Distant Thunders (19 page)

Spanky argued that a permanent dry dock was essential, not only to refloat
Walker
—and do it right—but because the new construction Brister referred to would be much more prone to require repairs below the waterline than other ships the Lemurians built. He vividly remembered how difficult it had been to remove one of
Mahan
’s propellers and install it on
Walker
. With the ravenous nature of the aquatic life on this different Earth, no underwater work could be performed without elaborate preparation. Besides, once they got her up, Spanky wasn’t ready to write
Walker
off. No one had any illusions that repairing the badly mauled destroyer would be an easy task; it might even be impossible. But they had to try. They owed her that much.

As commander of all Allied forces, Captain Reddy had to make the decision, and he’d agonized over it, wondering if he was being entirely objective. He wanted his ship back, and everyone (particularly the Lemurians) wanted him to have her. She’d been instrumental in achieving every success they’d enjoyed, and the dilapidated old four stacker had become a powerful symbol to everyone involved in opposing the scourge of the Grik. The problem was, until they could get at her, there was no way to know if she could even be repaired, and Matt was realistic enough to know Brister was right: they
had
to have those new ships.

Spanky, Jim Ellis, and Sandra had been anxious too, but for a different reason. They knew they couldn’t influence his decision, but they also knew how important it was not only to the future of the man who had to make it, but to all of their futures as well. Matthew Reddy had lost . . . a piece of his soul . . . when his ship went down. Only when he knew she was safe and afloat and alive did they think he’d gain it back. And he had to gain it back. Spanky’s insistent argument that they needed a real dry dock—one way or the other—was finally sufficient to gain Matt’s support.

It was still necessary to flood down the Homes—twice as many as would have been required to simply refloat the ship—since they had to create a dry lane in which to work. It would take longer, but the wait would be worth it. The Lemurian city of Baalkpan would have a real, dedicated, honest-to-goodness dry dock, and the implications of that went far beyond simply pumping out and patching up a single battered, overage destroyer.

What Jenks saw was a lot of heavy, new-looking machinery being erected, and he recognized much of it in principle, as well as the strange variety of crude, open air, steam engines. Tarred canvas hoses were coiled in heaps and a pair of large cranes were under construction. Then his eyes rested on the unfamiliar, scarred, and dreary structures protruding from the water. He gasped.

“It has sunk!” he exclaimed. “Your iron-hulled steamer, your
Walker
, was sunk!”

“She was badly damaged in the battle,” Matt confirmed woodenly, “and barely managed to make it here. We’ll try to refloat her, but we’ve got no idea if it’s even possible. She might be damaged beyond repair.”

Jenks turned a sympathetic glance to Matt. He fully understood the trauma of losing a ship and wondered if that might explain a lot of Captain Reddy’s distance. Of course, he chided himself, not having known of the loss, he’d possibly been less than sensitive himself. “I didn’t know,” he managed. “Nobody knew.”

“That was our intention. You keep wondering if we’re a threat to you, but how are we to know you’re not a threat to us?” Matt shook his head. “I don’t think you could
conquer
us. No offense, but based on what we’ve learned from the princess and . . . Well, we’re pretty secure here now. We’ve stood against a more massive assault than I think you could ever mount. Our concern is, we already
have
an enemy and we have to strike as quickly as we can. As much as we’d like to be friends with your Empire, we can’t afford to be distracted right now. We have to go after the Grik with everything we have, and that
would
leave us vulnerable here. We’re not really even asking for a true military alliance, much as we’d like one. We just want you to leave us alone!”

“Releasing the princess into our care would go a long way toward assuring that,” Jenks said with a trace of sarcasm.

“Possibly, but she doesn’t
want
to be released, does she?” Sandra suddenly interjected with a passion that disconcerted Jenks. He’d been surprised she was even present. Different people had different customs, but he’d never met any culture that encouraged women to speak so boldly, or even allowed their presence in situations such as this. The rules were different for nobility of course, but the Americans didn’t have a nobility. . . . Did they? Perhaps they’d been influenced by the Lemurians. Lemurian females clearly enjoyed a status here the likes of which he’d never seen. Maybe the scarcity of American women gave them more power? No, he rejected that. He knew Miss Tucker held the rank of lieutenant and was their Minister of Medicine. She clearly had real status and felt no constraints in demonstrating it. Odd.

