CHAPTER 12
“Where’d Courtney wind up?” Matt asked. He, Sandra, Chack, Safir, Becher Lange, and Chief Gray were walking on the sandy beach under the moonlight on the northeast shore of the island. As usual, Lieutenant Toryu Miyata was Lange’s virtual shadow, but he remained several paces back. He knew feelings among the new arrivals were mixed at best toward any Japanese, particularly after what Amagi had done, not to mention other recent events. But he trusted the tall German, and doubted he had much to fear from this group in any event. They believed he truly did have valuable information regarding their objective, and Lange had convinced them, with the tale of his arrival in the Republic and his role in bringing them here, that regardless of the past, Miyata was honor bound to the destruction of the Grik. For his part, Miyata was certain that this “Grand Alliance” shared that goal, and from what he’d learned of Captain Reddy before they even met—specifically the man’s command of the defense of Baalkpan against seemingly impossible odds—he couldn’t question Reddy’s honor.
The sea was calm, but the surf made a constant roar they had to speak over. Silva, Pack Rat, Doocy Meek, and a couple of Republic ’Cats tagged along behind, there to protect them in the unlikely event they should require it, but out of earshot.
“Braad-furd sulks,” Chack said, his tone thoughtful but subdued.
“He is drunk,” Safir added distastefully.
“He’s in a drunken sulk,” Gray confirmed.
“I don’t know what he expected,” Sandra said, almost wonderingly. “Especially after Adar’s speech. Courtney bounced up with that ridiculous sombrero on his head and started in about stuff I’m not even sure he understands. Did he expect everybody to just sit and listen raptly like he was addressing the Royal Society? Of course nobody was listening by then.”
“I was listening,” Matt said thoughtfully. “And so were you,” he told his wife. Sandra nodded uncomfortably. “So were a lot of people who give a damn,” Matt added, looking at Gray, Chack, and Safir in turn.
“I did not understand him,” Safir defended, “but Mr. Braad-furd is always interesting.”
“And just as often nutty as a forty-acre goober field,” Gray proclaimed, but without his usual conviction.
“Maybe,” Matt agreed, “and not all of what he said was new. He’s still convinced that whatever . . . phenomenon brings people here has something to do with electromagnetism and energy. Storm energy and a freaky squall in our case, I guess.” He nodded at Becher. “Maybe yours too.” Amerika had crossed over in a storm at night, unnoticed by her crew who were trying to save their battle-damaged ship. Matt paused and looked to the sea, his eyes scanning the silhouettes of the warships anchored offshore. There was Walker, lying dark and low.
“His invocation of the sun as a source for the energy was new,” Chack said, looking at Safir, “and it certainly captured the imagination of some.” The People of Aryaal and B’mbaado believed the sun was God. Safir blinked annoyance, but leaned tightly against her betrothed. She and Chack had made no formal announcement, as they’d once planned, but that no longer mattered after their long separation. It was now simply understood that they were and had always been bound to each other.
“Of course the sun affects the weather,” Gray grumbled. “Even Petey probably knows that.” He nodded at the fuzzy reptile draped around Sandra’s neck. The creature glared back with bright, moonlit eyes and burped. “So maybe he’s right,” Gray conceded. “But what about all that other stuff he went on about?” he prodded. “What the hell about that? Look, I get that this is a different world; I guess a whole different universe than the one we came from—that the Japs chased us out of,” he added with a sour glance at Miyata. “I—all of us—figured that out a long time ago. An’ I’m not even sayin’ it’s a bad thing we wound up here.” His brows furrowed. “It was curtains for us in the Java Sea. But it was hard for me—for the fellas—to get a grip on the notion that there’s two, ah, ‘universes’ overlappin’ like this. Bein’ so much alike, but so different too, adds a whole other degree of weirdness, but that’s obviously the way it is. Now Bradford comes up with this new brainstorm that there ain’t just two ‘universes,’ but maybe gobs of ’em! That’s creepy as hell. It can’t be true, can it, Skipper? I mean, with swarms of screwy places folks could’ve come from, what else are we liable to run into? What if there’s some earth where Martians took over, an’ they’ve wound up here?”
