“You—You can’t do that!” protested Laney. Franklen leaned against him in relief and began to sob.
“What do you mean?” Gray asked menacingly. Laney gulped, but didn’t look away.
“I mean, kill him, sure. The bastard deserves it.” He shivered and held the quivering form farther away. “But don’t throw him in the water alive. And”—he looked almost apologetically at Blossom—“don’t let her eat his eyes.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t throw him in the water alive, and that girl is sure not gonna eat his eyes. We’ve got rules during these illegal gettogethers, Laney. That’s the thing that makes us different from the Grik and from guys like Al. We’ve got rules of decency, of honor to follow, even when we’re breaking the rules of the Navy. And it’s because we take those rules so seriously that we’re breaking them in the first place. To protect the honor of our Navy, our ships and our people. See?”
“So how are we gonna kill him? We ain’t gonna hang him—not in here,” Silva persisted. “I don’t mean to sound all insensitive, but the bastard’s gotta die, and we prob’ly oughta’ quit sankoin’ along.”
“He’s right,” said Steele. “Let’s get on with it. Lots or volunteers?”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” said Silva in an exasperated voice. “Somebody draws a short straw, or long straw, you gonna make ’em kill him, Frankie? What if he can’t do it? Whoever kills him is gonna have to use their hands. What if they ain’t strong enough? Might as well sell tickets for that.” He turned to Laney.
“Would you like to kill him, Dean?”
Surprised, Laney looked around, then looked at the ground. Anywhere but at the prisoner or his victim. “No, Dennis, as a matter of fact I wouldn’t. Not in cold blood. I’ll do it, but I wouldn’t like to.” He looked up. “I guess I just ain’t the killer you are.”
“Few are,” agreed Silva equably. “Thing is, I shouldn’t have to kill him either, even though, for reasons of my own, I’d really kind of like to. But we all been told a chief ’s job is to lead. Well, we’re all of us chiefs, or acting chiefs or petty officers now, but some are higher than others. I been here before, even if I never got The Hat, but I never could keep it because I didn’t want the responsibility.” He walked over and looked Gray in the eye. “A lot of responsibility comes with that chief’s hat. You got time in grade on everybody. You’re ‘in charge.’ Maybe Frankie outranks you now, but there ain’t no officers here. Right here, right now, you’re it. So lead, Bosun. You either got to pick somebody to do it or you have to do it yourself.”
After a long moment, Gray nodded. “You would’a had The Hat a long time ago, Silva, if you weren’t such a maniac. Come on, we’ll do it together.”
With Laney and Chack still each on an arm, Silva grabbed the burly quartermaster’s mate around the chest. Wide-eyed, he struggled and moaned through his gag.
“I’ll pull this gag and let you have some last words if you’ll keep ’em quiet and decent,” Gray offered. Franklen went slack. Taking this as a sign he agreed, Gray pulled the bloody rag. Instantly, Al began screaming at the top of his lungs. Gray grabbed his head and began to twist and the screams abruptly ceased.
“You hear that kind of weird crackin’ sound, Al? Sounds like it’s right under your skull? Just grunt if you do.” Franklen made a noncommittal sound. In Fitzhugh Gray’s very best Al Jolson voice (which wasn’t half bad) he spoke the real Al Jolson’s signature line: “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”
Rasik-Alcas, King and Protector of Aryaal, paced back and forth before the large arched window, his rich, supple gown flowing as he walked. Barely visible in the distance beyond the north wall, bonfires, lighted ships, and muffled sounds of merriment goaded him into a dangerous, seething rage.
“Yes, my Lord King Protector,” confirmed Lord Koratin with a nervous glance, “the invaders revel.”
“Why?” Rasik snapped.
