Maelstrom

by Taylor Anderson

  Walker backed engines and shuddered to a stop two hundred yards short of the main wharf Keje directed them to. With a great rattling, booming crash, her anchor splashed into the water and fell to the bottom of the bay. Just like the first time they visited Baalkpan, Matt wouldn’t tie her to the dock until invited to do so.

  “All engines stop,” he commanded. “Maintain standard pressure on numbers two and three, and hoist out the launch. Make sure the shore party wears their new whites.”

  With Baalkpan’s impressive textile capacity, they’d made new uniforms principally for this mission. They were remarkably good copies, even though they were hand-sewn, and no Lemurian had ever made anything like trousers before. It took a while to get used to the feel of the strange, itchy material. It wasn’t really cotton, and certainly wasn’t wool. More like linen, and Matt honestly didn’t have any idea what it was made of, although he was sure Courtney Bradford could go on about the process for hours. He relinquished the deck to Larry Dowden and started for his stateroom to change into his own new uniform when he had a thought. When they first entered Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, they’d carried sidearms, and the more recognizable Navy cutlasses, pattern of 1918, thinking their version of commonplace weapons might make their hosts feel more at ease. Matt had worn his now battered and ironically much-used academy sword. That resulted in a delicate social situation when he’d given the “sign of the empty hand”—essentially a wave—when his hand wasn’t metaphorically empty. He’d learned the sign was customarily given only when visitors arrived unarmed. That left him with a dilemma. He knew they should have little to fear, even in the massive, sprawling city they were about to enter, but they’d suffered treachery before, and he wouldn’t take any chances.

  “Sidearms and cutlasses for the diplomatic mission,” he said, then held up his hand before Keje could protest. “Thompsons for the detail to stay with the boat.”

  “Aye, sir,” Larry replied, somewhat triumphantly. He’d argued strenuously that the shore party must be armed, against Adar’s equally adamant disagreement. Matt turned to Keje.

  “We know not everybody’s on our side,” he said, explaining his decision to an equal as he wouldn’t have done to anyone else, “and not all the ‘pacifists’ are nonviolent either. I won’t risk anybody in a city that large, and with that many people, on faith alone. I’ll compromise to the extent that we’ll leave our weapons with another guard detail before we ascend to the Great Hall. Fair?” After brief consideration, Keje nodded with a grin.

  “Fair. Baalkpan has never known real crime, but in a place like this?” He waved generally toward the city. “I have rarely been here, and not at all recently. Since my last visit, the place has ‘boomed,’ I believe you would say. Adar will Etail toobject, of course, but it is unreasonable to assume there is no risk at all. Besides, some of the more subversive elements have gravitated here, and I personally would feel much better with my scota at my side. I think leaving our weapons under guard is a fine compromiseght="1em">

  Matt stared at the berobed phalanx, and tried to figure out which was the High Chief. The High Sky Priest was simple enough to identify; he was dressed exactly like Adar: younger, skinnier, and not as tall, but with the same silvery gray fur, barely revealed by the closely held purple cape flecked with silver stars. Perhaps San-Kakja was one of the beings standing near him? Sotto voce inquiries of Adar and Keje revealed nothing, since San-Kakja had risen since their last visit, and the old High Chief had been childless then. An awkward dilemma.

  Decisively, Matt unbuckled his sword and pistol belt and thrust it at Silva before striding forward and holding his right hand aloft, palm forward.

  “I’m Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of Walker, Mahan, and other units of the United States Navy, as well as Tarakan Island. I come to you in peace and friendship, representing all the allied Homes united under the Banner of the Trees, against the vicious onslaught of our Ancient Enemy, the Grik. As supreme commander, by acclamation, of the alliance, I’ve been granted plenipotentiary powers, and would treat with the High Chief of this Home. Do I have permission to come aboard?”

  Adar nodded approval at Captain Reddy’s words and interpreted what he said. For a brief, awkward moment they waited, but there was no response; then the short sky priest took a step forward as if preparing to address them. Before he could speak, however, he was jostled aside by an even smaller form that strode directly up to Captain Reddy. The Lemurian was robed as the others in the same yellow and black, but the black hem was magnificently embroidered with gold thread and sparkling, polished sequins of shell. A fringe of glittering golden cones chinked dully with every step. A matching sash, complete with cones, coiled around a wasp-thin waist, and a gold gorget, intricately chased and engraved, swayed from a ropelike chain. On its head, the Lemurian wore a magnificently engraved helmet, also of gold, reminiscent of the ancient Spartans except for the feathery yellow plume. Large hinged cheek guards and a rigid nosepiece obscured the face entirely except for a pair of brightly inquisitive but astonishing eyes. They were yellow, which was not uncommon for ’Cats, but they looked like ripe lemons sliced across their axes, and dark, almost black lines radiated outward from bottomless black pupils. A small hand rose up, palm outward, in an openhanded gesture.

