Only the flanks were open and they surged east and west, trampling one another in their haste to escape. Hundreds, maybe thousands died, crushed or savaged under the thundering weight of tens of thousands and the razor-sharp claws on their feet. Those flowing east, away from the fight, were forgotten. Those fleeing west were pursued with a relentless, murderous vigor. General Laan’s me-naak-mounted scouts and the guards surrounding him—fewer than a hundred—pursued as well, smashing through any groups that tried to reorganize, hacking Grik from behind with cutlasses or shooting them with carbines. It was a slaughter. And though far more escaped than died, they became terrified fugitives, lost or hiding in the storm.
“There you are at last, General Laan!” Courtney gasped, leaning over to support himself with his knees, hands still grasping the Krag he hadn’t even fired. Several Gentaa stood around him, weapons raised, eyes questing for threats. Laan and Mu-Tai had reined their animals and stared, neither speaking, not recognizing the aged, muddy warrior confronting them. Even Laan, who knew Courtney well, could be forgiven that. The Australian’s beard would be new to him, as would the setting. Chack and Silva had seen Courtney fight, but only those in the Army of the Republic had ever seen him on a battlefield. He smiled and stood. “Well done! Well done indeed!” He peered at the me-naak Laan rode. It was munching a Grik, limbs dangling from its jaws. An arm fell to the ground and splashed in the mud as it chewed distractedly, seeming to regard Courtney as a potential second serving. Courtney didn’t care. “Such a lovely mount you have,” he praised. “I’ve always admired me-naaks.” He blinked as the beast swallowed, then nosed the mud for the dropped morsel. “I doubt our departed opponents can say the same,” he added gleefully, glancing at the rider by Laan’s side. “And you must be General Mu-Tai! I applaud you, sir, and your Austraalans. I’m from your land myself, you see—on another world, of course—but have a . . . nostalgic fondness for you and your troops regardless. Especially now!”
“Courtney Braadford!” Laan suddenly blurted as recognition struck.
“Gener-aal Braadford,” Bekiaa stressed a little haughtily, striding through the corpses to stand at his side. Optio Meek and two more Gentaa followed. It seemed protecting leaders they respected was part of the new role Gentaa had taken upon themselves. “He commaands this Provisional Corps of the Aarmy of the Republic. An’ he’s still Aambaassador to Kaiser Nig-Taak.”
“Really?” Mu-Tai replied, blinking an elevated appraisal. “We’ve not met, Gener-aal Braadford, but your reputation in other pursuits precedes you. I haadn’t expected to meet you here, like this.”
“Nor I,” agreed Laan.
Courtney smiled fondly at Bekiaa. “I’m no general,” he replied, looking back at Laan. “If there is one here, it’s her,” he proclaimed, patting Bekiaa’s shoulder. She hid a wince. They’d suffered amazingly few casualties in the assault, though many were probably now so exhausted they might as well have been badly wounded. On the other hand, she’d taken a painful jab from a bayonet in the back of her shoulder, by someone charging behind her! She wondered how many were seriously hurt or killed by accidents like that. Courtney regarded the two generals once more and his expression turned earnest. “What news?”
“All goes as close to the plaan as maay be expected, except Gener-aal Aalden’s advaance haas staalled.” Laan shrugged and flicked his tail. “I feared as much, since his primary objective was to draaw so maany Grik away from us onto himself. I’ve dispatched Third Corps and all my caav-alry to strike the enemy reinforcements from behind, even as they attempt to hit First and Sixth Corps on the flaank.” He shook his head. “I fear it won’t be enough. We all must turn to join Third Corps!”
Bekiaa was speechless, and Bradford could only shake his head. “General Kim’s heavily engaged to the west”—he gestured vaguely around—“and I fear this force is spent. It’s entirely exhausted, sir, and virtually out of ammunition. It must rest and resupply or half’ll drop before they even see another Grik.”
“Aammunition for your rifles and aartillery haas been maassing at our beachhead and is coming behind us in paalka-drawn waagons. There’s plenty for those you have left, fit to fight. The unfit and wounded caan guard this position and the enemy aartillery we captured.”
