The Grik couldn’t use the plane themselves, so taking it was pointless. Even if they could be taught to fly, they couldn’t physically sit in the cockpit because of their heavily muscled tails. In all the world, only the Japanese hunters controlled the miracle of flight, and that was how Kurokawa intended it to remain.
Esshk pressed him this time. “Is your plane truly so fragile it will ruin it to use it once? If that is the case, what good is it?”
Kurokawa recognized the threat in the question. In other words, what good was he?
“It is quite sturdy, Your Excellency, but we have little fuel. Also, as I’ve said, if it’s damaged, it cannot be repaired. We haven’t the tools or materials.”
“The prey flew their airplane all over the place. They must have plenty of fuel. We will capture it, and you will have more than you need. As to the other, I still do not understand. They are machines, are they not? Machines created by your folk. Surely they know how to make more. I tire of your obstructionism. You must use it! The sword that remains at the belt is of no use in the hunt.”
“But the materials! I tell you we cannot repair it if it is damaged. We should wait to use it at the proper time—when it might tip the scale.”
“Materials!” Esshk snarled, and Kurokawa realized he’d objected too long. He knew the conviviality Esshk greeted him with was only an act. The general began to pace, and Kurokawa remained rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead. “You mean metal? We make metal for you by the shipload! Do not toy with me!”
“I do not, Your Excellency! As I’ve told you, the metal we need to build more planes is called aluminum. It is . . . magical, and can be made only in the world from which we came. It is strong, like iron, but much lighter. No aircraft made of iron could ever fly.”
“Then make them of something else!” Esshk raged in frustration. “You keep telling me we need to know what we face before we attack. Your aircraft is the only way to discover that and yet you refuse to use it!” Esshk glared menacingly at Kurokawa. “Reconcile this contradiction at once!”
Kurokawa stared at Esshk, his mouth open slightly. Peripherally, he was terrified of the general’s behavior, but his mind fastened onto something Esshk said.
Of course!
“General,” he said calmly, “we will use the plane, and if you give me free rein, I’ll make more for you. They won’t be as strong, or nearly as fast, but I’ll make airplanes even Grik can fly! But I warn you, it will take time. It will take more time even than the modern ships I promised, since that’s what we’ve already begun. But I can do it for you, and because you have been such a friend, I will. But in return, you must do something for me.”
Esshk’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared with indignation. Then, slowly, his terrible jaws moved to form an expression Kurokawa hoped was a grin.
“A bargain? How interesting! I wonder what it is you could possibly want?” He seemed contemplative for a time, but finally waved the matter aside. “We shall see, shall we not? My power to grant a boon depends on our success, after all. In the meantime, we must concentrate on the matter at hand. You will provide me with a list of requirements to ensure your plane has the ‘legs’ to reach its destination and return. We must time the mission carefully, since we will open the final campaign in no more than a moon and a half. All must be in readiness by the time Tsalka returns. You will need ships placed at intervals for refueling, of course. I will order them to scout far forward after that mission is complete, to ensure the prey has no further surprises for us. Ideally, they will rendezvous with the Swarm before the assault begins.” He waved a clawed hand vaguely toward the curtain. “Leave me now, and begin your calculations.”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Kurokawa said with outward calm, but inwardly he seethed. “One further question, if I may?”
Esshk nodded. “Oh, very well.”
“What of the enemy holdouts on B’mbaado? Will you take them seriously now? It seems to me they have evaded us too long. It’s possible, if they’re rescued, they might report our progress: the gathering Swarm, the pace of repairs to my ship, for example.”
“Fear not. I have suffered their existence for my own purpose: to see what efforts the prey might expend to rescue them. I admit you were right, and I am surprised. I should have destroyed them sooner. But perhaps any information they have taken away has been to our advantage?”
“How so?”
“If they are spying on us, and not just huddling together on the farthest reaches of the island, then they will have seen the might we will bring against them—and more is still to come. Let them infect others with that knowledge. That terror. As for the remainder?” He sighed. “I will dispatch one of the newly arrived drafts to dispose of them. They are jungle warriors from the home province. They will make short work of them, and we shall feast upon their leaders!”