  “I am Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la, and all the Fil-pin lands,” came a small muffled voice from within the helmet. “I greet you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, High Chief and supreme commander of the allied Homes.” With that, while Adar translated, another hand joined the first, and together they removed the helmet. Behind it was the fine-boned, dark-furred face of a Lemurian female of an age barely eligible to mate.

  Matt was surprised. He’d suspected a youngster simply because of their host’s size. But even though he’d learned to accept that Lemurians made no distinction between the sexes regarding occupation—one of the seagoing members of the alliance, Humfra-Dar, had a female High Chief, after all—he’d never even considered the possibility something the size of the entire Philippines might be ruled by one. Stupid. Even in human history, there’d often been powerful women, sometimes supremely powerful. He hopn, because even though Saan-Kakja had never seen a human before in her life, young as she was, he detected no surprise, shock, distaste or . . . anything that might offend. Of course, she’d had that helmet to hide behind during her initial reaction, he consoled himself.

  “Please do come aboard,” she continued. “I have heard a great deal about you and your amazing, gallant ship, and how you came from some incomprehensibly distant place to defend our people against unspeakable evil.”

  “Thank you,” Matt replied gravely in her own tongue. That much he could manage.

  She turned slightly and nodded respectfully to Adar first, then Keje—yet another departure from protocol, since Keje was, after all, another head of state. But while Adar’s status might have grown ambiguous—there’d never been a Sky Priest who, in effect, represented multiple Homes—it was certainly real, and perhaps even groundbreaking in importance. “High Sky Priest Adar, your reputation as a scholar is well remembered here, as is your knowledge of the pathways of this world and the next. I know of your oath to destroy the Grik forever, and I crave your counsel. . . .” She paused, and it seemed she’d left something unsaid, but then she continued. “Keje-Fris-Ar, you have long been renowned as a master mariner. Now you are a great warrior. I am honored to be in your presence once more, though I do not expect you to remember our last meeting.” Her eyes flicked across Bradford, then lingered on Silva and Chack. Especially Chack. They rested on Matt once more. “Do come aboard, and welcome. I would prefer to celebrate your arrival in the traditional way, but the times we live in do not countenance ordinary pleasures, it seems. We have much to discuss and”—she blinked apology, while at the same time the posture of her ears conveyed intense frustration—“little time.”

  The entire sky was a leaden, dreary gray, unusual for midmorning over Baalkpan Bay. It seemed to radiate no malicious i
ntent to become truly stormy, but there’d definitely be rain and lots of it. (Brevet) Captain Benjamin Mallory stalked back and forth on the beach, his arm still in a sling, watching while the huge but horribly battered PBY flying boat slowly rolled, landing gear extended, back into the sea.

  “He looks like a worried mama cat whose kittens are climbing a tree

  for the first time,” Jim Ellis said aside to Alan Letts. Both had come to observe the launching, and they’d escorted Sandra Tucker, who’d decided to join them at the last minute—probably to make sure Mallory didn’t strain any of his wounds. It was a good thing too. He clearly felt inhibited by her presence. Letts chuckled, and so did Sandra, although the nurse’s laugh seemed fragile, exhausted. Letts looked at her. She’d come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working quite late or quite early, training ever more nurses and corpsmen for the looming showdown, or tending personally to a hurt beyond her students’ abilities. Her long, sandy-brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that belied her twenty-eight years and extreme professional competence. It accented her pretty face and slender neck, but it did make her look younger than she was. Younger and more vulnerable.

  Alan Letts liked and admired her, as did everyone, human and Lemurian, but he always felt a little guilty when she was near. He was morally certain he’d married Karen Theimer because he loved her, and not, as some whispered, to snatch up one of the only “dames” known to exist. He knew he loved her, and they were happy togee starboard engine should be was just a tangle of mounts, hoses, and lines, covered with a bright green tarp.

  “How’s she doing?” Mallory bellowed, and Ensign Palmer—formerly signalman second—poked his head out of the cockpit.

  “There’s a few leaks . . .” he hedged.

  “How bad?”

  “Just a second, Tikker’s checking them now.” Moments later, a sable-colored ’Cat with a polished brass cartridge case thrust through a neat hole in his right ear appeared. Sandra put a hand over her mouth and giggled as he conferred with Palmer.

  “Yeah,” Mallory said aside to her with a grin, “little booger doesn’t want anyone to forget his ‘noble wound.’ I wish I had a medal for him, but I guess that’ll do.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe the two of them flew that plane back here after I passed out. Especially in the shape it was.”

  “He’ll get a medal one of these days,” Ellis assured him, “and he’s already been made an ensign.” He laughed. “Of course, he’s not in the Army Air Corps. The Navy’ll get to claim the first commissioned Lemurian aviator!”

  Palmer shouted at them: “She’s doing okay, mostly, but leaking pretty fast in a couple places. We’d better drag her out!”

  Ben nodded and gave the command. A moment later the inactive ’Cats on the beach joined the others on the taglines. With a shout from a Guard NCO, they heaved in unison. He grunted. “We’ll have an Air Corps someday. We have to. Even when we get that back in the air”—he gestured at the plane—“it won’t last long.”

