River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  “Good Petey!” Silva chuckled, breaking a pumpkiny-tasting cracker in two and handing half to the colorful tree-gliding reptile.

  “You’re such an asshole!” Pam Cross snapped, dark hair blowing, her pretty face distorted by an incredulous frown. An unmistakable Brooklyn accent colored her words. “I thought you liked that little turd, an’ here you are tryin’ ta scare him to death!”

  “He ain’t scared,” Silva replied in his equally thick Alabama drawl. He looked at her with his one good eye. “But what do you care? You hate his guts. I’m just trainin’ him for what to do if you ever pitch ’eem over the side.” He scratched Petey’s chin while the little lizard chewed, raining crumbs. “Besides, he likes it. Only fun he can have on this overpacked scum-weenie can.”

  The “can” was the former Jap-Grik cruiser Yahagi, renamed Itaa by its commander, Jarrik-Fas, and it was steaming at the head of TF Gri-kakka. “Itaa” was Lemurian for “nose,” and reflected the large underwater ram at her bow. Beside Pam was Lawrence, Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, and Colonel Chack-Sab-At. Abel Cook, Risa-Sab-At, and Enrico Galay were aboard the other captured cruisers. They, along with Clark, Saak-Fas, and six auxiliaries trailed behind.

  They’d bypassed Mahe and made an amazingly fast passage down to Grik City on the north coast of Madagascar. There they somehow packed another three hundred human Maroons and Lemurian Shee-Ree aboard the various ships, in addition to the near 2,200 troops of Chack’s Brigade and the 1st North Borno. It had been impossible to take all the Maroons and Shee-Ree that wanted to go, but more might follow later as transport became available—and if there was any purpose. As it was, there was hardly space to turn around, let alone lie down, and it was utterly impossible for the troops to exercise or the cruiser’s scratch crews to perform any battle drills. Fortunately, the Grik engineers knew their power plants well and were getting the most out of them. They were also perfectly happy to continue their duties regardless of their masters—as long as they could hide below.

  Physical and tactical exercises would come after TF Gri-kakka rendezvoused with USNRS Arracca. Three-quarters of the Raiders, including the Shee-Ree and Maroons, would board her for now, replacing the 3rd Marines and making a total “reserve” of nearly 2,500 troops, including Arracca’s own Marine contingent. The rest of the Raiders and Gutfeld’s Marines, long separated from their comrades in Santy Cat, would go up the Zambezi with TF Gri-kakka. Those with artillery experience would serve as gunners for the crude but powerful batteries aboard the former enemy ships. In the meantime, all they could do was hope there’d still be somebody left to reinforce when they finally reached Santa Catalina.

  They knew the old freighter had held the first Grik attempt to break out. Stopped it cold, in fact, and had been going through hell ever since. Due to the new obsession with comm security, however, that was about the extent of their knowledge. No doubt someone knew more, Tassanna-Ay-Arracca and Captain Reddy, at least. Probably Keje and generals Alden, Rolak, and Safir Maraan, and their code breakers, of course, but that might be it. If something drastically changed—like Santy Cat’s destruction or the Grik getting past her—their orders would change. In the meantime, the fact they were still steaming south, packed in the four stinking Jap-Grik ships and their consorts like mixed cans of human, semi-reptilian Khonashi, and Lemurian sardines, was probably a good thing.

  “She’s right,” Lawrence chimed in grudgingly, uncharacteristically taking up for the little pest. “You can tell it scares the shit outa he.” As usual, Lawrence avoided “lip words.” Otherwise, he spoke almost perfect English, Lemurian, and passable Grik. And once, those who didn’t know him would’ve sworn he was Grik, with the same vaguely avian-reptilian form, paring-knife teeth, and sickle claws, perfect for tearing flesh. But besides being generally smaller, his orange-and-brown, tiger-striped, feathery fur set him apart from the dingy brown and dark brown Grik; even the light and dark, rust-striped Khonashi. The Khonashi were a mixed tribe of Grik-like folk and humans, probably Malays, and were firm members of the Union. It was very weird having Grik-like troops fighting on their side.

  “Does not,” Silva denied. “He likes it. Why else would he keep runnin’ back for more?”

