“This is crazy,” Mersaak muttered through clenched teeth.
“That’s what Spanky said,” Matt agreed under his breath. He was surrounded by a lot of firepower, but there were also a lot of Grik, very close, and his only weapons were the 1911 Colt and Academy sword hanging from the belt that Juan had absolutely insisted he wear. “I don’t want to look like I need weapons,” Matt had complained. “It might spoil the whole effect of what I’m trying to sell.”
“But you must look like a warrior, Cap-tan,” Juan had adamantly replied. “The warrior who leads us all. I don’t know much about how these loco lizards think, but I bet that’s important.” Matt suspected he was right and finally relented.
Now he strode alongside Mersaak, flags and honor guard behind, as they marched to where Safir, Chack, Abel Cook, an Impie officer Matt didn’t know, and Enrico Galay (with his arm in a sling), and perhaps a score of men, ’Cats, and Khonashi waited. Matt tried to stare straight ahead but couldn’t help taking in all the dead heaped beyond the corridor the 600 made. Granted, most were Grik, but there were an awful lot of his people sprawled on the ground in front of the palace. Thank God all the seriously wounded have been moved inside, he thought. And the sooner we get this sorted out, the sooner I can bring more medics and corps-’Cats up from where Second Corps landed. Almost half the corps was still on the other side of the palace, waiting.
All those present from II Corps and Chack’s Brigade saluted, and Matt returned the honor before Safir—suitably cleaned and polished despite the fact that an incredibly grimy Chack couldn’t seem to keep from touching her from time to time, as if reassuring himself his beloved was really here—stepped forward and embraced him.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded softly into his chest.
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”
Safir snorted and clasped him tighter. “I . . . I think we did it,” she murmured before stepping back.
“I’m just glad you’re safe.” Matt’s eyes encompassed the rest. “All of you. As for how this’ll all turn out . . . We’ll see.”
There was a commotion behind the Grik lines, a large group moving among them and stepping into the open.
“Aallied Expedition-aary Force!” Chack bellowed. “Chaarge baayonets!”
With a single thunderous shout, seven thousand troops, four ranks deep, took one step toward the enemy and lowered their rifles with the well-drilled precision of some immense machine. Bayonets bristled outward, tilted slightly up. The closest Grik recoiled, growling, but the cluster moving toward them kept on coming.
“Thought we’d show ’em how importaant you are to us, and we’ll protect you if they try anything,” Chack said lowly to Matt, a satisfied grin splitting his face. “Like you said on the raadio, this meeting’s as much about perception as anything. Whaat they think we’ll do, as much as whaat we caan. But with respect, Cap-i-taan, I don’t think you should’a come either.” He gestured around. “This goes south, as Sil-vaa would say, we’ll kill every daamn one of them—but they’ll get a lot of us too. It’ll be . . . baad.”
“That’s why I wore my fancy duds,” Matt said lightly. “To make sure it doesn’t come to that.” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen a Grik in white before.” He raised an arm displaying a sleeve that Juan had kept conscientiously immaculate. “This alone might shake ’em—and just think how pissed Juan’ll be if they get me dirty!”
“He’d kill ’em all, by himself!” Galay agreed.
Matt nodded, but frowned slightly and looked back at Chack and Safir. “Actually, I kind of agree; this is nuts. I sure wish Pete and Rolak were here. They’re the only ones who’ve dealt directly with hostile Grik commanders.” He shook his head. “But they’re too far. And even if they could just drop what they’re doing, it’d take too long to get ’em here.” He smiled wryly. “Then again, first time they talked to Halik they were just winging it too. And they didn’t have the political and spiritual honcho of all the Grik in the bag.” He looked at Chack. “You’ve given me an advantage Pete and Rolak never had. I better be able to wing it myself, after the sacrifice your people made to put that in my pocket.”
