Some of the indiscriminate heaps were deposited by creatures he’d never seen before. One looked a little like a brontosaurus from a distance, although it was smaller, and had a shorter-if beefier and more muscular-neck, and a much shorter tail. The head was larger, with short, palmated antlers. It was also covered with fur-real fur-and Bradford excitedly insisted the things were herbivorous marsupials, of all things. Matt wondered why no one ever imported them to Baalkpan; they were obviously more sensible draft animals than the ubiquitous brontosaurus. Probably smarter and more biddable as well, from what he’d seen. He found himself wishing for some to pull his light artillery pieces. Perhaps they could even be ridden, although he hadn’t seen anyone doing it. They were called “Paalkas,” but Silva had immediately dubbed them “pack-mooses.”
There was an animal the Maa-ni-los did ride, but he’d seen only a couple. They looked like long-legged crocodiles that ran on all fours, as they should, but their legs were shaped more like a dog’s. They ran like dogs too, and the only time he’d seen them, they bore troops in Saan-Kakja’s livery on some apparent errand. The crowds gave them a wide berth, and Matt noticed their jaws were always strapped and buckled tightly shut. The ’Cats called them one thing, he couldn’t remember, and Courtney Bradford had made up another name he couldn’t pronounce. Whatever they were, he’d have to find out more about them.
It was all very fascinating, but profoundly frustrating as well. Strangely, he liked this Manila a lot better than the old, in a way, but he was becoming almost frantically anxious to complete his mission and get back. He missed Sandra terribly-missed everybody-and there was still the iron fish to consider. Each day they spent here, dithering over details and placating the endless stream of dignitaries and counselors, was one less they could spend looking for it. And another thing was troubling him too: they hadn’t heard a peep out of Baalkpan in days.
“Mornin’, Skipper.”
Matt noticed that Silva had joined him during his reverie. The big gunner’s mate had no official standing as far as the diplomatic mission went, other than that he had, somewhere along the line, taken personal responsibility for Captain Reddy’s welfare. He’d stepped into Chief Gray’s self-appointed role as Matt’s senior armsman, and he commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty-knowing full well that the man they were bound to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like that of Juan Marcos, their job had just… evolved. Unlike Juan, the “Captain’s Guard” had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Silva knew the job was Gray’s whenever he was able to resume it, but he’d have been protecting the captain anyway, and he’d been making a real effort to behave. His restriction to the ship had been only provisionally lifted, and if he was stuck on the ship, he couldn’t do his job. Matt was beginning to suspect Silva was the sort of person who rose to meet expectations. All his life he’d been expected to be a screwup-so he was. Now everyone, himself included, expected more, and so far he’d dedog still crapped on the floor now and then, but if Matt needed a guard dog, Silva was the best he could ask for, absent Gray.
“Morning, Silva. Anything on the horn?”
Dennis shook his head. “Just came from the ship,” he said, and Matt noticed the big man already had sweat circles under his arms. “Still no word. Clancy says it’s not on our end. There just ain’t anything to receive.” He saw the captain’s worried frown. “No big deal, Skipper; it’s prob’ly nothin’. Last report, everything was fine. Besides, you know what a klutz that Palmer is; he prob’ly popped a tube with a wrench, or maybe the damn airplane sank. Lieutenant Riggs’ll get it sorted out, or he’ll make a whole new bloody set.”
“I know. It’s just… Everything was fine before Pearl Harbor too,” Matt said, immediately regretting the display of uncertainty. Silva had no response to that. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening, “let’s see what kind of Kabuki dance the ’Cats have ready for us today. Besides, it’s breakfast time.” He paused, suddenly decisive. “Run back down to the ship, or send somebody, and inform Mr. Dowden to make preparations for getting underway. The Maa-ni-los are going to help us or not. Hanging around and pestering them probably won’t make any difference. It’s really Saan-Kakja’s decision, anyway. But I’ve had just about enough, and one way or another, this is our last day here.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Silva replied with his usual unnerving lopsided grin.
