Maelstrom (6 page)

“But it is not the same! Hu-maans are much more warlike than we; they are more like the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans in that respect. . . . Oh.”

“Precisely. To them, belonging to the same species does not keep them from killing others of different clans, or races within that species. And among the Jaap clan, the ties that bind them together seem even closer than those that bind the Amer-i-caans. The Amer-i-caans have much freer will to decide for themselves what is right and what is not. Among the Jaap clan, that decision is taken by a leader and imposed upon all others, regardless of what they might personally think.”

“I see,” murmured Nakja-Mur. “Do you think Shin-yaa can be trusted? Will he aid his clan against us?”

“I think not. I believe, even if he didn’t know the right or wrong of it, his perception of what he calls his ‘honor’ would prevent it. Remember, before they ever came here, his clan and that of the Amer-i-caans were at war, but he has given his parole to Cap-i-taan Reddy, and rather than break it, he would resolve his personal conflict by ending his own life. More likely, in a confrontation between his people and ours, he will simply abstain. ‘Sit it out,’ as the Amer-i-caans would say.”

“A pity. He is a fine leader, and the troops he leads—our own people—have no stake in his ‘conflict.’ I hope, for our sakes, as well as his own, he is able to resolve it in our favor.”

Adar nodded. “Regardless, that is why he will accompany the expedition rather than remain behind.”

“Probably best.” Nakja-Mur changed the subject. “What is involved in dismantling and transporting the ‘rig’?”

“Mostly time and labor. The ‘rig’ itself is not complex. If we had time, I’m sure it would be simpler to just build another. We will do that anyway, so we can sink more wells here, but we know this one works, and it is not needed at its present site. It would have to be moved in any case. The labor is something else; remember, there is a gri-gaantus maax-i-mus—a Gri-maax—in the area. The one that got their Tony Scott. I believe the Amer-i-caans call them ‘super lizards.’”

“An appropriate term, if I translate correctly.”

“Indeed. In any event, in order to convince a sufficient number of workers to go, we have to assemble an escort of almost equal numbers. Most inefficient, but necessary.”

“Amazing!” gushed Courtney Bradford, removing his ridiculous hat and wiping sweat from his balding pate. (Acting) Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva had to agree. Actually, the word that sprang to his mind was “prodigious,” even though it was a word he’d never used before and had, in fact, only ever heard from the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist.” It was pretty “amazing” too, though.

“Biggest damn turd I ever saw,” Silva agreed respectfully, slinging his BAR (Browning automatic rifle) on his powerful shoulder and crouching to view the thing in all its glory, “and I’ve seen my share of whoppers. Conjured up a few myself, but nothing to compare to
that
.” The coiled heap of excrement wasn’t exactly steaming, but it was fresh, and about the size of a grown man curled in a fetal position—which immediately set Dennis to thinking dark thoughts. He looked at the Australian and saw his eyes glisten with anticipation. He snorted. It was late January 1943 in the world they remembered, nearly a year since USS
Walker
passed through the Squall that brought them to this twisted, alien Earth. Personality-wise, Bradford had apparently changed least of any who’d survived. Outwardly, the change was complete. He’d finally given in to the inevitable and had allowed a salty, reddish blond beard to creep across his ruddy face. In fact, it struck the fine-furred ’Cats as hilarious that he now had more hair on his face than on the top of his head. In the heat and glaring sunlight of the latitude, that might’ve actually been dangerous, but Bradford had replaced his lost hat with a bizarre contraption most resembling a cartoon version of a Mexican sombrero. Of course, it looked ridiculous on his fair-skinned, somewhat rotund frame—a fact not lost on their friends.

Because of their large, catlike ears, Lemurians rarely wore any kind of hat. Some wore helmets into battle, but most had been fashioned with the ears in mind. Some, like Chack, insisted on wearing the round “doughboy” helmets of the Americans and managed to do so—uncomfortably—by wearing them at a jaunty angle that allowed one ear to stick out to the side and the other to protrude inside the crown. It worked, after a fashion, and the American helmets certainly provided more protection in battle than anything else the ’Cats had ever put on their heads. But Courtney didn’t have even that excuse. He looked ridiculous and didn’t care, and that was part of his charm. Or maybe he did care, and did it anyway. He and Captain Reddy had once discussed how important amusement was to morale, and sometimes, just by being himself, Courtney Bradford was very good for morale. Like now.

