Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  “Do you guys realize yesterday was the sixteen-month anniversary? A year and a third to the very day since we arrived . . . wherever we are?” Letts interjected into the awkward silence that ensued.

  Matt nodded. “Sixteen months since the Squall. Since we escaped the Japs—and watched them sink Exeter and Electra and Pope . . . since we nearly got sunk ourselves.” He shook his head. “We lost a lot of good destroyermen that day. I didn’t forget.”

  “Well . . . maybe you ought not go just yet. The dry dock’s finished and we’ll be pulling the plug in a few days. Ben’s going to fly. . . .”

  “It’s time to go,” Matt said simply. “You and the fellas can handle all that stuff.”

  Letts nodded reluctantly.

  Princess Rebecca stepped forward. “Mr. O’Casey is safe aboard your ship?”

  “Stowed away, and no one the wiser.” Matt smiled at her concern for the one-armed man.

  “I suppose it is best,” she reflected. “With Billingsly here and his spies on the loose, I fear they would have discovered him sooner or later. He grows weary of hiding. I do worry about him, though.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Matt assured her. “And he wanted to go. Like you said, he’s tired of staying out of sight. Aboard ship he can do something, and the only time he has to be scarce is if Jenks comes aboard.” Matt grinned. “Besides, he has full confidence Silva could protect you from a super lizard with his bare hands.” He raised an eyebrow. “Where is Silva, by the way?”

  “Sulking,” Sandra said, wryly. “He wanted to go too. Talk about bored! God knows what mischief he’ll cause! Until I let Mr. Sandison have him full-time, he was always either trying out his ‘toys,’ or down at the Busted . . . I mean, the Castaway Cook.” She tousled the princess’s hair. “Right now, I have ‘the duty.’”

  Suddenly, Rebecca lunged forward and embraced the captain. He was so surprised that he stood there a moment, hands away from her. Slowly, he lowered them to encompass her and returned the hug. “Do be careful, Captain Reddy,” the girl said blearily. “I know your cause is just and I shall miss you, miss you all, terribly. But you must take care! I cannot help but feel you are protecting my people as well as your own, and somehow, all our fates are tied to you in the end!”

  A lump had mysteriously formed in Matt’s throat. “I’ll take care, Your Highness,” he muttered self-consciously, “and I’ll watch out for your Mr. O’Casey.”

  He shook hands with the other men and embraced Keje and Adar. That was their way, like Russians, he supposed, but it was like hugging a . . . well, he didn’t know what. “We’ll see you soon,” he said to Keje. “I’ll look forward to seeing the first flattop this world has ever known come steaming over the horizon!” He stepped back, but before he could compose himself, Sandra was in his arms. Wolf whistles and howls of delight came from Nakja-Mur, tied nearby.

  After a reluctantly chaste kiss, Sandra looked up at him, her eyes swimming. “Do be careful, Captain Reddy,” she said, repeating Rebecca’s words.

  I love you, he mouthed, then turned for the launch.

  Walker had always gotten under way with an almost spastic energy, as if straining at her moorings like a dog on a leash. The 2nd AEF proceeded more ponderously. The steamers in particular seemed almost reluctant to get under way. Donaghey was much quicker. As soon as her cable was up and down, she snatched her anchor from the bottom and surged ahead with the quickening breeze, flag streaming to leeward. She piled on more sail, and soon she was slanting down toward the mouth of the bay. Tolson and the corvettes followed in her wake and it was clear the corvettes would be fast, handy ships. Then came the swift feluccas and slower transports. Finally, the steamers began to move. Nakja-Mur and Dowden slashed at the water with their single, center-mounted screws and began to gain headway with a lot of activity, shouted commands, and considerable noise from their engines and boilers. Steam jetted. It was clear their crews were learning as they went. Achilles gained far more efficiently, with her paddle wheels helping her maneuver, but didn’t pick up speed as fast. Soon, the entire fleet was steering for the Makassar Strait—and whatever awaited them beyond.

