He stifled a sneeze. Sometimes the musty, downy fur of so many “People” in one place could be hard to take. Courtney Bradford had coined the term “Lemurians” for their friends, based on their resemblance to Madagascar lemurs. They had, in fact, learned the People (they called themselves Mi-Anaaka) were almost certainly descended from the giant lemurs of that place, although they looked more feline. Most of his human destroyermen just called them ’Cats now, although a few still clung to the original monkey-cats, or cat-monkeys, depending on whether they were from the deck division (apes) or the engineering spaces (snipes). The Lemurians had become firm allies, and many were official inductees into the United States Navy. Like all Navy terms however—even slang—uniformity was important, so simply ’Cats had gradually prevailed. There were still ’Cat-apes, and ’Cat-snipes, but that had nothing to do with race. It was occupational.

He nodded a greeting when he saw Queen Protector Safir Maraan of B’mbaado, looking, as always, amazingly fresh and vigorous in her black cloak and silver breastplate. She nodded deeply and respectfully in return. She and Lord Rolak of Aryaal stood together, encircled by their respective staffs. The scarred old Aryaalan warrior didn’t look as fresh as his former enemy. Not only was the “Orphan Queen” a third his age, but he’d been much harder-pressed to organize his displaced people. He’d started with no staff at all, to speak of, and because of the bitter division that had existed in his city at the end, he’d been forced to assemble one with care. Contention, under the circumstances, couldn’t be permitted.

Chack-Sab-At, with his brindled fur, still wearing his red kilt, white T-shirt, and platterlike “doughboy” helmet, didn’t seem to know where to stand. He was present as the commander of the Second Marines, but since Walker was his home, he wound up standing close to Matt, along with his lieutenants. Most of Walker’s and Mahan’s officers were there, except Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, who was at the hospital tending to the wounded and shell-shocked survivors they’d brought home. Also absent were Lieutenant “Spanky” McFarlane and Acting Lieutenant Frankie Steele, who’d been left in charge of the ships. A grim-faced Ben Mallory, head and shoulder swaddled with bandages, stood unsteadily next to Matt with Sergeant Pete Alden, and Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, late of the Japanese Imperial Navy. Keje-Fris-Ar, Geran-Eras, and the recently arrived Ramic-Sa-Ar, all High Chiefs of the remaining seagoing Homes—stupendous wooden sailing vessels roughly the size of an aircraft carrier—made up the rest of the naval contingent.

Fristar, and most of the other Homes collected in Baalkpan Bay, had left earlier that afternoon. Their departure came as no surprise. Their warriors would have been welcome, but only Fristar was armed. Everyone knew from the start where her high chief, Anai-Sa, stood. Now they were gone, on course for Manila. At least they carried the seeds of the various cultures that remained.

Nakja-Mur struck the pipelike gong suspended above the platform, calling everyone to attention with a harsh, resonant sound. Baalkpan’s High Chief wore his traditional robes, and his fine, silver-shot black fur was elegantly groomed. His long tail swished behind him with dignified expectation. He was still about the fattest Lemurian Matt had seen, but he wasn’t all flab. The blow he gave the pipe would have severed an enemy’s head, had he held a sword instead of a striker. The sound reverberated for several moments with a bone-rattling vibration. With Adar’s assistance, Nakja-Mur’s aged sky priest, Naga, mounted the dais to stand beside him. It was the first time Matt had seen him since his return, and the priest appeared to have aged a dozen years. Slowly the hall grew quiet and Nakja-Mur spoke:

“The Allied Expeditionary Force has returned to us,” he said in a proud, positive voice.

The mission of the Allied Expeditionary Force had been to raise the siege of Aryaal, or Surabaya, Java, as the Americans remembered it, and expel the Grik—the Lemurians’ “Ancient Enemy”—beyond the Malay Barrier. The Grik were a seemingly numberless race of furry/feathery, reptilian bipeds, whose expansionist imperative seemed matched only by their merciless ferocity. Apparently centered in eastern Africa, their empire now spanned the coast of the Indian, or “Western” Ocean all the way to Ceylon and Singapore—and now Java too. Separated from the Lemurians by the vast, hostile sea for ages, they’d developed their seagoing technology to the point they could threaten their old “prey” again at last.

The campaign met success at first, before the unforeseen full might of the Grik swept down, accompanied by the mighty Japanese battle cruiser, Amagi. In one fell swoop, the fortunes of war had changed entirely, and contentious Aryaal had been evacuated. Also evacuated, albeit less thoroughly due to the constraints of time, were the people of Aryaal’s hereditary enemy on the island of B’mbaado (Madura). The people there, led by their charismatic Orphan Queen, Safir Maraan, had been aiding Aryaal against their mutual enemy, despite their animosity, when the AEF arrived. B’mbaado had actually officially joined the alliance. But with the enemy bearing down, as many people as possible from both cities were stuffed into every available boat, as well as the four allied (cannon-armed) seagoing Homes that constituted Captain Reddy’s “battle line.” What ensued was an exodus unlike any since that first one had occurred countless ages ago, when all the People were driven from “paradise” by the same ravening enemy. Matt knew the Lemurian “Scrolls” gave few details about what transpired back then; the tale had been passed down by word of mouth for millennia before being written, but he imagined the trauma must have been very much the same.

“They achieved great victories against the Grik and were not defeated,” Nakja-Mur continued, “but through their success, they discovered the Ancient Enemy has numbers beyond what we ever imagined. Wisely, they returned to bolster our defenses here, so together we will have the forces to destroy that terrible threat.” He paused and stared out at the expectant faces. “They bring also new, veteran allies—warriors who have faced the Grik in battle, and come to our aid as we once went to theirs. Together we will field the largest army in the history of our race! There will be no defeat like that which drove us from our ancestral home!”

There were a few scattered cheers, and Matt had to admit Nakja-Mur was becoming a skilled orator. It was also clear he’d decided to concentrate on the positive—even to the point of glossing over a few blatant facts, like the tragedy that made those forces available. He supposed there was no harm in that. Everyone knew the story already, and those who remained were committed to the fight. They had no choice. All the mighty seagoing Homes that meant to leave were already gone, either fled or acting as giant freighters for goods and raw materials from the Fil-pin lands. Once again he was struck by the similarity of their current situation to that the Americans had faced nearly a year before, when the Japanese swept the Asiatic Fleet from the Philippines and Dutch East Indies. The irony was, this time the Philippines were the distant haven, instead of the first place they got kicked out of.

Nakja-Mur continued: “Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of the island of B’mbaado, has come with her personal guard of six hundred warriors, as well as the majority of her entire defense force of almost two thousand seasoned warriors!” Nakja-Mur didn’t mention that over a thousand of B’mbaado’s best troops had been lost with Neracca. Neracca was the final Home to evacuate, and was intercepted by the enemy. Reddy’s old Asiatic Fleet “four-stacker” destroyer, USS Walker (DD-163), was escorting her to safety, and even tried to tow the much larger Home from the enemy’s clutches, all to no avail. Amagi, slowed by damage she received once before at the hands of the Americans, was still unimaginably powerful. She cruelly smote Neracca from what seemed to the Lemurians an impossible distance with her massive ten-inch guns. Walker saved as many as she could, becoming dangerously unstable with close to a thousand aboard, but in the end, the uncounted thousands remaining on Neracca were doomed.

Tassat-Ay-Arracca, her High Chief, sent his daughter, Tassana, in the final gri-kakka boat to cut the cable herself. Matt could only imagine the weight of grief bearing upon the child’s heart. In a fit of rage, or perhaps genius, he used the darkness, and the glare of the burning Home, to maneuver his damaged, overloaded ship into a position to fire his last remaining, fully functional torpedoes at the mighty ship. One exploded, damaging Amagi even further. Not enough to sink her, unfortunately, but enough to cause the Grik to postpone their final attack and turn their armada back to Aryaal. They must have decided, uncharacteristically, that they needed Amagi to ensure their success against what the Tree Prey had become (and the friends they’d made) since their last, ancient meeting. It was the only thing that gave Baalkpan this precious time they now had.

“Lord Muln-Rolak, Protector of Aryaal, has joined us with a trained force almost as large. Together with the majority of the civilian populations of both great cities upon which we can draw a levy, we stand prepared to face the enemy with over sixteen thousands able to bear arms!” There was a larger cheer, even though everyone must have realized how small that force was, compared to what was coming.

Nakja-Mur motioned Matt to join him.

First the sugar, now the salt, Matt thought, stepping up onto the platform.

“Cap-i-taan Reddy was acclaimed commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and he is the architect of its victories. The AEF has ended now, and with it the mandate of command. I propose he now be acclaimed Supreme Commander of the Allied defense of Baalkpan!” There were hoots and cheers, and the floor of the hall thundered with stamping feet. Matt just stood and watched until the tumult died away. “Then by acclamation, it is done! Cap-i-taan Reddy will assume command of all forces gathered here. Let all swear to follow his instructions in the coming fight. Swear on the honor of your clans! Swear now or leave!” Nakja-Mur turned to him then, and over the sound of the vigorous affirmations, he spoke in Matt’s ear: “It is done. I’ve given them reason to hope, I think. I imagine you’ll temper that with a large measure of despair. Taken together, perhaps a realistic expectation will emerge.”

