CHAPTER 39
////// Grik City
Madagascar
August 7, 1944
As the sun crept skyward on the third day after the battle, it exposed again the results of the dreadful victory. Morning breezes stirred the humid, smoky, night-steeped miasma of festering death that overlay the already-unbearable stench of the place, and carrion eaters of every description scurried or swooped amid black clouds of flies. Exhausted troops trudged through the corpses, heaping them on carts drawn by paalkas or strutted me-naaks, before hauling their grisly burdens to the docks. From there, the dead Grik were unceremoniously dumped in the water. The troops wore bandanas tightly drawn around their faces, scented with anything they could find, and Big Sal’s and Walker’s fire hoses were in near-constant operation, washing down the almost unbearably disgusted workers. Some went to the hoses whether they’d been working the disposal detail or not, just to wash the sense of it away. The harbor flickered and churned with the highest concentration of feeding flashies anyone had ever seen.
Matt Reddy frowned down on his battered, rust-streaked ship, her flag stirring fitfully at the mainmast. Her big battle flag had been taken down to be mended again, and have “Grik City” embroidered on its folds to join so many other names of other fights. She made it through again, he thought. She brought us through. His frown deepened. But not all of us. He’d never forget the desolate howls of anguish he heard when Diania first saw Chief Gray’s body laid out beside the galley. She really did love him, he realized, a terrible, painful lump rising in his chest. Well, so did most everybody else. I wish to God I’d made him sit this one out—but how many more would’ve died without him? Me, for sure. He felt a growing pressure behind his eyes. So long, Boats.
Almost violently, he broadened his gaze to encompass the entire panorama below the Celestial Palace. He’d practically insisted that the first full-command staff meeting of First Fleet South scheduled since the battle be convened here on the northern steps Simon Herring had defended. The stench wasn’t quite as overpowering, and that was an advantage, but mainly he wanted everyone to see the aftermath of what they’d done, good and bad, while they considered just what the hell they were going to do next. He always felt deeply responsible for those who died under his command, and in this case those losses were particularly painful, specifically personified in his mind by Irvin Laumer . . . and Chief Bosun of the Navy Fitzhugh Gray. For perhaps the first time, though, he now keenly felt that their deaths—and maybe most of the others—were somebody else’s fault, at least as much as his. He didn’t want to focus on blame because he regarded many who deserved it most as family, but he almost had to, to a degree, because he did want them to feel the pain of their mistakes, as he always did. Maybe then they wouldn’t make the same ones again.
He became aware that Sandra’s arm was around him, slowly moving up and down his back, her hand pausing occasionally to massage tense muscles. He took a tentative breath, tasting the air, before taking a deeper one. Then he turned. Everyone who was coming was there: Adar, Keje, Safir and Chack, Herring, Von Melhausen, Lange, Tikker. . . . Spanky had left Rosen in charge of the ship to stump up the steps on a crutch, and he and Courtney Bradford had found a place beside Matt and Sandra. Spanky’s face was strained and angry, and even Courtney’s expression was as grim as Matt had ever seen it. He was glad to see Adar blinking unrestrained horror as he absorbed the view. Maybe he was starting to see. Matt cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming here,” he said, looking at Adar. “Especially you, Mr. Chairman. I know it was inconvenient, and Keje’s conference room on Big Sal’s a lot more comfortable. But it seems like all we’ve done in there is talk past one another for quite a while.” He shrugged and looked around. “I came here for a raid. I suspected many of you had bigger ideas, so maybe I should’ve pushed it, but I really thought when it came down to it, everybody would stick to the plan. The good thing about that plan was, if we pulled it off, we’d have been in position to finish the job here after all, it seems. With a helluva lot fewer casualties. All it would’ve taken was another, carefully considered plan.” He grimaced. “I’m no Pollyanna. I know plans always fall apart, but you gotta have them so you at least have some idea how to sort things out when they do.” He held as many gazes as would meet his own before he spoke again. “As it turned out, we didn’t have any kind of plan for this—or if we did, we had nearly as many plans as we had separate commands—and it turned into a sick, deadly, costly joke we were lucky to survive.” He gestured at the scene below. “You all know that, I think, but I also thought it might not sink in, in the luxury of Big Sal’s conference room. We, all of us, needed to come up here together and get the big picture—so we can get back on the same damn page!”
Adar flicked a single blink of accusation at him, but then his eyelids fluttered with remorse. Yeah, he sees, Matt decided, then removed his hat and massaged his sweaty scalp. “We won,” he murmured simply, hollowly, “but as screwed up as everything was, we probably shouldn’t have. Considering how many people we lost for no good reason, we damn sure didn’t deserve to.”
