That seemed possible to Bekiaa, but she couldn’t summon much interest. She was far more anxious for the two brand-new Cantet biplanes to return from their flight over the forest. Choon had been right, and the first four aircraft of the Fliegertruppe had arrived at Fort Melhausen the day before. They were odd-looking things, she’d thought, when they roared swiftly overhead and vanished into the raucous clouds of lizardbirds and the haze rising from the damp ground beneath the trees. They were the first biplanes she’d seen, which made them appear awkward and complicated compared to Nancys or Fleashooters, but their coloration, a kind of jagged, checked pattern of earth tones, made sense if someone was looking for them from the air. And despite carrying two people, a pilot and an observer/gunner, with a machine gun on a swivel aft, they were fast. Their engines were liquid cooled, like Nancys, but apparently more powerful for their size. She was impressed. But they’d disappeared almost an hour before, and she couldn’t wait to find out what they might’ve discovered.
A human Repub officer named Bele, the legion’s senior cohort commander, or prefect, stamped up to join them and slapped his polished breastplate in salute. Bekiaa had noticed all the officers of the 23rd, and many other legions, wore their dress armor. It was light but strong, work-hardened bronze, and apparently didn’t hinder their movement. She actually approved. In open-field combat where concealment didn’t matter, any kind of protection might be useful. She even caught herself wishing for shields. More than once, her Marines had discovered they’d discarded theirs too soon. Inspired by Bele, she’d dressed in her best rhino-pig armor. She wondered briefly if it might single her—and all the officers—out as targets, but decided the risk was worth the possible morale boost to the untested troops.
If the Grik met them here.
So far, there was no sign of that, and despite the hit her credibility might take, she was relieved. Notwithstanding Kim’s attempts at compromise, she remained concerned about the basic organization of the Armies of the Republic. She returned the prefect’s salute in her way, fingers to her helmet, and smiled. The man towered over her. He was also as black as Safir Maraan’s fur, and must’ve been two and a half tails tall, yet the respect he showed seemed sincere. She’d seen enough brown humans that their difference from the nearly all-white but deeply tanned original crews of Walker, Mahan, and S-19 hardly registered. But for the first time in the Republic of Real People, she’d seen people as black as a starless night and finally realized hu-maans came in nearly as many colors as her people did.
“Prefect Bele,” she acknowledged.
“Each soldier has been issued another twenty rounds of ammunition and all canteens are full,” Bele reported. “As you, ah, advised.”
“And the artillery?” she asked, referring to the six-gun battery, a “century” in itself, the legion retained as its own.
“At the rear, but ready to be deployed as needed.”
“Very well.” Bekiaa paused. “Have you reported to Colonel Lok-Fon?”
“No, Legate,” Bele said, nodding at the command tent that had been erected to the rear as soon as the legion took its place in line, his expression inscrutable. “She remains . . . indisposed.”
“I see.” Bekiaa glanced to the front, at the dense trees beyond the bright plain. “No matter. I for one am glaad General Kim seems to have been right about where the enemy would first maass against us, and my concerns were unfounded.”
“You know the Grik better than we, Legate,” Bele said, then gestured at the army to either side. “We’ll have to move through the forest close enough to support each other in any event. It would be impossible if we’d stayed spread out.”
Courtney harrumphed. “I can’t imagine pushing seventy-five thousand troops through that in any kind of order.” He sighed. “But at least, perhaps, we’ll be allowed to attempt it unimpeded.”
Suddenly, as if to expressly deny their hopes, the deep roar of one of the new mechanical Grik horns blared from the dense timber, its bass rumble seeming to shiver the very trees. Immediately it was answered by another, and another, until the great forest seemed alive with the strident moan. Lizardbirds swirled more insistently, their flocks convulsing outward in response to apparent movement below.
“Daamn,” Bekiaa said absently. “Sometimes I hate being right.”
“Aye,” Optio Meek agreed, his young features grim.
