Distant Thunders

CHAPTER 4

L ieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, formerly of the Japanese Imperial Navy, and currently brevet colonel and second in command of all Allied infantry forces, unbuckled the belt that held his modified Navy cutlass and pistol. Handing it to the ’Cat Marine sentry at the base of the comfortable dwelling, he climbed rope ladder to the “ground” floor-roughly twenty feet above his head. It was inconvenient, but virtually all Baalkpan dwellings were built on pilings like this so their inhabitants could sleep secure from possible predators. He reflected that the practice was as much tradition now as anything else, since the city never really slept-even before the war-and over the centuries, dangerous animals had slowly learned to avoid the city carved out of the dense wilderness around it. Now there were fortified berms and breastworks, constant lookouts, and vigilant warriors as well. He wondered as he climbed the ladder if the inconvenient tradition would long survive. At the top, he struck the hatch, or trapdoor, above his head and, raising it, entered.

Once inside, Shinya removed his shoes and stood. A curtain separated the entry chamber from the rest of the dwelling and he passed through it. Finding the occupant seated cross-legged on the floor, facing a small window overlooking the bay, Shinya bowed at the waist.

“Commander Okada,” he said in Japanese. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

Okada turned then. His uniform had been wrecked and he wore a robe not unlike the ones the Lemurian Sky Priests used. He was older than Tamatsu, but had the same black hair, untinged with gray. He regarded Tamatsu for a moment before dipping his own head in a perfunctory bow. “At least you still remember how to behave somewhat Japanese,” Okada observed.

Shinya felt his face heat. He straightened. “And you, sir, it would seem, have learned to behave somewhat like your Captain Kurokawa.”

Okada shot to his feet, anger twisting his face. “Still you will compare me to that kyoujin?”

“You have called me a traitor on several occasions now. If I am, what are you? I did not surrender when my ship sank; I was captured while unconscious. I had no idea any of my countrymen even existed in this world. I made an honorable accommodation with a former enemy to help confront an evil I am quite certain our emperor would despise. Our primary differences with the Americans are political, and not.. . on anything approaching the levels of our differences with the Grik! You condemn me, yet you supported the actions of a man you know the emperor would have never condoned!” Shinya fumed. He couldn’t help it: Okada’s attitude infuriated him and he didn’t understand it. “Perhaps General Tojo would have, but the emperor wouldn’t; nor would Admiral Mitsumasa!”

Okada seemed to deflate. “I tried to oppose him,” he offered quietly. “I helped Kaufman send a warning.”

Shinya’s voice also lost some of its heat. “Yes, you did. Moreover, you should be proud you did. I too oppose Captain Kurokawa-and the Grik. I do not and will not fight others who do, nor have I done so. I gave Captain Reddy my parole and had no difficulty fighting the Grik. When I learned of your ship, I faced a choice-a choice I was allowed, by the way-to abdicate my duty to the troops I command, or risk the possibility I might face you and others like you. I was spared that agony, but I would have done it if forced, because those troops would have been aiding Kurokawa and, by extension, the Grik.”

“You make it sound as though I am guilty of aiding that madman simply because I did not rise openly against him sooner! Believe me, I wanted to! But all that would have accomplished is my death before I had any real chance to make a difference.” Okada looked down. “In the end, it made no difference anyway.”

“It did,” Shinya assured him. “You gave us warning. Without that, we would not have been prepared.”

“Prepared to kill our countrymen!” Okada almost moaned. “Do you not see? Perhaps you are not a traitor for what you have done, but I can’t stop feeling like you are, even as I feel like one for doing even less. They were my men!”

“Yes,” Shinya agreed. “But do not think the decision was less difficult for me. Now, to do nothing further, while those same men are in the grasp of such evil, is impossible for me. Don’t you see?” Shinya waited for a response. When there wasn’t one, he sank to the floor across from Okada, who finally joined him there.

“What do you want to do?” Shinya quietly asked.

“I want to go home.”

Shinya took a breath. “Unless you have knowledge beyond mine of the mystery that brought us to this world, I fear that is impossible.”

Okada looked at Shinya a long moment, weighing the words. Finally, he sighed. “That is not what I meant. Of course I want to go ‘home,’ but I have no more idea how to do that than you profess to have. No, what I want is to go to that place that should be home. The place your allies at least still call Japan.”

“Jaapaan,” Shinya corrected. “But why? The Lemurians have two land colonies there-a small one on Okinawa and another, larger one on southern Honshu. They have never, by all accounts, encountered any of our people. On this world, Jaapaan is not Japan. Besides, your knowledge of Kurokawa and the Grik is invaluable to those who oppose them.”

That was true enough. Thanks to Commander Okada, the humans and Lemurians finally knew more about their enemy now. They still didn’t know what drove the Grik to such extremes of barbarity, but they’d learned a little about their social structure. For example, they now knew that the average Grik warrior came from a class referred to as the Uul, which possessed primary characteristics strikingly similar to ants or bees. Some were bigger than others, some more skilled at fighting; some even seemed to have some basic concept of self. All, however, were slavishly devoted to a ruling class called the Hij, who manipulated them and channeled and controlled their instinctual and apparently mindless ferocity. There seemed to be different strata of Hij as well. Some were rulers and officers; others were artisans and bureaucrats. Regardless of their positions, they constituted what was, essentially, an elite aristocracy collectively subject to an obscure godlike emperor figure. Nothing more about their society was known beyond that. The Hij were physically identical to their subjects, but were clearly intelligent and self-aware to a degree frighteningly similar to humans and their allies. They didn’t seem terribly imaginative, though, and so far that had proved their greatest weakness.

Shinya persisted. “Don’t you want revenge for what Kurokawa has done to the people under his command? Our people? Can’t you set your hatred of the Americans aside even for that?”

“I do not hate the Americans,” Okada stated with heavy irony. “But they are the enemy of our people, our emperor. I cannot set that aside. How can you?” Okada shook his head. He didn’t really want an answer to his question. “It is true I had hoped, with Amagi, to work in concert with the Americans against the Grik, because, like you, I recognize them as evil-perhaps the greatest evil mankind has ever known. I never intended an alliance with the Americans, merely a cessation of hostilities. An armistice perhaps. It is not my place to declare peace and friendship with my emperor’s enemies”-he glanced with lingering accusation at Shinya-“and no, I would not have broken the armistice. However, with Amagi, I could have felt secure that the Americans wouldn’t either. In any event, together or independently, we could have carried the fight to the Grik and then inherited this world in the end.” He shrugged. “It is a big world. Whether it was big enough for us and the Americans, in the long run, would have been a test for much later-and at least one of us would have survived the Grik.” He sighed and looked at Shinya. “An imperfect scheme, perhaps, but a less radical… departure from my sense of duty than the choice you made.”

“An impossible scheme,” Shinya stated derisively. “Without the Grik, where would you have been victualed, supplied, repaired? A simple armistice would not have gotten you those things from the Americans and their allies. You would have been at their mercy!”

“No! With Amagi, I could have demanded! As I am now, a prisoner, I have nothing! Not even honor! I can demand nothing as an equal and I have nothing to even bargain with but what is in my head!”

Shinya stood, talking down to Okada. “No. Impossible,” he repeated. “I respect what you did, what you tried to do. You could- should be a hero for it instead of a prisoner. But the old world is gone! If you had succeeded in the rest of your plan, if you had tried to dictate terms, to conquer support from the Allies, even I would have opposed you.”

“Even if it meant killing your own countrymen?”

“Even if it meant killing every man on Amagi,” Shinya answered quietly. “You say you understand, that you hate the Grik and everything about them. You move your mouth and the right words come out, but you really don’t understand, do you? Even now. The Grik are the enemy of everything alive in this world! They… You haven’t. ..” He paused, shaking his head. He could see he was wasting his breath. He did respect Okada, but the man was just… too Japanese. He wondered what that said about him?

“I will see what I can do,” Shinya said at last. “If you agree to work with the Allies and continue to tell them what you know of Kurokawa and the Grik, I will try to convince them to let you go ‘home.’ Perhaps there you will find the honor you think you have lost. If so, I hope you can live with it. I doubt it, though. I fear for you, Commander Okada. I fear that someday your misjudgment will fade and the honor I still see in you will rise within your heart and demand a reckoning. Because of the blood we spill on behalf of you and uncountable others, you will die a tortured old man, who missed his opportunity to be honorable by mistakenly trying to do the honorable thing.”

