“I wish old Harvey Jenks was here to see this!” Gray said. Again, he noticed surprised stares. He and the Imperial commodore got along fine now, but there’d been a time when they hated each other. Jenks couldn’t come today because he’d been across the island for several days, coordinating civil and naval preparations in Edinburgh for the upcoming campaign against the rebels and “Holy Dominion” forces on New Ireland. He was due back, and would likely be in Scapa Flow by the time the ships made port.
“I just meant, you know, that big ’Cat Home is a hell of a sight and… well, our fightin’ ships are prettier than his!” he defended. Everyone in the pilothouse laughed.
At a much reduced speed, which left her skinny, round-bottomed hull wallowing sickeningly in the swells, ize="3"escorted the new arrivals into the Imperial Home Fleet port of Scapa Flow. Sufficient space for Salaama-Na had reluctantly been set aside by an incredulous harbormaster, who’d disbelieved her described dimensions. He’d been told by Matt and Jenks that the thousand-foot vessel simply wouldn’t fit in the otherwise-generous dock space allocated to “American” ships, not if Walker, Simms, Tindal, and Mertz were to have a place. At least the huge Home wouldn’t need the space for long; only until she off-loaded her cargo of replacements, prefabricated tank batteries, and the heavy machinery sent to support the Allied presence there. She’d then moor away from the dock, as was customary with ships her size, until Sor-Lomaak decided to leave.
All Scapa Flow turned out to see the arrival. Everyone loved to see Walker underway, and this was the first time she’d moved other than to “switch sides” at the dock to facilitate repairs since the battle that saved the Empire from a quick Dominion victory. Still, today she was only part of the attraction. By order of the Governor-Emperor, the massive harbor forts bellowed a welcoming salute with their heavy guns. This was answered by each arriving ship; a few shots from the light guns on the oilers, creditable broadsides from the returning Imperial frigates, sharper, fewer, louder, reports from the “American” frigates, and a massive, rolling, booming roar from Salaama-Na ’s new fifty-pounders. All was punctuated by a perfect four-gun salvo from the sleek gray destroyer. Whistles shrieked and bells rang, and lizard birds and flocks of colorful parrots swirled in the air over the harbor.
The American frigates were a hit with their clean lines unmarred by paddle wheels and with the distinctive contrast of the white paint against the dark hulls between their gunports. Like Walker and Simms, they were oil burners, and they didn’t produce the black, choking plumes of sooty smoke as Imperial steamers did. Ultimately, however, even though she wasn’t technically a warship, Salaama-Na was the focus of attention. In a way, she represented a primitive technology. She moved primarily by sail alone. Only at times like this, when confined in restrictive waters, did her hundred massive-but even more primitive-sweep oars come out to propel and shift her closer to the dock. But she also represented a native sophistication inherent among the Imperial’s new Lemurian allies that predated human contact. Some of the old journals and logs of the “Founders,” the crews of the ancient “East Indiamen” that went among the distant “ape folk” after the “Passage” to this world, hinted they possessed “momentous vessels,” but except for a few crude drawings, little more was mentioned. It was encouraging-and a little humbling- that the Lemurians (don’t call them “ape folk!”) were, and had been so advanced in terms of industrial and structural engineering. The sturdy American frigates-not to mention the flying machines!-demonstrated how seamlessly that ingenuity could be mated to a technology beyond even that of the Empire.
Eventually, amid continuous fanfare, Ulysses and Icarus were secured at the Navy dock where the survivors of the naval battle off Scapa Flow still underwent repairs. The Allied warships tied up as well, and the oilers and transports moored nearby. With agonizing care, Salaama-Na snugged up to what would ultimately become the Allied fueling pier, capable of handling several “normal size” ships at once. With the crowd, now largely composed of female dockworkers shouting at others to “stand clear,” gathered alongside, the various commanders and their staffs came ashore and were escorted to where Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald lounged on the seat of a carriage, his wounded legs still immobilized. ith the awkward assistance of a muscular, one-armed, dark-skinned man named Sean (O’Casey) Bates and Gerald’s pale, slender wife, Ruth, the Governor-Emperor managed to stand.
“Welcome!” he boomed with a broad grin. “Welcome to you all! Welcome, Sor-Lomaak, High Chief of the sovereign Salaama-Na Home, and all the beautiful Allied ships accompanying her! I’m more grateful than I can express for the safe return of Ulysses and Icarus as well! Please do excuse this informal greeting-an appropriate reception is being prepared-but my exuberance could not be contained!”
Looking at the man, Matt didn’t doubt he was sincere, but his pale, sweaty face testified to his pain. It was a miracle he’d kept either leg, let alone both. Walker ’s own surgeon, Selass, daughter of Keje-Fris-Ar, vaulted onto the carriage and whispered something to Ruth, who self-righteously repeated it in her husband’s ear. With a dismissive wave, the Governor-Emperor allowed himself to be seated once more. “Tonight, then,” he said, less vigorously, “please do join me at Government House where I can welcome you properly and we can discuss those things that need our most immediate attention!”
After a few more personal greetings, the carriage pulled away with Selass still aboard, and Matt looked at the newly arrived Allied officers. First, he stepped to Sor-Lomaak and saluted. As a head of state in his own right, Sor-Lomaak, while a member of the Alliance, wasn’t under Matt’s military authority unless he chose to be. He was a tall ’Cat, almost as tall as Adar-which still left him half a head shorter than Matt. As had most Home High Chiefs, he’d risen from the “Body of Home clan,” and was built a lot like Keje; broad and strong, instead of slim, with the disproportionately powerful upper body of the “wing runners.” His fur was a black-blotched brown.
“We haven’t met, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Welcome to the Empire of the New Britain Isles.” Sor-Lomaak seemed flustered, both by the salute and Matt’s words. Realizing he’d unconsciously spoken English, Matt repeated his greeting in his improved, but still-clumsy Lemurian. Sor-Lomaak blinked appreciation.
“I am glad to have finally arrived upon this strange land-far beyond the point I thought it possible to even stand.”
Matt winced. Lemurian religious dogma as taught by the Sky Priests had taken some serious hits of late, and he wished the revelations of such things as consistent, worldwide gravity had been allowed a more. .. comfortable absorption. “Glad to have you, sir. If you need any assistance unloading your cargo, I’ll be glad to help coordinate it.” He paused. “Things are a little strange here, as you’ve surely noticed. Human females do much of the labor, and though we’re in the process of working that out, their status is somewhat unusual.”
“So I gathered when we touched at Respite Island,” Sor-Lomaak observed.
“Yes. Well, I expect this war’s going to set a lot of Imperial institutions on their heads, and it’ll probably be an easier transition if they recognize the necessity for themselves.” He grinned. “We’ll help guide that recognition, of course.”
“Of course.”
“In any event,” Matt continued, “I think you’ll find the Imperials will treat your… our people well. Besides the fact some of my Mi-Anaaka Marines practically saved their country for them, they seem genuinely fascinated by ’Cats. Almost too fascinated at times! Some of my guys get tired of being… well, petted.”