Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

  “What the hell’s Torpedo Day?” Dennis asked.

  “It’s the big day Bernie told everybody we’d be ready to test the new torpedoes!” Ronson muttered accusingly. “Adar’s turned it into a giant, freak-show spectacle, when we’re all supposed to trot out the new gadgets we’ve been working on. I ain’t ready either!”

  “You don’t say? Torpedoes, huh?” Silva grinned. “Sure, let’s go. That is, if Mr. Cook considers me ‘reported’ an’ releases me!”

  Abel blushed even deeper. “Ah… yes, of course, Mr… I mean, Chief Silva. We won’t be departing for a few weeks yet. Plenty of time to discuss our expedition.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Silva said in a respectful tone that wasn’t-quite-destroyed by his expression. He paused for a moment then, and gestured at the long object in Bernie’s hands. “Whatcha got in your poke? Some kinda tor-poon?”

  Bernie sighed. “No! Well, kind of. Alan and Mr. Riggs wanted to make you an officer, and we all know how that went over. Then they figured they ought to give you a medal or something, God knows why. I told ’em you’d just use it for a fishing weight.” He shrugged and started unwrapping the object. “So… knowing how bent you’d be over losing your old ‘Doom Whomper,’ I had the fellas-and dames, if you believe it! — over in Experimental Ordnance, slap this together for you.” Bernie waited while Silva wordlessly lowered his sea bag and handed the Thompson off to Larry, then fully revealed what looked like a gargantuan version of the new standard issue Allin-Silva breech-loading musket and handed it to the big man.

  For a long moment, Silva was speechless. He just stood there, staring at the massive weapon in his hands.

  “It’s basically a breech-loading version of what you had,” Bernie said a little awkwardly. “We had the barrels off of four more busted twenty-fives, so we built them all up like this, using as many of the same parts we use on the… normal Baalkpan Arsenal rifles as we could. Same locks, triggerguards, and springs, so most of the things that might break are interchangeable. Of course, we had to make way bigger breechblocks and barrel bands. It uses pretty much the same hundred-caliber bullet you came up with too, but in a metallic cartridge.” He hesitated. “I don’t know who’s going to get the other three, because they kick like… well, I don’t know what they kick like, because I’ll never shoot one of the damn things. But some ’Cats have big enough shoulders to pad the poor bones underneath, and we got them all proofed, tested, and rough sighted in.” He stopped and waited. Still, Silva didn’t speak.

  “Well? What do you think, damn it?”

  “She’s a dandy, Bernie,” Silva whispered. “I guess I don’t know what else to say. Nobody ever gave me nothin’ before but orders an’ whuppin’s.”

  For a moment, Bernie was just as speechless; then Sister Audry spoke.

  “That’s not true, Mr. Silva. You also have our trust, appreciation, and friendship-all freely given.” For the first time since Dennis saw her, she frowned. “Some have even tried to give you their love.” She shrugged. “Much as I approve of your new weapon, that is an even more precious gift.”

  Silva winced and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Maybe so.” He looked at Risa and offered a half smile. “Where’s Pam, doll?”

  Risa shook her head. “She’s out at Kaufman Field-with the airplanes. She always goes out there when they fly a lot… and sometimes she sees Colonel Maallory.”

  Silva nodded briskly. “Good choice. He ain’t so bad for a Army man.” He looked at Bernie. “C’mon, Mr. Sandison! I can’t wait to see all the new toys! I’ll… pay my respects to Pam later. Larry, take my chopper and my sea bag wherever it is they’re stowin’ us bachelor types, willya?”

  “Goddammit, Pepper, they cain’t do this to me!” Isak Rueben whined in his reedy voice. He was one of the original Mice, along with Gilbert Yeager, who was now CV-4 Maaka-Kakja ’s chief engineer in Second Fleet. Both had once been simple-and very squirrelly-firemen aboard USS Walker. They’d adopted Tabby, and made her one of their own, but she was the engineering officer of their old ship now, and Isak, at least, resented that a little. He’d been stuck in Baalkpan toiling on “that goddamn floatin’ hog trough” that had once been a beached, abandoned freighter, but everyone else was now proud to refer to as the “protected cruiser” Santa Catalina.

