Straits of Hell (52 page)

“Lord Regent Champion!” came a satisfied voice from the single arched opening in the chamber, and the Chooser himself swept past the silent guards stationed there. He alone was allowed into Esshk's presence without permission or announcement.

“Not ‘First General'?” Esshk inquired. The Chooser made a throwing-away gesture.

“That too, of course, but today you are Regent Champion first and foremost, with no remaining opposition!”

They knew Ragak's Swarm had been destroyed, by accounts from
the few shipmasters who'd returned. The scope of his defeat was revealed only by observations made by the first zeppelin raid they'd been able to make since the terrible storm abated. They'd lost many more airships than on previous raids as well, which meant the enemy—Captain Reddy—Esshk was sure, now had more flying machines of his own with which to destroy them. Still, Ragak's destruction had left Esshk—and the Chooser—secure in their positions, and the enemy more tenuous in theirs. It had not been a waste.

“By all accounts, Ragak very nearly succeeded despite his handicap,” Esshk gurgled. “His was a rather brilliant plan, after all. A similar plan, better supported, would have succeeded, I believe. It is unfortunate he did not survive. I would have honored my pledge to make him a general. Perhaps even First General, in my place.” He hissed a sigh.

“Truly?” the Chooser inquired. “Despite his ambitions?”

“Truly. He may not have been as skilled at designing traditional battles as I, but we do not have those anymore. And he was imaginative. Cunning. Without General Halik, or any knowledge of whether he remains loyal—Kurokawa's bizarre scenario aside—or whether Halik even still lives, Ragak showed the most promise. In the absence of others and in spite of his intrigues, I would have let him lead our armies.” He sighed again. “You forget, Lord Chooser, that I early recognized the threat our enemy poses to the very survival of our race, and that survival will always be more important to me than my own. I am the tool of our race—and of our new Celestial Mother when she gains the wisdom to lead.”

“How fortunate then that you shall remain her sword as well until that happy day—and beyond,” the Chooser said, carefully picking his words. He lowered his voice. “She
cannot
rule effectively for some time yet, and I think, of necessity, the position of Regent Champion, supreme above all other regents, must maintain significantly greater influence than in the past. Even after the new Celestial Mother comes into her own.”

“You are not wrong,” Esshk conceded. “The world has changed too much to return completely to what we had before. As has our race,” he added thoughtfully.

“As must the status of First Chooser to the Regent Champion,” the Chooser lamented convincingly.

Esshk regarded the creature for a moment, then made a diagonal nod. “Indeed. But in the meantime, I must continue to carry the sword as First General as well,” he said almost wistfully.

“So, as First General now, what next?” the Chooser asked.

Esshk paced again. “With Kurokawa returned to the hunt, our fortunes should improve at sea if half of what he claims about the forces he has assembled are to be believed.”

“Do you trust him? And these ‘new hunters,' this ‘League of Tripoli' that has sworn him their allegiance. What of them?”

“Of course I do not trust Kurokawa, or any creatures that associate with him. Not anymore. But I do trust that his ambition, his most base desires, can be made useful to us—as Ragak's were. Nothing motivates Kurokawa more than his lust for power and his desire to avenge himself on our enemy—and ‘Captain Reddy' in particular.” Esshk grimaced the equivalent of a toothy grin. “We shall give him the illusion of the first while affording him the opportunity for the second. Our air raids on the Celestial City will continue regardless of losses. We can make them good for a while longer yet. Our new army, raised, trained, and equipped under the New Principles of war, is ready. And with Ragak and his army of merest Uul no longer consuming supplies, we can gather it at last. All that remains are the final improvements to the battle fleet and the resurrection of the Ancient Fleet with which we will strike. When all is done, and Kurokawa comes down, we will make our
own
thoughtful attack that will drive the enemy from the Celestial City and all the world, and turn them back to prey once more!”

