CHAPTER

1

////// Maa-ni-la Navy Yard
Fil-pin Lands
March 9, 1944

Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the Amer-i-caan Clan, Supreme Commander (by acclamation) of All Forces United Beneath (or Beside) the Banner of the Trees, and Captain of the old Asiatic Fleet four-stacker destroyer USS Walker (DD-163), loved baseball. He loved football too, and just about any team sport, as a matter of fact, but unlike many of the dwindling survivors of Walker, Mahan, and the old submarine S-19 on this world, he’d never closely followed the professional variety. He couldn’t recite team rosters or quote stats. He didn’t much care about all that and never had. He did care about the ball games between the various ships’ teams, however, and today his Walkers were playing the “Eastern League” champs from the Fil-pin shipyards: the Inaa Araang, or, roughly, “Rivet Drivers.”

For just a while, Matt’s anxious mind could concentrate on something besides the vast war raging across the known reaches of this “other” earth. He could suppress his revulsion over the treachery and barbarism on the eastern front across the broad Pacific, or Eastern Sea. He could worry about something less tragic than the dreadful losses and strategic setbacks plaguing the war in the west. He could let his own plans—and painful wounds—sink back away from his foremost consciousness, if only for a brief rejuvenating spell. For a few hours, he could enjoy himself and all the people around him, human or Lemurian, who took the same pleasure and comfort from an admittedly serious contest, but one not designed to end in slaughter.

The big game was underway in the main Maa-ni-la ballpark (one of three), in what had become the heart of the city. Once the area had been a kind of buffer between the city and its already impressive shipyards, almost a Central Park like Matt remembered in Manhattan. It was unlike the similar zone in Baalkpan, though, that pulsed with a never-ending bazaar. The closest thing in that distant city was the Parade Ground around Baalkpan’s Great Hall, which had become a peaceful refuge for those come to visit the war dead buried there. Again like Central Park, this had been a common area anyone could visit and use. The same still applied, but now there was a dirt diamond and impressive bleachers. The seats were protected by a backstop of woven wire from the new barbed-wire works—minus the barbs—and there was no wall on the far end of the field, just a chalky line no one dared cross on pain of eviction. Still, just as many Lemurians clambered for good spots beyond the outfield, hoping to catch one of the still-rare balls, as did those who packed the bleachers.

It was a full house, and even the area around the ballpark was packed. Matt had grown accustomed to surrealistic scenes on this earth, but this was really weird. He was watching a genuine baseball game, played mostly by very feline-looking creatures covered with fur of every color or combination of colors imaginable. The sea of spectators reacted as any baseball crowd would, even if they were just as wildly colored and the sounds weren’t exactly right. Beyond the crowd, the shipyard had grown to a sprawling, all-encompassing thing no buffer zone could ever tame again. Masts of ships and coiling smoke and steam from mighty engines practically blotted out any view of Maa-ni-la Bay or distant Corregidor, and the Maara-vella Advanced Training Center, or ATC, couldn’t be seen at all.

Matt knew the city behind him had expanded just as much. Already bigger and more populous than Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la had exploded. Initially flooded with “runaways”—people from other lands and seagoing Homes threatened by the ravening Ancient Enemy (the furry/feathery, reptilian Grik) who only wanted to escape the war—there’d been some . . . difficulty when Maa-ni-la joined the Grand Alliance. Most eventually realized they’d have to fight sooner or later, because after the Fil-pin Lands there was nowhere else to flee. This grew even more apparent when they discovered new allies across the great Eastern Sea—but more enemies as well. There were few “runaways” left, and, bolstered by its industry and broader resource and population base, all the Fil-pin Lands, and Maa-ni-la in particular, became a powerhouse. Baalkpan, where Balikpapan, Borneo, should have been, had done very well for itself as well and remained the “first city” of the Grand Alliance. But there could be no offensives without Maa-ni-la—and its high chief, Saan-Kakja.

Saan-Kakja was a remarkable Lemurian. Her black-and-gold striated eyes were utterly mesmerizing, and though still young for her job, she’d taken hold with an iron hand of the chaotic mess the Fil-pin Lands had been. Actually considered somewhat authoritarian for the tastes of some Lemurians, she’d united and directed her Home toward membership in the Grand Alliance. She’d done it without any personal ambition. She had no desire to lead anything but her own Home, and wanted equality, not dominance, for her people—and, ultimately, for all people everywhere. Given that ideal, Matt recognized she was worldly enough to have ambition for her people. She wanted all who opposed the evil Grik, and now the Dominion, to live free and prosper—but if her people were a little more prosperous than others, that was okay by her.

