Into the Storm

CHAPTER 7

What, then, would you have us do? How do we defeat them if the Ancient Ones could not?” The speaker was the High Chief of one of the great Homes. Seven of the huge vessels now floated in Baalkpan Bay, and all their chiefs, as well as a large number of senior “officers,” were present in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall for this long-awaited council. There were even representatives from several smaller “land colonies.” Gatherings on such a scale were rare, usually happening no more than once or twice a decade, and there was no official mechanism for summoning one. As far as Matt could tell, it might be as simple as shouted words from passing fishermen: “Big meeting at Baalkpan. Come if you want.” Without better communications, that was probably exactly how it happened.

Great Gatherings were usually occasions for festivities, games, trade, and socialization. They were also times for crowded, prosperous Homes to branch off. To build new Homes and form new clans. It was a time that the People on their solitary wandering Homes looked forward to with pleasure and anticipation, wondering where and when the next would be held. But this one was different. All were aware of the seriousness of the growing threat, and those present, at least, seemed willing and even eager to discuss their next move. Few agreed what that move should be, however.

The Lemurian who’d spoken was Anai-Sa, High Chief of Fristar, one of the Homes that had been in Baalkpan Bay since before Walker arrived. He seemed young for his rank, with a jet-black pelt and a spray of white whiskers surrounding his face. His green eyes were intent. Besides his heavily embroidered kilt, he wore only a multitude of shimmering golden hoops around his neck and upper arms. His people were “far rangers” who rarely entered these waters. Their “territory” was most often the South China Sea, but Grik pressure had pushed them south. He was also the most outspoken of the “why don’t we just sail off where there are no Grik” crowd.

Keje spoke in reply. “I would have you hear the words of Cap-i-taan Reddy of the Amer-i-caans, and High Chief of Waa-kur. He is High Chief of an independent clan and has as much right to speak as anyone here. More, to my thinking, since he saved my Home from the Grik. The Amer-i-caans have helped us prepare for this time with no concern for personal gain.” Keje stood before the silent group, looking out among them. He said nothing about Walker’s brief sortie two weeks before that destroyed two more Grik ships. All were aware of it, even if they hadn’t been there yet, and boasting sometimes detracts from self-evident truth. Besides, the last thing Matt wanted was everyone thinking Walker would save them all. As Keje suspected, there were murmurs of protest. Not because the humans weren’t People, but because their ship was so small and sparsely populated. Would they grant “Home” status to fishing boats too?

Keje squared his shoulders and placed his hand upon the scota at his side. “I declare Cap-i-taan Reddy is my Brother as surely as any High Chief, and I offer combat to anyone saying he does not deserve to speak.” These last words came in a growl.

There was some very unusual body language in response to this threat, and some glanced to see Nakja-Mur’s reaction. He merely stared at Keje’s back across steepled claws with his elbows on his knees.

“These Amer-i-caans come from far away, and know more about war than we. Before they came to help us, they were engaged in a struggle that defies belief. Their wondrous ship was just one of perhaps hundreds, and they modestly tell me theirs was but the smallest and least powerful Home to fight in that unimaginable conflict! Yet it prevailed!”

Matt winced at Chack’s translation. Okay, so much for not bragging. Besides, they’d “prevailed” in the sense that they’d survived, but that was the only appropriate context for the word. Keje grinned at him ironically.

“Would you speak to them, my Brother? Perhaps you can sway them. I’ll tell them your words.”

Matt nodded. For his plan to work, they had to see the threat. But they also needed hope. How would he scare them into joining the fight without scaring them away? Particularly since the plan he was forming was risky, to say the least. The irony of the situation struck him like a slap. He remembered how unfathomable he’d thought admirals and politicians were. Particularly within ABDA. Why they made the decisions they did mattered only insofar as they affected his ship, his crew, and himself. Suddenly he was standing in similar shoes and found them most uncomfortable. He stepped to Keje’s side and cleared his throat.

“I really don’t know if we can defeat them,” he said simply. Keje looked at him sharply, surprised by the dour opening, but Matt had stressed the word “we.”

“I don’t know much about them at all. Nobody does; not even where they come from, or what kind of society supports their warlike nature. We’re probably outnumbered. Their ships aren’t as large as yours, but they’re much faster, and each carries nearly as many warriors as yours since their ships aren’t Homes. They carry no families that we know of, and they grow no food. They’re meant for one thing only: to transport warriors to battle.” He paused. “That should be both an advantage and a disadvantage to them. They can pack a lot of warriors into their ships, but they have to keep supplied or they can’t stay in our territory long. One thing we do know is they’re a long way from home.” He shrugged. “They raid for provisions-Chill-chaap proves that-but even that takes time from offensive operations, and the more there are, the bigger that problem becomes.

“That’s about all we know about their strategic situation, though. We don’t know what they want or why they’re here, beyond an apparent hunger for conquest. We have no real idea what their ‘grand strategy’ is. Their efforts so far have not seemed well coordinated, although Keje tells me they’re better now than in the past. The best I can figure, they have several independent task forces on the loose, looking for us, and they hope to eventually overwhelm us with numbers. That’s also the historical model recorded in your Scrolls.

“We too have advantages and disadvantages.” Matt looked at the faces staring impassively back.

“And what are our advantages, beside the ability to simply leave them behind again?” The black-furred Lemurian’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Matt regarded him coldly. “Courage is one,” he answered, returning the green-eyed glare. “Thoughtful courage, not the wild-ass, charge-tanks-with-horses kind.” There was absolutely no context for the statement, but somehow they grasped his meaning. All present knew, at least by description, the abandon with which Grik fought. Their attack was like a school of flasher-fish. Maybe they employed tactics, but once they came to grips, it was individual mindless ferocity.

“We also have Walker,” he said matter-of-factly, “and nothing they have can match her speed and the range of her weapons. We’ll have more weapons soon. Cannons, sort of like Walker’s, that’ll fit on your ships. But most of all-I hope-we’re smarter than they are. Smart enough to use their strengths against them. And if their strengths become weaknesses…” He shrugged.

“Frankly, our biggest disadvantage is ignorance.” There were hostile murmurs at that. The closest Lemurian word to “ignorance” was precariously similar to “stupidity.” He continued hastily on. “That’s a disadvantage I’m personally sick of… for a lot of reasons, and one I plan to correct. It’s our biggest disadvantage because of how much bigger it makes our other problems.” He counted on his fingers. “First, there might be five or ten of their ships in the Java Sea right now, but we don’t know. We don’t know if they’re part of a probe or a real push. The Scrolls describe a slow escalation, but is it just starting, or has it reached its peak? We don’t know. Our ignorance makes it impossible to formulate a strategy to totally defeatthem.” He motioned Benjamin Mallory forward. “Lieutenant, when you saw the aftermath at Tjilat-Chill-chaap, did you speculate on the nature of the Grik attack?”

“Yes, sir. It’s hard to say, but I got the impression they made an amphibious assault, coordinated with an attack overland through the jungle.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s just a guess. We didn’t really study the battlefield, if you know what I mean, but the corpses in the jungle were in groups. Not really scattered around. Like the inhabitants were running away and ran into the Grik. Not like they were chased down and caught. It was just… the feeling I got.”

Matt nodded. “That seems consistent-the multipronged attack. Like the tactic they used against Big Sal. Attack as many places as possible to split your defenses. That might even be an example of their overall strategy, writ small. If so, that shows us another one of our problems. We’re way too scattered out. I know that’s how you’ve always lived, but you’ve got to pull together. Believe me, we know about being all alone when the world is falling on us! The only way to defend against that sort of attack is to mass our forces. Keep them as united as possible and work together as best we can. But where do we mass? We can’t do it everywhere-that defeats the purpose.” He looked measuringly at Nakja-Mur. “We could mass at Baalkpan-fortify the city and build a wall around it, with fighting positions and maybe even cannons. We could clear the jungle around it and make a killing ground that even the Grik would fear. In fact, I think we should. But it’ll take time, and that’s a luxury we may not have. We don’t know how much weight’s behind them. It also surrenders all initiative to the enemy and sounds too much like what happened last time, if you ask me. Anyway, it all still boils down to: we just don’t know!”

Nakja-Mur raised his bearded chin from his fingertips. “Could we defeat the Grik in such a manner?” he asked.

Matt hesitated. “No. We could prevent defeat for a time, but we couldn’t win. While we sat behind our walls and fought them and killed them, and bled them white, we’d only grow weaker, while they would send more Grik. Just as it’s written in your Scrolls. Eventually, they’d wear us down. The only way to win is to attack!”

There were incredulous cries. “Attack them? Attack where? We do not even know where they come from!” shouted the black-furred High Chief. Others yelled questions and comments as well: “We could harry their ships, but will they fight if we bring a large enough force to defeat them?” cried one. “We certainly can’t catch them if they run!” “What will happen to Baalkpan if we leave it undefended?!” another asked. “He was talking about mass. Mass where?” “What’s ‘mass’?”

Matt listened to the uproar for a few moments longer. Finally, he spoke loudly a single word.

“Ignorance!”

Keje repeated it in the same tone. The tumult abruptly stopped and all eyes turned to the captain of Walker.

“Ignorance,” he said again. “I’m getting pretty tired of it myself. Let’s see if we can enlighten ourselves.”

Even Keje blinked surprise. “How do we do that, my Brother?”

“We mass.”

Keje was confused. “But you just said… they are spread out, they are faster-we can’t mass here and wait for them all to find us, and we certainly cannot mass together and chase them down!”

“No, but we can mass defensively and let a few come to us. I don’t want all of them until we know how many they are. And we won’t do it here.”

“I thought you said we should attack,” said Nakja-Mur.

“Think of it as a ‘defensive’ attack. It won’t be easy and it sure as hell won’t be safe, but if it works, we ought to learn a lot about our enemy at long last.”

“My people will have nothing to do with such madness!” huffed Fristar ’s High Chief.

Nakja-Mur stood, a little shakily, Matt thought. “You may leave whenever you wish, then,” he said. “My people don’t have that choice.” He looked at Matt. “My people… I… have never known war, but I will support this plan of yours whatever it might be. I do not want the Grik coming here.” He smiled sadly. “You may have all the paint or whatever else you want if you can prevent that.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Matt replied, glancing around the hall. “But what we both need most right now are more warriors. ‘Mass’ means numbers.”

Sergeant Pete Alden, United States Marine Corps, stared at the “mass” of trainees flailing at one another with clumsy enthusiasm and padded-point practice spears. Some were really trying, and the “Marines” did their best to instruct them. But to most of the newer recruits, it was still mostly a game. He cursed. Before now, the training had gone relatively well with the smaller groups he’d been dealing with. He’d applied a familiar regimen even if the exercises were different from his own experience. The rush of recruits since the Grik ship sailed right into Baalkpan Bay changed all that.

His carefully chosen, elite Marines were broken up to form a cadre of NCOs as the militia (now “Guard”) swelled dramatically. Even warriors from some of the ships started to attend the drills. That was all well and good, but Parris Island had never seen a less likely draft, and he (who’d never been a drill instructor) now faced the impossible task of turning this collection of instinctively individualistic merchants, shopkeepers, fishers, and sailors into an army. And he had just a few weeks to do it. Right now, if he reconstituted his Marines, he could field two regiments of fairly well-trained, disciplined troops-and that’s what he’d likely do for the captain’s upcoming expedition. If they were successful, he would resume the training after they returned as veteran NCOs. Not just bright trainees who’d grasped the theory but couldn’t yet teach from experience.

The warriors who came to train were accustomed to working together, but otherwise they were a pain in the neck. As “warriors” already, they had their own way of doing things. They understood that discipline was required in order to fight together-which the land folk didn’t-but the close-order drill and concerted complexity of the captain’s new/ancient tactics were too much trouble. Alden was having some trouble with them himself. He was a grunt, a fighting Marine, and he fully understood the concept of mass. But in his Marine Corps, standing shoulder to shoulder and hacking at enemies close enough to smell their breath was crazy. He had no problem with a little hand-to-hand; he was even pretty good at it. Like many Marines, he was an artist with a bayonet-when it was attached to his holy Springfield. The dogma pounded into him as a recruit was one of accurate, long-distance riflery, backed by a bayonet and the will to use it. Standing toe to toe and hacking away was for last-ditch defense or final assault. Not for the whole damn fight.

There weren’t enough Springfields, however. Hell, there were barely enough for Walker’s crew. Some of the better Lemurian NCOs had Krags, but his army would fight with swords and spears. For those to work, you had to be right in your enemy’s face. Only shield walls and deep, disciplined ranks might give them an edge over the Grik. The captain said the shield wall and discipline set the Romans apart from the barbarians. Alden understood, but it still struck his subconscious mind as nuts. He’d have to get a feel for the new tactics too.

No Springfields, but they did have archers. In fact, every soldier was an archer of sorts. The front-rank spearmen carried longbows over their shoulders to use until the enemy came to grips-which wouldn’t take long on land, considering the close confines and thick vegetation hereabouts. The problem was it took a long time to get really good with a longbow. He’d just as soon have everyone stick with the crossbows they were used to, even if they weren’t as fast and didn’t shoot as far. It didn’t take an expert to use one of those. But his front rank couldn’t wield a sword or spear while swinging a heavy crossbow, so if he wanted standoff capability, longbows it had to be. Crossbows could still be employed by females or anyone too small or weak for the shield wall. Lemurian females weren’t necessarily weak, but they had the same… encumbrances that sometimes made longbows difficult for their human counterparts. Many of Alden’s best spearmen were poor archers, but he made them practice every day. Most were improving.

Right now, all were practicing their melee skills, learning to fight one-on-one in case the wall should ever break. That was also the type of fighting they expected for the upcoming operation. It was a fiasco. The parade ground looked like someone had kicked an anthill. A steady trickle of injured recruits walked or limped over to sit in the shade and be treated at Karen Theimer’s “aid station.” Some were really hurt, but most were goofing off.

Chack, Risa, and Lieutenant Shinya trotted up to join him. Risa was the training liaison for Big Sal, so she had a reason to be there, but Chack hadn’t let her out of his sight since the “incident” on the pier. Alden couldn’t believe she’d helped Silva with the scam. If it was a scam. Making Silva chew the leaves and get the screamers was a hoot, but the big gunner’s mate’s idea of “getting even” was… disproportionate. Chack needed a crash course in American joke rules. The question was, did Silva’s jokes have rules? Were they “even”? Pete doubted it. He shook out one of the cigarettes he always seemed to have and lit up.

“God help us,” he muttered when they were close enough to hear.

“They have learned to march fairly well,” Shinya said to console him. “And form a wall. But if it ever comes to that”-he waved at the chaos- “we’ll be destroyed.”

