“Yes indeed, do hold your fire,” came Don Hernan’s distinctive, benevolent voice, “and witness a wonder never seen by heretic eyes! The drapery, if you will, my dear Gravois!”
“Do it!” came an incredulous, impatient, higher-pitched voice Silva remembered as well. The curtain collapsed in a rush on what might elsewhere resemble a stone stage. A score of gold-painted children, these blind as well as deaf, fluttered nervously when they felt the displaced air wash around them. Silva almost fired then, but there were too many muskets and rifles pointed at the eight of them. He’d need another distraction, so he waited and watched.
Victor Gravois looked like he always had, natty and annoyed, though perhaps more disheveled than usual. Don Hernan was also easy to recognize. Even in the nude. His chiseled goatee had gone nearly white and he looked almost frail without his bulky robes, but there was no doubting who he was. A smaller, younger man beside him wore only an open, flowing robe, and a bizarre feathered headdress. And though his eyes hadn’t been burned out like the children’s, his milky orbs could serve him no better. His expression was perplexed, confused. “But Don Hernan, whatever are you doing?” he asked plaintively. “I heard another man’s voice, not my Patriarca’s . . . and did you say heretics? What’s the meaning of this?”
“Rejoice, Your Supreme Holiness! Your Time has come at last,” Don Hernan said gently, “and there will be some . . . subtle changes after you leave this place.” The “Emperor of the World” seemed to have heard nothing after the opening statement and his face exploded with joy. “I knew you were a worthy successor!” he exclaimed. “The other voice, then, he is The One?” he asked anxiously.
Don Hernan motioned Gravois over with a curt nod and handed him an obsidian knife. Gravois blinked at it, surprised.
“Yes, Holiness. He’s here to liberate you from this world. Your Patriarca already awaits you in the next, so you need not even endure all the tiresome rituals preceding the blessed event.”
“Oh my!” The man in the headdress beamed.
“What?” Gravois asked in English as the Dom Messiah bared his throat with a happy smile, and Don Hernan knelt naked before him. “Cut his throat, you fool!” Don Hernan hissed, also in English.
“You said . . . I thought we were here to save him!”
“Don’t be absurd. You’ll save me after I take his place, washed in his blood!”
“What is all this strange talk, Don Hernan?” asked His Supreme Holiness, lowering his chin a trifle.
“Nothing, Holiness. An ancient exchange between Successors and The One, predating those we knew, and recently rediscovered in the west.”
“But you spoke the word ‘heretic’ earlier,” His Supreme Holiness now said, doubt creeping into his voice, “and the west is full of heretics!”
“Heretics?” Sister Audrey suddenly roared in the tongue of the Dominion, pacing forward and slightly to the right. “Your entire, twisted, murderous faith is founded on the most perverted and loathsome heresy imaginable!”
“Santa Madre!” Garcia objected, starting forward, but Blas yanked him back, hissing, “She knows whaat she’s doing. Be ready!”
“You defile the word ‘God’ every time you utter it,” Sister Audrey pronounced, her young clear voice booming in the chamber. “You soil the fabric of faith with the vomitous words you spew on it, and waste God’s gift of life with your abominable, unfeeling cruelty!”
“A woman!” shrieked His Supreme Holiness, backing away in horror. “You brought a woman capable of speech into the Holy Sanctum? What insanity is this, Don Hernan?”
“You wouldn’t b’leve what all he brung, on top o’ losin’ your war an’ your city!” Silva bellowed. “Why there’s women, Catmonkeys, Lizards, Nussies, Imperials, even a sneaky Frenchman! All sorts o’ weird critters. You wanna eat, Petey?”
“Eat! Goddamn!” Petey squawked.
Silva pointed at a Blood Drinker officer, maybe even the one Mayta told them about. “He’s got food, stuffed up his nose!”
Petey erupted off Silva’s shoulder and flitted toward the man, who screamed and tried to flee.
“Kill them!” Don Hernan thundered, moving to catch the master he had to murder.
“No! No! Stop this at once, this is not right. . . .” squalled the scrawny little Messiah, tumbling backward into the sailors, losing his headdress and throwing the men into disarray. A musket roared, then another.
“Let ’em haave it!” Chack bellowed, shooting Petey’s manically flailing victim with his Krag, launching the indignantly screeching reptile again. Everyone started shooting then, and the Holy Sanctum became an underground battlefield.
