"At the lizards, open fire!"
Just as he gave the command, the creatures struck with a piercing shriek. Three fell in the initial volley, but the things were fast and as big as a man. Silva waded forward with the BAR and Matt was deafened by the metronomic bam-bam-bam of the weapon. His rifle was too cumbersome for close quarters and he fumbled for the .45. He yanked it from the holster and flipped the safety off just as one of the nightmare creatures hurtled past a madly dodging Carl Bashear and sprang toward him. He fired four times and then leaped aside as the thing crashed to the ground right where he'd been standing. It gathered its feet and tried to lunge, even with blood pouring from its chest and its left eye blown out. He shot it twice more before it collapsed. He fired once at another as it ran past him, fixated on Glen Carter, and cursed when the slide locked back. Carter was chambering another round in his Springfield, and he glanced up in horror at the death rushing toward him. Alan Letts, hat lost in the grass, turned and fired twice into the creature, shattering its leg, and it sprawled on the ground at Carter's feet. With a quick glance of gratitude at the supply officer, Carter slammed his bolt forward and shot the lizard where it lay, still scrabbling to reach him.
A wrenching scream arose to his left and Matt spun with a fresh magazine in hand, poised in the well of his pistol. One of the monsters was hunched over in the tall grass, struggling with someone on the ground. Bashear, Silva, and Vernon poured in a fusillade of pistol fire until it finally lay still. Another was on the ground struggling to rise, bright-pink froth spraying from its nostrils with each gasping breath. Bradford stood just yards away, rifle still pointed in its general direction, staring with eager fascination. Bashear strode up, shouldered him aside, and shot it in the head. There was an incredulous snarl on his lips as he regarded the Australian.
Matt turned, scanning all directions. The herd of brontosauruses, alarmed by the battle, had ceased bugling and drawn off, leaving only the big bull standing his ground. One of the attackers was still alive, running away with a long-legged, upright lope, faster than any man could match. Not much like the Menjangan lizards at all, he reflected. With a strangled curse, Silva snatched the BAR from the ground and loaded another magazine. He racked the bolt and brought the weapon to his shoulder. A sustained burst spat at the fleeing creature and clouds of dirt, rocks and shredded vegetation erupted around it. Suddenly it jerked and fell. Legs and tail flailed above the grass as Silva calmly replaced the magazine again and hosed the area until all movement ceased.
With another glance at the brontosaurus, Matt hurried to where the other men were looking at the ground. Lying half under one of the dead monsters was Gunner's Mate Mack Marvaney, his head torn nearly completely off.
"Goddamn lizards, or whatever the hell they are!" bellowed Silva, savagely kicking the carcass even after it rolled off his friend. Matt was shocked and somewhat embarrassed to see tears streaking the dust on the big man's face. He looked down at Marvaney and felt a spinning maelstrom of rage and anguish. His pulse thundered in his ears. What in the hell were they going to do? What was he going to do? They'd been ashore less than an hour and already lost a man. What kind of world had they wound up in where everything in the water and on the land was trying to eat them? How in the hell could they cope with that?
He looked at the men standing nearby. They all wore mixed expressions of rage, shock, and fear. He knew they'd rather face ten Amagis than spend another hour ashore. Well, that was fine, because they were leaving and he knew just how they felt. But they'd have to go ashore again—if not here, then somewhere—if they were going to survive.
"Bring Marvaney," he croaked savagely, then pointed at one of the dead creatures. He cleared his throat and tried to speak more normally. "Bring that too."
The shooting by the boat had stopped, but two men still stood on the beach beside it. Thank God. The herds were bugling and trumpeting again and the big bull was growing bolder. It was time to leave.
