Matt glumly returned his exec’s gaze. “No, Mr. McFarlane,” he said in a formal tone. “Despite the imminent change in her . . . marital status, the Nurse Lieutenant will accompany us in search of Hidoiame. She’s been Walker’s medical officer, and there are no competent replacements currently on hand.” He took a deep breath and looked back into the pilothouse before speaking in a lower tone. “I had to make a deal, damn it. Since the wedding will be a hurry-up affair, and the honeymoon will consist of two days in a beachside hut—while you, Commander McFarlane, do all the work necessary to get this ship underway—I had to bend the regulation about married personnel aboard the same ship. Technically, she’s already been transferred back to her duties in Baalkpan, but considering the very real possibility we may sustain casualties, she’s ‘volunteered’ her medical services for however long it takes for her to report.”
“The plane would be ‘first available transport,’ Skipper.”
“No, Mr. McFarlane. We will maintain the fiction that the planes had already departed before the decision to proceed with the . . . nuptials was finalized, and since we are no longer technically part of the same ship’s company . . .”
“I got it, Skipper,” Spanky said with a spreading grin. “I can’t say ‘Remind me never to play poker with that woman,’ because I don’t much like the game. But I guess I’d be careful wagering against her in a chess match, after this.”
* * *
With plenty of fresh water now aboard, Matt indulged in a long, hot shower. He had a lot on his mind. There was so much he should be doing right now—preparations and decisions to make—but for now, the work really involved only his ship, and he had to admit that Spanky and his other officers were fully capable of filling his shoes in that respect for the next few days. Isolated as he was, there was little he could contribute to the grand strategy of the overall war effort as it unfolded on the far-flung fronts. He’d agreed to the proposals of his commanders on the scene and trusted their judgment, based on their much better appreciation of their circumstances. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—second-guess their decisions while he was thousands of miles away. They’d planned the overall strategy together, and it was up to them to carry it out.
He still felt uncomfortably as if he were playing premeditated hooky, and it gnawed at him. There was also a sense of unreality that tended to mask his excitement and dull his anticipation regarding the evening’s . . . event, and he was almost grateful, because the dreamlike nature of it all helped keep his lurking anxiety at bay.
Despite his . . . unusual feelings, he was in a good mood—almost giddy—and seemed possessed of an abundance of almost jittery energy. He turned off the water, wrenched the tattered green curtain aside, and grabbed a towel. Mostly dry, he pulled on his skivvies and started aft, whistling “Deep in the Heart of Texas” while still vigorously toweling his freshly trimmed hair. He almost didn’t see Diania standing at rigid attention and holding a salute as he padded through the wardroom.
“Jesus, girl!” he shouted defensively, quickly wrapping the towel around his middle. “What are you doing here?”
The forward crew’s head had—of necessity, in Matt’s view—been reserved for all “female” personnel. It made things inconvenient for everyone, and there was a lot of griping, but the human destroyermen still aboard simply weren’t ready, in any sense, for coed crappers. Exceptions were made when the crew was at battle stations, but even then, some care was exercised—a knock on a bulkhead, a shout of warning. While Walker was at anchor, a meagerly screened “fantail crapper” was rigged over the starboard propeller guard, and anybody could use that. It took a little of the pressure off.
“The Lady . . . Lieutenant Sandra sent me ta’ fetch somethin’ fer her . . . an’ I coudnae find Mr. Marcos!” Diania stuttered fearfully. She deeply admired Captain Reddy, but she was scared of him too. In her mind, he had more power than the Governor-Emperor—and she knew he was against women in the Navy.
“Well, get whatever it is and scram!” Matt said less harshly. “And in the future, don’t go running around officers’ country without an escort!” he added a little apologetically, suddenly struck by his hypocrisy. They probably had to deal with this all the time in the crew’s berthing spaces, and despite her status as engineering officer, Lieutenant Tabby had remained in the aft crew’s berth. But Sandra lived in “officers’ country.” Of course, she’d been there long enough to know the rules, to make her presence known, and, besides, well, she was a “doctor.”
