TheMorcaiBattalion:TheRecruit

by The Recruit (lit)

  They were outside, heading for the skimmer, when a curt laugh escaped him. “I should have you court-martialed,” he muttered. “The problem is deciding which charge to press—striking a superior officer or assaulting a diplomat.”

  She grinned. “The diplomat deserved far more than that, sir,” she commented. “Sorry I kicked you, but I was afraid you meant to add to the ambassador’s condition.”

  “I did,” he returned curtly. He couldn’t admit that his temper had almost slipped its bonds when the drunk human had dared to put his hands on Ruszel.

  The skimmer lifted and moved off toward the Cehn-Tahr embassy.

  Madeline was looking at him oddly. She was recalling what Taylor had said; that shocking comment that made no sense.

  Dtimun must have read it in her thoughts, but he said nothing. It was just as well that it didn’t occur to her to wonder why Taylor had such intimate knowledge of a race he purported to hate. Although it was the Rojok dynasty into which Taylor had been initiated, for some years now. Madeline didn’t know, and he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to tell her how correct Taylor’s remarks had been.

  In fact, he confined his comments to the state of the computer-controlled weather, which was badly managed, as rain came out of nowhere. They had to run to the embassy to avoid being soaked.

  Madeline grimaced when she saw the splotches on her robes. “I guess they’re ruined,” she apologized.

  “They will be reclaimed as raw materials,” he said easily.

  “Sir, about what Ambassador Taylor said,” she began.

  “He said nothing of any import,” he replied tersely. “And we will not discuss the incident again.”

  “Yes, sir.” But she wondered about it, and the purpose of Dtimun’s visit to the embassy, when he hated Altairians.

  He started to move away, hesitated and glanced back at her. “You are curious about why we went to the reception.”

  She nodded.

  “The Altairians have a treaty with the Nagaashe, a race who live on a world near our borders. They have great stores of Helium 3, which we employ in reactors to provide heat and cooling for our cities. Our resources of this element are diminishing, but the Nagaashe will not trade with us. The Altair ambassador has agreed to present our case to the Nagaashe,” he added. “But considering the usual speed of their negotiations, I fear the treaty will not be created in my lifetime.”

  “Who are the Nagaashe?” she wondered.

  He smiled. “So many questions, Ruszel. But answers must wait. Thank you for accompanying me.”

  “It wasn’t as if I had a real choice, sir,” she pointed out. She made a face. “And their idea of synthale is an abomination.”

  “They do not consume alcoholic beverages in their culture,” he reminded her.

  “No wonder!”

  He laughed. He motioned for one of the young officers. “Show Dr. Ruszel to the room where she left her uniform, and then accompany her back to the medical center.”

  “Sir,” she protested. “I can hardly be in danger during that short hop…”

  He held up a hand. “I do not trust Taylor,” he said flatly. “Do as I say.”

  She sighed, but she saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded. His eyes roamed over her one last time and then his expression became distant. He walked away without looking back.

  Madeline wondered for days about Taylor’s odd remark, that Dtimun would kill her if he tried to mate with her. She couldn’t find any reference to Cehn-Tahr customs or culture in any of her resources. In desperation, she key holed Hahnson, who knew more than anyone in her acquaintance about the aliens.

  She told him what Taylor had said in his drunken state. “What did it mean?” she asked.

  Hahnson only smiled blandly. “How would I know?”

  She glowered at him. “You know a lot. You knew that Cehn-Tahr mark their mates.”

  “A bit of gossip I picked up,” he said evasively. He lifted an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d leave the subject strictly alone.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to. But it’s intriguing. We know so little about their culture, their behavioral traits. We know a lot about Rojoks, but they have reptilian DNA. Cehn-Tahr are supposed to be descended from felines.” She gave him a wry look. “I’m no geneticist but I’m not stupid, either. They have eyes that change color…nobody else in the galaxies does. And they may have feline traits, but the only way you get galot DNA is to be injected with it.”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Strick, we’ve been friends for a long time,” she persisted. “Can’t you tell me anything?”