Kurokawa’s stomach turned at the thought of enduring another such “dinner,” but he bowed.
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
Muffled machinery noises still reverberated throughout the ship, and the steel still hummed with life, but there’d been no throbbing roar from the engines for some time, and even the slight, almost imperceptible motion of so large a vessel riding at anchor was stilled. Deep within
Amagi
’s bowels, Captain David Kaufman, United States Army Air Corps, noticed the difference, but didn’t understand the significance. He didn’t understand the significance of much of anything anymore. He tried to do a single push-up on the cool deck plating, but just didn’t have the strength. Straining as hard as he could, he couldn’t raise himself from the dank, grimy floor of his cell. His jailors fed him once a day, but it was never enough, and his once powerful frame had diminished to a shadow of its former self. Tears pooled beneath his face, and he rolled onto his back, trying to control the sobs that came so frequently now. Above him dangled the single bulb that stayed on day and night. It was one small favor the Japanese officer had granted, and it was probably the only thing that retrieved him from the bottomless chasm of insanity. At least, he thought it had. He still had . . . spells, but today he could at least remember his name, and he willed that knowledge to be enough to cheer him just a bit.
The officer had granted other favors as well, when he could, and Kaufman got the impression he did so with the utmost care. A small stack of magazines was arranged carefully in the corner, opposite his slop bucket, and a couple were even in English. He didn’t know how many times he’d read them—hundreds, probably. He’d memorized every word. He read the other ones too, and he’d slowly learned a smattering of written Japanese by putting the pictures in context with the curious symbols beside them. He didn’t have any idea what the words sounded like, but he knew what many of the characters meant.
He rose slowly, painfully to his knees, and scooted to the overturned bucket that served as his only chair in the small, barren compartment. Easing onto it, he sat and stared at the glowing bulb for a while. It was how he passed much of his time, focusing on the bright filament until he could see it wherever he looked. His face began to twitch uncontrollably, and he tried to still the muscles and nerves by twisting his tangled beard. It never worked, but he always tried. He couldn’t remember how long it had been doing that; it always started within a few minutes of his awakening from his constant, hideous dreams. Dreams of blood and screaming death, and reptilian creatures devouring people he was somehow responsible for. He couldn’t remember why. He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner of the Japanese either, but at least they hadn’t eaten him.
The latch on the compartment hatch clanked, and his heart began to race. With a joy he could barely contain, he saw the Japanese officer who’d been so kind to him. How long had it been since his last visit? Months? It didn’t matter. He’d feared the creatures had eaten him, but here he was, alive! The treasured face contorted into a grimace of distaste, probably at the smell in the compartment, but honestly, Kaufman didn’t notice it anymore. He felt tears sting his eyes; he couldn’t help it.
“Captain Kaufman?” The greeting came almost as a question, as though the officer didn’t recognize him.
“Oh, ah, yes! It’s me!” he croaked. It seemed strange to speak after so long, and it was pleasant to have someone confirm he was who he thought he was.
“You have not been eating!” the officer accused. Kaufman’s face contorted into a grimace of contrition. He understood how the officer might think that, since he’d lost so much weight.
“But I have!” he insisted fervently. “I eat everything they bring me! Everything, I swear!”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Then clearly my orders have been disregarded. You have my most abject apologies. I gave orders that you be fed properly. It seems that word is subject to interpretation. I will make its definition clear.”
Kaufman stared at him for a long moment, mouth agape, revealing cracked, blackened teeth. “More food would be nice,” he finally agreed softly, trying not to make it sound like a complaint.
“You will have it,” the officer promised; then he too hesitated a moment. “I must also apologize for not visiting you more often, to see to your needs. I . . . am ashamed you have been treated so poorly by my countrymen. Necessity forced me to stay away, however. My commander has noticed my attention toward you and does not approve. He has threatened several times to return you to those despicable creatures we got you from. He does not believe you still have value as a source of information.”
