CHAPTER 24
Mid Eastern
Sea
Alone upon the wide,
vast, empty blue, Walker churned
onward, her abused but faithful sonar scouring her path of lurking
denizens. Jenks said mountain fish, or “leviathans,” were rarely
encountered in the empty spaces between the India Isles (what
should be the Marshalls) and the Home Islands. Apparently, there
was insufficient sustenance for the gigantic creatures there. Only
occasionally, truly monstrous specimens were seen pursuing an
apparently oblivious eastward course. He had no explanation for
that behavior, but some Dominion officers he’d met in less tense
times had hinted it might have something to do with a strange name
they had for a long, shallow gulf on the northwest coast of their
realm: El Mar de Huesos. “The Sea of Bones.” He’d never been there.
Matt and the rest of Walker’s senior
officers kept that disconcerting name to themselves—not that they
planned to go anywhere near the place. Many ’Cats aboard had just
recently come to grips with the fact that they weren’T about to steam off the edge of the world
into the void. They didn’t need exotic, menacing placenames
stirring any lingering superstition.
The sea remained
relatively placid and the omnipresent heat grew less oppressive.
Walker’s speed and the prevailing winds
kept the ship wetter than her Lemurian crew preferred, because the
swells were sometimes higher than her deck, but it was often
actually pleasantly cool. They began to see lizard birds unlike any
they’d seen before. They had long necks and tails and incredibly
broad wingspans of five or six yards, perfect for cruising endless
miles on the firm sea breeze with hardly any effort at all.
Courtney amused the crew by chasing from one side of the ship to
the other with a pair of binoculars in his hands. The creatures—he
insisted they were almost true pterodactyls when Bashear called
them “dragons”—seemed aware that he was intent on studying them,
and constantly avoided his steady observation. Other flying
creatures, wildly colorful, began to visit. There was the usual
animated excitement aboard that prevailed whenever they neared a
new landfall, but there was a large measure of tension as
well.
The Lemurians were
mindful that they were about to see where the “ancient tail-less
ones” had ultimately gone, but along with the fear that they would
fall off the world, they’d largely shed the reverence they once
felt for those ancient visitors. The bloom was off the rose. After
all, they’d met them, fought them, and knew they were capable of
treachery. The question that animated most discussions was whether
they would have to fight them again. Walker’s mostly new crew had become nearly as
fatalistic, and in some ways jaded, as her original crew of Asiatic
Fleet destroyermen had ever been. But in contrast, they also felt a
confidence that they could deal with unknown threats, a confidence
that their human predecessors had never enjoyed, and the
outnumbered “old hands” tried their best to ensure that that
optimism remained realistic, but Jenks, Blair’s Marines, and
Respite aside, the crew was generally angry at the
Empire.
In the way of most
Lemurians, they wanted to get along with the strangers, but they
were equally ready for a fight. Walker
had stood toe to toe with Amagi, after
all, and despite the mutual destruction they’d wrought on one
another, Walker still swam, wearing
Amagi steel. To some—who hadn’t been
there—it was as simple as that. They’d come to expect misery,
deprivation, and daily toil in the way all destroyermen did, but
they’d missed the sense of being a tiny, wounded, hunted animal,
which the humans still remembered. They believed they were steaming
toward a final, straight-up confrontation with whatever power had
attacked them and stolen their people, and it was difficult for
some to grasp that it might not be as simple as that, and even if
it was, Walker couldn’t smash the whole
Imperial Navy by herself. They expected miracles from their special
ship, and the “old hands,” Matt included, increasingly wondered and
worried if that was a good thing or not.
On November
25—Thanksgiving Day—1943, USS Walker
steamed into the New Scotland port of Scapa Flow, and the budding
hubris that had begun infecting Walker’s crew vanished as quickly as an ice cube in
the fireroom. Earl Lanier tried to lighten the mood in the spirit
of the holiday by unveiling an immense roasted skuggik he’d
smuggled along on the trip, deep in the ship’s laboring freezer.
He’d spent the entire night before preparing the thing, complete
with what notionally struck him as “traditional” trimmings. His
well-meaning efforts were met with obscenities (which he duly
bellowed in return) and genuine, universal horror. Skuggiks were,
after all, giant earthbound buzzards, for all intents and purposes.
Lanier failed to see the distinction between a cooked skuggik and a
catfish, and went into a profound pout.
What had been a
virtually empty sea, except for a blue-brown mound at dawn,
practically filled with sails of all sizes and shapes as they
neared New Scotland’s leeward coast. Most of the ships, fishermen,
coastal luggers, and inter-island packets fled at the sight of the
strange iron steamer racing out of the southwest. A few deep-draft
“freighters” flying the Company flag ponderously turned away or
hove to as the old destroyer approached the achingly beautiful
mountainous isle, rising monolithically from the dazzling
sea.
“Ain’t that
something?” the Bosun said, gaping at the exotically familiar, but
eerily ... wrong ... land. New Scotland retained a semblance of the
distinctive crests of the islands now joined to form it, but it was
higher, more imposing, more sharply defined. Gray’s question seemed
sufficient for everyone.
“A beautiful land,”
Matt said wistfully, and Jenks nodded in appreciation of more than
the words.
“Thank you,
sir.”
Juan Marcos, his arm
still in a sling, had joined them with a carafe of coffee. He knew
how the captain and the other human Americans felt. He’d been
similarly overwhelmed when he first saw what his beloved
Philippines looked like on this world. Of course, Matt and the
others had had much longer to get used to the idea than he had at
the time, and their reactions were more subdued. Still, he could
sympathize. The driven-home fact of the
thing was harder to bear than the sight of it.
Walker was finally challenged by a swift
paddle-wheel sloop with an Imperial jack, just a few miles short of
the harbor mouth. Jenks appeared slightly scandalized by the tardy
challenge, but it served their purposes. By then, Walker was flying the U.S. and Imperial flags, as
well as an extensive colorful signal proclaiming her to be a
friendly vessel transporting Commodore Harvey Jenks and urgent
“dispatches” for the Governor-Emperor. The signal was authenticated
by Achilles’ number and Jenks’s code
group. Probably considering Walker to
be a remarkably fast but lightly armed vessel, the sloop was
content not to attempt to stop her but to escort her in—after a
flurry of signals appealing for her to slow down.
“Jumpin’ Jesus,”
Spanky declared when they cleared the western harbor mouth and saw
the fortifications guarding it. The “west fort” was in the shape of
a vast leaning wedding cake, three tiers high, bristling with forty
heavy guns that Jenks assured them could reach two-thirds of the
distance across to the opposite, similarly impressive works. The
construction was an aggregate of coral and volcanic rock that was
“spongy” and thick enough to absorb the shot of any known gun
almost indefinitely without communicating any structural damage.
Currently peacefully smooth, the walls of both forts glistened
white.
“Ahead one-third,”
Matt ordered. “Mr. Campeti will fire the salute.”
The Japanese alarm
bell “salvo buzzer” rattled on the chart house bulkhead immediately
before four guns barked in perfect synchronicity. Smoke streamed
aft and Jenks nodded respectful appreciation. The Empire had no
designated numbers for gun salutes, and though long-absent naval
vessels sometimes fired them, they were required only of foreign
powers. In such cases, protocol demanded that visiting ships fire
all their “great guns” either in broadside or succession to signify
that they were thus no longer loaded and incapable of causing harm.
Since the Empire knew only one foreign power, and official (overt)
Dominion visits to Scapa Flow were rare, few salutes ever sounded
in the harbor. In this instance, Walker’s meager “broadside” would be noted
and—hopefully—appreciated, but the utter perfection of the timing,
possible only with her magical gyro and electronic fire control,
would be noted with amazement as well. Everyone, Jenks included,
considered that mixed message of respect and an apparently
unprecedentedly high degree of professionalism a good one to
send.
Matt watched with
satisfaction as the crew of the number one gun on the fo’c’sle
below commenced a rapid, well-choreographed gun-cleaning drill,
much like that used on any Imperial ship. He knew the guns would
look wildly bizarre enough to observers, but hoped they could keep
their breech-loading nature a secret as long as possible. The crews
had been instructed to cover the breeches with canvas shrouds as
soon as their evolution was complete.