As entertaining as the eccentric Australian could be, he was also profoundly valuable—besides his knowledge of oil-bearing strata. He could be highly annoying, and the word “eccentric” wasn’t really quite descriptive enough, but despite his amateur “naturalist” status, he was also the closest thing to a physical scientist they had. His specialty—if it could be said he had one—was comparative anatomy, and he’d provided many important insights into the flora and fauna they’d encountered. The Lemurians were always more than happy to tell them everything they could, but this information, of course, came from some of the very creatures he was intent on studying. In addition, he was the quintessential “Jack of all trades, master of none,” but in his case, that was often a real asset. True, he didn’t know everything about, well, anything, but he did know at least something about quite a lot, and that was more than anyone else could say.

Silva was darkly certain that when the captain found out he’d allowed Bradford to tag along, there’d be hell to pay, and with that realization came another: he cared. For Dennis’s entire life, particularly since he joined the Navy, he’d always lived for the moment and damn the consequences. He was acting chief of the Ordnance Division, now that Campeti was
Walker
’s acting gunnery officer, but with his skill and experience he should have been one long ago. He just never cared before, and didn’t want the responsibility. Now everyone was having new responsibilities thrust upon them whether they wanted them or not, and most had risen to the challenge. His old boss, Lieutenant Garrett, would soon have a command of his own. Alan Letts, once an undermotivated supply officer, had risen to the position of Captain Reddy’s chief of staff. Bernie Sandison was still
Walker
’s torpedo officer (not that she much needed one), but he was also in charge of developing “special weapons.” Sergeant Alden, formerly of the ill-fated USS
Houston
’s Marine contingent, was now “general of the armies.” Chief Gray had been elevated to something else, still ill-defined. Maybe “super chief” described it best. Even the Mice had evolved beyond the simple firemen they still longed to be. He glanced at Bradford, who’d changed his appearance, perhaps, but remained essentially the same person. In all the ways that counted, Dennis suspected he himself may have changed more than anyone.

He hated the thought of letting the captain down, but felt a moral imperative to avenge the death of Tony Scott—someone he’d barely known before the Squall. He couldn’t shake a sense of protectiveness toward all those who remained. He continued to act like the same Dennis Silva everyone expected to see: careless, fearless, irreverent, happy-go-lucky, perhaps even a touch psychotic. Outwardly, except for some new scars and a luxuriant blond beard, he remained the same. But now he did care, and that was a big change indeed.

“Smells like bear shit,” observed the other gunner’s mate, Paul Stites, nervously as he scanned the green, nightmarishly dense jungle bordering the pipeline cut. Dark haired, and as scrawny as Silva was powerful, he was Dennis’s chief minion in mischief, and the closest thing to a human “best friend” he had left. He motioned at the enormous impressions all around them in the perpetually damp soil. “Bear shit from a giant turkey.”

Stites, Bradford, and Dennis were the only humans along with the guard detail sent to dismantle the drilling rig called a “Fort Worth Spudder” they intended to transport to the new site. A respectable facsimile of a pump-jack had taken its place, and continued busily pumping oil to the expanded refinery near the pier. Stites, like the other humans, had smeared grease on his exposed skin to protect him from the dragonfly-size mosquitoes, but he was experimenting with used grease to see if it might prove more effective. Even though it was now streaked with sweat, he looked like he was in blackface.

The humans, however, along with a half dozen other ’Cats, had a different, unsanctioned agenda. Silva and Stites were there for revenge, pure and simple, and Bradford, curious as ever, upon learning their plans, had extorted an invitation.

“I don’t know about where you’re from, Stites,” quipped Silva, “but turkeys in Alabama keep to a more manageable size.” The tracks did look a little like a turkey’s, except the impressions were more than a yard long.

“You don’t suppose . . .” Stites mumbled, gesturing at the turd. Courtney looked up at him and saw his troubled expression.

“No, no. I shouldn’t think so. It’s been weeks since, well . . . Of course, I can’t know for sure without more information about their metabolism. . . .”

