Deadly Shores (39 page)

Miles wavered, looking resentful, and Spanky's eyes narrowed. Despite his diminutive size, nobody
ever
hesitated to obey one of Spanky's orders. “What the hell's the matter with you?” he thundered. “Get going before I kick your worthless ass to the fish!” He looked around. “Jeek? Where's Jeek?”

“Here,” said the burly Lemurian chief of the Special Air Division.

“You do the same to port. One thing: everybody at deck level has to watch where they shoot! We don't want to hit any of our people under the amidships platform!” He considered. “See if you can rig a fire hose. If we've got pressure, maybe we can
squirt
some of the sons of bitches off the ship!”

“I try,” Jeek confirmed. “An' we not worry much about hitting our own guys much longer—we nearly out o' ammo!”

Spanky nodded grimly. “Right. Oh well, enough Marines made it back here with their shields. We'll fight behind those with cutlasses when we have to.” He took a moment to gaze forward. A few crossbow bolts zipped past him, but most of the apparent “shock troops” that made it aboard hadn't carried them—and now they packed the waist so densely that there wasn't room for more Grik to squeeze aboard. An eruption of mangled flesh and body parts alongside coincided with another blast from the number one gun, which continued to perform admirably, with its uninterrupted ammunition train, but the number two gun on the amidships platform had fallen silent. Closer, Spanky heard shots from within the 25-mm tubs and realized some of the guys stationed there must not have been able to clear out in time. The shots diminished and quit under the rising and falling swords and spears of Grik that leaped into the tubs. For an instant, there was a slight pause; then a mass of Grik turned aft and began lapping at his own platform, trying to get past or over it. “Kill 'em!” he bellowed, firing downward. “Kill every damn one! Give 'em some grenades!” They'd been saving the hand grenades expressly for a situation like this. It was then that he heard a terrifying sound: the clang of the hatch just below that led into the torpedo workshop, laundry, and aft crew's head! And, of course, there was a companionway in the deckhouse that led down into the guinea pullman, or aft berthing spaces, and ultimately to the engine rooms themselves. He thought all the hatches had been secured, but maybe the Grik had jimmied the thing. It didn't matter. Grenades thumped as his comrades pulled the pins and rolled them into the mass, sending sprays of blood and fuzz back in their faces. He turned to grab some himself, from a bucket near the number four gun. A bolt struck him high in the thigh.
Awful close to where I got shot in the ass when we fought Amagi,
he realized with dark indignation, through the waves of pain. “Goddamn it!” he roared, snapping the shaft off and hurling it at the Grik trying to scrabble up and onto the leading edge of the deckhouse. He grabbed several grenades and hooked them on his belt, then fired his '03 into a slathering face that rose above the deck. Cursing, he lurched toward the speaking tubes by the auxiliary conning station.

“Tabby!” he shouted into the tube that terminated at the throttle station. “You're gonna have company, aft. . . . I'm sorry, doll.” He looked around. “Quick! More grenades! We gotta keep the rest of these critters away from the hatch!”

*   *   *

“Grenades!” Campeti roared, seeing what Spanky was doing aft.

“No!” Matt shouted. “Belay that! We've still got people below us around the galley!”

“Not much longer!” a 'Cat gunner squeaked, pointing forward. Wounded 'Cats and a few men were making their way to the companionway to the left of the foremast, trying to get below to the wardroom where Sandra and her medical division waited. Matt suspected many would return to the fight once their bleeding had been stopped. No one, particularly the Lemurians, would want to die down there. If they had to die, they'd rather do it in the open. With a rush, most of Rosen's remaining sailors and Marines pulled back, forming another line just aft of the stairway leading up to the bridge. A few clambered up to join Matt, including Bernie Sandison, chased by a flurry of clattering spears. Bernie's helmet was gone, and his dark hair was matted with blood that the rain washed down his neck in pink rivulets. He also had a deep cut on his left shoulder, and his shirt was mostly torn away. He still had his rifle, though, and the bayonet was clotted with reddish black blood.

“It's good to see you, Mr. Sandison.” Matt smiled. The incongruity of the greeting was profound, there on what was rapidly becoming a rectangular island of steel in a sea of Grik.

“It's good to see you too, sir,” Bernie gasped. “Sorry we couldn't hold them longer. . . .”

“Nonsense. You did very well. What happened to Lanier? I didn't see him fall back with the others.”

