Rising Tides

by Taylor Anderson

  “A ‘Hij’ switch,” Garrett said thoughtfully. “You know, there’s a precedent for that.” The others looked at him. “Lawrence himself,” he said. “Remember his story? He told how he was ‘raised’ on an island separate from ‘Tagranesi’ society, where he and all his young lizard buddies just ran loose for a while. He didn’t know how long. All they had was a kind of cadre of instructors or mentors to keep them in line and teach them stuff and try to guide them out of savagery. Their final exam was a trip to some other scary island where they faced their primal fears and learned self-sufficiency.” He shook his head. “He never would talk about it.”

  “I have heard Mister Braad-furd propose a similar theory,” Rolak said, “but you present it in a . . . more understandable way.”

  Garrett grinned, and for a moment he looked like a kid again instead of the experienced Naval officer he’d become. “Well,” he admitted, “Courtney did influence my thinking. He probably has the whole thing in his head, but it can be tough to keep up with what he’s saying sometimes.” Everyone laughed at that.

  “He does tend to tack back and forth,” Rolak agreed. “A brilliant mind, but there may perhaps be too much in it at once, on occasion.” There was more laughter at Rolak’s tact.

  “Okay, so we call it ‘the Hij switch.’ I don’t care,” Alden continued, relentlessly returning to the subject at hand. “My point is, we can’t ignore it. That makes things even spookier if you ask me. Bad enough that a Hij captain or colonel or whatever they are might have reached Rangoon with a coherent report of the tactics we used to seize Singapore. Add in some wild Griks that might’ve flipped their switch. If they’re not killing ’em anymore, what if they just throw ’em back in the pool with a bunch of regular Griks? That might be bad enough, but what if a Hij general actually listens to ’em? They might wind up with a lot more insight about us than we have about them, and we’d be right back at square one again.”

  Commodore Ellis leaned forward. “You’re right,” he agreed reluctantly. “That is a spooky thought. So far, they’ve always had numbers on their side, but their inflexibility and predictability has been their greatest weakness, while our flexibility and initiative has been our greatest strength. We’ve never been more than a step or two ahead of them technologically—the Japs see to that—and there’s no reason to think any advantage we have now will last very long. That’s been my reason to keep pushing as hard and fast as we can.” He interlaced his fingers on the table before him. “But. Right now we’re in kind of a holding pattern. We’re consolidating our position here on Andaman.” He paused. “Ought to call it something else,” he said absently. “On our world, this one big island was several smaller ones that used to be, basically, a British prison.” He shook his head and went on. “Anyway, we’re building fortifications and warehouses and generally setting up shop, but we’re not really pushing just now. We don’t have the forces to move on Ceylon yet, not until Big Sal and the other new ships and troops join the fleet. The whole show’ll be Keje’s after that.” He sighed. “You know, it’s tempting to leave him with it. I always wanted the Navy for a career and dreamed of being an admiral. Now I’m not so sure. It’s a lot easier to command a ship and fight her than send others out to do it.”

  “You’ve already proven you can fight a ship superbly,” Safir said quietly.

  “Yeah, if you don’t count losing her in the end,” he said with a brittle, false cheerfulness, “and I didn’t do too well at first. I had a good teacher.”

  “We all did, Jim,” Garrett reminded him. He scratched his chin, looking at the map. “I’ve got to say that Pete’s convinced me, though. We’re just spinning our wheels, aside from stomping on the occasional Grik supply ship. Not many of those anymore. I think they’ve finally figured out that somebody’s beating up the mailman. We can’t move on Ceylon until the rest of the fleet arrives, but we can do something about Pete’s nest of snakes. If we leave them alone too long, maybe they will just wither on the vine, but they might cook up something behind us instead.”

  Jim Ellis looked around the cabin at his commanders. Not all were present, of course, but these represented everyone. Pete still stood beside the map, but the rest were nodding, as if to themselves.

