Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  Captain Ixtli himself, nose and lips smashed and bleeding from several superficial cuts, suddenly appeared and helped Blas to her feet. More of his people gathered, their haggard expressions radiating something like awe at the sight of her. “If I had any doubt before, Major Blas, I have none now,” he said softly. “We did our best”—his eyes strayed across the many, many dead as they filled with tears—“but we are mere pretenders. You and your people, your Mi-Anakka, gave us victory today! You are the true Ocelomeh!”

  “Naah, Cap-i-taan Ixtli,” Spook said. “We’re just Maa-reens. Your people can do as well, once they’re armed an’ trained right.”

  Blas said nothing as they helped her to where the shattered Doms waited. Sister Audry and Colonel Garcia joined them. Both looked terrible, and even Sister Audry’s smock was dark with blood. She saw Blas looking at it. “Captain Ximen tried to join the charge,” she said softly. “He never even made it over the barricade before he was shot down.”

  “And Teniente Pacal,” Garcia added, knowing he was Blas’s friend.

  “Daamn.” Blas shook her head, then looked at them. “Did you get anything from your prisoners?”

  “We have barely tried as yet. We wanted to check on you. Sergeant Koratin has remained to speak to them through one of my men.”

  “Then let’s see what these’ll spill.” Blas nodded forward.

  “Certainly,” Garcia agreed, “but be warned; they do not consider themselves prisoners. They have not surrendered, and likely won’t.”

  “We’ll see.” Blas stared at the Doms within the ring of leveled rifles and muskets. There were probably fewer than two hundred in this bunch. Those who could were standing, glaring with defiance. “Ask ’em who’s in charge.”

  Garcia did, and a man dressed the same as the others except that his red facings were piped with gold lace stepped forward. His hat was gone and there was a bloody bandage around his head. He snapped something lengthy in response. “He’s their teniente. Their sole surviving officer.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Only that we may as well kill them and send them down to, ah, Heaven. We may have won the fight, but lost the battle.”

  “Then it’s just like Koratin suspected,” Blas said grimly. “Ask him where Don Her-naan is.”

  When Garcia complied, the Dom laughed and spoke again. Garcia gasped. “He says His Holiness left the army even as they were ‘cleansing’ Kotopaxi.” (“Cleansing” meant “exterminating the people” there.) “And the main army force-marched away shortly afterward. As you said, we have pursued a mere reflection of ourselves for weeks!”

  “But he doesn’t know that. He is gloating,” Sister Audry said with a frown. “As far as he knows, we are our main army, trapped in the wilderness. He also cannot know how quickly we can get word to General Shinya.”

  “Not quick enough,” said Blas, blinking disgust as she looked at her bulky Imperial watch. She was amazed to realize it was already late afternoon. How long had that final assault taken? How long had they fought for their lives? Ordinarily, such things seemed to last much longer than they actually did. This time, apparently, it was the reverse. For her, at least. “Another day lost with this fighting, another to get word to Koto-paaxi an’ send a message. Even with air-craaft, who knows how long it’ll take Gener-aal Shin-yaa to shift gears, find an army that isn’t where he expects it to be, then change direction, if he can.”

  “There is another concern,” Sister Audry said. “Quite obvious, actually, that the enemy officer told us without our even asking.” She looked at their questioning, blinking faces. “With Don Hernan gone, the enemy has had another commander for some time, obviously more talented, and therefore more dangerous. We were confident what Don Hernan would do: continue to flee to save his life. This other may do something entirely different. He’s likely already past Popayan, and may be moving to join their forces at the Pass of Fire. Or . . .” She paused, stricken. “If he somehow discovered it with his scouts, or even civilian rumors, he may be preparing to attack General Shinya’s army!”

  “Then we have not a moment to lose!” Garcia cried. “We must send couriers back to Kotopaxi at once.”

  “Send six,” Blas agreed. “We can’t risk this message with less. We’ll send the rest—all of ’em—forward to scout. Straight up the path the enemy left. They should be safe enough now,” she added, blinking bitterness. “We’ll follow.”

  “Why?” Garcia asked. “Shouldn’t we return the way we came? We’re almost out of ammunition. And what of our wounded?”

