Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  A line of flashes and wisping white smoke caught his eye from below as each Allied ship in the long line flung pairs of depth charges forward at 45-degree angles to their line of advance. Fifty-odd splashes marred the sea, and shortly before the ships drew abreast of them, the purple-blue water spalled white. An instant later, brilliant white stalks gushed up, generating sun-washed rainbows with their spray. Orrin couldn’t hear the blasts. He was too high and the engine too loud, but the sound waves and possibly water pressure they produced seemed to visibly jolt the nearest islands of blubbery flesh. He was later told the mountain fish even vocalized a kind of anguished, low-frequency groan nobody had ever heard before. At present, however, Orrin observed a great turmoil of monstrous flukes whipping the closest beasts directly away from the sonic assault, propelling them toward the denser concentration, also beginning to react to the painful pummeling to their sensitive auditory organs.

  Many of the great fish dove out of sight but some heaved themselves up, as if actually trying to launch themselves from the water. Virtually every one, however, performed stunningly rapid turns, cyclonic in their intensity, and the majority of the herd—pod; whatever the proper term was—began a ponderous, if tumultuous retreat back toward the Pass of Fire.

  “I think it’s working,” Orrin shouted to his new backseater, an Impie Marine sergeant named Humphrey.

  “Aye, sir, they’re movin’.”

  But Orrin’s plan didn’t envision the mountain fish leisurely repositioning themselves, and the DDs, AVDs, and other Allied ships pressed on, relentlessly launching more depth charges and rolling others from their stern racks. The continued onslaught sent the mountain fish into a frenzy. Even some truly enormous old bulls, wearing islandlike ecosystems on their backs, were swept along with the herd. They’d been Orrin’s biggest concern because they normally attacked the source of whatever aggravated them. But the pain they were enduring and the herd instinct—in this place, at least—was overpowering. The impossibly dense cluster of rampaging islands roared on toward the pass.

  There were a few exceptions, of course. A number of the great beasts, disoriented and separated or maddened by pain, rounded on a Scott class Impie frigate and demolished it as effortlessly as a man might smash a crate of eggs. An AVD was flung on her beam ends, probably by accident, when a fleeing mountain fish scraped her keel with its back. The ship filled quickly and her boiler burst, spewing what looked like smoldering matchsticks all around.

  “Makky-Kat, Makky-Kat, this is COFO Reddy, over,” Orrin shouted in his microphone. “Call the cowboys off.” He glanced at the escalating melee between Fleashooters and Grikbirds. Numerous flying reptiles and a couple of planes were already plummeting to the sea. “The stampede’s underway, and we’ll keep poking it in the ass. Tell Jenks to get your ships back, Tex.”

  He looked around. “Stand by, Third Bomb Wing,” he called. “Remember, when we go in, dump your bombs as close behind the pushers as you can. Don’t hit ’em if you can help it. We don’t want cripples; we want ’em all running up the mouth of the pass.” He didn’t add that he personally saw no reason to needlessly harm any of the amazing creatures. Dangerous, destructive rogues sometimes had to be killed, but that was different. They weren’t evil and they weren’t the enemy, and except for a couple of unfortunate instances, they were allies today. “And for God’s sake,” he added, “don’t waste bombs on the goddamn Doms. If there’s any left when this is done, we’ll deal with them then.” He mentally crossed his fingers and glanced from side to side as the remaining Nancys from Maaka-Kakja and a number of the AVDs joined him in a line. “Let’s go!” he shouted, pushing the stick forward, aiming at the momentous tsunami of flesh that only seemed to grow as the entrance to the pass narrowed and the bottom of the sea came up.

  CHAPTER 25

  ////// El Corazon

  General Tomatsu Shinya and his party did get shot at on their way to the temple, but the muskets missed their mark, and men and ’Cats with Blitzerbugs converged on whatever place just spouted a gust of white smoke. After everything Blas had been through, the danger hardly registered. She just watched appreciatively, professionally detached, as the culprits were hunted down and killed. She was utterly unprepared for what she saw in the vast plaza surrounding the great temple of El Corazon, however.

