Deadly Shores (37 page)

Eventually they saw no more Grik, and they quickened their pace through that part of the city. None of the structures was particularly tall, but the tracks were narrow enough that they often lost sight of the imposing palace. Without the sun to guide them, Silva relied on his trusty compass: a small thing the size of a pocket watch, with USN engraved on the push-button lid. At least until they got close enough that the palace loomed over them regardless of the obstacles. All they had to do then was keep moving in its general direction. On they went, as fast as they could, panting in the vile, dank air; all thought of stealth rapidly fading as they struggled through the mud and fug. Above all, the dull booming and muffled crackle of battle urged them on.

“Buggers the mind,” Silva gasped, breathing hard for the first time in anyone's memory. Most of them, and Herring in particular, couldn't have said anything at all just then. “To think they wanna turn the whole world into a shithole like this. They can't
all
live like this!”

“They don't,” Lawrence replied around his lolling tongue, nodding forward. Just ahead, beyond a narrow alley, stood a mixed rock and adobe wall about six feet high. It was clearly a demarcation between the “slum” the majority of Grik infested, and a region of more angular, less congested architecture sprawling at the foot of the mountainous palace.

Everyone crowded forward to see. “It has long been known that there are two basic ‘classes' of Grik,” Herring managed, still breathing hard.

“You don't say?” Pam quipped sarcastically.

Herring ignored her and continued. “There are the warrior-worker ‘Uul,' and the ‘Hij,' who do all the actual thinking. No Uul would have any sort of separate dwelling of its own, even as execrable as those we've just passed through, so some level of Hij had to inhabit that area. Obviously, there are various subclasses among the Hij as well, and the more prominent among them, for whatever reason, must reside beyond that wall.”

“Very astute, Commander Herring,” Miyata observed, “and I could have told you all of that. You seem to keep forgetting that I have been here before!”

Herring looked at the mud-spattered officer and finally nodded. “Indeed,” he allowed. “You could have told me if I asked. My mistake . . . and my apologies.” He looked at Laumer, Silva, all of them in turn. “My apologies to you all. This is no time to harbor grudges against any but our current enemy. Please tell us what you can, Lieutenant Miyata.”

“Very well. As was apparent, the larger part of the city was at least mostly deserted. That is because it serves as a kind of ‘base housing,' if you will. All the yard workers, artificers, carpenters—anyone, in fact, with any productive skill—resides there. I suspect a large percentage of upper-level NCOs and junior officers live there as well. Since the various battles raging around the city seem to be everyone's focus today, it stands to reason that they would be elsewhere.”

“I can see the fighters bein' all gone,” Isak croaked, still gasping. “There's, well, a fight. Stands to reason. But where'd all the yard apes go?”

“I get it,” Silva said, snapping his fingers at Isak. “Griks is almost as specialized as you an' Gilbert, but they can do other stuff too.”

“Right,” Laumer agreed. “They stampeded everybody else off to help prepare the defenses in front of Second Corps! They'd need the low-level Hij to supervise the Uul in doing stuff as simple as digging a trench!”

“I can do other stuff,” Isak grumbled. “I'm here, ain't I?”

“I suspect you are right,” Miyata agreed with Laumer.

“Right or not,” Lawrence said urgently, pointing with his rifle, “they didn't take
all
the Griks a'ay.”

They looked and saw a crested head peering at them over the wall, just before it disappeared.

“Let's go!” Silva urged. “Bigwigs or not, armed or not, all Grik got claws an' teeth! Over the damn wall as fast as you can!”

