Thunder over the Grass

by Steve Turnbull

  viii

  Valentine had not served in any war though he had seen his fair share of action. But the slaughter of the blacks left him horrified and speechless. The ship had touched down inside the excavation of the mines and immediately come under assault from at least one hundred men with spears.

  They achieved nothing, of course. The only evidence of the attack was some banging on the hull that filtered inside. Orders had come through to allow the squads of armed men out first to deal with the problem. They clearly enjoyed their work. The ship may have been old but their weapons were not. Spotlights shone from the portholes illuminating any pockets of attackers who were summarily killed with gunfire.

  The attackers did not get away unscathed but lost only four or five men before the remaining blacks retreated.

  The cargo chief, Cazarez, spoke English in the broken way that confirmed his nationality as Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese. The entire cargo crew was about twenty men and they waited at a smaller cargo door next to the main area in which their passengers were kept.

  When the fighting had died down Cazarez ordered his crew out, along with three diesel trucks with Faraday loading beds. They drove round the ship and headed into the tunnel with six or seven men to each truck. Valentine was one of three riding on the back. He stared at the bodies, and the crewmen moving among them with their guns. Just before they entered the tunnel he saw one of the crewmen fire three shots into the head of a black who had had the audacity to groan.

  “Don’t take no notice,” said the man beside him. His name was Dix. “If you say anything they’re just as likely to shoot you. No one cares.”

  Valentine nodded his response then ducked as the vehicle slowed down and entered the tunnel.

  * * *

  The caverns echoed to the roar of engines. She forced a smile on to her face. “We had better finish up the packing, doctor.” She pointed at the benches where their work had been interrupted. “Quickly now.”

  Inside she was trembling. If she could keep up the pretence the scientists would think she was with the ship and the crew would think she was with the scientists. Dr Lang got to his feet and went back to his bench; the others followed his example. Maliha squeezed in between them, reached over and picked up a container marked “microscope lenses”. The lenses themselves were piled up in individual leather bags on the bench.

  The sound of the engines reached a deafening climax and then cut off. There was no echo but the noise kept ringing in her ears. She glanced up as if disinterested and saw a dozen or so men entering. One of them gave orders to start the loading. She recognised his accent as from the Iberian Peninsula.

  She finished placing the lenses in the box lined with straw and closed the lid. She added the box to the pile of instruments. She stood back as the crewmen went in and out, carrying away the boxes and trunks.

  Which was when she saw Valentine. He did not look at her and she was unsure whether he had seen her. She stopped herself from staring and turned back to the bench. The Timmons organisation must be related to this experiment. They might be funding it, or simply acting as couriers.

  What does this mean?

  The noise around her was distracting and made it hard to concentrate. Apart from his legal fleet Timmons operated a rogue fleet of secret vessels that carried cargo and passengers at least to Venus if not elsewhere. The fungi in the experiments also came from Venus. But she could not go to the British and claim these things without proof. She knew perfectly well that Timmons was part of the British establishment and that gave him security from investigation.

  It was hopeless. How could she possibly make any headway against this much power? How could she expect to get out of this situation alive?

  “Miss Anderson?”

  She jerked her head round. It was Dr Lang.

  “We’re ready to go.”

  In surprise she looked about: all the baggage was gone from the room and the scientists were filing out into the tunnels. The engines of the trucks roared.

  Dr Lang offered his arm and she took it. Trying not to remember that these hands had dissected and killed children. He seemed so reasonable, so normal.

  She climbed on to the remaining vehicle. It carried the personal luggage and all the scientists were on it, seated on trunks and bags. They helped her up and one of them relinquished his position for her. She smiled her thank you. Valentine must have been on one of the other trucks. Had he seen her?

  She was facing the rear and saw the body of the man she had spoken with lying dead on the ground as they passed. There was a flash of white light from the tunnel’s entrance which highlighted the bloody wounds on his back and abdomen.

  “Poor Jacobs,” muttered Lang. Then there were other bodies, all black men, some in European-style clothes, others in their native costume. All with spears, not a gun among them. The sound of the machines quietened as they left the tunnel to be replaced by a deafening crack and roll of thunder. And they were drenched in the downpour. Maliha turned her head.

  Where before there had been empty space on the floor of the mine workings, now there was a massive ship curiously squared off. It was unlike any style of flyer she had ever seen in life or in a book. It was exactly as Valentine had described the one he had seen near Pondicherry.

  She schooled her expression since Dr Lang thought she had come from the ship itself. But she could not control her heart that raced in her breast. Her mind flashed from possibility to possibility but still there was no way out. There were armed guards posted around the perimeter of the ship and others at strategic points around the mine.

  The vehicles splashed through puddles and turned as they reached one end of the voidship. They wove in and out of the dead bodies and occasionally over them. She stared up at the ship’s vast bulk. High above her there was a line of windows with light behind them. In all probability the vessel’s bridge.

  The trucks came to a halt on the far side. A brightly lit ramp led up into the ship but they were being shepherded to a smaller ramp up to a single door. Once they had all dismounted, the trucks drove up the larger ramp and disappeared into the vessel. They made their way up the smaller one and Maliha was worried there might be checks on the personnel.

  She even thought she might make a break for it, perhaps hide in the shadow of the ship until they left. The mere fact she considered such a thing revealed how desperate she was. She suppressed such foolish thoughts. There would be a way through this. There always was.

  The outer hatch was shut and they were passing one at a time through an inner door. Maliha hung back at the rear. She was about to step through when it was slammed in her face, knocking her to the floor.

  ix

  So much for subterfuge, she thought. Her arms and left knee were bruised—along with her pride and faith in her own abilities. She should leave the undercover activities to those who were experienced. Like Valentine. The klaxon sounded again, just once. They would be going light within the next minute.