“I’ll try to keep it upbeat, but I won’t lie to them, my lord,” Matt answered him. “These are our officers. We’ll have a chance only if they know exactly what we face.” He turned to the crowd and cleared his throat. Beginning with a summation of the previous campaign, he recounted how his ship had led the newly cannon-armed Homes against the invasion fleet that invested Aryaal. He told of the great victory in the bay, and how they landed and fought a desperate battle against the besieging force—a battle they won only by the skin of their teeth, prolific use of Walker’s modern weapons, and the timely assistance of Queen Maraan and Lord Rolak. He didn’t dwell on the treachery of Rolak’s king that cost them many lives, and nearly the battle. King Rasik Alcas was surely dead by now. He told how they found Walker’s long-lost sister, USS Mahan (DD-102), and the pitifully few members of her crew who’d survived their own terrible ordeal. He spoke of things they’d learned about the enemy—still far too little—but also about how they’d defeated them. The Grik were terrifying warriors, but they fought without discipline—or even much thought. They’d beaten them, and they could do it again.

Then he talked about Revenge. She was a Grik “Indiaman” they’d captured and armed, and Matt had sent her to harass the enemy and scout the AEF’s next objective, Singapore, the most tenuous Grik outpost. Ensign Rick Tolson had been captain of Revenge, and Matt had finally read his log. The narrative was inspirational. It also wrenched his soul. Revenge had been badly damaged in a storm, and was left to face the full brunt of a new, massive Grik fleet all alone. Mallory took up the narrative, and briefly described what he, Ed Palmer, and Jis-Tikkar saw from the airborne perspective of the PBY flying boat, and he haltingly, hauntingly recounted the sacrifice Revenge’s people made to destroy as many of the enemy as they could, and prevent the capture of their ship. Matt thought the example was good for all to hear. It was the story of a gallant struggle against impossible odds, something they were all likely to face before long.

Matt then described, as clearly as he could, the force that destroyed Revenge; the force coming there. The hall grew silent, and for the first time, probably—for the Baalkpans, at least—it began to sink in. He spoke of the courage it took for the B’mbaadans and Aryaalans to sacrifice their homes, hoping that by defending Baalkpan, they might someday see their own homes again. He described the desperate evacuation and the bravery of Tassat-ay-Arracca who’d saved so many in the face of certain destruction, and of Tassana, his daughter, and her own personal horror.

And when he had everyone’s undivided attention, he talked about Amagi. At 46,000 tons of iron, and over 800 feet long, she was much heavier and almost as big as the improbably huge wooden seagoing Homes of the People. Most present still hadn’t seen the Japanese battle cruiser, although some survivors of Nerracca had. At least, they’d seen what she could do with her terrifying guns. Tassana stood beside her grandfather, Ramic-Sa-Ar, her eyes red and haunted, while Matt described the ship. Chack had seen it. He’d had a good long look from Walker’s crow’s nest, and often, when Matt stopped for a moment, he continued quietly in his own language, speaking of what he saw. Finally, Matt described Walker’s vengeful torpedo attack and the damage he thought it inflicted. To those listening it was a stirring commentary, but that wasn’t Matt’s only intent. He massaged his brow with his fingers and glanced at Nakja-Mur. The High Chief knew what he was going to say to the hushed assembly.

“She’s still out there,” he said at last, and took a long, deep breath. So did everyone else. “Mr. Mallory confirmed by direct observation that she’s still afloat and underway”—he managed a predatory grin—“but not very fast. We were right about the damage to her boilers. It looks like she’s making only about four knots. The Grik are clustered around her, probably to prevent another torpedo attack, and she and the rest of the enemy fleet have turned back for Aryaal. Her damage is severe, and remember, she was already badly damaged after the last time she met up with us. After that fish we stuck in her the other night, I’m frankly amazed she didn’t just roll over and sink. Maybe she still will,” he added hopefully, “but we can’t count on it. I think we can count on a little time, however, and maybe we evened the odds a little. A few enemy scouts were reported nosing around the mouth of the bay this morning, but Fort Atkinson’s guns drove them off. My ship is still in pretty rough shape, but tomorrow we’ll sortie and see if we can tow in some of the Grik ships we damaged in the strait. As you know, a couple have already arrived, captured by local crews. I understand the fighting against the survivors was fierce. . . .”

“So Amagi and the main force have retired?” Keje asked for emphasis, speaking for the first time.

“As of Mr. Mallory’s last observations before the PBY got jumped by one of Amagi’s spotting planes. I’m sure you all appreciate how lucky we are that plane and most of her people made it back? As for Amagi.” He shrugged. “Maybe her other boilers will choke and that’ll be the end of her. We could sure use one of those Strakkas right about now,” he added, referring to an intense, typhoonlike storm spawned by the slightly different climate on this very different Earth. There were murmurs of agreement, mostly from the destroyermen. “In any event, Mr. Alden and Mr. Letts have improved considerably on the defense designs I left behind. They came up with stuff I never even thought of, and then the people of this city, working themselves to death, managed to finish the job. I’m impressed. Pete explained the differences and I had a good look at them this afternoon.” He looked as many of them in the eye as he could. “They’re good defenses, and they ought to hold against a very determined assault. That’s good, because that’s the only kind I’ve seen the Grik make.” He paused, measuring the mood in the hall.

“Eventually, they’ll come. Amagi will be repaired or not, but I expect if she can be, they’ll try to wait for her. That may give us months to prepare, or it may not. They strike me as pretty notional, strategically. They might just get sick of waiting. Regardless, like I said, eventually they’ll come, and we have to continue to prepare as if the attack will come next week . . . or tomorrow.” The mood was decidedly somber. “Without Amagi, I think we can hold. We’ve already seen that their ships are extremely vulnerable to gunfire, particularly the high-explosive shells from Walker’s four-inch guns and the big thirty-two-pounders—both on the Homes and emplaced here. That’s good, and I’ve no doubt we’ll thrash the lizards if they come into the bay. The landward defenses look good too, and they’ll be in for a hell of a surprise if they try them. The problem is, as with any static defense, we don’t have any depth. If they break through anywhere, we’re done. The wall has to hold. The lizards outnumber us ten to one already. With the extra time they now have too, I expect those odds to grow even worse. They may try to force some strategic point, and keep piling in until the defenders are exhausted. That means we have to keep plenty of reserves, and we can’t commit them too soon.

“We can do this, but it’s going to take unflinching discipline”—he let that sink in—“and it’s also going to take more troops.”

“But . . .” Keje spread his hands, palm up. “Where will we find them?”

“The Fil-pin lands,” Matt said simply. “Manila. It’s our only hope.”

The Fil-pin lands and some other Homes not yet on the front lines of the war recognized the threat posed by the Grik and gladly sent almost everything asked of them. They knew the consequences if Baalkpan should fall, but for the most part they jealously reserved the one commodity Baalkpan needed most: warriors to match the countless hordes of the enemy. Token forces had been sent; Nakja-Mur suspected that was mainly so they might learn the new ways of war taught by the Americans, but with the exception of the Sularans across the strait, their combined numbers would not make up a single regiment of Alden’s “Marines.”

“I know they’ve refused to send significant forces in the past,” Matt continued, “but if we go and talk to them, tell them, show them what the stakes are, maybe they’ll change their minds. Besides,” he added with a strange expression, “we might find more friends than the Manilos. I’ve been thinking about those reports of an ‘iron fish’ in the Fil-pin Sea. If it’s what I think it is, and if we can find it, Amagi might be in for a very big surprise if she ever comes here.”

“But who will go?” asked Adar. “It is a journey of months.” Matt turned to him.

“You’ll go; so will I. So will Walker. After a few weeks in the yard she can get there, meet the Manilos, look around for the iron fish, and still be back in plenty of time. We’ll establish another wellhead on Tarakan Island too. Bradford says it’s a good choice, and we need a fallback fuel reserve.”

“What if the Grik do not wait?” insisted Nakja-Mur.

“We’ll stay in touch through the radio in the plane.” Matt looked at Mallory. “If Ben somehow manages to get it airworthy again, he won’t fly until and unless Lieutenant Riggs and Radioman Clancy’s experiments with other types of receivers are successful. Understood?”

Mallory nodded reluctantly. “Understood, Captain.”

“There,” Matt said. “Amagi can’t come before we get back, and if the Grik try to send their main force, you should be able to hold for a time, and we’ll be less than a week away. This is what I propose to do. . . .”

