“Not anymore,” the former aviator continued. “But from a practical standpoint…” he looked at the crowd beyond the barrier. “Since… it was placed on display and some have grown accustomed to it, there may be unrest if it’s destroyed. Besides, the Empire is allied to creatures like it. Having it captive here, for God’s soldiers to see in its vulnerability, may reduce the shock or even fear of meeting them in battle.”
Don Hernan’s eyebrow rose. “Most interesting. I had not even considered that.” He appraised Fred for a long moment. “I believe you are sincere.” His tone sounded surprised. “The Cleanser said you had embraced the faith with unusual earnestness, but I was skeptical at first. Since then, you have unstintingly assisted with our project to build our own flying machines, and held nothing back that I could see. It is rare enough for the heretic to gain true salvation, but to then go forward and strive so hard to perform God’s work… I am proud of you, my son!”
“Thank you, Your Holiness. I am yours and His to command.”
“And yet you still think!” Don Hernan enthused. “Very well. We will preserve this specimen until the enemies of God are destroyed; then we shall wipe it away along with all vestiges of this infantile predisposition of some of our flock to cling to ancient habits and associations!” He sighed and glanced at the sky. “With the death of this creature, even this silly festival will pass away at last! Come, my son. Let us go to the temple. It is almost time to pray-and I think you may be ready to be presented to His Supreme Holiness at last!”
Don Hernan and what had been Fred Reynolds quickly retreated, and the armed cordon closed and vanished behind them. Kari was still too stunned to speak, and even though she wanted to scream and bash through the iron bars with her bare hands, all she could do was crouch there, numb. She was stung and hurt, but mostly she felt a welling rage. Not at Fred or what she knew would be her ultimate fate, but toward the monsters that had already destroyed her friend.
“Oh, Fred!” she keened to herself.
“So you do speak,” came an English voice with no accent she could place, and she almost jumped out of her skin. The crowd had reverted to what it had been before, but one man, more bedraggled and disheveled than most, peered in at her like the urchins of the city often did. He had dark hair and dark skin like the multitude around him, but it was he who’d spoken, and he held her gaze-which was more than most would do.
“Of course I speak, you dope!” she flared, and caught herself when he shushed her and looked around.
“You… your species… truly is allied with the Empire?” the man asked urgently.
“It… I am.”
“The war goes badly?”
“Not when I left it,” she quipped. “The attack against the Imperial Isles failed, and we were going to the aid of the colonies.”
“Not what they tell the masses,” the man said ironically.
“Who are you?”
“No time. I cannot linger here. Just know that you have friends, and we will do what we may for you.”
With that, the tide of humanity swept the strange man away.
CHAPTER 11
Baalkpan, Borno
March 9, 1944
Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, brightly attired in his very best shore-going rig and a fresh black eye patch, marched up the pier from the exhausted “Clipper” with a powerful, rolling gait that left his companions hard-pressed to keep up. His sea bag was balanced on one shoulder, and his Thompson hung from the other by its sling. The web belt around his waist was festooned with a bizarre variety of weapons. In addition to his beloved 1911 Colt and a pair of magazine pouches were a 1903 Springfield bayonet and a hard-used pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass. Perhaps most incongruous, a long-barreled, ornately carved flintlock pistol dangled from the belt by a long bar hook. The flight from Respite had taken almost a week, with numerous refueling, maintenance, and rest stops for the planes and pilots, and the trip had been hard on all of them but, apparently, him. He reached the dock and paused, gazing about, as if expecting a band. Many workers were present, but no fanfare awaited him and his companions.
“I swear,” he grumbled to Midshipman Stuart Brassey, who’d arrived panting beside him. Larry had matched his pace, but Lieutenant Laumer hadn’t tried to keep up. Now he joined them with a chuckle on the dock.
“What were you expecting, Silva? Ticker tape and dancing girls?”
“Maybe not for me, but ol’ Larry here deserves some notice, and so do you… sir.” He shrugged. “Anything I done to deserve praise was just me bein’ me. Mighta got me hung, in different circumstances.”
Laumer nodded thoughtfully. He admired Silva but wasn’t sure he liked him. He considered Silva a loose cannon and didn’t understand why his behavior was tolerated. He’d finally come to understand that Silva’s… talents were an asset to the war effort, however, and Captain Reddy apparently knew best how to handle the dangerous man. With that realization came another: Silva wasn’t his responsibility, nor was he really subject to Irvin Laumer’s command or discipline. Once that was clear, he no longer felt like he was neglecting his duty by not trying to enforce discipline on a man he was actually, well, maybe a little afraid of. He remained convinced that Silva set a bad example-but, somehow, with very few exceptions, nobody ever followed his example… or at least they never lived to do it twice. Ultimately, the big man probably wasn’t as corrosive to discipline as Irvin originally thought, and he was good at what he did. He could accept that.
“Might still get you hung, if what I hear is true. Did you really go AWOL?”
“Not exactly,” Dennis answered absently, gazing about. “I hate what they’ve done with the place.”
“It looks like what Manila has become,” Laumer agreed. “It’s necessary, though, if we’re going to win.”
“Used to be so pretty,” Silva sniffed. “Now it’s all noise an’ smoke an’ marchin’ troops. Stinks too. Looks better than it did after the big battle, I guess, but now it’s like… Mare Island, the Palms, and Shanghai all wadded up.” He slowly grinned. “Which could maybe be a good thing!”
“Well,” Laumer said, “you’re not my problem, beyond making sure you report to Mr. Sandison. I’m supposed to report to Mr. Brister at the War Room in the great hall… I guess.”
“May I accompany you, sir?” Stuart asked. “I suppose I must report to Mr. Cook, but I’ve no idea where he may be.”
“What a’out Lawrence?” the Sa’aaran asked.
“Guess it never occurred to anybody to peel you offa me, Larry.”
Silva’s statement was punctuated by a high-pitched shriek of delight, and he turned his head just in time to tense before a short but muscle-heavy missile impacted his chest and wrapped its arms around him.
“Sil-vaa!” squealed Risa-Sab-At, hugging him almost painfully, but not-thankfully-licking his face this time. “You got here early,” she scolded fondly. “We had to scamper to meet you!”
“We had a tailwind,” Silva defended, pecking Risa’s furry head between her ears. He looked at Laumer. “So there woulda’ been a parade after all if that air ’Cat hadn’t been heapin’ on the coal so!”
Risa laughed. “No paa-rade, you dope, but plenty of happy people!” She released him and slid to the ground, grinning hugely up at him and blinking with glee. “I’m so glad you are home-and safe! You always scare poor Risa with your stunts!”
“Well, as you know yerself, the hee-roin’ bid’ness don’t always respect a fella’s priorities.” He gestured at the city beyond the growing, laughing crowd, and his gaze caught Laumer’s… priceless expression, likely the result of the exuberant greeting.
“I heard you’d be here,” Dennis resumed, “buildin’ yer own regiment! We prob’ly shouldn’t carry on so in front of the children. Besides, you’re a officer now! I oughta salute ya!”
“You never were in my chain of command!” Risa retorted archly. “Speakin’ of commands, though, how’s that silly brother of mine?”