Sandra covered a smile by rubbing her chin. “I don’t think you need to worry about Martians, Mr. Gray. If Mr. Bradford’s ‘radio metaphor’ is right, such a historically distinctive ‘frequency’ should not be received . . . here.”
“But what if they just now showed up?” Gray persisted.
“That’s enough, Boats,” Matt said sternly. He’d never seen Fitzhugh Gray flinch from anything, but everyone had his limit. Apparently, for Gray it was Martians. “Look,” he said more softly, looking at his old friend. “Speculation of that sort won’t do any good at all. We’ll keep dealing with whatever we run into, whatever it is. So Courtney threw out some possible answers. Maybe they helped, and maybe they just raised more questions, like Adar thought they might. It’s hard to explain, but I guess I do feel better.” He snorted. “It’s funny, but even if not much of what Bradford said made sense by itself, it all sort of made sense, if you know what I mean. There’s more than one head working on it now, so maybe he did make things less confusing in the long run. I particularly liked his radio comparison, when you think about all the similarities—and differences. Mr. Palmer must’ve helped him with that part, so maybe he can explain it better than Courtney did.”
With the existence of the Republic of Real People in hand, particularly the accounts of the odd diversity of histories incorporated there—everything from ancient Chinese explorers, Ptolemaic Egyptians, tenth-century Romans—and Lemurians, of course—Courtney Bradford had finally decided that this world was not only the dumping ground for the refuse of their old one, but it had somehow collected “specimens” from multiple earths over time. He remained convinced that a combination of electromagnetism and a titanic discharge of energy on a scale not easily imagined provided the actual mechanism of transportation but now believed this world was connected to the rest by means of something similar to radio. At least radio provided his metaphor. Essentially, “this” earth was a receiver, and all the worlds that fed it were transmitters of a sort. Most likely, the receiver was “tuned” to the “frequency” of the world the destroyermen left, at least at present, judging by the number of recent familiar “receptions.”
He proposed that it was possible that the frequency “hopped about” on occasion, allowing crossovers from “different” earths, but even then he believed it was more like one frequency “bleeding over” onto another. The tenth-century Romans who helped build the Republic were the most extreme example of this they’d encountered yet. Probably—and perhaps hopefully—wildly different histories, and the worlds they built, created frequencies on a different wavelength entirely—too different to cross over at all. He still didn’t know if this world was also a transmitter as well as a receiver, however, and the very stark differences between this world and the one they came from left a few gaping holes in his theory.
He had more, but by the time he reached that point in his presentation, he realized he’d largely lost his audience. He almost petulantly bid everyone a good night and scurried quickly to where the barrels of seep and beer had been brought ashore. Little was seen of him after that, so no one could get him to expand on his theory, but what he’d said was enough.
Matt appraised Becher Lange. “But you kind of knew all this stuff already, didn’t you, Mr. Lange? Different worlds with different histories. That’s the only explanation for the way things have wound up in your Republic. I studied history a little,” Matt admitted, slightly self-conscious, as usual. “Our history,” he amended, “and I have to wonder if time affects the adjustment of Courtney’s ‘frequencies’ to some extent. It does seem—sometimes,” he cautioned, “that the further back in history you go, the bigger the differences are. But even as ‘close together’ as we came through, my ships and yours, just twenty-five years or so, there’re differences. For example, you said your Amerika fought Mauretania hammer and tongs before you wound up here.” Becher nodded and Matt shook his head, staring back at his ship. “Two elegant ocean liners, armed with a few guns and fighting it out. It must’ve been a sight.” He looked back at Lange. “The only thing is, in my history, it never happened. Sure, Mauretania was converted to an auxiliary cruiser, but Amerika was in the States when the Great War started, and stayed there until the States jumped in in 1917. After that, she was seized and converted to a troopship.” He smiled apologetically at Lange. “She still was one, last I heard, but she never fought for the Kaiser.”