Sandra Tucker was as petite as Ellis was physically imposing. The top of her head, long, sandy-brown hair coiled in a bun, reached only to Matt’s shoulder, but her seemingly delicate frame concealed a strength of will and character that had been tested over and over again on the grisly battlefields of her operating tables. She’d faced wounds of a type and scope few Americans ever had, since the primary weapons of this war were designed to hack, stab, and slash. The unwarlike Lemurians had never seen anything like it before either, and she and Nurse Theimer had created, from scratch, a professional, efficient Hospital Corps. The ’Cats possessed a powerful analgesic, antiseptic paste, a by-product of the fermented “polta” fruit, so wounds were less likely to fester and fewer wounded were lost to disease. But battlefield medicine—the wholesale treatment of terrible wounds—was something the ’Cats had known nothing about. Sandra was just as tired as Matt. Many in her hospital now were younglings who’d survived the loss of Nerracca. The ship had been shelled into a sinking inferno, and a lot of the injuries she now faced were terrible burns on tiny, whimpering bodies.

The sky was clear, and in spite of the glow from the city and the pier, the stars stood out brightly overhead. In a way it was much like that night, so long ago now, when Matt and Sandra so tentatively discovered how they felt toward each other. On that occasion they’d been serenaded by drunken men singing an off-color song as they were transported back to the ship. Tonight the background music consisted of crackly, indistinct, upbeat tunes, from the dead gunner’s mate “Mack” Marvaney’s phonograph, playing over the ship’s open comm. The music was accompanied by loud, hoarse voices and clanging metal, as the men continued working under the glare of the searchlights.

The main difference between that night and this, however, was that back then, they still had no real idea what they faced. They’d had a few minor successes against the Grik, and their concerns about fuel had been put to rest. In some ways it was a hopeful time. Matt had chafed at their ignorance regarding the enemy, but compared to now, that ignorance had indeed been bliss. Now they knew what they faced, and the mood was more somber. Back then, things seemed to be looking up. Tonight, hope and optimism were in considerably shorter supply.

They stopped at the end of the pier, a hundred yards aft of Walker. In the gloom, weirdly illuminated by the ambient light, the PBY was beached near its own short pier to keep it from sinking. The plane appeared to sag with exhaustion, its wings drooping low. The only things keeping them horizontal to the fuselage seemed to be the wingtip floats on either side, supported by blocks and makeshift braces. Matt remembered something else that had changed: he’d been committed to protecting and husbanding the irreplaceable Catalina. Since then, he’d nearly used it up, as his idealistic intentions gave way to the demands of reality. It was just as well, because if they’d kept to his original plan of, basically, not letting it fly out of sight, they’d all be dead right now. They’d have never known about the approach of Amagi and the Grik ships that accompanied her. He still felt a deep regret.

Few of the plane’s injuries were visible in the shadows, but he could see them still by memory. Bullet holes and shattered Plexiglas, shredded control surfaces, the fire-blackened cowling, the terrible, violently amputated port wingtip . . . all added to the already generally dilapidated appearance of faded blue, brine-streaked paint. He didn’t seriously expect her to ever fly again, in spite of Lieutenant Mallory’s assurances. Even if Ben was right, the plane couldn’t have many hours left to give them, and when it was gone, there’d never be another. Of course, the same could be said for Walker and Mahan, and the destroyermen that kept them alive. He was using them up too.

Matt finally broke the silence that had descended upon them. “So, Jim,” he said, “what do you think of the plan? You didn’t say a lot during the meeting.”

Jim didn’t answer at once. Instead, he stared back at the two destroyers tied to the dock. Mahan lay just ahead of Walker, lights burning aboard her as well. Even before the war they left behind, on another Earth, both ships had been antiques, commissioned in 1918 and 1919, respectively. Since then, they’d spent much of their lives toiling in neglect with the U.S. Asiatic Fleet. When the Japanese ravaged the Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor and ran wild during the early months of the war, all that stood in their way were obsolete relics like the ones he was looking at. Their sleek hulls and rakish, primitive appearance little resembled their more modern counterparts, and in comparison they were sadly underarmed. A meager four 4-inch guns and a single 3-inch gun constituted their “main battery,” and a few machine guns mounted on the rails were all they ever had against aircraft. Their main offensive capability had always been their speed, and twelve 21-inch torpedo tubes. Now, both ships’ speed had been reduced by battle damage and mechanical failure. Mahan had only one propeller, for example. Her other one had gone to replace one lost by Walker. They also had but a single—hopefully—operational torpedo between them; an obsolete MK-10 they’d scavenged from a warehouse of condemned equipment before evacuating Surabaya. During their “old” war. They’d originally fled that place with another American “four-stacker,” Pope, and the British cruiser Exeter, and destroyer Encounter. All three other ships were destroyed by the Japanese, leaving only Walker and Mahan to face Amagi—and the Squall that swept them all here.

Any realistic assessment of the two destroyers would have left them condemned to the breaker, or at least several months in a dry dock after what they’d endured, but they had no such luxury. Therefore, with monumental ingenuity, jury-rigged parts, and the tireless efforts of their human/ Lemurian crews, the ships were being prepared for yet another last-ditch defense.

“I don’t like staying behind,” Jim confessed, “and I don’t think you should go. The stability of the alliance depends on you too much.”

“Maybe once,” Matt admitted grudgingly, “but I think we’re largely past that now. Everyone knows what’s at stake. Mr. Letts will be chief of staff in my absence—he’s developed a genius for diplomacy, it seems. If anybody can keep everyone on the same page, it’ll be him and Nakja-Mur. You’ll control all naval forces. I still hope to get Keje to leave Big Sal as a floating battery and go with me, since he’s been to Manila before. Pete’ll have overall command of land forces. I’d like to take him with me too, but with Lieutenant Shinya’s issues still unresolved . . .” He sighed. “Besides, Walker’s the fastest, so she’s the one to go. She’s my ship; therefore, I go with her. Mahan’s your ship, and she needs you here.”

“But I’ll just be sitting around,” Jim protested. As far as they knew, the enemy believed they had only one destroyer left. Mahan would be fitted with a new dummy smokestack, to replace the one she’d lost, and painted with Walker’s number so any spies wouldn’t suspect Baalkpan’s weakened condition, or that Walker had gone away. Mostly, the enemy must never suspect there were, in fact, two American destroyers. Unless they got reinforcements, it was the only ace they held. Matt had given orders that Mahan should steam about and be seen, but never risk herself or venture far from the mouth of the bay.

“Besides, you won’t be just ‘sitting around,’ ” he argued. “The captured ships’ll need refitting, and there’s the new construction to consider. I expect you to use them to try to get as many of Queen Maraan’s people off B’mbaado as possible. I promised her as much, and besides, we’ll need them. If Haakar-Faask, her general she left behind to lead them, is as good as he seemed, we’ll badly need him as well.”

Jim grunted. “All right, Skipper, if you say so. I still don’t like it.”

“Well,” said Sandra, somewhat haughtily, “now that that’s settled, I guess I deserve some explanation why you’re leaving me behind, Captain Reddy!”

Matt groaned. “We’ve been over this before. Karen did a good job while we were away, and now we’ve got our other two nurses, Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy, back. But there aren’t going to be any battles where we’re going. You need to continue your work here. We have Pharmacist’s Mate Jamie Miller, and you know he’s turned into a fine surgeon in his own right. He’s certainly had enough practice! Besides, there’s still that other . . . issue to consider.”

He was referring to the increasingly acute “dame famine.” As far as the human—and rambunctiously male—destroyermen were concerned, there were only four human females in existence. One, Karen Theimer, was clearly attached to Alan Letts, and Matt expected Letts to approach him on the subject before much longer. This was the source of considerable stress. Rumor had it that a few men had actually formed . . . romantic relationships with the local females. One such relationship, between the irrepressible (acting) chief gunner’s mate Dennis Silva and Chack’s sister, Risa-Sab-At, was apparently more than rumor. Silva and Risa had done everything in their power to make it seem more than rumor, at any rate. Chack had been livid, but recently, strangely, Matt had noticed a visible thaw between Silva and Chack. Perhaps they’d sorted out their differences without violence this time, or maybe Chack had finally decided Silva and Risa were just joking after all. Whatever. He’d rather not have the distraction of females on this trip if he didn’t have to. Out of sight didn’t always mean out of mind, but if there were no women aboard, there shouldn’t be any fights over them. Matt remained convinced there must be other women somewhere on this Earth; there was too much evidence of previous human/Lemurian contact, and even human/Grik—witness the enemy ships built along the same lines as eighteenth-century British East Indiamen. But until they found them, they had to tread carefully. That was why he and Sandra never openly acknowledged their own mutual affection.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. In the dim light, Karen Theimer and Alan Letts were walking arm in arm. Sooner than I thought, Matt speculated resignedly.

“Good evening, Captain . . . uh, Captains,” Karen said as they exchanged salutes. “Good evening, Lieutenant Tucker.”

“Good evening, Karen. Mr. Letts.”

For several moments everyone just looked at one another. Alan seemed uneasy. He acted as if there were something he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words. Matt had a rough idea what they’d be, and he clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward expectantly. Letts wasn’t ordinarily the tongue-tied type, so this ought to be good. Suddenly the young supply officer jerked and gasped through clenched teeth. Matt glanced down in time to see Karen’s right foot reappear next to her left.

“Uh . . . Captain Reddy, I, uh, have . . . I mean, I’d like to have a . . . ah, word, sir. I mean, if it’s convenient.” He glanced quickly at Karen, probably afraid she’d kick him again.

