“Matter of fact, we broke the firin’ pin on number three this mornin’-all the practicin’ I’ve had the fellas doin’-and we figured we’d make another one.” He scratched his beard. “Funny, but without a firin’ pin, we can’t make the big, scary bullets go out the other end. I told Stites to make a dozen while he was at it. There’s a fair chance we’ll break another one.”
“What about my pinion?”
“You gonna put it in while we’re underway? That’d be a rodeo! You’re a crummy machinist anyway; I don’t care what your rating is. Hell, Juan’s a better lathe man than you; so’s the Jap. You’d be just as well using a mop handle as anything you’d turn out.”
Chack was listening to the conversation with amusement a few steps away. It went on a little longer, but finally Laney stormed aft, grumbling with every step. Chack drifted over and replaced him at the rail and caught Silva chuckling.
“I never knew what ‘love’ was, or ‘sad’ or ‘safe,’ or really ‘happy’ either, but now I guess I do.” He suddenly slapped Chack on the back hard enough to take his breath. “I love you like the brother I never had, and Stites and Rodriguez, Mertz, Kutas, even Juan and all the others, ’cept maybe Laney. He’s a jerk. The Mice-and Bradford!-are like the freak cousins nobody ever talks about, but I even love them too. The skipper’s not that much older’n me, but him or the Bosun are the closest thing to a real dad I ever had, ’cause they keep me in line without a harness strap, and they do it for my own good.” His mighty fist pounded the rail. “And I love this damned old ship that’s as old as I am. She’s the only real home I’ve ever had. She leaks, she squeaks, hell, sometimes she coughs and gags. She prob’ly couldn’t hold her own in a stand-up fight against a rowboat full of Boy Scouts with BB guns, but she’s my goddamn home!”
Silva quickly turned away and jabbed his fingers in his eyes, rubbing vigorously. “Damn soot!” he mumbled huskily. “Snipes must’ve blown tubes on one of the boilers.” After a while, he turned to face Chack again with a mysterious dampness around his eyes. He made a production of pulling a pouch from his pocket and biting off a chew. Finally, when the quid was properly formed in his cheek, he spoke again.
“You wanna know if me and Risa have wrassled and romped around, and had a little fun; that’s none of your damn business. Do I love her? Sure I do, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my pal. Will I tear your heart out and eat it if you spill any of what I just told you? You can bet your life on it, brother or not.”
Captain Reddy was watching the two from the perspective of the open deck behind the pilothouse. He grunted. He was glad to see that, whatever accord Chack and Silva had reached, at least they’d made up. He needed them too badly, and their strained relationship had been felt throughout the ship. Turning, he rejoined Keje, Bradford, and Adar, where they were discussing Maa-ni-la protocol on the starboard bridge wing. There wasn’t that much to discuss; it was roughly the same as Baalkpan-the two land homes were related, after all-and they’d already been over it a dozen times. There’d be the initial “request to come aboard” that was a holdover from the seafaring tradition all ’Cats shared and most still adhered to, but Matt, as “High Chief” of Walker, must make the request this time himself. A lot would depend on how he was received by San-Kakja, Maa-ni-la’s High Chief. Walker was a very small “Home,” after all, and despite Matt’s position, and what he represented within the Alliance, San-Kakja might not recognize him as a High Chief. Nobody wanted to set the precedent that every captain of every fishing boat or trader had the same status as the leaders of the great Homes of the sea and land. Even if he was accepted, however, it’d be up to Keje or Adar to do most of the talking. Matt’s Lemurian was improving, but it wasn’t up to the task of serious negotiations. San-Kakja was a new High Chief and an unknown, but it was a safe bet he knew no English, and Matt might as well recite nursery rhymes when he spoke. Keje and Adar already knew what to say.
He glanced at his watch and compared it to the clock on the bulkhead. It was almost time for the watch change, and he’d soon reli you immediately try to learn as much as you can about the reports of an ‘iron fish.’ If it’s a submarine, as I suspect, I need to know as much as possible about what it looked like and where it was most recently sighted. I understand it hasn’t been seen for months. It’d undoubtedly be out of fuel by now, so we’ll have to base our search on its last reported position, investigate the closest islands and so forth. Hopefully, we can begin that process while your discussions are still underway, if they drag out too long. We really need to find that boat. It could make all the difference.”
