River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  It was Esshk’s turn to take a long breath. “Such has occurred to me,” he conceded. “But we cannot let that deter us. Doing nothing, or continuing as we have, will never loose the Final Swarm. It remains trapped here until the river is clear. See to it, Second General Ign.” He paused, his gaze intent. “The plan now forged must be honed to the keenest edge. That shall be your task. Take us down the river—and across the strait!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Ign left Giorsh in his personal galley, larger than the standard and equipped with a narrow but comfortably appointed pavilion amidships, sufficient to accommodate his senior staff. Few of those were present, having already been dispatched to begin specific preparations. First they must determine what was left from today. Those warriors—those troops—had been savaged, yet apparently none had turned prey. They had simply, finally, withdrawn. They must be reorganized, as I did with Ker-noll Jash’s force, and prepared for use again. Guns and galleys must be gathered, as well as sufficient cruisers. They were running short of those. He paced his pavilion as the rowers propelled him to his destination. All our warriors must be reorganized, and training for their specific assignments begun, he thought, yet all has to be hidden from the sky! He groaned to himself. How to do that? How can we make something seem it is not there when it is? Particularly when we are conserving rockets. Most we shoot at the sky are wasted, but they do keep the enemy cautious. Should we save them all for bombardment? They are effective against surface targets—especially if the great enemy carrier remains where it is. But then their flying machines will feel even freer to observe what we do from the air! Suddenly, he remembered the odd coloration of the enemy ships, with their strange patterns. Their warriors dress in such a way as to make them more difficult to see as well. Perhaps we can do the same? Somehow hide ourselves in plain sight? He’d have to consider that.

  Everything he wanted to do would take time, probably longer than Esshk would permit, but Ign had girded himself to insist—to the extent of offering to destroy himself and forcing First General Esshk to take sole command. He might do it, Ign knew. So certain of success after the enemy ship/fort was so badly damaged by our bombing, he’d delegated me to merely organizing the assault today, to his limited specifications, as best I could. Esshk owned the failure, and his greatest fury had no doubt been directed at himself, his command to “find someone to blame” a desperate, hopeful deflection. But if he fails alone on the scale we now contemplate, there can be no one to blame but himself. Even the Chooser might turn against him. If we both fail, the blame might be sufficiently diluted for us both to survive. Ign growled at himself. But we will not fail this time. Still, in case they did, he had other preparations to make.

  It was long past dark when his command galley edged up to a pier supported by the ravaged hulls of galleys that still floated but were too badly damaged to repair sufficiently for battle. Others, in better shape, were tied to them. In the gloom, they looked just as dead, since there were no torches to mark them and their crews mostly slept. None of these warriors had been involved in the debacle that day; they’d already faced another, and Ign was conserving them. He hoped to good effect. To his satisfaction, he and his aides were challenged immediately, as soon as they set foot on the pier.

  “I am Second General Ign,” he proclaimed to the two guards armed with muskets, bayonets fixed. “We know,” they gushed simultaneously, and threw themselves to the dock at his feet, taking care to protect their weapons, he noted. “I am here to see Ker-noll Jash. Fetch him at once!”

  One of the guards leaped up and hurried away, his short tail plumage fanned as wide as it was able. Ign turned to the other. “Rise. Make a light before I trip and fall in the river. If the enemy attacks from the air tonight, we will hear him in time to douse the flame. Besides, I doubt they will waste their bombs on a single torch.”

  “Of course, Second General!” the guard practically yipped, fumbling for flint, steel, and tinder in a pouch on his belt. Very quickly he’d struck a light, and a single tall torch blazed on the pier. Jash and his second in command, Senior First Naxa, trotted down the booming, bouncing planks, closely followed by the messenger, until they arrived in front of Ign. He could tell they were wondering if they should go down on their bellies as well, but Ign spoke before they could decide. “I am relieving you of your duties here,” he said brusquely. Jash looked stunned, then glanced helplessly around, unable to speak. Ign continued relentlessly. “You will abandon your galleys at dawn, as others arrive to occupy them. When they do, you will take all the warriors under your command to a place a half day’s march upriver, where others like you will begin to form.”

