Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(111)
“Of course. We pursue prey across the world until it is all our own. When that day comes and all prey are vanquished at last, the Vanished Gods will return and smile upon us. A new time, like that which was lost, will begin.”
“Yes. Well. Occasionally, in the course of the hunt, we encounter prey that hunts us in return. Worthy prey, but also hunters in their own right. They seek to deny us our destiny and must be destroyed. Such contests between more equal hunters are called wars. So in that sense, yes, what you see is a natural thing, just as is the fire that spouts from the earth.”
She waved at the burning city. “And such as they have poured fire upon us?”
“Yes. They have been . . . most obstinate.”
“Will they not join the hunt? Tie their destiny to ours?”
“No, Giver of Life.” Now wasn’t the time for a history lesson, to describe why this particular prey would never do that, why such things had never really worked. “They seek to destroy us entirely.”
“But . . .” The young Celestial Mother rapidly licked her bright, fresh teeth. “You will not let them?”
“Never fear. I will personally lead your Final Swarm to bring them down.”
CHAPTER 17
////// USS Donaghey (DD-2)
Mid-Atlantic
November 20, 1944
“Goddamn snakes are everywhere!” Lieutenant (jg) Wendel “Smitty” Smith snapped with a grimace and a noticeable quaver in his voice as his shore party clambered up the ship’s side and reported to Captain Garrett. Donaghey and Matarife had enjoyed fine weather for another week and a half, pleasantly slanting northwest while they repaired the damage they’d inflicted on each other, but the southern edge of a fierce tropical storm finally caught them. It sped them along amazingly for a while, but eventually hammered them severely in exchange. Matarife’s foremast survived, though not without some very concerning sounds and a tendency to lean alarmingly with the wind. Only the heavy hawsers they’d rigged had saved it, and possibly the ship. She’d labored particularly hard as well, opening seams in her bow and stern, both of which had taken a beating in the fight. As she took on water, she worked ever harder and Lieutenant Mak was finally forced to set his prisoners pumping to relieve his exhausted crew. To his surprise, they’d been happy to help in spite of their fear of their captors. Then again, they’d been locked in the hold up to that point—with an immediate appreciation of the amount of water the ship was making, and the peril they were in—and were anxious to lend a hand to save themselves.
When the storm swept past and the two ships came within hailing distance, Greg decided they must stop and make more concerted repairs if they didn’t want to abandon their prize. Raising an active, smoky Martinique Island with a clear dawn, they’d approached the eastern shore with care. In their world, Martinique had been French, and it was possible the League had already occupied it. There’d been no sign of anyone as they approached, however, and all they saw as they entered a picturesque bay on the northeast coast and dropped anchor at last was a jagged, mountainous isle covered in dense forest. Two of the mountains sullenly smoldered, but there was no recent evidence of more boisterous behavior.
“God, I hate snakes,” Smitty continued. “I was raised in Baltimore and never even saw one from then till now, an’ they still give me the willies. Must’ve seen too many jungle pictures an’ Westerns I guess. Always bitin’ somebody or squeezin’ ’em to death. Anyway”—he nodded at the shore a hundred yards away—“they’re thick as maggots workin’ in meat over there!” Greg Garrett could sympathize with Smitty’s discomfort. He’d seen snakes, big timber rattlers, and didn’t like them any more than his gunnery officer. And there hadn’t been any to speak of within the Malay barrier, or almost anywhere else they’d been. Too many things on this world would gulp a snake like a worm.
“An’ lizards!” Bosun Jenaar-Laan added emphatically, blinking yellow-green eyes. “Big as skuggiks, but with haands, an’ runnin’ on two legs. They look laak little spiky-back Griks, with scaly fish bodies.” He grinned at Smitty. “Least they eat the snakes. I seen one snaatch up a snake an’ eat it, even while gettin’ bit.”
“Immune to the poison,” Surgeon Sori said with interest, having joined them with so many others, anxious to hear what lay onshore. “Or the scales protect them.”
“You saw nothing else?” Greg asked. “No sign that anyone might be around?”
“Nothin’, Skipper,” Smitty confirmed. “No fire pits or chafing marks on trees near shore where a boat might’ve tied up. Not even a beer can. I bet the snakes keep ’em away,” he added significantly.
“Or the smoking mountains,” Sori speculated. There were a lot of those, with a long history of violent activity, where he came from. The worst recent example had been Talaud Island, but several volcanoes on Jaava and Sumatra always seemed on the verge of “pulling a Talaud.” “We know the Doms an’ new Amer-i-caans sail this far.”
“As has the Republic,” Leutnant Koor-Susk defended, though it had been forty years or more since any of his people came here. The final known visit was made by a swift little topsail schooner, exploring beyond St. Helena. No one knew if she’d run into Doms, a NUS ship, or someone else, but whoever it was had fired on her, probably to induce her to heave to. She ran instead, easily leaving her lumbering pursuer in her wake. No one had returned since—till now—and all depictions of shores beyond the easternmost windward isles of the Caribbean were based on charts older than memory, or brought to the Republic by SMS Amerika.