6
////// Corps of Discovery and Diplomacy
The Wilds of Borno
“This is a bunch of shit!” groused Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, USMC, formerly of the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines on another earth. Currently, he was laboring up a steep, tangled slope behind Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva. His outburst, which sounded suitably disgusted but also oddly surprised, increased the disturbance of their passage. Lizard birds and other flying things, not to mention small ground and tree dwellers, made constant noise and motion as they moved, but now the cries and rustling briefly surged, making some in the party that followed stare nervously about. Silva stopped and looked back with his good eye at the black-bearded Horn. The other one was covered by a sweat-crusted patch, giving the big, powerful destroyerman a piratical flair that matched his personality.
“Quit whinin’!” Silva said, louder than many in their group would’ve preferred. The day’s march had been particularly grueling and they’d been forced to cross two streams so far—something nobody liked. Now there was this damn rise. Unlike most, however, Silva was barely breathing hard. “Can’t stand M’reens who whine!” He paused his advance, and after a swig from his canteen, he stuffed a wad of yellowish leaves in his cheek. “You’re new here, Gunny,” he chided, “but you been through worse, if I recall.” The two men apparently had a . . . history in China, but no one knew the specifics of their relationship there. “’Sides, this ain’t a patch to when me an’ misters Cook, Brassey, an’ even ol’ Larry was marooned on Boogerland!”
The panting column behind ground to a halt and Silva looked down on it. Ensign Abel Cook, their nominal leader, looked okay, but the Imperial midshipman Stuart Brassey wasn’t going to make it much farther that day. Some of the Lemurian Marines were lathered up pretty bad as well, and though the Grik-like Sa’aarans seemed pert enough, their three actual Grik “porters” were struggling to breathe in the sodden air, their long tongues lolling from toothy jaws. Old Moe, the grizzled Lemurian hunter bringing up the rear, blinked impatience back at Silva, and beside him, breathing just as hard as anyone, was Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross. Silva’s eyes lingered a moment to take in the way her chest rose and fell beneath the sweat-soaked smock . . . but he quickly looked back at Horn when he caught Pam’s searing glare.
“No, damn it,” said Horn, raising his foot to display a Lemurian-made boondocker. “I mean, we been tromping through a bunch of shit!”
Silva shrugged. “So? We’re on a trail, ain’t we? Not many trails through this damn jungle.” He waved around, his . . . unusual collection of weapons clanking against one another. Once again Horn wondered why Silva felt compelled to carry such a large and diverse arsenal, and how he could stand the weight of it all. Horn had a Baalkpan Arsenal 1911 pistol, and a local copy of the 1917 Navy cutlass like everyone else, but the BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) that Silva said was his and Horn was only “borryin’” was as much as he wanted, or honestly thought he could manage, and still keep up. But Silva not only had his “real” cutlass and 1911, but his web belt was crowded with an ’03 Springfield bayonet, and as many magazine pouches as he could cram on it. Slung over both shoulders like a Mexican bandit in the Western movies, were bandoliers of what looked like 10-gauge brass shotgun shells with great long bullets sticking out of them. Cradled in his arms was his Doom Stomper, a mammoth version of the standard Allin-Silva breech-loading rifle musket—only this one was built around a 25-millimeter Japanese antiaircraft gun barrel. Perhaps most bizarre, an ornate, long-barreled flintlock pistol was stuck in his belt. Horn hadn’t even asked about that. Silva was just as sweat-soaked as anybody, but the weight of his weapons and his pack didn’t seem to bother him. Horn shook his head, slinging sweat off his eyebrows.
“Lotsa critters use this trail,” Silva continued, deliberately letting the others catch their breath, “all of ’em dribblin’ shit up and down it as they go. This cow-floppy-lookin’ stuff ain’t nothin’ to worry about. It don’t even really stink. That means vegitician critters is mostly what’s usin’ it for now, like those big, stumpy-legged, dino-goat-lookin’ things. Ain’t that right, Moe?”
“That right,” Moe answered, sniffing and peering into the gloom around them. “For now.”
“See?” Silva demanded. “I’m learnin’ stuff.” He looked back at Horn, then the others. “You all seen rhino pigs. They’re good eatin’, but bad news on a trail this skinny. As liable to come at you like a Jap torpedo as haul ass the other way. They throw a bigger, lumpier turd that smells like hell.” He paused. “Now, a super-lizard turd . . .”
“If takin’ a break means we gotta listen to a turd talk about his relatives,” Pam Cross snorted in her sharp, Brooklyn way, “then I’m for pushin’ on!”
Silva grinned beatifically at her. “Ain’t she sweet? What I was gettin’ at, doll, is when you come across a trail like this, don’t get to thinkin’ somethin’ else ain’t noticed it first. Super lizards are smart. They’ll find a wide spot an’ back away from the trail just a tad an’ wait for the shmorgishboard to commence. That’s how ol’ Tony Scott got it; ate by a super lizard while wanderin’ up the old pipeline cut, prob’ly happy as a clam.” He paused. “Tony was . . . a right guy. Just had a little trouble with the water, is all. Then he got ate on dry land, where he thought he was safe.” He shook his head and blinked irony in the Lemurian way. “Anyhow, the moral to this story, as my sainted ma used to say, is that you ain’t never safe around here—no matter what shit yer trompin’ through.”
