window. His name was Jis-Tikkar, but he liked “Tikker” just fine. He was a good companion and a fast-learning “wrench.” He worked as hard as anyone keeping the plane ready to fly. On this, his very first actual flight, he was enraptured by the wonder of soaring high above the world at a measly hundred and ten miles an hour. Oh, how Ben missed his P-40 E!
Whatever Ben called him, Tikker wasn’t ready to be a copilot yet. For one thing, he could barely see over the instrument panel. Mallory allowed him to take the controls for a little “straight-and-level” before they flew into the storm, but it would be a while before he did it again. As soon as the little devil got his hands on the oval-shaped wheel, he’d nearly put the big plane into a barrel roll. It was all very exciting, and the flying lessons abruptly ceased. Tikker’s duties reverted to observation, and keeping Ben awake with his irreverent humor. Currently, the humor was absent as the ’Cat concentrated on the business at hand.
The rest of the flight crew consisted of Ed Palmer and two farsighted Lemurians in the observation blisters. Ed sat directly behind the flight deck, checking in with Walker and keeping track of their navigation. He wasn’t a pro yet, but he was a quick study. In his short time aboard Mahan he had, for all intents and purposes, been the navigation officer, since Monroe couldn’t plot his way out of a paper sack. As long as there were landmarks he could identify, he wouldn’t lead them astray-and they were forbidden to fly at night.
“There is the felucca!” Tikker said.
Ben banked slightly and craned his neck. Far below, a dark shape slashed through the heavy sea. The Baalkpan feluccas were fore-and-aft rigged and surprisingly nimble, but heavy weather was rough on them. “He’s headed southeast! He must have run into something!” Ben banked again and dropped the nose, peering through the windscreen. The wipers flailed as fast as they could, but they only smeared the water.
“There!” said Tikker, straining his eyes through the binoculars. He looked at Ben. “The third Grik ship! It is chasing the felucca!” Through the wipers, he caught brief glimpses of a distorted red-hulled shape.
“Should we get closer?” Ed asked behind him. “I’d just as soon not get closer. Besides, they’ll hear us.”
“Not a chance, with all the sea noise down there and the rain,” Ben replied. “All the same…” He began turning south. “Get on the horn…”
“Wait!” said Tikker urgently. “There is another…! And another! Two more Grik are in company with the first!”
“Shit!” said Palmer. “Any more?” For a long moment they stared.
“Nooo,” Ben decided at last. The three ships were clustered close together, and no others were in sight. “No, I think that’s all.”
“That’s enough!” Palmer cursed and headed for the radio. He picked up the mike. “You still there, Clance? Tell the Skipper we’ve got three hostiles inbound!” Palmer transmitted in the clear. Who else was going to listen?
“Roger,” came Radioman Clancy’s terse reply through the static. “What’s the weather like up there?”
“Moderating,” admitted Palmer. “It’s gone from an eggbeater to a martini shaker. Adar was right. Those Sky Priests are way better than our weather weenies were!”
“I’ll say,” agreed Clancy. “Lots more to those guys than reading maps and wearing silly suits. Wait one.” A moment later Clancy’s voice crackled in Palmer’s ear again. “Skipper says to double-double-check the enemy numbers, then get the hell out.”
“But Ben… I mean, Lieutenant Mallory, thought we might fly cover. You know, shoot somebody up if you need us.”
“Negative. Captain says to get your big blue butt back to Baalkpan! It’s our show now. You’ve done what we needed you to. Hell, you can’t even set down!”
“Wilco,” Ed grumbled. He clipped the mike and lurched back to the flight deck.
“What’s the scoop?” Ben demanded.
“We double-double-check, then beat feet for Baalkpan. Damn, we won’t even know how it goes!”
“Yeah, there’re a few more guests than expected. It’ll make things more difficult, but not three times as difficult-I hope.”
“Well… what are we gonna do?”
Ben looked at him. “We’re going to follow orders, sailor. But he didn’t say we couldn’t come back in the morning!”