Matt smiled at the Lemurian leader seated on the other side of Sandra. Sandra was his wife, doctor, primary advisor, and the Minister of Medicine for the whole Alliance. Saan-Kakja grinned back, her perfect young teeth sharp and white. She was really enjoying the game, Matt realized. Well, so was he. It had somewhat unexpectedly become a nail-biter.

Lemurians had taken to baseball like ducks to water. The game was superficially similar to an ancient ’Cat (Lemurian) game in which contestants whacked a lobbed coconutlike object with a long, flat bat, the object being to attain the greatest distance. That translated easily enough to baseball, but the added complexity, strategy, and teamwork appealed to them as well. Initially dismissed by humans—and themselves—as somewhat unimaginative (except when it came to architecture!), Lemurians discovered a love for strategy that rivaled their blossoming interest in gizmos. They related structured strategy with rigid rules—like chess, which was also catching on—to complicated machines, and they loved it. Lemurians universally excelled when all the parts were there or all the pieces were on the table, but some—like Lt. Colonel Chack-Sab-At, his beloved General Queen Safir Maraan, General Lord Muln-Rolak, and even CINCWEST Keje-Fris-Ar, to some degree, were learning to use initiative and imagination.

Chack’s plan for the reconquest of New Ireland had been good, but the way he’d reacted when it fell apart was actually rather brilliant, in Matt’s opinion. With the exception of Safir and Rolak, there hadn’t been any experienced Lemurian war leaders before the war, and there’d been an adjustment period while they had to shift mental gears as a people. Now quite a few ’Cats were starting to shine on the battlefield, quickly adjusting to unexpected situations and generally doing at least as well as any human commander might in the same situation. That was good, because their enemies were getting uncomfortably better too. Matt was proud, but still a little sad that it took this damn war to show the Lemurians their true potential.

A bat cracked and the crowd roared around him. Matt and Sandra had some of the best seats in the house, there with Saan-Kakja and her advisors. Still, as the others jumped up, Matt lost sight of the ball and tried to rise as well. A stabbing pain in his right thigh and lower abdomen put a stop to that—as did Sandra’s restraining hand. She knows me so well, he thought, his inner smile masked by the grimace on his face.

“It’s a line drive, right over the shortstop’s head!” she said. “Yes! Pack Rat snagged it! She’s out!”

Gunner’s Mate Pak-Ras-Ar, or “Pack Rat,” played left field and had a hell of an arm. He used it then, winging the ball home. The bloated catcher and ship’s cook, Earl Lanier, took it on the bounce and only had to glare at the runner a step beyond third base before the ’Cat dove back at it. The stocky female Rivet Driver batter flipped her bat to the ground in disgust and strode sullenly to the dugout. Jeek, Walker’s small air division chief, was the ’Cat pitching for Walker that day. Her starting pitcher had been killed in action against the rogue Japanese destroyer Hidoiame, and Jeek had been designated his relief when they formed the team in the New Britain Isles. He was older and his fastball wasn’t as strong, but with age came guile, and he might’ve been the first ’Cat in the Navy to master a curveball that struck like lightning. He grinned and waited for the next batter to approach the plate.

Understanding things like curveballs was one of the few things that kept humans competitive in the game they’d brought to this world. Lemurians generally had greater upper-body strength, particularly the former wing runners who came from the great seagoing Homes. They could throw and hit harder and farther. Humans were better sprinters, though, and their slightly quicker reflexes let them hit more of the high-velocity fastballs they always expected—even if they couldn’t hit them as far. Far enough was good enough when the ball landed on the other side of the chalky line, however, and not every ’Cat who’d grown up with his or her own game thought that was quite fair. Human destroyermen were better at turning singles into doubles and triples too.

Right now, after a somewhat bitter game, the Walkers were magically only three runs down at the top of the ninth. That this seemed magical was because they’d had only a few days to prepare—and their most recent practice had been weeks before on Respite Island. The Walkers were also a “mixed” team, while the Rivet Drivers were all ’Cats, and that alone gave them an edge. They’d also had a lot of practice and were very, very good. The bitterness came from the age-old rivalry between “real” sailors and “yard apes” that was quickly transplanted here. Add the fact that USS Walker had been given priority over every ship in the yard, and her crew—particularly Tabby (Engineering Officer Lieutenant Tab-at), and Walker’s exec, Spanky McFarlane—had lorded it over everyone in the yard and criticized half the rivets they drove. That got very old, because in addition to repairing battle damage, they were basically reriveting the entire hull. The rivets used rebuilding Walker after the Battle of Baalkpan hadn’t been satisfactory at all, and Spanky felt responsible. That made him short-tempered with himself and everyone else.

