The thought of that very sword at his side right now caused a queasy stir in Matt’s stomach.
“Just shut up, everybody,” he murmured. “About… being sick, anyway.” He looked at Juan and offered a weak smile. “Thanks for the thought, but I’ll manage.”
Dennis Silva muttered something and chuckled.
“Think I’d prefer a quick pass by the JP myself,” Lieutenant Kutas said. His scarred face looked pinched as he stared at the crowd.
“It does seem quite a… fuss,” Chack observed. “We do such things much differently, as you know. Why could you not have just a simple ceremony like you performed for Mr. Letts and Nurse Theimer, Cap-i-taan?”
“Because we were all fixin’ to die then, Chackie,” Silva said. “This is politics!”
As was often the case, Silva was more astute than he generally pretended, because politics were definitely involved. Governor Radcliff wanted to capitalize on the popularity of the destroyermen to reinforce Respite’s dedication to the Alliance-and the Empire they’d helped to save. Emelia, as she’d stated, wanted to showcase Sandra and the respect her own people gave her to emphasize the advantages inherent in dismantling the system of female indenture and the advancement of associated social reforms. The… spectacle was also clearly intended to display strong friendship not only to Walker ’s crew, but also to the large number of allied personnel now stationed on the island and the crews of other ships in port. Of course, Matt and Sandra’s decision to wed on Respite demonstrated their esteem for the people there and the Empire in general.
The donkeys pulling the trolley were finally reined to a halt in front of the Cathedral of St. Brenden, and the passengers gawked up at the impressive edifice as they stepped out of the vehicle. It wasn’t as big, and certainly not as Gothic as its old world counterparts the humans had seen, or seen pictures of, but the white-plastered stone fairly gleamed and massive columns supported the front of a truly impressive bell tower that soared perhaps a hundred feet high. Broad steps led to a massive conical wooden door that Radcliff had told them was hewn from the very timbers of the “passage” Indiaman Hermione herself.
Militiamen and two of Walker ’s Marines flanked the huge door, and the thunder of the cheering crowd echoed back at them from the cathedral face like a breaking surf.
Matt straightened his tunic and adjusted his sword belt. “C’mon, he said, with what seemed a brittle confidence. “I guess we better go inside.”
The doors swung wide as they ascended the steps and the scent of burning candles met them as they left the bright sunlight and entered the relative gloom inside. At first, in equal contrast to the tumult outside, there was hardly a sound within as their eyes adjusted, but then the applause began as they were ushered forward toward the lighted altar at the far end of the long, arched chamber. Matt heard a muffled “Belay that shit!” from the Bosun behind him and he wondered briefly what Silva had done, before he focused his attention on the gathering that awaited them.
Several men, ranging from relatively young to ancient, stood on an elevated platform and were dressed in flowing white robes with little ornamentation. They flanked a man in a silky blue robe with gold accents whom Matt had briefly met during his first visit to Respite, and he was further discomfited to realize that the ceremony would apparently be performed by Bishop Akin Todd himself! His stomach clenched again when he remembered that previous meeting had not been completely cordial; the bishop had harbored deep suspicions of the Alliance in general, and its social meddling in particular. Now, however, the tall, white-haired man with the conical “pope hat,” as Gray had called it, practically beamed at him as he motioned Matt and his party to find seats in the right-front pew.
Glancing down the length of the long, wooden bench as his men preceded him with awkward, sideways steps, Matt was surprised to see Ambassador Forester and Midshipman Brassey standing at the far end, waiting. Brassey he’d expected, but he wondered why Forester had chosen to sit on the groom’s side. He glanced to the left, and was equally surprised to see Governor Radcliff, Emelia, their daughters, and several others he didn’t know sitting for the bride. As had been arranged, Dennis Silva, of all people, joined them there with a beatific smile, and Matt suppressed a groan. Sandra had insisted, and he supposed he understood, but he sensed a disaster in the making. With a final glance behind him, taking in the various attendees with his eyes better accustomed to the gloom, he noted the garish colors of Imperial finery interspersed with numerous Navy uniforms, and he jerked a nod in their direction and sat. Periodically over the next quarter hour, the great door admitted light, warm, humid air and more members of Walker ’s crew. Each time, the local attendees clapped their hands for men and Lemurians, and Matt was again pleased by their reception.