Silva heard a soft scritching sound and turned. Suddenly, there was Lawrence standing before him in his mottled smock and rhino-pig armor. The rest of his very Grik-like body was covered with orange-and-black-striped feathery fur, and Dennis was always amazed by how well his friend blended with the jungle.
“Why, there you are, Larry! We was just talkin’ about you!”
“You ’ere talking loud enough to hear in ’aalk’an!” Lawrence scolded with a hiss. Even though he was clearly related to their Grik enemy, physically distinguishable only by a smaller stature, slightly longer tail, and his coloring, Lawrence was of an entirely different race. Originally hailing from the distant Pacific island of Tagran, he’d become the friend and protector of Rebecca Anne McDonald while marooned with Sean Bates and the crew of S-19 on the volcanic island of Talaud. Talaud was gone now, as were most of Lawrence’s people, lost in a volcanic cataclysm that had stunned the Alliance. Some of Tagran’s survivors were subjects of Saan-Kakja now, given the Fil-pin island of Samaar. Lawrence was Sa’aaran now too, but he’d also become one of Silva’s closest friends—even though Silva once shot him. In any event, he understood English and Lemurian perfectly and could speak either as well as his lipless mouth allowed. With his help, even some of the captured Grik were speaking a little, something no one ever considered possible before Hij-Geerki actually surrendered to Lord Rolak and began to communicate.
“I heard you doin’ yer nails,” Silva accused, nodding at the small rock Lawrence held in his right hand. “You’ll be paintin’ ’em next.” Lawrence hissed at him. “See anything ahead?” Silva asked. Lawrence had been scouting the trail.
“Good area to stay the night on the rise not too distant. The trail’s . . . ’ider there, and there’s old su’er-lizard sign. Good trees, though. Us get high in the air.” Lawrence subconsciously scratched the dark crest on top of his head. He’d been doing that a lot lately, ever since Silva told him they’d have to burr it off—like his own bristly blond scalp—if it got infested with cooties. “There’s so’thing else there I think you’ll . . . think interesting,” he added cryptically. “It . . . created the clearing.”
“What’s that?” Dennis demanded, removing his helmet and scratching his own head. He’d been reinforcing Lawrence’s phobia so long, it was starting to backfire. He realized what he was doing and casually sopped at the leather sweatband with his bandanna. He liked the helmet, even in the muggy heat, because it was fairly well ventilated—and let him lower his head and plow through brush.
“You’ll see.”
Dennis rolled his eye. “Well, Mr. Cook? It’s about that time, I guess, and maybe we can get high enough to get a good fix on our position. Might even get a message out.”
“Uh, yes, very well,” Abel Cook said, removing his own helmet and scratching his head as well. He had only four fingers on his hand. They’d been forced to amputate his pinky when it got infected with . . . something on Yap island. They’d been in the brush for almost two weeks and he still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that he was supposed to be in charge. How could he give orders to Dennis Silva? The man had saved him more times than he could count. Yet Dennis always deferred to him, even while essentially leading them. It might’ve been embarrassing if he wasn’t absolutely certain Silva’s attempts to “prop him up” were sincere. Pam Cross—who acted like she hated Silva—assured him of that. “He’s a bastid,” she’d said, “but he’s a Navy bastid, through an’ through. He don’t follow ordas worth a damn, but he’ll treat an offica with respect if he likes ’im—an’ he does like you, Mista Cook.”
Abel looked at Lawrence. “This thing you found. It’s not dangerous?”
“I don’t think so. Just interesting. You’ll see.”
Abel shrugged. “Very well. It is about that time.” They needed plenty of daylight to make camp in this dangerous place.
“We never gonna find these damn Injun Grik, we keep stoppin’ all the time,” Moe complained when the column pushed on. “I don’t never even see tracks of ’em since we leave Saanga River. We go wrong damn way, I think.” He raised his voice so someone besides Pam might hear him. “Why I even come, you don’t go the way I say? I wanna go home, kill rhino pigs, sleep safe. I old.”
Silva fell back as the others passed him.
“Hey, Moe,” he said when he was walking beside the old ’Cat. Pam threw him a sneer, but moved ahead to let them talk.
“She don’t like you no more,” Moe observed.
“Nah. ’Fraid she does. Why do you think she made us take her along? She don’t like this little jaunt any more than you do.” Dennis grimaced. “She’s just sore at me—an’ wants me to know it every damn day.” He shrugged. “Listen. You really think you could track these Jungle Griks?”
“Sure. I do before, to catch ’em, run ’em off,” Moe blinked disdain and flicked his tail. “Sometimes I kill ’em. You know dat.”
“Yeah,” Dennis agreed, nodding. “And so do they,” he added significantly.
Moe stopped and blinked at him. “So?”
“So if we took to trackin’ em, they’re bound to know. Good as you are, we’re in their front yard. They figger that out, what do you think they’d think?”
“Huh.” Moe blinked thoughtfully, introspective. “Dat we chase ’em,” he said at last. “Maybe we come to kill ’em.”
