CHAPTER 8
////// TFG-2
USS Donaghey (DDS-2)
Indian (Western) Ocean
Captain of Marines Bekiaa-Sab-At leaned on USS Donaghey’s port fo’c’sle rail, staring down at the foaming sea beneath the bows as the ship slanted south-southwest across a choppy gray sea. But Bekiaa didn’t see the froth, or feel the stiff, salty breeze. Instead, at that moment, she stood on the southern slope of North Hill once again. The chaotic white foam had become the urgent billow of cannon smoke, and the marching waves were a relentless tide of Grik warriors surging, hacking, swarming, against the meager defenses and precious lives atop the otherwise insignificant little hill.
As always, when this memory, this . . . reality . . . swept her back to that other time and place, her pulse thundered, and her heart hammered at her breastbone, her stomach clenched with dread, the bile of hopeless anguish rose in her throat—and she was afraid. The fear actually stunned her. She’d been in desperate combat many times, often when the likely outcome appeared very bleak indeed, but she’d never truly been afraid. Even stranger, even as she relived that awful moment when she realized, for the very first time, they’d never break this Grik charge no matter how savagely they mauled it, a detached, analytical fragment of her mind recognized she hadn’t been afraid, not like this, at the moment she’d returned to. It was later, when the enormity of the concept of disciplined Grik finally registered, that she knew that she and every member of Colonel Flynn’s scratch division surrounded on North Hill were doomed. Worse, that . . . other self who’d been there, miraculously survived, and reported to the “self” she’d since become, understood that despite all the horror and trauma she’d endured since, it was that earlier moment, not even decisive in itself, that summoned and focused all her dread. Somehow her mind and memory had arranged it so that the Bekiaa who stood on Donaghey’s fo’c’sle now associated that particular instant with the birth of a fatalistic realization: that the extermination of her beloved comrades in Flynn’s Rangers had come to represent the Alliance as a whole. It had become the moment she began to fear the war itself—and everything she loved—was lost.
To most aboard Donaghey, Bekiaa was almost a legend. She’d fought the slimy Grik-toads at Chill-chaap until both sides apparently decided it was better to be friends—particularly the kind of friends that never saw each other again. She’d fought alongside Captain Garrett on the Sand Spit when Donaghey was driven ashore on Ceylon. And, of course, she was one of only a handful to survive the slaughter of Flynn’s Rangers beyond the Rocky Gap in Indiaa. She’d recovered from the wounds she suffered there by wandering the trenches of Alden’s Perimeter sniping enemy officers, or Hij, until Greg Garrett requested her by name to command his Marines on this expedition.
A few on the ship, particularly some of her Marines, thought Bekiaa was mad. She knew she wasn’t. True madness was very rare among Lemurians and poorly understood, so she could see how people might be confused. Usually, madness drove Mi-Anakka to suicide, and she had no desire to take her own life. She wasn’t even “controlled mad” like Saak-Fas had been. He’d been the mate of Keje’s daughter, Selass, and after a period of captivity among the Grik, he’d certainly wanted to die, but he’d managed to make his death matter in the end. Bekiaa knew she was perfectly sane, because she didn’t want to die at all. She’d gladly accept death, if it came to her while she was killing many Grik, but most people she knew would make that trade. There was a difference.
“Good day to you, Cap-i-taan Bekiaa-Sab-At,” came a pleasant voice beside her. Bekiaa started, surprised, and a little disoriented by her sudden return to the present. She blinked embarrassment at the strange Lemurian who’d joined her. “Good afternoon, Inquisitor Choon,” she said hastily. She still didn’t know if she should salute Kon-Choon or not, and didn’t really know what to think of him or any of his people, human, Lemurian—or whatever else might reside in his land. Choon was odd enough. He had sharp features beneath a slightly mottled, stone-colored fur. Surprisingly large eyes, even for a Lemurian, protruded from his face. Most striking of all was that the eyes were pale blue, like some humans she knew, but never before had she met any Mi-Anakka with eyes like that. He spoke well enough, but she wondered if his ancestors had been from some tribe that never made it as far eastward as her own. She glanced at the brindled fur on her arm, so common among the Sab-Ats. Many of Choon’s Mi-Anakka comrades they’d met at Diego Garciaa were colored just like any other People she knew, but none were brindled. It interested her.