Alden smirked, but nodded. It didn’t help that they’d suddenly been told to train for a different type of battle. Until now, defense had been the priority. He turned his back to the practicing troops and took a small green book from his tunic. It was an old copy of The Ship and Gun Drills, U.S. Navy, from 1914. He’d found it in Doc Stevens’s library while rooting for something to read. It was probably on the ship when she was commissioned. Much was obsolete (even for Walker), but it had a rather extensive section on physical exercises, including bayonet and sword drill. The pages were illustrated, too. The bayonet drill translated easily to a short spear, but there was, of course, no mention how to combine the sword work with a shield. It didn’t really matter. The activities on the parade ground were not even slightly similar to the pictures in the book.

Shinya studied the pages over his shoulder as Alden held the book so he could see. For a moment he reflected how strange it was to be working with a Nip. Sometimes it seemed perfectly natural, but other times his skin practically crawled. A lot had happened in the last few months, but nothing could erase Pearl Harbor or Cavite or the Philippines or the Java Sea. But Shinya hadn’t bombed Pearl Harbor and he couldn’t help being a Jap. And every now and then, God help him, Pete Alden caught himself almost liking him. Not many felt the same. Bernie did, and maybe Garrett. The captain respected him, Pete thought. But the Chief still hated his guts. Gray was a good guy, steady as a rock, but something about Shinya gave him the heebie-jeebies. Alden wondered what it was.

“Damn,” he said, and slapped the book shut. He handed it to Shinya. “Can you make heads or tails out of that sword shit in there?” he asked.

Shinya nodded. “I believe so. It seems straightforward. Believe it or not,” he said, grinning, “I actually fenced in college.”

Pete harrumphed and rolled his eyes. “Just don’t teach ’em any of that Samurai bullshit. We want ’em to stay behind their shields, not run around flailing their swords in all directions. All that’ll do is confuse ’em.”

Shinya chuckled. “I’m a better fencer than I ever was a practitioner of Master Musashi’s teachings. I learned enough not to shame my father. He was very insistent. But I doubt he was proud of my skill.” His smile faded, and he looked at Alden, expressionless. “You see, the Way is very spiritual,” he explained. “Regrettably, I am not.”

“Yeah, well. Mmm. Closest thing I ever came to, looked like a sword, is this,” Alden said, grasping the long bayonet at his side, next to the. 45 holster. “Unless you count my granddaddy’s Civil War sword over the fireplace.” Teeth flashed in his bearded face. “I’m not much for this swords and shields shit, but bayonets I can do. And I think it’s time to stir things up.”

He retrieved one of the six-foot, bronze-bladed spears. “You do the swords. Teach ’em ways to use ’em in the open-we’ll need that too, and maybe first. But also behind shields when they’ve got ’em locked. Ask the captain. He seems to know about that. C’mon, Chack.” He gestured for the Lemurian to follow. “I need your mouth.”

“What are you going to do?” Shinya asked.

“Pick a fight.” He motioned toward the middle of the field, where a group of warriors from one of the ships gathered, taunting the recruits. “I’m going to show those Navy cat-monkey types they ain’t as tough as they think they are. No offense, Chack.”

Chack blinked amused approval. He’d experienced Alden’s “bayonet drills” himself. Together, they waded through the play-fighting troops, and Alden knocked some aside as they went. That got their attention, and some followed in his wake to see what he would do. Eventually they reached the knot of warriors, a group from Fristar. Alden was surprised to see them, since all their High Chief talked about was taking off. They hadn’t done it yet, but it was plain that all these showed up for was trouble.

They’d formed a rough circle and were pushing and shoving any land folk who came within reach. They were enjoying their game immensely and seemed to think it was at least as effective as the training going on around them. One reached for Alden as he came close, but pulled back when he saw he’d nearly grabbed one of the “Amer-i-caan Wizards.”

“Go ahead,” Pete said, grinning pleasantly. “I’m a Grik. Kill me.” Chack translated. The Fristar, a wing runner, looked aside at his fellows. One, easily the largest Lemurian Pete had seen, dipped his head. The shorter ’cat gave a high-pitched cry. He leaped at Alden with arms outstretched. The sergeant’s spear blurred. With a yelping, breathless grunt, the wing runner was on his back, looking cross-eyed at the spearpoint inches from his face.

“You’re dead,” Alden said. “Next?”

Another troublemaker stepped forward at a nod from the “leader.” This one had a few white hairs lacing his amber coat. His tail twitched back and forth. He accepted a real spear from a companion and assumed a more cautious stance.

An experienced warrior this time, Alden thought to himself. Good.

The ’cat held the spearpoint forward, left hand grasping near the blade. His right arm was fully extended behind him, holding the shaft like a harpoon. He crouched and took a step to his right. Lightning-fast, he lunged with the spear. Pete stepped inside the thrust, knocking it aside as he turned and drove the butt of his own spear into his opponent’s midriff. Somehow the Lemurian’s face showed surprise as he doubled over with a “woof!” Pete reversed the spear and made a classic thrust, ending just short of the chest. Then he turned and looked at the gathering crowd. The point he’d made was obvious. One down, one gasping for air, and Pete Alden wasn’t even breathing hard.

Some of the land folk cheered in their curious high-pitched, chittering way, but Pete knew it was more who he’d bested than how he’d done it. That wasn’t what he wanted to get across. “Chack, speak for me,” he said. He walked in a circle, scowling. Gradually, the cheering faded and he started to speak. Before he could, the big Fristar Lemurian stepped forward. He was tall enough to look Alden in the eye. He wasn’t as heavily built as the Marine, but Pete had to concede that he was probably stronger. Muscle rippled under the dark fur as he drove his spear into the ground in formal challenge. There was a sudden hush.

“Why do you humiliate the Fristar clan in front of these mud-treaders, Tail-less One? You who is a person of the Great Sea?” Chack translated as he spoke. Pete took a step closer to him and returned his glare.

“If you’re humiliated it’s not because of anything I’ve done. Your pride makes you believe you’re a better warrior than you are. Besides, among my people, I’m a mud-treader too. Walker has clans, just like you, and we’re all ruled by our High Chief. For us, that’s Captain Reddy. I obey him, but I’m chief of my own clan. The Marines.” He turned and looked at the gathering sea of faces. All training stopped as more recruits pressed forward to hear, and maybe see a fight.

“Among my people, Marines are the warrior clan. All they do is fight. Sometimes they fight at sea and sometimes on land.” He grinned. “Sometimes they even fight in the sky. To Marines it makes no difference. We fight the enemies of our people wherever they are.” He paused, considering. “We’ve made alliance with your people and we’ve seen the Grik for what they are. Your enemy is now the enemy of my people. That makes ’em my enemy and I’ll fight ’em because that’s what I do. In the meantime, it’s my duty to train you to be better fighters. To fight like Marines. That means fighting them anytime, anywhere, at sea or on land. That’s what it’ll take to defeat them.

“They aren’t coming to steal your things, just to loot and plunder. If the history of your Scrolls is true, they’re coming to wipe you out! Walker’s people are your allies, and that puts them in danger as well. So anything less than your very best makes you my personal enemy! Do I make myself clear?” He turned, snatched the spear out of the ground, and flung it down, accepting the challenge-the formal challenge-that meant blood could be spilled.

“There! We can fight if you want, and I promise you’ll be dead so fast you won’t even know how it happened.” He looked at Chack. “Or you can fight him, if you’re afraid of me, but he’ll kill you just as fast. Because I taught him how!” He looked at the tall leader of the Fristar group. “So what’ll it be? You want to die? Or do you want to learn how to really kill?”

The Lemurian returned his stare. Around them, all were silent, expectant… afraid. The formal challenge was rarely made, and when it was, there was almost always only one outcome. All were nervous about the political ramifications. Fristar, at least, would leave the fragile alliance that had been forged at the council. No one really expected the American to lose, and there was always bad blood after a formal challenge was met. The big Lemurian looked down at the spear. He put his foot beside it and, with a grunt, kicked it away, withdrawing the challenge. There was an audible sigh of relief.

“Then show me, Maa-reen. Show me how to kill.”

After securing Risa’s laughing promise not to fly to join her “mate,” Chack left her at the parade ground to continue her studies and headed back to Walker. His Home. He didn’t really know when it had occurred, but at some point all the ambitions of his previous life were supplanted by what he’d become. He was no longer a wing runner on Salissa Home. He was a bosun’s mate, in charge of the Lemurian deck division on USS Walker, duly sworn into the Navy of the United States, just as all the accepted “cadets” had been. He had only a vague idea what the United States were, but that made no difference. He’d become a warrior and now he was a destroyerman. He loved Salissa and always would, but he’d changed clans just as surely as if he’d become fas chief of another Home like he once aspired to do. That was an ambition for who he’d been before. He giggled at the irony of his outrage over Silva joining his clan. Now he’d joined Silva’s. That didn’t mean he wanted him for a brother.

He was encouraged despite Sergeant Alden’s gloom. Unwarlike as he once was, the people of Baalkpan were even worse. Yet at least they were trying. It took actual combat to crack his pacifist shell and his dispassionate evaluation of the land folk as warriors didn’t escape his sense of irony either. He believed they would fight. Some weren’t so sure, but if he could do it, they could too. A lot was riding on it. Most of the Homes in the bay had joined the alliance, but had not committed themselves to offensive operations. They’d taken a wait-and-see approach. The expedition they planned was basically a raid, a reconnaissance in force. The objective was information, primarily, but depending on what they learned, they were prepared to follow up with more attacks. Perhaps, if the Grik were as yet no more numerous than some evidence suggested, they might even defeat them-and fairly quickly. Captain Reddy hoped they could at least cleanse them from the Java Sea and establish a “Malay Barrier” behind which they could further prepare. It was a giddy thought. The captain projected cautious optimism, and Chack envied how he did that. He’d learned a lot about the fantastic war in the other world, and he knew that the mistakes and uncertainty that plagued the Amer-i-caans there now drove Captain Reddy to avoid the same issues here. If they did, they must succeed. Terrible as they were, the Grik couldn’t be as formidable as the Japanese had been.

In this happy frame of mind, he ambled along, the Krag muzzle down on his shoulder, picking his way through the fishmongers and handcarts that packed the wharf near the pier. He glanced up and saw Walker, snugged to the dock, smoke curling from her aft funnel once more.

“Chack.”

He turned, and his heart flipped in his chest. Before him stood Selass, her silken silver fur radiating sunlight. The armor she wore, much like her father’s, flashed with pink-red fire. As always, she was magnificent. She was armed with a scota and was headed for the parade ground herself. He’d seen her there several times, training. Sometimes she sparred with Risa. Chack’s ears lay flat and he bowed low.

“I greet you, Selass-Fris-Ar. You are well?”

“I am well…” She paused and blinked sadness. Chack nodded.

“You still mourn Saak-Fas. I understand. I hope the pain will pass with time.”

Her eyelids flashed impatiently. “I do not mourn him! If I ever did, the sadness is gone. But… I have another sadness.”

He blinked concerned query. Her eyes flashed and she almost growled with frustration.

“You will make me say it, then, I see! Has your revenge not run its course?”

“Revenge?”

“Yes, revenge! For leading you on, toying with you, and making you a fool! Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough? Saak-Fas was the fool! Now he’s gone… and I am glad. I was wrong about you. I thought you weak. But I also thought you loved me. I hoped you would still want me. Was I wrong about that too? I see you often, yet beyond casual greeting you have not spoken. Will you make me beg?” She blinked furiously. “Very well! I was wrong about Saak-Fas and I was wrong about you. I do want you now!”

Stunned, Chack could only stare. For so long, his fondest wish was to hear her say such words. Now, though they stirred him, they didn’t bring him joy. They only brought confusion and a trace of sadness. He gently replied.

“You did not make a fool of me. I did that myself. I was a fool. I was what you thought I was. But I’m no more that person now than a graw-fish is still a graw-fish after it sheds its tail and gills and flies out of the sea. I admire you in many ways, Selass, and am flattered that you desire me. But I do not pine for you. I suppose I do still love you, but it does not consume me as before. I’ve had much else on my mind of late. Your admission and… declaration have come as a surprise. May I consider it? I assure you my aim is not ‘revenge’ or to hurt you in any way. Let us speak again, after the expedition. After we know what sort of war we face. If my answer is still important to you, I will give it then.”

Shame, sadness, and consternation flashed across her eyelids, but she finally bowed and with a quick nuzzle under his chin that almost crushed his resolve, she flashed away toward the parade ground. For a very long time, he watched her weave through the throng until she was lost to view. With a stab of guilt and astonishment, he realized he’d not even thought about her in weeks. He would have to do that now.

Matt stood on the bridgewing with a cup of… something in his hand. He grimaced at the foamy brew. He couldn’t remember what Juan called it, but it was the local equivalent of coffee, evidently. It might even be a kind of coffee; it came from crushed, roasted beans. Not many Lemurians drank it. They used it as medicine, as a treatment for lethargy. Matt hadn’t had any before, but it had earned a following among the crew. Some just called it “java” or “joe,” as they always had. A few of the die-hard factionalists called it “cat-monkey joe” or “monkey-cat joe,” but just as “’Cats” was becoming the general compromise term for the Lemurians, “monkey joe” was gaining steam for the brew. It seemed to follow somehow. Whatever they called it, the stuff sure didn’t look like any coffee Matt had ever seen, although the aroma wasn’t entirely dissimilar. Maybe it was the yellow-green foam.

The foam slowly dissipated and the liquid beneath was reassuringly black, but there remained a bile-colored ring around the edge. He willed himself to take a sip and tentatively explored it with his tongue. Not bad, he decided, surprised. There was a kind of chalky aftertaste, but that wasn’t unusual for any coffee Juan made. And it did taste like coffee. Not good coffee, but the similarity was enough to fill a dreadful void he hadn’t really recognized. He smiled.

Walker was tied to the new fueling pier and the special sea and anchor detail was withdrawing the hose from one brimming bunker and preparing to fill another. Chief Gray watched their progress like a hawk, lest they spill any of the thick black fuel oil on his somewhat pale deck. Under the circumstances, Matt doubted that he’d really mind if they did. This transfusion of Walker’s lifeblood had raised everyone’s spirits to such a degree that it would be difficult for even Gray to summon much genuine ire over a splotch on the deck.

The benevolent thunder of the main blower behind the pilothouse was almost enough to mask Matt’s uneasiness about the expedition they were about to begin. An expedition that they’d planned and prepared for weeks, awaiting only this final detail. Fuel. When enough had finally been pumped, transferred, and refined, some was brought to Walker so she could fire up a boiler to run her pumps and get ready for the short trip upriver. All the while, the massive copper storage tanks on the shore continued to fill, awaiting her at the pier. Now, all was in readiness.

The rest of the expedition consisted only of Big Sal and half a dozen of the larger fishing feluccas. Together they waited, moored in the inner channel. Two other Homes had actually volunteered as well, but for this operation they would be too many. As soon as Walker completed her fuelingshe would join the task force and they’d enter the Makassar Strait. From there, Walker would range ahead, screening her slower consorts. Matt looked forward to being unleashed on the open ocean, where his ship could stretch her legs, but he felt trepidation as well.

