Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Thank you, sir,” Toryu replied, he hoped properly, in his imperfect English. Awkwardly, he shook the hand. He’d never done that before. “You and your companion doubtless saved my life, for which I am grateful, but the news I carry is of great importance to you, I assure you.”

  “Ja. That is what you said.”

  Toryu blinked. He had no memory of what he’d said to the man.

  “I will introduce these others,” Becher said, “and you will tell them your news.”

  Toryu bowed. “Of course.” Never did it occur to him that talking to any enemy of the Grik might be treason. He knew almost nothing about his current situation, but he’d somehow managed to escape the Grik—and that madman Kurokawa. He was dead to them, and if he didn’t help these people, they would all be dead, eventually.

  The other human with Becher was introduced as General Marcus Kim—and what kind of name was that?—who represented the military high command of this . . . Republic of Real People, Becher called it. The Lemurian was “Inquisitor Kon-Choon.” The term “inquisitor” made Toryu nervous, until it was explained that he was actually a high-level intelligence officer. That made sense.

  “What do you know of us here?” Becher translated for Kim.

  “Personally, nothing, sir. The Grik may know more, but I do not think so.” There was further discussion in the strange tongue, and Toryu caught the word “Ghaarrichk’k.” Apparently, that was the local name for the implacable, barbarous creatures he’d escaped. This was quickly confirmed.

  “We know of the Ghaarrichk’k, the Grik, here,” Becher confirmed. “We maintain a frontier against them, and patrolling it is how I found you.” He paused. “We know of them, and know they will not talk. All contact with them has been hostile. Beyond that, we know little. Are they numerous? How vast is their territory? Can we talk to them?”

  “You can talk to them,” Toryu admitted, frowning. “In fact, I was sent here to speak with you on their behalf.” He shook his head. “They want an alliance with you—against other people like us.” He waved his hand to include the Lemurian. “All of us.”

  “What kind of alliance? What are their terms?” Becher asked for the Inquisitor.

  “A military alliance, sir, and the terms are simple: Join or die.”

  “That is a . . . bold ultimatum to make against people they do not know,” Becher growled. “Can they make good on their threat?”

  “That is their way,” Toryu stated simply. “Sir, I know nothing of your land, its population, resources, or military capability.” He pointed at the window. “All I know is what I have seen through that, so I cannot say if they can conquer you or not. I will tell you everything I know, however. I was sent here with a message, a message I have delivered. Having escaped them, I will not return, so it is in my interest to counsel you as best I can.” He paused. “The Grik are without number, and their empire stretches from just north of here to India, at least along the coasts. You do know the shape of the world?”

  “Ja,” Becher said, and Toryu nodded. Whatever the others were, Becher was a sailor, and obviously a relatively recent arrival.

  “They had conquered their way as far as the East Indies before they were thrown back by those other people I mentioned,” Toryu continued, “but I fear that is only a temporary setback, since their numbers are almost infinitely greater than their enemies.” He looked Becher in the eye. “They are involved in the biggest war they have ever known, but whether they can conquer you or not, they will eventually try. And if they succeed . . . they do not take prisoners, but for food.”

  Becher spoke animatedly with the others for several long moments before turning back. “Why, then, do I feel that joining them is not what you recommend?”

  “Because they will surely destroy you then,” Toryu answered softly, “starting with your souls. I hate them, you see. I hate them for what they are and what they do—and because they have already destroyed the souls of my people they hold in their power.”

  “Who are your people?” Becher asked, also softly, and Toryu stiffened.

  “I came to this world aboard the Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser Amagi almost two years ago. At that time, we were allied with Germany and Italy against virtually the rest of the world, but most especially the British and Americans.”

  “The Japs have joined the kaiser? And the Italians?” Becher laughed. “When last I knew, you both were leaning the other way . . . and America came in against us?”

  Toryu looked at him strangely. “Ah . . . no. We did not join the kaiser. We fought against him—with the Americans, before I was born. . . . Sir, if you would: when did you come to this world?”

  “Nineteen fourteen,” Becher said, frowning. “Nearly thirty years ago now. My ship, SMS Amerika—that is ironic!—was taken from the passenger service and commissioned as an armed merchant cruiser. We captured the crews of nine British ships—that is why there are so many Britishers here with us!—and scuttled their ships.” His expression grew faraway. “Never did war prisoners enjoy such luxury! Amerika was a gorgeous thing!” Almost forcibly, he returned to the present. “She was badly damaged in battle with the Morrie, we called her. The Mauritania! She was armed too! What a fight! She was faster, of course, with her damned turbines, but so big, we could not miss her! Both of us were damaged, and we broke off the fight in the storm. But you might tell me! Did we sink the Morrie? I actually hope we did not”—he grinned—“but sometimes I hope we did! We were old rivals before the war for the Blue Riband!”

  Toryu was confused. “I . . . I do not think so. There was a Mauritania carrying British troops to Singapore in 1942, but she might have been a newer ship with the same name.”

  “Well, but what of the war? You Japs—with battle cruisers no less!—have joined us?”

