Distant Thunders Read online

  “Captain Reddy,” O’Casey called from the ship. For obvious reasons, he wouldn’t be making the crossing. Only later, after the character of their visitors was determined, might he be revealed. “Beware Jenks. As Her Highness has said, he may be a man o’ honor, but he has a temper.” He grinned beneath his mustaches. “As do ye, I’ve learned.” Matt replied with a curt nod.

  Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Big Sal, awkwardly found a place beside the captain, favoring his wounded leg. He looked something like a cat-faced bear, and his short, brownish red fur had become increasingly sprinkled with silver. Today it was groomed immaculately. He was dressed in his best embroidered blue smock and highly polished copper scale armor. His battered “scota,” or working sword, was at his side—unbound—and on his head was a copper helmet adorned with the tail plumage of a Grik. He grinned, though as usual with his species, the expression didn’t touch his red-brown eyes. “That one-armed man has learned you well, my brother. Perhaps it might be best, just this once, to watch that temper of yours. I don’t know about you, but I believe we have a sufficient war at present to keep us occupied.”

  Matt snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sure, I have a temper. So do you. But I don’t lose it very often.”

  “Perhaps,” Keje hedged, “but when you do, well . . . you do.” He left it at that.

  Courtney Bradford descended next, puffing with exertion and trying not to lose the ridiculous, oversize hat that protected his balding pate. Bradford, an Australian, had been a petroleum-engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. He was also a self-proclaimed “naturalist,” and despite an absentminded, eccentric personality, he was an extremely valuable man. It was he who showed them where to drill for the oil that had fueled their war effort so far. Of all Walker’s company who’d arrived on this “other earth,” he’d probably changed the least—personality wise—and still tended to greet each day as a blooming opportunity for discovery and adventure.

  “Larry the Lizard,” as the men had taken to calling Lawrence, Rebecca’s Grik-like pet/companion, scampered down to join them and found a place to perch near the front of the launch. He wasn’t as large as their Grik enemies, and his orangeish and brown tiger-striped, feathery fur easily distinguished him from the washed-out dun and brown of the Grik. Otherwise, the physical similarity was striking. He was a kind of “island Grik,” a “Tagranesi” he claimed, from somewhere in the Eastern Sea. Apparently a different race from their enemies, he’d become Rebecca’s friend and protector. So striking was his similarity to the enemy, Matt had kept him hidden aboard Walker until after the great battle out of real concern for his safety. It may have been just as well at the time. Despite their previous, almost pacifistic nature, the Lemurians hated the Grik, and he sure looked like one. After the battle however, he’d emerged as something of a hero, and to Matt’s honest amazement, the Lemurians had once again displayed their capacity for tolerant adaptability. Somehow, despite his appearance, the ’Cats were able to accept—on Matt’s and Adar’s word alone—that Larry was on their side. Walker’s crew had grown accustomed to him by the time they brought him back to Baalkpan on the eve of battle, but Matt knew that under similar circumstances, no equally large group of humans would have embraced Larry as quickly.

  The mighty chief gunner’s mate Dennis Silva clambered down the rungs last, with Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald clinging to his back. Silva winced occasionally, pained by his many wounds, and Matt wished again he’d insisted the big man remain behind. But Silva took his role of protecting the princess seriously and Matt couldn’t bring himself to discourage anything the irreverent, depraved pain in the ass actually wanted to do—as far as his duty was concerned. Of all of them, Silva might have changed the most—maybe even more than Matt himself. He didn’t seem much different to the casual observer, despite the patch that covered his ruined left eye. He was still huge, powerful, and still kept his blond hair burred close—even as he let the sun-bleached brownish beard grow longer than everyone knew the captain approved. He remained coarse, profane, and fearlessly reckless, and there was still the more or less unresolved question of what, exactly, constituted the relationship between him, Nurse Pam Cross, and the ’Cat female Risa-Sab-At. Risa’s brother, Chack, probably knew, but no one else did . . . for sure. Other than that, however, Silva caused few real problems anymore.

