Maelstrom

CHAPTER 8

It was overcast, but not raining this time when Sandra waved good-bye to yet another destroyer. Now Mahan was steaming toward the mouth of the bay, looking just like Walker from a distance, and fingers of dread clutched Sandra’s heart. Mahan was following in the wake of a pair of fast feluccas that had departed the night before. They’d serve as scouts at first, then transports if the need arose. Nobody really knew how many people remained on B’mbaado-trapped now behind enemy lines.

Selass was with her, come to say farewell to her mate, Saak-Fas. He’d been leaning on the rail, staring, as the ship moved away, but if he saw her in the throng he made no sign. Now the ship had almost vanished against the dreary, light gray sky. They saw a wisp of smoke, a sense of ghostly movement. Otherwise all that marked her passage was a flicker of color at her masthead as the Stars and Stripes streamed aft in the sultry air, stirred only by the ship’s motion. Sandra watched the flag slowly fade with mixed emotions, an elusive memory of something Matt once told her rising to the surface. Something he’d seen a doomed British destroyer do in the face of impossible odds, and then Exeter did the same thing before her final battle. She strained to remember, sure it was important.

“Do you think they will return?” Selass asked quietly.

“They must. We’ll need them desperately when Walker returns.”

“I meant Walker,” Selass almost whispered. “I feel so guilty. I find myself almost hoping Mahan will fail. That would mean the end of Queen Maraan, but then I might have a chance when Chack returns. It would also probably mean the end of Saak-Fas as well.” She paused, then almost pleaded, “But that is what he wants, is it not?”

“I suspect so,” Sandra replied, saddened for her tragic friend, though not shocked that her thoughts had taken such a turn. “If that’s the case, if he truly wants to die, he’ll likely get his chance.” She sighed. “Jim Ellis is a good man and an excellent officer, but I’m not sure he should be commanding this mission. He still blames himself for losing Mahan when Kaufman shot him and took command. He thinks his ship’s honor is stained- his honor too. He feels he has something to prove. Nobody like that should ever command a mission like this, with so much at stake. I know Jim, and trust him, but I can’t shake the fear that he’ll take chances with himself and his ship, hoping to remove that stain, when his most important objective is to get himself and his ship back in one piece.”

She lowered her head in thought as they walked back through the bazaar in the directi"1em" width="1em"›“Holy shit!”

Round shot kicked up splashes, skipping across the wave tops in the general direction of the beach, and a few of the staff cringed involuntarily.

“Holy shit,” Dobbin murmured again. “Where’d they get cannons?”

“Same place we did, idiot,” Gray growled more fiercely than he intended. “The bastards made ’em.”

Felts didn’t wear this time; instinctively Clark must have known it would expose his vulnerable stern. Instead, the sloop hove to and held her ground, pounding away at the enemy.

“Gonna be a better show than we thought,” Gray said ironically.

Felts ’s gunnery was far better, and she hacked away at the red ships. She finally fell away before the wind, to keep the Grik at arm’s length, and took a pounding then, but when the now crippled squadron re-formed for the advance, she hove to once more and raked them again and again. The damage she inflicted was exponentially greater this time. Rigging and stays, weakened by the previous fire, parted, and shattered masts teetered and fell, taking others, less damaged, with them. One enemy ship was a wallowing, dismasted wreck, and the other two weren’t much better, but their gunnery was improving at the point-blank range of the duel, and Felts was suffering too. Over the next hour they watched while the battle raged on the sea, and Felts maintained the same tactics: pouring withering fire into her foes until they got too close, then gaining some distance again. The dismasted, sinking Grik ship fell far behind, but the remaining two learned to present their own broadside whenever Felts moved away. It was difficult for them, since they could barely maneuver, but the American ship had finally lost her foremast and maintop as well.

“Mr. Clark is fighting his ship well,” Shinya observed politely.

“He’s a brawler,” Gray conceded, “but he’s fighting stupid. Felts is faster and more maneuverable, and her gunnery’s obviously better. He should be taking advantage of that. He’s gotten sucked into a slugging match, and that’s the Grik’s kind of fight.” The ships were close enough now that there was only the slightest pause before they heard the sound of the guns. The tearing-canvas shriek of shot passing nearby was more frequent too, but the staff no longer flinched. “He needs to get out from between us and them. The tide’s out, and he’ll run out of water pretty soon.” Sure enough, while they watched, Felts heeled slightly, righted herself, then heeled sharply over as she went hard aground, beam-on to the advancing swells and the enemy.

“Dumb ass. Give the kid a ship and what does he do?” He shook his head. “Mr. Shinya, get a platoon of Marines into the boats and pull for Felts. Those Grik bastards draw more water and they’ll be aground too, I expect, but they’ll send boarders. I doubt they’ll fool with us while they’ve got the ship right in front of them. We have to keep them off her at all costs.”

Shinya saluted. “Very well.” He looked at the commander of First Platoon. “With me.”

The sun hadn’t been up long, but the battle had raged since before dawn. With their amazing eyesight, Lemurians could see fine in the dark, where apparently their enemy couldn’t. The Grik had no “taboos” or anything against fighting at night, but they weren’t very good at it. The local ’Cats preferred not to either, for religious reasons. Therefore, aside from his huge numerical superiority, it must’ve never even occurred to the Grik commander he might be in danger even as he slept. The sight of the enemy army asleep, totally off guard, was too much of a temptation, and Pete kicked off the attack ahead of schedule.

