Blood In the Water (43 page)

CHAPTER
28

West-Central Mada-gaas-gar
Predawn, October 12, 1944

Bright flashes lit the night on the far side of the river, punctuated by booming thumps and a tearing, crackling sound. Some of the weary, starving 'Cats in the line of slaves stared across in wonder. Most didn't even raise their heads. They just kept putting one foot in front of the other, incapable of willing themselves to do more.

“The show has begun,” Chack whispered to his Shee-Ree comrades.

“Shh,” Lawrence cautioned. “Guards ahead, at the gate.”

It wasn't much of a gate, just a section of the boma that had been pushed aside for the slaves to pass. But it was open. Three Grik stood silhouetted against the campfires and the flashes across the river, staring at the “ruckus” Silva and Kaam's force was raising. Another commotion was rising in the camp just ahead as horns sounded, different from those Chack had heard so many times before. These were not as loud, but were
capable of combining notes to give more detailed instructions. Chack wondered what they looked like; then he saw one illuminated by a campfire. It looked oddly like a bagpipe, such as some Imperial troops were so fond of, but the notes were changed by sliding something across the face of a small box between the bag and the horn that jutted up alongside the operator's head. Grik officers roused their troops with harsh cries, and some were already trotting, in columns, down to the water, where wide, shallow-draft boats awaited them.

“It is working!” one of the raiders hissed.

“Silence!” Lawrence cautioned more insistently.

One Grik turned to watch Lawrence approach, even as the first slaves were already past it. As they drew closer they could see a crest rising from the back of its helmet. An officer, then, most likely. The other two continued staring at the fight over the water.

The officer spoke to Lawrence with a series of harsh
click
s,
clack
s, and guttural tones. Lawrence stopped and stood straight, replying with something that sounded similar, at least to Chack, but his hand tightened on his Navy cutlass, concealed in the bundle of wood on his shoulder. He had no choice but to move along, however, as the rest of the slaves trudged onward. Soon Lawrence was lost to view behind them in the dark. He faced ahead, looking at the camp while trying not to appear too curious. What he saw amazed him. There were what appeared to be squad tents arranged in neat, ordered rows, and cookfires were regularly situated. Muskets stood in tripod stands—at least until rushing warriors snatched them up and raced down toward the dock. There was growing chaos of a sort, but it was an orderly, purposeful chaos like he'd never seen Grik demonstrate before. Even General Alden had never reported anything quite this . . . unsettling from General Halik in Indiaa. It was like they'd not only copied the weapons of the Allied Army, at least as they'd been introduced to them during the invasion of Ceylon, but they'd also imitated the army itself, in form, function, and practice.

These Grik are clearly different from any
I've
faced. More like the “smart” Grik Halik somehow created.
And thinking back, he realized that Safir had told him that she'd seen a few like this at Grik City, though not armed with muskets, and there hadn't been enough to make a difference. Now he was seeing the rear echelon, a mere
support battalion
for an
entire army patterned after their own
.
He had a chilling thought.
Could
we
defeat the army we once were, which they seem to have copied? Yes,
he decided after a moment.
We have better weapons now, better tactics. And we're far more experienced—and ruthless
—
than we were. Reaching parity with the force they'd emulated, wedded to and limited by linear tactics, should make these Grik roughly equivalent to Doms. So, all other things being equal, we can still beat them. But things aren't equal, are they?
He argued somberly with himself
. They never have been equal in numbers, and the only things that have saved us are discipline and superior firepower. They seem to have caught us in the discipline department. How “superior” is our firepower now? Still enough to make up for their numbers?
He simply didn't know. Lawrence caught up with him at a trot.

“You had quite a long talk,” Chack said. “What did he want, and, more important, did he buy what you had to say?”

“I don't know,” Lawrence confessed. “He asked the unit, the . . . ‘phack' I in. I told he the Second, ah, ‘Eaters.' That's the unit this Grik”—he tugged at his armor—“is in. He thought I talked strange, and I hold I throat like it hurts. Then he asked how I didn't get chosen to get cooked, since I so short.” He shook his head, blinking irritation in the Lemurian way. “Not sure he 'ought it. He let I go, though, saying the Second is headed across the ripher and I need to join it, go down there.” He cut his head toward where Grik were piling into boats. Some had already shoved off, and oars were rising and falling. “I ran that direction, then this again. He could'a seen.”

“We're almost to the dock,” Chack said, nodding forward. Just ahead now, the first of the two steamers loomed in the darkness. It had a two-level superstructure between the paddle boxes and a small, blocky pilothouse positioned just forward of the funnel. Chack was relieved to see occasional sparks flutter upward from the funnel and glow in the stream of smoke the breeze carried away.
Steam's still up,
he thought. Behind the steamer was the barge, empty now except for heaps of wood—like the slaves carried—and it was toward the barge they were being directed by another pair of Grik sentries. Barely visible in the gloom beyond was the other steamer, also receiving a load of wood.

“All still depends on you,” Chack reminded Lawrence. Lawrence jerked a nod and strode toward the sentries. “Not a sound, if you can help it,” Chack hissed at his raiders.

