Blood In the Water (44 page)

*

Wham! Wham!
Silva's cannon, and another, fired almost as one, canister sweeping bodies away like a great, terrible broom. He squinted through the smoke.
Finally
, what was left of the Grik line seemed to be wavering. They were no longer dressing ranks or loading and firing as mechanically as before. Some just stood as if stunned, incapable of doing anything, and Silva wondered if that was the price they'd paid for this new army. They apparently didn't run away, turn prey, like their . . . less sophisticated predecessors had done on occasion. Maybe they didn't know how, had in fact been conditioned not to even recognize the option of fleeing from danger?
Quite a stunt, if true
.
But when they snap, they just stand there. Run away in their heads, maybe
.

“We gotta charge 'em,” Silva shouted at Kaam.

“But Col-nol Chack said not to get, ah, ‘stuck in.' Said our main task was to cause alarm among the Gaa-riek, draw them to us.” He looked at the carnage around them, blinking deep distress. “We have done that too well,” he practically accused.

“He also figured we'd be runnin' amok in amongst 'em by now. I did too,” Dennis confessed. “Never figured they'd stand like this when we surprised 'em so, an' even hammered 'em with their own guns. But they did, an' now we gotta charge 'em to break through—so we
can
run amok, see?” Also nibbling at his mind was the fear that the Grik officers might bolt aboard the steamer and shove off—or board it with enough troops to defend it—before they could seize it themselves. It was always hoped they could manage that, but the plan hadn't relied on it. If they couldn't pull it off they were supposed to withdraw after doing all the damage they could and wait for Chack downriver. But Chack was supposed to get
both
boats from the other side, plenty of space to carry everyone away. What if he didn't? Silva didn't want anyone left behind, least of all himself and Courtney, and that's what would happen if Chack only got one boat. Besides, honestly, he
wanted
that boat, and wanted to burn the zeppelins too.

“We can't stay here,” Silva insisted. “We've hammered these guys an' they're ripe to bust, but pretty quick there'll be more, from the other side. When they get here, they'll be fresh. They'll chase us off—an' chase us down. So we either gotta go for broke, charge through, burn the zeps, and take the boat, or haul ass. An' we gotta do it right goddamn
now
.”

Kaam looked at him, blinking something Silva couldn't decipher, dark or not. “This fight”—he gestured helplessly around—“
this
is war? As you know it?”

“Pretty much,” Dennis said. “An' it's here to stay. All you can do is jump in an' fight like hell or run away. An' if you run, it'll catch you from behind an' tear your guts out. Guaranteed.”

Kaam blinked again, but his ears stiffened with determination. “Then we jump in,” he said. “I will not be brought down like fleeing prey.” Silva nodded grimly back, remembering that despite his current distress, this was the Lemurian who'd charged a puff lizard. “Let 'em have a good rip,” he called to Courtney and Miles, “then we're at 'em. Bring your guns if you can, bust 'em if you can't. I wish we could spike these,” he said, waving at the cannons, “but I don't even know how to tell these little guys what that is.”

“So, are we going already, or are you going to stand there jacking your jaw like some damn officer?” Miles snapped.

“After you, Miles,” Silva replied mildly, and Miles snorted and started firing. Kaam raised his voice and exhorted his warriors to war.

*

A growing number of Grik were shooting at the raiders on the tug, and even at the released slaves trying to surge aboard the barge. One of the 'Cats they'd trained on the Vickers gun sprayed the enemy with admirable restraint considering the circumstances—and that he'd never been allowed to shoot his amazing weapon before. Just like Silva instructed him, he maintained short, controlled bursts but squealed with delight at the sight of bright tracers probing for and shredding his targets. For the moment, well-aimed arrows and the Vickers were keeping the enemy back. Most of the Grik troops on this side of the river—Chack had to grudgingly admit they
were
troops—had already boarded the boats and rowed into the darkness. Many might be returning even now, but there weren't many left, and the opportunity had been made.
Now, if only Ror'at will make the most of it,
Chack brooded. He was lying prone on the upper deck beside the pilothouse picking off Grik marksmen with his Krag, drawn to them by their own muzzle flashes. Hardly any seemed to be shooting at him, and Chack's sharp eyes and accurate rifle made every shot count. Still, they didn't have much time. They were probably outnumbered ten or twenty to one, even if the Grik couldn't know that yet, and some of those that left
would
come back.