Koratin bowed his head. “I am not sure, lord. Some needed repair, long delayed, is the word I hear. We have few spies among them yet.” Rasik-Alcas began to scold his senior and currently only advisor for taking so long to build a network of informants, but he hesitated. Lord Koratin represented one of the oldest houses in Aryaal, and the creature was politically savvy. He was urbane, vain, and quick to take offense—but fear would prevent him from challenging his new king. For now. Rasik was fairly sure that Koratin harbored firm suspicions as to how Fet-Alcas had died, but for now the Aryaalan noble seemed willing to let the matter stand, and even to help. It made Rasik uncomfortable to rely on Koratin for anything, particularly anything critical to his consolidation of power, but he had no choice. “Perhaps when their repairs are complete, they will go away,” Koratin speculated.
Rasik growled. “Of course they will—to fight the Grik.”
Koratin blinked. “Then that is good! They will be gone from here and things will become as before.” He paused. “We are weakened, true, but we can stand against B’mbaado. In time—”
“No!” shouted Rasik. “Don’t you see? As long as they war against the Grik, they will have a presence here! They will never go away as long as the war continues!”
“Is that so terrible? What if the Grik return?”
“Return?” Rasik snorted. “With what?” He gestured eastward. “Have you not seen the carrion beyond our walls? Mere bones now, but the bones of thousands! It will be generations before those losses are made good.” He shook his head. “No, the Grik menace is gone. They won’t return in our grand-younglings’ lifetimes.”
Koratin was not so sure. He proceeded carefully. “I have heard it said they are not like us—in more ways than are obvious. They breed quickly and their kingdom is vast. Some say they are the Demons of Old, come to harry us again, and what they sent here is but a tithe against what they are capable of.”
“Nonsense! You really should let your females tell stories to your young.” Koratin’s devotion to his younglings was no secret, and he often recited tales to them—and others—in open forum. He enjoyed performing, and while he recognized his own failings, he secretly hoped he could atone to some degree by telling tales of real virtue and clear morals to the young. “You begin to believe your own fables,” Rasik accused. Koratin remained silent. “As long as the sea folk war against the Grik, we won’t be rid of them,” Rasik repeated, returning to the subject at hand. He resumed pacing, deep in thought. Then he stopped. “But what if the war was over?”
“What do you mean, Lord King?”
Rasik’s eyes had become predatory slits. “Tell me, Lord Koratin. Do you think those silly sea folk would have the courage to fight without the iron ships?”
“No, Lord King,” Koratin answered honestly.
“Do you believe they’d even consider carrying on without them?” Koratin felt a chill.
“No, Lord King,” he whispered.
Rasik barked a horrible laugh. “So simple!” he said and resumed his pacing, but for the rest of the evening, his mood was much improved.
Courtney Bradford was drunk again. His civilian status and eccentric behavior outside the chain of command were still tolerated, as long as he didn’t push it. Sometimes he did, usually by covertly exceeding the strict limitation on alcohol intake. He sat in one of the chairs around the wardroom table idly fingering a freshly stripped Grik skull, retrieved from the battlefield, while Juan Marcos and Ray Mertz cleared the dishes left by the dinner party. It had been a fine meal, mostly Americanized local fare, but a few purely native dishes had been presented. Bradford wasn’t accustomed to the unusual Lemurian spices and, for the most part, he just stuck to salt. At least salt hadn’t changed, thank God. His morbid trophy hadn’t elicited the excitement he expected when he flourished it at the beginning of the meal. He’d been politely but firmly asked to place it out of sight until everyone had eaten.
Now, most of the diners had returned to their duties or joined the party on deck, leaving only the captain, Sandra, Jim, Keje, and Bradford himself. Without fan
fare, the grisly thing reappeared upon the table. “This is the face our own world would have taken if whatever killed the dinosaurs . . . hadn’t,” Bradford announced muzzily, interrupting the conversation at the other end of the table.
“Probably,” Matt agreed. They’d had this talk before. He began to resume his conversation with Jim.
“But have you considered,” Bradford plowed on, “that maybe this is the way it should have been? Just look at this thing!” he demanded. “Similar brain capacity, large eyes, wicked, wicked teeth! Obviously a far better-adapted natural predator than we!” The rest of the group reluctantly turned their attention to the Australian. He was on a roll, and even drunk, whatever he said was bound to be interesting.
“Well, there’s no doubt they’re intelligent,” agreed Ellis grudgingly, “and they’re certainly better fighters on land than at sea. I don’t see how that makes them ‘better natural predators’ than us. We beat them.”