Despite the abuse, most of the yard apes thought Spanky had the right to be critical. He was Minister of Naval Engineering, and revered as a font of almost mystical wisdom. But Tabby had made quite the ranting pest of herself, and the yard apes had grown to resent her in spite of her obvious competence (and equally obvious beauty). Her fur had mostly covered the old steam scars, and those still visible to the crusty yard apes added an exotic dash to her appearance. Her appearance only went so far, however, and she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than what she considered perfection. Even worse than Tabby, the weird little human Chief Isak Rueben had made everyone miserable with his shrill insistence that Walker’s ancient boilers come out of the yard even better than new. It was too much.

Adding insult to injury, even though the Rivet Drivers were the home team, the crowd’s clear favorite was the team from USS Walker. Sure, they were heroes and they’d just been in another terrible fight, but that stung and made them want to punish the Walkers—only it wasn’t working out that way. They led 9 to 6, but it should’ve been a blowout.

“It’s all up to Jeek,” Matt said. “If he can pick off this last batter, we might have a chance. Uh-oh.”

Striding to the plate, his tail held high, a heavy bat twirling in his hand, was the Rivet Drivers’ “cleanup” batter. He was the best they had, and with runners on first and third, all he needed was a hit to widen the gap.

Jeek watched him come and take his stance. He knew he’d allowed too many runs, but he’d had to pace himself. He hoped he’d saved his very best, sneakiest pitches for last. He blinked at Earl Lanier, and caught a nod in return. Even if Earl had ever taken time to learn ’Cat blinking, Jeek couldn’t have seen his reply through the mask and helmet he wore. Finger signals hadn’t been used before because all the pitchers were ’Cats, and so far all they knew to do was throw the ball like hell and hit the catcher’s glove. Any finger signal then might’ve tipped off the batter that something new was on the way. Besides, they’d planned for this. Jeek’s pair of blinks meant only “Okay,” but they also told Earl to be ready.

Jeek wound up and launched. The ball looked way outside—until it veered right into Earl’s waiting glove.

“Strike one!” cried Meksnaak. Saan-Kakja’s High Sky Priest might not be as popular with his flock as those of other Lemurian leaders, but his impartiality in this new game he adored was beyond question. The batter blinked, trying to reconcile what he’d seen with the crack of the ball slapping the glove right in the center of the strike zone. He shook his head.

The next pitch came, and looked just like the first. For an instant, the Rivet Driver considered reaching for it, but let it pass.

“Strike two!”

The crowd was on its feet again, wondering what they were seeing. How could Jeek do such a thing?

“Help me up, wilya, honey?” Matt asked Sandra, and reluctantly his wife helped him to his feet.

“Lean on your cane, Matthew,” she cautioned.

Jeek was staring hard at Lanier now, ball behind his back. To Matt it looked like he was wondering whether he could get away with the same pitch one more time. Finally, he wound up and let fly. With an audible whoosh, the Rivet Driver practically whirled out of the batter’s box. Strike three! Now Walker was up!

The Rivet Drivers’ pitcher was deadly accurate and as fast as a cannon shot. He also threw a little inside; his own “new” tactic he thought no one had noticed. Taarba-Kar (Tabasco), Walker’s assistant officer’s steward, managed a single, but Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear both struck out. Tabby got a pop-up single that the right fielder took on the bounce. Min-Sakir (Minnie), Walker’s diminutive (even for a ’Cat) bridge talker, almost had her head knocked off by a wild pitch; only her helmet saved her life. Due to the speed of the pitches and some of the hits, all batters and every infielder but the pitcher wore a combat helmet to play baseball on this world.

With a dazed Minnie making her way to first, the bases were loaded when Earl Lanier waddled to the plate.

“Oh no,” Sandra muttered, and there was a collective groan. Earl was a good catcher and surprisingly quick, but his enormous gut was kind of in the way when it came to batting. “He shouldn’t even be out there,” Sandra said, a little hot. Earl’s belly had been laid open pretty badly a few weeks before.

“He’s okay,” muttered Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray on the other side of Matt. Gray was past sixty and now officially Chief Bosun of the Navy. He was often referred to as Super Bosun, or just SB, but was even more than that to Matt and Sandra. He was their friend, and commanded the Captain’s Guard. He took Matt’s orders and served as chief damage control officer aboard ship, but was no longer confined to any normal chain of command. To Matt, he was just “Boats.”

