Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  The first Grik he killed was an accident. He'd practically landed on it when he slid down the shrouds. Striking out instinctively with his axe, he clove through the leather helmet it wore and split its skull in two. He expected to be nauseated, to feel some remorse, but there was nothing. Nothing at first. Then a quickening surge of . . . exhilaration flowed through his heart and limbs. With a bellow, he waded forward, swinging the axe two-handed in the precise reaping motion he'd been taught. An astonishing, wondrous, visceral glee filled his soul as the murderers of his people fell before him. Through the long hours he hacked and slew, Risa by his side, shouting encouragement, and the pride in her voice was clear, even over the din of battle. Then she fell.

  Now the sun was halfway to the horizon, above the mountainous shore to the west. He didn't know how many Grik he'd killed, satisfying as it was. He did know it wasn't enough. Their losses were terrible, but regardless how many were slain, still more waited on their ships to crowd onto the battlefield that Salissa had become. And those that still fought did so with a fresh abandon as shocking as their savagery. One ship had sunk alongside, pierced by lance-hurler shafts. So many lines held it fast that it hung, just below the surface, its masts crawling with Grik. The weight of the hulk caused Salissa to heel a few degrees.

  Another Grik ship went up in flames, but only after it was lashed to Salissa. Its funeral pyre provided the fuel to ignite a fire on Home itself that threatened to consume it. Flames raged out of control on the right side of the first tower, and the forewing—the very symbol of Chack's clan—burned above. Flames roared hundreds of tails into the sky, while charred and smoldering pieces of fabric snowed down upon them. Ironically, the only thing saving the weary, dwindling defenders was that the heat on that side was too intense even for the Grik to bear. That left a front only fifteen tails wide to defend on the left side of the tower. Once, the Grik broke through into the very body of Home, and the slaughter among the garden tenders was terrible. A counterattack by Keje and his personal Guard managed to repulse the thrust. Keje had abandoned his position on the battlement and along with his personal Guard—and even Selass, Chack saw with surprise—he was everywhere. Whenever the enemy began to break through, he and his diminishing followers somehow stemmed the tide.

  The battle aft was going well, but only one ship grappled there. Chack and his fellows were fighting the better part of three Grik crews, and one ship was still unengaged. It hadn't lashed on with the others when the one before it caught fire. For most of the day, it sailed around, looking for a good place to strike. The lance hurlers still in action flailed at it mercilessly, however, and it looked a little low in the water. At present, it actually seemed to be moving away, although Chack could barely see through the smoke, which stung his eyes and made each breath an effort. If he hadn't known better, he'd almost have thought it was leaving! That was absurd, of course. The Grik never ran. Always, they were either destroyed or left wallowing helpless in their intended victim's wake. It was probably positioning itself to take advantage of the wind so it could attack some uninvolved point. When it did, it would surely turn the tide. Of course, it made small difference. The fire that preserved them for the moment would destroy them in the end. If it wasn't extinguished soon, all of Salissa Home would burn.

  Chack fell out of the battle line to catch his breath. Only so many fighters would fit in that limited space, and mercifully, it allowed them to rotate out briefly every now and then. He was panting with exhaustion, and his tongue lolled, but miraculously, his only wound was a shallow slash across his left shoulder. He trotted to a freshwater barrel and drank greedily. The water had a reddish tinge from bloody hands that had reached for the cup, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the soothing liquid wetting his parched throat. Dropping the cup back in the barrel, he looked about for a moment.

  Younglings, garden tenders, and other old ones raced or crept back and forth, depending on their ability, carrying water to the fire. Their efforts, while noble, were in vain. Chack felt a growing dread that no matter how the battle went they were all going to burn. The entire forewing was gone, and the flaming debris had fallen on the tower, adding to the conflagration. It would all be for nothing. He hoped with a surge of grief that his sister was already dead—at least then she wouldn't die in the flames. In bitter resignation, he hefted his bloody axe with aching arms and turned back toward the fight—just in time to glimpse two large columns of water straddle the lurking Grik ship, and a mighty explosion of fire and smoke at its waterline that sent it rolling onto its side.