She forced a friendly grin despite her Marine’s pride being chastened that Choon had managed to sneak up on her so easily. She knew Captain Garrett wanted to make a good impression on their new . . . acquaintances from the southern African Republic of Real People.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” Choon said as if reading her mind, and she wondered briefly if he had. He was the Royal “Inquisitor” for his “Kaiser,” Nig-Taak, after all. Supposedly, his title meant he was head of the Republic’s equivalent to the Office of Strategic Intelligence that Commander Herring had established in Baalkpan . . . but did that mean it was more or less likely he could actually read minds? She shuddered at the thought. “I saw you here,” he continued, “and this is the first opportunity I have had to compliment you on the professionalism and bearing of your Maa-rines when you parade them on deck in the mornings.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bekiaa said. She commanded sixty Marines on Donaghey, all of whom had other duties alongside the rest of the two hundred officers and enlisted personnel aboard, when they weren’t training or at drill. Most were qualified to man the ship’s guns, but some made passable topmen, or “wing runners.” The rest performed duties ’Cats considered appropriate for “Body of Home” clans, though the human term “deck ape” was gaining universal acceptance. Donaghey had no “snipe,” or engineering division. She was the sole survivor of three ships in her class, considered “first generation” frigates, or “DDs,” that had been built on this world, and relied entirely on the wind in her sails for propulsion. She was small compared to the latest sail/steam hybrids as well, measuring only 168 by 33 feet, and armed with 18-pounders—the lightest guns left on any DD. She had twenty-four of them, though, all tied into the latest—if still primitive by Walker’s standards—fire control system. She had the same sonar set as any DD in the West, powered by wind or gasoline generators, and carried a battery of Y guns and a depth-charge rack—all essential for her semisolitary voyage through such a hostile sea. Finally, her stunningly successful hull shape and sail plan meant not only was she uniquely qualified for her long-range mission, but she remained the fastest ship in the Navy with a kind wind, other than the new PTs assembling at Diego—and USS Walker herself.
“I am most impressed by the close-quarters combat drill your Maa-rines perform,” Choon continued, blinking genuine admiration. “Our legions know the bayonet, but hardly the sword or shield. We have had breech-loading firearms longer than you, I understand.”
Bekiaa nodded. She’d seen the single shot, “bolt action” rifles some of Choon’s people carried, and understood they’d had the things for at least a decade. They looked unnecessarily complicated compared to the Allin-Silva breech-loading conversions of the muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal rifled muskets her Marines used. “Yes, we have only recently taken that step.” Her smile faded. “But against the Grik, a cutlass”—she patted the guard of the Baalkpan-made copy of the 1917 Navy pattern at her belt—“remains a most handy tool, I assure you. And after once discarding our shields, my Maa-rines, at least, will not do so again,” she added tonelessly.
“You have your reasons, I’m sure,” Choon granted. “You have much greater experience against the Grik than we. I meant no offense, I merely observe—and speculate perhaps.” He lowered his ears in self-deprecation. “I speculate quite a bit. It is my primary occupation, after all.” He blinked an expression Bekiaa didn’t know. “Your Colonel Chack-Sab-At, commanding the brigade gathering at the strange island where we met your people, as well as our ancient, mutual kin . . . Colonel Chack is your cousin, is he not? There is a slight resemblance.” Bekiaa nodded with a genuine smile. “I thought so. Obviously a most formidable warrior, as are you, I’m sure. In any event, his ‘Raider Brigade,’ destined to assault Mada-gaas-car itself, trains much the same. I hope he will instruct”—he blinked annoyance—“that they will allow him to instruct the few legionaries we brought with us aboard the War Palace, so they might teach your Grik fighting ways to others of our people.”
The “War Palace” was actually SMS Amerika, an old ocean liner, of all things. She’d been fitted with a few guns and commissioned as a commerce raider for the Imperial German Navy during an earlier war than the one Walker had been fighting. At least that was what Bekiaa understood. Amerika had also been swept to this world in much the same way as Walker, apparently, but she, her German crew, and mostly British prisoners had found a home with the Republic of Real People, who’d garishly decorated and painted the old ship. Her people technologically contributed to that society just as Walker had done for Bekiaa’s folk. Since it was protected from the Grik by an uncomfortably cooler climate, however, the technological transformation of the Republic had not been nearly as urgent—or unsettling—as at Baalkpan and elsewhere.
“We’ll do the same when we reach your home, if you like,” Bekiaa offered.
“If there is time,” Choon said, “I hope that you may.” He looked at the sea ahead. “If there is time.”
One of Bekiaa’s Marines scampered up and slammed to attention, her tail rigid behind her. “Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett’s compimimps, an’ would the two ob you care to join him on the quarterdeck?”
Bekiaa looked at Choon.
“Of course,” Choon said, looking back at Bekiaa. “Shall we?”
* * *
“Wind’s getting weird,” Lieutenant Wendel “Smitty” Smith grouched, wiping his prematurely bald head with a rag. He was Donaghey’s gunnery officer, and he’d just reported that all the ship’s guns were doubly secured in case things got frisky.