“I was just wonderin’ if we should . . . you know, bury it. Just in case it’s . . . Tony. In case he’s . . . in there.”

Silva rolled his eyes. “That turd ain’t Tony. Even if it is, I ain’t buryin’ it. We’re all gonna be somethin’s turd one of these days. We ain’t got much time out here, and I’d rather spend it killin’ the big bastard that ate him.”

Before he was killed, Tony Scott had become Dennis Silva’s friend. Dennis never had many friends, but those he had, he valued. Especially now. Scott had been
Walker
’s coxswain before the Squall, and had remained in charge of the launch despite his growing, almost panicky terror of the water. He had reason to be afraid. Everywhere they’d been so far, the water seethed with deadly creatures, and he’d come to hate the sea he’d always loved. He was no coward, though. Despite his fear, during the battle to capture the Grik ship that became
Revenge
he’d jumped in the water to save Lieutenant Tucker. At the time, a storm was running and flasher fish were inactive then—but he didn’t know that. Everyone knew what the act had cost him. He thought he’d been committing suicide. He’d been afraid of nothing but water, though, and once aboard the Grik ship he’d fought like a maniac.

The irony of his death was still painful. Despite evidence to the contrary, compared to the water he’d always felt as if the land were safe. In an unguarded, thoughtless moment, he’d left his ever-present Thompson in his boat when he went ashore to check the oil rig after a storm. When he never returned, there was little doubt what got him, and whether the turd was Tony or not, it was big.

They’d seen plenty of larger piles: the stupid, domesticated “brontosarries” the Lemurians used as beasts of burden created much more mass, but the droppings of the strictly herbivorous sauropods more closely resembled titanic cow-flops. The object they were studying so intently was clearly a giant, compacted turd, manufactured by an equally giant carnivore. A “super lizard,” to be precise.

Bradford hated the term “super lizard,” and insisted the creatures were unquestionably allosaurs, relatively unchanged from specimens in the fossil record. Also, unlike most other “dinosaurs” they’d seen throughout what should have been the Dutch East Indies, super lizards were not stunted in size. If anything, they were
bigger
than their prehistoric cousins. Fortunately, there weren’t many of them, and they seemed highly territorial. When, rarely, one was killed, it was often quite a while before another took its place. They were ambush hunters that positioned themselves along game trails and the odd clearing. Bradford said they were built for speed, but they hunted lazy, Silva thought. That was probably how this one got Tony. Just snatched him up when he came ambling along the cut. Fresh anger surged within him, and he stood and brushed damp earth from his knee.

The voices of the work detail diminished as it slogged on toward the well, leaving them behind. Silva turned to a gap-toothed ’Cat with silver-streaked fur. He had no clan, and he was known simply as the Hunter. All ’Cats wore as little as they could get away with, but the Hunter wore nothing but a necklace and a quiver of large crossbow bolts. The massive crossbow he carried, and the super lizard claws clacking on the thong around his neck, seemed to establish his bona fides. “That not you friend,” the Hunter said simply, referring to the spoor. “See thick black hairs? They from . . . I think you call ‘rhino-pig’?”

“Rhino-pigs” were rhinoceros-size creatures, one of the few large mammals indigenous to this Borneo, and looked remarkably like massive razorbacks. They were extremely prolific and dangerous omnivores with thick, protective cases, and savage tusks protruding a foot or more from powerful jaws. They also sported a formidable horn on top of their heads. Regardless of the challenge, they were the Hunter’s principal prey due to their succulent, fat-marbled flesh. Evidently, in spite of their horn, they were also the preferred prey of super lizards.

“How long?” Silva asked.

“Not long. He hear big group, loud walking. He go.”

“Afraid of large groups?” Stites asked hopefully. The Hunter’s grin spread.

“He no hungry enough for all. He waste good hunting place.”

“Waste—”

Silva interrupted. “Where’d he go?”

The Hunter pointed toward a cramped trail disappearing into the jungle.

“You’re kidding,” Stites grumped. “I thought these things were big?”

Hefting his crossbow and setting off down the trail, the Hunter called back: “Trust me, he very big.”

“Well . . . how many of these things have you killed, anyway?”

The Hunter paused briefly, and fingered his necklace. “Only one,” he answered quietly.