"Fiber. Just like the real thing, only we mulch up some of Mr. Letts's gasket material and mix it with some other stuff. Mikey's in charge of that."

"How does it hold up? What about heat?"

"So far, so good. We haven't had the glue-up issues Ben has, for example, and it does insulate well. It's kind of like putty. We cram some in on top of the coils in the core slot too. Anyway, the coils are soldered to the commutator bar."

Riggs inspected one of the brush end frames that a 'Cat was finishing up. "You wave-wound the core, but you're only using two brushes?"

"Yes, sir. We've still got a h.e.l.l of a spring shortage. We're actually using the same gear springs Ordnance is making for their musket locks! Wave-wound generators will work with two brushes or four. We might want to put four in later."

Riggs pulled the short whiskers on his chin. "Musket springs!" He snorted. "How do the brushes hold up?"

"The springs are fairly stout and they don't have much range of motion. The brushes'll have to be replaced every hundred hours or so, I'm afraid. Since we have to use bra.s.s bushings, they'll have to be kept lubed and replaced pretty often too."

Riggs nodded. "Okay, I want a dozen extra brushes, two extra musket springs, and half a dozen bushing sets for each completed generator. What are you doing to regulate the voltage?"

"Well, sir, since you want these things to be wind powered, we've calculated a low cut-in speed and a high charging rate at those lower speeds. If a serious blow hits, it'll need to be disconnected. If they spin up too fast, centrifugal force will throw the windings out of their slots and thrash the whole thing. To cap the voltage, well, we've got to use a voltage regulator." Rodriguez pointed at yet another group of 'Cats working at a separate bench. "They're making vibrating regulators. I don't think they have a clue what they're doing, but I calculated all the values and gave them the plans. They could all be watchmakers after the war. They won't screw 'em up. Of course, I've got my ammeter to double-check each one. Managed to save that that."

Riggs smiled. "Very good. Very, very good. If you weren't already in charge, I'd put you there."

"Uh, thanks."

"Now, one more thing; just a little matter, really. How do you plan to refurbish the generators, motors, and other essential equipment on Walker Walker after we raise the ship?" after we raise the ship?"

"And this, dear boy, if I'm not much mistaken, is the spleen!" Courtney Bradford leaned back and fanned himself with his sombrerolike hat, as much to clear the vapors of the quickly putrefying creature as to cool himself. It was hot, even in the shade of the trees surrounding the parade ground where the lesson was under way. Abel Cook, his most avid student, leaned forward to view the structure. Abel was thirteen, and he'd long since grown out of the clothes he'd been wearing during his evacuation from Surabaya aboard S-19. Most of the other boys who'd been similarly saved had applied to become midshipmen in the American Navy. Abel had too, but of all of them, he was the only one who'd shown an interest in the natural sciences. Bradford couldn't-and wouldn't-try to prevent the boy from serving, but he saw in the blond-haired, fair-skinned, somewhat gangly teen a much younger version of himself. "We need more of me around here," Courtney had argued with Captain Reddy, and to his surprise, Matt had agreed. Abel was still a midshipman, and naval dungarees had replaced his battered clothes, but Courtney would have him as an apprentice. For a while, at least.

"I believe you're right," the boy replied, his voice cracking slightly. "And that must be the gallbladder," he said, pointing. "It is is quite large!" quite large!"

"The better to digest the dreadful things they eat, I shouldn't wonder!" Bradford beamed.

Other students attended the dissection as well, 'Cat corpsmen trainees, and they shuffled forward to look. The cadaver was that of a local variety of skuggik, a much smaller but clearly related species to the Grik. Skuggiks were vicious little scavengers, mostly, and their arms had evolved away, so their external physiology bore marked differences to that of their enemy. Internally however, they were virtually identical smaller versions. Courtney had attempted to save actual Grik for the demonstrations, but there was no means of cooling them. His modest h.o.a.rd of postbattle corpses had been revealed by their stench and he'd been forced to surrender them. For now, his little open-air cla.s.s on comparative biology would have to make do with skuggiks.

"And what is that lobed structure it is attached to?" Bradford asked. "Be silent, Abel," he admonished. "Let someone else answer for a change."

