In the way of most Lemurians, they wanted to get along with the strangers, but they were equally ready for a fight. Walker had stood toe to toe with Amagi, after all, and despite the mutual destruction they’d wrought on one another, Walker still swam, wearing Amagi steel. To some—who hadn’t been there—it was as simple as that. They’d come to expect misery, deprivation, and daily toil in the way all destroyermen did, but they’d missed the sense of being a tiny, wounded, hunted animal, which the humans still remembered. They believed they were steaming toward a final, straight-up confrontation with whatever power had attacked them and stolen their people, and it was difficult for some to grasp that it might not be as simple as that, and even if it was, Walker couldn’t smash the whole Imperial Navy by herself. They expected miracles from their special ship, and the “old hands,” Matt included, increasingly wondered and worried if that was a good thing or not.
On November 25—Thanksgiving Day—1943, USS Walker steamed into the New Scotland port of Scapa Flow, and the budding hubris that had begun infecting Walker’s crew vanished as quickly as an ice cube in the fireroom. Earl Lanier tried to lighten the mood in the spirit of the holiday by unveiling an immense roasted skuggik he’d smuggled along on the trip, deep in the ship’s laboring freezer. He’d spent the entire night before preparing the thing, complete with what notionally struck him as “traditional” trimmings. His well-meaning efforts were met with obscenities (which he duly bellowed in return) and genuine, universal horror. Skuggiks were, after all, giant earthbound buzzards, for all intents and purposes. Lanier failed to see the distinction between a cooked skuggik and a catfish, and went into a profound pout.
What had been a virtually empty sea, except for a blue-brown mound at dawn, practically filled with sails of all sizes and shapes as they neared New Scotland’s leeward coast. Most of the ships, fishermen, coastal luggers, and inter-island packets fled at the sight of the strange iron steamer racing out of the southwest. A few deep-draft “freighters” flying the Company flag ponderously turned away or hove to as the old destroyer approached the achingly beautiful mountainous isle, rising monolithically from the dazzling sea.
“Ain’t that something?” the Bosun said, gaping at the exotically familiar, but eerily ... wrong ... land. New Scotland retained a semblance of the distinctive crests of the islands now joined to form it, but it was higher, more imposing, more sharply defined. Gray’s question seemed sufficient for everyone.
“A beautiful land,” Matt said wistfully, and Jenks nodded in appreciation of more than the words.
“Thank you, sir.”
Juan Marcos, his arm still in a sling, had joined them with a carafe of coffee. He knew how the captain and the other human Americans felt. He’d been similarly overwhelmed when he first saw what his beloved Philippines looked like on this world. Of course, Matt and the others had had much longer to get used to the idea than he had at the time, and their reactions were more subdued. Still, he could sympathize. The driven-home fact of the thing was harder to bear than the sight of it.
Walker was finally challenged by a swift paddle-wheel sloop with an Imperial jack, just a few miles short of the harbor mouth. Jenks appeared slightly scandalized by the tardy challenge, but it served their purposes. By then, Walker was flying the U.S. and Imperial flags, as well as an extensive colorful signal proclaiming her to be a friendly vessel transporting Commodore Harvey Jenks and urgent “dispatches” for the Governor-Emperor. The signal was authenticated by Achilles’ number and Jenks’s code group. Probably considering Walker to be a remarkably fast but lightly armed vessel, the sloop was content not to attempt to stop her but to escort her in—after a flurry of signals appealing for her to slow down.
“Jumpin’ Jesus,” Spanky declared when they cleared the western harbor mouth and saw the fortifications guarding it. The “west fort” was in the shape of a vast leaning wedding cake, three tiers high, bristling with forty heavy guns that Jenks assured them could reach two-thirds of the distance across to the opposite, similarly impressive works. The construction was an aggregate of coral and volcanic rock that was “spongy” and thick enough to absorb the shot of any known gun almost indefinitely without communicating any structural damage. Currently peacefully smooth, the walls of both forts glistened white.
“Ahead one-third,” Matt ordered. “Mr. Campeti will fire the salute.”
