“That’s very generous, Your Excellency,” Matt said softly. It was. Respite was the oldest Imperial territory, established even before the Empire existed, but the population there and on all the islands under its jurisdiction probably amounted to less than two hundred thousand.
“It only makes sense,” Radcliff said. “Wherever our people fight, it will be far from home, and with the Doms pushed back to their continental holdings, the Grik are actually closer.” He took a sip of beer, then forced a smile back on his face. “But enough of that! Congratulations are in order for many things! You have doubtless observed that the Grand Alliance is extremely popular here?”
Matt nodded. They’d ascended the mountain aboard a kind of carriage reminiscent of a San Francisco streetcar drawn by burros, and the road had been lined with enthusiastic well-wishers, quite a few of whom were women. “Indeed, Your Excellency. I’m glad to see it.”
“Take my word, Captain, the greeting is quite sincere. You accomplished everything we could have wished and more. You personally may not have saved the Princess Rebecca—and your lovely bride-to-be—but your people did. And then you avenged their abduction and mistreatment!” He leaned forward with a genuine grin. “The official version of that is colorful enough, I assure you, but I beg a firsthand account!”
“Perhaps this is not the setting or the time to press him on such a personal matter, Mr. Radcliff,” the governor’s wife gently admonished him in a mellow tone. Radcliff spared her an exasperated but indulgent glare.
“Later, then, if you please, Captain. Over dinner? Still, not only did you destroy the beastly Company’s domination of our lives and hasten the end of the inhumane institution of indenture, but you also did no less than save the Empire itself from conquest or at least dissolution. You have my most profound thanks.”
“We didn’t do it alone,” Matt said quietly.
“No, but you struck the spark and fanned the flames of liberty to life! I wish to God I had been with you! As you know, I had begun to despair, but to be there and see my emperor restored and country saved . . .”
“Please do save your speech for the ball, Mr. Radcliff,” Emelia chastised. “I fear you are embarrassing the good captain!”
“Embarrassing!” Radcliff huffed. “Heroes are always embarrassed. They are supposed to be.”
“Ball?” Sandra suddenly interjected with an expression close to fear on her face.
“Oh yes!” Emelia gushed, grasping both Sandra’s hands in hers. “As soon as I learned of yours and Captain Reddy’s desire to wed here—on our island!—I began planning the most glorious celebration! The romance of your . . . situation has resonated quite deeply with our people, and you stand as a figurehead for what all women in the Empire can achieve! The event will celebrate your wedding to the captain, of course, but it will also honor the Allied victories in the east, the resurrection of the Empire, and even what contributions our small land has made to facilitate those accomplishments. And, incidentally, as I said, I mean to stress your own achievements to inspire our people! It will be an event to rival an Imperial coronation, with repercussions that will be felt for decades, at least!”
“Oh, my God,” Sandra whispered, and Matt barely suppressed a laugh.
“I guess it isn’t your ‘operation’ after all, Lieutenant Tucker,” he said with a straight face but a twinkle in his eye.
The discussion resumed, returning to more serious matters, and shortly, Matt dismissed the honor guard to return to the ship and whatever duties they had there. He knew Spanky meant to commence repairs as soon as possible now that the ship was at rest, and Marines were part of the deck division when aboard as far as Chack—and certainly the Bosun—were concerned. The Bosun himself, as well as Silva and Stites, remained. They may have been a little bored, but habit kept them alert and listening to the conversation. Matt didn’t mind. Chairman Adar would likely pump Silva for his impressions of the governor once he returned to Baalkpan, and that was okay with him. Adar needed as many impressions of their new allies as he could get, and he’d be able to read between the lines of Silva’s likely flippant description.
“And I am glad to see that we will have an official envoy to the western allies at last, Ambassador Forester,” Radcliff continued dryly. “It is long overdue.”
