Silva dropped his mug and snapped a sharp salute. “Aye, aye, sir. I stand relieved.”
Sandra stood beside Matt as the applause began, and feet stamped the porch beneath the table. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked.
“Aren’t you?”
She hugged him. “Of course,” she whispered into his chest.
“Good, because this is the only thing I’ve really wanted, for myself, for the better part of the last two years. Sure I’m sure.”
EPILOGUE
////// The “Sea of Jaapan”
Mizuki Maru plodded slowly north by east into the cold sea and biting wind northwest of what should have been Kyushu. “Lord” Commander Sato Okada grimly scanned the sea ahead with the binoculars they’d found on the ship during her refit at Maa-ni-la. Occasionally, his gaze swept east, despite his efforts to prevent it, and he viewed the unfamiliar coastline of his homeland with a sense of loss and betrayal. He’d come to grips with the “way things were” and accomplished great things, he thought, in the “shogunate” he’d established. There’d been few illusions of democracy, aside from the willingness of other communities to join, but he thought he’d set up a system whereby the peoples there might be ruled in a benevolent way. With that rule came responsibilities, however, and now he was hunting members of his own race for what they’d done to the Lemurians who’d adopted him—and placed themselves under his protection. Whatever national commonality he’d once shared with the people, the animals, who’d perpetrated the massacre near Yokohama, was more than eclipsed by the atrocity they’d committed—and his duty to destroy them.
“It is still a beautiful land,” he whispered to the other Japanese officer beside him, another member of Amagi’s crew rescued from the Grik at Singapore. There were six such men aboard Mizuki Maru, in addition to the cook/deserter who’d brought them the tale of horror. The cook was still just a cook. He had no desire to leave his galley at all. There he could surround himself with the familiar and perhaps pretend nothing had really changed. The largely Lemurian crew that came to him for meals had to be a constant reminder that such was not the case, but he persevered, sometimes teetering on the brink of madness, but there was always hot food for the furry crew who, despite their coats, were unaccustomed to the damp cold that blew at them out of the north. It was winter, Okada knew, but only those Lemurians from his new home understood. His colony had been one of the northernmost outposts of the People known, and only the hardiest tried to subsist there. Some had even seen snow; a rare novelty. The “Navy” ’Cats that augmented his crew had no experience with snow, or even cold for that matter, and the farther north they steamed, the more miserable they were.
“Anything on the radio yet, Lieutenant Hiro?” Okada asked the officer beside him.
Hiro shook his head. “Nothing yet, Lord.”
Mizuki Maru had been broadcasting terrified entreaties for someone, anyone to answer them, to tell them where to go, to assure them they weren’t alone in a terrible world gone mad. Okada could only guess that the destroyer Hidoiame and her tanker had come this way, and he had nothing tangible on which to base that guess. He assumed his . . . enemy would scout the Japanese coastline, ensuring there were no others of their kind, before venturing afield into the greater unknown. He wasn’t sure he’d have done that himself, after a couple of brief explorations, but it was his only hope for a quick encounter. The trail had gone quite cold, and if Hidoiame wasn’t near Japan, he had no idea where next to look. So the radio calls constantly dangled the bait of another ship, swept as they were to this world, but a “supply ship” with plenty of food and ammunition aboard, and no idea where to take it. Okada was confident that if his enemy could hear him, he wouldn’t be able to resist for long.
“What will we do, Lord?” Hiro asked.
Okada grunted. “We’ll continue north through the Sea of Japan until we hear word, or we’re stopped by ice. If there’s no ice, we’ll steam down the Pacific side of the home islands. . . .” He paused. “And keep looking. We’ll put in at Yokohama, visit our people, and replenish supplies, then proceed southeast of the Fil-pin Lands, wailing our heads off all the while. I still believe we should concentrate on areas Hidoiame might hope are populated by others such as us—castaways from our world to this. After Japan itself, the more populous regions of Imperial expansion would seem most likely. We shall loop south around New Guinea and head back up along the Malay Barrier toward Baalkpan and Aryaal. Perhaps we’ll hear word of a sighting if she’s gone into those seas.” He looked at Hiro. “If we don’t find her by then, we must assume she either went east into New Britain territory, or has . . . somehow communicated with that madman, Kurokawa, and turned west toward the Grik.”
