John Ringo - Council Wars 02 - Emerald Sea

by Emerald Sea(lit)

  Joanna, on the other hand, seemed to have a limitless lung capacity. She held onto the trail of the orca, her sinuous glide getting her nearer and nearer with each passing second.

  Shanol didn't seem to care anymore. He was just trying to make it to the surface.

  As they got into shallower water, the light going from deep, dark blue to a lighter translucence, the mask started to feed Herzer air again and he sucked it in as fast as he could get it. Joanna's side-to-side motion was particularly bad by her rear legs, so he started working his way up her back, getting minor purchase in her immense scales. His prosthetic was particularly useful and he was afraid he was pinching her, but he wasn't going to be riding at the back the whole time.

  "Give it up, Shanol," he called, as soon as he had a lungful of air to speak. "She's not going to."

  "Fisk you, landsman," the orca pulsed. But it had a tinny quality, as if he was panting or on the ragged edge of exhaustion. "I'm the greatest predator in the ocean. I'm not going to die to any damned flying lizard."

  "This flying lizard eats sharks," Herzer said. He'd almost made it up to the collar around Joanna's neck. He finally got a hand on it, then his prosthetic, and gripped like there was no tomorrow. "And she's going to eat you."

  "Not if I can make it to the surface," the orca panted.

  "Gob ya," Joanna said as she bit down on his flailing fluke.

  The orca screamed, no more than ten meters from the air he so desperately needed, but Joanna wasn't letting go. She pulled the thrashing body back and got a talon around his tail, then swam to the surface, hauling him up behind her. She stuck her head out of the water and breathed deeply and rapidly, holding the thrashing orca down.

  "Let me go!" the orca pulsed, blowing air frantically. "Let me get a breath!"

  "Don't think so," Joanna said, turning towards the shore, dragging him backwards. "Sometimes you eat. Sometimes you get et."

  The orca continued to thrash and pulse wildly until, finally, he was still.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  "Now that's just wrong," Antja said.

  Herzer had dragged himself out of the water and ripped the mask off, swearing that he was never, ever going to wear one of the damned things again. Bast, Elayna and Antja were waiting for him on the shore, sitting on a projection of reef that was just above the tideline.

  To one side, Chauncey was ripping huge chunks out of Shedol, holding the body of the orca down with one talon and then lifting the meat skyward to bolt the flesh down his gullet.

  "The ixchitl were Changed humans as well," Bast said.

  "I know, but that's just wrong," Antja exclaimed again.

  "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," Herzer replied. He was lying with his head in Bast's lap but he lifted up to look at Chauncey, then over to where Joanna was starting to feed on Shanol.

  "But if you really think so, you try to get them to stop."

  And he passed out to Bast's delighted chuckle.

  * * *

  "Hi, Daneh," Edmund said, tiredly, as he climbed over the side of the carrier. "You've got some work ahead of you."

  The wounded mer were being hoisted over the side and carried down to the sickbay but Daneh walked to her lover first.

  "You look... worn," she said.

  "I am that," Edmund replied. "Any luck?"

  "Mbeki," she said, shaking her head. "Long, sad story. Later."

  "Do we have enough evidence to convict?" he asked.

  "He's dead," she replied, shaking her head. "Talk to the skipper, I have to get to work."

  * * *

  Joel seriously considered breaking cover to "discuss" some ramifications of his family's "handling" of Commander Mbeki. Not just that a potential double agent was dead. Not just that his family was now in unnecessary danger. But that in the future, doubling agents was going to be that much harder.

  Bottom line, Duke Talbot was a fine soldier but he didn't know shit about intelligence matters. It irked him to realize that this was the case of almost everyone around Sheida. A bigger bunch of Boy Scouts was hard to find.

  He was going to have to have a serious talk with Sheida when he got back.

  In the meantime, one of the officers who had interrogated survivors from the ships let slip that some of the commanders had tried to make it to the nearest island. Rounding them up was a high priority; he might as well get some information out of this debacle.

