“There are some bad memories connected with our participation in that conflict,” Madeline conceded. She looked at Komak with sadness. “Not that I was old enough to participate in it,” she added. “My father fought the Rojoks, along with the Holconcom. In fact, I remember seeing your C.O. back then,” she recalled. “He saved my life. Funny, I’d forgotten that.” She pretended a look of utter sadness. “I’m so sorry he died aboard the Morcai, Komak. It will be devastating for your crew when they hear it.”
“So it will,” Komak agreed, keeping the green amusement in his eyes hidden.
“At any rate,” Higgins remarked, eyeing the unconscious alien on the floor. “all of us will be pleased to do anything we can to help rehabilitate your comrade here. Not that he deserves help, the sot. Drunk on duty, can you imagine? If we get him back home, he’ll be court-martialed for sure.”
Komak was watching him. “Someday, I would be interested to hear your rationale,” he said quietly, and they were both remembering Muldoon’s resigned face as he went out the airlock on Dtimun’s order.
Higgins only nodded. “It might surprise you, sir,” he replied quietly.
“We’ve been avoiding it, but we might as well know now. What are they going to do to us, Komak?” she asked.
“We are not given the status of political prisoners,” the young alien replied somberly. “We are Tri-Fleet and Holconcom personnel, with information, which would be invaluable to the Rojok war effort. I need not tell you, Madelineruszel and Strickhahnson, how that information is usually extracted. I know that you have seen battle casualties from the Rojok sector.”
Higgins and Crandall frowned, because they didn’t know. Madeline ignored their curious looks. She wasn’t about to share the information. They were going to need their nerve.
But remembering the Altairian boy who’d been beheaded on the way to this cell, she shuddered involuntarily. If it came to that, her wrist scanner was equipped with a potent poison sac, which she could utilize in milliseconds if necessary. Her medical knowledge of Cularian physiology and pharmacology would give the Rojoks a great advantage over the Centaurians. She couldn’t afford to let the enemy have access to it.
Also, if the torment became too unbearable, the poison would give her a way out. But the commander, Strick, the others…Was it fair to take the easy way out and leave them to bear the agony of this place without the small mercy that a physician could dispense? Ethics, she thought angrily. Damn ethics and damn integrity. What good were they in a hellhole like this, where it was every soldier for himself? On the other hand, she’d just seen a form of nobility she hadn’t expected in Higgins and Crandall, who were willing to keep their silence to protect an alien who’d cold-bloodedly spaced their comrade Muldoon. The enemy of my enemy, she thought again, ironically, is my friend.
She started to speak when movement caught her eye. She turned. A Rojok officer—one of high rank, considering the mesag marks on the sleeve of his red uniform—was moving toward their cell, with an armed escort. Madeline and the others got to their feet as he approached.
The Rojok officer stopped at the control panel on the outside of the dome and just stood there, his arms folded across his chest, studying the occupants of the cell as if they were caged animals.
“Komak of Maltiche,” the Rojok said finally, in perfect Standard, the amalgamated language used throughout the galaxies between races who couldn’t speak each other’s tongues, his gaze going to the young Centaurian at the head of the imprisoned group. “You are the Morcai’s exec?”
“I am,” Komak replied with a quiet arrogance that made the Rojok stiffen.
The Rojok’s slit eyes narrowed even more. “We have carefully searched the complement of the Morcai,” the alien officer said quietly in a tone that was chilling. “We also have ships searching the sector where your ship was captured. We have failed to find any trace of your commander or his corpse.”
“Indeed?” Komak asked indifferently.
“Where is he?” the Rojok continued. “And consider carefully your reply,” he added with a cold, arrogant smile. “Because if you do not produce him, we will torture every single member of the Morcai’s crew, one by one, until we find him!”
10
Madeline felt her heart sink to her stomach. Torture. They would torture the entire crew in order to find Dtimun. Was it worth the risk, to protect an alien who might die naturally in the next few hours? A sudden, unfamiliar anguish stabbed her at the thought of that proud alien dead.
