Blood In the Water (25 page)

“What, don't trust me behind you?” Miles smirked.

Silva barked a laugh. “No, I don't. But if I thought I had to
worry
about you, for me or them”—he nodded in the direction his friends had gone—“I'd feed your sorry ass to the worms here an' now. You may've heard, but I don't like worryin' about stuff.”

Miles's face clouded. “Just what the hell is it with you? With everybody! What've you got against me?”

Silva cocked his head. “It ain't so much what I've got against you, it's just that I got nothin'
for
you, and I think that's all that matters to you. You toadied up to that snoop Commander Herring all the time to a mighty unnatural degree. Now he's dead an' you got nobody left to toady to.”

“You like Gunny Horn, and he was tight with Herring.”

“Horn's a right guy,” Silva agreed, “an' he respected Herring. But he kept things proper, see?” Silva shrugged. “An' Herring might've been okay too, for all I know. We had a talk or two from time to time about . . .
things. While I was healin' . . .” He stopped and looked at Miles. “Even talked about
you
once, an' I got some o' the dope on why you're such a toad. Anyway, my point is that you don't sweat, and if things go in the crapper, you won't
bleed
for nobody. Nobody but Ian Miles.”

Miles scowled. “And why should I? I've been through enough. I was a prisoner of the Japs before I ever even wound up here. . . .”

“Wah, wah. Yeah, the Japs had you, an' that was tough. But they had Horn, an' Herring, an' a buncha other guys too. Guys who didn't wind up with a heap o' chips on their shoulders. They didn't quit hatin' Japs, but they learned the Grik are just as bad, or worse. An' the Grik are the ones the Japs on this world shacked up with. Not hard to figure who the real enemy is, you ask me. So they pitched in. Now Horn's hurt an' Herring's dead, but they took theirs for the goddamn
team
, see?” He shook his head. “That's what I don't get about you. You're in one piece, mainly because guys like them ain't, an' instead o' hankerin' to even the score with the ones who did your pals, all you do is mope an' groan. The war marches on, but you still just slide.”

“A man's got a right to take a break,” Miles insisted stubbornly. “And your Captain Reddy's got no authority over me. He's got no real authority at all, ever since you came to this screwed-up world. And that bastard McFarlane sent me on this trip. Just
sent
me, like I have no rights at all!”

Silva suddenly grabbed Miles's shirt and shook the man. “You listen to me, you piece o' shit! Captain Reddy's
the
authority on this planet, far as I'm concerned. Why? Because he kept everything together when it should'a fallen apart. Spanky may be a bastard, I don't know, but far as
you're
concerned, he sits at the right hand o' God.
Do you understand?
” Silva pushed him away. “And yeah, Spanky sent you because he flat didn't want you around—and he wanted me to find out if you were worth feedin'. So far, I say no, but that's up to you to change.” He grinned, but the expression wasn't born of humor. “He also said—just between him an' me, 'cause the Skipper'd never approve—that if you really ain't worth a hole in a chicken's ass, he never wants to see you again. Savvy?”

Miles's lip remained curled. “Yeah, I ‘savvy.' Basically, if I don't do what you say, you'll try to murder me.”

“Yep. 'Bout the size of it. Except for the ‘try' part. Might anyway if I figger you ain't reformed.”

“Awful sure of yourself, aren't you?”

Silva just looked at him with his one good eye. “Yep, I am. I seen guys like you all my life—in the Navy, in the Corps, it don't matter. I was a lot like you once myself,” he added with a smirk of his own. “Grassburrs in the watermelon patch was all we were. All
you
are. But I'll level with you. If I can change into somethin' less useless than what I was, anybody can. So I'll give you a chance. You shape up an' we'll, well, maybe we won't get along, but I won't kill you. If you don't . . .” Silva shrugged.

“So that's it?” Miles asked quietly. He was watching Silva very carefully. Had he actually been listening, thinking about what Silva said, or was he just figuring his odds? His rifle was on his shoulder, his pistol buttoned down. He carried a cutlass too, but couldn't have any illusions there. Silva was no fencer, but he was pure murder in a fight with
his
cutlass, and could have it out and slashing before Miles even touched a weapon.

