Crusade d-2

by Тейлор Андерсон

  Now, most of the diners had returned to their duties or joined the party on deck, leaving only the captain, Sandra, Jim, Keje, and Bradford himself. Without fanfare, the grisly thing reappeared upon the table. «This is the face our own world would have taken if whatever killed the dinosaurs. hadn’t,» Bradford announced muzzily, interrupting the conversation at the other end of the table.

  «Probably,» Matt agreed. They’d had this talk before. He began to resume his conversation with Jim.

  «But have you considered,» Bradford plowed on, «that maybe this is the way it should have been? Just look at this thing!» he demanded. «Similar brain capacity, large eyes, wicked, wicked teeth! Obviously a far better-adapted natural predator than we!» The rest of the group reluctantly turned their attention to the Australian. He was on a roll, and even drunk, whatever he said was bound to be interesting.

  «Well, there’s no doubt they’re intelligent,» agreed Ellis grudgingly, «and they’re certainly better fighters on land than at sea. I don’t see how that makes them ‘better natural predators’ than us. We beat them.»

  «Ah,» said Bradford, controlling a belch, «but we beat them with our minds, not our bodies. Only superior technology won the day, in the end. Consider: as far as we know, humanity has not risen on this world. We may be its only poor representatives. Where we come from, man is the greatest predator, but here that’s not the case. Here» — he tapped the skull" this creature — or similar races — might predominate all over the globe.» He shifted his bleary stare to Keje. «Even on the islands that the People control, there are Grik, are there not? You’ve said so yourself.» He paused. «We’ve seen them,» he remembered. «Primitive, aboriginal, but plainly related to the more sophisticated enemy we face.» Keje nodded, peering intently at the man.

  «What’s your point, Mr. Bradford?» Sandra asked quietly. The Australian’s fatalistic tone was giving her the creeps.

  «It’s quite simple, my dear. We all, myself included, have from the beginning considered the world we came from to be the ‘normal’ one — the ‘right’ one — and this world the aberration.» He blinked. «No offense, my dear Captain Keje.» The Lemurian blinked acknowledgment. «But if you compare just the sheer physical lethality, there’s no way we humans would ever have evolved to become ‘top dog,’ as you Americans so aptly put it, if these creatures had anything to say about it» His belch finally escaped. «Back home, that is. Here, we would have been an evolutionary impossibility. excuse me, please.»

  «But what about the ’Cats?» asked Matt. Bradford shrugged.

  «They apparently evolved more recently, in an isolated environment — Madagascar, I am quite sure. Two sentient species rising independently, but necessarily separate or it could never have taken place.» He stared at the skull. «At least Idat He was known as a malcontent malingerer and chances were he’d turn up in a day or so. Where could he go?

  Matt suddenly realized that Sandra’s small, soft hand had found its way into his own. Clearing his throat, he released her fingers so he could ostentatiously adjust his hat. He glanced around, but the bridge watch all seemed preoccupied with their duties.

  «It’s hard to watch them go,» Sandra murmured beside him. He nodded. To the south and east, the sky was clear and the harsh glow of the morning sun touched the wave tops with fire. To the north, however, the sky seemed smeared with a muddy brush. He stepped away from Sandra, heading toward the opposite wing, glancing up through the windows as he walked, until he saw the sky beyond the city in the west-northwest. Across the horizon, a great black mass was forming, as dark as the blackness of night. Wispy stringers of gray and white crawled across it like snakes, or worms. In spite of the morning heat, he felt a chill as Sandra joined him.

  «Keje said this was the stormy time of year,» he whispered nervously.

  «What’s that?» she asked.

  «Something bad.»

  Rick Tolson was having the time of his life. He’d always loved the sea — even as a kid, having run away aboard a fishing schooner when he was ten. He hadn’t enjoyed that life, to be honest, but it taught him a lot about the sea and sails and how to be a man. When he returned as a prodigal son, his father arranged for him to spend the summers with the crew of a sixty-five-foot racing yacht named Bee that belonged to a wealthy Chesapeake-area business associate of his. All through high school, the summers found Rick converting the wind into raw speed. While other kids his age worked at gas stations and soda fountains, he got paid (a meager salary) to play, racing against the other sleek play-things of the rich.