  "My God, sir! How can we not take sides! Just look over there!" cried Bradford incredulously.

  Matt stared at him, his face granite. "I didn't say we wouldn't help. I said I wish we didn't have to—because when we do, we take sides. We know nothing about what's going on. For all we know, those . . . attackers are the good guys! Just because they look like the lizards on Bali doesn't mean they are the same. What if somebody judged our actions simply because we look like Germans? Also—and I'll only tell you this once, Mr. Bradford—you're on my bridge at my sufferance. One more outburst and I'll have you removed. Is that clear?"

  "Will you remove me too?" demanded Sandra, her eyes flashing like pistol muzzles.

  Matt sighed angrily. "Lieutenant, I wish you weren't here now. We may be about to go into battle. In case you've forgotten, you have a battle station!"

  She stared at him, unrepentant and smoldering. The rest of the men in the pilothouse very studiously observed anything but the confrontation with their captain. Even so, it was plain that their sympathies rested with Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker.

  "Look," said Matt, as reasonably as he could, "this isn't our fight . . ." He immediately raised a hand to ward off interruption. "Yet. I feel inclined to help the—what did you call them? Lemurians?" Bradford nodded determinedly. Personally, he had had quite enough of this monkey-cat or cat-monkey business. "I feel inclined to help them too," Matt repeated, "but we are all alone out here. If we do, we might get involved in an all-out war, and we have no idea what resources the enemy has. We damn sure don't have any. Besides, look at those ships! Unlike the . . . Lemurians . . . those lizard people have ships right out of the eighteenth century. Our eighteenth century! The similarity in design is too perfect to be coincidence! They must've had contact with other humans! Maybe other people came through a squall—or something like we did—before. Don't you see? If that's the case, maybe these lizards can tell us about them! Maybe they're still here!" He was silent for a moment as he let his point drift home. "If we shoot at them, I doubt they'll give us answers."

  He swiveled in his chair, gazing through the windows at the battle, closer by the moment. "On the other hand . . ." he murmured darkly, and said no more. The Lemurians were certainly outnumbered, and given the obvious disparity in the ships' speeds, there was no question who started the fight. So far, none of the creatures seemed to have noticed their approach. With the smoke so thick and the fighting so intense, that was understandable. But sooner or later, they would be noticed. Maybe the sight of the destroyer would have the same effect as before, and everybody would just stop what they were doing and stare. That might provide an opening. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he could think of short of going in with guns blazing.

  In spite of his argument, he knew, deep down, that was what he wanted to do. Marvaney's death was still fresh, and the creatures battling the Lemurians certainly resembled the ones that had killed him. Besides, from what he saw, they weren't any more civilized than their apparent cousins on Bali. He might lose the chance to gain vital information, but sometimes you had to do something just because it was right. "Let's see what happens," he said at last.

  "Captain, Mr. Garrett says they must've seen us," said Reynolds. "One of the lizards is coming about. Range is now twenty-one double zero."

  Matt saw the change in aspect as the ship tacked, headsails filling and pulling it around. He'd walked the decks of the USS Constitution as
a kid and was struck by her uncanny resemblance to the ship that was turning to meet them. The color was different—this ship was painted entirely red—and there were no gunports, but otherwise it looked just like an earlier version of the old frigate, even down to the number of masts and the sail plan. "Slow to two-thirds," he commanded as the range diminished.

  "Twelve double zero," said Reynolds behind him, parroting Garrett's estimate as the range wound down. The lizard ship was wearing a lot of canvas and Matt estimated its speed at eight to ten knots. Respectable, but troubling. This bold, all-out approach was more like the behavior of the Bali creatures than he quite liked. They didn't seem overawed by the destroyer at all, or even carefully curious like the Lemurians had been. They acted more like they were trying to come to grips.

  "Nine hundred yards, sir."

  "Slow to one-third. Come left thirty degrees. Guns one, three, and four will track the target."

  "Bridge," came the voice of Elden. "A lot of those lizard critters are gathering in the target's bows . . . They have swords and shields." The final words were incredulous.

