Iron Gray Sea

CHAPTER 7

Zanzibar

Sovereign Nest of the Jaaph Hunters

General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa, former captain of the lost Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser Amagi, almost chortled with glee as his new personal yacht, the double-ended paddle steamer Tatsuta, backed her paddles and crept up to the dock. He knew General Esshk was wildly jealous of the vessel. But, then, General Esshk is in a poor position to complain just now. Isn’t he? Kurokawa thought with smug amusement. Esshk had hitched his fortunes to a waning star, and after the catastrophic losses in airships during the recent raid on the enemy fleet and bases, all in a desperate gamble to save Regent Tsalka’s precious Ceylon, Esshk’s “star,” had been slowly, painfully snuffed.

A quick, high-pitched giggle did escape then. An irony was that Ceylon had already fallen by the time Tsalka’s mission took place, but Tsalka had promised his life in exchange for the stupid, wasteful attempt to salvage his regency, and Kurokawa had “sadly insisted” that he must pay his own set price for failure. He’d argued vigorously against the gesture, as he’d described it. The airships should have been held back until they could accompany his new Grand Fleet into battle, thereby ensuring complete and total victory. Tsalka’s selfish insistence was what cost so many machines, trained crews, and time to replace them. For that, if for no other reason, he had to be held to his pledge! Now Tsalka was dead-having wagered against the Traitor’s Death! — and with him had vanished yet another obstacle to Kurokawa’s ultimate scheme.

Another giggle escaped compressed lips when the image of a naked Tsalka, teeth smashed, claws ripped out, convulsing against his bonds-and shrieking in wild, animalistic terror and agony while dozens of famished hatchlings fed on his living body-floated behind Kurokawa’s eyes once more. He’d maintained a somber demeanor at the time, which cast a pall on his enjoyment of the proceedings. It wouldn’t do for his allies at the court of the Celestial Mother to recognize his deep pleasure. Even the Chooser would have been horrified. Instead, he’d been forced to assume a mask of regret that accompanied his sad insistence that Tsalka’s debt be paid.

First General Esshk had actually been shocked by Kurokawa’s attitude, as if he’d expected something resembling loyalty from him! How ridiculous! All along, Kurokawa had been nothing but a tool for Tsalka and Esshk, and they’d shown no loyalty to him! Did they think they were friends? They’d become his tools now, and the expenditure of Tsalka was a first, necessary step toward achieving his goals, for a change.

Perhaps the greatest irony of all was that though Ceylon was lost, the air raid had actually accomplished far more than Kurokawa ever dreamed. An enemy aircraft carrier was destroyed-and not every airship was lost after all. Some had survived, and a pair of bases had been established in India that more and more airships could make use of as they were completed. They now also had reasonably quick communications with the garrison there, under Halik and Niwa’s command. At least once a week, airships came and went bearing messages, fuel, weapons, and priceless reconnaissance intelligence. For the first time, Kurokawa knew what his fleet would face.

The American-Lemurian Alliance had been busy indeed! The quality of the enemy aircraft-and their carriers! — had come as a particular surprise, and he’d instructed that certain modifications be made to his capital ships accordingly. He’d long been a member of the conservative, battleship school, and though he’d come to respect the role of aircraft at sea, he still believed he could sweep the waves of the comparatively puny Allied fleet once he came to grips with it. Regardless of their ingenuity, the frail Allied aircraft couldn’t possibly threaten Hisashi Kurokawa ’s battleships! Besides, he had geniuses of his own, now.

He was in a very good mood, and he smiled with real benevolence while Japanese crewmen tossed lines to Japanese sailors and steam rushed skyward from the tall, thin funnel behind the pilothouse. Kurokawa had a dozen Grik guards that attended him at all times, even to this place, but by the grateful order of the Celestial Mother herself, the entire island of Zanzibar had been set aside as a Japanese preserve-a temporary homeland for the 350-odd remaining survivors of Amagi. Kurokawa considered the acquisition of his own “Regency” a major coup for a variety of reasons, and a sure sign that his grand scheme to insinuate himself irreplaceably within the upper echelons of Grik society was bearing fruit.

Incidentally, Kurokawa began to realize that by securing that boon, he’d also secured a new, burgeoning, and strikingly real loyalty from his own countrymen at last. It was fortuitous, because as his schemes moved forward, he needed that loyalty more desperately than ever. It rankled that he’d been forced to essentially bribe his men for what should have been his natural due, but amazingly, this small thing he’d done-for them, they thought-had worked wonders. He’d never been more respected, actually appreciated, before. It was maddening, but he would accept their loyalty on whatever terms now, as long as it was real. Living with and dealing with the Grik for so long had forced a measure of… pragmatism upon him, a realization that every so often, he must make unpleasant compromises, at least for the short term. In spite of himself, his survival had depended on his ability to become a long-term thinker, to plan far ahead, and it had not been easy.

