River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  The P-1s dove into the smoke beyond Russ’s view, and he assumed they were targeting more Grik cruisers preparing to force a passage. The half-dozen Nancys, each carrying two larger, heavier incendiaries, swooped down in the direction from which most of the rockets came. Huge orange-black toadstools of fire and smoke erupted beyond the rocky hump, mixed with a shattering series of explosions and uncontrolled rocket trails that tumbled and corkscrewed in all directions. Banking up and away from the inferno, it looked like all the Nancys survived the attack. Drowned by the results of that, nothing was seen or heard of the fighter strike on the cruisers until a number of Fleashooters climbed out, followed by rising columns of smoke. A pair veered back toward the cruiser Russ could see, which was making for the south side of the river. Their bombs gone, they commenced a strafing run. Waterspouts marched toward the cruiser as bullets flailed the water, then the ship. Suddenly, amid a cloud of white smoke, it almost seemed as if the cruiser exploded—but then smaller gray-white puffs blossomed in the air above it, directly in the fighters’ path. One of the blue-and-white planes made it through the fog of smoke and flailing fragments apparently unscathed, but the other simply came apart and hurtled, spinning, into the river.

  “Damn!” Gutfeld snarled, standing beside Russ. “Those cruisers do have antiair rockets or mortars, just like the battlewagons. And they’re damned effective against low-flying attackers. How the hell did they teach ’em to time it just right?” He shook his head, leaving the obvious answer unspoken. The Grik had learned many things through Kurokawa’s aid, of course, but also through experience and, most frightening of all, imagination. The Grik were a real, thinking enemy now, as capable of learning from and adjusting to mistakes as any other. And they’d done it at the worst possible time from the Allies’ perspective, when their strategic flexibility was most taxed. They had to stop this breakout, and for Santy Cat and her people to survive, the invasion must come here as well. Nobody planned the battle that was building in the Zambezi River, and neither side had much choice about how to fight it. But the way it was turning out, it would play to the oldest and most insurmountable Grik strength of all: sheer numbers.

  Russ spun and grabbed Gutfeld’s arm. “We have mortars too,” he insisted, “that can hammer those cruisers. I doubt theirs are designed to reach us.”

  At that moment, one of the starboard 5.5″s scored a critical hit against the cruiser emerging from the channel. It had just turned north, exposing its starboard broadside and clearing the way for another behind it, when flames jetted from every seam. With a thunderclap rumble, the ship burst apart, spraying itself across the water.

  “Yes, sir, we do, but not a helluva lot of ’em. And our guys in the open’ll get creamed by the rockets.”

  “We don’t have a lot of anything,” Russ argued. “Arracca is our tender, and we can’t just steam out to her and resupply. Not now.” He waited a moment, listening. The forward guns were still pasting the cruiser that got the plane, and the aft guns were targeting the next ship to emerge—just as two 100-pound shot slammed Santy Cat’s starboard side and sent everyone sprawling.

  “We’re holed in the engine room!” the talker squeaked. “Laney’s gonna bust hisself screamin’ at me!”

  “There haven’t been any rockets since the air strike,” Russ continued, helping Gutfeld up. “Maybe they got ’em all, maybe not, but we need your mortars now. You’ve got to at least keep their heads down while they load. The cruisers’ guns aren’t as powerful as their BBs, but they’re still tearing us apart. What good does it do to save ammo and lives for a later we’ll never live to see?”

  Gutfeld was nodding. “Understood, sir. We’ll do our best.”

  “I know.”

  Gutfeld addressed the talker. “Call all mortar teams on deck with their tubes, on the double.” The baseplates were still in place.

  “Ay, Major,” the talker agreed, not waiting for Russ to repeat the command.

  The signal-’Cat near Russ blinked an acknowledgment to her counterpart on Felts. “Sur,” she said, “Arracca’s wing lost five planes against croosers on the other side. Prob’ly sank two. But there’s more, an’ . . . Sur, there’s hundreds o’ gaalleys pullin’ to the front, like they gonna come out too. An’ they don’t need that main chaannel that’s left.”

