“We’re at war with creatures like your young lady’s pet, and they’re on their way to attack our . . . our home. Maybe a few hundred thousand of ’em. The first thing I want to know is how you made friends with one.”
Silva, Courtney, and Adar slid the green wardroom curtain aside. Silva had handed his BAR to Stites, who’d recover the rest of the shore party’s arms. All he had was his .45 and cutlass, but the Colt was in his hand. The lizard lay on the wardroom table, moaning as the rolling ship caused him to shift back and forth under the lowered operating light. The girl sat beside him on a chair, petting him reassuringly, and glaring at the new arrivals. Jamie Miller, former pharmacist’s mate, and now Walker’s surgeon, nervously gathered his instruments and laid them out.
“Critter give you any trouble, Jamie?” Silva gruffed.
“No . . . it’s just . . . Shit, Dennis, it’s a Grik!”
“Noticed that myself. So what? Ain’t you got a hypocritical oath, or somethin’? Patch him up.”
“Hippocratic,” murmured Bradford, moving raptly toward the creature. The girl stood unsteadily, but hovered protectively near. “We won’t hurt him, child, I assure you. You must understand; I’ve never been this close to a live one before that wasn’t trying to eat me.” The girl jumped at the rush of iron links flooding into the chain locker forward. “There, there,” Bradford soothed, “nothing to fease do sit again, before you fall and hurt yourself. Wee helped, but that don’t matter.” He looked at her. “Besides, you called me a ‘bastard.’ I figgered I could say it.”
She giggled again, and held her hand over her mouth. “I am sorry. What would Master Kearley say?” Her expression grew sad. “Poor man. He knew he was doomed, but he saved my life, as did Mr. O’Casey.”
“Master Kearley?”
“My tutor. He . . . didn’t make it off the ship.”
“How long were you adrift?” Dennis asked gently.
“Something over four weeks. I’m not certain. We had plenty of provisions—just two of us in a boat meant for twenty. Still, it was terrifying. There are few silverfish in the deep waters to the east, but there are other things.” She shuddered.
Silva took a pouch from his pocket, loosened the string at the top, and removed a plug of yellow-brown leaves. He bit off a wad and worked it for a moment until it formed a bulge in his right cheek. Seeing her watching him, wide-eyed, he graciously offered the pouch. “Chew?” Revolted but intrigued, she shook her head. “Suit yerself,” he said, and pulling the string tight, he returned the pouch to his pocket. “Where’d you come up with Lawrence, anyway? Flynn said he was in your boat.”
“He was. We found him on an island we landed upon, searching for a place with food and water closer to . . . where our people might search for us. There wasn’t any, but he’d been there several days, a castaway as much as we. All he had was a dugout canoe, and no idea which direction to head! His species is not unknown to us, a few meetings on isolated islands southeast of my home somewhere. But I’d never seen one before!”
“Peaceful meetings?” he asked, apparently astonished.
“I believe so, yes.”
“I’ll swan. Where’s home?” Dennis ventured.
She started to answer, then caught herself. “Are you interrogating me?”
“Yep.”>
Hands on hips, she looked up at him. “How rude! A gentleman never pries into the affairs of a . . . a young lady!”
Silva shrugged, a twisted grin on his face. “I ain’t no gentleman, doll. ’Sides, whose rules are those?”
“Why . . . they’re society’s rules—the rules of civilization.”
“Land rules.”
“Not just ‘land’ rules!”
“There’s other rules, you know. Sea rules. When somebody rescues castaways, either adrift or ashore, he can ask ’em anything he wants.”
The girl became pensive. “Truly?”
“Yep.”>
“Ma . . .”
“Oh. Yes, sir. I picked up some technical things too. Granted, she’s only ten, but she was very int’rested in our guns and engines. Not shocked, she knew what they were, just amazed by what they could do.”
Matt nodded. “I got the same sense from O’Casey, though I admit you picked up more information than I did. How’d you do it?”
Dennis grinned. “She’s a kid, Skipper. So am I. Just a great big kid.”
Matt sipped his coffee and rubbed his chin. “Well, between us, we learned a lot. Almost as much from what they didn’t say as what they did. They obviously don’t want us to know where they’re from. Normal reluctance to reveal too much before they get to know us, or societal paranoia?” He paused. “Either way, they’re from the east. Adar suspected as much as soon as he saw the girl, and then we learned they weren’t part of S-19’s ‘cargo.’ Now we’re sure. They’re descendants of the ‘Others’ that passed through here before. Looking at a map, we could probably extrapolate a pretty good estimate of where their home is.