That didn’t mean the arrangement was fair, and things were bound to get more complicated soon, particularly as more women inevitably joined them. He realized that without thinking about it, and because he hadn’t thought about it, he’d left a glaring, possibly hurtful hole in his otherwise blanket insistence that Lemurian females—and he guessed women too, now—had to receive, to count on, equal treatment in all respects. It seemed just like the Lemurians, Matt’s men were always having to make adjustments. He sighed.
“Forget it, Diania,” he said. “And, by the way, we don’t salute indoors.” He tightened his towel and marched down the passageway to his stateroom, realizing he needed to pass the word for Tabby to shift her gear forward—and the chiefs’ quarters were going to get more crowded too. The men might bitch, but with the bigger jobs came the few perks that helped reinforce a chief’s or officer’s authority. He determined then that aboard Walker, and in his Navy, discrimination of any sort would never be tolerated—Except when it comes to the heads, he amended.
By the time he pushed his own curtain aside and hung up the towel over his little sink, he was whistling again.
* * *
Resplendent in their immaculate Whites—and God knew how Juan and his small division of stewards and laundry ’Cats had accomplished that—Matt and his party stepped ashore and boarded the trolley waiting to take them to the Cathedral of St. Brenden in the heart of Respite City. It was the first covered trolley Matt had seen and it was generously carved and gilded. The driver told them that it once belonged to the Company director, but Matt was grateful for the protection it afforded them, because the humidity in the valley where the bulk of the city lay was oppressive and afternoon storms were common. Other trolleys would bring a large percentage of the rest of the crew to join them, leaving a small but alert watch aboard the ship. Maybe Matt had grown paranoid, but it seemed to him that far too many bad things seemed to happen whenever their guard was down, and even Governor Radcliff agreed. The Respite militia was in a high state of readiness, and a couple of picket ships had been sent beyond the reef to reinforce and broaden the range of the guard ships stationed there.
The smallish trolley was filled almost to capacity because Spanky, Gray, Chack, Kutas, Campeti, Juan, and even Silva all attended Matt on this fateful journey. Midshipman Brassey would join them at the cathedral as an Imperial representative in the party. Little conversation passed among the group, and what did was somewhat awkward. Of those in the trolley, only Gray and Campeti had ever been married before, and the adventure ended in disaster for them both. In neither case had the proceedings been accompanied by such fanfare, and they began to get a real dose of that as they wound through the outlying streets and approached the center of the city. The roadside grew increasingly choked with happily waving well-wishers.
“I . . . wasn’t expecting this!” Matt muttered, looking at the throng. He wasn’t whistling anymore and even looked a little pale. “I guess I wasn’t this nervous before we fought Amagi!” he suddenly blurted, shocked by the admission his mounting tension released.
“That’s okay, Skipper. You’re s’posed to be scared to death before jumpin’ into somethin’ like this,” Gray assured him. “Hell, that’s one o’ the reasons I only ever did it once!”
“Skipper’s not scared of anything,” Spanky denied. “It’s Juan’s coffee that has my guts in an uproar. That’s probably what’s bothering him too. Sorry, Juan, but by God, it’s time somebody spilled the beans you bee
n murderin’.”
“I don’t think Juan’s coffee is to blame,” Matt objected bleakly.
“Course not!” the Filipino declared, glaring at Spanky. “Snipes poison themselves on burned bilgewater,” he added, referring to Spanky’s previous, longtime status as engineering officer. “I’ve seen it take years to get that sooty swill out of their system! Here, Cap-i-taan Reddy!” he offered, trying to pass him a sick-berth urinal. “In case you feel . . . ill. I sterilized it myself!”
“Put that goddamn thing away, you idiot!” the Bosun growled incredulously, then snatched the cylinder himself and tossed it under the bench they sat on. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“But his uniform!” Juan objected.
“The Skipper’s uniform won’t get a spot on it, ’cause he ain’t gonna puke. Sure, he’s a little edgy. Who wouldn’t be with all this fuss? I guess if he was the sort to spew, he woulda done it the first time he ever stuck a Grik with his fancy sword!”
