Into the Storm d-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Right now, all were practicing their melee skills, learning to fight one-on-one in case the wall should ever break. That was also the type of fighting they expected for the upcoming operation. It was a fiasco. The parade ground looked like someone had kicked an anthill. A steady trickle of injured recruits walked or limped over to sit in the shade and be treated at Karen Theimer’s “aid station.” Some were really hurt, but most were goofing off.

  Chack, Risa, and Lieutenant Shinya trotted up to join him. Risa was the training liaison for Big Sal, so she had a reason to be there, but Chack hadn’t let her out of his sight since the “incident” on the pier. Alden couldn’t believe she’d helped Silva with the scam. If it was a scam. Making Silva chew the leaves and get the screamers was a hoot, but the big gunner’s mate’s idea of “getting even” was… disproportionate. Chack needed a crash course in American joke rules. The question was, did Silva’s jokes have rules? Were they “even”? Pete doubted it. He shook out one of the cigarettes he always seemed to have and lit up.

  “God help us,” he muttered when they were close enough to hear.

  “They have learned to march fairly well,” Shinya said to console him. “And form a wall. But if it ever comes to that”-he waved at the chaos- “we’ll be destroyed.”

  Alden smirked, but nodded. It didn’t help that they’d suddenly been told to train for a different type of battle. Until now, defense had been the priority. He turned his back to the practicing troops and took a small green book from his tunic. It was an old copy of The Ship and Gun Drills, U.S. Navy, from 1914. He’d found it in Doc Stevens’s library while rooting for something to read. It was probably on the ship when she was commissioned. Much was obsolete (even for Walker), but it had a rather extensive section on physical exercises, including bayonet and sword drill. The pages were illustrated, too. The bayonet drill translated easily to a short spear, but there was, of course, no mention how to combine the sword work with a shield. It didn’t really matter. The activities on the parade ground were not even slightly similar to the pictures in the book.

  Shinya studied the pages over his shoulder as Alden held the book so he could see. For a moment he reflected how strange it was to be working with a Nip. Sometimes it seemed perfectly natural, but other times his skin practically crawled. A lot had happened in the last few months, but nothing could erase Pearl Harbor or Cavite or the Philippines or the Java Sea. But Shinya hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbor and he couldn’t help being a Jap. And every now and then, God help him, Pete Alden caught himself almost liking him. Not many felt the same. Bernie did, and maybe Garrett. The captain respected him, Pete thought. But the Chief still hated his guts. Gray was a good guy, steady as a rock, but something about Shinya gave him the heebie-jeebies. Alden wondered what it was.

  “Damn,” he said, and slapped the book shut. He handed it to Shinya. “Can you make heads or tails out of that sword shit in there?” he asked.

  Shinya nodded. “I believe so. It seems straightforward. Believe it or not,” he said, grinning, “I actually fenced in college.”

  Pete harrumphed and rolled his eyes. “Just don’t teach ’em any of that Samurai bullshit. We want ’em to stay behind their shields, not run around flailing their swords in all directions. All that’ll do is confuse ’em.”

  Shinya chuckled. “I’m a better fencer than I ever was a practitioner of Master Musashi’s teachings. I learned enough not to shame my father. He was very insistent. But I doubt he was proud of my skill.” His smile faded, and he looked at Alden, expressionless. “You see, the Way is very spiritual,” he explained. “Regrettably, I am not.”

  “Yeah, well. Mmm. Closest thing I ever came to, looked like a sword, is this,” Alden said, grasping the long bayonet at his side, next to the. 45 holster. “Unless you count my granddaddy’s Civil War sword over the fireplace.” Teeth flashed in his bearded face. “I’m not much for this swords and shields shit, but bayonets I can do. And I think it’s time to stir things up.”

  He retrieved one of the six-foot, bronze-bladed spears. “You do the swords. Teach ’em ways to use ’em in the open-we’ll need that too, and maybe first. But also behind shields when they’ve got ’em locked. Ask the captain. He seems to know about that. C’mon, Chack.” He gestured for the Lemurian to follow. “I need your mouth.”

