“What’s ‘moderate’?” Horn asked, then hastily added, “Sir.”
Matt’s expression turned grim. “As close as we can get,” he told them, then looked back at Russ. “You’ll save your armor-piercing shells for the enemy because I doubt the Baalkpan Naval Arsenal has matched them yet, but they’ve already tooled up to make common shells for Savoie’s big guns and they’ll have plenty for you.” He glanced around again. “Whoever’s not towing targets will be shooting at ’em for the next twelve thousand nautical miles, and I don’t care if there’s only enough life left in your gun bores for one good fight when we get there, because that’s all we’re going to give those sorry League bastards. Is that understood?”
Matt was surprised by the enthusiasm behind the loud chorus of “yes sir!” and “ay sur!” and felt a little guilty, afraid he’d raised their expectations too high. Sandra’s expression told him she understood how he felt, and there was no such thing as too much hope. “Very well,” Matt murmured, then cleared his throat and repeated himself before glancing at the chronometer on the bulkhead and looking at Russ. “That took less time than I expected. Unless anyone else has something to say? Okay, it’s only eighteen twenty hours, and we sail at oh one hundred.” He grinned at Russ Chappelle. “You did say you were going to feed us.”
Russ grinned back. “Absolutely. You remember Taarba-Karr?” Matt nodded and laughed. The young Lemurian had served as a cook in Walker for a time, under the abrasive Earl Lanier, and earned the nickname “Tabasco.” Not only for obvious reasons, but because he and Juan Marcos had developed a concoction to sprinkle on Earl’s food that unfailingly sent him to the head at strategic and embarrassing times. The conspiracy thrived long after Tabasco transferred to James Ellis, and though the treatment wasn’t used as often (Earl had slightly mellowed), there was no indication he’d ever gotten wise. Russ bowed his head to Ellie’s skipper. “Captain Brister was kind enough to lend us Tabasco for the evening. I understand he’s come up with something interesting”—he chuckled—“and maybe a little spicy, but otherwise completely harmless,” he assured.
For a while, for more than two hours, a cheerful (if probably fragile) atmosphere pervaded Savoie’s wardroom, in which most of First Fleet’s senior officers enjoyed a good meal and one another’s company, and put their dread of what was to come to the back of their minds. It was the last such respite they’d have until they steamed into Baalkpan Bay, and Matt would make sure they’d be too tired to dwell on anything but training their ships and crews till then.
CHAPTER 13
////// Lake Uskoll
Grik Africa
May 11, 1945
Wonderful, wonderful!” the Celestial Mother exclaimed—as she had many times during the flight—while the big four-engine PB5-D Clipper banked into a rumbling, descending spiral toward a little Grik fishing village on the north shore of Lake Uskoll. The Celestial Mother had spent the entire trip up from Sofesshk gazing out the portside gunner’s position in the waist, looking at miniature trees in the vast forest below, exclaiming how tiny even the most momentous sauropods and occasional large predators looked. Sometimes she scanned the sky, marveling at high, puffy clouds and the spare Clipper pacing them. Once, she chortled with something that sounded like an intermittent steam leak, but that Geerki assured them was glee, when she realized they were flying above a flock of large lizardbirds. Never once had she even seemed concerned.
Now her eyes narrowed and her crest rose a bit. “My head feels like I’m squeezing it,” she announced. Pete Alden started to suggest she pop her ears, then wondered how to tell a Grik that. He was saved by Geerki, who’d flown before, and demonstrated by clamping his jaws and nostrils in his hands and blowing hard against them. Pete snorted himself because the technique made the old Grik look painfully constipated. When the Celestial Mother, Regent Champion I’joorka, and First Ker-noll Jash all copied him, Pete almost exploded with laughter and quickly looked forward to the elevated flight deck, where Mark Leedom and his copilot were. That put Inquisitor Choon and Sergeant Kaik in his line of sight. One was vigorously working his jaw, the other holding his nose and blowing as well.
“Everybody straapped in?” Leedom’s copilot shouted back.
“Yeah.”
