Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  Adar nodded, blinking a combination of yearning and concern. “Of course I agree, but the mission must be brief. As my brother says, we cannot spare Col-nol Chack, Mr. Braad-furd, and even a wounded Dennis Sil-vaa for very long.” He sighed. “I only wish that I could go.”

  “Uh . . . Aye, aye, sir!” Hardee managed with a firmer voice, then sat, blinking as well.

  In the silence that followed, Matt gazed around the table, preparing himself. Could he really do this without causing a rift that might wreck his marriage—and conceivably even the Alliance? He had to try. “Okay,” he said. “As I understand it, our bigger mission is to hold what we’ve got until we can take the fight to the Grik.” He nodded at Adar. “My orders as commander in chief are to accomplish that by taking the fight to the Grik however we can.” He looked at Tikker, then Keje. “General Maraan covered the imperatives. She has to know when the Grik are coming, and we can’t tell her if we just sit on our butts and wait. We have to scout, and scout deep—not just watch the approaches and send a few planes to look around now and then.” He nodded at Tikker. “At the same time, we need to keep the wear and tear on our aircraft to a minimum, while maintaining the ability to concentrate them on tempting targets. If we do this right, we can make life a living hell for the Grik and maybe even prevent any ‘mob’ of transports or heavies from forming in the first place.” He looked at Jarrik. “Des-Ron Six is yours, and can outrun anything the Grik have that we know of, under sail or steam. Take all but two of your DDs hunting up and down the continental coast. Don’t tangle with any dreadnaughts, but thrash anything that looks like it can carry Grik.” He looked at Keje. “As I see it, we need to shorten the trip for our planes. Escorted by the other two DDs of Des-Ron Six, Big Sal will take her Nancys and one squadron of pursuit ships, and park her big butt in the strait. Her planes’ll pound troop concentrations on shore, ships, or anything they find at anchor in Grik ports.” He looked back at Tikker. “The other pursuit squadrons will stay behind as air cover for the city.”

  “What about the DDs that escorted the supply ships—and Walker?” Herring asked.

  Matt considered. “The new arrivals will provide security here. Walker will . . . kind of go with Big Sal too.” He rubbed his nose. “Honestly, I’d thought I’d better stay here at first,” he admitted, “but I think any misunderstandings we once had have been cleared up pretty well. I believe I’ll take Walker out myself after all, as a quick responder to anything that breaks, good or bad.” He grinned. “And who knows? We might do a little hunting of our own.” He paused. “Mr. Chairman? I recommend that you remain in Grik City . . . for the time being.”

  Adar blinked, grateful for the renewed trust Matt was showing Safir Maraan—and him. “I will,” he said, “but let us not call it ‘Grik City’ anymore. I think ‘Liberty City’ sounds much better.”

  “Liberty City sounds . . . swell,” Matt said neutrally.

  “What will Amerika do during all this?” Becher Lange asked. Matt tensed. He’d been expecting the question.

  “Keep trying to raise your kaiser, and get him to hit the Grik,” Matt said simply. “We need him to move. But while you do that, I want you to keep your bunkers full.” Amerika was the only coal burner in the fleet, but the Grik had kept large quantities of coal in the city for their warships. “And start loading the nonwalking wounded immediately. They’ll be more comfortable in a liner than in a pile of rocks. When that’s done, load any other wounded who can’t fight, walking or not.” He looked at Adar before continuing. “In two weeks, whether or not the Grik come, or you raise your kaiser, you’ll take all the rest of the wounded, the senior medical staff, Mr. Herring, Courtney if he’s back, and”—he took a breath—“Chairman Adar, and get them the hell away from this island.” Adar began to sputter, but Matt continued. “Your Lieutenant Meek can remain to continue attempts to communicate using your codes. Once clear of here, don’t head for Madras. Steer east by way of Diego, and make a high-speed run straight through the Sunda Strait. Don’t stop until you drop anchor in Baalkpan Bay.”

  Lange looked unhappy, but nodded. “In spite of her few guns, Amerika is not really a warship. But she can carry many people and she is fast. Your orders make sense—but would we not risk the same dangers that prevent our reinforcement? That require your other warships to protect your First and Third Corps? The sea between here and Diego Garcia is where the undersea boat was, after all.”

