“What’s up, Skipper?”
“We’re out of time.”
Mahan’s guns opened up, now that they knew exactly where their friends were, and massive concussions burst in the trees beyond the beach, sending shrapnel and blizzards of splinters into the greater mass of Grik infantry. Tracers arced overhead toward the enemy as well, and the weight of the assault began to ease. There were still the berserkers out front, however.
“Second rank, present!” Ellis yelled, voice cracking. “Fire!” The volley staggered the enemy, and a cloud of fine sand erupted when dozens of bodies hit the ground. “Fire at will!” he commanded, and the staccato report of thirty-odd Krags competed with the explosions in the trees. He whirled to those he’d come to save, angry at their stubbornness. “The time’s come for you to act responsibly! We need to get off this beach, and there’re people dying so you can satisfy your ‘honor’ and be the very last ones! That’s not going to happen.” He looked at Safir. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked utterly spent. Her garments were torn, and her silver breastplate was tarnished and splashed with blood. “We didn’t just come get you because we gave our word not to leave anyone behind; we came because we need you!” His gaze slashed Alden, who was covered with blood from many superficial cuts. “All of you! This’ll have been for nothing if you get your asses killed now!” He pointed where the other Marines were forming in front of the boats. “This isn’t just about you; it’s not your decision. Winning the war’s a lot more important than this pissant little fight!”
Faask whispered urgently to his queen, and finally she jerked a tearful nod. Grabbing Alden’s bloody shirt, she pulled him toward the boats, leaving behind Faask and the dozen real warriors he had left. Ellis looked at him, and Faask grinned back.
“You will not leave before the last of your Marines, will you?” Ellis didn’t answer, and Haakar-Faask laughed. “You are important too, you know. When you finally enter the boats, someone must keep them away.” He drew his sword and looked at the notched, blood-encrusted blade. “To talk of ‘winning the war’ is very well. It is also true. But I am old, and I have seen my world collapse. I think this ‘pissant little fight’ will be enough for me.”
“I’d love to bust those bastards up!” growled number three’s gun captain, just above his head on the amidships deckhouse.
“No point,” Ellis replied. “Save your ammunition.”
A ’Cat signal striker raced up. “Skipper!” he said. “Lookout says sails to the north! Many, many sails!”
“. . . I think we’ve got the fuel for it, but . . .” Spanky continued, joining Matt on deck. He looked around at the many faces and stopped. Swearing, he shook his head and disappeared down the companionway, bellowing for Laney. Matt’s eyes found Dowden’s.
“Plot a least-distance, least-time course for Baalkpan, via Tarakan. Consult Spanky and determine our best speed, without getting home completely dry. We might show up in the middle of a battle. Have Clancy transmit ‘on our way, Walker’ over and over. Standard code. Maybe they can hear us, even if we can’t hear them.”
O’Casey was staring around at the ship, as curious about it as about the sudden activity. He’d been offended when they took his antique weapon away, and resisted giving it up—until Silva and Stites had “insisted.” Stites had discovered several more muskets at the castaways’ camp, and, never one to abandon any weapon, he’d brought them along. O’Casey wasn’t overawed by the ship, exactly, but he did seem amazed. And envious. He stiffened when he heard the word “battle,” however. Silva was watching him at the time, and noticed the reaction.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Dowden answered. “Uh, Captain, I’ve taken the liberty of putting the children and their chaperones in the chief’s berthing spaces, and moving the chiefs to available officers and enlisted berths, based on seniority. I’ve also begun entering S-19’s survivors in the books. We’ll have to see who fits where best; they’re not destroyermen, after all.”
“Of course.” Matt knew when Dowden was beating around a bush. It was his job to sort out everything he’d reported, and unnecessary for him to report it. “What else?”
“Well, sorry, Skipper, but there’s two things, actually. First, the girl with the pet Grik won’t berth with the other kids. Says she’ll only berth with Mr. O’Casey here, and she won’t leave the damn lizard till we have a look at him and promise not to hurt him.”
Matt looked at Bradford, still puffing from his climb. “Go have a look. You’re our expert on Grik anatomy. Have Jamie give you a hand.” He paused. “Silva?”
“Skipper?”
“Go with him. Damn thing may be tame as a puppy, but if it even looks cross-eyed, blow its head off.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Silva and Bradford clambered down the metal stairs.
