Into the Storm

CHAPTER 4

Chack-Sab-At was sulking. High in the air, at the very top of the first great wing-almost a hundred fifty tails above the main deck of Salissa Home-he could concentrate on nothing but his rejection. He should have known. Selass had flirted with him only as a means of attracting Saak-Fas, first son of the clan chief controlling the center, and most prestigious, of Home’s three wings. He realized now, with a measure of embarrassed bitterness, that he’d fallen for her ruse, as had his rival. Her pretense of favor easily convinced Saak-Fas to take her to mate before it came Chack’s turn to choose. No matter. He was young and not without prospects. He had a wide choice of eligible mates. He was a first son also, and though his sister was older and closer in line to succeed their mother as clan chief of the forward wing, he expected to go far. He was the best wing runner on all Salissa Home and when a new Home was built in a season or two, he would climb to the top of its center wing and become fas chief himself.

Or maybe not, he corrected himself glumly.

Selass might truly dislike him enough to see to it that her father, the High Chief of Salissa, did not grant him that honor. It wasn’t unheard of. The hereditary nature of the wing “nobility” was rarely interfered with, and each of the three wing clans of Home was virtually autonomous. Except, of course, in how they cooperated with the other clans to move Home from place to place. If a clan chief were incompetent, or unable to agree with one or both of the other wing clans-or the Body of Home clan, for that matter-the succession could be altered. High Chiefs always rose from the Body of Home clan and were supposedly impartial to the bickering among the wings. They had the power to confirm or deny all successions and, indeed, the power to banish.

Keje-Fris-Ar was sovereign over them all and literally held the power of life and death. If he began to dislike Chack, life-which until that very morning had seemed so full of promise-might reveal progressively more disappointment as time went by. Subconsciously, Chack knew Keje was a good and benevolent ruler. He would not countenance any personal vendetta based on a scornful daughter’s whim. But Chack felt sorry for himself, and he was in no mood to limit the depths of his misery. It didn’t help that, try as he might, he couldn’t shake the vision of Selass’s soft silver fur and green eyes from his mind.

He glanced far below at the surface of Home and saw the many Body of Home people performing their daily chores: salting fish from the morning drag or tending the plants that grew from under the protective overhangs ranged entirely around Salissa. Life went on as it did every day, day after day, during fair-weather times. The People were happily heedless of his puny disappointment, for the People were happy, for the most part. Few water monsters were a threat to anything as large as Home, and only the worst storms were noticed. The only threats were the rare mountain fish, land, and of course, the Grik.

Mountain fish were few and encountered only in the deepest regions of the Great Seas, where Homes of the People rarely ventured. Land was easily avoided. The Sky Priests, with their mystical instruments and scrolls, saw to that. If weather hindered the path they decreed, the sharp eyes of the wing-tip watchers-the post that Chack stood-would see danger in time for the Body of Home clan to deploy the great fins that could move them against all but the most furious sea. If even that failed, then they had the huge copper feet, two at each end of Home, that could be dropped into the sea attached to a great cable. There had never been a blow-not even a strakka-that could conquer the feet.

The People really feared only the Grik. The Grik were the Ancient Enemy, who cast them from paradise long ago. So long had it been that even to the Sky Priests, it was just “Long Ago.” But the People escaped the Grik, and it had been so long since any had been seen that they’d become creatures of legend, of myth, of nightmare-boogeymen to frighten younglings into performing their chores. If they did exist, they dwelt safely across the Western Ocean, upon which no vessel could pass. That was what the People believed for generation upon generation-until the Grik came again and an ancient, almost instinctual dread was revived.

They hadn’t been long in these waters, but there were more of them all the time, and they were liable to appear anywhere in their ridiculously small and fragile Homes. Homes that only a few hundred could travel upon, but Homes that were amazingly fleet and maneuverable and had very sharp teeth. Homes that always attacked. In Chack’s first seven seasons, he’d seen only one of their tiny Homes, and it had attacked them- only to be beaten off. But the shock of that day lingered still. That such a small thing with such frightening creatures would attack without thought or warning-and with such dreadful ferocity-still troubled his sleep. The next seven seasons carried him into young adulthood, and he’d seen no less than six more Grik Homes. Each time one appeared, it attacked without fail. They never managed to do more than inflict minor damage, but always a few of the People were slain repelling them. One such had been Chack’s father. It made no sense. The Grik had to be at least a little intelligent, else they couldn’t have built the fast little ships. But to attack Homes of the People from their much smaller craft was like flasher-fish against gri-kakka. They could wound, but nothing more. The priests taught that Grik were creatures of the land. Perhaps that explained their madness.

Chack didn’t pretend to understand them, any more than he understood the treachery of females. He glanced at his sister, Risa, on the wing support a dozen tails beneath him. She watched him with concern in her large amber eyes-and impatience. He knew Risa loved him; she was his very best friend. But she also thought he took things much too seriously. She made a joke of everything except her duty, but there was a difference between giving and taking a joke-and becoming one. Her body language told him more than words ever could: he was acting a fool. He blinked rueful acknowledgment and resumed scanning the skyline. They were in a confined area and as good as the priests were at laying a course, it was instilled in wing-tips from birth that they could never be too careful. Besides, it was in confined areas that the Grik usually chose to attack.

He was studying the hazy shoreline with just that thought in mind when he first saw something strange. A large puff of black smoke appeared above the haze that lingered between the small island and the large one. There was a sudden impression of rapid motion and a white froth grew on the water. A smallish shape, advancing impossibly fast, appeared atop the foam, under a diminishing cloud of smoke. He clung to his perch for a few moments more with his jaw hanging slack. Nothing could move that fast! He blinked his eyes. Of course it could. He saw it. He reached over and grabbed a line.

“The Grik! The Grik come!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs, and dropped down the rope toward the surprised and alarmed upturned faces.

“I can’t tell yet!” answered Vernon in the crow’s nest to another urgent query. “There’s too much haze,” he continued excitedly. “It’s big, though. God, it’s big! Bigger than that cruiser we tangled with!”

Dowden clambered up the ladder to the pilothouse, wiping sleep from bleary eyes. “What is it, Captain?”

“Don’t know yet, Larry. Something in the strait.” Matt smiled grimly. “Sorry to wake you. I have the conn, Mr. Garrett. Take your station, if you please. Torpedoes?” Ensign Sandison scrambled to his position at the starboard torpedo director.

“They’re ready, Captain.”

“All stations manned and ready, sir,” supplied the talker.

Matt brought his binoculars to his eyes. The haze in the strait was still thick, but it was thinning rapidly under the combined assault of the fully risen sun and a freshening breeze. Even on the bridge they could see a large dark shape, and it did appear larger than Amagi. Matt knew then that all their toil, sacrifice, and suffering, the gallantry and heroism of his fine crew, had been for nothing. Whatever lay ahead could only be a very large Japanese ship, and as soon as it saw them they would die. His only plan was to gain the attention of the enemy, fire Walker’s last torpedoes and run like hell under a cloud of smoke back in the direction of Surabaya. Maybe they could distract it from Mahan and the other destroyer would escape.

The talker asked the lookout to repeat himself. “Captain?” he said hesitantly. “Vernon says he’s a little above the haze now and he can see a fair amount of the target, which is also above the haze. He says it ain’t no Jap warship he ever saw. It ain’t nothin’ he ever heard of.”

“Explain!” snapped Matt. Every eye in the pilothouse was fixed upon the talker.

“Sir, he says it’s got sails.”

All binoculars were instantly in use as the bridge crew scrutinized the apparition more closely. Sails. Whatever it was, it was huge and it had sails. Lieutenant Garrett’s voice came over the comm, calling out range estimates and instructing his gun crews. “Range six four five oh. Bearing two five oh. Speed fo-four knots? Captain, I have a solution. Request permission to commence firing.”

Captain Reddy tore his gaze from the ship that was rapidly resolving into something… remarkable, and strode to the intercom himself. “Negative, Mr. Garrett. I repeat, negative! Hold your fire. Continue to track the target, but hold your fire!” He looked at Sandison. “You too, Bernie.” He returned to stand beside his chair and raised his binoculars again. Wind rushed in through the empty window frames and threatened to take his hat, but he didn’t even notice. It was a ship, all right. Bigger than a battleship. Bigger than a carrier. Hell, it was bigger than anything he’d ever seen. And rising high in the air, at least three or four hundred feet, were three huge tripods that each supported enormous semi-rigid sails much like those of a junk, but bigger than any junk’s that were ever conceived. “Engines slow to two-thirds. Left ten degrees rudder. Let’s see what we have here.”

The great ship was threading the channel-with evident care, consideringits size-on a heading taking it into the Java Sea. There was silence on Walker’s bridge as she drew closer and details became more defined. Matt didn’t even notice Sandra Tucker and Mr. Bradford join him to gape at the leviathan. It was double-ended, sharp at bow and stern, and looked like a gargantuan version of the old Federal ironclad Monitor, except the straight up-and-down sides reared a hundred feet above the sea. Instead of a turret, there were three large structures with multiple levels, like wedding cakes, forming the foundations for the great tripod masts. In a sense, they looked like the pagoda-style superstructures distinctive of Japanese warships, except they were larger and were, like the rest of the huge ship, evidently made of wood. Bright-colored tarps and awnings were spread everywhere, creating a festive air, and from what he could see of the deck from his low perspective, the space between the structures was covered with pavilion-like arrangements of brightly striped and embroidered canvas.

The ship was easily a thousand feet long, but most outlandish of all were the hundreds of creatures lining the rails and in the rigging and leaning out windows in the “pagodas” to stare right back at them.

“Bring us alongside, Mr. Scott.” Matt’s voice sounded small, and he cleared his throat, hoping for a more authoritative tone. ”No closer than a hundred yards. Slow to one-third.” He glanced at the talker. “Try to raise Mahan and tell her to hold her horses.” Perhaps they’d repaired her radio. Jim was optimistic.

“Sir!” cried Sandison. “What about the Japs? Won’t they hear us transmit?”

An explosive giggle escaped Tony Scott, but he managed to compose himself. Matt let out a breath he must have been holding and gestured out the windows with his chin. He smiled hesitantly. “Mr. Sandison, I don’t believe there are any Japs. Not anymore.”

The chattering voices grew progressively quieter as the strange vessel approached. Excited exclamations and panicky activity all but ceased. Chack and Risa were on the catwalk above the gardens that ran around the ship. They squeezed through to the railing for a better view. The thing was close now, less than a hundred tails distant. Though small compared to Home, it was longer than any Grik ship ever seen, although maybe not as wide. There was a single tall mast toward the front and a much shorter one at the back, but neither carried a wing of any sort! It had checked its mad dash and now matched their speed, moving parallel to their course. The white froth it threw aside as it dashed through the waves diminished to a whisker.

No wings-and yet it moved effortlessly in any direction, regardless of the wind! As it kept station off their beam, Chack had the impression it was going as slow as it possibly could and strained to surge ahead against some invisible bond. Four tall pipes, or vents, towered from the middle, and occasional wisps of smoke curled away. Perhaps the pipes were wings? He couldn’t see how. If so, must they light fires in them to make them work? When he first saw it, there was much smoke and it went very fast. Now it was slow, but there was little smoke. Perhaps. He felt a twinge of superstitious dread. Fire was another thing the People feared, and only the cookers and lighters were allowed to use it. All it would take was one careless moment and all of Home might be consumed. To harness fire and use it so made him feel uneasy. The thing boasted few colors, except for a tattered, striped cloth that fluttered at the back. Other than that, it was dull, like a stormy sky, with brownish streaks and smudges here and there. It also looked like it had been bitten by a mountain fish, as there were holes, large and small, all over.

Chack’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Guards, who arrayed themselves along the railing every five tails or so, pushing spectators away. Most hadn’t bothered to don their light armor, but all had their axes and crossbows, which they strung when they took their positions. Chack felt a twinge of guilt. He was in the reserve Guard, as was every able-bodied person on Home. But he hadn’t even thought to arm himself, so anxious was he to get a look at the stranger. He thought about fetching his weapons now, and even started to leave, when the chattering grew louder again. He squeezed back through the people that packed the rails. Risa grasped his arm. “They are not Grik!” she shouted over the growing clamor. “Not Grik!”

He blinked rapidly in surprise and stared back across the water. He’d been so preoccupied by the strange vessel, as had everyone, that he’d failed to notice there were people on it. Well, not People, of course, but not Grik.

“What are they?” Risa asked, barely heard.

“What the hell are they?” Matt said softly, barely aloud.

“They look like monkeys! Or cats! Or… hell, what are they?!” blurted Sandison.

“Quite like lemurs, I should think,” said Bradford in an excited tone, “although they do have a strong feline aspect as well.”

“I don’t know what a lemur is, or a feline neither. They look like cat-monkeys to me,” grumbled Scott.

“Silence on the bridge!” Matt said softly but forcefully. “Tend your helm, Mr. Scott.”

Keje-Fris-Ar stepped to the rail, surrounded by his personal guards, and waited for Adar, the High Sky Priest, to join him. Keje was short, even by the standards of the People, and he tended toward a mild plumpness common among the Body of Home folk. His arms were massive, however, as they’d been since his youth, when he’d been the greatest lance hurler in living memory. In his fortieth season, he was still among the best. When the People hunted the great gri-kakka, or “lizard fish,” for its flesh and the oil from its fat, he still often found a place in the boats. His short fur was reddish brown, now salted with white, but his eyes-a much darker reddish brown-sparkled with youthful curiosity, along with a natural concern. As he gazed at the amazing visitor, one of his clansmen-guards dressed him in his war tunic, made of gri-kakka skin and covered with highly polished and beautifully chased copper plates. At his side was his scota, a long, broad-bladed sword used primarily for hacking gri-kakka fat but also a formidable weapon in his practiced hand.

Adar arrived, shouldering gently but firmly through the gathered people. His long purple robe hung from his tall, thin frame and billowed as a gust of wind breathed softly across them. On each shoulder was an embroidered silver star, much the same color as his pelt, which was the badge of his office. He stared intently at the unbelievable ship, but more specifically at the creatures upon it in their outlandish white, blue, and light brown garments. Creatures doing nothing more threatening than staring back at them. They were bizarre, to be sure, and taller even than he. They had virtually no fur at all, just little tufts on their heads covered by strange hats. A few had fur on their faces, but not very many. The most shocking difference, however, at least at a glance, was that the beings had no tails. At all.

Most looked back with as much apparent astonishment as the People displayed. Others evidently communicated with one another in some animated, alien fashion. Generally, though, their reaction to the meeting seemed to mirror that of the People. There was no fear in his voice when he spoke to his leader and lifelong friend. “Tail-less mariners,” he said quietly. “How very strange indeed. Could it possibly be?” He shook his head. “Demons from the East, most likely.”

Keje glanced at him and blinked questioningly. “The Scrolls speak of demons from the East? Specifically? The People are harried sufficiently by demons from every other direction. These must be distinguished demons indeed.”

Adar allowed the slightest smile to appear on his perpetually stoic face. “Not specifically. Not in the Scrolls. But there is wisdom passed down among the Sky Priests that is not always written, my Brother.”

Keje huffed. He noticed that some had seen the exchange and several blinked with alarm. He heard the word “demons” whispered and saw the effect ripple down the rail, fore and aft. He huffed again, in annoyance. “Watch your tongue, my gloomy friend. No one doubts I rule the minds and bodies of all the People of Home, but your words carry weight in their hearts.” He gestured at the thing that lingered with such unnerving precision and spoke louder. “They’re not Grik. They’re very strange folk, but they haven’t attacked. I doubt they can. I see no weapons. No swords, axes, or crossbows at all. Their Home is very fast. If our Home was as fast, we would not need weapons either!” He laughed.

He watched as his words quickly spread to counteract the unease that Adar’s comment had inspired. Adar inclined his head and lowered his ears in respect.

“You are wise, Keje-Fris-Ar. That’s why you are High Chief of all the clans of Home, and I am merely a humble servant of the Heavens.” The sarcasm was thick, but those nearby recognized the customary banter between their two leaders, and the mood lightened still more.

“I wonder what we should do?” Adar whispered in his ear.

“If they do nothing,” Keje whispered back, “I will continue to stare at them. It has worked very well so far.”

Captain Reddy moved onto the bridgewing, closely followed by Sandra and Courtney Bradford. He saw Gray standing with the number one gun crew on the foredeck, his hands behind his back. He too was looking at the huge ship, but by the expression he wore, he might have been watching an empty San Miguel bottle bobbing alongside in Cavite. The gun crew traded nervous glances, but they had themselves under control. The Bosun’s presence probably helped, and Matt was certain that Gray had stationed himself there to hearten or intimidate the crew-whichever was required-in case the gun was needed.

Cigarette smoke wafted back from the gun crew, however, and Matt was amused that Gray had, at least momentarily, relaxed the prohibition against smoking on duty. With a start, he saw a cigarette dangling from the Chief’s lips as well. He looked aft and saw that the transgression was universal. Even the unflappable Dennis Silva struck a light to a smoke with slightly trembling hands. The big gunner’s mate never smoked. He preferred chewing tobacco, because there were no sanctions for safety reasons-as long as he remembered to spit over the side. Sandra Tucker seemed in a state of shock. She said nothing, but her expression of amazement was even more profound than when they had seen the creatures on land. He didn’t recall exactly when she’d come onto the bridge, but he realized he didn’t object to her presence. Courtney Bradford merely stood, beaming with joy and mumbling to himself.

Matt didn’t know how he felt. Shocked, amazed, even terrified perhaps. Not surprised, strangely, that a new impossible thing had occurred, just that it manifested itself in such a way. He felt a bizarre sense of relief, in fact, knowing with complete certainty that nothing was certain anymore. Nothing. At least now he could plan accordingly. He looked once more at the creatures staring back. He knew what a lemur was-Bradford wasn’t far off the mark. Crude as it was, neither was “monkey-cat.” They had tails like monkeys, he could clearly see, and they were furred in a wide variety of colors. Their faces did look very feline, though, and just like cats, he couldn’t tell what they were thinking. All was silent, fore and aft, when he finally spoke.

“Any word from Mahan?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Very well. Mr. Scott, right full rudder. All ahead two-thirds. Let’s see if we can pick up her trail.” Even over the rising whine of the blowers, Matt heard the chattering exclamations of the creatures when Walker surged ahead. On impulse, he raised his hand palm outward and waved at the inscrutable faces.

“Upon my word!” Bradford exclaimed when the gesture was hesitantly returned by a few of the creatures as Walker peeled away.

“Unusual,” commented Adar as the strange ship receded with magical swiftness. “Not only did they not attack, but that one gave the Sign of the Empty Hand. That’s encouraging, at least.” The Sign of the Empty Hand was a common greeting among the People, to show they held no weapons.

“Perhaps it was just shielding its tiny eyes from the sun.” The crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly. “Despite what I said, I don’t think they were helpless. What was that long thing on the front of their ship if not a weapon? And there were three others just like it. I think they must be weapons.”