  Isak’s intense, narrow face looked beseechingly at the salt-and-pepper-furred Lemurian behind the bar of the Busted Screw. “They cain’t just slurp me off right when I’m startin’ to get my bizness ready ta percolate!” Isak moaned. He and Gilbert had spent a year and a half trying to turn the chewable but utterly unsmokable tobacco of this world into something that could be smoked-without making the smoker puke. Isak thought he finally had it and planned to establish “Isak’s Sweet Smokin’ Tobacco,” and start raking in some of the gold everybody was being paid with now-until he got his new orders.

  “Now I’m s’posed to fly- fly in one o’ them clatterin’ death traps-to join Walker once she puts in at Manila, so I can help with her refit!”

  “I’d think you would like to be back with your Home,” Pepper observed, wiping down the bar. It was between the morning and midday rush.

  “Well… sure I would, but all my makin’s-ever’thing I need to build my smokes-is here! An’ besides, Tabby’ll be my boss! That ain’t right. I taught her ever’thing she knows!”

  “And she knows that, Isaak,” Pepper said patiently.

  “Well… maybe we’ll still get along, even if she’s a officer. But what about my bizness? With that damn Laney still here, snoopin’ around, he’s bound to swipe my rice bowl!”

  “You leave it with me,” Pepper offered offhandedly. “I can handle Laney. Beside, scuttlebutt says Laney’s gonna be an officer soon too; take engineerin’ on Saanta Cata-linaa.”

  “Yah,” Isak smoldered. “Ain’t that a gas? Makes me even gladder I’m gettin’ off her.” He winced and shrugged. “Just as well, I guess. He does know her guts inside an’ out, an’ they’ve tried to make his sorry ass work at just about ever’thin’ else. Can’t kill ’im…”

  He suddenly peered suspiciously at the ’Cat. “Yah! An’ Earl Lanier left you his bar to watch for his useless, fat ass, an’ you took it plumb over!”

  Pepper blinked and shrugged. “He still my partner, if he ever comes back alive.”

  Isak’s eyes went wide. “So you wanna be partners, huh? Damn it, Pepper, I’m already partners with so many of yer cousins, I can’t keep track of ’em all!”

  “I keep track of ’em,” Pepper said, “an’ I keep bizness goin’ while you’re gone too. You still get your half when you come back. Gilbert gets his half, cousins get one half for all, an’ I take only half for me.”

  Isak scrunched up his face in a frown. “I dunno…”

  “What else you gonna do? Let Laney take it? I don’t know when Saanta Cata-linaa sails… He might be here a long time after you fly off!”

  “No, dammit! I don’t even want nobody sellin’ smokes to him!” He paused, then stuck out his hand. “That’s an awful lotta ‘halfs’ but I guess we got a deal!”

  Suddenly, he jerked his hand back with a sharp “Ook!” and vanished below the level of the bar.

  “What?” Pepper demanded.

  “I just seen Dennis Silva yonder! With Mr. Sandison!”

  Pepper turned. Even amid the crowd, Silva stood out. “Yeah! There he is! I heard he was coming to Baalkpan!” He leaned over the counter and peered down at Isak. “Hey! How come you hidin’ from him? Is he going to kill you for something?”

  “Not that I know of… but he might have a reason!”

  Pepper tossed his rag down on Isak’s head. “Why are you scared of Silva? He’s a right guy. You ain’t scared of Laney, and he’s a jerk.”

  “Yeah, but no snipe ever wants Silva to see him!” He looked up at Pepper. “You oughta get down too!”

  Pepper snatched his rag back and blinked consternation. It was going to be another strange day at the Screw.

  CHAPTER
12

  New London, New Britain

  Empire of the New Britain Isles

  March 12, 1944

  Courtney Bradford flapped his strange, wide-brimmed sombrero to cool himself while sweat beaded on his ruddy, balding pate. He was wearing a finely woven maroon wool frock coat cut in the local style, appropriate for the formal event he was already late for, and, except for the hat, he looked fairly respectable in the outfit, which included tan breeches and a black cravat cinched tightly around his neck. The wool was cooking him though, and he suspected that before the day was done, he would probably die. Fortunately, hats like the one he flailed at himself were the style on Respite, and there was enough demand for them in the Imperial capital of New London on New Britain, or the “Big Island,” that they were relatively easy to find here. He’d been relieved to discover it after losing his previous one of similar shape at sea.