“I will accompany them,” Adar proclaimed. “I am curious about this ‘tame’ Grik, but I would get to know the youngling better.”
Matt nodded. “Me too. See what you can find out.” He looked back at Dowden. “What else?”
“Well, Skipper, it’s the nun. Says they all appreciate being rescued, but she’d like to speak with you again. She hopes . . . you won’t be so ‘rude’ next time.”
“Rude?”
Dowden shrugged, and Matt rolled his eyes.
“Maybe later. Chack?”
“Sir?”
“Assemble your sea and anchor detail, and prepare to pull the hook. We’re getting underway.”
“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.”
All that remained were Keje, and Walker’s officers. Captain Reddy turned to O’Casey.
“We’re about to leave your island resort behind, and I’ve made good on my part of the deal. We’re all going to the pilothouse now. Things are going to be busy while we get underway, but as soon as I have a free moment, you’ll be standing right there, ready to pay your passage. I have some questions and you’re going to answer them.”
“Very well, Captain. I’ve a few questions of me own, if ye please. Ye say we might be headed fer a battle. Might I ask who you expect to fight?”
Ignoring O’Casey, Matt turned and strode purposely toward the bridge, leaving his surprised entourage hurrying to catch up. Taking the steps two at a time, he arrived in the pilothouse, preceded by his own shouted, “As you were!” Facing the startled OOD, he announced: “I have the deck and the conn. Make all preparations for getting underway.” He looked speculatively back at O’Casey, as the one-armed man reached the top of the stairs.
“We’re at war with creatures like your young lady’s pet, and they’re on their way to attack our . . . our home. Maybe a few hundred thousand of ’em. The first thing I want to know is how you made friends with one.”
“Critter give you any trouble, Jamie?” Silva gruffed.
“No . . . it’s just . . . Shit, Dennis, it’s a Grik!”
“Noticed that myself. So what? Ain’t you got a hypocritical oath, or somethin’? Patch him up.”
“Hippocratic,” murmured Bradford, moving raptly toward the creature. The girl stood unsteadily, but hovered protectively near. “We won’t hurt him, child, I assure you. You must understand; I’ve never been this close to a live one before that wasn’t trying to eat me.” The girl jumped at the rush of iron links flooding into the chain locker forward. “There, there,” Bradford soothed, “nothing to fear, the racket is quite normal, I’m afraid. Please do sit again, before you fall and hurt yourself. We’re old salts, and quite used to this abominable motion.”
Silva smirked.
“You said his name is Lawrence?” Bradford continued, ignoring the big man.
The girl nodded. “I named him that,” she said.
“And you’re Becky? How interesting. Charmed, of course, and very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Soon the ship came alive beneath their feet, and the nauseating pitching motion became more bearable as Walker accelerated into the swells. Becky finally sat, but continued glaring at Silva.
“I don’t want that evil man in the same room with my poor friend,” she insisted. “If Lawrence is to die, I prefer it not be in the presence of his murderer!”
“Now see here, girlie!” Silva protested.
“My name is not ‘girlie’!”
“Calm yourself, child!” Bradford pleaded. “Mr. Silva cannot leave; he has his orders. Besides, he didn’t mean to injure your friend; it was a dreadful misunderstanding!”
“He did too,” the girl fumed. “And my name is not ‘child’ either!”
“Of course, my dear. I apologize.” Bradford glanced hurriedly at the wounded Grik. “I think your friend will recover well enough. The wound is painful, certainly, but not fatal, if my memory of his anatomy serves. The bullet passed cleanly through his left pectoral muscle, left to right, and if you allow us, Mr. Miller has some salve that should accelerate the healing process and prevent infection. It will also ease his pain. May he proceed?”
Becky sighed. “Of course, but please hurry!”
Jamie advanced hesitantly with the Lemurian antiseptic, analgesic paste, made from fermented polta fruit, on a wooden spatula. The creature seemed to understand the conversation, as well as Jamie’s intent, and lay docile, waiting for him to apply the medicine. Jamie gulped and did so. Within moments the creature’s tense, straining muscles began to relax, and it sighed in evident relief.
“Do you feel better now, my dear?” the girl crooned.
“’Etter. Thank you.”