“Of course, Mr. Letts. We were just discussing the plan for our expedition and Baalkpan’s defense. Perhaps you’d like to add something?”

“Uh, no, sir, not just now.” His eyes flicked to Sandra and Jim. “Actually, sir, what I need to talk to you about falls more in the line of . . . well, a private . . .” He stopped, unable to continue.

Jim Ellis leaned forward wearing a menacing expression. “My God, Mr. Letts!” he exclaimed, shifting his gaze to the nurse. “Ensign Theimer, if this rogue has behaved indecently toward you, I’ll see he’s punished severely!” He motioned with his head toward the water of the bay, full of terrifying creatures their own world had never known. “And I mean severely!”

The whites of Letts’s eyes became visible in the dark. “Oh, no, sir, Mr. Ellis! I assure—” Karen kicked him again, surprising him completely. He hopped quickly away from her, uttering a soft moan. In spite of her earlier confrontational mood, a giggle escaped Sandra’s lips.

“Just spit it out, you big dope!” Karen commanded, rolling her eyes.

“Captain!” Alan squeaked. “We want to get m-m-married!” he finally managed.

Matt waited a moment, looking at the mismatched pair. Letts with his fair, peeling skin; Karen, dark-haired, lovely, slightly taller. He nodded. “I assume you’ve thought this through?”

“Yes, Captain, we have,” Karen replied. “Ever since the AEF set out, and we remained here, we’ve worked closely together.” She shrugged. “Somehow I fell in love with the guy.” She looked at Sandra. “I know you’re the head of my division, Lieutenant, and I should have spoken to you first, but we saw you walking out here together and . . .”

Sandra nodded. “Perfectly all right, Karen. I have to agree with Captain Reddy, though. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? You want to do this . . . now?”

Karen nodded sadly. “We wanted to wait until things settled down, but with everything going on . . . well, there might not be a better time.”

Sandra sighed. “I understand. Very well, I’ve no objection. Captain?”

Matt rubbed his chin. “You know, Mr. Letts, some resentment’s likely to arise out of this—what with the dame famine becoming more and more, ah, acute? If you ladies’ll pardon me, I’ll be blunt. Our men have gone literally months without female companionship, when, before we left the Philippines, to do so more than a few days would have been . . . extraordinary. A lot of pressure’s building up. If not for the unending combat against the enemy, the elements, or the deterioration of the ship to help them . . . vent that pressure, I’m not sure we could’ve kept them under control. It’s my hope, God willing, that someday we’ll explore this new world. If that occurs, it’ll be my very first priority to discover whether other humans exist here.” He paused thoughtfully. “It’s my belief they do. But first we have to survive the coming battle, and maybe the whole damn war. That’s a lot of ‘ifs.’” He waved away their concerned expressions. “That being said, I don’t object either, I guess. I just want you to be sure this is what you want to do. It might be . . . difficult.”

Jim chuckled. “I’d say that qualifies as one of those British understatements, Skipper. I also think if I were in their shoes, I wouldn’t give a damn right now.” He frowned. “Whatever time we’ve got left, I say make the most of it. Captain?” Matt nodded.

Jim Ellis beamed at the couple. “So. You want a big, fancy church wedding? Or are you going to elope?” He laughed at their confused expressions. “Run along, children,” he said. “I’m sure our illustrious supreme commander’ll be happy to perform a suitable ceremony directly.”

After they were gone, Jim let out a breath and turned to Matt and Sandra. “You know,” he began conversationally, “everything I just told those kids about ‘making the most of it’ and ‘living while you can’ goes double for you two.” Only the darkness hid Sandra’s sudden, deep blush.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt sputtered.

Jim laughed out loud. “Oh, c’mon! You honestly think you’ve kept your little secret? Wow. Patty-fingers on the bridge wing, moon-eyes whenever you’re around each other! Queen Maraan thinks you are married and asked me if you have a child!” Ellis laughed again at their stunned expressions. “Keje finally believes you aren’t already ‘mated’ and thinks you’re a couple of idiots. Self-sacrificing deprivation isn’t the norm with ’Cats.”

“Is it really that obvious?” Sandra asked in a small voice. “We’ve both tried so hard!”

“Who else knows?” asked Matt through clenched teeth.

“The Mice may not have figured it out,” Jim drawled dryly, referring to the two enigmatic, almost belligerently insular firemen, and their female Lemurian protégé, “but I wouldn’t bet money.”

“Damn.”

Jim held up his hands. “Hold on, Skipper. Before you think your little act was a waste of time and the men’ll resent you—like you warned Letts—let me tell you something. I told you everybody knows you’re nuts about each other, but they also know why you’ve been acting like you weren’t. They appreciate it, Skipper! They know what it’s cost you, because they know how it would feel to them. I do too. Your crew admires you immensely. They’d follow you into hell. They already have!” He shook his head. “Mahan’s the same way. Everyone sees the weight on your shoulders, both of you, and they know you’ve denied yourselves the one thing that might help lighten the load. And they know you’ve done it for them.” He grinned. “Even if they still think you’re a couple of dopes.”

Matt was embarrassed. Not for how he felt, but because the men had seen through his deception. He felt as though he’d let them down. He looked at Sandra and saw tears gleaming on her cheeks, the lights of the city reflected in her shining eyes. “Would you excuse us for just a minute?” he asked in a husky voice.

“Sure, Skipper, I could swear somebody called me.” Turning, Jim walked down the pier toward the ships.

Tentatively, Matt put his arms around Sandra and drew her close. For the first time he didn’t notice any pain in his shoulder, wounded at Aryaal, at all. She began to shake, and he knew she was crying. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” she scolded. “It was the right thing to do.” She raised her face until she was looking into his eyes. “It still is,” she told him firmly.

“I know.” Then he kissed her. It was a light, gentle kiss, and their lips barely touched. He didn’t dare make more of it. Still, it was enough to send an electric shock clear to the soles of his shoes. Finally, wistfully, retreating from their embrace, they began walking back toward the glare and racket of the feverish repairs. “There,” he said softly. “Maybe that’ll tide me over a little longer.”

“I guess we have a wedding to arrange.” Sandra sighed, wishing it could be their own.

The Amer-i-caans didn’t bring the war, of course, although some had argued they did. Many of those were long gone, having fled to “safety” in the Fil-pin lands, or just generally eastward in their huge floating Homes. Most who now remained were committed to the fight: the fight that, long as the odds were, they wouldn’t have had the slightest chance of winning if the Amer-i-caans hadn’t come. The People of Baalkpan would probably have been slaughtered before they even suspected war was upon them.

But still, when he could, he continued to take his evenings on the balcony of the huge wooden edifice encompassing the trunk of the mighty Galla tree. The tree was so massive, it continued to soar through the ceiling and high above before branching into a dense canopy that dwarfed the bulk of the Great Hall below, as well as every other structure in the city. He’d sit there and view the city: the tall pagodalike structures housing many families, just as those aboard the seafaring homes had traditionally done. Larger structures, with many levels, sheltered Baalkpan’s various industries: ropewalks, chandleries, looms, block makers, coopers . . . industries supporting Baalkpan’s primarily maritime economy, and her trade with the seagoing Homes. They’d once been a source of employment, prosperity, and pride. Now greatly expanded, and with the new industries the Amer-i-caans had instituted or improved, they represented the only hope of salvation for Nakja-Mur’s Home.

Before, he’d gazed upon the bay and the busy commerce of the city’s fleet of coastal traders and fishers with a sense of satisfaction. Sometimes as many as a dozen enormous seagoing Homes might be moored or snugged up at the piers, disgorging barrels of gri-kakka oil in exchange for services, necessities, and even luxuries they craved from the increasingly prosperous, influential, and just as increasingly resented “land folk.” Occasionally, swift, tall-masted feluccas dashed across his view, hurrying to ports across the dangerous strait, or returning with cargoes from distant land Homes. He marveled at the speed they achieved with their fore and aft rigs and sleek, radical hulls. Now the seagoing Homes were mostly gone; only the transient freighters and the three ships of the Allied “battle line” remained.

With the return of the AEF, and the Aryaalan and B’mbaadan warriors it had managed to save, the city’s defenses were nearly tripled, but they needed more just to survive. Nakja-Mur was skeptical that more troops would be forthcoming from Manila, beyond the hundred or so volunteers they’d already sent, and he’d come to agree with the argument Cap-i-taan Reddy once made before the AEF set out in the first place: they could prevent defeat, for a time, with static defenses, but they could only win if they attacked. Attack, now, was out of the question, and Nakja-Mur constantly brooded over the implications of that.

The water of the bay glowed red beneath the lowering Sun, and except for the absence of most of the Homes, the bustle of small craft seemed undiminished even as they toiled for a much greater imperative than personal profit. His heart lifted when he saw one of the Amer-i-caan destroyers—Mahan. His newly practiced eye could tell by her awkwardly repaired pilothouse, even if she now sported a new fourth funnel. The ship was steaming slowly toward the mouth of the bay on some errand to Fort Atkinson, he guessed, or testing some repair. She was resplendent in a new coat of light gray paint, and he still marveled at the effortless grace with which she moved in any wind, though he knew she could use only one of her “engines.”

