Maelstrom

CHAPTER 5

Hisashi Kurokawa, captain of His Imperial Majesty’s battle cruiser Amagi, paced nervously back and forth in the gloomy anteroom of the Imperial Regent’s palace. The regent, an imposing Grik named Tsalka, was not present, nor had he been since shortly after the disappointing setback delivered to the Grand Swarm in general, and Amagi in particular, by the “Tree Prey” and their American allies. He’d returned to Ceylon, where he presumably awaited either death for his failure, or a requested audience with the Celestial Mother, the Supreme Empress of all the Grik Herself, on the distant island of Madagascar where the Imperial Palace stood.

Kurokawa doubted he’d ever see Tsalka again. The regent would either be killed out of hand, or executed (hopefully eaten alive) after his audience with the empress. Even though he’d essentially been only a “passenger” aboard the Grand Swarm’s flagship, and not in actual command, he’d been the highest-ranking Grik in the region. Intolerance for failure was one trait the Grik shared with the Japanese, and if the one punished was not actually responsible for the failure, it was the example that was important. Even if he wasn’t killed, there was a very good chance he wouldn’t survive the trip to Madagascar. Voyages across the deep water of the Indian Ocean were notoriously hazardous. Apparently, the deeper the water, the larger the predators grew. Large enough to eat ships such as the regent would travel in. The thought warmed Kurokawa slightly. He patently loathed Tsalka-and all things Grik, in fact-even though only Tsalka’s forbearance had prevented him and all his surviving crew from being eaten in the aftermath of the “setback.” Kurokawa felt little gratitude, however, since one in ten of the Japanese survivors-a of their “allies.” It was nothing personal, he was assured, simply tradition. The hunter that drops his spear when the prey is brought to bay is always eaten in its stead, and the American torpedo that nearly sank his ship certainly made him drop the Grik’s mightiest spear.

Kurokawa had been indignant, but since he felt no real allegiance to his men either, he’d shed no tears for those who died. They were cowards and traitors all. Particularly his executive officer, Commander Sato Okada, who constantly questioned his decision to make alliance with the Grik, and would even make an accommodation with the Americans, he suspected, if he could. He’d grown far too close to their American prisoner of late. But Okada was not unique; his entire crew had betrayed him and The Emperor with their failure. After the strange storm that brought them here, Amagi had been the most powerful ship in the world. He’d believed it was only a matter of time before he could use her might to gain a position of power over the Grik. The Grik were loathsome creatures, but clearly the dominant species. Once he rose in their esteem, he could co-opt, or even supplant their ridiculous “Celestial Mother” and eventually rule this world himself-all in the name of Emperor Hirohito, of course.

Amagi ’s worthless crew had thwarted his ambition, at least temporarily. They’d allowed the mightiest ship this world had ever seen to be grievously wounded by an insignificant American destroyer, a ship so poorly armed and obsolete even the Americans had considered her class as expendable as napkins before the war. Therefore, Kurokawa cared nothing for the welfare of his crew, except insofar as their training and experience enhanced his own value and prestige. He couldn’t use them to further his aims if they were dead. He raged to admit it, but he himself would have little importance to the Grik without the skill and knowledge he commanded through his surviving crew. He therefore did his best to keep them alive and relatively comfortable.

Besides, the main reason Tsalka hadn’t killed them all was that another Grik, General Esshk, had intervened. Not immune to blame himself, it was he who prevailed with the argument that the Japanese and their mighty, wounded ship might be of use. Perhaps even essential to the ultimate success of the Swarm. Esshk made Tsalka realize the old ways of war, the Great Hunt that exterminated their prey almost as sport, might not succeed against the rediscovered Tree Prey, who’d escaped the conquest of Madagascar itself countless generations before. They’d grown much more formidable than the ancient histories described.

Kurokawa had learned that when the Grik first encountered the Tree Prey, as they were called, they’d posed no more of a challenge than any other predatory species the Grik had exterminated. They usually hid in trees, of all things, and when they fought, they did so ineffectually. But unlike any other prey the Grik had hunted, the Tree Prey somehow escaped. In desperation they’d built great ships from the dense forests of their home and braved the deadly sea the Grik couldn’t cross. Not until merely a couple of hundred years before had the Grik been given the gift of a seagoing ship to copy for themselves. A strange race of tail-less prey-not unlike the present Japanese, Esshk inferred-arrived in a three-masted ship with a sturdy, ingeniously planked hull. No one knew where they came from, and it really didn’t matter. The prey was devoured, but the ship and technical language required to make her was copied. Educated Hij among the Grik learned to write and cipher in the strange, captured toe re captured drafts referred to as “East Indiamen.” The Grik now had a fleet with which to expand their empire-although progress was slow. Even the much-improved ships the “English” prey brought were not proof against the largest denizens of the terrible sea.

It all made sense to Kurokawa. He suspected an East Indiaman had been swept to this world a few centuries before, just as Amagi had. Inexplicably, it was unarmed. He didn’t understand that at all. Historically, British East Indiamen usually carried an impressive armament for protection against pirates, and even belligerent warships. Perhaps those long-ago Englishmen already knew something about the Grik before they were captured, and feared what would happen if “modern” weapons fell into their hands. Maybe they heaved them over the side? If so, what had they thought they were protecting? Regardless, there were no cannons aboard when the Grik took the ship. Otherwise they’d already have them and they wouldn’t have come as such a devastating surprise when the hated Americans recently introduced the technology.

