“I don’t really know what more I can add,” Jenks said, sipping hot tea from a cup. Spread out on the green-topped table between them was a chart showing the four main, or “Home,” islands of the Imperial heart. Matt had seen it before, but in the past Jenks had always covered the coordinates to salve his conscience, since it was treason to reveal the location of the islands. For a long time now it was understood that Matt knew precisely where they were, and under the circumstances, such fictions no longer existed between them. Jenks would doubtless be called a traitor by the Company when his story was told, but he considered the Company—and the Dominion—a far graver threat to the Empire than the Grand Alliance was.
Courtney leaned forward for a closer look at the map. Most of those present also knew where the Imperial capital was, by deductive reasoning, but this was their first “look” at it. Matt had been right when he told them it wasn’t the “Hawaii” they remembered. The island shapes were tantalizingly familiar, but bigger, and in some cases joined. Lower global water levels—which Courtney had long suspected—and random volcanism probably explained that.
“We’ve been gone an awfully long time,” Jenks continued, “and I know little more than you what conditions may prevail within the Empire. We might even receive an unfriendly welcome. As I said before, that would be almost certain if I were not with you, but if the GovernorEmperor has been deposed, God forbid, I doubt my welcome will be warmer than yours.”
“You, O’Casey, and the princess have all hinted you’re a ‘big wheel’ in the Empire,” Matt observed. “I suppose your sympathies are well known.”
“Indeed. I’m known as a staunch Loyalist, as are most Imperial officers.”
Mat grunted. “Hmm. Well, speculation is almost pointless,” he said. “If you don’t have any pals left in government at all, we’ll have to wing it anyway. Let’s assume the situation remains essentially the same as when you left, probably a little tenser, of course, judging by what Governor Radcliff had to say. His was the most recent news. How do we proceed in that ‘best-case’ scenario?”
“We must assume Billingsley will have beaten us there,” Bradford interjected, brooding. “We should know that quickly enough, shouldn’t we?”
“I’m certain of it,” Jenks replied. “That we would know,” he amended. “There is frequent, rapid commerce between the Imperial Home Islands, and almost no clandestine anchorage. Ajax’s arrival would be recognized, reported, and known across the islands within days. If her crew is paid off, rumors of the princess would spread immediately. They might keep the crew sequestered, pleading sickness, but that would be widely known as well. If she’s there, we’ll know. Beyond that, much depends on what Billingsley and his superiors hope to gain, and what their timetable might be. If the princess has become their ultimate weapon against the throne, I think they would act quite quickly. Remember, they had no more certainty that she’d survived than I did, so I have no doubt they’ve continued their long-term scheme of subversion in our absence. With the princess in hand, I believe they would be overwhelmingly tempted to act precipitously, to ‘wing it,’ as you said, themselves. The Company and their creatures in the courts are known to take the long view of things, but they are also impetuous and grasping. In the past, the best check we’ve had against them in government has been their tendency to overreach and bleed support when the people see their true agenda.”
“So, if they have indeed won the race, we may find opportunity in the midst of a chaotic upheaval,” Courtney mused aloud.
“Possibly, but it could be messy.”
“Best case?” Matt asked again.
“Well, obviously, the best thing that could happen is that we get there before Billingsley, tell our story, and wait for him to arrive.” Jenks looked serious. “Tempting as it would be, I must caution against trying to stop him at this stage. Better to let him think he’s won. If we sight Ajax, we should steer clear. If he fears he will be foiled, his only recourse might be to ‘eliminate’ any evidence against him.”
“Agreed,” Matt said reluctantly. He paused. “What do you consider the worst-case scenario?” he asked at last.
Jenks shifted on his chair. “Well, certainly, objectively, the worst possible thing that might happen is that Billingsley never shows up at all. Not only would that imply that his ship is lost with all aboard—with the attendant grief for all concerned—but it would substantially undermine our testimony. At least until Achilles, Icarus, and Ulysses arrive. Unfortunately, at that point we will of necessity be ashore and we, as well as the Empire, might not live to see it happen.” He looked at Matt. “One of the reasons the Company has survived so long to contend with an entity as powerful as the Imperial throne is that it can be ... remarkably resourceful and ruthless. Our arrival will threaten its position because some will believe us. That alone might precipitate action on their part. One way or another, whether Billingsley has beaten us or not, when Walker steams into Imperial waters, the ... ah, how do you say? Yes. The ‘shit will hit the fan.’ ”
“Pardon me,” Chack interrupted. “Viewing this map from a military perspective, I see a number of anchorages, particularly on this New Scot-laand. I see no ‘Pearl Harbor,’ however. Assuming the names are different, where was it? Where would it be?”
“It ain’t there,” Spanky said, rubbing his chin through his white-shot brown beard. His expression was as empty as a ’Cat’s. He pointed. “Here’s where it would be, on the south coast of this ‘New Ireland’ place, near this ‘Waterford’ burg. Looks like a lake on a plain.” There was a moment of silence while the others in the room absorbed that. “There’s that old company flag, without the blue too,” he said.
