Carnifex

8/3/467 AC, Escuela de Montañeros Bernardo O'Higgins, Boquerón, Balboa

Jesus, this shit terrifies me.

Ricardo Cruz had his left hand jammed into the crevice of an otherwise nearly sheer rock wall. The hand was formed into a fist, effectively locking him to that wall. His other hand searched for further purchase higher up while his booted feet rested precariously on a couple of finger-widths of ledge. A rope was coiled around his torso.

Cruz's job was to get the bloody rope up the cliff, attach a snaplink to whatever could be found, and create a belay system so that the rest of the men could follow safely. On the way up Cruz mentally recited the very unofficial and much frowned upon version of the Cazador Creed.

Considering how fucking stupid I am . . .

Aha! There was a little outcropping of rock. He grabbed tight hold of it and began working his left leg to another little spit of a ledge.

Appreciating the fact that nobody lives forever . . .

The ledge and the outcropping held. Heart pounding, Cruz unballed his left fist, removed it from the crevice and began feeling up and along the wall for another place to anchor his hand before he risked moving his lower foot.

Zealously will I . . .

Cruz's foot slipped.

* * *

There were actually four legions now, since the last, but probably not final, reorganization. The field legions were numbered I through IV; plus the air ala and the naval classis, which retained their tercio numbers, and the training and base legion, which was not yet numbered at all. At the moment, two of those legions, I and II, were at or just over full strength. The other two were at roughly seventy percent, for III, and forty percent, for IV.

Under the reorganization, which had been implicit from the start, the Legion del Cid would operate on a four year cycle. While one legion was fighting or ready to go, another was at full strength and training to fight, while a third was building up to full strength and training at lower level unit and individual tasks. A fourth was, practically speaking, broken up with its personnel either in school or supporting school. Since this was the year the married soldiers could actually be home nearly every night, sometimes Carrera referred to the fourth, or school, year as the Legion's "Reproduction Enhancement and Divorce Reduction Program."

Legio IV was currently in school, hence the forty percent strength. It would be replaced by I after the terms of service of that legion's one term volunteers ran out. Arguably, during the school year, a legion was not really a legion at all, since it consisted only of cadre and those were mostly in school or supporting the training legion or other units. But, since the school year legion had an Eagle, had a chain of command, had equipment and would be filled to strength at some point, it was still considered a legion.

What was not generally considered, outside of by Carrera and his staff, was that, since there was a reserve clause in the enlistment contract, every legion could be brought up to strength in a matter of days. This presupposed that the troops would come back voluntarily as Carrera had no legal way of making them return.

I think that's a safe bet though, Carrera thought. And besides, their business and student loans all go into default if they fail to answer the summons.

Legio III's cadre had completed their refresher training the previous year and was in the process of building up to one hundred and five percent strength. Legio II was at roughly one hundred and five percent strength, and was working up to divisional operations.

Legio I, recently returned from Sumer, still had seven months left on the enlistment contracts of the sixty percent of its strength that were one term volunteers. Rather than waste the time, or let the men go slowly crazy from boredom, Carrera had them training. To be more specific, he had them training to return to the war, but in Pashtia.

* * *

As a young officer in the Federated States Army, Carrera—then under the name Hennessey—had acquired a fine loathing for general officers. Oh, yes; he'd known a few he thought were better and more useful than sandbags. He'd even known a few he genuinely admired. But those few had been few indeed.

One of the distinguishing marks of worthwhileness, a sine qua non of good generalship, in Carrera's view, was that the general ought not let himself become a hindrance to training. Since people became, frankly, freaky when a general—or a senior legate or a dux—showed up with all his entourage and all his pomp and circumstance, Carrera thought a general could assist training best by, in most cases, seeing while not being seen. Thus, while Cruz inched up the wall, Carrera and Soult hid in a sheltered draw and watched through binoculars. They'd parked their vehicle two miles distant and walked in guided by map and compass. Carrera loathed being dependent on the Global Locating System.

