“Starting to look like a hobo,” he growled, remembering the ones he used to see wandering around the stockyard train station when he was a kid. “Acting like one too. Waking up when I feel like it—damn, I bet it’s nearly oh eight hundred!” He glanced at his watch: 0750. He frowned, shaking his head, then looked at the mirror again. His hair was halfway down his ears, and starting to curl a little against his collar in the back. It also had a little gray in it all of a sudden. The stubble on his face seemed as much salt as pepper, and he was only thirty-three. He needed to hit Juan up for a haircut, he thought with a grimace, but then, with a twinge of satisfaction, he remembered he still controlled his razor, at least.

He shaved as carefully as he could. Most of his old Asiatic Fleet destroyermen had long since ceased shaving. He wouldn’t force them to, with razors so scarce. The main reason he still did it himself was that the men expected it. He’d kept his face clean shaven, to the best of his ability, throughout all the trials they’d come through together, and even though it was a little thing after all, sometimes it was the little things that made all the difference in the end. It was a symbol of continuity they all could cling to, even him. It was a stubborn statement that not everything they knew before the Squall was lost forever. The skipper still shaved his face. He had to admit it was a rather pathetic affectation, but they’d lost almost everything else.

Stepping to the little closet, he selected one of his new uniforms and put it on. As always, it took a few moments to get used to the itch. He didn’t mind. The new uniforms were amazingly well made, and he thought it important that all his people, human and Lemurian, continue to wear the uniform of the navy they were part of: a uniform they were accustomed to, and associated with their duty. The battered shoes and hat contrasted with his new clothes, but there was nothing he could do about that. Finally he buckled the belt supporting his holstered M-1911 .45 automatic, and his hard-used academy dress sword. The sword was polished and well cared for, but the sweat-stained grip and notched blade attested to far more service than he’d ever imagined it would see when he purchased it for his graduation.

Belatedly prepared to face the day, he stepped onto the balcony. The apartment shared by the small allied diplomatic mission to the Maa-ni-los occupied an entire level of the Great Hall, and the balcony went all the way around it like a giant wraparound porch. Despite the hall’s robust construction and the massive trunk of the Galla tree that anchored it, as high as he was above the ground, there was still an almost imperceptible sense of motion. Unfortunately, the motion of the diplomacy they’d been engaged in was almost imperceptible as well, scandalously so, according to Keje and Adar. Ever since that first unusual, hopeful meeting with Saan-Kakja, when there’d seemed to be such commonality and unity of purpose, the Maa-ni-lo High Chief had been kept away from them by officious underlings under the pretext of “propriety.” That was a bunch of crap, according to Matt’s Lemurian friends.

Propriety had nothing to do with it, they said; factional politics was to blame. Both felt grievously insulted, not only for themselves, but for him. Matt was willing to put up with much; they needed the Maa-ni-los’ help too badly, and as long as there was any hope at all, he’d wait a little longer. But it wasn’t easy. There was so much to do, both back “home” in Baalkpan and otherwise, that he couldn’t shake the frustration gnawing him. He’d grown so used to the constant stress of his position, the combat and preparation for it, that to become essentially a tourist on vacation was about to drive him nuts. He had nothing critical to do, and he was too keyed up to relax.

As he’d been every morning for the five days they’d been in Manila, he was greeted by the awesome sight of the vibrant, chaotic, prosperous city. The sights, sounds, colors, and smells blended together to mount an overwhelming assault on his senses. Much like Baalkpan’s, the morning activity was centered around the waterfront, where vendors hawked the early catch, but there was more native industry than he was used to as well. More than Baalkpan boasted before he and his people arrived, at least—back before the war became all-consuming. Open-air ropewalks were laid out between the great chandlery buildings, where hot, smoky pitch was daubed on heavy new cable, destined for hawsers or stays aboard the massive ships. Sailmakers toiled under awnings, sewing bolts of fabric together with quick, deft stitches. A singsong, chittering chantey reached his ears on the same breeze that carried smells of savory cooking, boiling pitch, and animal excrement. Less intense, but far more familiar, was the water-logged, rotting-wood, fishy-salty aroma of any harbor and the sea.

Much of the excrement came from a species of stunted, domesticated brontosaurus, similar to those they knew from other places. Some came from the myriad packs of shrieking younglings scampering heedlessly—and apparently unheeded—about, who’d not yet become shackled to the remarkably refined running-water privies that allowed life to flourish in the densely populated city. The privies were not so different from those aboard Walker—water rushing under a hole with a board across it—but unlike in early human cities with similar arrangements, the soiled water passed through mounded ducts, like road-level sewers, instead of open-air gutters. It did, ultimately, find its way into the bay, but the scavenging fish and other creatures were more prolific, and far less picky, than those on that other Earth.

