Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  Matt shook his head. “Untrue. Without you and Baalkpan, this ship would most likely be a powerless, lifeless hulk on a beach somewhere and I and most of my people would be dead. I agree your people owe Walker much, but she owes you as well. It’s pointless to keep score among friends. We’re obligated, bound together, but as great as that combined strength might be, it’s not enough and it’ll be even less if Surabaya falls. We need those people on our side—not filling Grik bellies!”

  Nakja-Mur recoiled as if slapped, but then nodded. “The Aryaalans are fierce warriors,” he conceded, “but they do not revere the heavens.

  They may worship feces for all I know, but the sky is not sacred. When Siska-Ta went to them to teach the wisdom of the Scrolls, she was cast out and nearly slain.” He made a very human shrug. “They are heathens, but their religion is unimportant to me. We are not intolerant of the beliefs of others. Many folk of other lands—even some upon the sea—do not believe as we do and yet we remain friends. Did we not befriend you and your people?” he asked.

  Matt didn’t point out the probability that they thought then—and probably still did—that the destroyermen had very similar beliefs to their own, and he remembered the scene Adar made in Walker’s pilothouse over the charts displayed there. He’d thought they mocked him with apostasy at the time, since the Ancient Scrolls or charts of the Sky Priests are not just maps but holy relics on which are woven the tapestry of Lemurian history in the words of the Ancient Tongue—Latin. Their religion is not based on the Scrolls, but they’ve become integral supplements—along with a few twisted Christian concepts that may have been passed inadvertently by the previous “Tail-less Ones” almost two centuries before. Matt had picked up a little Lemurian theology and, although it was fundamentally a form of Sun worship, he knew the heavens—and the stars in particular—represented far more than simple navigational aids. Since that first awkward moment, religion had not been much of an issue and he’d concentrated on other things. Maybe he needed to bone up. He would talk to Bradford.

  “What confirms the depravity of the Aryaalans, however,” Nakja-Mur continued, “is that they often war among themselves! They are constantly at war, one faction against another, and they often repel visitors with violence. I cannot help but wonder, even if we aid them, will they not simply turn on us as yet another enemy?”

  “We have to try.”

  “Perhaps. But it will take another meeting, I suppose, and you will have to be very convincing.”

  “Sure,” said Matt. “We’ll have another meeting. We need one, bigger than before. But that’s beside the point. Have you boarded the Grik ship yet? Spoken to any of the survivors?” Nakja-Mur shook his head. “You need to do that. Then you’ll understand. This is a fight to the death. To the end. Total war and no more goofing around. Even if you could flee, like the sea Homes can, they’ll catch you eventually because that’s what they do.” Matt paused. “You told me before we left on the last expedition to find out what we could, that you’d do anything to keep the Grik away. Did you mean that?”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, then, if we’re not going to fight them here, we’ll have to fight them somewhere else. Let’s do it where we might have some help.”

  The gathering in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall was even larger than when they’d debated the previous expedition. This time the massive structure was nearly packed. Those present weren’t just the High Chiefs of the Homes in the bay either, but their advisors, Sky Priests and senior war leaders as well. Alden, Shinya, along with their Marine and Guard officers and senior NCOs, represented Baalkpan’s armed forces. As predicted, some sea Homes left, although Fristar, the most vocal advocate of simply running away, sullenly stayed. Others had arrived, as well as delegations from more land folk—one from as far as Maani-la, in the Fil-pin lands to the east. Some had arrived too late for the conference before the expedition; others came because of what they’d heard since. They came because the expedition had, after all, been a success: they’d learned much about the “Ancient Enemy” at long last, and they knew now what was at stake. Adar was determined to make the threat as clear as possible and had suggested opening the meeting to all, but there simply wasn’t space. Matt countered that all would quickly know the situation through the many representatives.

  A month before, the expedition had returned to Baalkpan with its malignant prize in tow. They were greeted with unparalleled euphoria, for it seemed that this, coupled with their other small successes, meant victory was on the march. Slowly, as the day of return progressed, the visitors and natives of Baalkpan began to learn the truth. Rumors of the horrors within the Grik ship spread like a typhoon wind and so did the scope of the threat. Few had actually seen the blasphemous charts that had been captured, and Matt and Keje tried to keep a lid on it, but somehow the unexaggerated fact that the enemy was numberless took hold of the populace.