“Yep. Pretty much,” Silva finally said, motioning Miles down the rocky slope. After another hesitation, the man cautiously turned to follow the others. “Just one more little thing,” Silva added. “I know some of what you an' Herring were up to, with that ‘Killer Kudzu' weapon Bernie Sandison cooked up in Baalkpan. I know what that shit does. I discovered it myself on Yap Island, as a matter of fact.” He considered. “I guess Mr. Cook actually
discovered
it, him gettin' the thorn in his finger an' all.” He looked at Miles. “But I had to cut that finger
off
. From one little tiny thorn. So I believe I'd go ahead and tell me the rest of Herring's scheme, if I was you.”

CHAPTER
16

Indus River Valley
October 6, 1944

General Yikkit was very nervous indeed, marching forward with a small escort beneath a single shot-torn banner, to meet a delegation of Shighat's generals. They were approaching beneath a small cloud of snakelike pennants of their own. Behind him was what looked like a ragtag, fidgety mob of hungry warriors gathered together in a massive blob as if for mutual assurance, apparently teetering on the very edge of turning prey. That was certainly understandable considering what they'd been through, and was no less than what the head of the delegation marching to meet him fully expected to see. Behind
his
party, choking the tight mountain pass, was the uncountable horde of Shighat's “finest” warriors; his elite “Guard Swarm.” Enaak's and Svec's reports—and Yikkit knew them to be true in this case, so was more inclined to believe the rest—numbered the Guard
Swarm at just over forty thousand. They were all dressed alike in red leather armor—Shighat had been taken with how proper warriors dressed, if not by how they behaved—and though they had that hard, lean look of having marched a great distance, they were obviously well fed and equipped. Yikkit had once considered them a match for anything they might meet. Now, though they were an intimidating sight, even bunched together as they were, filling the curving pass as far as Yikkit could see, he knew that they were doomed. The Guard Swarm wasn't what concerned him. He was worried about what lay beyond it: a force four times as large, if not quite so pampered. And he was more than a little worried that he might be just a bit too close when the first blow fell in this—
face it
—rebellion.

He wasn't afraid to fight. He'd been a sport fighter too, just like General Halik. He enjoyed personal combat, and had never expected to feel that particular thrill again. He looked forward to that aspect of the coming battle with a pleasant anticipation that surprised him with its intensity. But if General Niwa and the special detachment of civilian Hij under his personal supervision had miscalculated, the blow that should soon break the vanguard of the Guard Swarm might very well break General Yikkit as well. He took a deep, calming breath and marched on. If it did, there was nothing for it, and chances were, he'd never know. “Greetings, General D'ga!” he called, raising his hand. “Greetings, General Suluk! And you, Chooser! I trust you are well this day?” He mentally berated himself. He'd never been friendly with Shighat's chooser, or General D'ga either, for that matter. He hoped they'd write his enthusiasm off as relieved eagerness to return to the comforts of the host.

“Greetings, General Yikkit,” D'ga said, drawing near. He glanced disdainfully, significantly, at the mob gathered behind him. “I am surprised you could scrape up so many. Chooser, you likely have a long day ahead of you, regardless.”

“No doubt,” the chooser said, glancing at Yikkit. “This one has little notion of the difference between warriors and fodder. I expect to pass no more than one in five of that huddled vermin.” The delegation apparently hadn't noticed the way Yikkit's escort, under the command of Captain Sigg, began spreading out.

“My dear Chooser,” Yikkit said, laying the sarcasm heavily, openly now, “I suspect you will find a much higher percentage than
that
!” He
dropped his hand. When he did, the banner also dropped. General D'ga looked at him uncomprehendingly as Yikkit's hand rose once more, grasping his sword, and slashed downward at D'ga's neck. At that moment, the earth shuddered beneath their feet.

