Silva turned to him with a beatific smile. He’d been leaning on the starboard rail on the welldeck, just aft of the bridge, staring thoughtfully at Mindoro—or at least what had been Mindoro. They were in the Philippines proper now, steaming north through the east passage of Mindoro Strait. Their old stomping grounds. In fact, Dennis suspected the distant promontory ahead should have been the mouth of Paluan Bay, but he wasn’t sure, because nothing really looked the same. It took him a while to figure out what the main difference was. There were no people, no fishing villages lining the shore, and very few boats. The few they’d seen were like the other Lemurian feluccas they’d grown accustomed to, but they hugged the shallows and kept their distance from the strange, smoking ship. Several days before, they’d overhauled and spoken one of the massive Homes they knew, returning empty to Manila for more supplies. He hoped it would be full of troops when it turned back to Baalkpan.

If they were where he thought they were, they’d spot Lubang Island before nightfall, and their voyage would be nearly complete. A lot of the men had grown quiet and somber as they neared their old “home,” and even he wasn’t immune to a certain nostalgic sense of loss. He had, in fact, been thinking a little morosely of several young ladies in particular who’d have been glad to see him very soon in the old Cavite they’d left behind, and so, when Laney stomped up, offering an outlet for his frustrations, it actually cheered him up.

“That’s ‘Chief ’ Silva to you, Laney, you frumpy little turd.” He tugged on the visored hat he now wore for emphasis. For some inexplicable reason, the Bosun had given it to him, and it wasn’t even his oldest, most beat-up one, either. He just said if Silva was going to be a chief, he had to look like one. Laney wore one of Donaghey’s old hats, and despite the fact that he was larger than the late engineer, it was too big, and only his ears and eyebrows held it up. Otherwise, no one else aboard would have called Laney “little,” though. He was only slightly shorter than Silva, and a comment like that would once have started a fairly equal fight. Now, both were conscious of the limitations placed on them by the new hats they wore. All the same, Laney suddenly remembered another time, and he was glad they were standing by the solid rail instead of the safety chains.

“It ain’t your machine shop, neither,” Silva added. “I swear, you’ve got mighty uppity of late. One of your ’Cats even wants to strike for the deck.” He shook his head. “Shows good sense if you ask me, but Spanky and Donaghey never ran anybody off. You always was a asshole, but you’ve got even worse since they gave you that hat.”

“Who is it?” Laney growled. “We’ll see about that!”

“Ain’t gonna tell you. He don’t want ordnance anyway. Ask the Bosun when we pick him up.”

Laney hesitated. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody, but he also couldn’t go crawling to the Bosun. “Well, what about the machine shop?” he demanded. “Spanky’s gonna shit worm gears when I don’t deliver them parts!”

Silva laughed. “I cleared it with Spanky before we started. Besides, he said you got scads of spare pressure couplings by now; you’re just doin’ busywork.”

“Well . . . the second reduction pinion off the low-pressure turbine is thrashed—God damn lube oil we’re getting ain’t up to spec—and we gotta turn a new one. ’Sides, what are you doin’ in there, makin’ mop handles?”

“Matter of fact, we broke the firin’ pin on number three this mornin’—all the practicin’ I’ve had the fellas doin’—and we figured we’d make another one.” He scratched his beard. “Funny, but without a firin’ pin, we can’t make the big, scary bullets go out the other end. I told Stites to make a dozen while he was at it. There’s a fair chance we’ll break another one.”

“What about my pinion?”

“You gonna put it in while we’re underway? That’d be a rodeo! You’re a crummy machinist anyway; I don’t care what your rating is. Hell, Juan’s a better lathe man than you; so’s the Jap. You’d be just as well using a mop handle as anything you’d turn out.”

Chack was listening to the conversation with amusement a few steps away. It went on a little longer, but finally Laney stormed aft, grumbling with every step. Chack drifted over and replaced him at the rail and caught Silva chuckling.

“I swear, if he found a roach floatin’ in his coffee cup, he’d turn it into a mountain fish by the time he got done yellin’ at the mess attendant.”

Mountain fish had dominated just about everyone’s conversation the last two days. They’d finally seen one of the things—a young one, Chack assured them—lazing on the surface, taking the sun. Silva had always suspected people exaggerated their size, but now he knew they hadn’t. Everyone got a good, long look through the binoculars that made the rounds, while the captain gave the creature a wide berth. It was enormous! The part they saw, just a dark hump in the distance, and a small fraction of the monster’s total size, was half as long as the ship. It blew like a whale, and occasional waterspouts geysered a hundred feet in the air. Everyone was excited to see the mythical creature at last, but no one was sorry to watch it disappear astern, either. Since then, they’d spotted a couple of truly huge gri-kakka, bigger than any they’d seen before, that were as dangerous to the ship as an iceberg or torpedo, but even giant plesiosaurs paled to insignificance compared to the mountain fish they’d seen.

“Perhaps he is high-strung,” Chack suggested, referring to Laney. “I’ve heard Mr. McFarlane say so.”

Silva laughed out loud. “High-strung, and fit to snap a string, I’d say. If he’s a chief engineer, I’m a Chinese fighter pilot.”

They stood in companionable silence for a while, the foaming sea sluicing by beneath them. They were friends again, although there was still a measure of friction. Not enough to bring them to blows; they’d already discovered, despite Silva’s height advantage, Chack’s extraordinary strength—he’d spent most of his life as a wing runner or sail trimmer on Big Sal, after all—made them a remarkably even match, and their one altercation had left both of them uneager for a rematch. Besides, Chack was no longer certain he was mad at Silva anymore. Most of his anger had resulted from Silva’s and his sister Risa’s boisterously public “marriage.” He felt at the time they’d done it to “get even,” or humiliate him for a prank he’d pulled on Silva. He’d since learned that Silva was a professional prankster, who enjoyed it when somebody “got” him, but he didn’t “get even.” His retaliation usually consisted of gross, sometimes even dangerous escalation.

Just about everyone believed the “marriage” was a joke, but Chack still wasn’t certain. Sure, Silva and Risa might have carried on so at first, just to get his goat, but since then, in several situations, he’d sensed genuine respect and affection between them. He still found the idea that they might be engaging in sexual relations repugnant, but he supposed if they truly did consider themselves mated, then Risa’s fate could have been worse. She was a far better warrior than most males he knew, and that, as well as her own rather twisted sense of humor, had left her with few prospects for a fulfilling relationship with a male she could enjoy and respect. Silva seemed to fit that role, and even if such a match would never result in younglings—he shuddered—it might result in happiness, and he was prepared to accept that.

It was time to clear the air, though. His people had few sexual conventions, and most everyone, even Keje and Nakja-Mur, had been amused, at worst, over the possible relationship. But Chack knew the Americans were much less understanding. They liked his people a lot—more than many of their “own.” They were at war with the Japanese, after all. But he’d learned an old quip: “I’ve got nothing against them; I just wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one.” He expected it was used in jest, at least when he was in earshot, but the phrase struck home. Besides, there was Silva’s alleged affair with the American nurse, Pam Cross, to consider. His people were not necessarily strict monogamists, but he knew Americans could be. Monogamy was, in fact, the norm among them. He worried that, if Silva and his sister were truly mated, Nurse Cross might try to supplant her, and he didn’t want Risa hurt. He cleared his throat.

“We should speak,” he said at last.

“Shoot.”

“About you and Risa, and about your intentions regarding her. We must speak seriously about this at last.”

“Sure.”

Chack blinked annoyance, and his tail swished rapidly behind him. “I am about to muster the Marines for exercises, so I don’t have a great deal of time. Will you just answer my question?”

“You ain’t asked one yet.”

“As hard as I’ve worked to master your language, you’ve surpassed me at being obtuse!” Chack growled.

Silva grinned, but turned to look closely down at him, and his eyes betrayed what might have been an inner sadness. “I like Risa a lot. She’s a swell gal. She’s a hoot, and she makes me laugh. I wish she was along with us instead of back in Baalkpan on Big Sal. She’s the only dame . . . uh, female I could ever just let loose with, be myself, talk. I figure if things was different, she’d be about the perfect dame for me to settle down with.” He paused, still looking at Chack, and was amused by the indignant blinking he saw. “Now, ain’t that somethin’! All this time you’ve been mad at me because you thought I wasn’t good enough for her; now you’re mad because you think I just said she ain’t good enough for me! Fact is, like I said, we’re just about right for each other, even if she is a ’Cat. Trouble is, we’re too much alike, and neither of us is ready for a rockin’ chair.” He laughed at Chack’s puzzled expression. “You still got some work to do on our language. I mean neither of us is ready to settle down. Do I love her?” He stared back over the rail at some distant point, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, barely audible over the blower, the whoosh of hot gases rising from the funnels, and the curling, splashing wake alongside.

