Maelstrom (35 page)

Lawrence turned to Becky. This was a subject they must have discussed.

“They sometimes fight invaders from other islands,” she confessed guardedly. “They do not attack others.”

“When they fight, do they ever . . . eat their enemies?”

“No!” interrupted Lawrence. “Disgusting thought! Never eat others . . .”

“They never
eat
other intelligent beings!” Becky finished for him. “What a revolting and insulting question! I might ask the same of you!”

Bradford breathed. “I apologize. We and our allies do not, of course, do such things, but”—he pointed at Lawrence—“the others of his kind, whom we fight, most certainly do. They even eat each other. It was a question I had to ask.” He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must tinker with my journal, write a few things down, you see.”

CHAPTER 9

Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray sat on a charred stump—about all that remained of his quarters. His face was soot blackened, streaked with sweat, and spattered with blood. His new uniform was destroyed, and it hung on him in rags. A bandage encircled his wrist, and the viscous purple of the Lemurian paste oozed from underneath it. The usual westerly breeze had stalled, as if deciding whether to come around out of the east, and smoke hung over the island like a pall. So did the stench. Their Lemurian dead were already gathered for their pyre, but there was nothing left to burn them with. A few colonists from the mainland, graw-fishers, had sailed out last night and, after viewing the scene with a horror beyond their isolated experience, solemnly promised to return with wood.

Three American dead were buried early that morning, Lieutenant Clark among them. Gray felt responsible for that. He’d severely reprimanded the young lieutenant, and he’d deserved it, but maybe he’d been too severe? As if to atone, Clark had put himself forward in the terrible fighting, and it cost him his life. All young officers make mistakes, and Clark’s had been a doozy, but he’d had the makings of a good commander. He’d just been too young and inexperienced for the position he’d held, and then been too immature to accept his mistake and learn from it. The other two humans had died fighting as well, but they hadn’t practically courted death as Clark had done. Now three lonely graves, and a marker for the Lemurian dead, would forever bear witness to the price they’d paid for this place.

Hundreds of Grik still lay where they’d fallen, covered with buzzing insects and strange-looking crabs. They didn’t know what to do with them; they couldn’t just throw them in the surf. Flashies didn’t come that shallow, and they’d just wash up again. The surviving Marines and Guardsmen were too exhausted to bury them, though. Maybe when they’d rested a bit, they could heap them on the barges and tow them to deeper water. It would take a lot of trips. . . .

A few days earlier it would have seemed very strange if Gray and Shinya even said “good morning.” Now, when the equally bedraggled Japanese officer sat heavily beside him and offered his canteen, Gray nodded his thanks.

“Mr. Bradford will scold us cruelly,” Shinya said softly. Gray grunted and took a sip. The island’s jungle was gone now, all of it. He wasn’t even sure what had set the fire, but there’d been no stopping it this time, not in the midst of battle. He hacked hoarsely and spit dark phlegm.

“I guess he shoulda taken specimens while he was here after all,” Gray deadpanned.

In reality, most of the island’s species would survive; enough escaped the conflagration to the beach to ensure that. It wouldn’t take long for foliage to return with almost daily rains. The herbivores would take a serious hit, and when they grew scarce the carnivores would too, but enough would survive. Lightning, if nothing else, had surely burned the island before. The important thing was that the well was mostly intact, even after being struck by a few round shot, and Isak and his crew were repairing it. Also, somehow, the Stars and Stripes still floated above the island on a makeshift spar, salvaged from the mostly intact Grik ship beached in the shallows. Rooting the last enemies out of it was how they lost Clark.

The Battle for Tarakan had been a desperate, grisly affair. For the first time Lemurians had stood under a terrifying, if mostly ineffectual bombardment. Then the enemy swarmed ashore. They’d been outnumbered at least three to one, and the fighting had been almost as bad as Gray remembered on the plain below Aryaal’s walls. Almost. This time they’d had prepared defenses and trenches, making it possible to reinforce weak spots. Still, it had been bad, and their own losses were nearly thirty percent. Nothing compared to the Grik, whose losses were total, but that didn’t matter at all like it might if they’d been fighting a human foe . . . or any foe that deserved the slightest speck of compassion. When the attacking force was destroyed, the exhausted Marines mounted an assault of their own on the ship in hopes of taking it intact, and predictably, as before, the cornered Grik fought like fiends. But the stranded ship was flooded, and all they’d accomplished was the capture of some Grik armaments.

