Authors: Taylor Anderson
Firestorm (66 page)
He was beyond miserable; naked, cold, covered with filth and reeking mud. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been given water. Every part of his body hurt, but his shoulder was still the worst. He suspected his collarbone had broken when the “Nancy” flipped in the surf, and his heel might be broken too. In any event, he’d almost drowned before Kari dragged him out of the sea and up on the beach. She’s been injured too, he remembered, pretty badly, and he didn’t know how she’d managed. All that had happened to them after the crash had become little more than a vague blur.
Neither of them had been in any condition to resist when the Doms came for them. Fred was pretty sure he’d been unconscious when they arrived. It didn’t matter. He’d lost his pistol in the crash, and didn’t have the strength to fight them. All he remembered was being carried, slung on a pole like a dead hog, for what might have been minutes or days. At some point, he’d been carried aboard a ship in the darkness, and the next he knew, he was here. He’d probably been drugged. He knew they’d taken Kari too, but he hadn’t seen her since. He prayed she was alive.
The voices in the passageway became louder, and he expected a visitor at last.
Maybe I should pray Kari’s
not
alive,
he reconsidered, remembering what he knew of the Doms. New torches flickered, adding their light to the darkness, and forms appeared, moving toward him. A lock clanked, and a barred door swung open with a damp, rusty groan.
Maybe I should pray Kari’s
not
alive,
he reconsidered, remembering what he knew of the Doms. New torches flickered, adding their light to the darkness, and forms appeared, moving toward him. A lock clanked, and a barred door swung open with a damp, rusty groan.
“Fetch water, fools,” said a mild voice that contrasted with the perfunctory order. “This man is ill, hurt! He cannot be allowed to die before given a chance to atone! To be purified!”
“At once, Holiness!” came a nervous reply in thickly accented English, and a dark form retreated.
Fred was grateful he’d get water at last, but chilled by the other comments. Torches were placed in sockets and others lit. There was plenty of light now, but his sight remained blurred.
“Poor creature,” the soft voice whispered again, and a red-robed figure bent and gently wiped the goo from Fred’s eyes with a soft cloth. “Better?”
Fred nodded, seeing a face at last. It was dark skinned, pleasantly solicitous, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and chin whiskers.
“What is your name?”
Fred cleared his throat. “Frederick Reynolds. Lieutenant, junior grade, serial number . . .”
“Your given name is sufficient for God to know you, my son,” the man consoled. “I am Don Hernan de Devino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico and Emperor of the World by the Grace of God. It pleases him—and myself—to offer you sanctuary from the wicked, damned heretics whose orders placed you in contention with God Himself. But God is merciful, my son! You may yet achieve grace in His eyes, and your soul and life be saved!”
Don Hernan!
He’d heard that name.
Oh, Jesus, help mean!
He’d heard that name.
Oh, Jesus, help mean!
“You know of me!” the Blood Cardinal exclaimed. “Most excellent, indeed!” He shrugged. “It was a simple thing. I merely took passage on the very ship the heretics sent to ‘warn’ their illegitimate colonies of the hostilities they initiated. Her captain is a child of God.”
So, that explains a lot
. There was no point in arguing who’d started the war. “Where’s Kari?” Fred managed. “What have you done with her?”
. There was no point in arguing who’d started the war. “Where’s Kari?” Fred managed. “What have you done with her?”
Don Hernan blinked. “You mean the animal captured with you? It has a
name
?”
name
?”
“Of course she has a name! And she’s no animal! Where is she?”
Don Hernan shook his head. “Such a tone! I forget sometimes that the unenlightened are known to form deep attachments to their pets.” He peered intently at Fred. “It lives, for now. I’ve considered putting it on display, as a curiosity. That might still be done if it dies, of course. The creature is a menace, dangerous to handle, even with its sharp nails and teeth removed! I
should
have it killed and stuffed.”
should
have it killed and stuffed.”
“No!”
For the first time, Don Hernan’s voice rose. “You shout? You demand?
Of me?
” Visibly, he calmed himself. “The creature’s fate, as is your own, is up to you. You must be purified, of course, but your suffering thus far has doubtless earned you
some
measure of grace.” Don Hernan made a sour face. “I confess the sin of arrogance. I badly underestimated your ‘Captain Reddy’ and his iron steamer. Our efforts to bend the small dragons to our will have been lengthy and tedious. Their potential facility is great—as you and your marvelous flying machine have proven—but a decade of preparation and great expense was lost in a single day to Captain Reddy and his stratagems. Not to mention his remarkably swift and unexpectedly powerful ship.” He paused. “The ship we can counter,” he said confidently, “but continuing the small dragon project seems of dubious value—except of course for having brought us
you
. They
do
appear effective against your flying machines!” He hesitated and smiled. “Which
brings
us to you!”
