B00BPJL400 EBOK (24 page)

“Yap,” he breathed. “My God, what’ve you done?”

“Nothing yet, Skipper,” Bernie blurted, almost cringing.

“What are you talking about?” Alan Letts demanded.

“Well, you remember that kudzu stuff they ran into on Yap Island?” Bernie nodded at Sandra, whose face had paled. “It had thorns on it, like seeds, that when it stuck in something or somebody . . . Mr. Cook got a thorn in his finger—”

“And we had to cut it off to save his life!” Sandra shouted.

“Yeah,” Bernie agreed weakly. “The thorns stick in you and immediately start shooting out roots through capillaries, veins . . . You’re probably dead by the time they get in your arteries. But there’s some kind of drug too, so even though it hurts, you don’t really care what’s happening. That’s how the stuff spreads. The kudzu grows up out of the corpse it stuck with a thorn! It occurred to some of us that if you strung those thorns out over the enemy . . . Well, the Grik go barefoot. An awful lot of them’ll get stuck, and they’ll die within a few days.” He took a breath. “Anyway, we got some—quite a bit—and Adar’s had me stripping the thorns out past Experimental Ordnance.”

Sandra gritted her teeth. “You’re growing it here?”

“No, ma’am! We brought it in dried.”

“And nobody told me about this?” Alan demanded. He looked at Matt. “Honest, Skipper, I didn’t know!”

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Sandra ground out. “If just one thorn,
one
seed . . .”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bernie assured her. “We’ve been careful as hell—uh, pardon the language. And all our tests show the dry thorns won’t sprout in just water or soil.” He shrugged. “I guess it takes blood. We brought it in aboard a captured Grik ‘Indiaman’—which we burned in case any seeds got loose, even in the cracks. But that was before we knew for sure about the blood.”

“That ship touched at Maa-ni-la!” Sandra accused.

“Yes,” Herring stated, “but there was no way anything could have gotten off.”

“Creatures like Petey did!” Sandra said, touching the furry lizard on the head.

“That’s impossible,” Herring replied, but his voice carried less conviction.

“We saw them there! You must warn Saan-Kakja at once that you might’ve contaminated her lands with the most pernicious, dangerous plant imaginable!”

“I doubt the contamination,” Bradford said slowly, “if what you say is true. I imagine the creatures that went ashore are quite familiar with the threat posed by the thorns—but a warning must surely be sent so if anyone does become infected, it will be noticed.” His voice turned angry. “But if you use this . . . weapon, the plant will sprout, and as soon as that happens, it will spread! Surely you’ve considered that? It could spread utterly unchecked in lands with no defense against it! You could ultimately make entire
continents
uninhabitable! My God, this is so much worse than gas that it buggers any comparison—or any understanding of the mind that could consider using it!”

“We have not
planned
using it yet,” Adar stressed a little weakly. Bernie had made the same warnings as Courtney and he didn’t
want
to use what they’d been calling the “kudzu bomb” for those very reasons. But he considered it his duty to seize any potential weapon he could, even if only to keep it as a last resort. He was confused, though. He’d thought, given Captain Reddy’s stated aversion to gas, that the kudzu might be better received. But now, judging by his face moving, he seemed less opposed to using gas than he’d been, particularly compared to the kudzu! It was wildly frustrating. All Adar wanted was a weapon—
any
weapon—that would kill as many of the hated Grik as possible, while requiring fewer of his people to die while using it. He glanced at Letts, and the expression he saw on the Chief of Staff’s face almost broke his heart. He
should
have told him!

“So,” Matt said ironically. “I guess I’m not the only one who makes mistakes. We can keep raking mine up all day, if that’s what you want, but I’d prefer to get down to business.”

“Of course,” Adar said softly, still looking at Alan, who refused to return his gaze. “Comm-aander Herring?”

“Very well,” Herring said. “As you all doubtless know, the situation in the East is somewhat stable for now. Preparations for an offensive are underway, and as much as High Admiral Jenks would like to have better access to our newer weapons, he understands we must first stabilize the situation in the West.”

