Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  They’d been warned that it was customary for the groom to recite his name, titles, and lineage at this time, though it was not, of course, usually expected of the bride.

  “Matthew Patrick Reddy,” Matt answered in a voice that surprised him with its firmness. “Captain of the United States Ship Walker, High Chief of the American Clan, and Commander in Chief, by acclamation, of all Allied Military Forces united beneath the Banner of the Trees.” He paused, remembering to add the lineage part, and continued proudly; “I’m the son of former Chief Quartermaster’s Mate Donald Vernon Reddy, recipient of the highest military honor for bravery that my birth nation can bestow. He’s now a cattleman—a large landholder—in the great state of Texas, U.S. of A.!”

  He heard murmuring to his right in response to his revelation. It sounded like Kutas asking Gray what Matt’s dad had done. He suppressed a head shake. How on earth do they think I got in the Academy?

  “Sandra Cayce Tucker,” Sandra interjected before the bishop could proceed. She spoke a little softly at first, but with growing strength. “Nurse Lieutenant and Minister of Medicine for Adar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance. I’m the daughter of Malcom C. Tucker, ah, Norfolk industrialist, in the great state of Virginia, United States of America.”

  The congregation murmured, but Bishop Todd cleared his throat.

  “And who giveth this woman to be wed?” he demanded.

  Silva straightened. “Me!” he boomed. “Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva of the United States Ship Walker, DD rate, number one-sixty-three! Famous slayer o’ Japs, Griks, Doms, super lizards, mountain fish, an’ various other dangerous critters, includin’ a Dom Blood Cardinal I spattered at most of a quarter mile! Protector o’ women an’ small princesses, an’ rescuer o’ same! I’m the son o’ Stanley an’ Willa Silva, who was actually married when I was born but passed on soon after, God rest ’em, an’ I hail from Alabama—also in the U.S. of A!”

  The bishop was taken aback and Gray muttered something, but Matt supposed it could have been far worse.

  “And do you swear before God that this woman is here seeking the solemnization of matrimony of her own free will, and has no just impediment, nor moral or legal obligation that might entangle, complicate, or prohibit the honorable estate she seeks?”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir. I swear,” Silva replied with less exuberance. “If all that means what I think it does.”

  Matt saw Sandra roll her eyes.

  The bishop paused, again perhaps taken aback by the unorthodox reply. “Then I entreat this congregation to bear witness that this man and this woman have entered this house and the sight of God to be joined together in holy matrimony, an institution created by God in the time of man’s innocency, which signifies the mystical union betwixt Christ and his Church, and which He adorned and beautified with His presence. With that understanding, it must be admonished that this estate be not enterprised lightly or wantonly solely to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites like brute beasts, with no understanding, but reverently, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God, duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.

  “First of these is the lawful procreation of unobligated children, to be reared in the fear of the Lord and to praise His holy name.

  “Secondly, as a remedy against sin and fornication and other base temptations of the flesh, so that those who enter into this, the greatest of obligations, might keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body, and righteous members of His Church.

  “Thirdly, for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.

  “Only through due obedience to God’s matrimonial decrees may those who are scattered, and children begotten in the lonely places of this savage world, remain servants of the Lord, and not degrade themselves until they become unknown to Him.”

  Matt was struck—vaguely—by the many similarities as well as differences to other wedding ceremonies he’d witnessed. He supposed—vaguely again—that the differences were mostly rooted in the odd society the Empire had created as far as women were concerned, but at that moment it really didn’t matter to him—except insofar as how damn long the thing was taking! They both answered in the affirmative at the end of the long, familiar, if somewhat archaic vows, and Matt duly, somewhat ironically, noted the extra-heavy emphasis on service and obedience that Sandra agreed to. He honestly wasn’t entirely sure what “plight thee my troth” meant, but a plight was like a predicament . . . wasn’t it?

  Spanky stood next to Matt as his best man, and at the appropriate moment, he fished in his pocket for the ring: a simple golden band traditional for all Imperial weddings. It was growing increasingly hot in the still, unventilated cathedral, and the ring suddenly squirted from Spanky’s fingers just as he triumphantly produced it.