  “What are you going to do?” Shinya asked.

  “Pick a fight.” He motioned toward the middle of the field, where a group of warriors from one of the ships gathered, taunting the recruits. “I’m going to show those Navy cat-monkey types they ain’t as tough as they think they are. No offense, Chack.”

  Chack blinked amused approval. He’d experienced Alden’s “bayonet drills” himself. Together, they waded through the play-fighting troops, and Alden knocked some aside as they went. That got their attention, and some followed in his wake to see what he would do. Eventually they reached the knot of warriors, a group from Fristar. Alden was surprised to see them, since all their High Chief talked about was taking off. They hadn’t done it yet, but it was plain that all these showed up for was trouble.

  They’d formed a rough circle and were pushing and shoving any land folk who came within reach. They were enjoying their game immensely and seemed to think it was at least as effective as the training going on around them. One reached for Alden as he came close, but pulled back when he saw he’d nearly grabbed one of the “Amer-i-caan Wizards.”

  “Go ahead,” Pete said, grinning pleasantly. “I’m a Grik. Kill me.” Chack translated. The Fristar, a wing runner, looked aside at his fellows. One, easily the largest Lemurian Pete had seen, dipped his head. The shorter ’cat gave a high-pitched cry. He leaped at Alden with arms outstretched. The sergeant’s spear blurred. With a yelping, breathless grunt, the wing runner was on his back, looking cross-eyed at the spearpoint inches from his face.

  “You’re dead,” Alden said. “Next?”

  Another troublemaker stepped forward at a nod from the “leader.” This one had a few white hairs lacing his amber coat. His tail twitched back and forth. He accepted a real spear from a companion and assumed a more cautious stance.

  An experienced warrior this time, Alden thought to himself. Good.

  The ’cat held the spearpoint forward, left hand grasping near the blade. His right arm was fully extended behind him, holding the shaft like a harpoon. He crouched and took a step to his right. Lightning-fast, he lunged with the spear. Pete stepped inside the thrust, knocking it aside as he turned and drove the butt of his own spear into his opponent’s midriff. Somehow the Lemurian’s face showed surprise as he doubled over with a “woof!” Pete reversed the spear and made a classic thrust, ending just short of the chest. Then he turned and looked at the gathering crowd. The point he’d made was obvious. One down, one gasping for air, and Pete Alden wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Some of the land folk cheered in their curious high-pitched, chittering way, but Pete knew it was more who he’d bested than how he’d done it. That wasn’t what he wanted to get across. “Chack, speak for me,” he said. He walked in a circle, scowling. Gradually, the cheering faded and he started to speak. Before he could, the big Fristar Lemurian stepped forward. He was tall enough to look Alden in the eye. He wasn’t as heavily built as the Marine, but Pete had to concede that he was probably stronger. Muscle rippled under the dark fur as he drove his spear into the ground in formal challenge. There was a sudden hush.

  “Why do you humiliate the Fristar clan in front of these mud-treaders, Tail-less One? You who is a person of the Great Sea?” Chack translated as he spoke. Pete took a step closer to him and returned his glare.

  “If you’re humiliated it’s not because of anything I’ve done. Your pride makes you believe you’re a better warrior than you are. Besides, among my people, I’m a mud-treader too. Walker has clans, just like you, and we’re all ruled by our High Chief. For us, that’s Captain Reddy. I obey him, but I’m chief of my own clan. The Marines.” He turned and looked at the gathering s
ea of faces. All training stopped as more recruits pressed forward to hear, and maybe see a fight.

  “Among my people, Marines are the warrior clan. All they do is fight. Sometimes they fight at sea and sometimes on land.” He grinned. “Sometimes they even fight in the sky. To Marines it makes no difference. We fight the enemies of our people wherever they are.” He paused, considering. “We’ve made alliance with your people and we’ve seen the Grik for what they are. Your enemy is now the enemy of my people. That makes ’em my enemy and I’ll fight ’em because that’s what I do. In the meantime, it’s my duty to train you to be better fighters. To fight like Marines. That means fighting them anytime, anywhere, at sea or on land. That’s what it’ll take to defeat them.

