Firestorm

CHAPTER 8

Mid Pacific

I say,” said Courtney Bradford, stunned, as if he’d just made some momentous discovery. “It’s Christmas Day!” He glared around the darkened bridge of USS Walker, casting a suddenly scandalized look at the new first lieutenant, Norman Kutas. Norm had been chief quartermaster’s mate, and still kept the log. Norm looked back, his scarred face crumpled in a frown, made even more gruesome by the poor light. He had the morning watch, 0400 to 0800, and was the only other human on the bridge.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bradford, I know,” he said, “but it ain’t like there’s a Christmas tree, presents, and kiddos chompin’ at the bit.”

“There should be,” Courtney said with conviction. “We’ve let too many of our traditional observances fall by the wayside. It’s scandalous, sir! Scandalous! And here I was, left alone to discover it… It shall not stand!”

“I was going to mention it to the Skipper when the watch changes,” Kutas defended.

“But you didn’t ‘mention’ it to me! No ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Bradford’ did I hear!”

“Well, with the rest of the bridge watch being ’Cats, who wouldn’t know Christmas from Armistice Day, I guess it slipped my mind. You’ve never been up this early, that I recall, and besides… I sort of figured with your ‘Darwin this,’ and ‘evolution that,’ you weren’t such a Holy Joe.”

“That’s the second time someone has questioned my faith on such an assumption!” Courtney declared. “And what would the captain do?” he demanded, righteous indignation beginning to swell. “Last Christmas came and went without so much as a notice…” He paused, reflecting. “Perhaps understandable, under the circumstances, but not twice in a row! I recall Captain Reddy took note of the unremarkable date of your misguided separation from the British Empire, but again Christmas is upon us without fanfare!”

“The Imperials had a few decorations up,” Kutas offered, a little lamely, “for their ‘Christmas Feast.’ ”

“Unacceptable! And of no use to you as an excuse. What’s the time?”

Kutas was increasingly flustered. Bradford’s stream of consciousness mode of communication was well-known, but it always caught his victims off guard. The Lemurians on the bridge were amused by the discussion, but, as Kutas had predicted, had little idea what it was about. The chronometer on the forward bulkhead was long deceased, and Kutas looked at his watch. “Uh, oh four forty-three,” he said.

“Close enough,” Bradford proclaimed, and passing a suddenly horrified Min-Saakir, or “Minnie” the female bridge talker, Courtney Bradford sounded the general alarm. Amid the raucous cries of a duck being burnt alive, he twisted the switch for the shipwide comm and spoke into the bulkhead microphone. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said in a kindly tone, reproduced as a snarling shout. “Yes indeed, it’s Christmas Day! Joy to you all!” He released the switch with a satisfied expression.

“God… dern it!” Kutas moaned. “Seventeen minutes early for morning GQ! The Skipper’s going to s me for your stunt!”

“Piffle!” Bradford said, suddenly a little hesitant. “What is seventeen minutes?”

“It’s a quarter hour for tired destroyermen, Mr. Bradford!”

The ship quickly came to life on the black sea, under the purple-smeared sky. Fire controlmen scampered up the steel rungs to the platform above, and drowsy lookouts joined those on the bridgewings, who’d remain at their posts until the sun was fully up. They were no longer cramped by the torpedo directors that hadn’t pointlessly made the trip. Dark shapes shuffled quickly to their posts on the fo’c’sle below, on the number one gun, and Earl Lanier’s distinctive bellow came from the galley just aft, demanding that the men and ’Cats “line up, straight and smart, and wait your goddamn turn! No, it ain’t ready yet; you got a date?” A few minutes later, taking longer than usual, Captain Reddy trotted up the metal stairs behind them, looking at his watch.

“Caap’n on the bridge!” Staas-Fin (Finny) cried loudly.

“As you were,” Matt said. “Report, Mr. Kutas.”

“Fire control, engineering, an’ lookout stations manned an’ ready, Mr. Kutaas,” shouted Minnie, her voice high-pitched and soft as usual, but touched with a note of anxiety.

“Uh, calm seas, northwesterly winds, no casualties or contacts, Captain,” Kutas said.

“All guns manned and ready,” Minnie squeaked.

Matt looked around, nodding at Courtney where he stood somewhat defiantly near the captain’s chair. “Merry Christmas, all,” he said amiably, then glanced at his watch again. “Thing seems a little off today.”

