Distant Thunders (22 page)

In many ways, perhaps the greatest test of the Alliance would be faced in the coming days and weeks, and the thought no one was willing to voice was that, for the first time, Captain Matthew Reddy didn’t have
Walker
beneath his feet. He wouldn’t even be here when they learned, once and for all, whether he ever would again. That simple fact was the source of tremendous unease. In the past, the mere existence of the old destroyer had been a source of considerable comfort and security. They’d fought without her before, but she’d always
been
there,
somewhere
, somehow always ready to come to their aid just in the nick of time. This was the first time the Alliance had engaged in any major military undertaking without
Walker
to back them up.

Nakja-Mur
and
Dowden
were tied to the dock, but
Donaghey
was moored beyond them. Scott’s launch was waiting to take Matt over after he said his good-byes. Adar, Keje, Spanky, Sandison, Brister, and Letts were all there, but the only one Matt really had eyes for was Sandra Tucker. She and Princess Rebecca had joined them mere moments before, almost out of breath. Sandra had obviously come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working either quite late or very early. Even after all these months, many of those wounded in the battle to save the city required ongoing operations. Her long, sandy brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that accented her pretty face and slender neck.

Everyone knew Captain Reddy and Sandra Tucker were nuts about each other, even though they’d once tried to hide their feelings out of respect for
Walker
’s crew. Of course, the crew probably knew how they felt before they did, and their poignant sacrifice was the source of much sympathy—and respect. Only after the Battle of Baalkpan, when it was clear that
everyone
knew and further denial was pointless, did Captain Reddy and Lieutenant Tucker show any open affection. Even then, public displays were limited to holding hands, an occasional embrace . . . and spending as much time together as they possibly could. It was obvious their love continued to grow and each was a reservoir for the other’s strength, but still they didn’t marry or “shack up,” as Silva and Cross had apparently done. They did nothing, in fact, that all the surviving destroyermen from
Walker
and
Mahan
couldn’t do. The men rolled their eyes in exasperation, called them dopes . . . and loved them for it.

Alan Letts liked and admired Sandra, as did everyone, but she always made him feel a little guilty. He loved Karen very much, but they’d convinced the captain to marry them when they’d all fully expected to die. Now things had changed, sort of, but his happiness was undiminished. He was guardedly ecstatic that he’d soon be a father. But his very happiness inspired much of his guilt. He couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t fair for him to be happy when so many of the men were still miserable. And not all those who were miserable were men.

Alan was amazed by Matt and Sandra’s self-sacrificing willpower. Again, he compared their situation to two star-crossed lovers from a John Ford western trapped in a Cecil B. DeMille epic, complete with a cast of thousands, monsters, and freak weather events. He noticed, with a surge of relief—for both of them—that as soon as Sandra arrived, she’d unobtrusively inserted her hand into the captain’s, and he’d reached to caress her face.

“Do you guys realize yesterday was the sixteen-month anniversary? A year and a third to the very day since we arrived . . . wherever we are?” Letts interjected into the awkward silence that ensued.

Matt nodded. “Sixteen months since the Squall. Since we escaped the Japs—and watched them sink
Exeter
and
Electra
and
Pope
. . . since we nearly got sunk ourselves.” He shook his head. “We lost a lot of good destroyermen that day. I didn’t forget.”

“Well . . . maybe you ought not go just yet. The dry dock’s finished and we’ll be pulling the plug in a few days. Ben’s going to fly. . . .”

“It’s time to go,” Matt said simply. “You and the fellas can handle all that stuff.”

Letts nodded reluctantly.

Princess Rebecca stepped forward. “Mr. O’Casey is safe aboard your ship?”

“Stowed away, and no one the wiser.” Matt smiled at her concern for the one-armed man.

“I suppose it is best,” she reflected. “With Billingsly here and his spies on the loose, I fear they would have discovered him sooner or later. He grows weary of hiding. I do worry about him, though.”