But she didn’t have to consider her answer, because it was impossible for her, ethically, to turn Dtimun over to these murderous dogs. Given a choice, she’d take torture and hope to God that she wouldn’t break under it. She glanced at her crewmates and saw the same resolve in them.
“The commander is dead,” Komak repeated.
“Untrue,” the Rojok replied with equal firmness. “We found no record of his death in your ship’s log—neither was there any evidence of a recent urning aboard the vessel. It is Centaurian law that a commander of flagship rank is to be urned ceremonially,” he added, airing his knowledge of their culture.
“There was such a cloning less than two solar days ago,” Komak said evenly. “and we did not note it in the log, as we were under alien attack. That is also our protocol. The urn has been concealed. You will not find it.” He studied the enemy. “We also cloned two crewmen…”
“You cloned one,” the alien corrected smugly. “And he was reprogrammed by our operative, who was cloned from a member of the human crew, which answered the distress call on Terramer.”
Madeline and Hahnson exchanged horrified glances. They meant Stern! He hadn’t been mentally altered—he was dead! Holt Stern was dead!
“It is no use insinuating that your commander was an altered clone,” the alien continued in a monotone. “I will ask you one last time. Where is Commander Dtimun?”
Komak raised his head. “Dead.”
“A lie! And we will uncover the truth if it requires the systematic torture of every one of your crew! Even now, an emissary from Mangus Lo’s palcenon is on his way to us to take Commander Dtimun back to our imperial Excellence. It is unthinkable to keep the emperor waiting!”
“Gee, fella, we’re sorry,” Madeline said with mock sincerity. “It’s okay with us if you want to take the C.O. to Mangus Lo. Isn’t it, guys?” she asked her comrades.
“Sure,” Hahnson said with a shrug. “I don’t mind.”
“Me, neither,” Higgins seconded. “Hell, sir, you can take him sand-swimming for all I care.”
The Rojok seemed to burn purple under his dusky complexion at the insolent treatment he was getting from these inferior humans. “You will not be impertinent!” he sputtered.
“Impertinent?” Madeline frowned. “Say, is that anything like being hungry? I just remembered, I didn’t get time for mess before you people took over our ship.”
“You will tell me what I want to know!” the Rojok officer fairly screamed. “I will have you all tortured!”
“Whatever he has in mind,” Lieutenant Higgins said lightly. “can’t be much worse than having to listen to him rave. How about some java, Dr. Hahnson?”
“Fine!” Hahnson said.
“I could use some coffee, myself,” Madeline agreed pleasantly.
The humans turned their backs on the interrogator and moved to the ancient synthesizer on the bulkhead of the dome.
The Centaurians in the cell with Madeline and the others stood grouped together, watching with puzzled blue-gray eyes, as if the whole incident was Greek to them.
The Rojok officer let loose a stream of what sounded like curses, gathered his official pride and his escort and stomped away toward the HQ complex.
“Excuse me,” one of the young Holconcom soldiers asked, moving to stand beside Madeline while the other humans conversed, “I do not understand how you can treat imprisonment here so lightly. Are you not afraid, you humans?”
“Afraid?” Madelin
e laughed softly. “I’m terrified. I can’t remember a time in my career when I could taste and smell fear the way I can right now. But whatever I feel, I’m an officer in the Strategic Space Command—one of the Royal Legion of Terravega. And I’m doing nothing that might disgrace this uniform. That includes keeping my fears to myself, if I have to chew my tongue off. The Rojoks may kill me, but they won’t break me.”
The young alien cocked his head in confusion, but there was a soft spray of light green laughter in his color-changing eyes. “As a race, I find you completely unintelligible.”
“That goes double for me, about yours,” she replied. She smiled. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Madeline Ruszel, formerly captain of the Amazon Terravega Brigade, now chief exobiologist and medical chief of staff aboard the SSC Bellatrix.” She hesitated. “The former SSC ship Bellatrix,” she added sadly.
