Free Blood In the Water by Taylor Anderson Page A

who’d originally been slated to command Grik City’s land-based air. Wounded in combat, she’d been superseded by the arrival of LieutenantCommander Mark Leedom, who’d earned a reputation fighting Grik zeppelins in Indiaa. She’d become his executive officer when she recovered, but didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Mark was busy getting ready for the night’s expected attack, and she’d come in his stead.
    The AEF-M (Allied Expeditionary Force—Mada-gaas-gar) was represented by its commander, General Queen Protector Safir Maraan, stunning as always in her silver-washed breastplate and black kilt and cape. Matt smiled at her, noting that she was attended by Imperial Major Alistair Jindal of the 21st Combined Regiment of the 1st Allied Raider (“Chack’s”) Brigade. He was XO to Lieutenant Colonel Chack-Sab-At’s sister Risa, who commanded the brigade while Chack was away. The strangest figure in the room was an ancient “tame” Grik named Hij Geerki, whom Pete Alden and Muln Rolak had captured at Raan-goon at the beginning of the push that ultimately brought them to Grik City itself. He was currently serving, appointed by Safir Maraan, as High Chief over the several thousand “civilian” Grik prisoners they’d taken. Sequestered on an exposed spit of land before the recent battle, they hadn’t surrendered, didn’t even understand the concept, so long weeks passed while they hunkered in the mud, subsisting off one another—until Geerki arrived to talk them out. Now they were under shelter of a sort and fed in exchange for general labor that Geerki coordinated, and Matt suspected their lives weren’t much different from how they’d been under Grik rule. They worked, they existed,
like ants
, Matt thought, and only time would tell if they’d ever go beyond that.
    Geerki looks awful,
Matt thought, with his wrinkled neck, thinning, downy fur, and broken yellow teeth. What remained of his claws had been removed after his capture. As a specimen of the fearsome Grik, he wasn’t much, had in fact never even been a warrior. Those were generally larger than the “civilian” Grik such as Geerki himself.
But he still looks basically like an upright, furry alligator,
Matt supposed, with long arms and real hands perfectly capable of wielding just about any weapon a human or Lemurian could. Fortunately, he was a dedicated convert to the cause of defeating his own kind and actually considered himself Rolak’s property—
just as Rolak probably still considers himself
my
property, for sparing his life after the Battle of Aryaal,
Matt reflected uncomfortably. But improbable as it must’ve seemed to Rolak when he captured him, Geerki had been a godsend in many ways: as a spy, an interpreter, andnow an administrator, and the energy with which he performed his evolving duties belied his apparent frailty.
    â€œNow that you are here, we can eat!” Keje pronounced grandly. “And we may want to hurry, in case the Grik zeppelins are tempted by such targets as
Saanta-Caat-a-lina
and
Waa-kur
floating so helplessly in the bay,” he added darkly.
    With Adar gone, Matt was the senior official of the Alliance present once again and he supposed that was why they’d waited, but he waved everyone to the table impatiently. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Let’s eat.”
    In contrast to the care otherwise taken to make the salon as comfortable as possible, the dining table was flanked only by a pair of rough wooden benches. This was a common expedient since humans and Lemurians could both sit on them—equally uncomfortably.
Should’ve just used stools,
Matt thought. ’Cat tails made sitting in any kind of chair extremely painful after a while, but in lieu of their preferred cushions, stools were acceptable.
Stools are better for humans too, if they’re tall enough.
Matt brooded, resignedly