Abel nodded. “Sergeant Moe, Lawrence, please stay back with the other ’Cats and our . . . reptilian friends. Gunny Horn, Mr. Brassey, Lieutenant Cross, you stay back as well. Stand ready, but make no threatening moves.” He looked at Dennis and blinked a little nervously. “Chief Silva? Would you accompany me? It appears they want to meet us.”
Cook and Silva stepped forward until there were only a few yards between them and their visitors. Silva had left his big rifle behind, but his hand rested on the unsnapped flap of his holster. Pokey, who’d somehow survived the fight, had brought him the 1911, and the little Grik’s cartridge bag now jingled with double the empty shells he’d carried before. More brass had surely fallen on the other side of the super lizard, but he’d get that later.
Not knowing what else to say or do, Abel chose the apparent leader of the group by its forward stance and a higher degree of ornamentation. Self-consciously, he saluted. “Ensign Abel Cook, United States Navy. At your service, sir.” He was just thinking that he might as well have recited one of the bawdy limericks he’d learned from the destroyermen, when the creature looked at him, looked at Silva, then gave them the biggest surprise yet.
“You . . . Arricans?” he replied.
Abel was stunned speechless. In point of fact, the lad was British, but Silva decided now wasn’t the time to confuse matters. “Yes, indeed,” he answered quickly.
“All you?” it asked, looking at their companions. “E’en those that kill us? Those ’Cats?”
’Cats! English was weird enough, but where’d he learn that?
“Uh, we’re all friends, if that’s what you mean,” Abel finally managed, “and would like to be friends with you. We appreciate your help against these others . . .”
“’Cats kill us! Not nice! Not . . . ’riends!”
“These won’t hurt you. None will anymore. Things have changed a lot.”
The creature looked unconvinced. “Us told look you, since us learn you look us. Others look too. Us go all.”
“Well . . . May I have the pleasure of your name?” Abel asked.
“I Ca’tain I’joorka. Us,” he gestured at his followers, “us Khonashi.” He pointed at one of their dead enemies and hissed. “Those Akichi. Not nice. Us go all. Lots Akichi round here.”
“Where’re you takin’ us?” Silva demanded, and I’joorka blinked at him. “To see king.”
“Where’s that?”
I’joorka pointed roughly north. “Long, long. Close to sea.”
Dennis looked at Abel. “Hell, that could mean another two hundred miles across God knows what!”
Abel looked back almost challengingly and shrugged. “What if it does? We’ve got a job to do.”
“We don’t have enough seep to grog our water for a trip that far—an’ back.” Seep was an alcoholic drink, one of many useful things, including the curative paste, made from the ubiquitous polta fruit. Silva didn’t miss the irony that he was the one urging caution for once.
“That may be,” Abel countered, “but meeting these . . . people, whether they’re the same you saw before or not, is what we were sent to do.”
“Well . . . we met ’em. Let’s talk to ’em here.”
“No good here,” I’joorka insisted. “Akichi here.”
Silva looked at him. “How the hell do you know American?” he demanded.
“King talk Arrican,” the creature replied. “I talk Arrican. Lots Khonashi talk Arrican now.”
“How’d your king learn it?” Silva demanded.
“King all’ays talk Arrican. Is Arrican—like you.”
Silva’s eye went wide. “Zat so?” He looked at Abel. “I guess we gotta go. This just got way more interestin’. I hope we don’t all die o’ the screamers, though.”
“We’ll boil our water,” Abel assured him.
CHAPTER
11
////// Madras
Grik India
L ord Regent-Consort, Sire of All India, and General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa slashed his ornate riding crop across the back of the head of the Grik commander of ten hundreds, or colonel, who’d dared bring such annoying news. The colonel barely flinched, but writhed more desperately at Kurokawa’s feet. Kurokawa struck him again and again, venting his rage, but finally stopped abruptly. The creature wore a leather helmet and cuirass, and all he was accomplishing was tiring himself. He had to admit the exertion was gratifying; he dared not treat his Japanese subjects so anymore. He needed them too much. But it satisfied his angry, frustrated soul that he now had the power to treat the hated Grik however he pleased—at least some of them.
