"Crusade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Андерсон Тейлор)

CHAPTER 1

The morning general quarters alarm woke Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, and he automatically reached for the little chain beside his sweat-soaked bunk and pulled it. The cramped stateroom was bathed in a harsh white light as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Awareness came quickly, not instantly. He always took a mome to get his bearings when he’d been having the Dream, and he’d been right in the middle of it. The same one. It came almost every night and he knew it at the time, almost consciously, but he could never remember it when he woke. He just knew he’d had it again. Even while he dreamed, his subconscious seemed to blot out each sequence of events as soon as they occurred so he was aware only of what was happening at that very moment and, of course, the crippling dread of. something he knew was yet to come. Sometimes, like now, if he was disturbed before the Dream reached its horrible, inevitable conclusion, he’d carry a sense of it with him for a while. But, as usual, details vanished as soon as he opened his eyes, like roaches when the lights came on. Even now, the last vestiges of. whatever the Dream was diminished like a wisp of smoke in a gale. All he really knew for sure was that the Squall was involved. The Squall that had somehow delivered them from destruction at the hands of the Japanese, but only by marooning them in this twisted, alternate. alien world. A world geographically little different from the one they knew, but utterly different in every other conceivable way.

For a while he sat there, struggling to classify the dark, lingering emotional perceptions and taking inventory of the things he knew. They were under way; he could feel the vibration of the warm, dank deck beneath his bare feet. The unusual strain he perceived in the fibers of the ship indicated the «prize» was still under tow. Th determination to help their friends resist the Grik beyond even their earlier determination to resist the Japanese. After all, the Japanese — hated as they were — didn’t eat those they conquered. With the discovery of a human skull on the Grik ship, a skull that could have come only from Mahan, the war against the Grik became an American war as much as a Lemurian one. That they were the only Americans around, besides those they hoped still survived aboard Mahan, was immaterial. Walker would lead the struggle. The weary iron ship and her tired iron crew would drag the Lemurians out of the Bronze Age and build an army and whatever else was needed to take the fight to the enemy. Some progress had already been made, but much more would be required before they were ready to begin the crusade Matt had in mind.

He dressed quickly and pushed aside the pea green curtain that separated his stateroom from the short passageway through «officers’ country» between the wardroom and the companionway to the deck above. As he strode to the ladder, he almost collided with Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker as she emerged from her quarters, headed for her battle station in the wardroom/surgery. They maneuvered around each other in the confined space, each aware of the electric response that proximity aroused between them. Sandra was short, barely coming to Matt’s chin, but even with her sandy brown hair wrapped in a somewhat disheveled bun and her own eyes still puffy with sleep, she was the prettiest woman Matt had ever seen. Not beautiful, but pretty in a wholesome, practical, heart-melting way.

Sandra and five other Navy nurses had come aboard as refugees before Walker, Mahan, and three other ships abandoned Surabaya with the Japanese on their heels after the disastrous Battle of the Java Sea. In the running fight that followed, the British cruiser Exeter and the destroyers HMS Encounter and USS Pope were sunk by the remorselessly pursuing enemy, leaving Walker and Mahan to face Amagi—and the Squall — alone. In the frenzied action with the battle cruiser, the two destroyers were mauled, but they’d put at least two torpedoes into Amagi and when they came through the Squall, she was gone. They hoped they’d sunk her. Also gone, however, were half of Mahan’s crew and a quarter of Walker’s — including one of the nurses, killed in action.

Three of the surviving nurses went aboard Mahan to care for her many wounded and so, like the ship, they were lost to them. Only Sandra Tucker and Karen Theimer remained — on a ship full of rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyermen. So far, there’d been few problems, other than a mysterious altercation between some of Matt’s junior officers over Nurse Theimer’s affections, but Matt and Sandra had both early recognd he had to restrain a powerful urge to embrace her. Instead, he merely smiled.

«Morning, Lieutenant.»

«Good morning, Captain,» she replied, her face darkening slightly.

As quick as that, the moment was past, but Matt had a springier step as he trotted up the companionway stairs to the exposed deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge above.

«Captain on the bridge!» cried Lieutenant Garrett, the tall gunnery officer. He had the deck.

«As you were. Status?»

«Reports are still coming in, but we’re under time.»

Matt nodded and went to his chair, bolted to the forward part of the starboard side of the pilothouse. Sitting, he stared out at the blackness of the lingering, moonless night.

«All stations report manned and ready,» announced the bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds. His voice cracked. The seaman was so young-looking that Matt suspected puberty was to blame. He glanced at his watch in the dim reddish light. 0422.

«Not the best time, Mr. Garrett, but not the worst by a long shot.»

«No, sir.» In spite of the fact the Japanese were no longer a threat, it had become clear that other threats were still very real. Because of that, Matt insisted they maintain all wartime procedures, including predawn battle stations. It was during that time when the sky began to gray but the sea remained black that ships were most vulnerable to submarines, because the ship was silhouetted but the sub’s periscope was invisible. Matt wasn’t afraid of submarines, but there were other, even more terrifying things in the sea and it was always best to be prepared. Besides, even as the men groused and complained, it was a comforting routine and a clear sign that discipline would be maintained, regardless of their circumstances.

Slowly, the gray light came and lookouts, mostly Lemurian «cadets» because of their keen eyesight, scanned the sea from each bridgewing and the iron bucket «crow’s nest» halfway up the tall, skinny mast behind the bridge. As time passed, there were no cries of alarm. Ahead, on the horizon, like a jagged line of stubborn night, rose the coast of Borneo — called «Borno» by the natives — and at their present pace they should raise Balikpapan — «Baalkpan» — by early afternoon. Astern, at the end of the tow-cable, the Grik ship they’d captured began to take shape. She was dismasted, but the red-painted hull still clearly reflected the shape of the long-ago-captured British East Indiaman she was patterned after. Bluff bow, elevated quarterdeck, three masts, and a bowsprit that had all gone by the board in the fighting. Just looking at her, Matt felt his skin crawl.

The fight when they took her was bad enough: the darkness, the shooting, the screams, and the blood. He vividly remembered the resistance he felt when he thrust his Academy sword into the throat of a ravening Grik. The exultation and the terror. Exultation that he’d stabbed it before it could rip him to shreds with its terrible teeth and claws; terror that he had only the ridiculous sword to prevent it from doing so. The first Grik he killed on the ship had been disarmed, but certainly not without weapons. They were like nothing he’d ever seen. Fuzzy, bipedal. lizards, with short tails and humanlike arms. But their teeth! They had the jaws of nightmare and claws much like a grizzly’s. So even though it lost its axe, he was lucky to surook h»1em»gt;«May we come on the bridge?» came a hesitant voice from behind him. Matt turned and saw Courtney Bradford standing on the ladder with Sandra. Bradford seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed «naturalist» wouldn’t have even asked. Maybe Sandra made him, Matt thought. He expected he might have seemed as though he was concentrating on something — which he was — but he was actually glad of the distraction. Bradford hadn’t been there for the fighting, but he’d arrived on the PBY flying boat the following day. Since then, he’d spent most of his time inspecting the prize. That was enough to sober anyone.

Theoretically, no one was really in charge of Courtney Bradford. Since the Australian engineer was a civilian, his status was somewhat vague and had been allowed to remain that way because he worked well without constraint. Before the Japanese attacked, he’d been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps that showed practically every major oil deposit Shell had ever found in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the same oil existed on this earth as the other, but after the success of their first well — exactly where Courtney told them to drill — they were all believers now.

«Of course. Good morning.»

«Good morning to you, I’m sure,» Bradford replied, stepping on the bridge. Sandra just smiled at him. Matt gestured through the windows at the landmass ahead, becoming more distinct.

«Almost home,» he said, with only a trace of irony.

«Indeed,» agreed Bradford, removing his battered straw hat and massaging his sweaty scalp. It was still early morning, but almost eighty degrees. Matt had noticed, however, that Courtney usually did that when he was upset or concerned. «I’ve been studying that map you gave me. The one that was apparently drawn by the Grik captain himself, not the navigational charts with all their incomprehensible references.» Matt nodded. Even though the Grik charts were disconcertingly easy for him to read, since much was, horrifyingly, written in English, Matt knew which map Courtney meant. It was just a drawing, really, that basically depicted the «Known World» as far as the Grik were concerned. It showed rough approximations of enemy cities and concentrations, and it also showed much of what the enemy knew of this part of the world — the part that should be the Dutch East Indies. It was much like what one would expect of a map showing «this we hold; this we want.» The farther east it went, the vaguer it became, but Java, Sumatra, and Singapore were depressingly detailed and accurate. There were also tree symbols that represented known cities of the People, and many of those had been smeared with a blot that looked like blood, symbolizing, they believed, that a battle had been fought there. Currently, there was no tree symbol at Baalkpan, but there were two others that didn’t have smears beside them. One was near Perth, Australia, and the other was at Surabaya, or «Aryaal,» as the locals there called it. The map also depicted a massive force growing near Ceylon and Singapore too, which was believed to be their most forward and tenuous outpost.

«Captain, since only Perth and Surabaya appear on the enemy map, we can only assume the next blow will fall on one or both of those places. I’d bank on Surabaya myself. I’m no strategist, but it seems to me, judging by the dispositions on the map, the Grik are planning a major of’s Mate Chack was escorting one of the ‘prisoners’ we rescued from the Grik. larder.» Everyone, even Matt, flinched at the memory of that. The creatures had been emaciated and, for the most part, wildly insane. «One of the prisoners was known to him, and delivering him aboard Big Sal was a highly personal act and one that, had I known he was doing it, I certainly would have approved.» He looked at Chack. «The accused pleads guilty, but under extenuating circumstances that include not only family but foreign relations.» Matt had to smile at Gray’s imaginative defense, but his own memory of the event was not amusing. The prisoner Chack escorted was none other than Saak-Fas, the mate of Keje-Fris-Ar’s daughter, Selass. He’d disappeared in battle with the Grik many months before and was considered lost. In the meantime, Selass had developed a desperate love for Chack and had expected him to answer her proposal to mate, after the battle. The scene when he returned her mad, barely living mate to her, a mate she’d never really loved, was heartrending.

«In view of the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ the first charge against Bosun’s Mate Chack-Sab-At is dismissed,» Matt declared. «Mr. Garrett? Have you anything to say on Gunner’s Mate Silva’s behalf?»

Garrett looked at the big, grinning man and took an exasperated breath. «Guilty, sir. His only defense is that some other fellas did it too.»

«Unacceptable. Mr. Dowden?»

«Uh, the next charge is that both the accused became involved in, well, a brawl, sir, and not only were they at the center of the brawl but they started it by striking one another.»

Matt sighed. «I won’t even ask who started it. I know I won’t get a straight answer. Besides, I have a pretty good idea. If I’m not very much mistaken, I expect Chack threw the first punch»

«He pulled my tail!» Chack interrupted, seething indignantly.

«Did not! I was just holdin’ it. You did all the pullin’!»

«Silence!» Matt bellowed. «Trust me, you both would really rather keep your mouths shut and handle this my way! Silva, your unnatural and hopefully pretend ‘relationship’ with Chack’s sister, Risa, was all very shocking and amusing. at first. It’s now not only an embarrassment to this ship but a constant goad to Chack’s self-control. I know Risa’s as much to blame as you are. You’re two peas in a pod, personality wise, if not.» He shuddered. «In any event, you’ll cease tormenting Chack with the lurid details of your fictitious ‘marriage’ to his sister and you’ll definitely refrain from any more. overt physical demonstrations when you are together. Is that understood?»

«But, Skipper.»

«IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?»

«Aye, aye, sir!»

«Very well. It’s pointless to dock your pay, but you’re both losing a stripe and you’re both restricted to the ship for ten days — after we make port. Silva, you’re losing another stripe for AWOL.»

«But»

«Shut up.» Matt looked at Dowden, who cleared his throat.

«Attention to orders!» he said. Captain Reddy unfolded a piece of paper before him.

«For extreme heroism and gallantry in the face of the enemy, etc., etc.» — he looked up» I’m sorry to you other guys, but I’m still too damn mad to get flowery. Anyway, with my deepest gratitude, I’m t and sighed heavily. «Boatswain’s Mate Chack-Sab-At and Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva. Most of you deserve it. Chack, you lose one, you gain one, so you’re back where you started — except for the restriction. Silva.» Matt shook his head. «You’re never going to get that first-class stripe if you don’t settle down!» Dennis shrugged philosophically and Matt looked at Campeti, who concluded the proceedings. As they walked back to the pilothouse, Matt and Dowden were rejoined by Sandra and Bradford. Both wore broad smiles. «Cut it out,» he said, almost smiling himself as he mounted the steps. At the top waited Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya of the Japanese Imperial Navy.