Some of the indiscriminate heaps were deposited by creatures he’d never seen before. One looked a little like a brontosaurus from a distance, although it was smaller, and had a shorter—if beefier and more muscular—neck, and a much shorter tail. The head was larger, with short, palmated antlers. It was also covered with fur—real fur—and Bradford excitedly insisted the things were herbivorous marsupials, of all things. Matt wondered why no one ever imported them to Baalkpan; they were obviously more sensible draft animals than the ubiquitous brontosaurus. Probably smarter and more biddable as well, from what he’d seen. He found himself wishing for some to pull his light artillery pieces. Perhaps they could even be ridden, although he hadn’t seen anyone doing it. They were called “Paalkas,” but Silva had immediately dubbed them “pack-mooses.”

There was an animal the Maa-ni-los did ride, but he’d seen only a couple. They looked like long-legged crocodiles that ran on all fours, as they should, but their legs were shaped more like a dog’s. They ran like dogs too, and the only time he’d seen them, they bore troops in Saan-Kakja’s livery on some apparent errand. The crowds gave them a wide berth, and Matt noticed their jaws were always strapped and buckled tightly shut. The ’Cats called them one thing, he couldn’t remember, and Courtney Bradford had made up another name he couldn’t pronounce. Whatever they were, he’d have to find out more about them.

It was all very fascinating, but profoundly frustrating as well. Strangely, he liked this Manila a lot better than the old, in a way, but he was becoming almost frantically anxious to complete his mission and get back. He missed Sandra terribly—missed everybody—and there was still the iron fish to consider. Each day they spent here, dithering over details and placating the endless stream of dignitaries and counselors, was one less they could spend looking for it. And another thing was troubling him too: they hadn’t heard a peep out of Baalkpan in days.

“Mornin’, Skipper.”

Matt noticed that Silva had joined him during his reverie. The big gunner’s mate had no official standing as far as the diplomatic mission went, other than that he had, somewhere along the line, taken personal responsibility for Captain Reddy’s welfare. He’d stepped into Chief Gray’s self-appointed role as Matt’s senior armsman, and he commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty—knowing full well that the man they were bound to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like that of Juan Marcos, their job had just . . . evolved. Unlike Juan, the “Captain’s Guard” had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Silva knew the job was Gray’s whenever he was able to resume it, but he’d have been protecting the captain anyway, and he’d been making a real effort to behave. His restriction to the ship had been only provisionally lifted, and if he was stuck on the ship, he couldn’t do his job. Matt was beginning to suspect Silva was the sort of person who rose to meet expectations. All his life he’d been expected to be a screwup—so he was. Now everyone, himself included, expected more, and so far he’d delivered. Matt harbored no illusions that Silva had completely reformed; the best-trained, most trusted dog still crapped on the floor now and then, but if Matt needed a guard dog, Silva was the best he could ask for, absent Gray.

“Morning, Silva. Anything on the horn?”

Dennis shook his head. “Just came from the ship,” he said, and Matt noticed the big man already had sweat circles under his arms. “Still no word. Clancy says it’s not on our end. There just ain’t anything to receive.” He saw the captain’s worried frown. “No big deal, Skipper; it’s prob’ly nothin’. Last report, everything was fine. Besides, you know what a klutz that Palmer is; he prob’ly popped a tube with a wrench, or maybe the damn airplane sank. Lieutenant Riggs’ll get it sorted out, or he’ll make a whole new bloody set.”

“I know. It’s just . . . Everything was fine before Pearl Harbor too,” Matt said, immediately regretting the display of uncertainty. Silva had no response to that. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening, “let’s see what kind of Kabuki dance the ’Cats have ready for us today. Besides, it’s breakfast time.” He paused, suddenly decisive. “Run back down to the ship, or send somebody, and inform Mr. Dowden to make preparations for getting underway. The Maa-ni-los are going to help us or not. Hanging around and pestering them probably won’t make any difference. It’s really Saan-Kakja’s decision, anyway. But I’ve had just about enough, and one way or another, this is our last day here.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Silva replied with his usual unnerving lopsided grin.

