Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  “Nobody invited you to a party neither?” Silva grumped.

  “Indeed not. I can’t imagine what might have transpired in our absence to cause such revelry. Perhaps the war is over?”

  Silva grunted. “We musta missed something, but I doubt that’s it. Besides, they wouldn’t dare win the war without lettin’ me in on it. I’m gonna personally poke that Sequestural Lizard Mother through the head with one o’ Lanier’s U.S.-marked butter knives. I told the skipper so. If she fell off the pot an’ broke her neck, I’m gonna be mighty sore.”

  Abel stirred from where he’d been sleeping curled up next to Lawrence in the stern sheets. “Look!” he said a little blearily. “Walker is lit up! Her aft searchlight tower has been reinstalled and they are shining the light about!”

  “Ahhh!” roared Silva when the beam rested momentarily on the approaching launch and its train of barges. He shielded his eyes from the painful glare. “Goddamn EMs are horsin’ around! They musta managed to twist a couple o’ wires together an’ thought that was worth a hootenanny!” He chuckled. “Maybe Rodriguez’ll point the light at Laney! He can’t stand that stupid prick. ‘Hey, Ronson, what’s that smolderin’ pile o’ bones?’ ‘Oh, that’s just Laney. Thought I saw a roach on deck!’ ” Silva laughed.

  Abel looked at him in the reflected light—the searchlight beam had passed on—and wondered just how serious the big man was. There were persistent rumors that Silva had actually tried to kill Laney before. Abel usually doubted it. He’d discovered that Silva was particularly skilled at killing things that he really wanted dead. But he’d also learned Silva was only slightly more predictable than the weather.

  “Hey,” Dennis said, addressing the coxswain, “after we drop our load, take us over there, willya?” He was pointing at Walker. The coxswain was a Lemurian, one of Keje’s officers learning powered-ship-handling skills so he’d at least have some sort of a clue when it came time for Big Sal to join the fleet. “Whatever’s goin’ on, it looks like it has to do with our ship, so I figure anybody that’s anybody’ll be there. We can report in and find out what’s up at the same time.”

  “You betcha,” came the high-pitched response.

  The launch’s nose bumped against the pier and Silva winced to think what Tony Scott would have said, but he sent Bradford and Abel up the rungs to the dock. Lawrence scampered up without assistance and Silva followed him. There was clearly a party atmosphere, and it seemed as if most of the city had turned out to see the show. It took Dennis only a few minutes to figure out what all the ruckus was about. Through the noise of the revelers, mostly Lemurian but a few human as well, a long-unheard but intimately familiar sound reached his ears. He turned and stared at the ship.

  Smoke was rising from the aft funnel, the number four boiler, and the blower behind the still-stripped pilothouse roared with a steady, healthy, reassuring rumble. He’d expected it any day now, just not today. He knew the reconstruction of the numbers three and four boilers was almost complete and the starboard engine, that gloriously complicated Parsons turbine, had been carefully overhauled, but the blower motor and both the twenty-five-kilowatt generators had still been in the “powerhouse” when his hunting party set out that morning before dawn. For the longest time, all he could do was stand and stare.

  Walker was alive again. She inhaled, exhaled, and her proud heart stirred once more. Her lifeblood flowed to the boiler, where hellish fires flared and water flashed to steam and sang joyously through the pipes to her turbines. At least one refurbished generator fed electricity to her blower and the spotlight. Silva’s eye patch felt soggy and his good eye quit working right. Someone was calling his name, but it just didn’t register at first. He noticed a slight weight land upon him, pulling his neck forward with small, strong arms. The passionate kiss suddenly inflicted on him finally brought him to his senses and he realized Pam Cross had jumped on him like a kid on a set of monkey bars. The small nurse clung to him and the curves pressed against him brought a smile to his tear-streaked face.

  “Why, there you are, my little honeydew!” He still held the massive rifle in his right hand, but his left arm was more than sufficient to support the dark-haired, Brooklyn-born firecracker. “Where’s Risa? I kinda missed you gals t’day. Killed me a super lizard! But I wish I’d’a been here, now!”

  “Risa’s on Big Sal, but she’ll be heah.” Pam giggled. “Probably give you the same kind of welcome . . . except I ain’t going to lick you!”

  “Always glad to oblige my adorin’ ladies!”

