River of Bones_Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  Blas blinked irony and countered, “Have you?”

  Koratin sighed. “My fill of fighting this enemy will come when they are defeated or I am dead,” he said simply.

  “As will mine,” Sister Audry agreed, surprising them all. She looked at their blinking and the odd expressions of the humans. “You think my enthusiasm for the cause is less than yours?”

  “Of course not, Santa Madre!” Arano Garcia fervently denied.

  “Stop calling me that,” Sister Audrey said in a tone of long-suffering patience.

  “Yes, Santa Madre.”

  Sister Audry rolled her eyes heavenward, but then looked directly at Blas. “Then perhaps some think I do not fight because I do not kill?”

  “Yes,” Blas said, earning her shocked, reproachful looks from everyone except Sister Audry, who merely regarded her with a sad smile.

  “Then, respectfully, Major Blas, I would try to persuade you that is a great mistake. I can’t bring myself to kill, but I do most emphatically oppose as directly as any of you. With my life.” She pursed her lips. “Do you think me a hypocrite because I urge you all to fight and kill when I will not?”

  Blas blinked thoughtfully, evaluating her understanding of the word “hypocrite.” “Yes,” she finally said again, and there were murmurs of anger from the Vengadore officers this time. Blas continued. “As a few here know”—probably only Koratin, First Sergeant Spook, and Audry herself—“there was a time when I was as innocent of killing as you.” Her thoughts drifted back to a terrible night in Aryaal that still tormented her dreams. She’d been a young naval recruit aboard USS Mahan—and the coarse, dark, gut-wrenching memory of a stubble-faced, bulging-eyed, reeking-breath human . . . “I was once . . . unable to fight,” she said simply, quietly. “I tried, but didn’t know how. All I could do was oppose, and it didn’t do any good.” She looked at Audry, her large eyes flashing. “And to this day, though I love and honor them for it, my greatest shame in life remains thaat it fell to others to aa-venge me.” She took a long breath in the sudden silence. “Never think I don’t respect you, Col-nol”—she tilted her head at the troops they led, talking loudly among themselves and oblivious to this—“or even love you as much as any of them, but I don’t under-staand you—or how you don’t often feel like I do.”

  “She follows her faith,” Arano Garcia hissed, “and sets the example all of us would follow if we could!”

  “But what if you did?” Blas countered, shaking her head. “Could we still win?”

  “No,” Koratin replied firmly, but he was blinking discontentedly, as if searching for an argument.

  Sister Audry was still smiling, but tears of compassion filled her eyes. She wiped them away. “My dear Major Blas. I do feel as you do, in many ways. I daresay I even dimly comprehend a helpless sense of violation related to that which tortures you, because of the despicable way the Dominion desecrates my very faith, clothing their abominable teachings with some of the same trappings of my own. Don’t you think I want to destroy them for that? Can you imagine how hard it is for me to resist the temptation?” She shook her head. “But I resist. I must resist, to prove my church and theirs are not the same, that God is love—not the bloodthirsty sucker of souls they revere!

  “I never asked for this,” she continued, then snorted. “This command,” she stressed, “because of the inherent hypocrisy you perceive. And contrary to the belief of some, I’m not here on a mission to convert our enemies to my specific faith, though I praise God when they come to His understanding. I no longer even begrudge the pagans among us, because compared to those of the enemy—at least in the sense they have suffered, and would end the suffering of others—their beliefs are as close to mine as are the shoes upon my feet alike.” She paused. “Which brings us to the insurmountable difference between all of us and our enemy, Major Blas,” she said. “The Doms revel in suffering, even to the extent of exalting their own, but their chief pleasure comes from inflicting it on others. This is hateful to my God, the same Maker that you, the Christians here, even the Ocelomeh, worship. So, to my mind, we are engaged in a holy crusade made even stronger by its interdenominational nature.” She gently touched Arano’s shoulder. “Mr. Bradford would be amazed by how flexible I have become toward other faiths since this command was thrust upon me, but I cannot be flexible enough with my own faith to directly cause the suffering I abhor and still remain who I am.”