//////
Chimborazo

G
eneral Tomatsu Shinya slid down from his horse and stood on the rocky ground, staring up. Impaled high on a modest, narrow tree trunk, which had clearly been stripped and sharpened for the purpose, was a corpse. The barkless trunk, covered with blood all the way to the ground, had entered the corpse between its legs, forced its way upward through the vital organs, and then exited through the ribs just in front of the collarbone. The head hung back and to the side, and the face was unmarked except for the blood that had spewed from the mouth—and the pinkish burn scars on stubbly cheeks.

Major Blas-Mar-Ar dismounted to join him, as did Colonel Blair and several others. Blas remained tense and resentful around Shinya, but she stood close. Around them in the cold, high air, the Allied Expeditionary Force (East), or the “Army of the Sisters” as it had been quickly reorganized after the Battle of Fort Defiance, marched past under the
bright, cloudless sky the great mountains pierced. Before the army lay the charred remains of what must once have been a rather large and picturesque village nestled in a shallow, timber-bordered vale. Wisps of smoke still rose above it and nothing moved that they could see, even livestock. A great many other trees had been festooned with ghastly ornaments similar to this first one they encountered.

“Is that . . . ?” Blair began, and Shinya nodded.

“Yes. General Ghanan Nerino.”

Blas tilted her head. She was one of the few Allies who'd seen the man before, but it was hard to tell. Sometimes, if she didn't know them well, she found it difficult to tell humans apart. And if this was Nerino, he looked a lot different from the last time she'd seen him. She shook her head. Shinya sounded sure.

“Coldhearted, evil, bloody-minded bastards,” Blair said, gazing now at the other impaled corpses.

“All it takes is one truly evil man to lead others to do such things,” Shinya said.

“Don Hernan,” Blair spat.

“He didn't stick him up there by himself,” Blas pointed out.

“Is it ‘evil' to do that to a man, knowing if you don't, it will happen to you?” Shinya asked her.

“Yes!”

“Many foul fruits grow from a single vile seed,” Blair said, as if quoting a passage, and Shinya looked at him. Finally, he nodded. Colonel Garcia joined them then, staring up in horror.

“Go back,” Shinya told him. “Keep the Governor-Empress, Saan-Kakja, and Sister Audry away until we can deal with this,” he said, waving at Nerino and the many others.

“Why?” Blas demanded. “I think they oughta see it. The whole daamn army oughta see the . . . sickness we fight!”

“She has a point,” Blair admitted—and then cringed at his accidental pun. He was glad that not many caught it.

“This is no surprise to anyone here,” Shinya objected, “but that doesn't mean I'm comfortable letting young ladies view it if they don't have to.” He paused, slightly disconcerted by Blas's incredulous blinking. “The only ‘surprise' is that they were all allowed to die so quickly,” he added. “Vice Alcalde” Suares had described the “usual” way Doms
impaled their victims, and it could take them days to die. The way this had been done, death was no doubt agonizing, but also fairly quick. “Go, Colonel Garcia,” he ordered. The former Dom nodded quick agreement and galloped back down the column. He, at least, agreed with Shinya.

“Those ‘ladies' are our leaders—and just viewed a
battle
and its aftermath!” Blas snapped hotly, but managed to calm herself; she couldn't let her anger at Shinya affect her professionalism. She finally gestured around. “These men who so obviously disappointed Don Hernaan died quickly only because he was in a hurry to light out of here,” she stated.

“Precisely,” Shinya agreed, relieved that the confrontation with Blas had ebbed. “Which tells us a great deal.”

“More than that they were soundly beaten?” Blair asked.

“Much more. Look at the terrain. They could've contested the approaches to this place and delayed us, at least, for a considerable time. They didn't. We slew a large percentage of the Dom army, but didn't destroy it. A force even larger than ours has run away. What does that tell you?”

Blair considered. “That though they had the numbers and ability to fight, and certainly the ground, they lacked the will?”

“That's my hope, confirmed by the atrocity here.” Shinya nodded. “Don Hernan has made his ‘example' to his army, and fled to put as much distance between it and us as he can while he uses that—and surely others—to rebuild his army's will to fight. We can't let him, of course.”

“How will we stop him?”

