Maelstrom

CHAPTER 3

Another beautiful morning dawned over the Makassar Strait, and even before Matt could see much beyond the fo’c’sle, he heard a cry overhead from the crow’s nest. Moments later the talker repeated the belated report of the lookout.

“Tarakan Island, sir, off the port bow.”

Binoculars swung and Matt raised his own to his eyes. It was difficult to tell, but he thought he could discern a vague, bulky outline of black against the darkness. Slowly, as more light gathered around them, the shape became more distinct.

“Well, gentlemen, it seems we’ve arrived.” He looked at Keje, standing beside him. “You’ve been this way before; does that look like the coastline in your Scrolls? It doesn’t much resemble the Tarakan I remember.” The last time Walker steand now a land possession as well, but most realized the war required considerable adjustment to the way things had always been. A few, like Keje, and possibly Queen Maraan, were even beginning to envision the far more radical adjustment of combining the alliance into a unified nation. In any event, there were so many willing recruits for the American Navy, they didn’t have the ships for them all. Nakja-Mur was trying to help. Just as Matt gave his first “prize” to Nakja-Mur (Revenge) so Baalkpan would have a physical presence in the expeditionary force, some of the prizes they’d captured after the escape from Aryaal had gone to the Americans. Even Nakja-Mur’s beloved “new construction” ships were being placed under Matt’s authority. The combined alliance would eventually have a navy of its own, but in the meantime, the Amer-i-caan Naa-vee was the “academy,” the school where their own people learned their craft, as well as the necessary discipline to employ it.

An example of Matt’s “prize” Navy became visible south of the island. It was the “supply” ship USS Felts, named for Gunner’s Mate Tommy Felts, who died saving Captain Reddy’s, Keje’s, and Chief Gray’s lives at the Battle of Aryaal. Felts was actually rated a ship-sloop in the new/old way they’d resurrected of defining such things, since she mounted only twenty guns, but despite her original owners she was a beautiful sight. She was on a tack taking her directly into the morning sun, and Matt shielded his eyes against the glare. The water was an almost painfully brilliant blue, and was still touched by the golden glory of the new day. At present it was still somewhat cool as well. It would soon warm up, and at some point there would almost certainly be rain. Even now, in the distance, a vigorous squall pounded an empty patch of sea. He contemplated it for a moment, as he always did, hopelessly unable to prevent himself from wondering what it had been about the Squall that brought them here that had, well.. . brought them here. If they ever entered another with that strange green hue, would it take them back again? Home? He massaged his temples. Would he really want it to?

He shook his head and looked at Felts. The former Grik “Indiaman” was now a United States sloop. Her once bloodred hull was painted black, with the exception of the broad white band down her length highlighting the closed black-painted gun ports piercing her side. One of Matt’s decrees as supreme commander had been, with the exception of “spy” ships that would retain Grik colors, all allied warships (other than the two old destroyers) would be painted in the same scheme that adorned their final sailing cousins on that other Earth long ago. He was glad he’d made that choice. The total difference it made in their appearance went a long way toward divorcing the ships from the terrible creatures who built them, and it was easier to look at them, and live on them, and give them proud names, if their loathsome makers were not so closely associated with them anymore, even by color. And red, the color of blood, was easy to associate with the Grik. Now, in spite of who made her, Felts was a heartwarming sight, loping almost playfully along under close-reefed topsails so she wouldn’t shoot ahead of the approaching destroyer. Matt could see her barge in the water, coming their way. “Ahead slow,” he called to the helmsman. “We’ll bring her in our lee as she closes.”

The bosun’s pipe twittered, and Carpenter’s Mate-now Lieutenant (JG)-Sam Clark arrived on deck, followed by his Lemurian sailing master and second in command, Aarin-Bitaak. Clark was from Mahan, and had been given Felts because of an extensive sailing background. He was raised building boats in his father’s shop. his salute.

