"Among my people, Marines are the warrior clan. All they do is fight.
Sometimes they fight at sea and sometimes on land." He grinned. "Sometimes they even fight in the sky. To Marines it makes no difference. We fight the enemies of our people wherever they are." He paused, considering. "We've made alliance with your people and we've seen the Grik for what they are. Your enemy is now the enemy of my people. That makes 'em my enemy and I'll fight 'em because that's what I do. In the meantime, it's my duty to train you to be better fighters. To fight like Marines.
That means fighting them anytime, anywhere, at sea or on land. That's what it'll take to defeat them.
"They aren't coming to steal your things, just to loot and plunder. If the history of your Scrolls is true, they're coming to wipe you out!Walker's people are your allies, and that puts them in danger as well. So anything less than your very best makes you my personal enemy! Do I make myself clear?" He turned, snatched the spear out of the ground, and flung it down, accepting the challenge—the formal challenge—that meant blood could be spilled.
"There! We can fight if you want, and I promise you'll be dead so fast you won't even know how it happened." He looked at Chack. "Or you can fight him, if you're afraid of me, but he'll kill you just as fast. Because I taught him how!" He looked at the tall leader of the Fristar group.
"So what'll it be? You want to die? Or do you want to learn how to really kill?"
The Lemurian returned his stare. Around them, all were silent, expectant . . . afraid. The formal challenge was rarely made, and when it was, there was almost always only one outcome. All were nervous about the political ramifications. Fristar, at least, would leave the fragile alliance that had been forged at the council. No one really expected the American to lose, and there was always bad blood after a formal challenge was met.
The big Lemurian looked down at the spear. He put his foot beside it and, with a grunt, kicked it away, withdrawing the challenge. There was an audible sigh of relief.
"Then show me, Maa-reen. Show me how to kill."
After securing Risa's laughing promise not to fly to join her "mate," Chack left her at the parade ground to continue her studies and headed back to Walker. His Home. He didn't really know when it had occurred, but at some point all the ambitions of his previous life were supplanted by what he'd become. He was no longer a wing runner on Salissa Home. He was a bosun's mate, in charge of the Lemurian deck division on USS Walker, duly sworn into the Navy of the United States, just as all the accepted "cadets" had been. He had only a vague idea what the United States were, but that made no difference. He'd become a warrior and now he was a destroyerman. He loved Salissa and always would, but he'd changed clans just as surely as if he'd become fas chief of another Home like he once aspired to do. That was an ambition for who he'd been before. He giggled at the irony of his outrage over Silva joining his clan. Now he'd joined Silva's. That didn't mean he wanted him for a brother.
He was encouraged despite Sergeant Alden's gloom. Unwarlike as he once was, the people of Baalkpan were even worse. Yet at least they were trying. It took actual combat to crack his pacifist shell and his dispassionate evaluation of the land folk as warriors didn't escape his sense of irony either. He believed they would fight. Some weren't so sure, but if he could do it, they could too. A lot was riding on it. Most of the Homes in the bay had joined the alliance, but had not committed themselves to offensive operations. They'd taken a wait-and-see approach. The expedition they planned was basically a raid, a reconnaissance in force. The objective was information, primarily, but depending on what they learned, they were prepared to follow up with more attacks. Perhaps, if the Grik were as yet no more numerous than some evidence suggested, they might even defeat them—and fairly quickly. Captain Reddy hoped they could at least cleanse them from the Java Sea and establish a "Malay Barrier" behind which they could further prepare. It was a giddy thought. The captain projected cautious optimism, and Chack envied how he did that. He'd learned a lot about the fantastic war in the other world, and he knew that the mistakes and uncertainty that plagued the Amer-i-caans there now drove Captain Reddy to avoid the same issues here. If they did, they must succeed. Terrible as they were, the Grik couldn't be as formidable as the Japanese had been.
In this happy frame of mind, he ambled along, the Krag muzzle down on his shoulder, picking his way through the fishmongers and handcarts that packed the wharf near the pier. He glanced up and saw Walker, snugged to the dock, smoke curling from her aft funnel once more.
"Chack."
He turned, and his heart flipped in his chest. Before him stood Selass, her silken silver fur radiating sunlight. The armor she wore, much like her father's, flashed with pink-red fire. As always, she was magnificent. She was armed with a scota and was headed for the parade ground herself.
He'd seen her there several times, training. Sometimes she sparred with Risa. Chack's ears lay flat and he bowed low.
"I greet you, Selass-Fris-Ar. You are well?"
"I am well . . ." She paused and blinked sadness. Chack nodded.
"You still mourn Saak-Fas. I understand. I hope the pain will pass with time."
Her eyelids flashed impatiently. "I do not mourn him! If I ever did, the sadness is gone. But . . . I have another sadness."
He blinked concerned query. Her eyes flashed and she almost growled with frustration.
"You will make me say it, then, I see! Has your revenge not run its course?"
"Revenge?"
"Yes, revenge! For leading you on, toying with you, and making you a fool! Don't you think I've suffered enough? Saak-Fas was the fool! Now he's gone . . . and I am glad. I was wrong about you. I thought you weak.
But I also thought you loved me. I hoped you would still want me. Was I wrong about that too? I see you often, yet beyond casual greeting you have not spoken. Will you make me beg?" She blinked furiously. "Very well! I was wrong about Saak-Fas and I was wrong about you. I do want you now!"
Stunned, Chack could only stare. For so long, his fondest wish was to hear her say such words. Now, though they stirred him, they didn't bring him joy. They only brought confusion and a trace of sadness. He gently replied.
"You did not make a fool of me. I did that myself. I was a fool. I was what you thought I was. But I'm no more that person now than a grawfish is still a graw-fish after it sheds its tail and gills and flies out of the sea.
I admire you in many ways, Selass, and am flattered that you desire me.
But I do not pine for you. I suppose I do still love you, but it does not consume me as before. I've had much else on my mind of late. Your admission and . . . declaration have come as a surprise. May I consider it?
I assure you my aim is not `revenge' or to hurt you in any way. Let us speak again, after the expedition. After we know what sort of war we face. If my answer is still important to you, I will give it then."
Shame, sadness, and consternation flashed across her eyelids, but she finally bowed and with a quick nuzzle under his chin that almost crushed his resolve, she flashed away toward the parade ground. For a very long time, he watched her weave through the throng until she was lost to view.
With a stab of guilt and astonishment, he realized he'd not even thought about her in weeks. He would have to do that now.
Matt stood on the bridgewing with a cup of . . . something in his hand. He grimaced at the foamy brew. He couldn't remember what Juan called it, but it was the local equivalent of coffee, evidently. It might even be a kind of coffee; it came from crushed, roasted beans. Not many Lemurians drank it. They used it as medicine, as a treatment for lethargy. Matt hadn't had any before, but it had earned a following among the crew. Some just called it "java" or "joe," as they always had. A few of the die-hard factionalists called it "cat-monkey joe" or "monkey-cat joe," but just as "'Cats" was becoming the general compromise term for the Lemurians, "monkey joe" was gaining steam for the brew. It seemed to follow somehow. Whatever they called it, the stuff sure didn't look like any coffee Matt had ever seen, although the aroma wasn't entirely dissimilar. Maybe it was the yellow-green foam.