It was a bold plan that he and Keje had designed and there was a lot of risk involved. But if they were successful they stood a chance of learning- at long last-quite a lot about the enemy. The lessons Matt had learned on the short end of the intelligence stick had been pounded well and truly home, and he’d managed to instill in Keje, at least, a similar obsession for information. So much was riding on this! Initially, success might accomplish little more than their destruction of the Grik ships in the strait-or the Asiatic Fleet’s little victory in almost the same place against the Japanese. But he’d hoped that, in the long term, the strategic dividend would be all out of proportion to the effort, particularly if it led to sufficient information to roll up the Grik. If they knew the enemy dispositions better, Walker alone still had enough ammunition to wreck a lot of Grik ships. With victory, or even a breathing space, they could continue to strengthen their friends, look for Mahan, and maybe begin their search for other humans too. Those were Matt’s ultimate goals. With bunkers full of fuel, they even seemed attainable.

Larry Dowden entered the pilothouse. “Skipper,” he said, saluting as Matt turned.

“Exec.”

Dowden glanced furtively at the other men on the bridge and lowered his voice. “Sir, I have it on good authority… the Mice have sneaked on board. I didn’t see ’em, but I’m pretty sure they did.”

Matt frowned. “Didn’t they get the word when I ordered all fuel project personnel to remain behind?” Many of Walker’s crew would miss the expedition. None was happy about it, but aside from having necessary assignments, Matt didn’t want all his eggs in one basket anymore. Letts would remain and continue coordinating industrialization efforts, aided by Perry Brister, who was also in charge of supervising the construction of defensive works. Letts had worked himself out of a job on the ship. He was too valuable in his new, expanded role. Besides, Matt didn’t want a repeat of whatever had caused the mysterious shiny black eye that he 3 wore. Officially, he’d tripped. Karen Theimer would stay and teach their growing medical corps. Matt knew that leaving the two together would only intensify the resentment of his other officers, but it couldn’t be helped. One of the nurses had to remain, and Sandra simply refused. He was glad he hadn’t given the order when others were around to see him back down. He was furious with her… and glad she was coming. As far as Letts and Theimer were concerned, maybe “out of sight, out of mind” was the best course to pursue.

“I didn’t tell ’em personally, but shoot, Skipper, I never see ’em even when they’re aboard. Everybody knew it, though; the order’s been posted for a week. They just ignored it.”

Matt shook his head. “And they can claim they never saw it and so they didn’t, in fact, violate a direct order.” He sighed. “No sense throwing them off. Besides, they’d just hide.” He thought for a moment. “Nobody else ‘deserted’ back to the ship? Bradford? Lieutenant Brister?”

Dowden shook his head, grinning wryly. “Bradford almost did. He’s supposed to be helping Brister with the fortifications. He is an engineer, after all, but he didn’t want to miss the show. Nakja-Mur finally bribed him with a safari to hunt down a ‘super lizard.’ Nothing short of that would have worked, I bet.”

Matt chuckled, and then his expression became serious again. “I owe him. But as far as the Mice are concerned… Well, I’m not going to bring them up on charges. They’re too damn valuable-I can’t believe I just said that!-and that’s exactly what I’ll have to do if I make a big deal about it. Their rig’s going fine with just a caretaker now. They’re no longer indispensable, just… valuable.”

He looked at the men working on the fo’c’sle. They were having difficulty with their usual chores since the cramped space was even further encumbered by a large apparatus that Matt hoped would soon prove useful. Some of the men stared curses at the thing as they maneuvered around it, and firing the number one gun to starboard would be tough while the thing was rigged for sea. But if that gun became essential to the operation, they’d failed anyway.

“Let them stay. They’ve earned it. But if they pull a stunt like this again, I won’t care if they learn to piss oil. Make sure that information reaches them, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Together, they walked across the pilothouse and Matt peered over the wing rail at the water. Even this far upriver, it was getting choppy. Above, the sky was like lead: a low, monochromatic overcast with none of the flighty characteristics of the usual daily squalls. The heavens seemed to exude a restrained, pregnant power.

“Looks like Adar’s right,” he mused aloud. “We may be in for a real blow.” He turned and grinned at Dowden.

“Perfect.”

Ben Mallory couldn’t believe he was flying, particularly in such heavy weather. After the conversation in which Captain Reddy told him they’d have to wait to look for Mahan-and why-he’d been afraid the PBY would be treated like a museum relic. He’d been wrong. If the plane could let them know what was coming-and didn’t fly too far-the captain was reluctantly willing to risk it. Especially now that the radio worked.

Mallory was battling through the driving wind and rain north of a cluster of tiny, rocky islands off the southwest coat of Celebes. The world was gray, and the sea below was a roiling, foamy white. The thundering, rattling, swooping turbulence was enough to make him sick, and he was enjoying every minute. He spared a quick glance at his copilot. The young sable-furred ’Cat was peering through a pair of binoculars through the open side window. His name was Jis-Tikkar, but he liked “Tikker” just fine. He was a good companion and a fast-learning “wrench.” He worked as hard as anyone keeping the plane ready to fly. On this, his very first actual flight, he was enraptured by the wonder of soaring high above the world at a measly hundred and ten miles an hour. Oh, how Ben missed his P-40 E!

Whatever Ben called him, Tikker wasn’t ready to be a copilot yet. For one thing, he could barely see over the instrument panel. Mallory allowed him to take the controls for a little “straight-and-level” before they flew into the storm, but it would be a while before he did it again. As soon as the little devil got his hands on the oval-shaped wheel, he’d nearly put the big plane into a barrel roll. It was all very exciting, and the flying lessons abruptly ceased. Tikker’s duties reverted to observation, and keeping Ben awake with his irreverent humor. Currently, the humor was absent as the ’Cat concentrated on the business at hand.

The rest of the flight crew consisted of Ed Palmer and two farsighted Lemurians in the observation blisters. Ed sat directly behind the flight deck, checking in with Walker and keeping track of their navigation. He wasn’t a pro yet, but he was a quick study. In his short time aboard Mahan he had, for all intents and purposes, been the navigation officer, since Monroe couldn’t plot his way out of a paper sack. As long as there were landmarks he could identify, he wouldn’t lead them astray-and they were forbidden to fly at night.

“There is the felucca!” Tikker said.

Ben banked slightly and craned his neck. Far below, a dark shape slashed through the heavy sea. The Baalkpan feluccas were fore-and-aft rigged and surprisingly nimble, but heavy weather was rough on them. “He’s headed southeast! He must have run into something!” Ben banked again and dropped the nose, peering through the windscreen. The wipers flailed as fast as they could, but they only smeared the water.

“There!” said Tikker, straining his eyes through the binoculars. He looked at Ben. “The third Grik ship! It is chasing the felucca!” Through the wipers, he caught brief glimpses of a distorted red-hulled shape.

“Should we get closer?” Ed asked behind him. “I’d just as soon not get closer. Besides, they’ll hear us.”

“Not a chance, with all the sea noise down there and the rain,” Ben replied. “All the same…” He began turning south. “Get on the horn…”

“Wait!” said Tikker urgently. “There is another…! And another! Two more Grik are in company with the first!”

“Shit!” said Palmer. “Any more?” For a long moment they stared.

“Nooo,” Ben decided at last. The three ships were clustered close together, and no others were in sight. “No, I think that’s all.”

“That’s enough!” Palmer cursed and headed for the radio. He picked up the mike. “You still there, Clance? Tell the Skipper we’ve got three hostiles inbound!” Palmer transmitted in the clear. Who else was going to listen?

“Roger,” came Radioman Clancy’s terse reply through the static. “What’s the weather like up there?”

“Moderating,” admitted Palmer. “It’s gone from an eggbeater to a martini shaker. Adar was right. Those Sky Priests are way better than our weather weenies were!”

“I’ll say,” agreed Clancy. “Lots more to those guys than reading maps and wearing silly suits. Wait one.” A moment later Clancy’s voice crackled in Palmer’s ear again. “Skipper says to double-double-check the enemy numbers, then get the hell out.”

“But Ben… I mean, Lieutenant Mallory, thought we might fly cover. You know, shoot somebody up if you need us.”

“Negative. Captain says to get your big blue butt back to Baalkpan! It’s our show now. You’ve done what we needed you to. Hell, you can’t even set down!”

“Wilco,” Ed grumbled. He clipped the mike and lurched back to the flight deck.

“What’s the scoop?” Ben demanded.

“We double-double-check, then beat feet for Baalkpan. Damn, we won’t even know how it goes!”

“Yeah, there’re a few more guests than expected. It’ll make things more difficult, but not three times as difficult-I hope.”

“Well… what are we gonna do?”

Ben looked at him. “We’re going to follow orders, sailor. But he didn’t say we couldn’t come back in the morning!”

The storm had finally begun to subside. It had indeed been a real blow, more violent than even Adar anticipated. The wind still blew at thirty knots or more, and the whitecaps of the heavy sea disintegrated into foamy spray. Keje stood on the sandy, desolate beach and stared bleakly at his beloved Home. Salissa lay at an unnatural angle, decidedly low in the water, a few hundred yards offshore. She now rested, exposed for all to see, on the bottom of the gently shoaling sand of what Matt called the Gulf of Mandar. How they’d ever managed to get her there, through the maze of huge rocks and mountainous seas, he could barely remember. All he recalled at the moment, in his exhausted, sodden state, was that the effort had been chi-kaash-hell.

All around him, people erected shelters amid piles of vulnerable supplies and others tended smoky cook-fires for knots of soaked, bedraggled people who’d paused from their labors to warm themselves. As far as he could see, the beach was inhabited by the debris and pitiful, helpless survivors of a traumatic calamity. Some stood as he did, staring out to sea, and some just milled about. Others waded back and forth through the surf, bearing bundles on their shoulders from one of the feluccas driven onto the beach. Another felucca still stood offshore, beating impotently back and forth, unable to risk the rocks and surf to come to their aid. Behind him, the tufted fronds of the trees beat and cracked with the wind, and the tall, skinny trunks leaned forlornly against the gray afternoon sky. Keje looked back out to sea, straining his eyes against the stinging spray. Walker was nowhere in sight.

Even over the thunderous surf, he heard Adar’s shout behind him. “They’ve seen something! They’re running!”

Keje wiped his eyes and peered through the binoculars Bradford had given him. Sure enough, the distant felucca was piling on more sail and slanting rapidly northeast with a grace and speed he envied. Farther away, another was racing down to meet it. The feluccas could sail much closer to the wind than Big Sal. Closer than the Grik. Signals snapped to the tops of their masts, and he focused carefully on them. Keje grunted. “I must return to Salissa,” he shouted back at his friend. He’d done all he could ashore.

It was a miserable trip in the barge, damp crew folk straining at oars against the marching waves, but soon they were alongside Salissa, sheltered in her lee. Keje scurried up a rope and hands pulled him aboard. He glanced quickly around. Other than those gathered near, his Home seemed deserted. The forward wing clan’s pagoda that they’d so recently rebuilt was intact, but the great tripod lay athwartships, its huge wing trailing over the side. Frayed cables, shattered barrels, and other unrecognizable debris were strewn across the exposed deck area. With a surge of concern, he glanced shoreward where his helpless People raced around in panic as rumors began to fly. A few tried to rally a defense, but not many. Here was a prize, ripe for the taking. The enemy couldn’t possibly refuse. An entire Home of the People, loaded with food and supplies. Riches beyond calculation to any Grik raider fortunate enough to stumble across her! And her People! Their favored prey! Tired, traumatized, disorganized! There’d be no restraining them. He raced up the ladder to the battlement, and a memory of the last time he stood there, preparing thus, flashed through his mind. So much had changed since then. He raised the binoculars again.

Grik!

Three towering clouds of dingy canvas resolved themselves against the dirty-gray background, charging toward them as quickly as they dared. Already, the bloodred hulls were visible, and there was no question they’d sighted their prey. A stone seemed to churn in Keje’s stomach. The Grik were as predictable as a school of flashers when a person fell into the sea, and just as remorseless.

“They’ve seen us,” he muttered pointlessly.

For a long while he stood on the tilted platform with a handful of his officers. Jarrik-Fas was there, as was Adar’s senior acolyte. Adar himself remained ashore at Keje’s command, to take charge in his absence. His daughter, Selass, was aboard as well, somewhat to his surprise. They’d spoken little since Saak-Fas disappeared, but much of that was probably his fault. He’d been so busy. They didn’t speak now, and she stood nearby but apart. That may also have been because Risa-Sab-At was present. She’d been recently promoted to commander of the Forewing Guard, and there was tension of some sort between the two females.

He knew Selass had expected Risa’s brother to press his suit once more, but he hadn’t. He just treated her like he did everyone else-with friendly familiarity. Just as if there was never anything between them. That would have been the hardest blow of all to his prideful, self-centered daughter, he mused. To think she was that easy to forget. It would… do just exactly what it had: leave her sullen and introspective and less sure of herself. He wondered with a burst of clarity if that was what the former wing runner intended. In spite of the situation, he felt a small grin spread across his face. He remembered that the big Amer-i-caan, Dennis Silva, had once called Chack a “scamp.” A good word. If true, good for him.

But the war had changed Chack in many ways. Not only had he become a warrior of note, but he’d joined the Amer-i-caan clan. Keje had not foreseen that, although he didn’t disapprove. It just highlighted how profound the change had been. He was more serious and much more mature-his feud with Silva notwithstanding. Keje grinned again. Unlike most, he was sure that Silva and Risa’s “mating” was a farce, although along with Captain Reddy, he’d pretended it was real, hoping to make them uncomfortable enough to admit the truth and let it pass. But they hadn’t. He didn’t even want to contemplate whether an actual mating was possible, but he was convinced, personality wise, that Silva and Risa were made for each other. Life had become very interesting in many different ways. Much too interesting to end here, today.

The Grik ships grew. Antlike figures scampered among their sails, reefing and furling in a surprisingly orderly fashion, much like wing runners of the People would have done. Half a mile away, beyond the first of the rocks that stood like sentinels around the little island, the enemy hove to. Through the amazing binoculars he saw masses of armored warriors surging against the bulwarks, waiting for boats to go over the sides. Their garish shields and bright plumage seemed dingy and washed-out, but he still felt a chill as he watched them. They didn’t descend to the boats with the same enthusiasm they had when they once boarded his ship, however. Perhaps the weather was affecting them? He felt vengeful satisfaction at the thought that Grik might be susceptible to the sickness that came to some if the sea was too lively. As he watched, at least two actually fell into the sea trying to gain the boats. He was appalled that no effort was expended to rescue them. “Fewer enemies to fight,” he muttered, “but by the Stars, are they not loathsome beyond imagining!” There were also three times as many as they’d expected to find in the area. Little was going as expected. Oh, well. There was certainly nothing they could do about it now.

Before long, twelve Grik longboats set out from the sides of the ships. Each was twice the size of Walker’s launch, and the warriors were packed to overflowing. There must be eighty or more in each boat, and as the oars dipped, it was apparent that Salissa would be their first target. Once they secured it, he expected they would stage the rest of their fighters aboard his Home and prepare their assault against the people on the shore. The thought ignited the stone in his stomach. Over his shoulder, he saw that a semblance of order had been restored, and a larger number of his people now stood on the beach with swords and crossbows ready. He looked back at the Grik.

