Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  Understanding things like curveballs was one of the few things that kept humans competitive in the game they’d brought to this world. Lemurians generally had greater upper-body strength, particularly the former wing runners who came from the great seagoing Homes. They could throw and hit harder and farther. Humans were better sprinters, though, and their slightly quicker reflexes let them hit more of the high-velocity fastballs they always expected—even if they couldn’t hit them as far. Far enough was good enough when the ball landed on the other side of the chalky line, however, and not every ’Cat who’d grown up with his or her own game thought that was quite fair. Human destroyermen were better at turning singles into doubles and triples too.

  Right now, after a somewhat bitter game, the Walkers were magically only three runs down at the top of the ninth. That this seemed magical was because they’d had only a few days to prepare—and their most recent practice had been weeks before on Respite Island. The Walkers were also a “mixed” team, while the Rivet Drivers were all ’Cats, and that alone gave them an edge. They’d also had a lot of practice and were very, very good. The bitterness came from the age-old rivalry between “real” sailors and “yard apes” that was quickly transplanted here. Add the fact that USS Walker had been given priority over every ship in the yard, and her crew—particularly Tabby (Engineering Officer Lieutenant Tab-at), and Walker’s exec, Spanky McFarlane—had lorded it over everyone in the yard and criticized half the rivets they drove. That got very old, because in addition to repairing battle damage, they were basically reriveting the entire hull. The rivets used rebuilding Walker after the Battle of Baalkpan hadn’t been satisfactory at all, and Spanky felt responsible. That made him short-tempered with himself and everyone else.

  Despite the abuse, most of the yard apes thought Spanky had the right to be critical. He was Minister of Naval Engineering, and revered as a font of almost mystical wisdom. But Tabby had made quite the ranting pest of herself, and the yard apes had grown to resent her in spite of her obvious competence (and equally obvious beauty). Her fur had mostly covered the old steam scars, and those still visible to the crusty yard apes added an exotic dash to her appearance. Her appearance only went so far, however, and she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than what she considered perfection. Even worse than Tabby, the weird little human Chief Isak Rueben had made everyone miserable with his shrill insistence that Walker’s ancient boilers come out of the yard even better than new. It was too much.

  Adding insult to injury, even though the Rivet Drivers were the home team, the crowd’s clear favorite was the team from USS Walker. Sure, they were heroes and they’d just been in another terrible fight, but that stung and made them want to punish the Walkers—only it wasn’t working out that way. They led 9 to 6, but it should’ve been a blowout.

  “It’s all up to Jeek,” Matt said. “If he can pick off this last batter, we might have a chance. Uh-oh.”

  Striding to the plate, his tail held high, a heavy bat twirling in his hand, was the Rivet Drivers’ “cleanup” batter. He was the best they had, and with runners on first and third, all he needed was a hit to widen the gap.

  Jeek watched him come and take his stance. He knew he’d allowed too many runs, but he’d had to pace himself. He hoped he’d saved his very best, sneakiest pitches for last. He blinked at Earl Lanier, and caught a nod in return. Even if Earl had ever taken time to learn ’Cat blinking, Jeek couldn’t have seen his reply through the mask and helmet he wore. Finger signals hadn’t been used before because all the pitchers were ’Cats, and so far all they knew to do was throw the ball like hell and hit the catcher’s glove. Any finger signal then might’ve tipped off the batter that something new was on the way. Besides, they’d planned for this. Jeek’s pair of blinks meant only “Okay,” but they also told Earl to be ready.

  Jeek wound up and launched. The ball looked way outside—until it veered right into Earl’s waiting glove.

  “Strike one!” cried Meksnaak. Saan-Kakja’s High Sky Priest might not be as popular with his flock as those of other Lemurian leaders, but his impartiality in this new game he adored was beyond question. The batter blinked, trying to reconcile what he’d seen with the crack of the ball slapping the glove right in the center of the strike zone. He shook his head.

  The next pitch came, and looked just like the first. For an instant, the Rivet Driver considered reaching for it, but let it pass.

  “Strike two!”

  The crowd was on its feet again, wondering what they were seeing. How could Jeek do such a thing?

