Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  “They can’t know the situation in New Britain yet,” Fred said. “Send it.”

  “What we do?”

  “We keep circling until Walker gets here. Company ships have cannons, and they might shoot them at us, if we get low enough. I bet they won’t shoot at Walker!”

  Reynolds was right. The old destroyer raced to within five thousand yards, put an intimidating and unanswerable shot into the sea just forward of the Company ship, and continued to advance while the target hove-to more creditably and “officially,” yanking her flag to the quarterdeck. Fred and Kari watched Walker churn to a halt off the sailing ship’s bow, guns trained out to port.

  “Signal at halyard,” Kari said. “Says ‘well done, return to ship, recover on swhiard side.’”

  “Sounds good to me,” Fred said, feeling better about their first jaunt together since that last, traumatic flight. “Let’s go home.”

  Six Imperial Marines were on Walker, under Jenks’s personal command. All the ’Cat Marines had remained on New Scotland either recu- perating from wounds or preparing for the campaign against New Ireland. Jenks, the Bosun, the Marines—and Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites and his BAR—crossed to the “prize” in the rebuilt motor whaleboat. The Bosun was coxswain. Shortly after they went aboard the vessel—her lines similar to most employed by the Company for long-distance cargo transport, and little different from the Indiamen that inspired her—the whaleboat returned with Jenks, the Bosun, and two other men. Matt was waiting with a security detail when they climbed the metal rungs on the hull just aft of the amidships deckhouse.

  A portly, dark-haired man sporting an “Imperial” mustache was first aboard, eagerly saluting Walker’s flag and everyone he saw. Matt suppressed a chuckle, imagining the warning Jenks or Gray must have given. The man goggled at the Lemurians and was clearly astonished to see the aircraft that had frightened him so being lifted to the deck, aft of the searchlight tower. Another, younger officer followed him, with similar behavior, and Jenks brought up the rear. The Bosun exchanged places with “Boats” Bashear, a ’Cat signalman, and the short-tailed Gunner’s Mate Faal-Pel (Stumpy), who hopped down in the boat with a Thompson before Bashear advanced the throttle and steered the boat back toward the “prize.”

  “I’m Captain Halowell,” gushed the portly man. “Honorable New Britain Company Ship, Pompey. I know Commodore Jenks by reputation, and he told me to expect a Captain Reddy. Are you he?”

  “I am,” Matt replied.

  Halowell was practically wringing his hands. “Honestly, Captain, you gave us quite a fright. I still don’t know whether to be distressed or relieved by his detention!”

  Matt wondered what it was about the situation that would cause relief, but he forged ahead with the first—agreed—protocol regarding just this possibility. “I’m sorry to distress you further, but I believe Commodore Jenks has a formality to attend to.”

  Jenks nodded and stepped forward, removing a folded page from a pocket of his weskit. “Captain Halowell, I’m pleased to inform you that the Company you served has been disbanded for its role in a murderous, treasonous plot against the Empire. You and your officers will face an inquiry, at which your logs will be opened and examined to ensure you played no part.” He glanced at the list. “The ship Pompey is now the property of a consortium of loyal stockholders who’ve formed the ‘New Wales Freight and Transportation Company,’ but she has also been commissioned for an indefinite period as an auxiliary to the Imperial Navy.”

  The man was nodding in what seemed a wholly agreeable fashion. “Splendid,” he said. “Damn the Company and good riddance, say I. There’s a warden aboard Pompey, sirs, a most disagreeable scoundrel! Do hang him, I beg, or drag him through the sea for the monsters to sample!”

  “If he deserves it, he’ll surely be hanged,” Jenks assured. He paused, glancing at Matt. “Judging by your . . . cargo, you’ve recently come from the Dominion. What’s the situation there? I should inform you that a state of war now exists between us.”

  “‘Cargo’?” interrupted Matt. He looked at the Bosun, just reachhe deck.

  “Broads, Skipper,” Gray confirmed. “Like we figured. Swarms o’ dark-skinned dolls packed in like Norway minnows.”