Terrifying banners of red and black unfurled above the boats, each festooned with some grim image or awful beast, and they rattled downwind in almost perfect profile. Long tufts of fur or feathers bordered each flag, and he assumed they were some sort of clan device. They’d crossed perhaps a third of the distance between them now.

Keje turned to the acolyte. “I believe now is the moment we’ve awaited,” he said. The acolyte blinked wide-eyed acknowledgment. Reaching within the folds of his robe, he drew out a large brass-framed shape with a wooden grip on one end and a black pipe on the other. He pressed a button on the side, and the pipe tilted forward. Glancing in one end, he nodded to himself and closed it up again. With another glance at Keje, he wrenched the hammer spur back and pointed the thing at the sky, slightly into the wind. There was a muffled pop and a bright reddish object rocketed skyward, trailing a plume of smoke that vanished as quickly as it was made. A moment later, high above, a harsh pulse of unnatural light blossomed, unheard but visible for miles around. It sputtered and glowed impossibly bright as the wind carried it away. After only a few seconds, it went out. Together, they turned back to the Grik. “Now we will see,” Keje said.

For a moment the Grik hesitated, apparently startled, but when nothing happened they resumed their approach. Onward they rowed, steady and malevolent. Individual Grik, dressed gaudier than others, stood in the prows of the boats, exhorting the rest with brandished blades. It wouldn’t be much longer before Keje would know if he and all his people would survive this day.

“There!” Jarrik-Fas cried out and pointed. From behind the concealing point of land about three miles to the north, a pale gray shape, barely discernible against the stormy sky, lanced into view. The tiniest wisps of smoke hazed the tops of three of her funnels and a cascade of white foam sluiced along her flanks from the knife-sharp bow. A sensation of exultant satisfaction erased Keje’s dread. Their chore was bigger than expected, but they could handle that. They’d hoped for one, planned for two, but three should make scant difference. He turned and gauged the distance to the boats, now almost two-thirds to their objective. Sharp teeth were exposed as his grin became a snarl.

“They’ve risen to the bait. All that remains is to close the trap! Shall we reveal our surprise?” Jarrik-Fas strode to the new “jan-raal ay-laarm,” a long bronze cylinder suspended in a gimbaled bracket. He struck it energetically with a heavy rod. The loud notes were clear, if somewhat flat, and experiments showed they carried well to all parts of the ship. Hundreds of Lemurian warriors erupted from belowdecks and raced to their posts along the seaward rail. In moments, Big Sal’s starboard side bristled with eager warriors-not all of whom called her home. Some represented other Homes that had come to Baalkpan, like Nerracca, Aracca, and Humfra-Dar, but most were Baalkpan land folk leavened by Alden’s Marines. Below the catwalk, five large ports opened, their doors raised by a pair of ropes and half a dozen crew folk each.

The Grik slowed their advance momentarily when they realized they faced opposition. Keje hoped they wouldn’t break from tradition and cancel the attack. He’d carefully held back more than half his troops so they would think they still had the advantage. A preponderance of numbers in their enemy’s favor had never dissuaded the Grik before, but they’d been doing too many unexpected things of late. He needn’t have worried. With a crescendo of snarling shouts, the Grik plowed on, waving weapons in fierce defiance. Closer and closer, gnashing their teeth and pounding weapons against their shields. Their large eyes were opaque with a frenzy of rage. It was terrifying, regardless of his confidence.

He spared a glance at the Grik ships, still hove to in the distance. Their remaining crews had not yet noticed Walker bearing down upon them. That was understandable, since the destroyer approached from directly downwind. There was no reason on earth to suspect trouble from that direction. He grunted. Finally some lookout must have seen, because sheets were loosed and sails began to shift. The thought of the pandemonium aboard the enemy when they first glimpsed Walker brought a predatory smile to his cleft lips. Slowly, chaotically, the Grik sails filled, and the first ship heaved far over onto its starboard side, quickly gathering way. The other two weren’t as fortunate. One attempted the same maneuver, but its head came around too far and smashed directly into one of the monolithic rocks, shattering the starboard bow and bringing down the masts in a rush of thundering, crackling devastation. It rebounded from the rock as though kicked in the nose by some terrible god and swirled away in the maelstrom, rapidly settling low.

The third ship shaped a course that might bring it in collision with Salissa. Very well, Keje thought. An even greater test, and one just as important. He ground his teeth and waited. The first Grik ship was clear of the rocks, but there’d be no escape. Walker was flying down upon her prey, and pure joyful wonder at her speed flooded through him. Formal supplication had been made before they set out from Baalkpan, but he sent a quick prayer to the hidden Sun and those who had gone before to watch over his friends and brothers. Then he returned his attention to the role he had to play. The Grik in the boats had no inkling of anything taking place behind. They might if the ship overtook them, but for now they were entirely focused on closing with Salissa.

“At my command, Jarrik-Fas…”

“Commence firing with the main battery, but at masts and rigging only, Mr. Garrett!” Even before the salvo buzzer sounded, Matt felt, as well as heard, a deep, muffled whuddump! from the direction of Big Sal. He looked, but at this distance all he saw was a massive fogbank of smoke dissipating to leeward. So far, so good, he thought, in spite of the heavier odds. Big Sal would face more warriors than expected and maybe a ship as well, but Walker’s part remained essentially the same. He’d never really believed Letts could pull it off. The supply officer’s ambitious plan to arm Big Sal with forty cannon had been reduced to five per side, but they were enormous thirty-two pounders-and long guns to boot. They were crudely shaped and probably heavier than necessary, but their bores were straight and true. He could only imagine what five hundred three-quarter-inch copper balls per gun had done to the Grik boats. For an instant, he even pondered later ramifications. History often showed that 3 arming primitive people with artillery could be a very bad thing, but at this moment, under these conditions, he had no regrets. Besides, he had more-pressing matters at hand. The salvo buzzer shrieked.

Three guns fired as one. Only one round struck the target, but it was a perfect hit, exactly where Matt had hoped. A single high-explosive four-inch-fifty struck dead center beneath the maintop and detonated with devastating effect. Huge splinters and pieces of metal scythed through sails and rigging, and down upon the fo’c’sle. The mast and top above the impact were entirely severed, and the whole thing fell-canvas flailing and yards disintegrating in a mad carnival of destruction. Surviving stays stretched impossibly tight and parted like a volley of rifle fire. The foretopmast snapped and added itself and everything above to the mass of debris that fell in an impenetrable heap amidships. A forestaysail billowed to leeward and fell into the sea. That, and the sails still set on the mizzen, caused the Grik to heave rapidly around to starboard and broach to, a wallowing, helpless wreck. As a final calamity resulting from that single salvo, the un-stayed mizzen sails were taken aback, and the entire mast snapped off at the deck and plummeted into the sea astern.

“Holy cow!” breathed Rick Tolson at the helm. Walker had closed to less than three hundred yards.

“Reduce speed!” commanded Matt. “All ahead slow. Helm, ease us in to one hundred yards and come left ten degrees on my mark.” He turned to the talker. “Boarders to remain undercover, but…” He paused and cast a glance at Chack, standing nearby. “I don’t suppose they’ll surrender?” The Lemurian just looked at him, uncomprehending. The Grik never gave quarter, or asked for it. They probably didn’t understand the concept. Matt doubted that Chack did, even now, after he’d so carefully stressed the need to secure live prisoners. He rubbed his nose and gave the young warrior a grim smile. “Of course not. Never mind.” To the talker: “Machine gunners may commence firing if they have a target, but don’t waste ammunition!”

They’d left one of the. 30s at the refinery as security against predators, but both. 50s and the remaining. 30 were all now on the starboard side. Almost immediately, the. 30 overhead began hammering. The two amidships. 50s quickly joined it, shredding the dazed Grik as they emerged from beneath the wreckage. Splinters, shattered bone, and gobbets of flesh erupted along the bulwark amid a chorus of wailing shrieks. In the pilothouse there was silence. They were well within range of the Grik firebombs, but the attack came so swiftly and unexpectedly, either they hadn’t prepared the weapons or they’d been buried by debris.

Walker edged closer to the rolling derelict, and the stutter of machine guns became less frequent as fewer targets presented themselves.

“Well,” Matt said crisply, hoping his voice betrayed none of his nervousness. He tugged absently at the sword belt buckled around his tunic. “Mr. Dowden, you have the deck. As we discussed, lay her alongside and try to keep station as best you can.” He grinned. “Mind the Chief’s paintwork, though! If you have to break off, by all means, do so. But don’t waste time getting back in contact.” Tolson tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the captain.

“Yes, sir, I have the deck,” responded Dowden grudgingly. “Should I have the whaleboat made ready to launch in case, well…”

Matt cast an appraising eye at the sea and quickly shook his head. “Too dangerous. If anybody falls in, try to fish ’em out real fast, but there’s no sense risking people in a boat. Not in this sea.” He looked at the concerned faces on the bridge, meeting each eye. He prayed that if anything happened to him, they’d be all right. But he had to go. “Very well, carry on. You all know what to do.” He removed his hat and handed it to Reynolds, exchanging it for one of the platter-shaped helmets. He buckled the chin strap and turned to Chack. “Let’s go.”

Together, they clomped down the ladder to join the boarding party sheltering beneath the bridge and the gun platform amidships. The party was as large as Walker could carry in such seas, numbering just over a hundred. Most were the cream of Alden’s Lemurian Marines, armed with swords and spears. A few destroyermen would go as well, but only those who’d shown Shinya some proficiency with a blade. They were armed mostly with pistols and cutlasses, but Silva had one of the BARs and Tony Scott carried his personal Thompson. Matt shouldered his way forward to the hatch that led onto the fo’c’sle. There he ran into Chief Gray and Lieutenant Garrett.

“Boats,” he said, nodding at the men. “Mr. Garrett. I don’t remember mentioning either of your names when I put this boarding party together.” Gray hitched his web belt, but it stayed right where it was. It couldn’t ride any higher without being let out. He met Matt’s gaze with an expression of determination.

“Well, Skipper,” said Garrett, “you didn’t exactly un-mention us either.”

Matt frowned. “Be careful, then. We can’t spare either of you.”

“Like we can spare our captain?” questioned Alden as he squeezed his way to the front of the line. The crowd parted as best it could in the cramped space. There was an overwhelming sour odor of wet fur and sweat. “Captains don’t lead boarding parties. As head of Walker’s Marine contingent”-Alden grinned, but with a hint of reproach-“that’s my job.”

Matt grinned back, remembering when he’d made the appointment. At the time, Alden was the only Marine in the world. “Nevertheless, I’m going. We’ve been over this before.” He gestured at those around, destroyermen, as well as their shorter allies. “Don’t worry. These are your troops. You trained them. You’ll retain tactical command if we run into organized resistance. Just don’t forget the priorities.”

“Right,” Alden agreed. “Secure the ship, and don’t let ’em scuttle. Take prisoners, but kill ’em all if we have to. Nobody speaks Grik and we’ll probably learn more from the ship than we will from the crew.”

Matt nodded agreement. “Don’t risk anybody’s life to save any of theirs. While you’re doing that, ten ’Cats”-he paused, looking at Garrett and Gray-“them too, I suppose, will accompany me into officers’ country. We’ll try to find any papers, maps, or other documents. Maybe we’ll even catch their captain!”

Alden glanced through the small rectangular window near the hatchway to the foredeck and squinted through the spray that left it almost opaque. It was nearly time. “Maybe so, Skipper. But if he was on deck, he’s a goner for sure.” He whistled at the nightmare tangle of heaving debris. The machine guns had stopped firing and there wasn’t a living thing in sight. “What a train wreck!”

“Hell,” said Gray, “they might keep him in a bucket down in the hold, for all we know. Just because that thing has stern galleries like an Indiaman don’t mean their leaders stay in ’em. They’re as likely to hold Hindoo revivals there.”

The men laughed, and many of the Lemurians grinned too. None, not even Chack, understood what he meant, but humor for any reason was good at moments like this. Alden moved to the hatch and turned.

“All right,” he bellowed. “Listen up! We’re goin’ out there to activate Captain Reddy’s contraption. When we do, I’ll blow this whistle.” He held up a chrome whistle in his left hand. “When you hear it, go! Single file, as fast as you can! No goofing around or gawking! It’s gonna be tough for the ship to keep station in this sea, and we’ve got to get as many aboard as fast as we can. We could lose the bridge at any moment! If we do, those left behind will try again. There’s bound to be lizards left and they’re not gonna be happy to see us!” He waved at Lieutenant Shinya, about midway down the press of boarders. The Japanese officer waved back and repeated Alden’s instructions to those behind. “Good luck!” Alden roared, and opening the hatch, he dashed onto the fo’c’sle. Matt and the others quickly followed.

Atomized seawater drenched them immediately as they ran to a pair of heavy cleats on the forward bridge plating. Matt looked over his shoulder at the wallowing derelict and then up at Dowden leaning over the wing rail. Dowden was gauging the distance. Suddenly he pointed at Matt with an exaggerated gesture and yelled, but the words were lost in the crashing waves. Garrett and Gray released the cables holding the “contraption” upright against the side of the bridge, and it plunged down to starboard. Matt watched it fall with a fist on his heart, hoping it wouldn’t just disintegrate when it struck.

It was a corvus, a device inspired by his interest in history. Specifically, in this case, the first Punic War. A corvus was basically a long, rigid ramp that dropped upon the deck of an enemy ship so troops could sprint across. A sharp spike attached to the descending end was supposed to drive itself into the deck, holding the ships fast together and forming a temporary bridge. It should work. It hadn’t worked well for the Romans, he reflected bleakly, but they’d never had a chance to try it.

As advertised, the weight and inertia of Walker’s corvus drove the spike into the enemy ship with a tremendous crash. The entire structure bowed alarmingly, but sprang back to its original shape. The frame, like almost everything else from Baalkpan, was made of the heavy bamboo. Alden blew a long, shrill blast on his whistle. Sword in one hand, pistol in the other, Matt followed the Marine across the bouncing bridge. The rest of his immediate party raced after him, followed by a closely packed line of yelling destroyermen and chittering Lemurian Marines. As soon as they gained the enemy deck, they deployed into a protective semicircle, which quickly expanded as more boarders joined them. Grik bodies were everywhere. Some were shot to pieces, while others had been crushed by falling debris. The foamy water coursing across the deck was dark with their blood.

Matt glanced back. The second wave, led by Shinya, was just starting across. The dismasted hulk wallowed horribly and the strain on the corvus was unbelievable. The spike was battering a growing hole in the deck and despite Dowden’s best efforts, the bridge began to fail. “Quickly, quickly!” he shouted. They couldn’t be quick enough. Ultimately, it was the attachment to Walker that parted, not the spike in the deck. Shinya had almost reached them when the corvus behind sagged under the reinforcements and then, with a deafening crack! fell into the sea.