“Well . . . good,” Silva gruffed, strangely moved. His world had been turned upside down yet again. Here was a Grik, a member of a species so terrible it almost defied comprehension. Yet lying there with a child stroking its brow, it looked almost vulnerable and benign. What was more, not only did it understand what they said, but it could speak. It was even polite! He scratched his beard sheepishly, glancing around. “Sorry I shot you. Maybe there’s good Griks and bad Griks, just like good people and Japs.”
“I not Grik,” it said, almost dreamily now, another effect of the paste. “I Tagranesi, on islands east-south. I lost, like ’riend ’Ecky.” Its eyelids fluttered. “I sorry you shoot too.”
“He’ll sleep now,” Bradford assured the girl. “Mr. Miller will bind his wounds.”
“Uh . . . I don’t want to bug him,” Jamie almost sputtered. “Why don’t I wait until he is asleep?”
Bradford rolled his eyes. “He’s quite harmless.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” disputed Silva, then paused. After a moment he dropped his pistol in his holster and buttoned the flap. “But maybe he ain’t dangerous, if you know what I mean.” He looked at the girl again. “I’m sorry to you too. I never would’ve figgered it. You want somethin’ to eat?”
Becky started to flare at him again, but caught herself and just sat, looking disoriented.
“I . . . I suppose. Yes, thank you . . . Mr. Silva.”
Once summoned, Juan brought a tray of sandwiches and bowed. “It is a great pleasure,” he said, “to have a young lady as beautiful as you grace our poor, drab ship. It has been too long!” He looked her over. “I will see if I can find more suitable clothes to replace those rags.”
Becky paused before taking a bite of one of the steaming sandwiches. “Why . . . thank you. You are very kind.”
“De nada,” Juan said, and departed.
“Was that Spanish?” the girl asked, shocked.
“Sorta,” answered Silva, surprised. If she was one of these “Others” Adar always spoke of, where’d she learn to recognize Spanish? he wondered. “He’s Filipino. You know who they are?” Becky didn’t answer, but dove into her sandwich. They munched companionably, seated around the unconscious lizard. Everyone was famished, and the stack of sandwiches soon disappeared.
“My dear—” began Adar.
“Young lady . . .” interrupted Bradford.
“Whoa!” said Silva. “Damn, fellas! She just ate. Give her a while.” He looked into her large, jade eyes. “You tired?”
“Not especially.” She saw the light dimming beyond the porthole. “I suppose I should be; this is the time of day we usually prepared our defenses for the night.”
“Mmm,” Silva replied. It must have been tough living on that island, fighting off nightly incursions by predators, both by land and from the trees. The shore party hadn’t encountered anything dangerous, but Flynn had described some particularly terrifying creatures that dropped on them at night from above. They’d quickly learned to keep to the clearings. “Don’t have to do that tonight, doll. Yer safe as can be! How about a evenin’ stroll? I’ll show you around the ship!” He caught Adar’s eye and winked.
“I really shouldn’t . . . Mr. O’Casey . . .”
“O’Casey’ll be busy talkin’ to the skipper till who knows when.”
The girl stood and, with a final glance at her sleeping friend, nodded. “Very well then, if it isn’t any trouble. I must admit to an intense curiosity about your ship.” She paused. “I must also admit I misjudged you, Mr. Silva. I still dislike you, but perhaps that may pass as well. I apologize for attacking you.”
“Good thing you did,” Dennis admitted, also looking at her friend. “I would’ve killed him if you hadn’t.”
“Just so. Very well, then, please do lead the way.”
They left the others behind, mouths agape like beached fish, and climbed the companionway to the open deck. Silva described the various features of the ship visible from where they stood: the back of the bridge, the funnels, the amidships deckhouse. He noticed she was particularly interested in the four-inch guns atop it on either side, fascinated by the rifling at their muzzles.
“What are those twisty grooves for? I’ve seen many cannons, but nothing like them.”
Silva blinked, hesitating, then laughed. “Why, they spin the bullets. Makes ’em fly straighter.”
“Oh.”
Her tone sounded like he’d satisfied a long-burning question. Surely she’d seen the gun on the sub? Maybe she’d never asked the pigboat pukes. O’Casey’d probably told her not to. Silva remembered Flynn telling them she never played with the other kids, and suddenly realized that despite O’Casey, she’d probably been very lonely indeed. They passed under the platform and walked by the galley, ignoring Lanier’s strident criticism of his assistants. Standing between the port and starboard torpedo mounts, the small girl got her first look at the passing sea.
