Maelstrom (18 page)

“I just did, Skipper,” he replied. “I figured the little guys had practiced enough for one day.” He shrugged. “Besides, Taak took my crews and put them to work clearing debris.”

Garrett nodded and struggled to rise and gaze over the nearby bulwark. The Grik was beginning to wallow, beam-on to the inshore swells.

“It won’t be long before she strikes. How about the refugee barges?”

“Safely ashore,” Chapelle confirmed. “I almost wish they’d stuck it out. If we get things squared away, we might be back for them in a couple of hours.”

Garrett shook his head. “It was the right call for her to make. It’ll be evening, at least, before we can beat back around the point—if we make it around the point.” Garrett was gauging the angles as he spoke, studying the wind direction and the shore. “As hot as it is, they’d have been really suffering by then.”

“We’ll weather the point,” Chapelle assured him, “but you’re probably right. It sure is hard to get used to not having engines.”

“I was just thinking that myself. It’s tough getting used to a lot of things here,” Garrett muttered.

Chapelle frowned. “Hey, Skipper, don’t beat yourself up. You did okay.” He gestured at the now clearly doomed Grik. It was rolling so violently, the masts must soon fall. With a distant, muted “crack,” the main snapped off at the deck and collapsed into the churning sea even as they watched. Moments later the other masts went down as well, and all that remained was a wallowing, helpless hulk. Try as he might, Garrett could summon no compassion for the horrible creatures he knew had only moments to live.

“One against three . . . Three down and us still up. Not a bad showin’, if you ask me.” Chapelle chewed philosophically. “Sure, we’re beat up”—he grinned—“and our brand-new ship got scratched a bit, but that’s mostly because those two blew up in our face. Their guns weren’t doing much harm. A few weeks in the yard, a little paint here and there, and she’ll be good as new.”

“Not good enough,” Garrett growled. “Not nearly good enough. A few weeks sounds about right, but it’ll take more than a little paint. For now,
Donaghey
’s out of the war. They have the ships to trade three to one; we don’t. And . . . Damn it, Russ, they have
guns
now! Where’d they get them? How many do they have, and how fast can they make them? Damn it! Our one big advantage . . . shot!” He grimaced belatedly at the pun. “Yeah, they used them stupidly, but we can’t count on that next time. We aren’t exactly professionals at this kind of war either, you know.”

Chapelle looked uncomfortable. “Not much doubt where they got them,” he muttered darkly. “Those Jap bastards showed them how to make ’em.”

Taak-Fas trotted up, weaving his way through the debris on deck. He had something in his hand.

“Cap-i-taan, we are almost ready to cut the final lines and let the mizzen fall over the side.” He grinned. “You might want to be somewhere else when that happens.”

“Of course.”

Chapelle and the surgeon helped Garrett to his feet. One of the surgeon’s assistants, covered with blood, arrived to help. Garrett shooed him away, and with a grateful nod the ’Cat raced back to whatever operation he’d been summoned from.

“As soon as it goes over,” Taak-Fas continued, “the fore and main will draw much better. We’ll be okay.” He sounded relieved, and Garrett was too. He was also glad he had such a capable, levelheaded exec. Excited, chittering voices drew his attention back to the Grik ship. She was among the breakers now. Suddenly she heeled sharply over and performed a drunken, jerky pirouette. Waves broke over her deck, and struggling forms disappeared over the side. Garrett briefly wondered if they’d drown before the voracious “flashies” tore them apart. He still felt no pity, but was again struck by how much more inhospitable this world’s seas were than those he remembered. And it could’ve just as easily been him and his crew dying in the surf. He shuddered.

“Let me get out of the way so we can take that mast down,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll be joining them.” He stopped. “What have you got there, Taak? In your hand?”

Taak-Fas raised the object and studied it curiously. “A Grik cannon-ball,” he said. “It was rolling loose on the deck. It is about the same size as ours, and weighs much the same, I think, but it is clearly different. Here.” He handed it over. “I have duties, and you must allow the surgeon to properly dress your wound. I assure you, Cap-i-taan, I can somehow manage for the short time that will take.”

Garrett took the ball and laughed. Taak was right. The repairs were under control, and he was just getting in the way. Taak spoke to the surgeon in his own language; then he and Chapelle assisted Garrett down the companionway. Once they reached the wardroom, they eased him into a chair, where he sat and waited while others with more serious wounds were tended. He’d insisted as soon as he saw them. Some of the wounds were utterly ghastly: mangled limbs and terrible gashes—mostly caused by splinters, he again realized. His ship was in capable hands and his leg would keep. He looked at the ball he’d laid in his lap.