“It won’t fool
everyone,” Jenks warned, watching. “We have experimented with
breechloaders before. It is your self-contained ‘cartridges’ that
make them practical. Perhaps you can keep that back for
now.”
Within the harbor’s
embrace, Scapa Flow grew even more impressive. Jenks had described
it and drawn a few pictures for Chack, but even Matt was amazed by
what the Empire had wrought on this isolated speck of land. He’d
been proud of what the Allies had accomplished at Baalkpan,
impressed by the exponentially greater capacity of the facilities
building at Maa-ni-la, but combined, the two Allied industrial
powerhouses weren’t a match for Scapa Flow in terms of
infrastructure and scope. Here was a true well-established
industrial city in every sense. White buildings, both stone and
wood, with shakelike shingles predominated. There was color as
well, if not the riot of it that one usually saw in Lemurian ports.
Cranes and warehouses stood on every hand, and jetties extended
outward from long piers, accommodating the forests of masts. A
large shipyard lay directly ahead on the western end of the harbor
and sleek hulls with Achilles’ lines
stood on blocks surrounded by scaffolding. Great mounds of stacked
timbers dried under sheds. Jenks had told him the New Scotland and
New Ireland “oaks” made excellent ships, but they imported most of
their timber, like everything else, from their continental
colonies. Smoke rose everywhere, carried off to the west, from
smokestacks, foundries, apparent machine shops, and great
steam-jetting engines situated here and there that powered the
various enterprises.
And there were
people. Human people in an abundance
Matt hadn’t seen since they fled Surabaya on that other world in
another war. He glassed the shore. Women here didn’t run around
mostly nude, he noticed with some relief, but they were doing the
lion’s share of the labor. Dark-haired, dusky-skinned women in
practical working attire crawled around the building ships,
swinging mallets and plying saws. He refocused on a party of women
led by a gray-haired matron, caulking the seams of a new hull with
every bit the same professionalism he’d seen Jenks’s crew employ.
Other women casually drove wagons and carts pulled by honest-to-God
horses! Horses, donkeys, and cattle had all been aboard the
original ships, according to Jenks, but the horses had never done
well until they traded for more from the Dominion. Matt was glad to
see the familiar creatures. He wished there’d been dogs, but Jenks
said no. There were cats, in their teeming throngs, as well as
flocks of parrots that swarmed everywhere like pigeons. Matt was
curious how’Cats would take to meeting “cats.”
He shook his head. On
second thought, the Fil-pin shipyards were probably more expansive,
and certainly had more space to grow. They could also handle larger
ships with their bigger, purpose-built, Homeconstructing cranes.
Baalkpan could too. With some smugness, he saw no evidence of a dry
dock either. But in terms of a dedicated populace with the proper,
well-honed skills, and long-established support industries and
facilities—complete with offices and barracks—Scapa Flow rivaled
Pearl Harbor. And if the city beyond the waterfront didn’t match
Honolulu, it was the biggest he’d seen on this world from a
perspective of the numbers of dwellings. He doubted as many people
lived here as lived in Maa-ni-la, but there, many families—often
whole “clans” like their seagoing cousins—occupied a single large
dwelling. There were a lot more houses here.
“I think our escort
wants us to dock over there, Skipper,” Kutas said, nodding at a
long, isolated dock under the guns of an inner harbor
fort.
“Yes,” Jenks
confirmed, studying signals through his telescope. “The escort and
the fort are both signaling the ‘approach of strangers.’ ” We will
be met by an armed party at the dock,” he warned.
“Well, until we know
the deal here, we’ll have to respond in kind,” Matt said. “Sound
general quarters,” he ordered. “Gun crews will stand away from
their weapons, but small arms will be issued and Chack will prepare
to repel boarders.” He looked at the Bosun. “Side party to the
gangway, prepared to receive a reasonable delegation. If they don’t
want to be ‘reasonable,’ stand ready to help Chack.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,’
Gray said, and thundered down the metal stairs aft.
“Captain Reddy!”
Jenks protested. “After all, you must not start a fight
here!”
“I don’t intend to,
but I won’t let them just run loose all over my ship as soon as we
tie up.”
“They won’t do
that.”
“By your own
admission, we don’t know what they’ll
do. I’m playing it safe until we do. Mister Steele? You have the
conn. Lay her alongside the dock—gently, if you please. I’m going
to go change clothes.”
Ultimately, a
hostile-faced Marine lieutenant did seem ready to try to sweep
aboard with a substantial “escort,” but Jenks, now standing in his
best Imperial Navy uniform beside Matt at the gangway, ordered the
lieutenant to leave all but two men behind.
“Commodore Jenks!”
the lieutenant exclaimed when he came aboard. “It is you, sir! We couldn’t imagine ... no one could.
We expected some sort of trick!” The man looked almost wildly
about, at the destroyermen, the steel deck beneath his feet, the
strangely shaped guns. He actually did a triple take when he
noticed Chack, and visibly paled at the sight of so many ...
non-human crew. “What the devil ... ?”
“These are friends,
Lieutenant,” Jenks said forcefully. “I understand your confusion.
There is much to be confused about, but my signal was clear and
true. I must see the Governor-Emperor at once. Is he on New
Scotland?”
“Ah ... aye, sir. In
Government House these last five months. The courts haven’t met,
and we don’t know much about what’s happening on the other isles,
beyond what we hear from sailors. The Prime Proprietor, Sir Reed,
is here as well, and him and His Majesty’s been goin’ at it hammer
an’ tongs, tryin’ to govern the Empire from here, without—an’ in
spite of—one another.”
“I feared as much,”
Jenks murmured. “Things are truly that bad?”
“I’m not sure it’s
all bad, sir,” confided the lieutenant.
“His Majesty is safe here at least, and since Sir Reed doesn’t dare
let him out of his sight, he’s had to come here as well. You might
say they’ve got each other bottled up. In the meantime, the
Proprietors can’t meet without Mr. Reed, and His Majesty has to
call the Directors to court—” The man’s eyes fell on Chack again
and he was distracted.
“So in the meantime,”
Bradford interrupted, “bureaucracy reigns! Splendid. ‘He who
governs least governs best,’ ” he quoted.
Jenks gave him an odd
look. “That ... might be so, in ordinary times. But decisions must
be made.” He turned back to the lieutenant. “And we have news of
great urgency for His Majesty. Please do escort my friends and
myself to Government House without delay.”
The lieutenant looked
uncomfortable. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, “but I fear I must collect
the harbor fees from this ship before anyone may disembark from
her.”
“What is this
nonsense?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Reed’s
orders. As exchequer, he has established many new fees to cover the
costs of what he calls his ‘government in exile.’ All non-military
vessels tying up at military docks—all docks in this harbor—must
pay a use fee.” The man cleared his throat. “It’s a rather large
fee, sir.”
“I’m sorry,
Lieutenant, there will be no fee for this vessel. As you can
clearly see, she is a ship of war and flies the Imperial
flag.”
“But
...”
“No ‘but.’ Sir Reed
may bring his fiscal concerns to me.” Jenks looked at Matt,
Courtney, and Gray. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
Matt wanted to bring
Chack along so the Governor-Emperor could meet a representative of
his people, but that would have to wait. For now, leaving him
aboard ship with his Marines was the better course. Courtney was
the de facto ambassador for the Alliance, and Gray ... well, Gray
would go regardless.
Flanked by a squad of
Imperial Marines, their lieutenant leading, the small party marched
through the curious throngs of brown-eyed female yard workers. As
on Respite, most were strikingly attractive, at least until
reaching a certain age, apparently. Their exotic beauty left them
then, but they retained a sturdy handsomeness that Matt, at least,
had rarely seen, and that he suspected lingered for the rest of
their days. Bradford removed his hat and beamed all around at young
and old alike. They continued beyond the waterfront and into what
looked like the business district of the city.
“This way, gentlemen,
if you please,” the lieutenant said.
“I know where
Government House is,” Jenks retorted.
“Of course,
sir.”
They strode on in
silence for a considerable distance, through crowded streets full
of staring people. There were more men now, most in uniform, but a
few women drifted along behind them in their brightly colored,
shapeless gowns.
“Jeez, Skipper,” Gray
whispered at his side. “You go from feastin’ your eyes to famine
around here. What’s with the dead balloon suits?”