Kurokawa seethed. Oh, how he hated the Americans! They were responsible for his being here in the first place, instead of back where he belonged, riding the tide of Japanese victory across the Pacific. Perhaps the war was already won? The long-respected American Navy had proven ineffective, and had been unable to muster much of a defense after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor. Nearly a year had passed since the bizarre green Squall transported him here. At the rate they’d been going, the Japanese Imperial Navy might have dictated terms to the United States from within San Francisco Bay by now. That was where he ought to be: covered in glory and recognized for his brilliance. Not here in this barbaric, perverted caricature world, where the emperor- his emperor-did not reign. The Americans were the cause of all that, and someday he’d have his revenge.

His value had been recognized by General Esshk, at least. The general was acting as forward vice regent in Tsalka’s stead, and his quarters were in the palace of the former king of Aryaal. Even Kurokawa had to admit the palace was an impressive edifice. It was constructed of white marble, and the spired towers and spacious, arched balconies gave it a medieval Eastern European flair. It was even more striking, since it was the only building still standing within the walls surrounding the conquered city. Aryaal was “conquered” only in the sense that it no longer belonged to the enemy. The first attempt to take it failed catastrophically, and it finally came into Grik hands as a burned-out, abandoned wasteland. All except the palace that somehow escaped the inferno. Briefly, he wondered why.

Kurokawa knew the Americans had to be responsible for the scorched-earth policy that greeted the invaders when they reached the city, as well as the neighboring island of B’mbaado. He doubted their primitive lackeys were sophisticated enough to think of the strategy on their own. With the inhabitants gone, and nothing left but the palace, there was no food, no supplies. There wasn’t even shelter from the terrible storms that sometimes slashed at the exposed coastal city. The Americans had managed to sour even the seizure of Aryaal, which was the one small victory the Grik had achieved. Everything they needed had to be brought by ship, putting even further strain on available resources and indefinitely delaying the buildup they’d need before renewing the offensive. Only by renewing the offensive could he prdth="1em"›The tapestry separating the anteroom from the audience chamber parted to reveal the terrifying form of a Grik. It looked like a bipedal lizard, except it had short, feathery fur instead of scales. Its snout and tail were shorter, proportionately, than one would have expected from a lizard, but the tightly spaced, razor-sharp teeth packing the short snout left the fiercest shark wanting. Empty, remorseless, sharklike eyes regarded Kurokawa in silence for a moment before the creature spoke.

“The vice regent will see you now.”

The voice came as a series of hisses and clicks, but Kurokawa had learned to understand the words even if he couldn’t speak them. Much of the meaning came from subtle sounds requiring a foot-long tongue and two-inch pointed teeth. By now a few Grik had also learned to understand English, although it was apparently even more impossible for them to speak. Most Hij could read written English. It was their technical language, and that was how Kurokawa first communicated with them: writing notes back and forth. But that was no longer necessary, and he could converse fairly normally, with Esshk, at least.

In the Japanese Navy he’d risen in, it was required that all bridge officers know and speak English, since most of the maneuvering commands were made in that language. He knew the tradition began at the turn of the century, when Japan purchased her first modern battleships from Great Britain. Even more were acquired during the Great War, when the two countries were actually allies against Germany. Since everything on the ships was written in English-the instruction manuals were in English, and most of the instructors and advisors spoke only English-Kurokawa and his peers were forced to speak English as well. The Japanese Navy was an infant in need of traditions, and speaking English on the bridge became one. He was glad that was one tradition quickly fading back home, even if he made use of it now.

Controlling a shudder, he bowed stiffly to the gruesome messenger, straightened his tunic, and marched quickly into the vice regent’s audience chamber.

General Esshk, complete with plumed helmet, scarlet cape, and shiny plate armor protecting his chest, looked for all the world like a sinister, reptilian gargoyle dressed as a Roman tribune. Mighty muscles rippled beneath his downy skin, and he carried himself as fully erect as his alien physique allowed. Even slightly hunched, he towered over the Japanese officer. Kurokawa knew that, before the recent setback, Esshk had been a favorite among the Grik elite. He was considered their greatest living general, and was actually a sibling, of sorts, of the empress. He also had an unusual reputation: he was deemed something of a philosopher. Kurokawa knew that really meant he had a keen and inquisitive mind. He was unusually open to new ideas and innovations, and seemed less entrenched in the instinctual behavior patterns and responses he’d seen in other Grik, even Hij. That was both an advantage and disadvantage, depending on the circumstances, since it made Esshk both easier and more difficult to manipulate. When working with the general, the supreme question always was, Who was manipulating whom?

Esshk noticed his arrival, and motioned another Grik he’d been speaking with to leave. He hissed a pleasant greeting.

“Ah! Captain Kurokawa! I trust you are well?” te, Kurokawa’s own engineers began devising ways to plank it up. Heavy, prefabricated sections were prepared and lowered into place with the ship’s cranes, but they couldn’t decide how to secure them to the pilings. The answer was simple: Uul warriors were ordered to jump in the water and do it by hand.