“Nice of him,” Matt mused, “but he doesn’t really know what he’s missing, does he?”

“He does,” Herring countered. “He knows about the new weapons and would particularly like some of the new pursuit planes to protect his reconnaissance flights. He’s planning a recon raid, in fact, to remedy his deficiencies regarding his understanding of the enemy’s dispositions.”

“Really?” Sandra blurted, suddenly glaring at Adar. “He’s going to risk lives on the ground when sending him a few planes would make that unnecessary?”

“Sadly, it is not that simple,” Adar replied. “We cannot fly the planes to him; they must be shipped. Some few are indeed on their way, but their arrival will take time, as will the modifications to
Maaka-Kakja
that will allow her to operate them. We are sending some of the auto-maatic weapons as far as we can by Clipper, and they should arrive more quickly. At least the planes Jenks has will be better protected. As to the rest, I am confident Ahd-mi-raal Keje will soon resecure Maa-draas, and we can resume our offensive there. Once we push the Grik out of Indiaa, we will have all the resources of that land and the Grik will never wrest it from us again.”

“They will,” Sandra insisted. “You’re setting up a seesaw campaign there like we had in the last Great War on our Old World!”

“She’s right,” Matt agreed, a little surprised by her position. He knew that as much as he didn’t want her to go on his raid, she’d secretly hoped Adar would nix it because she didn’t want
him
to go either. “Even if we regain control of the sea, the Grik can keep pushing warriors in from the West. We know they have Arabia, at least along the coast. They don’t have to use ships. It’ll take a lot longer for troops to arrive, but we can’t get there much faster—and time’s the key. We can’t let this war drag on for years and years, because sooner or later, as long as they’ve got Kurokawa and his Japs, they’re liable to catch up with our slim technological advantage. They already have, in some respects. In the end, if we let this war turn into a slugging match that boils down to numbers, we’ve had it. Even if you could disregard the suffering, the math doesn’t add up. They can crank out warriors a lot faster than we can.”

“That is a dreadful thought,” Adar murmured. “An endless war with no hope of victory, but every prospect of eventual defeat. I cannot bear it. I would use gas, kudzu—anything I could find—to avoid such a thing.”

“So would I,” Matt admitted grimly. “But why not make sure it doesn’t come to that?”

“You really believe your little raid will make such a difference?” Herring scoffed.

“I do,” Matt insisted. “We have to give the Grik something else to think about! Madagascar’s become their capital, which means their ‘Celestial Mother,’ whatever the hell she—or it—is, is probably there. The Grik think she’s
God
, but because of that, and how far she is from the front, Madagascar’s probably the softest target in their whole damn empire. If we hit there—hell, if we just
threaten
to hit there—it’ll blow their minds. More important, they’ll have to keep troops and ships there, and lots of them, from now on.”

“It is so distant, across such a deep and terrible ocean,” Adar breathed, a strange, faraway look in his eyes. “No one has ever considered the crossing, even in a Home. And of course, we didn’t know where it was before you came. And there were always the Grik. . . . But now that you have crossed the great Eastern Sea, I believe you can actually do it! But what then? What if the Grik are too many? What if they have a vast fleet? What if . . . there is nothing?” He looked at Matt, eyes aglow with intensity. “What if our ancestral home is as ‘soft’ a target as you hope? What if you could
take
it from the Grik? Would not that discomfit the enemy most of all?”

Matt held up his hands. “Whoa there, Adar! My plan calls for a hit-and-run. With
Walker
,
Mahan
, and the PTs Saan-Kakja sent, we should be able to kick the hell out of anything big they’ve got hanging around. If the coast is clear, we’ll land the commandos”—he looked at Chack—“
raiders
,” he corrected, “and let them raise hell on shore for a while. Give us
Big Sal
, like I asked, and we can really raise some hell. But keep it?” He shook his head. “We might do it with all of First Fleet—but First Fleet’s got a job, and we don’t even know what’s
there
!”