The thought of that very sword at his side right now caused a queasy stir in Matt’s stomach.
“Just shut up, everybody,” he murmured. “About . . . being sick, anyway.” He looked at Juan and offered a weak smile. “Thanks for the thought, but I’ll manage.”
Dennis Silva muttered something and chuckled.
“Think I’d prefer a quick pass by the JP myself,” Lieutenant Kutas said. His scarred face looked pinched as he stared at the crowd.
“It does seem quite a . . . fuss,” Chack observed. “We do such things much differently, as you know. Why could you not have just a simple ceremony like you performed for Mr. Letts and Nurse Theimer, Cap-i-taan?”
“Because we were all fixin’ to die then, Chackie,” Silva said. “This is politics!”
As was often the case, Silva was more astute than he generally pretended, because politics were definitely involved. Governor Radcliff wanted to capitalize on the popularity of the destroyermen to reinforce Respite’s dedication to the Alliance—and the Empire they’d helped to save. Emelia, as she’d stated, wanted to showcase Sandra and the respect her own people gave her to emphasize the advantages inherent in dismantling the system of female indenture and the advancement of associated social reforms. The . . . spectacle was also clearly intended to display strong friendship not only to Walker’s crew, but also to the large number of allied personnel now stationed on the island and the crews of other ships in port. Of course, Matt and Sandra’s decision to wed on Respite demonstrated their esteem for the people there and the Empire in general.
The donkeys pulling the trolley were finally reined to a halt in front of the Cathedral of St. Brenden, and the passengers gawked up at the impressive edifice as they stepped out of the vehicle. It wasn’t as big, and certainly not as Gothic as its old world counterparts the humans had seen, or seen pictures of, but the white-plastered stone fairly gleamed and massive columns supported the front of a truly impressive bell tower that soared perhaps a hundred feet high. Broad steps led to a massive conical wooden door that Radcliff had told them was hewn from the very timbers of the “passage” Indiaman Hermione herself.
Militiamen and two of Walker’s Marines flanked the huge door, and the thunder of the cheering crowd echoed back at them from the cathedral face like a breaking surf.
Matt straightened his tunic and adjusted his sword belt. “C’mon, he said, with what seemed a brittle confidence. “I guess we better go inside.”
The doors swung wide as they ascended the steps and the scent of burning candles met them as they left the bright sunlight and entered the relative gloom inside. At first, in equal contrast to the tumult outside, there was hardly a sound within as their eyes adjusted, but then the applause began as they were ushered forward toward the lighted altar at the far end of the long, arched chamber. Matt heard a muffled “Belay that shit!” from the Bosun behind him and he wondered briefly what Silva had done, before he focused his attention on the gathering that awaited them.
Several men, ranging from relatively young to ancient, stood on an elevated platform and were dressed in flowing white robes with little ornamentation. They flanked a man in a silky blue robe with gold accents whom Matt had briefly met during his first visit to Respite, and he was further discomfited to realize that the ceremony would apparently be performed by Bishop Akin Todd himself! His stomach clenched again when he remembered that previous meeting had not been completely cordial; the bishop had harbored deep suspicions of the Alliance in general, and its social meddling in particular. Now, however, the tall, white-haired man with the conical “pope hat,” as Gray had called it, practically beamed at him as he motioned Matt and his party to find seats in the right-front pew.
Glancing down the length of the long, wooden bench as his men preceded him with awkward, sideways steps, Matt was surprised to see Ambassador Forester and Midshipman Brassey standing at the far end, waiting. Brassey he’d expected, but he wondered why Forester had chosen to sit on the groom’s side. He glanced to the left, and was equally surprised to see Governor Radcliff, Emelia, their daughters, and several others he didn’t know sitting for the bride. As had been arranged, Dennis Silva, of all people, joined them there with a beatific smile, and Matt suppressed a groan. Sandra had insisted, and he supposed he understood, but he sensed a disaster in the making. With a final glance behind him, taking in the various attendees with his eyes better accustomed to the gloom, he noted the garish colors of Imperial finery interspersed with numerous Navy uniforms, and he jerked a nod in their direction and sat. Periodically over the next quarter hour, the great door admitted light, warm, humid air and more members of Walker’s crew. Each time, the local attendees clapped their hands for men and Lemurians, and Matt was again pleased by their reception.
