Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  "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?"

  Elden pitched a rancid sock on his chest, and Davis yelped and squirmed, trying to get out from under it without touching it. "Damn you! I'm an invalid!"

  Chief Gray poked his head down the companionway. "Move it, you apes! Skipper's lookin' at his watch! If you ain't at your GQ stations in one minute he's gonna throw a fit!"

  "I wonder why we're still doin' that?" Elden pondered aloud after Gray disappeared. Every morning watch, Walker's crew manned their general quarters posts until two hours after dawn so they'd be prepared while the ship was most vulnerable—when an enemy might see her silhouette before her lookouts saw the enemy. After that, she steamed under condition III alert, with half her weapons manned all day. "Ain't no Jap subs out there," Elden continued. "Ain't no Jap ships or planes. Ain't no Jap Navy. Hell, there ain't no Japs, 'cept ours!"

  "I don't know why, but the Skipper does, and he's the only one that has to," Rodriguez said, tying his shoe and hurrying for the ladder.

  "C'mon, or the snipes'll clean out the galley!"

  Chack happily munched the strange yellowish-white substance rolled in a slice of bread. He'd heard them call it "eggs," but Mertz made it from powder, so they must have been joking. He liked the way Amer-i-caans joked, and they did it all the time. Sometimes he wasn't sure if they were joking or not, however. After it was cooked, the stuff did taste a little like eggs, and he particularly liked it with salt and "caatch-up."

  Finished eating, he climbed to the fire-control platform, then up the little ladder to his new battle station on the searchlight platform above it. It was still dark, but just a trace of red tinged the eastern sky. A stiff breeze cooled him, and he felt a sense of exhilaration and speed, even at only six knots. That was still about as fast as he'd ever gone before, and Walker's relatively small size magnified the sensation wonderfully. He knew it was only a fraction of what she was capable of, and he yearned to be aboard when she "stretched her legs," as his Amer-i-caan friends described it.

  Lieutenant Garrett appeared on the platform below and smiled up at Chack.

  "Good morning, Loo-ten-aant Gaar-ret! Morning-day good!"

  "Indeed it is. Good morning to you as well. Why don't you light along to the crow's nest and take the first watch? Sing out if those keen eyes of yours spot anything. Understand?" Chack blinked with pleasure and looked at the tiny bucket far above. He'd spent most of his life much higher, but it was the highest point on the ship and he was thrilled by the novelty and—in his mind—the prestige of the post.

  "Crow's nest? Me?"

  "That's right, Chack. Crow's nest. You. Up you go."

  "You want I go higher? I go top of pole?"

  Garrett chuckled. "No, the crow's nest is high enough." He pantomimed putting on the headset. "You have to be able to talk and hear. But don't talk unless you see something!"

  "Ay, ay!" Chack said, and shot up the ladder. Garrett shook his head, still smiling, as he watched the Lemurian climb. The long, swishing tail did make him look like a cat, or for that matter, a monkey. Whatever he looked like, he was becoming a pretty good hand, and nobody came close to matching his enthusiasm or agility. He was wondering with amusement if they could recruit more like him, when all weapons reported "manned and ready" and he reported for his division.

  The sky went from red to yellow-gray and visibility began to improve.

  The other lookouts scanned for any menace with their binoculars, and a quarter mile off their port quarter, Big Sal began to take shape. The gray became suffused with gold that flared against the bottoms of fleecy clouds and cast a new coastline into stark relief off the port bow. Ahead lay the Makassar Strait and, beyond that, Celebes. But right now all eyes were glued to the landfall. Matt paced onto the port bridgewing and joined the lookout there.

  "Borneo, Skipper," said the man in a tone of mixed excitement and apprehension. They had almost exactly the same view as when they'd last seen it, astern, after the Battle of Makassar Strait—just a few months before. Then they were running as fast as they could, with the enemy nipping at their heels. They'd been scared to death but flushed with elation after the only real "victory" the Asiatic Fleet had achieved: against the Japanese invasion force at Balikpapan. They sank several transports and a destroyer—just Walker and four other four-stackers—but it hadn't been nearly enough, and they were lucky to escape with their skins. They should have had a larger haul, but a lot of their torpedoes either never hit their targets or failed to explode when they did hit. That was when they first suspected something was wrong with them. Now they were returning, but not like they'd imagined they would.

  "It looks the same," said the lookout, then added with a grin, "only there's no smoke from burning Nips."

  "There was plenty of smoke," Matt agreed, "but we wouldn't have seen it from here. Balikpapan's still a hundred and fifty miles away."

  They heard a whoop over the crow's nest comm. "Surfuss taagit! Surfuss taagit!"

  After a shocked delay, the frustrated talker responded. "Where?

