The Roaring Mouse was a tavern run by one of former president Kal’s nephews, a legendary haunt amongst the cadets. The place was supposedly strictly off limits while they were in the academy, but it would go out of business if that rule was observed.
“Your assignments?” Andrew asked.
“You know where I’m heading, and, sir, it bothers me,” Abraham announced.
“Orders are to be obeyed whether you like them or not,” Andrew said with mock severity. “The fact that you are assigned to General Hawthorne’s staff has nothing to do with politics. You scored in the top five of your class, that’s the usual slot, so not another word on it.”
It was an outright lie, but after all the years of service, he felt he had the right to ensure that his only surviving son was safe for a while.
Abraham looked around at his friends, obviously a bit relieved by his father’s statement, which showed that he had not tried to pull for such a plum assignment.
“And the rest of you?” Andrew asked.
“Air reconnaissance officer on the Gettysburg,” Cromwell replied.
“Naval Ordnance Development Board,” Rosovich replied, a slight note of disappointment in his voice.
“You don’t sound happy, lieutenant,” Andrew said with a smile.
“Ah, yes, sir, I am.”
It was an obvious lie.
“He wanted a field assignment,” Abraham interjected, and Andrew could sense that his son was playing a little game. Most likely Adam had pressed him to try for a last-minute change of assignments.
“Mr. Rosovich, if you were selected for the Development Board, it was undoubtedly because Professor Ferguson asked for you. I’d guess you scored in the top of your class in flight engineering.”
Adam reluctantly nodded his head. “Yes, sir, I did.”
“Then the finest service you could perform for the Republic is to take this assignment. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of chances later for a flight squadron.”
Adam smiled politely, his gambit an obvious failure.
Sean O’Donald, who had been standing quietly to one side, finally spoke up. “Air reconnaissance officer on the Gettysburg as well, sir,” he announced.
Pat looked over anxiously at Andrew, and in that flicker was a subtle indication that Pat would have preferred something far safer.
“They must think highly of your ability to put you with our navy’s newest armored cruiser.”
“I asked for it, sir.”
Andrew nodded, saying nothing.
He looked at the four young officers, all of them filled with such hopes and enthusiasm this day, all looking so proper and elegant in their dress uniforms. In the crowd gathered below the platform, he saw more than one young lady waiting patiently, gazes fixed on their chosen beaus. He smiled inwardly, wondering how long the comrades would actually stay together at the Mouse before secretly heading off for a final, brief rendezvous. They were all shipping out today. That was another tradition of the service, to send out the new cadets on their graduation day, and he suspected that more than one would make a promise of marriage once their first six-month tour of duty was up. He silently prayed that they’d still be alive to keep those promises.
“Go on, boys. Abraham, your mother and I will see you off later at the station.”
Again the smiling salutes and the four comrades turned, leaping off the platform to disappear into the crowd. Andrew’s thoughts turned toward his own affairs. Other burdens now awaited him. a congressman from Constantine, corrupt as the summer day was long, was looking for yet another government job for a “nephew.” And Father Casmir, now a member of the Supreme Court, wanted to argue yet again about the Ming Proposal. Behind them, Andrew could picture all the other seekers, flesh pressers, hangers-on, critics, and false praisers.
So now I look like Lincoln, he thought, absently reaching up to touch the gray chin whiskers, which Kathleen, in private, kept threatening to cut while he was asleep. As he looked over at her, a flash of pride and love swept through him, for already she had composed herself. She was turning to sidetrack a senator whom she knew was a gadfly to Andrew, charming the man with compliments about his far too young wife.
Pat pressed in closer. “Times I wish we could erase all these years, be back at our tent at the front, sharing a bottle with Emil and Hans.”
“The old days are gone, Pat. It’s a new age now.”
“Ah, I know, Andrew darlin’, I know. It’s just hard to believe how quickly it changed.”
“Your boy looks fit. He’ll do well.”