“Col-nol!” said the raider who'd stayed with him throughout. He was pointing north, where a few muskets were popping and flaring in the dark, first at the boma, firing outward, and then in seemingly random directions. Even over the fighting, Chack heard a trilling battle cry wash over the boma and into the camp. The distant musket fire all but ceased, and soon running shapes were visible, lit by campfires—and squad tents that began to burn.

“No!” Chack muttered angrily. “Don't waste time on destruction. Just get over here!” Ror'at's three hundred warriors couldn't hear him, of course, and their sudden frenzy upon breaching the Grik defenses was probably understandable even though he'd specifically warned Ror'at not to permit it. But in retrospect, what could Ror'at have done? He was High Chief of less than a third of the warriors here. And beyond that, the Shee-Ree and their allies were suddenly in a position to take vengeance,
small as it was, on an enemy that had tormented them throughout their collective history. They proceeded to do so. More and more tents erupted in flames, sending sparks and flakes of burning canvas swirling into the sky. A thunderclap explosion heralded the destruction of what was probably a small powder magazine or armory. Grik screamed in terror and agony as they were mercilessly slain.

The Grik on the landing still fought, but their fire became sporadic as they were distracted by events behind them. The fire from the tug lessened as well, as raiders took greater care what shapes they shot at, and the Vickers went silent. Triumphant shouts and yipping cries preceded a sudden flurry of arrows that felled many of the Grik still standing, and Chack thought he saw two or three actually break for the dock where the boats had departed. It struck him, though, that they didn't seem to be mindlessly fleeing. They just left a hopeless position, carrying their weapons. Something else to think about later.

“Col-nol Chack?” came a shout from below as several dozen Shee-Ree emerged from the gloom. It was Ror'at-Raal himself who'd apparently led the spearhead to the dock.

“Here!” Chack called back. “This tug and barge are secure. You must take the other!”

“It is already being done.” A block of large tents near the other steamer went up in flames, illuminating it clearly for the first time. To Chack's amazement, the tug had cast off its lines and was trying to get underway, its paddle wheels churning the river to froth at its sides. Almost comically, though, the barge was still secured to the shore and the tow lines hadn't been cut. Someone would figure that out soon enough, and Ror'at realized that just as Chack did. “Come!” he shouted to the warriors standing by, and they raced off, toward the barge, Chack assumed. They'd have to board the tug from it, across the towlines, while keeping the Grik sailors from cutting them. A sudden thought made him stand and sling the Krag. “I'll have to go,” he told the raider beside him, “to stop the engine once they capture the vessel. Even if the boarders figure it out, it will take time we don't have.” He rushed toward the companionway.

“Send Laa-raance!” the raider shouted after him. “Your place is here!” Chack started to yell back that calling Lawrence up out of the engineering spaces and sending him over would take too much time as well, when he
realized the 'Cat was right. With Ror'at running around, his place was here—and Lawrence might be able to “capture” another black gang to boot. All was rendered irrelevant, however, when something very substantial blew up. One of the burning tents alongside the other tug must've sheltered a large stockpile of ammunition meant for the army that marched away. It might've been
the
stockpile, judging by the size of the blast. Two hundred yards away, Chack saw an impossibly bright flash of yellow fire engulf the tents, slam the straining steamer on its beam ends—and blowtorch a strung-out huddle of rushing Mi-Anakka into oblivion.

The overpressure blew Chack to the deck and he saw the sky alight with flaming, fluttering debris. He jumped up and stared aft. The tug was still rolling, its port paddlewheel spinning in air. Then its boiler burst when cascading water touched it and more debris, jagged, lethal, sprayed in all directions, some scything into the terrified slaves huddled in the barge trying to avoid the falling, burning fragments from the first explosion. A terrible, keening wail mounted from wretched beings that had already endured too much. Of the other barge that had been secured to the destroyed tug, nothing could be seen. Striding a little unsteadily back where he'd been, Chack helped the raider to his feet and roared savagely down at the dazed warriors that had begun to gather alongside.