"Lungs!" proclaimed one of the young Lemurians triumphantly. Most of the others snickered.

Bradford sighed. "Would you like another try?"

The 'Cat looked more intently and wrinkled her nose. "You say that other st'ucture is a spleeng? I thought you say spleeng is on lungs?" There was chittering laughter this time.

"Perhaps, my dear, you might consider applying for another posting?"

"It is liver!" burst out another voice. "Big, ugly Grik-like liver!"

"Precisely!" exclaimed Bradford, his gentle chastis.e.m.e.nt instantly forgotten. His eyes narrowed and he looked at the organ in question. "A rather dry, reeking liver, in fact. Perhaps it's time we called it a day. Our specimen is withering before our very eyes . . . and noses!" He nodded at his a.s.sistants. "Please do dispose of this chap with all proper ceremony. We'll continue the lecture tomorrow with a fresh, um, subject. Weather permitting, we may start before the heat of the day!" With that, all but Abel scampered away, glad to escape the stench.

"Well!" said Bradford, still fanning himself and gauging the height of the sun. "Still some hours before dinner, I fear. Most barbarous, this local custom of eating only twice a day! Most barbarous. I'll never grow accustomed to it, and I may not survive." Secretly, he was glad Abel hadn't scurried off with the others. He didn't know why, exactly. He'd always generally loathed children: silly, mindless little creatures. His own son had been different, of course. A rare, exceptional specimen, most likely. He doubted he'd ever see the boy again, or even know if he was alive. He'd gone to fly Hurricanes for the RAF back in '39, and Courtney was slowly growing to accept that pining over his son's fate was pointless. In his heart, the boy would live forever. His ex-wife never entered his thoughts. That left Abel. Maybe that was it? Perhaps the boy was becoming something of a surrogate son? He was clearly unusually bright: unlike the other children who'd been aboard the submarine, he had the sense to seek Courtney's company and he had an insatiable curiosity.

Abel seemed to commiserate with him for a moment about the local customs, but then brightened. "Well, sir, if you're hungry, I'm sure we could find something at the Castaway Cook."

Bradford arched an eyebrow and looked at the boy. The Castaway Cook was a ramshackle, abandoned warehouse a short distance from the shipyard. It had suffered serious damage in the fighting and was really little more than a standing roof when Walker Walker's cook, Earl Lanier, appropriated it as a kind of enlisted men's club. It currently had little value as a warehouse, since there was no pier. In fact, it sported one of the few actual beaches on the Baalkpan waterfront. Earl was a ship's cook, and that was all he was. With his galley underwater, he'd decided he better get back to doing what he knew before somebody made him do something he didn't. Besides, "the fellas is always hungry," he'd explained. He was right. The American destroyermen and submariners he fed were still accustomed to three meals a day, and with all the work there was for everyone, the Lemurian destroyermen and other naval personnel were often hungry too. It was good for morale. The various army regiments were beginning to establish haunts of their own, and with Captain Reddy and Adar's approval had come the stern warning that Marines would also be welcome at Lanier's establishment. Or else.

Earl did a booming business. Besides Pepper, he had five more cooks and half a dozen waitresses. There were also several bartenders and that was what made Bradford's eyebrow rise. The Castaway Cook had another, possibly more common name: the Busted Screw. The entendres of that name were too numerous to count, but the accepted reference was to the party they'd held after replacing Walker Walker's damaged propeller with Mahan Mahan's at Aryaal.

Bradford studied the boy's innocent expression. "Well, I suppose," he relented. Together, they dodged the 'Cats and marching troops, stopping now and then to admire various sea creatures on display in the bazaar. Coastal artillery crews drilled on their guns behind reinforced embrasures with augmented overhead protection. Abel watched it all, fascinated, and Courtney felt a growing benevolent affection for the lad.

"Do you ever miss the other children, the ones you were stranded among so long?" Bradford probed.

Abel c.o.c.ked his head to the side. "I see them now and then," he said thoughtfully, "but we never had much in common, you know. The girls were all-mostly all-ridiculous, squalling crybabies. Miss, uh, Princess Rebecca was the exception, of course."