“I ah, doubt it, Skipper,” Norm said with another gruesome grimace. Chief Gray and Commodore Harvey Jenks appeared on the bridge together, followed quickly by Carl Bashear and Sonny Campeti, both comparing watches.

“All stations report ‘manned and ready,’” Minnie said, looking at the captain. He’d obviously figured out what happened and turned his gaze to Courtney.

“Mr. Bradford, you’ve been with us long enough to know I’ll tolerate no interference in the normal operation of this ship. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you’ll lose all bridge privileges indefinitely. Is that understood?”

“I only wanted-”

“Is that understood?” Matt demanded. Courtney finally nodded, and Matt strode to his chair. “Very well. Pass the word for Juan…” He paused, remembering his indomitable Filipino “steward” was still recovering on New Scotland. “For ‘Tabasco,’” he amended. “Coffee.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Norm said, clearly relieved.

“What is ‘Kis-mus’?” Lieutenant Tab-At, or “Tabby,” asked Spanky McFarlane when the skinny exec cycled through the air lock into the forward fireroom. Just as Spanky had been elevated from his beloved engineering spaces, the gray-furred ’Cat-a full member of the “elite” and bizarre fraternity of “Mice” created by the “originals,” Isak Rueben and Gilbert Yeager-had been raised to take his place as engineering officer. The terrible steam burns she’d once suffered were healing nicely, and fur was even creeping back across the ugly, gray-pink scars.

Spanky handed her an akka egg sandwich, and perched on a battered metal stool, nodding benignly at the other ’Cats in the fireroom. There was only one boiler in there now, number two, the rest of the space devoted to a massive fuel bunker. Number two was their current “problem child,” though, and his arrival with an egg sandwich-Tabby’s favorite-had become a morning ritual wherever he suspected she’d be applying her greatest attention. It was his way of “keeping in touch” with engineering in general, something he considered necessary despite Tabby’s professionalism, while at the same time proving to her and himself that they could still be “friends.” Spanky loved Tabby like a daughter, niece, or something, but it was no secret the onetime ’Cat version of a pinup in a fur suit was crazy about him in a more… uncomplicated way.

“It’s a religious day where I come from, ’mongst lots of folks,” he said, munching his own sandwich. “Celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Folks would give each other presents and try to be nice for a day.”

Tabby looked at her sandwich. “I heard of that ‘Jeezus’ fella, from Sister Audry. She said he washed away all the bad stuff people do with blood.” She brightened. “Kinda like we been doin’ ’gainst these damn ‘Doms’ lately!”

Spanky shifted on his stool. “It ain’t exactly the same…” Spanky was a nominal Catholic, and no matter how “backslid” he considered himself, the utterly twisted and perverted version of Catholicism the Dominion was trying to cram down everyone’s throat in a “convert or die” manner hit him very personally. He knew the new “Bosun of the Navy,” Chief Gray, felt the same. “Jesus died for our sins, washed ’em away with his own blood,” he said.

Tabby was silent a while, as were the other ’Cats. The only sounds in the fireroom emanating from the blower, the rush of water past creaking plates, and the trembling roar of hellfire in the boiler. “Well… we ain’t gonna do that,” she said decisively. “We gonna drown their sins in their blood… or the goddamn sea!” She finished her sandwich and looked at Spanky with suddenly liquid eyes, her ears to the side in a submissive… seductive way. “Thanks for the ‘Kis-mus’ saammich, Spanky,” she said softly. “You gave me a present. I be nice to you all day!”

His face reddening, Spanky stood. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ll check the other spaces before I see the Skipper. I’m OOD for the forenoon watch.” He paused. “Carry on,” he added, before cycling through to the aft fireroom.

Courtney’s hideous breech of protocol had been largely forgotten by the time the sun gushed over the horizon and bathed the limitless, purple sea with an achingly clear and sharp radiance. Not a single cloud marred the sky, and visibility seemed infinite. A cool breeze circulated through the pilothouse, and the group that gathered there earlier mostly remained. Courtney had eagerly broached the subject of what they might encounter-besides the enemy-as they neared the Americas, a subject that until now, only he had seemed interested in. Now, with that coast less than a week away, everyone seemed curious, and Jenks did his best to answer their questions. As an explorer and something of a naturalist himself, he was able to make some interesting observations.

