It would be more than just a title. Matt knew chiefs had their own culture, almost like an exclusive fraternity one never really left even if they received commissions. With all the Lemurian “chiefs” entering the fold, it was probably time for that growing fraternity to have some form of “supreme authority” of its own before they made up too many new, wacky rules. The age-old, traditional strife between the deck (ape) divisions and the engineering (snipe) divisions served a purpose, but Matt could see things getting out of hand as time went by—as things became more dominated by the very literal-minded Lemurians. The last thing they needed was an equivalent to warring labor unions aboard Navy ships! Gray could lay down the law and establish firm traditions everyone would respect—while making sure the chiefs maintained that unifying brotherhood that made them so effective at not only controlling their divisions and getting along with one another, solving little problems aboard ship before they became big enough that officers had to “notice” them, and frankly, culling poor performers from their own ranks.
“Oil’s a fine thing,” Gray grumbled, “but I’m just as happy to see those new steam frigates, or ‘DDs’ I guess they’re callin’ ’em.” He seemed unhappy with the term. “What are their names?”
Matt looked through his binoculars. “They’re flying their numbers, so I guess the one to leeward of Salaama-Na is Mertz, named for our old
“A hell of a thing,” Gray snorted. “Get killed servin’ sammitches, and they name a destroyer after you!” He looked at the surprised expressions. “Not that I’m against it! Besides, it’ll be a hoot to see how Lanier reacts! Mertz deserves a statue for puttin’ up with that nasty, bloated bastard so long.” Earl Lanier was Walker’s unpopular cook, and Ray Mertz had been his long-suffering assistant. “What’s the other one?”
“She’s Tindal,” Matt replied grimly. “They launched her in Maa-ni-la as Lelaa, but when they found out Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan wasn’t dead after all, they named her after Miami.” “Miami” Tindal had been Walker’s chief engineer during the recent action at Scapa Flow. Matt’s face became an unreadable contrast of sadness and barely suppressed . . . glee. Their allies in the Fil-pin Lands had also discovered that Nurse Lieutenant and “Minister of Medicine” Sandra Tucker—the woman Matt loved—had also survived a terrible ordeal. Ironically, it was her abduction, along with that of others, that brought Walker and her crew so far from where Sandra was ultimately found—and embroiled the Grand Alliance in yet another war. Sandra, Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald, Sister Audry, Abel Cook, Midshipman Stuart Brassey, the “ex”-Tagranesi “Lawrence,” and the . . . inimitable . . . Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva had all been rescued by the remnants of “Task Force Laumer.” Incredibly, the battered submarine that Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had been sent to salvage had endured grounding, a year on an island beach, and ultimately a colossal volcanic eruption and tidal wave, before finding the important castaways adrift in the Fil-pin Sea along with seventy-odd survivors of Lawrence’s Grik-like people.
“Tindal’s a good name,” Spanky said at last, breaking the awkward silence that ensued.
“Yes, it is,” Matt agreed. “So’s Mertz. Ray was a good kid, and making sandwiches in the middle of a fight probably takes more guts than shooting at the enemy.”
Walker continued her sprint toward the approaching squadron. All the ships, except Salaama-Na and the two Imperials, Ulysses and Icarus, were flying the Stars and Stripes—the flag of the American Navy and everyone, Lemurians included, who’d joined that “clan.” Matt directed Walker’s speed be reduced to one-third, and had the ship’s whistle sounded in greeting. A gout of white steam gushed from the whistle, emitting a throbbing, bass shriek. The greeting was answered by similar tones from Tindal and Mertz, whose whistles were copies of Walker’s, and by higher-pitched toots from Ulysses and Icarus. The Imperial frigates also loosed an exuberant, thundering broadside in salute.
“I wish old Harvey Jenks was here to see this!” Gray said. Again, he noticed surprised stares. He and the Imperial commodore got along fine now, but there’d been a time when they hated each other. Jenks couldn’t come today because he’d been across the island for several days, coordinating civil and naval preparations in Edinburgh for the upcoming campaign against the rebels and “Holy Dominion” forces on New Ireland. He was due back, and would likely be in Scapa Flow by the time the ships made port.