“It’s boxing the compass,” Captain Greg Garrett agreed. He was tall and dark haired, and the gangliness of youth remained to a degree, but his soft Tennessee drawl was far more assured than it once was. His body could only mature so fast, but the man had long since been made. He glanced at Donaghey’s consort, USS Sineaa (DE-48), pounding along companionably, if a little less comfortably, about a mile to leeward. Sineaa was a “razeed” Grik Indiaman, captured at Singapore. With the same rig as Donaghey and her hull cut down to the gun deck, the smaller, lighter ship was almost as fast as Greg’s. She carried only twelve guns, however, and the stores in her hold were her primary purpose.
Greg looked back at his gunnery officer. He liked the guy, and knew he had plenty of guts. He’d started out as Walker’s gunnery officer himself, before becoming what many considered the premier “frigate skipper” in the Alliance, and he fully approved of Smitty’s precautions. He’d likewise just directed that the fore and main topsails be reefed. “I wish the wind would figure out what it’s going to do,” he added.
“We may not approve of its decision,” said Lieutenant Saama-Kera, Greg’s exec. He was blinking concern at the darkening sky. “Sammy” wasn’t a Sky Priest or “Salig Maastir” as most American Navy execs had been at first. He was a master sailor, who could read the weather as well as any Sky Priest, and was very nearly as good a navigator—considering he hadn’t studied the Heavens since birth, as true Sky Priests were expected to do. “We have little to go on regarding the weather in this region,” he continued. “Though a few hints from my . . . ancestral cousins on Diego Garciaa describe some of the storms approaching from this direction as extreme.” He glanced at Garrett. “They did not name them such, but they do bring the strakka to mind.”
Greg nodded with a frown. Strakkas were cyclones, but the different conditions on this world often spun them up into monsters that defied comparison to any hurricane or typhoon Greg Garrett had heard of. He hoped Sammy had misunderstood the “aboriginal” Lemurians of Diego. That was possible, since their once-common language had changed significantly over time. Some believed they must retain a culture most similar to what all Lemurians shared before the ancient exodus from Madagascar, due to their isolation, but Greg wasn’t so sure. The language of the southern African ’Cats who’d made it there aboard Amerika wasn’t much different from that spoken by Mi-Anakka from Jaava to the Fil-pin Lands, and as far south as the Great South Isle. If anything, Greg figured the people on Diego—also smaller than other Lemurians—had probably regressed culturally as well as physically. It was possible they retained myths, legends, even actual accounts of what it had been like where they came from so long ago, stories otherwise lost. Maybe Courtney Bradford or Adar—or somebody else—would sort all that out someday, but that wasn’t Greg’s problem. His mission was to scout some of the islands his old world charts said existed east of Madagascar to discover whether the Grik had any presence there, report his findings, then proceed to the Republic of Real People with Inquisitor Choon. Beyond that? He could continue his expedition of discovery into the Atlantic at his discretion.
The weather worried him for its own sake, of course, but they were drawing uncomfortably close to where a couple of those eastern islands, specifically the Mascarenes—Mauritius and Reunion —were supposed to be. He didn’t like the idea of discovering them too abruptly in the middle of any kind of storm, much less a strakka. He blinked and realized that Captain Bekiaa and Inquisitor Choon had joined them by the windward rail. “Inquisitor.” He nodded. “Hi, Bekiaa.” He and Bekiaa didn’t exchange salutes. That happened during the morning parade of her Marines in the waist. He still looked at her for a moment, however, trying to ascertain her mood. He didn’t know everything she’d been through in Indiaa, but he knew it was a lot—and very bad. He’d been in a tough spot with her himself, in the Sand Spit fight, and that hadn’t shaken the Lemurian Marine. All he knew was that whatever she’d endured since had shaken her pretty bad, so as scary as the Sand Spit had been, her more recent experiences must have been even worse. He wouldn’t try to imagine what she was going through, and since he was her commanding officer, it wasn’t his place to ask, as long as she did her duty. But he’d be there as her friend if she needed him.
Choon bowed slightly. “I am at your service, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett.”
“I’ve got a couple of questions,” Greg informed him.
“Of course. I will answer any I am able.”
Greg smiled, recognizing the word “able” implied any number of limitations. The guy was a snoop, after all.
“You’ve seen our charts and know where we’re headed. Any idea what we’ll run into?”
