Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  Mallory wasn’t here for this discussion. Those present were essentially the same ones he and Alan discussed inviting earlier, with the exception of Keje, whom Adar had asked to attend as well. Most of them—Letts, Sister Audry, Rebecca, Sandra, and Keje—joined Adar on stools around the table. Only Spanky and Courtney took advantage of the cushions. Spanky was exhausted after his perpetual “watch-on-watches,” and claimed to be only marginally Catholic anyway. Adar got the impression he didn’t know why he was there. Courtney was fascinated by the looming discussion, but he always accepted a cushion (and the beer he preferred over seep) when the occasion allowed.

  Adar had secretly hoped Alan Letts would start things off, but for once, the light-skinned officer waited for Adar to begin. “Well,” he said at last. “I suppose we must hammer things out, as you Amer-i-caans so aptly phrase it. Mr. Letts and I have long planned what he calls an economic discussion, but there appears to be a more pressing matter before us. The economic discussion will . . . must happen, I’m sure, but it need not require the presence of some of you. What we must fashion this evening is some sort of accommodation between what appears to be a growing spiritual factionalism.” He blinked at Sister Audry.

  “I have long enjoyed our brief discussions concerning your faith and how it may have . . . influenced ours historically, but until recently I presumed you understood my fears that openly revealing that faith might contribute to a schism of some kind among our people—right when our growing unity is our greatest advantage. Aryaalans, B’mbaadans, and even Sularans hold substantially different beliefs from most sea folk, and even the People of Baalkpan, yet those differences are primarily matters of interpretation. The fundamental belief system is quite similar. We all revere the Sun and the Heavens, even if we place slightly different emphasis on one or the other, and our understandings of our lives beyond this one are somewhat different as well. Still, the differences are little more profound than the color of our fur. My dear Sister Audry, the differences you preach are far more profound—and potentially more corrosive to the mutual trust and understanding my people have achieved.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Sister Audry replied in her strangely accented English.

  “Of course you do,” Adar remonstrated gently. “I consider you a personal friend, and I thought we had an understanding. You assured me you would do nothing to undermine the solidity of the Alliance during this time of trial.”

  “I have not!” Sister Audry declared. She sighed. “My order is not given to radicalism. It is not even much given to aggressive evangelism. I come from a place that was mostly Mohammadan, after all. Immoderation of speech is not our . . . my way, except when it pertains to intellectual works and teaching.”

  “And yet your ‘teachings’ have gained a number of converts to your faith,” Adar stated as fact. “Ordinarily, I would not concern myself. I cannot dictate faith . . . and I find myself curiously drawn to some of what you say myself. Much requires reconciliation, but it was my understanding that you understood our position and would allow me time to consider the merits of our . . . discussions, and decide how best to proceed with that reconciliation. These converts of yours have begun to be noticed, performing unusual rites. Rites that might be misunderstood. That which is strange and poorly understood can bring persecution and factionalism.”

  “It has not been my intention to abuse your trust, Mr. Chairman. I do what I may for the good of the people and you have my ungrudging obedience. But when people ask about the true faith, I must tell them. I cannot lie!”

  “But there we have our difficulty.” Adar drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop. “Here in Baalkpan we have our own ‘true faith.’ It may be observed in different ways, but its basic tenets are a source of unity. You preach an entirely different true faith, and that creates doubt and possibly disunity. At this critical time, I fear your revelations.”

  “What if it’s not really a different true faith,” Sandra said slowly. “I’m not Catholic. I was raised Presbyterian, but Sister Audry believes much the same as I do. Only the practices are essentially different. Even among your people, there’s a single Maker of All Things. I know many of your people believe He is personified by the Sun, and I guess that’s understandable. First, there was apparently some misunderstanding passed down from the original tail-less ones, in which your people interpreted the ‘Son’ to mean the ‘Sun.’ ” Also, even among my people, the sun—as the most impressive object in the heavens and the most obvious life-giving object visible above all things—is often venerated as the embodiment of the Maker. But generally, we believe the Maker, or God, is all-powerful, and as such, He made the sun as well. Why would that concept be so difficult for your people to grasp?”

  “Yeah,” said Spanky, rousing slightly. “As I said, I’m a little backslid, but I always figured if God wanted to be the sun for a while, nobody’s going to tell Him He can’t. Basically, we’re talking a God with even greater powers than some of your folks have ever given him credit for. I like to think, if we can keep Him on our side in this war, the bigger and more powerful He is, the better. Think about it like this: if Sister Audry’s right about her interpretation of this probably same Maker of All Things, maybe you shouldn’t alienate Him by making her shut her trap. Maybe you should think more, not less, about incorporating her teachings and reconciling things now before He throws up his hands and leaves us on our own.”

  “Cover all our bases, is that what you mean?” demanded Letts.

  Spanky shrugged. “Why not? No atheists in trenches—or engine rooms—when somebody’s trying to shoot holes in them. What are you all worked up about, anyway?”

  “I was always kind of a Mormon,” Letts confessed.