“Get out!” he roared, releasing further tension. “Send me this pathetic General of the Sea who cannot protect his vital charges from the . . . insectile depredations of what remains of the enemy air on Ceylon, even with our most advanced protective weapons!”
“Of course, Lord Regent!” the creature murmured in the Grik tongue Kurokawa could understand, if not speak. It probably thought all that protected it from being ordered to destroy itself was that it could understand spoken English. It could even speak a few English words now, like a growing number of high-ranking Grik Hij, but its lord wouldn’t allow any human tongue, even English, to be twisted by a Grik mouth in his presence. “At once, Lord Regent,” it assured him again as it started to drag itself from the stone chamber.
“Oh, get up!” Kurokawa seethed impatiently, and the Grik colonel leaped to its feet and bolted down the passageway. After a moment to compose himself, Kurokawa sighed, glancing surreptitiously at the other men in the chamber. “I suppose it’s no one’s fault, really,” he confessed in a much calmer tone, gesturing helplessly with the quirt. “But if I admit that to such loathsome creatures, they will not try hard enough.”
General of the Sky Hideki Muriname eased forward on the bench he occupied in the dank chamber. Normally, in better weather, there’d be an opening in the ceiling to bathe the regent’s throne with light, but since the weather remained so persistently wet, orange lamplight had to suffice. It was inconvenient and made the maps spread across the broad table difficult to see, but at least they weren’t soaked to the bone like the rest of their army. He knew Kurokawa was arranging to move to an opulent palace away from the center of the city, one that once belonged to the former regent-consort, Tsalka, and he wondered if greater comfort would make his lord easier to appease. “Such treatment may induce them to try less hard to keep us properly informed, sir,” he suggested tentatively. It was the closest he’d come to criticizing Kurokawa, and even that earned him a sharp glare.
“Brutality is what they expect. It’s all they respond to!” Kurokawa fumed. “And it is all they deserve. The day is near when we will take our proper place as their direct, supreme leaders; their virtual gods. Then perhaps we might teach compassion, as we direct their energies toward more . . . comprehensive goals.
“More comprehensive than the utter annihilation of their foes?” Muriname ventured, unable to contain himself.
“Of course. It is easy enough to destroy. To rule is more difficult.”
Muriname had nothing to say to that. Instead, he returned to the subject at hand. “At least we know what’s been happening to our supplies and reinforcements. By sea, at any rate. The remnants of this convoy are the first to reach us since the Battle of Madras. Perhaps . . . we should have moved against the enemy on Ceylon already.”
“With what?” Kurokawa demanded. “A few damaged battleships, and no transports for troops? We could have pounded their ports but not taken them—and I doubt they would have been so cooperative as to leave their aircraft bobbing in the harbor waters for us to destroy.” He held Muriname’s gaze. “And we know well enough how our zeppelins would fare against them.”
“Numbers are the key,” Muriname stated. “We get more airships all the time, as well as the special piloted bombs. Those do work. We just have to overwhelm their defenses.”
“But we need those for when we meet the enemy fleet o
nce more!” Kurokawa insisted. “It will come again—it must! Even now they build it back up, bent on rescuing this General Alden of theirs, and the troops he has allowed us to trap against the high escarpment. Why else has it made no appearance since the battle?” He paused. “As long as Alden holds, they will try to aid him. When they think they have the advantage, they will come with all they have—” His voice heated. “Perhaps they will even bring that damned American destroyer that has cost us so much!”
Only now, after Niwa interrogated the prisoners taken beyond the Rocky Gap—before they were eaten—had Kurokawa finally learned that his ultimate nemesis, USS Walker, the ship that destroyed his beloved Amagi, still existed. He’d been sure she was destroyed in the same battle that cost him his ship. But now he knew not only had she been repaired, she’d also been battling other enemies of the human/Lemurian alliance! He didn’t know nearly as much about this “Dominion” as he would’ve liked, but just knowing it existed was very valuable information indeed.
