“It’s bad,” she said, knowing what his first question would be. “Almost a hundred wounded, not counting those still working who haven’t been treated.” She pushed her damp hair back with her wrist, spreading the blood on her forehead. “About that many dead, I think, but I don’t know how many came aboard, or might still be unaccounted for.” She noticed the change in Matt’s expression, saw the jaw muscles bulge and the pain in his eyes. “Who?” she whispered.
“Gray,” Spanky answered when Matt didn’t speak. He nodded in the direction of the number two torpedo mount where the detail was still excavating Grik. Sandra covered her mouth and closed her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“And a bunch more fine men and ’Cats,” Matt reminded sharply. Sandra looked at him, stung, but she nodded.
“Of course. I’ll . . . I better tell Diania before she, well, sees him. It would be better. . . .”
“Sure.”
Salissa’s big guns roared, and Sandra looked at her. She’d moved away, closer to the heart of the city, avoiding the wreckage of the Grik fleet. Splashes rose around her, so at least a few shore batteries were still in action, and she and the DDs were hammering back, even while scores of barges and landing craft motored in, toward an indistinct battle still raging at the foot of the distant palace.
“It’s not over yet, is it?” she asked.
“No,” Matt replied. “Not yet. And we’ve both still got work to do.” Sandra nodded, and touching his hand, she climbed back down the ladder. Matt looked at Spanky, and the shorter man was staring at him, chewing hard while waiting.
“You keep the conn back here until I reach the bridge,” Matt told him. “Bring us about and steer for where the Seven boat is waiting for Mr. Laumer.”
“What then?”
“Then we’ll see, Spanky,” Matt said with a harsh, thin smile. “You’ll go down to the wardroom and get your wound looked at, for one thing. This ship’s lost enough of her people today.” He looked toward the cowflop palace. “And if there’s any chance she might help save even one of those who left her to go ashore, I want her there to do it.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
* * *
Compared to the rest of the ship, the bridge actually looked fairly normal since there hadn’t been any fighting there. With the blower rumbling contentedly behind, and the fo’c’sle in front of the hastily formed bridge watch clear of bodies, it was easy to pretend Walker, and the lives of all her surviving crew, hadn’t been so traumatically violated that day. Perhaps not easy; there was too much blood on everyone for that, but it was tempting. Bernard Sandison and Paddy Rosen reported as Matt and Minnie were settling in. Neither man wore a shirt, and both were swaddled in bandages. Bernie’s left arm was in a sling. Rosen looked sheepish, but Matt nodded at the wheel. Spanky had turned the ship, and she was steaming down Big Sal’s unengaged side toward the waterfront where Silva’s party landed. “Tell Mr. McFarlane that I have the conn, Minnie,” Matt instructed. “And remind him that he’s ordered to go to the wardroom.”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan.”
“Steady as you go, Mr. Rosen. When we’re two hundred yards from the docks, come right to unmask all guns to port. Have Mr. Campeti stand by for action port,” he added over his shoulder at Minnie.
“The gun director is off line,” Minnie replied. “Caam-peeti is working on it.”
“Very well. All guns will stand by to commence firing in local control.” Matt raised his binoculars. He couldn’t see the base of the palace because the bulk of Grik City was in the way, but he saw the steps leading up the eastern and northern flanks where large arched entryways were framed by troops. He adjusted his objective. “All stop,” he told Rosen. “Open the shipwide circuit, Minnie!” he ordered with a sudden grin, stepping to take the Bakelite handset from the bulkhead. “Now hear this!” he said, crouching slightly so he could still use his binoculars. His voice reverberated around the ship. “Chack’s Brigade has the entrances to the palace!” he said triumphantly, realizing that meant Silva and the others had a chance after all. Cheers roared, and the deck vibrated with stamping feet. “It looks like Second Corps has the enemy on the run from the east and they’re flooding past the place, barely stopping long enough to get shot at.” He redirected the glasses. “Marines and sailors from Big Sal and the rest of the battle group are going in now—and Safir Maraan’s cavalry is sweeping in on her left flank to keep the Grik running past the palace! The effect seems to be to herd the whole mob out where we just came from! They’ll be trapped!” More cheering shook the ship. He returned the handset to its cradle.