Clusters of distant figures bolted from the trees, quickly forming into squads. Others followed, swelling the growing ranks with amazing speed. It appeared chaotic, but Bekiaa saw the Grik troops—for troops they were, dressed and armed exactly as Courtney had described: dark leather armor and crossbelts over light gray smocks, iron-plated leather helmets, and bright muskets with socket bayonets held high and tight above their narrow shoulders against their necks—knew exactly what they were doing. Squads gathered into companies, companies became battalions, then regiments, brigades . . . and still they streamed from the woods. An engine roar rose above the horns and the Cantets, widely separated now, abruptly appeared, flying back toward the Armies of the Republic. One flashed directly over the 23rd before following the other in a wide turn to land near Kim’s pavilion about a quarter of a mile away. A strip had been cleared even as the pavilion was erected, the gap in color doubtless visible from the sky. “I wonder what they saw?” Courtney mused, his tone tense. The answer struck Bekiaa as self-evident.
“Thaat, I’ll bet,” she stated dryly, pointing at the army emerging to meet them. Long serpentine flags were appearing now, probably regimental colors. All were at least partially red, something common to every Grik flag they’d seen, but these all had distinctive patterns painted on them. They’d noticed unusual flags over Grik ships from time to time, but never over land forces. It was something else new to ponder. She looked from side to side, gauging the size of the growing Grik force. Kim’s 1st Army was in the center of the Republic formation, and the 23rd was on the far left of its line. A twenty-yard gap separated it from 3rd Army’s 10th Legion farther to the left, and others existed between every legion, no matter where they were. “Runner!” she called to one of the cavalry century’s riders. The cav-’Cat approached and saluted. “I’m sure Gener-aal Kim’ll send word about what the planes saw,” she said quickly, “but go to him, as fast as you can. Tell him the legions must close the gaaps between them! And with the enemy armed with muskets, a more open formation would be ideal, but I doubt we can manage it now.” She glanced at the enemy. The Grik had apparently already matched the length of the Republic line, and their ranks were thickening by the moment. She was stunned to see them forming up, shoulder to shoulder.
“Just as they did when Mr. Silva, Colonel Chack, and I—and the Shee-Ree, of course—engaged them at the river crossing in Madagascar,” Courtney told her, reading her thoughts again. “Probably First General Esshk’s latest account of our armies was when we struck at Ceylon.” He nodded grimly forward. “You’ll recall, armed with smoothbore muskets ourselves at the time, we were quite wedded to linear tactics. They’ve copied what they learned rather amazingly, don’t you think?”
Bekiaa nodded. That was good—and bad. Good because now armed with rifles—and vast experience—Union and Imperial forces had adopted more effective tactics. Bad because, despite her warnings, the Republic battle line was also arrayed shoulder to shoulder, which would make even muskets more effective than they should’ve been, but the Grik would surely exploit those idiotic gaps if they got close enough. “We have to dig!” she suddenly blurted to the cav-’Cat, still waiting for her to finish. “General Kim must order everyone to dig for their lives! Throw up breastworks with whatever they caan! There’s no time to lose! And tell him to close those goddaamn gaaps!” she stressed again.
“At once, Legate!” The cav-’Cat thundered off.
Bekiaa turned to Prefect Bele. “Bring up the guns. Place a section in the gaap on either side of us, for now. Thaat’ll help. And b
ring up all the waagons too, on the double. We’ll make a wall of ’em. Have the legion’s maa-sheen guns sited around the waagons when they’re in place.” She was suddenly, desperately, wishing for portable mortars like her people had. The Republic had mortars, and howitzers too, but they were large, heavy monsters designed for fixed defenses, protecting their ports. The very biggest were still muzzle-loaders. They’d focused perhaps too heavily on their excellent, modern, breech-loading Derby guns.
Bele was already gone. Bekiaa turned to Meek. “Take charge of erecting the breastworks. You know what I want. If any puffed-up centurions object, tell ’em they can do as they’re told—or you’ll replace ’em with their optios in my name. Clear?”
Meek grinned. “Aye, clear as can be!” He started to turn.
“And, Optio,” Bekiaa said. “Get a rifle. You’ll need it.”
“But, Legate! Aides don’t carry rifles!” He slapped the pistol at his side.
“They do today. You will, at least, or I’ll find another aide. I’ll have to, because you’ll be dead.”
“Aye, Legate.” He hurried off.
