Blood In the Water (24 page)

CHAPTER
15

Central Madagascar
October 4, 1944

“This isn't what I expected at all,” Courtney Bradford said, removing his wide sombrero and mopping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “It must be the different weather on this world, across the surrounding sea. The wind often blows north and south, for instance, not just from the east.” He sat on a jagged stone, still puffing in the rarefied air, and gazed out upon the lowland to the west through his glass. Chack hopped up beside him, his Krag in the crook of his arm. Lawrence, who'd suffered terribly in the high-altitude cold, was feeling better and was casting ahead to scout the trail. Silva just stood humming softly and leaning on the Doom Stomper like a great, deadly walking stick. Petey's big-eyed reptilian face peered over his shoulder.

After days of toil, strenuous climbing, bone-numbing cold at night,
and now a treacherous descent, they'd finally crossed the jagged spine of Madagascar to view a land that none of them had been prepared for. It was flat, as expected, but instead of the thorny desert Bradford had described, there was a broad savanna of tall grass with clumps of vegetation rising around the occasional utterly enormous tree. “They
are
baobabs, of a sort,” Courtney insisted, pointing. “Look at the size of the trunk. But the limbs are much more conventional—and they're as large as galla trees!” Galla trees were sacred to Lemurians in the Alliance to varying degrees simply because they'd all originated here, on their ancestral homeland. That the Grik had used them so profligately to construct a kind of mountainous wall around their city in the north had struck most 'Cats as sacrilegious, even though the dense forests of the island were thick with them.

“Well, one thing's sure,” Silva said, nodding at the near distance, where a herd of monstrous, long-necked beasts, like giant brontosarries, munched along, their heads close to the ground. “Things ain't as sparse here as we figured. Good thing I brung my usual armory.” In addition to his Doom Stomper, a Thompson SMG was slung over his shoulder, riding in the small of his back. His 1911 Colt, Navy cutlass, 1903 Springfield bayonet, and an ornate if somewhat battered long-barreled flintlock pistol dangled incongruously from his belt. Chack and Courtney had expressed concern over Silva's load of weapons and ammunition, in addition to his share of the communal supplies, on the long climb because, for the first time anyone could remember, the burden seemed to drag the big man down. He blamed it on “lolling around, doin' nothin' for so long” while healing from wounds received in taking the Celestial Palace, but he wasn't bouncing back as quickly as he always had in the past. He still adamantly refused to part with any of his weapons, though.

“All that shit's slowing you down,” Miles criticized, looking at him as he joined the group. “And that idiot lizard too.”

Silva regarded him coldly with his good eye. “Petey's less of a drag on me than you are, Miles. An' what's your excuse for laggin' along behind? He nodded at the Allin-Silva “trapdoor” rifle the Marine carried. “That thing better be clean. Not like you've used it for nothin'.”

Miles swore, looking at his weapon. “This piece of crap? Why couldn't I have had a Springfield? There were two on the Seven boat.”

“Because Nat an' his 'Cats'll probably be fightin' their way all the
way back down the river, five guys short. They need it more—and it'd be wasted on you.”

Miles bristled. “And all that shit isn't wasted on
you
?”

Silva sighed and Chack grew tense, expecting trouble. He began to tell the two men to pipe down, but there was something indefinable between them that they needed to work out and he didn't understand. “Look, sonny,” Silva finally said. “Every single weapon I'm carryin' has saved my ass or somebody else's more than once. Prob'ly save yours—if I don't use one of 'em on you first. So shut the hell up.”

“Mr. Silva is right, though,” Courtney chimed in as if oblivious to the tension. “This land will support quite a large population. Perhaps these Shee-ree predominate, and we can make friendly contact with them.”

They all hoped so. The 'Cats that shadowed them up from the river had clearly been waiting for a chance to strike, but the party was always alert and the natives feared their “magic.” It had still been tense. Then, suddenly, there were no more watchers. Granted, the weather at the top of the mountains had been unpleasant indeed, with all the party donning the peacoats and blankets Bradford had insisted they bring. But once they were gone, the natives hadn't returned.

“That reminds me,” Silva said, pulling the heavy peacoat out of a pouch at his side and throwing it away. “Won't be needin' that again.”

“You don't know that,” Bradford objected.

“Sure I do. I wish we could've made contact with our people at the top of the mountains. Perfect place. But there was no way we were waggin' that hand-powered generator along. Too heavy an' bulky. Should've brought one o' the wind-powered jobs. Anyway, my point is we ain't goin' back over these mountains. Whatever it is, our way home lies ahead, not back, an' I'm sick o' waggin' the damn thing around.”

Miles seemed to consider this and finally tossed his coat as well. Chack's fur protected him somewhat, but he liked the peacoat. Still . . . shaking his head, he pulled his out of his pack and let it fall.

“Well,” Courtney sniffed. “I shall keep mine, and I highly suggest Lawrence do the same!”

“Do what you want. I don't care,” Silva said, nodding out across the prairie, “but we're gettin' thin on rations. We're gonna have to kill somethin' now an' then to keep on.” His voice had returned to its usual, good-humored tone. He looked at Chack and winked. “Finally gettin' to
the fun part o' this idiotic trip! Anyway, we'll need to pack more food than we can eat, most likely, so we'll have to make room.”

