No Gharrichk’k he’d heard of had ever fought for his own reasons—except Esshk himself. Yet Jash was living proof that all of his race, even Uul, could think if they lived long enough to realize it or were “elevated.” He’d been raised to fight for Esshk. As he matured and saw how capricious Esshk could be, he’d devoted himself personally to Ign. But now he was being asked—asked!—to re-devote himself to the Celestial Mother, to whom his allegiance had always been instinctively drawn. There really is no choice at all, he reflected. If the offer’s real.
His eyes narrowed briefly when he saw how many garrison troops had shoved their way to the front, closest to where he and his officers came through the line, but suspected it was only natural. If they heard all that’s been said, and the Celestial Mother really is coming out, the garrison will just as instinctively want to be near her, to protect her. Aside from her personal guards, they’ve been close to her the longest. He glanced aside. But Sagat will still not meet my gaze and is acting very strange indeed.
He looked back at the tall man dressed in white. “You’ve given me much to think about,” he told him, through Lawrence. “Yet the implications of what you offer are so vast, I can hardly comprehend them.” He paused and added, almost pleadingly, “I must hear what the Giver of Life commands.”
Matt nodded and smiled with relief and satisfaction. Is this really going to work? he asked himself. “You bet,” he agreed, just as a commotion behind him drew his attention to a procession emerging from the palace. Safir and Moe were in the lead, followed by the escort they took, which surrounded the Chooser and the biggest live Grik Matt ever saw. He’d seen a few female Grik—broodmares, Courtney called them—and they were generally a little larger than males. And he’d viewed the beheaded remains of the old Celestial Mother; her massive, bloated corpse lolling on her throne, washed in dried blood, and looking more like some monstrous, blubbery walrus than a deadly reptilian predator. The chamber had stunk so bad, he hadn’t lingered long. The lantern light hinted at the same coppery plumage on this daughter, beneath a red, gold-trimmed cloak. And she wasn’t bloated, just . . . really big, probably standing six and a half or seven feet tall. He suspected the super lizards around Baalkpan—allosaurs, according to Courtney—probably didn’t grow bigger than the Celestial Mother for a year.
There was some unhappy muttering among the Allied troops surrounding the entourage. Only natural, Matt thought. After all they’ve been through, most would gladly kill the big broad. Safir apparently sensed the mood and shouted “Ten-hut!” All the troops in earshot instantly obeyed, stiffening to attention. Those farther out did so as soon as the order was repeated.
First Ker-noll Jash had never seen the Celestial Mother either. Probably only a handful of the garrison troops had, from a distance. And at this first glimpse of her bright, radiant beauty, he wondered how anyone, even Esshk, could ever deny her. As she stopped before him, she began to speak, and the soft tones she uttered—which actually included his name—were like the sweet sounds of life awakening with the sunrise. Without thinking, Jash hurled himself to the rubbled paving stones, followed by his officers and most of his troops.
What he didn’t realize until too late, in the brief thunder of thousands of Gharrichk’k prostrating themselves before their Giver of Life, was that not everyone followed his example. Sagat and his surviving companion, along with hundreds of Grik gathered tightly just beyond the bristling bayonets, raised the roaring shout of “Esshk!” and charged.
“Shit!” Matt and Silva both yelled, as a short section of the wall of troops in front of them disintegrated under a fusillade of musket fire, stabbing, hacking, and just sheer numbers. Matt pulled his Academy sword and pistol. Chack, his exhaustion vaporizing, whipped out his cutlass and slammed into a whole pack of Grik with nothing else. Abel Cook, Milke, even Galay and half a dozen others were just a step behind. Silva’s Thompson rattled, the hot brass falling all over the back of Jash—who suddenly realized what Sagat had planned all along. Leaping to his feet, he only barely avoided Matt’s sword—and the bitter, hate-filled glare behind it—before he could bellow “Assassins! Protect the Celestial Mother! Destroy those wearing the red and black! Do not fight our former enemies!” Prostrated Grik warriors jumped up and surged against the tight block of garrison troops even as they fought to pour through the widening gap in the Allied line.
