Rising Tides (3 page)

“It was an act of war!” Matt reminded him. “Besides the hostages he took, he destroyed Allied property and killed people when he did it!”

“Rest assured, Captain Reddy, I shan’t forget. It will be our business, yours and mine, to convince the proper people—hopefully the Governor-Emperor himself—just how significant an act that was, not only from the perspective of avoiding conflict between our peoples, but how that might affect our future cooperation against the Grik.” He frowned. “Trust me in this—having seen and fought those vicious buggers, I’m quite a fervent convert to your assertion that they pose a monstrous threat not only to our way of life but to all life on this world.” He gestured around at the compartment and, by implication, the proceedings underway. “This unpleasant business will have been
expected
of us, and not to put too fine a point upon it, many of these traitorous scum will actually escape the hangman if the Company is allowed to take a hand. In that case, not only will justice never be served, but we might find
ourselves
in the dock facing a—I believe you call it a ‘stacked deck.’ If we hope to accomplish anything when we reach New Britain, ours must be the official, legal, indisputable account of the events that have transpired.”

There came a knock on the passageway bulkhead beyond the beautifully embroidered curtain that had replaced the vile, stained pea green curtain that had hung there when Matt first took command of USS
Walker
a lifetime ago. The new curtain was still green so as not to clash with the cracked and bulging green linoleum tiles on the deck, but some Lemurian artist had lovingly embroidered the U.S. Navy seal and “USS
Walker
, DD-163” in gold and colored thread. The thing was beautiful, and in stark contrast to the spartan interior of the wardroom.

“Enter,” said Matt after a slight hesitation.

Juan Marcos, the bold, inscrutable little Filipino steward who had, by force of will alone, established himself as Matt’s personal steward/ butler/secretary, moved the curtain aside with a grim expression. The final prisoner to come before them was none other than the captain of
Ulysses
, the flagship of the Company squadron that had attacked them and then fled so ignominiously in the face of
Walker
’s vengeful salvos. As flagship,
Ulysses
carried the greatest weight of metal and the most powerful guns. She had most likely been the ship that fired those first unexpected broadsides that damaged Matt’s ship and killed several of her crew. The Company captain’s later protestations of innocence and remorse only added to the contempt in which
Walker
’s crew held him. He was a murderer and a coward. Currently, only his cowardice was on display. When the ’Cat Marines practically carried him into the compartment and he saw his own sword laid upon the table, its point arranged in his direction, he already knew the verdict and began to blubber. Any sympathy Matt might have felt toward the man evaporated, and his voice was harsh when he spoke.

“Captain Moline, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a naval officer and are therefore not subject to punishment for certain infractions of the Imperial Articles of War of which you have been accused—even though it’s my understanding you did swear, upon receiving your HNBC commission, that you’d abide by those articles. That being the case, this court has no choice but to find you not guilty of the crimes specified under articles two, three, four, twelve, thireen, fifteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-seven of which you’ve been charged.”

Matt had never considered himself a cruel man, but he couldn’t stop himself from pausing, ever so slightly. Just long enough to see the first rays of hope begin to bloom in Captain Moline’s eyes. He abruptly continued, in the same harsh tone.

“However, even as a civilian, you’re still subject to certain specifications within those military articles, and of course you’re entirely subject to numerous civil charges as they exist for the protection and punishment of non-military subjects of Imperial law. No provincial Assize court or Home Circuit being in the vicinity, it’s my understanding that, according to Imperial law, this court must assume the duties normally prescribed for them. If you were being tried by a civil court, you’d certainly face at least the charges of high treason against your sovereign and nation, piracy, and attempted murder of a member of the Imperial family. I could add other charges, but there’d be no point. Any of these are capital crimes, and this court finds you guilty of all specifications.”

“But ...” Moline floundered desperately. “I was following orders! The orders of a representative of the Prime Proprietor’s personal factor!”

