“Helplessly subject to merciless attack from the air,” Esshk noted darkly.
“True, Lord,” Ign agreed. “And not only would the survivors be utterly exhausted by the time they completed their task, but Santa Catalina, doubtless notified of the attempt, could simply move downriver and slaughter them at its leisure. We always knew the Final Swarm could only succeed if it scattered.”
“It was just a suggestion,” the Chooser said sourly. “I am not a general, after all.”
A moment of contemplative silence ensued. Finally, Ign spoke. “My lords, should you choose to heed it, my counsel is this: allow me to properly plan an assault by the cruisers, to commence in a few days.” He inwardly cringed.
“Days?” Esshk roared. “While the enemy continues to eat us from the air?” He paused, listening. The heavy mutter of many motors now rumbled in the night sky outside, echoing in through the open stone passages. It was a sure sign that the big enemy flying machines that dropped their bombs in darkness were back. They’d been absent for a couple of weeks, and Esshk had wondered about that, but now it was clear they’d been assisting in the destruction of Kurokawa. What they’d done there might succeed here as well. Especially if they focused on Old Sofesshk. Esshk had already clamped down on dissent after the first such desultory strike, but with the Swarm on the move, the inhabitants of the city outnumbered his guards.
“I will dispatch a ten of hundreds of my finest troops back here at once,” Ign said, apparently reading Esshk’s mind, “but there are purposes for the delay. First, we must assemble an unstoppable force of cruisers. Many still linger at Lake Nalak, waiting to bring up the rear of the Swarm. They must pass through the galleys, and as congested as they are, such will take care and time. Second, we must quickly alter at least a hundred of those galleys to mount the heaviest guns they will bear. They are entirely unarmed and were never meant to carry weapons of their own, but if the cruisers become blocked as well, our entire vast fleet will be of little use, and the galleys will be our only means of destroying Santa Catalina.”
“The fast-firing weapons,” the Chooser reminded.
“Many galleys will be lost,” Ign agreed, “but enough should make it close enough to fire directly into the enemy’s hull and sink it at last.”
“Such modifications may take more than a few days,” the Chooser observed.
Ign reluctantly nodded agreement, his snout brushing the stones. “Perhaps. And I do not propose that we rely on the galleys alone. If allowed to live, I will attack first with an overwhelming number of the cruisers. Santa Catalina can only engage so many at once. If the cruisers quickly break her, we will not need the galleys. If not, the galleys will join the attack.”
“You are wise to plan for what to do if the first—or second—plan fails,” Esshk grudged. “That is rare among our race, as you know.” He seemed to make a decision, his crest rising once again. “Stand, General Ign. I cannot spare you and command you not to destroy yourself. The blunder today was not yours alone. I myself should have accompanied you, to ensure the airships patrolled effectively, and guide you in your confusion. The airship commanders will go to the cookpots,” he added darkly, “but you will not. That does inspire me, however.” He looked at the Chooser. “How many airships remain to us, here and up the coast? They do little, now that the Sovereign Nest of Japhs is lost and the bombing of the Celestial City is suspended.”
The Chooser hesitated. “There may be as many as three hundreds, Lord.”
“Excellent. I want all but a handful here. They will attempt to bomb the Santa Catalina, of course, but more important, I want them bombing the wreckage in the channel to clear it away. Is that understood?”
Ign suppressed an urge to caution against expecting too much in that regard. Some Grik bombardiers had significantly improved, practicing on the enemy-occupied Celestial Palace. The bombs, however, while powerful enough to sink a ship and well designed for area saturation, were ill suited to the concentration required to utterly demolish a wreck. Enough of the very powerful sacrificial piloted bombs might have succeeded, but the Japanese teachers for their crews had long ago gone to Zanzibar. The tiny handful of trained pilots that remained could still be used, but by definition their mission had never allowed for the accumulation of the necessary experience to instruct new pilots.
“And what of the remaining ‘handful’ of airships?” the Chooser asked.
“One will immediately fly to inform General of the Sky Muriname that he is to bring his surviving flying machines here. I know they require different fuel, available only where they are, so that must somehow be brought as well. By airship also, perhaps. His planes have limited weapons, but we will adapt others to their use.” He paused. “Issue the order yourself and ensure it cannot be interpreted as a request.”