“Ror'at-Raal is
dead
!
You
killed him with your senselessness! Now I command without question and will kill any who dares dispute that!” He waited a moment, gasping with rage at these . . .
idiots
. But he was just as furious with Ror'at-Raal, he realized, for leaving him in this position. And he was probably most angry with himself for creating the situation in the first place. What hubris! At that moment he wasn't interested in considering the fact that he really hadn't had a choice. When there was no challenge to what he'd said, he spoke again. “You.” He pointed at a burly female 'Cat at random. “Take twenty and gather the rest of those . . .
herdbeasts
bent on destruction and bring them here immediately. You.” He pointed at another 'Cat. “Take twenty more and search quickly for survivors over there.” He waved at the destruction aft. Ror'at had said others were already nearing the other tug. Maybe some had survived. “The rest of you, other than those my raiders choose to help with security and guard against a counterattack, will go aboard the barge. Put out fires, check for damage, tend the wounded, and stay out of the way! There will be another day to kill Grik, I promise,” he said, finally softening his
tone. “We will kill them together. But first we must get those people out,” he said, gesturing again at the barge, “and rendezvous with the boats carrying your families. After that, we have a long trip ahead of us that may be contested, and we can afford no more foolishness.”

He was surprised by how quickly everyone in earshot suddenly moved to comply with his commands.
If only they'd been so willing before,
he thought.
Or maybe they were, but no one ever spoke to them like that: together, as one people
. He shook his head.
I should have. They do have a common cause, after all. The most fundamental cause of all: survival
. He caught the raider blinking something like amazement at him.

“What?”

“Nothing, Lord . . . Ah, Col-nol Chack. What can I do?”

Chack gazed across the river. The cannon fire had ended, but so, it seemed, had the organized volleys. The fighting had bloomed into what looked like a general melee, with firing everywhere. He even thought he glimpsed the distant sparkle of a Thompson. “Single up all lines. . . .” He paused. “I mean take in all lines but one each at the front and back of the tug and barge,” he said, hoping that was simple enough. He glanced back at the fighting across the river. “And then pray to the Maker.”

CHAPTER
29

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

The firelit dark seemed alive with arrows and whizzing, warbling musket balls as four hundred and fifty or more Shee-Ree and their allies smashed through the faltering Grik line. Stone hatchets were a poor match for Grik bayonets, and it had been touch and go for a moment. But when it came right down to it, these Grik were just as new to this kind of fighting as their attackers. And disciplined as they were, the Grik simply weren't motivated by the same furious resolve that stoked the Lemurian charge. They didn't actually flee, just running for their lives as so many Grik had done before, but they did scatter, and that allowed Kaam's combined force to rampage deep into the Grik position.

Dennis Silva ran with the tide, trying to keep track of Courtney. He didn't know if Miles had joined the advance and didn't really care. Courtney seemed just as caught up in the charge—and the chase—as
any of the 'Cats, and it was the first time Silva had ever seen him like that. His sweat-beaded face was red and set with an expression of utmost determination, and the thirty-pound weapon he lugged didn't appear to slow him at all. Occasionally, he slammed to a stop beside a crate or cart, and with something to prop the barrel on, hosed a gathering of Grik with .303 tracers.

“Blast!” he shouted when the Vickers coughed to a stop. “Another magazine, if you please,” he instructed the wide-eyed youngling with the bag of ammunition and his Krag. A ball slapped into the crate Courtney was using as a rest, and Silva fired a burst at two Grik, charging together with bayonets leveled. Both dropped, writhing and squalling, and 'Cats hacked them apart as they raced past. Silva's bolt had locked back, and he released his own empty magazine. “You okay?” he shouted over his shoulder in his rough Lemurian at the youngling carrying his Doom Stomper. She'd stumbled under the load and seemed to be having trouble getting up. “Yes! Good!” she gasped back gamely, her high-pitched voice sounding much like Petey's. Petey remained hidden under Silva's shirt, but had shifted his grasp to the strap over his shoulder instead of his flesh.

“Well . . . quit doin' that. Thought you was shot.” Silva slammed another twenty-round stick in his Thompson but hesitated, still looking at the youngling. “Aw, shit. Maybe you best just leave that damn heavy thing,” he told her. “It ain't much good in this fight, an' they'll give me another. Not like anybody else wants one of 'em.”

“No!” the youngling stated flatly, blinking irritation. “I
will
carry it. I have this far,” she reminded him defiantly. “This is my . . .
mission
,” she added, using the unfamiliar English word she already seemed to understand quite well.