“Ah,” said Bradford, controlling a belch, “but we beat them with our minds, not our bodies. Only superior technology won the day, in the end. Consider: as far as we know, humanity has not risen on this world. We may be its only poor representatives. Where we come from, man is the greatest predator, but here that’s not the case. Here”—he tapped the skull—“this creature—or similar races—might predominate all over the globe.” He shifted his bleary stare to Keje. “Even on the islands that the People control, there are Grik, are there not? You’ve said so yourself.” He paused. “We’ve seen them,” he remembered. “Primitive, aboriginal, but plainly related to the more sophisticated enemy we face.” Keje nodded, peering intently at the man.
“What’s your point, Mr. Bradford?” Sandra asked quietly. The Australian’s fatalistic tone was giving her the creeps.
“It’s quite simple, my dear. We all, myself included, have from the beginning considered the world we came from to be the ‘normal’ one—the ‘right’ one—and this world the aberration.” He blinked. “No offense, my dear Captain Keje.” The Lemurian blinked acknowledgment. “But if you compare just the sheer physical lethality, there’s no way we humans would ever have evolved to become ‘top dog,’ as you Americans so aptly put it, if these creatures had anything to say about it—” His belch finally escaped. “Back home, that is. Here, we would have been an evolutionary impossibility . . . excuse me, please.”
“But what about the ’Cats?” asked Matt. Bradford shrugged.
“They apparently evolved more recently, in an isolated environment—Madagascar, I am quite sure. Two sentient species rising independently, but necessarily separate or it could never have taken place.” He stared at the skull. “At least I don’t think so. I’m convinced that my poor, lost Fritzi—a standard poodle—was more intelligent than most people I’ve met.” He shook his head. “In any event, the existence of Lemurians in no way alters my thesis. They are dodos.”
“What is a Do-Do?” Keje asked.
“A large, flightless bird that looked quite a lot like a skuggik.” Bradford beamed. Keje started to rise from his chair, his tail rigid with indignation.
Matt put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “He’s drunk, my friend, and he means no insult.” Then he continued in a louder voice. “Dodos were birds, as he described. I can’t remember where they lived—”
“Mauritius,” Bradford supplied. “Not too dreadfully far from Madagascar, in fact.” He blinked. “How odd!”
“Anyway,” Matt resumed, “dodos lived on an island with no natural predators and they thrived despite being extremely vulnerable creatures. When humans discovered the island, several hundred years ago, they were killed for food. To make matters worse, some animals, livestock animals called hogs, escaped and went wild—destroying the eggs and nests of the dodos. Soon, they were extinct.”
“I have heard this word, ‘extinct.’ It means ‘rubbed out,’ ‘gone,’ correct? That’s what the Grik mean to do to us.” Keje turned back to the Australian and fixed him with a hard, expressionless stare. “If that is the case, then what are you Amer-i-caans? Dodos too, you think? No. We are not this stupid bird that couldn’t fly. We can fly. We did! We flew to safety when the Grik came to destroy us and we’ve not lost our wings! One day, we’ll fly back to our nest, across the Western Sea, and it will be the Grik who are extinct. Not us!”
Tsalka stared at General Esshk in abject disbelief. “Impossible!” he gasped.
“Impossible indeed. But true.” Esshk himself still seemed shaken by the news. They were standing on the quarterdeck of the Giorsh, flagship of the fleet. Above them a bright, loosely woven awning fluttered in the mild breeze. It reduced the glare but still allowed the warming rays of the sun to wash upon them. It was also the only thing on the entire ship that wasn’t painted a bright, sparkling white. Tsalka often took his late-days beneath the awning on the quarterdeck even though it was inconvenient for the crew to rig. He had no command authority, having accompanied the fleet on a lark, but he was the highest-ranking Hij in the Eastern Empire and if his comforts caused annoyance, no one dared to say. A short time earlier, a dispatch vessel from the New Conquest had closed the flagship to report. A report that General Esshk had just related.
“All of them?”
