Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  It was almost completely dark now, and torchlight was glowing within the palace, illuminating the arch. Other lights began to flicker around Old Sofesshk, but the hive across the river was brightening even more, as fires were stoked beneath innumerable cookpots and the ageless scent of smoldering dung crowded the air. Esshk appreciated the more . . . refined airs in Old Sofesshk, but the other didn’t disturb him. It was what he’d always known, and it smelled of normalcy. The faint addition of woodsmoke to the building fug reminded him of a swarm on campaign, however, and that quickened his blood. The delays have been necessary, and still are if we are to succeed, he thought. I have sampled the bitter, ashy draught of defeat—mine and others—far too often. I will not taste it again. But what if the Chooser is right and delay is as much our enemy as the worthy prey across the strait? He snapped his jaws in sharp objection, startling the Chooser. No. Despite how keen I am to stir this greatest and most unique of Swarms to motion at last, the wisdom of the Way must still have meaning. Combining the quality of the New Army with the universal quality of numbers must be irresistible. The enemy still possesses formidable material advantages, but can never match my numbers. Delay only strengthens me in that respect. It is me whom time will aid! Any additional costs delay might bring will be insignificant to the final outcome.

  That was when he heard the deep, rumbling, droning sound, approaching from the east, and knew exactly what it was.

  A spear of fire arced into the sky and popped, bright orange, over New Sofesshk. Another blinding streak followed the first, then another, as rockets lofted into the air to strike the enemy planes. Occasionally, one veered wildly, or began to tumble and tear itself apart in a smear of flame, but most now flew straight and true. He looked up as more orange flashes lit the sky, only now hearing the report of the first. Then, with mounting fury, he realized that not only had the enemy brought more than the one, then two planes, that came before—there must be at least four this time, probably more—but the rockets, improved as they’d been, and with better fuses and larger motors, were still utterly useless if their crews couldn’t see their targets!

  Frustrated rocket crews, commanded never to let enemy planes fly over the city unchallenged again, would be setting fuses for random elevations, pointing their rockets where it sounded like the planes would be. Esshk had just seen how pointless that was, by how long it took the reports to reach him. The planes would be past where they sounded, by the time the rockets reached that point, and could be higher or lower in any event. Still, as more and more rockets flew, exploding in the sky and sending hundreds of copper balls in all directions, it seemed increasingly impossible they all would miss. Even if we fail to destroy a single plane, many might be hit and their crews terrified enough to flee. No, he realized bleakly. They are not like us. Like my warriors used to be. They have always had what my own army is just beginning to learn: this thing Kurokawa called courage. They will not flee.

  Flashes erupted on the ground several miles away, marching through the dense warren of New Sofesshk one after another, sending roiling balls of flame into the sky. The sound was muffled, when it came to them, not like the cannon-blast detonations they expected, but more like the sound their own firebombs made. Another string of flashes lit the city, then another, each closer to the precious shipyards and warehouses on the other side of the river. There were five, all told, roughly confirming Esshk’s estimate of enemy numbers, and they seemed as evenly spaced as the burning boils a tag’k beetle left on the skin beneath the fur, squirting its acid with every step. But these “boils” were huge, and each surely consumed hundreds in their fire.

  “It is actually rather beautiful, is it not?” the Chooser quietly said beside him.

  “Yes,” Esshk replied absently. He was still furious, but knew what the Chooser meant. “As a general, I have always found war to be so. Particularly when fire is used. I confess I find it less beautiful when it is us and not the prey who burns beneath it.” They watched for a while, long after the rockets stopped firing and the drone of engines receded in the night, and their customary time for exercise had passed. They were surprised to see the flames begin to spread instead of burning themselves out, as expected.

  “Lord First General!” came the cry of General Ign, as he hurried toward them and flung himself on the paving stones at their feet. Ign had helped build the New Army and was second general of all the Ghaarrichk’k. Essentially Esshk’s second in command, he was increasingly responsible for the day-to-day maintenance, training, and preparation of the entire Swarm. He alone could’ve approached without interference from the guards, and his use of Esshk’s military title instead of Regent Champion meant he’d come to address a military matter.

  “Stand, Second General,” Esshk said.

  Ign quickly rose. “Lord, the fires across the river are out of control. I have ordered that the ships close by the docks should pump water upon the warehouses that are threatened.”

  “Very well. But how can the fire spread? New Sofesshk is mostly made of earth.”