  Blinking rapidly and deeply moved, Blas considered that. Then she looked at Spook, Garcia, Koratin. Everyone in their little group had been entirely different people when the war began. In spite of herself, she couldn’t keep all the irony out of her voice when she said, “Then I pray to the Maker that you—of all of us—might get through this as something like the person you staarted as.”

  “Major Blas!” Colonel Garcia said harshly.

  “She is right, Col-nol,” Koratin countered, “we must all pray for that. And so she caan remain the example we need, thaat our enemy—your people—needs, protecting and keeping the Saanta Maadre just the same is as much a part of our jobs as fighting the Doms.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ////// Santiago Bay, NUS-occupied Cuba

  “It’s pretty here,” Lieutenant (jg) Kari-Faask observed as she and Lieutenant Fred Reynolds hurried along the bustling Santiago waterfront. In spite of what she said, all her attention seemed focused on the new bar sewn on the hem of her smock, and Fred pulled her back before she was run over by a freight wagon.

  “Watch out, wilya!” Fred scolded. It would’ve been ridiculous to have his friend smushed now, after all they’d been through, particularly by a creeping wagon drawn by something like a small armabuey. Armabueys were basically giant armadillos that the Doms used for heavy draft animals. The ones here, called dillos, had the same purpose but were only half as big, with a thinner shell and more bristly fur delineating the armored segments of their case. In size and general shape (even their long, pointed heads), Fred compared them to a 1940 Ford coupe he’d been saving money for before the war back home. Oddly, likening them to his dream car made him feel vaguely unfaithful to his old world and life.

  “Sorry,” Kari said, blinking wryly. “I just never been a lieu-ten-aant before.”

  “How about trying to stay one a while longer?” Fred quipped.

  Coming to the end of the long pier where some of the mighty NUS steam frigates of its newly organized Caribbean Fleet were docked (Fred wondered if they had another fleet), they veered up Chandlery Street toward Navy House a couple of blocks away.

  The Santiago Bay on the Cuba of this world was situated more to the west, closer to where Manzanilla Bay should’ve been, and there were even the same low mountains to the east, jutting surprisingly from an otherwise low coastal plain. Santiago City was a mixture of NUS wood and brick construction, in a vaguely Victorian terraced-housing style, alongside earlier, more ornate Dom buildings fashioned from cut coral blocks. The streets were also crushed coral, glaring as brightly as the white sand beaches under the midafternoon sun. The people reminded Fred of those in the Empire of the New Britain Isles: mostly brown with dark hair, but there was a slightly higher percentage of light-skinned folk with brown, blond, even red hair. He understood that was because the “Nussies” had mixed a little with some European descendants from diverse, insular, and often belligerent tribes scattered along the East Coast of North America. Fred wanted to learn more about them, but Captain Willis, of NUS Congress, said they were even more disagreeable than the various Indian tribes with which the Nussies had generally peaceful relations, even alliances. They didn’t seem anxious to invite the easterners to join the alliance, however, and Fred guessed they had their reasons. That the NUS wasn’t currently at war with any of them was enough to satisfy him for now. No doubt Courtney Bradford, even Captain Reddy, would be fascinated and want to meet them.

  “It is kind of pretty,” Fred finally agreed. “And not
too hot either. Kind of like San Diego . . . ought to be.” Fred had been born in Southern California, but even Saint Francis—where San Francisco should’ve been—was cooler on this world, and wetter. More like Seattle, he thought. Passing a well-dressed man in a fashionable wide-brimmed straw hat, who escorted a plump woman wearing a lacy shawl and a lightweight bonnet, Fred bowed and smiled. The man managed an uncomfortable smile in return and touched a walking stick to his hat, but the woman drew away as if frightened. “There you go, scaring the locals again,” he murmured to Kari.

  She blinked annoyance and turned, still walking, to watch the couple go. “Dumb-aasses,” she muttered lowly. “They got no reason ta be scared o’ me.”

