“Mr. Bradford, you’ve been with us long enough to know I’ll tolerate no interference in the normal operation of this ship. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you’ll lose all bridge privileges indefinitely. Is that understood?”
“I only wanted-”
“Is that understood?” Matt demanded. Courtney finally nodded, and Matt strode to his chair. “Very well. Pass the word for Juan…” He paused, remembering his indomitable Filipino “steward” was still recovering on New Scotland. “For ‘Tabasco,’” he amended. “Coffee.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Norm said, clearly relieved.
“What is ‘Kis-mus’?” Lieutenant Tab-At, or “Tabby,” asked Spanky McFarlane when the skinny exec cycled through the air lock into the forward fireroom. Just as Spanky had been elevated from his beloved engineering spaces, the gray-furred ’Cat-a full member of the “elite” and bizarre fraternity of “Mice” created by the “originals,” Isak Rueben and Gilbert Yeager-had been raised to take his place as engineering officer. The terrible steam burns she’d once suffered were healing nicely, and fur was even creeping back across the ugly, gray-pink scars.
Spanky handed her an akka egg sandwich, and perched on a battered metal stool, nodding benignly at the other ’Cats in the fireroom. There was only one boiler in there now, number two, the rest of the space devoted to a massive fuel bunker. Number two was their current “problem child,” though, and his arrival with an egg sandwich- Tabby’s favorite-had become a morning ritual wherever he suspected she’d be applying her greatest attention. It was his way of “keeping in touch” with engineering in general, something he considered necessary despite Tabby’s professionalism, while at the same time proving to her and himself that they could still be “friends.” Spanky loved Tabby like a daughter, niece, or something, but it was no secret the onetime ’Cat version of a pinup in a fur suit was crazy about him in a more… uncomplicated way.
“It’s a religious day where I come from, ’mongst lots of folks,” he said, munching his own sandwich. “Celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Folks would give each other presents and try to be nice for a day.”
Tabby looked at her sandwich. “I heard of that ‘Jeezus’ fella, from Sister Audry. She said he washed away all the bad stuff people do with blood.” She brightened. “Kinda like we been doin’ ’gainst these damn ‘Doms’ lately!”
Spanky shifted on his stool. “It ain’t exactly the same…” Spanky was a nominal Catholic, and no matter how “backslid” he considered himself, the utterly twisted and perverted version of Catholicism the Dominion was trying to cram down everyone’s throat in a “convert or die” manner hit him very personally. He knew the new “Bosun of the Navy,” Chief Gray, felt the same. “Jesus died for our sins, washed ’em away with his own blood,” he said.
Tabby was silent a while, as were the other ’Cats. The only sounds in the fireroom emanating from the blower, the rush of water past creaking plates, and the trembling roar of hellfire in the boiler. “Well… we ain’t gonna do that,” she said decisively. “We gonna drown their sins in their blood… or the goddamn sea!” She finished her sandwich and looked at Spanky with suddenly liquid eyes, her ears to the side in a submissive… seductive way. “Thanks for the ‘Kis-mus’ saammich, Spanky,” she said softly. “You gave me a present. I be nice to you all day!”
His face reddening, Spanky stood. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ll check the other spaces before I see the Skipper. I’m OOD for the forenoon watch.” He paused. “Carry on,” he added, before cycling through to the aft fireroom.
Courtney’s hideous breech of protocol had been largely forgotten by the time the sun gushed over the horizon and bathed the limitless, purple sea with an achingly clear and sharp radiance. Not a single cloud marred the sky, and visibility seemed infinite. A cool breeze circulated through the pilothouse, and the group that gathered there earlier mostly remained. Courtney had eagerly broached the subject of what they might encounter-besides the enemy-as they neared the Americas, a subject that until now, only he had seemed interested in. Now, with that coast less than a week away, everyone seemed curious, and Jenks did his best to answer their questions. As an explorer and something of a naturalist himself, he was able to make some interesting observations.