“What would you have me do?” Matt asked the mustachioed man sitting across the table. The table was split bamboo, with a rough, uneven top, and it served Matt as a desk of sorts in the semi-finished chamber known as the War Room. The chamber was one of many in the “new” Great Hall, still undergoing noisy reconstruction. The irregular surface of the desk didn’t really matter much; paperwork was kept to a minimum and consisted of sun-dried skins, like parchment, only not as fine. Usually, the rawhide parchment supported itself well enough to write on.

“What would you have me do?” Jenks replied. He was dressed in his best, as always now, for these biweekly meetings. He sat stiffly on a stool in his no longer perfectly white uniform, with its ever so slightly tarnished braid. Under his arm was the black shako with braid that matched his sleeves and collar. It was raining outside and sheets pounded against the hastily covered ceiling and the chamber was humid and damp. Jenks’s coat smelled of musty cotton and the half-soaked hat would have added a wet wool and leather odor if the similar wet-’Cat smell hadn’t overpowered it. Between them on the desk was a large decanter of purplish amber liquid and two small mugs. Neither mug had been touched.

“I know we haven’t often seen eye-to-eye,” Jenks understated, “but I do have my duty. I must return the princess to her family-something you promised to help me do-but I don’t see any measurable degree of preparation under way to accomplish that task.”

Matt cocked an eyebrow at him. “No? We captured two more of your men spying on the shipyard from a boat they’d hired last night. Don’t tell me we’ve caught them all. Surely you have some idea what we’ve been up to?”

Jenks sat even straighter and his face went hard. “Do you mean to execute those men, like the one you caught a few weeks ago?”

“I should hang them,” Matt answered darkly. “I told you what the penalty would be if we caught your men snooping around where they don’t belong. The entire city has been open to them and they’ve been treated well, by all accounts. Better than well. Still, you can’t resist fooling around where you’ve got no business.”

“If I perceive a threat to the Empire, it is my duty to evaluate it. We have cooperated with every one of your ridiculous requests, languishing here in this place quite long enough for you to prepare an envoy to my people.” Jenks’s eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. “Somehow, you have convinced the princess to support you in that. In the meantime, all I get from you are delays, accusations, and, I believe, sir, distortions of truth. You have done nothing to alleviate my concerns about your Alliance. If anything, those concerns have grown more acute. And my question remains: will you murder these men like you did the last one?”

Matt stood, angry. “We didn’t ‘murder’ anyone! The last man we caught had murdered a sentry to get where he was. He was captured and executed as a murderer and a spy! Would you have done otherwise? Please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me you would.”

Jenks only sighed.

“Very well,” Matt continued, seating himself again. “The men we caught last night did no such thing, and I doubt they saw much either. I’ll return them to you, but you’d best restrict them to your ship. If I catch them ashore again, they will be hanged!”

Jenks cleared his throat, calming himself. For some time he sat still, staring at Matt as if appraising him anew. “Just so,” he said at last, with a hint of resignation. “And you have my appreciation and

… my apology. You won’t see them again. I cannot assure you that there will be no more spies, however.”

Matt looked closely at the man. He’d spoken the word “spies” with distaste. Did he mean he wouldn’t make that assurance, or couldn’t? This wasn’t the first time Matt got the impression that some things happened on and off Jenks’s ship over which he had little, if any, control. He wondered if the vague admission was a crack in Jenks’s facade, or if he was merely tiring of the aggrieved role he seemed to think was expected of him. By somebody. Matt merely nodded. He doubted he’d get an admission if he continued to press, and he wanted to use Jenks’s comparative openness while he had the chance.

“I do assure you we’re doing all we can to prepare the expedition as quickly as possible. As I’ve said, a reconnaissance of Aryaal is part of that, and a reconnaissance in force is essential-thus the delay. That has to be our first priority. We need to know what’s going on there before we dare weaken our defenses here. Our estimates of the Grik may be entirely wrong-they have been before,” he added bitterly. “Besides, you’ve been here only a little more than two months. Bradford said it might take a few. My definition of ‘a few’ is three or more. Isn’t it the same with you?” Matt thought he detected the most subtle of smiles flash across Jenks’s face.

“Indeed. But one can always hope for the best, and ‘a few’ is a somewhat vague expression.” Jenks’s tone hardened slightly. “Just as your notion of what these Grik are capable of seems vague as well. Come, you defeated them badly when last they came. Surely you cannot be as… concerned… about them as you claim?”

Matt leaned against the backrest he’d had installed on his stool and regarded Jenks for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Tell you what. I’m about to have an interview with a man who probably knows more about them than anyone alive. Why don’t you join us? You may find it… enlightening.” Matt took Jenks’s silence as agreement and rang a little bell. Instantly, the War Room door opened, revealing a small, dark Filipino who eyed Jenks doubtfully. “Juan, please have General Alden and Colonel Shinya escort the prisoner inside.”

Juan stood straighter, as if at attention. He’d been Walker ’s officer’s steward before the war, and he’d since evolved into Matt’s personal steward and secretary. No appointment to that effect had ever been made; Juan just took it upon himself. By sheer force of will, he’d made it stick.

“Of course, Cap-i-tan,” he said. “Should I bring coffee?”

Matt hid a grimace at the prospect of Juan’s coffee, or at least the stuff that passed for coffee here. Back when he’d had the real stuff to ruin, Juan’s coffee had been ghastly. With the ersatz beans he now had, it had improved to the point that it was only vile. Still

… “No, that’s not necessary, but thanks.”

With a somber bow, Juan closed the door. A moment later it opened again, revealing three other men whom Juan ushered to seats across the desk. All had recently arrived and were soaked to varying degrees. Once they sat, Juan left the chamber, discreetly closing the door behind him.

“Commodore Jenks, I understand you’ve met General Alden and Colonel Shinya?” There were nods. “Then may I present Commander Sato Okada, formerly of the Japanese battle cruiser we’re stripping in the bay?” Jenks nodded, but Okada continued staring straight ahead.

“Yes, well. I’ve now spoken with Commander Okada on several occasions and I’ve discovered he prefers to remain aloof from civilities. You must understand that before we… came to this world, his people and ours were at war.” Matt’s expression darkened. “Quite bitterly at war, as a matter of fact, and that war almost certainly still rages. Since we rescued him from his sunken ship, we’ve come to an… understanding regarding our association. By his choice he remains a prisoner of war. In recognition of the threat posed by the Grik, however, and in exchange for transportation to that region that would have been Japan, he’s willing to answer any questions about the enemy to the best of his ability. He was Amagi ’s first officer, and as such had frequent direct, personal contact with the Grik. More than anyone else from his ship, in fact, since his former commander, Captain Kurokawa, forced him to perform most of their correspondence. Okada believes this was mainly a form of punishment, since Kurokawa knew how much he loathed their ‘allies.’ Ask him whatever you want. If you don’t believe me about the menace we all face-your precious Empire as well-you must believe him. He’s as objective a source as you’ll find. You see, he doesn’t like us much either.”

“Who’s to say the information he gives you is genuine, then?” Jenks demanded. “Perhaps he inflates the threat to discourage you from attacking while his own people are still in their hands.”

Okada spoke through clenched teeth. His enunciation was careful, if heavily accented. “If this… British man doubts my word, I will say nothing to him. I do not even understand why I am here. Surely you have already told him everything I have said. Americans and British are the same. Both are enemies of my emperor. You act in concert and remain as one people, despite your supposed split.”

“Hmm,” said Matt, “I’m sorry, Commander. Clearly, you don’t understand. Commodore Jenks is no more British than you are.” For an instant, Okada’s facade dropped to reveal an expression of confusion while Jenks sputtered. Matt plowed on. “His ancestors were British, mostly, from what the princess says, but they came to this world the same way we did before the United States even existed. I’ve tried to persuade him to accept the historical bond that’s existed between our two countries for the last few decades, but he professes not to believe it. If he does, he doesn’t care. So don’t think of him or his people as enemies of your emperor; they’re not. Remember your history. When his people last came through here, Japan was closed to them. They knew it was there, of course, but they knew little of the people who inhabited it. They were too busy in China and India.”

“I am British, sir. I am a subject of the Empire of the New Britain Isles,” Jenks retorted hotly. He glanced at Okada. “But I am no enemy of yours. I apologize for forming my question so tactlessly. Please tell me, in your opinion, how serious is this supposed Grik threat?”

