conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a plot for a book about Grik, Reddy, Walker entitled Destroyermen.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen: In Into the Storm, the story begins during the Second Battle of the Java Sea.\nThe is a destroyer of the United States Asiatic Fleet, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy.\nThe Walker was a part of the surviving ABDACOM fleet, consisting of the Royal Navy cruiser , HMS Encounter, and the United States Navy destroyers Pope and Mahan, all of which were fleeing from Japanese naval forces.\nHowever, the Japanese forces closed range, and opened up on the small Allied fleet.\nThe Exeter took a major hit, and ordered the remaining four destroyers to leave the crippled cruiser.\nThe destroyers were systematically sunk, starting with the Encounter, followed by the Pope shortly thereafter just as happened in the real naval battle.\nThe surviving destroyers, Walker and Mahan, then encountered the Japanese battlecruiser Amagi.\nSeeing no other option, Lieutenant Commander Reddy commanded the pair of destroyers to stage a torpedo attack, which sunk an accompanying destroyer, and badly damaged the battlecruiser, before the ships were enveloped in a freak squall, and transported to an alternate world, where humans never evolved, apparently because the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event (specifically the Chicxulub asteroid impact) never occurred.\nThere are two races.\nOne, the Lemurians, evolved giant lemurs from Madagascar, who are peaceful farmers and fishermen, and live on huge oceangoing houseboats called Homes.\nWalkers captain, Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, meets with the Lemurian leadership, and forms an alliance with them to fight the other race, the Grik, who are at war with the Lemurians.\nThe Grik are possible descendants of the dinosaur genus Velociraptor.\nIn the second book, Crusade, Reddy, and the crew of Walker, are training the Lemurians how to fight.\nThe Amagi is now under Grik control, and her captain is half-mad.\nBy Maelstrom, Reddy, his crew, and their Lemurian allies, are fighting the Grik.\nBy Distant Thunders, the tide is turning.\nThe sixth volume in the series follows the growing threat from the "Dominion", a Grik / Japanese superweapon, and the arrival of more ships through the "squall", including a Japanese destroyer.\nBook 7, Iron Gray Sea, was released on July 3, 2012.\nMany new developments but also picks up some older story lines that had previously taken a sideline.\nLieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, Commander-in-Chief Allied Forces and the captain of USS Walker, marries Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker.\nThe Grand Alliance is taking the war to the Grik and the Japanese.\nThe Lemurians, Walkers allies, have been fighting the Grik for a year and are now winning.\nWalker, in the past year, has been rebuilt, and is now part of the Little class.\nBook 8 was released on July 2, 2013.\nThe eighth book in the series picks up with the desperate situation in Grik India from Book 7, as well as covering some new developments on the Eastern Front in the battle against the Dominion.\nIn the Pacific, as USS Walker is repaired and updated after a previous battle and Matt Reddy is healing from his wounds, planning begins for a bold raid on the very heart of the Grik Empire.\nBut time is running out for the Alliance army in India, and the Allied forces in the west must gather in an unprecedented land, air, and sea campaign to destroy the mighty Grik battle fleet and break through to their relief.\nAll other plans go on hold when the attempt proves more difficult—and more heartbreakingly costly—than anyone imagined.\nMeanwhile, the struggle continues on other fronts near and far: in the jungles of Borno in distant Africa and in the Americas, where the Allies are finally learning the truth about the Dominion.\nThe Alliance is on the offensive everywhere, but their enemies have a few surprises, including new weaponry, new tactics and an unexpected major geographic advantage.\nBook 9 was published in May 2014.\nIt deals with the Alliance invasion of the heart of the Grik Empire.\nThe ambitious, long-planned raid on the Grik Empire has grown dangerously ill defined.\nOnly Matthew Reddy, commander of the old destroyer USS Walker, seems focused on the original intent.\nWhile many Lemurians see an opportunity to reconquer their stolen homeland, others—Lemurian and human—have their own agendas, which could compromise the Alliance.\nComplicating matters further is Reddy\'s suspicion that his task force is being stalked by some unknown power bent on aiding the Grik for reasons of its own.\nAs the raid begins and chaos reigns, Reddy has no choice but to risk everything in a desperate act that results in a sprawling, nightmare battle on the beaches of "Grik City", on the very decks of Walker, and in the labyrinthine passageways of the Celestial Palace itself.\nThe final cost could be more than Matt Reddy—or the Alliance—can bear.\nBook 10 was published in May 2015.\nIt dealt with the Alliance\'s attempts to keep the Grik from reconquering the Lemurians\' ancestral home of Madagascar, battles against the Dominion on land and at sea, introduction of the League of Tripoli and various other plot points.\nMatt Reddy\'s old Asiatic Fleet destroyer USS Walker has been mysteriously transported to an alternate version of earth.\nHere World War II is no longer raging, and Reddy and his crew have been trying to find a new place for themselves in this strange new world.\nNow, along with the felinoid Lemurians and Imperial allies, they fight to keep the reptilian Grik, a race growing in supremacy, from reconquering the Lemurians\' ancestral home on Madagascar.\nReddy and his crew are exhausted, far from reinforcements, and wildly outnumbered, so the odds seem greater than ever before.\nAs for the fate of the Americas, Don Hernan and the evil Dominion have gathered to annihilate the forces behind the walls of Fort Defiance as a shadowy power with an agenda all its own rises with chilling resolve.\nAs the war teeters on a knife-edge, a tipping point may have been reached at last—and cold steel and hot-blooded valor will remain the ultimate weapons.\nBook 11 of the series will be released on June 14, 2016 following teaser released: Taylor Anderson\'s enthralling New York Times bestselling series of alternate history continues as game-changing revelations upend the Grand Alliance in a potentially cataclysmic war.\nEver since the USS Walker came from another world war to defy the terrifying Grik and diabolical Dominion, Matt Reddy and his crew have given their all to protect the oppressed Lemurians.\nBut with the Walker in desperate need of repairs just as the Grik\'s First General is poised to strike, Reddy is desperate.\nWith more enemies than ever before arrayed against them, the crew of the Walker needs new allies.\nThat means combing the lethal wilds of Madagascar to find the Lemurians\' fabled ancestors, as well as the enigmatic dwellers east of the Pass of Fire.\nBut what Reddy\'s crew unearths may be more than they can handle—discoveries so shattering they could tilt the balance of the war in either direction.\nBut Reddy\'s greatest adversary is from his past: a madman named Kurokawa whose single-minded mission of revenge will shake the Alliance to its core and raise the stakes to the most personal and terrifying levels Reddy has ever faced.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Muriname glanced back at the cloudy sky they'd been staring at all morning while Kurokawa contemplated a measured reply, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a brilliant white pocket handkerchief. He almost snorted at the sight of it. The Grik had never denied even the most frivolous requests by their Japanese benefactors during their association, and he'd used that openhandedness to amass far more than handkerchiefs on his "Sovereign Nest" of Zanzibar.
  Kurokawa kept a placid face as he tamed another inner spike of fury at these men's daring to question, or even discuss, his decisions. But he'd learned that the best way to keep and build their loyalty was to encourage them to invest themselves in his schemes. So long as they ultimately did what he wanted, he could control his anger and project an air of serene confidence. Let them dither and bicker all they wanted. He'd finally perfected the art of persuading men to believe he was wiser than they were yet truly respectful of their ideas. That way, even when he discarded their suggestions, they felt valued, as though they'd contributed and were involved.
  Signal Lieutenant Fukui strode quickly under the pavilion from the radio shack nearby and braced to attention. "My lord!" he cried. "I received the expected request for a low-power, high-frequency transmission."
  Kurokawa's racing mind sped up. Here were Frenchmen, Italians, a Spaniard, and a German, who'd all arrived in a German-made plane, all together and apparently friendly despite the obvious undertones of tension. Additionally, the Frenchman seemed to lead the delegation; its German representative had merely waved, somewhat sullenly, when he was named. Most bizarre. "You are welcome, gentlemen," he managed, and named his staff. When that was complete, he invited them under the pavilion for refreshments, and to avoid the rain that had fitfully resumed. Kurokawa was interested to see that the strangers were not surprised, or even overly nervous about the Grik servants. Obviously, they not only knew about Grik, but they also knew they could be "domesticated." Conversation was light but increasingly frustrating. The flight had been "long and uncomfortable," but there was no mention of its origin. The climate was "wetter here" than what the visitors were accustomed to. The nectar the Grik servants brought had a most "vigorous" flavor.
