The ship was Garrett’s first command, and he loved her for that, but he also loved her classic lines and intrinsic beauty. He was highly conscious of the singular honor of being named her first commander. Those given the “prize ships” could never quite get over who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners, and the acts performed aboard them, tainted them forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed. They’d been found adrift, mostly, damaged by Walker’s guns during her escape from Aryaal and the battle that cost them Nerracca. Boarding parties faced ferocious, if uncoordinated defenders, but some of the Grik “survivors” went into an apparently mindless panic Bradford called “Grik Rout,” and simply leaped over the side. No one would ever know for certain how many defenders there’d actually been. Hundreds were slain in the brutal fighting aboard the several ships, but more met their fate in the sea, and the water around the ships had churned as the voracious “flashies” fed. Allied losses had been high, particularly when they fought to rescue any Lemurian “livestock” they found chained in the enemy holds. Just as when they first captured Revenge, the sights they saw in those dark, dank abattoirs prevented the ship’s new owners from ever being able to love them.

No such stigma clung to USS Donaghey, and her people loved her unreservedly. She was larger than the prizes, with a more modern and extreme hull configuration that, combined with her more efficient sail plan, made her considerably faster than the enemy ships. She was a true frigate too, being armed with twenty-eight precious, gleaming guns.

Unfortunately, she was one of only three such ships likely ever to be built. She was considered a transition, a stopgap. Future variants would combine steam and sails and therefore sacrifice some of their purity and grace. But this was war, and one took every advantage one could when the consequence of defeat was extinction.

They’d bloodied the enemy at Aryaal and in the following actions, but if the charts they captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings were to be believed, the Grik could quickly replace their losses. They apparently bred like rabbits, and according to Bradford’s theories, their young reached mature lethality in about five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival—not to mention victory—they needed innovation. That was why there were so few humans in Garrett’s crew. Combined, the surviving destroyermen from Walker and Mahan numbered just a little over a hundred and twenty. Forty were still aboard Walker, and twenty or so were on Mahan. The rest were involved in various projects and training regimens they’d need to build the army and navy they needed to survive. The skills and experience of every last destroyerman had become not only essential, but irreplaceable. Garrett found it ironic at times that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who’d wound up in this place—men once considered by some to be the dregs of the Navy—were now an indispensable, priceless resource. They were the core, the innovators, the trainers of the native force needed to see them through, and there were not nearly enough hands and minds for all the work.

Certainly great work had already been accomplished. They’d transformed the nomadic, insular, and, in some cases, fiercely isolationist Lemurians into seasoned, professional soldiers and sailors. But their ranks had been horribly thinned as well. Recruitment was constant, and hopefully Captain Reddy’s diplomatic mission to the land that had been the Philippines would bear fruit. In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had, and there just weren’t enough of them. Part of Greg’s current assignment was to try to remedy that to some small degree.

When the Grik armada swept down from Singapore and forced the Allied Expeditionary Force to abandon the city of Aryaal, as well as the island of B’mbaado, Aryaal had been thoroughly evacuated, but there’d been little time. Hundreds, perhaps thousands had been left behind on the island, and its queen protector, Safir Maraan, had sworn to get them out. So had the Americans. Therefore, a series of stealthy nighttime missions had been undertaken to rescue as many B’mbaadans as they could from under the very snouts of the Grik. So far there’d been few incidents or encounters, and quite a few refugees had been carried away. The Grik were not yet as thick on the island as they might have been. The cream of a portion of their invasion force had been mauled by Walker on its way to Baalkpan. Only about half of their “Grand Swarm” had been diverted to Java, and when the rest were turned back, they became busy repairing Amagi, consolidating their gains, and rebuilding the walls and fortifications of the cities the retreating force had destroyed. That meant Donaghey “only” had to avoid around two hundred and fifty ships and a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand crazed, ravenous warriors. But again, so far it had been a snap. Over the last couple of months Jim Ellis had made several trips in command of one of the prize ships, and either the Grik were unaware the missions were taking place, or they just didn’t care. Their ships seemed content to remain at anchor in Aryaal/B’mbaado Bay, and let the rescuers come and go at will. Perhaps they just didn’t know there was still a sizable number of Lemurians clustered on the southeastern shores of B’mbaado. Greg Garrett felt relieved, but also strangely cheated. His new ship was more than a match for any Grik ships yet encountered, and he yearned to strike a blow.

