Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “What you say?” Tabby asked.

  “That the firerooms’ll be just as grungy as ever in a few weeks—if he doesn’t do his damnedest to keep ’em clean.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Why, it’ll make him mad at me instead of you, and he’s used to that. And it’s as big a taste of home as he’s likely to get around here. Oh, the boilers’ll get sooted up eventually, and the spaces’ll be grimy and oily again no matter what he does, but by then he’ll already love ’em again. He can’t help it!”

  * * *

  With the possible exception of Isak Rueben, Earl Lanier was the only man aboard USS Walker dissatisfied with the recent overhaul, and for similar reasons. Lieutenant Palmer had lost his radios—the last of their kind they had from the old world—and nearly lost his life, but his replacement CW comm gear had close to the same range, and they’d get the new TBS gear when they reached Baalkpan. He was resigned to his loss. But Earl’s beloved oven, encompassing the aft bulkhead of his semiexposed galley beneath the amidships gun platform, had been destroyed in action against Hidoiame. His even more beloved, if empty, Coke machine had miraculously survived, though utterly exposed to enemy fire. He took some consolation from that, but his new oven just wasn’t right for various reasons. It was too big, too small, too hot, or too cold all at the same time. The racks inside weren’t the same distance apart as they’d been, and that disrupted nearly a decade he’d spent learning every quirk required to produce bread and baked vittles for the crew with no more conscious thought than a mechanical phonograph. The oven had been damaged before, but always put to rights under his supervision. This time he’d been wounded seriously enough that he hadn’t been able to help “shape and train” its replacement.

  “Just look at that!” he rumbled from his creaking chair when Tabasco removed loaves of the strangely pumpkiny bread Lemurian flour produced, and slid them onto cooling racks. “Damn things are practically incinerated!” Tabasco looked at the loaves.

  “They maybe a little darker on top,” the ’Cat mess attendant allowed, “but they not bad. I think we gettin’ the hand of it.”

  “Hang of it,” Lanier corrected sharply. “I don’t give a shit about that pidgin gibberish what’s been spreadin’ all over the goddamn ship, but my division’s gonna talk proper American if you goddamn well die tryin’!” Tabasco blinked skeptically at the bloated cook. He wasn’t convinced Lanier spoke proper Amer-i-caan, and, besides, he didn’t consider himself part of his division anymore. Unofficially, he belonged to Juan Marcos’s elite cadre of officers’ stewards, and if Lanier didn’t agree, at least he wasn’t prepared for open warfare with the diminutive Filipino. That Juan wasn’t far from his mind was confirmed with Lanier’s next words:

  “An’ it is bad! Just look at it—with yer damn, bugged-out eyes!” Lanier heaved himself to his feet and waddled to the cooling racks. “Scorched, scorched, scorched—an’ the ones from the middle look like dried-up, smoky turds. I don’t give a damn what the crew thinks; they’ll eat what we give ’em—and they’d bitch if we fed ’em ee-clairs, anyway. But we can’t send that shit off to the officers’ mess! That scrawny, peg-legged little Flip’d be rollin’ his eyes and sighin’ an’ apoligizin’ all the whole damn while ’bout how shitty the goddamn bread has got since ‘poor’ Earl Lanier got his hee-roic wound—an’ it was too! But all the while he’ll be stampin’ his damn peg on the deck, like losin’ one measly leg was a bigger deal somehow. Hell, he’s got another one! But then he’ll go on about what a beautiful new goddamn oven we got an’ how sad it is ‘poor’ Earl Lanier can’t do better with it than he does!” He shook his head. “No, sir! That won’t wash, an’ I’ll never give him the satisfaction! I’ll crawl in that shitty oven an’ cook myself first!”

