The Morcai Battalion

by Diana Palmer

“Did you…?” he asked Dtimun, for obviously the alien had authorized the removal of one of the units that had been hidden in his own scalp.

  Something like a smile touched Dtimun’s lips. “You are a member of my crew, are you not?” he asked simply. He turned. “Ruszel, get out of there!” he snapped at the auburn-haired physician, who’d stooped down to try to patch up one of the Holconcom left in her group. She didn’t see the four red-uniformed Rojok guards heading straight for her until a chasat blast almost severed her ear.

  “What the hell do you mean my daughter’s lost behind enemy lines?” Colonel Clinton Ruszel yelled at Jeffrye Lawson, his silvered red hair burning against his tanned face in the light of the ceiling panels. “How did she get there in the first place?”

  “Will you calm down and listen to me, Clint?” Jeffrye Lawson growled, slamming his fist down on the smooth, glassy surface of his desk.

  “How can I calm down? Dammit, I thought she was on a routine rescue hop to Terramer. What happened?”

  “Rojoks attacked the rescue party. They killed Holt Stern—you remember him, surely?” Lawson asked sadly, and the Paraguard officer nodded impatiently. “The Bellatrix was destroyed in the attack. Afterward, the entire crew of the Bellatrix was apparently taken aboard the Holconcom ship Morcai…”

  “Dtimun’s ship,” Ruszel said at once and with a sigh of heartfelt relief. He sank down into one of the admiral’s rigidly uncomfortable chairs. “Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place? She’s all right, then.”

  “What?” Lawson asked blankly.

  “If she’s with Dtimun, she’s safe, of course. My God, Jeff, I fought with him in the Great Galaxy War. Best damned commanding officer I ever served with. He helped me get Maddie and those Marcopian kids away from the terrorists, too,” Ruszel recalled with a grin. “The Rojoks sure as hell couldn’t capture him.”

  “Evidence is to the contrary,” Lawson said apologetically. “Our reports indicate there’s every chance that they’ve been taken to Ahkmau. It was one reason the Council agreed on a war vote. Old Tnurat practically threatened to declare war on them if they didn’t.”

  “If Dtimun was taken to Ahkmau,” Ruszel said stubbornly, “it was because he planned it that way. My God, Jeff, he’s probably launched an all-out offensive and is liberating the place right now!”

  Lawson drew in a weary breath. It was like arguing with a rock. “Clint,” he began patiently.

  “Admiral!” His adjutant’s voice was breathless, his face jubilant as he appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, son?” Jeffrye asked.

  “Sir, you’re not going to believe this,” the young officer said, laughing. “It’s the Freespirit. She just got a distress call from Ahkmau for assistance in evacuating the inmates from the camp. And it was sent by the Morcai Battalion!”

  “Now, what did I tell you, Jeffrye?” Clinton Ruszel said calmly. “And there you sat, worrying yourself into the grave.”

  “Morcai Battalion?” Jeffrye asked incredulously. “What the hell is that? And evacuating Ahkmau? Are you sure you heard right, boy?” he demanded of his adjutant, scowling.

  “Yes, sir!” the younger man nodded.

  “Well, if that’s all you dragged me in here for,” Ruszel said impatiently as he adjusted his service cap back on his head, “I’ll be getting back to my command. Honest to God, Jeff, scaring the hell out of me, dragging an officer off the front lines with a bunch of garbage about kidnapped crewmen and prison camps…” He was still muttering to himself as he absentmindedly saluted on his way out the door.

  Jeffrye Lawson simply stood there, watching him leave, his eyes staring at nothing.

  “Do you think they’ll get Mangus Lo himself, sir?” the adjutant was asking. “And the Jaakob Spheres? Gee, it would sure throw a monkey wrench into the Rojoks’ morale, wouldn’t it, sir?”

  Lawson didn’t hear him. He walked out the door with his hands folded behind him, still incredulous. “I wonder,” he mused, “if we traded Tnurat Alamantimichar thirty Malumesser fighters and the design for our cadmium drive battlecruiser…maybe he’d loan us Dtimun?”

  Stern started to rush toward Madeline, but Dtimun’s steely arm shot out and held him back.

  “She is safe, Stern,” he said.

  “Safe? But…!”