“Once upon a time, the only feelings I had were happy, hungry, horny, and mad. Usually they got all mixed-up. I’d get mad at a fella, we’d get in a fight, and I’d be happy. After it was over I’d wind up hungry, and probably horny too. Or I’d be happy ’cause I wasn’t hungry. . . . You get the idea. Anyway, I had a buddy once, Mack Marvaney, who got killed by them island Griks on Bali before we met y’all, and all of a sudden I found out I had another feelin’: sad.

“I don’t much remember my folks; they both died when I was a sprout—about three, I guess. En-floo-en-za. It was all over the place, but Daddy might’ve brought it back from France.” He shrugged. “I went to live with my uncle Bob, and he worked me and whooped me like a mule from then on. Got even worse after the Crash, and I had to scrape for everything we ate. He’d bring a little money home now and then, makin’ ’shine, but he drank as much as he made, and one day he took a harness strap to me and I killed him with a grubbin’ hoe.” His jaw clenched tight. “Never felt sad about that. Anyway, I wandered around for a few years, doin’ things I ain’t much proud of, mostly, and when I turned sixteen I lied about my age and joined the Navy.” He looked at Chack. “Now you know more about me than anyone alive . . . ’cept Risa.

“I never knew what ‘love’ was, or ‘sad’ or ‘safe,’ or really ‘happy’ either, but now I guess I do.” He suddenly slapped Chack on the back hard enough to take his breath. “I love you like the brother I never had, and Stites and Rodriguez, Mertz, Kutas, even Juan and all the others, ’cept maybe Laney. He’s a jerk. The Mice—and Bradford!—are like the freak cousins nobody ever talks about, but I even love them too. The skipper’s not that much older’n me, but him or the Bosun are the closest thing to a real dad I ever had, ’cause they keep me in line without a harness strap, and they do it for my own good.” His mighty fist pounded the rail. “And I love this damned old ship that’s as old as I am. She’s the only real home I’ve ever had. She leaks, she squeaks, hell, sometimes she coughs and gags. She prob’ly couldn’t hold her own in a stand-up fight against a rowboat full of Boy Scouts with BB guns, but she’s my goddamn home!”

Silva quickly turned away and jabbed his fingers in his eyes, rubbing vigorously. “Damn soot!” he mumbled huskily. “Snipes must’ve blown tubes on one of the boilers.” After a while, he turned to face Chack again with a mysterious dampness around his eyes. He made a production of pulling a pouch from his pocket and biting off a chew. Finally, when the quid was properly formed in his cheek, he spoke again.

“You wanna know if me and Risa have wrassled and romped around, and had a little fun; that’s none of your damn business. Do I love her? Sure I do, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. She’s my pal. Will I tear your heart out and eat it if you spill any of what I just told you? You can bet your life on it, brother or not.”

He glanced at his watch and compared it to the clock on the bulkhead. It was almost time for the watch change, and he’d soon relieve Dowden, who currently had the deck.

“One thing I can’t stress enough,” he reminded, interrupting the ’Cats and the naturalist, “is that you immediately try to learn as much as you can about the reports of an ‘iron fish.’ If it’s a submarine, as I suspect, I need to know as much as possible about what it looked like and where it was most recently sighted. I understand it hasn’t been seen for months. It’d undoubtedly be out of fuel by now, so we’ll have to base our search on its last reported position, investigate the closest islands and so forth. Hopefully, we can begin that process while your discussions are still underway, if they drag out too long. We really need to find that boat. It could make all the difference.”

“What makes you so sure it is a submarine, Captain?” Bradford asked. “Who knows what creatures lurk in these mysterious seas? And even if it is one, what if it’s an enemy vessel? The Japanese on Amagi have shown no inclination to aid us, certainly!”

“C’mon, Courtney! An iron fish? And the stories tell how strange, tail-less creatures went inside it before it swam beneath the sea! As for it being one of ours, it only makes sense. We had lots of boats in the area, more than the Japs. They might’ve even been enough to make a difference, but their torpedoes weren’t working either. If it weren’t for our crummy MK-14 and -15 torpedoes, we might’ve even stopped the Japs.” His voice had begun to rise, and he stopped himself and took a deep, calming breath. “If a sub was in the vicinity of the Squall, like the PBY was, it could have been swept here just like us. Unlike us, they might’ve made for the Philippines, looking for a familiar face. Last we heard, we still had Corregidor, and subs were getting in and out. If they poked their scope up at Surabaya—I mean Aryaal—and saw what’s there now, the next place they’d check, their only hope really, would be the Philippines. If it was a Jap sub . . . I really don’t know where it would head, probably not the Philippines, though. Maybe Singapore. They’ve got some really big, long-range boats; they might’ve even tried to make Japan.”

Adar shuddered. “How big would this ‘sub-maa-rine’ be, if it was Amer-i-caan?”

“Depends on the class; either about the same length as Walker, or three-quarters as long.”

“Just imagine,” Adar gasped, “cruising beneath the sea, and in something that small!”

Matt nodded grimly. “You bet. I always thought submariners were nuts, and that was before there were fish big enough to eat the whole bloody boat. God, I hope that’s not what’s happened to her!”

“You’ve mentioned before how . . . aad-vaan-tage-ous . . . it would be to find this amazing vessel, but despite the happy prospect of finding more Amer-i-caans, what good would it be? You have already recognized the terrible dangers of operating it, particularly underwater. I’m sure, if they live, the same dangers have occurred to its crew.”

Matt nodded. “Sure, but the danger would be much less within the confines of the Makassar Strait, or Baalkpan Bay itself, and didn’t you already hear me say it might have torpedoes aboard? We only have one left, and we know why they weren’t working now. She might be our ultimate surprise against Amagi.”

“I should think securing more troops than the few San-Kakja has already sent would be our highest priority, not finding a submarine that may or may not exist,” Bradford opined.

“Probably, but that’ll be largely Adar and Keje’s job. If we can manage both, however—” He was interrupted by the clanging bell that signaled the watch change. “Let’s just hope we can manage at least one or the other.”

They could have made Manila before sunup, in the wee hours of the morning, but Matt didn’t want to sneak in; he wanted to be seen. He also wanted to see the city in the light of day, gauge the reaction of its people to their arrival. Most would know what it meant, and why they were there; refugees had been crowding into Manila for months. He hoped the sight of his ship, newly painted with most of her visible damage repaired, would inspire confidence in their cause. She’d made quite a sensation the first time she steamed into Baalkpan Bay, after all. So they loitered in the mouth of Manila Bay in the dark, while swarms of fishing boats hurried past her for the morning catch. Most never saw her, or if they did they paid no heed, since her arrival wasn’t a surprise. The mission had been announced over a month ago, plenty of time for even one of the lumbering Homes to bring the news. A few boats stopped, their people staring at her with their uncanny vision, but none stopped to chat. Matt wondered if that was good or bad. A few coastal traders came out with the sun, scudding before the brisk morning breeze, but they immediately went on their way. Matt cleared his throat.

“Very well. Mr. Kutas, I have the deck and the conn,” he said, much to the chief quartermaster’s relief. Kutas had rarely conned the ship in confined waters. “Relieve Reynolds on the helm and take us in. Carefully and politely, though, if you please.” It was Reynolds’s turn to gulp with relief. The young seaman had only recently been rated capable of standing a helmsman’s watch.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Kutas replied. “You have the deck and the conn.” He turned to Reynolds. “I relieve you, sir.” Reynolds gratefully stepped aside and unobtrusively relieved the talker of his headset. The ’Cat, just as glad, scampered up the ladder with a pair of binoculars to add his eyes to the already numerous lookouts. Manila Bay was reputed to be the busiest waterway in the known world, and the last thing they needed with everyone watching was to collide with anything, even a rowboat.