“That possibility did not escape me, lord,” Adar whispered back. “But if they were weapons, they did not use them, did they? Never before have we met others than our own kind that did not attack. I, for one, find that encouraging.”

Keje huffed noncommittally. “I find it encouraging when I do not encounter strange beings that move faster than any Home ever has-and do not even have wings-before I have eaten my morning meal. Join me while I do, and we will talk more of what we’ve seen.”

Virtually every surviving officer had gravitated to the crowded pilothouse. The petty officers, warrants, and division chiefs were there too, or gathered aft by the ladder behind the bridge. None abandoned their posts without proper relief, and all stations were manned, but nearly everyone who was responsible for other men had come. They hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t planned it in any way. It was as though they instinctively knew it was time to go to the captain and hear what he had to say. Matt wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t worried about mutiny, but he knew a threshold had been reached. The men had been through hell even before everything became so strange. When it had, they took it in stride, determined to carry on to the end. Only there was no end. Somehow, for some unknowable reason, nothing was the same anymore-and if Matt had learned anything about his destroyermen, it was that they didn’t welcome change.

As he looked at them standing respectfully but expectantly nearby, he reflected that this might actually be harder on some because they were Asiatic Fleet. Many had been on the same ship, on the same station, and with the same shipmates for years. One of the fundamental characteristics of the Asiatic Fleet had been that nothing ever changed. Some would call it ossified; the ancient ships and obsolete equipment certainly supported that, but an all-pervading, decades-long routine had been established and until the War, there’d been no reason to disrupt it. The men with Filipino wives had expected to serve their time and retire in the Philippines, where they’d grown accustomed to the routine of life. The War destroyed that life, but they’d fallen back on the routine of the Navy and their duty. Many hoped that by doing their duty, they could restore everything to the way it had been before. Now even that hope was gone. All that remained was their ship, their duty, and each other. That would have to be enough. For now, that was all they had.

They’d gathered to hear what he had to say. To draw strength and purpose from one that they hoped-since the Navy thought he was smart enough to lead them-would be smart enough to figure out what to do. Matt didn’t know what to do, as far as the “bigger picture” was concerned, and it was no use pretending he did. Inwardly, he was at least as scared as they were. But he had faith in these rough men, and to cross this threshold and move beyond it he knew he must appeal to their strengths-their independence and their industry. More than anyone else in the Navy, they were accustomed to surviving on the fringe. If anyone could do it, they could-if they stuck together. Only then could they protect their most immediate, most comforting routine of all: their life on USS Walker. With that as a foundation, they could meet the bigger challenge together.

“Shipwide,” he said, wondering what he would say.

“Now hear this!” he began, repeating the preparatory phrase that would have been used for any ordinary general announcement. He turned with the microphone in his hand and stared out the windows forward, past the fo’c’sle, into the far distance where the hazy sky met the sea.

“A few of you may have noticed some strange goings-on.” He smiled wryly and waited for the nervous laughter to die, then continued in a serious tone. “I don’t know more than any of you about what’s happened. When I find out, I’ll tell you. That’s a promise. I won’t lie to you, though. The situation’s grim. We’re a beat-up tin can that’s been through a hell of a fight. We have limited stores, ammunition, and fuel.” He paused for emphasis, then hammered it home. “And I can’t tell you where, or from whom, we can resupply. My immediate plan is to collect Mahan and then begin searching for a source to fill our needs. Once we do, we can worry about the big picture and decide what to do next. That’s the bad news.”

He sensed a flicker of humor over the profound understatement. “The good news is, nobody’s shooting at us. The charts are correct, and we know where we are; it’s just everyone else who has disappeared. Fortunately, that seems to include the Japs. We’ll secure from general quarters.”

He started to hand the microphone to the talker, but changed his mind. “One more thing,” he said, looking now at the faces of his crew. “Whatever happened to us, you can look at it a couple of ways. You can say it’s strange, and I sure can’t argue. Weird? I’m with you. Bad? We’ll see. You might also look at it as salvation, because we were dead, people. Whatever else it was, it was that.” He watched the thoughtful expressions and saw a few nods.

“Wherever we go, whatever we do, no matter what’s happened- whether we’re still part of Des-Ron 29 or all by ourselves, we’re Walkers! We’re destroyermen! And we represent the United States Navy!” The nods became more vigorous and he sensed… approval. He hoped it would be enough. He sighed and glanced at his watch. “Return to your duties. Damage control and repair has priority. Funeral services at 1300. That’s all.”

As always, encouragingly, were the muttered replies: “That’s enough!”

Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya sat on one of the chairs beside the table in the wardroom, his hands cuffed together in his lap. A chain extended down to a pair of leg irons encircling his ankles. The bandage around his black-haired head drooped and obscured his left eye. The compartment was filled with cigarette smoke, but occasional gusts of fresh air reached him through a large hole in the side of the ship. Sitting across from him, leaned back in evident repose and busily creating the smoke, was the American Marine who’d been watching him since he regained consciousness.

He wasn’t fooled by the Marine’s apparent ease. Nor did he think the bandage on his leg concealed a wound that would prevent him from using the. 45 holstered at his side if given the least provocation. His attitude implied that he would welcome an excuse. Together, they’d listened to the captain’s words from a speaker on the bulkhead, and although he pretended not to understand, Shinya honestly didn’t know if he felt like laughing or if he wished the terrible fish had gotten him after all.

He wasn’t a career naval officer, but a reservist, the son of a wealthy industrialist. He’d spent several years in the United States and attended UC-Berkeley. He entered the Japanese Imperial Navy because he was supposed to, not because he was in favor of his country’s China policy- although his father glowed with the prospects of a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. He entered the Navy because he was a patriot, and that was what his family did. Besides, the war in China was an Army operation. In the Navy, he would be among cooler and more thoughtful heads.

When preparations for war with America began, he couldn’t believe it. He’d been there! He’d seen! He knew as well as anyone how dangerous war with the United States would be, not to mention-according to his sense of honor-wrong. He admitted it was difficult to be objective. He liked Americans, and he’d enjoyed California. It was possible his perceptions had been influenced by people he’d known and, yes, friends he’d made, but only to the extent that he better understood the vast cultural chasm that separated the two peoples. Despite the rhetoric on both sides, he understood the root causes of the war and that nobody was blameless, but the chasm of misunderstanding prevented any reconciliation. The alliance with Germany and Italy might have made war inevitable-and maybe even winnable-but he couldn’t ignore his sense that the way it started was wrong and sure to provoke American fury.

Without question, the war was going well so far. The relic he was imprisoned aboard was an example of American unpreparedness. But he’d been at Balikpapan and saw what they could manage, even with what little they had. He feared the outcome if the war dragged out and new and better weapons reached these determined men. Then came the lopsided fight when his destroyer screened Amagi against the two old American ships. He’d been amazed and even proud of their bold charge. They’d had no other choice, but it was stirring all the same.

Of course, when two torpedoes exploded against his ship and it vanished from under him, all considerations except staying afloat became secondary. He didn’t remember what struck him on the head, and he didn’t remember being fished from the water. He did remember a bizarre, stomach-wrenching sensation when the Squall engulfed him, but nothing else until he woke aboard the American destroyer. He’d heard things, though, whispered by men who didn’t think he understood.

And then he saw it, through the shell hole, just a while ago. The enormous ship. In that moment he knew all the rumors were true.

He didn’t know how or if it would affect him. He was a prisoner of war, he supposed, but what did that mean? How should he act? His situation wasn’t often discussed in training. Surrender was not considered an option by his instructors, so how to behave in enemy hands was never mentioned. Despite his “Americanization,” he felt vaguely guilty for having survived, although there was nothing he could have done. The man who saved and surrendered him was dead, and he would never know why he’d done it. In any event, whatever he’d expected to happen to him as a prisoner, being shuffled from compartment to compartment but otherwise ignored wasn’t it. No one even asked him a question. They had no idea he spoke English, but at least one of them, the young aviation officer, knew Japanese. It seemed unnatural they wouldn’t care what he knew of the Imperial Fleet’s dispositions. He’d resolved to tell them nothing, but no one ever came and he grew nervous-and wary.

Possibly they’d been so preoccupied with repairs and flight that they’d forgotten they even had him. He hadn’t seen the captain, even though he knew the wardroom was where the officers ate. As he overheard the rumors of the crew, however, he began to suspect it wasn’t just neglect that kept them from questioning him. Perhaps the relevance of what he knew had diminished to insignificance. Then, not long ago, as he gazed through the hole in the side of the wardroom, it became blindingly clear that whatever information he might have no longer mattered to his captors at all. So they sat, each alone with his thoughts, listening to muted machinery noises.

There was movement behind the green curtain leading to officers’ country, and a head poked around it and looked at them, surprised. The curtain slashed back in place and a retreating voice reached his ears. “Shit. The Jap.”

The Marine smirked slightly and rolled his eyes. Then he looked squarely at Tamatsu. “That’s the new exec. Somebody finally remembered you. Maybe he’ll remind the captain.” He grinned darkly. “I hope he throws you to the fish.”

Thirty minutes later the curtain moved again and two men entered the compartment. One was younger than the other but had a brisk, businesslike demeanor. He had brown hair, but unlike everyone else Shinya had seen, there was no trace of stubble on his cheeks. His dark green eyes betrayed fatigue, but they were alert and curious. The other man was older, shorter, with a noticeable paunch. He looked tired too, and disheveled, but his expression wasn’t curious. It seethed with predatory hostility. The guard jumped to his feet as rapidly as his injured leg allowed.

“As you were, Sergeant-Alder, isn’t it?” said the first man.

“Alden, sir,” he replied. “Sergeant Pete Alden. Marine contingent, USS Houston.” He said the last with a grim glance at his prisoner.

“Glad to have you aboard, Sergeant. I apologize for not speaking with you sooner, but”-he allowed a wry expression-“I’ve been preoccupied.”

“No apology necessary, sir.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate your taking charge of the prisoner in spite of your injury. How’s the leg?”

“Fine, sir.”

The captain accepted the lie. The injury didn’t affect Alden’s current duty, and there were plenty of wounded at their posts. Matt gestured at the Japanese. “Has he behaved?”

“No trouble, sir. Mostly he just sits and looks around. He does what I tell him, and I keep the crew from beatin’ him to death.”

Gray snorted, but Matt just nodded. He pulled a chair out at the table across from Tamatsu and sat with his elbows on the green surface, fingers intertwined, looking at the prisoner. The man looked back, unblinking, expressionless. Matt took a deep breath and exhaled. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked himself aloud.

Tamatsu felt a surge of adrenaline. He knew he should keep his mouth shut and pretend not to understand, but suddenly he couldn’t see the point. From what he’d seen and heard, the war he was part of was gone, as were-evidently-their respective navies and probably even countries as well. He was overwhelmed by that possibility, and when he’d first heard the rumors he suspected some ploy to get him to speak, if he could. Dinosaurs on Bali, indeed! Then he’d seen the ship and, through his shock, he realized that now was the time. If they later, inevitably, discovered he’d been listening to their conversations, they would never trust him- difficult as it might be anyway. No matter what he thought of the war, he was no traitor, but he wanted them to trust him. Whatever happened, wherever they were, they might be there a long, long time.

Hesitantly, he cleared his throat. To the astonishment of the man across from him, he spoke in excellent, lightly accented English. “Captain, I am Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. I am your prisoner. Japan did not ratify the Geneva Protocols, but I give my word of honor I will cooperate every way I possibly can, short of treachery to my people or government. Under the… unusual circumstances, I find it unlikely that the cooperation I offer will cause harm to my country. If you are willing to accept it, Captain, I offer my parole.”

There were a variety of expressions in the room. Tamatsu’s face remained impassive, but Gray’s clouded with anger and the Marine’s eyes widened in shock. Matt leaned back in his chair, shaken by yet another surprise, but he gathered himself quickly. If there was anything he’d learned about himself lately, it was that he had a growing ability to flow with assaults upon his preconceptions and adapt quickly. He only wished the assaults were less frequent.

“Lieutenant Shinya,” he said, “that’s… a generous offer. I’ll take it under advisement. I suppose you heard what I said on the comm a while ago?” The prisoner nodded. “Then you understand we’re in a tense situation for which there are no guidelines or regulations to refer to. Technically, you’re a prisoner of war, and somewhere, I assume, that war still rages. It’s my duty to present you to my superiors. Since I have no idea when or if that will ever occur…” He spread his hands out on the table. “I’ll consider it. I hope you won’t find it inconvenient, at present, if you remain under the protection of Sergeant Alden?”

Matt heard Gray grumbling as they worked their way aft. He’d decided to take a quick walk around-and be seen doing it-and look at repairs while getting a feel for the mood of the crew. He also wanted to talk to Spanky. The engineer was the only department head who hadn’t heard his comments in person. Gray continued to growl under his breath as they climbed into the open air on the main deck and stepped into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Men formed a line leading to the open-air galley and snatched sandwiches from the counter as fast as the cooks put them down.

It was unbearably hot. That, at least, was the same. He changed direction and went back into the sun and stooped at the drinking fountain on the back of the big refrigerator next to the number one funnel. A stupid place for a refrigerator, he reflected again, but a great place for a drinking fountain. He pushed the button, and the cool stream rose to his lips. He drank, savoring the refrigerated water. Gray joined him.

“You seem annoyed, Boats,” Matt observed without preamble.

“That Nip. You ain’t gonna let him go, are you?”

“If he behaves, I might. Christ, we’ve got enough to worry about without guarding a Jap. He offered his parole.”

“So? They were making all nice before they bombed Pearl too. We wouldn’t have to guard him if-” Gray shifted uncomfortably and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “We ought to just get rid of him. He’s a Jap, for cryin’ out loud!”

Matt looked at him. “Get rid of him? You mean kill him?” He shook his head and stared at his crew for a long time while they talked and ate their sandwiches. He sighed. “No. We won’t. You know why? Because we’re Americans and we don’t do that.” He was quiet a moment longer and then strode aft again. “Wherever we are, we’re still Americans,” Gray heard him mutter.

The sun had just touched the sea when Spanky McFarlane stepped toward the rail near the number two torpedo mount. For the first time since their run from Surabaya, the deck was almost deserted. It had been a hard day in more ways than one, and with the most critical repairs complete, it was as though the crew had breathed a collective sigh of relief and then just collapsed. The only men he saw nearby were Dennis Silva and some of his hoodlum friends in the ordnance division, talking on the amidships deckhouse. Spanky ignored them. It was a moral imperative. If he paid too much attention to what those jerks were up to, he’d probably have to put them on report.

He took a dingy rag from his pocket to wipe sweat and grunge from his eyes. They burned like hell. He pitched it into the churning wake that scoured the side of the ship. Was it just his imagination, or had something actually snapped at the rag as it fluttered to the surface? He sagged against the safety chain. Starting to get jumpy, he thought, and fumbled for his smokes. With the ease of a practiced hand, he lit one in spite of the breeze and inhaled deeply. Yeah, it had been a hell of a day.

They’d buried their dead in the time-honored fashion soon after the Skipper came to talk. All those men-nearly a quarter of the crew- slipping over the side as the captain gruffly read the prayer. Spanky shuddered, wondering how deep the shrouded corpses went before being shredded by the piranha-like fish that seemed to be everywhere. The Old Man was thinking ahead, though. Instead of the customary four-inch shell sewn into their fart-bags to carry them down, they’d been sent to their graves with whatever wreckage or heavy piece of debris Spanky thought they could spare.

That was what the captain came to talk about, to tell him to discard nothing that might have any conceivable use. So Spanky detailed some men to sort the scrap pile they’d started and find the most worthless junk. Then he checked it himself to make sure he couldn’t think of any use for it either. Only then was it passed on-a piece of Walker-to accompany her dead sons. He snorted ironically. At least a few of the men went down with the customary projectile, even if they’d been Jap shells pried from Walker’s hull. He was glad the Skipper was starting to think about the long haul, though. He’d seemed kind of overwhelmed the night before- and that was before they saw the ship. His speech helped a lot, and it came at just the right time. Spanky suspected the Skipper needed to hear the words just as bad as the crew did.

The sun dipped below the horizon and it began to grow dark. At least the day hadn’t been all bad, he reflected proudly. He didn’t know what difference the strange creatures on the big ship might make, but after the shock wore off, the fascination and speculation among the crew had done much to take their minds off their troubles. Also, they’d managed to get the number two boiler back on line. There was no hope for number one. The concussion had broken most of the firebricks. Besides, the lines and seals were shot, and he’d cannibalized it to revive number two.

He heard Silva’s booming laugh and couldn’t help but smile. It took more than a funeral and a battle and being transported to another world to get the big gunner’s mate down. He could find humor in anything. For a moment, Spanky listened to the conversation. He couldn’t help himself.

“I say they was more like monkeys than cats. Did you see them tails?” argued Tom Felts. “We ought’a call ’em monkey-cats!”

“Cats have tails too, you idiot,” countered Paul Stites. “And their faces looked more like cats. Besides, ‘cat-monkeys’ sounds better.”

“What do you think, Marvaney?” asked Felts of their friend, who stood by the rail above Spanky. Mack Marvaney only shrugged and stared into their wake. Felts started to ask again, but Silva rapped him on the shoulder with his knuckles and shook his head. Mack had a Filipino wife in Cavite. It was bad enough when they’d left the place to the Japs, but now… he was taking it hard.

“I have decided,” Silva announced in a lofty tone that usually brooked no argument. “We’ll call ’em monkey-cats!”

Stites, grateful that Silva had kept him from pestering their suffering friend, rounded. “Hell, Dennis, that’s what the snipes are callin’ ’em! We can’t let that stand!”

“The snipes are callin’ ’em monkey-cats?” asked Silva darkly. “Those bastards didn’t even see ’em. They were all creepin’ around belowdecks the whole time we were there. Hidin’, I bet! Critters could’a looked like three-legged hippos for all they know.” He brooded in silence for a while, then stepped next to Marvaney to spit over the rail. He glanced at him, then turned to face the others. “I have decided!” he repeated grandly. “From this point on, they’re cat-monkeys! We discovered ’em. We’ll call ’em what we want!”

Spanky shook his head, then sucked the rest of the cigarette to the tips of his fingers and flicked the butt into the sea. By tomorrow the whole crew would be locked in the “cat-monkey-cat” debate. Still smiling, he patted one of the empty torpedo tubes. Even with only three boilers, this tired, shot-up ship that he hated and loved so much was probably the fastest thing in the world, if all it had to offer was big lumbering tubs like they’d seen that morning. “There’s humor for you.”

For the next day and a half, Walker steamed east, searching for Mahan. The other destroyer hadn’t had much head start and she wouldn’t be making full steam. They should have caught her in a few hours, but so far there wasn’t a trace. Everyone was worried, not only because of her damage but because she represented the only other thing in this very strange world that was familiar. That was as it should be. Besides, some of their own shipmates were aboard her.

Captain Reddy wearily climbed the ladder and returned to his chair. He waved the men back to their duties at the warning: “Captain on the bridge!” He hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes. A rising tension knotted his chest, and though he thought he hid it well, his concern over Mahan was making him almost ill. He had a terrible choice to make.

