Blood In the Water (11 page)

“Report,” Blas ordered, curious at his self-conscious blinking. Spook was as brash as they came and uncertainty wasn't one of his distinguishing personality traits. “Did the Doms get away?” she asked.

“Not a one,” he said, his blinking turning indignant, “but we
did
get some surprised. Ran into some . . . other folks who'd already blocked the Dom's retreat. Served 'em up right handy for us too. Trouble is, we didn't know the difference between 'em at first an' shot 'em up a bit before they got it through to us that they
wasn't
Doms. . . .”

Blas was taken aback. “Other folks? What are they? Who?” she demanded. Spook shrugged and gestured back at the trees where there
was suddenly a great deal of movement within them as figures—hundreds of them—neared the cut. “You tell me,” Spook said. “But they ain't Doms. Even after we aacci-dentay shot a few, they didn't shoot back.”

The dragoons were backing their horses toward the column now, carbines at the ready, as people—humans—emerged into the sunlight. All were darker-skinned than the average Impie, just like Doms, so it was easy to see what caused Spook's confusion. But most wore ragged clothing or animal skins belted around their waists instead of any kind of uniform. A few were armed with muskets, but most carried bows and arrows or long spears. Nearly all had some kind of crude sword. At the cries of numerous surprised NCOs, the entire Allied column wheeled and presented their weapons.

“Hey!” Spook said.

“Hold fire!” Blas shouted in that carrying, Lemurian way. “Hold fire!” she repeated more softly, edging her mount to the right, closer to the approaching men.

“
Capitan!
” Pacal cautioned.

“I suspect it's all right, Lieut-en-aant Pacal,” Blas said slowly, wonderingly. “They didn't attack the dragoons, an' I think it's likely they're the same people Gener-aal Shinya's been expectin' . . . for some time now. He's based a lot of his straa-ti-gee for this whole campaign on 'em, as a matter o' fact. Fred Reynolds an' Kari-Faask told him about 'em.” She shook her head. “Honest, though, I didn't think to see 'em here—or so soon, I guess. If we ever even met 'em at all,” she added, then looked at his uncomprehending face and grinned. “Come on. I'll prob'ly need you to talk to 'em.”

More and more strangers emerged from the trees as Blas, Pacal, and Spook, along with several of Pacal's men, moved to meet them, joining the dragoons that still formed an increasingly insignificant barrier between them and the uneasy column. They raised no weapons and made no threatening moves, but their faces were hard and inscrutable. “How many
is
there?” Blas asked Spook.

“No idea, Cap-i-taan. There's already more than we seen in the woods. Hard to tell in there.”

A group of about a dozen trotted through the middle of the gathering mass of men.
Not all men,
Blas suddenly realized, noticing a large number of women for the first time. Most of those didn't appear armed with
anything more threatening than long knives, but they were just as lean and rough-looking as the males. Quite a few carried quiet, stoic infants in some kind of pack arrangement on their backs. The dozen kept jogging lithely toward her, eating ground in a long-legged lope she had to admire, oblivious to stones and fallen trees. Finally before her—not even breathing hard in the rarefied air after an exertion that would've left her gasping—about half the men stopped and bowed on one knee, staring at the ground at her horse's feet. They immediately began babbling something even she knew wasn't “Spaan-ish”—the “official” language of the Dominion—or even the language of the Guayakans. Half the men didn't bow, but stared respectfully up at her. These, she noted, invariably wore wood or bone crosses dangling from their necks. But they weren't the twisted, brutal-looking crosses of the Doms. They were just like the one Sister Audry wore—and those that were painted on the helmets of her Vengadores.

“Well,
say
something,” Blas told Pacal through her teeth, clenched in a grin.

“Ah . . .
Hola
,” Pacal said simply, utterly at a loss.

*   *   *

The column finally resumed its march toward Kotopaxi, moving quicker now that its forest flanks were suddenly, so unexpectedly secured by their new “friends,” two of whom now rode at its head alongside Blas and Pacal. They hadn't been even slightly hesitant to mount the horses they'd been given, which suggested they had experience with the animals. One was an older man named Ximen, his hair and beard streaked with white, and he kept up an incessant, apparently happy dialogue with Teniente Pacal, occasionally touching the crude wooden cross bouncing against his bare, hairy chest with calloused fingers clearly accustomed to rough use. The other man, younger, named something that sounded like “Ixtli,” continued to stare at Blas with a look of satisfaction as he too clutched a necklace charm from time to time. The difference was, his object was shaped in the likeness of what looked to Blas like one of the small feral cats she'd seen roaming loose in the Empire of the New Britain Isles, colored black.

