Blood In the Water (15 page)

“They
are
'Cats! Midget ones!” Silva roared triumphantly, racking the bolt on the Browning. “Sorry, Chackie,” he added, knowing Chack had been afraid of this. No one liked the idea that Lemurians might be capable of genuine murder—and the kind of murder these had apparently committed in particular.

“You're still not to shoot them!” Courtney cried.

“I ain't! I'm gettin' ready to shoot those horny toad . . . llama things, if they get too close—an' whatever the hell's chasin'
them
!”

The sight on shore would've been almost comical if it weren't so
desperate. Obviously, the 'Cat in the water couldn't swim, and his fellows were torn between helping him and running for their lives. They were naked and almost uniformly brown except for black-and-brown-striped tails much longer, proportionately, than Chack's. Their eyes were bigger too, and they wore manes, almost black, around dark faces. One continually menaced the Seven boat with a drawn bow as long as he was tall.

“Your cousins here are kinda cute, Chackie,” Silva quipped—just as something monstrous exploded from the jungle. “Shit!” Silva snapped, forgetting the 'Cats on shore and the swimming creatures that seemed to be trying to veer around the boat. The monstrous . . . thing was just yet another type of “super lizard” in a sense: another huge, bipedal predator apparently designed primarily to carry a gigantic, horrifying mouthful of teeth around. But Dennis was always stunned by the variations that basic form could take. This one appeared to be covered in real fur—where there were gaps in the sharp spikes and bony plates it wore like medieval armor. The fur was lighter on the belly and striped and blotchy otherwise. The spikes and plates were a dark chocolate brown. The head was longer and narrower than other super lizards he'd seen, and it stood taller than those on Borno when it rose on its hind legs, a screeching 'Cat in its jaws.

“Shit!” squealed Petey, bolting from his perch and vanishing down the companionway in a streak of color.

“Not exclusively bipedal,” Courtney exclaimed, reflecting Silva's less detached but no less appraising thoughts. The thing's front legs, or arms, were long and powerful, and it could obviously go as easily on four legs as on two. The 'Cats near the water gave it a ragged volley of arrows, puny pinpricks against something with a torso as big as the Seven boat. It didn't even seem to notice them until it gulped their comrade down, then it took a step in their direction. They were trapped on a narrow strip of ground, the same tangled brush and deadfall they'd been using for cover now preventing their escape. There was nothing they could do but leap into the water themselves, which they did with desolate cries.

“Protect them, Mr. Hardee!” Chack cried.

Silva looked at him. “Why? Them murderin' devils've been shootin' arrows at us all the way up from the coast!”

“We don't know if they're the same ones that killed Sergeant McGinnis or not!”

“They're the same ones that've been tryin' to kill
us
!”

“Mr. Hardee!” Chack shouted.

“Aye, aye! Action starboard! Commence firing at the . . . large reptile!”

Silva rolled his eye but quickly sighted down the barrel and depressed the trigger.

The machine gun stuttered loudly and two rounds blew mud in the air before the stream of bullets settled down and the rest started tearing bloody holes in the monster on shore. “I don't know how well this is gonna work,” Silva roared over the racket of the gun and the engines. “Ought six is great for killin' Japs an' lizards, but big boogers like that? Well, I've had experience. Liable to just piss it off!” The monster emitted a high-pitched shriek that actually hurt their ears and spun to face them, its quarry floundering in the water now forgotten. “See?” Silva demanded, trying to redirect his fire at the thing's face, but, amazingly quickly for something so large, it sprinted into the water and came for them.

“Goddamn!” Silva yelled. “
There
you are, Larry! Trade me!”

