The Fleet Book Three: Break Through

by David Drake (ed)

  Amani approached the man, who showed his teeth.

  While the chief healer was no expert, he was given to understand that such a display of teeth was not a threat as it was among the Khalia, but a sigh of amusement. That in itself might be considered funny by some, since the man certainly had little enough to be amused about.

  “I am Chief Healer Amani, How do you feel?”

  “Like shit,” the man said. “Admiral Ernest Stone, of the Fleet, late of the dreadnought Morwood. You want my serial number?”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Ah. Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, Healer Amani, but I suppose I should thank you for your efforts on my behalf, considering that I ought to be dead twice over.”

  “I only did my duty.”

  “Yes. We all do our duty, don’t we?”

  Amani did not feel that Stone really required an answer to that comment, and he offered none. But the human sounded bitter. Odd, from a military commander.

  “So,” Stone said, “what’s the drill? Am I still being shipped off to the torture racks?”

  “I cannot say what your eventual fate is. My job is to keep you alive. You are considered a hero, and as such, an important person.”

  Stone emitted a kind of bark—ha!—and showed his teeth again. More amusement. “Your military is going to take me apart like a broken flitter engine, Healer. They want to know what I know, and they will do whatever they have to to get at it ... with all due respect for my heroic deeds, of course.”

  Amani felt uncomfortable. He did not doubt that what Stone said was true. Torture. Even though it was not his doing, nor his business, it turned his stomach. Another part of his flaw, of course.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. In their place, I’d do the same. War is hell.”

  Amani was surprised. “You know our Philosopher Dumo?”

  “Can’t say as I do. But we have our own philosophers. They pretty much came to the same conclusion about it.”

  “Dumo is not popular on our home world,” Amani said.

  “Seems like the peaceful ones are never as popular as the ones who sponsor war,” Stone said.

  “Is there anything I can do to aid you, Admiral Stone?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider spacing me, without a suit?”

  Amani said nothing to this.

  “I didn’t think so. Some water would be nice.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Amani lay in his cubicle again, staring at the metal bulkhead above him. Strange that a human military commander would speak of peace in such a wistful tone. Amani’s years in the military medical service had shown him that humans were every bit as bloodthirsty as the most vicious Khalians. He had patched up enough wounded troopers to know that for certain. Humans killed as easily as Khalians, they thought nothing of turning an energy weapon upon a ship full of people and blasting it to pieces. A killer race, fighting his own killer race, both sides laughing as they died. Were they all blind? Couldn’t any of them see what the end had to be?

  Amani sighed. He was ever out of place. Perhaps his brother and the majority of Khalians were right: anyone who would chose to be a healer over being a fighter must have a deep character flaw, some inborn sickness that could not be cured or even treated. Not that he thought himself a coward—he had once stood up to his brother, tooth and claw for what he believed—but to experience the kind ... of compassion Amani felt was certainly not normal. For a female with her kits, yes. A mother could bemoan the loss of her sons in war, but a male was expected to chew it up and behave with honor. Fathers did not weep for dead children, nor brothers for the loss of their siblings. It was not done. Even gaining a name required a dance with death—many did not survive.

  Amani, on the other hand, had sometimes wept for dead patients who were not even related to him. He kept his tears in private, of course; there were some limits to shame. Even so, those who were real Khalia, fighters, felt nothing but contempt for white kilts like Amani. A healer, like a poet or a priest, was exempt from duels, and only a coward would hide behind his profession, a term his brother Damu never used without biting irony.

  Amani had hoped at one time that by being the best healer he could be, his service would somehow alleviate the stain of having chosen it. But, no. He had finally realized that by being the best coward in a field of cowards he impressed no one. He might repair a hundred or a thousand Khalians who would have died otherwise, but there was no honor in that. Life had less value than death, for a warrior.

  How odd it was to find that a human, one of the enemy, seemed to have leanings of compassion. Before the man was taken from him, he would have to speak to him again.

  * * *

  Damu’s voice on the communicator was brusque. In the earlier face-off, he had left Amani dominated. He furthered his advantage by calling over the com instead of coming to the surgery in person.

  “How is the human?”

  “Alive,” Amani said. “As you required.”

  “Yes. As I required. See that he remains that way.”

  “I know my duty, Captain.”

  “Oh, of that I am sure, Healer.” Always the contempt. And now, the certainty in Damu’s voice, at last. I have you where you finally belong, brother. Cowardly and subservient.

  Amani shut off the com and turned, just in time to catch his assistants and soakers hurrying to move from his sight. He might be submissive to the captain, but they were under his claws, and they obviously had no desire to find those claws gripping their necks.

  Amani moved to the private cubicle they had arranged for Stone. It was as much for the other patients’ benefit as the human’s. It would not do to have a recovering trooper all excited and tearing stitches because there was one of the enemy in the next bed.

  Inside the curtains, Amani stood alone looking down at the crippled man.

  “Not much of me left, is there?” Stone said. “Of course, there’s a lot more than I expected, after ramming my ship into your formation.”

