Kurokawa doubted he’d ever see Tsalka again. The regent would either be killed out of hand, or executed (hopefully eaten alive) after his audience with the empress. Even though he’d essentially been only a “passenger” aboard the Grand Swarm’s flagship, and not in actual command, he’d been the highest-ranking Grik in the region. Intolerance for failure was one trait the Grik shared with the Japanese, and if the one punished was not actually responsible for the failure, it was the example that was important. Even if he wasn’t killed, there was a very good chance he wouldn’t survive the trip to Madagascar. Voyages across the deep water of the Indian Ocean were notoriously hazardous. Apparently, the deeper the water, the larger the predators grew. Large enough to eat ships such as the regent would travel in. The thought warmed Kurokawa slightly. He patently loathed Tsalka—and all things Grik, in fact—even though only Tsalka’s forbearance had prevented him and all his surviving crew from being eaten in the aftermath of the “setback.” Kurokawa felt little gratitude, however, since one in ten of the Japanese survivors—almost sixty men—had gone to the butchers and feasting fires of their “allies.” It was nothing personal, he was assured, simply tradition. The hunter that drops his spear when the prey is brought to bay is always eaten in its stead, and the American torpedo that nearly sank his ship certainly made him drop the Grik’s mightiest spear.

Kurokawa had been indignant, but since he felt no real allegiance to his men either, he’d shed no tears for those who died. They were cowards and traitors all. Particularly his executive officer, Commander Sato Okada, who constantly questioned his decision to make alliance with the Grik, and would even make an accommodation with the Americans, he suspected, if he could. He’d grown far too close to their American prisoner of late. But Okada was not unique; his entire crew had betrayed him and The Emperor with their failure. After the strange storm that brought them here, Amagi had been the most powerful ship in the world. He’d believed it was only a matter of time before he could use her might to gain a position of power over the Grik. The Grik were loathsome creatures, but clearly the dominant species. Once he rose in their esteem, he could co-opt, or even supplant their ridiculous “Celestial Mother” and eventually rule this world himself—all in the name of Emperor Hirohito, of course.

Amagi’s worthless crew had thwarted his ambition, at least temporarily. They’d allowed the mightiest ship this world had ever seen to be grievously wounded by an insignificant American destroyer, a ship so poorly armed and obsolete even the Americans had considered her class as expendable as napkins before the war. Therefore, Kurokawa cared nothing for the welfare of his crew, except insofar as their training and experience enhanced his own value and prestige. He couldn’t use them to further his aims if they were dead. He raged to admit it, but he himself would have little importance to the Grik without the skill and knowledge he commanded through his surviving crew. He therefore did his best to keep them alive and relatively comfortable.

Besides, the main reason Tsalka hadn’t killed them all was that another Grik, General Esshk, had intervened. Not immune to blame himself, it was he who prevailed with the argument that the Japanese and their mighty, wounded ship might be of use. Perhaps even essential to the ultimate success of the Swarm. Esshk made Tsalka realize the old ways of war, the Great Hunt that exterminated their prey almost as sport, might not succeed against the rediscovered Tree Prey, who’d escaped the conquest of Madagascar itself countless generations before. They’d grown much more formidable than the ancient histories described.

Kurokawa had learned that when the Grik first encountered the Tree Prey, as they were called, they’d posed no more of a challenge than any other predatory species the Grik had exterminated. They usually hid in trees, of all things, and when they fought, they did so ineffectually. But unlike any other prey the Grik had hunted, the Tree Prey somehow escaped. In desperation they’d built great ships from the dense forests of their home and braved the deadly sea the Grik couldn’t cross. Not until merely a couple of hundred years before had the Grik been given the gift of a seagoing ship to copy for themselves. A strange race of tail-less prey—not unlike the present Japanese, Esshk inferred—arrived in a three-masted ship with a sturdy, ingeniously planked hull. No one knew where they came from, and it really didn’t matter. The prey was devoured, but the ship and technical language required to make her was copied. Educated Hij among the Grik learned to write and cipher in the strange, captured tongue, even if they couldn’t form the words to speak it. More and more ships were built along the lines the captured drafts referred to as “East Indiamen.” The Grik now had a fleet with which to expand their empire—although progress was slow. Even the much-improved ships the “English” prey brought were not proof against the largest denizens of the terrible sea.