  Never one for small talk, or much of anyone's talk but his own, Kurokawa felt his neck grow increasingly hot. Finally, he could help himself no longer. "I've long been extremely curious," he said, "ever since we received your first transmission...." He paused, clasping his hands behind his back, and then blurted, "Just who and what are you, Captain Gravois?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Muriname glanced back at the cloudy sky they'd been staring at all morning while Kurokawa contemplated a measured reply, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a brilliant white pocket handkerchief. He almost snorted at the sight of it. The Grik had never denied even the most frivolous requests by their Japanese benefactors during their association, and he'd used that openhandedness to amass far more than handkerchiefs on his "Sovereign Nest" of Zanzibar.
  Kurokawa kept a placid face as he tamed another inner spike of fury at these men's daring to question, or even discuss, his decisions. But he'd learned that the best way to keep and build their loyalty was to encourage them to invest themselves in his schemes. So long as they ultimately did what he wanted, he could control his anger and project an air of serene confidence. Let them dither and bicker all they wanted. He'd finally perfected the art of persuading men to believe he was wiser than they were yet truly respectful of their ideas. That way, even when he discarded their suggestions, they felt valued, as though they'd contributed and were involved.
  Signal Lieutenant Fukui strode quickly under the pavilion from the radio shack nearby and braced to attention. "My lord!" he cried. "I received the expected request for a low-power, high-frequency transmission."
  Kurokawa's racing mind sped up. Here were Frenchmen, Italians, a Spaniard, and a German, who'd all arrived in a German-made plane, all together and apparently friendly despite the obvious undertones of tension. Additionally, the Frenchman seemed to lead the delegation; its German representative had merely waved, somewhat sullenly, when he was named. Most bizarre. "You are welcome, gentlemen," he managed, and named his staff. When that was complete, he invited them under the pavilion for refreshments, and to avoid the rain that had fitfully resumed. Kurokawa was interested to see that the strangers were not surprised, or even overly nervous about the Grik servants. Obviously, they not only knew about Grik, but they also knew they could be "domesticated." Conversation was light but increasingly frustrating. The flight had been "long and uncomfortable," but there was no mention of its origin. The climate was "wetter here" than what the visitors were accustomed to. The nectar the Grik servants brought had a most "vigorous" flavor.
  Never one for small talk, or much of anyone's talk but his own, Kurokawa felt his neck grow increasingly hot. Finally, he could help himself no longer. "I've long been extremely curious," he said, "ever since we received your first transmission....
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Despite General Ghanan Nerino's best, even somewhat clandestine efforts, he'd accomplished very little in the way of establishing any kind of real, effective, field medicine for the army. There'd been no such thing a century before when the Dominion first clashed with Los Diablos del Norte, and of course, there'd been no other continental battles of note until the current war began. Since then, at the Imperial Dueling Grounds at Scapa Flow, Saint Francis, and then Guayak, few of the wounded had been evacuated, and so there'd still been little need for such a thing. Now, as Nerino had foreseen, there was. Well over two thousand wounded men had been dragged away from the killing ground around the enemy fort, or collected along the line of advance after attacks from above, and gathered here at the foot of the great mountains alongside the Camino Chimborazo. And here they lay. A few of their comrades went among them, bringing water and whatever comfort they could in the darkness, but little actual healing was performed. The Blood Priests examined them, but only to discover which were fit, with a minimum of care, to be returned to the fight. The rest, if already unconscious, were simply allowed to die. Those who suffered noisily enough to distress the others were drugged into insensibility. The result was an amazingly, surrealistically peaceful field of suffering that Ghanan Nerino, having tasted near-mortal agony himself, could hardly bear. Even more difficult for his honor to endure was Don Hernan's strict policy that those too badly injured to contribute to the current fight would be prepared as fodder for the small flying dragons—and the 'gift' from His Supreme Holiness when it arrived.
  A sudden drug-hazed screech of agony, probably elicited by a Blood Priest stepping on a wounded man in the dark, seemed divinely inspired to test Nerino's suspicions.
  Don Hernan slowly rose, wiping his hands on his robes. "I have, and do, my general." He sighed. "And must confess, I now have two minds." He waved at the field of men who'd soon be corpses—and worse. "El Vómito did not do our work for us as I'd hoped, and as you warned. God, as ever, stands ready to punish hubris, and those who place too much reliance on Him to accomplish their tasks for them, even when in His name." He pursed his lips. "There is much grace here, much inspiration. So many already stand in the shadow of God." He straightened. "But far too many more lie in His embrace beneath the heretic's position. Too many, too quickly, for our needs, I confess."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'Orrin nodded'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Orrin nodded. "Okay. Then I've got just one more thing." He waved at the lake beyond the hangar. The lake was just beginning to brighten, and the air above the water was becoming thick with flitting shapes. "Wait until after breakfast, then Godspeed."
  These fall into a number of categories, and though few share enough specifics to be described as classes, they can be grouped by basic sizes and capabilities. Most do share the fundamental similarity of being powered by steam-driven paddlewheels and a complete suit of sails.
  ArataAmagi **Class BBs (ironclad battleships)** —800' x 100', 26,000 tons. Twin screw, double-expansion steam, max speed 10 knots. Crew: 1300. Armament: 32 x 100 pdrs, 30 x 3" AA mortars. ****
  Azuma **Class CAs (ironclad cruisers)** —300' x 37', about 3,800 tons. Twin screw, double-expansion steam, sail auxiliary, max speed 12 knots. Crew: 320 Armament: 20 x 40 or 14 x 100 pdrs. 4 x firebomb catapults.
  Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall into a number of categories that are difficult to describe as classes, but again, can be grouped by size and capability. Almost all known Dom warships remain dedicated sailors, but their steam-powered transports indicate they have taken steps forward. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts. **Ships of the Line** —About 200' x 60', 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 7–10 knots, 470–525 officers and enlisted. **Heavy Frigates (Cruisers)—** About 170' x 50', 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 14 knots, 290–370 officers and enlisted.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Rempel stepped hesitantly to a map of the coastline on the inner wall of the chamber. "Here," he said, pointing at a bay about fifty miles south of where they stood.
  A number of officers in the chamber, including Rempel, had been listening with growing alarm. "Perhaps I don't understand," Rempel said at last, "but who exactly commands here? And how do you plan to face an enemy the size you described with only your—evidently—lightly armed ship, a few Company vessels, a Navy ship or two, and a handful of gunboats?"
  Jenks remained at HQ, commanding the Imperial land forces. In addition to the Bosun, Matt left him Sonarman Fairchild to operate the portable comm gear, and gunner's mates "Stumpy" and "Pack Rat." Both'Cats had '03 Springfields and a full load out of twenty, five-round stripper clips full of smokeless.30-06. Gray had his Thompson. All were members of the Captain's Guard, but until further orders, they'd protect Jenks with their lives. Bradford also remained at HQ, ensconced with his new "naturalist" buddies, racking their brains to come up with some scientific or even anecdotal "dragon" repellant. So far, they hadn't come up with much.
  Rempel snatched his hand away from the engine room telegraph. "A most amazing vessel, Captain Reddy," he said sincerely. He pointed at the telegraph. "If that device does not lie, your ship is only making a third of her potential speed—yet she's already swifter than any ship I've seen."
  Rempel nodded. He hadn't thought so. "How came you to be in the service of the Empire?" he inquired. He gestured about. "Your people and all these other... creatures?"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Grik had paused about two hundred yards away after their most recent rush was blunted. Even they had to rest a while, though their attacks had been unnervingly well coordinated for a change. Their ranks remained disorganized, but they seemed to have adopted the concept of successive "surges" that allowed those most closely engaged to fade back and be replaced by others at the point of contact. This allowed them to keep the pressure up far longer—and more exhaustingly—than ever before. The change was a... chilling development. Finally, they'd pulled back en masse beyond what they must have considered "musket shot," apparently to sort things out a bit. They weren't out of range of the new rifles—or canister from the artillery, of course. For the last ten minutes, the Grik just stood there and took it as if unsure what to do while the battered II Corps obligingly poured it in. Flynn had been wishing for the hundredth time he had one of Hij Geerki's "recall" horns, when suddenly the things began to thrum in the valley, and the massive Grik swarm began obediently withdrawing.
