River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  For an instant, Tex panicked, then his face turned red. Looking at Jenks and Lelaa, he knew neither understood. Very few left alive on this world would. He started to go ahead and reveal what he considered one of his darkest secrets, but saw the look of predatory anticipation on Orrin’s face. “My name’s Tex,” he said flatly. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  When Orrin and Tex were gone, Lelaa was surprised that Gilbert had remained, studiously ignoring them. “So, Lieu-ten-aant Gilbert,” she asked, “what brings you here?”

  “I ain’t no lieutenant,” he insisted. “Just an actin’ chief.”

  “I promoted you.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “So? I don’t wanna be promoted. You kept me from quittin’ by swearin’ you’d transfer me back to First Fleet.” He frowned. “Back to Walker, where I belong. I kept up my end, helpin’ get Makky-Kat’s engineerin’ division sorted out. Even helped with her refit. But you didn’t keep your word,” he accused, then shrugged. “I figger my oath’s to Captain Reddy an’ Walker, an’ since you won’t cough me up, I’m retired. I’m a civilian, just strollin’ around, takin’ my ease. I can do what I want, like Mr. Bradford.”

  Admiral Jenks’s face reddened, and he started to form a sharp reprimand, but Lelaa raised a hand with a tiny, secret smile. “Very well, Mr. Gilbert. You’re right,” she said. “And since I did promote you to Lieuten-aant, you’re free to resign your commission—though your oath to the Amer-i-caan Navy Claan remains in force.” Her tone hardened. “As its senior represent-aative in this hemisphere, I could keep you as a sea-maan’s aapp-rentice if I wanted, but I won’t.” She waved a hand. “I caan’t send you baack to First Fleet. The traans-port simply is not available. But in light of your long and distinguished service, I will graant your wish to become a civiliaan. As soon as we reach Maan-i-zaales, you may go ashore and seek opportunities to occupy your new status as a gentlemaan of leisure.”

  Gilbert almost choked. “You’d maroon me here?” he demanded. “’Mongst heathen folks who don’t understand a word I’d say?”

  “If thaat is your desire.”

  Gilbert took off his hat and rubbed the short, greasy hair on his head. “Well . . . if that’s my only choice, why can’t I just stay aboard here for now?”

  Lelaa smiled. “You mean as a civili-aan volunteer?”

  “Well, yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

  Lelaa sadly shook her head. “I’m afraid thaat’s impossible. Maaka-Kakja is not a paass-enger vessel. She’s an air-craaft carrier, a waar-ship, the flagship of Second Fleet. There’s no space for idle haands.” She blinked suddenly, as if something just occurred to her. “Of course, you haave not yet resigned your commission! If you chose to reconsider your retirement and remain aboard as an officer, I’m sure something could be aarranged.”

  Gilbert opened his mouth and shut it several times, then slowly closed his eyes and shook his head.

  CHAPTER 5

  ////// 2nd Fleet AEF (Allied Expeditionary Force)

  Army of the Sisters

  Rebecca Anne McDonald, Governor-Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and her Lemurian “sister,” Saan-Kakja, High Chief of All the Filpin Lands, exuberantly galloped their horses alongside the seemingly endless column of troops. Both loved to ride and were very good at it, though Saan-Kakja hadn’t known horses even existed for long. She’d learned her skill on the backs of vicious me-naaks, the long-legged, vaguely crocodilian beasts her people used for cavalry mounts. Though me-naaks, or meanies, saw extensive use in the West, horses were unmanageable around them and none had been sent east. Horses didn’t like paalkas—oversized moose-shaped draft animals used for pulling wagons and artillery—either, but at least paalkas didn’t instinctively want to eat them. In contrast, there were many creatures in the Americas that indigenous horses were well accustomed to yet might send me-naaks fleeing in terror. It was all a matter of familiarity.