Okada regarded Jenks for a moment, evaluating the sincerity of the question. Finally, he relaxed slightly, and as he spoke, it was clear that evil, shrouded memories marched across his thoughts. “They are a threat beyond imagination. You are familiar with the shape of the world, from your ancient charts?” Jenks nodded. “Besides their recent conquests in Malaysia, they control all of India, the Arab coast, and at least eastern Africa almost to the cape. I believe their imperial capital, where their ‘Celestial Mother’ resides, is on Madagascar, one of their earlier conquests. They have no sense of honor as even an Englishman might recognize it. Their individual warriors have no sense of honor at all. They are voracious predators who exterminate all in their path, feasting not only on the bodies of their victims, but on their very own dead. They eat their young -a practice I have seen with my own eyes-and they have eaten… members of my own crew when we failed to conquer Baalkpan on our first attempt. All failure is considered a failure of spirit, and those who fail are considered prey to be devoured. That is why we aided them, why Kurokawa aided them: through fear of being preyed upon if we refused. Kurokawa may have had other reasons of his own, but for the vast majority”-his eyes drooped-“for me, it was fear.”

“But what of the battle here?” Jenks demanded. “Surely such a defeat must have hurt them.”

Okada looked wistful. “I certainly hope it did. Nevertheless, I have seen. I have been to Ceylon, where their teeming hordes are beyond number. I have seen how they so readily replaced the ships and warriors destroyed in their first offensive against Aryaal and this place. A grace period may have been won, but it will be short. They breed rapidly, and if they do not eat their young, within five years they may return with three times what they lost-and still maintain control of their frontiers.”

“My God,” Jenks muttered.

“Nothing we haven’t told you before,” Alden growled.

“True, perhaps, but…”

“Tell you what,” Matt said, making a decision he’d been pondering for days. “Now that you have a fresh perspective on why we’re in such a hurry and why our expedition to return your princess has received a lesser priority, I’ll take you to the shipyard myself. Just you. I don’t know what other agenda your spies may have, but I’ll let you see what we’re working on and let you decide whether we’re doing it to fight the Grik, or threaten your Empire. All I ask is that, on your honor, you don’t divulge what you see, but I’ll leave the evaluation up to you.”

Jenks seemed flustered at first, but quickly regained his composure. “That is… generous of you, Captain Reddy, particularly considering the previous prohibitions. But I cannot possibly swear not to report what I see if, in my estimation, it poses a threat to my Empire.”

Matt sighed. “I thought that was understood. Look, I don’t really like you very much and I know you don’t like me. But I’d have thought, by now, you’d have accepted the fact that we really do want to be friends with your people. If we become friends-real friends-we’ll share all the technology we show you. In spite of what you may believe, it’s considerable. I wouldn’t let you see it at all if I thought you’d still doubt our preparations are devoted to defeating the Grik.” He paused, deciding to go for broke. “But face it: we’re aware there are… elements of your own crew-officers-over whom you seem to have little control. Elements much more interested in their own political agenda than they are the safety of this Alliance, definitely. Maybe even the safety of your own precious Empire-as that safety is envisioned by the princess. I think given the choice, your vision of your Empire more closely reflects hers than you might be at liberty to admit. All I’m asking is, if you don’t get the impression that our preparations are geared toward striking your country, don’t immediately spill what you see to those other ‘elements’ I spoke about. Keep an open mind.”

Jenks considered. Here was a chance he’d craved-to see what the Americans and their furry allies were up to beyond their guarded barricades. He wouldn’t admit it, but he already knew a little. A few spies had gotten through. But he hadn’t been told everything they’d discovered either. There was much truth in what Captain Reddy said about those “other elements,” just as there was truth in the man’s observation that Commodore Jenks was less than pleased about how those elements operated, or about their influence over his government. He would have to step carefully, but he sensed an opportunity.

“Very well,” he said, “I can give my word to that.” He smiled sardonically, his sun-bleached mustaches quirking upward. “So long as it is not generally known I have done so.”

Matt almost mirrored his expression. “Oh, I don’t think it’ll hurt for folks to know I’ve given you a tour. No way to hide it anyway, so we might as well give them a show. But we won’t tell anyone you promised not to blab if you don’t feel like it. All I ask is, once we enter the secure area, give us the benefit of the doubt.”

“On that you have my word, Captain Reddy.”

Matt nodded and glanced at his watch. “Very well. I have another interview to attend to. If you’ll excuse me for an hour, maybe we can put some of your suspicions to rest.” Matt’s gaze rested on Okada. “Thanks for your cooperation, Commander.” He rang the bell again and Juan reappeared.

“Cap-i-tan?”

“Juan, ask the Marine sentries to escort Commander Okada back to his quarters, if you please; then send in Ensign Laumer.” He stood and extended his hand to Jenks. For the first time, the Imperial took it without any apparent hesitation. “I don’t believe this will take all that long, actually. Juan will see that you’re comfortable and provide any refreshments you might ask for.”

“Thank you, Captain. I look forward to our outing.”

When Juan closed the door behind the three, Matt resumed his seat and took a deep breath.

“You’re sure this is a good idea, Skipper?” Alden asked.

“You got me. I don’t know what else we can do. We can only stall the man so long-and his beef is valid. We’ve been playing him for time and he knows it. If we don’t show him why, the ‘incidents’ will only increase-understandably-and sooner or later, any chance we might’ve ever had for an alliance with his Empire will go over the side.” Matt shook his head. “No, it’s time we put our cards on the table. Besides, Her Highness, Becky”-he grinned-“knows everything we’re up to. It’s not fair to ask her to continue keeping secrets from her own people.”

“Except these political officers, these Company wardens,” Shinya reminded him.

“Of course.” Rebecca and O’Casey had told them about the Company watchdogs aboard Jenks’s ship, and had described their function in a way that brought the Nazi SS or Gestapo to Matt’s mind. Or maybe the Soviet naval political officers Shinya referred to was a better analogy. Either way, they were sinister and apparently powerful figures, and, given the opinions of O’Casey and the princess, dangerous and subversive as well. Matt had been waiting for some sign that Jenks didn’t necessarily work with them hand in glove before he made his earlier invitation. Rebecca was certain he didn’t, and even O’Casey-who had his own reasons to be wary of Jenks-agreed, but Matt had to be sure. After Jenks’s veiled admission, he thought he was. Of course, Jenks could have suspected their concerns and put on an act.. .. Matt shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t like Jenks, but he grudgingly respected him. The few times he’d actually spoken to Commander Billingsly, he’d decided there couldn’t have been more difference between his and Jenks’s character, at least.

Jenks might be an asshole, but somehow Matt sensed he was an honorable, even gentlemanly asshole. Billingsly was just an asshole, with no class at all. He remained as arrogant and condescending as Jenks had been when they first met, and his open, blatant, almost hostile bigotry toward the Lemurians was offensive and unsettling. If all the Honorable New Britain Company was like Billingsly, Matt’s destroyermen and their allies might have as much to fear from them as they did from the Grik. But Jenks was pure Navy, according to O’Casey, and Matt was very glad that seemed to make a difference. For a number of reasons.

“Yeah,” Matt resumed, “we’ll have to convince Jenks to keep them in the dark. I think we can, once we show him what we’re up to-and then offer to let him see some of the stuff in action! If he accepts, and I bet he will, maybe we’ll have some time to work on him.” There was a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

Juan swept the door open and Ensign Irvin Laumer stepped inside, hat under his arm, and stood at attention. He was towheaded and lanky, but not particularly tall, and he didn’t look quite old enough for the uniform he wore. The seriousness of his expression meant he did have some idea why he was there, however, and Matt felt a tug of uncertainty. From what he’d heard of Laumer, he had high hopes for the boy. The kid had good sense, clearly. He’d been the highest-ranking survivor of S-19’s complement, but he’d allowed the more experienced chief of the boat take de facto command. The decision must have been a tough one, because Laumer didn’t seem the type to defer responsibility. Hopefully that meant, like any good officer, he knew when to take responsibility and when to delegate it. Matt’s main concern now was that maybe Laumer felt he had something to prove.

Actually, he did, in a way. All of Matt’s senior officers, human and Lemurian, were veterans of fierce fighting now. All but Laumer. If the ensign was ever going to be followed where he led, he did have to prove himself, Matt reflected. He only wished Laumer’s baptism didn’t have to be on such a difficult and potentially important mission. He’d love to send Spanky or Brister, or any of half a dozen others, but he couldn’t. They were just too necessary where they were. The simple, hard fact of the matter was that Laumer was the only one he could spare with the experience and technical expertise.

“Sir, Ensign Laumer, reporting as ordered!”

“At ease, Ensign,” Matt replied mildly, and gestured at the stool Jenks had just vacated across the desk. “Please have a seat.” Irvin sat, still rigid, upon the creaky stool. “Coffee?”

“Uh, no, thank you, sir.”

Matt waited a moment, staring at the ensign. He decided to get straight to the point. “I want that submarine,” he said simply.

