The bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds, spoke: “Engineering reports ready to get underway.”

“Very well. Cast off the stern lines.” He nodded at Chief Quartermaster’s Mate Norman Kutas at the helm. “Left full rudder. Port engine ahead one-third.”

“Left full rudder, port ahead one-third, aye.”

With a juddering vibration, dirty water boiled under the port propeller guard and the cramped, rounded-vee-shaped stern eased slowly away from the pier. Matt stepped into the rain on the port bridge wing and glanced aft. Immediately, water began soaking his hair beneath his battered hat. When the stern was far enough from the pier, he called back to the helmsman: “Rudder amidships. Cast off the bowlines.” The orders were quickly relayed, and the human and Lemurian destroyermen on the fo’c’sle, already soaking wet, scampered to throw off the heavy ropes. “All astern, slow.” He moved back into the pilothouse and quickly dried his face and the back of his head with a towel while he watched the proceedings. Quite a few people lined the dock in spite of the weather, watching the amazing ship depart. Many of their hopes rested with him and the successful completion of their task.

He noticed one person in particular standing with the furry, drenched Lemurians. Her small form already partially obscured by the deluge, he saw her sandy-brown hair hanging down in sodden strands. She raised a tentative hand. We’ll be back soon, he silently mouthed, knowing she couldn’t see, and he waved back at all the spectators, but one most of all. “We’ll be back soon,” he repeated aloud.

“Sir?” asked Reynolds.

“Nothing. Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third.”

“Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Kutas replied. “Recommend course two seven five.”

“Make it so. Reynolds, get the sea and anchor detail out of the rain and pass the word for the bosun and exec to join me on the bridge. Spanky too.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Mornin’, Skipper.” He didn’t salute because technically, as soon as he stepped out of the rain, he was no longer “outdoors.”

Gray was a bear of a man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station before the war, but had since trimmed back down and muscled up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on all the activity and adventure they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d always demonstrated a clear—indeed, profound—understanding of the practical; that had perhaps been the very definition of his duty as Walker’s senior noncommissioned officer. Unlike many in the Navy who had the rank without the skill, Gray had the skill in sufficient measure to apply it beyond the insular world of Walker’s deck. As Spanky could, when it came to anything mechanical, Gray brought absolute moral authority to any discussion regarding what people were capable of, and his uncannily accurate assessments now included Lemurians as well.

“Mornin’, Boats.”

“I ran into Juan on the way up here and he said he’d be along directly,” Gray said, referring to Juan Marcos, the Filipino mess attendant who had, for all intents and purposes, become Matt’s personal steward. It was never discussed, and it certainly wasn’t official, but that was how it wound up. Juan had seen to that. “He’s bringin’ coffee,” Gray added ominously, but with an entirely innocent expression—quite an accomplishment for him. Matt grimaced. Juan wasn’t good with coffee, never had been. Somehow he couldn’t destroy the stuff that passed for coffee here as thoroughly as he had the “real” stuff, but it still wasn’t exactly good.

“Maybe . . .”

Juan appeared, beaming, as wet as they. He carried a tray loaded with cups and a silver tureen. A towel was draped over his skinny brown arm.

“Good morning, Cap-tan! You slept well again, I trust? I am so pleased! Here is your coffee!”

“Uh, thanks, Juan.” Matt took a cup and glanced at Gray. “Pour some for Chief Gray too.”

“Oh, no, Skipper, I’ve had plenty already. . . .”

Matt arched an eyebrow. “Nonsense, Boats, I insist. Since you were so diligent in letting Juan know I was ready for my coffee, it’s only right you should have some too.” He turned to Dowden. “How ’bout you, Larry? No? Well, perhaps later.”

Juan happily filled two cups, then set the tray on the edge of the chart table. “When that is gone, I will bring more.”

“Thanks, Juan. You’re too good to me.” The Filipino smiled even more broadly, bowed, and turned away.

“Little booger should’ve been in the hotel business,” Gray said, peering into his cup doubtfully after Juan disappeared. “There’d be few complaints as long as they kept him away from the coffee.”

Matt sighed. “Yeah, but ever since my ‘promotion’ to supreme allied commander he’s been treating me like MacArthur. It’s weird and kind of . . . embarrassing.” He was uncomfortable with his new title, and all the stuff that apparently went with it—in Juan’s estimation, at least. But it was his job whether he liked it or not, and the people who’d given it to him deserved his very best regardless of how he felt. He briefly wondered what Admiral Tommy Hart would say if he could see him now—let alone General MacArthur.

Gray nodded. “Kinda hard to go through everything we have without makin’ that comparison—all the runnin’ around fightin’ and such, with you right in the middle of it, and so much dependin’ on every word you say.” Matt started to chuckle. “Misery and strife shared by all, sword fights, for God’s sake! Wounds, sudden death at any moment, everything wants to eat us . . .” Matt was laughing out loud. He held up a hand for the bosun to stop, but Gray continued: “Yeah, I can see how it’d be hard not to compare you to that Army idiot who let all our air cover get hammered on the ground and never even saw a Jap. The excitement and adventure. Honors and glory! It’s everything I joined the Navy for in the first place.”

“Okay, Boats, I give up,” Matt said at last, still smiling at the older man. Gray never made any secret of his opinion regarding MacArthur’s strategies. “I guess everyone’s earned a little rest. Maybe this trip will provide one.”

“Rest, is it?” Gray growled with a matching grin. “Don’t say that, Skipper. I feel better than I have in years.” His face became thoughtful. “You know, all that time on the China Station and in the Philippines, I was just goin’ through the motions. Drinkin’ San Miguel, fightin’ in bars, gettin’ fat. I did my job, but there wasn’t any real point to it, I could see. I love the old Walker, sir; she’s my home. But no matter how hard we tried to keep her ready to fight, nothing could’ve made her ready for the Japs. She was too old and worn-out. Just like me.” He sighed. “Then the Japs ran us out of the Philippines. Beat us up and chased us out of the Java Sea, too. Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper, but none of us were much good for anything but runnin’ back then. You were right. Even if the Japs hadn’t got us, Walker would’ve spent the war towin’ targets . . . or bein’ one, and most of her crew wouldn’t have been good for much else either. After that last big fight with Amagi, when we got sucked up by the Squall, none of that mattered anymore.”

