Deadly Shores (15 page)

The weather worried him for its own sake, of course, but they were drawing uncomfortably close to where a couple of those eastern islands, specifically the Mascarenes—Mauritius and Reunion—were supposed to be. He didn't like the idea of discovering them too abruptly in the middle of any kind of storm, much less a strakka. He blinked and realized that Captain Bekiaa and Inquisitor Choon had joined them by the windward rail. “Inquisitor.” He nodded. “Hi, Bekiaa.” He and Bekiaa didn't exchange salutes. That happened during the morning parade of her Marines in the waist. He still looked at her for a moment, however, trying to ascertain her mood. He didn't know everything she'd been through in Indiaa, but he knew it was a lot—and very bad. He'd been in a tough spot with her himself, in the Sand Spit fight, and that hadn't shaken the Lemurian Marine. All he knew was that whatever she'd endured since had shaken her pretty bad, so as scary as the Sand Spit had been, her more recent experiences must have been even worse. He wouldn't try to imagine what she was going through, and since he was her commanding officer, it wasn't his place to ask, as long as she did her duty. But he'd be there as her friend if she needed him.

Choon bowed slightly. “I am at your service, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett.”

“I've got a couple of questions,” Greg informed him.

“Of course. I will answer any I am able.”

Greg smiled, recognizing the word “able” implied any number of limitations. The guy was a snoop, after all.

“You've seen our charts and know where we're headed. Any idea what we'll run into?”

“My people have almost no knowledge of this sea, or much of anything at all east of our home. We have quite a bit more knowledge of what lies west of us than perhaps any other power on this world, I daresay; better, more current charts of the Atlantic, and the various coastlines. All that was gathered by the War Palace”—he flicked his ears—“SMS
Amerika
, before she came to us.” He shook his head sadly. “But our best charts of this region came with her as well. They are no better, and even older than yours.”

“But you came looking for us.”

“As has been explained, Lieutenant Miyata told us of you and that you had defeated the Grik attack against your Home at Baalkpan. He knew little beyond that, but his words gave us hope that we were not alone against our enemy. In addition, our people have wireless technology. We do not transmit; to do so would perhaps draw unwanted attention, but we do listen.” He blinked admonishment. “Your people transmit perhaps a little too much information ‘in the clear,' I believe you say, in the heat of . . . exciting situations. In any event, that is how we learned that you had not only defeated the Grik, but advanced against them; we presumed as far as Indiaa, though we could not be sure. We made for Baalkpan regardless. Lieutenant Miyata was a navigation officer and had been there before. It seemed the best choice. Sadly,
Amerika
could not complete the journey without the repairs now underway at Diego Garciaa—we were fortunate indeed to find that place!”

“So it all worked out when we stumbled on you there,” Greg murmured, “but my question is, did you ever sight any of the islands we're looking for now?”

“Sadly, no. We meant to make a straight transit across this ‘Indiaan Sea,' and find you through the place you call the ‘Soon-daa Strait.' We could not make it.”

“Diego's a good bit north of that course.”

“Yes, but we had no choice other than to look for it and hope it was there. We could go no farther.”

“And it
was
there,” Sammy supplied.

“Fortunately.”

Sammy looked at Garrett. “So it stands to reason the Maas-carenes will be there as well.”

“It would,” Garrett agreed, “if we hadn't already found so many islands where they shouldn't be—or none where they should be, before.”

“But that has always been in the Eastern Ocean—the Paa-cific, where so many are smoking mountains. You have said yourself that they might sprout anywhere.”

“I guess. But why not here? And how come so many volcanic islands in the Malay Barrier are in the right place?”

“Not all are. Is not . . . Kraak-aa-toaa still there, when it should not be, according to your old charts—yet Talaud has destroyed itself?”

“Sure, but Talaud might've blown its top ‘back home' by now, for all we know.” Greg rubbed his eyebrows, then gestured around. “I guess I'm just trying to dip my toe in the water before I jump in. It might be freezing or boiling—or full of rocks.”

