Into the Storm (32 page)

“Assemble your side party, Chief. I’ll join you shortly.” He absently hitched the Sam Browne to distribute the unaccustomed weight of the holstered pistol and the other . . . object suspended from it. He grimaced. While running an inventory of their small-arms ammunition, Campeti discovered a crate of heavy long-bladed cutlasses, pattern of 1918, that had probably been commissioned with the ship. There were four dozen of the things in heavy blue-gray canvas-wrapped scabbards, and they looked absolutely new. Gray suggested that the officers wear them so the Lemurians would see weapons they recognized. He didn’t intend it as a threatening gesture, or so he said, but to show the ’cats—even while they were surrounded by all sorts of incomprehensible things—that they shared some basic similarities.

Matt resisted the idea as ridiculous. If they had to fight with swords, a dozen of the Lemurians could slaughter them all, judging by their skill against the Grik. But Courtney Bradford weighed in on Gray’s side, surprisingly, with the comment that it might be wise to remind their visitors that they were, after all, warriors. Matt grudgingly relented and ordered all the officers, POs—and especially the Bosun—to wear one of the damn things. He had it easier. Instead of the heavy cutlass, he had his ornate Naval Academy dress sword, which he’d worn precisely twice—once at graduation and once at a friend’s wedding. He knew it was a fine blade, and it had certainly cost him enough, but even now he couldn’t imagine any eventuality that would force him to draw it in anger. He looked down at the fat barge, pitching on the choppy swell as it came alongside. Hitching his belt up again, he stepped quickly down the pilothouse steps to the deck.

Heaved to,
Walker
wallowed sickeningly even in these light swells, her low freeboard giving them periodic glimpses of the approaching party as the ship rolled. It was going to be tricky—and a little undignified—gaining the deck of the destroyer after the genteel fashion in which the Lemurian leaders were lowered into their barge, but there was no help for it. Besides, the creatures looked better equipped to climb the treacherous rungs than humans were. Gray took his place with the side party, Carl Bashear with him, and raised the pipe to his lips.

“You want me to do it?” Bashear whispered as the first Lemurian hopped onto the rungs and quickly neared the top.

“No, damn it. If anybody’s gonna pipe aliens aboard
Walker
, it’s gonna be me.”

The piercing wail of the Bosun’s pipe startled the burly Lemurian with the reddish-brown coat, but then he cocked his head at the Chief with interested recognition. He seemed even more startled when all those present saluted. He wore the same copper-scaled tunic as the day before, but the bloodstains had been cleaned and the scales had been polished to a flashing glory. Beneath the armor, he wore a long blue shirt, finely embroidered with fanciful fishes and adorned with shimmering scales like sequins around the cuffs. A long mane covered his head and extended to the sides of his face like huge muttonchops and was gathered and tied at the nape of his neck with a bright ribbon. His very ape-like feet were bound in sandals with a crisscrossing mesh of copper-studded straps extending to his knees. From a baldric across his chest hung a short, fat-bladed sword, securely tied into its scabbard with another bright ribbon formed into an elaborate bow. He looked around for a moment, as if taking everything in—the aft funnels with their wisps of smoke, the four-inch gun above, the torpedo tubes.

And, of course, the people. He looked from face to face until he recognized Matt. Then he grinned a very human grin and faced aft and saluted the flag that stood out from the short mast. He turned to Matt, still grinning, and saluted again. With evident difficulty, his mouth formed the unfamiliar words: “Meeshin ta caamaa-burd, zur?”

There were incredulous murmurs, and Matt realized his jaw had gone slack. Sandra, standing behind him, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “We spent about an hour on that yesterday. He wanted to do it. He said he owed it to our people.”

Soon the entire Lemurian party, numbering almost a dozen, was aboard. To the surprise and delight of the assembled destroyermen, all saluted the flag and the captain. It was an important and very moving moment, and the Lemurians couldn’t have done anything that would have more thoroughly ingratiated themselves with
Walker
’s crew. Grimaces and glances of suspicion disappeared, and a mood of camaraderie prevailed as Matt led the delegation under the amidships deckhouse, where refreshments were laid out. It wasn’t much, but Juan, Earl Lanier, and Ray Mertz had done their best with what they had. On the stainless-steel counter running the length of the galley, a variety of light dishes were arrayed, along with carafes of iced tea.