"Indeed she was. And is. Most extraordinary." Even though Rebecca was also clearly a child, Bradford actually admired her. She had a quick mind and was utterly fearless. With a flash, he suddenly realized that Abel Cook obviously "admired" her as well. "Indeed," he repeated. He motioned toward the martial exercises under way. "Do you wish you had more of that to do? Your, ah, other comrades, the ones old enough, are quite involved in it, you know. Of course you do."

"I do miss it some," Abel confessed. "I'd like to be a soldier or a naval officer." He paused. "I think my father would expect it. Did you know, of all the children aboard S-19, I am the only one whose father was a military man? He was a naval attache and interpreter for Admiral Palliser." He paused again, and continued more softly. "He was liaison aboard DeRuyter DeRuyter when she went down. I don't . . . I'll never know what happened to him." The boy's lip quivered ever so slightly, but his voice didn't. Bradford knew then that he had far more in common with this lad than he would ever have imagined. "All the other children-the boys, at least-were the sons of important men, but I think Admiral Palliser got me on the submarine himself. Mum was supposed to come, but there wasn't enough room there at the end. Sister Audry offered to leave the boat, but Mum wouldn't have it. The captain, Ensign Laumer, even Mr. Flynn wanted to take her anyway, but that Dutch cow," he said, referring to a somewhat dumpy Dutch nanny in charge of most of the girls, "said it just 'wouldn't do.' Things were 'quite cramped enough as it was.'" Abel's tone turned bitter. "There would have been room for several more people if they'd have just set that one ridiculous woman ash.o.r.e. I'm sure she weighs as much as a torpedo and occupies three times the s.p.a.ce!" when she went down. I don't . . . I'll never know what happened to him." The boy's lip quivered ever so slightly, but his voice didn't. Bradford knew then that he had far more in common with this lad than he would ever have imagined. "All the other children-the boys, at least-were the sons of important men, but I think Admiral Palliser got me on the submarine himself. Mum was supposed to come, but there wasn't enough room there at the end. Sister Audry offered to leave the boat, but Mum wouldn't have it. The captain, Ensign Laumer, even Mr. Flynn wanted to take her anyway, but that Dutch cow," he said, referring to a somewhat dumpy Dutch nanny in charge of most of the girls, "said it just 'wouldn't do.' Things were 'quite cramped enough as it was.'" Abel's tone turned bitter. "There would have been room for several more people if they'd have just set that one ridiculous woman ash.o.r.e. I'm sure she weighs as much as a torpedo and occupies three times the s.p.a.ce!"

"Now, now," admonished Courtney gently, "I can certainly see your point. But one mustn't be unkind."

Besides Sandra and Karen Theimer Letts, only two other Navy nurses had survived: Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy. Pam was engaged in a torrid part-time affair with Dennis Silva, and for a time that had left only one known, and . . . wholesomely unattached female in the entire world: Kathy McCoy. This intolerable situation had resulted in the increasingly desperate "dame famine." That famine still existed to a degree. The only practical means of truly breaking it seemed to lie in establishing good relations with the Empire, but there were a few few more women in Baalkpan now. There'd been four nannies, not counting Sister Audry, on S-19 to care for the twenty children of diplomats and industrialists aboard the sub. Two of them, one British and the "ridiculous" Dutchwoman, dropped all pretense of nannyhood and had taken it upon themselves to "thank" as many of their destroyermen rescuers as they could in the best way they knew how, as soon as they returned to Baalkpan after the battle. Both women were rather plain and had probably landed right in the middle of their version of heaven. Perhaps the dame more women in Baalkpan now. There'd been four nannies, not counting Sister Audry, on S-19 to care for the twenty children of diplomats and industrialists aboard the sub. Two of them, one British and the "ridiculous" Dutchwoman, dropped all pretense of nannyhood and had taken it upon themselves to "thank" as many of their destroyermen rescuers as they could in the best way they knew how, as soon as they returned to Baalkpan after the battle. Both women were rather plain and had probably landed right in the middle of their version of heaven. Perhaps the dame famine famine was broken, but in spite of terrible losses, the male-to-female ratio was very considerably out of whack. They were only two women, after all, and their energy and grat.i.tude had limits. For now, the dame was broken, but in spite of terrible losses, the male-to-female ratio was very considerably out of whack. They were only two women, after all, and their energy and grat.i.tude had limits. For now, the dame drought drought still smoldered. still smoldered.

