Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (51 page)

Matt tried to laugh, but winced. Sandra rose and felt his forehead with the back of her hand, then stood. “I’ll get you some water,” she said.

“I’d rather you stay here.”

A commotion in the hallway preceded Chief Gray’s arrival with a pitcher and a cup. Others were behind him, trying to pass, but Gray kept them back with his elbows. He paused in the doorway. “Visitors?” he growled.

Sandra shook her head. “Not yet. Saan-Kakja and the ambassador first. Maybe others later.” She motioned Gray forward with the pitcher.

Gray looked over his shoulder. “You heard the lady, you buncha savages! The Skipper requires further repose!” The crowd eased back down the hall, and Gray handed over the pitcher triumphantly.

“You too, Fitzhugh.”

As taken aback by Sandra’s use of his first name as by the dismissal, Gray backed out of the room.

Sandra turned back to Matt and poured water in the cup, then held it to his lips. “Slowly,” she said. “Just a few sips.” Matt obeyed, then looked at her. “Just us, just now, how bad is it?” he asked. His memory was returning, and he’d localized most of the pain to his right thigh and lower abdomen. Sandra took a breath.

“I nearly lost you,” she whispered. “Again.”

“Comes with the territory.”

“I know,” she said, soft but harsh. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She looked at him. “A fragment of steel—Spanky saw it later and is convinced it was a piece of a rivet. He blames himself.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, it went deep in your thigh and clipped the femoral artery. That was actually the worst of it, but we couldn’t
find
the fragment! It just kept going up—and we were afraid it got into your intestines. That’s why you’re split from just above the knee past your belt line. It actually did get past your pelvis, but stopped short of anything . . . else. Thank God. You’ll be very sore for a while!”

“Huh,” Matt said and looked under the sheet at the long, bandaged area. “Did you go ahead and take out my appendix while you had the hood up?”

“This is
not
funny,” Sandra snapped.

“No, it’s not,” Matt agreed. “Sorry. But it might have been a good idea. . . .”

“I was busy! That fight killed some good men and Lemurians, and hurt a lot more. Carl Bashear was badly burned, and Ed Palmer had a broken collarbone and arm, and internal bleeding—”

“And we lost Norm Kutas,” Matt said, remembering. “Damn.”

“We lost Norm,” Sandra confirmed, “and nine Lemurians. It could have been much worse. Probably should have been. We were lucky.”

“Well. At least we got that Jap destroyer,” Matt said quietly. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

Sandra hesitated, and his eyes narrowed. “We
did
get her, didn’t we?”

“Spanky is almost certain we did,” Sandra admitted.

“Almost?”

Sandra’s eyes flared. “Yes, almost! She was badly hit, she has no fuel or any way to get it, and even if she didn’t sink, she has nowhere to go! Ultimately, we
did
get her, whether we saw her sink or not, and your ship and your crew—not to mention you—needed immediate attention! Mr. McFarlane made the right call, and you need to tell him so! Between that and the faulty rivets, he thinks he let you down, and we—everybody—need Spanky at the top of his game right now.”

Matt was nodding. “You’re right,” he said.

“What?”

“I said, ‘You’re right’!”

A tentative smile touched Sandra’s lips. “Well. Of course I am.” She paused. “Saan-Kakja and Lord Forester will be back here soon, I’m sure. They met you when you came ashore, but I doubt you remember.” Her expression changed. “There have been a lot of developments, and no doubt they’ll want to hear your views. In the meantime, do you feel like eating anything?”

* * * 

Saan-Kakja, Ambassador Forester, Chack, and Spanky arrived while Matt was eating a soft, colorless goo he couldn’t recognize, but which tasted something like tapioca pudding without the “fish eggs,” as he called them. After a short visit, they described the current situation in the east and west, and Matt had trouble finishing his meal. He was glad to see that the ambassador and Saan-Kakja seemed to like each other. That was going to be important.

“What are your plans, Your Excellency?” Matt asked Saan-Kakja.

“We must send everything we can to Generaal Aalden immediately!” she said. “His position is precarious, and the war in the east is stable for now.”

Matt was shaking his head.

“You do not agree?”

“With respect, I think you should stick to the plan. High Admiral Jenks has done well, but if you interrupt his supply line now, it’ll take many more months to amass the combat power he needs to take the war to the Doms, and we have to keep them off balance. The Grik are the greatest short-term threat, but the Doms will catch up if we give them too much time.” He looked at Forester. “I’m sure you would agree.”

Forester nodded reluctantly. “The situation in the Empire remains unstable, though the Governor-Empress has made great strides.” He looked at Saan-Kakja. “Your continued support and clear dedication to the war in the east will further strengthen her position. Like you, I yearn to aid your General Alden in this time of trial, but I would actually rather send Imperial troops to do it than give anyone in my country the mistaken impression that your resolve there is weakening.”