The Japanese alarm bell “salvo buzzer” rattled on the chart house bulkhead immediately before four guns barked in perfect synchronicity. Smoke streamed aft and Jenks nodded respectful appreciation. The Empire had no designated numbers for gun salutes, and though long-absent naval vessels sometimes fired them, they were required only of foreign powers. In such cases, protocol demanded that visiting ships fire all their “great guns” either in broadside or succession to signify that they were thus no longer loaded and incapable of causing harm. Since the Empire knew only one foreign power, and official (overt) Dominion visits to Scapa Flow were rare, few salutes ever sounded in the harbor. In this instance, Walker’s meager “broadside” would be noted and—hopefully—appreciated, but the utter perfection of the timing, possible only with her magical gyro and electronic fire control, would be noted with amazement as well. Everyone, Jenks included, considered that mixed message of respect and an apparently unprecedentedly high degree of professionalism a good one to send.
Matt watched with satisfaction as the crew of the number one gun on the fo’c’sle below commenced a rapid, well-choreographed gun-cleaning drill, much like that used on any Imperial ship. He knew the guns would look wildly bizarre enough to observers, but hoped they could keep their breech-loading nature a secret as long as possible. The crews had been instructed to cover the breeches with canvas shrouds as soon as their evolution was complete.
“It won’t fool everyone,” Jenks warned, watching. “We have experimented with breechloaders before. It is your self-contained ‘cartridges’ that make them practical. Perhaps you can keep that back for now.”
Within the harbor’s embrace, Scapa Flow grew even more impressive. Jenks had described it and drawn a few pictures for Chack, but even Matt was amazed by what the Empire had wrought on this isolated speck of land. He’d been proud of what the Allies had accomplished at Baalkpan, impressed by the exponentially greater capacity of the facilities building at Maa-ni-la, but combined, the two Allied industrial powerhouses weren’t a match for Scapa Flow in terms of infrastructure and scope. Here was a true well-established industrial city in every sense. White buildings, both stone and wood, with shakelike shingles predominated. There was color as well, if not the riot of it that one usually saw in Lemurian ports. Cranes and warehouses stood on every hand, and jetties extended outward from long piers, accommodating the forests of masts. A large shipyard lay directly ahead on the western end of the harbor and sleek hulls with Achilles’ lines stood on blocks surrounded by scaffolding. Great mounds of stacked timbers dried under sheds. Jenks had told him the New Scotland and New Ireland “oaks” made excellent ships, but they imported most of their timber, like everything else, from their continental colonies. Smoke rose everywhere, carried off to the west, from smokestacks, foundries, apparent machine shops, and great steam-jetting engines situated here and there that powered the various enterprises.
And there were people. Human people in an abundance Matt hadn’t seen since they fled Surabaya on that other world in another war. He glassed the shore. Women here didn’t run around mostly nude, he noticed with some relief, but they were doing the lion’s share of the labor. Dark-haired, dusky-skinned women in practical working attire crawled around the building ships, swinging mallets and plying saws. He refocused on a party of women led by a gray-haired matron, caulking the seams of a new hull with every bit the same professionalism he’d seen Jenks’s crew employ. Other women casually drove wagons and carts pulled by honest-to-God horses! Horses, donkeys, and cattle had all been aboard the original ships, according to Jenks, but the horses had never done well until they traded
for more from the Dominion. Matt was glad to see the familiar creatures. He wished there’d been dogs, but Jenks said no. There were cats, in their teeming throngs, as well as flocks of parrots that swarmed everywhere like pigeons. Matt was curious how’Cats would take to meeting “cats.”
He shook his head. On second thought, the Fil-pin shipyards were probably more expansive, and certainly had more space to grow. They could also handle larger ships with their bigger, purpose-built, Homeconstructing cranes. Baalkpan could too. With some smugness, he saw no evidence of a dry dock either. But in terms of a dedicated populace with the proper, well-honed skills, and long-established support industries and facilities—complete with offices and barracks—Scapa Flow rivaled Pearl Harbor. And if the city beyond the waterfront didn’t match Honolulu, it was the biggest he’d seen on this world from a perspective of the numbers of dwellings. He doubted as many people lived here as lived in Maa-ni-la, but there, many families—often whole “clans” like their seagoing cousins—occupied a single large dwelling. There were a lot more houses here.
