Icarus flew her Imperial flag once more, and Matt noticed with interest that Ulysses ’ new Imperial flag flew above her old Company flag. He wondered what the next Company ship or official they encountered would think of that. Bosun’s pipes twittered similar or familiar calls on every ship, and the special sea and anchor detail on Walker ’s fo’c’sle sprayed the anchor chain with hoses as the steam capstan sent it dripping and clattering into the locker below. Finally, the anchor was aweigh and the little crane forward hoisted it into its cut-out storage space forward. Matt watched while the other ships’ anchors were raised and secured, and was struck by how primitive his own ship was in many ways. The stocks on Imperial anchors were wood and Walker ’s was iron, but the overall shape was virtually identical. His ship was probably the last class in the U.S. Navy to use the old-style anchors, a design completely unchanged for a hundred years, but the Imperial model was even older.
He shook his head and strode from the bridgewing to the chart table. No one aboard was really sure where they were headed anymore. Somewhere in what they remembered as the Carolines, he supposed. It seemed the farther east they steamed, the less relevant their charts of the “old world” became. Courtney Bradford took the disparity between their charts and the actual locations of the various islands of the “Eastern Sea” as a matter of course. He still insisted that the larger, exposed surface area of the atolls was consistent with his Ice Age theory, and Matt had to agree there might be something to that. The fact that, according to the charts Jenks had loaned them, These Carolines were larger and more substantial than Matt remembered, or the old charts indicated, seemed to follow. What didn’t make any sense to Matt and many others was why the atolls, or actual islands, had been so shifted around. They’d discovered quite a few islands in-call them the Marshalls for lack of anything better-where there shouldn’t be anything at all. The island where they’d made their emergency repairs was one example. According to Jenks’s charts, other substantial atolls such as Kwajalein didn’t even exist. Bradford maintained that it was all perfectly understandable. Matt only wished Courtney would find some way to make it just as easily explainable. In the meantime, and for the foreseeable future, he would have to trust Imperial charts of the region.
“All ahead one-third,” Matt said. “Make your course one, one, five.”
“Ahead one-third,” Staas-Fin, or “Finny,” replied. “One, one, five, aye!” The blower rumbled contentedly and Walker gathered way. Juan arrived with his battered carafe and a tray of cups and Matt accepted one with thanks. Juan’s coffee was terrible, even using the ersatz beans of this world, but it was coffee of a sort and that’s all that matters sometimes.
“Thanks, Juan,” Captain Reddy murmured as he brought the green foam-rimmed brew to his lips.
“My pleasure, Cap-tan! Would you like breakfast? A haircut perhaps? A hot towel and a shave would do wonders for you,” he hinted. Matt’s razor had about given up the ghost, and he’d finally relented and begun growing a beard like the rest of the men under his command. “I traded a case of rusty cans of ‘scum weenies’ for a new Imperial razor!” he declared in triumph. “It is quite sharp!”
Matt scratched his itchy chin and winced. He’d love a shave-but he had never let Juan shave him despite the Filipino’s incessant attempts. Now… he had the only razor. Matt was convinced that if he ever relented, Juan would be shaving him for the rest of his life. On the other hand, he’d always believed that keeping himself well-groomed was important. It was just his little way of showing defiance in the face of the odds against them. “No matter how bad it gets, the Skipper always shaves.” Something like that.
He sighed. “Well, can we do it right here? I mean, can I just sit here in my chair?”
Juan beamed. “Of course, Cap-tan! In fact, it would be best, I believe. The chair is just the right height! I will return in a moment!” With that, Juan darted away and Matt looked around the bridge. Finny was trying to suppress a grin and the lookouts diligently studied the horizon. Norman Kutas glanced at the chart and stepped around the chart house-probably so Matt wouldn’t see him crack up. True to his word, Juan returned quickly. He had two ’Cat mess attendants in tow, one with a basin of hot water, the other holding some damp, steaming towels. Juan immediately removed Matt’s hat and draped a towel over his face.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Juan! I thought you were just going to shave me!” he muttered under the towel. “I can’t conn the ship like this!”