A stormy frown creased Gray’s face. “I hate the Japs for what they done to us, and I hope wherever ‘home’ is, our boys are kickin’ hell out of ’em. But we wouldn’t have been helpin’ much, even if we were alive. Back there, Walker wouldn’t have made any difference.” His frown shifted into an expression of determination. “In this world, in this fight against those damn Griks, she has made a difference, and so have all her people. With God’s help, maybe she will again.”

“God’s, and Spanky McFarlane’s,” Matt agreed quietly, referring to Walker’s engineering officer, who still hadn’t arrived. The diminutive engineer had performed miracles keeping the battered ship not only afloat, but seaworthy, and three of her four boilers were probably in better shape than they’d been in years. Their arrival in Baalkpan, and the necessities of the war they found themselves in, had sparked an industrial revolution of sorts. The Lemurians had already possessed impressive foundries for casting massive anchors and other fittings for the Homes, but the Americans had taught them to make cannon, shot, and other things they’d need. The machine shops on the two destroyers turned out parts for lathes even bigger than themselves, and soon milling machines, lathes, and other heavy tools were operating in huge “factories” near the shipyard. They were running out of certain other spare parts fast, though, mostly bearings and things that Lemurian industry wasn’t yet up to helping them produce. They’d have to figure that out pretty quick.

Gray nodded. “Yes, sir. Please don’t ever tell him I said so, but Spanky’s been a wonder. Him and everybody else.”

“What?” demanded McFarlane, suddenly joining them, dripping like the rest, and striking his distinctive pose: hands on his skinny hips.

“Nothin’,” Gray grumped, recovering himself. “I was just wonderin’ who’s gonna restow that junk your snipes scattered all over my topsides.” He was referring to the disassembled drilling rig.

“Your deck apes,” Spanky replied cheerfully. “That’s their job.”

Walker steamed past Aracca Home, one of the enormous seagoing cities of the Lemurians. She was moving toward the mouth of the bay to relieve Big Sal as a floating battery—a task all the sea folk despised, but knew was necessary. Larger than the new Essex-class aircraft carriers Matt had seen under construction, Aracca, like all her kind, was built entirely of wood. Her hull was double ended, flat bottomed, and diagonally plank laminated to a thickness of six feet in some places. Matt was impressed by the sophisticated design, and knew the ship was incredibly tough. It had to be. Despite the stresses inherent to her momentous proportions (1,009 feet long, with a beam of almost 200 feet), Aracca had been built to last for centuries upon a sea that was much more hostile in many ways than the sea Matt had known before the Squall. Not in all ways, perhaps, he reflected grimly—remembering that Homes like Aracca were not proof against ten-inch naval rifles.

Despite the rain, he saw her people going about their morning chores: preparing fish from the morning catch for drying, once the rain eased, and tending the polta fruit gardens on the main deck that ranged along the bulwark completely around the ship. The main deck was a hundred feet above the sea, and three huge pagodalike structures that served as apartments for many of her people towered above it like skyscrapers. Encompassing the structures were three massive tripods soaring another two hundred and fifty feet above the deck. They supported the great sails, or “wings” that provided Aracca’s only means of propulsion—other than the hundred giant sweep-oars her people could use for maneuvering when necessary.

Matt was always amazed whenever he looked at Aracca—or any Lemurian Homes. Not only because of their size, but also because of the industrious ingenuity they represented. ’Cats may have been a little backward in some respects when the Americans first arrived, but they certainly weren’t ignorant. He had Walker’s horn sounded in greeting, and he and the other officers went back out in the rain on the bridge wing and returned the friendly waves they received. Slowly the massive ship receded in the rain behind them.

“I’m already anxious to be back,” Matt said aloud, ruefully.

“We’re getting a late start,” conceded Dowden. He glanced apologetically at Spanky. “No offense, I know you went as fast as you could. It’s just . . .”

“I know,” Spanky growled. “By the original timetable, we should’ve been on our way home by now. But one thing led to another . . . It sure would’ve been easier with a dry dock, especially to get at the damage below the waterline. She won’t ever be ‘right’ until we can do that.”

“Agreed,” said the captain, “but that’ll have to wait. New construction has priority, and there just aren’t enough hands, or hours, or days. . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing for it. You’ve done an amazing job, Spanky. All of you have. My question is, are the boilers in shape for more speed than we planned on, and if so, do we have the fuel? How much time can we shave off our trip?”

Spanky took off his hat and scratched his head. “We’re steaming on two boilers now, numbers two and three. Our range used to be about twenty-five hundred miles at twenty knots. We can’t do that well anymore. I can’t guarantee we can even make twenty knots on two boilers. If we light off number four, it’ll take half again as much fuel to gain just those few extra knots. Now, the new fuel bunker we installed where number one used to be ought to give us a safe margin, but it might not—and until we get the new site on Tarakan up and running, there won’t be anyplace to top off.” He shrugged. “If you’re putting me on the spot, I’d say we can light number four, probably squeeze twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight knots out of her, and still get back okay, but you won’t be able to do as much poking around looking for that ‘iron fish’ as you hoped. If we burn it now, you might wish we had it later.”

Matt grimaced. “Well, let’s wait till we reach open water and see what she’ll give us. Maybe she’ll make twenty. If she won’t, though, I’m inclined to burn it now. I just can’t shake the feeling we need to get back as soon as we can.”

“But . . . we’d still get back before any reinforcements could arrive,” said Dowden. “What real difference would it make?”

“Probably none. We’ll be in radio contact, and should have plenty of warning if the Japs and the Grik get uppity. We can take it easy on the way back if we have to.”

“What’s really bothering you?” asked Gray. “Is it Amagi?”