Eyes looked down. Safir Maraan appeared particularly miserable; her II Corps had been decimated—again—and in the aftermath of the battle she was taking that very hard indeed. Chack blinked at her and put a supporting arm around her shoulders. Yeah, Matt realized, they all see it now. He cleared his throat and looked at Adar. “You’re still in charge, Mr. Chairman. You wanted the whole enchilada, and it’s lying in your lap. But being in charge means more than just taking the blame when things fall apart. It means you have to lead, and do your absolute best to make sure everyone knows what you want them to do. You didn’t. Instead, you basically yanked the curtain up and let everybody else do whatever the hell they wanted.” Matt took another breath. “I was tempted to blame myself for letting you do that, but that would’ve been pretty stupid, in retrospect. As I’ve said before, either you’re in charge or you’re not. As it turned out, you were—but you weren’t.” Matt’s tone turned sharp. “Don’t ever do that again. You’re chairman of the Grand Alliance—and now this ‘union ’ that’s the biggest part of it too—and it’s your job to set strategic objectives. If you’d said, ‘In spite of everything, I want Grik City in one fell swoop,’ I’d have argued, but I’d have followed orders and”—he waved around—“we could’ve come up with a real plan with sufficient preparation—and a few backup plans—built in. At the very least, that would’ve saved some lives, I have no doubt.” He looked at Sandra and his voice fell. “Probably nothing could’ve saved Chief Gray and all those we lost on Walker,” he admitted. “That was just the breaks, and you’re going to hit snags—or sandbars—from time to time.” He looked back at Adar. “But there was almost zero coordination between Second Corps and Chack’s Brigade, nor was there any way for Tikker to sort out the mess that kept our air wing from providing proper ground support.” He glanced at Von Melhausen and saw the old man was beyond understanding what his thoughtless adherence to misguided instructions had cost. Lange knew, and would probably never let anything like that happen again. Matt’s eyes bored back into Adar’s. “And in the end, after all’s said and done, that’s on you, Mr. Chairman.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Now, you can accept it, accept the ‘blame’ for that, like you wanted, and wallow in self-pity—I know what that feels like—or you can learn from all the mistakes that everybody made and fix the problem. In your case, you have to decide what you want to do next, then let me, as Supreme Allied Commander”—he looked around—“and all these other people here, figure out—together—how to get it done.”
The fur around Adar’s eyes was wet. “You wound me, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” he whispered.
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir. Maybe I hurt your feelings, but there are plenty of guys around here, ’Cats and men, who can show you what real wounds look like. The question for you, the same question I’ve faced too many times to count, is are you going to roll up in a ball and feel sorry for yourself, or learn from what happened here, shake it off, and try to do better? That’s the choice, Mr. Chairman—and all that’s at stake is the outcome of the war and the survival of everything you care about.” Matt looked around. “Easy choice, if you ask me.”
Adar’s eyes blazed for an instant, but then he nodded, thoughtfully. “You make the choice most clear. And you are right, as is so often the case,” he breathed. He stood straighter. “Indeed. So. I will endeavor to ‘shake it off,’ as you say, and since we are all here, let us decide—together—exactly what we shall do next. Let us get on the ‘same page,’ at long last, and remain upon it.”
“Um. Hmm,” Courtney Bradford voiced, getting everyone’s attention. “I presume our most pressing decision must certainly be whether to depart this dreadful place, or attempt to remain. I, for one, insist we cannot leave, having discovered that there are other beings, natural allies, already inhabiting the island. They’ve already helped us, and we can’t just abandon them!”
“We could evacuate many,” Becher Lange said, but his expression was troubled.
“But not all,” Courtney persisted. “I vote we stay. Enlist the locals into the Alliance—they have every reason to help, after all—and remain a festering thorn in the side of the Grik Empire while at the same time using this place to stage further operations. Much as we use the Enchanted Isles against the bloody Doms.” Quite a few of those present growled in agreement, but Matt held up his hand.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “we really can’t take a vote on this. We—all of us—can advise you and express our opinions. Hell, you’ve got to let us do that. But then you’ve got to make the decision that’ll become our mission to plan for. That’s the way it works—the way it needs to work from now on.” He paused and glanced at Courtney. “But before anybody gets carried away, we better hear from Captain Tikker.”
Captain Jis-Tikkar stepped into the circle of expectant faces. “As many of you know, who can still hear,” he said, absently fingering the shiny brass shell casing thrust through the hole in his ear, “we finally got the P-Forty floatplane airworthy again, and I took it on a scout of the Grik population centers on Mada-gaas-car—and beyond.”
Most nodded.
“I reported to Chairman Adar and Cap-i-taan Reddy that the two other Grik settlements I observed appear to have been laid waste by the ‘local beings’ Mr. Braad-furd mentioned. The great walls around them were burned—still burning, in fact—and so were most of the buildings that could be set afire.” He hesitated. “I saw people from the air—hu-maan people. Most hid, but a few stood where I could see . . . and waved.”
“Isn’t it bloody marvelous to be liberators!” Courtney enthused.
“Captain Tikker?” Matt encouraged.
“There were no ships in the ports at all,” the aviator added, “besides some wrecks. So I bet most of the Griks in those towns had already took off for the continent.” He blinked a shrug. “So I went there. I knew I’d be stretching my fuel, on the plane’s first flight after we put her back together, but I figured we needed to know, right? Anyway, that’s what I did. I flew to the Africaa coast.” Tikker seemed fully aware of the significance of being probably the first Lemurian besides those in the Republic ever to see the continent that spawned the Grik.
“What did you see, Captain?” Sandra prompted. Tikker looked at her, and his tail swished in agitation.
“I thought I’d see jungle. That’s what Miyata said there’d be. But there was only flat dirt an’ rock for a long way inland, and maybe ten miles up an’ down the coast. Past that there was jungle. I flew north a ways, an’ seen another dead spot, like the first.” He glanced around. “I figure they stripped the land for buildin’ ships, but I didn’t see many. Just a few. They must be someplace else.”
“Perhaps we sank them all, here and at Madras?” Courtney suggested. Tikker shook his head. “That jungle’s thick, Mr. Braad-furd. Each one o’ those dead spots coulda built more ships than we ever seen.”