  Pam hugged him tight. “Gotcha a super lizard with your”—she giggled again—“big gun, huh? That’s swell. I’m just glad you’re back safe.”

  Silva pretended innocent confusion. “Say, where’d Bradford run off to? That reminds me. I need to talk to somebody. Mr. Letts or Spanky, I guess. I gotta make a ree-port. We saw somethin’ kinda screwy today.”

  Pam kissed him again and climbed down. “He went over theah, with the kid and the lizard. They’re talking to Mr. Letts and Adar already. Hurry back, you big lug.”

  Silva bowed theatrically. “A hero’s toil never ends, m’dear. I’ll be back to perform whatever chore you require di-rectly!”

  Someone pushed a mug of seep in his hand as he made his way to where Bradford, Letts, Adar, and now Spanky, Sister Audry, and Keje stood. Adar studied him intently.

  “Why didn’t you kill them?” Adar asked. “Mr. Braad-furd says they looked quite like Grik.”

  “Yeah, well, they wasn’t, was they? Last time I shot somethin’ only looked like a Grik, he wound up bein’ one of my best buddies.” Lawrence and Abel had joined them and Silva tousled Lawrence’s young crest. The Tagranesi irritably shook his head. “Call me soft if you like, but I’ve decided shootin’ fellas may not always be the best way to say how-dee-do. ’Specially with guns that won’t leave much to get acquainted with.” He hefted his rifle proudly. “A super lizard with one shot! This thing woulda spattered them little Injun jungle lizards all over the clearin’. Might coulda brung one of ’em back in a snuff can to meetcha.”

  “Injun lizards?” Spanky demanded.

  “I discovered ’em!” Silva said, stubbornly. “I can call ’em what I want.” He nodded at Adar. “Question is, what’s the dope on ’em? Does his purple presidential holiness think we shoulda killed ’em, captured ’em, or left ’em be?”

  Adar was highly accustomed to Silva’s irreverent humor by now. He even shared it in good measure. Besides, if anyone had earned the right to make sport of him, or “josh” him a little, as the Amer-i-caans said, Silva certainly had. He wasn’t the least offended now.

  “Actually, I think you did precisely the right thing. As a Sky Priest of the sea folk who has just lately inherited a land domain, I confess I knew nothing of this species. Nakja-Mur never spoke of them, nor did Naga. I suspect your Moe and other hunters may have been carrying on this war of theirs for generations. Only he and others like him often venture into the wilds around Baalkpan. Nakja-Mur was a thoughtful, wise High Chief and a careful steward. I suspect if he had truly known of your ‘Injun lizards,’ he would have told us.”

  “Moe said he did.”

  “Nakja-Mur never left this city in his life,” Adar said. “Naga did, but only by sea. Nakja-Mur also knew of the Grik threat from the west, but didn’t truly believe it until it was upon him. The same is probably the case with those you saw today. All of us know there are aboriginal tribes of Grik-like creatures. Lawrence is proof of that. But no one ever considered the possibility they might not all be Grik in anything other than form. Captain Reddy has sent that they discovered the remains of Grik-like creatures in Aryaal that had apparently been used as slaves or worse. He believes they were like the ones that attacked your shore party when you first came to this world.” Adar sighed.

  “We have neglected studying these almost mythical creatures long enough—on the islands, and apparently here as well. Perhaps they are yet more enemies, as we have always assumed, but just
perhaps”—he glanced at Lawrence and blinked fondness—“they are more like him than we could have ever dreamed. We learn more about even the Grik all the time,” he added cryptically. He bowed to Courtney Bradford. “You will have your expedition. I want to make contact with these creatures. Perhaps we can even be friends, if they can forgive generations of violence most of us knew nothing about!”

  “The only ‘expedition’ I want is back in the war!” Silva insisted.

  “You’ll get that,” Letts said. “And before much longer.” Subtly, during the conversation, Letts and Spanky had turned toward Walker so they could stare at the miraculously vibrant . . . living ship. Silva joined them, and eventually, so did all the others. They were here to celebrate her resurrection, after all. Even Sister Audry, who’d done everything she could throughout the day to prevent any spiritual significance from being attached to the event, was moved.

  “She still looks a fright, Spanky,” Silva said, “but you’ve done a swell job.”

