am sometimes painfully reminded that fatigue and hurts often do not show, but they can shorten the reach of one’s sword.” He grunted. “And of course, a hunter-a warrior-must eat. It may be that their sword has reached its most extreme reach-for now. Perhaps they gather their strength for the next mighty blow. Possibly they await the arrival of a new, sharper sword. Regardless, their delay has already given us some time that may be crucial.” He hissed a chuckle. “It has given us the crucial time to arrive here, General Niwa, if nothing else!”
“True, General Halik,” Niwa replied in the English Halik now more perfectly understood. They’d had a long voyage to get to “know” one another and strangely, something resembling friendship, a form of “warrior bond,” had evolved between them. Neither was exactly “of ” even his own people anymore, and despite their vast dissimilarities, they had much in common. “But without reconnaissance,” he continued, “we can’t know what ‘new’ swords they may have been given. I can imagine a few, and we can try to prepare for some of those possibilities, but you must understand that other than the war in the Philippines on our old world, my people had rarely faced American tactics before, and those were strictly defensive. ‘General of the Sea’ Kurokawa has a low opinion of their discipline and capabilities, but I do not. When we were intercepting their un-encrypted messages, we learned that their ‘ground’ commander is a Marine named Alden.” Niwa shook his head. “I have never faced this ‘Alden’ before, but he is clearly talented-and a Marine.”
“What is a ‘Marine’?” N’galsh asked after Halik translated.
“Marines were some of the finest warriors our old enemy possessed. No doubt this Alden has taught their methods to many of our new ones.” He looked at Halik. “American Marines are notorious for their ferocity and oddly, considering their high level of discipline, their initiative. Initiative is not encouraged among Japanese troops, and has been virtually unknown among the Grik. I suspect that when the enemy does come, it will be amid a firestorm like we have never seen.”
CHAPTER 32
Fil-pin Sea
Dennis Silva was scratching his name on the rough-hewn wood of the boat with a small knife he’d always kept in the shooting pouch he’s managed to save. He’d already carved abbreviations of the names of all the other Allied “survivors” of the monstrous wave: Princess “Becky,” “Lt. Tucker,” “Lelaa,” “Cook,” “Brassy,” “Sis Audry,” “Larry.” For some reason, he’d even added “Petey” before adding “D. Silva.” He thought it was important, if the boats they’d gathered and lashed together were ever found, that folks would know they’d made it this far. Otherwise, nobody would ever know what happened to them. He considered carving Rajendra’s name, but didn’t know how to spell it, and didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t remember the carpenter’s or engineer’s names. Dumb-ass, he thought of Rajendra. Silly, useless dunce finally rears up on his hind legs like a man-when it didn’t make a difference anymore. Hanging on To The tiller migh’ve seemed like a brave stunt at the time, but the boat was going over no matter what. Silva shook his head. The rest of the Imperials probably never even woke up-never knew what hit Them. Whether they did or not, they didn’t tie themselves in. Buncha dopes. Or were They? A quick drownin’ might’ve been better than this slow, dessicatin’ to death.
No. Scratchin’ names on a boat is one Thing-never hurts To cover all The bases-but just givin’ up and dyin’ is for pansies. One way or another, somethin’s going to have to kill Dennis Silva! He finished his wood work and put the knife back in his pouch. They’d collected and lashed together eleven proas that would float, but all had lost their masts and there wasn’t an intact sail left among them. There’d been no sign of the rest of their little “fleet” and all the food, and virtually all the water had been lost or spoiled. Over a hundred of Lawrence’s people survived the wave, but they’d begun dying almost immediately. The creatures could handle the sun and heat extremely well, but only if they had plenty of water. Now, most of the survivors were bundled beneath scraps of the rough Tagranesi sailcloth, seeking protection from the sun. Looking around at the mounds of gray “canvas,” Dennis saw little sign of life, and he began to imagine he was the last one alive. The proas themselves looked more like a logjam than anything else he could imagine, bobbing and undulating with the swells beneath the merciless sun, inexorably coasting northward with the current. They might wash up on Japan someday, he thought, but they’d be long dead before then.