Saama-Kera laughed. “So this trip is different from others in what respect?”

Greg chuckled back at him, acknowledging the point.

“You have other questions?” Choon asked. Garrett started to reply, when suddenly something struck the ship like a ragged broadside, slamming into the hull with a clattering, thudding staccato they could feel in the deck beneath their feet. Then something whipped by over the bulwark, something . . . amazing.

“Down!” Garrett roared. “Everybody down! Take cover!”

“What the hell!” Smitty bellowed, but Bekiaa dragged him and Inquisitor Choon to the deck just as a . . . flock of . . . things . . . soared over the ship from starboard to port. Sammy cried out and flung himself down as well, clutching his shoulder where one of the things struck him. His hand came away from the fur with blood on it.

“Flyin' swordfish!” Smitty yelled. “What next?”

“They're not swordfish,” Garrett said, a mix of concern and wonder in his voice. The creatures were hitting the ship continuously now, and the hull drummed with their strikes. Some hit the rigging, parting lines in some cases as they passed, or rebounding onto the deck to flop and squirm. Others actually ripped holes in the sails!

“My God!” Greg said. “They're
squids
! Or something
like
squids!”

“Squids?”
Smitty demanded. “Flyin', saber-toothed
squids
? What the
hell
next?”

The fusillade went on for perhaps a minute, all while
Donaghey
's crew took cover as best they could. Even so, there were several shrill screams. Greg didn't know if his people were being hurt, or simply screaming in terror at the sight of the live, high-velocity projectiles. They
were
ugly, and the deck was filling with gray-blue, wriggling shapes. Quite a few fell near Garrett and his group, and he stared at them.
Squids, sure enough,
he thought.
But not like any squid I ever saw!
The animals' bodies were about two feet long, not counting the cluster of short tentacles at the rear—bottom?—of their abdomens. They also had huge, stunningly sensitive-looking eyes that rolled and gaped in panic as they flailed. In those respects at least, they appeared similar to ordinary squids. But like everything else Greg Garrett had seen on this world, they'd adapted to somewhat different circumstances. Instead of little fins near the top of their cylindrical bodies, these creatures looked like they'd crossed with a manta ray at some time. Their “fins” had become flexible, rubbery-looking wings. What propelled them at such velocities were organs much like ordinary squids as well, but on a larger scale. That actually didn't surprise Garrett that much. They'd encountered other creatures that squirted water at greater pressures than they'd ever known before. Doubtless, Courtney Bradford would be astounded and fashion some new theory about that. What made these things dangerous to people, and even Greg's ship—besides their size and speed—was a sharp, bony, spearpoint-looking thing poking out of the tops of their heads! That was obviously what cut Sammy, and had allowed the things to shred so much cordage and sailcloth.

The bizarre assault was tapering off, and carefully, crewfolk began to peer over the side.

“Deck there!” came a cry from the masthead. Garrett looked up. Apparently, the things hadn't flown any higher than the courses, and everyone aloft had scrambled above them.

“What is it?” Greg called back when there was no report.

“Some-teeng's in de waater, longside de ship!” Greg raised himself and peered over the rail. For a moment he was stunned by what he saw. Dozens,
hundreds
of “squids” covered the starboard side of his ship, dangling and squirming, feebly flapping their wings, their “spearpoints” imbedded in the stout timbers. For each squid, there were probably twenty or more bloody, bony spearpoints sticking in the ship, wrenched from the heads of the animals on impact, or as they struggled to escape. His gaze swept downward. The sea was getting rougher so he couldn't see beneath it, but he recognized the short, broad fins of quite a few of the more ferocious sea monsters he'd grown accustomed to. They looked a lot like giant porpoises, or maybe even big killer whales, but they had long snouts full of knitting-needle teeth. Even as he watched, one rose to the surface and snatched a floating squid. It was suddenly quite clear what had driven the strange creatures to flee in such a manner. He shuddered and backed away, remembering. Scary as the big fish were, they didn't bother ships. They
were
known to eat small boats with people in them. . . .

