“But, General,” Tsalka hissed in shock, “you know I am no one’s prey, and I fear nothing of this world, but surely a quick, clean, honorable death is preferable to what we can expect from the Celestial Mother amid such disgrace?”

“We are disgraced,” Esshk agreed, “but not by our actions. We attacked our prey as we have always done, as we have been raised and trained to do: with overwhelming numbers and even more overwhelming arrogance. We are no more disgraced by our actions than the countless Uul we sent to be slaughtered. Our disgrace lies in our arrogance and our stubborn, rote-dominated, unimaginative ignorance! Don’t you see? This prey is different from any we have faced before. We thought they were the same as those that escaped us long ago, but we were wrong. Perhaps it was the ‘Americans’ that changed them, but it really doesn’t matter. The point is, they have changed, and we have not. You accused me of being a philosopher, and perhaps I am. I hope so, at any rate, because it will take philosophers, not mindless Uul, to defeat this prey in the end—and we must defeat them! Having beaten us, do you think they will be content? Of course not! They will destroy us all if we do not ready ourselves to meet them, and to do that we will have to change.” He paused. “And some of those changes must be fundamental.”

“But why must we be the ones to attempt this change?” Tsalka almost wailed. “Better to destroy ourselves than face such an impossible challenge!”

“It must be we,” Esshk replied, “because we were here. Only we know the truth. Perhaps bearing that truth, knowing the end we face, we will convince the Celestial Mother it is truth. That, and something more.” He snapped his claws and his personal guards disappeared. They returned escorting a haggard, stained, and bloodied Captain Hisashi Kurokawa, who stood tensely before his “hosts.”

“Captain Kurokawa,” Esshk greeted him pleasantly, and Kurokawa looked at him in surprise. “You failed to bring the victory we relied on you to achieve, but you are not entirely to blame. I pushed you when you were not ready, I failed to heed what I now believe was your excellent advice, and I forced you to attack in a way not of your choosing. You did not, as you claimed, destroy the flying machine of the prey, but again, that effort was poorly planned and against your more . . . experienced judgment. At any rate, its contribution to their defense was negligible this time, and numerous witnesses attest that it is now, in fact, destroyed. We will speak no more of that. As I said, we relied far too heavily upon your one ship—magnificent as it was—and I have come to accept your radical argument that when the ground from which the hunter strikes disappears from under him, he is not necessarily made prey, or even to blame. I will therefore suffer your continued existence.” Kurokawa stifled a gasp, but Esshk continued. “Only one in ten of your Uul shall go to the cook fires for your part in this terrible failure. Far more of our own will feed our remaining host, I assure you, since ours was the greatest failure of all. Choose the food yourself, and choose them wisely, because now we need your knowledge more than ever. We must have the wondrous things you promised: the smoking ships, the airplanes, the guns. . . . They are no longer mere trifles to amuse ourselves with; they are essential. You will make them for us.”

Kurokawa cared nothing for the additional losses he’d sustain. Barely four hundred of his crew still survived, rescued by Giorsh and other ships as they retreated from the bay, but he could spare another forty if he must, if it meant he himself would live. He was just beginning to accept what he’d considered impossible: he would live! His fate was now tied inextricably to Esshk’s and Tsalka’s, and he doubted they were entirely safe themselves, but one thing was certain: he’d just been following orders. On second thought, maybe their fates weren’t inextricable. He assumed now they would take him to meet this “Celestial Mother” of theirs, and if she was astute enough to recognize the wonders he could provide, and the threat that made them necessary, perhaps Esshk and Tsalka needed him more than he needed them. He smiled.

The destroyermen had lost dearly too, and there were graves in Baalkpan now. Thirteen just from Walker, including Larry Dowden, Dave Elden, and Leo Davis. They’d been laid beside Tony Scott’s empty grave on the parade ground. Several others had gone down with Mahan, and their names would be added to a plaque listing all the destroyermen—human and Lemurian—who’d been lost from the start.

Adar wasn’t with them. As long as the funeral pyres burned, he’d be very busy. He was High Sky Priest of Baalkpan now, as well as acting High Chief. He’d continue to perform those duties, by acclaim, at least until the rest of the city’s people returned. Few doubted his elevation would be permanent. The views of the “runaways” weren’t highly regarded, and Adar had made it clear he intended to press the Grik. The vengeance-minded People were more than happy to support that position. At least for now.

Chack and Queen Maraan were expected shortly. It was understood they were betrothed, and they were even more inseparable now than they’d been before the battle. The funeral pyre for Big Sal’s dead had already burned but today, B’mbaadan and Aryaalan souls flew together. Chack and Rolak were escorting Safir.