“Right.” Silva waved at the column. “We’d never catch ’em with a group this size, and if we did, it’d be because they wanted us to—to kill us, don’t you figger? This way, we’re just trompin’ along—careful-like, so we don’t get ate—but not trackin’ nobody. Anybody that might be watchin’ can tell that easy.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’ll attack us anyway. We do make a temptin’ target. But we’re a weird target too. Humans, ’Cats, funny-colored lizard folks that look like them—all runnin’ along together, practically holdin’ hands. Maybe they’ll get more curious than scared.”
Moe slowly nodded. “I just a hunter.” He patted the painted stripes on his dingy leather armor with the smoothbore musket in his hand. “I saar-jint of hunters now, an’ I got dis mus-ket ’sted of my old crossbow, but still just a hunter. You think-fight ways better than me. Good. May-be we not all die.”
Dennis chuckled. “Maybe.”
They reached the top of the rise, an arduous trek along an increasingly convoluted rocky trail, and gazed upon a scene just as interesting as Lawrence promised. The wide part of the trail was bigger than Silva expected, practically a clearing, largely—obviously—made by fire. Unlike other burn clearings in the dense Borno jungle, however, this one hadn’t been caused by lightning.
“By God,” Horn said, “A plane crashed here!”
He was right, and all but perhaps the Grik porters knew it as soon as he spoke. The crash had occurred some time ago, judging by the height of the grass and renewed leaves on the flame-scarred trees. Some trees hadn’t survived, though, sheared off or toppled by the falling plane, and bright sunshine slanted through the broken canopy—the first they’d seen in many days. They began to recognize bits of wreckage protruding from the knee-high grass.
“Maybe Colonel Mallory’s missin’ P-Forty?” Pam suggested, pushing through the group that blocked the path.
“Maybe,” Silva said doubtfully, “but we’re, what, eighty, a hundred miles in now? Countin’ the distance we came upriver?” He paused. “And looky there. That’s a hunk of a wing stickin’ up. Way wrong color. It was some damn Jap, I bet.”
They moved forward, the Lemurian Marines alertly flanking the advance, rifles ready.
“The paint might have faded, changed . . .” muttered Abel Cook, stooping to pick up a fragment of aluminum. The bright metal bore the spalled remains of dark, leafy green paint on one side. He turned it in his hand, then looked at the trees in the direction of the setting sun. “It came in from the west, clipped those trees there, and began coming apart. I believe it struck those other trees ahead much harder, perhaps shearing off the wings or parts of them. There would’ve been burning fuel . . .” He trotted ahead, and Silva, Horn, and Lawrence hurried after him. “Yes,” he said, pointing down at a large piece of fire-blackened metal as he passed. “More wing!” He stopped in front of what looked like, at first glance, a giant ball of rusty string. “A twin-banked radial engine! It must’ve rolled and tumbled a bit. . . . And there’s a section of a landing-gear strut, if I’m not mistaken! It’s definitely not the missing P-Forty. Not with that radial engine!” He rubbed his chin. “Judging by the oxidation of the metal and the regrowth around the crash site, it’s been here as long as we have. That’s unfortunate.”
“Why?” Pam asked.
“Oh, no reason, really. Perhaps I hoped to prove there’d been other events, such as the Squall that brought us here.”
“There have been,” Silva pointed out, gesturing at Horn. “That awful ship that brung them prisoners—and murdered most of ’em, an’ that damn tin can, Hoo-dooy-yammy, that Walker tangled with.”
“Yes, but those ships originated . . . appeared on this world, in the Philippine Sea. I’d hoped there might have been other, separate events here so we could begin to understand if we’re dealing with a geographically specific phenomenon. . . .”
“Careful what you wish for,” Silva said, then stopped watching Cook and resumed scanning the denser trees looming around them, his monstrous rifle at the ready. Suddenly, he didn’t like it here. They moved farther along, the Marines watchful, the rest of the party grouped together, coming up behind.
“If I was a super lizard,” Moe began, and Silva nodded. “Me too. Lots o’ grass-eatin’ critters would love this place; pygmy brontasarries an’ such, and you can see where rhino pigs been rootin’ around. You ’Cats better stay on your toes,” he cautioned the flanking Marines.
“We on it,” one answered.
Dennis looked down to see Pam’s diminutive form beside him. “Startin’ to cozy back up to ol’ Silva after all?”
Pam glared. “I’m cozyin’ up to that big gun o’ yers, that’s all.”
Dennis feigned a hurt expression. “So that’s all I ever was to you?”
Pam’s face flushed with rage and she stormed off after Stuart Brassey, who was moving farther along.
“Goofy broad,” Silva muttered.
“A woman scorned,” Horn corrected loftily. “You’re poking at a hornet’s nest with that one. I thought she was going to take that Blitzer Bug off her shoulder and hose you down. How come you don’t leave her be?”
“Why don’t she leave me be?”
Horn shook his head. The whole group was moving forward now that Cook was finished staring at the engine. “You might have everybody else fooled, but I know you’re not really that stupid. I knew you back when.” He studied Silva a moment. “You’ve changed, though, maybe a lot. I know most folks think well of you, and that’s a far cry from the old days.” He shifted his helmet back on his head and scratched a mosquito bite on his eyebrow. “I’m still not sure you’ve changed for the better, though. Sooner or later you’re going to have to give in to that gal, or make a clean break with her.”