“Damaage control!” Sammy roared, rising as well, his tail swishing in agitation. “Bend new canvas, and get to work cutting and splicing! This is
still
a Navy ship, and we have ugly weather coming. On your feet, and twist your tails! Chief Laan, form details to clear these foul things away; over the side with them! Pass the word for the carpenter to report any leaks!”

Greg smiled and nodded. He'd been about to shout the same commands, but
Donaghey
's exec
was
her first lieutenant, and damage control was his job. Bosun's whistles squealed and 'Cats set to work. Lemurians couldn't do a bosun's pipe, but a series of whistle toots worked just as well on shipboard or the battlefield. Bekiaa was helping Choon to his feet and Smitty was already up, poking one of the squids with his shoe.

“Rocket powered, flyin' arrowhead squids,” Smitty mused. “I wonder if you can eat 'em.”

“Not me,” Bekiaa said seriously.

“Sammy?” Greg gestured at the 'Cat's shoulder. “Get below and have that tended. See what other casualties we've had.”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan, but it's just a scratch.”

“I know, but these damn things might be poisonous for all we know. Go ahead. I've got the deck.”

“Ay, sir.”

Choon had recovered himself and was looking around with interest. Finally, he turned back to Garrett. “Ah, you said you had more than just the one question, which I was sadly unable to answer to the satisfaction of either of us. What else did you want to know?”

“Well, I was going to ask more about your land, your ‘Republic.' That can wait till later, though.” He smiled ironically. “Mostly, I was going to ask if you ran into anything, well, weird, on your own voyage across the Indian Ocean.”

Choon stooped to examine one of the squids. It was dead now, its skin already beginning to wrinkle and parch, but still staring up at him.

“‘Weird' is such an interesting word,” he said cryptically. “And so subjective, so dependent upon perspective. I never saw creatures such as these before, but are they truly ‘weird'? That is difficult to determine. They are different from other squids I have seen, so they are unusual, certainly.” He looked at Greg. “But your people and mine do not yet know each other well enough to agree with confidence on any definition of ‘weird.'” With that, he nodded politely and stepped away.

“I hate it when he does that,” Greg growled. “He talks more than anybody I ever saw, except maybe Courtney, without saying anything at all.”

Bekiaa watched the strange Lemurian step carefully through the dead squids and the activity around him and half smiled. “I find it . . . amusing.”

Greg snorted. “Maybe a little, but also kind of, well,
sneaky
, if you ask me.”

Bekiaa shrugged. “He is a ‘snoop.' Like Mr. Braad-furd, it is his nature to gather knowledge, but he does not share it well. Even with his friends. He thinks that since he must
earn
information, so should everyone else. It is almost . . . a game.”

“Do you think he's a friend?” Greg asked bluntly. “Because half the time, I really don't know.”

Bekiaa smiled more broadly. “Yes,” she replied. “But even with his friends, he plays his game.”

//////
First Fleet South

Diego Garcia

July 8, 1944

G
eneral Safir Maraan, commander of what remained of II Corps, and Queen Protector of the Island of B'mbaado, raced like a giddy youngling down the gangway from
Big Sal
to the newly built pier. She wore her usual silver-washed breastplate, black cloak, and leather armor, but today she was unusually stunning, with a radiant glow of joy. Waiting on the pier was a strange assortment of folk. The Lemurian commander of USS
Respite Island
(SPD-1) was there, as were Lieutenant (jg) Winston “Winny” Rominger, commanding Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron #1 (MTB-Ron-1), Major Alistair Jindal of the Imperial Marines, and Captain Risa-Sab-At. Standing a little to the side were two men, one quite elderly, and both in the dark woolen uniforms of the Imperial German Navy. Beside them was a pepper-blond, bearded man wearing a bronze cuirass, plaited leather kilt, and polished bronze greaves. With him was yet another man, apparently Japanese, dressed similarly to the first two men. Also waiting were two very short Lemurians wearing almost nothing, and blinking with a mixture of anticipation and deep concern. None of those had Safir's attention at present, however. She had eyes only for a broad-shouldered, brindle-furred 'Cat in the immaculate dress of a Lieutenant Colonel of Lemurian/American Marines, standing close beside Risa-Sab-At. The 'Cat swept his dented but freshly painted “doughboy” helmet from his head and bowed deeply as Safir approached, but amid raucous hoots and cries of approval thundering down from
Big Sal
, Safir Maraan tightly embraced him.