Sandison and Garrett were in the hospital suffering from serious wounds, but both were expected to recover. Others were still there as well: Kutas, Aubrey, Newman, Rodriguez. . . . Silva had lost his eye—and immediately gone AWOL. Only Risa and Pam Cross knew where he was, but no one really worried. It was clear the nurse was taking care of him herself, when she wasn’t on duty, and sooner or later he’d turn back up.

Many others were present, however, for what felt like it was shaping into a service for Walker and Mahan and their many dead. Saan-Kakja, U-Amaki ay Maa-ni-la, was there. She’d come herself, leading her personal Guard of a thousand warriors. It had been her timely arrival off the southern coast that bolstered Brister and Shinya’s forces, tipping the balance in their desperate attack on the Grik rear. She’d apologized profusely for arriving so late, but Maa-ni-la was now a firm member of the Alliance, and she pledged that more troops and supplies were on the way.

Keje was using the same crutches Gray once hobbled on, shortened to fit his physique. Somehow he’d survived the almost total destruction of Big Sal’s upper levels, and was found by a rescue party the morning after the battle still sitting on his beloved stool. When Adar tried to suggest he should be High Chief of Baalkpan, he’d refused. Big Sal was his Home. With the sophisticated Lemurian pumps, coupled with the concept of hoses they’d learned from the Americans, he was sure she’d float again. For now he was content to recuperate, aided by the diligent attention of his daughter.

Shinya, Brister, Flynn, and Alden were there, as were Alan and Karen Letts. Letts’s quick thinking in sending out rescue craft had undoubtedly saved most of Walker’s crew. Not only had they taken her people off, they’d helped get the ship into shallow water. The happy addition of Mahan’s and Walker’s launches—once the survivors were transferred—aided in that considerably, and Jim Ellis and Frankie Steele piloted the launch-turned-tugboats throughout.

To everyone’s surprise, Walker’s launch had actually rescued most of the PBY’s crew. Ben Mallory, Jis-Tikkar, and one of the gunners were found clinging precariously on one of the leaking wing floats. Somehow they’d survived the crash and escaped the sinking wreckage. Most of the flashies had been drawn to other parts of the bay. Tikker was in the hospital, but Mallory was, miraculously, uninjured. Sometimes it was like that. A pilot might break his neck when his parachute opened, or crawl out of a catastrophic crash.

Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald, princess of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, still wore battered dungarees, fuming at Silva’s behavior and the fact she was now virtually a prisoner of Sandra Tucker and Sean O’Casey. Lawrence and Silva had recounted her exploits during the battle, and if she and her strange Grik-like friend were now heroes of Baalkpan (and represented a possible end to the dame famine to the Americans), they were also never allowed to go anywhere without a particularly attentive escort. Most knew of her status now—such a secret was impossible to keep for long—and it was considered just a matter of time before Jenks and his squadron arrived. Jenks would be disappointed. She intended that her people and her new friends should become allies against the Grik, and though she wanted to go home, she’d already proclaimed that she’d do so only if Captain Reddy took her himself.

Now the gathering stood, silent for the most part, staring at the sad remains of the proud old ship. The flag still flew from the aft mast, and Matt couldn’t bear to see it taken down. Not yet. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, riding at anchor in Manila Bay, in another time—another world. He never would have thought back then that he’d mourn her loss like he did. After what they’d been through and all they’d achieved—and lost—it was like a huge piece of his soul had gone to the bottom with her. Sandra stood beside him holding his hand, a concerned expression on her face. All the pretense of professional distance they’d worked so hard to maintain had gone down with the ship. He needed her now, just as badly as one of her patients might who’d lost a leg.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Karen Letts quietly broke the silence.

“Sure,” said Gray.

Unconsciously, Karen’s hand went protectively to her lower abdomen, and Sandra smiled wistfully. Karen hadn’t said anything, but Sandra had suspected. She’d seen the signs.

“We’re all on the same footing now, technologically speaking,” Gray continued. “All the modern warships are gone, but they know about cannons, and they’ve still got the Japs to help ’em—if they don’t eat ’em.”

Before they could go out and claim the Japanese survivors, several Grik ships, including one of the white ones, had taken them off. All they found was a single wounded officer who’d decided to defect to the Americans. He was waiting patiently when they finally arrived, having hidden from the Grik, as well as his own people. For now he was under guard, but he’d told them a great deal—not least of which was how Captain Kaufman met his end. The sad aviator’s body had been buried with full honors alongside the others in the little cemetery.

