Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

“Inquisitor Choon,” he said, nodding at Kon-Choon, the “Director of Spies” for the Republic of Real People. As always, Choon was dressed in the stylish attire of a Repub civilian, complete with blue-and-white-striped kilt, coat, and vest. A dark blue cravat complimented the large, pale blue eyes protruding from the tan and off-white fur on his face. “And these are?” Pete asked, glancing at the other two ’Cats, also Repubs, wearing mustard-brown tunics, kilts, and campaign caps.

  “Colonel Niaa-Taak—the Kaiser’s niece,” Choon said with added significance, “and Centurion Pyte.” He swept his gaze to the left, at an ancient, almost toothless Grik. “You already know Geerki, formerly ‘Hij,’ now, um, ‘Regent’ of Grik City and Prime Interpreter to the Celestial Mother. His companion is Second Colonel Shelg of the First Brigade, Slasher Division.”

  Both Grik bowed.

  “Stand up straight,” Pete growled, grateful they hadn’t hurled themselves to the dock, to squirm in front of him. That’s how they’d shown obeisance to their own generals. “Nobody bows to me,” he added sharply, then grinned. “How they hangin’, Geerki? I hear you’ve been helpin’ Choon rake up all the dope”—he regarded Shelg—“and working with our new . . . allies, to sort out who’s for who, and recruit ’em to our side. Good work. Oh!”—he suddenly remembered—“and thanks for the lizardy interpreters you sent First Corps. Helped a lot.”

  “I all’ays told you I is a good critcher,” Geerki replied piously.

  “You bet,” Pete agreed. Geerki had been a rare Grik indeed, their first “elevated” prisoner, and willing collaborator. Even now, though somewhat forcefully released, he considered himself General Muln-Rolak’s property. Pete turned all his attention to Shelg. “And you’re XO to First Colonel Jash?”

  “I is—are . . .” Shelg shook his head, dissatisfied, but even Lawrence, who otherwise spoke perfect English and Lemurian, couldn’t do words requiring lips. All the newly allied Grik officers had come a long way in a short time, if what Pete heard was true. They had good reason to. Careful communication with a minimum of errors was crucial to building trust among their former enemies, and thereby retaining a measure of independence. The old ways were gone forever, but after literally unremembered millennia of conflict, their largely Lemurian conquerors couldn’t just flip a switch and love them overnight. So the new way could still go sour if they weren’t careful, and they knew it.

  “Take the general’s bag,” Choon instructed the Repub centurion, blinking self-chagrin that he hadn’t thought to bring any enlisted men or ’Cats for the job. “My apologies for not greeting you more formally, General Alden. We weren’t expecting you until morning.” He glanced at Sergeant Kaik, as if also implying he’d assumed Pete would bring a larger entourage.

  “I got it,” Pete declined, bouncing the bag on his shoulder.

  “He caan get mine,” Sergeant Kaik murmured lowly.

  Pete looked up at the fire-stained, shell-pocked Palace of Vanished Gods. “So that’s the big Lizard Broad’s digs,” he said, then quickly added for the benefit of the Grik, “the palace of the ‘Celestial Mother.’ I caught a glimpse from a distance when we chased General Ign west, past here, on the other side of the river.” He tilted his head south where New Sofesshk used to be. Nothing was left but charred debris, though a new airstrip was under construction on the northeast end, close to the water. Tens of thousands of local Grik, filtering back after the battles and commanded by their “Giver of Life” to obey the invaders, were levelling the ground of what would be Saansa Field with nothing but hand tools and rollers. No matter how hard they worked, it might be a while before the airfield was operational. The rainy season was here and new gullies opened in the completed part of the strip every few days. Not much point callin’ ’em “Old” an’ “New” Sofesshk anymore, Pete mused. There ain’t but one of ’em left. The “new” one’s just . . . gone.

  Still staring at the dark, rounded, pyramidal palace, Pete shook his head. “Big,” he conceded. “Almost as big as the one on Madagascar. Still looks like a giant cowflop, though.” If he expected a rise out of Shelg, it didn’t come. He’d probably heard the term often enough by now that he was used to it. Besides, Grik Africa had herbivores hundreds of times bigger than any cow, which left proportionate droppings. Shelg and those like him were obviously smart enough to survive the battles leading to the current state of affairs, and shrewd enough to make their place in them. Maybe the term struck them as appropriately descriptive too, if not very respectful.