The applause abruptly stopped when the Bishop finally extended his arms to his sides. A choir stood behind him, from seats arranged beneath a massive cross that Matt only then fully appreciated. The thing appeared to be made of thousands of shards of multihued volcanic obsidian, from clear to blue to almost black, and it sparkled in the candlelight like hot blue, flickering flames. The bishop lowered his arms, and the choir commenced an unfamiliar hymn. Matt didn’t understand the words, but the voices were clear and strong and the melody was moving. The admirable acoustics of the cathedral added an impressive power to the music, and Matt felt his tension ease to some degree. The song was kind of long, but when it finally ended, Bishop Todd raised his hands again in the sudden silence and boomed:
“Let us pray!”
The prayer was pretty straightforward and not unlike many Matt heard in church as a kid, and he duly bowed his head for its duration. When it ended, he was surprised to hear the bishop call Governor Radcliff to speak. The melodious words that followed were essentially a highly complimentary account of the past campaign that highlighted Matt’s, Walker ’s, and even Sandra’s contributions to its success. Matt knew Radcliff had prepared a major speech to kick off the “reception,” and didn’t know how he’d keep from repeating a lot of what he’d just said, or even much further embellish it. The address closed with flowery compliments of “Supreme Commander” Captain Reddy’s military prowess and unerring leadership-while Matt’s face burned-and Radcliff added his personal assurance of “Minister Lady” Tucker’s purity, chastity, courage, and medical genius.
After a respectful silence while the governor made his way to his seat, the choir erupted into another unintelligible but hauntingly familiar chorus, while priestly ushers advanced toward the forward pews. Matt recognized his signal to stand, and suddenly rubbery legs reluctantly obeyed him. Spanky, Gray, Chack, Kutas, Campeti, Juan, and Brassey all shepherded him before the altar. Dennis Silva, shoulders square and mouth grim, erectly escorted Emelia Radcliff toward the front of the cathedral, where they stepped inside an alcove Matt hadn’t seen when he entered. They emerged a moment later, each on the arm of… a short, white, shapeless cloud, and Matt almost barked a nervous laugh at what Sandra must think of her Imperial wedding dress.
The gown was fancy enough, Matt supposed, with plenty of frills, lace, and sparkly stuff, but it was also cut in the Imperial style that deliberately de-emphasized and obscured the female form to protect the modesty of ladies of quality and status. Matt had always been struck by that, since indentured or lower-caste women in the Empire wore little more than civilian Lemurians-which was next to nothing. In the Imperial case, he supposed that was the easiest way to differentiate the classes, but there was little wonder why there were so many “fatherless” children running around Imperial port cities, particularly when lower-caste women had so little expectation of legal recourse or protection.
Matt knew Sandra wasn’t vain, but doubted she’d ever expected to wear such an amorphous thing to the altar-or that she’d preserve it unaltered for the future use of any daughter they might have! For the first time since the… ordeal began, a broad grin spread across his face-and grew even broader when Sandra drew close enough for him to see her
savage blush. His anxiety all but fled, and he felt a sudden swirling rush of anticipation. In spite of the ridiculous dress and her brightly flushing cheeks, at that moment, Sandra was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and her features softened and her lips ticked upward into a tentative smile when she saw his expression.
Diania and Tabby brought up the rear of the bridal procession, and Diania was dressed in a similar, simpler version of Sandra’s dress. Tabby, however, wore what had evolved as the Lemurian version of dress whites: a well-tailored, high-collar tunic that did not de-emphasize her shape in any way and a long white kilt. Belted around her waist was a standard pattern 1917 cutlass, but it was sheathed in a tooled and brass-accented leather scabbard. Diania might have preferred similar garb, but Emelia had virtually insisted that the formerly indentured woman appear as a “lady.”