  “Like us, Lord General?” Jash ventured.

  “Yes. Warriors who have not only proven themselves in battle, but have proven they can think. More important, that they can cope with . . . setbacks. Not many such survive,” Ign added with a snort, “though perhaps a few have joined those ranks today.”

  “The attack,” Jash asked carefully, “it was a setback?”

  Ign jerked a diagonal nod. “First General Esshk used the term ‘disaster,’ and that might be a better description. In any event, now we will prepare to strike with the entire Swarm. As much as we can put afloat.”

  “Then . . . why take us out of our ships, Lord General? Why take us off the water?”

  “Because even the lowliest Uul can pull an oar and die, Ker-noll Jash,” Ign snapped brutally. “I have other plans for those like you.” His voice softened slightly. “My sire was a seafaring Hij, and I began my training for war at sea, so I can understand the attachment you have formed to your galleys. But I want you to refresh the meager training you received in the new discipline of defense.”

  Naxa’s stubbly young crest bristled, and Ign held up a clawed hand. “I know. It is still considered unworthy by many, but you were bred for it, if insufficiently prepared. I want you to learn it well, but I also want you to think about it, make suggestions to your instructors. They know of you and will listen.”

  “But . . .” Naxa seemed devastated. “While we train, we will miss the battle? Perhaps the greatest battle that ever was?”

  “That is possible,” Ign acknowledged. “Or I may send for you and keep you with me, adding to my Personal Guard. . . .” He hesitated. “Regi-’ent,” he said at last, tasting the word. “I will lead the attack from shore, flanking the enemy with as many cannon as we can move. First General Esshk will command on the water.” Ign hadn’t suggested this to Esshk just yet, but was sure his lord would agree. He remained of the old school, after all, in which generals never actually drew their swords in battle. Protected by Giorsh’s mighty armor was the best place for him. “Be warned, however,” Ign added, “that I do not mean for you to face battle in the attack.” His crest fluttered and he glanced at the dark galleys, most of their crews still sleeping. “Oh, some of you will die; I have no doubt the enemy will bomb and shoot at us.” His eyes narrowed and his crest flared high. “But just as I no longer ever expect our plans to go entirely as designed, this enemy has taught me that he will never do as we expect. If you do find yourselves facing the enemy weapon to weapon onshore, we will all have great need of your defensive skills.” He sighed. “And your understanding of when the time has come to withdraw.” He cocked his head to the side. “If any of us manage to live through that, then rest assured that the ‘greatest battle that ever was’ will come sometime later, and you will play a most prominent part.”

  USS Santa Catalina

  “Thumped ’em again,” Silva said, gazing over the bullet-dented plates and stuffing-leaking mattresses secured to the stanchions. His tone wasn’t triumphant, however; it was just tired. He was leaning against a mangled, red-soaked mattress on the ravaged hulk’s starboard-side upper deck, his blood-crusted cutlass still in his hand. He needed to clean it before shoving it back in the scabbard at his side. Countless Grik bodies and the remains of bull
et-splintered, smoldering galleys bumped and pirouetted against the ship’s perforated sides as the current swept them along. It was a macabre, surrealistic sight, its ghastliness and scope only hinted at by the lurid light of other galleys burning more fiercely. Silva was surprised how many bodies there were, only a few occasionally twitching or heaving slightly in a desultory fashion as things below merely picked at their food. “Water boogers’ve got finicky,” he observed, guessing even the voracious crocodiles and other predators must’ve been satiated at last, but not before paving the whole bottom of the river with bones.

  “Appaar-ently,” Chack agreed, equally exhausted, leaning on the rail beside him. He didn’t even have the energy to pick the dry, crusty blood out of his fur. He couldn’t possibly have gotten it all. Though somehow uninjured, they were both splashed with gore. The Grik had actually gained Santy Cat’s decks before Arracca finally steamed alongside, and all the survivors had resorted to the bayonet and the cutlass. Chack’s Brigade, led by Risa, Cook, and Galay, had streamed across to bolster their ranks and finally turned the tide, but not before Simy Gutfeld’s Marines were savagely mauled. Gunny Horn and Lawrence joined them, moving slow. Petey was probably still hiding.

