That could only last so long, and the flame-wreathed carcass fell the last hundred feet or so with a gathering, sparkling rush. By then it was clear she’d miss the hospital—barely—but she collapsed under a last monstrous fireball right on top of the neighboring traders’ district: old-style, more inflammable dwellings, built down to the ground to accommodate the little shops and stores of Baalkpan’s evolving mercantile class. The people there might not be as helpless as wounded in a hospital, but they were just as vulnerable. Many of the shopkeepers were either too old to fight or work in the factories, or had already been handicapped by the war. And as a class, they’d taken in more orphaned younglings than any other.
Even as Fueen’s crackling skeleton settled and sagged barely two hundred yards away and her own flames began to die, others licked at the trees and buildings beneath and around her. That’s when Chack saw Pam already running toward the wreck—and Chack became himself again.
“Sound the gener-aal alarm!” he shouted at a ’Cat orderly standing nearby, even though the hollow bronze gongs were already ringing throughout the city. They were used to warn against everything from fires to air raids, and people would organize appropriately. Reserve troops, civil “damage control” parties, and fire brigades would be assembling, their destination obvious. “Who here is fit for aaction?” Chack added loudly, addressing the convalescents nearby. Most stood or stepped forward, even as Sandra Reddy, Karen Letts, and Diania led a flood of doctors, nurses, sick berth attendants, and other walking wounded out of the hospital. “Good.” Chack raised his voice so the newcomers could hear. “Our first priority is to rescue Fueen’s survivors and get civilians out before the fire takes hold. Let’s go!”
Karen caught his arm, eyes wide, almost wild. “Alan was in that thing!” she cried. Chack looked at Sandra’s determined, anxious face. “I know,” he said. He knew Fueen’s entire passenger list, in fact. Matt had asked if he’d like to go and he’d declined. He couldn’t imagine how his presence would’ve made any difference, but the knowledge shaped another barb to prod him back to his duty. “Let’s go find him,” he said, turning to lead the first rescuers into the nightmare that fell out of a midday sky.
* * *
* * *
An hour or so after the disaster commenced an escalating calamity, ’Cat soldiers and sailors with MP or SP bands around their arms reinforced those already guarding the entrances and exits to the Assembly room under the Great Hall. Politely but firmly, they made it clear that no assemblyperson would be allowed to leave until further notice—for their own safety—and any who hadn’t come or had already left were brought back. A few were indignant, but most understood. They were allowed upstairs onto the spacious veranda wrapping entirely around the Great Hall so they could view what many grimly thought looked like a “Second Battle of Baalkpan.” The black smoke plume from the crash had been momentous, but fires hadn’t seemed like much at first. They quickly grew and spread, however, and the black smoke turned dark gray to match the thickening clouds. More smoke than usual chuffed from the waterfront as industrial boilers diverted steam to pumps, supplying seawater to the strategically placed hoses the fire brigades quickly deployed. Industrialized as it was, Baalkpan’s architecture was a crowded mishmash with a flavor of everything from tropic island huts to nineteenth-century wood frame and siding—with some startling concrete and masonry thrown in. Its vulnerability to fire had not gone unnoticed by Chairman Letts—or Adar before him. Steam billowed where water drowned the flames.
Even so, the unusually heavy afternoon squall that lasted until after dark did more to turn the tide than the puny efforts of men, ’Cats, and Khonashi. They’d have prevailed in the end, but it would’ve taken longer, and many more lives. By 0040 the next morning, there was only the smell of charred wood and wet smoke and a hazy red glow east of the Great Hall. And though there’d been constant reports on the progress of the firefighting effort, there’d been little word on casualties. Many assemblypersons were concerned for friends and family in the area. Others were just generally concerned. A few picked at the refreshments they’d been brought while others sat thoughtfully, but they all stayed close and conversed in worried or angry tones. Giaan, Nau, and other members of the Sularaan and B’taavan delegations sat pensively by themselves, disconcertingly avoided by their usual associates.
“They can’t possibly suspect,” Giaan hissed at the others.
“No,” Nau agreed bitterly, “but this has turned into a Union catastrophe and bound the rest together. We’re seen as outsiders. We’ve made ourselves seem so.”