Despite the fact Walker had seen more action in this war, Mahan was the weakest, most badly damaged of the two Amer-i-caan ships that came to them through the Squall. He now understood that that damage was due to an earlier encounter with Amagi. As powerful and indestructible as she seemed to him—she was made of iron, after all—he had to remind himself that if Amagi one day came—perhaps entered this very bay—she could swat Mahan aside with little concern. Such a thing was so far beyond his experience as to seem unthinkable. But he hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen. Those he knew and trusted who’d beheld Amagi assured him it was true, and somehow he managed to believe them. The thought churned his gut with dread.

A servant, a member of his expanded wartime “staff,” pushed through the curtain behind him and stepped into view, waiting to be noticed. Nakja-Mur sighed. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t lurk behind me like that; I won’t eat you!” His tone was gruffer than he intended, and if anything it made the young servant cringe back a step.

“He does not know you as I do, lord,” came a voice from beyond the curtain. It parted, revealing the hooded form of Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa Home. Adar was tall for one of the People. He wore a deep purple robe adorned with embroidered silver stars across the shoulders and chest. The hood bore stars as well. His silver eyes peered from a face covered with fine, slate-gray fur. He gestured at Nakja-Mur’s stomach, which, though considerably shrunken from its prewar dimensions, was still quite respectable. Nakja-Mur chuckled.

“I only eat youngling servants for breakfast these days, you know.” He patted his belly and it rumbled on cue. “Though perhaps . . .”

“I will bring food instantly, my lord!” cried the servant, and he vanished from view.

Adar blinked amusement. “Do you suppose he will return?”

Now that the youngling was gone, Nakja-Mur sighed again. There was no need to keep up appearances for Adar. “Of course. Please be seated,” he said, gesturing at a cushion nearby. “We have much to discuss.”

Adar folded himself and perched rigidly on the firmer cushion Nakja-Mur knew he preferred. For a moment he just sat there, looking at the High Chief and waiting for him to speak. Nakja-Mur was casually dressed in a light, supple robe, and sat with a mug of nectar loosely balanced on his knee, but his increasingly silver-shot fur, and the absently troubled cant to his large, catlike ears, would have belied his relaxed pose to any who knew him well.

“The Amer-i-caans are planning a ‘fallback’ source of gish, to power their ships,” he stated abruptly. “So no matter what they say, they recognize at least the possibility Baalkpan will fall.” The strange Australian, Courtney Bradford, had been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps showing practically every major oil deposit in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the same oil existed on “this” Earth that they’d found on their own, but after the success of their first well—exactly where he’d told them to drill—they were all believers now, even the Mice. Tasked by Captain Reddy to locate another source, he assured them they’d find oil in a variety of places. Most, for one reason or another, were rejected, but Tarakan Island seemed perfect. It was more than halfway up the coast of Borneo, bordered by the Celebes Sea. It was beyond anything the Grik maps showed they’d ever explored, and it was in a fallback position not only toward the Fil-pin lands, but one of Baalkpan’s “daughter” colonies nearby.

The “colony” was a growing settlement right across the little strait in a marshy, swampy hell called Sembaakpan. There they gathered small crustaceans called graw-fish by basketfuls at low tide. They were very tasty in their premetamorphic stage, and considered a delicacy because no one knew them to exist anywhere else. They had a short shelf-life too, and were some of the strangest creatures the destroyermen had yet encountered. They looked and acted like little horseshoe crabs till they shed their shells and swam—and ultimately flew—away. Anyway, at least there were friends nearby, but they’d never even come up with their own name for the tiny, forbidding, impenetrably blanketed island, so Tarakan it still was.

“A prudent decision,” Adar said, “and one I heartily approve.”

Nakja-Mur grunted, his eyes still upon the bay. “It smacks of planning for defeat.”

“You are mistaken. They plan for victory; why else embark on this expedition to seek allies—and a new source of fuel? No.” He blinked in positive denial. “They do not plan for defeat, but prudently prepare for the possibility. Even if we are defeated, I do not think Cap-i-taan Reddy can imagine such a thing might be the end of the fight. Another setback, perhaps, and a serious one, but not the end.”

The High Chief gazed out upon his city, contemplating it as a ravaged shell in the hands of the Grik. “How can such a thing not be the end,” he breathed, then changed his tone, suddenly urgent. “How soon can you leave?”

Almost two full faces of the Sun Brother had passed since the AEF returned. Repairs were taking longer than anticipated. Evidently each time they fixed one problem, some new issue was revealed.

“A ten-day. Walker’s repairs are almost complete, but it will take much of that time to dismantle the rig at the well site and transport it to the city. By then, Mahan will be completely ready to masquerade as her sister, and the three damaged Grik ships towed in from the strait will be repaired, armed, and ready for sea. With the flying boat still grounded—and likely to remain so, I fear—we cannot leave you blind. If their scouts sneak past, they will see everything seeming as before. With Mahan pretending to be Walker, they will never suspect the other ship is gone, or that there are, indeed, two Amer-i-caan destroyers. That’s a secret we must keep at all costs. Within another ten-day after that, the first of your own warships that you so wisely commissioned in our absence will be ready for sea.” He blinked. “I understand it is a great improvement over those of our enemies.”

Nakja-Mur nodded enthusiastically, his depression momentarily forgotten. “Indeed! She is far more modern.” He gestured toward the shipyard, where two sleek hulls still sat on the ways. A third was down at the new fitting-out pier, undergoing completion. Even now, the ship seethed with busy shapes silhouetted against the ruddy, reflected sunlight on the bay. “I have watched them erect every frame, place every plank. Cap-i-taan Reddy and the engineer, Brister, provided the basic design, but even they say we have built them better and stronger than their people ever constructed such ships! They call them ‘frigates,’ but they have yet to be named. As you know, a great deal of thought must go into such things.”

For the first time, with human help, Lemurians had bent their formidable engineering skills toward constructing dedicated warships. Human and Lemurian technology and techniques comingled at every hand, and at least as far as the wooden shipyards were concerned, the Lemurians gave as much as they got. Their structural designs were amazingly efficient, as well as highly redundant—in exactly the sort of way to be prized in a warship. The humans made many suggestions for lines based on speed, and the Lemurians took them to heart, but they built the ships their way. The result was, hopefully, ships much faster—and stronger—than any sail-powered vessels the world had ever seen.

Adar nodded, looking where Nakja-Mur pointed. “Of course. They are very beautiful as well. A pity . . .”

The High Chief snorted. “. . . there will be only three? True. We will never have time to build more, no matter how long the Grik delay. With but fifty such ships, the Grik would never dare attack if it weren’t for Amagi!”

“I meant that it’s a pity they will be the last of their kind. The next ones will have auxiliary steam engines, I understand. As for the Grik . . . Oh, I think they would dare,” Adar murmured. “They might lose, as you say, but they would still dare. They would have no choice.” He blinked discontent. “And even if we had them, we haven’t the crews.”

“True, and that brings us back to our original discussion. I yearn for you to be on your way. First to gain us allies, of course, but also so you might more quickly return. I cannot help but fear the Grik will come while Walker is away.” He waved off Adar’s protest. “I know Cap-i-taan Reddy believes that unlikely, and without more troops to defend my city, her presence might make little difference. But to many people, she has become more than just a ship. After all she has done, and particularly after Nerracca . . . her absence will be felt.”

“I understand what you mean,” agreed Adar.

“Do you? Do you indeed? For it is not just the ship people look to, but the people who will be with her: Cap-i-taan Reddy and his crew, Braad-furd, Chack-Sab-At, my dear cousin Keje-Fris-Ar, if he goes . . . and you, of course. As you know, my own Sky Priest, old Naga, has become increasingly . . . disassociated. He cannot accept what has come to pass.”

Adar nodded sadly. Naga had been his teacher, as a youngling, and had set a high example. His ancient mind was full of the lore and history of the People, and his knowledge of heavenly paths and mysteries was without compare. He once could recite, from memory alone, every word of the Sacred Scrolls, and unerringly describe every coastline drawn upon them. Recently, however, all that priceless knowledge and wisdom was increasingly locked away, inaccessible even to himself in any coherent fashion. Even though Adar was Sky Priest to Keje-Fris-Ar and Salissa Home, the people of Baalkpan, and strangely—given their different dogma—Aryaal and B’mbaado, increasingly looked to him for spiritual and moral inspiration. Ever since he’d learned the true nature of the Grik, Adar’s most consistent inspiration was to fully embrace what the Amer-i-caans called “Total War.” Only by doing so did the People have any hope of survival.

“Perhaps,” he whispered.

The promised food arrived, and both Adar and Nakja-Mur forced confident grins and stilled their twitching ears. Fortunately, their tails were confined by their postures and couldn’t betray their agitation by swishing back and forth.