The applause abruptly stopped when the Bishop finally extended his arms to his sides. A choir stood behind him, from seats arranged beneath a massive cross that Matt only then fully appreciated. The thing appeared to be made of thousands of shards of multihued volcanic obsidian, from clear to blue to almost black, and it sparkled in the candlelight like hot blue, flickering flames. The bishop lowered his arms, and the choir commenced an unfamiliar hymn. Matt didn’t understand the words, but the voices were clear and strong and the melody was moving. The admirable acoustics of the cathedral added an impressive power to the music, and Matt felt his tension ease to some degree. The song was kind of long, but when it finally ended, Bishop Todd raised his hands again in the sudden silence and boomed:
“Let us pray!”
The prayer was pretty straightforward and not unlike many Matt heard in church as a kid, and he duly bowed his head for its duration. When it ended, he was surprised to hear the bishop call Governor Radcliff to speak. The melodious words that followed were essentially a highly complimentary account of the past campaign that highlighted Matt’s, Walker’s, and even Sandra’s contributions to its success. Matt knew Radcliff had prepared a major speech to kick off the “reception,” and didn’t know how he’d keep from repeating a lot of what he’d just said, or even much further embellish it. The address closed with flowery compliments of “Supreme Commander” Captain Reddy’s military prowess and unerring leadership—while Matt’s face burned—and Radcliff added his personal assurance of “Minister Lady” Tucker’s purity, chastity, courage, and medical genius.
After a respectful silence while the governor made his way to his seat, the choir erupted into another unintelligible but hauntingly familiar chorus, while priestly ushers advanced toward the forward pews. Matt recognized his signal to stand, and suddenly rubbery legs reluctantly obeyed him. Spanky, Gray, Chack, Kutas, Campeti, Juan, and Brassey all shepherded him before the altar. Dennis Silva, shoulders square and mouth grim, erectly escorted Emelia Radcliff toward the front of the cathedral, where they stepped inside an alcove Matt hadn’t seen when he entered. They emerged a moment later, each on the arm of . . . a short, white, shapeless cloud, and Matt almost barked a nervous laugh at what Sandra must think of her Imperi
al wedding dress.
The gown was fancy enough, Matt supposed, with plenty of frills, lace, and sparkly stuff, but it was also cut in the Imperial style that deliberately de-emphasized and obscured the female form to protect the modesty of ladies of quality and status. Matt had always been struck by that, since indentured or lower-caste women in the Empire wore little more than civilian Lemurians—which was next to nothing. In the Imperial case, he supposed that was the easiest way to differentiate the classes, but there was little wonder why there were so many “fatherless” children running around Imperial port cities, particularly when lower-caste women had so little expectation of legal recourse or protection.
Matt knew Sandra wasn’t vain, but doubted she’d ever expected to wear such an amorphous thing to the altar—or that she’d preserve it unaltered for the future use of any daughter they might have! For the first time since the . . . ordeal began, a broad grin spread across his face—and grew even broader when Sandra drew close enough for him to see her savage blush. His anxiety all but fled, and he felt a sudden swirling rush of anticipation. In spite of the ridiculous dress and her brightly flushing cheeks, at that moment, Sandra was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and her features softened and her lips ticked upward into a tentative smile when she saw his expression.
Diania and Tabby brought up the rear of the bridal procession, and Diania was dressed in a similar, simpler version of Sandra’s dress. Tabby, however, wore what had evolved as the Lemurian version of dress whites: a well-tailored, high-collar tunic that did not de-emphasize her shape in any way and a long white kilt. Belted around her waist was a standard pattern 1917 cutlass, but it was sheathed in a tooled and brass-accented leather scabbard. Diania might have preferred similar garb, but Emelia had virtually insisted that the formerly indentured woman appear as a “lady.”
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