Without a word, Lawrence handed Dennis an immense rifle, a belt full of huge cartridges, and positioned himself behind the Browning. The
crack
of Chack's Krag and the heavy
boom
of Allin-Silvas in the hands of Miles and the two 'Cats to starboard briefly took up the slack while Silva slapped the breech of the huge weapon open. The Doom Stomper, like its muzzle-loading flintlock predecessor, the Doom Whomper, had been made out of one of
Amagi
's damaged 25-mm antiaircraft guns specifically for killing super lizards. Dennis had used the Doom Whomper for other things as well, such as almost single-handedly ending—if not winning—the battle against Doms and rebels at New Dublin in the Empire of the New Britain Isles. To his sorrow, however, that weapon had been destroyed in action and Bernie Sandison had commissioned several breech-loading versions based on the Silva-inspired Allin-type “trapdoor” breechloaders that had become the standard infantry rifle in all the Allied armies. Instead of the robust and effective but manageable .50-80-caliber cartridges for the Allin-Silvas, though, the Doom Stomper was basically a four-bore rifle that fired a fifteen-hundred-grain hard lead bullet with a bronze penetrator on top of two hundred and fifty grains of powder. The even heavier loads Dennis once used in his old gun had been deemed detrimental to penetration, accuracy, and the health of the shooter. Three more Doom Stompers now existed in the Allied arsenal under another,
official name, but no one else had yet been able to stay as focused on the target as they were on the recoil for the multiple shots required to sight one in. Silva pronounced all the failures “scum weenies” and considered the other weapons his personal “spares” in case he broke this one as well.

Now he slid one of the enormous cartridges in the breech, closed it, and cocked the hammer.

“Reverse shafts!” Nat Hardee shouted into his voice tube.

“What the hell?” Dennis said, then looked. The monster was almost upon them! Half wading, half swimming, it was churning right for the boat through a hail of bullets. “Oh,” he said. “Say, even if I kill it, it's liable to flop right on us!”

“Exactly my concern!” Hardee screamed at him. A hurried, tinny voice reported that the shafts were reversed, and Hardee slammed the throttles to their stops. The Seven boat roared even louder than the monster and bounded backward, Hardee looking over his shoulder and spinning the wheel from side to side with jerky motions. Smelly red water sprayed them from the flat transom, aft. The beast thundered frustration as the gap between them widened and Silva raised his big gun. He hesitated. “Hey, Chackie! I got a idea!”

Chack paused his own firing and blinked concern. Silva's ideas were often excellent—and insane.

“Let's
torpedo
the bastard!” Dennis gushed with a gleeful, gap-toothed grin. “Cap'n Blas shot a super lizard with a cannon at Fort Defiance, but I bet nobody's ever
torpedoed
one before!”

Chack blinked again; then, to Silva's surprise, he nodded. “As soon as we gain enough distance from that brute, you will torpedo it, Mr. Hardee.”

Nat just stared at him.

“Is that understood?”

“Ah, aye, aye, Colonel. But the fish needs between fifty and seventy-five yards to arm.” The torpedo pistols in the nose of the Baalkpan Naval Arsenal Mk-3 torpedoes worked very well, but their robust construction meant they weren't as sensitive or precise as the Mk-15s the destroyermen brought to this world. That wasn't usually a problem, since they didn't have the legs for a long-distance shot. Two thousand yards—or tails—was their maximum range, and five hundred was preferred. But as primitive, short-ranged, and anemic as they were—particularly by the standards of the Japanese weapons the destroyermen once faced—unlike
the Mk-15s, they generally went where they were pointed and went off when they hit. If they had time to arm.

Silva slapped Lawrence on the back, disrupting his aim and causing a stream of curses from the Sa'aaran. “See?” Dennis said. “Chackie still knows how to have fun!”

“Really, Colonel Chack,” Bradford said, taking the glass from his eye, “I must protest! The specimen might be utterly destroyed, and the Lemurians in the water could be injured as well!”

Chack nodded at Courtney. He didn't care about the “specimen,” but Bradford had a point. The 'Cats were beyond the beast that, their fire slacking and likely enraged by its wounds, had redoubled its efforts to reach them. It had no chance unless they ran aground, and Nat's head was back to bobbing like a cobra's, trying to prevent that.

“I believe the natives are out of the water now, Mr. Bradford,” Chack said. “But they still stand upon the shore. They watch,” he added with satisfaction. “Let's give them something to see. Ease your throttle, Mr. Hardee. Keep this distance between us and the monster, about a hundred yards, but we mustn't miss. The torpedo would then impact the shore near the party gathered there.”

“I, ah . . . okay.” Hardee looked behind them as they neared a narrow part of the channel. “But I can't call the shot.”

