River of Bones_Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  Chack, Silva, Lawrence, and Horn met Simy Gutfeld, Mikey Monk, and a somewhat dazed-looking Russ Chappelle beside the collapsed funnel on Santy Cat’s upper deck. All were clearly exhausted and as battered-looking as the ship, and Russ looked a little punch-drunk, like the shock was finally starting to set in. When Itaa’s searchlights lit the darkness, he visibly flinched.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The Grik have spotters for their rockets.”

  “They shouldn’t bother us tonight,” Chack assured him. “Arracca’s planes demolished their baat-teries pretty thoroughly. No doubt they’ll bring up more and site them with greater care, but we should be safe for now.”

  “But the zeps . . .”

  Chack blinked agreement. “They may come, but we’ll finish as soon as possible. After thaat, with all the smoke and no moon, they’ll be lucky to hit us.”

  “Relax, Russ. You did swell,” Silva said. “We got it from here.”

  Chappelle glared at him sharply. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chack blinked soothingly. “As soon as we traansfer the Maa-reens and all the supplies we brought, the cruisers and Felts will carry your wounded and ours out to Arracca.” He hesitated. “They’ll also take you and your entire crew—all but a few experienced gunners.”

  “Now, wait just a damn minute,” Russ flared. “This is still my ship! No way I’m leaving her!”

  Chack’s tone hardened. “I sympaa-thize with your feelings, but you will leave,” he said. “Those are my orders as your relief, Commo-dore Tassanna-Ay-Arracca’s orders as your direct superior, and Cap-i-taan Reddy’s orders as Supreme Comm-aander of all Allied Forces and the high chief of your claan.” Chack’s tail whipped behind him, casting a shadow on a splinter-torn deckhouse like a writhing snake. “In case you are wondering, considering the . . . defi-aant way in which you initiated this aaction, these orders in no way reflect their disapproval of whaat you did,” he continued more softly, blinking complete sincerity. “Quite the opposite. I understaand you’re to be promoted, in faact.” He smiled, revealing sharp canines reflecting red from the distant flames. “You may haave heard we recently aaq-uired a slightly laarger, more powerful ship, thaat desperately needs an experienced crew.”

  “Savoie?” Russ breathed. “Shit! I can’t handle a damn battleship!”

  Chack gestured around. “I dis-aagree, and so does Cap-i-taan Reddy.” He gave a very human shrug. “If you caan’t, there’s certainly no one else who caan, and you—and your surviving crew—have the most experience in the closest thing we’ve had.”

  Russ gazed around, speechless. “But . . . to leave her,” he murmured at last.

  “She ain’t a ship anymore, buddy,” Silva said, gently for him, “she’s a fort—a knife right in the lizards’ guts, thanks to you. Now they’re gonna give you a big-ass sword to swing around, so quit whinin’.”

  “What about me?” came a gruff voice. They turned and saw Lieutenant (jg) Dean Laney following a pair of stretcher bearers helping gather the wounded on deck. Pam and her division had immediately gone to Santy Cat’s sick bay and begun organizing with Kathy. Laney’s face was red and glistening under a shiny layer of the curative polta paste. His arms and hands beyond where his rolled-up sleeves had been were wrapped in loose bandages.

  Silva’s face twisted into a beatific grin. “Why, if it ain’t the spook o’ Dean Laney, the biggest, fattest asshole in the Asiatic Fleet! You here to haunt me?”

  “There ain’t no Asiatic Fleet no more—an’ I ain’t no goddamn ghost.”

  “Good,” Silva said, his tone darkening. “Then you get to stay here with me, rifle in hand, fightin’ the numberless hordes o’ evil.” He paused and his good eye narrowed. “Just like old times, right?”

  Laney looked away, but Russ spoke up. “If I go, I want him. Savoie’s going to need an engineering officer too.”

  Laney stared at Chappelle as if in shock. He was even more stunned to see Monk reluctantly nod agreement.

  “Hey,” Monk murmured aside at Horn. “What was that between Silva and Laney?”

