Into the Storm (50 page)

“I, ah, how . . . ?”

Her grin became a gentle smile. “I live only two doors down, ‘doors’ being thin green curtains, and you talk in your sleep.”

He cleared his throat and looked in the direction of the sailors near the launch.

“No, not bad,” she assured him. “But I know you blame yourself for everything from Marvaney’s death to losing
Mahan
.” Her smile faded. “That has to stop. If you don’t start getting some
rest
while you sleep, you will start making mistakes.”

He nodded at her. “I’ll try. And thanks, Lieutenant.”

She gave him a stern look. “You call the other officers by their first names in informal situations, why not me?”

“Well, because . . .”

“Because I’m a woman? I’m also your friend. At least I hope so. I think Keje even still thinks I’m your
wife
! Don’t you think we could use first names, at least when no one’s watching?”

Matt felt his cheeks burn, but nodded. He wondered how slippery a slope that would prove to be. “Okay . . . Sandra. But only when nobody’s watching.” His voice was quite serious as he spoke. “I’m sure you must know why.”

Of course she knew why, and as she suspected, it was duty that kept him distant. Duty to his men. She felt a thrill to realize he really was interested in her, but also a deep sadness that the situation prevented them from acknowledging it. She forced a smile.

“Yes, Matthew. I understand.”

Right then, the look on her face, the tone of her voice—he might have kissed her in spite of everything, to hell with the consequences. If Silva hadn’t intervened. More precisely, if the growing calamity of the spectacle that Silva was generating hadn’t done so.

A rampaging super lizard would have seemed sedate compared to his arrival. He was literally
wearing
half of Dowden’s “flying” shore patrol. Even as they watched, one of Dowden’s men—Fred Reynolds—went “flying” dangerously close to the edge of the pier. On second glance, he wouldn’t have fallen, since he was chained to Silva’s wrist.

“Lemme go!” he roared. “Where’d you take my girl? I’m in the mood for luuuve!”

“Oh, my God.”

Not to be outdone by his predecessors, Dennis began singing as the men wrestled him closer to the captain: “I joined the Nay-vee to see the world! And what did I see? I saw the
sea
! I’m not . . . I won’t? . . . I
don’t
get seasick, but I’m awful sick of
seeeaa
!” He vomited on Reynolds, who was lying at his feet. “Archg! Sorry, boy . . .” He looked wildly around. “Where’s my girl? My lady love! I ain’t through dancin’ yet!” He proceeded into an astonishingly graceful waltz—for a drunk with two men hanging on him and another chained to his arm. He stopped suddenly, as though surprised at himself, and hooted: “I’m a Grammaw!” Then he saw the captain. He came to swaying, exaggerated attention and saluted, dragging poor Reynolds to his feet. “Eav-nin’, Skipper!
Lootenit
Tucker!”

“Mr. Silva.” Matt nodded. “You seem . . . true to form.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Cheap seep! Hell, it’s free!” He belched loudly.

“Are you ready to return to the ship? Peacefully?”

Silva blinked, looking around. “Hell, no! These bastards has . . . adducted . . . obstructed . . .
swiped
me from my wife!”

“What?
What?
Mr. Dowden, what’s the meaning of this?” Before Larry could even begin to explain, there came a shriek from the darkness.

“Si-vaa!” Two brindled shapes ran toward them, one ahead of the other. The first, obviously female, leaped on the gunner’s mate and, combined with his other passengers, nearly knocked him down at last. Matt thought she was attacking him until she wrapped her arms around his neck and started licking his face.

“There’s my darlin’ angel!” he cooed.

The other brindled shape caught up and slammed to attention, but even in the dark, it was clear that Chack-Sab-At was quivering with rage.

“What the hell’s going on here!” Matt bellowed. “Silva, what have you
done
?”

“Cap-i-taan!” said Chack, “that’s my sister, Risa. She is unwell. That giant . . . creature has intoxicated her and . . .”

“He mate? He
marry
me!” Risa squealed happily. “He Sab-At clan now!”

“Never!”
seethed Chack. Sandra’s hand now covered her mouth in earnest, but Matt couldn’t tell if she was hiding shock or laughter.

