Rising Tides

by Taylor Anderson

  “Reed was their ‘creature,’ ” Matt said stonily. “He was ready to hand your Empire to the Dominion on a silver plate . . . but I wouldn’t worry about him anymore, if I were you. I would strongly recommend you round up as many of his cronies as you can, though. Even if most didn’t know what he was really up to, a lot had to know it was treason of some sort or other.”

  “Indeed. And we shall ‘round them up,’ as you put it. You and Jenks are to be commended for your perspicacity in uncovering this evil plot.” The admiral’s expression turned sour. “I only wish I’d been made privy to the particulars in advance.”

  “There were no particulars, sir,” said Jenks. “Only suspicions, and we had little enough to base them on.” Jenks’s voice became harder, more formal. “Not nearly enough to convince even you, beforehand, sir.”

  Admiral McClain nodded. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said sadly. “I hope you’ll accept my assurance that you speak to the converted now, Commodore.”

  “I sincerely hope so, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who was that?” Matt asked as they entered Government House and made their way through the bustle to the stairs.

  “Lord High Admiral James Silas McClain the Third,” Jenks replied neutrally. “He’s the titular governor of New Scotland and commands Home Fleet—a large percentage of which is now fighting the greatest sea battle of the age without him.”

  “Huh.”

  They ascended the staircase that ran back and forth through the Imperial living quarters, until they reached a relatively small, oval room atop the residence. It was hot in the confined space, and crowded with officers delivering reports and departing with instructions. Several grim-faced surgeons toiled over the Governor-Emperor’s legs, casting furtive glances at the newcomers and one another.

  “Prop me up, damn ye all,” the Governor-Emperor roared. “I can’t bloody see! If I must lie here among you pack of carrion-eaters, at least let me view the battle!”

  The man’s pale, almost painfully thin wife gently propped him up with a pillow so he could reach the eyepiece of his telescope again. Matt had seen the woman a few times before, but never like this. He remembered that Princess Rebecca often said that Sandra reminded her of her mother, but Matt hadn’t caught any real resemblance beyond hair color. Now he saw it: the way she glared at others in the room, the determined way she swept at errant strands of hair that strayed from her more abundant coif. Before, she’d seemed a broken woman, clinging desperately to the faint hope he’d brought her. Now, even as that hope had faded, she’d risen to protect the last thing in the world she appeared to care about: her injured husband. For an instant, a red-hot knife twisted in Matt’s guts as he finally allowed himself to contemplate the probability that Sandra was indeed lost to him. His crew had been practically coddling him in that respect for some time now, he knew, but he’d continued to insist to himself that hope remained. He couldn’t do that anymore, he realized. He had to let it go. At least for now, he had to put his own grief aside, as this woman had done, and focus on those things he could still save.

  Somewhere out there, beyond the general fleet action that the Governor-Emperor watched even now, his ship might be fighting for her life. There was nothing he could do about that either, and his sense of helplessness was profound. There was something he could do, though, and if it might do little to help those he cared about here, it might make all the difference for those “back home.”

  “Ah, listen up,” he said loudly. The tumult in the room and on the stairs behind him froze into a kind of shocked silence. Even Jenks was taken aback by the outburst in this setting. “I’m new here, but some things are the same wherever you go, and I know a chicken with its head cut off when I see it.”

  “Now see here!” the Governor-Emperor roared. “I may be wounded, but I’m no chicken!”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Your Majesty,” Matt said quickly. “I know you’re not, but this is the biggest wild turkey chase I’ve seen since the Japs bombed Cavite! The events of the day have come as a hell of a shock, even to those of us who suspected someThing was up, but right now the vast majority of your people are still in shock, and still running around like a bunch of headless chickens! There’re things that need to be happening, and you’ve got senior officers milling around on the porch who don’t have a clue what to do. I know you’re confused. Everyone is. You’ve never had an attack here, like this, before.” Matt took a breath. “My people, on the world we came from, experienced a similar sneak attack not too long ago, and they didn’t react much different. We’ve been surprised a few times in our war here too, against the Grik, but we’ve learned a few things!”