Both sentries were taller than Lawrence, but they never had a chance. He merely stepped right up to them and stabbed the bayonet on the end of his Allin-Silva rifle deep into the first one's eye. He stepped forward as he jerked the bayonet out and slammed the rifle butt into the other Grik's astonished face. The first fell without a sound, flopping and kicking spastically even as Lawrence reversed his weapon and drove his bloody bayonet through the second Grik's throat. It tried to scream, but there was only a harsh hiss and a thick rush of blood. Chack and his raiders dropped their loads of wood, their weapons tumbling out. A raider immediately sent a heavy arrow straight through the head of the closest guard, just beginning to stir in response to the commotion. Chack was again impressed by the power and accuracy of the Shee-Ree bows. Two raiders bolted into the night to hunt other guards while the rest tried to quell the growing uproar among the slaves. Some quickly recognized what was going on, but many were stunned, even terrified by the sudden turn of events. They moaned and cried, and a few dashed away in panic.

“No!” Chack hissed in frustration when he saw one of these running blindly back the way they'd come, through the camp and toward the first Grik sentries. “Try not to hurt them, but get the rest of them on the barge, whatever it takes,” he ordered, his voice rising to be heard. He nodded at the remaining ten raiders before stooping to retrieve his gear from the pile of wood he'd dropped. “Two with Lawrence, to the engineering spaces—Lawrence will lead you there. Two with me to secure the pilothouse. The rest of you, and the others when they return, will clear the superstructure—the, ah, house above the deck—and defend the ship at all costs. Mount the Vickers gun at the top of the ramp and see if there are other weapons aboard. But don't fire unless you have to. Use arrows as long as you can. Let Chief Silva's ruckus draw as many Grik into the river as will go.” He finished latching his pistol belt, affixed the bayonet on the end of his Krag, and hefted the rifle. “Let's move!”

“What about the other smoking boat?” a raider asked, and Chack hesitated. “Ror'at-Raal will take it when he comes.” At least that was the plan. “And Lawrence or I will get it underway once it's secure.” Of course, if they couldn't take it—or operate it when they did—they'd have to disable it. Somehow. “Follow me!” he cried, dashing up the gangway and aboard the steamer. His two raiders quickly followed, arrows nocked.
Four more 'Cats banged through a hatch into the superstructure, leaving four to finish killing Grik guards and herd the slave 'Cats onto the barge. Lawrence's party brought up the rear, then darted aft as soon as they were aboard. Almost immediately, both groups met a companionway, one up, one down. “The Heavens watch you!” Chack called to Lawrence. “Good luck!” the Sa'aaran answered, then bounded down the wooden stairs. Chack went up.

An uncomprehending Grik face, toothy jaws wide with surprise, met him at the top of the stairs, and Chack drove his bayonet into the open mouth. The thing screamed and tried to slash him with its claws as it tumbled back, but Chack kept it away with the long rifle, driving up, forward, and down on the deck. Jerking back, he stabbed down again, nailing the Grik's neck to the planks and twisting savagely. An arrow whisked by over his head, and another startled Grik staggered back and fell down to the fo'c'sle below with a dead-meat
thunk
. “You guys are
good
at that,” Chack complimented as he rushed onward and up the next companionway to the pilothouse. Flinging open the door and rushing inside, they found three Grik—and these had realized something was up. They weren't armed, but with their vicious teeth and wicked claws, no Grik is ever truly unarmed—and bows and arrows are not the best choice for fighting in confined spaces. Chack led with his bayonet again, taking what might've been the captain in the chest and slamming him back. A second Grik pounced from the side, teeth flashing, but one of the raiders jammed his bow in the thing's mouth and shoved hard. The string snapped and shivered the bow from the 'Cat's grasp, but the effect momentarily stunned the Grik as well. The third one clamped its jaws on the back of the raider's head and slashed his throat with its claws. Chack withdrew his bayonet and turned in time to see his third raider, still in the doorway, drop his bow and grasp the hatchet at his side. He'd never raise it in time. The second Grik had already tossed their dead comrade aside and was lunging, jaws agape. Chack stabbed it in the back, bowling it forward against the pilothouse wall while the raider, blinking furiously, practically leaped over him and brought his hatchet down between the third Grik's eyes. It made a
huff!
sound as the stone head bit deep, crushing bone and brains, then sprawled thrashing on the deck.

Chack and the raider stood gasping for a moment in the cramped pilothouse. Blood was everywhere, spattered on the walls, the deck, the
wheel, and them. The sharp reek of blood and voided bowels—
Nothing stinks like Grik shit,
Chack mused numbly—was thick enough to taste. At that moment, the speaking tube beside the wheel wheezed dully, totally unlike the piercing whistles Chack was accustomed to. Without thinking, he stepped to the tube. “Bridge, ay, Chack speaking.”

“Colonel Chack,” came Lawrence's voice, very formal. “The engineering s'aces are secure. There's only one gauge,” he added, his tone growing somewhat incredulous. “They
say
it's a gauge. There's just a line not to go o'er. It says there's enough stea' to get under'ay.”

“Very well,” Chack replied, equally formal. “But who's ‘they'?”

“The Grik 'lack gang.” Lawrence paused, then simply said, “Us didn't e'en need to kill any o' they. They're not, ah, ‘soldier Grik.' Just sailors. I told they that us . . . own they now, and they act like that's okay, like it's natural.” There was a slight pause. “Usual.”

Chack blinked amazement. What next? At that moment, the Vickers gun on the gangway opened up, and cries of alarm reached him through the glassless windows of the pilothouse. “Very well,” he said. “Make all preparations for getting underway. The Grik are wise to us.”