It wouldn’t do to have Don Hernan hear that title, Gravois mused, but after all I’ve done to seal the alliance with the Dominion and subvert the forces opposing it, the position should’ve been mine. And it will be, if not something grander, he resolved to himself. But he’d have to be careful. If the League had anything nearly as depraved as the Dominion’s Blood Priests, it was the OVRA.
“It’s obvious the scout was sent to determine Leopardo’s presence,” Oriani continued, “so the NUS can supply their forces at El Palo. Such a shame the planes avoided your fire,” he interjected. That was wildly unfair, particularly since Oriani’s ship did most of the shooting, and even Ramb V’s rather puny antiaircraft capability was better than Leopardo’s. In fact, only a few of the newest League ships were properly equipped to defend against air attack. Politically . . . reformist . . . as its parent Confédération États Souverains might’ve been, its member fleets were largely ruled by traditional battle-line admirals before the “crossover,” despite the potential modern aircraft had shown. Faced with pandering to or purging its highest-ranking naval officers, at the same time the Confédération’s relations with many of the world’s major naval powers were deteriorating, its chief partners, France, Italy, and Spain, had chosen the former. That could’ve proven costly on our old world, Gravois supposed, even if their old adversaries mirrored the prejudice to a large degree. It might here as well, he imagined darkly. He’d repeatedly warned his French superiors about the enemy’s airpower, primitive as it was, and urged them to design countermeasures. He had no idea if they had. At the same time, however, he was counting on a number of those more traditional officers. They might prove useful to his ultimate scheme.
“But you could still intercept the transport ships with ease,” Oriani urged.
Yes, quite simple, Gravois thought sarcastically. I’ll snap my fingers and have Capitano Ciano raise anchor and steam a tired ship and dispirited crew a thousand kilometers on a moment’s notice. It may only be six hundred kilometers in a straight line, but there’s the small matter of a conspicuous peninsula, countless islands, and dangerous shoals to consider. The voyage would take thirty hours at top speed, and depending on where the transports lingered, they might come and go by then. Leopardo might chase them down, but what would be the point? Particularly since destroying the NUS forces in the Dominion didn’t fit Gravois’s plan just yet. His rationale, for that at least, he could share with Oriani. For that matter, there was no reason not to reveal his entire strategy—to a point.
“Perhaps, Contrammiraglio”—Gravois supposed that was still the safest way to address the man—“but is it truly in our—your—best interests? Don Hernan is dangerously intelligent, as I’ve told you, but foolishly refused Leopardo’s help defending the Pass of Fire, claiming his people must do it alone and know they had. He similarly rejected my offer to destroy the NUS invasion force before it came ashore—expressly so his troops could annihilate their hereditary enemy and he could take the credit.” Gravois leaned forward. “I can’t stress enough that ‘allies’ or not, even we are heretics in the eyes of those who adhere to the barbarous, dominant faith in this land, and therefore enemies of a sort ourselves. The Doms are amazingly obdurate when it comes to matters of their strange beliefs.” He sat back. “Don Hernan has demonstrated flashes of pragmatism, even flexibility—to me—at times, but can’t be seen to do so. Nor can he allow it to appear he relies too heavily upon us. That might undermine his near godlike authority, so he portrays us as ‘tools’ only he can wield.”
Gravois touched his chin and his lower lip protruded. “He’ll have to reinforce that notion as our presence in the region grows and he ‘wields’ us more openly. He lost the Pass of Fire to the enemy’s ‘Second Fleet,’ though not without nearly destroying it, you’ll be glad to hear. Only its admittedly slow and unsophisticated aircraft carriers posed the slightest threat to us, and all of them were damaged. It’ll be some time before the enemy can take advantage of its victory—they have no modern warships in the Pacific at all. If we hurry our forces into the Caribbean, our position will be unassailable.”
Oriani grunted. “Indeed, and work is already well along, establishing support facilities at Martinique, but the Triumvirate won’t ‘hurry’ the task force it prepares ‘unduly.’”