  “Help me up, wilya, honey?” Matt asked Sandra, and reluctantly his wife helped him to his feet.

  “Lean on your cane, Matthew,” she cautioned.

  Jeek was staring hard at Lanier now, ball behind his back. To Matt it looked like he was wondering whether he could get away with the same pitch one more time. Finally, he wound up and let fly. With an audible whoosh, the Rivet Driver practically whirled out of the batter’s box. Strike three! Now Walker was up!

  The Rivet Drivers’ pitcher was deadly accurate and as fast as a cannon shot. He also threw a little inside; his own “new” tactic he thought no one had noticed. Taarba-Kar (Tabasco), Walker’s assistant officer’s steward, managed a single, but Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear both struck out. Tabby got a pop-up single that the right fielder took on the bounce. Min-Sakir (Minnie), Walker’s diminutive (even for a ’Cat) bridge talker, almost had her head knocked off by a wild pitch; only her helmet saved her life. Due to the speed of the pitches and some of the hits, all batters and every infielder but the pitcher wore a combat helmet to play baseball on this world.

  With a dazed Minnie making her way to first, the bases were loaded when Earl Lanier waddled to the plate.

  “Oh no,” Sandra muttered, and there was a collective groan. Earl was a good catcher and surprisingly quick, but his enormous gut was kind of in the way when it came to batting. “He shouldn’t even be out there,” Sandra said, a little hot. Earl’s belly had been laid open pretty badly a few weeks before.

  “He’s okay,” muttered Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray on the other side of Matt. Gray was past sixty and now officially Chief Bosun of the Navy. He was often referred to as Super Bosun, or just SB, but was even more than that to Matt and Sandra. He was their friend, and commanded the Captain’s Guard. He took Matt’s orders and served as chief damage control officer aboard ship, but was no longer confined to any normal chain of command. To Matt, he was just “Boats.”

  “He might split a seam, but it’ll be worth it. Watch,” Gray said.

  “Well . . . but he’s still on report for taking a swing at Campeti, isn’t he?” Sandra demanded.

  Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, Campeti said it wasn’t a swing after all. Lanier was just grabbing for something as he fell. The sea was pretty heavy.”

  Sandra glared at him, and he felt like squirming. “Campeti took it back!” he insisted. “What can I do? I didn’t see what happened!”

  “You’re in on this! If he gets hurt . . .”

  “Oh, he’s gonna get hurt,” Gray interrupted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Think of it as takin’ one for the team—for his sins,” he added.

  Earl suddenly struck a comically heroic pose by the plate and pointed upward at an angle of about 45 degrees past center field. The crowd roared and the bleachers thundered with stamping feet.

  “Oh, my God,” Sandra said, raking away a few sandy brown strands that had escaped her ponytail. “I can’t watch!”

  She watched.

  Earl stepped into the box and pointed his bat at the pitcher. Then took a couple of grim practice swings before bringing the bat back, high, his fists behind his right ear.

  The first pitch sizzled past and Meksnaak called it a strike. Earl stepped back, stunned.

  “Scoot back up there an’ take yer dose, you big, fat, turd!” came a nasally shout that reached them even over the thunder of the c
rowd. Isak Rueben was on deck, shaking his bat at the cook. Isak was one of the “original” Mice, two extraordinarily squirrelly firemen who’d finally been forced to accept a wider—and different—world beyond their beloved fire rooms. The other original, Gilbert Yeager, was chief engineer on USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), off with the Second Fleet supporting operations around the Enchanted Isles. Tabby herself had been a third “mouse” before her promotion. Isak and Gilbert were half brothers—less of a secret than they thought—and they’d never been on the ship’s baseball team before the Squall that brought them here. It wasn’t because they weren’t any good; they just didn’t like anybody. Things were different now, of course, and if Isak still didn’t much like anyone, he loved his old Walker. He’d play for her.

  Lanier glared at Isak and yelled something back that Matt couldn’t hear, but moved back in position, waving at the crowd. Finally, he was ready: bat high, helmet low, staring intently at the ’Cat pitcher. Here it came. In the mere instant the ball was in the air, Earl seemed to like what he saw. He started to swing, his great, fat body gaining momentum as it turned. The bat came around farther, faster, then stopped short as he checked the swing—just as the speeding ball vanished into his prodigious midsection. There was a stunned hush, until the ball popped out on the ground.