“Hell, I don’t know how to break it any cleaner!” Silva protested. “I left her in the lurch, practically pushed her on another fella. I been treatin’ her like crap . . . what else can I do?”
“You idiot. You know that’s just the exact opposite of making a clean break. Or have you really been here long enough to forget? ‘Hard to get’ just makes ’em try harder to get you.”
“She ain’t no Filipino gal,” Dennis protested.
“No, but mean and ugly as you are, she’s got her sights set, and that’s all there is to it. The next-best way to get rid of her besides actually chasing her is polite indifference. Be nice to her; treat her like anybody else. They hate that . . . but it won’t make her want to shoot you.” Horn grinned. “Then who knows? Maybe I’ll start treating her like you’ve been doing, and she’ll chase after me!”
“You couldn’t handle her,” Silva warned. Gunny Horn started to reply, but Cook called out.
“Come look at this!”
They hurried to join the others at a large but badly battered cylinder that must’ve rolled away from the greater violence of the crash. Moe trotted up to the group as well. “All clear—for now. M’reens’ll stay on alert, an’ I got them damn Griks gatherin’ wood for fires. Nothin’ likes smoke.” He looked at the roughly thirty-foot object. “What dat?”
“Jap bomber,” Horn declared. “One of those cigar-looking jobs—a ‘Betty,’ they were calling them. I figured it was a Jap plane when I saw the color, and now you can see the meatball.” He pointed. “That’s the tail section with the stabilizers rolled or torn off. It probably broke off the rest of the thing when it wiped out and rolled over here.”
“Dat’s ’loom-num, right?” Moe asked.
“Yeah, mostly.”
“We all rich!” he giggled. “Ever-body lookin’ fer gold, now dat gold means money, but ever-body told to keep eyes open for crashed-plane ’loom-num just like dis! It worth twice its weight of gold!”
“Woop-te-do,” Silva said. “It ain’t like we’re gonna wag it outa here on our backs.”
“But . . . we come back for it, yes?” Moe demanded.
“Maybe. Not likely we’d find it again from a different direction, though.”
“I find it!” Moe persisted.
“So? What’re you gonna do with it? Be the richest hunter in the history of ’Cats?” Silva looked at the trees nearby, planning their camp. “If we get the word out, maybe Baalkpan’ll send somebody to get it. We sure need the metal.” He looked at Moe’s crestfallen blinking. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a share for findin’ it. More than you can spend. What would you blow it on? A new car?”
“Maybe I get a little hut closer to city,” Moe muttered. “Up off ground, like other Baalkpan folks, where old bones sleep good at night. Maybe I take a mate.”
Silva stared. Moe was probably the oldest ’Cat he’d ever seen, next to old Naga, Nakja-Mur’s Sky Priest who died with his Chief at the Battle of Baalkpan. Moe looked at least eighty, even if he was strong as an ox.
“Well . . . sure. Why not? Bound to be some nice, young . . . blind ’Cat gal who’ll take up with you—if you got enough dough.” He looked at Lawrence and the Sa’aaran beside him. The other Sa’aaran was scouting deeper in the woods. “Get them Griks to dump the woodpiles around those trees yonder, the white-trunked ones with no bark. Look kinda like yooky . . . yucky . . .”
“Eucalyptus trees,” Pam supplied sarcastically.
“Yeah. Them. I like those. There’s good visibility around ’em for a change, and lots of little branches to squirm up through. We’ll rig our hammocks up there for the night, with three fires a little ways off. How does that sound, Mr. Cook?”
“Excellent,” Abel replied absently, peering inside the crumpled fuselage. “Mr. Brassey and I will explore the wreckage to see if there’s anything of immediate use. Perhaps we’ll even find clues regarding the fate of the flight crew.”
Silva looked at Horn. “My money’s on ‘death by sudden, fiery, crunchy stop,’” he whispered. “Come on. Let’s get settled for the night.”
Dennis shinnied up the trunk of one of the strange trees, scrabbling for traction with his own already-battered Lemurian boondockers. Compared to a Lemurian, his ascent was ludicrous at best, but almost graceful compared to Horn’s similar attempt on a neighboring tree. Pam and Lawrence started up a third tree, and the dark-haired woman didn’t seem to need any help and didn’t ask for any. The Grik porters remained below to pass up their burdens. They didn’t much care for climbing trees, anyway.
Dennis suddenly stopped his ascent, staring straight into the dark crotch of the tree just a few inches from his face. He never said a word and his expression didn’t even change as he pulled the 1911 Colt from his holster and fired two shots directly in front of him. Lizard birds squawked and beat their membranous wings as the near quiet shattered.
“What the hell?” Horn cried out.
“Pokey” the Grik, the slowest (in a variety of ways) of the former enemy beings accompanying the expedition, dove face-first into the moldy undergrowth at the base of the tree, sniffing for the freshly fallen.45 ACP cartridge cases. Around his neck was a clinking bag filled with every shell he’d managed to find since they started out. Lawrence considered Pokey retarded, compared to the other two Grik they’d brought, and had appointed him the official “brass picker”; the only job he thought him fit for. Pokey quickly got more than brass when a heavy, long-tailed creature landed on his head, and he yelped.
