Firestorm

CHAPTER 3

Off New Scotland, southeast of the New Britain Isles, in the “Eastern Sea”

USS Walker (DD-163), the old “four-stacker” destroyer and possibly the sole survivor of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet on a lost, increasingly less relevant “earth,” slashed through the brisk, breezy sea off the southwest coast of New Scotland. On that dimming world she’d been swept from-saved from, most likely-by an eerie, anomalous squall, New Scotland would have been several islands, including Maui, Molokai, Lanai, and Kahoolawe. Here, due to lower sea levels (there was now definitive evidence this “earth” was locked in an “ice age”) and the random nature of volcanism, the clustered islands were one. The old destroyer had been healed of the recent damage she’d sustained, and she bounced through the swells on three boilers like a happy puppy racing to meet a massive, full-grown playmate she hadn’t seen in ages.

At long last, Task Force “Oil Can,” composed of the stupendous Le- murian seagoing Home, Salaama-Na, two more “Amer-i-caan” steam frigates, some sailing tenders and dedicated oilers, and the Imperial steamers Ulysses and Icarus, had arrived. Salaama-Na dominated the squadron with her huge sails, or “wings,” and it was toward her, flagship of the task force, that Walker sped. Unlike some others of the great Homes, Salaama-Na hadn’t been altered into an aircraft carrier, or more appropriately, a seaplane carrier/tender. Her beautiful, awesome lines hadn’t been altered in any way. That was one reason it had taken her so long to arrive-she, like others of her kind, was very, very slow-but it didn’t make her a less welcome sight.

Captain Matthew Reddy, “High Chief” of the ever-growing “Amer-i-caan” clan, CINCAAF, (Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces-by acclamation), and more specifically-currently-CINCEAST, was grinning broadly at the sight of the huge ship. His green eyes, often capable of icy remorselessness, sparkled with pleasure, and his mood was reflected by the mixed human/Lemurian-“American”-crew around him in Walker’ s pilothouse, and indeed, throughout his veteran ship. Matt had been grinning a lot lately, despite the added pressure and responsibility of a “whole new war” here in what their allies considered an impossibly distant “far east.” Nearly two years of constant war and the associated stress had taken their toll, but that was a kind of stress for which he’d always been well equipped. His long funk had suddenly been erased by almost-miraculous news of a very personal nature. Compared to the relief that gave him, even an added theater in an apparently endlessly growing war seemed barely able to touch him.

“That Salaama-Na is sure a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I’d rather she was one of the flat-tops, converted or new, but I don’t think anything quite as impressive as one of those seagoing Homes has ever put to sea on this world or back home!”

“She’s a welcome sight, and that’s a fact,” agreed Brad “Spanky” McFarlane in his gruff but amiable way. Spanky was a little guy; short and skinny, but the power of his personality and supreme engineering authority always left people the impression he was bigger than he was. He’d been Walker’ s engineering officer-a “mustang”-ever since she joined the old Asiatic Fleet, and he and Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray had been with the ship longer than anyone now alive. Spanky was Minister of Naval Engineering for the entire Alliance, but he’d also recently become Walker ’s executive officer. There was no question which of the two he personally considered the more important job. “I think I’m happier to see the oilers she’s got with her! This little jaunt to meet our friends is liable to leave our bunkers suckin’ air!” he added.

Chief Gray grunted agreement. In contrast to Spanky, Gray was almost as tall as Captain Reddy and even more powerfully built-despite being “in the vicinity” of sixty. The flab he’d accumulated after years on the China Station had reverted to muscle since “the Squall,” and, physically, he’d thrived on their adventures. He’d also become something far beyond a chief bosun’s mate, although that “something” was still ill-defined. Carl Bashear had taken his old job aboard Walker, but even he considered Gray as something like a “super bosun.” Most of the surviving original destroyermen from Walker and her lost sister Mahan had been promoted, many to a lofty status; so had the survivors of the old submarine S-19. Matt refused to appoint himself anything higher than captain, but he’d been acclaimed commander in chief, and there was only one “Captain Reddy.” For Gray, it was even more complicated. He wore a lot of different hats now; he commanded the Captain’s Guard detail, for example, but he’d been the highest-ranking NCO on Walker, and for his deeds and vast moral authority, he’d become the most exalted NCO in the Alliance. Few officers would’ve even considered actually giving him an order. He’d even refused orders issued by Adar, the High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, because they’d interfered with his Navy oath! What kind of “promotion” could possibly have meaning for the man? Matt thought he finally had it and was toying with the establishment of “Chief Bosun of the Navy,” which would basically confirm Gray’s “super bosun” status.

