Oberleuitnant Kurt Hoffman leaned on the conn-tower rail, staring at the new cruiser in the gathering dusk. None of its main guns were pointed at them, but Hoffman had no doubt they were being watched very closely. For that reason, and the fact that he and Oberleuitnant Walbert Fiedler were expected aboard that ship very shortly, he’d donned his least battered khaki jacket and least crushed black-brimmed, white-topped hat. Fiedler, placed aboard by the passing Leopardo and its oiler—the last time U-112 had been able to fuel—was dressed much the same, in the best they could come up with. Like everyone aboard, both had beards, though Hoffman’s was red and Fiedler’s was a dark blond.
“Most impressive that they could build something like that in so short a time,” Hoffman said, nodding at the cruiser.
“Very,” Fiedler agreed neutrally, “though by itself, it’s sadly inadequate for what lies before it.”
“Still,” Hoffman said, almost bitterly, “we have added nothing half as significant to our forces in the even longer time we have been on this world.”
“We are not the League anymore, Kurt,” Fiedler reminded forcefully, then sighed. “And the League did not have to. Merely maintaining what it already has requires almost as much industry as it took to build that.” Of course the League couldn’t maintain everything and had no intention to. Particularly less valuable (and reliable) assets like U-112. Oh, Hoffman had been assured that help would come, but everyone knew how empty that promise was. And in the meantime, U-112’s bunkers were almost dry in the middle of an ocean that was hostile both above and below, and they were virtually out of food. Combined with its crew’s dissatisfaction with the League in general and Walbert Fiedler’s persuasive arguments, surrender and asylum became the only option.
“And the most significant thing the Allies have accomplished is their Alliance itself,” Fiedler continued. “We will not be trusted at first,” he cautioned. “We can hardly blame them for that. But we will eventually be accepted.”
“Among so many different peoples . . . so many races,” Hoffman murmured dubiously.
Fiedler laughed. “There are just as many peoples and odd races in the League,” he reminded. “The only difference here is the status of those races.” He turned serious. “Do not make the mistake that these nonhumans are Untermensch of any sort. Many of their leaders are not human.”
Hoffman frowned, and Fiedler knew he and many of the crew might find that hard to accept. “Subhuman” races and species in the League weren’t persecuted as they’d begun to be in Germany before it entered the Confédértion États Souverains, but they weren’t equals, and certainly had no power. Hoffman was probably wondering again whether they’d done the right thing.
“What were we supposed to do, Kurt?” Fiedler demanded. “We were abandoned—just as the League will disdain the entire German contingent as soon as it is no longer needed. You forget: I was alone with Gravois for a long time. His attitude was clear and reflects that of the Triumvirate’s leadership. At the same time they fear us and seek to control us, they scorn us because we are relatively few. The French will marginalize the Spanish next, though I can’t see them succeeding with the Italians, but we Germans are already becoming Untermensch in the League ourselves, in terms of authority.”
Hoffman grunted. “You know this Kapitan Reddy so well? He will not make us fight our own people?”
Fiedler shook his head. “I cannot say that with certainty now, with the news we bring. It is actually probably a good thing we were sufficiently forgotten that we could still eavesdrop on secure League communications,” he mused. “But this alliance between the League and Dominion—you cannot imagine the depravity of the Dominion—is more shameful than the assistance we gave Kurokawa. I shall oppose anyone, even Germans, who would fight to support such a union. But unlike the members of the Triumvirate, even our German leaders yapping for scraps around the bigger table, Kapitan Reddy is a man of honor.”
Now Hoffman sighed. A motor launch was approaching from USS Fitzhugh Gray’s side. “So, how much will you tell them?”
Fiedler looked at him. “This time? We will tell them everything, and promise our full support. We have no choice, and our honor demands that we choose a side at last. To our credit, I think, we have done so—regardless of the privation that forced our hand. Yet we cannot now pick and choose to what degree we will do the honorable thing. Kapitan Reddy will smell the League on us like excrement if we try, and he will never trust us. What good can we possibly be to our people then?”
Hoffman nodded at the cruiser again. “So, even so weak, you think they—we—might prevail?”