The Grik representatives, fifteen of them, had finally stopped in front of the Allied line. All wore the “uniform” of New Army troops, consisting of iron scales sewn on gray leather, and carried a banner of their own that looked for all the world like a Japanese Rising Sun flag, complete with a big, red “meatball” in the middle. The only real differences were the stylized Grik swords painted on each side of the circle, and the light tan field behind the bloodred rays. Most striking, however, was that nearly all the Grik looked very young, younger even than Lawrence, and few of the bristly crests atop their heads or the plumage on their tails—signs of Grik adulthood—looked fully formed. For all that, they were still full sized, with full-sized teeth, taller than a ’Cat and heavy as a man, and looked just as savage and battle ready as any Grik Matt ever saw. More so, since they all carried muskets on slings with bayonets attached, as well as their swords, and moved in a defensive block they’d apparently stepped into without thinking about it.
I haven’t seen “wild” Grik this close since Second Grik City, Matt realized, and they were all the old style Uul warriors. They were plenty deadly, but these are soldiers, bred for a new kind of war. Thank God we forced this when we did because superior weapons—breechloaders versus muzzle-loaders—was the only advantage we had left. At least here, for this fight. With just another year or two . . . He shook the thought away.
Chack looked at Matt, who nodded. “Bring him out,” Chack called behind, then faced the backs of the troops barring the enemy’s way. He took a long breath. “Let ’em through,” he shouted. There was some hesitation, and a bandaged Impie sergeant looked back anxiously. “But Colonel . . . they’re armed!”
Chack nodded. “So are we,” he assured, then lowered his voice. “And how would we tell them to leave their weapons, anyway?”
A squad of Impies peeled back, allowing the deputation through, just as a commotion behind him drew Matt’s attention. There at last were Silva and Lawrence, and Silva at least was as heavily armed as usual, as they escorted a short, plump, disheveled Grik between them. The ancient Lemurian, First Sergeant Moe, brought up the rear. Silva and Moe looked pretty ragged. Both were filthy, bloody, and bandaged. Lawrence was comparatively clean but seemed just as tired. Matt knew he’d been up for days, first for the hair-raising parachute drop, then the fight for the city and the palace, and finally for his lengthy conference with the Celestial Mother that brought them this possibility.
The Grik between them just looked . . . weird. As Matt had noted, he was plump—something he’d almost never seen in a Grik—and his crest was artificially stiffened with some kind of hastily applied pomade. Even more bizarre, he seemed to be wearing makeup of some sort, to cover the graying feathery fur around his eyes and snout. But the makeup hadn’t been freshened and was all the more obvious.
“Howdy, Skipper,” Silva said with a grin, as grimy, blood-caked fingers stuffed a wad of yellowish leaves in his cheek. The weariness in his eye and tone was clear. “Glad you could join us. Surprised Pam didn’t tag along with you.”
“Wouldn’t’ve missed it,” Matt replied, “and she tried.” He cleared his throat. “How are you, First Sergeant?” he asked Moe.
“Old, sur.”
Matt nodded. “And you, Lawrence? It seems we owe you another medal—when we get around to making some.” There were a few low, ironic chuckles. “Where’s the other interpreter?”
“Ol’ Pokey’s dead, Skipper,” Silva said.
“I . . . sad that I all you got, Ca’tain Reddy,” Lawrence apologized.
“Nonsense. I’m sorry about Pokey, and that so much still depends on you, but we couldn’t be in better hands.” He nodded at the Grik between them. “This is the Chooser?”
“Ay, sur.”
“He understands English?”
“Hetter than he let on, at hirst,” Lawrence confirmed.
“Good to know.” Matt spoke directly to the Chooser for the first time. “You’ll tell these”—he gestured at the waiting warriors—“what’s happened in the palace and elsewhere, and that your Celestial Mother is alive and unharmed. You’ll get their names and ranks so I know who I’m talking to, then you’ll speak for me. And you’ll tell them exactly what I tell you, or Lawrence will let me know.” He paused. “I’ve heard about you, Chooser, so I know what a treacherous turd you are. Your life depends on your honesty today, so don’t screw it up. Understand?”
The Chooser nodded vigorously. “Yesss.”
“Good.”
