Rising Tides

Taylor Anderson
CHAPTER 1

The atmosphere in the wardroom of the old Asiatic Fleet “four-stacker” destroyer USS Walker (DD-163) was no longer animated; it was more… subdued and sickened than anything else. The sultry, rotting breeze off the unknown atoll to windward entered the portholes and swirled in the cramped compartment, resuscitating an all-pervading aroma of mildew and sweat. beings sat stiffly, tiredly, uncomfortably behind the green linoleum-topped wardroom table, facing aft, waiting for the final prisoner to be brought before them. It had been a long day, in many ways, and the fiery, righteous passions that had inflamed the earlier proceedings had finally dwindled to mere disgusted embers of their former selves. The aversion, horror, and anger the “court” felt toward the prisoners they’d judged was still very real and palpable, but it had become an exhausted, mechanical thing by now, and everyone-the judges, prosecutors, and even the defense-just wanted the whole thing over at last.

Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the American Clan, and Commander in Chief (by acclamation) of all Allied Forces united under the Banner of the Trees, stared through the porthole at battered Achilles, anchored alongside. They’d nearly lost the Imperial steam frigate to damage sustained in the battle against the “Company” ships. She’d suffered even more sorely in a vicious little storm that brewed up shortly after, before they made this unexpected landfall that afforded some protection while she and the rest of the little fleet performed emergency repairs. Now the two “prizes” that Achilles and Walker had taken intact-the HNBC (Honorable New Britain Company) flagship Ulysses and the pressed Imperial frigate Icarus -were already practically ready for sea. Ulysses had fled the action and been only lightly damaged, and Icarus had been wrested from her Company commanders by loyal sailors and hadn’t participated in the fight. Achilles was mauled by HNBC Caesar, but ultimately sent her to the bottom. Even Walker, with her comparatively long-range guns, had taken a beating, and throughout the court sessions her old iron hull had reverberated with the sound of clanging blows from inside and out, as punctured plates were replaced (they could do that now, at least) or heated, bent back in place, and reriveted.

Walker wasn’t new anymore by any possible definition, but after her resurrection and rebuilding, she’d at least looked almost new for a while in her fresh, darker shade of gray that the Bosun finally approved. Her appearance had certainly been a far cry from the shattered, half-sunken wreck she’d been after the Battle of Baalkpan. Herculean work had been accomplished to return her to duty and, ultimately, to ready her for this particular mission. It was really a miracle that she’d ever floated again, much less steamed so far, fought yet another battle, and arrived safely at this place. Sometimes, when Matt gazed at her, he had difficulty believing she had.

Neither Matt nor the Bosun had participated in her refloating and rebuilding; they’d both been off aboard Donaghey, leading the Singapore Campaign. They hadn’t witnessed the unending hours of wrenching labor, ingenuity, and tireless dedication that resulted in her gradual but almost complete restoration. They’d returned home from the war in the west prepared to embark on literally anything available to chase the Company criminal Walter Billingsley, who’d abducted Princess Rebecca, Sandra Tucker, Sister Audry, Dennis Silva, and Abel Cook. Kidnapping the princess was bad enough. She and her “lizard” friend Lawrence-who’d also been taken-were heroes of the Alliance and the Lemurians held them to their hearts. But Sandra’s abduction was even worse, if that was possible. Not only was she a much-beloved heroine who’d saved literally thousands of lives with her own hands and her medical and organizational skill, she was the woman Matthew Reddy loved. They weren’t married or even officially engaged, but that made no difference to the Lemurian “ ’Cats.” To them, she was their Supreme Commander’s “mate.” Nothing, not even the all-important war, could or should interfere with his pursuit of her captors.

There was genuine concern for the other hostages too. Sister Audry had few detractors, despite her heretical teachings. Quite a number had even converted to her church. She was considered by all to be an honest, pious female, if just a bit odd. Abel Cook wasn’t well-known, but he was “one of theirs.” Dennis Silva was a genuine hero, and though unqualifiedly deranged, he’d almost come to symbolize the human Americans in some indefinable way as far as the Lemurians were concerned. He was big, noisy, and irreverent, but in an almost childlike, inoffensive manner. He was brave to the point of recklessness, but tender with younglings. He’d sacrificed much for a people and cause he barely knew, simply because it was right -and he was capable of unparalleled violence toward anything that posed a threat to his new friends. His ongoing affairs with human nurse Pam Cross, as well as the equally rambunctious Lemurian Risa-Sab-At, were also a source of much gossip and amusement among the Allied ’Cats, even though-and perhaps because-the affair seemed to cause such consternation among his “own” people.

For whatever reason, the Lemurians wanted all “their people” back, and therefore, somehow, they and a smattering of Matt’s own destroyermen, who’d been left in charge of salvaging his ship, not only did so but had her ready for him when he needed her most. Matt rubbed his eyes. It had been a miracle, sure enough. But he’d almost begun to expect miracles where the Lemurians and his destroyermen-all his People-were concerned.