The killing had been almost wanton, and those that survived the initial onslaught broke and ran in all directions. Pursuit was unthinkable, though, and Alden gathered his force and withdrew to his secondary position. The enemy reacted quickly, sending reinforcements against the thrust. Like most highly specialized predators, however, Grik seemed to key on motion even in the daylight, so they were completely surprised again when they ran right into Haakar-Faask’s force that Pete’s had retired behind.

Savaged again by the stalwart B’mbaadan general, the Grik reeled back in the direction of their own lines. That was when Alden’s rested troops struck them again on the flank. It appeared this element of the Grik advance, at least, was shattered beyond reclamation.

Alden wiped his bayonet on his pants leg and snapped it back on his rifle. Taking another long drink, keen eyes glancing all around, he spit and began thumbing slender. 30-06 rounds back into his empty magazine. He was already out of stripper clips, and had only the dozen or so loose rounds in his pocket.

“All right,” he said, closing the bolt, “let’s pull back. Easy does it; don’t get split up in the woods. We’ll re-form with General Faask, and see what kind of hornet’s nest we’ve stirred up. Stretcher bearers, get our wounded out of here.”

The wounded would be carried back to the “reserve” commanded by the Orphan Queen, whose primary responsibility was guarding the younglings and noncombatants.

He glanced at the sun, now clear of the treetops overhead. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

“So this is your ‘surprise’ for the mountain fish,” Keje observed.

“One of them,” Matt confirmed. “At least, I hope so. Took Sonarman Brooks long enough to get it working again, even though we had all the parts.” He shrugged. “We just never saw any point in it at first. It’s meant to find submarines underwater, and we had no reason to suspect we’d need it against any of those. I’ve heard active sonar playsumbsed sedately on a calm, gently rolling sea. They saw nothing in the north and when they turned south it looked like more of the same at first: dense, impenetrable jungle growing right down to and beyond the shore, by means of a mangrove-type root system. It was unlike anything Matt had ever seen on such a large and isolated island, and always, in the distance, a large volcano loomed menacingly from the jungle mists enshrouding its flanks. Jets of smoke or steam curled from vents in its side. Eventually they began to notice irregularities in the shoreline, and they slowed to a crawl so they could glass them more carefully. Still, no true inlet was apparent, or even a beach. There was no sign of life at all, in fact, besides the ever-present, swooping, defecating birds. Even Courtney began losing interest by the time the sun edged toward the horizon.

“I say, Captain Reddy, shouldn’t we speed up? Hurry along, as it were? Surely the eastern side of the island is more hospitable and, well, easier to land upon.”

“We can’t know that, and we’re only looking once. If we ‘speed up’ we might miss something. It’ll soon be dark anyway, and we’ll have to anchor. I want to do it in the shallowest water possible, and right now there’s less water under our keel than we’ up’ we mid become a palpable thing, and every day they remained away added an exponential layer of anxiety. Even Bradford seemed resigned when Matt told him that unless they saw some evidence of the submarine, there’d be no excursion ashore.

“Anchor’s aweigh, Captain,” Dowden reported quietly in response to the shrill call of the bosun’s pipe on the foc’s’le. Matt nodded. He’d been wondering how ’Cats could toot on a bosun’s pipe when they couldn’t make a sound with a bugle. They’d learned at the Battle of Aryaal that they needed something like bugle calls to pass commands on the battlefield. Maybe they could adapt something like a giant bosun’s call. Use whistles or something? He shook his head. He’d have to ask someone. All he could make a bugle do was fart.

“Very well. All ahead slow; make your course zero seven five. Extra lookouts to port.”

When they rounded the island’s southern tip and headed north, they began to discover beaches. Visibility was excellent, and the rising sun penetrated the shadows of the suddenly less dense forest, and they caught glimpses of a few animals here and there. Most, beach scavengers probably, scampered quickly under cover at the sight of them, but one creature the size and shape of a rhino-pig, but with a powerful neck as long as its body and a head like a moose-with tusks-stared insolently at them as they passed. It occasionally even rushed the surf, as if warning them away.

“Oh! You’re a nasty fellow, aren’t you!” Courtney giggled happily. “Oof! Oof! Orrrrr!” There were chuckles in the pilothouse, and Matt stifled a grin.

By late morning the distant humps of the small islands to the northeast appeared through the haze, and everyone knew they were about out of luck. There’d been a couple of promising lagoons, but they turned out to be little more than crescents eroded into the island by the marching sea, and they could see clearly to their termination. Another such lagoon, or the point at the mouth of one, was coming up, and all were grimly certain it was their final chance. They’d almost reached the point where they’d initially turned west.

“Captain,” called Reynolds, “lookout reports this one’s deeper than the others. Maybe better protected.”

“Very well. We’ll stick our nose in and take a look. Pass the word for the lead line. Dead slow when we round the point, consistent with the current, of course.”

They passed the point and Walker slowed, Norman Kutas inching the big wheel ever so slightly to bring the bow around. The long swells pushed them toward the cove, and a series of constant adjustments were required.

“It is a deep inlet,” Reynolds confirmed, passing the lookout’s observations. “Surf’s a little gentler inside.”

“What’s our depth?” Matt asked.

“Seven fathoms, coming up fast.”

Reynolds looked up, eyes wide, and holding his earphone tight against his head as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Uh, Captain, lookout says-I mean reports… there’s something on the beach, high on the beach, twenty degrees off the starboard bow. It looks sort of like the pic but theyts became desolate sobs.