  “We sank it,” Matt reminded, “and it didn’t live there. It followed us down from Madras.” He shrugged. “Zigzag the whole way if you want—you should have the fuel for it. How long it takes is not as critical as getting our people out of here.”

  “I will not go!” Adar almost shouted, seething. Matt turned to him.

  “You have to, Mr. Chairman, and despite what you may think, this has nothing to do with what happened before. Look, you did what you came for; you took your ancient homeland back from the Grik. You should be proud of that, however it happened, and proud of the Alliance that made it possible. But you don’t belong here now. Mr. Letts and a bunch of other folks’ve worked damn hard to turn part of that alliance into a nation—and they don’t even know what to call it! It’s time for you to go back and do your real job. It’s time for you to lead where you’re needed!” He gestured at Keje, Chack, and Safir, then down the table. “This is our job.”

  Adar looked stung, but Matt thankfully recognized from the ’Cat’s hesitant blinking that Adar also knew he was right. He was glad. He’d meant every word he said and wanted Adar and the wounded safe. But on a purely selfish note, he also knew Sandra would go—easier at least—if Adar told her to.

  “Very well,” Adar said stiffly.

  Matt took another deep breath and slowly let it out. “Thanks, Mr. Chairman.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ////// Sofesshk

  Grik East Africa

  First General Esshk and the Chooser rode alone in a large, garishly appointed coach drawn by a hundred harnessed warriors. They were traveling up an ancient baked-brick thoroughfare bordering the north bank of the river called “Zambezi” in the scientific tongue that stretched uninterrupted from one end of the prehistoric city of Sofesshk to the other. Marching behind them was an honor guard of a thousand warriors, Esshk’s very finest, but many more thousands lined the road on either side, emitting a rumbling hiss that struck Esshk with an odd sense of irony. The sound was one of contentment, similar to the sound Uul warriors made when fed to satiation, but in these circumstances Esshk recognized it as the clamor of satisfied acclaim. He considered that ironic since he was triumphantly entering the cherished, timeless district of “old” Sofesshk, where the elite of the Empire abided beneath the daily shadow of the Palace of Vanished Gods. This, after losing Madagascar, the Celestial City, and the great palace there, and even the Giver of Life herself to an invading host of prey! Fortunately for him, it was not his army that was defeated, and only chance had placed him there at the time. He’d done his best to salvage the situation, of course, and that was well-known here. But the fact remained that, however peripherally, he’d been beaten.

  Several things had saved him. First, though he’d lost the Mother, he’d carried away her most promising candidates for succession. Second, he was First General, and a carrier of the Celestial Blood himself. That had inspired the Chooser to proclaim him “Regent Champion” until a new Giver of Life could be elevated from among the candidates he preserved. Third, he personally commanded the greatest, best equipped host in all the Empire; an army raised by and instilled with the principles of absolute loyalty and obedience to the authority of the Celestial Mother—embodied by the person of First General Esshk. Finally, that army, just now reaching its most lethal maturity at last, had not been defeated. All things considered, Esshk had escaped the disaster on Madagascar fairly well.

  He contemplated his sole companion. Not a warrior, the Chooser was obese for a Grik, with a calcula
ting, manipulative mind—exactly what Esshk was in need of—but he was prone to fits of panic that undermined his bold schemes. His dress was as garish as the carriage, with a gray cloak covered with tiny bones fastened about his neck, and the tiny teeth of hatchlings clinking in the brush of his crest. He’d taken to wearing a sword, unheard of for a Chooser, but he excused it with the explanation that all the Grik had to come to terms with total war having reached their shores. Esshk suspected he wore the somewhat delicate thing for far more personal reasons, but made no comment. He sighed. The little sword was finely made, and reminded him of Regent Tsalka. It might have even once been his. Tsalka had been a . . . troublesome creature at times, but Esshk certainly approved of his sense of taste. His palaces at Colombo and Madras had been things of beauty, decorated with fine, not-so-garish masonry, and flowing ivies reminiscent of Sofesshk itself, and not the more . . . utilitarian architecture that prevailed elsewhere in the Empire. He glanced to the south, across the mighty river. The “new” districts of the city were dedicated to commerce and industry. Warships and cargo hulls huddled along the shoreline, and crude buildings and countless squalid dwellings sprawled for miles beyond view. Little different from the Celestial City on Madagascar, he thought, wondering how long ago the Grik, even the Hij, had lost all sense of taste except when it came to personal adornment. In contrast, “old” Sofesshk was downright colorful, even if Imperial red predominated, and the dwellings reminded him of the more . . . imaginative structures he’d seen in the Lemurian city of Aryaal. It was strange. Had there once been a time among his race when they focused more on creating than expanding—and merely existing?