“We continue the chase.”

“And our supplies? Second Fleet's victory was greater than we first imagined, but it remains in disarray. How will it support us?”

“Well enough,” Shinya said, climbing back on his horse. He managed a smile. “Captain Reddy earned a degree, but I was also a student of history. No doubt you know Alexander?” he asked Blair, and the Imperial nodded. Blas only blinked confusion. “There were others, just as great if not so famous. Captain Reddy might be surprised to learn that I hold his country's Winfield Scott in equal esteem and believe he had the ability to surpass Alexander had he lived in a different time and desired conquest for its own sake.” He shook his head and took up his reins.

“The one thing all the leaders now springing to my mind shared in common was a tenuous, if not abandoned line of supply. And yet they prevailed—through boldness and maneuver, and by gaining the goodwill of the populace in the lands they invaded to varying degrees. They employed ruthlessness at times, but it had
rules
. It was not the sort of twisted, capricious ruthlessness that Don Hernan uses to terrify.” He looked down at his officers. “We will prevail in the very same way. We will chase Don Hernan, liberating the oppressed, terrified people of this land as we go, using his own weapons and supplies against him if we must.” He looked right at Blas. “We will chase that evil, murdering madman to the very gates of their capital city itself, where I intend to destroy him once and for all—and the greater evil, the ‘seed' he sprang from!”

Northeast of Puerto Viejo

Orrin Reddy walked briskly, following his “backseater” Seepy, as the 'Cat led him through the cool, damp, predawn dark toward the still building docks, ramps, and canvas-covered hangars at the south end of the small narrow lake northeast of Puerto Viejo. Almost all of Second Fleet's airworthy Nancys had come here, crowding the nascent, insufficient facilities, when battered
Maaka-Kakja
steamed by offshore on her way to the Enchanted Isles for repairs. High Admiral Jenks had left a light picket of DDs in the vicinity of Malpelo to give warning if any elements of the Dom fleet came nosing around, and a few of Second Fleet's more lightly damaged warships would remain in the vicinity of Puerto Viejo or Guayak, to join the “gun hulks” already beached or moored there. The rest would accompany
Maaka-Kakja
for repairs of their own, or to help untangle and rebuild General Shinya's supply line.

Orrin had remained with his homeless air wing for the time, to oversee the completion of proper support facilities and create some form of organization, much like Mark Leedom had done in the West until Ben Mallory arrived; combining all the scattered air assets under a single command. He'd stay to coordinate air support for Shinya's advancing column and supervise the construction and supply of forward-operating bases as suitable places were discovered, at least until
Maaka-Kakja
's repairs were completed and her own wing reconstituted. It was a dreary, miserable, thankless job for a man who only really wanted to fly—and kill the enemy who'd cost him so many of the fliers he'd grown so protective of. But he was it. Increasingly, he understood the frustrations and concerns his cousin Matt had to endure—had been enduring—since long before he came to this world aboard
Mizuki Maru
.

At least El Vómito Rojo had passed. Some new cases were still being reported, but they had treatments now. And the greatest defense they had, besides the fact that most of Orrin's pilots were 'Cats, was the growing throng of seasonally migratory lizardbirds that blackened the air over the lake at dawn and dusk, gorging themselves on the guilty mosquitoes. Weird, but evidently benign bugs—also clearly seasonal—joined them in their feast, but different kinds often came and went on an almost daily basis. Together, the profusion of airborne life made flying extremely hazardous while they were active. That was why Orrin and Seepy hurried now. They'd discovered that someone intended to fly, regardless of the risk.

“Is up here, the second hangar,” Seepy hissed. Orrin nodded in the dark, and they proceeded to the next large structure bordering the lake. Pausing to listen, they carefully eased the canvas entry flap aside. Inside, in the muted light of a single lantern, two indistinct figures were heaving gas cans aboard one of four Nancys that shared the space, their urgent whispers indecipherable. Orrin sighed, and, stepping fully into the hangar, he loudly cleared his throat.

“Oh crap!” came Fred Reynolds's distinctive, boyish voice.