  He learned everything, and by the time he went to college he’d commanded Bee in several high-stakes races and won, always against newer and faster competitors. In college he didn’t have much time for racing, since he took summer classes as well, but he always had a place aboard the Bee when he went home on weekends. He also joined the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps — against his father’s wishes — and that was how he’d wound up here. He was glad.

  Not in his wildest boyhood fantasies had he imagined that a Navy life would put him in command of what was, for all intents and purposes, a square-rigged frigate. Like Stephen Decatur, Isaac Hull, or Porter before Valparaiso, he was living the life of his childhood heroes with the greatest assignment any frigate captain could ask for: independent command. It was a fantasy come true, and he was loving every minute of it. Revenge was fast — by Lemurian standards — and surprisingly well made considering her builders. The Grik had taken her draft directly from the lines of the stout, fast-sailing British East Indiamen, and it was obvious now that they’d captured one centuries before and used it as a pattern — scaled up or down — ever since. Revenge had one major difference, of course. She was armed with twenty guns. More a ship-sloop than a frigate, in the old scheme of things, where a ship’s class was reckoned by how many guns she carried, but «frigate» sure sounded better.

  Rick’s crew was entirely Lemurian, with the exception of an ordnance striker named Gandy Bowles, fresh off of Mahan, who’d been jumped to «master gunner.» The rest of the crew couldn’t love their ship, remembering constantly what she represented. Despite everything they did to eliminate it, the cloying scent of her previous owners and what they’d doe he well lingered, and that didn’t help. They loved the idea of her, however, and they were ecstatic about what she could do. She was faster and more maneuverable than the stolid, plodding Homes — and faster than any other Grik ship they’d encountered. They’d encountered several. Rick remembered each action with a warm glow of excitement. All had been stragglers or scouts and showed no concern as Revenge drew near. She was one of theirs, wasn’t she? All were destroyed.

  Revenge’s speed was due primarily to some innovative rig improvements that Rick and his crew came up with, and he liked to think his racing background helped. Also, in spite of her guns, she wasn’t as heavy as other Grik ships. Her crew was smaller and she didn’t carry a regiment of warriors and their supplies everywhere she went. That might be a problem if the enemy ever grappled, but so far, Revenge had destroyed her surprised victims from beyond the range of even the enemy’s shipboard bomb throwers. Whatever the reasons for her success, Revenge had been a wolf on the prowl for the better part of three weeks now, earning her name in spades, and the enemy had no idea she was even there. Rick felt like Robert Louis Stevenson had written this part of his life and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

  «Good morning, Cap-i-taan,» greeted Kas-Ra-Ar as the Lemurian joined him on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

  «Morning, Kas.» Rick smiled. «A brisk day and a stiff wind.» He glanced aloft at the single-reefed topsails overhead.

  «When should we expect the plane, do you think?» Kas asked. Every four days, the PBY flew out and rendezvoused with them so it could carry a report of their sightings back to Surabaya. The latitude wasn’t prescribed for the meetings, but the longitude was. That way, the Catalina could just follow the line north until they met. In theory. Revenge’s consorts
tried to stay in line of sight, and they would signal her with any sightings they made as well. Once, amazingly, they encountered a Lemurian Home headed north into the China Sea. They closed to speak to her and had nearly taken a fusillade of the giant crossbow bolts for their efforts. They finally managed to convince the Home they weren’t Grik (an understandable mistake) and they passed them the news of the war. That news came as quite a shock, since these people hadn’t even known there was a war. They told Kas they might go to Baalkpan, or they might not. They did turn around and head south.

  «Sometime this afternoon, I think,» Rick replied to his sailing master’s question. «We’re farther north than they probably expect us, but not close enough to Singapore for Mallory to worry about being seen.»

  «Will the plane try to find us if there is a storm?» Kas asked, nodding toward the horizon. Rick had been watching the growing clouds since dawn.

  «You’ve got me there. If it gets bad, no.» Rick snorted. «If it was me, I wouldn’t let them fly the only bloody airplane in the world if the wind was over five miles an hour.» He glanced at his second in command and then pointed at the sky. «Do you think it’ll get bad?»

