Taylor Anderson - Distant Thunders

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Matt echoed as amiably as possible, despite his mood and the uncertain situation. The girl had been convinced that Jenks and his squadron would come to their aid. For them to arrive now, so soon after the battle they had to have known was brewing, and behave so… distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. “Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he… met… at Tarakan.”

“Yep,” Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray replied neutrally. “Biggest one’s Achilles. If Jenks ever named the others, I don’t remember. There were four of ’em, though.”

Gray was a gruff, powerful man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station but had since trimmed down and muscled back up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on the activity and adventures they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d also appointed himself Matt’s senior armsman and commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty-knowing the man they’d sworn to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like Juan Marcos, the little Filipino who’d appointed himself captain’s steward, their job had just… evolved. Unlike Juan’s rank, the Captain’s Guard had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Keje had even proposed that they make their oath to Adar, who, as chairman or prime minister or whatever he was of the Alliance, was technically the only chief to whom Matt answered. Maybe by his command, they could use the Captain’s Guard to keep their Supreme Commander out of harm’s way.

Gray refused. He said he’d keep the job he’d already given himself, but he’d sworn an oath when he entered the Navy. That was good enough. Now that his job was official though, he could choose the very best from two battle-hardened and increasingly elite forces: the 1st and 2nd Marines. With the exception of four human destroyermen, the rest of the Captain’s Guard were Lemurian Marines.

“What type of signals do your people use?” Matt asked Sean O’Casey who’d joined them by the rail. The powerful, one-armed, dark-skinned man with flowing mustaches had been the girl’s companion and protector when the equally lost crew of the U.S. submarine

S-19 had taken them from an open boat. The old S-boat had been dragged to this world the same way Walker was: through the mysterious Squall. Out of fuel and with nowhere to go, the sub ultimately wound up on a Talaud Island beach. All the sub’s passengers were safe-twenty children of diplomats and industrialists, evacuated from Surabaya with four nannies and a nun to care for them-but half its crew had perished in the year before their rescue.

He, and ultimately the girl, had become fonts of information about the Empire, represented by the visiting ships, although both still hedged when asked its exact location. It had been ingrained in them that only secrecy kept their homeland safe, and a lifetime of indoctrination to that effect was hard to overcome. The destroyermen and their allies had learned much about the political situation there, however, and what they knew might prove problematic. O’Casey had actually been evading its authorities because of his participation in a rebellion of sorts, not against the legitimate rulers, but against the Company-the Honorable New Britain Company-that increasingly subverted them.

“Flags, guns, lights, rockets… much as ye, it seems, but the meanings are doubtless different.”

“What signal for a truce, a parlay?”

“A white flag.”

“Some things never change, I suppose. Very well.” Matt addressed Chapelle. “Have a white flag run up. The crew will remain at General Quarters.”

The ships slowly approached the intruder’s squadron until they were close enough to lower one of the surviving motor launches. Matt recognized it as the Scott -named for his lost coxswain-as he climbed down into it. Scott had been a true hero, but after the Squall, he’d become terrified of the water-understandable, considering the horrible creatures that dwelt in it here-but he’d been killed on land, by a “super lizard.” It had been a terrible, ironic loss.

“Captain Reddy,” O’Casey called from the ship. For obvious reasons, he wouldn’t be making the crossing. Only later, after the character of their visitors was determined, might he be revealed. “Beware Jenks. As Her Highness has said, he may be a man o’ honor, but he has a temper.” He grinned beneath his mustaches. “As do ye, I’ve learned.” Matt replied with a curt nod.

Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Big Sal, awkwardly found a place beside the captain, favoring his wounded leg. He looked something like a cat-faced bear, and his short, brownish red fur had become increasingly sprinkled with silver. Today it was groomed immaculately. He was dressed in his best embroidered blue smock and highly polished copper scale armor. His battered “scota,” or working sword, was at his side-unbound-and on his head was a copper helmet adorned with the tail plumage of a Grik. He grinned, though as usual with his species, the expression didn’t touch his red-brown eyes. “That one-armed man has learned you well, my brother. Perhaps it might be best, just this once, to watch that temper of yours. I don’t know about you, but I believe we have a sufficient war at present to keep us occupied.”

Matt snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sure, I have a temper. So do you. But I don’t lose it very often.”

“Perhaps,” Keje hedged, “but when you do, well… you do.” He left it at that.

Courtney Bradford descended next, puffing with exertion and trying not to lose the ridiculous, oversize hat that protected his balding pate. Bradford, an Australian, had been a petroleum-engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. He was also a self-proclaimed “naturalist,” and despite an absentminded, eccentric personality, he was an extremely valuable man. It was he who showed them where to drill for the oil that had fueled their war effort so far. Of all Walker ’s company who’d arrived on this “other earth,” he’d probably changed the least-personality wise-and still tended to greet each day as a blooming opportunity for discovery and adventure.

“Larry the Lizard,” as the men had taken to calling Lawrence, Rebecca’s Grik-like pet/companion, scampered down to join them and found a place to perch near the front of the launch. He wasn’t as large as their Grik enemies, and his orangeish and brown tiger-striped, feathery fur easily distinguished him from the washed-out dun and brown of the Grik. Otherwise, the physical similarity was striking. He was a kind of “island Grik,” a “Tagranesi” he claimed, from somewhere in the Eastern Sea. Apparently a different race from their enemies, he’d become Rebecca’s friend and protector. So striking was his similarity to the enemy, Matt had kept him hidden aboard Walker until after the great battle out of real concern for his safety. It may have been just as well at the time. Despite their previous, almost pacifistic nature, the Lemurians hated the Grik, and he sure looked like one. After the battle however, he’d emerged as something of a hero, and to Matt’s honest amazement, the Lemurians had once again displayed their capacity for tolerant adaptability. Somehow, despite his appearance, the ’Cats were able to accept-on Matt’s and Adar’s word alone-that Larry was on their side. Walker ’s crew had grown accustomed to him by the time they brought him back to Baalkpan on the eve of battle, but Matt knew that under similar circumstances, no equally large group of humans would have embraced Larry as quickly.

The mighty chief gunner’s mate Dennis Silva clambered down the rungs last, with Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald clinging to his back. Silva winced occasionally, pained by his many wounds, and Matt wished again he’d insisted the big man remain behind. But Silva took his role of protecting the princess seriously and Matt couldn’t bring himself to discourage anything the irreverent, depraved pain in the ass actually wanted to do-as far as his duty was concerned. Of all of them, Silva might have changed the most-maybe even more than Matt himself. He didn’t seem much different to the casual observer, despite the patch that covered his ruined left eye. He was still huge, powerful, and still kept his blond hair burred close-even as he let the sun-bleached brownish beard grow longer than everyone knew the captain approved. He remained coarse, profane, and fearlessly reckless, and there was still the more or less unresolved question of what, exactly, constituted the relationship between him, Nurse Pam Cross, and the ’Cat female Risa-Sab-At. Risa’s brother, Chack, probably knew, but no one else did… for sure. Other than that, however, Silva caused few real problems anymore.