Ever since they'd crossed the Indus River, Halik and Niwa had put the large number of Hij they'd rescued to work making whatever they could to replenish their combat stores. Much had been accomplished. They couldn't make new artillery pieces or the multitude of other things that required vast quantities of metal, but strange metal artifacts of some previous civilization were frequently discovered. Not nearly enough had been gathered to make even a few cannon, but there'd been sufficient quantities to repair swords and muskets and make thousands of crossbow bolts tipped with copper or iron. That, and the incendiary “Grik Fire” they'd improvised, gave Halik's army individual parity with any Grik force it was likely to meet. It had been Niwa's personal project, however, that would give them the edge today. They'd made canister, both stone and metal, for the much reduced arsenal of artillery they'd brought away, but more important, they'd continued making gunpowder far beyond Halik's army's ability to use it in its remaining weapons, or even transport it. This surplus, tons of it, had been strategically placed in the rock face on the northeast side of the narrow gorge that Shighat's Guard Swarm now packed.

The “other small favor” that Colonel Enaak had granted Halik—over Svec's thunderous objection—was the platoon of combat engineers attached to his 5th Maa-ni-la Cavalry. They'd very uncomfortably (considering the company they were in) rigged the explosives Niwa's sappers had emplaced with their demolition gear, consisting of two miles of wire and two cases of electric primers of the type used by the navy to fire their great guns in salvo. All this terminated at a boxlike, plunger-type blasting machine they'd never let out of their sight. As per their agreement, no Grik ever came within fifty paces of the nervous, heavily armed platoon of Lemurians.

Then they'd waited, expectantly watching for the dropped banner as their signal to activate their detonator, pack it up, remount their me-naaks, and ride like hell. Neither they nor any other member of the Grand Alliance would take further action in the battle that day. Ultimately, the effect of their small contribution was disproportionate, to say the least.

The sudden shudder beneath Yikkit's feet presaged a tremendous serial thunderclap that pounded his senses so hard that he didn't even feel his blade chop deep into General D'ga's chest. Nor could he keep his feet. Off balance, he crouched low and watched as the entire northeast slope of the gorge vomited a great gray cloud of powder smoke mixed with granite dust. Inside the cloud, thousands of tons of gravel, rock, boulders, entire trees, all spewed or tumbled down upon the Grik army underneath. And even as the echoes of the terrible blast and the rumble of falling debris began to fade, the screams of thousands rose.

“At them!” Yikkit roared, jumping up and hacking the chooser down almost without a thought. The dust cloud was billowing toward him, and he knew he must face it—and the enemy—with a solid front. “Now!” he bellowed again, even as the “mob” of warriors behind him began to morph into something . . . extraordinary. Halik had told him it was a “shield wall,” something he'd learned from his human/Lemurian enemies, and something that could advance through the coming chaos and still keep together.

*   *   *

“Proceed,” Halik said simply, peering down at the tail end of the horror wrought by the explosives. It was impossible to tell how effective the stroke had truly been through all the swirling smoke and dust, but most of the Guard Swarm had been thrown into disarray at the very least. Now it was time to infect the follow-on forces, already heaving back against the tide of their comrades, with yet another terror. Shouts relayed Halik's command. In moments, dozens of flaming spheres of Grik Fire were catapulted into the air from the southwest rim of the gorge, immediately followed by more from the other side. The sputtering spheres arced down amid the milling mass of warriors and exploded with gouts of flame, roiling black smoke, and whistling shrieks of agony. What the human members of the Grand Alliance had dubbed “Grik Fire” for reasons Niwa had explained, and Halik thought appropriate, could be made from virtually any flammable substance, as long as the vapor wasn't too combustible. Some substances were better than others. The fuel they'd incorporated locally came from a mixture of the sap of a tree similar to a gimpra, and an oily resin easily distilled from a prickly native shrub. Both were combined in crude clay pots wrapped in ropes soaked with
the resin. The ropes were lit just before the torsion-powered bomb throwers were activated so the spheres had their own ignition source when they impacted and ruptured, spewing burning fluid in all directions. Judging by how quickly the fluid ignited and how persistently it burned, it looked like they'd come up with a particularly good batch.