“What was it, Chief Silva?” Abel cried, sprinting from his inspection of the shattered plane.
“Dunno,” Silva groused. He’d wedged himself into the tree and was shaking a bleeding hand. “Some nasty, lizard-coon-lookin’ thing.”
“How’s this trip ever gonna work if you shoot everything we run into?” Pam called from her nearby tree.
That ain’t fair, Silva thought. There were lots of critters he hadn’t shot. “Damn thing bit me,” he defended.
“He’s all’ays shooting things,” Lawrence sighed conversationally to one of the Sa’aaran scouts who also came running, and the two standing Grik with the shelter/hammock canvas. “He’s shot ’ountain ’ishes, su’er lizards, too ’any Griks and Doms to count. . . . He even shot I once!”
“That was a accident—but maybe you had it comin’,” Silva snapped. “Don’t anybody care that it bit me? I might’a caught rabies—or the lizard pox!”
Pokey had picked up the dead creature and was clutching it close. “’or ’ee?” it asked, almost reverently.
“Sure,” said Silva with a sigh. “If you want. Let Mr. Cook and Mr. Brassey oogle it first. I’m sure they’ll let you eat it when they’re done.”
“I thought we were supposed to be quiet,” Horn observed. “You have shot a bunch of things since we started.”
“There’s quiet; then there’s quiet,” Silva countered. “Anything bites me is gonna die for it.” He looked at his wounded hand philosophically. “Course, that lizard-coon didn’t exactly chase me down and bite me. Little fella was just defendin’ what was his.”
“Well, it’s your tree now,” Pam said sarcastically. “I’ll look at that hand when we’re done makin’ camp.”
* * *
Clouds billowed in the sky as the sun made its customary rapid plunge. They contacted Baalkpan via their man-portable version of the wireless sets installed in the PB-1B Nancys while Pokey happily turned the crank on their pack generator. They couldn’t give an exact fix on the wrecked “Betty,” but they gave the best directions they could and reported their progress. Not much progress to report, really, but making contact with the comm ’Cats back home was always reassuring.
Their roost was as secure as they could make it. The branches intertwined the higher they went, so it was actually possible to move from tree to tree if they wanted. It must’ve looked odd, Silva thought; all the hammocks strung like bagworms in a juniper, but everyone was fairly close to one another. The trees weren’t much real protection from a major predator. A full-grown super lizard could knock them over if it wanted, but with most of them thirty feet or more in the air, even a super lizard couldn’t just snatch them like low-hanging fruit. Most of them, anyway. The Grik didn’t like being in trees, and even ordered to do like the rest, they’d slung their one hammock lower than the others ever since they started out—with all three clustered like chicks in a nest. In this one and only respect, their obedience wasn’t entirely pure, but Cook didn’t press it. He was actually encouraged that their “auxiliaries” seemed to be developing a trace of free will. And the arrangement served a purpose. Now and then, a Grik would slide down a rope to the ground and tend the fires that gave them some visibility.
As usual, Silva had arranged his weapons in the limbs around his hammock so he could get at them in a hurry; then he settled in, squirming and flouncing until he was comfortable. The jungle sounds in the wilds of Borno grew thunderous at night, filled with monotonous calls, squeaks, grunts, and the occasional roar. One could usually track the progress of a predator, no matter how stealthy, by the cries that accompanied it. Silva was used to the noises. They were the same ones heard in Baalkpan, even if they’d grown more distant and muted there. The sounds actually soothed him in a way, like crickets, frogs, and whip-poor-wills of his native Alabama. And up above, through the broad leaves and fleeting gaps in the clouds made visible by the freak passage of a doomed Japanese plane to a world its crew would never know, were the brilliant, searing stars. They were the same he’d always known. A little skewed at this latitude from the view he’d had as a kid, but still the same. He’d always loved the stars. Even as the high, racing clouds blotted them out, his eye slowly drooped. He was almost asleep when he heard a creak on a branch nearby and the eye popped open.
“Evenin’, doll,” he said, recognizing Pam crouching there in the glow of the fires and a sudden flash of lightning. “Come to cut my rope—or my throat?”
“Let me see your hand,” she demanded.
“Too dark. Have a look in the mornin’.”
Pam lit a small, silver-backed candle lantern with a Zippo and shone the reflected light at him.
“I’ll look at it now.” She propped the little lantern in a nearby crook.
“Suit yerself,” Silva grumped, displaying his wound. Gently Pam cleaned the bite with a damp cloth, then smeared some of the curative Lemurian polta paste on his hand, working it into the punctures with her thumbs. The paste felt cold, but the massage was . . . relaxing.
“So, how come you’re bein’ such a jerk?” Pam asked suddenly. Dennis snorted. It had taken her two weeks in the wilderness to cough up the question.
“You’re one to talk,” he replied. “I’m just respondin’ in kind.”
“You dumped me. I got a right to be sore.”
Silva sat up in his hammock. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle. “I didn’t dump you. I just went on doin’ what I do—somewhere else. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say ‘So long,’ but I got shanghaied, if you recall.”
“You could’ve said ‘So long’ when you got my letter in Maa-ni-la.”
