Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

  The attributes and virtues of her friends’ God were almost the same as the Maker of All Things, whom she’d been raised to revere, and many had begun to suspect that He was, in fact, truly the same supreme being, despite some liturgical differences. From what she’d seen, just from her cage, whatever creature or creatures demanded the faith of the Doms could not possibly be more different.

  He/it/they possessed so many different, conflicting attributes that it was impossible to reconcile them all. Apparently He was all-powerful, yet required the assistance of a huge panoply of frightening creatures to impose his will-the plaza was festooned with carvings and sculptures of all manner of beasts-who seemed to require similar devotion. He was supposedly merciful, yet besides her own suffering, she’d witnessed monstrous barbarity on the high steps of the temple, acts committed in cold blood that rivaled the horror of battle. And the people here seemed convinced that those acts were not only endorsed but required by their God. It was abominable. Twice now, once a month she supposed, she’d seen hundreds of naked humans herded, shrieking, up the steps of the temple, where they were slaughtered in the most hideous fashion. She couldn’t see everything from where she was kept, but she saw the heads come tumbling, bouncing down the steps, followed by rivers of blood-all amid the desolate cries of the victims and the approving roar of the crowd. Not even the Grik could be so loathsome, and she wondered how anyone could worship such a terrible, bloodthirsty God.

  One day, they would probably take her to the top of those steps, she suspected, and when they did she would not wail-she would fight them. Her nail-claws had been torn from her fingers and her sharp canines had been broken off, but now that they’d begun feeding her and keeping her cage cleaned out, she exercised as much as she could within her small enclosure to maintain her strength. She’d wondered once what she was doing in the new war against these people, but they were her enemies now, as surely as the Grik. When they came for her, she would surprise them with her strength and kill as many as she could.

  Some ceremony was underway-they happened all the time-and though she didn’t think a slaughter would ensue, there was a… different kind of excitement in the air. Hordes of people swelled the plaza; more than usual for other festivals she’d seen. Gradually, she noticed that fewer crosses were in evidence, compared to the number of other icons; strange little figurines dangling from thongs around necks that looked oddly like the small cat creatures that ran loose in the New Britain Isles. She knew those animals came from the old world of the destroyermen and had inspired the friendly diminutive of her own people, even if they weren’t really that similar and seemed little smarter than bugs. They were rather attractive little things, she thought, and they came in all sorts of colors, so the comparison wasn’t without some merit. But the cat icons worn by the Doms were all black, or yellow with dark spots. Strange. Even stranger, she realized: she was drawing more attention than usual that day, and some of the spectators seemed to be comparing their icons to her own nearly black, tan-blotched pelt.

  A commotion began directly in front of her cage and people started practically climbing over each other to make way for… something. Brightly uniformed guards with red neck cloths forced their way to the bars with muskets, plug bayonets inserted in their muzzles, forming a gap in the throng. Kari tensed. Maybe the time had come? She discovered with a thrill that she wasn’t even afraid. Her father had been a great warrior in Aryaal and had died a hero’s death. She’d never considered herself brave, but she suddenly realized that maybe his blood ran thicker in her veins than she’d ever suspected.

  Two figures moved toward her between the barrier of troops. As they drew near, she recognized one as that Blood Cardinal, Don Hernan, who’d caused so much turmoil on New Scotland and then somehow escaped. He wore his usual bloodred cloak and strange, ornately decorated white hat. Despite the rest of the mob, he still wore the garish gold cross he’d always worn as well. She’d seen him twice since she was captured. He’d never spoken to her, even though she knew he spoke English and she’d yelled enough of it at him that he had to know she spoke it too. She’d expected to be tortured for information, but though she was tortured, no one ever asked her anything! It was as if they heard her… but didn’t! In their view, she was an animal. She couldn’t possibly speak, so they couldn’t hear her when she did. She wondered what he was doing here. Then she recognized the second figure.