Esshk hissed a negative. “Not all, Lord Regent . . . but most. A few made their escape to the New Conquest and not all fell prey. Some were not involved and managed to avoid the hunt—a simpler thing on a ship. Those that did fall prey have already been destroyed.”
Tsalka paced the width of the quarterdeck, stunned. “An entire Pride-Pack of hunters made prey!” he whispered.
“Not all—” began Esshk.
Tsalka waved a clawed hand impatiently. “As near as makes no difference! It was bad enough when the hunting-pack fell prey, but this!”
“We often lose ships, Lord Regent.”
“Lone hunters!” Tsalka snapped. “Scouts! Victims of the sea, as often as not. A Pride-Pack has not been lost to prey . . . ever!”
“We have lost that many and more to other hunters, sire, while we still considered them prey.”
Tsalka glared at the general. “You have spoken thus before, I recall. Have a care.” He hissed a sigh. “What is the world coming to when prey do not know their proper place?” He shook himself. “What caused the calamity this time? How did the Tree Prey resist?”
“The same as before, sire,” Esshk replied. “They had the aid of the smoking ship.”
Tsalka turned to face him. “I did not think to hear of it again. If Righ yet lived I would give him the liar’s death!”
“Perhaps he did not know. It was the report of others that he passed.”
“All the same,” Tsalka mused, “I should probably destroy his mates when we return.” He resumed his pacing, but stopped near the rail. Beyond it, the sea was covered with red-hulled ships as far as the eye could see. Here and there were the white hulls of generals. Far away to the east and west were the lands that bordered their path. The drawings of the world called it the Malacca Strait. The sight stirred him in spite of his elevation. He knew he shouldn’t concern himself, but it was an inauspicious beginning, this latest tale of disaster. He consoled himself that in the end it would scarcely matter. Nothing could stand before the Grand Swarm.
What difference would it make if the contemptible Tree Prey had allied themselves with some Worthy Prey? It would only make the hunt more exciting. With an amused hiss, he glanced far astern, where the “new” hunters that had joined the Grand Swarm struggled to keep pace. He knew little about them; their language was unspeakable, but they were fearsome hunters. They were so like his tail-less pet—Kaufman—in form, and yet different enough that they could not be the same race regardless they both used iron ships. They were different enough that his pet was terrified of them, clearly natural enemies. That was the main reason he had given his pet to them as a gift, and he still remembered the shrieks as they carried it away.
He turned to face forward and rejoined General Esshk.
What if the Tree Prey did have strange new friends? So did the Grik.
CHAPTER 3
The day after the party, just as the forenoon watch came on, Matt and Sandra stood on the starboard bridgewing alone. He wasn’t sure exactly when the nurse had achieved unlimited bridge access, but by now it was a fait accompli. She never abused the privilege, but nobody ever questioned her when she arrived. Others lined the starboard side as well. From his vantage point, Matt saw Silva leaning against the rail next to the number two gun. On his face was an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression as he stared out to sea. Beside him, Paul Stites made some kind of crack about Silva’s “dame running off” and the big gunner’s mate didn’t even respond. Strange, Matt thought, wondering what that was about.
He looked into the east and watched Mahan’s distant shape steaming down the bay toward the island gate that led to the Java Sea. To have searched for her so long, only to have her leave once they found her, left him with mixed emotions. It was different this time, though, wasn’t it? She would return in a couple of months and rejoin her sister, wherever that might be. By then she’d be a different ship. Better, with a full and willing crew. She would finally become an asset instead of a liability, and together again, the two old destroyers would sweep the Grik from the sea. His optimism couldn’t stop him from worrying, though. They’d made her as fit for sea as they could, under the circumstances, but she was still in sorry shape and she was still shorthanded. Even more so this morning, since Jim had actually reported a man missing. He was known as a malcontent malingerer and chances were he’d turn up in a day or so. Where could he go?
Matt suddenly realized that Sandra’s small, soft hand had found its way into his own. Clearing his throat, he released her fingers so he could ostentatiously adjust his hat. He glanced around, but the bridge watch all seemed preoccupied with their duties.
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