Kurokawa still lived aboard his ship, so he was there to see. As much as he hated the Grik, he was sickened by the sight. Uul by the hundreds, each covered in armor and holding a length of line, shrieked a battle cry and leaped into the water. The armor carried them down-it would be a one-way trip-and protected them slightly from the silvery fish that arrowed in from the bay at the sound of splashes. If they were lucky, they sometimes managed to tie their line before being torn to shreds. Slowly at first, but quickly growing to a nauseating pink, white, silvery roil, the water began to churn. Pieces of bodies and buoyant debris rose to the surface, only to be snatched down by ravening, gaping jaws. On command, hundreds more leaped to their doom, each clasping his piece of line. Most of the Japanese sailors couldn’t watch, but Kurokawa stared, transfixed, as much amazed as horrified. Such obedience!

The second wave probably didn’t fare as well as the first, but when the third command was given, the boiling water had simmered down. Perhaps the fish were sated? This time a few Grik wouldn’t go. It finally occurred to their primitive minds that if they did, they wouldn’t come back up. Instead of refusing or attempting to flee, however, they turned on their comrades in a wild attack. All were disarmed, but no Grik was ever truly without weapons, and they used their terrible teeth and claws on those around them. They were quickly subdued, killed, and thrown in the water, but after that first incident, there was an ever-growing number that had to be “destroyed.” During this entire procedure, Amagi ’s pumps were at work, using steam from her few remaining boilers. Finally, Kurokawa noticed that the water level inside the cofferdam was slightly lower than that outside, and he suggested a halt to further wastage of warriors.

The cofferdam was built, and within a week they began repairing his ship’s underwater rents, but at such an appalling cost! Surely thousands had died. He’d learned a valuable lesson that day, besides the crystallization of his theory regarding how panic affected the Grik. He’d learned that to the Hij, all other creatures were simply tools, no matter what they said about the Uul being their “children.” Life had no value beyond how useful a tool it might be. Amagi was just a tool… and so was he.

Meeting General Esshk’s gaze, he finally nodded. “She can’t be finished that quickly. There is still much damage to her engines and boilers, so she won’t be as fast as she once was, but she’ll be ready for battle.”

Esshk seemed to relax, and Kurokawa did too-slightly.

“Excellent,” Esshk said. “So now we may turn to another subject: the American flying machine, their ‘flying boat,’ you called it.”

Kurokawa’s cheeks burned. During the campaign against Aryaal and the abortive thrust toward Baalkpan, the damned Americans had unveiled a dilapidated PBY Catalina. His inability to prove he’d destroyed the plane still rankled. Aside from its value for reconnaissance But the plane represented his greatest example of truly modern technology. It was proof that, no matter how far the Grik progressed, they could never hope to match the magical powers Kurokawa possessed, and most amazing of all to the Grik was the power of flight. He was certain the PBY had been destroyed or seriously damaged. He’d even ordered the pilot of the other Type 95 to ram it if he had to, to return with his shield or on it, or his flight crew would be executed. With that threat to motivate him, Kurokawa was positive the pilot must have resorted to the final option, since he never returned, but neither had the PBY. Ultimately, whether or not the flying boat actually crashed was immaterial; he was certain it would never fly again. There was simply no way to repair it-just as there was no way to repair his own last plane if it was damaged. He therefore basked in the reflected glow of its importance while hoping he’d never have to actually use it. His reluctance was the source of growing strain between Esshk and himself.

The Grik couldn’t use the plane themselves, so taking it was pointless. Even if they could be taught to fly, they couldn’t physically sit in the cockpit because of their heavily muscled tails. In all the world, only the Japanese hunters controlled the miracle of flight, and that was how Kurokawa intended it to remain.

Esshk pressed him this time. “Is your plane truly so fragile it will ruin it to use it once? If that is the case, what good is it?”

Kurokawa recognized the threat in the question. In other words, what good was he?

“It is quite sturdy, Your Excellency, but we have little fuel. Also, as I’ve said, if it’s damaged, it cannot be repaired. We haven’t the tools or materials.”

“The prey flew their airplane all over the place. They must have plenty of fuel. We will capture it, and you will have more than you need. As to the other, I still do not understand. They are machines, are they not? Machines created by your folk. Surely they know how to make more. I tire of your obstructionism. You must use it! The sword that remains at the belt is of no use in the hunt.”

“But the materials! I tell you we cannot repair it if it is damaged. We should wait to use it at the proper time-when it might tip the scale.”

“Materials!” Esshk snarled, and Kurokawa realized he’d objected too long. He knew the conviviality Esshk greeted him with was only an act. The general began to pace, and Kurokawa remained rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead. “You mean metal? We make metal for you by the shipload! Do not toy with me!”

“I do not, Your Excellency! As I’ve told you, the metal we need to build more planes is called aluminum. It is… magical, and can be made only in the world from which we came. It is strong, like iron, but much lighter. No aircraft made of iron could ever fly.”

“Then make them of something else!” Esshk raged in frustration. “You keep telling me we need to know what we face before we attack. Your aircraft is the only way to discover that and yet you refuse to use it!” Esshk glared menacingly at Kurokawa. “Reconcile this contradiction at once!”

Kurokawa stared at Esshk, his mouth open slightly. Peripherally, he was terrified of the general’s behavior, but his miing Esshk said. Of course!

