"Shit!" exploded Scott. "You could'a killed him!" Other men arrived and between them they soon had Laney on deck, gasping and shaking, tears in his eyes.
"You could'a killed him!" Felts accused under his breath. Silva shrugged, then squatted and looked Laney in the eye.
"Damned ol' rusty pin must'a gave," he said. "No tellin' what might happen if a fella ain't careful what he does—or says." He stood and laughed. "Whoo-ee! Lucky you was holdin' that chain, Laney! Gives me the willies. The very idea of fallin' in the water scares the shit out'a me!"
Sandra scrubbed her hands in the tiny basin in the compartment that once belonged to Lieutenants Ellis and Rogers but that she now shared with Ensign Theimer. Karen sat expressionlessly on a small chair, knees together, staring at her hands on her lap. They were caked with dried blood, and black rings encircled her fingernails. There was more on her clothes and face, and it even streaked her hair where she'd been squirted by a pulsing artery.
"You did well today, Karen," Sandra complimented her. Which was true—to a point. She'd followed orders and done her job, stitching wounds in her professional, economical way. She'd done exactly what she was told to do—but no more. All the while her face was slack, her eyes dead, as if her body ran on autopilot but she wasn't really there. Sandra saw that the expression was still the same. She sighed.
"Get cleaned up and go to the forward berthing space with Jamie Miller to check on Seaman Davis. I have an idea I'd like to try." Ensign Theimer didn't respond. She didn't move. "Karen?" Worried, Sandra dried her hands and looked in the other nurse's eyes. For a moment she saw no recognition, no spark of human consciousness. "Karen!" she shouted and shook her roughly by the shoulders. "Karen, speak to me!"
Huge, shiny tears welled up in the empty eyes and when she blinked, they gushed down her face—and somehow she'd returned from wherever she'd been hiding. Her large, glistening, haunted eyes desperately searched Sandra's, but didn't see what they'd hoped. She closed them again, and a piteous moan escaped her lips.
"I want to go home!"
Sandra went to her knees, embracing the younger woman as tight as she could.
"Oh, God, me too, me too!"
The tears came then, like rivers, from both of them. For a long moment, Sandra held her while Karen sobbed and sobbed. Finally, when it seemed she'd exhausted herself, Sandra drew back and put her palm on Karen's face. "Me too," she whispered again, "but I don't think we can. For some reason, here we are and we've got to deal with that. I need you, girl. God, I can't do this alone! The ship needs you, and so do these men. We both have to be strong—to hold up."
"But it's so hard!"
"I know. Believe me, I know! I nearly lost it myself today. But don't you see? We can't! We don't have that . . . luxury. Too many people are counting on us, and we're all they've got. We can't let them down—we can't let ourselves down." She wiped the bloody hair from Karen's eyes with a gentle, tearful smile. "You okay?" Miserably, Karen nodded, and Sandra squeezed her filthy hands. "I'm glad you're back—don't leave me again. I'm the first woman chief surgeon on a United States warship. I'll mark you AWOL!"
Karen snorted a wet, almost hysterical laugh, but nodded.
"Good. Now get cleaned up and check on Seaman Davis. We don't want these goons to think we're weak sisters." She watched while Karen, still sniffling, washed her hands and then left the compartment. As soon as she was gone, Sandra felt the tension flow out of her and she put her face in her hands. "I want to go home too," she repeated, whispering, almost surrendering to sobs herself.
She still had to talk to Matt. It would probably be a long talk, and all she really wanted was to curl up in her bunk and fall into a dreamless sleep. She shook her head, wet one of the dingy washrags, and wiped the grime and tears from her face. Standing in front of the noisy little fan with her eyes closed, she let the tepid breeze dry her and tried to pretend it was refreshing. After a moment, she ruefully realized that she was fooling herself. She ran a brush through her sweat-tangled hair and stepped through the curtain.
Seated in the wardroom talking in quiet tones were the captain, Bradford, Gray, Dowden, Shinya, and Sergeant Alden, who seemed relieved that his charge had returned to his custody. The Marine was getting around better every day, but the idea of his climbing up and down ships, given the consequences of a fall, was ridiculous. He took his "escort" duty seriously, though, and he'd been disappointed when his request to accompany them to the Lemurian ship was denied.
