“Who knows?” Shinya replied absently, as the damage to the ship became more apparent. “Maybe it did.”
Dennis looked at him. “I thought you just said you didn’t believe in all that. You gettin’ religion, after all?”
Shinya managed a chuckle. “I said, ‘I’ve not been’ spiritual, and that’s true. I didn’t say I am not.” He shifted uncomfortably, just as unaccustomed to sharing his inner thoughts with the big man, or anyone—with the occasional exception of Pete Alden, Adar, Captain Reddy, and maybe Lieutenant Laumer—as he was to hearing them. “When I consider all we’ve been through and accomplished, in the face of such a clear distinction between our cause and the evil we resist . . . I find it . . . difficult to imagine there has not been some . . . divine force at work,” he admitted.
“Me too,” Silva proclaimed with pious conviction, and sent a yellowish stream arcing over the rail. “Say, I see folks movin’ around on her now.” He squinted his good eye. “None of ’em seems to be pointin’ anything noisy at us.”
“It may be a ‘Jaap’ ship,” Lelaa said, squinting her far better eyes, “but those ‘folks’ on her are People—’Cats, like me.” She paused. “At least most are. Some are hu-maans.”
The battered ship slowed thankfully to a stop just as the ferry came alongside. From the raised letters on her old, straight-up-and-down bow, she was the Mizuki Maru, and the battle damage, rust streaks, and cracked, pustulent paint gave the lie to her name, as Shinya translated it. Her appearance wasn’t the only thing that made a mockery of “Beautiful Moon,” but those on the ferry couldn’t know that yet. To their surprise, an oddly familiar face appeared at the rail, peering down at them. The face was all that was familiar about the man, however. He wore leather armor, similar to that used by the Alliance, but the style was more reminiscent of a traditional samurai.
“Commander Sato Okada!” Shinya cried incredulously.
“Yes, I am Okada, although ‘Commander’ is no longer appropriate.” The man shook his head. “That does not signify at present. I am here regarding a matter of utmost urgency, and I must speak to the highest-ranking representative of your Alliance immediately. I presume, in this place, that would still be High Chief Saan-Kakja?”
“That’s correct,” Shinya answered, “although you must be satisfied with Minister Tucker and myself before you enter the inner harbor. Forgive me, but you made it quite clear you have no allegiance to the Alliance, and your personal animosity toward me and other prominent members gives sufficient reason to question your arrival here, even under such”—Shinya gestured at the ship—“extraordinary circumstances. I must insist this party be allowed aboard before you proceed.”
Okada grimaced, but nodded. “Very well. I understand your caution, perhaps more than you will believe.” He looked away. “These are indeed dreadful times.” He stared back at Shinya. “You were right,” he said woodenly, “long ago, when you warned that my honor might yet make heavy demands upon me. . . .” He stopped, nodding at a group of Lemurians who’d gathered to lower a cargo net. “Please do hurry aboard,” Okada snapped, “so you can quickly establish my benign intent. In addition to the urgency of my errand and information, you may have noticed this ship has a leak.”
Saan-Kakja’s Great Hall
“The world we left has gone so terribly wrong,” Sato Okada almost whispered, “I have begun to wonder whether our coming here might have been a merciful escape for us all.”
Okada was the only one standing in Saan-Kakja’s Great Hall. He refused to sit, didn’t seem able, and paced almost continuously during the interview. There was a small audience for this . . . momentous event, despite the furor at the dock when Mizuki Maru tied up and the boarding party marched tensely ashore with Okada, his officers—and three bedraggled, almost-emaciated human passengers. Sandra’s and Laumer’s faces had been stormy as they helped the two weakest men down the gangplank. Silva’s one eye glittered murderously as he watched from the ship. He’d stay aboard and supervise the placement of more pumps and hoses, but he wouldn’t go down in the holds again. He might claw through the steel with his fingernails and sink the hideous abomination he stood upon.