Irvin Laumer nodded. He’d obviously expected as much. “I’ll get it for you, sir, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Alden grunted. “Son, that’s the point. We want it, sure, but we don’t want it to be the last thing you do. You or the people you’ll command.”

Matt glanced at the Marine and nodded. “Exactly. We’ve discussed this at some length and decided your mission will have a hierarchy of agendas. First, of course, you must determine whether she can be salvaged at all. She might not even be there anymore. Remember too, given the nature of some of the creatures on this world-and under its seas-it’s not imperative that we get the submarine back as a submarine, if you get my meaning.”

Laumer looked troubled, but nodded. “Yes, sir, I think I do.”

“You must know you do, because that’s the deal. If she’s still there, it’ll be up to you to decide if you can get her off the beach. Don’t fool around too long trying if it’s not practical. If you can, swell. You’ll have fuel, and Spanky, Gilbert, and Flynn all say at least one of her diesels ought to come to life. If you can get her under way, hopefully Saan-Kakja can provide an escort to get you to Manila. After that, bring her here if you can, but that’s not essential either. What is essential is the stuff she’s made of. Decide quickly if you can get her off, because if you can’t, you’ve got to strip her-and I mean strip her! I want her engines, batteries, wiring, screws, gun, bearings, instruments, sonar-hell, I want every bolt you can get out of her; is that understood? Even if you get her all the way back here we might strip her anyway, so that’s the absolute top priority. Like I said-and I can’t stress this enough-we need what she’s made of more than we need her. Her whole, intact carcass would be nice-she’s got as much steel as Walker -but this is strictly a ‘bird in the hand’ operation. Get what you know you can get.”

Irvin gulped. “I understand, Captain.”

“Very well. Now.” Matt leaned back in his chair. “We can’t afford to send much with you, but you’ll get what we can spare. You can have five of your submariners if you can get them to volunteer. Concentrate on those with critical engineering and operating skills.”

“Flynn?” Irvin asked.

Matt shook his head. “No. Two reasons. First, we need him here. Second, and don’t take this wrong; he assured me he has the utmost respect for you, but… to be honest, he’s had enough of subs in these waters.” Matt shrugged. “I already asked him, but… well, let’s just say we’ve had a little experience with people who’ve been through too much and pushed too far.” Matt was thinking of his old coxswain Tony Scott. “Sometimes they lose focus and make mistakes,” he added in a quiet tone. “We’ll use Flynn in the shipyard for now, but he’s asked for an infantry regiment, if you can believe that.” To Matt’s surprise, Laumer actually smiled.

“Yes, sir, I can believe it.”

Instead of asking the ensign to elaborate, Matt pushed on: “You’ll have two of the prize ships to transport equipment and personnel, and bring back what you can salvage. You won’t command the ships, obviously, but you’ll be in overall command of the expedition.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laumer said. “Thanks for the opportunity.”

Matt grimaced. “There may be plenty of ‘opportunity’ to get yourself killed, and I’m ordering you to avoid that. Period. Otherwise, besides those previously mentioned, your orders are to depart Baalkpan aboard the prize USS Simms in company with another prize sloop…” He shook his head. “We’re really going to have to sort that out.”

The destroyermen, ’Cat and human, found it difficult and confusing to use the old terms for sailing warships. A small faction insisted “sloops” ought to be destroyers and “frigates” should be cruisers. This caused contention among the frigate sailors, who thought they ought to be destroyers and sloops were mere gunboats. God only knew how weird it would get when they had even bigger ships-and seaplane tender /carriers like Big Sal. The fact was, no one of either race wanted to give up the title “destroyerman,” no matter what they served on.

“Anyway,” Matt continued, “you’ll escort Placca-Mar.” He hoped he said it right. His ’Cat was finally improving, as was his pronunciation. “She’s the Home Saan-Kakja’s returning to the Filpin Lands aboard, along with plans and some of the large machinery we’ve completed. Colonel Shinya and the prisoner will also be aboard. The colonel will be escorting Commander Okada, but his primary mission is to take charge of training Saan-Kakja’s troops in Manila. While you’re with Placca-Mar, you’ll be under Colonel Shinya’s direct command, and if you run into any marauding lizards, his orders will supersede any I’ve given you today. In other words, feel free to disobey the one about avoiding opportunities to get yourself killed, because you will defend Saan-Kakja to the last. Understood?”

Irvin gulped, but nodded. “Aye-aye, sir.”

“Barring incident, you’ll depart company with Placca-Mar in the Sibutu Passage, hug the Sulu Archipelago to Mindanao, and proceed to your destination.”

“What about mountain fish, if we run across any?” Irvin asked hesitantly, and Matt looked at him, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sparks-I mean Lieutenant Commander Riggs-is working on stuff. So’s Ordnance. I also hope to squeeze some advice out of Jenks, if I can. We’ll do everything possible to make sure you have solid communications as well, but”-he shrugged-“who knows? You might wind up on your own.”

Irvin knew the entire mission was a test of sorts, as much for the captain to evaluate him as for him to evaluate himself. He’d missed all the fighting and really had little reason to expect such an opportunity-and an opportunity was how he viewed it. Somehow he’d prevail. He had to.

“I’ve been on my own before, Captain,” he said at last. “Sort of. Before you took us off Talaud in the first place, we didn’t even know what had happened. Even if we lose communications, I’m confident we’ll manage.”

Matt looked at him for a long moment, then glanced at the others in the chamber. “I sincerely hope so. I implied earlier that you’re the only man we can spare for this, but remember, the war’s just begun. We can’t spare anyone in the long run.”

“No, sir.”

As was customary by midafternoon, the rain had stopped by the time Captain Reddy, General Alden, and Commodore Jenks gathered at the base of the great, scorched Galla tree. As was also customary, the remainder of the day would be humid and oppressive and the clothes worn by the little group had barely begun to dry before perspiration replaced the moisture. Sandra, Keje, and Alan Letts had joined them. Shinya had departed to prepare the troops for “inspection,” and Matt had asked the Bosun not to attend. Chief Gray uncomfortably agreed. His and Jenks’s antagonism toward each other was well-known, and Matt wanted the commodore as comfortable about the tour as possible.

A two-wheeled cart appeared out of the bustling activity of the city, the driver reining his animal just short of the overhead that protected them from the incessant dripping. The cart itself looked like an oversize rickshaw, complete with gaudy decorations. The beast pulling it had never been seen in Baalkpan before it and a large herd of its cousins arrived from Manila a few weeks before. It looked a little like one of the stunted brontosarries from a distance, although it was smaller and covered with fur. It also had a shorter neck and tail, even if both were proportionately beefier and more muscular. The head was larger too, with short, palmated antlers.

The Fil-pin ’Cats called them paalkas, although Silva’s insidious influence had reached Baalkpan before them and here they were almost universally called pack-mooses, even by the local ’Cats. They were herbivorous marsupials, of all things, and Matt was glad to have them. He wondered why no one had ever imported them to Baalkpan before; they were obviously more sensible draft animals than the ubiquitous brontosaurus. They were much more biddable and, from what he’d seen, at least as smart as a horse. They could even be ridden, although no kind of conventional saddle would serve. They were half again as big as a Belgian draft horse, and any rider would have been perpetually doing the splits. Matt primarily wanted them to pull his light artillery pieces and they should be great for that. Shinya and Brister were working on ways the gun’s crews could ride them.

Other creatures that could be ridden like a horse had arrived from Manila. They were me-naaks, and nobody objected when their name was changed to “meanies.” They looked like long-legged crocodiles that ran on all fours, as they should, but their legs were shaped more like a dog’s. They ran like dogs too, fast and focused. Their skin was like a rhino-pig’s, thick and covered with long, bristly hair, and they had a heavy, plywood-thick case that protected their vitals. Matt was dubious about them, and admitted they were scary. When he’d first seen them in Manila, they’d borne troops in Saan-Kakja’s livery, apparently on errands. The crowds gave them a wide berth and Matt had noticed their jaws were always strapped tightly shut. They seemed to obey well enough, and Saan-Kakja had since assured him that they’d make fine cavalry mounts-once he’d explained the concept to her-as long as a rider didn’t mind the fact that his mount’s fondest wish was to eat him.

Cavalry, and the mobility it provided, was something Matt had been wanting for a long time. It wasn’t something ’Cats had given a great deal of thought to, since, as little as most of them ever envisioned fighting, they’d never envisioned fighting an open-field battle. The terrain just didn’t suit. For the campaign taking shape in Matt’s mind however, cavalry of some sort-or at least mounted infantry or dragoons-would come as a nasty surprise for the Grik indeed.

“How… interesting,” observed Jenks, staring at the conveyance.

