Authors: Taylor Anderson
They both chuckled at that, but Bekiaa’s grin faded. Lemurians had few facial expressions. A grin was a grin, and anger was unmistakable on their faces if one knew them well, but otherwise they relied on blinking, ear and tail positions, and body language. To Leedom’s still limited perception, Bekiaa had become unreadable. “
Can
I be spared?” she finally asked herself aloud. She’d stayed to fight this campaign out of loyalty to Colonel Flynn—but Flynn was dead, and all she was really doing was hunting individual Grik; not much of a contribution to the overall effort. Alden would probably give her a regiment, medical release or not, if she stopped playing hooky, as the Americans called it. . . . But was that what she wanted? Then again, as much as she loved Risa and Chack, they were building a force not too different from Flynn’s Rangers, if she understood correctly. They’d kill Grik, she had no doubt, and that was a fine thing . . . but is that all she wanted to do? She’d always hoped to serve with Garrett—or her old skipper, Captain Chapelle, again—and Captain Garrett had certainly earned her loyalty on a sandy spit of land on the south Saa-lon coast. Besides, the assignment would take her away from this grimy, bloody hell and all the stark, bloody memories it held. She’d be back where she belonged, on the clean, clear sea, where the unburned ghosts of countless comrades didn’t linger in the fetid fug above the battlefield.
“What is Captain Garrett’s assignment?
Donaghey
is our oldest ship, besides
Walker
herself. She has only her sails and wooden sides and cannot survive in the line of battle—particularly against such iron monsters as the Grik now possess.”
Leedom spread his hands. “I don’t know. There’s a lot more secrets now than there used to be. Maybe that’s a good thing, but it takes getting used to.”
Bekiaa considered. Garrett was too senior and too good to waste on
Donaghey
unless her assignment was an . . . interesting one.
“I will go to
Donaghey
,” she said, decisive. “I will miss you and worry about you, Lieuten-aant Leedom. You and Gen-er-aal Queen Maraan, since she is the betrothed of my cousin Chack-Sab-At. You have become my brother, and she is as a sister—but you two are the only family I have left in this terrible place. I will go.”
* * *
“Take him to my headquarters at once!” cried General Halik. “Fetch healers—anything you need! General Niwa must not die! I will be there as quickly as I can.” Halik watched as General Orochi Niwa was carried from the damp, flashing field of battle. It should’ve been relatively safe to observe the attack from where they had. The enemy fire would’ve been directed more downward from the raised breastworks bordering his trench, and misses should have been caught by the sucking mud. Even ricochets should’ve been mostly spent. Niwa had persuaded Halik that the captured enemy breechloaders could make deliberate shots at such a range . . . but in the dark? Yet it could only be such a terrible device that shot the neat round hole completely through Niwa’s lower abdomen while he stood commenting on the fight at Halik’s side. Despite his duties, Halik had an almost desperate urge to go with Niwa now.
He paced back and forth in the trees they’d retreated to, watching the Uul draw back from the fight. The professional in him was annoyed that the attack didn’t press the enemy harder, but the budding pragmatist accepted what he’d expected. The attack had served its purpose; it blooded a newly arrived draft of troops from the south, showed him which might benefit from further training and instruction in his new way of war, and provided rations for his army.
“Choosers, divide the warriors I want from the chaff that passes back to the woods,” he instructed the keen-eyed observers he’d appointed the task. They weren’t court-sanctioned Choosers but knew what they were looking for, knew what he wanted.
“And those that turned prey?” one asked. Halik shook his head. “They are fodder. We do not have the luxury now of further evaluations. I know many could be saved, if inspected closely. More waste!” He gurgled a sigh. “But the army must be fed. Choose carefully, but make no exceptions.”
“Of course, Lord General.”
Halik turned to another of his “disciples” who’d stood silent so far, watching.
“General Shlook, move a bit farther west and test the enemy near his anchor on the slope yonder.” Halik pointed at the distant escarpment, invisible in the darkness. “Use another new draft. We will transform this rabble into a
real
army through attrition if we must, an army better than the Hatchling Host for defense, at need, and even better at attack—when finally we make our decisive blow.”
Shlook hurled himself to the ground at Halik’s feet. “As you command, Lord General!”
“Get up, Shlook!” Halik said patiently but firmly. “You have always been Hij, and I was once Uul—no better than those warriors we waste to sustain us.”
Shlook rose, his crest low in submission. “Yes, Lord General.”
