Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  “Not a word, sir. Nothin’ for this, anyway. My girl an’ I never did much talkin’, if you know what I mean. An’ she jabbered in Tagalog mostly, probably to make sure I didn’t catch anything.”

  Greg turned back to the ship.

  “Sur,” Sammy warned, “we’re gonna run aboard her.”

  “Right. Shift the foresails and bring her around alongside.” He raised the trumpet again while his order was obeyed. “Ah, surrendero immediato!” He shook his head. “No fuego, we no mato. Discardo tu armos!” Eyes appeared, peering from behind battered guns, and three men became visible from where they’d all somehow managed to cram themselves behind the mainmast. All looked at him like he had two heads.

  “No! No!” cried a man, an officer, lying next to the broken wheel. His hat was gone and his long dark hair was matted crimson. His leg was obviously shattered and his white breeches were soaked with blood. “¡No habrá rendición! Manténganse en sus cañones. Matadlos a todos!” Donaghey was easing around, edging alongside the Dom that still wallowed there, dragging her foremast like a sea anchor. Most of her forward guns were smothered by wreckage, and few men could’ve been fit to serve them in any case. But three aft guns suddenly fired, one after another. A ball blasted through the bulwark not far from Greg, spewing a blizzard of splinters. Another struck lower. The third crashed through the bulwark forward, scattering several Marines and cutting the foremast shrouds at the chains when it blew out the other side of the ship. Without even waiting for the order, all Donaghey’s guns fired in reply. They were loaded only with grape, which couldn’t much hurt those manning the belowdecks guns, not from abeam, but more bodies tumbled on the main deck and wreckage and splinters exploded away. Then, in the lull of the reload, most gunners calling for solid shot of their own accord, a man was seen rushing toward the fallen Dom officer. Marines shot at him, but he was too quick. As he reached the officer, he paused—then brought a handspike down with all his might, smashing his head.

  “Cease firing! Cease firing!” Greg bellowed, but he was probably the only one who hadn’t seen the drama across the water. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Saama-Kera, his executive officer and friend, lying on the deck in a spreading pool of blood, a bright, jagged two-foot splinter protruding from his chest. He was quite dead.

  “They struck their daamn colors now,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa called, his tone bitter, practically regretful. “One of her crew tore their flaag down and threw it over the side.”

  “Very well,” Greg said roughly. “Prepare grapnels. Inform Lieutenant Haana we’ll lay alongside and board. All hands.” He straightened. “Kill anybody who resists, but if they want to surrender we will let them. Make sure that’s understood.”

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan Gaarr-ett.”

  • • •

  The Dom frigate Matarife was a charnel house. Shredded bodies lay heaped and scattered all over her main decks and it wasn’t much better below. Shockingly, there’d been further resistance when Donaghey’s boarders leaped across—and Matarife’s survivors finally saw their foe. Greg had been right; though her officers must’ve seen his people through their telescopes, the majority of the enemy obviously thought Donaghey was a NUS ship. When Lemurian sailors and Marines swarmed aboard, many panicked at the sight of what they thought were genuine demons. Those wild-eyed unfortunates were promptly slain as soon as they lifted a weapon. Most who could merely fled belowdecks, though a couple actually jumped over the side. In spite of the senselessness of this further bloodshed, Greg was proud of his people. They were justifiably angry but showed remarkable restraint and no one who yielded was harmed. It took a little longer to convince those who hid below, but eventually they surrendered their arms—and wounded—when their own surgeon entreated them to. He did this after he saw Donaghey’s surgeon, a burly teddy bear of a ’Cat named Sori-Maai, and his mates immediately start trying to save the most horribly wounded Doms.

  One of the more difficult obstacles, however, remained the apparent fact that neither side could communicate with the other, except by example in Surgeon Sori’s case, and through laborious gestures. Greg’s extremely limited Spanish was actually a hindrance, often causing gross misunderstanding. Tribune Pol-Heena’s tortured Latin was probably of greater use, providing a few common words. A form of Latin had been preserved by Lemurian Sky Priests to interpret their Sacred Scrolls, but also lingered—from another obscure source—in the Republic. Greg hadn’t learned if that source was Byzantine or came from a divergent history in which the classical Roman republic—or empire—survived beyond the tenth century. Unlike Captain Reddy, he wasn’t a historian and had little basis for his opinion, but from what he’d picked up, the latter actually seemed more likely.

