Blood In the Water (20 page)

Laborde's face blanched, but then hardened. “Take Lady Sandra and her servant to the quarters we prepared for her. Chairman Adar, Sergeant Horn, and Kapitan Leutnant Lange can share the other. Since it is no longer possible to return the crew of their boat to
Amerika
, they must be detained as well. Take them to the brig.”

“Sure, that'll keep you safe,” Sandra called sarcastically as she and Diania were led away. “But just remember this, all of you,” she continued, her voice rising. “The only thing you've accomplished here is the murder of helpless people representing
every member
of our alliance! People the rest of us owe a debt of honor—and blood! Whether you admit it or not, you've started the war you've been avoiding, and your wild, idiotic explanation for what you did today won't save you.” She laughed again as she was pushed down a companionway. It still sounded forced to everyone who heard it, but no one doubted she believed what she said.

“A moment, Chairman Adar,” Laborde said, stopping the men escorting him, Horn, and Lange below. Somewhat apologetically at last, he gestured to starboard. “I really do regret what happened here today. It was not to be, and contrary to my wishes. But particularly now that it is done, I really cannot linger any longer.”

Adar looked at him, blinking rapidly. “So few things ever go the way we would like them to,” he said, remembering mistakes of his own. “But
we must always face the consequences of what
is
, rather than our intentions.”

For a long moment, Laborde didn't speak, but when he did, he licked his lips and prefaced his words with a glance toward the companionway. “Do you think she is right?”

“About me?” Adar asked, surprised by the question. “Almost certainly. My place has been ably taken during my long absence. I flatter myself that I will be missed by my friends, but I am by no means indispensable, or even necessary.” He paused and blinked again, in a way Laborde could not understand. “Is she right about what Cap-i-taan Reddy will do? Oh yes. Absolutely.”

“So, in honesty, I would be wiser to destroy the lifeboats in the water in order to delay reports of what has happened here as long as possible,” Laborde probed more harshly.

Adar blinked disgust. “Perhaps that might be wiser, in the short term. But it would gain you only a few days. A week at most. Your ship is known. We had no idea you could be
here
, but you cannot keep it secret forever. Our ships and planes will soon discover the floating debris. They will study it and quickly come to the proper conclusion. Survivors will tell the truth, undistorted by your fiction, but the fact that you spared them may make some small difference one day. Helping rescue more of them might even lend credence to your claim that you did not want to sink
Amerika
.” He paused, waiting for a reply. When there was none, he sighed. “Since I cannot sway you, I will add only this: if there are no survivors, I assure you most emphatically that the consequences Lady Sandra described will be visited tenfold upon you personally.”

Laborde stiffened and motioned the guards to proceed. “You will join me for dinner, and we will discuss this at greater length,” he said.

*   *   *

Laborde sat heavily in the chair in his quarters, a precious bottle of “old world” brandy standing on his desk, a full glass in his hand. There was a knock on the wooden doorway. “Enter,” he said absently, staring at the dark liquor.

“Amiral, you sent for me?” asked Capitaine Dupont.

“Ah, yes.” He motioned at the bottle, but Dupont shook his head. Laborde sighed. “That did not go . . . as we had hoped.”

“No, Amiral,” Dupont agreed, almost meekly.

“Instead of a ship full of wounded but otherwise unharmed troops with which to bargain, we have only a handful of individuals of dubious real value to balance the provocation we have made. Our explanation for the confrontation remains valid, but may not be enough to satisfy the Triumvirate.” He gulped the glass of brandy. “Well, then there is nothing left to do. Allied ships and planes will soon be searching—and the current will carry the debris toward Christmas Island in any event. They will follow the trail, looking for boats that become separated from the others, and their discovery of our presence there will be swift.”

“Yes, Amiral,” Dupont agreed, still softly, but with a trace of accusation. Laborde looked sharply at him, realizing the very man who'd practically provoked him into pursuing
Amerika
in the first place had decided to play the “I was just following orders” gambit. Laborde would ensure it didn't work, if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Then, unless we are prepared to fight the entire Alliance by ourselves, without support, the time has come to abandon our interests there. Determine a suitable rendezvous point and signal
Leopardo
and the Spanish oiler to evacuate the Italian garrison and join us at the designated coordinates. Ensure
Leopardo
knows to make every effort to inform the German submarine of our intentions as well. It may need to refuel before we proceed to our next destination. But
Savoie
will make no further transmissions after
Leopardo
acknowledges.”

“And . . . what is our destination?” Dupont asked with rising concern. “Shall we round the Cape of Africa? Abandon this ocean entirely, without orders from the Triumvirate?”

Laborde glared at the man, even more furious at the implication of cowardice he thought he heard in his tone. “No. We will make for the one other place our people hold influence and we can expect a cordial welcome—and further orders.” He stood and stepped to the chart pinned to the cork on the bulkhead and pointed at a small island just off the east coast of Africa. “Here,” he said.