  “War?” declared Halowell, insensitive to the exchange. “Thank God! Then you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Why, the cause for my relief!” Halowell paused, seeing their expressions. “I see . . . or rather I don’t. I know not what sparked the war at home, but I assure you war has commenced already upon those dark, eastern shores!” He shuddered. “We were down the coast from Acapoolco at the usual place. . . .” He looked about curiously, again taken aback by the gathering ’Cats, then specifically addressed Jenks. “As you know, Commodore, the ‘trade’ has been officially illicit for some time as far as the Doms were concerned. They’d rather cut the bleeding hearts from the poor wenches than sell them to us now! But commerce as usual hasn’t been much discouraged beyond the provincial capital. A veritable harbor city has arisen at Puerto Marco, where women bring us their own daughters to spare them the stone knives of that twisted faith. Stone knives, for the love of God!” The man paused, his horror obvious. “In the event, we were anchored with several other Company vessels, our cargo already shipped, awaiting only the tide. During the night, Doms—thousands of’em!—attacked every other ship and slaughtered all aboard. Only the whim of chance had Pompey moored the farthest out. Perhaps the fiends assigned to us became disoriented in the gloom and attacked another ship. . . .” He began blinking rapidly. “It was horrific, sirs, the screams.... You could tell by those that they even murdered the ‘cargo.’ ” He shook his head. “There was nothing we could do. We cut our cables and bore away as quickly as we could. Some galleys gave chase, but we caught a favorable wind that proved our salvation.”

  “Can you imagine why they’d do such a thing?” Jenks asked. Dominion atrocities didn’t surprise him, not anymore, but there had to be a reason.

  “Indeed, sir. From the time we entered Puerto Marco, we heard rumors of mighty fleets and large armies. There were no warships in port, save the galleys, but you can’t keep a secret like that. Our suppliers hinted, the victuallers warned, even the ‘cargo’ had heard things . . . and there was a distinct shortage of labor, particularly young men, to be had. We knew something was stirring, the other captains and I. That was why we had already determined to depart before our holds were quite full and travel in company. Alas, too late.”

  “Lucky,” grunted the Bosun.

  “For us,” Halowell granted.

  “Did you gain any notion where these fleets were bound?” Jenks asked.

  “The rumors were of the normal sort; nothing definitive. But enough agreed on a few destinations: the Enchanted Isles garrison is perhaps the most probable, since it lies the closest and the Doms have always claimed the islands. Considering the treachery at home you spoke of, I now give greater credibility to the very heart of the Empire as a possibility. Certainly the colonies on the northern continent are at risk. Those three were mentioned most and strike me as most likely, particularly having heard your news.”

  “We expect an attempt on the colonies,” Jenks confirmed. “That’s why we hurry there.”

  Halowell looked around. “This one ship? Granted, she’s a wondrous thing, with amazing speed, but . . .”

  “This one ship, if she’s all we have,” Matt said. He looked around at the staring faces of his crew, his people, furry or not. “By the way, Captain Halowell, this ‘cargo’ you speak of, these women. I expect they’re ‘indentured’ to the Company, as usual?”

  “Aye,” answered Halowell, sensing something in Matt’s tone.

  “Then I must inform you that ‘trade’ of that sort has been stopped, by Imperial decree, and any such ‘cargos’ now in transit are considered contraband and subject to seizure. Pending a final ruling by His Majesty, the Governor-Emperor of the New Britain Isles, regarding the legal status o
f the people constituting said cargoes, the indentures of every human being aboard Pompey now belong to USS Walker and the United States Navy. How many do you have?”

  “Ah . . . just under two hundred, sir.” Halowell groaned, suddenly realizing the personal loss this meeting involved, namely his percentage.

  “From this point until you reach the Allied, United States Navy docks in Scapa Flow, those people are no longer ‘cargo,’ but passengers. They’ll be afforded every courtesy and fed and watered in proportion to anyone else on your ship to the extent of the crew going on half rations themselves, if necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

  Halowell looked at Jenks and saw an equally severe expression. He gulped. “Aye, Captain Reddy. Most clear.”

  “Good. Now, I believe we’ve all hung around here as long as we should. Commodore?”

