Maelstrom

by Taylor Anderson

  Gray looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe. I hope so. One way or the other, we’ll know before long.”

  “I’ll be goddamned,” Gray murmured. The four ships approached rapidly, the fitful breeze giving way to a stiff easterly, but they’d been coming up fast already. Columns of gray-black smoke pouring from tall funnels between their masts explained how. That alone was sufficient proof they weren’t Grik, or if they were, the war was already lost. They were long and black with sleek clipper bows, and Gray had seen others just like them as a kid: old then, and obsolete, but occasionally still in use. They were transitional ships, much like the next generation the Americans planned, relying on both sail and steam, and paddle wheels churned the water at their sides. What attracted his attention more than anything, however, were the flags at their mastheads. He wasn’t a historian like the skipper, or a knowledge nut like Courtney, but he’d heard enough of their conversations with their ’Cat allies about the “tail-less ones” of old or “the Others who came before” to catch some details now and then. One such detail had been what flag the ancient East India Company visitors would have flown. That was how he knew what he was looking at now: a flag with red and white stripes, strangely similar to his own, but with the familiar Union Jack where forty-eight stars ought to be. “I’ll be goddamned,” he repeated.

  “Friends of yours?” a Marine lieutenant asked hopefully.

  “No,” Gray said absently, “never seen ’em before.”

  The ships hove to while they watched, and the largest lowered a boat into the sea. It was filled with red-coated soldiers, and some others in white coats. Probably officers. “No,” he repeated, “but let’s see if we can keep them off our list of enemies. Spruce up your Marines aong and " width="1em">Jenks’s mustache worked as his jaw clenched tight.

  “And another thing,” Gray growled. “If you hang around here, you best watch yourselves, because if you’re not here to help us, you won’t get any help in return. There’s a shit-storm of a fight coming against those things”—he waved at the Grik bodies—“that’ll make this look like a picnic spat. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

  Jenks took a step back, his surprised expression clouding to anger. “Is that a threat, sir?”

  “No. Just fact. And a word of advice,” Gray said, looking at the Marines. “These ain’t ‘Ape Folk,’ or the simple ‘tribesmen’ your granddaddys abandoned to fend for themselves against a threat they knew would come someday.”

  Jenks stroked his mustache and regarded Gray more carefully. The contradictory ranks had confused him, and the mostly white-haired, powerfully muscled man in torn, bloodstained khakis and a battered, floppy hat must have significantly greater status among these . . . Americans than boatswains did in his own navy. Amer-i-caans—Americans! Colonials from the far side of the world! Ridiculous! He hadn’t put it together before. And what were these “United States” the man referred to? Still, he clearly spoke a warped version of English. Could it be the sacred Mother Country on that distant, long-ago world had allowed her squabbling American colonies to pretend they were a nation? Impossible, yet . . . evidently true. He considered himself something of a historian, and he’d always been fascinated by the histories of the pre-Passage world their founders left behind. Yes, he could see a parallel between how his own empire had abandoned this region of savages and how that other empire might have done the same. Might that not have made the “simple” American “tribesmen” into something more formidable one day? He wondered briefly if it might be better to destroy this “buffer” than leave it in place.

  “Very well, then. I can see we shall be the best of friends. I take my leave and wish you joy in tidying up after your ‘spat.’ ” Captain Jenks tossed a casual salute at the flag and turned back to his boat.

  Long after the oars began propelling the boat back through the surf to Achilles, Gray stood trembling with rage.

  “Well,” said Shinya at last, “that is just how I would have recommended keeping them off our ‘enemies’ list. Perhaps we can cement our friendship with some parting gifts. Some round shot, perhaps?” Gray thought he was mocking him until he saw Shinya’s deadly serious expression.

