Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction (22 page)

She held up three fingers and marked the first finger off with her other hand, “Former financial enterprises like Halcyon.”

The plans had been submitted by Grace and Maui’s shared O’Malley ancestor some two centuries ago, shortly before the ice age hit the Northern Hemisphere. Building had started even as the first influx of refugees hit Aotearoa. As other pressures came into play, it had become a home not just a business. All residents were shareholders although the O’Malley descendants held a greater share. Which was why there was a chance Grace’s decision would be ignored.

“Sea steadings such as Halcyon,” continued Grace, “Are usually pro-Commonwealth because we were businesses first. We need global alliances in order to secure trade and survive.”

Maui made a “move on” gesture. The crew leant forward.

“Then there are the resettlement steadings.”

Some of them started even as Halcyon and its ilk were being constructed, as Aotearoa and neighbouring Australia struggled to find places for the flood of refugees.

“Those who still identify with their deceased parent nation are generally pro-Commonwealth,” said Maui, “Yes, I know. What’s this got to do with the Wa-ries?”

“Third kind,” Grace said firmly.

“What?”

“You remember the history lessons,” she nudged, “The people who lost the land grab when the nations collapsed.”

Maui stared at the distant canoes.

“They’re in a canoe because that’s what they can afford,” said Grace.

Although even that much was arguably of value in the harsh world of the sea steadings—where almost everything but their basic food and the next generation had to come from elsewhere. The easiest way was to take it from another steading too weak to hold on to what they had. Only the Wa-ries knew where they’d found enough wood to build a canoe.

“So the worm they sent…?” Maui asked.

She sighed. “They probably spent all they had on getting a program they were assured would disable an enemy. Maybe they sold their own into indentured servitude or tricked someone richer into sharing it. But it worked. Commonwealth grade defences don’t mean a thing if—”

“They ain’t got that swing?”

§

“Of course,” Grace added some time later as their boarding party faced the welcoming committee over the rail of the
Connaught
, “They’re likely to dress their poverty up as something else.”

“You mean like a fanatical return to the pre-Westernised culture?” Maui asked.

They watched the Titokowaru warriors’
peruperu
for a further heartbeat before he allowed his frustration to get the better of him.

“Seriously, people, I do not have time for this,” he shouted, “Either shut up and fight or shove off!”

Grace shrugged and unholstered her side-arm. As the leader of the group started another insult in pure
te reo
, she re-homed a single bullet in his temple. The Titokowaru warriors froze and she spoke into the resulting silence before the panic started.

“You have a choice. You can leave and we will not follow you—”

One of the warriors shouted “Never!” in
te reo
and was echoed by the rest. They were wide-eyed and edged away from the corpse of their leader, though. Whatever psychological benefit the
peruperu
had been giving them was gone, just as she’d hoped.

Grace continued as if she had not been interrupted, “Or you can surrender and we w—”

“We keep to the old ways,
tauiwi
, we do not surrender.”

“You don’t know your own history is what you don’t,” Maui growled.

“That makes no sense,” Grace threw at him before returning to the Titokowaru warriors’ choice, “You can surrender and we will accept you as members of our
iwi
. We always welcome strong men and women among us.”

Her crew flicked a look at her but she gave a little shake of her head. They would speed the steading’s return to full strength. Grace would ensure they were welcomed but they wouldn’t be included as shareholders—at least not until they’d proven themselves.

“Or you can fight and die.”

The self-designated leader laughed, a crow of derision, “We will not die to warriors who bring their women along. Warriors who let their women speak for them are not warriors at all.”

Grace would bet there was nothing but women and children left at Titokowara. She would have to collect them—peacefully—in the near future. Without warriors, neighbours would find them easy pickings and sell them on for more valuable resources.

“We’re not warriors,” said Maui, “We’re marines.”

The crew of the
Connaught
laughed.

“And I am Grace O’Malley,” Grace said, “And I’m not in the habit of letting my enemies live.”

She holstered her gun, her hand already on the rail to vault over onto the wooden canoe. A deep breath, forget the past and the future, focus on the fight.