“What else did you see, Captain,” Matt prompted quietly, “in the cleared areas?”
Tikker shifted on his feet. “Grik, sur,” he whispered. “Thousands of ’em. Hundreds of thousands of ’em, set up an’ camped like a proper army, only there weren’t many tents. Just Griks—like dark sand.”
“Damn it,” Spanky said in the sudden silence.
“Yeah.” Matt shrugged. “All the Grik in the world, just like we expected.” He measured the expressions he saw. “Now we need to decide what to do next,” he said. “You need to decide, Mr. Chairman,” he told Adar.
“Do you think we should leave?” Adar asked him. Matt glanced at Sandra and clasped her hand. Then he took a deep breath. “No, Mr. Chairman, I don’t.”
There were murmurs of surprise.
“I know—I started this meeting bitching about how we got this place, but we’ve got it now. The blood’s been spilled and there’s nothing we can do about that—except make it mean something. We accomplished our mission, our ‘raid,’ to the extent that even if we pack up, the Grik’ll never be able to leave this place so weak again. But now this is the front, with Halik retreating from India, and we’ve got them by the tail. How can we ever let them go? They’ll still outbreed us, as long as we’re not killing them faster than they can, but the only way to do that is to stay after them.” He shrugged. “I’d rather do that on their territory than ours.”
Commander Herring cleared his throat. “I will voice no opinion regarding whether we remain or not, but I do think we shouldn’t forget the submarine that attacked us. Someone we do not know could well be invested in the outcome here.”
“That’s true, Mr. Herring,” Matt replied, “and I applaud your caution. But my point remains; I’d rather find out who that is, if it’s anybody more than who we sank, out here. Not back home. If they don’t like us, I’d rather keep them reacting to us as well.”
Herring nodded, frowning.
“But . . . how? How can we stay?” Safir asked, speaking for the first time.
“General Alden’s pretty confident a smaller force can keep Halik out of India, and that leaves him free to bring most of his army here, along with the rest of First Fleet.” He gestured around before looking at Becher Lange. “In the meantime, we dig in. We fortify this dump like nothing anybody ever saw, and hold it until Pete gets here.”
“So simple?” Lange asked, stunned. “I think not. And what if the Grik come before General Alden arrives? Before we raise significant defenses?”
Matt smiled. “If you’ll remember, your people should help with that. We’ve transmitted what we did here to the whole damn world, and that was supposed to be the signal for the Republic of Real People to hit the Grik on their southern flank. That ought to get their attention.”
“But that was the sole intent: to ‘get their attention.’ Not begin a major campaign!”
“That was the intent,” Matt agreed with a final glance at Adar, “but the plan’s already changed. They’ll just have to push harder than they expected to.” His tone grim, Matt added, “As will we.”
Keje hadn’t spoken at all during the conference on the flank of the Celestial Palace. He still didn’t. He merely moved to stand beside his human friend. Chack and Safir Maraan did as well. “I know you said we can’t vote on this,” Chack said, “but the First Raider Brigade and Second Corps stand ready to remain and fight.”
“Hell,” Spanky muttered. “The Bosun’s gotta stay, planted on this stinkin’ heap. I say if he’s stayin’, I damn sure can’t leave! He’d haunt Tabby’s engineerin’ spaces forever.”
Adar nodded slowly, his whole face now wet with tears, and strode to stand before Matt, searching his eyes. He turned. “We stay,” he said, a little shaky, then cleared his throat. “We stay,” he stressed. “That is my . . . stra-tee-gic order. Cap-i-taan Reddy, as commander in chief of all Allied forces, will coordinate the design of a plan to carry it out.” He looked about at all these diverse people he’d come to love so much and spread his arms, symbolically embracing them. “This conference is adjourned. And may the blessings of the Heavens rest upon you all.”
* * *
Madness, Herring decided, staring at the place he’d made his desperate stand. He was proud of that. Battle madness, he thought. I can understand, I suppose, and it makes a kind of sense, but there’s no way on earth we can hold this terrible place against all the Grik! Am I the only one who realizes that? It’ll be just like my situation here, all over again, except there won’t be any timely—or at least sufficient—reinforcements to save us. He hadn’t slept at all since the battle, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the slathering horde of Grik charging up these very steps to tear him to bleeding shreds. He shivered despite the heat. At least that self-centered bastard Miles made sure my canisters are secure. It may all come down to them after all. He suddenly wondered if Lance Corporal Miles really did check on the special canisters aboard Salissa, or just told him he had. He didn’t trust the man, and by all accounts, he hadn’t exactly distinguished himself in the fighting aboard Walker. Miles might say that was so he could go to Salissa if all else failed, as Herring instructed, and tip the special casks into the harbor. The seed thorns of the deadly kudzu-like plants would’ve washed ashore. After that, it would just be a matter of time before all Madagascar was utterly uninhabitable, and Herring considered that a suitable parting gift if the Allies had been defeated or had to leave.
That still remained his personal backup plan, but now that they were staying, he needed somebody else—someone he could truly trust—to ensure it was carried out if he couldn’t do it himself. He considered telling Adar he’d actually brought the seed weapon along. Adar had been on board for its development, after all. He shook his head, watching the chairman descend the steps surrounded by the others, still discussing their plans. No, Adar’s definitely not in the proper frame of mind, he concluded. He’s too pliant and unsure of himself just now. Besides, Captain Reddy has given him hope that we might just pull this off, and that’s Adar’s fondest fantasy. Herring frowned. He’d learned to trust Captain Reddy, even like him, and he tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wanted to believe. . . .