Matt shook off his reverie and smiled. “More practical than walking.” He gestured around at the aftermath of the squall. “Especially in this muck.” Sandra smiled at him and gravitated to his side.

Jenks looked at her briefly, then shook his head. Apparently, what he’d been about to say or ask wasn’t something he wanted to discuss just then. He peered into the cart. “Is there space for all of us?” he asked doubtfully.

The paalka dragged the cart through the bustling city. There was so much activity that, except for the remaining damage, it was difficult for Matt to tell a massive battle had raged around and through Baalkpan not so very long before. It was easy to remember they were at war however, since much of the seemingly chaotic commotion was geared toward military preparation. Squads of troops squelched by in cadence, either toward or from the expanded drill field. Quite a few of these wore the distinctive black-and-yellow livery of Saan-Kakja.

Matt, Alden, and Letts returned the salute of a platoon of Marines that marched by on the left, heading for the parade ground. Matt had finally allowed the reconstitution of the Marines as an independent force. They’d be needed as such and the ’Cats’ various guard (or, increasingly, army) regiments had sufficient veteran NCOs and officers now to lead them. The Marine uniform was also strikingly regular, now that it had become official. It consisted of a dark blue kilt with red piping along the hem for veterans. NCOs sported red stripes encircling their kilts, from the bottom up, to designate their rank. All wore thick white articulated rhino-pig leather armor over their chests as well. Stamped bronze helmets like those the destroyermen wore (except for the ear holes) completed the basic uniform. Baldrics, straps, belts, and backpacks were all black leather, and had become universal among Allied forces.

The “Army” had begun a similar attempt to provide uniforms for its troops, but the colors varied, since its forces represented different members of the Alliance. In the case of Baalkpan, which fielded numerous regiments, the leather armor was a natural dark brown and the kilts were bright green. This was the color of Nakja-Mur’s livery and Adar hadn’t changed it. The various regiments had gold numbers embroidered on their kilts.

Matt, and everyone else, had been surprised and gratified to learn that the Aryaalan and B’mbaadan regiments (formerly bitter foes) had been integrated by Lord Rolak and Queen Maraan and had chosen red-and-black kilts, also with regimental numbers, and gray leather breastplates.

As much as Baalkpan’s industry had recovered, and even leaped ahead after the battle, none of this would have been possible without Saan-Kakja’s support. She’d ordered as much material and supplies, and as many troops and artisans, be brought forward as her nation could realistically afford. Until the frontier could be pushed back, Baalkpan remained the front line of the war, and without her aid, another battle like the last would have finished it. Of course, Amagi was no longer a threat, but as things had stood, she wouldn’t have been needed.

A lot of Baalkpan’s runaway population had returned as well. Perhaps goaded by shame that they’d left in the first place instead of defending their home, they set to work with a will. Matt believed that, with the returns and additions, Baalkpan’s population was now greater than it had been when his old, battered destroyer first steamed into the bay.

Smoking pitch assaulted their sinuses as the paalka drew them past the expanded ropewalk, and sparks flew from forges as swordsmiths shaped their blades. Iron had been known to the People, but had been little used except for weapons. Now, an abundance of good steel wreckage was available, as well as a new steady supply of iron ore from the interior, and the Lemurians were drawing out of the Bronze Age at last. Matt watched Sandra’s face as the sparks fell and sizzled on the damp ground. He knew what she was thinking. The various Lemurian cultures had been very fine, and with some exceptions, almost idyllic before they came here. Now all was in a state of flux, changing forever to meet the necessities of a nightmarish war. For a bittersweet instant, Matt wondered what changes the war back home would bring to America.

They eased through the congested area surrounding the new sawmill. The big, circular blades sprayed chips and sawdust in great arcs, while brontosarries plodded through a slurry of muck, turning a massive windlass that transferred its rotation through a series of gears that spun the great blades. The quaint display of ingenuity had come from the quirky minds of the Mice. They had certainly risen to the challenge of this new world, Matt thought proudly, as had all his destroyermen.

As they neared the waterfront, the buildings were no longer elevated. Instead, all the shops and warehouses stood right at ground level. A great berm lay beyond them with but a single gated opening, and swarms of workers thronged in and out of the bottleneck. A squad of Marine sentries watched keenly for unknown or suspicious faces. Fortunately, the only faces they had to examine closely were human, and the hundred-odd remaining Amer-i-caans were well-known to them. When the paalka brought them to the gate, the crowd parted and the sentries waved them through.

If anything, the chaos beyond the gate seemed more apparent than in the heart of the bustling city, but only at a glance. Here, the warehouses, workshops, and open-air industry that sprawled around the basin teemed with what only appeared to be disconnected activity. The racket of tools, shouted commands, and roaring furnaces was overwhelming, and smoke and dank steam hung like fog. In the distance, across the yard, the skeletal frames of numerous ships rose above the activity and haze. Matt and his companions quickly perceived the underlying order-they’d all spent considerable time there, after all-and Matt suspected Jenks saw it as well.

“Here we are, Commodore,” Sandra said brightly as Matt helped her down from the rickshaw. Jenks hopped lightly down with the unexpected grace of an athlete and stared around with all the indications of amazement. Alden, Keje, and Letts joined them, and while the others stared about with expressions of proud accomplishment, Keje continued glaring at Jenks. He hadn’t been in favor of letting this stranger view their greatest secrets and he still didn’t trust the man. His initial dislike had only been intensified by the frequent attempts at espionage, and now they were going to give him a guided tour! He trusted Matt’s judgment, and intellectually he knew they had little choice, but he still didn’t like it.

“Most impressive, my dear,” Jenks replied, somewhat awkwardly. He glanced at his escort. “Gentlemen. Most impressive indeed. You have accomplished all this in the three months since your battle?”

“No, sir,” said Letts. “The basics were here when we first arrived. We added a lot while we were preparing for the enemy, and not much was damaged in the fighting. Evidently, they wanted these facilities preserved. Baalkpan would’ve made them a good base from which to go after our other friends-as well as your people, eventually.”

“Indeed,” came Jenks’s noncommittal reply.

Letts looked at Captain Reddy and saw the nod. This was his show now. “If you would all follow me, I’ll point out some of the more interesting things we’ve been working on.”

They trudged past furnace rooms from which an endless relay of naked, panting ’Cats pushed wheelbarrows loaded with copper round shot. These they brought to waiting carts, where others stood with heavy leather gloves to transfer the still-hot spheres. There were hisses of steam and scorched wood when the shot dropped on the cart’s wet timbers. Most of the party smiled and returned the waves of the workers. Jenks said nothing, but clearly took note.

Moving along, they reached one of the several foundries that now dotted the basin. Great bronze gun tubes, each with carts of their own, waited in patient rows for their journey to the boring and reaming loft. These new guns had rough, sand-cast bores and would still be smoothbores after reaming, but even as their interior diameters had increased, the quality and sophistication of their shape had improved and the weight of metal they required was much reduced. Most of the original guns that had defended Baalkpan had already been recast, and generally, they could get five or six guns from four of the earlier, much cruder weapons. The next foundry they passed was pouring molten iron under an open-sided shed and gouts of sparks and fiery meteors arced out and sizzled on a damp beam decking roped off for safety.

Jenks saw all this and was much impressed. Matt and Sandra talked excitedly of what they’d accomplished and Letts seemed almost jubilant. Even Keje had lost some of his earlier overt unfriendliness. As often as he must have seen it now, he still seemed to have an air of wonder. A long, high shed stood nearer the water, covering an assortment of bizarre shapes in various stages of evident completion. Before they headed in that direction, the group was distracted by a series of shouts followed by what sounded like a rough volley of musket fire. The noise quickly settled into a sustained roar.

Brevet Major Benjamin Mallory twisted his arm to stretch the aching muscles. His T-shirt and Lemurian-made dungarees were sweat blotched and stained, and a dark rag dangled and swayed from his belt as he grabbed the wrench and strained against the final bolt.

“There,” he said to no one in particular, “my built-in torque wrench says that’s about right.” He stepped back from the odd-looking machine and dragged the filthy rag across his forehead before he plopped the hat back on his head. It was the only item remaining to him that had once been Army brown. The OD pistol belt and leather holster were his, but they were essentially the same as everyone else’s. The machine was an engine-he hoped. It was a vague copy of an upright, four-cylinder Wright Gypsy that would serve as a prototype power plant for the airframe design they’d-tentatively-settled on. It was inherently more difficult to balance a four-cylinder engine than one with six cylinders, but they were trying to keep things as simple as possible for now. The cylinders themselves were air-cooled legacies of the crashed PBY, and they’d dredged up as much of the old plane as they could hook from its scattered resting place on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay. They’d recovered only one of the engines, but fortunately, it wasn’t the one they’d already removed a couple of damaged cylinders from. It had been damaged beyond repair by a couple of holes through the crankcase and a warped crankshaft sustained when the spinning prop hit the water, but twelve cylinders, fifteen pushrods, eleven piston rods, eighteen valves, and nine pistons were still up to spec. They’d serve his purpose of testing the rest of the new engine they’d built from scratch.