  Considering Valentine led her to a new thought. She was absolutely certain the scientists were completely taken in. She had not at any time lied. Simply omitted the greater part of the truth. There was no reason for any ordinary crew member to know that she was not part of the scientists. It might be unusual that she was a woman but it was not so uncommon as to be a red flag.

  And while it was possible they had been examined invisibly against a checklist of expected staff she knew that their departure was premature—caused no doubt by her revelations in the treatment works. So this would most likely have just been the nearest available vessel. Having a list of the scientists was unlikely.

  Which meant the most likely possibility was—the klaxon emitted three short sharp bursts and on the fourth count Maliha found herself lifting from the deck. She had experienced reduced gravity many times but it had never been like this. Valentine had been right: the slavers had a more effective form.

  There were straps in the wall. She grabbed hold of one and forced her
feet to the deck. There was gravity here, just not very much of it. If she was careful she could avoid flying off into space. She focused on her previous train of thought.

  Valentine was the one that must have told them who she was. Or at least that she was an interloper.

  The inner door opened and three men floated in.

  “Yeah, that’s her.” Valentine said. “Told you I had woman trouble.”

  The swarthy aspect of the second man suggested he was the one who had been giving the orders to the men handling the baggage and instruments. The third man had a gun. She was not an expert on guns, but the dangerous end was pointing in her direction. The swarthy man shut the inner door.

  “Bitch tried to seduce me,” said Valentine with a harsh grate in his voice.

  “Reckon she must really like you to follow you,” said the one with the gun.

  “Don’t be stupid, Benson. She was with the scientists; how’d she know about them? I didn’t even know about them—who did?”

  “Si, she is a spy. We must report to the captain.” He turned and headed for the inner door.

  “Let’s have some fun first,” said Valentine. He went to the outer door and unlocked it while the one called Benson kept his gun trained on Maliha.

  The Iberian stared. “What are you doing?” he tried the inner door but it would not open.

  Valentine grinned maliciously and pushed the outer door. “Better we get the information out of her before we go to the captain.”

  Wind slashed through the external hatch as it swung wide. The wind-driven raindrops penetrated the room and then hung in the air. Maliha clung harder to the strap.

  The interior lit up with a brilliant flash of lightning turning the men’s faces into masks of white and black. The ship lurched and heeled over. A surge of real gravity went through it and the rain in the air splashed to the deck creating a slick sheet.

  Maliha swung out towards the open door but clung tight to the strap. She could see the city lights of Johannesburg hundreds of feet below and for a moment there was nothing between her and the ground.

  The ship righted itself and the Faraday effect re-established but it was not as strong as before. Maliha looked at Valentine; he was soaked to the skin and his face was twisted in either anger or desperation. She could not tell which.

  Valentine pushed himself over to the wall between her and the open hatch. He hooked his hand through a loop. “I’ll make the bitch talk.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife. He flipped the catch and the blade opened. In one quick move he slashed the strap she was holding and it fell away.

  She slumped to the deck and tried to reach for the next one along.

  “What are you doing, Dyer?” shouted the Iberian from the other side of the room.

  “Making her talk.”

  Then, to Maliha’s horror, Valentine grabbed her damp wrist and, in the reduced gravity, swung her out of the hatch. He grinned maniacally.

  As her feet went out the door the wind caught them and dragged her harder. With her free hand she grabbed his jacket. Terror coursed through her. What was he doing? He could kill her. Another lightning bolt lit up the sky and shone off the soaked hull of the ship. If anyone was looking up they could not fail to see the massive machine.

  “Think you can trick me, bitch? I hate you half-breeds. You didn’t stand a chance with me,” he shouted above the noise of the wind and rain.

  She knew he was lying but it still hurt. He was dangling her out of a voidship hundreds of feet up and her fingers were slipping and she knew he could not hold her. He was in reduced gravity, but she was only in the periphery of it. She was heavy.

  “Who you working for?”

  Blinking against the rain she looked up through the hatch. The two heads of the other men were visible behind Valentine’s silhouette. “Myself!”

  He jerked his arm and she screamed in terror.

  “Liar! Who are you working for?”

  “The blacks!”

  “Pull the other one, bitch!”

  Lightning exploded around them again. The ship lurched once more. Maliha stared down. She saw a strange circle of lights. The ground was closer now. The ship must be having trouble in the electrical fields of the storm.

  She felt his fingers loosening. “Please!” she screamed. “Please don’t.”

  She stared up into his eyes reflecting the lights of the city but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring past her at the ground.

  Then he focused on her.

  “Die, bitch!”

  He released his grip on her wrist.

  She clutched the sleeve of his coat.

  He yanked his arm free from her grip.

  She watched his face fall away from her. Then the great vessel came into view lit by lightning and reflecting the lights of the city. It spun away from her.

  Finally the dark turmoil of the storm filled her vision.

  For a moment she wondered how long it would take to fall.

  ~ end ~

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  Read UNDER THE BURNING CLOUDS

  The breathless conclusion to the Maliha Anderson series.

  http://bit.ly/maliha-anderson-06

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  About the Author

  When he's not sitting at his computer building websites for national institutions and international companies, Steve Turnbull can be found sitting at his computer building new worlds of steampunk, science fiction and fantasy.

  Technically Steve was born a cockney but after five years he was moved out from London to the suburbs where he grew up and he talks posh now. He's been a voracious reader of science fiction and fantasy since his early years, but it was poet Laurie Lee's autobiography "Cider with Rosie" (picked up because he was bored in Maths) that taught him the beauty of language and spurred him into becoming a writer, aged 15. He spent twenty years editing and writing for computer magazines while writing poetry on the side.

  Nowadays he writes screenplays (TV and features), prose and code.