  “True, Lord, but the earth, the bricks—all are mixed with prairie grass. The flames are so hot that even they burn!”

  Esshk narrowed his eyes. “It sounds as if you have taken appropriate steps. What else troubles you?”

  “We can protect the waterfront, but with the prevailing wind, perhaps one part in ten of the city may burn.”

  “Why is that my concern? Has much of the Swarm been harmed?” At the Chooser’s suggestion, they’d started quartering warriors in the city to make them easier to feed and shelter, and guard against unrest—of any sort.

  “No, Lord. A few hundreds were killed in the bombing. Others may have been killed when rockets malfunctioned. But the Uul in the city . . . Many are turning prey with fear.”

  “As I foretold,” the Chooser said.

  Esshk glanced sharply at him. “And as I prepared against.” He looked back at Ign. “Go yourself, Second General. Control the fires, but, more important, control the Uul before the entire city turns prey. They are the workforce that supports the Final Swarm, after all.”

  “And those that have already turned?”

  Esshk waved dismissively. “Destroy them. The New Army has been trained to fight a different way, but the old ways still have value. This will give them experience”—he paused and regarded the Chooser—“as well as easing our Lord Chooser’s commissary concerns.”

  “At once, Lord First General!” Ign replied, and raced off.

  The Chooser gathered himself. “Indeed,” he said as ironically as he dared. “I feel much more confident about that now. But consider the damage done by just a few enemy planes.” He waved across the river where the flames were gathering strength, pulsing and soaring, and glared at the smoky haze above. They’d be lucky if only a tenth of the huge city burned that night.

  “I do, and will, Lord Chooser. But it was to be expected. We did expect it and acted accordingly.” Esshk snorted impatience. “And they did not harm Old Sofesshk, so there is little to concern us.”

  “Of course, Lord Regent Champion,” the Chooser said, now addressing him as the leader of all the Ghaarrichk’k. “But they will be back.”

  • • •

  “Bloody gorgeous!” Courtney Bradford yelled, loud enough to be heard over the four big radials roaring practically overhead. He’d crammed his head up past Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom’s and was peering aft through the pilot’s left-side window as their PB-5D Clipper headed south. Mark’s brown-and-tan-striped Lemurian copilot, Lieutenant Paraal-Taas, snorted a laugh. They’d started some gorgeous fires indeed, and he seemed almost giddy. As did Courtney. “Bloody marvelous,” he enthused again, witnessing the effect of the ton of incendiaries each plane dropped.

  Mark Leedom was just as pleased, but wished Courtney would—literally—get out of his hair. Mark was COFO of the air defenses at Grik City, but led this raid because he’d
already been over Sofesshk twice. That was how he’d rationalized it to Jumbo, anyway, who actually commanded Pat-Squad 22, the outfit his borrowed plane belonged to. He should’ve stayed out of the raid completely and carried Courtney straight down to Songze, but Courtney wouldn’t countenance a special trip, and the risk of taking him along was deemed relatively minor—as long as they hit the city at night. Mark had personally experienced how effective the new Grik rocket batteries were when they could see you. As it turned out, they’d been right, and now Mark was looking forward to the chance of seeing his old friend Bekiaa-Sab-At. She could be anywhere in the Republic, but there was a chance they’d meet and have a chance to catch up. They’d shared a particularly rough time together, and were two of only a handful who survived it. Now if he could only put up with Courtney for another seven hours or so . . .

  After they dropped their bombs, the other four planes turned northeast, back toward the Comoros Islands, but Leedom’s ship still had eight hundred miles to go. Songze was the closest thing to a port city the Republic had on its east coast. It was becoming a port city, at least, a real one, from what Mark heard, sprouting large shipyards and heavy industry. The Republic had never dared grow too conspicuous on that coast before. The Grik had always dominated the littoral waters of the Indian Ocean, ranging ever farther and more boldly over the past two hundred years, and the isolationist Senate feared appearing too provocative—or tempting. That was over now, and the place was jumping, supposedly starting the first blue-water warships the Republic had built in at least a hundred years. (Maybe ever. That remained unclear.) Leedom was anxious to see for himself, but Songze was a long way off, and they’d be flying over a lot of land controlled by the Grik. At least it was dark. They might be heard, but never be seen.