  He fumed for several moments, staring at the broad, black iron object of his wrath. Even the color insulted him. As filthy as he kept himself, his stainless-steel galley had always been immaculate. He picked his nose vigorously and wiped his finger on his greasy apron. As if that led to some epiphany, he suddenly turned to Tabasco. “Now looky here! You run along and get your mates. I don’t care if they’re in their racks. Tell ’em to get their swishy tails in here and draw the fires. Then find Johnny Parks an’ tell him to grab every shipfitter he can lay his hands on—they’ll come a-runnin’ if they ever wanna eat again. I’m gonna shift these oven racks back where they belong—an’ have a proper meal to send to the wardroom by suppertime—if it breaks the ship’s goddamn back!”

  CHAPTER

  13

  ////// Empire of the New Britain Isles

  New Scotland

  T he Imperial Dueling Grounds stood at the forested fringe of the naval port city of Scapa Flow. It was a picturesque place, like a sports stadium designed for thousands, bordered on three sides by the royal woods. It had become a place to entertain the masses as surely as the Colosseum of ancient Rome, but there remained a significant difference. The Imperial Dueling Grounds still represented the ideal that honor and valor might overcome injustice in the end, regardless of the odds and irrespective of one’s station in life. It was the place of ultimate adjudication for civil and personal disputes that could be solved no other way. In reality, everyone knew that wasn’t always the case. Professional duelists were banned, but everyone knew they existed. Anyone with enough money could always hire surrogates to offend or take offense in their stead. But ultimately, for whatever reason, one had to choose to stand there, before God and the entire Empire, to defend his principles with his life.

  Because it was considered a place of honor, the Dueling Grounds wasn’t the customary place for executions, but an exception had been made in this case. It provided the most space for spectators, and repairs to the facility—so badly damaged in the opening battle of the war against the Dominion—had only recently been completed. The execution of one of the greatest traitors in Imperial history seemed an appropriate rededication.

  A fine scaffold had been erected in the center of the arena, and the stands were filled to overflowing. Nearly everyone was in uniform, not only because the military had suffered greatly due to the actions of the condemned, but also because those very actions had helped ensure that virtually everyone must serve the war effort in some capacity if the Empire was to survive. Even Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald, seated in the royal box with members of her most trusted staff, wore a naval uniform of sorts. It was heavily braided blue wool, more ornate than that of the High Admiral of the Fleet, but void of any military decorations. In ordinary times, the formfitting tunic on any woman would’ve caused enough of a stir, and the spotless white knee breeches and polished boots would’ve been scandalous. But these weren’t ordinary times. In fact, it was increasingly clear to the Empire at large that everything they’d considered ordinary for generations was rapidly slipping into history.

  At the appointed hour, the crowd noises began to fade expectantly and the Governor-Empress stood, barely rising above the rail of her box. Her long hair was braided in the Navy way, but glowed like bright, burnished gunmetal around her expressionless, elfin face. With a curt nod, she signaled the tolling of a large bell that silenced further conversation. The bell sounded eight times, marking noon, and there was a hush as nine men started across the field below. Eight were Imperial Marines, in their red coats with yellow facings, bright against the dark volcanic sand. Their polished muskets and fixed bayonets glittered under the overhead sun. Between them strode another man, face drawn but defiant, wearing a rumpled, unadorned blue coat from which all decorations and braid had been stripped. He didn’t shuffle or cause the Marines to prod or drag him, but kept step with them as they marched him to the scaffold and up the thirteen steps. At the top, he turned to face his Empress.

  “Lord James McClain,” Rebecca said harshly, “formerly High Admiral of the Imperial Navy, you have been judged guilty of high treason and despicable murder. Specifically, that while consorting with agents of the vile Dominion and other
subversive elements, you did give aid and reassurance to our enemies. This aid included forsaking your duties as High Admiral while commanding a fleet sent to reinforce Imperial and Allied forces then engaged. The only reason you are not condemned for cowardice in the face of the enemy is that you never faced him! Instead, you deliberately abandoned your mission to pursue other aims! Specifically, and first of these, was to cause the treacherous murder of your sovereign, his wife, and two hundred and sixteen members of the Court of Directors. An additional fifty-seven persons in the vicinity of the court lost their lives when it was destroyed by the bomb you caused to be planted beneath it. There is also no doubt that you conspired with elements loyal to the Dominion to murder me—a scheme resulting in the deaths of three more loyal subjects of the Empire.” Rebecca paused before remorselessly continuing. “For your treachery and murders, and the foul reward you gave your nation’s trust, you are duly condemned to be hanged by your neck until you are dead.” She stopped, visibly forcing her voice to remain level, calm. “Have you anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”

  McClain took a step forward. His hands were tied behind his back, but he still managed to project a sense of dignity, even injury.

