Walker
backed engines and shuddered to a stop two hundred yards short of the main wharf Keje directed them to. With a great rattling, booming crash, her anchor splashed into the water and fell to the bottom of the bay. Just like the first time they visited Baalkpan, Matt wouldn’t tie her to the dock until invited to do so.
“All engines stop,” he commanded. “Maintain standard pressure on numbers two and three, and hoist out the launch. Make sure the shore party wears their new whites.”
With Baalkpan’s impressive textile capacity, they’d made new uniforms principally for this mission. They were remarkably good copies, even though they were hand-sewn, and no Lemurian had ever made anything like trousers before. It took a while to get used to the feel of the strange, itchy material. It wasn’t really cotton, and certainly wasn’t wool. More like linen, and Matt honestly didn’t have any idea what it was made of, although he was sure Courtney Bradford could go on about the process for hours. He relinquished the deck to Larry Dowden and started for his stateroom to change into his own new uniform when he had a thought. When they first entered Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, they’d carried sidearms, and the more recognizable Navy cutlasses, pattern of 1918, thinking their version of commonplace weapons might make their hosts feel more at ease. Matt had worn his now battered and ironically much-used academy sword. That resulted in a delicate social situation when he’d given the “sign of the empty hand”—essentially a wave—when his hand wasn’t metaphorically empty. He’d learned the sign was customarily given only when visitors arrived unarmed. That left him with a dilemma. He knew they should have little to fear, even in the massive, sprawling city they were about to enter, but they’d suffered treachery before, and he wouldn’t take any chances.
“Sidearms and cutlasses for the diplomatic mission,” he said, then held up his hand before Keje could protest. “Thompsons for the detail to stay with the boat.”
“Aye, sir,” Larry replied, somewhat triumphantly. He’d argued strenuously that the shore party must be armed, against Adar’s equally adamant disagreement. Matt turned to Keje.
“We know not everybody’s on our side,” he said, explaining his decision to an equal as he wouldn’t have done to anyone else, “and not all the ‘pacifists’ are nonviolent either. I won’t risk anybody in a city that large, and with that many people, on faith alone. I’ll compromise to the extent that we’ll leave our weapons with another guard detail before we ascend to the Great Hall. Fair?” After brief consideration, Keje nodded with a grin.
“Fair. Baalkpan has never known real crime, but in a place like this?” He waved generally toward the city. “I have rarely been here, and not at all recently. Since my last visit, the place has ‘boomed,’ I believe you would say. Adar will object, of course, but it is unreasonable to assume there is no risk at all. Besides, some of the more subversive elements have gravitated here, and I personally would feel much better with my scota at my side. I think leaving our weapons under guard is a fine compromise between trust and prudence.” Matt grinned back.
“I’m glad you approve. Should we tell Adar the plan, or let him stew?”
In the event, they had no difficulty reaching the Great Hall. San-Kakja had provided an escort that led them through the teeming multitudes, swirling smells, and riotous colors of the dockside bazaar. There were ten of them, besides the four they’d left with the launch. Captain Reddy, Keje, Adar, and Courtney Bradford constituted the diplomatic mission, and Chack and Dennis Silva would ascend with them to the hall as guards of honor. Matt was dubious about including Silva, but he and Chack were the most visibly formidable representatives of their respective species aboard the ship. Three of Chack’s Marines, resplendent in their blue kilts and polished armor, would guard their weapons under the command of the Marine captain, Graana-Fas, who was the son of Jarrik-Fas, Keje’s cousin and personal armsman he’d left commanding
Salissa
.
Their escort consisted of two dozen ’Cats in San-Kakja’s livery: yellow-and-black-checked kilts, burnished silver-plated breastplates, and platterlike helmets that looked like deeper copies of the Americans’, but with cutouts for the ears. A yellowish plume of something feathery flowed down their backs from a clasp on top of their headgear. Short, stabbing swords swung from their hips, again much like those the Americans introduced, which completed the martial ensemble and added a businesslike touch to their colorful garb. The curious crowd parted before them, though no command to do so was audible over the tumult, and they marched purposefully through the bustling shoppers, tradesmen hawking their wares, alien smells of cooking food, and naked younglings skittering about on all fours. The pulse of the city was vibrant and powerful, though hectic beyond belief. Much like Baalkpan, most of the commerce took place in the open air beneath colorful awnings and tapestries, but there seemed no order to it. In Baalkpan, the various services were clumped more or less together, so it was easier to find what one wanted. Here, there was no apparent attempt at any such organization, and the result was a kaleidoscope of sounds and smells and unintelligible voices that assaulted the senses from the time they left the boat until they drew to a halt at the base of the great Galla tree near the center of the city.