  Kas cocked his head to one side and blinked. «It is difficult to say. Possibly. This is the stormy time of year.»

  «So everyone keeps saying,» grumbled Rick.

  A silence stretched between them, but it was broken by a high-pitched cry from the maintop. «Deck there! Sail!»

  Rick snatched a speaking trumpet. «Where away?»

  There was a short pause while the lookaboring. «Two points the left. the port bow!»

  Rick scrambled into the port main shrouds and secured himself as best he could. Then he raised his binoculars. Yes! There she was, running toward them under all plain sail. Probably trying to escape the storm building behind them, Rick mused. «Shake that reef out of the fore-tops’l!» he shouted. «We’ll wait till they get closer. Act like we’re turning to run, too. We’ll rake him as we turn!»

  He beamed down at Kas-Ra-Ar. «One way or another, it’s going to be an interesting day!»

  «Captain, the launch is alongside.»

  Matt nodded. «Single up all lines and prepare to cast off.»

  The rain was falling in sheets now, and he could barely see past the fo’c’sle. He was accustomed to the dense squalls of the region, but this was different. He could feel the power behind the thing. He wondered fleetingly if this would be the event that snatched them back where they belonged? For some reason, in spite of everything, he caught himself hoping it wasn’t. Jim was right. Back home, Walker was just another over-age ’can. If they didn’t break her up and scatter her crew through the fleet, she’d probably spend the war towing targets for newer, more capable ships to practice against. Here, she and her people could make a difference. They had already begun.

  «The work detail is back aboard and the launch is hooking on,» Dowden reported as he entered the pilothouse. Water coursed down his saturated clothes and drained away through the strakes at his feet. The work detail had been winching the screw onto shore, raft and all, so that working against the dock wouldn’t damage it.

  The talker spoke again. «Radio says Lieutenant Mallory’s about to turn north, but it’s getting pretty boogery up there — his words — and he wants to know if you still want him to rendezvous with Revenge.»

  «No sense. He can’t set down even if he spots her. Tell him to make for Baalkpan. Fly around the storm if he can — he should have plenty of fuel.»

  The attention of the bridge watch was diverted by another figure entering the pilothouse. It was Keje. He must have come over on the launch that delivered Courtney Bradford, Sandra Tucker, and a few others to Big Sal. Matt sent them with the explanation that it wasn’t wise to keep all their eggs in one basket. Also, since they weren’t critical to the operation of the ship, it made no sense for them to endure a major storm aboard Walker—given her less than sedate performance in heavy seas. It would result only in unnecessary suffering. Bradford went with an appreciative smile, but Sandra had been reluctant. Matt finally traded heavily on her professional concern for the wounded that remained on Big Sal. Most had been shipped home on Fristar, but not all. As to her suspicious concern regarding his own injuries, he blithely reassured her that he’d take it easy.

  «Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Reddy.»

  «Hello, Keje. I’m glad to see you, but we’re about to cast off. It looks like we’re going to have some of that ‘stormy’ weather you talked about.»

  Keje nodded agreement as he wrung water from his fur. «Indeed. Quite stormy.»

  «Well.» Matt paused, unsure how to continue. «Shouldn’t you be with your ship?»

  «Unnecessary. Both her feet are out,» he said, referring to the gi

  Matt looked at his friend for a moment, expressionless. «That’s fine, Keje,» he said at last. «Glad to have you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word, though. What’s a Strakka?»

  Keje waved his hand. «I don’t know if there is a proper word to describe Strakka in Amer-i-caan. The closest I can think of might be. typhoon? Is that it?»

  «You know what a typhoon is?» Matt asked with surprise. «Those are storms we only used to get in deeper waters than the Java Sea.»

  «Yes. Mr. Bradford described the typhoon very well. It did sound like a Strakka, but on a different scale.»

  Matt smiled. «Yeah, a typhoon’s as bad as they come. But you’re in for a heck of a ride aboard Walker in any kind of storm!» There was knowing laughter in the pilothouse.

  Keje looked at him and blinked. «No. You misunderstand. A typhoon is bad, but a Strakka.» He smiled tolerantly. «A Strakka can be much, much worse!»

