Authors: Taylor Anderson
“You never tole me there was Injun jungle
humans
out here before!” Dennis accused Moe.
“I didn’t know!” Moe replied with clear surprise. “I never catched one before! Never
heard
of any bein’ catched!” Everyone knew, in this instance, “catched” was Moe’s euphemism for “killed” while poaching in what he and others like him considered their private hunting grounds. “Maybe dey not go so far south as Baalkpan? Maybe dey new here?” He shrugged.
Word of their arrival had preceded them, and a delegation of both the Grik-like and human Khonashi greeted them at a jumbled rock-rimmed water well. Like everything else, an effort had been made to make it look like a random, natural formation, but at present, its purpose was obvious because villagers were drawing water from its depths. Brassey waved at the well. “I suspect we must be near the center of this, ah, town,” he said.
One of the humans took a wooden bucket from a larger, crestless—and therefore probably female—“lizard” visitor to the well. Abel had seen female Sa’aarans before, and there was a distinct similarity in form, if not coloration.
We must come up with another description for all the various Grik-like species,
he thought once again.
“Lizards” is too ingrained as slang to change, but they’re
not
really reptiles, despite appearances and certain characteristics.
Like Mr. Bradford has said, they’re actually more like birds,
he reflected.
Even the term “Grik-like” is problematic, because it insults those such as Lawrence, who know what Grik are!
He sighed and commanded himself to stay focused.
“Hi,” the human said in a strange, warbly voice. “Heer’s water! You dreenk! My keeng prays dat you reefesh yourseeves, den meet wit heem!”
“Ah . . . Sure. Swell. Whatever you say,” Abel accomplished.
“Whatever will I wear?” Silva mused lightly, but one of their fuzzy hosts regarded him seriously. “You dress too lots already. Too hot, too sweat.”
Dennis grunted. “Why, maybe so.”
* * *
They didn’t have long to wait before the delegation hurried them along to meet their “keeng.” I’joorka had been whisked away with most of his warriors—for debriefing, Silva suspected. I’joorka’s lone return seemed to indicate to their keepers that it was time, and Dennis wasn’t the only one who sensed an air of urgency. His inquisitive, possibly cynical eye had noticed that a large percentage of the villagers were armed; more than he’d have expected. Part of that could be because the strangers were known to have fantastically deadly weapons, but that didn’t explain the sheer number of combat-age warriors in the camp. “Somethin’ simmerin’ here, Mr. Cook,” he warned as they walked, and Abel nodded.
“I think you’re right. I don’t believe it has to do with us, though. Even if I’joorka was specifically sent to get us, as he said, they couldn’t have known exactly when we’d arrive. I see no sign of real agriculture, and a village this size couldn’t support so many warriors for long.”
“Something’s up,” Horn agreed.
They moved, en masse, back through the growing crowd of onlookers and approached a large structure similar in concept to the Great Hall in Baalkpan, except this building was very crude and erected with trees at each corner instead of around a single, great tree. It was made much like the other Khonashi houses, practically woven from the four trees supporting it, but it was bigger and far more obvious. Dennis suspected that meant it was more defensible as well. Maybe it served as a central fort that villagers caught in the open could retreat to? A kind of railed stairway was lowered to the ground as they approached, which struck Dennis as far more sensible than the rope-ladder arrangements he was used to, and I’joorka and several others scampered up ahead of them. When they reached the top, they motioned for Cook, Brassey, Dennis, Horn, Lawrence, and Pam to join them. The ’Cats and Pokey weren’t restrained, but it was clear they were expected to wait below.
“It’s all right, Sergeant Moe,” Abel assured. “They’ve got a history with ’Cats. We’ll sort that out. But they haven’t tried to take any of our weapons. Keep our Marines together, and don’t let Pokey wander off. By the looks of things, the brass he’s carrying is worth more than gold.”
“Ay, En-sin Cook,” Moe agreed.
Abel looked at the others. “Shall we?”