“No prisoners. Cutlass only. Don’t waste bullets on them. Don’t feed any of them to the
mako
. Time to fight!”

Grace drew her own cutlass as soon as her feet made contact—to draw before meant she risked cutting her own legs off if her landing went badly—and it flashed out in a heavy swing. It made contact with a short but heavy club, changing the course of her momentum as she moved, ducking away from another club that had been aimed at her temple. A quick reverse of cut caught the first club’s wielder on the arm and Grace moved on to the second, content that the first would not be able to attack again and that someone behind her would finish him off.

§

The
Connaught
was slow going back. It was difficult hauling back the wooden hulk that was almost as long as they were and intent on being directionless. Grace wasn’t quite sure what she’d do with the wood, wherever it had originally come from, but she still had a use for the bodies.

The two great whites continued to circle them. Grace had had one of the corpses—out of thirty-four dead warriors, in all—thrown to the fish as a sort of “thank you” for bringing the Halcyon steaders a prize, no matter how small. The rest would be fed to Halcyon’s artificial reef. She wondered if they could smell the blood from her crew’s wounds and their own dead. Three Halcyon marines would never fight again.

“So we continue to advance the Commonwealth’s interests,” said Maui as he adjusted the ropes that held the canoe.

Grace smiled, a tight hunter’s smile. “Well, we’ve got rid of thirty four men who disagreed with their policies.”

“World peace and wealth for all!”

She took one of the rope ends and leant back with all her weight so Maui could tie off the adjustment.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, “But I might add the point about population control.”

“We’re just making room for more of ours,” Maui said with a grin and kissed her quickly, between tasks.

“We’ll go back for their families when we’re sure the worm is cleaned out,” she said, “When we can afford to give them the time they need to be won over.”

“So much for population control.”

“I’m not leaving them to starve or be captured. We’re better than that!”

Maui shrugged. “They can buy their way on to Halcyon with whatever resources we can break Titokowara down to. I’ll make sure we have shareholder support.”

Grace turned and looked out to sea. She squinted, uncertain, and then smiled as she watched another type of distinctive dorsal fin approaching from the distance.

“Look!
Maki
!” she broadcast to the whole crew through her brain-jack, “Looks like the mako will be paying us back for those fish they stole.”

They all stopped and looked as seven fins broke the surface again, a little nearer than when Grace had first spotted them.

“Let’s get one of the
mako
for ourselves,” suggested Maui, “I wouldn’t mind some of that liver.”

About Jo Thomas

Jo Thomas is a part-time writer hiding in a full-time worker’s life. She is occasionally allowed out to play for historical fencing and the odd speculative fiction convention. She can be found at
http://www.journeymouse.net
and as @Journeymouse on Twitter.

Shadows of an Ancient Battle

Daniel A. Kelin, II

~ Hawai‘i ~

A pale red sun caresses lava-coloured streets, echoes of the island’s birth. Towering edifices shimmer in the dwindling light. Long shadows slowly reach toward volcanic mountains. In a time before time, volcano goddess Pele once laid claim to the blackened rocks and burnt trees where shadows hid, unseen in the dark of the night. In a time called now, two bent figures scurry along the parched sidewalk past rows of peeling grey apartment boxes.

Street lights wink, hum and glimmer. In the humid stillness of twilight, where even mosquitoes battle sluggishly with the thick air, a phantom forest appears. The aged two hurry toward home through the translucent forest, their calabashes heavy with kalo and sweet potato picked from a nearby community garden. Their silhouettes stretch behind them, tugged reluctantly from the deepening darkness. Had the passing jogger given them more than a glance, it might have appeared as those the old women were trying to outrun the night.

Heads bowed, the two whisper incessantly, glancing sharply about. Dark clouds meander in above the two. The women tuck in tight, ready to protect themselves from the threatened rain. A lone truck shifts gears, echoing the sky’s sudden deep rumble. Long palm leaves clack in the wind. Drops of rain pelt the lone pedestrians. Wrapping their grey heads with wrinkled clothing, the two women hasten their steps.