It would be more than just a title. Matt knew chiefs had their own culture, almost like an exclusive fraternity one never really left even if they received commissions. With all the Lemurian “chiefs” entering the fold, it was probably time for that growing fraternity to have some form of “supreme authority” of its own before they made up too many new, wacky rules. The age-old, traditional strife between the deck (ape) divisions and the engineering (snipe) divisions served a purpose, but Matt could see things getting out of hand as time went by-as things became more dominated by the very literal-minded Lemurians. The last thing they needed was an equivalent to warring labor unions aboard Navy ships! Gray could lay down the law and establish firm traditions everyone would respect-while making sure the chiefs maintained that unifying brotherhood that made them so effective at not only controlling their divisions and getting along with one another, solving little problems aboard ship before they became big enough that officers had to “notice” them, and frankly, culling poor performers from their own ranks.

“Oil’s a fine thing,” Gray grumbled, “but I’m just as happy to see those new steam frigates, or ‘DDs’ I guess they’re callin’ ’em.” He seemed unhappy with the term. “What are their names?”

Matt looked through his binoculars. “They’re flying their numbers, so I guess the one to leeward of Salaama-Na is Mertz, named for our old

“A hell of a thing,” Gray snorted. “Get killed servin’ sammitches, and they name a destroyer after you!” He looked at the surprised expressions. “Not that I’m against it! Besides, it’ll be a hoot to see how Lanier reacts! Mertz deserves a statue for puttin’ up with that nasty, bloated bastard so long.” Earl Lanier was Walker ’s unpopular cook, and Ray Mertz had been his long-suffering assistant. “What’s the other one?”

“She’s Tindal,” Matt replied grimly. “They launched her in Maa-ni-la as Lelaa, but when they found out Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan wasn’t dead after all, they named her after Miami.” “Miami” Tindal had been Walker ’s chief engineer during the recent action at Scapa Flow. Matt’s face became an unreadable contrast of sadness and barely suppressed… glee. Their allies in the Fil-pin Lands had also discovered that Nurse Lieutenant and “Minister of Medicine” Sandra Tucker-the woman Matt loved-had also survived a terrible ordeal. Ironically, it was her abduction, along with that of others, that brought Walker and her crew so far from where Sandra was ultimately found-and embroiled the Grand Alliance in yet another war. Sandra, Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald, Sister Audry, Abel Cook, Midshipman Stuart Brassey, the “ex”-Tagranesi “Lawrence,” and the… inimitable… Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva had all been rescued by the remnants of “Task Force Laumer.” Incredibly, the battered submarine that Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had been sent to salvage had endured grounding, a year on an island beach, and ultimately a colossal volcanic eruption and tidal wave, before finding the important castaways adrift in the Fil-pin Sea along with seventy-odd survivors of Lawrence’s Grik-like people.

“ Tindal ’s a good name,” Spanky said at last, breaking the awkward silence that ensued.

“Yes, it is,” Matt agreed. “So’s Mertz. Ray was a good kid, and making sandwiches in the middle of a fight probably takes more guts than shooting at the enemy.”

Walker continued her sprint toward the approaching squadron. All the ships, except Salaama-Na and the two Imperials, Ulysses and Icarus , were flying the Stars and Stripes-the flag of the American Navy and everyone, Lemurians included, who’d joined that “clan.” Matt directed Walker ’s speed be reduced to one-third, and had the ship’s whistle sounded in greeting. A gout of white steam gushed from the whistle, emitting a throbbing, bass shriek. The greeting was answered by similar tones from Tindal and Mertz, whose whistles were copies of Walker ’s, and by higher-pitched toots from Ulysses and Icarus. The Imperial frigates also loosed an exuberant, thundering broadside in salute.

“I wish old Harvey Jenks was here to see this!” Gray said. Again, he noticed surprised stares. He and the Imperial commodore got along fine now, but there’d been a time when they hated each other. Jenks couldn’t come today because he’d been across the island for several days, coordinating civil and naval preparations in Edinburgh for the upcoming campaign against the rebels and “Holy Dominion” forces on New Ireland. He was due back, and would likely be in Scapa Flow by the time the ships made port.

“I just meant, you know, that big ’Cat Home is a hell of a sight and… well, our fightin’ ships are prettier than his!” he defended. Everyone in the pilothouse laughed.

At a much reduced speed, which left her skinny, round-bottomed hull wallowing sickeningly in the swells, ize="3"escorted the new arrivals into the Imperial Home Fleet port of Scapa Flow. Sufficient space for Salaama-Na had reluctantly been set aside by an incredulous harbormaster, who’d disbelieved her described dimensions. He’d been told by Matt and Jenks that the thousand-foot vessel simply wouldn’t fit in the otherwise-generous dock space allocated to “American” ships, not if Walker, Simms, Tindal, and Mertz were to have a place. At least the huge Home wouldn’t need the space for long; only until she off-loaded her cargo of replacements, prefabricated tank batteries, and the heavy machinery sent to support the Allied presence there. She’d then moor away from the dock, as was customary with ships her size, until Sor-Lomaak decided to leave.