  “Because he’s stupid,” Gunnery Sergeant Horn groused. “Like me. And he doesn’t like it. He likes the crackers.”

  “Stupid!” Petey declared, spewing crumbs.

  Pam regarded Horn, hands on her shapely hips. “So what’s your excuse? He give you crackers too?”

  Horn frowned. “No,” he said, turning to look at Silva. “Come to that, tell me again how Larry and I—both wounded heroes—‘volunteered’ for this suicide mission when we weren’t even there.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Silva drawled. “You weren’t there. I asked you to go to the meetin’, but noo, your wimpy-assed little scratch was hurtin’, you said. Hell, you been a Marine long enough to know that not showin’ up is the same as vounteerin’ for whatever shit detail comes along!”

  Gunny Horn pursed his lips in the middle of his black-bearded face. He’d actually begged off because he had a date with a pretty little Impie gal named Diania whom he was nuts about. Thank God she was safe with Sandra. True, that safety was transitory, since she’d never leave her friend, and Sandra had made it plain she was through being put off of USS Walker. And there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Walker would eventually steam into harm’s way again. . . . Absently, Horn touched the bandaged wound under his shirt. It was pretty small compared to the last one. He thought the dopey-looking pistol Dupont shot him with was just a .32. And as for Silva’s other point . . . he reluctantly nodded agreement.

  “You didn’t ask I to go!” Lawrence accused.

  “Your teensy little hole was even smaller than Horn’s,” Silva scoffed. “A pissant little seven-by-twenty Nambu—in the ass! Hell, I shot you with bigger bullets than that before. Lucky for you both that Japs ’n Frogs don’t neither one b’lieve in manly calibers like the blessed forty-five!” He arched his eyebrow and shook his head, as if mystified by that. “Besides, I couldn’t ask; you were gone too. Prob’ly chasin’ bugs to eat,” he added airily, taking a huge chew of yellowish Aryaalan tobacco. “So I just naturally assumed you’d beg ta come along. What would you do with yerself if you weren’t fightin’ Griks with me? Prob’ly take up the ukulele, or quiltin’ bees.”

  “No tasty ’ugs on Zanzi’ar,” Lawrence moped.

  “See? It’s like I saved you. Again.”

  “You didn’t ‘save’ him from anything, except maybe living,” Pam Cross snapped, folding her arms over her breasts. “But you don’t care. You don’t care about anything but what you want, and you wanted your pals along. That’s all. You didn’t even care that they’re hurt. Your friends. And you sure don’t give a damn what I want.”

  “You misjudge Chief Sil-vaa this time, I think,” Chack interrupted.

  “How?” Pam demanded, then added “sir” a little uncertainly. In spite of being a Marine colonel, commanding what had essentially grown into a near division of very diverse troops, Chack still considered himself a mere boatswain’s mate aboard Walker, his Home. But they weren’t on Walker, and friends or not, Chack was the highest-ranking member of the task force until they came under Tassanna-Ay-Arracca’s orders and TF Gri-kakka became an element of TF Bottle Cap.

  “Sil-vaa knows the coming fight will be a desperate one, praac-tically a suicide mission, as Gunny Horn described it. It could also, very likely, mark the turning point in the waar against the Grik.” Chack paused, blinking. “One way or another.” His eyelids flickered speculatively at the troops crowding nearby, engaged in their own conversations. A small space had even been cleared for a game of marbles—a Lemurian passion. He’d lost interest in the game himself, but was curious how they managed it on a pitching deck. He shook his head.

  “We’ve faced maany win-or-die situations before, but in faact, in most cas
es we could’ve still prevailed in the end, even if we lost.” He blinked irony. “Thaat we did not always win, yet still find ourselves on the brink of victory—or defeat—is proof of thaat. Yet this time it’s different. If we win in the Zaam-beezi River, or, more accurately, I suppose, maan-age to avoid losing, we won’t win the waar, but I do think we’ll fi-naally deny any real possibility of victory to the Grik.” He blinked consternation. “At least thaat’s my hope. We still know so little about them: their capabilities, the extent of their industry, even their borders. How much of Aaf-ri-caa must we conquer to subdue them?” He shook his head again.