  “Not my formation, Admiral. That was another time and place.”

  Stone moved his shoulders as a Khalian would shrug. The movement pained him. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

  Amani moved closer and sat on the stool next to the bed. “Admiral, is that a note of regret in your voice?”

  The man stared at Amani. “You mean, don’t I wish I had destroyed more of your ships? Sure. All of ’em.”

  Amani thought about the risk he was taking and decided it didn’t matter. “No,” he said softly, “I meant, do you regret having destroyed any of them?”

  “Healer, I am—or was—an admiral of the Fleet, defending my species against unwarranted attacks by your suicidal pirates. I did my duty.”

  “As you said earlier, we all do our duty,” Amani said. “But duty and desire are not always the same.”

  “I am a man of war, sir. I have spent most of my life in the military, fighting against those who would enslave or kill humans. It is a valid reason for my actions; I need not justify them to you, one of the enemy.”

  “No. You need not justify them.”

  There was a long silence, a kind of peace that stretched between the Khalian healer and the human admiral.

  Finally, Stone said, “I have never enjoyed the killing, Healer, if that’s what you want to know. It had to be done, but I took no pleasure in it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Your race seems to find a particular glee in death, giving or receiving.”

  Amani nodded, staring past the injured man through the ship’s walls into infinity. “Yes. My race does. But I have a character flaw, Admiral, which is why I am a healer and not a soldier. I am a necessary evil to my race, but one that is tolerated, and not respected. Were I the best healer to ever live, I would be less than the dir
t beneath the feet of the worst soldier. Because I won’t kill. I cannot even allow death if I can prevent it.”

  Another long silence flowed before Stone broke it. “Ah. There goes my chance for suicide. You have to keep me alive even though you know what they have planned for me.”

  “Even so, yes.”

  “Duty, again. I respect that. Even the largest machine cannot continue to run without all of its parts in place. Every piece is necessary.”

  “How odd it is that you can see that. A warrior, and an enemy besides.”

  “Soldiers do what they are trained to do, reasons come from elsewhere. What can a single man do to stop the killing? Not much. Perhaps you and I have more in common than you think.”

  “Perhaps.” Amani stood. “Well. I have other patients.”

  “Of course.”

  “I shall check on you later.”

  “Healer.”

  “Admiral.”

  * * *

  Again, the call on the com. “The human is well?”

  “I would advise you of any change, Ship Captain.”

  “We shall be arriving at the Sharptooth Station within a matter of hours, Healer. Once there, the human will be transferred to another ship. Keep him breathing until then.”

  “I hear your command, Captain.”

  “I know you hear it, brother. See that you obey it.”

  Amani swallowed his anger. He had symbolically offered his neck yet again, as he had done so many times before. Cowards always did that, and momentary shows of defiance meant nothing in the long run.

  What did mean something in the long run? As the human so aptly put it, what could a single man, or a single Khalian, do to change things?

  The com had long since clicked off while he was considering this question.

  * * *

  “I appreciate your telling me,” Stone said. His face was grayish in the dim light, but he seemed in no more distress than he had been.

  “You were willing to die for your beliefs,” Amani said. “It is the least I could do.”

  “I won’t be able to resist,” Stone said. “Too bad my people think I’m already dead; they could void some of the information I’ll give.”

  “Military secrets?”

  “Some. But like most such things, they will be outdated soon enough.”

  “Admiral, I—I am sorry for what you must undergo.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  * * *

  In his cube, Amani punched in a call for Damu.

  “Yes? What it is, Healer?” He was annoyed. “I’ve got a docking coming up and no time for your chatter.”

  “I hereby invoke my sibling privilege.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Now.” Amani felt a small surge of joy at Damu’s reaction, but he kept the feeling from his voice.

  “Damn you, Amani!”

  “It is my right, under the law—”

  “Don’t tell me the fucking law! I know it’s your right!”

  “Well?”

  “All right. Get up here, now! I’ll give you the required time, no more. Discom.”

  Amani hurried to reach the captain’s quarters. Between twin siblings, there was a one-time right of total free speech. It could be called upon any time and any place by either twin, and the law required that the other acknowledge it. It was a point of honor, and to ignore it was impossible. Amani had never thought he would use it, but there was something he must know.

  The door to the captain’s cubicle slid open. Despite his arrogance, Damu was obviously intrigued by his brother’s request.

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “Do you really think me a coward, Damu?”

  “That’s it? You invoke the one-time for that? You needn’t have bothered, Brother. I would have answered that one for nothing.”

  “Then answer it.”

  “Yes. You are a coward. You chose to hide from honor when you went into your so-called profession.”

  “Because I picked life over death.”

  “Yes. Because a Khalian who will not kill denies his heritage! It is our lot to slay those who oppose us! Our blood demands no less! None but the Khalia can be strong!”

  “And there can be no change? No compassion? No strength without killing?”

  “Stop sniveling, Amani!”

  “Even if it means the death of our race?”