He shook his head. Time to get back to business. Despite his misgivings, he’d agreed to serve as President of the Court at Commodore Jenks’s request. His ship had been attacked without warning and he knew he couldn’t be entirely objective, but Jenks had argued that his was the only ship without either a Company or an Imperial Navy presence aboard. Since all the Company and Imperial Navy crews and officers were potential defendants, prosecutors, or witnesses to the primary charge of “Knowingly and Deliberately Attempting the Foul Murder of Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald,” heir to the Governor-Emperor’s throne, in the false certainty that she was aboard Matt’s ship, the trial would conclude if the accused were guilty of high treason, not a deliberate act of war against a sovereign state-or USS Walker. Attacking Walker was merely the means by which they’d demonstrated their treason. Matt’s crew was aggrieved that the guilty wouldn’t hang for murdering the shipmates that had been lost, but as long as they hung for something, the crew was partially mollified.

Again, because they’d agreed that no Imperial personnel should sit on the court, Matt had been forced to choose the other two judges himself. On the surface, Bosun’s Mate 2nd (and Captain of Marines) Chack-Sab-At was an easy choice. The young Lemurian’s honor and integrity were beyond question, as were his physical courage and sense of justice. Of all the ’Cats Matt had come to know, Chack was, in many ways, the most remarkable. He’d literally been a pacifist before the war against the Grik, but he’d since become a consummate, skilled, and resourceful… Marine. He always reverted to his “old” status of bosun’s mate aboard Walker, the ship he now fully considered his Home, but he’d become much, much more.

That was part of the problem. The young Lemurian, once able to take such innocent and childlike joy from the grand adventure of life, had become a virtual killing machine. Fighting the Grik was one thing, however. He’d been able to keep that separate, apart. He’d built a wall between his soul and the things he’d done to save his people. The battle they’d been forced to fight against other humans had apparently loosened a few of the stones in that wall. He clearly didn’t understand it, and he was confused. Lemurians simply didn’t fight other Lemurians-with a few notable exceptions. He’d known and accepted from the start that humans did fight other humans, and he’d even helped fight the Japanese humans who aided the Grik. But These humans, these “Imperials,” were the very descendants of the ancient “tail-less ones” who once came among his people and gave them so much in terms of technology, culture, and even knowledge of the Heavens. Essentially, Matt supposed Chack felt as if he’d met the ancient saints of his people and discovered they weren’t saints after all.

Matt knew Chack’s feelings weren’t unique. The very voyage they were embarked on had done much to undermine some fundamental tenets of Lemurian dogma. Even the fact that they’d traveled this far without falling off the world had been sufficient to do that to a degree. Lemurians knew the world was round, but apparently only those now aboard USS Walker really understood the simple truth that gravity pulled down, no matter where you went. This didn’t come as a basic physics lesson to Walker ’s now predominantly Lemurian crew; it challenged many fundamental “laws of things” as far as they were concerned, including such mundane things as where the water came from that fell as rain from the Heavens.

Chack-and all his people, ultimately-had a lot of stuff to sort out, and as essential as it had become for them to enter the “modern world,” Matt felt a profound sadness as he watched Chack’s and the Lemurian people’s… innocence… drain away.

The third member of the tribunal had been a slightly controversial selection. Courtney Bradford had been a civilian employee of Royal Dutch Shell before the strange Squall brought them to this world. An Australian, he’d been a petroleum engineer and self-styled naturalist. Quirky and brilliant, the man was also a moderately reliable pain in the ass in an unintentional, exuberantly oblivious sort of way. Despite his personality, Matt considered him an obvious choice for the assignment because not only was he Minister of Science of the Allied powers; he also enjoyed the dubious and well-deserved, if slightly nerve-racking, title of Plenipotentiary at Large.

Matt had been genuinely surprised when Commodore Jenks himself raised an objection to Courtney’s appointment on the grounds that this was to be a military trial and no civilian could sit in judgment of a military man. Matt countered with a simple question: “How many navies does the Empire have?” Jenks had been flustered, as if the question had never occurred to him before. Perhaps it hadn’t. He finally, thoughtfully, admitted there was only one Imperial Navy, and “Company” ships weren’t part of it. That being established, he readily, almost eagerly, agreed that it was perfectly appropriate for a civilian to sit in judgment over what were, ultimately, civilian pirates. As prosecutors, Jenks and his exec, Lieutenant Grimsley, had pursued and stressed the treasonous pirate theme throughout the trial, and Matt suspected they were practicing an argument that Jenks intended to lay before the Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy in regard to the actions of the “Honorable” New Britain Company as a whole.

