Straits of Hell (11 page)

Enaak managed a grin. “We follow him, of course. We will take my Fifth and one of your regiments, and we will watch him until he is far from this land. General Aalden told him to expect that, after all, so we would break no pledge of our own. We'll merely ride along and see the sights and ensure that he does not turn back. He can't object to that! The rest of our force will wait for us here—and the garrison that was promised. Only when that is in place might we turn back, but we will always scout these approaches.” He looked squarely at Svec. “
Keeping
what we have achieved is something else to strive for.”

North Borno

Ensign Abel Cook and Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey sat in the shade of the shoreside trees with “King” Tony Scott and Captain I'joorka of the Khonashis, watching the ongoing effort to break up the shattered Japanese destroyer
Hidoiame
. The forward half of the ship still lay on its side up on the beach where it had been pushed after
Fristar
Home, her cables cut, had drifted ashore and smashed her like a bug. Salvage on that section had proceeded rapidly, and it now looked like a great, rusty carcass that had been picked over by iron hungry carrion eaters. Less had been done with the stern, still submerged a short distance away, although the “reserve” US Navy ship
Salaama-Na
had finally arrived from the East and would attempt to lift the wreck.
Salaama-Na
was a heavily armed, but otherwise unaltered Home. She and her High Chief, “Commodore” Sor-Lomaak, were ardent members of the Alliance and had fought valiantly to crush the invading Doms on New Ireland.
Salaama-Na
dominated the modest natural harbor, but many other ships were anchored there now, and an entire squadron of Nancys operated from hastily constructed facilities as well.

The city that had sprung up around the salvage project and the oil wells the Japanese had started by using slave labor from
Fristar
Home was clearly there to stay. It already had the largest concentration of people in all North Borno, boasting as many as eight or nine thousand, and it didn't even have a name yet. King Scott's people, a fascinating mix of Grik-like folk similar to Lawrence's Sa'aarans and human descendants of Malay fishermen, had been joined by a growing collection of other clans of the seminomadic Khonashi tribe. Members of other tribes, even ancestral enemies such as the Akichi, had begun to appear, tentatively testing the promise of friendship and prosperity, but none had a tradition for naming the places they lived. Interestingly, however, there was a general impatience for a name to be announced for the new “Union” centered at Baalkpan that they'd proudly joined, and they didn't understand the holdup.

Tony Scott sipped his fine Baalkpan beer and gestured past the labor on the beach and in the water nearby where his people were taking
Hidoiame
apart a piece at a time. All knew he was pointing at the long gallows erected in the space where Fristar's people had been corralled.
“A fine hangin, I'joorka,” he said to his Grik-like Khonashi war captain with satisfaction. “I think ever'body enjoyed it.”

“'Ould'a enjoyed it greater i' us hanged
all
the Jaaphs!” I'joorka grumbled. He'd also made it clear that he thought hanging was too good for them and the prisoners should have received a more . . . imaginative execution.

Abel grimaced, looking at the six corpses still dangling several days after the event. Captain Kurita and his senior officers had earned their fate. They'd murdered prisoners of war, massacred a Lemurian village near what should've been Yokohama, and generally caused all kinds of havoc. But their atrocities here had been very immediate, and it had been all he could do, as Baalkpan's representative, to keep the people from slaughtering all the Japanese survivors after the battle that destroyed their ship. Most had been moved to Baalkpan as prisoners of war, but the Khonashi had demanded justice.
They had it coming,
Abel acknowledged,
but I didn't enjoy it
. Glancing at Stuart Brassey, he was pretty sure his friend felt the same.

“How was your meeting with Mr. Letts?” Abel asked, changing the subject, and Tony gave him a rueful look. His wife, a tiny dark-skinned woman with sharpened teeth and a severe expression that somehow remained beautiful, stepped close with her own mug of beer and sat beside him. As usual, she wore only a leather skirt.

“Scary,” he said with a glance at the woman. “I swear, I really did expect him to arrest my ass an' carry me back to Baalkpan as a deserter.”

“Stupid,” the woman said, and Tony could only nod. He'd gone missing two years before on the Baalkpan pipeline cut, and it had been assumed that
Walker
's coxswain, who'd suddenly developed an absolute terror of the water, had been eaten by a “super lizard.”

“I told you he wouldn't do that,” Abel said, trying to ignore the naked breasts across from him. He'd gotten a lot better at that. “Silva did too. It's not like you could've made it back on your own after I'joorka rescued you.” He gestured at Tony's withered leg. “In the meantime, you did great work here. If it hadn't been for you, we wouldn't have all these new friends!”