It all made sense to Kurokawa. He suspected an East Indiaman had been swept to this world a few centuries before, just as Amagi had. Inexplicably, it was unarmed. He didn’t understand that at all. Historically, British East Indiamen usually carried an impressive armament for protection against pirates, and even belligerent warships. Perhaps those long-ago Englishmen already knew something about the Grik before they were captured, and feared what would happen if “modern” weapons fell into their hands. Maybe they heaved them over the side? If so, what had they thought they were protecting? Regardless, there were no cannons aboard when the Grik took the ship. Otherwise they’d already have them and they wouldn’t have come as such a devastating surprise when the hated Americans recently introduced the technology.

Kurokawa seethed. Oh, how he hated the Americans! They were responsible for his being here in the first place, instead of back where he belonged, riding the tide of Japanese victory across the Pacific. Perhaps the war was already won? The long-respected American Navy had proven ineffective, and had been unable to muster much of a defense after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor. Nearly a year had passed since the bizarre green Squall transported him here. At the rate they’d been going, the Japanese Imperial Navy might have dictated terms to the United States from within San Francisco Bay by now. That was where he ought to be: covered in glory and recognized for his brilliance. Not here in this barbaric, perverted caricature world, where the emperor—his emperor—did not reign. The Americans were the cause of all that, and someday he’d have his revenge.

His value had been recognized by General Esshk, at least. The general was acting as forward vice regent in Tsalka’s stead, and his quarters were in the palace of the former king of Aryaal. Even Kurokawa had to admit the palace was an impressive edifice. It was constructed of white marble, and the spired towers and spacious, arched balconies gave it a medieval Eastern European flair. It was even more striking, since it was the only building still standing within the walls surrounding the conquered city. Aryaal was “conquered” only in the sense that it no longer belonged to the enemy. The first attempt to take it failed catastrophically, and it finally came into Grik hands as a burned-out, abandoned wasteland. All except the palace that somehow escaped the inferno. Briefly, he wondered why.

Kurokawa knew the Americans had to be responsible for the scorched-earth policy that greeted the invaders when they reached the city, as well as the neighboring island of B’mbaado. He doubted their primitive lackeys were sophisticated enough to think of the strategy on their own. With the inhabitants gone, and nothing left but the palace, there was no food, no supplies. There wasn’t even shelter from the terrible storms that sometimes slashed at the exposed coastal city. The Americans had managed to sour even the seizure of Aryaal, which was the one small victory the Grik had achieved. Everything they needed had to be brought by ship, putting even further strain on available resources and indefinitely delaying the buildup they’d need before renewing the offensive. Only by renewing the offensive could he prove his worth, and only by proving his worth could he renew his broken scheme for power. Captain Kurokawa continued to brood and pace.

The tapestry separating the anteroom from the audience chamber parted to reveal the terrifying form of a Grik. It looked like a bipedal lizard, except it had short, feathery fur instead of scales. Its snout and tail were shorter, proportionately, than one would have expected from a lizard, but the tightly spaced, razor-sharp teeth packing the short snout left the fiercest shark wanting. Empty, remorseless, sharklike eyes regarded Kurokawa in silence for a moment before the creature spoke.

“The vice regent will see you now.”

The voice came as a series of hisses and clicks, but Kurokawa had learned to understand the words even if he couldn’t speak them. Much of the meaning came from subtle sounds requiring a foot-long tongue and two-inch pointed teeth. By now a few Grik had also learned to understand English, although it was apparently even more impossible for them to speak. Most Hij could read written English. It was their technical language, and that was how Kurokawa first communicated with them: writing notes back and forth. But that was no longer necessary, and he could converse fairly normally, with Esshk, at least.

In the Japanese Navy he’d risen in, it was required that all bridge officers know and speak English, since most of the maneuvering commands were made in that language. He knew the tradition began at the turn of the century, when Japan purchased her first modern battleships from Great Britain. Even more were acquired during the Great War, when the two countries were actually allies against Germany. Since everything on the ships was written in English—the instruction manuals were in English, and most of the instructors and advisors spoke only English—Kurokawa and his peers were forced to speak English as well. The Japanese Navy was an infant in need of traditions, and speaking English on the bridge became one. He was glad that was one tradition quickly fading back home, even if he made use of it now.

Controlling a shudder, he bowed stiffly to the gruesome messenger, straightened his tunic, and marched quickly into the vice regent’s audience chamber.