"Besides," Courtney continued, "your mother surely found a far safer transport, in retrospect."

"Possibly," Abel allowed, but his tone sounded unconvinced. For a while, the pair walked in silence.

Beyond the breastworks, they entered what was left of the old warehouse district and followed the strains of music that gradually emerged from the general noise of the nearby industrial productivity. The music came from Marvaney's portable phonograph-a larger, tin resonance chamber had been attached to increase the volume. Bradford didn't recognize the tune, but he rarely recognized any of the music recorded on the depleted, but still large collection of 78s the dead gunner's mate had owned. The surviving records were almost all upbeat American tunes: jazzy, or something the destroyermen called swing. There were a few whimsical Western songs, and some stuff the men called country that sounded more like Celtic chanteys than anything else. Bradford was a cla.s.sicist, and to his horror he'd learned the late Marvaney had been too, but most of his collection of that sort of music had been used as an object of weight to carry his corpse to the deep. Regardless, all the records were priceless relics now and were carefully maintained. It was rare that two songs were played in a row without a pause to sharpen the needle.

Bradford knew that sometimes, at night, they had live music at the Busted Screw. A small percentage of the Americans had been musicians, of a sort, and like virtually every item nonessential to the two destroyers' final sortie, their instruments had been off-loaded. There were several guitars, a pair of ukuleles, a trombone, and a saxophone from Walker Walker. A concertina, a trumpet, and a violin came from Mahan Mahan. Oddly, a pump organ, of all things, had been aboard S-19. Bradford knew s.p.a.ce had been extremely limited on the old submarine and he again wondered vaguely where it had been kept and how they'd managed to get it through a hatch to salvage it. It wasn't much larger than a console Victrola, but still . . . at least there'd been a considerable collection of cla.s.sical sheet music tucked inside. The original owner was dead, but a lot of the fellows could play a piano. Bradford couldn't, really, but he could read music. He'd attended a concert at the Busted Screw and had to say the sound created by the unlikely orchestra had been . . . unusual. Throw in a variety of Lemurian instruments, and he couldn't quite describe the result. He wasn't without hope that the bizarre ensemble might eventually be arranged into something less cacophonous.

Outside the Screw, on a makeshift hammock slung between two trees on the beach, Earl Lanier lounged in bloated repose. He wore shorts, "go-forwards," and had eyeshades on. There was a large, faded, bluish tattoo of a fouled anchor on his chest, pointing almost directly at a bright pink, puckered scar above his distended belly b.u.t.ton. He wore no shirt, and other than a thick mat of dark, curly hair, they were the only things upon his otherwise tanned, ample belly. Beside the hammock stood the battered, precious c.o.ke machine, powered by a doubtlessly clandestine heavy-gauge wire. As Courtney and Abel watched, a black-furred 'Cat with specks of white appeared, complete with a towel over his arm, and took a chilled mug of something from inside the machine and handed it to Lanier. Before Bradford could form an indignant comment, Pepper retrieved another pair of mugs and brought them over.

"One is, ah, you call it beer," he said, knowing Bradford's preference for the exceptional Lemurian brew. He looked at the boy before handing him a mug. "The other is a most benevolent and benign nectar."

"Thank you, dear fellow," Courtney said. "I was just about to ask why you put up with such treatment from that ludicrous creature."

Pepper grinned. "I like cool drinks," he said, and gestured toward the shade of the club, "and so do guys." He shrugged. "No happy Earl, no c.o.ke machine. Also, I like being a.s.sistant cook. I like to cook. You wanna eat?"

"Well, now that you mention it . . ." Courtney and Abel followed Pepper under the shade and plopped themselves on bar stools before a planked countertop.

"What'll it be?" Pepper asked as their eyes became accustomed to the shade. "I know you not like fish, but I got fresh pleezy-sore steaks."

"Plesiosaur," Bradford corrected, almost resignedly. "That will be fine. At least they aren't technically fish."