Like Baalkpan, the area immediately around the tree, and the Great Hall encompassing its base, was open and free of structures, permitting a park- or gardenlike effect. The area around Nakja-Mur’s hall had long since been churned up by drilling troops, its original beauty sacrificed to the imperative of training an army on the only open ground available. Since then, larger parade grounds and drill fields had been established beyond the new defensive works and hastily cleared jungle, but the original effect was similar enough to inspire a sense of déjà vu. The similarity ended there, however, for the process of greeting was significantly and unexpectedly different.
Nakja-Mur had welcomed them from an opening in his elevated hall, in time-honored fashion, as if they’d approached his “ship” in an open boat. Judging by the finery of the reception committee at the base of the tree, San-Kakja would meet them on level ground—an honor, possibly, but something they hadn’t foreseen.
Matt stared at the berobed phalanx, and tried to figure out which was the High Chief. The High Sky Priest was simple enough to identify; he was dressed exactly like Adar: younger, skinnier, and not as tall, but with the same silvery gray fur, barely revealed by the closely held purple cape flecked with silver stars. Perhaps San-Kakja was one of the beings standing near him? Sotto voce inquiries of Adar and Keje revealed nothing, since San-Kakja had risen since their last visit, and the old High Chief had been childless then. An awkward dilemma.
Decisively, Matt unbuckled his sword and pistol belt and thrust it at Silva before striding forward and holding his right hand aloft, palm forward.
“I’m Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of
Walker
,
Mahan
, and other units of the United States Navy, as well as Tarakan Island. I come to you in peace and friendship, representing all the allied Homes united under the Banner of the Trees, against the vicious onslaught of our Ancient Enemy, the Grik. As supreme commander, by acclamation, of the alliance, I’ve been granted plenipotentiary powers, and would treat with the High Chief of this Home. Do I have permission to come aboard?”
Adar nodded approval at Captain Reddy’s words and interpreted what he said. For a brief, awkward moment they waited, but there was no response; then the short sky priest took a step forward as if preparing to address them. Before he could speak, however, he was jostled aside by an even smaller form that strode directly up to Captain Reddy. The Lemurian was robed as the others in the same yellow and black, but the black hem was magnificently embroidered with gold thread and sparkling, polished sequins of shell. A fringe of glittering golden cones chinked dully with every step. A matching sash, complete with cones, coiled around a wasp-thin waist, and a gold gorget, intricately chased and engraved, swayed from a ropelike chain. On its head, the Lemurian wore a magnificently engraved helmet, also of gold, reminiscent of the ancient Spartans except for the feathery yellow plume. Large hinged cheek guards and a rigid nosepiece obscured the face entirely except for a pair of brightly inquisitive but astonishing eyes. They were yellow, which was not uncommon for ’Cats, but they looked like ripe lemons sliced across their axes, and dark, almost black lines radiated outward from bottomless black pupils. A small hand rose up, palm outward, in an openhanded gesture.
“I am Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la, and all the Fil-pin lands,” came a small muffled voice from within the helmet. “I greet you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, High Chief and supreme commander of the allied Homes.” With that, while Adar translated, another hand joined the first, and together they removed the helmet. Behind it was the fine-boned, dark-furred face of a Lemurian female of an age barely eligible to mate.
Matt was surprised. He’d suspected a youngster simply because of their host’s size. But even though he’d learned to accept that Lemurians made no distinction between the sexes regarding occupation—one of the seagoing members of the alliance,
Humfra
-
Dar
, had a female High Chief, after all—he’d never even considered the possibility something the size of the entire Philippines might be ruled by one. Stupid. Even in human history, there’d often been powerful women, sometimes supremely powerful. He hoped with a twinge of embarrassment that he hadn’t blinked surprise; he knew how to do that, at least, and he’d caught himself mimicking the Lemurian “expressions” more and more. He had to continue suppressing the reaction, because even though Saan-Kakja had never seen a human before in her life, young as she was, he detected no surprise, shock, distaste or . . . anything that might offend. Of course, she’d had that helmet to hide behind during her initial reaction, he consoled himself.
