Distant Thunders d-4

by Taylor Anderson

  His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark passage, and the torches that drew his eyes blinded him to the rest of the chamber. He sensed there were others in the room, and one that smelled… wrong. Suddenly, one of the guards grabbed him from behind, holding his arms at his sides. Another grasped his feet. Without warning, yet another guard draped a cloth over his eyes and quickly wrapped it around them and over his snout, tying his jaws securely shut. An instant later, he was released.

  Rising terror threatened to overcome him. He’d never expected it to be like this. That they would destroy him he had no doubt, but he’d never expected them to make sport of him when they did. He could see nothing, but oddly, they’d left his hands and feet unrestrained. He waited, gaining control of his fear.

  A terrible blow struck him across the belly. It burned like the strike of a sword or a claw and he expected his insides to fall to the floor. Reflexively, he grasped at the terrible wound… and felt nothing. Another sharp blow slashed at the back of his leg, and he should have fallen with his leg ropes cut… but he didn’t. Repeatedly the blows fell upon him, and he stood there and took it despite an almost uncontrollable urge to run, to flee, to try to escape toward where he thought the passageway should be. Reaching up, he tore the blindfold and gag from his face, but now his eyes were even more dazzled by the torches.

  “Kill me,” he gasped, controlling his voice, “but no play at me as hatchlings with food pets! I fight for The Mother all my life. I honor Her, submit to Her! Kill me!”

  “Sounds almost like pride, does it not?” came an urbane, well-spoken voice. Something answered in a tongue Halik had never heard. He felt fear again, but not the visceral, dangerous kind of fear, the kind that would make him prey. This was different. Another blow fell across his back, and finally, a mounting rage drove all fear from him and he lashed back. By some fluke, he managed to grasp the weapon and realized it was a whip. He jerked it toward him and then lashed up against the extended arm of his tormentor with his forearm. The whip was his! He reversed the handle and flailed it about himself with practiced ease, creating a wall of lashing leather while his eyes began to adjust. Another blow fell across his back, and with lightning speed, he spun and directed a reply. The whip cracked against the only target he could see-a pair of glowing eyes. He was rewarded with a shriek, and the glowing orbs were extinguished. Every instinct drove him to fall upon his wounded tormentor, but he forced himself to remain in a protective stance, backing toward the wall. He could see the shape of his attackers now, and saw there were others in the chamber as well. The others were gathered to one side and posed no threat, but the three remaining guards were approaching him, in the classic style, and now they had swords.

  “A dilemma, Halik-Uul!” said the urbane voice-so calm! “Whatever will you do? You are not in the arena now!”

  Halik forced his own passion to subside. The voice seemed… familiar… and on some level, he somehow knew the words were meant as guidance. What would he do? He must think! Suddenly, a wild insight took him. This was not a slaughter, a preparation for the cook pots. It was a test! A test to see if the strange thoughts and awareness he’d experienced of late had some greater meaning. What would he do? In the arena, a match like this would be hopeless. One could use only the weapons one brought to the fight. Sometimes things were deliberately staged that way, to see what would happen, but a single whip against three swords was a losing proposition. But he wasn’t in the arena! The voice had said so!

  His back was almost to the wall; he could feel it with his tail. A quick glance behind revealed one of the torches-although it wasn’t a torch. Not like he’d seen before. An iron bracket supported a small glass globe with a burning wick protruding from a funnel shape on top. He didn’t know what the liquid in the globe was, but he knew it would burn. He’d used small bombs in the arena before. Just as the guards rushed him, he snatched the globe from the bracket and hurled it at the one on the far left. It shattered and spread burning fluid across the guard’s face and torso. He lunged past the conflagration and leaped upon the blinded, moaning guard. He didn’t kill him, but instead, snatched his sword from its hand. Sprinting to the opposite side of the chamber, he took a position with his whip in one hand and the sword in the other. The burning guard had flopped on the floor, flailing and rolling, trying to extinguish the flames. That left two. Confidence soared within him. A moment ago, he’d been doomed. He didn’t know exactly what the meaning of all this was, but he did know that with a sword and a whip, he could defeat any two warriors with swords he’d ever faced.

  “Enough,” came the voice. At a gesture from the darkened figure, the guards obediently slew their wounded comrade and dragged him from the chamber. Halik had no doubt they’d have killed him just as thoughtlessly as they had the others, but now was forgotten.

