Deadly Shores Destroyermen By Taylor Anderson
PROLOGUE
////// Cochin
Southwest Coast of Grik India
June 16, 1944
Ten days after the great battle that drove General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa and the tattered remnants of his once-mighty fleet from Madras, only two of his little squadron of Grik-built cruisers, Nachi and Tatsuma, remained to steam into the port of Cochin. They’d been lashed by a terrible storm all the way around India and Ceylon, which was probably why they hadn’t all been harried to destruction, but a third cruiser had survived the battle only to lose power and be driven ashore several days before. Even now, the tail of the tempest plagued them, scouring Nachi’s deck with sheets of rain as her mostly Grik crew struggled to secure the exhausted ship to the nearly deserted pier.
Kurokawa puffed up the companionway from below, finding it difficult to breathe the sodden air, and glanced around the harbor from beneath the wide umbrella that Signals Lieutenant Fukui hurried to protect him with. At least I still have some ships here, Kurokawa brooded, and their commanders have followed orders. Six of the great ironclad dreadnaughts, and a like number of cruisers that hadn’t arrived at Madras in time for the battle, were moored away from the docks, where their crews couldn’t be infected by the treachery mounting against him all across India. Conditions aboard those ships must be miserable, he reflected, inescapably permeated by the filth of their Grik crews, but my Japanese officers have remained loyal and have heeded Fukui’s wireless warnings. This last revelation came almost as a surprise, so accustomed had he grown to treachery—real and imagined.
Kurokawa’s first intimation that he had a general mutiny on his hands came when General of the Sky Muriname’s second in command, Lieutenant Iguri, sent word that warriors under orders of Grik General Halik had arrived at their aerodrome near Bombay to seize the remaining airships waiting there! Iguri’s own Grik security forces, recognizing him as their commander and with no idea who Halik even was, drove them off after a sharp fight—but Iguri had been forced to abandon India, racing west with all his airworthy zeppelins ahead of the looming storm. He’d ordered his ground forces and all the “new” Grik troops assembling in the area—raised and trained according to Kurokawa’s principles—to march south to Cochin. But there was no way to know whether they had, or if the twenty-odd thousand of them had been incorporated or slaughtered along the way by warriors loyal to Halik. Kurokawa desperately hoped they’d made it. He needed fuel for his ships, which he could get only if Cochin remained in “friendly” hands, and he wanted Iguri’s Grik troops as well. His behavioral experiments had helped form them, after all, and he hoped to make them just as fanatically loyal to him as they’d always been to their bloated “Celestial Mother.” Only then could he consider, from anything like a position of strength, the offers of assistance made by unknown forces watching his war.
Since they were entering port under communications silence, there was only one way to find out. Nachi was flying signal flags calling for a command meeting immediately. Whether “his” troops had arrived or not, he had to go ashore and present himself as the ultimate authority, the regent consort of all India and Ceylon, who, absent any direct command to the contrary from the Celestial Mother herself, every Grik in India was still—theoretically—bound to obey. Regardless of how far Halik’s treachery extended, Kurokawa hoped to convince the creatures here that not only had Halik gone rogue, but he’d made unprecedented and unnatural accommodations with the Americans and their ape-man lackeys—with prey—and it was Halik who should be resisted! Kurokawa had no desire to direct a civil war from Cochin. He didn’t have time. No doubt he would be condemned by the Celestial Mother for his defeat at Madras just as soon as ships sent from Bombay by Halik reached her, but with aircraft denied to make the trip and without wireless communications—one thing Kurokawa had providentially withheld from his Grik “allies”—it would be many weeks before an official condemnation arrived. He’d be long gone by then.
“Come, Fukui,” he said as a guard of a hundred Grik led them down the gangplank and formed around them on the dock.
“Are you certain you should do this, Lord?” Fukui questioned.
“Who else could? You?” Kurokawa snorted with contempt.
