His value had been recognized by General Esshk, at least. The general was acting as forward vice regent in Tsalka’s stead, and his quarters were in the palace of the former king of Aryaal. Even Kurokawa had to admit the palace was an impressive edifice. It was constructed of white marble, and the spired towers and spacious, arched balconies gave it a medieval Eastern European flair. It was even more striking, since it was the only building still standing within the walls surrounding the conquered city. Aryaal was “conquered” only in the sense that it no longer belonged to the enemy. The first attempt to take it failed catastrophically, and it finally came into Grik hands as a burned-out, abandoned wasteland. All except the palace that somehow escaped the inferno. Briefly, he wondered why.
Kurokawa knew the Americans had to be responsible for the scorched-earth policy that greeted the invaders when they reached the city, as well as the neighboring island of B’mbaado. He doubted their primitive lackeys were sophisticated enough to think of the strategy on their own. With the inhabitants gone, and nothing left but the palace, there was no food, no supplies. There wasn’t even shelter from the terrible storms that sometimes slashed at the exposed coastal city. The Americans had managed to sour even the seizure of Aryaal, which was the one small victory the Grik had achieved. Everything they needed had to be brought by ship, putting even further strain on available resources and indefinitely delaying the buildup they’d need before renewing the offensive. Only by renewing the offensive could he prdth="1em"›The tapestry separating the anteroom from the audience chamber parted to reveal the terrifying form of a Grik. It looked like a bipedal lizard, except it had short, feathery fur instead of scales. Its snout and tail were shorter, proportionately, than one would have expected from a lizard, but the tightly spaced, razor-sharp teeth packing the short snout left the fiercest shark wanting. Empty, remorseless, sharklike eyes regarded Kurokawa in silence for a moment before the creature spoke.
“The vice regent will see you now.”
The voice came as a series of hisses and clicks, but Kurokawa had learned to understand the words even if he couldn’t speak them. Much of the meaning came from subtle sounds requiring a foot-long tongue and two-inch pointed teeth. By now a few Grik had also learned to understand English, although it was apparently even more impossible for them to speak. Most Hij could read written English. It was their technical language, and that was how Kurokawa first communicated with them: writing notes back and forth. But that was no longer necessary, and he could converse fairly normally, with Esshk, at least.
In the Japanese Navy he’d risen in, it was required that all bridge officers know and speak English, since most of the maneuvering commands were made in that language. He knew the tradition began at the turn of the century, when Japan purchased her first modern battleships from Great Britain. Even more were acquired during the Great War, when the two countries were actually allies against Germany. Since everything on the ships was written in English-the instruction manuals were in English, and most of the instructors and advisors spoke only English-Kurokawa and his peers were forced to speak English as well. The Japanese Navy was an infant in need of traditions, and speaking English on the bridge became one. He was glad that was one tradition quickly fading back home, even if he made use of it now.
Controlling a shudder, he bowed stiffly to the gruesome messenger, straightened his tunic, and marched quickly into the vice regent’s audience chamber.
General Esshk, complete with plumed helmet, scarlet cape, and shiny plate armor protecting his chest, looked for all the world like a sinister, reptilian gargoyle dressed as a Roman tribune. Mighty muscles rippled beneath his downy skin, and he carried himself as fully erect as his alien physique allowed. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the Japanese officer. Kurokawa knew that, before the recent setback, Esshk had been a favorite among the Grik elite. He was considered their greatest living general, and was actually a sibling, of sorts, of the empress. He also had an unusual reputation: he was deemed something of a philosopher. Kurokawa knew that really meant he had a keen and inquisitive mind. He was unusually open to new ideas and innovations, and seemed less entrenched in the instinctual behavior patterns and responses he’d seen in other Grik, even Hij. That was both an advantage and disadvantage, depending on the circumstances, since it made Esshk both easier and more difficult to manipulate. When working with the general, the supreme question always was, Who was manipulating whom?