“The Seven boat is coming alongside,” Sandison announced from the starboard bridgewing.
“Good. Have Mr. Hardee stand by.”
“Sur! There somethin’ screwy goin’ on!” cried a lookout on the port bridgewing, pointing at the palace. Matt looked. For some reason, many of the Grik—thousands of them—had stopped their mad retreat and were staring up at the palace. Then, as if guided by some internal command only they could hear, they charged straight at Chack’s Brigade! “What the hell,” Matt muttered. “All guns,” he shouted, “commence firing at the leading edge of that attack, on the double!”
* * *
“That ain’t exactly what I figgered they’d do,” Isak Reuben complained loudly, “but it was Larry’s idea!”
“I didn’t think they’d do that either,” Lawrence protested as well.
They’d been lugging the dead head of the Celestial Mother down the curving passageway when they were met by Chack, Courtney Bradford, and a platoon of Raiders. Hearing their scheme for the head, Courtney thought it was “charming,” and Chack decided to give it a try. Isak had been relieved to see that Silva, Horn, and the ’Cat who wasn’t Dewy were already being removed on stretchers, supervised by Pam Cross, but he’d been forced to tell Chack about Irvin Laumer. Chack sent a detail to fetch him, and they hurried back out the way Irvin’s party came, meeting Major Jindal on the way. As far as they could tell, the upper levels of the palace were secure, though no one knew what had happened to the monster Risa’s platoon of Impies burned. Apparently, it had gone deep, and they’d look for it later.
Through the entranceway in the bright afternoon sun, Isak and Lawrence, full of nervous energy, supervised the impalement of the Celestial Mother’s head on a Grik spear, lashed to another for height, then helped hoist it up for all to see. The idea was, seeing their deity—likely for the first time—displayed in such a way, the Grik would lose heart. Instead, a fair percentage of them attacked with senseless abandon. Chack spared them a scolding blink before instructing Major Jindal to commence firing again. The raiders had stopped shooting some time ago when the Grik started ignoring them. Jindal was glad to oblige.
Volleys fired and walls of white smoke rolled down the steps, sending Grik tumbling back. A harsh, keening wail raised the hair on Isak’s back as he stared through the smoke. Suddenly, he saw Walker a little beyond the distant dock, and he and Lawrence started waving the head back and forth above them, without thinking. “Hey!” Isak shouted. “Looky there! It’s my ship, off the beach! Hey, darlin’! Looky what I brung ya!”
“Quit that!” Chack shouted at him, but it was no use—and there wasn’t really any point. He had plenty of firepower to blunt the rush of what were, after all, largely “civilian” Grik, and the ones crowding behind were merely making it easier for their pursuers to catch them. Chack supposed—he hoped—he’d feel more remorse for slaughtering Doms as they then began to do, but he wasn’t sure anymore. Besides, it didn’t matter. These were Grik. Blossoms of smoke opened aboard Walker, and her shells rained down amid the surging mob, snapping with flashes of orange fire and white smoke. Nancys swooped, and fat bombs tumbled from their wings to blow huge, gaping, burning holes in the swarm. The P-1s were done for the day, trying to set down on the muddy strip, but the big guns of the fleet chewed at the Grik even as the reinfo
rcements linked up with II Corps, and they started rolling the enemy up. Even the most maniacal Grik finally broke when II Corps’s cavalry slashed deep into them aboard their terrifying mounts.
Above it all, yelling with squeaky incoherence, Isak Reuben, and now Lawrence again as well, waved the dripping, tongue-lolling head. Slowly, the whole army began to answer until the thunderous sound of victory was all that could be heard.
“Cease firing,” Chack told Jindal, and sat numbly on the steps to wait for Safir to come, as he knew she would.
“What’s all the racket?” Dennis Silva mumbled, some distance away, lying on the steps. “Did we win the damn war?”
“I doubt it. But I think we won the fight—you big jerk,” Pam shouted in his ear, her tears wetting his neck.
“Horn?”