  “Okay,” Jim said. “We’ll do Rangoon. I never really wanted to leave it for Keje to deal with, and you’ve presented good arguments. Actually, I have another, maybe even better, one. We’ve developed a lot of new tactics and equipment since Singapore. Not everybody has ’em yet, but this’ll be our first action with the new muskets in any numbers. I also hope, if Keje gets close enough by the time we’re ready, we might use a little of his ‘air.’ We might need this to work some of the bugs out of things before we hit something like Ceylon. That’s going to be the biggest thing we’ve ever done, and I’d personally like to be confident that everything works like we hope it will before we jump in with both feet.” He looked at Pete. “This’ll have to be different from Operation Singapore Swing. We need a lot more than a raid, but we don’t want to get ‘stuck in,’ if you know what I mean. We don’t need the territory right now.”

  “Yes, Commodore,” General Alden replied. The relaxed discussion among friends was over. “It just so happens that I’ve been working on a plan.” There were a few chuckles. “Again,” he continued, “owing to the somewhat different topography we often encounter . . . here . . . the depot, outpost, fortress, or whatever they call it that we’ve been referring to as Rangoon isn’t exactly where the ‘old’ Rangoon was. The main river empties out a little farther down the coast, closer to what we’d call Kynonkadun. Weird, I know, but that’s where they are and it’s a pretty good anchorage. The problem we ran into with Singapore was that we just assumed the strait would block the enemy from escaping—not that we were that worried about it at the time. Trouble was, while the strait’s still there, it’s narrower than it ought to be, due to lower sea levels, but it’s also deeper, cut out by a hell of a tidal rush. Turned out there wasn’t a causeway, but they’d strung barges across for their hunting parties and such.”

  “But what does that have to do with Raan-goon?” Rolak asked.

  “Just this: this time, we don’t want any of the bastards getting away.”

  Garrett whistled. “Tough fighting.”

  “Maybe. Definitely at first, as always, but my . . .” He paused. “Well, my spies say we might actually have them outnumbered this time. If we can sneak upriver, land, and then push them south, they’ll only have two places to go—the sea, or that nasty, swampy country west across the mouths of the Irrawaddy.”

  “What is that?” Safir asked.

  “A maze of tributaries that open into the Western Ocean,” Jim explained.

  “Are they still there . . . here?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jim. “Before I sent Chapelle and Tolson to join Mr. Mallory’s expedition to Chill-chaap, he cruised off the Burma shore to map it and see if we wanted Rangoon. That’s when he discovered the Grik outpost. He said the place was a primordial, miserable, swampy hell with, quote, ‘absolutely Gi-Goddamn-Gantic brontasarry-like things romping in the shallows.’ ” He stopped and looked at Pete and Garrett. “Our first look at continental creatures,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Well, we’d already ‘taken possession’ of Andaman and confirmed Port Blair was still a decent anchorage, but with water shallow enough to keep the mountain fish away. It didn’t take a lot of thought. Disease-ridden swamp, full of God knows what, swarming with Grik, or beautiful tropical island with white sandy beaches. There’s a few weird critters here, and lots of gri-kakka in the channel, but plenty of room and, for some reason, no Grik.”

  “But these ‘trib-u-taaries’ are still there?” Safir asked again.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry if I didn’t answer your question clearly. My point was that they are, and they’re even worse than they ‘ought’ to be. More of them, worse terrain, and full of scary monsters even the Grik can’t relish tangling with.”

  “Good,” Safi
r Maraan replied with satisfaction. “It sounds like an excellent place to drive them!”

  Rolak looked at her. “Yes, and a dreadful place to chase them. Do not let yourself grow overenthusiastic, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Baalkpan

  Alan Letts, redheaded, with fair, peeling skin, stood up from behind Matt’s desk in the “War Room” office of the Great Hall when Adar swept into the chamber. Perry Brister and Steve Riggs also stood from their stools and faced the High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalk- pan, and chairman of the Grand Alliance. Despite his new, exalted status, Adar still wore only the trappings of his previous occupation: a hooded purple robe with silver stars embroidered across the shoulders. It was the vestment of a Sky Priest of Salissa Home, or Big Sal, as the Americans had practically rechristened her. A Sky Priest was all Adar had ever wanted to be, but like everyone, his American friends in particular, he’d been forced to become much, much more.

  “Your Excellency!” the three men chorused.

  “This is certainly an unexpected pleasure, sir,” Letts continued. “What can we do for you today?”

