CHAPTER 20
Respite
Island
Matt felt like he was
fighting for his life. His opponent’s sword tip seemed to be
everywhere at once, striking like a snake and slashing at him like
lightning from a clear blue sky. He was on the defensive and he
knew it—hated it—reduced to parrying the blows and jabs as they
came, and he just couldn’t keep up much longer. Steel clashed
against steel in a veritable blur of blades, and he knew he was
giving ground even while his soul screamed attack. Attack! He
couldn’t. He’d never been much of a swordsman at the Academy. He’d
never expected to ever need to be, and
though his fine sword had seen much more use on this accursed world
than he would ever have imagined possible, he’d never faced an
actual skilled swordsman—or swordscreature—before. So far, when the
necessity arose, he’d just muddled along, hacking at Grik. They had
no real “swordsmen” that he’d ever met. Mainly you just had to keep
their teeth and claws and short, sickle-shaped swords at arm’s
length until you saw an opening—or until one of the spearmen at
your back did them in. Personally, he’d rather shoot
them.
He was gasping for
breath and the sandy shore dragged at his feet as he tried to make
the half-remembered responses to the attacks. Not that what he’d
learned at the Academy was doing him much good . . . The man he
faced was doing things with a sword he’d never seen before and he
had no choice but to try and do the same. Again, it hardly
mattered. He felt the growing, sickening certainty that he would
lose. His responses were just too slow, and he’d never developed
the muscle memory required for such a contest. He had to
Think about everything. That he’d
lasted as long as he had might speak well for his ability to think
under stress, but it wouldn’t save him. Besides, having
suspected the battle was lost, he
knew it already was. There was nothing
left but to see it through. He parried a lunge against his flank
with a crash of steel—just a little late—and realized the attack
was just a feint as his opponent took another long step, past his
sword, and planted his own sword tip in the center of Matt’s chest.
The blade bowed slightly as the blunt point pushed against the
padding.
“You’ve improved,”
Jenks complimented. Naturally, both men were sweating at that
latitude, but maybe Jenks was sincere. At least he was breathing
hard this time.
“I’m still dead,”
Matt objected.
“True, but as both
our cultures recognize, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Honestly, you
are much better. Certainly better than most of the young Imperial
hotheads who take the field on the New Scotland dueling ground! You
almost got me there, at the beginning, with your . . . unorthodox
attack. Nothing to it, really, but experienced aggression, but
sometimes that’s enough to give you an advantage over more
classically trained opponents. It’s distracting, and not at all
expected. If you can finish it then, why, what difference does it
make how good you actually are?”
Matt took a deep
breath and managed a wry grin. “Sounds like a good description of
every scrape I’ve been in since the Japs bombed Pearl
Harbor.”
Jenks remained
silent. He’d learned a good deal about the “other earth” the
Americans came from, and the war that raged there, just as Matt and
his people knew a lot more about the Empire now. The mention of
Pearl Harbor tweaked Jenks a bit, however, as did any reference to
Imperial territory that had belonged to the Americans on that other
world. Pearl Harbor simply didn’t exist, as the Americans
remembered it, but the “Hawaiian” Islands did—in a sense. They
composed the very heart of the Empire. He knew that as far as a few
of the remaining Americans were concerned, Pearl Harbor, or the
“Hawaiian” Islands still belonged to
them. Most were more philosophical than that, including Matt. They
recognized that tiny Tarakan Island, for example, had never been a
U.S. possession before they “got here,” and Matt used an
interesting phrase to describe the situation: “Possession is
nine-tenths of the law.” That didn’t mean that knowing parts of
their “homeland” was under “foreign” occupation was easy on them.
Jenks could sympathize. None of his people had any idea who, if
anyone, occupied their own almost mythical ancestral Britain. In
that sense, both the human destroyermen and Jenks’s Imperials had a
lot in common with the Lemurians, whose homeland had been under
Grik occupation for untold ages.
Jenks realized that
the Imperial possessions in North America might someday become a
source of contention as well. For the time being, however,
territorial ownership was the least of their concerns. They were
united—the Americans, and at least that portion of the Empire that
Jenks and Governor Radcliff represented—in a task that might prove
difficult enough even if they all worked in perfect
harmony.
“Let’s get something
to drink,” Matt suggested. “All this Errol Flynn stuff is hard on
you in this heat!”
