Part 12: Revolyutsiy Nadeshda

Shek Kip Mei Park, Hong Kong SAR

March 15th, 2016

Richardson slept as well in the great outdoors – Schuhart's words – as she had in the urbs, if not better. It seemed customary for her and Harrington both to rise well before the other gosta, and so the pair of them crept out of the gaggle of tents while the clouds above reluctantly brightened with dawn's coming.

The park must have been a pleasant location once, before their fellow gosta turned it – Schuhart's words again – into 'Vimy Ridge without any ridge.' Richardson didn't know what Vimy was, but she had learned from Uncle Roland that this part of the city had been destroyed by a fire in the previous century and rebuilt into a public housing area. "If the sky eyes want to make some friends here," he'd remarked as the girls went off to bed, "perhaps they should try to learn something from that."

Uncle Roland, however, did not presently appear to be in the vicinity. Wandering in the direction of the park's shattered and thoroughly muddied pond, the pair instead encountered the second of yesterday's forime visitors. She was doing pushups in the grass, accompanied by a compact radio. "...Spokesman for the British National Party refused to comment on the allegations," a faraway newsreader was reciting. "A representative for the alien side only stated that the Arume are not interested in a social hierarchy based on racial classification... The San Theodoran government-in-exile today released a broadside from president-in-exile Juan Maria Alcazar y Bazarov, denying that his late parents embezzled vast sums from the country's treasury between 1976 and – "

The radio was abruptly switched off. "Today in the news: our innocent young virgins threatened by lascivious extraterrestrials." The exercising girl's accent was almost identical to the newsreader's. "World-plus-dog seethes with indignation, film at eleven." She straightened, brushing off her skirt and straightening a crimson tie. "Good morning, ladies."

"Good morning," Richardson replied politely. "Do you know where Uncle Roland is?"

"He's up at Sha Tin, checking over the treatment plant. Won't be back before lunch, I hear." The earlier bird stretched her brown arms and shook her head briskly, the short blond ponytail at the back whipping sideways. "So you two are his star proteges?"

Richardson wasn't immediately sure whether the question was a compliment or an insult. She cautiously opted for the former. "Yes."

"We weren't properly introduced yesterday." The forime girl curtsied. "My name's Laforey, Camilla Laforey."

"I am Harrington," the so-named gosta replied briskly, "and this is my partner, Richardson." As with the conversation regarding Colonel Kang, she looked to be taking what Nereus had called the 'bad-cop' stance. "You came with Uncle Karan... Are you also Indian?"

"English." Camilla gestured to her face. "Lived in Delhi for a couple of years, but I owe the complexion to a Berber grandmother."

"Why did Uncle Roland appear unhappy to see you?"

"I didn't tell him I was coming," Camilla explained. "I'm supposed to be behaving myself, staying out of trouble... Staying away from places like this."

"Trouble?" Richardson tensed. Had this person done something?

"You needn't look at me that way," the forime laughed. "My father is a man with a lot of enemies, you see. He used to be very powerful, but now he's in hiding... Me, I'm no criminal – just a girl who can't stand living in a cage."

"Why did you come here?"

"This city was a second home for me once." Camilla bent and picked up a leather holster from beside the radio, strapping it under her arm. "Seeing it reduced to rubble makes me angry."

"You're here to fight the Arume," Harrington expounded.

"Hm." The young woman drew a sleek pistol and held it at arm's length, hefting its weight. "I suppose I am."

"How do you know Uncle Roland?"

"I first met him last year, in a museum downtown." Camilla pointed to the southeast. "Some thugs employed by an enemy of my father tried to abduct our family there. Schuhart killed them as easily as other people swat flies." She shook her head. "Straight-up heroic bloodshed material – I have to admit I was enthralled... Then he went off to help some soldier, Guang or Kang or somebody like that, respond to a second kidnapping. I heard later that fifty-four bodies went to the morgue that night." The pistol was returned to its resting place. "Besides all that, we shared a hobby and he was stimulating in conversation." She broke off to grant a doubtful look at the pair's colorful windbreakers, shorts and sneakers, children's clothing issued to replace their old bodysuits. "Though I have doubts about his fashion sense... When I learned what he's up to now, how could I not come running?"

The gosta shared a look. "And... what is it that you do?" Richardson inquired.