“I guess they’re
practical, sort of,” Matt replied. “Now pipe down. What is it with
you? Every time we meet new folks,
you’re always saying something that’ll make me crack up and get us
killed.” Gray looked at him curiously.
Ahead was a broad
square with an impressive columned building. Matt was struck again
by the strange attempt at a classical style of architecture. The
Governor’s Palace on Respite had reflected it as well. This
building was much larger, though, and four stories high, with a
shining metal observatory dome perched on top. Matt was fascinated
to see the large telescope protruding through a pair of open
shutters, pointed at the harbor, not the sky.
More red-coated
Marines with yellow facings and heavy gold lace received them at
the massive door of the structure and took charge of them from the
Marine lieutenant.
“Your arms, sirs,”
one of them said, “if you please.” It wasn’t a
request.
Jenks looked at Matt
uncomfortably. “I’d forgotten,” he admitted. “One gets as
accustomed to wearing weapons as to clothing. Forgive me—it is
required.”
Matt nodded. “Of
course,” he said, unbuckling his belt, which supported his Academy
sword and holstered 1911 Colt.
Gray grumbled, but
handed over his own belt and the Thompson he’d been carrying on his
shoulder. “Don’t monkey with them things, fellas. You’ll shoot both
your feet off.”
“Your arms will not
be tampered with, sirs.”
The Marines escorted
them into a large, ornate reception hall furnished in an
understated Queen Anne style. A bulky man in an elaborate
black-laced green frock met them.
“Commodore Jenks!” he
exclaimed. “How nice ye have returned! I must say, we despaired of
ye some time ago!”
“Andrew,” Jenks
acknowledged, smiling. “I assume His Majesty spied our
approach?”
“Aye! He was quite
animated. More than he’s been fer ... Well, he’ll be anxious ta see
ye!” He paused, looking at Matt and the others. “Bringin’ visitors,
though ... Most irregular.”
“Unprecedented,”
Jenks conceded.
“Ye vouch fer ’em, I
assume? There’s restrictions, as ye know,” the man
stated.
“I know. I will bear
any consequences.”
Andrew shooed the
Marines back to their posts. “Carry on,” he told them, then
gestured at the visitors. “This way. His Majesty awaits ye in the
library.”
“Yeah,” Gray said to
the Marines. “As you were. Nice, ah, muskets, fellas.”
Matt glared at
him.
Matt assumed Andrew
was a butler, or something of the sort, but when they reached a
tall hardwood door at the end of the hallway, he opened it and
preceded them inside, moving slightly to the left to stand before a
massive overburdened bookcase. Jenks had told him that every book
aboard the “Passage Squadron” of ancient East Indiamen was in
Imperial custody. The printing press existed here, and other
books—copies and new works—were available to anyone who could
afford them, but the originals received the same protection as the
Governor-Emperor did.
The library was big
but cozy, even cluttered in an absentminded, professorial fashion.
Books (reprints, by the look of them) were scattered about, lying
open. Strange machines stood on shelves, and on virtually every
surface. The wood decor was dark, but the vast windows at the far
end of the room permitted ample light to see and even work by,
reflected by the almost universally white architecture outside. In
the center of everything was a big, graying man, probably as
powerful as the Bosun. He was in shirtsleeves and weskit, and a
pair of spectacles rested on his nose. His silver-streaked hair was
gathered in a queue with a black ribbon near the nape of his neck,
and he regarded them with a magnifying glass in his left hand. Matt
hadn’t really known what to expect. Jenks had described the man,
but at first glance he seemed a decade older than Jenks had led him
to believe. Apparently, by Jenks’s quickly concealed expression, he
was surprised as well.
“Commodore Jenks!”
the man exclaimed, rising to stand nearly as tall as Matt.
“Harvey!” He strode across the decorative rug and embraced Jenks
long and hard. “I feared you were lost as well!”
“Not lost, Your
Majesty,” Jenks replied, “but considerably inconvenienced for a
time. May I present my friends?”
“Of course. You must,
in any case.”
“Indeed. Your
Majesty, Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald, sole sovereign, by the
grace of God, of the Empire of New Britain Isles and all her
possessions ...”
“Yes, yes, Harvey, do
get on with it,” the Governor-Emperor said with a slight grin. “And
no more ‘Majesty’s,’ if you please. It has always been ‘Gerald’
between us.”
“Very well. May I
present Captain Matthew P. Reddy of the United States warship USS
Walker. His preferred rank of ‘Captain’
does not reflect his full authority. He is, in fact, the Supreme
Commander of all military forces united beneath the Banner of the
Trees. I will explain all that implies in due course, but suffice
for now, in this company, he has become my particular
friend.”
“An extraordinary
achievement, surely,” the Governor-Emperor commented wryly, but
without sarcasm. “There must be quite a tale behind
that.”
“Yes, sire,” Jenks
agreed, dispensing with “Majesty,” but refusing to go further. “I
must also present His Excellency Courtney Bradford, Esquire ;
scientist, naturalist, and plenipotentiary at large for the
aforementioned Alliance. Accompanying them is Chief Bosun’s Mate
Fitzhugh Gray. He’s more than he appears as well, despite his best
efforts to conceal it.”
The Governor-Emperor
forced a chuckle. Matt could tell there was one question he wanted
answered before any other. Still, he faced Matt and offered his
hand. “A pleasure, sir,” he said. “And please accept my profound
admiration for your unusual, splendid ship. I’ve never seen her
like!”
Matt bowed slightly.
“Thank you, sir, and the pleasure’s mine. Your city here is
beautiful, and most impressive.” He paused, glancing at the
commodore. “And before saying more, I’m compelled to note that it’s
my understanding that Commodore Jenks might face some ...
difficulty for having supposedly brought us here.”
“It’s not ordinarily
done,” the Governor-Emperor confirmed.
“Well, then, let me
put that issue to rest. It should be obvious to anyone that he
didn’t bring us, we brought him. You
see, we pretty much knew where you were without a word from him.
Like your ancestors, we come from another world, and we’ve got it
mapped out reasonably well. Through historical accounts,
conversations with another of your subjects, and a process of
elimination, we knew ... these islands were the only place your
civilization could be.”
Governor-Emperor
McDonald gazed intently at Matt. “What subject?” he practically
whispered.
“A brave, beautiful,
and intelligent young lady named Rebecca Anne McDonald,
sir.”
The Governor-Emperor
visibly tensed. “How ... extraordinary,” he managed. “And where is
this ... young lady, Captain? Where is my daughter?”
“It’s a long story,
sir, and you’re not going to like it any more than I do,” Matt said
softly.
Over the next two
hours, Matt, Jenks, Courtney, and Gray told how Rebecca had
survived the shipwreck, been rescued, endured the Battle of
Baalkpan, and ultimately been abducted by the Company warden,
Commander Billingsley. Throughout the story, the Governor-Emperor
asked sufficient questions to ensure that they were telling the
truth and, as Jenks foresaw, became completely convinced. He called
for refreshment, chewed a quill, jumped to his feet and ranted
around the room, and even shed miserable tears. He couldn’t hear
enough about his daughter’s adventures, but he was in agony all the
while. He blamed himself completely, since it was he who’d sent her
away in the first place—to protect her from just such an attempt by
the Company to gain her custody and use her welfare against
him.
“I love her quite
desperately, you see,” he tearfully explained. “She is my only
child.” He glanced at the ceiling and by inference, the living
quarters above. “Our only child. My
wife has not been the same since ... Oh, God damn those evil
creatures! I will have all of them hanged!”
“Of course, sire,”
Jenks agreed, “but first, we need more proof than our own mere
words. Ideally, we’ve beaten Billingsley here. I take it there’s
been no news of Ajax?”
“None. Nor has New
Dublin declared a quarantine—the only way to prevent news of her
arrival there,” answered the Governor-Emperor. He paused for a
moment, a troubled expression clouding his face. “Of course, there
has been precious little out of New Dublin of late.” He shook his
head. “But surely, they could not hide Ajax.”
“Then we must wait a
bit longer,” said Jenks. “Either until Ajax arrives ... or Achilles brings Icarus
and Ulysses in. Either will provide
sufficient proof to destroy the Company and hang half the Court of
Proprietors. If you act before then, it might well fracture the
Empire and cause a civil war.”