“General,” he said calmly, “we will use the plane, and if you give me free rein, I’ll make more for you. They won’t be as strong, or nearly as fast, but I’ll make airplanes even Grik can fly! But I warn you, it will take time. It will take more time even than the modern ships I promised, since that’s what we’ve already begun. But I can do it for you, and because you have been such a friend, I will. But in return, you must do something for me.”

Esshk’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared with indignation. Then, slowly, his terrible jaws moved to form an expression Kurokawa hoped was a grin.

“A bargain? How interesting! I wonder what it is you could possibly want?” He seemed contemplative for a time, but finally waved the matter aside. “We shall see, shall we not? My power to grant a boon depends on our success, after all. In the meantime, we must concentrate on the matter at hand. You will provide me with a list of requirements to ensure your plane has the ‘legs’ to reach its destination and return. We must time the mission carefully, since we will open the final campaign in no more than a moon and a half. All must be in readiness by the time Tsalka returns. You will need ships placed at intervals for refueling, of course. I will order them to scout far forward after that mission is complete, to ensure the prey has no further surprises for us. Ideally, they will rendezvous with the Swarm before the assauriding at anchor was stilled. Deep within Amagi ’s bowels, Captain David Kaufman, United States Army Air Corps, noticed the difference, but didn’t understand the significance. He didn’t understand the significance of much of anything anymore. He tried to do a single push-up on the cool deck plating, but just didn’t have the strength. Straining as hard as he could, he couldn’t raise himself from the dank, grimy floor of his cell. His jailors fed him once a day, but it was never enough, and his once powerful frame had diminished to a shadow of its former self. Tears pooled beneath his face, and he rolled onto his back, trying to control the sobs that came so frequently now. Above him dangled the single bulb that stayed on day and night. It was one small favor the Japanese officer had granted, and it was probably the only thing that retrieved him from the bottomless chasm of insanity. At least, he thought it had. He still had… spells, but today he could at least remember his name, and he willed that knowledge to be enough to cheer him just a bit.

The officer had granted other favors as well, when he could, and Kaufman got the impression he did so with the utmost care. A small stack of magazines was arranged carefully in the corner, opposite his slop bucket, and a couple were even in English. He didn’t know how many times he’d read them-hundreds, probably. He’d memorized every word. He read the other ones too, and he’d slowly learned a smattering of written Japanese by putting the pictures in context with the curious symbols beside them. He didn’t have any idea what the words sounded like, but he knew what many of the characters meant.

He rose slowly, painfully to his knees, and scooted to the overturned bucket that served as his only chair in the small, barren compartment. Easing onto it, he sat and stared at the glowing bulb for a while. It was how he passed much of his time, focusing on the bright filament until he could see it wherever he looked. His face began to twitch uncontrollably, and he tried to still the muscles and nerves by twisting his tangled beard. It never worked, but he always tried. He couldn’t remember how long it had been doing that; it always started within a few minutes of his awakening from his constant, hideous dreams. Dreams of blood and screaming death, and reptilian creatures devouring people he was somehow responsible for. He couldn’t remember why. He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner of the Japanese either, but at least they hadn’t eaten him.

The latch on the compartment hatch clanked, and his heart began to race. With a joy he could barely contain, he saw the Japanese officer who’d been so kind to him. How long had it been since his last visit? Months? It didn’t matter. He’d feared the creatures had eaten him, but here he was, alive! The treasured face contorted into a grimace of distaste, probably at the smell in the compartment, but honestly, Kaufman didn’t notice it anymore. He felt tears sting his eyes; he couldn’t help it.

“Captain Kaufman?” The greeting came almost as a question, as though the officer didn’t recognize him.

“Oh, ah, yes! It’s me!” he croaked. It seemed strange to speak after so long, and it was pleasant to have someone confirm he was who he thought he was.

“You have not been eating!” the officer accused. Kaufman’s face contorted into a grimace of contrition. He understood how the officer might think that, since he’d lost so much weight.

“But I have!” he insisted fervenace of disped up, offering an outlet for his frustrations, it actually cheered him up.

“That’s ‘Chief ’ Silva to you, Laney, you frumpy little turd.” He tugged on the visored hat he now wore for emphasis. For some inexplicable reason, the Bosun had given it to him, and it wasn’t even his oldest, most beat-up one, either. He just said if Silva was going to be a chief, he had to look like one. Laney wore one of Donaghey’s old hats, and despite the fact that he was larger than the late engineer, it was too big, and only his ears and eyebrows held it up. Otherwise, no one else aboard would have called Laney “little,” though. He was only slightly shorter than Silva, and a comment like that would once have started a fairly equal fight. Now, both were conscious of the limitations placed on them by the new hats they wore. All the same, Laney suddenly remembered another time, and he was glad they were standing by the solid rail instead of the safety chains.

“It ain’t your machine shop, neither,” Silva added. “I swear, you’ve got mighty uppity of late. One of your ’Cats even wants to strike for the deck.” He shook his head. “Shows good sense if you ask me, but Spanky and Donaghey never ran anybody off. You always was a asshole, but you’ve got even worse since they gave you that hat.”

“Who is it?” Laney growled. “We’ll see about that!”

“Ain’t gonna tell you. He don’t want ordnance anyway. Ask the Bosun when we pick him up.”

Laney hesitated. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody, but he also couldn’t go crawling to the Bosun. “Well, what about the machine shop?” he demanded. “Spanky’s gonna shit worm gears when I don’t deliver them parts!”