“My goodness!” she declared. “This is a very fast ship! How fast can it go?”
“’Bout twice as fast as this, give or take.” He looked at her. “How old are you?”
Her eyes never left the surging wake. “I’ll soon be ten,” she answered absently.
“Lordy. You look six and act twenty!” His tone prevented her from taking offense. “You on that island a whole year with them submariners?”
“Indeed. They picked us up at sea after our ship was destroyed by a leviathan. It was terrifying.”
“If ‘levy-than’ means what I think it does, I know what you mean,” he agreed. “Them big boogers scare me to death!”
She glanced at him with a tentative, impish smile. “I cannot imagine you frightened.”
“Mmm. Well, I was. A little. Least I sunk one of the bastards!”
She giggled. It was such an unusual, forgotten sound it almost broke his heart.
“Did not! What a villainous liar you are! Besides, I asked you before to control your language.”
“Did too!” Dennis insisted, willing away the strange, fluttery sensation in his chest. “With the four mount! Shot him right in the mouth! Course, the depth charges might’ve helped, but that don’t matter.” He looked at her. “Besides, you called me a ‘bastard.’ I figgered I could say it.”
She giggled again, and held her hand over her mouth. “I am sorry. What would Master Kearley say?” Her expression grew sad. “Poor man. He knew he was doomed, but he saved my life, as did Mr. O’Casey.”
“Master Kearley?”
“My tutor. He . . . didn’t make it off the ship.”
“How long were you adrift?” Dennis asked gently.
“Something over four weeks. I’m not certain. We had plenty of provisions—just two of us in a boat meant for twenty. Still, it was terrifying. There are few silverfish in the deep waters to the east, but there are other things.” She shuddered.
Silva took a pouch from his pocket, loosened the string at the top, and removed a plug of yellow-brown leaves. He bit off a wad and worked it for a moment until it formed a bulge in his right cheek. Seeing her watching him, wide-eyed, he graciously offered the pouch. “Chew?” Revolted but intrigued, she shook her head. “Suit yerself,” he said, and pulling the string tight, he returned the pouch to his pocket. “Where’d you come up with Lawrence, anyway? Flynn said he was in your boat.”
“He was. We found him on an island we landed upon, searching for a place with food and water closer to . . . where our people might search for us. There wasn’t any, but he’d been there several days, a castaway as much as we. All he had was a dugout canoe, and no idea which direction to head! His species is not unknown to us, a few meetings on isolated islands southeast of my home somewhere. But I’d never seen one before!”
“Peaceful meetings?” he asked, apparently astonished.
“I believe so, yes.”
“I’ll swan. Where’s home?” Dennis ventured.
She started to answer, then caught herself. “Are you interrogating me?”
“Yep.”>
Hands on hips, she looked up at him. “How rude! A gentleman never pries into the affairs of a . . . a young lady!”
Silva shrugged, a twisted grin on his face. “I ain’t no gentleman, doll. ’Sides, whose rules are those?”
“Why . . . they’re society’s rules—the rules of civilization.”
“Land rules.”
“Not just ‘land’ rules!”
“There’s other rules, you know. Sea rules. When somebody rescues castaways, either adrift or ashore, he can ask ’em anything he wants.”
The girl became pensive. “Truly?”
“Yep.”>
“Must one always answer such questions?”
Silva laughed, a deep, booming laugh that drew the attention of those working nearby. “Not always, doll, but it’s sorta rude not to.”
“Do you have to answer my questions too?”
“No, but I will. I already have, some.”
She pointed at Chack, supervising a deck crew lashing covers over the fireroom skylights. Silva was expecting a blow, and it looked like the skipper was too. “What are those creatures?”
“’Cats. Cat-monkeys, monkey-cats—Bradford calls ’em ‘Lemurians,’ and I guess that’s stuck, but most fellas just call ’em ’Cats. They have another word for theirselves—can’t remember it—that means ‘People.’ They’re good folks, too: smart as a whip and twice as strong. Hell, Adar—that’s the fella in the wardroom—and Keje are prob’ly the smartest fellas I know. Them and the skipper.”
“Skipper?”
“Captain Reddy, to little girls.”