“Oh Chack,” she practically purred. “I have missed you so! Through all our battles, so far apart, I have begged the Maker for this moment with every breath!”

“As have I, my love,” Chack-Sab-At replied softly. Suddenly aware of the circumstances again, he stiffened slightly. “I mean General Maraan—Your Highness. . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Safir admonished, nuzzling him and lightly touching his fur with the tip of her tongue. “To you, I shall always be simply ‘Safir'!”

“I will remember that when you give me orders!” He laughed. “You outrank me!”

Safir made a throwing-away gesture. “Even if that is true, we have always been equals in battle.” She snorted. “And besides, you have an independent command!”

“Subject to your orders, my love,” Chack reminded with a toothy grin. “Not that I mind.” He stepped back. Even while this long-delayed reunion was taking place, others had descended the gangway of the great ship. Keje escorted Sandra and her former Imperial “steward,” Diania, down the long ramp, closely followed by an ecstatic Courtney Bradford, who gaped all around, his head jerking this way and that like a turkey. He saw the great, newly refloated liner,
Amerika
, with her bizarre, but highly ornamental paintwork. New docks were everywhere, as well as several large storehouses. But beyond all that was the lush tropical jungle he couldn't wait to explore—not to mention the natives he was eager to observe. Adar descended the ramp next, dressed in his flowing High Sky Priest's robe. He was attended only by Captain Atlaan-Fas, and
Salissa
's COFO, Jis-Tikkar, or “Tikker.” No Marine guards accompanied them. Chack had plenty of those on the pier, and there was no doubt they were among friends. Chack saluted the new arrivals, and after they returned the salute, Adar, Keje, Sandra, and even Courtney embraced the young Marine.

“My heart swells with gladness at the sight of you, Colonel Chack!” Adar said. “And I am so proud of your accomplishments here! I regret it has taken us so long to arrive.”

“You had battles,” Chack said simply. No other explanation was necessary. “I am only glad that they ended well enough that you could join me now.” He waved to the others close by on the pier. “Excuse me, but I think you know Lieuten-aant Rominger? Then allow me to present Kap-i-taan Aadler Von Melhausen, commander of SMS
Ameri-kaa
—also known to the Republic of Real People as the War Palace.” Von Melhausen saluted and bowed very low with a briskness that belied his apparent frailty. “The large, dark-bearded man is Kap-i-taan Leut-naant Becker Laange, Kap-i-taan Von Melhausen's executive officer.” Lange saluted and bowed as well. “Lef-ten-aant Doocy Meek commands
Ameri-kaa
's, ah, ‘Maa-rines,' though all the Republic's military persons are referred to as ‘legionaries.'” Meek saluted sharply, palm out. Chack nodded at the Japanese man. “And as I'm sure you have guessed, this is Lieuten-aant Toryu Miyata, late of the Jaapan-ese Imperial Navy Battle Cruiser,
Amaagi
. It is he more than any other that brought us together with our new friends from the Republic—and has, perhaps, given our current mission its greatest chance for success.”

Miyata bowed low. He knew these people had no reason to love him; he'd been aboard
Amagi
when she savaged their city of Baalkpan, after all. When he rose to face them, however, he was surprised—and gratified—to see the returned bows of greeting.

“Finally,” Chack continued, “I must present our hosts.” He flicked his ears respectfully at the two short 'Cats. “These, Pukaa and Sikaa, are sons of the High Chief that rules this land and has nobly joined our cause against the Ancient Enemy. They are not warriors,” he reminded, stressing his previous recommendation that they never be used as such. They were simple people, almost like younglings, and Chack considered it his duty to protect them as much as possible from the horrors of this war. “But they have graciously allowed us to use their land to stage troops and supplies for the pending operation.” He looked specifically at Adar. “I'm sure, once you get to know them, you will agree that their contribution to the cause has been sufficiently generous.”