Esshk noticed his arrival, and motioned another Grik he’d been speaking with to leave. He hissed a pleasant greeting.
“Ah! Captain Kurokawa! I trust you are well?” te, Kurokawa’s own engineers began devising ways to plank it up. Heavy, prefabricated sections were prepared and lowered into place with the ship’s cranes, but they couldn’t decide how to secure them to the pilings. The answer was simple: Uul warriors were ordered to jump in the water and do it by hand.
Kurokawa still lived aboard his ship, so he was there to see. As much as he hated the Grik, he was sickened by the sight. Uul by the hundreds, each covered in armor and holding a length of line, shrieked a battle cry and leaped into the water. The armor carried them down-it would be a one-way trip-and protected them slightly from the silvery fish that arrowed in from the bay at the sound of splashes. If they were lucky, they sometimes managed to tie their line before being torn to shreds. Slowly at first, but quickly growing to a nauseating pink, white, silvery roil, the water began to churn. Pieces of bodies and buoyant debris rose to the surface, only to be snatched down by ravening, gaping jaws. On command, hundreds more leaped to their doom, each clasping his piece of line. Most of the Japanese sailors couldn’t watch, but Kurokawa stared, transfixed, as much amazed as horrified. Such obedience!
The second wave probably didn’t fare as well as the first, but when the third command was given, the boiling water had simmered down. Perhaps the fish were sated? This time a few Grik wouldn’t go. It finally occurred to their primitive minds that if they did, they wouldn’t come back up. Instead of refusing or attempting to flee, however, they turned on their comrades in a wild attack. All were disarmed, but no Grik was ever truly without weapons, and they used their terrible teeth and claws on those around them. They were quickly subdued, killed, and thrown in the water, but after that first incident, there was an ever-growing number that had to be “destroyed.” During this entire procedure, Amagi ’s pumps were at work, using steam from her few remaining boilers. Finally, Kurokawa noticed that the water level inside the cofferdam was slightly lower than that outside, and he suggested a halt to further wastage of warriors.
The cofferdam was built, and within a week they began repairing his ship’s underwater rents, but at such an appalling cost! Surely thousands had died. He’d learned a valuable lesson that day, besides the crystallization of his theory regarding how panic affected the Grik. He’d learned that to the Hij, all other creatures were simply tools, no matter what they said about the Uul being their “children.” Life had no value beyond how useful a tool it might be. Amagi was just a tool… and so was he.
Meeting General Esshk’s gaze, he finally nodded. “She can’t be finished that quickly. There is still much damage to her engines and boilers, so she won’t be as fast as she once was, but she’ll be ready for battle.”
Esshk seemed to relax, and Kurokawa did too-slightly.
“Excellent,” Esshk said. “So now we may turn to another subject: the American flying machine, their ‘flying boat,’ you called it.”
Kurokawa’s cheeks burned. During the campaign against Aryaal and the abortive thrust toward Baalkpan, the damned Americans had unveiled a dilapidated PBY Catalina. His inability to prove he’d destroyed the plane still rankled. Aside from its value for reconnaissance But the plane represented his greatest example of truly modern technology. It was proof that, no matter how far the Grik progressed, they could never hope to match the magical powers Kurokawa possessed, and most amazing of all to the Grik was the power of flight. He was certain the PB
Y had been destroyed or seriously damaged. He’d even ordered the pilot of the other Type 95 to ram it if he had to, to return with his shield or on it, or his flight crew would be executed. With that threat to motivate him, Kurokawa was positive the pilot must have resorted to the final option, since he never returned, but neither had the PBY. Ultimately, whether or not the flying boat actually crashed was immaterial; he was certain it would never fly again. There was simply no way to repair it-just as there was no way to repair his own last plane if it was damaged. He therefore basked in the reflected glow of its importance while hoping he’d never have to actually use it. His reluctance was the source of growing strain between Esshk and himself.