"It is quite good, actually," came a small voice nearby. Bradford squinted and realized that Princess Rebecca sat almost beside him.

"Goodness gracious, my dear!" Courtney exclaimed. "What on earth are you you doing here?" He glanced quickly around. Abel had suddenly become very still and Bradford suspected, if he could see it, he'd discover a deep blush covering the boy's face. Apparently, sometime during their seclusion on Talaud Island, the young midshipman became smitten with the princess. He wondered if he'd known she'd be here. "And where is that abominable Dennis Silva, your supposed protector?" doing here?" He glanced quickly around. Abel had suddenly become very still and Bradford suspected, if he could see it, he'd discover a deep blush covering the boy's face. Apparently, sometime during their seclusion on Talaud Island, the young midshipman became smitten with the princess. He wondered if he'd known she'd be here. "And where is that abominable Dennis Silva, your supposed protector?"

Silva popped up from behind the bar like a jack-in-the-box. He teetered slightly. "Right here, Mr. Bradford, and I'm ambulatin' fairly well. Thanks for askin'."

Courtney was taken aback by Silva's sudden, towering presence. He was also just about certain he'd quite understood the word "abominable." Silva had always traded shamelessly in being much more than he appeared to be, and that was doubly true now. Bradford liked the big gunner's mate-chief gunner's mate now-and honestly owed him multiple lives, but if Silva had been frightening before, the eye patch and spray of scars across his bearded face made him positively terrifying. Particularly since Bradford knew Silva's capacity for violence was exponentially greater than his appearance implied as well-and his appearance implied quite a lot. Nevertheless, he stood and faced the apparition with a stern glare.

"Mr. Silva, I find it difficult to believe even you would bring Her Highness to such an iniquitous place. Filthy, sweaty men and Lemurians often gather here and exchange ribald, obscene tales. There is foul speech, and on several occasions one of the Dutch . . . nannies nannies . . . we rescued from Talaud has actually performed a striptease! There have been fights, and contrary to regulations, there's often drunkenness. I won't go into your personal life and speculate upon what a poor example you set as a man, but bringing that child with you here is an act of irresponsible depravity!" . . . we rescued from Talaud has actually performed a striptease! There have been fights, and contrary to regulations, there's often drunkenness. I won't go into your personal life and speculate upon what a poor example you set as a man, but bringing that child with you here is an act of irresponsible depravity!"

Silva leered at him across the counter, and in his best Charles Laughton impression-which wasn't very good-he uttered a single word: "Flatterer!"

Bradford took a breath, preparing to launch another salvo.

"Then what does that say about you, Mr. Bradford, and your bringing Midshipman Cook," Princess Rebecca said, glancing at Abel and offering a small smile. Now that his eyes had adjusted, Bradford clearly saw the blush coloring the boy's face.

"Well," Courtney sputtered defensively, "but that is different, of course! He is young, but he's a warrior and needs male example. Perhaps not as . . . sharply defined an example as Mr. Silva, but . . ."

"Mr. Bradford," Rebecca continued, "I know Mr. Cook and consider him something of a friend." The boy's blush deepened, if that were possible. "You should remember we spent the better part of a year as castaways together. I also know he is barely older than I, and through no fault of his, I expect I have seen considerably more combat. Lawrence and I were aboard Walker Walker during the final fight with during the final fight with Amagi Amagi, if you will recall."

Speechless, Bradford glanced about. Only then did he see Lawrence himself, coiled in the sand like a cat where the sun could still reach him, staring back with what could only have been an amused expression. He was panting lightly, and immediately Bradford's mind shifted gears, wondering why Lawrence would lie in the sun . . . and pant . . . so close to shade. He shook his head.

"Besides," Rebecca said, ending the argument with her tone, "Mr. Silva did not bring me here; I brought him. He is still in some considerable pain from his wounds, you know, and a measured amount of seep helps alleviate that."

"Right," Silva said, resuming his search behind the counter as if he'd lost something. "I'm here for a medical treatment prescribed by medical treaters! I'm on limited, excyooged-excused duty." He vanished again entirely, groping on the floor.