All Scapa Flow turned out to see the arrival. Everyone loved to see Walker underway, and this was the first time she’d moved other than to “switch sides” at the dock to facilitate repairs since the battle that saved the Empire from a quick Dominion victory. Still, today she was only part of the attraction. By order of the Governor-Emperor, the massive harbor forts bellowed a welcoming salute with their heavy guns. This was answered by each arriving ship; a few shots from the light guns on the oilers, creditable broadsides from the returning Imperial frigates, sharper, fewer, louder, reports from the “American” frigates, and a massive, rolling, booming roar from Salaama-Na ’s new fifty-pounders. All was punctuated by a perfect four-gun salvo from the sleek gray destroyer. Whistles shrieked and bells rang, and lizard birds and flocks of colorful parrots swirled in the air over the harbor.

The American frigates were a hit with their clean lines unmarred by paddle wheels and with the distinctive contrast of the white paint against the dark hulls between their gunports. Like Walker and Simms, they were oil burners, and they didn’t produce the black, choking plumes of sooty smoke as Imperial steamers did. Ultimately, however, even though she wasn’t technically a warship, Salaama-Na was the focus of attention. In a way, she represented a primitive technology. She moved primarily by sail alone. Only at times like this, when confined in restrictive waters, did her hundred massive-but even more primitive-sweep oars come out to propel and shift her closer to the dock. But she also represented a native sophistication inherent among the Imperial’s new Lemurian allies that predated human contact. Some of the old journals and logs of the “Founders,” the crews of the ancient “East Indiamen” that went among the distant “ape folk” after the “Passage” to this world, hinted they possessed “momentous vessels,” but except for a few crude drawings, little more was mentioned. It was encouraging-and a little humbling- that the Lemurians (don’t call them “ape folk!”) were, and had been so advanced in terms of industrial and structural engineering. The sturdy American frigates-not to mention the flying machines!-demonstrated how seamlessly that ingenuity could be mated to a technology beyond even that of the Empire.

Eventually, amid continuous fanfare, Ulysses and Icarus were secured at the Navy dock where the survivors of the naval battle off Scapa Flow still underwent repairs. The Allied warships tied up as well, and the oilers and transports moored nearby. With agonizing care, Salaama-Na snugged up to what would ultimately become the Allied fueling pier, capable of handling several “normal size” ships at once. With the crowd, now largely composed of female dockworkers shouting at others to “stand clear,” gathered alongside, the various commanders and their staffs came ashore and were escorted to where Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald lounged on the seat of a carriage, his wounded legs still immobilized. ith the awkward assistance of a muscular, one-armed, dark-skinned man named Sean (O’Casey) Bates and Gerald’s pale, slender wife, Ruth, the Governor-Emperor managed to stand.

“Welcome!” he boomed with a broad grin. “Welcome to you all! Welcome, Sor-Lomaak, High Chief of the sovereign Salaama-Na Home, and all the beautiful Allied ships accompanying her! I’m more grateful than I can express for the safe return of Ulysses and Icarus as well! Please do excuse this informal greeting-an appropriate reception is being prepared-but my exuberance could not be contained!”

Looking at the man, Matt didn’t doubt he was sincere, but his pale, sweaty face testified to his pain. It was a miracle he’d kept either leg, let alone both. Walker ’s own surgeon, Selass, daughter of Keje-Fris-Ar, vaulted onto the carriage and whispered something to Ruth, who self-righteously repeated it in her husband’s ear. With a dismissive wave, the Governor-Emperor allowed himself to be seated once more. “Tonight, then,” he said, less vigorously, “please do join me at Government House where I can welcome you properly and we can discuss those things that need our most immediate attention!”

After a few more personal greetings, the carriage pulled away with Selass still aboard, and Matt looked at the newly arrived Allied officers. First, he stepped to Sor-Lomaak and saluted. As a head of state in his own right, Sor-Lomaak, while a member of the Alliance, wasn’t under Matt’s military authority unless he chose to be. He was a tall ’Cat, almost as tall as Adar-which still left him half a head shorter than Matt. As had most Home High Chiefs, he’d risen from the “Body of Home clan,” and was built a lot like Keje; broad and strong, instead of slim, with the disproportionately powerful upper body of the “wing runners.” His fur was a black-blotched brown.

