The twenty saluted, holding bayonets high. Out in the middle of the arena, the torturers and the poisoners took off, running for cover.
The gatling opened up. The twenty rushed forward with a wild cry: “Shiv! Shiv! Shiv!”
They had gone barely a dozen feet before the first was bowled over, the gunners swinging their piece, to try and stitch up the line. The men around the first to fall went down, hugging the packed sand. Others farther out continued their rush.
The gunners quickly shifted, catching several on the left flank. A few high rounds plowed into the stands above them, triggering pandemonium. Those in the middle were already back on their feet, one of them picking up the body of the first fallen, holding it in front like a shield even as he ran.
The gunners desperately played their fire back and forth. But as they focused on one flank, the other flank, or the middle, sprang up, crouching low, sprinting forward. Three made a desperate rush, racing along the edge of the wall under the emperor’s box and then straight in while the gunners tried to finish off the other flank.
O’Donald, still standing, began to shout, cheering the attackers on. At the very last instant the gunner swung his barrel around, dropping all but the last man, who had been running behind the other two. He leapt over the fallen even as he was hit, and flung himself onto the gun, knocking it over. The assistant gunner, with drawn revolver, shot the man in the head. But the gun was momentarily down.
The surviving attackers charged forward with wild cries. The gunner and his assistant struggled to right the piece. The distance closed, only feet separating the lead attacker from the gun.
The gatling stuttered to life, slicing across the closest man. He staggered, came to a stop, and then stood there for several long seconds, legs braced to the ground like oak trees, shuddering, flinching as each round hit, but continuing to absorb the blows.
The assistant gunner stepped around to one side, leveling his revolver, putting a round straight into the man’s head. The bullet finally caused him to collapse, but it was too late. The half dozen survivors surged at them, the next man in carrying the body of a comrade as a shield.
The assistant gunner emptied his weapon, dropping two more while the gunner continued to fire, rounds exploding into the shield of flesh. The attacker closed, flinging the body onto the gun, knocking it over again. The final rounds arced up into the audience as the gun fell, and then he was in with bayonet held high.
The arena roared in a mad frenzy, and O’Donald was part of the insanity, the lust for blood and for killing, screaming as bayonets flashed, rose and fell, rose and fell.
A lone attacker staggered to his feet, holding a bloody knife aloft, and even those of the Order erupted into applause.
“Who were you cheering for?” Karinia asked, still hanging on O’Donald’s arm.
Sean, eyes glazed, look over at her. “For those who would win,” he said, voice choked.
Hazin left him, drifting back down to the imperial box. The emperor was on his feet, hand held up in salute as the lone survivor, gasping for breath, stepped to the middle of the arena. The man held his blade aloft in salute and in a gesture so rare as to be remembered years afterward, the emperor extended his hand, palm up, a sign that the man was not to take his life.
“You will need such leaders when this is for real,” the emperor said, looking over at Hazin.
Hazin said nothing, sensing yet again the game within the game. It was he, after all, as the Grand Master, who selected those who were to be sacrificed on the sand. The survivor had been one loyal to the last Grand Master. Now he held a potential that was unknown, a supporter of an opponent whose name would be spoken of throughout the city this night, who would be greeted by his brothers as one returned from the dead in glory. He was fetahid, one who has returned, and to try and take him another way would be folly.
There would be time enough later, Hazin thought, wondering which of his rivals within the Order would see this human as a possible tool to be turned to advantage.
The battle was the climax of the morning’s show. Next would come the tedious routine of executions of criminals of Kazan blood, something the baser elements of the crowd enjoyed, especially when a notorious case was at last brought to justice, but nowhere near as exciting as watching humans slaughter one another.
The counters of the dead were busy at work, dragging the bodies off, down through the northern gate, the gate of the dead. Below, the bidders waited. The more dramatic the death, the higher the price would go, the winners dragging off their prizes as a trophy of prestige for the evening’s feast.
The emperor, yawning, a display to indicate his boredom with the tedious bloodletting to come, stood up and left his box. He motioned for Hazin to follow.
Withdrawing under the shadow of the entry arch, the emperor followed his guards down the corridor and turned into a private chamber, a comfortable hideaway where the imperial presence could relax or amuse himself. The guards closed the door behind them.
“Quite a show. Who was the human that survived?”
“Just one of my Shiv. A commander of a thousand.”
“Hmm, seems a waste to throw such training and skill into the arena. Any particular reason?”
“A hundred are chosen to die each month, and all volunteer for the honor.”
“Still, I do wonder how it is they are chosen.”
Hazin smiled, but was silent.
“A good way to cleanse. No matter what you claim of your breeding and training, surely they must desire to live.”
“Those that desire it too much find themselves on the sand,” Hazin replied. “It is a lesson for all to ponder. Even you and I shall face that someday.”
The emperor, who had pouring himself a drink, turned, obviously wondering what was the veiled meaning of Hazin’s words.
“Nothing intended, Your Highness. Just an observation.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about the escape.”
“Escape of whom?”
“The captured human. How did it happen?”
Sooner or later he knew that an imperial spy would find out. Cromwell had flown low over the harbor. The plane had to have been spotted and questions raised.