«Mr. Shinya,» Matt greeted him.

«Captain.» Shinya was the sole survivor of a destroyer that took a torpedo meant for Amagi. Somehow, her survivors in the water had been swept through the Squall with the American ships, but before Walker could return to rescue them, they’d been eaten by what was evidently a plesiosaur of some sort, not to mention a ravening swarm of tuna-sized fish that acted like piranhas. They called the fish «flashies» and they were everywhere, at least in the relatively shallow equatorial seas within the Malay Barrier. Shinya alone was saved because he’d been unconscious atop an overturned lifeboat. It had been the first indication to the destroyermen that they were no longer in the world they knew — the first other than the bizarre effects of the Squall itself, of course.

Since then, Shinya, who had studied in the United States, had given his parole and had become a valued member of the crew. He was an excellent swordsman, if not in the traditional Japanese style, and he was a big help to Sergeant Alden, the Marine from the doomed cruiser Houston, whom they’d also carried from Surabaya. Together, they were building an army based on historical principles the captain had suggested. Matt had realized early on that the only way they could counter the overwhelming Grik numbers was with discipline — specifically, the Roman shield wall, backed by spears and archers. At least that’s what they’d need in an open-field fight. Shinya also understood Latin, which was, amazingly, the language of the Ancient Scrolls of the ’Cats. Not because it was taught them by Romans, but because that’s the language the sailing master of the HEIC (Honorable East India Company) ship Hermione chose to teach them and communicate in.

Matt suspected the earlier visitors did it to remain as enigmatic as possible, since there was evidence they’d already encountered the Grik, even before one of their ships was taken by them. The rest of the «Tail-less Ones» of that long ago visit had sailed into the «Eastern Sea» beyond the «edge of the world» and disappeared from Lemurian history. Matt suspected they were still out there, somewhere. British Indiamen often carried passengers and deportees, so there was reason to believe they’d survived. Anyway, that’s how they first communicated with the ’Cats; Bradford and Tamatsu Shinya spoke the «Ancient Tongue» of the Lemurian Sky Priests.

Valuable as Shinya was, many of Matt’s destroyermen still hated his guts simply because he was a «Jap.» Matt respected him and trusted his honor, but even he couldn’t put Pearl Harbor — and everything that had happened since — completely out of his mind. Chief Gray openly loathed him, despite saving his life in the recent battle. Tony Scott told him something he hadn’t even known about the Bosun: his son had been on the Oklahoma when she capsized and sank to Pearl Harbor’s muddy bottom.

«Where’s Pete?» asked the captain, referring to the Marine.

«He’ll be along,» Shinya replied. Even as he spoke, Alden and Chief Gray arrived on the bridgetly just as unimaginative, but Spanky had recently learned there was more to them than met the eye.

Normally, their skins were pasty with a belowdecks pallor they worked very 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 they escaped that hated life and joined the Navy. Now they were back at it and not happy at all.

Matt looked back toward Borno. He thought he could just make out the mouth of Baalkpan Bay. «We’re all going to have to do things we hate, I’m afraid, before this is over.» He sighed. «It’s going to be a hell of a homecoming,» he added nervously.

As the day wore on and the crew went about their duties, Walker towed her prize ever closer to Baalkpan. The nearer they got, the more traders and fishing boats paced her advance. Opening the bay, the old destroyer steamed toward her customary berth near the shipyard and the fitting-out pier. They had been gone less than two weeks, most of that time laying their trap for the Grik scouts they engaged. The battle itself took only a day, and the return voyage took three. The people had known the outcome, however, since the very day after the fight. The radio in the precious PBY was working now, and there had been constant reports. Then the big seaplane had flown out with passengers to examine the prize. Some, like Bradford, stayed with the returning ships, but those who returned on the plane were strangely tight-lipped. No matter. The dismasted hulk trailing in Walker’s wake was sufficient proof to the populace that the expedition had been a success.

As always, Matt was struck by the sight of the large, strange, but exotically beautiful city of Baalkpan. The unusual architecture of the multistoried buildings was strikingly similar to the pagoda-like structures that rose within the tripod masts of the great floating Homes. Some reached quite respectable heights and were highly decorated and painted with bright colors. Some were simple, one-story affairs, but all were elevated twenty or more feet above the ground by multitudes of stout pilings. Chack once told him that was done in order to protect against high water and «bad land lizards.» It was also tradition, which Matt supposed was as good a reason as any. He’d never seen any creatures ashore that could threaten anyone twenty feet above the ground, but he was assured they did exist. He believed it. There was certainly plenty of bizarre fauna in this terrible, twisted world.

Among the pilings, under the massive structures, was what some would call the «real» Baalkpan. It was there, beneath the buildings themselves or colorful awnings stretched between them, that the city’s lifeblood pulsed. It was a giant, chaotic bazaar that rivaled anything Matt had seen in China, or heard of anywhere else. Little organization was evident, beyond an apparent effort to congregate the various products or services in strands, or vaguely defined ranks. From experience, Matt knew there was no law or edict that required this; it was just practicality. This way, shoppers always knew where they had to go to find what they wanted. Along the waterfront, fishmongers hawked the daily catch with an incomprehensible staccato chatter. Beyond were food vendors, and the savory smells of Lemurian cooking wafted toward them, competing with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. Still farther inland were the textile makers — weavers, cloth merchants, and clothiers. Closer to the center of the city, near the massive Gallll milling near the red-hulled ship cheered louder as a cloud of steam and a deep, resonant shriek jetted from the whistle and the amazing iron ship raced upstream, raising a feather halfway up her number, smoke streaming from three of her four funnels.

«Let ’em have a good time for a while,» Matt said, his voice turning grim.

«Aryaalans!» snorted Nakja-Mur later that evening, standing on Walker ’s bridge where she was again tied to the Baalkpan docks. He hadn’t waited for Matt to report. As soon as Walker returned from fueling, he and the just-arrived Keje tromped up the gangway. «You ask me to risk everything for those unfriendly land-bound. heretics?» Matt and Keje had been describing the details of the battle and the capture of the enemy vessel. The account turned to the discovery of the enemy charts, or «Evil Scrolls of Death,» as Sky Priest Adar insisted they be called. That led to their theory of an impending Grik attack on the people of Surabaya: «Aryaalans,» as they called themselves. Chack was present to interpret, but so far, between Keje, Nakja-Mur’s rapid advancement in English, and Matt’s slowly growing proficiency in Lemurian, he hadn’t been needed.

Matt sighed. «With respect, my lord, it’s essential we go to their aid if they’re attacked.»

«But why? Let them fend for themselves, as do we. They were invited to the last gathering and they chose — as always — not to dampen themselves with the company of sea folk!»

Matt was tempted to point out that Nakja-Mur was, however sensible, the very definition of a landsman. But to be fair, the People of Baalkpan were every bit as sea-oriented as the people of Old Nantucket ever were. They built and repaired ships and they dealt in the products of the sea’s capricious bounty. Their livelihood was entirely centered around maritime toil and commerce. Whereas the Surabayans were.

«Just what the hell is it about them you don’t like?» Matt asked in frustration.

«They. they are heretics!» Nakja-Mur proclaimed.

«Why?»

Nakja-Mur shifted uncomfortably and paced out on the port bridgewing. Matt and Keje followed him there, and Larry Dowden joined them. There was a reduced watch on the bridge since they weren’t under way, but a torpedoman had been tinkering with the director connections. Matt motioned for him to leave them and the man quickly gathered his tools and departed.

«Why?» Matt asked again.

«Perhaps you should ask Adar.»

«I can’t. He and Bradford ran off to study together as soon as we rigged the gangway. Who knows where. Besides, I have to ask you because you’re the one whose opinion really matters, in the long run, and we have decisions to make. you have decisions to make. I know, traditionally all ‘High Chiefs’ are equals here, but surely you know that in reality you’re a little more ‘equal’ than the others? You have the largest force and Baalkpan’s the most populous city this side of Manila — and it’s on your industry we all depend.»

Nakja-Mur grunted, but his tone wasn’t unfriendly. «I have heard it said you’re the most ‘equal’ among us, because of this ship.» He patted the rail under his hand.

Matt shook his head. «Untrue. Without you and Baalkpan, this ship would most likely be a powerless, lifeless hulk on a beach so, bound together, but as great as that combined strength might be, it’s not enough and it’ll be even less if Surabaya falls. We need those people on our side — not filling Grik bellies!»

Nakja-Mur recoiled as if slapped, but then nodded. «The Aryaalans are fierce warriors,» he conceded, «but they do not revere the heavens.

They may worship feces for all I know, but the sky is not sacred. When Siska-Ta went to them to teach the wisdom of the Scrolls, she was cast out and nearly slain.» He made a very human shrug. «They are heathens, but their religion is unimportant to me. We are not intolerant of the beliefs of others. Many folk of other lands — even some upon the sea — do not believe as we do and yet we remain friends. Did we not befriend you and your people?» he asked.

Matt didn’t point out the probability that they thought then — and probably still did — that the destroyermen had very similar beliefs to their own, and he remembered the scene Adar made in Walker’s pilothouse over the charts displayed there. He’d thought they mocked him with apostasy at the time, since the Ancient Scrolls or charts of the Sky Priests are not just maps but holy relics on which are woven the tapestry of Lemurian history in the words of the Ancient Tongue — Latin. Their religion is not based on the Scrolls, but they’ve become integral supplements — along with a few twisted Christian concepts that may have been passed inadvertently by the previous «Tail-less Ones» almost two centuries before. Matt had picked up a little Lemurian theology and, although it was fundamentally a form of Sun worship, he knew the heavens — and the stars in particular — represented far more than simple navigational aids. Since that first awkward moment, religion had not been much of an issue and he’d concentrated on other things. Maybe he needed to bone up. He would talk to Bradford.

«What confirms the depravity of the Aryaalans, however,» Nakja-Mur continued, «is that they often war among themselves! They are constantly at war, one faction against another, and they often repel visitors with violence. I cannot help but wonder, even if we aid them, will they not simply turn on us as yet another enemy?»

«We have to try.»

«Perhaps. But it will take another meeting, I suppose, and you will have to be very convincing.»

«Sure,» said Matt. «We’ll have another meeting. We need one, bigger than before. But that’s beside the point. Have you boarded the Grik ship yet? Spoken to any of the survivors?» Nakja-Mur shook his head. «You need to do that. Then you’ll understand. This is a fight to the death. To the end. Total war and no more goofing around. Even if you could flee, like the sea Homes can, they’ll catch you eventually because that’s what they do.» Matt paused. «You told me before we left on the last expedition to find out what we could, that you’d do anything to keep the Grik away. Did you mean that?»

«Of course!»

«Well, then, if we’re not going to fight them here, we’ll have to fight them somewhere else. Let’s do it where we might have some help.»

The gathering in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall was even larger than when they’d debated the previous expedition. This time the massive structure was nearly packed. Those present weren’t just the High Chiefs of the Homes in the bay either, but their advisors, Sky Priests and senior war leaders as well. Alden, Shinya, along with their Marine and Guard officers and senior NCOs, represented Baalkpan’s armed forces. As predicted, some sea Homes left, althouf the now «veteran» Marines who’d participated in the bloody boarding action stayed busy drilling everyone on the new, larger parade ground that used to be jungle. There was no more complaining, and even the warriors from the Homes in the bay rotated ashore for drill. And in the harbor, the unpleasant, unwanted task of refitting the Grik ship progressed.

Matt wasn’t entirely clear about Lemurian funeral conventions, but he knew they preferred to be burned so their life force, or soul, could be carried to the heavens with the rising smoke. There, they would rejoin in the firmament those who’d gone before. He wasn’t sure if the People believed they became stars after death, or if the stars guided their journeys there much as they did below. Maybe a little of both. It was clear to him, however, that the ’Cats would really have preferred to just burn the thing that they believed still held the souls of Lemurians who’d been tortured and eaten by the enemy. He tried to explain that if all went well, the Grik ship would soon become the second-fastest gun platform in the world. Much as he’d have liked to defer to their cultural preferences, they didn’t have time to build another ship of the type. They would start some, certainly, and incorporate many refinements, but for now he was going to need that ship.