Halik waved him away and turned before Shlook could see his sharp teeth bared in delight. He may be unsure exactly what inspired friendship, but he’d learned precisely what loyalty was and had discovered an amazing method of inspiring it. Some Hij might disdain his humble roots, but most knew only real ability could elevate Uul to Hij at the direct order of the Celestial Mother’s own Chooser. His ability—imperfect as he saw it—was clear to those he commanded. By not disdaining
his
Hij, by treating them as near equals, he knew most would bare their throats to him. He was proud of this accomplishment, largely because he’d divined it himself. General Niwa had recognized his effort and applauded it, since it was one of the few innovations Niwa hadn’t suggested. Briefly Halik pondered if loyalty wasn’t a major component of friendship, and realized it must be so. Fondness, loyalty, admiration . . . He hurried to follow the warriors that had borne General Niwa away.
5
//////
Baalkpan, Borno
T
he War Room in Adar’s Great Hall grew more crowded all the time. The small office where the military ministers once gathered to quietly discuss the conduct of the “Great War” had been abandoned, and the name War Room now described the greater part of the entire lower level of the hall. There were still offices for all the original ministers, of course—Defensive Works, Communications and Electrical Contrivances, Medicine, Naval Engineering, Science, Ordnance, and so forth—but now there were offices for Logistics and Planning, Personnel, Manufacture, Finance, and Strategic Intelligence as well. New offices were constantly required as the bureaucracy of war expanded, and Adar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, became increasingly confused and annoyed by it all. Yet as he’d recently, forcefully reminded everyone, he
was
Chairman, and would henceforth remain engaged in all things pertaining to the unimaginably vast war facing his people, of whatever race or clan. That meant he must not only be present but also decisive at all meetings—such as the one about to commence.
The Great Hall was once elevated, in the Lemurian way, and built to encompass the mighty Galla tree that symbolized the ancient Lemurian homeland on, it was now believed, Madagascar. The many branches of the tree represented the different directions the People fled to escape the ancient Grik enemy so long ago that few could even guess at the time that had passed. The tree was believed to be a legacy of the fabled land of their ancestors, planted by the first arrivals on southeastern Borno to establish this land Home in the first place. There were other . . . almost-Galla trees around Baalkpan, but they’d been crossbred by local flora to some degree. The only pure Gallas were in the Fil-pin Lands, aboard some of the seagoing Homes, or on Great South Island.
No longer elevated, the Hall had “grown” all the way to the ground. Expanding upward had been deemed structurally difficult, and it was impossible to build outward into the surrounding Parade Ground; that peaceful, shady expanse had become a cemetery for the growing number of war dead that preferred burial to cremation. Even if that number remained a minority, the Parade Ground would remain a memorial park to all those who’d given their lives, human and Lemurian. Building to the ground was contrary to custom and even the Sacred Scrolls, which strongly suggested structures be elevated to protect from predators and floods, but Baalkpan was so well fortified against both now as to virtually eliminate that concern. Besides, they needed more room.
Adar sat on his favorite stiffly stuffed cushion in the noisy War Room and looked about at the animated blinking of Mi-Anaaka, and the still-more-animated human faces. Many present were good friends, but others he hardly knew. Some were new enough to their posts that he didn’t know them at all, and he felt a sudden longing for the old days, when Baalkpan was surrounded by Grik and faced extermination. Those were desperate times and he didn’t long for the situation, but he missed the . . . intimacy of the smaller cadre that successfully defended the city. He sighed. So many of those heroes were lost to this life forever, and others were scattered across the known world, in terrible danger he couldn’t share. Finally, when he could endure the time-wasting chatter no longer and was fairly sure all were present who needed to be, he touched the bronze gong for attention.
“My friends,” he said in the sudden silence. “My friends,” he repeated, “we have much to discuss. I shall begin by saying that things go well in the East. The Enchanted Isles are firmly in Allied hands, and the colonial possessions and resources of the Empire of the New Britain Isles are secure. The buildup for an invasion of the mainland and the final destruction of the evil Dominion has begun.” This was already known, but there were cheers and stamping feet. “In addition, I am pleased to announce that our own dear Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald has consolidated her power under the guardianship of Mr. Sean Bates, whom most of you remember as ‘O’Casey,’ when he was among us.” The cheers were more enthusiastic now. “Princess Becky,” as she’d been known in Baalkpan, was much loved, and her parents’ murder had shaken the Alliance with fury. “Our ambassador and Minister of Science, Courtney Braad-furd, has performed heroically, and secured the firmest friendship between our people and the Empire that we could desire. He is returning to Baalkpan for a time, and a diplomatic contingent including Sister Audry is on its way to replace him. I understand Mr. Braad-furd will collect the Imperial Ambassador in Maa-ni-la, a Lord Forester, and bring him here.”