“It might regardless,
but you’re right, of course.” The Governor-Emperor sighed. “What to
do in the meantime? As your battle would testify, the Company
certainly knows you found my daughter; they sent more ships to
seize her. They cannot know of Ajax
yet, so they must assume she’s either with you or left behind. Safe
from them, at any rate. What will they do? We cannot pretend we
know nothing of their scheme.”
“With respect, sir,”
Courtney interjected, “I believe we can. They have no way of
knowing we ever met their, ah, criminal squadron—not yet. I propose
that Mr. Gray immediately return to Walker and make sure everyone aboard understands
they must make no reference to the hostilities, or to any meeting
with other Imperials besides Jenks and his people. As far as any of
us are concerned, the princess is safe with the rest of Jenks’s
squadron and coming on directly.”
“Oh, if only it were
true!” the Governor-Emperor practically moaned, then shook his
head. “Of course. An excellent stroke, Your Excellency. Playing
that role might be more than my wife can bear, but I shall try to
manage. Andrew?” He gestured to the man still standing just inside
the door, where he’d remained since they entered. “Please escort
Mr. Gray back to Captain Reddy’s ship—with your permission,
Captain.”
Matt whispered
something in Gray’s ear, and the older man nodded. “Absolutely,
sir.”
When Andrew and the
Bosun left, Jenks looked questioningly at Matt. “Is there a concern
you’d like to share?”
“Not really. I hope
not. It just occurred to me, though, that this ‘Andrew’ guy has
heard everything we’ve said. I told Boats to keep an eye on
him.”
The Governor-Emperor
looked shocked. “Preposterous! I’ve known Andrew my entire
life.”
“As you knew Sean
Bates?” Matt asked.
“How the devil do you
know that name?”
“Through Commodore
Jenks,” Matt replied. “I knew the man
by another name—‘Sean O’Casey.’ I still call him
that.”
“Good God!” The
Governor-Emperor looked at Jenks in amazement.
“Yes, sire,” Jenks
admitted. “He never abandoned us, though we abandoned him. It was
he who first saved your daughter, and lost an arm doing
it.”
“Good God!” he
repeated. “Bates! Where?”
“Aboard my ship,”
Matt said.
Governor-Emperor
McDonald’s face worked. “He was right all along,” he said. “We knew
it too. We just didn’t know how right.”
He straightened. “You were wise to leave him aboard ship. Even
missing an arm, he would be recognized. Please convey to him my
deepest appreciation, affection ... and apology, until I can do it
in person.”
“Yes,
sire.”
There came a knock at
the door, and a sentry opened it slightly. Without waiting to be
announced, a small, plain, unremarkable-looking man strode through
the gap, an annoyed expression on his baggy face. “We are invaded
by strangers, and I only learn of it from my barber!” he
complained. Despite his bold entrance, the man’s voice was wispy,
almost whiny.
The Governor-Emperor
regarded the man coldly and Matt feared that Courtney’s new plan
would disintegrate immediately. Instead, Jenks spoke. “They’re not
strangers to me, Sir Reed, and they have certainly not invaded.
They brought me here at my request aboard their remarkably swift
vessel so I might acquaint His Majesty with the results of our
expedition.”
“Jenks!” the man
exclaimed, taking a step back as if he’d met a ghost.
In the meantime, the
Governor-Emperor had regained his composure. “Yes, it is Jenks,” he
said. “Not lost after all. You’ll have to withdraw your
self-serving appropriation to erect a monument to ‘the noble
explorer.’ ” In an aside to Matt, he said, “This is the ‘Honorable’
Harrison Reed, supposedly former
Director of Company Operations. He is currently my chief antagonist
in the Court of Proprietors, among whom he holds the Prime
Seat.”
So this—unimposing
person—was the instigator of all the hardships and loss they’d
endured, first through Billingsley, then through his subsequent
responses to news of the princess’s rescue. Keeping his features
carefully neutral, Matt stood. “Mr. Reed,” he said in greeting,
“I’m Captain Reddy.” Was there the slightest hint of
recognition?
“Sir Reed,” the man said, almost absently. “But
where is Ajax ... and Achilles?” Reed plowed on, clearly dismissing him.
“And the other two—I can’t remember their names.”
“Achilles will be along shortly,” Jenks said. “I
regret to report that the others were variously lost, one to a
leviathan, and Ajax is missing and
presumed lost. There were storms.... In any event, I dispatched
Agamemnon home some time ago with news
of our situation and the happy rescue of the Princess Rebecca. Did
Agamemnon not arrive?”
“She did not,” Reed
lied smoothly with just the right tone of regret. If anyone had
harbored the slightest doubt that this ridiculous man was involved
in the conspiracy, it was swept away. Agamemnon had returned with the others as part of
the “criminal” squadron and engaged them in battle alongside the
other Imperial and Company ships. Agamemnon had been destroyed by Walker.
“Most tragic,”
commented the Governor-Emperor. “Unless Ajax turns up, Achilles
will be the only survivor.”
“A stiff price to pay
for the life of a single girl,” Reed stated. “As I initially
argued.”
“But well worth the
price,” Jenks jabbed, “since the princess was indeed rescued. Even
now, she returns aboard Achilles in the
company of a protective Allied force that carries enough fuel for
Captain Reddy’s ship to return home.”
“What size force?”
Reed demanded, suddenly less haughty. “How do we know their
intentions? If all Captain Reddy needs is fuel enough to go home,
we can provide that.”
“Walker doesn’t burn wood or coal, sir,” Matt said
simply.
“Ridiculous! She’s a
steamer—I saw her myself on the way over.”
“She’s a steamer, all
right,” Matt agreed, “but she burns oil—refined petroleum. You have
none here.”
“Preposterous,”
mumbled Reed. He looked at Jenks. “Where’s Commander Billingsley?
Company wardens are sent aboard Imperial ships to ensure there are
no grievous lapses in judgment—such as bringing strangers to our
sacred home. I’d like to hear what he has to say about all
this.”
Jenks shook his head.
“Regrettably, Commander Billingsley desired transfer to
Ajax some months ago, and as a Company
warden”—he almost sneered the words—“it was not my place to
discourage his whim.”
“Then send me his
deputy!” Reed demanded, his voice rising.
Governor-Emperor
McDonald stood. “You do not shout
demands in This house, Prime
Proprietor!”
“Of course not, Your
Majesty,” Reed replied, practically simpering. “I beg your
forgiveness. I am overwrought with grief. Mr. Billingsley had
entered an engagement to my niece. Regardless, I do beg an
interview with his deputy.”
“None are present,”
Jenks said. “Those who remain”—he hoped there weren’t any, but it
was nearly impossible to be sure—“are aboard Achilles. Captain Reddy’s ship has little extra
space. Only Lieutenant Blair and a dozen of his Marines accompanied
me. There was no room for more.”
“Well, then,” Reed
replied stiffly, “I suppose we have no choice but to accept your
version of events until Achilles
arrives.”
“I suppose not, Prime
Proprietor.”
Reed turned to face
the Governor-Emperor. “But what of these ... animals ... infesting
that ... wrongly appointed ship in question? Surely the thing must
be quarantined? There has to be disease aboard. Filthy, furry
creatures! Keeping an ape for a pet is one thing. My son has a
parrot. But allowing them to romp all over one’s ship is quite
another!”
Matt took a step
forward, but Courtney placed a hand on his arm. “Those ‘apes’
constitute a large percentage of my crew,” Matt said, seething.
“They’re not apes, but people, just
like us. They don’t look like us, but they’re highly intelligent,
loyal, and honorable friends. The weakest among them could also
unscrew your head without effort.” Matt looked at the
Governor-Emperor. “Not apes,” he
emphasized again. “We call them Lemurians and that seems to suit
them. They’re our friends and allies. Those aboard my ship have
sworn the same oath as my men and are our countrymen. You might
want to pass that word.”
“Dear me,” Reed
proclaimed with mock regret, “I seem to be striking raw nerves with
every word! Perhaps I should go before I inadvertently instigate
hostilities!” He bowed to the Governor-Emperor. “Joy to you, sire,
for the imminent return of your daughter. Now that I have some
notion what the fuss at the waterfront was about, I’ll let you
treat with these strangers in peace. Please excuse
me.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Reed,”
Matt said in a neutral tone. “I’m sure we’ll speak
again.”
