Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  Not for the first time, Matt and others had made the decision not to waste time and resources on stopgaps such as rifling muzzle-loading cannon that would, hopefully, soon be replaced. Nor was it logistically possible to rifle existing guns of deployed warships, even assuming they could handle the additional pressures of the heavier projectiles they’d require, which was no sure thing. As usual, the choice to focus their limited industrial capacity on next-generation weapons, perfecting the metallurgy and manufacturing techniques required by things like the dual-purpose 4″-50, or copies of Browning MGs instead of Gatlings (which they could’ve made sooner) had prevailed. Allin-Silva rifle conversions were a stopgap by definition, but their land forces had more desperately needed a breechloader of any sort to counter enemy numbers. Besides, the conversion was a relatively simple matter and entirely new versions required minimal production changes. And there was no urgent need to replace them. They were light, accurate, powerful enough to kill “boogers” larger than Grik, which troops sometimes encountered, and none of their enemies (before the League became potential foes) had anything remotely as good. But they were stuck with smoothbore artillery for the most part, particularly on land, until supply for the new 4″-50s and 5.5″s could catch up with demand. And making field carriages to accommodate the big naval rifles presented formidable challenges as well.

  Matt understood that the remains of Walker’s old 3″-23 antiaircraft gun had been copied in Baalkpan. It had been considered practically useless at sea, and would be totally so against armored warships, but Bernie had long proposed that they put them on field carriages. That actually made a lot of sense, and the carriage works was gearing up to accommodate them. But then they learned a similar weapon already existed, about to join the fight. The Republic of Real People was supposedly bringing quick-firing field guns related to the French 75 to the battle on land, and had offered the blueprints to its allies. That might help—someday. But, once again, in the upcoming campaigns, smoothbore artillery—and aircraft—would share the battles on land and sea. Matt was struck by the irony of that. Still, the true-bored Grik guns in Fort Laumer made him wonder if their decision to forgo immediate, slight enhancements—like rifling their existing muzzle-loaders—in favor of vast improvements down the line would bite them on the ass. The big guns protecting Fort Laumer and the bay were unfit for field use, but well-suited for mounting in ships or shore emplacements. And they had to assume the Grik at Sofesshk had improved them even more, and almost certainly had better field artillery now. By all accounts, they had a better army.

  Matt had been watching the sunset and speaking with Commander Russ Chappelle whenever Santa Catalina’s skipper stepped out on the port bridgewing to observe the channel. Russ had started out as a torpedoman and wasn’t a “born” officer. He had, in fact, once reminded Matt more of Silva than he was entirely comfortable with, when it came to giving him what was arguably the most powerful ship in their Navy. In appearance, the two men could’ve been brothers. Both were tall, blond, and bearded. But Chappelle wasn’t Silva, and he’d become a fine officer whether he’d ever been cut out for it or not. Santy Cat was in good hands. Now, nodding to the lookout, Matt stepped down the long metal stair to the main deck below.

  The sea was brisker past the point and the old ship took on a gentle, corkscrewing wallow as she shouldered the waves aside. He looked to the west again as he strode aft down the ship’s port side, occasionally nodding at Lemurians and Imperial humans in Chack’s 1st Raider Brigade. Maybe it’s just my imagination, he thought, but it sure seems like the sunsets are more spectacular ever since Talaud Island blew its top. He’d been thinking about that a lot lately: the volcanic eruption that shattered an island and nearly killed his wife. He’d also thought about the circumstances that put her in danger in the first place—and how he’d behaved at the time.

  He’d thought Sandra and the then-Princess Rebecca, as well as a number of their other people, were in the hands of a madman. And it turned out that their alliance with—and the very survival of—the Empire of the New Britain Isles had been at stake. But he’d selfishly reprioritized a number of things, at least in his mind, to a dangerous degree. It may have turned out for the best, but it probably shouldn’t have, in retrospect. Now, though the current situation was similar on its face, he was sure Sandra—and more of their people—were in the clutches of a maniac at least as diabolical, and even more capricious than Walter Billingsly and Harrison Reed ever were. And Hisashi Kurokawa was certainly more dangerous to the survival of the Alliance and the success of their original cause in the West: to defeat the Grik. But Matt was deathly afraid he was doing exactly the same thing he’d done before—possibly subordinating the war effort to his own personal ends—and this time that was precisely what their bitterest enemy wanted.