Silva laughed. “I cleared it with Spanky before we started. Besides, he said you got scads of spare pressure couplings by now; you’re just doin’ busywork.”

“Well… the second reduction pinion off the low-pressure turbine is thrashed-God damn lube oil we’re getting ain’t up to spec-and we gotta turn a new one. ’Sides, what are you doin’ in there, makin’ mop handles?”

“Matter of fact, we broke the firin’ pin on number three this mornin’-all the practicin’ I’ve had the fellas doin’-and we figured we’d make another one.” He scratched his beard. “Funny, but without a firin’ pin, we can’t make the big, scary bullets go out the other end. I told Stites to make a dozen while he was at it. There’s a fair chance we’ll break another one.”

“What about my pinion?”

“You gonna put it in while we’re underway? That’d be a rodeo! You’re a crummy machinist anyway; I don’t care what your rating is. Hell, Juan’s a better lathe man than you; so’s the Jap. You’d be just as well using a mop handle as anything you’d turn out.”

Chack was listening to the conversation with amusement a few steps away. It went on a little longer, but finally Laney stormed aft, grumbling with every step. Chack drifted over and replaced him at the rail and caught Silva chuckling.

“I never knew what ‘love’ was, or ‘sad’ or ‘safe,’ or really ‘happy’ either, but now I guess I do.” He suddenly slapped Chack on the back hard enough to take his breath. “I love you like the brother I never had, and Stites and Rodriguez, Mertz, Kutas, even Juan and all the others, ’cept maybe Laney. He’s a jerk. The Mice-and Bradford!-are like the freak cousins nobody ever talks about, but I even love them too. The skipper’s not that much older’n me, but him or the Bosun are the closest thing to a real dad I ever had, ’cause they keep me in line without a harness strap, and they do it for my own good.” His mighty fist pounded the rail. “And I love this damned old ship that’s as old as I am. She’s the only real home I’ve ever had. She leaks, she squeaks, hell, sometimes she coughs and gags. She prob’ly couldn’t hold her own in a stand-up fight against a rowboat full of Boy Scouts with BB guns, but she’s my goddamn home!”

Silva quickly turned away and jabbed his fingers in his eyes, rubbing vigorously. “Damn soot!” he mumbled huskily. “Snipes must’ve blown tubes on one of the boilers.” After a while, he turned to face Chack again with a mysterious dampness around his eyes. He made a production of pulling a pouch from his pocket and biting off a chew. Finally, when the quid was properly formed in his cheek, he spoke again.

“You wanna know if me and Risa have wrassled and romped around, and had a little fun; that’s none of your damn business. Do I love her? Sure I do, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my pal. Will I tear your heart out and eat it if you spill any of what I just told you? You can bet your life on it, brother or not.”

Captain Reddy was watching the two from the perspective of the open deck behind the pilothouse. He grunted. He was glad to see that, whatever accord Chack and Silva had reached, at least they’d made up. He needed them too badly, and their strained relationship had been felt throughout the ship. Turning, he rejoined Keje, Bradford, and Adar, where they were discussing Maa-ni-la protocol on the starboard bridge wing. There wasn’t that much to discuss; it was roughly the same as Baalkpan-the two land homes were related, after all-and they’d already been over it a dozen times. There’d be the initial “request to come aboard” that was a holdover from the seafaring tradition all ’Cats shared and most still adhered to, but Matt, as “High Chief” of Walker, must make the request this time himself. A lot would depend on how he was received by San-Kakja, Maa-ni-la’s High Chief. Walker was a very small “Home,” after all, and despite Matt’s position, and what he represented within the Alliance, San-Kakja might not recognize him as a High Chief. Nobody wanted to set the precedent that every captain of every fishing boat or trader had the same status as the leaders of the great Homes of the sea and land. Even if he was accepted, however, it’d be up to Keje or Adar to do most of the talking. Matt’s Lemurian was improving, but it wasn’t up to the task of serious negotiations. San-Kakja was a new High Chief and an unknown, but it was a safe bet he knew no English, and Matt might as well recite nursery rhymes when he spoke. Keje and Adar already knew what to say.

He glanced at his watch and compared it to the clock on the bulkhead. It was almost time for the watch change, and he’d soon reli you immediately try to learn as much as you can about the reports of an ‘iron fish.’ If it’s a submarine, as I suspect, I need to know as much as possible about what it looked like and where it was most recently sighted. I understand it hasn’t been seen for months. It’d undoubtedly be out of fuel by now, so we’ll have to base our search on its last reported position, investigate the closest islands and so forth. Hopefully, we can begin that process while your discussions are still underway, if they drag out too long. We really need to find that boat. It could make all the difference.”

“What makes you so sure it is a submarine, Captain?” Bradford asked. “Who knows what creatures lurk in these mysterious seas? And even if it is one, what if it’s an enemy vessel? The Japanese on Amagi have shown no inclination to aid us, certainly!”

