge of the elevator. He called the crew to attention, then turned and reported to the Commodore, "Sir, ship's company present or accounted for."

Kurita returned the salute. Ramirez dropped his own and walked back to his post by the crate. Stepping forward Kurita began to speak, his left hand resting lightly on the tsuka of the sword thrust through the sash about his waist.

"Somewhere in Uhuru," Kurita began, "a child sleeps tonight with a full belly. A year ago the odds were good that that child went to bed hungry to the point of pain and with no guarantee of awakening the next morning. That belly is tonight full—the child can be sure of waking up tomorrow—for one reason; that commerce again flows uninterrupted. Commerce flows to and from Uhuru for one reason; that you have destroyed those who would prey upon it, interrupt it and destroy it."

"This day we sail to another theater, to continue the good work we have left completed behind us. For know this, my comrades of the classis; there are children in Sind who will go hungry tonight for the inability of their parents to send the product of their hands overseas to purchase food. There are children who will go hungry because the oil that powers the farm machinery that helps grow their food is also cut off or bought too dear.

"You have done this, my friends. You will do this. Both things, what you have done and what you will do, you have done under the command of Roderigo Fosa."

Kurita went silent for a moment as Ramirez quietly lifted the top off from the engine crate and removed from inside a long, silk-wrapped package. This he handed to Kurita.

Taking the package firmly in the center with his right hand, Kurita used his left to remove the wrapping. Silk cord and silken wrap fell away to reveal a sword, its scabbard gracefully curving from the tip to where it met the handguard, or tsuba. A low gasp came from Fosa, the staff and the crew, minus Ramirez and the mail clerk, both of whom smirked broadly.

"Capitán Fosa, front and center," Kurita ordered.

Gulping, Fosa moved to stand in front of the Yamatan. Kurita drew the sword. Its gleaming surface shone in the lights of the hangar deck, drawing Fosa's eyes down. He saw inscribed in miniature upon the blade a gold-filled eagle, a tiger, and a shark. Guessing what was to come, Fosa's eyes began to mist.

"Your organization grants broad rights to its units to establish their own traditions. Captain-San. You—though I think you did not realize it at the time—established one such when you granted me permission to wear my family sword here aboard your ship."

"This sword is newly made. Well . . . all traditions must begin somewhere. New or not, it was made by a master smith, working in the old ways. That is, he worked in the old ways except to memorialize upon the blade the forces you have commanded in the service of the commerce that binds man and feeds his children. Thus you see the eagle, for the air wing of this vessel, the tiger, for the Cazadores who dominate the land, and the shark for the ship and fleet."

Kurita expertly returned the point of the sword to its scabbard and deftly slammed it home. Taking Fosa's left hand with his own, he turned it palm up and placed the new katana into it. Fosa's hand closed automatically.

Leaning forward, Kurita whispered, "The sword is the soul of the samurai. Draw your new sword, Captain Fosa."

Stepping back, Kurita drew his own and raised it high overhead, his left arm likewise rising. Fosa, still in shock, mimicked the action.

"Banzai!" the Yamatan shouted, his cry ringing through the hangar deck.

Behind him, Ramirez also shouted, "Banzai!" throwing his own hands up.

"Banzai!" Kurita again shouted, this time extracting a weak, "Banzai," from the crew.

"Banzai!"

A little louder, the crew answered, "Banzai."

"Banzai!"

Still louder, "Banzai!"

Ramirez piped in, in his sergeant major's bellow, "Banzai, motherfuckers!"

"Banzai!"

"BANZAI!"

"BANZAI!"

Thus did the classis and Tercio Don John acquire a new tradition. Banzai, motherfuckers.