Adar took a breath. “That is the good news. Now, this is the first general meeting we have convened since the initial shock of our . . . setback in the West. Most of you now realize our early fears of total disaster were unfounded, and, in fact, Gen-er-aal Aalden has stabilized his perimeter quite successfully.” Adar allowed his gaze to linger on Commander Simon Herring. Herring, a survivor of a Japanese prison ship that came through another evident “Squall” with the destroyer
Hidoiame
that
Walker
recently fought. The gaunt man was new to his Ministry of Strategic Intelligence, but even so, Adar thought he’d said some very unintelligent things at that last meeting. Herring nodded, apparently accepting the implied rebuke.
“That said, the situation there remains perilous, if not desperate.
I
do not consider it desperate, because we will do something about it very soon. The preparations have already begun. Before we discuss those and form a final plan of action, I must tell you”—he looked at Herring again—“that I have sent a personal message to Gen-er-aal Aalden assuring him of our undiminished, unanimous support. I also directed him to order General Queen Safir Maraan to Saa-lon. . . .” He sighed, then actually chuckled. “But the wireless office informs me that
Gen-er-aal
Maraan regrets that
Queen
Maraan must decline the, ah, request. She will not abandon her corps, and I cannot say I blame her.”
“But who else can command the army in Saa-lon if it is to relieve Gen-er-aal Aalden?” a colonel in the B’mbaadan delegation cried. That strategy had been the most discussed so far, and Safir Maraan was the Queen Protector of B’mbaado. Adar held up a hand. “Whether
that
army moves or not has yet to be decided, and we do have other experienced gen-er-aals now, you know. Besides, I have not given up on her. You forget, we control the sky.” He smiled at the irony of a Sky Priest saying such a sacrilegious thing, but it was true in this context. “We can fly people in and out of the perimeter at will. She or Gen-er-aal Rolak—perhaps even Gen-er-aal Aalden himself may accept another command when we are nearer ready to strike, although I would rather Gen-er-aal Aalden coordinate the entire campaign from
Salissa
when the time comes.”
“Fat chance,” Commander Alan Letts blurted, then blinked apology, his fair skin turning red with embarrassment. Letts was chief of staff to both Adar and Captain Reddy, in Matt Reddy’s persona of Supreme Commander of all Allied Forces. He’d also evolved from an arguably lazy supply officer to become Minister of Logistics and Planning.
“My sentiments as well,” Adar agreed, “but with the miracle of wireless and the new tee-bee-ess voice communications, I suppose he can coordinate the fight from wherever he prefers.”
“Discussing commands and who should have them strikes me as premature when our armies have been savaged and our fleets blown from the sea!” shouted the Sularan representative.
The crowd erupted in protest. The outburst was absurd, particularly coming from someone who, like most landed families across the strait on Saa-leebs, fled the Grik when they came against Baalkpan. A regiment of Sularans
had
stayed and even fought in that terrible battle. Many more Sularans were in the Allied armies and Amer-i-caan Navy now.
But
somehow,
Adar thought with an almost embarrassed flash,
the excrement always floats to the top.
“Our armies suffered, true,” he conceded. “But the Grik did not destroy them, despite a numerical advantage on a scale we have never faced before. The Navy was far from ‘blown from the sea,’ and we lost only three ships outright in the Battle of Ma-draas. Others were damaged, but counting the transports, the Navy destroyed perhaps a
hundred
enemy vessels! All our armies and the Amer-i-caan Navy and Maa-reens are already prepared to fight again—and we are sending them a great deal more with which to do it!” He gestured at Alan but continued. “Our shipbuilding continues to surge at a pace that frankly astonishes me,” he confessed. “You all have seen it. The sheer scope of the new construction has taken on a life of its own, and I honestly concern myself most with how we shall ever
crew
the Navy!” He smiled, but blinked sadness, looking around the room. “The old world is entirely gone, I fear, and sometimes I feel I could hate our Amer-i-caan allies for what they have done—if I did not love them so for what they have done.” There were murmurs, from both humans and Lemurians.