“My people have almost no knowledge of this sea, or much of anything at all east of our home. We have quite a bit more knowledge of what lies west of us than perhaps any other power on this world, I daresay; better, more current charts of the Atlantic, and the various coastlines. All that was gathered by the War Palace”—he flicked his ears—“SMS Amerika, before she came to us.” He shook his head sadly. “But our best charts of this region came with her as well. They are no better, and even older than yours.”
“But you came looking for us.”
“As has been explained, Lieutenant Miyata told us of you and that you had defeated the Grik attack against your Home at Baalkpan. He knew little beyond that, but his words gave us hope that we were not alone against our enemy. In addition, our people have wireless technology. We do not transmit; to do so would perhaps draw unwanted attention, but we do listen.” He blinked admonishment. “Your people transmit perhaps a little too much information ‘in the clear,’ I believe you say, in the heat of . . . exciting situations. In any event, that is how we learned that you had not only defeated the Grik, but advanced against them; we presumed as far as Indiaa, though we could not be sure. We made for Baalkpan regardless. Lieutenant Miyata was a navigation officer and had been there before. It seemed the best choice. Sadly, Amerika could not complete the journey without the repairs now underway at Diego Garciaa—we were fortunate indeed to find that place!”
“So it all worked out when we stumbled on you there,” Greg murmured, “but my question is, did you ever sight any of the islands we’re looking for now?”
“Sadly, no. We meant to make a straight transit across this ‘Indiaan Sea,’ and find you through the place you call the ‘Soon-daa Strait.’ We could not make it.”
“Diego’s a good bit north of that course.”
“Yes, but we had no choice other than to look for it and hope it was there. We could go no farther.”
“And it was there,” Sammy supplied.
“Fortunately.”
Sammy looked at Garrett. “So it stands to reason the Maas-carenes will be there as well.”
“It would,” Garrett agreed, “if we hadn’t already found so many islands where they shouldn’t be—or none where they should be, before.”
“But that has always been in the Eastern Ocean—the Paa-cific, where so many are smoking mountains. You have said yourself that they might sprout anywhere.”
“I guess. But why not here? And how come so many volcanic islands in the Malay Barrier are in the right place?”
“Not all are. Is not . . . Kraak-aa-toaa still there, when it should not be, according to your old charts—yet Talaud has destroyed itself?”
“Sure, but Talaud might’ve blown its top ‘back home’ by now, for all we know.” Greg rubbed his eyebrows, then gestured around. “I guess I’m just trying to dip my toe in the water before I jump in. It might be freezing or boiling—or full of rocks.”
Saama-Kera laughed. “So this trip is different from others in what respect?”
Greg chuckled back at him, acknowledging the point.
“You have other questions?” Choon asked. Garrett started to reply, when suddenly something struck the ship like a ragged broadside, slamming into the hull with a clattering, thudding staccato they could feel in the deck beneath their feet. Then something whipped by over the bulwark, something . . . amazing.
“Down!” Garrett roared. “Everybody down! Take cover!”
“What the hell!” Smitty bellowed, but Bekiaa dragged him and Inquisitor Choon to the deck just as a . . . flock of . . . things . . . soared over the ship from starboard to port. Sammy cried out and flung himself down as well, clutching his shoulder where one of the things struck him. His hand came away from the fur with blood on it.
“Flyin’ swordfish!” Smitty yelled. “What next?”
“They’re not swordfish,” Garrett said, a mix of concern and wonder in his voice. The creatures were hitting the ship continuously now, and the hull drummed with their strikes. Some hit the rigging, parting lines in some cases as they passed, or rebounding onto the deck to flop and squirm. Others actually ripped holes in the sails!
“My God!” Greg said. “They’re squids! Or something like squids!”
“Squids?” Smitty demanded. “Flyin’, saber-toothed squids? What the hell next?”
The fusillade went on for perhaps a minute, all while Donaghey’s crew took cover as best they could. Even so, there were several shrill screams. Greg didn’t know if his people were being hurt, or simply screaming in terror at the sight of the live, high-velocity projectiles. They were ugly, and the deck was filling with gray-blue, wriggling shapes. Quite a few fell near Garrett and his group, and he stared at them. Squids, sure enough, he thought. But not like any squid I ever saw! The animals’ bodies were about two feet long, not counting the cluster of short tentacles at the rear—bottom?—of their abdomens. They also had huge, stunningly sensitive-looking eyes that rolled and gaped in panic as they flailed. In those respects at least, they appeared similar to ordinary squids. But like everything else Greg Garrett had seen on this world, they’d adapted to somewhat different circumstances. Instead of little fins near the top of their cylindrical bodies, these creatures looked like they’d crossed with a manta ray at some time. Their “fins” had become flexible, rubbery-looking wings. What propelled them at such velocities were organs much like ordinary squids as well, but on a larger scale. That actually didn’t surprise Garrett that much. They’d encountered other creatures that squirted water at greater pressures than they’d ever known before. Doubtless, Courtney Bradford would be astounded and fashion some new theory about that. What made these things dangerous to people, and even Greg’s ship—besides their size and speed—was a sharp, bony, spearpoint-looking thing poking out of the tops of their heads! That was obviously what cut Sammy, and had allowed the things to shred so much cordage and sailcloth.
