Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Miles and McGinnis both have black hair,” Nat said simply. A bloody black mop of hair was the corpse’s only distinguishing feature. Courtney climbed from below, shaking his head, followed by a pale Ian Miles. “Sergeant McGinnis is not aboard,” he said. Miles quickly saw what they were all staring at and took a step back toward the companionway, his mouth working.

  “Poor bastard,” Silva said. “I kinda… didn’t hate McGinnis.” His tone and convoluted statement made it clear he’d have preferred it if Courtney found the sergeant alive instead of Miles.

  “But who gitteem?” cried Nat’s XO. “They had’ta come aboard! Along the Galla tree!”

  “And they could’ve gotten us all,” Chack agreed. “Why not?”

  “’Cause whoever it is either figgered they couldn’t take us all—or mainly wanted to scare us off,” Silva said, looking at the deck. “Too bad I can’t see no tracks. No way to tell what they are.”

  “What,” Chack said. “You mean ‘what kind of people.’” It wasn’t a question.

  “No ‘people’ did that, but yeah. Whether it was humans like the Maroons—or the ’Cats we came lookin’ for.”

  “Scaring us off worked on me,” Nat said abruptly. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “Damn right!” Miles agreed.

  “No, we’re not!” Courtney said harshly. “Not yet!”

  “But, Mr. Bradford!” Nat objected.

  “I’m in charge here!”

  “No,” Chack said softly. “I am. You’re in charge of any negotiations our presence may bring about, but I’m in charge of the mission.” He took a long breath. “That said, we came here for a reason, and we must go ashore and discover exactly who is responsible for this.”

  “What you mean is, to find out whether it was ’Cats or not,” Silva said. “The very folks we came to meet!” Chack jerked a nod. “Well, I’m game, Chackie, you know that,” he said, louder now, but still looking at his friend. They all knew the Grik were capable of terrible things. So were the human Doms. But they’d never encountered any Lemurians in all their travels even remotely capable of what they now beheld. They were always the ‘good guys,’ generally peace loving, friendly, even possibly better in their own minds, in some indefinable moral way. And if it had been a tribe of Lemurians who did this thing, it could surely shake things up. Silva loved to shake things up, but even he wasn’t sure this was the best time for a racial, psychic shock like this. “If it was ’Cats, it was probably just one crummy little tribe that tries to scare folks instead of fightin’,” he consoled, “but my money’s on none of ’em bein’ quite as shy an’ peaceable as them Maroon fellas made out. And if I’m right, I wonder why they went on like they were?”

  “Because this may not have been done by Lemurians at all,” Courtney stated, still more harshly than his custom, “or as you say, it could’ve been the work of a single, isolated tribe.”

  “Or they told you that ’cause you ex’ect to hear it,” Lawrence speculated, “and didn’t tell the truth ’cause they ha’ just joined our struggle against the Grik, a struggle o’ ’Cats. They not anger us.”

  Silva appraised his Grik-like friend with rising brows. “Makes sense, an’ that’s what I woulda’ done,” he agreed. “Never piss off the guys with guns, fightin’ on your side.” He looked at Chack. “So we’re stayin’?”

  “For a while.”

  Silva nodded and opened a locker on the bulwark, retrieving his “personal” Thompson. He removed the magazine, checked it, then reinserted it and pulled the bolt back.

  “What are you going to do?” Courtney asked, suddenly alarmed. “We will stay, but in light of this new… development, we must carefully plan any explorations!”

  Silva looked at the gruesome display ashore and then touched the guard on the cutlass hanging at his side. “Whoever done that—a nutty human offshoot o’ the Maroons, wild, cannibal ’Cats, or the goddamn tooth fairy—they sneaked up on us to do it, and I doubt they gave McGinnis any kinda chance. Buncha cowards!” he suddenly bellowed, and Petey jerked on his perch around the back of Silva’s neck. The shout echoed dully off the surrounding jungle, and small flying creatures leaped into the air with raucous cries. He stepped around the bulwark and headed for the bow and the fallen tree beyond. “Somebody’s gotta go cut him down,” he growled.

  Chack hopped over the bulwark and pulled his own cutlass. “I will go with you, my friend,” he called, then looked back. “No one ever goes anywhere, or even stands on the deck of the Seven boat in this terrible place alone!” he said.