  “Sure, but how’re they supposed to know?” They’d finally discovered the answer to a mystery that had bothered them for some time. They’d been the very first to meet a representative of the NUS, the enigmatic Captain Anson, who helped them escape from Dom captivity. He’d been intrigued by Kari but not overwhelmed by her strangeness, even though it was clear she’d been the first Lemurian the Doms had ever seen. After flying halfway across South America and landing in the Caribbean, their poor, shot-up Nancy on its last legs and out of gas, they’d met more Nussies who, though also surprised to see her, weren’t amazed. Finally, after Captain Greg Garrett arrived in USS Donaghey with her Dom prize, Matarife—and a whole ship full of Lemurians from the Union and the Republic—it was finally explained that the NUS had known about “felinoids” almost since the very first days they’d arrived on this world, though they’d never been sure where they came from. And regarding those they’d met before, that uncertainty still existed.

  It was possible, even probable, that some had been ’Cats from the Republic—long-range traders or explorers who either never made it home or chose to keep their secrets. It was also possible another population of Lemurians existed somewhere, the ancient exodus from Madagascar spreading farther than anyone had ever dreamed. In any case, the ’Cats had always sailed small, swift schooners, and though the infrequent encounters had almost always been friendly, there’d been anecdotal accounts of piratical acts against unarmed merchantmen. Even most Nussies suspected these were tall tales, or even insurance scams, but Lemurians had remained sufficiently mysterious to be frightening to some, now that they walked among them.

  “Bunch-aa dopes,” Kari sniffed, pulling out a cigar and lighting it with the Zippo Fred had given her. Fred rolled his eyes. They’d kill for real tobacco back home, instead of that nasty crap Isak came up with, and it’s totally wasted on me. But Kari took to cigars like she’d craved ’em all her life, and runs around smoking like a Chinese coastal freighter. Ahead was Navy House, second in size in the city only to the governor’s residence and the warehouses lining the wharves. Four tall, pinkish columns framed a high, dark wooden door that was opened for them by a guard all in white cotton and leather crossbelts. The only things on him that weren’t white were the dark blue wheel hat on his head and his black shoes and cartridge box. “Good afternoon, ah, sirs,” the man said lowly, recognizing them at once. “They’re all waiting for you,” he urged.

  Fred pulled the watch Captain Willis had given him out of the pocket on the breast of his faded combat smock. “Crap!” he murmured. “We’re late! I told you to quit goofin’ around with those kids on the beach!”

  “They weren’t scared o’ me!”

  “They didn’t know any better.”

  Another guard—steward . . . probably guard, since he was armed with a rifle-musket—marched them to the same conference room they’d visited a dozen times. Inside, seated on one side of the long table, was Captain Greg Garrett, his tall, rangy frame folded on a tall-backed chair, and Lieutenants Mak-Araa, Greg’s XO, and Wendel “Smitty” Smith, Donaghey’s gunnery officer. Next to them, representing the Republic of Real People, were Tribune Pol-Heena and his assistant, Leutnant Koor-Susk. Fred found it amusing that Captain Garrett, Smitty, and he were the only humans here on behalf of the Grand Alliance. “I’m sorry we’re late, sir,” Fred told Greg, then began to direct his excuse at the Nussies on the other side of the table. He recognized Admiral Sessions, who’d only just arrived a few days before, as well as Commodore Semmes and Captain Willis. He’d met a few of the other NUS Naval officers present, but couldn’t remember their names. Another man sat at the far end of the table, leaning back, and Fred couldn’t make out his features.

  “It’s my fault,” Kari began. “We was down paast the dock, down on thaat saand spit . . .”

  “And got involved in a conversation with some local fishermen, unaccustomed to Lieutenant Faask’s appearance,” Fred interrupted before Kari could finish. He doubted their hosts would appreciate that they’d all been kept waiting because he and his friend had gotten caught up in helping some fascinated giggling children catch fish with a cast net. “In the interest of better understanding between our people, particularly when it comes to folks getting used to ’Cats, why, we thought it was a good idea to mingle.” He hesitated. “Like we’ve been doing . . . mingling with folks,” he finished lamely. The only ones who seemed vaguely annoyed were Admiral Sessions and Captain Garrett. The latter because their behavior reflected on him and the Alliance, no doubt, but the gaunt Semmes and pudgy Willis only smiled and nodded. They were both used to Fred and Kari’s youthful exuberance by now.

  “Yes, yes, all for the best I’m sure,” Sessions said impatiently, and started to stand.