Saan-Kakja was blinking hesitant agreement. “Perhaps. I
would
like to see more Imperial troops in the war against the Grik, and I do not want to even seem to be wavering in my support for my sister, Rebeccaa.” She jerked a nod. “It will be as you say, Mr. Ambaas-a-dor. The Fil-pin Lands will continue to concentrate our efforts in the east—but in exchange, I do want more Imperiaal troops brought here, and then committed in the west.”

“Very well,” Forester said. “I’m sure the Governor-Empress will happily agree. We are in this war together, and the more of it we fight together, the stronger I think we will be.”

“But . . . What about Generaal Aalden?” Chack asked. “He must be reinforced.”

“He will be,” Matt said. “You can count on it. First Fleet took a beating, but it wasn’t wrecked—and I’ll bet the guys and gals on Andaman and in Baalkpan have already figured out a few surprises to counter the latest Grik stunts. I’ve got a few ideas myself.” He looked thoughtful, and shifted the pillows that kept him propped up. Sandra saw his difficulty and helped. He smiled at her. “What’s the status of the regiment you’re raising here?” he asked Chack.

“It is not ready for combat. The new weapons are only now being issued, and the troops must grow familiar with them.” He shrugged. “So must I.”

“And Risa’s regiment in Baalkpan?”

“Much further along,” Chack confessed. “She has had them longer and has had the weapons from the start. The arsenal here is catching up but . . .” He blinked annoyance.

“But you think you can have your troops ready for action before
Walker
is ready for sea again?”

Chack would have winced if his face had the muscles for it. He’d seen
Walker
’s damage.

“Yes Cap-i-taan. Will we go to Indiaa and aid . . . Generaal Aalden?”

Matt knew Chack’s greatest concern was for his beloved Safir Maraan, but he would never say so in this context. He bit his lip. “Maybe . . . but maybe not.” He shrugged and pain shot up from his wound, and he shook his head sheepishly. “I’ve been keeping something in my back pocket for some time now. Maybe this is the time to take it out and have a look at it.” He looked at Chack. “It doesn’t involve going to India, but if we can pull it off, it should definitely help the expeditionary force that’s in a jam there.” He paused a moment, looking at the expectant faces. “As a matter of fact,” he said with growing conviction, “if we play our cards right, I think the stunt taking shape in my head might just leave the Grik with their ugly necks stuck out just far enough for us to cut their damn throats!”

EPILOGUE

The South of Africa

L
ieutenant Toryu Miyata was much recovered from his grueling ordeal. He still mourned his lost friends, but he’d been close enough to death himself, from exposure, that their loss had dimmed, and become somehow remote. Since his rescue, however, and during his gradual recuperation, he’d grown to realize that he’d stumbled into perhaps the most bizarre situation yet encountered on this strange world.

He hadn’t seen it himself, but someone once told him about an odd book they’d read before the war about a place called Shangri-La. Somehow, he thought he remembered that the tale was set in China or Tibet, or some such place, but he’d honestly begun to wonder if he hadn’t actually found it here on what had to be the south coast of Africa, despite the chill. He hadn’t spent any time out of doors yet, or really even out of the room he’d been recuperating in, but there were windows, and he spent a lot of time staring out at the strange city. Never in his life had he seen such an . . . extraordinary combination of peoples—and not all of them were human!—yet they commingled and appeared to get along as well amid the bustle, as any similar number might in Tokyo!

And the architecture! He knew of nothing to compare it to. He was young, and before the Navy he’d never traveled before, but the substantial buildings he saw from his window combined what he considered ancient traditional, eastern design with what he supposed was some kind of equally ancient western construction—and something else completely different—in an amazingly complementary fashion that he wouldn’t have thought possible. The result was a harmony of wood and stone, columns and high pagodas that had clearly been blending together long enough that it seemed somehow right. Curved, ornate roofs predominated, covered with tile or copper, but the columns that supported them flowed as well, sometimes tapering toward the center, with admirable stonework at the top and bottom.

Bright colors abounded beneath the often-overcast sky, and teeming throngs surged in the open markets in equally garish costumes. Stunningly bizarre animals, the like of which he’d never seen among the Grik, pulled long trains of carts loaded with goods or passengers. Several times he saw columns of troops dressed in a warmer, more practical, but also more ornate version of what some of his comrades had termed the Grik Roman-style military garb, march past his window, the crowd parting before them. Just as among the civilian populace, all manner of beings were in their ranks. It was outlandish and amazing and disconcerting all at once.