“I just meant, you know, that big ’Cat Home is a hell of a sight and . . . well, our fightin’ ships are prettier than his!” he defended. Everyone in the pilothouse laughed.
At a much reduced speed, which left her skinny, round-bottomed hull wallowing sickeningly in the swells, ize="3"escorted the new arrivals into the Imperial Home Fleet port of Scapa Flow. Sufficient space for Salaama-Na had reluctantly been set aside by an incredulous harbormaster, who’d disbelieved her described dimensions. He’d been told by Matt and Jenks that the thousand-foot vessel simply wouldn’t fit in the otherwise-generous dock space allocated to “American” ships, not if Walker, Simms, Tindal, and Mertz were to have a place. At least the huge Home wouldn’t need the space for long; only until she off-loaded her cargo of replacements, prefabricated tank batteries, and the heavy machinery sent to support the Allied presence there. She’d then moor away from the dock, as was customary with ships her size, until Sor-Lomaak decided to leave.
All Scapa Flow turned out to see the arrival. Everyone loved to see Walker underway, and this was the first time she’d moved other than to “switch sides” at the dock to facilitate repairs since the battle that saved the Empire from a quick Dominion victory. Still, today she was only part of the attraction. By order of the Governor-Emperor, the massive harbor forts bellowed a welcoming salute with their heavy guns. This was answered by each arriving ship; a few shots from the light guns on the oilers, creditable broadsides from the returning Imperial frigates, sharper, fewer, louder, reports from the “American” frigates, and a massive, rolling, booming roar from Salaama-Na’s new fifty-pounders. All was punctuated by a perfect four-gun salvo from the sleek gray destroyer. Whistles shrieked and bells rang, and lizard birds and flocks of colorful parrots swirled in the air over the harbor.
The American frigates were a hit with their clean lines unmarred by paddle wheels and with the distinctive contrast of the white paint against the dark hulls between their gunports. Like Walker and Simms, they were oil burners, and they didn’t produce the black, choking plumes of sooty smoke as Imperial steamers did. Ultimately, however, even though she wasn’t technically a warship, Salaama-Na was the focus of attention. In a way, she represented a primitive technology. She moved primarily by sail alone. Only at times like this, when confined in restrictive waters, did her hundred massive—but even more primitive—sweep oars come out to propel and shift her closer to the dock. But she also represented a native sophistication inherent among the Imperial’s new Lemurian allies that predated human contact. Some of the old journals and logs of the “Founders,” the crews of the ancient “East Indiamen” that went among the distant “ape folk” after the “Passage” to this world, hinted they possessed “momentous vessels,” but except for a few crude drawings, little more was mentioned. It was encouraging—and a little humbling— that the Lemurians (don’t call them “ape folk!”) were, and had been so advanced in terms of industrial and structural engineering. The sturdy American frigates—not to mention the flying machines!—demonstrated how seamlessly that ingenuity could be mated to a technology beyond even that of the Empire.
Eventually, amid continuous fanfare, Ulysses and Icarus were secured at the Navy dock where the survivors of the naval battle off Scapa Flow still underwent repairs. The Allied warships tied up as well, and the oilers and transports moored nearby. With agonizing care, Salaama-Na snugged up to what would ultimately become the Allied fueling pier, capable of handling several “normal size” ships at once. With the crowd, now largely composed of female dockworkers shouting at others to “stand clear,” gathered alongsid
e, the various commanders and their staffs came ashore and were escorted to where Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald lounged on the seat of a carriage, his wounded legs still immobilized. ith the awkward assistance of a muscular, one-armed, dark-skinned man named Sean (O’Casey) Bates and Gerald’s pale, slender wife, Ruth, the Governor-Emperor managed to stand.
“Welcome!” he boomed with a broad grin. “Welcome to you all! Welcome, Sor-Lomaak, High Chief of the sovereign Salaama-Na Home, and all the beautiful Allied ships accompanying her! I’m more grateful than I can express for the safe return of Ulysses and Icarus as well! Please do excuse this informal greeting—an appropriate reception is being prepared—but my exuberance could not be contained!”