  “Long story,” Horn whispered back between his teeth. “From before the old war, back in China.” Absently, he reached for the tooth under his shirt, dangling from a leather thong around his neck. “You know they used to be pals, right? Well . . . not anymore. Just as well Laney’s getting off this busted tub. I doubt the Grik would have a chance to get him.”

  Monk frowned. “I used to feel the same way. Now? I dunno.”

  “There you are, you dumb ox,” Pam snapped at Laney when she appeared behind another stretcher case. “Kathy was askin’ about you. Said you had a talk comin’.” She grinned expectantly. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if she’s pissed!”

  For reasons no one could understand, Dean Laney suddenly smiled. “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t either.”

  Chappelle stiffened, eyes catching the arrival of small boats in the water bearing survivors from the sunken prize cruisers. “Those . . . there are Grik in those boats!” He turned to a Marine manning a machine gun at the rail nearby, but Lawrence stopped him. “Don’t shoot!” he said. “Yes, there are Grik. They are engineers in the cruisers, our cruisers . . .”

  Russ looked at him incredulously.

  “Long story,” Silva said, unconsciously echoing Horn.

  The transfer went as quickly as possible, but the sound of Grik airships forced them to shut off the searchlight. Apparently, Chack had been right, and the smoke and darkness hid them sufficiently that only a few bombs were even dropped, lashing the south side of the river and the shore beyond. Visibility must’ve been fine up high, because several airships fell to fighters off Arracca. The Nosey moved away, full of wounded and Santy Cat’s crew. If all went as planned, she’d transfer her cargo to Arracca and be back by dawn, or a little later, along with her lightly damaged consort, USS Ris, meaning “Chin.” Ris took Itaa’s place and pumping operation and began removing the rest of the wounded before offloading more supplies, all while the little group continued to discuss the battle—and what came next. One by one, strangely reluctant it seemed, Monk, Laney (with assistance), and finally Russ left to gather their meager possessions, and then returned.

  Generators and drums of gasoline were shifted, along with new, smaller, tripod-mounted searchlights to replace those lost. Water butts, cases of rations, medical supplies, and more ammunition—all things that would hopefully sustain them for a while—came across. “Great! More mortar bombs,” Gutfeld exclaimed, watching crates come aboard. Others had already arrived, but some had been lost on the sunken cruisers, and he never felt like he could have enough. This particularly since they knew the Grik would be back, probably in great swarms of galleys. And given the losses they’d suffered, there was every expectation they’d break with tradition and try a night assault at some point.

  “Some of those are new,” Chack told him with a predatory smile. “I think you’ll like them.” Gutfeld nodded, now watching the last of Santa Catalina’s crew go over to Ris. He and his Marines would stay, even those who’d been through so much already, and he had to be somewhat envious of those leaving. “Sure,” he said. “Can’t wait to try ’em. What do they do?”

  “I guess it’s down to us,” Monk said, glancing around while Chack talked to Gutfeld. Santa Catalina’s future, such as it was, was no longer their responsibility and he was focused on her past, what she’d achieved, and what she meant to him. Kathy McCoy was personally helping Laney across to the Ris, and Monk was sure tears had joined the shiny paste on the man’s blistered face.

  “Yeah,” Russ agreed, also looking around, seeing the same things as his XO, but different things as well. Santy Cat had been his, practically since they found her and refloated her. She’d made him what he’d become, just as surely as she’d turned Dean Laney into a man. But he and Monk and Laney had saved her first, and made her
what she’d become as well. Then they’d used her up. Somehow, though, he didn’t think she minded. They’d never refloat her after this; she was too far gone. But she still had a critical, different part to play, just as they did, and he decided that was probably how it ought to be. Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned and clumsily handed Silva a rectangular wooden case. “That’s Captain Reddy’s pistol,” he said huskily. “You remember—the one we found on this old girl so long ago. It’s an old Colt revolver that Baalkpan Arsenal thought about copying before we settled on 1911s. They polished off the rust, dolled it up, and nickel plated it as a gift to the skipper, but he said it should stay with the ship.” He gestured around. “Like you said, she isn’t really a ship anymore, but one thing Captain Reddy promised me was that if things ever got bad enough that I was down to counting on that old pistol, he’d do his damnedest to get here before it ran out of ammo.” He paused. “There’s fifty rounds in the box.”