  Mark contemplated his Clipper. PB-5Ds were great, reliable planes, improved many times since the first variant flew. Their four engines had ten cylinders now, generating about 365 hp each. They could cruise at 120 miles an hour for almost 2,500 miles—about the same range as the old PBY flying boat that inspired them. Range and speed should improve still more with the next planned variant, when they finally faired the engines into the wing to reduce drag. (Personally, Mark hoped they’d leave them be for now. He’d rather have a bunch more D models before they threw any curves at the assembly line.) Clippers had a crew of six and could carry eight passengers in relative comfort. More important to Leedom, they were armed with five .30-caliber machine guns and could carry a ton of bombs or two torpedoes. But having taken off from Jumbo’s base on the Comoros Island of Mayotte, Songze was near the limit of their range, counting the run up the Zambezi to bomb Sofesshk, and Leedom was concerned about the quality of gasoline their Republic allies would use to replace what they burned.

  “Marvelous!” Courtney repeated, still gazing back at the diminishing flames.

  “Yeah, yeah, it was swell,” Mark agreed sourly. “A real clambake—or lizard bake, I guess. And if they don’t like that, wait till Jumbo gets more planes. He’ll level the damn place.” He shifted uncomfortably, but Courtney just wedged in tighter, trying for a better view. “Hey, I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford, but could you get off my neck? I’m getting a crick in it.”

  “Oh! Of course. Sorry.” Courtney eased back but didn’t leave the flight deck. Mark was suddenly glad, because he had a question maybe Courtney could answer.

  “Say, what do you make of our mission orders? If all the top Grik brass was probably on the north side of the river, in that fancier part of the city, why not bomb there? We might’ve gotten lucky and cut the head right off the snake.”

  “Hmm. Yes. That was actually my suggestion, in point of fact.”

  “You don’t say? What for?”

  “Well, other than the possibility—I agree with—that the Grik leaders reside in Old Sofesshk, your own reconnaissance flight revealed little else of consequence there. No large troop concentrations, and all industry appears situated on the other side of the river. And, frankly, Commander, this is total war. Just as the enemy makes no distinction between our civilians and combat troops, we can’t either. Their civilians support their war effort more directly and single-mindedly even than ours, so they’re a legitimate target. A target that must’ve taken severe losses tonight, thanks to you and your mates in the Air Corps.” He beamed, but then looked thoughtful. “And there’s morale to consider. Even the new Grik warriors must have difficulty enduring punishment they can’t reply to. Their Uul workers will find it more challenging still. Finally, on the other end of the morale spectrum, never forget what happened when Mr. Reuben killed their Celestial Mother at Grik City. You weren’t there, but you must’ve heard.”

  “Sure. The little twerp chopped off her head and marched out of the Cowflop, where everyone, including the rest of their army, could see, and waved it around on a pole.”

  “I believe it was a spear, but essentially, yes. Did you hear what happened next?”

  “Yeah . . . the Grik didn’t like it much.”

  “That’s a rather profound understatement,” Courtney said, remembering. “In point of fact, the remainder of their forces that witnessed the spectacle, already beaten and in retreat, some even suffering the effects of Grik Rout, went absolutely berserk. Instead of showing them the futility of continued resistance and underscoring their defeat, Isak Reuben’s actions inspired them to renew the fight.” He paused. “It made little difference. By that time, we were in a position to slaughter them, both from land and the bay, but further casualties were sustained, more killed and wounded than might otherwise have been the case. It wasn’t Mr. Reuben’s fault,” he stressed, “and no one blamed him. I expect in the heat of the moment I might’ve done the same after what he’d been through. We must assume the enemy’s installed another Celestial Mother by now, however, who likely resides in what Hij Geerki translated as their Palace of Vanished Gods—the, ah, smaller Cowflop at Sofesshk. At this point, at least, we’d prefer not to give them more reason to fight than they already have, and instead of breaking their morale, we suspect that killing their new Celestial Mother might make them fight even harder. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Leedom frowned, but the expression turned into a huge yawn. He shrugged. “Take over awhile, Paraal,” he told his copilot. “Keep this heading. I’m gonna get some shut-eye, so try not to run into anything, will ya?” He leaned back in his wicker seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suggest you go back in the waist and do the same, Mr. Bradford,” he added, closing his eyes. “It’s a long way to Songze, and there’s not much to see below.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ////// Enchanted Isles

  (Eastern Pacific)