Tony nodded again. He'd begun to look as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders after a very long time. “That's what
Mr. Letts said. I swear. I'd've hated to leave my new people here, not to mention my wife.” He straightened. “But I was ready to face the music. Just couldn't keep hidin' from my old pals anymore.” He looked down. “What few of 'em is left.”

“Well, you don't have to hide anymore,” Stuart said firmly. “And now you're ‘High Chief' of the North Borno Home—or whatever you wind up calling it—and entitled to representatives at the congress in Baalkpan.”

“That's so weird,” Tony said, and paused. “Mr. Letts says they're leaning toward calling the Union the ‘United Homes,' or something like that, but they're gonna wait for Adar to get back before they take the vote. Everybody figures he ought'a be there.”

Brassy frowned. “He should have been there all along, if what I hear is true.”

Abel frowned too. “Maybe so,” he temporized, reluctant to criticize, “but he'll be back soon enough on
Amerika
, with the wounded from Madagascar.” He looked wistful. “I can't condemn him for being there when I wish I had been myself.”

“You may get your chance,” Tony speculated.

Abel shook his head, then smiled at I'joorka. “No, my next assignment—ours,” he stressed, including Stuart, “is to serve as liaison for the regiment I'joorka has raised when it moves to India. We'll be watching General Halik. Not much chance for action there, I'm afraid.”

“I know where he'd rather we were sent!” Stuart prodded playfully, and Abel flushed. It was no secret he was sweet on Rebecca Anne McDonald, the Governor-Empress of the New Britain Isles. “Do you blame me for wanting to fight the Doms?” he demanded.

“Not at all—or for trying to remind the Governor-Empress you exist!”

Abel flushed even deeper. He doubted Rebecca needed any reminders; he wrote her often enough even if it probably took a month or more for his letters to arrive. Sometimes she even wrote back—but she hadn't for a while now.

I'joorka grunted, licking his wicked teeth. “Us raise our regi'ent to aid our new country against the Griks. I don't know the reason us is getting sent to not kill Griks. Us ought'a go to 'adagascar!”

“There is plenty of work to do in India,” Stuart said. “And surely you
can imagine why we are reluctant to put you in direct contact with the Grik. Some of you do resemble them. Think how difficult it would be for supporting units, particularly aircraft, to tell friend from foe. It might be very risky.”

“Then let us kill the Dons,” I'joorka said simply. “None that look like us is killing they.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Abel agreed, his eyes going wide. Then he grinned. “And I'll bet you'd scare the hell out of them! I'll mention it to Mr. Letts and see what he says.” He turned to Tony. “In the meantime, you're one of the newest Homes to join the Alliance, but with all the good steel you're salvaging and the oil wells the Japs started, you'll soon be one of the richest. What will you do with all your new wealth?”

Tony scratched his head. “Derned if I know. Khonashis don't need much. No point in us tryin' to build ships an' add to the navy. From what I hear, there's more ships bein' built through the Alliance than they can easily crew.” He shrugged. “An' folks here ain't sailors.” He nodded at I'joorka. “They're damn fine fighters, though. Even before them 'Cat drill instructors came up from Baalkpan to standardize our training, I'da stacked 'em up against any infantry there is, without firearms.”

Abel nodded. He'd seen their disciplined tactics firsthand. Tony's help had a lot to do with that, but Abel was sure the Khonashi had already been a cut above and were, hands down, the most “civilized” Grik-like beings they'd ever met, including Lawrence's Sa'aarans. He wondered if their long association with humans, as actual members of their tribe, had anything to do with that.

“I wish I could outfit I'joorka's troops with better weapons, like the new breechloaders,” Tony said a bit wistfully. “Can all our new money help with that?” A couple hundred Japanese weapons had been captured, and some of
Hidoiame
's big guns were salvageable as well, but they had very little ammunition for the small arms. Worse, it would be a long time, if ever, before more would be made. The Allies had never had enough of the Japanese Arisaka rifles to justify tooling up to feed them. After the Battle of Baalkpan, most of the Arisakas aboard
Amagi
had been taken by her evacuating crew, who had probably feared the Grik at that point, and those that remained on the gutted battle cruiser
were too few and too badly corroded by fire and seawater by the time they were found to be of any use. Ammo
could
be made for Scott's rifles, but production of the standard calibers already in use was at capacity. For the present, the only ammunition for the Arisakas was what they'd taken from the Japanese, and those weapons had been issued to Scott's home guard.