Of me?
” Visibly, he calmed himself. “The creature’s fate, as is your own, is up to you. You must be purified, of course, but your suffering thus far has doubtless earned you
some
measure of grace.” Don Hernan made a sour face. “I confess the sin of arrogance. I badly underestimated your ‘Captain Reddy’ and his iron steamer. Our efforts to bend the small dragons to our will have been lengthy and tedious. Their potential facility is great—as you and your marvelous flying machine have proven—but a decade of preparation and great expense was lost in a single day to Captain Reddy and his stratagems. Not to mention his remarkably swift and unexpectedly powerful ship.” He paused. “The ship we can counter,” he said confidently, “but continuing the small dragon project seems of dubious value—except of course for having brought us
you
. They
do
appear effective against your flying machines!” He hesitated and smiled. “Which
brings
us to you!”
“What do you want from me?” Fred asked, already fearing the answer.
“Flying machines, of course! And instruction in their use. Give me those things, and you will not only live—with your pet by your side, I presume—but you will become a wealthy and respected Child of God, a convert to the Holy Church, and a beloved citizen of the Holy Dominion! More you could never ask nor earn!”
Fred started to say he knew nothing about building airplanes, only flying them, but decided that might not be the best idea just then. “And if I refuse?” he asked instead.
“You and your pet will both be skinned alive . . . to begin with.” Don Hernan shook his head sadly. “And regardless of your . . . suffering, your very soul will be destroyed and you will never see God.” He paused as two men entered the alcove with a brazier of coals and assorted irons. “Think on it for a time. We will talk again.” He turned to leave.
“But . . . W-what the hell is
that
for?” Fred cursed, his tone shrill.
that
for?” Fred cursed, his tone shrill.
The Blood Cardinal glanced back. “Just something to pass the time, to
help
you think. Besides, even should you choose wisely, as I expect, you must first be purified for your conversion gestured at the two men. “They will call me when you have decided . . . and they are positive you are sincere.”
South Africahelp
you think. Besides, even should you choose wisely, as I expect, you must first be purified for your conversion gestured at the two men. “They will call me when you have decided . . . and they are positive you are sincere.”
Lieutenant Toru Miyata was alone in the vast wilds of southern Africa. A strong cold wind blew directly in his face from the south, leeching his strength and seeping into his bones. He was still struck by the irony of the weather, given where he was, but irony barely registered anymore in his starving, pain-filled, cold-numbed mind. Things had gone pretty much the way he’d always expected, he supposed, even if the sequence of events hadn’t. Umito wasn’t the first to die, after all. Even in his weakened state, he’d been more resilient than the Grik to the cold of the high plateau they traversed. One of Bashg’s “elite” Uul warriors was almost immediately eaten by something barely bigger than itself, despite the firearms and swords of his companions. Toru didn’t know what the thing had been; the creatures of this land were different from any he’d seen, and he could barely even think of anything to compare it to. Maybe a combination of a furry crocodile, a giant sloth, and a koala bear. The thing had looked more ridiculous than menacing, but it made short work of one of Bashg’s best “troops.”
They remained on the alert for the creatures after that, but no others were ever seen. That didn’t mean there weren’t other threats, even more dangerous. That was probably why they didn’t see more “Koala-diles.”
Another of Bashg’s Uul was just simply dead one morning, presumably of the cold, even though it couldn’t have dropped much lower than forty degrees during the night. It made its bed too far from the large fire they’d maintained, and the relatively “advanced,” but still imbecilic creature probably died completely unaware of its danger. No Grik, as far as Toru knew, was accustomed to cold, and that was one of the things he and his companions were counting on; secretly why they’d suggested this colder, higher altitude route, ostensibly based on its directness. Grik weren’t reptiles and actually had better insulation than humans, but Toru supposed, like most birds, they just didn’t like the cold and avoided it as a species. Therefore, the weather took a toll on them. The temperature had been similar to that of a Japanese fall, for the most part, so Toru and his companions weren’t terribly affected, but even in their heavy coats, the Grik shivered almost uncontrollably—and were always hungry.
