rudimentary weapons and the scantiest of Scrolls. It was hoped that if they were taken, the Grik would learn nothing about where they’d been, where they were going, and most important to the other two ships, where we were and where they would go. On a blustery spring day, the one sailed west-we expect now to its doom-and the other two sailed east, and disappeared into the vast, empty Eastern Sea, beyond the known world. That was almost three hundred seasons ago.”
The old priest took another long swallow from his tankard and smacked his lips over eroded, yellow teeth. It was evidently a story he’d often told and now that it was done, the somber theater of the telling passed and his mood once more reflected that of the party that continued to thrive.
“Did this Siska-Ta ever write any more?” Bradford asked.
“Oh, yes indeed! She became the first true Sky Priest and not only finished the early Scrolls but traveled the world and taught the Scrolls and the Ancient Tongue to all the People. It is from her we know the shape of the world, from this side of the great Western Sea all the way to the Eastern Ocean, where the waters fall away and the world ends. She also compiled histories of the many people she met and went among. She was a Prophet. A great Prophet.”
“Do the Scrolls show where the Ancient Home of your People lies?” Bradford questioned eagerly, certain that he’d solved his riddle.
The old priest closed his eyes in a long, mournful blink. “Alas, they do not. We know it is beyond the Western Sea, where none dare go. The waters are without bottom, as are those of the Eastern Ocean, and great monsters dwell there. And of course, beyond the Western Sea are the Grik.”
“Did the Tail-less Ones leave nothing of themselves at all? Nothing you could point to and say, ‘This was theirs’?” Sandra asked.
“Some ornaments and cloth, some of which still exist,” the priest said dismissively. Then he glanced at Nakja-Mur before speaking again. “Other than that, only this.”
He raised the pendant resting against his chest and held it forth. Matt, Sandra, and Bradford all leaned forward and peered at the tarnished brass disk. It was about the size and shape of a hockey puck, or a can of snuff. Reverently, the priest undid a clasp and raised the lid of the device.
“Is it not wondrous?” he asked.
Before them was a very old pocket compass. A tiny folding sundial lay retracted to one side, and beneath the crystallized, almost opaque glass, a small needle quivered and slowly swung to point dutifully in a northerly direction.
“My God,” murmured Captain Reddy. The compass itself was a fascinating discovery, but what caught his attention, and took Sandra’s breath, was the inscription under the lid.
Jas. S. McClain Sailing Master H. E I.C. SHIP HERMIONE
“My God,” Matt said again.
“What’s it mean? H.E.I.C.?” Sandra asked, almost a whisper.
“It means we were right, my dear,” Courtney Bradford said. “We’re not the first ones here. H.E.I.C. stands for the Honorable East India Company.”
“As in the British East India Company?” she asked, astonished.
“So it would seem,” Matt answered dryly. “I think we know now where the Grik got the design for their ships.”
“You believe the Grik captured the ship that went west?”
“They must have. Indiamen at the time were built like warships, and the Grik ships we fought sure looked like seventeenth- or eighteenth-century warships-or Indiamen, I guess, come to think of it. I mentioned it at the time, and I also mentioned I didn’t think it was a coincidence. Somehow I doubt the crew of that westbound Indiaman survived the technology exchange with the Grik. I wonder what happened to the other two?”
“But if they were British,” interrupted Sandra, “why teach the Lemurians Latin?”
“They’d probably already figured out how messed up everything was, just like we did. According to Naga, they’d already run into the Grik too. They didn’t want anybody knowing too much about them and, ultimately, where they went. But they had to communicate, just like us, and it probably seemed safe to teach the Lemurians a language no one knew. That would still leave them, or anyone else, unable to read their charts or get much information from the crew at large.”
“That makes sense, I suppose,” said Bradford, nodding. He glanced at Keje, who looked a little annoyed they were talking so long among themselves, but the other Lemurians just stared. “Thank God they didn’t take cannon with them,” he said fervently.
“That seems clear,” Matt confirmed, “just like their Scrolls say. No weapons, or at least no extraordinary weapons, are mentioned to have been encountered since. I think it’s safe to assume they must’ve removed the guns from the westbound ship. If they hadn’t, the Grik would be using them and the Lemurians would damn sure know about them. Ask their old priest how long they’ve been fighting the Grik this round, and how long the Grik have been using this type of ship.”
“The Grik have pushed us this time for only the last generation,” Naga answered. “Until then, they were content to remain upon the land to the west. They’d still been mostly creatures of legend. But now they come again. It’s just like the ancient times. The Grik come slowly at first, just a few at a time-but there are always more.”
Keje spoke and Adar translated, since his English still wasn’t up to the task. “During fight you help us, was first time we see such ships. Before, they look same, but… smaller.”
“It seems a stretch that their naval architecture hasn’t changed in three hundred years, except to enlarge an existing design.”
“The Grik are not innovators,” Keje said savagely. “They only take. If they’ve taken nothing better since they learned the three-masted ships, they would see no reason to change. Now they know where we are, though, they will keep coming. We will fight, and we will kill them, but they will keep coming until we are all dead or forced to flee these waters just as we fled our Ancient Home.”
So much for the “Malay pirate” model. They’d need another one. The “slow creep” that Naga described left too much to chance-like “when.” They must get more information about the enemy. A familiar feeling crept into his chest. It was like the days after Pearl Harbor all over again, when he knew they stood almost alone, in the face of… what? Something Big was all they knew, and they didn’t know when or where. They’d been expendable then, an insignificant cog, and he was just following orders. He remembered how helpless and frustrated he felt that their fate was so arbitrarily sealed by unknown policies and strategic plans that seemed to make no sense. Now he was the one who had to make policies that might kill all his men-or save them. The crash transition from the tactical to the strategic left him overwhelmed. Sandra must have seen the inner desperation reflected on his face, because he again felt her reassuring hand on his arm. Finally, he looked at Keje.
“If they come, we’ll help. I said that already. But we can help you now, better, before they come. Baalkpan’s vulnerable, and no one seems ready to fight. If you prepare to fight now, you’ll be better able when the time comes. Believe me”-he forced a half smile-“my people learned the hard way about being unprepared. Maybe this time it’ll be different.”
“I have not seen your amazing ship up close,” said Nakja-Mur, “but Keje and Adar tell me of its wonders. Still, what can one ship do in the face of the Grik multitudes?” The word “multitudes” sounded bad, Matt thought with a sinking feeling.
“Not enough probably, by herself,” he said flatly, “but a lot. The main thing Walker and her crew can do right now is help you prepare. And the first thing we need for that is fuel.”
Walker swung at her anchor as the tide dragged her around until the busy, festive city of Baalkpan was off the port beam. It was totally dark and the lights cast an eerie, almost Oriental glow that reflected off the restless wave tops. Occasionally, sounds from shore reached Alan Letts as he leaned against the rail beside the number three gun. A party of men quietly worked on it, preparing to dismount it if they were allowed, so they could get at the balky traverse gear. Larry Dowden stopped by and spoke to Campeti, who supervised. “… in the morning…” was all Alan heard.
Screeching metal on metal and a string of obscenities came from the torpedo workshop. Letts was surprised to hear a hoarse Japanese shout respond to Sandison’s tirade, followed by a crash of tools on the deck. When there was no further sound or cry of alarm, he chuckled. “That Jap’s either going to make the best torpedoman Bernie has, or get fed to the fish.” It still struck him strange having a Jap help with any sort of weapon, but Jap torpedoes