Saan-Kakja sat on her stool across from him, locked in a posture of tense precision, lifting careful spoonfuls of fluffy yellow eggs to her mouth. Her short, silken, gray-black fur was carefully groomed, and glowed with the luster of healthy youth. Around her neck hung the golden gorget of her office, and occasionally her short, delicate fingers strayed between her small breasts and absently stroked the metal. It dawned on Matt, despite her noteworthy greeting, that she might not yet be comfortable in her exalted role, and he felt his heart go out to her. They’d learned a few things about her through back channels during the negotiations, and what they knew explained a great deal—particularly about her behavior. She really didn’t know how to proceed, and she’d delegated much to her High Sky Priest, who Adar thought was a “jerk,” to use a charitable translation. Her father had been Saanga-Kakja, which explained a little of the initial confusion. Keje and Adar had known him long ago, but not as High Chief. They’d hoped to be dealing with a person they knew. A widower like Keje, he died mere months earlier of a long illness. All his older offspring, from another, previously deceased mate, had already moved on: one as High Chief of a newly built, seagoing Home, and two others who’d established land Homes on the southern Fil-pin Islands. All that remained to assume the mantle of leadership was Saan-Kakja, the young child of his young, much adored, and deeply lamented second, and final, mate. Some believed he actually died of sorrow, since he joined his beloved in the Heavens such a short time after her passing.

Regardless, he’d left his daughter—at the tender age of fourteen—ill-prepared to rule, and her understandably tentative approach, and willingness to delegate, undermined her authority. Lemurians matured much quicker than humans, but she was still considered a youngling even by her own people. She’d been through a lot, and was clearly aware she had a lot to live up to, but based on his first meeting with her and looking at her now, Matt suspected she’d do all right if she had the right kind of help and support. Safir Maraan had risen at a younger age, and look how she’d turned out. Of course, the cultures were different, and she’d always had Haakar-Faask to back her up. Apparently there was no Haakar-Faask for Saan-Kakja. There was only her Sky Priest.

The Sky Priest in question sat on Saan-Kakja’s left. He was called Meksnaak, and despite Adar’s opinion, Matt didn’t really know what to think of him. He seemed dour and suspicious, and couldn’t have been more different from Adar. Adar was seated in his customary place beside Keje, even though he was Sky Priest to more than just a single Home. His example and personality—not to mention his early recognition of the greater threat—had done much to smooth the waters between the Americans and the various factions that ultimately formed the alliance. He’d shamelessly waved the bloody shirt of Revenge, the allies’ first “prize ship.” Her loss, and the loss of her integrated crew in a struggle against impossible odds, had provided a shining example of honor and sacrifice to the technically amalgamated, but increasingly Lemurian “U.S. Navy.” The two species had both been somewhat ethnocentric when they met, but even given their mutual need for allies, there’d been surprisingly little friction. Maybe they were so physically different, there was no real basis for racial resentment. Each looked equally “funny” to the other, but each had recognizable strengths the other lacked. The battle resulting in the loss of Revenge set the ultimate precedent of coequal status among the two species, and began a growing tradition of “equal glory or a shared death.” Matt reminded himself the Maa-ni-los were not yet part of any such tradition.

He cornered the last of his eggs between his spoon and a strip of fish, and when he ate them both he realized the others had mostly finished. He cleared his throat. Recognizing the gesture, Saan-Kakja laid aside her own single utensil, an instrument like a broad-bladed, concave knife that also served as a kind of spoon or scoop. It was gold, like so many other Maa-ni-lo devices. Matt hadn’t seen as much gold in his life, certainly not among other Lemurians, as he had in the last few days. The thing was, it didn’t seem to have any value other than that it didn’t tarnish and it was pretty. The High Chief . . . tess?—absurd, they didn’t think like that. Their word, U-Amaki, transcended gender. The High Chief dabbed daintily at her mouth with an embroidered napkin and sat even straighter, if possible.

“Cap-i-taan Reddy,” she began. “I must begin by begging you to forgive me for neglecting you so inexcusably.” Meksnaak blinked furiously and opened his mouth to speak, but she darted a look in his direction that Matt couldn’t read, and his jaws clamped shut. “I have wasted much of your time,” she continued, “and I fear in doing so, I have squandered valuable time we may all remember with wistful regret.” Matt waited patiently for a full translation, even though he got the gist of what she said. “You come here seeking alliance against the threat posed by our Ancient Enemy, an enemy as implacable and relentless as the very sea. It may be deceptively calm for a time”—she looked back at Meksnaak—“but eventually, inevitably, the Strakka strikes with unbound fury. I am . . . a young High Chief who has seen little of life, and learned even less of what is expected of me, so I was persuaded to delegate the task of treating with you on this subject.” Her voice became hard. “That was a mistake. It was rude and irresponsible, and I apologize.” She blinked sincere regret and lowered her head. When she looked up at Matt, her remarkable eyes were gleaming.