“C’mon, Courtney! An iron fish? And the stories tell how strange, tail-less creatures went inside it before it swam beneath the sea! As for it being one of ours, it only makes sense. We had lots of boats in the area, more than the Japs. They might’ve even been enough to make a difference, but their torpedoes weren’t working either. If it weren’t for our crummy MK-14 and -15 torpedoes, we might’ve even stopped the Japs.” His voice had begun to rise, and he stopped himself and took a deep, calming breath. “If a sub was in the vicinity of the Squall, like the PBY was, it could have been swept here just like us. Unlike us, they might’ve made for the Philippines, looking for a familiar face. Last we heard, we still had Corregidor, and subs were getting in and out. If they poked their scope up at Surabaya-I mean Aryaal-and saw what’s there now, the next place they’d check, their only hope really, would be the Philippines. If it was a Jap sub… I really don’t know where it would head, probably not the Philippines, though. Maybe Singapore. Theymakes sensa hushed tone, however. Even he wasn’t immune to the strange emotions sweeping the men around him at the sight of the familiar, but alien landmarks.

Beyond Corregidor was the Bataan Peninsula, and there was even a small town, of sorts, where Mariveles ought to be. In the distance, barely visible in the early morning haze, stood the poignantly familiar Mariveles Mountains.

“Recommend course zero, four, five degrees,” Kutas said, glancing at the compass and breaking the spell that had fallen upon the Americans in the pilothouse. Juan had appeared unnoticed, carrying a tray of mugs and a coffee urn, and when Matt glanced his way he saw unashamed tears streaking the little Filipino’s face as he gazed about.

He coughed. “Thanks, Juan. I was just thinking some of your coffee would taste pretty good right now.” A brittle smile appeared on the steward’s face, and he circulated through the cramped pilothouse, filling the mugs taken from his tray by the watch standers. For once, none were left behind. Sensitive to the gesture, he bowed slightly.

“I will bring sandwiches, if you please, Cap-tan,” he managed huskily. “It has been a long night… for all of us.”

“Thanks, Juan. Please do.” When the Filipino left the bridge, there was an almost audible general sigh, as nearly everyone realized that no matter how hard it was for them, entering this Manila Bay must be a waking nightmare for Juan. Looking around, Keje sensed the tension.

“What is the matter?” he quietly asked. “This is our goal, our destination. All should be glad we have arrived.”

“In that sense, I guess we’re glad,” Matt answered, “but where we came from, this was our… base, before the war against the Japs. I’ve told you before, I was here for several months, but others were here for years. They considered it home. What you may not know is, for Juan, it was home. He was born here… there… whatever. We all understand the places we came from are lost to us, probably forever, but to see it with our own eyes… I try not to think how I’d react to see the place that should be my home near Stephenville, Texas-a place on the far side of the Earth-but I can’t always help it, and neither can anyone else.”

Keje refrained from pointing out the impossibility of anyone living on the far side of the Earth. He suspected Captain Reddy meant it metaphorically. Regardless, the point was clear. “You have my deepest sympathies. I cannot imagine how you feel. I only hope time and good friendship can help ease the pain.”

They steamed northeast at a leisurely and courteous-but awe inspiring to the natives-twelve knots against the prevailing wind, and the closer they got to Cavite and Manila, the more surface craft they met. Most were the ubiquitous feluccas: fore-and-aft-rigged boats, large and small, that seemed universally known and used among all Lemurians they’d met, even the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans. Matt often wondered about that. Compared to the massive Homes, the smaller craft boasted a more sophisticated rig: a large lateen-rigged triangular sail on a relatively short mast with a fore staysail, or jib, allowing them to sail much closer to the wind than even the Grik square-riggers could accomplish. Of course, they couldn’t sail with the wind st sym San-Kakja’s Great Hall, the tree wasn’t as tall as the one in Baalkpan, but then again, Maa-ni-la was a younger city, closer to the shifting center of trade and commerce. There were land homes on northern Borno now, and even in Japan. If the water was deeper and more dangerous, its coastal bounty was richer. Homes were rarely bothered by mountain fish, except for certain times of year, so they increasingly dared the deeper seas, and a place was required to build them, supply them, and trade for the rich gri-kakka oil they rendered. So even though Baalkpan prospered and enjoyed much influence, Maa-ni-la not only prospered, but grew.

Walker backed engines and shuddered to a stop two hundred yards short of the main wharf Keje directed them to. With a great rattling, booming crash, her anchor splashed into the water and fell to the bottom of the bay. Just like the first time they visited Baalkpan, Matt wouldn’t tie her to the dock until invited to do so.

“All engines stop,” he commanded. “Maintain standard pressure on numbers two and three, and hoist out the launch. Make sure the shore party wears their new whites.”

With Baalkpan’s impressive textile capacity, they’d made new uniforms principally for this mission. They were remarkably good copies, even though they were hand-sewn, and no Lemurian had ever made anything like trousers before. It took a while to get used to the feel of the strange, itchy material. It wasn’t really cotton, and certainly wasn’t wool. More like linen, and Matt honestly didn’t have any idea what it was made of, although he was sure Courtney Bradford could go on about the process for hours. He relinquished the deck to Larry Dowden and started for his stateroom to change into his own new uniform when he had a thought. When they first entered Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, they’d carried sidearms, and the more recognizable Navy cutlasses, pattern of 1918, thinking their version of commonplace weapons might make their hosts feel more at ease. Matt had worn his now battered and ironically much-used academy sword. That resulted in a delicate social situation when he’d given the “sign of the empty hand”-essentially a wave-when his hand wasn’t metaphorically empty. He’d learned the sign was customarily given only when visitors arrived unarmed. That left him with a dilemma. He knew they should have little to fear, even in the massive, sprawling city they were about to enter, but they’d suffered treachery before, and he wouldn’t take any chances.

