Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  Except for a little excitement on the docks among the Gentaa when the barge returned there after its last visit, there’d been no unusual activity ashore either. Fishing boats still put out to sea before dawn, where they’d remain until after dark. As always, a pair of Republic harbor monitors with their flimsy superstructures and twin armored turrets steamed vigilantly near the harbor mouth. Choon had admitted that there were a dozen of the things, but Greg had only ever seen two at a time. All together, they might be a handful for Savoie, but they were slow, and could likely never get close enough for their own guns to seriously harm the dreadnaught. They’d been forbidden from closing with Donaghey as well. So in most respects, in spite of the cryptic message Choon decoded, each day continued to pass just like any other they’d seen since first dropping anchor under Savoie’s guns. Greg drilled his crew, and he and Sammy inspected the latest repairs made to correct the damage the ship sustained rounding the stormy cape. Most had been made right, but they were still short on canvas, spars, and cordage that they hadn’t been allowed to acquire. Smitty exercised his gun’s crews, and Bekiaa drilled her Marines. Choon, as usual, paid particular attention to that—or was it her?

  Finally, another day began to dwindle and with the coming of darkness, two arc lights aboard the battleship speared Donaghey in their rude, blinding glare. All was in accordance with what had become their grindingly frustrating routine with one exception: without revealing how he knew, Choon had stated that that night might offer a “charming diversion” from the monotony they’d all endured.

  Greg and his officers had assembled at the quarterdeck rail, shielding their eyes from the painful light. “What do you think will happen, Inquisitor Choon?” Bekiaa asked.

  “I do not know, my dear cap-i-taan. I know what I would do, but I cannot be sure some circumstance of which I am not aware has made them prepare another scheme.”

  “Well, what would you have done?”

  Choon smiled. “I’d rather not say, lest it cause you to mentally prepare for something that will not happen.”

  Bekiaa snorted frustration. “Must you always be so secretive? Even with your friends?”

  “I cannot help it,” Choon confessed. “It is the way I am made.” He hesitated. “I will say that, whatever happens, I would expect it to coincide with the return of the fishing fleet, so we don’t have much longer to wait.”

  An hour or so after full dark, the colorful lanterns of returning fishing boats began to dot the harbor. They’d been told to steer clear of Donaghey as well and most did, but as usual, several seemed intent on “pushing” it. In the past, Greg had assumed it was their way of showing defiance to Savoie’s decrees, but now he wasn’t so sure. One of the boats, a broad-beamed little schooner with a bright array of lanterns rigged out on booms, was coming in fairly erratically, under full sail, and Greg watched with alarm as it grew closer.

  “Are those guys drunk? They’ll foul our bowsprit! Stand by to fend off!” he yelled forward.

  “They do seem drunk,” Choon lamented. “The boredom of a long, hard day at sea, heaving nets and cleaning fish. Such a life is often alleviated with drink. I believe they will miss us.”

  He was right. Cries of alarm echoed across the water, and the boat veered away—only to be caught with her fore and aft rigged sails rattling and flapping in the offshore breeze. “That’s done it,” Sammy said with some amusement. “That bunch of drunks will never make their proper berth now.” One of the searchlights shifted slightly to glare at the troubled boat, and her people, scurrying in confusion, froze under the blinding beam and covered their eyes. The bow began to come around and with a loud boom, the foresail filled and yanked the head around—just before the boom snapped like a cannon shot and the sail plunged into the sea.

  “That’s really done it!” Sammy said as the mainsail filled and the boat heeled over, dragging the wreckage in the water. All was confusion aboard the fishing boat as it began a sickening pirouette downwind—toward Savoie.

  “Most unfortunate,” Choon agreed. “That poor crew is liable to hear some very stern words when they are pushed against Savoie.” He nodded at the battleship. The light on the crippled schooner had continued to follow it. “And the visitors seem quite distracted by the spectacle as well.” He looked at Greg. “I would not be surprised if someone took advantage of that.”