Lawrence vaulted to the top and helped Silva scrabble up behind him. Standing on the wide, flat top, Dennis saw the Grik racing away—past a lot of other Grik. “Uh-oh,” he murmured, raising his Thompson. “Hurry it up! Get your ass up here, Arnie, an' cover us with that BAR!” Horn gained the top of the slippery wall, his eyes widening at the number of Grik they were about to wade through. Again, these were obviously not warriors, but there were a lot of them. Silva reslung his Thompson, and he and Lawrence, then a couple of the 'Cat Marines, started practically pitching their comrades over to the other side. Through the apparently panicked mass, Horn saw a column—a
column
—of about a dozen Grik warriors shoving its way in their direction. With a grim expression, he racked the bolt back on the BAR and very professionally hosed the small force to extinction. The rest of the Grik around it broke into a panicked rush in all directions.

“Goddamn, Arnie!” Silva yelled, working his jaw to pop his ears.

“Goddamn, Arnie!” Petey squealed, fluffing his gliding membrane and hunkering back down. He'd very nearly launched himself. “Why don't you just toot a bugle an' say, ‘We're here!'” Silva demanded.

“As some big idiot destroyerman once told me, sometimes it's time to quit pussyfooting around and get on with the killing!” Horn retorted.

“Idiot's right,” Pam snapped as Silva handed her over last.

“Enough!” Irvin Laumer decreed in a new tone that brooked no argument, and it would occur to some later that it must have been then that the young former submariner more or less officially took command of “Silva's” mission. “This isn't a game. Get down from there,” he instructed Silva, Horn, and Lawrence, who were the last ones on the wall. When they complied, he nodded forward, toward the palace. “We'll run for it. Shoot what you have to, but we must reach the entrance before they have a chance to fortify it!”

“Right.” Silva nodded, accepting Laumer's authority as a matter of course. “Me, Arnie . . .” He paused. “And Pam, with the automatic weapons, will take point. The rest o' you lugs keep the bastards off us on the flanks. They might jump at us outa any o' these alleyways.” This new part of the city was clearly more geometrical. There were nods, and Silva looked at Irvin. “Whenever you say, Mr. Laumer.”

There wasn't that much shooting as they practically sprinted the remaining half mile to the palace. A few Grik lunged at them, but the vast majority only wanted to get out of their way. These they left alone, conserving ammunition. It was a little disconcerting. They'd never seen so many “civilian” Grik before, and it was stunning how little fight they had in them.

“What a buncha pansies!” Silva panted, still having trouble with the heavy, wretched air. Three Grik had nearly fallen over themselves trying to clear his path when he menaced them with the Thompson. Its barrel was still smoking after a long burst he fired down a congested alley where another column of warriors was struggling to get at them. Those that followed fired into the writhing mass as well, the heavy booming of their rifles much louder than the stutter of the Thompson.

“Pansies!” Petey cawed. “Pansies! Ack! Goddamn!”

A swarm of musket balls from Grik matchlocks, like barely subsonic bumblebees, thrummed around them, and they ducked and flinched. “That group at the base of the palace steps seems a little more determined,” Laumer warned, pointing at around thirty Grik deploying to block them. “Not to mention competent, to keep its weapons working in this damp.”

“Yeah,” Horn replied. “Let's get behind something to think this through.”

“The hell with that,” Silva roared, charging ahead. “At 'em while they're loadin'!” Lawrence and Pam raced after him, and the rest, faced with both the fact and the logic of what Silva did, followed with a shout, and chittering Lemurian yells. Silva's Thompson blatted, and Pam's Blitzer Bug burped short bursts, spraying helpless, frightened Grik, caught in the process of loading their long, fishtailed weapons. Many quickly sprawled in bloody heaps on the narrow steps. Others continued loading with half-panicked fingers and were cut down by Horn's BAR. Lemurian rifles roared at the rest with white smoke and stabbing slashes of orange fire. Maybe half a dozen Grik dropped their weapons and bolted, but the rest drew their curved swords and charged. Laumer blasted one in the face with his shotgun, and it fell past him, its head a shattered wreckage of blood and bone. Pack Rat shot one with his Springfield, then drove it to the ground with his bayonet. The 'Cat Marines met the others with their bayonets as well, and made short work of them. “C'mon!” Laumer cried, sliding another paper and brass shell into his weapon. “Up the stairs! More Grik are gathering at the entrance above!”