Matt’s own exec, Francis “Frankie” Steele, reluctantly but competently presided over the defense, with Lieutenant Blair of the Imperial Marines to assist him. Despite their reservations, both men took their duties seriously and were scrupulously, almost torturously fair, but the preponderance of the evidence and the vast numbers of witnesses for the prosecution left them relying almost entirely on “reasonable doubt,” which was recognized by the Empire. Unfortunately for most of their “clients,” there wasn’t any doubt at all.

The trials were finally over, and this day had been dedicated to summoning the prisoners to hear their fate. A total of fifty-one HNBC officers and Company officials had been charged and tried. Of those, thirty-one had been found guilty of the capital crime they were accused of. According to the Imperial trial procedures and Articles of War that Matt had agreed were appropriate under the circumstances, there was only one possible sentence for them: death by hanging. Even now, the condemned men were being ferried across and hoisted, one at a time, to the tip of the main yard of Ulysses. Thirteen were guilty of arguably lesser crimes, for which they would be imprisoned at the first Imperial settlement they reached. Six were actually found not guilty of anything, as far as even Jenks could tell, other than being Company toadies who’d mistreated the naval personnel placed under their authority. They hadn’t had any idea what the true nature of their mission was.

Still staring at Achilles through the porthole, Matt was glad Ulysses was out of sight. He had no concern that they might be hanging innocent men, but he’d seen so much death in all its forms over the last couple of years, the cold-blooded, methodical hanging of men was not a mental image he needed to add to the album of his troubled dreams. Not while he was attempting to remain as objective as possible and trying very hard not to hate the Empire as a whole for what some of its people had done. Not while he thought he might enjoy the hangings a little too much… He glanced at the other “judges” beside him and sighed.

“Let’s get this over with,” he murmured quietly.

“Forgive me, Captain Reddy… Captain Chack. You as well, Mr. Bradford,” Jenks said apologetically. “I knew I was asking a lot of you. Of you all. But this… process… was utterly necessary, I’m afraid. We still have a long voyage ahead, and an unknown situation awaiting us when we arrive. We haven’t caught up with Ajax and Commander Billingsley, nor had any of the ships we fought sighted or spoken them. With this delay to make repairs and the delay we must endure a little farther along while we await your replenishment squadron, I fear we may not catch Billingsley at all. We must assume he will reach New Britain, or one of the other main islands before us, and we must be prepared to counter his version of events. That assumes, of course, that he makes his presence known when he arrives. We have no conception of his agenda or how the Company means to use its possession of the princess-not to mention the other hostages. Taking the princess will have been bad enough, once known, but taking the other hostages, your people-” He stopped, knowing full well one of those “people” was the woman Matt loved. “That has made this an international incident,” he ended at last.

“It was an act of war!” Matt reminded him. “Besides the hostages he took, he destroyed Allied property and killed people when he did it!”

“Rest assured, Captain Reddy, I shan’t forget. It will be our business, yours and mine, to convince the proper people-hopefully the Governor-Emperor himself-just how significant an act that was, not only from the perspective of avoiding conflict between our peoples, but how that might affect our future cooperation against the Grik.” He frowned. “Trust me in this-having seen and fought those vicious buggers, I’m quite a fervent convert to your assertion that they pose a monstrous threat not only to our way of life but to all life on this world.” He gestured around at the compartment and, by implication, the proceedings underway. “This unpleasant business will have been expected of us, and not to put too fine a point upon it, many of these traitorous scum will actually escape the hangman if the Company is allowed to take a hand. In that case, not only will justice never be served, but we might find ourselves in the dock facing a-I believe you call it a ‘stacked deck.’ If we hope to accomplish anything when we reach New Britain, ours must be the official, legal, indisputable account of the events that have transpired.”

There came a knock on the passageway bulkhead beyond the beautifully embroidered curtain that had replaced the vile, stained pea green curtain that had hung there when Matt first took command of USS Walker a lifetime ago. The new curtain was still green so as not to clash with the cracked and bulging green linoleum tiles on the deck, but some Lemurian artist had lovingly embroidered the U.S. Navy seal and “USS Walker, DD-163” in gold and colored thread. The thing was beautiful, and in stark contrast to the spartan interior of the wardroom.

“Enter,” said Matt after a slight hesitation.

Juan Marcos, the bold, inscrutable little Filipino steward who had, by force of will alone, established himself as Matt’s personal steward/ butler/secretary, moved the curtain aside with a grim expression. The final prisoner to come before them was none other than the captain of Ulysses, the flagship of the Company squadron that had attacked them and then fled so ignominiously in the face of Walker ’s vengeful salvos. As flagship, Ulysses carried the greatest weight of metal and the most powerful guns. She had most likely been the ship that fired those first unexpected broadsides that damaged Matt’s ship and killed several of her crew. The Company captain’s later protestations of innocence and remorse only added to the contempt in which Walker ’s crew held him. He was a murderer and a coward. Currently, only his cowardice was on display. When the ’Cat Marines practically carried him into the compartment and he saw his own sword laid upon the table, its point arranged in his direction, he already knew the verdict and began to blubber. Any sympathy Matt might have felt toward the man evaporated, and his voice was harsh when he spoke.