“I have heard much about your adventures and battles against the scourge from the west, and I am inspired. I allowed myself to be convinced, however, that my excitement was that of an emotional youngling, and here we are safe from attack. Better to stay uninvolved—beyond learning as much from you as we can, and helping you in small, safe, material ways. There are . . . factions in Maa-ni-la that thrive on contention and intrigue, and are obsessed with their own petty concerns. They counsel that we let you, Baalkpan, and the other allied Homes stand alone against the Grik, while we remain safely uninvolved. We are prosperous, happy, stable, and untouched by the distant threat. Even if Baalkpan falls, the Grik will be content to remain far away, and in the meantime our trade, industry, and prosperity will flourish even more.” Her ears flattened with contempt. “Of course, there are also the ones you call ‘runaways,’ who counsel that, even if the Grik do someday come here, we can flee once more as we did in the ancient tales of the Scrolls; that we have grown too comfortable, too fixed in place, too reliant upon the land.”

Matt nodded. Those were the same arguments he and Nakja-Mur had faced when they first suggested defiance. Most people on the seagoing Homes couldn’t comprehend their cousins’ attachment to places, or understand their unwillingness to leave them. Keje did, and so did the other members of the alliance. They knew there’d be no escape this time. The world was a smaller place, and now the Grik had oceangoing ships of their own, albeit tiny in comparison; they had so many, the terrible sea was no longer the protector it had been. It was like the old scorpion and tarantula in the jar. The tarantula wasn’t well equipped to cope with the scorpion, but sooner or later he had to deal with his deadly, aggressive adversary, because he couldn’t avoid him forever, and there just wasn’t anyplace else to go. It was always a toss-up who’d win.

“I understand you grow impatient,” Saan-Kakja resumed, “and I do not blame you. Your most powerful ship is here, and you languish in comfort and are free from want, but all the while the enemy may be massing against you. You are frustrated by our intransigence, and don’t understand our hesitation to join you.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I am as frustrated as you, and my patience is possibly even less. I do know what causes it, however. My people are comfortable and free from want. That is a condition any good ruler desires, but there are times, such as this, that that very condition makes it difficult for such a ruler to convince those comfortable people they must put that aside and face the unpleasant reality of the harsher world beyond their sight.” She sighed and turned again to Meksnaak.

“What of the proposal I put before the counsel? That we join the alliance to destroy the Grik threat forever, and send whatever we may in the way of troops and supplies to their aid?”

Meksnaak shifted uncomfortably. “My dear, it is . . . unwise to reveal our private discussions in the presence of strangers—particularly when those discussions involve them.” He hastily turned to Captain Reddy with a glare. “No such decision has been taken!”

“The decision has been taken by me,” Saan-Kakja retorted.

Meksnaak shook his head sadly. “You are powerful, High Chief, and your opinions have great weight, but even you cannot engage us in full-scale war on your own authority. The clan chiefs must speak.”

“Then let them speak! So far, none has done any speaking but you and other members of the counsel who represent those with the most to gain by inactivity!”

“There are legitimate objections,” Meksnaak insisted, “not only to going to war, but to any association with these Amer-i-caan . . . heretics!” He blinked outrage at the thought of the Americans’ Scrolls. He’d never seen them, but he’d been assured they were . . . extraordinary. His initial concern that their existence represented heresy was not dispelled when Adar told him with glowing eyes that the American Scrolls almost perfectly mirrored their own, except they were even more precise! Meksnaak accepted that. Adar was a Sky Priest of extensive renown, and Meksnaak was willing to take his word in that respect. But the knowledge did not make him admire the Americans, or soothe his concerns about their spiritually corrosive behavior. If anything, it made him resent and fear them even more. If their Scrolls were so much more precise than those of the People, they must be holy indeed. Could they even be the very originals from which all others were copied long ago? Scrolls formed under the hand of the Great Prophet Siska-Ta herself? And what of the rumors that the Americans possessed Scrolls no one else had ever seen? Scrolls depicting mysterious lands far beyond the world known by the People? And Adar assured him they displayed their precious Scrolls in the open, for any and all to see—even to handle! How could the Americans be so careless and . . . irresponsible? Incredible. He’d asked the question of Adar during one of their meetings, and was shocked that one so highly regarded could harbor such liberal views.