They stood and greeted her with strained smiles, and Lieutenant Shinya nodded politely. They couldn't have avoided overhearing Karen's sobs, or indeed much of the women's conversation. Sandra realized with a start that Matt's "smile" seemed even more troubled than the others'. As soon as they resumed their seats, Juan appeared at her elbow and poured a cup of weak coffee (he'd begun to conserve) that she'd have mistaken for tea if not for the smell. Ordinarily, in meetings like these, Juan would have excused himself, but ever since the Squall, he often lingered, and Matt didn't send him away. He figured it was easier to inform the crew through the grapevine than make announcements every day. Besides, Juan would be careful what he passed on.
"I trust you're well?" asked Bradford. "Mr. Shinya told us your efforts were tireless."
Sandra smiled wanly. "Not tireless," she said. "It's been a tough"—she paused and looked reflective—"but interesting day. I think we were a help, once I figured out when to leave well enough alone, and we learned a lot."
The others nodded solemnly.
"True," said Matt, "but I wish you hadn't stayed behind."
"I wasn't alone. Lieutenant Shinya was there."
Matt glanced at the Japanese officer speculatively but nodded.
"As were several armed men," Tamatsu said. "She was in no danger. Your gunner's mate . . . Silva? He is a formidable man. If the lieutenant had been threatened in any way, I believe he would have contrived to destroy their ship around us, by himself."
Gray grunted. "Silva!" he muttered. "He's part of what I was worried about." Everyone, including Tamatsu, laughed at that.
"Well," said Matt, "you must be starving. Juan? Pass the word for sandwiches, if you please." The Filipino bowed his head and whispered through the wardroom curtain. There was no telling who was on the other side, but he returned to his place against the hull with the expression of one who fully expected the task to be performed.
"While we're waiting, tell us what happened when you went to see this Keje again," Matt suggested. "Lieutenant Shinya said you should be the one to speak, but I'd like to hear what you both have to say."
Sandra nodded. "He was weak from his wounds, but not debilitated, I think. Their medicine's not nearly as primitive as I expected. They have no concept of germ theory, but their infection rate is low. They clean wounds with hot water for no other reason I could see than that it just makes sense to do so. They hold cleanliness in high regard." She glanced down at her uniform blouse and wrinkled her nose to the sound of sympathetic chuckles. "They also apply a kind of salve to wounds that must be antibacterial in some way, in addition to being a local analgesic. I asked for a sample and they gave me a whole jar. There's no telling if it'll be helpful to humans, and I don't know what it's made of yet, but I want to try some on Seaman Davis, with your permission. His fever just won't go away. He's still in danger of losing his leg, at least."
Bradford nodded enthusiastically, but Matt regarded her thoughtfully. Gray looked downright dubious. "I know they believe in the stuff—nearly everybody over there had some smeared on 'em, but do we know it actually works?"
Sandra held out her hands palm up. "The only evidence I have after so short a time is their absolute faith and certainty. Many of their wounds were bites, you know, and some who were bitten far worse than Davis were treated with the stuff and considered lightly injured."
Matt scratched his ear. "Does it have the same effect on the Grik? I mean, have they used any on the Grik wounded and if so, do they think it'll work?"
"But . . . that's impossible!" interrupted the Australian. "They can't all have died! It's imperative I see one alive!"
"There were no Grik survivors on the Lemurian ship, Mr. Bradford," Sandra restated. "Many committed suicide after they were abandoned, mostly by jumping into the sea. The rest were . . . helped over the side by the Lemurians."
"No prisoners, then," Captain Reddy observed quietly.
"No, sir." Sandra shook her head. "Like everything else we've observed in this world, there's no compromise between total victory and total defeat. You win or you die. Warfare among the Lemurians themselves— at least `Home against Home'—is so rare there's no memory of it. They have their problems, sure, but evidently they don't kill each other over them, beyond the rare duel. The Grik, however, are the `Ancient Enemy'— that's how they're referred to. Their conflict literally extends beyond their history, although pitched battles like the one we intervened in are rare, if not unheard of. Mostly, they've only had to contend with what amount to harassing attacks or raids. But the frequency is increasing, and no one's ever heard of attacks by six Grik ships at once."
"Any idea why they do it?" Matt probed.