  November 9, 1944

  High Admiral Harvey Jenks of the Empire of the New Britain Isles was Commander in Chief—East (CINCEAST) of all Allied forces fighting the Holy Dominion in the Americas. Yet since his 2nd Fleet was so badly mauled at the Battle of Malpelo, there hadn’t been much he could do to directly influence the campaign. He and his deputy commander, Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, had been fantastically busy, however. They’d made their headquarters at Elizabethtown, on Albermarl Island, not only the imperial capital of the Enchanted (Galápagos) Isles, but now the busiest Allied repair yard in the eastern Pacific. There were larger yards at Saint Francis, and the American Navy Clan yard at what they called San Diego might be even bigger someday, but its construction was on hold and most of its people were working here. The yards in Elizabeth Bay had been forced into a disproportionate percentage of the repair work, for which they were terribly unprepared in terms of labor, material, and facilities, because Albermarl was as far as many of the ships could make it after the battle.

  Not only had Jenks and his staff, as well as the staff of Governor Sir Thomas Humphries, been overwhelmed arranging repairs to dozens of shattered ships, but they also had to import nearly everything to do it. Timbers, fasteners, strap iron, sheet copper, tools, new m
achinery—and workers, of course—had to be brought from across the vast expanse of an ocean empire. This while juggling a seriously depleted merchant marine and fleet of auxiliaries just as desperately needed to supply General Shinya’s 2nd Fleet Expeditionary Force, his “Army of the Sisters.” Shinya was trying to maneuver Don Hernan’s Army of God into a decisive, crushing battle in the middle of, basically, a trackless jungle, before it could fall back on its own supply lines and reinforcements of loyal troops.

  Adding to Jenks’s frustration, though he remained CINCEAST, all the fighting in his theater was currently on land, and two heads of state were in the thick of it. His own Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald, and Saan-Kakja, the high chief of all the Filpin Lands, had stupidly, he thought, not only put themselves in harm’s way, but their presence constantly deformed strategic planning. General Shinya was easy to work with: his sole priority was to bring Don Hernan to action and destroy him. In addition, the local contacts he’d made, opposed to Dominion rule, had eased his commissary requirements tremendously. That meant a larger percentage of freight could focus on troops, weapons, and ammunition. But with Rebecca’s and Saan-Kakja’s focus on the land campaign as well, they increasingly saw 2nd Fleet’s role as one of support for Shinya. That was fine, even true to an extent, but they were losing sight of the big picture, as Captain Reddy so often described it. Even if Shinya’s desperate end-around rush to block Don Hernan’s retreat and smash him before he reached Popayan—and an open road to the Pass of Fire, or even back to the heart of the Dominion—was successful, the fleet would have to take the pass, and the fortified cities guarding it, before Shinya could press on.

  Finally, Jenks thought, 2nd Fleet may soon be ready to try. He and Lelaa had just left a conference at the governor’s mansion and were striding purposefully through the bustling streets of Elizabethtown toward the yard on the north side of the bay. The people are certainly different from the half-starved scarecrows we met after the Dom siege, he thought. Most were moving as purposefully as he and Lelaa, and though many appeared tired, even exhausted, there was a satisfied, almost excited air about them as well; a sense of purpose and resolve. Workers who saw them tipped their hats and even smiled, despite their fatigue, and soldiers saluted crisply, confidently. One reason for that was that, even here, still a distance from the waterfront, the great Allied aircraft carrier USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-5) was plainly visible over the rooftops of the city. And she was no longer the brutalized hulk that crept, coughing and smoking, into the bay two months before. She, at least, was almost ready for action. Her power plant had never been much hurt, and Chief Gilbert Yeager’s snipes had put what little damage they’d found to rights. The ship’s stout hull had taken a beating, but not enough to endanger her. Even so, it took an entire shipload of timber just to repair the hundreds of shot holes. Few penetrated every layer of diagonally laminated planks, but the wood around the holes had to be cut out and new spliced in. Without a dry dock, the ship had to be lightened enough to get at the damage below the waterline, and the hull work alone took a hundred workers almost a month. But the worst damage, and what rendered her almost useless, was the near-total destruction of her flight and hanger decks. Those had to be completely replaced. Fortunately, they were able to do that while other renovations were underway, and a lot of the timber came from the relatively nearby forests on the enemy coast, cut and dressed at the former Dominion city of Guayak, its surviving inhabitants now firm allies. Regardless, Jenks thought, I hate to contemplate how many shiploads of timber went into those decks, and all the framing throughout. Drawing nearer, he could still see the bright wood of the repairs, just now being covered by an odd new geometric paint scheme of contrasting grays.