  Captain Reddy wiped sweat from his eyebrows with his sleeve and took a long gulp of cool water. Juan had brought a carafe to the bridge, filled from the refrigerated scuttlebutt on the side of the big refrigerator on deck. It was unbearably hot, and ever since the wind came around out of the east, there was only the slightest apparent breeze—even as they charged west through the Celebes Sea at twenty-five knots. Keje and Adar stood beside him on the bridge wing, panting like dogs, and Bradford fanned himself manically with his ridiculous sombrero. Flynn was with them, newly shaved face and close-cropped hair exposing already sunburned bright pink skin. With the dark tan around his eyes, he looked like a raccoon. They’d been talking about Bradford’s interview with their Grik-like guest, and comparing what he’d learned with what they kacewere a few similar behavior patterns that seemed to support their theories about the Grik—behavior they hoped to exploit—but there were a lot of differences too. One glaring difference was currently on display.

  They were watching Silva, Becky, and Lawrence on the amidships deckhouse, playing with the number two gun. Men and ’Cats stood around watching, but the trio didn’t seem to notice. Becky was in the pointer’s seat, spinning the wheel that elevated the muzzle, while Lawrence, who couldn’t sit like a human, stood to the right of the gun, gleefully spinning the trainer’s wheel, moving the gun from side to side. His wound had to hurt, but you couldn’t tell to look at him. Silva was pointing at a low cloud far abeam, giving them a target.

  “Amazing!” Courtney gasped, stilling his frenzied fanning for a moment. “I declare, Captain Reddy, what a fascinating sight. And your man Silva reveals new depths all the time!”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” Matt agreed absently. He blinked. “Put something to kill in front of that gun and he’ll revert quick enough, I expect.”

  “As will we all,” Keje agreed, and Matt could only nod. The mission had been a success, as long as the promised troops arrived in time. They’d even found the submarine. But the avalanche was loose, and he was beginning to feel the old pull, the impatient, almost yearning for the “game” to begin. If they believed Kaufman’s cryptic message—and they had no choice—they’d beat the advance elements of the Grik swarm to Baalkpan by mere days. Perhaps longer if this wind held. Once again he’d be back at the center of the maelstrom with every life he held precious under his command: his responsibility, and there’d be little time for contemplation, only quick, decisive action. Time would compress to the size of an egg, and frenzied activity, chaos, and terror would prevail both inside and out, all trying to crack the egg at unpredictable points. Within the egg were his people, his friends, his love—maybe even the future of civilization on this twisted world. Outside was Amagi and the Grik, and all the horrors the shell must protect against, and it was fragile, fragile. In many ways Walker represented that shell: old and frail and held together by imagination, but she was just the outer, rusty layer. Without her destroyermen to reinforce her, to give her strength with their bodies, their character, and courage, she was nothing. With her crew she was a living thing, weak perhaps, but game and ready to do what had to be done, and for that she needed a mind. Captain Reddy was that mind, and he was fully aware of the responsibilities and implications. It was a heavy burden. He feared, ultimately, that the primary part of the shell was himself, and he’d made too many mistakes that cost too many lives to be confident he’d keep it intact. He feared and dreaded the great test to come, even as he planned for it, prepared his crew with more frequent drills, and tried to prepare himself. He loathed himself as well, because even greater than the dread was the craving. His hatred of the Grik and their Japanese helpers was so intense he could barely wait to get at them. He’d have to guard against impetuous impulses.

  He missed Sandra more than he could say. He mis
sed her face, her insight, her soft voice, her touch . . . and the steadying influence those things had over him. The trip had been a welcome rest, and he’d been able to step back, for a time, from the War and all the stress and urgency that went with it. For a while he was just a ship’s captain, a destroyermananother one. Think they’ll gimme a medal?”

  Gilbert shook his head with a concentrated frown, just as he always had, but his time without Isak had wrought subtle changes. Where before, the dry banter might continue endlessly, neither of them truly recognizing the humor, this time something in Gilbert’s expression cracked. Tabby watched with blinking eyes as the crack turned into a grin, and something like an indignant skuggik’s call escaped his lips.

  “You laughin’ at me?” Isak asked, astonished, while Gilbert’s unaccustomed sounds became a recognizable cackle.

