Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Okay,” Alan said tiredly, shifting a page on top of the report aside, “but how’d an ordinary bar fight turn into a riot?”

  Horn seemed to wince. “Sir, there were a lot of Gray and Walker sailors there, already hot about what they’d heard about the Busted Screw—you didn’t know about that?”

  Alan levelled a narrow-eyed glare at a scruffy, sticky-looking Kanaak-Uraa, the three bloody Impie bouncers able to stand, and the intimidatingly large, disheveled, makeup-smeared Dutchwoman he remembered was named Serre Kloet. He’d thought she was one of Earl’s partners too. “No, I didn’t,” he said sourly. “Get on with it, Mr. Horn.”

  “Yes sir. Best I can tell, a few local patrons probably just started out trying to break it up, but the cruisermen and destroyermen thought they were piling onto their shipmates.” He glared at the Dutchwoman. “Some were. Looks like she’d been expecting trouble, and laid in a lot of extra bullyboys.”

  “The sailors attacked like fiends!” the Dutchwoman accused.

  “That’s enough, uh, Miss Kloet. Sounds like everybody went a little nuts, and the fight took to the streets.” He waved a page. “There’s reports of damage up to a quarter mile from the Screw!” He took a long breath and wiped a crackle from the corner of his eye. “And what about Silva? One account describes, and I quote”—he looked at another page—“‘A one-eyed madman, roaring like a gri-maax’—you know that’s a ‘super lizard,’ right?—when he single-handedly waded in and beat three men half to death.” He glanced at Kloet. “The bouncers trying to kill Earl, Pepper, and Isak, I take it? Don’t know whether to give him a reprimand or commendation for that,” he mumbled, then looked back at Horn. “But he was last seen sitting on the bar in the midst of the spreading melee, throwing ’Cats around by their tails and paddling the rump of a woman as big as him.” He raised his eyebrows at Kloet. “Who in turn was thundering like a wounded brontosarry and tearing the counter apart beneath them so she could beat him with a board!”

  “The man is a beast!” Serre Kloet seethed. “And certainly no gentleman,” she added, tilting her nose up.

  “Who you tried to murder with a ‘weapon’ of your own?” Letts countered.

  “And you ain’t no lady!” Lawrence ejaculated happily and belched, tugging on Arnold Horn’s sleeve. “I told a joke, Gunny! A good joke! Ha!”

  Alan Letts blinked resignation in the Lemurian way. “My God. The biggest fight this city’s seen since the Battle of Baalkpan and I’m sitting in a robe at three in the morning talking to a drunk lizard.” He sighed and appraised Horn. “So where’s Silva? He seems to have caused the most damage, as usual.”

  Horn looked pensive. “I’m sorry, sir, I honestly can’t say. And I didn’t see Silva do anything. He was there with Lawrence and I, for a while, but I understood he had other plans for later.”

  Letts was surprised. “Are you telling me it wasn’t him? How many one-eyed maniacs do you know?”

  “More than one, sir,” Horn answered truthfully. “It’s been a tough war.” Alan started to ask if Horn knew more than one with a lizard-shaped parrot crawling on his head, yelling as loud as he was, but decided to skip it. Horn stroked the dark whiskers of his beard and asked, “Did anyone—besides Miss Kloet—positively identify Silva? Maybe he just left when the fight started.”

  Alan rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

  “And even if it was him,” Horn hurried on, waving at Pepper (Lanier was still stretched out on a cot, like a sleeping walrus), “the actual owners of the Busted Screw don’t want any damages from him.”

  Alan steepled his fingers in front of his face, like he’d seen Matt do so many times. “Which brings up another subject, doesn’t it? Chief Bosun Pepper and Earl Lanier did, unquestionably, establish the Castaway Cook, AKA the Busted Screw. I remember.” His eyes turned frosty. “Their departure for active duty in no way constituted abandonment. Law One Eighteen was never intended to serve as a vehicle for such underhanded usurpation. Kanaak-Uraa, at least, is liable for damages and lost revenues he appropriated from the absent partners.” He looked at Serre Kloet. “Maybe he snookered you too, but that’s for a more in-depth investigation to determine.” He turned his chair toward a ’Cat Marine with an “SP” band, for “Shore Patrol,” on her sleeve. “Take Kanaak-Uraa to a separate cell, for now. We’ll put his case before the City Justice, but taking advantage of those off fighting for us is about the worst thing you can do, right up under treason.”

