Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(96)
So far, there was no sign of that, and despite the hit her credibility might take, she was relieved. Notwithstanding Kim’s attempts at compromise, she remained concerned about the basic organization of the Armies of the Republic. She returned the prefect’s salute in her way, fingers to her helmet, and smiled. The man towered over her. He was also as black as Safir Maraan’s fur, and must’ve been two and a half tails tall, yet the respect he showed seemed sincere. She’d seen enough brown humans that their difference from the nearly all-white but deeply tanned original crews of Walker, Mahan, and S-19 hardly registered. But for the first time in the Republic of Real People, she’d seen people as black as a starless night and finally realized hu-maans came in nearly as many colors as her people did.
“Prefect Bele,” she acknowledged.
“Each soldier has been issued another twenty rounds of ammunition and all canteens are full,” Bele reported. “As you, ah, advised.”
“And the artillery?” she asked, referring to the six-gun battery, a “century” in itself, the legion retained as its own.
“At the rear, but ready to be deployed as needed.”
“Very well.” Bekiaa paused. “Have you reported to Colonel Lok-Fon?”
“No, Legate,” Bele said, nodding at the command tent that had been erected to the rear as soon as the legion took its place in line, his expression inscrutable. “She remains . . . indisposed.”
“I see.” Bekiaa glanced to the front, at the dense trees beyond the bright plain. “No matter. I for one am glaad General Kim seems to have been right about where the enemy would first maass against us, and my concerns were unfounded.”
“You know the Grik better than we, Legate,” Bele said, then gestured at the army to either side. “We’ll have to move through the forest close enough to support each other in any event. It would be impossible if we’d stayed spread out.”
Courtney harrumphed. “I can’t imagine pushing seventy-five thousand troops through that in any kind of order.” He sighed. “But at least, perhaps, we’ll be allowed to attempt it unimpeded.”
Suddenly, as if to expressly deny their hopes, the deep roar of one of the new mechanical Grik horns blared from the dense timber, its bass rumble seeming to shiver the very trees. Immediately it was answered by another, and another, until the great forest seemed alive with the strident moan. Lizardbirds swirled more insistently, their flocks convulsing outward in response to apparent movement below.
“Daamn,” Bekiaa said absently. “Sometimes I hate being right.”
“Aye,” Optio Meek agreed, his young features grim.
Clusters of distant figures bolted from the trees, quickly forming into squads. Others followed, swelling the growing ranks with amazing speed. It appeared chaotic, but Bekiaa saw the Grik troops—for troops they were, dressed and armed exactly as Courtney had described: dark leather armor and crossbelts over light gray smocks, iron-plated leather helmets, and bright muskets with socket bayonets held high and tight above their narrow shoulders against their necks—knew exactly what they were doing. Squads gathered into companies, companies became battalions, then regiments, brigades . . . and still they streamed from the woods. An engine roar rose above the horns and the Cantets, widely separated now, abruptly appeared, flying back toward the Armies of the Republic. One flashed directly over the 23rd before following the other in a wide turn to land near Kim’s pavilion about a quarter of a mile away. A strip had been cleared even as the pavilion was erected, the gap in color doubtless visible from the sky. “I wonder what they saw?” Courtney mused, his tone tense. The answer struck Bekiaa as self-evident.
“Thaat, I’ll bet,” she stated dryly, pointing at the army emerging to meet them. Long serpentine flags were appearing now, probably regimental colors. All were at least partially red, something common to every Grik flag they’d seen, but these all had distinctive patterns painted on them. They’d noticed unusual flags over Grik ships from time to time, but never over land forces. It was something else new to ponder. She looked from side to side, gauging the size of the growing Grik force. Kim’s 1st Army was in the center of the Republic formation, and the 23rd was on the far left of its line. A twenty-yard gap separated it from 3rd Army’s 10th Legion farther to the left, and others existed between every legion, no matter where they were. “Runner!” she called to one of the cavalry century’s riders. The cav-’Cat approached and saluted. “I’m sure Generaal Kim’ll send word about what the planes saw,” she said quickly, “but go to him, as fast as you can. Tell him the legions must close the gaaps between them! And with the enemy armed with muskets, a more open formation would be ideal, but I doubt we can manage it now.” She glanced at the enemy. The Grik had apparently already matched the length of the Republic line, and their ranks were thickening by the moment. She was stunned to see them forming up, shoulder to shoulder.
“Just as they did when Mr. Silva, Colonel Chack, and I—and the Shee-Ree, of course—engaged them at the river crossing in Madagascar,” Courtney told her, reading her thoughts again. “Probably First General Esshk’s latest account of our armies was when we struck at Ceylon.” He nodded grimly forward. “You’ll recall, armed with smoothbore muskets ourselves at the time, we were quite wedded to linear tactics. They’ve copied what they learned rather amazingly, don’t you think?”