The cannons they’d helped the Lemurians create were bronze. There was plenty of copper and tin all over this region that had once been the Dutch East Indies. Iron was harder to come by and harder still to work. They desperately needed iron to make structural repairs to
Walker
and
Mahan
, and implement many of their other plans. In the short term, though, it didn’t seem critical. Bronze was actually better than iron for smoothbore cannons. The elongation was better and the quality control not as critical. They made their cannonballs of copper, which flew just fine. But without a steady source of iron, and the ability to smelt and forge it in quantity, there was only so far they could go, industrially speaking. Even with their limitations, Garrett had thought they would enjoy a significant advantage over the enemy for some time to come. At least until today. As he contemplated the projectile in his lap, it suddenly dawned on him with a sickening sense of dread that the Grik had not only caught them technologically, but taken a leaping bound ahead. The ball in his lap was iron.
They’re making cannonballs of iron
, he thought numbly. His thoughts immediately rearranged themselves.
They have so much iron they can
waste
it on cannonballs!

“My God.”

CHAPTER 5

Hisashi Kurokawa, captain of His Imperial Majesty’s battle cruiser
Amagi
, paced nervously back and forth in the gloomy anteroom of the Imperial Regent’s palace. The regent, an imposing Grik named Tsalka, was not present, nor had he been since shortly after the disappointing setback delivered to the Grand Swarm in general, and
Amagi
in particular, by the “Tree Prey” and their American allies. He’d returned to Ceylon, where he presumably awaited either death for his failure, or a requested audience with the Celestial Mother, the Supreme Empress of all the Grik Herself, on the distant island of Madagascar where the Imperial Palace stood.

Kurokawa doubted he’d ever see Tsalka again. The regent would either be killed out of hand, or executed (hopefully eaten alive) after his audience with the empress. Even though he’d essentially been only a “passenger” aboard the Grand Swarm’s flagship, and not in actual command, he’d been the highest-ranking Grik in the region. Intolerance for failure was one trait the Grik shared with the Japanese, and if the one punished was not actually responsible for the failure, it was the example that was important. Even if he wasn’t killed, there was a very good chance he wouldn’t survive the trip to Madagascar. Voyages across the deep water of the Indian Ocean were notoriously hazardous. Apparently, the deeper the water, the larger the predators grew. Large enough to
eat
ships such as the regent would travel in. The thought warmed Kurokawa slightly. He patently loathed Tsalka—and all things Grik, in fact—even though only Tsalka’s forbearance had prevented him and all his surviving crew from being eaten in the aftermath of the “setback.” Kurokawa felt little gratitude, however, since one in ten of the Japanese survivors—almost sixty men—had gone to the butchers and feasting fires of their “allies.” It was nothing personal, he was assured, simply tradition. The hunter that drops his spear when the prey is brought to bay is always eaten in its stead, and the American torpedo that nearly sank his ship certainly made him drop the Grik’s mightiest spear.

Kurokawa had been indignant, but since he felt no real allegiance to his men either, he’d shed no tears for those who died. They were cowards and traitors all. Particularly his executive officer, Commander Sato Okada, who constantly questioned his decision to make alliance with the Grik, and would even make an accommodation with the Americans, he suspected, if he could. He’d grown far too close to their American prisoner of late. But Okada was not unique; his entire crew had betrayed him and The Emperor with their failure. After the strange storm that brought them here,
Amagi
had been the most powerful ship in the world. He’d believed it was only a matter of time before he could use her might to gain a position of power over the Grik. The Grik were loathsome creatures, but clearly the dominant species. Once he rose in their esteem, he could co-opt, or even supplant their ridiculous “Celestial Mother” and eventually rule this world himself—all in the name of Emperor Hirohito, of course.

Amagi
’s worthless crew had thwarted his ambition, at least temporarily. They’d allowed the mightiest ship this world had ever seen to be grievously wounded by an insignificant American destroyer, a ship so poorly armed and obsolete even the Americans had considered her class as expendable as napkins before the war. Therefore, Kurokawa cared nothing for the welfare of his crew, except insofar as their training and experience enhanced his own value and prestige. He couldn’t use them to further his aims if they were dead. He raged to admit it, but he himself would have little importance to the Grik without the skill and knowledge he commanded through his surviving crew. He therefore did his best to keep them alive and relatively comfortable.