“Yes,” Jenks agreed, sensitive to the men’s emotions. “New Ireland practically belongs to the Company, for all intents and purposes. There is only one good anchorage, but it’s rather exceptional. It’s the best-protected harbor on the windward side of any of the islands.”
“Best-protected from what?” Chack asked.
“From storms—and attack. Edinburgh is good, on New Scotland, but it’s too broad to easily defend against an attacker. New Dublin is well sheltered and fortified, and as you can see, any landing and approach from another part of the island itself would pose a serious problem. Let us fervently hope things do not come to that.”
Matt took a breath. “Well, Jenks, we’re here for the Company—and our people. Where do we go? Where will the Governor-Emperor be?”
“New Britain or New Scotland. New Britain is the largest island with the largest ... unindentured population. It is where most people of substance live, and despite their representative duties, most members of both courts live there as well. There are vast plantations and timber holdings. The Imperial capital is at New London on the west coast fronting New Britain Bay alongside Portsmouth. Those are the two largest cities, and they’ve become practically one.” Jenks thought for a moment. “In normal times, that’s where we would find him, but I think Government House on New Scotland at Scapa Flow is where we should steer.”
“Because?”
“It’s the headquarters of Home Fleet. The Admiralty is there, and nowhere will he find a higher concentration of loyal subjects, indentured or not. Even the ‘obligated’ are Tories because their debt is to the throne and the Navy, not the Company, for the most part. They’re considered ‘Naval auxiliaries’ and many work in the yard.” He shrugged. “Some of our brave sailors are literal gutter-sweepings from the other islands, sent to the Navy instead of to gaol. A few of our officers are men with well-placed relations. Most of our best sailors, however, are Scots who spring from obligated mothers living in Scapa Flow or New Glasgow. Most midshipmen come from long-established families, but like your own navy, there are ‘mustangs.’ ” He glanced at Spanky, who reveled in his status. “A fair percentage of them had ‘Navy mothers.’ ”
“Okay, Jenks,” Matt said. “First stop, Scapa Flow. We’ll come in under both our flags, on opposite foremast halyards t
o show everybody we’re friends. We dock, you throw your weight around and demand to speak to the Governor-Emperor. Simple.”
“Hopefully,” Jenks hedged.
“Just in case,” Chack said, glancing around at the other officers, “I will study this chart, along with Lieuten-aant Blair, of course, and attempt to prepare for a ‘worst-case scenario’ on any of the islands shown.” He bowed his head at Matt. “Captain Reddy has taught me well to always hope for the best, but plan for the worst. I find it difficult to imagine the worst in this situation, but in my ‘Maa-reen’ capacity, I will endeavor to do so.”
Matt managed a smile. “By all means, Captain Sab-At. I rely on it.”
Spanky was following a “feel” he couldn’t identify. He stopped occasionally, listening, feeling, then moved a few paces farther on. It seemed like it must be coming from the forward fireroom, but he just couldn’t be sure. Ever since he’d joined Walker on the China Station (he and the Bosun were the longest-serving hands), he’d made a practice of learning her every sigh, screech, rattle, and groan. After so much work had been done to her, her various refits and the recent rebuilding, he’d found himself relearning her sounds and “feels” all over again. He certainly wouldn’t complain; with number three almost restored, Walker was as healthy as he ever remembered her being. But there was one frustrating—new “feel” he hadn’t “pigeonholed.” He couldn’t decide whether it was just part of the new “normal” or something to worry about. To make things worse, no matter what he did, he couldn’t find what was causing it, and it was driving him nuts.
He paused his inspection under the amidships deckhouse/gun platform and swiped a sandwich off a tray just as soon as Earl Lanier set it down on the stainless steel counter.
“Hey, you m’lingerin’ bastard,” came an indignant growl from within the galley. “Them sammitches is for them Marines playin’ sojer, aft! ... Oh,” Lanier said, recognizing Spanky. He stuck his droop-jowled face through the little window. “I guess m’lingerin’ officers can swipe sammitches outta the hardworkin’ bellies o’ anybody they want.”
Spanky took an ostentatious bite. “I could work a hundred sandwiches out of your belly and nobody’d even notice, Lanier,” he mumbled around his mouthful.
Lanier grunted, satisfied with the response. He abused everyone on the ship—except the captain and his “lemon-limey” guests—by rote. He considered it as much a part of his job as cooking. The fellas, even the’Cats, needed an outlet to relieve their stress, and the sometimes bitter banter between them and their cook was one of the least destructive, and backed by ancient tradition. Besides, Lanier could take anything—and nearly anybody. His bloated form required real, substantial muscle to heave it around, and he’d proven many times he had plenty of guts ... beneath his expansive gut.
“Pepper,” he roared at someone behind him. “No, goddamn it, Pepper ain’t here! Bastard’s back in Baalkpan, runnin’ the Busted Screw! Prob’ly got it took over by now!” The Busted Screw, or Castaway Cook, was a saloon/café Lanier had opened near the shipyard, and Pepper had remained behind to keep it going in his absence. It was considered “necessary to the war effort” by now. “You, swabbie, what’s your name again?”
“Taarba-Kaar,” came an indignant response.
