Until you learn to explain what you are doing and why, Lelaa thought.
“How we ever come this far without stallin’ out, sinkin’, ’er just rollin’ belly-up, is a myst’ry to me,” he droned on, “since mosta my division cain’t find their swishy tails with both hands, let alone figger out which end of a wrench ta’ grab!” He shook his head, then stared at the deck. “I’ll admit it. I’m tired, Skipper.”
“This entire crew is inexperienced, Chief Gilbert,” Lelaa replied pleasantly. “It is fortunate we have a core group such as yourself to help the others along.”
“Well, ain’t that my point? They ain’t gettin’ much along, even with all my helpin’!”
Lelaa didn’t know Isak and Tabby, the other “Mice,” but she knew that while Gilbert might be a font of engineering wisdom, the tap was perpetually closed to a trickle. Despite his newfound ability to communicate, he still couldn’t pass ideas and technical information very well. His division seemed eager enough to learn, as far as she could tell, but Gilbert was, frankly, a crummy teacher. Considering the situation threatened to suppress her fine mood. It was a serious issue. So far, most of Maaka-Kakja’s machinery had functioned flawlessly. It was overengineered to a point of almost gross inefficiency, after all. But what if? They were steaming toward certain eventual combat, and they had little real notion of the Dom defenses or domestic capability. All they’d seen so far was what the Doms could do at the end of a very long rope—like they would soon be.
“Relaax, Mr. Yay-gar. Actually, you must relaax. You—how do you say?—own a plank of this ship, as do most aboard her, so I understand your concern. I will give this matter the thought it requires, I assure you. In the meantime, you do have some good people. Not all are as green as you say. Make use of them.”
Gilbert shrugged. “Well, maybe they ain’t all useless, but them who ain’t are as wore down as me. Some folks just don’t get it that this gal has the biggest . . . dern . . . power plant we’ve ever thowed together, an’ there ain’t nothin’ light down there. Stuff one fella could do on my ol’ Walker takes a dozen fellas aboard here . . .” He stopped and blinked. “Which that don’t compare, ’cause she has turbines an’ we got these jug jumpers. . . .”
“I believe I know what you mean,” Lelaa said.
“Well, maybe you do, but it boils down to as wore out as I am . . . I’m just as tired o’ worryin’. I don’t want none o’ my fellas gettin’ hurt. See? It’s like a Chinese fire drill down there half the time.”
Lelaa didn’t know what that was, but his other words reinforced her belief that his primary concern was for his division and the ship. That spoke well for the very strange man.
She cast her eyes over the surrounding seascape and the, to her, unprecedented numbers and power of her element of Second Fleet. Besides Maaka-Kakja, there were steam-powered and fast-sailing oilers, tenders, colliers, and transports. All of the newer Company steamers had been seized or requisitioned as troopers, and if they were the slowest ships in the task force and set its pace, they could at least be counted on to manage the same creeping station every day. Another task force, built around the even slower, heavy, Imperial ships of the line, or liners, would be along later. Around and among all those ships present were dozens of Lemurian-American and Imperial DDs, and nearly everything out there was driven by steam. There were the usual mechanical casualties, but there were a lot of competent engineers in the fleet. Maybe she could borrow a few to give Gilbert a hand—if only to interpret his grunts and disapproving stares for his snipes. One thing was sure: Gilbert couldn’t keep Maaka-Kakja running essentially by himself forever. He was wearing out. Lelaa suddenly wondered how he would take it if she brought in some professional help. Mice could be sensitive creatures.
“Then maybe you need a larger division as badly as experience.”
“If they could stay outta each other’s way . . . that might help. Manilly Bupers seems ta’ think this tub didn’t need any bigger black gang than a harbor tug.” Lelaa saw he was studying the vast fleet surrounding them now. He stuck his hands in his pockets, then jerked them out. “Could maybe . . . a bigger, more experienced division happen?” he asked hesitantly, and Lelaa blinked amusement.
“I am sure we can work something out.”
After Gilbert left the bridge, Tex Sheider approached her, grinning. He’d been S-19’s radioman, but, like all of them, his capacities had expanded amazingly. Not only was he one of Lelaa’s best friends, but he was also her exec.
“Getting that squirrel to ask for the dose you wanted to make him take is one of the slickest things I ever saw!” he laughed.
“He may be a ‘squirrel,’ but he is a good man. It was only a matter of discovering what he really needed, so I could help him know.”
“Figuring out anything bobbing around in that weird little head is bound to be a miracle. Spanky said it can’t be done.”
A pair of four-cylinder Wright Gipsy engines roared on the flight deck below as the great ship eased slightly more into the wind, and one after the other, a pair of Nancys were hurled into the sky ahead, assisted by the hydraulic catapults. (Those were other devices Gilbert Yeager passionately despised.)
