Sandra was there to meet the PB-2’s copilot, or still more appropriately, her spotter/wireless operator who’d sent that he had a letter for her from Karen Letts, and after the traffic they’d begun picking up late the previous day, she felt compelled to get it herself. Lawrence came along simply because at some point, however briefly, Sandra might be by herself. She refused a protective detail, but he and a number of others had determined that nobody “important” ever be alone again. There was no mad “Company” warden in Maa-ni-la, but there were dissatisfied elements.
Tremendous activity was already underway at the waterfront. Troops had been crossing from Bataan all night and marching through the bustling shipyard district to bivouac on the plain beyond the city to prepare for embarkation. The predawn departure of the Maa-ni-la fishing fleet had caused some disorganization, but everything seemed back under control now. Mizuki Maru was still there, floating much higher in the water with the aid of shore-based pumps.
“Okay, dammit!” came a surly cry from within the passenger compartment of the plane. “I’m gettin’ out! Quit pokin’ me!” A last, unexpected passenger crept carefully through the tiny hatch, and Sandra was surprised to recognize Gilbert Yeager, one of the bizarrely eccentric, original “Mice,” from Walker’s firerooms. He was a chief now, but at heart, he’d always be a boilerman who loved nothing more than the music of steam and forced-draft fires. Despite his exalted status, he still looked like a rodent, sniffing the air and squinting his eyes. “Joint’s changed since I was here last,” he declared disapprovingly.
“Mr. Yeager!” Sandra exclaimed. “I never dreamed they’d pry you away from your . . . colleague, Mr. Rueben, once you’d been reunited!”
Gilbert snatched the new, somehow already grimy “Dixie cup” from his head and clutched it in his hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Tucker,” he said, “but it was my damn turn, I s’pose. Isak went off last time, an’ he’s busy helpin’ to overhaul them jug-jumpers on Santa Catalina. He’ll prob’ly go back to First Fleet after that. They figgered there oughta be somebody in this new flat-top, might could light a fire in her guts an’ make her go.”
“I guess that means you belong to me,” Irvin said with a neutral expression. He was ecstatic to have Gilbert for his experience, but . . . along with that experience, there was Gilbert to consider. He didn’t know the man well, but his reputation was widespread. Oh well, at least he wasn’t as weird as Isak. . . .
“You say so, sir,” Gilbert replied forlornly. With the weary fliers and the unexpected addition in hand, Irvin took his leave of Sandra and Lawrence.
The ’Cat aircrew scrambled ashore, their new goggles pushed up between their ears, resembling another pair of darker eyes. They saluted Sandra. “Min’ster Tukker,” one said, “this for you.” He handed over a folded, rumpled sheet, sealed with a blob of wax. “We got more mail too!” he added. The other ’Cat, probably the pilot, saluted again and went to oversee the refueling of his plane. When he was satisfied it was in good hands, the aircrew would snatch a few hours of sleep before taking off again.
“More?”
“Yes! We bring new mail, person-aal!” The Lemurian seemed more excited that people could send personal letters so quickly than he was about wireless. “Whole big saack. I bring aa-shore, now I know somebody offish-aal here to see it get here!” He blinked seriously in the growing light. “I s’posed to waatch mail till then with one eye. No foolin!”
It wasn’t really a very big sack, and Lawrence took it. Sandra unfolded the letter from Karen as they walked away from the pier. They were finally making real paper in Baalkpan. She smiled at the hurriedly written note from her friend, describing the antics of her new daughter, Allison Verdia, but frowned when she noted Karen’s complaint about her husband, Alan, going “off to the war” when he didn’t have to. She felt a surge of irritation. Ultimately, it could be argued none of the “old” destroyermen, the humans, had to fight this war. When Lemurians took the same oath to join the same Navy the humans served, it wasn’t really the same, and everybody knew it. The United States of America didn’t even exist here. Though Matt considered the oath very real and essential, any ’Cat would tell you that ultimately, their oath was to Captain Reddy; the High Chief of the Amer-i-caan Naa-vee clan. Maybe Matt really didn’t see a difference. Sandra knew the meaning of his oath hadn’t changed—although it had been expanded considerably to encompass his new people. Still, if any of his “old hands” wanted to “retire” and go off in the jungle and live in a hut somewhere, Matt would probably let them.