  He eased through more of Chack’s troops, taking a final glance at the sunset, a smile fixed rigidly on his face for the benefit of watchers. If it weren’t for all the gray steel around him, the water—and the short, furry people, of course—the sunset might’ve reminded him of those he’d seen nearly every evening as a boy in the central Texas sky. But that old home was farther away—in so many ways—than he could even wrap his mind around, and he rarely thought about it anymore. This was home now, these people were his cause, and he had no time for nostalgia. Particularly when his mind was so busy planning, evaluating, and worrying about screwing everything up. And the most insidious thing of all was that he was just as concerned his “objective” analysis of his previous behavior might overly influence him toward misplaced caution, undermining his instinctive evaluation of the situation. His gut had often served him better than his untrained and imperfect strategic thinking, after all.

  A full half of Chack’s Brigade was aboard, choking the ship’s upper decks, and they respectfully parted before him as he walked. The rest of the brigade was aboard Arracca. The carrier and her battlegroup would follow the old freighter-turned–armored cruiser out to the open sea, as she always did when nightfall—and the near-certain air raid accompanying it—loomed. But this time, they wouldn’t be back at dawn. Nearing the rear of the armored casemate forming much of Santy Cat’s superstructure and protecting six heavy 5.5″ rifles salvaged from Amagi, Matt stared aft at the darkened city. Arracca’s huge form was getting underway, half her escorts dashing out ahead, but the city itself was dominated by the squat black form of the Cowflop. Such an awful damn place, he thought, to cost so much precious blood. I wonder if it’ll still be ours the next time I see it—if I see it again—or if we’ll have to pay more to get it back.

  He shook his head and stepped into Santy Cat’s oddly incongruous dining salon, surprised to find it almost empty. Only Courtney Bradford and Juan Marcos, the peg-legged Filipino who’d proclaimed himself chief steward to the CINCAF (Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces), occupied the strangely decorative space. Courtney probably should’ve stayed at Grik City and taken a Clipper straight down to the Republic city of Songze, but he’d chosen to join Matt for this short voyage to Mahe first. Most of the Clippers gathering there were going down to the Comoros Islands, to stage for a series of raids against Sofesshk. He’d take one of those. Now he and Juan sat on a pair of rocking chairs, of all things, knocked up to the Filipino’s specifications “for Cap-tan Chappelle” by the ship’s carpenter. Every chair and stool on the ship had been replaced as the result of a recent prank run amok, and Matt was impressed by the craftsmanship. In her Old World role as a naval auxiliary, Santa Catalina often carried passengers, primarily naval officers, who expected a few comforts. The dining salon was one. During her rebuild, with an eye toward her possible role as a flagship, the salon was actually made more spacious, comfortable, and even ornate in the Lemurian way, embellished with fine tapestries and woodwork. The new chairs had to match.

  “Oh. Good evening,” Matt said as the Filipino stood, apparently horrified his captain had caught him doing nothing. Courtney stayed where he was, noddi
ng with a smile, both hands wrapped protectively around a cup.

  “I, ah . . . There’s coffee,” Juan said defensively, waving enthusiastically at the large silver pot standing on the table.

  “Mmm,” Matt said neutrally, regarding the pot with caution. One of the longest-held secrets of the war had been broken, and Juan finally knew Captain Reddy hated what he did to the ersatz coffee they’d been forced to use on this world. It tasted vile and produced a greasy green foam atop the coal-black brew. Some could make it palatable, but Juan never mastered it. Worse, he thought he had, and no one had been willing to hurt his feelings—until they just couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Juan straightened. “I did not make it,” he assured glumly with a quick glance at Bradford. “And I do think you will find it interesting,” he added. Then he brightened. “You wanna eat? I will bring you something to eat!”