“We haven’t met, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Welcome to the Empire of the New Britain Isles.” Sor-Lomaak seemed flustered, both by the salute and Matt’s words. Realizing he’d unconsciously spoken English, Matt repeated his greeting in his improved, but still-clumsy Lemurian. Sor-Lomaak blinked appreciation.

“I am glad to have finally arrived upon this strange land-far beyond the point I thought it possible to even stand.”

Matt winced. Lemurian religious dogma as taught by the Sky Priests had taken some serious hits of late, and he wished the revelations of such things as consistent, worldwide gravity had been allowed a more. .. comfortable absorption. “Glad to have you, sir. If you need any assistance unloading your cargo, I’ll be glad to help coordinate it.” He paused. “Things are a little strange here, as you’ve surely noticed. Human females do much of the labor, and though we’re in the process of working that out, their status is somewhat unusual.”

“So I gathered when we touched at Respite Island,” Sor-Lomaak observed.

“Yes. Well, I expect this war’s going to set a lot of Imperial institutions on their heads, and it’ll probably be an easier transition if they recognize the necessity for themselves.” He grinned. “We’ll help guide that recognition, of course.”

“Of course.”

“In any event,” Matt continued, “I think you’ll find the Imperials will treat your… our people well. Besides the fact some of my Mi-Anaaka Marines practically saved their country for them, they seem genuinely fascinated by ’Cats. Almost too fascinated at times! Some of my guys get tired of being… well, petted.”

Sor-Lomaak laughed heartily. “Better petted than feared-or reviled.”

“There’s a little of that too,” Matt admitted, “but mostly by our enemies here.” He shook his head. “I swear, the ‘Holy Dominion’ is human, but they’re just as crazy as Grik, and smarter. They don’t think anybody, humans or ’Cats, are ‘people,’ except for themselves.” Matt paused and blew through his lips. Talking ’Cat always kind of.. . tickled. “The Imperials are scared of our Marines, though,” he added with satisfaction. “It seemed weird to them that our guys didn’t really try to take prisoners in the land fighting, for example.” He shrugged. “You probably understand. In our war against the Grik, ‘quarter’ has never been a priority for either side,” he said dryly. “They’re used to different ways here, although that may change too. The Dominion, or ‘Doms,’ they call them, aren’t much for surrendering.”

Excusing himself from Sor-Lomaak, Matt returned the salutes and shook the hands of the captains and senior officers of Mertz and Tindal. All were Lemurians, as were the crews of both ships, even the engineers. Matt had to admit he felt strange about that, but also.. . proud. The feeling probably wasn’t all that dissimilar to a sense that “junior was growing up.” Not only had their Lemurian friends learned to grasp the technological leaps the humans brought them, but they embraced them, used them, commanded them, and in many ways, they’d begun to improve upon them. “Junior” had grown up, technologically, and-somewhat sadly-militarily. Matt was confident that for the most part, the Allied naval officers had learned many things better than their teachers could show them, and if Pete Alden might once have been uncomfortable bestowing the sacred title of “Marine” on what many had considered “cat-monkeys,” Matt knew Pete had no cause for discomfort in that regard anymore.

Looking at his Lemurian… colleagues, Matt smiled, and together they walked back toward the American dock, discussing equipment they’d brought from the Fil-pin Lands, logistical matters, and more of the oddities of life in the Empire.

The reception, held on the torch-lit, manicured grounds surrounding Government House, was a resounding success. Long tables draped with spotless cloths formed expanding semicircles around a large round table positioned near the broad, residential porch. There was no dancing, but strains of Vivaldi once more drifted in the light, warm breeze to the delight of the newly arrived Lemurians who’d never heard its like. They hadn’t tasted many of the meats laid before them either; chicken, plump parrots steamed on beds of port-darkened rice, succulent pork prepared in a variety of ways. All were domestic descendants of “Passage” livestock, and the juicy, tender quality of the fare was much appreciated and graciously complimented. Exotic fruits and vegetables were enjoyed as well, but even Matt couldn’t tell how many were native to this world and which might be the result of cross-pollenization. The port wine was sweeter than Lemurian seep, but it had subtle similarities. He’d cautioned against serving anything stronger. ’Cats had hard liquor, but theirs had unpredictable effects on humans. Only their excellent beer produced conventional and generally benign results. Imperial spirits might make the Lemurian guests ill, at the very least.

Besides the lack of dancing, there were other differences from the only other festivity Matt had attended here: the Pre-Passage Ball. That was when things began coming to a head. In retrospect, considering the extent of the treachery rampant at the time, the lack of security had been naive to say the least. In contrast, the Governor-Emperor now sat with his back to the front entrance of the grand house, with all the most important guests seated at that central table. Flanking it were spotlessly attired Imperial and Lemurian Marines. The Imperials looked very decorative in their yellow-faced red coats, black dress shakos, and white knee breeches. The ’Cats were magnificent in their white leather and blue kilts, accented with polished bronze greaves and helmets. The bayonet-tipped muskets held in their distinctive “rest” positions were immaculate, highly polished-and loaded. No one knew how many traitors still roamed New Scotland, but they were taking no chances this night.