"I'm not sure yet," Camilla admitted. "I brought my own Browning and I can shoot and march as well as any. Father and Schuhart would both say I'm too young, but plenty of fine Englishmen went off to war at my age before me... I suppose I'll simply have to find a niche and fill it." She looked at the gosta as if an idea were forming behind those emerald eyes. "What's our charming friend Roland taught you so far?"

"Battle rifle basics," Richardson answered, quoting Schuhart exactly. "Bolt-action and semiautomatic. Handling, stripping, cleaning, assembling, loading, aiming, firing."

"Just that?"

"...Yes. And Uncle Karan has begun teaching us marksman theory."

"Well, then!" Camilla clapped her hands. "Since Master Schuhart is out and Karan is getting some badly needed shuteye, what say you to spending the morning in my humble company?"

Richardson exchanged another look with Harrington. "Doing... what?" the latter queried.

"Let's see... Bayonet instruction is a good start, I should think – gives you strong arms and quick feet, and no ammunition wasted."

That didn't sound so bad. "All right," said Richardson. "If the pack leader gives approval."

"We'll soon have it." Camilla began briskly marching back towards the tent camp. "Single file," she barked. "Lively now! Left-right-left-right-left..!"

Azanael wasn't a morning person.

That was what she told herself, anyway. Certainly she didn't enjoy being rolled out of her bunk at an obscene hour only to be informed that she'd been transferred from flying cargo to flying reconnaissance. Under other conditions she might be grateful for the change in pace, but the timing of the move left her with a dread certainty that this was either punishment for something or an expedient method of getting rid of her. At least her new ship didn't steer like one of the worn-down, underpowered barges she'd seen during countless childhood trips to the mainland. As she zoomed over an endless expanse of gray ocean with no blips on the scanner and the controls on autopilot, the weary Arume let her mind wander a little.

Last night's hasty conference bothered her: however much Elaqebil chided her, the pilot couldn't help but think back to her own manipulation by Shivariel. It had been nearly sixteen years since then, true enough, but Azanael wasn't convinced that things had changed much. She smelled a conspiracy, but how to find evidence? The insistent beeping from the instrument panel told her she'd have to think about it later – her first mission objective was coming into range, which meant it was time to ease up on the throttle and resume manual control. Standing orders were simple: fly a couple of orbits and let the automated instruments get a good view of the target. The analysts aboard Magnanimous Hyacinth would take care of the rest.

The target didn't look like much from a distance. It was a lone ship, a narrow gray vessel plowing steadily to the west. As she drew nearer, however, Azanael made out the shapes of masts bristling with radar arrays and boxy missile launchers placed at odd angles along the upper surfaces. The destroyer mounted a large gun in a forward turret and multiple torpedo launchers to boot. A dark green helicopter was lashed to the landing pad atop the aft superstructure, looking almost comically large on its undersized perch. The warship flew no flag and carried no name – the only mark was a white number painted on each face of the rust-streaked, wave-battered bow: 921.

Azanael could see men moving about on deck, watching as she circled, but the ship sailed on indifferently. When the instruments signaled that her task was complete, she flew on. Four minutes bearing northeast brought the scout flier within view of the second objective: a destroyer identical to the first, down to the too-large helicopter it carried. Again the only mark was a number: 925. The pilot flew her course, the cameras snapped their pictures and the ships pushed on, steaming ever closer to a ravaged city on the Chinese coast.

One minute beside an MG42 forever convinced Richardson that she never wanted to be either directly behind or directly before the infernal device so long as she lived: its ripping roar blotted out all other noise despite her earplugs and Sauer – who'd volunteered to operate the machine gun and was loving every moment of it – seemed to spend more time reloading and changing barrels than she did firing. She was just now engaged in the latter task yet again, opening a large latch with a white-gloved hand and casually dumping the hot barrel into a steel bucket of water. Catching Richardson's eye as she inserted its cool replacement, the tousle-haired gosta flashed a look of exhilaration.

Camilla's plan for morning bayonet aerobics had lasted about as long as it took for Keiko to get her boots on. By the time Karan came running, shoes in one hand and socks in the other, the dusky-skinned girl's scheme had expanded into a full live-fire exercise for all the gosta. The equipment lineup changed as well, substituting a pile of idle weapons from what Keiko called the 'swamp stock' in place of yesterday's hardware, dropping the luxury of small-caliber trainers and forcing Richardson and the rest to learn a whole new nomenclature, with strange terms like 'Gewehr' and 'Maschinenpistole'. The rigorous training stretched right past lunchtime and made one's head hurt as much as one's limbs.