General Esshk, complete with plumed helmet, scarlet cape, and shiny plate armor protecting his chest, looked for all the world like a sinister, reptilian gargoyle dressed as a Roman tribune. Mighty muscles rippled beneath his downy skin, and he carried himself as fully erect as his alien physique allowed. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the Japanese officer. Kurokawa knew that, before the recent setback, Esshk had been a favorite among the Grik elite. He was considered their greatest living general, and was actually a sibling, of sorts, of the empress. He also had an unusual reputation: he was deemed something of a philosopher. Kurokawa knew that really meant he had a keen and inquisitive mind. He was unusually open to new ideas and innovations, and seemed less entrenched in the instinctual behavior patterns and responses he’d seen in other Grik, even Hij. That was both an advantage and disadvantage, depending on the circumstances, since it made Esshk both easier and more difficult to manipulate. When working with the general, the supreme question always was, Who was manipulating whom?

Esshk noticed his arrival, and motioned another Grik he’d been speaking with to leave. He hissed a pleasant greeting.

“Ah! Captain Kurokawa! I trust you are well?”

Kurokawa bowed deeply. Visitors were expected to prostrate themselves, but he simply would not. A formal bow was as much as he was willing to compromise. Strangely, Esshk never insisted he do more.

“Well enough, Your Excellency. I do grow anxious.”

“Anxious to resume the hunt? Good. That is why I summoned you here.”

“There is news?”

“Actually, yes. Several days ago I dispatched three of our newly armed ships”—he bowed his head appreciatively toward Kurokawa—“to patrol the eastern approaches to the neighboring island. I hoped they might encounter one of the ships of the prey that sometimes visit the vicinity. They did.”

Kurokawa contained a surge of annoyance. He’d often counseled Esshk to conceal the fact that they were arming Grik ships with guns, and to reveal the surprise only when they had sufficient numbers for a decisive blow. He was constantly amazed that a race whose only military tactic was a full frontal assault with overwhelming numbers had such difficulty understanding the principle of mass. It was an old argument by now, however, and one he had no hope of winning. Besides, perhaps the sortie had been successful. Esshk certainly seemed in a good mood.

“I take it the enemy ship was destroyed?” he ventured.

“Unfortunately not, but it was severely damaged. I congratulate you on your perseverance in training the crews to use their new weapons effectively.” Esshk seemed to consider. “Perhaps even more such training is in order.”

Kurokawa sighed. He did not, of course, perform any of the training duties himself. That, and other things, was what certain members of his crew were for. He’d heard, however, that teaching the semisentient Uul to do anything beyond hack at their opponents with swords was like forcing water to run uphill. He’d speak to those responsible for the training and see what more could be done.

“Perhaps. With respect, what kind of damage . . . did our . . . forces sustain?”

Esshk waved a clawed hand. “Total. All three ships were destroyed. An explosion of the black dirt that burns destroyed two. It seems a fire began.” He jerked his snout upward in a gesture Kurokawa had come to equate with a shrug. “The other suffered damage to its sails and went ashore. The ship of the prey was also damaged, but managed to avoid running aground as well. It was, in fact, attempting to return to the scene when our other three ships with cannons arrived and drove it away. Perhaps they were trying to rescue some of their people left behind on the island?” He paused, considering. “I would not have thought it possible, but . . .” He looked at Kurokawa with what might have been respect.

“If I had not given the . . . unusual . . . command that some effort be made to rescue doomed crews, we would not now know what transpired in the fight, or how well the new cannons worked. As it was, almost a dozen Uul were saved from the grounded wreck. Perhaps the prey are doing the same? Trying to learn what has happened here since they left?” Esshk paused and jerked his head again. “As a further gesture, an experiment, if you will, to test the possibility you might be right yet again, I have not ordered the survivors destroyed. They were defeated, but they were not, after all, made prey. It was the ground upon which they stood that fled, not they. We will let them pass their experience to others and see what may transpire.”

Kurokawa was surprised. He’d often tried to explain to Esshk how wasteful it was to kill defeated troops. All of them, anyway. Sometimes it was necessary. The Grik were perfect physical predators. Even the Uul were born with such strength and such an awesome array of personal weaponry, no creature he’d ever heard of could hope to match one unarmed. They were like cheetahs, and every other species, including man, were sheep compared to them. But with the exception of the curiously elevated Hij, the physical gifts of the Grik were balanced by some rather peculiar and apparently instinctual behavior patterns. Chief among these was a total—indeed, pathological—inability to understand the concept of defense. They comprehended only attack. Like a cheetah attacking a lamb, feeble attempts by the lamb to escape, or even defend itself, only made the cheetah attack more aggressively. As long as it was attacking, it was winning, no matter what injury it had sustained. But if the attack were ever blunted or hurled back . . . the cheetah that ran from a lamb could never be a cheetah again.