Less than a third of his men were ever on Zanzibar at any given time. Most were employed in the Grik war industry, designing and overseeing the construction of the tools of battle. Those not critical to their posts were allowed “liberty” on a rotating basis and shipped from the hellish Grik factories and industries where they worked to this comparatively idyllic place. Though close to the equator, almost constant breezes kept the temperature refreshing, compared to the mainland jungles, and the air was fresh and clear of the stench of death and filth. It was a place where they could get away from their vile Grik “allies” for a time, enjoy the scenery that was little spoiled by the few previous Grik inhabitants-large prey could not sustain themselves there, even if imported-and try to remember what it meant to be Japanese. They worked here as well, even harder than they did for the Grik, but here they enjoyed the illusion that they were working for themselves.

Kurokawa enjoyed “vacationing” away from the Grik as well, but the most important thing, from his perspective, was that he finally had a base secure from Grik interference, where he and his countrymen could gather and discuss their own plans and work on Kurokawa’s own projects. He had secretly collected certain-he believed-trustworthy notables who had distinguished themselves through their technical efforts on his behalf. Men who finally seemed to understand that what reflected well on Kurokawa benefited them. Other pragmatists, at least, if not patriots. Men unswervingly hitched to his rising star. They would be his captains in the heady times to come. They were fully versed in those aspects of his scheme that had brought them this far, but no one knew its ultimate, audacious scope. Today, he would share with them, and as many of his department heads, trusted technicians, and upper-level advisors to the Grik who could reasonably get away, a further portion of his strategy. It was a thing that had been growing and maturing in his mind like a perfect flower for over a year, but it would never do to reveal it all. Not yet.

For now, he would tell them only what they needed to know to get him to the next level. Once there, it would be time to reveal at last that his ultimate goal was not merely to continue to rise as a respected figure at the Celestial Mother’s court, but to rule the entire Grik Empire-on behalf of Emperor Hirohito, of course. He and his loyal captains would rule the world! The other remnants of his own people-once treacherous, but benevolently forgiven-would bask in the radiance of his glory! They would reap the benefits of his achievement-and owe it all to him!

He smiled again. Today there was much to do and plan, and he had left his provisioning fleet across the channel at the premier Grik naval base to preside over a meeting he’d set several weeks before, time enough for all the men he needed to find reasons to attend. He could hardly wait. Soon would begin the final campaign to destroy the hated Americans, their Lemurian lackeys, and the Grik he hated most of all.

A young signals lieutenant met him on the dock with an honor guard. Kurokawa’s Grik protectors were gently but forcefully led aside and fed. They were used to that here, and made no complaints. The lieutenant led him past a large steam-generator building that provided power for their own, apparently modest repair facilities. Other generators and engines, beyond the view of unexpected guests, powered more ambitious enterprises. From a distance, their smoke resembled only a humid haze. They passed a cluster of long, thatched-roof barracks, supported on high pilings in the Lemurian way, and continued on to a slightly smaller but more traditionally constructed building. The honor guard was more than ceremonial, and was armed with some of the few Arisaka Type 38 6.5 mm rifles they’d managed to carry away when Amagi went down. In addition to countless colorful flying reptiles that fed on an even more numberless variety of insects resembling butterflies, there were some fairly small but surprisingly dangerous creatures on Zanzibar.

The building had gun port-like shutters, all raised to allow the breeze to circulate inside, and he heard murmuring within as he approached. All went silent when he stepped on the porch, and an enlisted servant quickly opened the door, then knelt and briskly wiped the dust from his finely crafted boots. Kurokawa ignored the man but waited until he was finished, then strode through the door. The dozen occupants rocketed to instant, rigid attention, staring straight ahead at other men arranged around the conference table. His eyes swept around the long room, inventorying the faces he saw, tight-lipped, intense, some wearing beads of sweat. He continued on to the far side of the room, walking slowly, enjoying the respect. Finally, he halted and turned beside a chair.

“Be seated,” he barked. Only once he began his descent did the others comply. “Everyone seems to be here,” he said, again counting the faces around the table. “This trip may have been… inconvenient for some of you-it certainly was for me-but some of what we must discuss is rather sensitive. We cannot risk writing any of it down, even in Japanese. We had traitors once, and the Grik may have subverted others.” He let that sink in, then proceeded. “I would like to begin by taking direct reports of your activities. Spare me nothing. I know much of what many of you do is for the Grik, but that may not always be the case. I must know exactly what is available for the coming campaign so I will know what I may use and what I may choose to… reserve.” A few eyes flicked at him before resuming their forward stares.