Becher said nothing for a long moment, but then spoke in a falsely cheerful tone. “In that case, Kapitan Reddy, we may as well assume that our countries at least, from our apparently separate worlds, never did go to war. So we need not concern ourselves with any lingering animosities, no?”
Matt smiled and extended his hand. “Not against each other, anyway. The Grik are another matter.”
“Ja,” Lange said, and took Matt’s hand.
“But that only confirms Courtney’s theory!” Sandra said, frustration seeping into her tone. “I seriously doubt you had descendants of tenth-century Romans in the world you came from, Mr. Lange.”
“No,” Becher agreed. “We did not. Yet they are here. And though I do not know ‘radio,’ I understand the ‘frequencies’ Herr Bradford described. His is a rather elegant interpretation of much that has puzzled our people, in fact. The Republic has its history, but the histories of many of those who found themselves there over time do not always agree, and we have long suspected the existence of multiple, ah, sources. Herr Bradford has finally described one way by which those various sources might converge.” He smiled, but his lips were hidden by the gray-black beard and the darkness. “Personally, that makes me feel better as well. I have always been more interested in the how than the why. I am an engineer, after all.”
“‘Why’ still bugs the hell out of me,” Gray grumbled, “but I ain’t an engineer.”
“Perhaps there is no ‘why,’ only a ‘how,’” Chack said suddenly. “Or perhaps Chairman Adar explained it best before Mr. Braad-furd even spoke.” He looked at the puzzled expressions, grinned, and flicked his tail. “Could it not be that the ‘how’ and ‘why’ are both the work of the Maker after all?”
They digested that for a time as they walked, and though many questions still plagued their minds, perhaps Adar’s was the best explanation. They might never discover all the hows and whys for sure, but the Grik remained, and they were very real. For now they must focus on that.
“Lieutenant Miyata,” Matt said at last, “will you join us, please?”
Miyata trotted forward. “Of course, Captain Reddy. What may I do for you?”
“Help us when we hit Madagascar,” Matt said simply, “but there’s something I thought you”—he nodded at the others—“all of you, should know.” He frowned. “General Alden’s latest dispatch has me a little concerned.” By the clipped tension in his words, that was clearly an understatement. “I won’t go into all the details, but it now seems possible, maybe even likely, we didn’t get Kurokawa after all.”
Sandra gasped, and Gray took a breath and straightened.
“Lieutenant Miyata told you about Kurokawa?” Matt asked Lange, and the German nodded grimly. “Well, in spite of everything, Pete Alden believes the slimy bastard might’ve slipped through our fingers. Again.” He looked quizzically at Miyata. “You don’t mind my calling the ‘General of the Sea’ a ‘slimy bastard,’ do you, Lieutenant?”
“No, Captain Reddy. I consider him worse in Japanese, but I do not have the words to call him such in English.”
“Fine. But the point is, if he is alive, he’s still got some powerful ships and maybe even an army of sorts. In addition, he’s apparently on the outs with the Grik. What do you think he’ll do?”
Miyata considered. “Sir,” he said at last, “Hisashi Kurokawa is quite mad. He is . . . evil mad. I fear that if he has those things and anywhere secure to take them, he will become even more unpredictable, and perhaps even more dangerous.”