Something happened to the Grik that ran away. Something sprouted within their primitive, retarded brains, and there was not the slightest hint of its existence until the instant it took place. Kurokawa saw it after the Battle of Aryaal, when dozens of ravaged ships limped back to Singapore. They’d been advancing with the Grand Swarm, and he’d seen hundreds of Grik destroyed by their own comrades in what seemed, at the time, a mindless frenzy of wild butchery. Since then he’d given the phenomenon considerable thought and believed he knew what triggered the sudden, primordial, all-consuming urge in defeated Grik—those “made prey”—to flee, and never find it within themselves even to look back. It was panic, fear, the sudden realization that they’d encountered a predator greater than themselves. Just as the Grik attacked as a mob, they were capable of panicking as a mob if things went against them. It was a contagious thing that had to be snuffed out at once.

Kurokawa had tried to explain to Esshk that sometimes defeat in itself was not always the same as being made prey. Sometimes the heart was still willing, even when the ship beneath it could not carry on, for example. Warriors . . . removed from the hunt in such a way might not always be unfit to rejoin it. He’d used this argument, in part, because that was what happened to him when Amagi was torpedoed on the way to Baalkpan, and he wanted to establish firmly in General Esshk’s mind that Hisashi Kurokawa had not been made prey. It was a selfish gesture, but practical as well. If, when they inevitably resumed the offensive against the Tree Prey—and Americans!—they continued to kill or abandon their trained crews simply because their ship was sinking, they’d lose valuable resources and delay their ultimate victory. It seemed Esshk was willing to give it a try.

Kurokawa reflected momentarily while General Esshk regarded him with his intense reptilian eyes. Finally he spoke. “But the prey escaped the other three?”

“Regrettably.”

“The Americans . . . The prey will now know we’ve matched their advantage. That knowledge might be costly.”

“Perhaps. But they cannot know to what extent we have surpassed them.”

“Surpassed them?” Kurokawa inquired.

“Indeed. The factories your workers established in Ceylon are performing wonders. Again, you were right when you suggested they be treated differently from other Uul. They thrive with better treatment and are industrious. You Japanese never cease to amaze me! So frail, yet so useful. And to think Tsalka wasted so many of you on his table! I am sure he has certainly changed his mind!”

“If he lives,” muttered Kurokawa bitterly.

“He does. Word arrived today. That is one reason I summoned you: to tell you he not only lives, but basks in the glow of the Celestial Mother’s favor. The fast ship he sent to request an audience with Her returned with Her benevolent blessings for our strategy, and instructions that he continue as your patron. She extols the virtues of the Japanese helpers of the Hunt! Just think on it, the Celestial Mother Herself knows you exist! It is a great honor!”

“Indeed,” Kurokawa hedged.

“Soon all the Grik will share the benefits of these glorious cannons of yours. By the next time the moon passes into darkness, ten more ships will arrive from Ceylon, each already armed. In their holds will be more than two hundred guns—enough to arm ten of the ships we already have! A moon after that a like number will arrive, and Tsalka will accompany them at the head of another grand fleet to add to the Swarm. With your Amagi and over forty ships armed with cannons, and hundreds of conventional ships filled to overflowing with hundreds of thousands of Uul, the prey can do nothing to stop us! That is when we will strike!”

“A month and a half. So soon?”

Esshk peered closely at the Japanese officer. “I do not understand your face. You seem pleased, yet wary. What troubles you? Surely you do not doubt our fleet will easily sweep the prey from the sea?”

“I do not. They have few ships, and even though the large ones are formidable, they cannot maneuver. The only thing concerning me at all is the iron ship, the American destroyer. Its guns have much greater range than ours.”

“Amagi will concentrate on the American iron ship. Surely its guns cannot outrange yours?”

“Of course not . . . I . . . I only hope Amagi will be ready.”

Esshk’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Will it?”

