Blood In the Water (29 page)

He nodded at Willis, then looked back at them. “And I
do
credit it, in your favor. That is largely due to my conversation with Captain Willis and his account of how forthcoming you have been to almost any question asked of you. It is his opinion that you are either telling the absolute truth about everything, or you must be the most accomplished, most deceitful ‘demons' under heaven.” He smiled at Fred's concerned expression. “I don't believe that, of course. Willis says you have told him all
about your war against the Doms—and other possibly even more terrible foes—and have attempted to explain far more than he can understand about your amazing flying machine and your perhaps even more valuable communications equipment. I cannot believe you would have been so willingly informative about those two things in particular if you wished us ill.”

He puffed his own cigar speculatively for a moment, then sighed. “And, of course, I have heard of you before, in a manner of speaking.”

Fred was thunderstruck.

“Do you . . . Does that mean you know Cap-i-taan Anson?” Kari stammered.

Semmes gazed intently at her. It was the first time he'd heard her speak. He cleared his throat. “Ah, no, I don't, personally. Nor have I heard that name. I suspect it is more than likely an alias, as a matter of fact. But whoever he is, he is quite real, and if all you have reported to Captain Willis is true, I would certainly enjoy making his acquaintance. He is clearly a most formidable asset,” he mused, knocking an ash into a tray on the table. “In any event, word has indeed spread in certain circles that one of our army's ah, ‘covert scouts,' shall we say, was in contact with, and experienced numerous adventures alongside, a certain young ‘pilot' of a flying machine and his . . . ‘Lemurian' friend—did I say that correctly? It was also reported that these individuals represented a more recent ‘relocation' of people from our own parent nation, allied with the Empire of the New Britain Isles. Suffice to say, the implications of that meeting have generated considerable excitement in some. There is caution as well, however, for various reasons. The excitement, I share, as a matter of fact—especially now that I have met you and know the truth of the matter—because it promises us the greatest opportunity to utterly defeat the vile Dominion that we have known. The concern—understandable, I suppose—stems from your association with the Empire, and the level of your technology. Your flying machine, for example, reflects a stunning achievement in a field that remains wholly theoretical to us. The wireless communication gear, though understandable in principle, is equally spectacular, but also possibly frightening to some. Still, it is likely that your association with the Empire is the cause of greatest concern. As Captain Willis has explained to you, we have had good reason to keep it at arm's length.”

Fred cleared his throat, elated that someone at least knew about the first meeting they'd had with Anson. But there was also a growing anger deep inside that Anson's promise of assistance had apparently been meaningless—or quashed—by officials more worried about the Empire and preserving the status quo than they were about the Doms. “Sir, may I speak?” he asked hesitantly, somewhat concerned himself by what he might say once he got started.

Semmes nodded. “Of course.”

“Okay. Well, the way I see it, if you know all that, then you may know our forces in the Pacific have been operating under the assumption that Captain Anson's commitment to an attack from this direction, following our destruction of the bulk of the Dom fleet on the other side of the Pass of Fire, was sincere.
I
thought it was, and told them so. Governor-Empress Rebecca McDonald, High Admiral Jenks, and Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan acted on that, and fought the biggest naval battle you ever saw.” His voice began to harden. “We lost a helluva lot of ships, planes, and people to hammer
your
enemy, only to find out that Anson's—or whoever he is—word isn't worth a frog fart in a whirlwind.” He absorbed the shocked expressions on Willis, Semmes, and even Kari.
Good,
he thought.
Got their attention.