“Good. We seen the signaal, but we gonna circle again before we set down.” The world spun around them as Leedom continued his turn, scanning the area, looking at the trees, the sky, then the water itself, to insure there were no floating hazards.
“Okaay,” the copilot cried. “We goin’ in. Waater’s smooth. Should be a snaap.”
“Hold on,” Pete cautioned the others. The plane steadied and the pressure in everyone’s ears started to mount. Pete did laugh then, at the helplessly straining Grik. He couldn’t stop himself, even though he was furiously working his own jaw now. A few minutes later, the big flying boat touched the water and the keel rumbled under their feet. The growing thunder was punctuated by a booming roar and a brief floundering sensation, and everyone lurched forward against their restraints. The plane quickly decelerated until it was almost motionless before Leedom advanced the throttles again and started moving toward a long, low dock, vacant except for a cluster of figures. Pete was surprised that the village beyond them actually looked more like a preindustrial Lemurian town than anything Grik, with wood and thatch dwellings elevated on tall tree trunks. Sensible everywhere, Pete mused, that folks away from cities would want to sleep high up, away from predators. Still quite humble, the place had a feel of relative prosperity, by Grik standards, and there were a lot of low-slung boats pulled up on the shore. None were alongside the dock, however, and Pete supposed they’d been cleared away.
“The other Clipper’ll look around some more before it sets down too,” the copilot assured. Before long, Pete felt the plane start to wallow as two engines quit. The others were idling when two ’Cats, the plane’s only crew other than its pilots, climbed up behind the cockpit on top of the big wing above. Both carried coiled lines. Unstrapping himself and standing unsteadily, Pete looked out. There were no Grik villagers in sight and the shore on one side of the dock was lined with me-naak-mounted Lemurians. The beach on the other side, where most of the little boats were, was lined with ’Cats and men on kravaas. All were looking at the village and the dense trees beyond.
Three flags fluttered fitfully on the dock; a black and yellow swallowtail with a big red “5” in the center, a longer red and white swallowtail with a variety of embroidered devices, and a strange, upright blue banner supported on the top and leading edge. Beneath them stood half a dozen ’Cats in standard battle dress, three men—and two Grik!
“I’ll be damned,” Pete Alden said. “Halik’s really here. That blue . . . flag, whatever, must be his. The others are Enaak’s and Svec’s.”
“Of course he’s here,” the Celestial Mother said. “I summoned him, did I not?”
“Hmm.” Pete looked back at the group and saw ’Cats catch the thrown lines. He recognized Halik now, his large, powerful frame, if not the new, surprising, short blue cape he wore. Grik generals always wore red capes or cloaks, but Pete didn’t remember Halik doing so, at least not during their later meetings. Maybe he did now. And what’s with the color? His eyes recognized Colonel Enaak, and Dalibor Svec’s huge form and flowing beard were unmistakable. There was a smaller version of Svec as well. His son, Major Ondrej, no doubt. And there was “General” Orochi Niwa. Damn Jap’s done pretty well for himself, Pete grudged. The last time he saw Niwa, he’d still been frail from a serious wound. Now he looked strong and healthy—and half-Grik himself, in brass-studded leather armor. And who’s that other Grik? Pete wondered. He thought he would’ve recognized General Ugla, known to be with Halik’s army. And Shlook’s still back in Persia. He shook his head. Maybe that is Ugla. Halik’s easy to spot because he’s so damn big, but otherwise it’s always hard to tell the bastards apart. Hard not to focus on their damn teeth an
d claws, and they all look pretty much alike.
Grunting, Pete opened the cargo door by the waist gunner’s position and a ribbed gangplank—with safety lines!—was extended down to the plane. Obviously, no one wanted to risk the Celestial Mother falling in the water. Suddenly unsure of the protocol, Pete looked at Geerki, blinking a question in the Lemurian way.
“Her Magnificence will emerge at your signal,” Geerki said primly in Grikish. Pete nodded, gesturing for Sergeant Kaik to stay behind as well, to make double sure the CM didn’t fall. He looked at Jash, I’joorka, and Choon. “Let’s go.”