  “An’ he swiped my PIG-cig factory too!” Isak chirped, unable to contain himself any longer. “You know how hard it was for me an’ Gilbert to figure out how to strip that waxy crap off them leaves they grow in Aryaal?” he whined.

  Alan glowered. “He might’ve done you a favor. Hard to make or not, your tobacco’s the next thing to poison, and you’ve got half the Alliance hooked on it. Me too,” he admitted. “They’ve got real tobacco in the NUS, which you don’t have to wash with brontosarry piss. Partner up with the Nussies after the war and make cigarettes that won’t tear people’s lungs out.” He looked at Horn. “Get ’em out of here so I can go back to sleep.”

  “But sir . . .” Horn began frantically. Just as Silva had been supposed to meet Pam—he guessed that’s where the big destroyerman vanished during the brawl—he was supposed to see Diania again. Not that we’ll do anything until after the wedding, but still, he thought wistfully. “Sir,” he repeated, “they’re not from my ship.”

  Alan grinned. “You defended ’em. They’re your responsibility.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ////// Baalkpan, Borno

  May 16, 1945

  Surrounded by trusted guards and a cluster of hangers-on, Deputy Assemblyperson Giaan-Naak swept in through the elaborately embroidered curtain entrance to the Sularaan section of the Saa-Leeban Consulate. The large new wooden building was one of the first nonmilitary or industrial structures in Baalkpan to stand on a concrete foundation. It was situated south of the Great Hall with the momentous Galla tree towering up within it—now home to the Union Assembly Hall on the ground floor, in addition to numerous ministerial offices above—and separated only by a kind of park where the old parade ground used to be.

  The park no longer hosted drilling and maneuvering troops, and hadn’t since the Baalkpan Advanced Training Center was established across the bay. It simply wasn’t large enough anymore. Instead (and ironically, to Giaan-Naak), it now hosted only an ever-increasing number of dead, unnaturally buried in the gentle shade of hundreds of young trees. Giaan hated it. No Mi-Anakka had ever imagined such a gruesome fate for their remains before the destroyermen came with all their deviant schemes and weapons. But more and more People chose to be planted (when possible) alongside their rotting comrades instead of rising to the Heavens, tenderly shrouded in the smoke of their funeral pyres. The very thought of the cemetery was enough to turn Giaan’s stomach, for spiritual as well as personal reasons. He knew many had come to see it, complete with proud memorials to countless names—actually buried there or not—as a place for quiet reflection, remembrance, even healing. He regarded it as a slap at the Heavens, but also tasted intimate rebuke in the unfair glorification of those who’d made the ultimate sacrifice . . . while he and many like him ran away. He preferred to think of it as a place for alien ideas to molder with their corpses.

  “The Assembly won’t see reason,” he declared lightly as Nau-Pir, High Sky Priest for the entire Saa-Leebs delegation, strode across the ornamental rug to greet him. Much like that impossible Keje-Fris-Ar and the un-lamented Adar, Giaan had known Nau-Pir since they were younglings, both being groomed for high status in their Home clans. They’d shared their fears and ambitions all their lives, but now shared the same “taint” of having evacuated to the Filpin Lands in the face of the first terrifying Grik Swarm that fell upon these islands. Giaan was glad the Grik were gone, of course, but those who remained to fight had left Nau, and particularly Giaan,
looking rather bad. Even Sular wouldn’t send such a blatant “runaway” to head its delegation to the Assembly. Giaan had been fortunate to be chosen as a deputy. He’d done great things in that position, however, especially since the official assemblyperson had been old and often absent. Now he was gone forever. Giaan knew Henry Stokes suspected him of murder, but the old fool had simply died. Giaan wasn’t a fool, and knew he’d never be chosen to take his superior’s place. Better to pretend he remained on holiday—who would ever know?—and continue as before.