Lawrence was the only one who understood what Jash was yelling, and the surprised and vengeful Allied troops around the palace fired a belated, ragged volley, killing or wounding any Grik that had risen from cover, attacking or not. Lawrence was desperately screaming at Matt to stop the shooting—which clearly bewildered him—until he saw Jash and his officers slam into the initial rush of garrison troops themselves and start slashing at them right alongside Chack. Matt’s distracted surprise nearly cost him his life when his sword was deflected by a Grik musket, but he spun inside beside the barrel just as it went off. Claws raked painfully down his back, but he turned again and fired two quick shots into the Grik’s face with his pistol. He spared another quick glance at Jash and Chack, fighting together, and thought he knew what Lawrence was trying to tell him. He fired at another pair of Grik trying to bolt past and join the first surge, now fighting around the Celestial Mother as her Lemurian guards tried to get her back to the palace. Blood spattered his whites, then flooded his sleeve when he drove his sword through a leathery Grik throat. “Lawrence!” he shouted. “What the hell?”
“Re-els!” Lawrence panted. He wasn’t even armed and was fighting the bigger Grik with nothing but the claws on his feet and one hand. Curiously, as usual, he wouldn’t use his teeth unless he had no choice.
“Rebels,” Silva shouted, in case the skipper didn’t get that. He had.
“How can we tell the difference?”
“Damned if I know,” Silva replied. “Does it make a difference?”
“Yes!”
Abel Cook reeled back from the thickening, reforming line, but a couple hundred must’ve already broken through, completely ignoring Matt and rushing straight at the Celestial Mother. A few dozen more of Safir’s troops and Chack’s Raiders got there first, but were surrounded by a seething gaggle of Grik fighting as fanatically as any Matt ever saw—even as more Allied troops rushed up around them, bayoneting them in the back.
Matt caught Cook, who just looked dazed, a big, fresh dent in his helmet. “Cease firing outside the perimeter!” he roared, repeating it twice more. “The Grik are fighting rebels. Leave ’em to it!” He shoved Cook away to the right. “Pass the word.” He saw Chack looking back, blinking incredulity. Galay was on the ground, stunned. The breach appeared contained, but the troopers there were fighting hard to keep it so. “Not you,” he yelled, then blinked irony while he shook his head and pointed at Jash—whom Chack just now seemed to notice. “Just . . . take your lead from him, and kill whoever he’s killing!”
“Damn,” Silva spat, grabbing Lawrence and steadying him. Like Cook, the Sa’aaran was covered in blood and looked dazed, but it might’ve been simple, utter exhaustion at this point. All the Grik close enough to threaten them were already dead and a platoon with Captain McIntyre had surrounded them, in any case. “Who’s that leave for us ta kill?”
Matt nodded his gratitude. No matter where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do, it was implicit that Silva wouldn’t leave Matt’s side. He grabbed McIntyre’s arm. “Send a runner to get on the horn as fast as they can and tell any ships and planes in the area not, repeat not, to attack. We’re sorting this out ourselves.” Then he pointed his bloody sword at the quickly withering knot of Grik around the Celestial Mother. “We can still kill them, Chief Silva.”
There were probably only about a hundred assassins left by the time Matt, Silva, Lawrence, McIntyre, and his platoon of Raiders joined the slaughter, yelling at the troops to save the Celestial Mother instead of shoot her, just in case they hadn’t already gotten the word.
They killed some Grik with their blades, washing themselves in yet more blood, but couldn’t add much or really even hasten the rescue because so many were already there. Unfortunately, for a little longer, Safir, Moe, and their small group of guards were still alone inside all that, fighting desperately to protect the giant, coppery Grik.
And the Celestial Mother was fighting too, despite having taken several painful wounds from musket balls. She’d been the primary target of the attack, after all. Only her great size allowed her to absorb the damage and keep going, her long, manicured claws slashing over the helmets of her shorter Lemurian defenders, tearing out throats and literally pulling off heads, showering blood all over herself and everyone around her. Matt could see all this, never losing sight of the giant Grik as her rescuers tightened around her, so he wasn’t surprised to find her still standing when all the Grik were slain at last and he finally reached her. He was surprised and heartsick, however, to find her standing alone.