  “You mean this was all an act?” Bekiaa demanded. Then she blinked amusement. “They are quite good actors—and excellent sailors to pretend to be so bad!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Cap-i-taan,” hissed a lookout on the starboard rail. “A boat approaches in the shadow!” Greg nodded. He’d actually expected that, and had even considered using the long dark shadow cast by the arc-lights on his ship to steal ashore. The problem was, Savoie would doubtless see them put the motor launch in the water. They could slip the smaller whaleboat over the side, but they’d have to row so far out against the prevailing wind before they turned toward shore that the trip would take hours. And without someone waiting for them—which they couldn’t coordinate—to bring them back to a point they could row back in, there was little chance they could be back aboard by dawn. And if Morrisette chose that dawn to inspect the ship . . .

  “Is this what you would’ve planned, after all?” Bekiaa asked Choon.

  “Almost exactly.”

  Greg looked at him. “Okay. Inquisitor, Bekiaa.” He considered, then nodded at Chief Bosun’s Mate Jenaar-Laan, a dark brown ’Cat with a bristly white beardlike mane. “You too, Boats. The four of us will go.” He looked at Sammy. “You have the ship. If the frogs get wise and try to board tonight, just act like we’re still mad about the other day. Morrisette said he wasn’t coming for a while, and we’ve decided not to let him. Same thing in the morning if we’re not back by then.”

  “What if they, ah, insist?”

  “The boat is alongside,” the ’Cat lookout said. “Is a long, skinny thing with lots’a oars. Looks faast. They ask for Inquisitor Choon and representatives of the Alliaance. They gonna take you out where a steamer’s waitin’ for you!”

  “Tell ’em we’re coming.” Greg looked back at Sammy. “If they come aboard anyway, don’t fire unless you have to. Take ’em ‘hostage.’ Maybe Savoie won’t blast you immediately then, but I have a feeling, one way or another, things are finally about to get interesting.”

  The boat looked a lot like a large “shell,” much like those used in racing at the Naval Academy, but it was beamier and had a higher freeboard. The oars—ten to a side—were manned by powerful specimens of the hybrid Gentaa, but the coxswain at the tiller was a man. “Come along!” he whispered loudly. “Quickly now, if ye please!” To Greg, he sounded like a dark-haired version of Doocy Meek, but he looked Chinese once Greg, Bekiaa, Choon, and Chief Laan squeezed themselves into the cramped stern sheets and got a vague look at him in the shadow of the ship.

  “Good evening, Corporal Meek,” Choon greeted him, confirming Greg’s suspicions. “How nice to see you. I’d like to have passed your father’s good wishes under more relaxed circumstances, but perhaps there will be a better opportunity shortly.”

  “Inquisitor Choon,” Meek said with a respectful nod. “Ready all!” he commanded in a low tone. “Row!” Simultaneously, twenty oars reached and grabbed for the water, and the long, narrow boat lurched away from Donaghey’s side. Greg was amazed by how quickly they accelerated across the windswept water—and how unerringly they remained in the darkest shadow of the ship as they sped directly away from her. Greg watched the Gentaa strain at the oars and was surprised by how effortless it seemed to them. As far as he could tell, even after a quarter hour passed and the “shell” must have achieved twelve knots or more, none of them was even breathing hard. He wondered how long they could keep it up.

  “You’ve a lovely ship, Captain Garrett,” Meek finally said, speaking normally and breaking the silence. He jerked h
is head behind them. “S’a great shame that monstrous iron bugger back there’s kept her still so long.” Greg started to ask how he knew his name but realized that, underestimated by Morrisette and the League, the Gentaa had probably reported a great deal about them.

  “Thanks,” he said, nodding forward. “Your vessel’s pretty slick as well.”

  “Thank you, sir, but this ain’t mine. We’ll be joinin’ my ship shortly.” He looked at Choon. “How’s me da?”

  “Very well the last time I saw him,” Choon replied. “We’ve received that there has since been a great battle at Mada-gaas-gar, however, and since we cannot transmit, I’ve been unable to inquire about him specifically.”