  Maybe his wounds slowed him down, but Matt had seen him shoulder more and more responsibility—sometimes of his own accord—even before he was injured. It was as if he’d taken his role as Walker’s Hercules to heart, and saw it as his personal duty to protect her survivors as best he could—with the possible exception of his primary rival,

  Chief Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney. His protectiveness was particularly focused on the little girl clinging to his back. She had . . . done something . . . to Dennis Silva, and Matt believed the big man would somehow contrive, with his bare hands, to destroy the ship they were about to visit if it threatened the girl in any way.

  When all the passengers were aboard, Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites advanced the throttle and the launch burbled across the choppy sea to Achilles’ side. The closer they drew to the “British” ships, the more impressed Matt became. Each Imperial frigate seemed quite well made, and mounted twelve to twenty guns that looked somewhat larger than the American frigates’ improved eighteen pounders. Maybe twenty-fours? But the ships simply couldn’t be as imaginatively and redundantly reinforced as his own Lemurian-built frigates, and their steam power would be an advantage only until their vulnerable paddle wheels were damaged. Then they’d become a terrible liability. They were more than a match for his “prizes,” though, and he had only one frigate to oppose them if it came to that. Of course, there was no way they could enter the bay past the guns of Fort Atkinson and the other big guns they’d quickly emplaced on the southeast entrance. For a melancholy moment, he considered that Walker could have taken all of them by herself, but he shook that off. He didn’t want to fight them, and despite Gray’s assessment, he doubted he’d have to. Most likely, they just wanted to take the girl and go, but it was always wise to consider possibilities—particularly when they weren’t necessarily going to get what they wanted.

  The barge bumped alongside and Captain Reddy hopped across to an extensive ladder arrangement, complete with manropes that had been rigged while they crossed. Climbing to the top, he saluted the curiously familiar ensign, with the red and white stripes and Union Jack in the field at the ship’s stern, then saluted a man he suspected was Captain Jenks, by the description Gray had given him.

  “Captain Matthew Reddy, United States Navy. Supreme Commander, by acclamation, of the Combined Allied Forces united under the Banner of the Trees. I request permission to come aboard, sir.”

  A side party was present, with drums and a pair of trumpets, but they made no sound. The man in the elaborately laced white coat with braided mustaches frowned, then returned the salute with a curious rigidity. “Of course,” he said gruffly, apparently somewhat taken aback, “do come aboard.” He gestured at the side party. “And please forgive our incivility,” he added when he recognized a much cleaned-up Chief Gray reaching the top of the ladder. “We were under the impression your people preferred informal greetings.”

  “An impression you got when you were rude to us right after a fight,” Gray growled over his shoulder. He took the girl from Silva, who’d passed her up from below. Turning, he set her on the deck and glared at Jenks. He pointedly didn’t salute the flag or the Imperial officer. Jenks stiffened, but then beamed at the girl before him. At the signal of another officer, the drums rolled loudly and the trumpets blasted a rapid and again tantalizingly familiar fanfare.

  “Your Highness!” Jenks exclaimed, going to a knee and sweeping off his hat when the trumpets subsided. Everyone in the vicinity did the same, leaving the Americans standing awkwardly beside the girl.

  At that instant, Silva stuck his head over the rail and gawked around, festooned wit
h the evidence of his wounds. His hands were bandaged and blood seeped through the cloth of his white tunic. The garish black patch covering his eye, and the gap-toothed grin that split his bearded face gave him a decidedly piratical air. Faced with an opportunity, he proceeded to prove that nothing could temper his customary irreverent exuberance. “Goddamn,” he muttered in the silence, “the skipper just hops aboard and a whole shipload o’ limeys surrenders to him!” Jenks’s face flushed.

  “Silva!” Matt hissed.

  “Rise!” Rebecca Anne McDonald said loudly, forcing down a giggle. Behind her, the rest of the occupants of the launch continued to arrive on deck—all of them, even the Lemurians, saluting the flag.