“General of the Sky Muriname?”

Hideki Muriname was a small man, a pilot of the old Type 95 floatplane they’d used to bomb Baalkpan. The aircraft- Amagi’ s last-had been damaged in the raid, and though it was maintained and preserved-on Zanzibar now-he had always claimed it could not be made airworthy for any serious operations. When Esshk had asked about it, Kurokawa reported that its structural integrity had been compromised, and without aluminum to repair it and spare parts for the engine, it remained only a model for their own designs. Esshk finally accepted that, and for a long time only Muriname and Kurokawa knew their report was a lie. They did use it as a model; its structural-assembly techniques helped them design the framework for the great dirigibles that currently constituted the backbone of Grik aviation. Its gauges and instruments provided patterns for more. But here on Zanzibar, they also copied its wing shapes, and even its engine.

“Ca… General of the Sea, aside from our… projects here, we continue to build airships and train crews. As you know, I kept only a few machines back from the raid, for training purposes, but since all were not lost after all, I have the benefit of observations made by some veterans of that attack. There are a number of… difficulties and unforeseen characteristics apparently unique to airship operations. I had no previous experience with the machines myself, so did not know to prepare my aircrews for them.”

“ Your aircrews?”

Muriname gulped. “So I have come to… encourage them to consider themselves, sir. I apologize…”

“No, no, General. Do not apologize for that. I sometimes promote a similar perception of… mutual reliance myself. Most interesting. Tell me, do these flying Grik return any of the… dedication you show them? I have made a study of the phenomenon, you see.”

“I… I believe they do, to a degree.”

“ Most interesting,” Kurokawa murmured. “That may be of use someday.” He shook his head slightly and his eyes narrowed. “But perhaps you go too far.”

“Sir?”

“The emblem, the insignia you paint on your machines, is a perversion of our own sacred flag. What is the meaning of that?”

Muriname had wondered how long it would take for Kurokawa to bring that up. The insignia in question was a representation of the Rising Sun flag, cradled by stylized images of the sickle-shaped Grik sword. The swords-and fewer rays-were the only deviation. “Sir, with my utmost respect to you and our glorious flag, the aircrews are all Grik, and the minor adjustment to the flag… pleased them beyond my expectations. Sir,” he added earnestly, “I can see no disadvantage. Symbols are important things, and the more closely they associate themselves with ours, the more closely they will be bound to us…”

Kurokawa stared away. It was genius, of course, and he’d never even considered it. He must immediately supply his fleet with similar flags. He doubted Esshk or even the Celestial Mother would care. All the inclusive Grik banners of the Celestial House that represented all the Grik were simply red. Sometimes the shapes varied, but it was the color that mattered. Even if anyone noticed, or possibly objected, he would merely excuse it as a design meant to signify that they were all in this together. It was red, after all. In the meantime, the Imperial flag-his flag-would increasingly be associated with unity and authority. He suppressed a smile and looked impatiently back at Muriname.

“You may continue the practice, but you will seek my permission for such things in the future. So. What ‘unforeseen characteristics’ did you neglect?”

“Of course, sir. Ah, most egregiously, though I cautioned them to compensate for the release of their bombs, even I did not expect just how radically and catastrophically the airships would lunge skyward when the full weight was dropped. Some particularly bright, quick-thinking crews managed to stabilize their craft through procedures that have become part of the training curriculum, but quite a few were lost due to that… miscalculation on my part.”

Kurokawa stared at the almost-cringing man who’d demonstrated such brilliant initiative, then not only admitted a failure, but took responsibility for it! His initiative required greater control, and he would have to be punished for his mistake, of course, but not too severely-this time. Kurokawa needed men who could think and learn from their mistakes. He’d talked the Grik out of destroying all their own warriors who turned prey, after all. Even if only a few recovered, it was wasteful of those few. He would have to guard against men like Muriname thinking too much, however. He sensed danger down that path.

“This is a serious matter, and I will deal with you later. But the problem is solved?”

“It is.”

“And production?”

“Still improving. The techniques have reached a perfection of simplicity similar to what you have seen in the conventional shipyards, and since the labor is not as intense, the attrition of trained workers is lower.”

“Excellent. How soon will you replace what we lost?”

“In merely a month and a half, we have already replaced over a third. As efficiency continues to improve, I expect to be back where we started, with one hundred airships and even better-trained crews, within another month.”

“Hmm. And how will they protect themselves from enemy aircraft?”