“And the others?”
“Two airships at least must fly south and scout the threat there. It is clearly greater than expected.” The latest ominous reports indicated that beyond belief, the meager Republic of Real People seemed poised to attempt a crossing of the Ungee River, directly in the face of the horde already dispatched to stop it. Esshk was confident the Republic constituted a mere diversion and couldn’t imagine its forces might actually succeed, but, then, he hadn’t imagined that the Final Swarm might be stopped in its tracks either. It would be best to learn more about what was happening in the southern empire. “Finally,” Esshk continued thoughtfully, “we must try to contact General Halik.”
“If he lives,” the Chooser agreed doubtfully. “We have had no word of him or his army in a great while.”
“Untrue. Kurokawa claimed Halik betrayed him and escaped India to the west, perhaps into the regency of Persia. I do not believe the betrayal, particularly considering the source, but there are now . . . strange reports of war in Persia, between Regent Consort Shighat and an unknown force. It might be the enemy advancing from India, but I think it must be Halik. I can certainly imagine him strongly disagreeing with Shighat. Shighat was an associate of Ragak’s, after all.”
From outside came the thunder of bombs, still mostly falling on the greater mass of Grik and industry across the river in New Sofesshk, but a few might be landing in Old Sofesshk as well. It was difficult to tell. Doubtless, many were falling in the river now, hoping to hit or swamp the many galleys still passing downstream. The palace muffled the explosions, and no bomb they knew of could harm the palace itself, but they started hearing lighter, cracking detonations as rockets rose to explode in the dark, spewing fragments of iron. The rockets were a poor defense, especially at night, but were cheap in labor and materials, and easy to build. At night they relied solely on the concept that if they put enough metal in the air, some was bound to hit something. It was the best they could do for now. And it sounded like there were more planes than usual. That should make one easier to hit, shouldn’t it?
“It shall be done,” the Chooser assured, then hesitantly—amazed by the notion that suddenly entered his mind—he continued. “Perhaps there is yet another strategy we might pursue.” Esshk and Ign both looked at him. “With the Zambezi blocked, the enemy cannot get at us either. They can bomb, and that is a nuisance, but we do grow better at defense. And General of the Sky Muriname has suggested better tools. Therefore, if we proceed with the full suppression of the influential Hij of Old Sofesshk, the need for precipitous action”—he bowed his head at Ign—“is less urgent. At the same time, the reports from the south concern me a great deal, and it unsettles me that we must now face two directions to fight. Perhaps . . .” If his own crest hadn’t been stiffened, it would’ve been quivering wildly now. “Perhaps we should settle on a posture of protection here for a time, until the matter in the south is settled.”
Esshk stared. “You say that now? You, who have clamored constantly, ‘Attack! Attack!’ would now turn your face from the Hunt?”
“No, Lord,” the Chooser denied breathlessly. �
��But you yourself understand this is no conventional hunt, no commonplace war. We face no ordinary prey. If we are thwarted entire, which has happened with this very prey before,” he reminded, “there will be no centuries of respite while we rebuild, regather, and begin to probe outward once again. This time our prey means to make us prey—and hunt us to extinction. We must proceed more carefully than ever before. This not only so our reforms might flourish,” he lightly jabbed, appealing to their plans for absolute power, “but so our very race will survive.”
Esshk spun away, his long red cape whirling behind him, exposing his widely flared tail plumage. For a long moment, he said nothing, didn’t even move. Finally, he turned to face them again. “No,” he said. “Your new counsel has some merit, but the time for the wide-ranging designing of battles is past. The attack in the south cannot succeed; it can only be a demonstration to draw our gaze from the greater wounded prey. And the extent of its wounds is made clear by the fact that they could only send the one iron ship against us. A daring stroke,” he conceded again, “but no less an act of desperation because of that. Now is the time to break out. Now is the time to flush the Final Swarm, because now is when the enemy—our very worthy prey—is at his weakest and least prepared. We have reached a point where no further considerations, other than how best to effect that, will be entertained. Am I completely clear? Good.”
