Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Matt nodded. "We've seen them too, and they are pretty scary. I congratulate you all on your escape."

  "Thank you, sir," they chorused.

  "Did the lizards see you fly?"

  "Maybe," answered Mallory. "We could still see them when we took off. Why?"

  Matt smiled at him. "Nothing, Lieutenant. Don't worry about it. It might've been a handy surprise for later, that's all."

  Mallory looked at his hands. "Sorry, Captain. I didn't think of that.

  Not till later. We saw half a dozen more of their ships while we were looking for you, but we were pretty high and far. If they heard us, I doubt they saw us."

  "My God," murmured Bradford. "As many as nine ships, then. Perhaps a dozen, if the ones seen in the strait are still others." He looked at Keje, who seemed stricken. "Your enemy is here at last, and in force. We've not a moment to lose!"

  Matt held up his hand. "I'm afraid we must lose a few more moments, Mr. Bradford. Lieutenant Mallory? What happened next?"

  "Kaufman wanted us to fly to Ceylon, and we didn't say squat, but `Yes, sir, will do.' We took on all the fuel we could and then came looking for you."

  "I saw Mr. Ellis before we left," Brister said. "The nurses were all fine and were taking good care of him." He looked at Sandra. "Nurse Cross said they were keeping the faith. We talked a couple of minutes, and Mr. Ellis said . . ." He turned to Matt. "He said to tell you he's sorry—but, Captain, it wasn't his fault!" Perry's gaze was emphatic. "Anyway, they probably all know we went looking for you by now. At least the ones that aren't crazy will have some hope."

  Keje cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said. "These flying men bring momentous news. We learn Chill-chaap has been sacked and the Grik are indeed rampant, worse than we'd even feared. The dark time we've dreaded seems at hand. Now is when we will learn if all we've worked for, for generations—our colonies, our culture, our very way of life—will survive, or be cast to the winds once more. This . . . is important to us." The irony of his understatement wasn't lost. "I would think it would be important to you, our allies, as well. Yet you seem more concerned with this ship, this Mahan. What is Mahan, and what, or where, is Say-lon?"

  Matt took off his hat in the awkward silence. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and slicked back his greasy hair. "Forgive me, my friend. I am concerned, and this news means our preparations are even more urgent. The significance of Mahan, however, is this." He looked around at all of them, but rested his gaze on Keje and Nakja-Mur. "Mahan and Walker are the same. They're just alike, and she has the same capabilities we have. What's more, her people are my people, and I'm responsible for them. I'm obligated to help them any way I can, just as I'm obligated, now, to help your people to the best of my ability. The reason Mahan should concern you, however, besides—like you said, we're allies—is there's another ship just like this one, apparently steaming as fast as she can directly toward the Grik. What if they take her? You say they're mimics; they copy the works of others. How long to copy Mahan?

  A while, surely. Maybe a generation or two. But what of the meantime?

  How will they use her? At the very least, they might figure out ways to counteract our superiority." He stopped and looked around. "We've got to get her back." He paused. "Or destroy her."

  Nakja-Mur rose to his feet and, after regarding them all with a steady gaze, he began to speak. Keje translated as he did so. "You Amer-i-caans, you know us now. You may not know us well, but we've kept no secrets from you and our desperation is clear. Yet we know almost nothing about you. At long last, tell us where you come from. If you have two smoking ships, why not summon more? The flying boat outside is clearly made of metal, and yet it floats! It flies! With but three Amer-i-caans on board, it is a match for three Grik ships! We've never seen such wonders! Surely you can do anything! You can save us from the Grik! Please, summon more of your people. Together, we could destroy the Grik menace completely, and our two peoples could live in peace for all time!"

  Matt looked at Nakja-Mur when Keje completed the translation. Conflicting emotions swirled through him, but he knew, in spite of his desire to pass as little information as he could—the same desire he suspected the first "Tail-less Ones" had—the Lemurians who'd taken them in and now depended on them so heavily had a right to know. He glanced at Sandra and caught a nod of encouragement.

  "We can't send for help," he said, "because there's no one to send to."