Bernie blinked. “He dragged his damn Coke machine in the galley and shut himself in with a couple of the mess attendants,” he finally managed, and Matt barked a laugh.

“He should be safe enough in there, for a while. Mr. Campeti, go ahead and throw all the grenades you want. The Grik'll be coming up the stairs directly, I suspect.”

As if his words had summoned them, Grik surged up the stairs, and even leaped at the platform from the tops of the vegetable lockers alongside the number three funnel. The twenty-five or so defenders immediately redirected their aim, or met the charging enemy with bayonets. Some continued throwing shell casings or the jumble of spears that had accumulated at their feet. Matt and Bernie rushed with the others, roaring and slapping away spears with their rifles before driving their bayonets into bodies that wildly squirmed to avoid them. Matt jerked back, sending a Grik tumbling down amid its comrades, and lunged again. Another Grik yanked the rifle from his grip, the wet stock slippery in his fingers, but managed to impale itself on the blade. Either way, the rifle was gone, and Matt took a step back, face set, and drew his academy sword. Somehow, he'd known it would come to this.

//////
II Corps

W
ith the help of the new field telephones to coordinate the attack, General Queen Safir Maraan prepared to take what was left of her entire II Corps into the next Grik trench. Almost nothing was ready; everyone was growing short on ammunition, and they'd been waiting for the Nancys to come back and plaster the position with incendiaries one more time. Apparently
Walker
needed some rather badly just then as well. Of course,
all
the Nancys had been delayed by some monumental screwup having to do with where they should refuel and rearm . . . but that only made it more imperative that Safir move as quickly as she could. She couldn't wait any longer, air or not. The Grik firebombs were cooking her out. She wasn't sure exactly when they'd need it, but with
Big Sal
and the rest of the fleet coming in with the tide, she had to secure the airfield for the Fleashooters or they'd start setting down wherever they could—on the beach if they had to. She did finally have quite a few mortars up and running, and a number of guns had been turned, so the Grik weren't having it all their way, but she could sense that the time had arrived when the momentum of battle was about to begin cascading—in one direction or another. In her experience, such moments rarely favored those who sat and waited for them. She saw her chance with the approach of one of the virtually opaque rainsqualls that had been marching about the area all day long.

A furious fusillade of mortars and cannon churned the enemy trench at a rate she couldn't sustain, but nothing could resist it either, and nearly all fire from the Grik position came to a stop. Further substantiating her notion of “cascading momentum,” the rain struck.

“Up!” she cried. “Up and at them!” Prepared by the telephones, the whole corps was poised and waiting when hundreds of whistles shrilled damply under the downpour. Safir had promised General Grisa she wouldn't charge the enemy with a bayonet, but Grisa was gone.
Besides,
she told herself as she drew her brightly polished sword,
I shall keep my promise regardless. Bayonets are such awkward things
. A terrible roar arose in thousands of wrathful, frustrated throats, reflecting all the misery II Corps had endured that day, and to some degree, an inherited consciousness of what all Lemurians had endured at the hands of the hated Grik since before time was ever measured.

Up they went, out of the suddenly rain-slick trench, like a swarm of furry demons. There were 'Cats from Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la, and Sular; Aryaal, B'mbaado, and all the various seagoing Homes that had contributed a few troops, here and there, throughout the Allied armies. There was even a sprinkling of early arrivals from the Great South Isle, and a few liaison officers off
Amerika
. All Lemurians in the Alliance were represented in that dark tide that rose against its ancient enemy on their—and his—most sacred soil. Some Grik obviously saw the move, even through the lashing rain, and tried to rise and meet it. They were scoured down from the lip of their own trench by pounding swaths of canister. Then, even as the infantry surged to the attack, some of the lighter artillery pieces were heaved forward as well: six-pounders mounted on the lighter, improved carriages that had become standard in the Alliance. These continued to send murderous cans full of musket balls at the enemy—and beyond, at the milling mass of Grik behind the front line—just as quickly as they could be slammed down hissing barrels.

“Forward! Don't stop!” Safir cried, waving her sword. “Fire as you go—but make sure you're loaded when you reach the trench!” The last was a tactic that Chack had developed in the East against the Doms. A last, withering volley down into the cowering, unprepared enemy had been shown to produce most satisfactory results. The Grik had spears, but their musketeers didn't even have plug bayonets so they'd be helpless against the final fusillade, and the ingeniously offset socket bayonets that followed.