  Silva hefted the case. He’d admired the Colt back when they were trying to copy it, and it had been his input that made them decide on the easier-to-manufacture 1911s. Even so, the allure of the six-shooter and powerful .44-40 cartridges it fired had been attractive. That he had it back here made him feel . . . odd. “Sure,” he said, and grinned. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it, though I doubt the skipper’ll feel bound to that same promise when it comes to me!”

  Russ and Monk shook hands all around and finally went aboard Ris. When the battered cruiser backed away and vanished in the smoky darkness, Chack stood slightly apart, tail lashing. He was now in complete command to a degree even Silva couldn’t argue with. “Very well,” he said loudly. “Let’s finish stowing all these supplies and rigging the protective plates.” They’d brought more armor plates from Kurokawa’s stockpile on Zanzibar. They were all fairly small, just a few hundred pounds each, and might’ve been meant for the raised scantlings on his cruisers. They were perfect for lining these rails, even rigging overhead cover from shell fragments. “Make sure the raa-dio sets are as well protected as possible, and as far from one another as praac-tical. I don’t intend to lose communications. Otherwise”—he paused—“those of you who saw aac-tion today, get some rest. I doubt the Grik will come again tonight. Even they can’t absorb repeated thraashings like you gave them. Nor do I think they’ll come with the dawn, but their rockets might—and we must be ready. Aaf-ter that? We must be ready for anything.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Just as Naxa had warned, Jash was summoned aboard the monstrous greatship Giorsh as the bloody dawn caught him leading his leaking, decimated little flotilla weakly past it, heading upriver in search of a place to beach the shattered galleys before they sank. Naxa, to his obvious resentment, was also required aboard Giorsh as Jash’s senior subordinate First. “They will destroy us both for what you did,” he seethed, sure he was already doomed, and disdainful of Jash’s wrath. Jash said nothing, actually agreeing, and wasn’t even angry at Naxa’s outburst. One after the other, they climbed the rope ladder to an open port near the center of the thickly armored casemate of the flagship and stepped inside.

  “Continue upriver,” a First of One Hundred called down to Slasher, confirming their fate in Jash’s mind. He’d never see his warriors or his brave little galley again.

  “Destroyed!” Naxa hissed low. The officer turned to them and said, “Follow me.”

  The First led them forward along the heavy-beamed lower gundeck, past massive cannon dwarfing the one Slasher had borne. Uul sailors and gunners stared as they passed, observing their appearance with indifferent eyes. Jash wished he could’ve freshened himself, even for this. His tunic and armor were stained black-red with blood and burned gunpowder, and the bloody gash on his arm had begun to throb. A stairway appeared before them in the gloom—there were few lamps—and the officer led them up it, and then another stair ascending from the next gundeck above. Finally, they found themselves in a compartment with inward sloping sides, probably near the top of the armored casemate. It was full of busy Hij, drawing pictures on thin, rigidly stretched and trimmed skins. At a glance, Jash recognized the pictures as maps, like he’d seen during training, only these depicted the wreckage-strewn, watery battlefield beyond the bend. None of the Hij met his gaze.

  Stopping in front of a heavy wooden door with guards on either side, the officer scratched loudly on it. “They are here, Lord General,” he said through a small grating.

  “Send them,” came the reply.

  Looking significantly at his charges, the officer opened the door and gestured inside. Instead of following, however, he merely closed the door behind them. Jash and Naxa caught the slightest glimpse of the general, seeing only his short red cape and brilliantly polished armor, before flinging themselves to the deck.

  “You cannot know me, but I am Second General Ign, Supreme Commander—after Regent Champion First General Esshk, of course—of all the Ghaarrichk’k armies,” came a gruff voice. “Rise,” it continued, and to Jash’s amazement, it might’ve even held a touch of amusement. “I have been where you are and have not the time or desire to prolong your uncertainty.”

  Glancing at each other with wide eyes, Jash and Naxa stood and discovered for the first time that they were alone with the general. Ign turned and regarded them with an intense, orange-eyed stare. “Without reflection, without thought, answer me at once: Why did you withdraw from the battle, causing others to do the same?”

