“Ahd-mi-raal.” Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan stepped out on the great carrier’s starboard bridgewing, overhanging the broad, busy flight deck below, carrying two steaming mugs in her hands. Lemurians, at least those from within the Malay Barrier, on the Great South Isle, or in the Fil-pin Lands, were accustomed to heat, and Lelaa gladly wore her Navy tunic over her brindled fur that morning. She strode to join a tall man in a dark blue tunic with yellow facings and white knee breeches. Knee-high boots were on his feet, and long, sun-bleached hair was braided down his back. As he turned to face her, he exposed equally long, braided mustaches on a weathered face.
“Good morning, Admiral Lelaa,” the man said.
“High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks,” Lelaa replied with a smile. “I brought you tea.”
“Why, thank you!” he said, taking one mug. He peered with distaste at the other. Lemurians were absolute fiends for iced tea, but most liked the hot variety as well. Almost none could stomach the ersatz “coffee” of this world that the human destroyermen had quickly adopted. Even when carefully brewed, it hid beneath a strange, greenish foam and tasted vile. Lemurians did use it as a tonic against extreme lethargy, but Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan was the only ’Cat Jenks ever met who drank it as habitually as any human American. Since all Navy ’Cats had taken the same oath and considered themselves members of the “American Clan,” he supposed it was inevitable that some would take on a few of the Americans’ more disagreeable habits. Some even chewed the disgusting yellow tobacco, and it was rumored they were even smoking the stuff in the West now! But the coffee? Jenks watched Lelaa’s face as she sipped the brew to try once more to determine if she really liked it or if drinking it was an affectation. She smiled at him more broadly, guessing his intent, and blinked amusement.
Jenks shook his head. “You have just come from your briefing? What is the latest news?” he asked. He was always invited to the morning briefings, but a lot of time was always spent on reports concerning the daily operation of the ship, and he felt like an intruder on the family atmosphere that prevailed. Instead, he relied on Admiral Lelaa or her exec, Tex Sheider, to fill him in.
“The ship is in fine shape—if one reads between the lines of Chief Gilbert’s constant complaints regarding the engineering division. None of his grievances reflect the material condition of the power plant or the combat readiness of my ship. Otherwise, there have been no reports of enemy activity in the vicinity of this ‘pass of fire.’” Her tail swished. “I do wish Mr. Reynolds or Kari-Faask might have arranged some way for us to communicate or cooperate with the ‘other Americans’ they insist exist beyond the Dom frontier. We have no way to coordinate with them—and no real way of knowing if we even should.” She blinked frustration. “Our scouts creep closer, and Grikbirds have been seen. Our antiair devices discourage them from serious attacks, and no one thinks they can actually report to their masters. Barring a confrontation that results in heavy losses on their part, I doubt the Doms will suspect we know their secret. We have encountered none of their ships. I assume that means they intend that we continue thinking we have swept their fleet from the sea.”
“But when it does come . . . we have no idea how large or powerful it may be.”
“We continue to prepare and behave as if it is at least a match for us,” Lelaa assured.
Jenks frowned and nodded. “What of this other report that Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask made—that the mountain fishes of the world gather in the vicinity of the pass to feed after giving birth? Is there some way we might use that?”
“Possibly,” Lelaa said, hedging. “Mr. Reynolds even proposed a desperate plan, but it would be extremely costly in aircraft and flight crews, and I cannot condone it at present.”
“Yes, I remember, and I agree with your decision. Still, it is a plan we may want to ‘keep in our back pocket,’ as Captain Reddy would say.”
“We try to plan for all contingencies, High Ahd-mi-raal, but plans do so rarely go . . . as planned.”
“Indeed. And what is the latest from General Shinya?” Jenks asked, changing the subject from one he knew Lelaa was uncomfortable with.
“General Shinya is convinced the Dom force opposing him has received all the reinforcements it considers necessary to succeed. He hopes to disabuse them of that certainty within a few days of their assault.”
“He expects it soon?”
“Almost immediately.” Lelaa shrugged in a very human way. “Perhaps with this very dawn.”
“Very well. You are prepared to support him if he calls?”
“Of course.”
Jenks hesitated. “Are you . . . Are we also prepared to pull him out if we must?”
Lelaa blinked doubt. “We can certainly withdraw the force we landed at Guayak. I remain less sure we can evacuate the entire local population of the city, if it comes to that.”
“And General Shinya will not leave the people there at the ‘mercy’ of the Doms,” Jenks finished for her. He rubbed his eyes. “One more reason we cannot land even more troops to assist him.” He looked at Lelaa. “Of course, ‘if it comes to that,’ Shinya’s force and the local population will both be much reduced by then.”
“I expect so,” Lelaa said, swishing her tail in agitation and blinking a hint of dread.