  Time for another cover to go away. And probably for one Joel Annibale to go, officially, AWOL.

  * * *

  "You took your time getting back, Lieutenant," Edmund said as Herzer climbed over the side of the ship. The general had had time to wash up and change into uniform and it was well after dark. "I thought you'd gone AWOL."

  "I came back on the surface," Herzer admitted. "If I never put one of those masks on again, or see emerald water again, it will be too soon. Dragons belong in the air."

  "Speak for yourself," Joanna replied, hoisting herself over the side to the now familiar heeling of the ship. "I kind of like it down here. Any chance of a permanent posting?"

  "Maybe semipermanent," Edmund replied. "What with the Fleet base, there's no reason that there shouldn't be a dragon weyr as well. But don't get settled in; the main brawl is going to be up north, not down here."

  "Understood, General," the dragon replied with a grin.

  "Antja and Elayna?" he asked.

  "Back with the mer," Herzer replied. "And happy to be there. Shanol and his second in command are well and truly dead."

  "Vickie saw," Edmund replied. "And apparently threw up all over her dragon."

  "And the last five surviving orcas were last seen headed out to sea, trailing blood, and hotly pursued by a group of sharks," Herzer added. "I'd say we won this one, boss."

  "Yes," Edmund said, somberly. "But at a hell of a price. On the other hand, groups of mer from all over the islands are flocking this way, from reports. We always knew that there were more than just the mer at Bruce's village. Apparently having seen, and heard through the delphinos, about the attacks, they've decided that they have to choose sides. And most of them are choosing ours."

  "Mission accomplished," Herzer said, looking out at the blue waters of the Stream. "As to the breakage, that's why they call it war, sir."

  "Herzer, sometimes you are too bloody-minded even for me," Edmund replied. "I understand that there is some medicinal rum aboard. I'm going to go raid the stores. Why don't you wash up and join me in my cabin for some medicating."

  "Sounds good," Herzer replied. "But I'm also going to go find where they hide those captain's crackers. Anything with some damned carbohydrates. A pure fish and fruit diet gets old."

  "Don't tell me," Edmund laughed. "What you'd really kill for is a cheeseburger."

  "Sounds good," Herzer said with a lifted eyebrow. "Why?"

  "Another song I'll have to teach you," Edmund replied. "Probably on our fifth or sixth glass. I've got some bad news, though."

  "What?" Herzer said. "The ixchitl and orcas are dealt with, the mer are safe and part of the Coalition. Rachel is okay?"

  "Rachel's fine," the general replied. "But a dispatch sloop arrived. The bad news is from back home. Harzburg has flipped to New Destiny. The little army you trained is now on the other side."

  "Son of a bitch," Herzer muttered. "Son of a fisking bitch. Those bastards."

  "Yep," Edmund said, shrugging. "I think they're going to get a sharp lesson in why you don't piss off the Blood Lords. Especially with fire-dropping dragons backing them up. Especially since they're pressuring Balmoran, militarily, to switch sides as well. Balmoran has, officially, requested Federal support. So... pack your bags."

  "Well," Herzer said, tossing the mask to the deck and looking around at the ship and thinking about the last few days. "At least I got my Caribbean vacation. Sun, surf, hot women. And, okay, some emerald seas. It'll have to do. Now, you said something about rum?"

  EPILOGUE

  Martin waved the remnan
ts of his pants back and forth on the stick, trying to attract the attention of the passing boat. It was a small craft, no more than three or four meters in length, with a dirty, patched triangular sail. The man at the tiller had been looking shoreward and turned the boat inshore in a controlled jibe, bringing the boom in and then turning to bring the north wind across the rear of the boat.

  Martin had been subsisting for the last two weeks on brackish water found in pools and whatever looked mildly edible along the shoreline. He'd managed to make it to land with his knife, his sorely depleted money pouch, a tinderbox and his clothes. Over the time he had gotten first burnt and then blackened by the sun.