“Am I glad to see you guys!” Clark exclaimed, then winced and added, “Sirs!” Matt made no comment. He normally didn’t discourage familiarity between his officers and himself, but in public, which they now were for all the crew to see, he expected proper behavior. It was as important to morale as it was to discipline. Clark was young and exuberant, and not quite used to being an officer yet. He’d understandably want an assignment like Rick Tolson had had: essentially, harassing the enemy any way he could. He wouldn’t enjoy being a freighter, but that was part of the responsibility of command: doing what you were told whether you wanted to or not. Duty was the same for anyone in the Navy, but with command came the added responsibility of inspiring an equally disgruntled crew with the importance of the task. Exuberance must be leavened with introspection, and at least the appearance of calm confidence. Matt suspected Lieutenant Dowden or maybe even the Bosun might slip Clark a word or two before he left.

Clark continued: “We’ve been tacking back and forth for two days. We tried to anchor, but the tidal race around these islands is something fierce! We had a hard time getting everything ashore.”

“I assume you managed?”

“Yes, sir. All baggage and supplies are ashore, and the Marines have established a defensible beachhead.” He paused and shook his head. “I have to say, sir, getting the brontosarries ashore was a task I’d sooner not have to repeat.” Matt could imagine. Brontosarries were pygmy versions of the dinosaurs they so closely resembled from the fossil record and were indigenous to most of the large regional landmasses. Bradford proposed that one of the reasons their charts were a little off, regarding various coastlines, was that this Earth might be experiencing an ice age of sorts, lowering the sea level. He believed whatever event caused evolution to take such a drastic diversion here was also at work on the planet. Therefore, the seas were not quite so deep as they should be. Perhaps, aeons ago, an even more severe ice age left many of the islands connected in some way. That would explain why brontosarries and other large creatures, clearly unfit for a long swim in such hazardous seas, might be as prolific as they were.

Regardless, the beasts they’d brought were domesticated and “trained”-if such a word could be used regarding a creature with roughly the intelligence of a cow-to provide motive power for the drilling rig. The task of not only transporting them (small as they were, compared to their ancestors they were still twice the size of an Asian elephant) but off-loading them and rafting them ashore must have been harrowing, to say the least. Inexperienced as Clark was, it spoke well of him that he’d accomplished it.

“Very well.” Matt grinned wryly. “We’ll try not to delay you much longer”-the young lieutenant winced again-“but I’ll trouble you for your boats and crew to help us unload as well.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Reddy!”

Clark was right about the tide. When it came in, it did so with a mounting fury, and when it ebbed, the drop was equally dramatic. In between, the currents surged and swirled so violently they were forced to moor the ship fore and aft (with plenty of water under her keel) to begin off-loading the large pieces of the rig. This took much longer than Matt had been prepared forker had all of Mahan ’s for this trip, while new ones, using the salvaged engines of the old, were built at Baalkpan to replace those that were destroyed) plied back and forth from the beach carrying supplies and personnel, as well as the smaller parts of the rig. The heavier pieces were swayed out, causing the ship to lean noticeably to port, and lowered onto barges and rafts that were then either towed or heaved ashore by the monstrous beasts of burden. The loud bellows of the Bosun and the croaky shouts of the Mice made sure everything was accomplished as quickly and efficiently as possible, and by the afternoon watch, the transfer was finally complete. Matt moved to stand next to Bradford, who leaned on the bridge wing rail, intently studying the island through his binoculars. He was clearly impatient to go ashore.

“Take the Mice, Silva, and a dozen Marines, and find a suitable well site as quickly as you can. Shinya’s going to be tied up with the security situation, but I’m sending the Bosun to chivvy you along, so don’t go chasing lizards and bugs, clear? Also, the Bosun’ll be in charge after we leave, so make sure you mention any pertinent observations you make to him.”

“Absolutely clear, Captain! I’ll impart what wisdom I may… and obey Mr. Gray’s every whim. But are you certain I mustn’t remain here to help? I’m sure there’s much I could contribute.”

“Absolutely positive. Remember, this is just our first stop. We’ll be crossing deep water for the first time. Just imagine the strange creatures we may find on our next landfall. Besides, we might even see a ‘mountain fish’ and get to try our experimental defenses!”