  “Goddammit!” he muttered, instantly flushing red as the ring hit Sandra’s dress. Instead of being captured in the shapeless folds, it fell and struck the floor with a tiny chink and rolled away down the aisle. Silva stomped on it before it could escape completely, and Spanky quickly retrieved it and stuck it in Matt’s hand. Matt then laid the ring on the large, leather-bound Bible on the altar, as he’d been instructed, and the bishop held it up before passing it back to him. That’s when Matt turned to put it on Sandra’s finger. Her eyes were . . . chuckling, either at Spanky’s embarrassment or Matt’s grim, nervous expression, and Matt felt his own grin return as he repeated what the bishop told him to say.

  “With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship.” There was nothing about “worldly goods” in Imperial ceremonies, but Matt didn’t have anything to offer but his ship. “So help me God,” he almost whispered. They both knelt then, and Bishop Todd held his hands out over their heads.

  “O eternal God, creator and preserver of all mankind, giver of spiritual grace and author of everlasting life: send thy blessings through Christ our Lord upon this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy name. May they ever remain in perfect love and peace together. Amen.”

  There was more, but regardless of how interesting or even beautiful it might have been, from that point on, Matt and Sandra might as well have knelt there all alone, as far as they were concerned. Only later, after all was done and the choir had been singing again for some time, did it suddenly occur to Matt that the song was “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” He didn’t know how old the “official” Navy hymn was, but doubted it was old enough that the Imperials would know it. He was touched by the gesture, both on the part of their hosts and whoever had thought to give them the words and music. He hoped he could somehow reflect the words into a prayer of his own as he looked into Sandra’s eyes—not only for himself and this woman he loved, but for Walker and her crew and all those she’d lost.

  “O, Trinity of love and power, our brethren shield in danger’s hour.

  From rock and tempest, fire and foe, protect them wheresoe’er they go.

  Oh hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ////// Zanzibar

  Sovereign Nest of the Jaaph Hunters

  General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa, former captain of the lost Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser Amagi, almost chortled with glee as his new personal yacht, the double-ended paddle steamer Tatsuta, backed her paddles and crept up to the dock. He knew General Esshk was wildly jealous of the vessel. But, then, General Esshk is in a poor position to complain just now. Isn’t he? Kurokawa thought with smug amusement. Esshk had hitched his fortunes to a waning star, and after the catastrophic losses in airships during the recent raid on the enemy fleet and bases, all in a desperate gamble to save Regent Tsalka’s precious Ceylon, Esshk’s “star,” had been slowly, painfully snuffed.

  A quick, high-pitched giggle did escape then. An irony was that Ceylon had already fallen by the time Tsalka’s mission took place, but Tsalka had promised his life in exchange for
the stupid, wasteful attempt to salvage his regency, and Kurokawa had “sadly insisted” that he must pay his own set price for failure. He’d argued vigorously against the gesture, as he’d described it. The airships should have been held back until they could accompany his new Grand Fleet into battle, thereby ensuring complete and total victory. Tsalka’s selfish insistence was what cost so many machines, trained crews, and time to replace them. For that, if for no other reason, he had to be held to his pledge! Now Tsalka was dead—having wagered against the Traitor’s Death!—and with him had vanished yet another obstacle to Kurokawa’s ultimate scheme.

  Another giggle escaped compressed lips when the image of a naked Tsalka, teeth smashed, claws ripped out, convulsing against his bonds—and shrieking in wild, animalistic terror and agony while dozens of famished hatchlings fed on his living body—floated behind Kurokawa’s eyes once more. He’d maintained a somber demeanor at the time, which cast a pall on his enjoyment of the proceedings. It wouldn’t do for his allies at the court of the Celestial Mother to recognize his deep pleasure. Even the Chooser would have been horrified. Instead, he’d been forced to assume a mask of regret that accompanied his sad insistence that Tsalka’s debt be paid.