  Establishing complete control over Matarife took longer than the fight, but, finally, her fewer than a hundred able-bodied men were secured below, her ninety wounded arranged along the gun deck, receiving care, and the 136 dead went over the side. Aside from her surgeon and a mate, the only surviving “officer” was a young boy, probably a midshipman or something similar. He was dressed as an officer, at least, and appeared so terrified of Lemurians that Greg himself took him aft and locked him in a cabin with food and water. He spent a little time poking through the shambles of other cabins, but Matarife’s stern had taken a terrible beating, and a thorough examination would take time. He’d approach the boy later and attempt communication when things were more settled.

  “Our butcher’s bill was seven dead, including Loo-ten-aant Saama-Kera,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa told Greg as they surveyed the damage to Matarife’s fo’c’sle. The foremast wreckage had been cut away before the stump could pound a hole in the ship, but then brought alongside. They were discussing whether it was feasible to fish the lower mast back together and reassemble the top. Probably, with additional reinforcing stays. Greg nodded, both at Mak’s words and his sad blinking. “We have nineteen wounded,” Mak continued, “six baad. Sori doubts three will live.”

  “Yeah,” Greg agreed solemnly. Sori had worked under Karen Letts and came aboard expressly for this voyage with all the latest knowledge, tools, and medicines the Alliance had devised to care for two distinct species. Greg suspected he was probably better skilled and more experienced than any naval surgeon back home ever was. “I spoke to him a few minutes ago,” he continued. “Thank God we have him. He’s got the stamina of ten ’Cats, and he’s going to need it.” He looked at Mak. “You too,” he added. “You’re XO now, though you’ll have to take over here for the time being, when—if—we get this tub underway.”

  “We will,” Mak said, blinking assurance. “Hull daamage wasn’t baad. The rigging’s cut up, but it was a crummy rig in the first place. Have to change it to sail her understrength, anyway.” He glanced at the sky, his tail swishing. “It’ll stay fair. Long enough to reset her fore-maast an’ get some headsails on her. Then we’ll knot an’ splice as we go—though I’d prefer a nice, protected anchorage to do it right.”

  “Me too, but no promises. And the more pressing problem is people,” Greg said. Mak nodded. Donaghey’s complement was two hundred officers and enlisted. She actually carried more like two thirty, counting those who’d joined her from the Republic, and the many youngling “powder boys.” That was more than enough to sail and fight her. And she didn’t need nearly as many replacements as a similar ship in an earlier age, because so few succumbed to illness. But she’d just lost nearly thirty people, from a practical standpoint, and Matarife would need more to sail her than Donaghey did. Fighting both ships was practically impossible. At least one must be able to, however, and Donaghey was the better choice. So, though they’d already decided Donaghey would pose as the Doms’ prize when they continued, Matarife would necessarily be extremely shorthanded. “Maybe,” Greg began doubtfully, “some Doms have been cooperative once they figured out we’re not demons. You might get a few extra hands from the prisoners in time,” he ventured.

&n
bsp; “I’d be more confident of that if we could talk to ’em,” Mak agreed. “But I’ll try.”

  They were interrupted by a small party of ’Cats suddenly standing before them in the midst of the chaotic labor. They had their hats in their hands and Chief Bosun’s Mate Jenaar-Laan was among them. “Yes?” Mak demanded.

  “Sur,” Jenaar said to Mak, but clearly addressing Greg. “We got dead. We know we can’t build a pyre, nor bury ’em on land.” He blinked, dissatisfied. ’Cats generally preferred cremation, so their spirits could rise to the Heavens with the smoke, though a growing number of navy and Marine ’Cats had opted for burial in the human destroyermen fashion. “No choice but over the side wit’ ’em, sewed in their haam-ocks an’ smeared wit’ grease so the flaashies don’t get ’em . . . even Loo-ten-aant Sammy.”

  Greg nodded. He’d known this was coming and hadn’t been sure how he’d deal with it. Apparently, his crew already knew. “I have to agree with you, Boats. It’s a sorry situation, but there’s nothing for it.”

  “Aye, sur. An’ it’s not like it aan’t been done before. It’s just . . .”

  “What?” Mak asked.

  “Well, we just want to make sure . . .” He was blinking rapidly now. “There’s stories o’ how Waa-kur buried her people with Jaap iron, shells that hit her an’ didn’t blow, when she first came here. . . .”

