anybody aboard could communicate with them. Fortunately, the westbound ship had been stripped of her guiv›
Nothing yet, Cap-i-taan,” hailed the muted, yowly voice of the Lemurian lookout in the mizzen-top above. Lieutenant Greg Garrett, former gunnery officer of USS Walker, now captain of the brand-new sailing frigate USS Donaghey, could barely discern the speaker from the predawn gloom, but knew the lookout’s eyesight was much better than his own. With watchers at all three mastheads, the little flotilla of refugee-laden barges would undoubtedly be seen as soon as it pushed off from shore. He paced the length of the darkened quarterdeck. The almost entirely Lemurian crew went about their duties professionally, quietly, leaving him room to pace and think. He paused for a moment by the smooth, polished rail and peered intently at the hazy shore. Donaghey was hove to, with nothing to do but wait, less than two miles from the treacherous breakers.
The ship was Garrett’s first command, and he loved her for that, but he also loved her classic lines and intrinsic beauty. He was highly conscious of the singular honor of being named her first commander. Those given the “prize ships” could never quite get over who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners, and the acts performed aboard them, tainted them forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed. They’d been found adrift, mostly, damaged by Walker ’s guns during her escape from Aryaal and the battle that cost them Nerracca. Boarding parties faced ferocious, if uncoordinated defenders, but some of the Grik “survivors” went into an apparently mindless panic Bradford called “Grik Rout,” and simply leaped over the side. No one would ever know for certain how many defenders there’d actually been. Hundreds were slain in the brutal fighting aboard the several ships, but more met their fate in the sea, and the water around the ships had churned as the voracious “flashies” fed. Allied losses had been high, particularly when they fought to rescue any Lemurian “livestock” they found chained in the enemy holds. Just as when they first captured Revenge, the sights they saw in those dark, dank abattoirs prevented the ship’s new owners from ever being able to love them.
No such stigma clung to USS Donaghey, and her people loved her unreservedly. She was larger than the prizes, with a more modern and extreme hull configuration that, combined with her more efficient sail plan, made her considerably faster than the enemy ships. She was a true frigate too, being armed with twenty-eight precious, gleaming guns.
Unfortunately, she was one of only three such ships likely ever to be built. She was considered a transition, a stopgap. Future variants would combine steam and sails and therefore sacrifice some of their purity and grace. But this was war, and one took every advantage one could when the consequence of defeat was extinction.
They’d bloodied the enemy at Aryaal and in the following actions, but if the charts they captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings were to be believed, the Grik could quickly replace their losses. They apparently bred like rabbits, and according to Bradford’s theories, their young reached mature lethality in about five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival-not to mention victory-they needed innovation. That was why there were so few humans in Garrett’s crew. Combined, the surviving destroyermen from Walker and Mahan numbon, he’d also been entrusted with the safety of the headstrong Queen Maraan, who’d personally gone ashore to gather her people, and Pete Alden, once a simple sergeant and now the commander of all allied land forces, who’d accompanied her. Safir Maraan could usually take care of herself. She was a charismatic leader and a skilled warrior in her own right, but those were the very qualities that made her too precious to risk. At least, as far as Garrett was concerned. Not to mention that he personally liked her quite a lot, and she was betrothed to his friend Chack-Sab-At. In spite of a clear understanding of her important role, Safir Maraan remained committed to an oath she’d sworn to personally rescue the people she’d left behind, no matter the cost. To her, no role could supersede that of queen protector of B’mbaado.
Pete Alden accompanied her for little good reason Greg could see, besides imposing a measure of vigilance and reason upon her. In military matters she’d acknowledged him as her superior, and he probably hoped he could prevent her from doing anything rash if the rescue met with difficulty. That was how he justified it, anyway. Garrett thought there might be more to it. In spite of being their land force commander, Pete had mostly been on the sidelines of the war so far. He’d participated in the boarding action that captured Revenge , but since then he’d been consumed by the necessity of improving Baalkpan’s defenses. He’d missed the Battle of Aryaal, and Garrett sensed a supreme unwillingness on the Marine’s part to send others into situations he hadn’t shared. Going ashore in this instance probably had as much to do with that as anything else. Besides, this mission was their last, and Queen Maraan’s great general, Haakar-Faask, would come off with the final refugees and warriors he’d managed to gather, and Pete probably wanted to greet him personally. In any event, there were far more precious eggs in a dangerously exposed basket this morning than Greg Garrett would have liked.