“My God! Of course you’re right, Captain. I’ll certainly be of more use later on. I fear my current excitement must have addled my thoughts.”

“Good. For now, though, prepare to go ashore”-he raised a warning finger-“but don’t get sidetracked.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here, Goddamn it!” Dennis Silva complained. “I’m still restricted to the ship!” He gestured at the impenetrable jungle around them. “This look like the ship to you, Bosun?”

Chief Gray shook his head, avoiding another branch Silva let spring back toward his face. “It damn sure don’t look like Tarakan Island!” he gruffed. “We steamed right by it when we retreated from the Philippines. Iexcitnted was only about two miles inland. We should be there… well, now.”

Silva looked around. “Why can’t we just burn the bastard off?” He was the tallest in the group and was suffering the most. At one point he’d grumblingly suggested they name the place “Spanky Land” after Walker ’s engineering officer. He didn’t say why. They’d been searching for three hours, but the twists and turns the game trail took made it impossible to go straight to the spot Bradford wanted.

“That big ape Silva might actually have a point,” grumbled Gray. He kicked the mushy jungle floor. “If we could even get this shit to burn, I’m for trying it. Wait for a day when the wind is right…”

“Outrageous!” Bradford declared. “You’re contemplating ecological

… murder! It would be a crime against nature and humanity to raze this island. I’ve already glimpsed many creatures I’ve never seen on the mainland! They might exist nowhere else!”

Gray sighed. “If you’d let me finish… I wasn’t talking about burning off the whole damn place, just part of it. Besides, you can’t tell me there’s never been a lightning fire here. If we do it-if we can do it-we’ll be careful.”

Somewhat mollified, Courtney considered. “Well, yes, that might work. But you’d have to be very careful indeed.”

Silva glanced back at the Bosun and rolled his eyes. “There wadn’t nothin’ here on the ‘old’ Tarakan,” he said.

“Well… of course not, but that’s entirely different.”

“How’s that?”

“Because,” Gray remarked cynically, “there was nothin’ left for him to ogle before. Now there is.” His tone changed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford, but we’ll do whatever we have to, to get oil outta this rock. If that means burning the whole thing down, we will. We’ll try to be careful, but the ‘needs of the service,’ et cetera, not to mention the needs of our allies and ourselves, must be met. Now, how much farther?”

Bradford sighed. “I suppose this is as good a place as any. The captain was adamant that we be back aboard before nightfall.” He glanced absently at his watch, but couldn’t see the numbers through his sweat-streaked glasses. He took them off and wiped them vainly on his sweat-soaked shirt.

Suddenly there was a violent commotion to the side of the trail, and something upright, about the size of a large crocodile, lunged from its hiding place and snatched one of the leading ’Cats by the arm. With a shriek of pain and terror, the Lemurian was dragged into the impenetrable gloom.

“Shit!” Silva bolted forward, even as the others backed away in fright. Several were bowled over by his rush. Another scream marked the place the ’Cat disappeared, and he knelt and fired at a dim shape in the darkness. He fired again and again, on semiautomatic, and his efforts were rewarded by a different type of shriek, and muffled, panicky jabbering. On his hands and knees in the damp mulch, he scurried into the tunnel of brush.

“Well, don’t just stand there, you useless sons of bitches!” roared the Bosun. He dashed forward, ded by

“We been ashore, Laney,” Gilbert grated. “You know, with the shore party.”

Laney’s face clouded. “That don’t cut no ice with me. I don’t care if you been ’rasslin’ sea monsters, you’ll stand your watches when you’re told! And that’s ‘Chief ’ Laney to you slacking malingerers!”

“We ain’t ‘lingerin’; we just got here. We’s eatin’ and movin’ along. Earl didn’t yell at us for lingerin’.”

“Just… get your asses down to the aft fireroom, and get that goose-pull sorted out. Most of them ’Cats can’t tell fuel oil from bilgewater. And check on that damn feed-water pump! It’s still makin’ screwy noises!”

