River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  “How is that possible?” Gravois asked, as much surprised by the information as the abrupt revelation.

  Don Hernan smiled. “Suffice to say that we had suborned the Empire of the New Britain Isles long ago, and filled it with our people. With the aid of the New Britain Company, we would have controlled the Empire by now if not for the untimely arrival of those troublesome Americans, and Captain Reddy, of course. I believe you know him personally? As do I. A resourceful opponent, never to be underestimated. I have done so, to my woe, and never will again.” His dark eyes very briefly turned to obsidian but quickly softened. “I understand he has been more your problem of late. Perhaps your schemes will even succeed in eliminating him.” Don Hernan noted the growing incredulity on Gravois’s face and put his hands, glittering with golden rings, on the table. “In any event, true believers remain spread throughout the Alliance, passing letters among them. Can you believe it?” he laughed. “They allow frivolous, uncensored correspondence between their people! That is how proceedings as far away as their war against the Grik come to me.

  “As for more nearby events . . . We do not have your radio or wireless, nor have our efforts to build flying machines of our own much prospered—until recently.” He smiled. “But have you seen our dragons? Imbecilic creatures, to be sure, probably like flying Grik, but they can be trained to fly to specific places and do a number of useful things—such as to retrieve packets deposited near an enemy camp and bring them directly to me. All this is how I knew what the Allies were up to, and what you were doing to thwart them. I am most appreciative of your efforts, by the way. Keeping the war so dreadfully confusing on the other side of the world has prevented our common enemy from sufficiently reinforcing his efforts here.

  “Now,” Don Hernan said, “I will tell you what you must know about our situation, then reveal what I know about how that affects you—and the Alliance we are here to finalize.”

  Gravois nodded, eyebrows still raised. “Please do.”

  Don Hernan snapped his fingers, and one of the girls poured two glasses of wine. The other brought them both to the table. Don Hernan hazarded a taste, grimaced, then tried another. “It seems very dry,” he complained mildly, then sighed. “One thing I have learned: despite my many talents, I am no general. I was disabused of that pretense most decisively and barely escaped with my life. I learned from that mistake, however, and placed one in command of my western armies, who can remedy my tactical deficiencies. Even now he draws the Allied army and its Second Fleet to their destruction at El Paso del Fuego. He has far greater resources than the enemy can possibly expect, and I am confident he will prevail.” He smiled sweetly. “You should be grateful, since I am quite sure El Paso represents your Triumvirate’s primary interest in this region.”

  Gravois could only bow his head. “It is pointless to deny that El Paso del Fuego is an important strategic asset,” he temporized. “Denying it to the Alliance benefits us both.” He leaned back as well. “I’m curious, though. I gather that your religion takes a very dim view of failure. How is it that you survived to take advantage of your lesson regarding the difficulties of command?” He’d meant to crack Don Hernan’s composure and reassert a measure of equality, at least, as the discussion proceeded, but Don Hernan merely waved his hand.

  “What I want in tactics on the battlefield might possibly be countered by my strategic awareness,” he said modestly. “As far as His Supreme Holiness knows, my campaign was a great success and led to the forthcoming annihilation of the heretic horde approaching the pass—as I planned all along. None can dispute this, because not only do I bask in His Supreme Holiness’s utmost favor, but only Blood Cardinals are allowed to speak with him.” He shook his head sadly. “The war has cost us so many of those, in the strangest places. Many have evidently sought grace at their own hand at the very thought of heretic feet treading on these holy shores! Those who remain are loyal to me.”

  Gravois could only admire Don Hernan’s audacious cold-bloodedness, and respect the way he’d turned disaster to his favor. “Most interesting. What are your plans?”

  “To defeat the heretics, of course. I can do it alone, but your assistance would prove . . . mutually beneficial.”

  “You will have all the intelligence support we can provide,” Gravois promised.

