Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “I like it,” Pete said, throwing caution to the wind for the first time since the near disaster at Raan-goon. He realized he hadn’t just trusted to luck since—but look where that got them. He still didn’t depend on luck anymore, but he trusted his gut—and believed in Safir Maraan and Muln-Rolak even more.

  Safir blinked surprise and Pete grinned. “We’re in the fight, General Maraan, so we might as well fight! We’ve busted ’em south of the lake, and if you’re right, their horns are suckin’ everything they’ve got left into one big wad in front of us. That’d make long odds in a numbers game, but their numbers are at least as confused and disorganized as ours.” He jerked a thumb behind them. “Notwithstanding what I saw back in the woods, our people can deal with confusion a hell of a lot better than theirs.” He patted Safir’s shoulder affectionately. “What the hell? Let’s go for broke!”

  The firing to their front intensified and, his mind made up, Pete was growing antsy again. Faded, patched-up Nancys swooped over the distant trees, dropping firebombs that ignited with rushing roars and roiling black smoke. The trees crackled and steamed, but didn’t catch fire. One plane dove in trailing blue smoke. It dropped its bomb, but couldn’t pull up and crunched into the treetops. Pete frowned, shaking his head. The Nancy hadn’t been shot down, as best he could tell. Even if the Grik had any of their antiaircraft mortars here, they wouldn’t be much good in the trees. The plane’s long-abused engine must’ve simply given up. He took a breath. “Daanis and his kids have guts, that’s for sure,” he murmured. “What the hell’s taking Saachic so long?”

  “He will be in position as quickly as he can,” Safir assured. Two great puffs of smoke heralded the delayed thunder of a pair of guns on Daanis’s left, right in front of the Grik, then another pair opened up on the right.

  “I had already sent aar-tillery to support Gener-aal Daanis,” Safir explained. She motioned at a six-gun battery clattering up, with gasping, moose-shaped palkas in the traces running as fast as they could. Gunners rode atop each animal or clung to ammunition chests on the limbers for all they were worth, certain that if they fell they’d be ground to paste by the heavy guns towing behind. “More are coming to support our advance.”

  A staccato of thunderclaps shuddered down the enemy line, and solid shot sent dead trees cartwheeling like Tinkertoys. A couple of balls bounded on, striking gaps in Safir’s reserve amid harsh shrieks.

  “I am surprised the Grik have any cannon left,” Safir observed. “I am told we overran more than fifty when we pushed through before dawn.”

  “More like eighty, just north of the lake,” Pete confirmed. “And General Faan claimed a lot in the south. If nothing else, we’ve put a big kink in their artillery train today.”

  A runner scampered up, holding a wooden canteen with a gaping hole shot through it like a talisman.

  “Cap-i-taan Saachic say he in position!” the Lemurian yelled over another splintering impact that hurled more trees in the air.

  “Very well. He may proceed!” Safir cried back. With an air of satisfaction, she drew her gleaming sword. “Second Corps!” she roared in that peculiar Lemurian tone that seemed to carry to the horizon. Her shout was echoed down the line, with the addition of division, regimental, and battalion designations. “Forward!” she trilled, stepping off amid the rattle of a hundred drums.

  “Wait just a damn minute,” Pete said, grabbing her arm, as the remainder of II Corps flowed to join the fight. “You ain’t goin’ into that!”

  Safir smiled at him. “Of course I am!” She pointed her sword. “We have decided that everything the enemy has left on this side of the river must be there by now. All I command is here as well. If my corps is destroyed, I have nothing left to do. So why not share its fate?”

  “Goddamn it, that’s not how it’s supposed to work!”

  “Is any of this how it is supposed to be?”

  “Well . . . just wait a second, okay?” Pete ran to the comm cart, still attached to its aerial. This model was capable of wireless transmission but could also be connected to the landline network they’d established around the perimeter. “Send: ‘Continue general advance toward assigned objectives. Objectives must, repeat must, be achieved! All air will concentrate on assisting ground elements. Out.’ Got that? And send out the gist of what we’re doing here, attention Rolak specifically. Oh, and try to stay close with that thing, wilya? I don’t want to come lookin’ for you if something else occurs to me.” The comm ’Cats nodded briskly, wide-eyed.