Matt nodded grimly. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
Commander Simon Herring, chief of Strategic Intelligence, and watch standing “supernumerary” bridge officer, returned early aboard USS Walker from the party ashore. A few entirely sober Lemurian sailors had hitched a ride in the motor whaleboat so they’d be back in time for their watches. They’d conversed quietly in their own tongue, largely about Courtney Bradford’s strange theory, from what Herring could pick up, but they didn’t speak to him. That was just as well. When Herring ascended the accommodation ladder and saluted the Lemurian OOD, he was relieved there were no other humans in sight. Quickly, he descended the companionway under the bridge overhang and made his way to the wardroom. Juan Marcos was in there, supervising a Lemurian assistant fussing with the plates in the cabinets, but other than a curious nod, Juan paid him no mind. Herring stifled an instinctive reprimand, reminding himself that Walker was no Pacific Fleet battleship moored in Pearl Harbor before the war, or even his more familiar office in Washington. Regardless of how much he’d endured in China, the Philippines, and in Japanese hands, however, he still found the casual approach to military courtesy aboard this ship somewhat jarring. He shook it off. This was Juan’s domain, as surely as the engineering spaces belonged to Lieutenant Tab-At. And given Herring’s ambiguous status aboard, he was content not to draw too much attention. Picking up a cup, he poured himself some of the vile fluid masquerading as coffee and retreated back down the short passageway. Pushing a green curtain aside, he entered the cramped, starboard-side stateroom he shared with Bernie Sandison and found Lance Corporal Ian Miles already there. The China Marine was reclining on a metal chair, looking at one of Bernie’s many sketches of torpedo components, his feet up on the small writing desk. Herring suppressed another surge of irritation, but it must have shown on his face. Reluctantly, Miles lowered his feet to the deck, but he didn’t stand.
“You’re early,” Herring snapped quietly, closing the curtain but leaving a gap so he could see if anyone passed. He sat on the lower rack that Sandison had kindly insisted he take. “What if Mr. Sandison found you here?”
“I’d just tell him I was waiting for you. We’re old pals, remember?”
Herring grimaced. “That fiction only goes so far, Miles, and won’t hold up to as much scrutiny as it is beginning to draw. Nor,” he continued, “does it give you license to take so many liberties. We may have a common cause, you and I, but we are not ‘pals.’ Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear as can be, Commander,” Miles replied, falsely cheerful. “My ‘cause’ is survival, plain and simple. I don’t give a damn about this ship, or any of the deluded, monkey-lovin’ dopes aboard. And as for the monkeys . . .” He snorted. “I don’t even care about their stupid war, or even who wins it, except for how it affects my own precious life, see?” He shrugged languidly. “Your scheme seems to offer the best chance of preserving my life, in the long run, so I’m helping you. That’s as far as it goes for me too. I’m no hero, and as long as you bear that in mind, we’ll stay square.”
Herring’s lip curled in disgust. “My ‘scheme’ as you call it, remains a last resort. I was wrong about Captain Reddy, nearly as wrong as I was to take you into my confidence.”
Miles chuckled quietly. “No, you were right to trust me, Commander. I’m just as anxious to save the world as you are, so I’ll have a place to live. I don’t know why your little secret mission should be a ‘last resort’ all of a sudden, though. I haven’t seen any reason to change the plan.”
“The plan has changed because of Captain Reddy, you fool.”
Miles looked at him wonderingly. “You’ve got to be kidding. You really think he can pull it off!” Miles shook his head. “A handful of Asiatic sailors and a few boatloads of monkeys and throwback Brits and Krauts against who knows how many Lizards and Japs, and you think they might actually win?”
“They have been winning,” Herring stressed forcefully. “And after the action against the Grik battleships, when I saw Captain Reddy at work for the very first time, I won’t underestimate him again. He may not have as much strategic sense and polish as I would prefer, but there is no doubt his combat instincts are superb.” He paused. “And having met the other commanders he surrounds himself with, I do indeed think there is a chance he may succeed.” He sighed. “Despite your derogatory comments, even you must see by now that these people—all of them—are noble folk in a terrible war. They have not been through what we have, though,” he added darkly, “and they haven’t lived through the aftermath of defeat. I understand there is no living with defeat by the Grik, but I remain unsure they truly understand all that would mean, besides their own deaths. My ultimate task—and yours—is to prevent defeat under any circumstances, and I am prepared to do what I must. But as long as any chance for victory exists, I will keep my personal plan in reserve. The likely consequences of precipitating the crisis that would ensue are simply too great to embrace except as a last resort. Again, do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah,” Miles answered. “Clear as clear. But let me be clear: if things fall apart and you wait too long to pop your pills, you’ll be doing it by yourself.”
