He'd never seen a Lemurian skull, but by their shape, that's clearly what they were. Many were dry and yellow and covered with dust. Some were much fresher. A few were even decorated with garish painted designs, whatever that might mean. He shook his head, revolted, but from what he knew of the Grik, he wasn't surprised. 'Cats are people,damn it!
He looked at Garrett. It was clear he was shaken by what he'd seen.
"Yes. Well, make sure they're taken down carefully and with respect.
We'll turn them over to our allies and they can deal with them in their way."
"Captain!" Garrett hissed, pointing directly above his head. He stood in the very center of the cabin, right in front of the desk. The gimbaled lanterns cast a crazy kaleidoscope of sinister shadows in the recess. Matt followed his gaze, and suddenly the rush of blood in his ears surpassed the crashing sea that pounded the hull outside. There above him, leering down from sightless, empty sockets, was an unmistakably human skull.
Silva had followed them into the cabin and was leafing through a tablet he snatched from the deck. He stared as well. His happy mood and customary laconic expression were replaced by anguish and rage.
"Oh, those sorry, sick, buggerin' bastards!"
"Skipper!" called Sergeant Alden from the doorway. "All the hatches are sealed, and we're ready to go in the hold. It's not gonna be a picnic, though. There may be thirty or forty down there, and they're crazy as shit-house rats! When they knew they were whipped, it was like Big Sal when they jumped over the side—only these had nowhere to go but down. They're cornered, so I bet they fight like shit-house rats, too. I'd just as soon smoke 'em out, or smoke 'em period, but I'm afraid they might chop a hole in the damn hull! Besides, you said you want prisoners . . ."
Matt's face was wooden. He held up his sword and ran a finger distractedly down the notched blade. When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally calm, but his eyes flashed like chiseled ice.
"Mr. Garrett, follow my orders—and do get Lieutenant Tucker to look at that arm. Our mission is a success. We've learned as much as we need to know about the nature of our enemy. The documents we've captured and the ship itself will teach us much, much more. Sergeant Alden, you said you don't speak Grik? Neither do I." He turned to look at Silva. "I don't think we really need any prisoners after all." He motioned through the door with his sword. "Shall we?"
Walker had managed to maintain close station with the madly wallowing derelict, her gunners hovering protectively over their weapons, but it was clear in an instant when Gray thrust his head from the companionway that they would be on their own for a while.
"Get to work clearing that debris!" he bellowed over his shoulder at the Marines following him up. He ran to a cluster of Lemurians helping Sandra with the wounded. She saw him coming.
"Are you all right, Chief?" she shouted over the wind. He was covered with blood.
"Nary a scratch, thanks for askin'." He saw her tense expression. "Captain's fine, ma'am." She visibly relaxed, but Gray decided now was as good a time as any to get something off his chest. "No thanks to you." He gestured at the pistol thrust in the web belt around her waist. "He could've used that." Stung, she touched the pistol with her fingertips.
"I told him not to leave it!"
"Like that made a difference! I didn't think he should even come over here, but he did and he's the captain. He figures he got us in this mess and he can't just sit back and watch. That's the kind of guy he is. But your coming was just a stupid female stunt and you nearly wound up killed."
She bristled, but he stared her down. "Sure, sure, you came for `the wounded,' but what if you'd been killed? What do you think that would've done to him? To all of us?" He watched his words sink in. Finally, he continued in a softer tone. "Look, we gotta clear this shi . . . stuff and this ain't no fit place for you or the wounded. The main deck's secure. It's a bloody mess down there, but it's out of the weather." She began to nod.
"If we can get them down there, that would be best. And Chief . . . I'm sorry."
Gray started to say something else, but shook his head. "Right."
He struggled toward a couple of Lemurians near the bulwark, clutching the chaotic mass of shrouds. They were two of the ones left on deck as a security force, but they'd obviously decided their own security was paramount. A wave crashed over the deck, knocking Gray to his knees and washing him in among the terrified forms. He reemerged from the warm gray water and grabbed one of the 'cats. A grinding and bumping was felt alongside as the ship's masts and spars, twisted in an impossible nightmare of tangled rigging, pounded against the ship as it worked.
"You useless bastards! Help Lieutenant Tucker get the wounded below!" He beckoned those behind him. "The rest of you, cut everything away!" he yelled, hoping they understood. "With your swords!" He pulled his own cutlass and laid into the cables with a will. They quickly got the idea and chopped with mad abandon at his side. Other Marines, relieved from the fighting below, arrived to add their swords. Piece by piece, rope by rope, the debris threatening to drag the ship over was released, and the hulk began riding more easily. The roll increased, but at least it was a more buoyant roll.
Gray's arm felt like lead as he swung the cutlass, huffing and wheezing with every blow. I'm close to sixty, and too fat for this shit, he complained to himself, but no word of complaint escaped his lips. Nor would it ever.
The Bosun is all-powerful and indestructible. He has to be. He glanced at the sky. It was early afternoon when the Grik were first seen, so they couldn't have much light left. Already, it was noticeably darker. If they couldn't get a towline secured before dark, they were probably screwed.
He left clearing the remainder of the wreckage to fresh, willing hands and ran to fetch something to signal the other ship.
Five grenades went down the hatch into the gloom of the hold. Each time one detonated, there was a chorus of nightmarish wails. Silva and Scott pounded down the companionway together this time, followed closely by Matt, Alden, Chack, Shinya, and a score of Lemurian Marines. They advanced through the darkness, blasting or stabbing at anything that moved and, as Alden suspected, the confined space in the bottom of the ship was working with the vermin. Footing was treacherous on the slimy ballast stones, and there were other things, barely glimpsed in the guttering torchlight. Bones. Thousands of bones intermingled with the rocks. The stench was unreal. Then, even as they fought, and their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they entered a waking nightmare they would never forget. With the searing clarity of a lightning strike, Matt realized he hadn't learned the true nature of their enemy. Not till now. The belly of the ship was a slaughterhouse, in more ways than one. The gnawed and shattered bones in the ballast were mostly Lemurian. Half-butchered Lemurian carcasses swayed from hooks and all the grisly paraphernalia of the butcher's trade dangled, obscenely well ordered, nearby. Chained along the sides of the ship, conveniently out of the way but well situated to witness the horror they were doomed to endure, cowered maybe a dozen filthy, mewling, near-starved Lemurian captives. Matt knew then, that even if he ordered it, no Grik prisoners were possible.