“Sidearms and cutlasses for the diplomatic mission,” he said, then held up his hand before Keje could protest. “Thompsons for the detail to stay with the boat.”

“Aye, sir,” Larry replied, somewhat triumphantly. He’d argued strenuously that the shore party must be armed, against Adar’s equally adamant disagreement. Matt turned to Keje.

“We know not everybody’s on our side,” he said, explaining his decision to an equal as he wouldn’t have done to anyone else, “and not all the ‘pacifists’ are nonviolent either. I won’t risk anybody in a city that large, and with that many people, on faith alone. I’ll compromise to the extent that we’ll leave our weapons with another guard detail before we ascend to the Great Hall. Fair?” After brief consideration, Keje nodded with a grin.

“Fair. Baalkpan has never known real crime, but in a place like this?” He waved generally toward the city. “I have rarely been here, and not at all recently. Since my last visit, the place has ‘boomed,’ I believe you would say. Adar will Etail toobject, of course, but it is unreasonable to assume there is no risk at all. Besides, some of the more subversive elements have gravitated here, and I personally would feel much better with my scota at my side. I think leaving our weapons under guard is a fine compromiseght="1em"›

Matt stared at the berobed phalanx, and tried to figure out which was the High Chief. The High Sky Priest was simple enough to identify; he was dressed exactly like Adar: younger, skinnier, and not as tall, but with the same silvery gray fur, barely revealed by the closely held purple cape flecked with silver stars. Perhaps San-Kakja was one of the beings standing near him? Sotto voce inquiries of Adar and Keje revealed nothing, since San-Kakja had risen since their last visit, and the old High Chief had been childless then. An awkward dilemma.

Decisively, Matt unbuckled his sword and pistol belt and thrust it at Silva before striding forward and holding his right hand aloft, palm forward.

“I’m Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of Walker, Mahan, and other units of the United States Navy, as well as Tarakan Island. I come to you in peace and friendship, representing all the allied Homes united under the Banner of the Trees, against the vicious onslaught of our Ancient Enemy, the Grik. As supreme commander, by acclamation, of the alliance, I’ve been granted plenipotentiary powers, and would treat with the High Chief of this Home. Do I have permission to come aboard?”

Adar nodded approval at Captain Reddy’s words and interpreted what he said. For a brief, awkward moment they waited, but there was no response; then the short sky priest took a step forward as if preparing to address them. Before he could speak, however, he was jostled aside by an even smaller form that strode directly up to Captain Reddy. The Lemurian was robed as the others in the same yellow and black, but the black hem was magnificently embroidered with gold thread and sparkling, polished sequins of shell. A fringe of glittering golden cones chinked dully with every step. A matching sash, complete with cones, coiled around a wasp-thin waist, and a gold gorget, intricately chased and engraved, swayed from a ropelike chain. On its head, the Lemurian wore a magnificently engraved helmet, also of gold, reminiscent of the ancient Spartans except for the feathery yellow plume. Large hinged cheek guards and a rigid nosepiece obscured the face entirely except for a pair of brightly inquisitive but astonishing eyes. They were yellow, which was not uncommon for ’Cats, but they looked like ripe lemons sliced across their axes, and dark, almost black lines radiated outward from bottomless black pupils. A small hand rose up, palm outward, in an openhanded gesture.

“I am Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la, and all the Fil-pin lands,” came a small muffled voice from within the helmet. “I greet you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, High Chief and supreme commander of the allied Homes.” With that, while Adar translated, another hand joined the first, and together they removed the helmet. Behind it was the fine-boned, dark-furred face of a Lemurian female of an age barely eligible to mate.

Matt was surprised. He’d suspected a youngster simply because of their host’s size. But even though he’d learned to accept that Lemurians made no distinction between the sexes regarding occupation-one of the seagoing members of the alliance, Humfra – Dar, had a female High Chief, after all-he’d never even considered the possibility something the size of the entire Philippines might be ruled by one. Stupid. Even in human history, there’d often been powerful women, sometimes supremely powerful. He hopn, because even though Saan-Kakja had never seen a human before in her life, young as she was, he detected no surprise, shock, distaste or… anything that might offend. Of course, she’d had that helmet to hide behind during her initial reaction, he consoled himself.

“Please do come aboard,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you and your amazing, gallant ship, and how you came from some incomprehensibly distant place to defend our people against unspeakable evil.”

“Thank you,” Matt replied gravely in her own tongue. That much he could manage.

She turned slightly and nodded respectfully to Adar first, then Keje-yet another departure from protocol, since Keje was, after all, another head of state. But while Adar’s status might have grown ambiguous-there’d never been a Sky Priest who, in effect, represented multiple Homes-it was certainly real, and perhaps even groundbreaking in importance. “High Sky Priest Adar, your reputation as a scholar is well remembered here, as is your knowledge of the pathways of this world and the next. I know of your oath to destroy the Grik forever, and I crave your counsel…” She paused, and it seemed she’d left something unsaid, but then she continued. “Keje-Fris-Ar, you have long been renowned as a master mariner. Now you are a great warrior. I am honored to be in your presence once more, though I do not expect you to remember our last meeting.” Her eyes flicked across Bradford, then lingered on Silva and Chack. Especially Chack. They rested on Matt once more. “Do come aboard, and welcome. I would prefer to celebrate your arrival in the traditional way, but the times we live in do not countenance ordinary pleasures, it seems. We have much to discuss and”-she blinked apology, while at the same time the posture of her ears conveyed intense frustration-“little time.”