  Greg nodded. He remembered it well. They’d already decided they couldn’t spare the traditional projectiles—of their own, at least—and had sent his shipmates to their watery graves with whatever weighty objects they could spare. “What’s your point?” he asked gently.

  “Well, sur, it’s just . . . not all believe you gotta have smoke for souls to rise no more, but some do. Always have. An’ if our shipmates’ souls don’t rise, nobody wants ’em spendin’ forever wit’ a pair o’ daamn Dom roundshot at their feet.” He waved around, encompassing all the ’Cats. Many had paused in their labors to hear this exchange. “We talked this wit’ ourselves before, an’ . . . if it’s okaay wit’ you, sur, an’ you think we have enough, we’d sooner have our own iron wit’ us on the bottom of the sea. Not the iron that sent us there.” He blinked exasperation, afraid his captain didn’t understand.

  Greg was surprised by the request, but quickly controlled his expression. After so long together, he couldn’t possibly hide his “face moving” from Donaghey’s crew. And, perhaps oddly, he did understand. Mak, blinking impatience that they’d brought this up now, with so much to do, seemed on the verge of sending the delegation packing. He was a fine officer and would make a good XO, but he hadn’t developed Sammy’s patience with the hands, or his flexibility when dealing with awkward cultural issues. Sammy had been so good at it, they rarely even came to Greg’s attention anymore—but when they arose, they had to be addressed. Greg touched Mak’s arm to forestall his gathering rant and blinked acceptance. “Of course, Boats. I get it. And I’m sure we can spare the shot. I’d want the same myself.”

  “Thaank you, sur,” the delegation chorused, and the toil around them resumed, the workers apparently satisfied. Greg looked at Mak. “Carry on. I’m going aft to have another look at the papers and such.” He shook his head. “It’s a mess back there, and stuff is scattered everywhere.” He blinked frustration. “And I can’t read anything I find anyway, so we still won’t know what the Doms and Leaguers were up to at Ascension. Our best bet is to carry on with our mission. But there’ll be no more casting about, exploring. We’re bound straight for the NUS navy base on Cuba. It’s even more essential we make contact as quickly as possible; let them tell us what they make of the papers and prisoners we took. We can’t read them,” he repeated. “Let’s find someone who can.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ////// 340 miles SE of Zanzibar

  Alongside USS Keshaa-Fas (AVD-26)

  October 28, 1944

  Lieutenant (jg) Saansa-Belkaa dumped a parachute on the seat of her bobbing P-40E Warhawk, serial number 41-5304, before plopping down on it—atop the other parachute she already wore—and checking that the block extensions bolted to the rudder pedals hadn’t shifted. Then she strapped herself in and looked up past the open canopy and black silhouette of the AVD at the sky. There was a hazy quarter moon overhead with a bright quarter halo washing the stars from the Heavens. Fortunately, however, the wind had settled to a virtual calm and the sea was much smoother now. When she’d set down alongside USS Keshaa-Fas—one of numerous armed seaplane tenders converted from Dowden and Haaker-Faask class steam frigates—the afternoon before, the sea had been fur-raisingly rough. Even worse than her first stop for fuel from AVD-11. And since no P-40 was ever designed as a seaplane, the bizarre contraption they’d created by “slaapin’ a pair of Jaap floats” on number 41-5304 would’ve been difficult for even an experienced Warhawk pilot to get the hang of. That she, Captain Tikker, and the two others rated to fly the ship hadn’t cracked it up already was considered a minor miracle, and she’d thought their (and particularly her) good luck was over the day before, when she almost flipped the thing.

  Oddly, though, she was deeply devoted to the plane. It floated like a Nancy, so it could—theoretically—set down anywhere on the wild, predator-rich sea, and even with the weight and drag of the floats, it was faster than the new-model “Fleashooters.” She positively gloried in the sheer muscle of the big Aal-i-saan engine. She loved to fly anything and was very good, or she wouldn’t have been chosen to fly the Pee-Forty-something, as it was often called. She certainly wouldn’t’ve been picked for this mission. But nothing made her feel more powerful and free than to strap on the big, thunderous fighter and bolt through the sky at the three hundred miles per hour it could still achieve.

