Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(74)
“Then we have not a moment to lose!” Garcia cried. “We must send couriers back to Kotopaxi at once.”
“Send six,” Blas agreed. “We can’t risk this message with less. We’ll send the rest—all of ’em—forward to scout. Straight up the path the enemy left. They should be safe enough now,” she added, blinking bitterness. “We’ll follow.”
“Why?” Garcia asked. “Shouldn’t we return the way we came? We’re almost out of ammunition. And what of our wounded?”
“We’re a lot closer to Popay-aan. Hopefully, even if the Doms learned Shin-yaa was coming, they just beat it anyway, glaad to get past him. We’ll meet him there, an’ our wounded’ll get quicker care.”
“And if that is not the case?” Sister Audry asked.
Blas shrugged. “We’re screwed.”
“What about them?” Ixtli asked, gesturing at the Blood Drinkers. “We will get no more from them than we have already learned or guessed.”
“Kill ’em, for all I care,” Blas said coldly.
“No!” Sister Audry said, glaring at Blas. “Such an act goes against God, the Maker of All Things. He will never forgive it, or you. They are our prisoners!”
Blas returned her glare with a steady gaze. “You say we do the Maker’s work, an’ I think so too. Would He forgive a useless waste of troops doin’ His work?”
Garcia looked torn. “With all my adoration, Santa Madre, Major Blas may be right. The Blood Drinkers will not surrender and we will have to disarm them by force. People will die. How many lives is that worth?”
“As many as it takes!” Sister Audry insisted. “Or have we become like them? What if mercy had been denied your people, Colonel Garcia?”
Garcia recoiled as if slapped.
“I won’t ask the Ocelomeh to fight more today, to no purpose,” Ixtli stated flatly. “They have suffered enough.”
Arano Garcia recovered himself and sighed. “Very well, Santa Madre,” he said sadly. “The Vengadores will do it. We remember the mercy and grace we received. But none of us were Blood Drinkers,” he cautioned, “so do not be disappointed if fewer than we lose subduing them are ever brought to the light.”
Sister Audry placed a hand on his shoulder, a sad smile on her face. “My dear Arano, don’t you see? Any we lose in the effort will be tragic, but not to try would be a terrible sin. And if only one is brought to God, if a hundred die to do it, it will be a victory.”
“That’s some daamn weird reckoning, you ask me,” Spook whispered in Blas’s ear.
But Blas had been strangely moved, and suddenly felt . . . ashamed. “Shut up,” she hissed back.
CHAPTER 10
////// Ostia
Republic of Real People
Southern Africa
“I don’t know how you staand it here,” grumped Major Bekiaa-Sab-At, former captain of USS Donaghey’s Marine contingent, as she and her Republic aide, Optio (basically “lieutenant”) Jack Meek, threaded among disinterested humans and Lemurians in the rough-hewn, smelly, and uncomfortably cold city of Ostia. Most people paid them little heed, but a perceptive few stopped to gawk at the unusual pair. Bekiaa habitually wore field garb, even at official functions with Republic leaders, in order to—she told herself—impress them with her seriousness for the task at hand. In reality, she probably did it subconsciously to shock: to jolt them into taking the coming campaign more seriously. Today, however, she wore her Marine (combat) dress uniform over her brindled fur. It consisted of a dark blue kilt and tunic, and bright white rhino-pig armor over chest and shoulders. No dress headgear had been prescribed for Allied Marines, so her mottled, battered, “doughboy” helmet contrasted starkly with the rest—as did the blood-and powder-stained cartridge-box strap and pistol/cutlass belt. The ornately tooled black leather sling on the 1903 Springfield that Colonel “Billy” Flynn had given her was new. It was the same sling issued to all Repub troops, minus the tooling, and was a gift from Inquisitor Choon. He’d also given her warm, form-fitting knee boots, better suited to the often muddy, sometimes snowy land she was in. Republic shoe and bootmakers had centuries of practice making all-weather footwear for humans and Mi-Anakka. Kon-Choon’s been paying me a lot of attention lately, Bekiaa reflected with mixed feelings, an’ not all’s been strictly professional. She shook it off.
“I don’t live ’ere, Cap’n,” replied Optio Meek with a tolerant grin that made him look like his father, despite further narrowing of his oriental eyes. His father, “Leftenant” Doocy Meek, was British, serving as the Republic’s liaison to Captain Reddy. Bekiaa had never seen his mother, but figured she must be of Chinese descent. Meek wore standard “undress” attire for Republic noncoms, with a polished bronze cuirass and helmet—oddly reminiscent of those once used by Grik officers—over an ordinary dark yellow-brown woolen tunic and trousers. His black boots also reached his knees, and his pistol belt, supporting a large revolver, was black as well. He carried no rifle or sword, and constantly appealed to her—in vain—to follow his example. “I’ve lived all me life near Alex-aandra, as ye know. An’ can’t get used ta the heat hereabouts,” he goaded.