“I was as troubled as you, at first,” Adar had confessed, “but that is because I had grown set in my ways, ossified and concerned about a diminution of my precious prerogatives. After much consideration, I changed my mind. Are the Scrolls to be kept secret, and viewed only by those such as we? Surely the great Siska-Ta never intended that; otherwise why write them at all? It was her goal to teach, to enlighten, to share the knowledge of the past and the Heavens and the pathways of the sea and sky—not create an exclusive club reserved for only a select few!”

Now Adar stood and spoke with heat. “They are not heretics; I told you that already! They have different beliefs, surely, but they do not seek to trample or transgress upon our own! And regardless of their differences, the very Scrolls you would use as examples of their heresy prove we share more similarities of thought than differences, and they, at least, gladly aid us against our Ancient Enemy!”

“An enemy made stronger with the aid of others of their kind!” Meksnaak retorted.

Adar took a strained breath. “Perhaps their enemy does collude with ours, but they didn’t know that when they joined us, and it has not altered their commitment. That you, a Sky Priest, would counsel inaction during our current, collective crisis, when our race faces extinction at the very hands that drove us from our sacred, ancient home—as described in the same Scrolls you profess to revere—makes me question your commitment!”

Meksnaak sputtered for a moment, then spat: “Ser-vaabo fidem summo studio!”

“Suspendens omnia naa-so! Usus est ty-raannus, usus te plura docebit!” Adar replied scornfully. “Cucullus non facit monachum. Cul-paam maiorum posteri luunt!”

“Gratis dictum. Honos haa-bet onus, maag-naavis est conscientiae.”

“Oh, Lord.” Bradford sighed. “I do hate it when they do that!”

“What’re they saying?” Matt demanded.

“Let me see, I’ve brushed up my Latin a bit of late, from necessity, but their pronunciation is quite bizarre. Hmm. Well, as you know, Latin is somewhat difficult to translate literally even when spoken well—which makes the Lemurian capacity for it doubly fascinating, since they are so literal-minded! Their own language . . .”

“Courtney?”

“Umm? Well, it seems their Meksnaak has said he only keeps the faith, while Adar says he’s shackled by it, and his people will pay the consequences. Meksnaak says that’s ridiculous, and he has an obligation to his people.”

The argument continued.

“Medium tenuere be-aati,” Adar scoffed sarcastically, “mihi cura futuri. Quousque tandem abutere paa-tientia nostra? Recovate aa-nimos! Aude saapere. Stant belli causa, belli lethaale . . . belli internecinum. Timor mortis morte peior!”

“Oh, dear,” Bradford said with real alarm.

“What?”

“Adar has admonished Meksnaak to remember the cause of the war . . . and I think he called him a coward!”

Matt coughed politely before Meksnaak could respond. “We consider it rude to carry on in a language others can’t understand.” He glanced at Saan-Kakja, and she nodded. Adar resumed his seat with a huff, and Meksnaak blinked insincere apology. Courtney Bradford couldn’t entirely stifle a sigh of relief, and Meksnaak’s eyes narrowed irritably.

“If the . . . plodding pace of our discussions is so unsatisfactory, you can always go aboard that . . . smoking iron abomination of yours, and leave us as we were.”

Bradford leaned back in his chair and arched an eyebrow. Now Matt began to rise, his face red with indignation.

“Meksnaak . . .” began Saan-Kakja.

“No. With respect, child, I grow weary of the constant complaining of these . . . foreigners. Maa-ni-la has prospered in peace for over eighty years, and will be doing so long after our spirits have gone above. If you ask my opinion, I tell you we neglect our own people’s interest by even contemplating the risky adventure these . . . others . . . propose. And honestly, this extraordinary meeting and the pointless haste in which it was convened is . . . unseemly.” Meksnaak glared at Bradford, but continued to speak to his High Chief. “I remind you, child, my friend, your father, did not rush to war when first he heard of this unlikely threat!”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and all eyes turned to the young, smallish . . . well, girl. That was the only word that really seemed to fit, as far as the humans were concerned. But Matt could only wonder if he was the only one that saw the wide, striated eyes suddenly become pools of molten iron. When she spoke, however, her voice was under firm control.

“My lord Meksnaak, I know you were my father’s friend, as well as his most trusted advisor. That is, after all, one of the primary duties of all Sky Priests to their chief. I honor you for that service and friendship.” She slowly turned her head to look at the older Lemurian, and Meksnaak must have seen the same thing Matt had, because he visibly blanched. “I am High Chief of Maa-ni-la now, by acclamation as well as birth. I am my father’s daughter. Although I do not doubt your devotion to my father, I begin to doubt your wisdom. I say this not to hurt you, but because you will not see. You and I cannot know what it was like for our guests to face the Ancient Enemy, the terror of all our nightmares. Neither of us can fully understand what that is like. But because I love my people and yearn for them to be forever safe and free, I fairly chafe to go myself to the aid of our western friends. I yearn to send them aid, because only then can we harry the Grik vermin from the sea, and ultimately from our dreams and our ancient home as well!”