“See?” accused Kari-Faask in a louder voice, equally recognizable. “I
tole
you somebody would blow! We should'a took longer to gather supplies!”

“Why are you doing this?” Orrin demanded, his tone harsh. “I know you think you're everybody's fair-haired brats, but disobeying a direct order is still a serious offense. I ought to send you both back west to
Walker
and Captain Reddy! You could spend the months it takes to get there, missing all the action, wondering how much mercy
he'll
give you!”

“I'd love to go back to
Walker
,” Fred said miserably. “But we're here, and this is something we need to do.”

“Flying off God knows where—do you even have any idea?—to find
a man, a
spy
, who could've just been blowing smoke up your ass. That's nuts.”

“We've got captured Dom maps that show most of the route,” Fred defended. The region around the capital city of New Granada where the Dom Pope dwelt was always strangely blank—but Fred and Kari had been there and had filled in some of the gaps. “And somebody has to make contact with Captain Anson—or his people!” Fred insisted. “They hate the Doms as much as us. If we could just coordinate with them . . .”

“Seems to me their ‘don't call us, we'll call you—
after
you whip the Doms at the Pass of Fire for us' was pretty damn definitive. Well, we did that—kind of—and not a peep.”

“Yeah, but maybe we took 'em by surprise and they aren't ready. Or maybe they don't even know. Stuff like that, communications, takes more time for them than us, and if we're going to do anything together, now's the time. While the Doms are on the ropes!”

Orrin considered. “Okay. Maybe you're right. But I repeat: how do you aim to find that Anson guy, and why does it have to be you?”

“We don't have to find
him
!” Kari said. “Just find
any
of 'em—an' tell 'em what we know of him and them, and what we been up to. Look, the Dom fleet we fought came from the east, right? From the . . . Caari-beaan. The ‘other Amer-i-caans' had to notice the withdrawaal of such a large force an' come lookin'.” She looked at Fred. “We figger we get past the pass, flyin' low to the south, avoidin' the Grikbirds gathered there, an' head out to sea east o' there. We almost
gotta
run into some o' Aanson's people.”

“No, you don't. It's a damn big sea,” Orrin pointed out.

“A sea that
Donaghey
is sailing into,” Fred countered. “I left a note, but I'll just tell you. Pass the word west for Commander Garrett to be on the lookout for us. If we run into trouble or run out of gas before we find who we're looking for, we'll find an island. There's
lots
of islands. Even the Dom charts show that. We've got a hand-crank generator for the wireless, and we'll . . . make do until
Donaghey
gets close enough to hear us and pick us up!” Fred knew it was thin, and so did Orrin; he could tell. Still, it was better than nothing.

Orrin frowned. “What if
Donaghey
never makes it?”

“Then we'd have the same chance we were willing to take before we even knew she was headed that way. Not much of one,” Fred admitted,
“but either way, somebody's got to
try
before the Doms get their ‘shit back in the sock' as Pete Alden always says.”

“Okay,” Orrin agreed. “I already granted that point. And maybe you make better sense than I gave you credit for. But again, why you?”

“Because we found 'em and we deserve the chance,” Fred said stubbornly. “And besides, at least one of whoever goes needs to be an American too.” He smiled impishly. “Somebody who can amaze whoever we find into listening to us
especially
if we don't find Captain Anson. Who else is there out here? You? You've got a whole wing to command. Gilbert Jaeger? You want
him
talking for us? Even if
Maaka-Kakja
didn't need him so bad, you might as well send a talking mole.” He shrugged. “I'm just a pilot. You've got more of us than you have planes right now. And I have met one of them,” he repeated. “Even if we never find Anson, we can throw his name around. Somebody's bound to have heard of him.”

“But why Kari, after all she went through?”

Fred looked at his friend, suddenly realizing that
she
didn't really have to go, and as much as he wanted her with him, he didn't want her hurt.

“I go for the same reason,” she stated firmly. “What other 'Cat has ever met one o' them before—an' speaks as good Amer-i-caan?”