Still, the girl reasoned as she pressed the butt of her rifle against her throbbing shoulder, it was better that being easy prey for the enemy. A few minutes more and she could swap places with one of Camilla's trainees, exchanging the Karabiner for a submachine gun and mock hand grenades.

"If you think it's bad now," Karan had warned her, "just wait until you meet targets which shoot back."

Renaril was rapidly sliding into utter apathy. The workload had diminished enough for her staff to handle incoming and outgoing traffic, but the group commander's misery dragged down everyone's spirits. The best she'd come up with for a distraction was a series of random selections dredged from the mainframe's meager listing of texts pertaining to her jurisdiction. She'd so far skimmed through Confucius – stale, sexist and obsessed with conformity, she thought – followed by Daoism, of which she could make little sense, and the larger sects of Chinese Buddhism, on which her evaluation was still pending. Now she was working through something more practical, though absorbing the details only sporadically.

The hiss of the command room door opening diverted the officer's attention: a spin of her chair brought her face to face with her ever-sour rival Benacirael. "Here," the latter grunted, tossing an electronic data card at Renaril. "Look at this, and hurry up."

Renaril did a quarter-turn to retrieve her PDA from the console dashboard, nudged it out of standby mode and inserted the card. "A ship..?" she asked, flipping through the photographs.

"Two." Benacirael placed her hands on her bare, pale hips. "The Taiwanese destroyers Liao Yang and Te Yang, heading for Hong Kong. If nothing is done, they'll reach the city tomorrow."

Renaril sighed. "So now the Republic of China is intervening..?"

"Look again," Benacirael ordered. When the other's blank look didn't change, she shook her head. "They're carrying no flags, flying no colors. Those ships were decommissioned and sold off. Apparently the Cambodian government was going to buy them but backed out at the last minute. Since then they've officially been laid up pending disposal."

"Well... Who owns them now?"

"Who do you think?" Benacirael tapped a finger against the side of her head. "Roland Schuhart does, dammit! He couldn't sell them to Cambodia, so now he's bringing them to Hong Kong."

"The Hong Kong crisis zone has been transferred to your authority, per fleet command's orders," Renaril parroted flippantly. "Why'd you even bother telling me about this?"

"One, your friend the chubby superintendent won't stop breathing down my neck. Two, my jurisdiction doesn't extend to Chinese territorial waters." She wrinkled her nose. "Three, you'd throw a fit if I did anything out there without you clearing it."

"How nice of you to wait for my approval," Renaril replied tartly. "I assume you want to just blow them up."

"I'd love to, were 'show restraint' not the watchword of the day." Benacirael cocked her head. "Just so you know, we're implementing a blockade of the operations area. While you were moping about and dragging your heels up here, the enemy was resupplying from Macau and Guangzhou. That ends tonight, get it? Schuhart can't hold out forever if we isolate him." The officer plainly enjoyed the idea. "Starve the scum for a bit, then clean them right out..."

"And what if they don't wait for you to come?"

"All the better." Benacirael turned away. "I've got work to do. You know where to find me, but don't waste my time." Halfway out the door, she paused momentarily. "You look horrible, you know that? Get out of this stuffy closet and take a walk or something, why don't you?"

She departed on that note, leaving Renaril ever more depressed. "This is it," she mumbled. "It's all going to fall down on us..."

"Ahem." One of the two aides cleared her throat. "Group Commander, may I speak freely?"

"Sure."

The junior officer rose to her feet. "Okay, look – I don't like that woman at all, but she has a point about your behavior. If you dislike the way things are turning out, why aren't you taking charge? Making decisions? Being a leader? We can stamp orders and format documents all day, but you are still the commander here."

"I know," Renaril moaned. "I know and I don't know! I don't know what's really going on or who I can trust, never mind how I'm supposed to snatch it all back from that – that..!"

"Group Commander!" The aide squared her shoulders, holding a fist in salute. "I, Negadael, will follow whatever orders you give. Even if you are surrounded by lies and treachery, I will support you." She cast a pointed look at the other subordinate, busily typing away at her station as if nothing unusual were going on. "Eripol, back me up here!"