  He looked at Sandra and smiled resignedly. Then he held the gaze of each American for a moment before returning his attention to the Lemurians.

  "Remember how the first Tail-less Ones said their home was gone? Ours is too. Whether that makes us like them or not, I'll leave up to you to decide. But I think it's time you heard a story about a war that was bigger than anything you can possibly imagine. A war so big, the entire world was engulfed in fire and millions had already died . . . and it was only starting. This ship that seems so impressive and full of wonders to you was only the smallest, most insignificant part of that war, in the grand scheme of things." He took a deep breath. "And it was a war we were losing. Then something happened and somehow, we were . . . here."

  Keje managed an expression of confusion. "But you've told us you come from near the Edge of the World, from a land so distant we've no . . . ah, charts that show its position."

  "That's true. We do. But the war we fought—the part we were fighting, that is—was here. Right here."

  There was no sound but the voices on deck and the paint chippers plying their tools on a scaffold rigged alongside.

  Courtney Bradford leaned forward in his chair. "My dear friends, Mi-Anakka and Americans, there's no question we all spring from the same world. There's no other explanation." He laid his hand on the chart before him. "These are the same, for the most part, as the Scrolls the People revere. The land shapes are mostly the same, although we've noticed a few slight differences. But the water is water and the air is the air and the heavens are no different. But in the world Captain Reddy described, where all upon it were at war—the `world,' if you will, we come from—all this"—he gestured at the charts—"was the same except for one thing: the people and creatures that inhabit it. Where we come from—evidently an entirely other `here'—there are no Grik, no mountain fish, and . . . no People." He leaned back in his chair and it creaked beneath him.

  "Personally, I don't come from `the Edge of the World,' like my American friends. I come from . . ." He glanced at the chart and put his finger on the small piece of coastline southeast of the Sunda Islands, right on the edge of the paper. "I think your Scrolls call this place `New Holland' or something like that, although I assure you there were few Dutchmen when I left."

  Keje was looking at him like he'd just crawled out of a gri-kakka's mouth with its stomach in his teeth. "I've been to that land," he said quietly. "There are colonies there, and in the south, they build some sea homes as well. I've never seen an Amer-i-caan."

  Bradford sighed. "I'm not a bloody American, but that's beside the point. By your charts, everything's the same, but there aren't any of us. By our charts, everything's the same, but there aren't any of you. The only explanation is that, somehow, there are two worlds . . . parallel worlds . . ."

  He stopped and looked around. "Two worlds side by side, perhaps even occupying the same space at the same time, only on which life has developed, for some reason, in two entirely different directions."

  "But—but—" Keje stammered, "that cannot be."

  Bradford sniffed and leaned back again. "Perhaps not, but it's all I've been able to come up with. Captain?"

  "No, Mr. Bradford, that's a better explanation than I'd have managed, but the idea's essentially the same."

  Nakja-Mur said something and Keje spoke for him. "If that is true, then how did you get here?"

  Matt spread his hands. "We have no idea. All we know is Mahan and Walker were together, fighting a battle against a powerful enemy ship. We entered a strange squall, and the
next thing we knew . . . No—" He looked thoughtful. "We didn't really know for a while. But somehow we were here. In your world." Abruptly, his expression hardened, and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the chart. "Which means, since we've no idea how we got here, we haven't got a clue how to get back. However it happened, we're stuck with each other. Unlike the old `Tail-less Ones,' we're not going to run off and leave you. Even if we wanted to, we can't.

  Our fates are intertwined. The survival of our people, yours and mine, depends on defeating the Grik. So you better explain to your complainers, Nakja-Mur, U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan, they have not yet begun to be inconvenienced! After the information we've received today, we're going to have to kick into high gear."

  "High Gear. It means, All Out? Sink or Swim? Same?" Keje asked.

  "That's right."

  Keje blinked solemn assent. "Your man, Silva? He told me these, and I agree. He also told me another." He looked around the table with quiet dignity and determination, then looked directly at Nakja-Mur. "However the Amer-i-caans came to us, it's clear only the Maker of All Things could have arranged it as they say. If that is so, then surely we must all either Shit, or Get Off the Pot."

