Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  With a wide grin, Chack tossed Petey at Silva. The tree glider squalled and latched onto Silva’s arm before scrambling back to his customary perch.

  “Asshole,” Dennis muttered amiably at his friend.

  Finally, the only ones remaining on the dock, within a wide bubble reserved for them by the yard workers, were Matt, Courtney, Silva, and Lawrence. Silva was watching Matt very closely, suspecting he’d planned it that way. “Well, I guess me an’ Larry’ll be sankoin’ along. We ain’t Chack’s Raiders, but we’ll be taggin’ along. Ol’ Larry won’t wanna forget his favorite toothbrush. Gotta keep them nasty choppers o’ his nice an’ bright!”

  “Just a moment more if you please, Mr. Silva,” Courtney said in what, for him, was a no-nonsense tone. “Several other . . . unresolved subjects remain.”

  “About Larry?” Dennis asked innocently. He glared at his Sa’aaran friend. “Did you take a dump in the chow line again?” he demanded, shaking his head with exaggerated scorn. “I swear. Can’t nothin’ stop you?” He looked at Courtney apologetically. “It’s them Shee-Ree that’s been such a bad influence on ol’ Larry, Mr. Bradford, pissin’ all over everything they take a fancy to. Mighty covetous critters. Thank God the rest of our ’Cats don’t do that!”

  Lawrence hissed at him. “I not e’er do that!”

  “Then where did you take a dump? Or did you get caught sniffin’ around that female lizard Geerki’s pet Griks’ve been hidin’?” It had been discovered that the civilian Grik in the city had been protecting a single breeding-age female in their midst. She’d been comfortably confined in the Cowflop, not only as further leverage to ensure their cooperation, but so Courtney could study her. He hadn’t learned much beyond the fact that she was somewhat duller even than the average Uul. A broodmare, he’d called her. “You oughta be ashamed!” Dennis continued, warming to his diatribe. “Why, you’re not even the same race as her. I can just imagine what our Grik workers’d have to say about your schemes to mis-eggenate with their only broad!”

  “Mis-eggenate!” Petey hooted scornfully.

  Lawrence hissed again, a growl in his throat. “I not sniphing! And you’re to talk? You and Risa . . .”

  “That’s quite enough,” Courtney declared, rolling his eyes. “My dear friends,” he told Dennis and Lawrence, “you’ve both contributed far more than you know to our cause, and might’ve even saved it more than once. But just for once, will you please stop playing silly buggers and pull your heads in?”

  “What did you say to Fiedler?” Matt challenged. Silva’s imaginative smoke screens usually amused the Skipper, but he obviously wasn’t in the mood. “The last time I spoke to him, he was still working to fix the plane. Said he owed us that much, but was sticking to his ‘I’m just a pilot’ line.” Gravois had “generously” allowed the German to attempt repairs to the Ju-52 they’d arrived in, but he’d been confined to the airfield.

  Silva looked genuinely surprised. Whatever he’d expected to be raked over the coals for, this wasn’t it. “Not much,” he replied, concentrating. “I went an’ talked to him, sure. I was at the airfield to see if they’d fixed my zep.” He’d captured a Grik airship with the help of some Shee-Ree and somehow flown it all the way to Grik City, barely arriving before practically crashing it. It had been mended to a degree, but the Grik hydrogen-manufacturing facilities had been damaged in the battle to take the city and hadn’t been a priority for repair until now. “Kraut bastard seemed kinda lonesome, though, an’ I guess he’d been by himself a lot at one of the airfields on Zanzibar too.” He shrugged. “I know he’s a Leaguer an’ a Kraut to boot,” he said, then added, “But I felt kinda’ sorry for him, y’know? Still, we didn’t go on about our favorite childhood toys, er nothin’.” He brightened. “I did tell him he oughta stick with us, an’ told him we got lotsa dames. He kinda hinted they had plenty in the Med. Didn’t ask where they got ’em—figgered that was the sort o’ thing you’d ask.” He scratched his bearded chin. “He did seem to appreciate me suggestin’ he stay on, though. Got all quiet-like, and I almost thought he’d go for it. Who knows? Maybe he’s got a girl.” He glanced at Courtney, then back at Matt, and swatted at a bug. “But if I’d’a known you were gonna squeeze him, I’d’a done it.”