  The euphoria turned to panic first, but then the few wretched survivors of the Grik larder were carried ashore and, with them, the tale of what they’d endured. Deputations of merchants and townsfolk were allowed to tour the hulk and they came away in shock, but also with an appreciation—at long last—of the terrible choice they faced. They could run or they could fight. There was no other choice available. They might flee and hope to find some far-off land where they would be safe for a time, or they could defend their home against this evil. But if they chose to fight, the time for half measures and preparing only when the mood struck was over. Every waking effort of the entire population, those who stayed, must be devoted to a single-minded goal: fight the Grik and win. The released captives were a grim reminder that defeat did not bear contemplation.

  As the days passed, some did leave. A steady trickle of feluccas, hired at exorbitant rates, carried the fearful to the Fil-pin lands. It became known that the enemy maps didn’t show that place, and they thought they’d be safe. After the initial flurry, Nakja-Mur even chartered a few boats himself so certain treasures and relics might be carried away for safekeeping. These things were entrusted to the mates and younglings of some of the more talented artisans who were willing to stay as long as their loved ones were safe. Those who remained pitched in with a will—as if their lives depended on it.

  The foundry fires glared night and day as every article of copper, tin, and zinc in Baalkpan was rounded up and sent into the crucible. The Bronze Age Lemurian industrial base went from accomplishing the impressive feat of casting one cannon every three to four weeks to the impossible rate of one every four days. McFarlane, Sandison, and a small army of helpers stayed busy at the crude boring machines and hones they’d made. Long lines of people, male, female, even younglings, escorted by Marines against the predators, carried their own weight in sulfur from the volcanic hills to the land home of Sular across the strait on Celebes, time after time. The cargoes were then transported to Baalkpan by ship. Open leaching pits were laid out to produce nitrates and a vast swath of timber was felled around the city for the charcoal, and to provide a better killing field for its defenders. Smoke hung everywhere and every eye streamed.

  Oil continued to flow and the refinery ran around the clock. New storage tanks were constructed and a respectable reserve, at least for a single destroyer’s needs, was beginning to accumulate. Alden, Shinya, Chack, and many of the now “veteran” Marines who’d participated in the bloody boarding action stayed busy drilling everyone on the new, larger parade ground that used to be jungle. There was no more complaining, and even the warriors from the Homes in the bay rotated ashore for drill. And in the harbor, the unpleasant, unwanted task of refitting the Grik ship progressed.

  Matt wasn’t entirely clear about Lemurian funeral conventions, but he knew they preferred to be burned so their life force, or soul, could be carried to the heavens with the rising smoke. There, they would rejoin in the firmament those who’d gone before. He wasn’t sure if the People believed they became stars after death, or if the stars guided their journeys there much as th
ey did below. Maybe a little of both. It was clear to him, however, that the ’Cats would really have preferred to just burn the thing that they believed still held the souls of Lemurians who’d been tortured and eaten by the enemy. He tried to explain that if all went well, the Grik ship would soon become the second-fastest gun platform in the world. Much as he’d have liked to defer to their cultural preferences, they didn’t have time to build another ship of the type. They would start some, certainly, and incorporate many refinements, but for now he was going to need that ship.

  The People were aware of the advantages. They knew how fast and maneuverable the enemy ships were, compared to their own lumbering Homes. The idea of arming such a ship with cannon appealed to them as well. They just didn’t want to use that ship. It was the one instance where Captain Reddy’s military plans were met with real resistance. He sympathized, but he wouldn’t bend. The crisis was finally solved by Adar, who argued that the trapped souls would surely welcome the chance for revenge, and using the tool of their own murderers to help claim that vengeance would make achieving it all the more sweet. They would clean it out and give it a name. They would re-rig and repair the damage it had suffered, but unlike Walker, or Big Sal, or, hopefully, Mahan, it would never, could never truly be a live thing.