The entire sky was a leaden, dreary gray, unusual for midmorning over Baalkpan Bay. It seemed to radiate no malicious intent to become truly stormy, but there’d definitely be rain and lots of it. (Brevet) Captain Benjamin Mallory stalked back and forth on the beach, his arm still in a sling, watching while the huge but horribly battered PBY flying boat slowly rolled, landing gear extended, back into the sea.

“He looks like a worried mama cat whose kittens are climbing a tree for the first time,” Jim Ellis said aside to Alan Letts. Both had come to observe the launching, and they’d escorted Sandra Tucker, who’d decided to join them at the last minute-probably to make sure Mallory didn’t strain any of his wounds. It was a good thing too. He clearly felt inhibited by her presence. Letts chuckled, and so did Sandra, although the nurse’s laugh seemed fragile, exhausted. Letts looked at her. She’d come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working quite late or quite early, training ever more nurses and corpsmen for the looming showdown, or tending personally to a hurt beyond her students’ abilities. Her long, sandy-brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that belied her twenty-eight years and extreme professional competence. It accented her pretty face and slender neck, but it did make her look younger than she was. Younger and more vulnerable.

Alan Letts liked and admired her, as did everyone, human and Lemurian, but he always felt a little guilty when she was near. He was morally certain he’d married Karen Theimer because he loved her, and not, as some whispered, to snatch up one of the only “dames” known to exist. He knew he loved her, and they were happy togee starboard engine should be was just a tangle of mounts, hoses, and lines, covered with a bright green tarp.

“How’s she doing?” Mallory bellowed, and Ensign Palmer-formerly signalman second-poked his head out of the cockpit.

“There’s a few leaks…” he hedged.

“How bad?”

“Just a second, Tikker’s checking them now.” Moments later, a sable-colored ’Cat with a polished brass cartridge case thrust through a neat hole in his right ear appeared. Sandra put a hand over her mouth and giggled as he conferred with Palmer.

“Yeah,” Mallory said aside to her with a grin, “little booger doesn’t want anyone to forget his ‘noble wound.’ I wish I had a medal for him, but I guess that’ll do.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe the two of them flew that plane back here after I passed out. Especially in the shape it was.”

“He’ll get a medal one of these days,” Ellis assured him, “and he’s already been made an ensign.” He laughed. “Of course, he’s not in the Army Air Corps. The Navy’ll get to claim the first commissioned Lemurian aviator!”

Palmer shouted at them: “She’s doing okay, mostly, but leaking pretty fast in a couple places. We’d better drag her out!”

Ben nodded and gave the command. A moment later the inactive ’Cats on the beach joined the others on the taglines. With a shout from a Guard NCO, they heaved in unison. He grunted. “We’ll have an Air Corps someday. We have to. Even when we get that back in the air”-he gestured at the plane-“it won’t last long.”

Letts nodded grimly. “Airpower’s the key; the Japs taught us that. But for now we have to concentrate on the Navy, I’m afraid. And, of course, there’s the problem with engines-speaking of which…?”

“We’ll get it running,” Mallory promised. “It’s going to be rough as hell and sound like shit, but we’ll get it running.”

“How?” Sandra asked. They all looked at the savaged motor, hanging from a bamboo tripod nearby under an awning. Beyond was the “radio shack,” a simple, sturdy, waterproof shelter erected to house the radio they’d temporarily removed from the plane-just in case it did sink. The PBY’s starboard motor was surrounded by benches covered with tools and ruined engine parts.

Ben shrugged. “It’s almost back together. We had to take it completely apart.” He nodded at Alan. “Mister Letts really came through again with that weird corklike stuff!” Ellis nodded, and Letts shifted uncomfortably before he replied.

“Yeah, well, Bradford discovered it. Some sort of tree growing in the northwestern marshes where all those tar pits are. The trees draw the stuff up in their roots and deposit it in the lower, outer layers of their trunks. They creosote themselves! Bradford says it protects them from insects.”

“Whatever,” Ben muttered. “Spanky saiem" width-"3"›Jim nodded thoughtfully, looking at Letts. “He’s turned out pretty good, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” agreed Mallory, his tone turning wistful. “Married life seems to agree with him.”

“So it would seem.”

There was an awkward silence, but Mallory broke it before it stretched out. “Anyway, we had to take it apart so we could get at the connecting rods on the crank and take the two bad pistons out. Only one was really junked, but we lost two jugs.”

Sandra smiled patiently. “And what does that mean?”

“Well… see those round, knobby things sticking out of the main part? The things with… ribs on them?”

“The cylinders?” Sandra asked. “Cylinders are jugs?”

“Uh… yeah.” Ben smiled with relief. At least she understood that much. “Two of them we can’t do anything about; they took too much of a beating. One was even shot through. We just can’t fix them now. Maybe someday. Anyway, we’ve pulled the pistons and rods, and we’re just going to plug the holes. Like I said, it’ll run pretty rough, and it’ll lose a lot of horsepower, but it’ll run.”

Ellis winced. “I guess if there’s nothing else for it…”

“ ’Fraid not.”