Matt looked at Nakja-Mur when Keje completed the translation. Conflicting emotions swirled through him, but he knew, in spite of his desire to pass as little information as he could—the same desire he suspected the first "Tail-less Ones" had—the Lemurians who'd taken them in and now depended on them so heavily had a right to know. He glanced at Sandra and caught a nod of encouragement.
"We can't send for help," he said, "because there's no one to send to."
He looked at Sandra and smiled resignedly. Then he held the gaze of each American for a moment before returning his attention to the Lemurians.
"Remember how the first Tail-less Ones said their home was gone? Ours is too. Whether that makes us like them or not, I'll leave up to you to decide. But I think it's time you heard a story about a war that was bigger than anything you can possibly imagine. A war so big, the entire world was engulfed in fire and millions had already died . . . and it was only starting. This ship that seems so impressive and full of wonders to you was only the smallest, most insignificant part of that war, in the grand scheme of things." He took a deep breath. "And it was a war we were losing. Then something happened and somehow, we were . . . here."
Keje managed an expression of confusion. "But you've told us you come from near the Edge of the World, from a land so distant we've no . . . ah, charts that show its position."
"That's true. We do. But the war we fought—the part we were fighting, that is—was here. Right here."
There was no sound but the voices on deck and the paint chippers plying their tools on a scaffold rigged alongside.
Courtney Bradford leaned forward in his chair. "My dear friends, Mi-Anakka and Americans, there's no question we all spring from the same world. There's no other explanation." He laid his hand on the chart before him. "These are the same, for the most part, as the Scrolls the People revere. The land shapes are mostly the same, although we've noticed a few slight differences. But the water is water and the air is the air and the heavens are no different. But in the world Captain Reddy described, where all upon it were at war—the `world,' if you will, we come from—all this"—he gestured at the charts—"was the same except for one thing: the people and creatures that inhabit it. Where we come from—evidently an entirely other `here'—there are no Grik, no mountain fish, and . . . no People." He leaned back in his chair and it creaked beneath him.
"Personally, I don't come from `the Edge of the World,' like my American friends. I come from . . ." He glanced at the chart and put his finger on the small piece of coastline southeast of the Sunda Islands, right on the edge of the paper. "I think your Scrolls call this place `New Holland' or something like that, although I assure you there were few Dutchmen when I left."
Keje was looking at him like he'd just crawled out of a gri-kakka's mouth with its stomach in his teeth. "I've been to that land," he said quietly. "There are colonies there, and in the south, they build some sea homes as well. I've never seen an Amer-i-caan."
Bradford sighed. "I'm not a bloody American, but that's beside the point. By your charts, everything's the same, but there aren't any of us. By our charts, everything's the same, but there aren't any of you. The only explanation is that, somehow, there are two worlds . . . parallel worlds . . ."
He stopped and looked around. "Two worlds side by side, perhaps even occupying the same space at the same time, only on which life has developed, for some reason, in two entirely different directions."
"But—but—" Keje stammered, "that cannot be."
Bradford sniffed and leaned back again. "Perhaps not, but it's all I've been able to come up with. Captain?"
"No, Mr. Bradford, that's a better explanation than I'd have managed, but the idea's essentially the same."
Nakja-Mur said something and Keje spoke for him. "If that is true, then how did you get here?"
Matt spread his hands. "We have no idea. All we know is Mahan and Walker were together, fighting a battle against a powerful enemy ship. We entered a strange squall, and the next thing we knew . . . No—" He looked thoughtful. "We didn't really know for a while. But somehow we were here. In your world." Abruptly, his expression hardened, and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the chart. "Which means, since we've no idea how we got here, we haven't got a clue how to get back. However it happened, we're stuck with each other. Unlike the old `Tail-less Ones,' we're not going to run off and leave you. Even if we wanted to, we can't.
Our fates are intertwined. The survival of our people, yours and mine, depends on defeating the Grik. So you better explain to your complainers, Nakja-Mur, U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan, they have not yet begun to be inconvenienced! After the information we've received today, we're going to have to kick into high gear."
"High Gear. It means, All Out? Sink or Swim? Same?" Keje asked.
"That's right."
Keje blinked solemn assent. "Your man, Silva? He told me these, and I agree. He also told me another." He looked around the table with quiet dignity and determination, then looked directly at Nakja-Mur. "However the Amer-i-caans came to us, it's clear only the Maker of All Things could have arranged it as they say. If that is so, then surely we must all either Shit, or Get Off the Pot."
For once, it was a beautiful day on Baalkpan Bay. The humidity was low and it couldn't have been much over eighty degrees. There was a cooling breeze out of the south-southwest, and the launch's motor droned pleasantly with the sound of good health and proper maintenance. The water had a slight chop, stirred by the wind, and the occasional packet of spray spritzed Matt, Letts, Bradford, and Shinya in the cockpit of the launch. To them, it was refreshing. But to Tony Scott, at the wheel, each drop that struck him made him shudder as if he'd been sprayed with caustic acid.
Matt knew something had come over his once fearless coxswain, who'd acquired a deep and abiding terror of the water. All he could do was hope he got over it. They were too shorthanded to put him on the beach, at least until their Lemurian "cadets" were fully trained, and the man stoically refused to be relieved from his primary duty. He clearly hated the water now and he constantly cast worried looks over the side as if expecting to see some huge, ravenous fish pacing the boat. But he was, after all, the coxswain, and he wouldn't shirk his duty.
For Matt's part, he was enjoying the outing. Walker had been laid up for more than a month, and he'd grown anxious and irritable over her immobility. Her refit had gone as well as conditions allowed, and he expected she was in better shape now than when they'd left Surabaya ahead of the Japanese. But his anxiety over Mahan and the growing Grik menace left him feeling frustrated and impotent. It was good to be moving over water again.
He looked back across the bay, toward his ship, but he couldn't see her.
Seven of the huge Lemurian Homes lay at anchor off Baalkpan now, crowding the area near the shipyard. More were expected within the next few days. Nakja-Mur had sent word as far as his fishing fleet could reach, for a "Great Gathering," or in essence, a council of war, to be held. Many of the Homes were intercepted already on their way. The threat was apparent to all by now. There'd been other fights like Big Sal's, although none against so many Grik, but at least one Home was overrun. Its smoldering, half-sunken carcass was seen aground on the northeast coast of Java, near where Batavia would have been. That news threw Keje into a frenzy, and he'd been willing, at last, to perform the modifications to Big Sal that Alan Letts had suggested. Even now, as the launch nosed into the estuary of the river the locals called the Sungaa, Alan was discussing his plan with Bradford. Captain Reddy was deeply interested in whatever scheme the recently hypermotivated supply officer came up with, but for the moment he couldn't help but be overcome by the primordial landscape surrounding them.