duty to destroy them.
“It is still a beautiful land,” he whispered to the other Japanese officer beside him, another member of Amagi ’s crew rescued from the Grik at Singapore. There were six such men aboard Mizuki Maru, in addition to the cook/deserter who’d brought them the tale of horror. The cook was still just a cook. He had no desire to leave his galley at all. There he could surround himself with the familiar and perhaps pretend nothing had really changed. The largely Lemurian crew that came to him for meals had to be a constant reminder that such was not the case, but he persevered, sometimes teetering on the brink of madness, but there was always hot food for the furry crew who, despite their coats, were unaccustomed to the damp cold that blew at them out of the north. It was winter, Okada knew, but only those Lemurians from his new home understood. His colony had been one of the northernmost outposts of the People known, and only the hardiest tried to subsist there. Some had even seen snow; a rare novelty. The “Navy” ’Cats that augmented his crew had no experience with snow, or even cold for that matter, and the farther north they steamed, the more miserable they were.
“Anything on the radio yet, Lieutenant Hiro?” Okada asked the officer beside him.
Hiro shook his head. “Nothing yet, Lord.”
Mizuki Maru had been broadcasting terrified entreaties for someone, anyone to answer them, to tell them where to go, to assure them they weren’t alone in a terrible world gone mad. Okada could only guess that the destroyer Hidoiame and her tanker had come this way, and he had nothing tangible on which to base that guess. He assumed his… enemy would scout the Japanese coastline, ensuring there were no others of their kind, before venturing afield into the greater unknown. He wasn’t sure he’d have done that himself, after a couple of brief explorations, but it was his only hope for a quick encounter. The trail had gone quite cold, and if Hidoiame wasn’t near Japan, he had no idea where next to look. So the radio calls constantly dangled the bait of another ship, swept as they were to this world, but a “supply ship” with plenty of food and ammunition aboard, and no idea where to take it. Okada was confident that if his enemy could hear him, he wouldn’t be able to resist for long.
“What will we do, Lord?” Hiro asked.
Okada grunted. “We’ll continue north through the Sea of Japan until we hear word, or we’re stopped by ice. If there’s no ice, we’ll steam down the Pacific side of the home islands…” He paused. “And keep looking. We’ll put in at Yokohama, visit our people, and replenish supplies, then proceed southeast of the Fil-pin Lands, wailing our heads off all the while. I still believe we should concentrate on areas Hidoiame might hope are populated by others such as us-castaways from our world to this. After Japan itself, the more populous regions of Imperial expansion would seem most likely. We shall loop south around New Guinea and head back up along the Malay Barrier toward Baalkpan and Aryaal. Perhaps we’ll hear word of a sighting if she’s gone into those seas.” He looked at Hiro. “If we don’t find her by then, we must assume she either went east into New Britain territory, or has… somehow communicated with that madman, Kurokawa, and turned west toward the Grik.”
“What if she encounters the Allied fleets?”
“Actually, I’m confident they will destroy her, if one of their”-he grimaced-“ our capital ships is present. It will be costly, but I only truly fear her torpedoes.”
“Indeed,” Hiro said nervously.
The speaking tube from the radio shack whistled, and Hiro stepped over and spoke into it. “Bridge. Lieutenant Hiro speaking.”
“The murderers have taken the lure, my lord,” came the tinny voice. “They want to talk to our captain.”
Okada leaned toward the tube. “I’m on my way.”
“We are the Junyo Maru, my lord,” the radioman reminded Okada when he entered the compartment. Junyo Maru was a ship Hidioame would be familiar with, and she was a dead ringer for their own.
“Of course.” He took the microphone. “This is Captain Okada of the Junyo Maru. I cannot express my relief at finding countrymen here in this… wrongful place!”
“I am Commander Kurita of the Imperial Japanese ship Hidoiame!” a terse voice crackled in response. “Now that we have established communications, please cease screaming your head off for all the world to hear! We are not alone in this place, and there may be enemies listening! We have monitored what sound like coded American transmissions, so send no more open radio messages. Any further communications will be via coded CW, understood?”
“Understood,” Sato replied. Grinning, his radioman patted the codebook the fools had left on the ship when they abandoned it, obviously expecting the ship to sink, or if it didn’t, no one would ever make use of it. Evidently, they were more concerned about that now. “I’ll put my radioman back on,” Sato said. “Please instruct him on what frequency you wish to use, and tell us where to find you!”
Okada handed the transmitter back to the radioman and stood back while the man finished the conversation. A few minutes later, the code-groups began coming in. A Lemurian striker versed in Japanese started transcribing what the radioman wrote, the codebook in one hand, a pencil in the other.
“They did not give their exact position, Lord,” the ’Cat announced a short while later. “They merely ordered us to steam for Sapporo. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” Okada said grimly, picturing the geography in his mind. “I would wager that is where they have made their base, for now. Ishikari-Wan should make a good, deep anchorage, even here. I suspect it will be cold, my friends, but they made no mention of ice. That is a relief.”
“How long until we reach that place?” the Lemurian striker asked.
“A week, at this pace. Perhaps a bit longer. We’ll have them anxious to see us! In the meantime, we will prepare.”
A Cave Somewhere in the Holy Dominion
Lieutenant Fred Reynolds tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut by some thick, rough, gooey substance. He couldn’t wipe them with his hands because they were roughly bound behind his back, so he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear them. It did little good. He could see a little, not that much was visible in the damp gloom of his underground “cell.” Torches guttered meagerly in a passage beyond the iron bars that isolated his little alcove from the cavern beyond, and occasionally, he heard what sounded like distant, echoing voices.
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.
“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