For just a moment Meksnaak held her gaze, but then came the long, slow blink of abject apology. “You shame me, child.”

“No. You shame me with your impolite behavior.” Her hand swept outward in a gesture encompassing all those seated at the table. “You have been impolite to my guests and to me. I am no mere youngling to be dismissed at the table of adults, any more than . . .” She paused, and her mesmerizing eyes fell upon Chack. “Any more than the noble Chack-Sab-At, of whose exploits I have heard so much! He is little older than I, yet he has faced our enemies many times. Tell me, Master Sab-At, are you a youngling?”

Chack, uncomfortable with being forced to speak under the circumstances, glanced at Captain Reddy and saw his confident nod of approval. He stood with as much dignity as he could muster.

“I have seen my former Home, Salissa, ravaged by the Grik, and I fought them with all my might, though I was not yet a warrior. I joined the Amer-i-caan clan and learned not only to fight more efficiently, but also to lead. I have participated in five boarding actions now. . . .” He paused and regarded Meksnaak. “I truly cannot convey how horrific that can be. If you saw the aftermath of such a thing only once, you would not doubt our cause. The Grik carry our people as cargo . . . live provisions aboard their ships. . . .” His tail swished impatiently, and he shook his head. “I was in the great Battle of Aryaal, where we slaughtered twenty thousands of our foes and lost many of our own. It was after that we came to know that, no matter how many we killed, it was but a tithe against their total strength. I saw Amagi pound Nerracca into a sinking inferno. We rescued as many as we could—hundreds—but thousands were left to burn or drown or be taken by the fish.” For a moment he closed his haunted eyes while he spoke, and no one doubted he was seeing again the events of that terrible night. “I saw Tassana, daughter of Nerracca’s High Chief, younger even than you, Saan-Kakja, help cut the tow cable that connected her helpless, sinking Home to the wounded Amer-i-caan destroyer trying to drag her to safety. She did it because her father knew Captain Reddy, and feared he might wait too long, hoping to rescue more. As it was, damaged and leaking, Walker nearly sank under the sheer weight of the survivors she managed to save.”

Not a word was uttered in the chamber while he stood silent, contemplating his next words. “I was a youngling before all this started, if not in years, then certainly in experience. Now I am a bosun’s mate, a captain of Marines, and I guard some of the most important leaders of our alliance.” He stared hard at Meksnaak. “Do you dare call me a youngling, or offer further insult to those I protect?”

Saan-Kakja took a breath and realized she’d been holding it. She looked around the table, surprised how much Chack’s words had changed her perceptions of the people there. Particularly the Amer-i-caans. She’d heard the tales, of course, but they’d been told dispassionately. To hear Chack tell them, in his own words, made them real. She pierced her Sky Priest with another molten stare.

Meksnaak’s apologetic blinking was constant now and, from what Matt had learned of Lemurian expression, sincere. He even felt a little embarrassed for the Sky Priest, but he also knew Saan-Kakja needed to get this sorted out. He thought she had. She and Chack had. The new High Chief of Manila might be young, but she was no “youngling.” Not anymore. She finally spoke again, and when she did her voice had lost much of its fury.

“You may one day earn the right to be rude to me, Meksnaak, but you will never be rude to my friends again. They have earned our respect and gratitude. Besides, none of us have the luxury of being rude to anyone who will help us in this fight. Yes, we need their help as much as they need ours. This is our war too. The Grik have come as if our most horrible dreams have been made flesh, and they come to devour us all! Our only hope is to destroy them first, and we must have friends to do it. How can we expect to make those friends when we can’t even be polite at the breakfast table?”

“Hear, hear!” Bradford said, banging his coffee cup on the table for emphasis. It wasn’t quite empty, and much of the remains wound up on his sleeve. “Saan-Kakja for queen, I say!” He looked at the suddenly wary Sky Priest. “She certainly settled our hash! I suppose we’ll have to keep our little arguments more private from now on.” Meksnaak hadn’t had much contact with humans, but he’d learned a nod was still a nod. He nodded now and forced a small smile.

“If that is the will of my chief,” he said quietly.

