Distant Thunders (14 page)

“But the skipper wants breechloaders, and that got me thinking. Everybody seems to figure that means, all of a sudden, we hafta jump from the
old
Springfields to the kind of Springfields we brought with us, our ’oh-threes. That’d be swell, but it’s a lot bigger jump than folks would think, and it’s bigger than we hafta make.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. The Army—our old Army—had the same problem once. After the . . . War Between the States, they had millions of muzzleloadin’ Springfields, see? Thing is, everybody was startin’ to go to center-fire breechloaders. Even f . . . likkin’
Spain
. Whaddaya do? This fella named Ersky Allin—er somethin’ like that—had sorta the same job as you. Anyway, he figured a way to make center-fire breechloaders outta all them muskets, and it was a cinch!” Silva brandished the barrel again, then fished around on a bench covered with strange-looking objects he’d been working on. He picked something up. “He, this Allin fella, cut the top outta the breech, like I just done, and screwed and soldered this here hinge-lookin’ thing to the front of the gap.” Silva held the object in place. “The thing on the other side of the hinge is the breechblock—we can cast ’em a lot easier than I milled this one out!—and the firin’ pin angles from the rear side to the front center!” He held the pieces together and the breechblock dropped into place with a
clack!

“I ain’t pulled the breech plug out and milled the slot that locks the thing closed, but again, it’s a simple alteration. You cut a barrel, put this on, then grind the hammer to where it hits the firin’ pin square. All else you gotta add is a easy little extractor!”

Bernie’s eyes were huge. “Silva, you
are
a freak-show genius!”

“Nah. Maybe Ersky Allin was, though.”

Bernard Sandison looked at Dennis. “How did you do this? I mean, how did you
know
about this?”

Silva shrugged. “I had a couple over the years. First rifles I ever owned. Sometimes huntin’ was the only way a fella could stay fed, what with the Depression, and you could buy one surplus at just about any hardware store, or order one from Monkey Wards or Bannerman’s for a few bucks.”

Bernie shook his head. His childhood and Silva’s had been . . . different. “What did they shoot? And how . . . ?”

“That’s another neat thing. You’re forgin’ these barrels on a five-eighths mandrel. Once you ream ’em out smooth, they’re about sixty-two-caliber or so. You go ahead and build yer riflin’ machine and rifle forty-five- or fifty-caliber
liners
to solder in the old barrels and then chamber ’em! Simple as pie. The first Allin guns they put liners in were fifty-seventy. When they started building rifles like this from the ground up instead of convertin’ ’em, they made receivers for ’em an’ did ’em in forty-five-seventy. That’s a forty-five- or fifty-caliber bullet on seventy grains of powder. Black powder, just like we have now. Both had a pretty high trajectory, but they’d stomp a buffalo to the ground. Probably a lot better for critters around here than a thirty-aught-six. Big and slow gives you big holes and deep penetration. Small and fast gives you small holes, and maybe not so deep penetration. If you’re too close, light bullets, even copper jacketed, just blow up on impact and never hit anything vital.”

Oddly, Bernie noticed that when Silva was talking ballistics, he didn’t sound as much like a hick, but he’d already begun tuning him out. Silva had just solved one of the biggest problems he’d expected to face over the next year or so. It had bothered him for a number of reasons. He’d felt a little like everything they did before they came up with “real” weapons was sort of a wasted effort. Silva’s scheme might not give them truly modern weapons, but they were leaps and bounds beyond anything they were likely to face. But what about cartridges?

“These fifty-seventies and forty-five-seventies, what were they shaped like? The shells?”

“Straight, rimmed case,” said Silva, grinning. He knew what Bernie was thinking. One of the problems they faced with making new shells for the Springfields and Krags they already had, not to mention the machine guns, was the semi-rimless bottleneck shape. “Even if you haven’t solved the problem of drawing cases—which I figure you will—you can turn these shells on a lathe if you have to.”

Bernie beamed. “I swear, Silva! Why didn’t you just
tell
me you wanted a musket barrel? I’m going to see you get a raise out of this . . . or a promotion, or something! Take the rest of the day off. You’re still technically on leave anyway. Go hunting or have a beer! Kill something; you’ll feel better!”