  “No matter what it means! You don’t understand about honor, about bravery! You staunch the blood of soldiers you aren’t fit to touch!”

  “We gained our names on the same day, Damu. We both survived the Wilderness Test.”

  “That was not war!”

  “I see. To be brave requires war.”

  “Yes! And blood. I am dominant because my blood runs hotter than yours,” Damu said. “That will always be the way of it. You cannot help but serve and obey me because you are flawed, Amani! Less than whole. A coward. You cannot understand what it is to face death and laugh at it.”

  Amani nodded, as if agreeing, but what he saw was something else altogether. A problem he had been avoiding for a long time. And it had taken one of the enemy humans to finally show it to him.

  “Is that all, Healer?”

  “Yes. That is all.”

  “Then get out. Go back to your cowards and whiners. I have a ship to run.”

  * * *

  “Arriving pretty soon now?” Stone said.

  Amani, seated on the stool next to the bed, nodded. “Pretty soon.”

  “Well, win some, lose some.”

  Amani reached into his belt pouch and removed a single surgical claw—a short, curved blade on the end of a socket. He held it between two digits and twirled it back and forth, watching the light glint from the razor steel.

  Stone watched him with sudden interest.

  “A thing of beauty, the surgical knife,” Amani said. Almost idly, he laid the claw on the small table next to Stone’s bed. “Dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  Stone stared at the claw for a moment, then looked back up at Amani. “Hypothetically speaking, Chief Healer, but ... what would happen to you if one of your very important patients should up and die unexpectedly?”

  “That would be unlikely to happen. I am a very good healer.”

  “But just to satisfy my curiosity?”

  “I expect I might well be found derelict in my duty. A reduction in rank would likely occur, with appropriate loss of clan status. Just before I was executed, of course.”

  “I see.”

  “But being such a good healer, it is unlikely that one of my patients would die without my prior knowledge. And if one of them did, it might well be for the best.”

  “Even given your duty?”

  “Sometimes, Admiral, one’s duty must be to a higher purpose.”

  “Ah.”

  Amani stood. “I think I have misplaced one of my surgical claws. I had best go and see if I can find it. Someone might pick it up and accidentally nick his carotid arteries.” Amani touched himself on the sides of the neck. “Such carelessness could result in a quick and painless death.” Amani turned to leave. “Farewell, Admiral.”

  “And you, Healer. Thank you. You are a brave man.”

  “Not a man. I am Khalian.”

  “Maybe that doesn’t make much difference.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Admiral.”

  * * *

  In his cube when the ship docked, Amani felt a sense of calm unlike any he had ever known. He had defied his brother and the order of things, and even the sudden frantic pounding by his assistant upon the door of his cubicle could not disturb his sense of peace. Perhaps the desire for peace was indeed a character flaw; if so, it was one his race would have to develop, sooner or later, or risk being destroyed.
Khalians might defeat humans, though Amani did not think it likely, but what would happen if they should someday happen upon folk far more powerful, like the First Others? Aggression against such people would truly be suicide. How could his own race not see it?

  “Chief Healer, it—it’s the human patient!” The assistant’s pounding grew more pronounced, but the healer ignored it.

  For his act, Amani would pay an expensive price.

  He shrugged to himself. In the end, it only mattered that he had done what he’d felt was right. And Stone had been correct. Even the loss of the smallest part might stop the functioning of a large machine. Who could say?’

  Even a character flaw might change a race.

  HAWK TALON was in trouble. Having destroyed the secret Khalian base, he was trapped in a crater by over a hundred of the hideously tusked invaders. With near miraculous skill, Hawk had shot nearly half of the aliens when the Weasel battlecruiser rumbled over the crater.

  Slowly, while the maniacal laughter of the evil Khalian admiral echoed, the barrel of a truly gigantic plasma cannon began to swing toward the Fleet hero. The sound of lightning crackled as the house-sized weapon charged. Valiantly, Talon stood, legs apart, his pistol raised in defiance. Behind him the senator’s daughter he had just rescued from a fate worse than death cringed, clutching his leg.

  Suddenly a familiar silver ship streaked over the horizon and in a single burst shattered the cannon and crippled the Khalian dreadnought.

  “But you were alone?” the voluptuous female exclaimed in wonder.

  “You’re never alone when you are teamed with a brain ship like the Derv,” the Hawk informed her as they climbed the wreckage of the fallen dreadnought.

  Freeze and roll credits.

  SHE WAS AT least one hundred meters from her blunt nose to the shielded drive-ports in her tail but hanging in the two-thousand-meter shadow of a Fleet dreadnought, she was tiny. Her skin was a jagged alternation of mirror-bright and black, the reflec and absorp coatings of scan-dazzle camouflage that said, “military” as plainly as any gaudy battle insignia. Her battle insignia, painted small and with their colors muted, said Khalian. So did her shape and the aggressive flight pattern in which she had approached her docking space in the lee of the gigantic battlewagon. But the voices inside her hull said Fleet.