  “Fred!” she blurted, unable to restrain the shout. Some of the soldiers twitched, surprised, then studiously ignored her. Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds was her pilot and her very best friend. She hadn’t seen him since they were forced down in the Caal-i-forniaa surf and taken prisoner by the retreating Doms. She’d figured he was dead.

  “Fred!” she cried again, scrambling across the floor of her cage to crouch nearer as he approached. Then she saw the dull look on his face; the sunken eyes; the scabbed, shaved scalp. His cheekbones stood out in bruised relief and he looked half-starved. He was dressed in a long white robe that covered his feet. He halted beyond the bars-and he was standing, without restraint, beside Don Hernan. She was stunned. Could her friend be dead, after all?

  “Here is the creature we found you with, my son,” Don Hernan said in his deceptively gentle voice, his black mustache quirking upward at one end of his mouth. “I preserved it, as I promised.”

  “Of course, Your Holiness. I never doubted,” Fred whispered. His voice sounded… strange, rough, unused.

  “Look upon it,” the Blood Cardinal commanded softly. Fred obeyed, and his eyes passed across Kari, but his expression never changed. “You realize now that it is a mere thing, an animal unworthy of thought or concern? One cannot befriend an animal. They have no place in the kingdoms of God, but to serve Him as the beasts they are, as they are made to do?” He gestured around. “This festival commemorates the service of one such beast, and some heretics”-he glowered around-“still cling to the belief there is thought behind that service.” He shrugged. “But there is not. No thought crosses their minds beyond their own comfort and what they will eat. They have no room in their minds and hearts for God. They serve God and us as draft animals, guards, and even such as the small dragons that brought your flying machine down because we feed them and make them comfortable!”

  “Of course, Your Holiness,” Fred agreed in a firmer tone.

  “Excellent. Then you cannot object if I do away with this… thing?” The question seemed almost a test.

  “I have no moral or spiritual objection, Your Holiness,” Fred replied slowly, and Kari’s heart skipped a beat. She was stunned not only by Fred’s words, but by the utter lack of inflection. Oh Maker! What did they do to him?

  “Not anymore,” the former aviator continued. “But from a practical standpoint…” he looked at the crowd beyond the barrier. “Since… it was placed on display and some have grown accustomed to it, there may be unrest if it’s destroyed. Besides, the Empire is allied to creatures like it. Having it captive here, for God’s soldiers to see in its vulnerability, may reduce the shock or even fear of meeting them in battle.”

  Don Hernan’s eyebrow rose. “Most interesting. I had not even considered that.” He appraised Fred for a long moment. “I believe you are sincere.” His tone sounded surprised. “The Cleanser said you had embraced the faith with unusual earnestness, but I was skeptical at first. Since then, you have unstintingly assisted with our project to build our own flying machines, and held nothing back that I could see. It is rare enough for the heretic to gain true salvation, but to then go forward and strive so hard to perform God’s work… I am proud of you, my son!”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness. I am yours and His to command.”

  “And yet you still think!” Don Hernan enthused. “Very well. We will preserve this specimen until the enemies of God are destroyed; then we shall wipe it away along with all vestiges of this infantile predisposition of some of our flock to cling to ancient habits and associations!” He sighed and glanced at the sky. “With
the death of this creature, even this silly festival will pass away at last! Come, my son. Let us go to the temple. It is almost time to pray-and I think you may be ready to be presented to His Supreme Holiness at last!”

  Don Hernan and what had been Fred Reynolds quickly retreated, and the armed cordon closed and vanished behind them. Kari was still too stunned to speak, and even though she wanted to scream and bash through the iron bars with her bare hands, all she could do was crouch there, numb. She was stung and hurt, but mostly she felt a welling rage. Not at Fred or what she knew would be her ultimate fate, but toward the monsters that had already destroyed her friend.

  “Oh, Fred!” she keened to herself.

  “So you do speak,” came an English voice with no accent she could place, and she almost jumped out of her skin. The crowd had reverted to what it had been before, but one man, more bedraggled and disheveled than most, peered in at her like the urchins of the city often did. He had dark hair and dark skin like the multitude around him, but it was he who’d spoken, and he held her gaze-which was more than most would do.