Bashg’s remaining warriors butchered the chilled corpse of their former comrade to augment their already dwindling rations because, after only two weeks, they’d flown through the provisions meant to last two months and had resorted to eating whatever they could catch. For all intents and purposes, halfway to their destination, the expedition had ground to a halt. Even Bashg no longer seemed to care about the mission, though he still talked of “resuming” the trek once they were “rested.” Despite his supposedly superior intellect to his underlings, instinct now prevailed. He was just as cold and hungry as the others, and all he wanted to do was sit near a huge fire.
Aguri and Toru hunted, trying to find food with their trusty, but rather underpowered (for this world) Arisaka Type 38 rifles. That last morning they’d struggled through knee-deep, frozen grass, across what should have been a tree-covered plain teeming with game, but which was now a glistening, frosty steppe. Some snow had even fallen during the night, and they were both confused by that. They knew the weather on this world was different, and they counted on it to aid them now, but they didn’t understand why it was. They saw a few creatures from a distance, but all were bigger than they wanted to attempt with a 6.5-mm projectile. One of the beasts seemed impossibly huge, and they watched it quite a while from a careful distance. It looked something like one of the brontosaurus-type creatures they’d seen before, but it was bigger and covered with long, thick, shaggy fur. Unlike its apparent cousins, it was solitary as well, with no great herd for company or mutual protection. Toru was no biologist, but everything about the creature just seemed wrong and out of place—at least until he saw it eat.
The thing’s head was shaped like a bony spade at the end of a powerful, but oddly shorter than “normal” neck. It moved slowly through the thick grass and light snow, shoveling it aside with its head in wide, sweeping motions and heaping the grass into large piles beside it. For a time, it then stood still, eating the dark, lush, still-greenish stuff it harvested.
“Look at that!” Aguri had said. “
He
has plenty to eat. I wonder why he’s by himself?”
He
has plenty to eat. I wonder why he’s by himself?”
“Maybe he’s an old bull and doesn’t like company. Maybe something got the rest of his herd and he’s the last one left,” Toru said.
“Or maybe he’s just grumpy, an outcast from his kind,” speculated Aguri.
“Outcast . . . like us?” Toru chuckled darkly. “Come,” he said, standing from the vantage point where they’d watched the monster. “Let’s get back. We won’t find anything today. Perhaps the snow has everything curled up in a warm bed.”
“I doubt it,” Aguri said. “I’m sure they’re used to it.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much at all.”
“Neither do I. That’s why we’re here, Toru.”
“Well, let’s get back, anyway. I don’t like leaving Umito so long with that pack of jackals.”
“How much longer must we remain here?” Aguri asked. “Umito can’t last, and those Grik could never catch us if we fled.”
Toru nodded. The timing was just about right. They no longer needed the Grik to carry supplies—there weren’t any left. Also, only four Grik remained; each far more weakened by hunger and exposure than the Japanese sailors. “We must wait a while longer. Umito still lingers, and though he has begged me to, I will not leave him until he has joined his . . . impossibly distant ancestors.” He paused. “You know what will happen to him even then, and we must not allow it. As soon as Umito passes, we will slay the remaining Grik and then move on—get off this damn plateau. It must be warmer at the lower elevations near the sea, agreed?”
The three men had grown close, and Toru didn’t expect an argument from Aguri. There was none. As they’d known all along, a confrontation with their captors was inevitable. It had always been a matter of timing. As it turned out, the
exact
timing of their plan was a little off, as were the circumstances that precipitated it. When they trudged back to their camp, they discovered their Grik “allies” frantically devouring their—hopefully already dead—friend, and as quickly as a brain can comprehend a thing the eyes try to tell it, everything suddenly changed.
exact
timing of their plan was a little off, as were the circumstances that precipitated it. When they trudged back to their camp, they discovered their Grik “allies” frantically devouring their—hopefully already dead—friend, and as quickly as a brain can comprehend a thing the eyes try to tell it, everything suddenly changed.
“Aaieeee!” shrieked Aguri, and charged down the slope into the little bowl where their camp lay, bayonet thrust forward before him. All he saw was the spattered blood on the snow and the mangled shreds of his friend dangling from savage jaws.
“No, Aguri!” Toru yelled, bringing his rifle up. One Grik sprang at Aguri, and he and the other man both shot it. It went down, writhing, but another reacted just as quickly. Toru worked his bolt—too slow!—but Aguri lowered his bayonet with a roar and buried it in the creature’s chest up to the handguard—where it stuck. Toru shot a third Grik, still wolfing down gobbets of Umito as fast as it could, and the creature merely collapsed atop the scattered, unrecognizable corpse. But there was still Bashg.
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