Carnifex

34/8/466 AC, Isla Real, Balboa

At first, and for some years, the Legion had raised its own beef on the island. Little by little, though, the cattle fields had given way to casernes and training areas. They still kept cattle, but only in small numbers and only for dairy. Carrera watched the dairy cows at work through the glass door that led from his office to a railed, tiled and partially shedded roof. The orientation of the roof was at ninety degrees from the window facing the solar chimney. Much like watching tropical fish in a tank, the cattle gave a sense of calm. This was important to a man with great responsibilities who also happened to be in a very bad mood.

There was a tapping on the glass below. Carrera looked down and saw Jinfeng, his late wife's pet trixie tapping impatiently. He'd brought the bird out some years prior, leaving her in his current wife's, Lourdes', care. Trixies were smart though, as smart as a gray parrot, and Jinfeng had quickly learned the way to his office. She showed up most mornings that he was actually on the island, rather than in Sumer, looking for a handout, or just to be skritched atop her head.

Carrera and the bird had never been more than tolerably friendly before Linda's death. Afterwards, when the bird had no one else, she'd warmed considerably. As soon as Carrera opened the door, she gave a loud screech and stepped into the office, boney tail scraping the stone floor and claws from her partially reversed big toes click-clacking as she walked.

Carrera bent to pat the proto-bird, raising a more contented call. He then walked to the intercom on his desk. "Do we have any—"

"I'll bring it right in, sir," his aide answered. Jinfeng and her appetite had become well known at the headquarters.

* * *

Terra Novan ecology was a very mixed up thing, courtesy of the Noahs—aliens about whom nothing was known and whose very existence was only inferred, albeit very strongly inferred. After all, someone, something had to have brought to the planet the life forms from Old Earth, sometime in the impenetrable mists of prehistory. Jinfeng and her increasingly rare kind were but one example of what the aliens had brought. Besides the trixies, archaeopteryxes, in the air, there were carcharodon megalodons at sea, the great carnivorous birds, phorohacos, on land, and thousands upon thousands of other terrestrial species, most long extinct on the home world.

There had once been more species but, man being man, many of those which had been saved by the Noahs and gone extinct on Old Earth tended to be driven to extinction on the new once man put down roots.

Besides those living relics of Old Earth, other species, plant and animal, were either native to Terra Nova, or had been transplanted from some other world or worlds by the Noahs, or were even the product of genetic manipulation. Some of these appeared to have been created expressly to prevent the rise of intelligent life on Terra Nova. The septic mouthed, winged reptiles called "antaniae," or moonbats, were one example. More sinister still was the fruit of the tranzitree. Very sweet, tranzitree fruit contained a toxin that was deadly to beings with highly developed brains. Moreover, the toxin built up in the flesh of food animals. Eat a steak from a cow that had been eating of the tranzitree fruit, or its kin the bolshiberry and progressivine; die in shrieking agony, brain inflamed and swelling until it seemed it would burst from your skull.

These were clever traps and might have been sufficient, on their own, to prevent the rise of intelligent life on Terra Nova. They had proved generally ineffective against colonization by intelligent life, however.

* * *

The archaeopteryx ate greedily, beak scraping on a metal tray on the floor. Carrera continued to pat it while looking out the glass door. Off in the distance, he saw a mid-sized airship winding gracefully through the air on its way from somewhere in Colombia del Norte down to Southern Columbia. An airship had been the instrument of the murder of his Linda and their children, so he always looked at the things with feelings, at best, mixed.

Every feeling I have, he thought, with a sigh, is mixed these last seven years.

He stood, leaving the trixie to eat, and walked the few steps to the window that overlooked the solar chimney. Am I doing right, he wondered, trying to bring Balboa into the fifth century. After all, the Oil Yithrabis have been spending money right and left to try to do the same there, while keeping the culture of thirteenth century Old Earth. Hasn't worked for them for beans.

The difference, he thought, between Balboa and, say, Sumer or Pashtia . . . or even Yithrab, isn't one merely of religion, but also one of degree. The Arabs and Pashtun put family above all except religion . . . so do the Balboans, and only to a somewhat lesser degree. Breaking them of that . . . well . . . difficult. I have not succeeded yet, and I may never entirely succeed. Even in the Legion . . .

Even in the Legion there were connections that mattered. He'd combated that, or tried to, in a number of ways. It was perhaps the only armed force on the planet that insisted on a complete family tree for four generations back before enlistment, and that only to organize cousins out of the same units to prevent them from taking care of each other to the detriment of the organization as a whole. He'd had leaders turned out and even shot for preferring cousins and brothers over better, but unrelated, men. Even then, it still popped up, this preference for family, or amoral familism. And even the appearance of it was dangerous.

More dangerous is that even I am infected with it, he thought. My only saving grace is that the number of people whom I will favor for familial relation is very small: Lourdes, and the children. Of course, I was infected with it as a boy, when my parents and their friends tried to turn me into a cosmopolitan, too.

Which helped explain his bad mood and his need for the cows to calm him. Lourdes, his second wife and arguably the reason he retained as much sanity as he had, had spoken to him the night prior to try to get him to help a member of her extended family. Her cousin, Marqueli—Carrera had met the girl once, beautiful little thing—was married to one of his soldiers. That soldier was on the medically retired list which, in the Legion, only meant that he was given some other duty out of his normal regiment. In Marqueli Mendoza's husband's case, those duties for the last several years had been going to school, at Legion expense, at the university to earn his baccalaureate.