“But that still doesn’t explain why they seem so… single-minded,” Matt said, referring to a virtual procession of “mountain fish” they’d spotted-and duly avoided-the day before. The ridiculously huge beasts were notoriously territorial, and none of the “Americans,” human or Lemurian, had ever seen two in close proximity, certainly not the apparent dozens they’d seen, dotting the horizon like a distant ind chain.

“I can’t explain it,” Jenks replied. “Particularly since it’s not an annual event that might be explained by migratory habits. It seems continuous. All I know is that, year round, occasional groups of the devils are observed, traveling through these comparatively barren seas, always on an easterly course. There are collisions, usually in the dark, but they seem disinclined to attack vessels as they sometimes do in the west.” He shook his head. “As I mentioned before, the shallow bay between what you call the Baja peninsula and the mainland is referred to by the Doms as ‘el Mar de Huesos,’ or the Sea of Bones. That may provide some explanation, given study, but I’ve never ventured there. The Doms claim it, and even in less… hostile times, I’ve never been allowed entry.”

“You reckon they go there to die? The old ones, maybe?” Gray ventured gruffly. Matt looked at him carefully. At sixty-something, the Bosun was still a pillar of strength, but he’d begun to make comments now and then, as if starting to feel his age.

Jenks shrugged. “That would seem a sound assumption, but not all the migrants are of the largest size. Perhaps some grow bigger than others, but based on size alone, one would infer specimens of all ages make the trip.”

“Fascinating!” Courtney gushed. “Tell us more about these flying creatures, these ‘dragons’!” he demanded.

“They can be a menace,” Jenks confessed. “They look much like the ‘lizard birds,’ as you call them, or the small ‘dragon fowl’ we hunt at home, with fowling pieces, but they’re much larger. Bigger even than the ones Mr. Bradford compared in size to an albatross.” He paused, looking at Courtney. “Speaking of those midsize creatures, did you know, though seen throughout the isles of the Empire, and even as far as the continental colonies, they’re known to nest only on a small atoll in the Normandy Isles, far to the west of New Wales?”

“Oh my,” said Bradford.

“About these ‘dragons,’” Matt persisted. “You say they’re a menace? I guess they fly, but they don’t… spit fire or anything?”

“Heavens no.” Jenks chuckled. “But they’re large enough to snatch seamen from ships, and they’re quite clever, I’m afraid. They carry their prey to great heights and dash it against land or sea to kill it or render it senseless before they eat it. They’ve been known to bombard ships with rocks in excess of a hundred pounds.”

“Shit!” the Bosun exclaimed.

Bradford eyed him. “Please. It is Christmas!”

“I was about to beg pardon,” Gray defended himself.

Spanky clomped up the stairs aft. “Mornin’, Skipper,” he said. “Everybody.”

“And a Merry Christmas to you!” Courtney said sourly.

“Yeah. Hey, what’s this about ‘dragon bombers’?” he asked. Matt filled him in. “Wow. Better get busy training the ’Cat gunners to hit flying targets!”

“Hey, you’re right,” said Campeti. “I’ll get with Stites and see how we can do that without wasting a bunch of ammo. Maybe those Jap pom-poms we mounted where the numbers three and four torpedo mounts used to be’ll come in handy for something.”

“Do it,” said Matt. He looked at Jenks. “What other… surprises can we expect?”

“Probably not much you haven’t already seen, at least at sea. The gri-kakka, you call them, are considerably larger off the coast, and something like your ‘flashies’-perhaps the same species-are just as thick in the shallows as you’re accustomed to within the barrier. Sharks too, like the one that disabled Revenge and caused all that trouble for Task Force Garrett.”

“Say,” said Campeti, “I wonder how that’s going?”

Matt shook his head. “No way to know. The comm post we set up on that mountain on New Britain can probably still hear us; our transmitter is a lot more powerful. But Palmer said everything from there finally faded out last night. We’re cut off, comm-wise.” He brightened. “At least we know Admiral McClain, the fleet, and our oilers are on the way-a day late.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it, I guess.”

“Skipper, you know no big fleet ever sailed on time, with such short notice,” Spanky consoled.

“Keje and First Fleet did,” Matt replied. “And so did Task Force Maaka-Kakja.” He rubbed his face. “I hope that was the right thing to do. With that murderous Jap ’can running around…”

“I told you to expect such things,” Bradford reminded him. “My theory regarding how objects and people arrive on this world is still all ahoo, but I’m convinced that metal and magnetism, or electrical conductivity is somehow involved. With a global war underway back home, brimming with magnetic or conductive weapons scattered prolifically about, we’re likely to have more visits here as time goes by.”

