Authors: TAYLOR ANDERSON
Crusade (17 page)
“I’ll pull this gag and let you have some last words if you’ll keep ’em quiet and decent,” Gray offered. Franklen went slack. Taking this as a sign he agreed, Gray pulled the bloody rag. Instantly, Al began screaming at the top of his lungs. Gray grabbed his head and began to twist and the screams abruptly ceased.
“You hear that kind of weird crackin’ sound, Al? Sounds like it’s right under your skull? Just grunt if you do.” Franklen made a noncommittal sound. In Fitzhugh Gray’s very best Al Jolson voice (which wasn’t half bad) he spoke the real Al Jolson’s signature line: “You ain’t heard
nothin’
yet!”
nothin’
yet!”
Rasik-Alcas, King and Protector of Aryaal, paced back and forth before the large arched window, his rich, supple gown flowing as he walked. Barely visible in the distance beyond the north wall, bonfires, lighted shipourselfidth="1em">
“Why?” Rasik snapped.
“Why?” Rasik snapped.
Koratin bowed his head. “I am not sure, lord. Some needed repair, long delayed, is the word I hear. We have few spies among them yet.” Rasik-Alcas began to scold his senior and currently only advisor for taking so long to build a network of informants, but he hesitated. Lord Koratin represented one of the oldest houses in Aryaal, and the creature was politically savvy. He was urbane, vain, and quick to take offense—but fear would prevent him from challenging his new king. For now. Rasik was fairly sure that Koratin harbored firm suspicions as to how Fet-Alcas had died, but for now the Aryaalan noble seemed willing to let the matter stand, and even to help. It made Rasik uncomfortable to rely on Koratin for anything, particularly anything critical to his consolidation of power, but he had no choice. “Perhaps when their repairs are complete, they will go away,” Koratin speculated.
Rasik growled. “Of course they will—to fight the Grik.”
Koratin blinked. “Then that is good! They will be gone from here and things will become as before.” He paused. “We are weakened, true, but we can stand against B’mbaado. In time—”
“No!” shouted Rasik. “Don’t you see? As long as they war against the Grik, they will have a presence here! They will never go away as long as the war continues!”
“Is that so terrible? What if the Grik return?”
“Return?” Rasik snorted. “With what?” He gestured eastward. “Have you not seen the carrion beyond our walls? Mere bones now, but the bones of
thousands
! It will be generations before those losses are made good.” He shook his head. “No, the Grik menace is gone. They won’t return in our grand-younglings’ lifetimes.”
thousands
! It will be generations before those losses are made good.” He shook his head. “No, the Grik menace is gone. They won’t return in our grand-younglings’ lifetimes.”
Koratin was not so sure. He proceeded carefully. “I have heard it said they are not like us—in more ways than are obvious. They breed quickly and their kingdom is vast. Some say they are the Demons of Old, come to harry us again, and what they sent here is but a tithe against what they are capable of.”
“Nonsense! You really should let your females tell stories to your young.” Koratin’s devotion to his younglings was no secret, and he often recited tales to them—and others—in open forum. He enjoyed performing, and while he recognized his own failings, he secretly hoped he could atone to some degree by telling tales of real virtue and clear morals to the young. “You begin to believe your own fables,” Rasik accused. Koratin remained silent. “As long as the sea folk war against the Grik, we won’t be rid of them,” Rasik repeated, returning to the subject at hand. He resumed pacing, deep in thought. Then he stopped. “But what if the war was over?”
“What do you mean, Lord King?”
Rasik’s eyes had become predatory slits. “Tell me, Lord Koratin. Do you think those silly sea folk would have the courage to fight without the iron ships?”
“No, Lord King,” Koratin answered honestly.
“Do you believe they’d even consider carrying on without them?” Koratin felt a chill.
“No, Lord King,” he whispered.
Rasik barked a horrible laugh. “So simple!” he said and resumed his pacing, but forrion in one of the chairs around the wardroom table idly fingering a freshly stripped Grik skull, retrieved from the battlefield, while Juan Marcos and Ray Mertz cleared the dishes left by the dinner party. It had been a fine meal, mostly Americanized local fare, but a few purely native dishes had been presented. Bradford wasn’t accustomed to the unusual Lemurian spices and, for the most part, he just stuck to salt. At least salt hadn’t changed, thank God. His morbid trophy hadn’t elicited the excitement he expected when he flourished it at the beginning of the meal. He’d been politely but firmly asked to place it out of sight until everyone had eaten.
Now, most of the diners had returned to their duties or joined the party on deck, leaving only the captain, Sandra, Jim, Keje, and Bradford himself. Without fanfare, the grisly thing reappeared upon the table. “This is the face our own world would have taken if whatever killed the dinosaurs . . . hadn’t,” Bradford announced muzzily, interrupting the conversation at the other end of the table.
“Probably,” Matt agreed. They’d had this talk before. He began to resume his conversation with Jim.