“I think she has more reason to fear for her safety aboard your ship than she does here,” Sandra continued. “You may not have noticed, but she’s something of a heroine to the people of this city. If they ever found out something happened to her while she was in your care, there probably
would
be war, and there wouldn’t be anything I or Matt or anyone else could do about it—even if we wanted to.”

She sighed, and Jenks saw the pain on her face. “None of us wants or needs such a stupid, wasteful war. There would be terrible losses on both sides, and no matter who eventually ‘won,’ both of us would ultimately lose in the end,” she said with certainty. “We don’t have
time
to let the Grik catch their breath, and we need every warrior we have to face them—just as I think you need all your troops and ships to avert threats of your own. To
your
east, perhaps?”

Her last punch was a good one, judging by Jenks’s expression, even if it was just a guess. Rebecca and O’Casey had described other humans east of the empire who had been a growing threat. They hadn’t known of any recent, open confrontations, but they’d been gone a long time and Jenks had certainly been jumpy about something from the start. Their revelations had practically pinpointed the location of the heart of the Empire as well.

“Perhaps you are right,” Jenks temporized, still overcoming his surprise. “Perhaps we both have more pressing concerns than fighting one another. But even if you are right about that, surely you can see why I personally chafe at this interminable delay? Honestly, how long must my squadron languish here while it might be needed elsewhere?”

Matt pointed to a small forest of masts clustered beyond the point, where the new fitting-out pier was. These were not just more captured Grik ships under repair. They were new ships, built and fitting out along the same lines as the first human/Lemurian frigates that had performed so well in the previous battles. This construction was different however. Structurally as stout and almost identical to their predecessors, these were steam powered with a central screw propeller. Matt disliked what he considered the Imperial’s dangerously exposed paddle wheels, and now that they knew the Grik had cannons, he’d insisted they not take any chances that a single lucky hit might put a ship out of action.

“Over there is one of the main reasons I invited you here today. The
main
reason.” He paused. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” he asked. “In just a few weeks, we’ll mount an expedition to assess the situation in Aryaal, and possibly a few other places. Come with me. By the time we return, we’ll know whether or not we can push the Grik on our own terms, or if we’ll have to continue preparations for a more costly campaign. Either way, with that knowledge, I hope to be free to escort Her Highness home.”

 

 

Commander Walter Billingsly was writing furiously in his journal, quill scritching violently on the coarse paper and spattering little drips and blobs among the words. The writing style was a reflection of his personality: get to the point, regardless of the mess, and do it at a furious pace. Today, he was most furious to learn Commodore Jenks had been given a tour of the “apes” industrial center and he had not been officially informed, nor had he been allowed to send any “escorts” along. Jenks’s growing independent-mindedness regarding this entire fiasco was becoming increasingly tiresome. His hand stilled when he heard the sounds of the commodore being piped back aboard. Quickly, he capped the inkwell, wiped his quill on a stained handkerchief, and sanded his most recent passage. Closing the leather-bound book, he stood and straightened his overtight tunic and rounded the desk on his way to the door and the companionway beyond.

On deck, he moved to intercept the commodore as soon as the side party was dismissed.

“What is the meaning of this, Jenks?” he demanded quietly, but with an edge. One must always observe the proprieties of the fiction that the Navy actually controlled its ships.

“The meaning of what,
Commander
?” Jenks replied through clenched teeth. He was clearly angered by Billingsly’s tone, but also somewhat . . . distracted.

Billingsly straightened, glancing about. He had a lot of men on this ship, some known, others secret, but the vast majority were loyal Navy men. The charade must be maintained.

“Might I have a word with you, sir? In private?”