Before the war began, the Grik had no concept of gunpowder, and their artillery was limited to a ballistic device that hurled clay pots full of incendiary substances. “Grik Fire,” it was called. Garrett would have loved nothing more than to pound a few Grik ships into floating splinters and send a few hundred of their warriors to the ravenous, waiting jaws of the hungry fish. At the same time, he’d seen enough of war by now to know that once any battle was joined, there was no way to predict what would happen. Every encounter carried a measure of risk, and in this war, surrender wasn’t an option. Much as he yearned to lash out against their loathsome enemies, he’d be content with the successful and uneventful completion of his mission.

He paced the quarterdeck again, conscious that he might appear nervous, but he couldn’t help himself. In addition to his mission, he’d also been entrusted with the safety of the headstrong Queen Maraan, who’d personally gone ashore to gather her people, and Pete Alden, once a simple sergeant and now the commander of all allied land forces, who’d accompanied her. Safir Maraan could usually take care of herself. She was a charismatic leader and a skilled warrior in her own right, but those were the very qualities that made her too precious to risk. At least, as far as Garrett was concerned. Not to mention that he personally liked her quite a lot, and she was betrothed to his friend Chack-Sab-At. In spite of a clear understanding of her important role, Safir Maraan remained committed to an oath she’d sworn to personally rescue the people she’d left behind, no matter the cost. To her, no role could supersede that of queen protector of B’mbaado.

Pete Alden accompanied her for little good reason Greg could see, besides imposing a measure of vigilance and reason upon her. In military matters she’d acknowledged him as her superior, and he probably hoped he could prevent her from doing anything rash if the rescue met with difficulty. That was how he justified it, anyway. Garrett thought there might be more to it. In spite of being their land force commander, Pete had mostly been on the sidelines of the war so far. He’d participated in the boarding action that captured Revenge, but since then he’d been consumed by the necessity of improving Baalkpan’s defenses. He’d missed the Battle of Aryaal, and Garrett sensed a supreme unwillingness on the Marine’s part to send others into situations he hadn’t shared. Going ashore in this instance probably had as much to do with that as anything else. Besides, this mission was their last, and Queen Maraan’s great general, Haakar-Faask, would come off with the final refugees and warriors he’d managed to gather, and Pete probably wanted to greet him personally. In any event, there were far more precious eggs in a dangerously exposed basket this morning than Greg Garrett would have liked.

High clouds appeared as wispy pink tendrils in the eastern sky, and the shore party was considerably overdue. Daylight might reveal the solitary ship to searching eyes, and just because the Grik hadn’t interfered with previous missions didn’t mean that would remain the case.

“They should have returned by now,” murmured Taak-Fas. The ’Cat was Donaghey’s sailing master, and Garrett’s second in command. Garrett turned to look at the brown-and-tan-furred officer. As usual, the strikingly feline face bore no expression, but his voice betrayed growing anxiety.

Garrett replied with a quick nod. “She’s pulled stunts like this before,” he said with a sigh. “Jim—Lieutenant Ellis—said she did it twice when he brought her here. She won’t leave anyone behind who’s at the appointed rendezvous. I can’t blame her, but this waiting sure is nerve-racking.”

“Why can’t the refugees just wait for us on the beach, and meet us when the shore party goes in for them?” The question came from Russ Chapelle, former Torpedoman First Class from Mahan, and now Donaghey ’s gunnery officer, or master gunner. He’d stepped up to join the conversation.

Taak-Fas shook his head. “Grik scouts might see them while they wait for us. Also, since our ships look similar to the enemy’s, even painted differently, it might be difficult to persuade some civilian refugees to come out if we didn’t meet them at an inland rendezvous.”

“On deck,” came a sudden cry from above. “Three barges in the surf.”

Russ grinned with relief. “Well. All that good worryin’ wasted.”

It was much lighter now. Garrett raised his binoculars and studied the three wide-beamed boats laboring through the breaking waves. They were packed to overflowing with Lemurians of every color. Most looked thin and haggard. Understandable, he mused grimly, after all they’ve had to endure. He focused the binoculars on a figure standing in the bow of the center barge, and could just make out the black-furred form of Queen Maraan, resplendent in her silver breastplate and helmet. Alden’s distinctive, imposing form was beside her, as was a ’Cat wearing battered armor over a stained leather smock that stood almost as tall as the Marine. “It’s about time,” he grumped. “Have the boarding nets rigged, and prepare to bring them aboard. As soon as they have been, we’ll make sail. Shape a course for Baalkpan.” He paused and grinned at his subordinates. “We’ve been goofing around here long enough.”

