Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  “My lord,” Rolak said, addressing Matt, “we were mistaken. Somehow, the beast still lives. Clearly, the punishment we expected for him was far too mild.” He grinned horribly. “Or perhaps even the Grik could not stomach the thought of eating him!”

  Matt’s first reaction was one of rage. He hated Rasik-Alcas more than any living creature—but he hadn’t known he was living, had he? The bastard was responsible for the death of Harvey Donaghey, and probably Tom Felts and half a dozen other destroyermen as well. God knew how many Lemurian lives were lost to his treachery. Matt started to order Rolak to hack the miserable murderer down. Then his hand strayed to his Academy sword. He’d do it himself! Pulling the sword free with a snarl, he took a step forward.

  “Ah, Skipper?”

  “What, Pete?” Matt snapped.

  “Well, hold on just a second. Please.”

  Matt paused, blood thundering in his ears, and looked back at Alden. The chamber was large, but much was in shadow. Large, arched passages that once opened upon a balcony were covered over with planks. The full heat of the day pounded against the wooden barriers, radiating inward. It was hard to see anything, though, except for Rasik and Rolak, who stood in a beam of light that must have been purposely channeled to rest upon the throne.

  “We ain’t alone in here, Skipper,” Pete said.

  For the first time, Matt peered hard into the gloom. Evidently, Gray did too, because there came a muttered, “Shit!” and the unmistakable sound of the Thompson’s bolt being yanked back.

  “My God,” Matt said. He could now discern other figures in the chamber that he’d missed in his single-minded concentration on the Aryaalan king. Half a dozen forms stood stationary along the walls, each covered by two or more Marines. At first, he thought he must be imagining things, that the gloom was playing tricks on his vision, but he quickly realized that wasn’t the case. They were lizards. Grik. He’d seen quite enough of the monsters to identify them at a glance. These were the real thing, not aboriginals or a different species like Lawrence. These were the exact same creatures they’d come here to fight, but here they stood, almost alone, and their reaction to the situation wasn’t right at all.

  “What the hell’s going on here, Mr. Alden?” Matt demanded, pausing his killing advance on Rasik.

  “Damned if I know, Skipper. We came in here and found ’em like this: Rasik on his fancy chair and a bunch of lizards standing around like guards. His guards. Lord Rolak went to kill the bastard and he told the Griks to defend him! It’s been like this since: Rolak ready to stick Rasik and the lizards ready to fight. Wouldn’t be much of a fight,” he added, “but, well, I figured you ought to see it.”

  “Rolak?”

  “The beast says they are his ‘children,’ his ‘pets.’ They do seem willing to defend him. Just as odd, he spoke to them in the language of the People, which he must have taught them.”

  “Ask them what this is all about!” Matt ordered.

  “I tried. I think they even answered me, but I could not understand. They seemed to understand me, though, and I managed to get them to lower their weapons, at least.”

  Matt had never personally met the Aryaalan king, but that didn’t matter. They knew each other through their deeds. He was glad he’d finally polished his ’Cat enough to vent his rage without an interpreter: “Rasik, you sick bastard! I figured when we left you here, you’d wind up on a stick! I thought that a fitting punishment for what you did. Even then, I never dreamed you’d collaborate with these monsters! They killed your people, your city! Have you seen what they did outside? Have you even been outside?”

  Rasik turned his gaze upon the captain, the hate and madness still bright. “I did not ‘collaborate,’ you fool! I fled! I went into the wilderness with my few loyal guards and we evaded the Grik and sometimes killed them. We even fed upon them, on occasion,” he added with some satisfaction. “But I stayed when all my people left me, left our sacred city to the Grik! You are to blame for what has befallen us! You led this evil here! If you had not come, all would be as it has always been. We would have defeated the first, smaller Grik horde and then turned our attention back to B’mbaado! Well, that city is mine now too, as is all of Jaava! None remain to contest me; even the Grik have fled! But I stayed. I stayed! All this land is mine!”

  Rasik’s rant was so wildly untrue and preposterous, Matt couldn’t even bring himself to respond to it. Instead, he looked at the Grik guards. “Not all the Grik fled, it seems. If you didn’t collaborate with them, why do they protect you?”