Pam nodded past Dennis—he couldn’t see at what—but he was damned if he’d move. Everything hurt now. “Over there. There was a ’Cat Marine with you guys. He was kinda groggy, but he kept you both from leakin’ out worse than you did. Don’t know where he went.”
“His name’s Ain’t Dewy.” Silva smiled. “I guess I owe him one. Horn?” he repeated.
Pam shook her head and frowned. “He’ll live,” she snapped. “I just said so, didn’t I? Not that he deserves to,” she added darkly. “Not that you deserve to!” she emphasized furiously, returning to the business of bandaging his many wounds. “But you will,” she added, too softly for him to hear, “until the next time.”
CHAPTER 38
////// Ajanga City
NE Madagascar
First General Esshk paced the dock, glaring at the fires eating the massive barricade around the Second City of the Principal Isle. Even the bestial hunters of the interior have turned on us, he brooded. He’d begun to suspect they might, when they began shadowing his swiftly running column almost as soon as it emerged into the jungle from the catacombs beneath the Celestial Palace. They hadn’t attacked; the heavy guard of sport fighters he’d assembled to escort the purest female guardians of the Celestial Bloodline had seen to that. But they didn’t have to attack; they saw them leave. Now, heavily reinforced no doubt, they were trying to burn Ajanga.
“Can we hold the city, Lord General?” the Chooser asked anxiously, almost trotting to catch up.
“We could keep the city,” Esshk replied, stressing the difference, “even with the relatively few warriors posted here—if all we had to concern us were the savage hunters in the forest.” He took a long breath. Even now, in the darkness after the long, terrible day, his mind was reeling. They—he—had lost the Celestial Palace—and the Giver of Life herself!—to what they’d all once considered prey! “If the world had not been turned on its head, I would merely send a pack of hunters beyond the barricade to chase the sport prey back into its preserve.” Even that term, “sport prey,” almost caught in his throat. Even such as they were now a threat, and therefore true “enemies.” Throughout its long history, the sprawling empire of the Grik had never had existential enemies before. Now they seemed to be gathering at every hand. What would General Halik do? he wondered, realizing the younger Hij must certainly have a better understanding of the enemy by now. He wished the one he considered his protégé were here, or he could get word to or from the only being left in the world whose judgment he actually trusted. How odd that is, he realized. Halik was just a sport fighter himself a few short years ago. I must interview the others who helped us make it here.
Not for the first time he wondered where Kurokawa was, and what he was doing. If he’d abandoned Halik in India, where would he go, if he lived? His Sovereign Nest of Jaaph Hunters on Zanzibar, no doubt. Esshk pondered whether he should consider Kurokawa an advantage or menace now. He certainly needed the treacherous creature—or more specifically, he needed his people and their technology. But did Kurokawa still need him? He would have to find out.
He spoke again, as much to organize his own thoughts as to explain to the Chooser: “Against those who drove us out, there is no hope. Even if they do not already know of this place, their flying machines will see the smoke of the barricade fires and find us with the dawn.” He nodded at the dark form of the iron-plated battleship in the harbor. There was only one of the apparently useless things here, along with a trio of “cruisers,” but the twenty-three females he’d spirited away from the palace were already on board. “We must not be here when they come.”
“Of course we cannot be here!” the Chooser fervently agreed, “and we must preserve the bloodline at all costs,” he added. “It has never been . . . interrupted in such a way before, and we must contemplate how best to proceed.”
Esshk looked at him, eyes narrowing in speculation. “True,” he agreed, “How shall we proceed? You would be the proper authority to ‘choose,’ I suppose.” His tone was heavy with irony.
“That may be,” the Chooser whispered, licking his teeth as if tasting each word before he uttered it. He was almost trembling with excitement—and terror—over the previously undreamed thoughts suddenly cascading through his mind. “But I would prefer that we choose together how to proceed in such . . . unprecedented circumstances. Surely we cannot simply proclaim an unelevated female as our new Celestial Mother. Such a creature might be deemed illegitimate by the provincial regents, and at the very least, her . . . unbridled judgment would be rightfully questioned as unsound. That is something we cannot risk in these perilous times.” Esshk stopped pacing at last, and the Chooser regarded him, increasingly earnest. “And, of course, such a proclamation could be resisted for the implication that I—we—believe we have the supreme authority to make it in the first place. We might end up sparking internal conflicts among the regents at the worst possible moment while at the same time casting away the power to do anything about it!”
