Maelstrom (15 page)

“Antsy,” tried Keje. “It means nervous, but not afraid, correct?”

“Sort of.”

“Hmm. A new word to add to a new phrase I learned from Mr. Braad-furd today. He just said he came up here to speak to you about his new liz-aard.” He wrinkled his nose. “What a stench! Must he dismember his toys so close to the galley? Mr. Laan-ier has threatened his life! In any event, he told us you did not even notice his presence, that you were in a ‘brown study,’ whatever that might be.”

“Is it much like ‘antsy’?” Adar asked.

Matt’s smile turned genuine. “Maybe a little. I think ‘brown study’ is more like ‘thinking disturbing thoughts.’ Add ‘antsy’ to it, and I guess that’s a pretty good description.” He sipped his coffee and grimaced. It had grown cold.

“I am ‘antsy’ as well,” Adar confessed. “Reports from home are reassuring, yet . . . perhaps too reassuring?”

Matt nodded. “The farther we get from home, the more I think how unlike the Grik it is for them to just sit pat and goof around. Their warriors might be mindless killing machines, but there’s a brain behind them, something that aims them and turns them loose. Those Hij. Just think of the logistics required to support a force their size, to equip it and build the ships to move it.” He shook his head. “I just can’t shake the feeling that they’re up to something.”

They finally knew a little about their enemy now, thanks to the charts, logbooks, and other papers they’d captured aboard their various prizes. They’d even taken a few of the enemy alive for a change, although no information had been forthcoming from them. They’d seemed insane, but with no comparisons they couldn’t confirm that. Regardless, the prisoners all died within days of being placed in captivity, either from the wounds that let them be captured, or other unknown causes. But some information had been gleaned. They’d discovered before, to their horror, that a lot of Grik formal correspondence was printed in English. Whatever bizarre language they spoke, English seemed their official or liturgical written language, much as Latin served the ’Cats. For the Grik, however, English was a captured language they’d probably adopted of necessity to make sense of the information they’d captured with the East Indiaman so long ago. Matt felt a twinge when he thought about how those ancient British mariners must have been persuaded to reveal their secrets. Latin was given to the Lemurians willingly, from two other East Indiamen that decided to sail east instead of west, after all three came to this world the same way
Walker
had. They’d apparently used Latin so only approved information could be funneled to the ’Cats, and not just anybody aboard could communicate with them. Fortunately, the westbound ship had been stripped of her guns and powder.

In any event, they still didn’t know what drove the Grik to such extremes of barbarity, but they’d learned a little about their social structure from the captured documents. For example, they now knew the average Grik warrior came from a class referred to as Uul, and they possessed primary characteristics strikingly similar to ants or bees. Some were bigger than others, some more skilled at fighting. Some even seemed to have some basic concept of self. All, however, were slavishly devoted to a ruling class called the Hij, who manipulated them and channeled and controlled their instinctual, apparently mindless ferocity. There were different strata of Hij as well. Some were rulers and officers; others were artisans and bureaucrats. Regardless of their position, they constituted what was, for all intents and purposes, an elite aristocracy collectively subject to an obscure godlike emperor figure. Nothing more about their society was known.

The Hij were physically identical to their subjects, but were clearly intelligent and self-aware to a degree frighteningly similar to humans and their allies. They didn’t seem terribly imaginative, though, and so far that had proved their greatest weakness.

“We know they plan to attack us at Baalkpan. Isn’t that enough?”

Matt looked at Keje and sighed. “I don’t think so. I don’t
feel
so.” He watched the men and ’Cats working on the foredeck under the glowering gaze of Silva and Chack. Both stood side by side, hands on their hips, occasionally trading comments. Silva, in his stained khakis and battered hat, towered above the furry, muscular, brindled ’Cat in the red kilt and white T-shirt. For now, in his bosun’s-mate persona, Chack had traded his usual helmet for a white cotton “Dixie cup” hat like most of the enlisted destroyermen wore. Silva, in exasperation, moved to show a group of ’Cats how to run a long shaft with a bristle brush down the muzzle of the number one gun. For a moment he was partially obscured by the patched and dented splinter shield, but then he stepped back, evidently watching his pupils perform the task. He shouted instructions that were swallowed by the wind before they reached the bridge, then nodded. A few moments later the big chief gunner’s mate returned to where Chack was standing, Wiping his brow with a rag, he resumed their conversation.

