Smaller than Guayak, Puerto Viejo was otherwise similar in architecture and culture, with its mixture of stone and brick public buildings surrounded by adobe huts and ultimately, wood and thatch shacks. Unfortunately, directly on the coast, its harbor wasn’t nearly as well protected or really even suitable for large ships. Somehow, the Imperial surveyors hadn’t sufficiently stressed this to any of the planners involved when it was decided that Puerto Viejo should become the primary forward supply port for General Shinya’s forces at Fort Defiance. Only now, when supply was critical and a major effort was underway, did the inadequacies of the early studies fully reveal themselves. For example, there’d apparently never been any kind of real docks at the small coastal city before; the local fishermen and traders had merely pulled their bright-painted boats straight up on the dun-colored sand. And the new docks, still under construction by Imperial engineers and local labor, were hasty, ramshackle affairs, not nearly up to the task of dealing with the sudden, frantic influx of ships, troops, and material.
It hadn’t begun so frantically, when the first ships began dribbling in several days before Rebecca and Saan-Kakja’s greater force appeared, but instead of clearing the way for them and making it easier to land the reinforcements they brought, the early arrivals only fed the stirring bedlam to come. To be fair, they’d been former “company” ships for the most part, merchantmen still manned by old crews with new commissions. They’d been dispatched with cargoes from the fleet or the Enchanted Isles weeks before, and without wireless, had no notion of the logjam they were creating when they leisurely choked the ridiculously insufficient docks with their cargoes. Some of those cargoes had been crated Nancys and their support—but no one had reported that there were no facilities whatsoever to receive them either, and the energetic surf made it impossible to operate the planes directly from shore. It was discovered that Imperial engineers had been preparing ramps and docks at a small lake northeast of town for their use, where a small squadron of overworked Nancys already made its base, but that information and the necessary coordination had been neglected as well. Now the crates languished, in the way and dangerously exposed to damage while their irate ground crews tried to arrange their transport.
And as bedlam has a tendency to do, it only got worse from there. The Puerto Viejans themselves were a mixed blessing. Just as isolated from and persecuted by the Church and Blood Priests of His Supreme Holiness, they’d learned of Guayak’s resistance, with the help of the strangers from the West, and joined the rebellion against the hated Dominion. Now, as news reached them of the terrible battle raging beyond the rising foothills to the east, and word inexplicably but inevitably spread of the great battle at sea, they were fearful of the Dominion’s wrath. They remained helpful, even hopeful. What choice did they have? It was much too late to turn back now. But in their fear-stoked zeal to help the Allies help them, they’d wildly compounded the prevailing confusion when nearly the entire population of the city; men, women, even children, almost spontaneously took it upon themselves to swarm aboard ships crammed haphazardly against the freshly planted piers—and now one another—to “help” unload them. Ships waiting farther out were dragged ashore, leaning in the surf, and hundreds of small boats mobbed them as well. Faced with letting them “help” or killing them, Rebecca had finally ordered everyone to join the locals in unloading everything and getting it ashore as quickly as they could, however they could.
The 1st Maa-ni-laa, Saan-Kakja’s personal guard and the only Lemurian regiment she’d brought, and Sister Audry’s Regimento de Redentores, her former Dom prisoners of war, had been the only reinforcements to get ashore in reasonably good order before the chaos struck. They’d landed slightly down the coast as if assaulting an unfriendly shore before marching into the city where, after unsuccessfully trying to regain order, they simply guarded and tried to sort the growing, jumbled mountains of supplies, guns, horses and paalkas, more crated aircraft—everything they’d brought to this place—as it piled up on the beach. But the other troopships with the majority of the Imperial Marines hadn’t been equipped for a combat landing, having been meant to off-load at Guayak where the already-better docks had been further improved. They remained anchored offshore like outcast geese, still thick with troops for the most part, as boats of every description belatedly scurried to carry their human cargoes to the same beach the 1st Maa-ni-laa and the Redentores had used.
“May the Heavens preserve us—and General Shinya—from such good intentions in the future,” Saan-Kakja murmured dryly.
“I agree with your sentiment,” Selass said, “but it is pleasant to be appreciated.”