Within minutes, shredded flowers and dirt began spewing forward of the line in front of the 23rd as men and ’Cats, recognizing the wisdom of Bekiaa’s order, started digging like maniacs. Wagons trundled forward and were tipped on their sides. Bekiaa noted that the legionnaires in the 10th, to her left, and 5th, to her right, were already following suit. Unhappy suikaas, interrupted from their morning feed, dragged the legion’s six Derby guns up, and their crews unlimbered three on either side. Bekiaa prayed that just as they were apparently giving the enemy time to prepare, the Grik would allow them time as well. How weird, she thought, to hope the Grik will fight fair!
“What are you doing!” came a screech behind her. “Those are my wagons!” Bekiaa turned to see Colonel Lok-Fon rushing up behind her, buttoning her tunic, eyes flashing with fury. “Stop them this instant!” the colonel shouted at her.
“I won’t. They’re following my orders.”
“Your order . . .” Lok-Fon choked. “You!” She grabbed the arm of Prefect Bele as he rushed up. “Arrest these meddlesome foreigners at once. Both of them! They’re destroying Republic property.” She stared in horror as a decoratively painted wagon tilted on its side with a wet, grinding crash. The sharp-sweet smell of Colonia port overpowered the scent of flowers. “You . . . you . . . savage!” she seethed at Bekiaa.
Bele tried to whisper something urgently in his colonel’s ear, but she shook him off. “I don’t care if they’ve foolishly chosen to call her a legate! She’s nothing but an uncouth barbarian, pampered far too long. Don’t think I haven’t heard how she”—she glared at Courtney—“and that bizarre man with her, presume to talk down to their betters, even General Kim himself!” She suddenly paused, blinking. “Whatever is that dreadful racket?”
“The real savages, Colonel,” Bele said stiffly, physically pushing her forward to see the growing Grik force. “And thank God ours is a real legate!”
Lok-Fon’s fur bristled with a fear her sudden, spastic blinking confirmed. “I . . . I must g-go to Gener-aal Kim at once!” she stuttered. “To, ah, consult with him.” She took a shaky step back and then turned, almost running toward where the cavalry’s Gentaa horse holders were gathered.
“I doubt we’ll have further interruptions from her today,” Courtney quipped, taking the Krag from his shoulder and opening the loading gate to check the magazine.
“I expect you’re right, sir,” Bele said, blinking humiliation in the Lemurian way.
Almost inexplicably, the Grik did give the Armies of the Republic considerable time to throw up breastworks and counter their initial panic. Of course, they were new to this type of warfare as well, and considering the inevitable confusion associated with forming dispersed and jumbled ranks to their apparent satisfaction, and compared to their old tactics of simply rushing to the attack, they got their “shit in the sock” quicker than Bekiaa would’ve believed. Their newfound patience and discipline was disconcerting. Courtney had seen it before, of course, but his usually placid, even cheerful expression was grim.
“Probably expected us to just march right into the forest,” Bekiaa said darkly. “They could’ve jumped on us pretty hard then. Now?” She considered. Orders had quickly come back from General Kim, putting her in official, temporary command of the 23rd Legion. Colonel Lok-Fon didn’t return. Kim also instructed all his forces to do most of what Bekiaa suggested. The first good news was that the best estimates of the enemy force, reinforced by observers in the Cantets, suggested the Armies of the Republic actually outnumbered the enemy by ten or fifteen thousand. That was something Bekiaa wasn’t used to. She’d never been part of any force bigger than the Grik it faced. Maybe it’ll be okay, she prayed. Maybe. The horns were still braying in the woods, a different tone from before. She supposed it was some kind of assembly call. Behind her legion, limbered guns from the 1st Army artillery legion rattled by, moving to bolster 3rd Army, somewhere. The planes must’ve seen something else she couldn’t. To her eyes, there seemed just as many Grik in front of her as elsewhere.
“I wonder why we haven’t commenced firing? Our friends’ artillery will easily range a thousand meters,” Courtney said, staring at the distant Grik line. It was firm now, still, and eerily silent when the blaring horns suddenly tapered off. There was no chanting or clash of weapons, yet the tension was somehow greater than Bekiaa ever felt it, as if the entire host was coiling, setting its feet, preparing to spring into motion. Courtney seemed to sense it too, and nodded at the single-shot bolt-action rifle slung on Optio Meek’s shoulder. He’d obeyed Bekiaa’s order, returning just moments before. “I’m told Republic machine guns and even small arms are somewhat effective at this distance.”