“Indeed,” said Jenks,
unstrapping his own padded vest and then helping Matt with his.
He’d noticed before that Captain Reddy sometimes had a little
trouble removing things from his left shoulder. An old wound, he
assumed. “Particularly if by that you mean ‘capering in the sand
with swords.’ ”
“That’s exactly what
he means,” supplied the Bosun in a gruff tone. “The Skipper’s a
regular Captain Blood. You might be a little better at all that
fancy ballroom dancin’, but in a real scrap with no rules and real
killin’ to do, the Skipper’s a regular artist!”
“Of that I have no
doubt,” Jenks replied seriously as he and Matt stepped through the
sand to a small thatch pavilion erected at the edge of the trees.
Chief Gray was reclined on a wickerlike lounge alongside O’Casey.
Neither man stood as their superiors approached, but Gray leaned
forward and tilted an ornate pitcher of chilled nectar into a pair
of mugs for the two men.
“Thanks, Boats,” Matt
said sincerely, and after he removed the iron face guard he’d been
wearing, he greedily gulped the sweet fluid. Jenks nodded his
thanks as well and took a long, slow sip. Matt set his mug on the
table and stared at the two reclining forms as he poured it full
again.
Today, Gray and
O’Casey were the only “security” personnel accompanying Matt and
Jenks. As always, Gray carried his 1911 and a Thompson submachine
gun. With only his right arm, O’Casey made do with a cutlass and
four long-barreled flintlock pistols stuffed in his belt. Matt knew
he was a cool and formidable opponent. That neither commander would
allow, or felt the need for, a larger security force reflected the
fact that Matt and Jenks really had come to like and trust one
another. That their combined “squadron” and Governor Radcliff had
firm, uncontested control of Respite left no one with any real
concern for their safety.
Matt had grown to
appreciate that “Respite” was the perfect name for the island where
they took their enforced ease while waiting for the Allied supply
ships to arrive. Despite the oppressive heat of the latitude they’d
all more or less grown accustomed to, and the daily rains that kept
the humidity high, the place was a virtual paradise in many ways.
From the perspective of the human destroyermen, there was liberty,
of course, and a kind of liberty none had enjoyed since they’d been
forced to flee Surabaya in the “old” war. Commerce at Respite’s
suddenly booming brothels was carefully regulated because the
ladies there were still “obligated,” but Courtney’s mission to
“buy” indentured women was beginning to bear fruit. Matt hated that
his men were visiting brothels full of what were essentially
slaves, but he’d literally had no choice but to allow it . . . at
least for a while. He couldn’t, in good conscience, explain to his
long-deprived men that the smorgasbord of smooth, nubile, female
flesh displayed for all to see was not—could not be—for them. He
would probably have faced a real, albeit temporary, mutiny. His old
maxim to “never give an order you know won’t be obeyed” still rang
true.
He’d assembled the
men and told them that Respite had . . . facilities . . . for
seafaring visitors, and there’d be liberty on the standard
rotation—as long as the men behaved. He then went on to explain a
little of the “way things worked around here,” and he’d been
stunned by the response. He had to immediately quash a rising,
incredulous, spontaneous crusade among his crew—human and Lemurian—to “Free the Wimmen!” He’d been
stunned . . . and proud. As miserable as the scarcity of women had
made the men of USS Walker, their daily
association with “’Cat gals” in labor or combat had made the
revelation that Imperial women lived in almost universal servitude
even more horrifying to them than it might otherwise have been.
Once, some might have even wistfully dreamed of a place where women
could be their virtual slaves. No more. They wanted women, and no
mistake, but their perhaps unique experience with the prolonged
“dame famine” made the very idea that “some Joe” might practically
own a whole passel of them utterly
hateful.
He went on to explain
the use to which they intended to put some of the gold on board,
news that was met with universal acclaim. That lowered the
steaming, evangelical kettle aboard Walker to a simmer. Now, though the men still
visited the brothels fairly regularly, he’d noticed some had begun
to “make friends” with other island women, both indentured and
“free.” He encouraged that. Not only did friendships with
un-obligated women gain them female “recruits,” on whose behalf
Bradford was negotiating with Governor Radcliff to allow
unrestricted emigration, but honestly, it gave Courtney an idea of
which indentured women to focus on for “purchase” with their
limited gold. Matt had already ordered the men not to ever come to
him with any “special requests.” If a girl one of the guys was
sweet on just “happened” to be chosen, that was one thing. If the
men thought he was letting them go on a “shopping spree,” that
would be something else, probably bad in any number of
ways.