  Rebecca and Saan-Kakja had briefly outstripped their entourage of aides and guards sheerly for the fun of it. Both were young and adventurous—too adventurous for their own good, most believed—witness their presence, as heads of states, on a desperate military campaign. But they’d endured many dangers already and neither could bring themselves to send their people to fight where they wouldn’t go themselves. Their sentiments were simultaneously considered noble and irresponsible, even by the troops they led, but those same troops adored them all the more for sharing their hardships.

  “Your majesties, please!” came the breathless call of Lieutenant Ezekial Krish, Rebecca’s aide-de-camp and leader of the protective detail. Rebecca rolled bright eyes in a grinning elfin face at her companion, whose mesmerizing eyes of black and gold blinked reluctant agreement. Together, they slowed their mounts while Imperial dragoons, the only forces still wearing traditional red coats with yellow facings and tall black shakos, quickly encircled them.

  “Really, Lieutenant,” Rebecca scolded the young and handsome—if sometimes excruciatingly rigid—Krish. “If we are not safe here”—she gestured around at the hilly coastal plain upon which all of X Corps marched along the winding Camino Militar—“with the might of half our army to protect us, we would not be secure within our own capitals.”

  “Safer here,” Saan-Kakja murmured dryly. “You from any lingering plots to murder you for the soci-aal reforms you begaan, and myself from being coddled to death by my dear Lord Meksnaak.” She sighed and blinked dramatically. “He caan be most tiresomely protective!”

  “With respect, your majesties,” Krish stated primly, disapprovingly, “even with good visibility all around and better air reconnaissance, General Mayta has already proven our army is not invulnerable to his surprising strokes. You mustn’t simply gambol about without a care. War is not a lark.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. Pleasure of any kind had been a rare thing for Rebecca to experience over the past few years, and when she did, it was fragile. She spun in her saddle to face Krish, her sweet expression overwhelmed by fury. “You cannot possibly imagine that I am not aware of that! Or that my sister Saan-Kakja is not! We’ve seen more of this war than you, sir, and watched thousands of our people die. Many for my mistakes,” she added bitterly. “So do not presume to imply that you alone can prevent us from harm, or that we do not view our situation with the gravity it deserves!”

  “I . . . of course not, Your Majesty!” Krish floundered.

  “You might just give her a little space from time to time, Lieu-ten-aant,” Saan-Kakja counseled mildly. “As she said, we’re as safe as the thirty thousand troops around us.” She nodded ahead. “And look, there are Sister Audry’s troops—just who we came to see! Rest your horses, Lieu-ten-aant. The Vengaa-dores will protect us!”

  Krish frowned. “Colonel” Sister Audry’s Vengadores de Dios were almost all former Doms, and the core of their force had been captured in the fighting on New Ireland. Sister Audry, a Dutch Benedictine nun brought to this world with the children of diplomats aboard the old S-19, had gone among them and converted them—imperfectly, in Krish’s view—to a Catholic version of the same Christianity practiced in the Empire. Their ranks had swollen here, as hundreds of “heretical” true Christians, brutally persecuted by the obscenely twisted version espoused by the Dominion, flocked to join them. Another faith, even older here and equally oppressed, was represented by the Ocelomeh, or Jaguar Warriors, marching beside the Vengadores with Major Blas-Ma-Ar’s badly depleted 2nd Lemurian Marines. Krish was torn between which faction he considered more unwholesome, but all had proven themselves in battle, and his governor-empress had warned him before that she’d tolerate no offense offered them.

  “Very well, your majesties,” he conceded sourly, holding up a gauntleted hand to stop his dragoons.

  “I think he desires you,” Saan-Kakja told Rebecca lowly, blinking mischievously as they trotted toward Major Blas and Sister Au
dry, who were striding among several others in the dust beside their troops.

  “Nonsense,” Rebecca replied, though she imagined it might be true. “And even if he did, do you think for an instant I could ever submit to his boorish attempts to direct me? It does not all have to do with protection, I’m sure.” Her fury faded as she recalled Krish’s actions at a critical time. “But he is loyal.”

  Saan-Kakja chuckled. “Yes, but you’re right. Even if he won you, he’d die of frustration trying to guide you. Or worse, bend utterly to your will and become something you no longer respect.” She grinned. “Besides, everyone knows your heart belongs to Abel Cook—a brevet major now, if I’m not mistaken!”