This initial gathering was only for senior personnel so they could absorb what Okada had to say and take measure of his tale before deciding if it had any bearing on current priorities. The story, or part of it, would emerge, of course; Saan-Kakja kept few secrets from her people. But sometimes a thing had to be examined before it was allowed to run loose. Her Sky Priest, Meksnaak, disapproved of this “naïve” policy and sat on a cushion to her left, brooding. Saan-Kakja-s new “best friend,” Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald, heir to the Empire of the New Britain Isles, was poised on a comfortable chair to her right, her skin restored with curative lotions and her blond curls carefully coiffed. An expression of concerned distaste distorted her elfin face. Shinya and Lelaa were the senior military representatives present, although Irvin Laumer, “Tex” Sheider, Colonel Ansik-Talaa, and Colonel Busaa of the Coastal Artillery had been allowed. Okada’s officers, two Japanese “rescued” from the Grik at Sing-aa-pore, and one Lemurian, all dressed like Okada, remained silently seated. Two of the three “passengers” remained seated as well, attended by Sandra and a corpsman. They wore soft robes in place of tattered remains of what had once been uniforms. One of the men had been too weak to attend.
Saan-Kakja watched Okada now, with her mesmerizing, ebony-striated, golden eyes. Her silky, gray-black fur lay as smooth and perfect as skin. Her ears twitched with compassion for the man. “Perhaps it was an escape for you, but your arrival also saved us from the Grik,” she said in her small, satin, but determined tone.
“Not my arrival,” Okada denied bitterly. “I aided the Grik, as first officer of Amagi!”
“And ultimately, it was you who warned Baalkpan that she and the ‘invincible swarm’ of Grik were on their way,” Shinya reminded patiently, but with a strange new brittleness, “and thereby saved the city.”
“At the cost of my ship—and how many Japanese lives?” Okada retorted. It was the old argument again, the burden that had tortured Okada since his initial “capture” after that terrible battle. Shinya was concerned for a moment that he might retreat into his armored lair of self-pity and remorse, and for the first time, he almost didn’t care. But Okada suddenly straightened, and his face bore a new determination.
“As I said, the world we left has gone insane, and that madness continues to spill into this one.” He practically seared the Americans present with his stare. “It appears . . . the war we were taken from, that showed such promise for my people, my Empire . . . all of East Asia . . . has turned against us. The Americans managed a few surprising, costly victories, and now their industrial might has begun to tip the scales.” He paused. “In response, it seems some of my countrymen have begun to behave . . . dishonorably.”
One of the gaunt “passengers” struggled to rise, his pale face beginning to flush, but Sandra held him back.
Shinya saw this and stood. “Dishonorably?” he demanded, incredulous. “Please spare us the nationalistic rhetoric of another world,” he said harshly. He’d seen the ship too; he’d entered that stinking, hellish hold, and the same smells he’d endured in the lower decks of captured Grik ships almost drove him to his knees. From that moment, all his doubts and uncertainties about the path he’d chosen melted away. His people “back home” had run mad. They’d become Grik in human form, much like Captain Reddy described the Dominion. He’d caught himself praying to whatever force he’d begun to suspect existed that his people’s madness might be cured by defeat.
“Start at the beginning and tell us everything!” he demanded. His attempts to assuage Okada’s conscience were over, and he was building a towering rage. “Do not dishonor yourself with further ‘patriotic’ excuses, or I’ll counsel Her Excellency”—he nodded at Saan-Kakja—“to have you and that . . . diseased vessel expelled without delay!”
Somewhat chastened, but wit
h a resentful expression, Okada began. “When I first came to Maa-ni-la prior to ‘repatriation’ to my beloved, but sparsely inhabited ‘Ja-paan,’ the city teemed with Lemurian ‘runaways’ from other Homes. With the addition of the Fil-pin Lands to the Alliance, those malcontents had few places left to go other than the Great South Island that, so far, hadn’t joined the cause. I interviewed thousands. Some were merely cowards, but others had honor, and simply wanted to be left alone. I took the hundred or so with warrior skills—some even disillusioned veterans of the Grik war—who were attracted to the traditional, militantly isolationist Japanese lifestyle I described to them. Together, we established a bakufu—a shogunate—near what would have been Yokohama.”
“A shogunate!” Shinya interrupted Okada’s narrative. “You are ambitious! And I presume you are the Seii Taishogun?”
