Taylor Anderson - Rising Tides

“She just go to slee’,” Lawrence said reluctantly.

“Blame me. Tell her I made you wake her up. You’ll be amazed what you can get away with when you do that. She can’t eat me, an’ I don’t care what rank they scrape off. They’ll just make me keep doin’ the same stuff anyway. I will eat you if you don’t get her over here chop-chop!”

“Eat!” Petey chirped happily. Lawrence snarled at him and moved off into the gloom where Lelaa slept. Fairly quickly, he returned with the’Cat in tow. She seemed alert, but still exhausted.

“What is it, Mr. Silva?” She was glancing at the moon and stars to make sure they were still on course.

“Feel the water.” Dennis paused. “Hell. You can hear somethin’ now. Kinda like a freight train a long way off. And the wind’s picking up, but the waves ain’t.”

Lelaa had never seen a freight train, but the reference wasn’t lost on her. She knew it was some kind of land steamer, and she cocked her head, ears questing. Her large, bright eyes widened. “Heavens above!” she gasped. “Wake everyone this instant! Rig lifelines-long ones-on everyone! The proas should float; the wood is naturally buoyant, but many may be swept away!”

Lawrence was translating rapidly to Chinakru, and the ex-Tagranesi raised his voice in alarm, spreading the word from boat to boat. Silva was impressed by how quickly the Lemurian sea captain took unquestioned command, mere moments after being awakened.

“Keep the lanterns lit. Some may survive and we’ll be widely scattered. Take in all sail! Out paddles! Steer north… for that star!” she instructed.

“Is it a wave?” Sandra asked, drawing near with a sleepy Rebecca in tow.

Lelaa blinked rapidly. “I fear so.” She looked at Dennis. “Your primary duty is the protection of these females, is it not?”

“Ah… yeah.”

“Then get them secured! As I said, use a long line. They may become separated from the boat-or it may overturn. They must remain secured, but not lashed, do you understand?”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Lelaa looked around. The flotilla was disintegrating into confusion. Some were steering north already, but others continued on, seemingly unaware. “Mr. Silva, fire that monstrous gun of yours! Get everyone’s attention! Lives are at stake!” She faced forward. “Cap-i-taan Rajendra to the tiller!”

Nodding, Silva snatched up his beloved Doom Whomper and discharged it in the air. The growing, rushing rumble didn’t exactly mute it, but it did seem less loud than usual. Chinakru was startled by the shot, but quickly resumed his loud harangue. More boats turned. Silva slung the big musket and pouch tightly around his body, then tied lines around Sandra, Rebecca, and a just-arrived, confused Sister Audry. “Abel,” Dennis shouted, hoping the boy heard him, “you and Brassey strap in tight, but with a leader, see? Take a turn around the stoutest thing you can find!”

Finishing with Sandra and Rebecca, Silva interrupted Lelaa’s pacing and tied her down as well. She didn’t seem to notice. She was staring aft now, into the south. A groggy but almost panicky Rajendra lunged past them to the tiller, yelling for his other surviving Imperials to secure themselves as best they could, and Silva tried to make it to him with yet another line. The stern of the proa began to rise noticeably. A bewildered, terrified Petey cried out and launched himself at Rebecca, who caught him and clutched him close. Dennis couldn’t really see the wave; it was black as night, and no discernible crest rode atop it, but the angle of the sea was growing more “wrong” by the moment.

“Damn you, Rajendra,” Dennis shouted, flinging the line at the man now struggling mightily with the tiller. “Secure yourself!”

“Damn you, Mr. Silva!” Rajendra bellowed back. “Save the princess! We will resume our dispute in hell!” The stern continued its inexorable upward rise and Silva fell roughly atop Sandra and Sister Audry, who lay covering Rebecca with their bodies.

Sister Audry gasped under the weight of the impact. “Have you a line, Mr. Silva?” she demanded weakly as the proa passed thirty degrees-and kept going.

“I’ll manage!”

“Then… you may cling to me-this once-for the sake of the child! She may need you yet!”

The roar was all-consuming now, and the proa flipped onto its back. After that, there were only the terrified screams.

New Scotland Dueling Ground

“ C ease independent fire!” Lieutenant Blair bellowed hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Load and hold!”

All Dominion reserves had to be present now. The battle, since the despicable opening cannon fire against the Imperial bleachers, had raged for more than three hours, and attrition had taken a terrible toll on both sides. The troops were evenly matched in discipline and roughly so in equipment, but largely due to the Lemurian shields, now practically useless, the exchange had so far been in favor of the Imperials. Another mixed company of Marines had marched to join “Chack’s” line, delaying his plan but giving it twice the weight. No such reinforcements seemed available to the Dominion troops. Their infantry still had the advantage in numbers, but by only about two hundred men. That advantage was growing, however, because even as the Doms kept firing, the Imperial line had suddenly ceased. All became quiet there, except for the screams and the sounds of balls striking flesh.

“Battalion,” Chack yelled, his voice cracking, “prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by a bloodthirsty roar as nearly four hundred bayonet-tipped muskets were leveled at the enemy.

Seeing this, the fire from the Dominion line immediately slacked, and bloodied troops in now stained and dingy uniforms heard commands from their own officers. Some dumped powder charges on the ground.

“Battalion,” Chack roared again, “without cheering, without a sound- listen for The drums -charge bayonets!”

The block of Imperials and scattered Lemurians surged forward. Some did cheer, caught up in the moment, but not many. Sword in hand, Lieutenant Blair raced forward, pacing his men, slightly ahead. A flurry of Dominion musket shots staggered the front rank, and Blair himself spun to the ground, but somehow rose and continued on. The gap between the enemies narrowed quickly from an initial seventy yards to sixty, to fifty. Chack trotted behind the troops, surrounded by his own surviving Marines. Blas-Mar was there, bleeding from a neck wound, and Koratin was helping support her, his wild face stained with blood and gunpowder. O’Casey was beside him, a pistol in his hand and a gleam in his eye. When the loud Dom command of “Armen la bayoneta!” came, Chack didn’t even need it repeated. Just a little farther now.

“Drummers!” he shouted, when less than twenty yards separated the opposing forces, and a thunderous roll sounded around him. The block of infantry ground to a halt, spreading out quickly on the flanks. Ahead, he barely saw beyond the taller men that Blair had stopped, swaying, sword raised high.

“Take aim!” someone screamed. It might have been Blair.

“Fire!” Chack shrieked with everything he had. A single, tremendous, rippling volley slashed directly into the helpless Dominion troops, mowing them down like wave tops scattered by a Strakka wind. “Charge bayonets!” he bellowed again, and this time, the cheer was overwhelming. They slammed into the teetering Dominion troops like a spikebristling sledgehammer. Out of the corner of Chack’s eye, he saw one of his Marines advancing the Stars and Stripes, trilling like a defiant demon. The oddly similar Imperial flag went down, but was immediately snatched up by another man who seemed utterly oblivious to anything other than driving forward, flag held high. Ahead, through the slashing, stabbing bayonets, Chack saw the red banner of the enemy go down. It too rose again, but then went down to stay. A renewed roar swept through the Marines, and they drove forward even more fiercely than before.