“As all escapes do. He found an opportunity and fled. Those who were at fault paid. You watched several of them die today, those tied to the posts for poisonings.”
“So all of them have been punished.”
“But of course.”
“Hmm.” He sipped his drink, eyes half closed, warily gazing at Hazin. “I take it all is in readiness for departure.” Hazin nodded. “You should know that from your fleet commanders. All ships of the Red Banner designated for the attack are to sail within seven days. The assault transports for the Shiv will follow a day later. Fifty thousand men. As long as your ships fulfill their tasks, in three weeks the Shiv will land on the Bantag coast. One umen will support the assault on their main port, called Constantine. Eight supply ships will carry additional arms for the Bantag.
“I am not comfortable with committing my land cruisers to that attack. It leaves my reserves here dangerously thin.”
“From what threat, sire? Any potential rival sees what can be gained there. The fiefdoms carved out will be vaster than all of Kazan. Why run the risk of engaging in a fight against you when such power and wealth can be had simply for going along with this attack?”
The emperor put down his drink and drew closer to Hazin. “What is your game, Grand Master?”
“Sire?”
The emperor smiled. “There is a game within this game. Your arguments for attacking the Republic are simple enough on the surface. They are a growing threat, and it is better to slay the cub in its cradle than wait for it to be full-grown. The wealth in resources to be taken, the diversion of my fractious cousins, all of it seems simple enough, but with you there has to be more.”
“I have all I desire already, sire. You ensured that when you supported me against the last Grand Master,
who threatened both of us. There is nothing else.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Hazin stiffened, stepping back a pace. He stared straight into the emperor’s eyes, and the imperial gaze dropped.
“Do not interpret what I said the wrong way, Grand Master.”
“Of course not, Your Highness. I never interpret anything the wrong way.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“I assume you are going with this expedition.”
“Sire?”
“Just that. It is, after all, the greatest effort in the field your order has attempted. I assumed you were going.” Hazin was silent.
“In fact, as your emperor, I order it. Admiral Biza has already been informed to that effect.”
“I see.”
The emperor smiled.
“An honor I did not expect, to be requested to journey with you for this campaign.”
“Of course not, but you shall find it amusing.”
Hazin started to turn away, not bothering to wait for a formal dismissal, and then he looked back over his shoulder.
“The poisoning show was most interesting today, wasn’t it? The third man on the right, the one whose face turned black as he swallowed his own tongue in convulsions, I designed that myself. It is remarkable stuff—tasteless, odorless. A dozen drops kill almost at once, but only three or four drops are far more interesting.”
He said the words coldly, impressing upon this rival the knowledge that if anything should befall him, one of his order would find a way to get through all the guards, all the precautions, and gain revenge.
Without waiting for a reply he slammed the door shut, leaving the emperor alone with his fears.
TWELVE
Exhausted, legs so numb from yet another day of riding that he could barely stand, Abraham Keane came to attention and saluted.
“Lieutenant Keane reporting, sir.”
Vincent Hawthorne, smiling, returned the salute, and nodded for Abe to take a camp chair by the fire. Vincent absently poked the coals, then leaned back, drawing a puff on his cigar, and exhaled.
“Son, I’m heading on back to headquarters tomorrow. Though I would prefer if you stayed with my command, I can’t deny your request for a field assignment, so you’ll stay with the 3rd, A Troop.”
Abe nodded his thanks. It was a choice assignment, the scout company.
“We’re not escorting you back to Fort Malady?” Vincent shook his head. “I’m taking that flyer that circled in. I’m expected all the way back in Suzdal. The 3rd, however, has been ordered to turn back around and shadow the Bantag. Ten regiments of cavalry are being deployed from their forts. You’re going straight back to where we were a week ago, then continue to push southeast.”
Abe said nothing. Ten regiments meant ten thousand men, but if it turned into a fight they’d be outnumbered twenty to one.
“Gatling companies are going out with each, so that should beef your strength up a bit. and two squadrons of aerosteamers will be flying patrols. Land ironclad units are being sent up as well.”
“Two squadrons? That’s only twenty-four planes, sir.”
“I know. Your father has something else in mind for the rest of the Aerosteamer Corps.”
Abe knew better than to ask, but his curiosity was aroused.
“We finally got a flyer report yesterday afternoon that Bantag encampments all along the western frontier were packing up. This morning the flyer returned to report that the main encampment was empty, having already moved a dozen miles to the southeast.”
“Could they just be following the herd of mammoths or bison? They’re still inside their own territory,” Abe said hopefully.
Vincent shook his head.
“No, I don’t think so. Jurak knows well enough what the warning implied. Either he is doing it now to see what will happen, or something was already planned long ago and is now taking place.”
“I could sense that,” Abe replied sadly. “The message, it was no real surprise, almost as if we are all moving toward something inevitable.”
“Get some rest, you’ll move out at first light tomorrow. Kind of absurd, I know. It’s a demonstration, Abe. A couple of days after we cross back into their territory, Jurak will have word that we are in pursuit. I just hope it convinces him of our resolve, but I doubt it. Once inside their territory again, expect a fight.”