“He’ll be fine,” Matt assured her. “And he
wanted
to go. Like you said, he’s tired of staying out of sight. Aboard ship he can
do
something, and the only time he has to be scarce is if Jenks comes aboard.” Matt grinned. “Besides, he has full confidence Silva could protect you from a super lizard with his bare hands.” He raised an eyebrow. “Where
is
Silva, by the way?”

“Sulking,” Sandra said, wryly. “He wanted to go too. Talk about bored! God knows what mischief he’ll cause! Until I let Mr. Sandison have him full-time, he was always either trying out his ‘toys,’ or down at the Busted . . . I mean, the Castaway Cook.” She tousled the princess’s hair. “Right now, I have ‘the duty.’”

Suddenly, Rebecca lunged forward and embraced the captain. He was so surprised that he stood there a moment, hands away from her. Slowly, he lowered them to encompass her and returned the hug. “Do be careful, Captain Reddy,” the girl said blearily. “I know your cause is just and I shall miss you, miss you all, terribly. But you must take care! I cannot help but feel you are protecting my people as well as your own, and somehow, all our fates are tied to you in the end!”

A lump had mysteriously formed in Matt’s throat. “I’ll take care, Your Highness,” he muttered self-consciously, “and I’ll watch out for your Mr. O’Casey.”

He shook hands with the other men and embraced Keje and Adar. That was their way, like Russians, he supposed, but it was like hugging a . . . well, he didn’t know what. “We’ll see you soon,” he said to Keje. “I’ll look forward to seeing the first flattop this world has ever known come steaming over the horizon!” He stepped back, but before he could compose himself, Sandra was in his arms. Wolf whistles and howls of delight came from
Nakja-Mur
, tied nearby.

After a reluctantly chaste kiss, Sandra looked up at him, her eyes swimming. “Do be careful, Captain Reddy,” she said, repeating Rebecca’s words.

I love you
, he mouthed, then turned for the launch.

Walker
had always gotten under way with an almost spastic energy, as if straining at her moorings like a dog on a leash. The 2nd AEF proceeded more ponderously. The steamers in particular seemed almost reluctant to get under way.
Donaghey
was much quicker. As soon as her cable was up and down, she snatched her anchor from the bottom and surged ahead with the quickening breeze, flag streaming to leeward. She piled on more sail, and soon she was slanting down toward the mouth of the bay.
Tolson
and the corvettes followed in her wake and it was clear the corvettes would be fast, handy ships. Then came the swift feluccas and slower transports. Finally, the steamers began to move.
Nakja-Mur
and
Dowden
slashed at the water with their single, center-mounted screws and began to gain headway with a lot of activity, shouted commands, and considerable noise from their engines and boilers. Steam jetted. It was clear their crews were learning as they went.
Achilles
gained far more efficiently, with her paddle wheels helping her maneuver, but didn’t pick up speed as fast. Soon, the entire fleet was steering for the Makassar Strait—and whatever awaited them beyond.

T
hey came for him as he stepped away from the morning feeding trough. Somehow, on some level, he’d been expecting it. Feeding sounds continued unabated, punctuated by frequent snarls as Uul contended over a particularly choice boiled, meaty bone. He watched as the four specially armored warriors of the Chooser worked their way in his direction through the hissing horde that jostled to and from the trough, and for the slightest instant, he contemplated resistance.

That alone was enough to stun him into immobility. That, and the fact that he realized—
realized
—his sated torpor would allow the warriors to make short work of him. He was armed with only the weapons the Mother had given him. Alone, they would be no match for the armor. There was no mistake. Harshly, they called his name and their eyes were fixed on his. He was the only Uul within the stone feeding chamber who
had
a name, and, resignedly, he moved to meet them.

It was time. He’d had a good life, but now he was old—he knew it was so—and his joints ached and he’d lost several teeth. He’d been just slightly slower in the arena of late and if he noticed it, certainly the Chooser had. He’d still been victorious, and his surge of exultation had been affirmed by the hissing approbation of the Hij spectators, but he knew each of his victories over the last few cycles had been more difficult than the last. It was time for
his
boiled flesh to fill the feeding trough of the Sport Fighters. At least many were his own get, and the tradition would be unbroken. Better to feed his own here than strangers on some distant battlefield, he decided, in an uncharacteristic burst of insight. Still, it would have been better to die fighting.