“There’s a point to this?” Prefect Bele asked, moving up to join them. He alone looked like he could march another twenty miles and fight a battle at the end, but he spoke for troops who’d been marching and fighting nonstop. “A reason to push these legions past endurance? We can’t catch Third Corps before it attacks.”
“More thaan likely not,” Laan agreed. “And it, like First and Sixth Corps, may be overwhelmed. But the point is, even if thaat’s so, we’ll then attaack those that shaattered them. We caan hold nothing baack for later. If we don’t destroy all enemy forces in front of Aalden entirely, tonight, ‘later’ will haave no importance!”
That seemed to satisfy Bele, and he looked to Bekiaa.
“But . . . what of Gener-aal Kim?” Bekiaa asked. “We caan’t just leave, expose his flaank!”
Courtney was stroking his soggy beard. “What’s left to threaten it, my dear?” he asked. She started to respond, then stopped.
“Send . . .” Laan paused and took an impatient breath. “I aask thaat you’ll send couriers to Gener-aal Kim. Tell him aammunition’s on its way, and all he needs do now is hold the enemy in front of him. If he caan spare any legions to join us as we maarch paast his baattle, they may turn the tide.” Laan blinked determination and his voice hardened. “And one way or another, the tide is turning.” He blinked regret at them all. “I know you’re tired. We all are. But there caan be no rest until this baattle’s done. We caan rest forever when we’re dead.”
Courtney nodded slowly, resignedly, eyes taking in the reeling mob drawing around, many supporting others, to hear what lay in store. But Courtney saw only the physical: the wounded and bone-weary standing among the dead. “You’re right, of course,” he told Laan, then raised his voice. “The wounded and those who simply can’t go on will remain here. Colonel Naaris will organize you and take command. The rest . . .” He smiled sadly.
“No,” Bekiaa said sternly, shaking her head, and Courtney looked at her with surprise. “Only the wounded and enough to protect them stay. Col-nol Naaris will provide a number and he will choose.” She glanced at Bele. Unlike Courtney, she and Bele had the experience to see beyond the physical and knew their legions had the heart for more. He nodded back. Optio Meek was looking at Bekiaa and saw her sigh. “Gener-aal Laan’s right,” she growled. “However haard it is, we must go on. We caan smaash the Grik tonight—or they’ll smaash us all tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 38
////// USNRS Salissa
At the mouth of the Zambezi River
Git yerself inside this instant, ye hear?” Diania scolded Sandra Reddy harshly, calling through a doorway in the side of USNRS Salissa’s vast Admiral’s Suite at the base of the huge Home-turned-carrier’s island superstructure. Diania’s tone wasn’t natural to her, especially when addressing Sandra, but was born of angry disbelief when she saw her very pregnant friend standing out in the violent, wind-whipped rain. She wasn’t utterly exposed, only a couple of steps out by the starboard rail, and would’ve ordinarily been protected by the deck above where a couple of Salissa’s DP 4″-50s were mounted, but this wasn’t an ordinary rain. She’d been out there only several minutes and was already soaked to the bone.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Sandra protested mildly, staring upriver at . . . nothing; near-utter blackness except for the harsh, rippling lightning probing inexorably inland. Closer by, more lightning lit Salissa’s escorts, bounding at their long anchor chains and cables in the rough shallows. A couple of heavy haulers had even moored themselves to Big Sal’s and Madras’s comparatively immovable forms when their anchors wouldn’t hold on the silty bottom. A few lights flickered onshore to the south, lamps burnin
g in the big new hangars and other structures they’d raised around Arracca Field, but the lightning also showed them whipping canvas and the flying apparitions of entire shelters. The tent city of Camp Simy would be scattered for miles by dawn.
A lot of planes were taking a beating as well. Big Sal and Madras had recovered as many as they could after their last sortie, but it grew too windy. Fully half their Mosquito Hawks were out there on the field, secured to long spikes driven in the ground by spiderwebs of padded ropes. A few Nancys had been pulled ashore and secured in similar fashion, but less could be done for others moored to the docks. Diania expected many would beat themselves to pieces.