“Listen… girlie… I ain’t gonna hurt you none-nobody is-but you gotta leave off whuppin’ on me, see? It ain’t polite.”

Courtney Bradford shook off the shock of the moment and raised a restraining hand to Chack’s Marines. Keje and Adar weren’t laughing. They’d instantly realized the possible significance of their discovery.

“Chack!” Keje rumbled. “If you cannot control yourself, or your Maareens, I will do it for you!” Keje might no longer be Chack’s personal High Chief, but the young Lemurian still respected him tremendously. Chastened, he and the three Marines sobered.

Bradford knelt down. “There, there, child. Please do compose yourself,” he said gently. The small girl was filthy, and dressed in rags. Clearly she’d suffered a terrible ordeal. Perhaps she was unhinged. What else might motivate her to attack Silva that way?

“Yeah,” Silva grated as softly as he could. “If you’ll cut it out, I’ll turn you loose.” The grimy, tear-streaked face nodded, and Dennis let her go. Instantly she scrambled to her feet, and bolted toward the Grik on the ground. Silva jumped up, snagging his rifle. “Shit, girlie,” he yelled, “are you nuts? The damn thing might still be alive!”

“I certainly hope he is, for your sake, you vicious, murdering villain!” the girl shouted back. Unable to shoot even if it was, with the girl in the way, Silva ran after her. So did the others. When they arrived at her side they were in for another shock. The girl had collapsed, sobbing, beside the writhing Grik. It moaned piteously and she stroked it with the utmost tenderness.

“Lawrence!” she cried tearfully. “Oh, Lawrence, you mustn’t die!”

The evil jaws opened slightly, and a long, purplish tongue moved inside them. “Hurts!” it said. The humans and Lemurians looked on, stunned.

“It spoke!” jibbered Bradford.

“Of course he spoke, you silly man! This is Lawrence,” she snarled, “my friend!” Looking up, she seemed to notice for the first time that they weren’t all humans, and her eyes went wide again, but with something besides rage. “My God!” she said, hushed. “You are not all people!”

Adar hesitantly stepped forward and bowed to the girl. If he was affected by the bizarre irony, he managed to conceal it. That must have taken considerable effort, since few loathed the Grik as much as he. “I am Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa Home, and currently Steward of the Faith to the various members of the alliance under the Banner of the Trees. We are indeed ‘people,’ just a little different. Where we come from, creatures such as your ‘Lawrence’ are vicious predators, intent on exterminating us. Our Amer-i-caan friends have explained their concept of ‘pets,’ however, and though I consider it foolhardy and… astonishing… you have chosen such as this as your own, I…” He started to say he was sorry, but simply couldn’t manage it. “We would not have harmed it had we known,” he concluded gently, but with little conviction.

“Lawrence isn’t my pet, you furry imbecile! He’s my friend!”

“There’s old… tales of folk such as ye,” he admitted to Adar, “an’ our founders did pass through yer seas.”

“I knew it!” Adar exulted. “As soon as I saw the youngling! There is so much about our early history we can learn from you! So many missing pieces of the puzzle! Where did you ultimately go?”

“East,” he said vaguely. They knew that already. “Some islands. I’ll tell ye what I can, but ye must respect the fact that I know as little of ye as ye know of me. I may tell ye more as me knowledge of yer intentions… an’ capabilities grows.”

“Fair enough,” Matt conceded. “You can come with us, but I’ll expect further revelations.” He noticed that Silva’s attention had been diverted, and saw the “nannies” climbing aboard one of the boats with the remaining children. He’d spoken to them briefly. One was British but the others were Dutch. All spoke English, as did the nun. The children were about half Dutch and half English, with a young Australian boy thrown in. Dennis had pronounced one of the nannies an “old frump,” but the others were young. One was even attractive, as was the young nun. She’d managed to keep her habit fairly well preserved, even her bizarre hat. The women doubled the number of human females they knew about-not counting the children-and even the “frumpy” one would probably be the object of more attention than she’d ever known. He shook his head. He’d have to speak to them again.

The whaleboat was coming back, its coxswain really laying on the coal. It smashed through the marching rollers, throwing spray, until it gained the calmer water and accelerated to the beach. Clancy leaped out and hurried to him, a message form in his hand. He looked a little green after his wild ride, but his expression was grim and purposeful.

“Captain!” he said urgently. “We picked up a faint transmission in the clear! You need to see it right away!”

A tendril of dread crept down Matt’s spine as he took the sheet. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, walking a few paces away.

THESE SPACES FOR COMM OFFICE ONLY

“God damn it!” Matt swore. He looked at Silva. “Tell Lieutenant McFarlane our scavenger hunt’s over. He’s to be in the next boat back to the ship, and I want number three lit off.”

“What’s up, Skipper?”

“We’re out of time.”

“Hurry up, damn it!” Ellis shouted as half his surviving, exhausted Marines streamed back through the open ranks of the other half. Close on their heels came whickering arrows and a roaring tide of Grik. They’d foughleaped out›Dowden, Campeti, and Walker ’s other officers were waiting when Matt and the last of the shore party came aboard, already laying plans. The sun lay on the horizon, and the long day was nearly spent. Menacing clouds roiled in the east, and the rollers had a distinct chop. All except O’Casey saluted the colors, but no time was wasted on ceremony. Many of the crew stood watching, wide-eyed.

