Rising Tides: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “That bad?” asked Matt. “What makes folks so pessimistic?”

  Gray cleared his throat. “Well, ah, as we suspected, there’s been scouts down watchin’ you and the commodore prancin’ around on the ship, practicin.’ Lots of folks think you’d do well ... with a lot more practice. But the word is you’re too, ah, ‘predictable.’ Too worried about form ...” He shrugged. “Sorry, sir. Like I always say, too much calf slobber’ll spoil the pie.”

  Matt frowned. “That’s okay, Boats. I’ll give ’em a show, whatever they think.”

  “That’s the spirit, sir! You’ve been in worse scrapes before.”

  Matt nodded thoughtfully. He had. “Who’d you bet on?”

  “You, of course.” He glared at Jenks. “Penny-pinchin’ devil didn’t give me enough money to do it up right, and he demanded fifty percent of my winnings too!”

  “It was a risky wager,” Jenks reminded him. He paused. “The good thing is, your opponent will likely ‘stretch it out.’ He’s a ‘professional,’ and makes his living at this. He’ll want to make it look good; provide a ‘spectacle.’ That should give you plenty of time to practice your new, ‘predictable’ style against him.” He stopped. “Please excuse me,” he said, stepping away to meet his wife, waiting behind the rope line. They saw him cradle her chin with his hand.

  “Weird duck,” Stites pronounced, fiddling with a tarp-covered crate they’d sent up the day before. “All of ’em. Weird ducks. Treat wimmen like pets, or worse, but Jenks does love that gal. I wonder if he ‘bought’ her.”

  “I sorta loved a dog once,” Gray grumbled. “Damn fine bitch. Even so, my mother woulda cased me out if I treated a woman like I did that dog.” He paused. “Skipper, are we even sure this is our fight? We got women now—though I ain’t personally—and a hell of a fight all our own, a long way from here. I know we wanna save our girls, and even Silva, but ... well, you know as well as I do that’s ... probably out of our hands.” It was the closest anyone had come to actually saying the hostages were probably lost with Ajax. “We still need to kill the Company and that’s a fact, but ... this is a lot bigger than that now.”

  Matt looked at the Bosun, but for an instant he was seeing the face of Don Hernan, and remembering that ... twisted interview. He was personally convinced that the “Blood Cardinal” was up to his neck in whatever was going on, though he still didn’t know how.

  “You’re right,” he said. “This is way bigger than that. But it is our fight because we’re here.” He snorted. “Hell, Boats, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two years, since Pearl Harbor: fighting the war we’re at. I’m not saying we need another war, or even that I like this Imperial setup much, but I have started to like the people. Some of ’em. Right now I think they need us ... and damn it, we need them. That Don Hernan gives me the creeps worse than the first Griks I ever saw. In a way, he and his Dominion strike me as even worse than the Grik because they’re people that act the way they do. And this Reed and the Company ...” He shook his head in exasperation. “Hell, I don’t even try to calculate ‘shades of gray’ anymore. There’s just too many. All we can do is try to look underneath them all to see if we can find the basic black or white, good or bad. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I can’t help feeling that if we quit trying to find good folks on this world, even if we run into more bad ones while we’re at it, we might as well steam back to Baalkpan and wait for the Grik to return and finish us off.”

  Gray nodded slowly, staring out at the dueling ground. “Aye, sir. Maybe so. I sure would like to get me one of them gals and spend a year or two retired before I croak, though.”

  Stites rolled his eyes. “S.B., if you ever ‘retired,’ we’d be buryin’ you from boredom in a week.”

  Horns sounded, and the combatants moved to face one another across the field. It had been decided that the contests would be simultaneous. Despite the gladiatorial atmosphere, the layout of the dueling ground itself reminded Matt of a football stadium in a forest. The architecture was surprisingly familiar, and the thick woods of Imperial Park surrounding the grounds were unlike anything Matt had ever seen on the “old” islands. They looked more like pines. The spectators on one side occupied an expansive set of wooden bleachers, built around the Imperial viewing box. The Governor-Emperor stood in his box with Andrew and a number of military officers. All were dressed in their Sunday best and wore impassive expressions, but it was clear whose side they were on. The bleachers around them thundered with noise, the accumulated effect of perhaps four thousand voices talking at once.