  For once, it was a beautiful day on Baalkpan Bay. The humidity was low and it couldn't have been much over eighty degrees. There was a cooling breeze out of the south-southwest, and the launch's motor droned pleasantly with the sound of good health and proper maintenance. The water had a slight chop, stirred by the wind, and the occasional packet of spray spritzed Matt, Letts, Bradford, and Shinya in the cockpit of the launch. To them, it was refreshing. But to Tony Scott, at the wheel, each drop that struck him made him shudder as if he'd been sprayed with caustic acid.

  Matt knew something had come over his once fearless coxswain, who'd acquired a deep and abiding terror of the water. All he could do was hope he got over it. They were too shorthanded to put him on the beach, at least until their Lemurian "cadets" were fully trained, and the man stoically refused to be relieved from his primary duty. He clearly hated the water now and he constantly cast worried looks over the side as if expecting to see some huge, ravenous fish pacing the boat. But he was, after all, the coxswain, and he wouldn't shirk his duty.

  For Matt's part, he was enjoying the outing. Walker had been laid up for more than a month, and he'd grown anxious and irritable over her immobility. Her refit had gone as well as conditions allowed, and he expected she was in better shape now than when they'd left Surabaya ahead of the Japanese. But his anxiety over Mahan and the growing Grik menace left him feeling frustrated and impotent. It was good to be moving over water again.

  He looked back across the bay, toward his ship, but he couldn't see her.

  Seven of the huge Lemurian Homes lay at anchor off Baalkpan now, crowding the area near the shipyard. More were expected within the next few days. Nakja-Mur had sent word as far as his fishing fleet could reach, for a "Great Gathering," or in essence, a council of war, to be held. Many of the Homes were intercepted already on their way. The threat was apparent to all by now. There'd been other fights like Big Sal's, although none against so many Grik, but at least one Home was overrun. Its smoldering, half-sunken carcass was seen aground on the northeast coast of Java, near where Batavia would have been. That news threw Keje into a frenzy, and he'd been willing, at last, to perform the modifications to Big Sal that Alan Letts had suggested. Even now, as the launch nosed into the estuary of the river the locals called the Sungaa, Alan was discussing his plan with Bradford. Captain Reddy was deeply interested in whatever scheme the recently hypermotivated supply officer came up with, but for the moment he couldn't help but be overcome by the primordial landscape surrounding them.

  The Sungaa wasn't long and was navigable for only a short distance before it choked into a narrow, swampy stream. But the waters that fled into the bay from the Lohr Mountains to the north provided a quicker, more convenient passage to the site where they'd sunk their first well.

  Except for his brief, tragic foray on Bali, Matt had stepped on land only for frequent trips into the city to see Nakja-Mur. Now, after passing the last hardy outposts of fishing huts and "frontier" hunters—only a few miles from town—he beheld Lemurian Borneo in all its savage beauty.

  Amid raucous cries, dozens of species of colorful birdlike creatures whirled and darted with the erratic grace of flying insects. Their short, furry feathers covered streamlined and exotically lethal leathery bodies.

  They incessantly chased small fish, insects, and any "bird" smaller than they were. Vicious aerial combat flared when one of the creatures caught something another wanted or thought it could take. Unlike similar battles that Matt had seen among birds back home, the losers here rarely survived. The bodies of the slain never even made it to the water.

  The deadly flasher-fish weren't nearly as numerous in the fresher water of the bay, and they didn't venture upriver at all. Matt's party passed a herd of large animals marching solemnly through the shallows near shore. They were the size of hippos, but looked like spiky armadillos with longer necks and forelegs. Here and there, ordinary crocodiles lounged on the muddy banks. For all Matt knew, the trees hanging over the water were quite normal as well, but he knew little about trees of any sort, so their wide, palmated leaves looked exotic to him regardless. Bradford said they were as unusual as the fauna and Matt took his word for it. The whole scene was simultaneously shockingly beautiful and horrifying in a deep, secret, instinctual way.