“I’m not so sure,” Matt said slowly. “I mean, I agree with your theory for the most part, but I’m not convinced that nothing from ‘here’ ever wound up ‘there.’”

Courtney stared at him blankly.

“Jenks’s ‘dragons,’” he explained. “The ‘sea monsters.’ If a few things from here got snatched the other way over time, that could explain a lot of human mythology.”

“Don’t forget the ‘mer-lizards’ of Chill-Chaap!” the Bosun snorted through clenched teeth, trying not to laugh.

Courtney’s eyebrows furrowed. “Blast!” he said suddenly. “My beautiful theory is assailed! Now I shall lie awake at night, trying to reconcile this new variable, deprived of sleep!”

“Don’t sweat it.” Matt laughed. “When you get it all sorted out, I’m sure it’ll make perfect sense. Remember, we came with the ship, and we’re not magnetic!”

“But…” Courtney clamped his mouth shut. The ’Cats on the bridge were just beginning to “believe” in the invisible force of gravity. He didn’t want to distract them with even more “invisible” powers just now. Maybe some of the ’Cat EMs would understand, and he was sure Matt did, despite what he’d just said. Spanky and Palmer probably did as well… Suddenly, he realized he’d inflicted consideration of the greatest “invisible” power of all upon Walker ’s crew just that morning. He shook his head. “I am the most incredibly inconsistent creature alive,” he admitted.

“Yeah, but at least you’re consistently inconsistent,” Gray jabbed.

“Lookout reports a sail, off the starboard bow!” Minnie interrupted.

“Range?” Matt asked, raising his binoculars.

“Lookout say ‘on horizon.’ It so clear, an’ with no range-finder.

…”

Matt thought for a moment. The sea was calm, the sky cloudless.. . and the kid needed to get back on the horse. “Call the air division to action stations and have them stand by for flight operations,” he ordered.

Lieutenant Fred Reynolds heard the call he’d both dreaded and craved. He yearned to get back in the air, but he hated that somebody had to ride the “Nancy” with him-somebody who might wind up dead because of him. Kari Faask, his friend and former spotter/wireless operator/ bombardier and copilot, had remained aboard despite Selass-Fris-Ar’s misgivings, but she was still recovering from serious wounds. Fred spent almost all his off-duty time with her, escorting her around the ship, gently helping with her therapy-and generally treating her like a china doll. It helped salve his conscience. His first real taste of responsibility as an officer had resulted in a lost plane, a wounded friend, and a severely shaken self-confidence that hadn’t had much to rebuild on. He’d manage, he was a good flier, but without Kari in the backseat… He wondered who Mr. Palmer would replace her with.

The deck crew chief, Jeek, met him as he emerged from beneath the amidships deckhouse and handed him his leather helmet, goggles, and scarf-pretty much the only “special” equipment he required to fly. After his previous flights in the open-air cockpit, he’d taken to wearing a peacoat, which he already had on. It seemed hot as hell right now, but he’d welcome the coat’s warmth when he got in the air. Jeek escorted him to the “new” plane they’d assembled from parts stowed in the torpedo workshop, aft. Jeek, or somebody, had painted the word “No” on both sides of the forward fuselage this time. Jeek had painted it on Fred’s first plane after he returned from the action against “Company” warships sent to intercept them, and Reynolds somehow contrived to shoot his own plane in the nose with a. 45. Despite his resistance, the tradition stuck, but now it seemed appropriate. He viewed the warning as a reminder not to pull any stupid stunts.

“The engine is still warm,” Jeek assured him, uncharacteristically serious. He worried about his pilot and the funk he’d settled into. “We ran it up for morning GQ.” Implicit also was Jeek’s reminder that Fred should have been there for that. Reynolds looked at the plane and did a quick walkaround. It looked just like his old one, a PB-1B with its broad, high wing and single four-cylinder engine. If not for that and the reversed position of the prop, the thing looked much like the old PBY Catalina that inspired its form.

“That’s fine, Jeek,” Fred said. “Thanks.” He clambered up the ladder to the cockpit and settled himself in the wicker seat, strapping himself in. The rest of the air division scampered about, preparing the plane for launch. They hadn’t done the “real thing” for a while, but they drilled for it every day. Fred was impressed by how efficient they’d become since that first awkward time. He felt the plane settle slightly aft as his new spotter clumsily joined him. He didn’t look back to see who it was, not yet; a ’Cat was hooking the forward lifting points to the crude davit arrangement that would hoist them up and lower them into the sea, and he always liked to make sure that was carefully done. “Cast off the tie-downs,” he shouted, noticing way coming off the ship by the diminishing wake alongside. “Take her up!”