  Jenks’s face turned even redder, if possible, perhaps with shame over his pettiness. He stood, followed by his officers, and took a step forward. “I’m so glad!” he said to Rebecca, ignoring the other visitors. “Surely it’s a miracle. We’ve found you at last! We’d nearly lost hope, searching much farther and longer than most believed you could possibly survive. Thank God I decided to search among the Ape Folk, thinking they may have taken you in. Only chance brought us to their huge ship, which told us strangers were also searching for others of their kind in waters you may have reached! I believed it possible they may have found you and hurried here, but I honestly cherished little remaining hope!”

  “You have found me,” the girl agreed, “and I give thanks for your diligence. Sadly, of all those who accompanied me on that ill-fated voyage, only one remained to aid me. Injured though he was, I could not have survived without him. Alas, even he was denied this happy reunion.” Rebecca spoke of O’Casey, who’d begged her not to mention him, since he was, after all, a wanted man. But she was determined that he receive his due and, ultimately, a pardon. What she’d said would suffice, however. For now, she’d let him remain anonymous.

  “A noble man, surely,” Jenks commiserated, “but at least the Empire has you safely back! Their Majesties will be so relieved!”

  “How are my parents?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

  “Well enough when we left, five months ago, though desolate with worry and grief. Your father blamed himself, you see, for sending you to stay with your uncle, the governor of the Western Isles.”

  “He sent me to protect me!” the girl insisted.

  Jenks glanced at his other visitors again, perhaps wondering how much they’d learned about his nation. “Of course, but . . .”

  Matt cleared his throat. “Excuse me, please. This is all very touching and even fascinating, but”—he pointed toward land—“we’ve recently fought a great battle against a rather large fleet of Grik. I understand you know about them?”

  Jenks seemed annoyed by the interruption, but nodded. “From legends, the old logs of the founders.” His eyes went wide when Lawrence scrambled aboard. Wide with surprise, but not shock or horror, Matt noticed.

  “The young lady . . . Her Highness . . . said you know about his people,” Matt said, pointing at the tiger-striped creature gazing about with open curiosity. “I even gather you’ve been on expeditions to some of their lands. What do you think of them?”

  Jenks waved his hand. “Formidable predators, but relatively peaceful. Slow breeders—there aren’t many of them on their rocky, jungle isles—mildly intelligent and capable of limited cooperative behavior, but incapable of speech.”

  Lawrence bowed low and said, “How do you do?”

  Jenks’s mouth clamped shut and he goggled at the creature before him.

  “I must present my particular friend Lawrence,” Rebecca added quickly. “He contributed as much to my survival as any other. He speaks very well indeed, as long as he needn’t use Ms or Bs or other such words that require . . . lips like ours, I suppose. I haven’t learned much of his language, I’m afraid.”

  “Shows what you know, Jenks,” Gray jabbed.

  Matt sent him a stern look before turning back to Jenks. “The creatures we fight are a different version of Lawrence: bigger, stronger, just as formidably . . . armed, but who breed like rabbits—you know rabbits?” Jenks nodded. “They breed like rabbits and have mastered ships like the one they stole from your ancient squadron. Now they have cannons, and their only purpose seems to be eradicating all other life they encounter. With me so far?” When Jenks nodded again, Matt continued. “We killed a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty thousand of ’em here a few weeks ago and we lost a lot of people doing it. We have a lot of work to do and not much time to do it. We have to take the fight to them, or someday they’ll be back.”

  “My heartiest congratulations for your victory,” Jenks said. “And, of course, you have my country’s most profound gratitude for rescuing and protecting Her Highness.”

  “Thank you, Captain . . .”

  “It’s ‘Commodore,’ actually,” interrupted one of Jenks’s officers. Like the others, he’d remained silent so far, wearing a variety of expressions. There’d been no real introductions on either side and Matt suspected Jenks’s officers were as surprised by this breach of protocol as he was. But things were moving fast.

  Matt frowned. “Look,” he said, “my point is, if they roll us up, they’ll keep going. Eventually they’ll find you too.”

