Maelstrom (10 page)

He saw Silva on top of the amidships deckhouse gun platform, drilling a mixed human/Lemurian crew on the number three four-inch-50 gun. The long barrel was trained out to sea, and its crew was going through the motions of loading it. Terrifying as they’d be to the trainees, Spanky thought Silva’s bellowed epithets were just as inventive and amusing as usual. In fact, any casual observer wouldn’t have noticed any change at all in the new (acting) chief gunner’s mate—his recent run-in with the captain over the now epic “Super Lizard Safari” being ample proof he was the same old Silva.

Spanky knew better. He also knew that the public dressing-down Dennis got over the incident was a sham for the crew. The captain was just as glad as anyone that the monster that got Tony was dead, and the killing had been good for overall morale. Spanky also suspected the captain knew Silva—and Stites—had done it for that exact reason as much as any other, and not just as the usual stupid stunt it would once have been written off as. The proof was that, for once, Silva hadn’t been reduced in grade for his “stunt.” His only punishment at all, in fact, had been restriction to the ship for the duration of their mission. (Like he would really want to go anywhere.) Besides, the last thing they needed, even changed as he was, was Silva on the loose in Manila during diplomatic negotiations.

Apparently, the only thing Captain Reddy was really mad about was that they’d risked Courtney Bradford. Of course, there’d been an element of relief associated with that as well. Bradford had been driving them all nuts with his constant demands to study stuff. Now he had a fresh (albeit shot to pieces) super lizard skull to gawk at and display, and an entertaining, ever-expanding story of heroism and adventure to go along with it. Maybe now there’d be a short respite.

After “feeling” the aft engine room, Spanky moved to the rail and spit a long, yellowish stream in their wake. After a final, wistful survey of the beautiful day he probably wouldn’t see again, he dropped down the companionway into the engineering spaces below. The noise of the giant turbines quickly grew louder as he descended, and he was immediately faced with a shouted altercation between the new (acting) chief machinist’s mate, Dean Laney, and one of the ’Cat Marines.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he bellowed. Despite his diminutive frame and years of smoking, there was nothing wrong with his lungs. Laney, a slightly shorter, less depraved, but also less bold and imaginative “snipe” version of Silva, glared down at him through beaded sweat and bulging eyes. The Lemurian Marine came to attention and merely stood, staring straight ahead. He was short, like most ’Cats, but heavily muscled. Around his waist was the dark blue kilt that had evolved as the unofficial Marine uniform. Three thin red stripes around the hem made him a sergeant, and to gain that rank he had to be a veteran of savage fighting. That was the only kind of fighting there was in this terrible war. His apelike feet were shod with thick leather soles held on by crisscrossing straps wound up to his knees. In battle he’d wear bronze greaves, breastplate, and helmet, and carry a short stabbing sword, bow, and spear.

“This goddamn monkey wants some of my guys to go topside and help sort out their mess, like we ain’t got enough to do down here!” Laney complained. He watched Spanky’s brows knit together as he furiously chewed his quid. “Sir,” he appended.

“I told you last night we’d have to help,” Spanky growled. “Our guys left pieces of the rig scattered around the deck like tinker toys. Half the deck-apes aren’t even Navy; they’re Chack’s Marines.”

Technically, the Marines weren’t Chack’s; they were from the First Marine Regiment—some of whom were armed with the fortunate windfall of Krag rifles. They’d become as deadly with the things as their limited practice would allow, but most had seen little action in the war so far. Aboard ship, however, Chack had returned to his old duties as bosun’s mate to the ’Cats, using the Marines as crew.

“But there’s only so much even he can do,” Spanky continued. “Hell, most of his Marines are Baalkpans—land folk. Can’t even tie a knot. Even the ones from Homes might as well have spent their lives on battlewagons or flattops. They aren’t used to the way the old gal rolls and pitches and they’re pukin’ their guts out.” His tone softened slightly, and a trace of amusement crept into it. “I know you’re just guarding your turf, and Chief Donaghey left mighty big shoes to fill in that regard, but you have to bend a little.”

Laney looked unconvinced. “All right, Spanky. I hear you. But we’re covered in shit down here. After all the repairs, this is like her sea trials all over again. Everything needs adjusting, and the feed-water pump on number three don’t sound right. Gauges are all over the place, and we’re makin’ smoke!”