Allied Center
East side of Guayak
“That’s the purtiest aar-mee I ever saw,” muttered First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak, better known as “Spook,” of A Co., 2nd of the 2nd Marines. He’d gained his nickname as a gunner’s mate aboard Walker, but he’d been a “Marine” ever since going ashore to fight in the land battles south of Saint Francis. He’d remained as liaison to then Commodore Jenks, but now he and his precious, trusty Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) were under Captain Blas-Ma-Ar’s orders in the Lemurian Marine battalion she commanded. At that moment, he was just about in the exact center of the Allied defensive line protecting the city from behind the hasty but formidable earthworks heaped up around it. Before him, across the vast, cultivated plain at the base of the mountains in the middle distance, the Army of the Holy Dominion was beginning to deploy at last.
He squinted up at the sun just now rising above the high, distant peaks. “Y’know, I bet they was waitin’ till now just so the light would show us how purty they are!”
“Tryeen’ to scare us,” said Lieutenant Stas-Fin, or “Finny,” who came from similar circumstances, but now commanded Co. C of the 2nd Battalion, 8th Maa-ni-la, deployed to the left of the Marines. Lieutenant Faal-Pel, better known as “Stumpy” and another of their old Walker shipmates, was on the far end of the 8th, commanding its Co. A. Both of them still had ’03 Springfield rifles. For a while they merely watched as the enemy maneuvered on the plain.
“Is it working?” Captain Blas asked dryly, suddenly appearing beside them.
Spook gave her a long, appraising stare. “Nope,” he said at last, spitting a stream of yellowish tobacco juice in his best imitation of Spanky McFarlane. Lemurians couldn’t spit as elegantly as humans, but he’d practiced a lot and accomplished a very creditable squirt. Some of the ’Cat infantry nearby even cheered and stamped their feet.
“They have many flaags,” Blas observed. “More than we, for the same number of troops.” She gestured at the gold-embroidered black standard of the 8th, and the Stars and Stripes of the 2nd Marines. Each flag fluttered beside the stainless banner of the Alliance. “We got regimental flaags, but I bet they got ’em for every company, maybe every plaa-toon. Makes it look like there’s more of ’em than there is. An’ all their flaags are the same, see? That red field with the rough, sideways X on ’em in gold—just like the sails on their warships!”
“Let’s watch an’ see what they do,” Finny suggested.
It was quite a spectacle, and none of them had ever seen anything like it. The Grik came to war as a swarm—at least that was the way those at Guayak remembered it. They knew things had changed, but they do
ubted the “new” Grik paraded into battle like the Doms were doing now. The sound of drums was thunderous, and bands with horns played a dirgelike, but markedly martial piece. All the while, columns of troops marched across the front and took positions opposite the defenders. Artillery was brought to the front with equal pomp, drawn by the lumbering armadillo-like things, their shells now garishly painted and draped in bunting.
“Think a lot of themselves, don’t they?” Spook finally managed.
“There’s a lot of ’em,” Finny replied softly.
“Not as many as it looks like, but still a lot,” Blas admitted, blinking thoughtfully. “Them spreading out there, not far beyond musket shot, I think not a single one of ’em’s ever faced us before.” Her tail swished and her sudden grin turned feral. “They’re gonna learn some things today.”
“Look there!” Finny exclaimed. “What the hell they doin’?”
Blas blinked. A column of lancers had advanced, right out between the armies. Some stopped, facing forward, while others dismounted and began erecting a colorful pavilion removed from a wagon that followed them out.
“Beats me.”
“Captain Blas!” came a shout behind. Blas turned and saw Colonel Blair riding a dark horse behind the line. “A mount for you is coming. I recall you enjoy riding horses?”
“Ay, Col-nol,” Blas replied. “Where are we going?”
Blair pointed at the rising pavilion.
“Out there. General Shinya, you, I, and Mr. Suares will represent the Allies at the parlay.”
“Paar-lay? You mean we’re gonna talk with them before we kill ’em?”
“I’m told they always do such things,” Blair said with a snort. “God knows why. Proper form, I suppose. Come along.”
Blas looked darkly at Finny and Spook. “If they kill me, you mugs kill an extra bunch of them, hear? Talkin’ with the enemy! What a shaam!”
* * *
General Ghanan Nerino had been born for this. He’d commanded the Army of the South since he was twelve years old, and in the forty years since donning the broad, feathered hat of his office, he’d never been granted anything like a real battle to test his military genius. He drilled the standing, permanent portion of his army to a perfection unmatched in all the Dominion, he thought, but aside from occasional clashes with rebel heretics that rarely required more than a squadron of lancers to scatter, there’d been little to amuse him. Sometimes, when the great dragons threatened important cities, he deployed his infantry and artillery against them, but they were mere beasts with no notion of how a proper army should move, no appreciation for the intricate dance of formal battle. He’d often despaired, despite the bishop’s devout assurance that his army would be tested someday, if not against the weak armies of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, then certainly against Los Diablos del Norte. It was inevitable, he’d said. General Nerino had not been so sure. Soon he would retire and his eldest son—already past thirty—would take his place. He hadn’t doubted that war would come; that was inevitable, but he’d grown increasingly convinced it would wait too long for him to enjoy it. But the bishop had been right all along.
“Come, come,” he scolded a staff officer, arranging a cherished tapestry from Nerino’s own villa against the bright morning sun. “We must do this properly! How often are we afforded the opportunity to entertain such a foe?”