  “Jeez!”

  “See what I mean?”

  “What?”

  Courtney finished his beer and belched politely. “The problem, Mr. McFarlane, is that there are at least as many different versions of Christianity as there are versions of the various Lemurian faiths. I won’t even go into Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism. . . .” He shook his head. “For Catholicism to be the sole representative of human religion on this world might cause some dissent from our very own human ranks!”

  Sister Audry glared at Courtney. “I’m sure I don’t understand why you are even here, Mr. Bradford! I gather you are a Darwinist, and little I can imagine could be more corrosive to spiritual unity than the teachings you espouse—that you regularly, openly engage in!”

  Courtney goggled at the nun. The sudden attack against him came as a complete surprise. He’d expected to have little participation in the discussion—thus the beer—and had accepted the invitation more out of curiosity than any other reason. He had to remind himself that Sister Audry really didn’t know him well. “My dear sister,” he began, imposing a moderate tone. “I am a Darwinist, as you put it, through evidentiary discovery and understanding, not faith. In faith, I do not recognize even you as my superior!” He glanced at Adar and raised a brow. “One of the discoveries, or rather rediscoveries, I’ve made since coming to your world is that I too am quite the Christian!”

  “How utterly preposterous!” scoffed the nun. “How can one possibly be both an evolutionist and a Christian?”

  “Quite comfortably and compatibly, I assure you,” Courtney said. “In fact, I invariably find the one position complements the other! Even before I came to this fascinating world, I witnessed—witnessed, my dear—the endless, unstoppable force of evolution at work on a daily basis. In all of that, I saw the direction of the very hand of God”—he glanced at Adar again—“or the Maker of All Things.” He looked back at Sister Audry. “How do you define evolution? I define it as physical and behavioral adaptation to any given species’ environment or situation. Behavior can adapt quite rapidly. You have adapted somewhat to your circumstances here, have you not? Physical adaptations take more time, and there, I think—if you’ll pardon the expression—is the rub between us. Particularly in respect to ho
w those physical adaptations may have been manifested in humanity.”

  Sister Audry jerked a nod, and Courtney drew himself up on his cushion. “Personally, I do not believe I am evolved from an ape, although I am relatively certain my ex-wife’s father was. Such a hairy, bestial, primitive . . . !” He shook his head. “In any event, I don’t see that it matters. Why limit God’s imagination? I believe He, like any master architect, would perceive the sundry ways in which His various creations might be better formed to suit their conditions. By His hand, those adaptations would begin!”

  “Now you sound dangerously like a Freemason! With your notions of an architect!” Sister Audry scowled. The expression looked out of place on her pleasant features.

  “In point of fact . . .” Courtney began.

  With a look of horror, Sister Audry clutched the silver crucifix between her breasts as if a serpent had been revealed in their midst.

  Courtney sighed. “You were undoubtedly taught and sincerely believe that man was made in the image of God. I must pose you some difficult questions: What is man? Are we upright apes like my former father-in-law, or are we sentient, spiritual beings capable of comprehending and returning the love of our Maker? What is the image of God? Is it the black one? The red? The brown, yellow . . . or just the white?” He nodded at Adar. “Or might He be covered in fur? You yourself observed no physical disqualification for salvation when you went among the Javanese and Malays to do His work! You continue it here. Does God have a tail? I submit that God is without form—or is of any form He chooses! The only ‘image’ we need concern ourselves with is the spiritual one!”

  “But . . . you claim to be a Christian! How can that be? I grant you might be a deist, or some other species of heathen, but how can you claim yourself a Christian?”

  “The same way you do, my dear: I have heard and believe the Word. But the Lord Jesus Christ, our spiritual savior, appeared only briefly, and his teachings and works were immediately known to but a very few. It was up to others, like yourself ultimately, to spread the knowledge of those works and teachings about. Certainly you don’t believe that all those throughout the centuries who lived and died in ignorance of the Word are damned? The loving God I worship would not make beings such as we only to have them suffer such an automatic fate!”

  Courtney shrugged, somewhat apologetically. He wasn’t much given to proselytizing, or even to sharing his own beliefs so freely. “Perhaps that is your purpose here, my dear,” he said more softly. “Your destiny, as it were. But do not reject the possibility that our savior might have come to this place already. If God is capable of creating other worlds such as this, as I certainly believe He is, as I believe He is capable of anything, perhaps he will send or has already sent his son here as well.”

  “I don’t see the problem,” Keje grumbled, surprising everyone. “As I understand it, as Captain Reddy has explained it to me, this Christianity is just another path, another tack sailed to the same destination, to join the Maker of All Things in the Heavens, is it not?” Reluctantly, even Sister Audry nodded. “Chairman Adar is correct that all those who follow such different paths have put their differences aside, for now, at least, to work for the common good—our very survival. Yet, in his wisdom, he has not prevented the priests of Aryaal or B’mbaado or even Sular from ministering to those souls they tend. Why should Sister Audry be different? Her practices are strange, but to me, so are those of the other priests I mentioned. It seems that a simple statement by Adar that her path is yet another, different one leading to the same place should be sufficient to prevent this persecution he fears. And so what if a few people convert?”