After a brief hesitation, Keje himself tasted the tea and a grin of delight crossed his face. Whether it was the tea, the sugar, or just the novelty of ice that did the trick, it was extremely well received. Soon all the Lemurians were standing in the shade, drinking tea and exclaiming loudly in their chittering, yowelly voices, much to everyone’s delight. Gray grudgingly offered Adar a Coke. After a trusting gulp, the dignified Sky Priest spewed foam from his mouth and nose, and the crew roared with laughter. Gray patted him hesitantly as he coughed, and then took a quick gulp from the same bottle to show their visitors he hadn’t meant to poison their priest.

Ignoring the spectacle, Keje stood with the captain, eying a Vienna sausage rolled up in a slice of cheese with a toothpick stabbed through it. Bradford stood nearby, as did Shinya, ready to interpret. The Japanese officer still wore the dark blue uniform he’d had on when he was rescued, although it had been cleaned and mended as much as possible. He was the only one dressed in blue, and he stood out. Matt had contemplated having more men wear blues, in spite of the heat, to avoid drawing too much attention to the fact that Shinya was different, but he decided the men might resent it and he didn’t want to add any fuel to that fire.

“Mr. Bradford,” Matt said, “why don’t you remain here as interpreter for the crew to the Lemurian party while Lieutenant Shinya accompanies me?” They’d already decided the crew would have Mr. Bradford. “Perhaps Captain . . . uh . . . His Excellency . . .” Matt stopped, at a loss.

“He is correctly referred to as U-Amaki,” Tamatsu supplied.

“Yes. Well. Perhaps Captain U-Amaki and some of his officers would like to see more of the ship?”

Shinya spoke to Adar, but Keje blinked assent even before the translation was complete. He couldn’t speak the Ancient Tongue, but through his lifelong association with Adar, he’d learned to understand it well enough.

“He would be delighted,” Shinya said. “But his name is Keje-Fris-Ar. U-Amaki is his title—like ‘Captain.’ ”

“Oh.”

 

Keje, Adar, Jarrik, and Chack followed the leader of the Tail-less Ones. They were accompanied by the fat one, the female, and the dark-skinned one—who seemed different, besides just the color of his clothes. The rest of the group was left carousing and drinking the wonderful cold drink in the shade with many other Tail-less Ones.

Chack was enjoying himself, and was happy that the strange beings seemed so friendly, but he was unsure why he was there. He was proud to be chosen, of course, but he didn’t know why. He still ached from his many small wounds, just as the High Chief did, but he knew he’d fought well in the battle. Perhaps Keje honored him for that? If so, it was an honor indeed, for he’d done no more than many others. At least it was a sign that Keje harbored no ill will toward him over Selass. At the moment Selass was a subject he didn’t care to dwell on.

As the Fat One raised a heavy lid of some kind on the deck and gestured inside, Adar translated: “The Fat One—Gray is his name—says the fires that move the ship burn in that hole.”

Keje bent over and peered within, but he saw nothing except darkness. When they’d all looked, Gray fastened the lid with a spinning wheel, and they moved toward steps leading to the deck above.

Chack was conscious of constant motion as the small ship moved on the water. Up and down and side to side. It was enough to make him queasy, despite living on the water all his life. He wondered how the Tail-less Ones stood it all the time. He was unaccustomed to anything this small and cramped. He was a wing runner, and he rarely ventured forth on the barges or other small vessels, so it was disconcerting. He suppressed a shudder and tried to think of something else.

Inevitably then, his thoughts returned to Selass as they mounted the steps. Evidently she was again without a mate. Saak-Fas had disappeared in the fighting, and no one had seen him since he delivered the message sending Chack into battle. He wasn’t among the slain, or anywhere else on Home. He must have gone over the side. Chack wouldn’t mourn him, but his loss left Selass available. Strangely, he wasn’t sure how that made him feel. He wasn’t the same person she’d toyed with and rejected so short a time ago. Everything was changed. His home in the forward tower was gone. Risa, always the strong one, was weak with injury. His mother was well, but without a home for her clan. The Grik had come, but been destroyed and put to flight, and of course, they’d met these strange . . . what was the word? Amer-i-caans. So much that he had known and expected to remain constant was suddenly different or gone—and he’d changed perhaps most of all.