  “What should we be doing now, that we aren’t already?” Jenks asked seriously.

  Matt took off his helmet and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You really want to know?”

  “Of course!” insisted the Governor-Emperor.

  “Okay. You might even be doing some of this already, but if you are, I can’t tell.” He sighed. “First, you have to signal other ports—Glasgow, Edinburgh, whatever—and warn them to expect attacks as well. Maybe send out some scouts.”

  “That we have done,” Jenks stated. “We have a network of semaphore towers across the island, and I directed that warnings be sent immediately, as soon as I first arrived here.”

  “Good. Has everybody replied?” Matt waited in the following silence. “If not, you must assume there have been attacks there already, or the network’s been cut. You need to get warnings to the other Home Islands as well. Next, round up all the Company officials and Dominion representatives. I already suggested that to your Admiral McClain.”

  “I ordered the arrest of Dominion representatives, but detaining Company administrators is . . . problematic,” said the Governor-Emperor.

  “Why?”

  “Many sit on the Courts of Governors and Proprietors. They are part of the government.”

  “So? Look, Your Majesty, you’re at war. A lot of people have died. They’re still dying! Civilians, sir!” He pointed at the sea. “And out there! Damn it, my people on my ship, may be dying for your country! Too many of my Marines have already died! Don’t . . . lie there and tell me you won’t . . . inconvenience a few shady politicians! You can sort the good guys from the bad guys later, but right now you have to catch everybody who might have had a part in this before they get a chance to scram.” Matt looked around the room and shook his head. “Our plane, our . . . flying machine . . . must have gone down, otherwise it would have returned here to make a direct observation report. We don’t know what’s going on beyond your ’scope, so you need to get lookouts to all high elevations, here and anywhere you can communicate with, to watch for other landings.”

  “Do you believe there will be more?”

  “I don’t know. I would’ve made ’em everywhere I could at once, if it was me, but from what we’re learning about their plan, they may not have thought it necessary. Regardless, all those troops at the dueling ground and all those ships out there came from somewhere. It had to be someplace close enough for them to reach with that dispatch ship that left last week.”

  “Good God, he’s right!” the Governor-Emperor said. “They must have been preparing nearby! Commodore, you must divine the location of the enemy base of preparation!”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Finally,” Matt continued, “you need to get all those officers off the porch. Put ’em to work or send them away, but your people don’t need to see a bunch of their leaders sitting around, goofing off after an attack like the one today, and with a naval battle still raging just offshore. Act like you’ve got everything under control and you know what you’re doing even if you don’t have any idea.”

  Those remaining in the room were quiet for a moment. Thoughtful.

  “Is there anything else, Captain Reddy?” asked the Governor-Emperor’s wife. Her tone said that he’d just voiced much
of what had been on her own mind.

  “Yes, ma’am. With all due respect, I’d get these learned witch doctors and their probes, saws, and nasty hands the hell out of here—and find Lieutenant Selass-Fris-Ar, if you want His Majesty to ever walk again.”

  “A savage beast in here, tending His Majesty?” gasped one of the “witch doctors” in question.

  “Not a savage beast, you fool!” Jenks stated harshly. “The only daughter of a respected figure in their Alliance—an alliance that has done no less than save our very Empire this day! What is presently more pertinent, she is also a practiced surgeon whom you’d do well to observe!” He looked at the woman kneeling beside his leader. “With your permission?”

  Ruth McDonald hesitated only an instant before vigorously, tearfully, nodding her head.

  “Please,” she said.

  The Naval Battle of Scapa Flow lasted for the remainder of the afternoon and into the night as it degenerated into a seaborne version of the melee at the dueling ground. With the wind veering around and driving briskly out of the northeast, there was almost no sound other than a general rolling thunder that added to the impression that they were watching an intensely localized storm at sea. Lightning stabbed horizontally between vague, darkened shapes, and once there was a large, searing flash that signified the abrupt death of somebody’s ship and its entire crew. There was no way to tell whose it was. Several other ships burned like terrible beacons in the night until either they sank or their crews managed to extinguish the fires. It became impossible to discern how the battle fared. Matt never had been able to see Walker, and the bulk of the fighting appeared closer than she’d last been reported. Occasionally he saw ripples of gunfire much farther out to sea and hoped that meant she was still in the fight.

