Rising Tides

by Taylor Anderson

  He took the opportunity to fish a whetstone from his pouch and run a few swipes down each side of his cutlass blade. He then offered the precious whetstone to the others, and when they took it, he watched keenly while it made its rounds before being returned. Dropping the stone back in his pouch, he carefully secured the flap. He took a deep breath and resumed his attack on the shoots. They continued moving slowly under the sweltering sun, through the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. Eventually, finally, it appeared that the stalks were beginning to thin. After a little longer, Silva was sure of it, and he slew the final shoots like the helpless stragglers of a routed army.

  Before him now stretched a virtual savanna, filled with long grasses of various types. Some looked like “normal” grass, like coastal Bermuda, but there were large, almost islandlike clumps of taller stuff that reminded him of kudzu, complete with blue and purplish foxtail blossoms congregated near the edges. Strange birds (real birds, it seemed) flitted and swarmed around the clearing on strange wings, almost like dragonflies. There were a few of the now ubiquitous lizard birds, which occasionally streaked in to snatch one of the inoffensive-looking things, but even the birds nearest the victims didn’t appear to give them any heed. Perhaps from within the apparent security of their multitudes, the weird little birds just didn’t notice.

  “Every time I turn a corner on this goofed-up world, I see somethin’ even more goofed up,” Silva mumbled. He surveyed the expanse of the savanna for several moments, trying to divine if it represented a threat of any kind. There were few large animals on the island, and most of those behaved aggressively only within the bounds of their apparently single-minded desire to be left alone. They were retiring and extremely heavily armored in the manner of giant land tortoises, even if any physical resemblance was remote. The smaller ones could be killed, with the Doom Whomper at least, and their flesh was fat and wholesome, but they’d learned that killing anything on this island came with a dose of risk. They’d met an interesting variety of smaller predators and scavengers that were far more capable and dangerous than they appeared. All were smaller than a man and most were fairly skittish. Some were not, and those were usually more than happy to contest them for the meat.

  So far, they’d encountered only one type of really large, dangerous animal during their brief, limited forays—and those didn’t exactly live there. Silva now knew from experience that they had to be particularly watchful for the occasional, early-arriving “shiksak.” He called them “shit-sacks”; of course, “shiksak” was a Tagranesi word and he tended to prefer his own names for things. No matter what anybody called them, the damn things gave him the creeps.

  Once, if anybody had ever told him he’d run across anything scarier than a “super lizard” on land, he’d have called them a liar. Now he knew better. Shiksaks were almost as big as super lizards, and although generally slower moving, they were actually quicker in a sprint. Maybe “lunge” or “leap” was a better term. They struck him as kind of a twisted cross of a crocodile, an eel, and a frog. They had big, fat bodies with long swimming tails with a ridge or finlike arrangement beginning behind their heads that ran the length of their backs, all the way to the ends of their tails. Their forelegs were little more than stumpy, clawed “flippers,” but they had long, powerful hind legs with heavily webbed “feet” like those of a frog or toad. Add long, broad heads full of lots of teeth to the mix, and they even looked sort of comical in a way, like a giant pollywog that had swallowed most of an alligator. The young, towheaded Abel Cook, who’d once been fascinated with the dinosaurs of their “old” world, believed they were a type of mososaur that had evolved an amphibious capability to lay their eggs on shore, away from this world’s more treacherous seas. Maybe so. “Mosey-saurs” they may once have been, but Silva was only concerned with what they’d become.

  Individually, they weren’t really that bad, he admitted to himself. A single shiksak wasn’t as scary as a single super lizard. Unlike super lizards, which seemed to possess a kind of creepy cunning, shiksaks apparently weren’t any smarter than pollywogs. Also, even if their thick, croclike skins made them practically bulletproof to the Imperial muskets, nothing was immune to his treasured Doom Whomper. No, so far the most pressing menace represented by the usually lethargic “early bird” shiksaks was that the sneaky bastards could change goddamn colors! That just wasn’t fair. They crept ashore, made a nest, and plopped down to lay their eggs. Sprawling there, in the dense Yap, or “Shikarrak ” Island jungle, they were difficult to see—and they would gulp down anything that came wandering by. Fair or not, even that wasn’t an insurmountable problem: be careful, watch where you’re going, and stay in pairs. Simple enough. The really big, scary problem—according to what they’d squeezed out of Lawrence (“Larry the Lizard”)—was that within a month the whole island would be working with the damn things like maggots in meat, and nothing that wasn’t armored like a tank, couldn’t climb a really big tree or squirm down a tiny hole, would survive.

