“Fire!” Chack yelled. The booming volley echoed down the rubble- strewn avenue and men fell, or clutched themselves, screaming. Others bored in. In the flashes, Chack saw the uniforms of these men and recognized them as “Blood Drinkers,” the elite, special force of the Dom Army, commanded by their “Blood Cardinals” and sworn to their twisted “pope.” They wouldn’t ask for quarter. “Bayonets!” Chack yelled. “At them!” He lunged forward himself, his old Krag lowered. His hatred for the “Blood Drinkers” rivaled his hatred for the Grik. Even badly outnumbered, this group of Doms sold hack yell lives dearly, but none were left for Chack to kill when he reached the melee.
Blas grabbed him from behind. “Quit that!” she seethed forcefully. “You get killed, who’ll take over here? Not me! Our guys would be okay, but you think these Im-pees do what I say?” She snorted. “Not god-daamn likely! I’m just a dame to them, a forrin ‘ape’ dame to some! We still win this fight if you’re dead?”
Chack almost laughed at the little female shaking him by the arm-then remembered a time when she’d been shaking, under entirely different circumstances. She’d been through a lot and come a long way. And she was right. Suddenly, as often happened in the midst of battle, he thought of his love, Safir Maraan, impossibly distant. She wouldn’t be holding him back; he’d be trying to restrain her -but that was what kept them balanced. She’d been born to this, but he’d come to it late and without her influence, or more properly his need to influence her, he chased it like an addict. He suddenly missed her so intensely, he felt almost ill.
“I… will try to refrain from impulsive acts, in future, that might leave you with the burden of command,” he said.
“Daamn well better,” Blas muttered, blinking rapidly as she released him and turned away.
“Females,” Chack grunted. “All right,” he said, raising his voice. “Wounded to the rear. The rest of you, let’s move up to that next street crossing. Major Jindal may be about to give us more business; I hear firing from his direction!”
“That’s not Jindal!” came the voice of a Marine on a rooftop. “That’s one o’ yer bloody flyin’ machines! There’s a dragon latched onto it, an’ it’s comin’ down! Somebody’s shootin’ one o’ them fast shooters at it!”
Almost at that instant, the plane staggered overhead, aiming for a bayside park a few blocks over. A grotesque, winged shape was plummeting away from it, but another was underneath, clutching its tail.
“Continue the push,” Chack said. “I’ll rejoin you shortly. If any still live when that craft comes to rest, I must hear their news and observations at once! Anyone who questions Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s orders will regret it! Half a dozen volunteers, with me!” He looked at Blas, and his eyes and tail flashed irony, confidence, and fondness simultaneously in the pulsing lights of the citywide battle. In an instant, he raced off in the direction the “Nancy” disappeared, followed by a mixed group.
“Hold up!” cried a ’Cat in the “point” position of the squad, flinging himself against a plastered corner as white, dusty chunks erupted around him. He slammed back against the wall as several more musket balls whizzed past. “A dozen-red on coat fronts; more ‘bloody boys,’ work their way to plane!” he said.
“Did you see it?”
“Ay, te plane busted up, one wing tore off-hit tree, I tink. Lizard bird still ’live, but busted up too!”
“Did all the Doms fire?” Chack demanded.
“Ah,” the point ’Cat blinked furiously. “Ay, most.”
“Then at them!” Chack yelled.
Not all the Doms had fired, and one of the two Imperials in Chack’s squad went down as they rushed the “Blood Drinkers” with the disconcerting Lemurian battle shriek Pete Alden had once compared to a “Rebel yell.” Almost on top of the frantically reloading Doms, they all planed their feet and fired directly into them, then leaped forward with their bayonets. The elite troops almost never surrendered, but these never even had a chance to decide. All were killed while either still doggedly reloading, or reaching for bayonets. Chack twisted his Krag and dragged his own sixteen-inch steel from the chest of a writhing man and snapped his gaze toward the wrecked plane, when a mournful, hissing wail caught his attention. The lizard bird had been flung against some other trees beside a nearby circle of benches in this apparent “park” area, and it was quickly stumping back toward the smoking wreckage, dragging a shattered wing and leg. It used its other folded wing like a foreleg, though, and its progress was surprisingly swift. In an instant, it was be- tween them and the broken “Nancy,” its jaws agape, protecting its “prize.”
This was Chack’s and his squad’s first real look at one of the things, and it did look shockingly like a big Grik, with thicker, oddly colored plumage-and, of course, wings instead of arms. Chack’s squad was furiously loading its muskets, and the thing, seemingly convinced they didn’t mean to challenge it, turned its attention back to the plane. Chack opened the bolt of his Krag enough to ensure there was a round in the chamber, and raised it to his shoulder. Just as the beast peered into the rear opening in the fuselage, where the observer sat, a rapid burst of yellow-orange flashes tat-tat-tat ted from within, and the “flying Grik” collapsed backward, flailing and flopping with a spastic energy that only lifeless creatures seemed capable of. Chack lowered the Krag and sprinted for the plane. “Two with me!” he shouted. “The rest of you, keep a careful watch! Others will have seen the crash!”
Reaching the warped, wingless wreckage, he saw a practically shaven head, followed by a pair of massive shoulders, a Thomson SMG, and then mighty arms pried themselves through the relatively small oval opening like a brontasarry emerging from an improbably tiny egg. The head swiveled, exposing a blond beard and black eye patch. A good eye focused on Chack, and the brow above it arched.
“Goddamn snakey-bird bastards!” Dennis Silva grumbled. “ This ain’t my fault!”
“Dennis!” Chack was utterly stunned. He’d heard of Silva’s recent exploits, but the last time he’d seen his friend was before the “Second Allied Expeditionary Force” left to secure Aryaal and B’mbaado, and finally invaded Singapore. That force was now collectively referred to as “First Fleet,” and so much had happened since…
“It’s me in the battered flesh, Chackie! Are you gonna stand there starin’ and chewin’ yer cud, or help me outta this junk heap before I have a hydrophobic fit?”
Except for a few ugly cuts, Silva emerged relatively unharmed. Quickly, they practically tore the plane off Lieutenant Reddy. The man was unconscious but alive, and they carried him to a group of trees and laid him on the grass. Lawrence was banged up, but not too badly. They’d found him in the nose of the plane, under its pilot, where he’d tumbled during the crash. He limped a little from smashing the control stick and rudder pedals with his hip, but he quickly busied himself removing their weapons from the wreckage.
“What about the wireless set?” Silva demanded loudly, checking Orrin’s pulse.
“It’s ’usted,” Lawrence cried back, his voice muffled. “You ’recked it’ith your idiot ass!” Despite his aches, Lawrence was very happy to be on the ground, in one piece.
“Okay… burn the wreck. Don’t want the Doms getting a good loot it!”
“Ay, ay, General Sil’a!” Lawrence retorted.
“Our little lizard is growing up,” Chack said fondly. He was surprised how glad he was to see them both. He stooped. “This is the ‘Reddy Cousin’ the reports mentioned?” he asked, looking down at the unconscious man. “Doesn’t look like him… to me.”
“Me neither,” Silva said. “Not much. But he’s a good’un-in different ways. We need to take care of him.”
“Of course. The area behind us is mostly secure now. Take these troops and escort him back to the harbor. You will meet Imperial Marines and possibly shore parties from Salaama-Na. ”
“Nope,” Silva said as the ruined “Nancy” began to burn and Lawrence limp-trotted back with weapons on his shoulders-and a long object in his hands.