  “In the name of the Celestial Mother,” came the voice, as placid as it had been from the start, “you may lay down your weapons and no harm will come to you. I even promise they’ll be returned. The sword, in particular, you may wish to keep.”

  Only then did Halik glance at the weapon. He’d also begun to notice things recently, in ways he never had before. Just as a visit with a female might bring pleasure, he’d discovered other things sometimes did. Success in the arena brought intense pleasure, but suddenly, so did the memory of an unusual sunset he’d once seen. Looking at the sword, he realized that the sight of it gave him pleasure as well! It was the most… beautiful thing he’d ever beheld. The blade was a type of layered iron he’d seen carried only by generals, and the hilt was elaborately decorated. Gently, he laid it on the floor.

  “Come here.”

  Obediently, Halik did so. When he drew closer, he could finally discern four robed Hij-and some other creature standing with them. He was still too invigorated to take much notice, and his eyes quickly sought the source of the voice.

  One of the Hij drew back his robes and revealed himself as a first general, the highest of the high, and a member of the Celestial Mother’s very house. Halik flung himself onto the cold stones of the floor.

  “He did well,” murmured another voice grudgingly. “The fire was a nice touch, and he is the first to have used it. Clever.”

  Halik certainly recognized that voice. It belonged to the Chooser himself! He’d heard it many times over the years during the Sports.

  “Arise, Halik-Uul,” came the first voice again. “The Mother’s Chooser will take you from this place and his assistants will prepare you for the usual Holy Rites of Elevation. You and I will talk again, and I look forward to conversing with you as one Hij to another.”

  After Halik was led, dazed, from the chamber, General Esshk looked at Kurokawa. “An interesting recruiting method you have devised. It tests their wits as well as their discipline, ability, and resistance to the Urge. Ultimately, it tests their obedience as well. Most interesting.” He glanced at the bloodstains. “Perhaps a trifle wasteful.”

  “Perhaps,” Kurokawa agreed, “but for the war we must prepare for, one Halik is worth a hundred of those others. Maybe a thousand.”

  Esshk hissed a sigh. “I believe you speak truth, or this activity would not be allowed. There is resistance, however. The Celestial Mother remains unconvinced, but she is willing, at least, to experiment.” He glanced in the direction Halik had been taken. “That Uul is not unique, but he is rare and we will need many, many more like him.”

  “The Chooser opposes us?”

  “The Chooser opposes all change. Nevertheless, the hatchling proposal progresses. We will see.”

  CHAPTER 8

  LOGBOOK

  OF THE

  U.S. S WALKER (DD-163)

  DD Rate, COMMANDED BY:

  M. P. REDDY, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER, USNR

  DESTROYER SQUADRON 29

  Attached to: ABDAFLOAT

  Commencing: 0000, July 1, 1943, at: Baalkpan-formerly Balikpapan and ending: 1943 LIST OF OFFICERS

  Attached to and on board of the USS WALKER (DD-16
3), commanded by M.P. REDDY, Captain, USNR, during the period covered by this Logbook, with date of reporting for duty, detachment, transfer, or death, from 1 July 1943, to 31 July 1943

  (This page to be sent to Bureau of Navigation monthly with Log sheets)

  UNITED STATES SHIP WALKER (DD-163) Tuesday, Sept. 2, 1943 00-04 As before. No problems to report. Woke up pumping detail and inspection party so they could begin final preparations.

  Sonny Campeti, Lt. Cmdr. USN

  04-08 As before. Pump boilers at full steam pressure despite leaks. Detail reports all in readiness. Inspection party discovered and repaired a faulty joint in the #4 main pipe. Split ends were the cause-like we have seen before. Inspection parties will continue to observe all joints throughout the operation.

  Bernard L. Sandison, Lt. Cmdr, USNR

  08-12 As before. Weather clear. Water smooth on the bay. Slight easterly wind. Conditions optimum. 0800 mustered all hands and fed them at their stations. No absentees. Final visual inspection of all lines and seals. Heard reports from divisions. Lemurian Homes Humfra-Dar and Woor-Naa standing by to assist with ship-board pumps. Engaged primary pumps 0920. Observed first streams of water being expelled from dry dock basin. Engaged in brief verbal celebration.