  “Of course I speak, you dope!” she flared, and caught herself when he shushed her and looked around.

  “You… your species… truly is allied with the Empire?” the man asked urgently.

  “It… I am.”

  “The war goes badly?”

  “Not when I left it,” she quipped. “The attack against the Imperial Isles failed, and we were going to the aid of the colonies.”

  “Not what they tell the masses,” the man said ironically.

  “Who are you?”

  “No time. I cannot linger here. Just know that you have friends, and we will do what we may for you.”

  With that, the tide of humanity swept the strange man away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Baalkpan, Borno

  March 9, 1944

  Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, brightly attired in his very best shore-going rig and a fresh black eye patch, marched up the pier from the exhausted “Clipper” with a powerful, rolling gait that left his companions hard-pressed to keep up. His sea bag was balanced on one shoulder, and his Thompson hung from the other by its sling. The web belt around his waist was festooned with a bizarre variety of weapons. In addition to his beloved 1911 Colt and a pair of magazine pouches were a 1903 Springfield bayonet and a hard-used pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass. Perhaps most incongruous, a long-barreled, ornately carved flintlock pistol dangled from the belt by a long bar hook. The flight from Respite had taken almost a week, with numerous refueling, maintenance, and rest stops for the planes and pilots, and the trip had been hard on all of them but, apparently, him. He reached the dock and paused, gazing about, as if expecting a band. Many workers were present, but no fanfare awaited him and his companions.

  “I swear,” he grumbled to Midshipman Stuart Brassey, who’d arrived panting beside him. Larry had matched his pace, but Lieutenant Laumer hadn’t tried to keep up. Now he joined them with a chuckle on the dock.

  “What were you expecting, Silva? Ticker tape and dancing girls?”

  “Maybe not for me, but ol’ Larry here deserves some notice, and so do you… sir.” He shrugged. “Anything I done to deserve praise was just me bein’ me. Mighta got me hung, in different circumstances.”

  Laumer nodded thoughtfully. He admired Silva but wasn’t sure he liked him. He considered Silva a loose cannon and didn’t understand why his behavior was tolerated. He’d finally come to understand that Silva’s… talents were an asset to the war effort, however, and Captain Reddy apparently knew best how to handle the dangerous man. With that realization came another: Silva wasn’t his responsibility, nor was he really subject to Irvin Laumer’s command or discipline. Once that was clear, he no longer felt like he was neglecting his duty by not trying to enforce discipline on a man he was actually, well, maybe a little afraid of. He remained convinced that Silva set a bad example-but, somehow, with very few exceptions, nobody ever followed his example… or at least they never lived to do it twice. Ultimately, the big man probably wasn’t as corrosive to discipline as Irvin originally thought, and he was good at what he did. He could accept that.

  “Might still get you hung, if what I hear is true. Did you really go AWOL?”

  “Not exactly,” Dennis answered absently, gazing about. “I hate what they’ve done with the place.”

  “It looks like what Manila has become,” Laumer agreed. “It’s necessary, though, if we’re going to win.”

  “Used to be so pretty,” Silva sniffed. “Now it’s all noise an’ smoke an’ marchin’ troops. Stinks too. Looks better than it did after the big battle, I guess, but now it’s like… Mare Island, the Palms, and Shanghai all wadded up.” He slowly grinned. “Which could maybe be a good thing!”

  “Well,” Laumer said, “you’re not my problem, beyond making sure you report to Mr. Sandison. I’m supposed to report to Mr. Brister at the War Room in the great hall… I guess.”

  “May I accompany you, sir?” Stuart asked. “I suppose I must report to Mr. Cook, but I’ve no idea where he may be.”

  “What a’out Lawrence?” the Sa’aaran asked.

  “Guess it never occurred to anybody to peel you offa me, Larry.”

  Silva’s statement was punctuated by a high-pitched shriek of delight, and he turned his head just in time to tense before a short but muscle-heavy missile impacted his chest and wrapped its arms around him.