Crossbow bolts slammed into her troops in a hail of iron-tipped wood, but there was almost no firing from the Grik. The rain had seen to that by dampening their powder and wetting their match cords. Safir breathed heavily in the sodden air, and the visibility was virtually nil. The rain gave everything a dull, blurry aspect, and the gunsmoke clung to the ground like a heavy fog. Even more quickly than she expected, she reached the Grik trench and saw Grik heads rise up and stare back at her with open-mouthed astonishment. Flashes of booming Allin-Silva rifles rippled in the smoke, the jets of flame angled downward, as the first wave of attackers gained the position. With another mounting roar, the leading edge of 5th Division leaped down in the trench, and the terrible sound of weapons crashing together mixed with the screams caused by triangular bayonets and broad-bladed Grik spears piercing flesh.

Safir stomped on a spear pointing at her, and vaulted over the Grik wielding it. She landed in the muck behind the creature and slashed back with her sword. Other Grik were packed close around, barely conscious of her, and she slew them with little effort. More rifles fired down around her, and she was somewhat amazed no one hit her by accident, but more Lemurians quickly joined her in the suddenly corpse-choked pit—she couldn't distinguish regimental or division devices in the rush. They fanned out protectively around her, killing as they went.

She paused then, for a breath, and watched the fighting rage around her. There was little shooting now, only a desperate motion of bayonet-tipped rifles stabbing, thrusting, parrying, or battering with a maniacal level of spastic violence she'd rarely seen before. The squall was passing and the visibility began to improve, showing her an unbroken mass of Grik still behind the trench; she felt a rush of terror. If they came on now, they'd smother her entire corps under numbers alone . . . but they weren't coming! With a moment to scrutinize them, she realized that the Grik behind the trench weren't warriors, weren't even armed, and instead of rushing to join the fight, they were running away! Most were, at any rate.

A few were advancing from the horde in a disciplined line that made her stare as they carried leveled spears and their customary small shields. She roared for the troops around her to prepare, and they barely did so in time. A big Grik with a young crest protruding from a gap in his helmet almost fell on top of her, slipping as it came. She thrust upward with her sword and felt a hot rush of blood course down her arm. The creature wailed but carried on, almost crushing her under its dying bulk. Claws groped at her, gouging her silver breastplate with a rasping scrape she could feel in her spine, and teeth gnawed at her helmet. Her breastplate protected her from the weight of the thing, but her face was jammed in the reeking muscle of its powerful forearm. She could barely breathe and tried to bite down, but couldn't even move her jaw. With a chill she realized the thing was sinking her in the muck, and she
would
suffocate if it didn't shift enough to shred her first!

“My queen!” came a voice as the flailing corpse was dragged off and hacked apart. Hands raised her up and steadied her solicitously as she took deep, gasping breaths. Renewed firing had erupted in the trench, and she was dizzy and a little disoriented. When she focused on the one who spoke, she realized it was her “personal” comm'Cat! The Heavens alone knew how he'd kept up with her in all of this. A different EM crouched beside him with a muddy spool of wire, and she suspected the other must have fallen in the advance.

“What are the Grik doing?” she demanded, appreciatively taking her sword from a sergeant who'd retrieved it.

“They flee!” the sergeant trilled with glee, pointing at the retreating mass. “They run away! Courtney Braad-furd's ‘Grik Rout' has finally taken them!”

She stared. The sergeant seemed to be right at a glance. Clearly many of the Grik were running in abject panic . . . but many may not have been. She groped for her glass but couldn't find it. She'd lost it somewhere, either in the charge or here in the slurry of the trench. “They are moving back toward the palace, or temple—whatever that monstrous great structure might be!” she said.

“Ah, my queen,” the comm'Cat said with some hesitation, “I have received a signal that roughly detailed an attempt by a small party from
Waa-kur
to use the diversion of the various fightings to make an attempt against the palace! It seems the great Si-vaa and others mean to slay the High Chief of all the Grik herself!”

“And now all the Grik we just faced in their thousands are moving in that direction!” Safir breathed. She blinked sudden determination. “We must not give the enemy time to retreat within the palace! Not only might they thwart the courageous plan of our friends, but we surely have nothing that can batter down such a massive structure.” Her tone was granite when she continued. “This victory has been bought with too much blood for it to remain incomplete! Does your communication device—your ‘phone'—yet function?”