Besides, the main reason Tsalka hadn’t killed them all was that another Grik, General Esshk, had intervened. Not immune to blame himself, it was he who prevailed with the argument that the Japanese and their mighty, wounded ship might be of use. Perhaps even essential to the ultimate success of the Swarm. Esshk made Tsalka realize the old ways of war, the Great Hunt that exterminated their prey almost as sport, might not succeed against the rediscovered Tree Prey, who’d escaped the conquest of Madagascar itself countless generations before. They’d grown much more formidable than the ancient histories described.

Kurokawa had learned that when the Grik first encountered the Tree Prey, as they were called, they’d posed no more of a challenge than any other predatory species the Grik had exterminated. They usually hid in trees, of all things, and when they fought, they did so ineffectually. But unlike any other prey the Grik had hunted, the Tree Prey somehow escaped. In desperation they’d built great ships from the dense forests of their home and braved the deadly sea the Grik couldn’t cross. Not until merely a couple of hundred years before had the Grik been given the gift of a seagoing ship to copy for themselves. A strange race of tail-less prey—not unlike the present Japanese, Esshk inferred—arrived in a three-masted ship with a sturdy, ingeniously planked hull. No one knew where they came from, and it really didn’t matter. The prey was devoured, but the ship and technical language required to make her was copied. Educated Hij among the Grik learned to write and cipher in the strange, captured tongue, even if they couldn’t form the words to speak it. More and more ships were built along the lines the captured drafts referred to as “East Indiamen.” The Grik now had a fleet with which to expand their empire—although progress was slow. Even the much-improved ships the “English” prey brought were not proof against the largest denizens of the terrible sea.

It all made sense to Kurokawa. He suspected an East Indiaman had been swept to this world a few centuries before, just as
Amagi
had. Inexplicably, it was unarmed. He didn’t understand that at all. Historically, British East Indiamen usually carried an impressive armament for protection against pirates, and even belligerent warships. Perhaps those long-ago Englishmen already knew something about the Grik before they were captured, and feared what would happen if “modern” weapons fell into their hands. Maybe they heaved them over the side? If so, what had they thought they were protecting? Regardless, there were no cannons aboard when the Grik took the ship. Otherwise they’d already have them and they wouldn’t have come as such a devastating surprise when the hated Americans recently introduced the technology.

Kurokawa seethed. Oh, how he hated the Americans! They were responsible for his being here in the first place, instead of back where he belonged, riding the tide of Japanese victory across the Pacific. Perhaps the war was already won? The long-respected American Navy had proven ineffective, and had been unable to muster much of a defense after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor. Nearly a year had passed since the bizarre green Squall transported him here. At the rate they’d been going, the Japanese Imperial Navy might have dictated terms to the United States from within San Francisco Bay by now. That was where he ought to be: covered in glory and recognized for his brilliance. Not here in this barbaric, perverted caricature world, where the emperor—
his
emperor—did not reign. The Americans were the cause of all that, and someday he’d have his revenge.

His value had been recognized by General Esshk, at least. The general was acting as forward vice regent in Tsalka’s stead, and his quarters were in the palace of the former king of Aryaal. Even Kurokawa had to admit the palace was an impressive edifice. It was constructed of white marble, and the spired towers and spacious, arched balconies gave it a medieval Eastern European flair. It was even more striking, since it was the only building still standing within the walls surrounding the conquered city. Aryaal was “conquered” only in the sense that it no longer belonged to the enemy. The first attempt to take it failed catastrophically, and it finally came into Grik hands as a burned-out, abandoned wasteland. All except the palace that somehow escaped the inferno. Briefly, he wondered why.

Kurokawa knew the Americans had to be responsible for the scorched-earth policy that greeted the invaders when they reached the city, as well as the neighboring island of B’mbaado. He doubted their primitive lackeys were sophisticated enough to think of the strategy on their own. With the inhabitants gone, and nothing left but the palace, there was no food, no supplies. There wasn’t even shelter from the terrible storms that sometimes slashed at the exposed coastal city. The Americans had managed to sour even the seizure of Aryaal, which was the one small victory the Grik had achieved. Everything they needed had to be brought by ship, putting even further strain on available resources and indefinitely delaying the buildup they’d need before renewing the offensive. Only by renewing the offensive could he prove his worth, and only by proving his worth could he renew his broken scheme for power. Captain Kurokawa continued to brood and pace.

