Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  He chewed for a minute, looking around. Gunny Horn was asleep, and so was Stuart Brassey. Pam wasn’t, but she was with one of the Lemurian Marines a short distance away, cleaning weapons. All were within a perimeter maintained by I’joorka’s warriors. “Anyway, I was hopin’, once you an’ the rest are secure amongst the friendly aboriginites, maybe you’ll cut me an’ Moe, an’ ol’ Larry loose so we can scamper back ta Baalkpan. Somebody’s gotta report, an’ not only do us three have the best chance o’ makin’ the trip in one piece, but Walker’s refit’s bound ta be finishin’ up by now—an’ honestly, Mr. Cook, I don’t want to miss my boat.”

  Abel sighed. “I thought you just said we need to stick together?”

  “Sure, an’ you do. Me an’ Larry an’ Moe’ll be stickin’ together too, all the way home.”

  “What about Lieutenant Cross?” Abel asked, cutting his eyes at Pam.

  “Well, she stays with you, o’ course.”

  Abel shook his head. “We’ll see, Chief Silva. Once we discover the situation at our destination.” He glanced at the big, black-bearded Marine snoring against a tree. He was still skinny, but they all were, and he’d muscled back up amazingly. That probably has a lot to do with the high-protein diet we’ve subsisted on, Abel mused distastefully. “Gunny Horn should be sufficient to protect us, if intimidation is all that’s required.” He squared his jaw. “And the rest of us can take care of ourselves.”

  “No doubt o’ that, Mister Cook!” Silva hastily added, sensitive to the boy’s feelings. “An’ like you said, we need to see the setup first. Just thought I’d plant the seed.” He paused. “Now, what else have you been thinkin’ about?”

  Cook’s face reddened. “That’s none of your business, Chief Silva.”

  Dennis nodded. “That’s what I figgered. You’re worried about the munchkin princess. Me too. An’ I’d be lyin’ if I said another reason I’m anxious to get back ain’t to get the latest news outa the Empire.”

  Abel formed a protest, but it never came. Instead he just looked away and repeated, “It’s none of your business.”

  “I reckon it is,” Silva countered. “I’m mighty partial to the Imperial scudder, as you know, and uncommon protective of her too.” He took a breath and spat a yellowish stream. “That said, I know Princess Becky kinda likes you an’ Mr. Brassey, and I sorta wish one er both of you was with her about now. She’s bound to be havin’ it rough.”

  “She does like you,” Lawrence confirmed, his crest rising in what could have been amusement or protectiveness. He pointed his snout at Brassey. “He too.”

  The mating customs of Lawrence’s people were very strange to, well, everyone else, and the idea of human or even Lemurian monogamy was just as alien to him. He did understand friendship, however, and had learned to equate human and Lemurian mating rituals to intense friendship with a procreative component. Sometimes he wondered how that would work among his people, but knew, with his own Sa’aaran race so reduced, such a thing couldn’t happen for a long, long time. Customs change, however, and with his people’s close association with the Maa-ni-los, who knew what Sa’aaran culture would become in the future?

  “Why not you and he oth— each—’arry her?

  Silva laughed as Abel turned even redder; then he ruffled Lawrence’s crest. “Don’t work that way, little buddy! If it came down to it, much as they like each other, Mr. Cook an’ Mr. Brassey’d face each other on the Imperial Duelin’ Grounds before that ever happened!”

  “They’d kill each other?” Lawrence demanded, eyes wide.

  “No!” Abel finally managed, rising. “I’ve no reason to believe the princess—I mean Governor-Empress—Rebecca likes either of us in that way, at any rate. Even if she did—does—the choice is entirely hers, and she’ll likely choose another long before either of us sees her again! And, like I said, it’s no one’s business! Look,” he said, changing the subject. “I’joorka is coming. I suspect our short rest is at an end. Get everyone on their feet, Chief Silva!”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Cook.”

  * * *

  They reached I’joorka’s village within the hour, and even more surprises awaited them there. The first thing they noticed was sharp, animalistic cries from the trees that seemed to carry a great distance through the jungle, yet whoever—or whatever—made the sounds was extremely well camouflaged, and they couldn’t pick them out amid the leaves and branches overhead.

  “Perimeter guards,” Gunny Horn said to Silva. “Good idea.”