  He leaned forward and peered out the coach window at the throng of humanity, and despite his discomfort, was utterly charmed. There weren’t nearly as many indentured women on New Britain Isle, at least here in the capital city, and for a time he could push that unpleasant aspect of this society to the back of his mind. Here, for the first time in his travels on this world, was a familiar civilization. The streets were paved with smooth, rounded stones, and the architecture was even reminiscent of the timeless parts of the old London he’d visited many times. There were no automobiles of course, but there weren’t any brontasarries or paalkas either. Real horses pulled carriages and wagons and quaint streetcars with dozens of occupants. Iron tires grating on stone and clopping hooves replaced the sounds of motors and tooting horns, but he was old enough to remember when that had been the case back home as well. He understood there was an impressive library and even several museums, and he couldn’t wait to visit them. One museum contained relics of the Founders, including preserved portions of their ships. Another was devoted to specimens of creatures acquired from other lands the Empire had visited or claimed during a brief exploratory period some decades past. Like Scapa Flow, but on a much grander scale, New London resembled an oasis of familiarity on an otherwise wildly exotic world. Only the superabundance of parrots and small, flying reptiles as ubiquitous as pigeons seriously undermined that illusion of normalcy. He grunted and leaned back in his comfortably cushioned seat to examine his companions.

  Sergeant Koratin’s white leather armor practically gleamed, and his red-striped blue kilt was immaculate. He had graying, dun-colored fur, and the manelike beard around his face was almost white. He was an “odd duck,” as Courtney’s American friends would say. He’d been a noble, a lord of Aryaal, on faraway Jaava where Surabaya should have been. There, he’d been a political creature: venal and corrupt, swept along by the winds of expediency, foul or fair. His devotion to the moral and physical well-being of younglings had always been his passion, however, no matter how poor an example he set. The war, the loss of his family-including his own precious younglings-and the consequences of real corruption backed by limitless power, had caused an epiphany.

  Sister Audry’s teachings-and Courtney’s explanations of them-had made him a Christian, if not yet a Catholic, and though he was not wild about the political structure emerging within the Alliance, he was devoted to destroying its enemies. Now he was an enlisted Marine, not even an officer, who’d distinguished himself repeatedly in battle. He stayed as far from politics as he could, but he was still a keen observer of them. Bradford thought his insights might prove useful and had tapped him as his aide while Koratin fully recovered from wounds he’d received at the Battle of the Imperial Dueling Grounds.

  Beside Koratin was Lieutenant Ezekial Krish of the Imperial Navy. He was dark-skinned with black hair, and wore his very first attempt at an Imperial mustache on his upper lip. Courtney wondered what kind of name Krish was, but decided it didn’t matter. The Imperials were descendants of polyglot crews of a pair of lost East Indiamen, and their population had grown with the help of “acquisitions” from the east. Likely, Krish didn’t even know the original foundation of his name. Courtney swept the thought away. The young officer seemed a conscientious lad and took his duties as liaison to the Allied ambassador seriously. Today, his help was particularly critical, because he would have to guide Courtney through the protocol of his appearance at the Imperial Court of Directors. Currently, the young man was staring significantly at a large watch in his left hand. A silver chain disappeared between the buttons of his white coat.

  “We’ll arrive in plenty of time, Lieutenant,” Bradford assured the man, trying to conceal his own resurgent unease. “As you said yourself, my own part in the proceedings is quite limited. I doubt I’ll even be required to speak.” Despite his calm words, he suddenly tugged almost desperately at the cravat, as if on the verge of a claustrophobic fit. Adjusting the ridiculous thing was the primary reason for his tardiness.

  “Perhaps, Your Excellency,” Krish replied with brittle calm, reaching across and stilling Courtney’s hands, “but their majesties specifically charged me with your punctuality.” It was no secret that Courtney Bradford needed keepers. “Much of the Governor-Emperor’s address concerns the Alliance, and he wanted you there as its representative.”