"Not really. In spite of the Grik being the Ancient Enemy, the Lemurians don't know a lot about them. They just know that when the Grik come, the Grik attack. It's the way of things. They fight like maniacs and they don't take prisoners, so neither do the Lemurians." She rubbed her tired eyes. "I'm not sure they even understand the concept of surrender." She glanced at Lieutenant Shinya and was struck by how similar to his culture, in that respect at least, the Lemurians had been forced to become. However, unlike Imperial Japan, the Lemurians were anything but militaristic and expansionist. She noticed the others looking speculatively at the Japanese officer as well, but Tamatsu endured their stares with stoic indifference. If he was troubled by their scrutiny, he didn't let it show.
"Well," said Matt, and sighed with slight relief. "Maybe we're not stuck in such a big war after all—just a really long one." There were chuckles. "The Lemurians fought well against a really scary enemy, but if they thought the Grik were a major problem, I think they'd be better prepared. Be more warlike themselves. With a few simple expedients, I don't think a dozen Grik ships could board something as big as their ship." There were nods, but Sandra wasn't sure. America hadn't been very prepared for Pearl Harbor.
"Anyway," said Matt, "we were talking about the salve." He let out a long breath. "Try it, if Davis is willing. I won't force him to take some alien cure." Sandra nodded acceptance. She knew Matt must have hoped she could experiment on a wounded Grik first, but if the stuff worked as advertised, it would save Davis's leg. She'd done all she could, but the bite had left an incredibly persistent infection. His immune system was fighting it, but she didn't expect it could do so indefinitely or totally. She was sure she could get him to try it.
Bradford leaned forward in his chair. "Did you get any indication why our first meeting with their leader was so short?" he asked. "He seemed alert, eager, and energetic at first, particularly after we established communications. Then, suddenly, he spoke a few words, and we were ushered out. Was that normal protocol?"
"I don't think so," answered Sandra. "Maybe we did take them by surprise. He was probably under medication of some sort, something to make him sleep—they also put great store in the healing power of sleep, by the way—but . . ." She lowered her voice and looked pointedly at the curtain.
Matt noticed the direction of her glance. "Sergeant Alden, clear the passageway. I'm sure if there's anybody in it they have duties elsewhere."
"I will go check the sandwiches," said Juan. "Do not stir, Sergeant. I will shoo them off."
When the steward left, they all looked back at Sandra expectantly.
"Thank you, Captain. All I really wanted to say, though, is that quite a lot of Lemurian medicine is evidently intoxicating. They brought out some stuff that nearly got me drunk just smelling it. Even the salve seems to make them a little dopey. I think when we arrived, their captain, or whatever he is, had just taken a dose of something, and when it started to hit him he sent us away." She grinned. "I don't think he wanted to be tipsy in front of the powerful strangers."
"Indeed?" Bradford said appreciatively. "I wish more of our statesmen would refrain from conducting business in such condition."
There was a knock on the bulkhead beyond the curtain.
"Sandwiches, Cap-tan."
"Thanks, Juan. Come in, please." Juan stepped through the curtain and held it for Ray Mertz, the mess attendant, who carried a platter piled high with ham sandwiches. He set it on the table, then he and the steward ducked quickly back down the passageway. Everyone dug in immediately, and Sandra closed her eyes when she bit into the thick slice of ham nestled between two pieces of fresh-baked bread. With just a little mustard, it tasted heavenly. She was even hungrier than she'd thought. The Lemurians had offered them food, but it smelled strange and she wasn't ready to trust the local fare. Silva had eaten some of the purple fruit, and she wondered absently how he was feeling about now.
"So, what else did you talk about during your second meeting?" Matt asked.
Sandra sped her chewing and swallowed at last. "Well, pretty much the main point was that their leader, Keje-Fris-Ar, wants to come aboard us here. Tomorrow."
"Here they come!" Dowden said unnecessarily when the boat cast off and moved in their direction. Almost an hour earlier, they'd been surprised to see a large section of the Lemurian's hull, about twenty feet wide, open and swing outward, releasing a low, wide-beamed barge. The compartment, or whatever it was, had water in it, and the boat just floated out. There it stayed for a time, already crewed, until the more important passengers were lowered into it by means of a large platform that descended from the deck above.
"That's some trick," murmured McFarlane, scratching the young beard on his chin. He glanced apologetically at the captain. "Structurally, I mean. It's like they go around with a fully enclosed harbor. Makes sense, as far as they'd have to lower a boat, but the engineering problems and stresses involved must've been something else."