“Indeed,” Forester agreed with a chuckle. Two envoys, one from Respite and another selected by the Imperial Court of Proprietors, had already gone to Maa-ni-la. Each had adamantly opposed the presence and credentials of the other, and Saan-Kakja sent them both away in disgust. That was before the Imperial situation had stabilized, but all it accomplished was to annoy the High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands even further, and make her more reluctant than ever to send troops and ships to defend the Empire. “I understand I may have my work cut out for me, in regard to the . . . charming young Saan-Kakja, at least.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Matt warned, “whatever you do, don’t let her age fool you into thinking you can push her around.”
Forester held his hands up and laughed. “Oh no! As a friend of the Governor-Emperor, I have known Princess Rebecca all her life. I’m told she and Saan-Kakja are fast friends and very much alike. I have seen firsthand that fewer years do not necessarily equate to lesser wisdom—or determination. Quite the opposite, on occasion. And I wouldn’t dream of trying to push Her Highness around! I want nothing less than Saan-Kakja’s—and Adar’s—complete satisfaction with our membership in the Alliance.”
“Good. In that case, I’d also caution you against pressing for a larger commitment in the east, from either of them. At least for now. You may not see this yet, but I believe the Grik are the most pressing enemy, and the western allies have been more generous already than anybody there—including me—is really comfortable with.”
Forester’s face turned grim. “It is difficult to understand how the situation on the Grik front could be more pressing than the menace posed by the Holy Dominion, but I am prepared to concede it. You have fought both enemies on both fronts, and I trust your judgment. But do you really believe these Grik—mere savage . . . reptilians—may actually surpass our own technology?”
“Maybe not surpass, Your Excellency, but they can match it—particularly with the help of the Japanese Captain Kurokawa. I honestly don’t know what motivates him—other than insanity, I guess. But he’s already brought the Grik too close for comfort, and with their numbers—and frankly, ferocity—all they need to be is close.”
“But the Dominion has vast reserves as well,” Radcliff observed, “and other than your Walker and your flying machines, there is little material difference between us.”
“True, but we’ve hammered a big chunk of their fleet, and for now, our tactics are better. The Enchanted Isles are at risk because the Dom fleet is still respectable, particularly if it concentrates, and those islands are strategically placed to support future operations against them. That’s why I agree that Harvey Jenks needs to relieve them as soon as he can, because we’re going to need them. But otherwise, the Empire and its continental colonies are secured by a vast ocean, and I’m told, impassable territory between the colonies and Dominion territory. Our navies control that ocean.
“On the other hand, the Grik industrial base may actually be broader than the Dominion’s. We know they’re building a new fleet, and when they’re ready, we expect them to hit us with something huge and likely unexpected. Kurokawa—and some of the Grik Hij—aren’t fools. They’ve already hit us with flying machines of their own—much larger and more complicated than ours, and they had a lot of them.” He shrugged. “Ours were faster and better armed. That was the difference.” He looked at Sandra, then at Chack and the other Lemurians. “Trust me. The Grik have to come first.”
“Well, then. I will not argue it with you or anyone else at present,” Forester conceded. “Your people . . . your friends . . . have been generous. I do pray your evaluation is correct, however.”
“So do I.”
&nbs
p; A servant attired in the white coat and knee breeches of the Respite militia appeared. “Dinner, if ye please,” he announced.
Matt was too accustomed to the spartan shipboard fare to fully appreciate the sumptuous feast prepared for them. The food was just too rich. The governor and his wife ate theirs with obvious relish, but Sandra, seated beside him now, only picked at her plate. She seemed to blush every time he caught her eye, still embarrassed by the sheer scope of the spectacle Lady Emelia was planning. She’d said she expected a big wedding on Respite, but the description Emelia continued whispering to her during the meeting outside was beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
The visiting Lemurian officers were enjoying their meal, and Chack was curiously sampling a little of everything. Matt was amazed when Silva caught a server’s sleeve and ostentatiously asked if another of the chicken-size, broiled “lizardy-lookin’ guys,” might be brought out. When the server went to fetch it, Stites leaned in to Silva and muttered: “Good thing Larry ain’t here. He’d have to go hungry or turn cannibal.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. I seen him eat lotsa critters more like his relations than these little boogers,” Dennis answered in what his damaged hearing probably thought was a whisper, then looked up, surprised by the sudden silence around the table. “Course, maybe he woulda ate the fish,” he offered.