  “Okay,” Pete said, rejoining Safir Maraan. “Not another damn thing I can think of to influence this brawl. You said if your corps is destroyed, you’re out of a job.” He shrugged. “Well, if Second Corps goes down, so does the whole damn army, so where does that leave me?” General Pete Alden unslung his M1903 Springfield rifle, rechecked the safety at the rear of the bolt, and affixed his bayonet. “We got plenty of generals running around. What we need is more riflemen. Maybe I’ll get a look at this General Shlook, and I can knock his damn head off.”

  Over the growing rumble of battle, the distinctive ripping sound of.45 ACP–caliber Blitzer Bugs joined the surging storm, and Pete looked at Safir. “Music to my ears,” he said.

  The unengaged regiments of 3rd Division, under Colonel Mersaak, and all of General Grisa’s 6th Division had practically ground to a halt when General Queen Maraan stopped to wait on Pete—even while the fighting to their front rose to a fever pitch. Irritably, Pete waved them on and the thundering drums resumed. “See?” he grumbled, “that’s why we don’t belong in the front ranks. Sure, it makes us feel better, and might even stir up the guys and gals, but everybody’s conscious of us, see? We’re a distraction!”

  “You may be a distraction, with your great, huge body tramping along,” Safir said lightly, grinning, “but I mean to be an inspiration to my troops! My sword has been dry too long, while others fight in my stead. I am a gen-er-aal now, a corps commander, but I remain the queen protector of my people!” She laid her ornately chased sword blade on her shoulder, and it was then that Pete realized it was the only weapon she had.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I sent you one of the new Blitzer Bugs!”

  “It was heavy,” Safir complained, “and I could not get the hang of it. I assure you, it is in better hands.”

  “Well . . . just stay with me, okay?”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  Even Daanis’s troops were moving forward now, chasing Grik that had finally broken under the combined flank attack and frontal advance. More guns rattled forward, their lathered palkas weaving through the fallen trees or straining to drag their burdens over them. A six-gun battery to the right fired, one after the other, sending exploding case into the trees. Then they quickly limbered up and advanced alongside the fresh regiments.

  “On! On!” Safir urged loudly. “They are breaking! They flee! Drive them!” Regimental commanders repeated her cries, but added their own admonitions to maintain formation. No one was foolish enough to scramble pell-mell after running Grik anymore. One-on-one, hand-to-hand, a single Grik was more than a match for most Lemurians, no matter how panicked it was, and mutual protection remained a fundamental part of every Allied infantry tactic. The Grik before them had vanished into the trees by the time the corps absorbed the remnants of Daanis’s force and pushed on.

  “Where is General Daanis?” Safir demanded of an exhausted lieutenant, suddenly trying to keep up.

  “Dead,” the ’Cat gasped. “A crossbow bolt.”

  Safir was stung. As an officer in the 600, Daanis had been part of her life since she could remember, and talent had made him its commander, then commander of the entire 3rd Division. Now he was gone. There was no time for grief, however. “You have done well,” was all she could say. The first ranks of II Corps entered the trees on the far side of the clearing at last and found nothing but Grik bodies heaped in all directions. The guns couldn’t proceed any further, and Safir ordered their crews to arrange brea
stworks, load with canister, and wait. Hopefully, their part in the fighting was over. The buuuurp! of Blitzer Bugs still continued ahead and on the right, accompanied by the deep crackling of Allin-Silvas and the thump of grenades. Pete was just beginning to wonder how they’d keep any semblance of order in the dense trees when a great roar erupted far to the left, accompanied by heavy volleys of musketry.

  “Rolak’s here!” he exulted. “They’ll really be on the run now! We have to keep pushing,” he told Safir. “It can’t be more than a mile to our part of the road. Once we take it and dig in, there won’t be a damn thing the Grik can do to stop us! Have your troops keep their alignment as best they can, but we’ve got to push them now!”

  “Exactly my sentiments!” Safir grinned.