  Russ took a long breath. What next? “Very well. Major, we’re about to have more targets for your mortars, probably machine gunners and riflemen too.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Jash now knew what true fear was, though he still had no name to call it. The Ghaarrichk’k used other words in conversation for things that gave them unease, but if a word existed for the . . . other thing, which dwelt within all creatures, the thing that turned them prey, it was never intended for such as Jash to know. Instead, any who panicked, succumbing to the nameless impulse to survive at any cost—“turned prey”—were immediately slain out of hand. This provided an artificial antidote to fear in the form of swift and certain consequences to behavior that did, on some level, require a subjective assessment of a situation, even perhaps an individual decision. Therefore, since time began, each warrior of the Race had not only had every impulse toward individual thought suppressed unless they were granted “elevation” but had been presented with only one choice when the nameless dread swept upon them: obey. Death might come if they did, but there was no uncertainty about what would happen if they fled. Flight had been removed from the binary list of instinctive options, leaving only fight.

  The problem was, Jash’s generation of warriors had been raised to exercise their minds to an unprecedented degree. They’d been bred and indoctrinated for loyalty to their creators, of course, in the persons of Regent Champion Esshk and the Celestial Mother, but also taught to think—as one must in order to use complex weapons and employ tactics that make them most effective. They’d even been encouraged to use initiative, on occasion, when advantages presented themselves on the battlefield. None of that could be accomplished without imagining multiple options in any given situation, most especially those involving survival. For that reason, Jash, Seech, and possibly every warrior aboard Slasher and the other New Army galleys tasted real fear, whether there was a word for it or not, when they advanced into the maelstrom of the river bend. That they did so at all proved their loyalty was real, but also that their acuity was such that they could display yet another trait that had no name they knew: courage.

  “I told you the attack would commence as scheduled,” Seech shouted at Jash over the thundering drum that kept the rowers in sync. The drum was felt as much as heard, in the very fibers of the ship; otherwise, with so many other rumbling drums near and far, all the rowing would descend into chaos.

  Jash allowed his eyes to rest on the burning carcass of one of the cruisers, destroyed by the enemy flying machines. Two, at least, had been gutted by bombs, and a couple others damaged. Worse, the cruisers had wounded or killed quite a few warriors with the same air-bomb fragments that tore some of the flying machines from the sky. One machine had crashed nearby, smashing two galleys. Now the whole horde of remaining gun galleys, and an equal number crewed by ordinary Uul warriors, were racing ahead of the last five cruisers commanded to force the gap.

  “I told you that,” Jash rebutted. “I also said we would begin late, after surprise was lost.” I did not think it would be this late, he confessed to himself. It is near to midday. The sun was blasting down, harder than usual, as if the humid air focused its rays more intensely, and Jash felt as if he were wearing a blanket of smoldering coals. Then the sun was simply gone, choked by the smoke of the burning wrecks they passed. It only grew hotter, and it didn’t seem like the airship bombing had cleared the passage in any way, serving only to reignite the jagged timbers jutting from the water—or scatter them about, creating floating hazards for Slasher’s lightweight hull and making rowing more difficult.r />
  The smoke of battle and smoldering ships was heavy and oppressive, burning Jash’s eyes and making breathing an effort. Smoke was always difficult for the Race, and it was doubly ironic that this new way of war produced so much. There came a crash to his right, mingled with cries of rage and alarm. He couldn’t see, but suspected one of the galleys had destroyed itself on a wreck. “Watch very carefully,” he told the warriors nearby, “and do not hesitate to inform the First if you see a hazard. I should resume my post,” he grudged to Seech, easing back a step. He belonged at the rear of the galley, beside the warriors at the tiller, but he’d . . . needed to see, to be the first to gaze upon the enemy they must face. Seech was where he belonged, ready to call out course corrections and, ultimately, command the great gun on the bow.

