“Grik always travel in threes,” Ellis said, pondering. “Maybe we can catch them and destroy them on the way back to Aryaal. Maybe even get the plane, if it was damaged.”
“That would be ideal,” agreed Letts, “because otherwise they’re going to know all about our defensive arrangements. Maybe they’ll think they got the plane and the ship, which might be good, but maybe they won’t. Regardless, they’ll have a good idea what they’ll face when they come.”
“I fear the events of the last week, the attack on
Donaghey
, and the destructive scout mission, proves they will come soon. Sooner than we planned,” Nakja-Mur interjected. “Why else should they do those things now? Why not wait until they are ready—unless they already are?”
“Well, we need to know that too,” Letts agreed. He looked at Ben. “How soon can you fly?”
Ben was exhausted and hurting, and his brain wasn’t working right, so it took him longer than usual to form a reply. “Uh, we can have the starboard engine reassembled in a day. Another day or two to install it and check it out . . . No sense putting the cowl back on; shredded as it is, it’ll drag worse than the motor.” He fell silent again, contemplating. Finally he sighed. “Three days, if we have plenty of help and everything works. We still need something for a windscreen, though.” He looked speculatively at Ellis. “Maybe some of
Mahan
’s spare window glass?”
“Very well,” said Letts, realizing he was treading on another of Captain Reddy’s orders: never fly the plane without established communications. Nothing for it. “Top priority on that as well. I want you to fly to Aryaal, take a quick look, see what
Amagi
and the Grik fleet are up to, and head straight back. Can you do it?”
Ben shrugged. “It’ll probably be the roughest flight of my life, but we should still be able to go higher than they can shoot. Yeah, provided the wings don’t fold up on us.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime,
Felts
sails tomorrow, whether Clark’s ready or not. He’ll warn Tarakan, in case those three Grik ships didn’t head back to the barn, and then proceed to Manila. If we can’t get a transmitter going, he’ll be the quickest way to inform the captain the Grik are up to something.” He looked at Nakja-Mur. “Yeah, I feel it too.”
Brevet Captain-General Pete Alden and Captain Haakar-Faask lay in the undergrowth near the beach, taking turns with Pete’s binoculars and watching Grik warriors disembark from the three ships closest to shore. Those three had no cannons they could see, but they suspected the other three, keeping station to seaward, did. The tactic was far too methodical and sensible for Alden’s taste. He looked at Faask and arched an eyebrow. Faask almost snorted a laugh—he found the face moving of the humans hilarious—but he understood the gesture, even if he had little English. Fortunately, Alden had picked up a functional ’Cat vocabulary by now. “I think they’re through messing around with us,” was a rough translation of what he said.
Two weeks had passed since he and Queen Maraan were marooned with the rest of the refugees, long enough for the three Grik ships that drove
Donaghey
away to return to Aryaal with news of the battle, prepare this expedition, and return. It was also past long enough for
Donaghey
to make it to Baalkpan, damaged as she was, and another relief force to be dispatched. The problem was, with the allied navy scattered from here to the Philippines, could they even scrape together a force large enough to come to their aid?
He had no doubt that, eventually, help would come. If nothing else, Garrett would return as soon as his ship was repaired, but that might be a while. In the meantime, the better part of a thousand Grik warriors were about to start beating the brush for the less than three hundred souls left in Faask’s and his care, mostly males by now at least, but mostly civilians too. Less than a hundred had ever borne arms, but ever since he’d been left behind, Faask had been training all the refugees, females and younglings included, for just this eventuality. Fortunately, most of the latter had already been rescued. There were still a few, those who wouldn’t leave their mates, or females who’d been separated from their younglings and still hoped against hope they might turn up. A few elders had remained as well, too old and frail to wield a sword or spear, but who wouldn’t leave until everyone else was rescued. Many were ill, due to either malnutrition or exhaustion. That left Alden’s “effectives” at just over two hundred.
His scouts had discovered a force of two thousand or more closing from the west-northwest, pushing them back from observation points overlooking the bay they’d used to such good effect, and now this blocking force was landing in their “rear,” cutting off their egress to the sea.
“We better get back to the rally point and tell the queen what we’ve seen,” he said. Motioning a pair of pickets to maintain their positions and keep tabs on the enemy advance as long as they could, Alden and Faask slithered down the embankment and hurried off through the jungle.
Queen Maraan awaited them, anxious for their news. “Is it true?” she hissed. Pete and Haakar-Faask both nodded, and her eyes turned to slits. “What will we do?”
“We must keep you safe, Your Majesty,” Faask replied.