Fiedler frowned and turned to look at Walker. Even repaired from her most recent damage, she still looked battered and worn. But he knew what she’d been through and what she’d accomplished. Still . . . “In all honesty, I can’t see how. Then again, what our new friends lack in combat power, they more than make up for in courage, determination, ingenuity.” His frown faded and became a grin. “And luck! You are a U-boat commander in the deadliest sea mankind has ever known. Surely you must believe in luck above all things!”
Army of the Republic
North Soala
Ungee River
General Marcus Kim, Inquisitor Choon, and Courtney Bradford, accompanied by a mounted security detail, found the 23rd Legion’s tired pickets guarding a fairly clear street in a largely intact portion of northwest Soala. A few thatch-roof buildings still smoldered where Cantets had dropped firebombs to support the twelve legions (including the 23rd and 1st, which reinforced), but beyond the safe range of the Republic’s indirect fire capacity, the battle had degenerated into a hovel to hovel—often hand-to-hand—infantry fight through the mazelike warren of two- and three-story adobe buildings. One of the sentries scampered to collect Bekiaa-Sab-At. He returned with her quicker than expected, along with Meek and Bele.
“Legate Bekiaa, Prefect Bele, Optio Meek,” General Kim said, nodding a greeting. “I’m glad to see you all well.”
Courtney Bradford peered at them more closely in the dim light of the picket’s lantern. They were alive, but he wasn’t sure they were well. All were covered in dust, caked on the blood and sweat beneath. Bekiaa looked worst of all, her fur thickly matted and her rhino-pig armor, which hadn’t collected as much dust, splashed with dark, dry blood. She moved slowly, stiffly, and her eyes were bleary. She looked like she’d been sleeping nearby and the sentry woke her.
“You look terrible, my dear,” Courtney said, concerned.
“Thaanks,” Bekiaa replied wryly. “I must’ve conked out,” she added, confirming their suspicions. “See, there was this nice, soft pile of rubble, an’ I couldn’t help myself.”
Kim chuckled, something he hadn’t been able to do after the army’s last battle. “We won’t keep you from your rest very long. You’ve certainly earned it. I’m told that your attack in the enemy’s rear, in company with the First Legion, provided a much-needed distraction from the flanking force. You have been commended by General Modius—again. I think he is much taken with you.”
“He’s a good maan,” Bekiaa said.
“An’ savin’ his arse is becomin’ a habit,” Meek added sourly.
“Optio!” Choon snapped, but Kim raised his hand and gently waved the admonition away. Everyone knew Meek was no mere optio. He’d originally been assigned to Bekiaa by Choon himself—not to spy, exactly, but certainly to keep an eye on her. She’d since earned his wholehearted support.
“I believe Optio Meek was enjoying a well-deserved nap as well, Inquisitor,” Kim said. “We will all need rest before we pursue the enemy.”
“Which we need to get at as quick as we can,” Courtney agreed grimly before continuing in a more customary, animated tone. “We just heard via wireless that First Fleet and its expeditionary force have not only stopped the Grik attack down the Zambezi, but two corps have already landed east of Sofesshk.” He
frowned. “Unfortunately, the blocking force was badly mauled. Worse, though we expected it, the Grik can now focus all their vast forces on General Alden on their own land, close to their base of supply—unless we keep some of those forces occupied.” He removed his sombrero and mopped sweat off his forehead with a rag. “Quickly, aggressively pursuing the army we defeated here should have that effect.”
Bekiaa was nodding. “Yeah. Preferably before they haave a chaance to shake off their scare an’ get their aact together,” she mused, her tail swishing now as she became more alert and animated as well.
“It will take a few days to reorganize the army,” Choon said, thinking aloud. “It was not too badly damaged this time, but there is great confusion. Now that we control the Ungee River, we can establish this city as our new base of supply. We expended a great deal of ordnance, and some, at least, must be replaced. Perhaps General Taal’s cavalry can continue to harass the enemy, keep them moving past defensible positions. . . .”