And so, with the Chooser speaking for Matt, and Lawrence only occasionally providing clarifications and translating for the Grik—with Silva sometimes deciphering Lawrence’s pronunciation—Captain Reddy and First Ker-noll Jash began their historic dialogue in the wreckage of the Holy City of Old Sofesshk at the foot of the Palace of Vanished Gods. And Matt knew exactly what a monumental achievement it was, even if—as he quickly learned—this Kerr-noll Jash had nowhere near the power to stop the war altogether. He did have a very strong, disciplined force, however, as well as a respected reputation among other New Army warriors. He might be very useful. The trick now was to get him to stop fighting and reestablish an example of direct obedience to the Celestial Mother so the Allied Expeditionary Force could consolidate its gains and lick its wounds. The horns and the Chooser’s word seemed almost sufficient for that—until Jash made the unprecedented demand to hear the command straight from the Celestial Mother herself.
“I know you too well, Chooser,” Jash scoffed, “by reputation and Second General Ign’s words. You’d say or do anything to preserve yourself. We’ll cease all attempts to retake the palace and withdraw only after I’ve seen that the Giver of Life is safe, and hear her command that I do so.”
The Chooser bristled, though it was impossible to tell, but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he continued. “You don’t understand, First Kerr-noll. You won’t be given the opportunity to withdraw.”
“Opportunity?” Jash snapped.
The Chooser’s tone reflected real regret when he explained. “You fought well here, but while you were occupied with this battle, the one on the river and beyond turned entirely. Not only has the enemy fleet fought its way here, as you see yourself, but Second General Ign’s great army is crushed. It flees westward even now, and nothing of consequence stands between the rest of his rampaging swarm”—he nodded at the tall man in white—“and the Holy City.”
Jash was taken aback. How? “But Second General Ign is here, just across the river!” he blurted, forgetting for an instant that the enemy understood him. “He will come!” he added defiantly.
“He can’t,” the Chooser stated, “not with the enemy so powerful on the water. And why is he here? He came for the same reason you did. Seeing he can’t cross, he’ll continue west along the coast of Lake Nalak. Once around it, perhaps he’ll move north, but he can’t help you here.”
Jash was still stunned, but shook it off. “Then we will withdraw north as well. The way is clear and no lake or river blocks our path.”
The Chooser was shaking his head. “Regrettably, withdrawal is not one of the three choices the invading prey—and the Celestial Mother—have given you. It wouldn’t be an option in any case, now that the storm is passing. Surely you’ve seen the several flying machines already overhead?”
Jash had. Two or three were up there now, and if what the Chooser said about Ign was true, every machine the enemy had could be devoted to his destruction—as soon as he disengaged here. “Three choices?” he snorted dubiously.
“Yes. First, you may resume your attack. Be warned, however, that such an act will be interpreted as a rebellious assault upon the Giver of Life herself. The enemy will destroy you, and any survivors will receive the traitor’s death.”
“Second?” Jash quickly demanded before his officers could react.
“You may disarm and become the laboring Uul of the invading prey.” The delegation hissed with fury. “It is so,” the Chooser hastened to confirm. “She gave the command herself.” He paused. “But that isn’t the choice she hopes you’ll make.”
The hissing stopped, and Jash looked first at the tall man in white, then the bloody giant by the Chooser. It was indescribably difficult to restrain himself from snatching out his sword and laying into all of them, then and there. The Gharrichk’k had no notion of inviolate parlay, and that he’d come at all, and with so few, reflected only his strict interpretation of the call summoning the Hij. Personally, he now considered his whole army Hij, but knew that wasn’t what the Celestial Mother had in mind. He took a deep, calming breath. Only then did he notice that the giant’s primary weapon no longer pointed at the Chooser. The big, dark hole in the end of the thing was aimed, almost casually, directly at Jash’s eye. The big man noticed his attention and displayed what would’ve been a perfect array of teeth, if one of them hadn’t been missing.
“The third choice,” Jash snarled. “Is that what she wants us to make? What is it?”
“Life,” the Chooser stated. “For you and all our people, and the restoration of . . .” The Chooser paused. “A measure of what we’ve lost.”
“How?” Jash demanded, surprised.
“By joining her and these”—he waved around them—“her former enemies, in the Hunt for the greatest traitor the Gharrichk’k have ever known.”