“No doubt,” Adar said, closely studying the natives. He and Courtney had so much to learn from them! But he suspected Chack's assessment was accurate.

“We . . . good you here,” Pukaa managed. “Happy us! Meet gone cousins. Happy us!”

“Oh! They've learned to speak!” Courtney chortled. “That will make communicating with them much, much easier than I feared!”

Adar blinked exaggerated patience, which caused a few chuckles. “It is indeed convenient that they have learned to make themselves understood by us. We must make an equal effort to learn
their
doubtless ancient and very rich dialect,” Adar said dryly. He'd already been informed that the language spoken by the people of Diego Garcia, or “Laa-Laanti” as they called it, was . . . similar to that used by most allied Lemurians. The primary difference was syntax and a severely garbled pronunciation of common words. He was sure communication would swiftly grow easier. Looking at one of the natives, he blinked sincerity. “Thank you, ah, Pukaa. We will try to disrupt the lives of your people here as little as possible, and your help in the cause of defeating our ancient foe shall never be forgotten!”

Pukaa blinked and looked at his brother. Finally, he waved his arms. “Happy us!” he said again.

The little tree lizard, Petey, had made himself as small behind Sandra's neck as he could till now, when he finally peered out from under her sandy brown hair beside her right ear. “Happy us,” he repeated softly; then more insistently he crowed, “Eat?”

“We'll eat soon enough, you gluttonous thing,” Sandra assured, patting the reptilian head. She waved out to sea. “Captain Reddy will bring
Walker
in as soon as he's scouted around the island.” She frowned. “He's been a little concerned about an undersea contact they made several days ago as well.”

“Yes,” Keje agreed, troubled. He looked at
Respite Island
's captain. “We'll have to bring all our screen in, eventually. Is yours sufficient to guard against the approach of . . . unexpected visitors?”

“Indeed, Ahd-mi-raal. I will see to it.”

“Good. Then I propose we adjourn to a more comfortable setting. We have much to discuss, but it will wait until Cap-i-taan Reddy joins us with his officers.”

*   *   *

Adar strode into
Salissa
's admiral's quarters and everyone rose to attention. He took a long breath and sighed. “Please, be seated!” Aside to Keje as he joined him at the long, broad table he murmured, “I shall never grow accustomed to this! Everyone popping up and standing like wooden carvings whenever I enter a chamber. It is embarrassing!”

“You are chairman of the Grand Alliance,” Keje said simply with a smile.

“In name only, at present. Mr. Letts stands as such in my stead at Baalkpan, more ably than I as well, I am sure. Perhaps the people there will recognize that and officially acclaim
him
chairman in my absence, particularly if the convention to form a true union of the allied powers is successful!”

Keje looked at Adar and blinked unease. Not for the first time, he suspected that more than banter lay beneath his friend's words. “We could do worse,” Keje probed.

“Indeed.” Adar looked and saw Captain Reddy still standing, Sandra at his side, and smiled to himself. Safir Maraan was sitting with Chack, and even Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray was sitting next to the young—exotically beautiful, for a human, he understood—Diania. The girl was only a fraction of Gray's age, but that wasn't an issue among Lemurians. He wondered why it seemed to bother Gray so much. He mentally shook his head. He was happy for them all, pleased by every reunion their voyage had made possible. He chuckled inwardly. All except one, perhaps, and not because he disapproved, but because their new friends from the Republic of Real People evidently cherished rather strict taboos concerning certain fraternizations between humans and Lemurians. He'd never thought of . . . whatever existed between Dennis Silva and Risa-Sab-At as anything other than amusing, but Von Melhausen and Becher Lange in particular had been horrified to see the way Silva and Risa embraced when they met. Some of Greg Garrett's reports hinted there were even some kind of human/Lemurian hybrids living in the Republic, and Adar had to admit he'd never imagined such an . . . outcome was possible. He still didn't, as far as Silva and Risa were concerned. He knew they were great friends, but they also gloried in “getting the goats” of others, whatever that meant. He sighed again. Besides, he also knew one of the least well-kept “secrets” in the Alliance: Dennis Silva and Nurse Pam Cross were practically betrothed.