  “We’re sure of so little, yet I’m certain of this: We’re dangerously overextended, facing not only the Grik but the Dominion. Possibly the League as well. We caan’t go on like this for long. If the Grik break out, we must try to stop them. They’re the most immediate threat to the Western Allies and we haave no depth to our defense. Not anymore. There are settlements, industries, fortifications, but they’re like skeletons; their muscle is all here. All we haave is here, or on the way. So, if the Grik get out, we’ll haave to pull support from our allies in the East, on the other side of the world.

  “They will then lose,” he stated flatly. “Yet we couldn’t win even then. It would all be too late, and likely end at Baalkpan, as it did before, or Maa-ni-la. Except even if we defeat them there again, we no longer have the strength to push them back. It comes down to simple math-aa-maatics. They will return, again and again, with more waarriors and better weapons each time, until we are no more. And do you think the Dominion will be saatisfied thaat we’re no longer a threat to them? Thaat the League will sit idly by? No, they’ll sense our doom and, like all pred-aators, strike while we’re weak.” He blinked with new intensity. “There caan be no victory, this time, if we lose this fight.”

  He gazed at Pam, then looked at Horn and Lawrence. “Of course Sil-vaa wanted you here because you’re ‘paals.’ He fights better with you, and you with him.” Chack managed a toothy grin. “How could you miss it?” The smile faded. “And how could you live with yourselves, any of you, if you weren’t here for this, whether we lose—or maan-age not to? You’ve all made profound differences before. Whaat thoughts would torment you until the day you die, of whaat contributions you might’ve made to this operation, if the Grik are victorious at laast?” Chack looked down at his short finger claws. “I’d much rather die in baattle, on the Zaam-beezi River, than condemn myself to thoughts like that.”

  Horn grunted. “Put like that, I guess I see what you mean. Doesn’t mean I’m grateful to the big bastard for dragging me along.”

  “O’ course I not stay out o’ this . . . fight,” Lawrence said earnestly. “I just joke. Dennis jokes; I joke.”

  “Damn, Chackie,” Silva mused. “I didn’t even think of all that shit.”

  Pam threw her hands up. “See? What a self-centered jerk. Treats all his friends just like Petey, and doesn’t give a damn what happens to ’em.” She spun and stalked off, crashing through the milling troops.

  “Probably should’ve just kept your trap shut that time,” Horn murmured.

  Silva stood blinking. “Well . . . damn. What’d I do? Sure, I wanted you fellas along. It’ll be a hoot. You didn’t really wanna stay out of it!” It was clear that possibility never occurred to him. He poked Horn with his finger. “Look what happened to you, last time you got benched.”

  “Sure, sure, and I wished I was with you a hundred times. But that gal is stupid for you, you big dope.” He shooed Silva away. “Go catch her. Don’t let her simmer. She’ll just make the rest of us miserable—and God help us if we wind up needing her to patch us up!”

  “Well, what do I say?”

  “Tell her you joke,” Lawrence said. “An asshole joke. She ’lieve that.”

  Silva seemed to think about that. Finally he handed Petey and a sack of crackers to Horn and snarled, “Here, you play with him for a while,” then plowed through the troops in Pam’s wake.

  Chack was blinking surprise. “Sometimes I don’t under-staand hu-maans at all. Is Paam really aangry?”

  Horn shook his head. “No—well, yeah.” He shrugged. “Kinda. Hell, I don’t know.” He chuckled. “If you think about it, they’re the perfect pair. She loves being sore at Silva, but stays crazy for him—while he gives her plenty of reasons to bitch.” He brightened. “They’re like the perpetual emotion machine!”

  Chack blinked perplexity, utterly lost.

  Horn rolled his eyes. “And now, after all the chasing she’s done to catch him, he’s gone after her! She’ll love that.”

  Chack swished his tail against the bulwark—swat, swat, swat—a sign of agitation, but finally understood all too well. He was mated far above his station, in his opinion, to General Queen Safir Maraan. He loved her with all his being and couldn’t imagine what she saw in him. But there’d been a time when he was besotted with Keje’s daughter, Selass-Fris-Ar. It was all just a great game to her, tormenting him and toying with his feelings, until it suddenly wasn’t a game anymore. By then he’d become a destroyer-maan in the Amer-i-caan Navy Clan and a Maa-reen. More important, he’d met Safir Maraan. Selass was with 2nd Fleet now, fighting the Doms, and by all accounts had matured considerably—as had he. So perhaps he understood humans fine and it was only females that remained a mystery. “I don’t see how that could be good for either of them,” he said.