  Jenks smiled. “Captain Halowell, I have the honor of issuing you a temporary commission in His Majesty’s Navy, incidentally placing you under the jurisdiction of the Articles of War. Congratulations. I presume the commission will be upheld following your inquiry provided you make no effort to ‘lose’ or alter your logs. The judges understand the position Company masters have been in, and they’ve been surprisingly lenient in most matters. Besides, the Navy needs the ships and experienced captains. Now, considering the possibility you’re behind a major enemy fleet, I suggest you make as much sail as you consider safe, sail southwest for several days, then attempt a record passage.” He started to turn, dismissing the two former Company officers, but stopped. “You might arrest your ‘warden’ and anyone else you suspect of being a Company informer, but don’t hang them yourself. Let the court sort it out.”

  Later, back on Walker’s bridge with Pompey rapidly diminishing astern, Jenks chuckled. “I don’t remember your discussing the disposition of ‘contraband’ with His Majesty.”

  Matt shrugged. “I like Gerald, but I doubt your courts’re much different from ours back home. The ultimate disposition of those people could take months if Gerald doesn’t jump in, and I don’t know if he can yet. In the meantime, we took ’em; they’re ours. They’ll have the same choice we gave the women we ‘bought’ on Respite. They can do what they want. We’ve got other things to worry about right now. Do you think the Doms could put together three big fleets?”

  “I honestly don’t know. It’s possible.”

  Matt sighed. “Well, we can chase only one. Your people on the ‘Enchanted Isles’ and everyone in the Empire are on their own. All we can do is stick to the plan and try to protect the colonies.”

  Jenks looked aft at the distant sail, beginning to blend with the afternoon haze that had consumed the knife-edge horizon of the morning. “I hope they appreciate the ‘Christmas gift’ you’ve given them,” he muttered.

  “Who? Oh, the women on that ship?” Matt shook his head. “Where I come from, freedom isn’t something a man can give; it comes from God. You’re born with it. Sometimes men have to fight to keep others from taking it away, and all too often good men give their lives so that God-given freedom can endure. That’s the gift; blood for freedom. What I did today cost me nothing. It was just right.”

  “I wasn’t talking about those women. Their situation is improved regardless—admittedly more so since your arrival in the Isles. No, I mean my own people . . . and the freedom you gift them with the blood of yours, human and Lemurian.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Ceylon

  “Boy, this is one hell of a cruddy Christmas!” Greg Garrett grumbled to himself.

  “What?” shouted Pruit Barry, about ten feet away, trying to make himself heard over the roar of heavy guns, the crash of a brisk surf, and the warbling shriek of maybe two thousand charg-ing Grik.

  “I said, I think it’s Christmas!” Garrett yelled back.

  “Oh. Wow.”

  Flocks of crossbow bolts sheeted over the breastworks and an occasional roundshot geysered damp sand high in the air. Ravaged Donaghey , though working hard against the beach under the assault of a heavy sea running at high tide, pounded the attackers racing down the narrow peninsula, scything great swaths in the tightly packed mob. Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At, her white leather armor dingy with mud and stained black with blood, stood. “Muskets, archers, present!” she roared. Slightly fewer than seven hundred sailors and Marines prepared. Most of the Marine muskets had gone to sailors, since they were easier to learn than the powerful longbows, and the Marines already knew how to use those. “Mark your targets!” Bekiaa warned. This wouldn’t be a massed volley; those relied as much on psychological impact as anything else, and here, in previous assaults, they hadn’t been getting their money’s worth for the first time. They were starting to run dangerously low on ammunition, particularly musket balls, and it was better to make each one count. Their arrows were holding out rather better. Details raced out between assaults, braving the frighteningly improved enemy artillery, and retrieved as many arrows from sand and corpse as they could. At least the “Grik fire” bombs hadn’t been an issue. They couldn’t maneuver the heavy, catapult-like weapons within their shorter range—not that they didn’t try at first. Smaller, shorter-ranged versions of the things, carried by packs of troops, made tempting targets and were never allowed close enough to deploy and launch.

  “Commence firing!” Bekiaa screeched.

