“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,” R
onson 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 this 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.”
“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 . . .”
&nbs
p; 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.
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