She remained confused, and even apprehensive, considering how quickly they'd all just come together and proceeded onward as if the
meeting had been planned in advance. But she had little concern that the “auxiliaries” her column had abruptly collected were other than what they appeared to be. There were quite enough of them to have badly mauled her force, at least, if they'd been enemies, and Spook eventually confessed to having actually been a bit unnerved by how savagely they'd fallen on the Doms in the woods. No, they were the “real deal,” the very rebels Shinya had hoped they'd meet, but Blas supposed she'd been skeptical that they truly existed, and now to have them just . . . pitch in, so casually . . .

“Say, what's he keep lookin' at me like that for? And why'd he and the others”—slightly more than half of the hundreds of “wood people” had taken a knee when Ixtli turned to address them after Pacal and Ximen had spoken for a moment—“drop down an' stare at the ground?” she finally asked Pacal, but it was Spook who replied.

“Don't you remember nothin' about the people who . . . sorta helped Fred an' Kari when they an' that Anson fella escaped the Doms?” Spook shook his head and spat a stream of yellowish Aryaal tobacco juice, staining the white fur on his chin. “You're always so busy fightin' an' makin' my life miserable, you never pay attention to nothin' else,” he complained, which elicited a bark of laughter from her, the first in a long while.

“I musta missed somethin',” she confessed. “I guess Gen-raal Shinya will sort it out.” They'd sent a deputation of their new acquaintances back toward Chimborazo under guard, with a report of how they'd met.

“No need. I got the dope.” Spook nodded at the older man. “He's a . . . ‘good' Chiss-chin, just like Sister Audry an' our friendly Doms. Or
mostly
like 'em, maybe. They been fightin' the ‘bad' Doms for a long time. An' even though they don't believe alike, they've teamed up with Ixtli's pals, another bunch called ‘Jagaar-istas,' er somethin', who been fightin' 'em too. But they think cats—which we look like—are, hell, I don't know, some kinda . . .” He paused, considering. “What's the backward o' ‘demons'? Anyway, that's what they think we are. Thought Kari-Faask was.”

“With great respect, we don't all think that, by any means,” the younger man suddenly said in near-perfect English, almost knocking Blas out of her saddle in surprise.

“Hey! You speak Amer-i-caan!” she accused.

“Of course. My people always knew we would have to work with the Empire or”—Ixtli smiled—“others, in order to secure our freedom. You know Capitan Anson?” he asked by way of reply.

“Daamn! Why'd you . . .” Blas blinked. “We know
of
him,” she deflected.

“Doubtless through communication with the Kari-Faask you mentioned,” Ixtli surmised. “I am glad to hear that she escaped. Those who had her
do
believe as you say, but the tale of her and her human friend—and the opportunity they represented—spread far and wide. As for Capitan Anson, he and others of his kind taught me his speech for several years, when they visited our people.”

“Guy gets around,” Spook muttered.

“So it seems,” Blas agreed. She looked at Ixtli. “We can talk about that later. So what
do
you believe?”

“In one true God,” he answered promptly. “The same as our Christian friends. Only fringe elements of our faith have adhered to older . . . interpretations this last century or more. But we also believe God's son came to another world, the one we were all cast away from, as a man—thus our shape.” He indicated himself. “On
this
world, the ‘Christ' appeared in the form of the
ocelotl
—the jaguar.” He shrugged. “And
left
this world for the one we came from.” He rubbed his chin. “Which happened first, none can say, and it really has no bearing.” He looked at her intently, gazing at her strongly feline face. “But you and your people are proof to
us
that he left his children here, his
ocelomeh
.” He gestured back at the column. “His warriors.”

“I've heard a lot of things . . . ,” Spook began incredulously, but Blas shushed him. Pacal was looking at them, a small smile touching his lips.

“I don't suppose the particulars really are very important just now,” Blas began.

“No, Capitan Blas,” Pacal agreed. “The pertinent point at present is that we now have the ‘growing' army General Shinya so desired.” He waved at the trees. “Señor Ximen assures me that more of his people will come. Many more.” He ventured a small smile. “And we now also have the guides and scouts—you so recently despaired of—that we require to bring the evil Don Hernan to heel!”