Looking at the man, Matt didn’t doubt he was sincere, but his pale, sweaty face testified to his pain. It was a miracle he’d kept either leg, let alone both. Walker’s own surgeon, Selass, daughter of Keje-Fris-Ar, vaulted onto the carriage and whispered something to Ruth, who self-righteously repeated it in her husband’s ear. With a dismissive wave, the Governor-Emperor allowed himself to be seated once more. “Tonight, then,” he said, less vigorously, “please do join me at Government House where I can welcome you properly and we can discuss those things that need our most immediate attention!”
After a few more personal greetings, the carriage pulled away with Selass still aboard, and Matt looked at the newly arrived Allied officers. First, he stepped to Sor-Lomaak and saluted. As a head of state in his own right, Sor-Lomaak, while a member of the Alliance, wasn’t under Matt’s military authority unless he chose to be. He was a tall ’Cat, almost as tall as Adar—which still left him half a head shorter than Matt. As had most Home High Chiefs, he’d risen from the “Body of Home clan,” and was built a lot like Keje; broad and strong, instead of slim, with the disproportionately powerful upper body of the “wing runners.” His fur was a black-blotched brown.
“We haven’t met, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Welcome to the Empire of the New Britain Isles.” Sor-Lomaak seemed flustered, both by the salute and Matt’s words. Realizing he’d unconsciously spoken English, Matt repeated his greeting in his improved, but still-clumsy Lemurian. Sor-Lomaak blinked appreciation.
“I am glad to have finally arrived upon this strange land—far beyond the point I thought it possible to even stand.”
Matt winced. Lemurian religious dogma as taught by the Sky Priests had taken some serious hits of late, and he wished the revelations of such things as consistent, worldwide gravity had been allowed a more . . . comfortable absorption. “Glad to have you, sir. If you need any assistance unloading your cargo, I’ll be glad to help coordinate it.” He paused. “Things are a little strange here, as you’ve surely noticed. Human females do much of the labor, and though we’re in the process of working that out, their status is somewhat unusual.”
“So I gathered when we touched at Respite Island,” Sor-Lomaak observed.
“Yes. Well, I expect this war’s going to set a lot of Imperial institutions on their heads, and it’ll probably be an easier transition if they recognize the necessity for themselves.” He grinned. “We’ll help guide that recognition, of course.”
“Of course.”
“In any event,” Matt continued, “I think you’ll find the Imperials will treat your . . . our people well. Besides the fact some of my Mi-Anaaka Marines practically saved their country for them, they seem genuinely fascinated by ’Cats. Almost too fascinated at times! Some of my guys get tired of being . . . well, petted.”
Sor-Lomaak laughed heartily. “Better petted than feared—or reviled.”
“There’s a little of that too,” Matt admitted, “but mostly by our enemies here.” He shook his head. “I swear, the ‘Holy Dominion’ is human, but they’re just as crazy as Grik, and smarter. They don’t think anybody, humans or ’Cats, are ‘people,’ except for themselves.” Matt paused and blew through his lips. Talking ’Cat always kind of . . . tickled. “The Imperials are scared of our Marines, though,” he added with satisfaction. “It seemed weird to them that our guys didn’t really try to take prisoners in the land fighting, for example.” He shrugged. “You probably understand. In our war against the Grik, ‘quarter’ has never been a priority for either side,” he said dryly. “They’re used to different ways here, although that may change too. The Dominion, or ‘Doms,’ they call them, aren’t much for surrendering.”
Excusing himself from Sor-Lomaak, Matt returned the salutes and shook the hands of the captains and senior officers of Mertz and Tindal. All were Lemurians, as were the crews of both ships, even the engineers. Matt had to admit he felt strange about that, but also . . . proud. The feeling probably wasn’t all that dissimilar to a sense that “junior was growing up.” Not only had their Lemurian friends learned to grasp the technological leaps the humans brought them, but they embraced them, used them, commanded them, and in many ways, they’d begun to improve upon them. “Junior” had grown up, technologically, and—somewhat sadly—militarily. Matt was confident that for the most part, the Allied naval officers had learned many things better than their teachers could show them, and if Pete Alden might once have been uncomfortable bestowing the sacred title of “Marine” on what many had considered “cat-monkeys,” Matt knew Pete had no cause for discomfort in that regard anymore.