  There was a stark contrast between that and the “opposing” bleachers. Don Hernan occupied that box, surrounded by a phalanx of priests and a few local clergy. Matt was surprised to learn that the Empire allowed Blood Priests of the Holy Dominion to preach on its soil, but it did. Only those of the English Church enjoyed full citizenship, but vestiges of Hinduism and Mohammadism still lingered as well.

  “Oh, that’s done it,” Jenks said aside to him as they strode forward. He sounded stunned.

  “What?”

  “Look there.” Jenks pointed. Joining Don Hernan in the opposing box was Harrison Reed himself, followed by a large entourage. Many of the spectators on that side hissed and grumbled and began to get up and leave, apparently outraged, making their way to the opposite bleachers. “Good God, we were right! Reed’s declared himself!”

  “Why wouldn’t he be on that side?” Matt asked. “You represent the Governor-Emperor and your argument’s with Reed.”

  “That may be how it seems, my friend, but that’s not exactly how it is. Technically, ‘on the field,’ I represent only myself. That’s why, close as we admittedly are, His Majesty has taken no official notice. Reed should be—normally would be—watching from the same box as the Governor-Emperor, pretending to be his very best friend. By standing with Don Hernan, he has made this a political fight. Worse, he’s declared himself against the Governor-Emperor and with Don Hernan! See? Even much of the Company baggage is clearing from the opposing stands! For the most part, nobody hates the Doms worse than the Company! Even Billingsley despised them! Called them ‘Roman Witches and Freaks.’ ”

  “Then ... I’m more confused than ever. Why work together? Why would Reed stand with them?”

  “They work together for ‘the Trade,’ the commerce in people that you hate so much. It’s the Dominion’s cheapest, most plentiful resource and the Company’s most lucrative commodity. Otherwise, the Company and the Dominion couldn’t be further apart—I see you don’t understand, but we don’t have time to go into economics. Suffice to say for now that they hate one another. Up ’til now, they needed one another more.”

  “What’s changed? Why would Reed show his hand?”

  “Everything’s changed. We were right, it will be today. Reed has chosen his side and thinks he’s safe to do so. Stop here.”

  “Well ... that’s nuts. Won’t he be arrested, for treason or something?”

  “Just as soon as our little ‘entertainment’ is over,” Jenks swore.

  They’d reached the center of the field and the now much larger “home” crowd cheered lustily. An announcer was introducing them with a speaking trumpet, but Matt couldn’t hear the words.

  “And in This corner,” Matt muttered to himself as their opponents strode to meet them. The slick-haired man was dressed much as he’d been that night a week before. His lips still bore heavy scabs and his crooked grin was missing a couple of teeth. He moved like the professional he was, but his eyes glinted with hatred and anticipation—as though he expected to enjoy this chore.

  “What?” Jenks asked.

  “Skip it. Who’s your guy?”

  “I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t even know ‘my’ guy’s name. Will we say ‘hello,’ or just ‘come out swinging’?”

  “We won’t say ‘hello.’ ”

  “We’ll just start hacking away at each other, perfect strangers?”

 
Jenks sighed. “As soon as the Imperial Marshal inspects our weapons, reads the complaint, and gives the signal, yes. Now please stop distracting me and concentrate on what you must do!”

  Matt smirked. He supposed he should be nervous, but his mind was already far beyond the moment, worrying about everything else going on. Somehow, he couldn’t escape the suspicion he was missing something. He knew he had to focus, or all that other stuff very shortly wouldn’t matter to him anymore. Like the others, he submitted his sword for inspection and half listened to the various complaints and the Rules of Combat. Jenks had gone over the rules with him pretty carefully. Finally, the marshal stepped back and held a kerchief high, fluttering in the morning breeze. There was a hush in the stands.

  “What’s your name?” Matt blurted at the slick-haired man. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was a final, subconscious attempt to think of him as a man. His opponent seemed taken aback, but sneered as best he could around his broken lips.

  “Does it ’atter? You’ll soon be dead.”

  Matt shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t after all.”

  The kerchief dropped.