The windows had been replaced, and once again he could look at the sea ahead without the wind stinging his eyes. Larry Dowden had the watch, but Matt couldn’t stay off the bridge. He knew it looked bad, like he didn’t trust Larry, but he’d hardly left at all except to go to the head.

“Report?”

“No contact, Skipper.”

Matt nodded and resumed his silent brooding. They should have seen her. The weather was fine, the sky clear. The northeast tip of Alor Island was sharp and defined ten miles off the starboard beam. They’d reached the rally point. It had been agreed that they would meet here, or if Walker didn’t make it Mahan would cut northeast around Wetar and drive south between Timor and Moa Island. Walker had cruised at twenty knots, but Matt was certain Jim wouldn’t have pushed Mahan so hard. Even if he somehow beat them here, he would have lingered, and should have been visible on such a clear day. That left only the inescapable conclusion that she hadn’t come this far. They must have passed her somehow, maybe in the dark, but she must be behind them. Unless something had happened to her.

That thought haunted him. It was his order that sent her away and led to this wasteful chase. He couldn’t have known separation was unnecessary, but that did little to console him. Now the specter that haunted all destroyermen could no longer be avoided. Walker’s fuel bunkers were down by a third. He had no choice. He spoke with a heavy heart.

“Mr. Dowden, bring the ship about. Reduce speed to one-third.”

Larry sighed. He knew how painful the order was. He wasn’t sure he could have made it. Maybe the other ship really was behind them, but it felt too much like giving up.

“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, come left to a heading of two eight zero.”

Matt stood and looked at his watch. “Pass the word, Mr. Dowden. All officers in the wardroom at 1630.” He paused. “Better see that our ‘guest’ is moved elsewhere.” He turned to leave the bridge but stopped. “I take that back. Have Sergeant Alden escort the enemy officer to the meeting.” Dowden’s eyebrows rose. “Also, ask Mr. Bradford if he’d be kind enough to join us.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cigarette smoke swirled and eddied in the breeze from the open port-holes. The shell holes had finally been patched. Captain Reddy sat in his chair at the “head” of the table, all his surviving officers ranged down either side. The table was crowded, with representatives from each division. Larry Dowden, Chief Gray, Rick Tolson, Bernard Sandison, and PO Riggs sat on his left. On his right were Sandra Tucker, Spanky, Mr. Bradford, Garrett, and Lieutenant (j.g.) Alan Letts, the supply officer. The chair at the far end of the table was unoccupied. When Sergeant Alden escorted the Japanese officer into the compartment and seated him there, a hushed silence fell on the group.

Tamatsu sat with dignity, eyes fixed upon the captain. Alden leaned against the bulkhead behind his prisoner until Juan brought him a chair. He thanked the little Filipino and sat, his leg out in front of him. The room was charged with an electric hostility, and all eyes were on the enemy officer.

“This is Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya. He’s offered his parole and I’ve decided to accept, conditionally. He’ll be treated with courtesy and allowed freedom of the ship-within reason. For now, however, he’ll be accompanied at all times by Sergeant Alden. Sergeant? Is that acceptable to you?”

“Aye, aye, sir. There’s not many places I can go now, though.”

Matt nodded expressionlessly. “Lieutenant Shinya, allow me to present my officers.” He named the others at the table, and they each acknowledged him with a nod, but most were clearly displeased. The reaction wasn’t lost on the captain. “Gentlemen… and lady, Lieutenant Shinya’s country and ours may still be at war-wherever they are-but that can no longer affect us. That’s what we have to talk about. We must make plans based on the assumption that we’re completely on our own and the United States Navy can’t support us. At the same time, we must remain conscious of the fact that, no matter what, we’re still part of that Navy. No relaxation of discipline will be tolerated, and there’ll be no change whatever in the way we run this ship. Lieutenant Shinya is here because he is, literally, in the same boat we are and he is subject to the same rules and regulations as anyone else. There’ll be no special treatment”-he looked at his officers with a grim expression-“or abuse. Mr. Dowden?”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

“Acquaint yourself with Lieutenant Shinya and discover if he has useful talents or abilities. One way or the other, find something for him to do. Everybody pulls their weight.” He looked at Tamatsu. “Is that understood, Lieutenant? Those are my terms.”

Shinya bowed his head slightly and replied. “I understand perfectly, Captain Reddy.” There were murmurs of surprise when he spoke English. Most still wore set, closed expressions, but a few looked thoughtful.

Matt plowed right on to divert attention from their visitor. “First, as I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve turned around. We should have found Mahan, but we didn’t, so either we passed her somehow or…” He cast a hard glance down both sides of the table. “Or she’s lost. We’ll search as we retrace our steps, but we don’t have enough fuel to go all the way to Australia and back to Surabaya. Besides, I don’t really think Perth’s there anymore.”

“You’ve considered the probability that Surabaya isn’t there either?” questioned Bradford.

“Yes. In fact, I don’t imagine it is. But we must have fuel. Whatever’s happened to the world, the geography’s the same-at least around here. Can you think of any better place to find oil within our range? To be more specific, since you’re our expert on this point, where around here would we most likely find oil? Oil that we can easily extract?”

Bradford steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful. The pipe between his teeth wasn’t lit, but he sucked it speculatively. “I’ll have to consider that. There’s oil in this entire region, but I’m not sure where best to look. Surabaya, perhaps. There were significant deposits there, in our world. Deposits have been discovered recently under Flores as well. Allow me to consult my manuals. Perhaps they will tell me where it was first found, and how. That might have a bearing on where to look.”

“Very well,” Matt replied. “See what you can find and let me know as soon as you can.” He shifted his gaze to Lieutenant McFarlane. “What else can we burn in the boilers? Can we burn wood?”

Spanky returned his gaze with horror. “Jesus, Skipper! You can’t put wood in my boilers! It would screw everything up!”

Matt looked at him sharply. “I know it’s not our first choice, but can it physically be done?”

“Yes, sir…” answered the engineer reluctantly, “but it would be terrible. All that ash-it would be hell gettin’ it all out and it would screw up the boilers. Besides, we’d have to carry tons of the stuff. We’ve got nowhere to stow it and if we load it on deck, we’ll be top-heavy as hell- beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

“But it would work in an emergency? To get us from one island to the next?”

“It would,” he answered miserably.

“Very well. Come up with a plan to stow enough wood to take us, say, five hundred miles, if the need should arise.”

“Aye, sir.”

The captain turned to Sandra Tucker, and involuntarily his expression softened. “Lieutenant Tucker. How are things in your department?”

Sandra smiled at the mention of “her department,” which consisted of herself, Karen Theimer-the only other nurse who’d remained with Walker-and Jamie Miller, the pharmacist’s mate. There was no question it was her department, though, and a critical one. “Improving, sir. I think Rodriguez might return to limited duty in a week or so. His leg is healing nicely.” She looked down the table past Tamatsu and glowered at Sergeant Alden. “Speaking of legs, though, there are some people running around on them that shouldn’t be.” Alden pretended interest in something under the table. “The others should survive, but it’ll take time. There’re plenty of ‘walking wounded’ still on duty, but even if I tried to keep them in their bunks, I don’t think I could.” She looked straight into Matt’s eyes and continued. “Right now, everyone’s keyed up, with so much work just to keep the ship going. When the crisis is past, I expect a lot of casualties from exhaustion. The crew’s burning itself up. Wearing out.” Matt noddedback at her, realizing she was talking about him as much as anybody. She continued. “Actually, the only one I’m really worried about is Davis. He has a persistent fever, and no matter what I do, it just won’t break.”

“He was bitten by the lizard?”

Sandra nodded. “Mr. Bradford says they’re septic but not poisonous. That may be, even though they weren’t the same lizards he’s familiar with. It looks like a really nasty bacterial infection, but there might be some kind of toxic venom as well.” She shrugged.

“Keep me informed,” Matt said solemnly, and she nodded. “Mr. Garrett. How about guns? Small arms too.” Garrett frowned. “Is there a problem?” asked Matt. Garrett’s cheeks turned red, and he shook his head quickly.

“No, sir, no problem. I-I was just surprised by the question about small arms. I don’t have the exact numbers off the top of my head. No excuse, sir.”

The captain allowed a genuine smile. “A general idea would suffice, Mr. Garrett. I understand you’ve been busy with the number three gun?”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett replied, visibly relieved. “We got it working. The main problem was in the wiring, but there’s damage to the traverse gear. I’d like to get it in the machine shop as soon as I can. It binds.”

Matt looked at him thoughtfully, but shook his head. “Not right now. I don’t want any of our weapons out of action. Besides”-he looked at Ensign Sandison-“the condemned torpedoes have priority in the machine shop, except for essential repairs. Until we know more about those people on the big ship, I’d like to be able to put holes in it if we have to.”

Garrett glanced at Bernie and saw him write notes on a pad. He looked back at the captain. “Well, sir, other than that, the main battery’s okay. Gunner’s Mate Silva’s overhauled the machine guns, as well as the three-incher on the fantail. The magazines could be better. We depleted over a third of our four-inch fifty, and three-inch twenty-three point five-for all the good it did!” The uselessness of the three-inch gun at the stern would have been a running joke-if it were funny. “We picked up a lot of machine gun ammo in Surabaya, but those trigger-happy goons burned through nearly all the extra. We still have a little more than our full allotment, but. ..” He took a deep breath. “As for small arms, I don’t have exact numbers,” he repeated apologetically, “but we’re in fairly good shape. It’s not unusual for Asiatic Fleet sailors to act as Marines- particularly in China, and the armory’s got sixty Springfields, and probably two dozen 1911 pistols. We also have four Browning automatic rifles and half a dozen Thompsons. The ammunition headstamps are pretty old-1918-but the stuff looks okay. There’s even a few thousand rounds of the old thirty U.S., which is good, because there’re several crates, down under everything, that say they have Krag rifles in them. Maybe somebody picked them up in the Philippines?”

Gray grunted. “I doubt it. Walker was commissioned in 1919, and a lot of Krags were still in the Navy. I bet they came with the ship. Probably never been out of their crates.”

Matt nodded. “Look into it. Anything else?”

“Aye, aye, sir. No, sir.”

“Very well. Sparks? Does the communications division have anything new?” Matt knew it didn’t. He’d asked Riggs several times that day and left standing orders that if they received anything at all, he was to be informed at once.

Riggs shook his head. “Nothing, Skipper. The equipment’s operating perfectly. Everything checks out. There just isn’t anything to hear.” Everyone already knew it, but to hear him say it again only deepened the gloom.

Matt sensed the darkening mood and pushed quickly on. As he often did, he turned to the Chief to boost morale. “Any major holes left, Boats?”

“Nothing you’d call major,” he replied with a hesitant grin. “The old gal’s always leaked like a sieve. No matter how many holes we patch, she was riveted together, and there’s probably not a seam in her bottom that doesn’t seep, but damage control’s done a hell of a job.” He glanced at McFarlane and grinned even bigger. “Apes and snipes been working together so well, it ain’t natural. We haven’t patched holes in the funnels and such, but everything that’ll let water in has something welded over it.”

McFarlane nodded. “She’ll float, Skipper, and as long as we have power to the pumps I’ll keep her pretty dry.” He looked around the table. “She needs a yard, though.” There were grim nods.

“We know, Spanky,” said the captain quietly. “Anything else on your end?”

McFarlane shook his head, conscious that he’d lowered everyone’s spirits again. “Uh… no, sir, not really. I was thinkin’, though. As long as we’re trying to conserve, we might want to figure out more ways to do it. Like, we might have the apes leave off chippin’ and paintin’ until we figure out what to use for paint when we’re out. That sort of stuff.”

Gray started to protest that if his holy deck wasn’t maintained in these tropical waters, there’d soon be no deck to maintain. But you couldn’t use what you didn’t have. “Spanky’s right,” he admitted grudgingly. “I know how the apes’ll moan if they can’t perform their favorite pastime.” He grinned encouragingly and there were scattered chuckles. “But we have only so much paint. I have to paint the welds, but maybe we can let the cosmetic stuff slide.”

“That’s a good point,” said Matt. He turned at last to the supply officer, Alan Letts. Letts was a skinny kid from North Dakota with red hair and extremely fair skin, complete with freckles. He hated the sun, and even brief exposure left him resembling a radish. He was rarely seen above deck, and then only in the shadows, as if direct sunlight would melt him down to a puddle of wax. His sincere antics to avoid sunlight were vastly amusing to the crew, and he was very popular. He was a good sport too, and no matter how sensitive, his skin was also thick. Sometimes, in a spirit of fun, he allowed sailors to escort him around the ship with a Chinese parasol. Despite his efforts, even as he sat in the wardroom, great patches of chalky skin dangled from his face and arms and small specks had settled to the table. He was a good supply officer and knew all the bureaucratic angles, but those no longer applied. His greatest flaw, from Matt’s perspective, was a complacent laziness. He suffered from the endemic Asiatic Fleet disease of “go with the flow.” Matt hoped he could make the transition to the new imperative.

“How does it look for supplies?” the captain asked.

“We’ll be okay for a while. We loaded up before we left Surabaya. Nobody wanted to leave anything for the Japs.” Letts’s eyes flicked toward their guest. “At present consumption, meaning normal, we’ve got three weeks, easy, before we feel any pinch on perishables. The refrigerator’s stocked up. After that, we have canned stuff for about that long.” He grimaced. “I’m not counting Vienna sausages. We better find something else before we’re down to that, or there’ll be mutiny in the chow line.” He brightened. “Even if we don’t cut back, we’re in good shape food-wise for a month, month and a half.”

“We can’t cut rations,” pronounced Matt decisively, “not as hard as the men are working. Besides, that’d really wreck morale. We’ll just have to find food.” He looked at Courtney Bradford, and his eyes twinkled. “I wonder what dinosaur steak tastes like?” There was general laughter at Bradford’s incredulous expression.

“Eat dinosaurs? My God. The man’s talking about eating dinosaurs!” the Australian muttered to himself.

Matt returned to Letts. “Fresh water?”

Walker’s boilers were an open feed-water design, so they used seawater for steam, but the crew needed fresh water for cooking and drinking. The storage tanks were small and, even in normal times, bathing was a luxury. The men often lined up naked by the rail for a good spray-down with the fire hose. The salt water drove them nuts when it dried and caused rashes and other discomforts, but it was refreshing.

“Water’s a problem,” admitted Letts. “With the condensers in the shape they are, we have about a month’s worth, at current usage.”

“Okay. So we need fuel, ammo, food, water.” The captain arched an eyebrow at Gray. “And paint.” There were more chuckles despite the fact that no one knew where to find any of those things. “What else?”

“About a million things, Skipper,” Letts replied, “but those are the most immediate. I’m sure Lieutenant McFarlane could add quite a list of spares, but-”

“Right. Make a list of everything we need, but more importantly, figure out how we’re going to get it. Use anybody you need, but find answers.” Matt swiveled in his chair to look at Courtney Bradford. “Would you mind being conscripted?”

The Australian took his pipe from his mouth and his eyes widened with pleasure. “Delighted, Captain! Delighted. How can I assist?”

“Work with Letts to sort this out. You’ll be his special assistant. I know this isn’t the same world you were such a student of, but you must have a better idea where we can find supplies than any of us do. Agreed?”

“Absolutely, Captain Reddy. I’ll do my best!”

“Of course you will.”

Matt glanced at Sandra when he said it, and saw the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. He smiled at her. He was pleased. All in all, the discussion had gone fairly well. His people were engaged, and actively working to solve problems. Morale was better than he would have expected, and the crushing terror of their situation was kept at bay-for now-by a veneer of normalcy. The tasks were unusual, but the familiarity of doing them within the extended family that was the crew of USS Walker was reassuring.

Throughout the conversation, Lieutenant Shinya was silent. After the initial hostility, he seemed to have been forgotten, and he just listened. He was amazed by the familiarity with which the Americans talked and worked together. No one was afraid to speak, not even the most junior person present. It seemed chaotic compared to his more-regimented experience, but it also appeared effective. There was no hiding the fact that they were in a predicament, but there was no hesitation to mention failings that might reflect poorly on any department. That made it easier for the captain to assess the situation. He doubted a similar meeting aboard his own ship would have progressed as well, and he felt strangely refreshed.

Just then, Juan entered the compartment with his carafe and began filling cups. He paused by Tamatsu. His face bore a look of anguished loathing, and Shinya was reminded that, no matter what, he was still considered an enemy. Juan took a deep breath and started to tilt the carafe. It began to shake. Suddenly he slammed it on the table as if the handle was too hot to hold. He looked at Matt in horror.

“I-I am sorry, Cap-tan Reddy,” he whispered. “I cannot.” He then drew himself up and strode through the curtain into the passageway. Everyone watched him go, except Tamatsu, who continued to stare straight ahead, but his gaze seemed somewhat lower. Matt sighed. Nothing was going to be easy.

Walker steamed leisurely in a west-northwesterly direction for the remainder of the day, back across the Flores Sea into the Java Sea once more. The sea picked up toward evening, and a gloomy overcast obscured the growing moon. Matt ordered the running lights lit-unthinkable just days before-and stationed men on the two searchlights. They were to sweep the horizon at ten-minute intervals, both to show the lights and to see what they could. The ship began to roll as the swell increased just enough to remind everyone that regardless of war, dinosaurs, sea monsters, or even strange beings on giant ships, ultimately, Walker’s greatest adversary was the very element for which she was made.

By 2200 that night, halfway through the first watch, she began to pitch as the sea ran higher. Matt was dead to the world, on the bunk in his small stateroom. Walker’s antics didn’t disturb him in the least; he was used to them, and after everything else, the normal, unpleasant motion of the ship was even soothing in a way. When he finally surrendered completely to sleep, in his cabin for the first time in days, he found a depth of untroubled slumber that even the ghosts couldn’t sound. So when they hit the fish and he was nearly thrown to the deck, it almost didn’t wake him.

The small light over his desk was still vibrating when he looked at it, confused. The speaker above his pillow squawked in Lieutenant Garrett’s urgent voice. “Captain! Captain to the bridge, sir. Please.” He coughed and cleared his throat, then pushed the comm button. “On my way.” He slung his legs over the side of the rack and yanked on his trousers and shoes. Pulling on his shirt and plopping his hat on his head, he hurried down the short corridor to the companionway and scrambled up the ladder. In the shelter by the radio shack, he finished buttoning his shirt and mounted the stairway to the pilothouse. The blowers had abated, and the way the ship rolled even more sickeningly told him the engines had stopped.

“Report!” he demanded. Garrett stood on the starboard bridgewing staring down at the water. The wind had picked up and he’d been drenched by spray. He turned. “Sorry to wake you, sir, but we hit a whale, or fish- or something. It looks like the one that ate the Japs. Down here, sir.” He pointed and Matt peered over the rail. The searchlight above them couldn’t depress far enough to directly illuminate the creature, but the diffused light was sufficient for him to see it clearly.