  He was stunned. Never had the Grik just backed away from contact—never. In the past, they always either fought until they died, or ran. This was completely new. Alden hadn't reported seeing anything like it during his march up the coast.
  Flynn swore and looked around. "Corporal, gimme some water!" he cried to a 'Cat hurrying by with a bucket. The corporal paused while Billy threw some salty-tasting water at his mouth with the floating cup, then spat some down the barrel of his rifle. "Ghaa!" he said, spitting out the foul remainder. He plugged the muzzle of the weapon with his finger and tilted it in a seesaw motion so the water would slosh back and forth in the bore. "Musta been an artillery sponge bucket!" he said, spitting again and pouring the black water from his rifle onto the ground. He placed a piece of cloth over the muzzle and ran it down with his jag-shaped rammer head. Withdrawing the rammer, he stuck it in the ground at his side, and the now-soggy, blackened cloth fell away. He popped two percussion caps and blew down the barrel, then snatched another paper-wrapped cartridge from the box at his side and tore it open with his teeth.
  Safir took a deep breath and almost gagged herself. The stench of the morning had grown exponentially worse with the addition of the mangled corpses all around and the fog of smoke that clung near the blood-drenched ground. Her normally resplendent silver-washed armor was stained with red turning to black, and her black cloak was torn and tinged with shiny reddish patches. Knowing her, she'd probably been right up on the line with a musket and bayonet at some point, Billy thought. Not the best place for a corps commander!
  Bekiaa-Sab-At finally gave the belated order for the nearest artillery to cease firing, and its example was soon followed by the other batteries up and down the line. She stepped wearily up beside Flynn and also exchanged salutes with Safir Maraan. Bekiaa looked terrible—again—and this time she had a Grik crossbow bolt buried between the twinbones of her left forearm. She'd refused to leave the front. "Shall we chase 'em?" she asked.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Grik leader approached Aguri from an angle, leaving Toru without a clear shot. Realizing Aguri's bayonet was jammed, Bashg plucked a coal from the fire with his claws and held it to the slow match on his musket until it sputtered and smoked. He slid aside the plate covering the priming powder in the pan. "This work now. Less stomachs, lots eat!" he said, almost excitedly. "Us go quick now, do orders!"
  Frantically, Aguri released the bayonet from his muzzle and tried to chamber another round, looking at Bashg. Toru was running downslope. Bashg must have realized the fight wasn't over after all, and before Aguri could raise his rifle, he squeezed the lever on the bottom of his gun. The glowing match descended, lit the charge, and a huge, bloody hole appeared on Aguri's back as the heavy ball exited and whirred away.
  Now, almost ten days later, Toru Miyata was alone. He had a compass to guide him, but it had snowed nearly every night since he lost his friends, and the daytime sky was gray and gloomy. He just didn't understand the weather, and it was taking a toll on him, despite his dwindling supply of fire-dried Grik flesh. He thought he knew roughly where he was and he should've crossed the frontier of the "others" by now; however, he saw no sign of habitation, and he didn't know how many more miles he had in him. Still, he'd escaped Kurokawa and ultimately the Grik themselves. Despite losing his friends, at least he was free. Unfortunately, if he didn't find other friends soon, or if this damnable weather didn't break, he was doomed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Other people who've helped me in so many ways include (but are certainly not limited to) Robin and Linda Clay, Mark Beck, Brad Fisher, USMC (ret.), Dennis Hudgens, Michael Dunegan, Walter Baldree, Sgt 1st Class Dex Fairbanks, USA (ret.), Riqui and David Wartes, Preston Furlow, and Cortney Skinner, Special thanks to Dr. David Bererra and all the nurses and staff as Harris Southwest Methodist Hospital, and of course, to my long-suffering, beautiful bride, Christine.
  Ginjer is the best editor I know and has always been gracious, friendly, and supportive. She and her staff are a pure pleasure to work with.
  Russell Galen is the best agent in the business. His patience, professionalism, encouragement, and friendship truly are the steam that moves this ship through the water. To say "I couldn't have done it without him" is ridiculously insufficient praise. I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but I simply cannot express how much I appreciate his help. Thanks, Russ.
  Red-rimmed eyes squinted from what was normally an almost embarrassingly boyish face, but at the moment a general covering of brown stubble and a fatigue-slacked expression made him look older than his thirty-two years. Not quite thirty-six hours earlier, he and his exhausted crew had participated in the largest surface action of the war to date: the Battle of the Java Sea. For once, the forces were evenly matched—in numbers, if not quality—and they thought they'd had a chance. But from the beginning, nothing went right. The battle finally ended sometime in the night with the ruthless slaughter of virtually the entire force under Admiral Doorman's command. While the enemy grew ever stronger, the scattered Allies were picked off in ones and twos.
  He glanced up at the lookout standing in the little tub near the top of the mast. Rodriguez, electrician's mate 3rd class, appeared transfixed, staring through heavy binoculars at a point far astern. From where he stood, Matt couldn't see anything yet, but he knew the two Japanese heavy cruisers and the destroyer that had pursued them since 0700 were still behind them. Rodriguez could see their smoke and they were getting closer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'The female had clearly been in the fighting'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The female had clearly been in the fighting. Sandra had treated others as well. The first time she removed a bloody leather tunic from one of their "professional" warriors and discovered furry breasts beneath, she was shocked. Adar and his entourage were standing right there, though, and made no sign that the discovery of a female in the ranks was unusual. As she'd said earlier, the semi-nudity didn't surprise her—although she'd finally rounded savagely on Silva and his buddies when she overheard their comments about the "cat-monkey booby farm"—but she hadn't been prepared to find females not only fighting for their lives in a desperate situation but doing so as actual warriors.
  After a time she grew inured—if not accustomed—to the apparent fact that among Lemurians there was total equality of the sexes. At least as far as warfare was concerned. But in this instance there seemed a contrast between that and the tender, very human concern she saw of a male for an injured female. She moved toward them unobserved. Adar was busy discussing something with Shinya and another Lemurian who'd approached. Silva, "distracted" again, suddenly noticed she'd wandered off and hurried after her, lugging his BAR. The big Lemurian straightened and regarded them as they neared. The female tried to rise, but Sandra made a lay-back motion with her hands and crouched beside her. The male and Silva remained standing, facing each other.
  A quick survey showed Sandra no obvious life-threatening wounds, but there was a nasty cut above the left eye, slick with the healing lotion that Lemurians seemed to use as liberally as Mercurochrome. A possible concussion, then, but the eyes were alert. She smiled and crossed her hands over her chest. "Sandra," she said. The female's eyes fluttered rapidly and she glanced at the male who was now staring intently at Sandra as well.
  With a wince, the female raised her left arm and patted herself. "Risa." Then she pointed at the male and said, "Chack."
  Shinya and Adar joined them. "Lieutenant Tucker, Adar tells me their leader, Keje-Fris-Ar, desires we attend him once more."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But what of the cooler climes? Remember, the destroyermen that came through the Squall have been able to sample only a very small part of this new world they find themselves in. A relatively isolated and environmentally homogeneous part. What amazing discoveries might they make once they are able to do more than "float about," as Courtney Bradford would say? But again, what if?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first two paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' One word she clearly understood sent a spasm of primal terror through her heart: "Leviathan!"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  There was a new rumbling sound below, but it went unnoticed by the eight-year-old girl swaying in the sailcloth hammock. Her slumber was already filled with the incessant rumbling and groaning of the working hull, and the endless, hissing blows of the pounding sea. Then came another rumble, and another, each more insistent than the last. Still, she didn't stir from her dream. In it she'd been swallowed by a leviathan, just as she'd dreaded since before the strange voyage ever began. Every night, as soon as the lids closed over her large, jade-colored eyes, the same terrible dream came again. She was in the very bowels of a leviathan, and the rumbling, hissing roar was the sound of its belly digesting the ship. The voices came—there were always voices—excited, urgent voices in a tone entirely appropriate. Of course there would be dreadful voices in a dreadful dream. She knew what would happen next....