"Yeah, sounds good to me," Eripol answered absently, still typing. After several seconds she turned her head to look at Renaril. "We're here for you, ma'am. What's it going to be?"

It was a touching display of confidence, to be sure, but Renaril didn't feel any clouds parting. She slouched in her seat, listlessly dropping the PDA on the top of her own workstation. As she did this, however, a piece of text near the bottom of her screen caught her eye: If you know the enemy as you know yourself, it read, you will fare well in numerous battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, you will lose as often as you win. If you know neither yourself nor the enemy, every battle will bring you great danger. The frustrated Arume blinked a few times, then scrolled up to the beginning of the same chapter and reread everything. She'd been in such a funk before that none of the ancient wisdom it offered had actually been absorbed into her consciousness. After rereading it all a second time, she pushed herself out of her chair.

Negadael was watching her apprehensively, perhaps aware that she'd been grossly out of place to say what she had. "Have you decided?" she asked at last.

"I've got an idea," said Renaril softly. "First of all, I need some concise information on arms dealers: what and where they buy and sell, what interests them, that kind of thing – never mind Schuhart specifically... Also see what you can find on contemporary mercenary and private military companies, and get whatever technical details you can for these ships." She pulled the data card out of the PDA and handed it to Eripol. "And some up to date weather forecasts for the Hong Kong ops area would be useful, if you can swipe any. I'll be back in a little while."

She'd been trying to grasp it all backwards, Renaril finally understood. Putting the vehicle ahead of the animal, was that how forime said it? Or was it that she had missed the forest for the trees?

"Tank desant," Daemon said, lecturing the gosta in the center of the park, "is a pretty dangerous business – we probably wouldn't teach very much of it if we weren't so poorly mechanized." He summarized this point on the portable blackboard beside him with a rod of sickly yellow chalk. "For the curious, 'desant' comes from the French for 'descent' by way of Russian and is here used in a sense of disembarking rather than falling." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Of course, careless desant will bring you plenty of falls as well... In theory, desant from a tank is pretty simple: the infantry ride atop the tank until contact with the enemy is anticipated or actual. Ideally the tank then slows down long enough for the infantry to jump off, after which the tank and infantry fight together. Having done this myself a couple of times, I assure you that falling off will be your least worry if you ride into battle as described: not only will you be an inviting target, sitting up high where every damned punter can see you, but you will also be entirely exposed to splash damage from anti-tank weapons."

"Even worse is splash damage from flying mud," one of his Russian assistants added cheerfully. "Ride in front, catch bullets – ride in back, catch mud instead!"

"That too," the African conceded irritably. "Anyway, the point is that this is a hazardous tactic and should be avoided unless absolutely necessary. A far safer practice is to – yes, Laforey, what is it?"

"Keiko wants you," Camilla said shortly. "Schuhart is coming back with prisoners."

"I'm back," Renaril announced. "Got anything new?"

"Forecast says the clouds will dissipate tomorrow night," Negadael reported. "Eripol is, ah, working on that summary for you."

"First part's done, if you want to see it now." The other aide punched a command macro. "It's on your terminal."

"Thank you." The group commander eased into her seat and opened the file. "This is quite a list of names," she remarked, looking over the header. "Zaharoff, Nanda, Wanta, Khashoggi, Cummings, Bout, Schreiber, Werbell... Why is Cummings highlighted?"

"Well," said Eripol casually, "I thought I'd save a little time by having a peek at what our competitor is researching. It seems Benacirael is quite interested in this Cummings man."

Renaril opened the page in question and frowned. "He's dead."

"Yeah," Eripol replied, her tone eminently offhand. "He was a major player last century, but now he and his company are both gone. I'm not sure what Benacirael sees that I don't, but she must think there's a connection."

"Maybe... Schuhart worked for him?"

"He's probably too young for that, if the age estimate on his meager profile is worth anything... Of course it's possible that Schuhart was influenced by Cummings' methods or wants to fill his shoes."

Renaril pursed her lips, wondering how far she wanted to get into the torturous subject of multiverse mechanics just now. "There's no arms dealer named Schuhart in the second layer," she said at length, "but there should have been a Cummings. Do we know anything about him?"

"I checked that, too – he died before the invasion and his known history is practically identical." Eripol scratched the back of her neck. "There was a book written about him when he was still in business, but it's not in the archive and I'm waiting to hear back about my requests for hard copy. That's all I have at the moment, sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Renaril graciously. "This shan't be a dead end like that Edamamel thing... Anyway, what about those ships?"