It struck Matt again how harmoniously the two races worked together. Once, not long ago, some of his destroyermen might have objected to sharing their labor, berthing spaces, even the drinking fountain on the side of the huge, ridiculously exposed refrigerator on deck, with another human who just happened to be a different color. Now those same men worked companionably alongside “people” of an entirely different species. He was gratified there’d been so few instances of racism—none at all after the mysterious disappearance of a certain
Mahan
crew member, who’d reportedly been something of a problem—but he couldn’t help being amused by the irony. He knew the camaraderie of his integrated crew would be tested, eventually, in the cauldron of combat, and he believed it would withstand the test; humans and Lemurians had fought well together so far. But the coming test seemed so far beyond their capacity. No matter how well they got along, or how well trained they were when the Grik—and
Amagi
!—finally came in force, they were just too few and
Walker
too frail. Strangely, though, he no longer dreaded the inevitable confrontation; he almost welcomed it . . . but he
was
antsy.

CHAPTER 4

Nothing yet, Cap-i-taan,” hailed the muted, yowly voice of the Lemurian lookout in the mizzen-top above. Lieutenant Greg Garrett, former gunnery officer of USS
Walker
, now captain of the brand-new sailing frigate USS
Donaghey
, could barely discern the speaker from the predawn gloom, but knew the lookout’s eyesight was much better than his own. With watchers at all three mastheads, the little flotilla of refugee-laden barges would undoubtedly be seen as soon as it pushed off from shore. He paced the length of the darkened quarterdeck. The almost entirely Lemurian crew went about their duties professionally, quietly, leaving him room to pace and think. He paused for a moment by the smooth, polished rail and peered intently at the hazy shore.
Donaghey
was hove to, with nothing to do but wait, less than two miles from the treacherous breakers.

The ship was Garrett’s first command, and he loved her for that, but he also loved her classic lines and intrinsic beauty. He was highly conscious of the singular honor of being named her first commander. Those given the “prize ships” could never quite get over who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners, and the acts performed aboard them, tainted them forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed. They’d been found adrift, mostly, damaged by
Walker
’s guns during her escape from Aryaal and the battle that cost them
Nerracca
. Boarding parties faced ferocious, if uncoordinated defenders, but some of the Grik “survivors” went into an apparently mindless panic Bradford called “Grik Rout,” and simply leaped over the side. No one would ever know for certain how many defenders there’d actually been. Hundreds were slain in the brutal fighting aboard the several ships, but more met their fate in the sea, and the water around the ships had churned as the voracious “flashies” fed. Allied losses had been high, particularly when they fought to rescue any Lemurian “livestock” they found chained in the enemy holds. Just as when they first captured
Revenge
, the sights they saw in those dark, dank abattoirs prevented the ship’s new owners from ever being able to love them.

No such stigma clung to USS
Donaghey
, and her people loved her unreservedly. She was larger than the prizes, with a more modern and extreme hull configuration that, combined with her more efficient sail plan, made her considerably faster than the enemy ships. She was a true frigate too, being armed with twenty-eight precious, gleaming guns.

Unfortunately, she was one of only three such ships likely ever to be built. She was considered a transition, a stopgap. Future variants would combine steam and sails and therefore sacrifice some of their purity and grace. But this was war, and one took every advantage one could when the consequence of defeat was extinction.

They’d bloodied the enemy at Aryaal and in the following actions, but if the charts they captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings were to be believed, the Grik could quickly replace their losses. They apparently bred like rabbits, and according to Bradford’s theories, their young reached mature lethality in about five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival—not to mention victory—they needed innovation. That was why there were so few humans in Garrett’s crew. Combined, the surviving destroyermen from
Walker
and
Mahan
numbered just a little over a hundred and twenty. Forty were still aboard
Walker
, and twenty or so were on
Mahan
. The rest were involved in various projects and training regimens they’d need to build the army and navy they needed to survive. The skills and experience of every last destroyerman had become not only essential, but irreplaceable. Garrett found it ironic at times that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who’d wound up in this place—men once considered by some to be the dregs of the Navy—were now an indispensable, priceless resource. They were the core, the innovators, the trainers of the native force needed to see them through, and there were not nearly enough hands and minds for all the work.