“That's why Kari and I flew all the way here in the first place, to find you and see what the holdup is. So forgive me if I'm a little sore to find out that there isn't any attack in the works, and only a few people even know we ever met.” He took a deep breath and stared at the two officers. “So here's the deal,” he continued harshly. “You can let us contact our people; tell them we're all happy as hell to be working together and you'll finally jump in and help us finish off the Doms—or not. If you do, you'll get all the fancy technology some of you are so afraid of, just like we've given it to all our other friends in this war.” He looked at Kari, then shrugged. “If not, our people're eventually going to kick the Doms' asses anyway. It'll be a longer, harder slog, and a lot more of our people will die than would have if we seized this opportunity to work together now, but we
will
win, in the end, because we've got the guts to finish the job. When we do—when the Governor-Empress and Saan-Kakja, who's the western representative of the new Union we've established based on the
Constitution of the United States
, and”—he paused and grinned unpleasantly—“when
Captain Reddy
finds out you just sat out here with your thumbs up your
asses while we did all the fighting, you
won't
end up with powerful friends all the way from here to the other side of Africa. You'll wind up with people who kicked the hell out of the Doms—who you couldn't lick in a hundred years—sitting in your backyard with all their scary technology saying,
‘Lumaya ka sa harapan ko!'
the next time
you
get in a jam!”

Semmes's expression darkened, and Captain Willis shifted uncomfortably. “What does that mean, Lieutenant Reynolds?” he asked, then nodded at Kari. “Is that her language?”

“No,” Fred told him, practically simmering. “Just something I used to hear a lot in Olongapo. It means ‘Get out of my sight.'”

CHAPTER
19

Central Mada-gaas-gar
Naa-kaani Village of the Shee-ree
October 7, 1944

The “Great” Ror'at-Raal was not what they'd expected. It didn't matter that there'd been so many exceptions; the first High Chief they'd ever met was the gruff, bear-shaped Keje-Fris-Ar, and the second had been Nakja-Mur, whose obesity had been equally imposing in a way, when none of Matt Reddy's destroyermen had ever seen a fat Lemurian before. Even if more slightly built, Saan-Kakja was stunning to behold and possessed the most mesmerizing gold-and-obsidian eyes. Safir-Maraan was equally striking in her silver-washed armor and bright silver eyes, ebony fur, and black raiment. So they'd come to expect Lemurian High Chiefs to be . . . visually exceptional in some way. Ror'at-Raal, however, in his brindled fur and simple leather breechcloth, looked enough like Kaam that they might've been brothers. Or, since Ror'at-Raal was clearly younger
than Kaam, he might've been the Captain of the Guard's son.
Maybe he is,
Courtney speculated.

The High Chief's Great Hall was constructed in a circle around the largest tree in the village near its center and was elevated above the ground just like Adar's had once been at Baalkpan. Obviously, that design feature was as old as Chack's people's last association with their possible ancestors here. But where the portions of Adar's Great Hall still dedicated to entertaining were decorated with carvings and paintings, and hung with embroidered tapestries, this hall boasted none. It was more open, with wide skylights beneath the eaves of the thickly thatched roof, but there was almost no ornamentation. There was color, however. Bright lizardbirds darted through the skylight and frolicked in the rafters above, along with very bizarre varieties of “regular,” feathered birds. The most surprising thing about them, that everyone noticed at once, was that none of the flying creatures were trying to murder each other. That was almost unprecedented in their experience. Maybe there were sufficient insects infesting the thatch above to keep them content? There was no special chair or “throne” for the High Chief either, or really anywhere easy to sit at all. The Lemurians they'd known favored stuffed cushions, but here there were only bundled piles of dried prairie grass. They weren't invited to sit, in any event. Apparently, that wasn't the way here. All were expected to stand in the presence of the High Chief, just as he stood to greet them.

Kaam introduced them, along with a brief description of how they'd saved him and others from near-certain death. His praise for Silva and his Doom Stomper was high enough to make the big man shift uncomfortably with an “aw, shucks” expression on his face. Then he spoke of their reaction to the carcass of the Beaufort and what had been revealed there. Ror'at-Raal studied them with wide, curious, nearly perfect yellow eyes, but even the yellow didn't distinguish him from others of his clan since most had the same, even Kaam. What finally did emerge, however, was a sense of amusement flickering within the bright orbs.