Kaufman felt a surge of panic. One thing he remembered very well was his terror of the Grik. But what could he say? His mouth formed a protest, but he ultimately only lowered his head. “He’s right,” he mumbled. “I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you. I guess my ‘usefulness’ is over.” As soon as he spoke, he was shocked and terrified by his admission, yet strangely liberated as well. One way or another, perhaps his suffering might soon end. He raised his head and rested his twitching gaze on the Japanese officer. “So that’s that, I guess,” he said, and began to tremble. “The Grik can eat me, but I’ll be free.”
“Perhaps ‘that’ is not ‘that.’ Certainly not if I can prevent it, and there might yet be something you can do.”
Kaufman looked confused. “I already told you I don’t know anything else!”
In fact, he didn’t. He’d told the Japanese officer everything he could remember, and even though he still felt a vague sense of shame, he’d left nothing out. Subconsciously he knew it was wrong somehow to do so, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t even remember what he’d told them now, only that it had, indeed, been everything.
“That’s not what I meant,” the officer assured him. “Do you remember, some time ago, I asked if you would be willing to signal your old friends with a transmitter?”
Kaufman looked around as though searching for something, his expression desperate. “I . . . I think I remember you asking that, but . . . I don’t know who you mean. All my friends are dead . . . but you.” His gaze continued to wander. “Dead.”
Commander Sato Okada’s expression tensed, and he did feel a surge of shame. And hopelessness. Kaufman had clearly entered into a deep psychosis, and he didn’t know if he could bring him out of it. The months of solitary confinement, sensory deprivation, and malnutrition had taken their toll. Okada had said he wasn’t responsible for the ill treatment, but he knew he was. He’d given orders that the prisoner be properly treated, but what was proper? Japan was not a signatory to the Geneva Accords regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. Japanese troops and sailors were taught that surrender was unacceptable, dishonorable. Lacking detailed instructions, the ratings assigned to “care” for Kaufman would treat him as they expected to be treated in his place. He should have been more specific, and found a way to check on him more often. Now it might be too late. Okada remembered the details of Kaufman’s capture and knew he hadn’t surrendered; he’d been overwhelmed, so the initial dishonor was not his. Since then he’d been subjected to horrific brutality, not only at the hands of the Grik, but the Japanese as well. He eventually did surrender information, but not until his soul—and apparently his mind—had been taken from him. Okada realized he must somehow bring the aviator back from the abyss, save him from the madness he took refuge in. He was no traitor, but he’d finally decided he must risk everything to contact the Americans before it was too late. Warn them, somehow.
The Grik were evil incarnate, and
Amagi
’s captain had embraced them for reasons of his own. Even if Okada could supplant Kurokawa,
Amagi
was in the power of the Grik, surrounded, watched. At the first sign of treachery, their reptilian masters would swarm them under. The Grik dreamed of a world dominated entirely by their evil, clutched in their wicked claws. Kurokawa was blinded by his own ambitions and his obsession for revenge. He didn’t realize he was but a rat taunting a mighty serpent that might make use of him for a time, but would devour him in the end. For the human race, Japanese or American, the Tree Folk, or any other sentient species inhabiting this Earth to have any hope for survival,
Amagi
and the American destroyer must find a way to work together. Any other course of action was itself madness.
But in order to plan any concerted action, he needed Kaufman’s help. He cleared his throat. “Recounting your experiences might be painful,” he said gently, “but we must. I will start at the beginning, as I know it.”
CHAPTER 6
Goddamn you, Silva!” Chief Laney snarled as he approached. “What do you mean by takin’ over my machine shop without even a ‘by your leave’? We were workin’ on critical repairs! Even you should’ve been able to tell the lathe and little mill were in use; they were both set up! Hell, the setup took half a day!”
Silva turned to him with a beatific smile. He’d been leaning on the starboard rail on the welldeck, just aft of the bridge, staring thoughtfully at Mindoro—or at least what had
been
Mindoro. They were in the Philippines proper now, steaming north through the east passage of Mindoro Strait. Their old stomping grounds. In fact, Dennis suspected the distant promontory ahead should have been the mouth of Paluan Bay, but he wasn’t sure, because nothing really looked the same. It took him a while to figure out what the main difference was. There were no people, no fishing villages lining the shore, and very few boats. The few they’d seen were like the other Lemurian feluccas they’d grown accustomed to, but they hugged the shallows and kept their distance from the strange, smoking ship. Several days before, they’d overhauled and spoken one of the massive Homes they knew, returning empty to Manila for more supplies. He hoped it would be full of troops when it turned back to Baalkpan.