The People were aware of the advantages. They knew how fast and maneuverable the enemy ships were, compared to their own lumbering Homes. The idea of arming such a ship with cannon appealed to them as well. They just didn’t want to use that ship. It was the one instance where Captain Reddy’s military plans were met with real resistance. He sympathized, but he wouldn’t bend. The crisis was finally solved by Adar, who argued that the trapped souls would surely welcome the chance for revenge, and using the tool of their own murderers to help claim that vengeance would make achieving it all the more sweet. They would clean it out and give it a name. They would re-rig and repair the damage it had suffered, but unlike Walker, or Big Sal, or, hopefully, Mahan, it would never, could never truly be a live thing.

Matt was grateful for Adar’s assistance. He hadn’t been sure which side of the argument the Sky Priest would take. Nakja-Mur’s aged Sky Priest, Naga, had begun to defer more and more to Adar in matters of «belligerent spiritual guidance.» Big Sal’s «head witch doctor,» as he was sometimes affectionately called by some Americans, had almost visibly swelled in importance and prestige. He didn’t flaunt it, and he certainly didn’t abuse the power, but he did have greater influence than ever before. His approval had been key. In word and deed, Adar had become the most outspoken advocate of this «total war» no matter what it took. He’d taken to heart his vow not to rest until the Grik were destroyed. At Adar’s urging, in spite of their distaste, gangs of workers dutifully, if uncomfortably, toiled on the Grik ship, getting it ready for sea.

Light streamed through the Great Hall’s open shutters and motes of dust drifted in the beams. Loud voices and shouted conversations carried on around Matt, Lieutenant Mallory, Courtney Bradford, Alan Letts, and Sandra Tucker, where they stood beside Nakja-Mur and his entourage, as well as Keje and Adar. Nakja-Mur stood, obese but powerful, dressed in his usual red kilt and gold-embroidered cloak that contrasted with his shiny dark fur. Fur with growing splashes of white. Matt thought of it as his «High Chief suit,» since he’d always dressed thus when Matt saw him. Adar’s purple robe with embroidered stars across the shoulders was an equally constant garment. The hood was thrown back, revealing his almost silver pelt and piercing gray eyes. Matt’s friend Keje was dressed in a warlike manner, as Matt had first seen him after Walker nd, by so doing, joined them in this terrible war. His armor consisted of engraved copper plates fastened to the tough hide of a plesiosaur they called «gri-kakka.» At his side was a short, scimitar-shaped hacking sword called a skota, and cradled in his arm was a copper helmet, adorned with the striated tail plumage of a Grik. He also wore a red cloak fastened at his throat by interlocked Grik hind claws. Beneath the armor, as protection from chafing, he wore a blue tunic embroidered with fanciful designs. Other than the Americans, he wore the only «shirt» in the hall. All the ’Cats the destroyermen had met seemed to wear as little as they could manage, usually just a light kilt. Even the females went disconcertingly topless, and their very human, albeit furry, breasts were a constant distraction for the sex-starved destroyermen.

Large-scale addresses were rare among the People, and there was no way to speak directly to such a gathering from within its midst. Therefore, an elevated platform, or stage, had been constructed near the center of the hall where the Great Tree rose through the floor and soared high overhead to pass through the ceiling. Matt had seen the huge Galla tree many times now, but he was always amazed by its size and by the fact that he’d seen only one other like it. The one growing from the heart of Big Sal. He supposed other Homes had similar trees, and he wondered again if it was possible they were descendants of the trees the Lemurians had known in their ancient home.

The crowd was growing restless, anxious.

At a nod from Nakja-Mur, he stepped onto the stage. Immediately there was a respectful silence in the Great Hall — a much different reception than the last time he’d spoken to this assembly. Of course, he’d given them a «victory» since then — such as it was. He paced the small platform for a moment, staring at the upturned faces while Chack joined him to interpret. Many of those present had actually learned a smattering of English, but Matt hadn’t yet acquired a conversational ability in their tongue and he was slightly embarrassed by that. He’d always thought he was pretty good with languages, but there was something about the strange, yowling words of the People that absolutely defeated him. Bradford, Letts, and even Sandra could jabber away like natives — at least as far as he could tell — but he was just as likely to insult somebody as to tell them it was a temperate day. Maybe it was a mental block, or his mind was too busy. Whatever the reason, he was glad Chack was there.

He gestured at Lieutenant Mallory. «My friends,» he began, «as you know, the flying-boat has returned from its scout in the south.» He paused. He’d hated sending the PBY and its crew off by themselves, but Bradford and the Mice had managed to refine a small amount of high-octane gasoline. They had done it somehow using salt water, of all things. Also, since Riggs had the plane’s radio working, they’d never been out of contact. Ben flew under orders to avoid being seen at all costs, so he didn’t have a firm count of the number of enemy ships that invested Surabaya. The only thing he could verify was that the lizards were definitely there. All the air crew could see from ten miles away and an altitude of 13,000 feet — a distance that should have muted the Catalina’s loud engines — was «lots of ships.» Unrealistically, Matt had hoped Mallory would spot Mahan—even though he had instructed him not to specifically look for her. Judging by how long he was gone and how much fuel he’d used, the Air Corps aviator must have covered as much ocean as he could anyway. There’d been no sign. «What Lieutenant Mallory and his companions have reported confirms our fears,» Captain Reddy resumed. «Aryaal is under siege.» He waited for a moment while the tumult died down. «I must ptime, many minutes passed before he was able to speak again. There were a few shouts of agreement, but many more cries of incredulous protest. The initial response degenerated into a general roar of discussion and debate. «We have no choice!» he shouted over the hubbub. «If the enemy establishes a permanent base as near as that, Baalkpan is doomed!» He picked out a small gathering of High Chiefs and fixed them with his eyes. «Many of you can just leave. Your Homes aren’t tied to the land. But if Baalkpan falls, what then? Where will you replenish stores? With whom will you trade? Who’ll repair your Homes? I know there are other lands that will serve that purpose for a time, but how long will it be before they too are lost? If we don’t stop them now, one day all that will remain of the People will be scattered clans, alone on the sea, without sanctuary and without hope.»

«We have no hope now!» snarled Anai-Sa, Fristar’s High Chief. «We should flee. We’ve seen the charts you took, many of us, and the Grik are as many as the stars above.»

«We must not flee!» Adar bellowed, joining Matt on the stage. The intensity of his glare caused many to flinch. «I was in the belly of the Grik ship not long after its capture. I have spoken to the ‘survivors,’ though such a word mocks them! I have seen the perverted way the Grik twist our faith and use it against us. Speak not of flight! Any who would flee in the face of this scourge is aiding it! They are not only cowards but traitors to their people!» There were shouts of dissent, but some loudly agreed. Anai-Sa brooded in silence.

«Much has happened since we last met like this,» Matt continued when the uproar began to fade. «Since then we’ve accomplished much, in spite of the doubts of some. Most importantly, we’ve won our first real victory over the enemy. I don’t speak of simply destroying their ships. That’s been done before. Besides, I agree it’s now plain that such small victories are pointless in the face of the numbers the enemy possesses. What we’ve won is priceless intelligence!» He smiled. «We’re no longer as ‘ignorant’ as we were before, and so we can begin to plan for greater victories. Victories that will make a difference. The first such victory should be the relief of Aryaal.»

«How can it benefit us to spill our blood for them?» asked Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin. The question wasn’t confrontational, but genuinely curious. «The Aryaalans have never helped us before.»

«If we save them from the fate that awaits them in the Grik hulls, I bet they will then,» Matt answered simply. «Don’t you see? The Grik are through ‘probing.’ This is for all the marbles — I mean. polta fruit!» He grimaced, wondering how well that would translate. «They’ve taken Singapore, destroyed Tjilatjap. possibly others. Now they threaten Surabaya — Aryaal. This is it! The conquest you’ve feared since you fled them the last time so very long ago!» He blinked appropriately to convey frustration and anger. «Well, I say this time we stop them! This time we throw their asses back!» He stopped and took a breath, wishing he had some water. He was sweating and he knew he was allowing his own frustration over the litany of events that had brought his ship and her people to this moment to color his argument.

Once again, the long retreat in the face of the Japanese was fresh upon him. The terrifying escape from the Philippines, the lopsided battle of the Java Sea, the doomed retreat from Surabaya and the death of Exeter and Pope and all the others haunted him anew. The fate of Mahan, and the horrors he’d seen in the Grik hold. Not to mention the enigmatic human skull. At that moment, emotionally, it all became one. The Grik had become an arguably far more terrible, but just as youar effort.) There was also the touchy religious angle, which they rightly figured the Baalkpan High Chief could smooth out more easily — with his own people anyway — than either of them could.

Mainly, though, Matt and Keje wanted Baalkpan to have a real piece of the naval war. Most of the landing force were Baalkpans, and most of their supplies came from there. Baalkpan truly was the «arsenal» of the alliance. Despite that, there was no great floating presence that represented Baalkpan in the order of battle, and the way such things were reckoned by their quintessentially seagoing race, the greater share of honor fell to those whose very homes went in harm’s way. Revenge more than satisfied that requirement of honor, since the plan called for her, the physical representative of Baalkpan, to be first in battle and perhaps even the key to the campaign’s success.

Matt turned to stare back at the bulk of the fleet. Five of the «flat-top»-sized Homes lumbered slowly in their wake, screened by forty of the largest feluccas in Baalkpan’s fishing fleet. Somehow, they’d managed to arm them all to some degree. The feluccas each carried at least one of the huge crossbow-type weapons that had usually been associated with the main armaments of Homes. In fact, most had come from the Homes. A few of the feluccas even carried small swivel guns that Letts thought to cast as antipersonnel weapons. The Homes—Big Sal, Humfra-Dar, Aracca, Nerracca, and sulky Fristar—were now each armed with ten of the larger guns like Big Sal had used to such effect off Celebes. Matt still couldn’t believe Letts had pulled that off. He was proud of the former supply officer, who’d become the greatest logistics asset on the planet.

He smiled wryly at the argument Letts put up when he was told he’d worked himself out of a job and was too essential to the war effort to go on the expedition. He, along with a disconsolate Sergeant Alden, would command the Baalkpan defenses at Nakja-Mur’s side and continue the good work. Together they would supervise the construction of fortifications and gun emplacements for the shore batteries and mortars that the foundry had turned to once the ships were armed.

The cannons had been an extraordinary achievement, but they had taken time, as had the other preparations necessary to mount the campaign. Two agonizing months had passed — had it been only six months since they passed through the Squall? — and Mallory’s weekly reconnaissance flights showed that Aryaal still held, although the noose was tightening. He had also gotten a better idea of the forces involved. Thirty Grik ships, representing who knew how many thousands of invaders, were squeezing Aryaal now. A battle had been under way every time Ben flew.

Against that, the Allied Expeditionary Force carried six thousand warriors and Marines. That constituted almost half of Baalkpan’s entire defensive force, male and female. Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to that. Instead of crying and waving good-bye from the pier, Lemurian females hitched up their sword belts and joined their «men» with their spear or crossbow on their shoulders. He had no doubt about their ability; he’d seen them fight. But it was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d seen since he got here. He felt a rueful twinge. Sandra enthusiastically supported the idea of female warriors, once she got used to the concept, and it wasn’t like she herself had exactly been sheltered from the dangers they all faced. But in her case, it wasn’t as though that’s the way things were supposed to be. He rubbed his chin and gave an exasperated sigh. It just didn’t He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

Garrett raised his hands and pressed the earphones more tightly to his head. He listened for a moment and then turned to Matt. «Lookout has the Catalina in sight, Skipper.» Matt nodded calmly enough, but inside, he felt a supreme relaxation of tension. He hated it every time the plane flew out of sight for two reasons. First, it always carried a crew of bright, talented, and irreplaceable people whose chances of survival were poor at best if the plane was ever forced down. Also, dilapidated as it was, the PBY was the only airplane in this world, and it represented the greatest intelligence-gathering asset he had. It was an asset only if he used it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The radio usually worked — and that helped a little — although it was strange to talk in the clear without fear of the enemy listening in! But radio or not, he couldn’t shake his near-obsessive desire to preserve not just the crew but the plane itself. Important as this campaign was, he knew it was just a single campaign. Maybe it was a reflection of his still-smoldering bitterness over the lack of air cover for the Asiatic Fleet that reminded him you could take nothing for granted. But he couldn’t throw off the premonition that if they used up the Catalina now, the day would come when they would really wish they hadn’t.

