Taylor Anderson - Iron Gray Sea

“Kari!” came an urgent, imaginary whisper from the gloom. “Kari!” the voice repeated, and she stirred. It can’t be, she thought. I am going mad. That sounded like… Fred… but that is impossible. He has already gone insane, absorbed by the evil of this terrible land. Tortured into accepting the vile faith of our captors, he has entered the service of the demon Don Hernan himself! The shock and betrayal she felt that one time he visited her had torn her soul. Fred Reynolds had become her closest friend-and he had thrown her away.

“Kari, damn it! We don’t have much time! Wake up! Snap out of it! We have to get out of here!” The lock clattered like a bell against the iron hasp.

“It is open, Lieutenant,” came another oddly familiar voice, “but I don’t know if we can get her out if she does not aid us. Perhaps she is too far gone, after all.”

“No!” the first voice insisted. It was Fred! Kari struggled to rise from the filth.

“Are you really here?” she croaked. “Is it really you? Who”-she coughed-“who is that with you?”

“We have met before, ah, Ensign Kari-Faask,” a man replied. “I told you once that you have friends, and you do. So does Mr. Reynolds. It has taken much longer to arrange this escape than we had hoped, but the time has come-and we must hurry!”

“Escape?” Kari asked, amazed.

“Yeah. C’mon, Kari. We gotta go! There’re horses waiting outside the wall that borders the plaza.”

“Horses?”

“Yeah, ah, like paalkas-sorta. They had ’em in the Empire. Remember?”

Kari started moving toward the cage door, but paused. “You were converted! Turned! You became the tool of Don Hernan!”

A black, strangely haunted chuckle sounded in the gloom. “Yeah, that’s what that sick bastard thought. I ought to be an actor! Won’t he be surprised? Listen, honey. I’ll tell you all about it later, but we have to blow this joint!”

Honey?

Suddenly, Kari could no longer resist. Nothing made sense, but Fred was here. He would sort everything out. She collapsed.

“Damn.” She heard the strange, familiar voice again as she slipped toward the darkness. “She’s passed out. We’ll have to carry her.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Fred said bitterly. “ Look at her! Those bastards!”

“You are weak yourself,” observed the voice. “Can you manage?”

“I’ll carry her on my head, if I have to,” Fred swore, “but just who are these folks that are waiting for us?”

“Never fear,” the voice replied cryptically. “They will never harm her. You, they might kill, but never her.”

Kari heard nothing more as her thoughts swirled away.

Baalkpan

April 3, 1944

The Saanga River Ferry north of Baalkpan was one of the most advanced outposts of civilization short of the very first Allied oil fields farther upriver. It was relatively new, and used primarily to transport hunters, workers, and light cargo upstream or across the river to the wild and still vaguely explored frontier. It was on the frontier in many respects, and was the only work of Lemurians or men visible on the landing hacked from the dense jungle around it. A broad, well-patrolled avenue connected it to the curing yards, processing plants, and other industries that supported the city and expanding shipyard, but those were several miles distant, and the illusion of utmost isolation prevailed.

The landing was unusually crowded today, however, as the Corps of Discovery and Diplomacy-or, as Silva irreverently called it, the Codd- prepared to set out at last. Lemurians heaved crates of supplies to the ferry from carts drawn by paalkas that squeaked nervously at the unfamiliar smells the foreign beasts didn’t know. Lawrence directed his fellow Sa’aarans-and the few “tame” Grik attached to his contingent. The Sa’aarans would serve as scouts and pickets and were combat loaded and dressed in their camouflage battle dress. The half-dozen Grik would be unarmed porters. They seemed slavishly devoted to their new masters, but they were still Grik. It was impossible to be comfortable around them, and they had sufficient natural weapons to defend themselves. Their presence on the trip was an experiment and even they seemed to realize they had something to prove. In any event, for now, everyone worked together to get the expedition underway.

“For the record,” Dennis Silva muttered to Ensign Abel Cook, as he threw a crate of ammunition for his massive new cartridge-converted Doom Stomper on his shoulder, “I think we should’ve called off this jaunt, at least for now.”

Cook looked at him. “Chairman Adar remains insistent. And besides… why?”

Dennis shrugged, and the crate on his shoulder rustled metallically. “’Cause you can’t go without me, and with the mess in the west, a fella of my… powers… why, such as me, oughta be there, savin’ General Aalden’s ass.”

Cook chuckled. “I thought you said you were out of the battle-winning business and would now allow others a share of fame. Besides, Walker will be here soon for her refit, and you should be back in time to join her when it’s complete. That was the plan, as I remember.”

Silva frowned. “Yeah, but who knows if that’s still the plan. Plans are highly overrated, if you ask me. Besides”-he lowered his voice-“why’s ever’body so mum about Walker, anyway? The scuttlebutt is she got into it with that Hoodoo-y-yamy an’ popped her bubble. Couldn’t report it herself ’cause she took some hits and lost her comm gear, but a Fil-pin DD met up with her an’ passed the word she was headin’ in to Manilly with some new holes-an’ some wounded.”

Cook shook his head. “That’s more than I have heard,” he said with a trace of concern, “and I have learned to respect this scuttlebutt phenomenon.”

Silva nodded seriously, then stiffened, looking down the road to Baalkpan. Another cart was approaching in the distance. But closer, a tall form was walking toward them. “Why, if it ain’t Gunny Horn!” he hooted as the black-bearded China Marine approached.

Horn grinned strangely as he neared, backpack and weapons slung, apparently effortlessly, over his still somewhat skinny shoulder. He’d clearly piled a lot of weight back on, but he had a way to go to match Silva’s powerful form.

“Been looking for you, you diabolical squid,” Horn said menacingly.

“An’ I been here, easy to find,” Silva challenged. Lawrence and Brassey had joined Silva, and Lawrence bristled at the hint of hostility. Who is this man? Ensign Cook was also alarmed. He was already nervous, as the expedition’s titular leader, and they hadn’t even started out yet. Now it looked like his two biggest men were about to have at each other.

Horn stopped in front of Dennis and laid his burden on the ground. “Not as easy to find as you should have been.”

Silva shrugged. “Hey, I’m a busy man! Mr. Sandison’s had me jumpin’ up and down an’ flappin’ my arms over in Ordnance, and Mr. Letts has had me figgerin’ up ever’thing we might ever need to pull this stunt. Then, once in a while, Mr. Cook needs me for somethin!”

Noticing Cook for the first time, Horn saluted the boy. “Good morning, sir!”

“Good morning, ah, Gunnery Sergeant Horn,” Cook replied.

Silva snapped his fingers. “That’s right, you two already met.” He looked at the old Lemurian sergeant Moe, who’d also stepped closer. “Been trompin’ around out in the brush, learnin’ the primordial ropes of the neighborhood. Hey! See any super lizards?”

Moe shook his head. “No super lizards,” he said. “We kill some rhino pigs, though.”

“Hmm. So Gunny Horn here really don’t know what he’s getting himself into then,” Silva said. He looked at the man. “Maybe you oughta stay here, learn how to be a Marine on this world and kill Griks. You could take up knittin’ or croquet.”