  “We’re a lot closer to Popay-aan. Hopefully, even if the Doms learned Shin-yaa was coming, they just beat it anyway, glaad to get past him. We’ll meet him there, an’ our wounded’ll get quicker care.”

  “And if that is not the case?” Sister Audry asked.

  Blas shrugged. “We’re screwed.”

  “What about them?” Ixtli asked, gesturing at the Blood Drinkers. “We will get no more from them than we have already learned or guessed.”

  “Kill ’em, for all I care,” Blas said coldly.

  “No!” Sister Audry said, glaring at Blas. “Such an act goes against God, the Maker of All Things. He will never forgive it, or you. They are our prisoners!”

  Blas returned her glare with a steady gaze. “You say we do the Maker’s work, an’ I think so too. Would He forgive a useless waste of troops doin’ His work?”

  Garcia looked torn. “With all my adoration, Santa Madre, Major Blas may be right. The Blood Drinkers will not surrender and we will have to disarm them by force. People will die. How many lives is that worth?”

  “As many as it takes!” Sister Audry insisted. “Or have we become like them? What if mercy had been denied your people, Colonel Garcia?”

  Garcia recoiled as if slapped.

  “I won’t ask the Ocelomeh to fight more today, to no purpose,” Ixtli stated flatly. “They have suffered enough.”

  Arano Garcia recovered himself and sighed. “Very well, Santa Madre,” he said sadly. “The Vengadores will do it. We remember the mercy and grace we received. But none of us were Blood Drinkers,” he cautioned, “so do not be disappointed if fewer than we lose subduing them are ever brought to the light.”

  Sister Audry placed a hand on his shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “My dear Arano, don’t you see? Any we lose in the effort will be tragic, but not to try would be a terrible sin. And if only one is brought to God, if a hundred die to do it, it will be a victory.”

  “That’s some daamn weird reckoning, you ask me,” Spook whispered in Blas’s ear.

  But Blas had been strangely moved, and suddenly felt . . . ashamed. “Shut up,” she hissed back.

  CHAPTER 10

  ////// Ostia

  Republic of Real People

  Southern Africa

  “I don’t know how you staand it here,” grumped Major Bekiaa-Sab-At, former captain of USS Donaghey’s Marine contingent, as she and her Republic aide, Optio (basically “lieutenant”) Jack Meek, threaded among disinterested humans and Lemurians in the rough-hewn, smelly, and uncomfortably cold city of Ostia. Most people paid them little heed, but a perceptive few stopped to gawk at the unusual pair. Bekiaa habitually wore field garb, even at official functions with Republic leaders, in order to—she told herself—impress them with her seriousness for the task at hand. In reality, she probably did it subconsciously to shock: to jolt them into taking the coming campaign more seriously. Today, however, she wore her Marine (combat) dress uniform over her brindled fur. It consisted of a dark blue kilt and tunic, and bright white rhino-pig armor over chest and shoulders. No dress headgear had been prescribed for Allied Marines, so her mottled, battered, “doughboy” helmet contrasted starkly with the rest—as did the blood- and powder-stained cartridge-box strap and pistol/cutlass belt. The ornately tooled black leather sling on the 1903 Springfield that Colonel �
��Billy” Flynn had given her was new. It was the same sling issued to all Repub troops, minus the tooling, and was a gift from Inquisitor Choon. He’d also given her warm, form-fitting knee boots, better suited to the often muddy, sometimes snowy land she was in. Republic shoe and bootmakers had centuries of practice making all-weather footwear for humans and Mi-Anakka. Kon-Choon’s been paying me a lot of attention lately, Bekiaa reflected with mixed feelings, an’ not all’s been strictly professional. She shook it off.