  The propeller had been pulled through before they set her in the water, and she quickly performed the complicated startup procedure. She cracked the throttle an inch, set the mixture, and switched the propeller to Automatic. Generator switch on, fuel boost pump on, she energized the starter. Five strokes of the priming knob, and she flipped the boost pump off. With the Mag switch on Both, she engaged the starter. The prop turned with a high-pitched whine and the engine fired erratically. Without thinking, she moved the mixture control to Auto-Rich and turned the boost pump back on, feeding the engine with the priming knob until it settled down to business and ran smoothly.

  Exhaust swirled in the cockpit, quickly swept away by the roaring propwash, and after a glance at the oil pressure, she looked to her right when someone slapped her on the shoulder. “God go witchoo!” came a shout. She couldn’t see the face in the dark, but knew her well-wisher was Keshaa-Fas’s air division chief, there to unhook the cradle straps used to lift the plane. P-40s didn’t have built-in lifting points like Nancys, or even the giant Clippers. The chief’s farewell was what gave him away, because she’d noticed before that he wore a wooden cross. Lots more Chiss-chins these days, she thought, not really troubled, just baffled. Even with Sister Audry gone east, her Caato-lik . . . herd—she shought that was the right word—keeps growing. She wasn’t sure why. As far as she could tell, the fundamentals of Chiss-chinny weren’t that different from her own faith in one Maker of All Things. But then someone told her Chiss-chins worshipped three gods: a father, his son, and a spook. That bothered her. Most Lemurians believed in ghosts who, for one reason or another, couldn’t ascend to the Heavens. Captain Tikker—kind of—straightened her out, explaining the three gods were really one (even the spook), who combined to become a Holy Trinity. At least in Sister Audry’s version. Other Chiss-chins, like some of the old destroyermen—and most of the Empire of the New Britain Isles—kept things simpler, it seemed, believing in one Maker who sent his son to save people from themselves. But they killed him! And it was his ghost that came and told everybody he still loved them before he went to the Heavens. Or something like that.

  She actually found that rather comforting, that the Maker’s own Son—she thought he was Jeez, based on how often sh
e’d heard that name called upon by hu-maans and Mi-Anakka—still cared for them, despite how he’d been treated. And she supposed she saw the attraction of believing that. A Maker of love, above and beyond the mere vaguely interested benevolence attributed to the Maker of her faith. She still found it odd there could be different kinds of Chiss-chins, but, then, her faith was just as subtly different from the Aryaalans. The fundamentals were the same, but Aryaalans thought the sun was the Maker, the moon His brother, and the Maker knew only what you did while one or the other was overhead. She believed the Maker made the sun and moon and was everywhere in the Heavens, watching all. The sun and moon were important, sure, as the most visible manifestations of His creation, and she faced them when she prayed. But she was no sun worshipper like those weird Aryaalans! Most Mi-Anakka shared one steadfast belief, however, that the stars in the Heavens were the souls of those who’d gone before. Why else would some gather in clan groups while others stayed to themselves?

  She reached out and patted the chief’s arm in return. “And the Maker watch over you!” she shouted back. Then, when she was sure the chief and the lifting straps had all been raised clear and her plane was pointed away from the dark side of the AVD, she slammed and locked the canopy and advanced the throttle. Quickly, the unlikely aircraft gathered speed until it finally bounced into the air and Saansa-Belkaa hurtled northwest in the black, lonely night. She saw the stars better now, above the low-lying haze, and as always they gave her great comfort. But she had plenty of time, and under the circumstances it seemed appropriate to let her mind wander among the various notions of the Maker—and her life beyond the coming sunrise.

  An hour and a half later, at five thousand feet, what had been a dark smear on the graying horizon became the dawn-spangled shape of Zanzibar. They’d debated whether she should make a high- or low-level observation and finally decided she’d be observed either way. It would be best to make the most of it. And Kurokawa had to know they’d be looking for him. An overflight might raise his guard, but that couldn’t be helped. And if the past was any guide, his paranoia might even move him to do something rash that they could take advantage of—if they knew about it in time. Besides, they had to learn what awaited them, and having a good, close look was the only way. Saansa glanced at the smooth board strapped to her leg, with a copy of the map the League Kraaut Fiedler drew, and was surprised to see she’d apparently made landfall near the northeast end of the island. There’s that Notion Isle, she thought, right where it should be. She decided to continue on to Lizard Mouth Bay and then turn south. The island was only about fifty miles long, north to south, and if she followed the single road, she could check Tailbone Bay and still hit Lizard Ass Bay, where Kurokawa’s primary facilities were supposed to be, before anyone knew she was coming. She began her descent.