They entered the bay much as they always had so many times before, back on their own world before the Japanese drove them out. They steamed up the Boca Grande between Caballo Island and the El Frailes. Just beyond Caballo—startlingly barren of the familiar Fort Hughes—was the imposing form of Corregidor. Unlike the Corregidor they remembered, there’d been no fortifications upon this one until recently. Now a great stone works was under construction. Through his binoculars, Matt saw the two heavy thirty-two-pounders Baalkpan had sent San-Kakja as gifts, brooding through embrasures in the hastily built walls. Interestingly, they’d been joined by several more, and he realized the Manilos were now making cannons of their own. No reason they shouldn’t, once they understood the concept; their industry was certainly up to the task. It still left him feeling odd. In the past, the gift of artillery to native peoples had often been a double-edged sword.

He felt like they should salute the fort in some fashion, but the Maa-ni-los had no flag, and he wasn’t about to fire a gun. They’d had few blanks, and those were given over to Bernard Sandison with all their empty shells, so he could reload them with the experimental solid copper projectiles and black powder. He settled for having their own flag dipped. Perhaps they’d understand the courtesy. He gave the order in a hushed tone, however. Even he wasn’t immune to the strange emotions sweeping the men around him at the sight of the familiar, but alien landmarks.

Beyond Corregidor was the Bataan Peninsula, and there was even a small town, of sorts, where Mariveles ought to be. In the distance, barely visible in the early morning haze, stood the poignantly familiar Mariveles Mountains.

“Recommend course zero, four, five degrees,” Kutas said, glancing at the compass and breaking the spell that had fallen upon the Americans in the pilothouse. Juan had appeared unnoticed, carrying a tray of mugs and a coffee urn, and when Matt glanced his way he saw unashamed tears streaking the little Filipino’s face as he gazed about.

He coughed. “Thanks, Juan. I was just thinking some of your coffee would taste pretty good right now.” A brittle smile appeared on the steward’s face, and he circulated through the cramped pilothouse, filling the mugs taken from his tray by the watch standers. For once, none were left behind. Sensitive to the gesture, he bowed slightly.

“I will bring sandwiches, if you please, Cap-tan,” he managed huskily. “It has been a long night . . . for all of us.”

“Thanks, Juan. Please do.” When the Filipino left the bridge, there was an almost audible general sigh, as nearly everyone realized that no matter how hard it was for them, entering this Manila Bay must be a waking nightmare for Juan. Looking around, Keje sensed the tension.

“What is the matter?” he quietly asked. “This is our goal, our destination. All should be glad we have arrived.”

“In that sense, I guess we’re glad,” Matt answered, “but where we came from, this was our . . . base, before the war against the Japs. I’ve told you before, I was here for several months, but others were here for years. They considered it home. What you may not know is, for Juan, it was home. He was born here . . . there . . . whatever. We all understand the places we came from are lost to us, probably forever, but to see it with our own eyes . . . I try not to think how I’d react to see the place that should be my home near Stephenville, Texas—a place on the far side of the Earth—but I can’t always help it, and neither can anyone else.”

Keje refrained from pointing out the impossibility of anyone living on the far side of the Earth. He suspected Captain Reddy meant it metaphorically. Regardless, the point was clear. “You have my deepest sympathies. I cannot imagine how you feel. I only hope time and good friendship can help ease the pain.”

They steamed northeast at a leisurely and courteous—but awe inspiring to the natives—twelve knots against the prevailing wind, and the closer they got to Cavite and Manila, the more surface craft they met. Most were the ubiquitous feluccas: fore-and-aft-rigged boats, large and small, that seemed universally known and used among all Lemurians they’d met, even the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans. Matt often wondered about that. Compared to the massive Homes, the smaller craft boasted a more sophisticated rig: a large lateen-rigged triangular sail on a relatively short mast with a fore staysail, or jib, allowing them to sail much closer to the wind than even the Grik square-riggers could accomplish. Of course, they couldn’t sail with the wind as efficiently. . . . It suddenly struck him the rig might be yet another legacy of those long-ago East Indiamen. Their small boats and launches might have carried a similar sail plan. Of course, not all Lemurian feluccas were open boats. Most had at least one deck, and sometimes two, and he’d seen several over a hundred feet long, really not feluccas at all. Kind of a cross between a felucca and a caravel. He shrugged inwardly. It didn’t really matter. He was more interested in the generally positive reception they were receiving.

He’d half feared they’d be met with stony glares. Manila was where most of their own “runaways” had fled, convinced the arrival of the Americans and their iron ship had started the war with the Grik in the first place. There was nothing he could say to that. Doubtless there were people back home who thought Pearl Harbor was America’s fault, but most were more sensible. The same seemed true of the majority of Lemurians, thank God. Those in the boats they passed weren’t exactly cheering and throwing flowers, but they appeared friendly, and even somewhat glad to see them. They were certainly fascinated by the ship they’d no doubt heard so much about. Some of the more daring captains of what must have been primarily pleasure craft even tried to pace them. It was impossible, of course; no sailing vessel could steer directly into the wind, and even their tight tacking maneuvers soon left them behind, but many of Walker’s human and ’Cat destroyermen lined the rails and cheered their efforts. It was a relief in more ways than one. There was no overt hostility associated with their arrival and the request that arrival implied, and it took the men’s minds off the gloomy thoughts that had filled them.

They reduced speed to ten knots, then eight, and finally five as the bay grew ever more crowded, and they picked their way carefully through the capering boats. Matt had been warned how busy Manila was, but he hadn’t truly credited it until now. Baalkpan was a major city, but essentially compact, having been hacked out of the hostile wilderness around it. Evidently Manila was a far more sprawling and populous place. Homes and small docks began to appear ten miles short of Cavite, and the shore grew more densely populated the closer they got to the peninsula that had once been the center of America’s Asiatic naval power on that other world. It was a natural place for similar activity here, and a massive shipyard and repair facility dominated it even more thoroughly than they remembered. The tripod masts of a dozen seagoing Homes jutted from the yards and Bacoor Bay beyond, and more of the massive vessels were moored before Maa-ni-la.

When Walker first steamed into Baalkpan Bay almost a year ago, her people were impressed by the size and vitality, the riot of color, and the architectural wonder and singularity of the place. Even the more familiar, almost medieval appearance of Aryaal, with its walls and spires and arches, had not been as impressive. But Baalkpan was positively provincial compared to Maa-ni-la. When Matt asked Nakja-Mur what differences to expect, he’d been told Maa-ni-la was “a little bigger,” but he now saw that had been a significant understatement. The closer they came, the more clearly he grasped that everything was bigger here. The exotically eastern, pagodalike structures were virtual skyscrapers in comparison, and the docks were proportionately massive. The Bosun once compared Baalkpan to Chefoo, but if that was the case, Manila was Shanghai, or some alien, chaotic, eastern-flavored Manhattan. There was no Empire State Building, of course, nothing even close to that, but everything was taller, more tightly packed, and far more densely populated than Baalkpan when they first saw it. The only thing less impressive was the massive Galla tree growing up in the center of the city. Presumably encompassed by San-Kakja’s Great Hall, the tree wasn’t as tall as the one in Baalkpan, but then again, Maa-ni-la was a younger city, closer to the shifting center of trade and commerce. There were land homes on northern Borno now, and even in Japan. If the water was deeper and more dangerous, its coastal bounty was richer. Homes were rarely bothered by mountain fish, except for certain times of year, so they increasingly dared the deeper seas, and a place was required to build them, supply them, and trade for the rich gri-kakka oil they rendered. So even though Baalkpan prospered and enjoyed much influence, Maa-ni-la not only prospered, but grew.

Walker backed engines and shuddered to a stop two hundred yards short of the main wharf Keje directed them to. With a great rattling, booming crash, her anchor splashed into the water and fell to the bottom of the bay. Just like the first time they visited Baalkpan, Matt wouldn’t tie her to the dock until invited to do so.

“All engines stop,” he commanded. “Maintain standard pressure on numbers two and three, and hoist out the launch. Make sure the shore party wears their new whites.”

With Baalkpan’s impressive textile capacity, they’d made new uniforms principally for this mission. They were remarkably good copies, even though they were hand-sewn, and no Lemurian had ever made anything like trousers before. It took a while to get used to the feel of the strange, itchy material. It wasn’t really cotton, and certainly wasn’t wool. More like linen, and Matt honestly didn’t have any idea what it was made of, although he was sure Courtney Bradford could go on about the process for hours. He relinquished the deck to Larry Dowden and started for his stateroom to change into his own new uniform when he had a thought. When they first entered Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, they’d carried sidearms, and the more recognizable Navy cutlasses, pattern of 1918, thinking their version of commonplace weapons might make their hosts feel more at ease. Matt had worn his now battered and ironically much-used academy sword. That resulted in a delicate social situation when he’d given the “sign of the empty hand”—essentially a wave—when his hand wasn’t metaphorically empty. He’d learned the sign was customarily given only when visitors arrived unarmed. That left him with a dilemma. He knew they should have little to fear, even in the massive, sprawling city they were about to enter, but they’d suffered treachery before, and he wouldn’t take any chances.