“… I think we’ve got the fuel for it, but…” Spanky continued, joining Matt on deck. He looked around at the many faces and stopped. Swearing, he shook his head and disappeared down the companionway, bellowing for Laney. Matt’s eyes found Dowden’s.

“Plot a least-distance, least-time course for Baalkpan, via Tarakan. Consult Spanky and determine our best speed, without getting home completely dry. We might show up in the middle of a battle. Have Clancy transmit ‘on our way, Walker’ over and over. Standard code. Maybe they can hear us, even if we can’t hear them.”

O’Casey was staring around at the ship, as curious about it as about the sudden activity. He’d been offended when they took his antique weapon away, and resisted giving it up-until Silva and Stites had “insisted.” Stites had discovered several more muskets at the castaways’ camp, and, never one to abandon any weapon, he’d brought them along. O’Casey wasn’t overawed by the ship, exactly, but he did seem amazed. And envious. He stiffened when he heard the word “battle,” however. Silva was watching him at the time, and noticed the reaction.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Dowden answered. “Uh, Captain, I’ve taken the liberty of putting the children and their chaperones in the chief’s berthing spaces, and moving the chiefs to available officers and enlisted berths, based on seniority. I’ve also begun entering S-19’s survivors in the books. We’ll have to see who fits where best; they’re not destroyermen, after all.”

“Of course.” Matt knew when Dowden was beating around a bush. It was his job to sort out everything he’d reported, and unnecessary for him to report it. “What else?”

“Well, sorry, Skipper, but there’s two things, actually. First, the girl with the pet Grik won’t berth with the other kids. Says she’ll only berth with Mr. O’Casey here, and she won’t leave the damn lizard till we have a look at him and promise not to hurt him.”

Matt looked at Bradford, still puffing from his climb. “Go have a look. You’re our expert on Grik anatomy. Have Jamie give you a hand.” He paused. “Silva?”

“Skipper?”

“Go with him. Damn thing may be tame as a puppy, but if it even looks cross-eyed, blow its head off.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Silva and Bradford clambered down the metal stairs.

“I will accompany them,” Adar proclaimed. “I am curious about this ‘tame’ Grik, but I would get to know the youngling better.”

Matt nodded. “Me too. See what you can find out.” He looked back at Dowden. “What else?”

“Well, Skipper, it’s the nun. Says they all aate being rescued, but she’d like to speak with you again. She hopes… you won’t be so ‘rude’ next time.”

“Rude?”

Dowden shrugged, and Matt rolled his eyes.

“Maybe later. Chack?”

“Sir?”

“Assemble your sea and anchor detail, and prepare to pull the hook. We’re getting underway.”

“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.”

All that remained were Keje, and Walker ’s officers. Captain Reddy turned to O’Casey.

“We’re about to leave your island resort behind, and I’ve made good on my part of the deal. We’re all going to the pilothouse now. Things are going to be busy while we get underway, but as soon as I have a free moment, you’ll be standing right there, ready to pay your passage. I have some questions and you’re going to answer them.”

“Very well, Captain. I’ve a few questions of me own, if ye please. Ye say we might be headed fer a battle. Might I ask who you expect to fight?”

Ignoring O’Casey, Matt turned and strode purposely toward the bridge, leaving his surprised entourage hurrying to catch up. Taking the steps two at a time, he arrived in the pilothouse, preceded by his own shouted, “As you were!” Facing the startled OOD, he announced: “I have the deck and the conn. Make all preparations for getting underway.” He looked speculatively back at O’Casey, as the one-armed man reached the top of the stairs.

“We’re at war with creatures like your young lady’s pet, and they’re on their way to attack our… our home. Maybe a few hundred thousand of ’em. The first thing I want to know is how you made friends with one.”

Silva, Courtney, and Adar slid the green wardroom curtain aside. Silva had handed his BAR to Stites, who’d recover the rest of the shore party’s arms. All he had was his. 45 and cutlass, but the Colt was in his hand. The lizard lay on the wardroom table, moaning as the rolling ship caused him to shift back and forth under the lowered operating light. The girl sat beside him on a chair, petting him reassuringly, and glaring at the new arrivals. Jamie Miller, former pharmacist’s mate, and now Walker ’s surgeon, nervously gathered his instruments and laid them out.

“Critter give you any trouble, Jamie?” Silva gruffed.

“No… it’s just… Shit, Dennis, it’s a Grik!”

“Noticed that myself. So what? Ain’t you got a hypocritical oath, or somethin’? Patch him up.”

“Hippocratic,” murmured Bradford, moving raptly toward the creature. The girl stood unsteadily, but hovered protectively near. “We won’t hurt him, child, I assure you. You must understand; I’ve never been this close to a live one before that wasn’t trying to eat me.” The girl jumped at the rush of iron links flooding into the chain locker forward. “There, there,” Bradford soothed, “nothing to fease do sit again, before you fall and hurt yourself. Wee helped, but that don’t matter.” He looked at her. “Besides, you called me a ‘bastard.’ I figgered I could say it.”

She giggled again, and held her hand over her mouth. “I am sorry. What would Master Kearley say?” Her expression grew sad. “Poor man. He knew he was doomed, but he saved my life, as did Mr. O’Casey.”

“Master Kearley?”

“My tutor. He… didn’t make it off the ship.”

“How long were you adrift?” Dennis asked gently.

