Two undamaged Imperial frigates, detailed by Commodore Jenks from a late-arriving element of Home Fleet, escorted the wounded ship. Battered as she was, it was obvious to Sandra that Walker was creeping along for the benefit of her companions.
She stepped back from the eyepiece. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, eyes glistening. “I think I’ll go down to the American dck in the Navy Yard now.”
Rebecca had moved to the glass. “As will I,” she said softly.
“As shall we all!” Gerald proclaimed. “It’s the very least we can do!”
For a while, it was like a reunion of old friends at the “American” dock, but the gathering quickly became a crowd. Salaama-Na was there, undergoing repairs after the pounding she’d taken from the New Ireland forts, and Maaka-Kakja had arrived two days before, the “mop-up” of New Ireland complete. The island was swamped with Lemurian sailors and Marines on liberty, much to the genuine delight of the populace, and the two massive Lemurian ships dominated the harbor and dwarfed all other vessels there. Not everyone was present, of course, and two of the most keenly felt absences were Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask. They’d become very popular in the fleet, New Scotland, and on Walker in particular. But the reunion was still jubilant because many of the others hadn’t seen one another in a long, long time.
Added to the commotion of greeting was the presence of the royal family, hundreds of female yard workers, and many hundreds of people from the city itself, come to pay their respects. In the midst of it all, USS Walker (DD-163), swayed gently at her moorings, the sea lapping soothingly at her dented plates. Battered and bruised, she’d protected most of her people… most of them… and again that had been a major achievement. Her blower sighed contentedly and smoke wisped lazily from her aft funnel. Someone had finally begun painting her victims on the side of her port bridgewing, and the collection was as bizarre as it was lengthy. Everything from Japanese planes to Grik ships (nobody remembered how many of those she’d destroyed) to the now acceptably coined “Grik birds” were represented. And, of course, there was Amagi. Walker lay there at rest, beneath her battle flag and canton fluttering at the jack-staff above her bullnose, proud, confident, and far more than she would have ever been on the world where she was made.
Princess Rebecca was first to meet Matt when he descended to the dock, sprinting ahead of everyone else. She clasped him in an embrace that startled him but also melted his heart. At the same time, he was a little disconcerted by the strange, semiwinged… creature… drooped across her shoulders that looked skeptically up at him.
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, wetting his shirt with her tears, “for everything. You did come for us, as we knew you would, but then you not only saved my father, but my country as well. I’ll never forget it!”
“Forget it!” Petey screeched. “Goddamn!”
Sandra was next, but after only a quick embrace she and Matt were forced to focus on the endless stream of greetings and congratulations. Still, they remained glued together, side by side, the mere presence of the other after so long and so much renewing their souls. They shared a strange new tension, however, an almost-sickening, floating sense that regardless of their attachment, something… fundamental was about to change. Both knew they had much to discuss, officially and otherwise. From an official standpoint, Matt’s stormy expression when he saw the gathering of dark-skinned human females-in USN T-shirts, dungarees, and Dixie cups-arrayed behind a woman Sandra introduced simply as “Carpenter’s Mate, Steward Diania,” promised a lively debate, and Sandra had blithely ignored it. If ’Cat “girls” could serve in the Navy, so could the human variety as far as she was concerned. She knew she’d win that one, eventually. She had no idea how their “personal” discussion would go.
Happy greetings occurred all around, and ’Cats scampered excitedly on and off the old destroyer, dispensing with ceremony. But each one saluted her flag. Matt caught a familiar loud voice and saw Juan Marcos leaning on a crutch, his left pant leg pinned up. He was berating Tabasco and Earl Lanier in Tagalog, a language nobody except maybe the few Philippine Scouts who’d survived their hellish ordeal in Mizuki Maru understood. He was glad for Juan that there were other Filipinos now, but he was also very worried about that Japanese destroyer, still apparently on the loose. Mizuki Maru had finally steamed after her, but there’d been no word. And, of course, he’d heard about his cousin Orrin, still on New Ireland. He wasn’t flying again yet, but he was in charge of rooting out the last of the Grik birds. Fortunately, there’d never been many on the island. Their surprise appearance in the dark had been costly, but Orrin had developed tactics to lure them from their hiding places and destroy them. Matt smiled sadly. Thank God the kid was alive, but it had apparently been a bad war for the Reddy clan back home. Juan’s jabbering continued unabated. Poor Tabasco kind of slunk back, but suddenly, to Matt’s amazement, Earl Lanier stepped forward and picked Juan up off the deck and held him in a greasy, furry-armed, stinky embrace.
“I’m glad to see you too, you goddamn, crazy little Flip!” he rumbled.
Eventually, the horde dwindled. The Governor-Emperor was tiring, and he invited all the senior officers to join him at Government House and dine early. There they could debrief at greater leisure and in more comfort. Unexpectedly, many crew and Marines from Walker and other “Lemurian-American” ships flocked along. The officers’ gathering would be on the wide veranda of the residence, but no one had prohibited the growing party on the grounds surrounding it. Some Imperial officers and officials seemed shocked and dismayed by the familiar way the human and ’Cat Americans behaved around their officers, and several suggested they dine inside, away from the revelers. Princess Rebecca gave them a steely glare, and even the Governor-Emperor dismissed the notion as he and the other Allied leaders assembled around a long, narrow table on the broad porch.
It’s the Lemurian way, Matt recalled with a small smile, remembering the times he’d made landfall among the People. He took his indicated seat to Gerald’s right at the head of the table, with Sandra at his side, and noticed that Ruth McDonald sat with her husband. He’d never seen that before. He wondered if their influences were beginning to take root and whether they’d ultimately be appreciated or resented. Right now, the expanded Alliance was on solid ground.
There was no ceremony, no speech, no “official” greeting, and Matt was thankful. He was surprised, but suspected Sean O’Casey (Bates) had probably advised against it, knowing him and his people the best. The Governor-Emperor began the “proceedings” simply, by leaning forward and saying something to Courtney Bradford. The Australian cupped his hand behind his ear, and the Bosun abruptly stood, facing the crowd.
“Pipe down, you bunch’a’ goons!” he bellowed. “The brass is tryin’ to decide whether to give you medals or throw you all in the brig!”
Sean Bates rose as well. “There’ll be fine, great barrels o’ beer available soon on the north porch. Do enjoy it there, fer the time bein’, ta the extent allowed by yer officers! This is a celebration, an’ there’ll be music an’ dancin’ at dusk, but we must have a wee chat before then.” Amid cheers, the vast majority of the partyers made their way to the other es) f Government House, and Bates nodded at Gray with a grin. “Now I’m His Majesty’s Factor, er ‘chief o’ staff,’ I reckon, I’ve learned ta reward wi’ beer, rather than berate wi’ roars!”