  “Aye, we received the same,” Meek confirmed, “as well as the signal for us to attack the ‘Grik’ as ye call ’em, but”—he shrugged—“we’re all in much the same situation, with that bloody great battleship pointin’ her bloody great guns around.”

  “Actually, the situation is not the same at all,” Choon murmured somewhat sharply. “And if Kaiser Nig-Taak has not yet realized that, perhaps we can now persuade him.” Greg looked at the Lemurian snoop, surprised by his tone, but Choon said nothing more.

  Much more quickly than Greg would’ve imagined, they reached the area patrolled by the Republic monitors, and with a word from Meek, the Gentaa shipped oars. Both monitors were visible some distance away to the southeast and northwest, their masthead lights glowing bright, but now that the oars were silent, they could hear the telltale machinery noises of another steamer close by.

  “Ahoy there!” Meek called.

  “Aa-hoy!” came the reply of a Lemurian voice, even as a third monitor began to resolve itself in the gloom.

  “Careful as ye board,” Meek cautioned. “I’m sure ye know it’s none too wise to have a dip in these seas.”

  They remained on the armored deck of the monitor as it steamed eastward in a wide arc toward what Meek described as the “Navy docks.” The chuffing rumble and groaning vibration of the double expansion engines were easily felt and heard—but not as far as Savoie. The Gentaa rowers of the interesting shell had simply picked it up out of the water and laid it on the monitor. Greg presumed they’d ride in with them and then carry them back to Donaghey when the time came. With Choon’s help, Greg had spoken briefly with the monitor’s Lemurian captain when he came aboard, ascending to the flying bridge. But the ’Cat’s oddly Republic-accented Lemurian was further distorted by a German influence, and after Choon went back on deck, their further attempts at communication had been embarrassing for both of them. Greg had quickly rejoined his friends. The vessel’s freeboard was very low, but the sea was light and at her poky speed of around five knots, water only occasionally sloshed across her deck. Bekiaa was talking with Inquisitor Choon in low tones, and Chief Laan was discussing the shell with Meek. Greg stood silent, gazing at the harbor and the city that encircled it.

  Alex-aandra was brightly lit, and so was Donaghey, particularly now that she had the attention of both arc lights once again. Savoie was less distinct behind her glaring beams, inflicting her huge, dark, brooding presence upon what would otherwise have seemed a rather amiable harbor. The monitor reminded Greg of a ferry, not only because of its current purpose, but because it seemed to bull its way through the water in much the same way. Walker knifed through water with her sharp bow and narrow hull, and his Donaghey shouldered the sea aside, always with a buoyant feel beneath his feet. But the monitor didn’t pitch or roll or do much of anything other than just bash its way along. Fine for a harbor, Greg realized, and a good gun platform, nice and stable. But there’s no way anything shaped like this could survive the perpetual storms off the cape, the “Dark,” to join First Fleet in the Indian Ocean. He looked at the armored turret behind him and frowned. Choon had told him that the two breech-loading bag guns in each turret were eight-inch rifles, capable of firing a shot weighing 150 pounds. They could’ve shredded Donaghey as far away as they could hit her, but they would have to get much closer to Savoie than anybody suspected the armored dreadnaught would let them in order to be of much use. And even Savoie’s numerous secondaries could sink them before they got within range. Greg had been disappointed and still was. Choon, Lange, Doocy Meek—all had hinted that one of the more important contributions the Republic could make to the war effort against the Grik was superior artillery to anything the Allies had yet deployed. Greg glanced at the guns again. Yes, still impressive, and better than most of what we’re using now. But we’ve got pretty much the same things in the pipeline. And our new four-inch-fifties are better. He grunted. But Choon’s so damn secretive, they might have a lot of stuff he still hasn’t blown about. Bekiaa thinks it’s charming, but I’m getting sick of the game. He knew he was growing impatient with the situation, and a great deal of his irritation was starting to wash off on Choon—and the Republic in general. It was just so frustrating to keep hearing calls from Walker and the rest of his friends for the Republic to attack the Grik. Not only could he not respond, but he didn’t know if the Republic was even still preparing to join the fight. All he’d seen since he got here was a peaceful harbor bowing to the will of a big iron bully, and he’d had enough. One way or another, he determined, I’m getting some answers tonight. He looked at Choon and caught Bekiaa’s eye, saw her slight nod. “Charming” or not, I think she’s ready to choke Choon herself. But what good would it do? He won’t make a peep until he gets the okay from his kaiser. Well, he’d better get it tonight, or I’ll let Bekiaa choke the kaiser too.

