“I’ve learned to read English,” Rolak stressed, ignoring what he knew was not meant as an insult, “fairly well. Quite an accomplishment, considering my years.”
Pete held the parchment for him to see.
“Runner!” Pete demanded, as if expecting one to materialize out of nothing, and he scribbled something on the back of the parchment. A young ’Cat Marine raced to his side and he passed the note. “Get that to the CP, PDQ, see?”
The ’Cat saluted. “Aye, aye, Gen-er-aal!”
“What was that? What did you write?” Rolak asked, still stunned.
“Request for Dowden to cease firing. Also, those brand-new Naval Aviators’ll be swarming around here pretty soon. Might as well find out what the deal is with these guys before our flyboys bomb ’em.”
Tikker couldn’t believe his eyes. His squadron had been the last to use Dowden for a waypoint, and he’d easily caught her flag signal reinforcing the signal they’d received by wireless. Alden was talking with some Grik! When his eight-plane squadron buzzed over the Grik encampment, there’d been some evident confusion on the ground, but there stood two distinct forces-the Marines and a numerically roughly equal mob of Grik warriors staring at one another across a clearing about a hundred tails wide. From his plane, he could see Queen Maraan’s regiments proceeding past the “situation” to the south, followed by most of Rolak’s troops that had moved from line into column and were picking their way along in the Queen’s wake. Basically, all that remained facing this enemy concentration was the Marines, and they were more than a match for it. Tikker had received a final addendum to his orders: if the Marine guns began to fire, he was to bomb the enemy with everything he had. He glanced at his fuel gauge and hoped the standoff wouldn’t last long, one way or the other.
Rolak had placed his force under Colonel Grisa and remained with Alden. He couldn’t help it. He had to see how this was “sorted out.” Grisa would report to Safir Maraan and offer his regiments to her. Now Rolak stood with Pete Alden and a couple of Marines facing what was certainly the most formidable-looking Grik he’d ever seen alive. It was taller than most Grik, something they’d expected after examining dead Hij before, and it was dressed in relatively ornate, if garish, bronze armor over its chest, shins, and forearms. It was armed with one of the sickle-shaped swords favored by its kind, but the weapon remained sheathed and the pommel was well crafted if, again, somewhat grotesque. In contrast to the shining armor, the cape and kilt it wore were a somewhat battered red and black.
The creature called itself “General Arlskgter,” and the reason they knew that was because it was accompanied by three other Grik, one of which was stooped with age and not attired as a warrior. That one named itself Hij-Geerki. The very first thing they established was that Hij-Geerki had been liaison to a party of Japanese who’d been sent in search of undisclosed raw materials for the Ceylon war machine. For different reasons, English was the technical language of the Grik and Japanese, and though they couldn’t actually converse, Hij-Geerki could understand spoken English and the Japanese technicians had learned to understand some spoken Grik. Both could read the written words. Through a quick series of notes, Pete and Rolak learned that Hij-Geerki understood nearly everything they said and could form a very few words. Mostly, however, he would write English translations of what his master told him to say. In a few short minutes, they’d already confirmed everything Commander Okada had told them about how the Grik and Japanese managed to cooperate.
“Well,” Pete said, “let’s get on with this. We haven’t got all day.” He gestured up at the eight aircraft circling the clearing, their droning engines and passing shadows still clearly disconcerting to all the Grik, even their general, who glanced up at the planes each time they flew by, high behind Alden. He gave the impression it was all he could do not to stare at them continuously. “What do you want?”
“Terms,” Hij-Geerki wrote again in reply. “My General Arlskgter and all his Hij and Uul warriors would join you in the hunt.”
“Which ‘hunt’?” Rolak asked. “What does that mean?”
“The war hunt you wage against the… Ghaarrichk’k… others of our kind.”
“I’ll be damned,” Pete muttered. “They really do call themselves something like ‘Grik.’ And all this time, the Skipper always thought that was just somebody else’s rude name for ’em, kind of like the names we always got for Indian tribes-from other Indians.” Rolak looked at him questioningly, but Pete shook his head. “You, Geeky; you mean to tell me your General Alski-gator would just switch sides? That’s nuts.”
“The wise hunter joins the strongest pack,” Hij-Geerki wrote. “It is the same when we wage the war hunt among ourselves. It is true that no Ghaarrichk’k… no ‘Grik’… has ever joined other hunters against Grik before, but the Grik have always been the strongest pack.”
When Rolak read this last, his tail went rigid with indignation. “General Alden,” he said formally, “I respectfully insist that you must entertain no notion of any… alliance”-he spat the word-“with these vermin!”
“Cool your guns, Rolak,” he said. “I’m just picking my way through this. You’re the one who wanted to talk to ’em. I’m just talking.” He looked at Hij-Geerki. “You seem like a smart cookie… ah, Grik. What would you have done if Alski-gator was dead?”
“I would have made the same offer,” Hij-Geerki wrote in reply. “It was my idea. I am no general, no warrior. I am Hij, but just a… procurer of supplies. My general requires that I obey him, so obey him I must while he lives.”
“Holy smokes,” Pete whispered to Rolak, realization dawning. “Geeky’s a civilian! I didn’t even know they had civilians!”
“It would seem they do, after all. It makes sense. We know they must have females, though we’ve never seen one.”
“Yeah, but we’re starting to knock on their own door for a change. This might make a big difference when we move on Ceylon.” He turned back to Hij-Geerki. “What about the other Grik, the ones around the town, or port? By all reports, they seem like a whole other command. Weaker. Can he make them switch sides too?”
Hij-Geerki spoke with his general before replying. “Why? They are of no use except for fodder. They believed the Celestial Mother would not forsake them and remained overlong near the harbor where there was little food. We foraged and remained strong. Eventually, we came to feed on them with almost no resistance. Do you not now easily drive them like prey yourselves?”
Pete shuddered. He’d begun to suspect something like that. He could almost understand a rebel force, in this situation, separating itself from some Pollyanna leader who couldn’t read the writing on the wall, but to then prey on former comrades, to eat them like cattle! His skin crawled. The Grik were like Martians or something, totally unlike anything he could imagine, unworthy of existence. When he spoke again, his tone was wooden.
“We’ve heard your general’s terms. Here are mine. He and all his warriors will surrender at discretion, unconditionally, and take whatever I decide he has coming. That’s it.”
Hij-Geerki was practically wringing his hands. He could barely hold them still enough to write. The general spoke harshly to him and he made some sort of reply that didn’t seem to mollify his master. “He will not accept that!” he wrote. “He cannot accept that!”
“Sorry,” Pete snarled. “We don’t allow cannibals in my Marine Corps. We don’t even let ’em in the Army. Besides, if he changes sides once, he’ll do it again, and I don’t keep copperheads in my shirt pocket!”
Rolak looked at Pete. He knew what was about to happen, and knew it would happen fast. He agreed completely with the decision, but also feared losing an opportunity. “Hij-Geerki,” he said quickly, almost interrupting Pete’s last words, “you are not a warrior and you make no decisions here, correct?”