"He's also quite incredibly bored," whispered Rebecca. "Captain Reddy said he must remain here when the expedition to Aryaal departs. He was not pleased. He understands understands, with Mr. O'Casey forced to remain in hiding and Billingsly's spies on the loose, that someone suitably menacing must watch out for me. But . . . he was not pleased."

"Where the devil did it go go?" came Silva's muted mumble.

"Say, what is is he looking for down there?" Bradford asked quietly. he looking for down there?" Bradford asked quietly.

Rebecca shrugged sadly. "It could be anything, but usually it's his eye." She shook her head at Bradford's expression. "He has not lost his mind, but he is is in danger of losing direction." She spoke louder. "And he has clearly had quite enough seep!" in danger of losing direction." She spoke louder. "And he has clearly had quite enough seep!"

They needed a break from the daily rains, Gilbert Yeager thought. The sun rode overhead, but it wouldn't do much about the humidity. Make it worse, maybe. Didn't matter. The pyres had long since ceased, but black smoke piled into the hazy sky, and the industrial smoke they were making now, combined with the humidity, made every breath an effort. He coughed. d.a.m.n, he wished he had a cigarette.

He sighed and took a pouch out of his pocket, stuffing some of the yellow leaves within into his mouth. Chewing vigorously, he tried to get through the waxy, resinlike coating to the genuine tobacco flavor within as quickly as he could. "Gotta be a way to clean this stuff off," he muttered. So far, everything they'd tried to remove the coating so the leaves could be smoked had failed. The native tobacco could be chewed, but it was practically toxic when lit.

The nearest sources of the choking smoke were a pair of crude, but functional locally made boilers. They'd been leveled atop layer upon layer of good firebrick on the once damp sh.o.r.e, but they'd long since cooked all the moisture from the ground around them. They roared and trembled with power in the red light of their own fires that seemed to diffuse upward around them. Dozens of 'Cat tenders tightened or adjusted valves, checked gauges, or scampered off on errands at the monosyllabic commands of another scrawny human, Isak Rueben.

The boilers powered several contraptions-none exactly alike, since each was virtually a handmade prototype-that chuffed along amiably enough, their twin pistons moving methodically up and down. Gouts of steam added even more humidity to the air with every revolution, but at least it was honest steam-not the useless, invisible kind the sun cooked out of the ground. The end use of each machine was a series of shafts, or in one case, a piston-pitman combination. One was a small, prototype ship's engine they were testing for durability. The others spun large generators in crudely cast casings that supplied ship-standard 120 DC electricity to various points.

More engines were under construction that would eventually supply electrical or mechanical power to the pumps that would drain the nearby basin. The mechanical pumps were of a remarkably sophisticated Lemurian design. The electric ones were, like everything else electrical, experimental models Riggs, Letts, Rodriguez, and Brister had conjured up. If Gilbert had any money and if anyone would accept it, he'd lay every dime that the electric pumps would croak the first time they tried them.

Tabby, the gray-furred 'Cat apprentice to the two original Mice, ran lightly up behind him and playfully tagged him on the shoulder, then scampered to where Isak was standing. Hands in his pockets, Gilbert sauntered over to join them. "How they doin'?" he asked, when he was near enough to be heard over the noise.

"Fair," Isak replied skeptically. "Fair to middlin'. They ain't turbines," he accused no one in particular, "but they're engines. Least we got a real job again."

Gilbert nodded. They'd finally trained enough 'Cat roughnecks to take their places in the oilfields, both near Baalkpan and on Tarakan Island. The relief was palpable to them both. They hated the oilfields. Their time in the oilfields back home was what drove them into the Navy in the first place. They'd become firemen, and that was all they really wanted to do. Everyone called them the White Mice, because before the event that brought them here, they never went anywhere but the fireroom and they'd developed an unhealthy pallor as a result. They actually resembled rodents, too, with their narrow faces and thin, questing noses. n.o.body ever liked them before, but now everyone treated them like heroes-which they were-Tabby included. First, they'd designed the rig that found oil when the ship was completely out. Then they'd managed to maintain enough steam pressure to get Walker Walker to the shipyard after the fight. They were remarkably valuable men, but all their popularity hadn't changed them much. Everyone liked them now, but they still didn't like anybody, it seemed. Except for Tabby. to the shipyard after the fight. They were remarkably valuable men, but all their popularity hadn't changed them much. Everyone liked them now, but they still didn't like anybody, it seemed. Except for Tabby.