The shipwide comm suddenly blared. “Now hear this!” It was Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray’s voice. He was in on it too! Gray was around sixty, barely shorter than his captain, but the man who’d once grown flabby and jaded on the China station of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet had transformed into a lean, powerful pillar of moral authority within the Alliance. He was no longer a “mere” chief bosun’s mate; there were plenty of those in the rapidly expanding American Navy. He’d become something much more, still ill-defined. Officially, he commanded Matt’s personal security detail, the “Captain’s Guard,” and was “chief armsman of the supreme Allied Commander.” Unofficially, he was often referred to as “The S.B.” (Super Bosun), but most, even Chief Bosun’s Mate Bashear, still just called him “the Bosun.” To Matt, and probably Matt alone, he was still just “Boats.”
“Now hear this!” Gray repeated. “Lieutenant Steele to the bridge! The exec will take the conn while the captain endures his mornin’ toyletty!” A roar of laughter echoed through the ship, amid the stamping of Lemurian feet.
“Oh my God, Boats!” Matt groaned, but he couldn’t help laughing. “Put yourself on report! And… whoever else is responsible for this stunt!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Gray said, “but beggin’ the Skipper’s pardon, your beard is startin’ to look a little scruffy.” He lowered his voice. “That, and with all the stuff that’s been goin’ on, the fight, the chase for the girls… me and a few of the fellas figured you could use a laugh. Besides, you’ve always stayed shaved through a lot worse scrapes than this. Don’t want the fellas to think you’re lettin’ yourself go.”
For just an instant Matt tensed. Gray couldn’t see his face under the towel, but it might actually be best. Suddenly, Matt reached out and grabbed Gray’s sleeve, pulling him down closer.
“They don’t call you Super Bosun for nothing, do they?” Matt whispered huskily. “You’re right. I need a laugh, and so does this crew. Let’s make the most of it.”
Freshly shaved, trimmed, and with his face tingling with whatever refreshing soap Juan had been able to create or procure, Matt sheepishly relieved a grinning Steele and resumed his watch. Cheerful voices and snatches of good-natured banter rose to his ears from the fo’c’sle forward, and the weather deck aft. It suddenly struck him that his crew was happy-not because they’d pulled a stunt on the Skipper, but because they’d managed to do something for him. He felt embarrassed and a little ashamed that he hadn’t noticed a growing cheerfulness aboard the ship. He’d been too lost in his own duty, and his ongoing misery over Sandra’s unknown fate. The rescue of the princess might be the primary diplomatic reason for the mission, but to him it was personal. He had to have Sandra back, for the very survival of his soul. He needed to rescue the young princess too. She’d trusted him, relied on him to keep her safe, and he loved her too, he supposed, much like a daughter. His recent mood must have been a terrible drag on the ship.
All the crew felt his anger and they’d do whatever was necessary to make things right, but these were extraordinary times as well. The humans under his command were almost giddy with the prospect that they were nearing lands where actual human women dwelt, and each of them harbored happy fantasies of how they’d ultimately break the “dame famine” that had plagued them ever since the Squall. The ’Cats were happy too. They’d steamed much farther into the vast Eastern Sea than they’d ever believed possible. They’d always known the world was round, but they also knew that the force humans referred to as “gravity” pulled down. It had simply followed that if one went too far from the “top” of the world, one would plummet off the side into the endless heavens. They’d believed the human Americans, hoped they were right that gravity pulled down wherever on the world one stood, but only now had it become a demonstrated fact. Matt knew this “fact” flew in the face of some very long-held religious dogma, and regretted that they’d upset their friends yet again in that respect, but the contradiction didn’t seem that important to his Lemurian-American crew right now. Just the fact that they hadn’t fallen off the world and were free to continue their important adventure satisfied them at present. Later, they might contemplate the religious implications. Matt knew from the messages relayed through Manila from Baalkpan that Adar already was, but right now, Walker was a happy ship and his own serious, intense mood had been like a… wet towel on the humor of the crew. He would have to try harder to conceal his anxiety and concern. He’d had a lot of practice at that-but then, of course, he’d always had Sandra to help him.