The Great Hall of the Khonashi wasn’t as large as Adar’s, and though the thatched, broad-leafed roof looked tight enough, the sides were largely open. Silva had been right when he surmised it was designed with an eye toward defense, though. There was a high rail all around the structure, and the walls beneath it were thick enough to absorb arrows or spears from below. Otherwise, the interior was amazingly spartan. There was little decoration, and the only furniture consisted of rough-hewn, saddlelike stools similar to those they’d learned the Grik used. That made sense. Unlike chairs, which Grik couldn’t use at all, anybody could sit on a stool. There were a couple more of the Grik-like Khonashi present, and to the visitors’ surprise, several human females almost obliviously occupied by domestic chores. A raised brazier stood in the center of the room, and meat was cooking over a bed of coals.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence while the visitors finished filing in. The Khonashis were looking at them, but there was no sign of the king they’d been brought to meet. Then they heard muted voices from behind a woven partition; something that sounded like “Alright, damn it. I’m hurryin’!” And a moment later, a man limped into view, leaning on a carved and painted crutch that kept his weight off a withered right leg. A small, dark woman came behind him, almost pushing him along. The woman was dressed only in a short, gold-tanned skirt, but the Khonashi-style stripes were tattooed instead of daubed on her body, and the effect was striking. Her expression was hard, but severely beautiful in a strange, feral, Asiatic way. A tentative smile flashed when she saw the humans, and they noticed that her pearl-white teeth had been filed to sharp points, like many of the human warriors they’d passed coming in.
The man had some nasty scars around his bare midriff but appeared fit and strong—except for the leg, of course—and his white hair and beard looked out of place on a young, weathered face. The expression he wore, regarding them, was as unexpected as his appearance. It looked . . . sheepish, embarrassed.
“As I live an’ breathe,” Silva said in a subdued, fascinated tone. “You the ‘king’ ever-body’s fawnin’ over?” he asked.
With a largely invisible grin behind the long beard, the man nodded self-consciously. “I guess so. It’s kind of a long story.”
“I bet,” Silva agreed. He turned to the others. “His Uppityness here may appear hard-used, but he looks a heap better than the last time I
thought
I seen him—as a super-lizard turd!”
“You
know
this guy?” Pam blurted.
“Sure I do. You might’ve even met him when you first came on
Walker
back at Surabaya.” He cocked his head. “I don’t reckon any o’ you others could know, but this here ‘king’ of the Khonashis is Tony Scott, late cox’n of USS
Walker
! He disappeared and was presumed ate . . .” Dennis calculated. “Near two years ago, on the old pipeline cut.”
“My God,” Abel mumbled, then his expression turned indignant. “My God!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Scott, do you realize we’ve named a
whole class
of new DDs after you?”
“Yeah!” Dennis accused. “An’ me an’ Moe downstairs, Paul Stites, and ol’ Courtney Bradford too, killed a purely innocent super lizard, plumb certain he was guilty o’ gulpin’ you down!”
“Lawsy,” Scott said softly. “I never knew I was so well thought of!”
“That’s changin’ pretty fast!” Pam declared. “We’ve been fightin’ for our lives in a damn big war while you’ve been takin’ your ease with the friendly natives! I thought Dennis was bad at goin’ AWOL, but you take the cake! Mr. Cook’s in charge of this expedition, but I’m the senior officer. I’ll have you on charges if you don’t have a damn good reason for bein’ gone!”
Because they understood a fair amount of English, the Khonashis were alarmed by the turn the conversation had taken, but Scott calmed them down—in their language!—then turned back to Pam and the others. “I guess I’ve got a pretty good reason. I’ll leave it up to Cap’n Reddy to decide, if he’s still livin’.”
“He is.”
“Thank God,” Scott murmured sincerely. “Anyway, I knew sooner or later I’d turn myself in, but things ain’t worked out exactly like I hoped.” He looked at Silva. “Startin’ with the day after that big Strakka, when I went to check the pipeline cut—and kinda
did
get ate.”
Very quickly after USS
Walker
came to this world, Tony Scott had grown increasingly afraid of the water he’d always loved. More specifically, he was utterly terrified of the creatures
in
it. He still fought courageously, but Captain Reddy allowed him to remain in Baalkpan—ashore—when
Walker
and the first allied Homes went to raise the Grik siege at Aryaal. There’d been a terrible storm, and Tony went to check the pipeline carrying oil to the fueling pier from where they’d sunk their very first well. Away from the water, he’d been careless, and when he’d stopped along the path to relieve himself, he’d been snatched up in the jaws of a super lizard. Unknown to him, other creatures—a Khonashi scouting party—had been watching him too, wondering why someone who looked so much like their human tribesmen had been wandering around alone in lands controlled by their Mi-Anaaka enemies. I’joorka himself distracted the great monster into spitting Tony out, then lured it into chasing him and the rest of the party that split up and ran. Eventually, they shook the pursuit and returned for Tony Scott.