  Even as the human protested, a chasat blast rocked the four attacking Rojoks, throwing them up into the air, to land in an unconscious heap on the hypoturf.

  Madeline caught her breath. She’d been so engrossed in her work that she wasn’t even aware of the danger she’d been in.

  Chacon moved forward, lowering his chasat as he approached the small group. Behind him, there was a fireburst of color in the night sky followed instantly by the thunder of a huge explosion.

  “The communications network, I dare say,” Chacon said with a tiny smile as he stopped in front of Dtimun. “For a weary, beaten group of outworlders, you accomplish much in little time.”

  “And just consider that we’ve barely begun,” Madeline agreed, joining them. She smiled self-consciously at the Rojok who’d saved her life. “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded solemnly. His eyes studied Dtimun. “Strangely enough, only Mekkar’s force was attacked by your men. My bodyguard was not touched. Can you explain this odd method of combat?”

  “Black uniforms, sir,” Stern said with a straight face. “Very hard to see at night.”

  “Absolutely,” Madeline agreed. “The arrangement of the Terravegan retina, you know. We can hardly see black. Of course, red is easily detected.”

  “I myself have noticed this abnormality in humans,” Komak agreed fervently.

  Chacon’s slit eyes twinkled. “By all rights,” he told them, “I should do everything in my power to put you back in those cells. But the fact is, no state of war yet exists between the Rojok and Centaurian empires—and since these humans seem to belong to you, I must let you go.”

  “In which case, it might be wise to retire to your flagship, Rojok,” Dtimun told him, “because it is my intention to leave bare desert in the place of this abomination.”

  “And the inmates?” Chacon asked.

  “I have sent for the Freespirit.”

  “I understand.” He hesitated. “You must know that Mangus Lo is even now at the spaceport in his flagship. He will have troops massing here when he ascertains the communication failure.”

  “Yes,” Dtimun said. “But he will not know of the communications failure until he tries to send for help, and then it will be too late for him to call for reinforcements.”

  “You understand that I cannot condone your plans for Ahkmau, nor assist you.”

  “As has been said already, it is a pity we find ourselves on opposing sides,” Dtimun said quietly. “Good fortune, Rojok.”

  “And to you,” Chacon replied. “My…regards to the Centaurian princess,” he added heavily, and without meeting Dtimun’s gaze.

  Dtimun watched the Rojok walk away proudly, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “By opposing Mekkar’s force, he has condemned himself to a public execution. I can almost believe it was intentional, to divert Mekkar while we make our escape.”

  “With all due respect, Commander,” Stern said with solemn, dark eyes, “we’d be dead already if he hadn’t intervened. If we took Mangus Lo home with us, there wouldn’t be anyone to give the order to execute the Rojok field marshal. Would there?”

  Dtimun raised an eyebrow. His eyes twinkled green. “A thought which has also occurred to me,” he replied. “Ruszel, arm yourself and stay with Abemon. Komak, Stern, with me.”

  Madeline glared at him with her hands on her hips. “I will take it personally if you die out there,” she muttered. “It wasn’t an easy job, putting you back together again. Sir.” She glanced at Stern. “That goes double for you.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Maddie,” Stern assured her. “We Centaurians are as formidable as all hell, aren’t we, Commander?” He grinned at Dtimun.

&
nbsp; A flash of green escaped the alien’s control, but was just as quickly erased from his eyes. “We have little time. Can you use that, if you have to?” he asked Madeline as they turned to leave, indicating the captured chasat he’d given her.

  She gave him an incredulous look. “I commanded an Amazon squad.”

  He pursed his lips. “I was referring to your knowledge of Rojok technology, not your courage. Of that, I have seen proof.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sorry, sir.” She gave him a snappy salute, raised her eyebrows at Stern and moved out with her group.

  With Dtimun in the lead, the three Morcai officers swept past the liberation effort, where humans and Holconcom were still opening the huge capsule barracks to free the ragged, cheering inmates. The hypoturf was littered with the bodies of red-uniformed Rojoks, the finest of Mangus Lo’s handpicked escort troops. Obviously they’d met their match in Chacon’s elite unit.

  “What kind of chance have we got of getting through to Mangus Lo?” Stern asked as Dtimun darted through the entrance of the complex into the tube that led to the nearby spaceport.