  “Aaggghhh!” roared Earl, slamming the plate with his bat. “Goddamn, that hurt!”

  Meksnaak took off his own helmet and stared at Earl, blinking amazed consternation. Then he saw the blood beginning to stain the tight, grungy T-shirt. Finally, he snorted and waved Earl toward first base.

  “I can’t believe he did that!” Sandra shouted in Matt’s ear when the bleachers shook.

  “What? You think he took a hit like that on purpose?” Matt hollered back. Saan-Kakja caught his eye, and he saw her amused blinking.

  Tabasco trotted home—without notice by Meksnaak or the Rivet Drivers’s catcher, who were both watching Earl lumber to first.

  Isak Rueben shuffled to the plate. He was a little guy, wiry, almost scrawny. Most of the Rivet Drivers knew him well. He’d been flown in from Baalkpan to oversee the first steps of a scheduled overhaul on Walker even before the old destroyer limped in after her fight with Hidoiame, and he’d been driving them hard on other projects. No one thought he was a weakling, but he obviously wasn’t a power hitter. They suspected he knew what he was doing, though, and the outfield moved in to prevent another scoring single.

  Matt looked nervously at Gray, who stood with his arms crossed, wearing an expression of supreme confidence. Bashear was team captain, but Gray was the manager and chief strategist. Matt knew he’d conceived all sorts of schemes for this game to deal with any number of variables. One such was clearly unfolding now . . . but pinning all their hopes on Isak Rueben seemed a little nuts.

  The first pitch blew past Isak and he just watched it go, as if studying it. He did the same for the second, and another huge groan rumbled in the park. The third pitch was way inside and probably would’ve shattered Isak’s bony elbow if he hadn’t jerked back. Okay, Matt thought, Isak can read a pitch. But they can’t be counting on a walk—not with this pitcher! The fourth pitch came, and with a fluid, almost nonchalant ease, Isak Rueben slammed it high in the air and deep into the crowd behind the center-field line.

  Matt looked at Gray, stunned, as the whole city of Maa-ni-la seemed to erupt. Gray shrugged. “I seen the squirt bat before,” he shouted. “Back on Tarakan, after the fight with those three Grik ships. He was showin’ some of the ’Cat Marines.” He grinned. “I ain’t sure Isak Rueben didn’t invent baseball on this world!”

  * * *

  “A great victory!” Saan-Kakja gushed as their palka-drawn carriage and its me-naak-mounted guards churned through the busy streets toward the new industrial complex east of the city. There were seven in the carriage, counting the driver. Matt, Sandra, and Gray sat beside each other, facing Saan-Kakja, General Busaa of the coastal artillery, who now commanded the ATC, and the somewhat sullen Meksnaak. The driver, busy controlling his animal, said nothing.

  Palkas, dubbed “pack mooses,” looked like a cross between an overblown moose and a Belgian draft horse. They weren’t fast, but they were strong and fairly steady under fire—much steadier than brontasarries. That made them perfect for pulling artillery, caissons, and virtually any combat-supply vehicle. They’d also eat just about any kind of vegetation. Me-naaks, or “meanies,” were the preferred Maa-ni-lo cavalry mount, and looked like long-legged crocodiles. A thick thoracic case made them almost bulletproof. They were obedient, even devoted to their riders, but dangerously prone to snatch “snacks” as they trotted along, so their jaws were kept firmly secured.

  “I don’t know about that . . .” Sandra began.

  “Of course it was!” Saan-Kakja insisted. “It showed our people that Waa-kur’s crew remains undaunted despite her injuries and losses. I cannot stress the importance of that enough! Also, it may perhaps boost the morale of your crew, Cap-i-taan Reddy, after the . . . inconclusive encounter with Hidoiame?”

  “Didn’t seem inconclusive to me,” Gray grumbled. “And Spanky’s sure the damn thing’s done for.”