  “Shall we step inside and meet the others?” Choon suggested. The drizzle was coming down harder. “The pigment in my cravat will run and ruin my vest, I fear.”

  Shifting the rifle on his shoulder and nodding ahead at the bullet-spalled entry arch on the west side of the Palace, Pete grunted, “Lead the way.”

  Unconsciously, he and Sergeant Kaik kept a distance from Geerki and Colonel Shelg as they went. Pete trusted Geerki, but like many in his army—understandably—he would’ve scoured every Grik from the planet if he could. That was impossible, of course. There were just too many. It didn’t mean he was happy with the peace Captain Reddy imposed on the Grik still loyal to the Celestial Mother, however. Ironically, Pete had once come to an “understanding” of non-aggression himself, with a remarkable Grik general named Halik, but that hadn’t required Halik to accept—essentially—a defeated cooperative protectorate status. That never would’ve worked, and Pete figured he’d been lucky just to get Halik to march his army out of Indiaa.

  Interestingly, though Halik kept his truce with the Allies (Pete believed, of all the Grik in the world—probably due to the influence of a Japanese officer named Niwa—Halik truly understood the concept of honor), he hadn’t stopped fighting. He’d taken his increasingly competent and self-aware army into Persia, destroyed the Grik regent there, and set himself up in his place. Even more surprising, he’d done it with the occasional assistance of Allied cavalry, specifically Colonel Enaak’s 5th Maa-ni-la and Colonel Dalibor Svec’s “Czech Legion,” originally sent to keep an eye on him. Reports indicated Halik was now marching south across Africa in response to a summons from the usurper General Esshk, still commanding vast hostile forces up around Lake Galk. But dispatches from Colonel Enaak and analysis by Henry Stokes, the Allied head of Strategic Intelligence, remained unclear whether Halik was coming to join Esshk or fight him. Chances were, Halik wasn’t sure himself.

  In any event, Pete was skeptical about the situation here. His army had been so focused on killing Grik, for so long, he didn’t see how they were suddenly going to discriminate “friend” from foe. He suddenly frowned at his own inconsistency. The Allied Expeditionary Force on the Grik Front already discriminated the very Grik-like Khonashi of North Borno from the enemy. True, there were humans among them and they wore similar combat attire, carried the same weapons, and were increasingly fluent in English and Lemurian. Despite Pete’s initial fears, there’d been amazingly few “friendly fire” casualties. So if the Celestial Mother actually accepted indefinite Allied supervision of her reign, and her Loyalist warriors were sincere about supporting her and crushing Esshk—and were made visibly distinctive from the enemy in some way—things could work out, Pete reluctantly conceded. Passing through the archway, heavily guarded by more Repub troops, he finally relinquished his duffel to his orderly. He wouldn’t surrender his rifle to anyone. Ever.

  He more than half expected to be escorted through a dank, creepy labyrinth leading to some gloomy, reeking chamber, high in the palace. That’s where Grik keep their CMs, right? To his surprise, the first expansive ground-floor chamber seemed to be where everything happened now. The stone floor was damp, from people coming and going, but the space was well lit by dozens of oil lamps suspended from the walls. And the walls themselves, of this new “throne room,” were festive with the hanging flags of every member of the Grand Alliance and each state of the new United Homes. Chairs, stools, and the saddlelike contrap
tions Grik preferred were arranged in a circle including—not surrounding—a modest throne designed to accommodate the oversized form of the Celestial Mother. Everyone stood as Pete and Choon approached, but for the moment, Pete only had eyes for the big Grik queen.

  He’d never seen her predecessor, killed by Isak Reuben in the capture of “Grik City” on Madagascar, but he’d been prepared by descriptions. The new Celestial Mother of All the Gharrichk’k bordered on the obese and was easily twice as large as any Grik he’d ever seen. Her sharp teeth gleamed like fresh-cut ivory and her claws were polished ebony. Other than a gold-edged, dark red cloak and a few glittering jewels, she was covered only in a radiant, coppery, feathery fur. It was darker on her head and back, extending from snout to tail, and there was the beginning of what would always be a somewhat minimal crest and tail plumage (compared to adult males) but which promised equally brilliant colors. On the wall behind her, the same size as the rest, was a flag Pete had never seen. The field was the same bright copper as the Celestial Mother’s plumage, but the center was dominated by what appeared to be a single word, painted in white, edged in black, printed in a flowing, Arabic style.