The music and jumbled roar of conversations between Allied and Imperial officers seated at the tables nearby was sufficiently muted by distance to allow those at the Governor-Emperor’s table to communicate without shouting. The discussions during the meal were limited to pleasantries and cultural questions and observations. Matt had cautioned his officers not to harp on the “female question,” since those discussions and negotiations were touchy. Though most assuredly underway, they also remained private. That something be “done” about the virtual enslavement of Imperial women had been a prerequisite to Imperial membership in the Grand Alliance, but it went to the very root of their culture. Most Imperial leaders at the table agreed that the institution was barbaric, and now, that the Company had been shattered, outdated, and even unsustainable. There was significant disagreement on how to proceed, however.

Sor-Lomaak was enjoying himself, with the newly arrived frigate captains translating the conversations. Chack-Sab-At, a major now, was at Matt’s side. He said little, but glanced at his Marines on the porch between each bite he took. Courtney Bradford, the odd Australian engineer/ naturalist, sat at Matt’s other elbow, disinterested in the “normal” foods the ’Cats and human destroyermen ate so greedily, virtually dissecting the unfamiliar dishes he sampled. He was deeply involved in a discussion with Governor-Emperor McDonald about the Empire’s lens-making industry. He was desperate for a “proper” microscope, beyond those the Empire already had.

Spanky had remained aboard Walker, but Chief Gray, ever protective, was there. He wasn’t doing much protecting now, though, and was plainly bored. They’d caught the relayed message concerning TF Garrett’s plight shortly before leaving the ship, and he hated doing nothing when friends were in peril. He scowled at the plate before him, picking disapprovingly at the rich food. Commodore Harvey Jenks, who’d arrived later than expected, leaned past his dutifully silent wife and whispered something in the Bosun’s ear. Gray grunted, nodded, and seemed to take heart. Matt suspected the commodore had probably reminded him there’d be plenty to do soon enough.

Matt looked at Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds, in charge of Walker ’s meager air division. The kid was picking at his food too, but not from boredom. He still blamed himself for the life-threatening wounds Ensign Kari-Faask, his ’Cat spotter and friend, had suffered when he pressed his attack too closely on the Dom troop transports that had threatened Scapa Flow. She was improving, but that first taste of responsibility for the life of another, especially a friend, had rattled him. Walker ’s gunnery officer, “Sonny” Campeti, was trying to chat him up, but occasionally, he cast a worried look at Matt.

“That gennel-maan yonder asks if you’d scoot the bottle on around, sur?” Matt looked up in response to the voice that sounded in his ear and saw Taarba-Kar, better known as “Tabasco.” The rust-colored ’Cat was one of Lanier’s mess attendants, filling in as his “personal steward” while Juan Marcoo’d he little Filipino, was test-driving his new wooden leg. Lanier had almost burst a vessel when Juan “stoled” Tabasco for the mythical “Skipper’s Steward Division” and the ’Cat promptly deserted him to attend “classes” at the church/hospital that had become an amputee ward. Matt stayed out of it. Long ago, Juan had established a position of moral, if not official, power aboard his ship, and Juan’s tragic but heroic wound had only strengthened it. He looked where Tabasco was pointing.

Across the table, beside Sean Bates-the one-armed, one-time “outlaw” they’d met as Sean O’Casey, now Gerald McDonald’s prime factor and chief of staff-was Lord High Admiral McClain. Matt wasn’t sure what he thought of him. By all accounts, the man was a mariner extraordinaire, and had the trust of Gerald and Harvey Jenks, but he was also a stalwart of the “old guard.” He’d long resisted Jenks’s drive to explore the world beyond Imperial frontiers, and he, almost alone among Gerald’s staff, resisted the proposed reforms regarding the “female question.” He resisted almost all change as a matter of course, in a devil’s advocate fashion, and Matt wasn’t sure if that reflected his honest position or if he was just testing their suggestions. Matt wondered how well he’d adapt to the strategies and tactics required by this “new” war. He nodded at the man and passed the bottle along.

Sean Bates suddenly stood and glanced at those surrounding him. “P’raps now’s a good time ta adjourn ta the library, ta discuss the campaign that laies ahead,” he suggested. “As ye know, the Gov’ner-Emp’rer remains easely tired, an’ I s’pect many here could use a wee rest after yer long voyage.”

“Nonsense, Sean, we needn’t rush…” Gerald began, but Matt also stood.