“But that still doesn’t explain why they seem so… single-minded,” Matt said, referring to a virtual procession of “mountain fish” they’d spotted-and duly avoided-the day before. The ridiculously huge beasts were notoriously territorial, and none of the “Americans,” human or Lemurian, had ever seen two in close proximity, certainly not the apparent dozens they’d seen, dotting the horizon like a distant ind chain.
“I can’t explain it,” Jenks replied. “Particularly since it’s not an annual event that might be explained by migratory habits. It seems continuous. All I know is that, year round, occasional groups of the devils are observed, traveling through these comparatively barren seas, always on an easterly course. There are collisions, usually in the dark, but they seem disinclined to attack vessels as they sometimes do in the west.” He shook his head. “As I mentioned before, the shallow bay between what you call the Baja peninsula and the mainland is referred to by the Doms as ‘el Mar de Huesos,’ or the Sea of Bones. That may provide some explanation, given study, but I’ve never ventured there. The Doms claim it, and even in less… hostile times, I’ve never been allowed entry.”
“You reckon they go there to die? The old ones, maybe?” Gray ventured gruffly. Matt looked at him carefully. At sixty-something, the Bosun was still a pillar of strength, but he’d begun to make comments now and then, as if starting to feel his age.
Jenks shrugged. “That would seem a sound assumption, but not all the migrants are of the largest size. Perhaps some grow bigger than others, but based on size alone, one would infer specimens of all ages make the trip.”
“Fascinating!” Courtney gushed. “Tell us more about these flying creatures, these ‘dragons’!” he demanded.
“They can be a menace,” Jenks confessed. “They look much like the ‘lizard birds,’ as you call them, or the small ‘dragon fowl’ we hunt at home, with fowling pieces, but they’re much larger. Bigger even than the ones Mr. Bradford compared in size to an albatross.” He paused, looking at Courtney. “Speaking of those midsize creatures, did you know, though seen throughout the isles of the Empire, and even as far as the continental colonies, they’re known to nest only on a small atoll in the Normandy Isles, far to the west of New Wales?”
“Oh my,” said Bradford.
“About these ‘dragons,’” Matt persisted. “You say they’re a menace? I guess they fly, but they don’t… spit fire or anything?”
“Heavens no.” Jenks chuckled. “But they’re large enough to snatch seamen from ships, and they’re quite clever, I’m afraid. They carry their prey to great heights and dash it against land or sea to kill it or render it senseless before they eat it. They’ve been known to bombard ships with rocks in excess of a hundred pounds.”
“Shit!” the Bosun exclaimed.
Bradford eyed him. “Please. It is Christmas!”
“I was about to beg pardon,” Gray defended himself.
Spanky clomped up the stairs aft. “Mornin’, Skipper,” he said. “Everybody.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you!” Courtney said sourly.
“Yeah. Hey, what’s this about ‘dragon bombers’?” he asked. Matt filled him in. “Wow. Better get busy training the ’Cat gunners to hit flying targets!”
“Hey, you’re right,” said Campeti. “I’ll get with Stites and see how we can do that without wasting a bunch of ammo. Maybe those Jap pom-poms we mounted where the numbers three and four torpedo mounts used to be’ll come in handy for something.”
“Do it,” said Matt. He looked at Jenks. “What other… surprises can we expect?”
“Probably not much you haven’t already seen, at least at sea. The gri-kakka, you call them, are considerably larger off the coast, and something like your ‘flashies’-perhaps the same species-are just as thick in the shallows as you’re accustomed to within the barrier. Sharks too, like the one that disabled Revenge and caused all that trouble for Task Force Garrett.”
“Say,” said Campeti, “I wonder how that’s going?”
Matt shook his head. “No way to know. The comm post we set up on that mountain on New Britain can probably still hear us; our transmitter is a lot more powerful. But Palmer said everything from there finally faded out last night. We’re cut off, comm-wise.” He brightened. “At least we know Admiral McClain, the fleet, and our oilers are on the way-a day late.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it, I guess.”
“Skipper, you know no big fleet ever sailed on time, with such short notice,” Spanky consoled.
“Keje and First Fleet did,” Matt replied. “And so did Task Force Maaka-Kakja.” He rubbed his face. “I hope