Certainly great work had already been accomplished. They’d transformed the nomadic, insular, and, in some cases, fiercely isolationist Lemurians into seasoned, professional soldiers and sailors. But their ranks had been horribly thinned as well. Recruitment was constant, and hopefully Captain Reddy’s diplomatic mission to the land that had been the Philippines would bear fruit. In the meantime, they had to make do with what they had, and there just weren’t enough of them. Part of Greg’s current assignment was to try to remedy that to some small degree.

When the Grik armada swept down from Singapore and forced the Allied Expeditionary Force to abandon the city of Aryaal, as well as the island of B’mbaado, Aryaal had been thoroughly evacuated, but there’d been little time. Hundreds, perhaps thousands had been left behind on the island, and its queen protector, Safir Maraan, had sworn to get them out. So had the Americans. Therefore, a series of stealthy nighttime missions had been undertaken to rescue as many B’mbaadans as they could from under the very snouts of the Grik. So far there’d been few incidents or encounters, and quite a few refugees had been carried away. The Grik were not yet as thick on the island as they might have been. The cream of a portion of their invasion force had been mauled by
Walker
on its way to Baalkpan. Only about half of their “Grand Swarm” had been diverted to Java, and when the rest were turned back, they became busy repairing
Amagi
, consolidating their gains, and rebuilding the walls and fortifications of the cities the retreating force had destroyed. That meant
Donaghey
“only” had to avoid around two hundred and fifty ships and a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand crazed, ravenous warriors. But again, so far it had been a snap. Over the last couple of months Jim Ellis had made several trips in command of one of the prize ships, and either the Grik were unaware the missions were taking place, or they just didn’t care. Their ships seemed content to remain at anchor in Aryaal/B’mbaado Bay, and let the rescuers come and go at will. Perhaps they just didn’t know there was still a sizable number of Lemurians clustered on the southeastern shores of B’mbaado. Greg Garrett felt relieved, but also strangely cheated. His new ship was more than a match for any Grik ships yet encountered, and he yearned to strike a blow.

Before the war began, the Grik had no concept of gunpowder, and their artillery was limited to a ballistic device that hurled clay pots full of incendiary substances. “Grik Fire,” it was called. Garrett would have loved nothing more than to pound a few Grik ships into floating splinters and send a few hundred of their warriors to the ravenous, waiting jaws of the hungry fish. At the same time, he’d seen enough of war by now to know that once any battle was joined, there was no way to predict what would happen. Every encounter carried a measure of risk, and in this war, surrender wasn’t an option. Much as he yearned to lash out against their loathsome enemies, he’d be content with the successful and uneventful completion of his mission.

He paced the quarterdeck again, conscious that he might appear nervous, but he couldn’t help himself. In addition to his mission, he’d also been entrusted with the safety of the headstrong Queen Maraan, who’d personally gone ashore to gather her people, and Pete Alden, once a simple sergeant and now the commander of all allied land forces, who’d accompanied her. Safir Maraan could usually take care of herself. She was a charismatic leader and a skilled warrior in her own right, but those were the very qualities that made her too precious to risk. At least, as far as Garrett was concerned. Not to mention that he personally liked her quite a lot, and she was betrothed to his friend Chack-Sab-At. In spite of a clear understanding of her important role, Safir Maraan remained committed to an oath she’d sworn to personally rescue the people she’d left behind, no matter the cost. To her, no role could supersede that of queen protector of B’mbaado.

Pete Alden accompanied her for little good reason Greg could see, besides imposing a measure of vigilance and reason upon her. In military matters she’d acknowledged him as her superior, and he probably hoped he could prevent her from doing anything rash if the rescue met with difficulty. That was how he justified it, anyway. Garrett thought there might be more to it. In spite of being their land force commander, Pete had mostly been on the sidelines of the war so far. He’d participated in the boarding action that captured
Revenge
, but since then he’d been consumed by the necessity of improving Baalkpan’s defenses. He’d missed the Battle of Aryaal, and Garrett sensed a supreme unwillingness on the Marine’s part to send others into situations he hadn’t shared. Going ashore in this instance probably had as much to do with that as anything else. Besides, this mission was their last, and Queen Maraan’s great general, Haakar-Faask, would come off with the final refugees and warriors he’d managed to gather, and Pete probably wanted to greet him personally. In any event, there were far more precious eggs in a dangerously exposed basket this morning than Greg Garrett would have liked.

High clouds appeared as wispy pink tendrils in the eastern sky, and the shore party was considerably overdue. Daylight might reveal the solitary ship to searching eyes, and just because the Grik hadn’t interfered with previous missions didn’t mean that would remain the case.