“Please do come aboard,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you and your amazing, gallant ship, and how you came from some incomprehensibly distant place to defend our people against unspeakable evil.”
“Thank you,” Matt replied gravely in her own tongue. That much he could manage.
She turned slightly and nodded respectfully to Adar first, then Keje—yet another departure from protocol, since Keje was, after all, another head of state. But while Adar’s status might have grown ambiguous—there’d never been a Sky Priest who, in effect, represented multiple Homes—it was certainly real, and perhaps even groundbreaking in importance. “High Sky Priest Adar, your reputation as a scholar is well remembered here, as is your knowledge of the pathways of this world and the next. I know of your oath to destroy the Grik forever, and I crave your counsel. . . .” She paused, and it seemed she’d left something unsaid, but then she continued. “Keje-Fris-Ar, you have long been renowned as a master mariner. Now you are a great warrior. I am honored to be in your presence once more, though I do not expect you to remember our last meeting.” Her eyes flicked across Bradford, then lingered on Silva and Chack. Especially Chack. They rested on Matt once more. “Do come aboard, and welcome. I would prefer to celebrate your arrival in the traditional way, but the times we live in do not countenance ordinary pleasures, it seems. We have much to discuss and”—she blinked apology, while at the same time the posture of her ears conveyed intense frustration—“little time.”
The entire sky was a leaden, dreary gray, unusual for midmorning over Baalkpan Bay. It seemed to radiate no malicious intent to become truly stormy, but there’d definitely be rain and lots of it. (Brevet) Captain Benjamin Mallory stalked back and forth on the beach, his arm still in a sling, watching while the huge but horribly battered PBY flying boat slowly rolled, landing gear extended, back into the sea.
“He looks like a worried mama cat whose kittens are climbing a tree for the first time,” Jim Ellis said aside to Alan Letts. Both had come to observe the launching, and they’d escorted Sandra Tucker, who’d decided to join them at the last minute—probably to make sure Mallory didn’t strain any of his wounds. It was a good thing too. He clearly felt inhibited by her presence. Letts chuckled, and so did Sandra, although the nurse’s laugh seemed fragile, exhausted. Letts looked at her. She’d come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working quite late or quite early, training ever more nurses and corpsmen for the looming showdown, or tending personally to a hurt beyond her students’ abilities. Her long, sandy-brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that belied her twenty-eight years and extreme professional competence. It accented her pretty face and slender neck, but it did make her look younger than she was. Younger and more vulnerable.
Alan Letts liked and admired her, as did everyone, human and Lemurian, but he always felt a little guilty when she was near. He was morally certain he’d married Karen Theimer because he loved her, and not, as some whispered, to snatch up one of the only “dames” known to exist. He
knew
he loved her, and they were happy together, but his very happiness inspired much of his guilt. He couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t right for him to be happy when so many of the men were so miserable. It had strained his relationship with the men, just as he’d expected, and Sandra and Captain Reddy predicted. As Captain Reddy’s chief of staff, he was obeyed, but he’d lost a measure of moral authority, he thought. On the other hand, everyone knew Sandra and the captain were nuts about each other—
Walker
’s crew had probably known it before they had. Even so, they’d tried to hide their attraction out of respect for the feelings of the crew, and they’d never once acted on that attraction beyond a rare stolen kiss they thought no one could see. They’d both already been held in high esteem, but their poignant sacrifice endeared them to the crew even more. It was obvious their love continued to grow, and each was very much a reservoir for the other’s strength, but still they didn’t marry or “shack up,” as the scuttlebutt said Silva and Pam Cross had sometimes done—not to mention Silva’s “other” affair! They did nothing any of the surviving destroyermen from
Walker
and
Mahan
couldn’t do. The men called them dopes and rolled their eyes in exasperation . . . and loved them for it. It was ongoing, positive proof the skipper wouldn’t rest until he fulfilled his promise to find the other humans he believed must exist in this twisted, messed-up world. Alan Letts was in awe of their willpower, and amazed by their self-sacrificing, almost tragic nobility. It was like two star-crossed lovers from a John Ford western had found themselves in a Cecil B. DeMille epic—complete with a cast of thousands, monsters, and freak weather events. And every time he saw the sad, melancholy look on Sandra Tucker’s face, he felt like a heel.