B00BPJL400 EBOK (16 page)

“Time potentially lost,” Shinya warned.

“We’ll lose no time,” Jenks insisted. “We will make our plans regardless. I’ve no doubt Captain Reddy and the Governor-Empress will support us.”

“And if Adar doesn’t?” Shinya persisted.

Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan took a deep breath and looked at Orrin. “Chairman Adar leads the Grand Alliance, but Cap-i-taan Reddy is my High Chief and supreme commander. I will consult him if I can, but, ultimately, I will do what I know he would in my place.” She looked around at the others, her gaze steady, unblinking. “New weapons or not, we go.”

8

//////
In the
Wilderness of the Holy Dominion
Province of New Granada

“J
eez! Would you look at that?” Lieutenant Fred Reynolds blurted, mesmerized, gazing down the long, sparsely wooded slope at the open valley beyond. He hadn’t spoken much since his rescue. He remained worried about his friend Ensign Kari-Faask, and uncertainty about his own status usually kept him uncharacteristically mum. His borrowed horse started slightly at his sudden, unexpected outburst, and the silent, intimidating riders strung out along the soft, deep timber path glared at him. He barely noticed.

The heavier forest they remained within was impressive enough, and the closest thing he could compare it to was the redwood forests of his native California. If anything, these trees were even more massive in all respects, but the bark was wrong. They looked like gigantic pines, and even dropped pineapple-size cones and a carpet of very pinelike needles—even if the needles were arranged along a kind of spine, like a fern. Very little sunlight penetrated to the ground, and there was virtually no undergrowth in the vast, dark wood. It was a spooky place, and there was always the hint of nearby movement, odd rustling, and the occasional sharp squeal or bark to keep him on edge. Even if it weren’t for his and Kari’s situation, the forest alone would have kept him quietly tense.

But the creatures he’d glimpsed grazing at the edge of the forest and down the valley toward some unseen river left the word “gigantic” seeming ridiculously inadequate in his mind. The beasts looked something like the pygmy brontasarries often used for heavy hauling in Baalkpan, but where those creatures were the size of an Asian elephant, these monsters stood almost as tall as the shorter trees near the clearing—maybe a hundred feet—with their long, serpentine necks upraised, munching on the high, ferny needles. Their skin was rough and lumpy, blotched and smeared with an effective camouflage pattern, but what possible use camouflage would be to animals so massive was a mystery to Fred. Maybe it was handy when they were younger.

“Silencio!”
hissed one of the nearest riders, menacing him with a Dom flintlock pistol. He didn’t quite point it at him, but implied he’d conk him with it to make him shut up.

“Sorry,” Fred whispered. He didn’t understand his captor-rescuers’ sudden insistence on silence. The horses made plenty of noise of their own on the forest trail skirting the valley clearing. He stared back at what he’d seen. “But jeez!” he murmured.

His companions were all dark, rough-looking men, thin but powerfully built. They all dressed much the same as well, in animal skins and worn, threadbare cloth. There were a few profound differences. Some wore strange cat-shaped icons on thongs around their necks—much like the revelers had worn that day he’d gone with the sadistic “Blood Cardinal” Don Hernan DeDevino Dicha to view Ensign Kari-Faask in her cage in the courtyard of the Temple of the Popes. A flash of heat seared his spine. He’d had to pretend he didn’t care what happened to her then, and regardless of the circumstances, the memory filled him with shame. He’d become good at pretending, or Don Hernan wouldn’t have believed his “conversion” was genuine. The scam saved his and Kari’s lives, but also hurt Kari badly, and nearly broke her when nothing the Doms had done to her could.

Other members of their band wore what he considered “honest” crosses, however—as opposed to the garishly warped version he’d grown accustomed to as an initiate in Don Hernan’s sick church. He didn’t know what to think of that, and since none of them could—or would—understand him, he hadn’t been enlightened. He
did
now know without any doubt what most in the Grand Alliance had long suspected: the approved faith practiced in the Holy Dominion bore no closer similarity to actual Catholicism than a dung beetle to a deer. Both creatures walked on the ground, but that was as close as it got. Any superficial resemblance was a deliberate disguise, an attempt to subjugate the largest number of people by using accepted, and, yes, respected ancient symbols of religious power. But the mixture of crosses and other newly familiar pagan symbols among his companions left him very confused.

“They might still kill you, you know,” came a quiet whisper beside him, and Fred realized his enigmatic “savior” had moved his horse alongside his. “If you make too much of a nuisance of yourself,” the man explained. For some reason, he seemed amused.