Respite had other
interesting aspects as well. For example, the dreaded flasher fish
so prolific within the Malay Barrier apparently hadn’t ever crossed
the vast, deep ocean to this place. There were strange creatures,
to be sure, and most of the more unusual probably guarded dangers
as yet unsuspected. There were even vast numbers of perfectly
ordinary-looking sharks clustered around the barrier reef that
protected the fine, clear anchorage within the broad lagoon. But
amazingly, for the first time since that terrible Squall brought
them to this world, they’d found a place where they could actually
take a refreshing dip.
Much to the
incredulity of their Lemurian shipmates, human destroyermen
thoughtlessly leaped over the side and capered in the water like
children whenever their duties allowed. Armed watchers stood guard,
of course, ready to warn of the approach of anything
dangerouslooking beneath the crystal water, but simple, innocent
pleasures such as that worked wonders on the men’s morale. The
upbeat mood was infectious, and it benefited the ’Cats as well.
Within a couple of days, a few of them were even goaded into the
utterly unnatural element. They were watched like infants, and
their reactions were almost always hilarious—and predictable.
Spanky likened the spectacle to throwing housecats in the bathtub,
and he wasn’t far off. Some of the hardier ’Cats eventually got
sort of used to it. A couple even at least pretended to enjoy
swimming as much as their human shipmates did.
Some days Spanky
brought Tabby on deck where she could breathe fresh air into her
damaged lungs. She still wore bandages over the worst of her burns,
but many had healed enough that they could endure the open air, at
least with some polta paste applied. To those who watched, Spanky
was gruff but attentive, and Tabby, despite her pain, seemed happy.
All were relieved that she would mend.
With that image in
mind, standing there now with Jenks at his side, Matt was struck by
the irony that ultimately, his people had more in common with the
Lemurians than they did with the only human civilization they
really knew on this world—one derived from the very same culture
his own nation had sprung from. He shook his head. If there was one
thing he’d learned since they’d wound up here, it was that his
crew, his men, had a distinct talent for disrupting the status quo.
That was perhaps the supreme irony of all: before the war, any
change in the status quo in China or the Philippines was met with
stiff resistance.
He
smiled.
“I might better get
back to the ship, Skipper,” Gray said. “Stites’ll be along directly
to spell me at protectin’ you.” He grinned, but waved out at the
lagoon where Walker lay at anchor amid
the Imperial ships. “I swear, Bashear’s a good hand, but he don’t
know how to be a proper bosun yet. Can’t get any work outta the
men. Look at all them hoodlums jumpin’ in the water and splashin’
around! And our poor ship ridin’ there with new rust streaks down
her sides!”
Stites arrived only
moments later, ’03 slung on his shoulder. Instead of the usual
banter with Gray, however, he stepped up to Matt, saluting.
“Skipper,” he said anxiously, “I got a message here from the tanker
squadron. Some’s from them and some’s been relayed on, tacked on,
sorta. I, ah, read it, Skipper.”
“Thanks, Stites,”
Matt replied. Grinning, he returned the salute. “That’s okay. I
trust your discretion.” Everyone had
been keeping close tabs on the aftermath of the Rangoon campaign
and the buildup for the push against Ceylon. They were also hooked
on the drama surrounding the expedition to salvage Santa Catalina. Of course, any news about Allison
Verdia Letts was quickly passed around her shipful of “uncles” and
“aunts.” Matt saw no reason to censor the transmissions they
received. He took the message, written on Imperial paper Jenks had
given them.
FROM COMMODORE SOR-LOMAAK COMMANDING FDFS (FIL-PIN DEFENSE FORCE SHIP) SALAAMA-NA AND ELEMENTS USN TASK FORCE OIL CAN X
Matt looked up. “I
really don’t know this Sor-Lomaak,” he admitted. “I assume
Saan-Kakja does, and trusts him. Salaama-na’s a Fil-pin-built Home. . . .” He looked
back at the next part, then read it aloud for Jenks’s
benefit.