“Captain Moline, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a naval officer and are therefore not subject to punishment for certain infractions of the Imperial Articles of War of which you have been accused-even though it’s my understanding you did swear, upon receiving your HNBC commission, that you’d abide by those articles. That being the case, this court has no choice but to find you not guilty of the crimes specified under articles two, three, four, twelve, thireen, fifteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-seven of which you’ve been charged.”

Matt had never considered himself a cruel man, but he couldn’t stop himself from pausing, ever so slightly. Just long enough to see the first rays of hope begin to bloom in Captain Moline’s eyes. He abruptly continued, in the same harsh tone.

“However, even as a civilian, you’re still subject to certain specifications within those military articles, and of course you’re entirely subject to numerous civil charges as they exist for the protection and punishment of non-military subjects of Imperial law. No provincial Assize court or Home Circuit being in the vicinity, it’s my understanding that, according to Imperial law, this court must assume the duties normally prescribed for them. If you were being tried by a civil court, you’d certainly face at least the charges of high treason against your sovereign and nation, piracy, and attempted murder of a member of the Imperial family. I could add other charges, but there’d be no point. Any of these are capital crimes, and this court finds you guilty of all specifications.”

“But…” Moline floundered desperately. “I was following orders! The orders of a representative of the Prime Proprietor’s personal factor!”

Matt paused and took an exasperated breath. He glanced at his notes. “Yes. You testified that a ‘Mr. Brown’ presented you with sealed orders that were to be opened in the event you sighted this ship-a ‘dedicated steamer with four funnels,’ you said. You also said these orders directed you to lure the described steamer as close as possible and destroy it without warning.”

“Despicable orders, but orders nevertheless!” pleaded Moline.

Matt continued relentlessly. “Orders you did not question? Commodore Jenks assures me that even masters of Company vessels are free… are required to question orders they consider criminal or immoral-it’s in your charter!”

“Much of what is in the charter has no meaning now,” Moline moaned. “Questioning orders is no longer encouraged or even allowed!”

“The charter reflects Imperial law. It does not supersede it!” Jenks accused. “Neither do the orders of rogue Company officials! Regardless of what the Company might or might not encourage or allow, you are still subject to Imperial law!”

Moline looked at Jenks and his eyes grew dull. “You have been gone a long time, Commodore. Who are you to say what supersedes what?”

Jenks jumped to his feet. “Honor supersedes treachery!” he practically shouted. “Duty to the Governor-Emperor supersedes any conceivable ‘duty’ to a Company… creature… in the office of the Prime Proprietor!” With a visible force of will, he composed himself. When he continued, his voice was dry and emotionless.

“If your ‘Mr. Brown’ had not been so conveniently killed in the exchange of shot with this ship, perhaps some of what you say might be verified and your own guilt mitigated to a slight degree, but not enough to save you from a rope.” He glanced at his own notes. “You testified that these ‘sealed orders’ were destroyed as soon as you were acquainted with them, so clearly even ‘Mr. Brown’ recognized their criminal nature. It has been established by numerous witnesses that Ensign Parr, whom I dispatched aboard Agamemnon, duly reported to the first authorities he met-Company officials!-the survival and rescue of the princess, as well as her intention to take passage on this ship. Numerous witnesses-virtually Agamemnon ’s entire original crew!-also report that they were transferred and sequestered aboard Icarus, a less powerful and capable ship, before they could report to any naval or Imperial authorities. Finally, both Icarus and Agamemnon were pressed into Company service! Imperial Navy ships and crews were illegally seized by, and placed into the service of, Company pirates bent on committing high treason! Regardless of any ‘sealed orders,’ these acts were no secret to you. That you continued in command of Ulysses is abundant proof that you made no objection to these other crimes at least, and obviously made no attempt to thwart them! Even if you are as utterly stupid as you would have us believe, you are at the very least guilty of being an accessory to a blatant act of piracy!”

Jenks paused, catching himself. His voice had begun to rise again and his fury toward not only Captain Moline but the HNBC itself threatened to overwhelm him. Matt suspected Jenks’s emotions were stirred by terror as well: not physical terror-he knew Jenks was no coward-but a growing terror of what they might discover his precious Empire had become in his absence. Matt could identify with that kind of terror: he felt it at the edge of his consciousness every moment of every day. He somehow managed to function and perform his duties-he had no choice-but he was genuinely terrified for the safety of one Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, who even now was still in the maniacal hands of the Company minion, Walter Billingsley… as far as they knew.