  “Most unfortunate,” commiserated Nau-Pir. “And relentlessly provocative. Ships from Sular have actually been turned away from B’taava. There can be no question now that it’s under blockade: a direct act of war by the Amer-i-caan Navy Claan against another ‘sovereign State.’ By all the United Homes, if they don’t disavow the Navy Claan’s actions!” He blinked amusement. “We managed that quite well. Poor Minister Stokes is like a youngling cast adrift on a very small timber when it comes to this sort of thing. Now to make the most of our advantage.”

  Giaan handed his embroidered vestments to a servant, revealing the bright yellow-gold smock he preferred to wear around the consulate. It was the “national” color of Sular and went well with his dark brown, tan-highlighted fur. It also contrasted less sharply with the silver-white fur surrounding his face. “It’s just as well you managed to”—Giaan lowered his voice. Even here, not all were privy to their subversive efforts—“make Gener-aal Linnaa-Fas-Ra, ah, ‘retire.’ His dawdling served us well in Indiaa, but he’d earned too much enmity. If we’d made him High Chief of B’taava, as he demanded, it would’ve raised doubt about our commitment to the Union.”

  “Never fear,” Nau assured, “Gener-aal Linnaa’s outrageous expectations and hints of betrayal were well-rewarded.”

  Giaan accepted a mug of seep and gestured for all but a few of his closest attendants to leave him. “And as you say, with so many who prop up the unnatural ‘Union’ now in Baalkpan, poised to drag Sular into yet another disastrous conflict, the time to act decisively has come.” He downed his seep and gazed at Nau. “I’d like to speak to our ‘guest’ once more.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Capitaine Bucge Dupont was a bitter man. He’d been a listless convert to fascism in the tumultuous years when Europe embraced it, but made all the right noises to secure his advancement. He should’ve thrived, especially after the great Confédération États Souverains task force meant to wrest Egypt from Great Britain somehow wound up on this strange world and formed the League of Tripoli, but he’d been tied to Savoie and the politically suspect Contre-Amiral Laborde. At a time when the young League was busy subjugating a primitive Mediterranean, Savoie was sent on a lonely “show the flag” mission primarily intended to gather information and prevent external intervention in the Med with a show of irresistible might.

  The mission evolved and lengthened as the Med grew more secure. Outposts were established in far-flung places to detect potential adversaries, and the League advanced its policy of deterrence through intimidation and subversion. Flexing its muscles, the ruling Triumvirate sent Savoie to overawe the Republic of Real People with an eye toward eventual conquest. The Republic was full of subhuman species, but its strategic position and potential industrial capacity was attractive. When faced with a credible threat that might crack the League’s aura of invincibility, however, Laborde chose to depart Alex-aandra. Instead of being recalled, Savoie was sent to the Indian Ocean in support of Victor Gravois’s mission to subvert the Allies by propping up Kurokawa (and the Grik). That didn’t work either. Not only were Savoie—and Dupont—involved in a singular atrocity, they were shuffled off to Kurokawa’s direct control to deny League culpability. Ultimately, Savoie was beaten and captured at the Battle of Zanzibar, and Bucge Dupont became a prisoner of the Grand Alliance.

  He still wasn’t a devout “Leaguer,” but painfully wounded in the leg by Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn (a former prisoner of his own), and even more painfully humiliated by Captain Reddy and his imprisonment by animals, Dupont wanted revenge. He knew others had told his enemy all they really needed to know about the League so he saw no reason to resist at first. He only became obstinate when he noted some of his animal captors from a place called “Sular” on the Island of Celebes were actually encouraged by it, as well as the hatred for the Alliance he showed them. He deftly played on that, as well as their fear that League vengeance would be swift, irresistible, and complete. It developed that they represented a discontented faction that already believed that, and he gladly stoked their anxieties. After he convinced them only he could protect them from the League’s fury, they broke him out and brought him here.