His nurse—a female human!—appeared normal enough, and was clearly of Asian descent, though he had no idea what other blood she carried. She was nice, attentive, and even beautiful, he thought, but he didn’t understand a word she said. It was all so confusing. His nurse was Asian, but his “rescuers” spoke English—and he would have sworn one of them had a German accent! He didn’t think he was a prisoner—no one seemed to guard him—but what was he? Probably not exactly a guest. He believed he was recovered enough that he might be ready to explore, but hesitated to push his bounds without talking to someone first, and as far as he could tell, except for the nurse, he’d been forgotten.

He was alone at the moment, and heavy, booted footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond his chamber. He tensed, expecting visitors at last, and stood from his chair. He wished he could meet his benefactors in his uniform, but its remnants had been destroyed, he was sure, and he tried to affect a stoic expression while dressed only in the ankle-length woolen robe he’d been given.

Two men appeared in the broad doorway, accompanied by what looked exactly like one of the Lemurian allies of the Americans! All regarded him intently for a moment before stepping inside. He remained standing, stiffly at attention.

“You look better,” said a tall, bearded man in accented English. He wore a battered dark blue, or maybe black, hat with a scuffed leather brim with an embroidered cockade Toryu didn’t recognize. He also wore an equally battered dark blue jacket, but his white shirt, trousers, and heavy boots were clearly much newer. Toryu thought he recognized the German who’d found him. The man spoke to the others in what sounded like the same language the nurse used, then turned to face him again. “I am Becher Lange,” the man said, and shrugged. “My kapitan calls me kapitan leutnant now, but I was only a fireman in SMS
Amerika
when she staggered into this world, so it makes no difference to me what the old man calls me. You and I have met, though you may not remember. Call me Becher.” He extended a hand, and Toryu saw a bright metal oval on his wrist, held by a leather band. He also noted how matter-of-factly he spoke of how he got here, obviously fully expecting Toryu to know what he meant.

“Thank you, sir,” Toryu replied, he hoped properly, in his imperfect English. Awkwardly, he shook the hand. He’d never done that before. “You and your companion doubtless saved my life, for which I am grateful, but the news I carry is of great importance to you, I assure you.”

“
Ja
. That is what you said.”

Toryu blinked. He had no memory of what he’d said to the man.

“I will introduce these others,” Becher said, “and you will tell them your news.”

Toryu bowed. “Of course.” Never did it occur to him that talking to any enemy of the Grik might be treason. He knew almost nothing about his current situation, but he’d somehow managed to escape the Grik—and that madman Kurokawa. He was dead to them, and if he didn’t help these people, they would all be dead, eventually.

The other human with Becher was introduced as General Marcus Kim—and what kind of name was that?—who represented the military high command of this . . . Republic of Real People, Becher called it. The Lemurian was “Inquisitor Kon-Choon.” The term “inquisitor” made Toryu nervous, until it was explained that he was actually a high-level intelligence officer. That made sense.

“What do you know of us here?” Becher translated for Kim.

“Personally, nothing, sir. The Grik may know more, but I do not think so.” There was further discussion in the strange tongue, and Toryu caught the word “Ghaarrichk’k.” Apparently, that was the local name for the implacable, barbarous creatures he’d escaped. This was quickly confirmed.

“We know of the Ghaarrichk’k, the Grik, here,” Becher confirmed. “We maintain a frontier against them, and patrolling it is how I found you.” He paused. “We know of them, and know they will not talk. All contact with them has been hostile. Beyond that, we know little. Are they numerous? How vast is their territory?
Can
we talk to them?”

“You can talk to them,” Toryu admitted, frowning. “In fact, I was sent here to speak with you on their behalf.” He shook his head. “They want an alliance with you—against other people like us.” He waved his hand to include the Lemurian. “All of us.”

“What kind of alliance? What are their terms?” Becher asked for the Inquisitor.

“A military alliance, sir, and the terms are simple: Join or die.”

“That is a . . . bold ultimatum to make against people they do not know,” Becher growled. “Can they make good on their threat?”

“That is their way,” Toryu stated simply. “Sir, I know nothing of your land, its population, resources, or military capability.” He pointed at the window. “All I know is what I have seen through that, so I cannot say if they can conquer you or not. I will tell you everything I know, however. I was sent here with a message, a message I have delivered. Having escaped them, I will not return, so it is in my interest to counsel you as best I can.” He paused. “The Grik are without number, and their empire stretches from just north of here to India, at least along the coasts. You do know the shape of the world?”

“
Ja
,” Becher said, and Toryu nodded. Whatever the others were, Becher was a sailor, and obviously a relatively recent arrival.

“They had conquered their way as far as the East Indies before they were thrown back by those other people I mentioned,” Toryu continued, “but I fear that is only a temporary setback, since their numbers are almost infinitely greater than their enemies.” He looked Becher in the eye. “They are involved in the biggest war they have ever known, but whether they can conquer you or not, they will eventually try. And if they succeed . . . they do not take prisoners, but for food.”