Walker broached to in the moderate swell when the engines stopped, and the giant “fish” wallowed and bumped against the hull in her lee. Garrett was right. It looked like the one they’d seen previously, although not as large. Every now and then, the waves caused its great head to rise, and the long, slack jaws were frighteningly clear. A large black eye the size of a trash-can lid stared sightlessly up at them. The cause of death was a huge gash behind its head, and the water was tinged black with blood as it washed from the wound. Sandra Tucker, her hair disheveled, appeared beside him, rubbing her eyes.

“It’s horrible,” she said. Excited voices came from the main deck below as destroyermen gathered to gawk. Bradford joined them and his voice rose above the others.

“Amazing! We simply must keep it! You there! Find something to tie onto it!” Matt heard one of his crew shout, “Bugger off, mate!” in a fair copy of the Australian’s accent.

“Damage?” he asked.

“A lot of broken coffee cups,” Garrett answered nervously. “That’s all I know so far. The exec took Bosun’s Mate Bashear to have a look. Lieutenant McFarlane and the Bosun said they’d meet them there.”

The comm on the bulkhead whistled and Matt picked it up himself. “Bridge,” he said. “Captain speaking.”

“McFarlane here, Skipper. There’s a little water coming in on the starboard side around frame number six. Nothing serious… just another seam.” Spanky’s voice was thick. He too had finally been asleep.

“Good. Can the current watch handle it?”

There was a pause before Spanky’s voice returned. “Yes, sir. I think so.” “Then you and Boats hit the rack. That’s an order.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” came the tired reply. Matt stepped to the rail with a soft sigh of relief. Sandra was still there. She’d overheard.

“Thank God,” she murmured. “It may sound strange, but every time this ship gets the slightest scratch, I feel it in my own skin.”

Matt grinned. “I know how you feel. When I first assumed command, I honestly didn’t think much of her. But now, after all she’s been through…” He shrugged, and gestured at the dead fish. It had floated off a dozen yards or so. “Of course, her thin old skin’s the only thing between us and those things. That tends to focus your appreciation amazingly.” He chuckled, and after a brief hesitation, she joined him. They felt a faint, shuddering vibration under their feet, and another huge fish, probably two-thirds as long as Walker, rose beside the ship. It must have scraped her bottom as it passed. Without hesitation, it lunged at its dead cousin and snatched an enormous swath of flesh. Bright bone and white blubber lay exposed and more blood clouded the water. Silvery flashes began to reflect the searchlight’s beam. With a startled cry, Sandra clutched his arm.

“Mr. Garrett! Let’s leave our dinner guest to his meal before he samples the side dish, if you please!”

The blower wound up. A flying packet of spray struck Matt and Sandra and soaked them both. The water had an unusual taste and Matt realized it must be blood. He spat, then looked at Sandra apologetically and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in a wry tone. “Got a bad taste in my mouth.”

He glanced down at the main deck, where Bradford was watching the huge fish devour the smaller one with rapt fascination. He seemed oblivious to the spray that inundated him and swirled around his feet. Another form stood near him at a respectful distance, and the captain recognized Shinya in the gloom. He was watching as well, but his expression was entirely different. Matt wondered vaguely where Sergeant Alden was, but decided it didn’t matter. Any mischief the Jap could cause was dwarfed by the perils all around them, and judging by his expression, the last thing Shinya wanted was to wind up in the water again.

Matt looked at the woman at his side. Her teeth were beginning to chatter from the wind on her damp clothes. Her long brownish hair hung down in wet tangles, but her eyes were wide and bright. He couldn’t decide if it was fear he saw or fascination akin to Bradford’s. He felt a chill himself and shuddered involuntarily. “Why don’t we go down to the wardroom and dry off?” he suggested.

Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva sat on one of the “seats of ease” in the aft crew’s head smoking a cigarette. He still didn’t like the damn things, but he had only so much chewing tobacco and a man had to have his nicotine. The seats were little more than boards across a trough through which sea water flowed. The compartment stank of waste and sweat, and with the sea getting up, dark, nasty water sloshed back and forth on deck. Every time the brackish wave threatened him, Dennis raised his feet until it passed.

The aft crew’s head was generally considered snipe country, and that was the main reason he went there to relieve himself. Just to aggravate the snipes. No one made a real issue of it because, for one thing, it didn’t exactly belong to the engineering division and, for another, Silva was a big, powerful man who in spite of an easygoing nature had a dangerous reputation. Proprietary claims to the heads were even more ridiculous, at least to the outside observer, because only a single bulkhead separated them and both were located in the aft deckhouse, behind the laundry and torpedo workshop. That didn’t make trespass less serious in the eyes of the crew, however. So naturally, Dennis Silva sat and smoked while men came and went and attended to their business on the other seats nearby. No one spoke to him, but they gave him many dark looks indeed.

Stites, Felts, and a torpedoman named Brian Aubrey found him there. They clustered around the hatchway as if reluctant to cross the threshold and braced themselves against the motion of the ship. “There you are!” exclaimed Stites. “You missed it. We ran smack into one of them big dinosaur fish, like ate the Japs, and killed it deader’n hell!”

“Good,” muttered Silva. “It’s time we killed somethin’.”

“Yeah,” added Tom, “and then a even bigger one took to eating the first one just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “It was something to see, and here you was all the time, in the snipes’ crapper!”

Silva glanced disdainfully at the two snipes sharing the compartment. “This ain’t the snipes’ crapper,” he said very slowly and distinctly. “It’s Dennis Silva’s crapper when Dennis Silva’s takin’ a crap!”

One of the “snipes” was Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney, two seats down from Silva. He was nearly as tall as the big gunner’s mate, and just as powerfully built. “You better watch your mouth,” he growled. “You damn deck-apes don’t belong here.”

Silva sucked his cigarette and looked at him. “What are you gonna do, go whinin’ to Spanky or Chief Donaghey and tell ’em I’m using your crapper?” He raised his voice to a high-pitched falsetto. “Lieutenant Spanky! Dennis Silva’s in our crapper! And-he’s takin’ a crap! Do somethin’! Make him stop!”

Laney lunged to his feet with a curse and Dennis rose to meet him, both with their trousers around their ankles. Just then, the ship heaved unexpectedly and the combatants lost their balance and fell to the deck in a tangled, punching heap. They slid against the bulkhead in the disgusting ooze and just as quickly as the fight had begun, it ended as the men considered their battlefield. Dennis began to laugh. Laney didn’t. He put his right hand on the seat nearest him and started to rise, but realized the seat was the red one-reserved for men with venereal disease. He snatched his hand away and splashed to the deck with a cry just as the ship pitched upward and the tide of muck flowed around him. Dennis laughed even harder and rose to his feet, pulling up his ruined trousers. He reached down to give Laney a hand, but suddenly stepped back.

“The hell with you, Laney! You want me catch it too?” He wiped his hands on his soiled trousers and, on second thought, rinsed them in the long sink across the compartment. He posed for a moment in front of the mirror, powerful muscles bulging across his chest and biceps. Then he relaxed and looked at his clothes. “Damn. Snipe shit all over me. I’ll have to burn these duds and who knows when I’ll get more?” He looked back at Laney, who was at least as filthy as he. The other snipe was still seated and had ignored the whole thing. “C’mon, Laney. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee with some real live destroyermen? Someday you’ll tell your grandkids.”

“Go to hell,” Laney said, but he rinsed himself as best he could and followed through the laundry where they replaced their T-shirts. They exited on the deck behind the number three torpedo mount. The sea was heavier now, and the deck twisted beneath their feet like a live thing as they lurched forward, leaning into the spray. Above their heads, on the searchlight tower, the beam swept slowly back and forth, a beacon for their absent sister. Finally, they reached the protection of the gun platform that served as a roof for the galley. There were several men standing in line with cups and the galley hatch was up. They were waiting while the cook and his mess attendant filled the big coffee urn with a new batch. They grabbed cups and took their place in line.

“Hey, Earl,” Dennis said to the cook, shouting over the churning sea, “you got anything besides peanut butter sammiches and scum weenies?”

Earl Lanier shook his head mournfully. “Sorry, fellas. Can’t cook with the sea kickin’ up. Hard enough just to make coffee. Got some cold beans, though.”

“Scum weenies in ’em?”

“Yep.”

Silva grimaced. “No thanks. Say, you got any of them apples left?” Again Earl shook his head.

“Juan says the rest of them apples are for the officers,” said Ray Mertz, the mess attendant.

“Well, who’s in charge here, Earl? You or Juan?” demanded Dennis as it came his turn and he filled his cup.

“I am, damn you. But Juan got them apples hisself for the officers’ mess. You’re just lucky he shared some out.”

“Officers,” grunted Stites, as if the word was a self-explanatory curse. Silva nodded, as he was expected to, but without much conviction. He normally didn’t have much use for officers either, but he figured they could’ve done worse under the circumstances. Their officers sure had their work cut out for them. All their lives were in the officers’ hands and he didn’t envy them the responsibility.

“Still got some pickles left,” offered Mertz. Dennis started to refuse, but then reconsidered. If things were as bad as he suspected, there was no telling when he’d taste a pickle again. Much less an apple. There might come a day when he’d dream about that last pickle he’d turned down.

“Sure, Ray. Gimme one.”

Felts jabbed Laney with his elbow and motioned around the corner of the galley at a figure by the starboard rail, staring at the heaving sea. “Hey, snipe, lookie there,” he said in a grim tone. “That’s that Nip officer! What the hell’s he doin’ on the loose?” Laney’s eyes widened.

“I’ll be damned! You ’apes sure ain’t particular about the company you keep!” Angry faces turned to the machinist’s mate, but they looked guiltily uncertain that he might be right.

“Yeah, what’s up, Silva?” demanded Stites. “You’re tight with the Chief. What’s he think about lettin’ Nips run all over the ship? I think we ought’a pitch the bastard over the side.”

Silva munched his pickle and looked from one to the other. “Gray don’t like it, and I don’t either, but leave him be. Captain’s orders. He’s on parole, or somethin’.” He shook his head. “Whatever the hell that means. I don’t reckon them Jap bastards paroled them boys on Wake.” They were silent a moment, watching the shape as it left the rail and disappeared down the companionway. “ ’Sides,” Silva added gruffly, “he’s prob’ly the only fella in the whole wide world lonesomer than we are right now.”

Spanky sat hunched in his favorite chair near the throttle-control station, his second-favorite mug clutched tightly in both hands between his knees. It was a big ceramic mug that held twice as much coffee as was generally considered right. On one side was a stylized view of Oahu from the air, and on the other was a raised-relief sculpture of a virtually nude hula girl reclined provocatively on a Chevrolet emblem. His very favorite mug with the totally nude pair of hula girls had been destroyed, and he wasn’t going let anything happen to this one. He raised it carefully to his lips and took a sip as he listened to the sounds of the ship laboring in the moderate seas.

Over the years, he’d grown used to the noises she made and prided himself on his ability to diagnose problems just by sound or “feel.” After all the damage and repairs she’d undergone, Walker moaned with all sorts of new sounds and resonated with many feels he wasn’t accustomed to, and he felt disoriented as he tried to identify and categorize them all. He shuddered to think of the stopgaps and jury-rigged repairs he’d performed, and he was secretly amazed that the ship was still afloat, much less under way. He grimaced at the thought of how they might have to stay that way. Wood in the boilers! That would finish them off. The thing was, if they were down to burning wood, that meant they had nothing else, so with a bleak but philosophical grunt, he resigned himself to the possibility.

He was supposed to sleep. The captain had actually ordered him to, but he couldn’t escape the premonition that something would come disastrously unwrapped as soon as he did. Besides, while he worked he didn’t have to think about the dark, looming scope of their situation. It was finally starting to hit the crew. There were several guys hanging out near the throttle station now, talking about just that. He listened only halfway, but for the first time really, he noticed an edge of fear.

He rubbed his tired eyes and looked up to see two pale faces peering at him from the gloom. He was a little startled, since he hadn’t known the Mice were there. As usual, they ignored the conversation flowing around them. He sighed.

“What are you doing up? This ain’t your watch. Get some sleep.”

Gilbert blinked at him and looked around the compartment. The other men were arguing about the creatures on the big ship again. His gaze returned to Spanky.

“We seen a dinosaur before,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “Me and Isak. We seen one in New York, in a big museum, on liberty a few years back.”

McFarlane’s eyebrows rose at the non sequitur. “That so?” he managed.

Isak nodded grimly. “God’s truth. ’Course they was all bones. There was more than one, but one looked sorta like those we saw on Bali the other day, only the one in New York was bigger.” They paused and looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to comment. He just stared, baffled by their train of thought. Gilbert got impatient and spoke again. “Oil’s made out of dinosaurs, they say. A long time ago a bunch of dinosaurs died and took to festerin’, just like a dead cow, and all that old black ooze seeped into the ground and turned into oil. ’Least, that’s what they say.”

“Stands to reason,” said Isak. “If oil ain’t made out’a dinosaurs, why would Sinclair have one on their sign?” He paused thoughtfully. “Which them little dinosaurs on Bali looked a lot like the one on the Sinclair sign, ’cept they weren’t green.”

McFarlane’s eyebrows had risen as far as they could go. He was way too tired for this. “Boys,” he began, but Gilbert actually interrupted him.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that got us thinkin’. We was both wildcatterswhen we was kids. Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, Wyoming… We brought in a lot of wells before we got in the Navy.”

“We didn’t like it, though, neither of us. Too much damn sun and dust-and heat too, but heat ain’t all that bad. That’s why we got in the Navy, though,” put in Isak, and what passed for a tentative smile crossed his face. “We know a thing or two about heavy machinery, but we like burnin’ oil better’n findin’ it.”

Gilbert looked at his partner with an air of bitter resignation, but nodded agreement. “We got to thinkin’. If things is like they say, then if we’re gonna keep our boilers fed with oil, I guess we’ll have to drill for it.” Gilbert took a breath. “We know how, and if that’s what it takes, well… we know how.”

Spanky looked at them with surprise and then slowly nodded. “Thanks, boys. I’ll remember that.”

Matt and Sandra dried their hair with towels from the officers’ head. Matt’s hair took only an instant, short as it was, and he watched Sandra, drying and brushing her long, almost-brass-colored strands. He’d known she was attractive, but at that moment, arms over her head, wet blouse tout against her bosom, she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen and he resisted an electric urge to take the brush himself. Suddenly he realized she’d caught him staring and his ears burned. The expression on her face was… what? Fortunately, just then Bradford swept into the wardroom. He was still excited about what they’d seen.

“Amazing! Such jaws! I’m certain you’re thankful we didn’t hit the larger one, Captain Reddy! Of course you are!”

“I think we should all be thankful for that, Mr. Bradford,” Matt replied, both grateful and resentful of the intrusion.

Bradford looked quizzically from one to the other, for the first time sensing tension between them, and attempted to quell his enthusiasm. “Quite so. Forgive me. I do get carried away. I’ve not forgotten the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it’s been foremost on my mind. I’ve done a bit of preliminary research-oh, for my office library!-and I may have a few helpful suggestions for your Mr. Letts tomorrow.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yes. Bear in mind, however, anything I suggest is qualified by the assumption that we are, well, where we were, for lack of any better way to phrase it.”

“I think you may safely assume that, Mr. Bradford,” said Matt. “Our charts of this area are pathetic. Some actually date from the eighteenth century. Depths were all wrong even before… Anyway, I don’t think there’s ever been a proper survey unless the Dutch did one. That being said, there’s enough agreement over landmarks and positions that we know to be accurate that I don’t think there’s any question we are, as you put it, where we were.”

Sandra set the brush on the table and ran her fingers through her still-damp hair. She spoke for the first time and her lip quivered slightly. “That still leaves the question we’ve all been avoiding.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. “What happened? I wish someone would think of something, even if it’s wrong. It’s driving me nuts, and I’m coping well compared to some. Ensign Theimer won’t even come out of the cabin. Nobody wants to talk about it! I know everyone’s afraid”-she looked at Matt with eyes reflecting a strange mix of accusation, respect… and something else-“even you, Captain. But everyone just keeps going as if nothing unusual’s happened at all.”

Matt smiled a sad, gentle smile. “Thank God they do, Lieutenant Tucker. You’re right. We are scared. And between the three of us in this room,” he confessed woodenly, “I’m more scared than anybody. But we’ll continue to do our duty because we have to. It’s all we’ve got to hang on to and it’s our only hope to survive.”

Bradford shifted uncomfortably and Sandra covered her face with her hands for a moment, but nodded. “Of course, Captain. I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.” She looked up and her eyes were rimmed with red. “This crew-everyone-is exhausted, but I’ve just about emptied the dispensary of sleeping pills.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed, but she quickly dispelled his concern with a flick of her wrist, and the corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Oh, don’t worry. There weren’t many on board to start with and it’s not an epidemic. I made it sound worse than it is. If the truth were known, half these guys would conk out if you gave them a chair to sit on in front of a firing squad.” She shook her head with genuine admiration. “It beats me how most stay so calm.” She frowned. “Not all have, though, and some you’d think have dealt with it really haven’t.” She sighed. “Like me, I guess. It’s like a nightmare, or some H. G. Wells or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel.”

“Well,” said Matt, “since the charts are correct, that eliminates The Time Machine, according to you, Mr. Bradford. Also, there’s the matter of furry people with tails on ships bigger than the Hornet. That leaves The Lost World our most likely scenario.” Sandra looked at him, surprised that he’d read those works.

“Actually,” said Courtney Bradford, “I think you’re both wrong.”

“So what do you think?” asked Matt with a half smile.

Bradford looked solemn. “I don’t know yet. I expect an epiphany once we’ve done more than just sail about. The water looks quite the same as before, you know.” There was a hint of accusation in his tone.

“Quite the same except for the fish,” said Sandra dryly.

Bradford bowed his head to her, conceding the point. “Indeed.” He paused and looked down at the table, then glanced at them both. “Have you ever considered how your life might have been if you’d done something different? What a monumental impact some choice or deed can have on the rest of your life? Captain, what if you hadn’t joined the Navy? What would you be like today? Would you even be the same person? Some people think, if they think about it at all, that they’d be the same, just doing something different. I disagree. I believe it’s our actions, as well as the context and environment in which those actions take place, that make us what we are. But what if? What if your mother had never met your father? Your grandmother, your grandfather? What if the United States had lost its revolutionary war? What if the Roman Empire had never fallen-or never existed? What would the world be like today? Would it be much the same, except for that one small thing?”

Neither Matt nor Sandra answered. Matt just looked at him with a tired, speculative expression. Sandra’s face wore no expression at all, but the clenching muscles in her jaw betrayed a growing tension.

“I think the world would be entirely different,” Bradford continued quietly, “and the more distance between the moment of change and the present, the more profound the differences would be.”

“I’ve… studied history a little,” Matt said self-consciously. “I’ve often wondered ‘what if’ about a lot of things. I suppose every historian does, whether they admit it or not. What if the South had won the Battle of Gettysburg, for example, or that Serb hadn’t shot the archduke of Austria? Things might’ve been different. Maybe a lot different.” He looked at the Australian. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing,” said Courtney Bradford in a cryptic, falsely cheerful tone. “Maybe everything.”