  Rebecca’s face colored. She didn’t think she’d encouraged Cook, though she’d consented to let him write her, and his letters still came in periodic heaps from the far side of the world. In the wake of all the tragedy she’d endured, Rebecca hadn’t allowed herself to examine her feelings for Abel Cook, but she knew they were there, and she worried about him.

  “Here come your younger sisters,” she heard Major Blas-Ma-Ar dryly inform Sister Audry as they approached. The brindled female Lemurian was slightly built, but many considered her the finest soldier in the entire 2nd Fleet AEF. It was also common knowledge that she and not Colonel Sister Audry actually commanded the heavy brigade, including her Marines, the Vengadores, and Ocelomeh. She also, to a lesser degree than Krish, considered Rebecca and Saan-Kakja irresponsible younglings, even though she was little older. But the war—and other things—had aged Blas beyond her years. In Rebecca’s view, she’d earned her cynicism and a disquieting, simmering hostility toward General Shinya through her experience and performance. Rebecca would tolerate more from Blas than anyone except Captain Reddy. Her prime factor, Sean Bates; High Admiral Jenks; and General Shinya himself probably made that list as well.

  Sister Audry stopped and greeted them with a smile. She was dressed like her troops, in a tie-dyed combat smock held tight to her waist by a belt supporting copies of a 1911 Colt and 1917 Navy cutlass. By all accounts, she’d never drawn either. High canvas leggings protected her shins and calves over brown, rough-out boondockers, and a steel doughboy helmet sat on her head atop light blond hair shorn even with the bottom of her jaw. A large cross rested on her bosom, suspended by a light chain around her neck. Like all the Vengadores, she had another white cross painted on her helmet. Otherwise, the only difference in dress within the heavy brigade—or all the armies of the Alliance aside from the Republic, for that matter—was that humans usually wore trousers beneath their smocks and Lemurians didn’t. ’Cats also wore sandals beneath the leggings, of course, to accommodate their differently shaped feet.

  “Good afternoon, your majesties!” Sister Audry said, saluting.

  “And to you and your brave troops,” Rebecca replied, bowing in her saddle. The humans cheered her, and the Ocelomeh cheered Saan-Kakja. Even though the Ocelomeh were humans as well, most wore little jaguar icons that looked strikingly like Lemurians. Their faith differed from the others’ in that they believed that the same son of God the Christians worshipped had appeared to their ancestors in the shape of a great cat that they hadn’t thought—until recently—even existed on this world. The consequent, much discouraged reverence they showered on Lemurians in general and Saan-Kakja in particular could be hard to take.

  The men and ’Cats walking with Sister Audry and Blas were all known to the two leaders. Marine Sergeant Koratin had once been an Aryaalan lord but became a grizzled veteran devoted to protecting Sister Audry. He’d been one of the first Lemurians to convert to Christianity and credited it with saving him from despair and corruption. Commanding the Vengadores, and Sister Audry’s nominal XO, was the dashing Colonel Arano Garcia. It was he who’d convinced Rebecca of his troops’ true penitence and had led them in bloody battles against his former countrymen. Captain Jasso was his new “co-XO,” along with Captain Bustos, who’d replaced the dead Ximen as headman to the Christian rebels swelling the ranks of the Vengadores. Captain Ixtli was another dynamic figure who’d been in charge of the Jaguar Warriors. He and his people still had a lot to learn, and they’d been incorporated into the 2nd Marines. The snowy-furred 1st Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak, better known as “Spook,” was helping Blas groom him into a true combat commander. Blas intended to make him her XO of the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines, if he could be induced to take the oath to the Amer-i-caan Navy Clan. All saluted Rebecca and Saan-Kakja as well.