The singing ended just as the procession arrived at the altar, and in the ensuing silence, the bishop thundered: “Who comes here before God and this congregation to be joined in holy matrimony?”
They’d been warned that it was customary for the groom to recite his name, titles, and lineage at this time, though it was not, of course, usually expected of the bride.
“Matthew Patrick Reddy,” Matt answered in a voice that surprised him with its firmness. “Captain of the United States Ship Walker, High Chief of the American Clan, and Commander in Chief, by acclamation, of all Allied Military Forces united beneath the Banner of the Trees.” He paused, remembering to add the lineage part, and continued proudly; “I’m the son of former Chief Quartermaster’s Mate Donald Vernon Reddy, recipient of the highest military honor for bravery that my birth nation can bestow. He’s now a cattleman-a large landholder-in the great state of Texas, U.S. of A.!”
He heard murmuring to his right in response to his revelation. It sounded like Kutas asking Gray what Matt’s dad had done. He suppressed a head shake. How on earth do they think I got in the Academy?
“Sandra Cayce Tucker,” Sandra interjected before the bishop could proceed. She spoke a little softly at first, but with growing strength. “Nurse Lieutenant and Minister of Medicine for Adar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance. I’m the daughter of Malcom C. Tucker, ah, Norfolk industrialist, in the great state of Virginia, United States of America.”
The congregation murmured, but Bishop Todd cleared his throat.
“And who giveth this woman to be wed?” he demanded.
Silva straightened. “Me!” he boomed. “Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva of the United States Ship Walker, DD rate, number one-sixty-three! Famous slayer o’ Japs, Griks, Doms, super lizards, mountain fish, an’ various other dangerous critters, includin’ a Dom Blood Cardinal I spattered at most of a quarter mile! Protector o’ women an’ small princesses, an’ rescuer o’ same! I’m the son o’ Stanley an’ Willa Silva, who was actually married when I was born but passed on soon after, God rest ’em, an’ I hail from Alabama-also in the U.S. of A!”
The bishop was taken aback and Gray muttered something, but Matt supposed it could have been far worse.
“And do you swear before God that this woman is here seeking the solemnization of matrimony of her own free will, and has no just impediment, nor moral or legal obligation that might entangle, complicate, or prohibit the honorable estate she seeks?”
“Ah… yes, sir. I swear,” Silva replied with less exuberance. “If all that means what I think it does.”
Matt saw Sandra roll her eyes.
The bishop paused, again perhaps taken aback by the unorthodox reply. “Then I entreat this congregation to bear witness that this man and this woman have entered this house and the sight of God to be joined together in holy matrimony, an institution created by God in the time of man’s innocency, which signifies the mystical union betwixt Christ and his Church, and which He adorned and beautified with His presence. With that understanding, it must be admonished that this estate be not enterprised lightly or wantonly solely to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites like brute beasts, with no understanding, but reverently, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God, duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.
“First of these is the lawful procreation of unobligated children, to be reared in the fear of the Lord and to praise His holy name.
“Secondly, as a remedy against sin and fornication and other base temptations of the flesh, so that those who enter into this, the greatest of obligations, might keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body, and righteous members of His Church.
“Thirdly, for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.
“Only through due obedience to God’s matrimonial decrees may those who are scattered, and children begotten in the lonely places of this savage world, remain servants of the Lord, and not degrade themselves until they become unknown to Him.”
Matt was struck-vaguely-by the many similarities as well as differences to other wedding ceremonies he’d witnessed. He supposed-vaguely again-that the differences were mostly rooted in the odd society the Empire had created as far as women were concerned, but at that moment it really didn’t matter to him-except insofar as how damn long the thing was taking! They both answered in the affirmative at the end of the long, familiar, if somewhat archaic vows, and Matt duly, somewhat ironically, noted the extra-heavy emphasis on service and obedience that Sandra agreed to. He honestly wasn’t entirely sure what “plight thee my troth” meant, but a plight was like a predicament… wasn’t it?
Spanky stood next to Matt as his best man, and at the appropriate moment, he fished in his pocket for the ring: a simple golden band traditional for all Imperial weddings. It was growing increasingly hot in the still, unventilated cathedral, and the ring suddenly squirted from Spanky’s fingers just as he triumphantly produced it.