“What makes you so sure it is a submarine, Captain?” Bradford asked. “Who knows what creatures lurk in these mysterious seas? And even if it is one, what if it’s an enemy vessel? The Japanese on Amagi have shown no inclination to aid us, certainly!”
“C’mon, Courtney! An iron fish? And the stories tell how strange, tail-less creatures went inside it before it swam beneath the sea! As for it being one of ours, it only makes sense. We had lots of boats in the area, more than the Japs. They might’ve even been enough to make a difference, but their torpedoes weren’t working either. If it weren’t for our crummy MK-14 and -15 torpedoes, we might’ve even stopped the Japs.” His voice had begun to rise, and he stopped himself and took a deep, calming breath. “If a sub was in the vicinity of the Squall, like the PBY was, it could have been swept here just like us. Unlike us, they might’ve made for the Philippines, looking for a familiar face. Last we heard, we still had Corregidor, and subs were getting in and out. If they poked their scope up at Surabaya-I mean Aryaal-and saw what’s there now, the next place they’d check, their only hope really, would be the Philippines. If it was a Jap sub… I really don’t know where it would head, probably not the Philippines, though. Maybe Singapore. Theymakes sensa hushed tone, however. Even he wasn’t immune to the strange emotions sweeping the men around him at the sight of the familiar, but alien landmarks.
Beyond Corregidor was the Bataan Peninsula, and there was even a small town, of sorts, where Mariveles ought to be. In the distance, barely visible in the early morning haze, stood the poignantly familiar Mariveles Mountains.
“Recommend course zero, four, five degrees,” Kutas said, glancing at the compass and breaking the spell that had fallen upon the Americans in the pilothouse. Juan had appeared unnoticed, carrying a tray of mugs and a coffee urn, and when Matt glanced his way he saw unashamed tears streaking the little Filipino’s face as he gazed about.
He coughed. “Thanks, Juan. I was just thinking some of your coffee would taste pretty good right now.” A brittle smile appeared on the steward’s face, and he circulated through the cramped pilothouse, filling the mugs taken from his tray by the watch standers. For once, none were left behind. Sensitive to the gesture, he bowed slightly.
“I will bring sandwiches, if you please, Cap-tan,” he managed huskily. “It has been a long night… for all of us.”
“Thanks, Juan. Please do.” When the Filipino left the bridge, there was an almost audible general sigh, as nearly everyone realized that no matter how hard it was for them, entering this Manila Bay must be a waking nightmare for Juan. Looking around, Keje sensed the tension.
“What is the matter?” he quietly asked. “This is our goal, our destination. All should be glad we have arrived.”
“In that sense, I guess we’re glad,” Matt answered, “but where we came from, this was our… base, before the war against the Japs. I’ve told you before, I was here for several months, but others were here for years. They considered it home. What you may not know is, for Juan, it was home. He was born here… there… whatever. We all understand the places we came from are lost to us, probably forever, but to see it with our own eyes… I try not to think how I’d react to see the place that should be my home near Stephenville, Texas-a place on the far side of the Earth-but I can’t always help it, and neither can anyone else.”
Keje refrained from pointing out th
e impossibility of anyone living on the far side of the Earth. He suspected Captain Reddy meant it metaphorically. Regardless, the point was clear. “You have my deepest sympathies. I cannot imagine how you feel. I only hope time and good friendship can help ease the pain.”