Gaining the dock, the first thing Pete did was assess its structural ability to hold them all. A lot of Grik construction was pretty haphazard. Not here. Like the elevated huts, presumably, the dock was built to last and take significant weight. The “crawdad” Grik living in tunnels burrowed in the banks of the lower Zambezi popped in his mind as an opposite extreme and he reminded himself once again that unvarying as Grik often seemed, in color, physiology, even general ferocity, there were distinctly different subcultures. And those differences were rapidly expanding as Grik were forced to diversify and embrace new concepts to cope with the whirlwind of change the war had stirred.
He warmly returned the salutes of Enaak, Svec, and their small escort, looking forward to a long conversation with his old comrades from the Indiaa campaign. Then he regarded Halik, Niwa, and the other Grik with a quizzical grin. “Well,” he said. “Here you are.”
“I was curious to see you again, after all that’s passed,” Halik replied somberly in Grikish, “and your invitation was rather compelling.” He motioned to his companions. “You know General Niwa, of course, and this is General Yikkit. He joined me in Persia and was a champion in the battles there.” He glanced at Choon, possibly surprised by his strikingly blue eyes, saw I’joorka, who even though badly withered by burns was clearly a warrior, then looked at Jash with open curiosity. “Who are you, consorting with our enemies?”
“First Ker-noll Jash, Lord General, commanding the Slasher Division.” He tilted his head at Pete. “And these are not enemies, but saviors. From the vile traitor Esshk.” His short crest fluttered irritably and he gestured at Enaak and Svec. “Aren’t they your allies?”
Halik grunted. “Not allies. Perhaps . . . trusted adversaries.” His own crest flared. “I see your point, however, and we’re not here to bicker about the company we keep.”
“I’m Inquisitor Choon, representing the Republic of Real People,” Choon inserted impatiently, “and I respectfully disagree. The company we keep—or choose to join—is precisely why we must speak.”
Halik glared at the diminutive Lemurian in the light tan jacket, waistcoat, and black and tan kilt. Then he nodded his snout at the plane. “And the Celestial Mother is truly here? To see me?” A tone of wonder had crept into his voice.
“She is,” Jash confirmed, “but only because these you call ‘enemy’ preserved her from Esshk.”
Halik grunted again. Niwa had been translating all that was said as fast as he could and Pete looked at the Japanese officer with an ironic smile. “I think we’re all gettin’ it. Glad to see you still alive, by the way.” He was surprised that he meant it.
“As I’m glad to be,” Niwa responded wryly. “If I’m not needed to interpret, I’ll merely stand ready to correct misunderstandings.”
“Fine.” Pete whistled.
The great plane shifted slightly, and a large shape darkened the cargo hatch. There was no mistaking the distinctive coppery color or bright red cloak of the Celestial Mother when she fully emerged, stepping out on the gangplank that sagged under her still-growing bulk. With surprising agility, however, she quickly gained the dock, followed by Geerki and Sergeant Kaik, rapidly blinking relief. Mark Leedom came last, carrying a large, wooden crate.
For the briefest moment, Halik and Yikkit could only stare as if stunned. Then Yikkit hurled himself to the dock and lay on his belly at the Celestial Mother’s feet. Instinctively, Halik almost joined him, but turned his movement into a deep bow instead.
“You do not prostrate yourself before your Giver of Life?” the Celestial Mother challenged.
“No, Your . . . Your Splendor,” Halik replied softly, clearly using a title he fully endorsed, judging by the way his eyes consumed her. Pete knew she had a pretty coat, but Geerki and I’joorka assured him that her size, coloration, youth, and health personified the Grik ideal of female perfection. On the other hand, she’d been unambiguously cautioned against expressing the scent she controlled that would drive males of her species mad with lust. Halik was no hatchling and would literally sniff it out and back away. There’d be no possibility of trust after that. “It’s ingrained in me to worship and respect you for who and what you are,” Halik continued, “but I’ve learned the most honest respect is earned by and returned to leaders who allow their subjects to respect themselves.”