She quickly forgave her friend. Karen had come a long way from the sobbing wreck she’d been when they first “got here.” If she was feeling put upon because her husband ran off to the sound of the guns, leaving her with a new baby and all her responsibilities as Deputy Minister of Medicine—doing Sandra’s job in her absence—it was understandable.
Sandra’s attention snapped back to the moment at the sound of a horrified shriek.
In their path stood a dark-haired, dusky-skinned woman in the loose-fitting, somewhat immodest working garb of the recently arrived immigrants from Respite Island. Sandra knew that, as they were “processed,” the women—virtual slaves within the Empire—were encouraged to wander the city at their own pace to grow accustomed to their freedom and this new culture. The processing consisted of little more than a checkup, a few short lectures about the laws and customs of Maa-ni-la, Baalkpan, and the seagoing Homes, and the assurance they could stay in their arrival compound where food and shelter were provided for a “reasonable” period while they decided whether they wanted to find a life in Maa-ni-la (there was plenty of work in the factories and shipyards), go on to Baalkpan (this was encouraged), or even join the Navy. (As far as Sandra knew, this last option hadn’t been seriously discussed with Matt; it was simply assumed. Female Lemurians joined the Navy, after all.)
The woman gave only the one cry, but stood ready to bolt, staring at Lawrence, her dark, pretty face contorted by an expression of terror.
“Don’t run, scared lady,” Lawrence said as softly as he could. “I not eat you!”
“Yes, please!” Sandra said. “He’s a friend! Perfectly ah . . . tame.” Sandra immediately regretted the inappropriate term. Lawrence wasn’t an animal. She hoped he wasn’t offended. “Do you understand?”
The woman assumed a doubtful expression, but some of the tension left her. “Course I do. Yer speakin’ ainglish, ain’t ye?”
Sandra was taken aback by the weird, almost-Cockney accent coming from what looked like a Polynesian princess. “Why, yes I am.”
“An’ he ain’t a dee-min, then? Looks loik a dee-min, er divil!”
“He’s neither, I assure you. He’s my good friend, and a friend of Princess Rebecca McDonald, daughter of the Governor-Emperor. His name’s Lawrence, and mine’s Sandra Tucker. What’s yours?”
The woman began to relax, but seemed to realize how brusquely she’d spoken to someone she shouldn’t even have addressed where she came from. She almost fled again, but maybe the lectures had gotten through, and she went to one knee and bowed her head instead. “Diania,” she whispered.
A burst of anger jolted Sandra. She hadn’t had a chance to visit the immigrant women, and now she knew she should’ve made time. The now-dead “Honorable New Britain Company” had long fostered a system of virtually perpetual indenture of women in the Empire to such a degree that even “free” women had little status. Matt had sent reports that seethed with his own disgust regarding the situation, and inflamed Sandra’s indignation, but this was her first real encounter with what he’d been talking about. “Stand up, Diania, and face me!” she demanded.
“Aye’m,” said the woman, and hastily stood, but kept her head bowed. She might have been slightly taller than Sandra if she stood straight, but Sandra wouldn’t press or berate her—yet.
“Remember,” she said more gently, “it’s different here than where you’re from. Soon, it’ll be different there,” sh
e swore. “You may always bow your head as a sign of respect, if you choose, but never kneel to anyone!” She gestured ahead. “Lawrence and I were just heading back to Navy headquarters—to deliver the mail.” She smiled. “Would you care to walk with us?”
“Ah . . .” Diania said, teetering, but nodded. “Aye’m, if ye wouldnae mind. P’raps ye may halp me wi’ me thoughts.”
“Of course,” Sandra said, encouraged. Together, the trio resumed walking. “Maybe you’d like some advice about what to do next?” she guessed.
“Aye’m,” Diania mumbled. “I labored in tha Comp’ny repair yard on Respite. I’m a carpentress by trainin’.” She held out her small hands, proudly displaying the calluses. “I kin go ta the Manilly shipyard fer work, but I know naught aboot Baalkpan.” She seemed amazed she had a choice to go there.