Matt nodded. “I guess. Theoretically, we should still have months before she’s seaworthy again. They don’t have a dry dock either, and she’s got a lot of underwater damage. But she shouldn’t have been here in the first place.” He paused, considering the absurdity of his remark, but they knew what he meant. “I just hate being blind. It’s like the ‘old’ war all over again. Without the PBY, we don’t really have any idea what the enemy’s up to, or what they’re capable of.”

The rain began to slacken, and before them lay the mouth of the bay. In it loomed Big Sal, or Salissa Home.

“Signal from Big Sal,” announced the talker, relaying a message from the Lemurian lookout in the crow’s nest. All allied vessels had been fitted with some means of making a signal by flags or semaphore. “It says Keje-Fris-Ar would like to accompany us after all, if we wouldn’t mind slowing down enough to take him aboard.”

Matt chuckled with relief. He’d been hoping his Lemurian friend would change his mind and come along. “Tell him we can’t slow down, but we’ll pass as close as we can and he can jump.”

“Sir?”

The others chuckled too.

“Never mind. Tell him ‘of course’ and ‘welcome.’”

He’d been knocked unconscious and carried aboard the one Grik ship that escaped destruction when Walker first came to the People’s aid. No one knew what became of him at the time; it was assumed he was lost overboard with so many others, and devoured by the insatiable fish. Not so. Somehow he’d been captured and survived for months in first one hold, then another, and he’d seen . . . terrible things. He was quite mad when finally rescued. In the meantime, considering him dead, Selass finally realized she’d been wrong to take him to mate in the first place, and developed a real affection for Chack-Sab-At, who’d hopelessly wooed her before she made her choice. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of the young wing runner, but since then, Chack had become a noted warrior and a true leader. When she made her feelings known to him, he’d promised to give an answer after the battle for the ship. Instead, he’d returned to her with her long-lost mate. It was a crushing, emotional scene, and Sandra felt terribly sorry for Selass. Since then, Chack seemed to have fallen for the exotically beautiful B’mbaadan queen, Safir Maraan, but Selass’s feelings for him were undiminished. Added to that was the fact that her mate still lived and she could never leave him in his current state. It was a terrible hardship for Selass to bear: unrequited love for someone increasingly beyond her grasp, mixed with terrible guilt that she had those feelings while her legitimate mate still lived.

Even so, it might not have been so tragic, but Saak-Fas wouldn’t even speak to her, no matter how hard she tried to elicit some response. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. He was recovered, physically, from his ordeal, and almost feverish daily exercise had left him in better shape than he’d ever been. Sandra doubted he knew about his mate’s inner turmoil, so that probably wasn’t the reason for his behavior. When his old friends from Big Sal visited, he said nothing at all, and showed no interest in life aboard his old home. He cared nothing about reports of the war, and wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of others who’d been through the same ordeal as he. Worst of all, no matter what she said or did, when Selass spent time with him each day, he acted as though she weren’t even there. The torment Selass felt was a palpable thing, and it wrenched Sandra to her core.

Sandra nodded and smiled at Pam Cross, who led a small procession of medical recruits through the fabric opening, showing them around. She knew Pam had issues of her own. It wasn’t much of a secret anymore that she and Dennis Silva had a “thing,” and she couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. It was even less a secret that Silva and Chack’s sister, Risa, had a “thing” of some sort going on as well, and as much as Sandra hoped it was a joke, with Silva there was no way of knowing. She shuddered and hoped Pam knew. She had to, didn’t she? Pam’s “thing” with Silva was proof, wasn’t it? She shook her head and went to stand beside Selass, where the Lemurian female was watching Saak-Fas do an unending series of push-ups.

“Good morning, Selass,” she said softly, the sorrow of the scene wrenching her anew.

For a moment Selass said nothing, but just sat cross-legged, watching the almost mechanical laboring of her mate. Finally, she sighed. “Good morning.” Her face, as usual, betrayed no emotion, but her tone was ironic, desolate. “Have they left?” she asked, referring to Walker, and more specifically Chack and Matt. Chack was accompanying the mission as commander of a company of the First Marines. She was also well aware of Sandra’s affection for Captain Reddy.

“Yes.”

For a while, both were silent. The only sounds were Saak-Fas’s heavy breathing, the rain on the dense canvas overhead, and the tormented moans of others in the segregated sections of the ward.

“He spoke,” Selass said at last.

Sandra rushed to her side. “That’s wonderful!” Perhaps some of Selass’s misery might be relieved. “What did he say?”

“He did not speak to me.” The ironic tone remained, but Selass’s voice broke with emotion, and tears welled in her large, amber eyes. “He merely made an announcement, as if it mattered little to him whether anyone heard. As if I were . . . anybody.”

For a breath, Sandra was speechless, appalled by Saak-Fas’s apparent cruelty. “Well . . . what did he say?” she managed at last.

“He is leaving the ward. He is entirely well and strong, and ready to resume his missions.”

“Missions?” Sandra was taken aback.

“Yes. While he was . . . in captivity . . . he swore an oath much like Adar’s: if somehow he was spared, he would never rest until he destroyed as many Grik as he possibly could. No consideration would be allowed to compete with that goal: no distraction, no emotion, no thought. Not even me. No other obligation binds him now, not even to his Home. He has decided the best way to accomplish his missions is to join your Navy.” She looked at Sandra. “To join Mahan’s crew.”

“What if we don’t release him? He’s still clearly unwell. His mental state—”

Selass interrupted her. “Release him?” She gestured at their surroundings. “How could we prevent him from leaving? We cannot guard him; nor should we. We have too few to do too much already. Besides, I think it would be wrong. He knows what he is doing and why. It . . . hurts, but I believe I know why too.”

Sandra stubbornly set her jaw. “Well, whatever his intentions are, I believe Lieutenant Ellis would have the final say. Saak-Fas might sneak out of here, but he certainly can’t sneak aboard Mahan and remain there if I don’t want him to. I’ll have a word with Jim. . . .”

Selass rose and faced her. Behind her, Saak-Fas continued his workout, heedless of their words. “Do not,” she pleaded. “He must go. I have lost him already to his oath and what the Grik did to him. He exists only for revenge, and if I ever cared for him at all, I cannot stand in his way. He will perform his missions. At least this way it might be of some help, have some meaning.”

