Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  There had been Grik at Agut, perhaps as many as five thousand, living in a typical, sprawling adobe warren. And there’d been a garrison of sorts, numbering about a thousand. Taal’s cavalry quickly enveloped the village in an impressively professional manner, and very few of its inhabitants could’ve escaped. But when General Bahadur’s 9th Legion, leading Raakel’s 18th, with two more legions in reserve, were tasked with taking the town, it hadn’t been the walkover everyone expected. Bekiaa got to see two batteries of the Republic’s vaunted artillery in action for the first time, and it was very impressive, but the Grik returned fire with a handful of guns of their own—with exploding case shot that no one had known they had. Worse, when the 9th and 18th, already thinned by the Grik artillery before it was finally silenced, rolled in to sweep away the depleted defenders, they’d been slammed by volleys of musket fire. The muskets were only smoothbores, but they’d taken an unexpectedly fearful toll before the Repubs, still remarkably unshaken, finally came to grips. That was when everything changed. For the first time, besides Silva and Courtney’s escapade in Madagascar, Allied troops came face-to-face with what could only be described as professional Grik soldiers. Most terrifying of all, they fought like defending soldiers—until Repub numbers tipped the scale. Then, to the horror of the uninitiated Republic troops, they reverted to fighting like Grik that wouldn’t run away.

  The 6th had the worst of it, and lost more troops in the melee of slashing teeth, claws, bayonets, and sickle-shaped swords than they already had to that point—until a reserve legion raced to reinforce them and the 9th wheeled and slammed the defenders from the flank and behind. All the holdouts were skilled at last, except a couple hundred that rampaged through the city, destroying the noncombatants—who had apparently gathered to offer themselves for slaughter! Bekiaa and Courtney had seen that before. They tried to explain, to get more troops sent in to prevent the massacre, but Kim didn’t understand at first. The exhausted and shaken men and ’Cats who’d made the assault saw what was happening but were too dazed and shaken by what they’d endured to intervene without orders. And, frankly, they couldn’t care less what happened to the rest of the Grik in Agut as long as they didn’t have to fight them anymore. When it was over, and the 9th and 20th finally occupied the city, the 18th had been decimated, and only a few Grik, all warriors, were left to kill.

  No other survivors were discovered except the usual crazed Griklets their own kind couldn’t catch. Warrior Grik began their training from birth. Those destined to be Uul laborers were penned and fed, growing utterly dependent on their masters. Some, destined to be upper-class Hij, essentially ran wild until “domesticated,” again by offerings of food they didn’t have to hunt or scrounge. That was when they were taught a trade. All Griklets were dangerous, and only Isak Reuben, Walker’s chief engineer, ever—briefly—tamed one. No one here, except possibly Courtney, had the inclination to duplicate Isak’s feat, and Courtney didn’t even suggest it. The Griklets at Agut were shot on sight.

  The fierce action served as an eye-opening baptism for the Armies of the Republic, at least for some, and that was a good thing, Bekiaa supposed. But it involved only a fraction of Kim’s forces. Other legions heard about it but hadn’t seen, so it still wasn’t real for them. And, of course, they hadn’t found another live Grik for a hundred miles. Bekiaa already saw signs that the trauma was fading, and other legions that hadn’t been there even spoke contemptuously of those that had, implying their losses—heavier than the Grik, counting the wounded—must’ve been the result of incompetence or poor performance. Most distressing to Bekiaa, since there’d been no more fighting, disdain for the enemy was beginning to take root. She looked at General Kim. He seemed capable but had no experience at this, and Bekiaa didn’t think he’d done enough to combine his armies into one focused force—or quell a growing conceit. Confidence was good, but arrogance could be disastrous.

  “I wish Gener-aal Rolak was here,” she whispered to Courtney. He looked at her, seemingly following her train of thought precisely. “Why Rolak in particular?” he murmured back, his voice softened by the general hubbub surrounding the apparently concentrating Kim.

  “Because he’s like these people in some ways, but he knows. And he’d also know how to straighten them out. Gener-aal Maraan would piss everybody off and they’d dig in their heels.” She grinned and shook her head. “And they’d resist Gener-aal Aal-den, because he’d make ’em all think he wanted to be the Kaiser, just by the way he takes charge of everything in sight.”