  Lieutenant Fred Reynolds knew he was on an important mission, and he was suitably serious about it, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the stunning view presented by the early-morning spectacle of the New Britain Isles. He’d never flown above the Hawaiian Islands before. He’d never flown at all before he entered Ben Mallory’s Air Corps, but he knew he’d made the right decision. Ever since they came to this world, he’d just been a seaman, the last of Walker’s original crew who hadn’t advanced, or even struck for anything. He’d gained a lot of experience as a talker, but that was all he’d ever really been. Now he was an aviator, a pilot, an officer; and all he’d really done was finally pick something to do that didn’t scare him or bore him. Sure, sometimes he was scared of flying, particularly when somebody was shooting at him, but he wasn’t afraid of the idea of flying, and even with the improved ships, it was never boring.

  Comm was boring. Constantly listening for messages that never came. He’d had a taste of that, and couldn’t stand it. That was Kari-Faask’s job on the plane—along with all her other jobs—and he didn’t envy her that one at all. She seemed to like it, though, and probably would have liked it better on the ship or ashore. She was no coward—cowardice didn’t run in her family—but her courage was of a more sensible nature than the great Haakar-Faask’s. Probably more sensible than Fred’s—and she hadn’t ever shot any holes in their own airplane either. Their pairing made better sense all the time, to Reynolds’s mind. He was the increasingly “hotshot” pilot who took their little ship where it needed to go, and had a real feel for takeoffs and landings on the water. She was the workmanlike side of the team, diligently doing her duty, monitoring the receiver, and constantly scanning for the things they’d been sent to look for.

  It was no surprise to Reynolds, then, when her tinny voice reached him from the speaking tube, interrupting his enjoyment of the sense of being the very first person ever to view these new islands from the air, as well as simply appreciating the sharp, almost chilly air. They were on the second leg of their pattern, flying northwest along the coast between Scapa Flow and New Glasgow. Ever efficient, Kari had made an observation and monitored a transmission at the same time.

  “Surface target, bearing two three zero,” she said, and Fred looked to his left. Sure enough, there were shapes to the southwest, sails, lots of sails, coming from a direction Jenks had said no large Imperial force was operating. Either that was Walker’s Allied resupply or it was bad guys. It was that simple.

  “Transmit the position of the target,” Fred said, a rush of heat at the back of his neck, despite the altitude. Uh-oh. He’d seen enough sails from the air now to begin to recognize whose they were, just by their shape. These were even easier to identify. They were red. The Grik used red paint on their hulls, but nobody he knew had red sails except that Dominion dispatch boat. Jenks had said the Dominion sometimes used red sails for official vessels—and warships. It had to do with their screwy, bloodsucking version of Catholicism, or something. The heat at the back of his neck turned to ice. “Ah, send that we’re going to investigate the target,” he added, banking left.

  “Fred,” came Kari’s voice, “I also got a weak signal from Respite, maybe bounced off sky. They pass along message out of Maa-ni-la, passed from somebody ... anyway, it is general alarm.” She paused. Her voice sounded more concerned than it had over possible enemy action.

  “Well, what is it?” Reynolds demanded.

  “Talaud blow up. Everybody saying it ‘pull Kraak-aa-toaa,’ but worse. What that mean? Signal say Min-daanao—Paga-Daan—gone. Tarakaan, maybe even Baalkpan, Sembaakpaan, Sular, Respite, Saamir—all land places—maybe get big gaararro, ah, ‘tidal wash.’ ”

  “Holy smoke!” Fred remembered that Kari was land folk from Aryaal. Big waves meant a lot more to them than they did to sea folk. Like everyone in the Navy, though, he’d heard tales of Krakatoa and what followed its eruption—ships carried miles inshore and left high and dry with no survivors. It was the boogeyman of natural disasters. Where Talaud was, Mindanao probably did get hammered. Still, he couldn’t imagine anything making a wave big enough to threaten Tarakan, much less Baalkpan or Respite. “Settle down, it’ll be fine. Just transmit the warning and let’s pay attention to what we’ve got here.” He’d steadied up on a heading toward the strangers and was beginning to descend. “I’d say they’re definitely Dominion ships,” he added grimly. “Get the word to Mr. Steele; the Skipper was right.”