“Grab the manropes!” Alden screamed as the spike jerked out of the hole and the whole thing tilted over. Dozens did so, and fortunately it was already so entangled in the debris of the rigging that it couldn’t have fallen completely, but Matt dreaded what he would see when he looked over the rail. At least a dozen men and ’Cats dangled by the ropes. Some were actually in the water, holding on for dear life. A few disappeared astern, waving their arms in the air.

“Get them up!” Gray leaned over, snatched Shinya like a doll, and threw him on the deck. Others joined him, hauling the men and ’Cats up as fast as they could. Silva’s BAR hammered. The Grik were coming up too.

Tony Scott stood by Walker’s rail, wide-eyed, watching the figures struggling in the water or clinging to the ropes. He’d been next to cross. His foot was on the corvus when it failed. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, clinging to the chain. He would have been in the water! So far, none of the terrible fish had arrived. Maybe the heavy seas kept them deep or disoriented, but he doubted they’d stay away long. And there were still people in the water. One wore a helmet, like most of the destroyermen did, but seemed too stunned or injured to do more than hold a rope. With quickening dread, he saw the long brownish blond hair unfurl and stream out from beneath it when a wave washed over the helmet. He gulped.

“God in heaven! That’s Lieutenant Tucker!” He glanced wildly around. No one could have known she was there! What was she doing there? He screamed, trying to be heard on the Grik ship, but the waves and growing gunfire drowned him out. Laney heard him, though; he was right beside him.

“Tough break!” shouted the machinist’s mate with genuine remorse. Tony looked at him, appalled. But he was right. There was nothing they could do. Nothing he could do. Just like that, everything was falling apart. Only a little more than half the boarding party made it across. The rest were stuck on this side, with nothing to do but watch, and now the skipper’s dame was in the water. He couldn’t stand it. Terrified as he was, he just couldn’t stand it. He saw Dowden’s worried face over the wing rail and he caught his eye. He made a whirling motion over his head and pointed at the other ship. Dowden seemed confused, but within seconds Walker briefly nudged back within twenty yards of the derelict. Scott wound up like the pitcher he was and slung his heavy Thompson across the gap. He hoped it didn’t hit anybody in the head. The ammo belt followed the gun.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Laney demanded, incredulous. Scott just looked at him, slapped him in the gut with his helmet, and leaped over the side.

The water was warm and familiar, but the memories of a lifetime spent within its comforting embrace couldn’t prevent his shriek of terror when he thrashed to the surface. There, just a few yards away, was Lieutenant Tucker, eyes shut tight, trying desperately to pull herself along the rope. He looked up at the ship and saw that nearly everyone else was safely aboard or climbing out of the water. Either they hadn’t noticed her or the rope was fouled and they couldn’t pull her up. Something slammed into the heel of his shoe. He lunged for the rope, right in front of her, and shouted over the crashing sea: “Put your arms around my neck, Lieutenant! I’ll pull us up!” He never heard her reply, but she did as instructed and he hauled against the rope with maniacal strength. In moments, he crashed against the side of the ship. Nearly stunned, he just hung for a moment. Something that felt like oak bark dragged across his leg.

“Help!” he screamed. “Help, goddammit! I’ve got Lieutenant Tucker here!”

Almost immediately, the captain himself was hanging above him by the wrecked corvus. Garrett and Chack and a couple of others too. Garrett was hacking at something with his cutlass while the rest tried to heave them aboard. Suddenly the rope was free, and Tony and Sandra snaked up the side and sprawled on the deck.

Scott got to his hands and knees and vomited into the water swirling around him. Then he felt himself rising, and there was Silva’s grinning mug in front of his face.

“Here,” he said, pushing the Thompson into his hands. “You idiot!”

Before he could respond, Sandra had her arms around his neck again, kissing his cheek. Blood thundered in his ears.

“Thank you!” she said, and kissed him again. His legs felt like melted wax. For the moment, the shooting had stopped. They must have chased the lizards back below.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Scott!” Matt said earnestly, squeezing his shoulder hard. He looked at Sandra. The mixture of profound relief and rage on his face was something to behold.

“What on earth were you thinking?”

Her wet chin came up. “I was thinking, Captain Reddy, that you might need medical help over here!”

“And because of that thinking, I… We almost lost you!”

“Captain,” Alden interrupted, “we have to push ’em before they get their act together! We’re a little shorthanded, and it looks like there’s more of ’em crammed below than we figured.”

“Of course, Sergeant. Carry on. I’ll deal with Lieutenant Tucker!”

Alden nodded. “Mr. Shinya…” He hesitated only an instant. “Take A company. Work your way forward! Be sure and check under all this shit before you pass it by. Chack, take C company and follow ’em. Find a way below from the fo’c’sle! We’ll get ’em stirred up amidships and you can hit ’em in the rear! B company, with me!”

They’d gathered near the wreck of the mainmast on the raised quarterdeck, with an open companionway gaping in front of them.

“Grenade!”

Silva slung the BAR and fished in a satchel at his side. Retrieving a grenade, he pulled the pin and lobbed it into the hole. There was a muffled whump and the deck shivered beneath their feet. A chorus of shrieks and snarls punctuated the blast.

“Guess somebody is home,” Silva quipped.

“Another!” shouted Alden. “Scott, you okay? You and your Thompson follow the grenade with first squad. We’ll be right behind you!”

Tony jerked a quick nod and poised himself near the ladder. After what he’d just been through, a battle was a cinch. In the water he’d been helpless. Now there was something he could shoot. Silva pitched a second grenade. More screams accompanied the explosion, and the coxswain bolted down the hatch with a dozen yowling Marines. Bra-ba-bap! Bra-ba-bap! roared the Thompson amid yells and screams and clashing weapons.

“Second squad, with me!” Alden cried, leading the second wave into the belly of the ship. He had a pistol on his belt, but he charged down the steps holding a spear like a bayonet-tipped Springfield. He would fight as he’d trained his Marines. Gray grabbed at Silva’s satchel as he brought up the rear.

“Gimme some of those!” he ordered. Silva quickly opened the flap so Gray could snatch grenades, then he bolted down the ladder. A moment later, the heavier bark of the BAR was heard.

“More down there than we thought,” Garrett mused worriedly. “It may be a while before we can get through that way!”

One of the Marines in Matt’s guard detail “oofed” and crumpled to the deck with a crossbow-bolt high in his chest. Sandra rushed to him, opening her soggy bag.

“Aft!” cried Gray. “That skylight in front of the tiller!”

Matt grabbed one of the Marines by the arm. “Five of you stay with Lieutenant Tucker and the wounded!” Sandra started to protest. “That’s why you said you came,” he accused harshly, opening his holster and taking out his. 45.

“But I don’t need that many. You do!”

“Nevertheless-” He pushed the pistol into her hand. “Can you use that?” She nodded, terrified, but not of the gun.

“Of course! But you’re not going to fight them with just that stupid sword!”

He quickly stooped and whispered in her ear. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d stayed where you belong!” He took a deep breath. “I think I love you, Sandra Tucker, but you’re an idiot!” He flashed a quick smile and stood. “The rest of you, with me!”

Together, they rushed the skylight, hoping to make it before another bolt flew. They didn’t quite, but the next went wide and thunked into the bulwark. Gray flung a grenade into the opening and dropped down beside it. Smoke and splinters rocketed from the hole, mixed with red droplets and a fuzz of downy fur.

“In!” Captain Reddy yelled, and he dropped out of sight.

Keje-Fris-Ar stared in shock at the devastation they’d wrought. The big bronze guns that Letts worked so hard to produce-along with the foundry at Baalkpan and more than a hundred helpers-had been inexpertly used, to say the least. Despite the assistance of the destroyerman named Felts and another Amer-i-caan supervising each gun, more than half the destructive force of each shot was wasted, churning up the already maddened sea for hundreds of tails beyond the target. Even so, it was more than enough. A total of fifteen shots were fired at the boats, three from each cannon, sending thousands of copper balls scything through the flimsy vessels and enemy warriors. Parts of bodies and large chunks of the boats themselves scattered among marching plumes of violent splashes and horrible, unearthly shrieks. When the smoke and spray had cleared, nothing was left of the enemy but shattered flotsam and struggling forms. Flasher-fish weren’t active when the sea ran high. They couldn’t sense the splashing of their prey, and the turmoil of the water was dangerous for them in such a shallow place. It didn’t matter. The Grik had no more reason or inclination to learn to swim than People did. Within moments, there was no movement but the relentless march of the churning swells.

That left the Grik ship bearing down upon them. It was downrange during the firing, and its sails and rigging were savaged. The enemy aboard saw what happened to the warriors in the boats, but true to form, on they came. Tom Felts called for “round shot.” The Grik bored in, without maneuver, no finesse at all. It apparently wasn’t going to lay alongside and send its remaining boarders across. It meant to crash headlong into Salissa’s side. That might cause significant damage. Keje waited tensely while the big guns were loaded. At two hundred tails, they spoke. Massive detonations trundled the heavy guns back against their restraints. The brief “swoosh” of heavy shot ended in multiple crashes that launched blizzards of splinters and large, spinning fragments of the Grik’s bow into the sea. When the smoke cleared, the Grik still came, but slower and lower in the water. The approach ended at a hundred tails, as the vessel filled. Keje saw a wisp of smoke and remembered the Grik firebombs.

“Once more!” he commanded. This time, when the massive smoke cloud dissipated, all that remained was jutting masts, rapidly slipping lower. With a jolt, the hull struck bottom, and the masts tilted crazily, almost disappearing, before they came to rest.

Then began the cheering. It was like the times before, when he’d witnessed Walker’s devastating powers to lay waste the hated foe. Only this time it was he and Salissa who’d unleashed it! It was a heady moment. With power like she now possessed, Salissa need fear nothing on earth! Perhaps the time had come at last for the Ancient Enemy that had haunted their lives and dreams to be laid low. Perhaps even their Ancient Home, the very cradle of their race, might be restored! The name Keje-Fris-Ar would be spoken with reverence and honor as great as that of Siska-Ta, the prophet who wrote the Scrolls themselves!

Keje knew exultation beyond any he’d ever felt. He clasped Selass in a joyful embrace and capered with glee along with the others. In that brief moment, anything was possible! Most of the people on the shore couldn’t see what had happened, but hearing the cheers even over the wind and surf, they began cheering too.

“Look, look!” Jarrik-Fas cried, pointing out to sea. Far away now, Walker grappled with the dismasted Grik. The distance was too great for detail, even through the binoculars that he hastily raised. Keje’s happiness was tempered by the realization that Walker’s role was by far the most dangerous. He hadn’t really known that when the plan was conceived, before the glory of artillery against open boats was made abundantly clear. None of Salissa’s numerous defenders had even had to raise a sword. Now he knew that for Walker to succeed, his friends-the very ones who made his victory possible-must come to direct blows with the enemy. He felt as if his own kin were at risk, and the possibility their ship might be damaged filled him with sudden dread. He chafed at the distance.

Matt landed on a shattered table and it collapsed beneath him with a crash. He rolled off the debris and scrambled to his feet, coughing from the smoke and dust. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement, and he ducked as an axe whooshed through the space his head had just occupied and sank deep into the wall behind him. A Grik, snarling in frustration, tried to wrench it loose. Matt yanked his Academy sword from its sheath with a well-oiled, metallic snink.

Without thought, he drove it through the Grik’s chest, twisted, and yanked it clear. With a terrible screech, the hideous creature slashed and lunged falteringly toward him. Matt stepped aside and thrust again, stabbing deep at the base of its throat. Blood sprayed explosively between its terrifying teeth and it crashed to the deck, its tail beating a spastic tattoo. Another rushed him from behind-already wounded, thank God-and he dodged its clumsy leap. He slashed as it passed, but the dull edge of the sword had no effect. It had never occurred to him to sharpen it. Luckily, the injured Grik stumbled or slipped on blood when it landed, and he was on it in an instant, driving the sharp point of his blade into its back. He must have pierced its spine, because it instantly crumpled to the deck, jaws gnashing, but incapable of further movement. He spun in place, sword outstretched, but there was no other threat at present.

His heart pounded with terror at his close call-and just at the sight of the things. He’d seen them from a distance, of course, and they were much like the Bali creatures, but up close like this… A swaying lantern hung on a bulkhead, slightly askew, its feeble glow piercing the gloom of the compartment. Blood was spattered everywhere and two more Grik lay on the deck. From the look of one, it actually caught the grenade before it exploded. Shattered bone and gray-red lengths of intestine made up its torso. There were no arms. He forced his breathing back to normal and concealed his shaking hands by sticking his sword point into the deck and resting them nonchalantly on the hilt. The remaining four Marines hopped lightly through the skylight, followed by Garrett, who helped Gray lower his more difficult bulk onto the wrecked table.

“Well done, Captain! You made short work of them!” Garrett exclaimed.

“Thanks, Mr. Garrett. Now let’s check these doors. This compartment must’ve been their wardroom. The doors may lead to officers’ quarters.” He pointed with his bloody sword to another door aft. “That’s the captain’s cabin, I expect.”

The heavy door on the forward bulkhead crashed inward and Grik surged inside, slashing with swords and ravening jaws. The Marines lunged forward with their spears and Gray and Garrett fired.

“God, this is fun!” bellowed Silva, swinging his cutlass like an axe. It caught a Grik right across the bridge of its snout and cleaved almost to its throat. Blood geysered.

“Speak for yourself!” screamed Scott, fumbling with another magazine. Silva hadn’t even tried to reload; there’d been no time. He had no idea where the BAR was now. There were many more Grik belowdecks than they’d expected and they’d jumped into a hornet’s nest. The Marines’ shields were useless-there just wasn’t room-so it degenerated into a melee, as Alden had feared it might. Fortunately, at least the Marines were trained in that to some degree. If they lived, some damn good NCOs would come out of this one. Scott finally locked the thirty-round stick and racked the bolt. Silva ducked. Bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap!

“I am speakin’ for myself!” Silva replied, hacking down at a lizard trying to crawl in under the fire. He nearly severed its head and the senseless body leaped straight up and bounced against the overhead, bowling others over when it fell. He laughed. He’d killed a lot in his life, before the War even started. Bar fights and back alleys in China, mostly-although there’d been that pool shark down in Mobile too. Most had it coming, by his definition, though he might have been hasty a time or two. The Japs had it coming, and he guessed he’d killed some of them with his number one gun. But that was a team sport. He’d never killed anybody because he was “good” and they were “bad.” They’d just been “badder” than he was. And sometimes Dennis Silva could be a bad man. But now he felt good because the creatures he killed were indisputably bad. They’d killed Marvaney (he made no distinction) and a bunch of his cat-monkey friends. Mallory said they’d wiped out a place the size of Baalkpan at what ought to be Tjilatjap. Now they were trying to kill him! They were mean and ugly and needed killing by anyone’s definition-and utterly righteous killing had a liberating effect on Dennis Silva. He felt like the big mean dragon in the story that everybody was scared of, who swooped down and ate the evil king. Sometimes it felt good to be “good.”