  First General Esshk had actually been shocked by Kurokawa’s attitude, as if he’d expected something resembling loyalty from him! How ridiculous! All along, Kurokawa had been nothing but a tool for Tsalka and Esshk, and they’d shown no loyalty to him! Did they think they were friends? They’d become his tools now, and the expenditure of Tsalka was a first, necessary step toward achieving his goals, for a change.

  Perhaps the greatest irony of all was that though Ceylon was lost, the air raid had actually accomplished far more than Kurokawa ever dreamed. An enemy aircraft carrier was destroyed—and not every airship was lost after all. Some had survived, and a pair of bases had been established in India that more and more airships could make use of as they were completed. They now also had reasonably quick communications with the garrison there, under Halik and Niwa’s command. At least once a week, airships came and went bearing messages, fuel, weapons, and priceless reconnaissance intelligence. For the first time, Kurokawa knew what his fleet would face.

  The American-Lemurian Alliance had been busy indeed! The quality of the enemy aircraft—and their carriers!—had come as a particular surprise, and he’d instructed that certain modifications be made to his capital ships accordingly. He’d long been a member of the conservative, battleship school, and though he’d come to respect the role of aircraft at sea, he still believed he could sweep the waves of the comparatively puny Allied fleet once he came to grips with it. Regardless of their ingenuity, the frail Allied aircraft couldn’t possibly threaten Hisashi Kurokawa’s battleships! Besides, he had geniuses of his own, now.

  He was in a very good mood, and he smiled with real benevolence while Japanese crewmen tossed lines to Japanese sailors and steam rushed skyward from the tall, thin funnel behind the pilothouse. Kurokawa had a dozen Grik guards that attended him at all times, even to this place, but by the grateful order of the Celestial Mother herself, the entire island of Zanzibar had been set aside as a Japanese preserve—a temporary homeland for the 350-odd remaining survivors of Amagi. Kurokawa considered the acquisition of his own “Regency” a major coup for a variety of reasons, and a sure sign that his grand scheme to insinuate himself irreplaceably within the upper echelons of Grik society was bearing fruit.

  Incidentally, Kurokawa began to realize that by securing that boon, he’d also secured a new, burgeoning, and strikingly real loyalty from his own countrymen at last. It was fortuitous, because as his schemes moved forward, he needed that loyalty more desperately than ever. It rankled that he’d been forced to essentially bribe his men for what should have been his natural due, but amazingly, this small thing he’d done—for them, they thought—had worked wonders. He’d never been more respected, actually appreciated, before. It was maddening, but he would accept their loyalty on whatever terms now, as long as it was real. Living with and dealing with the Grik for so long had forced a measure of . . . pragmatism upon him, a realization that every so often, he must make unpleasant compromises, at least for the short term. In spite of himself, his survival had depended on his ability to become a long-term thinker, to plan far ahead, and it had not been easy.

  Less than a third of his men were ever on Zanzibar at any given time. Most were employed in the Grik war industry, designing and overseeing the construction of the tools of battle. Those not critical to their posts were allowed “liberty” on a rotating basis and shipped from the hellish Grik factories and industries where they worked to this comparatively idyllic place. Though close to the equator, almost constant breezes kept the temperature refreshing, compared to the mainland jungles, and the air was fresh and clear of the stench of death and filth. It was a place where they could get away from their vile Grik “allies” for a time, enjoy the scenery that was little spoiled by the few previous Grik inhabitants—large prey could not sustain themselves there, even if imported—and try to remember what it meant to be Japanese. They worked here as well, even harder than they did for the Grik, but here they enjoyed the illusion that they were working for themselves.

  Kurokawa enjoyed “vacationing” away from the Grik as well, but the most important thing, from his perspective, was that he finally had a base secure from Grik interference, where he and his countrymen could gather and discuss their own plans and work on Kurokawa’s own projects. He had secretly collected certain—he believed—trustworthy notables who had distinguished themselves through their technical efforts on his behalf. Men who finally seemed to understand that what reflected well on Kurokawa benefited them. Other pragmatists, at least, if not patriots. Men unswervingly hitched to his rising star. They would be his captains in the heady times to come. They were fully versed in those aspects of his scheme that had brought them this far, but no one knew its ultimate, audacious scope. Today, he would share with them, and as many of his department heads, trusted technicians, and upper-level advisors to the Grik who could reasonably get away, a further portion of his strategy. It was a thing that had been growing and maturing in his mind like a perfect flower for over a year, but it would never do to reveal it all. Not yet.