Sandra slowly nodded, and tears stung her own eyes. “Very well. But you keep saying ‘missions,’ plural. What other mission does he have, and why Mahan?”

Selass sighed and averted her gaze. “He wants Mahan because, in the fight to come, he believes she will give him his best opportunity to fulfill all his goals: to kill many of our enemies . . . and to die.”

Spanky McFarlane stifled a shudder at the sight. He hated flashies passionately, and wondered if the things were somehow smart enough to school together just to draw the fliers down. He wouldn’t put it past them. They always seemed to figure out ways around every defense they’d used to put men in the water to perform repairs. They hadn’t lost anyone during those efforts, luckily, but there’d been plenty of injuries, mostly caused by blows delivered by the flashies’ bony heads. God, how he wanted a dry dock!

Reaching in his pocket, he removed a pouch and took a handful of yellowish brown leaves. Stuffing them in his mouth, he began to chew. For the first few minutes he grimaced at the initial foul taste, but once he got past the nasty, waxy coating on the leaves, a flavor like actual tobacco began to emerge. They’d decided the stuff really was tobacco, of a sort, and that had caused jubilation among the crew. It was clearly laced with enough nicotine to satisfy anyone, and was now almost universally used, even by some of the ’Cats, who’d never habitually imbibed. The only bad thing was, no matter what they tried, it simply couldn’t be smoked. It probably had something to do with the coating, but whatever the cause, experimenters always became violently ill when they tried to light up. Maybe they’d solve the problem, maybe not, but chewing it was better than nothing.

Spanky stood between the vegetable locker and the empty number two torpedo mount on the port side of the number three funnel, listening to the sounds of the ship. Occasionally he took a few steps and listened some more. It was a habit he’d formed in his early days aboard Walker, and it had stuck: trying to discover problems or impending problems by simple sound and feel. It was harder now, because after all the damage, repairs, and jury rigs, nothing sounded “right” anymore, but he was constantly trying to learn which new sounds were okay and which weren’t. He’d already stood over the number two boiler, and was working his way aft. After he “listened” to the engines from topside, he’d go below and do the same thing, working his way forward. He figured if anything was really wrong, he’d detect it topside first.

He saw Silva on top of the amidships deckhouse gun platform, drilling a mixed human/Lemurian crew on the number three four-inch-50 gun. The long barrel was trained out to sea, and its crew was going through the motions of loading it. Terrifying as they’d be to the trainees, Spanky thought Silva’s bellowed epithets were just as inventive and amusing as usual. In fact, any casual observer wouldn’t have noticed any change at all in the new (acting) chief gunner’s mate—his recent run-in with the captain over the now epic “Super Lizard Safari” being ample proof he was the same old Silva.

Spanky knew better. He also knew that the public dressing-down Dennis got over the incident was a sham for the crew. The captain was just as glad as anyone that the monster that got Tony was dead, and the killing had been good for overall morale. Spanky also suspected the captain knew Silva—and Stites—had done it for that exact reason as much as any other, and not just as the usual stupid stunt it would once have been written off as. The proof was that, for once, Silva hadn’t been reduced in grade for his “stunt.” His only punishment at all, in fact, had been restriction to the ship for the duration of their mission. (Like he would really want to go anywhere.) Besides, the last thing they needed, even changed as he was, was Silva on the loose in Manila during diplomatic negotiations.

Apparently, the only thing Captain Reddy was really mad about was that they’d risked Courtney Bradford. Of course, there’d been an element of relief associated with that as well. Bradford had been driving them all nuts with his constant demands to study stuff. Now he had a fresh (albeit shot to pieces) super lizard skull to gawk at and display, and an entertaining, ever-expanding story of heroism and adventure to go along with it. Maybe now there’d be a short respite.

After “feeling” the aft engine room, Spanky moved to the rail and spit a long, yellowish stream in their wake. After a final, wistful survey of the beautiful day he probably wouldn’t see again, he dropped down the companionway into the engineering spaces below. The noise of the giant turbines quickly grew louder as he descended, and he was immediately faced with a shouted altercation between the new (acting) chief machinist’s mate, Dean Laney, and one of the ’Cat Marines.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he bellowed. Despite his diminutive frame and years of smoking, there was nothing wrong with his lungs. Laney, a slightly shorter, less depraved, but also less bold and imaginative “snipe” version of Silva, glared down at him through beaded sweat and bulging eyes. The Lemurian Marine came to attention and merely stood, staring straight ahead. He was short, like most ’Cats, but heavily muscled. Around his waist was the dark blue kilt that had evolved as the unofficial Marine uniform. Three thin red stripes around the hem made him a sergeant, and to gain that rank he had to be a veteran of savage fighting. That was the only kind of fighting there was in this terrible war. His apelike feet were shod with thick leather soles held on by crisscrossing straps wound up to his knees. In battle he’d wear bronze greaves, breastplate, and helmet, and carry a short stabbing sword, bow, and spear.

“This goddamn monkey wants some of my guys to go topside and help sort out their mess, like we ain’t got enough to do down here!” Laney complained. He watched Spanky’s brows knit together as he furiously chewed his quid. “Sir,” he appended.

“I told you last night we’d have to help,” Spanky growled. “Our guys left pieces of the rig scattered around the deck like tinker toys. Half the deck-apes aren’t even Navy; they’re Chack’s Marines.”

Technically, the Marines weren’t Chack’s; they were from the First Marine Regiment—some of whom were armed with the fortunate windfall of Krag rifles. They’d become as deadly with the things as their limited practice would allow, but most had seen little action in the war so far. Aboard ship, however, Chack had returned to his old duties as bosun’s mate to the ’Cats, using the Marines as crew.

“But there’s only so much even he can do,” Spanky continued. “Hell, most of his Marines are Baalkpans—land folk. Can’t even tie a knot. Even the ones from Homes might as well have spent their lives on battlewagons or flattops. They aren’t used to the way the old gal rolls and pitches and they’re pukin’ their guts out.” His tone softened slightly, and a trace of amusement crept into it. “I know you’re just guarding your turf, and Chief Donaghey left mighty big shoes to fill in that regard, but you have to bend a little.”