A signals ’Cat entered the bridge from the separate comm shack dedicated to air ops. “Commaander Reddy’s flight has rejoined the other flights of the Eleventh Bomb Squadron and has the task force in sight. He asks permission to proceed with the scheduled training exercises.”
“Of course,” Lelaa said. “Signal Icarus to stream the target.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!”
They watched through Impie-made telescopes as the twelve planes crept toward the task force in a long, echelon formation. Two planes suddenly banked away from the others and dove on the target barge Icarus had unreeled about two hundred yards in her wake. Tall white splashes straddled the barge on the first pass, and again on the second. Only one splash marked the passage of the third pair, so one of them must have hit the barge itself. The exercise continued, with similar, satisfactory results. Only one plane missed dramatically, nearly hitting Icarus on its second pass, but its pilot was likely one of Orrin’s replacements. The wing had lost a lot of pilots and machines in the New Ireland fighting, but as a whole, it had gained a lot of experience as well. Replenishment ships out of Maa-ni-la had brought the wing back up to strength in both flyers and aircraft, and not only were there now extra pilots; there were also thirty spare Nancys aboard, still in crates. Perhaps sixty more were scattered through the fleet, and the tenders each had an assembled plane mounted on a new directional catapult amidships. Walker’s precedent of carrying a plane aboard for long-range reconnaissance had been as successful here as the same practice had been for larger ships on the world she’d come from.
In total, Orrin would eventually command more than 120 aircraft when they reached the Enchanted Isles—if the islands were still in friendly hands, and if there was a protected waterway to operate them from when they got there. Hopefully, they would have answers to those questions within the next week, even before they rendezvoused with Jenks’s elements. There was no transmitter in the Enchanted Isles, and somebody had to either get there or at least get eyeballs on the place before they’d know the situation. Fleeing ships had confirmed the attack, but since then there’d been no news.
Orrin even had a couple of pursuit planes. The P-40s that arrived in Baalkpan in Santa Catalina’s hold had been designed for six.50-caliber machine guns each. Colonel Mallory had decided not to mount them all on the planes, with a couple of exceptions. The P-40s could carry four times the bomb load of a Nancy, fly four or five times as fast, and with an auxiliary fuel tank and minus the weight of four of their guns, they even had slightly greater range. With the spare guns aboard the ship, the Alliance now had almost 150 extra of the powerful weapons. Several had been hurried out to Scapa Flow before the fleet put to sea, with instructions on how to mount one gun each in the noses of Nancys in such a way that they wouldn’t shake the littl
e planes apart. The same had been done for First Fleet with more urgency and in greater numbers, considering the airship threat and what had happened to Humfra-Dar. It wasn’t much, but at least Second Fleet had some air to air protection now.
“Orrin’s shaping up just fine,” Tex observed.
“He is. I had some doubt at first. He is . . . very different from his cousin, Captain Reddy.”
“Yeah, and he’d already been through a lot when we got him. He didn’t have a lot of time with Captain Reddy when they were both in the New Britain Isles either, but he definitely respects the ‘old man,’ and he’s plenty committed to fighting the Doms, at least.”
“Indeed, and perhaps more important than his commitment to the cause, Commander Reddy has become even more committed to his aircrews. That is good.”
Tex shrugged. “Sure. Gilbert’s right, though. The ship is green, but at least Orrin’s given her some damn sharp teeth.”
“Yes,” Lelaa replied. She turned to the officer of the deck. “I believe Commander Reddy has almost completed his exercise. Stand by to begin recovery operations. The fleet will assume its appropriate stations and observe all signals.”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan!”
CHAPTER 10
////// La Plaza Sagrada del Templo de los Papas
The Holy Dominion
Signals Ensign Kari-Faask, attached to USS Walker’s Special Air Division, sat huddled in a corner of her iron cage, glaring hatred at the stares from the surging mob of dark-skinned humans beyond the bars. She’d been there long enough that few usually seemed to notice her, and fewer poked or threw things at her anymore. She’d become a fixture; yet another curiosity within the vast plaza surrounding the massive, severe, pyramidal temple to whatever wicked gods were worshiped in this evil land. She knew little about those gods; she hadn’t heard a word she understood in weeks. She’d once been under the impression that the people of the Holy Dominion revered essentially the same God, or Maker, as her human friends, but now she knew that couldn’t be. The Doms used a barbaric caricature of the cross worn by Sister Audry and a number of the human destroyermen, but that was apparently the only similarity after all.
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 aro
und. “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!”
Iron Gray Sea - 07 Page 16