  “Quite possibly,” Courtney agreed with a fond smile. “But none of them are here, nor will they be until they land with objectives of their own. I fear it’s up to you and me for now.”

  Bekiaa nodded, and reluctantly raised her voice. “General Taal,” she said, and the talking dwindled to a murmur. “You say you’ve looked everywhere. How far forward? Did your scouts penetrate the forest to the north? It’s what, about fifteen miles ahead?” She paused, raising a lip over a sharp canine, doing the mental math. She hated math. “I mean, twenty-something killo-meters,” she added in exasperation.

  “Twenty-five,” Taal said, amused; then his tone turned serious. “No, I ordered them not to press too deeply into the Teetgak.” He glanced at Kim. “Perhaps I should not have, and I confess it concerns me deeply. But cavalry is useless—and nearly helpless—in that maze. There are roads of a sort, but we did not explore them any great distance. Large numbers of the enemy could remain undetected, and even a few could do disproportionate harm to my scouts. Ambush is to be expected, but to probe farther without support invites annihilation to no point. It might confirm the enemy is there, if no scouts return, but I already suspect that, and we’d learn nothing more, despite the sacrifice.”

  Courtney frowned. “I’m no military man,” he said, “and don’t mean to seem insensitive, General Taal, but isn’t that a risk all scouts must face? With no better intelligence than we possess, we can only blunder forward into a meeting engagement the enemy might control. How do we seize the initiative? Even a costly ambush might tell us something.”

  Bekiaa looked at Courtney, blinking surprise. She happened to agree, but was startled to hear him make such a ruthless assessment. She reminded herself that he’d seen a lot since they last met, including some fairly intense combat with the very type of Grik they now faced. “The Aam-baas-ador is right,” she said. “Just as we have to aassume warning has preceded us, we must also expect the enemy will meet us in places, on ground, of his choosing.” She looked around. “I know what many think: the Grik run from us, or all their troops from this region have been sent to Mada-gaas-gar.” She nodded at Bradford. “The latter may even be true. And maybe the civilian Grik do flee. But we know countless Grik gaather near Sofesshk. Many likely came from here. And whether they know we’re coming or not, we’ll eventually caatch up with some, at least. And that’ll probably happen when we least expect it.” She paused and took a breath. “I have . . . some experience in these matters. The Grik aren’t stupid. At least their leaders aren’t. And Agut—and other events—show they’ve learned to fight as soldiers, not just a mob. You must remember that!”

  “What do you advise?” asked Inquisitor Choon, genuinely curious.

  Bekiaa blinked conviction. “We must hasten our advance, force a baattle, make the enemy notice us. If they don’t, we’re useless as a diversion and can only help Gener-aal Aalden by joining him when he attaacks Sofesshk. At our current pace, that could take months.” She shrugged. “At the same time, we must be cautious, guard against overconfidence, and be prepared for the enemy to appear at any time, any place. This is their land, remember, and they know it better than us.”

  Choon gestured at the map. “Then where do you think they will be? Where will we meet them at last?”

  Bekiaa hovered over the map. It was crude, compiled from the few overflights they’d managed to arrange and an atlas of sorts, painted on the wall of what w
as likely the southern regent’s palace. It had been a dismal place, but the largest building in Agut by far. Features depicted on the regent’s atlas, even a few place-names for a change, including rivers, the plain they occupied, and the hundred-mile-wide band of forest ahead had been added to Kim’s map. It helped, but as usual in this war, they were campaigning in places they barely knew. “I’ll bet, if they’ve had waarning—which we must presume,” she stressed again, “the closest forces moving to join the horde at Sofesshk will round on us as we reach the forest. It’s the perfect place to stage an attaack unobserved. Yet with their new army, dense cover will hinder their movement and combat power as much as ours.” She stabbed the map with the long, sharp nail on her finger. “Here, at the edge of the Teetgak, is where they’ll mass.” She looked at Kim. “I know I just counseled haste, but the object is to win the battles we force. We should take time to combine our armies and approach as a united force. General Taal is right to fear the forest,” she said, smiling at the attractive cav-’Cat. “But we must scout ahead.” She glanced at Kim. “In the meantime, the other armies should meet us here.” She tapped the spot on the map again.

  Kim looked thoughtful. “It would leave our flanks exposed.”