If they were where he thought they were, they’d spot Lubang Island before nightfall, and their voyage would be nearly complete. A lot of the men had grown quiet and somber as they neared their old “home,” and even he wasn’t immune to a certain nostalgic sense of loss. He had, in fact, been thinking a little morosely of several young ladies in particular who’d have been glad to see him very soon in the old Cavite they’d left behind, and so, when Laney stomped up, offering an outlet for his frustrations, it actually cheered him up.
“That’s ‘Chief ’ Silva to you, Laney, you frumpy little turd.” He tugged on the visored hat he now wore for emphasis. For some inexplicable reason, the Bosun had given it to him, and it wasn’t even his oldest, most beat-up one, either. He just said if Silva was going to be a chief, he had to look like one. Laney wore one of Donaghey’s old hats, and despite the fact that he was larger than the late engineer, it was too big, and only his ears and eyebrows held it up. Otherwise, no one else aboard would have called Laney “little,” though. He was only slightly shorter than Silva, and a comment like that would once have started a fairly equal fight. Now, both were conscious of the limitations placed on them by the new hats they wore. All the same, Laney suddenly remembered another time, and he was glad they were standing by the solid rail instead of the safety chains.
“It ain’t
your
machine shop, neither,” Silva added. “I swear, you’ve got mighty uppity of late. One of your ’Cats even wants to strike for the deck.” He shook his head. “Shows good sense if you ask me, but Spanky and Donaghey never ran anybody off. You always was a asshole, but you’ve got even worse since they gave you that hat.”
“Who is it?” Laney growled. “We’ll see about that!”
“Ain’t gonna tell you. He don’t want ordnance anyway. Ask the Bosun when we pick him up.”
Laney hesitated. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody, but he also couldn’t go crawling to the Bosun. “Well, what about the machine shop?” he demanded. “Spanky’s gonna shit worm gears when I don’t deliver them parts!”
Silva laughed. “I cleared it with Spanky before we started. Besides, he said you got scads of spare pressure couplings by now; you’re just doin’ busywork.”
“Well . . . the second reduction pinion off the low-pressure turbine is thrashed—God damn lube oil we’re getting ain’t up to spec—and we gotta turn a new one. ’Sides, what are you doin’ in there, makin’ mop handles?”
“Matter of fact, we broke the firin’ pin on number three this mornin’—all the practicin’ I’ve had the fellas doin’—and we figured we’d make another one.” He scratched his beard. “Funny, but without a firin’ pin, we can’t make the big, scary bullets go out the other end. I told Stites to make a dozen while he was at it. There’s a fair chance we’ll break another one.”
“What about my pinion?”
“You gonna put it in while we’re underway? That’d be a rodeo! You’re a crummy machinist anyway; I don’t care what your rating is. Hell, Juan’s a better lathe man than you; so’s the Jap. You’d be just as well using a mop handle as anything you’d turn out.”
Chack was listening to the conversation with amusement a few steps away. It went on a little longer, but finally Laney stormed aft, grumbling with every step. Chack drifted over and replaced him at the rail and caught Silva chuckling.
“I swear, if he found a roach floatin’ in his coffee cup, he’d turn it into a mountain fish by the time he got done yellin’ at the mess attendant.”
Mountain fish had dominated just about everyone’s conversation the last two days. They’d finally seen one of the things—a young one, Chack assured them—lazing on the surface, taking the sun. Silva had always suspected people exaggerated their size, but now he knew they hadn’t. Everyone got a good, long look through the binoculars that made the rounds, while the captain gave the creature a wide berth. It was enormous! The part they saw, just a dark hump in the distance, and a small fraction of the monster’s total size, was half as long as the ship. It blew like a whale, and occasional waterspouts geysered a hundred feet in the air. Everyone was excited to see the mythical creature at last, but no one was sorry to watch it disappear astern, either. Since then, they’d spotted a couple of truly huge gri-kakka, bigger than any they’d seen before, that were as dangerous to the ship as an iceberg or torpedo, but even giant plesiosaurs paled to insignificance compared to the mountain fish they’d seen.
