Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  “I’m fine,” Jenks protested, “I’m quite all right!”

  “You’ve got a pretty good cut there, Commodore,” Matt said, peeling back the bloody coat and weskit beneath. Jenks had been slashed f but Matt shoulder, across his chest, and upward across his chin. The firing finally began to slack outside, and Stites and the Bosun crawled gingerly over the dead beasts clogging the space at the top of the ladder, pointing their muzzles at them as they crossed.

  “You okay, Skipper?” Stites demanded anxiously.

  “Swell. Commodore Jenks is wounded.”

  Gray pulled a field dressing from a small pouch on his belt and tore it open. Ripping an envelope with his teeth, he leaned down and sprinkled the contents on Jenks’s wound.

  “What’s that?” Jenks demanded.

  “Sulfonamide,” grunted the Bosun. “We’ll get you fixed up with some polta paste pretty quick, but who knows what kinda germs is smeared all over them devils. Better get started on ’em.” Gray fluffed out a wad of gauze and handed it to the man. “Here, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Hold this on, there on your chest—that looks the worst—and keep pressure on it.”

  “Help me up,” Jenks insisted. Together, they assisted him to his feet. “That was . . . extraordinary!”

  “You said it,” confirmed Stites in a loud voice. He shook his head and moved his jaw, trying to pop his ears. “Flyin’ Grik! What about that?”

  “Dragons,” Jenks corrected, wincing, “but perhaps ‘flying Grik’ describes this group better,” he acknowledged. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Never.”

  “Lookout,” Matt said, “what’s he see, Minnie? What are those damn dragon things doing, and what of the enemy fleet?”

  “There no answer from crow nest, Cap-i-taan,” reported the diminutive talker. “Spanky say Grik birds go ’way, fly back to island. He no shoot number four at them no more, you say so. Run low on time fuse shells.”

  “Of course. Tell him to cease firing and secure. Can he see the enemy?”

  Minnie hesitated, listening. “They make sail,” she said. “Warships get between us and transports, transports make smoke—maybe steamers—we too far now to see what tents do, but he think enemy going on transports.”

  Matt nodded. The enemy was moving. But where would they go? They’d done some serious damage, but not enough.

  “Spanky say there even more flying Grik now,” Minnie continued. “He send ’Cat up aft mast wit bin-oculaars. More flying Grik over enemy fleet, but not attacking them.”

  “Amazing!” Jenks said. “It must be true, then.”

  “What?”

  “Think on it! Somehow the Doms have the dragons in their power! They command the beasts! I would’ve never believed it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘in their power’?” Gray grumbled.

  “Why, they’ve trained them somehow, of course! Perhaps from birth. That must be it.”

  “Makes sense, Skipper,” Stites said. “Raise ’em from a chick—or whatever. . . .”

  “Yes!” Jenks agreed. “And feed them, tend their wants, train them to consider you their masters . . . Amazing!”

  “Yeah, but scary as hell,” Matt said. “We were in the middle of maybe winning the war, and got chased off by giant flying lizards!”

  “We can go back, Skipper,” Kutas said gamely.

  “Noo . . . As Spanky said, there’re even more back there. We’re going to have to play something new. We can’t fight the Doms and those things,” he said, gesturing at the corpses behind them. “The gun’s crews would be sitting ducks.” He looked at Jenks. “What kind of range do they have?”

  “The dragons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s an interesting question. They’re rarely seen more than thirty or forty miles offshore.”

  “Guadalupe’s a hell of a lot farther than that from Baja,” Gray said.

  “Indeed,” Jenks agreed. “Perhaps a hundred and fifty miles. No doubt it was a one-way trip, straight out.”

  “Which means there almost had to be ‘handlers,’ or some kind of support for them practically due east.”

  “Which means they’ve been preparing for this a very long time,” noted Jenks darkly. “I begin to fear there may be more than we bargained for, even on New Ireland. I so wish we could pass a message back to the Governor-Emperor!”

