“We fight Grik!” Gin-Taaor bellowed with his fist in the air, and his folk roared even louder.
“No,” Adar said. He hadn’t shouted, but the simple word had the same effect. Gin-Taaor spoke harshly to his son, and Pukaa blinked questioningly at Adar.
“The High Chief asks why we not fight. We ‘aallies’ now, yes? Aallies fight together, not so? You make aallies with others here”—he waved at the Germans and ’Cats from the Republic—“to fight with you. Why not Laa-Laantis?”
“You are our allies, our very firm friends,” Adar assured, “but you are not warriors. I do not doubt your courage. The bones that frame your homes are proof enough that you can and will fight monstrous beasts, but the Grik are different. Far different.” He looked almost imploringly at Matt, then continued. “By the Heavens, I wish I could better explain, but I beg you to accept my word that before you can hope to fight the Grik, you must first learn how. We lost . . .” He glanced quickly at the sky. “We lost more people than are gathered on this entire island just learning to fight the Grik,” he explained softly, “and many who were not slain were horribly wounded.” He blinked great sadness. “In some battles—the times when we gather to fight—we lose more people than are gathered here in a single day even now, all because the enemy has changed how he fights and we must learn again. I would not—will not—allow your people here to suffer like that.” He gushed a sigh. “We will leave trainers here, and you can learn to fight if you wish. That is only right, in case the Grik ever find this place. Perhaps some few of you might even join us in distant battles someday, but not many, I . . . I beg you.” He forced a smile. “You are the last, you see. The very last of our people that we know of that remain unbloodied by this terrible war, and we would prefer to keep it that way.”
“But . . . if we are aallies, what will we do?” Pukaa demanded.
“What you have been doing,” Adar said. “And perhaps a bit more. Help us here. Work on the docks, unload ships and reload others. Repair ships, fuel them—things that many of your people have already volunteered and learned to do. More ships and troops will come this way, more supplies and weapons. With your people here, we do not need to bring forward more of those whose job it would be to help us as you have, which means we can bring more warriors to the fight!”
“We work, but not fight?” Pukaa asked doubtfully.
“In this war, those who work so others can fight perform as great a service as any. You have my word.” There was an uproar over this when Pukaa explained, but Adar continued. “If my word is not sufficient to convince you, consider the circumstances!” he said loudly, and the clamor died away. “My people were never warriors. . . . Few of us were, I should say,” he added, catching the firelit eyes of Safir Maraan. He gestured at Matt. “But the arrival of Cap-i-taan Reddy and his destroyermen aboard the swift, slender ship of iron changed that at precisely the right moment for us to defeat the first Grik tentacles that reached for us, and set the course that ultimately brought us here. I consider that no more a coincidence than any other great event I have described. He and his people prepared us for the task ahead, just as Kap-i-taan Von Melhausen and Becher Lange, and all the people of Amer-i-kaa have done for the Republic they serve.” He blinked irony. “Nor do I find coincidence in the name of that mighty ship—and the fact that ours is the Amer-i-caan Navy!” He shook his head. “There are forces at work here, upon our world, that I do not understand. His Excellency, Courtney Bradford, claims to have explanations based on science—a kind of learning—and he has come to deliver them tonight as well, but regardless of the various faiths that guide us, that we seek comfort and direction from, I am personally convinced that no ‘science’ can explain much, if any, of what I have said tonight.” He stared upward. “Science is a wonderful thing and it has helped us greatly; there is no doubt. But beyond science, beyond everything, I see the paths of the Heavens, directed by the Creator of All Things, and believe it is He who brought us all together with our ships, our warriors, our resolve; this land and its people”—he grinned at Courtney—“and our science, at this time, in this place, and for this purpose.” His voice rose again. “And that is why, with the help of all those gathered here, prepared to contribute in the ways they are best prepared, I am sure we will not fail!”