Blas nodded, but looked at Ixtli, still perplexed. “Then . . . if all your people, even the Jagaar-istas”—she glanced at Pacal—“an' even some of
my troopers, are all the children of Christ . . . why'd you bow to me? I mean . . .” She stopped, still clearly flustered by that perhaps more than anything.

Ixtli smiled. “The Christians among us would join your alliance in the fight you make. Their Christ is a sweet spirit who taught love and forgiveness. Those who follow him fight just as hard as we, but it is more to restore that understanding of Him across the Dominion than for any other reason. My people have been persecuted far longer than theirs. We were the first to be sacrificed, enslaved, and fed to the monsters of the land and air who serve the evil Temple. Only in my lifetime did we join forces with the Christians to defy our common enemy.” He paused as if trying to decide how to explain. “We bowed to you because we came to
you
and your
Saan-Kakja
in particular,” he simply said at last, then smiled more broadly at her consternation. “
Of course
we have learned the name of your own highest official here. In a country that would slay us out of hand to feed its pets or placate a false God, it has long meant our lives to learn all we can. But the Jaguar Warriors would fight for you and Saan-Kakja specifically if we could. We remain more closely aligned with the
ocelotl
than the Christ because we think that you, like we, fight foremost to punish and destroy the Dominion, not so? We fight for revenge.”

“Huh,” Blas said. “Daamn.” She sighed. “Well, just so long as we're on the same side. I can't speak for Gen'raal Shinya, an' we're not exac'ly pals just now,” she confessed, reflecting a lingering bitterness over the way Shinya had used her battalion at Fort Defiance, “but one way or other, I'll work to get your people better sorted an' better armed. I'm sure Gen'raal Shinya'll get that straight with the fellas you sent to him. But if you're with us, you're with us all. You can't pick an' choose who you latch on to, see? We all gotta work together, an' that means you gotta learn the chain of command. My immediate superior's an Impie named Col-nol James Blair. Above him is Gen'raal Shinya. High Ahd-mi-raal Harvey Jenks is CINCEAST, but that don't hardly signify right now, since he's with a busted ship, an' Saan-Kakja an' Governor-Empress Rebecca McDonald are with the army. That's the way it is, though, an' we all gotta follow the orders they cook up whether we like 'em or not.” She blinked questioningly at him, but when Ixtli made no response, she leaned back in her saddle, wrenching her tail to the side. “Now,” she continued in a lower voice, “past all them, far as I'm concerned, is Cap-i-taan Reddy. Nobody's orders get
between him an' me, if it comes down to it, an' you may have to make a choice with that in mind someday. But of all those I counted, I don't think you need to worry about any of 'em ever goin' soft on the Doms,” she assured. “So, in the meantime, sure, you can work for me direct. Let's start by finishin' up clearin' the road to Koto-paaxi, then make sure what's left of the town is safe for our army to move up to. Then we'll work—together—to figure out how we're gonna catch Don Hernaan.”

C
HAPTER
6

The Caribbean
September 26, 1944

“Heave, damn it!” gasped Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds, pulling on a rope for all he was worth. He slipped in the loose white sand and wound up on his back, the fierce sun searing his already sun- and windburned face. He staggered back up with a curse and threw his weight back on the line.

“I
do
, daamn it!” snapped Ensign Kari-Faask in reply, blowing foamy sweat off her furry upper lip, her tail swishing indignantly as she strained on the same rope behind him. “Quit yellin' at me!” Slowly, the waterlogged PB-1B Nancy slid a little farther from the choppy water of the lagoon, up the beach, and toward the overhanging trees. The block and tackle secured to a mighty palmlike trunk squeaked petulantly, as if protesting the need to add its advantage to their efforts. “Plane wouldn't
be so heavy if we'd did this yester'dy, like I wanted,” she hissed. “Now the leakin', seepin' daamn thing's all fulla' water!”

“I'm not yelling at you,” Fred huffed, “and it was as good as sunk half an hour after we set it down. What do you want me to do? Shoot more drain holes in it? We've got to hide it before another Dom ship comes nosing around. Lucky the first one didn't see it!”

“Which I said yester'dy,” Kari reminded sourly, “before we ever
seen
a Dom ship that might'a seen us, an' before the daamn plane weighed as much as that useless, rusty-ass ol' ship you hadda go gawk at!”