“And that is?” Jash asked.
“The former Regent Champion, First General Esshk, of course.”
I have him, Matt realized, when he heard Lawrence repeat that and saw Jash’s reaction. By all accounts of the prisoners sent to Arracca Field, and forwarded to him as quickly as Hij Geerki could collect them, Esshk had been worshipped by his troops—for a while. Ign still was, apparently, to have kept them fighting as long as he had. But some, including this one, it seemed, had grown to hate Esshk and all he’d done, and blamed him for how the world had so suddenly and violently been turned upside down.
“She considers Esshk a traitor?” Jash asked, glancing at Sagat. The garrison trooper wouldn’t meet his gaze.
When this was translated for Matt, he looked at Safir. “Is she ready?” They’d suspected they’d have to bring the Celestial Mother out at some point.
“And waiting,” Safir confirmed. “I’ll take the Chooser and get her. Follow me,” she told the fat Grik and turned for the palace. A half dozen Marines and an equal number of the 600 formed around Safir, collecting the Chooser as they went.
“I’ll let her tell you that herself,” Matt told Jash, through Lawrence. For several moments afterward, Matt and Jash just stared at one another. Jash averted his gaze first, recognizing that if nothing else, the man in white—the talker called him Captain Reddy—was of far greater rank than he. He studied the giant, again speculating whether he could take him, but finally lacking anything better to do while they waited, he turned to Lawrence. “What are you?” he asked the shorter, lighter, different-colored version of his own species. He waved at some of the Khonashi. “What are they? None of you are prey. I know that now, but neither are you Gharrichk’k.”
Lawrence thought about it, trying to form a suitable reply that Jash might understand. Slowly, he began, “All you see here, of any race, are . . . warriors combined in the service of Captain Reddy. Likewise, they represent all the free, united peoples he serves, who placed their trust in him . . . and serve us all in turn.” He shook his head. “I don’t expect you to grasp such unusual notions, so imperfectly explained,” he continued simply, “but you must recognize that we—all these various peoples—have defeated yours. In our capacity for violence, we’re not that different from you.” His tone hardened. “Conversely, we couldn’t be more differen
t in the most important respects: while your race is bound together solely to conquer and devour, we once led rich, enjoyable lives with little conflict. Your kind would call us prey for that, yet we all came together and brought this war to you to stop your attacks on us. If it weren’t for the mindless aggression of the culture you protect, you never would’ve seen us here at all.” He waved at all the bodies heaped in death. “Never would’ve seen this.”
He pointed his snout at Matt. “Just as significant, we all chose to serve him. Not only because he brings us victory, but because he returns our service with respect, loyalty . . .” He paused, trying to add “honor,” but knew no Grik word for it, even though General Alden believed Halik understood the concept. He didn’t have time to explain. “And truthfulness,” he ended inadequately.
Jash looked confused, as well he might, given how many unusual concepts Lawrence—who wasn’t so sure of some of them himself—had thrown at him so quickly. “So, you’re saying that, as Captain Reddy serves all your races, he will now serve the Celestial Mother?” he asked skeptically. “How can that be?”
Lawrence spoke with Matt for a moment, and the giant made a few snorting comments. Lawrence turned back to Jash, and Matt regarded him with a steady gaze.
“Captain Reddy swears to lead those of your race who’ll combine with all of ours alongside the Celestial Mother, to destroy what the Gharrichk’k have been—and have come to be under the influence of General Esshk.” Lawrence took a breath. “That’s the third choice you’re given, that your Celestial Mother has already made. We all understand it’s the most significant choice you’ve ever been allowed, but I suggest you make it wisely.”
Jash turned to look back at his troops, his division, and pondered the implications of what the little orange-and-brown-striped interpreter said, contemplating the novelty of such a momentous choice. He noticed then that quite a few of the warriors that had joined his division after it came across the river were wearing the black and red slash marks of Esshk’s garrison troops, and he wondered a little resentfully where they’d been during the initial fighting. Scattered all over the city, no doubt, and finally drawn to the sound of battle, he allowed. At least they haven’t turned prey. Still, even with the additions, his force was sorely depleted—and for what?
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