  “I don’t live ’ere, Cap’n,” replied Optio Meek with a tolerant grin that made him look like his father, despite further narrowing of his oriental eyes. His father, “Leftenant” Doocy Meek, was British, serving as the Republic’s liaison to Captain Reddy. Bekiaa had never seen his mother, but figured she must be of Chinese descent. Meek wore standard “undress” attire for Republic noncoms, with a polished bronze cuirass and helmet—oddly reminiscent of those once used by Grik officers—over an ordinary dark yellow-brown woolen tunic and trousers. His black boots also reached his knees, and his pistol belt, supporting a large revolver, was black as well. He carried no rifle or sword, and constantly appealed to her—in vain—to follow his example. “I’ve lived all me life near Alex-aandra, as ye know. An’ can’t get used ta the heat hereabouts,” he goaded.

  Bekiaa rolled her eyes. Despite her fur, she was used to the equator. Unlike Grik, however, her people could function perfectly well in the cold, as long as they dressed appropriately. That didn’t mean she liked it. And though this was considered a pleasant spring day by the locals, before Donaghey rounded the cape and brought her to the Republic, she’d experienced fifty degrees only when she’d flown. Her primary duty in the Republic, as Inquisitor Choon described it, was to represent the other allied powers and advise him, Kaiser Nig-Taak, and, more specifically, General Marcus Kim. She considered it just as important to advise Captain Reddy, via wireless, on the true state of the Republic’s preparations for war. Second to that, she’d done her best to ensure it was ready to make a useful contribution when operations finally began. After what had been, in some ways, a tediously delayed mobilization, enforced by the League battleship Savoie in Alex-aandra harbor, the Repubs were frantically making up lost time to open the second front their allies so desperately needed.

  Historically, the Republic’s approach to any hypothetical conflict with the Grik was to rely on superior firepower. They’d apparently been on par with the Empire of the New Britain Isles, militarily, for about two hundred years, and had been equipped with decent artillery and flintlock muskets. But the Grik had now passed that point themselves. Since the late-nineteenth century, however, and certainly since SMS Amerika’s arrival with early twentieth century Germans and British prisoners of war, the Republic had changed amazingly. Ostia, bordering the huge Lake Taa-Hu, was a prime example. In sharp contrast to the architectural opulence of Alex-aandra, Ostia was rough-hewn and angular, a wilderness city surrounded by a mixture of prairie and dense forests of tall trees with high, chaotic branches. Until the last few decades, low-lying Ostia had been a small, picturesque village blessed with moderate winters, where wealthy merchants and government officials often retired. There’d always been modest timber, and, to a lesser extent, iron production there; the unpretentious mills and puddling furnaces reminiscent of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Europe, fueled by coal from Nicaeaa and strong rivers that formed and fled the lake. Over the past twenty years, however, as the Republic experienced a true industrial revolution, Ostia’s and nearby Cosaa’s abundant resources and central location had turned them into lumber- and metal-producing powerhouses.

  Little actual manufacturing occurred there, but huge stone buildings housing smelters and foundries were erected. Bremen joined Nicaeaa to provide coal for the new furnaces, and steam power had largely replaced the rivers. More iron ore—and now manganese—came from dozens of little mining towns that had sprouted to the west. Other raw materials like copper, lead, tin, and zinc came for processing, from Colonia on the west coast, and left as refined ingots, as well as brass and bronze. Much of Ostia’s and Cosaa’s output went south to the steel mills of St. Peter and St. Paul, where new open-hearth and Bessemer process furnaces stood side by side, the first making less, but more specialized, steel; the latter making more, for less critical applications. But Nicaeaa and Bremen, little different in appearance from Ostia, had burgeoning steel mills as well, and took more of the trade each year. Heavy manufacturing and shipbuilding, as well as armaments factories, were still largely centered in Augustus and Trier on the west coast, but Derby, Whitby, Emden, and now even Ostia itself were beginning to test those waters—except for shipbuilding, of course. Derby was farthest along, despite its location on the frigid highland steppe, in the production of high-quality heavy ordnance. This was because it had a fine river of its own, the newest, most modern facilities, and possibly because its workers never complained about the heat they had to labor in.

  But Ostia was nearest the very center of the predominately human/Lemurian Republic of Real People, encompassing all of southern Africa up to latitude 260 south, and slightly farther in the west. The boundary wasn’t political, established through negotiations with the Grik, but had been arrived at after centuries of coexisting with the malevolent species to the north. The Grik simply didn’t seem comfortable crossing the 26th parallel, and comfort was apparently the prime consideration. The moderate to downright cold climate in much of the Republic had been its greatest protection across the ages. This defense was reinforced by a network of road-connected forts along the frontier, none of which could’ve long withstood a concerted attack, but each theoretically supportable by garrisons from the others—with sufficient warning.