“Why are they keeping us here?” demanded the B’taavan assemblyperson, a female with white and gray fur.
“Why should they not?” Giaan asked reasonably. “This is the safest place in the city.” He considered. “And soon they’ll need us all in one place,” he added very low.
At that moment, the big double doors at the entrance swayed open, and to Giaan-Naak’s amazement, General Queen Safir-Maraan paced into the room. She was resplendent as always in a silver-washed cuirass, black kilt with silver strips, and a midnight-black cape swaying behind her. In a deliberate contrast to her ebony fur, a sculpted silver cup covered her ruined right eye. Giaan was flabbergasted. It had been known that Safir-Maraan was recovering from terrible wounds, but all reports had her bedridden. He thought he detected the slightest wince as she stepped up on the podium in front of the base of the Great Tree, but she moved more like a predator than an invalid. Giaan felt a chill seize his tail in a frozen grip and crawl up his spine. Especially when he saw the procession that followed her. Unlike Safir, her attendants looked like hell: tired, hurt, and those in white uniforms or shoregoing rigs were darkened and smeared with soot and blood. Yet all but one were on their own feet. The last was in a wheelchair, pushed by a bedraggled-looking civilian human. One by one, they lined up behind Safir, except for a fur-scorched ’Cat in a Marine combat smock, and the man in the wheelchair. They took places beside her. A late arrival hustled in, not quite as soiled, and Giaan recognized “Commaander McFaarlane,” Captain Reddy’s second in command. He also joined Safir.
“Aassemblypersons of the United Homes!” Safir called loudly, strongly. “As you’ve seen, our Union suffered a terrible traagedy today. The UHAS Fueen craashed and burned in the city, causing more fires on the ground. Thirty-two of the forty aboard her died in the craash, and most of the survivors were gravely injured. We don’t know how maany died on the ground, but I fear the number will rise into the hundreds. Whaat I caan tell you is this was not an aaccident,” she added coldly, “but a deliberate, premeditated, treacherous assault on our Union. And not by an enemy we knew, but a hidden, sneaking enemy, crouching in our midst!” Her silver eye seemed to fasten on Giaan before it passed by, and the ice in his spine sent frigid tendrils down his legs. She motioned to a big, grim-looking man with his own eyepatch, standing next to a ferocious-looking Sa’aaran. Giaan irrelevantly remembered he’d intended to propose that they, and their Khonashi relatives, not be allowed in the Assembly room. The man’s beard was singed and his clothes were practically shredded. Absurdly, a small, colorful reptile . . . thing was perched protectively on his shoulder.
“Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silvaa, Cap-i-taan Reddy, Minister Stokes, and Commaander Noor discovered and disaarmed an explosive device of domestic maanu-faacture in the control gondola moments before another exploded in the paassenger compaartment. Chief Silvaa and Mr. Stokes”—she nodded at a second civilian Giaan knew only too well—“barely maanaged to pull two unconscious crew members”—she took a long, relieved sigh—“and Cap-i-taan Reddy, out from under the collaapsing structure above. Cap-i-taan Reddy suffered burns and other injuries, but stayed to help coordinate rescue efforts in the city until caarried to the hospitaal by order of Minister of Medicine Lady Saandra.” She flicked a quick glance at Silva. “Saadly,” she continued, voice turning hard again, “everyone else in the gondola burned
alive. The story was similar in the paassenger compartment. Chairmaan Letts and Ambaassador Forester discovered another explosive, but it detonated. Thaat’s whaat ignited the lifting gaas and brought the ship down.” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the man in the wheelchair. He was shaking with anger and seemed to be suppressing tears. “The Maker waas waatching over King Tony Scott and Ambaassador Doocy Meek, both shielded from the blaast by cushions they were searching under.” She looked at Meek, his own beard singed nearly off. “Ambaassador Meek simultaneously pulled King Scott and a baadly wounded Waalbert Fiedler from the wreckage. The Maker gave him strength indeed.” Her voice turned to stone. “There were no other survivors in the paassenger compaartment, and only one other crew-’Cat maanaged a miraculous escape. She was unhaarmed.”