  No human or ’Cat would fit down a hole small enough that the shiksaks couldn’t dig it out, and the trees . . . would be full of other dangerous things. Larry had been here before when things got like that, during his “trial,” and he’d survived. That was the point of the trial—to test his wits. But he’d been all alone, with only himself to look after. Dennis Silva had to make sure nothing happened to Princess Rebecca, Lieutenant Tucker (the Skipper’s dame), the Lemurian Captain Lelaa, Sister Audry, and the gawky but gutsy Abel Cook. Maybe he would concern himself a little with a few of their Imperial companions who didn’t like him very much—or maybe not. As he saw it, his plate of responsibility was pretty damn full.

  Larry hadn’t been willing to “blow” about the danger at first, even though he blamed himself for their presence there in the first place. He’d sworn an oath. He finally agreed to tell Rebecca and Miss Tucker, since no female was ever expected to undergo the trial. Even that might have been stretching things, but he just couldn’t bear to let his precious Rebecca face the dangers unprepared. Silva was still a little put out that Larry hadn’t just told him. He had to know the girls would blow. Oh, well, at least this way Silva got the word without Larry having to technically break his. One way or another, he’d learned what he was up against, as far as looking after the girls was concerned, and ultimately that was all that really mattered. Larry could look out for himself.

  Dennis examined the tall grass a little longer, then shrugged. He couldn’t see anything dangerous, but that didn’t mean much. He thrust his cutlass into the scabbard tied to his belt and unslung the Doom Whomper. The big, heavy thing had been strapped diagonally across his back to keep it out of the way. “All right, fellas, come on out, I guess,” he said. “If there’s any boogers out there, I can’t see ’em. Just keep your eyes peeled.”

  Abel Cook emerged first from the bamboo forest. He’d also secured his cutlass and was awkwardly carrying an Imperial musket in what he seemed to consider a proficient and vigilant manner. He managed a relieved, tired smile as he joined Silva. Midshipman Brassey of the Imperial Navy appeared next. The dark-haired boy was no older than Cook, and even if he was more accustomed to his cumbersome musket, he seemed just as relieved to escape the oppressive, confining thicket.

  Captain Rajendra was close on the boy’s heels. He was the only one of the marooned survivors with skin darker than Silva’s, and whereas all the color had been bleached from Silva’s, Rajendra’s hair, bushy mustaches, and short, thick beard remained jet-black. In Rajendra’s case, it was probably racial, but Silva had never asked and didn’t care. Courtney Bradford might have been fascinated to learn more about Rajendra’s genealogy, but God knew where Bradford was now. He might be in Baalkpan or points west. He might even be ironically near, with the Skipper, searching for the castaways. It was ironic because even if that were true, they would never find them. The Skipper had no way of knowing that the survivors of Ajax had become castaways and Ajax herself had literally cease
d to exist. Silva usually enjoyed irony to a certain degree, even if he’d only recently learned the word. He even managed to glean a small measure of amusement from it in the current situation. He recognized irony for the bitch she could be and tended to be philosophical about it when she turned around and bit him on the ass.

  Rajendra didn’t appreciate irony at all, as far as Silva could tell. Apparently he didn’t appreciate much of anything. Even after all these weeks, he seemed able to summon only a scowl when his eyes fell upon Dennis. Silva was philosophical about that too. He’d saved the man’s life. He’d saved all their lives. But the way he’d gone about it . . . He supposed it was inevitable there’d be a touch of resentment. Like the others, Rajendra went armed with a musket, but he also carried a brace of pistols and a sword. Occasionally, absently, Silva wondered if the man’s desire to use the weapons on him had waned at all. He didn’t lose sleep over it, but it could be distracting to know he really needed to watch his back as well as his front.

