“All ships now report ‘On taarget,’” Minnie finally amended.
“Very well. Stand by.” Matt looked at his watch one last time and suddenly realized he wasn’t afraid anymore. He took a deep breath. “Execute,” he said firmly. “Commence firing.”
Within seconds of each other, twenty-one 4″-50s, six 5.5″s, and eight 8″ guns stabbed their sharp jets of flame at the night, and thunder and overpressure—particularly from Gray, close astern of Walker—was like something barely remembered. It took Matt’s breath away. The bright jets quickly turned to yellow balls, rapidly fading to brown, but unprotected eyes would keep afterimages of the nearly instantaneous event for quite a while. Shells shrieked downrange, flaring tracer compounds drawing orange-red arcing lines to their targets. Stuttering flashes, brighter, bigger than the snapping case shot of the field guns, lit the Grik positions. Earth vomited into the air, silhouetted by lingering fires started by the bombing.
“On target, on target!” Matt heard Sonny Campeti shouting above. “Rapid salvo fire! Commence firing!” The salvo alarm, silent the first time, dully rang somewhat guiltily against the aft bulkhead. Wham! Wham! Wham!
“Mahan’s really puttin’ ’em out,” Spanky observed with respect, looking aft. Like Miyata’s, this was Mahan’s young female Lemurian skipper’s first action in command. “So’s Ellie,” Spanky continued. “Wow! Gray’s slower to load her bag guns, but damn, does she light up!” He spun to watch the fall of her shot. The effect was twice that of Walker’s, and the dispersion was tight. Matt was pleased. They’d all feared Fitzhugh Gray had been a waste of time and resources. Maybe not.
Wham! Walker jolted again, and Matt watched her latest salvo streak away. He leaned forward in his chair, expectant, content. His old ship had joined the fight again and his fear had turned to something else—that sometimes worried him later.
CHAPTER 31
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
Breathlessly, Major Jindal and a platoon of Impie Marines joined Chack and Silva’s company of Raiders where they were taking a moment to rest and tend the wounded in a large, blood-splashed chamber only one level up from the entryway. The space was dank and gloomy, lit by guttering, reeking, fish-oil lamps set in alcoves in the walls, but it was large enough to serve as an auditorium. Maybe it did, or had. And just like in the Celestial Palace on Madagascar, there weren’t any decorations; no sculptures, tapestries, or panoplies like one might expect in a similarly large chamber used by any of the Allies. Even the Khonashi decorated their strange living abodes with imaginative limb weaving. Here, except for the occasional rusty bracket that might’ve once supported something, there was nothing but naked, dripping stone.
And though not quite as massive as its counterpart at Grik City, the Palace of Vanished Gods was still immense. Its external shape implied internal solidity—like the cowflop it actually vaguely resembled—but hid a vast interior honeycombed with confusing passageways and odd chambers, large and small. Grik corpses littered the stone floor in this one, as did a number of ’Cats’, the latter being covered with their oilcloth ponchos and arranged along one wall. Obviously, not all the specially trained Grik guards had sortied earlier, and the fight here had been as brutal as it was somewhat unexpected.
“We’ve got the lower level, and access to the tunnels,” Jindal gasped. “Quite a maze down there. I sent squads down each tunnel to discover the exits and a means of blocking them. We must assume the enemy knows where they are.”
“Find any poodledragons?” Silva asked, holding his left arm out while a corps-’Cat wrapped a bandage around a jagged claw slash extending from elbow to wrist.
Jindal grimaced, remembering the bizarre, frightening predators the Grik unleashed in the Celestial Palace. “No, thank God. Perhaps they’re native to Madagascar. Can’t imagine trying to transport one!” He coughed. “I say, it’s damned close in here. And what little air can be had is . . . quite unpleasant!”
“That’s Jindal-ese for ‘The joint stinks to high heaven,’” Silva explained to the corps-’Cat. He looked back at the Impie. “Yer just outa shape, is all. Spent too much time m’lingerin’ in the hospital an’ lost yer wind.” He inhaled deeply. “Smells like flowery clover in here!”
Some of the troops muttered, the consensus favoring Jindal’s assessment.
