Into the Storm (34 page)

Chack cinched the chin strap and exuberantly scampered up the ladder to the fire-control platform and his “reserve lookout” post. There was no mistaking his body language—he was clearly enjoying himself. Seconds later, reports filtered in while Matt gazed at his watch. Finally, the last department reported and he smiled to himself.
Better
, he thought.
Not great, but shorthanded as they were . . .
He shrugged. Ever since the battle with the Grik he’d run twice-daily drills. Not only did it break the monotony and keep the crew on their toes, but it reminded them that USS
Walker
was still a United States Navy ship—wherever the rest of that Navy happened to be.

“Well done, Mr. Garrett. Pass the word; all departments have improved over their last time. You may secure from general quarters.”

 

Spanky tapped a pressure gauge on number four and grunted noncommittally. Chief Harvey Donaghey, the assistant engineer, had reported for the division while he inspected the cantankerous boiler during the exercise. So far, it was operating perfectly. Number two was in reserve, and number three was cold for the first time since they’d made their dash from Surabaya. When he peeked inside, he wasn’t at all happy about the condition of the firebricks. A near miss must’ve shaken stuff loose, he decided. He glanced up and saw that, as usual, the Mice were watching from the gloom. He sighed.

“Nothin’ wrong with number four,” Isak said. “Don’t know why you don’t like her. We gonna be somewhere we can tear down number three anytime soon?”

“We could do it now, but it wouldn’t be easy.” Gilbert glowered. “Would’ve been nice to put into Surabaya.”

“Surabaya ain’t there, boys,” Spanky said—again. The Mice blinked at him.

“All he said was it would have been nice,” Isak muttered.

They nearly had put in, the day after their first visit from the ’Cats. Not because they expected it to be there, but just to
see
. Captain Reddy finally decided against it, for several reasons. First, of course, was fuel. There was no use wasting it for a sightseeing trip. Second, Surabaya was inhabited, according to what Bradford had learned, but the people there weren’t “of the sea,” whatever that meant, and weren’t necessarily friendly. It was strongly implied that if
Walker
steamed into the harbor unannounced, the consequences might be awkward. After all, even
Big Sal
’s people had thought
Walker
was some new Grik ship at first. Finally, there was the potential damage to morale to consider. Seeing someplace like Surabaya—or someplace where Surabaya should be—was yet another trauma that the captain would sooner put off.

Java was over there, though. Spanky had seen it receding on the horizon to the south. But even at a distance, he could tell it wasn’t the Java he’d known. There were no picket ships or minelayers, no freighters loaded with weapons and supplies. No cranes and docks and filthy, oily water. No PBYs occasionally flying patrol and no haze from the industry—or smoke from fires caused by Japanese bombs. Of course, there weren’t any Japs either.

As always, the Mice flustered him by jumping from one subject to another. For once, it was just as well.

“How come we ain’t got a monkey-cat? Damn deck-apes have one. Why can’t we?” Isak complained.

“’Apes don’t have one either. They’re not pets. They’re allies.”

“What? Like Limeys?”

“Yeah, sort of like that. Besides, it’s too hot. I expect if one came down here, he’d die. They have fur, you know.”

The Mice looked at each other. “Fur?”

Spanky eyed them more closely. “Haven’t you seen one? Haven’t you even seen the one that lives aboard?” The two firemen shook their heads. “Damn, boys! You’ve
got
to get out of here once in a while!”

 

At dusk, Keje stood with Adar, Jarrik, and Kas-Ra-Ar on the battlement, now cleaned of all evidence of battle. They couldn’t forget the fighting, however, because of the charred, gaping wound that had once been the forward tower, tripod, and wing. There was also the constant smoke from the furnaces that carried the souls of their lost ones to the Heavens. Ordinarily, there would have been a single pyre for all, and the funeral would have been somber but festive. The dead had gone to a better place, after all. But there were so many, and their loss was so keenly felt, that Adar could speak the words, but none could summon the customary gladness. Also, since only the furnaces could be used, the “Rising” went on and on, and the smoke was a constant reminder of all they’d lost. Even so, repairs continued, and the sounds of mauls, saws, and axes reached them over the breeze from aft. Some Amer-i-caans still worked too, even though their last boat of the day had left hours ago. The Tail-less Ones didn’t seem to do anything by half measures, even when it came to friendship.