“Goddammit!” he muttered, instantly flushing red as the ring hit Sandra’s dress. Instead of being captured in the shapeless folds, it fell and struck the floor with a tiny chink and rolled away down the aisle. Silva stomped on it before it could escape completely, and Spanky quickly retrieved it and stuck it in Matt’s hand. Matt then laid the ring on the large, leather-bound Bible on the altar, as he’d been instructed, and the bishop held it up before passing it back to him. That’s when Matt turned to put it on Sandra’s finger. Her eyes were… chuckling, either at Spanky’s embarrassment or Matt’s grim, nervous expression, and Matt felt his own grin return as he repeated what the bishop told him to say.
“With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship.” There was nothing about “worldly goods” in Imperial ceremonies, but Matt didn’t have anything to offer but his ship. “So help me God,” he almost whispered. They both knelt then, and Bishop Todd held his hands out over their heads.
“O eternal God, creator and preserver of all mankind, giver of spiritual grace and author of everlasting life: send thy blessings through Christ our Lord upon this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy name. May they ever remain in perfect love and peace together. Amen.”
There was more, but regardless of how interesting or even beautiful it might have been, from that point on, Matt and Sandra might as well have knelt there all alone, as far as they were concerned. Only later, after all was done and the choir had been singing again for some time, did it suddenly occur to Matt that the song was “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” He didn’t know how old the “official” Navy hymn was, but doubted it was old enough that the Imperials would know it. He was touched by the gesture, both on the part of their hosts and whoever had thought to give them the words and music. He hoped he could somehow reflect the words into a prayer of his own as he looked into Sandra’s eyes-not only for himself and this woman he loved, but for Walker and her crew and all those she’d lost.
“O, Trinity of love and power, our brethren shield in danger’s hour.
From rock and tempest, fire and foe, protect them wheresoe’er t
hey go.
Oh hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea.”
CHAPTER 7
Zanzibar
Sovereign Nest of the Jaaph Hunters
General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa, former captain of the lost Japanese Imperial Navy battle cruiser Amagi, almost chortled with glee as his new personal yacht, the double-ended paddle steamer Tatsuta, backed her paddles and crept up to the dock. He knew General Esshk was wildly jealous of the vessel. But, then, General Esshk is in a poor position to complain just now. Isn’t he? Kurokawa thought with smug amusement. Esshk had hitched his fortunes to a waning star, and after the catastrophic losses in airships during the recent raid on the enemy fleet and bases, all in a desperate gamble to save Regent Tsalka’s precious Ceylon, Esshk’s “star,” had been slowly, painfully snuffed.
A quick, high-pitched giggle did escape then. An irony was that Ceylon had already fallen by the time Tsalka’s mission took place, but Tsalka had promised his life in exchange for the stupid, wasteful attempt to salvage his regency, and Kurokawa had “sadly insisted” that he must pay his own set price for failure. He’d argued vigorously against the gesture, as he’d described it. The airships should have been held back until they could accompany his new Grand Fleet into battle, thereby ensuring complete and total victory. Tsalka’s selfish insistence was what cost so many machines, trained crews, and time to replace them. For that, if for no other reason, he had to be held to his pledge! Now Tsalka was dead-having wagered against the Traitor’s Death! — and with him had vanished yet another obstacle to Kurokawa’s ultimate scheme.
Another giggle escaped compressed lips when the image of a naked Tsalka, teeth smashed, claws ripped out, convulsing against his bonds-and shrieking in wild, animalistic terror and agony while dozens of famished hatchlings fed on his living body-floated behind Kurokawa’s eyes once more. He’d maintained a somber demeanor at the time, which cast a pall on his enjoyment of the proceedings. It wouldn’t do for his allies at the court of the Celestial Mother to recognize his deep pleasure. Even the Chooser would have been horrified. Instead, he’d been forced to assume a mask of regret that accompanied his sad insistence that Tsalka’s debt be paid.
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