“What if she encounters the Allied fleets?”
“Actually, I’m confident they will destroy her, if one of their”—he grimaced—“our capital ships is present. It will be costly, but I only truly fear her torpedoes.”
“Indeed,” Hiro said nervously.
The speaking tube from the radio shack whistled, and Hiro stepped over and spoke into it. “Bridge. Lieutenant Hiro speaking.”
“The murderers have taken the lure, my lord,” came the tinny voice. “They want to talk to our captain.”
Okada leaned toward the tube. “I’m on my way.”
“We are the Junyo Maru, my lord,” the radioman reminded Okada when he entered the compartment. Junyo Maru was a ship Hidioame would be familiar with, and she was a dead ringer for their own.
“Of course.” He took the microphone. “This is Captain Okada of the Junyo Maru. I cannot express my relief at finding countrymen here in this . . . wrongful place!”
“I am Commander Kurita of the Imperial Japanese ship Hidoiame!” a terse voice crackled in response. “Now that we have established communications, please cease screaming your head off for all the world to hear! We are not alone in this place, and there may be enemies listening! We have monitored what sound like coded American transmissions, so send no more open radio messages. Any further communications will be via coded CW, understood?”
“Understood,” Sato replied. Grinning, his radioman patted the codebook the fools had left on the ship when they abandoned it, obviously expecting the ship to sink, or if it didn’t, no one would ever make use of it. Evidently, they were more concerned about that now. “I’ll put my radioman back on,” Sato said. “Please instruct him on what frequency you wish to use, and tell us where to find you!”
Okada handed the transmitter back to the radioman and stood back while the man finished the conversation. A few minutes later, the code-groups began coming in. A Lemurian striker versed in Japanese started transcribing what the radioman wrote, the codebook in one hand, a pencil in the other.
“They did not give their exact position, Lord,” the ’Cat announced a short while later. “They merely ordered us to steam for Sapporo. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” Okada said grimly, picturing the geography in his mind. “I would wager that is where they have made their base, for now. Ishikari-Wan should make a good, deep anchorage, even here. I suspect it will be cold, my friends, but they made no mention of ice. That is a relief.”
“How long until we reach that place?” the Lemurian striker asked.
“A week, at this pace. Perhaps a bit longer. We’ll have them anxious to see us! In the meantime, we will prepare.”
A Cave Somewhere in the Holy Dominion
Lieutenant Fred Reynolds tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut by some thick, rough, gooey substance. He couldn’t wipe them with his hands because they were roughly bound behind his back, so he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear them. It did little good. He could see a little, not that much was visible in the damp gloom of his underground “cell.” Torches guttered meagerly in a passage beyond the iron bars that isolated his little alcove from the cavern beyond, and occasionally, he heard what sounded like distant, echoing voices.
He was beyond mi
serable; naked, cold, covered with filth and reeking mud. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been given water. Every part of his body hurt, but his shoulder was still the worst. He suspected his collarbone had broken when the “Nancy” flipped in the surf, and his heel might be broken too. In any event, he’d almost drowned before Kari dragged him out of the sea and up on the beach. She’s been injured too, he remembered, pretty badly, and he didn’t know how she’d managed. All that had happened to them after the crash had become little more than a vague blur.
Neither of them had been in any condition to resist when the Doms came for them. Fred was pretty sure he’d been unconscious when they arrived. It didn’t matter. He’d lost his pistol in the crash, and didn’t have the strength to fight them. All he remembered was being carried, slung on a pole like a dead hog, for what might have been minutes or days. At some point, he’d been carried aboard a ship in the darkness, and the next he knew, he was here. He’d probably been drugged. He knew they’d taken Kari too, but he hadn’t seen her since. He prayed she was alive.