  Matt and Harvey Jenks were both in a kind of hell, and paced back and forth between taking turns at the telescope to describe the action as best they could while an exhausted and harried Selass labored to save the Governor-Emperor’s legs. Gerald McDonald experienced almost miraculous relief when she applied the polta paste to his wounds, but his right leg in particular was badly damaged. She did what she could, but brusquely informed them that she might have to take it off in a few days, regardless. She couldn’t hide her resentment at being summoned from caring for the wounded at the dueling ground just to tend one man, no matter how important, and likely only his importance saved the House surgeons from injury several times when they made condescending remarks. Ultimately, exasperated by their unwillingness to credit any technique but their own, the Governor-Emperor himself sent the men away to ponder their futures.

  Sean O’Casey (Bates) arrived near midnight and knelt beside the Governor-Emperor’s bed. Andrew Bates was gone. It was a tearful moment for many reasons, but the two old friends and playmates were reunited at last, and Matt got the distinct impression that Andrew’s position wouldn’t be vacant for long. He was glad, and hoped he was right. He’d finally figured out that Andrew was essentially Gerald McDonald’s “chief of staff” and the Governor-Emperor would need a good one in the times to come. Sean’s unique perspective would be invaluable.

  Eventually Sean left, escorting Selass back to her other wounded. She’d done all she could, and now only time would tell. Despite his desire to see the battle end, Gerald drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the morning—an almost incontestable by-product of such a liberal dose of the curative paste—and Matt, Jenks, and an intermittently dozing Ruth McDonald were left alone to answer questions and pass instructions on behalf of the Governor-Emperor. Matt considered it almost surreal that he’d wound up in such a position, and Jenks probably felt the same way, yet it made sense too. The chaos of the previous afternoon was under control, and reports were returning from around the Home Islands. Not all the news was good, but things were being done.

  By then, the sea battle had completely broken apart into widely separated duels between individual ships. Jenks was at a loss to explain the lack of any reports or dispatches from the fighting, but hoped it was a sign that the Imperial Fleet had managed to cut off any enemy retreat. It stood to reason, since the battle had lasted so long, so close to the island, with invasion now out of the question. If that was the case, the enemy would have been caught between the fleet and the crushing harbor defenses—but also in the path of any vessel bearing word.

  Roughly two hours before dawn, Fitzhugh Gray was quietly escorted into the room by a Marine and a dark-skinned, matronly woman bearing a lamp. The woman gazed sternly at Matt and Jenks and checked on the sleeping Ruth. Clucking, she draped a light shawl across Ruth’s shoulders and eased into a chair behind her. Gray slumped exhaustedly into another chair, earning a disapproving glare of his own. He glared back, and then shrugged.

  “Hell of a day,” he whispered gruffly.

  “Yeah. Day and night,” Matt replied. “You okay?”

  “Sure. A couple scratches. I should’a paid more attention to that jumped-up leatherneck Alden when he was passin’ out bayonet lessons.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been down to see the fellas,” Matt said.

  Gray waved it away. “You been busy, Skipper. Ever’body knows where you are, and what you been doin’.” He looked at Jenks. “A full-blown, man-sized war is a hell of a thing, ain’t it?”

  It was a jab that went back a long way, but Jenks wasn’t offended. He’d now seen this kind of war himself before. “Yes, Mr. Gray. Yes, it is. Murdering noncombatants has never been our way, but like yours, it seems my people have now had a dose of a kind of war in which there are no noncombatants.”

  There just weren’t any words after that, and they sat in silence for a while, staring out to sea through the opening for the telescope. The firing tapered off until it had all but stopped, but something suddenly flickered in the far distance, in the southwest, and Matt stood. “That looked like a flare!” he said.

  “Yes,” said Jenks. “Or a rocket. A distress rocket, I fear.” He paused. “We both use them, you know.”