  At least one other “person” looked after him besides the wellintentioned Abel Cook. Larry the Lizard may not have been willing to technically spill the beans about the island, but he was Silva’s friend. Larry was a Tagranesi, a species strikingly similar in appearance to the hated Grik. He was colored differently and not as big, but those distinctions hadn’t been particularly clear when they’d met.

  There’s irony for you, Dennis thought, remembering that he’d actually shot Larry, thinking he was a Grik, but the little guy didn’t hold it against him. Hell of a lot more forgiving Than Rajendra. I didn’t even shoot him. Irony again. Of course, having now seen the Grik and participated in the Battle of Baalkpan, Larry understood why Dennis had shot him. That had been a different time. The “lizards” were the enemy. All the lizards. They now knew not all Grik-like beings on this world were Grik, and that added even more confusion to an already screwed-up situation. Just like folks, Dennis thought, hell, even Japs. There’s all different sorts. Things sure were a lot simpler back when. you could just kill ’em all without needin’ to sort ’em out first. Oh, well, those days were over and it was probably just as well. Even Silva never thought in quite such simple terms anymore. He was glad Larry liked him—and that he always seemed to bring up the rear when one of their Imperial co-castaways was behind Dennis in the bush.

  Appearing last, as usual, Larry was also armed with a musket. The weapon didn’t really fit him—he just wasn’t built for it—but he’d probably had more practice with one than most of the Imperials on the island.

  “There you are, you little runt,” Silva said. “I figgered I’d have to go find your lost ass . . . again. You been chasin’ butterflies or bugs or something? Find a worm to eat?”

  “I not lost,” Lawrence grumped. “I thirsty, though.”

  “Shouldn’t have drank all your water so fast then.”

  “I ’ound ’ater. I al’ays do.”

  “Even if it leaves you draggin’ ass along like a one-legged toad? ” Silva accused.

  “I not draggin’ ass. You draggin’ ass. I go slow to stay ’ehind you. I don’t need to hack a hole to get giant, useless ass through here.”

  “Mmm.” Silva looked at the Tagranesi, who stared back with his head cocked slightly to one side. According to Bradford, the young darkening and lengthening crest atop it meant he was nearing adulthood—if he hadn’t already reached it. Whether he was actually there or not, he increasingly acted like it, and joking aside, Dennis knew exactly what Lawrence had been up to. Oddly enough, his almost orange, tigerstriped, downy-furry hide afforded him considerable camouflage, even against the dark green, hazel, and almost bluish foliage of the dense jungle covering most of the island. As usual, he’d been hanging back to make sure he’d spot anything that went after the main party so he could give warning before it was upon them. He had a musket and he could shoot it, but his formidable claws and teeth were probably a better deterrent to anything sneaking up behind them.

  “Well,” Dennis said when the group had gathered around him, “let’s see if we can get across that patch yonder in one piece.” Without waiting for comments, he started across the clearing, entering the ever-deepening grass. Behind him, Rajendra slung on his musket and pulled out his pistols—the better to engage close-up threats. Silva was mildly impressed that the usually puffed-up Imperial did something he approved of without being told.

  “Mister Silva?” Abel asked. “I notice that you are avoiding the large clumps of colorful foliage.”

  “Yep. If there’s any dangerous beasties out here, I’d expect ’em to live in the thicker crap.”

  “May I approach one closer?”

  Silva stopped. Abel was kind of Bradford’s protégé, and was apparently just as interested in strange critters and bushes as the Australian “naturalist” was. “Well, I suppose,” he grumped. “You’re the next thing to grown-up, and I can’t nursemaid you forever. Just be careful.” He raised his voice. “Larry, Mr. Cook’s gonna gawk at them weeds. Keep an eye on him, will ya?”