Snatching Lawrence behind a statue, Silva sprayed the cluster of Italian sailors with his BAR. Most went down, kicking and screaming, but the bolt locked back. Dumping the empty magazine, he inserted another while Lawrence shot at Doms, blowing one down with every shot. The only cover on the “stage” was the panicking golden children, who couldn’t possibly know what was happening. Gravois had grabbed one around the neck, holding the struggling form in front of him while shooting his pistol at Captain Anson. Anson was dragging Sir Sean, who must’ve been wounded in the first shots, and bullets threw sparks off the stone floor around them. Arano Garcia was down on his face and Captain Bustos dropped with a shout of pain. Blas was firing her .45 while shoving Sister Audrey behind the meager cover of a jagged, cross-shaped column.
Most of the children, in utter confusion, had finally clustered together near the back of the “stage” and Silva emptied another magazine at the Blood Drinkers, sending several sprawling. He figured there must be fifteen or twenty left when the spattered lead and powdered stone of a near miss drove him back. “Anybody see where Don Hernan went?” he yelled.
“Towaard the baack, somewhere,” came Chack’s voice, but Silva didn’t know where he was. Maybe he’d ducked back into the passageway. “I think he took thaat screaming maan who lost his haat, and Graavois followed.”
“So either they’re holed up, or sneaked out,” Silva guessed. “Stands to reason there’d be a bolt-hole. We gotta get after ’em!”
“Whaat do you suggest? Your saack of grenades will kill us too, in here.”
Silva had no time to reply because that’s when the remaining Blood Drinkers charged toward Blas, Sister Audrey, Captain Anson, and Sir Sean on the other side of the chamber. Dropping his empty BAR with a curse, Silva leaped to his feet and countercharged with his Colt and cutlass in hand. Lawrence went too, as did Chack, howling a bloodcurdling cry.
Captain Anson, still trying to move Sir Sean, was hurled to the floor by a musket ball slamming into his left shoulder blade and blasting out his chest in a spray of blood. Rising painfully, grimacing, he turned to meet the enemy. They came with bayonets fixed and Anson’s big revolvers thundered, rapidly blowing Doms down, but others finally nailed him to one of the jagged crosses with their blades. Sir Sean, blood spurting from a terrible neck wound and roaring defiance, stabbed two men in the legs with his sword before they bayonetted him as well.
Silva, Chack, and Lawrence slammed into the right flank of the rush, almost ignored, and killed men easily—since it quickly became clear Sister Audrey was their primary focus. Whether simply because she was a “woman capable of speech” in the Holy Sanctum, or for the scathing heresy she’d flung at them, the Blood Drinkers wanted her blood—as she’d known they would—and all she had left to defend her was Blas.
Colonel Blas-Ma-Ar was practically in Sister Audrey’s lap, coldly firing her copy of a 1911 Colt right in the faces of men coming to kill them. She saw her friends coming too, stabbing, slashing, shooting . . . Chack was so brave! She’d always secretly loved him. And Lawrence, so strange, but so unreservedly loyal. And Silva, mighty Silva, who she’d never thanked for her life. They were close, now, but when the slide locked back on Blas’s empty pistol, she knew they’d be too late. Snarling h
er fury, she flung herself at the enemy, hoping to distract them from Sister Audrey however long she could—biting, scratching, bashing them with her empty pistol. A bayonet lunged and she tried to twist away but it was coming too fast and hard and there was . . . Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
The bayonet deflected low and the man collapsed at her feet. Blas had only an instant to see Sister Audrey, sitting up, her own never-used pistol smoking in her hand. The instant stretched into a still image that would stay just behind Blas’s eyelids for the rest of her life. Sister Audrey, the Santa Madre, smiling at her as if to say, “For you, dear Blossom, for you—but never for myself,” just before two Doms drove their bayonets into her chest.
Blas screeched with agony and rage, shockingly loud enough to freeze the Dom in front of her while she drew her cutlass. But Silva saw Sister Audrey die as well, and went absolutely amok. More than half a dozen Doms remained, but he killed them all while Chack, Lawrence, even Blas, could do little more than back out of his way. They’d all seen him fight like this before—sort of—but accompanying his brutal skill there was always a lot of noise: cussing, bellowing, even taunts, because Silva dearly loved a battle. Most unnerving now, however, throughout the end of this “fight,” though his face was streaked with running tears, Dennis Silva never made a sound. The same couldn’t be said for the Blood Drinkers, and even after Silva hacked the last Dom down, the screaming wasn’t through because that’s when he started on the wounded.