“Sidearms and cutlasses for the diplomatic mission,” he said, then held up his hand before Keje could protest. “Thompsons for the detail to stay with the boat.”

“Aye, sir,” Larry replied, somewhat triumphantly. He’d argued strenuously that the shore party must be armed, against Adar’s equally adamant disagreement. Matt turned to Keje.

“We know not everybody’s on our side,” he said, explaining his decision to an equal as he wouldn’t have done to anyone else, “and not all the ‘pacifists’ are nonviolent either. I won’t risk anybody in a city that large, and with that many people, on faith alone. I’ll compromise to the extent that we’ll leave our weapons with another guard detail before we ascend to the Great Hall. Fair?” After brief consideration, Keje nodded with a grin.

“Fair. Baalkpan has never known real crime, but in a place like this?” He waved generally toward the city. “I have rarely been here, and not at all recently. Since my last visit, the place has ‘boomed,’ I believe you would say. Adar will object, of course, but it is unreasonable to assume there is no risk at all. Besides, some of the more subversive elements have gravitated here, and I personally would feel much better with my scota at my side. I think leaving our weapons under guard is a fine compromise between trust and prudence.” Matt grinned back.

“I’m glad you approve. Should we tell Adar the plan, or let him stew?”

Their escort consisted of two dozen ’Cats in San-Kakja’s livery: yellow-and-black-checked kilts, burnished silver-plated breastplates, and platterlike helmets that looked like deeper copies of the Americans’, but with cutouts for the ears. A yellowish plume of something feathery flowed down their backs from a clasp on top of their headgear. Short, stabbing swords swung from their hips, again much like those the Americans introduced, which completed the martial ensemble and added a businesslike touch to their colorful garb. The curious crowd parted before them, though no command to do so was audible over the tumult, and they marched purposefully through the bustling shoppers, tradesmen hawking their wares, alien smells of cooking food, and naked younglings skittering about on all fours. The pulse of the city was vibrant and powerful, though hectic beyond belief. Much like Baalkpan, most of the commerce took place in the open air beneath colorful awnings and tapestries, but there seemed no order to it. In Baalkpan, the various services were clumped more or less together, so it was easier to find what one wanted. Here, there was no apparent attempt at any such organization, and the result was a kaleidoscope of sounds and smells and unintelligible voices that assaulted the senses from the time they left the boat until they drew to a halt at the base of the great Galla tree near the center of the city.

Like Baalkpan, the area immediately around the tree, and the Great Hall encompassing its base, was open and free of structures, permitting a park- or gardenlike effect. The area around Nakja-Mur’s hall had long since been churned up by drilling troops, its original beauty sacrificed to the imperative of training an army on the only open ground available. Since then, larger parade grounds and drill fields had been established beyond the new defensive works and hastily cleared jungle, but the original effect was similar enough to inspire a sense of déjà vu. The similarity ended there, however, for the process of greeting was significantly and unexpectedly different.

Nakja-Mur had welcomed them from an opening in his elevated hall, in time-honored fashion, as if they’d approached his “ship” in an open boat. Judging by the finery of the reception committee at the base of the tree, San-Kakja would meet them on level ground—an honor, possibly, but something they hadn’t foreseen.

Matt stared at the berobed phalanx, and tried to figure out which was the High Chief. The High Sky Priest was simple enough to identify; he was dressed exactly like Adar: younger, skinnier, and not as tall, but with the same silvery gray fur, barely revealed by the closely held purple cape flecked with silver stars. Perhaps San-Kakja was one of the beings standing near him? Sotto voce inquiries of Adar and Keje revealed nothing, since San-Kakja had risen since their last visit, and the old High Chief had been childless then. An awkward dilemma.

Decisively, Matt unbuckled his sword and pistol belt and thrust it at Silva before striding forward and holding his right hand aloft, palm forward.

“I’m Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of Walker, Mahan, and other units of the United States Navy, as well as Tarakan Island. I come to you in peace and friendship, representing all the allied Homes united under the Banner of the Trees, against the vicious onslaught of our Ancient Enemy, the Grik. As supreme commander, by acclamation, of the alliance, I’ve been granted plenipotentiary powers, and would treat with the High Chief of this Home. Do I have permission to come aboard?”

Adar nodded approval at Captain Reddy’s words and interpreted what he said. For a brief, awkward moment they waited, but there was no response; then the short sky priest took a step forward as if preparing to address them. Before he could speak, however, he was jostled aside by an even smaller form that strode directly up to Captain Reddy. The Lemurian was robed as the others in the same yellow and black, but the black hem was magnificently embroidered with gold thread and sparkling, polished sequins of shell. A fringe of glittering golden cones chinked dully with every step. A matching sash, complete with cones, coiled around a wasp-thin waist, and a gold gorget, intricately chased and engraved, swayed from a ropelike chain. On its head, the Lemurian wore a magnificently engraved helmet, also of gold, reminiscent of the ancient Spartans except for the feathery yellow plume. Large hinged cheek guards and a rigid nosepiece obscured the face entirely except for a pair of brightly inquisitive but astonishing eyes. They were yellow, which was not uncommon for ’Cats, but they looked like ripe lemons sliced across their axes, and dark, almost black lines radiated outward from bottomless black pupils. A small hand rose up, palm outward, in an openhanded gesture.

“I am Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la, and all the Fil-pin lands,” came a small muffled voice from within the helmet. “I greet you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, High Chief and supreme commander of the allied Homes.” With that, while Adar translated, another hand joined the first, and together they removed the helmet. Behind it was the fine-boned, dark-furred face of a Lemurian female of an age barely eligible to mate.

Matt was surprised. He’d suspected a youngster simply because of their host’s size. But even though he’d learned to accept that Lemurians made no distinction between the sexes regarding occupation—one of the seagoing members of the alliance, Humfra-Dar, had a female High Chief, after all—he’d never even considered the possibility something the size of the entire Philippines might be ruled by one. Stupid. Even in human history, there’d often been powerful women, sometimes supremely powerful. He hoped with a twinge of embarrassment that he hadn’t blinked surprise; he knew how to do that, at least, and he’d caught himself mimicking the Lemurian “expressions” more and more. He had to continue suppressing the reaction, because even though Saan-Kakja had never seen a human before in her life, young as she was, he detected no surprise, shock, distaste or . . . anything that might offend. Of course, she’d had that helmet to hide behind during her initial reaction, he consoled himself.

“Please do come aboard,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you and your amazing, gallant ship, and how you came from some incomprehensibly distant place to defend our people against unspeakable evil.”

“Thank you,” Matt replied gravely in her own tongue. That much he could manage.

She turned slightly and nodded respectfully to Adar first, then Keje—yet another departure from protocol, since Keje was, after all, another head of state. But while Adar’s status might have grown ambiguous—there’d never been a Sky Priest who, in effect, represented multiple Homes—it was certainly real, and perhaps even groundbreaking in importance. “High Sky Priest Adar, your reputation as a scholar is well remembered here, as is your knowledge of the pathways of this world and the next. I know of your oath to destroy the Grik forever, and I crave your counsel. . . .” She paused, and it seemed she’d left something unsaid, but then she continued. “Keje-Fris-Ar, you have long been renowned as a master mariner. Now you are a great warrior. I am honored to be in your presence once more, though I do not expect you to remember our last meeting.” Her eyes flicked across Bradford, then lingered on Silva and Chack. Especially Chack. They rested on Matt once more. “Do come aboard, and welcome. I would prefer to celebrate your arrival in the traditional way, but the times we live in do not countenance ordinary pleasures, it seems. We have much to discuss and”—she blinked apology, while at the same time the posture of her ears conveyed intense frustration—“little time.”