More bombs arced in, just as quickly as the machines could be prepared, and Halik watched intently as fire washed across the panicking horde, sticking to and burning anything it touched in the confining space below. He found himself amazingly detached for once, almost like an ordinary Grik general that merely planned a battle and set it in motion. Those plans often involved a few refinements beyond simply lining up and bashing at an enemy, particularly when fighting other Grik when “style” was more important. Flank attacks were common, even obligatory to a degree, being reminiscent of an earlier age when small packs used them to bring down prey. But showing off was part of the ritual when Grik fought Grik, and flank attacks and other flourishes were usually displayed for the opponent to see and admire. Halik had never fought like that, and the greatest difference between what he'd planned and what any ordinary Grik general was capable of imagining was that he'd learned to hide his embellishments from an enemy as perceptive as General Pete Alden, and he had troops he could trust to carry them out. Last, of course, he'd soon be in the thick of it, up to his neck.

“Lord General!” cried a runner, suddenly gasping at his side. “General Shlook sends his dearest worship, and the Guard Swarm is ripe for harvest! Perhaps a quarter of its number was crushed when the mountain moved, and the rest are pressed between the fire and the attack Sixth and Third Divisions make. It teeters on the sword edge of turning prey entirely! He begs can he join the rout with his Second Division!”

The thousands below, not yet under the firebombs, were already recoiling back up the gorge. “By all means,” Halik said, “but wait a moment before you return to him. Signalers!” he said, raising his voice over the holocaust below, speaking to a section of Hij huddled near bearing bright pennants. Another trick he'd learned from his former, most esteemed foe. “Communicate to General Ugla that we will quickly begin our sweep!” As soon as a clear gap had formed between the forces dying below and the rest of Shighat's army, 1st and 4th Divisions, both under Ugla's command, would follow a cannonade by their few guns and a
blizzard of crossbow bolts down the cliffs on either side and surge up the gap behind the fleeing foe. “Keeping up the scare,” as Niwa had so eloquently put it. “Now,” Halik said, turning to Shlook's runner, “as soon as Generals Shlook, Yikkit, and Niwa have destroyed what remains of the Guard Swarm, they must quickly race to follow General Ugla's advance. I go now to join Fifth Division to attack Shighat's field palace directly. Resistance will no doubt stiffen whether I am successful or not, but they must not give the enemy a moment's pause; they
must
grind through! Fifth Division will serve as the anvil for their hammer blow. Any delay and the enemy
will
realize he still has the numbers to shrug us off. Now go!”

*   *   *

Yikkit's shield wall, now strengthened by Niwa's 3rd Division, which had hurried to join it from beyond the enemy's view, churned up the rubbled slope against the frenzied but disorganized resistance of what remained of the Guard Swarm. The dust was still thick, but visibility had improved enough to see that the red leather armor of their foes had turned a dull gray, and the once clear water of the shallow stream to their left was now a muddy, boulder-strewn seep. There were boulders everywhere, in fact, which made it difficult to maintain their murderous front, but Halik had trained his troops at this unmercifully, and the training was paying off.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Orochi Niwa asked General Yikkit, suddenly appearing beside him in the jostling, roaring line. Niwa spoke English, but with his elevation, Yikkit had been taught enough of the “scientific tongue” to understand quite a bit of what he said. Yikkit chanced a glance at the strange “Jaaph.” The man was supposedly still recovering from very serious wounds, but if that was the case, he showed no sign. He had no shield, but was making swift, efficient, lethal strikes through the shields around him with an unusually long, slightly curved sword. His skill seemed highly practiced, almost casual. Blood streaked the sword, as well as the dust covering his face. Yikkit had always wondered how humans and their Lemurian allies could've given his race such difficulty. Neither appeared particularly formidable or had proper teeth or claws. Now he knew. He wouldn't have wanted to face Orochi Niwa in the arena.