Becher spoke animatedly with the others for several long moments before turning back. “Why, then, do I feel that joining them is not what you recommend?”

“Because they will surely destroy you then,” Toryu answered softly, “starting with your souls. I hate them, you see. I hate them for what they are and what they do—and because they have already destroyed the souls of my people they hold in their power.”

“Who are your people?” Becher asked, also softly, and Toryu stiffened.

“I came to this world aboard the Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser
Amagi
almost two years ago. At that time, we were allied with Germany and Italy against virtually the rest of the world, but most especially the British and Americans.”

“The Japs have joined the kaiser? And the Italians?” Becher laughed. “When last I knew, you both were leaning the other way . . . and America came in against us?”

Toryu looked at him strangely. “Ah . . . no. We did not join the kaiser. We fought against him—with the Americans, before I was born. . . . Sir, if you would: when did you come to this world?”

“Nineteen fourteen,” Becher said, frowning. “Nearly thirty years ago now. My ship, SMS
Amerika
—that is ironic!—was taken from the passenger service and commissioned as an armed merchant cruiser. We captured the crews of nine British ships—that is why there are so many Britishers here with us!—and scuttled their ships.” His expression grew faraway. “Never did war prisoners enjoy such luxury!
Amerika
was a gorgeous thing!” Almost forcibly, he returned to the present. “She was badly damaged in battle with the
Morrie
, we called her. The
Mauritania
! She was armed too! What a fight! She
was
faster, of course, with her damned turbines, but so big, we could not miss her! Both of us were damaged, and we broke off the fight in the storm. But you might tell me! Did we sink the
Morrie
? I actually hope we did not”—he grinned—“but sometimes I hope we did! We were old rivals before the war for the Blue Riband!”

Toryu was confused. “I . . . I do not think so. There was a
Mauritania
carrying British troops to Singapore in 1942, but she might have been a newer ship with the same name.”

“Well, but what of the war? You Japs—with battle cruisers no less!—have joined us?”

Toryu’s face heated. “We did
not
join you! Your kaiser was defeated! Our war, besides our conquest of Asia, began little more than two years ago, and the Imperial Japanese Navy, the most powerful in the world, was in the process of destroying the combined fleets of the Americans and British! Only your submarines were of any use!” He stopped, realizing he’d given offense, but Becher’s expression only looked . . . odd again.

“The kaiser defeated? Impossible!” he muttered. Then he said something that stunned Toryu Miyata to the bone. “Yet another, different world again, then.” He saw Toryu’s expression and grunted. “You are surprised? Let me try to explain to you, quickly, of our land and our peoples, and you may understand. You may also then pass a . . . better-informed counsel.”

The Lemurian jabbered suddenly, then, and Becher listened before turning back to Toryu.

“In fact, if you feel able, Inquisitor Choon believes you should meet immediately with the kaiser—
our
kaiser, or cae-saar, as they say, at the War Palace. The maps there are the best.”

“I am able,” Toryu assured him, a little taken aback but determined. “After all, there is little time to lose.”

They supplied him with boots and a cloak and led him down the corridor to a side entrance facing the cobblestone street, and he stepped outside for the first time in . . . three weeks? Four? He jerked back when he came almost face-to-face with a huge, drooling, camel-like face that regarded him with disinterest before it swung away—on the end of a long, gray-furred neck, almost as long as a giraffe’s, but not nearly so upright. Becher laughed.

“He likes you! Sometimes those will bite!” He gestured to a long car, like a Pullman, hitched behind the beast and another like it. “We have steam cars,” Becher announced proudly. “We have been busy in our thirty years! But we do not bring them into the city.” He waved around. So many strange creatures! “They unnerve the animals—and the people!”

On either side of the Pullman car sat three guards in their Romanesque costumes, mounted on ordinary horses. One of them waved.

“There you are! Good to see you up and about!” The man paused at Toryu’s confused expression. “Blimey! I’m the other bloke what found you! Saved you, I did!” The man, also wearing a gray-streaked beard, tossed his chin at Becher. “You didn’t think that dastardly Hun’d give a toss if you lived or died?” He was grinning. “I’m Leftenant Doocy Meek, if you care to know!”

“I am appreciative, sir,” Toryu managed as he was hurried into the car.

“Doocy is a funny man,” Becher said gruffly, pulling Toryu into a seat beside him. “We all take our turns riding the frontier—anyone beneath the rank of centurion,” he added, by way of further explanation. “We, most of us from
Amerika
, are still considered part of the foreign centuries, but we also guard the War Palace and all access to it!”