“Yeah, Tabasco! Hell, I don’t care what your name is. Get a mop and run out there an’ clean up Mr. Spanky’s crumbs!”
Spanky left the argument behind, shaking his head. Aft, in the cramped space around the searchlight tower and the secured Nancy floatplane, Chack and Lieutenant Blair were drilling their troops. Together. Interesting, he thought. He stopped and listened. Damn, it’s got To be in The aft fireroom! Number three was almost “back up”; maybe that was it, something goofy going on in The new Tubes. He dropped down the access trunk. Sitting there, between the hatches, he could definitely feel “it” again, and more distinctly. He opened the bottom hatch and slid down to the catwalk above the number three boiler. Closing the hatch behind him, he carefully felt the rail, a pipe, but whatever “it” was, “it” was gone again.
“Goddamn it!” he roared.
“What the matter, Spanky?” one of the ’Cat firemen asked from below.
“Oh ... never mind.” He slid the rest of the way down the ladder to the deck plates. “Where’s Tabby?” he demanded. “She ain’t in her rack like she’s supposed to be this watch.”
“She hide when you yell,” ratted one of the other ’Cats. Tabby’s division had sworn not to cover for her when it came to her health.
“I ain’t hidin’, you fink,” Tabby exclaimed in her new, gravelly voice. She stepped from behind the boiler, wiping her hands on a rag. She still looked awful—fur blotched, gray skin, no longer pink and angry but scarred now on her arms and neck. “I was checkin’ stuff,” she said, a little petulantly. Spanky motioned her forward and together they sought a little privacy, from ears, anyway.
“If you want to stay down here, you have to follow the rules,” Spanky scolded.
“Why? What’ll you do if I don’t? Get rid of me?” She held out her arms, exposing the scars. “Make me freak deck ape? I say ‘hell no,’ I stay down here.” Her drawl had begun to slip again. Never a good sign. “I already lose everything I want. I lose my Mice, I lose my Spanky—I ugly now! I lose my boilers too? You take that from me?”
“Tabby, I ...”
“No! You no ‘Tabby’ me! I chief. You say so. I feel swell! You make me lay sick, no work, I lose chief. You make some dumb-ass chief!” She shook her head. “I chief, I work. I no work, I no chief. Boiler chief all I am now, all I ever be. You take that, I die.” Tears started down Tabby’s face again, just like before in this very spot, and Spanky felt like a heel.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” he said slowly, huskily. “I’ll always be ‘your’ Spanky; you haven’t ‘lost’ me and never will. I do love you ... but more like a ... a daughter, like—than maybe like you think you wish I did.” He shook his head and sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a swell dish, a knockout. I wouldn’t give a damn about all them little scratches if I loved you a different way ... but I just can’T, see? Even if I could, it wouldn’t be right. Over time, I figured that out, but I also figured out I do love you—like my own sweet daughter that makes me proud of what she does. Can you see that?”
“You love me?” Tabby asked, sniffling.
“Sure.”
“But like a daughter, not ... not like wo-maan? Would it be different if I not ... wasn’t a ’Cat?”
Spanky shrugged. “Honest to God, I don’t know. Maybe. You do make me sneeze.... But that doesn’t matter, and we’ll never know. I love you the way I love you. I can’t change that ... and if you weren’t a’Cat, you never would’ve been down here in the first place.”
Tabby seemed to consider that for a while and her eyes dried up. “I love you the way I love you too,” she said. “I not change that either. But I be Spanky’s daughter for better than nothing.” She managed a slight grin, then it faded. “Just don’t take chief away!”
“Whatever gave you the notion I would?”
“You tried to send me away!”
“Sure I did, because I care about you! I want you well again, damn it! If you keep fooling around down here in all this steam and crap before you’re healed completely, you’re liable to get pneumonia and die! Then I’ll have to make some other dumb-ass chief.”
Tabby hugged him and he patted her gently on the back. His eyes were starting to water. Damn fur! “There, now,” he said. “Go see Selass and get her to listen to your gills. After that, light along aft and get in your rack! Me and Miami can keep things going ’til you’re fit. Nothin’ but smooth sailin’ from here.”
Weird, Spanky thought later when he reemerged into the light and started trying to locate the “feel” again. He couldn’t find it at all. “Great,” he muttered. “It’s off and on. I’ll never figure the damn thing out.”
CHAPTER 24
Mid Eastern Sea
The sea remained relatively placid and the omnipresent heat grew less oppressive. Walker’s speed and the prevailing winds kept the ship wetter than her Lemurian crew preferred, because the swells were sometimes higher than her deck, but it was often actually pleasantly cool. They began to see lizard birds unlike any they’d seen before. They had long necks and tails and incredibly broad wingspans of five or six yards, perfect for cruising endless miles on the firm sea breeze with hardly any effort at all. Courtney amused the crew by chasing from one side of the ship to the other with a pair of binoculars in his hands. The creatures—he insisted they were almost true pterodactyls when Bashear called them “dragons”—seemed aware that he was intent on studying them, and constantly avoided his steady observation. Other flying creatures, wildly colorful, began to visit. There was the usual animated excitement aboard that prevailed whenever they neared a new landfall, but there was a large measure of tension as well.
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