“He might split a seam, but it’ll be worth it. Watch,” Gray said.

“Well . . . but he’s still on report for taking a swing at Campeti, isn’t he?” Sandra demanded.

Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, Campeti said it wasn’t a swing after all. Lanier was just grabbing for something as he fell. The sea was pretty heavy.”

Sandra glared at him, and he felt like squirming. “Campeti took it back!” he insisted. “What can I do? I didn’t see what happened!”

“You’re in on this! If he gets hurt . . .”

“Oh, he’s gonna get hurt,” Gray interrupted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Think of it as takin’ one for the team—for his sins,” he added.

Earl suddenly struck a comically heroic pose by the plate and pointed upward at an angle of about 45 degrees past center field. The crowd roared and the bleachers thundered with stamping feet.

“Oh, my God,” Sandra said, raking away a few sandy brown strands that had escaped her ponytail. “I can’t watch!”

She watched.

Earl stepped into the box and pointed his bat at the pitcher. Then took a couple of grim practice swings before bringing the bat back, high, his fists behind his right ear.

The first pitch sizzled past and Meksnaak called it a strike. Earl stepped back, stunned.

“Scoot back up there an’ take yer dose, you big, fat, turd!” came a nasally shout that reached them even over the thunder of the crowd. Isak Rueben was on deck, shaking his bat at the cook. Isak was one of the “original” Mice, two extraordinarily squirrelly firemen who’d finally been forced to accept a wider—and different—world beyond their beloved fire rooms. The other original, Gilbert Yeager, was chief engineer on USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), off with the Second Fleet supporting operations around the Enchanted Isles. Tabby herself had been a third “mouse” before her promotion. Isak and Gilbert were half brothers—less of a secret than they thought—and they’d never been on the ship’s baseball team before the Squall that brought them here. It wasn’t because they weren’t any good; they just didn’t like anybody. Things were different now, of course, and if Isak still didn’t much like anyone, he loved his old Walker. He’d play for her.

Lanier glared at Isak and yelled something back that Matt couldn’t hear, but moved back in position, waving at the crowd. Finally, he was ready: bat high, helmet low, staring intently at the ’Cat pitcher. Here it came. In the mere instant the ball was in the air, Earl seemed to like what he saw. He started to swing, his great, fat body gaining momentum as it turned. The bat came around farther, faster, then stopped short as he checked the swing—just as the speeding ball vanished into his prodigious midsection. There was a stunned hush, until the ball popped out on the ground.

“Aaggghhh!” roared Earl, slamming the plate with his bat. “Goddamn, that hurt!”

Meksnaak took off his own helmet and stared at Earl, blinking amazed consternation. Then he saw the blood beginning to stain the tight, grungy T-shirt. Finally, he snorted and waved Earl toward first base.

“I can’t believe he did that!” Sandra shouted in Matt’s ear when the bleachers shook.

“What? You think he took a hit like that on purpose?” Matt hollered back. Saan-Kakja caught his eye, and he saw her amused blinking.

Tabasco trotted home—without notice by Meksnaak or the Rivet Drivers’s catcher, who were both watching Earl lumber to first.

Isak Rueben shuffled to the plate. He was a little guy, wiry, almost scrawny. Most of the Rivet Drivers knew him well. He’d been flown in from Baalkpan to oversee the first steps of a scheduled overhaul on Walker even before the old destroyer limped in after her fight with Hidoiame, and he’d been driving them hard on other projects. No one thought he was a weakling, but he obviously wasn’t a power hitter. They suspected he knew what he was doing, though, and the outfield moved in to prevent another scoring single.

Matt looked nervously at Gray, who stood with his arms crossed, wearing an expression of supreme confidence. Bashear was team captain, but Gray was the manager and chief strategist. Matt knew he’d conceived all sorts of schemes for this game to deal with any number of variables. One such was clearly unfolding now . . . but pinning all their hopes on Isak Rueben seemed a little nuts.

The first pitch blew past Isak and he just watched it go, as if studying it. He did the same for the second, and another huge groan rumbled in the park. The third pitch was way inside and probably would’ve shattered Isak’s bony elbow if he hadn’t jerked back. Okay, Matt thought, Isak can read a pitch. But they can’t be counting on a walk—not with this pitcher! The fourth pitch came, and with a fluid, almost nonchalant ease, Isak Rueben slammed it high in the air and deep into the crowd behind the center-field line.