  He averted his face. “Some mysteries are best left unsolved,” he said flatly. “Now how about giving me your opinion on this new treatment for Altairian flu?”

  Diverted, she turned to the virtual display. Since there was no way to satisfy her curiosity, she let the subject drop. For the time being.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The war, like all wars, had periods of monotony and boredom. It also had sudden spurts of urgency. This was one. The Rojoks had landed an advance force on a planet in the Dibella system and were preparing a staging area for a far larger command. Lagana was the largest continent on the planet; a rich source of clean water and foodstuffs, of which the Rojok supply lines were desperately in need.

  Dtimun called in all off-duty personnel and set a course for the planet. The Dibella system was a link in a chain leading to the home planets of the Tri-Galaxy Council members. The advance, which was small at the moment, had to be stopped and the staging area destroyed. Lawson, for once, didn’t oppose the commando mission. Madeline had wanted to take Edris Mallory along on the mission, even if she’d had to conceal her on board. But once the Morcai put down on Lagana, the Dibella system’s fourth planet, she was glad she hadn’t. It was no milk run. There was a considerable Rojok presence in a staging area near one of the continent’s major cities—although on this jungle world, that meant a population of less than two hundred souls. The Rojoks obviously planned a takeover here, and had just landed troops with that intention, in two makeshift camps. The resources of the planet were extensive.

  Dtimun called a briefing before the Holconcom left the ship. He pulled up a virtual map in the center of the room and indicated the Rojok staging area.

  “We must destroy their communications equipment first. Jennings.”

  “Yes, sir!” the human comm chief said, saluting.

  “This will be your job. Coordinate with Komak’s forward unit.”

  “Yes, sir!” Jennings grinned. On a human ship, he’d never have been allowed in combat. But here, duty descriptions overlapped. He loved these assaults; odd for a communications guy, Madeline thought amusedly.

  Dtimun glanced at her and his eyes flashed green as he read the thoughts in her mind.

  “You must take your bodyguard with you,” Komak told the C.O. abruptly.

  Dtimun gave him an odd look.

  Komak didn’t back down. “You must.”

  Dtimun sighed. “Very well.” He indicated the four Holconcom who performed that function. “You will come down with me.”

  The ranking officer in the small unit saluted.

  Madeline found it unusual that Dtimun agreed to Komak’s suggestion. Often, the younger Cehn-Tahr had premonitions about difficult missions. Apparently, he had one about this one. Strange, because it was such a small Rojok command. But, Madeline thought, might as well err on the side of caution. She studied Dtimun covertly as he outlined the order of battle. She recalled him in sweeping robes at the Altair embassy. He had looked…very nice.

  His eyes shot around and pinned her.

  “Sorry, sir,” she thought at once, and forced her mind back to military thoughts. These irrational flashes were starting to get the better of her.

  They had hoped to land undetected, but the Rojoks had new state-of-the-art sensors and they worked. The minute the scout ships touched
down, the Rojoks were waiting for them.

  The onslaught was fierce. Two Rojok squads armed with kremoks, the new rapid-firing plasma rifles that fried internal organs, tore through the human infantry like fire through forests. Madeline saw two soldiers she’d served with since basic training go down, dead before they hit the ground. She checked them, anyway, but it was far too late for any medical technique to bring them back other than as clones, a living death in Terravegan society. She rose and moved quickly to the sound of plasma fire, forcing herself to be professional, not to let her emotions get the better of her. She had to tend to the living.

  The medical research facility on Camcara was developing a counterweapon, a chemical screen that would be woven into the newest uniforms issued to the SSC. Madeline had adapted the technology for the Holconcom and Dtimun had authorized the addition and made it standard issue. But the uniforms were still in quality control tests.