She also knew Sandra saw none of that, however. She was watching something entirely different in her mind. Almost everyone she cared about was fighting for his or her life out there: Courtney Bradford and Bekiaa-Sab-At with the Repubs, Pete, Rolak, and so many more pushing out of the perimeter. Then there were Chack, Silva, Lawrence, Galay, and all of Chack’s Brigade, cut off at Old Sofesshk. And of course there was the fleet, and Second Corps, and Safir Maraan . . . and Matthew Reddy. Sandra had been part of so many desperate battles, often at her husband’s side, she knew exactly what was happening, what they were all going through amid the roaring gunsmoke, blood, and fear. It terrified her as much as anyone, of course, but the torture of not being there now was worse.
Ignoring Sandra’s protests, Diania ushered her back inside the starboard fraction of what was once Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar’s Great Hall. What remained was still big enough to accommodate comfortable apartments for Keje’s high-ranking visitors and personal guests, with plenty of space left for a large, ornately carved and painted conference room. That’s what Sandra had wandered out from, unnoticed in the chaotic bustle inside, and the door had been lashed open so the Sky Priests consulting with Keje and his officers could “feel” the storm.
Keje himself broke away from the others, calling for blankets and hot tea. Taking a blanket from an orderly, he draped it around Sandra’s shoulders. Almost instantly, Petey launched himself across the compartment and landed on Sandra’s shoulder. He started to settle in, but looked accusingly at her soggy hair. “Wet!” he screeched. “Goddamn! Eat!” he demanded, as if she owed him food for disordering his favorite perch.
“Whaat’s this nonsense?” Keje demanded softly, ignoring the colorful, feathery reptile. “You caan do no one any good if you don’t take care of yourself.” He blinked significantly at her distended belly. “And your youngling.”
Sandra suddenly hugged the barrel-chested Lemurian, dampening his white tunic. “I know. I just feel so damned . . . useless!”
Keje patted her. “As do we all.” He raised her chin so she would look into his large, rust-colored eyes. “But you’ve proven time and again you’re not useless. Far from it.” He nodded at the storm outside. “And we won’t be much longer. Unlikely as it seems, this is only the periphery of a relaa-tively mild strakka, and the Sky Priests agree it’s not only picking up speed at laast, but the center—the eye—will stay in the Go Away Strait. It may laand to the north, which will necessitate Col-nol Maallory and Jumbo Fisher moving their Clippers again”—they’d already pulled them back to the Comoros Islands—“or it may even circle baack around and hit Grik City on Maada-gaas-gar, but it shouldn’t trouble us here paast tomorrow. Then we’ll haave something to do again,” he added firmly.
“You will,” Sandra grumped, turning back toward the outside doorway, clutching her abdomen with both hands and wincing.
“Are ye all right?” Diania asked, concerned.
Sandra’s brow furrowed. With so much going on, it was pointless and selfish to go on about how the tension was killing her and how miserable she felt—especially when the absolute worst thing was that she felt like she needed to pee all the time and couldn’t. “I’m fine,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Just really tired.” She gazed out through the doorway toward Arracca Field, seeing little but the racing blasts of blue-white lightning. Suddenly, though, there was an orange flash near the airstrip, followed quickly by another. Her first thought was that lightning had hit some planes, and it was clearly planes that exploded: burning wings and other debris scattering quickly downwind. Then she gasped as a third plane went up, and a fourth. “Keje!” she cried, just as half a dozen more fighters around the airfield exploded almost simultaneously.
“Shit!” Petey agreed, equally surprised.