Just then, another cry came from the masthead.

“Sail! Two sails . . . Three!”

“Where away?” Garrett shouted. For a moment the lookout fumbled with the words. Most of Donaghey’s crew could speak at least a little English by now, but sometimes the nautical terms of the Americans were confusing. The ones pertaining exclusively to square-rigged ships were still awkward even for Greg. He’d had little sailing experience back home, and competent as he’d forced himself to become, most of his knowledge of sailing terms, practices, and commands came from an old book entitled A Manual for Young Sea Officers in the Service of Her Majesty’s Navy. The book, like so many others they’d found of use, was a legacy of Walker’s long-dead surgeon, Doc Stevens, and his eclectic library. It was authored by a retired British admiral in the 1870s, during the transition to steam-powered warships that still used sails as well as engines.

“Port . . . ? Port bow.”

Garrett redirected his binoculars and thought he saw something against the purple horizon, but wasn’t sure. The lookout was certain, however, and he trusted the ’Cat. He glanced aloft at the floating pennant and turned until the wind blew directly in his face. “Not good,” he said aloud to himself. “They have the wind in their favor.”

“So what?” Chapelle shrugged. “What are they gonna do? If they get too close we’ll blow the hell out of them.”

Garrett spared him a glance. “If they get here before the boats do, they could stop us from loading the refugees. They might even attack the boats themselves.”

Chapelle’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to get ready for them?”

“By all means. Clear for action and sound general quarters.”

A rapid, rhythmic gonging reverberated through the ship as the general alarm bell was struck. The tense mood of anticipation clutching the crew since before dawn was shattered by frenzied but purposeful activity. The decks were sanded, and overhead netting was rigged to protect against falling debris. Buckets with ropes attached were dropped over the side and hauled back aboard, filled with seawater. These were distributed around the deck and sent up to the tops to defend against enemy firebombs. Guns were loaded and run out, and soon the smell of smoldering slow match reached Garrett’s nose. Marines lined the quarterdeck rail with their bows, and the few armed with Krag rifles scampered into the tops, prepared to pick off the enemy officers. Donaghey’s well-drilled crew prepared for battle very quickly, but by the time they were finished, the enemy was clear to see from deck, and the brightening sun shone upon the leaning pyramids of canvas.

Chapelle rejoined Garrett on the quarterdeck. “Taking their time,” he observed, referring to the barges still laboring against the offshore swells. Dripping oars flashed in the morning sun, and Garrett glassed the figure with the flowing black cape and silver armor. She was staring in the direction of the approaching ships.

“They’re coming as fast as they can,” Garrett said.

Taak-Fas gauged the distance. “They will not reach us much before the enemy, if they do at all.” He sounded worried.

“Yeah. This could get tricky,” Garrett agreed. “If it looks like they aren’t going to make it, we’ll secure the boarding nets. I don’t want to make a present of them for the Grik.” He turned and saw the shocked expression on Chapelle’s face. “No, we won’t abandon them! We’ll stand toward the enemy and destroy them, then come back for our people.” Garrett shook his head and turned his back on his gunnery officer. The former Mahan torpedoman didn’t know him very well, but it irked him that the man thought it even possible he might leave anyone at the “mercy” of the Grik. Let alone anyone as important as Queen Maraan and Pete Alden.

“Damn lizards are really flyin’,” Chapelle muttered a few moments later. “They must know what we’re up to. Afraid we’re going to steal their ‘rations,’ I guess.” He spit a yellowish stream of the local tobacco juice over the side.

Garrett nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the approaching ships. Something wasn’t right. The Grik were notorious for their single-minded aggressiveness. The all-out frontal assault, regardless of losses, had seemed to be the only military tactic they knew before and during the Battle of Aryaal. Since then, however, whenever they encountered an Allied ship, they’d demonstrated an uncharacteristic caution and respect. Garrett suspected they were capable of learning from their mistakes, and believed the Hij commanders of the Grik fleet had figured out that tangling with artillery-armed allied ships without overwhelming numbers was pointless. Up till now his suspicions had been confirmed, but the three Grik vessels approaching from the northwest were really cracking on. They were coming on in the “same old way,” and he couldn’t help but wonder why.

