Deadly Shores (12 page)

“I wanted to draw the Doms here, army by army, and destroy them as they came,” he said softly, “but I think now that such a plan will not work.” He gestured across the field. “Whatever the Grik have become, there was a time when such a repulse would have ruined many of their warriors that fled in such a way—but these are not Grik, and I must stop equating this enemy with them. Those Dom troops, those
men
, no matter how terrified at present, will eventually take control of themselves. They will re-form. They will not be surprised by our weapons again, and may gain even greater confidence for having survived them. They will pass their knowledge to others, and we will face them again.”

“What're you saying, General?” Fred asked.

“Only that my every instinct has always compelled me to pursue a beaten enemy and drive him without pause.” He smiled. “I believe I have objectively convinced myself that I should follow those instincts in this case after all, despite what I originally thought. That gives me a measure of satisfaction on this otherwise terrible day.”

Fred looked out at the battlefield. “Chase 'em? Wow. That's a tall order.”

“No. We will chase them hard for a distance beyond this field, far enough that they know they are chased.” He frowned. “Because I did not prepare for it in advance, we can do little more at present, but I won't allow them to imagine later that they
chose
to leave on their own.”

“Just so long as we don't wind up like the poodle that chased the bear—until it stopped running,” Fred muttered.

“You think of Colonel Flynn, and his fate beyond the Rocky Gap in India?” Shinya asked.

Fred hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. How can I not? I didn't know him well, but Billy—I mean Colonel Flynn—was a right guy by all accounts. Hearing what happened to him and all those others . . . It came hard.”

“I'm sure it did,” Shinya agreed, “but I can assure you we shall not share his fate, Lieutenant. Do you know why?”

Fred and Kari both shook their heads.

“Because we're facing men, for one thing. Granted, the Doms are very
strange
men, but men nevertheless, and they strike me—so far—as more predictable foe than the Grik have become. We also have the two of you.” He smiled. “And Colonel Blair, Lieutenant Reddy, and such as Captain Blas. There is also me, of course, and I have the honor of commanding a largely veteran army that has trained together extensively.” He shrugged. “Behind us are Admirals Lelaa and Jenks. That is a good team, I think.” He grew somber. “And we do have Colonel Flynn's example. Not only of how he was lost, but of his courage and determination. Our enemy fought better than I expected today,” he allowed, “but for all the treachery of their leaders, their commanders cannot match our technology, determination, or experience.” He straightened. “Our greatest asset is our experience, and we must deny the Dom survivors the experience they gained today. The only ‘experience' I want them to take from this field is that we
mauled
them, and then chased them until it suited us to stop.”

“
Where
will we stop, Gen-er-aal?” Kari asked.

Shinya smiled. “At a most interesting and convenient place for our next encounter!”

*   *   *

General Ghanan Nerino moaned softly in the black night atop the battered ammunition cart as the wheels jounced across scattered rocks. The many layers of his elaborate uniform coat and the aide who'd covered him with his own body had protected Nerino to some degree from the sticky, obdurate flames of the enemy bombs, but his head, hands, and lower body had been badly burned. If he hadn't been drugged into near senselessness, the bumpy ride would've had him screaming as piteously as the few other wounded being carried down the track. The loyal aide, and all those around him, had burned to death.

Normally, the rocks would've been heaved aside by troops detailed for that purpose, and the general would've barely noticed them in his elegant carriage protected by gentle springs. Now, even if the carriage hadn't been destroyed in the bombing and subsequent counterattack by the heretic horde, it was certainly in their hands. And frankly, Nerino was lucky to have the cart. Few vehicles were saved during the nearly complete rout that ensued when the enemy, flushed with victory, charged out of its earthworks around Guayak and slammed into the shattered, terrified, and disorganized Army of the South. The counterattack had been stunning in its barbaric relentlessness, and only a full commitment of the thus far reserved, but limited regiments of elite Blood Drinkers had slowed it enough to get anything out. Little, if any of the army's artillery had been withdrawn, and though they fought like the fiends they were, the sounds of battle to the south that dwindled with the day made it likely that even the Blood Drinkers had been destroyed at last.

Some hoped that the brief, relative quiet meant the rear guard had been successful and this long, terrible day might end at last. What remained of the army would retreat to a position where it could re-form and establish a defense. But then the night resumed crackling with musketry as enemy skirmishers regained contact with the ragged column and began applying pressure once more. Worse, a few of the enemy flying machines remained aloft, still battling dragons, but occasionally swooping to drop one of their terrible bombs. Even when they burned nothing but grass and trees, the remorseless, unnatural assault from the sky further unnerved the defeated troops—and sometimes, a hideous chorus of screams arose with the roiling flames. The loitering menace above prevented any lights from being made along the line of retreat, and that added even more confusion and misery to the defeated force. Few could've imagined a worse, more terrifying hell in the flaming caverns beneath the earth than they were now enduring.