  And there’d never been any delusion that the Grik weren’t their enemy. Parties of them did occasionally venture south in the summertime, killing and eating anyone they found, and their mass hunts sometimes drove great packs or herds of destructive or carnivorous beasts south of the frontier. Indeed, numerous Republic expeditions had traveled north over the years, in search of exotic game or resources (iron, copper, and coal were plentiful in the eastern mountains), or even attempting peaceful contact with the Grik. Few returned. Finally, though the Republic never courted all-out war, the Grik had made it plain that the Republic was next on their list for conquest. That made the Republic and its people reasonably glad the alliance with the United Homes and the Empire of the New Britain Isles had given them an opportunity to deal with the long-standing threat.

  Fortunately, the Republic hadn’t been entirely unprepared. For nearly a decade, they’d been making fine, breech-loading field pieces called Derby guns, after the new city where they were manufactured, based on something they referred to as a French 75. They’d been making powerful, single-shot, bolt-action rifles in 11 mm even longer, and now a respectable number of Maxim-inspired machine guns, in 7.92 x 57 mm, were being manufactured in Augustus. They also had other, quite interestingly lethal devices, but Bekiaa’s appreciation of them was tempered by her indignant annoyance at having to learn yet another unit of measurement.

  She’d quickly learned a yard was virtually identical to a tail, and it took three feet to make one. Feet were . . . okay, being about the same length as two average Lemurian feet, with their toes turned up. An inch was basically a finger width. From that, smaller decimal measurements were based on tenths, hundredths, and ten hundredths. But the metric system here, with nothing ready to hand to compare it to, drove her to distraction. Particularly when her misunderstanding made her look foolish in the eyes of troops she was trying to train. That impression rarely lasted once her pupils got to know her.

  Besides being breveted major by Safir Maraan, she’d been made legate of the 1st’s and Kim’s personal legions. Essentially, legate equated to a Republic colonel—which no other colonel outranked. She thought that was weird, but it helped cut the red tape when she was temporarily assigned to instruct other legions. Choon had finally
convinced the kaiser that superior firepower alone couldn’t defeat the Grik or even keep them at arm’s length where they could bring it to bear. They needed her advice in retraining all their troops, even more professional legions like the 1st, to fight as their allies did: face-to-face, with the bayonet. And few Allied warriors had as much intimate experience doing that as Bekiaa-Sab-At. She wished she had more help, but she had made a difference—as had other Allied “trainers” Donaghey left behind: one of her Nancy floatplanes, with its flight and ground crew. The Nancy was serving as a pattern for Republic engineers to copy, and the flyers, though young and untested in combat, were helping train the fledgling air arm of the Republic. Despite their inexperience, they were excellent pilots and had received good instruction. In fact, their relatively recent education probably made them better teachers for beginners than more hardened veterans might’ve been. Even so, Bekiaa didn’t envy them their task.

  The Republic Fliegertruppe, or Air Corps, consisted of only a handful of interesting if complicated-looking biplanes called Cantets. Named after black, skuggik-size lizardbirds Optio Meek simply called crows, they were loosely based—she was told—on recollections of something called an Albatross B-1. The first had flown nearly ten years before and numerous improvements had been made, but the utility of aircraft had never been fully appreciated by the Republic until now. As far as she knew, fewer than twenty had existed before she arrived, but the country’s burgeoning—frankly astonishing—industrial capacity, barely visible at Alex-aandra, had already doubled that number in the past few months. And after examining the Nancy, they were incorporating further improvements, modest at first, but paving the way for an entirely new model, possibly a monoplane. She hoped the planes would help, but with the go date perhaps only days away, they probably wouldn’t make a significant difference. Yet.

  “Heat. Ha,” Bekiaa said dryly. “Spend time in Waa-kur’s fireroom, any fireroom, then complain to me of heat.”