  The islander was, if anything, darker, almost a true negro black for all his features were the motley polyglot that was common these days. He was tall and had a fair growth of beard, although it looked like a new addition.

  "Hello," Martin called as the skiff ran up on the shore. He seized the bow and pulled it farther in as the islander sat in the stern and looked at him.

  "Didn' need to do that, mon," the man called. "Push ee back off. I'd guess you want to be get someplace else and I've fishing to do."

  "Okay," Martin said, pushing the boat back into deeper water and scrambling aboard. The fisherman expertly brought the stern around and set the sail and the boat skipped back towards the distant reef.

  "Man, am I glad you came along," Martin explained. "Got any water?"

  "Jug at your feet, mon," the islander said. "The rounder gourd dere. The tall one's me rum. Thomas don't be sharing his rum wit' any old castaway."

  The bottom of the boat was half full of empty baskets made of woven palm fronds. But by the mast were two stoppered gourds, one of them much rounder than the other.

  "Well, thank you for the water, Thomas," Martin said, taking a solid slug but leaving plenty in the jug. "The packet I was traveling on sank off-shore four weeks ago. I've been trying to signal someone to stop ever since."

  "Don't many be coming this far south," Thomas replied easily. "Plenty of fishing up thee coast. But Thomas he likes it down here. Plenty of good big fish, plenty of hogfish on the reef. Thomas, he like hogfish."

  "Never had it," Martin replied, leaning back against the side of the boat. The sun was beating down and it was positively hot. Of course, a couple of times in the last week the wind had been downright vicious at night. He'd made a miserable job of weaving some palm fronds for cover, but they weren't much against the wind. He'd take the heat.

  "Be grabbin' the boat hook, mon," Thomas said after about a half an hour. "Be pickin' up the gourd in the water."

  Martin found what was probably the boat hook, a solid pole of wood with a withy on the end bound into a crook by what looked like tree bark. The boat was rapidly approaching a floating gourd and Martin, after an initial hook that missed, pulled it over the side. The gourd had a rope tied around its narrow end and Thomas came forward, dropping the sail onto the deck with an expert twist of the halyard and grabbing the rope.

  "Thomas will pull," Thomas said, pulling in the rope hand over hand. "You be yankin' out the fish."

  As the rope ascended it was clear it was attached to a net. As soon as the net cleared the bulwark Martin saw his first fish. The fish, about twice as long as his hand, had a whitish body with a blue stripe and a bright yellow tail. Its head was caught in the openings of the net by the gills. Martin grabbed it and tried to pull it out backwards but the gills were firmly caught. The whole time he was wrestling with it, Thomas continued to pull in the net.

  "Pull it through, mon," Thomas said, somewhat angrily. "It small enough."

  Over the next hour, or so it seemed, Martin pulled one fish after another out of the gill net. Thomas slowly told him what they were; the yellow-tailed ones were snapper as was a red-colored one. Hogfish had three tall spines on their back. There were at least three kinds of grouper. Scamp, bar jack, after a while he stopped trying to memorize them.

  Finally they were done with the net, the fish in one of the baskets and the net piled untidily in the bottom.

  "Thomas could have done it nearly as fast without help," the sailor grumped, raising the sail and setting the boat into motion.

  "Hey," Martin said, slumping in the bottom of the boat and looking at the direction they were going. "Isn't that north?" He pointed to the rear.

  "Thomas don't have just one net, mon," the captain chuckled.

  Thomas, in fact, had five nets out, and it was very near dark before they turned to the north. Martin was exhausted, and all he had done was pull the fish out. His hands were covered in fish slime, and no matter how many times he washed them over the side they didn't seem to come clean. For that matter, most of his body was covered in one sort of filth or another. And he had been badly stung by some sort of jellyfish.

  This was for the birds. He loved work, he could watch it all day, but this was just ridiculous.

  The sun set fast and the tropical night was as black as pitch. The stars overhead shone down clearly, but at the surface of the sea it was like being in a cave. But the wake of the boat was filled with green phosphorescence. It was so bright, Martin swore he could see by it.