“Not to mention,” mentioned Courtney Bradford dryly, “there are still far more of them than there are of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said tiredly. “Even if they don’t, we have to keep after them. Adar’s right; we have to wipe them out.” He paused. “They’re even worse than we thought, and that’s saying a lot. They don’t know how to surrender, and they’re not going to leave us alone. If we don’t chase them now, keep the pressure up, they’ll be back eventually, and all this”—he gestured at the destruction all around, but his eyes never left his ship—“will have been for nothing.”

“How long do you think we have?” Sandra asked. Matt shrugged and looked at Bradford.

“Difficult to say, of course,” the Australian opined. “According to our ‘new’ Jappo—a Commander Okada, if I’m not mistaken—we did hurt them rather badly. It may take as many as three years to make good their losses in ships and warriors. Five at the absolute most. You do understand I’m only guessing?”

“My God. That fast?” Jim Ellis interjected.

“Most likely.” Bradford nodded.

“That means we’ve only about half that time to strike before they’re fully prepared,” Keje said thoughtfully.

“How?” whispered Matt. Beyond his earlier statement of fact, he didn’t really want to talk long-term strategy just then. His heart wasn’t in it. He just wanted to mourn his ship.

“Easy, Skipper.” Spanky grinned. “We’ll build battlewagons!”

Matt blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ever see a walking-beam steam engine? Put one—a big one—on something the size of Big Sal, stick on some paddle wheels, and pack her full of guns . . . ’Cat battlewagons!”

Keje was intrigued. “Steam engines . . . in a Home! Remarkable! You must tell me more, Mr. Maac-Faar-Laan.” Then he shook his head. “First we must consider, however, that we still need more help.” He bowed to Saan-Kakja. “Less now, of course, but Princess Re-beccaa’s people will surely appreciate the necessity of our cause. We must send a delegation across the Eastern Ocean. Take her home, Cap-i-taan Reddy; let her speak for us.” He glanced at Chief Gray. “In light of our victory, they may be . . . easier to convince than before.”

“Not much time for that,” Matt murmured dolefully, still looking at Walker’s grave. The destroyer’s speed would have made communications across such a distance much simpler. He sighed. No point in wishing for the impossible. Unintentionally, Matt was sure, Keje rubbed salt into the wound.

“Why not raise Waa-kur?” Keje asked, genuinely curious.

Matt snorted bitter laughter, then blinked apology in the Lemurian way. “I’m sorry. I sure wish we could, but it’s impossible.”

Keje blinked perplexity. “Why? She is not heavier than Salissa, yet I know my Home can be raised.”

“Look,” said Spanky, “I know you guys have great pumps; I’ve seen ’em work. But no matter how much air we put in her, it’ll just come out faster. We can’t dive and weld, so we can’t plug the holes. There’s no way.”

Keje looked at him and blinked surprise. “Have you never wondered how we build something the size of Salissa and then float it?”

“Well . . .” Spanky looked flustered. “I just thought you built ’em on land and launched them down a ways, like we did the frigates.”

Keje shook his head. “I understand your . . . misunderstanding . . . now. We build smaller ships, like feluccas, like that. But I assure you, we do not build the great Homes on land.”

Spanky’s eyes widened. “A dry dock?!”

Keje now had everyone’s attention. “You have spoken at some length about what you call a ‘proper’ dry dock,” he said with a touch of irritation, “but we make do with a simpler expedient. We build a wall in the sea and pump out the water behind it. That is what we use this very basin for. I thought you knew? Why else put your ship into it? Here it is very simple. We flood down two Homes across the mouth of the basin, and build the walls only between them. It takes many days to pump the water out, but then you may freely work.”

“A cofferdam!” Matt shouted triumphantly, and grinned. It was as though the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders. Dared he hope? “We didn’t know! By the time we got here, I was just following the boats pulling us in!”

“And I was following the pilot’s directions on the felucca!” Jim said. “I bet Frankie was too!”

“At least somebody knew what they were doing!” growled Gray. Everyone laughed.

Rolak, Chack, and Queen Maraan appeared, joining a happier group than they’d expected.

“What have we missed?” Safir asked pleasantly. She was still sad from the funeral, but uplifted as well.

“We’re going to raise the ship!” Sandra announced triumphantly, squeezing her captain’s hand.