  Where?! What bearing? Who the hell's up there foolin' around? Maintain proper procedures!" There was no response. Matt looked up at the crow's nest, and there was Chack, not in it but on top of it, standing as high as he could and waving both arms over his head. He uttered a low-pitched, but astonishingly loud ululating cry. He was signaling something or someone ahead, and Matt turned and stared as hard as he could, scanning back and forth. It was that tough time of morning when submarines were so dangerous. The sky was growing brighter, but the sea was almost black.

  Unless something was silhouetted, it was practically invisible.

  "There, sir!" cried the lookout. "Not three hundred yards away, dead ahead! A boat!"

  Matt shifted his gaze and sure enough, a boat appeared in his binoculars. It was about forty feet long, with two tripod masts and junklike sails.

  It was also ridiculously close. There was no silhouette since the masts were short and Borneo provided a backdrop. He was amazed that even Chack had seen it. "Helm, right ten degrees. All engines stop!"

  "Right ten degrees, all stop, aye," came the reply. Matt studied the boat and saw figures now, scampering excitedly about.

  "More 'Cats," he said. "I'll be damned."

  "Skipper," said Rick Tolson, "look a little to the left." Matt did so, and to his surprise h
e saw another boat. And another! "They're fishermen!"

  Tolson exclaimed with complete certainty. "Coastal fishermen! Look!"

  Each small ship had one end of a net hooked to its side, while the other was supported by a long boom. As they watched, the boom on the farthest boat began to rise. The end of the net drew closed as the boom rose higher, and a multitude of flopping, thumping, silvery shapes poured onto the deck. Nimble Lemurians waded among them with clubs that rose and fell. At a shouted warning, a few club wielders stopped and looked in shock at the destroyer coasting toward them. Chack silenced his booming cry, but jabbered excitedly at the fishermen as they drew near.

  "Mr. Tolson, relieve the crow's nest lookout and send him to the fo'c'sle to talk more easily with the fishing boats. Use the engines to maintain position to windward of them, if you please."

  Moments later, Chack was on the fo'c'sle, leaning forward and conversing with the nearest boat. Its crew hadn't raised their net and they all stood, amazed, looking up at him.

  "He sure got there quick enough," Tolsen observed. "My God, I think he slid down the forestay!"

  Matt chuckled. "Well, thanks to his keen eyes, we didn't ram anybody.

  But do have a word with him about procedures. The last thing we need is other guys trying a stunt like that—which they will—just to prove that if he can do it, they can too." He looked back at the fishing boats, their crews now shouting excitedly back at Chack. Beyond them in the distance, clearer now, was Borneo. Lush and green and familiar. And yet . . . It was almost like seeing a photograph of a place he'd been. It looked like it, but it wasn't it. He remembered what Bradford had said about the "wild" Grik they'd dissected: judge it by what it is like, not what it looks like. There was a profound difference. He wondered how different Borneo would be.

  They saw many more boats that day. Most were fishermen, like the first they met, and Chack explained that land People fished only mornings and evenings when the smaller fish came to the shallows where the gri-kakka felt confined. The big plesiosaurs could go shallow, but were usually content to linger in deeper water and wait for food to come to them. Most of the boats they saw weren't designed or equipped to hunt the brutes, although their fat was a valuable commodity. That was a job for a Home.

  Like all Homes, Big Sal's People did hunt the big fish, and the result was her primary trade asset—gri-kakka oil. Much of her store was lost in the fire, but hopefully enough remained to finance her repairs.

  Some boats ran away as soon as they sighted them, and some went on ahead after a short conference with Chack. A few stayed and took station on Big Sal as they made their way north-northeast. Occasionally, curious crews ventured to gawk at Walker and her outlandish folk, but generally they avoided the destroyer.

  Late the next afternoon, as the sun neared the horizon and set the low clouds aglow, they entered Balikpapan Bay. For the first time since they'd seen her, Big Sal's massive sails descended and scores of great sweeps extended from her sides like the legs of a giant centipede and she propelled herself against the ebbing tide right into the mouth of the bay. Matt wasn't sure what he'd expected. A small settlement perhaps. Chack and the others often referred to Balikpapan as the "land colony," and he guessed that made him think in diminutive terms. But the civilization they beheld was a virtual metropolis. Two more Homes, similar to Big Sal, were moored in the broad harbor, and hundreds of smaller vessels plied back and forth.

  A long pier jutted from a point of land almost exactly where they'd last seen Japanese troopships burning. The sensation was surreal. Lemurian fishing boats were tied to it now, and beyond the pier was a city.