  “A good one,” Dtimun replied. “Most of his personal bodyguard was dispatched to eliminate Chacon. There will be only a skeleton crew aboard his flagship.”

  “Accommodating of Mangus Lo,” Stern remarked.

  “Indeed,” Komak agreed. “Commander, look! Our men have secured the spaceport!”

  “Our men” were the humans led by the engineering officer, Jenkins. The Centaurian princess was waiting beside the Morcai’s elevator tube, her eyes green with triumphant laughter as she sighted Dtimun.

  “You are victorious,” she said gently. “I knew you would be.”

  “Karamesh,” Dtimun replied with a flash of green eyes. “Jenkins, was there no resistance?” he asked the human, sweeping the area for signs of Rojoks and finding none.

  “Quite a bit, actually, sir,” Jenkins replied, scratching his head. “But about time we opened fire on them, the princess moved in front of us and they…well, they ran away, sir,” he said feebly. “I’m at a loss to understand it.”

  Dtimun only smiled. “Leave a crew here to guard the ship,” Dtimun told him. “And assist Dr. Ruszel in getting the Terramer survivors back aboard. The Freespirit has been sent for. If it arrives before the three of us return, take the Morcai back to Trimerius. You understand?” he added deliberately. “Tell Higgins.”

  Jenkins swallowed, hard. He knew what the commander meant. The three of them might not come back. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

  Dtimun led his two companions toward a sleek sandskimmer and slammed into the pilot’s seat, leaving Stern and Komak to jump in as he activated the engine and it began to whine.

  “Insanity,” Dtimun muttered. “Komak, you, at least, should stay behind.”

  “Unnecessary,” Komak said smugly.

  The older alien gave him a glare. “I distrust this perception of yours. You might at least give the impression that you are not reliving history.”

  Komak cleared his throat. “There is Mangus Lo’s flagship,” he said quickly, indicating a ship from which a few red-uniformed Rojoks were exiting.

  “We’re going to storm his flagship, aren’t we?” Stern asked with a cold smile. “I’m looking forward to that.”

  “Keep your hands away from Mangus Lo, Mister,” Dtimun cautioned as the skimmer lifted and shot ahead toward the distant Rojok ship.

  Stern said nothing, but his thoughts were dark. Because of the Rojok tyrant, he would go through life as a carbon copy of a dead man, with fewer rights in Terravegan society than a block of wood. He would never command a ship again. He would never know the pleasure of comradeship with his mates. He would never forget the sound of Hahnson’s screams. And for the sum total of his living nightmares, he owed Mangus Lo a debt he fully intended to pay. And if the Centaurian killed him for it, that was all right, too. After all, he was already dead.

  Dtimun landed the skimmer a short distance from the ship. It was a Rojok skimmer, and it attracted no attention from the two bored guards at the lift.

  As they exited the skimmer, a Rojok voice cried, “Cleemaah!” and a chasat fired at the three uniformed humanoids he hadn’t even seen until he ran right into them.

  Stern automatically threw the alien’s arm aside and darted a sharp thrust of his fingers up under the Rojok’s rib cage, dropping him instantly.

  “Mangus Lo should have the Jaakob Spheres on his ship, along with the captive scientists. His paranoia would not have allowed him to leave them on Enmehkmehk,” Dtimun told them as they moved closer to the lift. “He does not even trust his own guards in matters of security. But the ship will be well guarded. We must expect resistance.”

  “I hope we get it,” Stern said coldly. “Nothing would please me more. Lead on, sir.”

  17

  Dtimun led the way through minor resistance. Rojok guards were quickly and quietly disposed of along the way. They arrived at the entrance to Mangus Lo’s portable throne room in a matter of minutes.

  The door, gleaming with color, was reminiscent of carnival colors in its gaudiness. “The throne room,” he told the others quietly. “I memorized textdiscs of the Rojok flagship many years ago.”

  That didn’t surprise Stern. “How many bodyguards will he have, do you think?”

  Dtimun closed his eyes. He opened them almost immediately. “Twelve. Two to the left of the entrance, four at either side of the entrance to the tyrant’s throne room, six near the throne itself. Let’s go!”

  Stern didn’t have time to wonder how he knew that. The instant the bulkhead entrance was opened up, red-uniformed Rojoks swarmed the incoming threat.