Keje was thankful. So many of
Salissa
’s strong young people had been taken that without the Amer-i-caan methods for moving heavy objects and debris, he doubted they’d have managed so well. He watched with admiration while cranes made from the charred lower portions of the tripod easily lifted huge pieces from where they’d fallen when the tower collapsed into the lower parts of the ship. The tower’s survivors now lived with the other wing clans, but so great were their losses in battle that the other two wings were still understrength. He’d hoped this would be the season for the people of
Salissa
to branch out—for the Home to have a daughter—but that wouldn’t happen now. They didn’t have the people, and they’d be lucky to find the resources to repair
Salissa
—much less build a new Home.

He noticed a figure leaning against the rail, staring at the iron ship. It was Selass. She’d spoken little since her mate disappeared, and he wondered if she mourned him. Saak-Fas had been disagreeable, but he was young and powerful and possibly even attractive. He could see how his daughter might grieve even though their joining was so brief. He shrugged. She would recover and, in time, mate again. Perhaps even to the young wing runner of the Sab-At clan? There was much more to Chack than Keje had once thought. He’d been misguided to discourage that match.

“My lord?”

Keje realized that Jarrik had been speaking. “I’m sorry, cousin. My mind roamed. Forgive my rudeness and repeat yourself.” Adar blinked mild reproof.

“We were discussing the Amer-i-caan ship, lord.”

“Ah. It does dominate most of our conversations of late. By all means, continue.”

Jarrik shrugged aside his chagrin. “But if their ship, this ‘Waa-kur,’ is indeed iron, how could it possibly float? Our swords and those of the Grik do not float, nor does anything else made of iron that I know.”

“Copper can be made to float, and it’s even heavier than iron,” Adar said smugly. “Cast a drinking cup into a barrel. Does it not float? Home is sheathed in copper, yet we float as well. I do not marvel at the possibility of an iron ship, but the fact of it. That is perhaps their greatest mystery and their most significant advantage. The skill to work so much iron!”

“What about their weapons?” challenged Jarrik bluntly. “Their weapons are iron too. From the big weapons on their ship to the small ones they carry. The principle is the same for all, I think, and the pertinent parts are all of iron.”

“I marvel at their weapons, but I confess greater envy for their speed,” Keje said.

“What need we of speed?” Jarrik asked. “We live on the sea and by the sea. If we flew to and fro with such speed as theirs, we couldn’t hunt the gri-kakka or even launch the boats.”

“They do not always fly, and they slow to launch their smaller craft—which also move without wings or oars,” Keje pointed out. “But if we had such speed, we would never have lost so many people. The Grik could not have caught us.”

“True,” agreed Adar, “but I’ve been wondering something, and Jarrik’s thoughts about the fish hunt reinforce my—I hesitate to call them concerns, but . . .”

Keje frowned at him and blinked impatience. Since the incident with the Scrolls, Adar had become the skeptic. “What troubles you about our new friends now, besides their impious treatment of Scrolls?”

Adar looked uncertain. “I’m not sure, and I’m less concerned about the Scroll issue than I was, although other Sky Priests may be less understanding. I’ve yet to form an opinion regarding their piety, but it’s clear that they have more Scrolls than we. I greedily learn their tongue so I can make sense of them. Bradford has explained much, and although it’s impossible, I’m sure he actually believes they have Scrolls mapping the entire world! Even the bottom!” Adar chuckled. “For such a learned creature, he harbors some unusual notions!”

Keje looked at his friend, amused. “What, do Amer-i-caans believe the world is flat?”

Adar blinked a negative, but couldn’t conceal a gentle grin. “No, lord, but he—and perhaps others—does not understand the most basic Laws of Things. That sweet water falls from the sky as a gift from the Heavens but, as it sours and turns to salt, it gets heavier and slowly slides off to the side of the world until it falls off.” He grinned wider and quoted an old cliché. “No one can stand on the bottom of the world.” The others laughed.

“Do their silly notions concern you, Brother?” Keje asked.