“Destroying that particular ship would bring me great pleasure,” he understated darkly.
“So we wait for the enemy to grow stronger before we fight him?” Muriname asked.
“Of course! We wait for the enemy to bring all he can to the slaughter! We may not have received all the supplies we desire, that Halik and Niwa’s army on this side of the gap might need, but we are stronger than ever! The enemy has made no effort to stop our mightiest ships from joining us here. Why should they? They can’t! We now have fifteen great battleships and dozens of armored cruisers assembled in this port; the most powerful force ever joined together on this world. When the enemy comes against us at last, we will meet him with that mighty fleet, and together with the hundreds of zeppelins you will have gathered by then, General Muriname, every ship the enemy has available on this, their western front, will be destroyed. Their aircraft on Ceylon and upon the highland lake will then wither from attrition and lack of fuel and be unable to prevent us from destroying General Alden and reconquering Ceylon.” He shrugged with a smile. “After that, we will gather every transport we can and quickly conquer our way back to the place called Baalkpan and tear out the enemy’s living heart! With those regencies added to this . . .” He paused, suddenly catching himself, as if unwilling to reveal more of his great plan. “Then, my friends, we will be ready for our next step.”
“I would think,” Muriname said slowly, “based on what we’ve seen of the enemy’s current capabilities, your plan should work. We do seem to have the advantage. Remember how imaginative the enemy has been, however. We defeated them here and can do so again against what they had then, but we should not assume their imagination has not already given them better weapons, weapons not yet ready for deployment at the time. We have seen their new breech-loading rifles—we have nothing even close with which to arm our troops. I’m also disturbed by their apparent advances in fire control. You yourself said they inflicted much more damage than they should have been able to, given the relative weight of shot thrown by our fleet opposed to theirs. What if they have improved their aircraft, their bombs—particularly their bombs! Your mighty battleships might find themselves . . . inconvenienced. Our improved antiaircraft weapons should surprise them, but what might they surprise us with?”
“A good point, General Muriname. I don’t think they could have a dramatic, widespread, qualitative advantage over what we’ve seen. Not yet. But the sprinkling of breechloaders our Grik captured proves they are advancing, and better weapons were already on their way when last we met. I will be vigilant for other examples of this—and I think it’s time you returned to our private enclave at Zanzibar to oversee the completion of your secret”—he smiled—“aeronautical projects. Your executive officer, Lieutenant Iguri, can step in for you here. It is not as though your airships lend themselves to subtle tactical or strategic applications. You have my authority to strenuously encourage Commander Riku to complete his ordnance projects as well.” He frowned. “I don’t think they will be needed here, but regardless of our technical superiority over our Grik allies, we are very, very few. I do not trust First General Esshk in my absence from the court of the Celestial Mother.” He smirked. “Esshk may decide to see for himself just how pastoral our retreat on Zanzibar has remained! No Grik may ever set foot there—or, having done so, depart alive.”
Muriname stood. “With your permission then, sir, I will fly back to the aerodrome. I have much to prepare before I depart.”
“You are dismissed, General Muriname. Do wait until dark before you ascend, however. The Americans’ ape lackeys have quite exceptional eyesight and are disturbingly competent fliers. Even in the dark you must be cautious. They might not see your black-painted airship, but the exhaust flare of your engines could reveal you to their patrols.” He looked away. “I cannot afford to lose you,” he added in an uncharacteristically somber tone. “You and General Niwa have long been the only senior officers I entirely trust,” he confessed, “and with Niwa wounded . . .” He stopped, as if suddenly aware he was speaking aloud. “Go!” he barked harshly.
Muriname hesitated, then saluted and left. Only after he was gone did Kurokawa’s gaze turn to Signals Lieutenant Fukui. The boy had only recently arrived from Zanzibar and he’d been working to establish radio communications between the ships and Kurokawa’s Madras headquarters. He was also still listening very hard to what floated about in the ether. That part of his job had been incredibly tedious—until recently—but he’d much preferred doing it at the Sovereign Nest of the Jaaph Hunters on Zanzibar to doing it here. Not only was Madras and its environs an active combat zone; it was full of Grik, which utterly terrified him. Also, his activities kept him in proximity to Hisashi Kurokawa, who scared him even more. At the moment, however, Kurokawa’s expression had turned mild again as he looked at the young signals officer.