  “A simple thing. They collaborated with me. They are not the same as the vermin that infested my city. They are some of those that scattered after the battle I so wisely kept my warriors”—Rasik paused and glared at Rolak—“most of my warriors from joining. My companions and I hunted them at first,” he admitted, “like any Grik. We did not know the difference. When we discovered they were different, we . . . allowed them to enlist in our army of liberation! Never have there been such loyal troops! Lift a finger against me and they will strike you down and eat your bones!” Rasik chuckled and it sounded like a wood rasp dragged across a rock. “We came to hurl the invaders from my city and discovered it all but abandoned! The horde must have learned that I was coming to reap my revenge! All that remained were a few feral Grik, like are known to inhabit the islands nearby. Their masters must have left them here.” Rasik flicked his wrist. “We disposed of them.”

  Matt wondered whether the crucified creature downstairs was one such Rasik had “disposed” of, and if all had been given similar treatment.

  “Where are your other ‘companions,’ king?” asked Rolak. The word “king” dripped sarcasm.

  “They were like you, Lord Rolak,” Rasik replied matter-of-factly, with equal sarcasm. “They were disloyal. They disobeyed me just like you and I was forced to punish them.”

  “So,” Matt said, taking a few steps closer. “Now you’re the uncontested king of all Aryaal, all Java—with nothing but a handful of Grik for subjects!”

  “My people will return!” Rasik hissed. “They will return now that I have driven the Grik away!”

  “You didn’t drive them away,” Matt retorted harshly, unable to stomach Rasik’s lies any longer. “ ‘Your’ people did!” He paused. “They did it, Rasik, and they have returned! They’ve come back to scour this city and make it their own again. They left you, sure enough, but they left you here to die.”

  “You did that!” Rasik screeched.

  “Yeah, I did, and I’m sorry. I should have killed you then, like your people said I should!”

  “Guards!” shouted Rasik, turning toward “his” Grik.

  “Wait!” yelled Matt, in Lemurian. “You say you think they’ll understand me?” he quickly asked Rolak.

  “Yes, lord . . . if you are careful about your accent!”

  Matt ignored the jibe. “You . . . you Grik warriors,” he said carefully. “Listen to me. This creature is evil. . . . Do you know what that means?” Rasik prepared a shouted retort, but Rolak waved his sword point to regain his attention. “He has led you down a false path, a dark path . . . a wrong path. He does not want what is best for you, only for himself. He sacrificed his own people to his selfishness and he’s ready to do it again. To sacrifice you.” Matt rubbed his eyes, hoping he was getting through. “If you try to fight us, you will die. That’s the truth. You won’t even get any of us.” He nodded toward the Marines covering each of the creatures. “If you put your weapons down and come with us, you’ll be well treated; I promise! You’ll never be ‘prey,’ and you’ll never have to be afraid again. I’m the commander of the forces that defeated you to begin with, the forces that defeated your Invincible Swarm and finally drove your people from this city. I have the power to make this promise, and it is a promise! Think of it! Plenty of food, nothing to fear”—he looked at Rasik—“and no more dying at the whim of a wild, unfeeling traitor. A traitor that made prey of his own people and would do the same to y
ou!” There was total silence. “Think on it!”

  Suddenly, with what almost sounded like a whimper, a sword fell to the floor. Then another. Incredulous, Rasik squirmed on his throne to see, but anything he might have said was silenced when Rolak’s blade caressed his neck. The rest of the Grik weapons hit the floor with a cacophonous crash and Matt felt a wild feeling of relief . . . and something else.

  “Goddamn,” muttered Gray. “Skipper, you just talked to Grik!”

  I just talked to Grik! Matt screamed to himself. What does it mean? What can it mean? Quickly but carefully, since no Grik was ever unarmed, the Marines rounded up the prisoners—Grik prisoners!—and led them from the chamber. Matt took a deep breath and looked around. Pete still seemed speechless, as shocked as he was, and Jenks—he’d forgotten Jenks was even there—was looking at him with a very strange expression. He turned back to Rasik.