“Chief Silva will align the torpedo and give the command to fire,” Chack said.

“With pleasure!” Silva practically giggled, lowering the hammer of the Doom Stomper. Shoving it back in Lawrence's arms, he hopped the coaming. After quickly checking to make sure the tube was ready, he nodded at Chack. “Starboard torpedo ready in all respects; depth is set at two feet,” he reported officiously but with a huge grin still splitting his face. Chack nodded back, unsurprised. The 'Cats standing with Silva had maintained their weapons in ready condition no matter how unlikely it might seem that they'd need them. That was one reason Chack was willing to expend one of their two torpedoes now; what else was it good for on this mission?—and it might be
very
good for what he had in mind.

He took a last look at the monster. It was finally tiring, possibly growing bored with the chase. It was time. “All stop,” he called to Nat.

“But . . . ,” Courtney muttered, still not quite believing what they were doing.

“Fire when ready, Chief Silva, but don't miss!”

Silva squinted at the beast, as big as a bus. It had stopped, as if uncertain whether to continue its pursuit or return to shore. Maybe it could still catch the smaller morsels?

“
Can't
miss,” Silva assured, and pulled the lanyard one of the 'Cats had handed him. The impulse charge detonated with a hollow
boom
, and the brass-bodied MK-3 fish splashed in the water amid a cloud of white smoke. A trail of bubbles surged to the surface in an accelerating line toward the indecisive monster. It noticed the trail as it drew near and watched with apparent curiosity for the last few seconds before the weapon slammed into its submerged flank.

Silva whooped when the monster blew apart within a great white cloud of smoke and a high geyser of dirty water. Bloody gobbets of flesh and shards of shattered bone splashed the river almost to the boat.

“Take that, you big, fat, boat-eatin' booger!” Silva shouted happily, his arms outstretched in exultation.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it, Chief Silva,” Chack said, “but we didn't do it solely for your entertainment,” he added, looking back at Bradford. “My primary intention was to awe the natives. Now let's see if it worked, shall we?”

Courtney nodded understanding, but looked at the blood spreading from the smoking, shattered carcass. “Such a shame, though. It does seem that every time I find something interesting to observe, someone blows it up.”

“Don't 'orry, 'ister 'radthord,” Lawrence consoled. “Us'll see another, I think.”

Corporal Ian Miles shakily lowered his rifle and looked from Lawrence to Bradford, then from Chack to Silva.

“Crazy,” he muttered to himself. “They're all crazy as shit.”

C
HAPTER
9

The Indus River Valley
September 26, 1944

“My lord general!” gasped a warrior, crouching and bowing low to General Halik in the tall, lush grass at the top of the rounded knob rising in the center of the bustling tent city that Halik had established in the wilderness. The front and back of the warrior's leather armor were painted with three yellow bars and three white dots across the center bar, the emblem (influenced by Halik's friend “General” Orochi Niwa) of a commander of two hundreds, a
rikugun taii
, in Japanese, or “captain” in the “scientific tongue” of English. General Halik had long forbidden his officers to sprawl on their bellies and grovel in his presence as they'd been raised to do before senior officers all their lives. He and his staff had been working hard to foster the novel concepts of pride and dignity in his outcast army—again at Niwa's
suggestion. His friend had argued that a respectful bow was sufficient to convey an officer's devotion to a higher rank, while reinforcing the notion that he remained “above” those he commanded. What's more, the
mutual
respect symbolized by allowing a simple bow as opposed to demanding abject prostration fostered a stirring of something akin to respect among even the lowliest Uul warriors toward their immediate superiors. There'd always been obedience through fear and conditioning, but it had never before occurred to any Grik army to follow commands because it trusted those who gave them to actually know what they were doing. The result, so far, had exceeded Halik's greatest expectations, and that simple reform had changed many of his junior officers into true commanders of the warriors they led instead of mere mouthpieces for the officers placed over them.

