Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  The place was particularly packed that night—understandably—and even out from under the broad, colorful awning protecting the central area (including bar, bandstand, dance floor, and about half the tables) from near-daily rains, Silva and Lawrence had been lucky to find a spot. And that was only because some awestruck young ’Cat Marines from the ATC across the bay graciously (and a little fearfully) relinquished theirs. The Marines-in-training didn’t leave, they only backed away and sat cross-legged in the sand a little farther out, staring at the “heroes.”

  “Chackie’s in a funk,” Silva answered Horn, carefully enunciating his words while dribbling the remains of the second pitcher in his friend’s mug. Holding the large vessel over his head, he signaled for a refill. “He’s still ‘our Chackie,’” he defended, “but Gen’ral Queen Safir gettin’ conked, kinda drew his fires. Sure, she’s his mate an’ all, but . . .” He shook his head. “Drink up, ol’ buddy. Lady Sandra kep’ me an’ poor Larry coolin’ our heels at the hospital for hours. Don’t know why—’cept so Pam’d have plenty o’ time to rag me. It was swell seein’ Chackie an’ Safir,” he reflected, “an’ there’s other right guys in the joint I was glad to see alive, but Chackie didn’t wanna talk, an’ Safir fell asleep. Even Pam’s turntable wound down by the time Lady Sandra showed, an’ we took off.”

  He blinked and squinted his good eye at the big clock over the bar as a smiling, scantily clad ex-pat Impie gal took both empty pitchers and set a full one on the table. Silva smiled appreciatively, recognizing yet another way Baalkpan in general, and the Busted Screw in particular, had changed. The Screw was in a pretty rough district now, and not only were there waiters and waitresses of both sexes and every species in the Alliance, they clearly focused on the most receptive groups . . . and occasionally disappeared. Female sailors and Marines went off with male waiters, or vice versa, and the pairings weren’t always members of the same species. Weird, Silva thought, a little blearily. Not that I’m the king o’ morality. An’ me an’ Risa might’ve even started that sorta stuff. But nobody here ever cooked up pay to play before the war. Before we came. Wasn’t no need. He blinked. Oh well. Things were pretty damn weird in Subic an’ Shanghai, once upon a time.

  He looked at his companions. “But the little hand says we only got two hours to soak in these suds, so let’s get at it.” Regulations posted on the gate to the bar area plainly spelled out how much beer or liquor could be consumed (and within how many hours of expected duty) by military personnel. Only those with a “leave card” punched with at least two days remaining were unlimited. Silva didn’t have one of those, and everyone knew when those who’d arrived with First Fleet had to report. For that reason—and others—despite all the back pay they’d accumulated, they hadn’t been given much money to spend. They’d get more when they got leave, but even though the new economy was thriving in the United Homes, most of First Fleet’s Lemurian sailors had been gone so long they didn’t understand it, and few had any idea what their money was worth. It would be tabulated for them in savings accounts until they got the hang of things. Still, technically, Silva, Horn, and Lawrence could each have two pitchers of beer—as long as they were served before 0100 hours. It was 2205 now.

  “How much have you already had?” Horn asked suspiciously.

  “Just three,” Silva defended, punctuating his statement with a loud belch. He appeared satisfied with the volume and Petey seemed astounded. “My two, an’ some o’ one o’ Larry’s. He’s still on his first mug.” He looked owlishly at his Sa’aaran friend. “Though he’s been givin’ it hell. Cryin’ shame he can’t drink like regular folks.”

  “I could, it in a dish,” Larry reminded, annoyed. “You get I a dish?”

  Silva solemnly shook his head. “Wouldn’t be right, little buddy. Nobody drinks beer like that. They’d throw us out.” He added a little to Lawrence’s mug, then refilled his own. “Don’t worry. Me an’ Arnie’ll keep up your end, so it don’t look like yer slackin’. Besides, you ain’t used to it. Like as not, you’d just spew an’ waste it all. ’Cats always made pretty good beer,” he told Horn, filling his mug as well. “This is even better’n San Miguel,” he judged benevolently. “Pukin’ it up’d be a sin!”

  “Sin,” Petey piously agreed. He didn’t demand something to eat, for once, and Horn saw his proud little belly was probably painfully swollen. Silva noted his gaze and shrugged. “Just about ever-body in the hospital tossed somethin’ at the little mooch.”