He carefully studied the laboring boats. The oarsmen had redoubled their efforts when they saw the Grik, but their progress against the wind and current was excruciatingly slow. He yearned to move Donaghey closer in, but the shoals here were treacherous, and, deprived of engines, he’d already gained a healthy respect for a lee shore. Totally at the mercy of the wind, Donaghey might be driven aground. He refocused on the enemy. Chapelle was right: they were flying. With another last look at the boats, he lowered the binoculars to his chest.

“They’re not going to make it,” he stated flatly. “Secure the nets and signal Her . . . Highness . . . and Sergeant—I mean General Alden that we’ll return to pick them up as soon as we’ve dealt with the enemy.”

“Aye, sir,” Taak-Fas replied with a frown. Unease over the brazen Grik advance was affecting him too, but it didn’t show in his voice when he relayed Garrett’s order at the top of his lungs. Chapelle spit again, and his lips formed an ironic grin, slightly distorted by the chaw in his cheek.

“I’m afraid we’re gonna get our brand-new ship all scratched up, Skipper.”

“A signal from Donaghey,” observed Haakar-Faask, captain of Safir’s personal guard of six hundred, sometimes called the “Orphan Queen’s Own,” and general of the army of B’mbaado, who stood beside her in the front of the boat. He rolled his massive, muscled shoulders and regarded Pete with a steady gaze. “What does it say?”

Pete Alden scratched his bristly black beard and stared, his eyes shaded by his battered, faded fatigue cover. “They mean to engage the enemy and return for us.”

Safir responded with a curt blink of her wide, silver-gray eyes. “I have learned the Amer-i-caan signals, Captain,” she said, addressing Faask by his Guard rank, which in both their estimations was superior and more intimate than his other. “Allow the rowers to rest, but let us try to maintain our position.”

“As you command, Queen Protector,” Faask replied in a pious tone that made her snort.

“Now he obeys me,” she said aside to Pete. “He was insubordinate enough on earlier missions, when I ordered him to come out to the ship.”

Haakar-Faask had been her personal protector since the day she was born, and he often behaved more like a long-suffering elder brother, or even father, than she would have liked. Often. She loved him as she would have her father or brother if they’d lived, but sometimes his obsessive protectiveness could be infuriating. She’d left him behind—ordered him to stay—to gather and organize the people they’d been forced to abandon during the hurried evacuation of their homeland, and she’d been torn by anguish and missed him terribly. Compared to his former mighty self, he was weak and malnourished like the other refugees, but in spite of her efforts to protect him for a change, he’d immediately resumed his former role. She glanced at his still-powerful form and realized for the first time, with a quick stab of grief, that not only had he suffered from deprivation in the months since the evacuation, he was getting old.

“As I command,” she said with a false, triumphant grin, stressing the word.

Haakar-Faask regarded her with an innocent stare. “I have seen the Amer-i-caans fight,” he said. He’d been there when Walker savaged the first Grik invasion fleet that tried to conquer Aryaal. “But that new ship, it is not made of iron like the other.” He glanced at Alden. “There is no question of valor, but one against three is questionable odds. Should we not return to shore? We might be forced to hide or disperse if the Grik are victorious. They will search for us.”

“They will not be victorious, Captain,” Safir replied before Pete had a chance. Her grin had become predatory. She watched while Donaghey’s sails filled, and she heeled sharply to starboard, slanting away from the waiting boats. To the unknowing eye, it looked as though the ship were abandoning them, leaving nothing between them and the Grik. Cries of alarm arose from the boats, and she understood her people’s fear, even though she knew it was unfounded. She was no sailor, but she knew the ship would soon tack back across in front of the approaching enemy. Garrett was trying to force the battle farther away from the boats and the shore, where his ship would have better maneuverability and more water beneath her keel.

“Do not fear,” she cried out as soothingly as she could. “They will not leave us.”

Long moments passed while the Grik grew closer and Donaghey became more distant. Even to her it was a terrifying sight. Just as the first sense of doubt touched her soul however, she saw Donaghey’s aspect change, and she was filled with exhilaration when the tall ship came about and began a headlong rush toward the enemy. A cheer rose up.

“Now you will see something!” she promised.