“He mentioned a battle, and several times people have acted afraid of poor Lawrence—and you shot him, of course! What is that about?” She seemed genuinely curious, so Silva told her. He wasn’t used to talking to kids, especially ones who acted so grown-up, so he didn’t pull any punches. When he was finished, she just stared at the wake. They’d moved to the rail while he spoke, and she was leaning on it now. “So you Americans are fighting for the freedom and safety of others, essentially. You yourselves could simply leave, if you wished.”
He spit a yellowish stream over the side, and she shuddered. “Well, sure. But where would we go?”
“You could . . .” She stopped herself again, and shook her head. “It makes no difference. You wouldn’t leave even if you could. You are engaged in a noble war, a holy war. A war against absolute evil.” In a small voice she added, “I think Father would approve . . . almost envy you that.” Her face was suddenly stricken. “Oh, Lawrence will be so upset to discover others of his kind behave so!”
“That’s okay. There’s others no more different from us than he is to Griks, helpin’ ’em. Buncha Japs, with a great big battle cruiser. Could eat us alive, like one o’ them ‘levy-than’ things.”
“Yet still you stay?”
Silva shrugged. “’Tween the Japs and Griks, I’ve lost ’most every friend I ever had. It may be a ‘noble holy war’ to some, but to me—and the Skipper too, I think—it’s plain ol’ simple revenge.” He was almost shocked out of his wits when he felt her warm, tiny hand crawl into his massive paw.
“You have a new friend now, Mr. Silva, even if you are a disgusting beast. I don’t dislike you anymore at all. I have another question, though.”
“Shoot,” he said, still rattled.
“Why do you call me ‘doll’?”
He was silent a moment, watching the lightning off the starboard quarter; then he sighed. “You don’t like ‘girlie’ or ‘child,’ and you don’t look like a ‘Becky’ to me. . . .” He shrugged. “You look like a doll. A fragile china doll. Dirty, shaggy haired, with raggy clothes, and you need a good washin’, but underneath, you’re a beautiful china doll.” He growled incoherently and shook his head. “Say, while yer all dirty, you wanna see the engines?”
Every officer was present except Campeti, who had the watch. Flynn and his nominal superior, Ensign Laumer, sat beside the captain. Adar, Keje, Bradford, and Chack were also there, as were a couple of Chack’s senior Marines. Silva felt awkward being the center of attention in such a . . . respectable way . . . and also felt uneasy recounting his conversation with the girl, as if he were betraying her confidence. Still, despite the girl’s obvious attempts to conceal certain things, he’d gathered a lot of information the captain needed.
“We already knew their ship was wrecked by a mountain fish,” he began, “an’ they were the only survivors. Girl had a tutor named Curly er somethin’ who didn’t make it, so I figger she’s sorta ‘somebody.’ I thought that anyway ’cause of her name. She just don’t seem like a ‘Becky’ to me. That might be a nickname, er part of her real name, but I don’t think she’s used to goin’ by it.”
“I got that impression too,” Matt murmured thoughtfully. “Please continue.”
“Yes, sir. Anyway, she said they’d drifted on the current four or five weeks from the ‘deep water to the east’ and went ashore on an island close to their own shipping lanes. They had to leave ’cause there wasn’t no food er water, but that’s where they picked up their lizard. She’d never seen one, but knew about ’em. Said they came from islands to the southeast of her home, and there’d been contact with the critters before. She also didn’t seem to think it unusual for it to be friendly. Said her friend’d be upset how vicious ‘our’ Griks are.”
“Good God!” Bradford exclaimed. “If there was no food or water on the island, why was the creature there, and how did it survive?”
“‘Marooned’ too. Showed up on a dugout canoe.”
Adar and Keje exchanged significant glances, and Bradford sputtered: “By canoe on such a sea! But that certainly explains much. I’ve often wondered why the ‘aboriginal’ Grik seem so prolific from one land to another, when other creatures don’t. I’ve studied our sleeping guest, and though there’s no question he’s the same species as our enemy, he’s clearly an entirely different race—as different as Europeans from Polynesians! Perhaps his race evolved a different sociology—less violent! Oh, I can’t wait to speak to him!”
Silva shrugged. “Could be. Maybe we could raise a regiment: Comp’ny A, First Stripey Lizards!”
Matt scowled, looking at Adar’s disgusted blinking. “Mr. Silva . . .”
“Oh. Yes, sir. I picked up some technical things too. Granted, she’s only ten, but she was very int’rested in our guns and engines. Not shocked, she knew what they were, just amazed by what they could do.”