“May as well. It’s been a long day, and we should crack the book and get everybody on the same page. Besides,” he added, “I’m anxious to get back to Walker and check on developments in the west.”

“Of course,” agreed Gerald, accepting the excuse. “By all means then, let us adjourn to the library.” He gestured around at the other tables. “They shan’t miss us. It’s good to see our… peoples… agreeing so well! We’ve much to accomplish together, and I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to begin as friends!” He sobered, looking at the diners, Imperials and Lemurians, mixed together. “They must be friends,” he added, nodding significantly at Chack, acknowledging the crucial role he and his Marines had played toward that end. “Soon they’ll guard one another’s lives.”

The library was surprisingly quiet, considering the unabated noise outside. Matt had been in the room many times now, and the furnishings reflected their owner well. Gerald was like a cross between Jenks and Bradford, personalitywise. He had the bearing and reserve of his commodore and friend, combined with the eccentric curiosity and (suppressed) enthusiasm for science of the Australian. As plenipotentiary at large for the Alliance, Courtney had been in the room even more often than Matt, but he was immediately drawn to the bookshelves as the officers filed into the room. Matt had to tap his elbow and point to the great map dominating the room’s south wall.

“You don’t actually need me for this,” Courtney complained. “These military machinations are quite beyond me. If you insist I pay attention… I may well ask a question!” he warned.

“As long as you’re not asking where we all are a month from now when you suddenly notice we’re gone,” Matt countered.

Those who knew the Australian laughed. He was prone to a notable absentmindedness. That notwithstanding, he had a natural talent for analysis, and when he kept his thoughts on a single track long enough, he was very good at pointing out obvious flaws in plans that others had overlooked. Matt wanted him paying attention.

The officers and guests made themselves comfortable (a relative thing for Lemurians, since all the chairs were designed for people without tails) and Governor-Emperor McDonald allowed himself to be ushered to a divan, his legs propped up. Matt noticed with pleasure that Ruth McDonald didn’t excuse herself but chose a chair near her husband.

“There’s one… small thing we need to have understood before we begin,” announced Lord High Admiral McClain, glancing at Ruth. He looked around the room with a closed expression. “Who’s the authority here?”

“The Governor-Emperor, of course,” Matt replied patiently.

“I mean, the military authority,” McClain pressed.

“I am,” Matt said simply, “as we’ve discussed before. I remain ‘Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces, by acclamation.’ ”

“The Empire of the New Britain Isles did not ‘acclaim’ you, sir.”

“James!” Gerald scolded, and Commodore Jenks stirred angrily.

“With respect, Your Majesty, I speak only truth,” the admiral maintained.

“You speak out of place,” Gerald said more forcefully. “Captain Reddy was acclaimed by the other Allied powers long before we became one. You shall not forget that even before our alliance was made-before they had any ‘obligation’ to help us-they willingly spilled their blood to defend us from the despicable Dominion! We’ve joined them, and heartily! They didn’t join us.” He paused, gulping an angry breath. “We may know this region of the world better than they, Lord High Admiral, but largely due to your influence, that knowledge is sorely limited. We know next to nothing of the extent of the enemy realm, for example, but that part that borders the vast Pacific. How deep does it go? What lies beyond?”

“My apologies, Your Maj-”

“Let me finish, damn you, sir!” Gerald practically roared. He stopped, forcefully composing himself. “We must not start like this!” he continued quietly. “The time for petty, egoistic squabbles is past. We face a wicked, determined enemy here and in the west! Our allies stand poised to deliver a heavy blow to the Grik, but we’re still on the defensive here. The enemy holds a significant portion of our very homeland! We must throw him out! Captain Reddy and his strategies have been much more recently successful at that than any we can draw upon!”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Matt said, partially to cover Chief Gray’s muttered “puffed-up bugger” and the few ensuing chuckles. Admiral McClain reddened, and Jenks stood and moved toward Matt to add his support. “I’m glad you brought up those ‘strategies,’ because the first thing we need to get clear is, just like our war in the west, we can’t have limits to our ‘war aims’ here. We’re going to fight this war hard, ugly, and as fast as possible. There’re no rules except victory, and there’ll be no ‘negotiated peace.’ ” His green eyes flashed. “They picked this fight, but we’re going to finish it.” He sighed. “Maybe we won’t have to kill them all, as we’ll probably have to do to win in the west, but to accept anything short of complete surrender’ll only waste the blood already lost.”

There were a few sharp cheers, and the ’Cats stamped their feet in approval. Admiral McClain didn’t cheer, and even the Governor-Emperor seemed dubious.

“That will be… costly,” he said.