  “They aren’t coming to steal your things, just to loot and plunder. If the history of your Scrolls is true, they’re coming to wipe you out! Walker’s people are your allies, and that puts them in danger as well. So anything less than your very best makes you my personal enemy! Do I make myself clear?” He turned, snatched the spear out of the ground, and flung it down, accepting the challenge-the formal challenge-that meant blood could be spilled.

  “There! We can fight if you want, and I promise you’ll be dead so fast you won’t even know how it happened.” He looked at Chack. “Or you can fight him, if you’re afraid of me, but he’ll kill you just as fast. Because I taught him how!” He looked at the tall leader of the Fristar group. “So what’ll it be? You want to die? Or do you want to learn how to really kill?”

  The Lemurian returned his stare. Around them, all were silent, expectant… afraid. The formal challenge was rarely made, and when it was, there was almost always only one outcome. All were nervous about the political ramifications. Fristar, at least, would leave the fragile alliance that had been forged at the council. No one really expected the American to lose, and there was always bad blood after a formal challenge was met. The big Lemurian looked down at the spear. He put his foot beside it and, with a grunt, kicked it away, withdrawing the challenge. There was an audible sigh of relief.

  “Then show me, Maa-reen. Show me how to kill.”

  After securing Risa’s laughing promise not to fly to join her “mate,” Chack left her at the parade ground to continue her studies and headed back to Walker. His Home. He didn’t really know when it had occurred, but at some point all the ambitions of his previous life were supplanted by what he’d become. He was no longer a wing runner on Salissa Home. He was a bosun’s mate, in charge of the Lemurian deck division on USS Walker, duly sworn into the Navy of the United States, just as all the accepted “cadets” had been. He had only a vague idea what the United States were, but that made no difference. He’d become a warrior and now he was a destroyerman. He loved Salissa and always would, but he’d changed clans just as surely as if he’d become fas chief of another Home like he once aspired to do. That was an ambition for who he’d been before. He giggled at the irony of his outrage over Silva joining his clan. Now he’d joined Silva’s. That didn’t mean he wanted him for a brother.

  He was encouraged despite Sergeant Alden’s gloom. Unwarlike as he once was, the people of Baalkpan were even worse. Yet at least they were trying. It took actual combat to crack his pacifist shell and his dispassionate evaluation of the land folk as warriors didn’t escape his sense of irony either. He believed they would fight. Some weren’t so sure, but if he could do it, they could too. A lot was riding on it. Most of the Homes in the bay had joined the alliance, but had not committed themselves to offensive operations. They’d taken a wait-and-see approach. The expedition they planned was basically a raid, a reconnaissance in force. The objective was information, primarily, but depending on what they learned, they were prepared to follow up with more attacks. Perhaps, if the Grik were as yet no more numerous than some evidence suggested, they might even defeat them-and fairly quickly. Captain Reddy hoped they could at least cleanse them from the Java Sea and establish a “Malay Barrier” behind which they could further prepare. It was a giddy thought. The captain projected cautious optimism, and Chack envied how he did that. He’d learned a lot about the fantastic war in the other world, and he knew that the mistakes and uncertainty that plagued the Amer-i-caans there now drove Captain Reddy to avoid the same issues here. If they did, they must succeed. Terrible as they were, the Grik couldn’t be as formidable as the Japanese had been.

  In this happy frame of mind, he ambled along, the Krag muzzle down on his shoulder, picking his way through the fishmongers and handcarts that packed the wharf near the pier. He glanced up and saw Walker, snugged to the dock, smoke curling from her aft funnel once more.

  “Chack.”

