Gray looked thoughtful. «Say, that’s just how we’ll work it. You’re a fiend, Silva, but you’re a pretty good acting chief so far.»
Throughout this exchange, Franklen was unable to speak, but his eyes had begun to move rapidly back and forth. They were talking about killing him, right in front of him, matter-of-factly, like he wasn’t even there.
«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. 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 shipourselfidth="1em»>«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 forrion 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 fanfare, 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.