“No!” he murmured aloud. Maybe his ingrained thinking—was it pessimism or realism?—sprang from the abuse he’d suffered in Japanese captivity, but that didn’t matter anymore. He would plan as if he and all his new friends were doomed, and ensure that, whatever happened, they would be avenged.
EPILOGUE
////// TFG-2 off Alexaandraa
The Republic of Real People
Southern Africa
Against all the predictions of anyone who’d ever heard of it being tried, even those of Inquisitor Choon (who remained aboard regardless), USS Donaghey did manage to weather the terrible storms that plagued the cape of Africa. It had been a nearer thing than Greg Garrett preferred to admit, however. The confused winds there roiled in what he could only describe as a perpetual strakka, and the sea convulsed with mountainous, desperate swells that didn’t seem to know where they were going. The only thing the sea and sky seemed perfectly agreed upon was that Greg’s trespassing frigate not be allowed to survive. True to her record, traditions, and growing reputation, however, Donaghey gave them both the finger.
The storm almost snapped it off—along with all her topmasts but the fore, and most of two entire suits of strakka canvas. It started nearly every seam in her stout hull, and took seven of her crew over the side. It sprang every spar and smashed every boat, and almost twisted her rudder off, which would’ve been the end of her, but Donaghey made it through to what amounted to an undying “eye” in the storm. There, she limped into a small fishing village in clear view of the semipermanent eastern tempest that the locals simply called “the dark,” and with Inquisitor Choon’s assistance, they were welcomed.
For the most part, the people they met were about what they’d expected after spending time with Amerika’s crew: mostly Lemurians with a very strange accent, and a large minority of humans of various shades and features. They met the first “hybrids” that Miyata had found so curious—crosses between Lemurians and ancient Chinese explorers, most thought. They looked like pale-furred humans—with tails—and performed most of the dockside tasks with a kind of haughtiness that reminded Greg of Navy yard apes. They didn’t speak much, and seemed standoffish around the strangers. Greg’s crew stared at them—they couldn’t help it—and received resentful glances in return, but generally, their brief stay was friendly enough. Donaghey’s mission pressed, however, and they made what repairs were absolutely essential, weighed their anchor, and sailed on.
Through the weaker, colder, western wall of the great storm guarding the strait between the continent and the frozen land to the south, they finally rounded what should’ve been the Cape of Good Hope.
“We’re in a whole new ocean,” Greg told Bekiaa-Sab-At, his tone somber. “A whole new world.”
“Is it as big as the last one?” Bekiaa asked, leaning out over the rail to watch some strange fish that were pacing the ship, almost sporting in her wake. Bekiaa had never seen fish apparently enjoying themselves before, and they fascinated her. Choon had told them “flashies” were rare in these waters, probably due to the temperature, but “shaarks” were plentiful enough.
“Bigger than the Indian—I mean, ‘Western Ocean,’” he replied, remembering that Bekiaa hadn’t been in the Pacific, or “Eastern Sea” before. “A lot bigger.”
“We call it ‘Atlaantic,’” Choon supplied cheerfully. He was in on the conspiracy to keep Bekiaa’s spirits up, and right then they were all anxious to reinforce the younglinglike wonder that had crept into her tone. Greg was just about convinced that the Republic snoop was sweet on her, anyway.
“And if we sailed all the way across it to the west, we’d eventually come to the land of the Dominion?”
“To the same continent,” Greg confirmed. “Maybe they don’t rule the whole thing. And apparently we have ‘friends’ to the north, besides the Impies—if Fred and Kari are right. But yeah, it’s the same place, and if we could go around it, or through the ‘pass’ Fred reported, we’d meet up with Second Fleet.”
Bekiaa shook her head and blinked. “All around the whole world. It seems so . . . impossible, to sail west and come to a place that lies so far to the east.”
“We’re actually closer to Second Fleet here than if we sailed back the other way,” Smitty said, joining them at the rail. Greg nodded, but watched Bekiaa.
“I think I should like that,” Bekiaa murmured. “To sail all around the world.”
“Maybe we will,” Greg suggested, then shrugged. “No orders against it.” He looked at Choon. “I’d rather have a refit first, and meet your ‘Kaiser,’ of course.”
* * *
The storm far behind and the sun beginning to set beyond the horizon, they opened Alexaandraa Bay at last.
“Break out the signal,” Choon instructed when they neared the fortress guarding the eastern approach. It was an impressive affair, festooned with big guns, and seemingly sculpted from the living rock. Greg noticed there were also two tall columns of smoke standing above the twin turret “monitors” they’d been told to expect, and the squat, ugly ships were already steaming toward them. No doubt they’d been warned by lookouts stationed high in the rocky, wooded mountains surrounding the bay. As usual, Choon had been ridiculously tight-lipped about the recognition signal until shortly before. Greg wondered what would’ve happened if they’d lost Choon over the side. Would they’ve been fired on when they suddenly appeared?
“Run up the signal,” Greg ordered his quartermaster, glassing the oncoming ships, then studying the mountains beyond the picturesque city at their feet. He’d never been to Cape Town in the old world, which he already knew was what US Navy charts would’ve called this place, but he wasn’t expecting the forest. “Stand by to fire salute,” he called to Smitty in the waist.
“I believe you should hold your fire, Cap-i-taan Gaarett,” Choon said, his voice suddenly tense. Greg looked at him.
“What? Why?”