Pat lowered his head, and an audible sigh escaped him. “He never cared for me, you could see that today. I’ve tried to make amends, I have.”
Andrew was silent—for what could be said? The boy, like Abraham, has been bom the autumn after the end of the war, his mother of Roum aristocracy, a niece of old Proconsul Marius. And Pat had never married her. Andrew, Emil, all of Pat’s friends, had tried to push him on the issue, but he would laugh, then sigh and say he could never be tied down, and Livia, the darling, understood that.
And yet she gave the boy his father’s name, raised him with love, and waited for the soldier she loved to one day acknowledge the truth of their union. She had died waiting. Only then had Pat realized his mistake, but by then it was far too late. Though the boy accepted his father’s recognition now, there was no love.
Pat wistfully watched as his boy fell in with the others, disappearing into the crowd.
“Pat, we do have to talk later.”
“What?”
“I don’t want word of this getting out, but I want your opinion on recent events.”
Three events, unrelated on the surface, had occurred in the last month, and he alone was privy to all of them. Hawthorne had brought the first news, an anomaly noticed a week ago at an obscure outpost named Tamira’s Bridge, where a skirmish had erupted between the cavalry and a rogue gang of Bantag riders. One of the dead Bantag was carrying a revolver. It was not an old remnant of the Great War, but a modern weapon; in fact, better than anything the Republic could manufacture.
The second was political: yet another flare-up by the Xing Sha movement in the state of Chin, calling for separation from the Republic and renouncing the treaty with the Bantag. The annoying madness would consume yet more time and struggle to try and hold the expanding Republic together and keep it from fragmenting apart into rival states.
The third one, though, worried him the most. It had preyed on his thoughts even while giving his speech on what was supposed to be a day of happiness and pride. A courier bearing a sealed dispatch from Admiral Bullfinch, headquartered down in Constantine, the main base of the Republic’s fleet on the Great Southern Sea, had arrived only minutes before he left the White House this morning.
A merchant ship, thought lost in a storm two months ago, had limped into the harbor the night before last. Its report was chilling.
Driven farther south by the storm than anyone had previously gone and returned to tell the tale, the captain of the ship reported making landfall on an island of the dead. They had found a human city there, one that obviously had been annihilated within the previous year.
It was a city of thousands and had not fallen prey to the Malacca Pirates, which had been the main concern of the fleet in recent years. The city had been flattened, and some of the remains of the dead showed that they had been eaten. One of the sailors, a veteran of the Great War, said it looked like Roum after the siege. Buildings had been blown apart by shelling and the streets were still littered with fragments, shell casings—and the wreckage of an airship.
The city, however, was over five hundred miles south of the treaty line drawn with the Kazan embassy. The ship’s presence in those waters was a direct violation of the treaty and thus no inquiry could be made officially at the twice yearly meeting with the ambassador of Kazan, which took place at a neutral island on the boundary line. If more was to be learned, it would have to be done by other means.
The flicker of the old light in Pat’s eyes was disturbing to Andrew, for somehow it rekindled something is his own soul as well, something he would prefer remained forever buried.
“How did you know?” Andrew whispered.
“Andrew, darlin’, I can smell a war from a thousand miles off. I’ve told you for years there’d be another, and I can see it in your eyes.”
Andrew looked at him closely. He was holding something back.
“All right,” Pat chuckled, “one of my staffers saw the courier and asked around the train crew this morning. They say the docks and rail yards are already buzzing with word about it. Something’s coming, Andrew, something big, something beyond anything we’ve ever known. You can sense it the same way you can feel a storm coming long before you see it.”
Andrew nodded, looking at the happy crowd, enjoying this day of peace; the eager boyish faces of the new officers, the proud gazes of parents, many of them veterans like himself.
We were that young, Andrew realized, when we fought our war. Boys really, going off to see the elephant, never dreaming that it would bring us to this mad, terrible world, and though we were boys, we quickly became men of war.