“He won’t make his troops squirm in front of him either,” Enaak said lowly, “and look whaat he’s accomplished.”
“Good,” the Celestial Mother said, clearly surprising Halik. “Please rise, General Yikkit.” She waved at Jash. “I allow no one to prostrate themselves before me anymore,” she added gently, “so it seems I’ve already been taught to think like you. I learned this from my conquerors, our conquerors,” she added with soft emphasis, “and it’s something I would spread to every member of our race.” Her voice hardened. “Esshk wouldn’t have that. He’s the greatest traitor our race has ever known. He exterminated the Ancient Hij of Old Sofesshk, presided over defeats that set our race back a millennium, and actually attempted to destroy me. It’s ironic that only defeat and conquest at the claws of what we once considered prey not only saved me from him, but might preserve our race.” She straightened and her voice rose. “So that’s why I’m here, come to you, to . . . ask, not command, that you join with me and your former enemies instead of Esshk—who would have you squirming at his feet!”
Halik’s crest lay flat and anguish was in his voice when he replied. “You’re my Giver of Life, and my foremost obedience must always be to you, but General Esshk made me.” He waved at Yikkit, even Jash. “He made all of us, either by elevation, or through the creation of the Hatchling Host. None of us would have the minds to recognize the wrongs he’s done you and our race if he hadn’t allowed it. A portion, at least, of my loyalty must remain with him.”
“Bullshit,” Pete snapped. “Maybe Esshk didn’t let them eat you when you started wising up, but that wasn’t for you, it was for him. You made yourself, Halik, with a little help from a Jap.” He shrugged and nodded at Enaak and Svec. “Maybe all of us, in a way. But then you helped your army, your new people, make themselves into what they are. Unlike Jash here, they weren’t born and raised to it from the egg. You became what you are in spite of Esshk, who only wanted to use you and throw you away.”
Still anguished, Halik shook his head. “Esshk summoned me from a continent away, and I came here knowing I’d face this terrible choice.” He looked at the Celestial Mother. “To betray myself and my regency, and all it’s become, or betray you and Esshk. Now I know the truth and it’s only Esshk I’d betray, but the choice still lies heavy upon me. I’d . . . hoped to speak with him before making it.”
“Sorry, but that ain’t gonna work,” Pete said flatly, shaking his head.
“I sympathize with your torment,” the Celestial Mother told Halik, whose crest had begun to rise in defiance. “I experienced much the same—before Esshk tried to have me slain, and I began to understand our new allies really can be our friends, after all.” She cast a proprietary glance at the hideous I’joorka, then her eyes flicked across Niwa. “I know you understand ‘friendship,’ Lord General Halik.”
“I do.”
I’joorka spoke up in very good, if somewhat raspy Grikish. “Do you think Esshk is your friend? Will he be grateful if you save him?”
The Celestial Mother interrupted. “He’s General I’joorka of the United Homes. My acting Regent Champion—in Captain Reddy’s stead.”
I’joorka bowed to her, then continued. “I got these wounds helping defeat Kurokawa on Zanzibar. Only now am I beginning to recover. Like too many, I’ll never fully heal and I have more cause than most to prevent the suffering of others. If you believe Esshk will thank you, then you’re not as smart as Colonel Enaak insists you are. With victory, you’d become Esshk’s rival and he won’t allow that. You’ve learned to lead, to rule a large regency you conquered yourself, and you know the old ways Esshk would restore are not the best for your race.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “As acting Regent Champion of the rightful ruler of all the Gharrichk’k, and with her perfect agreement, I present you with three choices.”
“There used to be only two,” General Yikkit said, speaking for the first time.
“Times change,” Pete murmured.
“The choices?” Halik asked, somewhat bitterly.
I’joorka raised one flame-scarred finger. “Go home. Back to your regency in Persia. Do that and we’ll recognize it’s yours forever—under the ultimate rule of the Celestial Mother, of course. There you’ll control your population as you see fit, but never expand your borders. You’ll also maintain peaceful relations with the people in Indiaa, whether they ever join the United Homes or not.”
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