  “Yeah . . . I am!” Gilbert replied, and he and Tabby both exploded into uncontrolled hilarity. Isak shook his head, eyes wide. For a moment he wondered if his friends had been filching torpedo alcohol, but the way they were laughing, barely able to breathe . . . he saw the stunned expressions or blinking of those standing near, and the absurdity of it all: his wound, his and Gilbert’s seclusion, the stagnant, cloistered life they’d led, struck him like a blow. He’d enjoyed being off the ship and doing something else for a change. He’d even made a few friends, sort of. Evidently the separation had been good for them all. Without really realizing it, at some point he’d begun laughing too. Tears streaked his face as he gave himself over to whatever possessed the others, and he didn’t know if they were tears of mirth or despair.

  Seaman Fred Reynolds sat on the uncomfortable chair in Walker’s radio room. He had the midwatch radio watch until 0400, and was almost out of his mind with boredom. The earphones emitted only a steady, uninterrupted hum as he monitored the guard frequency listening for . . . nothing. Something was obviously wrong with the PBY’s transmitter in Baalkpan. Clancy said it might have been bombed! But the captain had decreed that somebody continue to monitor their own receivers, just in case, and tap out, “We are coming,” at least four times every watch. Clancy was the only radioman aboard and couldn’t do it all the time, so the tedious chore fell to just about everyone on a rotation basis.

  Reynolds had lied to join the Navy—twice, actually. He’d known no one would believe he was eighteen, so he claimed to be seventeen and forged his parents’ permission. He’d still been surprised his stunt was successful, since he’d been only fifteen at the time, and probably looked twelve. Now, actually seventeen at last, he was probably the only human on Walker still listed as “seaman,” since he hadn’t struck for anything. He just couldn’t decide. He’d become a good bridge talker, and he liked that okay, but anybody was supposed to be able to do that. The exec said he’d probably be an ensign soon, if he’d just pick something and learn to do it well. He’d thought about striking for ordnance, but he wasn’t very big. Any thought he’d had about striking for radioman or signalman was losing its appeal. Maybe navigation? It was time to make a decision.

  He leaned back in the chair, considering, his eyes sweeping across the clock on the bulkhead. It was time. Sighing, he shifted forward and tapped out the string of memorized dots and dashes. He began to lean back again when he almost lost his eardrums to the intensity of the unexpected reply. Tossing the headset down, he dashed through the hatch to get Clancy.

  Matt stared at the vaen brought up the rear, escorting a still-drowsy O’Casey. The dim red light in the pilothouse provided barely enough illumination for the watch to move about, and the starboard wing where Matt waited was almost totally dark, a heavy overcast blotting out the stars. “We’ve finally heard from Baalkpan,” he announced without preamble, with a touch of irony. They’d be there in a few hours.

  “That is good news,” Adar said.

  “Very good,” Matt agreed. “Mr. Riggs constructed a broadband spark-gap transmitter pretty quickly evidently, but he couldn’t power it. The batteries are going to take longer than he thought. Trouble making sulfuric acid. Anyway, Mahan finally came crawling in yesterday, and they used her generators.”

  They didn’t like the sound of that. “What happened to her, and why did Mr. Ellis disobey you?” asked Keje.

  Matt told them about Donaghey’s fight, and how Queen Maraan and Pete Alden got left behind. It all made sense now; with Donaghey under repair, and the other frigates incomplete, Mahan was the only ship that could have pulled off the rescue against cannon-armed Grik. But it had been a terrible risk. It hadn’t gone all her way, either. Baalkpan already knew the Grik were coming; Mahan had run the gauntlet of their fleet. She’d expended most of her remaining ammunition and destroyed as many of their cannon-armed ships as she could, but she’d been severely punished in return. Matt had it on good authority now: the crude Grik shot could indeed punch through his old ships’ rusty sides at point-blank range.

  “Was she badly damaged?”