CHAPTER 12
“Where’d Courtney wind up?” Matt asked. He, Sandra, Chack, Safir, Becher Lange, and Chief Gray were walking on the sandy beach under the moonlight on the northeast shore of the island. As usual, Lieutenant Toryu Miyata was Lange’s virtual shadow, but he remained several paces back. He knew feelings among the new arrivals were mixed at best toward any Japanese, particularly after what Amagi had done, not to mention other recent events. But he trusted the tall German, and doubted he had much to fear from this group in any event. They believed he truly did have valuable information regarding their objective, and Lange had convinced them, with the tale of his arrival in the Republic and his role in bringing them here, that regardless of the past, Miyata was honor bound to the destruction of the Grik. For his part, Miyata was certain that this “Grand Alliance” shared that goal, and from what he’d learned of Captain Reddy before they even met—specifically the man’s command of the defense of Baalkpan against seemingly impossible odds—he couldn’t question Reddy’s honor.
The sea was calm, but the surf made a constant roar they had to speak over. Silva, Pack Rat, Doocy Meek, and a couple of Republic ’Cats tagged along behind, there to protect them in the unlikely event they should require it, but out of earshot.
“Braad-furd sulks,” Chack said, his tone thoughtful but subdued.
“He is drunk,” Safir added distastefully.
“He’s in a drunken sulk,” Gray confirmed.
“I don’t know what he expected,” Sandra said, almost wonderingly. “Especially after Adar’s speech. Courtney bounced up with that ridiculous sombrero on his head and started in about stuff I’m not even sure he understands. Did he expect everybody to just sit and listen raptly like he was addressing the Royal Society? Of course nobody was listening by then.”
“I was listening,” Matt said thoughtfully. “And so were you,” he told his wife. Sandra nodded uncomfortably. “So were a lot of people who give a damn,” Matt added, looking at Gray, Chack, and Safir in turn.
“I did not understand him,” Safir defended, “but Mr. Braad-furd is always interesting.”
“And just as often nutty as a forty-acre goober field,” Gray proclaimed, but without his usual conviction.
“Maybe,” Matt agreed, “and not all of what he said was new. He’s still convinced that whatever . . . phenomenon brings people here has something to do with electromagnetism and energy. Storm energy and a freaky squall in our case, I guess.” He nodded at Becher. “Maybe yours too.” Amerika had crossed over in a storm at night, unnoticed by her crew who were trying to save their battle-damaged ship. Matt paused and looked to the sea, his eyes scanning the silhouettes of the warships anchored offshore. There was Walker, lying dark and low.
“His invocation of the sun as a source for the energy was new,” Chack said, looking at Safir, “and it certainly captured the imagination of some.” The People of Aryaal and B’mbaado believed the sun was God. Safir blinked annoyance, but leaned tightly against her betrothed. She and Chack had made no formal announcement, as they’d once planned, but that no longer mattered after their long separation. It was now simply understood that they were and had always been bound to each other.
“Of course the sun affects the weather,” Gray grumbled. “Even Petey probably knows that.” He nodded at the fuzzy reptile draped around Sandra’s neck. The creature glared back with bright, moonlit eyes and burped. “So maybe he’s right,” Gray conceded. “But what about all that other stuff he went on about?” he prodded. “What the hell about that? Look, I get that this is a different world; I guess a whole different universe than the one we came from—that the Japs cha
sed us out of,” he added with a sour glance at Miyata. “I—all of us—figured that out a long time ago. An’ I’m not even sayin’ it’s a bad thing we wound up here.” His brows furrowed. “It was curtains for us in the Java Sea. But it was hard for me—for the fellas—to get a grip on the notion that there’s two, ah, ‘universes’ overlappin’ like this. Bein’ so much alike, but so different too, adds a whole other degree of weirdness, but that’s obviously the way it is. Now Bradford comes up with this new brainstorm that there ain’t just two ‘universes,’ but maybe gobs of ’em! That’s creepy as hell. It can’t be true, can it, Skipper? I mean, with swarms of screwy places folks could’ve come from, what else are we liable to run into? What if there’s some earth where Martians took over, an’ they’ve wound up here?”
Sandra covered a smile by rubbing her chin. “I don’t think you need to worry about Martians, Mr. Gray. If Mr. Bradford’s ‘radio metaphor’ is right, such a historically distinctive ‘frequency’ should not be received . . . here.”
“But what if they just now showed up?” Gray persisted.