  He stuck his snout outside the window to view their destination. Even that was different. Though the shape and stone construction of the unimaginably older Palace of Vanished Gods had clearly inspired the far more massive structure on Madagascar, it possessed a simple elegance despite its time-worn features. Perhaps that . . . rounding, that air of the ancient, was what the builders of the Celestial Palace had hoped to replicate? Esshk considered it likely, and that evoked a sudden suspicion that the austere approach embodied by the newer palace had adversely affected Grik architecture ever since. He snorted and shook his head, wondering why such things now cluttered his mind when he had far more important thoughts to consider.

  He glanced at the palace again before leaning back into the carriage. The legends that had served the Grik as true history until just the last few hundred years were adamant that the Palace of Vanished Gods had been the very first capital of the united Grik race before the Celestial Mother crossed the Go Away Strait to establish a new palace. There, separate from the various tribal territories or “regencies,” she could rule, impartial to all. But Sofesshk had remained the most sacred of cities and the Palace of Vanished Gods the holiest of shrines. If the Chooser and First General Esshk got their way, it wouldn’t be merely a shrine much longer, but would shortly revert to its original purpose.

  The Chooser growled at something he saw beyond the warriors lining the road. “Not all are here to welcome us,” he warned. “The warriors of Regent Consort Ragak do not sound content, and they are thickest here, closer to the palace!” He turned to look at Esshk, his red eyes narrowed in calculation. “I dislike all this delay. A quicker counterattack in the immediate aftermath of our arrival, while the Regents were united in their outrage and bereavement . . . They were eager to cooperate however they could to avenge our Giver of Life and the defeat at the Celestial Palace!” He slumped back, shifting his tail aside. “And each day that passes, the prey—the enemy—grows stronger and more difficult to drive back into the sea!” the Chooser hissed.

  “Regent Consort Ragak undermines us,” Esshk observed mildly.

  “You should slay him!” the Chooser snarled, but Esshk hissed amusement.

  “If you are so confident of our position, why not simply choose him for the cook pots, as is your right? No?” Esshk hissed again. “I dislike the delay as well, but you yourself said that this elevation must proceed! You proclaimed me Regent Champion of all Ghaarrichk’k, and most other regents agreed to support us since I carry the Celestial Blood. But Ragak is Regent Consort of Sofesshk itself. If I slew him in his own regency simply because he called for the elevation of a new Mother before he and his armies join the swarm to rescue the Celestial Palace from the beasts that infest it, I could lose the support of other regents who might fear a similar fate.” Esshk jerked his head to the side in negation. “That must not be. As you—and Ragak—have said, we must have a Mother!”

  “Of course, and we will!” the Chooser insisted. “But like this? So . . . publicly?”

  “It is the traditional way.”

  “There is no traditional way to fully elevate a new Celestial Mother without her own mother present! And as we discussed, I had . . . hoped to control the process to our benefit—and the benefit of our race!” the Chooser quickly added. “If the process is thrown out for all to see, how can we ensure that we—that you will remain Champion Regent, or even First General? Particularly without the final rite, whoever rises cannot truly rule until she achieves the age of wisdom!”

  “In which case she must confirm her Champion,” Esshk pointed out patiently. “You worry too much, Chooser,” Esshk scolded. “If you will recall, we saved all of those who might rise. All. They remain silly little things, but they will remember. Do not fear that we won’t be chosen by whichever one is elevated.” Esshk paused. “And even though we have not yet struck back at the foe in a meaningful way, I have been making plans and gathering great strength. Forget Regent Consort Ragak. I will deal with him. And after today, we shall be free to press our attack with numbers and power never seen before!”

  “Oh, very well, but forgive me if I chafe and continue to contemplate the consequences of disaster. For example, even if all proceeds as you say, will not Ragak and others attempt to exert unwholesome influences over our new Giver of Life while you are away at battle? I shudder to think what mischief he may cause in your absence.”