The mostly wood and fabric plane creaked as the davit took its weight, and taglines, attached to the pin-release lifting points, controlled the plane’s orientation as it swung out over the water. He motioned for the ’Cats oavit to let him down. With a shuddering splap! the “Nancy” was in the sea and Fred lost no time. “Contact!” he shouted aft.

“Contact,” confirmed a familiar-wrong-voice. He turned.

“Kari!” he shouted back, incredulous. “What the devil are you doing here? Doc’ Selass’ll skin you!”

“She not here. Beside, she release me for light duty,” Kari said. “Sit in airplane while somebody else fly not hard. She no say I not fly!”

“That’s because it never occurred to her you’d be so stupid!” Fred roared. Somehow, Kari managed to stand and grasp the prop.

“You been actin’ too goofy to fly with anybody not say how goofy you are. You think I let you fly with some dope not know you?” She paused, waiting for a response. “You say ‘contact,’ right?”

Fred turned back to stare straight ahead. “Contact,” he confirmed in a subdued voice. Propping the motor was bound to hurt the wound in his friend’s side, and Kari-Faask didn’t even like to fly.

The takeoff was uneventful, and soon, amid the contented drone of her plucky motor, the “Nancy” was winging her way toward the distant contact while Walker resumed her twenty-knot gallop to close.

“Just one ship, it looks like,” Fred instructed Kari to report, through the speaking tube. From about two thousand feet, he could see the horizon beyond the stranger, and nothing else was in view. “White sails,” he added with mixed relief. Dominion warships wore a red suit-but that didn’t mean the contact was friendly. “I won’t get any nearer than necessary to make an identification,” he assured his companion self-consciously.

“You go close as you have to,” Kari scolded. “You go in mast high, an’ I drop my little bombs if Cap-i-taan Reddy says. You fly close enough to shoot them with you pistol again, you have to. Hear?”

His face hot, Fred could only nod. Evidently, they were seen before too much longer, and the ship suddenly hove to, its sails flapping in helpless disarray. A few white puffs from small-arms fire, at ridiculously long range, blossomed on the deck. They were more a reaction of panic at the sight of such a strange contraption as the plane, Fred thought, than any type of disciplined response. Still, conscious of what happened last time, he maintained his altitude and settled into a banking orbit about a thousand yards out.

“Is ‘Comp’ny’ ship,” Kari declared, identifying the red-and-white-striped flag through an Imperial telescope. Her precious Bausch amp; Lomb binoculars had been lost in the last crash.

“They can’t know the situation in New Britain yet,” Fred said. “Send it.”

“What we do?”

“We keep circling until Walker gets here. Company ships have cannons, and they might shoot them at us, if we get low enough. I bet they won’t shoot at Walker!”

Reynolds was right. The old destroyer raced to within five thousand yards, put an intimidating and unanswerable shot into the sea just forward of the Company ship, and continued to advance while the target hove-to more creditably and “officially,” yanking her flag to the quarterdeck. Fred and Kari watched Walker churn to a halt off the sailing ship’s bow, guns trained out to port.

“Signal at halyard,” Kari said. “Says ‘well done, return to ship, recover on swhiard side.’”

“Sounds good to me,” Fred said, feeling better about their first jaunt together since that last, traumatic flight. “Let’s go home.”

Six Imperial Marines were on Walker, under Jenks’s personal command. All the ’Cat Marines had remained on New Scotland either recu- perating from wounds or preparing for the campaign against New Ireland. Jenks, the Bosun, the Marines-and Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites and his BAR-crossed to the “prize” in the rebuilt motor whaleboat. The Bosun was coxswain. Shortly after they went aboard the vessel-her lines similar to most employed by the Company for long-distance cargo transport, and little different from the Indiamen that inspired her-the whaleboat returned with Jenks, the Bosun, and two other men. Matt was waiting with a security detail when they climbed the metal rungs on the hull just aft of the amidships deckhouse.

