Free Blood In the Water by Taylor Anderson Page B

hiking a leg over the bench at the head of the table, where Keje indicated he should sit. Matt noticed suddenly that Russ Chappelle’s face was burning red.
    â€œWhat is it, Captain Chappelle?”
    â€œUm, well, some time ago, before Second Madras, somebody swiped all the chairs from the engineering spaces. A kind of prank, I guess, to, ah, ‘annoy’ a certain engineering officer. . . .”
    Matt’s eyebrows rose, and he blinked.
    â€œYes, sir. Anyway, on the voyage down here, right before that stormy fight off Grik City, somebody, ah, removed all the chairs and stools from everywhere—and I mean
everywhere
but the bridge.”
    â€œAs in removed . . .”
    â€œApparently over the side, Skipper, ’cause we can’t find a single one.”
    Matt suppressed a burst of laughter. “I presume it’s occurred to you to suspect the culprit might’ve been the . . . ‘certain engineering officer’?”
    â€œYes, sir, of course. But . . .” Russ’s face grew livid. “He’s got alibis! I mean, hell—excuse me, Skipper—but hell! The whole damn engineering division swears he had nothing to do with it! And we’re talking about
Laney
! Who’d ever cover for his fat, sorry ass?” He glared at the offending benches. “Anyway, when you said you wanted to meet here, I had the carpenter knock these up. Sorry, sir.”
    Matt stifled another laugh, but then considered what Russ had said. Who indeed? Obviously, Laney had found his niche at last, if he could inspire that kind of loyalty. Then Matt had a darker thought.
Or was it fear?
He mentally shook his head.
No.
Even if Laney’s division were entirely human, somebody would buck him if that were the case. And cowing a whole division of ’Cats? No way
. “This is fine, Captain Chappelle. And we’ll scour the fleet to see if we can come up with a couple of extra chairs and stools.” He grinned. “You might want to make sure one finds its way to the engineering spaces, though.”
    In the Lemurian fashion, no business was discussed while they ate. That was usually a good thing, Matt believed, but despite the threat from the air, he was anxious to get on with the status reports. He knew roughly what was going on, but he’d been at sea for several days and couldn’t have the whole picture. The new transceiver nestled deep inside the Cowflop was the most powerful in the theater, and with its aerial erected atop the massive, ancient “Wall of Trees” to the south, the Grik could bomb their Celestial Palace all they wanted without interfering with communications. He eyed Safir Maraan while they finished their plesiosaur steaks. She’d just come from there and would have the most comprehensive news.
    Mess attendants removed plates and returned with a kind of fruity, crusted pudding, the ersatz coffee most Amer-i-caans required, and hot tea imported from the Empire of the New Britain Isles. ’Cats were fiends for iced tea but had begun to enjoy the hot variety as well, using it like Matt and his people used coffee. Matt considered that: “his” people. Technically, every member of the Navy and Marines, human or Lemurian, was part of the “Amer-i-caan Navy Clan” now, having taken the same enlistment oath as his old destroyermen. He’d insisted on that from the start to prevent factionalism and divided loyalties. He was High Chief of that sovereign clan and had always enjoyed the same status as other High Chiefs of the various Homes, even though the only actual territory his clan “owned” was the oil-rich island of Tarakan off the Borno coast, and a little chunk of California where San Diego ought to be. It didn’t matter. Just as some clans were composed solely of single, massive seagoing Homes, his included every ship in the Amer-i-caan Navy with a “USS” prefix that flew