Choon pointed at the signal that had broken at the mastheads of the oncoming monitors. “Because we have been ordered to stand away from our guns, heave to, and prepare to be boarded. Also, if we attempt to send a transmission of any kind, this ship will be destroyed.”
Greg goggled at the Lemurian. “What? Bullshit!” He raised his voice. “Clear for action, sound battle stations!” he roared. He glared back at Choon. “I know you’re weird, but I thought we were friends. And now this? Damned if I’ll heave to, and damned if anybody’s coming aboard my ship who orders me to let ’em! Stand by to come about!” he ordered the helmsman.
“You can run from the . . . monitors, you call them, and would likely even escape. Their guns are large, but not particularly accurate. I doubt they will fire on you in any case, since it is not my people who make the order. They merely pass it along. From that.” He pointed at the west side of the bay where Greg hadn’t looked. He raised his glasses now. Anchored just off the principal docks, probably about where Amerika was usually berthed, judging by the lack of other shipping around it, was a massive gray form, about 550 feet long at a glance. Two funnels stood, spaced a good distance apart—and there were four massive turrets housing two huge guns apiece. Even as he watched, Greg realized one of the turrets, aft, was turning toward his ship, the protruding guns rising slightly. He gulped. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he focused on a flag fluttering from a relatively fat mainmast just forward of the aft turrets. His mouth dropped open when he saw the red octagon and blue crosslike symbol in the white field.
“She looks like Amagi!” Smitty said, climbing the ladder from the gun deck to see.
“She’s not as big,” Greg snapped, then added sickly, “But her guns are bigger.”
“I am your friend,” Choon assured, his tone anxious. “And so are my people.” He pointed at the battleship—the real battleship from another world. “Apparently, they are not. Do you really think your noble Donaghey can outrun the projectiles that . . . thing seems prepared to hurl at her?”
Greg Garrett sagged. “No,” he whispered. “I guess not.”
Chimborazo
New Granada Province
Holy Dominion
General Ghanan Nerino, commander of His Supreme Holiness’s Army of the South, lay upon a soft, comfortable bed in a lovely little villa. The home belonged to the alcalde of Chimborazo, which was a picturesque, prosperous village, high in the mountains east of the Puerto Viejo crossroads of the Camino Militar. The temperature at that altitude was very pleasant for most of the year, and the late-summer diseases were not so rampant as they were down low.
I wonder how General Shinya enjoys his accommodations, within the fort he has erected at the crossroads, Nerino idly thought, through the drug-induced haze that kept his agony at bay. Perhaps his men have discovered El Vomito Rojo by now. The time is at hand. I wonder if his . . . surprisingly dangerous animal friends are susceptible. He opened his mouth to call for wine, through the gauzy fabric covering his mouth and much of his face. He winced. Against all odds, he was improving, but there were still scabs on his lips, and they cracked so easily. Instead of speaking, he merely sighed—and prayed again for death. He was better, after weeks of agony, but it was so unfair that the pain should fade, only to be replaced by the sharper pain of the punishment he knew must await him. A quick death now, in my sleep, would be such a blessing! Have I not already suffered enough to enter Heaven? I always knew I might die, he conceded. Such is the risk of a military career. But I suppose I expected to be shot with an arrow or ball, struck down by disease, or perhaps even be eaten. I never even imagined being flayed alive for failure—after already being seared by fire from the sky. The Blood Priests will honor me as a model of piety, even in my disgrace! he thought bitterly.
A young slave woman entered the room, trying not to disturb him, but he heard the small sounds of her bare feet on the stone floor and the swishing rustle of her dress. “I would appreciate wine,” he managed, his crusty eyelids still closed.
“Of course, General,” the woman whispered, “but the healers advise against it, combined with your medicines.”
“To the darkest caves with the healers,” Nerino wheezed. His lungs had been cooked as well. Then he paused, contrite. The healers had done quite well, as a matter of fact, and were as gentle as possible. It wasn’t their fault that they had saved him only for further suffering. “Their doses do help with the pain,” he granted, more softly. “But do bring wine, if your other duties allow it.” He knew he wasn’t the only horribly wounded officer in the villa. “I assure you it will not hurt me.”
“Of course.”
Nerino finally opened his eyes to watch the slave girl leave the room. He doubted he ever would’ve noticed her under other circumstances, but she’d been his nurse through all the long nights of misery and pain, and she attracted him. Not in a physical way, necessarily, but her kindness, patience, her very presence, had been the most effective balm to his torment. He wondered about that as he painfully shifted to gaze out the window beside his bed.
He didn’t know how long he lay like that. Perhaps he slept. He stirred at the sound of the slave girl returning, and turned to face her with the closest thing to a smile he could achieve. The girl wasn’t there. Instead, to Nerino’s mixed horror and amazement, he saw the chiseled goatee and darkly benign features of Don Hernan DeDevino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World. Shrouded in his dark red robes, the man seemed to almost float into the room, radiating an aura of what someone who’d never met him might mistake for concerned solicitation. Incongruously, he also bore a large goblet of wine.
“My dear General Nerino, you are awake,” Don Hernan said in honeyed tones. “I am so glad to find you so.” He smiled benevolently. “Having learned the extent of your wounds, I feared I might arrive too late.”
“Too late . . . for what, Your Holiness?” Nerino asked, his heart racing.
“To properly start you on your journey to the next world, of course.”