“There has still been no contact from Lieutenant Miyata, I assume?” he asked.
“No, Lord,” Fuqui replied nervously. Miyata had been sent with two other Japanese to contact a group of—presumably human—“other hunters” in the far south of Africa. His orders had been to relay to them the offer to join the Great Hunt against the American-Lemurian Alliance. General Esshk had threatened to wipe them out if they refused, but doing so was not a looming priority. Everyone, Kurokawa included, assumed Miyata and his party had been killed by the elements or those they met. There had been strange radio signals from time to time, however, and for a while it was thought they were attempts by Miyata, perhaps with the aid of the “others” to contact them. Recent events proved otherwise.
“Then have there been more signals such as those you intercepted a few weeks ago?”
“N-not directed at us, Lord,” Fuqui hedged. “Not like those we received in response to transmissions we made prior to and during the battle for this place.” Those transmissions had been a calculated risk; necessary to coordinate the battle, but dangerous because of the possibility of discovery. The Americans and their lackeys gabbled away all the time—in code, of course—but they’d thoughtlessly advertised their presence. Kurokawa had kept the existence of radio secret from his Grik allies for many reasons, but one such had certainly been out of fear of what—or who—else might be out there. They knew so little about this world, and it was always possible that others, potentially more powerful than Kurokawa and the empire he’d not yet built, could inhabit it.
That fear had not been laid to rest, but the first and only word they’d received directly from the mysterious unknown source was a simple “Hello. Who are you?” Perhaps a friendly greeting, but most disconcerting. Kurokawa had authorized no reply.
“And you remain certain the message was not just the Americans toying with us?” Kurokawa demanded.
“Absolutely certain, Lord. We had enough listening posts even then, combined with our improved signal-direction-finding capability, to triangulate the source as emanating from a generally northwesterly direction; perhaps from North Africa or beyond. If
the Americans had managed to reach such a point, I cannot imagine they would want us to know.”
“Well,” Kurokawa said, massaging his temples. “The Grik know nothing of what lies beyond the great desert in that direction. And whoever sent the message cannot be on this side of it, so I’m inclined not to worry overmuch about them now. Inform me immediately if you hear anything else at all, however.”
“Of course, Lord.”
“You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy said, and saluted.
“Wait. You have heard, no doubt, that General Niwa was wounded in the fighting some time ago?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“I want to know exactly how he fares, if there is anything I can do to alleviate his suffering. Even if there is nothing, make sure he knows I tried. Go to him yourself.”
“O-of course, Lord.” Fuqui replied, then bolted from the chamber.
Alone, Kurokawa considered his position again, trying to find flaws in his strategy. He should have recaptured Ceylon, or at least parked a few heavy warships in the harbor at Trin-con-lee, but that time was past. Besides, that was the only avenue of supply for Alden, and if he allowed Halik to destroy the American-Lemurian “pocket,” the enemy fleet would not rush to its aid—and he needed it here. Much as he loved his battleships, they were far too slow, their bunkers too modest, for him to chase the enemy. The enemy had to come to him. It would happen soon enough. Alden’s position would make that essential, as the vise around his army tightened. The great battle he longed for was finally within reach, and after the Americans and their ape-man friends were finally, utterly destroyed, the Japanese of this world, his Japanese, would claim their lands as part of his regency. Then, with the Grik army he’d conceived, nurtured, and helped to build beholden to him above all others, he’d steam back and conquer the ancestral lands of the Grik and take his rightful place as their ruler at last! If he allowed the Celestial Mother to live at all, it would be as a figurehead only—much like his own Emperor Hirohito had become. Either way, Hisashi Kurokawa’s shameful period of obeying, subjugating himself to, and, yes, fearing his vile Grik allies was rapidly drawing to an end.
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