  “Of course. But if I’m not mistaken, he meant to begin with a description of the state of the Empire, the war, and the implementation of the various reforms.” His tone grew almost plaintive. “The heat of the glares I expect to be directed my way will probably melt me, and the shorter the time I’m exposed to them, the more likely I am to survive.”

  Krish said nothing because Courtney was probably right. This would be Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald’s first address to a full assembly of the Imperial Court of Directors since the abortive Dom invasion and the Dom-assisted rebellion on New Ireland were crushed. During that time of emergency, the very foundations of the Empire had been shaken and Gerald McDonald had exercised unprecedented executive powers without consulting the courts of Directors or Proprietors. Of course, so many members of the Court of Proprietors-including Prime Proprietor Sir Harrison Reed-had either been high officials in the subversive Honorable New Britain Company or directly in league with the enemy, that the Proprietors had virtually ceased to exist. Krish was personally surprised and a little disappointed that the Governor-Emperor hadn’t simply abolished the Proprietors and Directors. After the fighting and all the arrests, the shrill finger-pointing began and nearly every member who’d been taken into custody spilled compromising information against many who weren’t, in an effort to mitigate their own transgressions. Long after the true traitors had been hung, the papers were full of lurid details of graft, kickbacks, vote buying, and election fraud. The illegal “stacking” of indentures, a process that kept its victims in perpetual servitude, had been far more common than anyone dreamed as well. Now even the most stalwart defenders of female indenture had been forced to moderate their stance. The resultant feeding frenzy and open display of just how corrupt the government had been stunned the Empire.

  Special elections had been held to fill the many sudden vacancies in the Court of Directors, and most of the winners reflected the new attitudes toward their human and Lemurian allies, a willingness to consider a change in the status of women within the Empire, and a grim determination to not only destroy the Holy Dominion forever, but to repay the debt owed to the western allies by helping them against the Grik. Regardless, many hard-liners had retained their seats. Not all had been corrupt. Krish believed the Governor-Emperor would have a majority for his new, radical proposals, but it would be slim and perhaps even tenuous.

  “Did Gerald speak much to you about the contents of his address?” Courtney asked, making conversation to distract himself from his misery.

  Krish cringed slightly over the man’s casual use of his monarch’s first name, but nodded. “The Governor-Emperor truly means to abolish indentured servitude entirely. He will reaffirm the alliance between”-he glanced at Koratin-“your people and mine, and make a
formal declaration of war against the Holy Dominion and the Grik Empire. He will underscore the social reforms by letting his wife, the Lady Ruth McDonald, address the assembly as well.”

  “Amazing! Has that ever been done? I mean, has a woman…?”

  “Never, Your Excellency. Even when his grandmother, the Lady Verna, was Governor-Empress before her son was born, her factor appeared in her stead.”

  “Poor woman,” Courtney sighed. “Gerald spoke of her. She remained sequestered for years.” He looked at Krish. “Understand, this… system of yours remains quite foreign to me. My people have a history of powerful, headstrong queens, and my new people, the Lemurians, have many strong female leaders as well. Safir Maraan, Saan-Kakja… Did you know that Saan-Kakja is roughly the same age as your dear Princess Rebecca, yet rules perhaps more land than your Empire, even including your tentative holdings in the Americas?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency…”

  “Of course you did. A dear, sweet creature, yet bold and quite willful! She will doubtless be mollified to some degree by this new policy.” He leaned forward, flapping his hat again. “She remains distrustful of your Empire, you see,” he whispered conspiratorially.

  Koratin flicked his ears in amusement, but said nothing.

  Courtney leaned back and wrenched at his cravat again. “Gerald and I discussed his address at great length, of course,” he went on. “I consider him a fine fellow and a friend, but I was frankly afraid to rely on such an abrupt change. But the current emergency makes this the perfect time to push for it, I suppose.”

  “It is unfortunate that so many had to die in the course of this ‘emergency,’” Koratin suddenly interjected in a cynical tone, “but in crisis, there is always opportunity.”