“Something over four weeks. I’m not certain. We had plenty of provisions-just two of us in a boat meant for twenty. Still, it was terrifying. There are few silverfish in the deep waters to the east, but there are other things.” She shuddered.

Silva took a pouch from his pocket, loosened the string at the top, and removed a plug of yellow-brown leaves. He bit off a wad and worked it for a moment until it formed a bulge in his right cheek. Seeing her watching him, wide-eyed, he graciously offered the pouch. “Chew?” Revolted but intrigued, she shook her head. “Suit yerself,” he said, and pulling the string tight, he returned the pouch to his pocket. “Where’d you come up with Lawrence, anyway? Flynn said he was in your boat.”

“He was. We found him on an island we landed upon, searching for a place with food and water closer to… where our people might search for us. There wasn’t any, but he’d been there several days, a castaway as much as we. All he had was a dugout canoe, and no idea which direction to head! His species is not unknown to us, a few meetings on isolated islands southeast of my home somewhere. But I’d never seen one before!”

“Peaceful meetings?” he asked, apparently astonished.

“I believe so, yes.”

“I’ll swan. Where’s home?” Dennis ventured.

She started to answer, then caught herself. “Are you interrogating me?”

“Yep.”›

Hands on hips, she looked up at him. “How rude! A gentleman never pries into the affairs of a… a young lady!”

Silva shrugged, a twisted grin on his face. “I ain’t no gentleman, doll. ’Sides, whose rules are those?”

“Why… they’re society’s rules-the rules of civilization.”

“Land rules.”

“Not just ‘land’ rules!”

“There’s other rules, you know. Sea rules. When somebody rescues castaways, either adrift or ashore, he can ask ’em anything he wants.”

The girl became pensive. “Truly?”

“Yep.”›

“Ma…”

“Oh. Yes, sir. I picked up some technical things too. Granted, she’s only ten, but she was very int’rested in our guns and engines. Not shocked, she knew what they were, just amazed by what they could do.”

Matt nodded. “I got the same sense from O’Casey, though I admit you picked up more information than I did. How’d you do it?”

Dennis grinned. “She’s a kid, Skipper. So am I. Just a great big kid.”

Matt sipped his coffee and rubbed his chin. “Well, between us, we learned a lot. Almost as much from what they didn’t say as what they did. They obviously don’t want us to know where they’re from. Normal reluctance to reveal too much before they get to know us, or societal paranoia?” He paused. “Either way, they’re from the east. Adar suspected as much as soon as he saw the girl, and then we learned they weren’t part of S-19’s ‘cargo.’ Now we’re sure. They’re descendants of the ‘Others’ that passed through here before. Looking at a map, we could probably extrapolate a pretty good estimate of where their home is.

“They know about guns-witness the muskets-although according to Mr. Bradford, they’re virtually unchanged from those the original East Indiamen would’ve carried. The girl said they have artillery as well, even if it’s not any more advanced. That tells us something right there. In all this time, they haven’t had any reason to improve their weaponry, so they never did. In our own history, flintlocks reigned supreme for two hundred and fifty years, and reached a level of refinement that couldn’t be improved upon. Only constant wars with equally well-armed opponents spurred the innovations we made in the last century. So wherever they are, they must be on top of the heap, and there must not be any really dangerous animals. Steam power’s something else they must have. Like Silva said, they’re impressed by how fast we can go, but not shocked we do it without sails.”

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop the Grik-like creature had lain on most of the afternoon. “All fascinating mysteries I look forward to solving, and it’s good to know, at long last, that there are other humans on this world. Right now, though, we have more pressing concerns.” He opened the note he’d received from Clancy and read most of it aloud. They already knew the gist, but each point needed discussion, and he wanted it fresh in their minds. He slapped the table with the message form. “I have no choice but to believe this is genuine. Kaufman’s apology at the end, while also probably genuine, is clearly meant to convince us he is who he says he is.”

“But how in hell did the bas… did he get access to their comm equipment?” Spanky grumbled dubiously.

“With the help of the disaffected ‘elements,’” Dowden speculated. “Probably wouldn’t be too hard; it’s not like they have a lot of folks to talk to. Most likely just a comm watch to see what we’re saying.”

“But what of the rest of it?” Adar demanded heatedly. “This warning to us! A warning that the enemy moves, and we must complete or abandon our ‘rescue’ attempt? How could they know of that?”

“Simple,” Matt answered grimly. “Kaufman’s not talking to us. He thinks he is, because Maham" width="1em"›“I been tryin’!” Gilbert replied, almost plaintively.

Stites shrugged. “We took him, the kids, and a couple dozen pigboat pukes off Talaud.” He leered. “Got a couple new women too, but, except for some nun, they ain’t showed their faces yet. The nun keeps tryin’ to pester the skipper.”

“You don’t say?” Gilbert scratched his ear and pointed at the “Grik.” “Bradford gonna di-sect him?”

Stites laughed. “Hell, no! He’s friendly as a hungry pup. The Aussie’s been talkin’ to him just like he was a person. Silva shot him and he’s a little sore, but I swear, sometimes you can even understand what he says! Talks a little like one o’ you Georgia crackers, though.”

“I ain’t from Georgia, you damn Yankee!”

Stites shrugged again. “All you snipes sound the same to me.”

“What about Spanky? You understand him fine.”

“He ain’t from Georgia.”

Gilbert shook his head. Everyone “on deck” talked weird as far as he was concerned; so much of their language was salted with archaic nautical terms. He was more accustomed to technical and mechanical jargon.

