Tale of the Thunderbolt by E.E. Knight Read Free Book Online

Valentine, had a strong dash of Native American blood in him, giving his title an ethnic twist which he bore with good humor. Though not a tall man, he had a wide wrestler’s torso supported by pillarlike legs. Unlike his body, his face was soft and rounded, a textbook example of the kind of face described as “apple-cheeked.” The Chief had been an informer for Southern Command since his youth, but until this run limited his service to simple intelligence-gathering.
    The rain had washed the air clean of the usual fetid river odors. All Valentine could smell was the vaguely metallic tang of the ship, new paint, and the Chief’s burning tobacco.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Chief, can’t sleep?” Valentine looked back over his shoulder. The sentry probably couldn’t hear them over the weather, but no sense taking chances.
    â€œNo, the sound of rain on this biscuit tin keeps me awake sometimes, so I just come up and watch it fall.”
    â€œHow’s that fuel pump coming? I’d really like to get under way. The men are getting anxious.”
    Landburg looked up, swallowed. Valentine gave him a nod.
    â€œThey are, huh?”
    The engineer pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger when overhauling a problem. He would pull out his lower lip then release it so it hit his upper lip and teeth with a tiny plip. “Well, I reckon good news shouldn’t wait” — plip. “I got sick of waiting on the part, so I found something I could modify with just a little machining. I’ll try it out right now, if you want” — plip — “and we can let the captain know if it works. These delays have been driving the old man nuts.”
    â€œGood work, Chief.”
    Valentine exhaled tiredly and left the Chief to finish his tobacco and thoughts. He was committed now. By this time tomorrow, he would be at sea, with only Ahn-Kha and the Chief set against the captain and crew, backed up by the Kurian system that controlled them. Were it not for the rock-steady support of Ahn-Kha, as imperturbable as a mountain, and the Chief’s wily aid, his quest would have foundered long ago.
    He climbed one of the metal staircases running up the castle side to the bridge and asked the watch officer to call him at dawn, and retired to his shared cabin. Originally only he and the captain were given their own cabins, but after he saw the crowded conditions on board, he invited Lieutenant Post to share his cabin. Post got quietly drunk each night, duty or no, and Valentine felt for him after hearing some of the gibes hurled with casual viciousness by the other wardroom members.
    He looked down at Post, a sleeping ruin of what must once have been a physical archetype of a man. His six-three frame didn’t fit on the bed, from his salt-and-pepper hair to rarely washed feet, breathing in the restless, shallow sleep of alcoholic oblivion. As usual, he hadn’t bothered to undress before turning in, and would attend to his duties tomorrow in a wrinkled uniform, permanent stains marking the armpits and back. Post ignored even the captain’s comments about his appearance, but in some fit of contrariness shaved each morning after Valentine had once privately mentioned over coffee that he would have a terrible time keeping his marines clean shaved if his lieutenant sprouted three days’ worth of stubble.
    Valentine sat on his untouched cot and began to remove his shoes. Above him, a railed shelf held his meager collection of books. Father Max’s gilt-edged Bible — the old Northern Minnesota priest had raised him after his family’s murder, and died of pneumonia while he was training Fox-trot Company. The Padre had willed the aged tome to him. It had arrived while he and Duvalier were seeking the Twisted Cross on the Great Plains. Next to the Bible were his battered old Livy histories, brought down when he first joined up with the Cause eight years ago. He owned