  “I know you’d have all preferred a longer rest after your ordeal in the mountains,” Rebecca said, pitching her voice to carry, “but at least this march must be fairly easy in comparison.” Her deliberate understatement solicited light laughter and she continued. “Let Eleventh Corps enjoy the highland march for a while, though I know the highlands here are not nearly as extreme as those which you traversed.” The laughter was mixed with good-natured jeering now, but many troops remained silent, reflective. XI Corps was another mixed force of Imperials and Lemurian Filpin Scouts strung out across the isthmus bisected by El Paso del Fuego, where Costa Rica should’ve been. Its objective was also to prevent landward escape or resupply of Corazon, and to investigate the east coast city of Puerto Limon. Whether XI Corps’ commander, General Ansik-Talaa, would be allowed to attack Puerto Limon depended on what he found there, but it was hoped he’d at least finally make physical contact with covertly approaching ships of the NUS. Either way, it would be a milestone. His would be the first Imperial/Lemurian force to view the mythical Atlantic Ocean from the coast of this continent.

  Rebecca considered what she’d said and what some must be thinking: that they’d been through hell, and now XI Corps had replaced them for the easy, exciting part, almost as if they were being punished. She had to squash that notion. “Some of you may even imagine that since Don Hernan escaped once more and we were all deceived by the size of the force you pursued, you suffered in vain during your recent campaign. Not so. You still destroyed a much larger force than your own, composed almost entirely of Blood Drinkers, the rancid cream of Dominion power. Your dogged, aggressive pursuit also convinced the new Dom general, Mayta, that all our army remained behind him, so he was almost as unprepared as we when he came upon us. I shudder to contemplate the scope of the disaster we may have suffered if he’d had more time to plan his breakthrough. All of Tenth Corps could’ve been destroyed. So never think you wasted your time and blood in the mountains, or that your sacrifice is unappreciated!” A general cheer swept among the troops under Blas and Sister Audry’s command, and an unconscious smile even appeared on Blas’s war-weary face.

  Rebecca considered her next words. There probably were spies among these troops, as General Shinya warned, but the army’s objective could be no secret now. She pointed north. “We march for Dulce, approximately two hundred miles distant. If the enemy stands there, we will destroy him, but I expect he’ll flee to Corazon, another two hundred and fifty miles more. You will follow,” she said simply, pointing at the troops, then waved at Saan-Kakja and Sister Audry. “And so will we.” The brigade before her had practically stalled, creating a small but growing gap in the column. No doubt General Shinya will chastise me for disrupting his orderly march, she thought, but here on the plain, for the moment, there is no danger. And these troops deserve these words after what they’ve endured—and what is yet to come. She looked out at the expectant faces.

  “That sounds far; four hundred and fifty, perhaps five hundred miles. But think how far we have come! Some of you were born here and had to find your true path far away before you could return. Others live here still, but have come far in other ways. My people come from the New Britain Isles, far across the sea. Saan-Kakja’s from Maa-ni-la, even farther still. Some of you are from distant Baalkpan on the other side of the globe!” She paused for effect. “A few still among us were born on other worlds! THINK HOW FAR WE HAVE COME!” she roared, and held up her hands to stall the cheers. “Corazon an
d the Pass of Fire are a mere stroll in comparison,” she said softly. “The battles there, when they come, may not end the war, but they will turn the page to the final chapter on the road to victory. And Tenth Corps . . .” She paused. “And the Sister’s Own Division—for that is how Saan-Kakja and I think of you—will be first to break into the city and take the enemy by the throat!”

  The cheers were thunderous now, and waving, Rebecca and Saan-Kakja rejoined their dragoons and galloped forward along the column.

  “Well?” Koratin roared. “Don’t just staand there! The enemy is ahead, as the Governor-Empress said. At the quickstep, maarch!”

  “A stirring speech,” Blas remarked as the column resumed, hurrying at first to fill the gap. “Aass-uming, of course, the new Sister’s Own Division haasn’t already had its fill of fighting.”

  “Have you?” Koratin challenged gruffly, knowing the answer. To the contrary, most were concerned that Blas had come to love it, and his words were intended to assure her that the division had plenty of fight left in it as well.

  Blas blinked irony and countered, “Have you?”