Matt looked at Gray, stunned, as the whole city of Maa-ni-la seemed to erupt. Gray shrugged. “I seen the squirt bat before,” he shouted. “Back on Tarakan, after the fight with those three Grik ships. He was showin’ some of the ’Cat Marines.” He grinned. “I ain’t sure Isak Rueben didn’t invent baseball on this world!”

* * *

“A great victory!” Saan-Kakja gushed as their palka-drawn carriage and its me-naak-mounted guards churned through the busy streets toward the new industrial complex east of the city. There were seven in the carriage, counting the driver. Matt, Sandra, and Gray sat beside each other, facing Saan-Kakja, General Busaa of the coastal artillery, who now commanded the ATC, and the somewhat sullen Meksnaak. The driver, busy controlling his animal, said nothing.

Palkas, dubbed “pack mooses,” looked like a cross between an overblown moose and a Belgian draft horse. They weren’t fast, but they were strong and fairly steady under fire—much steadier than brontasarries. That made them perfect for pulling artillery, caissons, and virtually any combat-supply vehicle. They’d also eat just about any kind of vegetation. Me-naaks, or “meanies,” were the preferred Maa-ni-lo cavalry mount, and looked like long-legged crocodiles. A thick thoracic case made them almost bulletproof. They were obedient, even devoted to their riders, but dangerously prone to snatch “snacks” as they trotted along, so their jaws were kept firmly secured.

“I don’t know about that . . .” Sandra began.

“Of course it was!” Saan-Kakja insisted. “It showed our people that Waa-kur’s crew remains undaunted despite her injuries and losses. I cannot stress the importance of that enough! Also, it may perhaps boost the morale of your crew, Cap-i-taan Reddy, after the . . . inconclusive encounter with Hidoiame?”

“Didn’t seem inconclusive to me,” Gray grumbled. “And Spanky’s sure the damn thing’s done for.”

“Still,” Matt said. “We never saw her sink, and I know it nags the fellas. It nags me too.” He raised a hand at all of them, particularly Sandra. “Hey! I’m not complaining. Spanky made the right call!” He nodded down at the wound that nearly killed him. “I was out of it. Hell, Walker was finished! We were like an old, beat-up mutt tangling with a mountain lion, but I’m still as confident as Spanky that we kicked Hidoiame’s ass. Even if we only gave as good as we got”—he nodded at Saan-Kakja—“we had someplace to run, to lick our wounds. Hidoiame and her murdering crew have no place to go that they could hope to reach, even if they somehow knew about the Japs helping the Grik.” He shook his head. “Scouts haven’t seen her, and we haven’t overheard any transmissions. My bet is she’s sunk or on an island beach somewhere, shot up and out of fuel, and her crew’s busy cracking open those poison coconut things and slowly . . .” he stopped.

“Slowly shittin’ theirselves to death,” Gray finished with obvious satisfaction, “if you ladies’ll excuse me.”

The driver halted the palka in front of one of the largest wooden structures Matt had ever seen on land. It looked like a hangar for one of the old Navy’s dirigibles. Even Grik zeppelins wouldn’t need anything as big, since they were less than half the size of the ill-fated Akron and Macon. Standing near the building was a battery of smaller structures protecting boilers and direct steam generators. Matt reflected that the arrangement was a far cry from their first efforts at making electricity in Baalkpan not so very long ago, and the Lemurians deserved most of the credit. Walker’s own 25-kilowatt generators were direct steam drive, so the example was there, but their first domestic machines had been far cruder, more complicated belt-drive generators powered by reciprocating engines. They were already building the engines and hadn’t had the machining capacity to make even the relatively simple turbines for the better generators back then. The ’Cats themselves changed that, and real turbine engines were in the works in Baalkpan now.

High Sky Priest Meksnaak was obviously thinking about the generators too, and blinked disapproval at the buildings protecting them. “I confess . . . discomfort over this invisible force called eleks-tricky we grow so dependent upon,” he muttered. “It powers nearly everything now, particularly at this facility. The Sacred Scrolls themselves warn against placing faith in unseen forces other than the Maker.”

“You can’t see the wind,” Sandra countered reasonably, “but it moves the great Homes. There’s not much wind today, but you can feel it.”

“But the wind is a natural thing, given by the Maker,” Meksnaak insisted. “You build this eleks-tricky with machines!”

“Electricity is also made by the Maker,” Matt countered, stressing the proper, less-sinister pronunciation. “Lightning’s a prime example; it zaps down from the heavens all the time.”