  Twenty thousand—maybe more—men and women were gathered there, and like Shinya warned, most were armed. Very few had muskets, probably taken from dead or retreating Dom troops, but some of the better dressed carried well-made fouling pieces. Most had pikes, like the children before, which probably meant General Mayta or somebody actually issued them, expecting everyone to fight to the last. A few even carried wooden pitchforks or clubs. Few swords or long blades were seen.

  Blas was probably most surprised by how festive their simple yet colorful attire appeared, especially after she’d slogged through the bleached-white city, the only other colors being yellow uniforms and the red and gold of the hateful Dom flags. And the blood, of course. Men almost universally wore long-tailed shirts and kilts, though a few had trousers of a sort. Women were just as uniformly covered in wraparound dresses that showed their faces, if little else. But the colors were striking, with purples, reds, yellows, and oranges predominant, though they varied immensely with lighter and darker shades. Everyone wore what looked like straw sandals on their feet. Interestingly, possibly because of what had happened or because these people truly were prepared to fight and hoped to protect them, she saw no younglings at all. Then another horrible thought intruded: maybe their younglings haave already been taken, to be . . . used again.

  Shinya slowly led them through a passage cleared by Impie Marines with leveled bayonets and they rode to the lower steps of the temple. High on her horse, Blas saw the Sister’s Own and substantial elements of the 4th and 21st divisions arrayed on the south side of the plaza, twenty-odd cannon facing inward. The 4th and 21st must’ve brought their own guns. A fair-sized chunk of XV Corps was to the north, and if they didn’t have cannon, they seemed to have brought every machine gun they could carry off the grounded transports. It struck her that despite continued fighting elsewhere, the Allied troops might actually outnumber the civilians here. If they chose to start something, all would die. But she and the others were moving to their center, well away from aid, and they’d be just as screwed if things turned sour.

  She noticed for the first time that a lot of people were staring at her with open hostility. Probably should’ve stayed out of this, she thought. I’m a demon, faar as they’re concerned. But maybe Shinyaa brung me to prove I’m not. Who knows? He caan be so weird. She looked up at the temple and saw Garcia and Ixtli standing alone beneath the flag of the Vengadores. Both held colorfully painted speaking trumpets in their hands and looked very relieved to see them. Dismounting from their horses, Shinya, Blair, Audry, and Blas walked up the temple steps to join their friends. From there they could see the entire plaza, the columns of smoke to the east, the sea to the north, and the great volcano on the other side of the pass. It was smoking more heavily than usual too, and Blas wondered if that was a good or bad omen.

  Probably desensitized to such things by now, Blas didn’t pick up on many other details as quickly as Sister Audry did. She was first to notice the scorched crosses arranged around the temple, the black-stained, sharpened poles set firmly in the ground at regular intervals, and that the darkened steps they stood on were deeply stained with blood. She caught Blas’s attention and pointed those things out. Blood sacrifice, implements of fiery crucifixion, and impaling poles. No matter how civilized and devoted to festive garments these people might be in some ways, they’d existed with, if not condoned—Who knew?—unimaginable atrocities for a very long time.

  Smiling tightly, Sister Audry took the speaking trumpet from Captain Ixtli. “Please interpret for me if I falter, Colonel Garcia,” she asked, but she didn’t really need him. She’d had a lot of time to learn the
odd Spanish mix of her Vengadores and she’d made the most of it.

  Waay more than me, Blas thought, though she picked up the gist of what Audry said next.

  “We didn’t come here as conquerors. We wouldn’t have come at all if we weren’t driven to, in self-defense,” she shouted at the assembly, her words echoing off surrounding buildings, quieting the disturbed, curious, and frightened murmuring of the crowd. “But in our defense, and yours as we’ve come to know you, we came through battle and blood with a simple message.” She took a deep breath. “Your God is the same as ours, the same Maker of All Things, but He’s not a God of pain and suffering, demanding that your children shield His cowardly warriors. He’s a God of love!”

  She waved at Garcia, shouting louder over the confused, angry rumble. “And this is not some new, heretical interpretation; it’s the ancient truth your masters have distorted. That profound understanding is what persuaded Colonel Garcia’s men to fight so bravely to liberate you from your tormentors!” She paused a moment in deathly silence before beginning again. “The details of this new/old faith will come in time, if you allow me to witness them to you, but first and foremost is the lesson of love we fought so hard to bring.”