“Okay! Okay! Just pull, wilya? I had to look, and now we have to do this. C'mon, let's at least
try
to pull at the same time! One . . . two . . .
heave
!” The plane shifted several more feet, water gushing from several holes someone else had shot in the hull.

They'd been on the island—with no idea which one; it wasn't on any chart they'd brought—for three days, and the odyssey that brought them there across the trackless wilderness of the upper South American continent, the very heart of the “Holy Dominion,” had been grueling and nerve-racking enough to rival many of their previous adventures. They'd spent their first day ashore dead asleep, wrapped in oilskins against the sun and bugs, their exhausted plane grounded on the shallow bottom of a small lagoon on the north side of the island. Fortunately, they'd cleared the hull of all supplies, weapons, and other equipment—including their precious wireless transmitter and emergency generator—before they dropped, and the Nancy sank only a foot and a half before it touched the sand. Gentle waves kept the plane shoved close to shore regardless of the tide. Fairly secure they wouldn't lose the plane, they'd employed the second day, against Kari's loud objections, exploring the jungle-shrouded, comma-shaped hump of land they'd reached, barely a hundred miles northeast of a major Dom seaport on the Atlantic coast.

The place had one particularly interesting feature protruding from the water off the southern tip of the “comma,” that Fred had seen from the air and wanted to inspect immediately; specifically, the horribly rusted skeleton of a large, iron-hulled ship beached in the shallows. Any such discovery was always a source of amazement because as far as they knew, there was only one way a ship like that could be on this world; the same way they'd come—however that was. Fred was intensely curious about it. He was no expert, but it looked like an old collier to him. He
wished he knew whose it had been and what had happened to its crew. When they finally picked their way as close as they could, armed with pistols, Blitzerbugs, and cutlasses in case they ran into anything that wanted to eat them, they found that even though the hulk rested close to shore, they couldn't reach it without a boat. And even if they had one, they probably wouldn't find anything of value. The ship had probably been there, disintegrating, for at least twenty or thirty years. Fred had been very disappointed.

Their next priority had been to find water, and discover if they shared the place with any people—or unpleasant creatures. The daylong search revealed no permanent habitation, though there was evidence that people came to visit from time to time. Judging by the junk on the beach, they probably came to strip wires and fittings, and tear hunks off the strange old ship. Nothing bigger than mosquitoes bothered them as they crept through the jungle, but small as it was, the island was still big enough to hide all sorts of monsters they might not discover at once. With their experience with such things, it was easy for them to stay alert. They didn't find any springs, and as low as the island sat, they doubted they would, but several unreliable-looking rain puddles turned up during their search. The water wasn't very appetizing, but it would do for now. Still, they began to suspect that any extended stay might prove unpleasant. On the plus side, the lagoon teemed with fish that were easily caught or trapped, so food shouldn't be a problem. At least in the short term. Fred resolved to rig something to catch rain and figure out how to explore the mystery ship further—if they decided to stay.

That was a choice already looming large in their minds. They had fuel for maybe another hundred, hundred and fifty miles, but the vast expanse of unknown ocean that had spread out, unbroken to the far horizon, had given Fred pause, and compelled him to set down and consider what they ought to do next. Their self-appointed mission was to contact “Los Diablos Del Norte,” the “other Americans” apparently stranded on this world in the late 1840s, who existed beyond (and had apparently grown strong enough to pose a threat to) the Dominion. They'd been represented to them by a man who called himself “Captain Anson.” He'd saved their lives and encouraged them to believe his people and theirs might join forces against the Dominion. He'd also told them that a major naval defeat inflicted on the Doms in the vicinity of
the bizarre “pass of fire,” a strange navigable strait through where Costa Rica ought to be, would signal his people to contact the Grand Alliance. Yet, in the aftermath of the Battle of Malpelo, probably the largest naval battle this world's Pacific Ocean ever hosted, that contact hadn't come, and Fred and Kari had taken it upon themselves to contact
them
.