  Ed Palmer had appeared on the bridge, staring wide-eyed at the dead, winged . . . things. He shook his head. “I still have nothing from Admiral McClain . . . sirs . . . or any of our ships either. We took a dogleg course, but they were supposed to come straight on to Saint Francis. Maybe they got caught up in the storm northeast of us, or it’s interfering, but I’m thinking they should’ve been in range for us to hear something by now. Our transmitter’s a lot more powerful, and I keep sending our position and intentions . . .” He held out his hands. “Maybe they’re hearing us, but I haven’t heard a peep back.”

  “We’ll hear something in a few days,” Matt said with conviction, “even if only from ‘our’ ships. Simms, Tindal, Mertz, and the oilers are on their way, even if McClain dawdled. They had their orders.”

  Jenks looked at Matt. “I’d like to apologize, Captain Reddy,” he said.

  Matt blinked. “What for? McClain’s probably on his way, as he promised. Even if he is goofing around, it’s not your fault. Besides, you probably saved my life when you went at that . . . dragon bird with a sword—and got cut up for it.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I must apologize for . . . influencing you and your crew to take an unreasonable risk. You were right. They did know we are at war. They can only have trained dragons for the attack we withstood today, and they’d only have gathered at Guadalupe Island to prepare an assault on the colonies. I shouldn’t have made you feel . . . compelled to follow outdated rules.”

  Matt shook his head. “Doing the right thing should never be outdated, but in this war, the ‘right thing’ gets . . . blurry. Don’t worry about it. It took us a while to get used to it too. Maybe it was easier because we were fighting a ‘mean’ war before we ever wound up here.” He frowned. “We would’ve gotten a few more of their ships if we’d shot first, but not many more, and not enough to make a real difference. Only sinking the transports might have done that, and they were too well screened. The dragon birds made the difference in the end.”

  “What’ll we do, Skipper?” the Bosun asked. “We gonna shadow the Doms, keep an eye on what they do, or make for Saint Francis?”

  “rancis. We know it’s got to be their objective, even if we don’t know their plan. Better to warn the colonies and help them prepare for as many contingencies as we can think of. Besides, we burned a lot of fuel today. Shadowing them will cost more—especially if they throw those . . . things at us again. For all we know, they’ve got them as tame as puppies, feeding them and letting them roost on their ships!” He stared hard at the dead creatures on the bridge, their blood beginning to congeal in long, lumpy puddles on the strakes. “We’ll have to do something about them.”

  “What?”

  Matt sighed. “Right now, I have no idea. However they did it, the enemy has air cover and we don’t, basically.” He looked at Minnie. “Secure from general quarters, but maintain condition three . . . as always. Helm, make your course three, five, five, if you please. Two-thirds. Boats, get with Bashear and form a detail to clear my ship of these flying vermin. I want casualty and damage reports as soon as possible.” He looked around. “Does anybody know if the ‘Nancy’ made it through in one piece?”

  Lieutenant Fred Reynolds sat on the deck, leaning on the light gauge “tub” encircling the gun position while its crew cleaned and secured it. His pistol was still in his hand, but the slide was locked back on an empty magazine. His eyes rested on the shattered head of one of the giant lizard birds that lay in the gap at the back of the tub and he shuddered. Suddenly, the exec, Spanky McFarlane, appeared, looking down at him.

  “There you are, Reynolds!�
� he said. “I was starting to think one of those boogers carried you off!” He looked down at the creature at his feet. “Got this one, did you? Well done!”

  Reynolds stood, a little shakily.

  “Here, gimme that,” Spanky said, motioning for the pistol. Fred handed it over, and Spanky released the empty magazine and stuffed it in a pouch on Reynolds’s belt. Taking another, he inserted it, dropped the slide, and flipped the thumb safety up. He handed the pistol back. “Keep that handy,” he said. “Damn things might come back.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Spanky looked around. The day was still cool, but his face glistened with sweat. “A hell of a thing. Listen, round up your crew chief—Jeek, right?—and go over the plane. It looks like it’s mostly in one piece. Skipper wants it ready to fly as soon as possible.” He noticed Reynolds’s suddenly pale expression. “Ready to fly. You ain’t going up with the sea like this. Send any of your fellas that ain’t hurt to Bashear—you got any hurt?”