  "Pass the word for Chief Campeti. Have him issue rifles and sidearms to any deck personnel not part of the gun crews. Prepare to repel boarders." Matt was struck by the strangeness of the order even as he gave it. Probably not since the War of 1812 had the captain of a U.S. warship given the order to repel boarders on the high seas. He allowed himself an ironic smile. "At three hundred yards, the number three gun will put a shot across her bow if she doesn't ease off."

  He glanced at Sandra and Courtney Bradford. They watched with mixed expressions, but at least Bradford's ire had faded. Matt raised an eyebrow with a look that seemed to say, "What were we arguing about?" and lifted his binoculars again. The sight that greeted him sent a chill down his spine. Elden was right. A large group of lizards stood in the bow of the oncoming ship, brandishing swords, spears, and garish shields. Their toothy mouths were open wide in an unheard shout or chant. Many clashed their weapons against their shields and seemed quite exercised.

  Even more ominous, many were holding what appeared to be grappling hooks, and as he watched, more and more joined those already poised on the fo'c'sle. There were hundreds of them, just on that one ship.

  "Three hundred yards!" came Reynolds's breathless report.

  In a calm voice, devoid of inflection, Captain Reddy uttered a single word. "Fire."

  He never lowered his binoculars, but watched as the number three gun crashed and, a bare instant later, a geyser erupted between Walker and the approaching ship. A sheet of water cascaded down on the lizards and sent a few of them scrambling. But far from having the desired effect, the shot seemed to make those remaining in the bow redouble their clamoring and yelling. A moment passed, then another, and the ship showed no sign of turning or heaving to.

  Suddenly, at two hundred yards, something roughly the size of a medicine ball arced lazily up, high in the air, from amid the gathered lizards. An instant later, a second object rose, and then a third. Everyone in the pilothouse saw them with unaided eyes. The objects reached apogee, tumbling end over end and trailing wisps of smoke. Down they came, closer and closer until two plummeted into the sea scarcely a dozen yards off Walker's port beam. On impact with the water, they ruptured and a ball of fire rose skyward and burning fluid of some kind spread flames upon the waves. The third was closer, and when the projectile ruptured, burning fuel actually washed up Walker's side, just below the number one gun.

  Matt lowered his binoculars and looked at those standing nearby. When he spoke, his voice sounded vaguely surprised, but his eyes were suffused with fury.

  "Did they just throw those balls of fire at us?"

  For just the slightest moment, he reflected upon the consequences and ramifications of his next act, but the decision came without any apparent hesitation. He stepped briskly to Reynolds, took the headset from him, and spoke directly into the microphone. "Mr. Garrett, this is the captain. Commence firing."

  Chack rubbed unbelieving eyes. Three more simultaneous explosions annihilated the stricken Grik ship. Debris and parts of bodies rained into the sea hundreds of tails in all directions. The shattered hulk was quickly awash. Shredded sails fluttered as the center mast teetered and crashed amid the struggling, dying Grik. The tumult of battle briefly ebbed as the People—and the Grik—tried in vain to pierce the haze and smoke with red, running eyes to see what had occurred. The ship sank quickly from sight, leaving only tangled flotsam and shrieking carrion for the insatiable fish. Beyond, Chack saw a strangely familiar shape.

  The Tail-less Ones! he realized with a sense of wonder, then repeated his thought at the top of his lungs. "The Tail-less Ones! They have returned! The Tail-less Ones destroy the Grik!" With a gleeful bellow, echoed by many, and a surge of unexpected hope, he waded back into battle. The Grik fought just as fiercely as before and, if anything, with renewed frenzy. But the frenzy was different somehow. For the first time he sensed desperation and—could it be?—fear. Chack fed off that, real or imagined, as he swung his axe in great arcs that hewed heads and arms and chests. His own arms ached and the axe became difficult to grasp. Sometimes it slipped sideways and he struck a Grik or its shield with the flat of the blade and felt the blow jar his bones, but still he fought on. Others sensed the difference as well, and they pushed the Grik with renewed energy. The flames began to envelop the forward tower and, reluctantly, the Grik gave ground. It was that or burn.