“That’s enough, Boats,” Matt said sternly. He’d never seen Fitzhugh Gray flinch from anything, but everyone had his limit. Apparently, for Gray it was Martians. “Look,” he said more softly, looking at his old friend. “Speculation of that sort won’t do any good at all. We’ll keep dealing with whatever we run into, whatever it is. So Courtney threw out some possible answers. Maybe they helped, and maybe they just raised more questions, like Adar thought they might. It’s hard to explain, but I guess I do feel better.” He snorted. “It’s funny, but even if not much of what Bradford said made sense by itself, it all sort of made sense, if you know what I mean. There’s more than one head working on it now, so maybe he did make things less confusing in the long run. I particularly liked his radio comparison, when you think about all the similarities—and differences. Mr. Palmer must’ve helped him with that part, so maybe he can explain it better than Courtney did.”
With the existence of the Republic of Real People in hand, particularly the accounts of the odd diversity of histories incorporated there—everything from ancient Chinese explorers, Ptolemaic Egyptians, tenth-century Romans—and Lemurians, of course—Courtney Bradford had finally decided that this world was not only the dumping ground for the refuse of their old one, but it had somehow collected “specimens” from multiple earths over time. He remained convinced that a combination of electromagnetism and a titanic discharge of energy on a scale not easily imagined provided the actual mechanism of transportation but now believed this world was connected to the rest by means of something similar to radio. At least radio provided his metaphor. Essentially, “this” earth was a receiver, and all the worlds that fed it were transmitters of a sort. Most likely, the receiver was “tuned” to the “frequency” of the world the destroyermen left, at least at present, judging by the number of recent familiar “receptions.”
He proposed that it was possible that the frequency “hopped about” on occasion, allowing crossovers from “different” earths, but even then he believed it was more like one frequency “bleeding over” onto another. The tenth-century Romans who helped build the Republic were the most extreme example of this they’d encountered yet. Probably—and perhaps hopefully—wildly different histories, and the worlds they built, created frequencies on a different wavelength entirely—too different to cross over at all. He still didn’t know if this world was also a transmitter as well as a receiver, however, and the very stark differences between this world and the one they came from left a few gaping holes in his theory.
He had more, but by the time he reached that point in his presentation, he realized he’d largely lost his audience. He almost petulantly bid everyone a good night and scurried quickly to where the barrels of seep and beer had been brought ashore. Little was seen of him after that, so no one could get him to expand on his theory, but what he’d said was enough.
Matt appraised Becher Lange. “But you kind of knew all this stuff already, didn’t you, Mr. Lange? Different worlds with different histories. That’s the only explanation for the way things have wound up in your Republic. I studied history a little,” Matt admitted, slightly self-conscious, as usual. “Our history,” he amended, “and I have to wonder if time affects the adjustment of Courtney’s ‘frequencies’ to some extent. It does seem—sometimes,” he cautioned, “that the further back in history you go, the bigger the differences are. But even as ‘close together’ as we came through, my ships and yours, just twenty-five years or so, there’re differences. For example, you said your Amerika fought Mauretania hammer and tongs before you wound up here.” Becher nodded and Matt shook his head, staring back at his ship. “Two elegant ocean liners, armed with a few guns and fighting it out. It must’ve been a sight.” He looked back at Lange. “The only thing is, in my history, it never happened. Sure, Mauretania was converted to an auxiliary cruiser, but Amerika was in the States when the Great War started, and stayed there until the States jumped in in 1917. After that, she was seized and converted to a troopship.” He smiled apologetically at Lange. “She still was one, last I heard, but she never fought for the Kaiser.”
Becher said nothing for a long moment, but then spoke in a falsely cheerful tone. “In that case, Kapitan Reddy, we may as well assume that our countries at least, from our apparently separate worlds, never did go to war. So we need not concern ourselves with any lingering animosities, no?”
Matt smiled and extended his hand. “Not against each other, anyway. The Grik are another matter.”
“Ja,” Lange said, and took Matt’s hand.
“But that only confirms Courtney’s theory!” Sandra said, frustration seeping into her tone. “I seriously doubt you had descendants of tenth-century Romans in the world you came from, Mr. Lange.”