The bizarre assault was tapering off, and carefully, crewfolk began to peer over the side.
“Deck there!” came a cry from the masthead. Garrett looked up. Apparently, the things hadn’t flown any higher than the courses, and everyone aloft had scrambled above them.
“What is it?” Greg called back when there was no report.
“Some-teeng’s in de waater, longside de ship!” Greg raised himself and peered over the rail. For a moment he was stunned by what he saw. Dozens, hundreds of “squids” covered the starboard side of his ship, dangling and squirming, feebly flapping their wings, their “spearpoints” imbedded in the stout timbers. For each squid, there were probably twenty or more bloody, bony spearpoints sticking in the ship, wrenched from the heads of the animals on impact, or as they struggled to escape. His gaze swept downward. The sea was getting rougher so he couldn’t see beneath it, but he recognized the short, broad fins of quite a few of the more ferocious sea monsters he’d grown accustomed to. They looked a lot like giant porpoises, or maybe even big killer whales, but they had long snouts full of knitting-needle teeth. Even as he watched, one rose to the surface and snatched a floating squid. It was suddenly quite clear what had driven the strange creatures to flee in such a manner. He shuddered and backed away, remembering. Scary as the big fish were, they didn’t bother ships. They were known to eat small boats with people in them. . . .
“Damaage control!” Sammy roared, rising as well, his tail swishing in agitation. “Bend new canvas, and get to work cutting and splicing! This is still a Navy ship, and we have ugly weather coming. On your feet, and twist your tails! Chief Laan, form details to clear these foul things away; over the side with them! Pass the word for the carpenter to report any leaks!”
Greg smiled and nodded. He’d been about to shout the same commands, but Donaghey’s exec was her first lieutenant, and damage control was his job. Bosun’s whistles squealed and ’Cats set to work. Lemurians couldn’t do a bosun’s pipe, but a series of whistle toots worked just as well on shipboard or the battlefield. Bekiaa was helping Choon to his feet and Smitty was already up, poking one of the squids with his shoe.
“Rocket powered, flyin’ arrowhead squids,” Smitty mused. “I wonder if you can eat ’em.”
“Not me,” Bekiaa said seriously.
“Sammy?” Greg gestured at the ’Cat’s shoulder. “Get below and have that tended. See what other casualties we’ve had.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan, but it’s just a scratch.”
“I know, but these damn things might be poisonous for all we know. Go ahead. I’ve got the deck.”
“Ay, sir.”
Choon had recovered himself and was looking around with interest. Finally, he turned back to Garrett. “Ah, you said you had more than just the one question, which I was sadly unable to answer to the satisfaction of either of us. What else did you want to know?”
“Well, I was going to ask more about your land, your ‘Republic.’ That can wait till later, though.” He smiled ironically. “Mostly, I was going to ask if you ran into anything, well, weird, on your own voyage across the Indian Ocean.”
Choon stooped to examine one of the squids. It was dead now, its skin already beginning to wrinkle and parch, but still staring up at him.
“‘Weird’ is such an interesting word,” he said cryptically. “And so subjective, so dependent upon perspective. I never saw creatures such as these before, but are they truly ‘weird’? That is difficult to determine. They are different from other squids I have seen, so they are unusual, certainly.” He looked at Greg. “But your people and mine do not yet know each other well enough to agree with confidence on any definition of ‘weird.’” With that, he nodded politely and stepped away.
“I hate it when he does that,” Greg growled. “He talks more than anybody I ever saw, except maybe Courtney, without saying anything at all.”
Bekiaa watched the strange Lemurian step carefully through the dead squids and the activity around him and half smiled. “I find it . . . amusing.”
Greg snorted. “Maybe a little, but also kind of, well, sneaky, if you ask me.”
Bekiaa shrugged. “He is a ‘snoop.’ Like Mr. Braad-furd, it is his nature to gather knowledge, but he does not share it well. Even with his friends. He thinks that since he must earn information, so should everyone else. It is almost . . . a game.”
“Do you think he’s a friend?” Greg asked bluntly. “Because half the time, I really don’t know.”
Bekiaa smiled more broadly. “Yes,” she replied. “But even with his friends, he plays his game.”