“Report, Captain,” he said gruffly, glancing at his two companions, General Ugla and Orochi Niwa. Ugla was one of his most promising generals, and the first to recognize Halik's talent even though he'd been “elevated” to his exalted post from a mere sport fighter, and Ugla had been “born” a general. And Ugla, like Halik, disdained not only the trappings of his office, preferring to dress almost as simply as his warriors—with the exception of the elaborate helmet and cape of his rank—but he also preferred to actively command instead of merely designing battles and turning his warriors loose. That had been the role of Grik generals since the beginning of time: to stay aloof from what Halik had learned were the misidentified “joys” of battle, and never stoop to getting blood on one's own claws. That, Halik was convinced, was also why they were losing this war, and why First General Esshk—who could lead no other way himself—had instituted the policy of elevating Halik and others like him. His command and his army had been a grand experiment that would've worked, Halik was sure, given enough time. The fact that his army still existed after all it had endured was sufficient proof of that.

He looked again at the slight, dark-haired Japanese officer he considered his friend—another new concept: friendship! Orochi Niwa had come to this world aboard the Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser
Amagi
as a
rikusentai
lieutenant, a member of their Special Naval Landing Forces. Essentially, he was a Japanese Marine, as Halik imperfectly understood the concept, and therefore, ironically, from a similar background as Halik's greatest, and oddly, most respected nemesis: General
Pete Alden. Niwa's counsel had influenced Halik's—and his army's—evolution more than any other single factor and Halik suspected that if Esshk's experiment had not flourished elsewhere, it was because none of his other generals had Orochi Niwa at their side.

The trio had been discussing their long-delayed move to the west, across the regency of Persia, toward Arabia, and ultimately, south to join forces they hoped still remained loyal to First General Esshk. The trek they contemplated was a daunting one, across high mountains, through dense coastal forests and even a band of desert. Hopefully, they could secure ocean transport at some point, but with little knowledge of how the war progressed, they couldn't count on that. Ugla had been describing the difficulty of completing preparations to move their vast numbers of noncombatant “civilian” Hij they'd evacuated from India, including an astonishing number of brood females nested along the western coast of the lost province. Together, Halik's army and its dependent (and support) elements had swelled to over 115,000, but less than 40,000 were true warriors he could rely on, of the type that nearly destroyed the Allied armies in India and still managed a fighting withdrawal across half a continent. Another 20,000 warriors were of the “old style,” unfit for much beyond what Niwa referred to as “cannon fodder,” but their training progressed as quickly as their blooming intellects could accommodate it. Even many Hij artisans and support personnel were learning to use weapons—the first time any had ever been taught such things, as far as Halik knew. But at present, all he had for the vanguard of his force, to march across an inhospitable and perilous distance, was his core of veterans, warriors—
troops
—whose protection and survival had become his greatest mission. And the primary reason for him to go on.

So great was his devotion to what remained of his army and the . . . special thing it had become, he'd even toyed with abandoning the war entirely and settling in this bountiful land west of the Indus River. He had an . . . understanding with General Alden, and sufficient labor and females to establish a regency of his very own. Such things had been done before, but not by any general, and when it all boiled down to it, that's what he was. He couldn't see himself as a regent consort, or any other provincial leader within the Grik Empire, and where he was, otherwise inhabited or not, he remained within territory long claimed by the Grik. Niwa had said, essentially, “So what? Make it your own. You
could become king of the Indus River Valley, independent of the Grik
or
the Alliance.” He was tempted, but in the end, he just couldn't do it. As much as he loved—yes,
loved
—his army, his honor (another concept Niwa had taught him) demanded that his allegiance still belonged to his creator, First General Esshk.

He'd promised never to strike eastward again, into India, even if another Grik army should do so. That wouldn't keep him from rejoining the Empire, however, to fight the same enemy that threatened it elsewhere, and that's what he was currently preparing to do—if he had the time. His force
had
paused long enough to lick its wounds, lay in supplies, and even scrape up or make a supply of ammunition for the ten thousand matchlock muskets, crossbows, and forty-odd cannon he'd managed to bring with him. His Hij artisans were crucial for that, and they'd fashioned large numbers of firebomb throwers, catapults for “Grik fire,” as the Allies called it, as well. He felt confident he had the means to move against any small force that chose to stand in the way of his reunification with General Esshk.