Reed paused in the
doorway, looking back. For the first time, it seemed his full
attention was focused on Matt. “Indeed,” he said, then was
gone.
After Reed departed,
they talked a while longer about their plan, then shifted topics to
the Lemurians and the Grik, the war raging far to the west, and the
stakes involved. The Governor-Emperor seemed oddly
sympathetic.
“You have told
Captain Reddy of the Dominion, have you not?” he
asked.
“Of course,” Jenks
said.
“Well,” continued the
Governor-Emperor, looking at Matt, “with the ... displacement ...
of our government here to New Scotland, the Dominion ambassador, a
particularly unpleasant Blood cardinal with the perversely ironic
name of Don Hernan DeDivino Dicha, has followed us here. I
shouldn’t wonder if he contacts you, quite soon in fact, requesting
a meeting.”
Matt was taken aback
at first, but supposed he should have expected it. “He’ll be just
as curious about us as your people are,” he surmised, then snorted.
“Divino Dicha! Shit! ... Ah, excuse me, sir.”
“Precisely.”
“What do you
recommend I do?”Matt asked.
Governor-Emperor
McDonald looked at Jenks.
“As I said, sire. He
is my friend. I trust him completely.”
McDonald looked back
at Matt and shrugged. “Meet with him,” he said. “As these Grik of
yours might someday threaten us here, his nation could eventually
threaten yours. I suggest you get to know him.”
It was almost dusk
before Matt, Jenks, and Bradford left Government House on their way
back to the ship. The Governor-Emperor had halfheartedly asked them
to stay and dine with him, but everyone was tired, and Matt
suspected the man needed some time alone with his wife. Now they
spoke quietly as they walked, so the squad of Imperial Marines
escorting them wouldn’t overhear.
“Lord,” Matt said,
“what a screwed-up mess.” He felt the reassuring weight of his
belted weapons. “Good thing I didn’t have either of these with me.
I might’ve killed that slimy bastard Reed.”
Jenks shook his head.
“You wouldn’t have. I’ve seen you angry—very angry—but never enough
to lose your senses. We’ve constructed a delicate web of deceit for
Reed and his creatures to entangle themselves in. No doubt they
have planned a similar trap for us, with much more time to prepare.
Hopefully ours will startle them into revealing theirs, or
launching their plot before it is complete.” He shook his head and
slowed. “With your permission, Captain, I won’t return to the ship
tonight.”
“Why, what’s the
matter?”
“Well, I’ve been away
from home a long time, and certainly by now my wife has learned of
my return....”
“Oh ...” Matt said,
his face reddening. He’d been around bachelors for so long it had
completely slipped his mind that Jenks was married. “Harvey, I’m
sorry,” he said. “Of course you need to see her. Ah, give her my
best.”
Jenks chuckled. “She
has an unwed sister, you know.”
Matt shook his head.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” His voice was hard.
Jenks was seared with
regret. “Of course. How ridiculous of me.”
“Skip it. You run
along, though. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Almost as soon as
Jenks veered away, walking briskly, a man in an elegant frock coat
and a large, wide hat appeared in the gloom ahead, forcing the
escort to pause. One of the Marines, a corporal, spoke to him and
then turned to Matt.
“This villain of a
Spaniard asks if you’d join his master for dinner,” the Marine
said.
“Who is his
‘master’?”
“Which it’s that
slicky-fish Dom ambassador, Hernan the Happy. His residence is in
the Dom embassy.”
Matt turned to
Courtney, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, Governor-Emperor McDonald
did say we ought to get to know him,
but I wasn’t expecting the ... opportunity so soon. Are you up to
it?”
Courtney grinned
gamely.
“What about you,
Marine?” Matt asked.
“Which I’m at yer
disposal ’til yer back on yer skinny ship, Your
Honor.”
Matt considered.
“Very well. We won’t dine, not tonight, but we’ll meet him briefly.
It’s been a long day. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a rest
either.”
“No, Your
Honor.”
“Please send a man to
my ship, if you please, and tell them where we’re going and who
we’ll see.” He made sure to speak loudly enough for the messenger
to hear. “We should be along shortly.”
The corporal—who
didn’t look much different from the “villainous Spaniard”—and his
squad led them through a seedier part of the city. “Professional”
ladies lewdly entreated them to join them in a guttural
English-Spanish mix that Matt would once have considered a type of
“Tex-Mex,” but this he could barely understand. Courtney beamed at
them and tipped his hat as they passed. They pressed on into the
gathering gloom.
“Which here it is,”
the corporal said.
The building looked
like a smaller version of Government House, but it didn’t stand
independently. Other, somewhat dingy white structures butted right
up to it. The Dominion embassy, or whatever it was, had fresher
paint, and flew an odd red flag. Embroidered upon it was a large
golden cross with some kind of weird bird perched on
top.
“Fascinating
symbolism,” Courtney muttered. Matt was an historian of sorts,
having received his degree in history at the Academy, but it didn’t
mean anything to him. The “messenger” with the big hat who’d led
them there told the Marines to wait, then stepped forward and
knocked sharply on the large, iron-reinforced doors. A small window
slid aside, revealing a peephole, and muted words were
exchanged.
“The Imperial
heretics will await you here,” the man said, speaking to Matt for
the first time. “Since you will not dine, your visit will be brief.
Follow me, please.” The door creaked inward.
Matt looked at
Courtney and, somewhat ostentatiously, waved him forward. “After
you, Mr. Ambassador.”
Inside, the reception
area was gloomy, all red and gold, with baroque iron lamps adorning
the walls. Busy tapestries hung between them with far too much
detail to absorb as the visitors were led past. The “messenger”
preceded them up a winding staircase to an upper floor that opened
into a broad, uninterrupted audience chamber. At the far end of the
room, suffused in an orangish light, rested a dark-skinned,
silver-haired man dressed entirely in red, except for the frilly
gold shirt peeking from beneath his crimson robe. Beyond him on the
red wall was a huge gilded cross with crude golden spikes jutting
from the areas where Jesus had traditionally been nailed to his.
The man stood to meet them as Matt and Courtney were presented to
him—by name. Obviously, the ambassador had spies—and didn’t care if
they knew. They’d have to be careful.
Thank God The Bosun isn’T here, Matt thought. Gray
was Catholic, but he just couldn’t have stopped himself from making
cracks about “popes and witch doctors.” It was his way. The man
before them clearly took his position very seriously, and if Matt
had burst out laughing this time, they probably would have wound up
impaled or burnt at the stake—assuming everything he’d heard about
the Dominion was true.
“My friends.” The man
greeted them in a strangely silky-gentle, cordial voice, “I am
Father Don Hernan DeDivino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme
Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of
the World.”
“The entire world!
How impressive,” Courtney blurted out. Matt could have kicked him.
Apparently he didn’t need Gray to get him killed—and at least Gray
could fight.
“Oh, how charming!”
said Don Hernan, with evident pleasure. “You truly are from an unknown land! Your manner of speech is
most refreshingly odd. Perhaps the rumors that you come to us from
the Old World are true as well!”
“Rumors spread fast,”
Matt commented. To his surprise, their host chuckled and touched a
golden goblet. Wordlessly, a beautiful, unadorned, and entirely
naked girl—who might have been fourteen, Matt realized in
horror—raced in and filled three goblets, then virtually sprang
from the room. Somehow, she hadn’t spilled a drop—Matt watched
their host actually check to see if she had. He shuddered,
wondering what the penalty would have been.
“Indeed,” the man
continued in that disconcertingly soft voice. “Quite ‘fast’ indeed.
Almost as quickly as your extraordinary ship!” He paused. “And
never doubt that all of this world will one day beg for the
benevolent rule of His Holiness! It was given unto him and his
order by the very breath of God!” He shook his head, still smiling.
“Of course, spreading the Word and Intent of God is a tedious
process. The world is filled with unbelievers and heretics who must
be forced to come to His understanding.” The ambassador performed a
slight, modest bow. “I merely state the fact of the matter. Time
and perseverance alone will make that fact clear to all.” He paused
and smiled more broadly. “Call me Don Hernan. Wine?”