There was sadness and angry murmuring when they carried Marvaney on deck. He'd been a fun-loving, friendly sort before depression over leaving his wife had set in, and he had no enemies aboard. Many sympathized and even identified with his unhappiness, although he'd taken it harder than most. But besides the fact that he was well liked, his death seemed somehow more tragic than those in battle. He was the first to die since they came through the Squall, and they couldn't even blame the Japs. All he'd done was go ashore. It showed them how vulnerable they were. The Japanese Navy had been a juggernaut, seemingly dedicated to their personal destruction, a task it nearly accomplished. But at least that was a threat they could understand. The things happening now, ever since the Squall, were beyond their comprehension. If Mack had been killed by the Japanese, it would have been tough, but that was the breaks. That came with being a destroyerman. Being killed by a giant furry lizard wasn't part of the deal.
The murmuring dwindled into shocked silence when they hoisted the creature aboard. The shore party, including the captain, watched while others did the work. Tony Scott and Fred Reynolds had easily killed the two creatures that attacked them, and nobody but Marvaney got so much as a scratch, but Matt figured they'd been through enough. All were pensive and subdued, except the Australian, who hovered like an expectant father as they lowered the lizard beside the number two torpedo mount. Matt was repulsed by the creature and found Bradford's solicitude mildly offensive, but he couldn't really blame him. That was just the way he was; besides, it was important that they learn as much from it as they could and he was the best qualified to do that.
The carcass already stank and the heat would soon make it worse. On its feet the lizard was tall as a man, but it was considerably heavier, so they shifted it onto a torpedo dolly and Matt followed as they rolled it into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Part of its weight advantage came from the massively muscled legs, which looked more like those of an ostrich or emu than those of the Komodo-like lizards on Menjangan. The feet had three ostrichlike toes with vicious, hawkish claws. Slightly offset on the inside of each foot was a large scimitar-shaped claw, twice as long as the others. More of the weight came from a stubby, powerful tail, tapered sharply from the hips but flared into a thick, almost birdlike plumage of darker, striated "feathers"—for lack of anything else to call them. The "fur" covering the rest of the animal was dun overall, but the striations were faintly evident over the length of the beast. The arms looked very human, with distinct forearms and biceps, even though the shoulders were more like those of birds, where wings would mount. Four clawed fingers were on each hand, and one was very much like a thumb. The longish neck supported a toothy head straight out of a horror movie. The gray eyes were glazed in death, but retained a measure of reptilian malevolence.
Courtney Bradford was happily lecturing the spectators like a group of medical students with a cadaver. "And look!" he said excitedly. "The eyes are quite far forward and unobstructed! There's no question about stereoscopic vision! A formidable predator, believe you me! And those jaws! Terrifying!"
They were. The head tapered to a sharp point and the lower jaw seemed almost delicate, but powerful muscles bulged where it attached to the head. Matt had never seen anything with so many densely packed, razor-sharp teeth. It was almost cartoonish, like a piranha, but there was nothing humorous about it. Those teeth were clearly designed to tear flesh and crunch large bones. They reminded him vaguely of a cross between a shark's teeth and a cat's canines, only there was virtually no gap between them.
He was surprised to see how the crowd had swelled. Half the crew was present. He also noted that the gloom and dread that had been so pervasive had begun to lift somewhat. Many of the men most affected by Marvaney's death now listened with careful attention. Of course! he thought, and wondered if the Australian did it on purpose. Show them the enemy, especially a dead one, and it might still be scary as hell, but it also became clear that it could be killed. He looked at Courtney Bradford with new respect as the man jabbered happily on about
how fearsome the obviously vanquished creature was.
He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Lieutenant Tucker's concerned face, her eyes locked searchingly on his. He forced a smile. "How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Ever since you came aboard. Are you all right?"
He stepped slightly back. "Swell. We had some excitement, but we're all okay except—" He stopped and shook his head. "Why?"
She just patted his arm with a fragile smile. She couldn't tell him that the expression he'd worn when he came aboard had frightened her with the intensity of its rage, and devastated her with the depth of its hopelessness. She doubted anyone else had really noticed—men could be so stupid about such things—and he now seemed himself again. But that quick peek beneath his so carefully controlled veneer of confident selfassurance wrenched her heart, not only with fear for her own survival but also with compassion for this man who carried such a heavy burden for them all.