“Belaay thaat, sailor!” Chack shouted in his loudest, harshest voice, and Silva checked another downward swing of his bloody cutlass. He didn’t relax, he merely stood there like the blood-washed statue of some vengeful god of war, animated only by his heavy breathing. “Thaat’s it, Chief Silvaa, staand down,” Chack told him more gently, then spoke aside to Lawrence. “Go tell Paam to come get our friend. And make sure Gener-aal Maayta isn’t there when she takes him out.”
“Don Hernaan an’ Graavois,” Blas spat.
“I need no reminder,” Chack told her bitterly, then called after Lawrence, who’d already turned to go. “Bring reinforcements, if there are more outside by now. But even if there aren’t, we’ll pursue those evil men as soon as you return.”
“Ay, sur.”
“Whaat about him?” Blas asked, blinking sadly at Silva. The big man had dropped his cutlass as if afraid he’d keep using it as long as it was in his hand, and racked by gut-wrenching sobs, was now single-mindedly flinging Blood Drinker bodies off Sister Audrey. He finally lifted her gently, effortlessly off the floor.
“His baattle here is done, but he maay haave a bigger one ahead. I’ve been where he is now,” Chack told her quietly. “So haave you. Somehow I never expected to see him there, and don’t know if thaat means he’ll heal faaster or slower. But with his strength and the Maker’s help, he’ll find himself again. As did you and I.”
Pam rushed into the chamber, followed by Lawrence and Enrico Galay, along with twenty Imperial Marines and more Khonashi. Several corps-’Cats dispersed to check the wounded and Chack was surprised to see one help Arano Garcia sit up, and another start bandaging Captain Bustos. He’d thought both Vengadores were dead. Pam gasped at the carnage, then ran to Silva’s side. She didn’t even complain when a blood-spattered Petey swooped over and lit on her shoulder. “C’mon, you big lug,” she ordered gently, “let’s take Sister Audrey out o’ this lousy place.”
When they were gone, Galay shook his head. “Silva’s a blowtorch. Bound to break sooner or later.”
Chack rounded on him, blinking fury, remembering how in spite of everything, Silva obeyed him at the end. “He may haave craacked, but he didn’t break. Praay you’re thaat strong when the time comes. Now let’s get aafter Gravois and Don Hernaan.”
Galay straightened. “Aye, aye, Colonel.”
USS Walker
Matt came to, struggling against Keje, who was literally tying him to his chair.
“Oh!” Keje cried. “You’re still alive, my brother! I’m so relieved. I feared you might not be, and knew you wouldn’t waant to finish this fight lying on the deck.”
“I told you!” rasped a furious Juan Marcos. The Filipino was tugging hard on a tourniquet around Matt’s right leg. Groggy, Matt looked around. The pilothouse was an abattoir, with blood splashed everywhere. The starboard bridgewing was simply gone and light filtered through twisted conduits from jagged holes in the overhead. Pieces of ’Cats—and Bernie Sandison—lay scattered on shattered deck strakes. Rosen was down and unmoving, as was just about everyone who’d been around him a few . . . seconds? Minutes? Before. Minnie moved against the aft bulkhead, trying to rise from a pool of blood, though it was impossible to tell if it was hers. She was mumbling into the microphone suspended from her headset, but the wire lay severed on the deck. ’Cats came rumbling up the stairs aft, carrying stretchers. Some scrambled up the warped ladder to the fire control platform above. Matt finally realized there was no one at the EOT, and Courtney Bradford had the wheel. “Damage report,” he croaked.
The Australian’s helmet was gone and his thin white hair was plastered to his head by blood. More blood soaked the shirt, blown half off, but he didn’t seem to notice. His face was a study in grim concentration as he tried to keep the smoke trailing Walker between her and the enemy. Glancing to the side, he caught Matt’s eye and exclaimed, “Thank God! I feared I was all alone up here”—he tilted his bloody head at Keje—“with the exception of our furry friend, of course. Then Juan popped in, which cheered me amazingly, but I still felt rather overwhelmed. I may’ve been an admiral, but my experience in single-ship actions is somewhat limited!”