“It smells like shit and blood and death,” Chack retorted, not in the mood for Silva just then. Not with dead comrades on the floor. “We must press on. This haas already taken longer thaan expected, and it’s getting daark outside. We must secure this place and prepare to defend it.”
“I saw they’d already torn most of the wall down and contracted the breastworks to defend only the west side of the palace,” Jindal supplied. “Took a quick peek outside on my way here,” he explained.
“Good,” Chack said. “Mr. Cook’s been busy. It was foolish of the Grik to defend more than thaat. The paalace can’t be scaled by anyone encumbered with weapons. It’s too steep and slick. I don’t think we need worry about whaat the Grik do behind us.”
Silva started to point out that Grik always had the weapons they were born with, but Chack was aware.
“Oh, by the way,” Jindal added, “Mr. Cook emplaced the howitzers as well, but so far there’s been no enemy interest in us. Even their battleships seem content to brood at anchor.”
“Thaat’ll change tonight,” Chack insisted.
“No doubt.”
“Take chaarge here, Major,” Chack instructed. “This’ll be the raally point for any reinforcements we require and the collection point for wounded. See thaat ammunition and supplies remaining outside are assembled here as well.” He pointed back the way Jindal came. “There’s only one way in from the lower levels”—he nodded at the dark stairway at the opposite end of the chamber—“and one from above. There may be other paassages between the upper and lower levels, but only two we must defend here. This’ll be our fall-baack strongpoint.”
“Aye, aye, Colonel,” Jindal agreed.
Chack looked at Silva, the corps-’Cat’s bandaging complete. “Are you ready?”
Silva unslung the heavy Doom Stomper and handed it to one of Jindal’s Impie troopers, along with the bandolier of huge shells it fired. “Take care o’ that,” he instructed. “Gentle, like a broad. Don’t get no blood er goo on it either.”
Wide-eyed, the Impie looked at Jindal, obviously afraid of the responsibility and the possibility of incurring Silva’s wrath. Under the circumstances, Jindal was amused and somewhat heartened that the trooper was more afraid of Silva than their situation. He smiled and nodded back. “Your weapon will be well cared for,” he assured.
“Then I’m ready,” Silva said, patting the refilled magazine pouches on his belt. “Let’s go a-huntin’.”
Chack checked his Krag. “Laaw-rence, you and Sergeant Pokey are with me. Blitzers and shotguns to the front. Do not use grenades in the stairwell,” he reminded, and managed a faint remnant of one of his trademark, carefree grins of old at Silva. “Aafter you.”
The first stairway was a narrow, switchback affair, barely wide enough to take three abreast, and the ancient steps were smooth, rounded, and very slick. Nothing met them in the near-total darkness at first, but then a flurry of crossbow bolts whickered past, their iron points striking sparks off the stone walls. A ’Cat beside Silva screamed and fell back against others pressing behind and the advance was thrown into confusion. Silva fired a burst from his Thompson, and another ’Cat’s Blitzer stuttered. Bullets clattered up the passageway, ricocheting off rock and striking flesh amid howls and shrieks of invisible Grik. “At ’em, fellas!” Silva roared and the column surged forward, upward.
“A light!” someone called.
“No light!” Chack instantly countered, blinded enough by the muzzle flashes. Torches would only make it worse, and make them better targets besides.
“Empty!”
Silva shouted, letting ’Cats wriggle past and keep firing while he and the first rank reloaded. They turned another corner into more crossbow bolts, falling ’Cats lit by bursts of fire going wild. More Raiders rushed around the corner and fired up the stairs, Blitzers punctuated by the dull, smoky boom of an Allin-Silva shotgun. Desperate shrieks echoed down the passageway and Grik bodies followed, tumbling down the stairs and crashing into the attackers. A couple weren’t dead, and lashed out wildly with swords and claws.
