“An’ it smells like a cigarette?”
“Say, you’re even squirrelier than usual tonight. Sure, it smells like a cigarette ’cause it is one. Maybe not a good one, but I don’t care! Fork it over!”
Isak suddenly jammed his pipe under Laney’s nose. “ There’s yer cigarette, you big, fat, lumpy turd!” he jeered, “’an that’s the last whiff o’ Isak Rueben’s ‘Patented Sweet Smokin’ Tobacco’ yer ever gonna get, if you lay one fat, turdy finger on me, hear? Ha! I’m goin’ in the smokin’ tobacco bizness. Cigarettes, see-gars, a nice arrow- matic pipe blend. Hell, I’ll be the first tobacco magnet in the world!”
It’s ‘magnate,’ you bonehead,” Laney said, but he grabbed Isak’s hand and held the pipe close to his face. “Damn, that smells good. How’d you do it?”
“No way! I tell you, and you’ll swipe the process. If you think I done all this work so you can skim off the cream, you’re stupider than you look.”
“Watch that mouth!” Laney growled, his grip tightening on Isak’s wrist.
“You watch yours, fatso, an’ leggo my arm if you don’t want my new comp’ny motto to be ‘Heavenly Smokes for Ever’body but Laney’!”
CHAPTER 14
New Ireland
M ajor Chack-Sab-At loved horses. Before he and his mixed “division” came ashore at the New Ireland town of Bray the night before, he’d never ridden an animal in his life; not a brontasarry, a paalka, and certainly not one of the terrifying me-naaks, or “meanies,” the Fil-pin cavalry used. He’d never had occasion to ride the first two, and he had no inclination to ride the latter. With his background as a wing runner of the People, he’d never imagined a reason to climb atop any animal before, but a Marine Major commanding almost two thousand troops needed mobility, and he’d been introduced to horses. He was entranced by the novelty of the experience. To sit upon so large a creature-that had absolutely no desire to eat him-and with which he could actually communicate after a fashion, gave him a feeling of warm benevolence toward the animal. He’d never understood the human preoccupation with “pets”; no Lemurian did. But though he was given to understand horses weren’t exactly pets, he began to grasp the attraction of “having” a companion animal that could think for itself to a degree. He’d heard a great deal about “dogs” and understood humans were particularly fond of them, but none existed in the isles. There were small cats, which did bear a vague resemblance to his people but no more than the pesky forest monkeys did to humans (or again to his own people). He finally knew where the human “Cat-monkey-Monkey-cat” diminutive for his People came from but he didn’t mind, despite the fact that he’d seen no evidence the little cats that roamed wild on New Scotland even had brains… but horses! He patted “his” animal on the neck.
He suspected by its twitchy responses to the distant, muffled booming that it was growing nervous. Chack doubted the hundred-odd horses attached to his “division” were alone in that. Many of his troops-virtually all the Imperials-had never faced combat. The first of his two regiments was composed of the remnants of his platoon from Walker and the Marine contingents from Simms, Mertz, Tindal, and the oilers. Some were hardened veterans, and he counted heavily on them to steady the two hundred completely green Imperial Marines attached to the regiment. The second regiment was almost entirely Imperial, but had a lot of the men who’d fought at the Dueling Grounds. All were “marching to the sound of the guns” in a sense, because the wind brought the heavy reports of the New Dublin defenses about fifteen miles east, over the Sperrin Mountains, and deposited the sound in such a way that it seemed to lie before them.
Chack knew it was an illusion, but there were enemies ahead, moving to resist “Major” Blair’s assault on the “Irish” town of Waterford on the banks of Lake Shannon. Blair had landed four days before, south of the west-coast town of Cork, just as planned. The landing caught the inhabitants completely by surprise, and, after a short, sharp action, the town was in Allied hands. Blair was greeted as a liberator by the inhabitants, cheering and weeping with relief. Cork was a fishing village of indentured females, mostly, but several hundred “True Irish” Company troops and a contingent of Dominion “Salvadores” had been billeted there, going about their grisly “pacification, conversion, and reeducation” process. Hundreds in the town had already been slain and their bodies carried away. This last act had been just as cruel and apparently irrational as the murders themselves.