Looking at his Lemurian . . . colleagues, Matt smiled, and together they walked back toward the American dock, discussing equipment they’d brought from the Fil-pin Lands, logistical matters, and more of the oddities of life in the Empire.
The reception, held on the torch-lit, manicured grounds surrounding Government House, was a resounding success. Long tables draped with spotless cloths formed expanding semicircles around a large round table positioned near the broad, residential porch. There was no dancing, but strains of Vivaldi once more drifted in the light, warm breeze to the delight of the newly arrived Lemurians who’d never heard its like. They hadn’t tasted many of the meats laid before them either; chicken, plump parrots steamed on beds of port-darkened rice, succulent pork prepared in a variety of ways. All were domestic descendants of “Passage” livestock, and the juicy, tender quality of the fare was much appreciated and graciously complimented. Exotic fruits and vegetables were enjoyed as well, but even Matt couldn’t tell how many were native to this world and which might be the result of cross-pollenization. The port wine was sweeter than Lemurian seep, but it had subtle similarities. He’d cautioned against serving anything stronger. ’Cats had hard liquor, but theirs had unpredictable effects on humans. Only their excellent beer produced conventional and generally benign results. Imperial spirits might make the Lemurian guests ill, at the very least.
Besides the lack of dancing, there were other differences from the only other festivity Matt had attended here: the Pre-Passage Ball. That was when things began coming to a head. In retrospect, considering the extent of the treachery rampant at the time, the lack of security had been naïve to say the least. In contrast, the Governor-Emperor now sat with his back to the front entrance of the grand house, with all the most important guests seated at that central table. Flanking it were spotlessly attired Imperial and Lemurian Marines. The Imperials looked very decorative in their yellow-faced red coats, black dress shakos, and white knee breeches. The ’Cats were magnificent in their white leather and blue kilts, accented with polished bronze greaves and helmets. The bayonet-tipped muskets held in their distinctive “rest” positions were immaculate, highly polished—and loaded. No one knew how many traitors still roamed New Scotland, but they were taking no chances this night.
The music and jumbled roar of conversations between Allied and Imperial officers seated at the tables nearby was sufficiently muted by distance to allow those at the Governor-Emperor’s table to communicate without shouting. The discussions during the meal were limited to pleasantries and cultural questions and observations. Matt had cautioned his officers not to harp on the “female question,” since those discussions and negotiations were t
ouchy. Though most assuredly underway, they also remained private. That something be “done” about the virtual enslavement of Imperial women had been a prerequisite to Imperial membership in the Grand Alliance, but it went to the very root of their culture. Most Imperial leaders at the table agreed that the institution was barbaric, and now, that the Company had been shattered, outdated, and even unsustainable. There was significant disagreement on how to proceed, however.
Sor-Lomaak was enjoying himself, with the newly arrived frigate captains translating the conversations. Chack-Sab-At, a major now, was at Matt’s side. He said little, but glanced at his Marines on the porch between each bite he took. Courtney Bradford, the odd Australian engineer/ naturalist, sat at Matt’s other elbow, disinterested in the “normal” foods the ’Cats and human destroyermen ate so greedily, virtually dissecting the unfamiliar dishes he sampled. He was deeply involved in a discussion with Governor-Emperor McDonald about the Empire’s lens-making industry. He was desperate for a “proper” microscope, beyond those the Empire already had.
Spanky had remained aboard Walker, but Chief Gray, ever protective, was there. He wasn’t doing much protecting now, though, and was plainly bored. They’d caught the relayed message concerning TF Garrett’s plight shortly before leaving the ship, and he hated doing nothing when friends were in peril. He scowled at the plate before him, picking disapprovingly at the rich food. Commodore Harvey Jenks, who’d arrived later than expected, leaned past his dutifully silent wife and whispered something in the Bosun’s ear. Gray grunted, nodded, and seemed to take heart. Matt suspected the commodore had probably reminded him there’d be plenty to do soon enough.
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