Matt cleared his throat. “Further demonstrations, protestations, or even admonitions are pointless at this stage. As previously stated, Captain Moline, you’ve been found guilty of the crimes described by Commodore Jenks. It is therefore the order of this court that you be taken from this place to the deck of the pirate prize Ulysses, where, according to the customs of your service, you will be bound hand and foot and hanged by the neck until you’re dead.” Matt glanced from the frozen form of the prisoner to the two Marines. “Get this bastard out of my sight.”

Brad “Spanky” McFarlane scrutinized the toil underway in the crew’s forward berthing space with a critical but generally satisfied eye. Standing in the steamy compartment where hardly anyone ever actually slept, he struck his trademark pose-hands on his skinny hips, his absolute authority over everything in his domain radiating from his diminutive but powerfully wiry frame. Before him, a party of’Cats adjusted shoring timbers while two men held torches against a warped steel plate, heating it to a dull reddish orange. Radiant heat from the torches and the steel they played against only added to the stifling temperature of the berthing space, even with the portholes open. Absently, Spanky wondered again what kind of idiot designed this ship and so many like her with the portholes in the forward berthing space so close to the waterline that they could almost never be opened-at least not in any kind of sea, or while the ship was underway. If it hadn’t been for the meager light they provided in daytime, he probably would’ve plated over them during the reconstruction.

Periodically, the smoking timbers were pounded against the plate, pushing it a little closer to where it had been before the large roundshot bent it inward. It was the last one; all the others that had been displaced nearby had already been reformed. The racket of the sledges against the timbers in the confined space was terrific.

“Almost there, Lieuten-aant McFaar-lane,” cried a ’Cat between blows. Spanky nodded. He was far more than a mere lieutenant now, he was “Minister of Naval Engineering,” or something like that, but he didn’t care. Usually he couldn’t even remember whether his “official” Navy rank was lieutenant commander or commander, but it couldn’t have mattered less to him. Nobody would try to tell him what to do when it came to his area of expertise, and right now, aboard USS Walker, doing what he was doing, he was the ship’s engineering lieutenant, and that was it. As far as he could recollect, he and the Skipper were the only officers currently on the ship still performing their “old jobs.”

Spanky and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear were inspecting the final touches on the repairs to Walker ’s hull. They’d already fixed several similar perforations acquired during the sharp action with the Company traitors. The hole that opened up the forward engine room had been the worst, not only puncturing the hull-right at a frame-but also knocking a double hole through one of the saddle bunkers. They’d salvaged most of the fuel, pumping it into bunkers they’d already run dry. They even saved most of what leaked into the bilge, just in case, but fixing that damage had been their most critical and difficult repair. They had found the roundshot that made the holes-and nearly took Brian Aubrey’s head off-rolling around in the bilge. Jenks identified it as a thirty-pounder. This struck everyone odd, since the Grand Alliance had sort of based its shot sizes on the old British system, and its closest equivalent was a thirty-two-pounder. The Brits themselves seemed to have abandoned the very system they brought with them-or adopted another. Oh, well, that wasn’t Spanky’s concern beyond the proof it provided concerning who’d shot it into them. Ulysses carried thirty-pounders. Even now, unless he missed his guess, her skipper was swinging for it.

“Nice to be able to fix something right for a change,” Bashear rumbled. It was a positive statement, but still came out with a tone of complaint.

“Yeah. Havin’ enough guys for a job makes a difference-not to mention havin’ somethin’ to do it with.”

Their labor pool and equipment list were far better than they’d ever been when they’d attempted similar repairs in the past; they had spare plate steel, rivets, and plenty of acetylene-even if it popped and sputtered-and Walker ’s crew was actually somewhat over complement for a change too. Almost two-thirds of that crew was Lemurian now, but they took up less space and more would fit. Many were Chack’s Marines, who had shipboard duties as well. Spanky was generally satisfied with the growing professionalism and competency of all their “new” ’Cats, and he’d long been pleased with the “old hands,” who’d signed on as cadets when Walker first dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay, but there was just no way he’d ever get used to certain aspects of this new navy they’d created.

He sneezed. Lemurians sweated more like horses than men, kind of “lathering up.” They also panted. Bradford said they’d developed this somewhat unique method of heat exchange due to their environment. They also shed like crazy, and Spanky was allergic to the downy filaments that floated everywhere belowdecks when they were hard at work.

“C’mon, Carl,” he said. “These apes and snipes are working together so well it turns my stomach.” There were grins at that. “I don’t think we need to keep starin’ at them to keep them away from each other’s throats.”

“I just don’t understand it,” Bashear commiserated. “Whatever happened to tradition? Where’s the pride? You’d almost think they like each other, to look at ’em get on so. Ain’t natural.”