In the meantime, he contented himself with a surge of relief over its safe return from this scout, at least, and he looked forward to hearing what Ben Mallory had seen. «Very well,» he said. «Ask Lieutenant Dowden to close Big Sal and signal the fleet for all captains to repair aboard her for a conference. Please inform Captain Keje, with my respects; we’ll come alongside as soon as they’ve hoisted the plane aboard. Ask him to rig hoses as well. I want to keep the bunkers topped off.»

«Aye, aye, sir,» Garrett replied and spoke into his mouthpiece.

Matt watched the PBY grow larger as it neared, its thundering engines loud and reassuringly smooth. Mallory waggled his wings as he roared by the destroyer and began a wide, banking descent that brought him down alongside Big Sal. Matt dropped down the ladder to the wooden strakes below and stepped into the pilothouse.

«Captain on the bridge!»

«As you were,» replied Matt and smiled as the ship heeled into a tight turn toward the fleet. Juan, the diminutive but supremely dignified Filipino officer’s steward, had just arrived with the midwatch coffee, and he was desperately attempting to stabilize the serving tray so the coffee wouldn’t slide off onto the deck.

«Juan, Mr. Dowden and I will be crossing over to Big Sal at eighteen hundred. Would you present my compliments to Mr. Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker and ask them to accompany us?»

Juan finally got control of the carafe with an exasperated sigh as Walker steadied on her new heading. «Of course, Cap-tan Reddy. Might I recommend formal dress?»

Matt thought for a moment, then nodded, a grin stretching his face. «By all means, Juan. As formal as we can manage, at any rate. We must set an example.» He glanced around at the quizzical expressions. «We are the flagship, after all!»

Lieutenant — now Lieutenant Commander — «Spanky» McFarlane stood in the aft fireroom with his hands on his skinny hips and his eyes closed. He was feeling the ship and her machinery around him. The Mice watched expressionlessly, but two of the new «monkey-cat» snipes stared at him with reverential awe, as if they were in the very presence of some diminutive but allficulty staying awake.

It had been a long day for Ben and his crew. They’d flown out of Baalkpan early that morning to make a final aerial observation of the objective. For the first time, Mallory was allowed to fly directly over the city — and the enemy forces. His observations weren’t reassuring. Almost forty Grik ships were now in the bay before Surabaya and they’d dispatched a sizable landing force. Unlike Baalkpan, the defenders had a sturdy wall all around their city, with what appeared to be formidable defenses. But the Grik army was more than large enough to encircle most of the settlement. The only exception to complete investiture was a stretch of waterfront and a portion of the bay between the city and the island of Madura, about three miles from the mainland. A large assemblage of native small craft was concentrated in the passage, and another fortification, as yet unengaged, was constructed on the point of land on the island closest to Surabaya. A dense cloud of smoke from burning buildings — probably set alight by what everyone was calling Grik Fire — hung over everything, and Mallory couldn’t see much detail. But this time there was no question whether the Grik saw the PBY.

Matt disliked allowing the plane to be seen by the enemy, but they had to know what they faced. Perhaps the unnatural thundering apparition that swooped low overhead had unnerved the Grik, Matt consoled himself. In order to avoid doing the same to the Aryaalans, Mallory’s crew had dropped hundreds of «pamphlets» over the defenders’ main position. These pamphlets consisted of light wooden shakes etched with a Lemurian phrase that said: «Your brothers to the north will aid you. We bring powerful friends. Do not fear.» It was all they could do to assure the defenders help was on the way. With his mission complete, Mallory returned to join the task force. Tomorrow, he would fly back to Baalkpan, since they dared not risk the plane in the fight to come. Once there, he’d stay in radio contact with Walker.

Sandra Tucker sat primly at Matt’s side, also on one of the stools, and showed no discomfort whatsoever. He wondered what she was thinking. He’d come to rely more and more on her intuition as time went by, but he had to admit he also just liked having her around. They’d evolved an unspoken understanding after they declared their love for one another. Aboard ship, a wall of strict propriety always stood between them in spite of their mutual attraction. They thought they hid it well. But sometimes when they were alone, a more. comfortable. familiarity existed between them. They both felt compelled to restrict any further exploration of their feelings, and Matt felt almost guilty that they shared as much as they did when the rest of the men had no prospects at all. unless you believed Silva and Risa really. He shook his head. Perhaps someday they’d find more people; even the Lemurian legends hinted at the possibility, but right now there was a war to fight. Terrible as it was, at least it had released some of the pressure-cooker tension caused by the «dame famine.»

In the meantime, for the sake of the men, Matt and Sandra must control their passions. That didn’t mean Matt intended to ignore her excellent insight. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: «What do you think of that Anai-Sa?» he asked, referring to the High Chief of the Fristar Home. The black-furred Lemurian had arrived at the conference late, as usual, and now sat hunched on a cushion in sulky disdain while the rest of the attendees finished the refreshments that were a prerequisite to any council.

«I think he only volunteered so he could get the cannons that were promised to the Homes that take part in the campaign,» she whispered back. «I don’t trust him. Iivgt;

Matt nodded. Anai-Sa had been the most outspoken proponent of just packing up and sailing off, but to possess the power of the guns was a mighty incentive to hypocrisy. «Do you have any less vague impressions about our other commanders?» he asked with heavy irony.

A quiet chuckle escaped her, but she nodded. «They seem pretty solid for the most part. You know you can count on Rick, on Revenge, and Keje, of course.» She paused, considering. «I really like Ramic-Sa-Ar of Aracca and Tassat-Ay-Aracca of Nerracca.»

«They’re father and son, aren’t they?» Matt asked, referring to the pair of Lemurians who sat close together talking animatedly among themselves. There was certainly a strong resemblance. The younger one seemed a virtual replica of the older.

«Yes,» she confirmed, «and Tassat is actually younger than Anai, even though you could hardly tell by the way they act.» She sniffed. «As far as Geran-Eras of Humfra-Dar, it’s hard to say.» She was referring to the only female High Chief present. «She’s been a vocal supporter of the expedition from the start,» Sandra continued. «You may even remember her showing rather. energetic approval of your plan?»

Matt did remember then, and cringed. Even Lemurian females had surprising upper body strength, and Geran-Eras had actually embraced him after he made his pitch for the relief of Surabaya. He was sure she’d almost cracked some ribs.

«I think, as your Mr. Silva would say, ‘she has more than one dog in this hunt.’ Adar told me her mate and one of her children were killed in a Grik attack right before they came to Baalkpan. Might’ve even been one of the ships we destroyed, so she really likes you. Also, I imagine she sees this expedition as a chance for revenge. You might need to keep an eye on her.»

Matt nodded soberly and glanced around. The refreshments had been consumed and Keje was looking at him expectantly. «Better get started,» he said to Sandra, and cleared his throat. «Ladies and gentlemen,» he began aloud. «We have a battle to plan.»

Standing on Walker’s bridge with his binoculars raised, Matt reflected that his return to Surabaya wasn’t altogether unlike his departure so long ago. Once again, the clouds above the distant city glowed and flickered with the reflected light of fires caused by an enemy bombardment. This time, the spectacle was all the more surreal. Walker’s blowers roared at a pitch consistent with her ten knots, but in spite of that, even at this distance, the loud whump and overpressure of Japanese bombs would have been felt and heard. Instead, only an eerie silence accompanied the distant battle. They’d opened the bay from the east at 0120 and picked their way carefully through the Sapudi Islands, which were scattered haphazardly there. The last time Matt traversed these waters, Walker had had the services of a fat Dutch pilot, and Matt wondered suddenly where the man was now. Had he even survived? He banished the thought. All Walker had this time was a waning crescent moon. Of course, this time there was no minefield either.

As they drew closer, they could discern the stern lanterns of dozens of Grik ships moored in the bay, close to the city. All were ablaze with light and all rode secure at their anchors, never suspecting any threat might descend from the sea. A few, closer in, kept up a continuous desultory bombardment with their catapults, flinging «Grik Fire». Usually, a red gout of flame mushroomed upward into the sky. The festive, brightly lit ships in the bay provided a stark contrast to the suffering inside the city beyond.

Matt carefully refocused the binoculars dead ahead, watching one Grik ship in particular. Alone among its identical sisters, this one was under plain sail, creeping slowly among its brethren on a light southerly wind. Apparently accepted without fanfare as yet another reinforcement, the ship with the unusual blue glass in its lanterns moved deep into the enemy formation. Matt marked its progress by that blue light that identified it as Revenge.

He stepped onto the bridgewing and glanced aft. The Homes were hanging in there, totally darkened, as was Walker. He could see the occasional flash of white water alongside them as the hundred mighty sweeps propelled each huge ship forward at close to the ten knots Walker was making. He marveled yet again at the strength and determination that took. Fristar was lagging behind the others, leaving a small but growing gap between her and Humfra-Dar, but otherwise his «battle line» was holding together. The shoal of feluccas brought up the rear. He stepped back into the pilothouse and resumed his post beside his chair.

The bridge watch was silent other than an occasional whispered command, and he felt a tension that was different from any he’d sensed since the battle of the Makassar Strait. Like that night, there was fear and tension, but there was also a certain. predatory eagerness. A realization that they’d caught their overwhelming enemy with his britches down, coupled with a determination to make him pay. General quarters had been sounded long ago, and all stations were manned and ready except the torpedo director. Sandison’s «torpedo project» to repair the two condemned torpedoes they’d filched from a warehouse in Surabaya was still on hold, and they wouldn’t be using any of the three «definites» tonight. Sandison and his torpedomen had filled out the crews of the numbers one and four guns.

Matt turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who was in quiet conversation with Courtney Bradford. «Assemble your riflemen amidships and hold them as a reserve for any point of contact if the enemy try to board,» Matt instructed. Virtually everyone topside had a rifle handy, but at their stations, the crew was too spread out to mass their small-arms fire. Shinya saluted him with a serious expression and turned to comply with the order. It would be the first time he’d commanded any of the destroyermen in action, and his self-consciousness was evident. He was directly in charge of close defense of the ship and had half a dozen Americans assigned to his reserve. Matt doubted there’d be any friction. Most of the destroyermen still didn’t like him, but his abilities were evident. Some had even begun to consider him just another part of Walker’s increasingly diverse extended family. They never would forgive the Japanese, but Shinya wasn’t just a Jap anymore. Besides, they were all on the same side now. It even seemed as though Dennis Silva kind of liked the former enemy lieutenant, and if Silva would put up with him, the rest of the crew certainly could.

«Be careful, Lieutenant,» Matt cautioned as Shinya departed the bridge.

«Not long now, I should think,» commented Bradford when they were alone. Matt nodded. He hadn’t really wanted the Australian on the bridge during the action. He would have preferred that Bradford stay in the wardroom with Sandra, but the man had practically insisted. Chief Gray had just as «practically» offered to force him to go below, but the captain allowed him to remain. It was probably better this way. In spite of his peculiar manner, Bradford ofn awe-inspiring. A number of ships continued burning furiously, and many more Grik were so involved in preventing their own ships from catching fire, they were unable to contribute to the fight. Matt knew Walker had savaged them and he had no idea how many Grik she’d sunk. The number of burning ships was surprising even so, and he realized some of them must have set fire to each other, flinging their bombs haphazardly in the midst of battle.

The battle line was almost through to them now, their massive guns spitting hate at the Ancient Enemy, blasting great gaping holes in hulls and smashing masts and bodies on any vessel that dared draw near. Some still did, regardless of damage, in the predictable Grik style. The very waters of the bay burned with Grik Fire as bomb after bomb exploded against the stout, scorched sides of the Homes or spilled their burning contents onto the sea. Any fires that were started on the great wooden fortresses were quickly extinguished, and very little had been left exposed that would burn. The decks were soaked before the battle and the huge fabric wings had been stowed, leaving only the massive sweep-oars for propulsion. One by one, the blackened and smoldering but otherwise unscathed leviathans crashed through the final obstacles separating them from Walker and Revenge and slowly took up positions lengthening the line with their port batteries bearing on the bay.