Seaman (maybe Ensign now, if his transfer came through) Fred Reynolds stood nearby poring over a black-bound book with red writing on it. It was a copy of Brimm and Boggess’s Aircraft Engine Maintenance they’d found in the tool kit of the PBY’s doubtless long-dead flight mechanic. It was exactly like a similar copy Ben had done his best to memorize in pilot training. He liked to think he had memorized enough to build something like the simple engine before him on the stand, but when they inevitably went on to build bigger and better things, the wealth of formulas, diagrams, and general tidbits of information including things as mundane as hand file designs would prove invaluable. Even when one considered the relatively large, eclectic library of Walker ’s dead surgeon, “Doc” Stevens, and the many technical manuals they’d off-loaded from the two destroyers before their final sortie, it was, in many ways, the single most precious book they possessed. Some of Adar’s Sky Priest acolytes had already made a handwritten copy, and others were being copied from it.

The book was already invaluable to poor Reynolds, who stared at the pages like they were written in ancient Greek. Ben stifled a chuckle. Apparently, Reynolds had finally decided what to strike for; he wanted to fly. He’d said he wanted excitement, but he was a little guy, and that would have made Ordnance hell-or so he believed. Ben suspected that in reality, the kid was scared to death of Dennis Silva-completely understandable-and since Silva was the most… visible representative of that division and had as yet untested limitations on his authority… the fledgling Air Corps, or Naval Air Arm, or whatever it would be called, probably seemed like a comparatively safer billet. Ben chuckled aloud at that, unheard over the machine noises emanating from the rest of the shop.

He glanced at the only other human in sight: Commander Perry Brister. Formerly Mahan ’s engineering officer and now general engineering minister of the entire Alliance, the dark-haired young man was making a final inspection of the fuel line leading to the simple, crude carburetor. Ben knew Perry had other things to do that day, but he’d always liked fooling with small engines, he’d said, and he wanted to be there when they cranked it up.

“Looks good here,” Perry rasped. His once soft voice had never recovered from all the yelling he did during the great battle. Ben looked at the two Lemurians poised near the propeller. One, a sable-furred ’Cat with a polished 7.7-millimeter cartridge case stuck through a hole in his ear, grinned.

“You boys ready?” Ben asked.

“You bet,” answered the ’Cat Ben called Tikker. Mallory shook his head and grinned. It was Captain Tikker now. Stepping to a small console, he flipped a switch.

“Contact!” he shouted.

“Contact!” chorused the ’Cats, and, heaving the propeller blade up as high as they could reach, they brought it down with all their might. For a moment, the motor coughed, sputtered, and gasped while the ’Cats jumped back. With a jerk, the wooden propeller came to a stop.

“Switch off!” announced Mallory, and the two ’Cats approached the propeller again. They hadn’t thoroughly tested the remote throttle adjustment, and Brister stepped forward and squirted a little fuel in the carburetor. Nodding, he joined Ben.

“Contact!”

This time, the propeller spun with an erratic, explosive, phut, phut, phut! sound, backfired, burped, then became a popping, vibrating blur. Brister hurried forward, careful of the spinning blades, and tinkered with the throttle linkage. Slowly, the vibration diminished and the smooth roar overwhelmed their cheers.

“This way!” Letts shouted over the din, and they hurried toward the noise. Another shed, smaller than the first and enclosed on all sides, was nearby. Letts moved a curtain aside and the racket flooded out. In he went, and Jenks was swept along with the rest. Oil lamps dimly lit the interior of the shed, but there were small, brightly glowing objects placed near large, complicated-looking machines. Lemurians and a few men toiled at those machines with singular concentration in spite of the noise emanating from another brightly lit area toward the back of the shed. As he passed them, Jenks saw the machines were turning and spinning, throwing coiled pieces of metal aside. They were also noisy-or would have been-without the cacophonous roar. Most were fairly straightforward. He’d seen their like in Imperial factories: lathes, mills, etc. Great leather belts whirled around pulleys attached to the high ceiling and transferred their rotation to the machines. A very few of the machines had no belts whatsoever, but seemed to run off insulated copper cables terminated at the same source as the brilliant white lights. The mystery fascinated him as much as the roar that grew even louder as they approached.

A haze of smoky fumes was gathering in the light, swirling in a strange, artificial wind. In it stood three men and a couple of Lemurians staring intently at a relatively small machine vibrating on a stand. A big paddle of some kind whirled to a blur at one end of it.

“Mr. Mallory!” Matt shouted at one of the men who stood, hands on hips. He turned.

“Captain Reddy!” There was a huge smile on the man’s bearded face. “Good afternoon, sir.” He motioned at the machine and eyed a set of gauges on his console. “Temps are a little variable on the cylinders, but that’s to be expected with an air-cooled in-line. The production models’ll be liquid-cooled and heavier, but the horsepower ought to be similar. The main thing is that it looks like we’ve solved the crankcase and oil pump issues-at least for straight and level.” For the first time Mallory noticed Jenks and his smile faded a little.

“It’s okay,” Matt shouted. “It’s time.”

Mallory shrugged as if to say, You’re the skipper, and motioned to one of the ’Cats stationed near another panel. “Bring her up, Tikker!”

The sable-furred ’Cat with a shiny brass tube in his ear nodded and advanced a small lever. Immediately, the noise increased and the paddlelike object whirred even faster, redoubling the gale of wind and noxious fumes. Jenks began to feel a little ill. Sandra coughed violently and patted Captain Reddy on the arm. Matt looked at her and nodded, noting Jenks’s expression as well. He patted Mallory, and when he got his attention, he made a “cut it” gesture.

Tikker noticed and backed the throttle down until the engine finally wheezed and died. The sudden, relative silence was overwhelming.

“Mr. Mallory, you’re going to choke all your workers,” Matt said with a grin. Ben looked around. If anything but excitement made him feel light-headed, it didn’t show.

“Well, yes, sir,” he said, beaming, “but it works! The damn thing works! Uh, begging your pardon.” He glanced at Jenks and his euphoria slipped a notch. “Yeah, it stinks, I guess, but we’ve been trying to keep things under wraps.”

“I know. That’s over now.” Matt clapped Ben on his good shoulder and nodded congratulations to the others. “Besides, it looks like we’ll be ready for flight testing soon and there’s no way to keep that a secret. I think it’s time Commodore Jenks, at least, sees what we’re up to.”

Jenks finally surrendered to a coughing fit of his own, but when he composed himself, he pointed at the engine. “What is that thing?” he asked. “Some sort of weapon?”

“Not by itself,” hedged one of the other workers who’d joined the group. He was a former Mahan machinist’s mate named “Miami” Tindal.

Tikker stepped closer. “We put it on a plane, and it’ll be a weapon,” he said excitedly. A lot of Lemurians acted uncomfortable around the Imperials and were hesitant to speak to them. Tikker never seemed uncomfortable talking to anyone.

“What’s a ‘plane’?” Jenks asked.

Matt looked at Ben. “If you and… Captain Tikker would accompany us?” He paused, his amused, understanding eyes on Perry. “You as well, Commander Brister.”

Workers raised awnings to vent the exhaust while together, the growing entourage returned to the larger, open shed. There they showed Jenks an array of ungainly contraptions. Some were mere skeletons, made from laminated bamboo strips, cannibalized even before they were complete. A couple had a kind of taut fabric stretched across their bones to which some kind of sealant or glue had been applied. One, the nearest to the shop, rested on a cart or truck much like the earlier gun tubes. This one not only appeared almost finished, but was painted a medium dark blue. There were darker blue roundels-significant devices of some kind, Jenks was sure-in several places, with large white stars and small red dots painted within them.

“So this is it?” Matt asked appreciatively. It didn’t look much like the NC craft he remembered seeing pictures of. If anything, it looked like a miniature PBY. The fuselage/hull form was virtually identical, except there was a single open-air cockpit behind a slip of salvaged Plexiglas where the flight deck would have been. Another open cockpit was positioned halfway to the tail, where the PBY had possessed a pair of observation blisters. The large single wing was supported by an arrangement of struts instead of being attached to the fuselage by a faired compartment. It was easy to see the motor would go in the empty space between the wing and fuselage-with the prop spinning mere feet behind the pilot’s head.

