Maelstrom

by Taylor Anderson

  He cornered the last of his eggs between his spoon and a strip of fish, and when he ate them both he realized the others had mostly finished. He cleared his throat. Recognizing the gesture, Saan-Kakja laid aside her own single utensil, an instrument like a broad-bladed, concave knife that also served as a kind of spoon or scoop. It was gold, like so many other Maa-ni-lo devices. Matt hadn’t seen as much gold in his life, certainly not among other Lemurians, as he had in the last few days. The thing was, it didn’t seem to have any value other than that it didn’t tarnish and it was pretty. The High Chief . . . tess?—absurd, they didn’t think like that. Their word, U-Amaki, transcended gender. The High Chief dabbed daintily at her mouth with an embroidered napkin and sat even straighter, if possible.

  “Cap-i-taan Reddy,” she began. “I must begin by begging you to forgive me for neglecting you so inexcusably.” Meksnaak blinked furiously and opened his mouth to speak, but she darted a look in his direction that Matt couldn’t read, and his jaws clamped shut. "1em">

  “I have heard much about your adventures and battles against the scourge from the west, and I am inspired. I allowed myself to be convinced, however, that my excitement was that of an emotional youngling, and here we are safe from attack. Better to stay uninvolved—beyond learning as much from you as we can, and helping you in small, safe, material ways. There are . . . factions in Maa-ni-la that thrive on contention and intrigue, and are obsessed with their own petty concerns. They counsel that we let you, Baalkpan, and the other allied Homes stand alone against the Grik, while we remain safely uninvolved. We are prosperous, happy, stable, and untouched by the distant threat. Even if Baalkpan falls, the Grik will be content to remain far away, and in the meantime our trade, industry, and prosperity will flourish even more.” Her ears flattened with contempt. “Of course, there are also the ones you call ‘runaways,’ who counsel that, even if the Grik do someday come here, we can flee once more as we did in the ancient tales of the Scrolls; that we have grown too comfortable, too fixed in place, too reliant upon the land.”

  Matt nodded. Those were the same arguments he and Nakja-Mur had faced when they first suggested defiance. Most people on the seagoing Homes couldn’t comprehend their cousins’ attachment to places, or understand their unwillingness to leave them. Keje did, and so did the other members of the alliance. They knew there’d be no escape this time. The world was a smaller place, and now the Grik had oceangoing ships of their own, albeit tiny in comparison; they had so many, the terrible sea was no longer the protector it had been. It was like the old scorpion and tarantula in the jar. The tarantula wasn’t well equipped to cope with the scorpion, but sooner or later he had to deal with his deadly, aggressive adversary, because he couldn’t avoid him forever, and there just wasn’t anyplace else to go. It was always a toss-up who’d win.

  “I understand you grow impatient,” Saan-Kakja resumed, “and I do not blame you. Your most powerful ship is here, and you languish in comfort and are free from want, but all the while the enemy may be massing against you. You are frustrated by our intransigence, and don’t underst

  and our hesitation to join you.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I am as frustrated as you, and my patience is possibly even less. I do know what causes it, however. My people are comfortable and free from want. That is a condition any good ruler desires, but there are times, such as this, that that very condition makes it difficult for such a ruler to convince those comfortable people they must put that aside and face the unpleasant reality of the harsher world beyond their sight.” She sighed and turned again to Meksnaak.

  “What of the proposal I put before the counsel? That we join the alliance to destroy the Grik threat forever, and send whatever we may in the way of troops and supplies to their aid?”

  Meksnaak shifted uncomfortably. “My dear, it is . . . unwise to reveal our private discussions in the presence of strangers—particularly when those discussions involve them.” He hastily turned to Captain Reddy with a glare. “No such decision has been taken!”

  “The decision has been taken by me,” Saan-Kakja retorted.

  Meksnaak shook his head sadly. “You are powerful, High Chief, and your opinions have great weight, but even you cannot engage us in full-scale war on your own authority. The clan chiefs must speak.”