  Matt was grateful for Adar’s assistance. He hadn’t been sure which side of the argument the Sky Priest would take. Nakja-Mur’s aged Sky Priest, Naga, had begun to defer more and more to Adar in matters of “belligerent spiritual guidance.” Big Sal’s “head witch doctor,” as he was sometimes affectionately called by some Americans, had almost visibly swelled in importance and prestige. He didn’t flaunt it, and he certainly didn’t abuse the power, but he did have greater influence than ever before. His approval had been key. In word and deed, Adar had become the most outspoken advocate of this “total war” no matter what it took. He’d taken to heart his vow not to rest until the Grik were destroyed. At Adar’s urging, in spite of their distaste, gangs of workers dutifully, if uncomfortably, toiled on the Grik ship, getting it ready for sea.

  Light streamed through the Great Hall’s open shutters and motes of dust drifted in the beams. Loud voices and shouted conversations carried on around Matt, Lieutenant Mallory, Courtney Bradford, Alan Letts, and Sandra Tucker, where they stood beside Nakja-Mur and his entourage, as well as Keje and Adar. Nakja-Mur stood, obese but powerful, dressed in his usual red kilt and gold-embroidered cloak that contrasted with his shiny dark fur. Fur with growing splashes of white. Matt thought of it as his “High Chief suit,” since he’d always dressed thus when Matt saw him. Adar’s purple robe with embroidered stars across the shoulders was an equally constant garment. The hood was thrown back, revealing his almost silver pelt and piercing gray eyes. Matt’s friend Keje was dressed in a warlike manner, as Matt had first seen him after Walker saved his Home from six Grik ships and, by so doing, joined them in this terrible war. His armor consisted of engraved copper plates fastened to the tough hide of a plesiosaur they called “gri-kakka.” At his side was a short, scimitar-shaped hacking sword called a skota, and cradled in his arm was a copper helmet, adorned with the striated tail plumage of a Grik. He also wore a red cloak fastened at his throat by interlocked Grik hind claws. Beneath the armor, as protection from chafing, he wore a blue tunic embroidered with fanciful designs. Other than the Americans, he wore the only “shirt” in the hall. All the ’Cats the destroyermen had met seemed to wear as little as they could manage, usually just a light kilt. Even the females went disconcertingly topless, and their very human, albeit furry, breasts were a constant distraction for the sex-starved destroyermen.

  Large-scale addresses were rare among the People, and there was no way to speak directly to such a gathering from within its midst. Therefore, an elevated platform, or stage, had been constructed near the center of the hall where the Great Tree rose through the floor and soared high overhead to pass through the ceiling. Matt had seen the huge Galla tree many times now, but he was always amazed by its size and by the fact that he’d seen only one other like it. The one growing from the heart of Big Sal. He supposed other Homes had similar trees, and he wondered again if it was possible they were descendants of the trees the Lemurians had known in their ancient home.

  The crowd was growing restless, anxious.

  At a nod from Nakja-Mur, he stepped onto the stage. Immediately there was a respectful silence in the Great Hall—a much different reception than the last time he’d spoken to this assembly. Of course, he’d given them a “victory” since then—such as it was. He paced the small platform for a moment, staring at the upturned faces while Chack joined him to interpret. Many of those present had actually learned a smattering of English, but Matt hadn’t yet acquired a conversational ability in their tongue and he was slightly embarrassed by that. He’d always thought he was pretty good with languages, but there was something about the strange, yowling words of the People that absolutely defeated him. Bradford, Letts, and even Sandra could jabber away like natives—at least as far as he could tell—but he was just as likely to insult somebody as to tell them it was a temperate day. Maybe it was a mental block, or his mind was too busy. Whatever the reason, he was glad Chack was there.