The sun crept ever upward and the day grew hot as the four ships came together. From their current angle it looked like all were heading straight for her, but Safir could see the distance between the one and the three dwindling rapidly. Donaghey would soon “cross their tee,” as she’d heard the maneuver called. She would destroy the Grik, and the refugees would remember the long morning they’d spent in the boats as a stirring adventure: an exciting, reaffirming proof that the hardships they’d endured hadn’t been for nothing, and most of all, in spite of everything, victory might someday be achieved. She watched with growing inspiration as a large battle flag, the one with the stars, blue field, and curious red stripes, unfurled at Donaghey’s masthead and streamed to leeward. She’d heard Captain Reddy tell a tale about a battle on the world the Americans came from when a ship called Exeter defiantly flew a giant flag in the face of certain destruction. Matt had clearly been moved by the act, just as Safir Maraan was now. The flag of the Americans had become a powerful symbol to her: in some ways an even more powerful symbol than the nine trees and one gold star on the stainless field now representing the alliance facing the Grik. It was a symbol of hope and defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. Even despite their setbacks, it had become a symbol of victory.

She knew the flag meant much the same to Donaghey’s crew, though there were few human Americans aboard her. Her people were land folk; descendants of that great, prehistoric nautical exodus that had carried her race from their ancestral home and deposited them here. The Grik had been the ancient enemy from which her people fled. Rejecting a seafaring life, they estranged themselves from the majority of their species. They became isolationist, feudal. Warlike as they were, compared to sea folk they’d been vulnerable to the first major Grik incursion.

Among sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships were nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed coequal status as High Chiefs among their peers. With the coming of the war, and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. The alliance now included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Captain Reddy was supreme commander, but Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had become the civic leader of the alliance by default, since his was the “nation” hosting the other chiefs: Baalkpan was also the center of all their collective industry. Safir was beginning to see the advantages of the formation of a true, formal alliance. Not one of expedience only, but one evolving to unite all willing Lemurians beneath the Banner of the Trees into a strong political union such as the Amer-i-caans claimed to spring from.

The one gold star on the stainless banner represented the Americans. It was placed in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that they were the organizing force, the glue holding all together during these early, terrible, trying times. Also, unlike the golden trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than the single city-state personified by a single ship. Matt continued to insist the star didn’t represent him and his surviving destroyermen, or even just his tiny but growing fleet; it represented the United States Navy in particular, and that vaguely understood nation his navy defended in general. He wanted it clear that, wherever it was, his “America” was part of this alliance. Every Lemurian joining an “American” crew became a member of the United States Navy, and swore to defend an even more vaguely understood Constitution. Captain Reddy insisted on that too. Therefore, wherever they came from, and for however long they served, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a “Navy man” and was considered by all to be an Amer-i-caan for as long as they kept that oath, and followed the Americans’ strict rules.

Nothing like those rules—or “regulations,” as they were called—had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, of course, but otherwise they did as they pleased. Even in the more socially stratified lands of B’mbaado and Aryaal, behavior was not regulated by written rules or laws, but by decrees generally favoring those, like herself, who made them. She’d never imagined so many of her people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. To her surprise, as many of her people volunteered for the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee” as did for the B’mbaadan infantry regiments forming in Baalkpan—even though those were now held to the same high disciplinary standards by General Alden. Most were turned away from the Navy because they just didn’t have the ships, but it was something to consider. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals that watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like. Safir wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, although she tended to believe it was, and she suddenly wondered if it might not be the strict regulations themselves that made the difference. Not only did they enforce discipline; they also enforced the rights of those subject to it. It was a concept she’d been giving much thought. In any event, as far as she or anyone else was now concerned, the streaming flag showed that everyone aboard Donaghey—human or Lemurian—was “Amer-i-caan.”

The ships converged rapidly now, their hulls and towering canvas contrasting sharply against the dark, cerulean sea. The American ship was bigger than the others, and clearly faster. It was a stirringly beautiful scene, in a way, that would soon be more beautiful still, when Donaghey began her destructive work.

“Just a few moments more,” she breathed.

The angle was terrible. The Grik commander must have decided it was a matter of “use it or lose it” and given the order to fire, even though few guns would bear. As it was, not a single ball struck Donaghey, but the surprise caused by the sudden realization that they’d lost their only material advantage over the enemy was almost as damaging as an effective broadside would have been. As the distance closed, and Donaghey prepared to cross the bow of the ship that had just fired at them, all the gunners on the starboard side merely stood, transfixed by what they’d seen. Chapelle glanced at the quarterdeck and saw the shocked expression even extended to the captain’s face, and he knew there was no time.