“Leave us,” said Nakja-Mur congenially, when the servant placed the tray before them. The youngling quickly departed. “Speaking of what this war has cost our Naga, how is Cap-i-taan Reddy? I will never learn to understand their grotesque face moving and hand waving, but he does not seem the same.”

“He is driven,” Adar conceded. “After what happened to Nerracca, he hates the Grik just as passionately as I, and if anything, I believe he hates the Jaapaan-ese even more.” He cocked his ears. “Tragic as Nerracca’s loss certainly was, it is stunning how it has strengthened the alliance.”

“True, but he seems distracted as well.”

“There is tension,” Adar confessed. “He is reluctant to mate with their healer, although their attraction is plain to all. I believe it has to do with the scarcity of females available to the rest of his people.”

“Absurd.”

“Perhaps. But there is also the issue of his secondary commander of land forces, Lew-ten-aant Shin-yaa.”

“Shin-yaa is a ‘Jaap,’ I believe they call them, is he not?”

“Indeed. An enemy, yet they trust him; rely heavily upon him, in fact. Shin-yaa is of the same race, or clan, controlling Amagi, and he recognizes the evil she aids—represents—but he cannot believe all the beings aboard her have become evil as well. He is . . . conflicted, to say the least. It tortures him that his own people assist the Grik and did what they did to Nerracca. Yet, like us, the idea of fighting his own people tortures him just as much.”

“But it is not the same! Hu-maans are much more warlike than we; they are more like the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans in that respect. . . . Oh.”

“Precisely. To them, belonging to the same species does not keep them from killing others of different clans, or races within that species. And among the Jaap clan, the ties that bind them together seem even closer than those that bind the Amer-i-caans. The Amer-i-caans have much freer will to decide for themselves what is right and what is not. Among the Jaap clan, that decision is taken by a leader and imposed upon all others, regardless of what they might personally think.”

“I see,” murmured Nakja-Mur. “Do you think Shin-yaa can be trusted? Will he aid his clan against us?”

“I think not. I believe, even if he didn’t know the right or wrong of it, his perception of what he calls his ‘honor’ would prevent it. Remember, before they ever came here, his clan and that of the Amer-i-caans were at war, but he has given his parole to Cap-i-taan Reddy, and rather than break it, he would resolve his personal conflict by ending his own life. More likely, in a confrontation between his people and ours, he will simply abstain. ‘Sit it out,’ as the Amer-i-caans would say.”

“A pity. He is a fine leader, and the troops he leads—our own people—have no stake in his ‘conflict.’ I hope, for our sakes, as well as his own, he is able to resolve it in our favor.”

Adar nodded. “Regardless, that is why he will accompany the expedition rather than remain behind.”

“Probably best.” Nakja-Mur changed the subject. “What is involved in dismantling and transporting the ‘rig’?”

“Mostly time and labor. The ‘rig’ itself is not complex. If we had time, I’m sure it would be simpler to just build another. We will do that anyway, so we can sink more wells here, but we know this one works, and it is not needed at its present site. It would have to be moved in any case. The labor is something else; remember, there is a gri-gaantus maax-i-mus—a Gri-maax—in the area. The one that got their Tony Scott. I believe the Amer-i-caans call them ‘super lizards.’”

“An appropriate term, if I translate correctly.”

“Indeed. In any event, in order to convince a sufficient number of workers to go, we have to assemble an escort of almost equal numbers. Most inefficient, but necessary.”

“Biggest damn turd I ever saw,” Silva agreed respectfully, slinging his BAR (Browning automatic rifle) on his powerful shoulder and crouching to view the thing in all its glory, “and I’ve seen my share of whoppers. Conjured up a few myself, but nothing to compare to that.” The coiled heap of excrement wasn’t exactly steaming, but it was fresh, and about the size of a grown man curled in a fetal position—which immediately set Dennis to thinking dark thoughts. He looked at the Australian and saw his eyes glisten with anticipation. He snorted. It was late January 1943 in the world they remembered, nearly a year since USS Walker passed through the Squall that brought them to this twisted, alien Earth. Personality-wise, Bradford had apparently changed least of any who’d survived. Outwardly, the change was complete. He’d finally given in to the inevitable and had allowed a salty, reddish blond beard to creep across his ruddy face. In fact, it struck the fine-furred ’Cats as hilarious that he now had more hair on his face than on the top of his head. In the heat and glaring sunlight of the latitude, that might’ve actually been dangerous, but Bradford had replaced his lost hat with a bizarre contraption most resembling a cartoon version of a Mexican sombrero. Of course, it looked ridiculous on his fair-skinned, somewhat rotund frame—a fact not lost on their friends.

Because of their large, catlike ears, Lemurians rarely wore any kind of hat. Some wore helmets into battle, but most had been fashioned with the ears in mind. Some, like Chack, insisted on wearing the round “doughboy” helmets of the Americans and managed to do so—uncomfortably—by wearing them at a jaunty angle that allowed one ear to stick out to the side and the other to protrude inside the crown. It worked, after a fashion, and the American helmets certainly provided more protection in battle than anything else the ’Cats had ever put on their heads. But Courtney didn’t have even that excuse. He looked ridiculous and didn’t care, and that was part of his charm. Or maybe he did care, and did it anyway. He and Captain Reddy had once discussed how important amusement was to morale, and sometimes, just by being himself, Courtney Bradford was very good for morale. Like now.

As entertaining as the eccentric Australian could be, he was also profoundly valuable—besides his knowledge of oil-bearing strata. He could be highly annoying, and the word “eccentric” wasn’t really quite descriptive enough, but despite his amateur “naturalist” status, he was also the closest thing to a physical scientist they had. His specialty—if it could be said he had one—was comparative anatomy, and he’d provided many important insights into the flora and fauna they’d encountered. The Lemurians were always more than happy to tell them everything they could, but this information, of course, came from some of the very creatures he was intent on studying. In addition, he was the quintessential “Jack of all trades, master of none,” but in his case, that was often a real asset. True, he didn’t know everything about, well, anything, but he did know at least something about quite a lot, and that was more than anyone else could say.

Silva was darkly certain that when the captain found out he’d allowed Bradford to tag along, there’d be hell to pay, and with that realization came another: he cared. For Dennis’s entire life, particularly since he joined the Navy, he’d always lived for the moment and damn the consequences. He was acting chief of the Ordnance Division, now that Campeti was Walker’s acting gunnery officer, but with his skill and experience he should have been one long ago. He just never cared before, and didn’t want the responsibility. Now everyone was having new responsibilities thrust upon them whether they wanted them or not, and most had risen to the challenge. His old boss, Lieutenant Garrett, would soon have a command of his own. Alan Letts, once an undermotivated supply officer, had risen to the position of Captain Reddy’s chief of staff. Bernie Sandison was still Walker’s torpedo officer (not that she much needed one), but he was also in charge of developing “special weapons.” Sergeant Alden, formerly of the ill-fated USS Houston’s Marine contingent, was now “general of the armies.” Chief Gray had been elevated to something else, still ill-defined. Maybe “super chief” described it best. Even the Mice had evolved beyond the simple firemen they still longed to be. He glanced at Bradford, who’d changed his appearance, perhaps, but remained essentially the same person. In all the ways that counted, Dennis suspected he himself may have changed more than anyone.

He hated the thought of letting the captain down, but felt a moral imperative to avenge the death of Tony Scott—someone he’d barely known before the Squall. He couldn’t shake a sense of protectiveness toward all those who remained. He continued to act like the same Dennis Silva everyone expected to see: careless, fearless, irreverent, happy-go-lucky, perhaps even a touch psychotic. Outwardly, except for some new scars and a luxuriant blond beard, he remained the same. But now he did care, and that was a big change indeed.

“Smells like bear shit,” observed the other gunner’s mate, Paul Stites, nervously as he scanned the green, nightmarishly dense jungle bordering the pipeline cut. Dark haired, and as scrawny as Silva was powerful, he was Dennis’s chief minion in mischief, and the closest thing to a human “best friend” he had left. He motioned at the enormous impressions all around them in the perpetually damp soil. “Bear shit from a giant turkey.”

Stites, Bradford, and Dennis were the only humans along with the guard detail sent to dismantle the drilling rig called a “Fort Worth Spudder” they intended to transport to the new site. A respectable facsimile of a pump-jack had taken its place, and continued busily pumping oil to the expanded refinery near the pier. Stites, like the other humans, had smeared grease on his exposed skin to protect him from the dragonfly-size mosquitoes, but he was experimenting with used grease to see if it might prove more effective. Even though it was now streaked with sweat, he looked like he was in blackface.

The humans, however, along with a half dozen other ’Cats, had a different, unsanctioned agenda. Silva and Stites were there for revenge, pure and simple, and Bradford, curious as ever, upon learning their plans, had extorted an invitation.

“I don’t know about where you’re from, Stites,” quipped Silva, “but turkeys in Alabama keep to a more manageable size.” The tracks did look a little like a turkey’s, except the impressions were more than a yard long.

“You don’t suppose . . .” Stites mumbled, gesturing at the turd. Courtney looked up at him and saw his troubled expression.