  “Why not? They both live to fight, in their own way. Hell, your own sister Risa’s like that too. That’s the reason she and Silva—” Horn caught himself, remembering the rumors he’d heard. “Are such great pals,” he finished.

  Chack blinked appreciation at Horn’s diplomatic diversion, but his ears flattened at the thought of Risa. Horn is right about her, to a point. But unlike Silva, her battle joy was tempered in the action on Zaan-zi-bar. She blames herself for a costly mistake not her fault. She and Silva remain friends but she has drawn away. Perhaps she sees in him the careless self she’d always been, and is both repelled by it and mourns its loss at the same time. Chack could sympathize. He’d hated violence in any form before the war came—and look what he’d become. Sometimes he yearned for that former innocent youngling-like self as well. On deeper reflection, he supposed for a moment that Silva was the only person he knew who hadn’t been radically changed by the war, but realized even that was false. Despite how he acts, Silva . . . cares more about things—and people—than when we met. That’s a very good change, considering how dangerous he’s become, often given such a free hand, and with an entire war to play in. We’ll have to come up with something exciting for him to do if ever, with the Maker’s help, we finally achieve victory and peace.

  “What’s on your mind, Colonel?” Gunny Horn asked, feeding crackers to Petey. “You looked bothered all of a sudden.”

  Surprised that Horn, who hadn’t been around Mi-Anakka as long as many, could already read him so well, Chack conjured a smile. “I’m no more bothered than usu-aal, Gunny Horn, but I appreciate your concern.”

  TF Gri-kakka continued south, making good time and avoiding the tempests that often stirred the strait. A few squalls tormented the troops on deck, causing frenzies of weapon cleaning and drying. In the cramped space available, this often led to altercations when someone was inadvertently poked by a cleaning rod. In truth, those instances were just excuses for frustrated troops to let off steam, but they resulted in several serious injuries. After their nearly ten-day voyage under such conditions, it came as a profound relief—despite the lurking danger—when they finally approached the coast of Africa and the sea turned cloudy with Zambezi River sediment. They’d reached the highway to the very heart of their ancient enemy, but instead of dread there was only excitement at the sight of mighty Arracca and her consorts silhouetted against the dark shore and setting sun.

  A few weathered-looking Nancys were being recovered and one of the huge PB-5Ds floated alongside,
minus two of its engines. ’Cats worked, apparently unconcerned, on top of its high, pitching wing. It seemed to Chack that they were patching holes in the fabric and repairing the engine mounts. As soon as the last Nancy was lifted to the hangar deck, Itaa was the first alongside, making fast to a broad, floating dock that led to the ship. Chack, Silva, Pam, Horn, and Lawrence led the anxious but orderly flood of troops, and when they climbed the cargo netting draped down the great Home-turned-carrier’s side, arriving through a broad opening onto the hangar deck, they met Tassanna-Ay-Arracca herself, accompanied by her staff. Chack hardly recognized her. No longer a youngling, she’d reached her full height, and in contrast to the last time he saw her, she wore a high-necked white tunic with four gold stripes around the long sleeves, its tail slightly overlapping the top of a white kilt, also hemmed with four gold stripes—exactly as prescribed by Amer-i-caan Navy Clan regulations. Human trousers were not adorned and he wondered why, but shook it off. Probably tradition, he thought. He noted that Tassanna’s uniform had been carefully tailored for comfort while accentuating her firm, youthful curves, and thought Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar would certainly approve of the effect. For the first time, he wished he’d worn what had come to be considered the Marine dress uniform of blue kilt and tunic, topped with white rhino-pig armor, instead of his tie-dyed caam-o-flaage combat smock. Tassanna’s large bright eyes regarded them now, blinking a mixture of distinct pleasure with overtones of concern, and despite their jumbled relative seniority, impulsively lunged forward and embraced them all, even Horn, whom she’d never met.