“What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed, in a voice carrying the length of the ship. He ran forward, yelling as he went, “Starboard battery! At my command! Fire as they bear!” Reaching the foremost gun under the fo’c’sle on the starboard side, he elbowed the Lemurian gunner aside and peered through the gun port, sighting along the top of the barrel. A moment more and it would be pointing at the enemy ship. All thought of finesse, and firing at a specific point, was gone. They had to get this first broadside off as quickly as they could, as effectively as they could, and break the shock that had seized the ship. Stepping back, Chapelle looked at the ’Cat gunner.

“Get hold of yourself,” he growled. “So they’ve got guns. So what? They don’t know how to use them, do they?” The gunner jerked a nod. Chapelle glanced through the port again. “Fire!”

“Holy shit.” Pete gasped.

“Should we return to shore?” Faask asked her quietly.

“Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” Alden agreed grimly. “We need to see this.”

“Sorry about that, Skipper,” he said, joining Donaghey’s commander.

“Nothing to be sorry about. It shook everybody up. Me too. My God . . . Guns!” He lowered his voice. “Thanks.”

“What for?”

Garrett’s lips formed a small smile; then he gestured at the enemy ships. They were about to cross the second ship’s bow. The starboard battery of the first—they seemed to have only five or six guns to a side—fired another ineffectual broadside that did little more than churn the sea in their wake, but the gun ports were open on the ship they approached.

“At least their gunnery isn’t very good,” Chapelle observed. Just then, a rolling broadside erupted from the next ship in line. Like the first, the angle was poor, but the range was much closer, and they felt an unmistakable shudder beneath their feet when a couple of shots struck home. A high-pitched, keening wail arose from forward.

“They’re learning fast,” said Garrett grimly. He turned to his second in command. “As soon as we rake the third ship, we’ll come about and do it again. Make sure we keep our distance. If we foul one of them, the others will gang up on us and board”—he paused—“and their crews are a lot bigger than ours.” He didn’t need to remind them what would happen if they were overwhelmed. A quick death, at best. He glanced astern at the distant, bobbing barges. “We have to win this, and we have to do it quickly.” He looked at Chapelle. “I want you to hammer those ships if you have to aim every gun yourself.” Russ nodded and raced back down the ladder. Garrett watched him go and then shook his head at Taak-Fas. “A hell of a thing,” he said in frustration.

Suddenly black smoke gushed from the derelict, and almost immediately the people in the boats saw orange flames leaping from her forward gun ports. They cheered. All three of the other ships—both Grik and alliance—immediately steered away from the one that was afire. The Grik in the center of the line was too eager to get at Donaghey, however, and had closed the distance too much. When she tried to turn, her mizzen rigging fouled the shrouds of her burning sister, and they collided and twisted together in a flaming embrace. White smoke vomited skyward, mixed with black, and clouds of burning canvas and ash drifted downwind, some coming to rest on Donaghey, as she tried to gain some distance.

A brilliant flash of light followed by a tremendous thunderclap explosion tore across the wave tops at the drifting boats, now less than four miles away. Only the hands of her devoted protector prevented Queen Maraan from falling into the sea. When she regained her balance and looked again, at first all she saw was a monstrous fog bank of dirty smoke and thousands of splashes, large and small, covering an area of several square miles. A few even came uncomfortably close to the boats. As the smoke gradually dispersed, she finally caught sight of the two remaining ships.

Both had been horribly mauled by the massive explosion. Donaghey’s sails were a tattered, flailing mess, and her mizzenmast had fallen against the main, fouling its yards and creating a jumble of tangled rigging. She was listing to starboard, and her stern looked like a mountain fish had taken a bite out of it. The Grik still had all her masts, but her sails were shredded to the point of uselessness.

“We must return to shore,” she said, her voice wooden.

“But . . .” Faask began to object, but Safir shook her head.

“Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett cannot concern himself with us now. He will be hard-pressed to save his ship. We are land folk, but I can tell which way the wind is blowing. If Donaghey is very fortunate, she will be carried around the point. Perhaps she can make repairs and return for us then. If she does not clear the point, she will be wrecked, and there is nothing we can do to stop that.”

For a long moment she watched the stricken ships drifting downwind. Occasionally a puff of smoke heralded the report of a gun from one ship or the other as they continued to fire whenever they could. She thought she could even hear the shrieks of the wounded and shouted commands over the intervening distance, but that was probably just her imagination. Whatever happened to Donaghey now, she’d have to see to her own survival, just as Safir Maraan had to see to the survival of those who depended on her. If Donaghey couldn’t return, she knew it would become far more difficult to rescue them. With the Grik guarding the approaches with cannons on their ships, no single ship would dare make the attempt.