  “First, you may cease calling me ‘Excellency,’ ” Adar grumbled, blinking frustration. “I don’t feel particularly ‘excellent’ at anything these days.” He stepped to a more traditional Lemurian cushion in a corner of the room and collapsed tiredly upon it. “If you simply must call me something official, I assure you ‘Mr. Chairman’ is sufficiently lofty and undeserved to spoil my appetite, but it does not imply that I have actually accomplished anything.”

  “You’ve accomplished a great deal, sir,” Riggs assured him. “A lot more than anyone else could have, guaranteed.”

  Adar waved his hand. “Captain Reddy did most of the ‘accomplishing,’ I’m afraid. I am merely a ’Cat wrangler.” He chuckled. “What a delightful term! I have never seen one of these small cats that inspired your diminutive of my people, but I gather from descriptions that, in addition to a barely measurable level of intelligence, they are extremely independent, maniacally self-centered, and virtually incapable of concerted action. Not so?”

  Letts, Riggs, and Brister couldn’t help chuckling in reply. “I assure you, Mr. Chairman, the diminutive was never meant as an insult, but you know that. It had more to do with what your people looked like to us than how they act.”

  “Well, then,” Adar said, “imagine how coincidental it seems to me to discover how like your ‘cats’ my people actually are!”

  “More trouble in the Allied Council?” Brister asked.

  Adar sighed and his ears flicked back irritably. “Of course. What else? More and more of the ‘runaways’ return all the time, now that it is ‘safe,’ and they somehow manage to get themselves selected to the People’s Assembly of Baalkpan regardless of their past behavior. They are but an irritating minority for now, and have no real voice, but our allies fear they may subvert Baalkpan’s commitment to the cause.” He shook his head and blinked again in a series most of the humans had learned represented reluctant acceptance. “The People do grow weary of war and all the demands it makes upon them. When we fought here, to defend our Home, the war was much easier for them to understand. But now we are raising and equipping armies and navies for expeditionary campaigns. You would think that would reassure them, but all it does is make them feel that the war has become distant enough for them to safely ignore it.”

  Adar had learned enough about human face moving to recognize the concern his words brought, and he raised a placating hand. “Oh, don’t worry. I apologize if I have alarmed you unduly. As I said, the elements that believe thus are still few, but the longer it takes to defeat the Grik, the more difficult that task becomes—not only militarily but politically.” He sighed again. “That filthy Billingsley creature could not have struck at a worse strategic time. He caused us to divert Captain Reddy and Walker—two of our most precious assets—in an entirely different direction. I do not begrudge the mission they have undertaken. I still blame myself for its necessity. I also believe it may be essential for our long-term success. I just can’t help thinking, however, that it has delayed our offensive in the West.”

  “So,” Letts asked carefully, “why exactly have you come here? Is there something you’d have us do differently?”

  Adar chuckled. “Of course not! This little room is part of my residence after all, but it is the one room that is secure from office- and favor-seekers and petty, self-interested functionaries.”

  “Like Laney used to do,” Riggs said, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, yes,” Adar confirmed, “but he was not the only one, nor the worst. He sought advancement, but he did contribute to the greater good in his own way. He still does. He may even be happier on this trip with Major Mallory.” There were chuckles. Riggs would certainly be happier without Laney and Chief Electrician’s Mate Ronson Rodriguez feuding over resources and personnel all the time. With Spanky gone, Riggs had been feeling singularly picked on. “No, it is the others,” Adar continued, actually showing his sharp white teeth in a grin, “that have sent me scurrying here to hide among trusted friends!”

  When the relieved laughter died down, Adar asked a serious question. “So, what is the latest news? I assume Mr. Riggs has brought you the most recent communications?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Letts replied. “We were just going over the message forms. Do you want east or west first?”

  “I admit I am most anxious to hear the latest from Captain Reddy,” Adar replied.