Right then Hisashi Kurokawa knew his very existence depended upon his next words. He contemplated the progress of his ship’s “refit” so far and almost shivered in horror. The project was the most ghastly thing he’d ever seen. There was no dry dock in Aryaal, not on this Earth, as far as he knew, but somehow they’d had to get at Amagi’s underwater damage. After much discussion with Esshk and what passed for Hij engineers, they’d settled on a cofferdam. At low tide, weighted down by the bodies of thousands of Grik, they’d run his ship aground in the silty mouth of the river below the fire-blackened walls of Aryaal. There, a massive pile driver encircled Amagi with titanic beams dragged for miles through the almost impenetrable jungle beyond the plain still littered with bones from the battle fought upon it. When the framework was complete, Kurokawa’s own engineers began devising ways to plank it up. Heavy, prefabricated sections were prepared and lowered into place with the ship’s cranes, but they couldn’t decide how to secure them to the pilings. The answer was simple: Uul warriors were ordered to jump in the water and do it by hand.

Kurokawa still lived aboard his ship, so he was there to see. As much as he hated the Grik, he was sickened by the sight. Uul by the hundreds, each covered in armor and holding a length of line, shrieked a battle cry and leaped into the water. The armor carried them down—it would be a one-way trip—and protected them slightly from the silvery fish that arrowed in from the bay at the sound of splashes. If they were lucky, they sometimes managed to tie their line before being torn to shreds. Slowly at first, but quickly growing to a nauseating pink, white, silvery roil, the water began to churn. Pieces of bodies and buoyant debris rose to the surface, only to be snatched down by ravening, gaping jaws. On command, hundreds more leaped to their doom, each clasping his piece of line. Most of the Japanese sailors couldn’t watch, but Kurokawa stared, transfixed, as much amazed as horrified. Such obedience!

The second wave probably didn’t fare as well as the first, but when the third command was given, the boiling water had simmered down. Perhaps the fish were sated? This time a few Grik wouldn’t go. It finally occurred to their primitive minds that if they did, they wouldn’t come back up. Instead of refusing or attempting to flee, however, they turned on their comrades in a wild attack. All were disarmed, but no Grik was ever truly without weapons, and they used their terrible teeth and claws on those around them. They were quickly subdued, killed, and thrown in the water, but after that first incident, there was an ever-growing number that had to be “destroyed.” During this entire procedure, Amagi’s pumps were at work, using steam from her few remaining boilers. Finally, Kurokawa noticed that the water level inside the cofferdam was slightly lower than that outside, and he suggested a halt to further wastage of warriors.

The cofferdam was built, and within a week they began repairing his ship’s underwater rents, but at such an appalling cost! Surely thousands had died. He’d learned a valuable lesson that day, besides the crystallization of his theory regarding how panic affected the Grik. He’d learned that to the Hij, all other creatures were simply tools, no matter what they said about the Uul being their “children.” Life had no value beyond how useful a tool it might be. Amagi was just a tool . . . and so was he.

Meeting General Esshk’s gaze, he finally nodded. “She can’t be finished that quickly. There is still much damage to her engines and boilers, so she won’t be as fast as she once was, but she’ll be ready for battle.”

Esshk seemed to relax, and Kurokawa did too—slightly.

“Excellent,” Esshk said. “So now we may turn to another subject: the American flying machine, their ‘flying boat,’ you called it.”

Kurokawa’s cheeks burned. During the campaign against Aryaal and the abortive thrust toward Baalkpan, the damned Americans had unveiled a dilapidated PBY Catalina. His inability to prove he’d destroyed the plane still rankled. Aside from its value for reconnaissance purposes, the plane had caused a lot of damage, and the fact that it could fly higher than Amagi could engage it damaged his prestige.

“It must have been destroyed,” he said. “I sent one of my own aircraft, an observation plane, to engage it. Since then, it has not been seen.”

“But your ‘observation plane’ never returned, so we cannot know for certain. Perhaps they destroyed each other, as you speculated, or perhaps your plane was destroyed and theirs only damaged. If so, perhaps they do not have the . . . capacity, I think you said, to repair it. But perhaps there is nothing wrong with it, and they hold it back only until it can do the most harm. I cannot tell you how disconcerting that machine was to our Uul.”

The plane, armed only with machine guns, caused an amazing amount of damage that couldn’t be defended against, and the psychological effect had been profound. A shocking number of Uul turned prey merely at the sight of the thing.

“If you’re still concerned about it, it’s only prudent to attempt to discover its disposition,” Kurokawa said, a little heatedly.

“Then do so.”