“All right, Laney, quit yer fussin. We’ll be along.” Gilbert sighed and began wolfing his sandwich down. Laney stood a moment, still cloudy, then moved away. Gilbert couldn’t help but compare his tyrannical attitude to poor old Chief Donaghey’s. Donaghey had been a professional who inspired proper behavior and diligence by example, as well as an inherent ability to lead. He didn’t lord it over the snipes in his division, and he was usually as grimy as they were because he worked alongside them. He’d been in the Asiatic Fleet a lot longer than Laney too. Volunteered for it. Even had a Filipino wife… back there. Everyone knew his worth, even the captain, and when he was killed saving the ship from an improvised mine, Captain Reddy was prepared to risk the very alliance to avenge him.

Now they had Laney.

“Like I’ve said, change is always bad,” he muttered.

Matt paced slowly between the starboard bridge wing and his chair, bolted to the right side of the forward pilothouse bulkhead. It was how he spent the majority of his time on the bridge, particularly over the last six days. He believed the smudge of land he’d seen off the starboard bow was the poignantly familiar Dumagasa Point, on the western peninsula of Mindanao; the sextant said it was, so did the scriggly lines on the Plexiglas over the chart, but it didn’t look quite the same as he remembered it. Funny. He’d been to Surabaya-now Aryaal-and Balikpapan-now Baalkpan-and they bore no resemblance whatsoever to the places he’d known, but somehow the only slightly different promontory they’d passed filled him with a new sense of loss. Perhaps because they were entering what had once been considered Walker ’s “home” waters.

Ahead lay the Philippines-which he’d never even liked. The place was too sudden and too big a change from his native Texas, where he’d returned after being discharged during a force reduction frenzy. Then, when the worldwide threat loomed ever larger, he’d been snatched back up by the Navy and immediately sent to the, to him, already alien land. The Philippines, at least the parts frequented by Navy ships, had been a den of iniquity paralleled only by those parts of China the Navy had even then been evacuating. The short, brown people jabbered in Tagalog, or a version of Spanish he could barely comprehend. The military situation was clearly unequal to the growing Japanese threat, and those in charge didn’t seem to care, or tried to pretend the threat didn’t exist. When hostilities commenced, the incompetent, almost slapstick response would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so tragic. The litany of mistakes that rendered the islands indefensible was without endw the formidable airpower gathered there, which alone could have made such a huge difference, had been so criminally squandered.

He had to remind himself that many of the crew felt quite differently. To some, the Philippines had been paradise. The waterfront had been a place they could find anything their hearts desired, where they could slake any thirst or lust if they chose, or set themselves up almost like gentlemen on their comparatively munificent wages. Of course, quite a few knew the islands far better than he, and spent their time away from the waterfront, where the atmosphere of iniquity prevailed. In the suburbs or the country, they could find virtuous women and homes where they could settle down and forget the stress of their duty. He wondered how their approach might affect the men who’d loved it there, had expected to retire there and spend the rest of their lives with women they loved. Women who weren’t there anymore.

During the last six days, counting the time they’d lingered at Tarakan, Walker had left her new “home waters” of the Makassar Strait, and entered the Celebes Sea. Their average speed was reduced, by necessity, from the almost twenty knots they were gratified to learn their ship could still make on two boilers, to less than ten, and finally to the excruciatingly slow pace of six knots. They’d picked their way through the tangled, hazardous islands off the northeast coast of Borno, before tentatively beginning their island-hugging journey through what the Americans still called the Sulu Archipelago. They had finally, that morning, increased speed back to fifteen knots, but would likely have to slow again. The sea was shallower than it should be, and they couldn’t entirely trust their old charts anymore. Six long, torturous days, and according to the landmarks, and Keje’s and Dowden’s calculations, they were only about halfway to their destination. He rubbed his face and wished Juan would hurry with the coffee he’d promised.