  “Then let them speak! So far, none has done any speaking but you and other members of the counsel who represent those with the most to gain by inactivity!”

  “There are legitimate objections,” Meksnaak insisted, “not only to going to war, but to any association with these Amer-i-caan . . . heretics!” He blinked outrage at the thought of the Americans’ Scrolls. He’d never seen them, but he’d been assured they were . . . extraordinary. His initial concern that their existence represented heresy was not dispelled when Adar told him with glowing eyes that the American Scrolls almost perfectly mirrored their own, except they were even more precise! Meksnaak accepted that. Adar was a Sky Priest of extensive renown, and Meksnaak was willing to take his word in that respect. But the knowledge did not make him admire the Americans, or soothe his concerns about their spiritually corrosive behavior. If anything, it made him resent and fear them even more. If their Scrolls were so much more precise than those of the People, they must be holy indeed. Could they even be the very originals from which all others were copied long ago? Scrolls formed under the hand of the Great Prophet Siska-Ta herself? And what of the rumors that the Americans possessed Scrolls no one else had ever seen? Scrolls depicting mysterious lands far beyond the world known by the People? And Adar assured him they displayed their precious Scrolls in the open, for any and all to see—even to handle! How could the Americans be so careless and . . . irresponsible? Incredible. He’d asked the question of Adar during one of their meetings, and was shocked that one so highly regarded could harbor such liberal views.

  “I was as troubled as you, at first,” Adar had confessed, “but that is because I had grown set in my ways, ossified and concerned about a diminution of my precious prerogatives. After much consideration, I changed my mind. Are the Scrolls to be kept secret, and viewed only by those such as we? Surely the great Siska-Ta never intended that; otherwise why write them at all? It was her goal to teach, to enlighten, to share the knowledge of the past and the Heavens and the pathways of the sea and sky—not create an exclusive club reserved for only a select few!”

  Now Adar stood and spoke with heat. “They are not heretics; I told you that already! They have different beliefs, surely, but they do not seek to trample or transgress upon our own! And regardless of their differences, the very Scrolls you would use as examples of their heresy prove we share more similarities of thought than differences, and they, at least, gladly aid us against our Ancient Enemy!”

  “An enemy made stronger with the aid of others of their kind!” Meksnaak rer commitment. That you, a Sky Priest, would counsel inaction during our current, collective crisis, when our race faces extinction at the very hands that drove us from our sacred, ancient home—as described in the same Scrolls you profess to revere—makes me question your commitment!”

  Meksnaak sputtered for a moment, then spat: “Ser-vaabo fidem summo studio!”

  “Suspendens omnia naa-so! Usus est ty-raannus, usus te plura docebit!” Adar replied scornfully. “Cucullus non facit monachum. Cul-paam maiorum posteri luunt!”

  “Gratis dictum. Honos haa-bet onus, maag-naavis est conscientiae.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Bradford sighed. “I do hate it when they do that!”

  “What’re they saying?” Matt demanded.

  “Let me see, I’ve brushed up my Latin a bit of late, from necessity, but their pronunciation is quite bizarre. Hmm. Well, as you know, Latin is somewhat difficult to translate literally even when spoken well—which makes the Lemurian capacity for it doubly fascinating, since they are so literal-minded! Their own language . . .”

  “Courtney?”

  “Umm? Well, it seems their Meksnaak has said he only keeps the faith,
while Adar says he’s shackled by it, and his people will pay the consequences. Meksnaak says that’s ridiculous, and he has an obligation to his people.”

  The argument continued.

  “Medium tenuere be-aati,” Adar scoffed sarcastically, “mihi cura futuri. Quousque tandem abutere paa-tientia nostra? Recovate aa-nimos! Aude saapere. Stant belli causa, belli lethaale . . . belli internecinum. Timor mortis morte peior!”

  “Oh, dear,” Bradford said with real alarm.