“He’s right, Mr. Chairman,” Herring said, concerned by the dreamy look in Adar’s eyes. “If he must go, asking more than a raid is madness!”

Adar blinked profound regret, then nodded. “Indeed. Ridiculous, youngling fantasies.” He looked at Matt. “You shall have your raid, and
Salissa
as well. Keje could not live knowing you had done this thing and he was not there.” He blinked. “But first, we must address the emergency in the West. I want you there with Ahd-mi-raal Keje, before he accompanies you. After we retake Maa-draas, Commodore Ellis can relieve Keje, as comm-aander of First Fleet.” He paused and smiled slightly. “If that meets with your approval. It is
your
Naa-vy, after all.”

“That’s fine,” Matt said. He was a little disappointed not to be starting his raid immediately, but knew its timing wasn’t as important as his—and
Walker
’s—presence at Madras might be. “Madras is kind of on the way, after all,” he said, stretching the truth, “and I would like to make the show.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sandra interrupted. “You, both of you, want
Walker
to participate in the upcoming campaign,
then
head for Madagascar?” She turned to Matt. “What if . . . your ship gets all shot up again?”

“Shot up!” Petey shrieked. Those who hadn’t seen him before gave a start, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Then we fix her and continue with the mission,” Matt said shortly. He looked at Adar. “May I recommend that General Alden take over as CINCWEST after Keje and I head south?” He glared challengingly at Herring. “Unless
you
want it?”

“Oh no. I agree General Alden should assume that post. But I must admit your suggestion that I don’t know as much about the enemy as I could is well founded. Naval officer or not, I’ve been placed in charge of strategic intelligence, and I believe it’s time I took a trip to the ‘pointy end’ myself. In fact, I’d like to come with
you
, Captain Reddy.”

Matt was stunned, but not as much as he was a moment later when Alan Letts stood from his stool without a glance at Adar and stepped in front of him.

“Me too, sir.”

17

//////
Templo de Los Papas
Nuevo Granada, Capital of the Holy Dominion

D
on Hernan DeDevino Dicha, “Blood Cardinal” to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico, and, by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World, stepped through the ornate entrance to the Holy Sanctum at the base of the great temple. He was well-known by the many guards, and none even dared meet his eyes as he passed, much less challenge him. Striding softly down the long, dark corridor designed to resemble the living rock of the sacred caves, he paused automatically at its end and smiled benevolently at the pair of gold-painted but otherwise naked girls standing as attendants before the rich drapes at the entrance to the sanctum itself. He didn’t speak to them; there was no point. Both had been deafened with heated wires and had their tongues removed as soon as they were old enough to understand their duties. Instead Don Hernan sat on a padded lounge, and one of the girls removed his slippers. Then both assisted him to his feet and took his robes, leaving him in only a sheer breechcloth; otherwise he was as naked as they except for the heavy, twisted gold cross around his neck. No one, not even he, could enter the Holy Sanctum wearing anything that might conceal a weapon. In this condition, he stepped through the drapes and beheld the scene within.

All was red and gold, flickering in the light of braziers lining the garishly columned walls. Like elsewhere throughout the Dominion, there were many crosses, and the columns themselves were formed to resemble the barbed, grotesque version Don Hernan wore. Masked statues of each great pope stood in relief between the columns, surrounded by paintings of scenes reminiscent of their rule. They represented the
true
servants of God in the Holy Dominion. He who was symbolized by the cross had been the holiest of men, God’s own son, but even His understanding of the one True God had been imperfect. The lessons in his Bible had been greedily incorporated, and explained much about the nature of God previously unknown in this land. But like the first son, those who brought it had misunderstood the most significant lessons of all: God was all powerful, terrible, and jealous. His limitless power was founded on fear and reward, not love, and he required his servants to rule through fear, reward, and sacrifice, so much so that he’d required the sacrifice of his favorite son, who’d strayed from those fundamental principles. The cross was a constant reminder of the brutal sacrifice required of all mortals to find the path to salvation.