  “Well,” he said. “Left to die again. Somehow, you just don’t inspire much loyalty, King Alcas!”

  “Am I to die?” Rasik asked. His madness seemed to have passed with his illusion of power and his eyes had grown wide with fright.

  “Just as soon as it can be arranged,” Matt promised him.

  “I would so enjoy killing him, my lord,” Rolak crooned.

  “Me too, but we need to do it right. For now, we’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up around here,” he said grimly. “Then we’ve got to decide what to do next. Maybe even learn something from our prisoners.” He stopped and shook his head. He needed time to wrap his mind around that. He wished Bradford were here! Or Lawrence. Maybe Rebecca’s companion would have some insight. “I want to push on toward Singapore, see what things are like there. Maybe we can take it back too. For some reason, the enemy seems to be abandoning his forward outposts. Anyway, we’ll be stuck here for a little while. There’ll be plenty of time for a trial for ‘His Majesty’ and we’ll boost morale for his former subjects with a proper, first-class hanging.” He glanced at his watch and turned to leave. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

  “Wait!” cried Rasik. Matt kept walking. “Wait!” Rasik screeched with the voice of a terrified youngling. Matt paused in the doorway.

  “What?” he snapped. “I’ve got a lot to do, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re to blame for most of it. We might have saved some of those people out there on poles if it wasn’t for you, damn you! The sooner you’re dead, the happier I’ll be!”

  “After I’m dead,” Rasik said, gaining a little control over his voice, “you will never know what I found while I wandered in the wilderness!”

  “What you found?”

  “Yes. I think you might find it quite interesting . . . possibly even worth my life.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Contact!” Ben Mallory shouted, warning Tikker that things were about to happen. Fast. They’d just completed the exhaustive, perhaps even mildly paranoid checklist he’d devised in the naive hope he’d somehow managed to foresee every glitch and imponderable characteristic his “creation” might throw at them. In spite of his excitement, Ben was more than a little nervous. He knew airplanes—particularly the high-performance pursuit planes he’d trained in—but in spite of the workmanlike proficiency he’d gained in the old PBY Catalina, he’d known it had a lot of idiosyncrasies he’d never figured out. Most of them probably had to do with its being a seaplane. His takeoffs and landings had never been all that hot, and that still bothered him. Now he was about to try to fly a seaplane that, essentially, he’d designed, without the benefit of any of the cumulative wisdom that had gone into the Catalina. Maybe “nervous” wasn’t really the right word.

  The water of the bay was a little restless, with a light, uneven chop, but the wind was right and the sky seemed docile enough. The X-PB-1, as he referred to the plane, or “Nancy,” as everyone else had taken to calling it, after his first, ill-considered description, floated in the middle of the bay where it had been towed by Mahan’s launch, and all the area for a good distance in every direction had been cleared of harbor shipping. Other boats bobbed at regular intervals, ready to race to their aid if something . . . unpleasant happened. Ben hoped it wouldn’t. Experiments had shown that if they crashed into the water, even in the bay, they had a life expectancy of between four and six minutes before the “flashies” arrived and tore them to shreds. Of course, they had to survive the crash itself before that little tidbit of information would be relevant.

  Ben was unhappy about the seemingly universally accepted moniker. The plane hadn’t ultimately wound up looking anything like a Nancy—one of the NC, or Navy-Curtiss, flying boats. It still looked more like a miniature PBY to him, although a comparison to a Super-marine Walrus was probably even closer. He was damned if he’d even mention that.

  “Contact,” Tikker confirmed, while Ben stood precariously and turned toward the propeller. He felt as if he were attempting the feat in a canoe. He almost fell when an errant wave bounced the port wing float and slapped the starboard float against the sea.

  “Jeez!” he chirped, trying to brace himself. He reached back and grasped one of the blades. At least he felt confident about the propeller. They’d “tracked” it while the engine was on the stand, and run it at different RPMs to check for resonant vibration and balance. The first one flew apart and nearly killed “Mikey” Monk, but they quickly improved the design. Bernie and Campeti finally came up with a scheme for a machine like a Springfield stock carver that they could use to make perfect props every time, as well as musket stocks. He pushed the blade up as high as he could reach, then brought it down with all his might. Much to his gratification, his prototype engine coughed instantly to life, and with a burbling, liquid fart, the propeller blades blurred before him. His back screamed in agony as he pulled something important trying to keep from falling into the prop. Improvement number one—he winced—some kind of rail behind the cockpit for the pilot to hang onto so the engine doesn’t eat him!