  Silva was squinting above with his good eye. “Yeah. Enough scary boogers rompin’ through the woods, even without enemy tribes.”

  “An’ they don’t eat bugs heah, thank God,” Pam added, moving up alongside them. “I smell wood smoke.”

  “Me too,” Silva confirmed, “but that don’t mean anything except maybe they cook their bugs at home. Besides,” he leered, “I figgered you was getting’ partial to ’em, considerin’ what they done for your figure.”

  “Shut up, creep.”

  The first sentries showed themselves soon after that, coming forward to greet I’joorka and his comrades and stare at the newcomers.

  “Close ranks!” Horn barked at the straggling group. “Shoulder arms!” he added, hoisting his heavy BAR to lie against his collarbone. The ’Cat Marines quickly scurried into line, pushing Pokey along with his sack of brass. Moe, maybe a little chastened, put his musket on his shoulder and so did Lawrence. Even Silva raised his massive rifle from where he habitually kept it in the crook of his arm. Pam left her Blitzer Bug slung, but straightened. Abel looked back and smiled thankfully at Horn; then he and Brassey look their places at the front of the little column.

  More of the rust-colored, striped, feathery/furry, reptilian . . . folk . . . appeared. Younglings, so much like the “Griklets” that plagued their armies in the West, scampered everywhere: up and down trees, across their path, even around their feet. They seemed just as curious and ill-behaved as their Sa’aaran cousins, but unlike Griklets, they weren’t hostile, only rudely curious. The procession continued on.

  “Hey . . .” said Horn, looking around, surprised, and the rest suddenly realized they were surrounded by permanent dwellings. They’d probably been moving among them for some time before they noticed. The structures were built high in the trees to avoid predators, in the Lemurian way, but were wildly organic, formed and shaped from the living jungle. They’d all heard tales of how the “swamp lizards” of Chill-Chaap had encouraged a similar warren to engulf the once-stranded Santa Catalina, but only Moe had actually seen it—and he wasn’t the first to spy the related technique here. The dwellings weren’t deliberately decorated, although colorful, flowering ivies covered them like spiderwebs—but that had grown increasingly common throughout the local jungle. If anything, great pains had apparently been taken to camouflage the structures and the ivies only added to that effect.

  “Wow,” Brassey said, “no wonder our aircraft have never seen anything from above! One has to look hard to distinguish the buildings from the ground right beside them!”

  “Yes,” Abel agreed. “And even the wood smoke from cookfires will dissipate before it filters through the trees and up as far as the sky! It might resemble the evaporative haze that is so prevalent. Amazing! They’ve obviously been building this way for a very long time, long before they could’ve seen aircraft. Does it help them hide from other tribes? Perhaps the dwellings are defensible from ground attack as well? Fire might be a concern . . . but the living foliage would be difficult to light. They could slay their enemies from above. . . .” He abruptly stopped speaking, stunned, because it was then that they saw the first human Khonashis.

  “I’ll swan,” Silva muttered. “Real Injuns!”

  Groups of humans dressed in leather breechcloths and little else intermingled among the Grik-like Khonashis in an everyday way that indicated they were perfectly comfortable with the association. Most had shaved heads and were daubed with paint that made their dark skins
match the coloration of their friends’, to a large degree. Some were garishly decorated with claws and teeth, feathers and furs, and most appeared to have filed their teeth to sharp points. Silva had seen that before and wondered if it was a tradition these people brought with them—from wherever they came from—or did it to simulate the sharp teeth of their Grik-like friends. All of them, males and females, carried longbows almost identical to those the Lemurian armies used to such good effect before they had firearms. Many wore what looked like bronze-bladed “Lemurian” short swords or cutlasses as well. Just as the travelers had suspected when they first saw the Khonashi crossbows, it appeared again that there had to have been some kind of contact between these people and Baalkpan around the time the destroyermen were first helping arm the Lemurians there against the Grik.

  “You never tole me there was Injun jungle humans out here before!” Dennis accused Moe.

  “I didn’t know!” Moe replied with clear surprise. “I never catched one before! Never heard of any bein’ catched!” Everyone knew, in this instance, “catched” was Moe’s euphemism for “killed” while poaching in what he and others like him considered their private hunting grounds. “Maybe dey not go so far south as Baalkpan? Maybe dey new here?” He shrugged.