  He tore himself from his reverie and saw that Shinya was equally absorbed by their surroundings, but Letts, and even Bradford, seemed unaffected. Of course, they'd both been to the wellhead several times. Letts must have asked him a question, because he and the Australian both looked at him expectantly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Letts. Could you repeat that, please?"

  Alan grinned. "Sure, Skipper. What I asked is, should we concentrate all the guns on one side of Big Sal, like a floating battery, and just counterweight the other, or mount guns on both sides? We may not have time or materials to make enough for both."

  Matt shook his head. "I'm not convinced there're going to be any guns." Letts assumed a wounded expression.

  "Sure there will, Skipper, if we have enough time. I've been working with the guys at the foundry"—the "guys at the foundry" were two Lemurian brothers who owned and ran it—"and they say it's no problem.

  They cast anchors for ships like Big Sal all the time, so they're used to throwing lots of metal. You could cast five or six guns from the metal that goes into one of those babies. Labor's not an issue. The latest news has everybody fired up, and Nakja-Mur had kittens over the prospect of cannons of his very own. The only two stumbling blocks, well, three, really, were getting somebody to let us cut gunports in the side of their ship, finding enough metal to make the guns—a truly hellacious amount of copper and tin—and, of course, ammunition.

  "Gunpowder's not a problem. All the components are readily available and sulfur's all over these volcanic islands. The real pain's building a powder mill. That's taking time. We can't use water power, since there're no swift rivers. Maybe we can try what the Mice came up with? Anyway, we'll get it sorted out. We can use copper for cannonballs—that's a cinch—but training gunners to hit something with them might be a little harder."

  "What about boring true?" Matt asked, and Letts shrugged a little hesitantly.

  "I have a few ideas along that line."

  Matt shook his head. He didn't know what had cracked Alan Letts out of his amiable go-with-the-flow shell, but whatever it was, he'd become a dynamo. Maybe it was just that he, like the rest of them, had finally come to grips with the situation. "I bet Keje wasn't happy about chopping holes in the side of Big Sal," he mused. "How many guns are you planning to put on her, anyway?"

  "I'm hoping on twenty per side, eventually. That may not seem like many, given her size, compared to the ships of the line back in the seventeen hundreds, but . . ." He shrugged.

  Matt looked at him and blinked with surprise. I
t was a habit he'd picked up from their new friends. "Twenty! I thought you were ambitious thinking about two or three! How big are you planning to make them?"

  "Well, that depends on what size we ultimately bore them out. I'm meeting with Mr. McFarlane and Bernie Sandison this evening and we'll kick that around."

  Matt chuckled. "Very well, Mr. Letts. Keep me informed, but be sure you don't use anything the ship needs to make your tools!" A wry grin spread across Letts's face, as if he'd been about to ask permission to do that very thing. "As to what to do with them if you get the cannons made?"

  Matt paused. "Keje'll have to decide. It's his ship. A floating battery in the bay would be tough to get around, but if anything ever did, the whole defense might collapse. I've never been a big believer in static defenses, and I doubt Keje would be either."

  Bradford nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes! Look how much good the Maginot Line did the French! And I'm not even going to start on Singapore! As for Keje's opinion, I assure you you're right. With some quite obvious exceptions, the Lemurians are seagoing nomads. The very idea of being semi-permanently moored in any defensive position would be utterly alien, and perhaps hateful to them. I imagine they'd do it as an expedient during battle, but to actively prepare for such a thing? You might lose all credibility if you made the suggestion. So far, they're willing to take your advice on matters of defense, but that's all any of us really are.

  Advisors. We have no official status in the chain of command. I'm not sure there really is one. Nakja-Mur is the overall leader of the People of Balik—I mean Baalkpan—but Keje and any other ship captain who comes ashore, I suppose, all seem to be equals. They command their own People, but are subject to the laws and customs of the territory or ship they set foot on. It's all so very chaotic! It would be far more convenient if they had a king, and all the various ships and places were part of some grand commonwealth!"

  "Like the British Empire?" Letts goaded.