  Toryu’s face heated. “We did not join you! Your kaiser was defeated! Our war, besides our conquest of Asia, began little more than two years ago, and the Imperial Japanese Navy, the most powerful in the world, was in the process of destroying the combined fleets of the Americans and British! Only your submarines were of any use!” He stopped, realizing he’d given offense, but Becher’s expression only looked . . . odd again.

  “The kaiser defeated? Impossible!” he muttered. Then he said something that stunned Toryu Miyata to the bone. “Yet another, different world again, then.” He saw Toryu’s expression and grunted. “You are surprised? Let me try to explain to you, quickly, of our land and our peoples, and you may understand. You may also then pass a . . . better-informed counsel.”

  The Lemurian jabbered suddenly, then, and Becher listened before turning back to Toryu.

  “In fact, if you feel able, Inquisitor Choon believes you should meet immediately with the kaiser—our kaiser, or cae-saar, as they say, at the War Palace. The maps there are the best.”

  “I am able,” Toryu assured him, a little taken aback but determined. “After all, there is little time to lose.”

  They supplied him with boots and a cloak and led him down the corridor to a side entrance facing the cobblestone street, and he stepped outside for the first time in . . . three weeks? Four? He jerked back when he came almost face-to-face with a huge, drooling, camel-like face that regarded him with disinterest before it swung away—on the end of a long, gray-furred neck, almost as long as a giraffe’s, but not nearly so upright. Becher laughed.

  “He likes you! Sometimes those will bite!” He gestured to a long car, like a Pullman, hitched behind the beast and another like it. “We have steam cars,” Becher announced proudly. “We have been busy in our thirty years! But we do not bring them into the city.” He waved around. So many strange creatures! “They unnerve the animals—and the people!”

  On either side of the Pullman car sat three guards in their Romanesque costumes, mounted on ordinary horses. One of them waved.

  “There you are! Good to see you up and about!” The man paused at Toryu’s confused expression. “Blimey! I’m the other bloke what found you! S
aved you, I did!” The man, also wearing a gray-streaked beard, tossed his chin at Becher. “You didn’t think that dastardly Hun’d give a toss if you lived or died?” He was grinning. “I’m Leftenant Doocy Meek, if you care to know!”

  “I am appreciative, sir,” Toryu managed as he was hurried into the car.

  “Doocy is a funny man,” Becher said gruffly, pulling Toryu into a seat beside him. “We all take our turns riding the frontier—anyone beneath the rank of centurion,” he added, by way of further explanation. “We, most of us from Amerika, are still considered part of the foreign centuries, but we also guard the War Palace and all access to it!”

  Toryu started to ask how that could be, when the car shuddered and began to move. After that, his questions about the city came in rapid fire.

  This amazingly exotic capital city of the Republic of Real People, or Volksrepublik, as Becher called it, was named Aalek-saan-draa, and the mixture of architecture and cultures that created it began to make some sense to Toryu as Becher answered his questions, and he saw the evidence with his own eyes.

  He finally knew, knew, that whatever had happened to his Amagi—and the Americans—in the Java Sea was not unique. Many peoples had found themselves in this place over the millennia. The southern cape of Afri-kaa formed a bottleneck of sorts, between the land and the not-so-distant ice of Antarctica. The storms that plagued the same passage on Toryu’s world were even more intense here, and the seas more mountainous. And it was cold, if not always on land, then forever at sea. In a way, it was only logical, he decided, that so many people, so many ships throughout the centuries, trying to round the bitter cape, perhaps even unaware of the change they’d endured, should wind up here. They would be exhausted, their ships almost destroyed, but where they would be lost upon some other shore, here they found welcome . . . and a home.

  The oldest inhabitants were Lemurians, who’d wound up there after their ancient exodus to escape the Grik. These were later joined by Chinese explorers, Ptolemaic Egyptians, black Africans, and even Romans (from the tenth century!) who established what had become the republic. That didn’t add up. Toryu knew little of history, but there seemed to be a number of . . . different . . . histories represented here. Histories even his limited knowledge told him were not quite right.

  He shook his head as his mind flailed in this whirlpool of new, contradictory information, and he wondered briefly why no such place existed elsewhere that he’d been. Then he bitterly remembered the Grik. Any lost explorers, traders, or even small fleets that arrived off their shores were only prey to be conquered and devoured. But why did the Americans and their Lemurian allies not have other . . . friends as well? Were their outposts too remote and scattered? Was there no choke point in their seas? Becher told him that the castaways most often came from the west, in “modern times.” Examples of those had been Boers, British, Dutch, and Portuguese. Did that mean the . . . force that took them was more prevalent in the Atlantic? Was it even the same? It was all so confusing! He suddenly felt strangely relieved to learn that Amerika’s arrival was the most recent, by far, so, though not unheard of, the phenomenon was rare.

  The enmity of their old war suppressed, her German crew and mixed allied prisoners had been working together for thirty years to improve republic technology to a level similar to what Toryu knew of the Alliance. Becher didn’t mention aircraft or steamships, which they obviously had the technology to make, but as the car wound through the streets, drawing nearer to the sea, Toryu saw with his own eyes what looked like good artillery. He also inspected the small arms of the escort riding alongside. They were bolt action, probably large-bore single shots, evidenced by the lack of any floor plate in front of the triggerguard. Decent weapons, then. He wondered what else they had, but didn’t press. Despite what they’d already told him, they had no real reason to trust him yet. He’d admitted the rest of his people were in league with the Grik, after all.