Silva pushed forward again, but a claw hooked his calf above his leggings. “Jesus!” he snarled, instinctively firing a short burst down at the dark, grasping shape, hoping he wouldn’t shoot himself in the foot or bounce a bullet into somebody. The form thrashed and lay still, only to be trampled by following Raiders that carried Silva along, starting to yell with rage and mounting frustration toward the seemingly endless confines they fought in. At another switchback, Silva slipped on something slick and spongy and fell to his knees. Pressure from behind pushed him down on another reeking Grik, its belly torn open by several hits, his free hand sinking down, down, until he felt ribs. “Shit!” he bellowed. “Gimme a break! Ease up back there or you’ll trample me an’ half our own guys to death!”
The Raiders ignored him, surging past against another torrent of crossbow bolts, and then meeting a charge of sword- and spear-whirling Grik. The advance dissolved into flash-lit kaleidoscopic images of shooting, stabbing, slashing shapes. If Lemurians shared one genuine phobia as a species, it was of tight, enclosed spaces, and while Chack’s Raiders would never run from a fight, this was turning into a special nightmare and they’d go forward against any threat or obstacle to clear this tangled, hellish passageway. A crossbow bolt thunked into the stock of Silva’s Thompson. He was trying to hold it up and away from the gore he wallowed in, and the bolt hit with almost enough force to wrench the weapon from his grasp. Off balance, he dropped full length into the heap of offal.
“Yick! Dammitt! I’m gonna kick somebody’s ass!” he thundered when sandaled feet ran across his back, pushing him farther into the congealing slush. Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him, helping him up.
“This is no place for a naap,” Chack chastised, his voice falsely cheerful and edged with the same nervousness growing in the cries of his troops.
“Yah, well, tell that to your Raiders. Little bastards ran me down. Never seen anybody so panicked to run to a fight!”
Blitzers rattled ahead, around another turn, followed by the stuttering crash of several grenades. At the same time, Silva realized he could see slightly better. There must finally be another lighted chamber ahead.
“So’thing stinks,” Lawrence declared, snout rising, questing.
“No shit. I’m covered with Grik guts,” Silva snapped at his Sa’aaran friend.
“No,” Lawrence denied. “Stinks . . . di’rent.”
“I think the scent is . . . good,” Pokey murmured dreamily, eyes unfocused, and Silva glared at him. “Right. I think the canary just croaked. Time to get his ass outa here.” Without warning, Pokey lunged forward. “Whoa! Somebody grab him!” Several Raiders tried, but Pokey struggled loose, actually slashing one with his claws. Leaping over some wounded ’Cats, he bolted up the stairs.
“Stop Sergeant Pokey!” Chack ordered as they raced after the friendly Grik. “Don’t hurt him if you caan help it, but stop him!”
Turning the corner and topping the stairs, they saw there was indeed another large chamber, full of struggling forms. The floor was littered with bodies, probably killed by grenades, but more Grik were pouring in through a passage at the far end. And these were “special” Grik like they’d fought under the entrance arch. They came on, fighting wildly and well, oblivious to losses. And they’d closed so rapidly and ferociously, nobody could shoot without hitting a friend.
“Shit!” Silva groaned, dropping his Thompson and whipping out his cutlass just in time to slam the heavy blade crossways into a gaping mouth about to close on his face. The blade sank deep, severing the bottom jaw and stopping in the muscle behind the neckbone. The Grik dropped, and Silva yanked the cutlass free. Chack was fighting with his Krag, bashing swords and spears aside and thrusting with the bayonet. Lawrence dropped his cutlass in favor of his 1911. With only one good arm he couldn’t use both, and he started judiciously shooting when only enemies were behind his target. Good idea, Silva grudged. Hacking down another Grik, he pulled his own .45 and fired two shots, as fast as he could, at a Grik trying to spear him low. Another leaped high, a sword in each hand, but a Blitzer from the stairway caught him in midair and he crashed on top of Chack, taking him down in a tangle. Three Grik went after Chack while he tried to heave the body off and reclaim his rifle. Silva took them from behind, shooting one in the back of the head and severing the spine of another with a backhand chop. The last raised its spear to pin Chack, and Silva slammed into it, taking it to the floor, his cutlass already protruding from its chest. Gurgling and blowing blood, it reached around and slashed his left arm again even as he jammed his pistol against the side of its head and blew its brains out its right eye socket.
“Look out!” Lawrence screeched.