  “I think we need to get the hell out of here,” Miles insisted quietly.

  Palace of Vanished Gods

  Sofesshk

  First General Esshk, now wearing a long red robe instead of the shorter, customary cape over his armor, paced within the vast sunlit chamber of the Palace of Vanished Gods that he’d made his own. The new robe proclaimed his elevated status of Regent Champion of all the Ghaarrichk’k, and it swayed and dusted the tightly fitted stone floor as he strode back and forth, hands clasped before him in contemplation. The walls of the chamber were covered by dense, climbing ivies reminiscent of Tsalka’s lost palace on Ceylon. Together with the sunlight that bathed him by ingenious reflections through various openings, it was a far more inviting abode than the similarly arranged, but dank and dreary halls within the Celestial Palace on Madagascar.

  He wondered again how the slain Celestial Mother and her ancestors could’ve chosen to dwell in such a place when this one still existed. Perhaps her removal had been originally inspired by a desire to keep her remote from her subjects? A distant, unseen, idealized god was always easier to worship than one visible to all, he supposed. And though the previous Celestial Mother had been cunning in her way, and wore her authority with a sublime assurance, she’d been naive and suffused with too much assurance, perhaps, that her divinity should be universally accepted. Even by their foes. Better that she’d been so far away, Esshk decided. Her appearance had certainly been impressive and intimidating, even beautiful in his eyes, but liable only to inspire a fanatical, emulative gluttony in the elite Hij that might have had contact with her here. And her death, such as it was; revealed so publicly, so traumatically… He didn’t know how that would’ve affected the continental population. All knew she was dead and remained in a vengeful mood, but only he and the Chooser, through spies the Chooser had left behind—and no longer had access to, he fumed—knew how the Celestial Mother’s very pathetically dead head had been displayed on the palace steps… . He pushed that thought aside.

  “Lord Regent Champion!” came a satisfied voice from the single arched opening in the chamber, and the Chooser himself swept past the silent guards stationed there. He alone was allowed into Esshk’s presence without permission or announcement.

  “Not ‘First General’?” Esshk inquired. The Chooser made a throwing-away gesture.

  “That too, of course, but today you are Regent Champion first and foremost, with no remaining opposition!”

  They knew Ragak’s Swarm had been destroyed, by accounts from the few shipmasters who’d returned. The scope of his defeat was revealed only by observations made by the first zeppelin raid they’d been able to make since the terrible storm abated. They’d lost many more airships than on previous raids as well, which meant the enemy—Captain Reddy—Esshk was sure, now had more flying machines of his own with which to destroy them. Still, Ragak’s destruction had left Esshk—and the Chooser—secure in their positions, and the enemy more tenuous in theirs. It had not been a waste.

  “By all accounts, Ragak very nearly succeeded despite his handicap,” Esshk gurgled. “His was a rather brilliant plan, after all. A similar plan, better supported, would have succeeded, I believe. It is unfortunate he did not survive. I would have honored my pledge to make him a general. Perhaps even First General, in my place.” He hissed a sigh.

  “Truly?” the Chooser inquired. “Despite his ambitions?”

  “Truly. H
e may not have been as skilled at designing traditional battles as I, but we do not have those anymore. And he was imaginative. Cunning. Without General Halik, or any knowledge of whether he remains loyal—Kurokawa’s bizarre scenario aside—or whether Halik even still lives, Ragak showed the most promise. In the absence of others and in spite of his intrigues, I would have let him lead our armies.” He sighed again. “You forget, Lord Chooser, that I early recognized the threat our enemy poses to the very survival of our race, and that survival will always be more important to me than my own. I am the tool of our race—and of our new Celestial Mother when she gains the wisdom to lead.”

  “How fortunate then that you shall remain her sword as well until that happy day—and beyond,” the Chooser said, carefully picking his words. He lowered his voice. “She cannot rule effectively for some time yet, and I think, of necessity, the position of Regent Champion, supreme above all other regents, must maintain significantly greater influence than in the past. Even after the new Celestial Mother comes into her own.”

  “You are not wrong,” Esshk conceded. “The world has changed too much to return completely to what we had before. As has our race,” he added thoughtfully.

  “As must the status of First Chooser to the Regent Champion,” the Chooser lamented convincingly.