Preoccupied, tramping up the noisy steps, he nearly bumped Jarrik-Fas, who’d inexplicably halted. Shaking off his reverie, he peered around the guardsman at Keje, who’d paused at the top of the steps. Everyone else stopped, including the Amer-i-caans, to watch him. With one of his finger claws, he scraped at a reddish streak on the rail and raised it to his tongue. His eyes widened with astonishment.

“It is metal, as I suspected,” he murmured to his companions, “but what it tastes like . . . cannot be.”

“It is, my lord,” confirmed Adar quietly. “Iron.”

Chack’s mind reeled and he looked around in shock. “But surely, lord,” he stammered, “it cannot all be iron?”

Adar blinked sharp displeasure at Chack’s outburst. “It’s iron. All of it. It must be, for the red streaks are everywhere. Now speak no more unless you are given leave.” He sniffed. “They will think us rude.”

Keje muttered something that Chack didn’t catch and joined the Amer-i-caans waiting above.

 

Gray was scandalized by the Lemurians’ preoccupation with the rust. He took it as a personal affront that they should be so obvious about noticing the lack of maintenance. Shinya had spent more time among them, and he thought he understood. He spoke aside to Matt.

“Captain Reddy, they’ve just realized your ship is made of steel.”

“I think you’re right. Must be a shock too. They have iron weapons, so they know what it is, but the idea of making something this size . . .” He paused. “They had to know
Walker
was metal, ever since they set foot on her. I wonder what they thought it was?”

“Copper, most likely, Skipper,” said Gray, simmering down. “Who knows? I sure as hell don’t know how they made something the size of their ship out of wood!”

“Point.” The captain stepped into the wheelhouse and beckoned their guests to follow. Once inside, with the self-conscious bridge watch going about their duties, Keje looked through the windows, at the wheel, at all the strange and mysterious devices and the maze of conduits overhead. His eyes swept everything, recognizing the utility, if not the function, of what was clearly the control area for the American ship. He was puzzled that the utilitarianism was so extreme as to preclude decoration of any kind, but everything seemed laid out with profound practicality. To his seaman’s eye there was an aesthetic quality in that.

His gaze fell upon the chart table, and with quickening heart and mounting incredulity he recognized immediately what he saw. Adar saw it at the same instant and was staggered by the implications. With a cry, he rushed to the table and leaned protectively over the chart, his eyes sweeping back and forth, taking in the strangers’ reactions. They showed no concern except perhaps for his inexplicable behavior. He tried to grasp the chart, but something was there—something clear—between his claws and the paper he sought.
What is this magic?
he thought desperately.
Why would they do this? Do they mock us with their power that even the Sacred Scrolls themselves are nothing but curiosities for all to gape upon without the training to understand?
He looked at Keje’s stricken blinking, and the Amer-i-caans behind him, staring. They seemed bewildered. Adar sensed no hint of gloating or malice, only curiosity and concern. Even after his sudden outburst, none seized a weapon. Perhaps there was no mockery here. Perhaps there was something else? Perhaps they understood. Could it be?

Keje edged closer and peered at the chart Adar hovered over. “Their Scrolls are better than your Scrolls, Adar,” he said dryly. “Really, you must control yourself. We are their guests. They will think us rude,” he quoted.

“You go too far, Keje-Fris-Ar!” Adar retorted sharply. He glanced at the chart again. The detail was amazing! “The value is in the thing, not what is on it! You flirt with apostasy!”

“Wrong. I’m no Sky Priest, but wisdom is wisdom, regardless of the source. Is it apostasy to recognize the value of this Scroll, as they obviously do, and put it in an honored place where all may gain its wisdom? Or is it apostasy to suspect, like you do, that they might be as those Tail-less Ones of old who passed us this wisdom before?”

Matt and the others had gathered round and were watching the exchange. Clearly, the Malay Barrier chart had created a crisis of some sort, but they were at a loss to understand what it was. The ’cats plainly knew what the chart represented, but why should Adar throw such a fit?

“But to have them here, where all can see . . . ” sputtered Adar. “It’s not right!”

“Where is it written only the Priests of the Sky may know the mysteries of the Heavens?” Keje softly asked. “Among our people, only Sky Priests can interpret the drawings in the Scrolls because they alone have the Ancient Tongue, but anyone may strive to become a Sky Priest, not so? I’ve looked upon the Scrolls myself—you showed them to me! I can even read some of what is written. Does that make me a Sky Priest—or an apostate?”