The popes—a relatively new title meant to placate the few obstinate and dangerously well-armed Spaniards of a few centuries past—were the true Messiahs, the living sons of God. They were chosen for elevation to the near divine, to replace the bizarre, inhuman monsters so many of the barbarians of this land still clung to against all reason. The twisted cross represented the power of God and inspired fear, as well as a fatalistic acceptance of the final trial of life. It was a symbol of unification that drew the masses from their pathetic, equally harsh but heretical traditions. In that sense, despite the suffering it represented, it was also an object of stability and comfort.

He continued gazing at the statues—the closest he would likely ever come to seeing any pope with his own eyes. Each held the painted and bejeweled skull of its inspiration in the left hand. One day, the present Messiah would be so honored, but even then his near-perfect likeness would remain behind a mask; the artist—and only person besides his successor to view him since his selection—would be slain in a joyful celebration. But for now, the Messiah was very much alive, and Don Hernan’s gaze shifted to the silky red curtain he remained behind, and he knelt.

Fires flickered beyond the drape and Don Hernan
could
see silhouettes. From them he knew the Emperor of the World wore a large, elaborate headdress, but despite the effect of the shadows, he was clearly a small, spare man, with considerable nervous energy. His projected image was always moving, actually pacing, and was followed by more naked attendants like those at the entrance, except these had been blinded as well. They kept pace with him by clinging to his flowing robe. Their sacrifice was rewarded by his presence, and it was their privilege to anticipate his every desire and ensure he never touched anything but the ornate throne he sat upon, the goblets they brought to his lips, the food they placed in his mouth, or human flesh. They were his reward for service.

Don Hernan understood the principle; only constant contact with the living could keep their Messiah rooted in this life, and the sensuous nature of that contact represented a bribe of sorts. Without it, his spirit might quickly flee to the even greater pleasures awaiting him in the afterlife. Deep down, Don Hernan couldn’t help it; he
so
wanted to be pope someday! Sadly, despite his obvious worth and almost unique relationship with the Messiah compared to other Blood Cardinals, his chance for that may have fled with the escape of Fred Reynolds and his pet . . . creature. He sighed, and spread his skinny arms wide in a pose of supplication.

“My dear Don Hernan!” the Messiah slurred. He was kept in a state of continuous inebriation with wine and drugs, but unlike some of his predecessors, he managed to maintain his energy and intellect in spite of that. Don Hernan had served four popes—the lure of the afterlife was great—but he admired and feared this one most for his ability to keep his mind in this world. “What news of your misguided protégé and his familiar?”

Instinctively, Don Hernan glanced at the entrance to ensure no guards had appeared there waiting for the command to take him away. “I was misled,” he confessed humbly. “In my hubris, I did not imagine it possible for anyone to endure the High Cleansing and retain such impure, treacherous thoughts. I was wrong. Clearly, some are infused with such evil that even the High Cleansing is not sufficient to wash it away. I must reevaluate my procedures. Few are even allowed such an opportunity as I extended to my protégé—as I admit I hoped he was—but now I will be even more selective.”

“You were deceived by the purest evil,” agreed the slow voice, “but though I know you are crushed, not all was in vain. You learned much about our enemy.”

“Indeed,” Don Hernan agreed, brightening slightly. “Some information must now be suspect, of course, but not all. The ‘American’ enemy that joined the New Britain heretics against us are little different from them in some ways, and I spent enough time in the isles as our”—he smiled—“ambassador to know considerably more about them than they do about us. Their notions regarding the value of lesser lives still gives me pause.” He shook his head. “It is so bizarre as to border on the insane. And their attachment to their animal allies . . .” He rolled his eyes. “Incomprehensible! Still, the fact remains that, deluded as they are, their beliefs are sincere and intractable. They
do
dislike heavy casualties, and they
do
apparently consider the lives of their animal helpers nearly as dear as their own. We can use that, I think.”

“But we have lost the Galápagos to them, and your conquest of their continental colonies was thwarted,” the pope said dreamily, swirling to continue pacing. It was not an accusation, just a statement of fact.