  “She had some casualties—hard not to, as packed as she was, and she lost a boiler. Good thing the wind’s in the enemy’s teeth, or they might’ve caught her.”

  “And Queen Maraan? Aal-den?” Adar asked urgently.

  “Safe. They lost Haakar-Faask, it seems, but no details.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Keje rumbled. “I did not know him well, but he had great honor. I trust his end was noteworthy.” He hesitated. “Have you told Chack?”

  Keje approved of Chack and Safir Maraan’s relationship, but he also wanted happiness for his daughter, Selass. It was a tough situation, but one Selass had brought on herself, as far as he was concerned.

  “Yeah, I expect he’s in the firerooms now, pestering them to step on it.”

  “What of Amagi?” Shinya asked, carefully neutral.

  Matt looked at the Japanese officer. Shinya had been given considerable time to resolve his inner turmoil concerning Amagi, maybe too much time. Now he must quickly decide where he stood. The luxury of time for contemplation was over for all of them. Matt felt a pang of guilt, however. He’d read only most of Kaufman’s message to his assembled officers, and suggested Kaufman might have subverted a single sailor to let him send it—which might be the case. He’d deliberately withheld the possibilitit wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Jim didn’t see her, so she hadn’t sailed with the enemy vanguard, at least.”

  “Oh four hundred, Skipper,” Dowden interrupted.

  “Very well. Sound general quarters.”

  The alarm reverberated through the ship, and the relative peace was shattered by frantic activity. Most of the crew was already up, anticipating the daily ritual and eating breakfast, so there was literally no delay before Campeti and his fire-control team scampered up the ladder behind them, and Silva—and now the Bosun too—began loudly exhorting their divisions. Even in the dim light, Matt saw that O’Casey was impressed by the discipline.

  “That leaves us with you, Mr. Sean O’Casey . . . if that’s really your name. You didn’t seem as pleased by the prospect of ‘rescue’ as the young lady did. Is there some reason you don’t want this Jenks to find you?”

  “Ye . . . might say that.”

  “Well. The last thing we want right now is war with your people—the war we already have is quite sufficient! But if Jenks is as big a jerk as the Bosun says, we’re liable to have one if you don’t tell me what I want to know. They’re obviously looking for you, or more probably the girl, and they’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to do so. Each of those ‘rescue’ ships might have suffered the same fate as yours. That’s a hell of a risk to take on such slim odds, and I have to know why. Is Jenks a threat? Now, you may not believe it, but this single ship, battered as she is, could slaughter his entire squadron without working up a sweat.” He glanced at the others and shook the message form. “Hell, according to this, Donaghey’s repairs are complete and the new frigates Kas-Ra-Ar and Tolson will join her and the guard ship, Big Sal, currently on duty.” Keje formed a predatory grin. If plans had
gone apace, his Home, Salissa, had become even more formidable during their absence. “Jenks can hurt my frigates, and it’d probably be a hell of a fight, but based on Gray’s estimates I’m confident they can take him. So, do I send those frigates after him, or keep them here, where we really need them?”

  O’Casey slumped. “All right. I may be on the run, but I’m no traitor—although Captain Jenks might disagree. I’ve told ye nothing of the location of our homeland, an’ won’t, because that’s been pounded into us since birth: safety from secrecy. Aye, ’tis a tradition passed down from our ancestors who first came to this world. They knew of the Grik, and the Ape Folk, as they called them, but assumed that eventually the first would conquer the second, an’ they didna want anyone knowin’ where ta find us. They set a colony on some secluded islands in the middle o’ the Pacific, what the Ape Folk—Lemurians—call the Eastern Sea. Over the last two-hundred-odd years, their colony’s grown into an empire, the ‘Empire of New Britain Isles,’ an’ now includes many islands, as well as larger lands. It’s become prosperous an’ powerful but, over time, tyrannical as well. The governor-emperor is a good, kindly man, as have been most of his predecessors, but the company has supplanted the Cour terrible wrong, an’ we didna succeed. I’m sorry for that, but not for tryin’.”