“Surely she can’t object to a little debate between two scientific beings, though?” He arched his eyebrows once again, and Saan-Kakja couldn’t restrain a giggle. Like the cats—and lemurs for that matter—they so closely resembled, Lemurians had an extraordinarily limited range of facial expression. They were very expressive, through eye blinks, ear positions, and body posture, and their tails added an emphasis to their emotions and attitudes that humans couldn’t hope to match. A grin was a grin and a frown was a frown, but other than that their faces hardly moved at all. Humans, on the other hand, used comparatively little body language, and it took quite a while for Lemurians to understand that much of the true meaning behind their words was conveyed by a bewildering array of inimitable facial contortions. Courtney Bradford had discovered early on that ’Cats sometimes found these contortions amusing. Particularly when wildly exaggerated. He made good use of that knowledge now, bouncing his bushy eyebrows up and down like a pair of spastic caterpillars. Even Meksnaak couldn’t resist, and he suddenly broke into a grin after an explosive snort. Bradford looked at Chack, who’d resumed his seat, but was now barely able to stay on his stool. His eyes were clenched shut, and he was making a kind of high-pitched, hacking sound.

“What?” demanded Bradford in a voice of purest innocence. A moment before there’d been a dangerous tension in the room. Now . . . there wasn’t. Matt congratulated himself again for bringing the Australian along.

“Mr. Bradford,” he said, shaking his head with a grin, “I think you’ve made your point.” He nodded respectfully at Chack. “As has our captain of Marines. Now . . .” He looked at Saan-Kakja, who was gaining control of herself. “With your permission, perhaps we might proceed?”

“Of course.”

They departed Manila with Saan-Kakja’s promise her personal Guard of a thousand troops would depart immediately aboard one of the “supply” Homes bound for Baalkpan. Chack’s Marine lieutenant remained behind to give rudimentary training to the levy, before taking ship with the Guard, whom he’d train as much as possible on the way. More would follow. It wasn’t as much or as quickly as Matt had hoped, but it was more than he’d begun to fear they’d get. As it was, they still had a few days left of the time he’d allocated for looking for the submarine, even if he’d begun to begrudge it. They still hadn’t heard anything from Baalkpan, and they had to assume, at the very least, that the radio was out. He didn’t want to think about other possibilities, no matter how far-fetched or unlikely.

Those possibilities were beginning to affect the crew, however, and Chack was becoming openly worried about Queen Maraan. Somehow he sensed she’d done something foolish, and he couldn’t get the conviction out of his head. Matt tried to soothe his nerves (and his own) by assuring him the problem was probably just some glitch with the radio—yet another piece of equipment they’d relied so heavily upon had let them down. Regardless, he was anxious to complete their quick sweep and head for home.

They saw plenty of gri-kakka, and even hit one again. This specimen wasn’t nearly as large as the plesiosaur they struck in the Java Sea, so there was no damage. The coloration was peculiar, however, and Mr. Bradford’s insistent demands obliged them to heave to briefly and compare the dead creature to others they’d seen. He didn’t have much time. Being back in relatively shallow water, the flashies made an immediate appearance, drawn by the blood, and soon the water churned with such violence he was forced to abandon his investigation. In the short time he had to study it, though, he documented a few distinct variations.

Land was never entirely out of sight, and strange, flying creatures dogged them constantly, swooping among the signal halyards and roosting on the number one funnel and generally shitting all over the ship. Chack had a constant detail plying hoses and mops, but it made little difference. Most of the creatures were familiar variations of the lizard birds they were used to, even if the colors were generally different. Some “birds” looked like actual birds, with real feathers, and they shrieked and cawed right among the others. On the amidships gun platform, Silva was pitching small morsels in the air, and the off-duty crew were betting on which creatures would slaughter the others to get them.

Matt was leaning on the bridge wing rail with Spanky and Keje, watching the entertainment, and was surprised to see Gilbert and Tabby participating. He raised an eyebrow at the engineer.

Spanky shrugged. “They’ve been getting out more,” he confirmed. “Weird. It’s like we had three trees growing off the same root, and when we cut one down, the other two took off.” He shook his head. “I wonder how Isak’s doin’. I know it sounds selfish, but I hope they all get along when we get them back together.” He grinned. “They still do their jobs, but I don’t get as much extra work out of them as I used to, what with them hanging around in the firerooms off watch.”