  Realizing what caught his gaze, the Celestial Mother spoke. “Our new flag, First General Alden,” she proclaimed. Pete understood “Grikish,” he just couldn’t speak it. Among the Grik gathered here, he’d been told the same would be the reverse. “The flag of the Gharrichk’k Empire.” She glanced at a man with vaguely oriental features. “Though we won’t really be an empire, of course, as we’re emulating the system of our friends to the south and establishing”—she hesitated over the unfamiliar words—“a Monarchial Republic. I’m not yet certain how that works, but yours and Second General Kim’s presence here implies that it does, so I’ll endeavor to continue educating myself.” She paused. “The color is of my bloodline, which should serve us well in recruitment. The word is simply ‘Truth’ in my tongue. Something I’ve rarely been exposed to,” she added bitterly, “and will be my guiding principle. I’ll never lie to you,” she stated emphatically, her eyes sweeping the gathered soldiers and advisors, “and require the same courtesy from those represented here.”

  Pete was momentarily flustered by the nature and apparent sincerity of that greeting statement, clearly calculated to allay his concerns. Recovering himself, he finally managed the salute he’d been explicitly ordered by Captain Reddy to perform. The Celestial Mother was a head of state, after all.

  No matter that everyone obviously knew who he was, Inquisitor Choon announced him. “I’m honored to present Pete Alden, General of the Armies and Marines and First General of the Grand Alliance in the West. He’s come to report the outcome of his pursuit of General Ign, and assume command of all Allied Forces on this continent.”

  Pretty damn pretentious, Pete thought. Before I came to this world, I was just a sergeant in USS Houston’s Marine contingent, recovering from a leg wound ashore after a Jap bomb wrecked the ship’s aft turret. Mrs. Alden’s boy has come a long, weird way. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if limping aboard USS Walker to get out of Surabaya before the Japanese came had been a good idea, but the prospects for an injured man in Japanese hands hadn’t been good. And he’d already missed his ship’s final sortie—and her sinking in the Sunda Strait. Probably came out on top, he decided.

  Assuming the position of parade rest, rifle still slung, he looked at all the faces in the circle. He only knew a few. Commander Mark Leedom was there, tall, lanky, brown hair almost blond, still looking younger than anyone had a right to after all he’d seen. Leedom had taken over Walt “Jumbo” Fisher’s Pat-Squad 22 and its fourteen remaining four-engine, PB5-D “Clipper” flying boats. He’d also be COFO (Commander of Flight Operations) at Saansa Field when it was finished. Pete had lost Jumbo to the “bomber project” at Baalkpan, and probably, ultimately, to the Dom/League campaign. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He wasn’t worried Leedom couldn’t handle the job, he had plenty of experience, but he was concerned they’d sent too many of their experienced hands away, too soon. The Grik Front had received the cream of talent and war material from the United Homes for a long, long time, while the war against the Doms had been fought on the cheap. That was, of necessity, quickly changing. Captain Reddy knew it wasn’t so, but after victory on the Zambezi led to the capture of Sofesshk and this . . . new arrangement with the Celestial Mother, Pete worried the brass in Baalkpan were starting to imagine the campaign in Grik Africa was little more than a mop-up operation.

  Swell, he thought, it’s time General Shinya got a little real help. But now it’s like they want me to finish this fight on the cheap, while Esshk and Ign are still out there. Maybe Halik too. If they combine against us, they’ll run us all the way back to the sea.

  Standing by the Celestial Mother, Pete only barely recognized a Grik-like Khonashi named I’joorka under the hideous burn scars covering almost every exposed feature. Purple flesh was just beginning to resprout tufts of rust-colored feathery fur. Gingerly, I’joorka advanced, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you, General,” he said.

  “You too. Damn good. You’re what? ‘Regent Champion’ now?”

  “In Ca’tain Reddy’s stead,” I’joorka agreed, “though su’ject to your orders, o’ course.” He lowered his voice. “She’s trying to add ‘consort’ to the title, ’ut I don’t think I is ready to such . . . exercise yet. Likely not a good idea any’ay.”