He almost tripped. Several Grik made a lunge for him, but Marine spears and Alden’s pistol probably saved his life. With a nod, Alden reholstered the pistol and went back to his spear. For an instant Silva watched in admiration as the Marine parried another Grik thrust as simply as swatting a fly and drove his spear into the creature’s belly. It screamed and intestines uncoiled on the deck. That’s one Marine I’m never pickin’ a fight with, he swore to himself. He looked down at what had tripped him. “There’s my gun! Gimme a minute, Tony!”

Bra-ba-ba-bap! Bra-bap!

Silva stabbed his cutlass into a dead Grik to keep it handy and seized the BAR. It was slick with blood and rough with chunks of other things. He slammed in a fresh magazine.

“I’m almost out’a ammo!” gasped Scott. “A and C comp-nees should’a been here by now! If that Nip doesn’t get his ass here quick, even you will be ready to play somethin’ else!”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get here!” Dennis assured him and wondered suddenly why he was so sure. “Stand aside!” Bam-bam-bam!

The Grik “wardroom” was an abattoir by the time they hacked and shot their way through the initial push and managed to secure the door. It had a convenient bar to prevent it from being opened from forward. Matt wondered what that said about Grik discipline? One of his Marines was dead and Garrett’s left arm hung almost useless, blood pattering on the deck to join the deep pool there. Matt wasn’t wounded, but he was splashed with gore and his “ceremonial” sword was notched and bloody. Gray was tying a tourniquet around Garrett’s arm, and the three Marines were wedging pieces of the heavy broken table against the door, which rattled with incessant pounding.

“Quick, let’s check these other rooms!” They looked in both compartments on either side. There were no enemies, but the collections decorating each were disconcerting. Skulls, mostly. Like trophies. One cabin held nothing but rows and rows of clay pots or jars, suspended from the bulkheads by netting. At a glance, they had no idea what was in them, but the stench was overpowering. Maybe they were firebombs and the compartment was a magazine? Gray and one of the Marines guarded the door leading forward. Heavy fighting raged on the other side. It was becoming more intense, and they heard a couple of grenades and more firing. They remained there, watching the rear while Matt, Garrett, and the other two Lemurians checked the final door aft. It was locked from within.

“Stand back,” Matt ordered and nodded at Garrett, who fired two shots into the familiar-looking keyhole below the doorknob. The Marines kicked it open and dashed inside. One fell back immediately, a spear through his chest. A Grik waiting beside the door slashed at the other, missing by the thickness of her fur. Garrett bellowed the first obscenity Matt had ever heard him use and fired directly through the wall. Matt lunged through the doorway and spun, raising his sword. The Grik from beside the door grappled with the remaining Marine, trying to tear out her throat. The one that Garrett had shot slumped to the deck, leaving a red stain on the wall. It was dark in the room, but blurred movement caused him to rush forward, driving his blade through a gaudily dressed Grik. It slashed at him with its claws, but they skated across his steel helmet. He yelled and stabbed it again, driving it backward to sprawl into some chairs behind it. Garrett was suddenly beside him, firing at the Grik where it lay. Together, they turned to the one fighting the Marine, and when it glanced at them with toothy, gape-mouthed astonishment, the little female Marine drove her short-sword into its belly, clear to the hilt.

Matt spun back, looking at something he’d glimpsed as he dashed inside. Seated at a dark, highly polished desk and silhouetted against the gray sea through the windows behind it, a startlingly obese Grik glared at him with intense, unblinking eyes. It was lavishly attired in a shimmering red and black silk-like robe and its fur, or plumage-whatever-was shiny and well groomed. A window was open and the desk was littered with tablets. Perhaps it was throwing things out? It snarled at him and a string of saliva foamed on its yellowed teeth. Without hesitation, it grasped a curved blade from the cluttered desk. Matt raised his sword and prepared to spring forward before it could rise. With a defiant cry, the thing drove the knife into its own throat and slashed outward, severing muscle, trachea, and arteries. Blood spumed, and the head, no longer supported by muscle and sinew, flopped backward before rebounding forward and slamming down upon the desk.

Matt lowered his sword and stared. Gun smoke eddied in the breeze through the window, but the sharp stench of blood and voided bowels was overpowering in the confined space. The female Marine, her blood-streaked sword still in her hand, retched in a corner, overcome by nausea and relief.

Gray hurried into the cabin, glancing about, taking it all in. He strode to the corpse of the Grik captain and heaved it roughly aside. It slid to the deck like a sack of wet tapioca. “Bugger was bleedin’ all over the books!” he growled.

Matt shook his head and quickly joined the Chief. His eyes moved rapidly over the haul. “May be something here.” He glanced at the dead Lemurian Marines, one still lying in the doorway and the other just outside. “I hope it was worth it.” He reeled slightly as the ship rolled drunkenly and unexpectedly in a swell. The sound of battle had diminished, unnoticed, and there came a heavy banging on the barricaded door through the wardroom. They heard muffled shouts.

“Captain! Captain Reddy! Are you in there?”

“Who wants to know?” Gray roared.

“Why, it’s me, Silva, you damned tyrant!” came the relieved, muffled reply. “Let me in! We’ve got the ship, or at least this deck of her. Some of them stinkin’ lizards has sneaked into the hold. We’re fixin’ to root ’em out.”

Gray approached the door while Silva spoke and heaved the barricade aside. The smoke and stench that filled the cabin were nothing compared to what wafted in from the long deck beyond. Silva stepped inside, leading a small pack of Marines. All were exhausted and their fur was matted with blood. Silva had a long cut on his forearm extending from his rolled-up sleeve to his fist. When he saw the captain, his bearded face split into a huge grin.

“Ahh, Skipper! Glad to see you well! We’ve killed a swarm o’ them devils. I bet there was two hundred left aboard! Most fun I ever had! I feel like a blamed pirate!” He leered at Gray and waved his cutlass. “Arrr!” Gray’s face went almost purple.

“What about our people, Silva? Anybody hurt?” Matt asked.

Silva shook his head. “I don’t know how many we lost on the contraption…” Matt blanched. Another big mistake! “But in the fightin’?” He looked at the two dead Marines between them. “A lot of ’cats bought it. Don’t know about any of our guys, past a few cuts and scrapes. It was a near thing too, when we first come down the ladders. Lizards got us backed up a mite. Then that Jap and my buddy Chack took ’em in the rear from the fo’c’sle. After that it was just pure, sweet killin’! Most of these lizards weren’t even warriors, I bet. Prob’ly just ship keepers, ’cause some weren’t even armed-not that they need to be with all them teeth and claws! But you should’a seen that Jap, Skipper! He’s a real terror with a sword!” There was genuine admiration in the gunner’s mate’s tone.

“You should’a seen the Skipper!” growled Gray. “All he had was a sword!” Silva looked down and saw the bloody thing in Matt’s hand. He whistled. Matt knew that unlike Shinya’s, his own success with the sword had come from terrified desperation, not skill. But from Silva’s expression, he realized he would probably be “Captain Blood” within a few days. The ship heaved sickeningly once again and he turned to the Bosun. “We have to get this wreck under tow right away, or get off it-one or the other. There’re too many little islands around here for us to run into. Take some people. Try to secure a towline. Have a detail cut away all that wreckage topside. I bet she’ll ride easier without it trailing over the side.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Gray responded, and started to turn. Matt stopped him.

“And check on Lieutenant Tucker.” Gray nodded, and summoning Silva’s companions, he picked his way through the bodies and debris forward and lumbered up the companionway. Matt turned to Garrett, who’d quietly joined them, holding his arm. “Maybe you should see the nurse?”

“I’m fine, Skipper.”

“Well, see what you can come up with. Sacks, sheets, anything, and wrap up whatever looks useful. Have it ready to send across to Walker in case we have to abandon this ship.”

“Aye, sir,” he answered distractedly. “Sir, there’s something you ought to see.”

“What?”

Garret flicked a glance at Silva and lowered his voice, but the tone was still insistent. “Please, Captain, just… look for yourself.”

“Very well,” he said, curious. He followed into the dead commander’s quarters, paying attention to the surroundings now. More tablets like the ones on the desk were scattered on the deck. Against one bulkhead were shelves with square partitions containing what looked tantalizingly like rolled-up charts! He stepped forward, eager to examine them. “Outstanding, Greg! This may be exactly what we’re looking for!”

“Sir,” insisted Garrett with uncharacteristic fragility. He gestured at the heavy overhead beams. Along both sides of each, like in the other cabins they’d inspected, were many, many skulls. They were of all manner of creatures, some he knew even Lemurians ate. Matt had tacked up a few sets of deer horns himself, growing up in Texas, so he felt no innate revulsion toward taking animal trophies, even if it was creepy and bizarre to take it to such an extreme as this. What made him seethe with anger was that, by far, most of the skulls hanging in the dreary shadows were Lemurian.

He’d never seen a Lemurian skull, but by their shape, that’s clearly what they were. Many were dry and yellow and covered with dust. Some were much fresher. A few were even decorated with garish painted designs, whatever that might mean. He shook his head, revolted, but from what he knew of the Grik, he wasn’t surprised. ’Cats are people, damn it! He looked at Garrett. It was clear he was shaken by what he’d seen.

“Yes. Well, make sure they’re taken down carefully and with respect. We’ll turn them over to our allies and they can deal with them in their way.”

“Captain!” Garrett hissed, pointing directly above his head. He stood in the very center of the cabin, right in front of the desk. The gimbaled lanterns cast a crazy kaleidoscope of sinister shadows in the recess. Matt followed his gaze, and suddenly the rush of blood in his ears surpassed the crashing sea that pounded the hull outside. There above him, leering down from sightless, empty sockets, was an unmistakably human skull.

Silva had followed them into the cabin and was leafing through a tablet he snatched from the deck. He stared as well. His happy mood and customary laconic expression were replaced by anguish and rage.

“Oh, those sorry, sick, buggerin’ bastards!”

“Skipper!” called Sergeant Alden from the doorway. “All the hatches are sealed, and we’re ready to go in the hold. It’s not gonna be a picnic, though. There may be thirty or forty down there, and they’re crazy as shit-house rats! When they knew they were whipped, it was like Big Sal when they jumped over the side-only these had nowhere to go but down. They’re cornered, so I bet they fight like shit-house rats, too. I’d just as soon smoke ’em out, or smoke ’em period, but I’m afraid they might chop a hole in the damn hull! Besides, you said you want prisoners…”

Matt’s face was wooden. He held up his sword and ran a finger distractedly down the notched blade. When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally calm, but his eyes flashed like chiseled ice.

“Mr. Garrett, follow my orders-and do get Lieutenant Tucker to look at that arm. Our mission is a success. We’ve learned as much as we need to know about the nature of our enemy. The documents we’ve captured and the ship itself will teach us much, much more. Sergeant Alden, you said you don’t speak Grik? Neither do I.” He turned to look at Silva. “I don’t think we really need any prisoners after all.” He motioned through the door with his sword. “Shall we?”

Walker had managed to maintain close station with the madly wallowing derelict, her gunners hovering protectively over their weapons, but it was clear in an instant when Gray thrust his head from the companionway that they would be on their own for a while.

“Get to work clearing that debris!” he bellowed over his shoulder at the Marines following him up. He ran to a cluster of Lemurians helping Sandra with the wounded. She saw him coming.

“Are you all right, Chief?” she shouted over the wind. He was covered with blood.

“Nary a scratch, thanks for askin’.” He saw her tense expression. “Captain’s fine, ma’am.” She visibly relaxed, but Gray decided now was as good a time as any to get something off his chest. “No thanks to you.” He gestured at the pistol thrust in the web belt around her waist. “He could’ve used that.” Stung, she touched the pistol with her fingertips.

“I told him not to leave it!”

“Like that made a difference! I didn’t think he should even come over here, but he did and he’s the captain. He figures he got us in this mess and he can’t just sit back and watch. That’s the kind of guy he is. But your coming was just a stupid female stunt and you nearly wound up killed.” She bristled, but he stared her down. “Sure, sure, you came for ‘the wounded,’ but what if you’d been killed? What do you think that would’ve done to him? To all of us?” He watched his words sink in. Finally, he continued in a softer tone. “Look, we gotta clear this shi… stuff and this ain’t no fit place for you or the wounded. The main deck’s secure. It’s a bloody mess down there, but it’s out of the weather.” She began to nod.

“If we can get them down there, that would be best. And Chief.. . I’m sorry.”

Gray started to say something else, but shook his head. “Right.”

He struggled toward a couple of Lemurians near the bulwark, clutching the chaotic mass of shrouds. They were two of the ones left on deck as a security force, but they’d obviously decided their own security was paramount. A wave crashed over the deck, knocking Gray to his knees and washing him in among the terrified forms. He reemerged from the warm gray water and grabbed one of the ’cats. A grinding and bumping was felt alongside as the ship’s masts and spars, twisted in an impossible nightmare of tangled rigging, pounded against the ship as it worked.

“You useless bastards! Help Lieutenant Tucker get the wounded below!” He beckoned those behind him. “The rest of you, cut everything away!” he yelled, hoping they understood. “With your swords!” He pulled his own cutlass and laid into the cables with a will. They quickly got the idea and chopped with mad abandon at his side. Other Marines, relieved from the fighting below, arrived to add their swords. Piece by piece, rope by rope, the debris threatening to drag the ship over was released, and the hulk began riding more easily. The roll increased, but at least it was a more buoyant roll.

Gray’s arm felt like lead as he swung the cutlass, huffing and wheezing with every blow. I’m close to sixty, and too fat for this shit, he complained to himself, but no word of complaint escaped his lips. Nor would it ever. The Bosun is all-powerful and indestructible. He has to be. He glanced at the sky. It was early afternoon when the Grik were first seen, so they couldn’t have much light left. Already, it was noticeably darker. If they couldn’t get a towline secured before dark, they were probably screwed. He left clearing the remainder of the wreckage to fresh, willing hands and ran to fetch something to signal the other ship.

Five grenades went down the hatch into the gloom of the hold. Each time one detonated, there was a chorus of nightmarish wails. Silva and Scott pounded down the companionway together this time, followed closely by Matt, Alden, Chack, Shinya, and a score of Lemurian Marines. They advanced through the darkness, blasting or stabbing at anything that moved and, as Alden suspected, the confined space in the bottom of the ship was working with the vermin. Footing was treacherous on the slimy ballast stones, and there were other things, barely glimpsed in the guttering torchlight. Bones. Thousands of bones intermingled with the rocks. The stench was unreal. Then, even as they fought, and their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they entered a waking nightmare they would never forget. With the searing clarity of a lightning strike, Matt realized he hadn’t learned the true nature of their enemy. Not till now. The belly of the ship was a slaughterhouse, in more ways than one. The gnawed and shattered bones in the ballast were mostly Lemurian. Half-butchered Lemurian carcasses swayed from hooks and all the grisly paraphernalia of the butcher’s trade dangled, obscenely well ordered, nearby. Chained along the sides of the ship, conveniently out of the way but well situated to witness the horror they were doomed to endure, cowered maybe a dozen filthy, mewling, near-starved Lemurian captives. Matt knew then, that even if he ordered it, no Grik prisoners were possible.