“How?”

Esshk hissed exasperation, and Kurokawa knew then that the Grik general had boxed him in. It was suddenly clear who was manipulating this conversation. “Your precious aircraft, of course.”

Amagi had only one observation floatplane left. One was lost chasing the PBY, and the others were destroyed, ironically, when a Japanese dive-bomber crashed into them during Amagi’s first encounter with the two American destroyers that somehow resulted in their exile to this place. That the plane crashed into his ship because one of the destroyers shot it down only added to his hatred. All that remained was a single Nakajima Type 95 biplane. It was old-fashioned, slow, and short ranged. Kurokawa had off-loaded it before his ship began repairs. He hadn’t considered it necessary to the success of the upcoming campaign, and meant to leave it behind because he didn’t want to risk losing it. If he was right and the PBY was truly gone, his was the only airplane in the world. It could so easily be damaged or destroyed by a lucky shell or bullet while sitting exposed on its catapult. Also, fire had always been a big part of the way Grik made war—a sometimes indiscriminate use of fire—and the plane, and the limited fuel he had for it, was an increased hazard to his ship.

The plane had languished, floating peacefully at the dock ever since, under guard by its flight and support crew and a much larger contingent of Grik. Esshk said the guard was to protect the plane, but Kurokawa knew it was really there to prevent it from flying away. Given the treachery of his crew, that was something Kurokawa himself was a little concerned the pilot might try. He’d given strict orders that the plane be properly maintained, but the crew was not to even start the engine. He didn’t want them to waste a single gallon of the precious aviation fuel—or give their captors the slightest excuse to harm the irreplaceable pilot and plane.

So far, he’d resisted every “request” by Esshk to use the plane. It was his “ace in the hole,” as the Americans would say. At his orders, the Japanese sailors had cooperated with the Grik in every way. They’d given them as much technology as their primitive industrial base could exploit. He supposed that had brought them up to the seventeenth century, militarily speaking, at least as far as weaponry was concerned. But the plane represented his greatest example of truly modern technology. It was proof that, no matter how far the Grik progressed, they could never hope to match the magical powers Kurokawa possessed, and most amazing of all to the Grik was the power of flight. He was certain the PBY had been destroyed or seriously damaged. He’d even ordered the pilot of the other Type 95 to ram it if he had to, to return with his shield or on it, or his flight crew would be executed. With that threat to motivate him, Kurokawa was positive the pilot must have resorted to the final option, since he never returned, but neither had the PBY. Ultimately, whether or not the flying boat actually crashed was immaterial; he was certain it would never fly again. There was simply no way to repair it—just as there was no way to repair his own last plane if it was damaged. He therefore basked in the reflected glow of its importance while hoping he’d never have to actually use it. His reluctance was the source of growing strain between Esshk and himself.

The Grik couldn’t use the plane themselves, so taking it was pointless. Even if they could be taught to fly, they couldn’t physically sit in the cockpit because of their heavily muscled tails. In all the world, only the Japanese hunters controlled the miracle of flight, and that was how Kurokawa intended it to remain.

Esshk pressed him this time. “Is your plane truly so fragile it will ruin it to use it once? If that is the case, what good is it?”

Kurokawa recognized the threat in the question. In other words, what good was he?

“It is quite sturdy, Your Excellency, but we have little fuel. Also, as I’ve said, if it’s damaged, it cannot be repaired. We haven’t the tools or materials.”

“The prey flew their airplane all over the place. They must have plenty of fuel. We will capture it, and you will have more than you need. As to the other, I still do not understand. They are machines, are they not? Machines created by your folk. Surely they know how to make more. I tire of your obstructionism. You must use it! The sword that remains at the belt is of no use in the hunt.”

“But the materials! I tell you we cannot repair it if it is damaged. We should wait to use it at the proper time—when it might tip the scale.”

“Materials!” Esshk snarled, and Kurokawa realized he’d objected too long. He knew the conviviality Esshk greeted him with was only an act. The general began to pace, and Kurokawa remained rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead. “You mean metal? We make metal for you by the shipload! Do not toy with me!”

“I do not, Your Excellency! As I’ve told you, the metal we need to build more planes is called aluminum. It is . . . magical, and can be made only in the world from which we came. It is strong, like iron, but much lighter. No aircraft made of iron could ever fly.”