The sun rose sharp and fierce in a cloudless sky. The storm, if it could be called that, was over, leaving only a slight chop as Walker eased back into the gap between Bali and Menjangan Island. All through the night they’d searched but found no sign of Mahan, and everyone harbored a forlorn hope they’d find her where they left her. Matt considered it possible, even likely, that if Jim couldn’t nurse his ship all the way to their rendezvous, he’d bring her back here, thinking it the first place Matt would look. Unfortunately, when they cleared the shoals and nosed into their previous anchorage, they were disappointed.

Bali remained a clear reminder that they were lost to the world they knew, its shores still teeming with unlikely creatures and its unterraced coastline a vast, panoramic plain broken by copses of unfamiliar palmlike trees. Again the crew lined the rails to stare. Unlike the sea-normally a destroyerman’s natural element, but now one that inspired dread-the land seemed populated by comparatively pastoral creatures. They all remembered the lizard that bit Leo Davis and made him so sick, but that was on Menjangan Island. Maybe they weren’t on Bali. The pygmy “brontosauruses” and other apparent herbivores browsed, cowlike, in full view and in broad daylight, seemingly content and unafraid of predators.

They crept closer. The outdated charts showed plenty of water, but Matt figured two hundred yards was close enough, and they dropped the hook once more. He peered at the shore and Courtney Bradford already had his “own” binoculars up. Matt wasn’t sure whose they’d originally been, but possession being what it was, he doubted the owner would get them back. He shook his head with a little grin.

“Lieutenant Dowden, you have the deck. We’ll remain here for the day and hopefully Mahan’ll show up. Double lookouts at all times. I’m not really worried about Japs anymore, but anchored, we can’t maneuver. I think we’ve had enough surprises for a while. In the meantime, you’ll plot a course for Surabaya. If Mahan doesn’t show by dusk, we’ll proceed there.” He looked at Bradford and saw the desolate expression. His grin returned. “Mr. Bradford, Mr. Letts, and a small party will accompany me ashore. Have Campeti break out Springfields, sidearms, and ammunition for a party of eight. Hmm, better make that ten pistols, and throw in a tommy gun and one of the BARs. We’ll leave two men and the Thompson with the boat.”

He studied the contrast between Bradford’s excited happiness and Lieutenant Dowden’s horror. He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Larry, we won’t wander off. In fact, I don’t intend to leave sight of the ship. It’s time we saw face-to-face what we’re up against. But if we get in over our heads, be ready to blow the hell out of anything we can’t handle. Understood?”

Dowden swallowed. “Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”

Silva hefted a BAR and a bandolier of ammunition. He flashed his friends a toothy grin. “I’m goin’ a’huntin’!” he said as he took his place with the other members of the shore party, climbing down into the whaleboat. They were Carl Bashear, Mack Marvaney, Glen Carter, and Alfred Vernon. Tony Scott and Fred Reynolds would remain with the boat on the beach. They were in it now, waiting for the others. Silva watched Marvaney climb down ahead of him. His expression was wooden, almost vacant. “Cheer up, Mack!” he said. “It’ll be a hoot!” Marvaney glanced up at him and smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes.

Reynolds stood in the bow with his Springfield at the ready, and Scott fiddled with the throttle, a Thompson slung on his shoulder. Blue smoke rose from the idling motor as one by one the party descended the rungs welded to the side of the ship. The captain went last and he paused before he did, looking briefly at the faces nearby. Lieutenant Garrett wore an anxious expression, and Matt winked.

“You and Larry take care of my ship, hear?” His eyes flicked toward number three. It was manned, and already trained to port. Stites was its captain and he met Matt’s gaze with a confident nod. He nodded back and looked at Garrett. “Carry on, Lieutenant,” he said and disappeared over the side. As soon as he stepped into the boat and found a seat, Scott advanced the throttle. With a gurgling rumble they left Walker’s comforting side and steered for the mysterious shore.

Immediately, they felt the bumping, and several men exchanged nervous glances. Even Silva gave a start when something hit the hull under his foot. They knew it must be the vicious silvery fish-or something like them-but fortunately nothing bigger saw fit to taste the boat. In spite of the heat, gooseflesh crept along Matt’s arms at the very thought of falling overboard. The memory of the feeding frenzy for the shipwrecked Japanese was vivid.

There was a breeze out of the south-southwest and the sea was still choppy. Little packets of spray misted them as they neared land. The sky was almost painfully bright and clear, and its contrast with the shoaling water became less and less distinct. The greens of vegetation were more or less as they should have been and the sun was as bright and hot as always. Letts tried to keep his lotion-smeared skin under the shade of a wide straw hat. The normalcy of the scene only accentuated the striking abnormality of their situation and the impossible creatures grazing along on the coastal plain ahead.

There were no breakers, only a gentle surf washing onto a beach of gray-black volcanic gravel. The bumping subsided and then stopped completely a few dozen yards from shore. All the same, no one was anxious to step into the water, regardless how shallow. Scott skillfully nosed the whaleboat through the surf until they felt a crunchy resistance as it slid to a stop. For a moment everyone looked at the few yards of water between them and land. They could actually see the bottom, but there was nervous hesitation all the same. With a short bark of a laugh, Silva hitched up his gun belt and hopped over the side. The other men sheepishly did the same and Matt stepped up through the empty seats, jumped out into the shallow surf, and waded ashore with outward unconcern. Letts and Marvaney brought up the rear. Reynolds and Scott carried a line and began looking for something to tie it to.

“You men stay here,” said the captain. “Keep a sharp lookout and don’t goof around. We won’t be far and if we hear you shoot, we’ll come running. If you have to, cut your cable and clear off the beach, but hang close enough to come back for us. If you hear us shoot, stay here and prepare to shove off. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” they answered in unison.

Bradford was already hurrying excitedly away from the beach with a couple of hesitant men behind. Matt sighed and raised his voice. “We’ll all stick together, if you please!”

They marched inland in a loose column of twos, watching their flanks with care. Matt had grown up around weapons and had hunted all his life, so the Springfield he carried was a familiar and welcome companion. Especially now. He and Bradford walked side by side at the front of the column, looking at their surroundings. The grass was deep, waist high in places, and the broad, spiny leaves reminded Matt of johnsongrass. There were no brambles or thorns or such, but the grass was distinctly uncomfortable to walk through. Maybe more like South Texas cordgrass, he thought. Ahead was the first herd of the animals that looked like brontosauruses. They fed on the leaves of strange-looking palms that stood in a large clump. The way they moved and the sounds they made seemed entirely appropriate and very elephantlike. Any similarity ended there. Their necks were as long as their bodies, and they stood stripping vegetation much higher than any elephant ever could have.

There were about a dozen of the animals of all sizes in the group, and as the men drew nearer, they paid them no heed. The shore party slowed their pace as they approached, but made no effort to conceal themselves. At seventy-five yards they were finally noticed, but only in passing, and without alarm. A few animals momentarily stopped their contented feeding to look in their direction. With slow, stupid, cowlike expressions, they regarded the invaders, then resumed their ceaseless meal.

“Not real concerned, are they?” Matt observed quietly.

“Perhaps they’re unaccustomed to predators large enough to be a threat,” theorized Bradford, “or they consider the size and strength of their herd sufficient to ward off danger. May we get still closer?” Matt looked around. There was nothing on their flanks, just knee-deep grass stretching for a distance in either direction. He could see the boat and the men they’d left with it, less than a quarter mile away. Beyond was Walker, framed by an achingly beautiful panorama, Menjangan in the background.

“A little closer, I suppose.”

They crept slowly forward. Instinctively, nearly everyone stooped into a semi-crouch as they walked, their subconscious minds insisting that nothing as comparatively small as they should ever stalk anything as big as the creatures before them without making some effort to conceal themselves. All except Courtney Bradford. He remained entirely erect, with his binoculars glued to his face. “Oh, my,” he repeated over and over.

At fifty yards Matt was about to call a halt when suddenly every animal in the herd stopped eating and their small heads pivoted on giraffe-like necks simultaneously. The motion reminded him absurdly of antelopes and the way whole herds often changed direction as if by pre-planned command.

“Uh-oh,” said Letts from just behind. One of the biggest animals in the group appeared to gather itself and stretched its neck to full extension. Its sides heaved and a tremendous shrill bugling sound erupted. Other necks extended, and within seconds all the creatures were bugling and bellowing together.

“Okay, people, let’s ease back a little.”

Everywhere across the plain, groups of animals stared, and sounded off as well. Other creatures, the shape of rhinos, but with bony, spike-studded crests behind their heads, also began trumpeting, and one group tossed their heads and trotted to a more distant herd of brontosauruses and filled gaps in the defensive line they’d established. Together now, both groups raged thunderous defiance at the destroyermen. More interspecies alliances sprang up among the scattered herd groups. “Amazing!” Bradford gasped.

The big bull from the closest group stomped and pawed aggressively at the ground. A cloud of dust rose around him and saplings were cast aside.

“Back away,” ordered the captain. He’d never seen anything like this, but whatever was going on, they were vastly outnumbered and ridiculously outmassed. Walker’s guns could break up a charge if the distant creatures made one, but the nearest herd was too close for that, and he had no illusions about how effective their small arms would be. A. 30-06 could kill an Asian elephant if the shot was placed just right, but where do you “place” a shot in a brontosaurus? “Mr. Bradford, let’s go.”

Reluctantly, the Australian turned to face him. His gaze froze, however, on something beyond Matt’s shoulder and his face drained of color. Matt spun, and there, not twenty yards away, eight large lizards rose from the grass, poised as if to attack. They looked vaguely like the Menjangan lizards except they wore dun-colored fur, or possibly downy feathers, and standing upright was clearly their natural posture. They were formed in a loose semicircle that effectively blocked the men’s retreat. Behind him, the bull still rioted and one of the “lizards”-the leader perhaps-opened its mouth in a silent snarl, baring a horrifying array of razor-sharp teeth. Wicked talons lengthened the four long fingers of each outstretched “hand.” The creature shifted its weight like a cat about to pounce. At that instant, from the beach came the distinctive bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap! of a Thompson and the deeper crack of a Springfield. Matt discovered he had plenty of adrenaline left, after all.

“At the lizards, open fire!”

Just as he gave the command, the creatures struck with a piercing shriek. Three fell in the initial volley, but the things were fast and as big as a man. Silva waded forward with the BAR and Matt was deafened by the metronomic bam-bam-bam of the weapon. His rifle was too cumbersome for close quarters and he fumbled for the. 45. He yanked it from the holster and flipped the safety off just as one of the nightmare creatures hurtled past a madly dodging Carl Bashear and sprang toward him. He fired four times and then leaped aside as the thing crashed to the ground right where he’d been standing. It gathered its feet and tried to lunge, even with blood pouring from its chest and its left eye blown out. He shot it twice more before it collapsed. He fired once at another as it ran past him, fixated on Glen Carter, and cursed when the slide locked back. Carter was chambering another round in his Springfield, and he glanced up in horror at the death rushing toward him. Alan Letts, hat lost in the grass, turned and fired twice into the creature, shattering its leg, and it sprawled on the ground at Carter’s feet. With a quick glance of gratitude at the supply officer, Carter slammed his bolt forward and shot the lizard where it lay, still scrabbling to reach him.

A wrenching scream arose to his left and Matt spun with a fresh magazine in hand, poised in the well of his pistol. One of the monsters was hunched over in the tall grass, struggling with someone on the ground. Bashear, Silva, and Vernon poured in a fusillade of pistol fire until it finally lay still. Another was on the ground struggling to rise, bright-pink froth spraying from its nostrils with each gasping breath. Bradford stood just yards away, rifle still pointed in its general direction, staring with eager fascination. Bashear strode up, shouldered him aside, and shot it in the head. There was an incredulous snarl on his lips as he regarded the Australian.

Matt turned, scanning all directions. The herd of brontosauruses, alarmed by the battle, had ceased bugling and drawn off, leaving only the big bull standing his ground. One of the attackers was still alive, running away with a long-legged, upright lope, faster than any man could match. Not much like the Menjangan lizards at all, he reflected. With a strangled curse, Silva snatched the BAR from the ground and loaded another magazine. He racked the bolt and brought the weapon to his shoulder. A sustained burst spat at the fleeing creature and clouds of dirt, rocks and shredded vegetation erupted around it. Suddenly it jerked and fell. Legs and tail flailed above the grass as Silva calmly replaced the magazine again and hosed the area until all movement ceased.

With another glance at the brontosaurus, Matt hurried to where the other men were looking at the ground. Lying half under one of the dead monsters was Gunner’s Mate Mack Marvaney, his head torn nearly completely off.

“Goddamn lizards, or whatever the hell they are!” bellowed Silva, savagely kicking the carcass even after it rolled off his friend. Matt was shocked and somewhat embarrassed to see tears streaking the dust on the big man’s face. He looked down at Marvaney and felt a spinning maelstrom of rage and anguish. His pulse thundered in his ears. What in the hell were they going to do? What was he going to do? They’d been ashore less than an hour and already lost a man. What kind of world had they wound up in where everything in the water and on the land was trying to eat them? How in the hell could they cope with that?

He looked at the men standing nearby. They all wore mixed expressions of rage, shock, and fear. He knew they’d rather face ten Amagis than spend another hour ashore. Well, that was fine, because they were leaving and he knew just how they felt. But they’d have to go ashore again-if not here, then somewhere-if they were going to survive.

“Bring Marvaney,” he croaked savagely, then pointed at one of the dead creatures. He cleared his throat and tried to speak more normally. “Bring that too.”

The shooting by the boat had stopped, but two men still stood on the beach beside it. Thank God. The herds were bugling and trumpeting again and the big bull was growing bolder. It was time to leave.

There was sadness and angry murmuring when they carried Marvaney on deck. He’d been a fun-loving, friendly sort before depression over leaving his wife had set in, and he had no enemies aboard. Many sympathized and even identified with his unhappiness, although he’d taken it harder than most. But besides the fact that he was well liked, his death seemed somehow more tragic than those in battle. He was the first to die since they came through the Squall, and they couldn’t even blame the Japs. All he’d done was go ashore. It showed them how vulnerable they were. The Japanese Navy had been a juggernaut, seemingly dedicated to their personal destruction, a task it nearly accomplished. But at least that was a threat they could understand. The things happening now, ever since the Squall, were beyond their comprehension. If Mack had been killed by the Japanese, it would have been tough, but that was the breaks. That came with being a destroyerman. Being killed by a giant furry lizard wasn’t part of the deal.

The murmuring dwindled into shocked silence when they hoisted the creature aboard. The shore party, including the captain, watched while others did the work. Tony Scott and Fred Reynolds had easily killed the two creatures that attacked them, and nobody but Marvaney got so much as a scratch, but Matt figured they’d been through enough. All were pensive and subdued, except the Australian, who hovered like an expectant father as they lowered the lizard beside the number two torpedo mount. Matt was repulsed by the creature and found Bradford’s solicitude mildly offensive, but he couldn’t really blame him. That was just the way he was; besides, it was important that they learn as much from it as they could and he was the best qualified to do that.

The carcass already stank and the heat would soon make it worse. On its feet the lizard was tall as a man, but it was considerably heavier, so they shifted it onto a torpedo dolly and Matt followed as they rolled it into the shade of the amidships deckhouse. Part of its weight advantage came from the massively muscled legs, which looked more like those of an ostrich or emu than those of the Komodo-like lizards on Menjangan. The feet had three ostrichlike toes with vicious, hawkish claws. Slightly offset on the inside of each foot was a large scimitar-shaped claw, twice as long as the others. More of the weight came from a stubby, powerful tail, tapered sharply from the hips but flared into a thick, almost birdlike plumage of darker, striated “feathers”-for lack of anything else to call them. The “fur” covering the rest of the animal was dun overall, but the striations were faintly evident over the length of the beast. The arms looked very human, with distinct forearms and biceps, even though the shoulders were more like those of birds, where wings would mount. Four clawed fingers were on each hand, and one was very much like a thumb. The longish neck supported a toothy head straight out of a horror movie. The gray eyes were glazed in death, but retained a measure of reptilian malevolence.

Courtney Bradford was happily lecturing the spectators like a group of medical students with a cadaver. “And look!” he said excitedly. “The eyes are quite far forward and unobstructed! There’s no question about stereoscopic vision! A formidable predator, believe you me! And those jaws! Terrifying!”

They were. The head tapered to a sharp point and the lower jaw seemed almost delicate, but powerful muscles bulged where it attached to the head. Matt had never seen anything with so many densely packed, razor-sharp teeth. It was almost cartoonish, like a piranha, but there was nothing humorous about it. Those teeth were clearly designed to tear flesh and crunch large bones. They reminded him vaguely of a cross between a shark’s teeth and a cat’s canines, only there was virtually no gap between them.

He was surprised to see how the crowd had swelled. Half the crew was present. He also noted that the gloom and dread that had been so pervasive had begun to lift somewhat. Many of the men most affected by Marvaney’s death now listened with careful attention. Of course! he thought, and wondered if the Australian did it on purpose. Show them the enemy, especially a dead one, and it might still be scary as hell, but it also became clear that it could be killed. He looked at Courtney Bradford with new respect as the man jabbered happily on about how fearsome the obviously vanquished creature was.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Lieutenant Tucker’s concerned face, her eyes locked searchingly on his. He forced a smile. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Ever since you came aboard. Are you all right?”

He stepped slightly back. “Swell. We had some excitement, but we’re all okay except-” He stopped and shook his head. “Why?”

She just patted his arm with a fragile smile. She couldn’t tell him that the expression he’d worn when he came aboard had frightened her with the intensity of its rage, and devastated her with the depth of its hopelessness. She doubted anyone else had really noticed-men could be so stupid about such things-and he now seemed himself again. But that quick peek beneath his so carefully controlled veneer of confident self-assurance wrenched her heart, not only with fear for her own survival but also with compassion for this man who carried such a heavy burden for them all.

“Nothing,” she said, and smiled a little brighter. She heard Bradford’s voice rise above his dissertation.

“Ah! Lieutenant Tucker! There you are, my dear! You’re quite the surgeon, I understand. Would you be so good as to assist me”-he grinned-“while I slice this bugger up and show these lads where to aim next time?” There were growls of approval and a predatory jockeying for the best view. Bradford wiped his brow and smiled wryly. “I’m afraid if we wait too long, it will be a nasty task indeed.”

Matt sat on his bunk, his face in his hands. His sweat-soaked hair and clothes felt clammy under the fan. He sighed and spoke into the comm. “Bridge, this is the captain.”

“Bridge, aye.”

“Inform Mr. Dowden I’m in my quarters. I’ll be up shortly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Matt paused awkwardly for a moment. “Thanks,” he said at last, and dropped back on the rack to stare at the overhead.