Okada didn’t flinch or apologize. “Someone had to be, and I rule no settlements that do not desire the protection of my Lemurian samurai! We are not an imperial government! As I said, I based the system on ancient precedence modified by hindsight, to glean the more benevolent aspects of that culture. I teach Bushido and Kendo—you will not find better swordsmen than my samurai—but I stress the obligation to serve not only myself, but their fellow beings. Also, my samurai are not nobles, but commoners with noble ideals, perhaps more like a militia, dedicated to defending their people from the terrible predators that lurk upon our land—and invaders, of course. They train for these duties diligently, but they hunt and kill the great fish for their oil and flesh. They are not the aristocratic, bureaucratic leeches they once became on our world!”
“So you say . . . for now,” Shinya muttered. “Tell me, do you have female samurai?”
“Yes,” Okada said simply, and Shinya blinked. “As you know, female Lemurians can be formidable warriors. With their size and agility, few males can match them in ‘the way of the sword.’ ”
“Please continue your tale, of the pertinent events,” Saan-Kakja directed.
“At first, things went well. Most of the preexisting settlements around the Okada Shogunate willingly fell under its umbrella and enjoyed a new security and prosperity. According to their wishes, many of the Japanese sailors rescued from the Grik at Singapore were sent to us, and our society began to thrive. Then, in a single day, war found our new Ja-paan, and everything changed.”
“What happened?” Princess Rebecca asked, her gaze intent.
“A short distance up the coast from our tiny new Yokohama, we saw dense smoke rising from Ani-aaki, a ‘protected’ settlement,” Okada reported somberly. “A me-naak rider brought news of a most bizarre invasion. Iron ships had appeared off the coast, and humans came ashore. At first they seemed friendly, only afraid and confused. They spoke Japanese, a tongue many of my people have begun to learn, but did not know where they were. The people of Ani-aaki tried to explain what might have happened to them, based on our experience, but they didn’t want to hear. They didn’t believe it at first. Then they did believe, and officers came ashore to talk some more. The boat went back to the ships, and dozens returned, bringing many, many humans.” He gestured at the two weak men. “Back and forth the boats went, until the beach before the village was packed.” His face darkened. “Then things went very bad. Troops with rifles, Japanese troops, began taking food, supplies, anything they could find. Some of the local samurai tried to resist. . . .” He paused. “They were shot. A panic ensued, and many people fled into the forest.” Again he gestured at the two men. “So did a number of the people brought ashore.” He shook his head, his face contorted with grief, rage, and shame. “The troops began shooting everyone! They killed the young, old, males and females, all while still looting the village. Even the humans they brought ashore tried to help the People, but they were weak and easily killed.” He looked around the chamber at the horrified faces and agitated blinking.
“Two other boats came ashore with what must have been heavy machine guns . . . and killed everyone they saw! Many more tried to flee into the forest, but most were shot down. Finally, when nothing and no one remained, they set fire to the village and left.” He took a deep breath. “They transported the crew from Mizuki Maru to other ships and simply abandoned her there.” He shrugged. “She was badly damaged, as you’ve seen, and slowing the other ships down.”
“What other ships?” Sandra demanded with an edge.
Okada looked at her grimly. “A quite-modern Japanese Imperial Navy destroyer, I’m afraid, and one of the tankers she was sent to escort—to Yokohama. The destroyer is the Hidoiame, and she’s less than a year old.” His face wore a strange expression. “She is the newest thing in anti-submarine warfare, I’m told.”
“Who told you?” Sandra and Laumer both demanded at once.
“One of Mizuki Maru’s crewmen who elected to remain behind, and also fled into the woods,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Well . . . who’s he, and why would he do that?”
“He was the ship’s cook,” Okada said simply. “And he is likely the reason they killed all the people they brought ashore.” He looked at the uncomprehending faces. “You see,” he added bitterly, “when asked if he could, if it came down to it . . . he refused to cook them!”
There was a collective, horrified gasp in the chamber, but Okada continued remorselessly on. “His act probably kept the officers from slip- ping entirely over the edge, and they decided to just kill all the ‘useless’ mouths instead.”