“Then make them of something else!” Esshk raged in frustration. “You keep telling me we need to know what we face before we attack. Your aircraft is the only way to discover that and yet you refuse to use it!” Esshk glared menacingly at Kurokawa. “Reconcile this contradiction at once!”

Kurokawa stared at Esshk, his mouth open slightly. Peripherally, he was terrified of the general’s behavior, but his mind fastened onto something Esshk said. Of course!

“General,” he said calmly, “we will use the plane, and if you give me free rein, I’ll make more for you. They won’t be as strong, or nearly as fast, but I’ll make airplanes even Grik can fly! But I warn you, it will take time. It will take more time even than the modern ships I promised, since that’s what we’ve already begun. But I can do it for you, and because you have been such a friend, I will. But in return, you must do something for me.”

Esshk’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared with indignation. Then, slowly, his terrible jaws moved to form an expression Kurokawa hoped was a grin.

“A bargain? How interesting! I wonder what it is you could possibly want?” He seemed contemplative for a time, but finally waved the matter aside. “We shall see, shall we not? My power to grant a boon depends on our success, after all. In the meantime, we must concentrate on the matter at hand. You will provide me with a list of requirements to ensure your plane has the ‘legs’ to reach its destination and return. We must time the mission carefully, since we will open the final campaign in no more than a moon and a half. All must be in readiness by the time Tsalka returns. You will need ships placed at intervals for refueling, of course. I will order them to scout far forward after that mission is complete, to ensure the prey has no further surprises for us. Ideally, they will rendezvous with the Swarm before the assault begins.” He waved a clawed hand vaguely toward the curtain. “Leave me now, and begin your calculations.”

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Kurokawa said with outward calm, but inwardly he seethed. “One further question, if I may?”

Esshk nodded. “Oh, very well.”

“What of the enemy holdouts on B’mbaado? Will you take them seriously now? It seems to me they have evaded us too long. It’s possible, if they’re rescued, they might report our progress: the gathering Swarm, the pace of repairs to my ship, for example.”

“Fear not. I have suffered their existence for my own purpose: to see what efforts the prey might expend to rescue them. I admit you were right, and I am surprised. I should have destroyed them sooner. But perhaps any information they have taken away has been to our advantage?”

“How so?”

“If they are spying on us, and not just huddling together on the farthest reaches of the island, then they will have seen the might we will bring against them—and more is still to come. Let them infect others with that knowledge. That terror. As for the remainder?” He sighed. “I will dispatch one of the newly arrived drafts to dispose of them. They are jungle warriors from the home province. They will make short work of them, and we shall feast upon their leaders!”

Kurokawa’s stomach turned at the thought of enduring another such “dinner,” but he bowed.

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

The officer had granted other favors as well, when he could, and Kaufman got the impression he did so with the utmost care. A small stack of magazines was arranged carefully in the corner, opposite his slop bucket, and a couple were even in English. He didn’t know how many times he’d read them—hundreds, probably. He’d memorized every word. He read the other ones too, and he’d slowly learned a smattering of written Japanese by putting the pictures in context with the curious symbols beside them. He didn’t have any idea what the words sounded like, but he knew what many of the characters meant.

He rose slowly, painfully to his knees, and scooted to the overturned bucket that served as his only chair in the small, barren compartment. Easing onto it, he sat and stared at the glowing bulb for a while. It was how he passed much of his time, focusing on the bright filament until he could see it wherever he looked. His face began to twitch uncontrollably, and he tried to still the muscles and nerves by twisting his tangled beard. It never worked, but he always tried. He couldn’t remember how long it had been doing that; it always started within a few minutes of his awakening from his constant, hideous dreams. Dreams of blood and screaming death, and reptilian creatures devouring people he was somehow responsible for. He couldn’t remember why. He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner of the Japanese either, but at least they hadn’t eaten him.

The latch on the compartment hatch clanked, and his heart began to race. With a joy he could barely contain, he saw the Japanese officer who’d been so kind to him. How long had it been since his last visit? Months? It didn’t matter. He’d feared the creatures had eaten him, but here he was, alive! The treasured face contorted into a grimace of distaste, probably at the smell in the compartment, but honestly, Kaufman didn’t notice it anymore. He felt tears sting his eyes; he couldn’t help it.

“Captain Kaufman?” The greeting came almost as a question, as though the officer didn’t recognize him.

“Oh, ah, yes! It’s me!” he croaked. It seemed strange to speak after so long, and it was pleasant to have someone confirm he was who he thought he was.