CHAPTER
12

West of the Indus River Valley
September 28, 1944

There was no improved road through the mountains, but the ancient trail worn by countless overland Grik caravans to and from India across the ages had made a path as plain and wide as any road Halik ever saw. Perhaps not as
smooth
, however, and he hid his unease, riding awkwardly on his feet in the deep box of a freight cart designed by Niwa and built by Hij artisans. The cart wasn't designed for the comfort of passengers, and Halik had bounced and swayed, ignominiously bunched in alongside the warriors he brought to protect him, for the better part of two days. They were all exhausted, and judging by their expressions and the queasy gulping of some, Halik's warriors were at least as uncomfortable as he. They were making good time, though. The Hij driver sat perched on a kind of bench at the front of the cart
controlling the neekis as it trotted dutifully along, its long, powerful legs covering ground at an astonishing rate.

Hungry and sleepy, Halik caught himself watching the great beast's muscles bunch and ripple beneath the rough tan hide, its tail whipping back and forth like a metronome beneath the long twin shafts that secured it to the cart as it effortlessly, and apparently tirelessly, kept up the ground-eating pace. He realized with a start that he'd been almost mesmerized by the sight for a considerable time. He also realized that he'd felt a growing . . . admiration for the animal, and that surprised him. It was then, staring at the rear end of a grass-eating prey animal that regularly blapped out noxious emissions, that General Halik had a kind of unlikely epiphany that reinforced all the aberrant thoughts and notions that had brought him to this point. He'd grown used to neekis; they were ubiquitous on the plains of India and plentiful even here. Yet, until just recently, he'd considered them only a convenient source of food, easily herded and kept. What a terrible condemnation of the culture that created him that he, even as enlightened as he now imagined himself, would look at any life-form other than his own—and Niwa's—solely as a beast to be slaughtered and eaten, as if its life had no other possible purpose! Yet there he was, traveling at unheard-of speeds on a critical errand that only another life of a different form could make possible. He shook his head. He'd long ago learned to respect humans and Lemurians as enemies, and even feel vaguely uncomfortable with consuming them. And largely due to Niwa's influence, he hadn't thought of them as mere prey for quite some time. Of course, that attitude had been brutally reinforced when General Pete Alden rounded on his army and made
him
flee like prey. By that, and everything else the enemy had accomplished, they must certainly now be considered
worthy
prey at least, even by the most skeptical regents and generals. The Celestial Mother had probably, finally, come to that conclusion herself—right before they destroyed her. But what was “worthy prey”? It was
worth
something, besides food! Until now, that value had always been calculated by how difficult the prey might be to overcome, but he now appreciated a broader definition, including how worthy he and his race might be to survive a vengeful prey.

Others of his race, without his experience, would no doubt consider
him insane, but he suddenly recognized that this wild notion of worthy
life
had been maturing, unnoticed, for some time. He'd long seen and appreciated the utility of the enemy's cavalry mounts, even wished he had such things. His ability to recognize that desire was what resulted in the comparatively simple, he imagined, taming of the neekis in the first place. And now . . . With a flash of insight, he abruptly doubted his encounter with the commander of the force they raced to meet would have a happy outcome. Whoever it was would still be steeped in the fundamental truth that their race existed to conquer and feed upon all others, across the world. Even other races who joined the Great Hunt were allowed to do so only until their value as a hunting partner was exhausted.

Uncertainty reemerged, and he looked at the backside of the running neekis.
But is that not what I have done, only more . . . imaginatively? If that creature is injured and can no longer serve its new purpose, it will become food once more. The same is true among the humans and Lemurians, no doubt. But if one of
them
was injured without hope of recovery, would the other turn against them?
He blinked.
Never,
he knew.
Just as I did not abandon General Niwa when he was gravely injured, and he did not abandon me—and our army—when we were defeated. But Humans and Lemurians are true friends, race to race!
He finally understood the vast difference between him—and a growing percentage of his army—and all others of his race: his discovery of friendship, as well as that indistinct notion called “honor” that Niwa was so intent upon. Honor was important to his enemies as well. Generals Alden, Rolak, Colonel Enaak, and even Colonel Svec appeared to prize it, and even expect it of him to a degree, ever since he'd ordered that Allied prisoners no longer be eaten. And why was that? Because even though he remained unclear about what the term “honor” might encompass, he'd learned that all else was built upon a foundation of respect, not only for one's enemies but, perhaps more important, for oneself. If one behaves with respect toward others, even enemies, one might earn their respect in return.
Now I know why my enemy is so implacable. Niwa even told me as much, but I did not understand till now. How can one respect . . . honor . . . any enemy that sees you only as food?
We are more contemptible to them than they ever were to us
. With that ultimate realization, he had another:
Am I and my army even truly Ghaarrichk'k anymore? How can I find common ground and understanding with any creature such as I once was?
He felt a chill
despite the warm, muggy air.
And dare I consider it . . . with even such as First General Esshk? In all honesty, is Esshk himself more likely to embrace all that I and my army have become, or, horrified, command our destruction?
The uncertainty that surged within him then was almost enough to make him order the driver to turn around.

