Fleet of Ghosts

Chapter 1

Baalkpan, Borno

November 1946

The big four-engine seaplane, a PB5-D "Clipper," blue on top and white on bottom, roared into a banking descent over the glittering, bustling Baalkpan Bay. The Mi-Anakka city of Baalkpan, roughly where Balikpapan, Borneo, would've been, had grown from a quaint, if populous, early iron-age equivalent Lemurian "land Home" outpost on the densely jungled island of Borno into a thriving, industrial, frankly overcrowded metropolis in barely five years. Its character had changed just as dramatically and few who hadn't witnessed its transformation would even recognize it now.

When the elderly war-torn US Asiatic Fleet destroyer USS Walker and her crew first steamed into Baalkpan Bay in early 1942, she'd escaped the overwhelming juggernaut of the Imperial Japanese Navy on another world but had dropped right into an existential war against the marauding semi-reptilian Grik alongside their new Lemurian friends. Back then, nearly every dwelling and structure onshore had been built on stilts or incorporated trees to achieve the necessary elevation to protect their inhabitants from local predators. Now those dreadful creatures had been pushed back from the sprawling, expanding city, and preexisting structures had been built "down" to the ground. Nearly all new construction was free-standing.

Now that the Great War-ultimately against far more than the Grik-was technically over, civilian commerce in the bay was coming back to life. It even retained some traditional aspects, supporting the gigantic seagoing Homes, which were floating mobile cities themselves, in exchange for the meat and oil of huge gri-kakka (plesiosaurs). Seagoing Lemurians had hunted those beasts throughout recorded history and gri-kakka meat, fish, wild land game, and now captive-raised animals of all sorts were in high demand to feed Baalkpan's growing population. With the widespread and increasing use of petroleum, one might've thought there'd be little demand for gri-kakka oil these days, but not only was it still used for cooking and lighting, it was a superior natural lubricant. Above all, every boiler in the city and along the waterfront that powered a vast array of machinery, from pumps, cranes, compressors, lathes, mills-whatever-had switched back to gri-kakka oil from petroleum. The smoke stank worse but was easier on the lungs.

That was important because Baalkpan's heavy industry was still booming, still largely devoted to shipbuilding, aircraft manufacture, and technological experimentation and development. This mitigated against the economic crunch the postwar drawdown imposed on many of its fellow Homes and allies, not to mention employing many veterans. And Baalkpan could afford it. Not only were more and more of its industries in private hands, veterans pooling their unspent pay to form corporations, but the things they produced-those ships, planes, weapons, fuel, radios, and conveniences as simple as light bulbs-remained in high demand all over. Most other Homes in the Union, with wartime industries of their own that were easily adapted to civilian pursuits, benefited as well. A few, like Sular on the island of Saa-Leebs, had been under extremely misguided, even traitorous leadership, and hadn't done much to benefit their postwar economies. They were suffering now. But even the great seagoing Homes still had a commercial purpose that allowed them to continue plying the seas as Homes as they always had, now even as far as some of Baalkpan's allies, such as the Empire of the New Britain Isles and Republic of Real People.

Both those nations arguably already had a greater industrial capacity than Baalkpan, perhaps even combined with the Filpin Lands, and were increasingly involved in military and tech development as well. But Baalkpan was the capital of the "United Homes," or simply "The Union," which was a new and diverse republic that included nearly every land mass from the Filpin Lands to Indiaa and Malaysia south to Austraal, as well as a large number of those seagoing Homes, all of which enjoyed representation in the Union Assembly. And despite no longer being the most populous city in the Grand Alliance, or even the largest economy, Baalkpan's senior membership and still somewhat central location ensured that it remained the headquarters of that far-flung association of cooperative military powers, with members as far away as Africaa to the west and the Americas in the east.

Leveling off for its approach to the buoy-marked zone strictly reserved for seaplanes, the powerful, reliable, but ungainly-looking aircraft touched down on the water and ponderously rumbled and shuddered to a stately, spume-spraying taxi speed. The pilot cut the two inboard engines and proceeded to maneuver toward shore, where the new seaplane docks and terminal building had replaced the old fitting-out pier. The earliest of several "new" fitting-out piers was just across a basin where the oldest and still biggest dry dock had been constructed. It had been vastly updated and improved, of course.

