Taylor Anderson - Destroyermen

The Marines went amok. They fought with abandon and no regard for their own lives. So, to a degree, did the humans. Scott staggered back, blood on his face, and Shinya dragged him from the fighting. Matt took the Thompson himself, firing controlled bursts at maniacally charging Grik. He burned with a towering, righteous wrath. At last there was focus for all the rage and anxiety, grief and loss he'd suppressed for months.

When the Thompson clicked empty, he drew his sword again.

"At 'em!" he screamed. Once, he'd never imagined drawing his sword in anger, but now it seemed an extension of his very soul: the instrument of purification. The Marines surged forward, bronze spearpoints gleaming red in the guttering light. With a ringing whoop, Silva drew his cutlass, and so did the others. Alden knew with sinking certainty that of all the people in the world, Captain Reddy had the least business in this fight, but it was pointless to try to stop him. They charged. Without even shields, they slammed into the final, teetering Grik line and slashed it apart with a manic savagery that must have shocked even the Grik. The survivors broke. Shrieking in mindless terror, they fled farther into the darkness, flinging themselves against the hull, the overhead—anything to escape.

Most had dropped their weapons. For a moment, Matt paused, leaning on his knees and gasping for breath. He started forward again.

"Captain," Alden said gently, grasping his arm. "It's done. It's done!"

Matt started to shake him off, but then stopped, shocked by the intensity of his emotions. He nodded. The Marines, still in a blind frenzy, shouldered past and slaughtered the twenty or so Grik holdouts that had fled to the farthest reaches of the dank, half-flooded hold. They mercilessly hacked apart every last Grik they found, and the Americans stood, listening, until the final shriek ended.

Chack returned from the gloom, limping and leaning on Dennis Silva.

Both were drenched in blood and Chack was clearly hurting, but Silva looked like some mythical god of war. Marines filtered back into the dim light, dazed.

"Sergeant Alden, get our wounded out of here, then form a detail to release these poor bastards." He gestured helplessly at the captives.

Most of the captives had begun a shrill, keening sound. In their tortured reality they probably thought their time had come to face the knives and saws. They seemed utterly mad. Matt remained for a while, watching while they were gently released a few at a time and taken on deck to the open air, as far from their prison as possible, by expressionless, furiously blinking Marines. Once there, they were wrapped in sailcloth against the wind and spray that came over the rail. They were fed and watered and carefully tended, but their chains weren't removed. In their current state they might harm themselves or others if freed.

Silva was helping Chack through the stones (he'd flatly refused to be carried) when the Lemurian suddenly halted before a captive still chained to the hull. The wretched creature recoiled from his stare and made small gurgling sounds. Its skeletal chest heaved with terrified gasps. Matt stepped closer and regarded the creature with pity. He had great respect for the Lemurian people. He'd come to know them as stout warriors and generally cheerful, free-spirited individualists—not unlike his own destroyermen—but the things the captives had seen and endured would have broken anyone.

"Leave him alone, Chackie," said Silva, uncharacteristically subdued.

"Can't you see he's fixin' to vapor-lock?"

Chack shook his head and leaned closer still. "I greet you. Do not fear," he said in his own language.

"You know him?" Matt demanded.

Chack nodded, a strange smile on his face. "I know him."

"Does he know you?"

Chack spoke rapidly, repeating a few words many times. A slight sheen slowly returned to the captive's flat, dull eyes and, hesitantly, he spoke.

After a moment, Chack turned. "He said these were mostly survivors of Chill-chaap, but there were some from other places. He himself was transferred from another ship—as was a Tail-less One like yourself."

Matt remembered the skull. "What happened to the Tail-less One?" he demanded. Chack gestured as if it was obvious, and Matt nodded sharply.

"You said you know him. Who is he?"

Chack almost seemed to sigh. "His name is Saak-Fas. Daughter-Mate of Keje-Fris-Ar."

Tony Scott and Tamatsu Shinya found Gray resting in the gloom near the ship's wildly spinning wheel. He was breathing hard and futilely wiping at the salt that stung his eyes. The coxswain had a cut on his shoulder that left a bloody scrap of sleeve flapping in the wind, and his lower lip was split and swollen. He still had no helmet, but he'd tied a rag around his head to keep the hair out of his eyes. The Thompson was lovingly slung over his undamaged shoulder.

"Cambin's commimenpfs, Cheeb," Scott said, trying to talk around his busted lip. "How are eberations goin' 'or da tow?"

Gray groaned as he rose to his feet. "We're under tow, you nitwit. Have been for the last fifteen minutes. I was about to report to the captain myself when you interrupted me!"

Scott nodded. "'Innat cay, cambin wans you ter sounderwell."

Gray looked at him in the near-darkness. The ship rode much easier now that Walker was towing her and she no longer rolled beam-on to the swells.

"What the hell's a sounderwell?" he demanded.

"Sound-the-well!" Scott painfully repeated. "Vinally got da las o' dat verbin cleared out o' da hold an' da cambin wants to know if she'll f-f-vloat. I'll go vif you."

Gray nodded. "Right. I'll report to the captain first, though. What's he doin', anyway? I figgered he'd of been up here by now."

"Lookin' at fings. Charts an' stuvv . . . an' udder fings. There's . . . awful fings down dere."

Gray turned for the stairs.

"Chief Boatswain's Mate Gray," said Shinya. "May I have a brief word?"

Gray's face darkened, but he jerked a nod.

"I know you don't like me, but you saved my life today, when the corvus parted. I would like to thank you."

Gray shrugged. "There was guys behind you. I had to get your Nip ass out of the way." He turned to follow Scott, but stopped again. "You got any kids?" he asked. Tamatsu was taken aback.

"No."

"I did. A boy. Close to thirty, now. Took after his old man—'cept he was a snipe. Machinist's mate. I hadn't seen him in four years, but I was proud of him. He was my son, you know?"

"What happened to him?"

"They never found his body, so officially he was missing. But he was in Oklahoma 's fireroom when she rolled over. At Pearl Harbor. So don't you dare thank me for saving your worthless ass! It makes me sick! I was just pitching you out of the way." With that, he stormed down the ladder.

"Yes," Shinya said to himself, "but it would have been easier to `pitch' me into the sea instead of on the deck."

"Well, we did what we set out to do," Matt said grimly. "We've learned about the enemy." He, Sandra, Garrett, Shinya, and Alden sat around the Grik captain's desk poring over the tablets and charts they'd found. Walker towed the derelict charnel house in a wide, lazy circle across the Makassar Strait, into the Java Sea. That would keep them off the islands and shoals through the long night and bring them to Big Sal and their friends by morning. The sea was moderating, and Gray reported they'd float as long as the rhythmic clunk-thump of the chain pumps was maintained.

His report was uncustomarily subdued after he returned from inspecting the hull. It sustained little battle damage, but seams had opened while she wallowed in the heavy seas and water was coming in. That wasn't what bothered him about his tour of the well, though. All of them would be haunted by the things they'd seen and survived that day, and by what they'd come to know about the nature of their enemy.