  Word of their arrival had preceded them, and a delegation of both the Grik-like and human Khonashi greeted them at a jumbled rock-rimmed water well. Like everything else, an effort had been made to make it look like a random, natural formation, but at present, its purpose was obvious because villagers were drawing water from its depths. Brassey waved at the well. “I suspect we must be near the center of this, ah, town,” he said.

  One of the humans took a wooden bucket from a larger, crestless—and therefore probably female—“lizard” visitor to the well. Abel had seen female Sa’aarans before, and there was a distinct similarity in form, if not coloration. We must come up with another description for all the various Grik-like species, he thought once again. “Lizards” is too ingrained as slang to change, but they’re not really reptiles, despite appearances and certain characteristics. Like Mr. Bradford has said, they’re actually more like birds, he reflected. Even the term “Grik-like” is problematic, because it insults those such as Lawrence, who know what Grik are! He sighed and commanded himself to stay focused.

  “Hi,” the human said in a strange, warbly voice. “Heer’s water! You dreenk! My keeng prays dat you reefesh yourseeves, den meet wit heem!”

  “Ah . . . Sure. Swell. Whatever you say,” Abel accomplished.

  “Whatever will I wear?” Silva mused lightly, but one of their fuzzy hosts regarded him seriously. “You dress too lots already. Too hot, too sweat.”

  Dennis grunted. “Why, maybe so.”

  * * *

  They didn’t have long to wait before the delegation hurried them along to meet their “keeng.” I’joorka had been whisked away with most of his warriors—for debriefing, Silva suspected. I’joorka’s lone return seemed to indicate to their keepers that it was time, and Dennis wasn’t the only one who sensed an air of urgency. His inquisitive, possibly cynical eye had noticed that a large percentage of the villagers were armed; more than he’d have expected. Part of that could be because the strangers were known to have fantastically deadly weapons, but that didn’t explain the sheer number of combat-age warriors in the camp. “Somethin’ simmerin’ here, Mr. Cook,” he warned as they walked, and Abel nodded.

  “I think you’re right. I don’t believe it has to do with us, though. Even if I’joorka was specifically sent to get us, as he said, they couldn’t have known exactly when we’d arrive. I see no sign of real agriculture, and a village this size couldn’t support so many warriors for long.”

  “Something’s up,” Horn agreed.

  They moved, en masse, back through the growing crowd of onlookers and approached a large structure similar in concept to the Great Hall in Baalkpan, except this building was very crude and erected with trees at each corner instead of around a single, great tree. It was made much like the other Khonashi houses, practically woven from the four trees supporting it, but it was bigger and far more obvious. Dennis suspected that meant it was more defensible as well. Maybe it served as a central fort that villagers caught in the open could retreat to? A kind of railed stairway was lowered to the ground as they approached, which struck Dennis as far more sensible than the rope-ladder arrangements he was used to, and I’joorka and several others scampered up ahead of them. When they reached the top, they motioned for Cook, Brassey, Dennis, Horn, Lawrence, and Pam to join them. The ’Cats and Pokey weren’t restrained, but it was clear they were expected to wait below.

  “It’s all right, Sergeant Moe,” Abel assured. “They’ve got a history with ’Cats. We’ll sort that out. But they haven’t tried to take any of our weapons. Keep our Marines together, and don’t let Pokey wander off. By the looks of things, the brass he’s carrying is worth more than gold.”

  “Ay, En-sin Cook,” Moe agreed.

  Abel looked at the others. “Shall we?”

  The Great Hall of the Khonashi wasn’t as large as Adar’s, and though the thatched, broad-leafed roof looked tight enough, the sides were largely open. Silva had been right when he surmised it was designed with an eye toward defense, though. There was a high rail all around the structure, and the walls beneath it were thick enough to absorb arrows or spears from below. Otherwise, the interior was amazingly spartan. There was little decoration, and the only furniture consisted of rough-hewn, saddlelike stools similar to those they’d learned the Grik used. That made sense. Unlike chairs, which Grik couldn’t use at all, anybody could sit on a stool. There were a couple more of the Grik-like Khonashi present, and to the visitors’ surprise, several human females almost obliviously occupied by domestic chores. A raised brazier stood in the center of the room, and meat was cooking over a bed of coals.