“No grenades,” Silva cautioned Horn. “They'll roll back down at us!”

“Tell somebody that doesn't already know that!” Horn snapped back. He and Silva were the only ones who
had
grenades. Under cover of the automatic weapons that sent showers of blood, fuzz, and pulverized stone drifting away from the Grik in the high-arched opening, they puffed and gasped up the remaining forty yards or so to the opening in the north side of the palace. Grik tumbled down around them as they neared, and Dennis did throw a grenade from right below the entrance. It disappeared inside and exploded with a harsh thump, followed by a chorus of wails.

“More!” Laumer yelled.

Dennis and Horn each tossed two more grenades in the opening, and ducked when smoke, debris, and pieces of Grik vomited out around them. “In, in!” Laumer cried. They all rose up and leaped the little stone rail around a broad landing. A 'Cat screamed, dropping his rifle with a clatter, and fell back with a crossbow bolt jutting from his chest. Pam fired blindly into the smoke-choked passageway until her bolt locked back, and Horn and several 'Cats kept up the fire until they were empty as well. Then they listened. Aside from a few moans, there was no sound besides the frantic panting of the attackers themselves.

“Get our guy,” Laumer instructed the Marines, “and his weapon.” A pair hopped back over the rail and dragged the dead 'Cat and his rifle back to the group. For a moment, they all paused, listening and catching their breath. Silva looked back over the city and the harbor, and was stunned by the view.
Walker
was under her own rainsquall now, and was barely visible in the distance beyond the smoldering Grik cruiser. Bright flashes in the rain encouraged them that she was still in the fight. To the east-northeast, the battle continued to rage in front of II Corps, but all they could see was the Grik rear; a mass of confusing motion. Beyond the smoke of battle, most of which had to be Safir's, they couldn't see much of her force either. Silva grunted with satisfaction to see that the me-naak mounted cavalry had finally reached shore and assembled directly east, just to the left of the Allied infantry. The Grik didn't seem to have noticed it yet.

“We've got to leave some guys here,” Laumer wheezed. “Enough to keep the Grik off our ass if any try to follow us in.”

“How many?” Herring asked.

“We can't afford to leave too many, but a few have to stay.”

Herring nodded. “I'll stay. Leave me . . . Gunny Horn, a few Marines, and half the grenades.”

“We're gonna need Arnie in there,” Silva said, nodding at the interior of the palace. “He's a good bayonet man, and he won't need his BAR. You take it. Take Isak too. He ain't good for nothin' outside a fireroom.”

“Now wait just a damn minute!” Horn objected, holding his BAR close.

“Yah!” Isak protested.

“Hand it over, Gunny,” Laumer ordered. “We'll have the Thompson and the Blitzer. The BAR's better for long range, and Herring'll need it.”

Frowning, Horn handed over his bag of grenades and exchanged the BAR for Herring's Springfield. “You know how to shoot that thing, sir?” he demanded.

Herring nodded. “It's been a while,” he admitted, “but I remember how.”

Isak Reuben stared sullenly around, then nervously cleared his throat. “Herring ain't gettin' me neither,” he stated. “I'm on my own hook here, an' by God, fer once, I'm gonna fight this war the way I want! Ever'body else gets to.” He shook his head, his skinny chest still heaving from unaccustomed exertion. “I'm goin' in there, fer me, an' Gilbert, an' Tabby—an' all the other snipes that always got to do their fightin' blind, in the hot, dark, engineerin' spaces. I'm goin' for all them who the only glimpse they ever get o' the enemy is one o' their shells er cannonballs shootin' holes in our goddamn hulls!” He fumbled at his side, then drew the '03 Springfield bayonet and shakily affixed it to the muzzle of his Krag. “I'm . . . I'm goin' in there,” he repeated determinedly.