  She was facedown on the thundering deck, and only her tangled bedding protected her delicate nose from the fall. Her eyes flew open, but she could barely see. The only light in the stateroom came from the meager glow of a gimbaled lantern on the far bulkhead. Slowly emerging from the dark nightmare of a moment before, she began to understand she'd entered another. The deck felt wrong, its motion contradicting what she'd come to perceive as normal. She still heard the voices, and although the words were muffled, they were louder and shrill with alarm. One word she clearly understood sent a spasm of primal terror through her heart: "Leviathan!"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She lowered her head in thought as they walked back through the bazaar in the direction of the hospital. They entered the textile section, where colorful tapestries and fine fabrics swayed gently in the light air. A matronly Lemurian female, with hard-used, pendulous breasts, was perched on a high stool, embroidering a smock with an ornate design, and Sandra paused to admire the work. Then it hit her.
  Tarakan Island had changed dramatically. Chief Gray had finally taken Silva's advice and burned half of it off. They took extreme care to make sure the prevailing winds confined the blaze to only half the island; still, Gray knew Bradford would be livid. There'd been nothing for it, though. The dense foliage simply couldn't be cleared in the time they had, and the priority, after all, was the well. Besides, it was a dangerous place. They'd lost two more 'Cats surveying the site—killed this time—and the Bosun wouldn't sacrifice another life for every tree on the island. Even so, he'd been surprised how well the place burned. He hadn't even been sure they could light the wet, waxy undergrowth, and when it went up like kerosene-soaked wood, it was a scramble to contain the blaze and get everyone clear. They even had a battle on their hands, of sorts, down on the beach, when swarms of wildly unlikely creatures stampeded from the forest. Fortunately, Shinya had already begun defensive positions, and a lot of the fleeing beasts simply leaped the entrenchments the workers and Marines scrambled into. Some of the terror-maddened creatures wanted to fight, though, and some of his people suffered a few injuries—none serious, fortunately, but they were well supplied with meat for a couple days before it began to spoil.
  Work on the well proceeded rapidly after that, surrounded by a surrealistic landscape of fire-blackened stumps and a jumble of fallen trees. At least the workers were no longer in peril from predators, although nighttime brought a variety of scavengers anxious to pick the cooked victims clean. Soon even they lost interest, and before long one could walk from the beach to the well at any time of the day or night in relative safety.
  Shinya and Gray had a falling-out over the burn, but not for environmental reasons. Shinya wanted to leave a belt of jungle as a fallback defensive position. Gray even tried to arrange it, but the fire took off quicker than anyone expected. Angry, Shinya accused Gray of deliberately disregarding his advice, and, just as angry, Gray told him to go to hell. They coexisted even more uneasily than usual after that, and each concentrated on his own area of responsibility. As a result, both probably did a better, quicker job than they would have otherwise, but they drove their work crews unmercifully. By the time Isak brought in the well, everyone was exhausted.
  A blue-kilted staff sergeant scampered up and saluted. "The Marines are in place, sirs." His tail twitched. "The Guards soon will be. I sent first squad, second platoon, to help them get sorted out." The Guard captain bristled, but said nothing.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A short distance away he was surprised to encounter the Mice sitting on coiled cables and leaning against a fallen piling. All three had their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands as they stared glumly at their sunken Home.
  Gilbert hopped up anyway, whipping his hat from his head. No matter how crazy he thought he was, there was no way he could answer the skipper sitting down. "Well, sir, beggin' yer pardon, but our ship's, well... sunk. "We gonna use iron from that Jap ship, ain't we!" she exclaimed in a passable copy of her companion's lazy drawl.
  Isak stiffened. In a voice both excited and scandalized at the same time, he spoke. "Hally-looya, we're gonna get our boilers back... but goddamn! Jap iron? It ain't decent!" Catching himself, he yanked his own hat off his head and mumbled, "Sir."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Tabby, blinked.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A short distance away he was surprised to encounter the Mice sitting on coiled cables and leaning against a fallen piling. All three had their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands as they stared glumly at their sunken Home. 
  Gilbert hopped up anyway, whipping his hat from his head. No matter how crazy he thought he was, there was no way he could answer the skipper sitting down. "Well, sir, beggin' yer pardon, but our ship's, well... sunk. "
  Tabby suddenly blinked inspiration. "We gonna use iron from that Jap ship, ain't we!" she exclaimed in a passable copy of her companion's lazy drawl. 
  Isak stiffened. In a voice both excited and scandalized at the same time, he spoke. "Hally-looya, we're gonna get our boilers back... but goddamn! Jap iron? It ain't decent!" Catching himself, he yanked his own hat off his head and mumbled, "Sir. "
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Rebecca Anne McDonald, Governor-Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and her Lemurian "sister," Saan-Kakja, High Chief of All the Filpin Lands, exuberantly galloped their horses alongside the seemingly endless column of troops. Both loved to ride and were very good at it, though Saan-Kakja hadn't known horses even existed for long. She'd learned her skill on the backs of vicious me-naaks, the long-legged, vaguely crocodilian beasts her people used for cavalry mounts. Though me-naaks, or meanies, saw extensive use in the West, horses were unmanageable around them and none had been sent east. Horses didn't like paalkas—oversized moose-shaped draft animals used for pulling wagons and artillery—either, but at least paalkas didn't instinctively want to eat them. In contrast, there were many creatures in the Americas that indigenous horses were well accustomed to yet might send me-naaks fleeing in terror. It was all a matter of familiarity.
  Rebecca and Saan-Kakja had briefly outstripped their entourage of aides and guards sheerly for the fun of it. Both were young and adventurous—too adventurous for their own good, most believed—witness their presence, as heads of states, on a desperate military campaign. But they'd endured many dangers already and neither could bring themselves to send their people to fight where they wouldn't go themselves. Their sentiments were simultaneously considered noble and irresponsible, even by the troops they led, but those same troops adored them all the more for sharing their hardships.
  Krish frowned. "Colonel" Sister Audry's Vengadores de Dios were almost all former Doms, and the core of their force had been captured in the fighting on New Ireland. Sister Audry, a Dutch Benedictine nun brought to this world with the children of diplomats aboard the old S-19, had gone among them and converted them—imperfectly, in Krish's view—to a Catholic version of the same Christianity practiced in the Empire. Their ranks had swollen here, as hundreds of "heretical" true Christians, brutally persecuted by the obscenely twisted version espoused by the Dominion, flocked to join them. Another faith, even older here and equally oppressed, was represented by the Ocelomeh, or Jaguar Warriors, marching beside the Vengadores with Major Blas-Ma-Ar's badly depleted 2nd Lemurian Marines. Krish was torn between which faction he considered more unwholesome, but all had proven themselves in battle, and his governor-empress had warned him before that she'd tolerate no offense offered them.
  Saan-Kakja chuckled. "Yes, but you're right. Even if he won you, he'd die of frustration trying to guide you. Or worse, bend utterly to your will and become something you no longer respect." She grinned. "Besides, everyone knows your heart belongs to Abel Cook—a brevet major now, if I'm not mistaken!"
  Rebecca's face colored. She didn't think she'd encouraged Cook, though she'd consented to let him write her, and his letters still came in periodic heaps from the far side of the world. In the wake of all the tragedy she'd endured, Rebecca hadn't allowed herself to examine her feelings for Abel Cook, but she knew they were there, and she worried about him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Esshk closed his eyes, and his narrow, muscular shoulders slumped. "Perhaps," he allowed, grasping at the excuse. "But what do we do now? The Swarm remains strong, but we meant to transport much of it on barges once the enemy scattered, hunting the galleys. Of the galleys themselves... their numbers dwindle."
  Ign considered that. He didn't know Halik, or really understand how Esshk could be so sure he even still lived, but for whatever reason there was no doubt his Lord was unusually fond of the missing general. "Then what shall we do here?" he asked.