Matt nodded. “Yes, it will, but believe me when I say it’s the only way.” He recalled his interview with the Dominion “Blood Cardinal,” Don Hernan de Devina Dicha. “Those guys are absolutely nuts . Hell, you know that. We beat them now, knock ’em back on their heels, make ‘peace’-it’ll start all over again in a decade.” He looked at Gray’s grim face. “That’s how it works,” he said. “We know. The only way to end a war forever is if somebody wins and somebody loses. .. bad.” He watched Ruth’s face as she stared at her husband. She wouldn’t speak, not yet, but she’d already considered the implications of another, future war. Matt helped Gerald come to the same conclusion. “If you don’t get right with that, wrap it around you, and wade through the awful fact that for us to win, they have to lose, one of these days, maybe when your daughter, Rebecca, is in your place, there’ll be another war; and honestly, they’re liable to win that one because they have the depth, resources, and manpower. Right now, we have a technological edge, but in ten years? Twenty?” He shook his head.

“He’s right, Your Majesty,” Jenks said. “I’ve seen their war in the west, and it’s the most savage thing you can imagine, but little more so than the fighting we saw here, at the Dueling Grounds!” He was exaggerating, but only slightly. The Dominion forces that attacked, without warning, had done so with massed artillery against civilians. “The Grik are… animals, but men would never behave as the Dominion forces did. They, their leadership, this… perverted church they worship, must be erased from the world.”

“All right,” Gerald said softly, glancing at his wife. He wouldn’t leave this mess to be faced by the daughter they thought they’d lost. “How do we beat them this time… and forever?”

Matt nodded at Harvey Jenks, who stepped to the huge map, fingering his long, braided, sun-bleached mustaches. He paused and drew his sword; a most appropriate “pointer” under the circumstances. Matt had seen the blade many times, even faced it in “practice,” but he’d never really appreciated its workmanship before. It was heavier than his own well-battered Academy sword, with a subtle curve toward the tip. Despite all the use it had seen, there were few nicks, and the bright, almost-purple steel was unmarred by rust and lovingly tended. Jenks raised the sword against an island west of New Scotland.

“First, we have New Ireland,” he said. “The enemy has captured it entire, it would seem, with the aid of Company traitors there.” He glanced at Matt. “Elsewhere, the Company is no more. It’s broken, along with its monopoly on trade, by order of the Governor-Emperor, and distributed among loyal shareholders. Those same shareholders will now become chairmen of their various new companies, and for the duration of the current hostilities, their ships are engaged as auxiliaries to the Imperial Navy, under naval regulations.” He looked back at the map. “The harbor defenses at New Dublin are not the heaviest in the Empire, not compared to those here and at New London and Portsmouth on New Britain, but they’re probably the most formidable. A sustained bombardment of the forts there is difficult because they’re on the windward side of the island and mount thirty-pound guns. We can match that and more with numbers, but with their elevation, not in range. Any ships attempting a bombardment will suffer heavily, ad any disabled vessel will likely be driven ashore.”

After this had been translated to him, Sor-Lomaak leaned forward. “My fifties will outrange their thirties,” he said confidently, “and even if we are hit, with her sweeps, Salaama-Na will not go ashore!”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Matt said, grinning.

Jenks grinned too. “Thank you, Your Excellency. You’ve just finalized Major Chack-Sab-At’s and Major Blair’s plan.” He looked smugly at Matt, and motioned the two Marines, one Lemurian-Amer-i-caan, and the other Imperial, to approach the map. They’d fought together splendidly at the Dueling Grounds and become fast friends. Blair still walked stiffly from a wound, but he was anxious to strike back at the Doms.

“Sirs,” Chack began, blinking only slight self-consciousness, “Major Blair and I believe the enemy will expect us at New Dublin, or possibly Easky in the south. We will not disappoint him.” There were murmurs, and McClain looked alarmed, but Chack continued. “A large naval force composed of the heaviest ships of the line and as many former Company ships as possible, will menace New Dublin. The Company ships will linger in sight but out of range, as though they carry troops-which they will, but not all of them by any means.” He bowed to Sor-Lomaak. “This task force will be gathered around the powerful-and ominously large- Salaama-Na, which will open a steady bombardment of the harbor defenses, supported when possible by Imperial warships. This should, ah, collect the attention of the enemy.” He grinned, showing sharp, white fangs. “The enemy may call troops from Easky or they may not, but it doesn’t matter, because Mr. Blair will land at Cork, east of there, and fortify these mountains.” He pointed at the Wiklow range that began at the northeast panhandle of New Ireland, then fishhooked back into the sea, east of Easky. “He’ll hold there until any Easky troops, or possibly some from across this other range at New Dublin, try to push him off-at which point my force, landed in the extreme north at Bray, will march down the Valley Road and slam into their flank!”