“He looks like a worried mama cat whose kittens are climbing a tree for the first time,” Jim Ellis said aside to Alan Letts. Both had come to observe the launching, and they’d escorted Sandra Tucker, who’d decided to join them at the last minute—probably to make sure Mallory didn’t strain any of his wounds. It was a good thing too. He clearly felt inhibited by her presence. Letts chuckled, and so did Sandra, although the nurse’s laugh seemed fragile, exhausted. Letts looked at her. She’d come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working quite late or quite early, training ever more nurses and corpsmen for the looming showdown, or tending personally to a hurt beyond her students’ abilities. Her long, sandy-brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that belied her twenty-eight years and extreme professional competence. It accented her pretty face and slender neck, but it did make her look younger than she was. Younger and more vulnerable.

Alan Letts liked and admired her, as did everyone, human and Lemurian, but he always felt a little guilty when she was near. He was morally certain he’d married Karen Theimer because he loved her, and not, as some whispered, to snatch up one of the only “dames” known to exist. He knew he loved her, and they were happy together, but his very happiness inspired much of his guilt. He couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t right for him to be happy when so many of the men were so miserable. It had strained his relationship with the men, just as he’d expected, and Sandra and Captain Reddy predicted. As Captain Reddy’s chief of staff, he was obeyed, but he’d lost a measure of moral authority, he thought. On the other hand, everyone knew Sandra and the captain were nuts about each other—Walker’s crew had probably known it before they had. Even so, they’d tried to hide their attraction out of respect for the feelings of the crew, and they’d never once acted on that attraction beyond a rare stolen kiss they thought no one could see. They’d both already been held in high esteem, but their poignant sacrifice endeared them to the crew even more. It was obvious their love continued to grow, and each was very much a reservoir for the other’s strength, but still they didn’t marry or “shack up,” as the scuttlebutt said Silva and Pam Cross had sometimes done—not to mention Silva’s “other” affair! They did nothing any of the surviving destroyermen from Walker and Mahan couldn’t do. The men called them dopes and rolled their eyes in exasperation . . . and loved them for it. It was ongoing, positive proof the skipper wouldn’t rest until he fulfilled his promise to find the other humans he believed must exist in this twisted, messed-up world. Alan Letts was in awe of their willpower, and amazed by their self-sacrificing, almost tragic nobility. It was like two star-crossed lovers from a John Ford western had found themselves in a Cecil B. DeMille epic—complete with a cast of thousands, monsters, and freak weather events. And every time he saw the sad, melancholy look on Sandra Tucker’s face, he felt like a heel.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, apparently noticing his expression.

He smiled. “Nothing. Just woolgathering. Hoping they patched all the holes and the damn thing doesn’t sink.” Mallory sent him a scorching look.

The plane was in the water now, fully buoyant and straining against the taglines attached to each wing and held by forty ’Cats apiece. The current here could be fierce when the tide was ebbing. Another hundred were sitting back, awaiting the order to drag the plane back up the ramp. This was merely a floatation test to see if they had, indeed, patched all the bullet holes. A lot of other repairs had been “completed” as well. The fuel tanks were patched and the wings repaired. The jagged section of the port wing had been trimmed and faired where a four-foot section had been torn completely off when the Japanese scout plane rammed them. Fortunately, the float was down at the time and hadn’t been carried away, but now it was secured forever in a lowered position, as was the starboard float. Ben had decided to go ahead and cut off a corresponding length from the other wing to trim the plane and provide enough aluminum for repairs. The plane would lose some lift—and a lot of speed from the additional constant drag—but it was the best compromise he could make. Maneuverability would suffer as well, since they’d been forced to construct new, slightly abbreviated ailerons from the local, almost indestructible Borno bamboo covered with “linen” and heavily doped.

They hadn’t been able to come up with a replacement for the shattered Plexiglas yet, either for the cockpit or the observation blisters, but they were still kicking around a few ideas. Beyond that, the plane was patched and dented, and the once proud blue paint had faded and oxidized to a general blotchy gray, but Mallory said it would fly—once he and Jis-Tikkar finished with the starboard engine. Even now, the plane floated with a decided list to port, the float almost underwater, because the place where the starboard engine should be was just a tangle of mounts, hoses, and lines, covered with a bright green tarp.

“How’s she doing?” Mallory bellowed, and Ensign Palmer—formerly signalman second—poked his head out of the cockpit.

“There’s a few leaks . . .” he hedged.

“How bad?”

“Just a second, Tikker’s checking them now.” Moments later, a sable-colored ’Cat with a polished brass cartridge case thrust through a neat hole in his right ear appeared. Sandra put a hand over her mouth and giggled as he conferred with Palmer.

“Yeah,” Mallory said aside to her with a grin, “little booger doesn’t want anyone to forget his ‘noble wound.’ I wish I had a medal for him, but I guess that’ll do.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe the two of them flew that plane back here after I passed out. Especially in the shape it was.”

“He’ll get a medal one of these days,” Ellis assured him, “and he’s already been made an ensign.” He laughed. “Of course, he’s not in the Army Air Corps. The Navy’ll get to claim the first commissioned Lemurian aviator!”

Palmer shouted at them: “She’s doing okay, mostly, but leaking pretty fast in a couple places. We’d better drag her out!”

Ben nodded and gave the command. A moment later the inactive ’Cats on the beach joined the others on the taglines. With a shout from a Guard NCO, they heaved in unison. He grunted. “We’ll have an Air Corps someday. We have to. Even when we get that back in the air”—he gestured at the plane—“it won’t last long.”

Letts nodded grimly. “Airpower’s the key; the Japs taught us that. But for now we have to concentrate on the Navy, I’m afraid. And, of course, there’s the problem with engines—speaking of which . . . ?”

“We’ll get it running,” Mallory promised. “It’s going to be rough as hell and sound like shit, but we’ll get it running.”

“How?” Sandra asked. They all looked at the savaged motor, hanging from a bamboo tripod nearby under an awning. Beyond was the “radio shack,” a simple, sturdy, waterproof shelter erected to house the radio they’d temporarily removed from the plane—just in case it did sink. The PBY’s starboard motor was surrounded by benches covered with tools and ruined engine parts.

Ben shrugged. “It’s almost back together. We had to take it completely apart.” He nodded at Alan. “Mister Letts really came through again with that weird corklike stuff!” Ellis nodded, and Letts shifted uncomfortably before he replied.

“Yeah, well, Bradford discovered it. Some sort of tree growing in the northwestern marshes where all those tar pits are. The trees draw the stuff up in their roots and deposit it in the lower, outer layers of their trunks. They creosote themselves! Bradford says it protects them from insects.”

“Whatever,” Ben muttered. “Spanky said it’s the best gasket material he’s ever had his hands on, and you’re the one who figured out the application.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully, looking at Letts. “He’s turned out pretty good, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” agreed Mallory, his tone turning wistful. “Married life seems to agree with him.”

“So it would seem.”

There was an awkward silence, but Mallory broke it before it stretched out. “Anyway, we had to take it apart so we could get at the connecting rods on the crank and take the two bad pistons out. Only one was really junked, but we lost two jugs.”

Sandra smiled patiently. “And what does that mean?”

“Well . . . see those round, knobby things sticking out of the main part? The things with . . . ribs on them?”

“The cylinders?” Sandra asked. “Cylinders are jugs?”

“Uh . . . yeah.” Ben smiled with relief. At least she understood that much. “Two of them we can’t do anything about; they took too much of a beating. One was even shot through. We just can’t fix them now. Maybe someday. Anyway, we’ve pulled the pistons and rods, and we’re just going to plug the holes. Like I said, it’ll run pretty rough, and it’ll lose a lot of horsepower, but it’ll run.”

Ellis winced. “I guess if there’s nothing else for it . . .”

“ ’Fraid not.”

They heard a deep, dull thump of cannon far across the bay, and turned toward the sound. Another gun followed the first, then another. A square-rigged ship, the new frigate Donaghey, by the distant, fuzzy look of her, had finally returned from her rescue mission and was saluting the Tree Flag of the Alliance, fluttering above the ramparts of Fort Atkinson at the mouth of the bay. The fort returned the salute, but a few minutes after the last guns fell silent, a red rocket soared into the sky and popped above the fort.

“What the hell?” Ellis breathed. A red rocket from the fort was the signal for alarm. A moment later two green rockets exploded in the air. “Okay,” he said. “That’s a little less terrifying. The ship must be flying a signal we can’t see yet, and whoever’s on duty at the fort decided we needed a heads-up.”

Mallory looked at him curiously. “I know what the red rocket means, but I must’ve missed the green rocket briefing.”

“There wasn’t one,” Letts told him. “Jim, Riggs, and I just worked the signal out a couple days ago.” He gestured at the plane, then vaguely all around. “We’ve all been a little preoccupied. The new system’s on the roster at the fort, but not here yet.”