Nerino felt a chill in spite of his burns. “Of course,” he whispered. At least, if Don Hernan’s tone could be believed (never a certainty), he wouldn’t be flayed. But the “Final Cleansing,” administered by a Blood Cardinal known to be particular about due form, would be only slightly less unpleasant. He clenched his teeth. It wouldn’t be quick, but his misery would end. For that, at least, he was grateful. “Of course,” he said more firmly. “Thank you . . . for your interest, Your Holiness.”
* * *
Don Hernan flicked it away. “Do not be so impatient, dear general. I cannot release you to Heaven just yet! Now that I see you so nearly healed with my own eyes, it is clear to me that your duty to God demands that you remain in this world a little longer. You see, I may have need of your observations, from time to time.”
Nerino was stunned. “Ah . . . yes, of course, Your Holiness. I will . . . try to be patient. And I will most humbly serve you in whatever capacity you think best.” He paused, his mind racing. I’m not going to die! “Your Holiness, I receive little news. May I inquire about the state of my army?”
Don Hernan sat on a chair beside the bed, and instead of holding the wine goblet to Nerino’s lips, he took a long gulp himself. “Your army, my dear general, no longer exists. It is being absorbed into the greater one I am now assembling—the Army of God.” He flicked his fingers again. “Not that there was much to absorb! No blame rests upon you; you were bravely wounded, after all. But after that, your army fled the heretics! Abandoned sacred soil!” He shook his head sadly. “I do so hate to crucify able men, particularly when we are in such need of them.”
“H-how many?”
“Only one in five. As I said, we need them, and perhaps my leniency will return the rest to their duty.”
Nerino clenched his eyes shut. “And my officers?” he ventured, fearing the answer.
“Half are being buried alive,” Don Hernan replied wistfully. “Again, I deplore the waste, but none can ever be trusted to lead, having once run away. The rest will be reduced to the ranks.”
“No,” Nerino said before he could stop himself, and cringed. “Ah, I mean, with all my heart I beg you to read the report I dictated. I—I ordered the retreat to continue, once it had already begun. There was no stopping it, and few officers are guilty of more than following the orders I gave to preserve the experience gained against the heretics. We . . . You will need them, Your Holiness. To advise you regarding enemy tactics and capabilities!”
Don Hernan’s expression had hardened when Nerino challenged him, but now it softened again. “Perhaps. I may . . . reevaluate their fates on a case-by-case basis. But that is not for you to concern yourself about! Heal! We will talk again soon!” He stood.
“One final thing, Holiness, if I may?” Nerino ventured. “I thought I would soon have no interest in such things, but my worldly curiosity is restored.”
“Name it, General Nerino, and I will grant your wish if I am able.”
“I only wish to know how you mean to defeat the heretics. They have weapons, monstrously effective, and they are not fools.”
Don Hernan pursed his lips, then smiled. “Of course. First, as I told you, the army I am building, blessed by God, will be invincible both in size and power. Needless to say, I will command it myself, and no one knows the heretics better than I. The outcome on land is not in doubt. At sea, we have assembled the greatest fleet the world has ever seen, and even now it waits, beyond the enemy’s view, in the vicinity of El Paso del Fuego. All the small dragons that could be gathered, from as far east as Hispaniola in the Caribbean, will sortie with it. The enemy fleet offshore and gathered at the Galápagos, regardless how powerful, will be ground to floating dust.” He smiled more enthusiastically. “And since the small dragons, even in such numbers, cannot assure victory with the enemy flying machines being so effective, His Supreme Holiness has finally given leave for his personal stable of greater dragons to be employed! Such a thing has never been done, and I am most excited!”
Don Hernan’s eager smile faded into an expression of profound compassion. “Rest now, Nerino. Soon we will purge the heretics from all the world, you and I, and earn our places at the right hand of God.”
SPECIFICATIONS
American-Lemurian Ships and Equipment
USS Walker (DD-163)—Wickes (Little) Class four-stack, or flush-deck, destroyer. Twin screw, steam turbines, 1,200 tons, 314' x 30'. Top speed (as designed): 35 knots. 112 officers and enlisted (current) including Lemurians (L) Armament: (Main)—3 x 4"-50 + 1 x 4"-50 dual purpose. (Secondary)—4 x 25 mm Type-96 AA, 4 x.50 cal MG, 2 x.30 cal MG. 40-60 Mk-6 (or “equivalent”) depth charges for 2 stern racks and 2 Y guns (with adapters). 2 x 21" triple-tube torpedo mounts. Impulse-activated catapult for PB-1B scout seaplane.
USS Mahan (DD-102)—(Initially under repair at Madras). Wickes Class four-stack, or flush-deck, destroyer. Twin screw, steam turbines, 960 tons, 264" x 30' (as rebuilt). Top speed estimated at 25 knots. Rebuild has resulted in shortening, and removal of 2 funnels and 2 boilers. Otherwise, her armament and upgrades are the same as those of USS Walker.
USS Santa Catalina (CA-P-1)—“Protected Cruiser” (initially under repair at Madras). Formerly general cargo. 8,000 tons, 420' x 53', triple-expansion steam, oil fired, 10 knots (as reconstructed). Retains significant cargo/troop capacity, and has a seaplane catapult with recovery booms aft. 240 officers and enlisted. Armament: 4 x 5.5" mounted in armored casemate. 2 x 4.7" DP in armored tubs. 1 x 10" breech-loading rifle (20' length) mounted on spring-assisted pneumatic recoil pivot.