"The structural engineering capabilities of the Lemurians are quite formidable," said Bradford. "To construct such a colossal ship to begin with . . . well." He shrugged.
Captain Reddy, carefully groomed and resplendent in his whites—as were all his officers—glanced around the ship. They'd done their best to make her presentable, but the ravages she'd undergone were evident everywhere. Even a visiting admiral would understand, but he wanted to make a big impression. It would have to do. The crew was dressed as sharply as possible, but most had dyed their whites in coffee—as ordered—at the start of the war, and the result was an unsavory mottled khaki. Now, with the passage of time, most of the coffee had leached out in the wash and they only looked dirty. He grunted. The order had come down from somebody who thought the ships would be more difficult to spot from the air without a bunch of white uniforms running around on deck. It was one of the sillier of the panicky and often contradictory orders they'd been issued right after the attacks on Pearl Harbor and Cavite.
There was nothing he could do about it other than group the men who still had whites separately from those who didn't, as if there were some great reason for it. It was all entirely symbolic, but he didn't know how important a part symbolism might ultimately play. He spoke to the Bosun.
"Assemble your side party, Chief. I'll join you shortly." He absently hitched the Sam Browne to distribute the unaccustomed weight of the holstered pistol and the other . . . object suspended from it. He grimaced. While running an inventory of their small-arms ammunition, Campeti discovered a crate of heavy long-bladed cutlasses, pattern of 1918, that had probably been commissioned with the ship. There were four dozen of the things in heavy blue-gray canvas-wrapped scabbards, and they looked a
bsolutely new. Gray suggested that the officers wear them so the Lemurians would see weapons they recognized. He didn't intend it as a threatening gesture, or so he said, but to show the 'cats—even while they were surrounded by all sorts of incomprehensible things—that they shared some basic similarities.
Matt resisted the idea as ridiculous. If they had to fight with swords, a dozen of the Lemurians could slaughter them all, judging by their skill against the Grik. But Courtney Bradford weighed in on Gray's side, surprisingly, with the comment that it might be wise to remind their visitors that they were, after all, warriors. Matt grudgingly relented and ordered all the officers, POs—and especially the Bosun—to wear one of the damn things. He had it easier. Instead of the heavy cutlass, he had his ornate Naval Academy dress sword, which he'd worn precisely twice—once at graduation and once at a friend's wedding. He knew it was a fine blade, and it had certainly cost him enough, but even now he couldn't imagine any eventuality that would force him to draw it in anger. He looked down at the fat barge, pitching on the choppy swell as it came alongside. Hitching his belt up again, he stepped quickly down the pilothouse steps to the deck.
Heaved to, Walker wallowed sickeningly even in these light swells, her low freeboard giving them periodic glimpses of the approaching party as the ship rolled. It was going to be tricky—and a little undignified— gaining the deck of the destroyer after the genteel fashion in which the Lemurian leaders were lowered into their barge, but there was no help for it. Besides, the creatures looked better equipped to climb the treacherous rungs than humans were. Gray took his place with the side party, Carl Bashear with him, and raised the pipe to his lips.
"You want me to do it?" Bashear whispered as the first Lemurian hopped onto the rungs and quickly neared the top.
"No, damn it. If anybody's gonna pipe aliens aboard Walker, it's gonna be me."
The piercing wail of the Bosun's pipe startled the burly Lemurian with the reddish-brown coat, but then he cocked his head at the Chief with interested recognition. He seemed even more startled when all those present saluted. He wore the same copper-scaled tunic as the day before, but the bloodstains had been cleaned and the scales had been polished to a flashing glory. Beneath the armor, he wore a long blue shirt, finely embroidered with fanciful fishes and adorned with shimmering scales like sequins around the cuffs. A long mane covered his head and extended to the sides of his face like huge muttonchops and was gathered and tied at the nape of his neck with a bright ribbon. His very ape-like feet were bound in sandals with a crisscrossing mesh of copper-studded straps extending to his knees. From a baldric across his chest hung a short, fat-bladed sword, securely tied into its scabbard with another bright ribbon formed into an elaborate bow. He looked around for a moment, as if taking everything in—the aft funnels with their wisps of smoke, the fourinch gun above, the torpedo tubes.
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