Corps-’Cats were already squeezing through the press while loud, frantic Lemurian voices called for more over the squalls of wounded Grik that were vengefully hacked apart. A swift, mind-numbed survey of the carnage revealed the corpses of nearly all the guards, most half-buried under mangled Grik. And there, lying on his side with a short sword still in his hand and a dead ’Cat draped across his legs, was the body of the Chooser. His eyes were wide, unseeing, and his tongue lolled from open jaws into a pool of blood beneath his head. The only movement in the abattoir surrounding the Celestial Mother, in fact, was her heavy breathing—and the weak rise and fall of a bloody bayonet on the end of a rifle between her widely spaced legs.
“Jesus!” Silva snarled, jumping forward. Pulling the sticky rifle away, he handed it to someone instead of tossing it like he started to, lest the bayonet skewer one of the corps-’Cats inspecting someone nearby. Then, with too many hands trying to help, including Matt’s, he dragged two forms out from under the huge Grik.
One was General Queen Safir Maraan, and the other was First Sergeant Moe. With a cry, Chack shouldered through the press and scooped up his mate, even as corps-’Cats fought him to find her wounds and cut the leather straps securing her cuirass. There was at least one large hole in it. Most evident and horrifying of all, however, was the deep sword cut to the side of her face that had caved in her right eye socket. Holding the limp form, Chack started to moan, and it was the most desolate, heartrending sound Matt ever heard. Slowly, he knelt by his Lemurian friend and put his arm around his shoulders. To his amazement, however, Safir gasped when the cuirass was pulled away, and her left eyelid parted to reveal the bright silver orb beneath. She blinked to focus.
“I hurt,” she said simply, softly, under the rain of Chack’s tears that soaked her wrecked, bloody face.
“I bet you do,” Matt told her gently, anxious worry displacing some of his grief. He motioned for the corps-’Cats to take her. “Get her in the palace, to the surgeons.”
“No!” Chack almost snarled. “I’ll do it!”
Matt stood, helping his physically and emotionally exhausted friend rise with his burden.
“Moe?” Safir asked weakly. “He saved me.” Then her eye focused on the Celestial Mother, watching all this with perplexed interest, along with the pain she must be feeling as well. “She did too,” Safir added. Chack only glared up at the Celestial Mother as he started away. He did let the corps-’Cats help support him so he wouldn’t drop Safir.
“Ol’ Moe’s gone,” Silva told Matt, his good eye suspiciously damp as well. “Bled out pertectin’ Safir, I reckon. Geezer must have a dozen cuts an’ holes ineem.” Silva sniffed. “Dumb-ass should’a stuck by me.”
Matt shook his head, looking up at the Celestial Mother. Her cloak was gone and she was clothed now only in blood. “Thank God he didn’t or we would’ve lost Safir—which probably would’ve cost us Chack too,” he added. It was a cold-blooded statement of fact, but Silva knew how hard the skipper would take losing either of them.
Two more live wounded were found under the bodies and quickly taken away while Matt and the Celestial Mother regarded one another. And with the Giver of Life secure, the fighting elsewhere rapidly dwindled. In mere moments, it seemed, Abel Cook, Randal Milke, and General Mersaak joined them, with Jash and another blood-streaked Grik officer. Except for Abel’s soft remarks—“That’s First Sergeant Moe, poor fellow. I thought he’d never die. Couldn’t die. Perhaps you’ll think on that yourself, Chief Silva”—Matt ignored the newcomers. “Tell her we can treat her wounds,” he told Lawrence. The Sa’aaran complied.
“I have healers of my own,” the Celestial Mother answered.
“Not anymore,” Lawrence pointed out. “Unless they hid somewhere in the palace where we couldn’t find them. And ours are better.”
“Then I accept.” She was still staring at Matt. “So he is your First General,” she stated. It wasn’t a question. Then she gestured at the Lemurian dead around her. “Who acts as if these are as his own hatchlings—though even toward hatchlings, I’ve never seen such . . . attachment as I witnessed from him, and that other.”