Chack couldn’t help it and burst out in a hacking laugh, blinking apology at the same time. The other ’Cats joined him, and soon everyone was laughing, even Sandra, who’d needed something to break her tension. Matt explained about Lawrence, and the comment better understood, the laughter redoubled. When it finally died down, it was replaced by a more lively conversation.
Silva can break anything, Matt thought with amusement, even ice.
“Oh, my dear captain,” Radcliff said at last. “I wish you had brought the creature along! I simply can’t wait to meet him.”
There was a knock on the great door that led to the dining chamber, and another servant went to investigate the cause.
“We don’t consider Lawrence a ‘creature’ anymore, Your Excellency,” Matt explained mildly. “He’s a Tagranesi . . . well, Sa’aaran, now, and if his Grik cousins are capable of achieving his level of intelligence, we’ve got a lot to worry about.”
The servant hurried over to stand beside the governor, a frown on his face, and waited for Radcliff’s attention.
“Yes, yes. What is it, Gomez?”
The dark-skinned servant, probably a descendant of the Spanish/Indian mix in the Dominion, handed over a bifolded page sealed with wax. “Which it’s a dispatch from the Allied wireless station, Guv’ner,” he said with a typical Imperial accent. “An’ it’s marked ‘urgent,’ as ye can see. Yer orders are never ta delay d’livery o’ such.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Radcliff replied, taking the folded square. After a brief hesitation, he offered it to Matt. “It’s most likely meant for you, after all.”
“Go ahead, Your Excellency,” Matt said, but his chest tightened. It was his sad experience that urgent communications rarely carried good news.
Radcliff nodded and broke the seal, then unfolded the sheet and held it at arm’s length to better see the words. The diners around the table were silent now, watching with curiosity. Matt’s stomach churned with dread when he saw the governor’s growing frown. Without a word, Radcliff passed the message across and Matt looked at it. Sandra caught her breath when she saw the expression forming on his face as he read, and she put her hands on his shoulder. Finally, he looked up and his gaze was bleak.
“Well, it’s started in the west. Alden has invaded India and has a solid beachhead at Madras. First and Second Corps are pushing inland, and Third Corps has crossed from Ceylon in the south. So far, the Grik are on the run.” He paused and there was a spatter of applause, but Matt’s tone didn’t reflect the good news. He continued.
“A little closer at hand, it would seem Commander Sato Okada’s Mizuki Maru, the armed . . . freighter that Saan-Kakja sent after the Jap tin can Hidoiame, met the enemy . . . and was apparently lost with all hands.”
Sandra gasped and Gray cursed aloud.
“Where . . . when?” Chack asked.
“The Sea of Japan.” He waved the sheet. “The position’s here. ‘When’ was almost a month ago!”
“But . . . why wait until now to tell us?” Sandra demanded.
“Because we were too far away to do anything about it, and Saan-Kakja’s fully aware of our damage and our weapons limitations,” Matt answered bitterly. “She probably didn’t want us to push things and hoped she could handle it on her own. Three ships sent to the last known position to search for survivors didn’t return, and the only one with a transmitter reported being under attack before contact was lost. Several squadrons of ‘Nancys’ were sent to locate the enemy. One squadron actually found her and bombed her, but no damage was seen—and four of the six planes were shot down!”
“Oh, my God!” Sandra whispered, her hand over her mouth.
“Nancys,” or PB-1Bs were single-engine floatplanes that looked like miniature versions of a PBY Catalina, and they were the current backbone of the Allied air arm. More advanced aircraft were in the works, but “Nancys” had proven to be reliable and versatile little planes. Each had a crew of two.