Silva just grinned. “You're gonna be a Grik turd, Isak. This time tomorrow!”

“Gonna be a turd!” Petey confirmed.

“You're already a turd, Dennis!” Pam scolded. “Leave 'im alone. You always get to fight the way
you
want. It's my turn too!” She looked at Herring. “We'll try to get our wounded back here to you before, you know, we get in too deep.” Herring frowned, but nodded his head. “Five Marines, then?” he asked Laumer.

“I'll stay too,” Pack Rat almost sighed, pushing more .30-06 shells into his magazine. “My feet hurt, an' I got this Springfield. Might come in handy out here.”

They heard a commotion in the passageway behind them, gurgling cries and the clatter of equipment, and Laumer nodded toward it. “More coming,” he said. “Let's go meet 'em!”

//////
The Celestial Palace

G
eneral Esshk joined a very nervous Chooser in the throne room of the Celestial Mother. His armor was spattered with mud and blood, and his once-bright red cape was torn and singed. The Chooser regarded him with horror.

“What is happening?” he demanded in an anxious near whisper.

“
War
is happening, my Lord Chooser,” Esshk replied, still somewhat bemused himself. “Of a sort I have only witnessed once before.” He raised a corner of his ruined cape and gazed at it. “Most unruly.” The first general of all the Ghaarrichk'k simply did not personally engage in battles; he designed them for others to fight. He was beyond such things himself. Esshk had spent most of his life suppressing the passions that drove a warrior in combat so he could more clearly use his better mind. He'd done his best to apply his new understanding of the principles of defense to prepare for the attack underway, but was beginning to suspect that even the enemy couldn't have specifically designed the very . . . odd battle sprawling all around the principal city of his kind. It had just happened, as far as he could tell, and his own ability to influence its outcome had been quickly overwhelmed.

Of course, he'd very nearly been killed as well, when one of the flying machines of the enemy prey dropped a stunningly forceful firebomb rather close as he surveyed the chaotic fight an appropriate distance from the point of contact. He'd been indignant. Designers of battles did not
slay
one another! They planned the game for their Uul to play! Then he'd fretfully thought again, reminding himself of the dreadful stakes he'd forced himself to consider ever since the terrible setback at Baalkpan two years before. He'd been away from the fight too long, relying on Halik and Kurokawa to carry the load. Now he had no idea how they fared, and he'd been forced to revisit his earlier impressions of this unprecedented war. This was not a territorial battle between friendly regents, intent on reducing their numbers and entertaining their Uul. This was a
war
, a real war for the survival of his race. The singed cape drove that forcefully home once more.

The Giver of Life herself still slept—it was not yet midday—and her attendants glared at Esshk and the Chooser for speaking in her presence. Esshk didn't care. The fight was reaching a tipping point, and contingencies had to be explored.

“Your Magnificence,” he said loudly, “I must report!”

The Chooser recoiled from him, stunned by the hideous breach, and hurled himself to the stone floor. The equally startled attendants leaned toward Esshk, ready to seize him if ordered.

The Celestial Mother, draped heavily upon her saddlelike throne, opened an eye and regarded him. “You have awakened me, First General Esshk,” she said simply. “Have you decided to destroy yourself? I will certainly command you to do so if you do not have sufficient reason to disturb me.”

“I will gladly destroy myself, but I beg you to hear me first,” Esshk said. He did not even join the Chooser on the floor. The Celestial Mother noticed that as well.

“I will hear you,” she said in a curious tone. “What has happened?” She paused, contemplating the dull rumble leaking into the chamber through the overhead light portal. Normally, the warming rays of the sun were allowed to wash upon her during the day by means of mirrors set along a convoluted shaft that admitted light, but not rain. There was no light now, but she'd been aware of thunder for some time. “Surely you do not awaken me for a storm?”