  Drums thundered and music began to play. There was a fair number of old-world musical instruments, or copies of them, the former including a pump organ of all things. But many Lemurian instruments remained and they’d interwoven with the others to create some very unusual sounds. The combinations had evolved over time and didn’t clash as much, to Silva’s murky ears, and he caught himself enjoying the result. Even so, it took him a while to recognize a tune, quite popular from where he came. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, incredulously. “That’s ‘Two Sleepy People,’ just runnin’ faster! Ha!” He then exploded in laughter when a female Lemurian’s clear, high voice replaced Fats Waller’s jaunty, slightly scratchy singing. That earned him some annoyed blinking and stares. The dance floor started to fill. “Ain’t this a hoot?” he demanded of Horn before emptying his mug again.

  “So how was General Safir?” Horn asked, practically shouting in Silva’s ear. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Sure. She’s a little dopey ’cause they keep her seeped up pretty good. Got her whole right eye socket caved in, after all. Way worse than me”—he poked a finger at the patch over his ruined left eye—“an’ this still smarts from time to time.”

  “I heard she got shot too.”

  “Yeah. Twice. But that breastplate she always wears flattened them Grik musket balls an’ slowed ’em down. They took one outa her left boob, big an’ flat as a silver dollar. I seen it. The other . . .” He frowned.

  “Is the real reason the general heals so slo’, and Colonel Chack stays so close and sad,” Lawrence said, hunkering closer to his beer.

  Horn would’ve sworn he looked morose. “What did it do?” he demanded.

  “Not my place, Arnie,” Silva said, waving it away.

  “If it involves Colonel Chack, it is your place to tell me. After what we went through with him!” Horn insisted.

  Silva looked at him as he refilled his mug, took another swallow, then wiped his mouth. “I s’pose. But this ain’t nobody else’s business, see?”

  “Of course, you idiot.”

  Silva grunted, then continued in the lowest voice Horn could hear. “Seems General Queen Safir-Maraan was pregnant, an’ that second ball ended it. Might’ve ended it forever, if you get my drift. Now the poor kid not only figures she’s too ugly for Chack”—he pointed at his eye—“but since she might never have kids, she don’t want him stuck to her, neither.”

  “Shit,” Horn murmured, and took his own long gulp.

  “Yeah. That’s why Chackie’s leeched out. Not only lost his kid, but his wife, mate . . . whatever—who he’s stupid for, dents an’ all—wants to throw him off for his own good. They can do that, y’know.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  “But why? I still don’t get it. Why run him off if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “I ain’t real sure,” Silva confessed. “Partly, maybe mainly for why I said, but there’s more. There’s way more to a lotta things than there used to be,” he lamented. “Goddamn politics. Remember, Safir ain’t just Second Corps’ gen’ral, she’s the friggin’ Queen o’ Aryaal an’ B’mbaado. Chackie wouldn’t never be king or nothin’, but their kids could’a been. Best I can tell, listenin’ to her talk with Lady Sandra, she’s gotta have an heir or Aryaal an’ B’mbaado might split an’ start fightin’ again.”

  “So why not adopt? ’Cats don’t care about blood.”

  “They do in Aryaal an’ B’mbaad
o.” Silva looked at Horn as if trying to decide whether he was still only one of him. “You weren’t here yet when we first met ’em, but folks on those two islands fought all the damn time.” He pounded his finger on the table. “An’ they care about that shit in the Filpin Lands too. More than you’d think.”

  It finally dawned on Horn. “And Chack isn’t from there.”

  “Nope.” Silva topped off their mugs, draining another pitcher. “Let’s see if I can get this straight. Seems even if Safir can’t have kids, but her hubby has the right blood, he can rake one up off some other highborn broad. There’s your heir. Folks’d know, but they’d sit still for it. Might even make things tighter if her new mate’s from Aryaal and the broad’s from B’mbaado. Safir caused enough ruckus when she mated with Chackie in the first place, but she—and he, to be fair—were admired enough at the time that nobody cared as long as her blood kept flowin’ through their kids. Got it?”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Yep. And stupid. Personally, I don’t see how their . . . acristicrissy—is that the right word?—even matters now. The gooduns stayed and fought, an’ most got ate by the Grik. The turds slunk off—like the honchos from Sular. Now they’re slitherin’ back. I think they oughta hang ’em, but Safir’s worried they got enough support to keep things rocky. More’n anything, she wants the war over—if it’s ever over. Not more damn fightin’ amongst theirselves.”