The storm had finally begun to subside. It had indeed been a real blow, more violent than even Adar anticipated. The wind still blew at thirty knots or more, and the whitecaps of the heavy sea disintegrated into foamy spray. Keje stood on the sandy, desolate beach and stared bleakly at his beloved Home. Salissa lay at an unnatural angle, decidedly low in the water, a few hundred yards offshore. She now rested, exposed for all to see, on the bottom of the gently shoaling sand of what Matt called the Gulf of Mandar. How they’d ever managed to get her there, through the maze of huge rocks and mountainous seas, he could barely remember. All he recalled at the moment, in his exhausted, sodden state, was that the effort had been chi-kaash-hell.
All around him, people erected shelters amid piles of vulnerable supplies and others tended smoky cook-fires for knots of soaked, bedraggled people who’d paused from their labors to warm themselves. As far as he could see, the beach was inhabited by the debris and pitiful, helpless survivors of a traumatic calamity. Some stood as he did, staring out to sea, and some just milled about. Others waded back and forth through the surf, bearing bundles on their shoulders from one of the feluccas driven onto the beach. Another felucca still stood offshore, beating impotently back and forth, unable to risk the rocks and surf to come to their aid. Behind him, the tufted fronds of the trees beat and cracked with the wind, and the tall, skinny trunks leaned forlornly against the gray afternoon sky. Keje looked back out to sea, straining his eyes against the stinging spray. Walker was nowhere in sight.
Even over the thunderous surf, he heard Adar’s shout behind him. “They’ve seen something! They’re running!”
Keje wiped his eyes and peered through the binoculars Bradford had given him. Sure enough, the distant felucca was piling on more sail and slanting rapidly northeast with a grace and speed he envied. Farther away, another was racing down to meet it. The feluccas could sail much closer to the wind than Big Sal. Closer than the Grik. Signals snapped to the tops of their masts, and he focused carefully on them. Keje grunted. “I must return to Salissa,” he shouted back at his friend. He’d done all he could ashore.
It was a miserable trip in the barge, damp crew folk straining at oars against the marching waves, but soon they were alongside Salissa, sheltered in her lee. Keje scurried up a rope and hands pulled him aboard. He glanced quickly around. Other than those gathered near, his Home seemed deserted. The forward wing clan’s pagoda that they’d so recently rebuilt was intact, but the great tripod lay athwartships, its huge wing trailing over the side. Frayed cables, shattered barrels, and other unrecognizable debris were strewn across the exposed deck area. With a surge of concern, he glanced shoreward where his helpless People raced around in panic as rumors began to fly. A few tried to rally a defense, but not many. Here was a prize, ripe for the taking. The enemy couldn’t possibly refuse. An entire Home of the People, loaded with food and supplies. Riches beyond calculation to any Grik raider fortunate enough to stumble across her! And her People! Their favored prey! Tired, traumatized, disorganized! There’d be no restraining them. He raced up the ladder to the battlement, and a memory of the last time he stood there, preparing thus, flashed through his mind. So much had changed since then. He raised the binoculars again.
Grik!
Three towering clouds of dingy canvas resolved themselves against the dirty-gray background, charging toward them as quickly as they dared. Already, the bloodred hulls were visible, and there was no question they’d sighted their prey. A stone seemed to churn in Keje’s stomach. The Grik were as predictable as a school of flashers when a person fell into the sea, and just as remorseless.
“They’ve seen us,” he muttered pointlessly.
For a long while he stood on the tilted platform with a handful of his officers. Jarrik-Fas was there, as was Adar’s senior acolyte. Adar himself remained ashore at Keje’s command, to take charge in his absence. His daughter, Selass, was aboard as well, somewhat to his surprise. They’d spoken little since Saak-Fas disappeared, but much of that was probably his fault. He’d been so busy. They didn’t speak now, and she stood nearby but apart. That may also have been because Risa-Sab-At was present. She’d been recently promoted to commander of the Forewing Guard, and there was tension of some sort between the two females.
He knew Selass had expected Risa’s brother to press his suit once more, but he hadn’t. He just treated her like he did everyone else-with friendly familiarity. Just as if there was never anything between them. That would have been the hardest blow of all to his prideful, self-centered daughter, he mused. To think she was that easy to
