Distant Thunders

CHAPTER 1

Late March, 1943

An oppressive smoky haze from the epic battle and resultant, seemingly endless funeral pyres clung to the savaged city and the wide expanse of Baalkpan Bay. Almost three weeks after the Grik invaders churned themselves to offal against Baalkpan’s defenses, the smoke and sod-Aden smell of wet, burnt wood still lingered like a sad, ethereal shroud. Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the “Amer-i-caan” Clan, and Supreme Commander of all the combined Allied forces, surveyed the somber scene from Donaghey ’s hastily repaired quarterdeck as the battered frigate tacked on light, humid, northerly airs toward the mouth of the bay. The water remained choked with the shattered remains of the Grik fleet, causing a real menace to navigation. Occasionally, Donaghey thumped and shivered when she struck some piece of floating wreckage and it clunked and shuddered down her side as she passed. It was the first time Matt had returned to the water since that terrible night when the Battle of Baalkpan achieved its cataclysmic peak. Much of the flashing intensity and grief he’d felt had slowly begun to ebb, but the brief interval and the dreary day conspired to reinforce his gloomy mood.

By any objective measure, the battle had resulted in a momentous victory for the Allies, but it came at a terrible cost. The mighty Japanese battle cruiser Amagi had accompanied the Grik host, and her shells had shredded the remaining Lemurian ships in the bay and pounded the carefully prepared fortifications to matchsticks and heaps of earth. Lemurian losses had been horrifying, and both precious, aged American destroyers-survivors of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet that had been swept by a mysterious squall from one war (and world) smack into the middle of another-had ultimately been sunk in the battle. Mahan (DD-102) was a total loss, having virtually disintegrated herself by ramming the Japanese ship with a load of depth charges set to explode. That blow to Amagi had probably been mortal, in retrospect, but she’d still been under way and apparently on the verge of escape. She was finally destroyed by the combination of a lucky, forgotten mine, and the dogged determination of battered Walker (DD- 163) and her crew, who fought to their final shell despite their own damage and casualties.

USS Walker was more fortunate than her sister. She’d managed to crawl back to the shipyard before succumbing to her grievous wounds, and even now, an effort was under way to refloat her. Amagi lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure protruding from the water as a constant, grim reminder of that terrible day and night.

Matt himself commanded Donaghey for this brief sortie, and it was a slightly awkward situation. He was familiar with Donaghey ’s historical design, but knew little about actually operating a square-rigged ship. Her assigned captain, Greg Garrett-Matt’s former gunnery officer-had become quite a sailor, but he was still recovering from serious wounds. Russ Chapelle, a former Mahan torpedoman, had learned quite a bit, however. He’d been the ship’s master gunner and was elevated to “salig maa-stir” (sailing master), or executive officer, after Donaghey ’s own Lemurian exec was killed. Garrett would get his old ship back, or a newer one, when he recovered, but for now, Russ was creditably taking up the slack.

Matt knew Garrett chafed at his inactivity, but his wounds were severe, and Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker insisted he heal completely before exerting himself. All Sandra’s patients were important to her, but Greg was human, and humans were an increasingly rare species. The titanic struggle-seemingly destined to encompass the entire locally known world-had already claimed many of the mere handful of humans actively engaged in aiding what was clearly the side of right. No one knew how many Japanese sailors the Grik had saved from Amagi, but even if the Grik hadn’t eaten them they were, of course, not friends.

According to the charts they’d captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings, the Grik could replace their losses in a shockingly short time. They bred like rabbits and Courtney Bradford theorized that their young reached mature lethality within three to five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival-not to mention victory-they needed all the skills and experience of every last destroyerman. Their window of opportunity would be fleeting and there weren’t nearly enough hands and minds for all the work that lay ahead. Matt found it ironic that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who’d wound up here-men once considered the dregs of the Navy by some-were now the indispensable core of innovators: the trainers of the native force they’d need to see them through.