Matt paused and took an exasperated breath. He glanced at his notes. “Yes. You testified that a ‘Mr. Brown’ presented you with sealed orders that were to be opened in the event you sighted this ship—a ‘dedicated steamer with four funnels,’ you said. You also said these orders directed you to lure the described steamer as close as possible and destroy it without warning.”

“Despicable orders, but orders nevertheless!” pleaded Moline.

Matt continued relentlessly. “Orders you did not question? Commodore Jenks assures me that even masters of Company vessels are free . . . are
required
to question orders they consider criminal or immoral—it’s in your charter!”

“Much of what is in the charter has no meaning now,” Moline moaned. “Questioning orders is no longer encouraged or even allowed!”

“The charter reflects Imperial law. It does not supersede it!” Jenks accused. “Neither do the orders of rogue Company officials! Regardless of what the Company might or might not encourage or allow, you are still subject to Imperial law!”

Moline looked at Jenks and his eyes grew dull. “You have been gone a long time, Commodore. Who are you to say what supersedes what?”

Jenks jumped to his feet. “Honor supersedes treachery!” he practically shouted. “Duty to the Governor-Emperor supersedes any conceivable ‘duty’ to a Company ... creature . . . in the office of the Prime Proprietor!” With a visible force of will, he composed himself. When he continued, his voice was dry and emotionless.

“If your ‘Mr. Brown’ had not been so conveniently killed in the exchange of shot with this ship, perhaps some of what you say might be verified and your own guilt mitigated to a slight degree, but not enough to save you from a rope.” He glanced at his own notes. “You testified that these ‘sealed orders’ were destroyed as soon as you were acquainted with them, so clearly even ‘Mr. Brown’ recognized their criminal nature. It has been established by numerous witnesses that Ensign Parr, whom I dispatched aboard
Agamemnon
, duly reported to the first authorities he met—Company officials!—the survival and rescue of the princess, as well as her intention to take passage on this ship. Numerous witnesses—virtually
Agamemnon
’s entire original crew!—also report that they were transferred and sequestered aboard
Icarus
, a less powerful and capable ship, before they could report to any naval or Imperial authorities. Finally, both
Icarus
and
Agamemnon
were pressed into Company service! Imperial Navy ships and crews were illegally seized by, and placed into the service of, Company pirates bent on committing high treason! Regardless of any ‘sealed orders,’ these acts were no secret to you. That you continued in command of
Ulysses
is abundant proof that you made no objection to these other crimes at least, and obviously made no attempt to thwart them! Even if you are as utterly stupid as you would have us believe, you are at the very least guilty of being an accessory to a blatant act of piracy!”

Jenks paused, catching himself. His voice had begun to rise again and his fury toward not only Captain Moline but the HNBC itself threatened to overwhelm him. Matt suspected Jenks’s emotions were stirred by terror as well: not physical terror—he knew Jenks was no coward—but a growing terror of what they might discover his precious Empire had become in his absence. Matt could identify with that kind of terror: he felt it at the edge of his consciousness every moment of every day. He somehow managed to function and perform his duties—he had no choice—but he was genuinely terrified for the safety of one Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, who even now was still in the maniacal hands of the Company minion, Walter Billingsley . . . as far as they knew.

Matt cleared his throat. “Further demonstrations, protestations, or even admonitions are pointless at this stage. As previously stated, Captain Moline, you’ve been found guilty of the crimes described by Commodore Jenks. It is therefore the order of this court that you be taken from this place to the deck of the pirate prize
Ulysses
, where, according to the customs of your service, you will be bound hand and foot and hanged by the neck until you’re dead.” Matt glanced from the frozen form of the prisoner to the two Marines. “Get this bastard out of my sight.”