  “That’s . . . tough,” Horn finally said, brows knitted, thinking. “A real shitty deal for both of them. I hope they sort it out.” He was suddenly very glad his beloved Diania wasn’t royalty of any sort. As far as she knew, she didn’t even have any living family in the Empire.

  They drank in silence for a while, listening to the music and watching the rowdy spectacle on the dance floor and elsewhere, even cheering with the rest when a couple slipped away. Once, both men would’ve joined in without thought, even going off with a girl. (Silva had identified the “madam”: a large Dutchwoman behind the bar, who’d come to this world in S-19, supposedly helping Sister Audrey with the children in her care. She hadn’t been much good at that, but was apparently thriving now.) But Horn was devoted to Diania and would never break her trust. Silva was . . . connected to Pam, in kaleidoscopically confusing and ill-defined ways, despite how much they fought. And he knew where she was, right then, waiting for him. They wouldn’t fight when he joined her later.

  “Look!” Lawrence said, nearly knocking his beer mug over and pointing with his snout. It was only the second time he’d spoken—and his tongue stopped lapping—and he appeared a little bleary-eyed. It dawned on Silva that, far from being “used” to it, he’d never seen Lawrence drink before. His little Sa’aaran buddy might be drunk. Well, so’m I, he acknowledged. Empty belly, no booze in months . . . He looked where Lawrence indicated, and there, storming toward the bar with grim purpose in their eyes, was a very unlikely trio. The massive Earl Lanier was plowing through the crowd, effortlessly displacing patrons with his great, mushy mass. CPO “Pepper,” Lanier’s original partner in establishing this bar, and now Chief Bosun on USS Fitzhugh Gray, came on just as belligerently, if less intimidating. Finally, and probably least menacing of all at a glance, but most outwardly furious, was Walker’s scrawny Chief Isak Reuben. If they ain’t scared o’ him, it’s because they don’t know the little shit, Silva thought, especially when he saw the baseball bat Isak carried. An’ they don’t know how he can hit! The music screeched and tooted to a stop as the ’Cat and two men crashed past the players and sent the singer skittering behind the organ. To their credit, the big Dutchwoman and a little black and white ’Cat, colored a lot like Pepper, stood their ground behind the bar. “C’mon,” Silva said, rising. “We need a ringside seat for this!”

  “Get the hell out from behind my bar!” Earl thundered, shattering the general hubbub and creating a stunning near silence. Silva was grinning, a little wobbly himself, as he and Horn pulled a tottering Lawrence through the crush of spectators.

  “Our baar,” Pepper stressed, but his glare was on the ’Cat.

  “That’s Pepper’s cousin,” Silva whispered through an uncharacteristic giggle. “He must have five hunner’d of ’em, but that’s the one Pepper left in charge o’ the joint when he shipped out in Gray!”

  “Speaking of Gray.” Horn nodded into the gloom. A fair number of ’Cats in whites were following the confrontational trio. They weren’t all from the light cruiser either. There were some of Lanier’s assistant cooks and mess attendants as well.

  “Hoo boy,” Silva said.

  “The Busted Screw belongs to me!” roared the Dutchwoman, slamming a heavy club on the counter, knocking mugs onto the dance floor. “I legally purchased a majority partnership from Kanaak-Uraa.” She tilted her head toward the Lemurian by her side.

  “Well that’s odd as hell,” Lanier rumbled, “’cause it wasn’t his to sell. Pepper left him in charge of it”—he rolled his eyes when Isak yanked on his sleeve—“an’ other of our interests, when he went off to protect your sorry, thievin’ asses from the murderin’ Grik.”

  The Dutchwoman—Silva couldn’t remember her name for the life of him—simply shook her head. “According to Law number One Eighteen, passed by the Union Assembly and signed by former Chairman Adar, ‘any property, improved or bare, deemed necessary to the war effort and having been abandoned, may be utilized by anyone who proves they will continue providing a necessary service, or construct facilities to provide other services agreed to be essential to the general welfare or prosecution of the war.’”

  Lanier’s eyes bulged. “What the hell? They cooked that up to keep shit runnin’, or build shipyards an’ such on land a buncha fat, chickenshit ’Cats ran off from. Tryin’ to get away from the Grik!” he bellowed louder. “Not goin’ to fight ’em! An’ it don’t say shit about you stealin’ my goddamn bar!”