Carriers
USNRS (US Navy Reserve Ship) Salissa, “Big Sal” (CV1)—Aircraft carrier/tender, converted from seagoing Lemurian Home. Single screw, triple-expansion steam, 13,000 tons, 1,009' x 200'. Armament: 2 x 5.5", 2 x 4.7" DP, 4 x twin mount 25 'mm AA, 20 x 50 pdrs (as reduced), 50 aircraft.
USNRS Arracca (CV-3)—Aircraft carrier/tender converted from seagoing Lemurian Home. Single screw, triple-expansion steam, 14,670 tons, 1009'x 210'. Armament: 2 x 4.7" DP, 50 x 50 pdrs. 50 aircraft.
USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4)—(Purpose-built aircraft carrier/tender). Specifications are similar to Arracca, but is capable of carrying upward of 80 aircraft—with some stowed in crates.
USS Baalkpan Bay (CV-5)—(Purpose-built aircraft carrier/tender). First of a new class of smaller (850' x 150', 9,000 tons), faster (up to 15 knots), lightly armed (4 x Baalkpan Arsenal 4"-50 DP guns—2 amidships, 1 each forward and aft)—fleet carriers that can carry as many aircraft as Maaka-Kakja.
“Small Boys”
Frigate “DDs”
USS Donaghey (DD-2)—Square rig sail only, 1,200 tons, 168' x 33', 200 officers and enlisted. Sole survivor of first new construction. Armament: 24 x 18 pdrs, Y gun, and depth charges.
*Dowden Class—(Square rig steamer, 1,500 tons, 12–15 knots, 185' x 34', 20 x 32 pdrs, Y gun, and depth charges, 218 officers and enlisted).
**Haakar-Faask Class—(Square rig steamer, 15 knots, 1,600 tons, 200'x 36', 20 x 32 pdrs, Y gun, and depth charges, 226 officers and enlisted).
***Scott Class—(Square rig steamer, 17 knots, 1,800 tons, 210' x 40', 20 x 50 pdrs, Y gun, and depth charges, 260 officers and enlisted).
Corvettes (DEs)—Captured Grik “Indiamen,” primarily of the earlier (lighter) design. “Razeed” to the gun deck, these are swift, agile, dedicated sailors with three masts and a square rig. 120-160' x 30-36', about 900 tons (tonnage varies depending largely on armament, which also varies from 10 to 24 guns that range in weight and bore diameter from 12–18 pdrs). Y gun and depth charges.
Auxiliaries—Still largely composed of purpose-altered Grik “Indiamen,” small and large, and used as transports, oilers, tenders, and general cargo. A growing number of steam auxiliaries have joined the fleet, with dimensions and appearance similar to Dowden and Haakar-Faask Class DDs, but with lighter armament. Some fast clipper-shaped vessels are employed as long-range oilers. Fore and aft rigged feluccas remain in service as fast transports and scouts. Respite Island Class SPDs (self-propelled dry dock) are designed along similar lines to the new purpose-built carriers—inspired by the massive seagoing Lemurian Homes. They are intended as rapid deployment, heavy-lift dry docks, and for bulky transport.
USNRS—Salaama-Na Home—(Unaltered—other than by emplacement of 50 x 50 pdrs). 1014' x 150', 8,600 tons. 3 tripod masts support semirigid “junklike” sails or “wings.” Top speed about 6 knots, but capable of short sprints up to 10 knots using 100 long sweeps. In addition to living space in the hull, there are three tall pagoda-like structures within the tripods that cumulatively accommodate up to 6,000 people.
Commodore (High Chief) Sor-Lomaak (L)—Commanding.
Woor-Na Home—Lightly armed (ten 32 pdrs) heavy transport, specifications as above.
Fristar Home—Nominally, if reluctantly Allied Home. Same basic specifications as Salaama-Na—as are all seagoing Lemurian “Homes”—but mounts only ten 32 pdrs.
Anai-Sa (L)—High Chief.
Aircraft: P-40-E Warhawk—Allison V1710, V12, 1,150 hp. Max speed 360 mph, ceiling 29,000 ft. Crew: 1. Armament: Up to 6 x .50 cal Browning machine guns, and up to 1,000-lb bomb. PB-1B “Nancy”—“W/G” type, in-line 4 cyl 150 hp. Max speed 110 mph, max weight 1,900 lbs. Crew: 2. Armament: 400-lb bombs. PB-2 “Buzzard”—3 x “W/G” type, in-line 4 cyl 150 hp. Max speed 80 mph, max weight 3,000 lbs. Crew: 2, and up to 6 passengers. Armament: 600-lb bombs. PB-5 “Clipper”—4 x W/G type, in-line 4 cyl 150 hp. Max speed 90 mph, max weight 4,800 lbs. Crew: 3, and up to 8 passengers. Armament: 1,500-lb bombs. PB-5B—As above, but powered by 4 x MB 5 cyl, 254 hp radials. Max speed 125 mph, max weight 6,200 lbs. Crew: 3, and up to 10 passengers. Armament: 2,000-lb bombs. P-1 Mosquito Hawk or “Fleashooter”—MB 5 cyl radial 254 hp. Max speed 220 mph, max weight 1,220 lbs. Crew: 1. Armament: 2 x .45 cal “Blitzer Bug” machine guns. P-1B—As above, but fitted for carrier ops.
Field Artillery—6 pdr on split-trail “galloper” carriage—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 300 yds with canister. 12 pdr on stock-trail carriage—effective to about 1,800 yds, or 300 yds with canister. 3" mortar—effective to about 800 yds 4" mortar—effective to about 1,500 yds.
