There were overseers, to be sure, that served much the same purpose here as sergeants and officers might in battle. They orchestrated the timing and direction of every task. Some led bearers to the next mighty “skeleton” where their particular timber was required. Others lashed a continuous stream of bearers, burdened with massive tree trunks felled in the ever more distant forest, toward the timber shapers’ tools. Uul dropped from illness or exhaustion everywhere he looked, only to be trampled to death by those behind them. Some took quick, passing gobbets of flesh from the often still-moving dead.
Kurokawa was sickened, but enthralled. Such discipline! Such symmetry! Such simple, mechanical grace! Grik industry was driven by a living Grik machine. When a part broke down or wore out, it quickly and automatically replaced itself with another! He felt himself on the very cusp of some profound revelation concerning the most fundamental nature of things. He was a naval officer but also an engineer, and the complexity of machinery had fascinated him even as a child. Here, however, was a machine that appealed to him in an almost spiritual way, not because it was complex but because of its almost perfect simplicity. He still considered himself piously devoted to his emperor and had utter faith in Hirohito’s divinity, but he felt close to some sort of personal . . . reformation.
He paused a moment, peering into the immense basin. The labor underway down there was of another sort entirely, utilizing completely different materials and techniques. It was also, of necessity, using a lot of his own men. They were the overseers in this case, each with a team of translators and runners, but as miserable as the working conditions were on the expanding plain above, it was pure hell down in “the Hole.” Some of his precious men had actually died just from the heat! He didn’t consider them “precious” for their own sakes. As far as he was concerned, most were traitors. If that were not the case, he would still have the mighty battle cruiser Amagi at his disposal. They had failed in their duty to him and the emperor by allowing her destruction at the pathetic hands of—
He forcibly calmed himself, taking deep, flared-nostril breaths. He’d begun to realize that his tantrums accomplished little. They terrified and intimidated his men but had no effect on the Grik. Besides, he always felt drained after they ultimately ran their course. Better to hold the hatred in, let it help fuel him. In any event, what made the treachery of those who died of something as ridiculous as heat even more egregious was that Amagi’s survivors were “precious” only as an irreplaceable resource. Their value was reckoned in respect to what they knew, by what they could do for him to elevate his prestige and secure his position. There were too few of them left as it was, and after the last “culling” following their defeat at Baalkpan, he had fewer than four hundred. He needed to use them sparingly, but he did need some for this . . . and other ambitious programs. He grimaced and resumed his leg-slapping stroll.
Another man carefully paced Kurokawa, trying to stay just slightly behind but close enough to hear any possible word that might pass his true commander’s lips. He was taller, slimmer, and unlike Kurokawa, who always wore the dark blue, increasingly elaborate uniform made by the finest Grik tailors, his was white, and still genuine Imperial Navy issue. The man’s name was Orochi Niwa, and he’d recently rocketed from the rank of a lieutenant of Amagi’s small SNLF (Special Naval Landing Force) contingent to “General of Hunters” in the army of the Grik. Regardless of his new rank and the . . . army . . . he served, he was fully aware who—literally—owned his life. He had no illusions that Kurokawa liked him or even really trusted him; Kurokawa would sacrifice him without remorse if he perceived the slightest reason or advantage. The only purpose for his exalted status was that Kurokawa knew he himself couldn’t actually be everywhere at once, and he’d instituted far too many “projects” to personally oversee. Besides that, he also wanted—needed—a Japanese presence at the war councils of the Grik where tactics were discussed. Kurokawa attended those councils dedicated to grand strategy, and his input was now much appreciated, but he readily admitted he had no real knowledge of, or interest in, land warfare. Niwa did. Niwa had also made it abundantly clear that he was wholly aware of his “place.” Regardless of his Grik position, he still served Kurokawa, and through him, the Emperor.