  Ign was shocked but intrigued. They'd almost done that once before, and at the time it would've been hopeless. Now, however, with the proper preparation, fast and deadly flying machines of their own, and particularly with their primary target immobilized... "The confusion will be so great, we may lose nearly as many as we did today, just in collisions on the water," he warned.
  Esshk paced back and forth several times, but at least he had himself under control. Ign was relieved. Seeing their lord in such a state couldn't have been good for any warriors watching nearby. "What is the second thing?" he asked at last.
  It was long past dark when his command galley edged up to a pier supported by the ravaged hulls of galleys that still floated but were too badly damaged to repair sufficiently for battle. Others, in better shape, were tied to them. In the gloom, they looked just as dead, since there were no torches to mark them and their crews mostly slept. None of these warriors had been involved in the debacle that day; they'd already faced another, and Ign was conserving them. He hoped to good effect. To his satisfaction, he and his aides were challenged immediately, as soon as they set foot on the pier.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: To his satisfaction, he and his aides were challenged immediately, as soon as they set foot on the pier.. He hoped to good effect. None of these warriors had been involved in the debacle that day; they'd already faced another, and Ign was conserving them. In the gloom, they looked just as dead, since there were no torches to mark them and their crews mostly slept. Others, in better shape, were tied to them.
  It was long past dark when his command galley edged up to a pier supported by the ravaged hulls of galleys that still floated but were too badly damaged to repair sufficiently for battle. "What is the second thing?" he asked at last. Seeing their lord in such a state couldn't have been good for any warriors watching nearby. Ign was relieved.
  Esshk paced back and forth several times, but at least he had himself under control. "The confusion will be so great, we may lose nearly as many as we did today, just in collisions on the water," he warned... Now, however, with the proper preparation, fast and deadly flying machines of their own, and particularly with their primary target immobilized. They'd almost done that once before, and at the time it would've been hopeless.
  Ign was shocked but intrigued. "Then what shall we do here?" he asked. He didn't know Halik, or really understand how Esshk could be so sure he even still lived, but for whatever reason there was no doubt his Lord was unusually fond of the missing general."
  Ign considered that. their numbers dwindle... Of the galleys themselves. "But what do we do now? The Swarm remains strong, but we meant to transport much of it on barges once the enemy scattered, hunting the galleys. "Perhaps," he allowed, grasping at the excuse.Esshk closed his eyes, and his narrow, muscular shoulders slumped
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Only officers and cavalry use pistols, which are often quite ornate and of various calibers.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ships of the line—About 200′ x 60′, 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 7–10 knots. 470–525 officers and enlisted.
  Heavy frigates (cruisers)—About 170′ x 50′, 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 14 knots. 290–370 officers and enlisted.
  Field artillery—9 pdrs on split-trail carriages—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 600 yds with grapeshot.
  Primary small arms—Sword, pike, plug bayonet, flintlock (patilla style) musket (.69 cal). Only officers and cavalry use pistols, which are often quite ornate and of various calibers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Colonel Mersaak **(L)** —"The 600" (B'mbaado regiment composed of Silver and Black Battalions)—Exec 3rd Baalkpan, 3rd , 10th B'mbaado, 5th Sular.
  Includes remnants of First Amalgamated (Flynn's Rangers), 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines, 6th Maa-ni-la Cavalry, 1st Sular (about 140 total effectives).
  Cmdr. Alan Letts—Chief of Staff, Minister of Industry and the Division of Strategic Logistics; acting Chairman of the Grand Alliance.
  Spon-Ar-Aak "Spook" (L)—Gunner's Mate, and 1st Sergeant of A Company, 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines. ****
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Garrett looked out the stern windows at the great ship and frowned, considering all her problems. She was certainly big, measuring nearly 670 feet and displacing about forty thousand tons. She was armed with two 4.1-inch rapid-firing guns and six Maxims, and had been designed to make twenty knots. She burned coal and that might be awkward, but she had plenty aboard to get her to Andaman if they could patch her leaks. She'd make a fine addition to the Allied fleet. Becker said she could carry three thousand passengers and crew—or a larger number of troops—and that could be handy too, but Greg wasn't sure if she'd fit in one of the floating dry docks at Andaman, and a dry dock was what she desperately needed.
  Greg blinked. He'd mentioned Adar during the course of their discussion, but Choon was quick. He must've pieced the rest together from what he'd overheard, or what Miyata told him.
  Miyata bowed his head. "I have been to the Grik shipyards and know where they are. I have even been to Madagascar, to the palace of the great, fat Grik mother herself, though I have not seen the creature. I know the defenses and population centers there. Would that be of help?"
  Garrett stared, then collected himself. "Why, it just might, as a matter of fact. I'll pass that along too, and see what Captain Reddy has to say."
  Sandra looked at him curiously, but before Courtney could divert the meeting with a distracting, if likely fascinating, dissertation, Matt interrupted. "Maybe most important is that we have new allies we never knew about, and that this Miyata guy has intelligence on the target for our raid."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". "Maybe most important is that we have new allies we never knew about, and that this Miyata guy has intelligence on the target for our raid."
  Sandra looked at him curiously, but before Courtney could divert the meeting with a distracting, if likely fascinating, dissertation, Matt interrupted. I'll pass that along too, and see what Captain Reddy has to say. "Why, it just might, as a matter of fact. Would that be of help?"
  Garrett stared, then collected himself. I know the defenses and population centers there. I have even been to Madagascar, to the palace of the great, fat Grik mother herself, though I have not seen the creature. "I have been to the Grik shipyards and know where they are.
  Miyata bowed his head. He must've pieced the rest together from what he'd overheard, or what Miyata told him. He'd mentioned Adar during the course of their discussion, but Choon was quick.
  Greg blinked. Becker said she could carry three thousand passengers and crew—or a larger number of troops—and that could be handy too, but Greg wasn't sure if she'd fit in one of the floating dry docks at Andaman, and a dry dock was what she desperately needed. She'd make a fine addition to the Allied fleet. She burned coal and that might be awkward, but she had plenty aboard to get her to Andaman if they could patch her leaks.1-inch rapid-firing guns and six Maxims, and had been designed to make twenty knots. She was armed with two 4. She was certainly big, measuring nearly 670 feet and displacing about forty thousand tons.Garrett looked out the stern windows at the great ship and frowned, considering all her problems
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Pete held out his hand and waggled it. "Touch and go. Who knows?" He looked back at Adar. "Yeah, that was another promise, to try to save the guy, but that's absolutely all."
  Adar blinked quizzically at Courtney. "Indeed." He turned back to Alden, clearly preferring to focus on what he considered more pressing matters. These strange people were not a threat, or they would've proven to be one already—or conquered the Grik on their own. "I gather that you intend for Sixth and Seventh Corps to replace the First and Second in their forward positions? And Tenth Corps should replace the Third as soon as it arrives?" Pete nodded. "In that case, Fifth and Eighth Corps will proceed to the cease-fire line you arranged in the south." He looked at Rolak. "You and my dear General Queen Protector will march your noble troops back here to Madras for a well-deserved rest."
  Matt had suspected Adar would urge caution. He always took heavy losses like blows to his own body. He'd need time to recover himself before ordering more people to their deaths. Matt wasn't even sure he disagreed this time. But Herring's turnaround caught him completely by surprise.
  These fall in a number of categories, and though few share enough specifics to be described as classes, they can be grouped by basic sizes and capabilities. Most do share the fundamental similarity of being powered by steam-driven paddlewheels and a complete suit of sails.
  Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall in a number of categories that are difficult to describe as classes, but, again, can be grouped by size and capability. Almost all known Dom warships remain dedicated sailors, but their steam-powered transports indicate they have taken steps forward. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts. **Ships of the Line** —About 200' x 60', 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 7–10 knots. 470–525 officers and enlisted. **Heavy Frigates (Cruisers)—About** 170' x 50', 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 14 knots. 290–370 officers and enlisted.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Pete held out his hand and waggled it. "Touch and go. Who knows?" He looked back at Adar. "Yeah, that was another promise, to try to save the guy, but that's absolutely all."