Laney looked unconvinced. “All right, Spanky. I hear you. But we’re covered in shit down here. After all the repairs, this is like her sea trials all over again. Everything needs adjusting, and the feed-water pump on number three don’t sound right. Gauges are all over the place, and we’re makin’ smoke!”

McFarlane nodded. “All but number two. When the new firemen are off duty, have them go watch the Mice for a while. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

Laney rolled his eyes. “Those kooks? Besides, they’re some of the ones this monkey Marine wants. Says they built the rig in the first place, so they know what needs to go ashore first, and how it ought to be stowed.”

Spanky’s tone sharpened once again. “Yeah, they built the rig. They found the oil we’re burning too, if you’ll recall. And they’re also kooks. But they’re my kooks—and yours now, too—aside from being the best boilermen in the firerooms, so you’d better figure out how to handle them. We need those squirrelly little guys. Use them. They can’t teach with words worth a damn, but the new guys, the ’Cats, can learn by example. Make ’em watch them.” He turned to the Marine. “You can run along now. I’ll send them up myself.”

When the ’Cat was gone, Spanky turned back to Laney. “Listen,” he said, “you’re doing a good job, but you need to get along better with the apes—I don’t care if they’re human or ’Cats. The bosun’s already casually referred to you as an asshole in my presence, and I’d take that as a powerful hint if I were you. You don’t want him on your bad side.” Laney gulped. There was no question about that. “The upper and lower deck rivalry exists for a purpose,” Spanky continued. “It spurs productivity and even camaraderie in a way. Besides, it’s fun. But don’t take it too seriously or let it go too far. Never lose sight of the fact we’re all on the same side.” He paused. “And don’t call ’em monkey Marines anymore. They don’t like it, and neither do I. It’ll just make you look bad in the eyes of the ’Cats in our own division. Don’t forget some of them—the best ones—were Marines before they were snipes. Clear?”

“Clear,” Laney grumbled.

“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”

“Half a dozen or so.”

Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”

With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. The firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.

Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater—and far more nauseating—than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats loved machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples—like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.

He listened for a moment, as they expected him to, and occasionally touched a gauge or felt a pipe. It was only his normal routine, but it always left them wondering what mystical significance the act represented. He stifled a grin and nodded friendly greetings before sending a couple of the least occupied above. Passing through the next air lock, he entered the forward fireroom.

“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, when, looking up, he was immediately greeted by a pair of large, naked, and entirely human-looking breasts (if you could get past the fine, soot gray fur covering them). “How many times do I have to tell you to wear some goddamn clothes? At least a shirt!”

“It too hot!” Tab-At (hence, Tabby to the other Mice) declared. Somehow, her slightly pidgin English also contained a hint of a drawl she’d picked up from the other “original” Mice.

“It’s no hotter than usual. You just do that to aggravate me,” Spanky complained, knowing it was true. When Tabby first came to the firerooms he’d thrown an absolute fit. To have females of any kind in his engineering spaces went against everything he stood for, from ancient tradition to his personal sense of propriety. He’d even tried to force the issue once by decreeing everyone under his command would perform their duties in full uniform, something never before required. It was a blatant attempt to get her to strike for a different, more comfortable division. All the Lemurian deck-apes, male or female, were required to wear only their kilts, after all. Tabby’s allies rose to the challenge, even so far as providing her with trousers—with a hole cut in the seat for her tail—and he realized he was being mocked.

He finally relented for several reasons: First, he recognized that his stance was ridiculous, and even the captain had decreed—surely reluctantly—that full equality of the sexes would be enforced aboard the ship. It was the Lemurian way, and with at least half the crew filled out with ’Cats, they certainly couldn’t antagonize their allies. Second, all the snipes suffered under the order, human as well as Lemurian. It was too hot for them to work efficiently under such regulations. Third, and perhaps most astonishing to him, Tabby made a damn good “fireman.” She was small and agile enough to perform many tasks that were difficult for others; she could scamper through the bilges like, well, an ape. She was probably the best burner batter aboard, and she’d proven herself absolutely fearless. Sometimes she had a little trouble with rough weather—many ’Cats did—but otherwise she was perfectly competent. Finally, she was probably the only ’Cat in his division that fully understood what she was doing and didn’t consider him some sort of mechanical mage. That came from her association with the irascible Mice, surely, but even though she’d virtually become one of them, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. She’d gotten his goat, and he respected that. She was supposed to be wearing a T-shirt, however.

He looked around the gloomy compartment, spotting a dingy shirt draped nearby, and knew she must have taken it off deliberately, just now, simply to “get his goat” again. The fur where it should have been was far too clean.

“Shirt. Now.”

Grinning, she retrieved the shirt and languorously pulled it over her head.

He rolled his eyes. Spotting the other Mice, Gilbert Yager and Isak Rueben, beyond her, he growled exasperatedly. “Why do you let her do that?” he demanded. “Next time I’m putting her on report, swear to God!”

Frowning grimly, the two men looked at each other. “Do what?”

No single word or phrase was adequate to describe the Mice. “Strange” came closest, but was still almost too specific. By their appearance, Isak and Gilbert might have been brothers. Both were intense, wiry little men with narrow faces and sharp, pointed noses that contributed much to the rodentlike impression they made. They were unfriendly and annoying to just about everyone they came in contact with. They never socialized, and back when there’d been one, they shunned the ship’s baseball team. They were quintessential “snipes”—firemen, to be precise—but they took it further than that. Given a choice, they’d never leave the sweltering heat of their beloved firerooms and the boilers they worshiped there. They were painfully insular and just as apparently unimaginative, but Spanky had learned there was more to them than met the eye. Normally their skins were pasty with a belowdecks pallor they worked hard to maintain, but now their exposed skin still bore the angry red-brown tans they’d accumulated while operating the first oil rig outside of Baalkpan. A rig they designed based on a type they were intimately, if ruefully, familiar with, from their years in the oil fields before escaping that hated life and joining the Navy.