“My God, Silva, I swear! If you’ve done anything to damage our relationship with these people, or if you forced . . .
God
! Are you
insane
? I’ll
hang
you!”

“Skipper, I’ll swear on a Bible or Marvaney’s record stack—whatever you say—”

“You
lie
!” shouted Chack.

“He no lie!” Risa purred. “Nobody mad but silly Chack. People no mad. People no . . . embarrassed? By mate! Si-vaa
love
Risa!”

The shore party, those that could, eased away. Chack’s ears were back and his tail swished like a cobra. He looked about to strike. Matt was preparing another volcanic response when Sandra tugged his sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked sharply at her and was incredulous when he saw her nod.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he promised darkly. “Mr. Chack, please escort your sister to her Home. At the very least, she seems . . . indisposed.”

“But . . . Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.”

“What about my weddin’ night?” Silva moaned, and Matt turned to him.

“My orders were that all personnel be back aboard by 0100. Since you had no special permission, you may not stay ashore to . . . consummate your ‘marriage,’ nor may you do so on my ship! USS
Walker
is not a honeymoon barge!” He paused. There was one way to find out if Sandra was right. “Tomorrow I’ll speak to Keje and Nakja-Mur and discover what further process, if any, is required to finalize your and Risa’s . . . nuptials. Perhaps a joint ceremony?”

He was rewarded by a marked widening of Silva’s surprisingly sober eyes. Getting even with Chack was one thing, but he wouldn’t enjoy the consequences of including his captain in the joke.

“Nighty night, sugar-lips!” Silva said, and gave Risa a kiss, which she returned with evident relish.

God, I hope it
is
a joke
! Matt thought with a shudder.

After Chack stiffly led his sister away and a suddenly docile Silva was carried to the ship, Matt removed his hat and rubbed his eyes. “Jesus!”

Sandra laughed. “Is this the way it always was with these guys, back in the Philippines?”

“No! Well, yeah, but . . . yeah.” He smiled.

“I told Chack to watch his back.” Sandra chuckled. “I wonder when he’ll figure it out?”

“I wonder if it’s over!”

“You don’t think he really . . . ?” Sandra gasped.

“If we’re not surrounded by angry ’cats with torches in the morning, I’m going to pretend it never happened. But I guarantee Silva won’t have the last laugh!” For a moment, the pier was empty again, but the electric tension between them was damped. Just as well.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Earlier, you said you had an idea. What was it?”

“What? Oh. Well, let me see if I can put my thoughts back together!”

W
hat, then, would you have us do? How do we defeat them if the Ancient Ones could not?” The speaker was the High Chief of one of the great Homes. Seven of the huge vessels now floated in Baalkpan Bay, and all their chiefs, as well as a large number of senior “officers,” were present in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall for this long-awaited council. There were even representatives from several smaller “land colonies.” Gatherings on such a scale were rare, usually happening no more than once or twice a decade, and there was no official mechanism for summoning one. As far as Matt could tell, it might be as simple as shouted words from passing fishermen: “Big meeting at Baalkpan. Come if you want.” Without better communications, that was probably exactly how it happened.

Great Gatherings were usually occasions for festivities, games, trade, and socialization. They were also times for crowded, prosperous Homes to branch off. To build new Homes and form new clans. It was a time that the People on their solitary wandering Homes looked forward to with pleasure and anticipation, wondering where and when the next would be held. But this one was different. All were aware of the seriousness of the growing threat, and those present, at least, seemed willing and even eager to discuss their next move. Few agreed what that move should be, however.

The Lemurian who’d spoken was Anai-Sa, High Chief of
Fristar
, one of the Homes that had been in Baalkpan Bay since before
Walker
arrived. He seemed young for his rank, with a jet-black pelt and a spray of white whiskers surrounding his face. His green eyes were intent. Besides his heavily embroidered kilt, he wore only a multitude of shimmering golden hoops around his neck and upper arms. His people were “far rangers” who rarely entered these waters. Their “territory” was most often the South China Sea, but Grik pressure had pushed them south. He was also the most outspoken of the “why don’t we just sail off where there are no Grik” crowd.

