Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  “Of course, Commodore,” Grimsley replied, eyebrows arched in surprise.

  Billingsly was equally surprised, but said nothing as he followed the commodore down the companionway to his quarters. Inside, Jenks tossed his still-damp hat on his desk, undid the top buttons of his tunic, and loosened his cravat. Pouring a single small glass of amber liquid, he relaxed into his chair with a sigh. The stern gallery windows were open for ventilation, but it was still oppressively hot. Without waiting for an invitation, Billingsly took a seat in front of the desk.

  “I take it the Americans and their Apes have finally agreed to return the princess to us?” he ventured. “Even so, two months would seem . . . uncharacteristically parsimonious. They have not stinted our supplies before, and such a quantity might not see us home.”

  “Her Highness still insists on returning home with her ‘friends,’ ” Jenks announced. “I spoke with her myself just prior to returning to the ship. You will be glad to know she is well, happy, and thriving,” he added with a barb.

  “But . . .”

  For once, Jenks saw Billingsly’s perpetual scowl dissolve into an expression of complete confusion. He had to stifle a sense of amusement and satisfaction over the bloated bastard’s discomfiture. “In slightly under three weeks’ time, Achilles will accompany an Allied squadron to the place they call Aryaal and perhaps points west and north, in an attempt to discover the current dispositions of these Grik of theirs. Captain Reddy made the offer, and after consulting with the princess, I accepted. I consider it an invaluable opportunity to assess the strategic threat posed by the Grik, as well as our hosts. We will be going as observers only and will not engage in hostilities if any do, in fact, occur. If they do, at the very least I will have the opportunity of seeing the Grik for myself and I’ll learn quite a bit about the military capability of this Alliance of theirs as well.”

  Billingsly’s scowl returned and deepened while Jenks spoke. “You should not . . . must not make a decision like that without consulting me!” he said menacingly.

  “I must and I did make the decision, Commander,” Jenks replied. “The offer was phrased in a ‘take it or leave it, now or never’ fashion,” Jenks lied smoothly, “and I saw no choice but to accept.”

  “Of course you had a choice!” Billingsly countered hotly. “They will never send the princess on this ‘expedition’ of theirs! With the cream of their naval force otherwise engaged, we could easily take her and be gone!”

  “Past those bloody great guns in the fort?” Jenks replied, his own voice rising. “You must be mad.”

  “Plans could be made. They already have been,” he hinted. “With a judicious use of force, a few diversions, and a bit of mischief here and there, we could be gone before they could possibly respond.”

  Jenks paused, considering his next words carefully. He knew they could condemn him of treason in any Company court. A naval inquiry might see things differently, but who was to say how things now stood after their long absence? He had no choice. “You are forgetting their iron-hulled steamer. I have seen it now, and I tell you it could easily catch us even if we proceeded under full steam for the entire trip—which we certainly cannot do. They intend to leave it here to ensure against any such scheme as you suggest.”

  Billingsly’s expression suddenly became blank, unreadable. He took a breath. “A point,” he said. Then an incomprehensible thing occurred; Billingsly smiled. The expression was so foreign to his face that it almost seemed to crack under the strain. “You make a valid point,” he continued more earnestly. “And I apologize for my earlier rashness. You have clearly scored a coup! A major intelligence-gathering opportunity! I congratulate you.”

  Taken aback, Jenks stared at the man. Billingsly’s mood had changed so abruptly and uncharacteristically, Jenks couldn’t avoid a creeping suspicion. But if Billingsly somehow knew he’d lied about Walker’s condition, he would have arrested and usurped him on the spot. Wouldn’t he? Moreover, the opportunity was just as significant as Jenks had argued, after all. Perhaps the inscrutable Company man had simply recognized that in an apparent flash of insight, just as it seemed.

  “Well, then . . .” Jenks said. “Very well.”

  “I will, of course, remain here aboard Ajax in your absence, to continue to advance our interests and ensure the Apes understand we have not forgotten our princess,” Billingsly said.

  Jenks was actually relieved. He’d expected Billingsly to demand to come along and he really didn’t want him breathing down his neck. Captain Rajendra of Ajax was a good officer and would keep him in check. Still a little disconcerted by his good fortune, Jenks spoke a little hesitantly: “Of course. Um, I don’t expect you to curtail your . . . surreptitious activities, but please do try harder to avoid being caught. A temporary cessation, at least, might actually be in order. Perhaps they’ll drop their guard.”