Even then they continued to fire, without nearly as great an effect at the increased range, but with just as much determination. The surviving Grik that could began to flee. At least half the enemy’s fleet of forty ships had been destroyed, and most of those remaining afloat were damaged to varying degrees. Matt was tempted to allow Walker’s main battery to continue firing, but he knew he had to conserve ammunition. This was but the opening stroke, and he inwardly cringed at his expectation of what they had expended.

«Cease firing,» he said, but the guns had already fallen silent, probably at Garrett’s command. After the noise and turmoil of battle, his voice sounded strange. disassociated. He glanced at his watch and experienced the usual sense of disorientation when he realized the seemingly hours-long battle had lasted less than forty minutes. The rest of the fleet’s cannonade became more desultory as the remaining targets drew away, and a great tide of cheering voices from thousands of throats rose and washed over him.

Larry Dowden appeared at his side. He’d been at his battle station on the aft deckhouse and was black with soot and sweat from the fire that came too close. He stood with Matt and stared at the scene of destruction as the roar of exultation continued. «Even better than Balikpapan. in the old war,» he finally managed. His voice held a trace of wonder. Matt nodded. The enormity of the victory was beginning to sink in. «This even feels better,» Dowden continued. «God knows I hate the Japs. except Shinya, I guess, but he’s the proof. At least Japs are people. This feels more like. killing snakes.»

«What is it, Mr. Garrett?»

«Listen, sir,» he said, almost shouting, and pointed at the city. Matt turned back toward shore and strained his ears to hear over the cheering. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Garrett wanted him to hear over — then it hit him. The cheering of the fleet wasn’t just echoing off the walls of the city, it was being answered from within! Even at this distance, and in the dark, he saw hundreds of figures standing on the walls, waving banners and weapons in triumph and shouting their defiance to the massive Grik army encamped outside their walls. From that army there came only a shocked, sullen silence.

Matt clasped his hands behind his back and strained to keep his relief in check. Underlying all the concerns he’d felt over the meeting with the Grik had been not knowing how the people here would receive them. They’d still have to guard against friction, but for now. «It seems the Aryaalans are glad to see us after all, wouldn’t you say, Mr.

Dowden?» His statement was met with a few hopeful chuckles.

«Captain!» cried the talker, who’d come as close as his cord would allow. «Lookout says there’s a small boat coming up to starboard!»

Matt heard the bolt rack back on the.30-cal above his head. «Hold your fire!» he shouted, looking up. «Mr. Garrett, inform all stations to hold fire!» He turned and peered into the darkness that lay between them and the shore. The blazing wrecks threw a lot of light on the fleet and the fortress, but the space between them was in shadow, cast by the battle line. Even so, he saw what looked like a barge approaching from landward. It was about thirty feet long and broad in the beam. There were six banks of oars on each side and they rose and dipped with admirable precision. «Get Chack up here, on the double,» he said, glancing forward. In less than twenty seconds, Chack and Chief Gray were both beside him. Matt was looking through his binoculars and when he noticed their arrival, he handed the glasses to Chack. «What do you make of them?» Chack looked through the binoculars, mainly because he liked to. He didn’t really need them to see who was approaching.

«Aryaalans, Captain,» he said simply. Then he looked at Matt, inscrutable and expressionless as always, but he was blinking a sequence reserved for surprise. Intense surprise. «And others.»

Matt had started to turn and issue an order, but stopped and looked back at Chack. «What do you.? Just a moment.» He did turn then. «Signal the fleet ‘Well done’ and compliments. Also, all battle line captains please report aboard Walker. They can send a representative if they have damage or other pressing concerns.» His gaze returned to Chack. «What were you saying?»

Chack wordlessly handed the binoculars back. Slightly annoyed, Matt raised them once more. The boat was much closer now, and even as he looked, he heard several exclamations of surprise from some of those crowding with him on the bridgewing.

The first thing he noticed was the Aryaalans themselves. He was struck by how different they appeared from the Lemurians he was used to. Counting the rowers, there were sixteen or seventeen of them on the barge, and almost all of them had dark-colored pelts. It was impossible in the dim light to tell exactly what color they were, but he had an impression of sable. That was unusual enough, since no two Lemurians he’d met were precisely the same color. And yet the differences didn’t end there. The People they’d grown accustomed to — Spanky’s efforts notwithstanding — wore as lians he re of Mahan’s tale. Judging by the appearance of Ellis and Steele, it had been a hard one. Both men’s uniforms were badly stained and battered, and a dreadful experience of some sort seemed to haunt their eyes. Jim still limped too, and Matt remembered that Captain Kaufman had shot his friend. He returned his attention to Lord Rolak, who was speaking.

«They will certainly attack at dawn.» Keje translated for him. «They attack most days, but after tonight.» He shrugged in a very human way. «They will certainly come and I doubt they will stop this time. I propose that your» — the Aryaalan lord actually sneered slightly» warriors join ours in the defensive positions. They should take direction from our captains, of course.»

Matt suddenly found all of his commanders’ eyes on him as Keje told him what Lord Rolak had said. He answered their unspoken question with a single word.

«No.»

For just a moment, after Keje relayed the response, there was an uncomfortable silence. Prince Rasik finally spoke up. «This. creature speaks for you all?»

Keje grunted and answered in an ominous tone. «He does. He not only speaks for us, he commands us for the duration of this campaign.» He gestured angrily toward the porthole. «In case you did not notice, we swept your little bay clear for you this night. He was the architect of that.»

Lord Rolak shifted, and visibly regrouped his argument. «Your victory tonight was impressive,» he hedged, «but you are sea folk. Surely you see the wisdom of letting land folk lead when a fight is on land. Aryaalans are a warrior race. The warrior’s way is bred into us and nurtured in us as younglings. You sea folk do not even fight unless you have to! We have the experience.!»

«It seems to me that you were about to experience defeat, Lord Rolak,» Bradford interrupted quietly. «What is your estimate of the forces arrayed against you?»

Rolak was quiet for a moment as he looked around the table. Finally he sighed. «There are, perhaps, fifteen thousands of the enemy.» Matt nodded when the translation came. That was consistent with Mallory’s estimate of the enemy force.

«How many warriors do you have to face them?» Matt brutally cut to the heart of the matter. If the Grik truly were going to attack at dawn, there was no time for this foolishness. Rolak answered him in a slightly more subdued tone.

«King Alcas has twenty-four hundred warriors in the city, fit for battle. Queen Maraan from B’mbaado Island across the water has sent another six hundreds to our aid.»

«She should have sent more!» seethed the young prince, speaking for the second time since his introduction.

Rolak looked at him. «We are lucky she sent anything at all! Do you forget we were at war with her before the Grik came?» Rolak shrugged again and glanced at the others around the table. «War is a. pastime. among my people. That is why we are so good at it.» He paused and his tone subtly changed. «It is different this time. The Grik do not follow the rules. They do not have rules. No truce is accepted. There is no parley, no discussion of aims or demands, and. no respect for the dead.» His tail swished and he blinked outrage. «They eat fallen warriors, you know, whenever we cannot recover them. Sometimes they even stop fighting long enough to feed…» Quickly controlling himself, ize="3» gt;«Most are accounted for, but some are not. I fear we must assume they were lost breaking through the Grik.»

Matt nodded somberly, looking at Rick Tolson. «Revenge will make a quick search after dawn to see if any are adrift, disabled.»

«Aye, aye, Captain.»

«Don’t take too long, though. I want you back as soon as possible.» Tolson nodded. «Mr. Shinya, you will land three-quarters of the Marines and Guards at the dockyard. I’ll leave the choice of units to you, but I want you to reserve one-quarter of the force to demonstrate as if they’re going to land here» — he pointed at the map" across the river. Hopefully, we can keep the Grik reserves tied down, prepared to defend against a landing. The battle line will support that impression with a bombardment.» He paused. «The main force will assemble at the breastworks that join the castle walls to the beach.»

Most of those present were already familiar with the plan, but Lord Rolak leaned forward and peered at the map. «Why gather there?» he asked, puzzled. «It will take time to move your forces within the walls and through the city. Would it not be better to send them in as they arrive?»

«No, Lord Rolak,» Matt explained. «The Allied Expeditionary Force won’t be going inside.»

Shortly, after escorting the dignitaries and the battle line commanders to their boats and watching them scurry to their various commands to begin preparations, they returned to the wardroom. They didn’t have much time, but Matt was determined to know, at last, what had happened to Mahan and her people. Sandra and Bradford were present, as were Spanky, Gray, and Dowden. By now, the whole crew had heard the exciting news that ome are nohad settled upon the host, almost twenty-six hundred strong, as they gazed over the barrier and across the coastal plain. Matt and the Chief walked behind them, their shoes squelching in the ooze that had been churned in the damp sandy soil by the milling and marching of so many feet. Matt wished he had a horse to ride that would give him an elevated perspective not only of the events that were about to unfold but of the mood of «his» troops as well. It was hard to judge their feelings at that moment, with their inscrutably feline faces. But he’d learned to read Lemurian body language fairly well, and he’d learned to read much of the blinking they used instead of facial expressions.

Most were nervous, of course. Hell, he was nervous. But some few were blinking uncontrollably in abject terror. Most of those were surrounded and supported by steadier hearts, however, in a Lemurian way that Matt admired. But the vast majority of the troops poised for battle showed every sign of grim determination, if not outright eagerness. He nodded to himself. They would need all the eagerness, determination, and courage they could muster because across the marshy field before them lay the right flank of the Ancient Enemy.

The only sound was the flapping of the banners in the early-morning breeze. Each of the six regiments of infantry had its own new flag and most were emblazoned with some symbol that was important to the clan that dominated the regiment. The flags were Keje’s idea, and at his insistence each also bore the symbol of a tree. It was a sacred sign to all Lemurians and it gave them a unifying identity. It was also the symbol that the Grik themselves used to identify them and to Keje that made it even more appropriate. In the center of the line flowed a great, stainless white banner adorned with only a single stylized green and gold tree. Beside it, also borne by a Lemurian color guard, flew the Stars and Stripes. Keje told him that it was the first flag the People ever fought under, and beneath it they’d tasted victory. It was also the flag of their honored friends and allies, so of course it should be there. Matt felt a surge of pride at the sight of it and he wondered yet again at the irony that had placed it on the field that day.

Across the expanse, the Grik had finally noticed the force assembled on their flank and had begun to react. The mob of warriors facing them swelled, as more were shifted from other parts of the line and others came slowly from across the river on barges. There was no help for it. They had known it would happen before they were ready to strike. Sneak attacks are all but impossible when armies have to assemble and move everywhere they go on foot, not to mention within plain sight of each other. Perhaps their tactics would be surprise enough. Whatever the Grik thought, though, it didn’t look like they intended to let this «diversion» take their attention from what they saw as their main objective: the city beyond the wall.

Horns sounded a deep, harsh, vibratory hum and thousands of voices took up an eerie, hissing chant that sounded like some creature being fried alive in a skillet. Accompanying the chant, thousands of swords and spears clashed against their small round shields and the staccato beat built to a deafening crescendo.

«It’s even more terrifying on land than sea,» admitted a voice beside him. Matt turned to see Keje standing there, resplendent in his polished copper mail. His helmet visor was low over his eyes. «At sea, the noise is muted by wind and distance.»

«What are you doing here?» Matt demanded.

Keje grinned. «What a question to ask! I would ask the same of you if I thought I would get a different answer. Adar commands the battle line in my stead,» Keje assured him. nF Z «He knows what to do and he will be obeyed.»

With a great seething roar, the Grik horde surged toward Aryaal, waving their weapons over their heads and jostling one another to be in the vanguard. The beginning of the attack must have been plainly visible to the lookouts high above the decks of the Homes in the bay. Most of the Grik directly across the quarter mile of soft ground from the AEF didn’t join in the charge, but continued to face them, securing the flank. Even at the distance, it was clear they were unhappy with the task and a steady trickle was bleeding away to join the assault.

«Now would be about right for him to give the order,» Matt said of Adar. As if somehow the Sky Priest heard his quiet words, a bright flash and a white cloud of smoke erupted from Big Sal’s side, followed immediately by four more. The heavy, booming report of the big guns reached them a moment later, and by then the sides of all the ships of the battle line were enveloped in fire and smoke. The canvas-tearing shriek of the heavy shot reached their ears, and seconds later huge geysers of mud and debris rocketed upward from the midst of the Grik reserve across the river. Matt watched through his binoculars as troops swarmed over the bulwarks of the big ships and crowded into boats alongside. The guns continued to hammer away, each one sending a thirty-two-pound solid copper ball into the enemy camp. The balls shredded the densely packed bodies and destroyed the tents and makeshift dwellings as they struck and bounded and skated through, unstoppable, to kill again and again.