“What’s it mean?”

“One red means alarm, like always, but it’s also an urgent attention getter now, too. The first green rocket after a red means ‘important information. ’”

“What’s a second green one mean?”

“Immediate, command staff level. Basically what we just saw was somebody sending a message that says: ‘Wake up! We’ve got important, deep-shit information. We don’t have time to tell it twice, so get everybody who can do something about anything in one place right now. Dammit.’ ”

Ben’s eyes were wide. “Those three little rockets said all that?”

“Yeah.”

Mahan’s general alarm began to sound, its thrumming, gonging blare somewhat muffled by the humidity and a light mist that had begun to fall, even though the ship was moored less than three hundred yards away. The sound was instantly recognizable, however.

“What the hell now?” Letts demanded. Jim Ellis was already sprinting for his ship. In the distance, also muffled, they suddenly heard an engine. An airplane engine. Ben looked frantically around at the darkening sky, his eyes suddenly focusing on an object to westward.

“This is something else!” The straining Lemurians had the plane about halfway out of the water, and he ran toward them, sling flapping empty at his side. “Get it out! Get it out! Get my plane out of the goddamn water!” He grabbed one of the lines himself, insensitive to the pain. Ed and Tikker leaped down from the cockpit and joined him. “Heave!”

“What is it?” Sandra asked Alan, still standing beside her. He wasn’t wearing binoculars and his eyes were straining hard. He suddenly remembered the description of the plane that attacked the PBY, and the indistinct form didn’t snap into focus, but he knew what it was: a biplane with floats.

“Oh, God!”

“What?”

Letts snatched her arm hard and tugged her toward a covered gun emplacement some distance away. “C’mon!”

“But why are we going that way? The plane, the ship . . .”

“Right! They’re what it’s after! I’m not telling Captain Reddy I let you stand here and catch a Jap bomb!” Sandra was torn. She knew she’d be needed here if the plane inflicted any damage, but if she were dead . . . She made up her mind, and in an instant she was running beside Alan as fast as she could, the engine sound growing louder by the moment.

“Run!” Letts gasped, as the two machine guns on the starboard side of the ship opened up. Many Lemurians were just standing and staring, and Letts and Sandra screamed at them to take cover. They made it under the bombproof and turned to look just as the plane roared over the moored destroyer. Plumes of spray were subsiding where the plane’s bullets had struck the water, and a dark object was falling toward the ship. A huge geyser erupted just short of Mahan, and the harbor resonated with a thunderclap roar. The plane pulled up, poorly aimed tracers chasing it, and banked hard left, to the north. All they could do was watch while it slowly turned and steadied for another pass, this time clearly intending to strafe and bomb the ship from aft forward. Bullets kicked up white bushes of spray, and whranged off the steel of the motionless ship. There were a few screams. Mahan seemed helpless, but at the last instant the plane staggered slightly, perhaps from a hit, and steadied on a different course: toward the PBY and ultimately directly at Sandra, Letts, and the others who’d taken refuge with them.

“Get down,” Letts shouted, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow his own advice. His normally fair, freckled face was pale and drawn. Angry flashes sparkled above the cowling of the oncoming plane, and clouds of sand erupted among the people heaving on the taglines. A few Marines were shooting back with Krags, to no apparent effect, and several of the laborers pitched to the ground. Another dark object detached itself as the plane bored in, seemingly destined to land right atop the helpless flying boat. Again, miraculously, the bomb fell short, detonating close to the trees beyond the plane, and sending a greasy brown plume of smoke high in the air, along with shards of trees, timbers, and other debris that rained down on the plane and the detail still straining against its weight. A massive secondary explosion sent a roiling, orange ball of fire into the sky, consuming the barrels of ready gasoline they’d stored nearby, and more flaming debris clattered down, almost to the bombproof. Still firing its single, forward machine gun, the plane sent a fusillade into the defensive position, and bullets thunked into the heavy timbers and whirred away, showering them with splinters. Sandra clutched the dirt and burrowed even lower as the floatplane thundered overhead and pulled up, heading toward the city.

“No more bombs,” Letts surmised, then coughed. “Probably going to make a leisurely recon of our defenses and just fly away. Damn-all we can do about it.” Sandra looked up at him and saw he wasn’t injured, just coughing on the dust and gathering smoke in the air. Others around them were standing now too, but all she saw were a few superficial splinter wounds.

“Will it come back?” she asked, rising beside him.

“I don’t think so.”

In an instant she was running back toward the plane and the pall of smoke and licking flames beyond. “Get some medical help down here!” she shouted, and was gone.

“Avast heaving,” Mallory wheezed, wondering blearily why he’d used a nautical term even as he did it. ’Cats collapsed to the ground, gasping and coughing as they breathed the black and gray particles drifting down from the dense smoke above. It was raining now; soon it would become a torrent. His shoulder was killing him, and he absently began trying to stuff his arm back in the sling. There were moans among the workers too, but he couldn’t tell the wounded from the exhausted through the burning tears filling his eyes. Ed Palmer appeared, dirty and bleeding from a cut on his brow. The ensign leaned over and put his hands on his knees when a coughing spasm took him.

“Where’s Tikker?” Ben demanded. Ed gestured toward the engine, still swaying gently beneath its tripod. It seemed okay, but the awning was gone. Tikker and a dozen other ’Cats were throwing shovelfuls of sand on the burning gasoline, dangerously close to their workbenches.

“The plane?”

Ed’s fit finally passed, and he spit a gobbet of dark phlegm. “We saved her, I think. A few more holes from bomb fragments, maybe.” He shook his head wearily. “Nothing we can’t patch. Might’ve sunk her if she’d still been in the water, though, and it’d have been a bitch to drag her out then.” Mallory nodded. Just then Sandra Tucker joined them, breathing hard and beginning to cough as well.

“How many hurt?” she managed. Mallory gestured at the prostrate forms. “Damned if I know. Hey, you monkeys!” he shouted. “Off your asses! Anybody that ain’t dead, fall in!” The workers struggled to their feet, still coughing and gasping, leaving several on the ground who were either too badly wounded or would never rise again. Sandra surveyed the scene.

“Get some first aid started here!” she instructed. “Corpsmen are on the way.” With that she hurried into the smoke, closer to where the second bomb had struck, knowing there’d be more injured there. They couldn’t see Mahan through the smoke, but her general alarm was still echoing across the water.

Mallory sighed and pointed at a group of five guardsmen who seemed relatively fit. “Well, don’t just stand there; go with her! The rest of you goons check your buddies.” He glanced at Ed and saw him staring at the fire as though stricken.

“God a’mighty,” Ed whispered numbly.

“What now?”

Ed pointed at the fire, then fell to his knees in the sand in apparent desolation.

“What?”

“The radio shack,” he whispered. “It’s . . . gone.”

All the “battle line” commanders were there, the High Chiefs of the few seagoing Homes of the alliance. Jarrik-Fas represented Salissa in Keje’s stead. Lord Muln Rolak commanded the third-largest infantry force, that of the displaced Aryaalans, but with Alden and Queen Maraan missing, and everyone else away, Rolak was the senior general. He couldn’t hold still. Safir Maraan had been queen of his people’s bitterest foe, and Aryaal had been at war with B’mbaado before the Grik came. Since then, however, he’d developed an intense fondness for the Orphan Queen. He thought of her almost as a granddaughter now—but more than that, as well. They’d fought side by side in the fiercest battle the world had ever known, and he couldn’t bear the thought that she might have fallen into enemy hands. So he paced.

Commander Ellis had just arrived, soaked to the bone, his uniform badly stained from many hours overseeing repairs to the damage the near miss had caused his ship. He looked exhausted. He joined Ben Mallory and Ed Palmer, as well as Lieutenant Riggs and Lieutenant Commander Brister, who’d just arrived from Fort Atkinson. Alan Letts and Lieutenant Bernard Sandison, Walker’s torpedo officer, currently serving as the ordnance officer of the alliance, were standing beside Nakja-Mur’s throne of cushions where the High Chief of Baalkpan reclined, eyes darting pensively at the uproar caused by the conversations of his other advisors. None of the “principals” had spoken yet; they were waiting for another to arrive.