The flight had been a nearly two-thousand-mile endurance test, half of which they'd flown all by themselves. Two other planes, carrying extra fuel to replace their own heavy load as they used it, had escorted them as far as they could, sending frequent observations back to Orrin Reddy by wireless. One of the reasons he'd finally let them go was their assurance that, even if they cracked up, they'd carry out the deepest scout of the inner Dominion to date. But they didn't see much to report through the dense jungle canopy once they left the high mountains behind, other than a few towns or small cities. The largest of these often surrounded roughly stacked pyramid shapes sometimes higher than the trees around them. Fred and Kari had both seen what kind of gruesome . . . activities were performed at places like that. But such towns, and the cropland surrounding them, were essentially just bare spots in the vast jungle. Doubtless there were roads beneath the trees, leading in significant directions, but they couldn't see them. The towns still might be important, though, as objectives for a march, or just to help update their understanding of the interior. Soon, however, they couldn't reliably report even that in real time. The farther they flew from Puerto Viejo, the worse their comm became. Sometimes, at night, they could bounce a clear signal over the mountains, with their best guess of their position. The other two planes set down with them on often dangerously small, claustrophobic lakes, to transfer supplies. And they'd camped on some very frightening shores, with spine-tingling . . . noises in the darkness around them. Sometimes they saw villages and people, and landed as far from them as they could, but they knew they'd been seen. All they could do was hope the locals couldn't round up any Dom troops to search for them before they lit out the following day. As far as they knew, the Doms had nothing like radio or even telegraphy, so they could outfly news of their sighting and no one should be looking for them the next time they set down.

Twice, their luck ran out. The first time was when they were attacked by a half dozen startled Grikbirds kiting over a particularly grubby-
looking town for no apparent reason. The Grikbirds managed to tear up one plane before the others could shoot them down or chase them off. Fortunately for Fred and Kari, they'd already transferred all the supplies from the Nancy they lost, but it was probably small consolation for its crew. The plane went down in thick jungle and burned. The second time, the last time they set down in company with their escort, they overflew a village with a Dom garrison when they swept in to land on a very narrow lake that was probably better described as a fat place in a river. The garrison didn't come after them by land or boat, either of which might've caught them, but must've known they'd have to turn around and take off the way they came in. It was waiting the next morning, the fifth of their ordeal, firing volleys as they took to the air where the lake narrowed down near the village. Neither plane was seriously damaged, but both took a few holes. That was when their final escort waggled its wings and flew away to the southwest. Fred and Kari hoped they'd made it, but from that point on they were alone.

After that, they had no reason to land again. They had all the fuel they were going to get and they'd burn it in one long flight. They slowly climbed to ten thousand feet to muffle the sound of their engine as best they could. Kari got fuzzy after a while, but she wasn't flying. They turned due north and flew for several hours, Kari occasionally dropping a hose in a fuel can and pumping its contents up into the main tank in the wing. Finally, the tank was full one more time, but Kari had thrown the last of their cans out over the jungle. About then, the green sea of trees below turned blue and they'd crossed out over the Caribbean, becoming the first members of their alliance, their “nation,” to ever see it on this world.

They traveled in a generally northwesterly direction, keeping the distant smear of Central America on the western horizon. Fred concentrated on flying and adjusting his course and Kari stared through her Impie telescope, looking for ships. They didn't see any for most of the day, not until it became clear that the far-off land was reaching back for them and it dawned on them that they must be getting close to some of the seaports that Anson had implied would be on this coast, near El Paso del Fuego. A few ships were seen then, and, judging they had to be Doms, Fred turned north once more.

The land abruptly reached for them again and Fred nearly overflew
the biggest city they'd seen yet, complete with a pair of pyramid shapes and a bustling harbor. He turned east. By then their fuel was getting low and the plane was just as tired as they were. And there hadn't been the slightest trace of the people they'd set out to meet. Only then did Fred truly begin to realize how utterly idiotic their scheme had been. Orrin had tried to tell them; everybody had. Fred thought he had an edge over Kari when it came to geographical sophistication. She—all her people—still couldn't really grasp how big the world was. But she had that excuse. He should've known better. Setting out on a lark to find the mysterious “other Americans” had seemed like a good idea, and he'd actually expected to succeed. Kari trusted him because of his confidence. Now that they'd gone the distance, he finally knew how stupid he'd been.

It was in that state of mind that he'd spotted the island—and the wreck. Both were uncomfortably close to a large population of Doms, but by then his confidence that they'd find friends, or even another island, was utterly shot. He couldn't risk pushing on until they were forced down in the middle of the ocean for lack of fuel. And he wasn't afraid for himself. If something happened to him, those were the breaks. This whole stunt had been his idea and he was prepared to accept the consequences. He was afraid for Kari, though. She was his very best friend in the world and, convinced their “mission” was a bust, he wouldn't risk her life by pressing on into an even more hopeless situation. He couldn't.