“They know about guns—witness the muskets—although according to Mr. Bradford, they’re virtually unchanged from those the original East Indiamen would’ve carried. The girl said they have artillery as well, even if it’s not any more advanced. That tells us something right there. In all this time, they haven’t had any reason to improve their weaponry, so they never did. In our own history, flintlocks reigned supreme for two hundred and fifty years, and reached a level of refinement that couldn’t be improved upon. Only constant wars with equally well-armed opponents spurred the innovations we made in the last century. So wherever they are, they must be on top of the heap, and there must not be any really dangerous animals. Steam power’s something else they must have. Like Silva said, they’re impressed by how fast we can go, but not shocked we do it without sails.”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop the Grik-like creature had lain on most of the afternoon. “All fascinating mysteries I look forward to solving, and it’s good to know, at long last, that there are other humans on this world. Right now, though, we have more pressing concerns.” He opened the note he’d received from Clancy and read most of it aloud. They already knew the gist, but each point needed discussion, and he wanted it fresh in their minds. He slapped the table with the message form. “I have no choice but to believe this is genuine. Kaufman’s apology at the end, while also probably genuine, is clearly meant to convince us he is who he says he is.”
“But how in hell did the bas . . . did he get access to their comm equipment?” Spanky grumbled dubiously.
“With the help of the disaffected ‘elements,’” Dowden speculated. “Probably wouldn’t be too hard; it’s not like they have a lot of folks to talk to. Most likely just a comm watch to see what we’re saying.”
“But what of the rest of it?” Adar demanded heatedly. “This warning to us! A warning that the enemy moves, and we must complete or abandon our ‘rescue’ attempt? How could they know of that?”
“Simple,” Matt answered grimly. “Kaufman’s not talking to us. He thinks he is, because Maham" width="1em">“I been tryin’!” Gilbert replied, almost plaintively.
Stites shrugged. “We took him, the kids, and a couple dozen pigboat pukes off Talaud.” He leered. “Got a couple new women too, but, except for some nun, they ain’t showed their faces yet. The nun keeps tryin’ to pester the skipper.”
“You don’t say?” Gilbert scratched his ear and pointed at the “Grik.” “Bradford gonna di-sect him?”
Stites laughed. “Hell, no! He’s friendly as a hungry pup. The Aussie’s been talkin’ to him just like he was a person. Silva shot him and he’s a little sore, but I swear, sometimes you can even understand what he says! Talks a little like one o’ you Georgia crackers, though.”
“I ain’t from Georgia, you damn Yankee!”
Stites shrugged again. “All you snipes sound the same to me.”
“What about Spanky? You understand him fine.”
“He ain’t from Georgia.”
Gilbert shook his head. Everyone “on deck” talked weird as far as he was concerned; so much of their language was salted with archaic nautical terms. He was more accustomed to technical and mechanical jargon.
“Laney’s a snipe and anybody understand him,” Tabby pointed out. “All he do is cuss.” They applied their attention to the bizarre conversation taking place in front of them.
“South of the overhead sun!” Bradford gushed. “How exciting! Do you think you could point out your home on a map?”
“What is . . .’ap?’” the creatud around, particularly the other children. “Mr. Silva has told me castaways should answer questions, but must poor Lawrence do it in front of so many superfluous persons?” One of the little girls sat up straight and sniffed. Becky glared at her. “You have always taunted him as a beast! He has no obligation to unburden himself to you!”
“Not me! I think he’s fascinating!” exclaimed a scruffy-looking boy in an incongruous upper-crust English accent. Becky rewarded him alone with a small smile.
“You are always so mean!” squealed the haughty girl. All but the boy loudly agreed.
“Children!” protested Bradford. He turned to Silva. “Surely the crew has other duties,” he suggested, “and perhaps these children have had enough fresh air?”
“You bet. Move along, fellas, before somebody gives you work. Kiddies, I think Stites’ll take you back below.”
“But it stinks down there!” a Dutch girl complained.
“Honest sweat,” Stites proclaimed piously, “won’t hurt you.” Amid whining complaints, he shooed the children down the companionway, while the other observers slunk off.
“You mind if we stick here, Dennis? Mr. Bradford?” Gilbert asked.
Becky glanced at them and did a double take. “Good heavens, that one’s female!” Silva laughed, and the girl glared at him.
Gilbert was startled, then looked at Tabby. She was wearing a T-shirt at least, but it was soaking wet. “Yeah, well, I guess.”
“There are many others aboard, my dear,” Bradford said. “Our allies have unusual mores. Please think nothing of it.”
“Think nothing of it . . . ?” Becky shook her head. “Unusual indeed. I thought I’d noticed a couple on deck wearing nothing but kilts, but believed I’d imagined it.”
“Can we stay?” Gilbert persisted. “We been in the fireroom and ain’t seen ya’ll yet.”
“Very well,” Becky replied, still shaking her head and looking at Tabby. “Let me see, as best I understand it, Lawrence’s people are quite wild when they hatch—from eggs, you know—and run loose on an island near their home until they reach a certain level of maturity. Not age, necessarily, but a level of self-awareness. They are guided and taught by adults the whole time, but there is little supervision. Just enough to keep them from reverting to savagery. When they do become self-aware, the instruction becomes more intense until, ultimately, they are judged fit to enter society. They demonstrate their ability to reason and use tools by building their own boat in which to return, but they must do so by way of a more distant island, where they must face a final test of courage and resourcefulness. Poor Lawrence completed his test, but a storm took him far from his return course. When we found him, he was dying of thirst and hunger.”
