Maelstrom (34 page)

Matt sipped his coffee and rubbed his chin. “Well, between us, we learned a lot. Almost as much from what they didn’t say as what they did. They obviously don’t want us to know where they’re from. Normal reluctance to reveal too much before they get to know us, or societal paranoia?” He paused. “Either way, they’re from the east. Adar suspected as much as soon as he saw the girl, and then we learned they weren’t part of S-19’s ‘cargo.’ Now we’re sure. They’re descendants of the ‘Others’ that passed through here before. Looking at a map, we could probably extrapolate a pretty good estimate of where their home is.

“They know about guns—witness the muskets—although according to Mr. Bradford, they’re virtually unchanged from those the original East Indiamen would’ve carried. The girl said they have artillery as well, even if it’s not any more advanced. That tells us something right there. In all this time, they haven’t had any reason to improve their weaponry, so they never did. In our own history, flintlocks reigned supreme for two hundred and fifty years, and reached a level of refinement that couldn’t be improved upon. Only constant wars with equally well-armed opponents spurred the innovations we made in the last century. So wherever they are, they must be on top of the heap, and there must not be any really dangerous animals. Steam power’s something else they must have. Like Silva said, they’re impressed by how fast we can go, but not shocked we do it without sails.”

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop the Grik-like creature had lain on most of the afternoon. “All fascinating mysteries I look forward to solving, and it’s good to know, at long last, that there
are
other humans on this world. Right now, though, we have more pressing concerns.” He opened the note he’d received from Clancy and read most of it aloud. They already knew the gist, but each point needed discussion, and he wanted it fresh in their minds. He slapped the table with the message form. “I have no choice but to believe this is genuine. Kaufman’s apology at the end, while also probably genuine, is clearly meant to convince us he is who he says he is.”

“But how in hell did the bas . . . did he get access to their comm equipment?” Spanky grumbled dubiously.

“With the help of the disaffected ‘elements,’” Dowden speculated. “Probably wouldn’t be too hard; it’s not like they have a lot of folks to talk to. Most likely just a comm watch to see what
we’re
saying.”

“But what of the rest of it?” Adar demanded heatedly. “This warning to
us
! A warning that the enemy moves, and we must complete or abandon our ‘rescue’ attempt? How could they know of that?”

“Simple,” Matt answered grimly. “Kaufman’s not talking to
us
. He thinks he is, because
Mahan
’s disguise has fooled them. For whatever reason, Jim’s taken her to B’mbaado.”

All those present, except the submariners, knew that was against Matt’s direct orders. They also knew that if Jim Ellis went against those orders, there’d been a damn good reason.

“I’ve felt something was wrong ever since we lost communications. Felt it in my bones,” he confessed. “They must’ve taken out the radio with this bombing the note refers to.” He rubbed his eyes. “Damn! We should’ve headed back two weeks ago!” Glancing at Flynn and Laumer, he allowed a wry smile. “Sorry. I’m damn glad we found you, but we may not have done you any favors.”

“I don’t understand, Captain,” Laumer replied. The lanky ensign was very young, and probably hadn’t been out of submarine school for a month before the war started, back home. As S-19’s sole surviving officer, he’d shown unusual maturity by letting the more experienced chief take the lead. He clearly wasn’t a coward, and Flynn continued to show proper deference and respect even if he was making the decisions. Matt suspected Laumer would shape into a good officer.

“We probably just dragged you out of the frying pan, into the fire. With us.” In response to their blank expressions,
Walker
’s people began to explain.

The storm was a bad one, and it lashed them with its fury throughout the night, even though they caught only the edge. By morning the worst had rumbled into the south-southwest to slam against northern Celebes. Tabby had been seasick again, but not debilitated this time. She’d spent most of her life aboard
Salissa
, barely noticing any but the most severe storms, and the first she’d weathered on tiny
Walker
—a Strakka at that—left her unable to do anything but moan and wallow in vomit. She must finally be getting her “sea legs,” as Gilbert called them, and this time it hadn’t been so bad. She could only shudder at the thought of the misery she’d have endured if the storm hit them full-on, however.