“You have not been eating!” the officer accused. Kaufman’s face contorted into a grimace of contrition. He understood how the officer might think that, since he’d lost so much weight.

“But I have!” he insisted fervently. “I eat everything they bring me! Everything, I swear!”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Then clearly my orders have been disregarded. You have my most abject apologies. I gave orders that you be fed properly. It seems that word is subject to interpretation. I will make its definition clear.”

Kaufman stared at him for a long moment, mouth agape, revealing cracked, blackened teeth. “More food would be nice,” he finally agreed softly, trying not to make it sound like a complaint.

“You will have it,” the officer promised; then he too hesitated a moment. “I must also apologize for not visiting you more often, to see to your needs. I . . . am ashamed you have been treated so poorly by my countrymen. Necessity forced me to stay away, however. My commander has noticed my attention toward you and does not approve. He has threatened several times to return you to those despicable creatures we got you from. He does not believe you still have value as a source of information.”

Kaufman felt a surge of panic. One thing he remembered very well was his terror of the Grik. But what could he say? His mouth formed a protest, but he ultimately only lowered his head. “He’s right,” he mumbled. “I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you. I guess my ‘usefulness’ is over.” As soon as he spoke, he was shocked and terrified by his admission, yet strangely liberated as well. One way or another, perhaps his suffering might soon end. He raised his head and rested his twitching gaze on the Japanese officer. “So that’s that, I guess,” he said, and began to tremble. “The Grik can eat me, but I’ll be free.”

“Perhaps ‘that’ is not ‘that.’ Certainly not if I can prevent it, and there might yet be something you can do.”

Kaufman looked confused. “I already told you I don’t know anything else!”

In fact, he didn’t. He’d told the Japanese officer everything he could remember, and even though he still felt a vague sense of shame, he’d left nothing out. Subconsciously he knew it was wrong somehow to do so, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t even remember what he’d told them now, only that it had, indeed, been everything.

“That’s not what I meant,” the officer assured him. “Do you remember, some time ago, I asked if you would be willing to signal your old friends with a transmitter?”

Kaufman looked around as though searching for something, his expression desperate. “I . . . I think I remember you asking that, but . . . I don’t know who you mean. All my friends are dead . . . but you.” His gaze continued to wander. “Dead.”

Commander Sato Okada’s expression tensed, and he did feel a surge of shame. And hopelessness. Kaufman had clearly entered into a deep psychosis, and he didn’t know if he could bring him out of it. The months of solitary confinement, sensory deprivation, and malnutrition had taken their toll. Okada had said he wasn’t responsible for the ill treatment, but he knew he was. He’d given orders that the prisoner be properly treated, but what was proper? Japan was not a signatory to the Geneva Accords regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. Japanese troops and sailors were taught that surrender was unacceptable, dishonorable. Lacking detailed instructions, the ratings assigned to “care” for Kaufman would treat him as they expected to be treated in his place. He should have been more specific, and found a way to check on him more often. Now it might be too late. Okada remembered the details of Kaufman’s capture and knew he hadn’t surrendered; he’d been overwhelmed, so the initial dishonor was not his. Since then he’d been subjected to horrific brutality, not only at the hands of the Grik, but the Japanese as well. He eventually did surrender information, but not until his soul—and apparently his mind—had been taken from him. Okada realized he must somehow bring the aviator back from the abyss, save him from the madness he took refuge in. He was no traitor, but he’d finally decided he must risk everything to contact the Americans before it was too late. Warn them, somehow.

The Grik were evil incarnate, and Amagi’s captain had embraced them for reasons of his own. Even if Okada could supplant Kurokawa, Amagi was in the power of the Grik, surrounded, watched. At the first sign of treachery, their reptilian masters would swarm them under. The Grik dreamed of a world dominated entirely by their evil, clutched in their wicked claws. Kurokawa was blinded by his own ambitions and his obsession for revenge. He didn’t realize he was but a rat taunting a mighty serpent that might make use of him for a time, but would devour him in the end. For the human race, Japanese or American, the Tree Folk, or any other sentient species inhabiting this Earth to have any hope for survival, Amagi and the American destroyer must find a way to work together. Any other course of action was itself madness.

But in order to plan any concerted action, he needed Kaufman’s help. He cleared his throat. “Recounting your experiences might be painful,” he said gently, “but we must. I will start at the beginning, as I know it.”