  It was tough going and any real alignment was impossible to maintain, but as long as they all emerged at the Madras road cut at about the same time, all should be well. There were still a lot of Grik in the woods, though, and few seemed panicked, in spite of everything. If Pete hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected they were facing a fighting withdrawal! Crossbow bolts still sheeted through the woods and festooned the trees, and Lemurian troops were falling at an alarming rate, but their blood was up and they sensed an end to their months-long suffering and exile was finally within their grasp.

  “Advance by ranks, firing as you go!” Safir commanded. “Kill them! Smash them!” The advance slowed just a bit, but the fire that preceded it was withering. Occasionally, Grik lunged up from where they’d been lying on the ground and tried to take cover behind a tree—only to be killed as the entire tree was shredded by the density of fire.

  “You’re gonna run out of ammo fast at this rate,” Pete warned.

  “We need only enough to reach the road!” Safir countered. “We retain a small reserve at our starting point and can bring that up when the road is secure. It will be more than enough to hold the position!”

  The trees began to thin. “Almost there!” Safir roared. Just then, Captain Saachic scrambled up to join them. He looked terrible—exhausted, bloody, and maybe a little afraid, judging by his blinking. Pete realized it was the first time he’d ever seen the Maa-ni-lo dismounted in battle.

  “Gener-aals!” he cried, “I beg to report!”

  “You have succeeded magnificently!” Safir gushed at him. “The day is ours!”

  Saachic shook his head. “No, Gener-aal Maraan! It is not! You must halt your advance at once. The Grik have fortified the road!”

  “What?” Pete demanded, incredulous.

  “Just so!” Saachic pleaded. “We thought we were herding the enemy into Gener-aal Rolak’s arms, but the Grik were drawing us here!” He pointed.

  The first ranks of II Corps had emerged into the Madras road clearing, and just as they did, six or seven thousand of the crude, heavy Grik muskets vomited fire, smoke, and lead right in their faces. It must’ve been every firearm in the entire Grik army, and wild as it was, the volley was still devastating. The Allied advance shuddered to a halt, and scores, hundreds of Lemurians fell when the big, nearly one-inch balls savaged them. There was only the slightest, stunned pause before companies and regiments started shooting back, but they were standing in the open, almost shoulder to shoulder, and couldn’t trade fire like that for long. Besides, even while the Grik musketeers reloaded, swarms of crossbow bolts, more accurate than the muskets, kept flying.

  For an instant, Pete considered calling for a charge. They wouldn’t be expecting that, and most of Safir’s corps would be on top of the Grik before they had a chance to shoot again—but a glance was all it took to convince him a charge couldn’t succeed. These Grik had been charged before and they’d held, or at least stopped their flight to gather here. And he could tell this force alone still outnumbered II Corps rather badly. If he could get Rolak to charge at the same time . . . but there was no communication at all just then, and no way to coordinate anything. “Take cover!” he finally yelled. “Take cover behind anything you can find! Keep firing!”

  The word spread down the line, and II Corps did its best to hunker down. Some even dug shallow trenches in the wet, sandy soil with their musket butts and helmets before rejoining the fight.

  “Get down here!” Pete yelled at Safir Maraan, who still stood looking about as though calmly observing a mild curiosity. “Down! Now!” he repeated. When she still made no acknowledgement, Pete finally lunged up and grabbed her black cape and yanked her to the ground. He could’ve sworn that half a dozen bullets and bolts impacted the tree she’d just been standing by.

  “I must insist on an apology!” she huffed.

  “No apology necessary,” Pete grunted. Lying prone, he’d brought his ’03 Springfield to his shoulder and was scanning the Grik position. Safir looked at him and blinked annoyance. “Dug in!” he said in wonder. “Dug in an’ waitin’ for us! I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. “Actually, I should apologize. I had three choices and picked the wrong one. We gotta get out of here.”

  “That . . . is what I was about to say,” Safir said sharply. She’d just noticed the tree herself. “Cap-i-taan Saachic?”

  “Gener-aal?” came a reply from a short distance away.

  “Please pass the word that we will retire by ranks. Has your command any ammunition for its special weapons remaining?”