  “I’d love a bite,” Courtney said. “Captain Reddy?”

  “Sure, Juan. Whatever’s handy.” Matt nodded at Courtney. “And make sure Mr. Bradford and I have a few minutes, if you please. I won’t keep Commander Chappelle out of his own wardroom”—he managed a real grin—“his dining salon. But you might ask anyone else who comes along for a little patience.”

  “Of course, Cap-tan Reddy! No one shall pass!” Juan hesitated. “And do sample the coffee,” he added grudgingly.

  “I will.”

  They waited a moment while Juan quickly poured a cup—it did smell different—and then latched the hatches port and starboard before clomping forward, up the passageway toward the officers’ galley.

  “Oh, sit down,” Courtney commanded. “You look dead on your feet. Worse, you look like a flashy ate your puppy. Can’t go around like that, you know. There’s morale to consider, don’t you see? Of course.”

  Matt lowered himself into the vacated rocker and it creaked comfortingly in its joints and on the wooden deck. Then he glanced at the cup. Shrugging, he picked it up and brought it near his lips. He stopped suddenly when the full force of the aroma hit him—and he saw the anticipation in Courtney’s eyes. “This is coffee,” he said simply. “Isn’t it? Real coffee.”

  Courtney grinned. “Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s still a bit odd, you’ll see. Slightly, oh, I don’t know . . . woody?” He seemed discontent with the description. “Perhaps a different grind or roasting technique . . .”

  “Where’d you get it?” Matt interrupted in wonder, taking a sip at last. “My God,” he practically moaned, savoring the taste. Courtney was right: it was unusual compared to what he’d grown accustomed to, but it could’ve been exactly the same as what Walker brought to this world, for all he knew; it had been so long since he’d tasted anything like it. All that mattered was that it was real coffee—and it was good. “Can we get more?” he immediately demanded.

  “We can have all we want,” Courtney assured, “as long as we hold Madagascar,” he qualified. “It grows wild in the lands of the Shee-Ree and they pick the little red cherries, eating them as they stroll along.” His eyes widened in horror. “Such a waste! But it stands to reason, actually. Coffee was indigenous to the Madagascar of our world, as was all vanilla. I’ll certainly enquire about that, I assure you. Just imagine: vanilla! For the present however, for the sake of the war effort, of course—since even Lemurians are becoming such fiends for caffeine—I considered the introduction of this Shee-Ree coffee of primary importance.”

  “When did you find it?” Matt asked.

  Courtney waved his hand. “While on our little trek down south. I packed a few handfuls away and arranged for more to be brought back whenever arms and supplies are flown down.”

  “Hmm. Then it seems Silva’s not the only one who can keep a secret.”

  “No indeed. Not that I meant to, at all,” Courtney hastily added. “Nor did Mr. Silva have any idea. I doubt it ever occurred to him that coffee begins its life as sweet little berries! Otherwise, I merely wanted to make absolutely sure to, ah, experiment a bit before revealing my discovery to the world.” He gestured grandly, and Matt took another long, satisfying gulp. “My God,” he said quietly again. Then, carefully, he set the cup aside and closed his eyes, massaging his forehead with his hand.

  Courtney leaned forward in alarm. “Are . . . are you all right, Captain Reddy?”

  Matt glanced up, frowned, then nodded. “Yeah. As well as anybody. It’s just kind of pathetic that I can be emotionally overwhelmed by a good cup of joe.”

  Courtney’s features softened. “Not pathetic at all. I was quite affected myself.” His bushy brows furrowed. “And you’re doing a great deal better than anyone else I can imagine, whose wife and unborn child are in the hands of a murdering madman,” he added gently.