Great work had already been accomplished. They’d begun an industrial revolution of sorts, transforming the nomadic, insular, isolationist Lemurians-people who still reminded many destroyermen of a cross between cats and monkeys-into seasoned professional soldiers and sailors-but those ranks of professionals had been cruelly thinned. Recruitment was constant and Captain Reddy had secured important alliances that would supply the raw material to rebuild their forces, but it would take time to train and equip them, and in spite of their great victory, the war had just begun. The combined human survivors of Walker, Mahan, and S-19 now numbered just over a hundred souls-constituting the known (friendly) human population of this new world-unless somehow, they could befriend the “visitors” who’d appeared that morning beyond the mouth of the bay.

Matt didn’t know if their visitors could or would help them, but as much as they needed more friends, they certainly didn’t want more enemies. According to Chief Gray, the last meeting between Allied forces and the ships lingering in the strait had been… strained. That was one reason Matt wanted Donaghey for this meeting. She was the only “home-built” U.S. Navy ship yet made seaworthy again and, scarred as she was, she was the only ship available that should be a match for one of the visitors’ powerful steam frigates. Of Donaghey ’s two sisters, they’d try to salvage Kas-Ra-Ar ’s guns, but the ship was gone forever. Tolson had also very nearly sunk. She’d require much more yard time before she was ready for sea. Several of the massive aircraft carrier-size, seagoing Lemurian Homes had returned after the battle, but impressive as they were, they were too slow to join the delegation. That didn’t mean Donaghey was approaching the mouth of the bay alone.

Nearly two dozen “prize” ships were taken in serviceable condition after the battle. It would have seemed a great accomplishment, and it was-that they’d been alive to take them. Nevertheless, they’d been the only repairable ships of almost three hundred similar ones-virtual copies of the venerable British East Indiamen their lines were stolen from two centuries before-that had attacked Baalkpan packed with as many as one hundred and fifty thousand Grik warriors. No one would ever know for certain how many there’d actually been. Some of the terrifying, semireptilian Grik had escaped at the end, and many thousands died in the sprawling land battle that had surrounded the city. Far more met their fate in the sea, and the water of the bay had churned for days as the voracious flasher fish fed upon the dead.

Four of those ships now sailed with Donaghey, quickly armed with a few cannons each, their once red hulls repainted black with a white stripe between their gunports, according to Matt’s new Navy regulations. They’d been cleaned as well as possible and their crews were glad to have them, but they’d never forget who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners would taint the ships forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed.

Matt leaned on the windward taffrail, still gouged and splintered from battle, and focused his intense green eyes on the squadron of strange ships anchored outside the bay-just beyond the reach of the grim-faced gunners serving the heavy cannon of Fort Atkinson. They did look formidable. All were warships, with three masts and sleek-looking hulls. Large half-moon boxes for their paddle wheels and tall, smoke-streaming funnels marred their pleasing lines, but lent a determined, businesslike aspect to their appearance. Matt was impressed by their sophistication. The Empire hadn’t quite caught up with the “modern world” the destroyermen had lost, but, in some ways at least, it had advanced to within a generation or two.

The banners streaming above Fort Atkinson caught his attention momentarily: the Stainless Banner of the Trees, Rolak’s Aryaalan flag, the gold pennant the Sularans had adopted for their own-and the Stars and Stripes, of course, fluttered from separate poles above the reinforced fortification. The sight of that last flag, and the fact that it still flew after all they’d been through, couldn’t help but stir his soul.

Among the sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships or “Homes” were like nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed co-equal status as “High Chiefs” among their peers. Before the war, those Homes often had clan devices or representative colors, but they hadn’t used flags. As “chief” of Walker, regardless of her comparative tiny size, Captain Reddy had been afforded the same status as High Chief of the American Clan. With the coming of the war and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. An alliance started to take shape that included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had been the first leader by default, since his “nation” hosted the other chiefs and, for a time, was the seat of all industry. The city on the southern coast of Borno was also where the first truly decisive engagement had been fought. With Nakja-Mur’s death, the leadership of Baalkpan fell to Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa, or Big Sal, as the Americans called her. She’d been the first seagoing Home of the Lemurian People to make contact with the Americans.

