He leaned forward and peered out the coach window at the throng of humanity, and despite his discomfort, was utterly charmed. There weren’t nearly as many indentured women on New Britain Isle, at least here in the capital city, and for a time he could push that unpleasant aspect of this society to the back of his mind. Here, for the first time in his travels on this world, was a familiar civilization. The streets were paved with smooth, rounded stones, and the architecture was even reminiscent of the timeless parts of the old London he’d visited many times. There were no automobiles of course, but there weren’t any brontasarries or paalkas either. Real horses pulled carriages and wagons and quaint streetcars with dozens of occupants. Iron tires grating on stone and clopping hooves replaced the sounds of motors and tooting horns, but he was old enough to remember when that had been the case back home as well. He understood there was an impressive library and even several museums, and he couldn’t wait to visit them. One museum contained relics of the Founders, including preserved portions of their ships. Another was devoted to specimens of creatures acquired from other lands the Empire had visited or claimed during a brief exploratory period some decades past. Like Scapa Flow, but on a much grander scale, New London resembled an oasis of familiarity on an otherwise wildly exotic world. Only the superabundance of parrots and small, flying reptiles as ubiquitous as pigeons seriously undermined that illusion of normalcy. He grunted and leaned back in his comfortably cushioned seat to examine his companions.
Sergeant Koratin’s white leather armor practically gleamed, and his red-striped blue kilt was immaculate. He had graying, dun-colored fur, and the manelike beard around his face was almost white. He was an “odd duck,” as Courtney’s American friends would say. He’d been a noble, a lord of Aryaal, on faraway Jaava where Surabaya should have been. There, he’d been a political creature: venal and corrupt, swept along by the winds of expediency, foul or fair. His devotion to the moral and physical well-being of younglings had always been his passion, however, no matter how poor an example he set. The war, the loss of his family—including his own precious younglings—and the consequences of real corruption backed by limitless power, had caused an epiphany.
Sister Audry’s teachings—and Courtney’s explanations of them—had made him a Christian, if not yet a Catholic, and though he was not wild about the political structure emerging within the Alliance, he was devoted to destroying its enemies. Now he was an enlisted Marine, not even an officer, who’d distinguished himself repeatedly in battle. He stayed as far from politics as he could, but he was still a keen observer of them. Bradford thought his insights might prove useful and had tapped him as his aide while Koratin fully recovered from wounds he’d received at the Battle of the Imperial Dueling Grounds.
Beside Koratin was Lieutenant Ezekial Krish of the Imperial Navy. He was dark-skinned with black hair, and wore his very first attempt at an Imperial mustache on his upper lip. Courtney wondered what kind of name Krish was, but decided it didn’t matter. The Imperials were descendants of polyglot crews of a pair of lost East Indiamen, and their population had grown with the help of “acquisitions” from the east. Likely, Krish didn’t even know the original foundation of his name. Courtney swept the thought away. The young officer seemed a conscientious lad and took his duties as liaison to the Allied ambassador seriously. Today, his help was particularly critical, because he would have to guide Courtney through the protocol of his appearance at the Imperial Court of Directors. Currently, the young man was staring significantly at a large watch in his left hand. A silver chain disappeared between the buttons of his white coat.
“We’ll arrive in plenty of time, Lieutenant,” Bradford assured the man, trying to conceal his own resurgent unease. “As you said yourself, my own part in the proceedings is quite limited. I doubt I’ll even be required to speak.” Despite his calm words, he suddenly tugged almost desperately at the cravat, as if on the verge of a claustrophobic fit. Adjusting the ridiculous thing was the primary reason for his tardiness.
“Perhaps, Your Excellency,” Krish replied with brittle calm, reaching across and stilling Courtney’s hands, “but their majesties specifically charged me with your punctuality.” It was no secret that Courtney Bradford needed keepers. “Much of the Governor-Emperor’s address concerns the Alliance, and he wanted you there as its representative.”
“Of course. But if I’m not mistaken, he meant to begin with a description of the state of the Empire, the war, and the implementation of the various reforms.” His tone grew almost plaintive. “The heat of the glares I expect to be directed my way will probably melt me, and the shorter the time I’m exposed to them, the more likely I am to survive.”
Krish said nothing because Courtney was probably right. This would be Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald’s first address to a full assembly of the Imperial Court of Directors since the abortive Dom invasion and the Dom-assisted rebellion on New Ireland were crushed. During that time of emergency, the very foundations of the Empire had been shaken and Gerald McDonald had exercised unprecedented executive powers without consulting the courts of Directors or Proprietors. Of course, so many members of the Court of Proprietors—including Prime Proprietor Sir Harrison Reed—had either been high officials in the subversive Honorable New Britain Company or directly in league with the enemy, that the Proprietors had virtually ceased to exist. Krish was personally surprised and a little disappointed that the Governor-Emperor hadn’t simply abolished the Proprietors and Directors. After the fighting and all the arrests, the shrill finger-pointing began and nearly every member who’d been taken into custody spilled compromising information against many who weren’t, in an effort to mitigate their own transgressions. Long after the true traitors had been hung, the papers were full of lurid details of graft, kickbacks, vote buying, and election fraud. The illegal “stacking” of indentures, a process that kept its victims in perpetual servitude, had been far more common than anyone dreamed as well. Now even the most stalwart defenders of female indenture had been forced to moderate their stance. The resultant feeding frenzy and open display of just how corrupt the government had been stunned the Empire.
