Rising Tides (22 page)

They’d arrived prepared for three possibilities. The one Mallory favored at first hadn’t involved any restorative work to the ship itself, beyond possibly getting her cargo cranes operating again. They were steam-powered, and despite the flooding it looked like they could probably return the boilers to their duty. He’d envisioned using most of
Tolson
’s crew to clear an airstrip in the jungle and simply setting the crates over the side, assembling the planes, and flying them out. There were several logistical problems with that plan, not least of which being that he was the only one who knew how to fly a P-40. The other pilots he’d brought along would require extensive training just to get one of the hot ships off the ground. They’d also discovered that, of the twenty-eight planes aboard
Santa Catalina
, only twelve of the crates were actually in the water. It depended a lot on which ones they were—for example, if they were all fuselage or all wing crates, that was twelve planes that were almost surely write-offs to start with. If they were evenly distributed, that could mean only six were ruined. Then there were the extra engine crates, the tires, spare propellers and drop tanks.... There was just too much to leave behind, even if all his pilots could fly. Best case, they’d probably get four planes out and flown to Baalkpan, and then have to ferry the pilots all the way back to Chill-chaap. Even if they managed to salvage only sixteen planes, the process might take months. The final coup de grâce was administered to that plan when Ben went ashore and inspected the ground.

“What’s the deal?” Chapelle asked.

“There’s no way, that’s what the deal is. Look, even if the ground was flat enough—which it’s not—and even if we could clear enough of the jungle—which I don’t think we can—the dirt here will never make an airstrip. Even if we had heavy equipment, bulldozers, rollers, you name it, there’s nothing to pack down but a billion years of rotten loam. Even if you could pack it down hard enough to get a plane off, it would rut the stuff up so bad you’d have to start all over for the next one.”

“So basically that’s out?”

“Afraid so,” Ben replied. “The only interesting thing we found was a bunch of crunched-up ’Cat bones with a few weapons lying around.” He looked at Gilbert. “Didn’t you fellas turn Rasik-Alcas loose near here?” Gilbert nodded. “Well, it doesn’t look like he made it very far.”

“A shockin’ tragidee,” Gilbert said matter-of-factly. “An’ he was such a
nice
fella too. I s’pect ol’ Rolak an’ Queen Maraan’ll be plumb heartbroke ta learn o’ his dee-mise.”

Nearly everyone looked at Gilbert. Most had never suspected the “mouse” was capable of such ... profound sarcasm. He returned their stares with raised eyebrows. “Hey,” he said, “he was alive an’ happy as a clam last time I seen him. What’s his name, Koratin, put him ashore with food an’ weapons. He didn’t kill-eem either.”

“Well ... anyway,” Chapelle continued, “that leaves us with Plan B. We offload the crates onto barges and float them downriver. You say they’re about four tons apiece? We should be able to put two crates, a complete plane, aboard
Tolson
, and take it to Baalkpan. Certainly not my first choice either because of the time involved, not to mention I’m not positive we can even hoist them aboard. The heaviest thing we’ve ever lifted is cannons. The crates weigh a little over half again as much. Then there’s the trim to consider. The ship’ll be top-heavy as hell.”

“Yeah. I’m not keen on that one for a lot of reasons,” Mallory agreed. “It might be quicker than building an airstrip and flying them out two or three or four at a time, but it’s even more dangerous to a lot more people.”

“So that pretty much leaves us with Plan C,” Chapelle said, looking speculatively around the compartment at the others present, mostly’Cats. They had the manpower and the knowledge to do the job. Most of those present had been involved in salvaging
Walker
, and there were a lot more workers still with the squadron waiting to come upriver. But it would be dangerous. His gaze settled on the Mice and Laney. It would be up to them, and Lieutenant Monk when he arrived, to figure out if it was mechanically feasible. “We refloat the ship and steam the whole damn thing the hell out of here.”

That night the “natives” grew restless. They’d been restless the night before, but hadn’t been prepared to do anything about it. The weird creatures with glowing things had slain the Great Mother, after all, so surely they were stronger than they appeared. The death of the Great Mother frightened them, but stirred no desire for revenge; another female would eventually rise to take her place out of necessity. None ever aspired to, for those that bred grew to such proportions they could never leave the water again except to lay eggs. Besides, she couldn’t help but eat her young just as readily as any other predator, so her social life was inevitably somewhat limited.

No, the natives were not particularly angry, though the strangers had disturbed their repose. But during the day, while they swam the shallows, hunting mud-grubbers, walking birds, bugs, and small shore creatures, the visitors didn’t go away. The natives assumed they would. Some were old enough to remember the strangers that had brought the Warren to this place. They had looked much like some of those now here and
They
had gone away. Others that came later went away as well. It was expected that these would also leave. Instead, in a single day these had completely remodeled their cozy home! They’d destroyed much long and careful labor; the redirection of vines and limbs that had ultimately formed the lush, comfortable, life-sustaining canopy that allowed the natives to move about upon the surface of their Warren even while the moisture-sucking orb traversed the empty sky. That
did
anger them, and collectively they decided they must
make
these strangers go. Or destroy them. Besides, perhaps they tasted good.