They'd originally treated the 'Cat like a pet, even though she'd proven herself in the fireroom. She'd even saved both of their lives at the end, by pulling them out of the escape trunk as the ship settled beneath them. Now she was one of them, another Mouse, even if she didn't look anything like one.

"I think they swell," Tabby said, referring to the engines in a pa.s.sable copy of their lazy drawl.

"Yah, sure . . . for a myoo-zeeum. They're a hunnerd years outta date."

"Buildin' a pair of 'em with three cylinders, triple-expansion jobs-ten times as big-for Big Sal Big Sal, I hear," Isak said.

Tabby's eyes blinked amazement. "Be somethin', to be chief of that."

"You expectin' a promotion?" Gilbert asked accusingly. "h.e.l.l, they've made gen'rals an' ad'mrals outta ever'body else, why not you?"

"I never be aahd-mah-raal," she retorted, angry enough to let her language and accent slip. She looked at the engine. "But chief be nice." She turned on Gilbert. "But only if you two be chief-chiefs."

The two men remained apologetically silent for a moment. It was their version of abject contrition. Finally, Isak spoke: "Bosun been to talk to you two?" he asked. Gilbert and Tabby both nodded. "One of us gots to go on the mission they're cookin' up, he says, since they're takin' the first new steam frigates." He pointed at the engine. "They've got one like that, only bigger. That's why we been testin' it to failure." He grunted. "Least this time they're lettin' us us decide." He looked at Tabby. "An' this time she's in the pool as deep as us. Metallurgy aside, Tabby prob'ly knows these jug jumpers decide." He looked at Tabby. "An' this time she's in the pool as deep as us. Metallurgy aside, Tabby prob'ly knows these jug jumpers better better than us. Bosun'd have to find a three-sided coin to make up his mind." than us. Bosun'd have to find a three-sided coin to make up his mind."

"You just said it," Gilbert accused. "It don't matter what we decide. They'll keep her here just because o' that!"

"Maybe we oughta go ahead an' tell 'em we're sorta related after all," Isak murmured. "Tell 'em we can't bear to be apart." He snickered at his own remark. He and Gilbert had never let on that they were half brothers. There was a certain resemblance often remarked upon, but usually in a mocking fashion. Besides, their last names were different. They'd never told anyone, because not only did they have different fathers, but their mother never married either man. In a sense, they figured that made them each kind of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and a half. Things like that didn't seem to matter as much to them as they once had, but they still saw no need to brand it on their foreheads. "h.e.l.l, if it comes to it, I'll go," Isak said. "Kinda got the wanderl.u.s.t flung on me the last time they busted us up."

"You didn't do any wanderin'," Gilbert accused. "You just stayed on that d.a.m.n island while me and Tabby went a-wanderin'."

Isak nodded. "Yep. That's what I mean."

"Well," said Gilbert, clearly relieved, "just don't get ate."

With a look around the noisy ordnance shop to make sure no one was paying any particular attention, Dennis Silva clamped the brand-new musket barrel in the mill vise. The barrel was made of relatively mild steel plate, about three-eighths of an inch thick, taken from Amagi Amagi's superstructure. Dennis figured they could ultimately salvage enough of the stuff from Amagi Amagi alone to make millions of barrels, if they wanted. The plate had been cut and forged around a mandrel, reamed to its final interior diameter, and turned to its finished contour. Finally, it was threaded and breeched. It was a simple process really, with the equipment they had, but it had just been perfected, and only a few of the barrels were complete. Dennis figured the odds were about even that Bernie would have a spasm when he noticed one missing. alone to make millions of barrels, if they wanted. The plate had been cut and forged around a mandrel, reamed to its final interior diameter, and turned to its finished contour. Finally, it was threaded and breeched. It was a simple process really, with the equipment they had, but it had just been perfected, and only a few of the barrels were complete. Dennis figured the odds were about even that Bernie would have a spasm when he noticed one missing.