“You came searching us while we looked for you,” the High Chief said at last. “The fatefulness of that is most intriguing.” He motioned for a servant to approach, an old female with large, pendulous breasts, who brought a wooden basin with a horn ladle. With his own hand, Ror'at-Raal dipped the ladle and handed it to Chack, gazing at Chack's
fur and amber eyes with interest, but also the garb he wore and the weapons he carried. “Take water,” he said. “You are welcome here.”

Intuitively, Chack realized that a form of inviolate hospitality was being offered, and he nodded gratefully, sipping the sweet water. He was surprised. This was not the muddy scoop from the river he'd expected and they'd been subsisting on. Passing the ladle on, Chack was glad to see everyone take a modest sip, even Miles, but his ears flicked in annoyance when Silva managed to produce a slight slurp—and then offered the ladle to his ridiculous pet! Lawrence seemed equally annoyed that the little lizard drank before him, but solemnly lapped at the ladle when it was his turn. Ror'at-Raal studied Lawrence intently. “Not a slave, then?” he asked, blinking at him.

“Absolutely not, Your Excellency,” Chack stated as Lawrence bristled. “He is not even Gaa-riek, or Grik, as we call them. He is from a tribe far across the sea whose people are as committed as we to the destruction of the Grik scourge. He is our friend and companion, and a mighty warrior for good.”

Ror'at blinked interest—and that same amused irony.

“You doubt?” Chack asked.

“No,” Ror'at confessed. “But again, the fatefulness of it all is most compelling.” He looked levelly at Chack. “We hear tales—strange, amazing tales, and this is a time like has never come to my people. Two passings of the Sun Brother ago, tales came of a great host of Gaa-rieks gathered on the shore to sunset of here. All feared it was a time of harvesting, when they would swarm inland to kill us, eat us, and throw those who survived back into starvation and despair. This has happened many times,” he added solemnly, and Courtney realized that at least part of his and Chack's theory was correct. “But this time they gathered in numbers unimagined before and all expected the final harvest to begin.” He blinked. “Some among us determined to fight them, my clan and several others, even if it was hopeless.” He grinned. “Most called us mad and fled across the mountains to be enslaved by the Erokighaani and their vile allies.” He snorted. “Those who were of no use to them, the old and infirm, were slain and eaten.” He looked at Chack's horrified blinking with a curious twitch of his tail. “You did not know their nature?”

“No. We had . . . anecdotal evidence,” Chack confessed, remembering the state of Sergeant McGinnis's corpse, “but assumed what we saw
was the work of a single band—if it was the work of people at all.” He suddenly felt a sense of even greater concern for Nat Hardee and the Seven boat.

“The Erokighaani and those like them are hardly people,” Kaam retorted. “They are little better than a pale reflection in cloudy water of Gaa-rieks themselves. But they did not represent certain death, so many went to them.” He shook the thought away. “Some stayed, and we prepared.” He blinked astonishment. “But the Gaa-rieks did not come! Instead, they got back on their big boats and sailed into a mighty storm. After some time had passed, tales began to return that they had been destroyed by the Aan-glis and other folk like us who came from the places Lef-ten-aant tried to tell us of, on great iron boats, with machines that fly! What was even more amazing, the tale insisted that these strangers had already destroyed the Gaa-rieks that have always lived beyond the mountain of rotting trees and were defending their conquest there!” He blinked intently at Chack and all the others. “Is this true?”

Chack took a deep breath. “Yes,” he almost chorused with Courtney. Bradford smiled at him. “I understand him perfectly well, you know. You have gotten us here. Time for me to do
my
job.” Chack nodded with a slight blink of concern but then just shrugged and grinned at Silva, who was watching him with an amused expression.

Courtney looked at Ror'at. “Indeed, it's quite true, and we come from that distant place. We, and the Grand Alliance of many peoples that we represent, have pushed the Grik back from their farthest conquests to their ancient nest itself. But before I continue I simply must know—how did you know we were coming? I mean, to actually send people looking for us, you had to not only know we were coming, but when, and from where!”