  “I’m confident you’ll make short work of them, Captain,” Jenks said, somewhat condescendingly, “if the carnage I saw on the little island where I met Mr. Gray is any indication.”

  “That fight was against three ships, Jenks,” Gray growled. “Hundreds of ’em came here.”

  “Hundreds of their ships,” Matt confirmed, “each filled with hundreds of their warriors. Creatures that look like Lawrence here, but who fight with swords and spears, and now cannons too.”

  “I’m afraid that can be none of my concern, Captain.”

  “Maybe not yet, but if we lose, it will be someday. Guaranteed.”

  “Perhaps. What are you suggesting?” Jenks paused, his mustaches twitching over a smirk. “Surely not an alliance?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  Jenks shook his head. “I am sorry, Captain Reddy, but that’s simply impossible. Our duty was to find the princess and we’ve done so. Her safety is thanks in large part to you, I confess, but our duty now is to return her where she belongs. I’m sensible to the possibility that your arguments may even have . . . merit, but I don’t have the authority to get involved. You must understand, my squadron has been engaged in this search for quite some time; time it has been unavailable for . . . other pressing duties. We have even suffered the loss of one of our number, to a leviathan”—he glanced curiously at Gray, as if wondering whether the Bosun had deliberately misled them when they met—“so I seriously don’t know what difference my three poor ships might make to your cause.” His face betrayed the belief that his “poor” ships would probably make quite a difference indeed. “In any event, even if I had the authority I’d be obliged to refuse. As I’ve clearly stated, my duty is to return Her Highness to the bosom of her family and no other consideration can prevail.”

  Rebecca had listened with growing astonishment. Suddenly, she spoke and all eyes fell on her diminutive form. “Then I will give you something to consider, Commodore Jenks: I refuse to abandon my friends, my saviors, while it is in my power to aid them. They are not proposing an alliance only with you, you silly man. You already refused Mr. Gray’s request for aid when your small squadron might have made a difference. I have proposed they seek an alliance with our country!”

  “Ridiculous!” erupted the other officer who’d spoken before, and Matt looked at him again. He wore a mustache much like Jenks’s, but so did many others. It seemed to be the style. Unlike the others, he seemed stuffed into his uniform and wore little braid. The braid was unique, though, the gold laced with red. It still struck Matt odd that an apparently comparatively junior member of Jenks’s staff would be allowed to speak so freely.

  “Perhaps . . .” Rebecca sighed, regarding the man as well. “Perhaps honor has become so devalued in my absence. Nev
ertheless, I will seek an alliance on their behalf and ours. Not only is it the right thing to do after all they’ve done for me, but it’s the sensible course as well. They have dealt the Grik a terrible blow, but the Grik will recover. There will be no better chance to break them forever—before they eventually menace us. If we wait and my friends are lost, we will face them all alone and we cannot succeed in that.”

  “But, Highness!” said Jenks. “Perhaps what you say is true, but I have no choice! I must get you safely home!”

  “You do have a choice, Commodore. I have a choice.” She glared at the outspoken officer. “The Company may have stripped my family of most of its power, but the governor-emperor is still commander in chief. As the highest-ranking member of his household present, I can order you to help. You might refuse, but I tell you now, if you do, I . . . I will not accompany you home.”

  “But, Your Highness!” Matt and Jenks both protested at once, but only Matt continued. “We appreciate it, but Jenks is right: we have to keep you safe. Sure, we could use his ships now while we’re . . . a little short . . . but his squadron will make little difference, in the end.”

  Jenks bristled. “I assure you, sir . . .”

  “Oh, knock it off! I know exactly what your ships can do, and as I said, we can always use the help. But you really don’t know what you’re up against.” Matt paused, struck by the irony of his argument. A moment ago, he’d been trying to convince Jenks to help. Now he was encouraging him to run away. He sighed. “Look, we want friendship between your people and ours . . . for a lot of reasons, not just this war. And no matter what you think, your three ships can’t make much difference in the campaign we’re preparing. How likely are we to remain friends with your people if you and the young lady are destroyed defending us?”