Courtney began to
accept, but Matt held him back. “Thank you, no. Spirits aren’t
allowed on United States ships, and while I may not be aboard right
now, I am on duty. As is Ambassador Bradford. Perhaps another
time.”
“Perhaps,” Don Hernan
answered pleasantly. “Tell me, how stands the Faith on the Old
World?”
Matt shrugged.
“Pretty well, I guess. Lots of people believe in God. I
do.”
Don Hernan’s lip
twitched. “I mean the Roman Faith. Is it universal?”
Matt looked at
Courtney. “Ah, no. It’s spread all over the place, but it’s not
universal.”
Don Hernan’s smile
faded slightly. “As I feared,” he said. “Too weak. Force is the
key. They must have forgotten that. All will be heretics now, to
one degree or another.” He looked at Matt. “Tell me of your
faith.”
“Why don’t you tell
me about yours first?” Matt replied, hedging. “We’re new here, and
everything we’ve heard comes from the Brits—I mean
Imperials.”
“Yes,” agreed
Courtney enthusiastically. “We know almost nothing about your ...
crossover experience. We’ve heard tell of an Acapulco galleon, but
that’s about the size of it.”
“Ah, so you know some
small part, even if it has been ... corrupted.” He sipped his wine.
“Nuestra Senora de La Quezon was indeed
a Galeon de Manila y Acapulco.” Don Hernan warmed to his subject.
“She was a noble ark, gentlemen, made of teak, mahogany, and lanang
wood, almost as if her builders were divinely inspired to prepare
her for the Holy Pilgrimage she would make. She departed Manila to
serve God on this world in July of 1681. Her logs still exist, and
are as revered as the Book of Exodus!”
“Oh, how marvelous!”
Courtney gushed. “Such a tale they must tell!”
“Well,” Don Hernan
said, his smile growing again, “I am always pleased to tell how God
took messengers from one imperfect world and placed them here to
make a better one. Perhaps a longer ... interview might be
arranged.” He focused on Courtney. “With you, at least.” He closed
his eyes in sadness. “In sum, mistakes had already been made, you
see, terrible mistakes. The conquerors of New Espana conquered too
well, destroying the fiercer, purer words of God already known by
the native peoples. Things may still have been salvaged, but the
Church was weak and did not press its victory. Here, we
rediscovered those crucial instructions God had left for us, and
added them to the ones we knew. After that, we ... resolutely
advanced the true, complete Word and never looked back. This will
be our world, in His name.”
“So your Founders
encountered natives who’d crossed as well—earlier!” Bradford said
eagerly. “What were they? Inca? Maya? Tol ...”
“What they
were is unimportant,” Don Hernan
interrupted, with a first trace of annoyance. “What we are now, all
of my people, are children of God, and subjects of the Holy
Dominion!”
“But ... Well, what
was gleaned from them? What ‘Word’ was rediscovered?”
Don Hernan smiled,
pleased by Courtney’s interest. “Simply that as Jesus Christ
suffered for us, we must suffer for Him. Pain alone is the purifier
of sin, and the blood, the Precious Water, He sacrificed on our behalf must be returned manyfold.
That is the Word that awaited those who came to this world! That to
be truly holy in the eyes of God, one must emulate his Son in all
things, but most particularly, one must ultimately die in pain at
the hands of another!”
Bradford could only
gape, stunned by such profound perversity.
“Dear God,” Matt
murmured aside to him, “Jenks was right. These guys are crazier
than bilge rats!”
Don Hernan was
pleased as he watched the visitors leave. He thought the interview
had gone quite well. Captain Reddy was doubtless an unrepentant
heretic. The man had disrespectfully called directly upon God
several times—such impudence!—but at least he did believe. Bradford
displayed genuine fascination, perhaps even an attraction to the
True Faith. At least he’d been eager to learn more about it. Don
Hernan cared little exactly where the strangers were from, or what
their situation was; he already knew much, and his spies would
discover the rest. He’d wanted to learn about the men themselves and thought he had. Their
animalistic “allies” never entered his thoughts. He’d determined,
despite their advanced ship, that they couldn’t pose much of a
threat. They were clearly somewhat tentative—understandable in this
new setting. They would move slowly, feel their way, try to be
“friends” with everyone. They shouldn’t be a factor, particularly
after they were conveniently dead. A waste, it was true; he would
have liked to explore further possibilities with the curious one,
but that would only have edified him, and such deep curiosity was a
mortal sin in any case. He sighed.
“Tea?” he asked aloud
after a long moment.
Prime Proprietor Reed
entered the room, huffy. “Your Holiness, you simply must not summon
me here like a wayward child,” he insisted. His wispy voice was
adamant but querulous. “It grows more difficult to move about
unobserved, and at this late date I cannot be thought to be closely
associated with you! Not just yet.”
Don Hernan understood
Reed’s concern and realized, with a bit of surprise, that his
admonishment had required a measure of real courage. Despite Reed’s
nervous tone, Don Hernan knew the man wasn’t a complete coward; he
couldn’t be to have facilitated such a lengthy and risky scheme,
but his voice and demeanor were incapable of conveying forceful
resolve. He was perceived as timid, which was possibly appealing to
his ever-fearful constituents, but not very inspiring to others. It
was just as well. That very demeanor allowed him to be profoundly
underestimated by his opponents.
“I apologize, my
son,” Don Hernan said smoothly, calmingly. “So tedious. Our
‘association’ will be apparent soon enough, and we no longer need
pretend. In any event, I thought you should like to hear my
interview with the heretics. The sea captain,
particularly.”
“Well ... yes, of
course.”
“You spent some time
with him today. What do you think?”
Reed sighed and sat,
uninvited, then poured a cup of tea from the pot just brought by
the naked girl. “Dangerous, unpredictable. A complication we did
not need.”
Don Hernan was
surprised. He considered himself a good judge of character, but he
knew Reed was better. The man was a “politician,” after all. “Well,
then, if you’re sure ...”
“I am.”
“... perhaps I shall
order them killed as they return to their ship. I can easily
arrange an attack on the Marine escort by the ‘disaffected mob.’ ”
He chuckled. “Regrettably, the strangers would die in the
scuffle.”
Reed shook his head,
horrified. “No, Holiness! That won’t do at all! My spies have been
badgering the crew of the iron steamer all day, and have learned
little except that their Captain Reddy is a most formidable man.
Simple street thugs would likely not succeed, and he might suspect
the true motive for the attack and become remarkably vengeful!
Apparently, he has a towering temper.” Reed paused. “Perhaps worse,
Jenks and His Majesty would surely suspect, and they might well
take precipitous steps.”
Don Hernan tugged at
his sculpted chin whiskers. “Interesting. Very well. There will be
no ... covert assassins. You say Captain Reddy has a
temper?”
“That is what I
understand. I have begun to learn a few things that provoke it.
...”
“Excellent.” Don
Hernan sipped the wine still before him on the table, then looked
at Reed and smiled. “As you know, my first inclination has always
been to destroy the enemies of God, but I can be patient when I
sense opportunity. Perhaps the arrival of Jenks and these
‘Americans’ is heaven-sent.”
“How
so?”
“It could provide
just the right distraction. We are not quite ready—another month
would have been ideal—but the ‘complication,’ as you put it, of
their arrival and the approach of Achilles makes that month uncertain. You agree
there is more to their story than we know?”
Reed nodded. “There’s
been nothing out of Respite in weeks. That is the course they would
have taken. I fear, if nothing else, they know that Agamemnon did return and the Company sent ships to
intercept the princess.”
“But they said
nothing of it ... to you. I would warrant they shared considerably
more with His Majesty. Achilles must
bear proof, and they are awaiting her before the Empire goes on the
rampage, leveling accusations against the Company. Achilles has an escort?”
“American ships of
unknown power, but if their iron steamer is any indication
...”
“Certainly
faster than anything we might confront
them with. If we attempted another interception, even if we
succeeded, they wouldn’t have to fight—they could just outrun our
ships ... and arrive here with even further proof.” Don Hernan
tapped the goblet with his fingers. “As I said, we are not quite
ready, but with a distraction ... we are surely ready enough.” He
stood, decisive. “We cannot wait until the planned ‘Founders’ Day’
date for the operation. I will have to send dispatches, speed
things along, but the gift of the moment must not be ignored. You
say this Captain Reddy has a temper? What makes it burn most
bright?”