Soult, a senior warrant officer now, as was Mitchell, had stayed on. Most of Carrera's original group, those still alive, had.

"You're pretty confident, aren't you, boss?"

"Confident about what?"

"That we're going to be rehired by the FS. I mean, why else go through the expense of training at this . . . intensity?"

Carrera adjusted the focus on his binos to key in on a youngish trooper scaling a wall. He spoke as he turned the adjusting wheel.

"I am somewhat confident, yes, Jamey. But I'd have the troops training like madmen anyway just because I think it's the right thing to do, that it's . . . immoral for soldiers not to spend every possible minute and every dollar, every drop of gas, and every round of ammunition you can spare on it."

"What's more . . . ah, fuck."

Soult looked into his binoculars until he saw what had caused his chief's outburst. When he did see it—a climber who'd slipped until he hung by his fingertips from a small rocky outcropping—he repeated, "Fuck."

* * *

. . . try to fuck every female I can talk into a horizontal . . . FUCK!

Cruz felt his lower foot slip vertically. That put excess demands on the other one, which likewise lost its hold on the rock ledge. His left hand hadn't quite found purchase. In much less time than it takes to tell about it he found himself hanging by the fingertips of one hand, and not even all of those. His body slammed the cliff face, almost causing him to lose his death grip on the outcropping. Moreover, while his helmet protected the bulk of his head, in slipping he had managed to scrape the left side of his jaw along the rough rock wall. He felt hot blood drip down his neck.

His first instinct was, frankly, akin to panic. It lasted milliseconds before training and experience took over. I've been scared witless before and overcome it. I can again.

As Aristotle had said, "We become brave by performing brave acts." This Cruz had done often enough to deserve the title of "Brave."

The first thing Cruz's questing fingers found was a tiny little spur of rock. It would never do to support his entire weight but, gripped by two fingers and a thumb, it was just enough to take some weight off of the overstrained fingers of the other hand. His heart began to slow, if only slightly. Ok . . . so I have at least two or three more minutes of life. My fingers will hold that long. A lot can be done in two or three minutes.

Next, his foot found the previous ledge it had occupied. He was unwilling to take quite the same perch he had had previously. He spent some of his one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty seconds feeling around for the best position he could find. When he found it he tested it, spending a few more precious seconds. He then allowed his foot and leg to take some weight from his whitened, tired fingers.

At last, breathing a little more easily, Cruz found a spot for his other foot and began to rest his fingers in turn.

* * *

"I recognize the face, boss, but who is that kid?"

"I think it's a centurion, junior grade named Cruz," Carrera answered. "Volunteer for the original Legion. Decorated twice . . . mmm, maybe three times; not sure. Two kids. Wife's name is . . . " and here Carrera had to struggle to remember, " . . . mmm . . . Cara or . . . . no; Caridad, I think. Good kid. Going places if he stays with us."

Unseen by Carrera, Soult smiled. Gotta admire the boss' memory.

"You actually know his wife? I mean, we've got fifteen hundred officers, twenty-five hundred optios and centurions, maybe a thousand warrants and you know his wife?"

"Long story," Carrera answered.

Soult shrugged, then asked, "Hey, boss; does it bother you when . . . you know . . . when you have to meet the wife and kids, or the parents, of somebody who got killed?"

Carrera was a long time answering. "Jamey, it bothers the hell out of me. But you know what keeps me going?"

"Revenge?"

"When we first started, sure, that was all I had. But the fact is, I keep going now for two other reasons. One is that we have to win this war for the sake of our civilization, for our kids and grandkids."

"And the other?"

Carrera sighed. "The other is that I love this shit; that I'm addicted to it."

* * *

Cruz didn't have time to think any deep thoughts until he reached the top of the cliff and secured and lowered the rope. After that, he thought, Maybe Cara was right. Maybe I should give this shit up.

If only I didn't love it so.