  Brad McFarlane, Cmdr, USN

  12-16 Not as before. 1350 observed slight reduction of water level around exposed superstructure of ship. Having difficulty controlling exuberance of all divisions. Self included. Large numbers of civilians have come down to the dock to observe. Detached Marines from other duties to make sure they did not interfere. No question of deliberate interference, just do not want them underfoot and causing distractions. Water flow is difficult to estimate but best guess is 6000 gpm.

  Brad McFarlane, Cmdr, USN

  16-20 Pumps steaming as before. (Great relief to use that phrase again.) Two minor casualties in the water pipes repaired. Pump engine running well and within Mr. McFarlane’s expectations. Humfra-Dar has added her pumps to the operation. Water level dropping slowly still, but noticeably. His Excellency, Adar, High Chief of Baalkpan, appeared briefly at the dock to inspect the proceedings. Informed Cmdr. McFarlane that a celebration of thanksgiving and appreciation would commence at 1900. Celebration seems general already at 1700. Chief Laney took a banca boat out to the protruding aft mast of the ship and ran a new ensign up. Tattered remnants of the old ensign (there since the Battle of Baalkpan) were removed and carefully brought ashore. Letts took them in his charge.

  PERRY BRISTER, CMDR, USN

  20-24 Lights rigged. Water flow uninterrupted. No stoppages. Cmdr. McFarlane has allowed the hands to join the celebration by divisions. Inspection details to remain in place by rotation. A damn good day.

  Steven P. Riggs, Cmdr., USN Approved: Examined:

  Riggs held a lighted Zippo so he could see, and Spanky signed his name by “Approved” at the bottom of the page. Then he handed the log to Letts, who signed beside “Examined.” Before he closed the log on the previous day, Letts glanced up at the date and shook his head.

  “Five days late for the ‘year and a third,’ but close enough, I guess.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I pushed so hard to pull the plug yesterday. Give the guys something to celebrate so they wouldn’t dwell on what we left behind. What we lost,” Spanky replied.

  Letts returned the log to Spanky, who handed it to Campeti, who had the watch again. They were all tired, but nobody was going to oversee this operation but Walker. Sandra Tucker had arrived, looking disheveled, but as anxious as they were for her first glimpse of the ship. Now she stood beside them, peering intently into the predawn gloom of the dry-dock basin at the still only vaguely defined shape.

  They stood on what had once been the old fitting-out pier, but was now merely a walkway between massive wooden cranes and equipment sheds. The skeletons of still more new warships rose on the other side of the basin, silhouetted against the new dawn. Until recently, when the dry dock neared completion, the new ships had remained the priority projects. Now, for just a few days, work on them would slow while a large percentage of the laborers concentrated on another task. Steam and smoke jetted from crude, noisy engines while ’Cat “snipes in training” crawled all over them, oiling every conceivable point of friction. Some spun the huge, amazingly efficient Lemurian-designed pumps, and others powered generators that ran electric pumps of human design. The jury was still out on which were better, but Spanky was pretty sure the ’Cat machines would last longer. Hoses pulsed and brown water coursed into the sea beyond the dry-dock wall.

  Together, Sandra, Spanky, Alan, Campeti, and Bernie, a growing crowd of human and Lemurian sailors and Marines, sleepy civilian revelers, and finally, to no one’s real surprise, Adar himself, watched the dawn gradually reveal what the ravages of seawater and battle had done to USS Walker. Throughout the night, while most of her crew and the people of the city celebrated her raising, the water level in the dry dock had steadily dropped. Now she lay, with a slight list to port, where she’d settled after her fight with Amagi. Almost half of her upper hull was now exposed and every heart sank as they looked upon her.

  A clear demarcation showed how much of the ship had remained above the surface when she sank. It was plain to see, about three-fourths of the way up her four slender funnels and about halfway up her aft mast. The forward mast was gone. Automatic weapons had riddled her bridge, but the line glared dark and glistening below her empty pilothouse windows like an angry, oily slash. Above it, the paint was blackened by fire and dark with rust. Below the line she looked… even worse.