The Marines went amok. They fought with abandon and no regard for their own lives. So, to a degree, did the humans. Scott staggered back, blood on his face, and Shinya dragged him from the fighting. Matt took the Thompson himself, firing controlled bursts at maniacally charging Grik. He burned with a towering, righteous wrath. At last there was focus for all the rage and anxiety, grief and loss he’d suppressed for months. When the Thompson clicked empty, he drew his sword again.

“At ’em!” he screamed. Once, he’d never imagined drawing his sword in anger, but now it seemed an extension of his very soul: the instrument of purification. The Marines surged forward, bronze spearpoints gleaming red in the guttering light. With a ringing whoop, Silva drew his cutlass, and so did the others. Alden knew with sinking certainty that of all the people in the world, Captain Reddy had the least business in this fight, but it was pointless to try to stop him. They charged. Without even shields, they slammed into the final, teetering Grik line and slashed it apart with a manic savagery that must have shocked even the Grik. The survivors broke. Shrieking in mindless terror, they fled farther into the darkness, flinging themselves against the hull, the overhead-anything to escape. Most had dropped their weapons. For a moment, Matt paused, leaning on his knees and gasping for breath. He started forward again.

“Captain,” Alden said gently, grasping his arm. “It’s done. It’s done!”

Matt started to shake him off, but then stopped, shocked by the intensity of his emotions. He nodded. The Marines, still in a blind frenzy, shouldered past and slaughtered the twenty or so Grik holdouts that had fled to the farthest reaches of the dank, half-flooded hold. They mercilessly hacked apart every last Grik they found, and the Americans stood, listening, until the final shriek ended.

Chack returned from the gloom, limping and leaning on Dennis Silva. Both were drenched in blood and Chack was clearly hurting, but Silva looked like some mythical god of war. Marines filtered back into the dim light, dazed.

“Sergeant Alden, get our wounded out of here, then form a detail to release these poor bastards.” He gestured helplessly at the captives.

Most of the captives had begun a shrill, keening sound. In their tortured reality they probably thought their time had come to face the knives and saws. They seemed utterly mad. Matt remained for a while, watching while they were gently released a few at a time and taken on deck to the open air, as far from their prison as possible, by expressionless, furiously blinking Marines. Once there, they were wrapped in sailcloth against the wind and spray that came over the rail. They were fed and watered and carefully tended, but their chains weren’t removed. In their current state they might harm themselves or others if freed.

Silva was helping Chack through the stones (he’d flatly refused to be carried) when the Lemurian suddenly halted before a captive still chained to the hull. The wretched creature recoiled from his stare and made small gurgling sounds. Its skeletal chest heaved with terrified gasps. Matt stepped closer and regarded the creature with pity. He had great respect for the Lemurian people. He’d come to know them as stout warriors and generally cheerful, free-spirited individualists-not unlike his own destroyermen-but the things the captives had seen and endured would have broken anyone.

“Leave him alone, Chackie,” said Silva, uncharacteristically subdued. “Can’t you see he’s fixin’ to vapor-lock?”

Chack shook his head and leaned closer still. “I greet you. Do not fear,” he said in his own language.

“You know him?” Matt demanded.

Chack nodded, a strange smile on his face. “I know him.”

“Does he know you?”

Chack spoke rapidly, repeating a few words many times. A slight sheen slowly returned to the captive’s flat, dull eyes and, hesitantly, he spoke. After a moment, Chack turned. “He said these were mostly survivors of Chill-chaap, but there were some from other places. He himself was transferred from another ship-as was a Tail-less One like yourself.”

Matt remembered the skull. “What happened to the Tail-less One?” he demanded. Chack gestured as if it was obvious, and Matt nodded sharply. “You said you know him. Who is he?”

Chack almost seemed to sigh. “His name is Saak-Fas. Daughter-Mate of Keje-Fris-Ar.”

Tony Scott and Tamatsu Shinya found Gray resting in the gloom near the ship’s wildly spinning wheel. He was breathing hard and futilely wiping at the salt that stung his eyes. The coxswain had a cut on his shoulder that left a bloody scrap of sleeve flapping in the wind, and his lower lip was split and swollen. He still had no helmet, but he’d tied a rag around his head to keep the hair out of his eyes. The Thompson was lovingly slung over his undamaged shoulder.

“Cambin’s commimenpfs, Cheeb,” Scott said, trying to talk around his busted lip. “How are eberations goin’ ’or da tow?”

Gray groaned as he rose to his feet. “We’re under tow, you nitwit. Have been for the last fifteen minutes. I was about to report to the captain myself when you interrupted me!”

Scott nodded. “’Innat cay, cambin wans you ter sounderwell.”

Gray looked at him in the near-darkness. The ship rode much easier now that Walker was towing her and she no longer rolled beam-on to the swells.

“What the hell’s a sounderwell?” he demanded.

“Sound-the-well!” Scott painfully repeated. “Vinally got da las o’ dat verbin cleared out o’ da hold an’ da cambin wants to know if she’ll f-f-vloat. I’ll go vif you.”

Gray nodded. “Right. I’ll report to the captain first, though. What’s he doin’, anyway? I figgered he’d of been up here by now.”

“Lookin’ at fings. Charts an’ stuvv… an’ udder fings. There’s

… awful fings down dere.”

Gray turned for the stairs.

“Chief Boatswain’s Mate Gray,” said Shinya. “May I have a brief word?”

Gray’s face darkened, but he jerked a nod.

“I know you don’t like me, but you saved my life today, when the corvus parted. I would like to thank you.”

Gray shrugged. “There was guys behind you. I had to get your Nip ass out of the way.” He turned to follow Scott, but stopped again. “You got any kids?” he asked. Tamatsu was taken aback.

“No.”

“I did. A boy. Close to thirty, now. Took after his old man-’cept he was a snipe. Machinist’s mate. I hadn’t seen him in four years, but I was proud of him. He was my son, you know?”

“What happened to him?”

“They never found his body, so officially he was missing. But he was in Oklahoma’s fireroom when she rolled over. At Pearl Harbor. So don’t you dare thank me for saving your worthless ass! It makes me sick! I was just pitching you out of the way.” With that, he stormed down the ladder.

“Yes,” Shinya said to himself, “but it would have been easier to ‘pitch’ me into the sea instead of on the deck.”

“Well, we did what we set out to do,” Matt said grimly. “We’ve learned about the enemy.” He, Sandra, Garrett, Shinya, and Alden sat around the Grik captain’s desk poring over the tablets and charts they’d found. Walker towed the derelict charnel house in a wide, lazy circle across the Makassar Strait, into the Java Sea. That would keep them off the islands and shoals through the long night and bring them to Big Sal and their friends by morning. The sea was moderating, and Gray reported they’d float as long as the rhythmic clunk-thump of the chain pumps was maintained.

His report was uncustomarily subdued after he returned from inspecting the hull. It sustained little battle damage, but seams had opened while she wallowed in the heavy seas and water was coming in. That wasn’t what bothered him about his tour of the well, though. All of them would be haunted by the things they’d seen and survived that day, and by what they’d come to know about the nature of their enemy.

“They’re worse than Japs, sir!” said Alden with conviction mixed with quiet horror. The exhausted Marine belatedly glanced at Shinya, who bristled at the slightest comparison. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Hell, they’re worse than anything!”

Captain Reddy had in fact been idly searching his memory for any culture in human history to compare with the Grik. So far, his tired mind wouldn’t oblige. He rubbed his eyes and watched Shinya visibly relax. “Anything,” he repeated dully. “I think you’re right.”

It had been a long, bloody day. Eighteen Lemurian Marines were killed and almost that many wounded. Most of his destroyermen were lightly injured as well, although only Norman Kutas suffered a serious wound. That was when Scurrey dropped his cutlass down a companionway and nailed his foot to the deck. Miraculously, it missed the bones, but Kutas was off his feet for a while. Aside from the quartermaster’s mate’s pain, it might even have been funny under other circumstances-but nothing was funny now.

They had one of the Grik charts spread before them on the desk. Matt thought how horrified Adar would be to learn that the Grik had “Scrolls.” They were looking at an overview of the western Indian Ocean, Madagascar, and East Africa up to the equator and south to latitude 30. The eastern boundary of the map was the 80th parallel. The quality of the representations was poor-about on a par with sixteenth-century maps he’d seen in history books, but they, along with the printed information, were more than adequate for rudimentary navigation. The most startling and terrible thing about the charts, however, was that he could read them.

Most of the writing, and anything added by hand, was incomprehensible and resembled a slashing form of Arabic. But many of the place-names and nautical references used recognizable letters forming English words. All the numbers were familiar too. Obviously, the Grik got much more out of their British teachers than the Lemurians did. From what they’d seen that day, Matt imagined the Grik had certainly been more persuasive.

“Madagascar,” Matt said at last. “I bet old Bradford’s right about that being the original home of the ’Cats.” Sandra peered at the island.

“Probably. It’s been well within the Grik empire for a long, long time. In fact, every landmass shown seems to be part of their territory.” Garrett glanced at Matt with a worried frown.

“They’ve got a lot of weight behind them, that’s for sure. Way more than us.”

Matt looked at Alden. “Anything from the tablets yet?”

Pete shook his head. He’d been skimming the roughly twelve-by-twelve-inch booklets while the others studied the charts. They were filled, mostly, with pen-and-ink illustrations. “Captain Grik was a pretty good drawer, or his clerk was. Mostly animals, bugs, places, and such. Must’ve been a naturalist like Bradford, in a perverted, lizard sort of way.” Matt nodded absently and motioned Shinya to bring another chart. He unrolled it carefully and placed his cutlass on one end and a couple of. 45s on the other.

At a glance, this one seemed most pertinent, at least in the short term. Even cruder than the others, it was less like a navigational chart than a map of enemy territory. It extended from the mouth of the Ganges River southward to include the Cocos Islands. From there, west to Timor, then back to Formosa. All French Indochina and the Dutch East Indies showed varying detail. The farther east, the vaguer the shapes of landmasses became. The Philippines weren’t shown at all.

Matt leaned over the desk, trying to see better by the light of the swaying lanterns. He was painfully reminded he’d discovered unknown muscles that day.

“Skipper, look at this!” exclaimed Alden. He held a tablet close to his face to see in the dim light. Reversing it, he displayed the page. Sandra cried out and sprang to her feet. Matt managed only a short bark of incredulous laughter. There, on the yellowish paper, was a highly stylized but clearly recognizable drawing of USS Walker, down to the “163” on her bow.

“Son of a bitch!” Alden breathed. “This must be the one that got away!”

“Maybe,” murmured Matt, “but does that make it the same one in company with the other two we destroyed? Why was it with two more so fast-if it’s the same? I wonder how many others it came in contact with.”

“Quite a few,” said Sandra, leaning back over the chart. Her voice was brittle. “Look. Many of these coastlines have been updated or redrawn periodically, like survey corrections. Also, see this dark splotch here?” She pointed at a spot on the map. “I’m no navigator, but that’s almost the exact place we came to Salissa’s assistance.”

Garrett squinted. “Looks like… blood, Captain. And look! Next to it there’s a little drawing of us! Just a thick line with four small lines sticking up, but I bet that’s supposed to be Walker.”

Shinya nodded. “It does look like blood. Possibly representing a place of battle? If that’s the case, you may note there are many such spots on this map.”

“There’s one at Tjilatjap,” Sandra confirmed. “Mr. Shinya may be right. There’s dozens of ‘spots.’ If they denote battles, and the picture of Walker seems to confirm that, this ship couldn’t have engaged in them all, or surveyed all these coastlines alone.”

“That means they communicate among themselves, even from one task force to the next.” Garrett’s brow was creased with concern. “That means…”

“Right.” Matt finished for him. “This may not be the one that got away. They might all know about Walker.”

There was a contemplative, nervous silence as they considered the implications.

“Okay,” said Matt, pointing back at the chart. “Battle here, battle here, battle here-each battle mark is accompanied by this thing that looks like a tree. Maybe that’s their symbol for the ’cats.” His finger traced the coast of Borneo. “Nothing at Baalkpan, so maybe they don’t know about Nakja-Mur’s People yet.”

“There is such a symbol at Surabaya,” Shinya pointed out, “although no battle mark.”

“I bet it won’t be long,” Alden growled. “I wonder what these little triangle symbols mean.”

Matt felt a chill, despite the dank, oppressive warmth of the cabin. “I bet those are Grik ships. And the circles around them represent their areas of operation. See? There’re three in the Makassar Strait.”

“Not anymore,” Alden quipped.

“They’re everywhere, then,” Sandra murmured, her voice quiet with despair. “There must be a dozen triangles in the Java Sea alone. And all those other charts we’ve looked at-there’re scores of triangles on them!”

“My God,” muttered Garrett.

Alden was idly tracing the procession of battle marks up the coast of Java and Sumatra. Suddenly he stiffened. “Look,” he said, his finger beside a brownish stain near the Banjak Islands. There was another thick line, but with only three smaller lines sticking out. With a rush of realization, Matt remembered a funnel that fell across a davit.

“Mahan,” he breathed.

The storm dwindled to nothing as the night wore on, and its only remnant in the boulder-strewn approaches to the refloated Big Sal was a disorganized chop. Otherwise, the sun rose bright above Celebes and the sky was blue and cloudless. All was back to normal aboard the huge ship, fake debris was cleared away and the stores that littered the beach returned. Water still coursed over the side, and it would for some time, since so much had been required to “sink” the great vessel. That was the part of the plan Matt had been most concerned about, but Keje himself suggested it as bait for the trap. He’d assured his friend that sinking and refloating Big Sal wasn’t difficult, or even unusual. They did it all the time.

Once a year it was deliberately done to cleanse the lower decks and “sweeten” the air. A suitable, sandy bottom in sheltered shallows was all they needed, and water was let in until Big Sal gently settled to the bottom of the sea. After a few days passed, she was pumped out and all hatches were laid open, allowing the interior to dry. This routine cleared the ship of vermin and insects, and washed away the foul smell of gri-kakka oil that seeped from barrels and grew rancid in the bilge.

The periodic “sinkings” were times for festivities and merriment, and contests in which younglings captured and tallied vermin that escaped to the upper decks. They never got rid of them entirely, and the little ratlike creatures were fruitful if nothing else, but for a long time afterward their numbers were diminished and Big Sal’s cavernous hold smelled fresh and clean. None of her previous soakings were accompanied by as much merriment and jubilation as this one, however, particularly when Walker appeared early that morning towing the dismasted hulk over the horizon.