“Their cannons are incredibly crude,” observed Shinya, as if reading his thoughts. “The bores are rough, and so is the shot. No wonder so many burst when fired.”

“Yeah, and they’re made from crummy iron too. But it is iron, damn it. We sure need to be working on that.”

Shinya nodded, then spoke reflectively: “They relied heavily on those guns. We’ve given them an appreciation of artillery, at least. I believe they expected theirs to perform as well as ours. That might have made the difference. There were far more of us waiting to greet them than they expected.”

Gray matched Shinya’s predatory grin. Both men had fought hard, and the battle
had
been desperate; hand-to-hand at times. More than once each had now saved the other’s life. They’d both been through the crucible of Aryaal, but they hadn’t been back-to-back then. They might never be friends, but they’d finally developed a bond of respect, trust, and shared commitment that could form only in battle. For the first time since they met, there, amid the detritus of bitter strife, they felt . . . comfortable with each other.

The general alarm began sounding again, and Gray saw Shinya close his eyes briefly before rising.

“First Marines,” he yelled, “stand to!”

Gray painfully rose to join him while exhausted, bandaged ’Cats shuffled into formation as quickly as they could. “What the hell now,” he growled, looking at the distant ’Cat atop the makeshift tower.

A runner sprinted to them, gasping. “More sails,” he reported breathlessly, “in the north.”

“North?! How many?” Gray demanded.

“Four, sir.”

“Well, that tears it,” Gray spat disgustedly.

“Perhaps not,” Shinya observed. “Our one major advantage over the Grik is their tactical inflexibility. Their strategy can be cunning, but they seem unwilling to change basic procedures. Four, did you say?” The runner nodded. “Most unusual. The Grik usually come in multiples of three—I have no idea why; ancient hunting traditions, perhaps? Regardless, with few exceptions, we’ve always seen them in groups of three, or in their hundreds. Four seems atypical.”

Gray looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe. I hope so. One way or the other, we’ll know before long.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” Gray murmured. The four ships approached rapidly, the fitful breeze giving way to a stiff easterly, but they’d been coming up fast already. Columns of gray-black smoke pouring from tall funnels between their masts explained how. That alone was sufficient proof they weren’t Grik, or if they were, the war was already lost. They were long and black with sleek clipper bows, and Gray had seen others just like them as a kid: old then, and obsolete, but occasionally still in use. They were transitional ships, much like the next generation the Americans planned, relying on both sail and steam, and paddle wheels churned the water at their sides. What attracted his attention more than anything, however, were the flags at their mastheads. He wasn’t a historian like the skipper, or a knowledge nut like Courtney, but he’d heard enough of their conversations with their ’Cat allies about the “tail-less ones” of old or “the Others who came before” to catch some details now and then. One such detail had been what flag the ancient East India Company visitors would have flown. That was how he knew what he was looking at now: a flag with red and white stripes, strangely similar to his own, but with the familiar Union Jack where forty-eight stars ought to be. “I’ll be goddamned,” he repeated.

“Friends of yours?” a Marine lieutenant asked hopefully.

“No,” Gray said absently, “never seen ’em before.”

The ships hove to while they watched, and the largest lowered a boat into the sea. It was filled with red-coated soldiers, and some others in white coats. Probably officers. “No,” he repeated, “but let’s see if we can keep them off our list of enemies. Spruce up your Marines and form a detail, about a dozen or so, that don’t look too scruffy and worn-out.” He looked meaningfully at Shinya. “Have the rest return to their fighting positions and stand easy, but no goofing around. We’ll meet our ‘guests’ on the beach.”

The reception awaiting the boat was as smart as possible under the circumstances. The lieutenant and Shinya chose the hardest, most powerful-looking ’Cats, wearing the fewest bandages, and whose blue kilts were the most easily cleaned. They stood on the beach in two ranks of ten (Shinya expanded Gray’s request just slightly), Krags at port arms, bayonets cleaned, fixed, and gleaming in the sunlight. When the boat rasped ashore, the redcoats stowed oars and leaped into the surf, dragging it farther until the bow was mostly out of the water. Their red coats had yellow trim and looked like something out of a revolutionary war movie, but their hats were white-painted canvas tricorns, and they wore short white breeches and sandals that seemed infinitely practical under the circumstances, and contrasted sharply with their sun-bronzed legs. Finishing with the boat, they grabbed
muskets
, and assembled to either side of their craft on the beach, facing the Lemurian Marines, muskets held awkwardly high on their shoulders. The “white-coats” picked their way gingerly forward, and exited the boat onto the damp sand below. Their coats and breeches looked like heavy white canvas, lightly stained and yellowed, with bright yellow double-breasted facings, collars, and cuffs. Gold braid bordered the yellow to varying degrees, and adorned the black, low-crowned, shakolike hats they wore.