  Esshk regarded the creature for a moment, then made a diagonal nod. “Indeed. But in the meantime, I must continue to carry the sword as First General as well,” he said almost wistfully.

  “So, as First General now, what next?” the Chooser asked.

  Esshk paced again. “With Kurokawa returned to the hunt, our fortunes should improve at sea if half of what he claims about the forces he has assembled are to be believed.”

  “Do you trust him? And these ‘new hunters,’ this ‘League of Tripoli’ that has sworn him their allegiance. What of them?”

  “Of course I do not trust Kurokawa, or any creatures that associate with him. Not anymore. But I do trust that his ambition, his most base desires, can be made useful to us—as Ragak’s were. Nothing motivates Kurokawa more than his lust for power and his desire to avenge himself on our enemy—and ‘Captain Reddy’ in particular.” Esshk grimaced the equivalent of a toothy grin. “We shall give him the illusion of the first while affording him the opportunity for the second. Our air raids on the Celestial City will continue regardless of losses. We can make them good for a while longer yet. Our new army, raised, trained, and equipped under the New Principles of war, is ready. And with Ragak and his army of merest Uul no longer consuming supplies, we can gather it at last. All that remains are the final improvements to the battle fleet and the resurrection of the Ancient Fleet with which we will strike. When all is done, and Kurokawa comes down, we will make our own thoughtful attack that will drive the enemy from the Celestial City and all the world, and turn them back to prey once more!”

  EPILOGUE

  ////// Chimborazo

  General Tomatsu Shinya slid down from his horse and stood on the rocky ground, staring up. Impaled high on a modest, narrow tree trunk, which had clearly been stripped and sharpened for the purpose, was a corpse. The barkless trunk, covered with blood all the way to the ground, had entered the corpse between its legs, forced its way upward through the vital organs, and then exited through the ribs just in front of the collarbone. The head hung back and to the side, and the face was unmarked except for the blood that had spewed from the mouth—and the pinkish burn scars on stubbly cheeks.

  Major Blas-Mar-Ar dismounted to join him, as did Colonel Blair and several others. Blas remained tense and resentful around Shinya, but she stood close. Around them in the cold, high air, the Allied Expeditionary Force (East), or the “Army of the Sisters” as it had been quickly reorganized after the Battle of Fort Defiance, marched past under the bright, cloudless sky the great mountains pierced. Before the army lay the charred remains of what must once have been a rather large and picturesque village nestled in a shallow, timber-bordered vale. Wisps of smoke still rose above it and nothing moved that they could see, even livestock. A great many other trees had been festooned with ghastly ornaments similar to this first one they encountered.

  “Is that… ?” Blair began, and Shinya nodded.

  “Yes. General Ghanan Nerino.”

  Blas tilted her head. She was one of the few Allies who’d seen the man before, but it was hard to tell. Sometimes, if she didn’t know them well, she found it difficult to tell humans apart. And if this was Nerino, he looked a lot different from the last time she’d seen him. She shook her head. Shinya sounded sure.

  “Coldhearted, evil, bloody-minded bastards,” Blair said, gazing now at the other impaled corpses.

  “All it takes is one truly evil man to lead others to do such things,” Shinya said.

  “Don Hernan,” Blair spat.

  “He didn’t stick him up there by himself,” Blas pointed out.

  “Is it ‘evil’ to do that to a man, knowing if you don’t, it will happen to you?” Shinya asked her.

  “Yes!”

  “Many foul fruits grow from a single vile seed,” Blair said, as if quoting a passage, and Shinya looked at him. Finally, he nodded. Colonel Garcia joined them then, staring up in horror.

  “Go back,” Shinya told him. “Keep the Governor-Empress, Saan-Kakja, and Sister Audry away until we can deal with this,” he said, waving at Nerino and the many others.

  “Why?” Blas demanded. “I think they oughta see it. The whole daamn army oughta see the… sickness we fight!”

  “She has a point,” Blair admitted—and then cringed at his accidental pun. He was glad that not many caught it.

  “This is no surprise to anyone here,” Shinya objected, “but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable letting young ladies view it if they don’t have to.” He paused, slightly disconcerted by Blas’s incredulous blinking. “The only ‘surprise’ is that they were all allowed to die so quickly,” he added. “Vice Alcalde” Suares had described the “usual” way Doms impaled their victims, and it could take them days to die. The way this had been done, death was no doubt agonizing, but also fairly quick. “Go, Colonel Garcia,” he ordered. The former Dom nodded quick agreement and galloped back down the column. He, at least, agreed with Shinya.