  Matt shook his head. “As it turned out, squeezing him wasn’t necessary.” He was talking to Dennis, but seemed to be explaining to Courtney as well. “He asked to see Major Jindal and me early this morning, saying Gravois and others like him heading up the League are nearly as crazy as Kurokawa. He claimed to be against that. He’s still loyal to the German contingent within the League, though, and wouldn’t spill anything that would hurt them directly, but he still gave us a hell of a lot.” Matt pulled a folded page from his pocket and handed it to Silva. “Part of it was this map he drew of Kurokawa’s layout. He claimed it was the same one he drew for Gravois when he flew observation missions around the island. It’s Zanzibar,” he said, “showing rough positions of everything from airfields to industrial facilities, to whatever shore batteries he saw from the air.”

  “Do you trust it?” Courtney asked, skeptically.

  “I think so,” Matt said.

  “Indeed,” Courtney said, brows furrowing. He knew intellectually that Fiedler’s Germany wasn’t the same his son had gone to fight in ’thirty-nine, but the man still remained a variety of Nazi, apparently. They needed to learn more about that. “Why?” he asked simply.

  Matt sighed. “Why not? He knows we’ll check it, and clearly hates Gravois. Why make stuff up? And he told me more, mostly about what the League—and Gravois—were up to out here in the first place. He preferred not to go into the other problems the League faces, or get too specific about how heavy an opponent it would be if we tangled with it, head-on. He’s not a traitor, to his own people at least, and feared too much information might kill Germans. Said that was too much to ask. But he does think they’re done with us for now.” He waved his hand. “We’ll get into that later. We have plenty to occupy us now as it is.”

  “What’s the gist of it?” Courtney pressed.

  Matt frowned. “Only that the main reason the League’s pulling out is that Gravois already accomplished his mission to do everything he could to promote the mutual annihilation of everybody in this region: us, the Grik, and Kurokawa.” His frown deepened. “I don’t intend to oblige him to the extent he hopes, obviously, but we’re in a hell of a jam.”

  Silva cocked his head to the side. “The whuppin’. It looked convincing enough. Fiedler’s idea?”

  “Yeah,” Matt confirmed, and exhaled, like he’d just set down a heavy load. “He’s a tough guy, and knows he’s been on the wrong side, I think. At least out here. He wasn’t happy before, but the whole situation with Savoie pushed him over the edge. And he knows Gravois will figure he spilled something, about the sub if nothing else. So the beating was probably necessary to keep them from just dropping him over the side. Who knows? If he lives and keeps losing faith in the League, we might wind up with somebody on the inside someday.” He looked at Silva and his expression changed to one of challenge. “We’d have to go with the operations we’ve already got in the works, no matter what. Both are risky as hell, and the raid on Zanzibar has to come first. If it flops, the assault on Sofesshk could go really bad, particularly if the Republic doesn’t do its share.” He stopped and looked at Courtney. “Which reminds me. I want you with Bekiaa. She’s been on her own long enough, and we need a real, official representative with the Republic army. You’ll go?”

  Courtney’s face flushed with protest, but resignedly he nodded.

  “Good,” Matt said, turning back to Silva. “Because we’ve got to win this war as fast as we can, if we can. So we can start getting ready for the next one.”

  “We’ll get it done, Skipper. And we’ll get Lady Sandra back too,” Silva pledged. “Then we’ll make the damn League sorry they ever muddied up our war!” He
started to turn away, but Courtney stopped him.

  “One final thing, if you please.” He glanced worriedly at Matt before returning his gaze to Silva. “Do you have it?” he asked simply.

  Silva’s good eye widened in confusion, then narrowed just a bit. “Have it?” he asked, and a gap-toothed grin began to spread. “Nah, Mr. Bradford. Ol’ Doc Stevens got rid of it for me before we ever wound up here, God rest his skunky, Yankee soul.” His grin faded at the sight of Matt and Courtney’s intense expressions, and he realized they had no patience at all for his evasions that day.