  “Indeed,” Seech agreed, then paused, looking at him. “I will watch over our Slasher,” he assured, “and you can rejoin me here when the prey is clear to see.”

  Jash nodded thanks and trotted back down the deck above the rowers. Finally at his station again, he could barely see Seech, much less anything beyond. Or is that . . . Ahead, through the gloom, bright slashing tongues of flame spurted from heavy guns, pounding at something in the distance. Surely from one of our cruisers, he thought. There were no answering flashes, but explosions suddenly shook the cruiser and it veered sharply to the right.

  “We are past the wreckage!” Seech crowed back at Jash, then his stance grew rigid and his bristly young crest rose through the gap down the center of his helmet. “The enemy!” he called back, his tone starkly less jubilant. Jash started to move forward again, but the smoke finally cleared, revealing the full panorama of the battle. He was stunned by what he saw.

  Half a ten of their newest cruisers lay scattered in the broader part of the river, burning, exploding, or simply lying, half-sunk, their crews scrambling onto exposed sections or trying to escape on floating debris. Dozens of galleys had cleared the passage ahead of them, rowing swiftly, but many were already under fire. Bullets from the enemy’s amazing fast-shooters stitched the water around them and spewed splinters from their fragile hulls or sprays of downy fur and blood from even more fragile bodies. Great stalks of dirty water arose among them, shrouded in smoke and foam. Jash suspected these came from the small mortars he’d been told to expect, which the Race had been unable to copy yet. One landed directly on a galley a hundred paces ahead, thoroughly shattering it and spilling its crew into the water. And the water . . . He and his were accustomed to lake and river monsters and the voracious fishes that sometimes swarmed. They even knew how to avoid them to a degree, so they could cross rivers and streams when necessary. But the Zambezi now teemed and heaved with predators of every sort, throwing up knuckles and swirls in their frenzy, and snatching struggling warriors. There will be no avoiding the concentration gathered to the carrion here, he realized, the unnamed tension rising in his chest.

  Three cruisers, already through the gauntlet and already damaged to various degrees, were trading a furious fire with two lonely vessels lying across their path. The smaller looked something like the old-style sailing ships of the Race, of which so few remained, except it was clearly a steamer. It was just as clearly heavily damaged, though it continued to fire while its position near the larger ship afforded it some protection. The bigger one, barely as large as the casemate on the numerous greatships it had destroyed, looked so misshapen by damage that Jash couldn’t believe it was still afloat, let alone defiant. Some of the distortion may have been caused by the bizarre patterns of contrasting grays that covered it, but that couldn’t account for all. He’d been told it was made entirely of iron instead of merely armored with it—as all Ghaarrichk’k warships now were—and perhaps that made the difference, but even from his current distance of perhaps ten hundreds of paces, he could see through it in several places, where heavy shot had blown holes in and out. Its smoke pipe, riddled with holes, had collapsed, as had other things, like masts, and it was generally so dented and battered that he could only guess at its original shape. Yet all that damage hadn’t drawn its teeth. It still moved sluggishly, turning now to maintain its position and perhaps expose more guns and a less wounded side.

  Here indeed is the greatest river monster of all, he realized. Even as he did, the closest cruiser emitted a dying screech amid a roiling plume of escaping steam that gushed out over a pair of racing galleys. The cries of their warriors echoed the sinking ship. Great bellows-driven horns aboard the command galleys roared the guttural tone for a general attack. “Full speed!” Jash snapped at the drummer near the tiller, who acknowledged with a hesitant nod. At least I am not the only one with claws shredding my heart, Jash thought. The drummer raised the tempo to the quickest pace the rowers could sustain for such a distance, though they’d probably be too exhausted to fight when they got there. That hardly mattered. The crew of the great gun would fight for them all—if they lived long enough. The mortars and fast-shooters had redoubled, and more and more galleys stopped, flooding, or fell off course as rowers on one side or the other were slain, their oars trailing alongside.