This tedious, circuitous route was intended to allow them to avoid the abyssal depths of the Celebes and Sulu seas-and the monstrous creatures that dwelt there. Among those they were trying to avoid was one so huge it actually posed a significant threat to ships as large as Lemurian Homes. “Mountain fish” they were called by some, or “island fish” by others. Whichever it was, it made no difference. The name was not idle exaggeration. Matt had never seen one, nor had anyone who’d been aboard Walker since the Squall. Jim Ellis and the crew of Mahan swore they’d been chased by one when that ship attempted to cross to Ceylon while under the deluded command of the now lost Air Corps captain named Kaufman. Mahan was badly damaged at the time, and could barely make fifteen knots. Ellis still insisted the fish nearly got them, and was convinced only the shoaling water discouraged it. Impossibly big and fast. The Lemurians were just as insistent that if the thing had indeed caught Mahan, if it was mature, it could certainly have seriously damaged or even destroyed the three-hundred-foot destroyer-iron hull or not.

They had a few “surprises” if they met a mountain fish on this trip, but Captain Reddy hoped they wouldn’t be needed. Discovering whether they worked was important, particularly in the long term, but making it to Manila and securing an alliance was of first importance, and they couldn’t risk damage to the ship before that was achieved. Bradford was disappointed, and Matt was anxious to complete their mission, but so fander e="3"›“It’s an important mission,” Keje said. He and Adar had approached unnoticed. They were both given the privileges of officers aboard his ship, and hadn’t asked permission to come on the bridge.

“I know. And it’s a good idea. We’re going to need all the help we can get to beat the lizards once and for all. I hope we can stir some up.” He smiled with little sincerity and lowered his voice so only his Lemurian friends could hear. He knew they were at least as passionate about their task as he. “I guess I’m just a little antsy.”

“Antsy,” tried Keje. “It means nervous, but not afraid, correct?”

“Sort of.”

“Hmm. A new word to add to a new phrase I learned from Mr. Braad-furd today. He just said he came up here to speak to you about his new liz-aard.” He wrinkled his nose. “What a stench! Must he dismember his toys so close to the galley? Mr. Laan-ier has threatened his life! In any event, he told us you did not even notice his presence, that you were in a ‘brown study,’ whatever that might be.”

“Is it much like ‘antsy’?” Adar asked.

Matt’s smile turned genuine. “Maybe a little. I think ‘brown study’ is more like ‘thinking disturbing thoughts.’ Add ‘antsy’ to it, and I guess that’s a pretty good description.” He sipped his coffee and grimaced. It had grown cold.

“I am ‘antsy’ as well,” Adar confessed. “Reports from home are reassuring, yet… perhaps too reassuring?”

Matt nodded. “The farther we get from home, the more I think how unlike the Grik it is for them to just sit pat and goof around. Their warriors might be mindless killing machines, but there’s a brain behind them, something that aims them and turns them loose. Those Hij. Just think of the logistics required to support a force their size, to equip it and build the ships to move it.” He shook his head. “I just can’t shake the feeling that they’re up to something.”

They finally knew a little about their enemy now, thanks to the charts, logbooks, and other papers they’d captured aboard their various prizes. They’d even taken a few of the enemy alive for a change, although no information had been forthcoming from them. They’d seemed insane, but with no comparisons they couldn’t confirm that. Regardless, the prisoners all died within days of being placed in captivity, either from the wounds that let them be captured, or other unknown causes. But some information had been gleaned. They’d discovered before, to their horror, that a lot of Grik formal correspondence was printed in English. Whatever bizarre language they spoke, English seemed their official or liturgical written language, much as Latin served the ’Cats. For the Grik, however, English was a captured language they’d probably adopted of necessity to make sense of the information they’d captured with the East Indiaman so long ago. Matt felt a twinge when he thought about how those ancient British mariners must have been persuaded to reveal their secrets. Latin was given to the Lemurians willingly, from two other East Indiamen that decided to sail east instead of west, after all three came to this world the same way Walker had. They’d apparently used Latin so only approved information could be funneled to the ’Cats, and not just anybody aboard could communicate with them. Fortunately, the westbound ship had been stripped of her guiv›