  “Everybody has, you moron,” Spanky replied gruffly. “Even you.”

  Silva belched loudly. Seep had that effect on him. So did the local beer, which he’d begun to prefer. Actually, Dennis Silva belched fairly often, regardless. “Try to be nice to a snipe,” he grumped, “and what’s he do? Slanders and insults.” He shook his head. “Where’s Loo-tenant Tucker and the munchkin princess? I woulda figured they’d be here for somethin’ like this.”

  Spanky McFarlane looked around. “Well, they were here, just a little while ago.”

  “They went for a cool drink,” Adar supplied, “and perhaps they have retired for the night. It is quite late.”

  “Yeah, well, me and Larry’d better find ’em and report in. I am one of the o-fficial pro-tectors of Her little Highness, after all, and I doubt Larry can stand it much longer without lickin’ her er somethin’.” Lawrence hissed at Dennis through his fangs, kind of a chuckle for him. “ ’Sides, Miss Loo-tenant Tucker’s prob’ly worn out from dealin’ with the little twerp all day!”

  The others laughed. Not only did they know Silva was devoted to the girl and considered her anything but a twerp, but they knew Sandra loved the princess like a daughter.

  “So long then.” Spanky grunted. “And good riddance. Come back and brag when you kill a super lizard with your teeth!”

  “That’s the very next stunt on my list,” Silva called back, heading toward Pam. “And I’ll do it too, right after you build a battleship out of a beer can.” Reaching the dark-haired nurse, he crushed her in another embrace. “You run along home now. Ol’ Silva’s kinda tired. Won’t be good for more than three or four hours o’ labor, I’m afraid. I’ll be along directly!”

  Pam giggled and moved away through the crowd.

  “Mr. Silva?” asked a hesitant voice. It was Abel Cook. “May I accompany you, sir? That is, if you’re going to see Lieutenant Tucker and . . . the princess, I would like to join you. To say good evening.”

  Silva belched at him. “Sure, I guess. What about Mr. Bradford, though? You’re kinda his caretaker now, ain’t ya? He’ll be skunked in half an hour with all the booze down here—Captain Reddy would have a fit! Bradford’s liable to puke on Adar or dance nekkid in the searchlight!”

  “I’ll come right back, I promise!”

  “Hmm. You better keep yer grabbers to yourself! I seen how you look at her. You go to gropin’ at Her Highness, me and Larry’ll eat you!”

  “No, sir, Mr. Silva! Never . . . ! I—”

  “Oh, come on. If they went for a cold one, maybe they’re at the Screw. Neither one’s much for booze, but Pepper keeps some juice an’ such.”

  They didn’t find them at the Busted Screw; nor were they at the Fem Box, as the female bachelor officers’ quarters was called.

  “Say,” said Dennis, “I wonder where they’re at?” He wasn’t really worried, but he was growing a little annoyed—and anxious. “Maybe they went to see Sister Audry? She ain’t half bad for a gospel shark. Has some brains. Ever’body knows I’m as pious a critter as there is, but if you go jabberin’ religion at folks all the time, without a break, pretty soon they’ll tune you out—like a worn bearing. That, or they’ll get sick o’ hearin’ it squeal and replace it with a new one.”

  “What did you say?” asked Lawrence, and Silva laughed.

  The party had wound down considerably by the time they realized Sandra and Rebecca weren’t at the little hut Sister Audry kept near the fishers’ wharf. But Sister Audry wasn’t there either. “Now, this is startin’ to stink,” said Silva. “Only place left they might be is Big Sal, in the dry dock, seein’ Selass. She and Miss Tucker are pals.” He shook his head. “Or maybe they’re back where we started, oglin’ the ship some more. I doubt it, though. It is gettin’ late. Way too late for Miss Tucker to be sendin’ love letters to the skipper at the wireless shack. Must be at Big Sal!”

  Unconsciously picking up their pace, the man, boy, and Tagranesi headed back toward the shipyard. They met a few revelers on the way, but Baalkpan was a weary city. There were so many wildly different projects under way, employing such a large percentage of the populace, even the all-night bazaar that had once been the center of Baalkpan social life had shrunk to a mere shadow of its former size. Those not actively engaged in the war effort still had to labor: fishing and doing the chores of everyday life for more mouths with fewer hands. Others hunted, as they’d done that day. In any event, what had once been a city that never slept shut down almost entirely after dark these days. Even something as grand as bringing Walker back to life couldn’t keep most from their bedding too long.