  “Because Senior Jash ordered it,” Naxa blurted.

  Jash blinked, the answer so obvious to him, but realized he had better speak. “Lord General, the battle was over.”

  “It was not! It continued for several hand-spans,” Ign countered emphatically. “Not only why, but how could you, a mere Senior First, choose to go against your orders?”

  “With my utmost worship, Lord, our part in the battle was over long before we retired.” Jash paused. “It might even be said that it was over before it began.” He straightened as far as his forward-leaning posture allowed. “I did not go against my orders. I obeyed them fully—until it was no longer possible to continue. In the meantime, highly trained members of the New Army were being destroyed to no purpose and I . . . I did take it upon myself to preserve as many warriors as I could. Not only so they would not turn prey, but so they would be available to fight again. Perhaps”—he hesitated again—“in a fashion more consistent with their training.”

  “It was not for you to decide how any warriors, new or otherwise, should be used,” Ign snapped, teeth clacking.

  “No, Lord,” Jash agreed, lowering his eyes to the deck. “But new commands were needed and none were forthcoming. We were taught that in battle, particularly against this prey, commanders can sometimes be slain. In such cases, a new thing must happen; junior officers must be prepared to take up their leader’s sword, become leaders themselves, and continue the fight.”

  Ign seemed to consider that. “True, in principle, but not only has that never yet occurred—until today—but you did not continue the fight!”

  “Not today, Lord General. As I said, our part in the battle was done. We could no longer kill the enemy. We could only continue to die. I did what I thought I must to ensure that as many warriors as I could influence would survive to fight tomorrow.”

  It was Ign’s turn to stare, eyes wide. “Indeed?” he said, then shook his head. “Quite remarkable.” He snorted something like a derisive laugh. “It is clear to me that you recognize the battle today was a fiasco—which it was, in many ways—and may even wonder why I have not been destroyed.” Ign was right. That question had occurred to Jash. “The answer is simple, really. Though the initial plan was mine, First General Esshk was not only in personal, direct command, but he altered the plan in certain unfortunate ways. These included pushing it forward in the face of confusion and poor coordination. The arrival of additional enemy elements was unforeseen, but would have made no difference i
f the Santa Catalina had been more quickly destroyed.”

  Ign’s eyes narrowed. “Do not interpret this . . . explanation as criticism of the First General. He is the greatest living general of the Race and the finest Regent Champion we could ever hope for.” He swiped at the air with his claws as if fighting an unseen enemy. “But all this is so new, everything we do or face these days. Newer even than Esshk can absorb at times.” He paused. “And it takes time to adjust, I know full well. As do you, it seems.” Ign’s nostrils flared above his sharp front teeth, and he took a long breath. “Thankfully, we have the numbers for time. More numbers still, thanks to your quick thinking, Senior. And the making of good officers such as you proves that time remains our asset, not the enemy’s.”

  Jash was dumbfounded. He’d come aboard expecting to be destroyed, not praised. He was almost unable to follow the Second General’s next words. “And the attack was not a complete fiasco. The primary target, the Santa Catalina, was immobilized, if not destroyed. That alone might have ensured victory if not for the arrival of other enemy ships. We could have simply sent the Final Swarm past it in the dark. Still costly, perhaps, but acceptably so. Unfortunately, we can apparently get no other large warships through the entanglement of wrecks, to protect the Swarm from water or sky while it remains in the confines of the river. The enemy cruisers alone might run the galleys down and smash them in their hundreds! First General Esshk believes too much of the Swarm would be slaughtered before it disperses at sea.” Refocusing on Ign’s words and tone, Jash got the distinct impression the Second General had advocated that course regardless, and Esshk had overruled him. Ign practically confirmed it when he continued. “The First General is emphatic that Santa Catalina be overwhelmed. He believes concerted efforts toward that end will draw the enemy cruisers to its aid and concentrate them, where our rockets, gun galleys, even assault galleys, may destroy them as well. The enemy cruisers are just like ours and are vulnerable to rockets, the smaller cannon, even firebomb throwers.”