“They should have returned by now,” murmured Taak-Fas. The ’Cat was
Donaghey
’s sailing master, and Garrett’s second in command. Garrett turned to look at the brown-and-tan-furred officer. As usual, the strikingly feline face bore no expression, but his voice betrayed growing anxiety.

Garrett replied with a quick nod. “She’s pulled stunts like this before,” he said with a sigh. “Jim—Lieutenant Ellis—said she did it twice when he brought her here. She won’t leave anyone behind who’s at the appointed rendezvous. I can’t blame her, but this waiting sure is nerve-racking.”

“Why can’t the refugees just wait for us on the beach, and meet us when the shore party goes in for them?” The question came from Russ Chapelle, former Torpedoman First Class from
Mahan
, and now
Donaghey
’s gunnery officer, or master gunner. He’d stepped up to join the conversation.

Taak-Fas shook his head. “Grik scouts might see them while they wait for us. Also, since our ships look similar to the enemy’s, even painted differently, it might be difficult to persuade some civilian refugees to come out if we didn’t meet them at an inland rendezvous.”

“On deck,” came a sudden cry from above. “Three barges in the surf.”

Russ grinned with relief. “Well. All that good worryin’ wasted.”

It was much lighter now. Garrett raised his binoculars and studied the three wide-beamed boats laboring through the breaking waves. They were packed to overflowing with Lemurians of every color. Most looked thin and haggard.
Understandable
, he mused grimly,
after all they’ve had to endure
. He focused the binoculars on a figure standing in the bow of the center barge, and could just make out the black-furred form of Queen Maraan, resplendent in her silver breastplate and helmet. Alden’s distinctive, imposing form was beside her, as was a ’Cat wearing battered armor over a stained leather smock that stood almost as tall as the Marine. “It’s about time,” he grumped. “Have the boarding nets rigged, and prepare to bring them aboard. As soon as they have been, we’ll make sail. Shape a course for Baalkpan.” He paused and grinned at his subordinates. “We’ve been goofing around here long enough.”

Just then, another cry came from the masthead.

“Sail! Two sails . . . Three!”

“Where away?” Garrett shouted. For a moment the lookout fumbled with the words. Most of
Donaghey
’s crew could speak at least a little English by now, but sometimes the nautical terms of the Americans were confusing. The ones pertaining exclusively to square-rigged ships were still awkward even for Greg. He’d had little sailing experience back home, and competent as he’d forced himself to become, most of his knowledge of sailing terms, practices, and commands came from an old book entitled
A Manual for Young Sea Officers in the Service of Her Majesty’s Navy.
The book, like so many others they’d found of use, was a legacy of
Walker
’s long-dead surgeon, Doc Stevens, and his eclectic library. It was authored by a retired British admiral in the 1870s, during the transition to steam-powered warships that still used sails as well as engines.

“Port . . . ? Port bow.”

Garrett redirected his binoculars and thought he saw something against the purple horizon, but wasn’t sure. The lookout was certain, however, and he trusted the ’Cat. He glanced aloft at the floating pennant and turned until the wind blew directly in his face. “Not good,” he said aloud to himself. “They have the wind in their favor.”

“So what?” Chapelle shrugged. “What are they gonna do? If they get too close we’ll blow the hell out of them.”

Garrett spared him a glance. “If they get here before the boats do, they could stop us from loading the refugees. They might even attack the boats themselves.”

Chapelle’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to get ready for them?”

“By all means. Clear for action and sound general quarters.”

A rapid, rhythmic gonging reverberated through the ship as the general alarm bell was struck. The tense mood of anticipation clutching the crew since before dawn was shattered by frenzied but purposeful activity. The decks were sanded, and overhead netting was rigged to protect against falling debris. Buckets with ropes attached were dropped over the side and hauled back aboard, filled with seawater. These were distributed around the deck and sent up to the tops to defend against enemy firebombs. Guns were loaded and run out, and soon the smell of smoldering slow match reached Garrett’s nose. Marines lined the quarterdeck rail with their bows, and the few armed with Krag rifles scampered into the tops, prepared to pick off the enemy officers.
Donaghey
’s well-drilled crew prepared for battle very quickly, but by the time they were finished, the enemy was clear to see from deck, and the brightening sun shone upon the leaning pyramids of canvas.