Blood In the Water (17 page)

Chack looked around. There could still be—probably were—hundreds of armed natives hiding out of sight. “We will approach,” he stated. “But remain wary,” he warned. “Lawrence will stay on the machine gun, and I want the mortar rigged and manned on the fo'c'sle.” His eyes fastened on Miles. Reluctantly, the China Marine stepped over the coaming to join the 'Cats already moving to obey. “Chief Silva, please arm yourself with something more appropriate to the threat.” Grumbling, Silva put his Doom Stomper in the rack and took his Thompson SMG. Quickly inspecting it, he inserted a magazine. “Okay, Chackie, let's go a'visitin'.”

The Seven boat burbled closer to shore until the bow gently touched the bank. It looked as though the two natives wanted nothing more
than to bolt, but they held their ground. One of the 'Cats on the fo'c'sle stood helplessly, with no one to throw his line to, and finally simply jumped across himself and secured the line to a fallen tree, casting nervous glances at their hosts. The feral 'Cats on shore just watched him finish his task and then clamber back aboard.

“You better go first, Chackie,” Silva said, his tone serious for once. “Judgin' by what happened to McGinnis, they don't much like folks like me.” Chack agreed. Unsaid was a fact they both recognized: Chack's comparative size might be intimidating enough, but Silva made two, perhaps three of the people on shore. “I'd stay on the boat an' palaver with 'em from the fo'c'sle, if I was you,” Silva added as Chack stepped forward, his Krag slung over his shoulder. “But I'll cover you whatever you do,” he assured. Chack had no doubt. He and his big friend had many superficial differences, but they'd die for each other without thinking. He heard Silva add, “you stay hunkered down outa sight, Larry. They might not hate humans a'tall. Might be
you
lookin' so Grikish that has 'em riled. But stay ready. If they try to hurt Chackie, we kill 'em all, clear?”

Chack was tempted to just hop down, as the crew-'Cat had done, but the way the strangers regarded him gave him pause. They'd
known
the other 'Cat was of lower rank, and he was a far greater prize. For the moment he simply squatted by the jackstaff. “I am Lieuten-aant Col-nol Chack-Sab-At, of the First Raider Battalion. I command this expedition and represent all the Allied powers united beneath or beside the Banner of the Trees to destroy the Grik menace that has plagued your people and mine since the beginning of time. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”

The old 'Cat on shore seemed taken aback by the long title. Chack had hoped it would impress him. But the long-winded introduction had also given him a chance to study the strangers better. Yes, the cloak the old one wore was similar to Adar's, but the material was coarser and there was no embroidery. Other than that, neither he nor the warrior beside him wore any adornments other than strange necklaces of tiny bones almost woven together. He also noted clearly for the first time that they weren't alone. Other feral 'Cats lingered back in the brush and some were indeed in the trees overhead, creeping carefully closer. There were at least five or six that he could see so there were probably many more.
Silva's true “cat-monkeys” at last,
he suddenly realized.
And not behaving in the most trustworthy manner
 . . .

The magician, or whatever he was, seemed to collect himself and took a step forward. “I am Heegar-Ep-Erok, High Shaman to the Erokighaani! You say you come peacefully, but”—his eyes narrowed—“you have tailless ones among you. They are bad. That you and they are together is bad. None of them have ever come to us without harm! No other tribes, even of those like us, have truly come in peace—and you expect me to believe you?”

To Chack's astonishment, he understood nearly every word the old shaman said. It was spoken in a very ancient, formal way, but the pronunciation was even vaguely familiar, much like the way old Naga used to talk. He'd never heard Adar talk that way, though, and wondered about that.

“Yes, I do,” he simply said. “These tailless ones are our friends, and would be friends to you as well.”

The shaman hacked derisively, but then made a show of considering the notion. He spoke. “It may be possible that, just because a thing has never happened, does not mean it can't. I beg you to forgive our discourteous welcome. I
must
still find it difficult to believe you mean us no harm, yet my eyes and ears both observed as you . . . slew the great geegaak.” He peered intently, greedily, at Chack. “What magic did you use? From whence did it come? It is great magic indeed! Share it with us so we can defend ourselves from other monsters, and we will be your friends forever!”