The voices in the passageway became louder, and he expected a visitor at last. Maybe I should pray Kari’s not alive, he reconsidered, remembering what he knew of the Doms. New torches flickered, adding their light to the darkness, and forms appeared, moving toward him. A lock clanked, and a barred door swung open with a damp, rusty groan.
“Fetch water, fools,” said a mild voice that contrasted with the perfunctory order. “This man is ill, hurt! He cannot be allowed to die before given a chance to atone! To be purified!”
“At once, Holiness!” came a nervous reply in thickly accented English, and a dark form retreated.
Fred was grateful he’d get water at last, but chilled by the other comments. Torches were placed in sockets and others lit. There was plenty of light now, but his sight remained blurred.
“Poor creature,” the soft voice whispered again, and a red-robed figure bent and gently wiped the goo from Fred’s eyes with a soft cloth. “Better?”
Fred nodded, seeing a face at last. It was dark skinned, pleasantly solicitous, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and chin whiskers.
“What is your name?”
Fred cleared his throat. “Frederick Reynolds. Lieutenant, junior grade, serial number . . .”
“Your given name is sufficient for God to know you, my son,” the man consoled. “I am Don Hernan de Devino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico and Emperor of the World by the Grace of God. It pleases him—and myself—to offer you sanctuary from the wicked, damned heretics whose orders placed you in contention with God Himself. But God is merciful, my son! You may yet achieve grace in His eyes, and your soul and life be saved!”
Don Hernan! He’d heard that name. Oh, Jesus, help me! he begged. Water finally arrived, and he was allowed to drink, but not too much. “How—” He broke off, coughing. “How did you get here?” he asked.
“You know of me!” the Blood Cardinal exclaimed. “Most excellent, indeed!” He shrugged. “It was a simple thing. I merely took passage on the very ship the heretics sent to ‘warn’ their illegitimate colonies of the hostilities they initiated. Her captain is a child of God.”
So, that explains a lot. There was no point in arguing who’d started the war. “Where’s Kari?” Fred managed. “What have you done with her?”
Don Hernan blinked. “You mean the animal captured with you? It has a name?”
“Of course she has a name! And she’s no animal! Where is she?”
Don Hernan shook his head. “Such a tone! I forget sometimes that the unenlightened are known to form deep attachments to their pets.” He peered intently at Fred. “It lives, for now. I’ve considered putting it on display, as a curiosity. That might still be done if it dies, of course. The creature is a menace, dangerous to handle, even with its sharp nails and teeth removed! I should have it killed and stuffed.”
“No!”
For the first time, Don Hernan’s voice rose. “You shout? You demand? Of me?” Visibly, he calmed himself. “The creature’s fate, as is your own, is up to you. You must be purified, of course, but your suffering thus far has doubtless earned you some measure of grace.” Don Hernan made a sour face. “I confess the sin of arrogance. I badly underestimated your ‘Captain Reddy’ and his iron steamer. Our efforts to bend the small dragons to our will have been lengthy and tedious. Their potential facility is great—as you and your marvelous flying machine have proven—but a decade of preparation and great expense was lost in a single day to Captain Reddy and his stratagems. Not to mention his remarkably swift and unexpectedly powerful ship.” He paused. “The ship we can counter,” he said confidently, “but continuing the small dragon project seems of dubious value—except of course for having brought us you. They do appear effective against your flying machines!” He hesitated and smiled. “Which brings us to you!”
“What do you want from me?” Fred asked, already fearing the answer.
“Flying machines, of course! And instruction in their use. Give me those things, and you will not only live—with your pet by your side, I presume—but you will become a wealthy and respected Child of God, a convert to the Holy Church, and a beloved citizen of the Holy Dominion! More you could never ask nor earn!”
Fred started to say he knew nothing about building airplanes, only flying them, but decided that might not be the best idea just then. “And if I refuse?” he asked instead.