  Some of the commando squads were still using the older chasats, and one of those units had wedged itself between Dtimun and his bodyguard in the thick, muggy green jungle of vines and plants that covered this continent. Madeline cursed as she tried to move past a tangle that resembled a spider web. Then she remembered the illegal Gresham she’d tucked in the small away kit over one shoulder. She pulled it out and activated the power pack. With that, she cut through the vegetation in no time. She pressed ahead. The urgency grew as she heard the thum-thum sound of chasat fire close by.

  “Ruszel!” she heard the ranking member of Dtimun’s four-man bodyguard unit in the tissue-thin monitor pasted just behind her ear.

  “Yes!” she spoke into the matching monitor that rested like part of the skin at her lips.

  “The commander has been hit!”

  For an instant, the world went black. She was very still. “Critically?”

  “Unknown. We saw him go down. Afterward, he did not move. We cannot get to him from our position. He has not answered our comms.”

  “Where is he?” she asked tautly.

  He gave coordinates. She didn’t speak to her comrades, who were mopping up the Rojok attack force. She motioned her medics toward three wounded Cehn-Tahr and then, with her heart racing at her throat, she sprinted toward the position where the commander was located. She didn’t dare think about his injury. With his greatly modified strength, if he was unconscious…!

  Terror welled up in her. She didn’t see where she was going, she only ran, seeing the coordinates in the ether display that popped up from its concealment at the corner of each eye, produced by a film of circuitry which she wore over her corneas. She followed the blip, her illegal Gresham ready to fire. She wasn’t going to be captured. The C.O.’s life might depend on her, if he was still alive.

  If he was still alive. She felt the words, like knives. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be! She realized suddenly that if he died, the light would go out of the world. There was nothing that would make up for his loss.

  Forbidden thoughts, she told herself, and she must clamp down on them at once. She was a doctor, and a patient was waiting. That was what she needed to be thinking about.

  She rushed through a cover of native vegetation and saw the commander flat on his back with two Rojok soldiers standing over him, chasats drawn.

  She yelled, commanding their attention before they could fire. As they turned, surprised, she took them down in a heartbeat with two quick blasts and never even paused to check, to make sure they were no longer a threat. She was a dead shot, especially under combat conditions, having been battle-tested as a child.

  “Sir!” She slid onto her knees at his side, her wrist scanner already busy, searching out clues to his condition. “Sir?”

  The members of his bodyguard suddenly came running from the direction of the worst fighting. Their uniforms were torn and one had a bloody arm.

  “Why did you leave him?” she raged at them from a face as red as her hair. “Your job is to protect the commander, not to act as regular combat troops!”

  In her mind a familiar, furious voice made itself heard. “Remember who you are, madam!” it demanded.

  Her eyes turned to his. They were open, brown with pain and anger, but open and alive. She was shaking. She hadn’t even realized it.

  “Remember who you are,” the angry voice sounded again in her mind. “Pull yourself together! You disgrace the uniform with this display of hysterics.”

  She forced her mind to work, her body to relax. Her face reverted to its usual serene expression. “I beg your pardon,” she told his bodyguard in her usual, measured tones. “I spoke out of turn. We lost some of the Terravegans in the first wave, two of whom I had served with for years. It…affected me.”

  “No apology is necessary, Ruszel,” the ranking bodyguard officer spoke for all of them. “We were pinned down in a gulley and could not get to the commander in time. Had you not been armed, the Rojoks would have killed him.”

  “What…Rojoks?” Dtimun gritted as she opened his tunic and revealed a penetrating chest wound. “And what do you mean, had Ruszel not been armed?” he demanded, his angry voice gaining strength.

  Madeline, busily working on his wound, tried to look invisible.

  “Two Rojoks were in the act of killing you when Ruszel fired on them,” the officer said respectfully.

  “You were armed?” he demanded of her.

  She ground her teeth together as she pulled out another tool and began to repair the cellular damage. “So court-martial me.”

  “I intend to!” he shot back. “How many times must I tell you that medics are not permitted weapons in combat? It draws fire from the enemy directly to you!”