McFarlane nodded. “All but number two. When the new firemen are off duty, have them go watch the Mice for a while. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

Laney rolled his eyes. “Those kooks? Besides, they’re some of the ones this monkey Marine wants. Says they built the rig in the first place, so they know what needs to go ashore first, and how it ought to be stowed.”

Spanky’s tone sharpened once again. “Yeah, they built the rig. They found the oil we’re burning too, if you’ll recall. And they’re also kooks. But they’re my kooks—and yours now, too—aside from being the best boilermen in the firerooms, so you’d better figure out how to handle them. We need those squirrelly little guys. Use them. They can’t teach with words worth a damn, but the new guys, the ’Cats, can learn by example.
Make
’em watch them.” He turned to the Marine. “You can run along now. I’ll send them up myself.”

When the ’Cat was gone, Spanky turned back to Laney. “Listen,” he said, “you’re doing a good job, but you need to get along better with the apes—I don’t care if they’re human or ’Cats. The bosun’s already casually referred to you as an asshole in my presence, and I’d take that as a powerful hint if I were you. You don’t want him on your bad side.” Laney gulped. There was no question about that. “The upper and lower deck rivalry exists for a purpose,” Spanky continued. “It spurs productivity and even camaraderie in a way. Besides, it’s fun. But don’t take it too seriously or let it go too far. Never lose sight of the fact we’re all on the same side.” He paused. “And
don’t
call ’em monkey Marines anymore. They don’t like it, and neither do I. It’ll just make you look bad in the eyes of the ’Cats in our own division. Don’t forget some of them—the best ones—were Marines before they were snipes. Clear?”

“Clear,” Laney grumbled.

“Good. Now see if you can sort out the feed water problem, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “How many of our guys did he say Chack wants?”

“Half a dozen or so.”

Spanky nodded. “Well, just keep working. I’ll pick ’em out as I move forward.”

With that, McFarlane eased past the sweating men and panting ’Cats and worked his way forward through the condensation-dripping maze of pipes and roaring machinery. The scene in the forward engine room was much the same, and after detailing a couple of guys topside to help Chack, he paused for a few words with the throttlemen. Continuing on, he cycled through the air lock to the aft fireroom. The firerooms had to operate in a pressurized environment to allow constant air and fuel flow so the fires would burn hot and steady. Once inside, he was greeted by yet more activity: men actually working on the feed-water pump, for example, as well as other things he thought were already fixed. He also noted a dramatic increase in temperature. It was probably a hundred and twenty degrees.

Sweat gushed in the hot, humid environment, and he wiped it from his face and flung it aside to join the slimy black slurry coating the plates beneath his feet. The stench was unbelievable. It was the usual combination of bilgewater, sweaty bodies, mildew, fuel oil, and smoke. Added to those was something more like wet dog than anything else he could think of. Ultimately, the sum was greater—and far more nauseating—than the parts. He didn’t know how the ’Cats, with their more sensitive noses, could keep their breakfasts down. Number four was offline while repairs were underway, but the ’Cat burner batter on number three stood panting, ready to replace the plate if the fuel tender called for it. The ’Cat looked miserable, and Spanky honestly couldn’t see how the furry little guys stood the heat. When they began accepting Lemurians into the Navy as full-fledged crew members, he’d never dreamed so many would strike for the engineering spaces. It was just too hot and confined. He’d been surprised when he was swamped with applications. ’Cats
loved
machinery, and regardless of the environment, they clambered to be close to the most complicated examples—like the engines and boilers. Some couldn’t hack it. Even the ones that stayed, and apparently thrived, shed their fur like mad, and tiny, downy filaments drifted everywhere. Even though they tried to clean it every day, the slurry on the deck and catwalks was tangled with the longer stuff to the point that, from one end of the fireroom to the other, it looked like a clogged shower drain. Every time he entered the firerooms he sneezed, but the ’Cats that stayed were diligent and enthusiastic, and he couldn’t have done without them. Maybe some didn’t understand everything they were doing, but they didn’t always have to, and they treated him like some sort of omniscient wizard.

He listened for a moment, as they expected him to, and occasionally touched a gauge or felt a pipe. It was only his normal routine, but it always left them wondering what mystical significance the act represented. He stifled a grin and nodded friendly greetings before sending a couple of the least occupied above. Passing through the next air lock, he entered the forward fireroom.

“Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, when, looking up, he was immediately greeted by a pair of large, naked, and entirely human-looking breasts (if you could get past the fine, soot gray fur covering them). “How many times do I have to tell you to wear some goddamn clothes? At least a shirt!”

“It too hot!” Tab-At (hence, Tabby to the other Mice) declared. Somehow, her slightly pidgin English also contained a hint of a drawl she’d picked up from the other “original” Mice.

“It’s no hotter than usual. You just do that to aggravate me,” Spanky complained, knowing it was true. When Tabby first came to the firerooms he’d thrown an absolute fit. To have females of any kind in his engineering spaces went against everything he stood for, from ancient tradition to his personal sense of propriety. He’d even tried to force the issue once by decreeing everyone under his command would perform their duties in full uniform, something never before required. It was a blatant attempt to get her to strike for a different, more comfortable division. All the Lemurian deck-apes, male or female, were required to wear only their kilts, after all. Tabby’s allies rose to the challenge, even so far as providing her with trousers—with a hole cut in the seat for her tail—and he realized he was being mocked.

He finally relented for several reasons: First, he recognized that his stance was ridiculous, and even the captain had decreed—surely reluctantly—that full equality of the sexes would be enforced aboard the ship. It was the Lemurian way, and with at least half the crew filled out with ’Cats, they certainly couldn’t antagonize their allies. Second, all the snipes suffered under the order, human as well as Lemurian. It
was
too hot for them to work efficiently under such regulations. Third, and perhaps most astonishing to him, Tabby made a damn good “fireman.” She was small and agile enough to perform many tasks that were difficult for others; she could scamper through the bilges like, well, an ape. She was probably the best burner batter aboard, and she’d proven herself absolutely fearless. Sometimes she had a little trouble with rough weather—many ’Cats did—but otherwise she was perfectly competent. Finally, she was probably the only ’Cat in his division that fully understood what she was doing and didn’t consider him some sort of mechanical mage. That came from her association with the irascible Mice, surely, but even though she’d virtually become one of them, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. She’d gotten his goat, and he respected that. She was supposed to be wearing a T-shirt, however.

He looked around the gloomy compartment, spotting a dingy shirt draped nearby, and knew she must have taken it off deliberately, just now, simply to “get his goat” again. The fur where it should have been was far too clean.

“Shirt. Now.”

Grinning, she retrieved the shirt and languorously pulled it over her head.

He rolled his eyes. Spotting the other Mice, Gilbert Yager and Isak Rueben, beyond her, he growled exasperatedly. “Why do you let her do that?” he demanded. “Next time I’m putting her on report, swear to God!”

Frowning grimly, the two men looked at each other. “Do what?”

No single word or phrase was adequate to describe the Mice. “Strange” came closest, but was still almost too specific. By their appearance, Isak and Gilbert might have been brothers. Both were intense, wiry little men with narrow faces and sharp, pointed noses that contributed much to the rodentlike impression they made. They were unfriendly and annoying to just about everyone they came in contact with. They never socialized, and back when there’d been one, they shunned the ship’s baseball team. They were quintessential “snipes”—firemen, to be precise—but they took it further than that. Given a choice, they’d never leave the sweltering heat of their beloved firerooms and the boilers they worshiped there. They were painfully insular and just as apparently unimaginative, but Spanky had learned there was more to them than met the eye. Normally their skins were pasty with a belowdecks pallor they worked hard to maintain, but now their exposed skin still bore the angry red-brown tans they’d accumulated while operating the first oil rig outside of Baalkpan. A rig they designed based on a type they were intimately, if ruefully, familiar with, from their years in the oil fields before escaping that hated life and joining the Navy.

They treated Tab-At like a puppy, and she followed them around like one. Since Spanky knew she certainly wasn’t, he suspected her association with them was, at least initially, an attempt to learn as much from them as she could. She’d worked with them on the previous rig and considered them enigmatic fonts of wisdom. When they spoke, if nobody understood what they were trying to say, it was because they were too stupid to understand the words. It never occurred to her that much of their irascibility was due to compensation for a profound shyness, and they spoke only monosyllabic words whenever they would serve. Presumably, she knew them better now, but instead of moving on with the knowledge she’d gleaned, she acted more and more like her mentors—except for the shyness. She obviously liked them, although he couldn’t imagine why. Their reaction to his obvious question didn’t seem feigned, and he couldn’t decide whether it was ignorance on their part, or a mental effort to block her full, rounded breasts from their consciousness.