“How? Would you have me slink off into the jungle, dig a hole, and crawl into it?” She gestured around at the refugees, huddled under makeshift shelters against the rain that had begun to fall. “What of them?”
“With respect, Majesty—” Faask began.
“No! I will not skulk around, leaving my people to be slaughtered!” She stared levelly at Alden and Faask. “We will fight! All of us! You two are probably the greatest generals this world has ever known. In different ways, perhaps, since you come from different backgrounds, but that should give us an insurmountable advantage, not a disadvantage. Surely, between you, you can devise a plan that will, if not give us victory, at least deny it to them! All we need is time, my friends. Our allies will not abandon us.” She grinned. “We are too important, are we not?”
“But they are simply too many!” Faask protested. “They outnumber us fifteen to one!”
Alden scratched his beard. “Yeah,” he agreed, “if they were all in one place, that would be true.” He knelt to the soggy ground and swept the leaves and brush away, revealing a bare spot of damp earth. The rain was already tapering off—another short squall—and he selected a small, pointed stick. After he scratched a rough outline of the island, he drew a line across the top. “This is the main Grik force. There’re many of them, but they’re stretched across the entire width of the island. If we mass our forces here”—he pointed to the south—“we can strike their right flank and probably have numerical superiority, at least locally. We hit ’em like maniacs and break through into their rear. Even against a ‘normal’ enemy, that’d leave them dangerously exposed. With any luck, they’ll go nuts—like we’ve seen them do before—and we roll up their flank, killing as we go.” He grinned. “We might even set the whole army to flight, but probably not. Sooner or later our guys’ll get tired and the attack’ll run out of steam. That’s when they’ll hit back.”
“I agree so far,” Faask said, “but what good will that do? It will be a glorious end, but it will not protect the queen.”
“Sure it will, because we don’t let our ‘army’ run out of steam. We pull back to here”—he pointed again with his stick—“where we take a breather while the Grik center turns to attack us on their right. Where we
were
. When they do that, we hit ’em again, on their new
left
flank!”
Faask was silent for a moment, studying the impressions in the dirt. “But that’s . . . brilliant!”
Pete grinned. “Of course it is! We just have to make sure our coordination works like clockwork, and we have signals that work and are obeyed instantly.”
Faask stroked his own beard. Alden was more used to the sea folk, who generally kept their facial fur clipped short, but on the veteran warrior the beard seemed appropriate somehow. “And the tactic should work equally well against the Grik far left, if they have not, as you say, gone ‘nuts’ already. It would be the greatest, most audacious victory of the age!” He looked at Alden with renewed respect, then frowned. “But what of the blocking force? Our warriors will be exhausted, even if we are successful.”
Alden gestured toward the sea. “It’ll take them a day to get their shit together. We know where they are, but they don’t have a clue about us. They’ll figure it out pretty quick, but by then we’ll already be headed toward the main force. That ought to confuse them. I figure we’ll have a day or so to rest before they catch up, and they’ll be at least as spread out as the first bunch by then.”
“And we do it again!” Faask shouted triumphantly.
“And then we do it again,” Alden confirmed.
Queen Maraan coughed. “All very inspiring, noble generals. I am impressed. I knew you could do it, and it seems an outstanding plan . . . only remember the single greatest lesson I have learned from both of you: no plan may ever be entirely relied upon, once the battle has begun!”
CHAPTER 7
Warm sunlight filtered through the delicately woven curtains draped across the doorway to the balcony, and Matthew Reddy opened his eyes and blinked. He’d slept late again, he realized with chagrin. That was two days in a row. All his life he’d risen with the sun—or before—but lately . . . He shook his head Wand rubbed his eyes. Rolling off the great, mushy cushion that served as a mattress, he stood and walked to a water basin on a table near the door. He submerged his face for the count of ten, then rubbed it briskly with his hands. Rinsing, he parted the annoyingly long hair and combed it from left to right across his scalp, and looked intently into the polished silver mirror above the basin.
“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.
Breakfast was a lavish, quiet affair, but Matt immediately got the impression that, today, things would proceed differently. Perhaps word had slipped that
Walker
’s people were fed up and about to leave. Matt suspected Silva of the leak, but maybe that was best. As badly as they needed the Maa-ni-los, the Maa-ni-los needed them too, and if that was what it took to get the ball rolling, so be it. He was seated at one end of a long table, a position of prestige, and at the other end, in a place of equal honor, was Saan-Kakja. It was the first time he’d seen her since their arrival. All the negotiations had been conducted by underlings. Now, few of those underlings were present and Matt expected, as a result, things would move more swiftly. One way or the other.
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.