The Grik couldn’t use the plane themselves, so taking it was pointless. Even if they could be taught to fly, they couldn’t physically sit in the cockpit because of their heavily muscled tails. In all the world, only the Japanese hunters controlled the miracle of flight, and that was how Kurokawa intended it to remain.
Esshk pressed him this time. “Is your plane truly so fragile it will ruin it to use it once? If that is the case, what good is it?”
Kurokawa recognized the threat in the question. In other words, what good was he?
“It is quite sturdy, Your Excellency, but we have little fuel. Also, as I’ve said, if it’s damaged, it cannot be repaired. We haven’t the tools or materials.”
“The prey flew their airplane all over the place. They must have plenty of fuel. We will capture it, and you will have more than you need. As to the other, I still do not understand. They are machines, are they not? Machines created by your folk. Surely they know how to make more. I tire of your obstructionism. You must use it! The sword that remains at the belt is of no use in the hunt.”
“But the materials! I tell you we cannot repair it if it is damaged. We should wait to use it at the proper time-when it might tip the scale.”
“Materials!” Esshk snarled, and Kurokawa realized he’d objected too long. He knew the conviviality Esshk greeted him with was only an act. The general began to pace, and Kurokawa remained rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead. “You mean metal? We make metal for you by the shipload! Do not toy with me!”
“I do not, Your Excellency! As I’ve told you, the metal we need to build more planes is called aluminum. It is… magical, and can be made only in the world from which we came. It is strong, like iron, but much lighter. No aircraft made of iron could ever fly.”
“Then make them of something else!” Esshk raged in frustration. “You keep telling me we need to know what we face before we attack. Your aircraft is the only way to discover that and yet you refuse to use it!” Esshk glared menacingly at Kurokawa. “Reconcile this contradiction at once!”
Kurokawa stared at Esshk, his mouth open slightly. Peripherally, he was terrified of the general’s behavior, but his miing Esshk said. Of course!
“General,” he said calmly, “we will use the plane, and if you give me free rein, I’ll make more for you. They won’t be as strong, or nearly as fast, but I’ll make airplanes even Grik can fly! But I warn you, it will take time. It will take more time even than the modern ships I promised, since that’s what we’ve already begun. But I can do it for you, and because you have been such a friend, I will. But in return, you must do something for me.”
Esshk’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared with indignation. Then, slowly, his terrible jaws moved to form an expression Kurokawa hoped was a grin.
“A bargain? How interesting! I wonder what it is you could possibly want?” He seemed contemplative for a time, but finally waved the matter aside. “We shall see, shall we not? My power to grant a boon depends on our success, after all. In the meantime, we must concentrate on the matter at hand. You will provide me with a list of requirements to ensure your plane has the ‘legs’ to reach its destination and return. We must time the mission carefully, since we will open the final campaign in no more than a moon and a half. All must be in readiness by the time Tsalka returns. You will need ships placed at intervals for refueling, of course. I will order them to scout far forward after that mission is complete, to ensure the prey has no further surprises for us. Ideally, they will rendezvous with the Swarm before the assauriding at anchor was stilled. Deep within Amagi ’s bowels, Captain David Kaufman, United States Army Air Corps, noticed the difference, but didn’t understand the significance. He didn’t understand the significance of much of anything anymore. He tried to do a single push-up on the cool deck plating, but just didn’t have the strength. Straining as hard as he could, he couldn’t raise himself from the dank, grimy floor of his cell. His jailors fed him once a day, but it was never enough, and his once powerful frame had diminished to a shadow of its former self. Tears pooled beneath his face, and he rolled onto his back, trying to control the sobs that came so frequently now. Above him dangled the single bulb that stayed on day and night. It was one small favor the Japanese officer had granted, and it was probably the only thing that retrieved him from the bottomless chasm of insanity. At least, he thought it had. He still had… spells, but today he could at least remember his name, and he willed that knowledge to be enough to cheer him just a bit.