“Perhaps he is high-strung,” Chack suggested, referring to Laney. “I’ve heard Mr. McFarlane say so.”
Silva laughed out loud. “High-strung, and fit to snap a string, I’d say. If he’s a chief engineer, I’m a Chinese fighter pilot.”
They stood in companionable silence for a while, the foaming sea sluicing by beneath them. They were friends again, although there was still a measure of friction. Not enough to bring them to blows; they’d already discovered, despite Silva’s height advantage, Chack’s extraordinary strength—he’d spent most of his life as a wing runner or sail trimmer on
Big Sal
, after all—made them a remarkably even match, and their one altercation had left both of them uneager for a rematch. Besides, Chack was no longer certain he was mad at Silva anymore. Most of his anger had resulted from Silva’s and his sister Risa’s boisterously public “marriage.” He felt at the time they’d done it to “get even,” or humiliate him for a prank he’d pulled on Silva. He’d since learned that Silva was a
professional
prankster, who enjoyed it when somebody “got” him, but he didn’t “get even.” His retaliation usually consisted of gross, sometimes even dangerous escalation.
Just about everyone believed the “marriage” was a joke, but Chack still wasn’t certain. Sure, Silva and Risa might have carried on so at first, just to get his goat, but since then, in several situations, he’d sensed genuine respect and affection between them. He still found the idea that they might be engaging in
sexual
relations repugnant, but he supposed if they truly did consider themselves mated, then Risa’s fate could have been worse. She was a far better warrior than most males he knew, and that, as well as her own rather twisted sense of humor, had left her with few prospects for a fulfilling relationship with a male she could enjoy and respect. Silva seemed to fit that role, and even if such a match would never result in younglings—he shuddered—it might result in happiness, and he was prepared to accept that.
It was time to clear the air, though. His people had few sexual conventions, and most everyone, even Keje and Nakja-Mur, had been amused, at worst, over the possible relationship. But Chack knew the Americans were much less understanding. They liked his people a lot—more than many of their “own.” They were at war with the Japanese, after all. But he’d learned an old quip: “I’ve got nothing against them; I just wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one.” He expected it was used in jest, at least when he was in earshot, but the phrase struck home. Besides, there was Silva’s alleged affair with the American nurse, Pam Cross, to consider. His people were not necessarily strict monogamists, but he knew Americans could be. Monogamy was, in fact, the norm among them. He worried that, if Silva and his sister were truly mated, Nurse Cross might try to supplant her, and he didn’t want Risa hurt. He cleared his throat.
“We should speak,” he said at last.
“Shoot.”
“About you and Risa, and about your intentions regarding her. We must speak seriously about this at last.”
“Sure.”
Chack blinked annoyance, and his tail swished rapidly behind him. “I am about to muster the Marines for exercises, so I don’t have a great deal of time. Will you just answer my question?”
“You ain’t asked one yet.”
“As hard as I’ve worked to master your language, you’ve surpassed me at being obtuse!” Chack growled.
Silva grinned, but turned to look closely down at him, and his eyes betrayed what might have been an inner sadness. “I like Risa a lot. She’s a swell gal. She’s a hoot, and she makes me laugh. I wish she was along with us instead of back in Baalkpan on
Big Sal
. She’s the only dame . . . uh, female I could ever just let loose with, be myself, talk. I figure if things was different, she’d be about the perfect dame for me to settle down with.” He paused, still looking at Chack, and was amused by the indignant blinking he saw. “Now, ain’t that somethin’! All this time you’ve been mad at me because you thought I wasn’t good enough for her; now you’re mad because you think I just said she ain’t good enough for me! Fact is, like I said, we’re just about right for each other, even if she is a ’Cat. Trouble is, we’re
too
much alike, and neither of us is ready for a rockin’ chair.” He laughed at Chack’s puzzled expression. “You still got some work to do on our language. I mean neither of us is ready to settle down. Do I love her?” He stared back over the rail at some distant point, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, barely audible over the blower, the whoosh of hot gases rising from the funnels, and the curling, splashing wake alongside.