Herring nodded, accepting that. “So you went aboard Salissa?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah. Got back half an hour ago.”
“And the cargo? It hasn’t been disturbed, I assume, or you would have mentioned it immediately, precluding the necessity for our previous, tedious conversation.”
“All secure and undisturbed. Nobody’s likely to shift a few heavy, copper drums labeled ‘Dietary Supplement for Grik Prisoners to be mixed one part in fifty with fish hash’ except to throw them over the side.” For the first time, Miles showed genuine respect for Herring.
“Any problems at all?”
“Just one,” Miles admitted. “You said our little ‘fiction’ won’t stand up forever, and you’re right. Some of the monkeys may be spying on us—I can’t tell—but one guy in particular is getting wise. That big chief gunner’s mate with one eye, the one who’s all chummy with Gunny Horn, has been snooping around. In case you haven’t noticed.”
Herring scratched his chin. “I’ve noticed. A remarkable fellow, actually, but he does have a habit of sticking his nose in things.”
“You, ah, think I ought to do something about him?” Miles asked, and Herring glared at him. “Absolutely not! The man is a valuable member of Captain Reddy’s team, and his motives, however questionable at times, are far more honorable than yours! Besides,” Herring added, “if you did try something against him, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t ‘do’ something about you.”
* * *
Three days later, after a brief morning squall pounded the sea to a glassy tranquility, USS Walker weighed anchor and sped out to sea. There’d be no more TBS traffic while First Fleet South advanced on its objective, so Walker exchanged signals with the sailing steam DDs patrolling west of the island. Sure that nothing had been seen in the vicinity, she raced back and signaled the rest of the fleet still assembling off the little harbor on the north end of Laa-Laanti. Ponderously, USNRS Salissa and her battle group proceeded on a course of two six zero, a pair of Nancys already lofting from the flight deck to scout even farther out to sea. Almost half of Safir Maraan’s II Corps was crammed aboard the mighty carrier. The other half was split among the massive self-propelled dry dock (SPD) USS Respite Island and the swarm of transports that had brought them here. SMS Amerika had been combat loaded with Chack’s Raider Brigade, and Respite Island had also taken aboard Winny Rominger and Irvin Laumer’s little “mosquito fleet” of torpedo boats, as well as the oddly float-equipped P-40E. Together, they joined the mob of auxiliaries that would advance within another cordon of DDs.
A large percentage of the population of Laa-Laanti lined the shore to watch the mighty fleet sail westward, leaving only a handful of ships and support personnel behind. Doubtless they wondered if they’d ever see them again. Tales of the dreaded Grik that drove all Mi-Anakka from their ancestral home had survived here, as everywhere. And if the Grik had become creatures of myth and legend, their existence was never doubted, and the dread they inspired had likely only grown with time. Always there had lurked, through countless generations, the primal understanding that the Grik were out there, somewhere, and the peaceful utopia of Laa-Laanti might not escape their notice forever. Lawrence had shown them roughly what the Grik really looked like, and friendly as he was, most had been too terrified to approach him. They couldn’t reconcile the notion that he meant them no harm. That was probably for the best, in retrospect. There was no sense in confusing the natives further with ideas that not all “Grik” were bloodthirsty monsters. They understood enough to realize, however, that their little island represented a great turning point in the sea of history for all creatures everywhere. The world had found them at last, and despite Adar’s best intentions, their lives would never be the same. And if the great fleet of strange ships and folk that had stayed among them for a time didn’t succeed in destroying the Grik forever, it was only a matter of time before the Grik, in turn, came to Laa-Laanti.