  The captain was a barely glimpsed figure at the rear of the skiff and Martin couldn't for the life of him figure out how he could see.

  "You know where you're going?" Martin asked.

  "Oh, yeah, mon," Thomas replied. "You just be lying back. Thomas get us home safe and sound."

  He had enough in his pouch to pay his way to the mainland. Once he was there, well, something would come up. It always did. With that thought, Martin lay back and looked at the stars until he fell asleep.

  The change in motion of the boat woke him and he rolled over, stiff from lying on the bottom of the skiff. They were entering a harbor that could be dimly glimpsed by the light of occasional torches and lanterns. There was a rough stone dock but the boat headed for a low shoreline. As it grounded, Martin got out stiffly and grabbed a painter, pulling the boat up onto the shore as far as he could go.

  "How did it go?" a voice said from out of the darkness.

  "Rather well."

  "Thomas" replied in a much more cultured tone. "Duke Edmund Talbot, meet John James the Third, aka Martin Johns, aka Martin St. John, aka... well I won't do the whole list."

  Martin darted away from the voice on the shore and into the darkness. He had covered three steps when he ran into a metal-covered mass that picked him up by his hair until his feet dangled off the ground. His eyes immediately filled with tears of pain and he found himself still trying to run in place. It had been a really bad day.

  "What you want I should do with him, boss?" the metal-clad figure asked grimly. The muscle-bound moron was apparently supporting Martin's full weight with one extended arm. Effortlessly. At that, Martin quit trying to run. Fighting had been out of the question all along.

  "Oh, don't harm him, Herzer," Talbot chuckled out of the darkness. "There are so many things we want to ask him."

  Author's Afterword

  I've gotten into the habit of these; I really need to start breaking it. But I thought that a few items in this book needed attention.

  I had too much fun writing this novel, in case it's not clear. My normal "output" is something on the order of a thousand words a day, when I'm "cooking." At times I was writing ten or, once, eighteen thousand a day on this novel. The underwater sequences, in particular, practically wrote themselves. Eight hundred hours of "down time" (last time I bothered to update my log, which was in the early '90s) will do that for you; blood really is emerald green at about sixty feet and turns black as you go deeper. And the Blackbeard trip to the Bahamas last January certainly didn't hurt. Indeed, it was on the deck of the sloop that the basic outline of the book came together. Then there are the dragons.

  I've never really been interested in dragons; I'm certainly not one of those people who go around with an online persona of one. In fact, to the extent that I have an online persona it is "DaGiN" which stand
s for "Da Guy in Nomex." I have to wear Nomex because I like to bait the online dragons. (And, yes, that's what the rabbit was wearing. Asbestos, actually.)

  But I'd evolved the idea of what was first called "The Caves of the Mer-folk" and as it developed in the back of my mind, dragons became more and more integral to the story. I've had many problems with fantasy dragons over the years and it gave me a chance to point out some of the unlikelihoods. At the same time, I'm of the opinion that almost nothing is unbuildable that mankind can envision. And, someday, someone is going to genegineer a dragon. Count on it. And it'll probably be Disney. Take a close look at the pictures around their "Safari" attraction if you don't believe me. Disney thinks big.

  But they are still going to be constrained by the problems of aerodynamics and biology. Birds of prey are the closest current analogue to dragons (indeed, they will probably be the template for them when they are created, as they were for the wyverns in this book) and birds of prey have to eat an enormous amount of food, relative to their body weight. Given the much greater size of flying dragons, they are going to be a logistic nightmare if used militarily and I strongly doubt that they would be able to survive in the wild. Not to mention that muscle and bone will not permit the stresses involved in normal flight for such enormous wings. Build up the bone too much and the wing is too heavy. Etc. So they'll have to have some very artificial materials involved, such as the "biologically extruded carbon nanotube." And if you can figure out how that works, call Dupont and they'll make you a billionaire.