command of all forces gathered here. Let all swear to follow his instructions in the coming fight. Swear on the honor of your clans! Swear now or leave!” Nakja-Mur turned to him then, and over the sound of the vigorous affirmations, he spoke in Matt’s ear: “It is done. I’ve given them reason to hope, I think. I imagine you’ll temper that with a large measure of despair. Taken together, perhaps a realistic expectation will emerge.”
“I’ll try to keep it upbeat, but I won’t lie to them, my lord,” Matt answered him. “These are our officers. We’ll have a chance only if they know exactly what we face.” He turned to the crowd and cleared his throat. Beginning with a summation of the previous campaign, he recounted how his ship had led the newly cannon-armed Homes against the invasion fleet that invested Aryaal. He told of the great victory in the bay, and how they landed and fought a desperate battle against the besieging force—a battle they won only by the skin of their teeth, prolific use of Walker’s modern weapons, and the timely assistance of Queen Maraan and Lord Rolak. He didn’t dwell on the treachery of Rolak’s king that cost them many lives, and nearly the battle. King Rasik Alcas was surely dead by now. He told how they found Walker’s long-lost sister, USS Mahan (DD-102), and the pitifully few members of her crew who’d survived their own terrible ordeal. He spoke of things they’d learned about the enemy—still far too little—but also about how they’d defeated them. The Grik were terrifying warriors, but they fought without discipline—or even much thought. They’d beaten them, and they could do it again.
Then he talked about Revenge. She was a Grik “Indiaman” they’d captured and armed, and Matt had sent her to harass the enemy and scout the AEF’s next objective, Singapore, the most tenuous Grik outpost. Ensign Rick Tolson had been captain of Revenge, and Matt had finally read his log. The narrative was inspirational. It also wrenched his soul. Revenge had been badly damaged in a storm, and was left to face the full brunt of a new, massive Grik fleet all alone. Mallory took up the narrative, and briefly described what he, Ed Palmer, and Jis-Tikkar saw from the airborne perspective of the PBY flying boat, and he haltingly, hauntingly recounted the sacrifice Revenge’s people made to destroy as many of the enemy as they could, and prevent the capture of their ship. Matt thought the example was good for all to hear. It was the story of a gallant struggle against impossible odds, something they were all likely to face before long.
Matt then described, as clearly as he could, the force that destroyed Revenge; the force coming there. The hall grew silent, and for the first time, probably—for the Baalkpans, at least—it began to sink in. He spoke of the courage it took for the B’mbaadans and Aryaalans to sacrifice their homes, hoping that by defending Baalkpan, they might someday see their own homes again. He described the desperate evacuation and the bravery of Tassat-ay-Arracca who’d saved so many in the face of certain destrumos undivided attention, he talked about Amagi. At 46,000 tons of iron, and over 800 feet long, she was much heavier and almost as big as the improbably huge wooden seagoing Homes of the People. Most present still hadn’t seen the Japanese battle cruiser, although some survivors of Nerracca had. At least, they’d seen what she could do with her terrifying guns. Tassana stood beside her grandfather, Ramic-Sa-Ar, her eyes red and haunted, while Matt described the ship. Chack had seen it. He’d had a good long look from Walker’s crow’s nest, and often, when Matt stopped for a moment, he continued quietly in his own language, speaking of what he saw. Finally, Matt described Walker’s vengeful torpedo attack and the damage he thought it inflicted. To those listening it was a stirring commentary, but that wasn’t Matt’s only intent. He massaged his brow with his fingers and glanced at Nakja-Mur. The High Chief knew what he was going to say to the hushed assembly.
“She’s still out there,” he said at last, and took a long, deep breath. So did everyone else. “Mr. Mallory confirmed by direct observation that she’s still afloat and underway”—he managed a predatory grin—“but not very fast. We were right about the damage to her boilers. It looks like she’s making only about four knots. The Grik are clustered around her, probably to prevent another torpedo attack, and she and the rest of the enemy fleet have turned back for Aryaal. Her damage is severe, and remember, she was already badly damaged after the last time she met up with us. After that fish we stuck in her the other night, I’m frankly amazed she didn’t just roll over and sink. Maybe she still will,” he added hopefully, “but we can’t count on it. I think we can count on a little time, however, and maybe we evened the odds a little. A few enemy scouts were reported nosing around the mouth of the bay this morning, but Fort Atkinson’s guns drove them off. My ship is still in pretty rough shape, but tomorrow we’ll sortie and see if we can tow in some of the Grik ships we damaged in the strait. As you know, a couple have already arrived, captured by local crews. I understand the fighting against the survivors was fierce. . . .”
“So Amagi and the main force have retired?” Keje asked for emphasis, speaking for the first time.