They treated Tab-At like a puppy, and she followed them around like one. Since Spanky knew she certainly wasn’t, he suspected her association with them was, at least initially, an attempt to learn as much from them as she could. She’d worked with them on the previous rig and considered them enigmatic fonts of wisdom. When they spoke, if nobody understood what they were trying to say, it was because they were too stupid to understand the words. It never occurred to her that much of their irascibility was due to compensation for a profound shyness, and they spoke only monosyllabic words whenever they would serve. Presumably, she knew them better now, but instead of moving on with the knowledge she’d gleaned, she acted more and more like her mentors—except for the shyness. She obviously liked them, although he couldn’t imagine why. Their reaction to his obvious question didn’t seem feigned, and he couldn’t decide whether it was ignorance on their part, or a mental effort to block her full, rounded breasts from their consciousness.

Gilbert peered at him through slitted lids and proceeded to perform another feat he and Isak were very good at: mentally tripping Spanky up with their disjointed stream-of-consciousness thought processes. “We’re goin’ to set up the spudder someplace else, ain’t we?”

“Well . . . of course. That’s part of the reason for this trip.”

Gilbert looked at Isak significantly. “We know that, but you’ve come here to tell us we’re gonna hafta do it!” he accused. “Leave our boilers and toil away onshore, just like last time!”

“Ain’t fair!” Isak proclaimed. He held out his tanned, skinny arm like a bloody rag. “Just look at that, what the damn sun did to me! We joined the Navy to burn oil . . . not to keep diggin’ it up!”

Spanky glanced at his battered wristwatch, an item he’d always taken for granted, but which was now precious beyond words. A few Lemurian artisans had experimented with large clocks, achieving mixed results. Right now everyone’s priorities were elsewhere, and the best potential clock makers were consumed by the necessity of creating the more complicated armaments. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for the meeting in the wardroom.

“Life isn’t fair,” he said, “but you do your best. My curse is, I have to put up with you. But right now you’re the best oil men we’ve got, and if that means you keep working on your tans, that’s what you’ll do. For what it’s worth, though, that’s not what I came to tell you. Right now I want one of you to run topside and show those apes what parts of the rig have to come off first. They want to restow the stuff. There’s not much point; we’ll be there tomorrow, but just make sure they don’t screw anything up. As to the other . . .” He scowled, contemplating. “I’d just as soon you didn’t go either. We’ve got too many green firemen down here, and I need someone to show them what to do. Maybe I can get the captain to let me keep one of you, at least.”

He expected an argument over that, something like, “Where one goes, we all go,” but there was only silence and calculating expressions.

“Jeez. Well, carry on.” With that he strode forward, past the other firemen in the compartment. He chose one more to accompany one of the Mice above and then paused at the huge copper fuel tank taking up most of the space once occupied by the number one boiler. He felt the cool metal and was relieved, as always, that the hellish temperatures didn’t seem inclined to heat the fuel inside. All the sloshing around probably helped dissipate the warming effect. He didn’t like the idea of all that fuel right here in the fireroom; if they ever had an accident . . . but there was nowhere else to put it, and it was his idea, after all. Oh, well. He patted the tank and went through the forward air lock.

“I swear, Tabby, how come ye’re always waggin’ yer boobs at the chief?” asked Gilbert after Spanky was gone. “You know it drives him nuts. Just havin’ wimmin aboard at all is enough to cause him fits—and then you do that!”

“Yeah,” agreed Isak, “ain’t ever’body in the Navy as sensitive as us two.”

“He needs to laugh,” Tabby replied, “and he will, later.”

Juan had worked wonders to lay in the supplies and logistical support necessary to provide the simple, “normal” breakfast. Standard Lemurian morning fare was dry bread, fruit, and fish. It had been standard, at least, until Juan Marcos stepped up. Many Navy ’Cats had developed a liking for the powdered eggs and ketchup the American destroyermen ate, but that was long gone now. The refrigerator was stocked with fresh eggs, though, and that would serve until they ran out. Alan Letts was working on several projects to desiccate food—eventually, for longer trips, they’d have to come up with something—but for now they’d laid in a supply of dried fish and fruit for when the fresh stuff ran out. Strangely, they did still have plenty of one type of food they’d stocked so long ago when Walker escaped Surabaya: crates of Vienna sausages. The cook, Earl Lanier, still tried to infiltrate the slimy little things into meals on occasion, carefully camouflaged, but the men hated the “scum weenies” with a passion, and always ferreted them out. Even the ’Cats had finally grown to dislike them. Regardless, the fat, irascible cook refused to get rid of them, calling them “survival rations.”

After cordial greetings, the officers in the wardroom ate in silence, for the most part. It was the Lemurian way not to discuss matters of importance during a meal, and Matt thought the custom made sense. Instead of talking, he enjoyed his food and looked around the table at his companions. Seated to his left like some reddish brown, cat-faced bear was Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home—Big Sal, as the Americans called her. Matt was glad his friend Keje felt free to make the trip. Like the other Homes in the alliance, Keje’s would take its turn guarding the mouth of the bay, but under the command of his cousin, Jarrik-Fas, she didn’t really need him for that. Also, he’d finally decided to allow some of the “alterations” Letts and Lieutenant Brister had been harping on, so Big Sal would spend much of his absence at the fitting-out pier. Initially reluctant, Keje was now prepared to allow any modifications whatsoever to his Home that would make her more formidable. He’d cast his lot, and that of his people, entirely for the cause of destroying the Grik forever. Matt was grateful not just for the sake of the alliance, but for his own. He’d grown extremely fond of the gruff, wise Lemurian, and had come to rely heavily on Keje’s judgment and support.