  “She saved your life, sir,” the eldest of his bodyguard interjected solemnly.

  “Yes. And that’s twice…” Madeline began with defiant humor.

  “Silence!” he growled. He tried to sit up while she was still working on him.

  She pushed him back down. “Stay there!” she grumbled. “I can’t mend tissue on a moving target!”

  The bodyguard stood rigidly, waiting for the explosion. To their amazement, the commander only made a sound in his throat and lay back down in the grass while Ruszel’s deft hands reduced the wound.

  “After all the time and effort I put into saving your life at Ahkmau, I’m not letting some stray Rojoks take you out,” she muttered as she worked.

  “We have already agreed that you most likely repaired me in such fashion that I will never function properly again,” he reminded her.

  She made a face. “You could look for years in the Tri-Fleet and not find another Cularian medicine specialist who could operate on you under combat conditions.”

  He didn’t answer. The rigid lines of his face began to relax. Madeline realized belatedly that he had been concealing the extent of the pain. It must have been horrific, she reasoned, considering the extent of the damage.

  She finished the sutures and applied a sterile bandage. “You’re lucky that the Rojok hit your lung and not your heart,” she said absently.

  “Your misfortune,” he replied, touching the invisible bandage with the tips of his fingers. “You have been warned repeatedly about flouting the regulations forbidding weapons to medics. This time you will pay the price.”

  She got to her feet, trying not to notice the broad, muscular chest with its feathering of black hair confronting her as he followed suit.

  “You’ll file charges,” she said nonchalantly, “the board will ask for my side of the story, I’ll call your bodyguard as witnesses and everybody will note that you would be dead if I hadn’t disobeyed orders. You’ll lose your case, I’ll get a commendation, and the Tri-Fleet will foot the bill for all the legal wrangling.” She gave him a smug look from twinkling green eyes.

  “We would be required to tell the truth under oath,” the chief of Dtimun’s personal bodyguard interjected. “Sorry, sir.”

  Dtimun closed his uniform shirt. “Get back down there and check the Rojok camp for intel,” he gr
owled at the officer.

  The other Centaurian saluted, grinned at Madeline and led his unit back to the dwindling sounds of combat from above.

  Madeline knew she was in trouble. She didn’t even have to note the color of his eyes. It was bad enough that she’d carried a Gresham . It was worse that she’d forgotten herself so completely that she’d shown her fear for the danger he was in. She toyed with complex mathematical computations, hoping they might prevent him from seeing too much.

  He didn’t say anything at first. He checked his virtual combat array to see how the mopping-up was proceeding, and he noted the position and strength of the remaining Rojok troops.

  “Well, I couldn’t let them kill you,” she said defensively when he finally glared down at her. “I’m a doctor. I took an oath to save lives.”

  His eyes narrowed. He seemed deep in thought. Something dark and painful made shadows under his eyelids.

  Suddenly, she saw shapes. Humans. No, Centaurians. And Dacerians. Rojoks, too. There was sand; a village in the deep desert of Dacerius. There was a beautiful woman with jet-black hair that fell to her hips, and eyes like almonds. She wore the thinnest of black lace veils over her nose and mouth. She was smiling. Then she was screaming, held firmly by Centaurians in the uniform of the imperial guards. A shadowy figure was raging at a younger version of Dtimun as he held the female by the arm. She whirled, moved toward him aggressively. The shadowy figure raised his hand and grabbed something from a nearby wall. A razor-sharp golden sword sliced downward. There was an anguished shout, a short scream, blood…!

  She had to sit down. The images were horrifying, even to a physician who’d worked under combat conditions.

  Dtimun was scowling. “Impossible,” he said harshly, visibly shocked. “You have no psi abilities. I checked your medical records!”

  She was still trying to catch her breath. That beautiful, helpless woman. The barbarians! She shivered.

  “Only five other minds in the three galaxies have ever penetrated mine, and they were of my own Clan!” he bit off.