"That part was easy," the junior Arume answered cheerfully. "Chao Yang-class, ex-ROC. The weapon and information systems are late-model forime tech, but the hulls underneath are seventy year old American castoffs. Their primary roles when last rebuilt were air defense and anti-submarine warfare. They're not considered a serious threat – our frigates could knock them out easily." Tap-tap-tap! "There's the detailed specs."

"Thanks." The list of letters and numbers meant little to the commander, but she knew enough acronyms to make out that the destroyers relied heavily on missile systems. Looking up, she found Negadael watching her. "Something wrong..?"

"It might not be anything," the aide admitted, "but I noticed this when I was checking the reconnaissance office's intelligence for southern Chinese waters." She keyed in a macro of her own, bringing an orbital photograph up on the ops center's main screen. A patch of ocean was neatly framed in the wide rectangle, an oblong ship plowing through its center. "It was picked up this morning," Negadael explained. "We've provisionally identified it as an American tank carrier – it's heading straight for Hong Kong and estimated to arrive early the day after tomorrow, local time."

"A Newport-class landing ship," Eripol supplied. "Light on offensive power, but it can carry a small army. The American navy decommissioned all theirs years ago and most of them were sold off. Three are now in private hands."

"Let me guess," said Renaril grimly, taking in the large ramp and derrick on the vessel's forward deck, the monolithic superstructure, the asymmetrical staggered funnels and the large helicopter sitting on the pad at the stern. "Schuhart again?"

"Probably – the three were owned by Novaya Tula, the defunct Russian arms traders. If Schuhart bought up their east Asian assets as we've been told, there's a good chance he has at least one."

"A landing ship, you say... How does that work?"

"Hold on." There was another burst of typing on Eripol's part and the image changed to a closer photograph of an identical ship, the bow ramp extended onto the dock ahead of the vessel. A full size forime battle tank was driving off the deck. "There you have it."

"I see," Renaril mused. "Then it looks as if Schuhart intends to evacuate using this transport, with those destroyers for cover."

"Yeah," Eripol said. "But to do that he has to get through Benacirael's blockade, even if neither you nor the Chinese officials try to stop him... Are you going to stop him?"

"I'm not sure yet," the group commander replied. "These dealers sound like awful people, but if they simply intend to stop interfering and leave... I don't know. It might cause less trouble if we just let them." She looked to Eripol. "Does Benacirael know about the tank carrier?"

"I don't think so."

"Let's hope she misses it," Renaril breathed. "By the way, how are you monitoring her?"

"Ah, well... I studied computerized reconnaissance at the academy." Eripol's look was one of chagrin. "I was pretty good at it, but I, uh, I went out with my girl the night before the final qualification... Didn't do so well in the morning, and then I got called up before I could take it again. It's pretty easy if you know where the backdoors are, really."

"...I see." Renaril returned her focus to the big picture. "I imagine these ships must be expensive to run."

"Fifteen million a year in current US dollars," Eripol informed her. "But apparently other arms traffickers have operated their own aircraft fleets, so I guess it's not strange that a sea vessel would be used like this."

"Mm..." Renaril scrolled down the page on her own screen. "Let me read the rest of this, and then we'll look at the next step."

"Companyyyyy... Fffix bayoneeeeets!"

Richardson's hands were slick with sweat as she grasped the heavy Mauser around its middle, tipped the muzzle skyward and slipped the slim accessory knife over the slotted bar under the barrel. Stealing a glance to either side, she saw with a flash of guilty pride that Harrington and Rubin were both still finishing theirs.

"Maaaaake... readyyy!"

The girl smartly leveled her rifle, supporting arm extended and the plywood stock braced against her hip. She sucked in as much air as her young lungs could hold.

Camilla made a chopping motion with her hand. "Chaaaaaaarge!"

Sixteen gosta surged forward across ragged grass, bayonets and barrels dully gleaming in the gloom. The line of ragged mattresses arranged ahead stood no chance, soon pierced again and again until daylight could be seen through their stained sides.

"Excellent," the Briton called. "Very good energy, all of you!" She strode towards the group, clapping her hands. "Now, everyone take a breather and then we'll try it again."

Rubin and Webley didn't react positively. "Please," the latter wheezed, "enough... already..!"