Alan Letts nodded silently. He hated that they’d had to subvert the fascinating . . .
fun
Lemurian culture to such a wild extent in order to save its people from extermination. Adar was right: the old ways were gone forever. All Alan could do was hope that someday the free, happy spirit of the Mi-Anaaka they first met might reemerge and thrive.
Adar continued. “Regarding small arms for our troops, the fast-shooting Blitzer Bugs, similar to the Thompson of the Amer-i-caans, only lighter and simpler, will soon outpace the Allin-Silva breechloaders we are issuing to our armies. They cannot replace the longer weapons, because they are for short-range only, but they have their place. For now they have been issued to Cap-i-taan Risa-Sab-At’s Maa-reen commaandos, and enough were sent to Maa-ni-la for Chack’s commaandos there to become familiar with them. The new . . . pistols—again, copies of the Amer-i-caan Colt Forty-Five, have been perfected at last”—Adar glanced at Bernie Sandison, who nodded—“and will soon be issued as well.”
“Can we feed ’em all?” Letts asked.
“Ammunition production’s on target, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Bernie Sandison, the dark-haired former torpedo officer and acting Minister of Ordnance in Sonny Campeti’s absence said with confident pride. “I’d still like the troops to make an effort to pick up their brass, though.”
“I hope they’re on target better than the torpedoes!” said Letts, and there were chuckles. The results of the torpedo tests Bernie performed in front of the whole city several weeks before had been mixed at best.
Bernie flushed. “We’ll have torps by the time the skipper gets here and wants
Walker
’s tubes back. I think we’ve finally got the guidance issues on the MK-3 hot-air fish sorted out. It’s the same as it was on the other two we tried, but the fish is so much faster, I think it tended to overcontrol.”
“I’ll say!” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, smiling archly beneath his Pancho Villa mustache and making a motion with his hand like a porpoise jumping out of the water.
“It was better than your dud electric job!” Bernie snapped, and Ronson cringed.
“We’ll make better batteries,” Commander Steve Riggs defended. They would too. Steve was Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances and he’d worked wonders. They all had. But, realistically, it would be a while before they had good enough batteries for electric torpedoes. “Besides,” Riggs continued, “what about Laumer? He wants torpedoes too.” No one answered, and Irvin Laumer wasn’t there. He was still working night and day converting the old, virtually useless submarine S-19 into a surface ship. He envisioned her as a torpedo gunboat, and the jury was out whether he was wasting his time or not.
“I am sure Mr. Sandison will soon have enough torpedoes for everyone,” Adar said, his voice more positive. “Enough torpedoes—and many other new contrivances that were not yet ready for the ‘torpedo day’ demonstration. But we must now discuss what we shall do with them—and all the other wonders I spoke of. What will the Grik do now, and what shall we do about it?”
“Certainly we need to consider what the Grik will do.” Simon Herring spoke for the first time. “But perhaps the better question should be, What are
we
going to do, and what can the Grik do about it?”
Adar nodded slowly. “I like that question better.” He looked at Herring. “And if the question is not so different from the one you posed at the last meeting such as this, your emphasis on recrimination and withdrawal seems . . . changed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Herring replied, and it was his turn to blush as he looked at Alan Letts. “And as my understanding of the situation has improved, I hope my analysis has as well.” He shook his head. “You were right. Based on the sheer numbers of Grik and their apparently improved capacity for innovation, we can’t surrender the initiative. Not anywhere or in any respect.” He paused, looking at the large gathering. “I still believe we must plan our strategies in greater secrecy, however. Not only because of the Grik, but because we must also consider the Dominion—an enemy with an even greater capacity to learn our secrets. With the influx of Imperial personnel, particularly the formerly indentured females with no reason to love the Empire, we can’t assume the Dominion hasn’t already infiltrated us to some degree.”
“Do you propose there may be disloyal elements in this very room?” Adar asked with an incredulous edge. “People who would aid our enemies?”
Herring looked around at the suddenly hard stares, human and Lemurian. “Of course not, Mr. Chairman. But my post as minister of Strategic Intelligence is little different from my duties in the old world. It’s my
job
—and nature, I suppose—to be suspicious. I can’t imagine anyone here being disloyal, but the possibility exists that someone may come in contact with agents of the enemy.
Any
of our enemies, even the Grik. Baalkpan’s a very open society, and, don’t forget, both we and the Grik have Japs on our sides. . . .”