  “Those ‘ladies’ are our leaders—and just viewed a battle and its aftermath!” Blas snapped hotly, but managed to calm herself; she couldn’t let her anger at Shinya affect her professionalism. She finally gestured around. “These men who so obviously disappointed Don Hernaan died quickly only because he was in a hurry to light out of here,” she stated.

  “Precisely,” Shinya agreed, relieved that the confrontation with Blas had ebbed. “Which tells us a great deal.”

  “More than that they were soundly beaten?” Blair asked.

  “Much more. Look at the terrain. They could’ve contested the approaches to this place and delayed us, at least, for a considerable time. They didn’t. We slew a large percentage of the Dom army, but didn’t destroy it. A force even larger than ours has run away. What does that tell you?”

  Blair considered. “That though they had the numbers and ability to fight, and certainly the ground, they lacked the will?”

  “That’s my hope, confirmed by the atrocity here.” Shinya nodded. “Don Hernan has made his ‘example’ to his army, and fled to put as much distance between it and us as he can while he uses that—and surely others—to rebuild his army’s will to fight. We can’t let him, of course.”

  “How will we stop him?”

  “We continue the chase.”

  “And our supplies? Second Fleet’s victory was greater than we first imagined, but it remains in disarray. How will it support us?”

  “Well enough,” Shinya said, climbing back on his horse. He managed a smile. “Captain Reddy earned a degree, but I was also a student of history. No doubt you know Alexander?” he asked Blair, and the Imperial nodded. Blas only blinked confusion. “There were others, just as great if not so famous. Ca
ptain Reddy might be surprised to learn that I hold his country’s Winfield Scott in equal esteem and believe he had the ability to surpass Alexander had he lived in a different time and desired conquest for its own sake.” He shook his head and took up his reins.

  “The one thing all the leaders now springing to my mind shared in common was a tenuous, if not abandoned line of supply. And yet they prevailed—through boldness and maneuver, and by gaining the goodwill of the populace in the lands they invaded to varying degrees. They employed ruthlessness at times, but it had rules. It was not the sort of twisted, capricious ruthlessness that Don Hernan uses to terrify.” He looked down at his officers. “We will prevail in the very same way. We will chase Don Hernan, liberating the oppressed, terrified people of this land as we go, using his own weapons and supplies against him if we must.” He looked right at Blas. “We will chase that evil, murdering madman to the very gates of their capital city itself, where I intend to destroy him once and for all—and the greater evil, the ‘seed’ he sprang from!”

  Northeast of Puerto Viejo

  Orrin Reddy walked briskly, following his “backseater” Seepy, as the ’Cat led him through the cool, damp, predawn dark toward the still building docks, ramps, and canvas-covered hangars at the south end of the small narrow lake northeast of Puerto Viejo. Almost all of Second Fleet’s airworthy Nancys had come here, crowding the nascent, insufficient facilities, when battered Maaka-Kakja steamed by offshore on her way to the Enchanted Isles for repairs. High Admiral Jenks had left a light picket of DDs in the vicinity of Malpelo to give warning if any elements of the Dom fleet came nosing around, and a few of Second Fleet’s more lightly damaged warships would remain in the vicinity of Puerto Viejo or Guayak, to join the “gun hulks” already beached or moored there. The rest would accompany Maaka-Kakja for repairs of their own, or to help untangle and rebuild General Shinya’s supply line.

  Orrin had remained with his homeless air wing for the time, to oversee the completion of proper support facilities and create some form of organization, much like Mark Leedom had done in the West until Ben Mallory arrived; combining all the scattered air assets under a single command. He’d stay to coordinate air support for Shinya’s advancing column and supervise the construction and supply of forward-operating bases as suitable places were discovered, at least until Maaka-Kakja’s repairs were completed and her own wing reconstituted. It was a dreary, miserable, thankless job for a man who only really wanted to fly—and kill the enemy who’d cost him so many of the fliers he’d grown so protective of. But he was it. Increasingly, he understood the frustrations and concerns his cousin Matt had to endure—had been enduring—since long before he came to this world aboard Mizuki Maru.