“Gener-aal Taal caan’t do it alone,” Bekiaa countered. “He’ll need weight behind him.” She gestured around. “The Grik paanicked at first, but controlled it—I saw.” She looked at Courtney. “There was no widespread Grik rout. They didn’t just run away; they regrouped, orgaan-ized a rear guard here, an’ retreated in a relaa-tively orderly fashion, considering the pasting Taal an’ the Caan-tets gave ’em.” She looked thoughtful. “Pretty daamn impressive, aactually.”
“Indeed,” Courtney said, nodding. “Our friends in the north evaluated the enemy performance much the same.” He looked at Kim. “The Army of the Republic is across the Ungee River, but there are more rivers ahead, in rough country. Beyond, and before we can hope to link up with General Alden, there’s a dreadfully flat and open plain. That may be to our advantage,” he conceded, “or very possibly not. I sincerely doubt the Grik—these Grik—will so woefully underestimate this army again.”
Puerto del Cielo
Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois stared moodily out at the great stone fort at the mouth of the River of Heaven. Leopardo had been obliged to remain at anchor there for an entire week, awaiting final sailing orders from Contrammiraglio Oriani. This after her excruciatingly long (if well-fed) stay on Lago de Vida at New Granada, while Gravois and Don Hernan finalized the treaty of alliance—and came to their own understanding. At least I think we have an understanding, Gravois admitted gloomily. He didn’t trust Don Hernan, and the irony that he’d finally met someone even more devious, cunning, and ambitious never struck him. But he was . . . uncomfortable with the arrangement they’d made, since so much of their hidden agenda relied on Gravois’s machinations within the League—maneuvers he’d never survive if they were discovered—and Don Hernan faced virtually no risk at all. Still, he was confident he could deal with the OVRA, and there were many he could recruit to his cause. Finally, of course, he was going home at last, preparing to reenter his own environment, where the players and rampant intrigues were as familiar as his own hand. Now, he snapped to himself, clasping his hands behind him, if only Oriani will stop dawdling and release me from this mosquito-infested wilderness, I can return to the comforts of my villa by the sea from which I can lay the groundwork for my bigger plans.
“Capitaine Gravois,” Capitano Ciano said, moving to join him by the rail. His voice was neutral, but when Gravois looked, he could see Ciano’s lips were twisted in an expression of disgust. Less than a kilometer away, several small bundles still smoldered beneath the charred crosses on the beach. In the seven days Leopardo had been at anchor, they’d been “treated” to the spectacle of group crucifixions and burnings at the base of the great stone fort five separate times. Even to members of the League of Tripoli, hardened to the necessity of barbarity by their conquest of the Mediterranean, the depravity of the Dominion was hard to bear. The crew was most affected, but Ciano was obviously starting to feel the strain. “I cannot imagine why we are so desperate for allies that we must soil ourselves so,” Ciano murmured.
“Things will change,” Gravois replied cryptically, then caught himself. He liked Ciano and considered him a candidate for inclusion in his plot, but the time wasn’t right. “The Dominion, by association with the League, will learn more civilized behavior,” he explained more safely.
“I wonder if that’s possible,” Ciano responded darkly, “or if the opposite is more likely true.” He turned to Gravois and faced him. “We have our orders at last,” he said.
“Good. How soon can we sail?”
Ciano hesitated, and if anything, his expression turned more bitter. “As soon as we fuel. We will then leave the oiler and carry the treaty to Ascension Island. Oriani will forward it to Tripoli along with our recommendation—as his own, no doubt—that substantial naval forces be prepared for deployment here to safeguard our ally’s control of the strategic passage to the Pacific. Leopardo, along with you and I, will then return to Puerto del Cielo”—he sent a shuddering glance back at the beach—“where we will stand by for further instructions or further opportunities to consult with Don Hernan, at his convenience.”
A white-hot fury rose in Gravois’s breast and he struggled mightily to contain it. “How long?” he managed to ask.
“I have no idea,” Ciano practically snarled, yanking his hat from his head and running fingers through his sweaty hair. He was angrier than Gravois had ever seen him. As angry as Gravois himself. “You know the state our capital ships are in; maintenance is so often neglected, and they’ve rarely ventured past the strait of Gibraltar. Months, at least, I suspect,” he spat, clenching his fists and glaring at the charred crosses. “More months here, watching that. I always knew Oriani was a pezzo di merda, but never expected him to stoop this low. Damn him! Damn the OVRA. And damn the League that allows creatures like him to thrive!”