“Money can't buy Allin-Silvas or Blitzerbugs; there just aren't enough,” Stuart said. “All our production is going to the fronts, and we still haven't got a meaningful number of breechloaders in the hands of our troops in the East. That's the current push, though, now that Maa-ni-la and New Scotland are finally tooled up to make them, but that leaves almost nothing but the old muzzle-loading smoothbores for any new unit working up here. Please believe it has nothing to do with the quality of your troops or any notion whatsoever that they won't use the new weapons effectively. As I said, most Allied troops in the West are still using the same arms you've received.”

“You'll get the new guns,” Abel predicted. “Everybody will, eventually.” He grinned. “And hopefully you'll even get them before you need them!”

“I had'ta ask, y'know?” Scott muttered, frowning. I'joorka just tilted his head in a Khonashi shrug.

They sat silently for a while, enjoying the shade and watching arcs of molten steel spew from the wrecked destroyer as Khonashis, human and reptilian, and a large number of 'Cats from Baalkpan torched the ship apart.

“Talk to 'ister Letts,” I'joorka finally urged. “Let us kill Dons. You, the Alliance, hel' us kill Jaaphs. Let us
really
hel' the Alliance!”

//////
The “Cowflop”

“L
iberty City! That's a laugh!” Chief Gunner's Mate Dennis Silva hooted, staring down with his good eye on the harbor below. Smoke still rose from several places, a result of the little air raid the previous night. One enemy airship had fallen right between the Celestial Palace and the docks, and had burned satisfactorily for most of the night. He remembered fighting his way right through that spot not long ago, but the warren of filthy adobe structures was already largely gone. The zep had taken care of the rest. He had a fine, reclining perch on the northern flank entrance to the palace, and awnings had been rigged above all four entrances to the enormous structure, making shade for the ambulatory wounded who chose to spend their days where they could view preparations for the inevitable Grik counterattack. Many preferred not to look, with the scars of battle so fresh on their bodies and souls, and what remained of the city wasn't very inspiring anyway.

The palace was like an ant mound, or better, as Silva had said before, a giant stone cowflop on the denuded ground around a red ant bed.
Except ants are tidy critters compared to Griks,
he added to himself. He shrugged his mighty shoulders with less pain than he'd felt even the day before.
And with all the vents they've opened in this dump, it's cool enough to be sorta comfortable, even inside,
he mused. The whole level of the palace, about a hundred and fifty feet above the stinking ground below, had been scoured as clean as possible for a hospital to the seventeen hundred or so humans and Lemurians who'd take longer to heal from the battle to seize the city—or would never recover at all.
No reason for 'em to gawk around out here,
he reasoned.
Let 'em dream they're wallowin' in a bed o' daisies. That dern seep an' polta paste they been smearin' on me, an' pourin' down my gullet's had me seein' weirder things
.

“Polta paste” was an analgesic, antibacterial salve made from the ubiquitous polta fruit, a fruit that could also be eaten, drunk straight, or fermented into a beverage called “seep.” Along with a number of other Lemurian foods, polta fruit obviously provided many of the nutrients humans and Lemurians required, but the medicinal (and recreational) side effects could be disconcerting to some. Like most human destroyermen, Silva had grown to prefer the excellent Lemurian beer for his “drinkin'.”

He glanced back at the dim entrance to the palace.
Personally, I'd sooner be out here
.
I got all cut up scamperin' around on the inside o' this stupid joint. I seen enough of it
.

“Li'erty City is not a good thing to call it?” Lawrence asked. The orange and brown tiger-striped Grik-like Sa'aaran understood English and Lemurian perfectly, and spoke it just as well—as long as he could avoid words that needed lips. He was also one of Silva's best friends, after an interesting start, and now stuck to him like a loyal dog. A lot of that at present was self-preservation. He was utterly loyal, but in the land of the Grik he was also the only furry, toothy, semireptilian creature that
wasn't
Grik. He was a genuine hero, having helped kill the Celestial Mother. But in addition to the thousands of Grik bottled up northwest of the city, rumors had a few still running loose. Lawrence wasn't taking any chances that bad lighting would hide his distinctly different color, or that some of the “Impies”—from Chack's Brigade in
particular, who'd never seen him before—would take him for a Grik. He'd be better to stick by Silva.

“No. ‘Liberty City's' a stupid name. I know why Adar wants to change it—makes it less Grik soundin' than . . . Grik City, well, obviously. But the sad, sorry truth of it is, to ever'body who fought for this place, it'll always
be
‘Grik City.' Hell, ‘Grik City' has already been stitched on
Walker
's battle flag!”