Matt nodded. “I got the same sense from O’Casey, though I admit you picked up more information than I did. How’d you do it?”
Dennis grinned. “She’s a kid, Skipper. So am I. Just a great big kid.”
Matt sipped his coffee and rubbed his chin. “Well, between us, we learned a lot. Almost as much from what they didn’t say as what they did. They obviously don’t want us to know where they’re from. Normal reluctance to reveal too much before they get to know us, or societal paranoia?” He paused. “Either way, they’re from the east. Adar suspected as much as soon as he saw the girl, and then we learned they weren’t part of S-19’s ‘cargo.’ Now we’re sure. They’re descendants of the ‘Others’ that passed through here before. Looking at a map, we could probably extrapolate a pretty good estimate of where their home is.
“They know about guns—witness the muskets—although according to Mr. Bradford, they’re virtually unchanged from those the original East Indiamen would’ve carried. The girl said they have artillery as well, even if it’s not any more advanced. That tells us something right there. In all this time, they haven’t had any reason to improve their weaponry, so they never did. In our own history, flintlocks reigned supreme for two hundred and fifty years, and reached a level of refinement that couldn’t be improved upon. Only constant wars with equally well-armed opponents spurred the innovations we made in the last century. So wherever they are, they must be on top of the heap, and there must not be any really dangerous animals. Steam power’s something else they must have. Like Silva said, they’re impressed by how fast we can go, but not shocked we do it without sails.”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop the Grik-like creature had lain on most of the afternoon. “All fascinating mysteries I look forward to solving, and it’s good to know, at long last, that there are other humans on this world. Right now, though, we have more pressing concerns.” He opened the note he’d received from Clancy and read most of it aloud. They already knew the gist, but each point needed discussion, and he wanted it fresh in their minds. He slapped the table with the message form. “I have no choice but to believe this is genuine. Kaufman’s apology at the end, while also probably genuine, is clearly meant to convince us he is who he says he is.”
“But how in hell did the bas . . . did he get access to their comm equipment?” Spanky grumbled dubiously.
“With the help of the disaffected ‘elements,’” Dowden speculated. “Probably wouldn’t be too hard; it’s not like they have a lot of folks to talk to. Most likely just a comm watch to see what we’re saying.”
“But what of the rest of it?” Adar demanded heatedly. “This warning to us! A warning that the enemy moves, and we must complete or abandon our ‘rescue’ attempt? How could they know of that?”
“Simple,” Matt answered grimly. “Kaufman’s not talking to us. He thinks he is, because Mahan’s disguise has fooled them. For whatever reason, Jim’s taken her to B’mbaado.”
All those present, except the submariners, knew that was against Matt’s direct orders. They also knew that if Jim Ellis went against those orders, there’d been a damn good reason.
“I’ve felt something was wrong ever since we lost communications. Felt it in my bones,” he confessed. “They must’ve taken out the radio with this bombing the note refers to.” He rubbed his eyes. “Damn! We should’ve headed back two weeks ago!” Glancing at Flynn and Laumer, he allowed a wry smile. “Sorry. I’m damn glad we found you, but we may not have done you any favors.”
“I don’t understand, Captain,” Laumer replied. The lanky ensign was very young, and probably hadn’t been out of submarine school for a month before the war started, back home. As S-19’s sole surviving officer, he’d shown unusual maturity by letting the more experienced chief take the lead. He clearly wasn’t a coward, and Flynn continued to show proper deference and respect even if he was making the decisions. Matt suspected Laumer would shape into a good officer.
“We probably just dragged you out of the frying pan, into the fire. With us.” In response to their blank expressions, Walker’s people began to explain.
The sky was still gray, the sea still choppy when she and Gilbert went to the galley for a late breakfast. Lanier complained, of course, about “snipes wandering in any old time, whenever they felt like it,” to eat, but they paid him no heed. The griping was desultory anyway; Lanier was in a pretty good mood, since the Coke machine had weathered the storm, still chugging away, cooling the empty space inside. Tabby still didn’t understand why that was cause for such celebration, but if the irascible cook was happy, the food would be better.
She and Gilbert munched egg sandwiches under the gun platform protecting them from a persistent drizzle and looked around. Something had the crew’s attention forward, under the pilothouse deck. They moved over to see what it was, and were stunned to discover a tiger-striped Grik reclined on a mattress pad, with a semicircle of men and ’Cats gathered around. Bradford was there, sitting on a chair, as were Silva, Adar, and several small children.