“And represents the Maker’s anger,” Meksnaak persisted. “I can think of no better reason not to fool about with it! Yet everything you build either makes or uses it!”

“A hand fan makes a wind,” said Sandra. “Is that cooling breeze somehow dangerous?”

“A high wind can be most dangerous!”

Matt sighed and looked at Saan-Kakja. “Electricity’s vital to our industry, and ultimately the whole war effort. Sure, we generate it, harness it, and bend it to our will, but it’s not magic. We make it in much the same way the Maker generates it in the sky, only we make controlled amounts—and put it to use.” He shook his head. “How exactly that’s done is a question for engineers like Spanky, or the EMs Riggs and Ronson trained.” He chuckled. “We didn’t have electricity on Dad’s ranch when I was growing up. We used oil lamps just like you. We had batteries for the radio and the car and trucks, but that was it. Little generators in the vehicles kept the batteries charged. Anyway, though I understand the basics, I’m no expert. I do know we wouldn’t’ve had trucks or tractors or any number of things Dad needed around the place—things that gave him an edge—if electricity hadn’t helped make them. We need electricity to gain and keep an edge in this damn war.”

“We built many things before eleks-tricky came to us,” Meksnaak grumbled.

“Sure, and Dad had a ranch before we had trucks and tractors—but it took ten times the labor to grow fodder, transport stock, haul hay and fencing . . . the list is endless. And that was just a ranch, not a war. To win the war we need to free up as much of our labor force as we can to fight—while still producing more of the tools to do it.”

“Mr. Riggs explained it to me when I was in Baalkpan,” Saan-Kakja interjected. “He was . . . frustrated with me, I think, but he likened electricity to the gaas-o-leen fuel for the ‘Naan-cee’ engines—and others now. Generating it is like refining the gaas-o-leen, while the wires carry it to the lights and machines like fuel lines—somehow—even though there is no hole. Changing or regulating the . . .” She paused, remembering. “The vol-taage,” she said triumphantly, “is like metering the fuel to a machine engine, so only just enough can reach it. This . . . comparison helped me understand, though I remain unsure why two wires are needed. This ground, or dead, wire still confuses me.” She smiled. “We Mi-Anaaka—Lemurians—understand machines. We are good with machines. This machinelike explanation was good for me.” She peered at Meksnaak. “And elec-tricity is not invisible when it gets loose—or touches the dead wire somehow! It is like the lightning in the sky when that happens, so it is clearly running in the wires!”

“Huh,” Gray said, getting in the spirit of the analogy. “Think of the ground wire as the igniter that lights the fuel inside the electric motor—or in the lightbulb! It acts like the ground when lightning strikes!”

Saan-Kakja smiled at him. The expression didn’t extend across her face—’Cats didn’t have near the range of facial movement as humans, but her exotic eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Mr. Gray!”

A broad inlet of the bay snaked up past the building, and a variety of interesting boats floated beside a pier. The small, two-seat PB-1B “Nancy” flying boats of one of Maa-ni-la’s several patrol wings rested on wheeled trucks on a broad ramp by the water. Nancys were good little planes and had become the backbone of the Allied air arm. They looked like miniature PBY Catalinas, since that’s what inspired their lines, but they’d proven themselves effective at many roles, from reconnaissance to dive bombing.

“Building our own ‘bony blimps’ now?” Gray asked, looking up at the building as they exited the carriage.

Saan-Kakja sneeze-chuckled. “That would be nuts,” she said. “I have not seen the Grik zeppel-ins, but individually they are no match for any of our flying machines—now we have learned they are armed, and how to avoid their weapons. Cap-i-taan Tikker’s report was most informative.”

“Trouble is, they apparently don’t come individually, but in swarms,” Gray countered, “and I don’t like these suicide glider bombs they’re usin’ at all.”

“True,” Saan-Kakja agreed, turning more serious. “But the notion of two such massive machines bumping into each other high in the sky . . . it amused me. No, I would show you other things.” She paused, looking at Matt, then glanced at his cane. “If you are sure you are up to it?”

“I’m fine,” Matt replied. “Besides, I can’t wait to greet our guests when they get here.” He glanced at his watch—always vaguely surprised to find it still working after all it had been through. “They should be along pretty soon.”

