Taylor Anderson: Iron Gray Sea

Matt refrained from pointing out that the Lemurians had always been there-and the Empire knew it.

The ambassador straightened. “It is no secret that I feel inadequate and wholly unprepared for my new, consequential post, but though I may not be a polished envoy, I understand that I must learn all I can about the military and political structure of your elements of our Alliance. Just watching and listening helps me with that.” He smiled more broadly. “I assure you, even listening to the… English-Lemurian patois you have developed is most helpful.”

There was more laughter. “I think we’re even, then, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Courtney Bradford is the best we can come up with for your counterpart, and he’s not very polished either.” Bradford was an amazingly valuable but… odd individual. He’d been an Australian petroleum engineer in the East Indies, but considered himself first and foremost a naturalist. Sometimes Matt wondered if everything that had happened to them since they passed through the Squall that brought Walker and her people to this world wasn’t some divine attempt to overwhelm Courtney’s curiosity. “I think the Governor-Emperor knew our people would react better to someone like you than to someone more ‘polished.’ As for listening to the gab, knock yourself out. I don’t think we have, or should have, any secrets you shouldn’t hear. Make yourself comfortable…” He grinned, considering the lively gyrations of his ship. Walker rolled horribly in any kind of sea, and was currently pitching rather briskly as well. “If you can.”

Matt looked at the others in the wardroom and the grin disappeared. Time to get down to business. “Okay, here’s the deal. As you’re all aware, Walker needs a major refit and she’s on the binnacle list for now. For some time, particularly since we turned for home, it’s been bugging me that a fair percentage of the personnel most needed to accomplish various projects have been cooped up here aboard Walker. In the past, I’d have swallowed that frustration, of necessity. But the wonders of this modern world we’re building are throwing changes at us so fast that they’re hard to keep up with.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like the guy living in the house with oil lamps, who never twisted the light switch because he knew there was no electricity and all the bulbs were burned out-then somebody just waltzes in and turns on the lights.” He grinned sheepishly.

“The point is, before departing New Scotland, I sent a message asking the guys back home to put their heads together and figure out a way to get some of you malingerers off this ship and back to work. In retrospect-I don’t know why; I didn’t expect much. I knew we could fly you out of Manila, but by then you’d only have a few days on us.” He nodded at Ed Palmer, the communications officer. “We just received, via Respite Station, confirmation that two four-engine seaplanes the Air Corps cobbled up-I think they’re calling them ‘Manila Clippers’-should arrive at Respite at about the same time we do. They’re supposed to be bigger, more powerful versions of the three-engine ‘Buzzards,’ and I’ve been assured they’re reasonably safe and reliable.” He paused. “A number of you will board those planes and proceed ahead of us to Maa-ni-la. Some of you will continue on to Baalkpan, via other appropriate fueling stops. Once you reach your respective destinations, you’ll commence a variety of assignments that you are, in some cases, uniquely qualified for.”

“What kind of assignments?” blurted Silva. The big, heavily tanned, one-eyed man still stood, leaning against the aft bulkhead. His mighty arms were crossed, and the spray of scars on his face testified further that Walker ’s people had suffered as much as she had. Beside him, much shorter, stood an orangish, tiger-striped creature named Lawrence, or Larry the Lizard. Lawrence’s physical similarity to the Grik, with his furry-feathery reptilian form, sharp teeth, and wicked claws, was still a little disconcerting to some, but all knew he was fiercely loyal.

“What kind of assignment, SIR, damn your insubordinate soul!” growled Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray. Gray was more than twice Silva’s age but nearly as big. His decades-old China Station flab was long gone, and if he might not quite be a physical match for Silva, he had infinitely greater moral authority.

“Sir,” Silva amended agreeably, and Gray rolled his eyes.

“Let’s hear what the Skipper has to say before flapping our gums,” Brad “Spanky” McFarlane commanded. Spanky was a skinny little guy, and had once been Walker ’s engineering officer. Somehow, despite his size, people always remembered him as much bigger than he actually was, and now he was Matt’s exec.

“Please,” agreed Sandra Tucker. She was even smaller than Spanky, but her new job in the Alliance was Minister of Medicine, and petite and pretty as she was, she had a will of iron and couldn’t be lightly ignored (or resisted) by anyone. She was also, incidentally, Captain Reddy’s fiancee. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. No one resented her hard-earned authority, but some inevitably reflected on the most recent result of it.

Juan Marcos, Matt’s self-appointed personal steward to the CINCAF, appeared with a carafe and noisily stomped through the suddenly quiet wardroom on a remarkably complicated peg fashioned for him on New Scotland. He’d lost his left leg during a sneak attack by the Holy Dominion. No one spoke while the little Filipino filled cups with an air of supreme satisfaction. Well, at least the “monkey joe” is back to normal, Captain Reddy reflected, staring bleakly at the not-quite-green foam rimming the brew in his captain’s cup. Juan had finally returned to duty, relieving Taarba-Kar (Tabasco), his Lemurian replacement. The first thing he’d done was insist on making the local, ersatz coffee the way Matt “liked” it, and since Matt-or anyone-had never summoned the courage to tell the Filipino they hated his coffee, they were back to drinking what some described as “bilgewater and boiler soot” in the wardroom. At least they had Imperial tea now, and Juan was content to let Tabasco handle that.

Matt felt his square jaw while Juan finished his rounds. Juan was much better at shaving him than Tabasco had ever been. After finally relenting and letting the Filipino perform that delicate duty, he couldn’t very well prevent Tabasco from doing the same after Juan was wounded, and the young ’Cat’s hand wasn’t nearly as steady. Matt shuddered.

“Uh, thanks,” he managed when Juan triumphantly and with surprising agility, swooped back by and topped off his cup, replacing the single, obligatory sip he’d taken. Matt set the cup on the green linoleum-topped table and gazed at the others in the compartment, almost daring them to grin or snicker. Suddenly, he was reminded of other, often desperate, times when he and Walker ’s officers had met like this. There was a more relaxed atmosphere today, but there were important matters to discuss; matters that would affect the prosecution of the war on its various fronts, and that would require scattering these people-his friends-to remote places once again.

He looked at Marine Major (or Bosun’s Mate, if he was at sea) Chack-Sab-At and smiled. The young Lemurian had become one of the rocks of the Alliance, and his brindled tail was swishing slightly in anticipation. They’d discussed his assignment before, and not only was he excited by it, but he also knew that ultimately it would take him nearer his beloved Safir Maraan, General-Queen Protector of B’mbaado. The stunning Safir was a corps commander now in the First Fleet Expeditionary Element.

“Chack, you’ll be stopping in Manila, where you’ll be joined by Major Jindal and his regiment of Imperial Marines aboard those Dom steam transports captured at New Ireland. They sailed before we did, and took a straighter shot. They should arrive there shortly, and this way, maybe you’ll be there to meet them.”