«An. unusual ceremony,» remarked Keje to Adar and Rolak, referring to the Amer-i-caan funeral they’d just seen. Keje had arrived late and had been supported by his disapproving daughter. He was still dizzy from the blow on his head.
«Unusual,» Adar agreed thoughtfully. «Short, too. And very somber. Their grief was quite clear.»
«They see death more as an ending than we do, perhaps. As if they do not expect to meet their lost ones again,» Keje speculated.
«I think not,» countered Adar. «Cap-i-taan Reddy told me to hear his words and I might better understand their faith.» He shook his head. «I listened, but my understanding is no less uncertain. I think he was right, however, that we may only sail a different wind to the same destination. They certainly hope to meet again those who go before them, as do we, but perhaps they are less certain their God will find them here, so far from their home.»
«Even more reason not to hide their dead underground.»
Adar looked at his lifelong friend but shook his head at Keje’s obtuseness. «You know as well as any novice priest that the souls of those lost at sea will rise to the heavens as surely as those sent by the pyre. The smoke of the pyre is symbolic. The ashes of the dead that rise within it settle back to the land or sea, in time. No,» he continued, «their customs may seem bizarre, even distasteful. But the meanings behind them are not so different as they may at first appear. I will have to speak more with them about this, but I think we must consider: they are willing to fight and die with us despite a fear that if they do die, they will be utterly lost. I believe our service for the dead would be considerably more somber if that concern lin, I’ve no doubt the souls we free tonight will find their way, but I do grieve that there are so many. Their concerns are over, beyond those they may retain for us. I do not begrudge their contentment in the heavens. but we will regret their loss in the battles to come. Do not think I’ve forgotten my oath,» he said.
The three Lemurians lingered in silence a short while longer, watching as the mixed human and Lemurian burial party proceeded with their chore. Shovelfuls of soil disappeared into the rectangular holes with soft thumping sounds.
«It was surely a ceremony for warriors,» Rolak stated. «Except for the part when they are buried.»
The Lemurian «service» was just as alien to the human destroyermen who witnessed it as theirs had been to the Lemurians. Matt watched the initial ceremony accompanied by Jim, Sandra, and Courtney. Except for the firing party, whom Matt had ordered to remain as a show of honor and respect, most of the other members of the funeral party had returned to the ship. He’d ordered Gray to go, ostensibly to help coordinate repairs but mainly to get him off his feet. To his surprise, all the Lemurian destroyermen returned to the ship as well. All except Chack, who had remained behind along with the equally surprising Dennis Silva. Silva sent the phonograph back with Stites but stayed ashore talking quietly with Chack, waiting for the Lemurian funeral to get under way. Matt doubted they had ended their feud, but they appeared to be observing a truce for the evening, at least. Matt joined them briefly, out of curiosity.
«Chack?» he said.
«Sir?»
«Why did the other people. your people, go back to the ship? I thought I made it clear they were welcome to stay.»
Chack looked at him and then glanced out at the deepening gloom of the bay, beyond the pier, where the two ships lay. Nearby, and lower down, the dark silhouette of the PBY floated now as well. The Lemurian ceremony was about to take place on the west side of the point, nearest to Madura, where Mahan had been anchored almost since she arrived. A power cable had been rigged between the destroyers, and portable lights and lanterns glowed harshly on the decks, contrasting brightly against the dull glow in the western sky where the sun had slipped away.
«They grieve, Cap-i-taan,» he said. «But they are Navy men, yes? They are destroyermen.»
Matt nodded. «Yes. They are.»
«Walker is their Home. You are High Chief for Walker. You are High Chief of all the Amer-i-caan Navy here, so Mahan is their Home too. Both Homes need us now, more than the dead, and so they want to work.» He paused. «I am here because I do not know what you want me to do.»
Matt was taken aback. «What do you mean, Chack?»