“For now, imperfectly. As you directed, all efforts toward modern small arms go toward equipping our own people here.” He quickly glanced at another man named Riku, with a brooding mouth and wispy mustache, who was head of Ordnance for the Grik, but covertly served in that same capacity for Kurokawa. “But I understand the production of the matchlocks is quite simple and proceeding at a rapid pace. We will arm the airships with them, as well as with light swivel cannon that can fire blasts of lead balls. It is… dangerous, of course-with only hydrogen for a lifting gas-but the best we can do at present.”

“Very well. They will have some protection, then. I do not wish to give those creatures any technology beyond what we already have. You must make do.” He paused. “And what of the ‘new’ bombs?”

Muriname grimaced in spite of himself. “I presume Commander Riku has prepared a presentation on the more… specialized weapons we are making here, but as far as the new bombs we have made available to the Grik, training in their use is the most difficult challenge. The design and construction is fairly simple; resources are abundant. They are also light enough that they do not tax the payload of the airships. They are tragically wasteful,” he interjected with an almost bitter tone that Kurokawa let pass. “But they work well enough. I… have tested one myself.”

Kurokawa raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Very well. You will stand ready to deploy your forces with whatever ordnance we have made available to the Grik at the appropriate time.”

“Yes, General of the Sea.”

Kurokawa looked at another man, bigger than Muriname. “Speaking of technology we will not share with the Grik, have there been any… further developments in your department, Signal Lieutenant Fukui?”

“No, ah, General of the Sea. Not since those few”-he looked around-“odd transmissions.”

One of the things they’d never revealed to the Grik was the existence of radio or any kind of remote communication. The Grik used horns operated by a bellows, and sometimes a crude form of semaphore. Kurokawa was content to let them remain ignorant. Fukui’s department had the still-operable radio from the grounded plane, and they’d produced other crude sets like they knew the Americans had done, but they could no longer eavesdrop on enemy communications because they knew they’d been burned once and always used codegroups now. Those in Fukui’s department led profoundly boring lives, sequestered from any possible contact with the Grik, and constantly listening for stray, unguarded transmissions from the Allies-or anyone else who might be out there. They never transmitted anything themselves.

Then, a couple of weeks before, they’d picked up-on the radio-a very weak voice transmission! Shortly after, there was another transmission from what sounded like a different source. The problem was, neither message sounded like English, but they didn’t think it was Japanese either. They just couldn’t tell. They considered the possibility it might have been Lemurians speaking, but whatever language the voices used, they sounded like human tones. It was a mystery.

“Hmm,” Kurokawa said thoughtfully, drumming the table with his fingers. “Keep listening,” he commanded.

Almost as an afterthought, he cocked his head and regarded Fukui. “I wonder if it might have been Miyata. Perhaps he reached the southern hunters at last, and they had some means of communication?”

Young Lieutenant Toryu Miyata had been on an expedition south to the cape of Africa, to contact some obscure, probably human “hunters” the Grik knew resided there. The Grik considered the region too cold and uninviting to conquer, especially while locked in an unprecedented battle for survival. General Esshk had sent Miyata and two other men, along with a Grik escort to make the Offer to the southerners to join the Great Hunt. This had never been done before, making the Offer without first testing the foe, but these were extraordinary times. The choice Miyata was to convey was basically “Join or die,” and Esshk told Miyata to stress that regardless how busy the Grik might be elsewhere, they could easily spare the meager force it would require to crush the people in the south.

Kurokawa had not been pleased by Esshk’s summary order, not that he cared anything for Miyata and the others, but at the time, he was in no position to refuse. Yet another slight that Esshk will one day regret! he promised himself.

“I… cannot say, General of the Sea,” Fukui answered his question.

Kurokawa shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “It is of no consequence at present, but do get word to me, however you must, if you hear the voices again and are able to make sense of them.”

“Of course, General of the Sea.”

The conference continued into the early afternoon, while Kurokawa listened to reports, made comments, and occasionally harangued the speakers, but with only a shadow of his old venom. As much as it sickened him, he knew he needed to coddle these men for now, and in dealing so long with the Grik, he’d learned to hide his true thoughts well. At last, he stood abruptly, quickly followed by the other men.

“Soon,” he said, “within days, the Great Fleet we have built for the Grik vermin will move at last, and I- we! — will crush the enemy that invests India! It is the same enemy, my people, who brought us to this world and marooned us here! Again we will face the Americans, our natural enemy, and the Grik will face theirs: the Americans’ ape-man lackeys! In that, if nothing else, we share a common cause! It is still the Americans-and now their puppets too-who stand between us and our destiny. And only by destroying them utterly shall we achieve it!”