  CHAPTER 7

  They came for him as he stepped away from the morning feeding trough. Somehow, on some level, he’d been expecting it. Feeding sounds continued unabated, punctuated by frequent snarls as Uul contended over a particularly choice boiled, meaty bone. He watched as the four specially armored warriors of the Chooser worked their way in his direction through the hissing horde that jostled to and from the trough, and for the slightest instant, he contemplated resistance.

  That alone was enough to stun him into immobility. That, and the fact that he realized—realized—his sated torpor would allow the warriors to make short work of him. He was armed with only the weapons the Mother had given him. Alone, they would be no match for the armor. There was no mistake. Harshly, they called his name and their eyes were fixed on his. He was the only Uul within the stone feeding chamber who had a name, and, resignedly, he moved to meet them.

  It was time. He’d had a good life, but now he was old—he knew it was so—and his joints ached and he’d lost several teeth. He’d been just slightly slower in the arena of late and if he noticed it, certainly the Chooser had. He’d still been victorious, and his surge of exultation had been affirmed by the hissing approbation of the Hij spectators, but he knew each of his victories over the last few cycles had been more difficult than the last. It was time for his boiled flesh to fill the feeding trough of the Sport Fighters. At least many were his own get, and the tradition would be unbroken. Better to feed his own here than strangers on some distant battlefield, he decided, in an uncharacteristic burst of insight. Still, it would have been better to die fighting.

  He’d been a fighter all his life and he’d tasted the chaos and mad joy of major battles often, usually against his own kind. First, he’d merely been one of ten. Through skill he’d eventually become first of ten, then second of twenty—all Grik could count that high; they had two arms, two legs, and sixteen fingers and toes, after all. Time and many battles passed and he was elevated to first of twenty, first of two twenties, and ultimately first of five twenties, as high as any Uul could aspire. That was when he’d been taken to the arena for the pleasure of the Hij and given a name. He had little sense of the passage of time or how many victories he’d won. Tens of twenties, certainly. All he knew was that he’d been in the arena a long, long time. He’d enjoyed it. But all good things, like life, must end.

  “Greetings, Halik-Uul,” spoke one of the armored warriors, less harshly than before.

  “In the name of the Mother, I greet you,” Halik replied easily. Less certainly, he continued, “The Chooser time, now?”

  “Indeed,” stated another of the warriors. “Your time has come. Your destiny awaits.”

  Halik didn’t know what a “destiny” was. It was probably elevated speech for “cook pot.”

  “Come,” commanded the one who seemed first of four.

  Obediently, Halik followed as the warriors led him through the now quieter, staring horde. They passed through the locked gate to the underground chamber and up into the light. Halik blinked as they strode across the arena he’d fought in so many times. He couldn’t help but gaze around. He’d never seen it empty before. They reached another gate, and through it, they ascended a gradually spiraling stair. Halik grew slightly confused. He didn’t know where the cook pots were, but the smells never reached them when the wind was from this direction. His heart quickened. Maybe they were taking him to a female! Sometimes warriors who’d shown greater strength and skill were allowed that honor before they faced the butchers. If that were the case, it would make his death slightly less unpleasant, at least.

  He’d been paired with a female only twice before, and the result had been dozens of squabbling young he’d never seen, for the most part. Some of the survivors, a fair percentage actually, had eventually appeared in the warrior dens destined for the arena. He’
d been ordered to train them himself and he’d complied, though at the time, he’d felt no real connection to them. Two he’d ultimately killed in the arena himself. Recently, however, he’d begun to feel a subtle attachment to those of his that remained. Perhaps it was pride of a sort that he’d sired such well-developed and cunning warriors. He didn’t think much about it; it was just something he felt.

  “This way,” ordered the first of four when they reached the top of the stair and a passageway forked away from it. They took the passage to the left. It was dimly lit and there was no sound but the clack of claws and footpads on the stones. The passageway continued for a considerable distance and his excitement grew. He could smell females! Oddly, he didn’t think any were present now, but they had passed there recently. Perhaps one awaited him in a chamber nearby? Suddenly, the guards halted him at a chamber entrance that had strange scents, but not those of females, and he was confused, disappointed. Regardless, he entered at their command and stood where they placed him.