So far, the Captain and "Sonny" Campeti hadn't insisted that Dennis return to his duties full-time-they must have understood he had issues to sort out: some physical, a few domestic. He doubted their forbearance would last much longer. He was malingering, in a sense, and even he was beginning to feel bad about that. There was a lot he could be doing, after all. Should be doing. But he was a blowtorch. He'd go full-blast while there was fuel in the tanks, but when they were empty, they were empty. He'd needed this time to refuel, not only physically, but mentally-to put the "old" Dennis Silva back together. The time was just about right, and if the truth were known, he was actually starting to get a little antsy to return to duty. Besides, he had some ideas.

Carefully focusing his one good eye on the neatly scribed lines he'd drawn on the breech end, he cranked the table up and powered the mill. The cutter spun up and he turned a valve that started misting it with the oily coolant Spanky had devised. Slowly, he turned the crank in front of him. The cutter went through the breech like b.u.t.ter and he turned the other crank on the right side of the table and pulled the cutter back through the breech, widening the gap. Half a dozen more pa.s.ses gave him the rectangular opening he wanted in the top of the barrel's breech.

"Oops," he mumbled happily, "I guess this barrel's ruined!"

He brushed the chips away and replaced the cutter with another that would leave a rounded, dovetail shape. He measured the depth, traversed the table, and made a single pa.s.s at the front of his rectangular cut. Changing the cutter again, to one with a slight taper, he made a final cut at the breech. Looking closely to make sure he'd hit all his lines, he switched off the machine and removed the barrel from the vise.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you, Silva, what the h.e.l.l are you up to now?" came an incredulous bellow. A lesser mortal might have at least flinched just a bit despite the almost plaintive note to the shout.

"Goofin' off," Dennis replied mildly. "Cool your breech, Mr. Sandison. Ol' Silva's just keepin' hisself 'occupied,' like you said."

For an instant, Bernie was speechless. "Cool my my breech? You just hacked a hole in the breech of one of my new musket barrels and you tell me that?" He looked almost wildly around. "Where's Campeti? If you won't listen to me, maybe he can control you! In fact, I want him to breech? You just hacked a hole in the breech of one of my new musket barrels and you tell me that?" He looked almost wildly around. "Where's Campeti? If you won't listen to me, maybe he can control you! In fact, I want him to hang hang you!" you!"

"Why's ever'body always want to hang me?" Silva asked, as if genuinely curious. "Calm down, Bernie, you'll hurt yourself. You 'c.u.mulated a extra hole or two in the big fight yourself, if I recall. If you start leakin', Lieutenant Tucker's gonna get sore, and she'll have the skipper down on you. He'll make you take a rest, and you'll be countin' waves in the bay at the Screw while Campeti runs this joint. Besides, just 'cause I'm goofin' off don't mean I'd dee-stroy a perfectly good musket barrel without a pretty good reason."

Bernie paused and took a breath. Silva was right. He was a maniac, but when it came to implements of destruction, if he wasn't actually a genius, he was at least a prodigy of some monstrous sort. He still had his "personal" BAR, and was one of the few people allowed to run around with such a profligate weapon and a full battle pack of precious ammunition. His new favorite weapon however, that he carried just about everywhere he went, was of an entirely different sort. Bernie glanced at the thing where it leaned near Silva's workstation with the bag of necessary equipment it required.

It had begun life as an antiaircraft gun aboard shattered Amagi Amagi, a Type 96, twenty-five millimeter. The breech had been damaged in the battle and the flash hider shot away, so Silva "appropriated" it during one of their early trips to the wreck to salvage anything that remained above water. He told Sandison what he was doing, and the still painfully wounded (like nearly everyone) torpedo officer and Minister of Ordnance gave his blessing to the project. For most of his life, before joining the Navy, Silva had just been on the loose. For a time however, he'd worked for an old-school gunsmith near Athens, Tennessee. In that part of the country, even in the mid-thirties, many guns they worked on were old-fashioned muzzle loaders, even flintlocks. His time there was probably what made him strike for the ordnance division in the Navy. In any event, he'd learned a lot about "old-timey" guns, so Sandison gave him the flintlock from the shortened musket O'Casey had when they rescued him.