Spanky chuckled. The old rivalry between the deck (apes) and engineering (snipes) divisions still existed, but it had been “tamed down” a little without the caustic presence of Dean Laney aboard. He’d been of the “old school,” in which duties were strictly defined in an almost labor union-like fashion. The Bosun wasn’t much different, but he’d adjusted to the new imperatives. Laney hadn’t. It hadn’t been so bad when Chief Donaghey had ridden herd on the man, but after Donaghey’s death, Laney became a tyrant. There just wasn’t room for that on something as small as Walker anymore. On this mission, Laney had remained behind to supervise the production of heavy industry-something his obnoxious personality was well suited for. And besides, the running-mostly-joke was that if somebody “accidentally” dropped something big and heavy on him, the world would be a better place.

In the meantime, the Lemurian apes and snipes on Walker got along much better. None of the ’Cats liked the Imperial term “Ape Folk,” even if, as far as anyone knew, they’d never seen an ape; they understood it was derogatory and condescending. In contrast, the “deck apes” didn’t mind that term at all. It was occupational… and almost fraternal. They embraced it just as the engineering divisions accepted the title of “snipes” in much the same way. There were still pranks and jokes, and a competitive spirit existed between them, but they’d all been through far too much together to lose sight of the fact that they were all on the same side, part of the same clan, living on the same Home. Spanky, who’d had a little college before joining the Navy as a mere recruit and rising as a “mustang,” was reminded of guys from different college fraternities who played on the same football team. In spite of his remarks to Carl Bashear-remarks expected of him-he liked it this way.

“Where’re we goin’?” Bashear asked as they left the repair detail to their work and moved aft.

“Something I gotta do, then I’ll go topside with you and have a look at that winch. You say it ain’t blowin’ steam?”

Carl shook his head. “Nope. Nothin’ blows steam around here ’cept the fellas now and then.” He shook his head. “That ain’t natural either. That gasket stuff Letts came up with works almost too good. No, there’s something else, and I gotta get it fixed. The Skipper wants Mr. Reynolds to fly tomorrow, or the next day, when we get underway.” He pointed in the general direction of land. “According to our charts, that thing’s not even supposed to be there. The Brit charts don’t show it either, for that matter, but they do show a lot of stuff a little farther along that ain’t right.” Bashear scratched his head. “So far, west of here, everything seems about the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary that different sea levels wouldn’t account for, other than the occasional volcanic island that ain’t where it’s supposed to be. What’s the deal with these atolls and stuff?”

Spanky shrugged. “Ask Mr. Bradford. He knows all that stuff. From what I gather though, these pissant desert islands and atolls pile up on old coral reefs or something. Kind of random. No reason they had to show up the same place they were ‘back home,’ since there was no real reason them other ones formed where they did. Just luck that the first coral pod-or whatever they are-took root where it did. The islands are in the same basic area, but no reason they should be exactly the same either.”

Bashear looked at him skeptically. “Well, either way, the Skipper wants Reynolds to fly.” He chuckled. “Now that he’s fixed all the holes in his plane. You heard one of the holes was ‘self-inflicted’?”

“I heard,” said Spanky, “and you ought to cut the kid some slack. Most of the holes weren’t self-inflicted and there were a lot of’em. All he had to shoot back with was a pistol, for Crissakes. So he got a little fixated on his target. Happens all the time. Just think how many observers prob’ly shot their own planes to pieces back in the Great War.” He grinned. “Think how many times those battlewagon boys blew their own observation planes over the side just in exercises, before the war! You get ’em in a real fight, they’d probably blast their own damn ship!”

“Well, any way,” Bashear continued as they worked their way aft, “Skipper wants him to chart shoals and such from the air so we’ll know if we can ever get something big through here, like a ’Cat flattop. I can’t lift the plane without the winch.”

“Right,” Spanky replied, and left it at that. Reynolds had taken a lot of ribbing for shooting his own plane, but the kid had guts. Once he’d finally decided what to do with himself, he’d become a good pilot for one of the tiny, rickety-looking “Nancys,” or prototype seaplanes Ben Mallory had designed. Spanky wouldn’t have gone up in one of the things, and he respected anyone willing to do something he wouldn’t.

Together, he and Bashear cycled through the air lock into the forward fireroom. ’Cats looked up as they passed, nodding respectfully but remaining at their posts. The number two boiler was lit. Cycling through to the aft fireroom was almost like passing through another Squall to a different world all over again. In contrast to the peaceful routine they’d just left, the aft fireroom was a scene of chittering excitement, shouted commands, and almost frantic activity. Black soot floated in the air along with the downy filaments of Lemurian undercoats. Spanky sneezed again and blew his nose into his fingers. He no longer slung the snot at the deck plates as he once had, but wiped his fingers on a rag hanging from his pocket. Somehow, slinging snot at Walker just didn’t seem right anymore.