“It’s much the same,” Sandra said. “Not quite as large, and surrounded by thicker forests. Hotter too. But there’s more innovation, more experimentation. It’s becoming more iron and steel oriented, however. I suspect the machine shops are the finest in the world and the foundries are probably beginning to rival anything in the Empire.” There was still much steel being salvaged from sunken Amagi in the bay, but Commander Brister had Baalkpan’s first Bessemer process foundries turning out real steel now as well. He had both open hearth and electric arc blast furnaces to play with.
Diania looked dubious. She knew little about metals, except some made better tools than others.
Sandra suddenly smiled inwardly. “Of course, you could join the Navy. They’re always looking for good carpenter’s mates,” she said in a casual tone.
That afternoon, many gathered at the “Buzzard’s Roost” to witness the departure of the PB-2. Lieutenant Mackey and Sergeant Cecil Dixon would be making the trip to Baalkpan, leaving Orrin Reddy to go east with Sandra and Task Force Maaka-Kakja. Sister Audry, the Dominican nun who’d endured the same captivity, travails, and terrors as those abducted by the criminal Billingsley, was going back to Baalkpan too, along with Sa’aaran “scouts” and Abel Cook. Now that it was time to go, Abel was reluctant to leave despite the exciting mission that awaited him. He had a fair-size, long-standing crush on Princess Rebecca, and there was no telling when he’d see her again. Sandra, Rebecca, and Captain Lelaa hugged Audry, and Tex, Laumer, Lawrence, and Midshipman Brassey gave her respectful salutes. Audry smiled wistfully, then made her way carefully into the cramped fuselage. The ground crew scampered out on the broad wing and spun the dorsal engine until it coughed to life.
“Now all that remains is that ridiculous Dennis Silva,” Rebecca said. Her tone belied the words. She was sorry to see Abel go, and wasn’t at all happy Dennis was leaving. Drooped across her shoulders was a small, strange, brightly colored, feathery reptile named Petey, who’d adopted the princess on Shikarrak Island. He had membranous wings of a sort, and though he couldn’t fly, he could glide considerable distances. He also had a very foul mouth since he could imitate speech like a parrot—and some of the first words he’d heard were spoken by Dennis Silva. His vocabulary had improved somewhat, as had his possible understanding of the significance of a word or two. The only word he was known to understand entirely was “eat.”
“Rid-culus Silva!” the creature chirped, acting suspiciously as if looking for the man.
“Here I am, you little creep!” boomed a voice.
“Creep!” Petey screeched. “Goddamn!”
“Shush now, dear,” Rebecca said, stroking the little lizardy head. Her tone became more severe when she saw Silva bowling through the crowd. “Here you are at last! Everyone is waiting for you!” She paused, almost speechless. “What on earth have you been doing?” she finally managed. Silva was literally covered from head to foot with thick, dark grease.
“Uh . . . well, I was over at the bearing works, helpin’ some ’Cats play machinist, see? Somethin’ happened, an’ . . . we had us a calammitus grease-packin’ dee-zaster. Well, I realized the time, an’ figgered I better light along here before I was listed AWOL an’ hanged.” He held up a tiny rag. “I’ll wipe this goop off on the way. It’ll give me somethin’ to do.”
“Silva . . . you’re . . . indescribable.” Sandra giggled.
“Aw shucks. Thanks,” he said with his lopsided, signature grin, which always made Sandra a bit nervous. “Seems ever’body’s always either wantin’ me hanged, or heapin’ me with praise!”
“Or grease,” Laumer inserted.
Silva opened his arms wide and advanced toward Rebecca. “Gimme a hug, li’l sis!”
The princess backed away. “I will not! Go away this instant, you filthy beast!”
Dennis shrugged, then turned to Sandra and the others and snapped a sharp, greasy salute. “So long,” he said. “Don’t never say I didn’t warn ya, when vicious sea monsters is pullin’ yer ships down to doom, the beer’s too warm, and ever’thing’s goin’ awry ’cause ol’ Silva ain’t there to save the day!” He darted for the plane, and just before he vanished through the tiny hatch, he tossed something at the water, but it took a wrong bounce on the dock and rolled to a stop on the wooden planks.