  A hundred and fifty-odd Baalkpan Armory “Springfields” rattled independently, the dull slapp of heavy balls striking flesh distinct and gratifying. Arrows thwanged and whooshed over the breastworks, the impacts less dramatic, but the resultant wails of agony just as real. Six of Tolson’s eighteen-pounders, so laboriously retrieved and emplaced, shook the earth and vomited fire, choking smoke, and almost two thousand three-quarter-inch copper balls. The big guns were the primary killers. Firing into the dense, narrow press, they could not possibly miss, and each ball not absorbed by the sand often accounted for multiple Grik. A great, collective moan reached the defenders through the smoke, bu only about five hundred of the enemy did.

  “Shields!” Bekiaa cried.

  Shields came up, many hastily built from Tolson’s now-shattered corpse, and the remaining Grik slammed into them with unabated ferocity. Though outnumbered now, they still might have broken the line if they’d had the sense to concentrate their blow against a single point. As it was, they simply charged straight at whatever opposed them in whatever direction they were pointed when visibility returned. Bayonets and polished barrels flashed under the relentless sun, and spear- men advanced behind the shields and the grisly, personal slaughter began.

  Greg and Pruit stayed out of it. Both held .45s in their hands, and Barry had an ’03 Springfield slung on his shoulder. Somewhere on the left, where the sandy spit bordered the river mouth, Russ was supposed to be doing the same; commanding his “section” of the line, but leaving the fighting to his sailors—bolstered by Marines with the proper training for it. Bekiaa had the center, seconded by Graana-Fas, and Greg determined to have a word with her regarding her “proper” place as well. Slowly, the killing subsided, and another hoarse, thirsty cheer began to build, punctuated by the squeals of the last Grik to be slain.

  “Stay here, won’t you, Pruit? I need to have a word with our intrepid young Marine commander,” Greg said.

  “Sure,” said Barry. “Somebody better, or we won’t have her much longer.” The Grik artillery resumed, a shot skating through the sand nearby. “Keep your head down! Their guns aren’t very big, and we drive ’em off every time they try to deploy in front of us, but they’ve got a lot of ’em, and they’re getting better with ’em too.”

  “You bet,” Garrett replied, crouching lower in the trench behind the works and cinching his helmet tighter. He took off at a trot, his right arm extended so he could pat each defender as he passed, saying, “Good job! Good job! We’ll lick ’em yet!” Most glanced back, blinking thanks or encouragement of their own, but he came across far too many who couldn’t hear him anymore.

  Short of Bekiaa’s po
sition he found Jamie Miller, Walker’s young pharmacist’s mate on another world, and now an able surgeon in his own right. He was working on a Lemurian sailor, one of Tolson’s, by the name stitched on the Dixie cup lying nearby in the watery bottom of the trench. Two of Miller’s assistants held the ’Cat down while the kid tried to stop the bleeding from a bad neck wound. Greg could tell it was hopeless.

  “When are we going to get some help here?” Miller seethed when the bleeding stopped on its own.

  Greg squatted beside him. “I wish I knew, Jamie. The fleet’s coming as fast as it can. The last position we got would still put them about two days out.” He paused. “You know Clancy’s dead, right?”

  Jamie nodded. The night before, three Grik ships approached under cover of darkness and attacked Donaghey from the sea. It shouldn’t have, but it came as a complete surprise. Only the enemy’s crummy gunnery saved the stranded ship, and her seaward guns, once alerted, cut them apart. One Grik ship sank, another beached a couple miles to the east, and the third drifted ashore, afire from stem to stern. Even now, her blackened bones were breaking up in the surf. But Donaghey was badly mauled herself. One early, lucky shot, crashed through her comm shack and killed the young radioman while he was sending the evening report. Another of their dwindling “original” destroyermen was lost.

  “Yeah, well, he ain’t the only one,” Jamie snapped. “Counting ‘walking wounded’ still fighting, our casualties are past twenty percent. Not as many from that last attack,” he allowed, “since our protection’s improved, but sooner or later the Grik are going to get their act together.”

  Greg nodded. He had plenty of “combat” experience now, but this was only his second “shore action.” Already he could tell it was a lot different from his last. These Grik were better fed and far more motivated. Even so, he got the distinct impression they were just “locals,” thrown at them because they were closest—militia, basically. If anything, the first “attacks,” while violent and costly, had been even more disorganized and, well, amateurish, than anything he’d heard of before. If they’d thrown better troops at him then, it would probably be all over by now. In the meantime, the Allied defenses had been strengthened considerably.