Dennis shrugged. “Suit yerself, Squirt. C'mon, Mr. Bradford. We're drawin' a crowd.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Courtney replied, finishing attaching his final drum. “Most of our friends have passed us by, but there remain quite a few Grik filtering back into the fight!” They ran to catch up with their Lemurian comrades, hearing or feeling musket balls
voop
past from behind, and Silva had to be careful where he fired, lest he hit friendlies that had gotten ahead. There were still plenty of targets. The night had been replaced by a bright, swirling inferno as tents, carts, and equipment
of all sorts were put to the torch, and Dennis was just beginning to realize just how big a supply depot the Grik position was. Burning canvas and heaps of wood were stuffed under guns arrayed in an artillery park, and their carriages crackled and hissed as the flames took hold. Explosions erupted here and there, probably small magazines or ammunition chests for the artillery, sweeping away friend and foe alike. Dennis fired at another group of Grik rushing to block them, raising their muskets. All went down.

Struck by a sudden notion, he shouted for his companions to keep going while he trotted over for a quick glance at the dead Grik.
Not like any I ever saw, a'tall,
he thought.
All dressed alike, workin' together, followin' orders. They're more like Tony Scott's Khonashi, or even ol' Larry; full o' vim an' vinegar, an' smart enough to gang up instead o' just runnin' at us all alone
. He quickly surveyed the corpses and wasn't surprised to confirm a theory. Judging by their crestless heads they were all about two, maybe three years old, the age at which Bradford had finally determined that the Grik reached physical, lethal maturity.
An' plenty o' time to teach 'em new tricks if they start as soon as their beady eyes open,
Dennis added to himself. Perhaps most disturbing, none had claws on the thumb and two fingers of their right hands, and it looked like they'd been removed at birth. Grik did that to young Hij destined to become artisans, and Larry had figured out on his own to keep several of his claws filed back strictly so he could handle weapons and ammunition better. But they'd never encountered “warrior” Grik like that before, prepared and obviously trained from birth to perform complex tasks with their hands.
Like pinchin' musket caps,
Silva brooded.
That must'a took a serious shift in Grik thinkin'
. Their claws and teeth had always been what made the Grik such lethal hunters—of all kinds of prey. And even after they'd taken up swords, spears, and crossbows who knew how long ago, their claws still symbolized their age-old image of themselves as the world's fiercest predators. Dennis had seen the first charts they ever captured from the enemy, and claw signs had even been used to show territory the Grik controlled. Claws were part of what made them what they were.

“I bet that damn Kurokawa kicked this off, givin' the idea to Esshk,” he muttered grimly. “Weren't for that slimy bastard, we'd'a licked the Grik already and saved a lot o' lives. He's gonna pay for that.”

A musket ball snatched at his pants leg, and he fired back at another gathering group before sprinting after his friends. A huge pulse of fire throbbed across the river, illuminating the tugs and barges there. One tug had been caught in the blast, and it rolled swiftly onto its side. Moments later, it blew up. “
Thought
we'd need the one over here,” he grumbled. But up ahead, it looked like they'd lose this one as well because the whole camp was going up in flames. “Dammit, Mr. Bradford!” he shouted, catching up. “Quit playin' soljer an' shootin' at whatever stray lizard you see. We gotta take the tug! An' you or me will have to raise steam if the boilers are cold, an' conn the damn thing too!”

“Quite right,” Courtney agreed, blinking streaming eyes against the bitter smoke. Beyond him, fire arrows arced into the sky and fastened onto one of the hovering zeppelins. They were answered by a fusillade of musket shots, and no more arrows flew at the airship. For a moment, nothing happened, but then blue flames flickered for an instant before racing up the fabric sides to join a greater boil of burning hydrogen that suddenly pulsed inside the envelope and burst out the top to form a perfect mushroom of flame. The whole thing crashed to the ground—like the burning skeleton of the giant flying fish the locals likened it to—and ignited an enormous fire close to the dock. There were Shee-Ree around them now, and most stopped to stare at the amazing sight until a crackle of musketry toppled a few and the rest turned to face the threat from behind. Scores of Grik were rushing out of the smoke.

“Go!” Silva yelled at Courtney. “Find Kaam an' take that tug! We'll hold 'em back a minute 'er two, then come a'runnin.”