  “And I already explained that there is little in terms of intelligence you possess with which we are not already blessed,” Don Hernan patiently declared, and Gravois blanched at the obvious double entendre. “What I desire is material support from this ship and your vaunted fleet of even more powerful vessels. The Allies threatening El Paso from the west are not my only concern. There are also Los Diablos del Norte—the NUS. I need their fleet controlled so I may focus on the threat from the west.”

  Gravois frowned. “That will be more problematic. I can promise little direct assistance. My orders from the Triumvirate are quite clear on that point.”

  “Your Triumvirate is as weak as your religion!” Don Hernan flared, but then visibly calmed himself. “It, like most among you, is influenced by the Catholic Church of your world, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Yes,” Gravois replied stonily. He didn’t believe in God, or anything resembling a “soul,” but knew the vast majority of his people did. The Confédértion États Souverains, from which the League of Tripoli descended, was made up almost entirely of very Catholic countries. The Germans were a partial exception to that, retaining numerous Catholics, but also some strangely revived pagan notions. In addition, the Protestants among them were no longer persecuted, as they’d been before. But the Germans were comparatively few within the League.

  “The Church here,” Don Hernan continued, “the true Church of this world, shares much in common with yours, but there are differences that make it stronger, more decisive, less based on blind faith and more on what the faithful see. It is harsher in some ways,” Don Hernan conceded. “But this is a harsher world by far than that from which you came. And there could not be a better tool to aid your Triumvirate in establishing its ultimate goals.” He shook his head. “But if it means to limit our alliance to the weak joke it enjoyed with its client in the ocean beyond the Grik, then I’m afraid a final accommodation between us is impossible.”

  Gravois was stunned that Don Hernan knew about Kurokawa but realized he shouldn’t have been. No doubt they’d taken at least some Allied prisoners. And then, of course, there was the spy network he’d alluded to. “It may be . . . difficult to persuade them to get directly involved. We have mighty forces”—he waved around—“this near the least of them. But there are other demands on our attention, and our resources are not unlimited.”

  “Ah! Resources! Another reason for your interest here,” Don Hernan proclaimed.

  Gravois shrugged. “Of course,” he said. That was also obvious.

  “But how do you mean to get them at no cost to yourselves? If you do not have the resources to join us fully and get ours as gifts from grateful friends, you can’t take them unless you join our enemies. I doubt you could even consider that. And if you did, and they accepted you, they would expect you to commit resources to them as well!”

  Don Hernan was wrong about that. Gravois had considered it but knew it was far too late. Even if it wasn’t, allocation of resources, of colonies, would only deepen the division between them. And the League’s strategic goal, control of the Pass of Fire, would remain unmet and it would ultimately have to face the entire Alliance alone.

  Don Hernan’s expression turned as sly as his face was capable of and he continued. “Only the utter defeat of our common enemy and a full partnership with the Dominion can yield what you need.” He steepled his hands before him. “And perhaps you and your Triumvirate only need that little push. You have a missing ship in the Caribbean, do you not?”

  Gravois was startled into nodding.

  “What if I told you that the tiny wooden sailing f
rigate it pursued across the Atlantic ambushed and destroyed it?”

  “Impossible!”

  “Yet it is true,” Don Hernan confirmed. “We have spies everywhere, including the Windward Islands.” He smiled benevolently once more. “You might make a visit to a little bay on the island you call Martinique—but have a care for the sad wreck lying just below the surface when you do. I’m told it can best be seen at low tide.”

  “Incredible,” Gravois murmured darkly. “So, not only did Donaghey make it here to consort and plan with the NUS, she destroyed Atúnez as well.”

  Don Hernan snapped his fingers for more wine. “I will give you a moment to mourn your comrades,” he said.

  “What did you mean earlier?” Gravois asked immediately. “You said ‘full partnership’ instead of ‘alliance.’ I doubt that was a slip. You don’t seem to make many of those,” he added ruefully.