  “Rest easy, Chooser. Do not chafe. Do not shudder. In addition to my greater plans, I have commenced more modest preparations. I have said I will deal with Ragak, and I shall. You must concentrate on the duties appropriate to your position this day—but rest assured, life will soon grow most unpleasant for Regent Consort Ragak, and our proper enemies across the strait in the Celestial City as well.” He was quiet a long moment while the procession neared the greenish lawn surrounding the Palace of Vanished Gods, and took in the substantial gathering. All the ruling Hij were present, arranged on the flanks of the palace or on raised benches erected around a central space at the western foot of the structure. Ragak was there, brightly adorned in the robes of his regency, and surrounded by his staff and other creatures who served him. Despite the exalted rank proclaimed for him, Esshk wore only his finest armor and a scarlet cape. He realized Ragak was watching him step down from the coach and ascend to the elevated pavilion that would’ve been reserved for a visiting Celestial Mother with select members of his staff. One of those was General Ign, commander of the “new” warriors there that day. The Chooser left to prepare for his own role in the drama to come, and Esshk made himself comfortable before glancing back at Ragak. To his surprise, his rival was still staring, eyes and jaws finally revealing the true depth of animosity he harbored. Of course Ragak is bitter, Esshk realized. This is his regency, his city. If anyone must be Regent Champion here, in this very palace, it is only natural he would desire it himself. Esshk bowed to Ragak, and the regent quickly looked away.

  “He is impertinent, Lord!” General Ign hissed. “He stares at you, the greatest general of our race, as if you were his prey!” He huffed. “Allow me to slay him, Lord!”

  Esshk repressed a snort of exasperation. While no doubt entertaining, Ign would start a full-scale battle between his and Ragak’s warriors if he did that, regardless of the occasion.

  “Do not troubl
e yourself, General,” Esshk murmured in the growing roar of the gathering crowd. “I have faced combat on the battlefield and even survived the intrigues of court—and Hisashi Kurokawa! Mere stares are beneath my notice. But rest assured; I shall take good care of Regent Consort Ragak.”

  The Gathering Horns sounded deeply, and the crowd shifted expectantly. The elevation of a new Celestial Mother was about to begin. Thousands had joined the mob encircling the space at the foot of the palace. There were warriors, certainly, both Esshk’s “new” ones and what he considered Ragak’s “ordinary” Uul—but many Hij had joined as well, the highly placed mixing and jostling with those of more humble pursuits. In this one instance, perhaps, a shade of egalitarianism had colored a disparate mass gathering of Grik. All were there to see who would rise to rule them, but some were just genuinely curious. And most of the Uul had never even seen a female before.

  When the hubbub reached its peak and it grew increasingly difficult for the cordon of Hij warriors to hold back the mob, the Chooser finally strode into the clearing, accompanied by a chorus of Attention Horns. Almost instantly, the crowd grew silent, the “civilian” Hij taking the longest. The Chooser gestured impatiently at one of Esshk’s own officers who’d accompanied him, and the commander of ten hundreds raised a trumpet to the Chooser’s face. With only the slightest hesitation, and with somber, rasping tones, he began an ancient chant. Esshk’s thoughts wandered. He’d heard the elevation rites many times and knew the words by heart—and ultimately, the words themselves mattered very little since only the Hij understood them and the vast majority of Uul would never hear them again. A total of nine, the oldest of the thirty-two females he’d saved, would participate in the rite, and all would be elevated before their final test. Esshk wanted this settled quickly and hoped that one of the first group would rise above the others. The chances were good, since they were the best prepared in most respects—but sometimes that could be problematic as well, and the more often they had to perform the rite, the more . . . tedious things could become. If the first group failed, they had only enough females to perform the rite twice more if they meant to preserve the bloodline—which they must—and it would be six years before the offspring of the remaining females were old enough to try again. Ironically, that had been the ideal scenario Esshk and the Chooser originally contemplated, doubting anyone would oppose a First General’s appointment as Regent Champion by the Chooser himself. But Regent Consort Ragak’s self-interested obstructionism had made the installation of a new Celestial Mother utterly imperative, to have any hope of a rapid, meaningful counteroffensive against the invaders.