When Lieutenant Greg Garrett limped in, leaning on a crutch, attended by Sandra Tucker, Karen Theimer, and Keje’s daughter, Selass, he was freshly shaven, and his uniform, while damp, was as crisp as he could make it, given the dingy spots where soot, powder fouling, and blood had been scrubbed away. His narrow, handsome face was pale and drawn, and he looked . . . miserable. Letts had ordered him to stop by the hospital for a checkup before appearing in person. The gist of his story was in the report he’d already submitted by courier as soon as he dropped anchor, however: a report that had spread like wildfire. Letts and Ellis crossed to him, assuring him by their solicitude that they didn’t blame him for what happened, but it was clear that, no matter what they said, he blamed himself.

Nakja-Mur didn’t stir from his seat. He felt no bitterness toward the young officer, nor did he blame him in any way, but so many new worries had been added to his endless list that day, he didn’t trust himself to stand. Besides, ever since battered Donaghey entered the bay on a weak, sodden breeze, and the rockets soared into the sky—and then they heard the report of the explosions down at the shipyard and saw the Japanese plane soaring unimpeded over his city—he’d felt a strange tightening in his chest. Now they had some hard choices to make, choices that might lead to disaster. As much as he trusted his current human and Lemurian advisors—his friends, he felt—none of the “steadier heads”—Captain Reddy, Keje, Adar, Alden, even Chief Gray and the Japanese officer, Shinya, the ones who’d always been there for him in the past—were there. Oh, what a terrible stroke of ill luck! He almost wished the Japanese bomb had struck the ship or the plane instead of the priceless radio!

“Is the raa-di-o truly beyond repair?” he asked almost plaintively, silencing the hubbub around them.

“I’m afraid so,” Palmer replied woodenly. “Everything’s gone, even the batteries.”

“We lost nineteen people too,” Sandra added harshly, putting things in perspective. “And it could have been a lot worse.”

Nakja-Mur nodded to her, acknowledging the hit. He visibly straightened himself. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. He had to set an example. “Of course. While I grieve for the families of the lost, I am grateful it was not worse. I only needed to hear the words myself. In the ‘bigger picture,’ as Captain Reddy would say, the loss of the raa-di-o is surely a straa-tee-jik setback.”

“So where does that leave us?” Letts asked remorselessly. “I’ll sum it up. Two of our most important leaders are marooned, at best, behind enemy lines. . . .” Garrett flinched, and Alan looked at him apologetically. “It’s not your fault, Greg; it’s theirs. Damned silly heroics. Besides, you handled your ship superbly, not only in battle, but by getting her back here so quickly in the shape she’s in, with such important information. My God, Grik with cannon! But the fact remains, we’ve left some very important people behind. If we can’t get Queen Maraan out, at the very least it’ll clobber the morale of her subjects here—who, I might add, constitute over a quarter of our combined army.”

“Getting her out is the very first thing we must contemplate!” Rolak demanded hotly, still pacing back and forth.

“I agree. But we’ve got to figure out how, and we’ve got some other angles to consider. First, though, how.” He turned back to Garrett. “What shape’s Donaghey in?”

“Not good,” Garrett admitted grudgingly. “Her stern was battered in by the explosion, and besides the loss of her mizzen, her top hamper’s a mess. We repaired a lot, and jury-rigged more, but it’ll take several days, at least, of intensive effort by the yard to accomplish the bare essentials—such as replacing the mast and stopping all her leaks.”

Letts nodded somberly. “The next two frigates are nearing completion, but neither is ready for sea. The yard manager says he needs another week—and repairs to Donaghey’ll set that back. The rest of the ‘fleet’ of captured Grik ships is either still undergoing alteration and arming, or is scattered all over the place. Only Felts is in port, taking on more supplies for the Tarakan expedition. The Homes of the battle line are certainly powerful enough to face however many cannon-armed ships the Grik might have so far, but they’re just too slow.”

Nakja-Mur listened while Letts spoke, and honestly wondered if anything they did at this point would make any difference. But they had to do something. He heard the American discussing all the possibilities and discarding them in turn, just as he already had in his mind. There really was only one choice, but he waited diplomatically until the others came to the same conclusion.

“We’ll have to use Mahan.” Ellis sighed at last.

Sandra pounced. “Two things wrong with that,” she said. “First, can she even do it? What kind of damage did she sustain today?”

“Two dead, and seven wounded by machine-gun fire.” Ellis looked at Selass. “Saak-Fas was one of the wounded, but only lightly,” he added with compassion. “He’s already returned to duty. Damage to the ship consists of a few sprung plates from the near miss. Maybe some cracked firebricks in the number two boiler. We’ve already shored up the plates and welded them, and shut down number two. If the bricks are damaged, we’ll have them replaced and be ready to steam by morning. We can take on fuel and supplies and be underway by the morning after that, I believe.”

“You’ve still only got one propeller,” Sandra pointed out. That was true. They’d tried to cast another to replace the one Walker had “commandeered,” but the first attempt had been hopelessly out of balance. They were working on another, but it would be some time before they were even ready to pour it.

“That’s right,” Ellis agreed, “but Mahan’s still faster than anything she’ll meet, by a long shot.”

“Maybe, but there’s still the other consideration: Matt . . . Captain Reddy left strict orders that Mahan not do anything remotely like you’re considering. He has a plan for the defense of this place, when the time comes, and that plan not only includes Mahan; she’s essential to its success. Despite the imperative that the enemy never suspects she even exists!”

Rolak slapped his sword sheath in frustration. “Captain Reddy is not here, my lady. I am bound to obey his orders more closely than anyone. He holds my life, my very honor, in his grasp, and can do with it what he will. But he is not here, and we must deal with this situation in his stead. Knowing him as I do, I am positive he would bless this course since it is our only option—and it is a thing that must be done. Knowing him as you do, I am equally positive you must agree.”

Sandra slowly wilted under Rolak’s intense gaze, and finally she nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She sighed. “I only wish we could tell him. It’ll be days before he starts to wonder why we haven’t made our daily comm check. Even then he won’t worry, not for a while. We’ve missed it before due to bad weather or atmospherics.” She looked at Riggs and he nodded confirmation.

“She’s right,” he said. “And even when he does start to wonder, he won’t have any reason to be alarmed. Everything was fine when we made our last report, and he knows we’d have days of warning, at least, if the Grik were on the move. He’ll just think the radio’s busted”—he snorted—“which it is. But that might not mean we can’t get in touch with him.” The hall grew silent, and he had everyone’s attention. “As you know, Radioman Clancy is with Walker, but he, Ed, and I have been working on simple crystal receivers. There’s not much to them, really, and we’ve got all the stuff we need to make a few. We located some galena for the crystals, which is good, but we could have done it by mixing powdered sulfur with lead. They’re passive receivers and don’t even require batteries. Just a little copper wire and a headset—or we might even try building some simple speakers. That won’t help us right now, although they’ll come in handy, but I think we can put together a simple spark-gap transmitter that might reach the captain. We’ll need stuff: lots of wire, for example, and power, of course. Mahan ’s generator would do nicely, but since she won’t be here . . . I think we can make some wet-cell batteries. Lead acid. I’m pretty sure we can do it, and it shouldn’t take much time.”

“How much time?” Letts asked.

“We should have done it already,” Riggs admitted. “We’ve all just been so busy, and we had a good radio. . . . I’ve been so occupied building the semaphore towers and training the operators. . . .” He shook his head. “No excuse. A week or so, I guess. We’ll have to make everything from scratch.”

Letts looked at Nakja-Mur. “Highest priority,” he said. “Use whoever and whatever you need.”

“So I guess it’s settled, then,” Ellis said, rubbing his scalp. “We go. What have you got for me, Bernie?”

The dark-haired torpedo officer’s eyebrows rose, and he took a deep breath. “Not as much as I’d like. We’ve got twenty of the new projectiles cast, turned, and loaded in shells for the four inch-fifties, but we’re just now gearing up to manufacture the primers, so that’s it. The primers have been the hardest part, actually. Up till now we’ve had to make them one at a time, with a swage, and a stamp to make the anvil—not to mention some very dangerous experimentation with fulminate of mercury. We’ve got that sorted out now, but it’ll be another three or four days before I can get you more.” Ellis was shaking his head. “I know, too late. But . . . at least you’ll have a few to test . . . if you need them. Remember, though, they’re just solid copper bolts, no explosive, and they’re loaded with black powder, so the fire control computer won’t help you. I was hoping for guncotton by now—we’ve got all the recipes and procedures—but it’s tricky stuff, and we haven’t finished making the things to make it with, if you know what I mean. The reloads should work fine against wooden ships in local control, though. They ought to shoot through and through. Sorry, that’s all I’ve got. Obviously we’ve been working on other stuff, but nothing’s ready yet.”