“They appreciate us because they’re terrified,” Rebecca said more harshly, the tone seeming unnatural from her elfin face. It was a tone she’d used almost exclusively over the last few days; a tone directed more at herself than anyone else. She remained sure that her own meddling had caused what she considered the near disaster at sea and blamed herself for all the damage, deaths, and looming impotence of the fleet. Now, as an extension of that, she was just as sure the turmoil here was her fault as well. “And they have reason to be terrified,” she added amid the uncomfortable blinking of her friends, “because if we can’t bring some order to the calamity I’ve set in motion, the entire war in the East may well be lost.”
“Skuggik shit,” Koratin pronounced in his once-soft voice turned gruff, then blinked at Rebecca as innocently as his rough countenance would allow. “‘Shit’ is right? Sometimes the proper words still hide from me.” He shook his head at her. “Perhaps your orders to High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks were ill-advised. Only time will tell, and to dwell on such things now can only do harm. But have you considered that, without Taask Force Eleven as bait, the Doms might have refused battle against the whole of Second Fleet, and drawn it back in pursuit to a place of their choosing, where many great guns on shore could add to their advantage? Or how would the whole fleet together have fared had the Grikbirds not largely spent themselves on the smaller force? Discovering the truth of that is a task for the tellers of tales—the, ah, ‘histori-aans’—when the war is done. What we do know is that the Dom fleet Ahd-mi-raal Jenks met will not threaten us here.” He gave a very human shrug. “Perhaps another will, but I do not think so.” He nodded toward where Sister Audry’s regiment was deployed around the growing mounds of supplies. “I am no sailor, any more than our interesting Col-nol Araano Gar-ciaa, but I have learned much from him about the enemy. Possibly as much as he has learned about himself,” he added with a blink of irony. “As a junior officer, he knew nothing of the eastern reaches of the Dominion, the ‘Pass of Fire,’ or any more fleets they may have had beyond it. But he confirmed what I have long suspected. The Doms do not hold back, straa-teegic-ally, any more than the Grik once did. They use what they have, all they have, to achieve their purpose. They may ‘hold back’ on the battlefield for an advantage there, in much the same way we always try to keep a reserve, but I believe, and Col-nol Gar-ciaa agrees, that if the Doms have yet another fleet, they would have sent it too—unless they need it elsewhere.”
That left them to ponder that, as well as the implication that Fred and Kari’s mysterious “other Americans” were already being of help, somehow, somewhere. But Koratin’s statement reinforced Rebecca’s primary worry over Shinya’s somewhat cryptically reported sense that the Doms were “holding back.” Aerial observers updated the disposition of the enemy forces around Fort Defiance as often as they could, but the picture was far from complete. There weren’t as many dragons as they’d been facing in the past, and it was assumed many had gone north to the Pass of Fire, if not to the Dom fleet, but there were enough to make things difficult for the few planes still in action. The only thing that seemed certain was that Don Hernan’s army still numbered upward of a hundred thousand men. No reinforcements could reach him unobserved down the military road from the north, but what might be moving to join him from beyond the mountains to the east? Was he waiting for something
else? Was that why he was “holding back”? She feared that must be the case, and that made the situation here even more agonizing for her.
Koratin waved again at the surging, shouting mob. Crates of weapons, bundled tents, casks of food, ammunition, and barrels of everything from gunpowder to rum and musket flints were flowing ashore, the civilian bearers being guided, funneled, and sometimes physically shoved in the general direction that roaring sailors thought they should take their burdens. Sometimes they got the gist of the foreign commands, but more often they just deposited their loads on the closest pile and went back for more. Horses shrieked and whinnied in alarm or annoyance as they thundered down the gangways, and paalkas mooed resignedly as they dragged guns, limbers, caissons, forges, wireless carts… . It was chaos, surely, but every imaginable thing an army needed in the field was very quickly going ashore.