“Holy smokes,” Gilbert said. “A Grik!”
“He’s tame,” Stites said, hearing him. “Didn’t you know he was here?”
“No. We been workin’. Where’d all the scudders come from?”
Stites looked at him. “You need to get out more.”
“I been tryin’!” Gilbert replied, almost plaintively.
Stites shrugged. “We took him, the kids, and a couple dozen pigboat pukes off Talaud.” He leered. “Got a couple new women too, but, except for some nun, they ain’t showed their faces yet. The nun keeps tryin’ to pester the skipper.”
“You don’t say?” Gilbert scratched his ear and pointed at the “Grik.” “Bradford gonna di-sect him?”
Stites laughed. “Hell, no! He’s friendly as a hungry pup. The Aussie’s been talkin’ to him just like he was a person. Silva shot him and he’s a little sore, but I swear, sometimes you can even understand what he says! Talks a little like one o’ you Georgia crackers, though.”
“I ain’t from Georgia, you damn Yankee!”
Stites shrugged again. “All you snipes sound the same to me.”
“What about Spanky? You understand him fine.”
“He ain’t from Georgia.”
Gilbert shook his head. Everyone “on deck” talked weird as far as he was concerned; so much of their language was salted with archaic nautical terms. He was more accustomed to technical and mechanical jargon.
“Laney’s a snipe and anybody understand him,” Tabby pointed out. “All he do is cuss.” They applied their attention to the bizarre conversation taking place in front of them.
“South of the overhead sun!” Bradford gushed. “How exciting! Do you think you could point out your home on a map?”
“What is . . .’ap?’” the creature replied.
“Oh, dear. Well, a map is like a picture of the world. It shows where places are.” The creature looked blank. “Never mind, I’m sure we’ll sort it out. Tell me, though, why on earth were you paddling around the open ocean in a canoe?”
“I grow . . . turn into adult. It time I leave nest, show I adult.”
“A rite of passage? Face the dangers of the world and prove you’re no longer a . . . a child?”
“Essentially. To ha’, to take . . .” He struggled for a word. Bradford had learned there was no limit to the creature’s vocabulary, but there were some words he simply couldn’t say. Anything requiring the use of lips, for example, was impossible. He understood the words; he just couldn’t form them. “To ha’, to earn right to . . .”
“Mate?” Bradford supplied.
“Yess! ’ate! I show strength, courage, I return.” He looked down. “I never return, now.”
Bradford blinked. “Don’t be so downcast. Perhaps you will. This dreadful war can’t last forever!”
Becky stirred and looked at Bradford. “Perhaps I should explain. Listening to you two hash this out is excruciating! I’ve had much longer to get to know him.” She looked at those gathered around, particularly the other children. “Mr. Silva has told me castaways should answer questions, but must poor Lawrence do it in front of so many superfluous persons?” One of the little girls sat up straight and sniffed. Becky glared at her. “You have always taunted him as a beast! He has no obligation to unburden himself to you!”
“Not me! I think he’s fascinating!” exclaimed a scruffy-looking boy in an incongruous upper-crust English accent. Becky rewarded him alone with a small smile.
“You are always so mean!” squealed the haughty girl. All but the boy loudly agreed.
“Children!” protested Bradford. He turned to Silva. “Surely the crew has other duties,” he suggested, “and perhaps these children have had enough fresh air?”
“You bet. Move along, fellas, before somebody gives you work. Kiddies, I think Stites’ll take you back below.”
“But it stinks down there!” a Dutch girl complained.
“Honest sweat,” Stites proclaimed piously, “won’t hurt you.” Amid whining complaints, he shooed the children down the companionway, while the other observers slunk off.
“You mind if we stick here, Dennis? Mr. Bradford?” Gilbert asked.
Becky glanced at them and did a double take. “Good heavens, that one’s female!” Silva laughed, and the girl glared at him.
Gilbert was startled, then looked at Tabby. She was wearing a T-shirt at least, but it was soaking wet. “Yeah, well, I guess.”
“There are many others aboard, my dear,” Bradford said. “Our allies have unusual mores. Please think nothing of it.”