  Don Hernan regarded him innocently. “What would it mean to you? Personally? Power, for one thing, beyond your wildest dreams.” He glanced at the naked serving girls. “And privileges to match.” He took a sip of wine. “To me it would mean an eventual amalgamation of the League and Dominion, with the same culture, goals”—he stared intently at Gravois—“and stronger leadership, of course. Your Triumvirate is too timid for this world.” He blinked and leaned forward in his chair. “And, finally, after some small modifications that would render the True Church much reformed in the eyes of my people and more recognizable to yours, they would share the most unifying force of all: the same faith.” He took a sip of wine. “With one pope,” he added. “Your people need a pope,” he said solicitously, “for their very souls. Just think what a perfect union it might be! My people are already almost fascist, as I understand the term, possibly more than yours. And your people, already accustomed to their leaders setting the example for how they must think, act, even believe, will quickly accept a familiar, stronger Church. United, such a nation, with vast resources, a huge population, incomparable military might, and the government and church walking hand in hand, each supporting the other . . . No power on Earth could possibly stand against it!”

  It was all so very tempting, even possible, and close to a scenario Gravois had already considered, even tentatively mentioned to Ciano on their trip upriver. He loved the idea of the League and its mission to establish a fascist world, but hated the Triumvirate and its weak shortsightedness, the baby steps it took. Don Hernan was absolutely right about the advantages of his proposal. But the . . . creature sitting across from Gravois, so confident, so serene, made him almost believe in religion after all—and feel like he was being offered a deal by the devil himself. He broke out of the spell Don Hernan had begun spinning with the word “power” and barked a laugh, placing his hand on his breast. “I presume you mean yourself, ruling as a partner with the, ah, secular leader of both countries?”

  “One country by then, with myself a partner in matters of faith and culture only,” Don Hernan specified piously.

  “I doubt your pope would so easily relinquish his position.”

  “On the contrary,” Don Hernan gravely denied. “His Supreme Holiness yearns to take his place in the next world, and actually feels he has lingered overlong in this one. Most tragic for one so young and wise.” There seemed to be genuine admiration in his voice. “As their role is currently defined, our popes cannot live for long, constantly drawn away by their closeness to God. That is why, even at my age, I am his chosen successor. With the reforms I intend, however, I believe I can resist the call of Heaven for quite some time.” He smiled again, in that amazingly disarming way he had. “More wine?” A notion seemed to strike him. “Or perhaps you would prefer one of the girls? You may have them both, if you like, but you must keep them if you do. I would have to destroy them,” he continued sadly. “Only virgins may enjoy my presence.” He looked directly at Gravois, who suddenly shuddered, even as he couldn’t help glancing at the girls. “One of the many little changes I would like to make, if possible,” Don Hernan assured.

  Abruptly, he stood, emptied his glass, and retrieved his hat from the table. “There is a great deal more to discuss, but we two in particular have perhaps even more to consider before proceeding to the details.”

  Gravois stood as well, glancing at his own untouched glass. “Yes,” he said absently. “The details.” He shook his head. “For the moment, may I tempt you with a brief tour of the ship?”

  “Very easily,” Don Hernan enthusiastically agreed. “Please, let us first view the weapons!”

  CHAPTER 13

  ////// USS Santa Catalina

  Zambezi River

  Grik Africa

  “Got another one!” Mikey Monk whooped from the starboard bridgewing as a Grik zeppelin erupted in flames and began its long, fiery fall to the ground. It sparkled against the night sky, tatters of burning fabric following, drifting downwind. Russ watched but lost sight of the sluggish meteor as it passed from view to starboard—and the muzzle flash of the 4.7″ gun below seared his night vision. No matter; he was too busy to gawk and couldn’t afford distractions. He’d taken the wheel himself, something he occasionally did by accident, out of habit, but with his battered, leaky ship fighting for her life in such a confined space, he preferred to react instantly to the calls of the lookouts instead of waiting precious seconds to relay the order.