Keje’s sky priest, Adar, sat in the next seat. He was the only sky priest Matt knew well, and he’d been Keje’s childhood friend. With Naga’s decline, he had, for all intents and purposes, become High Sky Priest of all the allied powers, so his presence on the expedition, while chancy, should help immensely with negotiations. In theory, even among the Maa-ni-los, every high chief of every Home, whether land-based or seagoing, was a head of state in his own right, and all enjoyed equal status according to custom. But Sky Priests were a little different. As High Sky Priest of the entire alliance, there was no question but that Adar was a little more “equal” than the others. He hadn’t planned it that way, but that was the way it was, was the way it had to be. His position was fragile, but potentially very powerful. Right now that power was founded on trust. A well-founded trust, in Matt’s opinion. It was Adar who’d have to convince the Maa-ni-los it was in their best interest to openly join the alliance, and if anyone could do that with heartfelt arguments, it was Adar. Time would tell.

If there was a potential weak link in the command staff chain represented on his ship, there was only one. Everyone at the breakfast table had been tested in a variety of ways and hadn’t been found wanting, but seated to Matt’s right, beyond Lieutenant Dowden, was Lieutenant (Brevet Major) Tamatsu Shinya: a fellow destroyerman, but one who’d served the Japanese Imperial Navy. The compact, dark-haired man had once been an anonymous enemy on a half-glimpsed ship in an impossibly far-off war. Unbelievable as it sometimes seemed even now—he was a Jap, for crying out loud!—Shinya had become a trusted and valuable friend. He’d found his calling as a commander of infantry, and had served with distinction in every battle since the Squall brought them together. He was highly regarded by his ’Cat infantry, and even the old Asiatic Fleet destroyermen had grown to grudgingly accept and respect him. Matt doubted he’d need his services on this trip, and he’d probably have been more use back “home” helping prepare defenses, but it was clear he had issues that needed sorting out. Perhaps the trip might help.

To Shinya’s right was the captain of the Second Marines and also one of Walker’s bosun’s mates when he was aboard: Chack-Sab-At. Of all the Lemurians Matt had come to know, Chack was possibly the most remarkable. He’d come aboard Walker right after she first met the ’Cats as a kind of full-immersion exchange student. He’d been a willing, happy addition to the crew, and as time went by Matt came to realize just how skilled an ambassador he’d been. He came among the Americans at a time when they’d just lost a lot of friends and were only beginning to grasp the fact that something terrible and extraordinary had happened to them. They were afraid, and a little shocky, and even with their relatively sophisticated weapons, they’d been vulnerable. They hadn’t been vulnerable to the People of Big Sal—or the thousands of Grik they helped defend her from—but they were quite vulnerable to their fears. They were on a hair trigger, and none of the People wanted it to go off pointed at them. Matt now knew Keje chose Chack to send over partly because he had just, somewhat unexpectedly, proven himself a warrior of unusual skill, and Keje believed it took a warrior to evaluate warriors. But the main reason was that no other of his people combined the skill of a warrior—newfound as it was—with anything close to Chack’s simple, inherent friendliness. He’d been the perfect choice.

Once aboard, Chack had been his normal, inquisitive, gregarious self, and if not all of Walker’s crew was smart enough to realize he was at least as smart as they were, nobody considered him any more dangerous or offensive than a pet monkey. The fact that the Americans had already formed something of a protective attachment toward his people, combined with Chack’s engaging ministry and a mutual desire for allies in the face of the Grik threat, had resulted in what was probably the most seamless amalgamation of purpose two races had ever experienced. Let alone two entirely different species. Matt wasn’t sure anyone else could have done it. Walker’s Asiatic Fleet sailors had been worldly, but also extremely insular. Much like Chack’s sea folk or “People of the Homes,” they’d seen much of the world as they knew it, but wherever they went, their “home” was still USS Walker. Even when they were in foreign ports, they went ashore with people they knew, to visit familiar haunts, and do familiar things—often with familiar results. (Chief among these were hangovers and “social” afflictions.)

Walker, and a fair percentage of her people, had been on the China Station so long that any change in the ordinary routine of life was potentially traumatic. The word that reached them in the wee hours of the Philippine morning of December 8, 1941, had been catastrophic. An endless procession of brutal changes proceeded to destroy the world as they knew it, when they were forced to evacuate the Philippines and participate in chaotic, ill-conceived battles against overwhelming forces. The pitiful remains of the outdated Asiatic Fleet withered under the Japanese onslaught like a candle under a blowtorch. Then, during the mad dash to escape the relentless enemy, the greatest change of all occurred: the Squall that swept them . . . here.

Chack had been a calming influence during the difficult time following their arrival, and everyone now knew he had far greater depths than he’d first displayed. Probably deeper than he’d known himself. Events since then had changed the young Lemurian, matured him beyond his years. He wasn’t as gregarious as before, was less engaging and carefree than the Chack they’d first come to know. After all the battles and suffering they’d endured together since that first strange day, it was no wonder. Like all of them, he’d lingered in the hellish heat of the cauldron of battle a little longer than might have been wise, and emerged as something different. Harder, maybe. Similar, but not quite the same. Matt recognized the shift, just as he’d once seen it in himself. At the moment, however, any change was hard to see. Chack was grinning and blinking amusement at something Courtney Bradford had said.

Matt took a bite of the ersatz bacon and contemplated the strange Australian for a moment. Just as he’d been genuinely angry at Silva for taking the self-proclaimed “naturalist” super-lizard hunting, he’d actually hesitated to bring Bradford on the mission because he was just too damned valuable to risk. Bradford would have none of it. He’d “suffered in silence” long enough, he claimed. How could Captain Reddy, if he possessed a conscience at all, continue to persecute him by refusing him yet another opportunity for discovery? He’d finally threatened to “feed himself to death” if left behind, and ultimately Matt relented. Not because he thought Bradford was actually willing (or able) to carry out his threat, but he knew Bradford would be an asset to the trip. Not only was he a fair diplomat, but he spoke fluent Latin—the liturgical language of the Sky Priests in which their Sacred Scrolls were transcribed. Also, Matt had to admit he liked having someone around to bounce ideas off of who didn’t look at everything almost solely from a military perspective. Sandra was the only other person who fit that description, and he couldn’t have allowed her to come along. For lots of reasons.