“You and your pet will both be skinned alive . . . to begin with.” Don Hernan shook his head sadly. “And regardless of your . . . suffering, your very soul will be destroyed and you will never see God.” He paused as two men entered the alcove with a brazier of coals and assorted irons. “Think on it for a time. We will talk again.” He turned to leave.
“But . . . W-what the hell is that for?” Fred cursed, his tone shrill.
The Blood Cardinal glanced back. “Just something to pass the time, to help you think. Besides, even should you choose wisely, as I expect, you must first be purified for your conversion.” He gestured at the two men. “They will call me when you have decided . . . and they are positive you are sincere.”
South Africa
Lieutenant Toru Miyata was alone in the vast wilds of southern Africa. A strong cold wind blew directly in his face from the south, leeching his strength and seeping into his bones. He was still struck by the irony of the weather, given where he was, but irony barely registered anymore in his starving, pain-filled, cold-numbed mind. Things had gone pretty much the way he’d always expected, he supposed, even if the sequence of events hadn’t. Umito wasn’t the first to die, after all. Even in his weakened state, he’d been more resilient than the Grik to the cold of the high plateau they traversed. One of Bashg’s “elite” Uul warriors was almost immediately eaten by something barely bigger than itself, despite the firearms and swords of his companions. Toru didn’t know what the thing had been; the creatures of this land were different from any he’d seen, and he could barely even think of anything to compare it to. Maybe a combination of a furry crocodile, a giant sloth, and a koala bear. The thing had looked more ridiculous than menacing, but it made short work of one of Bashg’s best “troops.”
They remained on the alert for the creatures after that, but no others were ever seen. That didn’t mean there weren’t other threats, even more dangerous. That was probably why they didn’t see more “Koala-diles.”
Another of Bashg’s Uul was just simply dead one morning, presumably of the cold, even though it couldn’t have dropped much lower than forty degrees during the night. It made its bed too far from the large fire they’d maintained, and the relatively “advanced,” but still imbecilic creature probably died completely unaware of its danger. No Grik, as far as Toru knew, was accustomed to cold, and that was one of the things he and his companions were counting on; secretly why they’d suggested this colder, higher altitude route, ostensibly based on its directness. Grik weren’t reptiles and actually had better
insulation than humans, but Toru supposed, like most birds, they just didn’t like the cold and avoided it as a species. Therefore, the weather took a toll on them. The temperature had been similar to that of a Japanese fall, for the most part, so Toru and his companions weren’t terribly affected, but even in their heavy coats, the Grik shivered almost uncontrollably—and were always hungry.
Bashg’s remaining warriors butchered the chilled corpse of their former comrade to augment their already dwindling rations because, after only two weeks, they’d flown through the provisions meant to last two months and had resorted to eating whatever they could catch. For all intents and purposes, halfway to their destination, the expedition had ground to a halt. Even Bashg no longer seemed to care about the mission, though he still talked of “resuming” the trek once they were “rested.” Despite his supposedly superior intellect to his underlings, instinct now prevailed. He was just as cold and hungry as the others, and all he wanted to do was sit near a huge fire.
Aguri and Toru hunted, trying to find food with their trusty, but rather underpowered (for this world) Arisaka Type 38 rifles. That last morning they’d struggled through knee-deep, frozen grass, across what should have been a tree-covered plain teeming with game, but which was now a glistening, frosty steppe. Some snow had even fallen during the night, and they were both confused by that. They knew the weather on this world was different, and they counted on it to aid them now, but they didn’t understand why it was. They saw a few creatures from a distance, but all were bigger than they wanted to attempt with a 6.5-mm projectile. One of the beasts seemed impossibly huge, and they watched it quite a while from a careful distance. It looked something like one of the brontosaurus-type creatures they’d seen before, but it was bigger and covered with long, thick, shaggy fur. Unlike its apparent cousins, it was solitary as well, with no great herd for company or mutual protection. Toru was no biologist, but everything about the creature just seemed wrong and out of place—at least until he saw it eat.
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