Amazingly, considering the disparate cultures, a true alliance began to form. Not one merely of expedience, but one designed to unite all willing Lemurians. Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa ’s High Chief, had been the first Lemurian to understand the significance and unifying power of flags. He’d directed the creation of the Banner of the Trees, and an infant political union began to take shape.

The stainless Banner of the Trees was composed of a circle of golden tree symbols, one for each Allied Home, surrounding a simple blue star representing the Americans. The star was in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that the Americans had been the organizing force, the glue holding everything together during those early, terrible times. Also, unlike the trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than a city-state, personified by a single ship or place. The precedent for that had been set when it became apparent that Captain Reddy was High Chief over both Walker and Mahan, something difficult for the ’Cats to understand at first, but clearly true. Matt was also acclaimed commander of the first Allied Expeditionary Force and later, all Allied forces. Thus it didn’t seem wrong that even though Mahan was on the bottom of the sea and Walker might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag.

Besides, the United States Navy wasn’t dead.

Just as Matt once gave Nakja-Mur a ship he’d captured early in the war so Baalkpan might be represented at sea, so had the bulk of the prizes taken after the Battle of Baalkpan been given, without reservation, to the United States Navy-a navy represented only by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy and his surviving crews. Every Lemurian who joined that crew became a member of the United States Navy and swore to defend a vaguely understood “constitution” against all enemies. Captain Reddy had insisted on that. Therefore, wherever they came from, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a Navy man and a member of the Amer-i-caan Clan for as long as they kept that oath and followed the Americans’ strict rules.

Nothing like those rules, or “regulations” as they were called, had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. The People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, but otherwise, they did as they pleased. No Lemurian leader ever imagined many of their people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. The thing was, though the rules were strict, the protections against abuse of power inherent in those rules were equally strict. To their surprise, far more volunteered for the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee” than for the planned Combined Navy of the Alliance, to be composed of the rest of the prizes and new construction.

Certainly, prestige was a factor, but results were convincing as well. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals who watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like, and it soon became clear the Combined Navy was a nonstarter. For better or worse, the entire Navy-minus the Homes, of course-became Matt’s clan, and above every United States ship flew the Stars and Stripes.

That morning, nosing through the last of the debris in the mouth of the bay, everyone crewing Donaghey and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled-and proud-as well.

Raising his binoculars, he focused them on the strange ships they’d sortied to meet. Their guns weren’t run out and they were at a distinct disadvantage while anchored, but the men he saw upon their decks appeared tensely vigilant.

“It will be Captain Jenks, I shouldn’t wonder,” came a small voice. It sounded almost embarrassed.

Captain Reddy glanced at the tiny form beside him. Large jade eyes regarded him with something akin to trepidation, and long, carefully groomed golden locks framed her elflike face. Gone was the tattered waif they’d rescued from Talaud Island, south of Mindanao, with a handful of other civilians and a few S-boat submariners. In her place was this well-dressed, almost regal… child… possessed of a near adult maturity and resolve. Despite her size and age, her bearing-and presence-made it easy to believe Rebecca Anne McDonald was, well, a princess of sorts. As it turned out, she was the daughter of the governor-emperor of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and that explained quite a lot that had mystified them before: such as why an entire squadron of warships would search so long and hard for her in a region they hadn’t visited in over two hundred years.

“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.

Maybe his wounds slowed him down, but Matt had seen him shoulder more and more responsibility-sometimes of his own accord-even before he was injured. It was as if he’d taken his role as Walker ’s Hercules to heart, and saw it as his personal duty to protect her survivors as best he could-with the possible exception of his primary rival,

Chief Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney. His protectiveness was particularly focused on the little girl clinging to his back. She had

… done something… to Dennis Silva, and Matt believed the big man would somehow contrive, with his bare hands, to destroy the ship they were about to visit if it threatened the girl in any way.