Primary Small Arms—Sword, spear, crossbow, longbow, grenades, bayonet, smoothbore musket (.60 cal), rifled musket (.50 cal), Allin-Silva breech-loading rifled conversion (.50-80 cal), Allin-Silva breech-loading smoothbore conversion (20 gauge), 1911 Colt and copies (.45 ACP), Blitzer Bug SMG (.45 ACP).
Secondary Small Arms—1903 Springfield (.30-06), 1898 Krag-Jorgensen (.30 US), 1918 BAR (.30-06), Thompson SMG (.45 ACP). (A small number of other firearms are available.)
Imperial Ships and Equipment
These fall in a number of categories, and though few share enough specifics to be described as classes, they can be grouped by basic sizes and capabilities. Most do share the fundamental similarity of being powered by steam-driven paddlewheels and a complete suit of sails.
Ships of the Line—About 180'–200' x 52'–58', 1,900–2,200 tons—50–80 x 30, 20 pdrs, 10 pdrs, 8 pdrs. (8 pdrs are more commonly used as field guns by the Empire). Speed, about 8–10 knots, 400–475 officers and enlisted.
Frigates—About 160'–180' x 38'–44', 1,200–1,400 tons. 24–40 x 20–30 pdrs. Speed, about 13–15 knots, 275–350 officers and enlisted. Example: HIMS Achilles 160' x 38', 1,300 tons, 26 x 20 pdrs.
Field Artillery—8 pdr on split-trail carriage—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 600 yds with grapeshot.
Primary Small Arms—Sword, smoothbore flintlock musket (.75 cal), bayonet, pistol. (Imperial service pistols are of two varieties: cheaply made but robust Field and Sea Service weapons in .62 cal, and privately purchased officer’s pistols that may be any caliber from about .40 to the service standard.)
Republic Ships and Equipment
SMS Amerika—German ocean liner converted to a commerce raider in WWI. 669' x 74', 22,000 tons. Twin screw, 18 knots, 215 officers and enlisted, with space for 2,500 passengers or troops. Armament: 2 x 10.5 cm (4.1") SK L/40, 6 x MG08 (Maxim) machine guns, 8 x 57mm.
Coastal and harbor defense vessels—specifications unknown. Aircraft? Field artillery—specifications unknown. Primary small arms: Sword, revolver, breech-loading bolt action, single-shot rifle (11.15 x 60R—.43 Mauser cal). Secondary small arms: M-1898 Mauser (8 x 57 mm), Mauser and Luger pistols, mostly in 7.65 cal.
Enemy Warships and Equipment
Grik
ArataAmagi Class BBs (ironclad battleships)—800' x 100', 26,000 tons. Twin screw, double-expansion steam, max speed 10 knots. Crew: 1,300. Armament: 32 x 100 pdrs, 30 x 3" AA mortars.
Azuma Class CAs (ironclad cruisers)—300' x 37', about 3,800 tons. Twin screw, double-expansion steam, sail auxiliary, max speed 12 knots. Crew: 320. Armament: 20 x 40 or 14 x 100 pdrs. 4 x firebomb catapults.
Heavy “Indiaman” Class—Multipurpose transport/warships. Three masts, square rig, sail only. 180' x 38' about 1,100 tons (tonnage varies depending largely on armament, which also varies from 0 to 40 guns of various weights and bore diameters). The somewhat crude standard for Grik artillery is 2, 4, 9, 16, 40, 60, and now up to 100 pdrs, although the largest “Indiaman” guns are 40s. These ships have been seen to achieve about 14 knots in favorable winds. Light “Indiamen” (about 900 tons) are apparently no longer being made.
Giorsh—Flagship of the Celestial Realm, now armed with 90 guns, from 16–40 pdrs.
Tatsuta—Kurokawa’s double-ended paddle/steam yacht.
Aircraft—Hydrogen-filled rigid dirigibles or zeppelins. 300' x 48', 5 x 2 cyl 80-hp engines, max speed 60 mph. Useful lift 3,600 lbs. Crew: 16. Armament: 6 x 2 pdr swivel guns, bombs.
Field artillery—The standard Grik field piece is a 9 pdr, but 4s and 16s are also used, with effective ranges of 1,200, 800, and 1,600 yds, respectively. Powder is satisfactory, but windage is often excessive, resulting in poor accuracy. Grik “field” firebomb throwers fling 10- and 25-lb bombs, depending on the size, for a range of 200 and 325 yds, respectively.
Primary small arms—Teeth, claws, swords, spears, Japanese-style matchlock (tanegashima) muskets (roughly .80 cal).
Holy Dominion
Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall in a number of categories that are difficult to describe as classes, but again, can be grouped by size and capability. Almost all known Dom warships remain dedicated sailors, but their steam-powered transports indicate they have taken steps forward. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts. Ships of the Line—About 200' x 60', 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 7–10 knots, 470–525 officers and enlisted. Heavy Frigates (Cruisers)—About 170' x 50', 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 14 knots, 290–370 officers and enlisted.
Aircraft—The Doms have no aircraft yet, but employ “dragons,” or “Grikbirds” for aerial attack.
Field Artillery—9 pdrs on split-trail carriages—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 600 yds with grapeshot.
Primary small arms—Sword, pike, plug bayonet, flintlock (patilla style) musket (.69 cal). Only officers and cavalry use pistols, which are often quite ornate and of various calibers.