“What? You mean that grabby letter sayin’ I b’longed to you an’, an’ I better come on home?” He shook his head. “In case you ain’t noticed, there’s a war on. An’ aside from this little campin’ trip, I b’long where the war is more than I b’long to you—or me.” He shrugged. “It’s what I do. What I am now.”
“Sister Audry talks like that. Says you’re a ‘weapon of the Lord.’”
Dennis actually giggled. “Yeah, I heard that too. I like the good sister, but she’s crazier than a shithouse rat if she b’lieves that.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You too? Look, doll,” Silva’s voice went cold. “I ain’t a good man. I done some real bad things, as a matter o’ fact, things the good Lord won’t never forgive, and damn sure wouldn’ta set me to. I done ’em ’cause they needed doin’—and I’d do ’em again. Will do the same sort o’ things again, most likely.” The terrified face of a powder boy, maybe ten years old, reappeared in his mind, staring at him through the flames he’d set that would quickly doom the kid—and maybe three hundred other mostly innocent souls aboard a ship he’d had to destroy. He’d killed all those people to save a handful that mattered to him, and that wasn’t the first time. Or the last, he was sure. He shook his head. “Now, you’re liable to maunder on about lovin’ me anyway an’ all that silly crap . . .”
“I do . . . did love you, you big ape!” Pam hissed.
“See? I knew that—an’ it ain’t fair. This war, what I do—in spite of how I do it—is the best thing I ever did. I expect to burn in hell for how, but good folks, folks like you, will maybe have a chance. To make sure o’ that, an’ to make sure all the folks I care about have the same chance, I’m in this war to the bitter damn end, an’ I don’t see that comin’ anytime soon.”
“So you did cut me loose because you care, just like Sister Audry said!”
Dennis growled with frustration. “Damn it, I ain’t doin’ this right. Gunny Horn was right. Look, doll, there just ain’t no future for you an’ me, not while there’s this war, see? I can’t make it any plainer than that.”
Pam put out the light and surprised Dennis by crawling in the hammock with him. “That’s fine. An’ I guess it’s all I really needed to hear.” She snuggled up against him. “Besides, the war might not last as long as you think. They’re workin’ on a secret weapon in Baalkpan that might wipe out the Grik for good.”
“How do you know that?” Silva asked, remembering a conversation he’d had with Bernie Sandison. Pam shrugged. “Everybody knows about it. I bet Adar’s the only one who doesn’t know everybody knows!”
“Huh. What’s this weapon do?”
Pam shrugged. “Nobody knows.”
“Ever’body knows about it, but nobody knows what it does,” Dennis muttered thoughtfully.
“Well . . . That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“Hard to say.”
A short time later, Silva squirmed out of Pam’s embrace, still considerably uncomfortable with her sudden, unexpected tenderness after such sustained and apparently sincere hostility. He was always amazed how women could keep so many different personalities wadded up inside them all the time. Must all be skitso-phobiacs, er whatever. Every damn one! he decided. Carefully he moved onto a branch and looked back at the gently snoring woman. She was heartbreakingly pretty, particularly when her face was relaxed in sleep. He shook his head. That didn’t go like I meant at all, he thought. I spent all this time tryin’ to save her from me, just to let her snuggle back up like that. He’d known for a while he had a soft spot. Chack’s sister Risa found it first, then Princess Becky wormed her way deep inside it. Pam found it too eventually, but then tried to crack it wide-open—into a dangerous gap in his armor. That wouldn’t do, he’d decided, for him—or her—in the long run. But all it took was a bite on the hand and a little kindness . . . and now it looked like he was back to square one with her. He snorted angrily at himself and descended slowly to the ground.
Urinating against the closest neighboring tree trunk, he saw a rope snaking up into the darkness toward Horn’s hammock. That’s dumb, he thought. Leave a ladder for all sorts of nasty boogers to scamper straight up in bed with ya. Why, somethin’ like me might wander by! Any number of boogers might visit their hammocks from the trees, but the dangling rope struck Silva as sloppy. Suddenly inspired and somewhat annoyed at the China Marine, he took a piece of dried fish out of his pocket and tied it securely to the rope. Then, after checking the fires, he climbed back up to his hammock.
* * *
“HOLY MOTHER O’ GOD! WHAT’S GOT AHOLD OF ME?!” came the sleep-muddled shriek of Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn.
Silva came awake quickly, as he’d learned to do, but was surprised to find Pam had returned to her own hammock. How did she do that without waking him? He looked down at the . . . really weird creature yanking violently on the rope. He blinked. “Honest ta’ God, Arnie,” he said just as everyone began to stir and shout questions, “I ain’t got a clue!”
The thing was shorter than a man, and looked a little like a Menjangen lizard, like bit Leo Davis so long ago, but it had a little head—with a big conch shell–like thing on its forehead—on the end of a long, skinny neck. Large, luminous eyes glared yellow. Feathery membranes stretched from elbows to hips, and an extra-long tail flared into a flat, brightly colored leaf shape, like the Grikbirds in the East. The short legs were what gave the initial impression of a Menjangen lizard, Dennis decided. “I never seen one before,” he shouted at Horn as the creature yanked on the rope. Horn had his BAR now and was trying to draw a bead on the thing below, but his hammock was bouncing too wildly to allow a shot. “I thought we were tryin’ to keep things quiet around here,” Silva mocked.