Gravois felt a stab of anger, but got the impression Oriani was as frustrated as he, and the last word he used was a quote. He sighed. “Very well, I’ll speak plainly. The Pass did fall, the entire Dominion fleet is destroyed, and the gate is open to the west. The NUS has a foothold in the Holy Dominion, an Allied army will march east from the Pass to join them, and if we dawdle, Capitaine Reddy will bring every ship he can scrape together to secure the Pass and aid his allies before we grow too strong. A race has begun and we must win it.”
“And if we lose?”
Gravois raised a crystal glass of Oriani’s wine and studied the purple-red liquid. It was barbaric stuff, from one of the vineyards in the province of Egypt, but grapes wouldn’t thrive on the newly conquered northern shores of this world’s Mediterranean; it was too cool and damp. The climate wasn’t at all what it should be. Still, he supposed wistfully, it’s better than that acid they’re bottling in Algiers.
“It’ll likely make little difference in the end,” he conceded. “I try not to underestimate Capitaine Reddy; the man exhibits flickers of tactical brilliance and has managed surprisingly well. But he seems overwhelmed by global strategy, and is ever reacting to events. Not his fault, I suppose. He and the alliance he built knew little of the world beyond their early operations for a great while, and nothing of us at all. He may now have a better idea of what we can bring to a direct confrontation, but can’t possibly match it for many years. Don’t misunderstand,” he quickly added, raising a hand, “Reddy and the disparate allies he’s amassed, particularly the, ah, ‘Lemurians’ who make up the bulk of his forces—much like the hommes-singes in the League—continually amaze me with their industry and creativity, but the conclusion of a confrontation now is forgone. That’s precisely why we must invite it now,” he added fervently.
“You’ve changed your position,” Oriani accused.
“So it might seem, but I’ve never changed my mind. My ‘official’ position was dictated by orders, and the strategy I pursued to keep all our enemies at one another’s throats facilitated the policy laid down by the Triumvirate.” He straightened. “Despite various . . . criticisms from certain quarters, I believe that worked out quite well—until the situation changed entirely. The enemy has united more effectively than we ever imagined, and its focus has broadened. We must act while we retain overwhelming superiority.”
A vicious-looking little lizardbird paused to flutter outside an open porthole, glaring in with large, yellow eyes. With a shriek, it darted away. Oriani snorted at the sight. “So what of Don Hernan? What do we do with him, here, now?”
Gravois appeared to consider that. “I wish we could simply eliminate him,” he said with feeling, presuming that would appeal to Oriani as well, “but if we did, chaos would ensue. Perhaps they have an institutional mechanism to seamlessly replace him, but I think he’s amassed more power than any Blood Cardinal ever wielded, purging others who might challenge him, so I suspect Dominion society might simply collapse. As would its war effort.” He shook his head. “No, we must work with him, but it’s essential you understand how absolutely he controls the minds and hearts of his faithful subjects.” He shuddered. “If you’d only seen . . .”
He stopped a moment and had to remind himself the OVRA regularly committed acts almost as atrocious as those he’d watched on the beach, just not perhaps as wantonly and purposelessly. The thought chilled him and he shook his head and looked regretful. “If the enemy in the west hadn’t come so soon and we’d had time to cultivate a temporary alliance with the NUS against Don Hernan, I might’ve counselled that we attempt it.” He waved that away. “Just as well we didn�
�t. The NUS is a fairly comfortable democratic republic. Enmity would’ve flared between us at once. The Dominion, on the other hand, presents an opportunity. You know I’m not squeamish, and our own conquest of the Mediterranean has required . . . regrettable extremes, but compared to the offhand, everyday flood of innocent blood in the Dominion, most of our methods can only be described as benevolent. And since the people of the Dominion are already accustomed to authoritarianism, they’ll see us as benevolent when the time is right.