  Pete chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. From what I hear, poor Larry already declined the honor of becoming the ‘father of his country.’” Lawrence was Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva’s particular Sa’aaran pal. Also “Grik-like,” he’d been instrumental in arranging the Celestial Mother’s surrender. Pete shrugged. “Somebody’ll have to eventually. Why not you?”

  I’joorka snorted.

  “If you please,” Inquisitor Choon interrupted impatiently, and proceeded to properly introduce General Kim and his staff, a Lemurian Shee-Ree major named Fuaal, two officers recently arrived as envoys from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and yet more Repubs with similar credentials. Their names washed over Pete as he focused on General Kim. The man looked as stout and immovable as an oak and had a no-nonsense demeanor, making a favorable impression. Pete was impressed by almost everything he’d seen, in fact, but his frown had returned and it was growing. “Where’s General Rolak and Courtney Bradford? Where’s Bekiaa-Sab-At?”

  Kim cleared his throat. “His Excellency Courtney Bradford retired south to Soala where he’ll proceed by rail to consult with Kaiser Nig-Taak. From there he may return here, fly to Baalkpan, or accompany our fleet when it sails for the Caribbean to participate in our joint operations against the Dominion and the League. In deference to the system we’ve adopted to accommodate our new allies and avoid misunderstandings”—he glanced at the Celestial Mother—“I’ve assumed the post of ‘Second General’—your second in command—by order of my Kaiser and agreement with your superiors. Also to avoid confusion, the three corps of my Army of the Republic have been consolidated into two, which will now be referred to as Fourth and Fifth Corps.” Courtney Bradford’s scratch “Provisional Corps” had been absorbed into the others as well. “They, and I, are at your disposal.

  “As Second General, however, I thought it best to remain here until your arrival. Third General Rolak and Fourth General Faan have taken Third Corps up the Galk River toward Lake Galk. Legate Bekiaa and her Fifth Division are with them, marching along the shoreline and supported by the bulk of what remains of our naval elements. With First Fleet’s departure, the most powerful of those are the Republic Navy monitors Ancus and Servius.”

  “What’s Esshk got up there?” Pete asked Commander Leedom.

  The young aviator assumed a pained expression. “Lots of Grik, we know that. Mostly up past the locks at the south end of the lake. Beyond?” He glanced at Kim. “We don’t really know. The scuttlebutt is, Esshk and his Japs’ve been working o
n something scary that flies, maybe bigger rockets, but recon hasn’t spotted anything other than some apparently unfinished ironclad battleships. Didn’t see any guns in them either. Maybe they’re using them to shuttle troops around? We’ll sink ’em,” he added confidently, “but whatever else they’ve got, if it’s there, is hidden pretty well.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. “What about Sixth and Twelfth Corps?”

  “East of the Third, pacing its advance, but more closely following the Ukri River to its source,” Kim responded.

  “Why? That’s all pretty pastoral country, right? There were Grik at Lake Ukri, but I thought they were already knocked out by our air, or came down here.”

  Kim hesitated. “True, but General Halik could approach from that direction as he nears. Not knowing his intentions, General Rolak and I agreed it would be best to interpose a significant force that’s equally capable of moving to his relief, if required.”

  “Again, okay so far. I don’t second-guess Rolak. Nobody’s better than he is,” he stressed. “But what about you? You have what, about seventy-five thousand troops?” He glanced at the preponderance of Repubs in the chamber. “I hope they’re not all just hanging around here?”

  Kim bristled. “Certainly not. While we do maintain a strong presence in the enemy capital”—he looked significantly at a group of Grik officers not yet named, who’d been joined by Colonel Shelg—“in addition to Fifth Division, already with General Rolak,” he reminded, “another division of Fourth Corps is following him, and should join in a matter of days.”

  “Swell,” Pete commended, “but this ain’t the ‘enemy’ capital anymore, an’ I’ve got a chore for your Fifth Corps. It’ll head upriver to Lake Nalak, where I just came from, and jump off on the north shore.” He sighed. “Maybe half of General Ign’s Grik got away. Crossed the lake on more unfinished BBs. Jeez! It’s a good thing we hit ’em when we did. I bet we’ve captured a dozen of those ships, some without armor, and most without guns. They’re built around their power plants, though, so the majority can move. And like USS Sular, they make decent protected transports. Three we took are bringing First Corps here. They’ll carry Fifth Corps back to chase General Ign. Before returning,” he added cryptically.