  “Gener-aal,” Bekiaa began, then paused, blinking apology. “Right now your armies have six flaanks the enemy can exploit. They invite defeat in detail.” She blinked regret at Kim, realizing how sharp her criticism must feel, then smiled at Taal again. “Combine the armies and secure the flaanks with the bulk of our cavalry.” She shook her head. “I’ve grown spoiled by air reconnai-saance. I wish we had some now.”

  Choon brightened, after an annoyed—possibly jealous—blink at General Taal. “I have good news in that regard, at least. Soon we will have it.” He waved outside. “Even now, a strip of the colorful ground cover is being cleared and the first operational squadron of our Fliegertruppe is en route. The flying machines will arrive today or tomorrow, in fact. When they are assembled, we will have eyes in the sky at last.”

  “Today or tomorrow,” Courtney grumped. “More delay. Do we wait for them?”

  “No,” Kim suddenly stated. He raised his voice. “And the legate’s . . . somewhat scathing counsel is well taken. I won’t send our cavalry into the forest, but the armies will converge here”—he pointed at the same spot on the map Bekiaa indicated—“just short of it, and await our flying eyes to see beyond us. If the enemy is not already there, our planes should sight them moving through the trees to meet us. A large force cannot remain entirely undetected, even in heavy timber, I should think. If the Grik are waiting, we will allow them to deploy and receive their attack in the open, where we should have the advantage. If Ambassador Bradford and Legate Bekiaa are correct, we will be conceding to the enemy’s new strengths as well, but I see no alternative. On the other hand, if nothing awaits us, we shall make a forced march through the forest to the open land the map depicts beyond, and prepare to cross this”—he paused, staring closer—“this Ungee River.” He glanced up. “There, my friends, is where I expect to meet our first, fiercest resistance. There is where the Grik will likely notice us at last—to Captain Reddy’s satisfaction,” he added ironically, then paused, his deep frown returning. “And we must expect resistance to grow fiercer still from there to Sofesshk. Hopefully, the Grik will have other concerns by then.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ////// Sovereign Nest of Jaaph Hunters

  Zanzibar

  The dusty little compound holding Sandra, Diania, Adar, Lange, Gunny Horn, and two Lemurian sailors was roughly thirty yards square, situated on a peninsula on the southwest coast of Zanzibar. Surprisingly true to his word, Kurokawa had confined them together with an illusion of open space, and a wonderful view of the world around them. There were numerous blue-green islands strung up and down the coast and a tall, rounded mountain in the distance to the north. To the east was the anchorage, about two miles wide, and stretching possibly ten miles diagonally down the shoreline. Another lump of an island stood near its center.

  Their vantage point gave them a wealth of intelligence about the enemy; they saw factories, shipyards, even a number of thoughtfully placed shore batteries armed with heavy Grik guns. There had obviously been an early attempt at camouflage, but the scope of Kurokawa’s presence on Zanzibar and the fleet he’d assembled had made that impractical. A lot probably remained hidden, but there were many things that simply couldn’t be. They even had a good idea where three enemy airfields were (one was less than a mile to the north) from watching planes come and go. Ominously, Grik zeppelins flew in and out every few days as well.

  Savoie’s sinister shape was still secured to the dock on the north end of the anchorage, not far from where Sandra, Diania, and Adar had been dragged for the meeting that resulted in their new quarters. Unfortunately, their quarters within the compound consisted only of a small shack Gunny Horn and Becher Lange had been allowed to build, and it, surrounded by ragged blankets rigged out for shade, was their only protection from the merciless sun. So their wonderful view and slightly looser confinement didn’t come without a cost.

  Still, every day they busied themselves gathering information and concocting schemes to escape with it. So far, none seemed very promising. Sandra had been right that there was no barbed wire; Kurokawa probably had more important uses for his limited steel. The Allies had a different perspective. Barbed wire could’ve made the difference between survival and defeat for their forces on several occasions. Instead, the compound was surrounded by densely spaced, sharpened stakes woven together with vines as tough as any wire, in the absence of an ax or heavy blade to cut it. And beyond that was a genuine moat, connected by a swamp to the sea. Low tide left it shallow enough to wade across, but their Grik guards baited it with the offal of their grisly meals, keeping it stirring and swirling with the local version of flasher fish. It would be next to impossible to cross. A gate on a little land bridge was the only way in or out of the compound, and the Grik guarding it were unusually diligent and well armed with smoothbore percussion muskets, obviously copied from the ones the Allies used when they invaded Ceylon. Those had only recently appeared, as had the gray leather armor uniforms the sentries wore, and the prisoners guessed they’d been supplied by the Grik on the mainland. Kurokawa obviously had at least a few new automatic weapons, and his Japanese went armed with Arisakas they must’ve taken from Amagi when they abandoned her, but this was the first time the prisoners had seen Grik equipped with anything more modern than matchlocks. Beyond all that, however, even if they escaped the compound, they were on an island infested with enemies. How on earth could they ever get off and away?