  Matt shrugged again, then cocked his head to the side, regarding the Australian. Aside from Sandra, Bradford was the only one he’d ever been able to unburden to, particularly when it came to things like doubt. That was probably because Bradford had been a civilian and when they were alone, Matt didn’t have to be the all-knowing, ever-confident CINCAF everyone else, even his closest friends like Keje, must believe him to be. Chief Gray was never fooled, and had a talent for bolstering Matt’s self-assurance with an oblique comment or even a simple glance. But Gray was dead, Sandra was a hostage—at best—and that left only Courtney. And the Australian had gone through tough times of his own, which Matt discreetly shook him out of. That created a bond of perfect honesty and confidentiality both needed from somebody. Still, neither abused the privilege, and their private talks were rare. In Courtney’s case, he’d significantly improved. His drinking had reverted from dependency to recreational status, and, frankly, he considered any lingering personal problems too inconsequential to add to Matthew Reddy’s weighty responsibilities. Matt was equally conscious that, while never knowingly indiscreet, Courtney was affected by the apprehensions he revealed. They became his own, and not only was that somewhat cruel, Matt thought, but others might notice his guarded concern and guess the source. It could also push him back to drink. It had before. But Matt desperately needed an objective opinion. He sighed.

  “I fired off a message to Chairman Letts describing what Fiedler spilled about the League strategy to get everybody to wipe each other out so they can, basically, march in and pick up the pieces. I also dispatched a Nancy to Mahe with a copy of the map Fiedler drew, complete with updates Silva added.” Silva had hung on to the copy Matt showed him. He’d need to know it well. He’d drawn another, and doodled on it before handing it back. Matt snorted. “Silva titled it ‘Objective Shithouse’ and made up a bunch of goofy place-names that are actually pretty appropriate, and we can use for code references.” He shook his head. “That guy is so weird. I changed the name to ‘Outhouse,’ but left the rest. Nobody just overhearing one of the place-names, without Silva’s warped mind, will know what they mean. Anyway, if the map’s accurate, it’ll help our planning. I have to confirm it, though, like I said, and told Keje to send a scout.”

  Courtney raised his brows in alarm.

  “I know—it’s a risk. But not only can it confirm what Fiedler told us about Zanzibar, but it’ll help me decide if we can swallow the rest of what he said.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose,” Courtney agreed in a skeptical tone. “But even if we confirm every detail, I doubt I could ever trust Fiedler. Everything having to do with the League seems so utterly warped, so false.”

  “I know,” Matt confessed, eyes straying back to the coffee cup. “And I even catch myself wondering if Gravois told him to have Jindal beat him so we’d believe him! Everything the League does is so sneaky and underhanded.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I keep telling myself that Fiedler isn’t the League, and I don’t think anybody could fake how much he hates Gravois, but . . .” He sighed. “So many shades of gray. I always hated ’em. Preferred everything nice and neat, black or white, and now there’s different shades of shades!” He took an
other sip from his cup. “I guess it all has to come down to principle and what our gut tells us in the end. I think Fiedler hates Gravois, and what’s behind him just as much. My gut tells me he doesn’t like what the League’s been up to out here, or his German contingent’s place under its triumvirate. I feel that he hopes if we win, we’ll wreck Gravois’s strategy to kill us off and the triumvirate’ll fall; maybe paving the way for a more rational leadership we can deal with. Coexist with, anyway. It’s a big world. Assuming that, maybe it really was Sandra’s capture, and what Savoie did to Amerika, that forced him to make a choice.” He looked back at Bradford. “That would be the right thing to do, the honorable thing.” He chuckled darkly. “The black-or-white thing.”

  Courtney tightened his lips but didn’t respond, and Matt paused, considering. Finally, he raised a finger to his chin.

  “And maybe it’s that he wouldn’t spill much that’ll hurt his German contingent that makes me trust his map, at least. He knew we could’ve kept him, tortured him, killed him, if we wanted, but we didn’t. And he didn’t say squat for a while. He waited until he knew we weren’t like Kurokawa or the goddamn League. You saw how Gravois reacted when I told him we knew about the German sub. It’s real and it’s out there. Fiedler volunteered that, potentially sacrificing a few of his countrymen so we wouldn’t blame the rest, or him, for what it might do.” He nodded. “So, yeah, I guess I kind of do believe him after all.”

  “I’d dearly love more detailed information about the League and its capabilities,” Courtney mused, “and most particularly what constitutes its other problems, more pressing than us. We might make them more acute if we had an idea what they were.”