Another one, he thought grimly. All those men lost in the running fight, then Mahan and now Marvaney. What next? There had to be something he could have done to stop all this. Marvaney was a good kid. Unlike Silva, or pretty much the entire ordnance division, he’d never been a discipline problem aboard or ashore. He just did his job. He raised a little hell, like the rest, but he never pushed it too far. Maybe the pretty Filipino girl had something to do with that. Matt only saw her twice, both times when they docked in Cavite after some maneuver. She was always waiting on the quay, to snatch Marvaney up before he could escape with his hooligan friends. He always went willingly, too, without the false bravado and showing off of others under similar circumstances. It was clear he loved her very much. He was distraught when they left Cavite after the Japanese bombed it to splinters. After the Squall, he just sort of… went away. Matt shouldn’t have let him go ashore. He hadn’t even thought about it. Now Mack was dead, and it was his fault.

Finally he grunted and sat up. Sulking wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all Marvaney. He’d just have to do better, somehow. It was his duty, and he’d never shrunk from responsibility, but this was

… different, and so very, very hard. He wasn’t just a junior destroyer captain anymore, who only had to follow orders. His job had changed profoundly. For a moment he envied men like Silva, men who did their jobs but were free to leave the care and responsibility to others at the end of the watch. Matt’s watch never ended. He was the job. He only hoped no one else would have to die before he figured out what, exactly, it had become.

He replaced his shirt with a dry one, ran a comb through his greasy hair, and put his hat back on. He searched the mirror above his little desk for signs of the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him, and with a wary snort, he shouldered through the curtain to become captain of DD- 163 again.

Dennis Silva leaned against the vegetable locker between the number three and number four funnels while Stites, Campeti, and Jamie Miller worked. They were sewing Marvaney into his mattress cover, and blood glistened black against the white cloth where it soaked through from his gruesome wound and dried in the afternoon sun. Silva felt.. . depressed, he guessed, and that was an emotion he’d never experienced before. He always said he had only four “feelings”-horny, hungry, happy, and mad-and he was less than half joking. Now he knew a fifth. Mad was part of it, sure. But it was deeper and less focused and had already lasted longer than the others ever did. He’d felt it since Marvaney was killed, and that had been what? Almost three hours ago? Must be depression, he told himself with a sigh. No tellin’ what I’ll be pinin’ over next.

He would miss Marvaney. They’d been shipmates for four years and raised hell from Cavite to Singapore-until the dummy got married and reformed. But they had a lot of laughs and busted a lot of heads, and he’d always been a good man at your back. Now he was dead and Silva realized he’d lost one of the few people that his loose definition of “true friend” applied to. He wished he had a drink.

“Don’t forget ‘the object,’” he grumped, referring to the item that he’d chosen to carry his friend to the depths.

Campeti glared at him. “Can’t you think of nothin’ else? Christ, it ain’t hardly fittin’! And besides, what are we gonna listen to?”

“The object” was a bundle of about fifty records, part of a large collection Marvaney had aboard and often played on a portable wind-up turntable. The 78s were plenty heavy, more than sufficient to carry him down.

“Relax, Sonny. I only picked the old stuff nobody else likes. He liked ’em, though, and he ought’a keep ’em.”

Campeti shook his head. “All right, Dennis, but when they’re gone, they’re gone. We might never hear them songs again.”

“Suits me. I like dancin’ to livelier tunes. Them waltzes and shit is for grandmas.”

“Dancin’!” snorted Campeti, a general, growing concern on his mind. “Who with?”

They were silent while “the object” was solemnly placed at Marvaney’s feet and the last stitches finished. Finally, the young pharmacist’s mate spoke tentatively. “Chief Bashear said he killed six lizards. How many did you get, Silva?”

Dennis snorted. “Six, huh? Where I was standin’, I didn’t see him kill any. Well, one, maybe. Give him an assist.”

“How about you?” Miller prodded. Silva shrugged. “Two or three, I guess. Hell, everybody was shootin’. Who knows?”

Stites glanced at Campeti and then looked at Silva again. “How about the Skipper? Boy, he sure looked mad!”

Silva nodded. “Yeah, he got one or two. With his pistol. He just stood there and let one run right up to him and bam!” He clapped his hands. “Right in the eye! The Skipper’s got guts, I’ll say that.” He looked thoughtful. “He was mad, though. I never seen him that mad. I don’t know if he was madder that they got Mack or that we ran out’a lizards to kill. He wasn’t even that mad that time in Subic when me and-” He stopped, and a huge grin slowly spread across his face. “Well, never mind, boys. I got that rocker back later anyway.” The others laughed as they finished preparations to send their friend to his watery grave.

That evening, as the sun touched the horizon, there was a small, forlorn splash alongside the lonely, rust-streaked ship. For a while, it remained still as the gloom deepened and the running lights snapped on. It must have been a strange, alien image to any creature watching from shore. Puffs of smoke rose from the aft funnels and hung motionless in the calm evening air. Then, slowly, it began to move. Most of the creatures paid it no heed; their interests were wholly devoted to packing vegetation into their large, multiple stomachs. If they’d witnessed the strange events of the day, they’d already forgotten.

Not all had forgotten, however. Some watched intently and continued to stare at the lights as they moved through the slot and into the strait beyond, long after the shape of the ship itself was lost to view.

Keje-Fris-Ar sat on a stool beside his breakfast table in the ornately decorated chamber that was the foundation for the central tower of Home. It was the largest chamber on the entire ship that wasn’t given over to livestock or cargo, and it was tastefully adorned with colorful tapestries and finely carved figures. Puffy pillows clustered in the various discussion areas, and in the center of all towered a nearly mature Galla tree, growing from a basin of earth that extended down to the very keel. Ample sunlight for it to thrive flowed through colorfully decorated hatches that were usually, as now, flung wide. A gentle breeze circulated to rustle the long, green-gold leaves. The only thing marring the dignity and splendor of the chamber was the small, plain table, set to one side, where Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of all the clans of Salissa Home, and his companion, High Sky Priest Adar, enjoyed their morning meal. The splendid hall was Keje’s personal office, throne room, and council chamber rolled into one, where matters of great importance to all the clans were discussed. On such occasions, the ceremony and dignity were solemn indeed. But for everyday use, when there were no great matters to attend in proper form, Keje preferred his little table. Besides, he knew it amused Adar to dine with him thus.

The High Chief was the absolute monarch of Home, but the three towers supporting the great wings were controlled by their various chiefs, who enjoyed a degree of autonomy. An autonomy that could grow tiresome. Sometimes, the Sky Priests acted as intermediaries between the clans, because they were of no clan and all must serve the Heavens. Because of this trust, and because the Sky Priests-at least on Salissa- weren’t oppressively spiritual, they enjoyed a position of esteem and a reputation for impartiality when dealing with the everyday squabbles among the several chiefs. But their efforts in this regard were subordinate to their primary duty. Their charge was to read the Heavens and ponder the stars and interpret them to others, who saw only points of light. The Sky Priests told them where they were, where they were going, and how to get there. They relayed the truths of the Heavens, which were above all things.

It was the High Chief who had to cajole, inspire, or force the clan chiefs to cooperate to do what the Heavens decreed if the Sky Priests couldn’t help them agree, with him or each other. That was one of the reasons he generally declined the pomp of his exalted office, at least in everyday life. He didn’t demand the near deification some High Chiefs of other Homes enjoyed, through constant ritual and an untouchable attitude, but he enjoyed a higher, more genuine status than many of his peers through respect for his abilities and wisdom. There was always contention, but his Home suffered less from the incessant squabbling that sometimes plagued other Homes because he led by example and was followed by the willing.

That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy his status. He believed he was a good High Chief, and the People of Salissa Home prospered under his rule. What it did mean was he felt more comfortable eating at a small table, with his Sky Priest, whenever important rituals didn’t interfere.

“So tell me, my lord,” spoke Adar, delicately dabbing at his whiskers with an intricately woven kerchief, “have you given more thought to our visitors on the quick, smoky vessel?”

“No,” grunted Keje around a mouthful of baked akka egg. “None at all since we last discussed them before we parted last night, to sleep.” He was mildly annoyed with his friend’s preoccupation with the strange tail-less beings. Deep down, he was just as curious as Adar, but he had other things to concern him, and their meeting had been so brief that it was pointless to speculate and rehash questions for which they’d likely never have answers.

Adar blinked rapidly with constrained amusement. “Surely, lord, you have thought of them a little.” He paused and grew more serious. “I certainly have.” His lips moved into a full grin. “As you know.” Keje’s eyelids fluttered questioningly.

“My lord, consider again how momentous it was. We encountered an entirely different species, which, at the very least, possess knowledge of sea vessels far surpassing our own-or the Grik.” Adar looked intently into Keje’s eyes. “And I repeat: they did not attack us! When has that ever been? Only once before, by the Prophet, and they were tail-less beings as well! The Grik are our Ancient Enemy. That much is clear from the Scrolls. They drove us from our ancestral home-on land!-so long ago that the Scrolls cannot even tell us what that life was like. But it was the Grik who forced our people to build the great Homes to travel the world in safety, across the hostile sea. But the Grik have learned to travel the sea as well. Not as well, or as safely, thank the Heavens, but nothing has changed in all that time. Yet again they seek to drive us, whenever we meet. The war that began so many ages ago is not over for them.” He stopped, and looking down, he shuddered. “I believe they are truly evil, just as it is written, and I fear for our people. Our race.”

Keje blinked agreement, although he still couldn’t divine the Sky Priest’s point. What did the Tail-less Ones have to do with any of that-or was that his point?

“My lord, you know the sea and what manner of vessel best swims upon it, but something is changing. The Grik have found us, their ancient prey, but until recently they could do little about it.” He held up a dark, furless palm. “They do invariably attack, and People are sometimes slain, but their vessels are as nothing compared to the walls of Home. Yet in our lifetimes we’ve seen the size of their vessels increase, as well as the number of attacks. When last I spoke to other High Sky Priests, at the Gathering of Homes, I heard the same from them. Their frail vessels cannot protect them all, and many are probably lost, yet they keep coming, senselessly. From what I can tell, there is no motive other than to attack us, and the Western Ocean is no longer the barrier it was.”

Keje was silent as he contemplated the words. Beneath the stool, his tail swished. One of the youngling servants carried away their platters. When she was gone, Keje spoke.

“I know what you are saying. The Grik make advances and we do nothing but repel them when they strike. What else can we do?”

“They advance and we repel them,” agreed Adar, “but what if they strike colonies, or trade lands, where people don’t have the walls of Home to defend them? What if they attack in some new way that cannot be defended against? They already use fire, and that’s bad enough. What will become of us? It would be like the exodus in the Scrolls once more, only this time with nowhere to flee.”

“Well, but what does this have to do with the Tail-less Ones? We’ve discussed all this before!” questioned Keje. He was exasperated, but he felt a gnawing agreement with Adar’s words. “Do you believe these new Tail-less Ones are somehow related to the old? Is that what you’re saying?” Keje huffed. “It is coincidence, nothing more. Their ways are as different from the others as ours are from theirs.”

“We cannot know, my lord, if they’re the same or not. It may not even matter. I say only this: they did not attack us.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that before!”

“They did not attack us, and they’re clearly unafraid of the Grik. With such a speedy vessel, they would have no reason to fear.”

With dawning comprehension, Keje regarded the Sky Priest. “You believe we have squandered an opportunity,” he stated flatly.

“Yes, my lord, I do.”

As if on cue, the sound of running feet and a rising tide of alarmed voices reached them through the open windows of the hall. The coincidence wasn’t lost on either of them, and they stared at one another. Keje’s personal Guard detachment raced in and stood before him. Some were adjusting their armor. Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin and captain of the Guard, bowed his dark-furred head. “My lord,” he said simply, “the Grik come.”

Keje blinked acknowledgment, and turning, he bellowed for his armor. “From which direction, cousin?” he asked.

“West-southwest, and south, my lord.” Neither Kas’s expression nor the tone of his voice changed when Keje’s eyes pierced his. “Yes, lord, there are six. All larger than we’ve ever seen.”

Keje paced the battlement spanning the great floating island that was Home. It was an open deck extending beam to beam and formed the ceiling to the forward part of the Great Hall. Since the hall was so large, Keje’s vantage point was several dozen tails above the main deck. On the other two towers, the level wasn’t as prominent, and merely served as the foundationfor the towers of apartments between the wing tripods. The platform on the central tower was larger so the High Chief could direct his people in storms-and battle.

The turnout of the Guard was more disciplined than just a few days before. Every male, female, and youngling on Salissa Home that was old enough, fit enough, or large enough to bear arms was technically a member of the Guard, but the “active” Guard consisted of the strongest and most fit from each clan. Its members spent time each week engaged in martial exercises. These consisted of athletic training and practice with weapons, but since they were so rarely called to fight, the training was geared more toward preparation for the frequent competitions between the various clans.

Rivalry was fierce and provided entertainment for the People. But the rivalries sometimes became bitter, so the active Guards of the various clans, even while preparing for the common defense, almost never practiced together. The combined active Guard of Salissa numbered nearly four hundred and, when the reserves swelled their ranks, Home could boast almost sixteen hundred defenders. But many had never fought, and fewer had fought together. Standing together clan by clan, they didn’t even know how. And none of them-none of Keje’s people in all the world-had ever faced more than one Grik ship at a time.

As he paced, Keje stared aft and to the left, toward the distant haze of land. He confirmed with his own eyes no fewer than six ships of the Ancient Enemy stalking his people. His insides twisted. He wasn’t afraid to fight, and he didn’t think he was afraid to die, but he’d fought the Grik before. One-sided and seemingly senseless as those fights had been, he’d seen a glimpse of what they were capable of. Their appalling savagery and apparent disdain for their own lives was so utterly alien that he’d always harbored a secret terror of what might happen if they ever attacked in sufficient force to gain the decks of Home. Now it seemed that the nightmare was upon them. He would see what it was like at last.

The Grik were closing fast, and their speed made it seem that Salissa really was an island, incapable of independent movement, even though the great wings were taut and straining against the freshening breeze. He watched as weapons were issued to females and younglings who’d never held them in their lives, other than to prepare food. His eyes blinked furiously in impotent realization. It was all his fault. He’d lived with the nightmare for many years and he should have prepared his people better.

The festive tarpaulins and awnings came down. Perhaps the most evil and insidious thing about the Grik was they seemed to delight in using fire as a weapon. The Homes of the People were built to last virtually forever, and his Home was barely a generation old. But it was made of wood, and the woods that served best were hardwoods steeped in resin. Resin that took fire with an obdurate flame. Barrels of sea water were always kept at hand, but now more barrels and buckets of water were hauled up by ropes as quickly as possible while they prepared for the unprecedented deluge of fire that they knew would come. Water droplets misted down as the fabric wings were doused. More water sloshed on the decks, making them slippery, but it couldn’t be helped. He hoped they wouldn’t soon be slick with blood.

He looked around. Adar was there, surrounded by his acolytes. All were armed, but they blinked nervously, since none had ever trained for war. The Sky Priests trained only in the mysteries of the Heavens. It never occurred to them to study the mysteries of one race intent on destroying another. They couldn’t be risked on the walls, but if the enemy reached this place there would be no noncombatants. There would be only fight or die.

Keje’s immediate family was with him on the battlement as well, but that was ancient tradition, not favoritism. In battle, the High Chief had enough to worry about without adding concern for his family. That family held no official power simply by familial association. In theory, their status was no higher than that of any fish cleaner or wing runner of the People. They often held status of their own, through merit, but the idea of a fixed aristocracy-at least for the High Chief-was repellent to the fiercely, if inconsistently, egalitarian People. In practice, it was more complicated. The office that Keje held was hereditary-subject to ratification by the Clan Assembly, of course-but no one remembered when a succession had been blocked. Therefore, a certain “royal family” atmosphere and collective protectiveness existed toward the heirs of any High Chief.

Unlike the wings, whose chiefs passed their position to the elder heirs, the elder, or “senior,” of the High Chief’s heirs were expected to move on in Homes of their own when the time came. When the final heirs came of age and the High Chief died or stepped down, they would succeed him. All could have Homes, if they chose, peopled by the younger heirs of the “parent” Home. This ensured continuity on the parent Home through the experience of the wing clans, as well as the Homes newly founded and led by the High Chief’s elder heirs. “Wars of succession” did not occur, populations were controlled, and all the Homes of the People were distantly related to some degree. That more and more of the “elder heirs” were choosing to establish “Land Colonies” with the resources granted them concerned some, who feared dissolution of the old, traditional ways, but practically, the burgeoning Land Colonies provided support for the still-growing number of Homes. In any event, because of this arrangement, there really was no “crown prince.”

In theory at least. In Keje’s case, his only mate died young, leaving him a single heir, Selass. Keje wasn’t old and would certainly mate again, perhaps many times, but for now, Selass was it. She therefore constituted the only “immediate” family to stand with him on the battlement that day.

Her new mate, Saak-Fas, was another matter. Keje didn’t like him and his daughter knew it, but he couldn’t describe his dislike beyond a general discomfort over a supremely self-centered attitude. His dislike intensified considerably today when Saak-Fas appeared on the battlement with Selass instead of on the wall where he belonged. The only fighters posted to the battlement were the High Chief’s personal armsmen, and just a few of those. Everyone else, besides the Sky Priests, were bearers of commands, or runners, who would race down the catwalks and carry his orders where directed. Keje decided he would send Saak-Fas on such an errand when the time came, and he had no regard for what his daughter would think of that. He did notice that Selass appeared uncomfortable, and he wondered if it was shame, or simply the fact that death was so near.

He studied the Grik ships as they approached in three pairs. They looked identical to others he’d seen, but they did seem somewhat larger. Possibly sixty or eighty tails long. Even at a distance, he saw their decks teeming with the loathsome creatures, their mail and weapons glittering in the bright sunlight of the otherwise perfect day. Keje summoned the first of many runners he expected to send before the battle was done. One way or another.

“Instruct the lance throwers not to shoot beyond one hundred tails, and to shoot only where their hulls meet the water.” The runner blinked acknowledgment and raced away. The lance throwers had the only standoff weapons Salissa Home possessed. They were like the crossbows of the Guard except they were much, much larger. Intended for defense against mountain fish, or to slay their smaller cousins, four of the lance throwers were mounted on pivots along each side. It took six people considerable effort to crank the wrist-thick bowstring into the firing position, but they could hurl a spade-headed lance three tails long and a hand-span in diameter a distance of three hundred tails with accuracy enough to hit a mountain fish in the eye. That was a target only slightly larger than Keje’s breakfast table. Such accuracy was essential because the eye was the creature’s only vulnerable spot.

That was Keje’s only preparatory command. Maneuver was pointless; the far more agile Grik could easily counter anything he tried. All that remained was to wait and see how the blow would fall.

Chack nervously clutched one of the massive shrouds supporting the forward tripod and watched the enemy approach. His stomach was knotted with fear, and the reason his hands were clamped so firmly on the shroud was so none would see how badly they shook. He and half his clan were on the forward platform, near enough to the fighters below to act as a reserve but also free to race aloft and adjust or repair the wing. His weapon, a large, long-bladed axe, leaned against the railing nearby and he devoutly hoped he wouldn’t have to wield it. He was strong and athletic, but his fighting skills were poor.