  The new dual-purpose guns had never been integrated into any kind of antiair fire-control system, and that had cost the Allies dearly at the Battle of Mahe, but they’d never expected to need them against anything faster or more maneuverable than Grik zeps. Against them, however, for the very first time—even in local control—they were pure murder. The only trick was spotting them and setting the fuses right. Seeing them and estimating altitude, speed, and direction had been aided by a fine moon the last few nights, as well as a quick flash in a suspected direction by one of the ship’s searchlights right before she made a turn. More than once, the river where she would’ve been was churned by a pattern of bombs, and they had a whole new respect for Grik bombardiers. A couple of bombs even hit the ship. They were heavy, cast iron, with big black powder bursting charges that caused serious surface damage. One hit the fo’c’sle, irreparably wrenching the 10″ mount and blowing half the deck timbers away, killing six Marines. Another ricocheted off the lip of the funnel and exploded in the water alongside, starting more leaks in the fireroom for Laney to try to stop. Both sent chills down Russ’s spine. The first almost reached the forward magazine, and a few inches to the left and the other would’ve blown Santy Cat’s boilers and killed her just as dead.

  Other than that, though, it had been a Grik zep shoot, and they’d knocked down at least a dozen in the nights since the raids began. Arracca’s planes had accounted for twice as many, a disappointing percentage, actually, but the Grik had gotten wise: The zeps converged from every direction, preventing Arracca’s P-1C Fleashooters from catching them in big groups. The only time they bunched up was over their target, and then, of course, the fighters had to stay out of Santy Cat’s protective fire. But the zeps were fair game as they flew away, and increasingly, the fighters went after those that congregated to bomb the wreckage in the channel. It was essential that the channel stay blocked, and Russ was worried about the progress the enemy might be making there. Then there was the other new thing. . . . A bright jet of fire arced over the point of land concealing the other side of the bend from view and exploded well to starboard, spraying the water with hot shards of iron.

  “Damn rockets!” Mikey growled, and several ’Cats in the pilothouse nodded unconsciously, tails twitching nervously.

  “Yeah,” Russ agreed. The warhead on the Grik antiair rockets was roughly equivalent to a twelve-pounder case shot. When the bursting charge detonated, it launched a lethal pattern of iron balls and jagged shards in the same fashion. A couple of days before, they’d begun firing them at a low angle in the direction of Santa Ca
talina for the first time. They didn’t do much damage even when they hit her, but they were hard on the gun’s crews and anyone else not under cover. And they could hurt Naga and Felts, both of which were only barely controlling their own flooding. Without power for their pumps, they’d be gone already. It finally got bad enough during the day that Santy Cat was forced to move back, where the river widened, ceding the area closest to the blockage to probable Grik efforts to clear it.

  “No big deal when they just shot ’em at our planes,” Russ continued. “I mean, they knocked one down now and then, and that was too bad, but considering how many they put in the air, our guys didn’t have much to worry about. But this . . . Even if they can’t really hurt the ship much, they’re chewing our people up. And you know they’ve got spotters on that ridge, adjusting their fire. It’s like long-range field artillery, better than anything they’ve ever had.” He snorted. “Better than we have, for that matter. And I guarantee they’ve figured that out and will try to use them on our ground troops.”

  “Still problems with that,” Monk countered. “They’re big, and not very mobile. Should be easy targets from the air.”

  Russ scratched his whiskery chin but didn’t reply. He’d sent his evaluation of the threat and requested a daylight raid on the rocket batteries around the bend. They had to be fairly visible. Tassanna had been noncommittal. Apparently there were battlewagons, with their frighteningly effective antiair defenses guarding the positions, and she was getting dangerously low on Nancys. Only a few of the venerable floatplanes had been shot down, but after previous losses, Arracca hadn’t begun this operation with anything like her full complement. And those available had been through so much that her people were starting to cannibalize them for parts. Tassanna implied she might try fighters armed with a couple of bombs, but the Fleashooters were wearing out too.