“God’s, and Spanky McFarlane’s,” Matt agreed quietly, referring to Walker’s engineering officer, who still hadn’t arrived. The diminutive engineer had performed miracles keeping the battered ship not only afloat, but seaworthy, and three of her four boilers were probably in better shape than they’d been in years. Their arrival in Baalkpan, and the necessities of the war they found themselves in, had sparked an industrial revolution of sorts. The Lemurians had already possessed impressive foundries for casting massive anchors and other fittings for the Homes, but the Americans had taught them to make cannon, shot, and other things they’d need. The machine shops on the two destroyers turned out parts for lathes even bigger than themselves, and soon milling machines, lathes, and other heavy tools were operating in huge “factories” near the shipyard. They were running out of certain other spare parts fast, though, mostly bearings and things that Lemurian industry wasn’t yet up to helping them produce. They’d have to figure that out pretty quick.
Gray nodded. “Yes, sir. Please don’t ever tell him I said so, but Spanky’s been a wonder. Him and everybody else.”
“What?” demanded McFarlane, suddenly joining them, dripping like the rest, and striking his distinctive pose: hands on his skinny hips.
“Nothin’,” Gray grumped, recovering himself. “I was just wonderin’ who’s gonna restow that junk your snipes scattered all over my topsides.” He was referring to the disassembled drilling rig.
“Your deck apes,” Spanky replied cheerfully. “That’s their job.”
Walker steamed past Aracca Home, one of the enormous seagoing cities of the Lemurians. She was moving toward the mouth of the bay to relieve Big Sal as a floating battery—a task all the sea folk despised, but knew was necessary. Larger than the new Essex-class aircraft carriers Matt had seen under construction, Aracca, like all her kind, was built entirely of wood. Her hull was double ended, flat bottomed, and diagonally plank laminated to a thickness of six feet in some places. Matt was impressed by the sophisticated design, and knew the ship was incredibly tough. It had to be. Despite the stresses inherent to her momentous proportions (1,009 feet long, with a beam of almost 200 feet), Aracca had been built to last for centuries upon a sea that was much more hostile in many ways than the sea Matt had known before the Squallpite the rain, he saw her people going about their morning chores: preparing fish from the morning catch for drying, once the rain eased, and tending the polta fruit gardens on the main deck that ranged along the bulwark completely around the ship. The main deck was a hundred feet above the sea, and three huge pagodalike structures that served as apartments for many of her people towered above it like skyscrapers. Encompassing the structures were three massive tripods soaring another two hundred and fifty feet above the deck. They supported the great sails, or “wings” that provided Aracca’s only means of propulsion—other than the hundred giant sweep-oars her people could use for maneuvering when necessary.
Matt was always amazed whenever he looked at Aracca—or any Lemurian Homes. Not only because of their size, but also because of the industrious ingenuity they represented. ’Cats may have been a little backward in some respects when the Americans first arrived, but they certainly weren’t ignorant. He had Walker’s horn sounded in greeting, and he and the other officers went back out in the rain on the bridge wing and returned the friendly waves they received. Slowly the massive ship receded in the rain behind them.
“I’m already anxious to be back,” Matt said aloud, ruefully.
“We’re getting a late start,” conceded Dowden. He glanced apologetically at Spanky. “No offense, I know you went as fast as you could. It’s just . . .”
“I know,” Spanky growled. “By the original timetable, we should’ve been on our way home by now. But one thing led to another . . . It sure would’ve been easier with a dry dock, especially to get at the damage below the waterline. She won’t ever be ‘right’ until we can do that.”
“Agreed,” said the captain, “but that’ll have to wait. New construction has priority, and there just aren’t enough hands, or hours, or days. . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing for it. You’ve done an amazing job, Spanky. All of you have. My question is, are the boilers in shape for more speed than we planned on, and if so, do we have the fuel? How much time can we shave off our trip?”
Spanky took off his hat and scratched his head. “We’re steaming on two boilers now, numbers two and three. Our range used to be about twenty-five hundred miles at twenty knots. We can’t do that well anymore. I can’t guarantee we can even make twenty knots on two boilers. If we light off number four, it’ll take half again as much fuel to gain just those few extra knots. Now, the new fuel bunker we installed where number one used to be ought to give us a safe margin, but it might not—and until we get the new site on Tarakan up and running, there won’t be anyplace to top off.” He shrugged. “If you’re putting me on the spot, I’d say we can light number four, probably squeeze twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight knots out of her, and still get back okay, but you won’t be able to do as much poking around looking for that ‘iron fish’ as you hoped. If we burn it now, you might wish we had it later.”
Matt grimaced. “Well, let’s wait till we reach open water and see what she’ll give us. Maybe she’ll make twenty. If she won’t, though, I’m inclined to burn it now. I just can’t shake the feeling we need to get back as soon as we can.”