  Adar blinked quizzically at Courtney. "Indeed." He turned back to Alden, clearly preferring to focus on what he considered more pressing matters. These strange people were not a threat, or they would've proven to be one already—or conquered the Grik on their own. "I gather that you intend for Sixth and Seventh Corps to replace the First and Second in their forward positions? And Tenth Corps should replace the Third as soon as it arrives?" Pete nodded. "In that case, Fifth and Eighth Corps will proceed to the cease-fire line you arranged in the south." He looked at Rolak. "You and my dear General Queen Protector will march your noble troops back here to Madras for a well-deserved rest."
  Matt had suspected Adar would urge caution. He always took heavy losses like blows to his own body. He'd need time to recover himself before ordering more people to their deaths. Matt wasn't even sure he disagreed this time. But Herring's turnaround caught him completely by surprise.
  These fall in a number of categories, and though few share enough specifics to be described as classes, they can be grouped by basic sizes and capabilities. Most do share the fundamental similarity of being powered by steam-driven paddlewheels and a complete suit of sails.
  Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall in a number of categories that are difficult to describe as classes, but, again, can be grouped by size and capability. Almost all known Dom warships remain dedicated sailors, but their steam-powered transports indicate they have taken steps forward. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts. **Ships of the Line** —About 200' x 60', 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 7–10 knots. 470–525 officers and enlisted. **Heavy Frigates (Cruisers)—About** 170' x 50', 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed, about 14 knots.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Discovering the error after it was too late to repair had resulted in radical last-minute alterations to the plan. Rolak was glad he hadn't been there when General Alden learned of the foul-up. A few officers had doubtless become privates or seaman's apprentices, but really it was not unexpected. They were all amateurs at this sort of thing. They'd practiced numerous landings and even faced a few hostile ones now, but as Commodore Ellis had said, this was different, and their next landing would be even more different still. In any event, now the Marines would have to double-time nearly three miles behind the—hopefully by then—contiguous beachhead, to reach the point where their real mission would begin. In the meantime, there was that right flank Jim had warned them about, just hanging out there.
  There might be nothing beyond it, and if there was, he was confident he could refuse the flank with the forces he had. The entire 9th Aryaal was wrapped around, anchored to the river, deployed to do just that, even if it deprived him of close to a third of his own front. The one good thing was that some of the Maa-ni-lo Cavalry meant for Garrett had already arrived here. He would keep it and use it to warn of any threat gathering on his right.
  General Pete Alden hadn't been to the American southwest before, but Grik architecture, at least here, reminded him of a Mexican border town in a western movie. Everything was wood and adobe, though how they kept the adobe from melting under the nearly daily rains was beyond him. Maybe they'd developed some kind of cement? They might mix it with their nasty spit for all he knew. Whatever it was, the adobe didn't burn, but there was plenty of other stuff that would. Cannon fire still rumbled from the ships, but it was mostly ranging longer now, exploding in the jungle or among the crumbling dwellings that probed into it. A few Grik guns still responded—that had been an unpleasant surprise—but the ones that remained seemed intent on shooting at the ships. Grik gunnery had been notoriously poor ever since they revealed their first cannons, and judging by the relatively light shot they were throwing, these were probably some of those early weapons. They might have been left here or off-loaded from the partially sunken ship. It didn't matter. As long as they were shooting at the ships, they couldn't do much damage even if they managed to hit one—and the Grik weren't using them against his infantry anymore.
  Pete took a huge chew of the yellowish "tobacco" leaves and trotted down off the dock where he'd been observing the action. Greg Garrett's troops had a lot of the crummy city near the docks already, but the 1st Marines were still waiting for him to solidify the link with Queen Maraan's forces upstream. The Marines had a long trot ahead of them on what promised to be a miserably humid day. They could fight a battle, run three miles or so and fight another, but he didn't want them to if it wasn't necessary. Besides, the end-around maneuver might wind up being a lot more than three miles. He joined his troops where they were strung out, resting on the shore under the protection of a high embankment.
  One of the somewhat dreaded and always poorly trusted me-naaks, or "meanies," charged down among the Marines, sending several of them scattering. It loped right up to Pete and came to a mud-spraying halt. It stood there, glaring insolently with its tightly trussed, salivaoozing jaws and reptilian eyes. The damn things always reminded him of a cross between a horse-size dog and a crocodile. He looked up and goggled a little to see that the rider was none other than Captain Greg Garrett.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Discovering the error after it was too late to repair had resulted in radical last-minute alterations to the plan. Rolak was glad he hadn't been there when General Alden learned of the foul-up. A few officers had doubtless become privates or seaman's apprentices, but really it was not unexpected. They were all amateurs at this sort of thing. They'd practiced numerous landings and even faced a few hostile ones now, but as Commodore Ellis had said, this was different, and their next landing would be even more different still. In any event, now the Marines would have to double-time nearly three miles behind the—hopefully by then—contiguous beachhead, to reach the point where their real mission would begin. In the meantime, there was that right flank Jim had warned them about, just hanging out there.
  There might be nothing beyond it, and if there was, he was confident he could refuse the flank with the forces he had. The entire 9th Aryaal was wrapped around, anchored to the river, deployed to do just that, even if it deprived him of close to a third of his own front. The one good thing was that some of the Maa-ni-lo Cavalry meant for Garrett had already arrived here. He would keep it and use it to warn of any threat gathering on his right.
  General Pete Alden hadn't been to the American southwest before, but Grik architecture, at least here, reminded him of a Mexican border town in a western movie. Everything was wood and adobe, though how they kept the adobe from melting under the nearly daily rains was beyond him. Maybe they'd developed some kind of cement? They might mix it with their nasty spit for all he knew. Whatever it was, the adobe didn't burn, but there was plenty of other stuff that would. Cannon fire still rumbled from the ships, but it was mostly ranging longer now, exploding in the jungle or among the crumbling dwellings that probed into it. A few Grik guns still responded—that had been an unpleasant surprise—but the ones that remained seemed intent on shooting at the ships. Grik gunnery had been notoriously poor ever since they revealed their first cannons, and judging by the relatively light shot they were throwing, these were probably some of those early weapons. They might have been left here or off-loaded from the partially sunken ship. It didn't matter. As long as they were shooting at the ships, they couldn't do much damage even if they managed to hit one—and the Grik weren't using them against his infantry anymore.
  Pete took a huge chew of the yellowish "tobacco" leaves and trotted down off the dock where he'd been observing the action. Greg Garrett's troops had a lot of the crummy city near the docks already, but the 1st Marines were still waiting for him to solidify the link with Queen Maraan's forces upstream. The Marines had a long trot ahead of them on what promised to be a miserably humid day. They could fight a battle, run three miles or so and fight another, but he didn't want them to if it wasn't necessary. Besides, the end-around maneuver might wind up being a lot more than three miles. He joined his troops where they were strung out, resting on the shore under the protection of a high embankment.
  One of the somewhat dreaded and always poorly trusted me-naaks, or "meanies," charged down among the Marines, sending several of them scattering. It loped right up to Pete and came to a mud-spraying halt. It stood there, glaring insolently with its tightly trussed, salivaoozing jaws and reptilian eyes. The damn things always reminded him of a cross between a horse-size dog and a crocodile.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'Courtney leaned forward for a closer look at the map'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Courtney leaned forward for a closer look at the map. Most of those present also knew where the Imperial capital was, by deductive reasoning, but this was their first "look" at it. Matt had been right when he told them it wasn't the "Hawaii" they remembered. The island shapes were tantalizingly familiar, but bigger, and in some cases joined. Lower global water levels—which Courtney had long suspected—and random volcanism probably explained that.
  Mat grunted. "Hmm. Well, speculation is almost pointless," he said. "If you don't have any pals left in government at all, we'll have to wing it anyway. Let's assume the situation remains essentially the same as when you left, probably a little tenser, of course, judging by what Governor Radcliff had to say. His was the most recent news. How do we proceed in that 'best-case' scenario?"
  Matt took a breath. "Well, Jenks, we're here for the Company—and our people. Where do we go? Where will the Governor-Emperor be?"
  He paused his inspection under the amidships deckhouse/gun platform and swiped a sandwich off a tray just as soon as Earl Lanier set it down on the stainless steel counter.