  Pulse racing, throat dry, Stern ducked a chasat blast and attacked, knocking down one of the Rojok guards and finishing him in one smooth motion. He grabbed up the fallen chasat and leveled it at the next enemy soldier who came into range, firing instantly. Oblivious to the sounds of the decaliphe that burst from the throats of his companions behind him, he moved quickly down the corridor that led directly to the throne room.

  The six remaining Rojoks were massed at the entrance to the throne room, chasats leveled and ready. Stern would have rushed them, even so, but just as he crouched for a burst of speed, two red blurs went past him with a grace and speed that left him breathless.

  The horror of Ahkmau, the sacrificed comrades, the sadistic jeering of the guards while they tortured Hahnson—all of it added to the flame of his hatred as he waded into the fray. All he could see were shocks of blond hair and blurs of reddish bronzed skin and red uniforms. Blindly he shouldered his way through the Rojoks while Komak and Dtimun attacked. Mangus Lo. Mangus Lo. He was going to kill the madman. Nobody in the world was going to stop him. There was no other thought in his mind as he made his way into the imperial chamber. Something hit his arm with a staggering blow, and for a moment it burned with pain. He didn’t spare it a glance. As long as the muscles still worked, he didn’t care if the flesh was stripped down to the bone. He remembered vaguely that the bone was almost indestructible anyway. He kept moving.

  As he reached the door, chasating one last Rojok guard to the floor, he rammed the handle of the weapon into the magnalock housing. The sound of tinkling glass accompanied the sudden release of the door to the imperial throne. It slipped up like a tightly wound spring suddenly released.

  And there he was. The scourge of Enmehkmehk. The terror of Ahkmau. The source of the Tri-Galaxy Council’s nightmares. The emperor of the Rojoks. Majesty in red robes that looked two sizes too big for him. Authority with one dead leg that dragged behind his squat body. Arrogance with bowed legs and a face like a wrinkled red prune.

  “Who are you?” Mangus Lo screamed.

  “Death on two legs,” Stern replied quietly, raising the chasat.

  Eyes dial-round in fear, Mangus Lo backed against his trophy case. If Stern had any idea of sparing his life, it was abruptly gone. There, within the oval confines of the huge, glassy showcas
e, was the head of a beautiful young Altairian boy, staring ahead with sightless spherical eyes, the blue skin pale in death.

  “You sadist,” Stern breathed venomously, remembering what had been done to Hahnson. “You bloody, inhuman…!”

  Throwing the chasat down, his hands went to the alien’s neck and he shook him violently, ignoring the pleas and threats, the cries that grew strangled in the Rojok’s thick throat. Hahnson’s head might have been in that case, or Madeline’s, if Chacon hadn’t arrived when he did.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice shouting at him. He ignored it. His hands tightened. Blind, deaf, dumb, he smiled down at the terrified little alien with bloodlust burning in his mind as the fear in Mangus Lo’s eyes fed his satisfaction.

  But suddenly the neck of his dirty, ragged uniform contracted like a tourniquet, jerking him clear of the floor to hang some two feet off the ground, as if suspended by a coathook. His hold on the little dictator only tightened.

  “Drop him,” a cold, familiar voice commanded.

  He knew Dtimun’s voice, but it didn’t register. He wasn’t letting go.

  “Drop him!” The hand contracted.

  Stern reluctantly let the emperor slide out of his grasp onto the floor. He slumped. He was suddenly very tired. Sadly, it seemed that the Holconcom commander wasn’t going to allow him to kill Mangus Lo. Pity.

  “Spoilsport,” he muttered as he rearranged his collar.

  “Dtimun!” Mangus Lo whispered through his tortured windpipe, his slit eyes widening. “I have you now! With you as my prisoner, I can conquer the galaxies! No Centaurian would dare stand against me…!”

  Dtimun’s eyes burned black. His hand shot out and grasped the Rojok’s fat neck, lifting him completely off the deck. And for an instant, Mangus Lo wavered between life and death.

  “No fair, Commander!” Stern grumbled. “If I can’t kill him, neither can you.”

  Dtimun met the human’s eyes levelly. He drew in a long breath. His eyes, calmer, went back to the Rojok emperor. “The Jaakob Spheres. Where are they?”