They steamed northeast at a leisurely and courteous-but awe inspiring to the natives-twelve knots against the prevailing wind, and the closer they got to Cavite and Manila, the more surface craft they met. Most were the ubiquitous feluccas: fore-and-aft-rigged boats, large and small, that seemed universally known and used among all Lemurians they’d met, even the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans. Matt often wondered about that. Compared to the massive Homes, the smaller craft boasted a more sophisticated rig: a large lateen-rigged triangular sail on a relatively short mast with a fore staysail, or jib, allowing them to sail much closer to the wind than even the Grik square-riggers could accomplish. Of course, they couldn’t sail with the wind st sym San-Kakja’s Great Hall, the tree wasn’t as tall as the one in Baalkpan, but then again, Maa-ni-la was a younger city, closer to the shifting center of trade and commerce. There were land homes on northern Borno now, and even in Japan. If the water was deeper and more dangerous, its coastal bounty was richer. Homes were rarely bothered by mountain fish, except for certain times of year, so they increasingly dared the deeper seas, and a place was required to build them, supply them, and trade for the rich gri-kakka oil they rendered. So even though Baalkpan prospered and enjoyed much influence, Maa-ni-la not only prospered, but grew.
Walker backed engines and shuddered to a stop two hundred yards short of the main wharf Keje directed them to. With a great rattling, booming crash, her anchor splashed into the water and fell to the bottom of the bay. Just like the first time they visited Baalkpan, Matt wouldn’t tie her to the dock until invited to do so.
“All engines stop,” he commanded. “Maintain standard pressure on numbers two and three, and hoist out the launch. Make sure the shore party wears their new whites.”
With Baalkpan’s impressive textile capacity, they’d made new uniforms principally for this mission. They were remarkably good copies, even though they were hand-sewn, and no Lemurian had ever made anything like trousers before. It took a while to get used to the feel of the strange, itchy material. It wasn’t really cotton, and certainly wasn’t wool. More like linen, and Matt honestly didn’t have any idea what it was made of, although he was sure Courtney Bradford could go on about the process for hours. He relinquished the deck to Larry Dowden and started for his stateroom to change into his own new uniform when he had a thought. When they first entered Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, they’d carried sidearms, and the more recognizable Navy cutlasses, pattern of 1918, thinking their version of commonplace weapons might make their hosts feel more at ease. Matt had worn his now battered and ironically much-used academy sword. That resulted in a delicate social situation when he’d given the “sign of the empty hand”-essentially a wave-when his hand wasn’t metaphorically empty. He’d learned the sign was customarily given only when visitors arrived unarmed. That left him with a dilemma. He knew they should have little to fear, even in the massive, sprawling city they were about to enter, but they’d suffered treachery before, and he wouldn’t take any chances.
“Sidearms and cutlasses for the diplomatic mission,” he said, then held up his hand before Keje could protest. “Thompsons for the detail to stay with the boat.”
“Aye, sir,” Larry replied, somewhat triumphantly. He’d argued strenuously that the shore party must be armed, against Adar’s equally adamant disagreement. Matt turned to Keje.
“We know not everybody’s on our side,” he said, explaining his decision to an equal as he wouldn’t have done to anyone else, “and not all the ‘pacifists’ are nonviolent either. I won’t risk anybody in a city that large, and with that many people, on faith alone. I’ll compromise to the extent that we’ll leave our weapons with another guard detail before we ascend to the Great Hall. Fair?” After brief consideration, Keje nodded with a grin.
“Fair. Baalkpan has never known real crime, but in a place like this?” He waved generally toward the city. “I have rarely been here, and not at all recently. Since my last visit, the place has ‘boomed,’ I believe you would say. Adar will Etail toobject, of course, but it is unreasonable to assume there is no risk at all. Besides, some of the more subversive elements have gravitated here, and I personally would feel much better with my scota at my side. I think leaving our weapons under guard is a fine compromiseght="1em"›
Matt stared at the berobed phalanx, and tried to figure out which was the High Chief. The High Sky Priest was simple enough to identify; he was dressed exactly like Adar: younger, skinnier, and not as tall, but with the same silvery gray fur, barely revealed by the closely held purple cape flecked with silver stars. Perhaps San-Kakja was one of the beings standing near him? Sotto voce inquiries of Adar and Keje revealed nothing, since San-Kakja had risen since their last visit, and the old High Chief had been childless then. An awkward dilemma.
Decisively, Matt unbuckled his sword and pistol belt and thrust it at Silva before striding forward and holding his right hand aloft, palm forward.