“No,” Becher agreed. “We did not. Yet they are here. And though I do not know ‘radio,’ I understand the ‘frequencies’ Herr Bradford described. His is a rather elegant interpretation of much that has puzzled our people, in fact. The Republic has its history, but the histories of many of those who found themselves there over time do not always agree, and we have long suspected the existence of multiple, ah, sources. Herr Bradford has finally described one way by which those various sources might converge.” He smiled, but his lips were hidden by the gray-black beard and the darkness. “Personally, that makes me feel better as well. I have always been more interested in the how than the why. I am an engineer, after all.”
“‘Why’ still bugs the hell out of me,” Gray grumbled, “but I ain’t an engineer.”
“Perhaps there is no ‘why,’ only a ‘how,’” Chack said suddenly. “Or perhaps Chairman Adar explained it best before Mr. Braad-furd even spoke.” He looked at the puzzled expressions, grinned, and flicked his tail. “Could it not be that the ‘how’ and ‘why’ are both the work of the Maker after all?”
They digested that for a time as they walked, and though many questions still plagued their minds, perhaps Adar’s was the best explanation. They might never discover all the hows and whys for sure, but the Grik remained, and they were very real. For now they must focus on that.
“Lieutenant Miyata,” Matt said at last, “will you join us, please?”
Miyata trotted forward. “Of course, Captain Reddy. What may I do for you?”
“Help us when we hit Madagascar,” Matt said simply, “but there’s something I thought you”—he nodded at the others—“all of you, should know.” He frowned. “General Alden’s latest dispatch has me a little concerned.” By the clipped tension in his words, that was clearly an understatement. “I won’t go into all the details, but it now seems possible, maybe even likely, we didn’t get Kurokawa after all.”
Sandra gasped, and Gray took a breath and straightened.
“Lieutenant Miyata told you about Kurokawa?” Matt asked Lange, and the German nodded grimly. “Well, in spite of everyt
hing, Pete Alden believes the slimy bastard might’ve slipped through our fingers. Again.” He looked quizzically at Miyata. “You don’t mind my calling the ‘General of the Sea’ a ‘slimy bastard,’ do you, Lieutenant?”
“No, Captain Reddy. I consider him worse in Japanese, but I do not have the words to call him such in English.”
“Fine. But the point is, if he is alive, he’s still got some powerful ships and maybe even an army of sorts. In addition, he’s apparently on the outs with the Grik. What do you think he’ll do?”
Miyata considered. “Sir,” he said at last, “Hisashi Kurokawa is quite mad. He is . . . evil mad. I fear that if he has those things and anywhere secure to take them, he will become even more unpredictable, and perhaps even more dangerous.”
Matt nodded grimly. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
Commander Simon Herring, chief of Strategic Intelligence, and watch standing “supernumerary” bridge officer, returned early aboard USS Walker from the party ashore. A few entirely sober Lemurian sailors had hitched a ride in the motor whaleboat so they’d be back in time for their watches. They’d conversed quietly in their own tongue, largely about Courtney Bradford’s strange theory, from what Herring could pick up, but they didn’t speak to him. That was just as well. When Herring ascended the accommodation ladder and saluted the Lemurian OOD, he was relieved there were no other humans in sight. Quickly, he descended the companionway under the bridge overhang and made his way to the wardroom. Juan Marcos was in there, supervising a Lemurian assistant fussing with the plates in the cabinets, but other than a curious nod, Juan paid him no mind. Herring stifled an instinctive reprimand, reminding himself that Walker was no Pacific Fleet battleship moored in Pearl Harbor before the war, or even his more familiar office in Washington. Regardless of how much he’d endured in China, the Philippines, and in Japanese hands, however, he still found the casual approach to military courtesy aboard this ship somewhat jarring. He shook it off. This was Juan’s domain, as surely as the engineering spaces belonged to Lieutenant Tab-At. And given Herring’s ambiguous status aboard, he was content not to draw too much attention. Picking up a cup, he poured himself some of the vile fluid masquerading as coffee and retreated back down the short passageway. Pushing a green curtain aside, he entered the cramped, starboard-side stateroom he shared with Bernie Sandison and found Lance Corporal Ian Miles already there. The China Marine was reclining on a metal chair, looking at one of Bernie’s many sketches of torpedo components, his feet up on the small writing desk. Herring suppressed another surge of irritation, but it must have shown on his face. Reluctantly, Miles lowered his feet to the deck, but he didn’t stand.
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