Carnifex

1/5/467 AC, SS Estrella de Castilla

The ship was drifting, so much was obvious. It did not answer hails. The crew didn't come on deck to wave at the helicopter as it buzzed.

Going lower, low enough to actually look into the ports for the ship's bridge, the helicopter from the Ironsides saw nothing. It turned toward the portside, scooted around the ship's superstructure and swept the rear decks. Nothing. Then it made a radio call.

* * *

The second chopper was different and came from a different ship, the troop carrier FSS Tiburon Bay. The chopper carried thirteen tightly crammed FS Marines in full battle gear. The leader of the Marines, a second lieutenant due within the month for promotion to first lieutenant, had no idea what to expect. He was pretty sure though, that ships that floated without crew represented potential problems.

The remainder of the Marine infantry platoon flew behind in echelon left. The last three would circle until the first chopper's passengers could secure a landing spot.

The lieutenant, DeSmedt was his name, looked out at the deck of the ship as the choppers made one circling recon pass. If someone were going to shoot, better they should shoot now before the helicopter put itself in a vulnerable position, stationary, on the deck, or hovering, just above it. Door gunners from all four birds kept careful watch just in case.

DeSmedt saw that the deck was uneven, with pipes showing, hawsers unstowed and a liberal layer of junk scattered about. As the lead chopper passed the stern, he saw the ship's name: Estrella de Castilla. Still, there was no fire. He tapped the pilot and made a downward motion with his thumb.

The lead pilot guided his aircraft down in an easy descending arc. When he was over a part of the deck that seemed to have slightly less junk about than the others, he pulled the bird up to a low, ground-effect hover. Rotor wash kicked trash around even so; it could become a danger if they kept this altitude and position. The pilot signaled Lieutenant DeSmedt to unass.

DeSmedt tossed his rucksack and then jumped from a dozen feet over the deck. The jump was a little awkward; he lost his balance and fell, slamming his helmeted head on a hatchway.

Thank God for aramid fiber, he thought. Then, too, if I didn't have a thick skull would I ever have become a Marine?

By twos the rest of the Marines followed their lieutenant down until all thirteen men were aboard the derelict and watching for trouble. The chopper pulled up and away, allowing the flying junk, such as had not blown to sea, to settle back on the deck.

DeSmedt gave the order to the squad leader, "Sergeant, have Charlie Team clear this junk off and fuck environmental regulations. When the platoon sergeant and the rest land, tell them I want them to start clearing the ship from the top down. The rest of you," he pointed at a vertical hatchway into the superstructure, "standard drill; thata way."

* * *

Whether the power was off and the batteries dead, the men didn't know. Nor were they going to even think about flicking a light switch on a ship that might have been "wired for sound." Instead, they relied on the flashlights affixed to their rifles' barrels and whatever light made its way in from the scarce portholes.

It didn't matter anyway; they could find their way to what they were looking for by smells alone. Those—the smell of rotting meat (and meat rotted fast in these climes), the coppery-iron stink of gallons of blood, the stench of shit . . . worst of all, the pervading odor of fear and terror—were sufficient guides.

* * *

Hearts were pounding so hard the men might have thought they would burst through their chests as the lead team of two men reached what had to be the hatch from which emanated all the stench. Whatever it was, and all the Marines had a strong feeling they already knew, it was going to be bad.

DeSmedt was right behind the first two Marines. Before he could see what the flashlights at their muzzles found, he felt them stiffen.

"Jesus Christ, Ell Tee," one of the men exclaimed.

The lieutenant pushed passed the men. Inside was an abattoir, he could see, even from the little illuminated by the flashlight. He turned his own rifle against the wall and saw a man, what had been a man, already green tinged and beginning to blacken. The corpse's face was set in a rictus grin, below which, on his throat, was another, newer, grin, red-tinged and gaping. DeSmedt moved his rifle's aim along the wall and saw next a body with a similar dual grin. That one, though, had both eyes gouged out. Next a man hung by the neck from a pipe in the ceiling. His trousers were down around his ankles. When DeSmedt saw that this one had been castrated and his penis likewise removed he couldn't hold his bile any longer.

The pungent smell of vomit was added to the stench of death.

Still, DeSmedt was a Marine. Once he'd evacuated his stomach, and despite his dry heaves, he continued to sweep the room. Along one wall he found no bodies. Instead, there was a message painted. He was pretty sure it was painted in the crew's blood.

The message read, "Thus to the infidel who fails to pay the Jizya."

"It's in English, Ell Tee," murmured one of the two lead Marines. "Why would they put it in English?"

"Because they had a pretty good idea who was coming and wanted us to get the word out."

"What word, sir?"

"Jizya's a tax, or maybe sometimes a toll, the Moslems levy on non-Moslems. I'd guess that some people . . . some shippers . . . are paying it and the pirates want everyone to."