Silva rolled—too late—and a Grik pinned him to the corpse with a sword.
Even through the searing pain, Silva knew the hit wasn’t too bad, only piercing the flesh along his ribs. He pointed his pistol but it was empty, the slide locked back. His cutlass was still jammed in the pincushion Grik that held him transfixed like a bug, and there was no time to draw Captain Reddy’s Colt or the ’03 bayonet. Lawrence couldn’t shoot without hitting him too, and Chack was fumbling for his own 1911. He’d never get it out either.
Somehow, the Grik sensed it had all the time in the world—an entire second, maybe two—and instead of simply jerking its sword free and stabbing quickly down again, it twisted the blade. Grinding his teeth together, Silva rolled violently to his left. With searing agony, the flesh parted, and the Grik’s head exploded when Lawrence’s pistol went Pop! Pop! Pop!
“Lawsy, that smarts,” Silva hissed through clenched teeth as he stood, jamming his hand against his side. The fighting had surged toward the far opening and several Raiders were suddenly around them, helping Chack up and looking at them. “Right on time, you buncha dopes,” Silva snapped sarcastically. “One o’ you, fish my sticker outa that lizard, wilya?” He glanced at Lawrence, who was awkwardly reloading his pistol with shaking hands. Instead of the crack that first came to mind, similar to what he’d said to the ’Cats, he managed a grin. “Thanks, little buddy. Save my ass five, six hundred more times, we’ll be even.”
“Us e’en now,” Lawrence replied, his voice shaky as well, “counting tines you nearly get I killed.”
“I’d thaank you both,” Chack said, blinking rapidly at the red stain spreading down Silva’s side, “but we’re beyond the necessity of saying such things now, I think.” He blinked more rapidly as the blood started pooling by Silva’s boondocker. “Go baack where we left Major Jindaal. Get paatched up.”
Silva shook his head and raised his eyebrow at Lawrence. “Not this time, Chackie. I never made it to the Sequesteral Mammy’s digs at Grik City, an’ only Larry an’ that goat wit Isak lived ta tell the tale. This time I’m goin’ all the way, so you might as well get a corps-’Cat to plug my leak. I’ve had worse than this from Pam.”
“You two fight too much,” Chack scolded.
Silva’s grin turned beatific. “Who said anything about fightin’? Gal’s got sharp fingernails!” He looked around, really noticing their surroundings for the first time, and realized they’d finally discovered a room with decorations, of a sort. “I’ll be derned. Look at that!” There were tapestries on the walls, actually woven of metal. Probably the only reason they’d survived, since they looked absolutely ancient. A corps-’Cat cut Silva’s shirt off even as the three friends moved to study one of the wall coverings in the low yellow light.
/> Some of the thread was gold, obviously, since it hadn’t tarnished, but there was black and green thread as well, probably corroded silver and copper. It was impossible to tell what kind of scene or design might’ve been depicted, since the gold had been used to accent shapes, not form them, but the quality of the weave was finer than they expected of Grik, even though their textiles had never been lacking. Courtney once proposed that they must’ve had looms for millennia. And they’d seen decorative—if garish—objects made by Grik, so some artistic talent existed among them. It just never occurred to anybody they’d find something like this.
More expected, appropriate to the setting, and certainly contributing to the bizarre nature of the find, was the addition of hundreds of skulls crudely hooked into the tapestries, obscuring them even further. Skulls as decoration they’d seen before, but these represented such a wild variety of creatures—large, small, recent, ancient, vaguely familiar, and utterly unknown—that they almost had to be a catalog of some kind, a collection or index of known species. That some were arranged by likeness seemed to confirm that. Still, though many of the skulls were very old, even yellowed with age, none rivaled the age of the tapestry damaged to mount them, and Chack couldn’t shake the feeling they’d desecrated it—whatever it was—in some way. “Courtney would be amazed,” he breathed, blinking amazement of his own. Then he shook his head. “Will be, someday. Now we have work to finish.”
He looked at Silva. The corps-’Cat had quickly stitched his wound, smeared it with the curative polta paste, and bound an absorbent bandage to his torso with strips of clean linen. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Rarin’ ta go.”
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