“I think our escort wants us to dock over there, Skipper,” Kutas said, nodding at a long, isolated dock under the guns of an inner harbor fort.
“Yes,” Jenks confirmed, studying signals through his telescope. “The escort and the fort are both signaling the ‘approach of strangers.’ ” We will be met by an armed party at the dock,” he warned.
“Well, until we know the deal here, we’ll have to respond in kind,” Matt said. “Sound general quarters,” he ordered. “Gun crews will stand away from their weapons, but small arms will be issued and Chack will prepare to repel boarders.” He looked at the Bosun. “Side party to the gangway, prepared to receive a reasonable delegation. If they don’t want to be ‘reasonable,’ stand ready to help Chack.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,’ Gray said, and thundered down the metal stairs aft.
“Captain Reddy!” Jenks protested. “After all, you must not start a fight here!”
“I don’t intend to, but I won’t let them just run loose all over my ship as soon as we tie up.”
“They won’t do that.”
“By your own admission, we don’t know what they’ll do. I’m playing it safe until we do. Mister Steele? You have the conn. Lay her alongside the dock—gently, if you please. I’m going to go change clothes.”
Ultimately, a hostile-faced Marine lieutenant did seem ready to try to sweep aboard with a substantial “escort,” but Jenks, now standing in his best Imperial Navy uniform beside Matt at the gangway, ordered the lieutenant to leave all but two men behind.
“Commodore Jenks!” the lieutenant exclaimed when he came aboard. “It is you, sir! We couldn’t imagine ... no one could. We expected some sort of trick!” The man looked almost wildly about, at the destroyermen, the steel deck beneath his feet, the strangely shaped guns. He actually did a triple take when he noticed Chack, and visibly paled at the sight of so many ... non-human crew. “What the devil ... ?”
“These are friends, Lieutenant,” Jenks said forcefully. “I understand your confusion. There is much to be confused about, but my signal was clear and true. I must see the Governor-Emperor at once. Is he on New Scotland?”
“Ah ... aye, sir. In Government House these last five months. The courts haven’t met, and we don’t know much about what’s happening on the other isles, beyond what we hear from sailors. The Prime Proprietor, Sir Reed, is here as well, and him and His Majesty’s been goin’ at it hammer an’ tongs, tryin’ to govern the Empire from here, without—an’ in spite of—one another.”
“I feared as much,” Jenks murmured. “Things are truly that bad?”
“I’m not sure it’s all bad, sir,” confided the lieutenant. “His Majesty is safe here at least, and since Sir Reed doesn’t dare let him out of his sight, he’s had to come here as well. You might say they’ve got each other bottled up. In the meantime, the Proprietors can’t meet without Mr. Reed, and His Majesty has to call the Directors to court—” The man’s eyes fell on Chack again and he was distracted.
“So in the meantime,” Bradford interrupted, “bureaucracy reigns! Splendid. ‘He who governs least governs best,’ ” he quoted.
Jenks gave him an odd look. “That ... might be so, in ordinary times. But decisions must be made.” He turned back to the lieutenant. “And we have news of great urgency for His Majesty. Please do escort my friends and myself to Government House without delay.”
The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, “but I fear I must collect the harbor fees from this ship before anyone may disembark from her.”
“What is this nonsense?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Reed’s orders. As exchequer, he has established many new fees to cover the costs of what he calls his ‘government in exile.’ All non-military vessels tying up at military docks—all docks in this harbor—must pay a use fee.” The man cleared his throat. “It’s a rather large fee, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, there will be no fee for this vessel. As you can clearly see, she is a ship of war and flies the Imperial flag.”
“But ...”
“No ‘but.’ Sir Reed may bring his fiscal concerns to me.” Jenks looked at Matt, Courtney, and Gray. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
Matt wanted to bring Chack along so the Governor-Emperor could meet a representative of his people, but that would have to wait. For now, leaving him aboard ship with his Marines was the better course. Courtney was the de facto ambassador for the Alliance, and Gray ... well, Gray would go regardless.