“What about wing floats?” Matt asked. By the tone of his voice, he was reviving an old argument.

“They’ll be cranked down mechanically by the observer/mechanic in the aft cockpit.” Ben looked a little sheepish. “I know you wanted to keep it simple, Skipper, but this is a lot simpler than putting fixed floats on a lower wing. Not to mention we don’t have to make those lower wings.” He gestured at one of the incomplete skeletons. “This way she’ll be lighter, faster, more maneuverable, and honestly, we should be able to put her down on rougher seas. With that bottom wing so close to the water, I was really worried about that.”

“That’s fine, Ben. I told you, when it comes to flying you’re the boss, and your arguments do have merit. I just want to make sure the things aren’t overly complicated. Like the ships, I want a lot of good ones, not a few of the best.”

“I agree, sir. But with this design, I think we get a little of both.”

Jenks interrupted. “Flying… you mean to say that thing will. .. fly?”

“Hopefully.” Matt nodded toward a large heap of twisted wreckage piled in the space between the two buildings. It was all that remained of the crashed PBY. “That one did.”

“Not very well,” Jenks observed skeptically, “if its present condition is any indication. And that one is metal. Why not these new ones?”

“You’d be amazed how well it flew,” Matt answered wistfully, “and for how long. But our enemy managed to knock it down. Do you think you could shoot down a flying target?”

Jenks didn’t answer.

“Anyway, the metal it was made of is called aluminum. It came from our old world, and I don’t know when or if we’ll ever be able to make it here. We’re having enough trouble with iron. When we get that sorted out, we’ll try steel-besides what we’re salvaging from the enemy ship. I’m afraid the lizards are probably ahead of us there… . Anyway, once we get real steel, and plenty of it, you’ll be amazed at what we can do.”

Sandra pulled him down to whisper in his ear and Matt’s face became grim, but he nodded. He straightened and looked Jenks in the eye.

“Now we’re going to show you something else,” he said. “So far, you probably haven’t seen anything that would assure you we aren’t a threat to your empire.”

“Quite the contrary, Captain,” Jenks answered honestly. “I could even argue that what I have seen here today proves you are a threat that should be quashed before you reach your stride, as it were.” There was no hostility in Jenks’s tone, only a dispassionate statement of fact.

“Very well. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you something that, up until now, we’ve been willing to kill your spies, if necessary, to keep them from seeing. I guess you could call it an industrial achievement of sorts”-he waved around-“but not like these others. Mainly, it’s an admission of vulnerability, I guess, more than anything.” His green eyes turned cold. “Something I damn sure wouldn’t show you if I was trying to intimidate you with our power. That alone should convince you we mean you no harm.”

“Does this have to do with your mysterious iron-hulled steamer you’ve been hiding from us since we arrived?” Jenks asked quietly.

“Follow me,” was all Matt said.

The group gathered on the dock overlooking the old shipyard basin. Oily brown water coiled with tendrils of iridescent purple and blue lapped gently against the old fitting-out pier. It was quiet where they stood, although considerable activity bustled nearby. Four of the great Homes had been flooded down across the mouth of the inlet in two ranks. Work was under way to seal the gaps between them, fore and aft, so there would ultimately be a pair of continuous walls from land to land.

A single “wall” was the customary dry-dock technique Lemurians had always used to build their great ships in the first place. Inspired by that, and realizing the need for a permanent dry dock, Spanky and Perry had designed one. It was a hard sell at first, since the effort required Walker to remain on the bottom even longer. Also, even though he helped design the dry dock, Brister had made a reluctant but strong argument against taking labor and resources away from construction of the new Allied fleet. It was actually easier, he’d reasoned, to build entirely new ships than it would be to fix Walker. He’d been in favor of using the Lemurian method to refloat the ship-and then only so they could stabilize her and prevent further deterioration. Perhaps someday they could attempt repairs. In the meantime, they should concentrate all their efforts on the new construction. As for the dry dock, it would certainly be a useful convenience, but one they could postpone.

Spanky argued that a permanent dry dock was essential, not only to refloat Walker -and do it right-but because the new construction Brister referred to would be much more prone to require repairs below the waterline than other ships the Lemurians built. He vividly remembered how difficult it had been to remove one of Mahan ’s propellers and install it on Walker. With the ravenous nature of the aquatic life on this different Earth, no underwater work could be performed without elaborate preparation. Besides, once they got her up, Spanky wasn’t ready to write Walker off. No one had any illusions that repairing the badly mauled destroyer would be an easy task; it might even be impossible. But they had to try. They owed her that much.

As commander of all Allied forces, Captain Reddy had to make the decision, and he’d agonized over it, wondering if he was being entirely objective. He wanted his ship back, and everyone (particularly the Lemurians) wanted him to have her. She’d been instrumental in achieving every success they’d enjoyed, and the dilapidated old four stacker had become a powerful symbol to everyone involved in opposing the scourge of the Grik. The problem was, until they could get at her, there was no way to know if she could even be repaired, and Matt was realistic enough to know Brister was right: they had to have those new ships.

Spanky, Jim Ellis, and Sandra had been anxious too, but for a different reason. They knew they couldn’t influence his decision, but they also knew how important it was not only to the future of the man who had to make it, but to all of their futures as well. Matthew Reddy had lost… a piece of his soul… when his ship went down. Only when he knew she was safe and afloat and alive did they think he’d gain it back. And he had to gain it back. Spanky’s insistent argument that they needed a real dry dock-one way or the other-was finally sufficient to gain Matt’s support.

It was still necessary to flood down the Homes-twice as many as would have been required to simply refloat the ship-since they had to create a dry lane in which to work. It would take longer, but the wait would be worth it. The Lemurian city of Baalkpan would have a real, dedicated, honest-to-goodness dry dock, and the implications of that went far beyond simply pumping out and patching up a single battered, overage destroyer.

What Jenks saw was a lot of heavy, new-looking machinery being erected, and he recognized much of it in principle, as well as the strange variety of crude, open air, steam engines. Tarred canvas hoses were coiled in heaps and a pair of large cranes were under construction. Then his eyes rested on the unfamiliar, scarred, and dreary structures protruding from the water. He gasped.

“It has sunk!” he exclaimed. “Your iron-hulled steamer, your Walker, was sunk!”

“She was badly damaged in the battle,” Matt confirmed woodenly, “and barely managed to make it here. We’ll try to refloat her, but we’ve got no idea if it’s even possible. She might be damaged beyond repair.”

Jenks turned a sympathetic glance to Matt. He fully understood the trauma of losing a ship and wondered if that might explain a lot of Captain Reddy’s distance. Of course, he chided himself, not having known of the loss, he’d possibly been less than sensitive himself. “I didn’t know,” he managed. “Nobody knew.”

“That was our intention. You keep wondering if we’re a threat to you, but how are we to know you’re not a threat to us?” Matt shook his head. “I don’t think you could conquer us. No offense, but based on what we’ve learned from the princess and… Well, we’re pretty secure here now. We’ve stood against a more massive assault than I think you could ever mount. Our concern is, we already have an enemy and we have to strike as quickly as we can. As much as we’d like to be friends with your Empire, we can’t afford to be distracted right now. We have to go after the Grik with everything we have, and that would leave us vulnerable here. We’re not really even asking for a true military alliance, much as we’d like one. We just want you to leave us alone!”

“Releasing the princess into our care would go a long way toward assuring that,” Jenks said with a trace of sarcasm.

“Possibly, but she doesn’t want to be released, does she?” Sandra suddenly interjected with a passion that disconcerted Jenks. He’d been surprised she was even present. Different people had different customs, but he’d never met any culture that encouraged women to speak so boldly, or even allowed their presence in situations such as this. The rules were different for nobility of course, but the Americans didn’t have a nobility… Did they? Perhaps they’d been influenced by the Lemurians. Lemurian females clearly enjoyed a status here the likes of which he’d never seen. Maybe the scarcity of American women gave them more power? No, he rejected that. He knew Miss Tucker held the rank of lieutenant and was their Minister of Medicine. She clearly had real status and felt no constraints in demonstrating it. Odd.

“I think she has more reason to fear for her safety aboard your ship than she does here,” Sandra continued. “You may not have noticed, but she’s something of a heroine to the people of this city. If they ever found out something happened to her while she was in your care, there probably would be war, and there wouldn’t be anything I or Matt or anyone else could do about it-even if we wanted to.”