A 'Cat line handler climbed out of a hatch on top of the plane's fuselage and raced barefoot out on the reinforced centerline behind the engines on the broad portside wing to hurl a rope to a gathering of uniformed Navy 'Cats on the dock. As soon as they caught it and began heaving in, the plane's outboard engines slowed to a popping idle. Another rope flew out of the gunner's/observer's port in the waist. When it was expertly seized and drawn in as well, the pilot finally cut the remaining engines. Their rumble was replaced by the voices of 'Cats chittering in their own language to coordinate bringing the high hatch on the plane up to the dock. Moments later, the hatch swung open and a round grinning face with wide inquisitive eyes emerged, blinking under the hot, humid sunlight and looking about with an expression of wonder. Stepping quickly out on the dock, he straightened a long-tailed bright yellow shirt, hitched up his white, somewhat oversize trousers, and plopped a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head to protect his balding red pate from the sun. Grasping his hands behind his back, he anxiously bounced on the balls of his feet and waited for his companion to join him. After many unlikely adventures and a longer absence than most, the one-time Australian petroleum engineer on another world, hobby scientist and naturalist, frequent ambassador and occasional general-once briefly even an admiral-Courtney Bradford was "home" at last.

"Oh, do hurry, Mr. Cook," he scolded back into the plane. "I can't wait to explore the city anew! So much has changed!"

Marine Captain Abel Cook, tall and slender and dressed in his blues, struggled through the hatch with his and Courtney's seabags over his shoulders. He'd just been a kid when he came to this world, not aboard Walker or USS Mahan, but "evacuated" from Surabaya, Java, in the old submarine S-19 with a bunch of other children of British diplomats and Dutch officials. Like those aboard the two destroyers, and ultimately several other ships and planes, they never reached their destination. All the children in S-19 wound up serving in the war-as soon as they were old enough-but young Abel Cook and Nathaniel "Nat" Hardee, both now barely twenty-one, had especially distinguished themselves. Abel had even reached the rank of major in Colonel Chack Sab-At's Marine Raider Brigade, but like so many others who wanted to remain "regulars," especially in the Marines, he had to take a rank cut. It was in fact widely rumored that Chack's Raiders would be reduced to a single active regiment, and General Pete Alden's beloved 1st Marine Division would effectively become a brigade because Marine contingents for all Navy ships would be drawn from it.

And the Marines and Navy had it better than most of the "peacetime" Allied forces because they belonged directly to the "Ameri-caan Navy Claan" under the high chieftainship of Captain Matthew Reddy. Though subject to the authority of the Chairperson of the United Homes, Safir-Maraan, Matt Reddy remained a head of state in his own right. And besides being partially financially supported by the other clans in the Union, for the benefit of everyone, the Navy Clan had its own source of revenue in the oil-rich island of Tarakan, among a few other possessions. Matt Reddy used his clan's financial windfalls to maintain, upgrade, and expand the fleet, and take care of his people, of course.

"There won't be time for exploring, Mr. Bradford," Abel patiently reminded. "We're expected to report directly upon arrival."

"Nonsense," Courtney huffed. "They can't have been serious about that."

Abel nodded down the dock toward the terminal. "I believe they were, and it looks like they sent a welcoming committee to impress that upon us."

"Hmm," Courtney grumbled, glancing at the collection of 'Cats and men in Navy whites and tie-dyed Marine combat smocks. "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Cook. They do look like they're waiting for us, and rather impatiently at that." He smiled. "But I'm sure you outrank them. You can direct one of them to handle my bag!"


Courtney and Abel, both relieved of their burdens, were escorted through the terminal to the teeming street beyond. This one, like all streets servicing the waterfront industrial quarter, had been hard paved, and a paalka-drawn coach was waiting to carry them to the Great Hall. Paalkas probably resembled moose more than anything, with longer forelegs than rear, and an even more disapproving gaze. Few horses had been imported to Borno from the Americas yet and paalkas-themselves imported from the Filpin Lands-remained the primary beasts of burden. The very heaviest loads were increasingly shifted by machinery so the troublesome “brontasarries” were rarely used anymore.