The sky was still gray, the sea still choppy when she and Gilbert went to the galley for a late breakfast. Lanier complained, of course, about “snipes wandering in any old time, whenever they felt like it,” to eat, but they paid him no heed. The griping was desultory anyway; Lanier was in a pretty good mood, since the Coke machine had weathered the storm, still chugging away, cooling the empty space inside. Tabby still didn’t understand why that was cause for such celebration, but if the irascible cook was happy, the food would be better.

She and Gilbert munched egg sandwiches under the gun platform protecting them from a persistent drizzle and looked around. Something had the crew’s attention forward, under the pilothouse deck. They moved over to see what it was, and were stunned to discover a tiger-striped Grik reclined on a mattress pad, with a semicircle of men and ’Cats gathered around. Bradford was there, sitting on a chair, as were Silva, Adar, and several small children.

“Holy smokes,” Gilbert said. “A Grik!”

“He’s tame,” Stites said, hearing him. “Didn’t you know he was here?”

“No. We been workin’. Where’d all the scudders come from?”

Stites looked at him. “You need to get out more.”

“I been tryin’!” Gilbert replied, almost plaintively.

Stites shrugged. “We took him, the kids, and a couple dozen pigboat pukes off Talaud.” He leered. “Got a couple new women too, but, except for some nun, they ain’t showed their faces yet. The nun keeps tryin’ to pester the skipper.”

“You don’t say?” Gilbert scratched his ear and pointed at the “Grik.” “Bradford gonna di-sect him?”

Stites laughed. “Hell, no! He’s friendly as a hungry pup. The Aussie’s been talkin’ to him just like he was a person. Silva shot him and he’s a little sore, but I swear, sometimes you can even understand what he says! Talks a little like one o’ you Georgia crackers, though.”

“I ain’t from Georgia, you damn Yankee!”

Stites shrugged again. “All you snipes sound the same to me.”

“What about Spanky? You understand him fine.”

“He ain’t from Georgia.”

Gilbert shook his head. Everyone “on deck” talked weird as far as he was concerned; so much of their language was salted with archaic nautical terms. He was more accustomed to technical and mechanical jargon.

“Laney’s a snipe and anybody understand him,” Tabby pointed out. “All he do is cuss.” They applied their attention to the bizarre conversation taking place in front of them.

“South of the overhead sun!” Bradford gushed. “How exciting! Do you think you could point out your home on a map?”

“What is . . .’ap?’” the creature replied.

“Oh, dear. Well, a map is like a picture of the world. It shows where places are.” The creature looked blank. “Never mind, I’m sure we’ll sort it out. Tell me, though, why on earth were you paddling around the open ocean in a canoe?”

“I grow . . . turn into adult. It time I leave nest, show I adult.”

“A rite of passage? Face the dangers of the world and prove you’re no longer a . . . a child?”

“Essentially. To ha’, to take . . .” He struggled for a word. Bradford had learned there was no limit to the creature’s vocabulary, but there were some words he simply couldn’t say. Anything requiring the use of lips, for example, was impossible. He understood the words; he just couldn’t form them. “To ha’, to earn right to . . .”

“Mate?” Bradford supplied.

“Yess! ’ate! I show strength, courage, I return.” He looked down. “I never return, now.”

Bradford blinked. “Don’t be so downcast. Perhaps you will. This dreadful war can’t last forever!”

Becky stirred and looked at Bradford. “Perhaps I should explain. Listening to you two hash this out is excruciating! I’ve had much longer to get to know him.” She looked at those gathered around, particularly the other children. “Mr. Silva has told me castaways should answer questions, but must poor Lawrence do it in front of so many superfluous persons?” One of the little girls sat up straight and sniffed. Becky glared at her. “You have always taunted him as a beast! He has no obligation to unburden himself to you!”

“Not me! I think he’s fascinating!” exclaimed a scruffy-looking boy in an incongruous upper-crust English accent. Becky rewarded him alone with a small smile.

“You are always so mean!” squealed the haughty girl. All but the boy loudly agreed.

“Children!” protested Bradford. He turned to Silva. “Surely the crew has other duties,” he suggested, “and perhaps these children have had enough fresh air?”

“You bet. Move along, fellas, before somebody gives you work. Kiddies, I think Stites’ll take you back below.”

“But it stinks down there!” a Dutch girl complained.

“Honest sweat,” Stites proclaimed piously, “won’t hurt you.” Amid whining complaints, he shooed the children down the companionway, while the other observers slunk off.