“Why don’t they kill
you
, then?” Fred hissed. He didn’t know much about Captain Samuel Anson other than his name, and in the weeks he’d been on the run with this outlaw band, he still hadn’t learned what Anson was captain of, or hardly anything else. The guy didn’t answer many questions. He
had
to be a spy or agent of some sort, judging by the way he’d gotten Fred and Kari out of the city, and considering his perfect, if strangely accented English, he had to be an Imperial . . . didn’t he? He looked much like the others: his skin dark, hair and mustaches black, but that was common in the Empire—and understandable that an Imperial spy in this country would be suspicious of him. He’d have little or no independent confirmation of events in the West, and couldn’t know his people had allied with the only vaguely remembered Lemurians, not to mention the American destroyermen he’d never even heard of. What didn’t make sense to Fred, however, no matter how he added it up, was if the Empire had spies in the Dominion, beyond the port cities where traders had been allowed, why didn’t they know more about it? The question gnawed at him.

Anson smiled crookedly. “They won’t kill me, because I help them kill Doms. They like to do that. Maybe they even like me. I suppose they think I’m somewhat mad, to be honest, but I’ve contacts among the filthy Doms—and others—and that’s useful to them.” He peered at Reynolds, weighing his response. He’d essentially confirmed he was a spy, which was more than he’d done since they met. “And what is useful to them is sometimes useful to me,” he finished, shrugging, then pointed at Fred’s filthy, travel-worn robes. “You, however, are their enemy! A priest of the Dominion! A lowly initiate, by your once white, unadorned robes, but a Blood Priest nevertheless.”

“I explained all that!” Fred snapped hotly but still quietly. “I’m no more a Dom priest than a Chinese cowboy!” He paused. “Hell, I’m
closer
to a Chinese cowboy!”

Anson smiled. “I’m not sure what that is”—he gestured around—“and neither are they, I assure you. It has sufficed thus far that you’re a friend of Ensign Faask—and that you helped rescue
her
. It helps also that as she grows stronger, she’s ever more insistent that they let her see you. Even they can see that you’re genuinely important to her.”

Fred grimaced, and twisted to look behind them, where the somewhat elaborate, covered travois was towed. Kari was alive, but still sick and weak after months of abuse and malnutrition. He’d spoken to her only a few times, first when she briefly awoke shortly after their escape. She’d been near delirious, but overjoyed he hadn’t really turned after all. The second time he snuck close enough to talk to her, after they joined this larger group, he’d been badly beaten. Only Kari’s apparent willingness to hurl herself at his attackers, weak as she was, saved him then. Since that episode, he’d been allowed to visit her under guard every few days, but that was it. “They wouldn’t want to distress her overmuch,” Anson finished.

“I’d hope not!” Fred whispered fervently, both for her sake and his. “But, well, why’s she such a big wheel to them, anyway?” he probed.

Anson regarded him intently. “She’s
not
particularly important to the Christians in our little group, beyond what she may represent in terms of allies against the Doms.”

“Christians?
Real
Christians?” Fred demanded, diverted by the term.

“Quite real,” Anson said bemusedly, “if what constitutes a Christian to them means the same as to us. I’ll assume, based on your recognition that the Doms
aren’t
Christians, that it does.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And those around here have grown quite pragmatic and amazingly tolerant of other beliefs. Very interesting, as a matter of fact—and convenient.”

“Convenient how?”

“For resistance to the Doms, of course! You’ve only seen a city where the Doms rule uncontested. I understand how you might think their perversions are universal and monolithic, but I assure you they’re not.” He gestured around at their companions. “These men are poorly armed and poorly led. They have few firearms, most of which they took from Doms. Their leaders are fractious and rarely agree—except in their shared hatred toward the Templo de los Papas. Hopeless as their situation may seem at a glance, however, opposition to the Doms is a very strong inducement for them to get along. No doubt you’ve seen the fate of those who don’t submit to conversion?”

Fred nodded grimly.

“Of course you have,” Anson continued. Fred’s vestments and slow-healing scars bore eloquent testimony to his own ordeal. “But the good thing is, in addition to that powerful incentive, these ragged fellows we’ve fallen in with represent a sizable percentage of the population. They’re a minority, to be sure, but just think how hopeless their position would be if they were constantly fighting among themselves.” He quietly chuckled. “Which brings us back to you, I suppose. Another reason you’re still alive and riding so comfortably along with people who will happily cut the throat of anyone dressed as you are is that they’re fairly satisfied you’re part of, allied with, or in some way associated with the Empire of the New Britain Isles—which is known to be at war with the Holy Dominion. Most thought the Empire had been swiftly conquered, by surprise. I did,” Anson admitted, “at first. That was the story around the Temple, anyway. Now I’m not so sure.”