  He gestured at Lieutenant Mallory. “My friends,” he began, “as you know, the flying-boat has returned from its scout in the south.” He paused. He’d hated sending the PBY and its crew off by themselves, but Bradford and the Mice had managed to refine a small amount of high-octane gasoline. They had done it somehow using salt water, of all things. Also, since Riggs had the plane’s radio working, they’d never been out of contact. Ben flew under orders to avoid being seen at all costs, so he didn’t have a firm count of the number of enemy ships that invested Surabaya. The only thing he could verify was that the lizards were definitely there. All the air crew could see from ten miles away and an altitude of 13,000 feet—a distance that should have muted the Catalina’s loud engines—was “lots of ships.” Unrealistically, Matt had hoped Mallory would spot Mahan—even though he had instructed him not to specifically look for her. Judging by how long he was gone and how much fuel he’d used, the Air Corps aviator must have covered as much ocean as he could anyway. There’d been no sign. “What Lieutenant Mallory and his companions have reported confirms our fears,” Captain Reddy resumed. “Aryaal is under siege.” He waited for a moment while the tumult died down. “I must propose that we lift that siege.”

  This time, many minutes passed before he was able to speak again. There were a few shouts of agreement, but many more cries of incredulous protest. The initial response degenerated into a general roar of discussion and debate. “We have no choice!” he shouted over the hubbub. “If the enemy establishes a permanent base as near as that, Baalkpan is doomed!” He picked out a small gathering of High Chiefs and fixed them with his eyes. “Many of you can just leave. Your Homes aren’t tied to the land. But if Baalkpan falls, what then? Where will you replenish stores? With whom will you trade? Who’ll repair your Homes? I know there are other lands that will serve that purpose for a time, but how long will it be before they too are lost? If we don’t stop them now, one day all that will remain of the People will be scattered clans, alone on the sea, without sanctuary and without hope.”

  “We have no hope now!” snarled Anai-Sa, Fristar’s High Chief. “We should flee. We’ve seen the charts you took, many of us, and the Grik are as many as the stars above.”

  “We must not flee!” Adar bellowed, joining Matt on the stage. The intensity of his glare caused many to flinch. “I was in the belly of the Grik ship not long after its capture. I have spoken to the ‘survivors,’ though such a word mocks them! I have seen the perverted way the Grik twist our faith and use it against us. Speak not of flight! Any who would flee in the face of this scourge is aiding it! They are not only cowards but traitors to their people!” There were shouts of dissent, but some loudly agreed. Anai-Sa brooded in silence.

  “Much has happened since we last met like
this,” Matt continued when the uproar began to fade. “Since then we’ve accomplished much, in spite of the doubts of some. Most importantly, we’ve won our first real victory over the enemy. I don’t speak of simply destroying their ships. That’s been done before. Besides, I agree it’s now plain that such small victories are pointless in the face of the numbers the enemy possesses. What we’ve won is priceless intelligence!” He smiled. “We’re no longer as ‘ignorant’ as we were before, and so we can begin to plan for greater victories. Victories that will make a difference. The first such victory should be the relief of Aryaal.”

  “How can it benefit us to spill our blood for them?” asked Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin. The question wasn’t confrontational, but genuinely curious. “The Aryaalans have never helped us before.”

  “If we save them from the fate that awaits them in the Grik hulls, I bet they will then,” Matt answered simply. “Don’t you see? The Grik are through ‘probing.’ This is for all the marbles—I mean . . . polta fruit!” He grimaced, wondering how well that would translate. “They’ve taken Singapore, destroyed Tjilatjap . . . possibly others. Now they threaten Surabaya—Aryaal. This is it! The conquest you’ve feared since you fled them the last time so very long ago!” He blinked appropriately to convey frustration and anger. “Well, I say this time we stop them! This time we throw their asses back!” He stopped and took a breath, wishing he had some water. He was sweating and he knew he was allowing his own frustration over the litany of events that had brought his ship and her people to this moment to color his argument.

  Once again, the long retreat in the face of the Japanese was fresh upon him. The terrifying escape from the Philippines, the lopsided battle of the Java Sea, the doomed retreat from Surabaya and the death of Exeter and Pope and all the others haunted him anew. The fate of Mahan, and the horrors he’d seen in the Grik hold. Not to mention the enigmatic human skull. At that moment, emotionally, it all became one. The Grik had become an arguably far more terrible, but just as implacable, surrogate for the naval avalanche that had claimed the rest of the Asiatic Fleet and had begun Walker’s nightmare odyssey in the first place. He was tired of running, and he just . . . couldn’t do it anymore.