  “I wouldn’t count on it being for the best,” said the man at the end of the table in an amused tone, “but I doubt it did any harm. Those two have the most astounding knack for avoiding unpleasant situations, in spite of themselves.”

  Fred could only stare. That voice . . . Finally, the man leaned forward and turned to face them. He still wore the thick, bushy mustache they remembered, but it had been joined by equally bushy muttonchops.

  “Caap-i-taan Aan-son!” Kari exclaimed.

  The man smiled. “Not my real name, of course. Not even Admiral Sessions knows that.” He looked thoughtful. “But Anson will do.” He rose and walked around the table until he stood before them, and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you both again,” he said as they shook. “The last time was at the Pass of Fire, and you were rowing a small stolen boat out into a sea infested by leviathans!”

  “And you just . . . vanished back into the darkness around Corazon, which was lousy with Doms chasing us!”

  “Yes, well, perhaps we can reminisce another time,” Sessions suggested.

  “Sure,” Fred and Kari chorused.

  Greg waved a hand. “Am I to understand this is the man you met when you escaped the Doms—who told you the NUS would join our war against them right after we kicked the hornet’s nest?” He looked at Anson. “We kicked it two or three times and got stung pretty bad for our trouble too, but nobody here had ever heard of us before we showed up!”

  “That’s not exactly . . .” Fred began, but Anson interrupted. “I apologize for that,” he said. “You know about the adventures your young aviators experienced, but my escape overland was somewhat eventful as well. I suspect it also took considerably longer.” He glanced at Sessions. “Then, even after I managed to effect it, I had a great deal of difficulty convincing some in our War Department that not only had the Empire thrown off the unwholesome influence of the ‘Honorable’ New Britain Company, but it was now fully engaged in an all-out war against the Doms. Even more difficult for some to accept was my report that the Empire desired an alliance with us, and other significant powers were arrayed beside it.” He leaned slightly forward and clasped his hands behind his back. None could fail to notice that he not only wore a long, straight sword, but had a pair of large pistols enclosed in flap holsters suspended from his belt. He noticed their attention. “Even here I’m not entirely safe, I fear.” He frowned. “Nor are any of you. I understand, Captain Garrett, that you had a demonstration of how depraved our common ene
my can be?”

  Greg shuddered, remembering the young Dom officer—little more than a child—who’d murdered a Marine on his ship and tried to kill him. “I think we’ve all seen that,” he conceded.

  “In any event,” Anson continued, “I regret that your people were ‘stung,’ but I did my best, in good faith, and hope we can move forward in our common interest.”

  “Me too,” Greg said. “Fred, Kari, have a seat.” He glared at the cigar still smoldering in Kari’s hand as the two found chairs and scooted up to the table, but he couldn’t really complain. Semmes was smoking a cigar of his own, and Captain Willis was puffing a pipe. Smitty had accepted an offered cigar, but immediately crammed it in his mouth and chewed it up into a soggy blob. Greg supposed he was swallowing the juice. Then again, he hadn’t actually spoken for a while . . .

  Admiral Sessions cleared his throat. “Tell me more about your General Shinya and his plans. Is it true you used to be enemies?”

  Greg nodded. “He’s a Jap,” he agreed, as if that explained everything, but then frowned thoughtfully. “But he’s a good Jap. He’s been on our side almost from the start. Even some of the Japs that weren’t—Kurokawa’s men—have come around. What choice did they have?” He shrugged. “I’ll never understand the way some of ’em think; it’s almost as weird to me as the Grik or Doms, but honor is incredibly important to them. It looks like helping us is the best, most ‘honorable’ choice they have left. Some of ’em, though, like Shinya, Miyata, a few others, are on our side because they want to be, and we’re damn lucky to have ’em. Shinya, for example, started out on a Jap tin can we sank, but he’s more American—like me, in the time we came from—than you are. And he’s turned into one tenacious bastard in a fight. Probably as good as any army commander in the Alliance.”

  “Tin can?” Sessions asked dubiously, and Commodore Semmes leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Ah. Indeed. It seems the two Americas that spawned us are even different enough to produce separate languages! I shall endeavor to interpret yours in context.”