  “What?”

  eft to burn or drown or be taken by the fish.” For a moment he closed his haunted eyes while he spoke, and no one doubted he was seeing again the events of that terrible night. “I saw Tassana, daughter of Nerracca’s High Chief, younger even than you, Saan-Kakja, help cut the tow cable that connected her helpless, sinking Home to the wounded Amer-i-caan destroyer trying to drag her to safety. She did it because her father knew Captain Reddy, and feared he might wait too long, hoping to rescue more. As it was, damaged and leaking, Walker nearly sank under the sheer weight of the survivors she managed to save.”

  Not a word was uttered in the chamber while he stood silent, contemplating his next words. “I was a youngling before all this started, if not in years, then certainly in experience. Now I am a bosun’s mate, a captain of Marines, and I guard some of the most important leaders of our alliance.” He stared hard at Meksnaak. “Do you dare call me a youngling, or offer further insult to those I protect?”

  Saan-Kakja took a breath and realized she’d been holding it. She looked around the table, surprised how much Chack’s words had changed her perceptions of the people there. Particularly the Amer-i-caans. She’d heard the tales, of course, but they’d been told dispassionately. To hear Chack tell them, in his own words, made them real. She pierced her Sky Priest with another molten stare.

  Meksnaak’s apologetic blinking was constant now and, from what Matt had learned of Lemurian expression, sincere. He even felt a little embarrassed for the Sky Priest, but he also knew Saan-Kakja needed to get this sorted out. He thought she had. She and Chack had. The new High Chief of Manila might be young, but she was no “youngling.” Not anymore. She finally spoke again, and when she did her voice had lost much of its fury.

  “You may one day earn the right to be rude to me, Meksnaak, but you will never be rude to my friends again. They have earned our respect and gratitude. Besides, none of us have the luxury of being rude to anyone who will help us in this fight. Yes, we need their help as much as they need ours. This is our war too. The Grik have come as if our most horrible dreams have been made flesh, and they come to devour us all! Our only hope is to destroy them first, and we must have friends to do it. How can we expect to make those friends when we can’t even be polite at the breakfast table?”

  “Hear, hear!” Bradford said, banging his coffee cup on the table for emphasis. It wasn’t quite empty, and much of the remains wound up on his sleeve. “Saan-Kakja for queen, I say!” He looked at the suddenly wary Sky Priest. “She certainly settled our hash! I suppose we’ll have to keep our little arguments more private from now on.” Meksnaak hadn’t had much contact with humans, but he’d learned a nod was still a nod. He nodded now and forced a small smile.

  “If that is the will of my chief,” he said quietly.

  “Surely she can’t object to a little debate between two scientific beings, though?” He arched his eyebrows once again, and Saan-Kakja couldn’t restrain a giggle. Like the cats—and lemurs for that matter—they so closely resembled, Lemurians had an extraordinarily limited range of facial expression. They were very expressive, through eye blinks, ear positions, and body posture, and their tails added an emphasis to their emotions and attitudes that humans couldn’t hope to match. A grin was a grin and a frown was a frown, a ‘vol-caano’ that rarely sleeps. I have heard the earth moves often, and the very sea sometimes behaves strangely.”

  Matt straightened, decision made. “We’ll work south along the coast of Mindanao, checking every nook and cranny, but then, if we haven’t found it, we’ll cross to Talaud.”

  “What if it’s not there either, Skipper?” Spanky asked.

  Matt shrugged. “We go home.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It was overcast, but not raining this time when Sandra waved good-bye to yet another destroyer. Now Mahan was steaming toward the mouth of the bay, looking just like Walker from a distance, and fingers of dread clutched Sandra’s heart. Mahan was following in the wake of a pair of fast feluccas that had departed the night before. They’d serve as scouts at first, then transports if the need arose. Nobody really knew how many people remained on B’mbaado—trapped now behind enemy lines.