The tapestry separating the anteroom from the audience chamber parted to reveal the terrifying form of a Grik. It looked like a bipedal lizard, except it had short, feathery fur instead of scales. Its snout and tail were shorter, proportionately, than one would have expected from a lizard, but the tightly spaced, razor-sharp teeth packing the short snout left the fiercest shark wanting. Empty, remorseless, sharklike eyes regarded Kurokawa in silence for a moment before the creature spoke.

“The vice regent will see you now.”

The voice came as a series of hisses and clicks, but Kurokawa had learned to understand the words even if he couldn’t speak them. Much of the meaning came from subtle sounds requiring a foot-long tongue and two-inch pointed teeth. By now a few Grik had also learned to understand English, although it was apparently even more impossible for them to speak. Most Hij could read written English. It was their technical language, and that was how Kurokawa first communicated with them: writing notes back and forth. But that was no longer necessary, and he could converse fairly normally, with Esshk, at least.

In the Japanese Navy he’d risen in, it was required that all bridge officers know and speak English, since most of the maneuvering commands were made in that language. He knew the tradition began at the turn of the century, when Japan purchased her first modern battleships from Great Britain. Even more were acquired during the Great War, when the two countries were actually allies against Germany. Since everything on the ships was written in English—the instruction manuals were in English, and most of the instructors and advisors spoke only English—Kurokawa and his peers were forced to speak English as well. The Japanese Navy was an infant in need of traditions, and speaking English on the bridge became one. He was glad that was one tradition quickly fading back home, even if he made use of it now.

Controlling a shudder, he bowed stiffly to the gruesome messenger, straightened his tunic, and marched quickly into the vice regent’s audience chamber.

General Esshk, complete with plumed helmet, scarlet cape, and shiny plate armor protecting his chest, looked for all the world like a sinister, reptilian gargoyle dressed as a Roman tribune. Mighty muscles rippled beneath his downy skin, and he carried himself as fully erect as his alien physique allowed. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the Japanese officer. Kurokawa knew that, before the recent setback, Esshk had been a favorite among the Grik elite. He was considered their greatest living general, and was actually a sibling, of sorts, of the empress. He also had an unusual reputation: he was deemed something of a philosopher. Kurokawa knew that really meant he had a keen and inquisitive mind. He was unusually open to new ideas and innovations, and seemed less entrenched in the instinctual behavior patterns and responses he’d seen in other Grik, even Hij. That was both an advantage and disadvantage, depending on the circumstances, since it made Esshk both easier and more difficult to manipulate. When working with the general, the supreme question always was, Who was manipulating whom?

Esshk noticed his arrival, and motioned another Grik he’d been speaking with to leave. He hissed a pleasant greeting.

“Ah! Captain Kurokawa! I trust you are well?”

Kurokawa bowed deeply. Visitors were expected to prostrate themselves, but he simply would not. A formal bow was as much as he was willing to compromise. Strangely, Esshk never insisted he do more.

“Well enough, Your Excellency. I do grow anxious.”

“Anxious to resume the hunt? Good. That is why I summoned you here.”

“There is news?”

“Actually, yes. Several days ago I dispatched three of our newly armed ships”—he bowed his head appreciatively toward Kurokawa—“to patrol the eastern approaches to the neighboring island. I hoped they might encounter one of the ships of the prey that sometimes visit the vicinity. They did.”

Kurokawa contained a surge of annoyance. He’d often counseled Esshk to conceal the fact that they were arming Grik ships with guns, and to reveal the surprise only when they had sufficient numbers for a decisive blow. He was constantly amazed that a race whose only military tactic was a full frontal assault with overwhelming numbers had such difficulty understanding the principle of mass. It was an old argument by now, however, and one he had no hope of winning. Besides, perhaps the sortie had been successful. Esshk certainly seemed in a good mood.

“I take it the enemy ship was destroyed?” he ventured.

“Unfortunately not, but it was severely damaged. I congratulate you on your perseverance in training the crews to use their new weapons effectively.” Esshk seemed to consider. “Perhaps even more such training is in order.”

Kurokawa sighed. He did not, of course, perform any of the training duties himself. That, and other things, was what certain members of his crew were for. He’d heard, however, that teaching the semisentient Uul to do anything beyond hack at their opponents with swords was like forcing water to run uphill. He’d speak to those responsible for the training and see what more could be done.

“Perhaps. With respect, what kind of damage . . . did our . . . forces sustain?”