“This is not so bad, after all,” Koratin continued. “I have seen worse—far worse when Aryaal fell, if you recall. But worse also when our armies have landed on other shores, even unopposed.” He snorted. “It is confusing. War always is. You forget that my people, Aryaalans like General Protector Lord Muln Rolak”—he showed sharp, yellow teeth at some secret amusement—“were among the very few Mi-Anakka who always fought wars. We boasted so among ourselves of what ambitious, important things they were, and bragged of our courageous deeds,” he said as if reminiscing, but his eyes blinked self-mockery. “And yet even the insignificant arguments those wars were compared to this were just as disorderly when viewed from within at the time.”
“If that is true, Lord Koratin,” Selass said, nodding at his swishing tail and addressing him with the old title he’d worn when they met but no longer liked or claimed, “why are you so anxious?”
“Is it not obvious?” Saan-Kakja said. “He is little concerned for us at present, but believes Don Hernaan has brought ‘all he has’ to destroy Gener-aal Shinyaa.”
She feels it too, Rebecca realized. “And worries what he ‘holds back,’ as General Shinya suspects, and when it will be felt,” she reaffirmed, looking at Koratin with her large eyes reflecting the torchlight.
Sergeant Lord Koratin bowed to her.
“General Shinya has not begged that we come at once,” Selass speculated, “but then, he would never ‘beg,’ would he?”
“No,” Saan-Kakja said with certainty. “But he has described his situation and concerns—and will expect us to act accordingly.”
“We must go to him at once,” Rebecca stated firmly, “but it will be days before our entire force can move to his relief!” she added, almost snarling.
“Then we take what we can,” Saan-Kakja said mildly, soothingly, patting her “sister’s” arm.
Rebecca glared at the rough, uneven planks of the dock for a moment, then looked at Koratin just as intently. “It comes down to it at last, then, I suppose. Do you truly trust Colonel Garcia?”
“I do, Your Majesty,” he said. “But what is more important, Sister Audry does—and the entire Regimento de Redentores would throw themselves in the terrible sea if she demanded it.” He blinked irony. “Having saved them from their evil faith, they believe perhaps more strongly than you recognize that they owe her their very souls.” He paused and gazed casually down beyond the waterfront where a company of Redentores was trying to form itself in the crush. “As do I,” he added softly.
Koratin had probably been Sister Audry’s very first Lemurian convert to Christianity, if not true Catholicism. He openly admitted that before he’d experienced a very personal tragedy and met the Dutch nun, he’d been as vain and corrupt as any lord of Aryaal, and more infamously conniving than most. But even then he’d had his principles—and an adoration of younglings. Having lost his own, he found that Sister Audry’s teachings had helped direct his quest for a meaningful life—beyond the personal vengeance he’d sought—and he’d devoted his soul to protecting younglings. His cause then naturally became the war against the Grik, and then the Dominion, because both enemies represented the most direct, existential threats to younglings everywhere, human and Lemurian. Despite his past, he could’ve risen to a position of leadership in the Alliance, as a representative from Aryaal, at least. Instead, he’d defended Baalkpan along with all the other huddled refugees from other lands and Homes when the Grik came there at last. Distinguishing himself in battle, he’d become a Marine, and earned the rank of sergeant. That title meant far more to him than “lord” ever had, and he’d declared he’d stay a sergeant forever. He knew the power of higher rank would only corrupt him again, and as a sergeant he could protect and serve the “youngling” leaders of Maa-ni-la and the Empire of the New Britain Isles, while continuing to protect and advise Sister Audry—who cared nothing for rank in any case.
Rebecca nodded, recognizing one of Koratin’s introspective moods and respecting it, as well as the wise counsel they often inspired. Thinking of wisdom and guidance, she caught herself desperately missing her one-armed Prime Factor, Sean Bates, who’d very reluctantly stayed behind to preside over her government in her absence. Bates was wise, but she also knew he couldn’t trust Garcia as much as Sister Audry and Koratin did—as much as she suddenly realized she did, based on Koratin’s assessment. Much as she missed him, Bates’s absence most likely prevented a momentous argument over the decision that was forming in her mind. She couldn’t help but fear she was making yet another terrible mistake, but she no longer doubted Garcia. Only herself.