Fukui looked away. He hated Kurokawa, hated everything they’d done since they came to this . . . other earth, but despite his madness, Kurokawa did have courage of a sort. He’d never risk himself if he didn’t absolutely have to, but when he did, there was no apparent hesitation. “No, Lord,” Fukui replied, searching anxiously in the rainy gloom for signs of a threat. Just then, a single Grik warrior dashed into view. He was unarmed and immediately hurled himself at Kurokawa’s feet; this was likely the only reason he wasn’t instantly slain. He began rasping rapidly in his tongue.
“Tell him to slow down,” Fukui snapped at one of their party who understood spoken English. The creature didn’t speak it, with his toothy, lipless jaws. Very few Grik could, and Kurokawa hated hearing any human language mangled by their tongues. Even fewer humans spoke Grik—Fukui didn’t—but he could understand it if it didn’t come at him too fast. The guard complied, and the messenger on the wet planks dutifully repeated himself. Fukui turned to Kurokawa. “The harbor remains in our hands, Lord,” he said with relief, “and perhaps seven thousand of ‘our’ warriors have established a defensive position north and east of the city.” He frowned. “They are all that got through. Halik’s, um, ‘rebels’ were more numerous and had artillery, but were not of the breed that understands defense. Ours were able to break through, and have begun to move some artillery from the harbor fortifications to face them.”
“I gathered that,” Kurokawa said, and he probably did. He’d been “communicating” with Grik longer than any of them. He stared down at the warrior. “Are there disloyal forces in the city itself?”
“No longer,” replied the messenger, before adding simply, “They were slain. But scouts report a large column approaching from the northeast, and it is said that General Shlook commands them!”
“Shlook!” Kurokawa said, and frowned. Shlook, one of Halik’s disciples, commanded an army of forty or fifty thousand of the new warriors, once called the “hatchling host.” No matter what kind of defense his “loyal” Grik threw up, they couldn’t hold against that. “How far?” he demanded.
“Three days’ march,” the messenger whined. “In this weather, perhaps four.”
Kurokawa nodded. Plenty of time. He looked at the creature, suddenly struck by the . . . quality of the report, not to mention how well-spoken it was, even if the words were Grik. With a flush of pride, he realized he was responsible for that! He’d instituted the programs that trained Grik warriors to become more than just the mindless killing machines they’d always been. Before, only Hij—members of the Grik ruling class—could’ve reported more than “Bad Grik come.” That was about all any Uul, the warrior/worker class, could’ve accomplished. He congratulated himself—but then frowned more deeply. He’d also “created” Halik, in a sense, and that had come back to bite him. He’d have to tread far more carefully with the new Grik, even those loyal to him, than he ever had before.
“Who sent you?” Fukui demanded. “And why is he not here to receive us himself?”
“Commander of ten hundreds Agta leads us now. He pledges that the coaling yard is clear of enemies or traps. He hurries here afterward. Shelter has been prepared for you, if you will follow me.”
* * *
The rain tapered away at last as the day wore on, but the gray sky remained and the muggy air seemed to hold just as much moisture as before. Kurokawa and Fukui had a dry place to rest, at least, while the remainder of their party guarded the entrance to the adobe-like structure where they waited. Kurokawa had ordered all his ships to move to the coaling pier and fuel as quickly as possible, but he was growing annoyed that this “Agta” did not arrive more swiftly. It was Fukui who first realized that the thunder they still heard in the distance was not thunder at all, but artillery. Kurokawa rose from the padded, saddlelike Grik chair he’d been leaning against and advanced toward the door in alarm. Just then, there was a commotion outside, and the best spoken guard hurried into the chamber.
“Agta is here with his staff,” the creature announced.
“It’s about time,” Kurokawa ground out, relaxing slightly. “Escort him alone inside—but watch him!”
Fukui nodded. He’d had very little contact with “new” Grik, and this whole situation was most irregular. For once, he agreed entirely with his lord’s paranoia. Ultimately, there was no reason for concern. Agta wasn’t exactly a hatchling; he was probably elevated in much the same way Halik had been, but was very young to command ten hundreds (Kurokawa translated the rank as major), and if he didn’t throw himself on the damp dirt floor at Kurokawa’s feet, he did kneel and bow quite low. He was dressed in the red-and-black-painted leather armor standard for the “new” Grik, and wore the far better sword, much like a katana, that Kurokawa had designed himself. His plumed helmet was under his arm, revealing the young crest down the center of his head, now flattened in sincere obeisance.