  For a moment, there was an awkward silence while the visitors finished filing in. The Khonashis were looking at them, but there was no sign of the king they’d been brought to meet. Then they heard muted voices from behind a woven partition; something that sounded like “Alright, damn it. I’m hurryin’!” And a moment later, a man limped into view, leaning on a carved and painted crutch that kept his weight off a withered right leg. A small, dark woman came behind him, almost pushing him along. The woman was dressed only in a short, gold-tanned skirt, but the Khonashi-style stripes were tattooed instead of daubed on her body, and the effect was striking. Her expression was hard, but severely beautiful in a strange, feral, Asiatic way. A tentative smile flashed when she saw the humans, and they noticed that her pearl-white teeth had been filed to sharp points, like many of the human warriors they’d passed coming in.

  The man had some nasty scars around his bare midriff but appeared fit and strong—except for the leg, of course—and his white hair and beard looked out of place on a young, weathered face. The expression he wore, regarding them, was as unexpected as his appearance. It looked . . . sheepish, embarrassed.

  “As I live an’ breathe,” Silva said in a subdued, fascinated tone. “You the ‘king’ ever-body’s fawnin’ over?” he asked.

  With a largely invisible grin behind the long beard, the man nodded self-consciously. “I guess so. It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I bet,” Silva agreed. He turned to the others. “His Uppityness here may appear hard-used, but he looks a heap better than the last time I thought I seen him—as a super-lizard turd!”

  “You know this guy?” Pam blurted.

  “Sure I do. You might’ve even met him when you first came on Walker back at Surabaya.” He cocked his head. “I don’t reckon any o’ you others could know, but this here ‘king’ of the Khonashis is Tony Scott, late cox’n of USS Walker! He disappeared and was presumed ate . . .” Dennis calculated. “Near two years ago, on the old pipeline cut.”

  “My God,” Abel mumbled, then his expression turned indignant. “My God!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Scott, do you realize we
’ve named a whole class of new DDs after you?”

  “Yeah!” Dennis accused. “An’ me an’ Moe downstairs, Paul Stites, and ol’ Courtney Bradford too, killed a purely innocent super lizard, plumb certain he was guilty o’ gulpin’ you down!”

  “Lawsy,” Scott said softly. “I never knew I was so well thought of!”

  “That’s changin’ pretty fast!” Pam declared. “We’ve been fightin’ for our lives in a damn big war while you’ve been takin’ your ease with the friendly natives! I thought Dennis was bad at goin’ AWOL, but you take the cake! Mr. Cook’s in charge of this expedition, but I’m the senior officer. I’ll have you on charges if you don’t have a damn good reason for bein’ gone!”

  Because they understood a fair amount of English, the Khonashis were alarmed by the turn the conversation had taken, but Scott calmed them down—in their language!—then turned back to Pam and the others. “I guess I’ve got a pretty good reason. I’ll leave it up to Cap’n Reddy to decide, if he’s still livin’.”

  “He is.”

  “Thank God,” Scott murmured sincerely. “Anyway, I knew sooner or later I’d turn myself in, but things ain’t worked out exactly like I hoped.” He looked at Silva. “Startin’ with the day after that big Strakka, when I went to check the pipeline cut—and kinda did get ate.”

  Very quickly after USS Walker came to this world, Tony Scott had grown increasingly afraid of the water he’d always loved. More specifically, he was utterly terrified of the creatures in it. He still fought courageously, but Captain Reddy allowed him to remain in Baalkpan—ashore—when Walker and the first allied Homes went to raise the Grik siege at Aryaal. There’d been a terrible storm, and Tony went to check the pipeline carrying oil to the fueling pier from where they’d sunk their very first well. Away from the water, he’d been careless, and when he’d stopped along the path to relieve himself, he’d been snatched up in the jaws of a super lizard. Unknown to him, other creatures—a Khonashi scouting party—had been watching him too, wondering why someone who looked so much like their human tribesmen had been wandering around alone in lands controlled by their Mi-Anaaka enemies. I’joorka himself distracted the great monster into spitting Tony out, then lured it into chasing him and the rest of the party that split up and ran. Eventually, they shook the pursuit and returned for Tony Scott.