Nothing yet, Cap-i-taan,” hailed the muted, yowly voice of the Lemurian lookout in the mizzen-top above. Lieutenant Greg Garrett, former gunnery officer of USS Walker, now captain of the brand-new sailing frigate USS Donaghey, could barely discern the speaker from the predawn gloom, but knew the lookout’s eyesight was much better than his own. With watchers at all three mastheads, the little flotilla of refugee-laden barges would undoubtedly be seen as soon as it pushed off from shore. He paced the length of the darkened quarterdeck. The almost entirely Lemurian crew went about their duties professionally, quietly, leaving him room to pace and think. He paused for a moment by the smooth, polished rail and peered intently at the hazy shore. Donaghey was hove to, with nothing to do but wait, less than two miles from the treacherous breakers.

The ship was Garrett’s first command, and he loved her for that, but he also loved her classic lines and intrinsic beauty. He was highly conscious of the singular honor of being named her first commander. Those given the “prize ships” could never quite get over who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners, and the acts performed aboard them, tainted them forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed. They’d been found adrift, mostly, damaged by Walker ’s guns during her escape from Aryaal and the battle that cost them Nerracca. Boarding parties faced ferocious, if uncoordinated defenders, but some of the Grik “survivors” went into an apparently mindless panic Bradford called “Grik Rout,” and simply leaped over the side. No one would ever know for certain how many defenders there’d actually been. Hundreds were slain in the brutal fighting aboard the several ships, but more met their fate in the sea, and the water around the ships had churned as the voracious “flashies” fed. Allied losses had been high, particularly when they fought to rescue any Lemurian “livestock” they found chained in the enemy holds. Just as when they first captured Revenge, the sights they saw in those dark, dank abattoirs prevented the ship’s new owners from ever being able to love them.

No such stigma clung to USS Donaghey, and her people loved her unreservedly. She was larger than the prizes, with a more modern and extreme hull configuration that, combined with her more efficient sail plan, made her considerably faster than the enemy ships. She was a true frigate too, being armed with twenty-eight precious, gleaming guns.

Unfortunately, she was one of only three such ships likely ever to be built. She was considered a transition, a stopgap. Future variants would combine steam and sails and therefore sacrifice some of their purity and grace. But this was war, and one took every advantage one could when the consequence of defeat was extinction.

They’d bloodied the enemy at Aryaal and in the following actions, but if the charts they captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings were to be believed, the Grik could quickly replace their losses. They apparently bred like rabbits, and according to Bradford’s theories, their young reached mature lethality in about five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival-not to mention victory-they needed innovation. That was why there were so few humans in Garrett’s crew. Combined, the surviving destroyermen from Walker and Mahan numbon, he’d also been entrusted with the safety of the headstrong Queen Maraan, who’d personally gone ashore to gather her people, and Pete Alden, once a simple sergeant and now the commander of all allied land forces, who’d accompanied her. Safir Maraan could usually take care of herself. She was a charismatic leader and a skilled warrior in her own right, but those were the very qualities that made her too precious to risk. At least, as far as Garrett was concerned. Not to mention that he personally liked her quite a lot, and she was betrothed to his friend Chack-Sab-At. In spite of a clear understanding of her important role, Safir Maraan remained committed to an oath she’d sworn to personally rescue the people she’d left behind, no matter the cost. To her, no role could supersede that of queen protector of B’mbaado.

Pete Alden accompanied her for little good reason Greg could see, besides imposing a measure of vigilance and reason upon her. In military matters she’d acknowledged him as her superior, and he probably hoped he could prevent her from doing anything rash if the rescue met with difficulty. That was how he justified it, anyway. Garrett thought there might be more to it. In spite of being their land force commander, Pete had mostly been on the sidelines of the war so far. He’d participated in the boarding action that captured Revenge , but since then he’d been consumed by the necessity of improving Baalkpan’s defenses. He’d missed the Battle of Aryaal, and Garrett sensed a supreme unwillingness on the Marine’s part to send others into situations he hadn’t shared. Going ashore in this instance probably had as much to do with that as anything else. Besides, this mission was their last, and Queen Maraan’s great general, Haakar-Faask, would come off with the final refugees and warriors he’d managed to gather, and Pete probably wanted to greet him personally. In any event, there were far more precious eggs in a dangerously exposed basket this morning than Greg Garrett would have liked.