“Tabby!” He had to shout to be heard over the commotion in the fireroom.

Tab-At, or “Tabby” as the original “Mice” (a pair of extraordinarily insular and unusual firemen who actually looked quite a bit like small rodents) had christened her before she became one of the Mice herself, looked up from where she stood, striking a pose similar to the one Spanky himself often used. Her hands rested on admittedly shapelier, disconcertingly feminine hips, even though she belonged to an entirely different species. The tail that twitched beneath her abbreviated kilt at Spanky’s shout undermined the image to some degree, but oddly, not too much. As usual, whenever Spanky encountered her, she wasn’t wearing a shirt either. This time at least, she probably hadn’t been doing it just to get his goat, since her silky gray fur was lathered with sweat and covered with soot. Even so, Spanky had to take a deep breath and force himself not to bellow at her for being out of “uniform” once again. Her beguilingly… human… well-rounded breasts were the very reason he’d dictated that every fireman must wear at least a T-shirt on duty. None of the firemen in the aft fireroom had T-shirts on now, because for this task he’d given special dispensation. That didn’t mean Tabby or the several other female “firemen” they now had were included in that dispensation. Spanky had thought that was understood. Apparently it wasn’t. ’Cats could be very literal-minded-especially when they wanted to be.

“Tabby,” he repeated, “get over here!”

Bashear looked at Spanky curiously, wondering what this was about. That he hadn’t thrown an instant fit over the lack of T-shirts was strange enough. His opinion on that was common knowledge and a source of some amusement. None of the female deck apes (and there were a lot more of them) had to wear shirts for special duties that anyone else might remove theirs to perform. But Spanky McFarlane had bent as far as he intended to just by letting females of any sort into his engineering spaces. If they were going to be down there, they were going to wear clothes! Tabby tormented him constantly, but he was torn by his own personal axiom: if somebody does something that bothers you, either pretend it doesn’t or make them stop. In Tabby’s case, he couldn’t figure out how to do the second, so he tried unsuccessfully to do the first. He wasn’t fooling anybody.

Oddly, instead of undermining his authority, his… predicament probably strengthened it. Early on, he was viewed by many ’Cats as some sort of omniscient, unapproachable wizard. They now knew he wasn’t, but although they weren’t terrified of him anymore, they were amazed that a mere mortal such as they (albeit without a tail) could be so knowledgeable about machines. Wizards and magicians didn’t have to know things, or so the tales of younglings said. They just cast spells and things occurred. Spanky couldn’t cast spells; he actually knew things, and he’d come by all that knowledge the hard way: he’d learned it the same way everyone else had to, and they respected him immensely for that.

Tabby hopped over the ’Cats on the deck plates that were hauling debris from within the number three boiler with a hoe-shaped tool on their hands and knees. Others gathered the stuff up and put it in heavy canvas bags to be taken topside. Amazingly, Tabby snatched a T-shirt from a valve wheel as she approached and pulled it over her head.

“You wanna see me, sir?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Spanky gestured back at the work. “That bad, eh?”

She shrugged. “Whoever overhauled that boiler did a piss-poor job on the firebrick. Waadn’t me. I guess with the hurry we were in, somebody got sloppy.”

“Probably so. You were supposed to tell me if you wound up having to tear it down and rebrick it, though.”

“We be done by tomorrow,” she assured him. “I didn’t think it was worth buggin’ you about.”

Spanky took a breath. “Now you listen to me,” he said in a low, intense tone. “Anything that affects this ship’s readiness to steam at a moment’s notice-anything the Skipper needs to know before he can make a decision based on that readiness-is always worth buggin’ me about, no matter how trivial it seems. Last I heard, you were planning on replacing a few firebricks, and I specifically told you to let me know if you had to do more. I didn’t hear from you, so I came in here thinking we still had three boilers, in a pinch. Right now, the Skipper thinks he has three boilers, but he doesn’t, does he? All he’s got is two-with a lot of crap in the way of one of’em. What if a squadron of them Brit, Imperial, Company-whatever-frigates suddenly shows up on the horizon? The Skipper’ll be deciding what to do based on his certain knowledge he’s got three boilers! Don’t ever just jump up and crack this deep into something without telling me first! Is that understood?”

Tears welled in Tabby’s large amber eyes.

Spanky was stunned. “Goddamn!” he managed. “Are you fixin’ to cry ?” His voice was incredulous. His own eyes went wide when Tabby’s tears gushed out and coursed down her furry cheeks.

“I… I so sorry!” Tabby practically moaned. As usual when she was upset or excited, she lost her careful drawl. “You got so much.. . so much other stuff; I just want to not bother you with more! I sorry, Spaanky! Please no be maad! I never, ever do nothing you no tell me! I wear shirt all the time! Just please no be maad at me!”