  That was the only word to describe it, even if the architecture was . . . unusual. Wooden warehouses lined the waterfront, but beyond were high pagoda-like structures much like Big Sal 's towers. Most were just a few stories tall, though broader than those on the ship, but a few reached quite stunning heights. These were multitiered, and each "story" was slightly smaller than that directly beneath it, which gave them the appearance of extremely tall and skinny Aztec temples. Otherwise, the pervasive "pagodas" continued to make a generally Eastern impression.

  The most unusual architectural feature, however, was that every building in view—except the warehouses—was built on massive stilts, or pilings, that supported the structures at least a dozen feet above the ground. In the open space beneath them was an enormous market, or bazaar, that had no apparent organization at all. As far as they could see from Walker's bridge, it occupied and constituted the entire "lower level" of the city. The market was teeming with thousands of Lemurians, coming and going, engaging in commerce, and deporting themselves more like the denizens of Shanghai than the 'Cats they'd come to know. Color was everywhere. Most of the buildings were painted, and large tapestries and awnings were hung beneath and, in many cases, stretched between them. The dominant colors were reds and blues, but gold was prevalent as well, and the whole thing starkly contrasted with the dark green jungle beyond and the dirty, gray-blue bay.

  "Looks like Chefoo," Gray murmured, mirroring Matt's thoughts.

  The arrival of the destroyer and the battle-damaged Home hadn't gone unnoticed. Hundreds of spectators lined the quay and watched as the two ships approached. Small boats sailed back and forth, jockeying for a view, and twice Matt ordered full astern to avoid running over the more intrepid or foolhardy sightseers. The smell of the city reached them on the gentle breeze, and although it wasn't unpleasant, it too was somewhat alien. Riotous, unknown spices on cooking meat and fish predominated, although there was a hint of exotic flowers and strange vegetation.

  All competed with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. There was even a tantalizing undertone of creosote.

  Big Sal continued past the wharf, the long sweeps dipping, until she reached a point opposite a large, empty dock with more warehouses and a tall wooden crane. There she backed water and ever so slowly began to inch her massive bulk closer to the dock. Lemurians scampered about in a very recognizable way, and huge mooring lines were passed to the ship.

  "We'll anchor two hundred yards outboard of Big Sal, Boats," Matt said. "Let's keep a little water between us and shore until we find out what's what."

  "Aye, aye, Skipper," Gray responded and clattered down the ladder.

  Dowden conned the ship to the point Matt instructed, and with a great booming rattle, the new starboard anchor dropped to the silty bottom of Balikpapan Bay.

  "Maintain condition three, Mr. Dowden," Matt ordered as he turned to leave the bridge. "I'm heading over to Big Sal. Mr. Garrett, Chack, Lieutenant Tucker, and two armed men will accompany me. Pass the word, if you please: dress whites and crackerjacks."

  They motored across to Big Sal and made the long climb to its deck.

  Matt had been aboard several times now, but he was only just becoming accustomed to the sheer size of the ship. Courtney Bradford and the destroyermen who'd been helping aboard greeted them. Matt sent Bradford back to Walker to make himself presentable and told him to return in thirty minutes.

  As usual, they went through the boarding ritual, but as soon as they had, the Lemurian who'd given permission raced off. When he returned, he was accompanied by Adar and High Chief Keje himself. Both were dressed in garments representative of their status. Adar wore the same cape or "Sky Priest suit" he'd worn every time Matt had seen him. Keje wore his polished copper armor over an even finer tunic than the one he'd first worn aboard Walker. Gold-wire embroidery graced every cuff, and his polished and engraved copper helmet now boasted the striated plumage from the tail of a Grik warrior. A sweeping red and gold cape was clasped at his throat by a chain of polished Grik hind claws. He won't let anyone forget that Big Salbroke the Grik for the first time, Matt thought.

  Matt and the rest of his party, including Chack, saluted him. Matt still thought it appropriate, since Keje wasn't just the captain of a ship, but was, in effect, a head of state. Bradford was trying to sort out all the nuances of L
emurian society, but so far it seemed rather confusing. The closest analogy he'd come up with was that of the ancient Greek city-states, or possibly even the United States under the Articles of Confederation. Each Lemurian ship was considered a country unto itself, with its own laws and sometimes very distinctive culture. The Trade Lands or Land Colonies had the same status, but as they grew in size, they also grew in economic influence. So, although still theoretically equal, some of the more tradition-minded Homes resented the upstart "mud-treaders."

  "Greetings, U-Amaki, Keje-Fris-Ar," he said, and Keje grinned widely, returning the salute.

  "Greeting you, Cap-i-taan Riddy. Bad-furd teech I speek you words.

  Good, eh?"

  Matt grinned back. "Very good, Your Excellency. I regret I haven't done nearly as well learning your language." Keje was still grinning, but clearly he hadn't caught everything Matt said. Chack elaborated in his own language.