“I’m Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of Walker, Mahan, and other units of the United States Navy, as well as Tarakan Island. I come to you in peace and friendship, representing all the allied Homes united under the Banner of the Trees, against the vicious onslaught of our Ancient Enemy, the Grik. As supreme commander, by acclamation, of the alliance, I’ve been granted plenipotentiary powers, and would treat with the High Chief of this Home. Do I have permission to come aboard?”
Adar nodded approval at Captain Reddy’s words and interpreted what he said. For a brief, awkward moment they waited, but there was no response; then the short sky priest took a step forward as if preparing to address them. Before he could speak, however, he was jostled aside by an even smaller form that strode directly up to Captain Reddy. The Lemurian was robed as the others in the same yellow and black, but the black hem was magnificently embroidered with gold thread and sparkling, polished sequins of shell. A fringe of glittering golden cones chinked dully with every step. A matching sash, complete with cones, coiled around a wasp-thin waist, and a gold gorget, intricately chased and engraved, swayed from a ropelike chain. On its head, the Lemurian wore a magnificently engraved helmet, also of gold, reminiscent of the ancient Spartans except for the feathery yellow plume. Large hinged cheek guards and a rigid nosepiece obscured the face entirely except for a pair of brightly inquisitive but astonishing eyes. They were yellow, which was not uncommon for ’Cats, but they looked like ripe lemons sliced across their axes, and dark, almost black lines radiated outward from bottomless black pupils. A small hand rose up, palm outward, in an openhanded gesture.
“I am Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la, and all the Fil-pin lands,” came a small muffled voice from within the helmet. “I greet you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, High Chief and supreme commander of the allied Homes.” With that, while Adar translated, another hand joined the first, and together they removed the helmet. Behind it was the fine-boned, dark-furred face of a Lemurian female of an age barely eligible to mate.
Matt was surprised. He’d suspected a youngster simply because of their host’s size. But even though he’d learned to accept that Lemurians made no distinction between the sexes regarding occupation-one of the seagoing members of the alliance, Humfra – Dar, had a female High Chief, after all-he’d never even considered the possibility something the size of the entire Philippines might be ruled by one. Stupid. Even in human history, there’d often been powerful women, sometimes supremely powerful. He hopn, because even though Saan-Kakja had never seen a human before in her life, young as she was, he detected no surprise, shock, distaste or… anything that might offend. Of course, she’d had that helmet to hide behind during her initial reaction, he consoled himself.
“Please do come aboard,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you and your amazing, gal
lant ship, and how you came from some incomprehensibly distant place to defend our people against unspeakable evil.”
“Thank you,” Matt replied gravely in her own tongue. That much he could manage.
She turned slightly and nodded respectfully to Adar first, then Keje-yet another departure from protocol, since Keje was, after all, another head of state. But while Adar’s status might have grown ambiguous-there’d never been a Sky Priest who, in effect, represented multiple Homes-it was certainly real, and perhaps even groundbreaking in importance. “High Sky Priest Adar, your reputation as a scholar is well remembered here, as is your knowledge of the pathways of this world and the next. I know of your oath to destroy the Grik forever, and I crave your counsel…” She paused, and it seemed she’d left something unsaid, but then she continued. “Keje-Fris-Ar, you have long been renowned as a master mariner. Now you are a great warrior. I am honored to be in your presence once more, though I do not expect you to remember our last meeting.” Her eyes flicked across Bradford, then lingered on Silva and Chack. Especially Chack. They rested on Matt once more. “Do come aboard, and welcome. I would prefer to celebrate your arrival in the traditional way, but the times we live in do not countenance ordinary pleasures, it seems. We have much to discuss and”-she blinked apology, while at the same time the posture of her ears conveyed intense frustration-“little time.”
The entire sky was a leaden, dreary gray, unusual for midmorning over Baalkpan Bay. It seemed to radiate no malicious intent to become truly stormy, but there’d definitely be rain and lots of it. (Brevet) Captain Benjamin Mallory stalked back and forth on the beach, his arm still in a sling, watching while the huge but horribly battered PBY flying boat slowly rolled, landing gear extended, back into the sea.
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