Captain Reddy at least pretended to remain blissfully unaware of the situation, but if he was, he pretended very well. Adar had to wonder if Matt truly was that obtuse when it came to relationships of that sort. Most likely it was pretense, Adar decided. Matt needed Silva, and with Sandra traveling aboard
Salissa
, he wanted the next-best available physician on his ship. He couldn't surrender Silva or Pam, but his precious regulations, not to mention his sense of duty and example, might be compromised if he officially recognized the affair.

As for Silva's theatrically amorous reunion with Risa-Sab-At on the docks, Adar remained amused. In spite of her deep friendship with Risa, Pam was one female who would never allow such a spectacle as Silva and Risa performed to go unavenged if she thought it represented more than play. He looked at Matt. Captain Reddy, also aware of the sensibilities of their new friends, had been furious, however, and Adar wondered what punishment Silva would endure. “Yes, Cap-i-taan Reddy? You have a report?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Matt replied. “We steamed all around the island. Interesting place. Not like anything we expected from our old charts. We didn't pick up anything unusual, though. Never have after that one anomalous contact, as a matter of fact, so it was probably nothing after all. But I wanted to make sure.”

“Thank you. I am relieved to hear it. Now, shall we dine? I know we have much to talk about, but let us enjoy this gathering for a time before we return our thoughts to war.” He nodded at
Amerika
's elderly commander. “Kap-i-taan Von Melhausen has supplied a number of interesting delicacies from both here and his homeland for us to sample. Shall we?”

Reluctantly, Matt nodded and sat. He'd wanted to make his report, but he also wanted to apologize to the people of the Republic for Silva's behavior. Adar hadn't given him a chance, and he wondered why.
Probably didn't want to make a big deal of it,
he thought.
Besides, even Adar knows Silva's too valuable to hang, and hanging's about the only thing that might tone him down.
All Matt could really do at present was restrict the maniac to the ship. Belatedly, he realized there'd been a time when he would've apologized—or said whatever he wanted to say—whether Adar shushed him or not, and he caught himself questioning what had changed
. I have, of course, and so has Adar. I'm more comfortable letting him run the show, and he's more confident doing it now
. He shifted uneasily, grasping Sandra's hand under the table. Her “distances” seemed to come in fits and starts, but tonight, everything appeared fine between them.
Should I feel more comfortable, though?
he asked himself, watching Adar more closely. He'd always tried to defer to the “civilian” authorities—as much as possible, and as much as their understanding of the situation allowed—ever since they came to this world. He did
not
want to be a king! He was beginning to worry, however, that he might have . . . abdicated a measure of responsibility.

Adar wanted sole strategic responsibility for the conduct of the war. That was fine, and it was his duty as Chairman of the Grand Alliance. But his actual role was growing a bit more tactical than Matt felt easy with, and he suspected that was probably his own fault. Inwardly, he knew he practically
yearned
for less responsibility himself, after all they'd been through and lost. It simply hurt too much.
But that never really works out, does it?
he asked himself bitterly.
The oldest rule in the book is that you can delegate authority, but never responsibility—not even
to
higher authority
. He realized he'd been slowly doing exactly that—letting Adar “test his wings” a little too soon, and perhaps a bit too thoroughly. He hadn't encouraged it, exactly, but he hadn't actively discouraged it either. He'd
warned
, but that wasn't really enough, especially where this operation was concerned. The “prize,” to go for the whole enchilada, had to be awfully tempting—particularly for Adar. He sighed inwardly, wondering if he was worrying about nothing—and if there was anything he could do about it now, even if he wasn't.