“True. They may even attack our own Holy Lands, but that may work to our advantage in the end, as long as none who witness such a desecration are allowed to tell of it. Our supply lines will be short, theirs impossibly long, and our troops and the Holy Land itself will swallow their armies like small morsels.” He hesitated. “I would wish we could match their newer weapons, particularly their flying machines. The small dragons perform well to a point, but are difficult to train, and the enemy has devised defenses.”

“You were confident before that your evil protégé would provide us with flying machines of our own. Did he not?”

“He did—to a point. I do not believe he was as good at building them as flying them. The examples he provided are different in subtle ways from the one he used, and I do not trust them. Even if the design is sound, he never finished training our warriors in their use. We have a start—he could not prevent that—but perfecting the machines and their use will take time. The project will continue, but we must redouble our efforts to train the small dragons, in the meantime.”

His Supreme Holiness stopped moving and continued gravely. “Only two matters remain. First, there is this other enemy that plagues our foes—these Grik. What do you make of them?”

“Other animals, Holiness,” Don Hernan replied. “More savage and numerous than our foes, but little more intelligent than dragons.” He thought back. “Now I consider on it, the traitor revealed their existence during his initial cleansing, perhaps in a stupor. He likely didn’t deny them later only because I already knew of them. In retrospect, he cannot have wanted me to know of them.”

“But what do you
think
of them? Can we use them as we do the small dragons?”

“Perhaps,” Don Hernan hedged. “According to the traitor, they are so far west that we can likely more easily find them, and perhaps catch some to evaluate, by sailing
east
across to Africa. Apparently, that is their home. But even Reynolds did not know if they extend as far as its western coast.”

“Our expeditions there over the ages have not reported them,” brooded the Pope.

“True, but such trips are costly and wasteful. Only a providential aspect of their nature protects us from the greatfish in our Pacific sea. They are not as . . . temperate in the seas to the east. It is difficult enough to maintain contact with our island possessions and keep a war fleet in the Atlantic, and we have not sent a mission to that dark land for nearly a hundred years.”

The Emperor of the World was silent, considering. His thoughts often took time to form, but when they did they were usually astute. Astute or not, they carried the weight of a commandment from God, and that was another reason Don Hernan admired this pope.

“We must meet these creatures,” the Pope said at last. “Use them if we can.”

“I will commission an expedition at once, Holiness.” Don Hernan paused. “It will be risky, as I said, and our colonies may be vulnerable for a time, particularly if we redeploy the greater part of our eastern fleet the enemy cannot even suspect exists. That fleet should overwhelm him, regardless of his tricks, but an expedition will strip our reserves.”

“It cannot be helped, and should not be too risky. The eastern fleet protects only against Los Diablos del Norte, and they should never even know it is gone. Besides,
they
would never dare provoke us again. They know they exist only at our sufferance.”

“As you command, Your Holiness.”

“One thing more.”

“Yes, Your Holiness?”

The Messiah’s tone changed to one of outrage. “You
must
destroy the traitor, wherever he has gone. You brought him here, to this place, to meet
me
!” he sighed. “I understood your intention and blessed your plan for him, but even I could not divine his secret evil! How could anyone not be lured to the True Faith by my sublime presence? Such evil has never been known. In any event, he knows where I am and has learned of certain of the tools we use to control the people. He must be silenced.”

“That is already being done,” Don Hernan fervently assured. “I know who helped him; there can be no doubt it was a faction of the Jaguar Idolaters, and I know where they take him. He must cross El Paso del Fuego, and I have dispatched an entire regiment of Blood Drinker Cavalry to stop him. He will not escape.”

“Very good, Don Hernan. You might yet succeed me one day, when I am called to my reward. Perhaps you may even be chosen as the one to perform my elevation when the time comes.”

“I am not worthy,” Don Hernan protested, lowering his face to the stone floor.

“Of course not,” agreed the Emperor of the World, “not yet. But your test is at hand.”