Unlike the rest of the city, little had changed immediately around the Great Hall, which had long since become a vast shady park. The whole area had been cleared to become the training ground for the first army raised to defend the city but was now a hallowed cemetery. The Great Hall itself had once been supported entirely by the stupendous Great Tree of Baalkpan, the only full-grown example of a Galla tree anywhere besides Madagascar. (Madagascar was also-probably-the ancestral home of all Lemurians.) But the Great Hall had finally been built down to the ground, like so many structures, and upward as well. This to accommodate the many additional purposes to which it had adapted. The high chief of Baalkpan still theoretically dwelled there, sharing it with the Union Assembly Chairperson, but since the advent of the Union, that had been the same person. The last chairman had been Alan Letts, USS Walker's former supply officer, who'd been assassinated along with a number of other officials and a great many civilians by an escaped League prisoner and some malcontents from Sular. The highly admired General Queen Safir-Maraan, from B'mbaado, had succeeded him by acclimation. The level below her Hall was devoted to "Department" offices, including that for War, and the one for Strategic Intelligence, where they were headed at present. The entire ground floor was the Union Assembly room. Other offices and new multistory embassies had risen to surround the venerated park.

Exiting the paalka-drawn coach, Courtney and Abel were politely conducted through the spacious, empty Assembly room and up one of three sets of stairs. At the top was another young 'Cat Marine, who led them down a corridor. At the end was an open window with actual cloudy glass in it (the very best glass was still reserved for ships and planes), but also a partially open door under a hand-painted sign that read, Intelligence.

"Oh dear," Courtney said with a chuckle. "'Intelligence,' is it? I fear we've come to the wrong place."

"You may be right," came a bellow in a much stronger Australian accent than Courtney's. "But here's where yer wanted. Get in here, both'a ya. Bloody damn flight schedule had ya here last night."

They stepped into a large dark wood office with an electric fan laboring in front of another open window behind a long desk. The fan could do nothing about the humidity, but it pulled fresh, shaded air into the room and moved it about. Two men and a tall, gray Lemurian stood up from behind the desk as if they shared it. Maybe they did. It was certainly large enough. Just a couple of folders were on it at present. Two people were also there, rising from a pair of the half dozen chairs and stools across from the desk. The chairs were for humans. Lemurian tails made them uncomfortable and they much preferred cushions, but stools would do.

Abel Cook quickly came to attention, recognizing all those in the room and their lofty positions. The one who'd spoken was Henry Stokes, a former Leading Seaman aboard the Australian light cruiser HMAS Perth, sunk along with the American heavy cruiser USS Houston in a furious night action against the Japanese on another world. He came to this one as a POW in the hold of the hellish Japanese prison ship Mizuki Maru. Wiry and bearded, with little formal education, he still looked and acted more like a well-dressed ruffian in his Imperial-style weskit, knee breeches, and tall brown boots than one might expect of the Director of Strategic Intelligence for the United Homes. His sharp, native intellect, cunning, and life experience had trained him well for his post.

Standing on his right was Doocy Meek, Stokes's colleague in the service of the Republic of Real People, in southern Africaa. He was an older, burlier man, also bearded, who'd ironically come to this world as a prisoner of war as well-a British merchant seaman taken aboard the German passenger liner turned commerce raider SMS Amerika before his ship was scuttled. That was in a previous war, back in 1914, and he and numerous other involuntary passengers of Amerika had been treated infinitely more gently by their German captors than Stokes and his fellow survivors were by the Japanese in 1942. Finding themselves all "here" together, everyone aboard Amerika jointly cooperated with their new countrymen-human, Lemurian, and Gentaa-in the Republic. They weren't the first to do so. The Republic's geography practically ensured frequent infusions of displaced refugees and their technology over the ages. Amerika helped bring it into the early twentieth century.

Standing in front of one of the chairs in immaculate whites, grinning and shaking his reddish-brown-haired head while he leaned slightly forward, hands on hips, was Captain Brad "Spanky" McFarlane. He wasn't tall or heavily built, but his personality always left people with the impression he was bigger than he was. Having started on this world as USS Walker's engineering officer, he was now Matt Reddy's "XO," not just of the fleet, but the whole American Navy Clan. Currently overseeing naval construction and innovation at Baalkpan, he was also commodore of the "Home Squadron." Abel briefly wondered how big the squadron was. He hadn't seen much of a military nature moored in the bay.