"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 absolutely 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.