High clouds appeared as wispy pink tendrils in the eastern sky, and the shore party was considerably overdue. Daylight might reveal the solitary ship to searching eyes, and just because the Grik hadn’t interfered with previous missions didn’t mean that would remain the case.

“They should have returned by now,” murmured Taak-Fas. The ’Cat was Donaghey ’s sailing master, and Garrett’s second in command. Garrett turned to look at the brown-and-tan-furred officer. As usual, the strikingly feline face bore no expression, but his voice betrayed growing anxiety.

Garrett replied with a quick nod. “She’s pulled stunts like this before,” he said with a sigh. “Jim-Lieutenant Ellis-said she did it twice when he brought her here. She won’t leave anyone behind who’s at the appointed rendezvous. I can’t blame her, but this waiting sure is nerve-racking.”

“Why can’t the refugees just wait for us on the beach, and meet us when the shore party goes in for them?” The question came from Russ Chapelle, former Torpedoman First Class from Mahan, and now Donaghey ’s gunnery officer, or master gunner. He’d stepped up to join the conversation.

Taak-Fas shook his head. “Grik scouts might see them while they wait for us. Also, since our ships look similar to the enemy’s, even painted differently, it might be difficult to persuade some civilian refugees and Petes, and clearly faster. It was a stirringly beautiful scene, in a way, that would soon be more beautiful still, when Donaghey began her destructive work.

“Just a few moments more,” she breathed.

“Son of a bitch!” shouted Chapelle when the side of the nearest Grik ship disappeared behind a heavy cloud of white smoke. He’d been reminding his gunners to aim for the enemy’s rigging when somebody pointed at the curious squares spaced evenly along the sides of the enemy ships. Squares just like Donaghey ’s. Even as he stared, stunned, the squares opened and the snouts of crude cannons poked through. Too quickly for accuracy, a broadside-a cannon broadside-erupted from the enemy ship.

The angle was terrible. The Grik commander must have decided it was a matter of “use it or lose it” and given the order to fire, even though few guns would bear. As it was, not a single ball struck Donaghey, but the surprise caused by the sudden realization that they’d lost their only material advantage over the enemy was almost as damaging as an effective broadside would have been. As the distance closed, and Donaghey prepared to cross the bow of the ship that had just fired at them, all the gunners on the starboard side merely stood, transfixed by what they’d seen. Chapelle glanced at the quarterdeck and saw the shocked expression even extended to the captain’s face, and he knew there was no time.

“What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed, in a voice carrying the length of the ship. He ran forward, yelling as he went, “Starboard battery! At my command! Fire as they bear!” Reaching the foremost gun under the fo’c’sle on the starboard side, he elbowed the Lemurian gunner aside and peered through the gun port, sighting along the top of the barrel. A moment more and it would be pointing at the enemy ship. All thought of finesse, and firing at a specific point, was gone. They had to get this first broadside off as quickly as they could, as effectively as they could, and break the shock that had seized the ship. Stepping back, Chapelle looked at the ’Cat gunner.

“Get hold of yourself,” he growled. “So they’ve got guns. So what? They don’t know how to use them, do they?” The gunner jerked a nod. Chapelle glanced through the port again. “Fire!”

The refugees in the boats cheered lustily when the first blossoms of smoke appeared. Safir had told them what to expect, and they probably thought the stabbing flames and smoke were the result of Donaghey ’s fire. But in the front of the barge where she, Alden, and Haakar-Faask stood, there was silence. The queen clutched her protector’s arm, and her blood felt like ice.

“Holy shit.” Pete gasped.

“Should we return to shore?” Faask asked her quietly.

“Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” Alden agreed grimly. “We need to see this.”