“What about the torpedo? Should I take it?” The only torpedo they had left, between Walker and Mahan, was an old MK-10 submarine torpedo Bernie had salvaged from a shack in bombed-out Surabaya before they abandoned it in their own world. He’d thought it was damaged somehow, since it was with others that were condemned. After exhaustive inspection, he’d determined there was nothing wrong with it after all.

“No,” Letts decided. “The captain has plans for that fish. We have no real reason to suspect Amagi’s ready to move, and that’s the only thing you’d have any business shooting it at. Besides, it might get damaged. The torpedo stays here.” Ellis nodded agreement, and Letts looked around at the others. “So I guess it’s settled then—except for the other ‘angles’ I mentioned at the start.”

“Like what?”

“Like that plane didn’t get here by itself,” Mallory interrupted with absolute certainty. “It was a ‘Dave,’ just like the one we tangled with, and it doesn’t have the legs to make a trip all the way from Aryaal and back. They must have rendezvoused with at least one, and probably two ships, to refuel on the way. They’ll still be out there, and I bet they’re the armed ones that showed up when Greg tried to go back for Pete and the queen.”

“Grik always travel in threes,” Ellis said, pondering. “Maybe we can catch them and destroy them on the way back to Aryaal. Maybe even get the plane, if it was damaged.”

“That would be ideal,” agreed Letts, “because otherwise they’re going to know all about our defensive arrangements. Maybe they’ll think they got the plane and the ship, which might be good, but maybe they won’t. Regardless, they’ll have a good idea what they’ll face when they come.”

“I fear the events of the last week, the attack on Donaghey, and the destructive scout mission, proves they will come soon. Sooner than we planned,” Nakja-Mur interjected. “Why else should they do those things now? Why not wait until they are ready—unless they already are?”

“Well, we need to know that too,” Letts agreed. He looked at Ben. “How soon can you fly?”

Ben was exhausted and hurting, and his brain wasn’t working right, so it took him longer than usual to form a reply. “Uh, we can have the starboard engine reassembled in a day. Another day or two to install it and check it out . . . No sense putting the cowl back on; shredded as it is, it’ll drag worse than the motor.” He fell silent again, contemplating. Finally he sighed. “Three days, if we have plenty of help and everything works. We still need something for a windscreen, though.” He looked speculatively at Ellis. “Maybe some of Mahan’s spare window glass?”

“Very well,” said Letts, realizing he was treading on another of Captain Reddy’s orders: never fly the plane without established communications. Nothing for it. “Top priority on that as well. I want you to fly to Aryaal, take a quick look, see what Amagi and the Grik fleet are up to, and head straight back. Can you do it?”

Ben shrugged. “It’ll probably be the roughest flight of my life, but we should still be able to go higher than they can shoot. Yeah, provided the wings don’t fold up on us.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime, Felts sails tomorrow, whether Clark’s ready or not. He’ll warn Tarakan, in case those three Grik ships didn’t head back to the barn, and then proceed to Manila. If we can’t get a transmitter going, he’ll be the quickest way to inform the captain the Grik are up to something.” He looked at Nakja-Mur. “Yeah, I feel it too.”

Two weeks had passed since he and Queen Maraan were marooned with the rest of the refugees, long enough for the three Grik ships that drove Donaghey away to return to Aryaal with news of the battle, prepare this expedition, and return. It was also past long enough for Donaghey to make it to Baalkpan, damaged as she was, and another relief force to be dispatched. The problem was, with the allied navy scattered from here to the Philippines, could they even scrape together a force large enough to come to their aid?

He had no doubt that, eventually, help would come. If nothing else, Garrett would return as soon as his ship was repaired, but that might be a while. In the meantime, the better part of a thousand Grik warriors were about to start beating the brush for the less than three hundred souls left in Faask’s and his care, mostly males by now at least, but mostly civilians too. Less than a hundred had ever borne arms, but ever since he’d been left behind, Faask had been training all the refugees, females and younglings included, for just this eventuality. Fortunately, most of the latter had already been rescued. There were still a few, those who wouldn’t leave their mates, or females who’d been separated from their younglings and still hoped against hope they might turn up. A few elders had remained as well, too old and frail to wield a sword or spear, but who wouldn’t leave until everyone else was rescued. Many were ill, due to either malnutrition or exhaustion. That left Alden’s “effectives” at just over two hundred.

His scouts had discovered a force of two thousand or more closing from the west-northwest, pushing them back from observation points overlooking the bay they’d used to such good effect, and now this blocking force was landing in their “rear,” cutting off their egress to the sea.

“We better get back to the rally point and tell the queen what we’ve seen,” he said. Motioning a pair of pickets to maintain their positions and keep tabs on the enemy advance as long as they could, Alden and Faask slithered down the embankment and hurried off through the jungle.

Queen Maraan awaited them, anxious for their news. “Is it true?” she hissed. Pete and Haakar-Faask both nodded, and her eyes turned to slits. “What will we do?”

“We must keep you safe, Your Majesty,” Faask replied.

“How? Would you have me slink off into the jungle, dig a hole, and crawl into it?” She gestured around at the refugees, huddled under makeshift shelters against the rain that had begun to fall. “What of them?”

“With respect, Majesty—” Faask began.

“No! I will not skulk around, leaving my people to be slaughtered!” She stared levelly at Alden and Faask. “We will fight! All of us! You two are probably the greatest generals this world has ever known. In different ways, perhaps, since you come from different backgrounds, but that should give us an insurmountable advantage, not a disadvantage. Surely, between you, you can devise a plan that will, if not give us victory, at least deny it to them! All we need is time, my friends. Our allies will not abandon us.” She grinned. “We are too important, are we not?”

“But they are simply too many!” Faask protested. “They outnumber us fifteen to one!”

Alden scratched his beard. “Yeah,” he agreed, “if they were all in one place, that would be true.” He knelt to the soggy ground and swept the leaves and brush away, revealing a bare spot of damp earth. The rain was already tapering off—another short squall—and he selected a small, pointed stick. After he scratched a rough outline of the island, he drew a line across the top. “This is the main Grik force. There’re many of them, but they’re stretched across the entire width of the island. If we mass our forces here”—he pointed to the south—“we can strike their right flank and probably have numerical superiority, at least locally. We hit ’em like maniacs and break through into their rear. Even against a ‘normal’ enemy, that’d leave them dangerously exposed. With any luck, they’ll go nuts—like we’ve seen them do before—and we roll up their flank, killing as we go.” He grinned. “We might even set the whole army to flight, but probably not. Sooner or later our guys’ll get tired and the attack’ll run out of steam. That’s when they’ll hit back.”

“I agree so far,” Faask said, “but what good will that do? It will be a glorious end, but it will not protect the queen.”

“Sure it will, because we don’t let our ‘army’ run out of steam. We pull back to here”—he pointed again with his stick—“where we take a breather while the Grik center turns to attack us on their right. Where we were. When they do that, we hit ’em again, on their new left flank!”

Faask was silent for a moment, studying the impressions in the dirt. “But that’s . . . brilliant!”

Pete grinned. “Of course it is! We just have to make sure our coordination works like clockwork, and we have signals that work and are obeyed instantly.”

Faask stroked his own beard. Alden was more used to the sea folk, who generally kept their facial fur clipped short, but on the veteran warrior the beard seemed appropriate somehow. “And the tactic should work equally well against the Grik far left, if they have not, as you say, gone ‘nuts’ already. It would be the greatest, most audacious victory of the age!” He looked at Alden with renewed respect, then frowned. “But what of the blocking force? Our warriors will be exhausted, even if we are successful.”

Alden gestured toward the sea. “It’ll take them a day to get their shit together. We know where they are, but they don’t have a clue about us. They’ll figure it out pretty quick, but by then we’ll already be headed toward the main force. That ought to confuse them. I figure we’ll have a day or so to rest before they catch up, and they’ll be at least as spread out as the first bunch by then.”

“And we do it again!” Faask shouted triumphantly.

“And then we do it again,” Alden confirmed.

Queen Maraan coughed. “All very inspiring, noble generals. I am impressed. I knew you could do it, and it seems an outstanding plan . . . only remember the single greatest lesson I have learned from both of you: no plan may ever be entirely relied upon, once the battle has begun!”