  His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark passage, and the torches that drew his eyes blinded him to the rest of the chamber. He sensed there were others in the room, and one that smelled . . . wrong. Suddenly, one of the guards grabbed him from behind, holding his arms at his sides. Another grasped his feet. Without warning, yet another guard draped a cloth over his eyes and quickly wrapped it around them and over his snout, tying his jaws securely shut. An instant later, he was released.

  Rising terror threatened to overcome him. He’d never expected it to be like this. That they would destroy him he had no doubt, but he’d never expected them to make sport of him when they did. He could see nothing, but oddly, they’d left his hands and feet unrestrained. He waited, gaining control of his fear.

  A terrible blow struck him across the belly. It burned like the strike of a sword or a claw and he expected his insides to fall to the floor. Reflexively, he grasped at the terrible wound . . . and felt nothing. Another sharp blow slashed at the back of his leg, and he should have fallen with his leg ropes cut . . . but he didn’t. Repeatedly the blows fell upon him, and he stood there and took it despite an almost uncontrollable urge to run, to flee, to try to escape toward where he thought the passageway should be. Reaching up, he tore the blindfold and gag from his face, but now his eyes were even more dazzled by the torches.

  “Kill me,” he gasped, controlling his voice, “but no play at me as hatchlings with food pets! I fight for The Mother all my life. I honor Her, submit to Her! Kill me!”

  “Sounds almost like pride, does it not?” came an urbane, well-spoken voice. Something answered in a tongue Halik had never heard. He felt fear again, but not the visceral, dangerous kind of fear, the kind that would make him prey. This was different. Another blow fell across his back, and finally, a mounting rage drove all fear from him and he lashed back. By some fluke, he managed to grasp the weapon and realized it was a whip. He jerked it toward him and then lashed up against the extended arm of his tormentor with his forearm. The whip was his! He reversed the handle and flailed it about himself with practiced ease, creating a wall of lashing leather while his eyes began to adjust. Another blow fell across his back, and with lightning speed, he spun and directed a reply. The whip cracked against the only target he could see—a pair of glowing eyes. He was rewarded with a shriek, and the glowing orbs were extinguished. Every instinct drove him to fall upon his wounded tormentor, but he forced himself to remain in a protective stance, backing toward the wall. He could see the shape of his attackers now, and saw there were others in the chamber as well. The others were gathered to one side and posed no threat, but the three remaining guards were approaching him, in the classic style, and now they had swords.

  “A dilemma, Halik-Uul!” said the urbane voice—so calm! “Whatever will you do? You are not in the arena now!”

  Halik forced his own passion to subside. The voice seemed . . . familiar . . . and on some level, he somehow knew the words were meant as guidance. What would he do? He must think! Suddenly, a wild insight took him. This was not a slaughter, a preparation for the cook pots. It was a test! A test to see if the strange thoughts and awareness he’d experienced of late had some greater meaning. What would he do? In the arena, a match like this would be hopeless. One could use only the weapons one brought to the fight. Sometimes things were deliberately staged that way, to see what would happen, but a single whip against three swords was a losing proposition. But he wasn’t in the arena! The voice had said so!

  His back was almost to the wall; he could feel it with his tail. A quick glance behind revealed one of the torches—although it wasn’t a torch. Not like he’d seen before. An iron bracket supported a small glass globe with a burning wick protruding from a funnel shape on top. He didn’t know what the liquid in the globe was, but he knew it would burn. He’d used small bombs in the arena before. Just as the guards rushed him, he snatched the globe from the bracket and hurled it at the one on the far left. It shattered and spread burning fluid across the guard’s face and torso. He lunged past the conflagration and leaped upon the blinded, moaning guard. He didn’t kill him, but instead, snatched his sword from its hand. Sprinting to the opposite side of the chamber, he took a position with his whip in one hand and the sword in the other. The burning guard had flopped on the floor, flailing and rolling, trying to extinguish the flames. That left two. Confidence soared within him. A moment ago, he’d been doomed. He didn’t know exactly what the meaning of all this was, but he did know that with a sword and a whip, he could defeat any two warriors with swords he’d ever faced.