He’d never done well in the frequent competitions. His form was good, but his timing was sloppy. Risa was much better with weapons than he, and she often tried to coach him, but it did little good. He knew no amount of practice could force martial competence upon his fundamentally unaggressive character. He’d been in fights-everyone had. No matterthat Salissa was very large-it was still too small to avoid conflict. He never won those fights, but he was rarely injured. He was very good at avoiding blows, through speed and deft responses, but he’d always had an abiding reluctance to deliver them. His fights ended inconclusively when his adversary tired of trying to hit him. It was clear that he was no coward, because he was willing to stand and take it if they could dish it out. He just didn’t dish it out in return. Chack considered that a victory in itself, even if it never settled anything. The problem today, however, was that if he raised that axe, it meant all was lost unless the last wing runners fought. Simply avoiding blows wasn’t an option. The only way to stop the Grik was to kill them.

In all previous encounters, the Grik had never attempted to talk. Whenever they sighted the People, there was only one response. Attack. No matter how small the ship or how ridiculous the odds, they always attacked. And when they fought, if they ever actually came to personal blows, there was only mindless, berserk savagery without any concept of giving or receiving quarter. They fought until they were killed, even if they’d lost limbs or been disarmed. Always. It was madness.

It wouldn’t be long now, Chack thought. They were close. A pair of ships closed within two hundred tails on the left, abreast of the forewing tower. Another pair ranged up on the right. The final pair was closing aft, as if they meant to strike three, or perhaps six, places at once. It was strange, Chack thought absently, that they should attack thus. But then, they’d never seen more than one Grik ship at a time, and the way they fought-Chack shuddered-they seemed incapable of cooperation. Yet this attack would be coordinated.

The ships themselves were huge by Grik standards, half again larger than any ever seen. Every detail seemed the same, only on a larger scale. Probably to hold more warriors, he thought. Each had three of the ridiculously puny masts that the Grik favored, with three billowing sails instead of wings on the first two and a triangular sail on the aft. Another stubby mast protruded from the front of their ships, but there was no sail upon it. It seemed to serve more as a countersupport for the stays that held the others.

The hulls were low and sleek, except for separate elevated decks at the front and back. The sides were painted a uniform red, the bulwarks black-what could be seen of them. From front to back, over the bulwarks, were hundreds of garishly painted oval shields. Some were one color, others were many, and most bore some design, but each belonged to a Grik warrior, and those masses of warriors packed the decks and stared at the People with an unnatural, cold-blooded quiet. Wisps of smoke swirled from their midst and vanished to leeward, and Chack swallowed hard when he realized their fire weapons were ready for use.

There was almost no sound from those around him either, only low murmurs of soft conversation. Risa had been spinning a ribald tale, but now even she was silent. They were as ready as they’d ever be, and yet there was no way to be ready to face the death-and the kind of death!- that they all, deep down, knew had come. Risa was at his side and she put a hand on his arm and looked deeply into his eyes. She bared her teeth in a feral grin.

“I know you will fight well, my Brother,” she said, guessing his concern. “It’s not as if they are People, after all.” Then her grin faded and she looked away from him, toward the approaching ships. Very calculatingly, she spoke again. “I do not want you to die, but this time if you won’t fight, you won’t be the only one they kill.” He looked at her and blinked a quick flash of betrayal, but then just as quickly, he knew she was right. A vague sense of shame and a fierce determination welled within him and, leaning over, he picked up his axe and laid it heavily on the rail before them. She saw it and recognized the promise it represented, but said nothing. Together, they watched and waited.

Rising voices reached them and they turned to face the battlement. There, in the distance, Adar stood, arms outstretched, his long robe flowing around him. It was the stance of supplication. Quickly, most within Chack’s view imitated the gesture and, almost as one, they turned to face the Sun. Risa poked him savagely in the ribs and he joined her in the pose. The warm rays swept across his face and he could see the mighty orb even through his closed eyelids. With the rest of his people he spoke the words: “Maker of All Things, I beg your protection, but if it is my time, light my Spirit’s path to its Home in the Heavens!” He crossed his arms on his chest and knelt to the deck. There was an audible rumble of knees on wood as hundreds did the same. Clearly, not all participated because someone cried out in alarm and Chack looked up.

A crimson, snakelike pennant unfurled from the masthead of one of the ships, and even as it snapped taut and streamed over the sea, a great, harsh, hissing cry arose from all the ships at once. It came as a wave of sound like the wind and sea in a gale, but there was an unnatural malevolence that the sea had never meant. Shields were plucked from bulwarks and weapons clashed against them, adding a monstrous throbbing, metallic heartbeat to the sound. It was the loudest, most terrifying thing Chack had ever heard, as thousands of throats and weapons clamored at him across the water. Then, as the terrible din reached its peak, six Grik ships turned as one to destroy his Home, his family, his world.

The afternoon watch came on duty, and the normalcy of tradition-bound procedure left Matt heartened. For a moment the terrible, unreal events of the previous days seemed remote. The sea was mild, the sky was clear, and a firm, cool breeze washed across him from the open bridgewing. It seemed to cleanse him of the depression and trepidation that had settled upon him. It was one of those days that made destroyermen glory in the seemingly effortless speed and grace of their sharp-hulled ships instead of cursing them for their inconsiderate tendency to pitch and roll in heavier seas. It was a heaven-sent respite for him, as well as the rest of the crew, and whether they took their mood from their captain or not, he saw more smiles and normal, ordinary goofing around than he had in many days.

He sat in his chair and leafed through the pages of the report. Davis’s leg was still not improving, but more of the invalids were ready for light duty. Spanky, Letts, and, of all people, the Mice were designing a drilling rig and had convinced Bernie Sandison to endorse their scheme to use the torpedo tubes on the inoperable number three mount for a condensation tower to refine the oil once they found it. He looked out at the fo’c’sle. Gray had the first deck division repairing topside damage, although Matt knew how the Bosun suffered over the dingy, reddening deck and the long streaks of rust that had begun to take hold. One man with a quart can of paint followed behind the welders as they refitted and straightened twisted stanchions and worked to repair the shell damage to the starboard hawse. The anchor on that side was gone forever, but they were winching the spare into place while he watched. He was surprised to see the Japanese officer helping, under the supervision of a certain Marine, who sat on the capstan bollard and watched like a chain gang overseer. The men working with Shinya kept their distance and cast many resentful looks, but they were letting him help. It was a start, Matt supposed. All in all, it was a pretty good day.

The only things darkening his mood were the subconscious fuel gauge, creeping ever downward in his mind, and the continuing dull ache over what might have happened to Mahan.

He heard voices behind him and turned to see Courtney Bradford and Sandra Tucker asking permission to come on the bridge. Matt smiled broadly, waved them over beside him, and stood up. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Tucker, Mr. Bradford. A fine day, is it not?”

“Indeed it is, Captain,” replied the Australian, and Sandra smiled back at him. “I thought you’d like to know that we’ve finished our ‘science experiment’ at last, and can manage without its, uh, services any longer.”

“Thank God,” said Matt, and chuckled. “I take it… I hope you mean you pitched the stinking thing over the side?” Sandra and Bradford had worked through the night and into the morning dissecting the dead creature from Bali. Some of the crew watched throughout, duties permitting, and Bradford kept up a running lecture the entire time. The rest of the crew, however, were increasingly vocal about the overpowering stench. Now they both stood, tired but with satisfied smiles on their faces.

“Yes, um, it has gone on to the reward it so richly deserved,” answered Bradford in a dry tone. Matt chuckled again, but was secretly amazed that Bradford had given up so easily. He’d half expected him to ask to keep it in the refrigerator-or his cabin, if necessary. But Matt saw now that Courtney Bradford had undergone a transformation. It may have been subtle, and possibly fleeting, but he’d been there when they were attacked and he saw what happened to Marvaney. Besides, fascinating as the creatures were, they had also, at the very least, kept him from studying anything else. The furry lizards of Bali had become his enemies as surely as the Japanese.

“Well, what did you find out?”

“Quite a lot, actually. We don’t believe they were lizards at all. At least I don’t,” he said. “Miss Tucker is not quite so fully convinced of that.” He nodded at her respectfully. “But I believe they are somewhat more like birds in many ways.”

“Birds? With teeth like that? You must be joking.”

“No, sir, he’s not,” said Sandra. “I know a good bit about human anatomy, and anatomy in general, I suppose, but I’m obviously no expert on these creatures. Nobody is. Mr. Bradford has more experience studying… similar things than I do, and I can see his point. They’re built like birds- or emus and ostriches, to be more precise-except for the upper arms, and their bones are hollow, but incredibly strong like a bird’s. Our opinions diverge because of those upper arms, their tails, and well, their heads too, I guess. Their tails have feathers, but they’re muscular like an alligator’s. And their upper arms show no sign of being vestigial wings, but seem to have evolved as arms to be arms. And of course their heads.” She shuddered slightly. “Or more specifically, their jaws. There’s nothing birdlike about them at all.”

“But my dear lieutenant,” countered Bradford, evidently continuing an argument. “You’re basing your opinions more upon what they look like and less on what they are like-”

Matt held up his hand, smiling still, to stop him. “Enough. While this is all very fascinating, my most pressing question involves their intelligence. Are they as smart as they seemed? I mean, there were ten of us and ten of them, and they displayed what to my mind could only be described as the tactic of hitting us and the men at the boat simultaneously-in a way that would keep us apart. As well armed as they are with teeth and claws, one on one, they had every reason to expect the advantage.”

Sandra was silent, and Bradford shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t really know, I’m afraid,” he said at last. “Theoretically, yes. They certainly have the brain capacity, and in proportion to their body size, their brains are similar to our own. Then again…”

Matt nodded. The very idea of something that ferocious being smart was daunting indeed. There was no question that they would have to go ashore again. Maybe not on Bali, but the first time they had set a foot on land, something had tried to bite it off. They had to presume that other places wouldn’t be any different. Somehow, they had to figure out how to go ashore-and work there-without being eaten.

The crow’s nest comm whistled. “Bridge, lookout,” came the tinny voice of Elden.

“Bridge, Riggs here,” replied the petty officer.

“PO, I’ve got smoke on the horizon, bearing zero one five. A hell of a lot of smoke. There’s so much I thought it was a cloud at first. It’s pretty much the same color-not black like an oil fire. Whatever’s burning is pretty big, though, and it’s in the water. Not-repeat, not-on land.”

“Excuse me, please,” said Matt to his visitors, raising his binoculars.

“Can you see what it is yet?” Riggs asked the lookout. “Is it a ship, or what?”

“Negative, PO. All I see is smoke. Whatever it is, it’s still.. . Wait! Damn! I’d about swear it was that big monkey-cat ship!” Matt lowered his binoculars with a strange mix of disappointment, relief, and curious concern. Disappointment that it wasn’t Mahan, but relief that it wasn’t Mahan on fire. The curious concern was for the monkey-cats, as Elden called them, if that’s who it was. Well, he thought, if it is, maybe it’s time we met. Besides, they appeared to be in trouble.

“All ahead full,” he ordered. “Come right, fifteen degrees.”

Walker’s head came around and she quickly gathered speed. Water peeled back from her bow as she charged, the feather nearly reaching the fo’c’sle. The men on the foredeck stopped what they were doing and stood with fluttering clothes, their faces turned toward the rushing breeze and the towering column of smoke in the distance. Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Bridge?” came Elden’s voice. The normally unflappable shipfitter sounded unusually strained.

“Bridge, aye.”

“It’s the monkey-cats all right, and there are several large three-masted ships around ’em. Most are lashed to her, and it looks like they’re fighting! The monkey-cats are definitely burning-and maybe one of the other ships as well.” There was a moment’s pause. “I think there’s a hell of a fight going on.”

Matt turned to Reynolds. “Get the range from Mr. Barry,” he ordered. “Aye, aye, Captain,” said Reynolds, wide-eyed. It was his first stint as talker, and it was just his luck something serious would happen. He spoke briefly into the microphone and listened for the response. His voice squeaked slightly when he reported. “Sir, Ensign Barry estimates the range at about fifteen thousand yards.”

“Very well. Sound general quarters, if you please.”

The deep gonging sound that was part horn, part buzzer resonated through the ship, and surprised men snatched helmets and life vests as they raced to their stations. Some rolled from their racks, disoriented for a moment, and hesitated like they would never have done before the Squall. Feet clanked metallically on the ladder as Lieutenant Garrett and the rest of the fire-control team gained the bridge and scampered to the platform above. Bernard Sandison appeared, tucking in his shirt, along with torpedomen Hale, Carter, and Aubrey, who took their places at the torpedo directors.

Reynolds recited a litany of readiness reports, and after much longer than Matt approved, he made the announcement: “All stations manned and ready, Captain. Mr. Dowden has the auxiliary conn and reports… um… the chaos he viewed from his perspective looked like a shore-patrol raid on an Olongapo… whorehouse.” His face turned pink.

Matt grunted and glanced at his watch. “Pathetic,” he announced. “A Jap car salesman with a rowboat and a stick of dynamite could have sent us to the bottom by now. Sparks, inform the Bosun that the deck division was the last to report.” Everyone cringed to think how the Chief would exact his vengeance for that humiliation, and he was heard even now, bellowing at the crew of the number one gun.

Much of the confusion was caused by the need to stow the “peace-time” awnings that now covered the deck spaces, but Matt knew most of the blame was his. He’d grown lax about daily drills since they no longer faced imminent annihilation by the Japanese. That didn’t mean all threat of annihilation had passed, and despite their trauma-or maybe because of it-drill was now more important, not less. He resolved to make sure his destroyermen were never caught flat-footed again.

He sat back in his chair, Sandra and Bradford not entirely forgotten but relegated to that portion of his mind not preparing to fight his ship if need be. “Mr. Sandison. What’s the current status of our torpedoes?”

“One, three and five are loaded, prepped, and ready in all respects.”

“No news on the condemned torps?”

“No, sir. I still have them apart in the shop. One didn’t even have a repair tag, so we’re checking it out, piece by piece. The other’s propulsion machinery works fine; it just needs recharging. But it’s clearly a dud. The warhead housing is all crumpled in. The tag said one of our subs fired it into a Dutch freighter by mistake and it didn’t go off, but it punched a hole in her side and got stuck. Yard-apes fished it out of the freighter when she got into port.” Sandison smirked ironically. “Everyone was lucky on that deal.”

There’d been far too many “duds” of every sort. In this one case it was fortunate, but Matt hated to think how many American ships and submarines might have been lost, and enemies spared, simply because of faulty ordnance. A lot of the antiaircraft shells on Houston had been duds, and they’d never even suspected it because they hadn’t been allowed enough live-fire practice. The same was true for the torpedoes. The suspected causes ranged anywhere from faulty detonators to a tendency to run too deep. He knew they hadn’t performed well at all during the night action at Balikpapan, and most of the success there was due to gunnery. Whatever the case, he prayed they weren’t carrying around, carefully husbanding, and relying on useless weapons. “Keep working on it, Mr. Sandison,” was all he said.

Facing forward, he peered through his binoculars again and focused at the base of the column of smoke. He now saw for himself that there was indeed a battle under way. But compared to anything he’d ever expected, the word “battle” was wholly insufficient to describe it.

“My God…”

The excellent optics and seven-power magnification of the MK1 M2 Bausch and Lomb binoculars transformed the distant, blurry shapes into a high-relief scene of unprecedented horror and desperation. The… medieval nature of the combat wasn’t what shocked him, however. What left him speechless was the obvious total involvement of the defenders and the utter lack of regard for casualties and noncombatants by the attackers. And then there were the attackers themselves.

Courtney Bradford had his own binoculars in front of his eyes, and his hands began to shake. “My God,” he finally echoed.

Snarling, Chack swung the axe with all his strength and entirely severed the tail of a Grik warrior, poised to finish Risa, who lay unconscious and bleeding on the catwalk. The Grik shrieked and toppled forward, robbed of its counterbalance, but it fell on Risa and the snout opened wide, revealing razor-sharp, densely packed teeth prepared to savage her throat. He swung again and buried the axe in the Grik’s back, halfway to the breastbone. It collapsed instantly in a spray of hot blood and Chack heaved it aside. He grabbed his sister by the arm and slung her off the catwalk to a pair of ancient garden tenders below.

The garden tenders were the oldest and most frail people of Home and, so far, the only ones not actively committed to the fight. Their task was to help clear the wounded and try to tend their injuries. Chack feared his sister was dying. He hadn’t seen the wound, or the blow that struck her down, but her fine fur was matted with blood and she felt lifeless in his arms. His own fur was matted with blood as well, some wet and some half dry. He didn’t think any was his, however. He’d fought like a demon, like he’d never imagined he could, ever since the pompous Saak-Fas had arrived and imperiously sent their last reserves into the faltering defense. The last wing runners had seen the need already, but waited for Keje’s command. Released at last, they charged down the shrouds, and Chack looked to see if Saak-Fas accompanied them, but he was nowhere in sight. Nor had he seen him in the long hours since.

Surely, the People had never known such a battle! In the beginning, the Grik used their fire weapons to disperse the defenders. Flaming spheres, twice the size of a person’s head, arced across the water to explode against the side of Home. Fire ran like water into the sea, but some made it onto the catwalk and the flames rapidly spread. Some spread onto people too, and Chack raged at the memory of their screams and the stench of burning fur. While they fought the flames, the Grik closed. Lance hurlers fired with a crash, and the Grik ships were festooned with their shafts, but still they came. Finally they were alongside, directly below, and their hulls ground together. Crossbow bolts rained down and thumped into bodies, shields, and the enemy decks, but then the ladders came. Hundreds of grappling hooks and dozens of ladders from each ship rose and locked the combatants together. The Grik swarmed up. The Guard slashed ropes and pushed at the ladders, and attackers rained into the sea, to be crushed between the hulls or shredded by the incredible seething multitude of flasher-fish that churned the water into a glittering, silver-red cauldron of death. But still they came, as they always did, and there were so many.

Very quickly, the fighting became hand to hand when first a few, then many Grik gained the decks of Home. Scotas and axes rose and fell, as did the strange, curved short-swords and spears of the Grik. Spreading flames went unfought as defenders were forced to grapple with the attackers. Chack had stood with his sister, transfixed with horror as they watched the awful slaughter. A triumphant cheer began somewhere aft, and they turned to see a column of smoke and flames spew skyward from one of the Grik ships. Apparently their entire store of fire weapons was ignited on deck, and a keening, whistling, collective shriek rose from the burning warriors. Some, deliberately or in mindless panic, leaped into the sea and were torn apart. Gri-kakka had risen as well, and several cruised sedately through the turmoil, snapping at struggling figures. The Grik ship was rapidly consumed. Burning sails flapped, and crackling flames licked up the spindly masts until they withered and fell amid a huge cloud of steam and sparks. The hulk drifted slowly away, a roiling, lifeless inferno. But there were more.

Unaffected, the other Grik continued the attack. That was when the wing runners went into the fight and Chack became a warrior at last.