"Nothing," she said, and smiled a little brighter. She heard Bradford's voice rise above his dissertation.
"Ah! Lieutenant Tucker! There you are, my dear! You're quite the surgeon, I understand. Would you be so good as to assist me"—he grinned—"while I slice this bugger up and show these lads where to aim next time?" There were growls of approval and a predatory jockeying for the best view. Bradford wiped his brow and smiled wryly. "I'm afraid if we wait too long, it will be a nasty task indeed."
Matt sat on his bunk, his face in his hands. His sweat-soaked hair and clothes felt clammy under the fan. He sighed and spoke into the comm. "Bridge, this is the captain."
"Bridge, aye."
"Inform Mr. Dowden I'm in my quarters. I'll be up shortly."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Matt paused awkwardly for a moment. "Thanks," he said at last, and dropped back on the rack to stare at the overhead.
Another one, he thought grimly. All those men lost in the running fight, then Mahan and now Marvaney. What next? There had to be something he could have done to stop all this. Marvaney was a good kid. Unlike Silva, or pretty much the entire ordnance division, he'd never been a discipline problem aboard or ashore. He just did his job. He raised a little hell, like the rest, but he never pushed it too far. Maybe the pretty Filipino girl had something to do with that. Matt only saw her twice, both times when they docked in Cavite after some maneuver. She was always waiting on the quay, to snatch Marvaney up before he could escape with his hooligan friends. He always went willingly, too, without the false bravado and showing off of others under similar circumstances. It was clear he loved her very much. He was distraught when they left Cavite after the Japanese bombed it to splinters. After the Squall, he just sort of . . . went away. Matt shouldn't have let him go ashore. He hadn't even thought about it. Now Mack was dead, and it was his fault.
Finally he grunted and sat up. Sulking wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all Marvaney. He'd just have to do better, somehow. It was his duty, and he'd never shrunk from responsibility, but this was . . . different, and so very, very hard. He wasn't just a junior destroyer captain anymore, who only had to follow orders. His job had changed profoundly. For a moment he envied men like Silva, men who did their jobs but were free to leave the care and responsibility to others at the end of the watch. Matt's watch never ended. He was the job. He only hoped no one else would have to die before he figured out what, exactly, it had become.
He replaced his shirt with a dry one, ran a comb through his greasy hair, and put his hat back on. He searched the mirror above his little desk for signs of the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him, and with a wary snort, he shouldered through the curtain to become captain of DD-163 again.
Dennis Silva leaned against the vegetable locker between the number three and number four funnels while Stites, Campeti, and Jamie Miller worked. They were sewing Marvaney into his mattress cover, and blood glistened black against the white cloth where it soaked through from his gruesome wound and dried in the afternoon sun. Silva felt . . . depressed, he guessed, and that was an emotion he'd never experienced before. He always said he had only four "feelings"—horny, hungry, happy, and mad—and he was less than half joking. Now he knew a fifth. Mad was part of it, sure. But it was deeper and less focused and had already lasted longer than the others ever did. He'd felt it since Marvaney was killed, and that had been what? Almost three hours ago? Must be depression, he told himself with a sigh. No tellin' what I'll be pinin' over next.
He would miss Marvaney. They'd been shipmates for four years and raised hell from Cavite to Singapore—until the dummy got married and reformed. But they had a lot of laughs and busted a lot of heads, and he'd always been a good man at your back. Now he was dead and Silva realized he'd lost one of the few people that his loose definition of "true friend" applied to. He wished he had a drink.
"Don't forget `the object,'" he grumped, referring to the item that he'd chosen to carry his friend to the depths.
Campeti glared at him. "Can't you think of nothin' else? Christ, it ain't hardly fittin'! And besides, what are we gonna listen to?"
"The object" was a bundle of about fifty records, part of a large collection Marvaney had aboard and often played on a portable wind-up turntable. The 78s were plenty heavy, more than sufficient to carry him down.