Brad “Spanky” McFarlane scrutinized the toil underway in the crew’s forward berthing space with a critical but generally satisfied eye. Standing in the steamy compartment where hardly anyone ever actually slept, he struck his trademark pose—hands on his skinny hips, his absolute authority over everything in his domain radiating from his diminutive but powerfully wiry frame. Before him, a party of’Cats adjusted shoring timbers while two men held torches against a warped steel plate, heating it to a dull reddish orange. Radiant heat from the torches and the steel they played against only added to the stifling temperature of the berthing space, even with the portholes open. Absently, Spanky wondered again what kind of idiot designed this ship and so many like her with the portholes in the forward berthing space so close to the waterline that they could almost never be opened—at least not in any kind of sea, or while the ship was underway. If it hadn’t been for the meager light they provided in daytime, he probably would’ve plated over them during the reconstruction.

Periodically, the smoking timbers were pounded against the plate, pushing it a little closer to where it had been before the large roundshot bent it inward. It was the last one; all the others that had been displaced nearby had already been reformed. The racket of the sledges against the timbers in the confined space was terrific.

“Almost there, Lieuten-aant McFaar-lane,” cried a ’Cat between blows. Spanky nodded. He was far more than a mere lieutenant now, he was “Minister of Naval Engineering,” or something like that, but he didn’t care. Usually he couldn’t even remember whether his “official” Navy rank was lieutenant commander or commander, but it couldn’t have mattered less to him. Nobody would try to tell him what to do when it came to his area of expertise, and right now, aboard USS
Walker
, doing what he was doing, he was the ship’s engineering lieutenant, and that was it. As far as he could recollect, he and the Skipper were the only officers currently on the ship still performing their “old jobs.”

Spanky and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear were inspecting the final touches on the repairs to
Walker
’s hull. They’d already fixed several similar perforations acquired during the sharp action with the Company traitors. The hole that opened up the forward engine room had been the worst, not only puncturing the hull—right at a frame—but also knocking a double hole through one of the saddle bunkers. They’d salvaged most of the fuel, pumping it into bunkers they’d already run dry. They even saved most of what leaked into the bilge, just in case, but fixing that damage had been their most critical and difficult repair. They had found the roundshot that made the holes—and nearly took Brian Aubrey’s head off—rolling around in the bilge. Jenks identified it as a thirty-pounder. This struck everyone odd, since the Grand Alliance had sort of based its shot sizes on the old British system, and its closest equivalent was a thirty-two-pounder. The Brits themselves seemed to have abandoned the very system they brought with them—or adopted another. Oh, well, that wasn’t Spanky’s concern beyond the proof it provided concerning who’d shot it into them.
Ulysses
carried thirty-pounders. Even now, unless he missed his guess, her skipper was swinging for it.

“Nice to be able to fix something right for a change,” Bashear rumbled. It was a positive statement, but still came out with a tone of complaint.

“Yeah. Havin’ enough guys for a job makes a difference—not to mention havin’ somethin’ to do it with.”

Their labor pool and equipment list were far better than they’d ever been when they’d attempted similar repairs in the past; they had spare plate steel, rivets, and plenty of acetylene—even if it popped and sputtered—and
Walker
’s crew was actually somewhat over complement for a change too. Almost two-thirds of that crew was Lemurian now, but they took up less space and more would fit. Many were Chack’s Marines, who had shipboard duties as well. Spanky was generally satisfied with the growing professionalism and competency of all their “new” ’Cats, and he’d long been pleased with the “old hands,” who’d signed on as cadets when
Walker
first dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay, but there was just no way he’d ever get used to certain aspects of this new navy they’d created.

He sneezed. Lemurians sweated more like horses than men, kind of “lathering up.” They also panted. Bradford said they’d developed this somewhat unique method of heat exchange due to their environment. They also shed like crazy, and Spanky was allergic to the downy filaments that floated everywhere belowdecks when they were hard at work.

“C’mon, Carl,” he said. “These apes and snipes are working together so well it turns my stomach.” There were grins at that. “I don’t think we need to keep starin’ at them to keep them away from each other’s throats.”

“I just don’t understand it,” Bashear commiserated. “Whatever happened to tradition? Where’s the pride? You’d almost think they
like
each other, to look at ’em get on so. Ain’t natural.”