A portly, dark-haired man sporting an “Imperial” mustache was first aboard, eagerly saluting Walker ’s flag and everyone he saw. Matt suppressed a chuckle, imagining the warning Jenks or Gray must have given. The man goggled at the Lemurians and was clearly astonished to see the aircraft that had frightened him so being lifted to the deck, aft of the searchlight tower. Another, younger officer followed him, with similar behavior, and Jenks brought up the rear. The Bosun exchanged places with “Boats” Bashear, a ’Cat signalman, and the short-tailed Gunner’s Mate Faal-Pel (Stumpy), who hopped down in the boat with a Thompson before Bashear advanced the throttle and steered the boat back toward the “prize.”

“I’m Captain Halowell,” gushed the portly man. “Honorable New Britain Company Ship, Pompey. I know Commodore Jenks by reputation, and he told me to expect a Captain Reddy. Are you he?”

“I am,” Matt replied.

Halowell was practically wringing his hands. “Honestly, Captain, you gave us quite a fright. I still don’t know whether to be distressed or relieved by his detention!”

Matt wondered what it was about the situation that would cause relief, but he forged ahead with the first-agreed-protocol regarding just this possibility. “I’m sorry to distress you further, but I believe Commodore Jenks has a formality to attend to.”

Jenks nodded and stepped forward, removing a folded page from a pocket of his weskit. “Captain Halowell, I’m pleased to inform you that the Company you served has been disbanded for its role in a murderous, treasonous plot against the Empire. You and your officers will face an inquiry, at which your logs will be opened and examined to ensure you played no part.” He glanced at the list. “The ship Pompey is now the property of a consortium of loyal stockholders who’ve formed the ‘New Wales Freight and Transportation Company,’ but she has also been commissioned for an indefinite period as an auxiliary to the Imperial Navy.”

The man was nodding in what seemed a wholly agreeable fashion. “Splendid,” he said. “Damn the Company and good riddance, say I. There’s a warden aboard Pompey, sirs, a most disagreeable scoundrel! Do hang him, I beg, or drag him through the sea for the monsters to sample!”

“If he deserves it, he’ll surely be hanged,” Jenks assured. He paused, glancing at Matt. “Judging by your… cargo, you’ve recently come from the Dominion. What’s the situation there? I should inform you that a state of war now exists between us.”

“‘Cargo’?” interrupted Matt. He looked at the Bosun, just reachhe deck.

“Broads, Skipper,” Gray confirmed. “Like we figured. Swarms o’ dark-skinned dolls packed in like Norway minnows.”

“War?” declared Halowell, insensitive to the exchange. “Thank God! Then you know?”

“Know what?”

“Why, the cause for my relief!” Halowell paused, seeing their expressions. “I see… or rather I don’t. I know not what sparked the war at home, but I assure you war has commenced already upon those dark, eastern shores!” He shuddered. “We were down the coast from Acapoolco at the usual place…” He looked about curiously, again taken aback by the gathering ’Cats, then specifically addressed Jenks. “As you know, Commodore, the ‘trade’ has been officially illicit for some time as far as the Doms were concerned. They’d rather cut the bleeding hearts from the poor wenches than sell them to us now! But commerce as usual hasn’t been much discouraged beyond the provincial capital. A veritable harbor city has arisen at Puerto Marco, where women bring us their own daughters to spare them the stone knives of that twisted faith. Stone knives, for the love of God!” The man paused, his horror obvious. “In the event, we were anchored with several other Company vessels, our cargo already shipped, awaiting only the tide. During the night, Doms-thousands of’em!-attacked every other ship and slaughtered all aboard. Only the whim of chance had Pompey moored the farthest out. Perhaps the fiends assigned to us became disoriented in the gloom and attacked another ship…” He began blinking rapidly. “It was horrific, sirs, the screams… You could tell by those that they even murdered the ‘cargo.’ ” He shook his head. “There was nothing we could do. We cut our cables and bore away as quickly as we could. Some galleys gave chase, but we caught a favorable wind that proved our salvation.”

“Can you imagine why they’d do such a thing?” Jenks asked. Dominion atrocities didn’t surprise him, not anymore, but there had to be a reason.

“Indeed, sir. From the time we entered Puerto Marco, we heard rumors of mighty fleets and large armies. There were no warships in port, save the galleys, but you can’t keep a secret like that. Our suppliers hinted, the victuallers warned, even the ‘cargo’ had heard things… and there was a distinct shortage of labor, particularly young men, to be had. We knew something was stirring, the other captains and I. That was why we had already determined to depart before our holds were quite full and travel in company. Alas, too late.”