The Assembly room erupted in angry shouts and gasps of realization. They hadn’t added it all up yet, or come to the suspicion that terrified Giaan, but they finally knew the real reason they’d been sequestered. Safir was shouting and gesturing for quiet, and for the first time her flagging strength seemed to show, but Silva finally silenced the room with a thunderous “Shut your faces, goddammit! Let the lady talk!”
A horrified, almost murderous noiselessness ensued. “Thaank you, Chief Silvaa,” Safir whispered, then spoke louder. “As you’ve guessed, it’s my saad duty to inform you thaat Chairmaan Alaan Letts is dead.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly on that final word, but she relentlessly forged ahead. “Our constitution clearly states thaat, in such a dreadful case, a new chairman must be acclaimed at once. Nominations may be made by heads of the severaal member states or Homes in the Union, or by their duly elected or appointed representative assemblypersons. As Queen of B’mbaado and Aryaal, I nominate—”
No one would ever know who Safir was going to name, but Tony Scott beat her to the punch. “Safir-Maraan!” he shouted.
“Second!” cried the female assemblyperson from Maa-ni-la. Safir looked taken aback, and Chack reached over and grabbed her fingers.
“Call the roll!” Spanky growled.
Nau couldn’t contain himself and bolted to his feet. “Who do you speak for, hu-maan! You haave no voice in this assembly!”
“Damned if I don’t,” Spanky roared back. “My ‘high chief’ is flat on his back, sedated, and I’m his second in command. Piss off!”
Angry laughter silenced Nau, and more than angry looks started drifting toward the Sularaans as people began to think.
The Maa-ni-la assemblyperson looked a lot like Safir, with her black fur. Of course, she looked a lot like Saan-Kakja too, and was probably related to the high chief of the Filpin Lands. She started calling out the names of states or Homes. “Baalkpan!”
“Ay!”
“Austraal!”
“Ay!”
“North Borno!”
“What do you think?” snapped Scott. “I nominated her, didn’t I?”
By the time all fifteen were called, even Sular had given its “Aye.” What choice did Giaan have? Only Safir herself abstained, and when she was formally acclaimed with a thunderous, hopeful cheer, she seemed to slump a little. Chack supported her. “You know you’re stuck with me now,” she murmured in his ear, blinking a kind of sadness. “Even the oldbloods of Aryaal and B’mbaado would never defy the Chairmaan.” She snorted. “They still remember the threat Cap-i-taan Reddy once made, and I caan aask him to fulfill it if they don’t behave!” She straightened and her blinking turned savage as she addressed the assembly once more. “This is no time to celebrate! We’re in a crisis. We’re attaacked here, and the waar still rages. We must face all our threats. My first aact as Chairmaan is to appoint Minister Henry Stokes, Chief Silvaa, and Col-nol Chack to detect and arrest the traitorous murderers.” Her one-eyed gaze fell remorselessly on Deputy Assemblyperson Giaan-Naak. “I believe they’d like to speak to members of the delegations from Saa-Leebs, and Sular in paarticular. Gentlemen, perform your duty.”
A limping Henry Stokes gathered Giaan and Nau, each by an arm, and together with the others, roughly ushered them away to the very brig where Alan Letts had come down in his robe to basically bail his old shipmates out. Chack and Silva never even touched them, but their fury alone was sufficient to induce Giaan and Nau to squeal. Armed with what they spilled, Silva, Chack, Lawrence, Spanky, Henry Stokes, and a dozen of Chack’s Raiders who “happened” to show up with Gunny Horn marched across the Parade Ground Cemetery and stormed the consulate for all the delegates from Saa-Leebs. Their guards didn’t resist, though the Sularaans tried to bolt. They were caught. Pounding up the stairs and into a hallway of curtained chambers, Silva, Lawrence, Chack, and Gunny Horn drew their pistols and went straight to the room they’d been directed to. Capitaine Bucge Dupont was comfortably arranged on his chair, leg propped up, idly fussing with loose items on the table under the light of a fish oil lamp. He looked up, unsurprised, as if he’d been expecting them.
“Well,” he said amiably, “you’ve caught me at last. I suppose I’m to be your prisoner again?”