When all the passengers were aboard, Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites advanced the throttle and the launch burbled across the choppy sea to Achilles ’ side. The closer they drew to the “British” ships, the more impressed Matt became. Each Imperial frigate seemed quite well made, and mounted twelve to twenty guns that looked somewhat larger than the American frigates’ improved eighteen pounders. Maybe twenty-fours? But the ships simply couldn’t be as imaginatively and redundantly reinforced as his own Lemurian-built frigates, and their steam power would be an advantage only until their vulnerable paddle wheels were damaged. Then they’d become a terrible liability. They were more than a match for his “prizes,” though, and he had only one frigate to oppose them if it came to that. Of course, there was no way they could enter the bay past the guns of Fort Atkinson and the other big guns they’d quickly emplaced on the southeast entrance. For a melancholy moment, he considered that Walker could have taken all of them by herself, but he shook that off. He didn’t want to fight them, and despite Gray’s assessment, he doubted he’d have to. Most likely, they just wanted to take the girl and go, but it was always wise to consider possibilities-particularly when they weren’t necessarily going to get what they wanted.

The barge bumped alongside and Captain Reddy hopped across to an extensive ladder arrangement, complete with manropes that had been rigged while they crossed. Climbing to the top, he saluted the curiously familiar ensign, with the red and white stripes and Union Jack in the field at the ship’s stern, then saluted a man he suspected was Captain Jenks, by the description Gray had given him.

“Captain Matthew Reddy, United States Navy. Supreme Commander, by acclamation, of the Combined Allied Forces united under the Banner of the Trees. I request permission to come aboard, sir.”

A side party was present, with drums and a pair of trumpets, but they made no sound. The man in the elaborately laced white coat with braided mustaches frowned, then returned the salute with a curious rigidity. “Of course,” he said gruffly, apparently somewhat taken aback, “do come aboard.” He gestured at the side party. “And please forgive our incivility,” he added when he recognized a much cleaned-up Chief Gray reaching the top of the ladder. “We were under the impression your people preferred informal greetings.”

“An impression you got when you were rude to us right after a fight,” Gray growled over his shoulder. He took the girl from Silva, who’d passed her up from below. Turning, he set her on the deck and glared at Jenks. He pointedly didn’t salute the flag or the Imperial officer. Jenks stiffened, but then beamed at the girl before him. At the signal of another officer, the drums rolled loudly and the trumpets blasted a rapid and again tantalizingly familiar fanfare.

“Your Highness!” Jenks exclaimed, going to a knee and sweeping off his hat when the trumpets subsided. Everyone in the vicinity did the same, leaving the Americans standing awkwardly beside the girl.

At that instant, Silva stuck his head over the rail and gawked around, festooned with the evidence of his wounds. His hands were bandaged and blood seeped through the cloth of his white tunic. The garish black patch covering his eye, and the gap-toothed grin that split his bearded face gave him a decidedly piratical air. Faced with an opportunity, he proceeded to prove that nothing could temper his customary irreverent exuberance. “Goddamn,” he muttered in the silence, “the skipper just hops aboard and a whole shipload o’ limeys surrenders to him!” Jenks’s face flushed.

“Silva!” Matt hissed.

“Rise!” Rebecca Anne McDonald said loudly, forcing down a giggle. Behind her, the rest of the occupants of the launch continued to arrive on deck-all of them, even the Lemurians, saluting the flag.

Jenks’s face turned even redder, if possible, perhaps with shame over his pettiness. He stood, followed by his officers, and took a step forward. “I’m so glad!” he said to Rebecca, ignoring the other visitors. “Surely it’s a miracle. We’ve found you at last! We’d nearly lost hope, searching much farther and longer than most believed you could possibly survive. Thank God I decided to search among the Ape Folk, thinking they may have taken you in. Only chance brought us to their huge ship, which told us strangers were also searching for others of their kind in waters you may have reached! I believed it possible they may have found you and hurried here, but I honestly cherished little remaining hope!”

“You have found me,” the girl agreed, “and I give thanks for your diligence. Sadly, of all those who accompanied me on that ill-fated voyage, only one remained to aid me. Injured though he was, I could not have survived without him. Alas, even he was denied this happy reunion.” Rebecca spoke of O’Casey, who’d begged her not to mention him, since he was, after all, a wanted man. But she was determined that he receive his due and, ultimately, a pardon. What she’d said would suffice, however. For now, she’d let him remain anonymous.

“A noble man, surely,” Jenks commiserated, “but at least the Empire has you safely back! Their Majesties will be so relieved!”