  Blas had no love for these people, and talking about love here, now, while bitter fighting still raged, struck her as bizarre. Not so Sister Audry, who gestured at the flag behind her.

  “That banner says a great deal by itself. Saint Benedict was a holy servant of Jesus Christ on another world, devoted to teaching people to live together in peace and love and work for the common good, while celebrating individual merit.” Sister Audry paused, recognizing that was a somewhat controversial interpretation, but this was no time for semantics. Instead, she read off some of the most pertinent phrases: “‘The drink you offer is evil. Drink it yourself!’” she cried, then pointed up at Grikbirds swirling high overhead. “‘Let not the dragon be my guide!’” She looked back down. “And perhaps most relevant here, ‘May the holy cross light my way’—but not with fire,” she stressed, gesturing at one of the charred crosses nearby, “but as a symbol of the Lord Jesus Christ, who suffered and died on one.”

  She shook her head. “You’re taught that suffering is the path to grace, the toll to a ‘paradise’ of subservience like you already endure each day. That’s just not so!” She took a deep breath. “Jesus didn’t suffer for His grace, but to bestow it upon all of us. He suffered on the cross in our place, so we wouldn’t have to, and took our sins upon Himself!”

  Blas saw tears on Sister Audry’s face and wondered if she was thinking about Koratin.

  “That’s the ultimate perversion of His teachings on this world, that blood and suffering, not love of God, is the key to salvation and everlasting life.” She hesitated, then continued harshly, waving at the bloodstained stones. “And what God, what afterlife, could be worth suffering for if this is the price? The blood of Jesus Christ made all this unnecessary!” she practically screamed. “All the bloodshed, all the lives you’ve tossed away . . . all the children your masters have slain today and down the ages, haven’t been for the glory of God, but for themselves, to keep you fearful, willing tools for their ambitions! God loves you,” she added simply. “He loves us all. Each of us was born in the light of His love, and He wouldn’t have us kill one another to earn it, or feed it with innocent blood!”

  She turned grimly toward the east, where the fighting remained fiercest. “God will still love you whether you join us now or not. He’ll even still love you if you fight us,” she conceded, drawing a concerned glance from General Blair. She waved around once more, taking in the crosses, impaling poles, and finally the dark stain on the temple again. “But can you feel worthy of His love—or truly love yourselves—if you don’t finally rise against unholy men who wallow in your children’s blood to perpetuate their ungodly rule?” Her voice gone hoarse, she stabbed a finger back down at the blood-soaked steps. “Or is this what you’ll fight for, the kind of ‘faith’ you’ll embrace forever? Because this will be your only chance to throw it off!”

  “No!” screeched a nearby woman, face wet with tears of her own. Blas wondered if Koratin had killed one of her children.

  “No!” came a louder shout, from hundreds. But many seemed unconvinced, looking furtively at the armed men and ’Cats surrounding them. Some started shouting something about demons, and still more were too deeply entrenched in generations of hard beliefs for a short, simple sermon by an invader to sway them. Pushing, yelling, and shoving broke out, and there were a couple of muffled shots.

  No way to reason with ’em—they’re Doms! Blas thought bleakly. If more haad muskets, we’d be dead already. How’re we gonna get off this stupid temple an’ baack in the fight?

  That’s when Shinya quietly said, “Look,” and pointed northwest, out to sea. Everyone else followed his gaze, and Colonel Garcia raised his speaking trumpet. “Look!” he roared, gaining the crowd’s attention. Thousands of heads turned, but few could see past the buildings and the throng.

  “Get some of them up here now,” Shinya directed the Marines who’d followed them in and ringed the base of the temple. The people they chose resisted at first. They weren’t allowed on the temple from day to day, and those who did ascend it usually came down in pieces, following their bouncing heads. Very quickly, though, thirty or forty men and women, all disarmed, were dragged up to watch what was happening in the mouth of El Paso Del Fuego. They cried out in alarm.

  “Maker!” Blas breathed.

  “My God,” Sister Audry murmured.

  “Pretty slick,” said Spook.