“Lovely,” muttered McClain, “and delightfully complicated. But what will it accomplish? The enemy will still hold New Dublin, and you cannot expect me to believe you’ll scale those heights behind the city and take it from behind!”

Chack looked at him with his big, amber eyes. “Why else would I do as I propose?”

“You must be mad.”

“But you believe that is my intent?”

“There can be no oth…” McClain’s jaw clamped shut.

“Indeed,” said Major Blair. “That will clearly be our intent and the enemy must prepare for it, regardless how imprudent it appears-and we will make the attack…!”

“What?” McClain was incredulous.

“In the dark of night, coordinated with an attack by boat from the sea, launched by the bombardment fleet-which the Doms will now consider a diversion!”

“By God!” Gerald barked approval.

“I told you those guys were clever,” Matt said, prodding him.

“I knew it already, but this! It’s better than chess!”

“Quite clever,” McClain muttered under his breath.

“In any event,” Jenks said, “hopefully, that’ll sol“Butroblem of New Ireland.” He waited for the approving applause to wane, then returned to the map. He drew the point of his sword down along the coast of California, near where San Francisco ought to be. “But, even more important than New Ireland, our continental colonies are at risk,” he said abruptly. “Before, or while we do anything else, they must be secured. The vast majority of our raw material comes from there and without them, we can’t sustain this… front… in the wider war, on our own. It’s that simple. If we lose those colonies, we’ll represent nothing but a material drain on our new allies who have concerns of their own, and that just to keep us alive.” His gaze fell heavily on Lord High Admiral McClain.

“Fast ships were dispatched, immediately after the attempted invasion, to warn the colonies of a Dom attack,” McClain said in response. “We now know the attack here was premature, that it was originally planned to coincide with the Founders’ Day festivities. The combination of the Christmas Feast, followed quickly by the New Year and Founders’ Day observances, would have left us singularly unprepared.” He paused. “We still don’t know if the Temple of the Popes is aware of the current situation, or that hostilities have already begun, but we do know that after January fifth, things are ‘automatically going to happen.’ ” There were murmurings at the now-infamous phrase that had been made public shortly before.

“Obviously,” McClain continued, “one of those ‘things’ was to be the attack here. We must presume other operations were meant to coincide with it. In my view, the next most logical enemy objective is our garrison on the Enchanted Isles, not Saint Francis.”

Courtney perked up. “The Galapagos Islands?” he interrupted insistently.

“Aye,” McClain confirmed, looking at him oddly, “though only the enemy calls them that. The ‘Insulae de los Galapagos.’ ”

“Good God!” Courtney exclaimed. “We mustn’t allow those”-he searched for a suitable epithet-“buggerers of a… an otherwise-sensible faith to defile that place!”

Matt almost chuckled, but thoughts of the very dark… per version… of Catholicism practiced by the Dominion stopped him. “The islands aren’t the same here, Courtney,” he reminded.

“Of course not!” Bradford exclaimed. “But they’re liable to be different in very fascinating ways!”

Matt sighed. “Go ahead and find a book, Courtney. We’ve got war stuff to talk about.”

Muttering, Bradford stood and marched to the shelves.

Matt closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your Majesty?” he prompted.

“Yes. Well. Obviously, we mustn’t let the Enchanted Isles fall, but they’re well fortified. The enemy will likely bypass them and hope they wither on the vine. The colonies are the main, immediate concern.”

“I beg to differ,” McClain said.

“We have perhaps two weeks,” Jenks said. He pointed at the map with his sword. “The Doms may even now have an army poised to strike from the south, but the land bordering the Sea of Bones is a terrible place; a sparse, rocky desert inhabited by unimaginable horrors. Oddly, the lands on either side are just as fertile as it is desolate, but therefore teeming with vast numbers of large, terrifying beasts.” He shook his head. “Any force attempting such a march would likely lose half its number before the first shot was fired. I predict the assault will come from the sea, as it did here, and it’s on the sea we must meet it.”

“The fastest ships, the frigates, might get there in time,” Gerald observed. “Ships of the line are too slow.” He paused. “And they will evidently already be employed elsewhere. The questions are, do we have enough to send, and will they have the weight of metal required when they get there?”

“I mean to take Walker,” Matt announced. “We might even beat the dispatch sloop you sent. With Commodore Jenks along to talk to the locals, sound the alarm, rouse the colonial defenses, we can at least have them ready for what’s coming.” He looked measuringly at Lord High Admiral McClain. “That’ll leave you to command, or choose somebody to command, the biggest force of fast steamers you can wrangle together, including my ships here. They have to sail immediately, and for God’s sake, don’t forget my oilers!”