“Defenseless prisoners, you mean!” grated the tall, skinny man at Sandra’s side. He looked much older than he probably was; his hair prematurely white and his eyes and cheeks sunken in. He’d given up trying to stand, but there were tears on his face and he clearly intended to talk. “All those men were prisoners of war, not as if you could tell it by the way they treated us. More than five hundred men, slaughtered!” He glared at Okada. “And that’s not the half of it!” He paused to collect himself. “I’m Second Lieutenant Jack Mackey, forty-one-C, from Big Spring, Texas. I was in the Thirty-fourth Squadron of the Twenty-fourth Pursuit Group.” He nodded at his companion. “This is Second Lieutenant Orrin Reddy of the Third Pursuit Squadron, out of San Diego. He’s also forty-one-C—we were ‘newies’ together.” He looked apologetically at Sandra as the tears began to pool at his feet. “The Thirty-fourth was almost all Texans,” he said. “There were other Southern boys too, but only one Yankee, out of Illinois . . . I don’t know what happened to him.”
“There were fellas from everywhere in the Third,” whispered the man beside him, but that was all he managed to say. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Saan-Kakja, however.
Mackey nodded. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know much about what’s going on here. Sometimes I think I’m still in hell and this is just a dream. I hope somebody besides him”—he jerked his head at Okada—“can fill us in, but I guess something weird happened to us, and some of you too.” He shook his head. “Tin cans, submarines, PBYs—all that stuff you said after you met us with the ferry—seems as if this joint’s a regular dumping ground for folks and stuff that disappear where we’re from. . . .”
“When are you from, Tex?” Sheider asked anxiously. “I mean, sure, you were in the Philippines when the Japs came, but when did you get, you know, here?”
Taken aback, Mackey looked at the submariner. “Well, we figured, once we saw Japan was all goofed up, it must’ve had something to do with a screwy storm we went through a week or so before. What? Did the same thing happen to you?”
“Yeah. Well, the destroyermen saw it; we were underwater,” Laumer supplied. “Said it was a big, scary green squall of some kind.”
Mackey shook his head. “We didn’t see it. We were all belowdecks on that damn, nasty tub. We felt it, though. Queer.”
“We ‘came through’ around March first, ’forty-two. You’ve got almost two years on us. What happened to you . . . and how’s the war going?”
Mackey blinked and looked disoriented. “Gosh, I don’
t know where to start! I’ll tell what happened to us; then maybe I can bring you up to speed on the war later.” He looked at Okada. “The Jap’s right, though. We didn’t get a lot of news; I was in a camp outside of”—he shrugged—“well, I guess not far from here,” he said oddly. “But sometimes, Filipinos on the outside who had radios stashed snuck in the big headlines to us when they could, to keep our morale up.” He glared at Okada again. Apparently, the man’s earlier comments still rankled. “The Jap’s goose is cooked, and we’ve got ’em on the run. That was why they started shipping us prisoners out of the Philippines to Japan where they could keep working us to death. We got on that damn maru—you should’ve seen the sign they posted! Everything you can imagine, basically breathing at the wrong time, would get you shot and thrown over the side! Anyway, we were some of the first ones sent. More than a thousand got on another ship, just a few hundred on the one that brought us here—it was just stopping through. Had a bunch of Brits, Aussies, Dutch, and Javanese slaves already in her. Neither ship was marked to show there were prisoners aboard, and the other ship got torpedoed and sunk by a sub. We got strafed by planes and took an aerial torpedo, but the fish just poked a hole in the bow and didn’t go off. Drowned a bunch of guys down in the forward hold—hell, the Japs on deck shot fellas trying to get out! It was unbelievable!”
Okada stood still at last, staring straight ahead, his face granite. Shinya looked almost ill.
“They kept us down in the holds like animals, cattle—worse! Hell, nobody would ship animals like that! I don’t know how many died every day; starved, sick, thirsty, covered in filth. . . .” For a moment, he couldn’t go on. “Finally,” he said at last, “we got to Japan—only it wasn’t there! We didn’t know what was up, but the Japs on deck got all screwy and yelled a lot. A couple of our guys were China Marines, out of the Fourth, and had some of the lingo. They said the Japs kept jabbering that ‘the world was gone,’ or something. Anyway, there was nothing we could do but wait in the dark until things sort of settled down.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 10