EYES ONLY MP REDDY CINCAF X DISTRIBUTE FOLLOWING AS YOU SEE FIT X ENCOUNTERED—RENDERED AID—TOOK IN TOW—DISABLED IMPERIAL SHIP ULYSSES X VESSEL HAS SUSTAINED SERIOUS STORM DAMAGE BUT IS SEAWORTHY X LARGE PERCENTAGE SURVIVORS X BETTER CHARTS AIDED DECISION DISPATCH AHEAD THREE (3) LIGHT OILERS IN COMPANY NEW FIL-PIN-BUILT USN STEAM FRIGATE USS SIMMS THAT JOINED US THIS DAY X ETA 100 NM ENE YOUR POSITION FOUR (4) DAYS X PLEASE PROVIDE PILOT AND ESCORT X REMAINDER OF SQUADRON APPROX NINETEEN (19) DAYS OUT X SAAN-KAKJA SENDS COMPLIMENTS AND DEVOTION X MOST RESPECTFULLY SOR-LOMAAK SALAAMA-NA X END MESSAGE XXX
“That is good news!” Jenks exclaimed. “How very
excellent! I had despaired of Ulysses!
I should be glad to send Icarus to
pilot your other ships in!” He paused, wearing an anxious smile. “I
must say, I’m fairly bursting to view this ‘new’ Simms! She was named for Captain Lelaa’s ship, was
she not? The first steam frigate out of the Fil-pin yards! I’ll
warrant she’s a beauty!”
“Thanks,” Matt said,
reading further. “I’m sure she is.” His expression had changed.
“Icarus will be much appreciated,” he
murmured, then he began to read aloud again. The next part seemed
to have been composed in a hurry.
ADDENDUMM X A MAJOR REPEAT MAJR VOLCAANIC EVENT OBSRVED SSE SOUTHERNMOST FIL-PIN SETLE-MENT MIN-DAAN-AO VICINITY TALAUD X ALL CO-MUNICATIONS USS TOOLBOX LAUMER EXPEDISION LOST X HEVY SEA SURGE SOUTH ISLANDS X MUCH DAMAGE X FEAR WIRST NOT YET HAPPEN X SAD CON-DOLINCES ALL OUR PEEPLE X WILL UPDATE X MESSGE END XXX
“Good God!” Jenks
exclaimed, stunned.
“Yes, sir,” Gray
agreed somberly. “God help ’em.”
“Commodore Jenks,
please arrange a meeting with Governor Radcliff,” Matt said
woodenly. “We have a few things left to sort out before we take
off, and the date for that’s finally near. If our replenishment
vessels arrive in four days, I want to be underway in six.” He
shook the note in his hand and looked at the men around him. “We’re
running out of time, gentlemen, I feel it. We may not be trying to
refloat a submarine on top of a volcano, but events might still
overwhelm us while we sit here goofing off. Before much longer,
Billingsley’ll be arriving in Imperial waters. It stands to reason
that with the princess captive, whatever scheme the Company’s
cooking up will likely hatch shortly after that.” He looked at
Jenks. “I’m sorry, Commodore, I wish you could be with us, but
we’re going to have to sprint for it. Fine a ship as Achilles is, she just can’t keep up when
Walker stretches her
legs.”
Jenks nodded slowly,
thoughtfully. “Very well, Captain Reddy,” he said and sighed,
looking out at his ship in the harbor. “I will arrange the meeting,
but if you mean to move that swiftly—something I cannot debate,
since I too feel a growing sense of urgency—I must leave my ship in
the hands of Lieutenant Grimsley and accompany you. Walker might be able to sink half the Imperial
Fleet, but she can’t sink New Britain. You simply can’t stand
offshore and demand all Company officials be marched down and
hanged at execution dock.” He chuckled grimly. “Again, it is amply
demonstrated that neither of us can succeed alone. I can’t get
there in time without you, and once there, you can’t accomplish
anything without me.” He paused. “No offense meant, and I don’t
mean to boast, but I do think I can secure the aid of the one other
person who might be in a position to help us.” In response to
Matt’s blank stare, he shrugged and elaborated. “The
Governor-Emperor, of course. You see, despite everything, the
Governor-Emperor and I are . . . well acquainted. He will see me if we make our presence known, and he
will believe me about his
child.”