High clouds appeared as wispy pink tendrils in the eastern sky, and the shore party was considerably overdue. Daylight might reveal the solitary ship to searching eyes, and just because the Grik hadn’t interfered with previous missions didn’t mean that would remain the case.
“They should have returned by now,” murmured Taak-Fas. The ’Cat was Donaghey ’s sailing master, and Garrett’s second in command. Garrett turned to look at the brown-and-tan-furred officer. As usual, the strikingly feline face bore no expression, but his voice betrayed growing anxiety.
Garrett replied with a quick nod. “She’s pulled stunts like this before,” he said with a sigh. “Jim-Lieutenant Ellis-said she did it twice when he brought her here. She won’t leave anyone behind who’s at the appointed rendezvous. I can’t blame her, but this waiting sure is nerve-racking.”
“Why can’t the refugees just wait for us on the beach, and meet us when the shore party goes in for them?” The question came from Russ Chapelle, former Torpedoman First Class from Mahan, and now Donaghey ’s gunnery officer, or master gunner. He’d stepped up to join the conversation.
Taak-Fas shook his head. “Grik scouts might see them while they wait for us. Also, since our ships look similar to the enemy’s, even painted differently, it might be difficult to persuade some civilian refugees and Petes, and clearly faster. It was a stirringly beautiful scene, in a way, that would soon be more beautiful still, when Donaghey began her destructive work.
“Just a few moments more,” she breathed.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Chapelle when the side of the nearest Grik ship disappeared behind a heavy cloud of white smoke. He’d been reminding his gunners to aim for the enemy’s rigging when somebody pointed at the curious squares spaced evenly along the sides of the enemy ships. Squares just like Donaghey ’s. Even as he stared, stunned, the squares opened and the snouts of crude cannons poked through. Too quickly for accuracy, a broadside-a cannon broadside-erupted from the enemy ship.
The angle was terrible. The Grik commander must have decided it was a matter of “use it or lose it” and given the order to fire, even though few guns would bear. As it was, not a single ball struck Donaghey, but the surprise caused by the sudden realization that they’d lost their only material advantage over the enemy was almost as damaging as an effective broadside would have been. As the distance closed, and Donaghey prepared to cross the bow of the ship that had just fired at them, all the gunners on the starboard side merely stood, transfixed by what they’d seen. Chapelle glanced at the quarterdeck and saw the shocked expression even extended to the captain’s face, and he knew there was no time.
“What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed, in a voice carrying the length of the ship. He ran forward, yelling as he went, “Starboard battery! At my command! Fire as they bear!” Reaching the foremost gun under the fo’c’sle on the starboard side, he elbowed the Lemurian gunner aside and peered through the gun port, sighting along the top of the barrel. A moment more and it would be pointing at the enemy ship. All thought of finesse, and firing at a specific point, was gone. They had to get this first broadside off as quickly as they could, as effectively as they could, and break the shock that had seized the ship. Stepping back, Chapelle looked at the ’Cat gunner.
“Get hold of yourself,” he growled. “So they’ve got guns. So what? They don’t know how to use them, do they?” The gunner jerked a nod. Chapelle glanced through the port again. “Fire!”
The refugees in the boats cheered lustily when the first blossoms of smoke appeared. Safir had told them what to expect, and they probably thought the stabbing flames and smoke were the result of Donaghey ’s fire. But in the front of the barge where she, Alden, and Haakar-Faask stood, there was silence. The queen clutched her protector’s arm, and her blood felt like ice.
“Holy shit.” Pete gasped.
“Should we return to shore?” Faask asked her quietly.
“Not yet.”
“No, not yet,” Alden agreed grimly. “We need to see this.”