Commander Toos, following the corps-’Cats now tending Minnie and Rosen, had heard Matt’s request for a report. “It’s not good, sur. Aaft fireroom’s out. Nobody aanswers inside. Chief Isaak an’ Lieuten-aant Tabby shut the main line on deck so we got steam from number one, but we’re takin’ waater. Probaably in the fireroom. Chief Isaak’s ventin’ it so we caan get in and see how baad it is.” Matt was struck by the irony that the only boiler they had left was the new one they’d done without so long. He tried to turn in his chair and look at the roaring flames he heard, but searing agony near his right hip stopped him. Toos understood. “Fire’s baad, but not spreadin’. DC paarties got it under control. Haad to abaandon the midships guns an’ deckhouse, though. Number two gun’s crew got wiped out by the blaast, an’ I ordered ever-body else off.” He blinked. “Mosta the prisoners ’round the gaalley got burned up.”
“Poor bastards,” Matt swore. “What’s going on ashore? Where’s our air cover? Where’s Leopardo?”
“I caan’t aanswer the first two questions. The raadio room’s smaashed and ever-body’s dead. But Leopaardo’s coming up behind us. Crow’s nest lookout sees her, barely a thousaand yaards off.”
“Fire control?”
Toos looked up at the perforated overhead, then shook his head, blinking. “Mr. Caampeti waas found on the quaarterdeck. I fear all who were up there are dead or baadly injured.”
Matt took a deep breath, wondering how many more old friends would die for the decisions he’d made. Worse, he wasn’t even sure they were right. And he couldn’t know now, without a radio. Poor Ed . . . Only one thing remained for him to do. Like Sandra always told him, “When in doubt, fight your ship.”
“Are the starboard torpedoes okay?” he demanded.
“The mount crew joined the daamage control paarties, and the fish got scorched.”
“But the tubes’re still rigged out?”
“Ay, sur.”
“Very well. Where’s Spanky?”
“Fighting the fire. He never made it to the aaft deckhouse.”
“Take over from him, and tell him to put torpedomen back on that mount. Then let me know as soon as you get the number three crew back on their gun.”
“Ay, ay, sur.”
When Toos was gone, Courtney
looked at Matt. “Will you relieve me too?”
Matt was feeling faint, but smiled. “No. You’re doing fine. Keje, will you take the EOT?” He shook his head to clear it. “You know, somehow it seems appropriate that we should all be here, like this.”
“I agree entirely,” Courtney pronounced. “But what shall we do?”
“We’re going to fight the ship.”
“Well, of course. But how?”
Matt looked at Juan, still standing by, a worried frown on his face.
“As soon as we get the word from Toos, we’ll turn to starboard and hammer Leopardo with everything we have left—guns, machine guns, torpedoes . . . even foul language, if it’ll help. If that doesn’t knock her out, we’ll ram the son of a bitch.”
Gravois
Just inside the escape passage at the back of the Holy Sanctum, while the battle still raged inside, Don Hernan slammed the struggling, screaming Emperor of the World against the wall and slashed his throat with surprising strength. Blood fountained on the naked man, and after a moment he let the body drop, swiftly smearing the blood all over, on his face, in his hair. Gravois was sickly amazed and frankly suspected only normal behavior by Don Hernan might surprise him anymore. He was also anxious to get moving. Even if the Blood Drinkers overwhelmed the first invaders in the temple, there’d be more. Don Hernan was obviously thinking along the same lines because he quickly selected one of the dead man’s robes from an alcove, swept it over his shoulders, and tied it closed around his waist before snatching a torch from the wall. “Come!” he said angrily, the first words he’d spoken since the “ceremony” disintegrated into chaos. Gravois followed.
The stone passageway began to resemble the entrance, only this was a real cave, carved from the ground by eons and sculpted by nature. Soon Gravois was huffing, trying to keep up. He didn’t dare fall behind since it quickly became apparent that the path they were on was only one of countless passageways and corridors leading into perfect, dripping blackness. He soon grew less concerned about rapid pursuit, but more so about their destination, and whether Don Hernan himself knew the way. “Does this lead to the lake?” he gasped. “Somewhere near the docks where Ciano can retrieve us?”
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