One of Lord Rolak’s aides, left as a liaison, vaulted to the top of one of the brontosaurus-like creatures that had been on the waterfront when they arrived. This particular specimen had bronze greaves on its legs and wore polished bronze plates over its vitals. Besides being beasts of burden, the ridiculous brutes apparently served as Aryaalan warhorses. Matt had noticed the thing when he came ashore, but it never even occurred to him that anyone would try to ride one of the amazingly stupid animals into battle. Now he self-consciously reached up and grabbed the aide’s outstretched hand and allowed the powerful Aryaalan to help him swing onto the dinosaur’s back. He took a moment to secure himself to the rock-steady platform and then quickly raised the binoculars again.

The camp across the river looked like an ant bed stirred with a stick. Shot gouged through them, but the Grik had begun to assemble on the beach, preparing to attack what seemed to be an imminent amphibious assault. He turned to look at the river. The barges carrying reinforcements into the assault had stopped halfway across and were beginning to return to the far bank with their teeming cargoes. The assault itself had reached the obstacles and entanglements at the base of the wall, and rocks, arrows, and other projectiles rained down upon the enemy. Ladders rose out of the mass and fell against the wall, only to be pushed back upon the attackers. For now. The attack had weight behind it, however, and regardless of the terrible losses they were inflicting, the defenders were too thin on the walls to hold for long. Matt leaned over and looked down at Shinya, Gray, and Keje, who were staring up at him expectantly.

«The army will advance!» he said in a loud, firm voice. He smiled briefly at the irony. It wasn’t an order he, a naval officer, had ever expected to give.

The barricade parted before them, and at the shouted commands of their officers, the Marines and Guards from Baalkpan and Big Sal and all the other Homes and places that had come to Aryaal’s aid stepped through the gaps with a precied the others on the exposed side, with nothing between them and the enemy but a gently swaying sea of marsh grass and flowers. There the army paused for a moment, flags fluttering overhead, as it dressed ranks and waited for the guns to make their more difficult way through the obstacles. Matt patted the Aryaalan aide on the arm and motioned for him to follow. The dinosaur bellowed a complaint when the aide pushed forward on a pair of levers that caused two sharpened stakes at the back of the platform-saddle they rode to jab down hard into the animal’s hips. With a sickening pitching motion, the beast began to move and the aide released the pressure on the stakes. Two long cables, like reins, snaked back along the beast’s serpentine neck and the aide pulled savagely on one of them, physically pointing the creature’s head in the direction he wanted it to go. Slowly, they trudged through the barricade and joined the army on the other side.

«God a’mighty, Skipper! I wish I had a camera!» came a voice from below and behind. Matt looked down. Dennis Silva and half a dozen other destroyermen were falling in on the animal’s flanks.

«What the hell are you doing here?» Matt called hotly. «We already have more men ashore than I’d like. You’re supposed to be assisting Lieutenant Ellis!»

Silva assumed a wounded expression. «I am, Skipper! But he’s a captain now too, you know. What with his own ship and all. He plumb ordered us off of it!» He gestured at the other men. «Said he couldn’t stand the very thought of us deck-apes foulin’ his engineerin’ spaces! I think he must’a been a snipe himself once upon a time,» he added darkly. «Put us ashore, and made us take these guns» — he brandished the Browning Automatic Rifle, or BAR, in his hand" to keep ’em out of the workers’ way!» Silva shook his head. «No way back to Walker now, so we figgered we’d come along over here and keep you comp’ny watchin’ this fight.»

Matt tried to maintain a stern expression, but an unstoppable grin broke through. «My God, Silva, you missed your calling. Hollywood or Congress, that’s where you should be. I’ve never seen anyone tell such a ridiculous lie with such conviction.» He looked at Gray, glowering at Silva. «Chief, put these men on report. They can stay, but they’re in your custody and control. They will not fire their weapons without my orders. Is that understood?» Matt gestured at the backs of the Lemurian troops as they prepared to move forward again. «The last thing we need is for these people to start relying on our modern weapons to fight their battles. We just don’t have enough to make a difference.» He smiled sadly. «We could probably do it once, but that would be even worse.» He looked squarely at Gray. «Emergencies only. That’s an order.»

«But, Skipper, beggin’ your pardon, haven’t we been doing that already? With the ship?» Silva asked, genuinely confused.

Matt nodded. «Yes, we have, but there’s a difference. The ship is who we are. She’s what we are, as far as these people are concerned. She’s what’s given us the credentials to advise them and help them technologically and be believed. Of course we fight with the ship. That’s what’s allowed us to give them the confidence they’ll need to win this fight — and it’ll be their fight for the most part. It has to be.»

«But. even some of the cat-monkeys have guns»

Matt’s voice took on an edge. «I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to gunner’s mates, Silva, but you may have noticed that Sergeant Alden’s Marine rifleor two, but the victory, if there is one, must be theirs.» He waved at the army again. «Won with their arms. Do you understand? That’s the only way they’ll ever win not just this battle but the war.»

Matt was convinced he was right. He just hoped it would turn out that way. Being right in theory wasn’t always the same as being right in practice.

«Does that mean we have to sling our rifles and just use these crummy cutlasses, Skipper?» asked Tom Felts from the other side of the dinosaur.

Matt grinned. «No, just don’t shoot unless I say so. Damn, I thought I said that.»

«Just shut up, you stupid apes,» growled the Bosun. «Can’t you see the cap’n’s got a battle to think about? One more word out of you and I’ll drag your asses back to the dock and you’ll miss the whole thing!»

Lieutenant Shinya’s voice rose above the silence of the waiting army. «Soldiers of the Allied Expeditionary Force! People of the Sacred Tree and sons and daughters of the Heavens!» Others answered his shrill voice, up and down the line. Many didn’t hear him over the stiffening breeze, but they heard the voices of those closer to them.

«First Guard Regiment!»

«Second Guard Regiment!»

«Second Marines!»

And on and on, followed by the shouts of company commanders and squad leaders.

«At the quick time, march!»

As a single entity, the entire army stepped off with their left feet just as they’d been taught and began to move forward with long, purposeful strides that ate up ground at a surprising rate. The guns went with them, and two dozen artillerymen per piece manhandled the weapons and ammunition right along with the infantry. It was amazing. To Matt’s knowledge, the army had never been able to train together on such a scale before, either on the parade ground or in the newly cleared zones around Baalkpan City. But for the most part, the formation held together with almost total precision. Here and there, NCOs called a cadence or shouted instructions for their squads to keep up or slow down, but the overall impression of discipline was impressive. Pete Alden, the man who, more than anyone, had built this army, would be proud. Matt was proud. Despite his inner anxiety, he felt a sudden thrill. He knew then what it must have felt like to be Caesar, or Alexander, watching his well-trained army march into battle against disorganized barbarians. The historian within him continued to whisper insidiously that the barbarians often won, but for the moment, he didn’t — wouldn’t — listen. The die was cast and the time for strategy was past.

There would be little maneuver; there was no point. When they engaged the enemy, the army would extend from the walls of the city almost to the banks of the river and he was reminded of one of his favorite Nelson quotes: «Never mind about maneuvers. Just go straight at ’em.» That was about all they could do in this confined space. When the two forces came together, there’d just be fighting and hacking and killing. His great hope then was that the training his people had received would make the difference. Of course, they did have a few surprises for the Grik even before that happened.

The battle raged with more intensity at the base of the distant walls, and more and more ladders fell against them. Occasionally, firebombs arced up in high trajectories and fell among the defenders beyond his view. Matt surmised the enemy must have some sort of portable machine or was difficult to tell through his binoculars how well the Aryaalans were holding because of the odd, jouncing gait of his mount. He heard a different note from the horns of the Grik in front of them, one with a kind of strident edge. He thought, incongruously, that they really needed to come up with some means like that for the Lemurians to signal one another. Their mouths were shaped all wrong to blow on a bugle. They had some woodwind-type horns, but they just weren’t loud enough. Maybe the conch-like shells they blew as a warning? Even simple whistles would be better than nothing. He should have thought of that sooner. He wondered how the Grik managed it. The way their mouths were shaped, he couldn’t see how they could do anything with them other than tear flesh.

At three hundred yards, a single command echoed up and down the line.

«Shields!»

The tall, rectangular shields made from bronze plate backed with wood that the first two ranks carried clashed together as they were locked, side to side, overlapping one another to form a mobile wall. Spears came down in unison and rested on the top edges of the shields as the army advanced. It was an impressive display and Matt wondered what the enemy thought. He knew the sight had horrified the enemies of Rome, but he had no idea how the Grik would react. A smattering of crossbow bolts fluttered toward them. Most landed short, but a few thunked into the shield wall. A single piercing scream reached his ears from far to the left. His unlikely mount lumbered mindlessly along with a kind of quartering, rolling motion, following behind the trotting ranks but easily keeping up with its plodding, long-legged pace.

«Halt!» came the cry at two hundred yards, and the advance ground to a stop. For a moment there was a little confusion as the ranks realigned themselves. A runner dashed up from where Shinya had stopped with his staff a short distance away. He spoke in carefully enunciated English. «Lieutenant Shinya sends his respects, sir, and asks if he may commence firing?»

«By all means,» Matt answered. With a salute, the young runner scampered away. Matt glanced down and saw Keje standing with Chief Gray. The Chief was practically supporting him as the Lemurian wheezed and Matt felt a pang of shame. The advance from the barricade had to have been tough on his portly friend. Keje was strong as a bull, but Matt doubted he’d had many occasions to trot as far as he had. «Keje,» he called, «why don’t you join me up here? You can sure see better. There’s plenty of room.»

Keje eyed the beast with suspicion, but gratefully nodded his head. He climbed swiftly onto the platform and settled next to Matt and Lord Rolak’s aide. He was still puffing a little. «I grow too old,» he said, «and my legs are too short for this fighting on land.» He shook his head. «It is unnatural.»

Matt glanced behind them and smiled. «But you didn’t come much farther than the length of Big Sal. Hell, I doubt it was as far.»

«Perhaps, but Salissa does not clutch at your feet as you run, and her decks are flat and you do not sink into them.»

«Batteries, forward!» came the command. «Archers, prepare!» Gaps opened in the shield wall to allow the guns to be pushed through. Their crews immediately raced to load them with fixed charges consisting of thin tin canisters filled with two hundred three-quarter-inch balls on top of a wooden sabot to which was attached a fabric bag of powder. In carefully choreographed, highe had heard the thunder. Not just the thunder from the ships, which he’d begun to hear already, but the thunder that came from the sea folk land force. That was when he had known it wouldn’t be long before they called him, and he stood ready to dash down to the south gate as soon as he saw the flare.

«The wait is. distracting,» came a soft voice beside him. Lord Rolak turned and looked at Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado. She was dressed all in black, from the leather that backed her armor to the long, flowing cape that fell from her shoulders and fluttered fitfully in the breeze. Her fur was black as well — entirely, without the slightest hint of a past mixture that would attest to any dilution of the royal blood. Her bright gray eyes shone like silver in her ebon face and artistically justified her only concession to the dark raiment, which was a form-fitted breastplate made of silver-washed bronze.

She is perfect, Lord Rolak admitted frankly to himself. He was almost three times her age, but he hadn’t grown so ancient he couldn’t recognize fact. It’s no wonder that young fool of a prince would have them fight a war to have her. That war had ended inconclusively, of course, when the Grik had come. As much as she hated Rasik-Alcas, she’d brought six hundred of her finest warriors, her personal guard, to help defend against them. Lord Rolak rather doubted if Fet or Rasik-Alcas would have done the same.

One of those warriors was a massive B’mbaadan, scarred and old as he, who shadowed Queen Maraan’s every move. His name was Haakar-Faask, and Rolak respected him greatly. They had battled often and inflicted their share of scars on one another. After Safir became the Orphan Queen, it was Faask who became her mentor, chief guard, general, and, in some ways, surrogate father. Right now, Rolak wished he would exercise a little more protectiveness. He looked at the warrior and blinked with exasperation, but Faask remained inscrutable. With a growl, Rolak stepped quickly back from the bastion wall, hoping to draw the queen with him. Dressed like that, she had to be a tempting target for the enemy crossbows. Unconcerned, she continued to peer over the side at the roiling enemy below. To her left, some distance away, a great cauldron of boiling water poured down upon the enemy and agonized shrieks rose to their ears. Rolak saw a slight smile of satisfaction expose a few of her perfect white teeth. She turned and stepped from the edge just as a flurry of crossbow bolts whipped over the wall where she’d been. Rolak sighed exasperatedly, blinking accusation at Haakar-Faask. «My dear Queen Protector, you must not take such chances. You must be more careful!»