  “Ah, I’ll find out immediately, sir.”

  “Okay. Make sure they go to the wardroom, even if it’s just a scratch. No tellin’ what they’ll catch from these nasty bastards.” He kicked the dead beast. “Any others you don’t need right away, send ’em to Bashear so we can clear all this buzzard bait off the ship.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. McFarlane,” Reynolds said to Spanky’s back as the man moved on. He took a breath. “Okay, you heard him. Wounded to the wardroom.” The crew from the portside gun had joined them, and he called out a couple of names. “You’re with me,” he said. “We’ll satisfy the ‘condition three’ requirement. The rest, find Bashear. He’ll tell you what to do.” He saw Kari Faask gingerly making her way through the corpses on deck, past the departing ’Cats.

  “You okayshe asked.

  “Swell.”

  A little hesitantly, she hugged him with one arm. The healing wound in her side was still stiff and painful. “You not look swell.”

  “I’m fine. You?”

  “I was in comm shack, safe enough. Mr. Paalmer kept us all there. No weapons.” She shook her head, and her eyes blinked loathing. “Them things sure look like flying Grik!”

  “Yeah.”

  “We fly with them things?” Her tail twitched nervously.

  “Maybe. We need to look the plane over.”

  “I hope it’s busted.”

  Fred snorted and looked at her. “Me too.”

  It wasn’t, at least not too badly. They discovered that, in addition to rocks, some of the “dragon birds” had been carrying and throwing cannonballs! This was further proof they were in league, in some way at least, with the Doms. A big volcanic rock had exploded on impact with the deck and sent some easily patched shards into the fuselage of the “Nancy,” and a cannonball had punched a hole in the starboard wing, just forward of the aileron. Jeek said the hole would take a couple days to fix because it had damaged a stringer and the glue to fix it would take that long to dry—longer if it rained. Kari was clearly disappointed the plane wasn’t wrecked beyond repair.

  The rest of the ship hadn’t suffered too badly. The heavy roundshot had dented the deck like giant hailstones but caused little damage otherwise. A ’Cat had been killed by one, and another had landed on Earl Lanier’s foot, smashing two of his toes. He was hobbling around now, tormenting a single crutch far beyond its capacity and bellowing for somebody to get the “damn, stinking things” cleared away from around the galley “if anybody ever wants to eat again.” Fred saw Tabby come on deck, look around, and seeing Spanky, rush to him and leap at him, enfolding him in a crushing embrace. Awful lot of hugging on this ship today, he mused, feeling a little uncomfortable. He wasn’t the traditionalist some were—like Spanky. Fred was young enough that tradition hadn’t yet seeped into his bones. But even he knew hugging just wasn’t right on a destroyer. Spanky obviously agreed, because he glanced around self-consciously while he peeled Tabby off. Everyone knew he considered her like a daughter, but proprieties must be maintained. Spanky didn’t scold the scarred Lemurian engineering officer, though; he just stood there, listening to her report on the leakage in the steering engine room, which Fred overheard was under control.

  It wasn’t all rosy. Six ’Cats were killed in the aerial attack, and three were “missing,” including the lookout who’d been in the crow’s nest. Doubtless, the “missing” were dead too. Nobody even saw what happened to the lookout. A few men and ’Cats had been wounded, but unless they’d been poisoned or got infected with something the polta paste couldn’t handle, they’d be fine. The light nature of the injuries was confirmed when Fred saw Courtney Bradford on deck, apparently content to let his pharmacist’s mate deal with the “scratches” while he defended a relatively undamaged specimen of the new enemy from Bashear’s detail. Eventually, Captain Reddy himself came in response to Courtney’s shrill cries of outrage and interceded on his behalf, saying, “Cut it up; learn what you can. I particularly want to know what it eats, and your opinion of its intelligence. But get it over the side before dark. Their guts can’t be much different from Grik, and you’ve played with those pl, ap of times.”

  Courtney set to work, and Fred and Kari moved aft.

  “We fly with those things, what we do?” Kari asked.

  Fred shrugged. “We’re faster, I think. We need to have a weapon, though—besides a pistol. Let’s find Campeti or Stites and see what they have to say.”