  “An excellent suggestion, Commodore. Perhaps they will think, with you and Achilles away, they have less reason to fear. I will encourage that perception for a time.” Billingsly stood. “Perhaps, at long last, we will see some movement here!” he said cheerfully. “By your leave?”

  “Indeed.”

  Commander Billingsly created what he considered a reassuring smile and left the commodore’s quarters. In the passageway beyond, his more comfortable scowl returned. “Damn him!” he muttered to himself, a kaleidoscope of thoughts whirling in his mind. He passed a midshipman—he didn’t know his name—in the passageway.

  “You there. Boy,” he snarled.

  The youth forced himself to pause, an expression of controlled terror on his face. Billingsly’s proclivities were well-known—as was his power to indefinitely delay a midshipman’s appointment to lieutenant. “Sir.”

  “Run along to Lieutenant Truelove, with my compliments, and ask him to join me in my quarters!”

  Visibly relieved, the midshipman raced off.

  CHAPTER 5

  Captain Hisashi Kurokawa, formerly of His Imperial Japanese Majesty’s Ship Amagi, followed obediently behind his “masters” as they were escorted through the dark, dank, labyrinthine passageways of what was roughly translated as “the Palace of Creation,” toward the Holy Chamber of the Celestial Mother herself. He remained fully erect as he strode, carefully groomed and outwardly confident in his meticulously restored uniform complete with all his medals and many other meaningless, gaudy decorations he’d added for effect. Inwardly, he was terrified, and he’d learned enough about Grik body language—particularly that of the Hij—to know his masters weren’t quite as collected as they tried to appear. That Tsalka, General Esshk, and Kurokawa had actually achieved this audience and not merely been killed out of hand seemed a good sign. At least the Celestial Mother wanted to hear what they had to say. Chances were, worst case, they’d be allowed to destroy themselves and not simply be torn to shreds. Regardless, he knew his masters had some fast—convincing—talking to do if any of them were to have any hope of survival.

  Tsalka, still dressed in the fine robes of his office as Imperial Regent-Consort of Ceylon and “Sire” of all India, had cautioned Kurokawa to say nothing unless directly addressed, and for once, for his very life, he’d better prostrate himself before the Celestial Mother. A formal bow simply wouldn’t do. Tsalka seemed the most concerned, and he nervously fiddled with his robes as they drew closer to the chamber. General Esshk was at least as outwardly calm as Kurokawa. Resplendent in his crimson cape, bronze armor, and polished, crested helmet, he still reminded Kurokawa of a fuzzy, reptilian caricature of a Roman tribune. He alone seemed oblivious to the heavily armed escort that accompanied them and only the occasional nervous twitch of his stumpy, dark-plumed tail beneath the cape betrayed any concern at all.

  Of course, to his credit—Kurokawa supposed—Esshk’s concern was more for the survival of his species than for himself. He knew how critical were the observations and ideas the three of them brought to this interview. If the Celestial Mother disregarded their arguments—that
to defeat the ancient “Prey That Got Away,” all the Grik must make profound, fundamental changes to their precious culture that had thrived in its present form for thousands of years—the ultimate foundation of that culture was doomed. Worse, from Esshk’s perspective, failure to adapt could mean the extermination of his very species. Somehow, the Celestial Mother, the keeper and protector of that culture, must be convinced that change was essential—at least temporarily—and he, Tsalka, and the Japanese “hunter” named Kurokawa were indispensible as the only possible agents of that change.

  Finally, the Holy Chamber opened before them and Kurokawa got his first glimpse of it, and the Celestial Mother herself. The chamber wasn’t much different from Tsalka’s he’d seen in Ceylon, except in size. Flowering ivies carpeted the floor and crept up the walls, the farthest of which was lost in the distant gloom. They constituted the only real decoration besides the throne itself, situated in the center of the chamber and bathed in sunlight that entered through an opening high above. A complex system of ingenious mirrors made sure that whatever time of day it was, sunlight always reflected downward upon the intricately carved and gilded throne, bathing it with its warming rays. Absently, Kurokawa wondered where the monster sprawled whenever it rained.