“No way,” Fred growled. “The Empire . . . and my people—Kari’s too—continue to resist. I
told
you that! And we’ll kick their asses too! I picked up quite a bit while I was pretending to be Don Hernan’s stooge. Kari and I were captured right before the Allied fleet hammered the Doms making for Saint Francis, and the Imperial Garrison at the Enchanted Isles was still holding out. Don Hernan was afraid it would be reinforced before they could take it, and that’s one of the reasons he wanted me to design his airplanes—flying machines.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Kind of,” Fred admitted, miserably. “I kind of
had
to, to make him believe I was a convert. It was the only way to save Kari. They already had most of my plane to look at anyway, and I don’t think I gave them anything they couldn’t have figured out on their own eventually.”

“You might be surprised,” Anson said grimly. “Just your existence was proof that powered flight is possible, but they had that before they caught you. Having you show them how all the bits fit together no doubt gave them insights whether you volunteered them or not.”

“Maybe,” Fred agreed, “but maybe I gave them a few
wrong
insights too. That was my plan, anyway.”

“Good.” Anson paused. “So, Don Hernan’s worried about the Galápagos,” he mused. “With good reason,” he whispered more forcefully. “With the Enchanted Isles still controlled by the Grand Alliance you speak of, the Doms should be more focused there than against our insignificant little insurgency. That will make everyone happy—but Don Hernan!” Anson chuckled at his own little joke—a play on the rest of Don Hernan’s name: DeDevino Dicha, which basically meant “divine happiness.”

Fred glanced up and down the line of riders. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’ve told me about some of our ‘friends,’ but what about the others? The ones with the Felix the Cat necklaces?”

Anson had no idea what Felix the Cat was, but understood Fred’s question. “The cat figure represents a jaguar, a creature from their most ancient mythology.”

“I know what a jaguar is,” Fred said.

“Really?” Anson shook it off. “Amazing that any of
them
should after so long. Particularly since, to the best of my knowledge, there’s nothing remotely like a jaguar around here.” He stopped suddenly and gestured back toward the travois. “Not until now, of course.”

“But Kari’s no jaguar! She’s a Lemurian, a ’Cat . . .” Fred stopped. “Oh, shit.” He rode in silence a while, his mind racing. “Captain Anson,” he finally asked, almost pleading, “is Kari being a jaguar a good thing or bad?”

“That’s an excellent question. I haven’t paid as much attention to the ancient religions among my various friends as I should have, to be sure. By the way they treat her, I’m encouraged. I’ve also learned that people here, even the Christians, can be a bit capricious and fickle at times, however. Honestly, there’s no telling what their ultimate intentions are regarding her. She
is
important to them, and I gather they’ve been “waiting” for her, or something like her, for a very long time. It also seems significant that she arrived ‘from the heavens’ in a vehicle—your flying machine—with stars stenciled upon it.”

Fred blinked surprise.

“Yes, they know about that,” Anson confirmed, “just as well as I. I have been spying for them, after all.” He smiled. “They also know—now—that you were with her at the time, so I really doubt they mean to kill you. I admit to practicing upon you in that regard, at least. That said, though I’ve never seen our non-Christian companions engage in the more barbaric rituals common to the Doms, those rituals did originate with their ancestors.” He made a face. “So, ultimately, what they mean to
do
with your Ensign Kari-Faask is another question entirely—and I don’t know if it would hurt or help if they discovered she is not a jaguar!”

Fred rode in silence again, wondering if he should just shut up or try to worm more information out of Anson while he was so talkative. He finally decided. “So?” he asked. “What’s all this to you? You’re a spy, but that doesn’t make sense. If the Imperials had decent spies, they’d know more about the Doms than they do, and they should’ve known what was coming at them too. Maybe you’re just a smuggler.”

“I’ve been a smuggler,” the man answered thoughtfully. “And maybe I’m an Imperial spy, and just wasn’t able to get my information out.” He looked closely at Fred. “Or maybe I’m something else entirely.” He smiled again. “But whatever else I am, I
am
a spy right now, and spies don’t last long by talking overmuch about themselves. Do they?”