The “Governor’s
Palace” was an impressive edifice. It wasn’t the biggest
independent dwelling on Respite—that title belonged to the Company
Director’s Mansion—but completely enclosed within the formidable
harbor defenses they’d seen from sea, it was the most secure and
commanded the preeminent view. The structure itself was the most
“familiar” Matt had yet seen on this world, in terms of
architecture. It looked much like the homes dedicated to the
commanding officers of any number of American military facilities
back in the States and abroad. It was large, airy, comfortable, and
tastefully decorated. The elevation and an unopposed breeze from
almost any direction provided Matt with a tantalizing, nostalgic
hint of an early fall day on the coast. Except for the plastered
limestone columns supporting the seaward-facing porch roof on the
ground floor, there was little ostentation. The porch also
overlooked a rather radically sloping “parade ground” surrounding a
flagpole resembling a topmast and ending with a line of officers’
barracks just short of the defensive wall. The grade was such that
one could sit on the porch and see the harbor and the vast sea
beyond with a view unobstructed by anything but the Imperial flag.
It was breathtaking.
Matt and his
companions stepped down from the donkey-drawn “land barge” with
spoked, wooden wheels that had carried them up the impressive slope
like a San Francisco streetcar. The conveyance had pleasantly
surprised Matt the first time he rode it to the palace. It was a
simple affair, built with a single back and two outward-facing
benches. Even with six admirably teamed and amazingly dedicated
donkeys pulling it, it moved at a ponderous pace, but though
unsprung, it was surprisingly comfortable. On that first visit,
he’d expected to have to hoof it all the way to the Governor’s
Palace dressed in his deteriorating best or, worse perhaps,
ride one of the ridiculous donkeys.
Either eventuality might have caused an international incident.
Juan Marcos had performed miracles maintaining Matt’s original
“Mess Dress,” and the sweaty damage of such a trek might have
driven him to fire on the palace with one of Walker’s guns. Since then, he’d enjoyed riding the
land barge several times during its winding, scenic, relaxing
ascent. Sitting on it, calm and still, was a little more difficult
when it came down the hill,
though.
Matt, Gray, Bradford,
Spanky, and Chack were received at the fortress gate by an Imperial
Marine, who saluted and politely escorted them across the stubbly
parade ground and the palace lawn to the porch. Commodore Jenks,
O’Casey, and Achilles Marine Lieutenant
Blair were already seated upon colorfully cushioned wooden chairs,
attending Governor Radcliff, his adjutant, the Respite militia
colonel, and several diaphanously dressed ladies. Drawing closer,
Matt recognized the governor’s wife and three daughters. The wife,
Emelia, was a short, round, but surprisingly attractive woman who
habitually wore the amused expression of one who observed but
wouldn’t stoop to dabble in the affairs of men. The daughters
shared the attractiveness of their mother in younger, slimmer
forms, visible in the breeze despite the shapeless clothing. They
shared a trace of her “look” as well. In Imperial society, Emelia’s
was probably an extremely liberated life, and Matt suspected that
Radcliff appreciated her opinions, in private at least. They seemed
comfortable together, and the governor, as in the past, didn’t
immediately shoo his women away.
The Imperial men
stood as the destroyermen approached.
“Captain Reddy of the
United States warship Walker, come to
call with companions, Your Excellency,” barked the Marine escort.
Matt saluted, as did the others except for Bradford, who swept his
ridiculous hat from his head and bowed, pointing his ruddy, balding
pate at their hosts.
The Imperial officers
returned the salute in their slightly different fashion, but
Radcliff was beckoning them forward. “Please do come aboard,” he
boomed. “These militant ceremonials waste time we may later regret!
Nothing against ceremonials, militant and otherwise, but everything
has a season and we face a stormy one indeed.”
The ladies didn’t
rise or move in any way, but all seemed intensely focused on Chack,
as before. His “American” English was near perfect now, as the
first Lemurian who’d ever begun to learn it, and he was the very
personification of military professionalism and bearing. He’d
clearly impressed the governor, but he was just as clearly
aware—and mortified—that the Imperial ladies considered him
exotically cute. Matt saw it too and was amused by their
fascination and Chack’s discomfiture, but doubted the governor’s
ladies would consider Chack so cute and cuddly if they’d ever seen
him in battle.
“Please, gentle . . .
ah . . . gentlemen,” Radcliff continued, suddenly a little
discomfited himself, “do join us. Watch your footing on the steps
there—the spacing’s all wrong. I’ve been meaning to have it
fixed.... Well done! True seamen never even notice! Please be
seated, everyone. We have much to discuss!”