"Relax, Sonny. I only picked the old stuff nobody else likes. He liked 'em, though, and he ought'a keep 'em."
Campeti shook his head. "All right, Dennis, but when they're gone, they're gone. We might never hear them songs again."
"Suits me. I like dancin' to livelier tunes. Them waltzes and shit is for grandmas."
"Dancin'!" snorted Campeti, a general, growing concern on his mind. "Who with?"
They were silent while "the object" was solemnly placed at Marvaney's feet and the last stitches finished. Finally, the young pharmacist's mate spoke tentatively. "Chief Bashear said he killed six lizards. How many did you get, Silva?"
Dennis snorted. "Six, huh? Where I was standin', I didn't see him kill any. Well, one, maybe. Give him an assist."
"How about you?" Miller prodded. Silva shrugged. "Two or three, I guess. Hell, everybody was shootin'. Who knows?"
Stites glanced at Campeti and then looked at Silva again. "How about the Skipper? Boy, he sure looked mad!"
Silva nodded. "Yeah, he got one or two. With his pistol. He just stood there and let one run right up to him and bam!" He clapped his hands. "Right in the eye! The Skipper's got guts, I'll say that." He looked thoughtful. "He was mad, though. I never seen him that mad. I don't know if he was madder that they got Mack or that we ran out'a lizards to kill. He wasn't even that mad that time in Subic when me and—" He stopped, and a huge grin slowly spread across his face. "Well, never mind, boys. I got that rocker back later anyway." The others laughed as they finished preparations to send their friend to his watery grave.
That evening, as the sun touched the horizon, there was a small, forlorn splash alongside the lonely, rust-streaked ship. For a while, it remained still as the gloom deepened and the running lights snapped on. It must have been a strange, alien image to any creature watching from shore. Puffs of smoke rose from the aft funnels and hung motionless in the calm evening air. Then, slowly, it began to move. Most of the creatures paid it no heed; their interests were wholly devoted to packing vegetation into their large, multiple stomachs. If they'd witnessed the strange events of the day, they'd already forgotten.
Not all had forgotten, however. Some watched intently and continued to stare at the lights as they moved through the slot and into the strait beyond, long after the shape of the ship itself was lost to view.
Keje-Fris-Ar sat on a stool beside his breakfast table in the ornately decorated chamber that was the foundation for the central tower of Home. It was the largest chamber on the entire ship that wasn't given over to livestock or cargo, and it was tastefully adorned with colorful tapestries and finely carved figures. Puffy pillows clustered in the various discussion areas, and in the center of all towered a nea
rly mature Galla tree, growing from a basin of earth that extended down to the very keel. Ample sunlight for it to thrive flowed through colorfully decorated hatches that were usually, as now, flung wide. A gentle breeze circulated to rustle the long, green-gold leaves. The only thing marring the dignity and splendor of the chamber was the small, plain table, set to one side, where Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of all the clans of Salissa Home, and his companion, High Sky Priest Adar, enjoyed their morning meal. The splendid hall was Keje's personal office, throne room, and council chamber rolled into one, where matters of great importance to all the clans were discussed. On such occasions, the ceremony and dignity were solemn indeed. But for everyday use, when there were no great matters to attend in proper form, Keje preferred his little table. Besides, he knew it amused Adar to dine with him thus.
The High Chief was the absolute monarch of Home, but the three towers supporting the great wings were controlled by their various chiefs, who enjoyed a degree of autonomy. An autonomy that could grow tiresome. Sometimes, the Sky Priests acted as intermediaries between the clans, because they were of no clan and all must serve the Heavens. Because of this trust, and because the Sky Priests—at least on Salissa— weren't oppressively spiritual, they enjoyed a position of esteem and a reputation for impartiality when dealing with the everyday squabbles among the several chiefs. But their efforts in this regard were subordinate to their primary duty. Their charge was to read the Heavens and ponder the stars and interpret them to others, who saw only points of light. The Sky Priests told them where they were, where they were going, and how to get there. They relayed the truths of the Heavens, which were above all things.
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