  “Enough,” came the voice. At a gesture from the darkened figure, the guards obediently slew their wounded comrade and dragged him from the chamber. Halik had no doubt they’d have killed him just as thoughtlessly as they had the others, but now was forgotten.

  “In the name of the Celestial Mother,” came the voice, as placid as it had been from the start, “you may lay down your weapons and no harm will come to you. I even promise they’ll be returned. The sword, in particular, you may wish to keep.”

  Only then did Halik glance at the weapon. He’d also begun to notice things recently, in ways he never had before. Just as a visit with a female might bring pleasure, he’d discovered other things sometimes did. Success in the arena brought intense pleasure, but suddenly, so did the memory of an unusual sunset he’d once seen. Looking at the sword, he realized that the sight of it gave him pleasure as well! It was the most . . . beautiful thing he’d ever beheld. The blade was a type of layered iron he’d seen carried only by generals, and the hilt was elaborately decorated. Gently, he laid it on the floor.

  “Come here.”

  Obediently, Halik did so. When he drew closer, he could finally discern four robed Hij—and some other creature standing with them. He was still too invigorated to take much notice, and his eyes quickly sought the source of the voice.

  One of the Hij drew back his robes and revealed himself as a first general, the highest of the high, and a member of the Celestial Mother’s very house. Halik flung himself onto the cold stones of the floor.

  “He did well,” murmured another voice grudgingly. “The fire was a nice touch, and he is the first to have used it. Clever.”

  Halik certainly recognized that voice. It belonged to the Chooser himself! He’d heard it many times over the years during the Sports.

  “Arise, Halik-Uul,” came the first voice again. “The Mother’s Chooser will take you from this place and his assistants will prepare you for the usual Holy Rites of Elevation. You and I will talk again, and I look forward to conversing with you as one Hij to another.”

  After Halik was led, dazed, from the chamber, General Esshk looked at Kurokawa. “An interesting recruiting method you have devised. It tests their wits as well as their discipline, ability, and resistance to the Urge. Ultimately, it tests their obedience as well. Most interesting.” He glanced at the bloodstains. “Perhaps a trifle wasteful.”

  “Perhaps,” Kuroka
wa agreed, “but for the war we must prepare for, one Halik is worth a hundred of those others. Maybe a thousand.”

  Esshk hissed a sigh. “I believe you speak truth, or this activity would not be allowed. There is resistance, however. The Celestial Mother remains unconvinced, but she is willing, at least, to experiment.” He glanced in the direction Halik had been taken. “That Uul is not unique, but he is rare and we will need many, many more like him.”

  “The Chooser opposes us?”

  “The Chooser opposes all change. Nevertheless, the hatchling proposal progresses. We will see.”

  CHAPTER 8

  LOGBOOK

  OF THE

  U.S.S WALKER (DD-163)

  DD Rate, COMMANDED BY:

  M. P. REDDY, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER, USNR

  DESTROYER SQUADRON 29

  Attached to: ABDAFLOAT

  Commencing: 0000, July 1, 1943,

  at: Baalkpan—formerly Balikpapan

  and ending: 1943

  LIST OF OFFICERS

  Attached to and on board of the USS WALKER (DD-163), commanded by M.P. REDDY, Captain, USNR, during the period covered by this Logbook, with date of reporting for duty, detachment, transfer, or death, from 1 July 1943, to 31 July 1943

  (This page to be sent to Bureau of Navigation monthly with Log sheets)

  UNITED STATES SHIP WALKER (DD-163) Tuesday, Sept. 2, 1943 00-04 As before. No problems to report. Woke up pumping detail and inspection party so they could begin final preparations.

  Sonny Campeti, Lt. Cmdr. USN

  04-08 As before. Pump boilers at full steam pressure despite leaks. Detail reports all in readiness. Inspection party discovered and repaired a faulty joint in the #4 main pipe. Split ends were the cause—like we have seen before. Inspection parties will continue to observe all joints throughout the operation.