“My lord regent,” he said in his own tongue, though his words were easily understood. “I will gladly destroy myself for inconveniencing you so long, but the rebels press us closely on the main road. I desired to place the guns myself before coming to you, lest they break through and inconvenience you further.”
“Well done, Agta,” Kurokawa said, uncharacteristically mild. “Rise and hear my commands.”
Agta stood, his eyes still downcast.
“What . . .” Kurokawa paused, considering. “What is your opinion of the situation?”
Agta’s snout drooped lower, but he quickly recovered himself. “Lord, I must tell you that the force I was able to bring through can hold the rebels for a time, but cannot resist General Shlook when he arrives. I . . . I do not know how we will defeat them without more warriors. Many more.”
“An honest and accurate appraisal,” Kurokawa breathed with something akin to wonder. His voice rose. “We will defeat them, Agta, but we have a greater chore before us just now. Halik and his followers are not the only rogue elements on the loose within the very bosom of the Grik Empire! There are rebels everywhere, some that even threaten the Celestial Mother herself!” He saw the flash of consternation in Agta’s upward glance. “Indeed,” Kurokawa continued. “I fear the treachery here is but the distant tip of a more horrendous campaign instigated by intimates of the Giver of Life from within the Celestial Palace itself!” He looked away. “I have long admired First General Esshk, but it seems that certain ambitions have released a terrible storm. I can’t say Esshk is directly involved himself. . . .”
“First General Esshk?” Agta moaned, and Kurokawa nodded sadly. “We must pray that is not the case,” he said doubtfully, “but whether or not he leads the rebellion, his policies and ambition have sparked it just as surely as if he gave the command. Agta!” he shouted, breaking the stunned astonishment that threatened to overcome the Grik commander. “I will fuel and provision all the ships in the harbor. You must discourage the rebels sufficiently to pull your warriors back to the city under cover of darkness so I can take as many of them as possible from this place!”
“Leave?” Agta mumbled doubtfully. “Flee?”
“No!” Kurokawa assured. “We do not flee. But we must . . . redirect our attack—and leave only for a time so we can move to protect the sacred, ancient lands! We have no time to lose! Even now, there are reinforcements on their way here—ships, troops. We must intercept them before they can arrive and be infected with Halik’s madness. Once that is accomplished, we will be in a better position to crush the rebellion—or protect the Celestial Mother. Whichever requires our most urgent attention. Are you with me, General Agta?”
Agta seemed shaken by the word “general,” but he slashed his head downward in a Grik nod. “Of course, Lord Regent!”
“Excellent,” Kurokawa purred. “Now obey your orders! We must move quickly.”
When Agta was gone, Fukui could only look at Kurokawa with awe. The man was insane; few knew that better than he. Yet, for a moment, even he had believed the lies.
“We will salvage this situation yet, Fukui!” Kurokawa chortled, breaking the spell. “Now,” he said softly. “Now you can try to contact the ‘others’ who have communicated their willingness to aid us. By the time we reach our home, our ‘preserve,’” he spat, “of Zanzibar, we will have an army and a navy in addition to the projects we are completing there. We will not be powerless supplicants to whoever these mysterious potential allies might be!” He considered. “Send a message to Zanzibar as well. Instruct Commander Riku to collect all our people from the various worksites where they are employed and gather them at our enclave. We will need them. They are free to perform whatever sabotage to the Grik industries they can think of that will not be immediately discovered, or might bring too quick a response. We will also need time to complete our defenses.”
“Yes, Lord, but . . . what shall I tell the ‘others’? They have expressed a desire to meet, but where should that be?”
Kurokawa shrugged. “Tell them to come to Zanzibar as well . . . when we call them, and not before.” He looked at Fukui. “We must get there first ourselves, of course!” He frowned. “If they cannot come there, they are of no use to us in any event.”