Jorge Mendoza, former tanker in what was then the Mechanized Cohort, Carlos Martillo, was blind and missing both legs, the result of enemy action in the Sumeri city of Ninewa, early in the war.

The boy—well, he was only twenty-two or three—wanted to continue his studies. His wife, Marqueli, had spoken to Lourdes, apparently, and Lourdes to Carrera, about giving Jorge Mendoza some special help with that.

He wanted to help the boy, of course, anything to help one of his legionaries and especially one who had given up so much in the cause. But he hadn't a clue how to do that, consistent with his principles, and the Mendoza's were due at his office any minute.

* * *

Actually, though Carrera didn't know it, the couple was already there, sitting nervously in the anteroom while Carrera's aide de camp, or AdC, waited for the time to tick away until their last minute appointment was due. They were both very nervous.

Jorge Mendoza showed it. Marqueli didn't, even though she was more nervous for her husband's sake than he was for his own.

"It's a good idea you have, Jorge," she insisted, placing a warm and comforting hand on his arm. "Duque Carrera will see that; I'm sure of it. My cousin was sure of it, as well. She agrees it's a wonderful idea and that her husband will support it."

"Maybe," Mendoza admitted just as the AdC looked up and said, "Time, Candidate."

Into the speaker box on his desk he announced, "Duque, Warrant Officer Candidate and Mrs. Mendoza are here to see you."

* * *

Barring exceptional circumstances, Carrera would have had tossed from his office anyone who brought his wife along. Mendoza, legless and sightless, was such an exceptional circumstance.

Can't criticize a man who suffered as much as he has in my service just for bringing along some help. Besides, she's awfully easy on the eyes.

The door opened, allowing the Mendoza's to enter. Yes, she's just as pretty as I remembered. Poor Mendoza, that he can't see that. Then again, he's a fine-looking boy, too. I can see why the girl was drawn to him.

Instead of meeting them at his desk, Carrera stood and indicated a couch for the couple, then took for himself a well-stuffed chair opposite. Mendoza's artificial legs whined slightly as they bent to allow him to sit.

"You want to continue your studies, I am informed," Carrera began.

"Yes, sir," Mendoza answered, turning his head to face Carrera. His eyes remained unfocused. "I had thought to take up teaching at one of the military schools when I finished. But it hit me when I was reading a book that there was something more, something better, I could do. Actually, Marqueli was reading the book to me," he amended.

Note to self: Library, Braille, pass on to Professor Ruiz to investigate the possibilities, Carrera thought. Even if not worth it to us, maybe it will be good public relations for the Legion.

"Something better?" Carrera asked.

Marqueli pulled a paperback from her purse. Carrera saw that it was one he had had printed by the publishing house he'd had set up under Professor Ruiz's propaganda department. He saw, too, the title: Tropas del Espacio and the letters, "RAH."

"How'd you like the translation?" he asked Marqueli.

"It was so-so, I think," she answered. No one but Carrera and Ruiz knew that Carrera had personally translated the first third or so of the book.

Both deflated and wryly amused, Carrera sighed. Oh, well, can't win 'em all.

"But the original thoughts," Marqueli continued, "well . . . tell the Duque, Jorge."

"History and Moral Philosophy, Duque. There is a need for such a book, a need all over this planet. Balboa needs it as much as anyone."

Ohhhh, so that's his idea. Not bad. Can I tell myself with a straight face that I am doing this, if I do, for one of my soldiers and not for a man married to my wife's cousin? For my adoptive country and not for a relative? For the world and not for nepotism? That would help.

"And you want to write this book, Candidate Mendoza?"

"I do . . . but it will take time. That, and more education than a baccalaureate."

"In English," Carrera said, "PhD stands for 'piled higher and deeper.' Still, I see your point."

Carrera then went silent for a while, unconsciously leaving the Mendozas to squirm. If I do support this will I be breaking my own principles? No, I am doing it for one of my troops which is absolutely consistent with my principles. But . . . even worse, maybe I'll look like I'm breaking my own principles. But what if . . .

He smiled broadly. It's such a joy when the answer just jumps out at you. "Candidate Mendoza . . . Mrs. Mendoza. I think your idea is a fine one, especially if you broaden it to the question of which one should place first, family or nation or civilization or religion." It's a question to which I need an answer myself. "There is a new program for the Legion." Damned straight it's new since I just thought of it. "It's so new we haven't even had a chance to advertise it yet. Actually, we haven't even yet worked out the application procedures. But we are going to offer, annually, a half a dozen scholarships for higher education to deserving veterans of the Legion. There will be a battle- or service-connected disability preference."

Am I quick on my feet or what?

"You'll have to apply and be interviewed by either myself or Duque Parilla and a board we will designate. At that board you will have to make a presentation of your intended project. The first board will meet in about six months. I suggest you have your presentation ready by then," he finished, standing to indicate the interview was over.

Marqueli, too, stood, followed by Jorge once he felt her lift from the couch.

"Thank you, sir," Mendoza said. Until Marqueli nudged his right arm he was uncertain as to whether to offer his hand to a superior and could not see that Carrera had thrust his own out. At the nudge he did offer his hand, which Carrera took and shook warmly enough.

The tiny Marqueli waited until the handshake was done, then launched herself at Carrera, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her lovely head to his chest.

"Thank you, Duque," she said, tears of gratitude shining in her eyes for the favor she was certain had just been done her husband. "Thank you."