He caught a glimpse of his son at the edge of the crowd, following a stream of cadets heading to their traditional watering place for one last round before shipping out.
“If what happened to that city is any indication of who the Kazan are, there will be war. But it will be their war, Pat,” he whispered, nodding to the young cadets, “and God help them.”
ONE
Hanaga tu Zartak, the Qarth of the Blue Banner of the Kazan, left his stateroom and strode onto the foredeck of his flagship, the great battle cruiser Halanaga. A triumphal roar, echoing from half a thousand of his followers, greeted his appearance; clenched fists raised heavenward in salute.
His gaze swept the assembly, and then he lifted his eyes to the fleet of nearly a hundred ships, which even now was steaming out to sea. Fast-moving frigates plowed through the curling waves, spray soaring up, catching the early morning sun in what seemed to be showers of bright red rubies cascading across the decks. Billowing clouds of black smoke coiled from stacks, whipping out to windward, and water foamed up from astern as the frigates leapt forward to take position at the van of the armada.
Behind them rode the armored cruisers, several of the older ships still sporting masts, which this morning were stripped of sails. And finally came his ship and the five other great battle cruisers of the fleet of the Blue Banner.
Crevaga Harbor, known to the human cattle who inhabited it as Crete, already lay astern, the smoking ruins of their city a beacon that he knew would draw the fleet of the Red Banner as surely as the scent of rotten carrion drew the eaters of the dead. The human city had been under the direct control of his brother since its coal mines were a precious source of fuel for his fleet. The maneuvers of the last six months, the sweeping of the Cretan Isles, the destruction of his brother’s base of supplies and human slaves, had changed the course of the war, shifting the balance back to his favor. The long-anticipated final confrontation would be today, deciding whether he would hold the throne or his brother, Yasim the Usurper, would gain ascendancy.
The roaring cheers of his faithful echoed and reechoed, picked up by the other ships cruising nearby. A light frigate, racing at full steam, cut across the stern of his ship, plowing through the wake, bow shooting high into the air to come crashing down in an explosion of spray. The Shiv warriors, humans bred by the Holy Order of the Shiv, lined the deck with raised fists, their distant cries echoing.
He acknowledged their salutes, but his heart turned cold at the sight of them. The Order had been the one winner throughout this conflict, which had pitted the family of Zartak against itself. Five brothers had turned against one another, and now there were only two, Yasim and himself. But always the cult of the Shiv had been there, claiming holy neutrality and slowly gaining in power.
He had paid handsomely for their services, draining his coffers for warriors and for the assassins who had dispatched two of his brothers and various cousins. Once today was finished, there would be the reckoning with the Shiv. It was already planned, and he would see it through to its bloody conclusion.
He looked over his shoulder at the temple room, located just aft of the forward bridge. Hazin, his personal priest from the Order, had stepped on to the bridge, trailed by a steaming cloud of sweet-smelling incense. In his hands was the Holy Gir, the text of the Prophet Vishta, He who had walked between the stars.
As Hazin held the book aloft, all fell silent. Many fell to their knees and lowered their heads as Hazin, in the ancient tongue, called for the blessing. Hanaga endured the ritual. It was, after all, part of the game of power. The prayer finished, he stood back up and lowered his head to kiss the sacred text then turned to face the assembly.
“Today is the day we will claim victory!” he cried, and lusty cheers greeted his words.
“Today is the day we have striven for, the day that shall end the bitter strife caused by all those of my clan who wish to claim the empire. After today, my comrades, there shall be an end to it. We shall go home and again know peace.”
“Signal from frigate Cinuvia, my lord.”
One of the signal commanders stood respectfully at his side, hesitant to interrupt. Hanaga nodded for him to continue, even while cheer after cheer echoed up from the foredeck.
“Enemy fleet of seven battle cruisers in sight.”