“Laney’s a snipe and anybody understand him,” Tabby pointed out. “All he do is cuss.” They applied their attention to the bizarre conversation taking place in front of them.

“South of the overhead sun!” Bradford gushed. “How exciting! Do you think you could point out your home on a map?”

“What is…’ap?’” the creatud around, particularly the other children. “Mr. Silva has told me castaways should answer questions, but must poor Lawrence do it in front of so many superfluous persons?” One of the little girls sat up straight and sniffed. Becky glared at her. “You have always taunted him as a beast! He has no obligation to unburden himself to you!”

“Not me! I think he’s fascinating!” exclaimed a scruffy-looking boy in an incongruous upper-crust English accent. Becky rewarded him alone with a small smile.

“You are always so mean!” squealed the haughty girl. All but the boy loudly agreed.

“Children!” protested Bradford. He turned to Silva. “Surely the crew has other duties,” he suggested, “and perhaps these children have had enough fresh air?”

“You bet. Move along, fellas, before somebody gives you work. Kiddies, I think Stites’ll take you back below.”

“But it stinks down there!” a Dutch girl complained.

“Honest sweat,” Stites proclaimed piously, “won’t hurt you.” Amid whining complaints, he shooed the children down the companionway, while the other observers slunk off.

“You mind if we stick here, Dennis? Mr. Bradford?” Gilbert asked.

Becky glanced at them and did a double take. “Good heavens, that one’s female!” Silva laughed, and the girl glared at him.

Gilbert was startled, then looked at Tabby. She was wearing a T-shirt at least, but it was soaking wet. “Yeah, well, I guess.”

“There are many others aboard, my dear,” Bradford said. “Our allies have unusual mores. Please think nothing of it.”

“Think nothing of it…?” Becky shook her head. “Unusual indeed. I thought I’d noticed a couple on deck wearing nothing but kilts, but believed I’d imagined it.”

“Can we stay?” Gilbert persisted. “We been in the fireroom and ain’t seen ya’ll yet.”

“Very well,” Becky replied, still shaking her head and looking at Tabby. “Let me see, as best I understand it, Lawrence’s people are quite wild when they hatch-from eggs, you know-and run loose on an island near their home until they reach a certain level of maturity. Not age, necessarily, but a level of self-awareness. They are guided and taught by adults the whole time, but there is little supervision. Just enough to keep them from reverting to savagery. When they do become self-aware, the instruction becomes more intense until, ultimately, they are judged fit to enter society. They demonstrate their ability to reason and use tools by building their own boat in which to return, but they must do so by way of a more distant island, where they must face a final test of courage and resourcefulness. Poor Lawrence completed his test, but a storm took him far from his return course. When we found him, he was dying of thirst and hunger.”

“What was the final test?” Courtney asked.

“He won’t speak of it. To do so with others who haven’t completed it

“I see. Hmm. Fascinating… and informative. I have just a few more questions. Obviously Lawrence’s species, like the Grik and, well, us, I suppose, are predators. I assume they hunt?”

Becky looked at Lawrence, who said, “O’ course.”

Bradford blinked. “Oh, please do forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve fallen into talking as if you’re not here.”

“It’s all right,” Lawrence assured him. “’Ecky?”

The girl frowned. “Well, of course. As you say, his people are predators. They hunt, but they also raise domestic livestock of sorts, though we’ve never discussed what kind.”

“Fascinating!” Bradford beamed. “But I hoped he might describe how his people hunt.”

Becky seemed troubled by the line of questioning. “Well, he’s spoken of a vague understanding of how his culture allocates labor-you must remember he had not yet joined ‘society’ as it were-and did not yet know his place within it. But evidently there are different castes among his people; some are herders, some hunters, others are artisans-boatbuilders and the like.”

“But he received some small instruction in the basics of each of these?”

“Yes.”

“So, how was he taught to hunt?”

“Cooperatively. Much like our own people would, if they had to for survival, and weren’

A few days earlier it would have seemed very strange if Gray and Shinya even said “good morning.” Now, when the equally bedraggled Japanese officer sat heavily beside him and offered his canteen, Gray nodded his thanks.

“Mr. Bradford will scold us cruelly,” Shinya said softly. Gray grunted and took a sip. The island’s jungle was gone now, all of it. He wasn’t even sure what had set the fire, but there’d been no stopping it this time, not in the midst of battle. He hacked hoarsely and spit dark phlegm.

“I guess he shoulda taken specimens while he was here after all,” Gray deadpanned.

In reality, most of the island’s species would survive; enough escaped the conflagration to the beach to ensure that. It wouldn’t take long for foliage to return with almost daily rains. The herbivores would take a serious hit, and when they grew scarce the carnivores would too, but enough would survive. Lightning, if nothing else, had surely burned the island before. The important thing was that the well was mostly intact, even after being struck by a few round shot, and Isak and his crew were repairing it. Also, somehow, the Stars and Stripes still floated above the island on a makeshift spar, salvaged from the mostly intact Grik ship beached in the shallows. Rooting the last enemies out of it was how they lost Clark.