Such a switch! From wary welcome to eternal friends—all based on the Seven boat's “magic
.” Chack didn't trust the old skuggik before him any farther than he could throw him, as Silva would say, and his gut told him that these people would never do.

“The, uh, ‘magic' is our own, and we only have so much. We can bring more to our friends,” he hastily added when he saw the shaman's eyes narrow, “but what we have we must preserve to use against the Grik.”

“Grik? Grik?” The shaman looked at the warrior beside him. “I know no ‘Grik.' The geegaak is the worst monster that haunts this river, in our land. Is it the same?” he added hopefully. “The Grik and the geegaak?”

“No,” Chack replied, shaking his head. “The Grik are smaller, but there are . . .” He paused. Large numbers for things you couldn't see had
always been a bit tricky for his people before the Americans came along. “There are hundreds of hundreds of Grik for each geegaak, and they build great ships, far larger than this, and swarm together without number when they attack.”

The warrior spoke in the shaman's ear.

“Ah! You mean the . . .” He said something guttural that Chack didn't catch. Seeming to realize this, he added, “the lizard people.”

“Yes, I expect so,” Chack agreed.

“No one can fight the lizard people! They are too many!”

“We have and we do,” Chack countered. “We've taken their great city to the north, ah, that way,” he said, pointing. “They try to take it back and we need friends who are willing to help us stop them.”

To Chack's amazement, the shaman dropped to his knees and threw twigs and dirt in the air. “There are no lizard people here! We do not
want
them here! And we will not go where they are! To do so would only bring them!”

“If they defeat us, they
will
come here,” Chack warned, then realized he'd said the wrong thing when the shaman's tail flipping accelerated to a blur.

“Because of you! They will come because
you
came!”

“No,” Chack objected. “They will come because that's what they do—but with help to defeat them, they will never come. Ever.”

“There are no lizard people here. We cannot help you,” the shaman said briskly, but paused and tried to hide a sly blink. “But the Shee-ree, beyond the great stony mountains, see lizard people all the time and have tried to get us to help them too. They send callers to all the river tribes, but none are foolish enough to go. The Shee-ree might help you, but you could never reach them.”

“Why not?”

The old shaman laughed. “Because they dwell across the mountains in the great, wide land beyond. Do you have the magic to fly?”

“Not with us,” Chack said. He couldn't help it. “But we have to push on to the Shee-ree, if they might help when no others will.” Without another word, he turned to go.

“Wait!” called the shaman.

“What?”

“We are friends now, yes?”

“I hope so,” Chack said.

“Good. If you continue up the river and harm no one, we will leave you in peace. Other tribes, closer to the mountains, will leave you in peace.” His voice turned less friendly. “But when you turn back, as you must, they will want the magic you do not use against the lizard people. As will we.”

Chack nodded curtly, then stepped back to his friends.

“I caught a little of that,” Silva said. “Did it go like I think it did?”

“Oh dear,” Bradford groaned. “I suppose I won't be going ashore to meet them after all.”

“No, Mr. Bradford. Not if you expect to return. They would use you to get our ‘magic' now, and still probably hold you until we brought them more. I expect the same from any other tribes they may have contact with on the river.” Chack looked at Silva. “I doubt these are the same people who killed Sergeant McGinnis, but they're little different from them. Expecting a large population of friendly Lemurians itching to fight the Grik was probably unrealistic after all.”

“Don't sweat it. The world can't be full of Khonashis and Maroons.” The Khonashi, of course, were I'joorka's people, and Maroons were probably the great-great-grandchildren of the crew and passengers of a British East Indiaman who came here long ago. Two others from the same convoy had gone on to found the Empire of the New Britain Isles. But if the descendants from the one the Grik captured had reverted to primitivism, at least they, like the Khonashi, were friendly.

Chack nodded reluctantly, but continued. “But these ‘Shee-ree,' if they exist, sound promising. So if you think ‘the way it went' is that we must push upriver as far as it takes us, then leave the boat and continue on foot, you are right.”