Keje spoke in reply. “I would have you hear the words of Cap-i-taan Reddy of the Amer-i-caans, and High Chief of
Waa-kur
. He is High Chief of an independent clan and has as much right to speak as anyone here. More, to my thinking, since he saved my Home from the Grik. The Amer-i-caans have helped us prepare for this time with no concern for personal gain.” Keje stood before the silent group, looking out among them. He said nothing about
Walker
’s brief sortie two weeks before that destroyed two more Grik ships. All were aware of it, even if they hadn’t been there yet, and boasting sometimes detracts from self-evident truth. Besides, the last thing Matt wanted was everyone thinking
Walker
would save them all. As Keje suspected, there were murmurs of protest. Not because the humans weren’t People, but because their ship was so small and sparsely populated. Would they grant “Home” status to fishing boats too?

Keje squared his shoulders and placed his hand upon the scota at his side. “I declare Cap-i-taan Reddy is my Brother as surely as any High Chief, and I offer combat to anyone saying he does not deserve to speak.” These last words came in a growl.

There was some very unusual body language in response to this threat, and some glanced to see Nakja-Mur’s reaction. He merely stared at Keje’s back across steepled claws with his elbows on his knees.

“These Amer-i-caans come from far away, and know more about war than we. Before they came to help us, they were engaged in a struggle that defies belief. Their wondrous ship was just one of perhaps hundreds, and they modestly tell me theirs was but the smallest and least powerful Home to fight in that unimaginable conflict! Yet it prevailed!”

Matt winced at Chack’s translation. Okay, so much for not bragging. Besides, they’d “prevailed” in the sense that they’d survived, but that was the only appropriate context for the word. Keje grinned at him ironically.

“Would you speak to them, my Brother? Perhaps you can sway them. I’ll tell them your words.”

Matt nodded. For his plan to work, they had to see the threat. But they also needed hope. How would he scare them into joining the fight without scaring them away? Particularly since the plan he was forming was risky, to say the least. The irony of the situation struck him like a slap. He remembered how unfathomable he’d thought admirals and politicians were. Particularly within ABDA. Why they made the decisions they did mattered only insofar as they affected his ship, his crew, and himself. Suddenly he was standing in similar shoes and found them most uncomfortable. He stepped to Keje’s side and cleared his throat.

“I really don’t know if
we
can defeat them,” he said simply. Keje looked at him sharply, surprised by the dour opening, but Matt had stressed the word “we.”

“I don’t
know
much about them at all. Nobody does; not even where they come from, or what kind of society supports their warlike nature. We’re probably outnumbered. Their ships aren’t as large as yours, but they’re much faster, and each carries nearly as many warriors as yours since their ships aren’t Homes. They carry no families that we know of, and they grow no food. They’re meant for one thing only: to transport warriors to battle.” He paused. “That should be both an advantage and a disadvantage to them. They can pack a lot of warriors into their ships, but they have to keep supplied or they can’t stay in our territory long. One thing we
do
know is they’re a long way from home.” He shrugged. “They raid for provisions—Chill-chaap proves that—but even that takes time from offensive operations, and the more there are, the bigger that problem becomes.

“That’s about all we know about their strategic situation, though. We don’t know what they want or why they’re here, beyond an apparent hunger for conquest. We have no real idea what their ‘grand strategy’ is. Their efforts so far have not seemed well coordinated, although Keje tells me they’re better now than in the past. The best I can figure, they have several independent task forces on the loose, looking for us, and they hope to eventually overwhelm us with numbers. That’s also the historical model recorded in your Scrolls.

“We too have advantages and disadvantages.” Matt looked at the faces staring impassively back.

“And what are our advantages, beside the ability to simply leave them behind again?” The black-furred Lemurian’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Matt regarded him coldly. “Courage is one,” he answered, returning the green-eyed glare. “Thoughtful courage, not the wild-ass, chargetanks-with-horses kind.” There was absolutely no context for the statement, but somehow they grasped his meaning. All present knew, at least by description, the abandon with which Grik fought. Their attack was like a school of flasher-fish. Maybe they employed tactics, but once they came to grips, it was individual mindless ferocity.