The Battle for Tarakan had been a desperate, grisly affair. For the first time Lemurians had stood under a terrifying, if mostly ineffectual bombardment. Then the enemy swarmed ashore. They’d been outnumbered at least three to one, and the fighting had been almost as bad as Gray remembered on the plain below Aryaal’s walls. Almost. This time they’d had prepared defenses and trenches, making it possible to reinforce weak spots. Still, it had been bad, and their own losses were nearly thirty percent. Nothing compared to the Grik, whose losses were total, but that didn’t matter at all like it might if they’d been fighting a human foe… or any foe that deserved the slightest speck of compassion. When the attacking force was destroyed, the exhausted Marines mounted an assault of their own on the ship in hopes of taking it intact, and predictably, as before, the cornered Grik fought like fiends. But the stranded ship was flooded, and all they’d accomplished was the capture of some Grik armaments.

“Their cannons are incredibly crude,” observed Shinya, as if reading his thoughts. “The bores are rough, and so is the shot. No wonder so many burst when fired.”

“Yeah, and they’re made from crummy iron too. But it is iron, damn it. We sure need to be working on that.”

Shinya nodded, then spoke reflectively: “They relied heavily on those guns. We’ve given them an appreciation of artillery, at least. I believe they expected theirs to perform as well as ours. That might have made the difference. There were far more of us waiting to greet them than they expected.”

Gray matched Shinya’s predatory grin. Both men had fought hard, and the battle had been desperate; hand-to-hand at times. More than once each had now saved the other’s life. They’d both been through the crucible of Aryaal, but they hadn’t been back-to-back then. They might never be friends, but they’d finally developehen. They s of bitter strife, they felt… comfortable with each other.

The general alarm began sounding again, and Gray saw Shinya close his eyes briefly before rising.

“First Marines,” he yelled, “stand to!”

Gray painfully rose to join him while exhausted, bandaged ’Cats shuffled into formation as quickly as they could. “What the hell now,” he growled, looking at the distant ’Cat atop the makeshift tower.

A runner sprinted to them, gasping. “More sails,” he reported breathlessly, “in the north.”

“North?! How many?” Gray demanded.

“Four, sir.”

“Well, that tears it,” Gray spat disgustedly.

“Perhaps not,” Shinya observed. “Our one major advantage over the Grik is their tactical inflexibility. Their strategy can be cunning, but they seem unwilling to change basic procedures. Four, did you say?” The runner nodded. “Most unusual. The Grik usually come in multiples of three-I have no idea why; ancient hunting traditions, perhaps? Regardless, with few exceptions, we’ve always seen them in groups of three, or in their hundreds. Four seems atypical.”

Gray looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe. I hope so. One way or the other, we’ll know before long.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” Gray murmured. The four ships approached rapidly, the fitful breeze giving way to a stiff easterly, but they’d been coming up fast already. Columns of gray-black smoke pouring from tall funnels between their masts explained how. That alone was sufficient proof they weren’t Grik, or if they were, the war was already lost. They were long and black with sleek clipper bows, and Gray had seen others just like them as a kid: old then, and obsolete, but occasionally still in use. They were transitional ships, much like the next generation the Americans planned, relying on both sail and steam, and paddle wheels churned the water at their sides. What attracted his attention more than anything, however, were the flags at their mastheads. He wasn’t a historian like the skipper, or a knowledge nut like Courtney, but he’d heard enough of their conversations with their ’Cat allies about the “tail-less ones” of old or “the Others who came before” to catch some details now and then. One such detail had been what flag the ancient East India Company visitors would have flown. That was how he knew what he was looking at now: a flag with red and white stripes, strangely similar to his own, but with the familiar Union Jack where forty-eight stars ought to be. “I’ll be goddamned,” he repeated.

“Friends of yours?” a Marine lieutenant asked hopefully.

“No,” Gray said absently, “never seen ’em before.”

The ships hove to while they watched, and the largest lowered a boat into the sea. It was filled with red-coated soldiers, and some others in white coats. Probably officers. “No,” he repeated, “but let’s see if we can keep them off our list of enemies. Spruce up your Marines aong and " width="1em"›Jenks’s mustache worked as his jaw clenched tight.

“And another thing,” Gray growled. “If you hang around here, you best watch yourselves, because if you’re not here to help us, you won’t get any help in return. There’s a shit-storm of a fight coming against those things”-he waved at the Grik bodies-“that’ll make this look like a picnic spat. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

Jenks took a step back, his surprised expression clouding to anger. “Is that a threat, sir?”

“No. Just fact. And a word of advice,” Gray said, looking at the Marines. “These ain’t ‘Ape Folk,’ or the simple ‘tribesmen’ your granddaddys abandoned to fend for themselves against a threat they knew would come someday.”

Jenks stroked his mustache and regarded Gray more carefully. The contradictory ranks had confused him, and the mostly white-haired, powerfully muscled man in torn, bloodstained khakis and a battered, floppy hat must have significantly greater status among these… Americans than boatswains did in his own navy. Amer-i-caans-Americans! Colonials from the far side of the world! Ridiculous! He hadn’t put it together before. And what were these “United States” the man referred to? Still, he clearly spoke a warped version of English. Could it be the sacred Mother Country on that distant, long-ago world had allowed her squabbling American colonies to pretend they were a nation? Impossible, yet… evidently true. He considered himself something of a historian, and he’d always been fascinated by the histories of the pre-Passage world their founders left behind. Yes, he could see a parallel between how his own empire had abandoned this region of savages and how that other empire might have done the same. Might that not have made the “simple” American “tribesmen” into something more formidable one day? He wondered briefly if it might be better to destroy this “buffer” than leave it in place.