“You mind if we stick here, Dennis? Mr. Bradford?” Gilbert asked.

Becky glanced at them and did a double take. “Good heavens, that one’s female!” Silva laughed, and the girl glared at him.

Gilbert was startled, then looked at Tabby. She was wearing a T-shirt at least, but it was soaking wet. “Yeah, well, I guess.”

“There are many others aboard, my dear,” Bradford said. “Our allies have unusual mores. Please think nothing of it.”

“Think nothing of it . . . ?” Becky shook her head. “Unusual indeed. I thought I’d noticed a couple on deck wearing nothing but kilts, but believed I’d imagined it.”

“Can we stay?” Gilbert persisted. “We been in the fireroom and ain’t seen ya’ll yet.”

“Very well,” Becky replied, still shaking her head and looking at Tabby. “Let me see, as best I understand it, Lawrence’s people are quite wild when they hatch—from eggs, you know—and run loose on an island near their home until they reach a certain level of maturity. Not age, necessarily, but a level of self-awareness. They are guided and taught by adults the whole time, but there is little supervision. Just enough to keep them from reverting to savagery. When they do become self-aware, the instruction becomes more intense until, ultimately, they are judged fit to enter society. They demonstrate their ability to reason and use tools by building their own boat in which to return, but they must do so by way of a more distant island, where they must face a final test of courage and resourcefulness. Poor Lawrence completed his test, but a storm took him far from his return course. When we found him, he was dying of thirst and hunger.”

“What was the final test?” Courtney asked.

“He won’t speak of it. To do so with others who haven’t completed it is forbidden.”

“I see. Hmm. Fascinating . . . and informative. I have just a few more questions. Obviously Lawrence’s species, like the Grik and, well, us, I suppose, are predators. I assume they hunt?”

Becky looked at Lawrence, who said, “O’ course.”

Bradford blinked. “Oh, please do forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve fallen into talking as if you’re not here.”

“It’s all right,” Lawrence assured him. “’Ecky?”

The girl frowned. “Well, of course. As you say, his people are predators. They hunt, but they also raise domestic livestock of sorts, though we’ve never discussed what kind.”

“Fascinating!” Bradford beamed. “But I hoped he might describe
how
his people hunt.”

Becky seemed troubled by the line of questioning. “Well, he’s spoken of a vague understanding of how his culture allocates labor—you must remember he had not yet joined ‘society’ as it were—and did not yet know his place within it. But evidently there are different castes among his people; some are herders, some hunters, others are artisans—boatbuilders and the like.”

“But he received some small instruction in the basics of each of these?”

“Yes.”

“So, how was he taught to hunt?”

“Cooperatively. Much like our own people would, if they had to for survival, and weren’t just ‘sport shooting.’ ”

“Are there other predators his people must compete with?”

Becky looked blank, and Lawrence answered for her: “Yes. Shiksaks. Dangerous, scary creatures. They take our li’stock. O’ten kill Tagranesi. Tagranesi hunt. Lots hunters against single Shiksak; Shiksak hard to kill. Shiksaks go sea and land. Thrice size Tagranesi.”

“Indeed? Tell me, Lawrence, do your people ever hunt these creatures for sport?”

Lawrence managed an expression of surprise. “S’ort? Insane.”

“Hmm. Sounds as though it would be, yet you can never be entirely rid of them if they’re amphibious. And so large! I’d love to see one!”

Lawrence shook his head. “See alone, you die.”

Bradford’s eyebrows furrowed. “So you do understand theoretical situations then. Marvelous! Tell me, if one of these ‘Shiksaks’ were making a nuisance of himself and your hunters went after him—had him cornered—and another ‘Shiksak’ suddenly attacked without warning, by surprise, what would they do?”

“Not . . . can’t occur. Shiksaks hate each other. Not hunt together.”

“Glad to hear it, but what if they did?”

Lawrence blinked, clearly contemplating the possibility. “Hunters scared?” he finally answered. “Run a’ay.”

Bradford realized he’d been leaning forward, anticipating the answer. When it came, he eased back with a sigh. “Quite understandable. Very well. I have only one more question: are your people violent at all? I mean, do they fight others of their kind . . . or any other sentient species, perhaps?”