“But have you considered,” Bradford plowed on, “that maybe this is the way it
should
have been? Just look at this thing!” he demanded. “Similar brain capacity, large eyes, wicked, wicked teeth! Obviously a far better-adapted natural predator than we!” The rest of the group reluctantly turned their attention to the Australian. He was on a roll, and even drunk, whatever he said was bound to be interesting.
should
have been? Just look at this thing!” he demanded. “Similar brain capacity, large eyes, wicked, wicked teeth! Obviously a far better-adapted natural predator than we!” The rest of the group reluctantly turned their attention to the Australian. He was on a roll, and even drunk, whatever he said was bound to be interesting.
“Well, there’s no doubt they’re intelligent,” agreed Ellis grudgingly, “and they’re certainly better fighters on land than at sea. I don’t see how that makes them ‘better natural predators’ than us. We beat them.”
“Ah,” said Bradford, controlling a belch, “but we beat them with our minds, not our bodies. Only superior technology won the day, in the end. Consider: as far as we know, humanity has not risen on this world. We may be its only poor representatives. Where we come from, man is the greatest predator, but here that’s not the case. Here”—he tapped the skull—“this creature—or similar races—might predominate all over the globe.” He shifted his bleary stare to Keje. “Even on the islands that the People control, there are Grik, are there not? You’ve said so yourself.” He paused. “We’ve seen them,” he remembered. “Primitive, aboriginal, but plainly related to the more sophisticated enemy we face.” Keje nodded, peering intently at the man.
“What’s your point, Mr. Bradford?” Sandra asked quietly. The Australian’s fatalistic tone was giving her the creeps.
“It’s quite simple, my dear. We all, myself included, have from the beginning considered the world we came from to be the ‘normal’ one—the ‘right’ one—and this world the aberration.” He blinked. “No offense, my dear Captain Keje.” The Lemurian blinked acknowledgment. “But if you compare just the sheer physical lethality, there’s no way we humans would ever have evolved to become ‘top dog,’ as you Americans so aptly put it, if these creatures had anything to say about it—” His belch finally escaped. “Back home, that is. Here, we would have been an evolutionary impossibility . . . excuse me, please.”
“But what about the ’Cats?” asked Matt. Bradford shrugged.
“They apparently evolved more recently, in an isolated environment—Madagascar, I am quite sure. Two sentient species rising independently, but necessarily separate or it could never have taken place.” He stared at the skull. “At least Idat He was known as a malcontent malingerer and chances were he’d turn up in a day or so. Where could he go?
Matt suddenly realized that Sandra’s small, soft hand had found its way into his own. Clearing his throat, he released her fingers so he could ostentatiously adjust his hat. He glanced around, but the bridge watch all seemed preoccupied with their duties.
“It’s hard to watch them go,” Sandra murmured beside him. He nodded. To the south and east, the sky was clear and the harsh glow of the morning sun touched the wave tops with fire. To the north, however, the sky seemed smeared with a muddy brush. He stepped away from Sandra, heading toward the opposite wing, glancing up through the windows as he walked, until he saw the sky beyond the city in the west-northwest. Across the horizon, a great black mass was forming, as dark as the blackness of night. Wispy stringers of gray and white crawled across it like snakes, or worms. In spite of the morning heat, he felt a chill as Sandra joined him.
“Keje said this was the stormy time of year,” he whispered nervously.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Something bad.”
Rick Tolson was having the time of his life. He’d always loved the sea—even as a kid, having run away aboard a fishing schooner when he was ten. He hadn’t enjoyed that life, to be honest, but it taught him a lot about the sea and sails and how to be a man. When he returned as a prodigal son, his father arranged for him to spend the summers with the crew of a sixty-five-foot racing yacht named
Bee
that belonged to a wealthy Chesapeake-area business associate of his. All through high school, the summers found Rick converting the wind into raw speed. While other kids his age worked at gas stations and soda fountains, he got paid (a meager salary) to play, racing against the other sleek play-things of the rich.
Bee
that belonged to a wealthy Chesapeake-area business associate of his. All through high school, the summers found Rick converting the wind into raw speed. While other kids his age worked at gas stations and soda fountains, he got paid (a meager salary) to play, racing against the other sleek play-things of the rich.
He learned everything, and by the time he went to college he’d commanded
Bee
in several high-stakes races and won, always against newer and faster competitors. In college he didn’t have much time for racing, since he took summer classes as well, but he always had a place aboard the
Bee
when he went home on weekends. He also joined the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps—against his father’s wishes—and that was how he’d wound up here. He was glad.
Bee
in several high-stakes races and won, always against newer and faster competitors. In college he didn’t have much time for racing, since he took summer classes as well, but he always had a place aboard the
Bee
when he went home on weekends. He also joined the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps—against his father’s wishes—and that was how he’d wound up here. He was glad.
Not in his wildest boyhood fantasies had he imagined that a Navy life would put him in command of what was, for all intents and purposes, a square-rigged frigate. Like Stephen Decatur, Isaac Hull, or Porter before Valparaiso, he was living the life of his childhood heroes with the greatest assignment any frigate captain could ask for: independent command. It was a fantasy come true, and he was loving every minute of it.