The blackness thickens. The streetlight above flickers and winks out with a brief flash of light. The hurried two glimpse a dim, human-like silhouette rising from the shadows, a kihei of black skin dangling over its dark shoulder. A man, maybe. An animal, possibly. A threatening attitude, most definitely. He waits patiently for them.

“Hiding in the dark,” one old woman whispers, fear lining her angry voice.

“Lurking,” echoes the second.

“But we know when you appear.”

“We always know,” the second chuckles lightly.

“That snort of breathing.”

“Grunting,” says the second.

Small red slits glimmer from that dim shadow of a mostly man as he breathes a rumble in response. A dull
thump-thump-thump
escapes the tightly shut windows of a passing car.

The two bent figures turn quickly, stumbling over spiky shards of street-coloured lava. Despite the dusky light, the shadowy maybe man steps easily through a tangle of brittle charcoaled tree branches, barring the women’s path. Squeezing out their fear, the aged, bent two draw themselves up taller than any eyewitness might imagine possible. “Let us pass,” one softly demands. From close by, the sound of a door clicking shut.

“Ancients trespassing on ancient ground,” breathes the mostly man, and repeats, “Trespassing.” A distant siren punctuates his threat.

The malingering sunlight feeds the illusion of two twisted silhouettes unfurling to match the strange man-beast’s height. “We wish to pass,” the second says. “Go.”

“Go on.”

“Nuisance.”

“You don’t belong.”

The red eyes stare unblinking as the two now erect women stand their ground. “Not here,” one says, as the second finishes, “not in this place. Not in this now time.”

In the brief silence, the roar of the ocean echoes as if a long forgotten memory.

“You two,” rumbles the dark one. “You’ve trapped yourself in this shadow of a world that has no roots. You’ve lost power, lost the place you say is of you. Lost your very reason for being! Scat.”

“This is our land, our water. We come from, came out of this place. And
belong
,” the first woman replies. “Move aside.”

“Not for your kind,” the dark one responds.

“Invader,” hisses the first woman.

“Destroyer,” the second squeaks.

The first spits in anger. “Pua‘a!”

A noise escapes the throat of the darkened man, something between a snort and a chortle.

The sun hides. In the absence of shadows and dim light, two bodies suddenly and unexpectedly brush past the red-eyed beast of a threat.

“
Kama
pua‘a!” snarls the dark one, “A pig as certainly as you are but shadows of women.
Mo‘o
.”

The dark clouds flash with a rumble of thunder. A great pig with sharp tusks leaps out of that silhouette of a man. Lowering his bristly, wrinkled head, the hogman lunges at the thin, grey ladies.

The two gape helplessly as the ancient creature charges them. A single, eternal moment passes. A car alarm erupts. A lone baby’s cry. A heavy roar rolls out of the hogman as he quickly crosses the empty space between his ancient enemies and himself. In the next moment, calabashes shatter on the broken lava. Two mo‘o scatter free of those bent grey shadowy forms, wriggling into a crack in the ground. The hoofs of the great black pig trample the kalo and potatoes, but touch neither the women nor their mo‘o selves.

Kamapua‘a grunts and relentlessly pounds the hardened lava. He slams his snout into a widening crack, but sees only wriggling tails as the mo‘o burrow deeper into the crevice. Kamapua‘a snarls and paws, rooting out great blocks of lava, but just as his tusks near them the mo‘o seep further into the black rock mocking the pig with their lizard grunts. His eyes flaming, Kamapua‘a digs so deep so quickly an underground stream gushes into his wrinkled snout, choking the giant pig. The mo‘o, dragons of the sea, squeak out a laugh and swim quickly off in the buried waters.

The shadowy hogman roars at the night, tearing up trees both wooden and metallic. He quickly turns the offending ground into a pile of rubble. Breathing shallow and hard, the hogman’s eyes and ears slowly survey the area. Not a sound, not a sight. Just a tiny gecko crawling over the dark picture of a walking man. Kamapua‘a smashes it; eats it. He grunts a humourless laugh, then slowly disappears back into the darkness.