“Can't polish a turd,” agreed the dark-bearded man reclining next to Dennis. Silva looked at him. Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn had been chewed up in the fighting even worse than he. Both dismissed their wounds as “bites and scratches,” and that was technically true. Most
had
been inflicted by claws and teeth. But Grik were equipped from birth with claws and teeth sufficient to eviscerate prey (and opponents), and both men had been extremely lucky to survive. On top of that, their very worst “scratches” came from Grik swords and spears—and Arnie Horn had taken a particularly nasty jab.

“I thought you were sleepin',” Dennis accused, “leavin' me here with nobody to talk to but a buncha' halfwit 'Cats”—he glared at several Lemurians nearby who blinked back good-naturedly—“an' this puffed-up gecko who thinks he did somethin' special by helpin' kill that bloated lizard lady on the top floor!”

Lawrence huffed, and the 'Cats made their funny, snorting snickers.

“You're just angry
you
didn't get to kill her,” Lawrence defended sourly, but he knew one of the reasons Silva kept griping about Lawrence's deed was to remind people of it. Silva was funny like that.

“Sure I am,” Dennis confessed. “Even madder it was that creepy twerp Isak who was with you. Gonna be hell in the firerooms.”

“If he ever goes back,” Horn said.

“Why? What's he up to? Hey! He's supposed to be
here
someplace, and I ain't seen him!”

“Tabby came around looking for him this morning, before you got back.” Horn nodded at the wreckage of the zeppelin. “She can't find him and says he's AWOL.”

“He's likely hiding so not to see Dennis,” Lawrence stated.

“Naw, he ain't scared o' me no more. Shouldn't be scared o' nothin', now. I bet he's slinkin' around down in the basement of this joint lookin'
for that giant poodledragon critter that got away. Gonna feed it another grenade!
That
was a hoot to see!”

Lawrence shook his head. “Scuttle'ut says it got out through a tunnel—there's a tunnel they say so' high-rank Griks get out.”

“Is that so? Well, the big fat lizard lady didn't get out,” Silva said with satisfaction. “But if that's the case, an' he ain't back in his firerooms or huntin' poodledragons with hand grenades, he's bound to be up to somethin' weird,” Silva declared airily. He pointed out at
Walker
. “Whatever it is, the bosun'll . . .” Silva stopped, and clamped his mouth shut. Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray had been the closest thing he ever had to an honest-to-God, kick-hell-out-of-him-for-doing-wrong father figure in his life. He'd died defending the ship and his skipper, just like he always did, while Silva went haring off on a lark—like he always did. It didn't really matter just then
why
Dennis wasn't on
Walker
when his mentor needed him most, or that he'd been going for the throat of
all
the Grik. It only mattered that he wasn't where he felt he should've been, and that . . . ached. And then not to even finish what he started, and lose so many others—like Irvin Laumer—on the way . . .

For the first time in his life, Dennis Silva had been stopped cold. Thwarted.
Shut out
. Sure, he'd helped accomplish the mission; he and Arnie—and Lawrence too—probably made it possible. But he hadn't made it to the end—and then really almost didn't
make
it. That was an eye-opener.
If a man as indestructible as the bosun could die . . .
He shook his head, unwilling to finish the thought, and grunted.
That's the way he would'a wanted it, though,
he realized
. On his ship, by Cap'n Reddy's side
.
But he went down in the same big fight that took this shitty place called Grik City. The hell with Adar's stupid name.
“The bosun would'a scared it outa him,” he finally said.

“There you are!” came a scolding Brooklyn accent from behind. Silva's scowl instantly changed to a beatific smile as he turned to face petite, dark-haired Nurse Lieutenant Pam Cross. They'd . . . endured an on-again, off-again, maybe back-on-again (Dennis was never entirely sure) relationship for quite some time, in which she engaged in complex rituals of deep understanding, wild confusion, adoration, and volcanic fury. All the while, Silva remained Silva—likely the cause of much of her erratic behavior—and imagined he was as close to “in love” with her as his imperfect understanding of the concept would allow.

“Right where I always am, my little honeydew!” he crooned. She rolled her eyes and snorted.

“You weren't here last night,” she accused.

He waved vaguely down at the wreckage below. “Was too,” he defended. “Most'a the night. Then I hobbled down yonder, careful as a crippled fawn,” he added piously, “'cause I seen some fellas pokin' around that busted zep. Had to have a look at some little swivel guns they found. Kinda weird.”