Special elections had been held to fill the many sudden vacancies in the Court of Directors, and most of the winners reflected the new attitudes toward their human and Lemurian allies, a willingness to consider a change in the status of women within the Empire, and a grim determination to not only destroy the Holy Dominion forever, but to repay the debt owed to the western allies by helping them against the Grik. Regardless, many hard-liners had retained their seats. Not all had been corrupt. Krish believed the Governor-Emperor would have a majority for his new, radical proposals, but it would be slim and perhaps even tenuous.
“Did Gerald speak much to you about the contents of his address?” Courtney asked, making conversation to distract himself from his misery.
Krish cringed slightly over the man’s casual use of his monarch’s first name, but nodded. “The Governor-Emperor truly means to abolish indentured servitude entirely. He will reaffirm the alliance between”—he glanced at Koratin—“your people and mine, and make a formal declaration of war against the Holy Dominion and the Grik Empire. He will underscore the social reforms by letting his wife, the Lady Ruth McDonald, address the assembly as well.”
“Amazing! Has that ever been done? I mean, has a woman . . . ?”
“Never, Your Excellency. Even when his grandmother, the Lady Verna, was Governor-Empress before her son was born, her factor appeared in her stead.”
“Poor woman,” Courtney sighed. “Gerald spoke of her. She remained sequestered for years.” He looked at Krish. “Understand, this . . . system of yours remains quite foreign to me. My people have a history of powerful, headstrong queens, and my new people, the Lemurians, have many strong female leaders as well. Safir Maraan, Saan-Kakja . . . Did you know that Saan-Kakja is roughly the same age as your dear Princess Rebecca, yet rules perhaps more land than your Empire, even including your tentati
ve holdings in the Americas?”
“Yes, Your Excellency . . .”
“Of course you did. A dear, sweet creature, yet bold and quite willful! She will doubtless be mollified to some degree by this new policy.” He leaned forward, flapping his hat again. “She remains distrustful of your Empire, you see,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Koratin flicked his ears in amusement, but said nothing.
Courtney leaned back and wrenched at his cravat again. “Gerald and I discussed his address at great length, of course,” he went on. “I consider him a fine fellow and a friend, but I was frankly afraid to rely on such an abrupt change. But the current emergency makes this the perfect time to push for it, I suppose.”
“It is unfortunate that so many had to die in the course of this ‘emergency,’” Koratin suddenly interjected in a cynical tone, “but in crisis, there is always opportunity.”
“What a dreadful thought,” Bradford said, regarding his aide.
“But true.”
“Of course it’s true, and in this instance, the overall Alliance shall be the beneficiary—but you just prodded to mind the realization that the crisis is ongoing! We know there are still subversive elements at large, and some must be highly placed! How else would the enemy have gained such intelligence of our plans for the New Ireland campaign?”
For several moments Bradford sat, fulminating, the city outside his carriage window and his irritating cravat both forgotten. “We mustn’t be lulled into complacency,” he finally stated. “All may seem well for the time, but we must remain on our guard for treachery. If I am called to speak to the assembly, I believe I shall forcefully remind everyone of that!”
Koratin’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, Your Excellency. Never forget, there are always people like me—like I was—waiting to pounce.”
They rode in silence after that, Courtney and Krish digesting the implications of what Koratin said. The traffic on the narrow avenue grew more congested as they neared the Ruling District, and the carriage slowed to a crawl.
“There’s nothing for it now,” Krish muttered impatiently. “Even if we left the carriage and sprinted the rest of the way, the conclave will already be well underway before we could possibly arrive.”
“I hope you don’t really mean to attempt it,” Courtney warned. “If we try to get there on foot, the two of you might make it, but my finely dressed corpse won’t be of any use to their majesties whatsoever. Don’t worry, Lieutenant Krish. You did your best. I’m quite comfortable accepting all the blame. I’m used to it, you know.” He smiled. “I do try to conform to the imperatives of others, but I fear I’m ill equipped for it. My former employers used to get very annoyed—as did Captain Reddy, before he learned to make allowances.
“Regardless how hard I try, my attention is easily diverted,” he admitted, looking at Krish appraisingly, as if gauging his discretion. “I began writing a book once, a modest little thing describing the flora and fauna I’d encountered throughout the Malay Barrier. Even then I expected it to take years to complete since I had barely scratched the surface. Well, despite my . . . relocation, I’ve decided to carry on, but just imagine how I’ve been forced to broaden the scope of my studies! My earlier research has little bearing now beyond vague references for the purpose of comparative anatomy, but I’ve also rather ambitiously decided to broaden the scope of my work to include contextual observations! It shall now be a history as well! The Journals of Giles, Stewart, Park and Livingstone, Lewis and Clark, and even Sir Stanley—without the controversy, I should hope!—shall be my inspiration.”