“As of Mr. Mallory’s last observations before the PBY got jumped by one of Amagi’s spotting planes. I’m sure you all appreciate how lucky we are that plane and most of her people made it back? As for Amagi.” He shrugged. “Maybe her other boilers will choke and that’ll be the end of her. We could sure use one of those Strakkas right about now,” he added, referring to an intense, typhoonlike storm spawned by the slightly different climate on this very different Earth. There were murmurs of agreement, mostly from the destroyermen. “In any event, Mr. Alden and Mr. Letts have improved considerably on the defense designs I left behind. They came up with stuff I never even thought of, and then the people of this city, working themselves to death, managed to finish the job. I’m impressed. Pete explained the differences and I had a good look at them this afternoon.” He looked as many of them in the eye as he could. “They’re good defenses, and they ought to hold against a very determined assault. That’s good, because that’s the only kind I’ve seen the Grik make.” He paused, measuring the mood in the hall.
“Eventually, they’ll come. Amagi will be repaired or not, but I expect if she can be, they’ll try to wait for her. That may give us months to prepare, or it may not. They strike me as pretty notional, strategically. They might just get sick of waiting. Regardless, like I said, eventually they’w `> come before we get back, and if the Grik try to send their main force, you should be able to hold for a time, and we’ll be less than a week away. This is what I propose to do. . . .”
After the council adjourned, Matt and his former executive officer, Jim Ellis—now Mahan’s captain—were joined by Sandra Tucker, and together they strolled slowly along the pier. Ellis, burly, once ebullient, still showed the effects of his ordeal aboard Mahan. His limp, caused when he was shot by Kaufman—an Air Corps captain who’d taken over his ship after they came through the Squall—was better, but he was still haunted by what he felt was his less than stellar performance as Mahan’s commanding officer. Most of the already shorthanded old destroyer’s remaining crew had died while she was nominally in his charge. Matt knew it wasn’t his fault, but Jim didn’t see it that way. Nor could he and the rest of Mahan’s survivors dispel the sense of dishonor that seemed to have settled upon their ship, due to Kaufman’s actions and their own inability to prevent them.
Sandra Tucker was as petite as Ellis was physically imposing. The top of her head, long, sandy-brown hair coiled in a bun, reached only to Matt’s shoulder, but her seemingly delicate frame concealed a strength of will and character that had been tested over and over again on the grisly battlefields of her operating tables. She’d faced wounds of a type and scope few Americans ever had, since the primary weapons of this war were designed to hack, stab, and slash. The unwarlike Lemurians had never seen anything like it before either, and she and Nurse Theimer had created, from scratch, a professional, efficient Hospital Corps. The ’Cats possessed a powerful analgesic, antiseptic paste, a by-product of the fermented “polta” fruit, so wounds were less likely t
o fester and fewer wounded were lost to disease. But battlefield medicine—the wholesale treatment of terrible wounds—was something the ’Cats had known nothing about. Sandra was just as tired as Matt. Many in her hospital now were younglings who’d survived the loss of Nerracca. The ship had been shelled into a sinking inferno, and a lot of the injuries she now faced were terrible burns on tiny, whimpering bodies.
The sky was clear, and in spite of the glow from the city and the pier, the stars stood out brightly overhead. In a way it was much like that night, so long ago now, when Matt and Sandra so tentatively discovered how they felt toward each other. On that occasion they’d been serenaded by drunken men singing an off-color song as they were transported back to the ship. Tonight the background music consisted of crackly, indistinct, upbeat tunes, from the dead gunner’s mate “Mack” Marvaney’s phonograph, playing over the ship’s open comm. The music was accompanied by loud, hoarse voices and clanging metal, as the men continued working under the glare of the searchlights.
The main difference between that night and this, however, was that back then, they still had no real idea what they faced. They’d had a few minor successes against the Grik, and their concerns about fuel had been put to rest. In some ways it was a hopeful time. Matt had chafed at their ignorance regarding the enemy, but compared to now, that ignorance had indeed been bliss. Now they knew what they faced, and the mood was more somber. Back then, things seemed to be looking up. Tonight, hope and optimism were in considerably shorter supply.
They stopped at the end of the pier, a hundred yards aft of Walker. In the gloomurns oneeth.
“The Mice may not have figured it out,” Jim drawled dryly, referring to the two enigmatic, almost belligerently insular firemen, and their female Lemurian protégé, “but I wouldn’t bet money.”
“Damn.”
Jim held up his hands. “Hold on, Skipper. Before you think your little act was a waste of time and the men’ll resent you—like you warned Letts—let me tell you something. I told you everybody knows you’re nuts about each other, but they also know why you’ve been acting like you weren’t. They appreciate it, Skipper! They know what it’s cost you, because they know how it would feel to them. I do too. Your crew admires you immensely. They’d follow you into hell. They already have!” He shook his head. “Mahan’s the same way. Everyone sees the weight on your shoulders, both of you, and they know you’ve denied yourselves the one thing that might help lighten the load. And they know you’ve done it for them.” He grinned. “Even if they still think you’re a couple of dopes.”
Matt was embarrassed. Not for how he felt, but because the men had seen through his deception. He felt as though he’d let them down. He looked at Sandra and saw tears gleaming on her cheeks, the lights of the city reflected in her shining eyes. “Would you excuse us for just a minute?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Sure, Skipper, I could swear somebody called me.” Turning, Jim walked down the pier toward the ships.
Tentatively, Matt put his arms around Sandra and drew her close. For the first time he didn’t notice any pain in his shoulder, wounded at Aryaal, at all. She began to shake, and he knew she was crying. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she scolded. “It was the right thing to do.” She raised her face until she was looking into his eyes. “It still is,” she told him firmly.