  He was still in a “prison,” of sorts, secured on the third floor of the “Saa-leeban” Consulate. He’d thought it ridiculous to keep him there and expected swift recapture, but the animal named “Nau” who’d arranged his escape (and yearned to believe they were friends) had sworn no one would violate the sanctity of the consulate and particularly his own quarters. He was a “Sky Priest,” whatever that meant, but it seemed important to him. Apparently it was to others as well, because Dupont had been on the loose, in the very capital of his enemies, for over a month. He had few visitors and not many even knew he was there, but his quarters were fairly large, his comforts seen to, and he’d been supplied with a workbench and tools to prepare “devices” he promised would be useful when the time came for Sular to distance itself from the Union and Grand Alliance. With his single small window, he could also now clearly see Savoie riding at anchor in the bay. The time for vengeance was at hand.

  There came a tapping beyond the curtain separating his stateroom from the hallway beyond. He didn’t respond, but quickly raked his hair with his fingers, sculpted the long, unkempt beard on his face, and tugged at the uniform they’d tried to clean for him, but shrunken terribly. Straightening on the chair they’d given him—he hated stools and couldn’t abide the cushions he’d first found there—he sat upright and rigid, except for his still-painful leg, which he propped on a crate. Without a word, three Lemurians pushed the curtain aside and entered. Others probably waited outside to ensure they remained undisturbed. It was always like that, and he’d been cautioned never to speak or make excessive noises without such preparations. He immediately knew Nau and Giaan, but didn’t recognize the other.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in English with a false, friendly smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “No doubt you’ve noticed Saavoie,” Giaan said, gesturing at the window, his manner abrupt. Unlike the others, he always kept a haughty tone and pretended not to be afraid when Dupont described the might of the League.

  “Of course,” Dupont replied. “Even with her bizarre new ‘dazzle’ paint scheme, her outline is distinctive. And I assume the rest of First Fleet’s principal ships and officers are present as well?”

  “They are,” Nau confirmed. “More importantly, this one”—he indicated the Lemurian Dupont didn’t know—“is one of our spies at the Allied airfield named ‘Maacky.’ They haave others, as you know, but there are two even we aren’t supposed to know about. It’s believed they experiment with new things there, but not only haave we never been able to get anyone in for a look at what they’re doing, we’ve never even found them.” He looked suddenly anxious. “We’ve sent everything else we know to contaacts we developed in the Empire,” he assured. “They’ll get word to the Doms and eventually the League, now thaat they’re allies. With the blaackout, we caan no longer risk raadio.”

  “I’m sure the League will understand,” Dupont soothed, “as long as it’s clear you’ve done all you can to undermine the Union and the Alliance it supports.” He shook his head sadly. “I can’t stress enough how important that is. If you feared the Grik . . . They were a pestilence, to be sure, but were simply incapable of anything like the destruction the League can infli
ct. And the Grik could be sated for a while. The League will be relentless, exterminating all life in their path. Nothing will be spared . . . except those who gain their favor by helping them win more quickly.”

  “We will,” Giaan stated sharply, letting some of his haughtiness slide.

  “So,” Dupont said, his smile returning, “tell me why this . . . person and the airfield are important.”

  “Chairmaan Letts haas collected advisors for Cap-i-taan Reddy, in addition to those he already relies on,” Giaan began breathlessly, but visibly calmed himself. “This one”—he also indicated the other Lemurian—“says they’ll all soon journey to one of the hidden airfields aboard the bizaarre new aircraaft we described. You might haave even seen it.” He pointed at the window.

  “Yes,” Dupont agreed. He’d seen the thing a week or so before First Fleet arrived, ponderously nosing about over the bay. It was impressive and had numerous applications, but he doubted it would be much use in a confrontation with the League. He also nodded at the young Lemurian. “And it’ll depart from Mackey Field, where he works?”

  “Exaactly,” Nau enthused, sounding relieved. “He caan’t make the flight, he isn’t allowed, but he caan board the aircraaft prior to its departure.” He blinked excitement and nodded at the devices scattered on the workbench in various stages of completion. “If he placed one of those aboard, Cap-i-taan Reddy, Chairmaan Letts . . . who knows who all else might no longer be our concern! Surely the League would look with favor on those who helped accomplish thaat!”