  Lanier grunted, satisfied with the response. He abused everyone on the ship—except the captain and his "lemon-limey" guests—by rote. He considered it as much a part of his job as cooking. The fellas, even the'Cats, needed an outlet to relieve their stress, and the sometimes bitter banter between them and their cook was one of the least destructive, and backed by ancient tradition. Besides, Lanier could take anything—and nearly anybody. His bloated form required real, substantial muscle to heave it around, and he'd proven many times he had plenty of guts... beneath his expansive gut.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ALLIED PERSONNEL X MIDSHIPMAN ABEL COOK X TAGRANESI LAWRENCE X SISTER AUDRY X CHIEF GUNNER'S MATE DENNIS SILVA X CAPTAIN LELAA-TAL-CLERAAN X MINISTER OF MEDICINE SANDRA TUCKER X GOD THE MAKER BLESS THEM X MESSAGE ENDS XXX
  The page began to shake in Matt's hand and a bright sheen covered his eyes. "My Lord," he said hoarsely and wiped his face with his sleeve. He cleared his throat. "Uh, please send this to Government House, with my congratulations, to the Governor-Emperor and his wife."
  Matt's lips formed a genuine, delighted smile, and he handed over the message. "Read it aloud, Spanky, then post a copy. Everybody aboard deserves to see it." His eyes started to fill again. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I'll... take a short nap on my cot in the chart house. I'll be along shortly with a reply, Mr. Palmer," he said, and turned away before the tears spilled down his face. "Carry on," he added, closing the chart house hatch behind him.
  Spanky read the message, but then he, Gray, Courtney, Chack, and Palmer remained by the rail in silence. They were exuberant, but also a little uncomfortable. Unspoken, all their thoughts were on Captain Reddy and how this latest news would hit him. He'd always been a rock—but a hot rock will crack when you pour cold water on it. Less than a minute later, to their surprise, Matt banged open the hatch and strode back to face them, a huge grin splitting his lips. His eyes were still red, but no trace of moisture remained.
  Matt laughed, and the sound was... right. "So have you, Boats. So has everybody. The hell with that. All of a sudden, I'm not really tired anymore!"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  That didn't mean he felt any less frustrated over the delays. Lord Rolak's force and the Marines still constituted the point of the spear, but Queen Maraan's had been pulled back in reserve and replaced by the Third and Fifth Guards. That's what took the most time. It was believed—probably correctly—that the defenders would fight harder if they knew they were facing their ancestral enemies from across the bay. Matt's destroyermen had been redeployed as well—much to their disgust. They'd still go in with the "first wave" but more as heavy-weapons support platoons than front-line shock troops. Their job would be to shoot archers and commanders with the Springfields and Krags and break up enemy concentrations with the Thompsons and BARs. Either way, they'd be in the thick of the fighting, Matt knew, and they'd use an awful lot of ammunition. And there'd be losses. Of that he was certain. But there was no way he could keep his men out of this fight.
  He himself was going in, wounded shoulder or not. Sandra hadn't even tried to stop him, knowing it was pointless. Without a word, she'd almost coldly done her best to completely immobilize his left arm while leaving him as much freedom of movement as she could. Then she went to join her medical staff as they prepared for the inevitable wounded. It hurt him to think she disapproved of what he was doing. He recognized the special tragedy of the losses they would endure in this "sideshow" affair. But he was certain to his core that if they didn't fight today, all would eventually be lost. It was more than just a matter of honor—although there was that as well. And it was more than just the danger of leaving a viper at their backs. It would be this event, he hoped, even more than the battle they'd fought against the Grik, that would forge all the fractious forces of the AEF into a single cooperative fighting force. The day had not started out looking like that would be the case, but this new purpose, this goal, had slowly formed throughout the morning as the other commanders came to realize the nature of the test. If it took this "sideshow" to finally weld the Lemurian people—and their American allies—into a united nation of some sort, then so be it.
  REVENGE DAMAGED IN STORM AND BROUGHT TO ACTION BY SUPERIOR ENEMY FLEET X DESTROYED IN BATTLE SOUTH PULAU BELITUNG X SIX SURVIVORS ALL INJURED RETRIEVED BEFORE BATTLE X ENEMY FORCE ESTIMATED 300 REPEAT 300 PLUS SHIPS COURSE SOUTH SOUTHEAST 175 DEGREES EIGHT KNOTS X ENEMY IN COMPANY JAP BATTLE CRUISER BELIEVED AMAGI X NO SHIT X MESSAGE ENDS
  Matt glanced at him and then pitched his voice so no one else could hear. "I think we just lost the war."
  When the various commanders and chiefs had hastily assembled, Matt regarded them carefully and wondered how to begin. They didn't have time even for this, but if they were to have any chance at all, there could be no lengthy debate. It probably depended most on Queen Maraan and how she reacted. Without her support, all was lost.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He pulled his shoes back on and quickly ran a comb through his hair. Dampening a towel in his tiny basin, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and moistened his face. Contemplating his razor for just a moment, he decided it could wait until he knew what the situation was. With the exception of Courtney Bradford, himself—and Sandra Tucker of course—virtually the entire crew now sported beards. The quality of each beard varied with the men's individual ability to grow one, however, and a few were a little sparse. The razors on the ship would last only so long and he wasn't going to force the men to shave, but he did require they keep themselves trimmed. His own determination was to remain clean-shaven as long as he possibly could and he disliked appearing with stubble. It was his little ritualistic way of showing daily defiance toward the adversity they faced.
  Sensing it was important somehow, he picked up the razor after all. His officers knew he preferred to take the few extra minutes to make himself presentable. It never hurt for the men to see, no matter how desperate the situation, their skipper was always calm enough to hold a razor to his face. If time was critical enough to prevent him from doing so now, Garrett would have made that clear. He did hurry, though, and in just a few minutes he was climbing the ladder at the rear of the pilothouse. As he did so, he was surprised how rested and vigorous he felt. The long sleep had done him a world of good, but in spite of that he couldn't ignore the growing dread that welled inside him. He always felt apprehensive when called to the bridge unexpectedly, but the fact that they were in the middle of the Java Sea, in broad daylight, only made his concern more acute. He knew his officers had probably conspired to let him sleep as long as he could and it would have taken something fairly serious to disturb him. In their current situation, things went from "fairly serious" to "catastrophic" pretty damn quick.
  Matt focused carefully at the point where the sea met the sky and as he stared, he began to discern towering, dirty-white sails outlined against the light blue background. There was no doubt about it. Even as he concentrated on holding the binoculars steady, more and more of the ominous shapes resolved themselves in the distance. It wasn't just the advance element of the enemy fleet they'd been avoiding either. There were far too many. In spite of the heat, icy tendrils clutched his heart and radiated outward, across his chest and down his back. Far in the distance, beyond the ever more crowded horizon, Matt thought he could see a hazy column of black-gray smoke drifting away to the north and up toward Borneo and the Makassar Strait. He lowered the binoculars until they hung suspended from the strap around his neck.
  Matt shook his head. "Not yet. But please do have Mr. McFarlane, Mr. Dowden, and the Bosun report to the bridge immediately."
  Spanky glared at the Chief. "Then figure it out, Fitz! You're in charge of the deck divisions. You're always reminding us of that! Rigging the tow is something you're going to have to solve! Distribute the load to more than one cleat—you can come up with something!"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.. Start with the sentence 'The seaman who brought the muskets had gone over the side, so there was no hope for him'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The seaman who brought the muskets had gone over the side, so there was no hope for him. The girl collapsed into the bottom of the boat and wept with disconsolate abandon. For a while, the big man could do nothing except stare into the empty, endless night. Occasionally, his gaze fell upon the ragged, pulsing stump of his left arm. The rest of it had been snatched away so suddenly and with such force that all he remembered feeling was a tug and a pop. Now his life was coursing into the sea and he already felt the loss. Shaking himself, he snatched his belt from his waist and wound it tightly around the stump. Shortly, the cascade reduced to a trickle, but, light-headed, he sat heavily in the boat and looked down at the sobbing girl.