Krish’s eyes had glazed over and Koratin wasn’t even pretending to listen, staring out his own window at the passing city. “We here?” he asked suddenly, and Krish stirred, looking for himself. The congested avenue had broadened significantly, and the previously uninterrupted cluster of shops, stores, and other buildings abruptly ended. A large number of coaches and smaller, stylish buggies were gathered on the broad lawn in front of an impressive, columned edifice. Horses stood, cropping long, luscious grasses with coachmen attending them or still sitting patiently atop their vehicles. “Yes, almost, thank God.” He raised his voice so the driver could hear. “Take us directly to the main entrance and let us out there. You’ll have to find a place to wait as best you can.”
A whip cracked and the coach lurched forward, curving around a long oval drive toward the front of the Imperial Court of Directors. A moment later, the coach ground to a stop amid the rough, grating moan of wooden brakes on iron tires. Through the window Bradford could see a pair of Imperial Marine guards approaching.
“Can’t we just sneak in the back way?” Courtney asked, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief and running a final finger between the cravat and his neck.
“No, Your Excellency,” Krish replied, his voice harried, “but I will enter first. Aides come and go all the time. I’ll call you forward when it looks like your entrance will cause the least distraction.” Krish reached for the latch on the coach door.
With a brain-jolting crack of indescribable thunder and pressure, a roiling wall of opaque white smoke and dust swept over the Marines and flung the coach on its side like a child’s tiny toy. Bradford was slammed by one side of the coach, then hurled downward against the other. Dust and smoke invaded the interior through shattered windows, and it quickly grew too dark to see. Deafened by what could only have been a stupendous blast, the occupants of the overturned vehicle still felt the thing being slammed and battered by large, heavy objects. One particularly large fragment of one of the columns smashed down on the front of the coach, crushing open a new path for even more debris to enter. Smaller pieces pattered against the wooden shell for some time, but then there was only stillness and dark.
Courtney was stunned. He couldn’t breathe and felt something yanking at his neck. He tried to protest, but all he could do was cough, and his left side didn’t seem to be working. Suddenly, he felt something pressed against his face, and he lashed out with his right arm. His hand struck the pebbly rhino pig leather of the armor Koratin wore, and for an instant, he thought the strange Marine was trying to smother him. Then, through his panic, he realized he could breathe! Gratefully, he reached up and replaced the ’Cat’s hand with his own, holding what he now realized was the damned cravat over his mouth and nose. His eyes were full of grit and he kept them closed, but he sensed Koratin move away, probably trying to locate Krish in the gloom.
His hearing began to return. It was a dull thing at first, heralded by what sounded like a squealing belt inside his head, but he thought he could hear muffled voices as well. The squealing grew louder, but now it was outside, and he grimly recognized the sounds of agony. The loudest came from horses, he knew, but he’d also grown far too accustomed to the gut-wrenching wails of hopeless, terrified, dying men. He dared a peek through his gravelly, tear-soaked lids and saw the darkness had begun to fade. His left side was still numb, but he discovered he could move all his arms and legs and decided he must get up. He had no idea what had occurred; he was still too rattled to much consider it yet, but he had to get out of the shattered coach.
“Sergeant Koratin!” he croaked. The dust gagged him and he moved the cravat just in time to retch. He sucked in more dust and a coughing spasm threatened to overwhelm him. Finally, forcing deep breaths through the tightly woven cravat, he brought himself under control. “Koratin!” he called again more strongly, though his throat and lungs seemed on fire.
“Here,” came a clipped, strained voice, and a shadow reentered the coach through the shattered forward end. Courtney blinked repeatedly, letting the tears wash the worst of the grit from his eyes.
“Where’s Krish?”
“I don’t know. Maybe smushed.” Koratin rummaged through shattered timbers until he found his musket. The stock was broken right through the lock and the rear portion was missing. Swiftly, he slid the bands off the barrel and unscrewed the tang screw, letting the lock and triggerguard fall. Then he drew
his bayonet and affixed it to the muzzle of the barrel, making a formidable, makeshift spear.
“What are you doing?” Courtney demanded. “Stop that foolishness at once! I need to get out of here and see what has happened!”
“I don’t know what I am doing,” Koratin growled in reply, helping Bradford to his feet. “When I do, I will know if I am foolish or not! Somebody has just killed many of the people here on our side. If we were not late, we would now be dead as well.”
Courtney suddenly realized the damned cravat had saved him twice! He let Koratin lead him through the shattered coachwork and into the open, chalky air. A dense fog of limestone, pumice, and powdered stucco still hung heavy, but there was also the unmistakable, acrid hint of gunsmoke. He looked in the direction of the building they’d been about to enter but couldn’t see anything. The haze was still too thick. Horses continued shrieking nearby, but their own team lay still, half-buried in debris. Of their driver there was no sign.
“My God,” Courtney murmured. “It had to be a bomb!”
“A very big bomb,” Koratin agreed.
There was shouting and dark shapes started running past them, toward the court building. There were just a few at first, but then the trickle became a torrent. Koratin tensed, but no one paid them any heed. All were running toward what was slowly resolving itself into a tremendous heap of rubble.
Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen Page 18