The first Grik he killed was an accident. He’d practically landed on it when he slid down the shrouds. Striking out instinctively with his axe, he clove through the leather helmet it wore and split its skull in two. He expected to be nauseated, to feel some remorse, but there was nothing. Nothing at first. Then a quickening surge of… exhilaration flowed through his heart and limbs. With a bellow, he waded forward, swinging the axe two-handed in the precise reaping motion he’d been taught. An astonishing, wondrous, visceral glee filled his soul as the murderers of his people fell before him. Through the long hours he hacked and slew, Risa by his side, shouting encouragement, and the pride in her voice was clear, even over the din of battle. Then she fell.

Now the sun was halfway to the horizon, above the mountainous shore to the west. He didn’t know how many Grik he’d killed, satisfying as it was. He did know it wasn’t enough. Their losses were terrible, but regardless how many were slain, still more waited on their ships to crowd onto the battlefield that Salissa had become. And those that still fought did so with a fresh abandon as shocking as their savagery. One ship had sunk alongside, pierced by lance-hurler shafts. So many lines held it fast that it hung, just below the surface, its masts crawling with Grik. The weight of the hulk caused Salissa to heel a few degrees.

Another Grik ship went up in flames, but only after it was lashed to Salissa. Its funeral pyre provided the fuel to ignite a fire on Home itself that threatened to consume it. Flames raged out of control on the right side of the first tower, and the forewing-the very symbol of Chack’s clan-burned above. Flames roared hundreds of tails into the sky, while charred and smoldering pieces of fabric snowed down upon them. Ironically, the only thing saving the weary, dwindling defenders was that the heat on that side was too intense even for the Grik to bear. That left a front only fifteen tails wide to defend on the left side of the tower. Once, the Grik broke through into the very body of Home, and the slaughter among the garden tenders was terrible. A counterattack by Keje and his personal Guard managed to repulse the thrust. Keje had abandoned his position on the battlement and along with his personal Guard-and even Selass, Chack saw with surprise-he was everywhere. Whenever the enemy began to break through, he and his diminishing followers somehow stemmed the tide.

The battle aft was going well, but only one ship grappled there. Chack and his fellows were fighting the better part of three Grik crews, and one ship was still unengaged. It hadn’t lashed on with the others when the one before it caught fire. For most of the day, it sailed around, looking for a good place to strike. The lance hurlers still in action flailed at it mercilessly, however, and it looked a little low in the water. At present, it actually seemed to be moving away, although Chack could barely see through the smoke, which stung his eyes and made each breath an effort. If he hadn’t known better, he’d almost have thought it was leaving! That was absurd, of course. The Grik never ran. Always, they were either destroyed or left wallowing helpless in their intended victim’s wake. It was probably positioning itself to take advantage of the wind so it could attack some uninvolved point. When it did, it would surely turn the tide. Of course, it made small difference. The fire that preserved them for the moment would destroy them in the end. If it wasn’t extinguished soon, all of Salissa Home would burn.

Chack fell out of the battle line to catch his breath. Only so many fighters would fit in that limited space, and mercifully, it allowed them to rotate out briefly every now and then. He was panting with exhaustion, and his tongue lolled, but miraculously, his only wound was a shallow slash across his left shoulder. He trotted to a freshwater barrel and drank greedily. The water had a reddish tinge from bloody hands that had reached for the cup, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the soothing liquid wetting his parched throat. Dropping the cup back in the barrel, he looked about for a moment.

Younglings, garden tenders, and other old ones raced or crept back and forth, depending on their ability, carrying water to the fire. Their efforts, while noble, were in vain. Chack felt a growing dread that no matter how the battle went they were all going to burn. The entire forewing was gone, and the flaming debris had fallen on the tower, adding to the conflagration. It would all be for nothing. He hoped with a surge of grief that his sister was already dead-at least then she wouldn’t die in the flames. In bitter resignation, he hefted his bloody axe with aching arms and turned back toward the fight-just in time to glimpse two large columns of water straddle the lurking Grik ship, and a mighty explosion of fire and smoke at its waterline that sent it rolling onto its side.

“My God, sir! How can we not take sides! Just look over there!” cried Bradford incredulously.

Matt stared at him, his face granite. “I didn’t say we wouldn’t help. I said I wish we didn’t have to-because when we do, we take sides. We know nothing about what’s going on. For all we know, those. .. attackers are the good guys! Just because they look like the lizards on Bali doesn’t mean they are the same. What if somebody judged our actions simply because we look like Germans? Also-and I’ll only tell you this once, Mr. Bradford-you’re on my bridge at my sufferance. One more outburst and I’ll have you removed. Is that clear?”

“Will you remove me too?” demanded Sandra, her eyes flashing like pistol muzzles.

Matt sighed angrily. “Lieutenant, I wish you weren’t here now. We may be about to go into battle. In case you’ve forgotten, you have a battle station!”

She stared at him, unrepentant and smoldering. The rest of the men in the pilothouse very studiously observed anything but the confrontation with their captain. Even so, it was plain that their sympathies rested with Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker.

“Look,” said Matt, as reasonably as he could, “this isn’t our fight…” He immediately raised a hand to ward off interruption. “Yet. I feel inclined to help the-what did you call them? Lemurians?” Bradford nodded determinedly. Personally, he had had quite enough of this monkey-cat or cat-monkey business. “I feel inclined to help them too,” Matt repeated, “but we are all alone out here. If we do, we might get involved in an all-out war, and we have no idea what resources the enemy has. We damn sure don’t have any. Besides, look at those ships! Unlike the… Lemurians… those lizard people have ships right out of the eighteenth century. Our eighteenth century! The similarity in design is too perfect to be coincidence! They must’ve had contact with other humans! Maybe other people came through a squall-or something like we did-before. Don’t you see? If that’s the case, maybe these lizards can tell us about them! Maybe they’re still here!” He was silent for a moment as he let his point drift home. “If we shoot at them, I doubt they’ll give us answers.”

He swiveled in his chair, gazing through the windows at the battle, closer by the moment. “On the other hand…” he murmured darkly, and said no more. The Lemurians were certainly outnumbered, and given the obvious disparity in the ships’ speeds, there was no question who started the fight. So far, none of the creatures seemed to have noticed their approach. With the smoke so thick and the fighting so intense, that was understandable. But sooner or later, they would be noticed. Maybe the sight of the destroyer would have the same effect as before, and everybody would just stop what they were doing and stare. That might provide an opening. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he could think of short of going in with guns blazing.

In spite of his argument, he knew, deep down, that was what he wanted to do. Marvaney’s death was still fresh, and the creatures battling the Lemurians certainly resembled the ones that had killed him. Besides, from what he saw, they weren’t any more civilized than their apparent cousins on Bali. He might lose the chance to gain vital information, but sometimes you had to do something just because it was right. “Let’s see what happens,” he said at last.

“Captain, Mr. Garrett says they must’ve seen us,” said Reynolds. “One of the lizards is coming about. Range is now twenty-one double zero.”

Matt saw the change in aspect as the ship tacked, headsails filling and pulling it around. He’d walked the decks of the USS Constitution as a kid and was struck by her uncanny resemblance to the ship that was turning to meet them. The color was different-this ship was painted entirely red-and there were no gunports, but otherwise it looked just like an earlier version of the old frigate, even down to the number of masts and the sail plan. “Slow to two-thirds,” he commanded as the range diminished.

“Twelve double zero,” said Reynolds behind him, parroting Garrett’s estimate as the range wound down. The lizard ship was wearing a lot of canvas and Matt estimated its speed at eight to ten knots. Respectable, but troubling. This bold, all-out approach was more like the behavior of the Bali creatures than he quite liked. They didn’t seem overawed by the destroyer at all, or even carefully curious like the Lemurians had been. They acted more like they were trying to come to grips.

“Nine hundred yards, sir.”

“Slow to one-third. Come left thirty degrees. Guns one, three, and four will track the target.”

“Bridge,” came the voice of Elden. “A lot of those lizard critters are gathering in the target’s bows… They have swords and shields.” The final words were incredulous.

“Pass the word for Chief Campeti. Have him issue rifles and sidearms to any deck personnel not part of the gun crews. Prepare to repel boarders.” Matt was struck by the strangeness of the order even as he gave it. Probably not since the War of 1812 had the captain of a U.S. warship given the order to repel boarders on the high seas. He allowed himself an ironic smile. “At three hundred yards, the number three gun will put a shot across her bow if she doesn’t ease off.”

He glanced at Sandra and Courtney Bradford. They watched with mixed expressions, but at least Bradford’s ire had faded. Matt raised an eyebrow with a look that seemed to say, “What were we arguing about?” and lifted his binoculars again. The sight that greeted him sent a chill down his spine. Elden was right. A large group of lizards stood in the bow of the oncoming ship, brandishing swords, spears, and garish shields. Their toothy mouths were open wide in an unheard shout or chant. Many clashed their weapons against their shields and seemed quite exercised. Even more ominous, many were holding what appeared to be grappling hooks, and as he watched, more and more joined those already poised on the fo’c’sle. There were hundreds of them, just on that one ship.

“Three hundred yards!” came Reynolds’s breathless report.

In a calm voice, devoid of inflection, Captain Reddy uttered a single word. “Fire.”

He never lowered his binoculars, but watched as the number three gun crashed and, a bare instant later, a geyser erupted between Walker and the approaching ship. A sheet of water cascaded down on the lizards and sent a few of them scrambling. But far from having the desired effect, the shot seemed to make those remaining in the bow redouble their clamoring and yelling. A moment passed, then another, and the ship showed no sign of turning or heaving to.

Suddenly, at two hundred yards, something roughly the size of a medicine ball arced lazily up, high in the air, from amid the gathered lizards. An instant later, a second object rose, and then a third. Everyone in the pilothouse saw them with unaided eyes. The objects reached apogee, tumbling end over end and trailing wisps of smoke. Down they came, closer and closer until two plummeted into the sea scarcely a dozen yards off Walker’s port beam. On impact with the water, they ruptured and a ball of fire rose skyward and burning fluid of some kind spread flames upon the waves. The third was closer, and when the projectile ruptured, burning fuel actually washed up Walker’s side, just below the number one gun.

Matt lowered his binoculars and looked at those standing nearby. When he spoke, his voice sounded vaguely surprised, but his eyes were suffused with fury.

“Did they just throw those balls of fire at us?”

For just the slightest moment, he reflected upon the consequences and ramifications of his next act, but the decision came without any apparent hesitation. He stepped briskly to Reynolds, took the headset from him, and spoke directly into the microphone. “Mr. Garrett, this is the captain. Commence firing.”

Chack rubbed unbelieving eyes. Three more simultaneous explosions annihilated the stricken Grik ship. Debris and parts of bodies rained into the sea hundreds of tails in all directions. The shattered hulk was quickly awash. Shredded sails fluttered as the center mast teetered and crashed amid the struggling, dying Grik. The tumult of battle briefly ebbed as the People-and the Grik-tried in vain to pierce the haze and smoke with red, running eyes to see what had occurred. The ship sank quickly from sight, leaving only tangled flotsam and shrieking carrion for the insatiable fish. Beyond, Chack saw a strangely familiar shape.

The Tail-less Ones! he realized with a sense of wonder, then repeated his thought at the top of his lungs. “The Tail-less Ones! They have returned! The Tail-less Ones destroy the Grik!” With a gleeful bellow, echoed by many, and a surge of unexpected hope, he waded back into battle. The Grik fought just as fiercely as before and, if anything, with renewed frenzy. But the frenzy was different somehow. For the first time he sensed desperation and-could it be?-fear. Chack fed off that, real or imagined, as he swung his axe in great arcs that hewed heads and arms and chests. His own arms ached and the axe became difficult to grasp. Sometimes it slipped sideways and he struck a Grik or its shield with the flat of the blade and felt the blow jar his bones, but still he fought on. Others sensed the difference as well, and they pushed the Grik with renewed energy. The flames began to envelop the forward tower and, reluctantly, the Grik gave ground. It was that or burn.

Chack found a moment to cast a glance at their saviors. They approached closer, but after so decisively dealing with the unattached ship, they hesitated, as if unsure what to do. He understood. They’d clearly decided to help the People, but their magical weapons weren’t selective enough to influence the battle for Home itself. At least he thought that at first.

“What now?” whispered Matt. They’d thrown away any hope of neutrality when they destroyed the lizard ship, and there was clearly no hope for survivors. That was a terrible aspect of naval war in this new world that he would have to bear in mind, he thought, watching the flashing shapes consume the last of the creatures in the water. They’d fired in self-defense, but he doubted the hundreds of lizards fighting the Lemurians would see it that way. Okay, so maybe two salvos were excessive, but they’d made him mad. Now, like it or not, he had chosen sides, and as precarious as the situation on the big ship looked, this wasn’t the time for half measures. One side or the other would win this fight, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to let it be the ones they’d shot at.

“Come left, to one three zero,” he said coldly. “Guns crews stand by, but cease firing. Small arms will commence firing at one hundred yards. The targets are the lizards on the Lemurian ship. The machine guns may fire, but have them conserve ammunition and be careful of their targets. Concentrate where the enemy is massing, away from the ‘friendlies.’ Rig all fire hoses and have handlers standing by.” He clasped his hands behind his back, listening to the responses, and stared straight ahead at the battle.

Sandra moved beside him, also looking at what they were getting themselves into. “I’m sorry, Captain,” she said in a small, quiet voice.

He looked at her a moment, then nodded with a shrug. “Me too,” he said. “I guess it’s not in me to watch something like this without trying to help. But Lord above, we have enough problems without winding up in the middle of a war!” He spoke quietly, so she was the only one who knew, truly, what an agonizing decision it had been. They heard the crack of Springfields as riflemen on deck chose their targets, and the starboard. 30-cal opened with short bursts of its own.

“These… Lemurians better be worth it,” he said grimly. “Because every bullet we fire for them is one less we’ll have to save our own asses with.” With that, he stepped away from her and onto the starboard bridgewing to take Walker back to war.

“Hot damn!” growled Dennis Silva as he racked the bolt back on the starboard. 50-cal. “We finally get to kill somebody!” Ordnance Striker Gil Olivera was beside him, poised to change the ammunition box when it was empty. He giggled nervously. Alfonso Reavis and Sandy Newman also stood nearby, Springfields over their shoulders, but their job was to gather spent shells before they rolled into the sea. Silva didn’t know why; as far as he knew, they couldn’t be reloaded. Even if they’d had more bullets- which they didn’t-they didn’t have powder or primers. Oh, well, he didn’t care. He’d finally been ordered to kill the hell out of somebody, and he was ready. If Campeti wanted guys scurrying around picking up his empty brass, that wasn’t his concern.

The sound of battle on the burning ship was awesome. The roaring flames could be heard over the blower, and the screams and shouts from alien throats lent the scene a surrealistic aspect. He couldn’t see much through the smoke, though, and he squinted over his sights. There. There seemed to be a battle line of sorts formed just aft of the base of that big tower forward. It was burning like mad, and the heat and smoke must be hell. He pointed it out to Felts, who stood between him and the number three gun with one of the BARs. “Everything forward of there looks like nothin’ but lizards!” he shouted. Felts squinted and nodded. If they got too much closer, they’d be shooting up. One of the lizard ships was sunk alongside, between them and the enemy horde, and men were shooting lizards from its rigging.

“I see it, Dennis. If we shoot in among that bunch, we ought to get half a dozen with each shot!”

“’Zactly!” said Silva, and grinned.

“Just be careful not to hit any of them monkey-cats!” warned Felts.

Silva rolled his eyes. “The hell you say, Tommy Felts! They’re cat-monkeys, goddamn it! How many times have I got to tell you! Are you strikin’ for snipe, or what?”

Before Felts could answer, Silva let out a whoop and pressed the butterfly trigger on the back of his gun. A stream of tracers arced across the short distance through the smoke and into the densely packed mass of lizard warriors.

“I’ll teach you to kick my ’Cats, you unnatural sons-a-bitches!” Silva screamed.

Keje-Fris-Ar felt dazed as he sagged with his hands on his knees, panting. The world was upside down. He’d been wounded superficially in many places and was faint with fatigue and perhaps loss of blood. His tongue was swollen, his lips cracked and bleeding, and he’d lost his voice hours ago. He blinked thanks when Selass gave him a large copper mug, but his hands shook uncontrollably and he couldn’t drink. From the gloom, Adar was beside him, helping to hold it still. Pridefully, he tried to shake off the Sky Priest’s hands, but didn’t have the strength even for that. Instead, he drank greedily with closed eyes as the tepid water soothed his throat. But even with eyes closed, his mind still saw the momentous things he’d witnessed.

He’d seen things that day that rivaled the epic power of the Scrolls themselves. Acts of courage and horror without compare-without precedence-as far as he knew. And he’d seen wonders beyond comprehension, such as the power of the Tail-less Ones who’d so unexpectedly come to their aid. Without whose aid they’d have surely perished. But beyond even that, he’d seen what that power did to the Grik. The People helped, of course, but it was the power of the Tail-less Ones that worked the miracle he could hardly believe, even now. The Grik had broken.

They hadn’t been merely repulsed; he’d seen that before. They’d utterly and completely broken and fled in absolute terror from the combined assault of the Tail-less Ones’ magic and the vengeful ferocity of the People. There’d been confusion on both sides at first, when suddenly there raged a hammering sound like nothing ever heard and the Grik-but only the Grik-began dying by the score. Hundreds fell, horribly mangled, in the space of a few short breaths, and they couldn’t fight-couldn’t even see- whatever was killing them! The panic began in their rear, behind the fighting, and Keje first noticed it as a lessening pressure in front of his fighters. Wary glances of alarm became shrieks of rage and terror, as the Grik saw their comrades dying and fleeing behind them. Keje saw it too, and despite his own shock, grasped the opportunity. He led the charge that swept the enemy entirely from the decks of Home.

The killing had been wanton and the victory complete. He couldn’t count how many Grik were cut down from behind, or hacked and clawed one another to death as they fled back to the ships still lashed to Salissa. Hundreds simply leaped into the sea, so total had their panic been. One Grik ship got clear, so the victory wasn’t entirely complete, but the other tried to flee in full view of the Tail-less Ones’ amazing ship, and two thunderous booms from their strange tubes left it a sinking wreck. The ship then surged forward, apparently to chase the other, but almost immediately slowed and came about, back to the side of Home. The strange beings rushed to and fro, dragging heavy ropelike things around their deck, and then, to the further amazement of all, water surged upon the fires raging in the forward part of Salissa.

A gentle, refreshing mist still descended on Keje as dusk slowly ended this momentous day and his People gleefully rolled Grik corpses over the side. With an effort, he disengaged from the supporting hands of his oldest friend and daughter and crept painfully to the rail. There below, he saw the same figure looking up he’d seen just days before. Fighting pain and weariness with nothing but will, he raised his right arm and gave the Sign of the Empty Hand. He hoped, somehow, the gesture would convey a fraction of his gratitude.

In the glare of the dwindling flames, he was sure the creature raised its hand as well, and he slumped into the arms of his friend and his daughter-and others. As they carried him away he realized that tomorrow the sun would rise on a different world. One in which the Grik were more bold and more numerous than their worst nightmares could have foretold, but also a world in which the Grik had been broken, and his People had powerful friends.