Taylor Anderson: Rising Tides

He paused a moment, peering into the immense basin. The labor underway down there was of another sort entirely, utilizing completely different materials and techniques. It was also, of necessity, using a lot of his own men. They were the overseers in this case, each with a team of translators and runners, but as miserable as the working conditions were on the expanding plain above, it was pure hell down in “the Hole.” Some of his precious men had actually died just from the heat! He didn’t consider them “precious” for their own sakes. As far as he was concerned, most were traitors. If that were not the case, he would still have the mighty battle cruiser Amagi at his disposal. They had failed in their duty to him and the emperor by allowing her destruction at the pathetic hands of-

He forcibly calmed himself, taking deep, flared-nostril breaths. He’d begun to realize that his tantrums accomplished little. They terrified and intimidated his men but had no effect on the Grik. Besides, he always felt drained after they ultimately ran their course. Better to hold the hatred in, let it help fuel him. In any event, what made the treachery of those who died of something as ridiculous as heat even more egregious was that Amagi ’s survivors were “precious” only as an irreplaceable resource. Their value was reckoned in respect to what they knew, by what they could do for him to elevate his prestige and secure his position. There were too few of them left as it was, and after the last “culling” following their defeat at Baalkpan, he had fewer than four hundred. He needed to use them sparingly, but he did need some for this… and other ambitious programs. He grimaced and resumed his leg-slapping stroll.

Another man carefully paced Kurokawa, trying to stay just slightly behind but close enough to hear any possible word that might pass his true commander’s lips. He was taller, slimmer, and unlike Kurokawa, who always wore the dark blue, increasingly elaborate uniform made by the finest Grik tailors, his was white, and still genuine Imperial Navy issue. The man’s name was Orochi Niwa, and he’d recently rocketed from the rank of a lieutenant of Amagi ’s small SNLF (Special Naval Landing Force) contingent to “General of Hunters” in the army of the Grik. Regardless of his new rank and the… army… he served, he was fully aware who-literally-owned his life. He had no illusions that Kurokawa liked him or even really trusted him; Kurokawa would sacrifice him without remorse if he perceived the slightest reason or advantage. The only purpose for his exalted status was that Kurokawa knew he himself couldn’t actually be everywhere at once, and he’d instituted far too many “projects” to personally oversee. Besides that, he also wanted-needed-a Japanese presence at the war councils of the Grik where tactics were discussed. Kurokawa attended those councils dedicated to grand strategy, and his input was now much appreciated, but he readily admitted he had no real knowledge of, or interest in, land warfare. Niwa did. Niwa had also made it abundantly clear that he was wholly aware of his “place.” Regardless of his Grik position, he still served Kurokawa, and through him, the Emperor.

“I suppose we should hurry.” Kurokawa seethed, picking up the pace. “Our ‘masters,’ ” he snorted, “will be waiting.” Niwa didn’t point out that the Grik High Command had probably been waiting for the better part of an hour. He didn’t say anything at all. Together, the two men strode more briskly among the yard workers, occasionally dodging groups fixated-almost like ants-upon their tasks. Finally, after they’d left the basin and the majority of the dust and stench behind, they joined a group relaxing under the shade of a crude wooden structure, taking their ease and enjoying elaborate bowls brimming with cool liquid. Niwa politely refused an offered bowl. He had no idea what was in it, but assumed it would be something vile and repulsive.

“You are late-as always,” growled General Esshk, standing to loom above them. Esshk was the most imposing Grik Niwa had ever seen; the mere sight of him always made Niwa cringe a little, at least inwardly. Esshk was First among Generals in the Army of the Grik, and he usually dressed the part. Bronze breastplate, greaves, and cuffs, along with a scarlet cape and kilt gave the vague impression of a Roman tribune. The tufted bronze helmet he held under his massive arm completed the ensemble. A smoky black crest rose slightly atop his head as he spoke.

“I have been inspecting the work,” Kurokawa said by means of explanation, not apology.

“How does it proceed?”

“Well enough on the… traditional vessels,” he replied. “Slower than I would like on the other.”

“What is lacking?”

Kurokawa shrugged. “Heavy equipment, cranes, pneumatic riveters, a steady supply of good iron instead of the useless cast plating you continue to force upon me. Qualified yard workers most of all.”

“The cast plating is what we can do. The same iron served well enough for cannons!”

“And it will shatter the first time a shot is fired against it!” Kurokawa stated, voice rising. “I have told you what is needed and how to make it, yet still you send me the same thing. Have you learned nothing?”

Esshk seethed. He knew Kurokawa was right. He was always right about such things. He’d even seen the plating shatter when a gun was tested against it. “The Celestial Mother grows impatient,” he temporized. “We stand on the brink of losing Regent Tsalka’s domain. We have withdrawn from contested lands as you suggested, despite the. .. difficulty… but Ceylon is important!”

“And I told you we would lose it before we could take it back,” Kurokawa replied, repeating an old argument.

“But that is precisely where much of your ‘steel’ is made!” Tsalka interjected, speaking up.

Kurokawa bowed to the Regent. “Indeed. So we must hold it long enough to produce and remove as much as possible before it falls. Complete the new foundries here, and it will be a lesser loss.”

“My own realm!” Tsalka almost wailed.

“This has been decided already,” Kurokawa flatly stated. “You will get it back. In the meantime, I must have true steel, not only for this project”-he waved at the basin-“but for others. There can be no ‘flying machines’ at all, for example, without steel.”

Esshk glanced at the newly appointed General Halik. Halik had been a mere “entertainment fighter,” basically a gladiator, for many seasons and had grown quite too old for that. That was precisely the reason he’d been “elevated” and tapped as a general. He seemed to have naturally developed an instinct for defensive fighting. It would still be a year or more before the first “defensive” forces were ready to deploy, and they’d be little more than hatchlings even then, but in this new kind of hunt, this “war,” much was being accomplished on the fly. Esshk was certain their enemies had many of the same issues to contend with, but most likely some were direct opposites. As prey, they needed to learn offensive tactics, while a whole new class of Grik that was capable of defense had to be grown.

In the meantime, Halik had sponsored the elevation of other warriors in whom he recognized certain traits, and hoped they would serve as a nucleus for his new cadre of junior officers. Esshk had a sinking feeling that war as his people knew it was changing forever. Perhaps their entire society would ultimately be unrecognizable, but he would accept that if it meant his very species might ultimately survive. Some didn’t yet recognize the threat and were not particularly supportive, but he’d gained the tentative support of the Celestial Mother, and that was all that mattered. He looked at Halik. “Is there nothing you can do?”