“But . . .”

Silva looked at the youngling who now carried only Courtney's Krag. “Get him to that boat, hear? That's
your
mission now! Nobody's goin' anywhere if we don't get him aboard, at least.” He nodded at the other youngling with his Doom Stomper. “Take her too. I want that gun
safe
!” he added for her benefit. Then he turned and started firing.

*   *   *

Some time later—Dennis didn't know how long, but the faintest hint of gray had finally touched the eastern horizon—it was almost quiet where he wearily sat, the hot Thompson lying across his lap. It was empty, and so was his last magazine. That was a shame, since there was still stiff
fighting down by the dock, too heavy for him and his five surviving battle-worn 'Cats to break through. But it had apparently drawn all the remaining Grik, and there was nothing around just now but smoldering tents and corpses. Silently they watched the tug and barge pull awkwardly from the dock. It would be close. There was fighting on the barge itself, against Grik that had boarded to retake the vessels, but Silva figured Courtney and at least a few hundred 'Cats were clear. Probably more, since it looked like the slave pens on this side of the river, near where the burning zeppelin fell, were empty. Even so, he didn't know whether to cheer or . . . well, he wouldn't sob.

He just hadn't realized until now how badly he'd wanted back in the “real” war, back “home” with USS
Walker
—and now it looked like he was stuck.
It could be worse,
he supposed.
These Shee-Ree 'Cats're okay, and the ones that didn't get on the barge can use a hand
. “We'll catch our breath a minute,” he said for the benefit of his companions, “then round up as many lost or wounded as we can find and make tracks while the lizards're focused on the river. . . .” Musketry flared on the water as boats full of Grik fired at Chack's tug and barge, maneuvering to take on the Shee-Ree families from the dhows now gliding downstream. Tracers from Chack's Vickers stitched the Grik boats, chewing them apart. Dennis wondered if some of them may've thought better than to reveal themselves. He wouldn't have imagined the possibility before.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and spun to his feet, leveling the empty Thompson, even as the 'Cats hopped up with bows ready.

“You going to shoot me now?” came Miles's flat voice as he stepped forward, leading fourteen Lemurians. Most appeared lightly wounded, and even Miles was covered in blood, but he seemed unharmed—physically. The firelit expression on his face left Dennis less sure. The China Marine was pulling a resentful youngling by the arm—who was dragging a huge rifle in the dust. “I found this little idiot over there, watching you,” he added.

“Idiot!” Petey squeaked nervously, peeking around Silva's neck.

“You sent me away,” the youngling accused Silva, “but I still do my mission! You might need the big magic maa-skit!”

Silva lowered his weapon and groaned, then slung the Thompson over his shoulder to rest in the small of his back. “Ain't gonna shoot you,
Miles.” He looked at the Lemurian youngling. “'Cat broads. They're all like that, young 'er old. What can you do? Get over here, Squirt.” He looked at Miles. The man still had his Vickers, resting heavily in the crook of his arm. “Don't know if I'll kill you or not, though. Might depend on what you been up to. Where'd you run off to?”

Miles motioned down toward the slave pens with his chin. “Kaam went that way after the breakthrough, and I thought he might need fire support. Good thing too, I guess. There were a lot of Grik.” He shook his head and for the first time Silva saw tear tracks in the grime on his face. “We tore them up, but a lot were already headed for the docks. Then that zep fell on a bunch of them and burned the suckers alive,” he related with intense satisfaction. “We had the place to ourselves for a while, so we opened the pens.” He looked away, down toward the docks, where muskets still flared at the tug. Courtney, or whoever had the conn, was increasing speed, the paddle wheels churning. “Most of the poor devils caught on that we were here to help, but some went nuts. Even fought us,” Miles continued. “I get that, after what they went through—after what they saw.” He took a long breath. “Been there myself, you know? When the Japs had me . . .”

His red eyes glared at Silva. “The flames made it hard to see. There were lots of shadows, and I stepped in one. Only it wasn't a shadow. It was a pit.” His face twisted. “A big goddamn
pit
full of bloody 'Cat bones, skins . . . other stuff . . .” He gestured helplessly at the gore covering him. “They've been butchering and
eating
these 'Cats,
right in front of the rest of them
, all this time. . . .”