«Like your own king?» she asked with a mocking smile. Rolak didn’t respond. «Unlike the great Fet-Alcas, I am not only the leader of my people in peace, but in war. That is why I am also called ‘Protector.’ I take that duty seriously. I won’t shirk any danger I ask my warriors to face.»

«I have not seen you ask your warriors to flaunt themselves pointlessly in full view of the enemy, my dear,» Rolak observed with a wry smile as he blinked with gentle humor.

«Have you not? What then do you think they are doing here?» As before, Lord Rolak had no reply.

Shouted voices registered and he looked to the north. To his admitted surprise, the tide of Grik began to ebb, the closer to the harbor it was. The fight below them had not abated, but to the north there was a growing hesitancy. Confusion. The enemy horns brayed insistently, and he ventured nearer the parapet.

«It is working,» he breathed. Below him, the ed overfontgt;

Rolak’s eyes narrowed. «Yes, Lord King, you must. I am Protector of Aryaal and it is my duty to protect this city. I explained to you the plan this morning. You had no objection then.»

«You are Protector, appointed by the king!» sneered Prince Rasik. «You will do as he says.»

In a calm, patient voice like one would use with a youngling that had just found a sharp sword and was preparing to examine its sibling’s eyes more carefully, Rolak spoke. «Great King, I have made alliance — which is my right — with the sea folk and the Amer-i-caans to defeat the enemy who threatens us. Even now they are fighting at our side as they promised. They have drawn the enemy away from our walls and upon themselves so we can attack from behind. We are moments away from victory, or days from total defeat!»

«It is your right to make alliance, Lord Rolak, but it is my right not to support that alliance if I do not think, in the interests of the people, you have acted wisely.» King Fet-Alcas could no longer bellow, but his tone was imperious. «You have not.»

«In what way have I not acted wisely, that you did not recognize before our allies committed themselves?» Rolak felt a tension building within him, a tension bordering on rage. He had given his word to the Amer-i-caan leader and even now the sea folk were fighting and dying outside these walls based upon his word. Soon the moment to strike would pass and whatever they did would be too late. Queen Maraan stirred beside him, a small growl deep in her throat. She hadn’t been party to the agreement, but she too recognized the opportunity that was being squandered.

The king waved his hand again and glanced at his son. «That is not your concern.»

«It is my concern if my honor is at stake, Lord King. I beg you to satisfy my honor and that of your people by telling us what your plan might be.»

«That is simple. The strangers refused your offer of honor to join us within these walls and fight at our side. They chose instead to fight alone. It is my order that we let them! They came here unasked for and without my permission»

«To save us!» Rolak interrupted.

«— with fanciful plans to continue this war far from here. They did not come here to save us, and if they did, what is their price? That we should fight for them as their slaves? No! We will let them fight they had. No choice. «Forget the ‘no shooting’ order. I want one of you to each regiment, ready to pour fire into any breakthroughs if they occur. We’ve got to keep this line together at all costs. If it breaks, we’re dead. Conserve your ammunition and don’t get trigger-happy, but use it if you have to. Now go!»

They all hurried off except Silva, who stood rooted with a worried expression on his face. «But what about you, Skipper?»

«Never fear, Mr. Silva. I have my pistol. If that fails, the Bosun will protect me.»

Silva arched an eyebrow and a grin crept across his face. «But who’s gonna protect him?»

Gray’s face turned purple with rage. «Buzz off, you goddamn weedchewin’ ape! Or I’ll let that crazy cook use you for fish bait!»

«Just worried about you, is all,» shouted Silva as he loped off down the line. Gray shook his head and stifled a grin. They were standing right behind the rear rank of the Second Marine Regiment. The Second was near the center of the line and it was spear-heavy, all of its members being large and strong enough to stand in the front rank. Those at the rear were methodically shooting arrows over the heads of those in front, and periodically they’d move forward and take the place of an exhausted comrade. It was a good drill and Matt wished the Guard regiments had learned to do the same. Many of those who came to the rear were wounded, some badly, and an increasing number of them were pushed or dragged out of the ranks as the fighting continued. A growing number of bodies, some moving, others not, were gathering behind the lines, waiting to be carried back to the barricade on stretchers to be tended in the field hospital.

«There ain’t enough stretcher bearers,» Gray observed grimly. «When we start to pull back, things could go bad in a hurry.»

Matt recognized one of the wounded Lemurians as he was tossed roughly on a litter. It was that runner of Shinya’s he’d spoken to before. He had a terrible slash across his chest and blood-soaked bandages were heaped high upon him. Matt hurried to his side. «Do you understand me?» he asked urgently. The young Lemurian nodded, his teeth clenched with pain. «The hospital must evacuate! Get the wounded to safety.» He grasped the runner’s hand in his. «Tell Lieutenant Tucker.» He paused. He didn’t know what to say. «Tell her to pull out now. That’s an order.» He squeezed the hand.

«I will tell her, Cap-i-taan,» the runner replied with a strained voice. Matt nodded and the stretcher bearers raced to the rear with their burden.

Chack-Sab-At gasped with pain as a Grik spearpoint skated off his shield and laid open the top of his shoulder. The thrust had overextended his enemy, however, and Chack drove his own spearpoint into the Grik’s throat with a triumphant snarl. An explosive spray of blood and spittle flecked his face as the enemy warrior went down. If it screamed, Chack didn’t hear it over the constant roar of battle.

For just an instant, his thoughts turned to his sister, Risa, and he wondered what she would think if she saw him now. It seemed so long ago that she’d virtually shamed him into taking the warrior’s tack. How little he’d known at the time; beneath his nervousness and protestation a warrior was what he was. Or perhaps, deep down, he knew it all along. Maybe that was why he allowed himself to be bullied and never tried to win the frequent bouts of his youth. Or raid. He had loved it, and much to his great surprise, he had been good at it as well.

His warrior-minded sister had seen the change in him when she recovered from her wounds, but she’d believed it was just a sign that he’d grown up at last. She hadn’t realized the more fundamental nature of the change. Once, his greatest ambition had been to one day become a wing clan chief. That goal no longer even entered his thoughts. He no longer cared about running Salissa’s great wings, or those of any other Home. He still loved Salissa, but Walker was his Home now and he was a destroyerman through and through. He knew most people believed he was playing a game with Selass, rubbing her nose in her rejection of him for Saak-Fas. But as far as he was concerned, she could remain mated to the mad, broken shell that Saak-Fas had become. The only thing he really felt for her now was pity. He didn’t care about anything that once seemed so important — other than his sister, of course, despite her bothersome behavior, and the safety of his people and their strange tail-less friends. All that mattered now was the joy he felt when he was destroying their enemies. A joy he felt even now, in spite of the pain and thirst and exhaustion.

He’d spent most of the fight in the second rank, where his height gave him an advantage, stabbing and thrusting powerfully with his spear. Then the one in front of him, another wing runner from Salissa, fell. Chack immediately took his place. He couldn’t kill as many of the enemy from the wall, fighting and straining to hold back the weight of thousands, it seemed, but the wall had to hold. Another Grik took the place of the one he had slain, battering furiously at his shield with its sickle-shaped sword. Chack dug his feet into the slurry of sandy, bloody mud and leaned hard into his attacker. He let his spear fall toward the warrior at his back — quite certain it would be put to good use — and drew the cutlass that the destroyermen had given him. He slashed at the Grik’s feet under the bottom edge of his shield and was rewarded with a jarring contact of blade on bone.

The pressure eased, but as he stood up straight, a blow from an axe right on top of his head drove him down again. He was stunned for a moment and he’d bitten his tongue. His comrades to the right and left helped support him while his senses returned. Thank the stars for the strange, platter-shaped helmet, he thought. He spat blood between gasps for air. There was frenzied shouting from behind him and he risked a quick glimpse. The muzzle of one of the cannons was inching through the press. He and the others near him shielded its progress until it was right behind them and then, at a shout, they gave back on either side.

Instantly, there was a deafening thunderclap, seemingly inside his head. The pressure turned his bones to jelly and the fur on the right side of his body felt like it had been driven into his skin. A choking cloud of smoke engulfed him and a high-pitched ringing sound replaced the noise of battle. He didn’t care. For just a moment, all that remained of the enemy in front of him was a vast semicircle of churned, shattered gobbets of flesh. He barked an almost hysterical laugh and was surprised he couldn’t even hear himself. Recoil had driven the gun backward, and the wall closed up tight where it had been. Something caught his eye and he looked up. High in the air, beginning to descend, was yet another flare.

«It’s fallin’ apart, Skipper,» Gray wheezed, his hands on his knees. He had lost his hat and his hair was matted with blood. To their left, they heard the rattle of a Thompson on full auto. None of the guys could have much ammo left, thought Matt as he inserted his last magazine into the butt of the Colt. He glanced at the barricade behind them just a lt U dast magazihe grass that had covered this plain.

A tremendous roar went up from the Grik, a predatory roar of triumph as the shield wall broke yet again. This time, it was as if some critical point had been reached beyond all endurance. One moment, a few Grik were racing through a small gap, hacking and slashing as they came, and in the next, like a pane of glass in a hailstorm, the entire wall around the gap shattered and fell away. Lieutenant Shinya raced by, aiming for the breakthrough, but Matt caught his arm. The Japanese officer whirled toward him, an insane light in his eyes that dimmed just slightly when he recognized the captain.

«Save the guns, if you can,» Matt croaked. «Try to form a square around them. If we can make it to the breastworks, we might be able to hold them there.» Shinya nodded reluctantly, deterred from his suicidal charge. He ran off shouting for runners. They both knew it was hopeless. Too many had already started to run. But it was all they had left and they had to try.

Maybe not hopeless after all, Matt amended as he wiped his eyes and struggled to see through the developing chaos. The Second Marines and most of the First Guards had already formed a square of sorts. It was a maneuver the Marines practiced often and the Guards had simply retreated into the formation with the Marines. They’d managed to save at least a couple of guns too — suddenly a pair of bronze snouts pushed through and barked spitefully at the Grik that had begun to curve around and try to get between the square and the barricade. Scores fell beneath the billowing smoke and the banshee wail of canister. To the right, the line still miraculously held. But its severed end had curled back toward the wall to form a semicircle at its base.

Separate from either force, however, Matt, Gray, and Keje stood alone as the shield wall in front of them melted away, oblivious to anything but the need to escape. Behind them raged the thundering horde. Matt gauged the distance to the Marine square. Many within it were shouting his name, or Keje’s, and waving, urging them toward it. There was no way.

A lone Lemurian gunner, abandoned with her dead crew, stood waiting while the Grik swept down upon her. Crouching behind the axle as bolts whizzed by or spanged off the barrel of her gun, she looked small and frail compared to the monsters coming for her. There was no doubting the determination of her stance, however, and her tail flicked back and forth as if she was preparing to pounce. At the last moment, she touched the linstock to the vent and the gun blew itself apart with a tremendous blast. Grik bodies were hurled into the air or mowed down by fragments of the tube or pieces of the carriage. She must have loaded it to the muzzle, Matt thought, stricken by the act. Of the lone Lemurian gunner, nothing remained.

«Come, my friends!» Keje bellowed, pointing at the Marine square. «We must try!» With a final glance through the smoke at the momentarily stunned Grik advance, Matt and Gray joined Keje, racing toward the square as it resumed a slow, shuffling retreat.

Gray uttered a sudden, startled grunt of surprise and fell to the ground as if he’d tripped. Matt and Keje both stopped and turned toward him. He was lying on his side with a black vaned crossbow bolt protruding from his hip. Irritably, he waved them on. Keje disemboweled a Grik warrior with his scota as it ran toward them out of the lingering cloud and Matt took careful aim and shot another with his pistol. More were coming. Soon it would be a flood. «Go on, damn it! I’ll be along!» Gray yelled.