  All that remained of the party at the dock were oil lamps and a few sozzled mounds lying on the planks. Walker’s blower still rumbled, but there was no light aboard. There was clearly still a lot of electrical work yet to accomplish, and besides the spare bulbs they’d stored ashore before the battle, few of those aboard the ship had survived the fight and subsequent submergence. Still, even darkened, she was alive. Silva noted as they passed her that a wisp of smoke rose from the number four stack and stars shimmered in the heat plume above it. He grinned.

  Big Sal wasn’t much farther, the once distinctive outline changed forever by the alterations under way. She was still lit and work continued aboard her. Keje was pushing her people relentlessly to finish the job so his Home might have water beneath her again. Silva knew the dry dock gave Keje the willies. Big Sal had often been flooded down for a variety of reasons, and she was built in something like a dry dock, but she wasn’t ever supposed to be completely dry again. For her to be totally divorced from her natural element as she now was struck Keje and most of his people as an unnatural thing, worse even than the perverse changes their Home was undergoing.

  “Least there’ll be somebody there we can ask,” Silva muttered. They were crossing the old, smooth ramp once used by the PBY to get her out of the water. There were several other ramps here and there, but this had been the one closest to the shipyard.

  Almost across, Lawrence stopped and his head jerked toward the water. “Dennis!” he hissed, using Silva’s first name. Usually he tried to say, “Mr. Silva,” but it came out mangled. The others noticed the sudden difference and recognized the significance. They stopped.

  “What’s up, Larry?” Silva asked quietly.

  “At the ’ater’s edge, there is acti’ity—and the scent o’ the ladies!”

  Silva’s heart pounded in his chest. He’d been using his big gun as a kind of walking stick, and he slowly brought it up, peering hard into the darkness. There was no moon and almost no light, but suddenly he could see something outlined against the gentle gray wave tops that lapped at the ramp. “Those Imperial sons o’ bitches!” he seethed. “They’re swipin’ the gals!” He looked quickly around. Apparently, they hadn’t yet been seen.

  “ ’Kay,” he hissed. “Abel, you stay put. If there’s a ruckus, run like hell, screamin’ your head off!”

  “But—”

  “Shut up. Larr
y, see if you can ease down the left side o’ the ramp. I’ll try to creep up on ’em from this side, close to the edge. We gotta see what’s what before we raise the alarm. Don’t want anybody panickin’! That said, if either of us sees a chance, we’ll kill our way in to the girls. You move, I move, and vicey versey. Got it?”

  Lawrence jerked a nod.

  Abel was terrified, and a little indignant he’d been left out, but he was also chilled by how quickly and easily the jovial giant and servile, companionable Tagranesi became focused, single-minded killers. He stepped slowly back as the others all but disappeared in the darkness.

  Silva began to hear muffled whispers as he drew near. Slowly, eight—no, nine—human shapes resolved themselves, gathered onshore near a longboat. The white paint of the boat had been darkened. Three of the shapes stood a little apart, huddled together, while two others apparently watched over them. That’s gotta be them, Silva thought. One’s shorter than the others. He wondered who the third one was. Must be Sister Audry. She wasn’t home neither. Weird. He paused and took a silent breath. Them devils are actin’ impatient. I wonder what they’re waitin’ for? They musta had the girls for a while. Why not just scram?

  Being a single-shot muzzle loader, Silva’s big gun wouldn’t be much use. Now, if the two guards would line up . . . Wait! One was moving away, fumbling with his trousers. With a wicked grin and a slow, fluid motion, Dennis slung the rifle and crept up on the man beginning to relieve himself. Dennis knew the human eye, like any predator’s, keyed on motion, but it was always amazing how much movement one could get away with if the motion was slow and smooth.

  The pissing man never had a chance.

  From behind him, like driving his knuckles into his hand, Silva brought his left palm down on the top left side of the man’s head and drove his right fist into the hinge of his jaw. There was a loud crunch, like a slick boot sliding on gravel, when the pointed part of the man’s jaw crashed into his brain, but there was no other sound. “Sorry, sir,” he hissed aloud, like an underling apologizing for making a noise.