“I know.” Then he kissed her. It was a light, gentle kiss, and their lips barely touched. He didn’t dare make more of it. Still, it was enough to send an electric shock clear to the soles of his shoes. Finally, wistfully, retreating from their embrace, they began walking back toward the glare and racket of the feverish repairs. “There,” he said softly. “Maybe that’ll tide me over a little longer.”
“I guess we have a wedding to arrange.” Sandra sighed, wishing it could be their own.
Nakja-Mur lounged on his favorite cushion on the broad western balcony of the Great Hall of the People, apparently taking his ease. He often did so on clear evenings, watching the Sun slowly descend from the sacred Heavens into the impassable jungle beyond the bay. Sometimes, when the light was right, and his mood and eyelids were adjusted just so, he imagined the mighty orb quenching itself in the very bay. Many of his people had often watched him thus, equally content, at the end of a day’s honest labor, or the beginning of a night’s. They took comfort from his comfort, as he did from theirs, because it represented stability, prosperity, and, above all, the promise that they could continue to live their comfortable lives without want, fear, or change. Those had been happy times. Times he’d thought would continue throughout his life and reign as Baalkpan’s High Chief. They were the only sort of “times” he’d ever known, and he’d taken them f’s.ny wind, though he knew she could use only one of her “engines.”
Despite the fact Walker had seen more action in this war, Mahan was the weakest, most badly damaged of the two Amer-i-caan ships that came to them through the Squall. He now understood that that damage was due to an earlier encounter with Amagi. As powerful and indestructible as she seemed to him—she was made of iron, after all—he had to remind himself that if Amagi one day came—perhaps entered this very bay—she could swat Mahan aside with little concern. Such a thing was so far beyond his experience as to seem unthinkable. But he hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen. Those he knew and trusted who’d beheld Amagi assured him it was true, and somehow he managed to believe them. The thought churned his gut with dread.
A servant, a member of his expanded wartime “staff,” pushed through the curtain behind him and stepped into view, waiting to be noticed. Nakja-Mur sighed. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t lurk behind me like that; I won’t eat you!” His tone was gruffer than he intended, and if anything it made the young servant cringe back a step.
“He does not know you as I do, lord,” came a voice from beyond the curtain. It parted, revealing the hooded form of Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa Home. Adar was tall for one of the People. He wore a deep purple robe adorned with embroidered silver stars across the shoulders and chest. The hood bore stars as well. His silver eyes peered from a face covered with fine, slate-gray fur. He gestured at Nakja-Mur’s stomach, which, though considerably shrunken from its prewar dimensions, was still quite respectable. Nakja-Mur chuckled.
“I only eat youngling servants for breakfast these days, you know.” He patted his belly and it rumbled on cue. “Though perhaps . . .”
“I will bring food instantly, my lord!” cried the servant, and he vanished from view.
Adar blinked amusement. “Do you suppose he will return?”
Now that the youngling was gone, Nakja-Mur sighed again. There was no need to keep up appearances for Adar. “Of course. Please be seated,” he said, gesturing at a cushion nearby. “We have much to discuss.”
Adar folded himself and perched rigidly on the firmer cushion Nakja-Mur knew he preferred. For a moment he just sat there, looking at the High Chief and waiting for him to speak. Nakja-Mur was casually dressed in a light, supple robe, and sat with a mug of nectar loosely balanced on his knee, but his increasingly silver-shot fur, and the absently troubled cant to his large, catlike ears, would have belied his relaxed pose to any who knew him well.
“The Amer-i-caans are planning a ‘fallback’ source of gish, to power their ships,” he stated abruptly. “So no matter what they say, they recognize at least the possibility Baalkpan will fall.” The strange Australian, Courtney Bradford, had been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps showing practically every major oil deposit in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the sayaal and B’mbaado, increasingly looked to him for spiritual and moral inspiration. Ever since he’d learned the true nature of the Grik, Adar’s most consistent inspiration was to fully emb
race what the Amer-i-caans called “Total War.” Only by doing so did the People have any hope of survival.
“Perhaps,” he whispered.
The promised food arrived, and both Adar and Nakja-Mur forced confident grins and stilled their twitching ears. Fortunately, their tails were confined by their postures and couldn’t betray their agitation by swishing back and forth.
“Leave us,” said Nakja-Mur congenially, when the servant placed the tray before them. The youngling quickly departed. “Speaking of what this war has cost our Naga, how is Cap-i-taan Reddy? I will never learn to understand their grotesque face moving and hand waving, but he does not seem the same.”
“He is driven,” Adar conceded. “After what happened to Nerracca, he hates the Grik just as passionately as I, and if anything, I believe he hates the Jaapaan-ese even more.” He cocked his ears. “Tragic as Nerracca’s loss certainly was, it is stunning how it has strengthened the alliance.”
“True, but he seems distracted as well.”
“There is tension,” Adar confessed. “He is reluctant to mate with their healer, although their attraction is plain to all. I believe it has to do with the scarcity of females available to the rest of his people.”
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