Matt saw Silva stiffen suddenly, his predatory eye fixed like a cougar on its prey. He shoved his way forward through his bewildered audience, scooping the large, slimy quid of “tobacco” from his cheek. Pausing by the rail next to the ladder, he waited for his chance. Below him, Chack and a couple Marine “deck apes” were working their way aft. Chack was grousing loudly about something, probably all the “bird” crap. Like a bombardier, Silva took careful aim at his objective and, when he judged the moment was right, released his payload. It struck the deck directly in front of Chack with a resounding, viscous splap, and the ’Cat quickly looked skyward, searching for whatever creature was capable of creating such prodigious droppings. Instead of an unprecedentedly large flying reptile, however, his eyes fastened onto Silva’s bearded face, leering happily amid the sound of raucous laughter.

“Oh, Lord.” Spanky sighed.

Matt’s first instinct was to shout a reprimand. Instead he stifled the impulse and laughed. He caught Spanky’s questioning, almost indignant look. “Oh, don’t worry; he’ll clean it up. He’s become ‘responsible’! I’m just glad to see his practical jokes have moderated with his increase in rank.”

Spanky shook his head. “But have Chack’s?” he wondered aloud.

Lieutenant Dowden joined them with a smirk. “You know, right now we’ve got half the deck division spraying bird crap off the ship, while the other half is encouraging the damn things to squirt more on it.” He shook his head when the others laughed.

“Is this a . . . met-a-for? A metaphor for human behavior?” Keje asked, and joined in when the laughter redoubled. In spite of their worries about the radio, everyone felt a certain lightness now that the greater part of their mission had been achieved. Baalkpan would be reinforced. It would take a while, but they should have the time.

“Maybe so,” Matt conceded, “but there’re plenty of ’Cats doing it too. Maybe we’re too much alike for our own good.” He sobered and looked at Spanky. “How’s our fuel holding up?”

“Okay, so far. We made a slower run out than planned, so we saved a little there. We’re kind of pouring it on for this little side-trip, holding twenty knots, but we’ll have to slow down again in the Canigao Channel. We’ll be taking the Surigao Strait in the dark, so we ought to keep it slow. . . . Plenty of fuel for a return trip like the one we came out on. Where are we looking first for this sub?”

Matt stepped around the charthouse and stared down at the copied Lemurian Scrolls rolled out under the Plexiglas on the chart table. The others joined him there. “Last reliable reports have it in this vicinity,” he said, pointing at Davao Gulf and circling his finger south of Mindanao. “Fishing boats from Saraan-gaani—used to be General Santos, where one of Saan-Kakja’s brothers set up house—saw it pretty often for a week or two, from the reports Meksnaak finally coughed up, but nobody’s seen it for a year now, which would be about right.” Matt frowned. “I know Meksnaak finally made all nice, but I still don’t know about that guy. I’m pretty sure he’s still convinced it’s a sea monster of some sort. Anyway, given that it must have gone through the same Squall we did, and the fuel it must’ve had, it couldn’t have made it much farther than that. By the time they made it here, they must have realized something was seriously out of whack.” His finger traced the western coastline of Mindanao, paused at the bay where Mati should be, considering, then swept around Cape San Agustin and into Davao Gulf. “If it was anywhere near Saraan-gaani, or beached on the coast anywhere along here, Saan-Kakja’s brother would know about it. We’ll look, of course, especially in that bay, but I don’t think we’ll find it there. No one’s reported it, and I understand the local wildlife is even more extreme than usual. If they tried to land along there, I bet they didn’t stay.”

“Maybe it’s just gone, Skipper,” Dowden said. “Sunk.”

“Maybe . . .”

“Where, then?” Keje asked.

Matt’s finger roamed south about a hundred and fifty miles to Talaud Island and drew a circle, encompassing the tiny islands around it. “Here, I think, if they had the fuel. These islands are . . . were Dutch. Maybe they hoped to find somebody home.”

Keje studied the chart. “Deep water. Deep water all around.”

“Yeah. Nobody in their right mind would go monkeying around down there. No reason to, besides. Dangerous water and nothing to catch. If they’re there, they could’ve easily gone a year without anybody noticing.” He looked at Keje and their eyes met.

“I have seen those islands,” Keje said softly, “many years ago. I did not go ashore—that was not our purpose—but the land on the big island, this Taa-laud, is lush, and could sustain them if they were not eaten by predators—and if they made it across the deep waters in the first place. The island is also founded upon a burning mountain, a ‘vol-caano’ that rarely sleeps. I have heard the earth moves often, and the very sea sometimes behaves strangely.”

Matt straightened, decision made. “We’ll work south along the coast of Mindanao, checking every nook and cranny, but then, if we haven’t found it, we’ll cross to Talaud.”

“What if it’s not there either, Skipper?” Spanky asked.

Matt shrugged. “We go home.”