Busaa remained with Meksnaak at the carriage. Meksnaak complained he couldn’t breathe in the great building, but was also making his point that he didn’t intend to associate with electricity any more than he had to. Besides, even though he hadn’t brought it up, he remained somewhat affronted by what he considered the uncivilized tactics used by Walker’s team to win the baseball game. The rest of them entered the massive structure through a small door beside a pair of huge ones designed to roll aside. Matt had some idea of what they were here to see. He’d been told of the project headed by a former POW who’d survived Mizuki Maru, before the hellish ship was altered into a Q ship and sent against her former escort; the destroyer Hidoiame. That mission, commanded by Sato Okada, had failed, resulting in the loss of Mizuki Maru with all hands. But it was likely she’d landed some licks first, which possibly saved Walker in the long run. In any event, the forty-odd survivors of the ship’s original cargo of mistreated prisoners had joined the Allied cause in various capacities and were beginning to make their presence felt. Carpenter’s Mate Third Class Winston “Winny” Rominger was one.

Winny hurried over himself as soon as they stepped into the giant building. He was tall, with jet-black hair and a big, bushy mustache. He was still thin, and bags showed under his eyes in the uneven electric lighting illuminating the cavernous structure. Matt realized there were a lot of electrical machines inside as well, more than he’d seen in one place on this world before. It was probably much the same in Baalkpan now. He’d been away a while. Motors whirred and rumbled, and sharp cutters and serrated blades blew wood chips all over the place. A fine haze of dust swirled in the shifting air, blown by big fans that roared like Walker’s blower. Hundreds of dusty ’Cats and ex-pat female “Impies” operated the machines, heaved taglines on prefabricated structures suspended from hoists like those on the hangar decks of the great carriers, or weaved their way purposefully from place to place.

Matt caught Gray staring at a particularly well-endowed woman pulling on a line, her perfect, naked breasts swaying mesmerizingly with the effort. She wore nothing but a skimpy breechcloth. Lemurians considered clothing ornamental or occupational and wore as little as they could when working. The formerly virtually enslaved human women felt the same. Matt doubted he’d ever grow comfortable with that, but he’d become somewhat desensitized. Of course, he was married now too. Gray wasn’t—and the older man was currently considerably flustered by the attentions of an exotically beautiful young woman named Diania. Diania, now officially a steward’s mate, was Sandra’s friend and, increasingly, secretary. Gray had also been teaching her to fight, with and without weapons, and she was considered part of the Captain’s Guard now as well. Young enough to be his granddaughter, Diania had a serious crush on the old Bosun and it was growing clear that Gray was . . . not entirely himself . . . around the girl either.

Matt coughed at him, and Gray blinked. The air smelled of wood, glue, and solvents, and Matt was glad to see more fans mounted high in the walls, providing ventilation. His gaze narrowed and focused on the purpose of the impressive facility. “There they are,” he said, feeling almost surprised. Beyond the closest construction was a long, staggered, double row of amazingly familiar hulls in various stages of completion.

“Yes, sir,” said Winny, his hand extended. Matt looked at it a moment before taking it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rominger,” he said, smiling. “I got distracted.” They had to speak loudly over the racket.

“He might’a been expectin’ a salute too,” Gray jabbed.

Matt shook his head. “No, Boats, I wasn’t. Mr. Rominger’s elected not to join our Navy, and that’s entirely up to him and everybody else who was in his . . . situation.” He grinned. “Besides, we’re indoors!”

“Uh, no offense, Captain Reddy,” Winny interjected, “none meant at all . . . but I joined the old Navy, and that didn’t turn out too well for me.” His expression grew haunted. “We did our best, even after we ran out of boats. But the brass made us surrender to the Japs.” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “They weren’t even on Mindanao yet,” he added harshly. “We should’ve kept fighting, even if they killed us in the end. It would’ve been better than what happened. And a lot of fellas died anyhow.” He looked Matt in the eye. “No, sir. I know the score here and I support your Navy and what you’re doing, but I’d just as soon fight this war as a civilian.”

Matt nodded seriously. “That’s your decision. But nobody’ll ever get an order to surrender to the Grik or Doms, Mr. Rominger, not from me or anybody.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Matt gestured at the hulls with his cane and started forward. “You were in MTB Squadron Five, correct?”

“Ron-Five, yes, sir,” answered Winny as the group moved toward the closest hull. This one wasn’t planked yet and the framework was impressive in its simplicity.

“Well, you’ve certainly captured the lines of your old PT boats.”

“Yes, sir,” Winny agreed. “They’re not as big; only fifty feet, but the planing-type hull design’s essentially the same, with the same diagonally planked, layered construction—a lot like those giant ’Cat Homes and the new flattops.”

Matt scratched his chin. “I thought PTs were made of plywood.”