Esshk looked at Ign. “We cannot wait days to assail the Santa Catalina. We must continue to press it, wound it, however we can—consistent with your excellent strategy—and with the least chance of further blocking the channel. Only that will bind it to its present position and give our airships an opportunity to destroy it. As for the rest . . .” Esshk passed his clawed hand down his jaw in thought. “With the dawn, I will join you at the bend of the river myself and we will design the next attack together.”
“A great honor, Lord. The New Army—all your warriors—will be inspired by your presence and redouble their efforts!”
“I am sure,” Esshk agreed. Then he turned to the Chooser. “You will remain at the palace. You alone have the authority, and the trust of my generals, to preside in my place. Begin the suppression you crave. It is time. And it may also be better, considering the sensibilities of some of the more traditional generals whom we still need, that I not be seen as part of it. Insulate our new Celestial Mother from your activities and guide her as I have done. Teach her, persuade her, ensure she understands her role. We may well need the . . . aura of authority she retains before all is done.”
“As you command, my lord,” the Chooser replied, with equal measures of anxiety and relief.
December 5, 1944
“Carefully, or I’ll be gnawing your bones by the cookpot tonight!” roared First of Fifty Naxa, standing under the high, bright sun—and the heavy gun being lowered onto the reinforced fo’c’sle of the galley. His Ka’tan, Senior First of One Hundred Jash, stood with First of One Hundred Seech somewhat back, on the walkway over the rowing benches, watching with a mix of awe and uncertainty.
“We’ll be gnawing his bones if that rickety boom snaps or the cables part,” Seech hissed quietly. “And that will be our final pleasure before we are stuffed in a barge at best, or scattered among the other galleys—after this one sinks with a cannon-sized hole in its bottom.”
Jash made a sharp diagonal nod. He’d already lost all the extra warriors he’d rescued from the lake, to make room for the new deck and gun, and the forward three pairs of oars had been sacrificed as well. He would’ve lost their rowers, but they had to crew the gun. He hoped the others hadn’t gone to a barge. They were all New Army warriors, after all. Somewhat annoyingly, this was all apparently considered a reward to him personally, for his instinct to save only the armed warriors spilled into the lake. The act had drawn the notice of the First of Ten Hundreds, or ker-noll, commanding the ten of galleys Jash’s belonged to. And while less than a dozen of its crew had earned names—they hadn’t seen combat yet—the ker-noll had specifically honored Jash by naming his galley Slasher. That left him torn between a sense of satisfaction and a fervent wish he hadn’t saved anyone. Still, now that his command had a name, Jash already felt a strange attachment to it. He didn’t want his crew, his own little pack, broken up, but found himself equally disturbed by the notion his Slasher might have a heavy cannon dropped through it and be destroyed in such an ignominious fashion before it ever met the prey.
The Swarm Fleet had no tenders, no dedicated repair ships, but with so many galleys being altered and so few repair slips in the Sofesshk vicinity left undamaged by nightly bombings, they’d found themselves alongside one of the transport barges for second-wave (second-rate) warriors. These were supposed to be towed across the strait by cruisers or tugs and land at the Celestial City after the galley warriors got their claws in it. But after a week of sitting idle while the battle at the nakkle leg sputtered and flared, day and night, the barge—packed with ten hundreds of warriors and all their artillery and ammunition—had exhausted the dried meat meant to get them through the crossing and first few days of battle. Those aboard had resorted to the usual expedient of eating their own, starting with the weak and sick, but a longer delay would result in a gradual diminution of combat power. It also meant that, even compared to Slasher, which was little cleaner than any ordinary Grik ship, the barge reeked enough for Jash to notice and be repelled. He absolutely didn’t want to wind up in one like it. But the barge provided the workers, the material, and the massive (to Jash) sixteen-pounder field gun on a quickly cobbled naval truck that was inching down from the makeshift boom toward the jury-rigged firing platform Naxa stood upon.
Jash had no idea what the great gun weighed, but knew it was a lot. Most of his crew were crowded at Slasher’s stern to counterbalance it and give them an idea how much ballast to shift or take on to trim the vessel.