  Commander Frankie Steele was standing on Walker’s bridge, hands behind his back, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. The church bells of Scapa Flow were pealing in the morning air, echoing cacophonously through the streets and alleys. Chack and O’Casey were forming the Marines on the dock as if for inspection, and the few port marshals and Company wardens left watching the ship were growing uneasy over this unexpected and unannounced activity. Blair was double-timing a company of Marines through the harbor district, and their “shore shoes” thundered in time with the ringing bells. The marshals and wardens didn’t know what was happening; it looked at first like the Marines were coming to force the “ape folk” back aboard the strange steamer—but there were a few Imperial Marines mixed with the “apes”! When Blair’s Marines arrived fully on the scene, and the lieutenant advanced and saluted Chack, all the civilian guards fled in confusion.

  Ed Palmer dashed onto Walker’s bridge with a sheet of yellow Imperial paper in his hand. “It’s here,” he said, pale.

  Frankie snatched the message away and quickly scanned it. He worried about the report concerning Talaud—the ship’s receiver hadn’t caught it—but that wasn’t pertinent to them here, now. “They are going for it,” he said, almost amazed. Somehow he just hadn’t imagined he would really have to step into the Skipper’s shoes and fight the Skipper’s ship. ‘The whole damn enchilada!” he continued, looking up at Spanky. “Reynolds reports a ‘large’ enemy force making for Scapa Flow! He got close enough to identify ten Dominion battlewagons, or ‘liners,’ ten more ships like we call frigates, and what looks like a couple o’ dozen transports.” His brow furrowed. “He says only the transports are steamers, though, an’ they’re hangin’ back. That’s weird.” He shrugged. “Prob’ly mean to poke a hole with the liners and punch the transports through, fast like.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” Spanky said.

  Frankie looked at him with a strange smile. “Sure you don’t wanna switch jobs?” he asked, a strange edge to his outwardly joking question.

  Spanky looked at him a moment, actually tempted. Frankie was usually steady as a rock, but he’d been through a lot, right from the start, aboard Mahan.

  “Naw, Frankie,” he said in a joking tone as well. “I got a job. Bashear’s already hangin’ around the auxiliary conn.” He paused. “Why don’t you sound GQ and get this show on the road? We can’t let ’e
m catch us in port like the Japs did at Pearl!”

  “Yah,” said Frankie, straightening. “Sound ‘general quarters’! Make all preparations for getting underway! Signal flags to the yards!” He looked at Palmer. “Send back to Mr. Reynolds that he can play dive bomber if he likes, but take care of that plane!” Reynolds’s Nancy had a dozen of Chack’s mortar bombs aboard, the same bombs other Nancys had dropped by hand in combat over Rangoon. Reynolds hadn’t been carrying any in the battle with the Company ships because they hadn’t expected a fight. Now he always carried a crate of bombs whenever he flew.

  The prearranged signal, “enemy in sight,” along with “southwest” as reported by the Nancy, rattled up Walker’s halyards, along with an attention-getting shriek from her whistle. Euripides and Tacitus, both commanded by close personal friends of Jenks, already had steam up, and they acknowledged the signal. Immediately, both ships also fired signal guns and ran up additions to their own “enemy in sight” flags, announcing confirmation of a “hostile fleet” southwest of Scapa Flow. Maybe a few other Imperial ships would take the hint. Walker, now free of the dock, belched smoke and churned forward, squatting down aft as her twin screws bit deep and threw up a churning white wake as she commenced a rapid starboard turn.

  Finny was on the starboard bridgewing. “The fort is flying signal!” he said. “It spell English, say ‘Amer-i-caan Ship Heave To or Be Fired On!”

  “The hell you say?” Kutas grunted at the wheel.

  “Signals!” Frankie shouted aft of the chart house. “Hoist: ‘Dom Invasion Fleet Headed Scapa Flow. No Shit!’ ” He paused. “Tell ’em if they shoot at us, we’ll let the bastards in,” he snarled. They waited in silence, the blower roaring behind the pilothouse, but the minutes ticked by and there was no change in the Imperial signal.