  It looked like a giant, frothing tsunami approaching the pass from the west, but nothing about it seemed natural. It was too tumultuous, too chaotic, the leading edge too frenzied by far. And almost immediately in its path was a fleet of eighteen Dom vessels, shaped and rigged like ships of the line, though Shinya knew some were Grikbird carriers. And quite a few Grikbirds kited above them as if unsure what to do. They’d been brought out to attack Allied ships, but now their own ships, and only source of rest and support far from land, had made a panicky turn to flee a mountain range of foam. Dark smoke gushed from tall funnels, paddle wheels spun furiously, but there was no protection from what was coming, and the Grikbirds somehow understood.

  Shinya raised his Impie telescope and saw some Nancys now, distant, distinctive silhouettes, swooping behind the great wave. Waterspouts raised by bombs they dropped, prodding the mountain fish onward, were invisible beyond the closer turmoil but were undoubtedly having the desired effect. “I wonder if we’ll be safe from the bow wave even here?” Shinya speculated aloud. “I expect so,” he answered himself immediately. “The wave itself is mostly froth and the mass behind it can’t come ashore.”

  “This is whaat you wanted to see?” Blas demanded. “You knew?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “They’re mountain fish,” Blas stated, shocked. She and Spook could see what Shinya, Blair, and now Garcia needed their Impie telescopes to view, and were able to pick out individual beasts as they smashed through the first enemy ship, grinding it under half a dozen bodies.

  “The fastest, at the leading edge, must be the smaller ones,” Shinya murmured somewhat distractedly.

  Blas could only stare. One by one, the Dom ships were consumed by the living tide of flesh and each was shattered, splintered, ripped apart. One was simply stampeded over by a larger fish and it scorched its killer with a scalding gust of steam. Maddened, the fish went berserk and crushed another Dom liner with its mighty flukes. A couple ships even tried firing cannon at the elemental force, but if the shots dissuaded their targets, there were just too many more. It took less than two minutes for all eighteen ships and eight to ten thousand men to die.

  The seething wave churned on, still tormented from the air, though Nancys started falling now, tangled with the Grikbirds. The ten Dom liners that went to finish Hi
bbs and bombard XV Corps’ disembarked Marines had more time to prepare themselves, but there was nothing they could do. One or two turned for shore, trying to run aground, but the mouth of the pass was narrowing now, concentrating the monstrous fish, and all were caught and smashed. One seemed charmed for a moment; bashed back and forth, its masts tumbling over the side, it stayed afloat like a stick in a maelstrom, and Blas even caught herself rooting for it to live. It couldn’t be. A great old bull struck it directly amidships and it folded around the nose of the beast, shedding timbers, guns, and bodies.

  “Ahd-mi-raal Hibbs,” Blas suddenly said. “They’re killin’ our people too!” she accused.

  Shinya looked at her. “Admiral Hibbs was killed this morning, I’m sorry to say, and most of his ships were finished. One or two were still fighting,” he conceded, “and I wish we could’ve informed their people. But all knew they were fighting now only to take more Doms with them. We granted their wish.”

  “You bastaard,” Blas spat, amazed, shaking her head.

  “Actually, it was High Admiral Jenks’s decision, but I endorsed it fully.” Shinya’s expression turned harsh. “Come now, Major. We both know what the Doms do to prisoners, and we certainly weren’t in a position to rescue them.”

  The main surge of mountain fish had passed them by, and they discovered later that their wave did indeed gush through the wall and inundate several shoreside streets. Most of the beached transports were briefly refloated and destroyed, though one was deposited high and dry and another washed out to sea, where it sank two days later. Blocked by the Pass of Fire itself, however, the stampede of mountain fish started stacking up. The race from the west was beginning, but either they were simply too big to make the passage or instinctual urges stopped them and they’d go no farther. That’s when the ecological consequences of Orrin Reddy’s scheme fully manifested themselves. Even in this “neutral ground,” mountain fish couldn’t abide such tight confines with their own kind and turned on one another in a titanic, writhing, furious mass of flesh. To Shinya it looked like a colossal pod of cannibalistic elephant seals trying to slam ashore on a rocky coast without a beach. Some began to fight, and it was astounding to see creatures so enormous heave a third of their bodies out of the sea to crash down on another, often splitting the blubbery hides of both. The water of El Paso del Fuego churned red with blood as mountain fishes started to die.