“You ain't supposed to go runnin' around!” Pam brayed. “You spring another leak, an' I'll just stand by and let you drain out! See if I don't!”

“Clearly, Chief Silva is ready for more than merely sitting about,” came another voice, and Dennis craned around again, wincing a little this time. The Lemurians stirred, trying to rise.

“Why, Chackie!” he said, then frowned. “You ain't gonna make me call you ‘Colonel,' are ya?”

Chack snorted a chuckle, waving at the 'Cats to remain comfortable, and moved around to squat beside his friend. “I'm still just a second-class bosun's mate on
Walker
, our Home. You outrank
me
there. Just call me ‘Colonel' when it seems appropriate to do so”—he blinked amusement—“if you ever recognize such an occasion.”

Dennis grinned. “So whatcha got?” He nodded toward Pam. “You gonna spring me from the torments of Torky-mada . . . ett, here?”

“Torky who?” Horn asked.

“Never mind.” Silva looked expectantly at Chack.

“Are you up to accompanying me on a trip?”

“Back to the ship?”

“No, to meet some . . . other people. Cap-i-taan Reddy said I can have you if you're fit.”

Silva leaned back on his cushion, resting his wrist on his brow. “Oh, I don't know. Done a lotta meetin' folks, an' I am feelin' kinda poorly. An' it seems all I do is go trambleatin' to an' fro of late.”

“He's not going anywhere!” Pam decreed. “He's wounded—again! He needs to heal properly this time!”

Pam's outburst stirred Silva forward, and he eyed Chack more seriously. “Scuttlebutt's got you goin' south, lookin' for the great-grand'Cats of all the 'Cats. You really are?” He frowned, remembering when he'd briefly gone ashore with Chack and his brigade. “I recall there's some
mighty interestin' boogers roamin' around down there. Might gimme a chance to do a little huntin'. . . .”

“Some
very
interesting creatures,” Chack assured.

Silva's lips split into a particular gap-toothed grin that even Lemurians had learned to approach with caution. “Well, hell. Sounds like a hoot. Can't be as rough as our little hike to North Borno to meet Tony. . . .” He caught himself. “I mean, I'joorka's Malay an' lizard folks.” He gestured at Horn. “
He
let a whole damn ship fall on him!”

“It was just half a ship,” Horn denied. “What about me?”

Chack blinked regret. “I'm informed that your injuries will require a bit more time to heal,” he said, “and you are scheduled to sail for Baalkpan aboard
Amerika
with the other wounded.”

Horn looked down.

“Hey, tough luck,” Silva said, uncharacteristically soft.

“That's okay. I need a rest from you anyway, you big jerk.”

“You're a pal.” Silva shrugged. “I hear that little Jap, Toryu Miyata, will be on
Amerika
too. And maybe Herring. So at least you'll have fellas to reminisce and jabber with.”

“And
I
?” Lawrence demanded.

“Hey, his flipper's a lot better,” Silva said. “Flap yer arm, Larry! Show him.”

Chack was thoughtful. “I do not know. The People in the south would only see Laaw-rence as a Grik, I fear, but . . .” He looked searchingly at the Sa'aaran. “You have often proven remarkably useful. I am in command of the expedition and I know your value in . . . unusual circumstances, but that decision might best be left to Mr. Braad-furd. He is responsible for the diplomatic aspects of the mission.”

“So you're goin'?” Pam demanded.

“You betcha!” Silva laughed.

“We'll see about that!” Pam stated harshly, and stormed back through the entrance. Silva watched her go.

“Say, she can't queer the deal, can she?”

“Lady Sandra has cleared you,” Chack replied, contemplating that conversation. It had been much like a similar one he'd once had with General Shinya in which Shinya described Silva as an amazingly useful but dangerous man. Chack had to agree with that—and Sandra's assessment that it was always best to keep Dennis busy—and focused on
being usefully dangerous in the right direction. Unconsciously, he blinked vague speculation, glancing after Pam. He knew she and Silva were sweet on each other, and he no longer—really—thought there'd ever been anything physical between the big destroyerman and Risa, his sister. But Risa would be remaining behind, and he was just as glad to keep them apart. As for Pam . . . “But Lady Sandra, even Cap-i-taan Reddy, will not
order
you to go. Paam has a point. While your wounds were not as deep or dangerous as Gunny Horn's, or as crippling as Lieuten-aant Mi-yaa-ta's, they were many. If you would rather . . .”

“No, no! I'll go. It's been too long since we went adventurin' together, just you an' me!”