Adar’s grin quickly faded. “No, lord. Two things brought the question to mind, and before you ask me what question, let me proceed. First, as far as we know, the Amer-i-caans do not hunt gri-kakka, or any fish at all. Nor do they grow crops. As amazing as their ship is, it’s very small—which I must say became quite evident after a very short time—and dependent upon gish for fuel. That’s the smoke from their pipes. Surely you recognize the stink? It’s burning gish. I don’t know how it works, but they must have gish, and quite a lot of it.”

Keje blinked. “So? That’s no problem. We know where there is much gish and they are welcome to it for helping us.”

“Of course, but my point is, the Amer-i-caans are tied to the land by necessity. They eat only things of the land, as does their ship. They cannot be a true, self-sufficient, seafaring race such as we. I also know they don’t spring from any land I’ve seen, and together we’ve seen it all.” He held up his hand. “Second, and perhaps most striking, they have only two females. Not only is that obviously far too few, but they are not even mated.”

“Most unusual,” agreed Keje, “and perhaps unnatural. But I had the impression that the first healer—their ‘high’ healer, I suppose—was mated to their leader. The times we have seen them together, she seems to argue with him enough! Perhaps among them, only leaders may mate?”

“Not so, lord. She and the other female healer are not mated.”

They were all silent a moment, pondering.

“Well. I can certainly understand your perplexity, but what about this is sinister?”

“I never suggested it was sinister, lord. Merely strange—and in keeping with my question. When their healer came to help our wounded, she was obviously shocked to learn that many of our warriors are female, that we make no distinction regarding them when it comes to fighting. I asked Bradford about this, and he confirmed that among them, females do not fight.”

“Go on,” Keje prompted.

“Their ship bristles with weapons and has no obvious means of support. There are no females aboard, except two healers who do not fight because they’re not supposed to.” Adar looked at the others and paused to convey significance. The sun had almost vanished, but they still saw the destroyer cruising lazily, effortlessly, ahead. The reflected glare from the last rays of light hid her rust streaks and other imperfections. A single wisp of smoke floated from the aftermost pipe, and heat shimmered at the top. The curious piece of cloth they called a “flag” flapped tautly from the small mast that could have little other purpose than to fly it. “With this evidence, the only conclusion I can draw is that the Amer-i-caan ship has only one purpose: it’s a ship meant entirely for war.” He sighed. “What manner of people, besides the Grik, would build such a ship, and why so formidable? Did you see that many of the holes they patched were larger than the holes in their weapons? It strikes me that they have been shot at by something with bigger ‘guns’ than theirs. The Grik have nothing that would do that, or they would have used it on us. Besides, they claim to know even less about the Grik than we.” Adar frowned and his eyes rested speculatively on the dark shape as the sun sank from view.

“So what is this question of yours, after all?” Keje asked.

“Only this: have we befriended a flasher-fish, only to find a gri-kakka on its tail?”

 

Reveille blared in the forward berthing space at 0400 to signal the morning watch. Sleepy men groused and cursed, rolling from their three-tiered racks. Chack, however, practically vaulted from his—one of the uppermost—and quickly donned the white T-shirt that Alan Letts had given him to make him look more Navy-like than the red kilt alone—his only other garment. “Good morning, good morning!” he chanted cheerfully, weaving through the dressing men and scampering up the companionway.

“Ain’t natural,” grumped Rodriguez, who’d finally been restored to full duty. “Even monkey-cats can’t be that happy to wake up every day. He’s settin’ a bad example. It’ll ruin morale, I tell you.”

Elden grinned. “Sleep on deck and you won’t have to watch him in the morning.”

“Hell, I would! But every time, I get woke up drenched by a squall.”

“You’d rather get woke up drenched by sweat?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “This close to the equator, don’t much matter where you sleep, you’re gonna do that. Sometimes I actually pity those damn snipes. I bet it hits a hundred and forty in the fireroom today.”

“Hey, man, God didn’t make ’em snipes. If we were in the North Atlantic they’d be toasty warm and wouldn’t feel sorry for us, out on the icy deck.”

“Icy deck!” moaned Leo Davis dreamily from his rack. Ever since Lieutenant Tucker had applied the Lemurian salve to his leg, he’d rapidly improved. So much, in fact, that some began to suspect him of malingering. He stretched and smiled. “Is it morning already? Which one of you fellas’ll bring me breakfast in bed?”