  For now, he would tell them only what they needed to know to get him to the next level. Once there, it would be time to reveal at last that his ultimate goal was not merely to continue to rise as a respected figure at the Celestial Mother’s court, but to rule the entire Grik Empire—on behalf of Emperor Hirohito, of course. He and his loyal captains would rule the world! The other remnants of his own people—once treacherous, but benevolently forgiven—would bask in the radiance of his glory! They would reap the benefits of his achievement—and owe it all to him!

  He smiled again. Today there was much to do and plan, and he had left his provisioning fleet across the channel at the premier Grik naval base to preside over a meeting he’d set several weeks before, time enough for all the men he needed to find reasons to attend. He could hardly wait. Soon would begin the final campaign to destroy the hated Americans, their Lemurian lackeys, and the Grik he hated most of all.

  A young signals lieutenant met him on the dock with an honor guard. Kurokawa’s Grik protectors were gently but forcefully led aside and fed. They were used to that here, and made no complaints. The lieutenant led him past a large steam-generator building that provided power for their own, apparently modest repair facilities. Other generators and engines, beyond the view of unexpected guests, powered more ambitious enterprises. From a distance, their smoke resembled only a humid haze. They passed a cluster of long, thatched-roof barracks, supported on high pilings in the Lemurian way, and continued on to a slightly smaller but more traditionally constructed building. The honor guard was more than ceremonial, and was armed with some of the few Arisaka Type 38 6.5 mm rifles they’d managed to carry away when Amagi went down. In addition to countless colorful flying reptiles that fed on an even more nu
mberless variety of insects resembling butterflies, there were some fairly small but surprisingly dangerous creatures on Zanzibar.

  The building had gun port–like shutters, all raised to allow the breeze to circulate inside, and he heard murmuring within as he approached. All went silent when he stepped on the porch, and an enlisted servant quickly opened the door, then knelt and briskly wiped the dust from his finely crafted boots. Kurokawa ignored the man but waited until he was finished, then strode through the door. The dozen occupants rocketed to instant, rigid attention, staring straight ahead at other men arranged around the conference table. His eyes swept around the long room, inventorying the faces he saw, tight-lipped, intense, some wearing beads of sweat. He continued on to the far side of the room, walking slowly, enjoying the respect. Finally, he halted and turned beside a chair.

  “Be seated,” he barked. Only once he began his descent did the others comply. “Everyone seems to be here,” he said, again counting the faces around the table. “This trip may have been . . . inconvenient for some of you—it certainly was for me—but some of what we must discuss is rather sensitive. We cannot risk writing any of it down, even in Japanese. We had traitors once, and the Grik may have subverted others.” He let that sink in, then proceeded. “I would like to begin by taking direct reports of your activities. Spare me nothing. I know much of what many of you do is for the Grik, but that may not always be the case. I must know exactly what is available for the coming campaign so I will know what I may use and what I may choose to . . . reserve.” A few eyes flicked at him before resuming their forward stares.

  “General of the Sky Muriname?”

  Hideki Muriname was a small man, a pilot of the old Type 95 floatplane they’d used to bomb Baalkpan. The aircraft—Amagi’s last—had been damaged in the raid, and though it was maintained and preserved—on Zanzibar now—he had always claimed it could not be made airworthy for any serious operations. When Esshk had asked about it, Kurokawa reported that its structural integrity had been compromised, and without aluminum to repair it and spare parts for the engine, it remained only a model for their own designs. Esshk finally accepted that, and for a long time only Muriname and Kurokawa knew their report was a lie. They did use it as a model; its structural-assembly techniques helped them design the framework for the great dirigibles that currently constituted the backbone of Grik aviation. Its gauges and instruments provided patterns for more. But here on Zanzibar, they also copied its wing shapes, and even its engine.