"Now, now," Camilla remonstrated, "you may hurt now, but tomorrow it'll be your foe who hurts!"

"I hope it's not that soon," Benelli quipped, drawing ragged laughter from the other trainees.

As the last giggles faded, Richardson made out the comforting noise of the Kettenkrad. "Listen," she called. "Uncle Roland's coming." True to her words, the diminutive half-track soon hove into view and rattled across the park to the tent camp. Karan and Woodpecker had also arrived by the time Camilla and the gosta got there.

"Hi guys," Schuhart grunted as he hauled himself out and reached for his brace, the two Russians riding with him having already jumped off. "Things going okay here?"

"We've been working up a good sweat," Camilla confirmed. "So what's the story with this lot?"

"Ah." Brace fitted, Schuhart unslung his Thompson and fixed the five individuals in the Kettenkrad's trailer with a very ugly look. Richardson, for her part, had been expecting more Arume collaborators in their distinct uniforms. While these four men and one woman were clearly prisoners, all sitting with hands bound behind them, they wore green camouflage and an arm patch depicting a flag with white, blue and red stripes. "We met an enemy probe north of the treatment plant. They tried to attack us under a flag of truce, we lit them up and these are the survivors."

"I, er, didn't realize you were at war with Russia," Camilla observed.

"We aren't," the one-eyed man snorted. "Don't be fooled by the rags they're wearing... No," he went on, walking around to the captive woman, "it's another sky eyes and her flunkies. She won't talk, of course, so it's an open question whether this was a sanctioned probe or a lone idiot looking for quick glory... You know, this shade of hair dye really doesn't suit you."

Richardson shivered at the female prisoner's expression of pure malevolence. "How did you know they were fakes?"

"Their equipment was all wrong," Schuhart answered cheerfully. "Not one actually spoke the language and they all fought like stoned wallabies... On top of that, one of the casualties had this nifty item on him." He produced a small but thick book with a series of letter and number codes on the cover. "It's a field manual commissioned by the aliens for issue to Terran collaborators, detailing allied and enemy uniforms, weapons, vehicles and so forth." The arms dealer opened the book and thumbed to a page not quite halfway through, then passed the volume to Karan. "The section on Kalashnikovs is quite biased, but check out this hovercraft assault gun – it looks like a Sturmgeschutz done over in Art Deco!"

"Looks like a load of rubbish to me," the Indian snorted. "So what next?"

"Next I'd like to find some food, since I haven't eaten all day." Schuhart looked over the captives. "We'll put you lot in the stockade for the time being, such as it is, and if you're lucky the sky eyes will actually make an effort to get you back." When the bound Arume spat in his direction, he curled his lip. "Or we could hand you over to Captain Ramazonov and his seafaring friends in Macau, instead – but since you've been caught feigning a truce and impersonating a neutral state's personnel, both of which are war crimes, I wouldn't expect a warm reception from them." Turning his back on her, the cyclops nodded to Woodpecker. "Away with them, if you please."

Many kilometers to the south, a fourth vessel had escaped the notice of the Arume on high. It was painted a hazy gray and flew no flag just like the others, but was considerably smaller and derived its momentum primarily from the sails on its lone mast. An observer coming from astern would see that it was the Vegemite Explorer of Karumba, though the incongruity thereof was wasted on those who stood to loose the most by the completion of the boat's voyage.

In the shade of the towering mainsail, a man in swim trunks was rancorously singing: "Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, ya'll come a-waltzing Matilda wi' me... An' he sang as 'e watched an' waited 'til his – oy!"

"Give it up, yah fruit loop," his sole companion at the helm complained as the freshly flung wet sponge fell to the deck. "Any more nation'l stereotypin' an' I'll 'ave to sell yah to a soovineer shop!"

"As if yer any better, pooftah!" The assailed singer recovered the sponge, wrung it out and tossed it back into the cockpit. "You'n yer bleedin' best song inna world!" He slouched atop the cabin indignantly. "I 'ope there's no ankle-biters where we're goin'."

"No worries," the helmsman cackled. "I'll scare 'em right offa yah." Now he too began to sing. "We're no strangers to looooove: you know the rules, and so do Iiiii... A full commit-ment's what I'm – waugh!"

The deck watch wore an expression of smug glee as he dropped the empty bucket. "Eyes on the helm, yah silly bastard, or ole Roland'll hafta swim to us."