Carnifex (49 page)

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 . . . "

"Mmm . . . . mmmph . . . . oh . . . ah . . . " Jaquie's and Marta's bodies were covered in sweat and intertwined on one of the two narrow naval bunks in their quarters. Jaquelina was half on top, with her left side resting on the bed and her right leg and hand between Marta's legs. The hand moved gently but deftly; teasing, rubbing, flicking the little button revealed by the splaying of Marta's legs. Those legs began to twitch even as the last "ah" began to morph to a very loud and piercing, "Aiiiiii."

And that's my cue,
thought Jaquie as she clamped her mouth over Marta's, forcing her tongue between the other girl's lips and making a seal that was air tight and scream
proof.
She held that seal while Marta's own hand reached down to cover and control Jaquie's. Marta's body thrashed wildly atop the thin mattress.

The shuddering grew less, giving Jaquie a chance to come up for air before again covering the other girl's mouth with her own and again using her fingers to lift Marta up to and past the peak. After three or four repetitions, the larger girl arched her back and then slowly subsided, relaxing, to the mattress.

"Oh, God, that was wonderful," Marta whispered into Jaquie's ear, before flicking it with her tongue and then plunging as much of her tongue as would fit into the canal. Jaquie had the most wonderfully sensitive ears. It was her turn to shudder as Marta's tongue set the nerve endings running wild. Jaquie purred like a kitten before reaching up both hands to grasp Marta's head and pull it down to where it could do the most good.

"I love you, Jaquelina," Marta whispered just before burying her face between Jaquie's legs.

Jaquelina, fortunately, was not a screamer.

"Miss Lourdes," for McNamara had never quite gotten over calling her 'Miss Lourdes,' even when she'd become 'Señora Carrera,' " for t'e love of God, please tell t'e boss to call me forward. I just can' fockin' stand it no more. And I ain't got so many years left to me that I can afford to be here when t'e fightin's t'ere."

Rank and position are curious things. In any given military organization there are usually five or six people that run it. Sometimes it's the commander. Sometimes—and usually unfortunately, if so—it's the commander's wife. Sometimes, at the company or maniple level, it can be one lone sergeant, and not necessarily a senior one, in the training NCO slot.

In the case of the
Legion
one of the true movers and shakers was
the
Sergeant Major, John McNamara. Part of this was that he had Carrera's ear. Much of it, though, was what the man was, himself.

Lourdes sighed. Patricio had asked her to be a shoulder for the sergeant major to cry on if—
no, Patricio had said "when"—
being left behind got to be too much for him. He must have told Xavier, too, for it was Jimenez who'd asked Lourdes to ask McNamara for lunch. He'd come, of course, and sounded like he'd been happy to. But he'd come with his craggy black face a mask of utter misery.

"What's the problem, John?" she asked. She avoided answering the question because one of the other things Pat had told her was, "I need him to stay here, to watch over the Legion's base and over you and the kids, too. I need him to keep watch out for Parilla. I need him
here
."

It was McNamara's turn to sigh.
Yes, sure as shit the boss told Lourdes already that I
can't
come and play.

"It everyt'ing, Miss Lourdes. Jimenez don' need me here;
his
legion, t'e Fourth, and his sergeant major can do just fine wit'out me. T'e Training Legion don' need me eit'er, with Martinez running t'ings. So I end up helpin' Parilla with t'e presidential campaign and . . . well . . . it just ain't me. It's dirty shit, nasty, no place for a soldier to be."

"And besides all t'at, Miss Lourdes, since t'e kids grew up and t'e wife passed on I've had nobody to fight wit'. I'm
bored
."

"I don't think I can help, John. Patricio never has anyone do anything without a good reason. If he wants you, myself and Xavier here, it's for a purpose. I don't think we can buck him in this."

Artemisia Jimenez had only just caught sight of McNamara's vehicle as it pulled into Quarters Number One's driveway. She was too late to actually
say
anything to the sergeant major. Still, she raced to put on gardening clothes and posted herself nearby so that when he emerged . . . 

"Why hello, Sergeant Major," she purred, looking up as he neared his auto. "If I'd known it was you visiting Lourdes, I'd have popped over."

Most women simply stood. Artemisia was fundamentally incapable of simply standing. Instead, like a fast action movie of a flowing plant, she
blossomed
onto her feet.

McNamara was not made of stone. Watching the sheer
presence
of Artemisia Jimenez blooming so closely would have taken the breath from any man. It did with him, as well. It did so, so completely, in fact, that McNamara simply bid her a nervous good day, got in his auto, and drove away.

If I were not more than twice her age, if I were no so old and seamed and gangly and outright ugly,
Mac thought,
I would never have left there.

"Shit," Artemisia said aloud, watching the car drive off. "What did I do wrong? Damn, and he's so
perfect
."

Artemisia thought her uncle was possibly the second-most manly man she had ever seen. The first was . . . 

"Uncle Xavier, could we ask Sergeant Major McNamara over to dinner? I saw him visiting Lourdes Carrera today and he looked extremely sad and lonely."

Jimenez was no fool. His niece's tastes in men had proven decidedly odd over the years. And she'd never shown the slightest interest in any of the young men who sniffed about the balconies so regularly. Jimenez folded his daily paper and put it aside.

After a sigh he said, "Arti, Mac's a fine man, but he's old enough to be your father . . . maybe your grandfather, if he was precocious."

Am I
that
obvious? Or am I only that obvious to my older male relations?

"I don't care, Uncle. Ever since I saw him at the hippodrome, I've been fascinated."

"He's not rich, Arti, though I have no doubt that Patricio would fix that if he ever saw a reason to, or Mac asked. And he
is
old, nearly sixty. There's no guarantee he could ever father children on you."

Artemisia sniffed, pointedly. "Trust me, Uncle; women can tell. He could still father a score of children. Give him ten women and he could father two hundred. Uncle, the Sergeant Major is a
man
."

Jimenez smiled at his niece. "Well . . . yes, I suppose he is. But what makes you think he might be, or even could be, interested in you?"

Artemisia didn't have to blossom for her uncle. A simply tilt of the head and half pirouette sufficed.

"Well," the legate conceded, pulling on one ear ruefully. "I suppose he could be at that."

Jimenez's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Young lady, you go hurting McNamara's feelings and you will find you are not too old, not too high and mighty, to find your old uncle pulling you over his knee and paddling you so that you cannot sit for a month."

Horrified, the niece shook her head. "
Hurt
him, Uncle? No . . . oh, nonono. I'm serious about this one. I intend to make him the happiest man in the world. Don't you see? He just . . . 
smells
right. He's the right one. I swear; I'll never hurt him."

Still looking suspicious, Jimenez had to concede that Arti seemed sincere enough. "Very well then. You can hunt him, my little Diana. Though I foresee much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the Bachelor Officers' Quarters."

"Will you help, Xavier?"

"Brazen hussy. What is it with you and older men?"

"They're real men, Uncle Xavier, not boys. Besides, I was in love with you when I was a little girl and I guess that just typecast me for impossibly old men."

Slightly embarrassed, Jimenez thought about that, his head bobbing from side to side. At length, he had to agree. God knows,
he'd
been not nearly as much of a man at age twenty-five.