“How are my parents?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

“Well enough when we left, five months ago, though desolate with worry and grief. Your father blamed himself, you see, for sending you to stay with your uncle, the governor of the Western Isles.”

“He sent me to protect me!” the girl insisted.

Jenks glanced at his other visitors again, perhaps wondering how much they’d learned about his nation. “Of course, but…”

Matt cleared his throat. “Excuse me, please. This is all very touching and even fascinating, but”-he pointed toward land-“we’ve recently fought a great battle against a rather large fleet of Grik. I understand you know about them?”

Jenks seemed annoyed by the interruption, but nodded. “From legends, the old logs of the founders.” His eyes went wide when Lawrence scrambled aboard. Wide with surprise, but not shock or horror, Matt noticed.

“The young lady… Her Highness… said you know about his people,” Matt said, pointing at the tiger-striped creature gazing about with open curiosity. “I even gather you’ve been on expeditions to some of their lands. What do you think of them?”

Jenks waved his hand. “Formidable predators, but relatively peaceful. Slow breeders-there aren’t many of them on their rocky, jungle isles-mildly intelligent and capable of limited cooperative behavior, but incapable of speech.”

Lawrence bowed low and said, “How do you do?”

Jenks’s mouth clamped shut and he goggled at the creature before him.

“I must present my particular friend Lawrence,” Rebecca added quickly. “He contributed as much to my survival as any other. He speaks very well indeed, as long as he needn’t use Ms or Bs or other such words that require… lips like ours, I suppose. I haven’t learned much of his language, I’m afraid.”

“Shows what you know, Jenks,” Gray jabbed.

Matt sent him a stern look before turning back to Jenks. “The creatures we fight are a different version of Lawrence: bigger, stronger, just as formidably… armed, but who breed like rabbits-you know rabbits?” Jenks nodded. “They breed like rabbits and have mastered ships like the one they stole from your ancient squadron. Now they have cannons, and their only purpose seems to be eradicating all other life they encounter. With me so far?” When Jenks nodded again, Matt continued. “We killed a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty thousand of ’em here a few weeks ago and we lost a lot of people doing it. We have a lot of work to do and not much time to do it. We have to take the fight to them, or someday they’ll be back.”

“My heartiest congratulations for your victory,” Jenks said. “And, of course, you have my country’s most profound gratitude for rescuing and protecting Her Highness.”

“Thank you, Captain…”

“It’s ‘Commodore,’ actually,” interrupted one of Jenks’s officers. Like the others, he’d remained silent so far, wearing a variety of expressions. There’d been no real introductions on either side and Matt suspected Jenks’s officers were as surprised by this breach of protocol as he was. But things were moving fast.

Matt frowned. “Look,” he said, “my point is, if they roll us up, they’ll keep going. Eventually they’ll find you too.”

“I’m confident you’ll make short work of them, Captain,” Jenks said, somewhat condescendingly, “if the carnage I saw on the little island where I met Mr. Gray is any indication.”

“That fight was against three ships, Jenks,” Gray growled. “ Hundreds of ’em came here.”

“Hundreds of their ships,” Matt confirmed, “each filled with hundreds of their warriors. Creatures that look like Lawrence here, but who fight with swords and spears, and now cannons too.”

“I’m afraid that can be none of my concern, Captain.”

“Maybe not yet, but if we lose, it will be someday. Guaranteed.”

“Perhaps. What are you suggesting?” Jenks paused, his mustaches twitching over a smirk. “Surely not an alliance?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Jenks shook his head. “I am sorry, Captain Reddy, but that’s simply impossible. Our duty was to find the princess and we’ve done so. Her safety is thanks in large part to you, I confess, but our duty now is to return her where she belongs. I’m sensible to the possibility that your arguments may even have… merit, but I don’t have the authority to get involved. You must understand, my squadron has been engaged in this search for quite some time; time it has been unavailable for… other pressing duties. We have even suffered the loss of one of our number, to a leviathan”-he glanced curiously at Gray, as if wondering whether the Bosun had deliberately misled them when they met-“so I seriously don’t know what difference my three poor ships might make to your cause.” His face betrayed the belief that his “poor” ships would probably make quite a difference indeed. “In any event, even if I had the authority I’d be obliged to refuse. As I’ve clearly stated, my duty is to return Her Highness to the bosom of her family and no other consideration can prevail.”