“Then send for Sister Audry and Colonel Garcia at once, if you please,” she said at last. Then turning, she bowed to Saan-Kakja. “You directly command the First Maa-ni-la, of course, but would you care to send for other of your officers?”
A short while later, with the shoreside tumult undiminished, all those summoned had gathered far enough away that they could speak in near normal tones. Sister Audry had dispensed with her habit at Rebecca’s insistence, but there was a simple white cross painted on her helmet—just like all her troops—and her small golden cross hung as always between her breasts upon the tie-dyed fabric of her frock. Knowing the woman well, Rebecca found it amusing that Audry was also armed. Around her waist was belted a Maa-ni-la Arsenal copy of a 1911 Colt.45, and a pattern of 1917 cutlass. Rebecca couldn’t imagine the young, straw-haired woman ever drawing either weapon, but understood her own troops had insisted she have them. The rest of her regiment, nearly eight hundred strong, carried Imperial flintlock muskets, just like those given to the locals, but the nearly one thousand Lemurians in Saan-Kakja’s 1st Maa-ni-laa had Allin-Silva breechloaders, and every platoon had at least a pair of Blitzerbug SMGs.
Rebecca looked searchingly at Sister Audry who stood stiffly, as close to the position of attention as she’d ever attempted. Sister Audry had been in charge of gathering local maps and intelligence since being flown ashore with Colonel Garcia two days before. The plane had gone to the lake.
“I fear that General Shinya is in distress,” Rebecca declared abruptly, “and as you can see, this force as a whole is in no condition to assist him. The First Ma-ni-laa and the Redentores can, however, and I must know how quickly they can march to the relief of Fort Defiance, and how long the march will take.” She already knew what Saan-Kakja thought. Without hesitation, Audry turned to Colonel Garcia.
“Arano?” she asked, using his first name as always, which clearly made him uncomfortable.
Garcia wore an anxious expression on his dark, handsome face, little different from the one he’d worn every time Rebecca saw him. His face itself had changed, however, as had most of his men’s. Nearly all now wore impressive “Imperial” mustaches, and Garcia’s was long enough that he’d started modestly braiding the ends, like Admiral Jenks. “As did the First Maa-ni-la, the Redentores landed with rations for three days and a combat load of eighty rounds per man,” he said. “We’re somewhat scattered at the moment, as you can see, but I can assemble my regiment and be ready to march in one hour.” Rebecca thought he was boasting, but when he bowed to Saan-
Kakja, his expression grew more confident. “I am sure the First Maa-ni-laa can do likewise,” he said, then looked back at Rebecca. “Fort Defiance is nearly fifteen leguas—” He paused, mentally calculating. Distances were reckoned by the “legua de por grado” in the Dominion, which equated to roughly four sea miles by Imperial measurement. The sea mile equated well enough to the nautical mile the Americans had brought to the Lemurians, who measured everything in “tails,” close enough to a yard. Therefore, a thousand tails was half an Imperial sea mile of a thousand fathoms, and Fort Defiance was sixty miles away, as Garcia translated in a way all the others would understand. “The road rises, but is good enough that a man may easily walk, ah, four miles in an hour. Mathematically, that means we could reach Fort Defiance by noon tomorrow.”
“With half our troops dead from exhaustion, and the rest unfit to fight,” Sister Audry scolded him. “You have nothing to prove, Arano!”
“With my dearest respect, we do,” Garcia objected.
“I must agree with Sister Audry,” Selass said. “The march alone would destroy all eighteen hundred troops before they ever met the enemy.”
“Sergeant Koratin?” Rebecca asked.
Koratin blinked speculation. “The Redentores could have done it during their training on New Ireland. Their instructors were Maa-reens, after all,” he added without modesty. “But they have been at sea for months.” He looked at Saan-Kakja. “And the First Maa-ni-la, good as they are, could never have done it.” Strong as they were, Lemurians generally had less endurance than humans and shorter strides. And, of course, the First Maa-ni-la wasn’t a Marine regiment, with the more intensive training they received. Koratin was simply stating what he considered a fact.
“With rest stops, then,” Rebecca demanded of Koratin, expecting him to give the most realistic assessment. “How long?”
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 34