Big Sal’s forward wing still wasn’t erected, but otherwise she was good as new when the great sweeps propelled her through the obstacles and into the open water to rejoin her ally. Hundreds of People crowded the shrouds and lined the catwalk to welcome Walker with thunderous roars and cheers of greeting. The great guns were loaded and fired in salute as the destroyer bore down with her prize.

Walker responded with repeated whoops from her horn. Destroyermen, Marines, and Lemurian cadets lined her rail, as did the prize crew on the captured ship. A makeshift flagstaff had been rigged atop her shattered mainmast, and an American flag streamed to leeward above the red and black pennant of the enemy.

For the first time since he’d seen the curious cloth, the meaning of the destroyermen’s flag, and what it could represent, was driven home to Keje. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of it, even if it wasn’t a symbol of his own People. There was also a twinge of something close to envy, and he determined then and there that one day his own People must have a flag. They had symbols aplenty that represented their clans, on the tapestries that adorned their great halls, but nothing they could look to that represented all the People everywhere. In addition to his heady dreams of the day before, it was a legacy that he thought the great uniting prophet, Siska-Ta, would surely approve of. The Americans had their flag and so did the Grik. It was time the People had one.

To cap the magical excitement of the moment, the great flying-boat descended out of the northeastern sky, thunderous motors adding to the joyful tumult of happy people. Keje watched as it skimmed low over the waves and made a proper landing for the first time, and the grace and power of the huge, flying metal contrivance took his breath away. It was a great day!

Walker hove to, her people returning Big Sal’s cheers. The launch went over the side and a few moments later arrived in Salissa’s lee, crowded with passengers who immediately climbed the netting lowered for them. An honor guard of excited Marines met them when the party reached the main deck, and a twitter of bone whistles simulated bosun’s pipes.

Captain Reddy saluted aft, as he’d always done, and again Keje wished there was something to salute. Regardless, he fervently returned the gesture Matt offered him and then enclosed him in a mighty embrace.

“We were worried about you, my Brother,” he said.

“We were worried about us too,” Matt replied. “I never doubted the outcome of your battle.”

Keje barked a laugh. “So certain were you? I was not! Not until the great guns spoke! It was… glorious!”

Matt couldn’t help but catch Keje’s infectious grin, but he asked a serious question. “Was the price very high?” Keje only smiled and allowed Jarrik-Fas to answer.

“We had no losses, lord. None! We slew the enemy with contemptuous ease! Our warriors never even drew their blades!”

“I’m grateful for that,” Matt said, his smile fading. “We sustained… serious losses, I’m sorry to say, but the Marines and cadets fought bravely and well.”

Keje lowered his voice in condolence. “Of course you had losses. Yours was the more difficult task and the People who were slain will find honored places awaiting them in the presence of the Maker and their ancestors!”

“Of course.”

“Now!” said Keje, practically rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “What have you learned?”

Matt forced a smile, and glancing at the throng encircling them, he lowered his voice. “We have much to discuss, Keje-Fris-Ar, and unless you want to destroy the celebration, we’d better do it alone.”

“You were right to suggest privacy.” Keje sighed, shaking his head. “The world has fallen upon me.” He sat on his favorite stool beside his simple table in Salissa’s Great Hall. Upon that table lay a Grik chart. He was revolted that the vile thing was in physical contact with the dark, warm wood. Other stools were occupied by his personal advisors, as well as Captain Reddy, Lieutenant Tucker, Lieutenant Garrett, and Sergeant Alden.

Adar hovered over the chart, sputtering with rage and indignation. “Blasphemy!” he hissed. “Unrepentant, black blasphemy! They desecrate the Heavens by their very existence! These… counterfeit… things must be burned! Destroyed! To think they take the gift of Knowledge of the Path of Stars and do… what they do with that knowledge! It is a violation! A rape! I-” Adar was incapable of further speech.

Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Certainly you may destroy them, Adar,” he temporized, “but first let’s learn as much from them about the enemy as we can.”

The Sky Priest looked sharply at him, and a terrible intensity burned in his eyes. “By all means, Cap-i-taan Reddy! Study them well! Do whatever you must to destroy the makers of this abomination and the doers of these evil deeds! When you have done, then I will burn these loathsome pages and I won’t rest until I’ve helped you bring that day to pass.”

Keje sighed. “You will lose much sleep.” He looked at Matt, and his eyes almost pleaded for some reassurance that things weren’t as bad as they appeared. Matt couldn’t encourage him. “You say these three-pointed symbols represent their ships? Possibly hundreds more of their ships?”

“We think so. Their strategy seems clear, at long last. It’s conquest, of course, but I always wondered why, if they were such a big deal, they were just trickling in.” He sighed. “Your ancestors were right. They’re scared of the water-at least the deep water.” He pointed at the Indian Ocean on the chart. There were none of the small islands depicted. Just a large, scary-looking fish.

“Their version of ‘here be monsters,’ I bet,” Garrett offered.

“The Western Sea is vast and deep,” Adar said. “And there are monsters there. That is why the enemy hugs the coast and why they have taken this long to find us-to conquer their way to us-it would seem.”

Matt nodded. “That’s exactly right. They seem to have all the territory bordering the… Western Sea, all the way to Singapore, although that seems a relatively new addition. Ceylon’s their closest major concentration. The tree symbols seem to indicate settlements of the People they know about. A few even have blood spots beside them. We think that shows where a battle took place.”

Keje traced a claw slowly from one spot to the next. “A tree,” he said bleakly. “They use a tree to represent us. How appropriate and how… wrong.” He looked up. “You said you found a human skull as well?” Matt jerked a nod. “I’m sorry to hear it, but how can that be?”

“The same way it happened to your people, Keje,” Matt replied woodenly. “He was eaten.”

“Saak-Fas saw it?”

Matt nodded. “He described a human being brought aboard-‘one like you,’ he said-but he had no idea where it happened.”

“But how did they… get this person?”

“We don’t know.” Matt gestured at the chart. “They know where Mahan is-or was. But judging by the position fixes the lizard captain noted on the chart, the ship we took was never anywhere near Mahan’s last position.”

“You think they got this person from another ship?”

“That seems likely, as well as the information where Mahan was.”

“Do they have her?” Keje asked.

Matt could only shrug. “They will look for her, if they have not found her already.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.

“They must not have her!” Adar cried. “For them to have the power you possess…” He trailed off.

“They must not have her,” Matt agreed.

“What will you do? What must we do?” For the first time since Matt had met Keje, the Lemurian looked afraid.

“Two things,” Matt responded. “First, we need help. Baalkpan’s in it-they can’t leave. But we need more help from Homes like Big Sal.” He shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do about that. Talk about isolationists! Otherwise, I suggest you put aside your differences, whatever they are, with the Surabayans. It looks like they’re next on the list anyway. The enemy doesn’t know about Baalkpan, but that can’t last. The ships they sent to chart those seas have gone missing, and sooner or later they’ll send more. If we help the Surabayans, it’ll add depth to our defense and might gain us an ally.”

“And second?”

“Find Mahan,” Matt said, grimly determined. “We have to get her before the enemy does-or destroy her if they have her.”

Keje still seemed overwhelmed. Well, that was understandable. “I never guessed the Grik could be so numerous,” he whispered and glanced at Adar. “This map shows lands we never even knew to exist and all are in the realm of this evil!” He looked sadly at their faces. “Yesterday was a great day. A great victory. Or so we thought. Now I see it was less than nothing compared to that arrayed against us. We’ve won nothing! The fight has not begun!” He gestured vaguely toward the unseen Grik prize floating nearby. “Together, we’ve destroyed ten of their ships only to learn that is nothing compared to the strength they have! They were mere scouts!” He slammed his hand down upon the chart, claws extended. “Mapmakers!”

“It doesn’t look good,” Matt agreed, “but we have won a victory. We’ve learned what we’re up against, which is more than they know.” He smirked. “More than I’ve ever known.”

Keje snorted derisively. “Yes, they face a disorganized mob that numbers less than one to their ten. An unpleasant surprise that will be!”

“No!” said Matt sharply, standing. “They face soldiers! Brave and determined! We boarded their ship with half the numbers we’d hoped-my fault-and fought them one to four! Our losses were grim, but we killed ten for one-in their kind of fight, not ours. They also face cannon, which will be a very unpleasant surprise. And they face Walker. While she floats, she’ll never abandon you! I’ve seen evil before-at least I thought I had- but nothing in my experience compares with what I saw in the bottom of that ship. We’ve been friends and allies since we met, but honestly, I’ve often regretted getting my people involved in your war. And that’s how I thought of it: your war. I felt kind of like a mercenary, and my men didn’t sign up for that. But after last night-and not just because of the human skull-this war against the Grik became just as much ours as yours.” He sat, leaning back in his chair.

“Now, we can sit around and mope and whine ‘woe is me’ or we can get ourselves in gear, make the tough decisions, and figure out how to win!” He saw Adar’s predatory grin and knew he’d finally won him over. The Sky Priest probably had more swing with the other Homes than Keje did anyway.

But Keje wasn’t out. He leaned forward. “Were you not overwhelmed when first you learned the odds?” Matt was guiltily aware that he’d been “overwhelmed” for the last six months. But this time it was different. The steamroller was coming and his tricycle had a flat, but he’d thrown the blindfold off. Keje huffed. “You’ll hear no whining from me!”

Matt stood with Sandra on Big Sal’s battlement, leaning on the rail and watching the setting sun. Below, the victory celebration was still under way. Time enough later for the full extent of the challenge to make itself known. For now, let them enjoy themselves. They’d earned it. Adar swore the weather would remain fine for several days at least, so Matt hadn’t ordered the PBY back to Baalkpan. It floated now, bouncing a little on the choppy sea but safe and snug in the sheltering lee of the massive sides of Home. Bradford cut short his safari. For such large creatures, super lizards were surprisingly difficult to find-particularly since his guides had been instructed by Nakja-Mur not to lead him anywhere near one. He’d arrived with the plane and was, even now, examining the “prize” with Spanky, Chief Gray, and a group of Naga’s and Adar’s acolytes. In the middle distance steamed Walker, festively alight from stem to stern but still screening the revelers against any approaching threat. As it should be. As she’d always done.

Matt blinked and looked around. It struck him odd that he and Sandra would have the vast expanse of Big Sal’s battlement all to themselves. Others had been there-Keje, Garrett, Pete, Jarrik-but he hadn’t noticed when they left. Weird. Neither had spoken for quite some time, enjoying the companionable solitude.

“It’s so sad about Chack,” Sandra said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, Keje’s daughter too. I think she was expecting wedding bells when she saw Chack come aboard.”

“Her name’s Selass,” Sandra reminded him. “We spoke before we left Baalkpan, and she told me her hopes and the understanding she had with Chack. She wondered what I thought he’d decide.” She shrugged. “I had no idea. Now… she’s in for a rough road. She loves him, but they can’t mate, no matter what he had decided.”

“Why not? I thought ’cats got married and unmarried whenever they felt like it.”

“Sometimes, but they seem to take ‘sickness and health’ pretty seriously. Selass can’t ‘divorce’ Saak-Fas until he’s well-which I doubt he’ll ever be-or until he dies, of course.”

It had been a heart-wrenching moment. Selass greeted Chack with a joyful embrace, but then they hoisted Saak-Fas aboard. She had her answer-the only one possible-and Chack limped into the crowd while Selass desperately called his name.

They were quiet for a long moment, and then Sandra suddenly giggled. “That Silva and Risa sure carried on-right in front of everybody- when he came aboard! They’ll have everybody thinking they are married if they don’t cool it!” She looked thoughtful. “That’s probably gone far enough. They’ll run it into the ground. Besides, I never figured Silva for the type to ride a joke down in flames. He’s already got Chack’s goat. They’re just doing if for attention now.”

Matt groaned, remembering the embarrassing spectacle. “I don’t want to hear that man’s name! As far as I’m concerned, he’s restricted to the ship for the rest of his life! We’ll see how married he thinks he is then!”

There was another long silence between them, and when Sandra spoke again, her voice was softer, hesitant.

“I wonder what Chack was going to say? To Selass. I wonder if he’d made up his mind. Would he”-she looked at him, eyes questioning- “have said the same thing you told me yesterday?” Matt looked confused.

“What, that you’re an idiot?”

She snorted with laughter, but tears filled her eyes. Without even looking to see if anyone was watching, he took her in his arms.

“I don’t know what he would have said. None of my business. But I do love you, Sandra Tucker.” He kissed her on the forehead. She shuddered against him.

“I love you too,” she whispered into his chest. Her breath was warm through the tear-soaked cloth. “What will we do now?”

“What do you mean?” His voice was husky. “Will we win? Will we ever find other people? Will we even survive?” He raised her chin to look into her shimmering eyes. “Will this be all we ever have?” He kissed her lightly on the lips and she returned it-hard enough to electrify every nerve in his body. For a long while they just clung to one another, each drawing strength and courage to replenish the wells they’d gone to so often. Then he brushed the hair away from her face and wiped the tears from her cheek.

“Well,” he sighed sadly, “that’s a whole other story, isn’t it?”

Far across the water, nearly a dozen men leaned against the safety chain beside the number three gun on the amidships deckhouse. There were only two pairs of binoculars among them and they were making the rounds.

“It’s about damn time,” Silva grumped.

“Yeah,” agreed Felts. “Way to go, Skipper!”

Silva looked at Laney. “Fork ’em over, snipe.” Grumbling, Laney handed him two wrinkled cigarettes-careful to keep his distance so close to the rail. Cigarettes were the closest thing to money anybody had, and nobody ever smoked them anymore. Till now. Silva handed one to Felts and lit them both with his Zippo. They took long drags and exhaled contentedly.

“What are you so damn happy about?” Laney snarled, watching his wager go up in smoke. “There’s only two dames in the whole goddamn world, far’s we know, and they’re both took!”

Silva looked at Felts and rolled his eyes. “Snipes’ brains are like weeds. Not enough sunlight belowdecks for ’em to grow.” He looked at the machinist’s mate. “And some are stupider than others. It’s like this, see? The Skipper and Lieutenant Tucker are nuts about each other-which everybody knows, but nobody’s supposed to. But they ain’t gonna do anything about it until they find dames for the rest of us.” He shook his head. “Couple’a dopes. Anyway, that’s a mighty incentive for ’em to find us some, don’t you think?” After a moment, Laney grinned and lit a smoke of his own.

Eventually, the binoculars found their way to the Mice. No one knew why they were there. It was actually kind of cool on deck and they’d likely catch their deaths. Regardless, they waited and took their turn peering through the binoculars, one after the other. Then they shuffled off.

“I wonder,” Gilbert said at last. “Maybe we could marry us one of them monkey-cat gals like Silva did.”

Isak shook his head. “Won’t work. Silva said the Skipper had his weddin’ annealed, ’er somethin’.” Gilbert looked perplexed.

“I thought ‘annealed’ means to heat somethin’ red-hot an’ let it cool off on its own so you can bend it.”

“Yep.”

Gilbert looked at Silva and cocked his head. “Didn’t work.”