  Matt took a deep breath. “Do you or do you not have the thorn weapon Adar and Bernie cooked up and Commander Herring smuggled out from Baalkpan? Herring told me with his dying words that he’d given it to the ‘perfect person,’ undoubtedly someone he thought would use it without hesitation if the appropriate opportunity arose.”

  Silva’s face lost all expression—he couldn’t help it—even as he knew Matt and Courtney both would see it as a sure sign they’d caught him. Despite his tendency to evade indirect questions, he’d promised long ago he’d never lie to his Skipper again, and Matt had accordingly made his question very specific. An equally specific response was required.

  “Captain Reddy,” Silva said very formally, “I don’t have Mr. Herring’s kudzu bomb. Sir.”

  Strangely, Matt nodded with relief. “Kudzu bomb” was Bernie Sandison’s term for a weaponized version of the thorns of a profoundly sinister plant found on Yap Island. Even dried and stored for long periods, the thorns could be resuscitated if exposed to blood, sending roots into the capillaries and veins of an infected host at an astonishing rate. The infection was extremely painful (as the newly promoted Captain Abel Cook of the 1st North Borno could attest), but also came with an insidiously sedative fever that made the host practically indifferent to the fact. Eventually, enough of the victim’s circulatory system was compromised to cause death, and the kudzulike plant would emerge from the nourishing corpse to spread and bloom—and make more thorns. Realizing this, while he and others had been stranded on the island, Silva helped, under less than ideal circumstances, cut off one of Cook’s fingers. Bradford was later horrified to learn of the weapon’s development, fearing if the plant ever got a foothold beyond its native isle, entire continents might be rendered uninhabitable. For that reason, no one, except possibly Herring, had seriously contemplated using the weapon.

  And it wasn’t really a very good weapon. Its tactical applications were limited because it couldn’t work fast enough to decide a battle, and even the strategic value was questionable. One couldn’t easily occupy territory where it had been used, even if it killed anyone the thorns pierced relatively quickly. The thorns lying all over the ground or the plants sprouting from the enemy dead would be equally dangerous to friendly troops. It might deny territory to an enemy that knew about it, but then they could collect enough thorns to grow plants for their own use. The only practical value it seemed to have was as a revenge weapon and when the initial intent of their attack on Grik City had been a mere raid in force. Herring had probably meant to sow the thorns as they pulled out, killing Grik City and making capture unnecessary. Things hadn’t worked out that way and now, of course, they couldn’t turn it loose even if they abandoned the city back to the Grik, because it might spread all over the island, eventually threatening Maroons, Shee-Ree, and other “worthy prey” the Grik had allowed to live there for their amusement.

  But Matt was relieved because, by using the term “kudzu bomb,” Silva confirmed, at the very least, he knew what it was, and therefore probably knew where it was. Unfortunately, his half answer wouldn’t cut it this time.

  “Okay,” Matt allowed, “you don’t have physical possession. I can see that, unless you keep a handful of thorns in a snuff can in your pocket. But you’re obviously Herring’s perfect person and know where it is. The time’s come to spill it. Maybe literally.”

  Silva’s eye went wide. “Really? Damn!”

  “Indeed,” Courtney agreed with supreme reluctance. “Other than the four of us here”—he sent Lawrence a small, quick smile, knowing whatever Silva may have done with the thorns, Lawrence had almost certainly been in on it—“Bernie Sandison, and, apparently Ian Miles, Chairman Adar was the only one in theater to even know it exists. And Adar is in the hands of the enemy.” He shook his head. “Though I’m morally certain he’d die before revealing anything detrimental to our cause, he may not be allowed that choice. Therefore, at the same time we may face a ‘use it or lose it’ scenario, we may also have identified a pair of valid applications.” He frowned. “I do, of course, remain opposed to using the weapon for ecological reasons. But even I recognize the mitigating circumstances of the situation we’re in.”

  “What applications do you have in mind?” Dennis asked, curious how Courtney—the same man who’d practically wept with fury when they scorched part of the giant, horrifying briar patch covering Tarakaan Island—could justify such a momentous change of heart.