Moe heard something. Kind of a
slurp-thump
in the gloom. None of the other guards nearby seemed to have noticed, but then they hadn’t spent their entire lives listening to the dark, straining to hear things that would eat them. They were good warriors, he knew that. Show them something to fight and they would do well. But they were often far too “civilized” to notice things on their own. He heard the sound again and tensed, more firmly grasping the musket he’d been given. He liked the musket for the dark. It didn’t reload much faster than his heavy crossbow, but the wicked bayonet on the end might be quite handy. He strained his ears and heard more
slurp-thumps
in quick succession. Numerous ... things were coming aboard, and they weren’t coming to stare. The sounds the night before had possessed a tentative, skittish quality. These were deliberately stealthy, purposeful. He knew the difference well. One was the sound of uncertainty, fear. The sound of prey. This was the sound of a predator.

Quietly, he hissed, drawing the attention of the other guards. “Show no fear. Move slow, but not scared-like. Stand-to careful.”

Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At nodded and motioned for the others to rise. The guard here consisted of 2nd Squad, with six Marines—not counting Moe and herself. They were basically protecting the doorway to the lounge, while 4th Squad was forward, guarding the equipment just aft of the fo’c’sle. “Bayonets fixed?” she whispered. “Very well. Slowly bring your cartridge boxes around to the front. You two”—she gestured at a couple of Marines—“pick up a couple of lanterns, but don’t point them aft until I give the word. Also, no one is to fire without orders. Understood? ”

There were nods, and the Marines hefted the lanterns almost casually. Bekiaa noted that one was shaking just a little. “Mr.... ah, Moe?” she asked. No one knew what Moe’s real name was—least of all Moe. Before Silva started calling him that, he’d simply been known as “the Hunter.”

Moe nodded.

“Now!” Bekiaa said.

The Marines pointed the directional lanterns aft, and the first thing Bekiaa saw was a swarm of bright yellow eyes that not only reflected the light but almost seemed to intensify it. There was a collective shriek that sounded like the big circular saw at the Baalkpan shipyard hitting a knot, and slim, webbed, almost grotesquely clawed hands moved to protect the brilliant eyes. The whole aft part of the ship was working with the things! She couldn’t see much, but they were shaped like a cross between the huge monster they’d killed the day before and some kind of furless, slimy-skinned Grik! They weren’t as large as Grik—they didn’t seem quite as big as she was—but they’d gathered with sufficient stealth that clearly even Moe hadn’t caught on for a while.

“What do we do, Lieuten-aant?” a Marine nervously asked.

“Hold your fire!” The things had recoiled from the light and for the moment just stood there, blinking huge eyelids. Her own vision was clearing a little. The sudden glare of the lanterns and the even brighter yellow orbs had left afterimages swimming through her sight. Like Grik, she concluded, but not. Webbed feet and hands; a longer, slimmer tail with something like a fin down its back. Their coloring was dark, with lighter splotches, and they weren’t as heavily muscled as Grik. Their handclaws were even longer, as she’d first observed, but their teeth not as wicked.

“What are we going to do?” the Marine demanded again.

“I don’t know!” Bekiaa almost shouted. The creatures stirred at her harsh voice, but didn’t advance.

“I think, of a sudden, they not know either,” Moe said.

Bekiaa took a deep breath and advanced a single step. “Hello,” she said, hoping her voice was firm but nonthreatening. The creatures babbled excitedly among themselves in a croaking, grunting gibberish, punctuated with high-pitched exclamations.

“Maker!” Bekiaa hissed. “I wish Mister Braad-furd was here!”

The door behind them opened suddenly, and Dean Laney came out, groggy eyed, already fumbling with his belt. Apparently he’d been awakened by a call of nature. Noticing that the guard was all silent and standing, he looked aft at the scene illuminated by the lantern. “Jumpin’ Jesus!” he practically squealed as he pulled his “new” .45 from his pocket.

“No, Laay-nee!” Bekiaa yelled.

“Help!” Laney screeched over his shoulder, at the lounge. “There’s Grik-toads takin’ over the ship!”

“No!” Bekiaa screamed again, just as Laney began firing as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Lieutenant Bekiaa-Sab-At was a veteran of fierce fighting; she had to be to have become a Marine officer. She’d never
led
before, however, beyond an NCO level. She’d never been “in charge.” Still, she knew Captain Chapelle would back her up regardless of her decision, and she couldn’t possibly screw things up any worse than Laney had just done. Over the next eternally long split seconds, she contemplated several alternatives. With Laney’s shots, several of the creatures fell writhing on the deck and quite a few others simply leaped over the side in panic. Most seemed stunned. A few crouched and advanced purposefully, either armed just with their amazingly long, curved claws or clutching a stone or jagged piece of bone.

Feeling the heft of the musket in her hands, she was sorely tempted to shoot Laney down, or at least bayonet him ... a little. She’d established that the creatures could communicate among themselves, and she might have been able to make some kind of nonviolent contact with them. If they saw her kill or wound the one who’d harmed some of them, the ... opportunity ... she’d sensed might be restored. That was a serious gamble. It was obvious the creatures had come to kill them. Only discovery and the bright lights had given them pause. Maybe a hasty defensive formation, strengthened by the others as they awakened and emerged from the lounge would work? Perhaps the creatures would respect the threat and the reluctance to harm more of them implied by that? Impossible. That would leave the work group backed up against the superstructure with dwindling options. There was no telling how many of the things there were, how many more might come, the longer this confrontation lasted. If they could climb the hull—how did they do
that
?—they could climb amidships too, and drop on them from above.