“But General,” the officer complained, “it is said they are barbarians, and even fight alongside animals! Our scouts have confirmed this!”
“What difference does that make, fool?” Nerino snapped. “We shall observe all civilized proprieties regardless! Let us appreciate them even if the enemy cannot!”
“Of course, General.”
General Ghanan Nerino settled his short but ample frame on an ornate chair and sipped from a golden goblet of spiced, melting ice. Slowly sculpting the pointed whiskers on his chin with his fingers, he watched the enemy position for any sign his invitation had been accepted. How tragic it would be if they did not come. He hated the thought that he might destroy his first true enemy in his first real battle after all these years without ever even meeting its leaders.
A short column of cavalry suddenly cantered through a fleeting gap in the enemy lines, and he smiled.
* * *
“How does this work, Mr. Suares?” Blair asked.
“I am not sure. I am no military man,” Suares replied, trying to stay on his horse. “I think we are to approach with roughly equal numbers, as we are, then we four should continue alone and unarmed to join the enemy commander for refreshments.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Blas said, fingering the sling of her Baalkpan armory musket.
Shinya glanced at her. “What is this supposed to accomplish?” he demanded of the Guayakan. “Will he offer terms?”
“Terms?” Suares asked.
“Yes. Ah, conditions for surrender or something.”
Suares looked blank. “There can be no surrender,” he stated flatly. “This is a . . . what? A ‘social call.’ That is all.”
“I see.”
“About what we’ve come to expect, Gen-er-aal,” Blas said. “No quarter asked or given. Why do we do this?”
“I want to meet him,” Shinya said simply.
“If there is treachery . . .”
“Then others will take our places,” Shinya assured. “We have not built such a fragile force that it cannot survive without us. And we might learn a few things about the enemy.”
Blas was silent, not sure she agreed with Shinya’s reasoning. He was probably right that they’d get some useful insights, but she doubted that Suares could be replaced so easily. And as for Blair and Shinya, Blair was the only high-ranking “Impie” she really trusted on the ground, and Shinya . . . well, she hadn’t actually fought with him yet, but she’d seen plenty of evidence of his competence and tenacity. His forced march across the width of New Ireland to reinforce Chack’s and Blair’s command at New Dublin had arrived too late for the fighting, but it had been a stunning achievement.
They advanced to a point roughly equal in distance to the pavilion that the Dom lancers had reorganized beyond it, and Shinya, Blair, Blas, and Suares went on alone. Stopping before the gaudy shelter, they dismounted and strode beneath its shade. Several officers wearing the bright yellow and white of Dom regulars were already standing. A figure in a long red robe they took for some kind of Blood Priest was present as well, but none of the fanatical “Blood Drinkers,” the elite infantry of the Dom Pope, seemed to be there. A short, plump man with a dark complexion, jet-black chin whiskers and mustaches, dressed in a highly decorative, heavily laced version of the “regular” uniform rose to greet them.
“It is at times like this I most miss Captain Reddy,” Shinya murmured. “Or even Chief Bosun Gray. They both have such amusing ways of dealing with awkward confrontations.” They stopped a short distance from the Dom leader, and if any of the enemy noticed they were armed, they gave no sign. The Dom in the fancy uniform set a goblet aside and took a step forward.
“I am General Ghanan Nerino,” he said in passable English, to the surprise of all. He gestured around with an affected modesty his next words didn’t support. “I have the honor of commanding the invincible army arrayed before you at the orders of His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World. It is by His decree I must destroy you for the terrible sin of treading upon the sacred land of His Holy Dominion.” He paused and smiled. “But I would beg you to accept refreshment and conversation before the . . . unpleasantness must commence.”
“I am General Tomatsu Shinya, commanding the Allied Armies.” Shinya considered, then added, “In this hemisphere,” thinking that should be suitably vague, and perhaps even intimidating. “With me are Colonel Blair, of the Empire of the New Britain Isles.” He stopped again, thinking. “Vice Alcalde Suare
s, of Guayak City,” he exaggerated, “and Captain Blas-Ma-Ar of the American Marines. You are most considerate,” he finished. “We accept.”
Nerino beamed and waved to his attendants who brought three chairs. Only three. Shinya looked at them curiously.
“This can only be a conversation among people,” Nerino explained. “Your animal may remain, but it cannot sit with us.”
Blas bristled, but said nothing. Shinya’s face lost all expression, however, and he turned abruptly away. “Come,” he snapped. “We are finished here.”
“Wait!” called Nerino, stunned and surprised, and Shinya stood still. “You would forsake the pleasantries of battle for the sake of an animal?”
“I will not speak with anyone who shows such appalling disrespect to any officer under my command—particularly one as courageous and honored as Captain Blas-Ma-Ar,” he said coldly. “Perhaps you do not understand that we consider you, sir, and all you represent, the true animals on this field today! I had hoped this meeting might encourage us to reconsider that.” He sighed theatrically. “There is no honor in slaying animals!”
“Please do reconsider, General Shinya!” Nerino almost pleaded. “I have so looked forward . . .” He stopped. “I apologize. Your . . . officer may certainly sit with us!”
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