“I suppose we should hurry.” Kurokawa seethed, picking up the pace. “Our ‘masters,’ ” he snorted, “will be waiting.” Niwa didn’t point out that the Grik High Command had probably been waiting for the better part of an hour. He didn’t say anything at all. Together, the two men strode more briskly among the yard workers, occasionally dodging groups fixated—almost like ants—upon their tasks. Finally, after they’d left the basin and the majority of the dust and stench behind, they joined a group relaxing under the shade of a crude wooden structure, taking their ease and enjoying elaborate bowls brimming with cool liquid. Niwa politely refused an offered bowl. He had no idea what was in it, but assumed it would be something vile and repulsive.
“You are late—as always,” growled General Esshk, standing to loom above them. Esshk was the most imposing Grik Niwa had ever seen; the mere sight of him always made Niwa cringe a little, at least inwardly. Esshk was First among Generals in the Army of the Grik, and he usually dressed the part. Bronze breastplate, greaves, and cuffs, along with a scarlet cape and kilt gave the vague impression of a Roman tribune. The tufted bronze helmet he held under his massive arm completed the ensemble. A smoky black crest rose slightly atop his head as he spoke.
“I have been inspecting the work,” Kurokawa said by means of explanation, not apology.
“How does it proceed?”
“Well enough on the . . . traditional vessels,” he replied. “Slower than I would like on the other.”
“What is lacking?”
Kurokawa shrugged. “Heavy equipment, cranes, pneumatic riveters, a steady supply of good iron instead of the useless cast plating you continue to force upon me. Qualified yard workers most of all.”
“The cast plating is what we can do. The same iron served well enough for cannons!”
“And it will shatter the first time a shot is fired against it!” Kurokawa stated, voice rising. “I have told you what is needed and how to make it, yet still you send me the same thing. Have you learned nothing?”
Esshk seethed. He knew Kurokawa was right. He was always right about such things. He’d even seen the plating shatter when a gun was tested against it. “The Celestial Mother grows impatient,” he temporized. “We stand on the brink of losing Regent Tsalka’s domain. We have withdrawn from contested lands as you suggested, despite the . . . difficulty . . . but Ceylon is important!”
“And I told you we would lose it before we could take it back,” Kurokawa replied, repeating an old argument.
“But that is precisely where much of your ‘steel’ is made!” Tsalka interjected, speaking up.
Kurokawa bowed to the Regent. “Indeed. So we must hold it long enough to produce and remove as much as possible before it falls. Complete the new foundries here, and it will be a lesser loss.”
“My own realm!” Tsalka almost wailed.
“This has been decided already,” Kurokawa flatly stated. “You will get it back. In the meantime, I must have true steel, not only for this project”—he waved at the basin—“but for others. There can be no ‘flying machines’ at all, for example, without steel.”
Esshk glanced at the newly appointed General Halik. Halik had been a mere “entertainment fighter,” basically a gladiator, for many seasons and had grown quite too old for that. That was precisely the reason he’d been “elevated” and tapped as a general. He seemed to have naturally developed an instinct for defensive fighting. It would still be a year or more before the first “defensive” forces were ready to deploy, and they’d be little more than hatchlings even then, but in this new kind of hunt, this “war,” much was being accomplished on the fly. Esshk was certain their enemies had many of the same issues to contend with, but most likely some were direct opposites. As
prey, they needed to learn offensive tactics, while a whole new class of Grik that was capable of defense had to be grown.
In the meantime, Halik had sponsored the elevation of other warriors in whom he recognized certain traits, and hoped they would serve as a nucleus for his new cadre of junior officers. Esshk had a sinking feeling that war as his people knew it was changing forever. Perhaps their entire society would ultimately be unrecognizable, but he would accept that if it meant his very species might ultimately survive. Some didn’t yet recognize the threat and were not particularly supportive, but he’d gained the tentative support of the Celestial Mother, and that was all that mattered. He looked at Halik. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“In Ceylon?”
“Indeed.”
“I would have to go there and see for myself,” Halik said. His speech had improved amazingly over the last months. “A true ‘defense’ may not be possible, but spoiling attacks might slow the enemy advance. Grasp time.”
Tsalka was nodding, but Esshk was thoughtful. Halik represented much more to him than just another general. He might be their only hope.