  “I do,” he paused. “Your Majesty,” he added with scorn. When he spoke again, he slowly turned to address all those gathered there. “I am guilty of the crimes specified against me,” he confessed. “But only because I am equally guilty of an overabundant love for my country! You’ve all seen the erosion of our precious institutions and traditions that began with the return of the Princess and the arrival of the American destroyermen and their . . . animalistic friends! It’s they who subvert the natural order of the Empire! They infest our lands and demand that we conform to their barbaric sensibilities! The proof of that could not be better stressed by the appearance of Her Majesty here today, attired in the likeness of a man! They insist that we eliminate the age-old system of female indenture, a move that will morally and fiscally bankrupt our land. Already they use our women in their Navy, and God only knows what . . . perversions those unfortunates endure at the hands of their bestial lackeys aboard their ships! When will women join the ranks of our own beloved navy? Quite soon, no doubt, judging by Her Majesty’s wardrobe! It’s an abomination!

  “I have no sympathy for the Doms, and am in no way in league with them, but I confess to using them to advance my efforts to stop the degradation and eventual destruction of the country I love. We would have survived their initial attempts against us, which I knew nothing about, without the Americans and their pets. Alone we would have prevailed against them, as we’ve done before. But Governor-Emperor McDonald embraced the unholy Alliance against my pleas. Gerald was like my brother, but someone had to act if the old order, our way of life, was to endure! I am sorry it came to what it did, but I saw no other option.” He lowered his head. “I will die now, in defense of my principles, like so many have done before upon this hallowed ground. I will die without even the courtesy or comfort of a sword or pistol in my hand. But I will die knowing in my heart that I did my duty to God and the Empire of the New Britain Isles!”

  Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald leaned forward in the rumbling mutters that followed. “Are you quite finished?” she demanded, her small voice carrying with the force of a trumpet. She looked around. “I am young,” she admitted, “a child, most would say. I am also an orphan, thanks to that supposedly pious creature standing upon the scaffold! How many other children are orphans today because of his wicked treachery? How many more will there be because of the losses our forces suffered on New Ireland, at Saint Francis, the Enchanted Isles and elsewhere, all directly due to his patriotic acts? In addition to the murders he has confessed to, every battle death we’ve suffered in this war can be directly or indirectly attributed to his actions or inactions, and that was just to get us ‘back’ to where we were when the war began! The so-called Honorable New Britain Company played its part, as we now know, along with their puppets in the Court of Proprietors, but they’ve been dealt with. This should have been a time of union, when my father—” Her voice cracked. “When my father,” she continued more firmly, “led us to final victory against the Dominion, which I fear has tainted even men such as Lord McClain in some insidious way. Instead, we’ve had nothing but strife among ourselves, while the true enemy of our land, our very existence, has been allowed to run amok. Only our friendship with the Western Allies has saved us!” She looked McClain straight in the eye when she resumed with a steely resolve. “Your pathetic appeal for a pistol or sword defiles the sanctity of this place. You are an admitted traitor and murderer. When, in the long history of our land, have such been afforded the right to defend their deeds? Not now, not ever. My father had prepared an address that he meant to give that fateful day when his voice, and that of so many others, was silenced forever. I will make that same address in his stead very soon. In the meantime, I want you to drop to the end of your well-earned rope with the following decree ringing in your ears: Henceforth, from the date of your execution—this Manumission Day forward—all indentures throughout the Empire without the legal protection of a true and voluntary contract will revert to the possession of the Crown. Any persons subject to those indentures, male or female, are, and shall be forevermore free of any obligation other than that they owe to the laws of the Empire of the New Britain Isles and myself, their Governor-Empress, as subjects and citizens. Likewise, they shall henceforth enjoy all the rights and benefits associated with complete citizenship, including the privilege of bearing arms in their country’s defense!”