“We regret the loss of your ship,” the alien replied formally. “I am Abemon, engineering executive officer of the Morcai,” he added.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she replied, smiling. “I’m sorry we won’t have the opportunity to serve together.”
“As am I,” he replied with green, smiling eyes. “Among us there was a saying, that the urn had not been constructed, which could hold our commander.”
“I wish that had been the case,” she replied, both of them wary of listening Rojok ears. She turned to the unconscious alien on the floor. “Well, I’d better see what I can do for our inebriated crewman. Excuse me.”
She dropped down beside Dtimun and activated her wrist scanner, hiding her arm from view in case the Rojok AVBD was aimed in her direction. If they didn’t know about the scanner, which was her own original piece of high tech, they couldn’t take it away from her.
The readings she got from the alien were erratic, but he was holding his own so far. She gave his chest a quick laserdot injection of morphadrenin from her hastily concocted supply aboard ship and watched the reaction on the scanners. It wasn’t encouraging. For some reason, Dtimun’s second heart wasn’t even trying to accept the load from the burned-out old one. If something wasn’t done to help it initiate function, the Centaurian would die.
Hahnson, noting the worried expression on his colleague’s face, moved to her side.
“How is he?” he asked in Old High Martian, a subdialect of ancient Terravegan that the Rojoks wouldn’t have the means to decipher. It was the tongue of the Jaakob Spheres, and only a half dozen humans even spoke it. Madeline and Hahnson had found it on a library computer while they were in basic training and used it, with Stern, as a secret code. It had come in handy on missions, when they were among possible spies. Now Stern was the spy. It hurt to know that.
Madeline watched the commander’s chest rise and fall, her eyes drawn involuntarily to the hard lines of his golden-skinned face, the jutting brow, the stubborn jaw, the closed elegance of his elongated eyes with thick, black lashes. He was very attractive, even to a human female, although it shocked her that she was thinking such thoughts. She clamped down on them at once.
“He’s dying,” she told Hahnson.
“Can you operate?” he continued in Old High Martian, his voice low and covered by the din of conversation among the humans.
“I’ve got some instruments,” she confided. “But even though I’m familiar with Cularian humanoid physiology, I’m not a specialist in its pharmacology. If the commander isn’t a clone, like the rest of the unit, it means using a different technique altogether, due to some…slight modifications in his cell structure. My wrist scanner doesn’t have the resources of my medicomp aboard ship. And although I do know the technique used to interfere with the half-life, I’ve never performed it. If the dylete doesn’t kill him, I probably will.”
Komak knelt beside them, his dark eyes warm with affection as they dropped to the commander, then solemn blue as he lifted them to Madeline’s face.
“Can you operate?” Komak repeated Hahnson’s question, and also in Old High Martian.
They both gaped at him.
His eyes made a green smile for them. “The commander insists that we speak all alien tongues in case the Holconcom conquers a new race.”
“Pure arrogance,” Madeline said with twinkling eyes. “There are a hundred alien races with about a thousand dialects.”
“And we speak them all,” he returned with a muffled laugh. He sobered. “Can you interfere with the dylete?”
“Hahnson and I were discussing that,” she replied. “The problem is, it’s in direct violation of the Malcopian Articles of War to perform surgery on a species of which the surgeon has no experience. Further, it’s also a violation of Centaurian protocol, isn’t it, Komak?” she added. “No female may perform medically on a Centaurian male. That’s why the commander was going to put me on report, because I tried to treat the Centaurian prince on Terramer.” She shook her head. “If I save him, he can bring me up on charges before the Military Tribunal and end my career.”
“Then, you will not operate?” Komak replied.
Her eyes widened. “Are you kidding? If I save him, I get to throw it up to him for the rest of my life! Of course I’m going to operate!”
Komak made a sound like laughter.
“But there is still the cultural thing,” she pointed out.