  Sandra stepped to a cistern near the gate that the Grik kept filled with hot, greenish water. Her clothes were filthy rags and her hair was a frazzled, grimy, knotted mess. Her skin had turned to old, dark leather, and her lips were cracked and covered with sores. With a glance at the Grik guards beyond the gate, she filled a battered cup with water and gulped it down. It tasted horrible, but hadn’t harmed them so far. She scooped another cupful and carried it to the shack where Adar lay in the shade. He’d gotten a little better—Kurokawa wasn’t exactly starving them—but his recovery was slower than Sandra would’ve liked. She knelt beside her friend and held the cup to his lips. The fur on his face around them had gone white.

  “I can manage just fine,” Adar objected, reaching for the cup. “I’m not a helpless youngling.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Gunny Horn said, joining them. He was followed by Lange and the other two Lemurians. Both were Repub crew-’Cats off SMS Amerika. One was Ru-Fet, and the other was Eaan-Daat. Horn had long ago dubbed them Ruffy and Eddie, and if either resented the humanizing nicknames, they’d grown to accept it. The third Lemurian sailor had died anyway, giving sad credence to Sandra’s excuse for moving them. Only Diania remained outside for the moment. It was their only way of allowing the ladies a little privacy at the slit trench serv
ing as their latrine. The Grik could watch, of course, as could anyone else, but the prisoners didn’t care about them. Only their friends were people with sensibilities worth protecting.

  “I will soon be fit,” Adar disagreed. “But you should not exert yourself,” he scolded Sandra, nodding at her abdomen. Even as she’d thinned, her belly had finally begun to noticeably grow. “You are—what?—five months along now? If I’m not mistaken, that is more than halfway there. If you were Mi-Anakka, it would be nearly time to begin the birth rites.” Lemurians were born after about seven months and their infants were almost as helpless as humans. Utterly hairless, they even looked much the same—with tails, of course. But the final two months were considered critical to the health of the mother, particularly from a nutritional standpoint, and she was often confined and even ritualistically fed. The final rites of welcoming the gift of life from the Maker were performed by a Sky Priest. Adar blinked regret. “With so little to eat, I fear for you and your youngling, and . . . if you allow me the honor, I’d much rather welcome your new life to a place of freedom.”

  “Nobody but you, Adar,” Sandra assured, then forced a smile. “You’re the only Sky Priest around.” She shook her head. “And we’ll be out of here before then. Besides,” she added dryly, “I eat pretty good. There’s nothing like ‘goop soup’ twice a day, with a few bones thrown in to chew on.” Goop soup was what they called their daily, unchanging fare. For all they knew, it was the same thing the Grik ate—made of Grik. They preferred not to think about that. Diania stepped into the shack with an embarrassed glance at Gunny Horn. That was their cue to return outside. The sun was falling toward the horizon, and it was time to take their meager bedding down.

  “He’s not doing so hot,” Horn whispered, following Sandra out. Lange was behind him. Both men had grown long black beards, but Lange’s had a lot of gray. They’d become much thinner too, though Horn’s muscles hadn’t faded as much. Like Sandra, Diania, and the surviving ’Cat sailors, he tried to keep in shape. They all hoped eventually they’d get their chance to make a break. When it came, they had to be ready. The exceptions were Adar, of course, and Becher Lange. Lange was a strong, brave man, but the destruction of his ship and the way she’d died had almost destroyed him. He hated himself for not dying with her—and Kapitan von Melhausen, whom he’d loved like a father—but his hatred for their murderers was even more intense. Instead of pushing him, however, it was consuming him. Still, though his strength might be ebbing, his mind was sharp.