“Think nothing of it . . . ?” Becky shook her head. “Unusual indeed. I thought I’d noticed a couple on deck wearing nothing but kilts, but believed I’d imagined it.”
“Can we stay?” Gilbert persisted. “We been in the fireroom and ain’t seen ya’ll yet.”
“Very well,” Becky replied, still shaking her head and looking at Tabby. “Let me see, as best I understand it, Lawrence’s people are quite wild when they hatch—from eggs, you know—and run loose on an island near their home until they reach a certain level of maturity. Not age, necessarily, but a level of self-awareness. They are guided and taught by adults the whole time, but there is little supervision. Just enough to keep them from reverting to savagery. When they do become self-aware, the instruction becomes more intense until, ultimately, they are judged fit to enter society. They demonstrate their ability to reason and use tools by building their own boat in which to return, but they must do so by way of a more distant island, where they must face a final test of courage and resourcefulness. Poor Lawrence completed his test, but a storm took him far from his return course. When we found him, he was dying of thirst and hunger.”
“What was the final test?” Courtney asked.
“He won’t speak of it. To do so with others who haven’t completed it is forbidden.”
“I see. Hmm. Fascinating . . . and informative. I have just a few more questions. Obviously Lawrence’s species, like the Grik and, well, us, I suppose, are predators. I assume they hunt?”
Becky looked at Lawrence, who said, “O’ course.”
Bradford blinked. “Oh, please do forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve fallen into talking as if you’re not here.”
“It’s all right,” Lawrence assured him. “’Ecky?”
The girl frowned. “Well, of course. As you say, his people are predators. They hunt, but they also raise domestic livestock of sorts, though we’ve never discussed what kind.”
“Fascinating!” Bradford beamed. “But I hoped he might describe how his people hunt.”
Becky seemed troubled by the line of questioning. “Well, he’s spoken of a vague understanding of how his culture allocates labor—you must remember he had not yet joined ‘society’ as it were—and did not yet know his place within it. But evidently there are different castes among his people; some are herders, some hunters, others are artisans—boatbuilders and the like.”
“But he received some small instruction in the basics of each of these?”
“Yes.”
“So, how was he taught to hunt?”
“Cooperatively. Much like our own people would, if they had to for survival, and weren’t just ‘sport shooting.’ ”
“Are there other predators his people must compete with?”
Becky looked blank, and Lawrence answered for her: “Yes. Shiksaks. Dangerous, scary creatures. They take our li’stock. O’ten kill Tagranesi. Tagranesi hunt. Lots hunters against single Shiksak; Shiksak hard to kill. Shiksaks go sea and land. Thrice size Tagranesi.”
“Indeed? Tell me, Lawrence, do your people ever hunt these creatures for sport?”
Lawrence managed an expression of surprise. “S’ort? Insane.”
“Hmm. Sounds as though it would be, yet you can never be entirely rid of them if they’re amphibious. And so large! I’d love to see one!”
Lawrence shook his head. “See alone, you die.”
Bradford’s eyebrows furrowed. “So you do understand theoretical situations then. Marvelous! Tell me, if one of these ‘Shiksaks’ were making a nuisance of himself and your hunters went after him—had him cornered—and another ‘Shiksak’ suddenly attacked without warning, by surprise, what would they do?”
“Not . . . can’t occur. Shiksaks hate each other. Not hunt together.”
“Glad to hear it, but what if they did?”
Lawrence blinked, clearly contemplating the possibility. “Hunters scared?” he finally answered. “Run a’ay.”
Bradford realized he’d been leaning forward, anticipating the answer. When it came, he eased back with a sigh. “Quite understandable. Very well. I have only one more question: are your people violent at all? I mean, do they fight others of their kind . . . or any other sentient species, perhaps?”
Lawrence turned to Becky. This was a subject they must have discussed.
“They sometimes fight invaders from other islands,” she confessed guardedly. “They do not attack others.”
“When they fight, do they ever . . . eat their enemies?”
“No!” interrupted Lawrence. “Disgusting thought! Never eat others . . .”
“They never eat other intelligent beings!” Becky finished for him. “What a revolting and insulting question! I might ask the same of you!”
Bradford breathed. “I apologize. We and our allies do not, of course, do such things, but”—he pointed at Lawrence—“the others of his kind, whom we fight, most certainly do. They even eat each other. It was a question I had to ask.” He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must tinker with my journal, write a few things down, you see.”