“The only good thing, I guess,” Matt continued, “is that nobody reported seeing the destroyer’s tanker consort, and she can’t go far without her. She probably ran around for a while trying to throw us off the trail to where the tanker is—but now she’s going to have to find someplace else to hole up, and she’s got to get her tanker and maybe break down and pack up whatever shore installations they’ve spent irreplaceable resources on first!”
“That could take some time,” Gray said, scratching the stubble on his chin. They finally had razors again, and Matt wasn’t the only clean-shaven human in the Alliance anymore.
“Yes,” Chack said, “and we know where they must be!”
“If Okada was right and they really did set up around where Sapporo ought to be . . . Damn, I need a chart!” Matt said. The Imperials knew almost nothing of that region. “Governor Radcliff, could I trouble you to send a runner to my ship? Or maybe to Lieutenant Haan’s Finir-Pel? His charts may be more up to date than Walker’s. If we can compare where Hidoiame was last seen to where we suspect her base might be, maybe we can catch her before she scoots!”
“What are you talking about?” Sandra suddenly demanded, looking at Matt with stormy eyes. “You’re not going after her!” The Imperials around the table were visibly shocked by her outburst, but Matt just looked at her. “It’s not that you shouldn’t go or I don’t want you to,” Sandra continued. “That’s true enough. But I forbid it because you can’t!”
“You forbid?” Matt demanded, eyes wide.
Sandra stood and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Yes! As Medical Officer of USS Walker and Minister of Medicine for the Allied Powers, I declare you, your ship, and her crew unfit to pursue Hidoiame! None of you are sufficiently recovered from your wounds, physical and psychological, and you have neither the strength nor material means to accomplish the mission!”
“Shit!” murmured Silva, too loud again, in a tone that showed admiration for her angle, if not her message. “Look at her go!” The Bosun, face purple, made a savage “cut it” gesture at him.
“I and I alone am the judge of whether or not my ship is fit for action!” Matt said coldly.
“And I say that if you intend to pursue Hidoiame at this time without the rest your crew needs and the refit your ship requires, then your judgment must be impaired by exhaustion, Captain Reddy! You can’t be everywhere at once. You and your crew, your ship, have been too close to the fire for too long, and sooner or later it’s going to burn you up! You know that yourself, but if you can’t see that going after Hidoiame will turn ‘sooner’ into ‘now,’ then you can’t be thinking clearly! She’s a new ship—faster, heavier, and better armed! How clo
se would you have to get to even damage her with the primitive shells you’ve been forced to use? All that time while you’re trying to close, Walker will be taking fire. And it won’t be cannonballs—it’ll be high-explosive shells, accurately delivered, to kill your crew and your ship!”
Sandra’s argument was beginning to take its toll. She was right, and Matt knew it. Walker had a full load of ammunition for her main battery, all but the Japanese 4.7-inch dual-purpose that had replaced her own damaged number four gun on the aft deckhouse. They had almost shot it “dry,” and other ships and installations armed with the rest of Amagi’s salvaged secondaries had priority for resupply. The black-powder four-inch-fifty shells Walker had taken east and that supply ships had begun stockpiling for her at almost any friendly port she might touch, had worked better than they had any right to expect, but they just didn’t have the range to go up against Hidoiame. But the rogue Japanese destroyer they’d left Okada to deal with had proven she was just too dangerous to run loose anymore. If they didn’t catch her now, how would they find her later? What if, God forbid, she managed to make it all the way to join Kurokawa and the Grik?
“Aah, Cap-i-taan Reddy?” said Raada-Nin reluctantly. “My manifests include supplies dispatched for the . . . main-tin-aance of your ship. Among those supplies is a quantity of ammunition for your main baat-tery. New ammunition.” He blinked apology at Sandra, but he couldn’t keep it secret.
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