Its last passenger aboard, the ground crew spun the outboard props and scurried back to the pier. With the newly started engines at idle, the strange seaplane wallowed away and made for a clearing in the harbor traffic.
“He is a spiteful, senseless beast,” Rebecca said sternly, tears streaking her face.
“Yes, he is,” Sandra agreed with a small smile. Brassey had gone to retrieve whatever it was Silva tossed. He brought it to them, carefully unwadding a sheet of paper. “It would seem Mr. Silva got some mail as well,” Sandra observed, taking the page. “I probably shouldn’t read it.” She did.
Lughead:
Now you’re not dead anymore, Mr. Riggs say’s you’re coming home.
I know you won’t want to, probably because something needs doing, but I miss you so bad. Risa’s gone, you’re gone, and I’m stuck here all alone. Our whole little family has fallen apart. You’re MINE, you big goon, and if you skip out on me, I swear I’ll marry that stump Laney, just to spite you.
Love and lots of kisses,
Pam
She wished she hadn’t. The reference to Risa still didn’t prove or disprove any of the theories regarding that part of the . . . relationship, but Pam’s feelings were clear, and Sandra’s heart went out to the nurse from Brooklyn. She also had the strangest feeling Pam Cross probably shouldn’t have claimed ownership of Dennis Silva. She looked at the curious faces around her and quickly wadded the note back into a ball, then tossed it into the sea.
CHAPTER 5
Grik Madagascar
“General of the Sea,” Hisashi Kurokawa, once ruler of Amagi, the magnificent Japanese Imperial battle cruiser, and now “High Councilor” to the Celestial Mother of all the Grik, peered intently through the crude iron bars at the drama unfolding in the cell. Inside, a female Grik of the lowest class, a “broodmare” for those Hij responsible for overseeing field labor (there were no female Hij outside the royal household), lay curled in a corner, smeared with her own blood and filth. She was larger than almost any male he’d seen; fatter, and with less formidable personal “weaponry.” She wasn’t half as massive as the Celestial Mother, of course, but she probably weighed four hundred pounds. She hadn’t moved for quite some time, but he knew she was alive because of the whimpering. Despite his attempt at complete, clinical objectivity, he couldn’t suppress the primor- dial thrill the pitiful sound stirred within him. Good, he thought. At least I haven’t gone mad.
He wasn’t there to enjoy the creature’s torment, however, but to observe the results of an experiment he’d arranged with the cooperation of the “Chooser,” an ominous, ghastly Grik he loathed, but whose assistance was necessary for the validation of Kurokawa’s new theory. The Chooser was the ultimate arbiter of life and death, short of his sovereign, in all the Grik Empire. There were other “choosers”; many more. There were a few in each province of ev
ery regency. But as the chooser for the Celestial Palace, in the very household of the Giver of Life, this one was known only as the Chooser. Though reluctant at first, now he understood that Kurokawa’s grand scheme didn’t threaten his position or status, the Chooser had become the former Japanese officer’s greatest patron at court, beyond even Regent Tsalka and General Esshk. Kurokawa was pleased by that, though the malignant monster’s growing familiarity—and even overtures of friendship!—appalled him. But a happy Chooser was a powerful ally indeed in the great, twisted game Hisashi Kurokawa played. A year ago, he’d faced a hideous death. Now he had the ear of the most powerful being alive. He munched a cracker and stared through the bars. So far, the test was going well.
The “broodmare” (it actually helped Kurokawa to think of her thus, to keep his . . . enjoyment to a minimum), moaned, and haltingly reached out to caress one of the hatchlings that slid from its protective stance on her flank. It hissed at her, but as had been demanded, she tentatively tried again. This time, the small, downy bundle of needlelike teeth and claws allowed the gentle touch, but immediately hopped back to its place on her flank—disdainful of its claws—and resumed its militant pose. There were five other hatchlings just like it there. Across the cell, as far as they could get from the female and “her” young, three more hatchlings raced back and forth, clacking and skittering on the stone floor with their claws. Occasionally, one squeaked a petulant snarl at its nest-mates that seemed determined to deny them a meal. On the floor between the warring gangs lay the savaged carcasses of eight young: two “defenders” and six “attackers.” Kurokawa had duly noted the statistics. “Fascinating,” he muttered.
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