  Letts nodded grimly. “Airpower’s the key; the Japs taught us that. But for now we have to concentrate on the Navy, I’m afraid. And, of course, there’s the problem with engines—speaking of which . . . ?”

  “We’ll get it running,” Mallory promised. “It’s going to be rough as hell and sound like shit, but we’ll get it running.”

  “How?” Sandra asked. They all looked at the savaged motor, hanging from a bamboo tripod nearby under an awning. Beyond was the “radio shack,” a simple, sturdy, waterproof shelter erected to house the radio they’d temporarily removed from the plane—just in case it did sink. The PBY’s starboard motor was surrounded by benches covered with tools and ruined engine parts.

  Ben shrugged. “It’s almost back together. We had to take it completely apart.” He nodded at Alan. “Mister Letts really came through again with that weird corklike stuff!” Ellis nodded, and Letts shifted uncomfortably before he replied.

  “Yeah, well, Bradford discovered it. Some sort of tree growing in the northwestern marshes where all those tar pits are. The trees draw the stuff up in their roots and deposit it in the lower, outer layers of their trunks. They creosote themselves! Bradford says it protects them from insects.”

  “Whatever,” Ben muttered. “Spanky saiem" width=="3">Jim nodded thoughtfully, looking at Letts. “He’s turned out pretty good, hasn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Mallory, his tone turning wistful. “Married life seems to agree with him.”

  “So it would seem.”

  There was an awkward silence, but Mallory broke it before it stretched out. “Anyway, we had to take it apart so we could get at the connecting rods on the crank and take the two bad pistons out. Only one was really junked, but we lost two jugs.”

  Sandra smiled patiently. “And what does that mean?”

  “Well . . . see those round, knobby things sticking out of the main part? The things with . . . ribs on them?”

  “The cylinders?” Sandra asked. “Cylinders are jugs?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” Ben smiled with relief. At least she understood that much. “Two of them we can’t do anything about; they took too much of a beating. One was even shot through. We just can’t fix them now. Maybe someday. Anyway, we’ve pulled the pistons and rods, and we’re just going to plug the holes. Like I said, it’ll run pretty rough, and it’ll lose a lot of horsepower, but it’ll run.”

  Ellis winced. “I guess if there’s nothing else for it . . .”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  They heard a deep, dull thump of cannon far across the bay, and turned toward the sound. Another gun followed the first, then another. A square-rigged ship, the new frigate Donaghey, by the distant, fuzzy look of her, had finally returned from her rescue mission and was saluting the Tree Flag of the Alliance, fluttering above the ramparts of Fort Atkinson at the mouth of the bay. The fort returned the salute, but a few minutes after the last guns fell silent, a red rocket soared into the sky and popped above the fort.

  “What the hell?” Ellis breathed. A red rocket from the fort was the signal for alarm. A moment later two green rockets exploded in the air. “Okay,” he said. “That’s a little less terrifying. The ship must be flying a signal we can’t see yet, and whoever’s on duty at the fort decided we needed a heads-up.”

  Mallory looked at him curiously. “I know what the red rocket means, but I must’ve missed the green rocket briefing.”

  “There wasn’t one,” Letts told him. “Jim, Riggs, and I just worked the signal out a couple days ago.” He gestured at the plane, then vaguely all around. “We’ve all been a little preoccupied. The new system’s on the roster at the fort, but not here yet.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “One red means alarm, like always, but it’s also an urgent attention getter now, too. The first green rocket after a red means ‘important information. ’”

  “What’s a second green one mean?”

  e don’t have time to tell it twice, so get everybody who can do something about anything in one place right now. Dammit.’ ”

  Ben’s eyes were wide. “Those three little rockets said all that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mahan’s general alarm began to sound, its thrumming, gonging blare somewhat muffled by the humidity and a light mist that had begun to fall, even though the ship was moored less than three hundred yards away. The sound was instantly recognizable, however.

  “What the hell now?” Letts demanded. Jim Ellis was already sprinting for his ship. In the distance, also muffled, they suddenly heard an engine. An airplane engine. Ben looked frantically around at the darkening sky, his eyes suddenly focusing on an object to westward.

  “This is something else!” The straining Lemurians had the plane about halfway out of the water, and he ran toward them, sling flapping empty at his side. “Get it out! Get it out! Get my plane out of the goddamn water!” He grabbed one of the lines himself, insensitive to the pain. Ed and Tikker leaped down fr
om the cockpit and joined him. “Heave!”

  “What is it?” Sandra asked Alan, still standing beside her. He wasn’t wearing binoculars and his eyes were straining hard. He suddenly remembered the description of the plane that attacked the PBY, and the indistinct form didn’t snap into focus, but he knew what it was: a biplane with floats.

  “Oh, God!”

  “What?”

  Letts snatched her arm hard and tugged her toward a covered gun emplacement some distance away. “C’mon!”

  “But why are we going that way? The plane, the ship . . .”