  CHAPTER 13

  The monitor eventually neared a pier away from the city lights and as soon as it was secured, Corporal Meek ushered them ashore. Awaiting them was a small group of guards in Romanesque costumes—but with bolt action rifles on their shoulders. They surrounded a short fireplug of a man in somewhat similar dress except that his was both more ornate and yet more practical in appearance. His gave the impression that it had been more often worn in combat than in ceremony. “Welcome,” he said. “At long last, welcome. I sincerely apologize for the sequestration you have endured, as well as the means by which we were forced to finally bring you ashore. I hope your ride was not overly unsettling?”

  “It was fine,” Greg stated. “Nothing compared to our voyage here in the first place.”

  The man grimaced, and his vaguely Asian eyes narrowed in the meager light. “Quite,” he agreed. “Your treatment after that, since your arrival, is a personal humiliation to me, and I beg your forgiveness.” He straightened. “I am General Marcus Kim, commander of the land forces of the Republic of Real People, at your service.” He nodded at Choon. “I know the inquisitor, of course, and gather that you are Commander Greg Garrett, captain of the USS Donaghey? A fine ship indeed.” He looked at the others.

  “This is Captain Bekiaa-Sab-at, commanding Donaghey’s Marine contingent,” Greg supplied, “and my other companion is Chief Bosun’s Mate Jenaar-Laan. May I assume you brought us here to meet your kaiser—your ‘Caes-aar’—at long last?”

  “Indeed. I shall personally escort you to him. Hopefully, together, we might finally decide the best way to solve the . . . dilemma facing all our peoples, particularly as represented by that monster crouching in the harbor. If we can alleviate that distraction, perhaps we can proceed with our more important collaborations.”

  Greg took a breath, both encouraged that the locals understood the priorities and dismayed that, apparently, Savoie’s presence had so effectively prevented the Republic from focusing on the offensive deemed so critical by Captain Reddy.

  “I sure hope so,” he said.

  Still guarded—or under guard? Greg wondered. Kim and Choon boarded them on a conveyance that resembled a small Pullman car more than anything else, drawn by large beasts that looked like a cross between a camel and a giraffe. He’d have to get a better look at them in the daylight, but apparently the Republic used the creatures much like the Allies employe
d the vaguely moose-shaped paalkas. They didn’t travel far. Within half an hour, they stopped before a columned structure still outside the more congested sections of the city, and Kim led them inside. “This has been known as the ‘Peace Palace,’” he explained ironically. “With the ‘War Palace,’ the, uh, Amerika abroad, the kaiser resides here. Ah, if you would, please leave any weapons you may have brought with the attendants there.” He gestured. “I apologize again, and no offense is meant, but it is required. Even I may not go armed in the presence of the kaiser. It is the law.” Reluctantly, Greg nodded, and he, Bekiaa, and Chief Laan unfastened their belts with their 1911 Colt copies, magazine pouches, and 1917 pattern cutlasses, and handed them over. Kim seemed to sigh with relief. “Thank you. Believe me, under the circumstances, I can understand your hesitation. But you really are entirely safe. No one here wishes you harm, and we truly are all on the same side. This way, if you please.” Kim led them through an ornate hall and into a smaller chamber, just as opulent, with luxuriant blue tapestries embroidered with gold and silver thread hanging from the walls. Inside, there were a number of people of various species, including several Gentaa, waiting expectantly. In the center of the chamber was a wooden throne—there was no other word for the baroquely carved object—upon which sat a robust Lemurian draped in silklike robes that matched the tapestries. He looks older than I expected, Greg realized, older than Toryu Miyata described him. I wonder if the emergency is responsible for the silver streaks in his fur.