  Saachic held up his Blitzer Bug. “I have one maag-azine beyond the one inserted. I tried to enforce fire discipline, but it was not easy even for me. The Silver Bataallion, with its breechloaders, is better off, I think.”

  “I understand. You will support the withdrawal of the final rank. Only be prepared to duck as you approach the corral clearing, back the way we came!”

  Pete’s rifle barked, sweeping leaves and dirt away from the muzzle on the ground. “I swear,” he said ironically, “I don’t know if that was an officer or not, but he was sure standin’ around like one.” He worked the bolt and aimed again.

  “Come, Gener-aal Aalden, we must retire.”

  “Just waitin’ on you, sister.” He fired again.

  Safir stood, as if intent on defying Pete’s desire to protect her. Before Pete realized what she’d done, there was a metallic thunk, and she sat down heavily.

  “What the hell?”

  “I suppose I’m shot,” Safir replied angrily, fingering a large hole in her polished breastplate.

  “Goddammit!” Pete swore, and crawled to her. There was a slight depression just beyond, and he shoved her in. She tried to protest, but he was already sawing at the leather straps along her side.

  “You could have unbuckled them, you know!”

  He removed her shapely cuirass, then looked at her wound. It was low on her side, bleeding profusely, but looked like a deep gouge instead of a hole. He grabbed the cuirass again and saw a fist-size exit hole in the metal back. He flung it away. “Lucky girl,” he said, tearing open a field dressing and pressing it to the wound. “Hold that there while I tie it around you.” She did as instructed, and while he worked Pete suddenly realized this was the first time he’d ever seen Safir Maraan without the cuirass. He’d grown accustomed to topless ’Cats, but Safir wasn’t supposed to be topless! He felt a little awkward.

  “What?” Safir asked, sensing his discomfort.

  “Oh, nothin’. Just that the turtle shell you wear all the time doesn’t do you justice—and old Chackie’ll be a lucky boy someday too, if you don’t both die of stupid bravery first!”

  The withdrawal wasn’t easy, and as Safir foresaw, the Grik charged out of their trenches when the final rank drew back. Saachic managed to stall the pursuit momentarily, but then it came hot and heavy on his tail. Pete had sent Safir with the first withdrawal and stayed with Saachic, his Springfield a potent weapon. But when the Grik pushed forward, followed by further swarms vomiting from the woods beyond the road, they were inexorable. All Pete and Saachic’s troops could do was run for their lives. Grik were faster sprinters than Lemurians, and in the open they would’ve caught their prey.
Escaping through the trees, however, the ’Cat’s greater agility was a tremendous asset. Finally emerging in the bright sun of the corral cut, Pete turned and skewered a Grik he’d heard panting up behind him with his bayonet. Others did the same, stabbing or shooting. The pursuing Grik paused just long enough for the ranks that had already pulled back to rush forward again and fall in around them, still gasping from their run.

  “First rank: fire!” Colonel Mersaak roared. A ragged, rushed volley of perhaps 1,500 rifle muskets momentarily stunned the leading Grik pursuers. “First rank to the rear!” Mersaak called. “Second rank: fire! Second rank to the rear! Third rank: fire!”

  By the time the third rank backed through the files, the first rank, armed now with an assortment of rifle muskets and.50–80 breechloaders as the various units became hopelessly mixed, had already reloaded. At Mersaak’s command, they delivered yet another stunning volley that scythed through the mass of Grik still trying to advance. Pete had remained in the front rank with each evolution, firing his Springfield with every volley. He placed another stripper clip in the guide at the rear of his weapon’s receiver and shoved five more rounds into the magazine with his thumb. Looking up through sweat-bleary eyes, he saw they’d carpeted the ground with Grik, but the horde still emerging from the woods was a solid, determined mass. Some were still firing matchlocks and crossbows, but the vast majority carried only swords and spears. What surprised him most was their almost utter silence. Always in the past, the Grik came roaring, beating weapons against their shields, but these were very quiet, very businesslike. Veterans, he realized.

  “These are like some we faced on North Hill,” Saachic gasped beside him. His Blitzer Bug empty, the Lemurian cav ’Cat had gotten hold of an Allin-Silva and remained with Pete in the front rank. “They will not stop.”