Suddenly, the creature’s eyes went wider, if that was possible, and it lunged to the left with a violence that nearly dumped Horn. “Somebody shoot it, goddamn it, before it yanks me out of the tree!”
“I can’t, Gunny!” Abel shouted, his pistol weaving. Moe was aiming his musket, and Lawrence was trying to bring his rifle to bear. Pam yanked back the bolt on her Blitzer Bug. Silva suspected she’d hit the thing, but it might take the whole twenty-round stick in the simple, almost uncontrollable weapon. Everyone was so focused on the strange creature and scary-humorous tug-of-war, so distracted by the bouncing limbs as they shifted in their own hammocks to see or draw a bead, they didn’t feel or even see the approach of what had suddenly frightened the little monster. Their first warning was a chorus of shrieks of abject terror from the Grik hammock, suspended nearest the ground. Silva turned in time to see the biggest super lizard in the world crash directly through one of the guard fires, scattering clouds of sparks and burning wood as it accelerated to a speed few would’ve imagined such a large creature capable of. Even fewer had ever seen it—and lived to tell.
“Ever’body shut up!” Silva roared.
If the shout distracted the giant beast (an overgrown allosaur, Dennis remembered Courtney calling the things), it didn’t show it. It was wholly focused on the smaller animal that started hooting desperately—even as it tugged maniacally at the morsel Silva had baited it with. It apparently never even considered just letting go and running away. With a satisfied gurgle, the super lizard snatched up the smaller creature in its terrible jaws and silenced a last, desolate howl with a mighty crunch. One of Horn’s hammock lines parted and he fell, still clutching the BAR. He actually glanced off the monster’s right flank before landing on the soft, mushy ground. Apparently unhurt, he bolted around to the other side of the thick trunk.
Several limbs were shaken loose and fell when Horn did, and the super lizard appeared not to notice as it chewed a few more times, then raised its head to let the morsel slide down its throat. All still might have been well if that motion hadn’t brought the great predator’s head frighteningly close to the Grik hammock.
It’s like the worms in a apple screamin’ bloody murder when the bird flies by, Dennis thought with a sinking feeling. Unlike the other hammocks, the super lizard could reach that one with only the slightest hop—which it suddenly showed it was capable of. The jaws closed on the canvas package of flesh, and Dennis heard the same shrieks he’d listened to with perverse pleasure on many battlefields. Only this time, they came from “friendly Grik” who’d trusted him to keep them safe—and this whole mess was maybe just a little bit his fault.
The hammock brought larger limbs down with it this time, and the whole cluster of trees shook violently. Pam was bounced from her bed and fell with a startled cry. Half of Stuart Brassey’s support lines parted and he slid out as well. Moe, Lawrence, both his Sa’aarans, and the two ’Cat Marines were already out of their beds and scrambling down the tree trunks.
“Shit,” muttered Silva. He slid his giant rifle to the ground by the same line he’d hoisted it with, slung his web belt and bandoliers around his neck, clutched his hammock to him with one powerful arm, and slashed the line at his feet with his cutlass. The line parted with a snap, and he swayed out over the super lizard just as it stooped to examine the unexpected prize it plucked. To his amazement, Dennis saw one Grik bolt from the hammock and vanish in the dark. Horrible cries still came from within the Grik hammock, keeping the super lizard distracted while Dennis swayed. He wanted to throw himself clear, or at least bounce off the beast as Horn had done, but there was no way. “Shit,” he repeated. Sliding down as far as he could, he dropped on the monster’s back. For just an instant he stood there, teetering—and saw Pam’s terrified face reflected in the firelight. He flashed her a gap-toothed grin and was suddenly inspired to stab down as hard as he could with his trusty cutlass.
That was stupid, he realized when the super lizard reacted as quick as a rattlesnake and spun around with an ear-splitting, indignant screech. Guess I missed anything important, he thought analytically when he was tossed away like a biting fly. He had just enough time to curl into a ball before he hit the ground rolling. A stick—something—poked him in the ribs, but he jumped to his feet just as Horn’s BAR shattered the night with its staccato roar. Dumb-ass! I told him these big’uns’ll soak up ’06 like a sponge—an’ this is the biggest bastard I ever saw!”
The noisy, painful impacts did distract the monster, however, particularly when everyone else opened up as well. Maybe it’ll run away, Silva hoped. Didn’t think so, he thought when it immediately turned to face this latest nuisance. Moe had gathered the shooters behind the farthest of their trio of trees, and they were shooting through the branches. Clearly thinking the tree was its enemy, the monster proceeded to destroy it. Trying very hard not to draw its attention—which he probably couldn’t do with a bugle now that it was so focused on the enemy tree—Silva scrambled for his rifle. There! Still in one piece! All it would’ve taken was a stray step by the five-ton lizard to ruin it.