Bekiaa lowered her telescope. “Kim’s probably waiting to make sure all the Grik are deployed, to kill as many as he can when we do open up. That makes sense,” she replied. “I think they’re all here now, though I only see a few artillery pieces. They obviously brought them up the roads. And if this force was moving to join another, as I suspect, they may not’ve had much artillery to begin with.” She looked at Courtney. “We’ll probably get the word very soon.”
The Grik got it first.
Great clouds of white smoke, perhaps twenty or so, blossomed up and down the Grik line. That was apparently all the artillery they had, but it was sufficient to do some damage. Geysers of earth rocketed up, short of the breastworks, but several white puffs snapped overhead, sleeting musket balls and hot shards of iron down on the defenders. Men and ’Cats began to scream. Bekiaa was surprised—and alarmed again—to see how well the new Grik fuses worked. Another tone sounded from the Grik horns, and the tightly packed formations suddenly loped forward through the smoke, keeping their alignment. Trumpets trilled down the Republic line, slipping the leash on the Derby guns. Dozens cracked at once, sending exploding shells among the advancing infantry or probing for their Grik counterparts. Dirty gray-brown thunderclaps erupted among the enemy, throwing soil and colored confettilike vegetation high in the air. Shrapnel clawed at their ranks. Bekiaa and Courtney were closest to the section on the left, and watched three guns fire as one. Spades at the rear of each carriage dug deep, locking them in place, as the barrels leaped back and then slid forward, just like Bekiaa had seen Walker’s bigger weapons do. Mechanical brakes applied to the wheels further stiffened the platform, and these guns’ crews had their own pointers and trainers as well, already turning wheels to adjust windage and elevation while their first projectiles were still in flight. They knew they had to compensate for the sudden change in elevation caused by the burrowing spade, but subsequent shots would require less adjustment, as long as they engaged the same target.
Most amazing was how fast they fired! As soon as the tubes returned to battery—it took about a second—gunners stepped forward and twisted handles. Empty shell casings ar
ced back on the trails with smoky clangs, and loaders slammed new shells in the chambers. They barely had time to get their hands clear before the gunners closed and locked the breeches, taking up dangling lanyards. Pointers and trainers raised their hands, indicating they were satisfied, before crouching behind a protective shield attached to the front of the trail. Lanyards snapped taut and the tubes recoiled again, with a tremendous, earsplitting roar. It dawned on Bekiaa that just those three guns, little larger than the twelve-pounder muzzle-loaders she was used to, could dish out as much destruction per minute—as long as they had ammunition—as fifty or more Union or Imperial Naa-po-lee-aans.
And it was taking a terrible toll. Great gaps had already opened in the Grik line, advancing at a trot beneath the falling curtain of dirt, debris, and parts of Grik. Somehow, they maintained their orderly ranks, however, closing the gaps and continuing on. But by the time they’d crossed a third of the distance between the two armies, they had to have lost a quarter of their force. Another trumpet call, muffled and indistinct, wafted from the right, chased by clattering machine-gun fire and rifle volleys. The 23rd’s own trumpeter picked it up. Prefect Bele glanced at her and she nodded. “Twenty-third Legion!” Bele roared. “Set your sights at five hundred meters! Front rank, present.” Six hundred troopers in the first of three ranks leveled their weapons, aiming offhand or resting their rifles on overturned wagons. “Take aim!” Bele shouted, staring to the front and shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, looking almost as if he was saluting the enemy. “Fire!”
Six hundred rifles crashed with barely a stutter, the black powder in their 11 mm cartridges making a dense white, impenetrable cloud, even as the 10th and 5th Legions fired as well. But the thunder didn’t stop. The rapid-fire bark of six Maxims spaced along the front of each legion, set to fire in a traversing arc, perpetuated the racket. A Grik case shot exploded in front of the line, shattering a wagon and flinging half a dozen troops to the ground in a flurry of planks and splinters, their shrieks rising shrill and distorted amid the roar of battle. “Second rank! Take aim!” The second rank had already leaned forward, their rifles over the shoulders of the men and ’Cats in front. They had precious little to aim at, however, because they could barely see the gray mass drawing closer. That was sufficient, for now. “Fire!” Another volley crashed. “Third rank, take aim!”
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