Flanked by a squad of Imperial Marines, their lieutenant leading, the small party marched through the curious throngs of brown-eyed female yard workers. As on Respite, most were strikingly attractive, at least until reaching a certain age, apparently. Their exotic beauty left them then, but they retained a sturdy handsomeness that Matt, at least, had rarely seen, and that he suspected lingered for the rest of their days. Bradford removed his hat and beamed all around at young and old alike. They continued beyond the waterfront and into what looked like the business district of the city.
“This way, gentlemen, if you please,” the lieutenant said.
“I know where Government House is,” Jenks retorted.
“Of course, sir.”
They strode on in silence for a considerable distance, through crowded streets full of staring people. There were more men now, most in uniform, but a few women drifted along behind them in their brightly colored, shapeless gowns.
“Jeez, Skipper,” Gray whispered at his side. “You go from feastin’ your eyes to famine around here. What’s with the dead balloon suits?”
“I guess they’re practical, sort of,” Matt replied. “Now pipe down. What is it with you? Every time we meet new folks, you’re always saying something that’ll make me crack up and get us killed.” Gray looked at him curiously.
Ahead was a broad square with an impressive columned building. Matt was struck again by the strange attempt at a classical style of architecture. The Governor’s Palace on Respite had reflected it as well. This building was much larger, though, and four stories high, with a shining metal observatory dome perched on top. Matt was fascinated to see the large telescope protruding through a pair of open shutters, pointed at the harbor, not the sky.
More red-coated Marines with yellow facings and heavy gold lace received them at the massive door of the structure and took charge of them from the Marine lieutenant.
“Your arms, sirs,” one of them said, “if you please.” It wasn’t a request.
Jenks looked at Matt uncomfortably. “I’d forgotten,” he admitted. “One gets as accustomed to wearing weapons as to clothing. Forgive me—it is required.”
Matt nodded. “Of course,” he said, unbuckling his belt, which supported his Academy sword and holstered 1911 Colt.
Gray grumbled, but handed over his own belt and the Thompson he’d been carrying on his shoulder. “Don’t monkey with them things, fellas. You’ll shoot both your
feet off.”
“Your arms will not be tampered with, sirs.”
The Marines escorted them into a large, ornate reception hall furnished in an understated Queen Anne style. A bulky man in an elaborate black-laced green frock met them.
“Commodore Jenks!” he exclaimed. “How nice ye have returned! I must say, we despaired of ye some time ago!”
“Andrew,” Jenks acknowledged, smiling. “I assume His Majesty spied our approach?”
“Aye! He was quite animated. More than he’s been fer ... Well, he’ll be anxious ta see ye!” He paused, looking at Matt and the others. “Bringin’ visitors, though ... Most irregular.”
“Unprecedented,” Jenks conceded.
“Ye vouch fer ’em, I assume? There’s restrictions, as ye know,” the man stated.
“I know. I will bear any consequences.”
Andrew shooed the Marines back to their posts. “Carry on,” he told them, then gestured at the visitors. “This way. His Majesty awaits ye in the library.”
“Yeah,” Gray said to the Marines. “As you were. Nice, ah, muskets, fellas.”
Matt glared at him.
Matt assumed Andrew was a butler, or something of the sort, but when they reached a tall hardwood door at the end of the hallway, he opened it and preceded them inside, moving slightly to the left to stand before a massive overburdened bookcase. Jenks had told him that every book aboard the “Passage Squadron” of ancient East Indiamen was in Imperial custody. The printing press existed here, and other books—copies and new works—were available to anyone who could afford them, but the originals received the same protection as the Governor-Emperor did.
The library was big but cozy, even cluttered in an absentminded, professorial fashion. Books (reprints, by the look of them) were scattered about, lying open. Strange machines stood on shelves, and on virtually every surface. The wood decor was dark, but the vast windows at the far end of the room permitted ample light to see and even work by, reflected by the almost universally white architecture outside. In the center of everything was a big, graying man, probably as powerful as the Bosun. He was in shirtsleeves and weskit, and a pair of spectacles rested on his nose. His silver-streaked hair was gathered in a queue with a black ribbon near the nape of his neck, and he regarded them with a magnifying glass in his left hand. Matt hadn’t really known what to expect. Jenks had described the man, but at first glance he seemed a decade older than Jenks had led him to believe. Apparently, by Jenks’s quickly concealed expression, he was surprised as well.
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