  “It is not that simple,” Sister Audry protested.

  “Let us make it so, at least for now, shall we?” Keje challenged her.

  The nun sighed. “Very well. But I will not lie.”

  “No one is asking that you do,” Adar assured her, “but I think my lord Keje has the right of it.” He paused, grasping his hands in front of him on the table. He hoped this issue was solved, but he couldn’t be sure. Why could nothing be easy? “If no one objects then, I will consider this a closed issue. I will make a formal statement recognizing this Catholic Church and, as has been discussed, proclaim it as yet another path to the Heavens, as far as the Alliance is concerned.” Adar blinked imploringly at Sister Audry. “Is that sufficient? For now? Can you at least refrain from antagonizing those who believe differently?”

  Sister Audry nodded. “I can. As I have said, I have much practice at that. I will extol the virtues of the Church, ut in omnibus glorificetur Deus, but I will say nothing against any other.”

  “Splendid!” Courtney boomed. “I do so enjoy consensus! Might there be more beer to be had?”

  “Sounds okay,” Sandra said, “in theory.” She looked at Princess Rebecca, who’d said nothing at all during the debate. “What do you think?”

  Rebecca looked uncomfortable. “Sounds swell to me,” she replied reluctantly. She’d been picking up more and more Americanisms. Courtney sometimes joked that her people might declare war based solely on that. “But the issue may not be closed at all, once we visit my people.”

  Sandra nodded. She’d gathered enough from Rebecca to understand that the Empire’s primary rival was still another human civilization that didn’t seem very Catholic at all, despite retaining the name and some of the ceremonies. These others, whom Rebecca referred to only as the Dominion, had inherited many of the cruel and expansive methods and practices of a much earlier Church than was represented by Sister Audry. Apparently, they’d incorporated some radical elements of other “faiths” as well. Rebecca had come to know the nun and she knew a little history, so she understood there were substantial differences between Sister Audry’s Church and what it had become under the Dominion. She wasn’t at all sure her people would see any such distinction.

  “I guess we’ll see,” Sandra said.

  Marine Corporal Koratin, formerly Lord Koratin, renowned speaker, power broker, and counselor to kings, descended the companionway into the dark, dry hold. Despite his teetering conversion, he automatically thanked the Sun that he wasn’t on one of the prize ships. No matter how their new owners tried, they could never quite cleanse the reeking stench of what the Grik had done in them. He’d helped capture a few and the dangling chains, emaciated “survivors,” the slippery bones mixed with slimy ballast stones . . . all had been etched on his memory as with acid. In comparison, the hold of USS Dowden was a pleasant bower that smelled of fresh, well-seasoned wood, clean ballast, and the honest sweat and musty fur of her hardworking builders. There was only the slightest trace of rancid bilgewater from her new, seeping seams. That was nothing, he thought. Dowden was a tight ship, and her seams would only swell tighter.

  Dowden’s hold wasn’t open from stem to stern like Grik ships either. It was highly compartmentalized. He understood the various compartments were even watertight to a degree, making the new steam frigate more difficult for an enemy to sink. He believed it. He was highly impressed with the construction techniques of the sea folk, and with Amer-i-caan designs to draw from, he accepted improvement as a given. He was most impressed by the Amer-i-caans in many ways. That didn’t mean he loved them like the sea folk did, or even as the People of Baalkpan and other places had come to. He was genuinely intrigued by the teachings of their Sister Audry, but he didn’t care much for their other strange notions of the way things ought to be. He hoped that somehow, the world might one day return to the simpler way it had been before.

  The Amer-i-caans struck him as honorable warriors, but mere warriors they’d remained when they could have been kings. True, they’d helped establish a real alliance, the largest ever known, but it was a fragile thing in his cynical view. It would have been better for all if they had become kings. An empire was far more stable than any flimsy alliance. But simple warriors they remained—by choice—and all warriors were merely tools. As he had become.

  Koratin entered a compartment
where no gear was stowed. There was only a short bank of smaller compartments with barred doors across them. The common word was “brig,” he believed. He passed the first and nodded genially at the inmate, an Aryaalan Marine like himself, who’d supposedly smuggled a quantity of seep aboard the ship. The prisoner did not react. Koratin came to the next cell and peered inside.

  “Lord King,” he whispered. “Are you well?”

  Rasik-Alcas stirred slightly in the gloom. Confinement was even harder on Lemurians than on humans, but Rasik tried to appear disinterested. Only the slightest twitch of an ear betrayed his stress.

  “Come to gloat, Koratin?” he asked at last. “I am king of nothing here, as you well know. This new ship does not yet even have enough vermin for me to rule.”

  Koratin squatted beyond the bars. “Still, you are a king. By blood. I served your father and I tried to serve you.”

  “By betraying me?” Rasik flashed, his eyes blinking rage.