The tree was almost done, and very quickly the super lizard would figure out that its real enemy was beyond it. The damn thing actually was pretty smart; smart enough to realize their little guard fires were no threat. Maybe it couldn’t see that well at night and the gun flashes likely had it confused, but in just a few seconds it would be chasing his friends in the dark, away from the light Dennis needed to kill it. He pulled a couple of the massive shells from the bandolier and raised the big rifle. Thumbing back the hammer, he aimed for what he hoped was the hip. Having studied the anatomy of super lizards with some interest, he wasn’t sure he could break its neck with one of the hard lead bullets he carried the most of—and he couldn’t tell in the dark if he’d chosen one of his “specials” with the bronze core penetrator.
“Hey, you stupid, walkin’ backhoe!” he bellowed. “Get a load o’ this!” He fired. The recoil of the quarter-pound bullet atop nearly three hundred grains of first-class mil-spec black powder almost slammed him off his feet and actually left him a little dizzy for a moment. The super lizard staggered, its left leg trying to drop out from under it. With a mighty squeal of rage and agony that saturated the jungle around them and finally seemed to shake the rain from the heavy clouds above, the monster managed to straighten. Then it turned toward Dennis Silva.
“Jeez. I think this sucker kicks even worse than the old Doom Whomper,” Dennis muttered, thumbing back the hammer and slapping the trapdoor breechblock up and forward. The big, empty shell casing clanged away amid a wisp of smoke as the extractor slammed it against the raised ejector knob toward the rear of the receiver. Dennis shoved another cartridge in the chamber and clapped the breech closed. All this was done with muscle memory, before he was completely recovered from the first shot. He could hear yelling and shooting but it barely registered, didn’t signify. He looked up.
“Goddam!” he squeaked. The super lizard was almost on him, its mouth wide to gulp him down, strands of bloody saliva glistening in the firelight. Dennis snatched the big rifle back to his shoulder and fired in the general direction of the upper back of the great mouth that had grown to encompass all things.
He was still standing there a few moments later, staring dumbly at the enormous dead head in front of him, when Pam Cross flung her arms around him, plastering herself to his side. “You’re somethin’ else,” she cried tearfully.
“He’s a whopper, ain’t he?” Dennis finally managed. Then his voice grew hard. “Yeah, I am somethin’ else: a jerk.” He caught Abel’s eye as their teenage leader approached. “This was my fault,” he admitted.
“How on earth?”
“I tied a piece of fish to that line hangin’ from Gunny Horn’s hammock. I . . . sorta left the bait that lured this big bugger up. I only meant it as a gag.”
“Why, you . . .” Horn began, but Moe stopped the Marine before he could take a swing.
“Some gag,” Silva continued bitterly. “Almost got us all killed.”
“Good gag,” Moe countered unexpectedly. He poked at the super lizard with Silva’s cutlass. He must’ve pulled it out. “Dat booger runnin’ roun’, he catch our smell, come for us. Him see dat little lizard hoppin roun’ save us. Udderwise, first t’ing we know ’bout him when he eatin’ dem damn Griks or somebody else.”
Silva wasn’t convinced. He didn’t get introspective very often, but he still figured he’d screwed up. “How many o’ those Grik fellas did we lose? Is everybody else okay?”
“Two of the Grik died of their wounds,” Abel said stiffly. “Pokey escaped. Barely. No one else was seriously injured. A few bumps and bruises.”
“I guess that’s somethin.” Silva looked at Cook. “I’ll accept whatever punishment you choose to fling at me . . . sir.”
“But it good gag!” Moe persisted. “Dem Griks gonna die, sleepin’ dat low, no matter what.” He shrugged. “You all miss bigger t’ing! Dat damn super lizard smell smoke way before he smell us.” He gestured around. “Out here, back home . . . anywhere . . . smoke mean fire. Fire mean burn, choke, die. Even dat little rope tugger come troo smoke. How come both them boogers come rompin’ up like expectin’ somethin’ ta eat?”
Stuart Brassey looked at Abel. “Because, around here at least, they’re used to fires—cookfires, perhaps. Fires that often mean food, or at least scraps.”
“Indeed,” Abel said, sounding very much like Courtney Bradford when the man was deep in thought. He looked at Silva. “No punishment, but no more gags, if you please. At least not without discussing them first.”
“So . . . what do we do now?” Horn asked. “Our camp’s pretty well trashed. No telling what else’ll come running up to that big pile of meat.”
“I hate to add more bad news,” Brassey said, “but the transmitter casing is shattered. I think our big visitor may have stepped on it when it fell from the tree. I don’t know if I can salvage it or not.” The Imperial midshipman had become an avid electronics student and was their de facto wireless operator.
“That don’t matter,” Silva said. “We was bound to lose contact sooner or later—an’ it ain’t like anybody can help us now, anyway.” He looked at Horn. “No reason to get all worked up either. We ought’a be safe as can be for the night.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry about the gag, but maybe Moe’s right. Super lizards are top dog wherever their territory is. Blood or not, nothin’ll pester us here until he starts smellin’ dead, instead of like a big-ass super lizard.”
“So . . . what do we do? Use the big bastard for a pillow?”
“Can if you want, if you can stand the smell. He is a bit rank. Besides”—Dennis’s expression lightened—“meat’s meat, and we already got fires.” He shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe a little smoke an’ cookin’ meat’ll lure up whatever else is out here startin’ fires that critters ain’t afraid of.”