  The Celestial Mother was immense. He’d been told roughly what to expect by Esshk, but he was still taken aback. She was at least three times as big as Esshk, who was big for a Grik, and she was incredibly, grossly, shockingly obese to such a remarkable degree as to defy imagination. He was instantly reminded of the mythical, flightless Chinese dragons, except the Celestial Mother had none of their sinewy grace. More like a monstrous grub, he thought. Rolls of fat bulged beneath her skin and drooped from the saddlelike throne like half-empty sacks of grain. Jowls hung just as alarmingly around her polished, bleached-white teeth, and her carefully manicured and painted claws extended, unused, much farther than normal beyond fat, stumpy fingers. Her fur was unlike any Grik’s he’d seen before, either. Instead of the rather downy, striated, earth-tone covering he was used to, the Celestial Mother was adorned with actual plumage of a reddish gold hue, almost like new copper. It was beautiful. The contrast between the sparkling glory of her coat and the flabby obscenity it covered was striking. He had to remind himself that this ridiculous, virtually helpless creature before him might well be the most powerful being on this earth.

  Together, Tsalka, Esshk, and Kurokawa mounted the first step of the triangular stone dais surrounding the throne and the two Grik instantly prostrated themselves. Kurokawa, with a surge of terror, took the gamble he’d been steeling himself for over the months-long journey to this place, ever since the three of them decided what they must do right after the defeat at Baalkpan: still standing, but making an elaborate flourish with his hands, he bowed very low. Tsalka couldn’t see him, but he must have known what he’d done because he emitted a barely audible hiss. The Celestial Mother shifted slightly, causing rolls of gelatinous fat to ripple, and regarded him with her relatively small, bloodred eyes.

  “So,” she hissed, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, “in addition to treason, incompetence, and a murderous waste of my precious Uul, I must add criminal impertinence to the charges against you.” Tsalka practically moaned. Saying nothing, Kurokawa held his pose. “Well, creature, formerly of the “Iron Ship Folk,” what have you to say for yourself?” The question was the opening Kurokawa had been hoping for.

  “My most abject apologies, Your Majesty,” he humbly intoned in English—a language he knew she understood, even if she couldn’t speak it. “Among my people, this posture conveys the same meaning as that of Regent-Consort Tsalka and General Esshk. If anything, it signifies even greater respect. True warriors do not crawl on their bellies before any . . . being . . . in victory or defeat, and this posture is reserved only for those we consider worthy of our greatest respect and esteem. Forgive me if I have erred in presenting you with the most sincere honor and unreserved respect I am capable of.”

  The Celestial Mother leaned back, considering, as surprised by the creature’s ability to speak so fluently in the “Scientific Tongue” as she was by his . . . interesting excuse. “Arise, Regent Tsalka, General Esshk,” she said, almost as an afterthought. She turned her full attention to the general as he rose and her voice became harder. “The Invincible Swarm is defeated,” she stated simply. “As you were once considered the greatest living general of our people, and particularly since you chose not to gently destroy yourself, but to come before me with an explanation—knowing your destruction here will not be ‘gentle’—I will allow you to speak.” She glanced at Tsalka. “You are blameless for the actual defeat. You are no general, after all, but I understand you were deeply involved in the planning that led to this disaster, so either you meddled inexcusably or Esshk displayed even greater incompetence by heeding your untrained counsel. Regardless, you have attached yourself to his failure and will share his fate . . . unless you can convince me, as you claim, that you and Esshk, as well as this unwholesome creature you bring before me, deserve to exist.” She paused. “No, in fact you must convince me beyond any doubt that your continued existence is essential not only to our ultimate success, but to our very survival as a species.”

  She allowed them a moment to contemplate that and, with some effort, contorted herself enough so that she could reach the basket of struggling hatchlings beside her throne. Seizing one, she popped it in her mouth and began to chew. Selected by the Chooser, they were the rejects from her own nest, and her favorite snack.

  Tsalka cleared his throat and began to speak. The Celestial Mother had succinctly laid it out, and as tall an order as it was, the opportunity was greater than he’d secretly suspected.

  “I thank you, Giver of Life. It is true that General Esshk and I took a great risk by coming before you, but not merely for our meager selves. Against the knowledge we bear, our fates are insignificant. We risk your wrath because we do believe the existence of our very race is at stake. We have some few advantages, technological miracles our . . . partner in the Hunt has brought us.” He gestured with lingering annoyance at Kurokawa. “Those miracles have already been used to some good effect and we have many more at our disposal, not yet implemented. But truly our only hope for survival, I fear, is that some very fundamental changes be made.”