Breakfast was a lavish, quiet affair, but Matt immediately got the impression that, today, things would proceed differently. Perhaps word had slipped that Walker ’s people were fed up and about to leave. Matt suspected Silva of the leak, but maybe that was best. As badly as they needed the Maa-ni-los, the Maa-ni-los needed them too, and if that was what it took to get the ball rolling, so be it. He was seated at one end of a long table, a position of prestige, and at the other end, in a place of equal honor, was Saan-Kakja. It was the first time he’d seen her since their arrival. All the negotiations had been conducted by underlings. Now, few of those underlings were present and Matt expected, as a result, things would move more swiftly. One way or the other.
Saan-Kakja sat on her stool across from him, locked in a posture of tense precision, lifting careful spoonfuls of fluffy yellow eggs to her mouth. Her short, silken, gray-black fur was carefully groomed, and glowed with the luster of healthy youth. Around her neck hung the golden gorget of her office, and occasionally her short, delicate fingers strayed between her small breasts and absently stroked the metal. It dawned on Matt, despite her noteworthy greeting, that she might not yet be comfortable in her exalted role, and he felt his heart go out to her. They’d learned a few things about her through back channels during the negotiations, and what they knew explained a great deal-particularly about her behavior. She really didn’t know how to proceed, and she’d delegated much to her High Sky Priest, who Adar thought was a “jerk,” to use a charitable translation. Her father had been Saanga-Kakja, which explained a little of the initial confusion. Keje and Adar had known him long ago, but not as High Chief. They’d hoped to be dealing with a person they knew. A widower like Keje, he died mere months earlier of a long illness. All his older offspring, from another, previously deceased mate, had already moved on: one as High Chief of a newly built, seahern Fil-pin Islands. All that remained to assume the mantle of leadership was Saan-Kakja, the young child of his young, much adored, and deeply lamented second, and final, mate. Some believed he actually died of sorrow, since he joined his beloved in the Heavens such a short time after her passing.
Regardless, he’d left his daughter-at the tender age of fourteen-ill-prepared to rule, and her understandably tentative approach, and willingness to delegate, undermined her authority. Lemurians matured much quicker than humans, but she was still considered a youngling even by her own people. She’d been through a lot, and was clearly aware she had a lot to live up to, but based on his first meeting with her and looking at her now, Matt suspected she’d do all right if she had the right kind of help and support. Safir Maraan had risen at a younger age, and look how she’d turned out. Of course, the cultures were different, and she’d always had Haakar-Faask to back her up. Apparently there was no Haakar-Faask for Saan-Kakja. There was only her Sky Priest.
The Sky Priest in question sat on Saan-Kakja’s left. He was called Meksnaak, and despite Adar’s opinion, Matt didn’t really know what to think of him. He seemed dour and suspicious, and couldn’t have been more different from Adar. Adar was seated in his customary place beside Keje, even though he was Sky Priest to more than just a single Home. His example and personality-not to mention his early recognition of the greater threat-had done much to smooth the waters between the Americans and the various factions that ultimately formed the alliance. He’d shamelessly waved the bloody shirt of Revenge, the allies’ first “prize ship.” Her loss, and the loss of her integrated crew in a struggle against impossible odds, had provided a shining example of honor and sacrifice to the technically amalgamated, but increasingly Lemurian “U.S. Navy.” The two species had both been somewhat ethnocentric when they met, but even given their mutual need for allies, there’d been surprisingly little friction. Maybe they were so physically different, there was no real basis for racial resentment. Each looked equally “funny” to the other, but each had recognizable strengths the other lacked. The battle resulting in the loss of Revenge set the ultimate precedent of coequal status among the two species, and began a growing tradition of “equal glory or a shared death.” Matt reminded himself the Maa-ni-los were not yet part of any such tradition.