“It is true that there is an ancient taboo, which still holds my people in bondage,” Komak replied. “And which only the old emperor has the power to outlaw. I cannot tell you why this is so important,” he added quietly. “But it is imperative that you act, for the sake not only of the commander, but of your own species, as well. More is at stake than I dare tell you.”
“You wouldn’t be exaggerating a little?” she probed.
“I cannot force you to act,” he replied. “I can only tell you that if the commander lives, we all live. Without him, what was done to the Altairian child when we arrived here will be play compared to what will be done to these soldiers—and to the clones of the civilians from Terramer who lie wounded in their ambutubes. Nor will the Jaakob Spheres be recovered before the Rojoks have the opportunity to decode them.”
She closed her eyes, picturing the dangers vividly. “I wasn’t going to refuse, anyway,” she assured him.
“Saving life is…” Komak began.
“…an obligation, not a kindness,” she finished for him, and knew that he was remembering, as she did, the words spoken in the commander’s deep, gruff voice.
“When do we begin?” Hahnson asked.
“As soon as it’s dark. It’s going to be touch and go every step of the way,” she reminded them. “At the very best, under these primitive conditions, it’s going to be a four-hour job, and we’ll probably have to dodge Rojok sentries every step of the way. If we’re caught,” she said, looking from one face to the other. “it means instant access to their sonic ovens. Are you both still willing to assist?”
Komak shrugged. “They will kill us anyway. And I will not give up the commander now, Madelineruszel, after you have gone to such lengths to keep him alive.” His green eyes twinkled. “He will owe his life to the three of us,” he added with glee. “I shall never let him forget!”
Madeline laughed in spite of herself. “Good for you. Strick?”
He glanced at the commander. “Remind me to tell you about a run-in I had with a terrorist group during the Great Galaxy War—and how a Centaurian Holconcom officer saved my life.”
She smiled, understanding what he was telling her. “There’s just one other little problem,” she added, sitting back on her haunches to glance warily toward the bustling complex outside the dome. “They know the commander is either in an urn somewhere, or concealed among the crew. They’re not stupid. They want him very badly. What that officer said about the two clones—I’ve got an idea that they had an operative on the ship all the way from Terramer. One of them may be able to recognize the commander—even disguised.”
Komak’s eyes darkened. “It is something over which we have no contro
l, Madelineruszel,” he said. “We must, therefore, accept whatever comes. Karamesh,” he added with a green smile in his eyes when her eyebrows lifted. “It is an unwritten destiny that sweeps us along on paths not of our making or choosing.”
“We call it fate,” she replied with a smile. “We’ll worry about the problem when we have to. For the moment, I need to start carefully synthesizing some additional equipment. We’ll hope the place isn’t too illuminated at night, and that these ancient synthesizers don’t have monitors the way ours do. Considering their age, I doubt it.” She hesitated. “The commander won’t last until morning,” she added, “even with the boosters.”
“Boosters?” Hahnson asked.
“Never mind, Strick, that’s between Komak and me,” she added. “We’ve got one more problem, too. We’re going to need some help diverting the guards’ attention. Komak, we’ll have to rely on your men for that. I don’t know if we can count on any human cooperation from the other cells, knowing how they felt about Muldoon being spaced,” she said flatly. “Higgins and Crandall and Jennings were close to us, because they’re officers.” She nodded toward the humans at the other side of the dome, working the synthesizer. “It won’t be the same with human crewmen who see the Holconcom as enemies.”
“I understand,” Komak replied. “We will assure that our crewmen say nothing of what is happening to the commander to the humans.”
He stood up, watching the dull, sluggish movements of the other Holconcom in adjacent cells as they slumped without the microcyborgs that had given them such an edge of strength.
Madeline followed his gaze and grimaced. She knew that the Rojoks would have looked for the microcyborgs and removed them before celling the Holconcom.
“They didn’t check him for…boosters?” she asked Komak, indicating Dtimun.
Hahnson gave her a patient look. “I know what the boosters are. I served with the Holconcom in the Great Galaxy War.”
[Luna] The Morcai Battalion Page 15
