It was windy topside, and Sandra’s increasingly customary ponytail had been undone by the stiff, westerly gale. She faced into the wind alongside Colonel Shinya and Captain Lelaa, her still sun-streaked and tow-highlighted hair streaming to leeward. It was too long, she thought, longer than she’d ever allowed, and it was difficult to control and much too difficult to style. Matt had once hinted that he liked it long, however, and she meant to surprise him. Who knows how long it’ll grow before I see him now, she thought moodily. She didn’t know exactly what she expected would happen when they reunited in “the Isles,” but she was sure what she hoped for. With the end of the “dame famine,” their own situation had finally changed, and she supposed she harbored inner fantasies of a dramatic, romantic, Imperial wedding. But Walker wasn’t there. She’d steamed into the vast Eastern Sea to protect their new allies’ important colonies from a threatened Dom attack.
It was necessary she knew, and only the old destroyer had the speed to get there in time, but she was beginning to wonder if hers and Matt’s stars weren’t doomed to be crossed forever. She sighed. We’ve all been through so much, and I’ve become… such a sight; nearly thirty now too… She couldn’t always suppress an almost-instinctual concern that he might not even want her anymore. She honestly doubted that. She didn’t think she’d have fallen for him if he was that sort. But she was a woman, and despite her outward confidence and professionalism, she possessed normal apprehensions and insecurities common to the species, she supposed. She sighed again.
Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan felt the almost-imperceptible working of the ship and watched the oilers pitch dramatically alongside. The whitecapped sea had become a sparkling metallic gray beneath a humid, gray-blue sky. She heard her friend’s sighs and suspected what was on the human female’s mind. She found it vaguely amusing that the “iron woman” could worry so about nothing. She didn’t personally know Captain Reddy well, but his and Sandra’s unrequited love had reached almost-mythical, if imponderable dimensions within the Alliance. Of course, based on the extremely limited examples, human mating customs in general were imponderable to Lemurians. The People were straightforward about such things, and either a male or female, usually of higher perceived status, might “propose” to a prospective mate. Sometimes, among sea folk, this even involved mating outside one’s “clan,” or specialty, but that was rare. Those within the same clan, or among land folk in general (Aryaal and B’mbaado aside) who were considered “equal,” often gravitated toward “matrimony” in an apparently more “human” way, through a style of courtship in which prospective partners became intimately acquainted. All this was more tradition than rule, but it was fairly universal-at least before the war. Now, many of the old clans-wing runners, Body of Home, etc.-were becoming increasingly diverse and fragmented into something like “clans” representing the various naval divisions. There were attempts to found ordnance clans, engineering clans, deck clans, all under the greater umbrella of “snipe” and “ape” clans, within the overall “Amer-i-n Na-vee” clan, but this sort of regimentation was frowned on and even discouraged by the senior officers. It was all very confusing, and the “sub” clan system itself was probably doomed. Regardless, considering how long Matt and Sandra had “courted,” and how well they had to know each other by now, Lelaa thought it appropriate to worry about the man’s safety; he was a warrior on a dangerous mission. She considered it silly to worry about his feelings.
Tamatsu Shinya was thinking about other things. The effort to “liberate” New Ireland was scheduled to begin almost immediately. He understood the political necessity but thought the attempt precipitous. Chack and Blair’s plan seemed sound, and he had confidence in it. Besides, even if it failed, or came apart in some unforeseen way, TF Maaka-Kakja should arrive in plenty of time to prevent a disaster. Still, he worried. He didn’t know these “Doms” and had no “feel” for them. All he knew came from Chack’s and Captain Reddy’s reports. The new enemy appeared almost as insensitive to losses as the Grik, but they were human and had to be more tactically flexible. Didn’t they? Even though it failed, the plan to seize the Empire had been bold and cunning, and strategically, came far too close to success. He felt he needed to be working on a plan of his own, but the only “maps” they had of New Ireland were rough sketches Jenks had left. Surely better ones would be available when they stopped at Respite Island? He brooded.
Sandra, Captain Lelaa, and Colonel Shinya were all jarred from their respective thoughts when Diania suddenly burst upon the bridgewing, gasping for air. The dark-skinned woman sketched a hasty imitation of salutes she’d seen, and, eyes wide, breathlessly proclaimed, “Beggin’ yer pardons, but there’s a daemon in the for’ard hold!”
Rendered speechless by the sudden, distracting news, Sandra noticed a disturbance down on the flight deck and saw a group of ’Cats assembling around a tall, blond-headed figure with a shiny new eye patch. The man bowed occasionally to those around him as he strode toward the offset conn tower, or patted them on their heads. He was looking up at Sandra with that weird, distinctive grin.
Sandra’s eyes narrowed. They’d learned that Silva had somehow escaped the “Buzzard,” but no one had any idea where he was. “I believe you, Diania,” she said angrily, “but the ‘demon’ is on the loose now.”
“I ain’t AWOL,” Silva denied, “I been here all along-not ‘absent’ a’tall!” He was standing in Captain Lelaa’s “great cabin,” surrounded by a collection of humans and ’Cats. He’d never get a more sympathetic hearing since nearly everyone present owed him their lives, but this was a serious matter. Despite his plea, he was inarguably absent without leave, and in direct violation of orders. In contrast to the last time they’d seen him, covered with grease, he was actually fairly presentable. Some, such as Lawrence and Princess Rebecca-and, Petey, her weird little pet-were openly gleeful to see him, as was Midshipman Brassey. Irvin and Shinya appeared less pleased.
Sandra couldn’t tell what Lelaa or the other Lemurian officers thought, and she groaned. When it came to rationalization, Dennis Silva was an artist, and judging by his opening shot, this was liable to be a masterpiece. What was more, she knew Lemurians were susceptible to the type of “performance art” Dennis excelled at. Ultimately, Silva’s punishment would be decided by Captain Lelaa, but Sandra felt compelled to play the role of the “reporting officer.”
“Mr. Silva, as I’m sure you’re aware, ‘here’ isnt where you’re supposed to be!” Sandra said severely. “And you’re ‘AWOL’ from where you were ordered to go!”
Dennis affected an expression of concentration. “An’ I’ve given that a lot of thought since Mr. Riggs passed them silly orders,” he admitted. “Has anybody ever seen fit to in-vestigate whether he’s a Jap… or even a Grik spy?”
“My God, Silva!” Laumer burst out. “Are you insane?”
Brassey and Princess Rebecca stifled chuckles, and most of the ’Cats’ tails twitched with amusement.
“It’s possible,” Silva confessed, “but you know, that scamp never liked me much ever since…” He paused. “Well, it ain’t pertinent, an’ I won’t refloat bygones if he won’t. But think about it; my original orders, spoke right at me by the Skipper himself, was to guard the Munchkin Princess to the death. After our recent… situation with the Comp’ny, I’m pretty sure them orders oozed over onto you, Lieutenant Tucker. You need me. Maybe Bernie thinks he does, back in Baalkpan, but I can wire any screwball schemes I come up with back to him from here, but I can’t protect you ladies nor help the Skipper from there. That’s what got me wonderin’ about Mr. Riggs; such a blatant misallocation o’ resources-me-in time o’ war, can only benefit the enemies o’ freedom, baseball, an’ beer.”