  “Pam’s going across to Arracca with the wounded,” Horn said, for Silva’s benefit. “There’re a lot. More than even Arracca’s medical division can handle.” He waved to port. “So Pam’ll be staying aboard her, and they have to get underway in case Grik zeps come—or they start shooting rockets.”

  Dennis grunted and shrugged.

  “I thought us got all their zephs,” Lawrence said, his voice distorted like a man with a broken nose by a long slash across his snout. Miraculously, he was the only one of the four who’d been wounded.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Horn speculated. “Can’t take the chance.”

  “How the hell are they gonna turn her fat ass around?” Silva asked. “River’s wide here, but the deep channel’s too narrow, ain’t it?”

  “We will back Arracca’s ‘faat aass’ to where the chaannel widens again,” came an amused, almost little-girl voice behind them. They turned, and there was Tassanna-Ay-Arracca; Chack’s sister, Risa-Sab-At; and Major Enrico Galay.

  “There’s my girls!” Silva said as he moved to embrace the Lemurian females, grinning for the first time since the battle ended. (He always wore an unnerving grin of some sort during combat, but no one was quite sure what it meant, or even if he knew.)

  “Chief Sil-vaa,” Chack growled, “Ahd-mi-raal Tassanna and Major Risa are both your superior officers. You caan’t simply claasp them to you when you meet!”

  “Of course he caan,” Tassanna said, returning the hug. Then she moved to embrace Chack, Horn, even Lawrence. Risa took her turn with Silva, and the hug lasted long enough for Chack to cough irritably.

  “Enough of your grumping!” Risa scolded her brother. “You reminded me how import-aant Dennis is to me at Zaan-zi-bar. How import-aant all my friends are! Especially at times like this.” She backed away. “Go see Paam,” she urged Silva.

  Gutfeld limped up, his trouser leg cut away and a bloody bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. “You should go across to Arracca,” Chack told him.

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Gutfeld said. “But with such a little scratch, compared to the real wounds over there, I’d be embarrassed.” Others began to join them, shuffling tiredly toward the gathering. Tassanna glanced around, seeing only “original” defenders—what was left of the 3rd Marines. Major Cook was using several hundred of Chack’s Brigade to rig repairs to the defenses; carry provisions, water, and crates of ammunition across; and take the wounded and dead aboard Arracca. They were doing everything they could to get the collapsing colander that had been a ship ready for yet another attack like they’d endured that day. Looking at the faces around her, ’Cat and human, Tassanna wasn’t sure that was possible, no matter what they did.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “I think, perhaaps, this haas gone on long enough. You’ve shaattered every aassault the enemy haas made, destroyed untold numbers of their waarriors, and devastated their gaalley fleet. I . . . believe we might be able to stop them from the comparative safety of the open water now, in the strait. I must retire with Arracca. I caan’t leave her in range of their rockets, or motionless beneath attaacks from the air.” Her tail flipped back and forth, and she blinked pleadingly at Chack. “Come with me. We’ve established an aar-field at the mouth of the river, improved the Grik forts there, and landed heavy guns. We have a foothold on the enemy’s ground, awaiting only the rest of First Fleet and the expeditionary force’s arrival. You haave done your duty and more.”

  Chack blinked regret. “We caan’t,” he said. “All you say is true, but you only tell haaf the tale. With raad-io, we have the straight dope.”

  He looked around and continued, raising his voice. “The sea lanes are cut until the entire fleet can come with Ellie”—he grinned in wonder—“and Ma-haan, I was aa-stonished to hear. And hopefully Waa-kur as well. But they’re needed to protect against a sub-maa-rine lurking in the strait. There haave been more reports, and the sub-maa-rine is confirmed, though the Maker knows how it can remain so long. One of Jumbo’s Clippers even dropped bombs on it before it could submerge, but there was no sign it was daam-aged. The upshot is, there’ll be no more supplies thaat caan’t be flown in for us”—he nodded at Tassanna—“or for TF Bottle Caap and the new forts on the coast. More planes will trickle in, but most must be held baack for First Fleet.” He blinked mild reproach at Tassanna for her well-intentioned deception. “So, the strait is now too dangerous even for Arracca, as you know. She must stay in the shaallows at the river mouth. And that mouth is too wide, with too many fingers, to contain the many hundreds, if not thousands, of gaalleys still remaining to the enemy. Paarticularly if they make their paassage in the dark.” He shook his head. “We must keep holding them here, where they caan’t sneak paast and where our dwindling aam-u-nition will have the greatest effect at the shortest distaance.” He looked at Silva. “We must keep punching them in the gut.”