  Larry nodded without complaint. He’d learned to “kid around” with Silva and others, but an order was still an order. Besides, he liked and trusted Abel.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Rajendra grumbled. “We’ve wasted more of the day in that dreadful bamboo than I care to contemplate. What if we reach this dubious destination of yours and then can’t make it back to our beach camp before dark? We may be forced to make camp out here somewhere. I don’t relish that thought.”

  “Oh, quit moaning. It’ll be clear sailing from here. The sea can’t be far beyond that little stretch of jungle past this plain. Hell, I can hear it. We won’t get stuck out here; all we got to do is scamper back down this cut we made. It may have taken us all day to make it, but we can be back at camp in an hour or two, I guess. Why don’t you ever look on the bright side? We done thrashed a damn road through here, like fleas marchin’ across a dog’s back.”

  “Where you are concerned, Mr. Silva, the only ‘bright side’ to anything I seem able to imagine involves fire and destruction,” Rajendra said darkly. “You must forgive my lack of enthusiasm.”

  “Gloomy, pessimistic, and touchy,” Silva replied cheerfully. “How you ever survived childhood, ugly as you are, is a myst’ry to me.”

  Rajendra’s face clouded, but he didn’t respond. Dennis knew the man hated him for a number of reasons, not least because Silva was very good at pointing out Rajendra’s real failings. The problem was, Silva was irrepressibly irreverent by nature, and friendly banter was as necessary to his survival as food and water. Particularly now. The worse things got, the more he joked around. It was his way of dealing with stress. If it helped keep his and the others’ spirits up, that was a bonus. He’d begun to suspect that Rajendra just couldn’t take a joke though, especially from him, and probably took his banter as calculated taunts and insults. Oh, well. He couldn’t help what folks thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d finally goad the Imperial captain into giving him an excuse to kill him. Then he wouldn’t have to watch his back so much.

  He eased a little farther to the left while Abel and Larry approached the nearest mound of “kudzu” so he could cover them a little better.

  “Goodness gracious!” Abel exclaimed, reminding Silva of Bradford again, and causing a grin to split his face. “It’s full of bones!”

  “Bones? ” cried Midshipman Brassey, hurrying to join Abel. The two boys shared many interests and were becoming friends. “What sort of bones?”

  “Well, big ones! They’re difficult to see through all the foliage, but they’re perhaps comparable to those of a small whale.” He stopped, looking at Brassey as the boy joined him. “Do you have whales? I mean, are there any where you live?”

  “We have creatures we call whales,” Brassey admitted thoughtfully, “but they may not be precisely the same. I’ve seen drawings in books of the whales from . . . our old world—from the time before the Passage—and we have similar things ...” He grew silent as hi
s eyes sought out what Abel had seen. “Look! There! I see them too!” He moved slightly forward, pushing some of the purple flowers aside. “It may well be an entire skeleton, fully articulated!” He gestured around. “It’s as if all this viny grass has grown up around it.”

  Abel slung his musket onto his shoulder and began parting the flowers as well. Larry crouched, sniffing, staring into the shadows beneath the grass around the bones.

  “Come on, boys,” badgered Silva, growing impatient. “So there’s some old bones. Quit foolin’ around.”

  “Wait,” said Abel, “there’s something—Ow!”

  “What? What is it? Are you all right?” asked Brassey.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Something poked my finger. One of these little thorny things, I believe. I thought for a moment I saw something moving in there. You may think me mad, but it looked quite like a fox!” He held up his hand and examined it, finding a tiny thorn in his left pinky. “You see? It’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt.” He removed the thorn and cast it away. Just before a tiny drop of blood welled up, he thought he might have seen a dark speck within the wound, but he shrugged it off. “Come on, Brassey, we mustn’t anger Mr. Silva. Perhaps we can look again when we return this way.”

  Reluctantly, Brassey agreed and the two boys moved back toward where Silva and Rajendra stood. For a moment longer, Larry continued to stare at the kudzu, until Silva whistled at him. Tossing his head, he bounded back through the tall grass to rejoin his companions.

  “Next best thing to a dog,” Silva said, laughing. “Next best.”