  “Very well. As you know, Walker, Achilles, and their ‘prizes’ safely arrived at an uncharted atoll. They’re completing repairs. Captain Reddy says he has sufficient fuel to reach Respite; that’s the first Imperial possession they’re heading for. We have the coordinates and he intends to await the arrival of the squadron of tankers Saan-Kakja has dispatched before pushing on into the heart of the Empire. That squadron is making good progress, by the way, and should reach Respite within a month of the Skipper. They’re taking a more direct, northerly route, and should be able to expand the search for Ajax, in case she stopped anywhere along the way.” He frowned. “The Skipper hasn’t seen any sign of her yet and assumes she’s still ahead of them. Anyway, the Y guns are scaring off the mountain fish, and the big brutes haven’t been much of a problem for the tankers. I wish we had something better because I still worry about nighttime encounters and the crews have to be able to see the devils before Y guns can do any good.” He shrugged.

  “Our communications with Lieutenant Laumer on Talaud Island are still intermittent, even though they’ve got a new transmitter up and running.” He shook his head. “It’s got to be atmospheric interference from that damn volcano they’re sitting on top of. Laumer’s still confident they can get that old sub off the beach, but as much as I’d like to have it, I almost wish Captain Reddy would order Laumer and his people out of there.” He looked at Adar. “Maybe you should do it,” he suggested hesitantly.

  Adar shook his head. “I will not second-guess Captain Reddy or Lieutenant Laumer. Mr. Laumer is ‘on the spot,’ as you would say, and believes he can accomplish his task. Captain Reddy must trust his judgment or he would have ordered him to abandon the project. I too worry about Mr. Laumer and his people. The smoking mountain on Talaud Island has long been known to be irritable, but when the world grumbles, not even Sky Priests can divine the reasons for its complaint. Apparently Talaud is complaining most bitterly about something, but there is no way to tell what it will do. It might return to sleep as it has often done, or it might bellow its rage as the scrolls record it has also done before. Mr. Laumer is there. He must decide.”

  He leaned forward. “Now, tell me what Colonel Shinya has to report. How go things in Maa-ni-la?”

  “Swell,” Letts said. “As you know, the first thing he did when he got there was turn that goof ball Jap, Commander Okada, loose, and see to it he had passage to Honshu—you know, Jaapan?”

  “I still do not understand why he wanted to go there,”
Adar said. “He could have been of much assistance had he chosen.”

  “No telling,” Riggs replied. “He did tell us quite a lot about the Grik and that damn Kurokawa. A hell of a lot more than we would’ve known otherwise. Shinya’s a Jap too, but he’s gotten to know us. He’s a friend. He also spent time in the U.S. before the war, in California, so he might be more prune picker than Jap nowadays, anyway.”

  “I doubt that,” Brister said. “But he’s a good guy, and he isn’t nuts. He knows what this fight is about. Okada just doesn’t seem to get it. Shinya said he even recruited some oddball ’Cats and started teaching them a bunch of crazy samurai stuff!”

  Letts sighed. “Not much we can do about that, and according to Shinya, it’s probably not a bad idea. The Fil-pin colonists on Honshu aren’t soldiers. There are some pretty strange creatures there that can be really dangerous. That’s where the me-naaks, or ‘meanies’ originally come from, as I understand it, and there’s a lot worse stuff there too. Manila has always had trouble getting folks to move there. They actually need soldiers, and who knows? If a Grik probe or scout ever penetrated that far . . .”

  “Yeah,” agreed Brister, “and besides, it gives us a place to ship the Jap prisoners we ‘rescued’ from the Grik on Singapore. A couple of them want to help us out, and that’s swell, but what were we going to do with the other ones? I don’t think Okada’ll rebuild the Japanese Empire with a handful of Japs and a few kooky ’Cats.”

  “I’m sure you are right,” Adar said. “I hope they may find happiness there. But what else has our illustrious Colonel Shinya been up to?”

  “Training Saan-Kakja’s army, mostly. We left a few Marines to begin the process before we went looking for the sub in the first place, and judging by the quality of the troops Saan-Kakja has already sent, they’ve done a pretty good job with the basics. Shinya’s been training them in larger unit tactics so they’ll be more prepared to step right into line as fully formed, independent regiments once they get here. That’s what’s taken the most time in the past; they show up with excellent basic infantry skills such as those we’ve taught our own troops, but their officers and NCOs don’t have any experience. In other words, Shinya’s trying to teach them all the stuff we’ve had to learn the hard way.”