“What was the final test?” Courtney asked.
“He won’t speak of it. To do so with others who haven’t completed it “I see. Hm
m. Fascinating . . . and informative. I have just a few more questions. Obviously Lawrence’s species, like the Grik and, well, us, I suppose, are predators. I assume they hunt?”
Becky looked at Lawrence, who said, “O’ course.”
Bradford blinked. “Oh, please do forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve fallen into talking as if you’re not here.”
“It’s all right,” Lawrence assured him. “’Ecky?”
The girl frowned. “Well, of course. As you say, his people are predators. They hunt, but they also raise domestic livestock of sorts, though we’ve never discussed what kind.”
“Fascinating!” Bradford beamed. “But I hoped he might describe how his people hunt.”
Becky seemed troubled by the line of questioning. “Well, he’s spoken of a vague understanding of how his culture allocates labor—you must remember he had not yet joined ‘society’ as it were—and did not yet know his place within it. But evidently there are different castes among his people; some are herders, some hunters, others are artisans—boatbuilders and the like.”
“But he received some small instruction in the basics of each of these?”
“Yes.”
“So, how was he taught to hunt?”
“Cooperatively. Much like our own people would, if they had to for survival, and weren’
A few days earlier it would have seemed very strange if Gray and Shinya even said “good morning.” Now, when the equally bedraggled Japanese officer sat heavily beside him and offered his canteen, Gray nodded his thanks.
“Mr. Bradford will scold us cruelly,” Shinya said softly. Gray grunted and took a sip. The island’s jungle was gone now, all of it. He wasn’t even sure what had set the fire, but there’d been no stopping it this time, not in the midst of battle. He hacked hoarsely and spit dark phlegm.
“I guess he shoulda taken specimens while he was here after all,” Gray deadpanned.
In reality, most of the island’s species would survive; enough escaped the conflagration to the beach to ensure that. It wouldn’t take long for foliage to return with almost daily rains. The herbivores would take a serious hit, and when they grew scarce the carnivores would too, but enough would survive. Lightning, if nothing else, had surely burned the island before. The important thing was that the well was mostly intact, even after being struck by a few round shot, and Isak and his crew were repairing it. Also, somehow, the Stars and Stripes still floated above the island on a makeshift spar, salvaged from the mostly intact Grik ship beached in the shallows. Rooting the last enemies out of it was how they lost Clark.
The Battle for Tarakan had been a desperate, grisly affair. For the first time Lemurians had stood under a terrifying, if mostly ineffectual bombardment. Then the enemy swarmed ashore. They’d been outnumbered at least three to one, and the fighting had been almost as bad as Gray remembered on the plain below Aryaal’s walls. Almost. This time they’d had prepared defenses and trenches, making it possible to reinforce weak spots. Still, it had been bad, and their own losses were nearly thirty percent. Nothing compared to the Grik, whose losses were total, but that didn’t matter at all like it might if they’d been fighting a human foe . . . or any foe that deserved the slightest speck of compassion. When the attacking force was destroyed, the exhausted Marines mounted an assault of their own on the ship in hopes of taking it intact, and predictably, as before, the cornered Grik fought like fiends. But the stranded ship was flooded, and all they’d accomplished was the capture of some Grik armaments.
“Their cannons are incredibly crude,” observed Shinya, as if reading his thoughts. “The bores are rough, and so is the shot. No wonder so many burst when fired.”
“Yeah, and they’re made from crummy iron too. But it is iron, damn it. We sure need to be working on that.”
Shinya nodded, then spoke reflectively: “They relied heavily on those guns. We’ve given them an appreciation of artillery, at least. I believe they expected theirs to perform as well as ours. That might have made the difference. There were far more of us waiting to greet them than they expected.”
Gray matched Shinya’s predatory grin. Both men had fought hard, and the battle had been desperate; hand-to-hand at times. More than once each had now saved the other’s life. They’d both been through the crucible of Aryaal, but they hadn’t been back-to-back then. They might never be friends, but they’d finally developehen. They s of bitter strife, they felt . . . comfortable with each other.
The general alarm began sounding again, and Gray saw Shinya close his eyes briefly before rising.
“First Marines,” he yelled, “stand to!”
Gray painfully rose to join him while exhausted, bandaged ’Cats shuffled into formation as quickly as they could. “What the hell now,” he growled, looking at the distant ’Cat atop the makeshift tower.
A runner sprinted to them, gasping. “More sails,” he reported breathlessly, “in the north.”
“North?! How many?” Gray demanded.
“Four, sir.”
“Well, that tears it,” Gray spat disgustedly.
“Perhaps not,” Shinya observed. “Our one major advantage over the Grik is their tactical inflexibility. Their strategy can be cunning, but they seem unwilling to change basic procedures. Four, did you say?” The runner nodded. “Most unusual. The Grik usually come in multiples of three—I have no idea why; ancient hunting traditions, perhaps? Regardless, with few exceptions, we’ve always seen them in groups of three, or in their hundreds. Four seems atypical.”
Maelstrom Page 15