She sighed, and Jenks saw the pain on her face. “None of us wants or needs such a stupid, wasteful war. There would be terrible losses on both sides, and no matter who eventually ‘won,’ both of us would ultimately lose in the end,” she said with certainty. “We don’t have time to let the Grik catch their breath, and we need every warrior we have to face them-just as I think you need all your troops and ships to avert threats of your own. To your east, perhaps?”

Her last punch was a good one, judging by Jenks’s expression, even if it was just a guess. Rebecca and O’Casey had described other humans east of the empire who had been a growing threat. They hadn’t known of any recent, open confrontations, but they’d been gone a long time and Jenks had certainly been jumpy about something from the start. Their revelations had practically pinpointed the location of the heart of the Empire as well.

“Perhaps you are right,” Jenks temporized, still overcoming his surprise. “Perhaps we both have more pressing concerns than fighting one another. But even if you are right about that, surely you can see why I personally chafe at this interminable delay? Honestly, how long must my squadron languish here while it might be needed elsewhere?”

Matt pointed to a small forest of masts clustered beyond the point, where the new fitting-out pier was. These were not just more captured Grik ships under repair. They were new ships, built and fitting out along the same lines as the first human/Lemurian frigates that had performed so well in the previous battles. This construction was different however. Structurally as stout and almost identical to their predecessors, these were steam powered with a central screw propeller. Matt disliked what he considered the Imperial’s dangerously exposed paddle wheels, and now that they knew the Grik had cannons, he’d insisted they not take any chances that a single lucky hit might put a ship out of action.

“Over there is one of the main reasons I invited you here today. The main reason.” He paused. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” he asked. “In just a few weeks, we’ll mount an expedition to assess the situation in Aryaal, and possibly a few other places. Come with me. By the time we return, we’ll know whether or not we can push the Grik on our own terms, or if we’ll have to continue preparations for a more costly campaign. Either way, with that knowledge, I hope to be free to escort Her Highness home.”

Commander Walter Billingsly was writing furiously in his journal, quill scritching violently on the coarse paper and spattering little drips and blobs among the words. The writing style was a reflection of his personality: get to the point, regardless of the mess, and do it at a furious pace. Today, he was most furious to learn Commodore Jenks had been given a tour of the “apes” industrial center and he had not been officially informed, nor had he been allowed to send any “escorts” along. Jenks’s growing independent-mindedness regarding this entire fiasco was becoming increasingly tiresome. His hand stilled when he heard the sounds of the commodore being piped back aboard. Quickly, he capped the inkwell, wiped his quill on a stained handkerchief, and sanded his most recent passage. Closing the leather-bound book, he stood and straightened his overtight tunic and rounded the desk on his way to the door and the companionway beyond.

On deck, he moved to intercept the commodore as soon as the side party was dismissed.

“What is the meaning of this, Jenks?” he demanded quietly, but with an edge. One must always observe the proprieties of the fiction that the Navy actually controlled its ships.

“The meaning of what, Commander?” Jenks replied through clenched teeth. He was clearly angered by Billingsly’s tone, but also somewhat

… distracted.

Billingsly straightened, glancing about. He had a lot of men on this ship, some known, others secret, but the vast majority were loyal Navy men. The charade must be maintained.

“Might I have a word with you, sir? In private?”

Jenks seemed to focus. “I suppose,” he muttered resignedly. Raising his voice, he addressed Lieutenant Grimsley. “Lieutenant, there will be an unscheduled boat alongside shortly, I shouldn’t wonder. They’ll request our coaling and victualing requirements for an extended period. Say, two months. Have a list ready when they arrive, if you please.”

“Of course, Commodore,” Grimsley replied, eyebrows arched in surprise.

Billingsly was equally surprised, but said nothing as he followed the commodore down the companionway to his quarters. Inside, Jenks tossed his still-damp hat on his desk, undid the top buttons of his tunic, and loosened his cravat. Pouring a single small glass of amber liquid, he relaxed into his chair with a sigh. The stern gallery windows were open for ventilation, but it was still oppressively hot. Without waiting for an invitation, Billingsly took a seat in front of the desk.

“I take it the Americans and their Apes have finally agreed to return the princess to us?” he ventured. “Even so, two months would seem… uncharacteristically parsimonious. They have not stinted our supplies before, and such a quantity might not see us home.”

“Her Highness still insists on returning home with her ‘friends,’ ” Jenks announced. “I spoke with her myself just prior to returning to the ship. You will be glad to know she is well, happy, and thriving,” he added with a barb.

“But…”

For once, Jenks saw Billingsly’s perpetual scowl dissolve into an expression of complete confusion. He had to stifle a sense of amusement and satisfaction over the bloated bastard’s discomfiture. “In slightly under three weeks’ time, Achilles will accompany an Allied squadron to the place they call Aryaal and perhaps points west and north, in an attempt to discover the current dispositions of these Grik of theirs. Captain Reddy made the offer, and after consulting with the princess, I accepted. I consider it an invaluable opportunity to assess the strategic threat posed by the Grik, as well as our hosts. We will be going as observers only and will not engage in hostilities if any do, in fact, occur. If they do, at the very least I will have the opportunity of seeing the Grik for myself and I’ll learn quite a bit about the military capability of this Alliance of theirs as well.”

Billingsly’s scowl returned and deepened while Jenks spoke. “You should not… must not make a decision like that without consulting me!” he said menacingly.

“I must and I did make the decision, Commander,” Jenks replied. “The offer was phrased in a ‘take it or leave it, now or never’ fashion,” Jenks lied smoothly, “and I saw no choice but to accept.”

“Of course you had a choice!” Billingsly countered hotly. “They will never send the princess on this ‘expedition’ of theirs! With the cream of their naval force otherwise engaged, we could easily take her and be gone!”

“Past those bloody great guns in the fort?” Jenks replied, his own voice rising. “You must be mad.”

“Plans could be made. They already have been,” he hinted. “With a judicious use of force, a few diversions, and a bit of mischief here and there, we could be gone before they could possibly respond.”

Jenks paused, considering his next words carefully. He knew they could condemn him of treason in any Company court. A naval inquiry might see things differently, but who was to say how things now stood after their long absence? He had no choice. “You are forgetting their iron-hulled steamer. I have seen it now, and I tell you it could easily catch us even if we proceeded under full steam for the entire trip-which we certainly cannot do. They intend to leave it here to ensure against any such scheme as you suggest.”

Billingsly’s expression suddenly became blank, unreadable. He took a breath. “A point,” he said. Then an incomprehensible thing occurred; Billingsly smiled. The expression was so foreign to his face that it almost seemed to crack under the strain. “You make a valid point,” he continued more earnestly. “And I apologize for my earlier rashness. You have clearly scored a coup! A major intelligence-gathering opportunity! I congratulate you.”

Taken aback, Jenks stared at the man. Billingsly’s mood had changed so abruptly and uncharacteristically, Jenks couldn’t avoid a creeping suspicion. But if Billingsly somehow knew he’d lied about Walker ’s condition, he would have arrested and usurped him on the spot. Wouldn’t he? Moreover, the opportunity was just as significant as Jenks had argued, after all. Perhaps the inscrutable Company man had simply recognized that in an apparent flash of insight, just as it seemed.

“Well, then…” Jenks said. “Very well.”

“I will, of course, remain here aboard Ajax in your absence, to continue to advance our interests and ensure the Apes understand we have not forgotten our princess,” Billingsly said.

Jenks was actually relieved. He’d expected Billingsly to demand to come along and he really didn’t want him breathing down his neck. Captain Rajendra of Ajax was a good officer and would keep him in check. Still a little disconcerted by his good fortune, Jenks spoke a little hesitantly: “Of course. Um, I don’t expect you to curtail your

… surreptitious activities, but please do try harder to avoid being caught. A temporary cessation, at least, might actually be in order. Perhaps they’ll drop their guard.”

“An excellent suggestion, Commodore. Perhaps they will think, with you and Achilles away, they have less reason to fear. I will encourage that perception for a time.” Billingsly stood. “Perhaps, at long last, we will see some movement here!” he said cheerfully. “By your leave?”

“Indeed.”

Commander Billingsly created what he considered a reassuring smile and left the commodore’s quarters. In the passageway beyond, his more comfortable scowl returned. “Damn him!” he muttered to himself, a kaleidoscope of thoughts whirling in his mind. He passed a midshipman-he didn’t know his name-in the passageway.

“You there. Boy,” he snarled.

The youth forced himself to pause, an expression of controlled terror on his face. Billingsly’s proclivities were well-known-as was his power to indefinitely delay a midshipman’s appointment to lieutenant. “Sir.”

“Run along to Lieutenant Truelove, with my compliments, and ask him to join me in my quarters!”

Visibly relieved, the midshipman raced off.