  “Only if we can’t neutralize the enemy by other means,” Courtney qualified insistently, “I can, perhaps, imagine a scenario for deploying the weapon at Zanzibar.” He sent another worried glance at Matt. “And should our expeditionary force meet insurmountable difficulty in the campaign for Sofesshk, and if we devise a way of dispersing the thorns widely enough, we may contrive a strategic use for the weapon.”

  Matt and Silva both goggled at him. “We talked about Zanzibar, but now you’re proposing we turn it loose on the continent of Africa!” Matt said.

  “Yes, damn it, I am,” Courtney snapped back. “It’s a tropical plant and shouldn’t thrive in the land of the Republic. Conversely, everything we know about Sofesshk indicates it’s the very hub of Grik civilization.” He took a long, shuddering breath, but his voice was firm when he resumed. “If it comes down to victory or defeat, the very survival of our civilization, our people, and all we hold dear, balanced against the ultimate triumph of the Grik—even if that means infesting a large percentage of a continent with that confounded weed . . .” He stopped and mopped his forehead, refusing to meet their gaze. “God help me, even I’m willing to make that trade, with the stakes so high.”

  “It’s in the Cowflop,” Silva said quietly. “In the basement—the lower levels where I went lookin’ for that other poodledragon, like the one Isak killed with a heartburn pitch.” He grinned. “It’s in copper drums marked FISH MASH, or some such.” He shrugged. “Hid as rations for Grik prisoners—like we ever thought we’d need such a thing, an’ if it ain’t been found and served up to ’em already.”

  “Very well,” Matt said, still watching Courtney and pondering what he’d said. Finally, he looked back at Silva and took a deep breath. “One last thing. Did you mean what you said to Gravois about what you’d do to him if, well . . .”

  Dennis snorted. “Hell, Skipper, when did I ever not do somethin’ I said I would?” Everyone just stared at him, even Petey, and Dennis rolled his eye in exasperation. “I mean that I promised to.”

  Matt canted his head slightly and nodded. “Good enough. Of course, I mean to do it myself someday. But if something . . . happens, and I can’t get it done, I’ll be counting on you to make that bastard pay.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ////// Maa-ni-la

  The Filpin Lands

  October 23, 1944

  Lord Meksnaak hurried down the long dock past the “pee-tee” factory, where motor torpedo boats were built, toward the inlet where the big Clippers flew in from all over the Alliance. His closest diplomatic advisor, a young ’Cat named Heraad-Naar, scurried to keep up. He was also accompanied by half a dozen guards in Saan-Kakja’s livery; black and yellow kilts with gleaming gold-washed breastplates, platterlike helmets similar to those the Alliance had settled on as standard, and the traditional short, stabbing blades at their sides. Meksnaak had been forced to accept the guard for his protection by Saan-K
akja’s direct order. One couldn’t be too careful these days, it seemed, and Meksnaak wasn’t just High Sky Priest of all the Filpin Lands anymore; he was acting governor of the Filpin “state” until Saan-Kakja returned. He rather hated that. Unlike Adar, he’d never been the High Sky Priest of multiple Homes—no one else had—but all the hundreds of islands constituting the Filpin Lands, large and small, were united as one Home, one “state,” and he had authority over the various provincial Sky Priests. That allowed him to wear the somewhat unusual title of lord. He looked like a shorter, slighter, younger version of Adar as well, with silver-gray fur beneath the purple cape flecked with silver stars.

  Personality-wise, he couldn’t have been much more different from the captive former chairman of the Grand Alliance and the Union that grew within it. While Adar became more open and tolerant as the world around him changed, embracing the monumental transformations required to face their enemies and combine the diverse cultures within the alliance into a national union, Meksnaak seemed to grow even more dour, suspicious, and (inwardly at least) isolationist. And though his hatred for the war in general didn’t necessarily set him apart, the intensity of his antipathy toward everything associated with it was more unusual. Above all, he hated what it had done to his people, society, and beloved city of Maa-ni-la. It seemed that all anyone talked about, worked for, or prayed to the Maker to help them with was the war. And so many had been lost! Not only in combat, but also industrial accidents, killed or maimed by things that never should’ve touched them. And they were different now. An innocence, a . . . sweetness he’d always treasured had been swept away.