“Raise won’t do me any good, an’ I don’t want no promotion. All I answer to is you, Campeti, and the skipper anyway. You can call ’em ‘Allin-Silva’ conversions, if you want, though.”

“You bet! Do whatever you want! I have to talk to the skipper!” With that, Bernie rushed away with the still-dripping barrel and trapdoor arrangement in his hand. Silva watched him go. “Whatever I want, huh?” Silva said, eyebrow raised.

L
ieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, formerly of the Japanese Imperial Navy, and currently brevet colonel and second in command of all Allied infantry forces, unbuckled the belt that held his modified Navy cutlass and pistol. Handing it to the ’Cat Marine sentry at the base of the comfortable dwelling, he climbed rope ladder to the “ground” floor—roughly twenty feet above his head. It was inconvenient, but virtually all Baalkpan dwellings were built on pilings like this so their inhabitants could sleep secure from possible predators. He reflected that the practice was as much tradition now as anything else, since the city never really slept—even before the war—and over the centuries, dangerous animals had slowly learned to avoid the city carved out of the dense wilderness around it. Now there were fortified berms and breastworks, constant lookouts, and vigilant warriors as well. He wondered as he climbed the ladder if the inconvenient tradition would long survive. At the top, he struck the hatch, or trapdoor, above his head and, raising it, entered.

Once inside, Shinya removed his shoes and stood. A curtain separated the entry chamber from the rest of the dwelling and he passed through it. Finding the occupant seated cross-legged on the floor, facing a small window overlooking the bay, Shinya bowed at the waist.

“Commander Okada,” he said in Japanese. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

Okada turned then. His uniform had been wrecked and he wore a robe not unlike the ones the Lemurian Sky Priests used. He was older than Tamatsu, but had the same black hair, untinged with gray. He regarded Tamatsu for a moment before dipping his own head in a perfunctory bow. “At least you still remember how to
behave
somewhat Japanese,” Okada observed.

Shinya felt his face heat. He straightened. “And you, sir, it would seem, have learned to behave somewhat like your Captain Kurokawa.”

Okada shot to his feet, anger twisting his face. “Still you will compare me to that
kyoujin
?”

“You have called me a traitor on several occasions now. If I am, what are you? I did not surrender when my ship sank; I was captured while unconscious. I had no idea any of my countrymen even existed in this world. I made an honorable accommodation with a former enemy to help confront an evil I am quite certain our emperor would despise. Our primary differences with the Americans are political, and not . . . on anything approaching the levels of our differences with the Grik! You condemn me, yet you supported the actions of a man you know the emperor would have never condoned!” Shinya fumed. He couldn’t help it: Okada’s attitude infuriated him and he didn’t understand it. “Perhaps
General Tojo
would have, but the emperor wouldn’t; nor would Admiral Mitsumasa!”

Okada seemed to deflate. “I
tried
to oppose him,” he offered quietly. “I helped Kaufman send a warning.”

Shinya’s voice also lost some of its heat. “Yes, you did. Moreover, you should be proud you did. I too oppose Captain Kurokawa—and the Grik. I do not and will not fight others who do, nor have I done so. I gave Captain Reddy my parole and had no difficulty fighting the Grik. When I learned of your ship, I faced a choice—a choice I was
allowed
, by the way—to abdicate my duty to the troops I command, or risk the possibility I might face you and others like you. I was spared that agony, but I would have done it if forced, because those troops would have been aiding Kurokawa and, by extension, the Grik.”

“You make it sound as though I am guilty of aiding that madman simply because I did not rise openly against him sooner! Believe me, I wanted to! But all that would have accomplished is my death before I had any real chance to make a difference.” Okada looked down. “In the end, it made no difference anyway.”

“It did,” Shinya assured him. “You gave us warning. Without that, we would not have been prepared.”

“Prepared to kill our countrymen!” Okada almost moaned. “Do you not see? Perhaps you are not a traitor for what you have done, but I can’t stop
feeling
like you are, even as I
feel
like one for doing even less. They were
my
men!”

“Yes,” Shinya agreed. “But do not think the decision was less difficult for me. Now, to do nothing further, while those same men are in the grasp of such evil, is impossible for me. Don’t
you
see?” Shinya waited for a response. When there wasn’t one, he sank to the floor across from Okada, who finally joined him there.