But this . . . delay hadn't gone unnoticed by Allied forces sent to watch what he did and, ultimately, shadow his march west. The force detailed to do so was a brigade of cavalry under the command of a talented young Lemurian colonel named Enaak, and an implacable Czech (whatever that was) colonel named Dalibor Svec. Enaak's 5th Maa-ni-la was a crack regular regiment armed with breech-loading carbines and mounted on fearsome, carnivorous me-naaks, creatures resembling long-legged crocodiles. Svec had three regiments of his “Czech Legion,” or “Brotherhood of Volunteers,” composed of a mixed force of humans and continental Lemurians no one had ever suspected existed until recently. His officers and NCOs were aging Czechs and Slovaks (whatever they were as well) from another world. The Czechs, as everyone called Svec's combined force, were equally well mounted on plant-eating beasts called kravaas, just as fearsome if not as swift as me-naaks, and armed with dangerous horns instead of jaws full of serrated teeth. The irregular Czechs carried older weapons, smoothbore muzzle-loading carbines for the most part, but had proven themselves worthy and savage foes. Still, the brigade of approximately four thousand watchers would represent little more than a symbolic token against Halik if not for their better weapons and mobility, two things he wanted no more part of, and
he took great pains to avoid antagonizing them. Particularly Svec. That had grown increasingly difficult the longer he and his people tarried in the valley, and was yet another reason he was anxious to march.

“Lord General,” the captain said, eyes downcast, “General Shlook begs to inform you that a detachment of the enemy seeks an audience. It has approached beneath a white flag, a symbol we have been instructed to recognize as an appeal for a peaceful meeting.” Halik was again impressed, both by the report and the ease with which he understood it.
Proper speech is so often neglected as officers are formed,
he lamented. That was something else he was trying to change. He turned to the east, where such embassies usually originated. The river was quite distant now, a line of low hills separating it from where he'd established his base. He knew Enaak had crossed behind him and set up his own base camp beside the river itself.

“It must tempt you,” Niwa said simply, and Halik was amazed again by how easily the Japanese officer could read his thoughts.

“It does,” he confessed. “The rainy season has begun, and with the river at his back it would be a simple thing to crush our enemy against it.” He hissed a sigh. “
If
he were infantry. As it is, I have no illusions that he would not discover our approach and merely flutter away.” He then turned and regarded Niwa with large, reptilian eyes. “And, of course, I have given my word.”

“Of course.”

“We shall meet this delegation,” he told the captain, striding east, down the slope they stood upon. “General Ugla, please assemble the staff. Our impatient enemies do not often ask to speak with us. When they do, it is usually to make threats or demands. I expect them to insist, again, that we push on at last.”

“But . . . Lord General,” the captain stammered. “The delegation has approached from the
west
, yonder!” He pointed. Halik paused, turning.

“We know they scout around us,” Niwa said. “And they know we know. Coming from the west, before they can return to their headquarters and confer, suggests the meeting they desire might concern an urgent matter.” His thin lips formed a small ironic smile. “Perhaps this time they may not make threats or demands—or if they do, they may be of an entirely different sort.”

Spurred by a strange inner urgency, Halik and his companions
rushed to join his staff, which was assembling behind the gate through the western breastworks. He'd taken a page from his enemy and built defenses that encircled his entire camp. They encompassed a huge area and weren't particularly impressive at a glance, but they should slow an attack at any point of contact long enough for reinforcements to arrive from elsewhere around the perimeter. It had been a compromise to avoid friction with his watchers, something he couldn't have done with more formidable defenses that might look like he meant to remain indefinitely. He looked beyond the gate and saw a squadron of Czechs deployed into line atop their unnerving kravaas. They looked weather-beaten and worn, their mounts exhausted, like they'd been on the move for days, but they remained formidable, Halik knew. He'd long envied the Allies their domesticated beasts for the mobility they afforded them. He'd done a little “experimental domestication” of his own in the time they'd spent in the valley, having the awkward-looking food beasts called “neekis” that Niwa said resembled something that sounded like “i-guaan-a-don” trained to pull wheeled carts and artillery. They couldn't be ridden; they were too large, their backs too broad, and none had allowed the attempts they'd made in any case. But they served admirably as swift draft animals. He was anxious to put them to use.