* * *
* * *
The First of One Hundred commanding the troop of First General Esshk’s Dorrighsti, or Dark Hunters, didn’t have a name. He’d never earned one. Leading the hundred Grik infiltrators around the large herbivores (and beasts that hunted them), through the tall grass prairie surrounding the place where the prey’s flying machines roosted, was his very first assignment. Armed only with traditional spears and swords—they’d never been taught to fire garraks and couldn’t have used the loud, attention-drawing muskets anyway—they’d hidden in gullies during the day, pulling grasses over them, and traveled only at night, as they’d been trained. Still, for them, the storm must’ve been sent by the Vanished Gods themselves, because not only was the roost normally heavily guarded, day and night, but the flying machines themselves might spot them in the sunlight, even concealed. They’d been forced to watch from a distance as time crawled by, subsisting on muddy water in near-dry creeks, whatever creatures they could catch at night, and eventually, two of their own party the First chose at random. Their primary burdens would be carried by others.
Then the storm came and the First knew their chance was at hand. I will have a name after this, he exulted, perhaps bestowed by First General Esshk himself! Idly, he touched the black and red slash marks painted on his armor. The Dorrighsti were as Esshk’s own hatchlings—he’d told them so himself—created to obey him alone. The majority resided in Old Sofesshk, posing as garrison troops, and had been commanded not to distinguish themselves from other New Army soldiers. But the slash marks identified them to each other, showing them who they could really trust and work with, and all knew who their lord truly was.
Even so, from the perspective of his deliberately limited worldview, the First rather looked down on those relegated to garrison duty. They’d been given more tedious instruction in other things and invariably looked down on his hundred, but as far as he was concerned, they were merely guarders of things, not really hunters. More specifically, most were safe in Old Sofesshk, doing absolutely nothing that he knew of, while he was here with his hundred—ninety-eight, now—about to earn his name.
Carefully, he raised his head above the whipping, stinging grass, eyes blinking constantly to clear the rain. A healthy respect for the vision of their prey had been lashed into them, as had a need for stealth beyond anything most hunters were taught anymore. But the storm had made everything almost ridiculously easy, and they’d crept closer and closer to the lightning-illuminated sharpened stakes forming a loose barricade around the perimeter of the roost. The stakes were intended only to discourage large animals and the First’s troops could easily pass between them two abreast. More important now, however, the lightning also revealed that the storm must’ve driven most of the guarders of this place under the shelter of some low-slung shacks placed at widely spaced intervals. The First could see only a couple, trudging dejectedly through the rain, tails low, garraks slung muzzle down, probably staring at the muddy ground in front of their feet. A primal exhilaration seized him.
Rising slightly higher, knowing all eyes were on him, the First lunged ahead for several quick strides before ducking back down in the grass and scrambling forward on hands and feet. It was the sign, probably as old as time, for the pack to follow and join the hunt. He practically galloped between the stakes, hands and feet splashing in the standing water, unheard even by him under the thunder. Focused as he was on covering ground, he almost slammed into a prey warrior standing on the short grass where the open space the flyi
ng machines preferred began.
The creature shouted something, lost in the wind, bringing its garrak up. The First rose on his hind legs, still running, and raked his handclaws across the prey’s throat without even breaking stride. Other Dorrighsti were around him now, sprinting across the mushy, close-cropped field, starting to spread out toward the strange machines crouching under their lacework of lines in front of several large structures. There are so many! the First thought, unsure he had enough troops to get them all—especially when he heard the first muffled thumps of garraks. No, he thought. We have surprised them completely. They can’t stop us now! Even if we can’t get them all, we’ll get most!
His troops were most vulnerable when they bounded up on a plane and fumbled with the leather packs strapped to their backs. Someone had come up with the bright idea—Probably a garrison Dorrighsti, the First thought darkly—that the fuse had to be protected from accidental activation during day-to-day activities, but that made it hard to use when the time came. Crouching for a moment, searching for a suitable target of his own, he felt a sick sense of failure when a hail of bullets sent several Night Hunters tumbling off their planes. Then one exploded! And another! On the far end of the field, planes started going up in quick succession. He whirled to look where most of the shots were coming from and saw prey of two different kinds rushing out of one of the big structures. For an instant, the First got a glimpse inside and his heart thundered to match the heavens. The building was full of flying machines!
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