“Have Campeti pass the word! ‘Friendies’ on the starboard quarter, do not fire on them!” Spanky ordered. The command probably hadn’t been necessary, but Spanky didn’t want any mistakes in the chaos.
“ Euripides signaling to make for our starboard side,” the talker echoed the lookout. “ Tacitus angling aft; she come alongside to port.”
Shortly afterward, Euripides backpedaled, her paddle wheels throwing up a mountain of foam as she arrested her forward motion alongside the wallowing destroyer. Tacitus was still coming up, more laboriously, but bundled hammocks, sails, and other items were being slung over her shattered starboard bulwarks, like bumpers on a tug.
“What the hell?” Spanky muttered.
“Ahoy there, Walker,” came a cry from the catwalk between the paddle boxes on Euripides. Spanky grabbed a speaking trumpet and dashed onto the starboard bridgewing, avoiding the jagged metal there. He saw a man he recognized as a friend of Jenks’s pointing a trumpet at him. He’d actually given the man a tour of Walker ’s firerooms, but he couldn’t remember his name.
“Ahoy, Euripides!” he cried. “It’s good to see you after such a. .. busy morning. I hope we’re still friends after all the trouble we’ve gotten you into.”
“Nonsense! Wouldn’t have missed it!” came the reply. “I did notice that your wondrously complicated internals seem a bit out of sorts.”
Spanky grimaced at the gentle jab. “We’ll get our ‘internals’ sorted out,” he said. “But I appreciate your concern.”
The figure on the catwalk shrugged. “I’m not terribly concerned, actually. Not after the way you tore through those Dom ships of the line-well done, that-but I do bear orders from the Governor-Emperor himself, via Commodore Jenks, to do whatever may be in my power, regardless of cost, to prevent serious damage to your ingenious, but frankly, somewhat… ill-favored ship. I do hope ‘ill-favored’ is not too provocative?”
Spanky laughed. “Beauty’s a matter of perception and opinion. Your ship don’t look too pretty herself right now.” A mighty splash erupted off Walker ’s bow, and the number one gun, now trained out to port, replied at one of the closing enemy ships with a loud crack and a long tongue of smoky yellow flame.
“Indeed,” agreed the man, unperturbed, “but more enemies approach, and judging by your current inconvenience and the lurid dents in your side, it might be said I’ve failed my mission in one respect, if not all. Together, we’ve accomplished our primary task-to disrupt the enemy invasion.” The man paused. “I’m honored to have assisted you in that. This was not your battle, and yet you’ve suffered on our behalf. That will not be forgotten, and thankfully I remain in a position to at least attempt the next most pressing instruction of my sovereign.”
“So? What’s that?” Spanky yelled.
“To prevent the sinking-or worse, capture-of your ship by the enemy. To that end, Euripides and Tacitus will protect her with their very bodies, and the bodies of their crews-so please forgive me if I entreat you to ‘sort out’ your engineering problems as quickly as you possibly can!”
CHAPTER 28
West Eastern Sea
T he flotilla of formerly Tagranesi proas skimmed along in a westerly direction with a favorable wind at a much faster clip than Ajax ’s longboat ever could have managed. The moon was high and cast plenty of light upon the dappled sea to spot any looming leviathans, or mountain fish, that might lie in their path. Silva had the tiller of the “command” proa, enjoying the feel of the water sliding past, and his conversation with Chinakru-through Lawrence-in the stern sheets. “Petey” sat carefully, inconspicuously, perched near him, barely moving and without a peep, as he watched Lawrence and the former “Tagranesi” with profound suspicion. Nearly everyone else aboard, and on the other proas nearby, was asleep, except for their helmsmen and a pair of keen lookouts.
Captain Lelaa had calculated, by the moon and stars, and longitudinal observations she’d made at Talaud, that they had just enough food and water to complete their voyage in the swifter vessels-weather permitting. The ex-Tagranesi, soon to be “Sa’aarans”-hopefully-had been excited and friendly to their human and Lemurian guests, but, with the exception of Silva, Sandra, and, to a lesser degree, Abel Cook, the rest of the former castaways kept to themselves. Lawrence was happy to be back among his people, and while his “homecoming” hadn’t been what he’d expected, he was warmly welcomed. He was sympathetic to the… mild discomfort of his friends, however. When he’d been alone among them, they hardly thought about his resemblance to their mortal foes, but now, surrounded by so many, some seemed reserved, pensive. Even his dear ’Ecky was affected.
Sandra and Silva didn’t care at all. They’d used Lawrence shamelessly as a portable translator, to talk to anyone who grabbed their attention. Lawrence’s “Tagran” was rusty at first, but soon he was fluent again. Silva was most interested in the surprisingly fast, stable, and forgiving sailing qualities of the proas. Almost sixty feet long and nearly ten feet wide, their hulls were shaped from a single massive tree. The outriggers were big too-sharp, hollow, and relatively airtight. (They were raised from the water once a day or so, by counterbalancing, then drained and replugged.) At some time in the past, their designers had even added a long, submerged keel that reduced their leeway amazingly. Silva pronounced them “neat little boats.” He also pestered Chinakru incessantly about how his people killed shiksaks, and how they made war if other groups-usually refugees like themselves, it now seemed-came to call.
Sandra wanted to learn everything about their medical practices, but she’d been particularly interested in talking with the females. No human or Lemurian had ever seen a female Grik. Lawrence’s people were clearly just a different race of the same species, and she’d hoped to learn some elemental truths. The Tagranesi “Noble Queen” concept seemed strikingly similar to the “Celestial Mother” of the Grik, but among Lawrence’s folk, there were no Hij or Uul. There were just people. The only “lower class” was hatchlings. There were few females in the little fleet, and only half a dozen hatchlings. Chinakru had left “those not ready” on the island, probably to die. It seemed incredibly harsh… and yet the few hatchlings among them, too young to begin their “training,” acted more like vicious, annoying pets than children. None of the females paid them any heed except to catch them and feed them from time to time. It was shocking and bizarre, but without knowing more, Sandra was at a loss as to how the system might be improved. In the meantime, as the days passed, the former castaways had learned to protect their belongings from pillage-and protect themselves from droppings whenever one of the little vermin leaped across to their boat from another and skylarked in the rigging.
Petey actually helped in that respect. He’d evidently sensed from the start that he was among predators that would eat him if they could, and he stayed very close to the humans, Rebecca in particular. Somehow he must have gathered that she was a cherished and protected member of this new “pack” of his, and he screeched, gobbled, and generally raised hell whenever a hatchling ventured near. He stayed away from Lelaa now too. Life was boring on a boat and once, whatever he used for a mind had decided that her twitching tail might taste good, or at least be fun to catch. He’d barely escaped being hacked apart by her sword. After that, he gave both Lawrence and Lelaa a wide berth. His only concession to the lure of adventure now was to occasionally-carefully-hop or coast after Silva when the big man moved about the boat. He usually indiscriminately screeched one of the few words he knew and glided back to Rebecca if the man came close to someone he feared, but Silva paid no apparent heed to Petey whatsoever.