A harried, nervous corps-’Cat started inventorying the Celestial Mother’s wounds while Matt contemplated what Lawrence told him she said, considering not only her perspective, but how he should proceed. The guards, corps-’Cat, and Safir, of course, had proven they’d protect her, and Jash’s unrestrained presence so soon after the short, sharp fight with the mutineers showed they could cooperate, but Matt knew he had to reinforce the parameters of that cooperation at once. “Tell her I think of all our people as my ‘hatchlings.’ She should think of hers the same way. For God’s sake, they all worship her as their ‘mother,’ after all!” He started talking directly to her as Lawrence followed his words. “But Chack—the one most attached to the injured female general who led your defense—was extra upset because she’s his mate.” He shook his head. “I doubt you understand that.”
He was right. Some Hij had mates, of course, as specific, reliable conduits for perpetuating their bloodline, but any other significance of the word beyond the brief physical act was utterly alien to Grik. Lawrence, who only imperfectly understood the concept himself, tried to explain it as the most intense of friendships, but lost his way again because Grik had no word for “friend” either. Regardless, the Celestial Mother seemed most fascinated by the fact that Safir was female—and a general. “Are there many such?” she asked.
“Yes,” Lawrence confirmed. “Not from my race, or the Khonashi that resemble us, but females of other races in the Union and Grand Alliance often perform the same tasks and duties as males.” He didn’t go into the cultural differences within the Alliance, and that there were still exceptions. That would only confuse things more, and the Celestial Mother was clearly mystified enough as it was.
“How?” she asked. “Are they all Uul?”
“There are no Uul among us, anywhere. If there were, we’d . . . elevate them at once,” Lawrence responded adamantly.
Jash had remained silent during this exchange, partly out of awe to be in the presence of the Celestial Mother, but also to hear what was said. Now he had to speak. “Giver of Life,” he began, going down to the bloody ground. “If I may?”
“You are?”
“First Ker-noll Jash. I command those that attempted to protect you from the invaders. . . .”
“Poorly,” the Celestial Mother commented.
“Perhaps.”
“And those who tried to murder me?”
“Garrison troops. The same that slaughtered virtually all the Ancient Hij of this city. Esshk’s troops and all that wore the red and black slash marks of his service are being destroyed,” he assured. He recognized the head of one of the decapitated corpses at her feet right in front of his face and nudged it with his snout. “That was Sagat. Their leader.”
The Celestial Mother glanced at the head, looking troubled. Or per
haps the probing of the Lemurian healer pained her? She waved a bloody-clawed hand. “Rise. Speak.”
Jash quickly stood. “I would speculate. The attachment we saw, it only now occurs to me . . .” Jash glanced at Matt and in the direction Chack had gone. “If, for whatever reason, these folk become so attached to one another—as you remarked on—is it any wonder they fought so hard when we tried to make them prey? How many other prey through the ages have felt the same?” He pointed his snout at Matt. “He is something like their First General, as I understand such things, though there’s more to it than that. How much safer would our race be if he somehow, eventually, formed an attachment to us?”
The Celestial Mother blinked wide eyes. “Very astute, First Ker-noll Jash. Allow no harm to come to yourself. I’ll have need of thoughtful advisors in the time to come.” She glanced down at the Chooser’s corpse. “And this notion of acquired, preferred attachment requires consideration. Even he chose me over Esshk, in the end.” She looked back at Jash. “Halt the destruction of the garrison troops. They may adopt the same preferment now, and you might need them.”
She turned to Matt with a gust of air from her snout. “So. If you’re First General to all your people, will you now be mine?”
It was all Matt could do to choke back a bitter laugh when Lawrence translated this—and all else that was said. The very idea, he thought. Me as First General of the Grik! After all we’ve been through. He wondered what Sandra would say, if she’d laugh hysterically or just throw up. And what of Keje? Tassanna? Chack and Safir? What would Adar have said, in my shoes now? That sobered him, as did the immediate power play the Celestial Mother just made, because he wasn’t sure Adar would’ve caught it.
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