  “Our goddaamn baar!” Pepper corrected emphatically.

  “An’ me an’ Pepper an’ Gilbert’s PIG-cig factory, neither!” Isak added loudly, screechy voice breaking with fury. That’s when half a dozen large men, Impies by the look of them, with long, braided mustaches, came out through a curtain behind the bar and quickly rounded it to stand in front of the outraged trio.

  “Bouncers, huh? Hired thugs,” Lanier growled, looking up at a man who seemed to tower over him. “We never needed none o’ them, did we, Pepper?” he asked aside, then glared at his nearest adversary. “How’re you supposed to scare me when you’re too yellow to fight the Doms?” The man never had a chance to reply, because Lanier’s fat fist slammed the bottom of his jaw and teeth exploded outward like bloody chips of ice. The man went down like he’d been poleaxed—but there were more.

  “Always knew Earl was strong!” Silva hooted. “Have to be, to heave so much lard around!”

  Isak shrieked like a rhino pig being eaten alive and his bat cracked against another bouncer’s thigh, knocking his legs out from under him, but it rebounded and shattered when it hit a rigidly planted stool. His weapon wrecked, Isak jumped on the man like a grasshopper, pummeling the sides of his head with sharp-knuckled fists. Pepper emitted a keening cry and went for his cousin over the bar. One big man tried to grab him, another went for Isak. Two big Impies started pounding Lanier’s well-padded belly.

  “Here we go!” Silva roared with glee, shoving a reeling Lawrence toward Horn. “Get our little salamander outa here, Arnie! He’s never been in a fight for fun. Drunk, he’ll prob’ly kill somebody!” With that, he turned and grabbed the man trying to pull Isak off his comrade. The guy was fast and spun with a fist, connecting with Silva’s right cheek. Silva saw what looked like sparks jetting from a funnel and took another heavy blow to the mouth while shaking the first hit off. His assailant paused and blinked when Petey hissed and assumed an aggressive posture on Silva’s shoulder. He seemed even more surprised when Silva only spread a bloody grin. “I’d say ‘you hit like a girl,�
� bub, but I been hit harder by girls! You fellas don’t know what you’ve got yourselfs into. We’re straight back from whuppin’ the Griks all the way back to Old Sofesshk!” With strength and reflexes honed in deadly combat at similar quarters against foes that could tear him apart and eat him, Silva’s fist flattened the man’s nose flush with his face. Blood sprayed like the red yolk of a shattered egg—and that was about the last thing Silva remembered with any certainty.

  Others would recall what came to be known as “The Battle of the Busted Screw” in lurid detail, though their descriptions evolved with the telling. Many witnesses became participants themselves, after all. So like any great battle, specifics quickly grew murky. Testimony to the shore patrol did reveal a few consistent facts and impressions, however. These were taken into account when Chairman Letts himself was summoned from his sleep to render summary judgment on those apprehended at the scene. Bleary-eyed and resigned (he’d been expecting something like this and left word not to trouble any of First Fleet’s officers without his say-so), Alan Letts arrived at the brig closest to the waterfront in a robe and soft moccasin-like slippers.

  Acting Gunnery Officer Arnold Horn and an unusually loquacious (if oddly incoherent) Lawrence stood as witnesses to the altercation, and representatives for one faction. It was a pretty mixed bunch, but the locals that didn’t need medical attention were left to sleep it off in the brig, and the First Fleet sailors were taken (or carried) back to their ships. That left only Earl, Pepper, and Isak.

  Horn stipulated that Earl Lanier struck the first blow. Earl wouldn’t deny it (in fact, he couldn’t, since he wasn’t conscious), and there were plenty of witnesses, in any case. Most agreed there’d been extenuating circumstances, however. Chief Isak Reuben was accused of assaulting a civilian with a weapon, but Horn claimed he was merely demonstrating the proper use of what turned out to be defective sporting equipment. Isak said nothing in his own defense, having been counselled not to speak at all. When queried about Chief Bosun Pepper, Horn denied he’d been trying to drown his cousin in a barrel of seep, but had, in fact, attempted to pull him out after he fell in, headfirst. That’s how it looked to Lawrence too, though he hadn’t seen how he got there in the first place.