“I do not know, but I
provoked him several times ... as I do ... and in our brief
exchange, I learned he takes especial offense to slanders against
his ape-like crew! He protects them vigorously and they are one
weak spot, at least.”
“Would he rise to a
challenge over them?”
Reed smiled. “I
should think so. I didn’t even press him. He seems quite fond of
the creatures. I suspect that if any were present when offense was
given, he would be even more likely to rise.”
Don Hernan chuckled.
“The Pre-Passage Ball is in three days. I think we should arrange
an ... entertainment that should quite consume Imperial attention
while we implement our plan. Commodore Jenks will be there, of
course. Ensure that Captain Reddy is invited—make it impossible for
him to refuse—and do invite at least one of his ...
animals.”
“You are most wise,
Holiness,” Reed said, bending to kiss the offered
ring.
The music was Vivaldi
and Courtney Bradford was entranced by the unexpectedly familiar
melody of the “Spring (La primavera)” concerto from The Four Seasons, played by an excellent violin
quartet. “Unbelievable,” he muttered over and over when not
distracted by the apparently endless stream of people trying to
meet him. Matt was at least as overwhelmed by guests and
dignitaries, many in Imperial Navy uniforms. Jenks and his wife
stood near Matt, and Jenks did most of the talking, while Matt
tried to be engagingly distant to the horde of young ladies
fluttering around him in their colorful, cloudlike gowns. The Bosun
stood off a little, virtually alone, toying with a glass of
something and generally grimacing all around.
The fish-flesh clouds
were bright pink overhead as the sun vanished in the gap between
the high, distant mountains. The Governor-Emperor spoke to the
attendees with his wife, a frail-looking thing, smiling bravely,
beside him. He said something about Jenks’s miraculous return, and
welcomed their distinguished guests from another land. Courtney
didn’t catch it all. Lanterns and torches sprang to life, dancers
orbited one another on the close-cropped Government House lawn, and
the music became increasingly difficult to hear as the Pre-Passage
Ball commenced in full force. Jenks had told them that the
festivities commemorated a ball (or it might have been a small
dinner party) that occurred a week or so before the three ancient
Indiamen departed some East Indian Island (Bradford couldn’t
remember which, and it hardly mattered now) bound for India. The
Founders’ Day celebration, barely a month away, took note of the
survivors’ arrival here, thirteen months later. It was a kind of
“before and after” observance. Over the years, the Founders’ Day
event had become more a time of remembrance and thanksgiving, while
the Pre-Passage Ball evolved into a party.
Bradford didn’t much
care just then, as he was nearly half drunk. It was time to taper
off, he decided. He’d promised Captain Reddy that he’d keep his
wits about him. He noticed Chack was still under siege and began
moving toward him. Besides himself, Matt, Gray, and Chack were the
only people from Walker at the ball.
The entire crew was anxious for liberty, but they understood things
were tense ashore, and they needed to remain ready for anything.
People came every day to gawk at the ship and the Lemurians aboard
her as they went about their duties. There’d apparently even been
an attempt to abduct a ’Cat who’d jumped down to the dock to help a
screaming child. At the ’Cat’s cry of alarm, Spanky and another
pair of ’Cats leaped to his aid, sending four rough-looking men
running back into the crowd. The distressed child was nowhere to be
found, and even some of the onlookers suspected a plot and urged
them back to the ship.
The people of New
Scotland were fascinated by the Lemurians, however, and what little
they’d learned about them was the talk of Scapa Flow, and even
posted on broadsheets. Therefore, while all of the visitors were
celebrities and near the center of attention since arriving at the
ball dressed in their best, the very center space had been
unwillingly taken by Chack—and he was in hell. Despite his
immaculate and very martial Marine dress, every diaphanously
dressed female in attendance stopped to fawn over him like a
helpless, squirming youngling. Some even stroked his fur! He was
mortified, and Captain Reddy glanced his way almost constantly,
clearly tense on his behalf.
Bradford plowed
onward, dispensing apologies. His vision was a little blurred and
he stopped for a moment to clear his head. There was a commotion to
his right, and he noticed a man with slick black hair doing much
the same as he, working his way toward Chack with a purposeful look
on his face. Courtney felt a gust of alarm and tried to pick up his
pace. He tripped. So many people tried to help him up, laughing,
happy, swirling people, that it seemed forever before he reached
his feet. With another string of apologies, he tried to swim
through the bodies.
He heard shouts.
People pressed back against him, crying out in surprise. A
commotion erupted where Chack had been, but he couldn’t see the
Lemurian anymore. A woman screamed. Courtney began to panic. What
was happening? He couldn’t see! What was he doing? He didn’t even
have a weapon. Already he feared the worst. There were more
shouts—indignant, offended, enraged. He thrashed his way through a
ring of people, practically panting with terror—and was completely
taken aback by what he saw.
In the light of the
torches, Chack stood safe and sound, but he was holding Captain
Reddy by one arm while Harvey Jenks held the other. The captain
stood, knuckles bloody, staring at the slick-haired man with that
... frightening ... look he so rarely got. The Bosun burst into the
ring, eyes casting back and forth, searching for a target for the
“dress” cutlass (he’d painted the scabbard) at his side. The
slick-haired man stood, a little shaky, daubing his mouth with a
handkerchief. Daubing wouldn’t do the trick. Both lips were split
wide open, and dark blood practically covered the silky cravat and
white shirt down to his weskit.
“I velieve I ’ust
de’and satisvaction!” said the slick-haired man.
“You got it, you
cowardly bastard,” Matt hissed. “Anytime, anywhere! I ordered Captain Chack not to respond to rats like
you. I can, by God!”
“Excellent.” The man
seemed to be trying very hard not to show any pain. “The Impherial
dueling grounds, then. Just after se’vices. Swords.” With that, the
man turned and paced calmly through the crowd.
“What the hell?” Matt
asked, stunned. He seemed to be getting his rage under control and
his expression showed uncertainty. He’d been prepared for a fight
right then. “When’s that? What’s going on?”
“Next Sunday, a week
from today—after church services,” Jenks said severely. “Sunday’s
the customary day.” He shook his head and took a breath. “We’ve
been done, my friend.” He released Matt’s arm and strode out into
the circle, looking at the faces there. He lifted his gaze until he
seemed to see who he was looking for, some distance away. “I want
there to be no doubt among any man here that this despicable
episode was premeditated and engaged upon by none other than Prime
Proprietor Harrison Reed!” He pointed in the direction the
slick-haired man had gone. “That creature, you know! How many times
has he taken the field for the ‘Honorable’ New Britain Company? He’s an assassin! A
hired killer! He does nothing on his own account! He is but a tool,
a coward’s weapon in the hand of Harrison Reed!”
There was a gasp and
the crowd began to shift, as if unconsciously realizing that it
formed a barrier between two adversaries. Eventually, a gulf
widened between the circle and the Prime Proprietor himself,
standing on the steps of Government House. Just a short distance
away, unnoticed by most, stood the Dominion Ambassador, Don Hernan
DeDivino Dicha. Reed glared back at Jenks, then flicked his
kerchief as if to say, “As you will,” and turned away.
Courtney swayed just
a bit and wondered if he alone noticed the odd, benevolent smile on
Don Hernan’s face. “A bloody duel!?” he roared. “Seriously, we’ve
come all this way for a bloody duel?
Buggery!”
After the bizarre
confrontation most everyone, aside from a few wellwishers, seemed
willing to leave the “celebrities” alone, and they managed to
secure a well-lit table away from the dancers. The ball slowly
gathered speed again, but there was a new, electric excitement as
people began to contemplate the “Duel of the Decade.” Jenks
recognized the mood and sighed. He’d seen it before. He looked at
Chack. It wasn’t the Lemurian’s fault, but Chack couldn’t help but
blame himself, and it showed in his body language.
“They suckered us,”
Matt growled, rubbing his torn knuckles.
