He was encouraged despite Sergeant Alden's gloom. Unwarlike as he once was, the people of Baalkpan were even worse. Yet at least they were trying. It took actual combat to crack his pacifist shell and his dispassionate evaluation of the land folk as warriors didn't escape his sense of irony either. He believed they would fight. Some weren't so sure, but if he could do it, they could too. A lot was riding on it. Most of the Homes in the bay had joined the alliance, but had not committed themselves to offensive operations. They'd taken a wait-and-see approach. The expedition they planned was basically a raid, a reconnaissance in force. The objective was information, primarily, but depending on what they learned, they were prepared to follow up with more attacks. Perhaps, if the Grik were as yet no more numerous than some evidence suggested, they might even defeat them—and fairly quickly. Captain Reddy hoped they could at least cleanse them from the Java Sea and establish a "Malay Barrier" behind which they could further prepare. It was a giddy thought. The captain projected cautious optimism, and Chack envied how he did that. He'd learned a lot about the fantastic war in the other world, and he knew that the mistakes and uncertainty that plagued the Amer-i-caans there now drove Captain Reddy to avoid the same issues here. If they did, they must succeed. Terrible as they were, the Grik couldn't be as formidable as the Japanese had been.
In this happy frame of mind, he ambled along, the Krag muzzle down on his shoulder, picking his way through the fishmongers and handcarts that packed the wharf near the pier. He glanced up and saw Walker, snugged to the dock, smoke curling from her aft funnel once more.
"Chack."
He turned, and his heart flipped in his chest. Before him stood Selass, her silken silver fur radiating sunlight. The armor she wore, much like her father's, flashed with pink-red fire. As always, she was magnificent. She was armed with a scota and was headed for the parade ground herself.
He'd seen her there several times, training. Sometimes she sparred with Risa. Chack's ears lay flat and he bowed low.
"I greet you, Selass-Fris-Ar. You are well?"
"I am well . . ." She paused and blinked sadness. Chack nodded.
"You still mourn Saak-Fas. I understand. I hope the pain will pass with time."
Her eyelids flashed impatiently. "I do not mourn him! If I ever did, the sadness is gone. But . . . I have another sadness."
He blinked concerned query. Her eyes flashed and she almost growled with frustration.
"You will make me say it, then, I see! Has your revenge not run its course?"
"Revenge?"
"Yes, revenge! For leading you on, toying with you, and making you a fool! Don't you think I've suffered enough? Saak-Fas was the fool! Now he's gone . . . and I am glad. I was wrong about you. I thought you weak.
But I also thought you loved me. I hoped you would still want me. Was I wrong about that too? I see you often, yet beyond casual greeting you have not spoken. Will you make me beg?" She blinked furiously. "Very well! I was wrong about Saak-Fas and I was wrong about you. I do want you now!"
Stunned, Chack could only stare. For so long, his fondest wish was to hear her say such words. Now, though they stirred him, they didn't bring him joy. They only brought confusion and a trace of sadness. He gently replied.
"You did not make a fool of me. I did that myself. I was a fool. I was what you thought I was. But I'm no more that person now than a grawfish is still a graw-fish after it sheds its tail and gills and flies out of the sea.
I admire you in many ways, Selass, and am flattered that you desire me.
But I do not pine for you. I suppose I do still love you, but it does not consume me as before. I've had much else on my mind of late. Your admission and . . . declaration have come as a surprise. May I consider it?
I assure you my aim is not `revenge' or to hurt you in any way. Let us speak again, after the expedition. After we know what sort of war we face. If my answer is still important to you, I will give it then."
Shame, sadness, and consternation flashed across her eyelids, but she finally bowed and with a quick nuzzle under his chin that almost crushed his resolve, she flashed away toward the parade ground. For a very long time, he watched her weave through the throng until she was lost to view.
With a stab of guilt and astonishment, he realized he'd not even thought about her in weeks. He would have to do that now.
Matt stood on the bridgewing with a cup of . . . something in his hand. He grimaced at the foamy brew. He couldn't remember what Juan called it, but it was the local equivalent of coffee, evidently. It might even be a kind of coffee; it came from crushed, roasted beans. Not many Lemurians drank it. They used it as medicine, as a treatment for lethargy. Matt hadn't had any before, but it had earned a following among the crew. Some just called it "java" or "joe," as they always had. A few of the die-hard factionalists called it "cat-monkey joe" or "monkey-cat joe," but just as "'Cats" was becoming the general compromise term for the Lemurians, "monkey joe" was gaining steam for the brew. It seemed to follow somehow. Whatever they called it, the stuff sure didn't look like any coffee Matt had ever seen, although the aroma wasn't entirely dissimilar. Maybe it was the yellow-green foam.
The foam slowly dissipated and the liquid beneath was reassuringly black, but there remained a bile-colored ring around the edge. He willed himself to take a sip and tentatively explored it with his tongue. Not bad, he decided, surprised. There was a kind of chalky aftertaste, but that wasn't unusual for any coffee Juan made. And it did taste like coffee. Not good coffee, but the similarity was enough to fill a dreadful void he hadn't really recognized. He smiled.
Walker was tied to the new fueling pier and the special sea and anchor detail was withdrawing the hose from one brimming bunker and preparing to fill another. Chief Gray watched their progress like a hawk, lest they spill any of the thick black fuel oil on his somewhat pale deck. Under the circumstances, Matt doubted that he'd really mind if they did. This transfusion of Walker's lifeblood had raised everyone's spirits to such a degree that it would be difficult for even Gray to summon much genuine ire over a splotch on the deck.
The benevolent thunder of the main blower behind the pilothouse was almost enough to mask Matt's uneasiness about the expedition they were about to begin. An expedition that they'd planned and prepared for weeks, awaiting only this final detail. Fuel. When enough had finally been pumped, transferred, and refined, some was brought to Walker so she could fire up a boiler to run her pumps and get ready for the short trip upriver. All the while, the massive copper storage tanks on the shore continued to fill, awaiting her at the pier. Now, all was in readiness.
The rest of the expedition consisted only of Big Sal and half a dozen of the larger fishing feluccas. Together they waited, moored in the inner channel. Two other Homes had actually volunteered as well, but for this operation they would be too many. As soon as Walker completed her fueling she would join the task force and they'd enter the Makassar Strait.