  An entirely new color had been created. Dark brown mixed with tan, with malignant yellow streaks for contrast. A fair amount of blackened green dangled here and there, where rotting vegetation festooned her. Angry red globs and smears were everywhere and of every different hue, as the rust that caused them dried. Slimy gray-black tar pooled and oozed, and covering all was a translucent rainbow slick of oil that had leaked from her ruptured bunkers. Hatches stood agape, revealing dank interiors. Tangled cables drooped down her side, and brackish water gushed from countless holes as the water level in the basin receded below that still inside the ship. Eel-like chopper fish squirmed like maggots on her deck, their vicious jaws gaping and snapping as their gills labored in the morning air. As primitive as they were, it might take them hours to die.

  Walker was a corpse, Sandra thought, and they’d been nothing more than ghoulish grave robbers to expose her to the sun. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. Thank God Matthew wasn’t there to see it.

  “Lord,” Sandison murmured, “what are we going to do?”

  Spanky patted his arm and sighed. “We’re gonna fix her, Bernie.”

  The way Walker rested looked almost normal by the time the first boats went across: listing slightly and a little low by the stern, but the water wasn’t much higher than the greasy black boot topping. She was still full of water, however, and jets of varying intensity coursed from her many wounds. As a result, the volume of water the pumps displaced was reduced as the day wore on. If they emptied the basin more quickly than the ship could drain, they ran the risk of causing even more damage. But her crew was restless to get to work, and by early that afternoon, the first repair parties clamored up her slippery side and stood once more on her leaning deck.

  Spanky McFarlane put his hands on his skinny hips and stared hard in all directions, his lips grimly set. A short while before, he’d been Minister of Naval Engineering for an infant nation. Right now, for a time, he was Walker ’s engineering officer again and nothing else. “All right, ladies,” he said at last, as men and Lemurians squelched through the ooze, “we got work to do. Mr. Riggs? Take your party to the bridge. Charts, manuals, anything like that we might’ve missed before are the first priority. Easy does it. If there’s anything left of that stuff, it’ll go to pieces if you’re not careful.” He looked quickly around. “Campeti! Where’s Mr. Sandison?”

  Campeti gestured over his shoulder. “Went tearing
ass up to the bridge. We removed the gun director a long time ago ’cause we could get to the platform, but he wanted to see the torpedo directors. He was like a cat havin’ kittens!” Campeti caught himself and looked quickly around. Some of the Lemurians were looking at him strangely. “Uh, no offense. Different kinda cats… Little buggers…” He held his hands close together, but then his face clouded with embarrassment. “Oh, just get to work, damn it.”

  Spanky shook his head. “Well, until he gets back, or sends for you to help him, I want you to check the four-inch fifties and see if there’s anything left of the machine guns on the amidships deckhouse. When you get through with that, put together a detail to salvage as many fire hoses as you can. We’ll start rinsing the old girl off.” He couldn’t stop a grin. “Just think what the Bosun would say if he saw his decks in such a state.”

  Campeti almost giggled. In spite of the herculean task ahead of them, the spirits of those who’d come aboard were rising. Finally, after the long months of anticipation and helplessness, of toil and labor on other projects, they could get to work on what mattered most to them. It almost seemed as if they could sense something within the ship itself begin to stir as well. A renewed sense of purpose. A new lease on life.

  “We wanna go down,” grouched a reedy voice behind Spanky, and he turned to look at the pair standing there. It was Gilbert Yeager and the silken, gray-furred ’Cat named Tabby. He had to concentrate for an instant, because without Isak Rueben, the scene just didn’t add up. Then he remembered Isak was the one they’d decided would accompany the AEF. Understanding complete, Spanky glared at Tabby when he saw she’d stripped almost completely, in the Lemurian way, to the point that all she wore was what looked like a skimpy little skirt. Despite her fine fur, her breasts appeared very human. It was distracting and annoying and she knew it. Sometimes Spanky harbored a secret, superstitious sense that the presence of women (the nurses’ first) aboard his ship was what had caused all their problems to start with. He’d finally allowed Tabby to stay in the firerooms at the captain’s orders and because she was a damn fine snipe. He’d broken one of his own cardinal rules, however: if something someone is doing bugs you, either make them stop, or pretend it doesn’t bug you. In Tabby’s case, he’d failed miserably in both respects. He couldn’t-wouldn’t now-make her go away, and there was no way he could pretend she didn’t bug him.