Spanky’s brow knitted into a frown. “Still won’t work,” he said. “I’m sorry. The damage is just too severe. If we had some steel it might be different, but her structural integrity’s shot. We can’t keep patchin’ her with copper plates and rivets.”

Faces fell, but Chack only grinned.

“Steel is like iron, is it not? I’ve heard the term used interchangeably at times.”

“Yeah . . . sorta,” Spanky replied.

“Then what are you worried about?” He barked a laugh. “Sometimes you Amer-i-caans are so clever I almost think you are gods. But often you miss the painfully obvious.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward where Amagi lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure still protruding above the water as a constant, grim reminder. “Out there is all the iron in the world!”

What had been a gloomy gathering became almost a celebration of sorts. Voices rose with excited, animated suggestions, punctuated by occasional laughter. Finally, the great victory they’d achieved actually began to feel like a victory instead of yet another ordeal they’d somehow managed to survive. Eventually, as the afternoon waned, the friends began to disperse.

Finally alone, as the sun touched the dense jungle horizon, Sandra wrapped her arms around Matt’s neck, pulling him down for a joyful, passionate kiss.

“Gotta go,” she whispered at last, tears streaking her face. “Work to do.”

“I’ll be along.”

“You’ll be all right?”

Matt smiled at her and nodded. “I think I am. Right now, finally, I think we all will be.” She hugged him tight, and as she disengaged herself, her fingers trailing away from his, her smile turned impish.

“Karen’s pregnant,” she announced.

Matt was stunned, as all men are by such sudden, momentous statements. “She didn’t look any different to me.”

Sandra giggled and shook her head. “See you later, sailor,” she said, and stepped away into the gathering twilight.

“Huh,” Matt said, turning to walk along the dock. Eventually he grinned.

A short distance away he was surprised to encounter the Mice sitting on coiled cables and leaning against a fallen piling. All three had their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands as they stared glumly at their sunken Home.

“Evening, uh . . . men,” he said, inwardly amused by his own confusion regarding how to address them. The trio began to stand and he waved them back. “Why the long faces?” They looked at him as if he were nuts.

Gilbert hopped up anyway, whipping his hat from his head. No matter how crazy he thought he was, there was no way he could answer the skipper sitting down. “Well, sir, beggin’ yer pardon, but our ship’s, well . . . sunk.”

“So? We’ll raise her. What’s that compared to everything else we’ve done?” Isak and Tabby both jumped up.

“But . . . beggin’ yer pardon too, how we gonna patch her?” Isak demanded.

Tabby suddenly blinked inspiration. “We gonna use iron from that Jap ship, ain’t we!” she exclaimed in a passable copy of her companion’s lazy drawl.

Isak stiffened. In a voice both excited and scandalized at the same time, he spoke. “Hally-looya, we’re gonna get our boilers back . . . but goddamn! Jap iron? It ain’t decent!” Catching himself, he yanked his own hat off his head and mumbled, “Sir.”

Matt laughed. “Settle down! Steel is steel. Besides, remember all that scrap we sold the Japs before the war? Maybe Amagi used to be a Packard!”

He was still laughing when he left them talking excitedly among themselves. Slowly he walked around the basin, inspecting the remains of his ship with a critical eye. Inevitably, looking at her, he became more somber. No question about it: raising and refitting the old destroyer would be a daunting task. But they had performed miracles; they could do it again. The mere fact that any of them were still alive was a miracle in itself.

He stopped when he reached the other side of the basin. The ship was farther from him now, and the exposed damage didn’t look so bad. An errant ray of the setting sun managed to blink through the jungle on the far side of the bay and cast his long shadow upon the distant pilothouse. That was where he’d been standing when they fought Amagi the first time, he reflected, and when they came through the Squall. It was from there that he’d first seen the Lemurians, and directed the first action in their aid. It was probably where he’d first realized he was in love with Sandra Tucker. He’d fought the Battle of Aryaal/B’mbaado Bay and tried to save Nerracca from within its confines. And that was where he’d been standing just the other night. . . .

It suddenly occurred to him that Walker’s pilothouse, her bridge, was where he had become the man he was. More properly, that . . . living . . . ship, and—he couldn’t find the words for her crew—had taken the man he’d been and molded, refined him into the man he had become. Hot tears stung his cheeks, and, impatiently, he wiped them away. No time for that, and she wouldn’t want it. As his shadow disappeared and Walker’s bridge grew dark, he knew someday, somehow, he’d stand there again. When he did, it would be at the head of a fleet that would scour the Grik from existence and secure the safety of his people—regardless of race—and the memory of all those who’d died to make it happen.