«When I came to Walker, Keje-Fris-Ar was my High Chief. Big Sal was my Home. When I joined the Amer-i-caan Navy, I thought Walker was my Home. I was Bosun’s Mate,» he added proudly. Then he sighed. «Lieutenant Shinya tells me now that I am to be Chief of the Second Marines. What does that mean? I have become a good warrior,» he said matter-of-factly, «which is something I never expected, and I. am good at it. But is Walker no longer my Home? Do I not have a home?»
Matt was perplexed for a moment; then realization dawned. «No! I mean, yes, Walker is certainly your Home, Chack, and you’re still a bosun’s mate! Good grief, I’m sorry ift size="3"ious enough not to think of them at all. That was a tough difference to bridge and he knew major religious wars had been fought throughout human history over less profound differences. Matt had to admit that the sea folk’s religion was probably closer to what he’d been brought up with — profoundly different, of course, but still closer than Rolak’s or Queen Maraan’s. Although, he admitted wryly to himself, he could understand the attraction of the land folk religion to its adherents. At least to the males.
He looked at Sandra and saw the torchlight reflecting off her gold-tinged, sandy hair and fresh-scrubbed face. Her nurse’s uniform was immaculate and exotically feminine compared to the dungarees she wore day to day. He couldn’t help it, but a deep sadness, unrelated to the day’s events, swept over him and he looked away so fast that his throbbing shoulder made him wince.
She looked ey would have us believe that everything, even the delay in speaking to us after the battle, was caused by confusion while they hunted the murderous conspirators.»
Matt shook his head. «Sounds awfully Byzantine to me — or Soviet.»
Courtney Bradford laughed out loud. «I don’t believe we need look to Uncle Joe Stalin for examples of a dirty and complicated rise to power. Our own shared English history is replete enough with those, Captain.»
Matt smiled. «I’m Irish American, with a fair measure of Scot. O’Roddy — Reddy — you know.»
«Hmm.»
They were aboard Walker, in the wardroom again, and it was full as usual. They were engaged in an informal discussion of the situation, but nearly every faction was represented, except the Aryaalans, so whatever they decided would have the effect of policy. Nearly two weeks had passed since they blew down the north gate of the city, and in that time Matt had spent precious little time on his ship. He was glad to be home. Revenge had sailed with a small squadron of feluccas to scout the enemy and Mallory flew every other day, either probing north toward Singapore or carrying news and people between Aryaal and Baalkpan. So far there was no sign that the Grik intended to renew their offensive. The ragtag remnants of their fleet had gone to ground at Singapore, but no other forces had joined them there. Given everyone’s reluctance — the Grik included — to cross the menacingly deep water of the Indian Ocean, it seemed unlikely the enemy would use any other avenue of approach.
Sergeant Alden came to help Shinya integrate the B’mbaadan forces into the AEF. His envy of the Japanese officer regarding his role in the battle had been palpable. He managed to contain it, however, and the burgeoning friendship between the tough Marine and the former enemy lieutenant wasn’t in danger. Alden was gone again, but the news from «home» was welcome, and good for the most part. The Baalkpan defenses were strengthening every day and the cottage arms industry was beginning to flourish. Matt knew Walker missed all the people they’d left in Baalkpan, Letts most of all, but he was glad the fair-skinned supply officer was there. Letts, Alden, and Brister, together with Karen Theimer, had been working miracles. Besides, with the dame famine still under way, keeping Letts’s and Theimer’s affair out of the local eye was certainly prudent — even now that they had two more nurses for the guys to ogle. It was one less latch on the pressure cooker. Some tension still existed regarding Silva and Risa’s apparently ongoing trans-species relationship and there was little doubt now that they had one. But it now seemed more platonic than anything and few really took it seriously anymore. They were clearly great friends, and ever since captain’s mast they hadn’t been as blatant about «it» anymore either, whatever «it» was. Both were popular characters — not to mention dangerous — and as long as they maintained a semblance of dignity their «friendship» was ignored beyond the mild humor it inspired. Mostly. Occasionally there were still words.