  “Sil-vaa!” squealed Risa-Sab-At, hugging him almost painfully, but not-thankfully-licking his face this time. “You got here early,” she scolded fondly. “We had to scamper to meet you!”

  “We had a tailwind,” Silva defended, pecking Risa’s furry head between her ears. He looked at Laumer. “So there woulda’ been a parade after all if that air ’Cat hadn’t been heapin’ on the coal so!”

  Risa laughed. “No paa-rade, you dope, but plenty of happy people!” She released him and slid to the ground, grinning hugely up at him and blinking with glee. “I’m so glad you are home-and safe! You always scare poor Risa with your stunts!”

  “Well, as you know yerself, the hee-roin’ bid’ness don’t always respect a fella’s priorities.” He gestured at the city beyond the growing, laughing crowd, and his gaze caught Laumer’s… priceless expression, likely the result of the exuberant greeting.

  “I heard you’d be here,” Dennis resumed, “buildin’ yer own regiment! We prob’ly shouldn’t carry on so in front of the children. Besides, you’re a officer now! I oughta salute ya!”

  “You never were in my chain of command!” Risa retorted archly. “Speakin’ of commands, though, how’s that silly brother of mine?”

  Silva recognized other faces approaching and inwardly cringed just a bit. Sister Audry was all smiles, for some reason. Ronson Rodriguez was smiling too, but his eyes looked serious. Young Ensign Cook seemed embarrassed, but he quickly advanced and shook Brassey’s hand. Commander Bernard Sandison actually looked grim.

  “Chackie?” Silva asked, distracted, then looked back at her. “He’s swell. He came as far as Manila with us.” He hooked his thumb back at the “Clipper.” “The flyboys needed a nap, so I went with him to meet Major Jindal and his Impie boys. They got there just before we did.” He cocked his head. “We also met Chackie’s new commando outfit. Some strange ducks there. Some o’ them China Marines and Army guys from the old world weren’t too impressed with our Chackie at first, like they didn’t care to be commanded by a ’Cat.” He shrugged. “We commenced to impress ’em.”

  “I can imagine how you did that,” Ronson said, as he and the others joined the group. Silva and his fellow passengers saluted.

  “Hey, Ronson,” Silva greeted. Rodriguez might be an officer now, and Silva would salute him, but he remembered when the dark, skin-headed Hispanic with the Pancho Villa mustache had been a second-class electrician’s mate. “ Mr. Cook,” he added, and Abel blushed.

  “We didn’t hurt nobody,” he continued to Risa, “but now they know th
is war ain’t a cakewalk-and that maybe we know more about fightin’ it than they do.” His gaze swung to Bernard Sandison. The former torpedo officer was standing there with something long and skinny and wrapped in canvas held at his side. It was nearly as long as he was tall. Unlike Ronson, whom Silva still considered an equal, Bernie had always been an officer. “Mr. Sandison,” he added, hesitantly. “You gonna hang me?”

  “He is not!” Sister Audry declared, and to Silva’s amazement, embraced him. He stiffened with surprise and the Dutch nun stepped back, smiling.

  “The prodigal has returned, but has not squandered our trust! You are our Samson, Mr. Silva, and I am very proud of you!” With a glance at Risa, her smile cracked slightly. “Perhaps there are Delilahs in your life… but none seek to betray you.”

  “Why… thank you kindly, Sister.” Silva’s eye narrowed. “Samson? Long hair? Got his eyes poked out?” He rubbed his freshly burred scalp, then fingered his patch. “Not me, Sister, and I aim to keep the peeper I got left! Say, what’s got into you?”

  Audry just shook her head, still smiling, but backed away.

  “C’mon, you,” Bernie said gruffly. “Mr. Letts says you’re to report to Mr. Cook here, and you’re not going to be around long, but I’ve got you as long as you are. I’ve got things to show you that I want your twisted opinion on, and I haven’t got all day.” He frowned. “I’ve got less than a week before Torpedo Day.”