Matt sat on one of
the empty chairs and removed his hat while the others did the same.
Raking his fingers through his hair to slick it back, he noticed
one of the daughter had shifted her attention to him. He tried to
ignore her gaze.
“Your Excellency,”
Matt began, “I’m sure Commodore Jenks told you the news we received
yesterday?”
“Indeed.” Radcliff’s
expression turned grim. “You have my most sincere condolences. We
have considerable experience with volcano-ism and the sea surges
such activity can produce. I do hope the ultimate toll won’t be as
high as you fear.”
“Thank you, sir.
Another message today added little new information.”
Radcliff paused
briefly, then shook his head. “Pardon me, Captain Reddy. Please
know I sympathize with your concern, but I cannot restrain my
wonder regarding your devices for communicating over such vast
distances! The message Jenks conveyed to me was saddening . . . and
disturbing in other ways that we must discuss, but the means of its
delivery . . . I cannot comprehend it.”
Courtney Bradford
leaned forward in his chair. “My dear Governor Radcliff! It’s
really quite simple, once you understand some very fundamental
principles—”
“Courtney,” Matt
interjected, hoping the Imperials hadn’t been too offended by
Bradford’s exuberant and completely unconscious condescension.
O’Casey, at least, understood a few of those principles. “Later.”
He looked at Radcliff. “Right now, let’s focus on the message
itself. What else about it is ‘disturbing’?”
Radcliff glanced at
his adjutant, his face reddening a little. “A single moment more,
if you’ll indulge me. First, to complete an understanding reached
between Mr. Bradford and myself, let me say that I understand that
there are . . . certain aspects of our civilization you may not be
comfortable with.” He sighed, and his eyes flicked toward his wife.
“I might even make so bold as to propose that I . . . increasingly
share a measure of discomfort regarding one issue in particular.”
He spread his hands helplessly. “Sadly, momentous change often
requires considerable time. In our negotiations, Mr. Bradford has
proposed ways those changes might be accelerated, if not instantly
achieved.” He looked at Bradford. “I believe you summed it up
nicely by referring to a ‘balance of supply and
demand’?”
“Indeed,” Courtney
said, somewhat pleased with himself. “An end to this hideous
‘Company’ and its abhorrent trafficking in human flesh must
necessarily precede any real progress, but the Alliance does offer
an immediate, if modest, ‘safety valve’ to alleviate the
‘oversupply’ problem here on Respite, at least. Over time, a
decreased supply of a certain . . . commodity . . . within the
Empire must necessarily appreciate its value and, eventually,
status.”
Radcliff nodded
seriously. “Ingenious and succinct,” he said. “In that respect, on
that subject, I have made my decision. With your guarantees of
decent treatment and these somewhat unprecedented ‘rights’ you
speak of, any Respitan woman who has completed her indenture or is
otherwise free of any legal or commercial indebtedness is also free
to choose for herself if she wishes to emigrate to the lands or
‘Homes’ collectively constituting these ‘Allied Powers’ of yours.”
He glanced again at his wife and grimaced at her apparently . . .
more satisfied amusement.
“I regret, however,”
he continued, “that with the exception of a few dubious Company
contracts I’m inclined to throw out, you must continue to purchase
the obligations of other . . . persons so . . . encumbered. Should
you choose . . .” Radcliff’s grimace grew more pronounced as he
spoke. It was apparent that he’d never contemplated this aspect of
his culture’s “institution” so deeply before. He cleared his throat
and marched determinedly on. “Should you choose to retire a . . .
debt with anyone who holds it,” he finally managed, “and they
refuse to sell said . . . debt, for any reason, they shall be
liable to a charge of usury.” He glanced at his wife again. “Owning
debt is one thing,” he said defensively, “but owning people, quite
another!”
“Thank you, Your
Excellency,” Matt said simply. It was a major concession, he
knew—one he’d held out for. Despite Courtney’s arguments about
“commodities” and “supply and demand,” he would pay the actual
value of the obligations of the women Courtney chose—but no more.
There must be no “price gouging.” He’d argued that that would imply
the owners of the debt truly did consider the women who “owed” it
to be their property. The Respitan economy might even take a hit,
particularly if a lot of “free” women actually chose to emigrate.