“Once upon a time, the only feelings I had were happy, hungry, horny, and mad. Usually they got all mixed-up. I’d get mad at a fella, we’d get in a fight, and I’d be happy. After it was over I’d wind up hungry, and probably horny too. Or I’d be happy ’cause I wasn’t hungry. . . . You get the idea. Anyway, I had a buddy once, Mack Marvaney, who got killed by them island Griks on Bali before we met y’all, and all of a sudden I found out I had another feelin’: sad.
“I don’t much remember my folks; they both died when I was a sprout—about three, I guess. En-floo-en-za. It was all over the place, but Daddy might’ve brought it back from France.” He shrugged. “I went to live with my uncle Bob, and he worked me and whooped me like a mule from then on. Got even worse after the Crash, and I had to scrape for everything we ate. He’d bring a little money home now and then, makin’ ’shine, but he drank as much as he made, and one day he took a harness strap to me and I killed him with a grubbin’ hoe.” His jaw clenched tight. “Never felt sad about that. Anyway, I wandered around for a few years, doin’ things I ain’t much proud of, mostly, and when I turned sixteen I lied about my age and joined the Navy.” He looked at Chack. “Now you know more about me than anyone alive . . . ’cept Risa.
“I never knew what ‘love’ was, or ‘sad’ or ‘safe,’ or really ‘happy’ either, but now I guess I do.” He suddenly slapped Chack on the back hard enough to take his breath. “I love you like the brother I never had, and Stites and Rodriguez, Mertz, Kutas, even Juan and all the others, ’cept maybe Laney. He’s a jerk. The Mice—and Bradford!—are like the freak cousins nobody ever talks about, but I even love them too. The skipper’s not that much older’n me, but him or the Bosun are the closest thing to a real dad I ever had, ’cause they keep me in line without a harness strap, and they do it for my own good.” His mighty fist pounded the rail. “And I love this damned old ship that’s as old as I am. She’s the only real home I’ve ever had. She leaks, she squeaks, hell, sometimes she coughs and gags. She prob’ly couldn’t hold her own in a stand-up fight against a rowboat full of Boy Scouts with BB guns, but she’s my goddamn home!”
Silva quickly turned away and jabbed his fingers in his eyes, rubbing vigorously. “Damn soot!” he mumbled huskily. “Snipes must’ve blown tubes on one of the boilers.” After a while, he turned to face Chack again with a mysterious dampness around his eyes. He made a production of pulling a pouch from his pocket and biting off a chew. Finally, when the quid was properly formed in his cheek, he spoke again.
“You wanna know if me and Risa have wrassled and romped around, and had a little fun; that’s none of your damn business. Do I love her? Sure I do, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my pal. Will I tear your heart out and eat it if you spill any of what I just told you? You can bet your life on it, brother or not.”
Captain Reddy was watching the two from the perspective of the open deck behind the pilothouse. He grunted. He was glad to see that, whatever accord Chack and Silva had reached, at least they’d made up. He needed them too badly, and their strained relationship had been felt throughout the ship. Turning, he rejoined Keje, Bradford, and Adar, where they were discussing Maa-ni-la protocol on the starboard bridge wing. There wasn’t that much to discuss; it was roughly the same as Baalkpan—the two land homes were related, after all—and they’d already been over it a dozen times. There’d be the initial “request to come aboard” that was a holdover from the seafaring tradition all ’Cats shared and most still adhered to, but Matt, as “High Chief” of
Walker
, must make the request this time himself. A lot would depend on how he was received by San-Kakja, Maa-ni-la’s High Chief.
Walker
was a very small “Home,” after all, and despite Matt’s position, and what he represented within the Alliance, San-Kakja might not recognize him as a High Chief. Nobody wanted to set the precedent that every captain of every fishing boat or trader had the same status as the leaders of the great Homes of the sea and land. Even if he was accepted, however, it’d be up to Keje or Adar to do most of the talking. Matt’s Lemurian was improving, but it wasn’t up to the task of serious negotiations. San-Kakja was a new High Chief and an unknown, but it was a safe bet he knew no English, and Matt might as well recite nursery rhymes when he spoke. Keje and Adar already knew what to say.