  Though no fast-shooters had been directed at Slasher yet, as far as Jash could tell, a few of his warriors were crying out in pain or collapsing on their benches in welters of blood. The dead were quickly thrown over the side and replaced with reserves, but Jash wondered what was killing them. Squinting through the renewed smoke and spume, he saw many tens of the enemy lining protected rails on the target, firing garraks. The range seemed impossible; he estimated it at nearly five hundred paces now, but clearly it was not. He must do what he could to spoil their aim.

  “First Seech!” he roared. “Commence firing the great gun! We are close enough to do some harm, I think.” Many of the other galleys had already started firing, usually earning them the attention of fast-shooters, but it couldn’t be helped. “All reserves to the front. Fire your garraks while the great gun is loaded!” He knew that was risky—the bow was crowded enough already and sparks might ignite the powder carried to the gun—but if they could suppress just a little enemy fire, it might be enough to let them achieve two or even three shots from the great gun before they were destroyed. He no longer doubted that outcome, and, oddly, the claws in his heart had relaxed their grip to some degree.

  The great gun fired, slamming back against the breechings and shaking Slasher through and through. By some miracle of the meager breeze, the smoke cloud drifted aside and Jash saw their 16-pound roundshot fly straight into the side of the terrible ship—and bounce back into the water with a splash. But other shots were slamming through, punching holes, and he realized they must’ve hit an especially well-armored section. Immediately, warriors stood around the gun, firing garraks at the enemy as fast as they could. They even remembered to aim high, Jash saw, since some of their balls actually sent the enemy behind cover. A fast-shooter opened up on them, however, scattering warriors around the great gun in a flurry of splinters and blood. Out of the corner of his eye, Jash saw a pair of galleys crewed by Uul warriors race past, much faster than his heavily laden Slasher could manage, and almost no fire was directed at them. He wondered what they hoped to accomplish. They’d be too exhausted to use their swords and spears, even if they got alongside the enemy and climbed its high, dented sides.

  “Seech is down!” Came a cry, and Jash finally relented to his impulse to race forward. “Sustain this course and speed no matter what!” he called behind. A great gun on a galley beside them roared and the fast-shooter redirected its fire there, quickly felling its crew and shredding the thin timbers beneath it. The galley began to slow, and the clattering bullets sprayed the crew at the oars. Jash hardly noticed. First of One Hundred Seech, whom he’d known all his life, was lying in a twitching pile of dead and wounded warriors. His warriors. Seech’s eyes were open, staring, but there was no inner light. That was understandable, since his entire bottom jaw was blown away and the exit hole under the back of his head was full of bloody
, saltlike specks of neck bone.

  The sensation Jash felt then was one fully recognized, even encouraged by the Race. It was called hiskak, or “battle fury,” but the same training that made him susceptible to previous, unnamed feelings allowed him to control this as well. A bullet clipped a few bristles from his short crest and another grazed his arm, leaving a shallow, bloody trench. He didn’t even notice. “First of Fifty Naxa still lives?” he demanded.

  “Here, Senior . . . Ka’tan,” came a reply beside him.

  Still staring at Seech’s corpse, Jash spoke. “Load the great gun. We continue the attack.”

  “Of course, Senior. But look there.”

  Jash raised his gaze. Five or six of the Uul galleys had reached the side of the enemy ship. Garraks were firing down on them, as were a few fast-shooters. Even little bombs, tossed by the enemy, exploded aboard them. Then, to Jash’s astonishment, two of the galleys suddenly detonated with a force sufficient to obliterate themselves and several galleys nearby, heeling the great ship over. Before it could recover, another blast-shattered galley exploded against the rusty red, barnacle-encrusted bottom that was exposed. A great pall of smoke spread from the scene, and for a moment there was no firing at all.