Jenks seemed to focus. “I suppose,” he muttered resignedly. Raising his voice, he addressed Lieutenant Grimsley. “Lieutenant, there will be an unscheduled boat alongside shortly, I shouldn’t wonder. They’ll request our coaling and victualing requirements for an extended period. Say, two months. Have a list ready when they arrive, if you please.”

“Of course, Commodore,” Grimsley replied, eyebrows arched in surprise.

Billingsly was equally surprised, but said nothing as he followed the commodore down the companionway to his quarters. Inside, Jenks tossed his still-damp hat on his desk, undid the top buttons of his tunic, and loosened his cravat. Pouring a single small glass of amber liquid, he relaxed into his chair with a sigh. The stern gallery windows were open for ventilation, but it was still oppressively hot. Without waiting for an invitation, Billingsly took a seat in front of the desk.

“I take it the Americans and their Apes have finally agreed to return the princess to us?” he ventured. “Even so, two months would seem . . . uncharacteristically parsimonious. They have not stinted our supplies before, and such a quantity might not see us home.”

“Her Highness still insists on returning home with her ‘friends,’ ” Jenks announced. “I spoke with her myself just prior to returning to the ship. You will be glad to know she is well, happy, and thriving,” he added with a barb.

“But . . .”

For once, Jenks saw Billingsly’s perpetual scowl dissolve into an expression of complete confusion. He had to stifle a sense of amusement and satisfaction over the bloated bastard’s discomfiture. “In slightly under three weeks’ time,
Achilles
will accompany an Allied squadron to the place they call Aryaal and perhaps points west and north, in an attempt to discover the current dispositions of these Grik of theirs. Captain Reddy made the offer, and after consulting with the princess, I accepted. I consider it an invaluable opportunity to assess the strategic threat posed by the Grik, as well as our hosts. We will be going as observers only and will not engage in hostilities if any do, in fact, occur. If they do, at the very least I will have the opportunity of seeing the Grik for myself and I’ll learn quite a bit about the military capability of this Alliance of theirs as well.”

Billingsly’s scowl returned and deepened while Jenks spoke. “You should not . . .
must
not make a decision like that without consulting me!” he said menacingly.

“I must and I did make the decision, Commander,” Jenks replied. “The offer was phrased in a ‘take it or leave it, now or never’ fashion,” Jenks lied smoothly, “and I saw no choice but to accept.”

“Of course you had a choice!” Billingsly countered hotly. “They will never send the princess on this ‘expedition’ of theirs! With the cream of their naval force otherwise engaged, we could easily take her and be gone!”

“Past those bloody great guns in the fort?” Jenks replied, his own voice rising. “You must be mad.”

“Plans could be made. They already have been,” he hinted. “With a judicious use of force, a few diversions, and a bit of mischief here and there, we could be gone before they could possibly respond.”

Jenks paused, considering his next words carefully. He knew they could condemn him of treason in any Company court. A naval inquiry might see things differently, but who was to say how things now stood after their long absence? He had no choice. “You are forgetting their iron-hulled steamer. I have seen it now, and I tell you it could easily catch us even if we proceeded under full steam for the entire trip—which we certainly cannot do. They intend to leave it here to ensure against any such scheme as you suggest.”

Billingsly’s expression suddenly became blank, unreadable. He took a breath. “A point,” he said. Then an incomprehensible thing occurred; Billingsly smiled. The expression was so foreign to his face that it almost seemed to crack under the strain. “You make a valid point,” he continued more earnestly. “And I apologize for my earlier rashness. You have clearly scored a coup! A major intelligence-gathering opportunity! I congratulate you.”

Taken aback, Jenks stared at the man. Billingsly’s mood had changed so abruptly and uncharacteristically, Jenks couldn’t avoid a creeping suspicion. But if Billingsly somehow knew he’d lied about
Walker
’s condition, he would have arrested and usurped him on the spot. Wouldn’t he? Moreover, the opportunity was just as significant as Jenks had argued, after all. Perhaps the inscrutable Company man had simply recognized that in an apparent flash of insight, just as it seemed.

“Well, then . . .” Jenks said. “Very well.”