“Ahead! Warriors, Lord General,” the driver almost squeaked, and Halik shook off all concerns. He couldn't afford to let them show, and it was too late to act upon them. He stretched his neck upward as far as he could and peered forward, past the driver. A clump of warriors, perhaps two tens, was trudging down the slope ahead, the path bordered by tall trees reminiscent of those choking the coastal plain beyond the Rocky Gap far to the southeast.
Advance guards
, Halik thought contemptuously.
They may be better armed than the “old army” I remember, but they appear little better trained. With pickets such as those, General Alden would
 . . . He stopped.
I might 
. . .
,
he realized, and was amazed by how little that distressed him.

“Stop the cart,” he commanded. “They will attack our animal—and us—if we do not show ourselves.”

Halik and his guards cleared the cart and deployed barely in time to check the surge of hungry warriors that saw nothing but an apparently suicidal food beast that did nothing but stand and stare at them as they approached.

“Stop!” Halik roared. Most did, instantly, at the sound of such a practiced and confident tone. “Stop this instant or destroy yourselves!” he thundered at the rest, and that got their attention. “I am General Halik, commander of all forces east of here, and this is my animal! You will not touch it!”

Finally recognizing the battle-worn helmet and cape that could only be worn by a general, all twenty Grik warriors hurled themselves at Halik's feet, where they twisted and squirmed on their bellies. It had been so long since he'd allowed his own troops to do such a thing that Halik was momentarily surprised, then repulsed. “Where is your serg—your leader of two tens?” he demanded.

“Is I,” came a bubbly voice from a snout thrust in the leafy soil of the path.

“You will escort me and my party to your commander at once!”

“Yesss, Lord!”

Halik caught motion to the side and realized that every member of his party—all still standing—had turned to look at him, their expressions and posture confident and . . . worshipful?
Respect,
he reflected with certainty as he nodded gravely at his guards.
Self-respect is the key, not this mindless obedience bred of fear alone. Respect is the main advantage our enemies have always held over us, and it is truly the root from which all things might grow. Even honor.

Back aboard the cart, they proceeded slowly through increasing numbers of Grik warriors clogging the path and overflowing into the woods on either side. Thousands of Grik, armed as Svec had told him, gazed at them with blank, hungry stares even as they gained a larger escort to protect their animal the farther they went. The warriors looked disconcertingly fresh, at first, until Halik realized how slowly they were advancing.
We may
still
have a week to prepare, even after I return to my army,
he thought. But prepare for what? He'd know soon enough. The horde thinned slightly at the top of a steep rise where the forest retreated from the path to border a wide mountain meadow flanked by distant peaks. Near the center of the meadow, about a mile away, an enormous pavilion dominated the scene and dwarfed the warriors shambling wide around it. It was dark red, almost black, and long streamers like those used on ships fluttered fitfully. Smoke rose from several flaps at the peak of the structure, evidence of fires inside, built to warm the space against the mountain chill that Halik had begun to notice.

“De regent an' his gen-rals is der,” the sergeant Halik had appropriated announced grandly, pointing with both hands.

“How long have they been in this place, and how long will they remain?” Halik asked. The pavilion looked like it had been erected permanently.

“Dey is stay here since dis place found, Lord, an dat palace is made. Dey move when anudder good place is found an' de palace is made again.”

Halik could hardly imagine going on campaign like that, but then, Hisashi Kurokawa had enjoyed his comforts as well. Either way, it was interesting. He already knew all the other places such a massive structure could be erected between here and his army, and there weren't very many. A group of officers arrived then, led by a general with a golden helmet and armor and gold trim on his red cape. He was staring at the neekis and the cart behind it with something like incredulity. Halik
unconsciously fingered his own tattered, battle-worn garment and imagined the impression he'd make. Whatever it was, it was time to do it.

“General,” he said, climbing up to stand beside the driver on his bench. “I am General Halik, chosen by First General Esshk himself at the personal direction of our Giver of Life to lead all the armies in India and Ceylon! I greet you, and beg an audience with the leader of your expedition.”

Already astonished by the docile food beast in the middle of an army of predators, Halik's battered but powerful form appearing at the top of the cart beside a terrified-looking Hij and announcing what he had apparently overwhelmed the Grik general into speechlessness. For a long moment he merely opened and closed his jaws as if chewing a piece of gristle.

“You cannot be Halik,” he growled at last. “He and his armies were ended by the prey we march to destroy!”

“Nevertheless, I am Halik and my armies still guard these frontiers,” he said, speaking the literal if not practical truth. “Whoever informed you and your master of my destruction has . . . exaggerated. Please take me to your master now so I may greet him and report.”

“Very well,” the general replied, tail plumage spreading in indignation as he likely wrestled with the possibility that anyone might lie about such a thing. Apparently deciding that was not possible, he took a step forward. “But please . . . General Halik, do step down from that thing and away from that unnatural beast. The sight of them will inflame my master against you.” He lowered his voice. “Lord Regent Consort Shighat, Sire of all Persia himself, reposes in the field palace. He does not look with favor upon”—he glanced back at the neekis—“such . . . deviant innovations. He considers them the root of all our difficulties with the prey we now face. Perhaps he has not yet noticed.”