In any event, the plan seemed to be working. Blair’s capture of Cork had drawn rebel troops from Easky, Bray, and Waterford down upon him, and he met them with prepared positions in Cork and on both sides of a pass through the Wiklow Mountains. Not only had he been punishing the enemy severely, he’d drawn all attention other than that focused on the fleet offshore of New Dublin, and Chack’s division had virtually strolled ashore at Bray. The reception there was similar to the one Blair received except there’d been no fight at all. The “garrison” had gone to Waterford in response to Blair’s attack at Cork. Chack’s most immediate problem after landing had been convincing the locals that he and his Lemurian troops weren’t “demons” and were there to help-and to keep them from lynching ayone suspected of collaborating with the Doms. His division had swelled by several hundred “auxiliaries” who knew the island intimately and who, regardless of their former leanings or associations with the Company, were practically rabid to destroy the murderous Doms.
Chack now had a great deal of experience with “plans,” but he was increasingly optimistic. Nobody knew what the enemy had at New Dublin. Doubtless, the bulk of the Dom troops and rebels were there, but their attention was fixed for now, and Chack’s scouts reported no effort to force the bottleneck between the northern Sperrin Mountains and the sea. As far as they knew, only whatever enemy troops might be in the western “panhandle” city of Belfast were unaccounted for.
Major Alister Jindal, commander of the Imperial regiment and Chack’s exec, galloped up alongside the shorter ’Cat and stopped his horse. Chack couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s horsemanship-and the animal’s willing cooperation.
“Good aafternoon, Major Jindal,” Chack said pleasantly. He liked Jindal, and the two had worked well together in preparation for this operation. Some Imperials still had reservations about the Alliance, and a few were openly antagonistic toward the Lemurians in particular, refusing to serve with them and unwilling to take orders from them under any circumstances. Governor-Emperor McDonald couldn’t fire them all, but he could put them to use where their attitudes wouldn’t be a distraction. Jindal was a good friend of Blair’s and perfectly prepared to accept Chack’s more experienced command.
“Good afternoon, Major Chack,” Jindal said, grinning. Chack had halted his horse under the shade of a massive tree of some kind; it looked much like a Galla, except for the leaves. Despite the wind that brought them the sounds of battle to the east, it was hot and sultry in the valley between the two craggy mountain ranges, and the dense forest harbored more than enough moisture to make the day oppressive. He’d been watching his division pass by. The Lemurian Marines wore one uniform, but probably represented every member of the Alliance. Some “artiller-ists” in the uniforms of various Army regiments walked or trotted alongside their paalka-drawn guns. The “tried and true” split-trail six-pounders were still moved by a single animal, but the new twelve-pounder field guns used a single stock trail and limber hitched to a team of paalkas. Horses pulled the Imperial artillery, and Chack considered that a waste. Even in the Empire, horses were rare, and paalkas were stronger, if slower. He foresaw a thriving horse/paalka trade.
Imperial Marines in their red coats with yellow facings marched side by side in column with Lemurian Marines in their white leather armor and blue kilts. Black tricorns and shakos contrasted with polished bronze “doughboy” helmets. The colorful nature of the force gave a festive impression, but there was no doubt it meant business. The Lemurian Marines had grown accustomed to war and the associated hardship and discipline. Even in this foreign land with its strange creatures and people, they knew what to do, even if the enemy was different. The Imperials didn’t have the experience or training, but they were motivated. Nearly all the Marines, Lemurian and human, were armed with muskets; Imperial flintlocks and “Baalkpan Armory” caplocks were all brightly polished and glittered silver as they swayed to the marching cadence under the hot afternoon sun.
“It’s a lovely sight,” Jindal said, mirroring Chack’s thoughts.
“It is,” he agreed. “Lovely, stirring… and terrible all at once.”
Jindal hesitated. “I’m… glad you’re here.”
Chack looked at him, surprised. His tail flicked alongside his right leg. That was one problem with riding horses. The saddle made his tail very uncomfortable, and he was constantly adjusting his kilt to maintain his