It took Gravois several moments to contain his own rage; this would certainly complicate things. . . . Or would it? He practically felt his mind shift gears and start racing with new plans, new schemes. With a significant percentage of the fleet here, away from the League and largely commanded by men I know, men as dissatisfied with the Triumvirate as I and possibly open to . . . alternatives . . . my ultimate plan might actually be easier to effect. He looked at Ciano, still simmering beside him. I can even test that theory, he realized, and now might be the perfect time, after all.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Damn the League.”
South of El Paso del Fuego
“Colonel Sister Audry! Major Blas!” came the rather annoying voice of Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald’s aide, Lieutenant Ezekial Krish. Blas groaned, wondering if Rebecca sent Krish to pester her or to inflict her on Krish. She was pretty sure Rebecca was her friend, but either could be the case.
“Over here,” Sister Audry called, beckoning. Krish and several other members of Rebecca’s personal guard trotted their horses, each leading another, back down the column of weary Marines, Vengadores, and Jaguar Warriors struggling up yet another steep grade. The whole country was nothing but hills and mountains, Blas reflected, an uncomfortable number of which were active volcanoes. “Colonel Garcia and Captain’s Ixtli and Bustos are with us as well,” Audry reminded reproachfully. Krish tended to disregard them, and she wouldn’t have it.
Krish’s face reddened as he saluted. “Of course. I brought enough horses for you all. General Shinya desires that you join him at an overlook near the front of the column.”
“Where?” Audry asked, and Krish pointed near the top of the peak they were winding up the side of. Audry glanced worriedly at Blas. Lemurians didn’t do well where the air was thin. “Isn’t that a bit high?” she asked.
Krish smiled condescendingly. “Not nearly as high as we have been. It just looks so because the lowlands here are almost at sea level.”
“How smaart you are, Mr. Krish,” Blas mocked, raising her gaze to the promontory he’d indicated. “C’mon,” she said, “at least thaat one’s not
smokin’ an’ throwin’ fire around.” She looked back at Sergeant Koratin. “Why don’t you come? One horse’ll carry us both.” She really wanted Koratin’s input on the campaign, especially in front of Shinya, but Koratin just shook his head. Blas shrugged. “Okaay. Keep ’em movin’. If you let ’em stop, they’ll stiffen up an’ you’ll never get ’em goin’ again.”
X Corps’ advance had slowed to a crawl, taking far longer to negotiate these mountains than the higher, harder ones they’d traversed before. But X Corps was worn down and everyone knew they were marching toward, potentially, the bloodiest confrontation they’d ever had with the Doms. Blas figured they’d lost a couple hundred troops to straggling every day. Many caught up but some didn’t, and the army was bleeding out even before the fight.
They mounted and followed Krish up the winding columns of tired men and ’Cats. Sooner than expected, just around a jagged spur, was a relatively flat mountain meadow where the leading regiments were already spreading out, making camp. Krish led them up a narrow path to a craggy outcrop a hundred feet above the meadow, where they found Shinya, Rebecca, Saan-Kakja, and General Blair. Much to their surprise, none of the other regimental or even division commanders were there.
“Good afternoon,” General Tomatsu Shinya greeted them crisply, while Rebecca and Saan-Kakja embraced Audry and Blas. They warmly welcomed Garcia, Ixtli, and Bustos as well. Blas gazed at the stunning view to the northwest. Several smoking mountains stood on both sides of what looked like a wide bay, the late-day sun shimmering on the water. It wasn’t a bay, however, and they were among the first Allied personnel to view the almost mystical Pass of Fire from the ground. Even at this distance, perhaps fifteen miles, her sharp eyes saw sprawling villages all around the water, more ships than could be counted—their masts intermingled—and a very densely populated area largely surrounded by tall, zigzagging walls glowing bright white in the sun’s final rays. That must be El Coraa-zon an’ the fort the flyboys described, she thought, where Gener-aal May-taa an’ his aarmy is waitin’.
River of Bones Page 52