  “Such as?” the Celestial Mother demanded, still chewing.

  Tsalka paused, measuring his next words very carefully. Finally, almost resignedly, he pointed at the basket beside the throne and, by implication, the morsels within. “Well, for example, we must stop eating those. The Choosers cull them because they are not fiercely aggressive. They defend themselves fanatically against their nest-mates that attack them, but are not attackers themselves. Thus they are not considered fit for the Hunt. Distasteful as the concept might be, General Esshk has convinced me that defense is something we must learn to do.”

  “Defense!” shrieked the Celestial Mother indignantly. “Defense is for prey! We are the predators all other creatures must defend against! It has ever been thus! You would rend thousands of years of culture, tradition, based on a single defeat by an incompetently underestimated opponent? If that is the counsel you bring, prepare yourselves for the Traitor’s Death!”

  Tsalka prostrated himself again, but to his credit, Esshk remained standing beside Kurokawa. Inwardly, Kurokawa trembled with dread, but he knew that if he showed any doubt or fear now, all was lost.

  “Giver of Life,” Esshk said quietly, “with respect, and my most fervent worshipfulness, my life is, of course, yours to do with as you please, but I beg you to hear us. The Invincible Swarm was destroyed not only because we underestimated our foe—true enough—but because we were culturally unable to recognize the fact that the simple Tree Prey we met so long ago might have progressed into Worthy Prey. They have become other hunters who, in their fashion, have matched our capacity for the hunt. They had assistance, others like him”—he gestured at Kurokawa—“who taught them new m
iracles of war, but they adapted to those miracles more readily than we and used them more effectively. If we do not adapt as well, they will sweep us from the world.”

  “Prey?”

  “Worthy Prey, Celestial Mother. And like other Worthy Prey, they have become hunters as well. Given time, they will pursue us.”

  “Then we must mount another Swarm, greater than the one you wasted, and destroy them forever! Surely they suffered greatly as well. Now is the time to exterminate them!”

  “I would agree . . . but where will we get the Uul, the warriors, for such a Swarm? Our frontiers are vast, and are we not now in contact with other Worthy Prey in the south? And in the west as well? I have heard rumors. . . .”

  The Celestial Mother waved a hand. “It is true. We always meet new prey as we expand, and sometimes the great storms deliver others unto us . . . like your pet, perhaps? This new “Worthy Prey” in the south and west is weak in numbers, and infests a small, chill, and undesirable land. We are in no rush to hunt them, and they are no threat to us. We will manage. We always have.”

  “I propose that this time, you won’t,” Kurokawa interjected. He recognized the quaver in his voice and hoped the others didn’t. “Not without us,” he added more firmly.

  “And what makes you so indispensable?” The Celestial Mother’s tone was suddenly low, threatening.

  Kurokawa forged ahead, counting his points on his fingers. “First, you could probably destroy the Tree Folk—prey—as you said, with one more major campaign, but the losses would be staggering. Where will you get the troops . . . the Uul warriors? Second, they know your weakness now.” Even Esshk bristled at “weakness,” but Kurokawa continued. “No doubt they have seen and understand your inability to defend. As soon as they are able, they will attack. They must. Most likely, they will do so before you can adequately reinforce your forward outposts, like Aryaal.” He paused and took a deep, tense breath. “Without proper defensive tactics and preparations, those outposts cannot hold. To avoid even further pointless loss of . . . Uul”—he pronounced it “Ool”—“I most respectfully recommend that you evacuate them. The strategy of trading land for time is no disgrace if part of that strategy is to eventually recover what has been lost. Third, if we gain that time, we can use it to prepare. While the enemy—the prey—flounders along impotently behind us, extending their lines of supply while ours contract, we can build the cannon-armed armored ships I have proposed. We can make the flying machines, the artillery, and train your . . . our troops, our Uul, in tactics that will succeed.” Kurokawa shrugged imperceptibly, going for broke. “And yes, those tactics must be defensive at first.” He held up a fourth finger. “Finally, when we have built these weapons, trained . . . our troops, swelled their ranks with an entirely fresh generation that has not known defeat, we wait until the prey is overextended and has stretched his lines of supply to the breaking point. . . .”