“But . . . we’d still get back before any reinforcementthat escaped destruction when Walker first came to the People’s aid. No one knew what became of him at the time; it was assumed he was lost overboard with so many others, and devoured by the insatiable fish. Not so. Somehow he’d been captured and survived for months in first one hold, then another, and he’d seen . . . terrible things. He was quite mad when finally rescued. In the meantime, considering him dead, Selass finally realized she’d been wrong to take him to mate in the first place, and developed a real affection for Chack-Sab-At, who’d hopelessly wooed her before she made her choice. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of the young wing runner, but since then, Chack had become a noted warrior and a true leader. When she made her feelings known to him, he’d promised to give an answer after the battle for the ship. Instead, he’d returned to her with her long-lost mate. It was a crushing, emotional scene, and Sandra felt terribly sorry for Selass. Since then, Chack seemed to have fallen for the exotically beautiful B’mbaadan queen, Safir Maraan, but Selass’s feelings for him were undiminished. Added to that was the fact that her mate still lived and she could never leave him in his current state. It was a terrible hardship for Selass to bear: unrequited love for someone increasingly beyond her grasp, mixed with terrible guilt that she had those feelings while her legitimate mate still lived.
Even so, it might not have been so tragic, but Saak-Fas wouldn’t even speak to her, no matter how hard she tried to elicit some response. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. He was recovered, physically, from his ordeal, and almost feverish daily exercise had left him in better shape than he’d ever been. Sandra doubted he knew about his mate’s inner turmoil, so that probably wasn’t the reason for his behavior. When his old friends from Big Sal visited, he said nothing at all, and showed no interest in life aboard his old home. He cared nothing about reports of the war, and wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of others who’d been through the same ordeal as he. Worst of all, no matter what she said or did, when Selass spent time with him each day, he acted as though she weren’t even there. The torment Selass felt was a palpable thing, and it wrenched Sandra to her core.
Sandra nodded and smiled at Pam Cross, who led a small procession of medical recruits through the fabric opening, showing them around. She knew Pam had issues of her own. It wasn’t much of a secret anymore that she and Dennis Silva had a “thing,” and she couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. It was even less a secret that Silva and Chack’s sister, Risa, had a “thing” of some sort going on as well, and as much as Sandra hoped it was a joke, with Silva
there was no way of knowing. She shuddered and hoped Pam knew. She had to, didn’t she? Pam’s “thing” with Silva was proof, wasn’t it? She shook her head and went to stand beside Selass, where the Lemurian female was watching Saak-Fas do an unending series of push-ups.
“Good morning, Selass,” she said softly, the sorrow of the scene wrenching her anew.
For a moment Selass said nothing, but just sat cross-legged, watching the almost mechanical laboring of her mate. Finally, she sighed. “Good morning.” Her face, as usual, betrayed no emotion, but her tone was ironic, desolate. “Have they left?” she asked, referring to Walker, and more specifically Chack and Matt. Chack was accompanying the mission For a while, both were silent. The only sounds were Saak-Fas’s heavy breathing, the rain on the dense canvas overhead, and the tormented moans of others in the segregated sections of the ward.
“He spoke,” Selass said at last.
Sandra rushed to her side. “That’s wonderful!” Perhaps some of Selass’s misery might be relieved. “What did he say?”
“He did not speak to me.” The ironic tone remained, but Selass’s voice broke with emotion, and tears welled in her large, amber eyes. “He merely made an announcement, as if it mattered little to him whether anyone heard. As if I were . . . anybody.”
For a breath, Sandra was speechless, appalled by Saak-Fas’s apparent cruelty. “Well . . . what did he say?” she managed at last.
“He is leaving the ward. He is entirely well and strong, and ready to resume his missions.”
“Missions?” Sandra was taken aback.
“Yes. While he was . . . in captivity . . . he swore an oath much like Adar’s: if somehow he was spared, he would never rest until he destroyed as many Grik as he possibly could. No consideration would be allowed to compete with that goal: no distraction, no emotion, no thought. Not even me. No other obligation binds him now, not even to his Home. He has decided the best way to accomplish his missions is to join your Navy.” She looked at Sandra. “To join Mahan’s crew.”
“What if we don’t release him? He’s still clearly unwell. His mental state—”
Selass interrupted her. “Release him?” She gestured at their surroundings. “How could we prevent him from leaving? We cannot guard him; nor should we. We have too few to do too much already. Besides, I think it would be wrong. He knows what he is doing and why. It . . . hurts, but I believe I know why too.”
Sandra stubbornly set her jaw. “Well, whatever his intentions are, I believe Lieutenant Ellis would have the final say. Saak-Fas might sneak out of here, but he certainly can’t sneak aboard Mahan and remain there if I don’t want him to. I’ll have a word with Jim. . . .”