  Painfully, he turned and tried to get in the seat, but tripped on the stick and sprawled forward, across the windscreen. The stick poked him savagely in the crotch. He had no idea what kind of sound he made over the suddenly coughing engine, but doubted it was very manly. Aft, behind the motor, Tikker sprang up like . . . well, a cat, and hosed fuel at the carburetor with one of Mahan’s bug sprayers. The engine farted again, ran up, then started to cough. Somehow, Ben managed to form an objective thought: Okay. Have to figure out a whole new start-up procedure. He slid down into his wicker seat and for a moment just sat there, gasping sympathetically with the motor while trying to remember where the throttle was through the waves of pain. His vision cleared as the tears evaporated and he pushed the suddenly visible throttle knob forward. Tikker had been keeping the engine alive with the bug sprayer, but now it caught and settled into a healthy-sounding rumble.

  Before he could grab it, Ben’s six-page checklist flew past his face, into the prop, and showered Tikker with confetti. Oh, well, he thought. Saves me the effort of tearing it up. He settled in his seat, getting a feel for things, and put the control surfaces through their paces once more. So far, so good. The engine had settled down and sounded swell. He felt the plane begin to accelerate slightly beneath him and glanced up. That’s funny. What’s the launch doing there? The boat was racing straightaway, almost directly in front of him. Oh. Damn. There’s the city, too! The plane must have bobbed around in a circle while he was concentrating on getting it started and staying alive. He pushed the right rudder pedal to the floorboard, and the plane began turning south again, completing the circle it had begun on its own. Enough, he thought. The vaudeville show’s over. Time to get this crate in the air! He yelled for Tikker to hang on, but doubted the ’Cat heard him. He realized improvement number three was some kind of voice tube so he could communicate with his air crew.

  Pointing roughly toward the mouth of the bay, he advanced the throttle. The propeller became invisible and the awkward-looking craft picked up speed. Okay, fairly responsive. Let’s give it som
e more! He pushed the throttle to the stop. His creation had no flaps. The PBY hadn’t had any and he’d hoped they wouldn’t be needed. It was a seaplane, after all, and runway length shouldn’t be an issue. He’d hoped. “C’mon,” he muttered. The engine roared behind him, a little quieter now, and the prop was spinning—disconcertingly close—as fast as it could. The plane increased speed until it began to skip across the top of the water, but he couldn’t seem to get it up. “C’mon!” he yelled, pulling back a little on the stick. The nose came off the water, but he felt it catch the wind! “Whoa!” he yelped, pushing back on the stick just a bit. His heart raced and he wondered how close he’d come to flipping the plane on its back. CG—center of gravity—is too far aft. I was afraid of that, he thought. Too much ass in her britches, like a P-39. He wondered why he’d done that. Was he trying to make a pursuit ship out of a floatplane? Chances were she’d be pretty nimble, but he was growing more concerned about the plane’s stability. He concentrated on holding the stick where it was, still building speed. Might need flaps after all, he thought.

  Suddenly, amazingly, the hull left the water and the contraption was in the air! He risked a glance back at Tikker, but the ’Cat was whirling madly on the crank that retracted the wing floats. He looked to the side. Sure enough, the floats were coming up—slowly. Damn. Need a little more mechanical advantage there. The floats had seemed to come up fast enough when they tested them, but that was on dry land, with no drag. Number five.

  Once the plane was off the water, it practically rocketed into the sky. Again, he wondered if there was some seaplane mystery he was unaware of. He eased back on the stick and knew they had enough thrust at last to keep the nose from trying to flip them. He’d actually foreseen that to a degree, and intended that the high-mounted engine should counteract just such a tendency. He hadn’t had any real formula to base his calculations on, but it seemed to be working . . . sort of. That might have been what kept them down so long too, though. Oh, well, that’s what test flights are for!