For a moment Spanky and Bashear were both speechless. Tabby sniffled loudly a few more times, then tried to collect herself. She began wiping the tears on her clean shirt, smudging it with wet soot and firebrick dust.

“I’ll swan,” Bashear said softly.

“Shut up, you!” Spanky growled. He turned back to Tabby. “Ah, lookie here,” he said clumsily. “No sweat. Just don’t do it anymore, see? ” Tabby nodded almost spastically. “All right, then.” He looked around, staring at anything but her for a few moments. If the work detail had heard or even paused in their labor, he couldn’t tell. They were still drawing the broken firebricks and passing them along to others, who dropped them into sacks. Finally Spanky looked back at Tabby. He was glad she’d apparently composed herself. He hadn’t come here to jump all over her; he actually had something else on his mind. Still, what he’d said was true and needed saying. Especially now.

“Look, Tabby, just get the job done, now you’ve started it. I’ll report the boiler’s down to the Skipper.” He gestured at the detail. “Things look well enough in hand.” He paused. “You’re doing a good job here in the firerooms. Those squirrelly Mice taught you all right, God knows how. I expect you know the old gal’s boilers as well as they do by now.” He paused again and took a breath. “Here’s the deal. I made Aubrey chief down here because he was a torpedoman. He knew turbines and steam plants, but he never was really all that good with the big stuff. Never should’ve used him like that. Should’ve left him working with Bernie Sandison back in Baalkpan.” He shook his head. “Well, Aubrey’s dead, and I’m going to split Engineering back into two divisions: steam plant and propulsion. Every fireman on this tub is a ’Cat now, and it would be stupid to take some guy off something else and put him in charge in here when you’d know more than he would, so as of right now, you’re chief of the boiler division, got that?”

Tabby’s surprised eyes began to fill again.

“But only if you don’t start cryin’ over it, for God’s sake!” Spanky added hastily. “There will be no cryin’ in the firerooms, clear? Not ever!”

Instead of answering, Tabby lunged forward and touched him on the cheek with her muzzle, tongue slightly extended. Spanky knew the gesture was a Lemurian version of a modest, chaste kiss. Passionate kissing involved much more licking. Even so, he was thunderstruck and didn’t have a chance to say anything before Tabby bolted back to the detail she was overseeing.

Bashear, uncertain how Spanky would respond, guided him back toward the air lock and they cycled through. “C’mon,” he said. “I still need you to look at that winch.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Spanky asked quietly, still torn between shock, fury, and… God knew what. “What the hell’s got into her? I had to chew her out about letting me know, but I figgered she’d make some crack and get back to work! Then she starts bawling! And that… whatever she did to me… Do you think she’s crackin’ up?”

“You really want to know what I think?” Bashear asked as they went through the forward air lock and headed for the companionway.

“Well… sure.”

“I think she’s sweet on you,” Bashear said seriously.

“Horsefeathers!”

“Sweeter than honey on a comb. I wonder how many engineers ever had sweethearts in the fireroom? Not many, I hope.”

Spanky turned on him. “Shut the hell up, you goddamn perverted, filthy-minded ape!” he said hotly.

“There!” Bashear said. “Now that’s more like it. Thought I’d never get a rise out of you!” His voice became serious. “She is sweet on you though, and it shows. A lot. What’re you gonna do? Turn Silva?” That was the increasingly accepted term for men suspected of having “taken up” with a Lemurian gal.

“She ain’t ‘sweet’ on me,” Spanky protested. “Sometimes she’s downright insubordinate!”

Bashear nodded sagely. “That’s always the first sign. ’Cats ain’t really all that different from us, you know. Once you get past the fur and ears-and, well, the tail.” They’d reached the weather deck and were passing under the amidships gun platform that served as a roof for the galley. Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites was supervising a maintenance detail on the number three, four-inch-fifty. They were installing new oily leather bushings in the recoil cylinder. Below, Earl Lanier, the bloated cook, had left a heap of sandwiches on the stainless steel counter. Bashear snatched one. “Wimmen is all the same,” he continued. “Even ’Cat wimmen, I bet. They take to thinkin’ you belong to ’em and they start treatin’ you like dirt. Take advantage. I been married twice, so trust me, I know.” He looked at Spanky. “You want my advice?”

“No.”

“You can’t just ignore it,” Bashear advised anyway. “You treat her like a dog, pretend she ain’t there, it’ll just get worse. I don’t know what it is about ’em, but every time I try to get rid of a dame, they just try harder. You can’t chase ’em off.”

“Well… supposin’ you’re right-which you ain’t-how would you make Tabby get over her fit?”

“Easy,” Bashear said around a mouthful of sandwich. “Be nice to her. I never could keep a dame I really wanted. Nobody can. It’s the rules.”