  He turned, and his heart flipped in his chest. Before him stood Selass, her silken silver fur radiating sunlight. The armor she wore, much like her father’s, flashed with pink-red fire. As always, she was magnificent. She was armed with a scota and was headed for the parade ground herself. He’d seen her there several times, training. Sometimes she sparred with Risa. Chack’s ears lay flat and he bowed low.

  “I greet you, Selass-Fris-Ar. You are well?”

  “I am well…” She paused and blinked sadness. Chack nodded.

  “You still mourn Saak-Fas. I understand. I hope the pain will pass with time.”

  Her eyelids flashed impatiently. “I do not mourn him! If I ever did, the sadness is gone. But… I have another sadness.”

  He blinked concerned query. Her eyes flashed and she almost growled with frustration.

  “You will make me say it, then, I see! Has your revenge not run its course?”

  “Revenge?”

  “Yes, revenge! For leading you on, toying with you, and making you a fool! Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? Saak-Fas was the fool! Now he’s gone… and I am glad. I was wrong about you. I thought you weak. But I also thought you loved me. I hoped you would still want me. Was I wrong about that too? I see you often, yet beyond casual greeting you have not spoken. Will you make me beg?” She blinked furiously. “Very well! I was wrong about Saak-Fas and I was wrong about you. I do want you now!”

  Stunned, Chack could only stare. For so long, his fondest wish was to hear her say such words. Now, though they stirred him, they didn’t bring him joy. They only brought confusion and a trace of sadness. He gently replied.

  “You did not make a fool of me. I did that myself. I was a fool. I was what you thought I was. But I’m no more that person now than a graw-fish is still a graw-fish after it sheds its tail and gills and flies out of the sea. I admire you in many ways, Selass, and am flattered that you desire me. But I do not pine for you. I suppose I do still love you, but it does not consume me as before. I’ve had much else on my mind of late. Your admission and… declaration have come as a surprise. May I consider it? I assure you my aim is not ‘revenge’ or to hurt you in any way. Let us speak again, after the expedition. After we know what sort of war we face. If my answer is still important to you, I will give it then.”

  Shame, sadness, and consternation flashed across her eyelids, but she finally bowed and with a quick nuzzle under his chin that almost crushed his resolve, she flashed away toward the parade ground. For a very long time, he watched her weave through the throng until she was lost to view. With a stab of guilt and astonishment, he realized he’d not even thought about her in weeks. He would have to do that now.

  Matt stood on the bridgewing with a cup of… something in his hand. He grimaced at the foamy brew. He couldn’t remember what Juan called it, but it was the local equivalent of coffee, evidently. It might even be a kind of coffee; it came from crushed, roasted beans. Not many Lemurians drank it. They used it as medicine, as a treatment for lethargy. Matt hadn’t had any before, but it had earned a following among the crew. Some just called it “java” or “joe,” as they always had. A few of the die-hard factionalists called it “cat-monkey joe” or “monkey-cat joe,” but just as “’Cats” was becoming the general compromise term for the Lemurians, “monkey joe” was gaining
steam for the brew. It seemed to follow somehow. Whatever they called it, the stuff sure didn’t look like any coffee Matt had ever seen, although the aroma wasn’t entirely dissimilar. Maybe it was the yellow-green foam.

  The foam slowly dissipated and the liquid beneath was reassuringly black, but there remained a bile-colored ring around the edge. He willed himself to take a sip and tentatively explored it with his tongue. Not bad, he decided, surprised. There was a kind of chalky aftertaste, but that wasn’t unusual for any coffee Juan made. And it did taste like coffee. Not good coffee, but the similarity was enough to fill a dreadful void he hadn’t really recognized. He smiled.

  Walker was tied to the new fueling pier and the special sea and anchor detail was withdrawing the hose from one brimming bunker and preparing to fill another. Chief Gray watched their progress like a hawk, lest they spill any of the thick black fuel oil on his somewhat pale deck. Under the circumstances, Matt doubted that he’d really mind if they did. This transfusion of Walker’s lifeblood had raised everyone’s spirits to such a degree that it would be difficult for even Gray to summon much genuine ire over a splotch on the deck.