“Shit.”

Chack looked at Nat. “Hopefully, we'll make contact with Cap-i-taan Reddy”—he hesitated—“and Gener-aal Queen Maraan at some point, but we will go on regardless. It will then be your task to carry word back for us.” He looked at the shore. “You must be
very
careful! They very clearly want our ‘magic,' as will anyone else we meet, no doubt. You will probably have to fight your way back, and they will be more prepared.”

“I understand, Colonel, but I . . . I can't just leave you!”

Silva grinned. “That was your original order.”

“No it wasn't! I was ordered to set you ashore and await your return! And we can't even do that now!”

“Don't worry, Mr. Hardee,” Courtney said. “These tribes along the river may cooperate a bit, but they probably hate one another too much to combine against us. I doubt they'll even cross from one territory to another. Classic aboriginal behavior!” He shrugged. “And if the far side of the mountains is anything like it was on our world, which, according to that fellow on shore, it must be somewhat similar, at least”—his face turned grim—“I doubt enough warriors could survive beyond them to be of much threat to us at all.”

“Us?” Chack asked, blinking at him curiously.

“Well, of course I shall accompany you!” Courtney grinned. “You haven't the authority to stop me if you wanted to! And the whole point of our coming is to meet new people, after all.”

“What about them?” Miles demanded, pointing over the side. “We met
them
. We did our job, now let's get the hell out of here!”

Courtney looked at Miles, his expression neutral. “Indeed. Well, though I entirely agree with Colonel Chack's evaluation of the people here, we must press on and hope for better: people we can trust. And evaluating that is
my
job, actually. I've grown surprisingly good at it, you know.”

C
HAPTER
11

SMS
Amerika
The Sunda Strait
September 28, 1944

The afternoon squalls were even more prevalent that day as SMS
Amerika
, wet and steaming under the glaring sun from the periodic rain lashings she'd taken, neared the southern entrance to the Sunda Strait.

“The lookout reports a large ship in the strait, bearing
null
,
drei
,
null
, perhaps ten thousand meters,” called a Lemurian near the cluster of speaking tubes on the aft bulkhead of the pilothouse. He spoke German, as did all the watch standers on
Amerika
's bridge, but that was about the only place they did it anymore. Most of the crew spoke the polyglot version of Lemurian that had arisen in the Republic over the centuries, touched by everything from Chinese to Latin. But oddly, English had become the “official” language in the ship's engineering spaces. It was a bizarre tradition that had evolved over
the last quarter century and, to some degree, reflected the fact that although she'd served the Imperial German Navy,
Amerika
had been built by Harland and Wolff in Belfast, Ireland. In addition, when she arrived on this world, full of English-speaking prisoners of war taken from merchant ships she'd caught as an auxiliary cruiser, there'd been more trained engineers among her captives than in her crew. As things normalized between the former enemies on this new world and they all became equal citizens of the Republic of Real People, the accents emanating from the voice tubes to the engineering spaces grew more diverse, with hints of Scotch, Welsh, Irish, even Indian, but they increasingly, stubbornly, spoke English. And so it had been for more than twenty years. Perhaps, though, the most compelling reason English endured only belowdecks was exactly because German was still enforced on the bridge. Now friends, the two factions enjoyed a rivalry of the sort that implied “you might tell us what to do, but we're in charge of whether we do it or not.” Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange, now in actual, if not official, command due to the growing infirmity of Kapitan Von Melhausen, found the tradition somewhat tiresome. Despite having commanded the ship when she captured them, Von Melhausen himself had always been amused and supportive of the ongoing jest, largely why he was so beloved by all the ship's crew, and had been retained in command far longer than was probably wise.

Becher Lange raised his binoculars and stared through the distortion of the wet bridge windows. “I see it,” he said. “It is large, but another squall lies between us. It is . . . indistinct.” He stepped out on the bridgewing, where Chairman Adar, Minister Tucker, Diania, and several others had gone when the latest squall passed, to enjoy the breeze and the sight of the islands to the northeast. He smiled at them and nodded, looking though the binoculars again.