He caught sight of a blurry figure on the far side of the “logjam.” That was about as far as he could see with any clarity anymore. Squinting, he recognized Chinakru. The lizard leader had posted himself there as a lookout, much as Silva had done on this side. Silva was strangely encouraged that the old guy still had the juice to do it, even if there was little point. Maybe, like Silva, he just didn’t have it in him to give up while there was any life left in him at all. He felt light-headed, and his tongue was swollen so tightly in his mouth that he doubted he could speak, but he nodded solemnly, respectfully, at the old lizard. Chinakru nodded back.
The boat shuddered slightly and Sandra moved slowly, painfully, out from under the modest shelter they’d rigged. Seeing Dennis, she crawled in his direction, clumsily seating herself beside him.
“Three days,” she managed to say thickly. Her lips were cracked and her eyes looked dull.
“Yeph,” Silva replied, surprised that he could talk-and by how bad his voice sounded. He wished Sandra hadn’t come out. She looked terrible, and seeing her only reminded him how badly he’d failed to protect her and the others.
“S’vivors won’t ’ast much ’onger now,” Sandra gasped.
“I know.”
The canvas moved again, and Lelaa crawled out to join them, panting. She didn’t look as bad as Sandra, but only because of her fur. If anything, she’d probably suffered worse. ’Cats generally needed even more water than humans did.
“Wat’s dat sound?” Lelaa asked, after several tries.
“What sound?” Dennis croaked. All he could hear was a constant, ringing “ reeeee ” in his ears.
“Dat… rumble, bubble sound.” Lelaa put her ear to the damp hull of the boat and listened again. “Der it is,” she almost crooned. “Louder now. I hear it asleep, and it waked… woke me up. It’s real.”
“So? It’s prob’ly a mountain fish down there, fartin’. I bet somethin’ that big could fart for an hour.”
Sandra shushed him. “No, I hear it too.” She looked around them at the sea and saw a large, low, fuzzy shape, creeping toward them from the south. “My God!” she practically shouted, and fell down in the boat. Chinakru was yelling something and the mounds of canvas began to stir.
“It is a mountain fish!” Silva hissed, groping for the Doom Whomper. “A baby one!” He tried to raise his massive weapon, but it was just too heavy. “Hel… Help me with this thing, Cap’n Lelaa!” he almost roared.
“No!” she said, wonder creeping into her voice. “That’s no mountain fish!” she declared, surprisingly clear.
“Well, whatever the hell it is, gimme a-” Silva stopped, staring at the closing apparition. “Uh… Is that…?”
“Ess nineteen!” Lelaa confirmed with utter certainty, helping Sandra back up. She worked her mouth and tried to lick her dry lips. “Though maybe only your God knows what she’s doing here… and how she managed it!” The excitement in her voice aroused others in the proa and the canvas fell away, revealing blinking eyes and haggard faces. “Former” Tagranesi on the other boats began to stir as well, and Chinakru was moving around his boat, alerting others.
The battered submarine didn’t look much like her old self anymore; most of the superstructure atop her pressure hull was twisted or gone. She resembled a wallowing, listing, waterlogged tree trunk that had been chewed on by a super lizard, but enough of her distinctive characteristics remained to identify her. The four-inch- fifty gun still stood, supported by the naked, reinforced structure beneath it that had once been concealed by the foredeck. The straight up and down bow was unmistakable, and though both were now fully extended, the aft periscope was decidedly bent near the top. Of course, the filthy, bloodstained men and ’Cats clinging to the remains of the shattered conn tower removed any possible doubt.
“Ess nineteen!” shrieked Captain Lelaa, trying to make her cracking voice heard over the two rumbling diesels as the sub slowed to a stop nearby.
“Ahoy there!” came an answering, almost unbelieving cry through a speaking trumpet. “Captain Lelaa? Is that really you? Who the devil are all those… creatures?”
Princess Rebecca stood unsteadily, supported by Lawrence-who was in turn supported by Abel.