  The Mice had wedged themselves between the forward air lock of the aft fireroom and the access-hatch ladder. Nearby, clutching the grating as if the ship itself was trying to shake her loose, Tabby continued the dry retching that had wracked her small body since the storm began. Isak’s and Gilbert’s stoic expressions belied the real concern they felt for their furry companion. The monumental cacophony of sound was stunning even to them. The blowers howled as they sucked the sodden air, and the tired hull thundered and creaked as the relentless sea pounded against it. Condensed moisture rained from every surface to join the nauseating sewer that crashed and surged in the bilge as the ship heaved and pitched. The firemen on watch weren’t doing much either, just holding on as best they could and trying to supervise the gauges and fires.

  «Reckon she’s gonna die?» Gilbert Yager asked, peering through the muck that streaked his face. As close as they were, he still had to shout for Isak Rueben to hear him. Even Tabby’s soggy tail lay still — he’d never seen that before. Her ordinarily fluffy light-gray fur was almost black, and plastered to her body like it had been slicked down with grease.

  «Nah,» Isak Rueben reassured him after a judicious glance. «Poor critter’s just a little seasick, is all. Must be sorta’ embarrassin’ for her to be seasick after spendin’ her whole life at sea.» He was thoughtful. " ’Course, on them big ships o’ theirs, I don’t reckon it ever gets quite this frisky. Don’t carry on so. You’ll make her feel worse.»

  Gilbert looked at the exhausted, wretched, oblivious form.

  «Okay. She wouldn’t want us coddlin’ her.» He paused. «Damned if I ain’t feelin’ a little delicate myself,» he admitted, glancing around the dark, dank, rectangular compartment. He could certainly feel the violent motion of the ship, but the only visual evidence was the sloshing bilge and the way the condensation sometimes fell sideways. «Now I know how those idiots who go over Niagara Falls in a barrel feel.»

  The air lock beside them opened, but the «whoosh» was lost in the overall din. Spanky McFarlane spilled out onto the grating, nearly landing atopcloe="3»>«Seasick, we figger,» Isak told him.

  «What’s she doin’ here? If she’s that sick, she ought’a be in her rack.» Spanky remembered then that he hadn’t seen Tabby for a couple of days.

  «S
he was,» Gilbert confirmed. «She crawled down here today.

  The roll’s just as bad, but there ain’t so much pitch. Maybe she’ll feel better.»

  Spanky hesitated. «Well, try to get her to drink something. She’ll get dehydrated.»

  The Mice nodded in unison. «Say, how’re things topside?» Isak asked, uncharacteristically interested in something besides the fireroom. Spanky blew his nose into his fingers and slung the ejecta into the bilge.

  «It’s a booger,» he said. «It’s startin’ to taper off a little now, though. I just came from the bridge and, I’m telling you, that was a ride! It’s a miracle we haven’t lost anybody overboard. Even the lifelines have carried away!» Spanky was thoroughly soaked, but that alone wasn’t proof he’d been on deck. The Mice were soaked too. «Skipper’s been up there ever since the storm hit and he looks like hell. Lieutenant Tucker would give him a shot to put him out if she was here — and if she had one. The man needs rest, with his wounds and all. Other than that, the damage ain’t as bad as you’d think. Antenna aerial’s gone. Took the top of the resonance chamber with it so the radio’s out.» He saw their blank expressions. «You know that big pointy cylinder on the back bridge rail, right next to the main blower vent? Looks like a great big bullet?»

  «You mean that’s what makes the radio work?» Gilbert asked, amazed.

  ". Yeah. Anyway, the launch is wrecked too. Hell, it crashed on the deck right over your heads.» The Mice looked at him and then up at the deck above. They hadn’t heard a thing. «The life rafts are gone — not that I’d ever get on one of those things on this ocean — and we’ve lost just about everything else that wasn’t bolted down.» He patted the railing under his hand. «But the old girl’s doin’ okay — on one engine too. I think Skipper’s more worried about Mahan than anything. As usual. If she got hit as hard as we did.» He grunted. «Anyway, that Keje’s up there too.» Spanky grinned. «He’s havin’ the time of his life.»