Revenge
was fast—by Lemurian standards—and surprisingly well made considering her builders. The Grik had taken her draft directly from the lines of the stout, fast-sailing British East Indiamen, and it was obvious now that they’d captured one centuries before and used it as a pattern—scaled up or down—ever since.
Revenge
had one major difference, of course. She was armed with twenty guns. More a ship-sloop than a frigate, in the old scheme of things, where a ship’s class was reckoned by how many guns she carried, but “frigate” sure sounded better.
Revenge
was fast—by Lemurian standards—and surprisingly well made considering her builders. The Grik had taken her draft directly from the lines of the stout, fast-sailing British East Indiamen, and it was obvious now that they’d captured one centuries before and used it as a pattern—scaled up or down—ever since.
Revenge
had one major difference, of course. She was armed with twenty guns. More a ship-sloop than a frigate, in the old scheme of things, where a ship’s class was reckoned by how many guns she carried, but “frigate” sure sounded better.
Rick’s crew was entirely Lemurian, with the exception of an ordnance striker named Gandy Bowles, fresh off of
Mahan
, who’d been jumped to “master gunner.” The rest of the crew couldn’t love their ship, remembering constantly what she represented. Despite everything they did to eliminate it, the cloying scent of her previous owners and what they’d doe he well lingered, and that didn’t help. They loved the
idea
of her, however, and they were ecstatic about what she could do. She was faster and more maneuverable than the stolid, plodding Homes—and faster than any other Grik ship they’d encountered. They’d encountered several. Rick remembered each action with a warm glow of excitement. All had been stragglers or scouts and showed no concern as
Revenge
drew near. She was one of theirs, wasn’t she? All were destroyed.
Mahan
, who’d been jumped to “master gunner.” The rest of the crew couldn’t love their ship, remembering constantly what she represented. Despite everything they did to eliminate it, the cloying scent of her previous owners and what they’d doe he well lingered, and that didn’t help. They loved the
idea
of her, however, and they were ecstatic about what she could do. She was faster and more maneuverable than the stolid, plodding Homes—and faster than any other Grik ship they’d encountered. They’d encountered several. Rick remembered each action with a warm glow of excitement. All had been stragglers or scouts and showed no concern as
Revenge
drew near. She was one of theirs, wasn’t she? All were destroyed.
Revenge
’s speed was due primarily to some innovative rig improvements that Rick and his crew came up with, and he liked to think his racing background helped. Also, in spite of her guns, she wasn’t as heavy as other Grik ships. Her crew was smaller and she didn’t carry a regiment of warriors and their supplies everywhere she went. That might be a problem if the enemy ever grappled, but so far,
Revenge
had destroyed her surprised victims from beyond the range of even the enemy’s shipboard bomb throwers. Whatever the reasons for her success,
Revenge
had been a wolf on the prowl for the better part of three weeks now, earning her name in spades, and the enemy had no idea she was even there. Rick felt like Robert Louis Stevenson had written this part of his life and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
’s speed was due primarily to some innovative rig improvements that Rick and his crew came up with, and he liked to think his racing background helped. Also, in spite of her guns, she wasn’t as heavy as other Grik ships. Her crew was smaller and she didn’t carry a regiment of warriors and their supplies everywhere she went. That might be a problem if the enemy ever grappled, but so far,
Revenge
had destroyed her surprised victims from beyond the range of even the enemy’s shipboard bomb throwers. Whatever the reasons for her success,
Revenge
had been a wolf on the prowl for the better part of three weeks now, earning her name in spades, and the enemy had no idea she was even there. Rick felt like Robert Louis Stevenson had written this part of his life and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
“Good morning, Cap-i-taan,” greeted Kas-Ra-Ar as the Lemurian joined him on the weather side of the quarterdeck.
“Morning, Kas.” Rick smiled. “A brisk day and a stiff wind.” He glanced aloft at the single-reefed topsails overhead.
“When should we expect the plane, do you think?” Kas asked. Every four days, the PBY flew out and rendezvoused with them so it could carry a report of their sightings back to Surabaya. The latitude wasn’t prescribed for the meetings, but the longitude was. That way, the Catalina could just follow the line north until they met. In theory.
Revenge
’s consorts tried to stay in line of sight, and they would signal her with any sightings they made as well. Once, amazingly, they encountered a Lemurian Home headed north into the China Sea. They closed to speak to her and had nearly taken a fusillade of the giant crossbow bolts for their efforts. They finally managed to convince the Home they weren’t Grik (an understandable mistake) and they passed them the news of the war. That news came as quite a shock, since these people hadn’t even known there
was
a war. They told Kas they might go to Baalkpan, or they might not. They did turn around and head south.
Revenge
’s consorts tried to stay in line of sight, and they would signal her with any sightings they made as well. Once, amazingly, they encountered a Lemurian Home headed north into the China Sea. They closed to speak to her and had nearly taken a fusillade of the giant crossbow bolts for their efforts. They finally managed to convince the Home they weren’t Grik (an understandable mistake) and they passed them the news of the war. That news came as quite a shock, since these people hadn’t even known there
was
a war. They told Kas they might go to Baalkpan, or they might not. They did turn around and head south.
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