“For now, however, we must continue to appear to be Don Hernan’s ‘tools.’ There’s little else we can do until we’re stronger here.” He shrugged. “He can probably defeat the enemy armies on his soil alone. He has an entire continent with many more people than we have to draw upon, after all. But he couldn’t oppose a dinghy at sea without our help and he knows it.” He tilted his head at Oriani. “Yet regarding the transports that are, as you pointed out, no doubt already at sea, it doesn’t hurt for Don Hernan to be reminded how badly he needs us from time to time, and allowing the enemy to supply their armies keeps him occupied. Keeps him beholden to us.”
Oriani pursed his lips and sipped his own wine. “A risky scheme. It could strain the alliance if Don Hernan believed we weren’t doing all we can to assist him”—Oriani’s voice lowered—“and this alliance is very important to the Triumvirate.” He drained his glass. “But it happens I agree with you, and approve.”
Gravois was taken aback. Oriani had been his chief nemesis for so long, he didn’t know how to react.
“Surprised? So am I.” Oriani seemed to make a decision and his tone turned earnest. “As you said, the Dominion is vast, with many inhabitants. We have few, even counting the scant million or so we now rule around the Mediterranean. The hommes-singes, as you called them, are not even people, and those who are will never love us.” His eyes gazed far away. “So cold and dreary there, it isn’t our home at all. Not . . . here.” His expression firmed. “And there’s nowhere we can go. East would be no improvement, even if those few pesky British, Russians, and Turks hadn’t closed the Dardanelles. Let them lurk in their little ‘Lake’ of Marmara—and welcome to their wasteland! The Bosporus is dry and they can’t even access the Black Sea.” He waved that away. “We can’t go north. What for? The land’s inhospitable even before one meets the marching ice. And beyond the narrow desert to the south are the Grik, of course.” He drummed the table with his fingers. “Reports indicate our enemies have scored some major victories against them, but our sources there aren’t what they were.”
Gravois dipped his head, acknowledging the oblique compliment.
“Even if they’re entirely defeated, however,” Oriani continued, “there’ll always be Grik.” He shook his head. “Terrifying creatures. We actually owe a debt to our enemies for keeping those reptilian monsters focused away from us so long. But like the people of the Republic in southern Africa, no doubt, it troubles me to share a continent with Grik. It always will. No,” he said, gesturing at the nearest porthole, indicating the city and land beyond, “here in the Caribbean and the lands around it, perhaps ultimately the Far East, are the only places a real civilization can flourish on this world.”
Gravois was surprised to learn Oriani supported the growing “Equatorial Faction” (and its allies) in the League. Everyone knew the world they’d found themselves on was locked in an ice age of sorts. The lower sea levels and generally cooler temperatures away from the equator made that rather obvious. But many of the more scientifically inclined officers Gravois knew had long opined that the ice was advancing, the water receding, the ice age just beginning. It might take decades, even centuries, but sooner or later the Mediterranean would grow less suitable for the large, industrial society the League dreamed to build. Worse, some theorized that the Strait of Gibraltar might actually close. Where would the League be then? How could it ever dominate the world if it remained centered—trapped—in the confines of a giant freezing lake? What kind of world would that leave for their children?
Gravois seriously doubted things would ever get that bad. Alarmist movements always exaggerated things. But it was possible—and wasn’t it really the cause that mattered, after all? At least to those whose support he needed. Doing nothing was unthinkable to many, and apparently Oriani as well. Gravois’s eyes narrowed. If he’s sincere. If not, he’d be at the forefront of efforts to expose a coalition of factions bent on launching our global conquest sooner than our comfortable, complacent leaders in the fragile Triumvirate will countenance. Gravois expelled a breath. For whatever reason, Oriani seems content to endorse my policy of ensuring Don Hernan continues to believe he needs us more than we need him. And he does—for now. After the current threat is past, there’ll be plenty of time to subvert the twisted faith of the Dominion, raise its people up—and join them here. Of course, that would all require more enlightened and aggressive leadership. . . .
He gazed at Oriani. Despite their past differences and the reasonable concern he’d once felt that the man might simply have him eliminated—it had happened to other rivals in the various League members’ intelligence services—Gravois caught himself wondering whether the man might prove an asset rather than an obstacle.