Rebecca had listened with growing astonishment. Suddenly, she spoke and all eyes fell on her diminutive form. “Then I will give you something to consider, Commodore Jenks: I refuse to abandon my friends, my saviors, while it is in my power to aid them. They are not proposing an alliance only with you, you silly man. You already refused Mr. Gray’s request for aid when your small squadron might have made a difference. I have proposed they seek an alliance with our country!”

“Ridiculous!” erupted the other officer who’d spoken before, and Matt looked at him again. He wore a mustache much like Jenks’s, but so did many others. It seemed to be the style. Unlike the others, he seemed stuffed into his uniform and wore little braid. The braid was unique, though, the gold laced with red. It still struck Matt odd that an apparently comparatively junior member of Jenks’s staff would be allowed to speak so freely.

“Perhaps…” Rebecca sighed, regarding the man as well. “Perhaps honor has become so devalued in my absence. Nevertheless, I will seek an alliance on their behalf and ours. Not only is it the right thing to do after all they’ve done for me, but it’s the sensible course as well. They have dealt the Grik a terrible blow, but the Grik will recover. There will be no better chance to break them forever-before they eventually menace us. If we wait and my friends are lost, we will face them all alone and we cannot succeed in that.”

“But, Highness!” said Jenks. “Perhaps what you say is true, but I have no choice! I must get you safely home!”

“You do have a choice, Commodore. I have a choice.” She glared at the outspoken officer. “The Company may have stripped my family of most of its power, but the governor-emperor is still commander in chief. As the highest-ranking member of his household present, I can order you to help. You might refuse, but I tell you now, if you do, I

… I will not accompany you home.”

“But, Your Highness!” Matt and Jenks both protested at once, but only Matt continued. “We appreciate it, but Jenks is right: we have to keep you safe. Sure, we could use his ships now while we’re… a little short… but his squadron will make little difference, in the end.”

Jenks bristled. “I assure you, sir…”

“Oh, knock it off! I know exactly what your ships can do, and as I said, we can always use the help. But you really don’t know what you’re up against.” Matt paused, struck by the irony of his argument. A moment ago, he’d been trying to convince Jenks to help. Now he was encouraging him to run away. He sighed. “Look, we want friendship between your people and ours… for a lot of reasons, not just this war. And no matter what you think, your three ships can’t make much difference in the campaign we’re preparing. How likely are we to remain friends with your people if you and the young lady are destroyed defending us?”

“It remains to be seen whether we are indeed destined to be friends,” Jenks replied, again glancing at Gray. “That is not my decision to make. For now… if- if -we join you, it will be solely because it is in the best interests of the Empire.”

“Of course we shall be friends!” Rebecca insisted. “We already are. Mr. Flynn and his submersible-boat sailors rescued us from the sea and shared all they had.”

Jenks looked at her, even more incredulous. What had she said? Clearly, there was still far more to the princess’s story.

Rebecca turned to Matt. “And our ships might make more difference than you think, Captain Reddy,” she protested. “There are several hundred armed Marines between them as well.”

“Armed with muskets, and with no experience fighting the Grik,” Matt mused aloud. He knew the girl had seen their own weapons, but wondered if she truly appreciated the qualitative difference. As an historian, he wasn’t sure muskets were much of an advantage over Grik arrows, either. They were probably more lethal and there might be a psychological effect, but arrows reloaded faster.

“Perhaps I might offer a compromise,” Courtney Bradford said, speaking for the first time.