The officer had granted other favors as well, when he could, and Kaufman got the impression he did so with the utmost care. A small stack of magazines was arranged carefully in the corner, opposite his slop bucket, and a couple were even in English. He didn’t know how many times he’d read them-hundreds, probably. He’d memorized every word. He read the other ones too, and he’d slowly learned a smattering of written Japanese by putting the pictures in context with the curious symbols beside them. He didn’t have any idea what the words sounded like, but he knew what many of the characters meant.
He rose slowly, painfully to his knees, and scooted to the overturned bucket that served as his only chair in the small, barren compartment. Easing onto it, he sat and stared at the glowing bulb for a while. It was how he passed much of his time, focusing on the bright filament until he could see it wherever he looked. His face began to twitch uncontrollably, and he tried to still the muscles and nerves by twisting his tangled beard. It never worked, but he always tried. He couldn’t remember how long it had been doing that; it always started within a few minutes of his awakening from his constant, hideous dreams. Dreams of blood and screaming death, and reptilian creatures devouring people he was somehow responsible for. He couldn’t remember why. He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner of the Japanese either, but at least they hadn’t eaten him.
The latch on the compartment hatch clanked, and his heart began to race. With a joy he could barely contain, he saw the Japanese officer who’d been so kind to him. How long had it been since his last visit? Months? It didn’t matter. He’d feared the creatures had eaten him, but here he was, alive! The treasured face contorted into a grimace of distaste, probably at the smell in the compartment, but honestly, Kaufman didn’t notice it anymore. He felt tears sting his eyes; he couldn’t help it.
“Captain Kaufman?” The greeting came almost as a question, as though the officer didn’t recognize him.
“Oh, ah, yes! It’s me!” he croaked. It seemed strange to speak after so long, and it was pleasant to have someone confirm he was who he thought he was.
“You have not been eating!” the officer accused. Kaufman’s face contorted into a grimace of contrition. He understood how the officer might think that, since he’d lost so much weight.
“But I have!” he insisted fervenace of disped up, offering an outlet for his frustrations, it actually cheered him up.
“That’s ‘Chief ’ Silva to you, Laney, you frumpy little turd.” He tugged on the visored hat he now wore for emphasis. For some inexplicable reason, the Bosun had given it to him, and it wasn’t even his oldest, most beat-up one, either. He just said if Silva was going to be a chief, he had to look like one. Laney wore one of Donaghey’s old hats, and despite the fact that he was larger than the late engineer, it was too big, and only his
ears and eyebrows held it up. Otherwise, no one else aboard would have called Laney “little,” though. He was only slightly shorter than Silva, and a comment like that would once have started a fairly equal fight. Now, both were conscious of the limitations placed on them by the new hats they wore. All the same, Laney suddenly remembered another time, and he was glad they were standing by the solid rail instead of the safety chains.
“It ain’t your machine shop, neither,” Silva added. “I swear, you’ve got mighty uppity of late. One of your ’Cats even wants to strike for the deck.” He shook his head. “Shows good sense if you ask me, but Spanky and Donaghey never ran anybody off. You always was a asshole, but you’ve got even worse since they gave you that hat.”
“Who is it?” Laney growled. “We’ll see about that!”
“Ain’t gonna tell you. He don’t want ordnance anyway. Ask the Bosun when we pick him up.”
Laney hesitated. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody, but he also couldn’t go crawling to the Bosun. “Well, what about the machine shop?” he demanded. “Spanky’s gonna shit worm gears when I don’t deliver them parts!”
Silva laughed. “I cleared it with Spanky before we started. Besides, he said you got scads of spare pressure couplings by now; you’re just doin’ busywork.”
“Well… the second reduction pinion off the low-pressure turbine is thrashed-God damn lube oil we’re getting ain’t up to spec-and we gotta turn a new one. ’Sides, what are you doin’ in there, makin’ mop handles?”
Maelstrom d-3 Page 8