  Her eyes lingered a long moment on the horrified expression spreading across Lord James McClain’s face before she looked at the Marines standing beside him. “Do your duty,” she commanded softly.

  * * *

  Sister Audry was disconcerted by the suspicious, almost hostile stares that followed her as she and the middle-aged Lemurian “Lord” Sergeant Koratin approached the broad porch of Government House in Scapa Flow. She knew the stares weren’t directed at Koratin; the ’Cat Marine had a checkered past in his homeland of Aryaal, but here he was a hero to Lemurians and humans alike. No, it was she who drew the stares, and she knew why. She was a Catholic nun, a “papist witch,” as far as many in the Empire were concerned. They saw little distinction between what she was and represented, and the vile practices of the evil Dominion with which they were at war. She’d finally confirmed—to her relief—that there were quite dramatic, fundamental differences between her faith and the abomination of the Doms during the time she’d just spent on New Ireland. She’d stopped there to interview the Dom prisoners of war interred at the devastated town of Waterford, on the shore of Lake Shannon. The prisoners were engaged in cutting down the massive central forest that had burned in the fighting there, and preparing the timbers for transportation to Imperial shipyards. Audry had spoken to many New Ireland civilians as well. She knew it was up to her to teach them—and people across the Empire—just how profound the difference was between the truth and what they’d been taught. Maybe that would help, and she thought she’d made a start. She hoped so. In the meantime she’d endure the stares, and Sergeant Koratin was there in case anyone wanted to do more about her presence than glare at her.

  She was anxious to see the Governor-Empress. She loved the child who’d been through such a terrible ordeal. The Dom attack that ravaged her homeland had been bad enough, but then to lose her parents, whom she’d been separated from for so long, to domestic treachery . . . It was almost more than Audry could bear. She’d yearned to comfort poor Rebecca ever since learning the news, and now that she was here, the yearning had become an almost desperate thing. She hoped Rebecca, who’d asked her to come, would feel the same way.

  Sister Audry was disappointed when the Governor-Empress didn’t meet the ferry that brought her over from New Ireland, but neither did the Prime Factor, the one-armed giant named Sean Bates, whom she also considered a friend. Concern began to blo
ssom in Audry’s heart. There was a small honor guard led by Koratin, so she hadn’t been forgotten, but Koratin was tense as he led her through the city.

  Since the attack that killed Rebecca’s parents and virtually wiped out what remained of the Imperial government, Scapa Flow had become the de facto capital of the Empire. Even if the Court of Directors in New London hadn’t been destroyed, Bates would’ve insisted that Empress Rebecca remain here in the heart of the Empire’s most important military city. The populace, military and civilian, was uncomplicatedly devoted to her, and there was nowhere near the level of intrigue that thrived across the strait in New London. She was safe here, and felt safe, which was important. It was bad enough that she’d been forced into the role of war leader at such a tender age, without having to constantly worry that one faction or another would try to have her killed.

  “Bear in mind that she has changed, Sister Audry,” Koratin warned as they mounted the steps to the porch. “She remains a youngling, but must act the adult. That alone would not have changed her, I think; she has always been wise beyond her years, but on a personal . . . feeling way, she has gone to ground like a sorely wounded beast. She reminds me much of General Queen Protector Safir Maraan in that respect.” He blinked sadness. “Our odd Alliance has so many orphan queens! Her will and mind are as strong as ever, but even as she knows she cannot retreat in war if she would win, her youngling’s heart tries to retreat from anything that might scar it further.” He paused. “And this is likely to be a most trying day, a day to rub her wounds quite raw.” They stopped and he nodded at the red-coated sentries at the door.