“Excuse me,” Matt interrupted, risking embarrassing Jenks still further, but it was also possible they needed a brief pause to defuse the mounting tension. “May I present… the honorable Courtney Bradford, esquire.” Silva barely contained a snort. “He’s Minister of Science for the Allied powers. He also has broad diplomatic experience and influence.” He shrugged. “And I may as well present the others here. Chief Gray I think you know?” Jenks nodded and worked his jaw. Matt continued. “I understand Mr. Gray’s status may have been unclear during your previous meeting. We apparently share some of the same rank designations, and ‘chief bosun’s mate’ doesn’t reflect the extent of his responsibilities. He’s also my chief, personal armsman, and commands the Captain’s Guard. He’s not a commissioned officer, but he’s the highest-ranking noncommissioned officer in the Alliance. He has commanded detachments including commissioned officers, and in those situations he acts as my direct personal representative.”

He waited with some satisfaction while Jenks digested that. “Beside me is Keje-Fris-Ar. Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar. In addition to being High Chief of Salissa Home and a head of state in his own right, he’s assistant chief of naval operations and answers only to me in military matters. His people are not ‘Ape Folk.’ They call themselves Mi-Anaaka, but our term, ‘Lemurians,’ doesn’t offend them. They were once peaceful, unwarlike people. That’s probably how your histories remember them. They’ve since become some of the best warriors in the world. I wouldn’t call them Ape Folk if I were you, because that does offend them. I honestly don’t know why, since they’ve never seen an ape, but there it is.” Matt suddenly wondered if Jenks had ever seen an ape. Later. He started to introduce the other members of his party, but they weren’t officers. Besides, then he’d have to name Silva, and how would he describe him? The most depraved, dangerous human on the planet? He stifled a chuckle.

Jenks-somewhat reluctantly, it seemed-introduced his officers then. None smiled or offered his hand and most appeared to regard the entire party, the Lemurians in particular, with disdain. Matt dismissed them all as junior copies of Jenks-except the one who’d spoken up. His name was Billingsly, and judging from Rebecca’s distasteful glance, he decided to remember him.

“Now, Mr. Bradford, I apologize for the interruption. Please continue.”

“My dear,” Bradford continued, addressing Rebecca, “you once said when the time came for you to return home, you wanted us, Captain Reddy in particular, to take you. Do you still mean that?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Then I propose that Captain Reddy and other dignitaries escort you home as soon as either Walker is… repaired

… or other suitable ships are ready to take you.” Bradford realized Jenks knew about Walker, their “iron ship,” but doubted Captain Reddy was ready to admit that, right now, she was underwater. “That may take some months, but what is that compared to the time you have been gone, after all? The mission will be a diplomatic one with the goal of securing a true alliance. In the meantime, Jenks might dispatch one or two of his ships to bear the happy news of your rescue, but he and Achilles, at least, could remain here to augment our fleet until you are ready to leave.” He smiled. “That should certainly not interfere with his imperative of protecting you. He should then, of course, accompany you home. Hopefully to return here with reinforcements.” He glanced around owlishly. “What do you think?”

“I think this is all a waste of time,” Keje growled unexpectedly. He’d learned a lot about the curious face moving of humans and didn’t much care for what he saw. He looked at Matt. “They do not want to help us, and now that we have slaughtered the cream of the Grik horde, we have sufficient allies who do. Saan-Kakja has promised many thousands more of her warriors and artisans. Many who fled are now returning, eager to fight. Our fleet is rebuilding and we have more than sufficient iron for our needs, at least for now.” He turned back to Jenks. “You have apparently formed the mistaken assumption that we came to you today as supplicants. Not so. Now we have met, it matters little to me if you stay or go, but Adar, High Chief of Baalkpan, chairman and High Sky Priest of the Alliance, would meet with you. He desires friendship, true, but his primary interest in you is… historical. He is not naive. We will always welcome friends, but we will not suffer vipers in our midst.”

Matt was surprised by Keje’s outburst. Who had been warning whom about tempers?

Jenks was also taken aback, as much by Keje’s attitude as by his near-perfect command of English. And by what he said, of course. He scrutinized Keje. He’d met other Lemurians on the massive ship coming out from the Philippines. They’d all seemed glad to see him and treated his people with something akin to reverential awe. Just what he would have expected of the simple wogs he thought they were. Wogs extremely talented at building fantastic ships, but wogs. Now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think there was much chance of a real alliance-he glanced at Billingsly-particularly if the Company had anything to say about it. The very word “ally” was too closely associated with “equal partner,” and that was out of the question. However, perhaps an arrangement might be made. Besides, speaking of vipers, it might be a very good idea, in the interests of the Empire, for him to learn as much about this Alliance as he could. The Empire had enemies of its own, and though they were preoccupied for now, he suspected these Lemurians and their American friends might someday become formidable enemies indeed, if given reason enough-or allowed.