Vincent meditatively puffed on his cigar for a moment and spat.
“Perhaps this isn’t the time or place to say it. The 3rd is a damn good regiment. It was formed during the Great War and still has a few of the old vets in it. A couple of the officers on top, though, can be a bit headstrong, and they are contemptuous of the Bantag.”
Vincent felt uncomfortable with the commander of the army sharing such information.
“You’re just a green lieutenant still fresh out of the academy, but I’ve watched you over the last month, and you’re a good officer. That’s why I put you with the A Troop of the 3rd. You’ll command it. Both the captain and first lieutenant are down with dysentery.”
Abe nodded. It had swept through the regiment on the way back from their assignment and dozens of men were down with it, two having died. It was a common enough complaint in the cavalry.
“Shouldn’t someone of higher rank command A Troop?” Abe asked.
“It’s not a favor to your old man. It’s simply because I think it’s the right assignment for you now. Give you some experience. The troop’s got a good NCO. Trust that Sergeant Togo, he’s a good man. He’ll play along with letting you be the officer, but if he nods to the right, turn right and the hell with protocol. Sergeant Major Mutaka is one of General Ketswana’s old Zulu comrades from the war. He’s one of the best in the army, and he’ll keep an eye on you as well.”
Abe started to ask if his father knew that he was being transferred, but then realized that he most likely did not.
“I know your itch, I had it, too. I hope it doesn’t get scratched too hard, though, the way mine did.”
He looked over, silent for a moment.
“This advance by the cavalry, call it bait, son. Jurak might just stop, turn around, and act like nothing happened at all. Then we’ll withdraw. If Jurak turns and fights, we have a clear cause of war the public will accept. I think he’ll leave a rear guard to slow us down, but will keep on moving southeast to the coast.”
“It’s the Kazan, then. Isn’t it?”
Hawthorne nodded. “Keep safe, Lieutenant. I gave you what you wanted. Just don’t make us both come to regret it.”
“You have your orders, Mr. Cromwell. Are there any questions?”
“No, sir.”
Richard, clutching the heavy, locked briefcase, sealed with a presidential stamp, waited to be dismissed. Andrew hesitated, looking down at the map spread out on the conference table in his office.
“It’s so damn vague,” Andrew said as his finger traced a line out from Constantine and into the Southern Sea. “Here be dragons and unknown lands.”
“Sir?”
“Old maps on Earth. When they didn’t know what was out there, that’s what they used to write in the blank spaces. It’s a vast blank space once past the Cretan Isles. We never should have made that agreement to venture no farther. We wasted fifteen precious years.”
He let his finger run along the line that Cromwell had flown, a full thousand miles farther toward Kazan.
“If what Hazin told you is true, they could be off our coast inside of three weeks.”
“I’d make it at least a month, sir. They have to conserve fuel. An armada that size will go only as fast as the slowest ships.”
“I understand your reasoning, but I have to assume the worst.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Cromwell, concerning your mission…”
“I volunteered the moment it was discussed,” Richard replied evenly.
“I know. I know the whole routine about honor, duty.” He paused, his hand
absently rubbing the empty sleeve.
“Frankly, I’d prefer if you stayed with Bullfinch. There’s a place with his staff if you want it.”
Richard smiled. “I’m the one most qualified to scout.”
“Just because you saw their ships once, at night, and flew one of their airships. I don’t see those as deciding factors for who flies scouting missions. To be blunt, I don’t want to lose you. I’ll need men like you. Second, well, there is the political issue.”
“You mean getting rid of me might be read by some as a message?”
Andrew shook his head. “Damn, I never wanted to get into politics. Being a colonel was straightforward. Even commanding an army in a losing war was easier.”
He turned away and started to pace.
Rumors of what was happening had finally broke. Yet again a senator with a mouth too big and a few too many drinks had spilled the news to some friends in a tavern. From there it had exploded across the city that the mobilization for maneuvers was actually a front for war with the Bantags and that Hawthorne was already leading a punitive expedition into their territory.
Once that news broke, another senator, figuring everything was out in the open, had told the rest to some of his in-laws who had major interests in the market, and thus would profit immensely if a new naval appropriations bill was run through. The insiders made their buys the following morning, then quietly let the other shoe fall. By noon the issue was finally raised by a Chin congresswoman on the House floor, and by dusk it was a firestorm, fluctuating between war hysteria, terrified panic, and renewed rumors of secession.
“We couldn’t have kept it quiet much longer anyhow. What we were doing to the three armored cruisers and five frigates was already drawing notice. I had hoped to keep a lid on it, though, until we had something absolutely positive. Some will whine that I provoked this war as a means of reunifying the country. A lot of questions will be asked tonight at the joint session about why the Gettysburg was beyond the treaty limits.”
Standing by the windowsill, he lightly tapped his clenched fist against the frame while looking down on the crowds milling about in the square. A few protesters had shown up earlier, claiming that the entire crisis was a hoax, one sign proclaiming CROMWELL, TRAITOR BEFORE, TRAITOR AGAIN! An angry crowd of sailors on leave had set upon them, and it had taken half the constabulary force of the city to quell the disturbance.
Down to the Sea Page 22