“No, no. I shouldn’t think so. It’s been weeks since, well . . . Of course, I can’t know for sure without more information about their metabolism. . . .”

“I was just wonderin’ if we should . . . you know, bury it. Just in case it’s . . . Tony. In case he’s . . . in there.”

Silva rolled his eyes. “That turd ain’t Tony. Even if it is, I ain’t buryin’ it. We’re all gonna be somethin’s turd one of these days. We ain’t got much time out here, and I’d rather spend it killin’ the big bastard that ate him.”

Before he was killed, Tony Scott had become Dennis Silva’s friend. Dennis never had many friends, but those he had, he valued. Especially now. Scott had been Walker’s coxswain before the Squall, and had remained in charge of the launch despite his growing, almost panicky terror of the water. He had reason to be afraid. Everywhere they’d been so far, the water seethed with deadly creatures, and he’d come to hate the sea he’d always loved. He was no coward, though. Despite his fear, during the battle to capture the Grik ship that became Revenge he’d jumped in the water to save Lieutenant Tucker. At the time, a storm was running and flasher fish were inactive then—but he didn’t know that. Everyone knew what the act had cost him. He thought he’d been committing suicide. He’d been afraid of nothing but water, though, and once aboard the Grik ship he’d fought like a maniac.

The irony of his death was still painful. Despite evidence to the contrary, compared to the water he’d always felt as if the land were safe. In an unguarded, thoughtless moment, he’d left his ever-present Thompson in his boat when he went ashore to check the oil rig after a storm. When he never returned, there was little doubt what got him, and whether the turd was Tony or not, it was big.

They’d seen plenty of larger piles: the stupid, domesticated “brontosarries” the Lemurians used as beasts of burden created much more mass, but the droppings of the strictly herbivorous sauropods more closely resembled titanic cow-flops. The object they were studying so intently was clearly a giant, compacted turd, manufactured by an equally giant carnivore. A “super lizard,” to be precise.

Bradford hated the term “super lizard,” and insisted the creatures were unquestionably allosaurs, relatively unchanged from specimens in the fossil record. Also, unlike most other “dinosaurs” they’d seen throughout what should have been the Dutch East Indies, super lizards were not stunted in size. If anything, they were bigger than their prehistoric cousins. Fortunately, there weren’t many of them, and they seemed highly territorial. When, rarely, one was killed, it was often quite a while before another took its place. They were ambush hunters that positioned themselves along game trails and the odd clearing. Bradford said they were built for speed, but they hunted lazy, Silva thought. That was probably how this one got Tony. Just snatched him up when he came ambling along the cut. Fresh anger surged within him, and he stood and brushed damp earth from his knee.

The voices of the work detail diminished as it slogged on toward the well, leaving them behind. Silva turned to a gap-toothed ’Cat with silver-streaked fur. He had no clan, and he was known simply as the Hunter. All ’Cats wore as little as they could get away with, but the Hunter wore nothing but a necklace and a quiver of large crossbow bolts. The massive crossbow he carried, and the super lizard claws clacking on the thong around his neck, seemed to establish his bona fides. “That not you friend,” the Hunter said simply, referring to the spoor. “See thick black hairs? They from . . . I think you call ‘rhino-pig’?”

“Rhino-pigs” were rhinoceros-size creatures, one of the few large mammals indigenous to this Borneo, and looked remarkably like massive razorbacks. They were extremely prolific and dangerous omnivores with thick, protective cases, and savage tusks protruding a foot or more from powerful jaws. They also sported a formidable horn on top of their heads. Regardless of the challenge, they were the Hunter’s principal prey due to their succulent, fat-marbled flesh. Evidently, in spite of their horn, they were also the preferred prey of super lizards.

“How long?” Silva asked.

“Not long. He hear big group, loud walking. He go.”

“Afraid of large groups?” Stites asked hopefully. The Hunter’s grin spread.

“He no hungry enough for all. He waste good hunting place.”

“Waste—”

Silva interrupted. “Where’d he go?”

The Hunter pointed toward a cramped trail disappearing into the jungle.

“You’re kidding,” Stites grumped. “I thought these things were big?”

Hefting his crossbow and setting off down the trail, the Hunter called back: “Trust me, he very big.”

“Well . . . how many of these things have you killed, anyway?”

The Hunter paused briefly, and fingered his necklace. “Only one,” he answered quietly.

“How come you know so much about ’em, then?” Stites’s tone was skeptical.

The Hunter considered before making his reply. “With you magic weapons, maybe you not fear ‘super lizard,’ as you call him, but to slay even one with this”—he motioned with the crossbow—“I learn as much as I can about him. Also, even while I hunt other beasts, he always hunt me. I survive him long time, so maybe I learn much.” He grinned hugely at Stites’s expression. “Enough? We see.”

“Then what brings you along?” Bradford inquired, visibly perplexed. “We cannot pay you.”

The Hunter blinked pragmatically before turning back to the trail. “If he gone, this place be safer hunting for short time. Maybe long time. The Great Nakja-Mur reward me for meat I bring. . . .”

“Oh.”

For the rest of the morning they crept carefully along, the Hunter in the lead, sometimes on all fours, tail twitching tensely behind him. Occasionally he paused, studying the ground disturbance in the dense carpet of decaying leaves and brush. Sometimes he motioned them to silence and listened, perfectly still, often for a considerable time. Silva grew certain that the ’Cat was using his nose as much as his ears. Ultimately, almost reluctantly it seemed, he’d move on. During one such respite, he gathered the eight others around him and spoke in a whisper that seemed almost a shout. Strangely, for once there were no raucous cries or any of the other sounds they’d grown accustomed to. Their quarry had passed recently indeed.

“We close,” he hissed. “He pass this way soon ago. He know we come; he search for place to spring trap.” The others, even Dennis, looked nervously around. “No, not here. He need more space. Maybe be clearing close ahead. He be there.”

The jungle slowly came back to life, and even at their careful pace, the expected clearing soon appeared. It was much bigger than they’d expected, perhaps a hundred yards wide and longer than they could tell from where they stood. Blackened stumps, and new, fresh leaves testified to a recent lightning fire. They squinted for a moment in the dazzling sunlight, accustomed to the gloom of the trail, but the sun soon passed behind a cloud. The midafternoon showers—so common this time of year—awaited only the inevitable buildup. A dull, distant grumble of thunder echoed in the clearing. Silva unslung the BAR and raised it to the ready.

“No,” pronounced the Hunter. “He not be so near opening. As I say, he want get us all. That need more room, I think. We go down main trail through burn. Where trail pass near jungle on either side, that where he strike.”

“Are you suggesting he’ll employ a strategy?” questioned Bradford, amazed.

“You ask, ‘he plan this?’ I let you judge. Super lizard is greatest hunter on all Borno. He not stupid.” He looked meaningfully at Silva’s BAR. “I not stupid. You magic weapons kill him easy? Kill him fast?” Silva nodded confidently, although deep down, he was less sure than before.

“But I must see him alive!” Bradford insisted. “I must see him move! Really, I didn’t come all this way solely to view a dead allosaur!” He turned to Silva. “I know you mean to kill this magnificent beast, and I understand your motive, but I insist you allow me to have as close a look as possible!”

The Hunter strode into the clearing with a strange chuckle. “You see alive, you see move, you see close. Hope you not see too close.”

Tentatively, in single file, the others followed him. Silva walked behind the naked ’Cat, and Stites, armed with a Springfield, brought up the rear. All the others, including Bradford, carried one of the Krag-Jorgensens they’d discovered in crates in Walker’s armory. They were fine rifles, probably commissioned with the ship, but weren’t quite as powerful as the .30-06s carried by the two gunner’s mates. Their heavier bullets and slightly lower velocity might provide better penetration against something the size of a super lizard, however. None of the massive creatures had ever faced such formidably armed prey in all of history. That was the hope, at least, for all the comfort it gave them.

Two hundred yards into the opening, the Hunter paused. “You see him, you shoot very fast?” he asked Silva. Truthfully, Dennis nodded. The BAR was a handful for most men, but he was less encumbered by it than Stites was with his ’03. Certainly less than the shorter Lemurians were with their Krags. “Then stay here short time. I walk ahead. Tempt him with me.”

“What you want me to do?”

“You know when time comes. Just no hesitate for Braad-furd, or I be ‘turd’ like your friend.” Whistling a strange tune through his missing teeth, the Hunter stepped forward and continued walking, apparently unconcerned, as the trail neared the edge of the trees.

As he drew closer, even those behind thought they heard a new sound in the denseness around them. The cries of the lizard birds and grunting shrieks of the ground dwellers had largely returned. They even heard the distant bellowing squeal of a rhino-pig echo in the burn, but there was something else, indefinable—perhaps an anxious breath. The Hunter stopped about sixty yards ahead. He still whistled, but the tune had become monotonous. He appeared as casual as before, but his long tail swished rapidly, tensely, agitated. He was looking at the ground. For an instant his gaze swept across the jungle to his left; then he stooped and collected some stones. Abruptly shattering the natural quiet, he began a shrill, frightened barking sound, hopping to and fro. Whipping his arm forward like a sling, he flung his first stone into the trees. The only response was an indignant grunt, but the breathing came quicker, more defined. More barking and a second stone invited a deep, rasping inrush of air. Even before the third stone flew, the jungle erupted with a heavy, gurgling moan, and several substantial trees fell like grass blades.