  “What is that?” he suddenly cried, pointing at a . . . person? Working alongside others of its kind in what increasingly resembled a seaport district. “I mean . . . those?” The creatures were as tall as humans, but with fur and tails—and their faces were more human than . . . Becher followed his gaze, and frowned.

  “They are . . . how should I say . . . half-bloods, yes?”

  “Half-bloods?”

  “Crossbreeds, hybrids. Made long ago when only the Chinese and Mi-Anaaka—that is the name for the Lemurians, as you call them—lived in this place.”

  Toryu shuddered in spite of himself.

  Becher noticed. “You do not like that? Well, neither does anyone else. Interbreeding is strictly verboten—forbidden—in the republic. No one, not humans, not Mi-Anaaka, not even the half-bloods themselves are happy such things once occurred. They cannot blame themselves for what they are, and neither does anyone else—now. They are their own species and intent on remaining so. Such things no longer happen; it is the law, but . . . women have always been in short supply. Not often are they on the ships that come. We brought a few, and there were African women. Some others came, and there have always been a few, but never enough, even now.” Becher sighed. “Mi-Anaaka remain the most populous citizens by far.

  “We and those who came before have built a good country here, a country to be proud of, but it has not been easy, as you can imagine! There are so many views and so many threats! This is a republic, as I have said, but there is an . . . authoritarian ruler whose word is absolute, and most often just. You must learn the history of this country, but, in short, there was war here for many generations between the humans, Mi-Anaaka, and the half-bloods. It took the Romans to end that—and tension still simmers! Add to that the Grik! Our society is, of necessity, integrated, but very disciplined. We have a tradition of welcoming new arrivals because of low population levels. You would think things would have equalized by now, but women do remain in short supply. This is a harsh land at times, and though we avoid major clashes with the Grik on the frontier, those clashes do occur. There is also the weather, and many predatory monsters encroach on our lands, perhaps driven by the Grik, that can’t be hunted to their source across the Grik frontiers! And there have been other violent encounters at this geographic bottleneck. Some of the occasional arrivals are NOT friendly.” He paused. “This is . . . a bad land for women. A bad world. And though we are not now at war, we must always remain prepared. With the news you bring, I hope we are prepared enough.” He stopped, peering southwest.

  “Ah! There it is,” he said with some humor. “The War Palace!”

  Toryu was still digesting what Becher had said, but when he looked toward the harbor, he was even more stunned. He’d seen the garish ways rickshaws and taxis were sometimes decorated, particularly when Amagi visited the Philippines once, before the war, but what had been done to SMS Amerika was beyond even that, and on a massive scale.

  The ship’s elegant lines remained essentially the same as when she arrived, with her straight up-and-down bow and two tall, slender funnels. Toryu later learned the once-great luxury liner was 670 feet long, 74 feet wide, and displaced more than 22,000 tons. She boasted twin screws and two triple-expansion engines that once drove her through the sea at close to 20 knots, and was still fitted to carry 2,500 passengers in reasonable-to-palatial style. All that was likely still true, but the ship’s upper works were now decorated just at sweepingly as the buildings in the city. Her riveted hull was a riot of colors, painted with everything from what looked like eagles to dragons. Colorful awnings fluttered over her broad decks, and a truly wild variety of flags and banners streamed to leeward of her high, thin foremast.

  “Can she still move?” Toryu wondered aloud, seeing black smoke wisping above the aft funnel.

  “Ja, if she must,” Becher said with an awkward chuckle. “She is the War Palace, after all. The point is that she can move the kaiser and his staff to other places. We have several port cities, almost as large as this, up the southwest coast.” He paused. “Is it practic
al to move her?” He shrugged. “Steam is maintained to power her electrics and her pumps, and her engines are tested twice a year. But she has not been out of the water for over thirty years. There is no dry dock large enough to accommodate her. Whether it is advisable to move her is another thing. Her bottom plates have become thin, I think.”

  The strange beasts pulling the car grumbled to a stop, and the party stepped out onto a dock and onto a long pier that seemed almost permanently attached to the ship. Doocy climbed down from his horse and joined them.

  “The anchorage remains well protected,” he said, pointing at some low mountains to the southeast. “That’s why we keep her here.” There were other ships in the harbor too, sailing schooners mostly, but there were also what looked like iron monitors with low freeboards, tall funnels, and big guns snugged to the pier leading to the big ship. “Those are for harbor defense,” Doocy added, noting Toryu’s gaze. “They cannot survive in the heavy seas beyond—but they serve their function. The schooners trade with our other ports and other places as well, but no sailing ship can hope to round the cape from the east.”

  “Even if they could, they would find nothing but Grik along the eastern shore,” Toryu warned.

  “Aye. But perhaps there are others beyond?” Doocy pressed, and Toryu wondered what all he may have said while he was delirious, if Doocy already knew.