“They suckered
you if by that you mean they lured us
into their trap instead of the other way around,” Jenks said. He
smiled slightly. “I must admit, it was a glorious thing to see,
however. You knocked at least two teeth out of that vile man’s
head, and he’s never even been touched on the field, with sword or
pistol.” He smirked. “Dueling to the death is a common occurrence
in the Empire. A serious, honest punch in the mouth is
rare.”
“Who was that guy?”
Matt asked.
“An assassin, as I
said,” Jenks replied. “A damn good one, actually. If you’ll pardon
the irony, you should feel flattered.”
“I feel like an
idiot.”
“You don’t
understand. One way or another, there was going to be a duel
provoked this night. I should have expected it, but I never dreamed
Reed would be so bold ... or is it boldness? Desperation? What if
Time is the issue?” He shook his head.
“Put that aside for a moment. That man—that assassin—knew exactly
what he was doing, and which keys to stroke. I doubt he expected
quite as vigorous a response to his taunts”—he grinned again—“but
he knew you would react the way you did. Who else has insulted our
Lemurian friends lately?”
“Reed.”
“Precisely. The thing
is, it didn’t matter if you responded or not. Say Chack had
responded. There’d be a duel. If neither you nor he responded, I’ll
wager Mr. Gray would have, and there’d be a duel.”
“Not without orders,”
the Bosun stated piously.
“Oh, don’t be absurd,
you ancient beast!” Courtney burst out. “Of course you would
have—but that’s not the commodore’s point, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Jenks
said. “There would have been a duel if that man had had to bite
your feet to provoke one. That’s what he does. All you lost by striking him was the dubious
advantage of choosing weapons.”
“I’m good with a
pistol,” Matt said.
“A licensed,
inspected, flintlock dueling pistol? Mmm. I thought not. That may
have made you almost even, at best. No, it will have to be swords
now, and you simply can’t beat him ... in the kind of fight he
expects. I doubt I could.”
Matt sat up
straighter, but didn’t speak.
“Well ... then how
come you jumped in too?” Gray demanded, a little loudly. He
glowered at a man at a nearby table who’d glanced up when he spoke.
Gray’s question was mirrored in the eyes of Jenks’s attractive
young wife, seated beside him. She had dark hair and was dressed
just as ridiculously as all the other women, but somehow she pulled
it off. She didn’t voice the question as Gray had, though; it
wasn’t her “place.”
“Why not? The
incident was obviously contrived. No doubt there was another
hireling in the crowd waiting to challenge me, or vice versa. I
simply beat them to it by publicly blaming Reed to see his
reaction—and the reaction of others. Most
interesting.”
“At least you get to
kill Reed,” Matt said, almost jealously.
“What? Oh, of course
not! He’ll hire a substitute. It’s his right as the offended party.
Can’t have people running around picking duels with others simply
because they dislike them or they’re weak,” he scoffed
sarcastically.
“Then ... why do
it?”
“Because it was contrived. ‘They’—Reed, the Company
... perhaps even Don Hernan, by the look on his face—have an
agenda, that’s plain. What isn’t at all clear is what it is ... and
what next Sunday has to do with it.” He became silent, thoughtful.
Matt looked at the others. Clearly he was missing something.
Finally, Jenks shook his head. “I did what I did to surprise them,
to see their unprotected reactions.”
“You’re gonna fight a
duel ’cause you wanted to see the look on their faces?” Gray
demanded.
“Quietly!” Jenks
cautioned. “We don’t want Them to know
that! Besides, once more, I presume I would have been compelled to
in any case. Consider this: if they only wanted us dead, I assure
you they would resort to assassination. What do they have to gain
by a public duel?”
“Excuse me, Jenks,”
Matt said. “You keep forgetting we’re new here. Dueling’s illegal
in the U.S. Navy! What do you mean, public?”
Jenks looked around
the table. He even had Courtney’s attention now. “Oh. I see. I was
beginning to wonder why you were being so obtuse! Duels in the
Empire are very public affairs. That’s probably why there aren’t
more of them. They’re not rare, by any means, but I suspect some
are more afraid of the crowd than they would be of an opponent on
the field!”
“Crowd? Like
this?”
Jenks almost laughed.
“Um ... not exactly.”
“Bigger?”
“Exponentially. Even
under normal circumstances.”
“Normal?” Courtney
asked.
Jenks sighed. “I am,
deserving or not, a fairly well-known personality. Particularly in
certain circles.” He grimaced. “I’ve been ‘on the field’ twice
before, for various reasons.” He patted his wife’s hand when it
suddenly touched his arm. “On both occasions, the event was ...
quite a spectacle.”
“That’s it!” Courtney
said emphatically, and Matt began to nod.
“Indeed. It must be,”
Jenks said seriously. “Imagine the spectacle at a multiple duel
involving not only myself but the primary representative of the
first ‘new’ people the Empire has encountered in over a century.
The spectacle is the
thing!”
“And the timing,”
Matt reminded.
“The timing,” Jenks
agreed. “I’m convinced of it! Somehow, our arrival or the impending
arrival of Achilles—perhaps their
belief that the princess is aboard her or that we have some proof
of their scheme—has put that scheme, whatever it is, in
jeopardy!”
“Ahem,” said
Courtney. The table grew silent and they all looked up to see
Andrew, the Governor-Emperor’s man, approaching. Without waiting to
be invited, he sat.
“His Majesty has
asked me ta ask all of ye, quote: ‘What in the name o’ God those
fish-headed sailors think they’re about?’ Ah, end quote.” He looked
around the table severely.
Jenks looked at the
man with a calculating expression. “How long have we known each
other, Andrew?”
The man blinked, but
stared right back. “I’m forty,” he said. “Ye and His Majesty is
both thirty-nine. As the eldest, I was in charge when we all first
went a’fishin’ at the docks when we was tots. The Empress Mother,
bless her lovely, sweet soul, bade me take ye both, as well as
young Sean, sport shootin’ in the Highlands for the first time when
I was ten, so ye an’ His Majesty woulda’ been nine. Ye got excited
reloadin’ fer a second shot at a dragon foul, an’ fired yer rammer
away. Ye cried.” Andrew sighed. “I stayed on when ye an’ Sean went
off ta sea, ta fight Dom pirates an’ have yer fun. It was I, stood
by His Majesty when his mother died, an’ the ... Rebellion came.
Aye, even then! An’ it’s me that’s stayed ta brother him when his
sweet daughter was lost. You tell me, Harvey Jenks, how long have
we known one another?”
Jenks nodded and
looked at Captain Reddy. “Andrew Bates,” he explained, ironically, and Matt’s eyes
widened. Jenks looked back at Andrew. “I’m sorry, old friend, but
we can leave nothing to chance, and I wanted Captain Reddy to trust
you as I do. Tell His Majesty that by leaping into the enemy’s web,
we may have snared him in ours. We’re convinced that something will
happen next Sunday, either at or during the duel.”
“What do ye think
it’ll be?”
Jenks held out his
hands. “We’ve no idea, not yet, but whatever it is, it will be for
‘all the marbles,’ as my friends here would say. We have a week to
uncover the plot.”
“I believe I already
know,” Chack said suddenly. “Not what they hope to gain, but I
suspect I understand the reason for the provocation tonight.” He
looked at Jenks, blinking intensity. “I will tell you ... if you
tell me how to save Captain Reddy from that ...
aas-saassin.”
“Chack!” Matt
reprimanded.
Jenks chuckled. “Oh,
no, that’s quite all right.” He looked at Chack. “Do you believe me
when I say I have a plan—in that respect at least?”
Chack blinked
skeptically, then nodded. “Yes.” His tail twitched and he looked
around the table. “You may be right about the reasons for this
‘duel’ thing, but regardless how it started, I believe you were the ultimate target, Commodore Jenks, not
Captain Reddy. You say a lot of people will come to witness this
duel, this fight. More than are here?”
“That’s
right.”
“Many will come just
to watch?”
“Yes.”
“Who will come to
support you? To be on your side? To be your friend?”
“Why, I expect ...”
Jenks’s face paled in the torchlight. “Oh my God! Captain Reddy, I
apologize. It wasn’t you who was
‘suckered,’ it was me! I won’t be fighting him, but my duel is, in
essence, against Reed! The vast majority of those who will come to
directly support me against him are Marine and Naval officers ...
and we don’t dare tell them to stay away!”