  Chack found a moment to cast a glance at their saviors. They approached closer, but after so decisively dealing with the unattached ship, they hesitated, as if unsure what to do. He understood. They'd clearly decided to help the People, but their magical weapons weren't selective enough to influence the battle for Home itself. At least he thought that at first.

  "What now?" whispered Matt. They'd thrown away any hope of neutrality when they destroyed the lizard ship, and there was clearly no hope for survivors. That was a terrible aspect of naval war in this new world that he would have to bear in mind, he thought, watching the flashing shapes consume the last of the creatures in the water. They'd fired in self-defense, but he doubted the hundreds of lizards fighting the Lemurians would see it that way. Okay, so maybe two salvos were excessive, but they'd made him mad. Now, like it or not, he had chosen sides, and as precarious as the situation on the big ship looked, this wasn't the time for half measures. One side or the other would win this fight, and it didn't seem like a good idea to let it be the ones they'd shot at.

  "Come left, to one three zero," he said coldly. "Guns crews stand by, but cease firing. Small arms will commence firing at one hundred yards. The targets are the lizards on the Lemurian ship. The machine guns may fire, but have them conserve ammunition and be careful of their targets. Concentrate where the enemy is massing, away from the `friendlies.' Rig all fire hoses and have handlers standing by." He clasped his hands behind his back, listening to the responses, and stared straight ahead at the battle.

  Sandra moved beside him, also looking at what they were getting themselves into. "I'm sorry, Captain," she said in a small, quiet voice.

  He looked at her a moment, then nodded with a shrug. "Me too," he said. "I guess it's not in me to watch something like this without trying to help. But Lord above, we have enough problems without winding up in the middle of a war!" He spoke quietly, so she was the only one who knew, truly, what an agonizing decision it had been. They heard the crack of Springfields as riflemen on deck chose their targets, and the starboard .30-cal opened with short bursts of its own.

  "These . . . Lemurians better be worth it," he said grimly. "Because every bullet we fire for them is one less we'll have to save our own asses with." With that, he stepped away from her and onto the starboard bridgewing to take Walker back to war.

  "Hot damn!" growled Dennis Silva as he racked the bolt back on the starboard .50-cal. "We finally get to kill somebody!" Ordnance Striker Gil Olivera was beside him, poised to change the ammunition box when it was e
mpty. He giggled nervously. Alfonso Reavis and Sandy Newman also stood nearby, Springfields over their shoulders, but their job was to gather spent shells before they rolled into the sea. Silva didn't know why; as far as he knew, they couldn't be reloaded. Even if they'd had more bullets— which they didn't—they didn't have powder or primers. Oh, well, he didn't care. He'd finally been ordered to kill the hell out of somebody, and he was ready. If Campeti wanted guys scurrying around picking up his empty brass, that wasn't his concern.

  The sound of battle on the burning ship was awesome. The roaring flames could be heard over the blower, and the screams and shouts from alien throats lent the scene a surrealistic aspect. He couldn't see much through the smoke, though, and he squinted over his sights. There. There seemed to be a battle line of sorts formed just aft of the base of that big tower forward. It was burning like mad, and the heat and smoke must be hell. He pointed it out to Felts, who stood between him and the number three gun with one of the BARs. "Everything forward of there looks like nothin' but lizards!" he shouted. Felts squinted and nodded. If they got too much closer, they'd be shooting up. One of the lizard ships was sunk alongside, between them and the enemy horde, and men were shooting lizards from its rigging.

  "I see it, Dennis. If we shoot in among that bunch, we ought to get half a dozen with each shot!"

  "'Zactly!" said Silva, and grinned.

  "Just be careful not to hit any of them monkey-cats!" warned Felts.

  Silva rolled his eyes. "The hell you say, Tommy Felts! They're catmonkeys, goddamn it! How many times have I got to tell you! Are you strikin' for snipe, or what?"

  Before Felts could answer, Silva let out a whoop and pressed the butterfly trigger on the back of his gun. A stream of tracers arced across the short distance through the smoke and into the densely packed mass of lizard warriors.