  Seeing his terrible wound, the girl recoiled for an instant, but then scrambled lightly across the seats to his side.
  The big man's smile faded completely and he gazed out at the dark, endless swells. They'd lost contact with their consorts some nights back, but that happened all the time. The other two ships wouldn't grow concerned until several days after they reached the factory dock and the doomed ship and her important cargo still had not arrived. They'd traveled only half the distance to their destination, so it would be weeks before they were considered overdue. Months before the news reached home and a search was mounted. The wind and current would drive them quickly westward, far beyond the lanes traveled by men.
  He blinked and then looked down into the huge, trusting eyes that seemed to pierce his calloused soul.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  Matt reflected that Laumer's fixation on the old boat could be good... or bad... and he had no idea which it would ultimately be. He'd been advised that S-19 could never be a submarine again. Most wanted to just scrap her—but that wasn't right either. Not only would Laumer and all the men and 'Cats who'd worked so hard to save her be crushed, but the boat did float and had two running (or repairable) diesels and a four-inch-fifty gun. Matt decided to give the determined submariner his head and ordered Laumer to rebuild S-19 into... something else. Even if nobody really knew what that would be yet, Laumer didn't care. Whatever S-19 was fated to become, she would still be his.
  There was a murmur in the wardroom over that. When they left Baalkpan, little progress had been made toward communicating with the creatures.
  Cook had been one of a number of civilian refugees from Java, mostly children of diplomats and other big shots, aboard S-19. Since his rescue, he'd been Courtney Bradford's protégé in the natural sciences. He'd also been abducted and ultimately marooned along with Sandra, Silva, Princess Rebecca, Lawrence, Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Sister Audry... and others not as lucky. He'd packed considerable adventure into his barely sixteen years, and the gangly teen had generally comported himself well by all accounts.
  In response to Spanky's question, Matt glanced at the Bosun, indecisive. Carl Bashear was Walker's Chief Bosun's Mate now, and Chief Gray really was needed in Baalkpan. The Alliance had sprouted a lot of "chiefs," but few had any real leadership experience, especially in combat. Matt envisioned at least a temporary school for Naval NCOs, to deepen that pool of experience and knowledge, and Chief Gray, the Super Bosun, was the natural choice to supervise it. Chief Gunner's Mate Paul Stites could handle the Captain's Guard, and Bashear was fully capable of handling all the deck divisions. Matt really ought to send Gray home, but he was reluctant for several reasons. For one thing, he was Matt's friend and primary—discreet—confidant when it came to matters concerning the crew. Also, like Silva in one respect, Gray thrived under adversity. Despite occasionally proclaiming that he wouldn't mind settling down for a while, he'd hinted that if Matt shuffled him off to be a "schoolmarm," or put him out to pasture, he shouldn't expect him to excel behind a desk or in the classroom. Matt thought the Bosun could and would do the job, but he also knew his heart wouldn't be in it. Walker was his home. Whether or not he remained essential to the old destroyer's day-to-day operation, supervising and monitoring her well-being was critical to Gray. He needed her just as badly as she'd needed him in the past, and Matt couldn't shake the feeling—the premonition, almost—that his ship might desperately need her Super Bosun again.
  With the meeting adjourned, the wardroom quickly emptied. It was hot in the compartment, even with the portholes open, and the wind direction prevented much air from coming in. The smell of sweat was so all pervasive, no one noticed it anymore. The musty-smelling 'Cats shed all the time, however, and Spanky rocketed up the companionway at the end of the short passage in the middle of a sneezing fit. Even Juan left, herding ahead of him a pair of mess attendants laden with trays of cups. All that remained were Matt and Sandra, smiling comfortably at one another across the wardroom table.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide another paragraph.. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Risa looked at Dennis and blinked discomfort. "Of course he did, my sister. He cannot protect you here... and ultimately, neither can Col-nol Maal-ory."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: To Toryu, it was suddenly obvious. "They will likely think I have perished, with all the others with me. We were sent at a poor time of year. Suspecting my envoy did not survive, they might send another. If it arrives, perhaps under the direction of a more... committed ambassador, you must stall them and prepare."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "They will likely think I have perished, with all the others with me. We were sent at a poor time of year. Suspecting my envoy did not survive, they might send another. If it arrives, perhaps under the direction of a more... committed ambassador, you must stall them and prepare."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Destroyermen
  She looked up at the shape of the building once more before stepping through a narrow stone entrance, struck by how similar it was in general form to the "cowflops" of the Grik. She'd never seen those other places herself but had looked at drawings, even the wondrous new photo-graaphs. Grik palaces weren't nearly as artistic, being more chaotic, generally rounded, and, though unimaginably larger, squatter in proportion to their massive footprints. But just like the stepped pyramids of the Doms, Grik cowflops stood on squarish bases oriented to the four points of the compass. Some ascribed their rounded, weathered aspect to eons of actual erosion and proposed they were much older than the Dom structures. Regardless, they were just as sacred, just as central to the bloody culture venerating them, and she had to wonder if sometime, somehow, there'd been a common influence.
  No one else seemed interested in approaching them, but Lelaa felt no such restraint and veered toward the argument. She acknowledged greetings from the other carrier skippers, nodded briefly at Admiral Hibbs, who rolled his eyes but wore a worried frown, and continued on, unaware if Orrin and Tex followed or not. They had, and all three converged on the two overall commanders and two heads of state.
  Orrin was shaking his head. "God knows Matt can get pushy from time to time, but what the hell's this about?"
  He glanced back and forth between her and Saan-Kakja. "Only that it seems to me, for two dames in charge of so much, with so much responsibility, whose people and industries are the only real support we have out here against the Doms, you're throwing the most childish fit I ever saw, at the worst possible time."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And though not quite as massive as its counterpart at Grik City, the Palace of Vanished Gods was still immense. Its external shape implied internal solidity—like the cowflop it actually vaguely resembled—but hid a vast interior honeycombed with confusing passageways and odd chambers, large and small. Grik corpses littered the stone floor in this one, as did a number of 'Cats', the latter being covered with their oilcloth ponchos and arranged along one wall. Obviously, not all the specially trained Grik guards had sortied earlier, and the fight here had been as brutal as it was somewhat unexpected.
  Silva unslung the heavy Doom Stomper and handed it to one of Jindal's Impie troopers, along with the bandolier of huge shells it fired. "Take care o' that," he instructed. "Gentle, like a broad. Don't get no blood er goo on it either."
  Wide-eyed, the Impie looked at Jindal, obviously afraid of the responsibility and the possibility of incurring Silva's wrath. Under the circumstances, Jindal was amused and somewhat heartened that the trooper was more afraid of Silva than their situation. He smiled and nodded back. "Your weapon will be well cared for," he assured.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall in a number of categories difficult to describe as classes, but, again, can be grouped by size and capability. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts.
  Ships of the line—About 200′ x 60′, 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 7–10 knots. 470–525 officers and enlisted.
  Heavy frigates (cruisers)—About 170′ x 50′, 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 14 knots. 290–370 officers and enlisted.
  Field artillery—9 pdrs on split-trail carriages—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 600 yds with grapeshot.
  Primary small arms—Flintlock (patilla-style) musket (.69 cal), sword, pike, bayonet. Only officers and cavalry use pistols, which are often quite ornate and of various calibers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Only officers and cavalry use pistols, which are often quite ornate and of various calibers. Despite their generally more primitive design, Dom warships run larger and more heavily armed than their Imperial counterparts.
  Ships of the line—About 200′ x 60′, 3,400–3,800 tons. 64–98 x 24 pdrs, 16 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 7–10 knots. 470–525 officers and enlisted.
  Heavy frigates (cruisers)—About 170′ x 50′, 1,400–1,600 tons. 34–50 x 24 pdrs, 9 pdrs. Speed: about 14 knots. 290–370 officers and enlisted.
  Field artillery—9 pdrs on split-trail carriages—effective to about 1,500 yds, or 600 yds with grapeshot.
  Primary small arms—Flintlock (patilla-style) musket (.69 cal), sword, pike, bayonet.Like Imperial vessels, Dominion warships fall in a number of categories difficult to describe as classes, but, again, can be grouped by size and capability.