Sandra was there to meet the PB-2’s copilot, or still more appropriately, her spotter/wireless operator who’d sent that he had a letter for her from Karen Letts, and after the traffic they’d begun picking up late the previous day, she felt compelled to get it herself. Lawrence came along simply because at some point, however briefly, Sandra might be by herself. She refused a protective detail, but he and a number of others had determined that nobody “important” ever be alone again. There was no mad “Company” warden in Maa-ni-la, but there were dissatisfied elements.
Tremendous activity was already underway at the waterfront. Troops had been crossing from Bataan all night and marching through the bustling shipyard district to bivouac on the plain beyond the city to prepare for embarkation. The predawn departure of the Maa-ni-la fishing fleet had caused some disorganization, but everything seemed back under control now. Mizuki Maru was still there, floating much higher in the water with the aid of shore-based pumps.
“Okay, dammit!” came a surly cry from within the passenger compartment of the plane. “I’m gettin ’ out! Quit pokin’ me!” A last, unexpected passenger crept carefully through the tiny hatch, and Sandra was surprised to recognize Gilbert Yeager, one of the bizarrely eccentric, original “Mice,” from Walker ’s firerooms. He was a chief now, but at heart, he’d always be a boilerman who loved nothing more than the music of steam and forced-draft fires. Despite his exalted status, he still looked like a rodent, sniffing the air and squinting his eyes. “Joint’s changed since I was here last,” he declared disapprovingly.
“Mr. Yeager!” Sandra exclaimed. “I never dreamed they’d pry you away from your… colleague, Mr. Rueben, once you’d been reunited!”
Gilbert snatched the new, somehow already grimy “Dixie cup” from his head and clutched it in his hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Tucker,” he said, “but it was my damn turn, I s’pose. Isak went off last time, an’ he’s busy helpin’ to overhaul them jug-jumpers on Santa Catalina. He’ll prob’ly go back to First Fleet after that. They figgered there oughta be somebody in this new flat-top, might could light a fire in her guts an’ make her go.”
“I guess that means you belong to me,” Irvin said with a neutral expression. He was ecstatic to have Gilbert for his ex-juence, but.. . along with that experience, there was Gilbert to consider. He didn’t know the man well, but his reputation was widespread. Oh well, at least he wasn’t as weird as Isak…
“You say so, sir,” Gilbert replied forlornly. With the weary fliers and the unexpected addition in hand, Irvin took his leave of Sandra and Lawrence.
The ’Cat aircrew scrambled ashore, their new goggles pushed up between their ears, resembling another pair of darker eyes. They saluted Sandra. “Min’ster Tukker,” one said, “this for you.” He handed over a folded, rumpled sheet, sealed with a blob of wax. “We got more mail too!” he added. The other ’Cat, probably the pilot, saluted again and went to oversee the refueling of his plane. When he was satisfied it was in good hands, the aircrew would snatch a few hours of sleep before taking off again.
“More?”
“Yes! We bring new mail, person-aal!” The Lemurian seemed more excited that people could send personal letters so quickly than he was about wireless. “Whole big saack. I bring aa-shore, now I know somebody offish-aal here to see it get here!” He blinked seriously in the growing light. “I s’posed to waatch mail till then with one eye. No foolin!”
It wasn’t really a very big sack, and Lawrence took it. Sandra unfolded the letter from Karen as they walked away from the pier. They were finally making real paper in Baalkpan. She smiled at the hurriedly written note from her friend, describing the antics of her new daughter, Allison Verdia, but frowned when she noted Karen’s complaint about her husband, Alan, going “off to the war” when he didn’t have to. She felt a surge of irritation. Ultimately, it could be argued none of the “old” destroyermen, the humans, had to fight this war. When Lemurians took the same oath to join the same Navy the humans served, it wasn’t really the same, and everybody knew it. The United States of America didn’t even exist here. Though Matt considered the oath very real and essential, any ’Cat would tell you that ultimately, their oath was to Captain Reddy; the High Chief of the Amer-i-caan Naa-vee clan. Maybe Matt really didn’t see a difference. Sandra knew the meaning of his oath hadn’t changed-although it had been expanded considerably to encompass his new people. Still, if any of his “old hands” wanted to “retire” and go off in the jungle and live in a hut somewhere, Matt would probably let them.
She quickly forgave her friend. Karen had come a long way from the sobbing wreck she’d been when they first “got here.” If she was feeling put upon because her husband ran off to the sound of the guns, leaving her with a new baby and all her responsibilities as Deputy Minister of Medicine-doing Sandra’s job in her absence-it was understandable.
Sandra’s attention snapped back to the moment at the sound of a horrified shriek.
In their path stood a dark-haired, dusky-skinned woman in the loose-fitting, somewhat immodest working garb of the recently arrived immigrants from Respite Island. Sandra knew that, as they were “processed,” the women-virtual slaves within the Empire-were encouraged to wander the city at their own pace to grow accustomed to their freedom and this new culture. The processing consisted of little more than a checkup, a few short lectures about the laws and customs of Maa-ni-la, Baalkpan, and the seagoing Homes, and the assurance they could stay in their arrival compound where food and shelter were provided for a “reasonable” period while they decided whether they wanted to find a life in Maa-ni-la (there was plenty of work in the factories and shipyards), go on to Baalkpan(this was encouraged), or even join the Navy. (As far as Sandra knew, this last option hadn’t been seriously discussed with Matt; it was simply assumed. Female Lemurians joined the Navy, after all.)
The woman gave only the one cry, but stood ready to bolt, staring at Lawrence, her dark, pretty face contorted by an expression of terror.
“Don’t run, scared lady,” Lawrence said as softly as he could. “I not eat you!”
“Yes, please!” Sandra said. “He’s a friend! Perfectly ah… tame.” Sandra immediately regretted the inappropriate term. Lawrence wasn’t an animal. She hoped he wasn’t offended. “Do you understand?”
The woman assumed a doubtful expression, but some of the tension left her. “Course I do. Yer speakin’ ainglish, ain’t ye?”
Sandra was taken aback by the weird, almost-Cockney accent coming from what looked like a Polynesian princess. “Why, yes I am.”
“An’ he ain’t a dee-min, then? Looks loik a dee-min, er divil!”
“He’s neither, I assure you. He’s my good friend, and a friend of Princess Rebecca McDonald, daughter of the Governor-Emperor. His name’s Lawrence, and mine’s Sandra Tucker. What’s yours?”
The woman began to relax, but seemed to realize how brusquely she’d spoken to someone she shouldn’t even have addressed where she came from. She almost fled again, but maybe the lectures had gotten through, and she went to one knee and bowed her head instead. “Diania,” she whispered.
A burst of anger jolted Sandra. She hadn’t had a chance to visit the immigrant women, and now she knew she should’ve made time. The now-dead “Honorable New Britain Company” had long fostered a system of virtually perpetual indenture of women in the Empire to such a degree that even “free” women had little status. Matt had sent reports that seethed with his own disgust regarding the situation, and inflamed Sandra’s indignation, but this was her first real encounter with what he’d been talking about. “Stand up, Diania, and face me!” she demanded.