  Silva arched the brow over his good eye, then shrugged, and Chack looked back at Tassanna. “It’s decided. We stay.” He considered. “Most of the First Raider Brigade will reinforce us here—there’s no space for all—but the rest will embaark on the cruisers Ris and Itaa. They’ll take all the mortars we caan’t employ here and form a ready reserve, but also be prepared to pursue other opportunities.”

  “If thaat’s whaat you think is best,” Tassanna said, frowning.

  “It is. First Fleet and Ahd-mi-raal Keje, gener-aals Alden, Rolak, and my mate, Safir Maraan, will come soon. Cap-i-taan Reddy will come soon. When they do, we’ll haand them more thaan a beachhead. We’ll give them a baattle already haaf won!”

  There were tired cheers. They weren’t the cheers of enthusiasm, but they carried acceptance and resolve. That was all that mattered.

  After Risa, Tassanna, and Galay left, the four of them leaned on the rail again, and Gutfeld grimaced and sat on a winch.

  “Opportunities?” Silva asked.

  Chack had been sure he’d pick up on that. “Yes, but not the sort you so enjoy. The Grik have slaammed us, head on, over and over again.” He quirked a wry smile. “They must be getting tired of it. After they recover from today, they’ll almost certainly try something different—and we must be ready to counter any ‘opportunities’ they may try to seize.”

  Brevet Major Abel Cook approached and saluted, his boyish face grim in the flickering light. Petey was standing on his shoulders behind his neck, tense and alert.

  “There you are, you chickenshit little skink!” Silva proclaimed. “Oh! Not you, Mr. Cook. Glad to see you. I mean that leech stuck to your neck.”

  “Shit!” Petey cawed, and launched himself at the big man, resuming his usual perch and sniffing for food. He’d taken to digging his claws into Silva’s shoulders, like a cat makin
g bread, when he was most insistently hungry, and Silva hated it. “Quit that, you little turd!”

  “Turd!” Petey screeched adamantly. “Eat! Goddamn!”

  “No!” Silva snapped harshly. “Eat later. No food now.”

  Petey bonelessly collapsed around Silva’s neck and uttered a low, desolate moan.

  “Oh, my God!” Abel chuckled, and somehow, everyone found it within them to laugh.

  “Go ahead,” Silva simmered. “Yuk it up. Don’t know how I ever wound up with the little flyin’ snake gut in the first place. Why don’t you take him, Mr. Cook?”

  “Thank you, no. I already feel rather unprepared for my current duties, standing in for Major I’joorka. The responsibilities inherent in nurturing such a sensitive and delicate creature as Petey are quite beyond me.” Cook turned to Chack. “We’re almost finished transferring wounded and supplies, and Arracca will be shoving off soon. What do you want the Raiders remaining aboard, and myself, to do next?”

  “Get some rest, Major Cook,” Chack ordered. “You’ll need it.” He looked at Silva. “And you go see Paam. I know you think it’s un-maanly to betray true feelings toward your mate—”

  “She ain’t my mate,” Silva interrupted.

  “I consider her so, and so does she.”

  “Whoop-tee-do. If anybody’s my legal mate, it’s Risa! Why, we—”

  “Chief Sil-vaa! Go! I rarely give you direct orders, but I am now—and I also order you not to tell Paam you went to see her because I ordered you to!”

  “Aye, aye, Chackie.” Silva grinned. “You take all the fun outa ever’thing, but you’re the boss. Just remember, if any ‘opportunities’ of my sort do rear up, I want in. I wanna play somethin’ new.”