By the look of things, they did a lot of the hard work on the
island. The signs were that many would, but how would they decide
when the time actually came to step aboard a ship crewed almost
exclusively by another species and leave behind everything they’d
ever known? For that matter, how would his own destroyermen respond
if they went from famine to feast virtually overnight? He had no
concern that the women would be well treated by the Lemurians, and
there’d be plenty for them to do. In that respect, their lives
might not even change that much. But they would be free and
equal—and they would know what respect felt like.
Radcliff had extended
an olive branch, but Matt could see there was a catch. He waited
for the other shoe to drop and when it didn’t, he spoke. “That has
nothing to do with the message we received yesterday,” he prodded.
“What exactly ‘disturbs’ you about it?”
“Well . . . I mean no
offense, please understand. It’s just that this apparent armada of
yours, advancing toward Respite, leaves me uneasy.”
“Uneasy,” stressed
the militia colonel.
“I understood you had
an . . . oil collier, a ‘tanker’ squadron coming to supply your
needs,” Radcliff continued, “but the message hints at a
considerably larger force. Large enough to take one of our biggest
ships in tow.” He held out a hand. “Don’t mis-take me, we are all
very grateful for the rescue of Ulysses, but let me explain. As you know, there are
elements on this island that have flirted with secession from the
Empire. I am one of those ‘elements’ myself.” He became agitated
and abrupt. “But, well, let it be said: we pray the Empire might be
repaired, and Commodore Jenks assures me that you could be of
tremendous help in that regard. I do hope and believe you are the
friends you seem to be. If the effort should fail, however, if the
Empire should continue its suicidal slide, we will secede. We have
no choice. Even as we flirt with secession, our beloved Empire,
through the Company, flirts with even darker things. We will not,”
he added, suddenly forceful, “throw off one corrupted master only
to be enslaved by another!”
Matt was taken aback.
He looked at Jenks and knew the man must have explained, but still
the governor wanted more guarantees. Upon reflection, he supposed
that was reasonable, given Respite’s position. He saw Emelia
staring hard at him and realized she was probably the ultimate
source of the governor’s sudden apprehension. Oddly, he was
pleased. If someone as powerful as Governor Radcliff would listen
to a woman’s concerns in this society, even when privately
expressed, there might be hope for the Empire yet. He felt another
stab of anxious fear and loss. He knew that without Sandra backing
him up, he never would have accomplished half of what he
had.
He cleared his
throat. “Governor Radcliff, you have my personal guarantee, upon my
honor as an Officer and a Gentleman commissioned into the United
States Navy, that my country . . . the Alliance we represent . . .
has no territorial ambitions here. We’re engaged in a terrible war
with an unimaginably brutal foe thousands of miles from here, and
that’s where I’d be if the criminal Billingsley and the ‘Honorable’
New Britain Company hadn’t abducted . . . some of our people as
well as your Imperial Princess, and perpetrated an unprovoked
attack on Allied persons and property. We now know that not only
Billingsley but the Company he serves was responsible for that, so
we’re at least as much at war with the Company as you are. We’re
natural allies in that respect, but we expect no further assistance
from you than that war will require. To that end, Mr. Bradford will
hopefully conclude negotiations for basing and quartering treaties
to support the logistical requirements necessary for that
operation.”
“As I said,” Jenks
explained, “their ‘Task Force Oil Can’ will arrive, and most of its
elements will move on to New Britain, escorted by Icarus and assorted Allied warships. Achilles and USS Simms
will follow almost immediately in our wake with a couple of fast,
‘razeed’ oilers. All that will ultimately remain here is a
communications facility—to transmit and receive the amazing
messages you admired—and some support personnel to ensure a steady
flow of supplies to support the campaign Captain Reddy described.
It really is that simple, and that’s all there is to it. I have
seen their real war and their real enemy, gentlemen, and claiming
Respite for themselves is not even on their horizon. They don’t
want to be here.”
“But what constitutes
the ‘end’ of that ‘campaign’?” Emelia suddenly blurted. The men
looked at her, stunned, and in the governor’s case, clearly
somewhat angry. Emelia defiantly held her ground.
“The destruction of
the New Britain Company, ma’am,” Matt said simply. “And frankly,”
he added after an introspective pause, “getting even. Saving your
country after that is up to you.”