Nerino understood little in his drug-hazed state. He knew pain, of course, but he'd lost his connection to the unfolding events. He could hear voices, and recognized what was being said, but he couldn't relate any of it to his own unpleasant situation. Very quickly, anything he heard was forgotten. He became aware that a squadron of lancers had appeared in the darkness alongside his cart and managed to raise himself up slightly to see. He couldn't focus, but his eyes were drawn south toward a pulsing glow.
A fire,
he thought muzzily.
A fire back there where I was today. How lovely it is, yet so dreadful as well. Why is it dreadful? Because it hurts! It has hurt me!
He lay back with a moan.

“Quickly, you four men—get those armabueyes out of their traces! Replace them with your own mounts. We must get the general out of here at once!” cried an authoritative voice Nerino didn't recognize.

“But these are not draft animals, Colonel!” a man protested.
One of the lancers,
Nerino assumed.
Quite right,
he agreed. Lancers often sprang from landed families, and not only were they responsible for providing their own mounts; the beasts were some of the finest horseflesh in all the Dominion! “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed.

“Do it now, or I'll give you to the priests!” the colonel warned, ignoring Nerino.

“Oh, all right! No reason to get nasty! We'll have to ride them, though. They've never been harnessed before.”

“Of course. Take these other lancers with you as a guard, but don't hesitate to change horses when they tire.”

“Don't worry about that!” the lancer assured, his tone implying the other men in his squadron better not refuse to do their part.

“Go as quickly as you dare,” the colonel urged, “and try to get him through the pass before daylight.”

“But won't that just kill him? And what if he starts screaming?”

“My healer priest will ride along in the cart. He says the general may live if the pain doesn't reach his heart. He will ensure that General Nerino gets as much medicine as he can bear.”

“All right. But after today, the Pajaros Rojos will just have him flayed anyway.”

“Perhaps,” the colonel allowed, “but I hope not. General Nerino may be a
fatuo
, but he's smart, and he may be the only one who can sort out what happened to us when his wits return. Now hurry! The heretics are getting closer.”

Fatuo
indeed!
Nerino fumed silently through the mounting waves of pain. Then his wandering mind fastened onto something else he'd heard
. I would so dislike being flayed. I do so hope that I
can
sort out whatever it is that has happened!

//////
Empire of the New Britain Isles

New Scotland

June 21, 1944

H
er Majesty, Rebecca Anne McDonald, Governor-Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, was working diligently at her murdered father's desk. Around her, in Gerald McDonald's expansive Government House library at Scapa Flow, reposed every “original” prepassage book that came to this world aboard the three East Indiamen that brought her ancestors here. They'd been her father's most prized possessions, and though expensive reprints were available throughout the Empire, Gerald had considered his guardianship of these precious links to the old world one of his most sacred trusts. Now they, and all the interesting gadgets and contrivances her father had tinkered with in the chamber, remained just as he'd left them: essential links between an idolized father and his grieving daughter.

Rebecca supposed she probably ought to be at Government House across the strait in the capital of New London, on New Britain Isle, particularly now that the “Time of Treachery” seemed to have passed, but she felt much more comfortable in what had been her childhood home. Besides, Scapa Flow was a Navy port and a Navy city, and its people were unreservedly devoted to her. Some might be uncomfortable about the Decree of Manumission she'd recently issued, giving full citizenship to women and officially ending the age-old practice of female indenture, but women had always enjoyed better conditions in Scapa Flow than elsewhere in the Empire. They'd been Navy auxiliaries, skilled yard workers and shipwrights. Some had even been entrusted with real authority within those occupations. That made their transition from virtual slavery to legal equality less tumultuous across New Scotland than elsewhere. Even there, however, some stodgy traditionalists railed about “slippery slopes” and remained horrified by the notion of allowing women in the Navy itself. But they were careful not to criticize the young empress's reforms in general terms. Despite her tender age, and having established the framework for the restoration of the Courts of Directors and Proprietors, Rebecca Anne McDonald had snatched back a great deal of executive power that had been seeping away for generations. She'd also shown herself to be a courageous, determined leader when the Empire needed one most, as well as a ruthless enemy to her foes—foreign and domestic.

His Excellency Sean Bates, once known to the Lemurian/American powers in the Alliance as “O'Casey,” had advanced from the status of outlaw protector of a young, shipwrecked princess to become Prime Factor to the Governor-Empress. He remained her legal guardian as well, though most recognized that post as a fiction. He'd continue to
guard
her, with his one mighty arm until the day he died, and he'd always counsel her, if allowed, but he couldn't—wouldn't—exercise any legal restraint on her. She'd proven herself sufficiently mature beyond her fourteen years to fully assume her duties, and his only real concern was that she'd been forced to grow up too quickly—and far too violently. That showed in the degree to which she'd begun to suppress her sweeter nature, and isolate her emotions from those who loved her most.