“What is it, Cap-i-taan Laange?” Adar asked.

Lange gestured. “A large ship in the strait, obscured by another squall. It is difficult to make out.”

Adar squinted, his excellent vision nearly a match for the binoculars. “I see it, I believe. A dark smudge in the rain?”

Lange nodded. “It is raining harder now there. Is there any large vessel, a new aircraft carrier perhaps, due to join First Fleet South? I have not seen the new
Baalkpan Bay
Class of carrier, but the contact appears to be of similar size. Smaller than
Salissa.
”

“Nothing I am aware of,” Adar replied, blinking uncertainty. “One was nearing completion at last report, before we lost communications, but even if that is her, I would expect her to still be undergoing trials and working up her air wing. She might be doing that en route,” he allowed.

“Good afternoon, Lady Sandra. Gentlemen,” came a soft, almost whispy voice behind them.

“Kapitan Von Melhausen! You should not be up!” Lange protested, moving as if to catch the old man. He looked like he might need it. He'd grown incredibly frail, and had weakened considerably just in the last few weeks. His carefully pressed blue coat almost swallowed him and his hat sat upon his balding head, down to his ears, as if it was several sizes too large. Sandra winced at the sight, regretting there was nothing she could do for him. His body was failing even more quickly than his mind now, and the only reminders of a once-imposing presence were his thick, white, carefully groomed mustache and a pair of sharp eyes that missed nothing—when his mind was behind them. This seemed to be one of those spells, and he gestured for Lange to hand him the binoculars.

“Why should I not be up? It is my watch, is it not? You will suffocate me with your sympathy if I let you,” he added fondly. “I will not allow it! I will live as long as this ship!” he boasted, shakily raising the glasses and holding them to his eyes. “It
is
difficult to see,” he confessed. “The rain begins to pass, but the land beyond now hides its shape.”

“Kapitan!” came the voice of the talker from within the pilothouse. “Kapitan
s
,” it quickly corrected. “The lookout says it is a
warship
! Huge! He has never seen anything like it!”

Sandra realized that she had, as the shape grew more defined—at least to her—and she was suddenly certain what it was. The general configuration wasn't all that different from
Amagi
's, after all, and nobody friendly had anything remotely similar. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Turn the ship immediately!” she urged. “It's
Savoie
! It has to be!”

Adar and Lange both blinked astonishment in the Lemurian way. “How?” Lange demanded, his mind catching up with his disbelieving eyes and finally recognizing the class if not the ship itself, from across the gulf of a quarter century. It was clearly a
Bretagne
, a French “superdreadnaught.” The very latest things in French naval power at the beginning of “his” old war, he'd familiarized himself with their silhouettes. There'd
been only three at the time, under other names, but a fourth had been under construction. That one must have become
Savoie
. “How can she be
here
? And why? I do not believe she has come to join us!” he added sarcastically.

“Just get us away from her!” Sandra urged, almost shouting now. She didn't know how either. It was a long way from Alex-aandra, and where could the thing have fueled? But she thought she knew why, and the reason infuriated and terrified her.

“Left full rudder!” Lange roared in German. “Full steam ahead!” Almost as an afterthought, he added: “All hands to battle stations!” The last was a meaningless gesture.
Amerika
had two 10.5-cm guns, similar to
Walker
's 4
″
-50s, capable of reaching
Savoie
at this distance. They might actually even dent her if they hit. The
Bretagne
Class had been armed with ten 340-mm/45 (roughly 13.5
″
) rifles in five twin turrets, although the word was that
Savoie
's main battery had been reduced to eight guns in four turrets. But she still had a swarm of secondaries, all bigger than
Amerika
's guns. And who knew how many machine guns
Savoie
might have.
Amerika
had quite a few Maxims at her disposal, old and new, but they'd make no difference. They simply couldn't fight, particularly with nearly three thousand wounded aboard, and Lange had a sinking feeling they probably couldn't run away either. “Send a distress call detailing our situation at once!”

“All we have is the TBS!” the talker reminded.

“Then we will hope that someone is close enough to hear. Perhaps a scouting flight out of Tjilatjap is nearby.”