“Eat?” Petey asked hopefully. Silva ignored him and took the blanket out of his pack, looked at it, but put it back. “It don't weigh enough to make a difference,” he said.

Lawrence suddenly appeared, panting lightly in the thin air.

“How do you
do
that?” Silva demanded. “You must be the sneakiest critter there ever was. An' it ain't like you blend in! Anybody should be able to see a stripey-assed orange lizard hoppin' from rock to rock.”

“Sneakiest Critter,” Petey chirped disapprovingly.

“I just do,” Lawrence replied patiently. “And not kick rocks and roar all day.”

“Well, if we weren't pals, you'd give me the creeps,” Silva confessed. “Hell, you
still
give me the creeps. What did you see?”

“A . . . ripher, down out of the 'ountains, heading . . . yest.”

“There should be no rivers here, heading west or anywhere. Not really,” Courtney grumbled.

“Good.” Silva laughed. “For once, you're just like the rest of us: no idea what to expect! What else, Larry?”

“'Cat tracks.” He nodded at Chack's sandaled feet. “New tracks. Ten 'Cats together, cross ripher down yonder.” He pointed down to the west, northwest.

“Are they heading this direction?” Courtney asked.

“Not directly. They just cross, I think. 'Ut us could see they. Us head down soon.”

“Well, we're goin' down.” Silva looked thoughtful. “I dunno, Mr. Bradford. Maybe we want to sneak along a little farther before meetin' any more locals. Keep our heads down for now, so to speak. We'll have to follow the river for water and critters to eat anyway. Plenty of time to meet new folks after we have a better idea what's what on this side of the mountains.”

“Chief Silva may be right,” Chack agreed. “It might be better to search out a village perhaps, than simply present ourselves to what might be a war or hunting party that may be particularly wary or prone to violence. We may be less likely to get in a fight among their homes with younglings about.” The notion of females being noncombatants never even occurred to him.

Courtney put the sombrero back on his head and stood. He no
longer had a paunch, the mountains had seen to that, but he was a bit over fifty and his joints ached. “We might be
more
likely to provoke them if we just march right into a village unannounced,” he said gloomily.

“I don't think so,” Chack disagreed. “Consider a moment. We've already speculated about this a great deal. The river folk to the east are clearly related to my ancestors or we couldn't have communicated. Yet they look nothing like any Mi-Anakka I've ever met. Perhaps the same language and some customs prevailed all across this land at one time, but the people, the races, maintained their various territories. But why are there no 'Cats like we met in the East elsewhere in the Alliance? I say it is because they never left. None of them. They said the Grik are not there. Perhaps they never were, in numbers? We know they avoided the denser forest of this land except to stock it with specimens of their conquests and for sport.” He blinked deep interest. “If I am right, then the Shee-ree or others like them, always closer to the Grik across the Go Away Strait and who see the Grik all the time, might be more closely related to my ancestors who escaped. If true, then some of our customs regarding the rights of guests and strangers may remain among them as well.”

“It's a stretch,” Silva said, frowning. “But them little guys on Diego, them La-laantis, were polite enough.”

“A stretch indeed, but not a bad notion,” Courtney said. “So, what you're saying is that if we locate a village or band along this river heading west, we should”—he glanced at Silva—“after observing them long enough to ensure they don't engage in cannibalism or other such unpleasantness, just march in among them, demanding to greet their High Chief?”

“Exactly. It's the most ancient of our social rites, and something like it
must
still exist here! It might even have worked with the Erokighaani.”

“You forget they was tryin' to kill us?” Silva demanded, then rolled his eye. “Never mind. Maybe you're right. But with them other fellas, even if we got past their defenses an' said howdy to their High Chief, I figure they would'a ate us anyway.”

Chack reluctantly nodded, and Silva suddenly felt a twinge of remorse for his friend's lost . . . optimistic innocence. Something like that. He was proud of the “new” Chack who'd risen from the ranks to become the seasoned, maybe even brilliant, battlefield commander, who'd inspired the loyalty of 'Cats and humans—and Imperial humans at that!—alike. In
spite of this little jaunt, he had a brigade of his own. If the war lasted long enough, he'd have an army, and he'd use it right. But Dennis couldn't help but miss the cheerful young 'Cat who'd once scampered all over
Walker
with such unabashed wonder and an ingrained trust that all people—
real
people—human or Lemurian, could generally be relied upon to do the right thing. Silva guessed that it had been fighting the Doms that had knocked that out of his friend for good.

“Well. Indeed,” Courtney said, pulling at the short whitish beard he'd allowed to flourish. “Quite sensible, all of it.” He looked at Lawrence. “Can you track these hunters, or whatever they are?”

Lawrence shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. 'ut these aren't city 'Cats. They're likely good at not getting sneaked on. Like that old 'Cat sergeant.”

“Moe.” Dennis nodded. Lawrence nodded back. “Yes. They'll catch Lawrence, I get too close.”

“Then don't get close,” Chack said, deciding. “Just ensure they don't get too close to us. And stay prepared for other . . . opportunities.”

Silva hoisted the Doom Stomper to rest on his shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. This ain't gettin' us anywhere. Might as well move along.”

Lawrence cut his eyes at Chack, then turned and trotted away down the trail he'd returned by. Chack and Bradford followed. Finally, Silva motioned Miles to precede him.