Sean passed her yet another page to sign—a naval commission for the master of a former Company ship—and glanced at the clock on the mantel above the cavernous fireplace in the library.

“Sister Audry'll be along directly, lass,” he said quietly.

Rebecca finished signing her name for perhaps the hundredth time that morning, and sighed. She looked at the clock as well. “She's probably already waiting, poor thing. Please do see if she's in the hall, won't you?”

“Of course, Yer Majesty.” Sean's chair creaked as he stood to step to the heavy door. Opening it, he peered outside. “Aye, there she is, with that evil Sergeant Koratin, as usual,” he said with a grin. Then he paused, his grin fading. “An' they seem to've brought that . . . visitor we discussed.”

“I see,” Rebecca murmured. “Well, don't leave them waiting any longer. Let them in.”

“I'm still nae sure ye shid see 'im without a guard,” Bates hedged.

“I'm confident you and Sergeant Koratin can protect me, even should he sprout wings and fangs and go for my throat,” she said dryly. “You've both protected me from far worse before. And if Sister Audry, a far greater threat to his soul than I, remains safe in his presence, I should have little to fear.”

Grudgingly, Sean opened the door wider. “Her Majesty'll see ye now,” he said, then stepped aside. Sister Audry, wearing a new duplicate of the habit she'd worn to utter destruction, hurried into the room, an enthusiastic smile on her face. She was Dutch, a Benedictine nun, carried away from Java in the Old War to shepherd a number of children of diplomats and high-ranking officers aboard the old submarine, S-19. Rebecca had known her since they had all been stranded together on Talaud Island a couple of years before. She was very attached to the young straw-haired woman who believed she'd been called not only to spread the “true faith” among the Allies, but perhaps more important, salvage the tortured souls of those enslaved by the twisted faith of the Dominion.

She'd gone among the Dom prisoners taken during the New Ireland campaign, along with ministers of the British Church, preaching and explaining how the Catholic faith of the Spanish element of their culture had been so hideously perverted. Dom regulars were professional and competent soldiers, but only their officers could read—essential for passing orders and dispatches, and completing the paperwork required for any army—but there was no acceptable literature other than devout treatises and holy writs in the Dominion, and their entire cultural and religious indoctrination came from the fearsome Blood Priests. After learning as much about the Dom faith as she could bear to hear (since she had an active imagination, even verbal descriptions gave her nightmares), Sister Audry found it relatively simple to refute much of its twisted, contradictory dogma. Her teachings were far more compelling and attractive, particularly to defeated soldiers who'd been raised in such a repressive, unforgiving, and impulsively cruel society. She believed, and had reported, that she'd made significant breakthroughs at last.

Following her through the doorway was a slender man in the tattered but clean uniform of a lieutenant of Dominion “Salvadores,” or expeditionary regulars. The expression on his dark, handsome face was guarded—except when he glanced at Audry for reassurance. Then it turned to something that bordered on . . . worshipful. He paused before Rebecca and bowed very low.

Bringing up the rear was a short, muscular, wizened Lemurian with quick eyes that gave the impression he was constantly evaluating threats—or opportunities. The fur beneath his white Marine dress armor had streaks of white as well, from middle age and battle scars. Rebecca stood and received Audry's kiss on her cheek, nodded at Koratin with a smile, then regarded her other visitor curiously.

“May I present Teniente Arano Garcia?” Audry gushed. “He has been selected to represent nearly eight hundred souls that have surrendered their lives to God, and to your service in the cause of liberating their people from the evil infesting their home!”

“Eight hundred, indeed?” asked Rebecca with a tentative smile. “How charming.”

“Eight hundred out'a more'n four thousand prisoners,” Bates gruffed.

“My—our—mission has had little time to reverse
lifetimes
of lies,” Audry defended, “and more are coming around. But Teniente Garcia has staked his life on the loyalty of the men he represents!”

“We've all staked our lives on the defeat of his country, which will result—has
already
resulted in the deaths of thousands on both sides,” Rebecca said softly.

“He understands that,” Audry insisted. “He wants to help!”

“I know you speak some Spanish, but do you speak enough to fully evaluate his motives?” Rebecca asked, a polite way of inquiring how Audry could be sure Garcia wasn't lying.

“As a Salvadore, I have had intensive instruction in the English,” Garcia said quietly. “Many Dominion officers have. It is deemed important to communicate with conquered peoples,” he added with apologetic irony.

Rebecca looked at Sergeant Koratin. The Lemurian had once been a lord of Aryaal, and by his own admission an “expert” on treachery. He'd had a traumatic epiphany, however, and had actually been one of Sister Audry's earliest Lemurian converts to Catholicism. “What do you think, Sergeant?”