“Lucky,” grunted the Bosun.

“For us,” Halowell granted.

“Did you gain any notion where these fleets were bound?” Jenks asked.

“The rumors were of the normal sort; nothing definitive. But enough agreed on a few destinations: the Enchanted Isles garrison is perhaps the most probable, since it lies the closest and the Doms have always claimed the islands. Considering the treachery at home you spoke of, I now give greater credibility to the very heart of the Empire as a possibility. Certainly the colonies on the northern continent are at risk. Those three were mentioned most and strike me as most likely, particularly having heard your news.”

“We expect an attempt on the colonies,” Jenks confirmed. “That’s why we hurry there.”

Halowell looked around. “This one ship? Granted, she’s a wondrous thing, with amazing speed, but…”

“This one ship, if she’s all we have,” Matt said. He looked around at the staring faces of his crew, his people, furry or not. “By the way, Captain Halowell, this ‘cargo’ you speak of, these women. I expect they’re ‘indentured’ to the Company, as usual?”

“Aye,” answered Halowell, sensing something in Matt’s tone.

“Then I must inform you that ‘trade’ of that sort has been stopped, by Imperial decree, and any such ‘cargos’ now in transit are considered contraband and subject to seizure. Pending a final ruling by His Majesty, the Governor-Emperor of the New Britain Isles, regarding the legal status of the people constituting said cargoes, the indentures of every human being aboard Pompey now belong to USS Walker and the United States Navy. How many do you have?”

“Ah… just under two hundred, sir.” Halowell groaned, suddenly realizing the personal loss this meeting involved, namely his percentage.

“From this point until you reach the Allied, United States Navy docks in Scapa Flow, those people are no longer ‘cargo,’ but passengers. They’ll be afforded every courtesy and fed and watered in proportion to anyone else on your ship to the extent of the crew going on half rations themselves, if necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

Halowell looked at Jenks and saw an equally severe expression. He gulped. “Aye, Captain Reddy. Most clear.”

“Good. Now, I believe we’ve all hung around here as long as we should. Commodore?”

Jenks smiled. “Captain Halowell, I have the honor of issuing you a temporary commission in His Majesty’s Navy, incidentally placing you under the jurisdiction of the Articles of War. Congratulations. I presume the commission will be upheld following your inquiry provided you make no effort to ‘lose’ or alter your logs. The judges understand the position Company masters have been in, and they’ve been surprisingly lenient in most matters. Besides, the Navy needs the ships and experienced captains. Now, considering the possibility you’re behind a major enemy fleet, I suggest you make as much sail as you consider safe, sail southwest for several days, then attempt a record passage.” He started to turn, dismissing the two former Company officers, but stopped. “You might arrest your ‘warden’ and anyone else you suspect of being a Company informer, but don’t hang them yourself. Let the court sort it out.”

Later, back on Walker ’s bridge with Pompey rapidly diminishing astern, Jenks chuckled. “I don’t remember your discussing the disposition of ‘contraband’ with His Majesty.”

Matt shrugged. “I like Gerald, but I doubt your courts’re much different from ours back home. The ultimate disposition of those people could take months if Gerald doesn’t jump in, and I don’t know if he can yet. In the meantime, we took ’em; they’re ours. They’ll have the same choice we gave the women we ‘bought’ on Respite. They can do what they want. We’ve got other things to worry about right now. Do you think the Doms could put together three big fleets?”

“I honestly don’t know. It’s possible.”

Matt sighed. “Well, we can chase only one. Your people on the ‘Enchanted Isles’ and everyone in the Empire are on their own. All we can do is stick to the plan and try to protect the colonies.”

Jenks looked aft at the distant sail, beginning to blend with the afternoon haze that had consumed the knife-edge horizon of the morning. “I hope they appreciate the ‘Christmas gift’ you’ve given them,” he muttered.

“Who? Oh, the women on that ship?” Matt shook his head. “Where I come from, freedom isn’t something a man can give; it comes from God. You’re born with it. Sometimes men have to fight to keep others from taking it away, and all too often good men give their lives so that God-given freedom can endure. That’s the gift; blood for freedom. What I did today cost me nothing. It was just right.”

“I wasn’t talking about those women. Their situation is improved regardless-admittedly more so since your arrival in the Isles. No, I mean my own people… and the freedom you gift them with the blood of yours, human and Lemurian.”