He nodded at Spanky, coming in late and sitting down with a plate of food. The engineer was already sweaty and stained, and his slight tardiness wasn’t even worth mentioning. There was bound to be a good reason. He missed the other officers who would normally have joined them, but those still alive had remained in Baalkpan to continue defensive preparations. That left space for a few new faces. Acting Lieutenant and Gunnery Officer Charles “Sonny” Campeti was there for the first time, replacing Lieutenants Greg Garrett and Pruit Barry, who’d have command of the first new construction frigates. Campeti looked a little nervous. He’d always dined with the other chiefs in their own, smaller version of the wardroom. He’d get used to it, Matt predicted. Chief Gray had.

The Bosun was the only noncommissioned officer to join them, but ever since the Squall, his presence had been fairly routine. Besides, he wasn’t really just the chief bosun’s mate anymore. He was something else, ill-defined, but damned important. Of necessity, promotions had rained down on many of the crew, but to what did you promote the Bosun? Only the most senior officers would dare give him an order, even though the most junior ’Cat ensign technically outranked him. “Promoting” him to ensign, or even lieutenant, would be almost like a demotion, practically speaking. So the Bosun remained the Bosun, but his real status was something akin to Spanky’s or Dowden’s: one of the captain’s right-hand men.

As each officer finished his meal, Juan or Mertz swept the dishes away and refilled the coffee cups that remained. The ’Cats couldn’t stand the stuff, but their cups were filled with more water or polta juice. There was still a little tea left, something Lemurians had become fiends for, but it was now reserved for special occasions. After Spanky wolfed down his meal (it was a very late breakfast for him, after all), Matt gently tapped his cup with his spoon to get everyone’s attention.

“First,” he said, “I have some good news. The morning radio check was successful, and High Chief Nakja-Mur reports the christening of our first new construction frigate. Gentlemen, I give you USS Donaghey!” Palms slapped the table all around in satisfaction. Chief Donaghey had been a true hero, sacrificing his life to save his ship. “I’ve also been informed, although they haven’t been launched yet, that the next two frigates will be named after Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar.” The acclaim was even greater than before. Rick and Kas had commanded Revenge and had died defending her against overwhelming odds. Ultimately they’d destroyed their ship and all aboard to keep her (and her guns) from falling into enemy hands. Clearly the names were popular choices.

“It’s a shame we missed Donaghey’s christening, but we should be back in time for the others. I understand Donaghey will sail within days, in an attempt to rescue more of Queen Maraan’s people from B’mbaado.” He glanced at Chack for some reaction, but there was none. Everyone knew he and the B’mbaadan queen were besotted with each other. They also knew that, regardless of risk, she’d accompany the expedition.

“Next, as you know, we should reach Tarakan Island tomorrow morning. The supply ship set out more than a week ago, so she should be waiting for us now. We have much to do there, obviously, but I don’t want to linger longer than necessary. We’re constrained by time and fuel, so hopefully we can off-load all the equipment and personnel in a single day and be on our way. We still have a long trip ahead of us.” The others murmured agreement, and he turned his attention to Shinya. “Chief Gray will be in overall command of the operation. He’ll have to coordinate the off-load with Spanky, but once we’re gone, he’ll be in charge. That being said, have you decided who will command the security force?”

Shinya was silent for a moment, looking at the Bosun. He knew Matt was giving him an out. Of all the crew, Gray had probably maintained his hatred of “Japs” more fiercely than anyone else. In that one respect he seemed almost irrational. Shinya didn’t even think it was personal; the man had, after all, once saved his life. But Gray couldn’t get over the fact that when they went through the Squall, three months after Pearl Harbor, his son was still listed as missing. The younger Gray had been aboard the USS Oklahoma, one of the battleships sunk in the attack. She’d capsized and settled, upside down, to the muddy bottom of the harbor, trapping countless souls aboard. Many had never even known who was attacking them. Even though Shinya hadn’t been there, he knew Gray could never forgive him—for being a Jap.

“I will command the security force,” he said at last, “if Mr. Gray has no objections.” The Bosun only grunted. “Chack will command the Marines remaining aboard the ship.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully, noting the tension between the two. It would probably actually be better to leave them both there, he decided, and let them sort things out. He didn’t think either would let their animosities interfere with their duties. Besides, if things got out of hand, they were still close enough to Baalkpan for the Bosun to send Shinya home on a supply ship.

“Very well. Fifty Marines will land from the supply ship, and we’ll leave twenty of ours behind. That should be more than sufficient to deal with any local menace. I’d highly recommend beginning defensive fortifications, however. Seventy Marines and about a hundred workers from the Sixth Baalkpan might seem a formidable force, but if only one Grik ship should come as far as Tarakan, you’ll be outnumbered two to one—and we know the Grik usually operate in threes.”

“Of course, Captain Reddy. Defenses will be my first priority.”

“Mine too,” the Bosun growled.

“Of course. Now, Mr. Bradford, I assume it will be no inconvenience for you to accompany the landing force? Bear in mind your primary duty will be to pinpoint an appropriate place to sink the first well and establish our refinery. Fascinating as I’m sure you’ll find them, don’t be distracted by every new bug and beetle you come across. I promise you’ll have plenty of opportunities to play tourist later on. Just find them a place to drill; then get back aboard.”

“I suppose I can delay my explorations for the sake of the war effort,” replied Bradford with a rueful grin, “but really, I must protest. Plotting the best spot to drill should not be difficult at all. Tarakan was a veritable island oil well before the war. The Jappos snapped it up right quick, let me tell you!” He glanced at Shinya. “No offense personally, I’m sure! Anyway, the place looked like one great refinery sprouting from the very sea. You could poke a hole in it just about anywhere and find oil, I expect. It’s disgraceful how little time you’ve included in your schedule for scientific discovery.”

“Discover a magic twig that, when waved about, will erase the Grik from the world and I shall devote myself to carrying you to unknown shores for the rest of your life,” Keje barked, and everyone, even Gray, laughed at that.

“Details, then,” said Matt, smiling, and the discussion began in earnest.