Winny chuckled. “So many folks always said that, putting them down, that everybody thought it was true.” He shrugged. “We kind of took pride in it after a while, everybody thinking we fought in plywood boats. I guess there’s really not much difference when you get down to it, but we did a lot of good with what we had.”

“What are the specs?” Gray asked.

“Fifty feet, like I said, with a sixteen-foot beam. Not quite just a smaller-scale version. We still need the width for the torpedoes.”

“Just two tubes?”

“Yes, sir. The whole reason for keeping them smaller and lighter is so they can be carried by a ship—a flattop, or maybe a dedicated tender. The internal combustion engine works, or ICE house, is building monster versions of Nancy engines—six cylinders instead of four; something they were fooling with for bigger planes, but they were too heavy for the horsepower. They’ll work for us, though, and with a pair of ’em we ought to get twenty-five knots or better. Maybe thirty. You may have seen some of the small boats outside. Scale models. Anyway, even with only two engines and two torpedoes, they’re going to suck gas. We’ll have to take them where they’re going to fight.”

“Not to mention they’ll be vulnerable to heavy seas and . . . well, sea monsters.”

“Not to mention, sir.”

Matt gazed at the line of boats. “How long until they’re operational?”

“I’m hoping to have the first squadron ready in four months.”

Matt shook his head. “Too long. I want a dozen ready to go in one month.”

Winny gaped. “But . . . it’ll take more than a week for the paint to cure!”

Matt looked at Saan-Kakja with a grin. “I want twelve of these PTs finished and ready for transshipment to Baalkpan in one month, Your Excellency.”

Saan-Kakja blinked tentatively. She’d been a little afraid Matt would think she was wasting time and materials on the little boats—especially when their enemies were building such monsters now.

“You approve?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“But . . .” Winny interjected, “even if we finish them, we’ll have to train crews. Hell, we haven’t even started building torpedo tubes yet!”

“They have in Baalkpan,” Matt countered. “We’ll mate them up there. Send Bernie Sandison any specific requirements you think they’ll have. I want those boats, Mr. Rominger.”

“For the operation you outlined for Adar?” Sandra asked.

“Yeah. If we can get these PTs Mr. Rominger’s so kindly provided, all the heavy stuff building in Baalkpan can go to Keje—or Jim Ellis in First Fleet. Adar isn’t sold on my little ‘sideshow,’ as Commander Herring calls it.” He frowned.

Saan-Kakja snorted. “I do not like that man!”

“So you’ve said,” Matt said wryly. “But Adar’s in charge. He was right about that; somebody’s got to be in charge of everything, and he’s the guy.” Matt admired Adar tremendously and considered him a truly remarkable Lemurian. Once a simple high sky priest on Salissa Home, Adar was now High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance. Matt knew real efforts were underway to transform at least part of the Grand Alliance into a united nation consisting of land settlements and even the massive seagoing Homes. If the Empire of the New Britain Isles and other allies were not yet interested in joining, quite a few were, and the result was something akin to the United States under the old Articles of Confederation, in which the member states were politically united but retained more independence than was probably ideal. At least as far as the war effort was concerned. Fortunately, the main members—Baalkpan and the Fil-pin Lands, represented by Adar and Saan-Kakja—shared the vision of a united nation, even if they didn’t always agree on priorities, and most of the other allies were willing to follow their lead. “Letting First Fleet have all the heavy stuff should make it easier for Adar to swallow my sideshow,” Matt continued, “and maybe let Keje bring Big Sal along. Keje wants to go, and we need Salissa for her aircraft.” He pointed at the closest wooden hull. “Now we need her to carry them too.”

Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar was Matt’s oldest Lemurian friend, and resembled nothing more than a short, powerful, rust-colored bear. His Salissa Home had been an immense, sail-powered, seagoing city before the war, but had been converted to a steam-driven aircraft carrier. He was CINCWEST, but had been forced to retire to Andaman Island with a battered flagship and a fleet that couldn’t, at present, challenge the monstrous new Grik warships. He didn’t want to abandon First Fleet, but he loved the idea of Matt’s current scheme and desperately wanted to participate.

“But . . .” Winny tried to protest again. “Who’ve you got with PT experience? Who’ll command your squadron?”

Matt looked at him. “Are you volunteering for my Navy, Mr. Rominger?”

The carriage driver entered and stood before Saan-Kakja. “The great plane approaches. You instructed me to inform you.”

Saan-Kakja looked at Sandra. “Our guest has arrived!”