Silva had been keenly staring at the jungle, BAR at his shoulder, but when the massive head rocketed from the darkness amid a cloud of leaves, branches, and fleeing lizard birds, he hesitated for an instant, despite his promise. The head appeared almost twice as high as he’d expected, and by the time he acquired the target, it was already descending, murderous jaws agape, toward the Hunter on the trail.

No one else fired either. Not even the other ’Cats had ever actually seen a super lizard before. Silva knew the Mice had—perhaps this very one—and they’d both emptied their rifles into it before it simply stalked off. But nothing, certainly not their surly, monosyllabic description of the thing, could have prepared them for what they saw. Bradford only gasped in astonishment. Two great, rapid strides brought the thing completely in view, and it had to be fifty feet from nose to tail. Unlike many other creatures they’d seen, including the Grik, no fur or feathers of any kind adorned its hide. The skin was coarse, wrinkled like an elephant’s, but blotched and streaked with a wild variety of dull colors. Even fully exposed, it was almost perfectly camouflaged against the dense jungle beyond. Only the sun, peeking from behind the clouds at a providential moment, showed them more than a rippling blur as it stooped to seize the Hunter with six-foot jaws lined with improbably long, sickle-shaped teeth.

Fortunately, with the agility of the cat he so closely resembled, the Hunter somersaulted out of the way, but he hit the ground hard and it was clear another step would pin him beneath the creature’s terrible claws.

“Great God a’mighty!” Silva chirped, squeezing the trigger. A mighty BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM filled the clearing. Possibly, in his haste and surprise, the first few shots went wild. But Dennis was an excellent shot, and the familiar recoil of the heavy weapon pounding his shoulder steadied him. His training and experience took over. In a businesslike fashion, he confidently emptied his first magazine into the beast. Even before he snatched another to replace it, other shots sounded.

Silva didn’t know how he expected the monster to react to the fusillade; a stately collapse would have been nice. Even a dramatic tumble and a long, flailing, writhing death would have been fine with him. What he didn’t expect it to do, after absorbing most of a magazine from his BAR and numerous shots from his companions, was turn in their direction. The Hunter forgotten, it produced an ear-numbing roar and charged, its long-legged pace making it shockingly swift.

“Shit!”

Magazine in place, Silva racked the bolt and hosed the creature as it came. He knew he was hitting it, but the bullets appeared to have no effect. Way too soon, he burned through all twenty rounds and the bolt locked back. He turned to run, while groping at another magazine pouch, and saw that everyone else except Courtney Bradford had already fled. Even Stites. Bradford still stood, rifle hanging slack and apparently unfired, gaping at the charging beast.

“C’mon, you crazy son of a bitch!” Silva screamed. He tugged at the Australian’s arm, and the two of them ran for their lives. They raced across the clearing, back to the trail through the jungle, gasping in the sodden air and at the unexpected, unaccustomed exertion. Silva reasoned that his shots must have had some effect or the super lizard would have caught them already, but even the confined space of the trail provided little impediment. The creature only lowered its head and surged after them, crashing through the brush and shattering trees. They gained a little, though, and Dennis managed to insert another clip and blast at the thing’s head periodically as it came for them, gnashing and snapping through the undergrowth like some insanely huge crocodile.

“This close enough for you, Courtney?” Silva rasped.

They could see only a short distance ahead, but after only a few minutes of running as fast as they could, the trail that earlier took them over an hour to cautiously follow widened as they neared the pipeline cut. Bradford was spent, gasping, coughing, staggering as Silva pushed him along. He couldn’t go much farther, and Dennis couldn’t leave him. If the goofy naturalist got himself killed on this trip, Silva knew he might as well hang himself. After all the fighting, there weren’t many destroyermen left. He was more than average valuable, but compared to Bradford . . . He emptied his gun at the ravening jaws yet again.

They burst into the cut, and Silva was surprised to see a skirmish line of riflemen. Stites had somehow managed to stop the fleeing ’Cats, and he’d gathered the rest of the returning guards. Now a dozen armed ’Cats waited with the other man. Bradford collapsed when he saw them, and Silva managed to drag him aside before inserting another clip—his last—into the BAR.

“I thought you were dead!” Stites shouted.

“I thought you were yellow!” Silva growled in reply. Just then, shaking shattered brush from his back and roaring with a mindless, deafening frenzy, the super lizard appeared.

It was hurt after all. One eye had been churned to goo and dangled loosely from a shattered socket. A long, three-fingered “arm” seemed useless, and even some teeth were splintered or gone. Blood streamed from dozens of wounds, but it was still on its feet when it saw the new prey arrayed before it. He lunged forward once again.

“Open fire!” Silva yelled breathlessly.

A ragged volley erupted, sounding dully anemic in the humid air. For the first time the great lizard screeched in pain and staggered under the simultaneous impact of more than a dozen high-velocity projectiles. Silva continued firing short, three-shot bursts, while the others worked their bolts. Focusing on Dennis as a continued source of noise and irritation, the creature roared and swerved drunkenly toward him. Silva retreated, but didn’t run—even though less than three full strides would see him devoured. The other side of the cut was at his back, and he had nowhere to go. Besides, this monster was Tony’s killer. He was finished running. He’d kill it or die trying. He continued firing, but with much more care, aiming at the roof of its open mouth. Its brain must be in there somewhere. A single pace away, the super lizard stopped and shook its head, apparently disoriented. Great gobbets of congealing blood rained all around.

“Just die, you son of a goat!” Silva bellowed, and emptied his rifle down its throat. The bolt locked open with an audible clack! Out of ammunition, he simply pitched the rifle aside and drew the long cutlass, pattern of 1918, from his belt.

“C’mon,” he breathed, planting his feet a little farther apart and raising the point of the cutlass. Vaguely noticing him once more, the massive beast took a tentative step in his direction.

“Fire!” came Stites’s excited cry, and another volley, more carefully aimed than the first, slammed into the massive head.

For an instant nothing happened, and the air in the cut was filled with a gray, wispy cloud from the “smokeless” powder cartridges. Then, ever so slowly, but with increasing speed, Silva got his “stately collapse.” It almost fell on top of him. The earth shuddered as the monster toppled lifelessly to the ground amid the sharp crackle of its own breaking bones. The riddled head struck less than six feet from where Dennis stood, and he was festooned with a splatter of gore and snot.

Silva almost fell to his knees, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Angrily slamming the cutlass back in its scabbard—to hide his shaking hands—he whirled and faced a grinning Paul Stites, as the gunner’s mate rushed to him.

“What the hell’d you do that for?” he yelled, his voice filled with indignant wrath. “Goddamn it, I was just gettin’ to the good part! What’s the matter with you?” Yanking his cutlass back out, he stomped over to the head until he stared down at its remaining, unblinking eye. The thing seemed dead, but its abdomen still heaved weakly, and bloody bubbles oozed from its nostrils. He touched the eye with the sharp tip of his blade, pushing until the orb popped and a viscous fluid welled forth. The creature didn’t stir.

“That’s for chasin’ us all over kingdom come and scarin’ these poor cat-monkeys half to death,” he said. Then he drove the blade deeper, feeling with the point. Finally he shoved it in almost to the hilt, and the ragged breathing abruptly stopped.

“That’s for Tony Scott,” he muttered darkly. “That’s for killin’ my friend.”

“Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford—quite recovered—scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.

“Why?”

“Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m totally out of ammo! Right now that gives me the creeps like I never had before. So just shut up and give me a bullet, before I beat you to death!”

Stites smirked and opened his bolt, then stared into his own magazine well in horror. Frantically slapping his pockets with increased panic brought no satisfaction. “Jeez, Dennis! I’m empty too!”

Silva was grimly quiet a moment, considering the long trek back to the refinery and the boat. Suddenly he brightened. “Hey, Mr. Bradford!” Courtney paused his examination and looked inquiringly at him. He had every reason to be well disposed toward the big gunner’s mate. After all, he’d gotten quite close to the monstrous creature and witnessed all sorts of movement before it was killed. Silva only hoped Bradford could protect him from the worst of his captain’s wrath. “You got plenty of bullets left, right?”

Bradford sheepishly hefted the Krag. “Indeed. I’m certain I fired several times, there at the end, but somehow I still have as many rounds as I set out with. Strange.”

“Musta had some extras an’ thumbed ’em in without thinkin’. You got plenty of stuff to think about right now, though. Why don’t you let me wag that heavy rifle back for you?”

Bradford grinned uncertainly. “Oh, thank you very much indeed . . . but I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I can carry my own weight, you know! Still . . . the sling is bloody uncomfortable on my sore shoulder. . . .”

Silva tossed the empty BAR to a wide-eyed Stites and leaned down to accept the Krag. “No bother a’tall!”