Without the explosion that crippled her, she believed Donaghey could have defeated all three Grik vessels armed with cannons. The enemy had clearly not known how best to employ their new weapons. But they were learning, and with their limitless numbers, they were unlikely to be so amateurish and unprepared again. Next time there might be a dozen ships sent to do what three had done today.

Safir sent a prayer to the Sun that Donaghey—and her friend Garrett—could escape or defeat the remaining Grik ship, and quickly mend her wounds. Perhaps then she might return for them before the enemy did. The thought of Garrett sent a chill down her spine, because it reminded her of someone else. If Donaghey survived but couldn’t come back, Safir would be stranded with the rest of the refugees the alliance may no longer have the power to rescue. What would Chack think? What would he do? Chack had accompanied Captain Reddy on the expedition to Manila, but with the magic of the Americans’ radio, he’d know what happened as soon as Donaghey made port. With the sudden thought of her beloved, a shiver of sadness and fear crept deep into her bones.

“To the shore,” she repeated in a voice she didn’t recognize.

Garrett sat on one of the quarterdeck gun carriages, mopping his face with his hat and grimacing with pain while the Lemurian surgeon bound his wound. A large splinter had been imbedded in his thigh, and the waves of agony caused by its removal were only now beginning to subside. All around him was chaos like he’d never known. Shattered timbers and shredded sailcloth festooned the deck, and seemingly thousands of frayed and ragged lines created a nightmare web of destruction. He’d seen his share of naval combat in the last year, first against the Japanese, then against the Grik—and Japanese. But he’d always been on Walker when the fighting took place. He knew war was terrible, terrifying, and bloody—sometimes catastrophically so—and naval warfare could seem particularly overwhelming. Even so, he’d believed he was ready for a command of his own. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He’d trained to become a destroyerman in . . . well, yes, a comparatively modern navy. He was a good gunnery officer, and managing his new ship’s weaponry wasn’t so different from firing Walker’s in local control. He could navigate and stand a watch, and he wasn’t afraid to fight. Thanks to the old admiral’s manual, he’d even learned to handle Donaghey in a fairly competent fashion. But this type of warfare—gone for the most part for a hundred years on his own world—was completely different from what he’d been prepared for. The stakes were the same, and so was the objective: destroy the enemy before he could destroy you. The results were apparently the same as well: shredded bodies, blood-splashed decks, and a stunned sense of unreality. But the way it happened and the pace of it all were what so disconcerted him. (He hadn’t suspected splinters would be such a menace, for example.) He knew even the twenty-five-year-old destroyer he was accustomed to was far more complex, but somehow, on a sailing ship the complexity was much more apparent—particularly when it had been so horribly brutalized.

Even now, with a pause in the action, the air was filled with screams and shouts, grinding timbers, and chopping axes. The occasional gun roared, when enough debris was cleared to allow it to fire at the equally battered enemy. But above all the unfamiliar sounds of this new/old type of war, there was a deafening silence. A silence of absence. Instead of the comforting roar of the blower, and the grinding, rasping, high-pitched wheeze of the turbines, there was only the capricious wind. A wind that would drive them onto the deadly shoals as well if they couldn’t quickly bend it to their will.

“Cease firing,” he ground out through clenched teeth, when Chapelle approached to report. The blond torpedoman didn’t seem injured, but his shirt was torn and spattered with blood.

“I just did, Skipper,” he replied. “I figured the little guys had practiced enough for one day.” He shrugged. “Besides, Taak took my crews and put them to work clearing debris.”

Garrett nodded and struggled to rise and gaze over the nearby bulwark. The Grik was beginning to wallow, beam-on to the inshore swells.

“It won’t be long before she strikes. How about the refugee barges?”

“Safely ashore,” Chapelle confirmed. “I almost wish they’d stuck it out. If we get things squared away, we might be back for them in a couple of hours.”

Garrett shook his head. “It was the right call for her to make. It’ll be evening, at least, before we can beat back around the point—if we make it around the point.” Garrett was gauging the angles as he spoke, studying the wind direction and the shore. “As hot as it is, they’d have been really suffering by then.”

“We’ll weather the point,” Chapelle assured him, “but you’re probably right. It sure is hard to get used to not having engines.”

“I was just thinking that myself. It’s tough getting used to a lot of things here,” Garrett muttered.