“Pull it around!” Naxa bellowed at a pair of Grik on slack taglines, staring with open jaws. Too quickly, they jumped to obey and started a slight spin. “Stop it!” Naxa snapped at another pair, and with great effort, the weapon steadied. Finally satisfied, Naxa stepped from under the gun and motioned for the laborers on the barge to ease it down. Raw wood planks and timbers groaned forlornly, and Jash felt the added weight through his feet. “Make all secure,” Naxa commanded, and Grik scurried to fasten the gun to ringbolts placed around the deck. They’d rig it for firing and recoil later when a proper gun crew rowed over from one of the cruisers to show them how. A field-gun crew was already crossing over from the barge to begin training the former rowers detailed to operate it.
“Begin resuming your posts,” Seech called aft. “Frontmost first.” As the rowers trotted forward to take their places at the benches, the galley continued to groan. By the time it leveled out at last, barely two-thirds of the positions were filled.
“This is what they told me to expect,” Jash explained to his XO. “We will have to put all the ammunition in the back—the stern—to maintain proper balance. It will be awkward, carrying it to the front to use, but there is no choice. We cannot distribute the load and will already ride lower in the water than I would prefer.”
“What will happen when we use up the ammunition and its weight goes away? For that matter . . .” Seech paused and lowered his voice. “I have heard the water in the strait sometimes makes waves bigger than we have seen on the lake. Those can be . . . unsettling enough. How can we survive them with that terrible, heavy thing up front?”
Jash regarded Seech curiously. “It is worse than you suppose. All gun-galley commanders were gathered to hear real sailors who have ventured into the great sea. The war has left us precious few of those, as you might imagine, and the remainder are all assigned to the greatships and cruisers. They said, with all the weight in the front and back of our vessels, the waves in the strait will snap them in two.” He shook his head with something akin to humor at the way Seech’s jaw fell open. “That will not be a problem fo
r us. Unless there is a storm, unburdened galleys can cross the strait with ease. And we will be unburdened by then, having dropped the great gun and all its ammunition over the side as soon as we reach the open sea.”
“Well, that relieves my mind to a degree,” Seech confessed.
“I am pleased to hear it—but you should also know the main reason the waves of the sea are not expected to trouble us is that few of the gun galleys are expected to survive their attack on the Santa Catalina. So what happens after should be of little concern to us. I am actually somewhat surprised that we were told what to do if we make it that far.”
Soft, dull thumping sounds reverberated upriver, trapped by the high riverbanks and then the city, all the way from the contentious bend. They’d seen distant flashes from the airship bombs (and burning, falling airships) for three nights now, and the latest scheme, moving antiair rockets forward and using them to bombard Santa Catalina and her consorts, must’ve finally begun. Perhaps they’d be more effective in that role. It was even possible the cruisers were making their sortie, though Jash thought he would’ve been given warning of that. Most of the gun galleys were finished now, but few were staged, and they were supposed to closely follow the cruiser sortie when it occurred.
“Then again, perhaps we will,” Jash consoled Seech. “The prey, a single ship standing against the might of the Final Swarm, cannot have things all its way forever, and it will not be expecting you or me, or our Slasher.”
CHAPTER 11
////// USS Itaa
TF Gri-kakka
December 6, 1944
“Wheeee!” hollered Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva as he threw Petey as high and far as he could, past the wooden rail, the roiling bow wave, and out over the deadly sea of the Go Away Strait.
“Goddamn!” Petey screeched, and tumbled before flinging out all four legs and extending the membranes between them. For an instant he stalled, and it looked as if he’d drop like a stone into the churning water, but like a falling cat, he managed to orient himself with amazing speed. With a strange, undulating flap of his entire body, he bolted aft, soaring on the respectable tailwind, and crashed into the waiting clutches of laughing, chittering, hissing troops. These consisted of human Maroons from Madagascar and their Imperial cousins from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, Lemurians from all over the Alliance, and Grik-like and human Khonashi from North Borno. Still laughing, they collected Petey, pointed him back at Silva and the group gathered around him near the bow, and turned him loose. Petey took off like a rocket, squirming between the feet of three species of troops, zigging and zagging through the press, until he scrambled up Silva’s leg, crawled onto his shoulder, and breathlessly cried “Eat!” in the big man’s ear.
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