“Nope,” Silva said. “You killed our friends.”
“Prison’s for prisoners, not mad bombers,” said Horn.
“Not assaassins,” agreed Chack.
Lawrence said nothing, but joined the other three when they emptied their magazines in Dupont’s chest.
“Co’ander S’anky get angry at us?” Lawrence asked as Dupont slipped to the floor with a lifeless thump.
“Naw,” Silva said, pointing at the table. “We’ll telleem the bastard came at us with them tweezers. Had to kill his ass.”
Ultimately, Giaan-Naak’s long scheme had cost the Alliance a lot, and his final plot most dearly of all, killing the two men (counting Lord Bolton Forester’s stabilizing influence) who, along with Adar, had done more than any to build the Union in the first place. But Alan Letts’s greatest accomplishment had been ensuring the Union could go on without him, and Giaan’s actions only strengthened it in the long run. He’d also decimated Matt’s infant “staff,” but that was of little account since his real staff would always be the officers under his command. So in the end, all Giaan and his accomplices really did was destroy an airship, kill a lot of people, and add more graves and monuments to the cemetery he hated so. Giaan’s soul would never ascend to the Heavens in a gentle twist of rising smoke, however. Weeks later, after his trial, and as soon as he was cut down from the gallows, his corpse was unceremoniously carted down to the dock and dumped in the bay for the flashies to feast upon.
CHAPTER 20
////// Puerto del Cielo
Holy Dominion
May 29, 1945
The orange morning sun revealed that the League presence off Puerto del Cielo had grown. The latest additions were another small oiler and a smart-looking Churrucca Class destroyer, contributed by the Spanish contingent. Her captain presented himself with the dawn and Gravois was quite taken with the lines of his ship, not to mention that she’d nearly doubled his combat power. The rusty old oiler that had dogged Leopardo so far and long was laboriously raising steam. She’d weigh anchor and proceed to Martinique, pump her remaining fuel stores into one of the newly constructed storage tanks, and finally steam back to the League. Gravois and Ciano, sipping tea on Leopardo’s port bridgewing, wouldn’t be sorry to see her go. Another destroyer, a newer oiler, and the departure of that old slug seemed to imply things were finally starting to happen.
There’d been no communication at all from shore, however, except for the usual bumboats bringing fresh fruit, meat, vegetables, and water. Nor did their handlers confess any knowledge of what happened to Oriani and his escort. Gravois was certain they were lying. He’d been confirmed in his post as Gouverneur Militaire du Protectorat des Antilles in a radio dispatch after reporting Oriani had “disappeared ashore,” and was feared “attacked by something,” or had simply “gotten lost.” To the Triumvirate, anything beyond the Strait of Gibraltar was da
rkest wilderness and getting lost on land and probably eaten was only to be expected. Gravois doubted his confirmation came easily to his superiors, but not only had it been Oriani’s wish, he was the resident expert on the Dominion and the face of the League in their eyes. Besides, the French General Faure—remarkably still “first among equals” in the Triumvirate—had been reluctant to appoint Oriani to the governorship in the first place. The Italians were far too cozy with the Spanish and were gaining too much power in the League. He might not personally like Gravois, but at least he was French.
“Capitano,” murmured one of the bridge officers after responding to a call from the lookout. He nodded toward shore.
“I see it,” Ciano replied. A gaudy bireme, Don Hernan’s personal barge, was shoving off from a dock near where Oriani was taken. Double ranks of oars churned the brown river fan and the vessel backed, turned, and headed for Leopardo. Gravois had ordered her tucked in behind Ramb V, and the Churrucca anchored astern of her when she arrived. That left the ships arranged in a line opposite the fort on the east side of the River of Heaven—and unmasked all their portside guns. Don Hernan knew what those guns could do and would recognize the threat implied his allies weren’t pleased. That the bireme now approached Leopardo instead of the bigger Ramb V also meant he knew where Gravois was. Obviously, the bumboat skippers weren’t only sent to deliver supplies.
“I rather expected a visit after our new arrival,” Gravois said with satisfaction. “Assemble a side party,” he ordered.
Ciano looked at him sullenly. “To greet that sporco bastardo, or arrest him?” he demanded.
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