  “Still,” Matt said. “We never saw her sink, and I know it nags the fellas. It nags me too.” He raised a hand at all of them, particularly Sandra. “Hey! I’m not complaining. Spanky made the right call!” He nodded down at the wound that nearly killed him. “I was out of it. Hell, Walker was finished! We were like an old, beat-up mutt tangling with a mountain lion, but I’m still as confident as Spanky that we kicked Hidoiame’s ass. Even if we only gave as good as we got”—he nodded at Saan-Kakja—“we had someplace to run, to lick our wounds. Hidoiame and her murdering crew have no place to go that they could hope to reach, even if they somehow knew about the Japs helping the Grik.” He shook his head. “Scouts haven’t seen her, and we haven’t overheard any transmissions. My bet is she’s sunk or on an island beach somewhere, shot up and out of fuel, and her crew’s busy cracking open those poison coconut things and slowly . . .” he stopped.

  “Slowly shittin’ theirselves to death,” Gray finished with obvious satisfaction, “if you ladies’ll excuse me.”

  The driver halted the palka in front of one of the largest wooden structures Matt had ever seen on land. It looked like a hangar for one of the old Navy’s dirigibles. Even Grik zeppelins wouldn’t need anything as big, since they were less than half the size of the ill-fated Akron and Macon. Standing near the building was a battery of smaller structures protecting boilers and direct steam generators. Matt reflected that the arrangement was a far cry from their first efforts at making electricity in Baalkpan not so very long ago, and the Lemurians deserved most of the credit. Walker’s own 25-kilowatt generators were direct steam drive, so the example was there, but their first domestic machines had been far cruder, more complicated belt-drive generators powered by reciprocating engines. They were already building the engines and hadn’t had the machining capacity to make even the relatively simple turbines for the better generators back then. The ’Cats themselves changed that, and real turbine engines were in the works in Baalkpan now.

  High Sky Priest Meksnaak was obviously thinking about the generators too, and blinked disapproval at the buildings protecting them. “I confess . . . discomfort over this invisible force called eleks-tricky we grow so dependent upon,” he muttered. “It powers nearly everything now, particularly at this facility. The Sacred Scrolls themselves warn against placing faith in unseen forces other than the Maker.”

  “You can’t see the wind,” Sandra countered reasonably, “but it moves the great Homes. There’s not much wind today, but you can feel it.”

  “But the wind is a natural thing, given by the Maker,” Meksnaak insisted. “You build this eleks-tricky with machines!”

  “Electricity is also made by the Maker,” Matt countered, stressing the proper, less-sinister pronunciation. “Lightning’s a prime example; it zaps down from the heavens all the time.”
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  “And represents the Maker’s anger,” Meksnaak persisted. “I can think of no better reason not to fool about with it! Yet everything you build either makes or uses it!”

  “A hand fan makes a wind,” said Sandra. “Is that cooling breeze somehow dangerous?”

  “A high wind can be most dangerous!”

  Matt sighed and looked at Saan-Kakja. “Electricity’s vital to our industry, and ultimately the whole war effort. Sure, we generate it, harness it, and bend it to our will, but it’s not magic. We make it in much the same way the Maker generates it in the sky, only we make controlled amounts—and put it to use.” He shook his head. “How exactly that’s done is a question for engineers like Spanky, or the EMs Riggs and Ronson trained.” He chuckled. “We didn’t have electricity on Dad’s ranch when I was growing up. We used oil lamps just like you. We had batteries for the radio and the car and trucks, but that was it. Little generators in the vehicles kept the batteries charged. Anyway, though I understand the basics, I’m no expert. I do know we wouldn’t’ve had trucks or tractors or any number of things Dad needed around the place—things that gave him an edge—if electricity hadn’t helped make them. We need electricity to gain and keep an edge in this damn war.”

  “We built many things before eleks-tricky came to us,” Meksnaak grumbled.

  “Sure, and Dad had a ranch before we had trucks and tractors—but it took ten times the labor to grow fodder, transport stock, haul hay and fencing . . . the list is endless. And that was just a ranch, not a war. To win the war we need to free up as much of our labor force as we can to fight—while still producing more of the tools to do it.”