  Another distant flash lit the night. A green one.

  “That was a rocket!” Matt said excitedly. “One of ours! It’s a ‘here I am’!”

  Two more green rockets soared into the night, even more distant, followed by gun flashes.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Skipper! It’s our guys! Achilles and Simms!” Gray insisted. “Has to be! I bet they were in communication with Walker and saw something. She sent up her ‘here I am’ and said ‘if it ain’t me you see, hammer it’!”

  The Governor-Emperor’s eyes fluttered. “What is it?” he asked, drymouthed, smacking his lips. “What did I miss?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Scapa Flow

  Dawn broke on a dreadful scene in the harbor of Scapa Flow. A pair of splintered Imperial “battlewagons” limped in first and tied up at the main Navy dock, barely able to remain afloat. Both were dismasted, and their pumps sent bloody water gushing down their sides from the scuppers. Steam and smoke filled the air, their guns’ muzzles were gray with dry fouling, and the wood around their ports was spattered black. Wounded and dead were carried ashore while the crews and mostly female yard workers labored to get ahead of the leaks. There were a few wailing women and some of the “usual” scenes, but many women, like their Lemurian counterparts, merely rolled up their sleeves and set to with a will. They carried moaning bodies and hacked at tattered cordage, cleared lanes through splintered timbers and corpses for canvas hoses and bucket brigades, and helped rescue men trapped beneath wreckage. They worked without being told and took instructions without complaint.

  “They act almost like free women,” Gray growled. He, Matt, and Jenks had finally received word, signaled by the forts, of the “victory,” and they’d rushed to the docks along with High Admiral McClain and his staff to catch the first reports. Admiral McClain looked at Gray strangely, but Jenks nodded.

  “Yes, well, as I’ve said, things are different here on New Scotland. Those are Their ships, Their men.”

/>   “You could probably get every woman in the Empire to act that way if it was ‘their’ country,” Matt said.

  Jenks looked appraisingly at the admiral. “I expect you’re right, Captain Reddy. Who knows what changes this war may bring?”

  Chack and Sergeant Blas-Mar met them there in their bloodstained armor. Chack still wore his dented steel helmet and Blas-Mar’s bronze version had a new, deep, lead-smeared dent of its own. The ball that did it probably knocked her silly, but except for a stained bandage on her neck, she seemed unhurt. Stites emerged from the growing crowd, two rifles slung. He handed one to Chack. “I found your old Krag,” he said. “Be sure and get all that blood off the metal. Bring it to me . . .” He paused. “Later, and I’ll patch that gash in the hand guard. The nick in the barrel won’t hurt nothin’.”

  “You come from the hospital?” Gray asked. A church near the dueling ground had been turned over to Selass for the Lemurian wounded, but the Governor-Emperor had decreed that she be given access to any hospital and that any suggestions she might make were to be considered Imperial edicts.

  “Yah,” Stites said, shifting a wad of yellowish leaves in his mouth. “We ain’t lost nobody else. Corporal Koratin’s bad, but ‘Doc’selass’ says he’ll likely make it.” He looked at Matt. “She had to take Juan’s leg off.”

  “I know.” Matt stared at the harbor mouth. Other ships were beginning to come in. “Doc’selass?” he asked at last. Stites had pronounced it “Doxy-lass.”

  “Yeah, well, she earned it. And I don’t mean it the way you might think. That Bradford said it comes from a Greek word for knowing stuff and teaching—which I guess a regular doxy does too.... Anyway, she’s been teaching them Brit doctors up a storm.”

  “Where is Bradford?”

  Stites shrugged. “Old Silva’d say he’s been ‘sankoing’ around, but that ain’t quite true. He was at the hospital most of the night, tryin’ to help out. Even talked Spanish to some of the Dom wounded the ‘corps’Cats’ was patchin’ up—guy speaks more languages than a Chinese tailor—but he jumped up and went to see the Emperor about the time I left. Said he was a ‘pleni-potency’ or somethin’, not a doctor, and he had his own job to do.”