“Mr. Bradford has made an interesting proposal,” he said at last, carefully. “And it might provide the basis for negotiations. I would be… honored to meet with your chairman.” He glanced at Matt. “I have your word of safe conduct, of course?”

“Of course. We’ll escort you under the guns of the fort and provide you with an anchorage. Your people may even have liberty if you give your word they’ll behave themselves-and some parts of the city are off-limits. That’s not subject to discussion or debate at this point. Perhaps later. In the meantime, any of your people found screwing around in restricted areas will be shot. Understood?”

Jenks bristled again, but calmed himself. “Understood.” He turned to Billingsly. “I assume you will want to remain? Very well. Choose someone from your… department. He and Ensign Parr will transfer to Agamemnon and proceed home with the happy news about the princess. Ajax will remain here for now, with Achilles. I will draft orders and a brief dispatch.” He turned to Matt. “Is that acceptable?”

For some reason, Matt was hesitant. But that had been part of Bradford’s proposal, after all. “Sure.”

“We should have just sent him away with the promise we would bring the girl,” growled Keje quietly as the launch burbled back to Donaghey . “The girl” was still with them, having refused to part with her friends. She was distressed and confused by Jenks’s attitude, not to mention Billingsly’s presence. She didn’t know Billingsly, but she knew what he was. For now, she much preferred to remain among people she trusted unreservedly. That was what she’d whispered to Matt, and he wondered if Keje overheard or just picked up on it too. That might explain his sudden animosity. Agamemnon was already piling on sail and beginning to slant eastward. With the freshening breeze, her paddle wheels were free-spinning. “With Jenks hanging around here, he’ll see too much,” Keje added.

“Possibly.” Matt nodded at the Bosun. “Gray’s always been a pretty good judge of character and he said Jenks is an asshole.” He sighed resignedly. “Having met him, I’m inclined to agree. But Adar’s probably an even better judge. He won’t let his fascination with the ‘ones who came before’ cloud his judgment.”

Keje huffed noncommitally. Before ascending to his current lofty title, Adar had been Keje’s own High Sky Priest, and the two had been like brothers their entire lives. Keje knew Matt was right, but his own impression of Jenks had been very similar to Gray’s. He’d actually been surprised by that. According to Matt, his Amer-i-caans and Jenks’s people were related in some way. He supposed he’d expected them to behave more alike. Jenks’s reaction to Keje’s people’s situation couldn’t have been more different from that of Matt and his destroyermen.

“Besides,” said Gray, “he never would’ve gone for that-just leaving, I mean.”

“Right,” Matt agreed. “And over time, maybe we can loosen him up. If we can make friends with the Brits, and if we can trust them, we’ll have to bring them up to speed on our programs anyway.”

Gray snorted and shook his head. “You know, it sure is weird-not trusting Brits, I mean. Sure, in our history we weren’t friends all the time, but we were on the same side in the last war, and we were best friends in the war we left behind-both of us fightin’ the Japs. Those guys on Exeter and Encounter and all the others, they were the same as us. They were our guys. We might’ve gotten in fights in bars, made fun of other, and called other names, but we’d watch out for each other too. This Jenks guy drives it home in no uncertain terms that we ain’t on the same side here. Some of the fellas are liable to get.. . confused.”

Matt was thoughtful. “Good point, Boats. Make sure everybody knows these aren’t the same Brits we knew back home. No fights, no trouble-we do want to be their friends-but right now, we’re not. We’ll have talks, and I’ll use the fact that we had a special relationship with the descendants of Jenks’s ancestors. Maybe that’ll help. But once our visitors know that, we don’t want them to take advantage of it either, buddy up to our guys and pump them for information. That sort of thing.”

“Aye-aye, Skipper.”