«Shut up,» Matt grated as he and Keje helped him to his feet. Stifling a tooward the square. Matt shot another Grik and then another as they struggled closer to the Marines, whose formation had started to expand toward them as it moved, hoping to take them into its embrace. Keje deflected a blow from a Grik sword with his small shield and Matt shot the creature as it snapped at Gray with its terrible jaws. His pistol slide locked back. Empty. He tucked the gun into his belt and parried a spear thrust with his sword. He wasn’t much of a swordsman, but holding the Chief and fighting with his left hand, he was almost helpless. He managed to deflect the spear just enough that instead of driving through his chest, the sharp blade rasped along his ribs. He gasped with pain but clamped down with his arm so the Grik couldn’t pull the spear back for another thrust and Gray drove the point of his cutlass into its eye. It shrieked and fell back, but then Keje went down, pulling them down on top of him.

Matt rolled onto his stomach to rise. All around him he saw running feet, Grik feet with long curved claws that slashed at the earth as they ran. He felt a searing blow of agony in his left shoulder blade that drove him to the ground, out of breath. He raised his head once more. There, just ahead, was the Marine square. He could see the tired, bloody faces of the people he had brought to this, staring expressionlessly back at him, but with their eyes blinking in frustration. He could feel Chief Gray, trapped beneath him and struggling to rise, and he tried to roll aside. Got to let him up, he thought. Then something struck him on the side of the head, and bright sparks swirled behind his eyes, quickly scattering into darkness.

«Through! Charge through! Do not stop at the barricade!» bellowed Lord Rolak, waving his sword above his head. He was nearly spent and his old legs ached from unaccustomed exertion. He stopped, gasping for a moment as his warriors flowed past, shouldering their way through the debris of a shocked and splintered army. He stared at the survivors of the sea folk as they stumbled, slack-jawed and empty-eyed toward the dock as if they knew, instinctively, safety for them could only be found at sea. He couldn’t believe it. They’d broken, yes, but they had fought against impossible odds for longer than he’d ever expected, and his shame warred with his pride for their accomplishment. Never again could it be said with honesty that sea folk would not fight.

Some fought still. A solid block of sea folk warriors with several flags held high in their midst was churning its way through a mass of enemies back toward the relative safety of the barricade. The block was dwindling even as he watched, but the path they hewed through the foe was out of all proportion to their losses. His sense of failure and shame was only slightly assuaged by the fact that he wasn’t entirely too late. It had taken his and the Orphan Queen’s forces almost two hours to work their way through the streets of Aryaal, streets that became ever more congested as they neared the north gate. The fighting had caused a general exodus of townsfolk to gather there seeking refuge from the firebombs and hoping that if the city fell they might yet escape to B’mbaado. It was an empty hope, of course, but it was the only hope they had. Then, when they finally forced their way to the gate itself, they found it closed and fortified from the inside as well as out. The king, or his brat, must have foreseen something like what Rolak was attempting and ordered his personal guard to prevent anyone from trying to leave. It was then that Rolak’s defiance of his king had sparked a civil war in the city of Aryaal.

He stormed the gate with Queen Maraan at his side. The fight for the towers that housed the gate windlasses was difficult and costly — he himself had overseen their construction years before with that very purposked their way to the machinery that opened the massive doors, leaving scores of white-clad bodies behind them. When the gate swung wide, Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred and a slightly larger number of Aryaalan warriors — rebels now — swarmed down into the waterfront shantytown where fisherfolk and boat people dwelt. Through the squalid alleys filled with muck they raced, until finally they emerged behind the breastworks to see the disaster their king’s treachery had wrought. Tears of guilt and humiliation stung Rolak’s eyes as he beheld, at last, the extent of Aryaal’s dishonor. The fact that any of those they had betrayed still lived — let alone fought — was proof that if only they’d followed the plan, a great victory could have been achieved. Now all that remained was to save what he could of this valiant army as well as his own people’s soul.

«Straight through the barricade!» he urged hoarsely once more as another cluster of soldiers passed. He noticed a group of warriors standing nearby, leaning on their spears and watching the battle beyond the breastworks as the last of his own troops clawed through the gap and slashed into the milling Grik. «What are you doing?» he demanded. One of them looked at him and blinked confusion.

«We are the guard here. This is our station. We have no orders but to defend this position.»

Furious, Lord Rolak struck the hapless Aryaalan with the flat of his sword. «You do now!» he bellowed. «Through, now, the lot of you! Or I’ll have your tails for baldrics!» More terrified of the raging Protector than of the Grik, the entire barricade garrison hurried to obey. Rolak stood waiting, catching his breath and cursing his age and frailty until the absolute last of the defensive force hurried through to join the battle. He felt a hand on his arm.

«Rest here a moment,» spoke the queen of B’mbaado. Her eyelids flickered with concern.

«Never,» he said, «will I rest again until the honor that was stolen from me is restored.»

She turned her gaze to the battle that raged a short distance away. B’mbaadans and Aryaalans didn’t fight in the strange, ordered way she’d seen the sea folk begin the battle, but their tightly massed attack of screaming and slashing reinforcements led by an almost berserk Haakar-Faask had taken the Grik unawares. In moments they had battered a deep wedge through the enemy and were on the verge of linking with the exhausted Marines.

«In that case, Lord Rolak, let us salvage what we may of it while we can!» She flashed him a predatory grin and drew her sword. He nodded and smiled back at her. Aryaalan females never became warriors; it was forbidden. B’mbaadans almost never did, but there were a few exceptions — a noted one stood before him now. Sea folk females fought right alongside the males, and hundreds of them had died that day defending all the people of Aryaal, including its proud male warriors who had done nothing. He knew it was no use trying to make Queen Maraan stay out of the fight. She’d already been in the thick of it at the gate.

«Of course, dear queen, just promise not to outrun me. What little honor I have left would not survive.» She clasped his arm tightly this time, and together they charged into battle.

Matt’s eyes focused slowly on the battle lantern swaying above him. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at it, but it seemed like quite a while. It was only now, however, that he real sizld do was look at her in wonder and confusion. «The only ones to know defeat today were the Grik!»

A ragged cheer broke out and quickly spread to the area beyond the tent. It didn’t last long, because the voices that made it were exhausted and hurt, but it was real and it was sincere and he knew somehow that her words were true. He closed his eyes in confusion and saw it all again, those last terrible moments when he knew all was lost. He couldn’t imagine how they’d escaped disaster, but they must have. Sandra said so. He was alive, so it must be true.

Victory, he thought. «My God.» He squeezed her fingers gently.

Long after she felt his hand relax in hers, Sandra sat beside Matt on the cot, looking down at him, wiping away her tears of relief while he slept.

It had been like a terrible nightmare. They’d all been so confident, God knows why. Maybe the string of small victories Matt led them to had made them think they could accomplish anything. After the battle in the bay, that confidence was reinforced. Sandra had watched with the rest as the proud army marched across the field, banners flying, and opened the battle with a terrible, one-sided blow. Even from her vantage point, where she had a better perspective of the horde they faced, she’d still been confident. The battle was unfolding precisely as planned. The Grik reserve was distracted on the far side of the river and the entire force attacking the city had been diverted down upon the Allied Expeditionary Force. And then, like a puff of smoke in a high wind, the grand plan that would have led them to victory, perhaps even with relatively light casualties, was just. gone.

The whole thing depended on the Aryaalans coming out and striking hard into the enemy rear, which might not only have sent the Grik into a panic, but would also have cut them off from reinforcements at the ferry landing. She ran her fingers through her hair, scooping the loose locks out of her eyes, and glanced around at the countless wounded around her.

They’d been so stupid! Even in their own world people so rarely did the things they ought to do — had to do! — when the need was so clear! Look at how long Europe had appeased Hitler. How long the United States had tried to accommodate Japan’s unspeakably brutal expansionism in Asia. Treachery wasn’t a unique and alien Aryaalan trait. Nakja-Mur had warned them, and Keje had too, not to count too heavily on the people of Surabaya. But under the circumstances, surely they had to see the logic? She snorted quietly. They’d applied their own concept of self-interest to others, she realized, and that was always a dangerous thing to do. It had been the greatest flaw in their plan.

She’d known something was wrong when the second flare went up. The battle line held and held for what seemed an eternity — surely longer than they’d expected to feel the full crush of the enemy assault. All the while, the booming of guns and the drifting white smoke made it impossible to see much detail. The first steady stream of wounded began to arrive, however. Up to that point there’d been a trickle, a few at a time, and most of those had made it to the rear under their own power or assisted by a comrade. Those that came as the battle raged on were carried, and their wounds were almost always desperate. She flew into the fray of spurting blood and severed limbs and directed the surgery with an energy and steady detachment that helped instill calm and confidence into the overworked staff of healers under her command. She was overjoyed when Kathy McCoy and Pam Cross arrived from Mahan, but there was no time for a psteastood. But they hadn’t been part of the «team» Sandra had trained for just this situation. It took a while for Pam and Kathy to integrate themselves and find their most effective roles.

And still the battle raged. The wounded that returned from the fighting were no longer excited and boastful. An atmosphere of exhausted desperation began to prevail. They were fighting like fiends and the field was choked with Grik dead, but something was wrong. The Aryaalans hadn’t come. Then came Shinya’s runner, horribly wounded but able to tell her the order Captain Reddy sent. By then she half expected it, but it still struck her like a slap. She quickly instructed her orderlies to prepare to move the wounded and raced to the barricade to see for herself. The horror was beyond anything she’d ever expected, or could possibly have imagined.

The battle was much closer now, close enough to see individuals, and she quickly picked out the white and coffee-khaki dress of the captain and the Bosun near the center of the line. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of other destroyermen here and there and she heard the sound of their weapons when they fired. Beyond the diminishing, wavering line was an endless sea of menacing shapes surging forward with a single-minded, palpable ferocity. She still heard the thunderclap of cannon, but the surflike roar of the Grik and the clash of weapons absorbed the sound of all else except thought.

Abstractly, the struggle before her brought to mind a scene from her childhood. A small green grasshopper had inadvertently landed upon an ant bed. Before it could recover and launch itself again, dozens of ants swarmed upon it, biting and stinging as fast as they could. Within moments, the insect had been completely obscured by a writhing mass of attackers as they continued to sting and sting and slash at their victim with their cruel jaws. Occasionally, she saw one of the grasshopper’s legs twitch feebly, hopelessly, but it was doomed. As she watched the battle, to her horror, that mental image was re-created before her very eyes. Like a plank stretched across two points, bowing ever lower beneath a remorselessly increasing burden of stones heaped upon it beyond all sense or reason, the shield wall broke completely with the suddenness of a lightning bolt. She knew she had to leave, to get the wounded out, but she couldn’t move — so deep was her shock and terror, not only for herself but for the trio of distant forms that suddenly stood entirely alone in the face of the relentless onslaught. A trio that included the tall, white-uniformed figure of Captain Matthew Reddy. Her heart leaped into her throat and she cried out in anguish — just as a gun exploded and a blanket of smoke billowed outward and mercifully obscured the last moments from her view. She could only stand, stunned and lost, with tears streaming down her face and her soul locked in a maelstrom of grief. All around her, battered, blood-matted troops streamed through the barricade and ran to the rear as fast as they could, but she could think only of what lay within that dissipating cloud of smoke.

Someone bumped against her and she almost fell, catching herself by grabbing the barricade and drawing to the side. It had been a warrior who bumped her, accidentally, of course, but she suddenly realized that this warrior, unlike the others, was racing through the barricade toward the enemy. And then another passed, and another. Within seconds, the trickle became a flood and she watched, amazed, as hundreds more went surging past to join the fight.

The Aryaalans had come at last. She knew it was true when she saw Lord Rolak trot up behind them, bellowing furiously. She could send ghastly shadows upon it. He’s suffered so much for us all, she thought, ever since the very beginning. Most of that suffering was inside, where no one else could see. But she had glimpsed the inner turmoil, even though he kept it hidden. He fought it alone because that’s what he had to do. If he’d ever shown an inkling of his concern and doubt to the crew — or their Lemurian allies — they certainly wouldn’t be here now, in the aftermath of a miraculous victory. More than likely they’d have been dead long ago, like Kaufman. With indecision, everything would have fallen apart.

She gently touched his lips, reassured by the warm breath she felt. He was getting old beyond his years, with the burden placed upon him, and she noticed for the first time that a few white whiskers had appeared in the stubble on his chin. Maybe he had been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles. That may very well be, she thought grimly, but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try. If Walker and Mahan had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.