Blood In the Water by Taylor Anderson Page B

they could’ve been brothers otherwise. Dominating both boys with his greater height and . . . intimidatingly lethal appearance was Major I’joorka himself, looking almost exactly like a Grik, complete with a full array of teeth, claws, and dark adult crest and tail plumage. Like half his troops, the only visible difference was his coloration—and the calm he projected in the face of a thunderous sound emanating from the jungle beyond the parade ground.
    â€œPlease excuse me, Mr. Acting Chairman, but what is that . . . amazingly loud noise?” Abel Cook asked, peering into the jungle and unable to contain himself any longer.
    â€œNot ‘acting chairman’ much longer, thank God,” Commander Letts replied with a tight grin, small new lines showing around his eyes and mouth. He pretended not to hear Abel’s question as he also stared at the trees. “Adar’s finally on his way back home, where he belongs,”
    Slightly frustrated, Abel looked at Stuart, who arched his eyebrowsand shrugged, glancing at Major I’joorka. There was another roar in the jungle, closer now, and the 1st North Borno shifted uneasily but held its ground.
    â€œYou’ve done a great job, Major I’joorka. Mr. Cook, Mr. Brassey,” Alan said, still ignoring Abel’s question. He scratched the back of his left hand absently, rolling up dead skin with his fingernails. “Your troops are outstanding. You’ve trained them well.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” I’joorka said. His English was much improved, but like Lawrence, he still tried to avoid words that required lips. He’d actually spoken a variety of English when Abel and Stuart first met him, being “War Captain” of all of “King” Tony Scott’s Khonashi warriors. How Tony Scott,
Walker
’s old coxswain, had been named “king” of a band of combined Grik-like people and humans, hundreds of miles north of Baalkpan through impenetrable, trackless jungle, was a long, weird story in itself. But the result had been new, albeit stranger than usual allies with significant combat experience. All they’d needed was time to learn the standard tactics employed by all Allied armies before they could be plugged in anywhere, ready to fight. “I do . . . hoph the North ’Orno can still get the new ’reechloaders—the Allin-Sil’as—sooner than it gets sent to kill the ene’y,” I’joorka urged again.
    Alan glanced at Abel, who’d been bugging him mercilessly about that. “I’m doing my best, Major. There’re only so many to go around.”
    â€œOther regiments and replacements training from the Great South Isle, uh, ‘Austraal,’ get Allin-Silvas,” Abel pointed out.
    Alan frowned. “Yeah, but I’ve told you. They’re all going west, to fight the Grik. We make ’em and send ’em off as quick as we can—and there’re a lot—but our industry’s supposed to be focused only on that theater now. That’s partly a matter of distance and logistics, as you know. Maa-ni-la’s part of the Union, but sends most of what it produces to the Dom front. And the Empire’s making Allin-Silvas now as well. They’re supposed to be arming all the troops sent to fight the Doms.” He snorted. “You’re caught in the middle of a kind of turf war, I guess. We’re building a republic here, and that’s one of the problems you run into, it seems.” He shrugged uncomfortably and sighed, knocking a ready-rolled “PIG-cig” out of a thick card box and lighting it with a Zippo. “PIG” was the highly appropriate acronym for the Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co. Alan took a drag, coughed, and looked at the offending tube amid areeking cloud of smoke. “Damn things’re gonna kill me,” he wheezed. “Some folks say I