He’d been in bad shape. The great teeth had torn his flesh and he was unconscious. The Khonashi lived nearer to Baalkpan then. They carried him to their village, where they nursed him back to health and he’d learned, by necessity, to speak their tongue. The first thing he’d gotten them to understand was that he needed to go home, but he still wasn’t fit to travel. By then the Grik had come to Baalkpan. Through a network of observers and allied tribes, the Khonashi knew much of what happened across Borno. They already feared the Grik were worse enemies than the ’Cats, from accounts of encounters with their strange ships in the northwest, and Tony convinced those who still doubted.
He tried to get them to join the Lemurians, but they fled the war instead. The problem was, the lands they found on the north coast of the island—as far as they could get from the invading Grik
and
the Lemurians—belonged to the Akashi, and the Akashi didn’t want them there. A brutal, bloody war ensued. Having no choice but to help those who’d helped him, Tony taught them crossbows, and longbows for the humans, as well as the short swords his shipmates had been training the Lemurians to use. With those weapons and others, the Khonashi defeated the Akashi.
Ironically, it was in that fighting, not the super-lizard attack, that Tony’s leg was wrecked, and it became impossible for him to return to Baalkpan. Ultimately, one thing led to another, and he married a high-status human member of the tribe. Eventually, through no fault of his own (he swore), he “wound up” king. There was a lot more to it, of course, and it really was a long story, but those were the bare essentials, and sufficient to bring them up to speed on
his
situation, at least.
Abel was nodding. “I can see all that,” he confessed. “Some of us have been marooned before—that’s how I wound up here myself; stranded with S-Nineteen and a bunch of submariners.” He looked at Silva. “Then we got marooned again . . .” He shook his head. “That’s a long story too. But my question is, now that you mention a ‘situation,’ why did you send I’joorka to find us? I’m not complaining. We were sent to meet
your
people, and I’joorka’s band probably saved us. Still, the coincidence is most interesting.”
“Yeah,” Tony replied. “About that: we knew when your group set out, and figured you were coming to find us at last. For one thing, I wanted to get you before the Akashis did.” He shrugged. “They might not’ve killed you, but I couldn’t take that chance. Besides . . . we got a problem I was hopin’ for some help with.”
Silva arched his brow over his eye patch. “A problem?” He rolled his eyes at Gunny Horn. “I knew it was more than just a reunion o’ beloved shipmates!”
“Yeah, well, down the coast about fifteen miles is a little bay. Not much of one, but big enough for one of those big ’Cat Homes to anchor in. You remember that
Fristar
Home? Under a Lemurian called Anai-Sa?”
“Sure,” Silva said. “Ungrateful bastards. Joined the Alliance to get cannons, and hung in long enough to get some muskets too, but then skedaddled. Buncha weenies. Didn’t want in the fight. Last I heard, they was huntin’ gri-kakka fish in the China Sea.”
“They’re in the fight now,” Tony declared, “but on the wrong damn side.”
“How do you know it’s
Fristar
? Lemurian Homes look a lot alike,” Brassey said.
Tony looked at the Imperial midshipman curiously. “’Cause it’s got ten big bronze guns, and our scouts described Anai-Sa, with his dark fur and gold rings, pretty good.” He frowned. “They ain’t helpin’ the enemy because they want to, and I been tryin’ to keep everybody convinced of that, but a bunch of our folks around that village are dead now, and a lot of my people have blood in their eyes.” He snorted. “Hell, I do too. But those
Fristar
’Cats are doin’ slave labor, it appears to me, and I don’t want ’em hurt.” He gestured around. “Considerin’ my lizard folks’ history with ’Cats on Borno, some ain’t that particular. They’re all invaders, far as they’re concerned.”
“Enemy? Slave labor! What are they doing?” Brassey asked.
“Drilling for oil. At least that’s what they’ve got the ’Cats doin’. Workin’ ’em to death too!”
“What?”
Pam cried. “The Grik? What do they need
oil
for? It doesn’t make any sense!”
Tony blinked. “No! Not the Grik. The goddamn Japs!”
In the stunned silence that followed, Abel looked hard at Scott, then leaned over and whispered something to Brassey. The Imperial nodded grimly.