He’d been a fighter all his life and he’d tasted the chaos and mad joy of major battles often, usually against his own kind. First, he’d merely been one of ten. Through skill he’d eventually become first of ten, then second of twenty—all Grik could count that high; they had two arms, two legs, and sixteen fingers and toes, after all. Time and many battles passed and he was elevated to first of twenty, first of two twenties, and ultimately first of
five
twenties, as high as any Uul could aspire. That was when he’d been taken to the arena for the pleasure of the Hij and given a
name
. He had little sense of the passage of time or how many victories he’d won. Tens of twenties, certainly. All he knew was that he’d been in the arena a long, long time. He’d enjoyed it. But all good things, like life, must end.

“Greetings, Halik-Uul,” spoke one of the armored warriors, less harshly than before.

“In the name of the Mother, I greet you,” Halik replied easily. Less certainly, he continued, “The Chooser time, now?”

“Indeed,” stated another of the warriors. “Your time has come. Your destiny awaits.”

Halik didn’t know what a “destiny” was. It was probably elevated speech for “cook pot.”

“Come,” commanded the one who seemed first of four.

Obediently, Halik followed as the warriors led him through the now quieter, staring horde. They passed through the locked gate to the underground chamber and up into the light. Halik blinked as they strode across the arena he’d fought in so many times. He couldn’t help but gaze around. He’d never seen it empty before. They reached another gate, and through it, they ascended a gradually spiraling stair. Halik grew slightly confused. He didn’t know where the cook pots were, but the smells never reached them when the wind was from this direction. His heart quickened. Maybe they were taking him to a female! Sometimes warriors who’d shown greater strength and skill were allowed that honor before they faced the butchers. If that were the case, it would make his death slightly less unpleasant, at least.

He’d been paired with a female only twice before, and the result had been dozens of squabbling young he’d never seen, for the most part. Some of the survivors, a fair percentage actually, had eventually appeared in the warrior dens destined for the arena. He’d been ordered to train them himself and he’d complied, though at the time, he’d felt no real connection to them. Two he’d ultimately killed in the arena himself. Recently, however, he’d begun to feel a subtle attachment to those of
his
that remained. Perhaps it was pride of a sort that he’d sired such well-developed and cunning warriors. He didn’t think much about it; it was just something he felt.

“This way,” ordered the first of four when they reached the top of the stair and a passageway forked away from it. They took the passage to the left. It was dimly lit and there was no sound but the clack of claws and footpads on the stones. The passageway continued for a considerable distance and his excitement grew. He could
smell
females! Oddly, he didn’t think any were present now, but they had passed there recently. Perhaps one awaited him in a chamber nearby? Suddenly, the guards halted him at a chamber entrance that had strange scents, but not those of females, and he was confused, disappointed. Regardless, he entered at their command and stood where they placed him.

His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark passage, and the torches that drew his eyes blinded him to the rest of the chamber. He sensed there were others in the room, and one that smelled . . . wrong. Suddenly, one of the guards grabbed him from behind, holding his arms at his sides. Another grasped his feet. Without warning, yet another guard draped a cloth over his eyes and quickly wrapped it around them and over his snout, tying his jaws securely shut. An instant later, he was released.

Rising terror threatened to overcome him. He’d never expected it to be like this. That they would destroy him he had no doubt, but he’d never expected them to make sport of him when they did. He could see nothing, but oddly, they’d left his hands and feet unrestrained. He waited, gaining control of his fear.

A terrible blow struck him across the belly. It burned like the strike of a sword or a claw and he expected his insides to fall to the floor. Reflexively, he grasped at the terrible wound . . . and felt nothing. Another sharp blow slashed at the back of his leg, and he should have fallen with his leg ropes cut . . . but he didn’t. Repeatedly the blows fell upon him, and he stood there and took it despite an almost uncontrollable urge to run, to flee, to try to escape toward where he thought the passageway should be. Reaching up, he tore the blindfold and gag from his face, but now his eyes were even more dazzled by the torches.