“Very well. You will go there by the safest route. Do not allow yourself to be slain! That is a command! You still have much to do.” Esshk’s eyes turned to Niwa. “You have worked closely with General Halik. Perhaps you should accompany him. Together you will learn not only the . . . ‘tactics’ of the prey—” He caught himself. “I mean, the ‘enemy,’ but you may better learn how we might counter them during this . . . transitional period. General Niwa, you will learn about the Grik alongside the Grik. General Halik, you will learn more about the enemy from one who knows them better.”
“But General Esshk!” Kurokawa and Niwa protested at once. Niwa realized what he’d done and clamped his mouth shut. Kurokawa, on the other hand, continued. “You would deprive me of my own best counselor?”
Esshk peered at him. “I deprive myself of Halik, but then, I still have you. I have been given to understand you need no counsel.”
“Not at sea!” Kurokawa sputtered. “But I am no land general! I have never claimed to be. I do understand land strategy, and how it must be combined with that of the sea, but to fully appreciate that combination, I need my best land tactician.” Kurokawa paused and blinked, realizing Esshk had goaded him into admitting, for the first time, that he didn’t know everything. Damn him! Esshk might only now be learning the subtleties of modern war, but he had long been a chess master of debate and intrigue. Kurokawa had almost forgotten that. He had also forgotten, or finally learned, how important it was to have someone near him he could trust—somewhat—and even speak candidly with on occasion. Niwa, subservient and cowed as he was, was the closest thing to a “friend” Kurokawa had on this world. Now Esshk would deprive him of even that.
“Exactly,” said Esshk, and he drove the final nail. “General Niwa will be more valuable to us both after this experience. He will be General Halik’s Vice Commander, and the two of them will learn from each other and the enemy at the same time. At least one should survive to return with the tactical observations we desire.”
“Thank you, Noble First,” Halik said humbly, and it suddenly became clear to Kurokawa that Halik had requested this! Why? He looked at Niwa and saw his nervous expression. How can I use This? he thought. I stood up for Niwa and he will remember That. Niwa has an opportunity To gain Halik’s and even Esshk’s trust more fully Than I ever could. I will ... miss . . . Niwa, but perhaps This might work To my advantage.
Kurokawa gave Niwa a small but significant nod. “Oh, very well,” he said. “It does make sense, I suppose. You may have him so long as I have your word he will not be required to ‘destroy himself ’ or any such nonsense if he and General Halik cannot save Ceylon.”
Esshk seemed surprised. “General of the Sea Kurokawa,” he exclaimed, “have I just seen you display concern for a member of your pack? How uncharacteristic!”
Kurokawa inwardly smoldered. He knew Esshk would take it that way and it exposed a vulnerability, but it was worth it to gain Niwa’s ultimate trust.
“I am concerned for both General Niwa and General Halik, as well as our cause. We cannot spare either of them.”
“There we are agreed,” Esshk said. “Fear not, the destruction of Uul warriors and their leaders is at an end. You were right regarding how wasteful it is. Even in defeat, not all are ‘made prey,’ and even those who are . . . provide a valuable service.”
Kurokawa wondered about that last comment, but shuddered slightly at what he thought it probably meant.
Esshk appeared satisfied with the proceedings thus far. He lapped at a bowl of ... something, then looked expectantly at Kurokawa.
“Mmm,” Kurokawa said, looking at Niwa. “General Niwa, I believe you know General Halik?”
Niwa controlled an impulse to gulp. “Yes, Cap—General of the Sea.”
“Good. I will therefore accept your enthusiastic offer to participate in this important and glorious mission!” Kurokawa affected a false, grotesque smile.
“Uh . . . thank you, sir.” Niwa looked at Halik, who was staring back at him now.
“That’s the spirit!” Kurokawa beamed genuinely. “General Esshk?”
Esshk looked at Halik, then Niwa. “You will leave almost immediately with a significant escort of ships,” he said. “It is a dangerous sea. The escort will be loaded with supplies, but they well might be the last we send. Try to defend Ceylon as long as you can, and fill every homebound ship as full of ‘steel’ as possible. Those ships will likely not return to you.”