“Yes, my queen!”

“Very well. First, if you cannot contact COFO Tikker yourself, please ensure that enough people know to spread the word that his First Naval Air Wing is
not
to attack the second Grik trench when it finally arrives, as we are in it already. I do desire that he attack the concentration of Grik out in the open between here and the palace as vigorously as he can. In fact, an effort to divert the enemy's retreat away from the palace would be ideal.” She waited for a moment while the comm'Cat spoke into his handset. When he blinked at her, indicating the task was complete, she took a long breath. At least the stench of the place had been deadened by the rain. “Now,” she said, “send to Col-nol Saachic to charge his cavaal-ry into the flank of that mob; drive it north and keep it in front of us! To all other commands: Second Corps shall pursue the enemy at once. Our foremost objective is to press him
past
the palace, and deny him an opportunity to escape within! If Adar can manage to land the rest of our forces in the harbor, he may be of great assistance to that task. Regardless,” she continued with complete resolve, “we shall kill every Grik in this city if it destroys this entire corps to do so!”

1st Allied Raider Brigade

To Lieutenant Colonel Chack-Sab-At's anxious dismay, his exhausted brigade had been rushing to the sound of distant guns since before the dreary dawn. Clearly, the attack on Grik City had begun without him, and he had no way of communicating his presence, or even knowing the situation he was hurrying toward. His only consolation was, whatever was happening, the battle still raged and he hadn't missed it entirely. He looked at Courtney Bradford, riding awkwardly on a borrowed Me-naak beside him in the damp forest gloom. He had no doubt they
would
have missed it if not for the strange humans they'd met. Courtney had proclaimed that they were obviously descendants of the third East India Company ship that had ventured west so long ago, when the other two had gone east to found the Empire of New Britain Isles. The Grik had preserved them here, like so many others, as examples of “other hunters,” or “worthy prey,” to help identify more they might yet meet—or simply for sport. It was impossible to say.

Jindal had been skeptical at first that they actually sprang from the same source as his own ancestors, but there really was no question. No matter how far they'd regressed, Courtney insensitively argued that they actually
looked
more closely related to the founders of the Empire than its current subjects—after generations of female additions from the Dominion. But Imperial histories maintained that none of the women in that ancient squadron had sailed with the westbound ship, whose ultimate goal had been a return to England, so either Will's forebears found other women somewhere along the way or the histories were in error. Courtney leaned heavily on the latter explanation, further exasperating Jindal, but even Jindal finally had to admit it was possible. Chack still found it hard to believe their benefactors had survived at all, but their language was further evidence. They spoke strangely, to be sure, but they could be understood. They'd maintained a number of nautical traditions as well, including that of calling their leader “the captain.”

True to his word, the one named Will had secured permission from their “captain” to help them reach this place, and they'd largely replaced Chack's skirmishers and scouts. Somehow, they kept the local denizens away with great skill and bravery, accompanied by superior, age-old knowledge of the monsters. As far as Chack had been able to learn, they'd managed it without losing a single man. That amazed him, and the service had been invaluable since it had allowed the brigade to travel much more swiftly. That morning, however, their escorts began to melt away, and the one called Will joined Chack on the march. “We's leavin' naw,” he'd said with some apparent embarrassment. “Thar's few beasties 'tween here an' the wall a' trees. Garieks keep 'em killed back.” With a wistful glance at the marching brigade, back in column now, he'd continued. “I'd love ta gae an, but the Garieks hae maskits naw, an' we's daint.” Then he added hopefully, “I reckan ya's dadn't brang enaw ta spare?”

“If we had, I'd gladly share them,” Chack lied. He appreciated the help Will and his people gave, but wasn't about to arm them with modern weapons. Not only did he prefer to learn more about them first—not least what their relationship might be with other intelligent “predators” the Grik preserved here, possibly even including members of his own race—but with so short a time to train them, he feared the weapons and ammunition would be wasted in the fight to come.

“Indeed?” Will asked, possibly guessing some of Chack's concerns. He finally shook his head. “We'll nae fight Gariek maskits an' gannes, but yan thunder is prafe enaw that ye's dae indeed hae anather armee pawncin' an the buggers. I'll wish ye's gad fartune, an' pray far yer success. My falk'll be watchin', an' we's halp ye's haw we's can—in ather ways, praps—an when the fight is wan.”