The man with the most braid also had a gold epaulet on each shoulder, and sported a large, sun-bleached, blond mustache, braided at the tips. His well-tanned face wore a calm, curious expression as he gazed at the Marines, the Grik corpses, and the expanse of the fire-blackened island. There was no question he recognized the aftermath of a fiercely contested fight, and he stared curiously at the now proudly streaming Stars and Stripes for a long time before resting his penetrating eyes on Gray and Shinya. An awkward moment ensued.

“So, who’s in charge here, then?” he asked, vaguely condescending, in strangely accented English.

“I am,” Gray answered, stepping forward. “Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray, United States Navy.” He gestured at Shinya. “And this is my second in command, Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, late of the Jap Navy, and currently brevet major commanding these Marines. Who are you?”

If the man was confused by the contradictory ranks he’d been presented, or Gray’s brusque manner, he took it in stride. “Captain—well, Commodore, actually—Harvey Jenks,” he answered, “commanding this squadron, and His Supreme Imperial Governor’s frigate
Achilles
. At your service, I’m sure.” He added the last with a smirk.

Even as Gray felt his temper rise, he wondered briefly how many wars had been started by such a simple facial expression. “Pleased to meetcha,” he said as amiably as possible.
Control!
his subconscious insisted.

A thought seemed to dawn across the stranger’s face. “You must be the ‘Amer-i-caans’ we’ve heard about! Where is your astonishing ship?” Jenks glanced around again at the wounded, the dead, the distant drilling rig, and finally the stranded Grik ship. “I certainly hope that’s not it.”

“Americans,” Gray corrected, “most of us. Some of the ’Cat Guards are allies, and Shinya’s a Jap. Our ship’s not here.” He nodded at the Grik Indiaman. “That and two others brought our enemies, the Grik, and we killed them.” He paused, examining Jenks. “How’d you hear about us? And for that matter, where’re you from? We haven’t heard doodly about you.”

“We have sources,” Jenks explained vaguely, looking at the flag once more. His face and tone reflected growing incredulity. “And we spoke one of your Philippine allies’ amazing, massive ships a few days past. Fascinating vessels! Dreadfully slow, however. Once we introduced ourselves, they described your predicament. The ship bears reinforcements for your city of Baalkpan, I believe. I hope they arrive in time to aid you.” He paused, shaking his head with a little snort. “Pardon me, but that
is
a flag up there, is it not?”

“It’s a flag,” Gray replied through clenched teeth. “Have you come to aid us?” he asked as neutrally as possible.

“ ’Fraid not. We’re engaged in a rescue mission: searching for survivors from one of our passenger ships that went missing. They may have been swept this direction on the current, if any did, in fact, survive. Other elements of our navy are searching elsewhere even now. We were told your iron-hulled steamer was on a similar mission, to find other ‘Americans,’ and we hoped they might have rescued our castaways.”

“You’re welcome to hang around and ask, when she gets here,” Gray replied, “but we ain’t seen anybody. ’Sides, you still haven’t told me where you come from and why we haven’t heard of
you
.”

“That’s simple enough. The location of our homeland is none of your business; I’m sure you understand. As to why you haven’t heard of us, I doubt that’s entirely true. I admit there has been little recent contact, but the Ape Folk we met had a rather . . . flattering historical recollection of an earlier visit by my people. Gratifying, indeed, to be remembered so fondly and reverentially, don’t you agree? Now, although my government has historic claims to all this region, we have not exercised control for quite some time. There are traditional and pragmatic reasons for that, but suffice to say we have no aims here, and pose no threat to you or your ‘alliance.’ We welcome its existence, in fact, as a more powerful buffer than the simple fragmented tribesmen that once stood between us and the western menace—against which you, sadly, must contend.”

“You haven’t come around for, what, two hundred years? And now here you are, out of the blue. The people you’re looking for must be pretty important.”

“That also is none of your concern,” Jenks replied tightly. “We wish only to retrieve them, if, again, any have survived.”