  Selass was with her, come to say farewell to her mate, Saak-Fas. He’d been leaning on the rail, staring, as the ship moved away, but if he saw her in the throng he made no sign. Now the ship had almost vanished against the dreary, light gray sky. They saw a wisp of smoke, a sense of ghostly movement. Otherwise all that marked her passage was a flicker of color at her masthead as the Stars and Stripes streamed aft in the sultry air, stirred only by the ship’s motion. Sandra watched the flag slowly fade with mixed emotions, an elusive memory of something Matt once told her rising to the surface. Something he’d seen a doomed British destroyer do in the face of impossible odds, and then Exeter did the same thing before her final battle. She strained to remember, sure it was important.

  “Do you think they will return?” Selass asked quietly.

  “They must. We’ll need them desperately when Walker returns.”

  “I meant Walker,” Selass almost whispered. “I feel so guilty. I find myself almost hoping Mahan will fail. That would mean the end of Queen Maraan, but then I might have a chance when Chack returns. It would also probably mean the end of Saak-Fas as well.” She paused, then almost pleaded, “But that is what he wants, is it not?”

  “I suspect so,” Sandra replied, saddened for her tragic friend, though not shocked that her thoughts had taken such a turn. “If that’s the case, if he truly wants to die, he’ll likely get his chance.” She sighed. “Jim Ellis is a good man and an excellent officer, but I’m not sure he should be commanding this mission. He still blames himself for losing Mahan when Kaufman shot him and took command. He thinks his ship’s honor is stained—his honor too. He feels he has something to prove. Nobody like that should ever command a mission like this, with so much at stake. I know Jim, and trust him, but I can’t shake the fear that he’ll take chances with himself and his ship, hoping to remove that stain, when his most important objective is to get himself and his ship back in one piece.”

  She lowered her head in thought as they walked back through the bazaar in the directi"1em" width="1em">“Holy shit!”

  Round shot kicked up splashes, skipping across the wave tops in the general direction of the beach, and a few of the staff cringed involuntarily.

  “Holy shit,” Dobbin murmured again. “Where’d they get cannons?”

  “Same place we did, idiot,” Gray growled more fiercely than he intended. “The bastards made ’em.”

  Felts didn’t wear this time; instinctively Clark must have known it would expose his vulnerable stern. Instead, the sloop hove to and held her ground, pounding away at the enemy.

  “Gonna be a better show than we thought,” Gray said ironically.

  Felts’s gunnery was far better, and she hacked away at the red ships. She finally fell away before the wind, to keep the Grik at arm’s length, and took a pounding then, but when the now crippled squadron re-formed for the advance, she hove to once more and raked them again and again. The damage she inflicted was exponentially greater this time. Rigging and stays, weakened by the previous fire, parted, and shattered masts teetered and fell, taking others, less damaged, with them. One enemy ship was a wallowing, dismasted wreck, and the other two weren’t much better, but their gunnery was improving at the point-blank range of the duel, and Felts was suffering too. Over the next hour they watched while the battle raged on the sea
, and Felts maintained the same tactics: pouring withering fire into her foes until they got too close, then gaining some distance again. The dismasted, sinking Grik ship fell far behind, but the remaining two learned to present their own broadside whenever Felts moved away. It was difficult for them, since they could barely maneuver, but the American ship had finally lost her foremast and maintop as well.

  “Mr. Clark is fighting his ship well,” Shinya observed politely.

  “He’s a brawler,” Gray conceded, “but he’s fighting stupid. Felts is faster and more maneuverable, and her gunnery’s obviously better. He should be taking advantage of that. He’s gotten sucked into a slugging match, and that’s the Grik’s kind of fight.” The ships were close enough now that there was only the slightest pause before they heard the sound of the guns. The tearing-canvas shriek of shot passing nearby was more frequent too, but the staff no longer flinched. “He needs to get out from between us and them. The tide’s out, and he’ll run out of water pretty soon.” Sure enough, while they watched, Felts heeled slightly, righted herself, then heeled sharply over as she went hard aground, beam-on to the advancing swells and the enemy.