Oriani cleared his throat through a small belch, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “Don Hernan is here, at Puerto del Cielo?”
“Indeed,” Gravois agreed.
“And ‘His Supreme Holiness,’ the Dom ‘Pope’?” Oriani’s lips twisted. Unlike Gravois, or even most League officers, Oriani still made Catholic noises. “He’s the only one Don Hernan answers to, correct?”
“There’s a . . . pretense . . . that’s the case,” Gravois admitted.
“He’s not here?”
“He never leaves their greatest temple in the capital city of Nuevo Granada, three hundred and twenty kilometers up the River of Heaven.”
“So Don Hernan acts entirely on his own.”
“Yes.”
Oriani stood from the wooden chair and it rasped its relief. “In that case, why hasn’t he come to greet me? Ramb V’s arrival can’t have gone unnoticed.”
“He, ah, doesn’t consider himself bound by the same proprieties we observe,” Gravois stated ironically. “Perhaps he’s awaiting an auspicious day. Their calendar looms large in their social and religious life.”
“Ridiculous!” Oriani spat, growing angry and beginning to pace. Finally he stopped and turned. “I won’t be treated this way!” He measured Gravois with his eyes. “I understand you’ve never personally gone ashore, here or at New Granada.”
“None of us have. It was made quite clear what would happen if we did, and I was explicitly ordered—by you—not to upset the natives in any way.” And I don’t want to be tortured to death, Gravois added to himself.
“Well, things are different now, and I’m no mere messenger—not that you are either, my dear Gravois,” Oriani hastened to add. “But I’ll command all the forces gathering in this theater, and if Don Hernan won’t come to me, I’ll go to him—and make absolutely sure he understands his very survival depends on us!”
Gravois’s eyes went wide. He’d made the situation here as clear as he possibly could, reporting the barbaric practices of the Blood Priests, and specifically relating why none of them were ever allowed ashore, on pain of the most hideous death imaginable. Oriani must’ve seen for himself the rows of charred crosses and piles of blackened bones strung along the beach at the base of the fortress wall, a scant half kilometer away! The nightly executions of dissidents and accused heretics had tapered off, due to an “experiment” Gravois suggested to Don Hernan, but if any of them went ashore . . . They were all heretics in the eyes of these people. Gravois had just reminded Oriani of that. No “accusation” would be required to nail them up and burn them alive. “But surely—” he began.
Oriani waved off his objections. “I’m aware of the risk. But my orders—and inclinations—
require me to meet Don Hernan at once. I’m willing to appear to be at his service, as you recommend, but I must be assured he grasps the reciprocal nature of our understanding.”
“Sir,” Gravois almost pleaded, “I’m not sure you understand—”
Oriani stopped him. “I’ll take a suitable guard and interpreter. You say they speak some proper Spanish? I wish you could accompany me, since you’ve had dealings with the man before, but you must stay here.” He paused and grimaced. “Just in case. You’ve been named as my deputy”—he’d been saving that little tidbit—“and will assume my duties if anything happens to me. I expect, in that case, you’ll avenge me one day in some suitable fashion.”
“I’ll blast the forts to rubble and steam upriver and do the same to their great temple until they hand over their silly pope,” Gravois declared.
Oriani seemed touched. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. As I said, your strategy is sound, and is in the interests of the League. You’ll continue to implement it and you’ll find orders to that effect in my safe.”
Gravois had never expected to have such mixed feelings about Oriani. “But why go at all?”
“Because I’m confident there’s no risk, and our ‘allies’ can’t be allowed to grow contemptuous of us, believing we fear them.” He took a conciliatory tone. “In spite of the cloud you were under over that affair with Savoie, you’ve done fine work here, been the dutiful diplomat, and followed your instructions to the letter. And the initiative you’ve shown wasn’t . . . over-the-top, shall we say, in regard to current circumstances.” He lowered his voice. “And I believe you and I are of the same mind about the future of the League. We can’t jeopardize what you’ve achieved by allowing the benign posture we’ve taken thus far to be interpreted as weakness.
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