“What do you want to do?” Shinya quietly asked.

“I want to go home.”

Shinya took a breath. “Unless you have knowledge beyond mine of the mystery that brought us to this world, I fear that is impossible.”

Okada looked at Shinya a long moment, weighing the words. Finally, he sighed. “That is not what I meant. Of course I want to go ‘home,’ but I have no more idea how to do that than you profess to have. No, what I want is to go to that place that
should
be home. The place your allies at least still call Japan.”

“Jaapaan,” Shinya corrected. “But why? The Lemurians have two land colonies there—a small one on Okinawa and another, larger one on southern Honshu. They have never, by all accounts, encountered any of our people. On this world, Jaapaan is not Japan. Besides, your knowledge of Kurokawa and the Grik is invaluable to those who oppose them.”

That was true enough. Thanks to Commander Okada, the humans and Lemurians finally knew more about their enemy now. They still didn’t know what drove the Grik to such extremes of barbarity, but they’d learned a little about their social structure. For example, they now knew that the average Grik warrior came from a class referred to as the Uul, which possessed primary characteristics strikingly similar to ants or bees. Some were bigger than others, some more skilled at fighting; some even seemed to have some basic concept of self. All, however, were slavishly devoted to a ruling class called the Hij, who manipulated them and channeled and controlled their instinctual and apparently mindless ferocity. There seemed to be different strata of Hij as well. Some were rulers and officers; others were artisans and bureaucrats. Regardless of their positions, they constituted what was, essentially, an elite aristocracy collectively subject to an obscure godlike emperor figure. Nothing more about their society was known beyond that. The Hij were physically identical to their subjects, but were clearly intelligent and self-aware to a degree frighteningly similar to humans and their allies. They didn’t seem terribly imaginative, though, and so far that had proved their greatest weakness.

Shinya persisted. “Don’t you want revenge for what Kurokawa has done to the people under his command?
Our
people? Can’t you set your hatred of the Americans aside even for that?”

“I do not hate the Americans,” Okada stated with heavy irony. “But they are the enemy of our people, our emperor. I cannot set
that
aside. How can you?” Okada shook his head. He didn’t really want an answer to his question. “It is true I had hoped, with
Amagi
, to work in concert with the Americans against the Grik, because, like you, I recognize them as evil—perhaps the greatest evil mankind has ever known. I never intended an
alliance
with the Americans, merely a cessation of hostilities. An armistice perhaps. It is not my place to declare peace and friendship with my emperor’s enemies”—he glanced with lingering accusation at Shinya—“and no, I would not have broken the armistice. However, with
Amagi
, I could have felt secure that the Americans wouldn’t either. In any event, together or independently, we could have carried the fight to the Grik and then inherited this world in the end.” He shrugged. “It is a big world. Whether it was big enough for us and the Americans, in the long run, would have been a test for much later—and at least one of us would have survived the Grik.” He sighed and looked at Shinya. “An imperfect scheme, perhaps, but a less radical . . . departure from my sense of duty than the choice you made.”

“An impossible scheme,” Shinya stated derisively. “Without the Grik, where would you have been victualed, supplied, repaired? A simple armistice would not have gotten you those things from the Americans and their allies. You would have been at their mercy!”

“No! With
Amagi
, I could have
demanded
! As I am now, a prisoner, I have nothing! Not even honor! I can demand nothing as an equal and I have nothing to even bargain with but what is in my head!”

Shinya stood, talking down to Okada. “No. Impossible,” he repeated. “I respect what you did, what you tried to do. You could—
should
be a hero for it instead of a prisoner. But the old world is
gone
! If you had succeeded in the rest of your plan, if you had tried to dictate terms, to conquer support from the Allies, even I would have opposed you.”

“Even if it meant killing your own countrymen?”

“Even if it meant killing every man on
Amagi
,” Shinya answered quietly. “You say you understand, that you hate the Grik and everything about them. You move your mouth and the right words come out, but you really don’t understand, do you? Even now. The Grik are the enemy of everything alive in this world! They . . . You haven’t . . .” He paused, shaking his head. He could see he was wasting his breath. He did respect Okada, but the man was just . . .
too
Japanese. He wondered what that said about him?