“What are you suggesting, Lord Chooser?” General Esshk demanded, suddenly very formal, and the Chooser gulped. He might have already gone too far, he realized, but there was nothing for it now but to reveal his entire scheme as it unfolded in his mind.
“I am suggesting that we—you, General Esshk, as protector of the guardians of the Celestial Bloodline, and carrier of the Noble Blood yourself—should serve as principal regent to all the females until one elevates herself above the others and assumes her destiny in a more . . . natural way. By conquest over her siblings.”
“But in the meantime, I would rule? Don’t be ridiculous! I cannot be the Celestial Mother!”
“Of course not,” the Chooser quickly agreed, “but you can be the Giver of Life. In all respects . . . eventually. Particularly if you lead us to victory.”
General Esshk was silent, thoughtful. Finally he snorted. “A most . . . amusing scenario, Lord Chooser. But before we engage in such imaginative intrigues, let us concentrate on making it to the continent alive, and rousing all our race to the task of avenging the dignity, territory, and Celestial Mother we just lost.”
India
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” General Pete Alden said. “Folks are gonna talk.”
General Halik tilted his head. “You asked for this meeting,” he replied, “not I.”
When Hij Geerki finished his translation, Pete snorted. “Kind of a joke. Skip it.”
The two were facing each other in knee-deep grass on what Pete’s people were calling the “Highland Plain.” Pete didn’t know squat about what India was supposed to be like, but he’d never pictured any part of it looking like this. It’d be great cattle country, he supposed. The big herds of duck-faced herbivores seemed to like it. Pete, General Lord Muln Rolak, and Hij Geerki were alone for this meeting, as were Halik and Ugla, his general. It struck Pete how weird it was that he’d grown to, well, trust Halik not to pull something fishy at times like this, even while they were trying to kill each other. He was a Grik, a hateful, despicable enemy, but at the same time, he’d shown he had a sense of honor, and even as Pete had directed the sys
tematic dismantling of Halik’s retreating army—something Halik hadn’t made exactly easy—Pete had to admit he’d grown to respect the bastard.
Their respective escorts had been ordered to stay back, out of earshot, and beyond their capability to help if things went sour, of course. Pete’s guard detail—members of the Czech Legion that day—were sullen about that. Likely they thought he’d robbed them of the chance to rub out the enemy leaders and there’d be complaints. There’d really be complaints, from everybody, if Halik agreed to the proposal Pete intended to make.
“We’ve got you, Halik,” he finally said almost gently. “Anytime we want, we can wipe you out.” He shrugged. “Hell, it won’t even be a fight. Our P-Forties are flying off a grass strip this side of the Rocky Gap now, and we’ve got Clippers—the big fat planes with four engines—flying out of a lake north of there. You ain’t got doodly in the air. We can pound you with heavy ordnance until every last one of you is dead, and all my army has to do now is sit back and watch.”
“I do not concede that you can destroy so easily,” Halik contended, “and we are but a few days’ march from our west-coast base of supply—and many reinforcements.”
Pete shook his head. “Sorry, Halik. I’ve decided not to let you make it there.” He saw the Grik’s slight nod and wondered if that meant the enemy leader had suspected all along that Pete was letting him run.
“Then why are we talking? Why are you not already ‘wiping us out’?”
Pete hitched his web belt up, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the Grik for a moment before exhaling explosively. “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. I’ve got reasons, but I’m not sure they’re good enough. I’ll lay things out as I see ’em, and then you tell me.”
Halik jerked a diagonal nod.
“Well, first of all, I ain’t sorry to tell you that we just got word that an operation we launched against your capital in—we call it Madagascar—has succeeded.” He paused to let that sink in, and noticed the intent glares that stiffened Halik’s and Ugla’s faces. He wondered what that meant, but apparently they knew what Madagascar was. “Not only have we taken the main city, whatever it’s called,” he continued, “but your honcho, your ‘Celestial Mother,’ is dead.”
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