Chapelle frowned. “Hey, Skipper, don’t beat yourself up. You did okay.” He gestured at the now clearly doomed Grik. It was rolling so violently, the masts must soon fall. With a distant, muted “crack,” the main snapped off at the deck and collapsed into the churning sea even as they watched. Moments later the other masts went down as well, and all that remained was a wallowing, helpless hulk. Try as he might, Garrett could summon no compassion for the horrible creatures he knew had only moments to live.

“One against three . . . Three down and us still up. Not a bad showin’, if you ask me.” Chapelle chewed philosophically. “Sure, we’re beat up”—he grinned—“and our brand-new ship got scratched a bit, but that’s mostly because those two blew up in our face. Their guns weren’t doing much harm. A few weeks in the yard, a little paint here and there, and she’ll be good as new.”

“Not good enough,” Garrett growled. “Not nearly good enough. A few weeks sounds about right, but it’ll take more than a little paint. For now, Donaghey’s out of the war. They have the ships to trade three to one; we don’t. And . . . Damn it, Russ, they have guns now! Where’d they get them? How many do they have, and how fast can they make them? Damn it! Our one big advantage . . . shot!” He grimaced belatedly at the pun. “Yeah, they used them stupidly, but we can’t count on that next time. We aren’t exactly professionals at this kind of war either, you know.”

Chapelle looked uncomfortable. “Not much doubt where they got them,” he muttered darkly. “Those Jap bastards showed them how to make ’em.”

Taak-Fas trotted up, weaving his way through the debris on deck. He had something in his hand.

“Cap-i-taan, we are almost ready to cut the final lines and let the mizzen fall over the side.” He grinned. “You might want to be somewhere else when that happens.”

“Of course.”

Chapelle and the surgeon helped Garrett to his feet. One of the surgeon’s assistants, covered with blood, arrived to help. Garrett shooed him away, and with a grateful nod the ’Cat raced back to whatever operation he’d been summoned from.

“As soon as it goes over,” Taak-Fas continued, “the fore and main will draw much better. We’ll be okay.” He sounded relieved, and Garrett was too. He was also glad he had such a capable, levelheaded exec. Excited, chittering voices drew his attention back to the Grik ship. She was among the breakers now. Suddenly she heeled sharply over and performed a drunken, jerky pirouette. Waves broke over her deck, and struggling forms disappeared over the side. Garrett briefly wondered if they’d drown before the voracious “flashies” tore them apart. He still felt no pity, but was again struck by how much more inhospitable this world’s seas were than those he remembered. And it could’ve just as easily been him and his crew dying in the surf. He shuddered.

“Let me get out of the way so we can take that mast down,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll be joining them.” He stopped. “What have you got there, Taak? In your hand?”

Taak-Fas raised the object and studied it curiously. “A Grik cannon-ball,” he said. “It was rolling loose on the deck. It is about the same size as ours, and weighs much the same, I think, but it is clearly different. Here.” He handed it over. “I have duties, and you must allow the surgeon to properly dress your wound. I assure you, Cap-i-taan, I can somehow manage for the short time that will take.”

Garrett took the ball and laughed. Taak was right. The repairs were under control, and he was just getting in the way. Taak spoke to the surgeon in his own language; then he and Chapelle assisted Garrett down the companionway. Once they reached the wardroom, they eased him into a chair, where he sat and waited while others with more serious wounds were tended. He’d insisted as soon as he saw them. Some of the wounds were utterly ghastly: mangled limbs and terrible gashes—mostly caused by splinters, he again realized. His ship was in capable hands and his leg would keep. He looked at the ball he’d laid in his lap.

The cannons they’d helped the Lemurians create were bronze. There was plenty of copper and tin all over this region that had once been the Dutch East Indies. Iron was harder to come by and harder still to work. They desperately needed iron to make structural repairs to Walker and Mahan, and implement many of their other plans. In the short term, though, it didn’t seem critical. Bronze was actually better than iron for smoothbore cannons. The elongation was better and the quality control not as critical. They made their cannonballs of copper, which flew just fine. But without a steady source of iron, and the ability to smelt and forge it in quantity, there was only so far they could go, industrially speaking. Even with their limitations, Garrett had thought they would enjoy a significant advantage over the enemy for some time to come. At least until today. As he contemplated the projectile in his lap, it suddenly dawned on him with a sickening sense of dread that the Grik had not only caught them technologically, but taken a leaping bound ahead. The ball in his lap was iron. They’re making cannonballs of iron, he thought numbly. His thoughts immediately rearranged themselves. They have so much iron they can waste it on cannonballs!

“My God.”