“Yes, First General,” Halik said.
“The two of you must defer to Vice Regent N’galsh, of course, but in reality you will command Ceylon and all of India. Every Hij and Uul there will obey you. Use them, but try not to waste them. Send me more like yourselves if you discover any.” Esshk stood. “Now, we all have much more to do than lounge about, enjoying the view.” Niwa almost coughed. “I suggest,” Esshk continued, “that Generals Halik and Niwa remain here a short while.” He looked at them. “Get to know one another better. Decide if you have any special requirements.”
The meeting broke up then. Even Kurokawa disappeared into the swirling dust that seemed to be growing worse, leaving Niwa and Halik alone under the increasingly dubious shelter.
“Why?” Niwa asked without preamble.
“You interest me, General Niwa,” Halik said. “I think I might learn much from you.”
“Like what?”
“Like how to survive when you are surrounded by enemies. I have learned to do that in the arena, but to do so every day . . . that is different.”
“What do you mean?”
Halik rasped a chuckle. “I think you know.” He paused, catching occasional glimpses of the horror in the dust. “We are warriors, you and I, accustomed to holding the sword in our hands. Our masters have never done that; they are not allowed, so they fight with their minds and words and barely know the feel of a sword. We are important to them because they think we can fight with our swords and minds.” Halik looked at Niwa, and Niwa would have sworn the Grik was excited! “We will leave this place! That cannot disappoint you. Then we will see if they are right!”
CHAPTER 3
Yap Island (Shikarrak)
Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva savagely hacked at the indifferent army of spiny, bamboo-like shoots standing before him like a shield wall of personal foes. The swath of “ bamboo” couldn’t be more than a mile wide at most—judging by the crummy “chart” Silva had, the whole island wasn’t much wider than that across this point—but it seemed endless, and the party’s progress through it had been excruciatingly slow. Even the mighty Dennis Silva was beginning to tire. Sweat glistened on his skin, collecting grime and fragments of the shredded flora, and the patch covering his ruined left eye was soggy and blotched with salt. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and untwisted the canteen from the rope belt around his waist. Sloshing it experimentally, he
unscrewed the cap and took a shallow swig.
“Now I know what a ant feels like,” he pronounced a little breathlessly. “ ’Cept I don’t guess ants have to gnaw their way through everything to get anywhere.”
The rest of the small party accompanying him was at least as tired as he was after swinging their decidedly inferior cutlasses to widen the path behind him. Silva was doing the lion’s share of the work, but the steel in his pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass was of infinitely better quality. In response to his statement, his companions could manage only a few gasping grunts. The heat was hellish and the humidity oppressive, but the sun didn’t bother Silva anymore. He was tanned so dark, his various smudged tattoos had become merely darker, unrecognizable discolorations on his skin. In contrast, his now longish hair, matted beard, and the light, curly hair that generally covered him from neck to feet had turned almost pure white. For clothing, he wore only his battered “chief ’s” hat the Bosun had given him, a pair of cut-off Lemurian-made dungarees, and “go-forwards” he’d fashioned for himself.
He was otherwise equipped with a large shooting pouch, slung over his shoulder, made from the almost indestructible hide of a rhino pig. It contained all the implements, components, and accessories necessary to keep the “Doom Whomper,” the .100-caliber rifled musket he’d made from a Japanese anti-aircraft gun, fed, maintained, and happy. He’d given his pistol belt to Sandra Tucker—she knew how to handle a 1911 Colt—and there wasn’t much ammo for it anyway. She could use it if she needed it, but it was his job to keep that from happening. Instead of the 1911, Silva still carried his cutlass, and a long-barreled flintlock pistol he’d taken from the Company assassin Linus Truelove. Silva expected, with some satisfaction, that Truelove had been reduced to a few floating ashen specks, when Silva had contrived to blow up Ajax, but the pistol was a dandy. It would shoot only once before reloading of course, but they had plenty of ammo for it.
Rising Tides: Destroyermen Page 4