semireptilian Grik had escaped at the end, and many thousands died in the sprawling land battle that had surrounded the city. Far more met their fate in the sea, and the water of the bay had churned for days as the voracious flasher fish fed upon the dead.
Four of those ships now sailed with Donaghey, quickly armed with a few cannons each, their once red hulls repainted black with a white stripe between their gunports, according to Matt’s new Navy regulations. They’d been cleaned as well as possible and their crews were glad to have them, but they’d never forget who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners would taint the ships forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed.
Matt leaned on the windward taffrail, still gouged and splintered from battle, and focused his intense green eyes on the squadron of strange ships anchored outside the bay-just beyond the reach of the grim-faced gunners serving the heavy cannon of Fort Atkinson. They did look formidable. All were warships, with three masts and sleek-looking hulls. Large half-moon boxes for their paddle wheels and tall, smoke-streaming funnels marred their pleasing lines, but lent a determined, businesslike aspect to their appearance. Matt was impressed by their sophistication. The Empire hadn’t quite caught up with the “modern world” the destroyermen had lost, but, in some ways at least, it had advanced to within a generation or two.
The banners streaming above Fort Atkinson caught his attention momentarily: the Stainless Banner of the Trees, Rolak’s Aryaalan flag, the gold pennant the Sularans had adopted for their own-and the Stars and Stripes, of course, fluttered from separate poles above the reinforced fortification. The sight of that last flag, and the fact that it still flew after all they’d been through, couldn’t help but stir his soul.
Among the sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships or “Homes” were like nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed co-equal status as “High Chiefs” among their peers. Before the war, those Homes often had clan devices or representative colors, but they hadn’t used flags. As “chief” of Walker, regardless of her comparative tiny size, Captain Reddy had been afforded the same status as High Chief of the American Clan. With the coming of the war and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. An alliance started to take shape that included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had been the first leader by default, since his “nation” hosted the other chiefs and, for a time, was the seat of all industry. The city on the southern coast of Borno was also where the first truly decisive engagement had been fought. With Nakja-Mur’s death, the leadership of Baalkpan fell to Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa, or Big Sal, as the Americans called her. She’d been the first seagoing Home of the Lemurian People to make contact with the Americans.
Amazingly, considering the disparate cultures, a true alliance began to form. Not one merely of expedience, but one designed to unite all willing Lemurians. Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa ’s High Chief, had been the first Lemurian to understand the significance and unifying power of flags. He’d directed the creation of the Banner of the Trees, and an infant political union began to take shape.
The stainless Banner of the Trees was composed of a circle of golden tree symbols, one for each Allied Home, surrounding a simple blue star representing the Americans. The star was in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that the Americans had been the organizing force, the glue holding everything together during those early, terrible times. Also, unlike the trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than a city- state, personified by a single ship or place. The precedent for that had been set when it became apparent that Captain Reddy was High Chief over both Walker and Mahan, something difficult for the ’Cats to understand at first, but clearly true. Matt was also acclaimed commander of the first Allied Expeditionary Force and later, all Allied forces. Thus it didn’t seem wrong that even though Mahan was on the bottom of the sea and Walker might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag.
Besides, the United States Navy wasn’t dead.
Just as Matt once gave Nakja-Mur a ship he’d captured early in the war so Baalkpan might be represented at sea, so had the bulk of the prizes taken after the Battle of Baalkpan been given, without reservation, to the United States Navy-a navy represented only by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy and his surviving crews. Every Lemurian who joined that crew became a member of the United States Navy and swore to defend a vaguely understood “constitution” against all enemies. Captain Reddy had insisted on that. Therefore, wherever they came from, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a Navy man and a member of the Amer-i-caan Clan for as long as they kept that oath and followed the Americans’ strict rules.
Nothing like those rules, or “regulations” as they were called, had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. The People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, but otherwise, they did as they pleased. No Lemurian leader ever imagined many of their people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. The thing was, though the rules were strict, the protections against abuse of power inherent in those rules were equally strict. To their surprise, far more volunteered for the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee” than for the planned Combined Navy of the Alliance, to be composed of the rest of the prizes and new construction.
Certainly, prestige was a factor, but results were convincing as well. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals who watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like, and it soon became clear the Combined Navy was a nonstarter. For better or worse, the entire Navy-minus the Homes, of course-became Matt’s clan, and above every United States ship flew the Stars and Stripes.
That morning, nosing through the last of the debris in the mouth of the bay, everyone crewing Donaghey and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled-and proud-as well.
Raising his binoculars, he focused them on the strange ships they’d sortied to meet. Their guns weren’t run out and they were at a distinct disadvantage while anchored, but the men he saw upon their decks appeared tensely vigilant.
“It will be Captain Jenks, I shouldn’t wonder,” came a small voice. It sounded almost embarrassed.
Captain Reddy glanced at the tiny form beside him. Large jade eyes regarded him with something akin to trepidation, and long, carefully groomed golden locks framed her elflike face. Gone was the tattered waif they’d rescued from Talaud Island, south of Mindanao, with a handful of other civilians and a few S-boat submariners. In her place was this well-dressed, almost regal… child… possessed of a near adult maturity and resolve. Despite her size and age, her bearing-and presence-made it easy to believe Rebecca Anne McDonald was, well, a princess of sorts. As it turned out, she was the daughter of the governor-emperor of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and that explained quite a lot that had mystified them before: such as why an entire squadron of warships would search so long and hard for her in a region they hadn’t visited in over two hundred years.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Matt echoed as amiably as possible, despite his mood and the uncertain situation. The girl had been convinced that Jenks and his squadron would come to their aid. For them to arrive now, so soon after the battle they had to have known was brewing, and behave so… distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. “Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he… met… at Tarakan.”
“Yep,” Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray replied neutrally. “Biggest one’s Achilles. If Jenks ever named the others, I don’t remember. There were four of ’em, though.”
Gray was a gruff, powerful man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station but had since trimmed down and muscled back up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on the activity and adventures they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d also appointed himself Matt’s senior armsman and commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty-knowing the man they’d sworn to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like Juan Marcos, the little Filipino who’d appointed himself captain’s steward, their job had just… evolved. Unlike Juan’s rank, the Captain’s Guard had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Keje had even proposed that they make their oath to Adar, who, as chairman or prime minister or whatever he was of the Alliance, was technically the only chief to whom Matt answered. Maybe by his command, they could use the Captain’s Guard to keep their Supreme Commander out of harm’s way.
Gray refused. He said he’d keep the job he’d already given himself, but he’d sworn an oath when he entered the Navy. That was good enough. Now that his job was official though, he could choose the very best from two battle-hardened and increasingly elite forces: the 1st and 2nd Marines. With the exception of four human destroyermen, the rest of the Captain’s Guard were Lemurian Marines.
“What type of signals do your people use?” Matt asked Sean O’Casey who’d joined them by the rail. The powerful, one-armed, dark-skinned man with flowing mustaches had been the girl’s companion and protector when