Selass rose and faced her. Behind her, Saak-Fas continued his workout, heedless of their words. “Do not,” she pleaded. “He must go. I have lost him already to his oath and what the Grik did to him. He exists only for revenge, and if I ever cared for him at all, I cannot stand in his way. He will perform his missions. At least this way it might be of some help, have some meaning.”
Sandra slowly nodded, and tears stung her own eyes. “Very well. But you keep saying ‘missions,’ plural. What other mission does he have, and why Mahan?”
Selass sighed and averted her gaze. “He wants Mahan because, in the fight to come, he believes she will give him his best opportunity to fulfill all his goals: to kill many of our enemies . . . and to die.”
The following morning was as great a contrast to the previous as ng was ao knew that the public dressing-down Dennis got over the incident was a sham for the crew. The captain was just as glad as anyone that the monster that got Tony was dead, and the killing had been good for overall morale. Spanky also suspected the captain knew Silva—and Stites—had done it for that exact reason as much as any other, and not just as the usual stupid stunt it would once have been written off as. The proof was that, for once, Silva hadn’t been reduced in grade for his “stunt.” His only punishment at all, in fact, had been restriction to the ship for the duration of their mission. (Like he would really want to go anywhere.) Besides, the last thing they needed, even changed as he was, was Silva on the loose in Manila during diplomatic negotiations.
Apparently, the only thing Captain Reddy was really mad about was that they’d risked Courtney Bradford. Of course, there’d been an element of relief associated with that as well. Bradford had been driving them all nuts with his constant demands to study stuff. Now he had a fresh (albeit shot to pieces) super lizard skull to gawk at and display, and an entertaining, ever-expanding story of heroism and adventure to go along with it. Maybe now there’d be a short respite.
After “feeling” the aft engine room, Spanky moved to the rail and spit a long, yellowish stream in their wake. After a final, wistful survey of the beautiful day he probably wouldn’t see again, he dropped down the companionway into the engineering spaces below. The noise of the giant turbines quickly grew louder as he descended, and he was immediately faced with a shouted altercation between the new (acting) chief machinist’s mate, Dean Laney, and one of the ’Cat Marines.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he bellowed. Despite his diminutive frame and years of smoking, there was nothing wrong with his lungs. Laney, a slightly shorter, less depraved, but also less bold and imaginative “snipe” version of Silva, glared down at him through beaded sweat and n do,” Spanky continued. “Hell, most of his Marines are Baalkpans—land folk. Can’t even tie a knot. Even the ones from Homes might as well have spent their lives on battlewagons or flattops. They aren’t used to the way the old gal rolls and pitches and they’re pukin’ their guts out.” His tone softened slightly, and a trace of amusement crept into it. “I know you’re just guarding your turf, and Chief Donaghey left mighty big shoes to fill in that regard, but you have to bend a little.”
Laney looked unconvinced. “All right, Spanky. I hear you. But we’re covered in shit down here. After all the repairs, this is like her sea trials all over again. Everything needs adjusting, and the feed-water pump on number three don’t sound right. Gauges are all over the place, and we’re makin’ smoke!”
McFarlane nodded. “All but number two. When the new firemen are off duty, have them go watch the Mice for a while. Maybe they’ll learn something.”
Laney rolled his eyes. “Those kooks? Besides, they’re some of the ones this monkey Marine wants. Says they built the rig in the first place, so they know what needs to go ashore first, and how it ought to be stowed.”
Spanky’s tone sharpened once again. “Yeah, they built the rig. They found the oil we’re burning too, if you’ll recall. And they’re also kooks. But they’re my kooks—and yours now, too—aside from being the best boilermen in the firerooms, so you’d better figure out how to handle them. We need those squirrelly little guys. Use them. They can’t teach with words worth a damn, but the new guys, the ’Cats, can learn by example. Make ’em watch them.” He turned to the Marine. “You can run along now. I’ll send them up myself.”
When the ’Cat was gone, Spanky turned back to Laney. “Listen,” he said, “you’re doing a good job, but you need to get along better with the apes—I don’t care if they’re human or ’Cats. The bosun’s already casually referred to you as an asshole in my presence, and I’d take that as a powerful hint if I were you. You don’t want him on your bad side.” Laney gulped. There was no question about that. “The upper and lower deck rivalry exists for a purpose,” Spanky continued. “It spurs productivity and even camaraderie in a way. Besides, it’s fun. But don’t take it too seriously or let it go too far. Never lose sight of the fact we’re all on the same side.” He paused. “And don’t call ’em monkey Marines anymore. They don’t like it, and neither do I. It’ll just make you look bad in the eyes of the ’Cats in our own division. Don’t forget some of them—the best ones—were Marines before they were snipes. Clear?”
“Clear,” Laney grumbled.
“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know wha
t’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”
“Half a dozen or so.”
Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”
With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. T~ }he firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.
Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater—and far more nauseating—than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats loved machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples—like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.
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