The Lemurian at the helm spun the big wooden wheel, and another rang up the engine order. The ringing reply from the engine room came without the customary delay, but it seemed to take a great long while before the big ship began to respond. SMS
Amerika
hadn't been in a real dry dock since 1914, and her hull had suffered, growing thin, leaky, and brittle over the years. A short stint lifted aboard the now-lost SPD USS
Respite Island
had helped, but the repairs completed then had never been envisioned as more than—literally—a stopgap. Despite all her years, however, and the impossibility of performing comprehensive repairs in the Republic, which had never been willing to appropriate the materials and labor to construct a dry dock large enough to accommodate her near-seven-hundred-foot length, and roughly twenty-five thousand tons,
her engineering plant had been meticulously maintained. That meant she was still nearly as fast as she'd ever been, capable of almost eighteen knots. The trouble was, the rain-lashed apparition, finally emerging completely from the squall and glistening in the afternoon sun about six miles away, was probably just as fast.

Von Melhausen was still looking through the binoculars as
Amerika
's human and Lemurian crew began racing for their battle stations, uncovering her guns. “They have added a heavy tripod mast, forward,” he said, his voice oddly firmer than before. “And removed her central turret. Two fewer guns, at least. They have replaced it with an aircraft catapult larger than, but similar to the one installed aboard
Walker
. I see no aircraft, though.”

Spoiled by
Walker
's comparative responsiveness, Sandra pounded the rail in frustration. “Can't this thing turn any faster?”

Von Melhausen cast a glance at her. “This ‘thing' is a lady. An elderly one as well,” he scolded gently. “You cannot expect her to dash about like a cheetah. She will show
that
‘thing' her heels soon enough, once she has completed her turn.”

Sandra didn't think so. What was more, the range was falling rapidly as
Savoie
now charged toward them.
Amerika
was finally gathering speed, however, and her rudder was biting harder.

“Our call is not getting through!” cried the talker, his voice high. “Something . . . covers our signal! Wait! There is a message on the voice radio! It orders us to cease all transmissions and stop engines or—be fired upon!”

“They had to be expecting us,” Adar said. “There is no other way they could be here now. No other reason for them to be.” He blinked at Sandra. “Which means they are probably also aware of the nature of our voyage, the precious cargo we carry. I hesitate to endanger that cargo, but I believe we must oblige them to prove they are willing to go that far before we meekly submit. Judging by their behavior at Alex-aandra, it is reasonable to wager that they will show restraint. That they bluff.”

“I hope you're right,” Sandra said, but she agreed.

Diania looked at them, her dark eyes flashing. “Then theys also prob'ly know our
other
cargo!” she snapped, and Adar blinked at her questioningly. “You!” she said hotly, and turned to Sandra. “An' you!”

Sandra felt a chill. The wounded were her responsibility, her primary concern. She hadn't thought beyond that. But Diania might be right about
Savoie
's objective here. The chairman of the Grand Alliance, and likely leader of the new Union they'd built, would be a great prize indeed, to any enemy. And she—it made her almost vomit to realize—would be a tempting source of leverage against the Supreme Commander of all Allied forces: Captain Matthew Reddy! Matt would never ransom her or Adar, or even a ship full of wounded soldiers, but she ached at the thought of the torment he'd suffer.

Lange's expression proved that he agreed with Diania's assessment, as well as Sandra's certainty that he and his ship could expect no concessions to save them if they were taken. “Keep calling for help. Try to get through. Tell those
inselaffen
in engineering to take all the boilers and engines can be made to give, as if the ship—and their lives—depend upon it, because they do!”

Amerika
finally finished her turn and sprinted southwest, her dark coal smoke billowing high. It wasn't enough to spoil
Savoie
's aim, but maybe it would be seen by friendly eyes.
Savoie
sent another demand that they halt transmissions and heave to, but
Amerika
surged onward. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Finally, just as a sense of relief began to creep into many anxious hearts, the sun-dappled
Savoie
, her light gray paint nearly matching the clouds beyond her, suddenly flashed with fire and a roil of dirty brown smoke that gushed to leeward.