Ror'at blinked intense amusement then. “Trade in tales is our greatest asset, and we are very good at it. We are also at the very center of the world—this, ah, ‘island,' Lef-ten-aant called it. Our boats travel the river, and other rivers that touch it. Our tellers of tales range far—and move very quickly when the tale is urgent. They speak to other tellers of tales, wherever they go, but all must come through here.” He managed what actually looked like a smug grin. “This is like the center of a spider's web when it comes to tales. Payment in tales or other goods come from those who hear the tales—or they get no more.”

“I swear!” Silva barked. “It's like the Pony Express—with 'Cats! An' I bet you get a kickback from everything that comes through.”

The Lemurians blinked at him uncomprehendingly, then Ror'at somehow seemed to grasp the gist of what he meant. “We hear all the tales, and can pass them on to others who will appreciate them.”

Courtney was glaring at Silva. “Indeed,” he grumped. He turned back to Ror'at. “But how, specifically, did you know to expect us?”

“We rarely know the origin of a tale, only that it must be true or no payment is sent. In your case, word of your preparations to come to us must have originated with the Aan-glis you fight with. They may not have even been part of the web, but would have told others who are. From there, the tale quickly spread. We did not know you were coming
here
until tellers of tales came from the other side of the mountains.” He blinked. “We knew you would not be welcome there and if they did not kill you, you would either leave or come to us. That took little deduction.”

Courtney had heard of the Pony Express. There'd once been something similar, briefly, in Northern Australia. With a communications network as sophisticated as the one Ror'at described, he saw how news of their intentions, departure, and approach actually could've gotten here ahead of them, since they'd spent so long at the mercy of a storm—and then creeping up the river. “But . . . ,” he protested, “if the Grik buildup west of here two months ago—I mean . . . Oh, never mind. But why didn't that tale reach our Aan-glis allies?”

Ror'at blinked almost primly. “Some Aan-glis do not think the tales of others have value. I would guess that those who fight with you have not always rewarded tellers of tales in the past.”

“So we didn't get the word because our friends stiffed the mailman,” Silva murmured.

“And we never dreamed such an arrangement for sharing information even existed,” Chack agreed.

Courtney cleared his throat and addressed Ror'at. “Then perhaps you already know our reason for coming to you, and how costly the fight against the Grik has been for us—though I suspect it has taken more lives than you may be able to imagine. Still, we have reached the shores of victory at last.” His bushy eyebrows arched. “But the Grik retain a final, greater shore across the sea to, um, sunset-ward. That swarm you heard of came from there to throw us off this land. It was destroyed,” he
confirmed, “at further great cost. That is, in fact, what prompted our mission here: to find Mi-Anakka, Aan-glis,
anyone
of honor who craves safety and freedom and will join us”—he paused and blinked irony of his own at Ror'at-Raal—“in our mad effort to destroy this evil forever.” He caught the Lemurian gazing at the weapons his companions carried. “Those who do will be given training and war leaders experienced at fighting Grik, and arms like those we carry so long as they swear never to use them against anyone
but
Grik.” With the apparent diversity of tribes and clans and ancient animosities on this island, Courtney wasn't so naïve as to believe modern weapons would never be used to settle old scores, but they could at least be careful who they armed—and who they didn't.

Ror'at-Raal blinked stunned amazement. “You will give us magic weapons? And come here to help us fight the Gaa-rieks?”

Courtney blinked back in consternation. “Um, yes, we will arm you, and do all the things I said, but we can't possibly do that here. We need you and your people to come to us, to help us fight the Grik where they continue to attack us—beyond the, um, ‘mountain of rotting trees.'” He considered, then added, “And eventually beyond even that, on the final Grik shore itself.”

Ror'at blinked alarm. “We cannot go from here!” he said. “Even without the Gaa-rieks, other clans will take our lands while we are gone! The web of tales would tear, and we would return to find ourselves outcasts in our own lands!” He looked longingly at the Krag on Courtney's shoulder. “No,” he said sadly. “Not for any magic could we do this. We will fight to protect our lands, but we cannot fight to lose them!”