  The storm in the west either dissipated or moved away, because the threatening clouds gave way to glittering stars when the sun finally sank into the sea. Walker churned north through increasingly quartering swells that maintained her sickening, corkscrewing motion, but she was no longer taking such heavy seas over the bow. The mood in the pilothouse was glum. Everyone knew they’d been on the verge of a momentous victory; one that might’ve even finished “this” war, at least for the time being, and allowed them to go “home” and get on with what many considered their “bigger business.” To be deprived of that victory and chased away by animals—and very Grik-like animals at that—left some a little confused, thoughtful, and reevaluating their priorities. Most of Walker’s crew had fought in the Naval Battle of Scapa Flow, and it had been a bitter contest. Only a few had been ashore to see just how much like the Grik the troops of the Dominion behaved. Now a majority was beginning to realize that, regardless how different in some ways, this was the same war they’d already been fighting: a war against monsters bent on the destruction of people. That’s what it came down to, in the end.

  “What’ve you got, Courtney?” Matt asked when Bradford stumped up the stairs from aft. His clothes were bloody, but his hands were clean. Jenks was behind him, walking carefully. His wounds had been treated and he’d be fine, but the curative paste of the Lemurians had a slightly intoxicating effect.

  “You were right,” Bradford said. “Very Grik-like in most respects. The same, if even lighter hollow bones. A similar, though more colorful, downy covering. The wing structure is the greatest difference, but even the bones that support it look like radically elongated arm and finger bones! Of course, the musculature of the torso is different and more robust. I’m vaguely reminded of a pigeon.” He shook his head. “The proliferation and adaptation of the basic form is quite astonishing! First we had the various ‘races’ of Grik. Then Mr. Chapelle’s and Mr. Mallory’s expedition to recover Santa Catalina and her cargo revealed an amphibious species.... Now we have one that flies!”

  “You once said it yourself, Courtney,” Matt reminded him. “On this world, Grik, or creatures like them, have risen to the top of the evolutionary heap.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Bradford agreed with a frown. “Not only are they the most dominant life-form we’ve come across, they’re even more physically adaptable to their various environments than we ever suspected.” He glanced apologetically at the ’Cats in the pilothouse. “Physically adaptable,” he repeated. “Like us meager humans, our Lemurian friends have had to, and been able to rely on m
ental adaptability to survive. Hand to hand, no human or Lemurian is a match for any of the . . . hmm . . . perhaps semireptilian?” He scratched his balding head.

  “Courtney.”

  “Excuse me, indeed. As I’ve long maintained, we’re no match for them physically, but we appear to have an advantage when it comes to our capacity for imagination. The enemy in the west has developed a competitive technology only with the aid of humans, past and present. Here, these ‘lying Grik,’ these ‘dragons,’ are the tools of our human enemy. They’re a disconcerting weapon, but that’s all they are. Our enemy here remains the humans that control them.”

  “Okay,” agreed Matt, “so how does that work?”

  Courtney nodded at Jenks. “The dragons have a similar brain capacity to other Grik. Perhaps slightly less, but not significantly. Still, greater than we’ve ever seen them demonstrate—with the exception of our own dear Lawrence and the rest of his people, no doubt. This is likely due to cultural imperatives and . . . well, their very physical perfection. Their lethality as predators has perhaps subdued requirements for imaginative thought. In other words, they’re so good at what they do, they don’t need to think about ways to improve!”

  “Well . . . what makes Lawrence different?”

  “I can only presume, as an island race, his people have had to imagine more efficient methods of survival than chasing prey and eating it. Their resources were limited, and they had to imagine and learn skills such as boatbuilding, fishing, even agriculture. The same may even be true of the ‘jungle’ Grik Mr. Silva discovered. It’s possible Lawrence’s people might have ultimately evolved along lines similar to those in the swamps of Chill-Chaap and become famous swimmers, but I believe they’d already crossed the figurative ‘Rubicon.’ ”

  “That’s amazing,” Matt said, truly impressed, “but that still leaves us with how do the Doms control their lizard birds?”