“I do, Your Magnificence. A dreadful storm indeed.” He showed her the cape. “The dire proposal I made you, concerning the significance of the enemy flying machines, has descended upon us. The enemy is here, and has come in force. I don't know how they did this, but it has happened. Even now they threaten this very palace on its eastern side with perhaps ten thousands.”

“That is not so many,” the Giver of Life said, deflecting, “and hardly worth my attention. You are the first general! Destroy them!”

Esshk bowed his head. “That has been my aim, but the enemy prey has not cooperated,” he said with some irony. “The force that threatens the palace had barely landed before the small iron ship that Kurokawa so desperately loathed stole into the harbor . . . and destroyed the entire fleet at anchor.”

The Celestial Mother sat up, her eyes wide with indignant astonishment.
“One ship did that?”
she raged.

“Perhaps not all alone,” Esshk murmured. “The details are unclear. Some flying machines certainly helped. The ship itself has suffered damage as well, and is currently grounded at the harbor mouth. Sufficient warriors have converged on it that I am confident it will trouble us no more—but the force that presses here is most tenacious.”

“So few cannot be a threat,” the Celestial Mother insisted.

“They can and are, Your Magnificence. Our new warriors fight well, better than I have ever seen, but the enemy has better weapons and obviously, greater experience. These are doubtless veteran warriors, Your Magnificence, and there is only one place that so many could have gained their skill.”

“India!” the Celestial Mother snapped.

“So we must assume, which means they must have won an even greater victory there than we dreaded, to be here now. That also implies that India is entirely lost, and Kurokawa and Halik with it!”

“It does indeed,” the Celestial Mother mused. She jerked her head to the side, and her jowls quivered. “What must be done?”

“I have already taken the liberty of having the sport fighters released into the palace.” Esshk licked his teeth. “They cannot fight together, but in confined passages that should not matter. Individually, they will fight very well to protect you, their God.”

“It will come to that?” the Celestial Mother asked, a trace of fear touching her disbelief. “Not even this prey would dare threaten me directly!”

Esshk sighed, realizing that the eons of absolute power enjoyed by an uninterrupted procession of Celestial Mothers had not well prepared them to deal with reality. “Obscene as it may seem, Your Magnificence, not all creatures revere you as do your own. I consider it possible these might even
slay
you if they can.”

“Impossible!” the Giver of Life almost chortled. “No
thing
could possess such hubris!”

“It does seem absurd, Your Magnificence,” the Chooser finally ventured, “but in the event they may even accidentally harm you, I most humbly recommend you—all of us—should go from here!”

“Go? Where?
How?
You have always been a most pretentious and ridiculous creature, Lord Chooser, but now you have lost your senses.”

“With all my worshipfulness,” Esshk interceded, “there
is
a way, Your Magnificence.”

Two members of the palace guard, competent if unimaginative lower-level Hij, threw themselves through the entrance to the throne room and sprawled on the dank stones.

“Such a day for unseemly visitations,” the Celestial Mother observed, amused by her own wit. “Speak!”

“The prey!” the senior guard cried. “The prey has forced the north entrance to the palace!”

Without consulting the Celestial Mother, Esshk simply said, “Release the guard beasts!”

“
I
rule here, Lord First General! What right have you to give such a command?” the Celestial Mother rumbled indignantly.

“The right of any first general, Your Magnificence, to protect his Giver of Life. We must release the guard beasts on the north entrance level!”

“My pets,” the Celestial Mother lamented. “They might be harmed! And it is always most difficult to return them to their pens!”

“Nevertheless, it must be done, and we must evacuate the palace at once!”

The Celestial Mother gave a great sigh. “How very tiresome you have grown, General Esshk!” She glanced about, realizing for the first time that
she
really couldn't leave if she wanted to. She couldn't possibly move herself. Even if she had the strength, it wouldn't be seemly. And she'd grown too large for the number of attendants it would require to move her, to fit through the narrow passageways of the palace. “Very well. Prepare to evacuate my sisters, but if these intruders dare annoy me in my own chambers, I will confront them myself!”