Hanaga turned and looked at the assembly of staff officers gathered around him. “Was it not as I said it would be? The fleet of the Red Banner has taken our bait. Today, my comrades, we shall see my brother defeated—”
“Sire, there’s more,” the signal officer interrupted.
Hanaga looked over at the aging, gray-pelted officer, a loyal warrior who had stayed by his sicte when so many others had gone to the Usurper. He could sense the tension in his voice.
“Go on.”
“Sire, frigate Cinuvia also signals a report, a message dropped from a scout airship. Behind the fleet of the Red Banner, the White Banner fleet of your cousin Sar approaches as well, and is fifteen leagues to the southeast behind the Red fleet.”
Stunned, Hanaga said nothing. A lifetime of intrigue had taught him to make his face a mirror of indifference, and yet, those who knew him noticed the intake of breath, saw the nervous flicker of his eyes as he struggled for control.
He nodded, looking away, wondering how many other ships’ captains were, at this very instant, reading the same signal flags. When this day was finished, if she still lived, he’d gut Cinuvia’s captain for being either a fool or a traitor bent on shattering morale.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Hanaga finally replied in a soft whisper. “Let my cousin join my brother. Fifteen leagues gives us three hours before they come in range. We will smash my brother before they arrive. We will settle it today.” He scanned those gathered about him. “Settled here, now!”
All were silent.
“To your stations my andu, my brothers of blood. Not a word to those beneath you that Sar has betrayed us.”
The officers silently departed the bridge while pipers sounded the call to battle stations. The lower ranks, still ignorant of the news, cheered lustily as they ran to their stations.
Hanaga raised his glasses, training them forward. Yes, he could see the lead ships of his brother’s fleet on the horizon, which was dark with smoke. They were coming on fast. He wondered if their coal bunkers were nearly empty.
The voice of prudence whispered to him to pull back. The island behind him lay in smoking ruins. The vast stockpile of coal, hundreds of thousands of tons, enough to fuel the entire fleet for a month, was a raging inferno. The column of smoke was a beacon visible from a hundred miles away.
Pull back, draw him out. H
is troops occupied the hills above the town and would prevent any attempt at mining. But if his cousin had indeed betrayed him and switched sides, he could not hesitate. He had to destroy his brother today.
Damn Sar. Chances were that he would switch sides yet again, going over to the winner of this fight. To pull back now would show fear, and Sar would then join Yasim for certain.
An aerosteamer swept through his view for a second, trailing smoke. The air battle, which had been raging since before dawn, continued above the fleet. He lowered his glasses. The airship was several miles off, flame licking along its portside wing. Several Red Banner planes trailed it, weaving back and forth, flashes of light flickering from their forward and topside gunners. The burning ship’s port-side wing folded in, and the plane spiraled down, smacking into the sea. The Red planes broke off, dodging outside the range of a frigate’s guns, water spraying up several hundred yards short. The planes spiraled upward, gaining altitude.
Annoying flies, Hanaga thought, rarely capable of damaging a battle cruiser but bothersome nevertheless. He trained his glasses back on the horizon. It was difficult to discern, but he thought he could see the observation tower of a battle cruiser, a dot between sea and sky. The horizon, for the breath of a hand span, was black with smoke that continued to spread, sign enough that the entire fleet was approaching.
His frigates, storming forward at nearly fifteen knots, were now more than a league ahead and spreading out, while the cruiser squadron moved to windward, staying in formation, line abreast.
Walking to the railing he looked aft, back toward Crev-aga. The human city was in flames, marking the immolation of a hundred thousand, a city which had been part of his traitorous brother’s original fiefdom. So much for Yasim’s protection. It had fed the warriors of his fleet in an orgy of feasting that had lasted three days and nights.
The bridge around him was cleared, all having respectfully withdrawn, and he saw the priest of the Holy Order. He beckoned Hazin to come to his side.
Down to the Sea Page 2