“Very well, then. I can see we shall be the best of friends. I take my leave and wish you joy in tidying up after your ‘spat.’ ” Captain Jenks tossed a casual salute at the flag and turned back to his boat.

Long after the oars began propelling the boat back through the surf to Achilles, Gray stood trembling with rage.

“Well,” said Shinya at last, “that is just how I would have recommended keeping them off our ‘enemies’ list. Perhaps we can cement our friendship with some parting gifts. Some round shot, perhaps?” Gray thought he was mocking him until he saw Shinya’s deadly serious expression.

Captain Reddy wiped sweat from his eyebrows with his sleeve and took a long gulp of cool water. Juan had brought a carafe to the bridge, filled from the refrigerated scuttlebutt on the side of the big refrigerator on deck. It was unbearably hot, and ever since the wind came around out of the east, there was only the slightest apparent breeze-even as they charged west through the Celebes Sea at twenty-five knots. Keje and Adar stood beside him on the bridge wing, panting like dogs, and Bradford fanned himself manically with his ridiculous sombrero. Flynn was with them, newly shaved face and close-cropped hair exposing already sunburned bright pink skin. With the dark tan around his eyes, he looked like a raccoon. They’d been talking about Bradford’s interview with their Grik-like guest, and comparing what he’d learned with what they kacewere a few similar behavior patterns that seemed to support their theories about the Grik-behavior they hoped to exploit-but there were a lot of differences too. One glaring difference was currently on display.

They were watching Silva, Becky, and Lawrence on the amidships deckhouse, playing with the number two gun. Men and ’Cats stood around watching, but the trio didn’t seem to notice. Becky was in the pointer’s seat, spinning the wheel that elevated the muzzle, while Lawrence, who couldn’t sit like a human, stood to the right of the gun, gleefully spinning the trainer’s wheel, moving the gun from side to side. His wound had to hurt, but you couldn’t tell to look at him. Silva was pointing at a low cloud far abeam, giving them a target.

“Amazing!” Courtney gasped, stilling his frenzied fanning for a moment. “I declare, Captain Reddy, what a fascinating sight. And your man Silva reveals new depths all the time!”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Matt agreed absently. He blinked. “Put something to kill in front of that gun and he’ll revert quick enough, I expect.”

“As will we all,” Keje agreed, and Matt could only nod. The mission had been a success, as long as the promised troops arrived in time. They’d even found the submarine. But the avalanche was loose, and he was beginning to feel the old pull, the impatient, almost yearning for the “game” to begin. If they believed Kaufman’s cryptic message-and they had no choice-they’d beat the advance elements of the Grik swarm to Baalkpan by mere days. Perhaps longer if this wind held. Once again he’d be back at the center of the maelstrom with every life he held precious under his command: his responsibility, and there’d be little time for contemplation, only quick, decisive action. Time would compress to the size of an egg, and frenzied activity, chaos, and terror would prevail both inside and out, all trying to crack the egg at unpredictable points. Within the egg were his people, his friends, his love-maybe even the future of civilization on this twisted world. Outside was Amagi and the Grik, and all the horrors the shell must protect against, and it was fragile, fragile. In many ways Walker represented that shell: old and frail and held together by imagination, but she was just the outer, rusty layer. Without her destroyermen to reinforce her, to give her strength with their bodies, their character, and courage, she was nothing. With her crew she was a living thing, weak perhaps, but game and ready to do what had to be done, and for that she needed a mind. Captain Reddy was that mind, and he was fully aware of the responsibilities and implications. It was a heavy burden. He feared, ultimately, that the primary part of the shell was himself, and he’d made too many mistakes that cost too many lives to be confident he’d keep it intact. He feared and dreaded the great test to come, even as he planned for it, prepared his crew with more frequent drills, and tried to prepare himself. He loathed himself as well, because even greater than the dread was the craving. His hatred of the Grik and their Japanese helpers was so intense he could barely wait to get at them. He’d have to guard against impetuous impulses.

He missed Sandra more than he could say. He missed her face, her insight, her soft voice, her touch… and the steadying influence those things had over him. The trip had been a welcome rest, and he’d been able to step back, for a time, from the War and all the stress and urgency that went with it. For a while he was just a ship’s captain, a destroyermananother one. Think they’ll gimme a medal?”

Gilbert shook his head with a concentrated frown, just as he always had, but his time without Isak had wrought subtle changes. Where before, the dry banter might continue endlessly, neither of them truly recognizing the humor, this time something in Gilbert’s expression cracked. Tabby watched with blinking eyes as the crack turned into a grin, and something like an indignant skuggik’s call escaped his lips.

“You laughin’ at me?” Isak asked, astonished, while Gilbert’s unaccustomed sounds became a recognizable cackle.

“Yeah… I am!” Gilbert replied, and he and Tabby both exploded into uncontrolled hilarity. Isak shook his head, eyes wide. For a moment he wondered if his friends had been filching torpedo alcohol, but the way they were laughing, barely able to breathe… he saw the stunned expressions or blinking of those standing near, and the absurdity of it all: his wound, his and Gilbert’s seclusion, the stagnant, cloistered life they’d led, struck him like a blow. He’d enjoyed being off the ship and doing something else for a change. He’d even made a few friends, sort of. Evidently the separation had been good for them all. Without really realizing it, at some point he’d begun laughing too. Tears streaked his face as he gave himself over to whatever possessed the others, and he didn’t know if they were tears of mirth or despair.