Koratin blinked thoughtfully. “I have come to know Lieutenant Garcia,” he said, “and I think I believe him.” He shrugged and swished his tail. “But I have believed others before, to my . . . disadvantage, who had less reason to mislead me. I am—was—perhaps better at deception in my old life than at discovering it. And as an enlisted Marine, I have grown . . . rusty, yes? Rusty at intrigue. I have come to prefer much more straightforward confrontations.” Rebecca nodded. There was no doubting Koratin's valor.

“But ye do think he wants tae fight fer us?” Bates demanded.

Koratin regarded Garcia a moment before nodding at last. “I do. And I have made very clear to him and his men how I would personally prosecute any hint of infidelity.”

Audry shuddered, then sighed. There were whispered rumors of how Koratin had “prosecuted” the treacherous, upstart king of Aryaal. “Really, Sergeant . . .”

“Good,” Bates agreed. He looked at Garcia. “So you want to fight?”

“I do. My people do.” His stoic expression suddenly went adrift, and he looked at Audry with eyes that reflected a tortured woe. “I cannot express, can hardly comprehend . . . My people, my race—the hideous lies that torment us from our very birth—”

“Very well,” Rebecca interjected gently. “I'm glad to hear it. I will give you your chance to fight, perhaps sooner than you might imagine.”

Bates looked at her. “Yer Majesty?”

Rebecca regarded every face, then took a long breath. “Please, everyone, be seated.”

Refreshments were brought, and they talked lightly for a time. Much of the conversation was directed at Garcia, of course, and Audry described conditions in the prison camp and the rebuilding efforts underway on New Ireland. Many prisoners had been set to work assisting in that respect, and others were employed harvesting the charred timber of the great valley forest. It was hard work, but the prisoners universally considered themselves lucky. They were sheltered, well fed, and undoubtedly better treated than Imperial troops in their position ever would've been.

Finally, Rebecca took a sip of watered brandy and spoke. “The information I am about to relate must not go beyond this chamber,” she said, deeply serious. “Perhaps that will serve as a final test of Lieutenant Garcia's loyalty?” She eyed the man. “Beyond those here, the only others who know what I am about to tell you are the Lemurian Marines entrusted with our most sensitive codes. If you speak of it, I
will
know.” She sipped again. “High Admiral Jenks has sent word that General Shinya and the Allied Expeditionary Force in the East have won a great victory over the Doms at the coastal city of Guayak. Not only that, but he has hounded a Dom army numbering upward of fifty thousand troops to virtual annihilation.” She let that sit a moment, examining expressions. Bates already knew, of course, but the revelation was news to everyone else. “General Shinya has now stopped and begun fortifying a crossroads vital to the enemy, without which they cannot mass more troops against him from east of the mountains, nor can they approach from north or south without exposing themselves to continuous air attack. He retains firm lines of supply, and contact with the coast. From there, he will consolidate his gains and prepare to resume his offensive.” She noted with satisfaction that Garcia leaned forward with a predatory gleam in his eye.

“Good,” she murmured, then raised her voice. “Despite the imperatives in the West, the time has come to support Admiral Jenks and General Shinya more fully. Having sent so many troops west, we have little left here but our strategic reserve and home guard. That said, I believe the Isles are safe from attack, and the time has come to use those troops.”

“Yer Majesty!” Bates protested, but Rebecca held up her hand. “The Isles will not be left naked. My sister, Saan-Kakja, High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands, will soon arrive for a state visit, accompanied by two thousand Maa-ni-la infantry. She has already sent enough of her people to fight our enemy, so they will remain here—but that frees more of
us
to fight.”

Bates sat back, a little less alarmed. He deeply admired Saan-Kakja, and knew the extraordinary Lemurian had already sent more assets east than she was comfortable with. Her profound friendship with the just slightly younger Rebecca was probably the only reason she had. Rebecca had called her “sister,” in the Lemurian way of addressing other High Chiefs, but Bates knew she trusted and regarded Saan-Kakja at least as closely as she would any real sister. Just as he'd begun to calm a bit after her earlier statement, however, young Rebecca stunned him with what she said next:

“It is my belief that Saan-Kakja means to travel from here to the eastern front of the war. She once promised to go west with the troops she sent against the Grik, and she has long been frustrated by her inability to do so. She has implied to me that, with as many of her people now in the East as in the West, at least with the Army, if not the Navy, she now feels equally drawn there.” She stared defiantly around. “If she goes, I shall go with her.”

“Nay, lass! I ferbid it!” Bates thundered. “Tis much too dangerous!”

“You
forbid
, Prime Factor Bates?” Rebecca asked softly, icily.

Bates paused, gathering himself. “I
counsel
strongly against it, Yer Majesty,” he revised, face red. “The situation here in the Isles is better, aye, but nae yet fixed in stone. Ye cannae risk yersel' so. All we've worked tae achieve could wither away!”