The Morcai Battalion

by Diana Palmer

  Her slender body relaxed on the soft couch. Her eyes closed. She drew inside herself, seeking the strength she would need for the task at hand. Slowly, gently, she focused her mind on the bonds. Concentrating, gently concentrating, she saw them loosen and fall to the soft material under them. Fall, she thought. Fall. Fall!

  Her hands were suddenly free. She stood up gracefully, rubbing her sore wrists. Her hands reached up to the thick helmet still on her head. She wrenched it off and tossed it angrily against the wall.

  In the dim light, a pale green colored the pupils of her large, elongated eyes. The door was next. Only a little more concentration, and…

  Before she could finish the thought, the door shot up and two Rojok soldiers tramped into the compartment. One of them grabbed her roughly and held her down, while the other jammed a tiny cylinder against the bare flesh of her arm. There was a stabbing pain, followed by numbness.

  “What…have you done?” she demanded, breathless.

  “You will soon know,” one of them said, grinning down at her with pale slit eyes in a copper-colored face.

  She felt a wave of nausea. Then the room began to grow dark around her. She pitched forward, her legs turning to jelly beneath her. The couch rising up to meet her was the last thing she saw.

  Komak was busily directing the humans to their berths when Stern walked through the ship-to-ship elevator tube onto the main deck of the Morcai. It was noticeably colder and there was a smell to it that, while not unpleasant, was definitely alien.

  Stern hadn’t expected the space he found. Twelve men could walk abreast in the corridor without touching shoulders. The bulkheads were curved and glowed with soft, white light. Centaurians dressed in the familiar red uniform trotted noiselessly past with a military precision and routine that was fascinating to watch.

  “I know you, Captainholtstern!” Komak said in greeting, running the human’s name together as was his custom, because he had scant knowledge of human address protocol. His green eyes twinkled as he approximated an SSC salute. “As you see, I have studied your Terravegan protocols!”

  Stern threw him a salute, too tired and angry to react well to the younger man’s banter. “Request permission to come aboard, sir,” he said formally.

  The young alien’s eyes faded to a somber, questioning blue as he stared unnervingly at Stern. “Excuse me, is there some significance among your people to this question?” he asked politely.

  Stern relaxed his military posture with a frown. “It’s military tradition in our branch of the space services to ask permission to board another ship,” he explained. “Like the salute, it’s a custom held over from seafaring days on ancient Earth, the home world of the Terravegan colonies. I’m a Terravegan,” he added when the alien looked puzzled.

  “We do not salute one another,” Komak replied. “Only the commander is accorded such respect.” The boy’s eyes went suddenly green with mischief. “He has forbidden us to salute even the emperor, Tnurat Alamantimichar. I think it has caused the head of Clan Alamantimichar much discomfort at ceremonial occasions, which is one of the few things that cause the commander’s eyes to laugh.”

  “I know another one,” Stern said resentfully, remembering the other alien’s amusement at the loss of Stern’s ship.

  “Where can I set up my surgery?” Dr. Madeline Ruszel interrupted. She was flushed and furious. She’d just come aboard, heading a team of medics guiding ambulifts, and her drawn face showed not only the strain of the rushed evacuation, but of the loss of the Amazon unit, as well. “I’ve got people dying over here!”

  “Follow me,” Komak told her at once. He led the medics into what appeared to be a mess hall, with Stern bringing up the rear. The ambulifts were quickly loaded onto the long, oval tables against the bulkheads while Madeline supervised the placing and energized the sterilization units on the cylinders. The young alien watched her with odd interest. Perhaps, she thought, it was her red hair that intrigued him. She was the only member of Stern’s crew with hair that color.

  “Stern, I need morphadrenin,” she called over her shoulder. “Every gram I can lay hands on. And if the C.O. can spare some qualified help, I’d be in his debt.”

  Stern glanced at Komak. “How about it?”

  “The commander’s contempt for medics is second only to that which he holds for our emperor,” the alien replied somberly. “We carry no complement of medics aboard. But I will inform the commander of the need for additional medical stores. Shall you come with me, Captainholtstern?” he asked, apparently fascinated by Madeline. Odd, he looked at her as if he knew her, somehow…

  “Lay on, McDuff,” Stern agreed with a grin at Madeline.

  “My name is not McDuff,” Komak said, puzzled. “It is Komak, of the Clan Maltiche. You have heard of it, of course,” he added with faint arrogance.

  “Oh, yeah,” Stern quipped. “It ranks along with the great Clans of Jones and Smith back home.”

  “Jones and…?” Komak faltered.

  “Never mind,” Stern said impatiently. “Let’s go. Maddie, I’ll see what I can do about your supplies,” he called over his shoulder as she went quickly back to work.

  Komak started off at a fast trot. Stern increased his pace to keep up with the long legs of the Centaurian. “What’s the rush?” Stern asked. “Everybody on this ship seems to be on his way to battle stations all the time.”

  “It is routine aboard the Morcai,” Komak informed him. “All personnel are required to run from post to post. Elevator tubes are strictly outlawed for crew use, as well,” he added, bounding onto a ladder that led to the upper deck.

  “Uh-huh.” Stern got brief glimpses inside the various sectors they passed as they climbed access ladders up three decks. Nothing looked familiar. There was alien script on the walls, unreadable and unpronounceable, denoting departments. The temperature was at least ten degrees cooler than the Bellatrix. The alien, spicy smell of the corridors was overpowering. And the icy looks the human got from passing members of the Holconcom were uncomfortable. Stern began to feel like an invading disease. If his reception as an ally officer was this cool and resented, his people could expect even less. Madeline, of all his crew, was going to feel the pressure keenly, since the Centaurian empire did not allow females aboard its warships. He hoped the trip back to the Tri-Galaxy Fleet base on Trimerius would be quick.

  Stern was winded by the time they got to the command deck of the enormous vessel. The oval, high-domed bridge made the Bellatrix’s bridge look cramped and primitive by comparison. Above his head, a second bridge circled the main sector like a smooth, white balcony. And both bridges seemed to be perfectly coordinated, as well as efficiently manned. The ten crewmen on the lower level maintained their posts with a silence that would have been impossible for a human crew.

  Dtimun, noticing the approach of the human, rose from his spool-like command chair and joined Komak and Stern beside the communications banks. Stern saluted unconsciously, but Dtimun waved it aside without returning it.

  “Your people are evacuated?” he asked formally.

  “Every one,” Stern replied. “What about the Bellatrix?”

  “Your ship?” Dtimun nodded at a crewman against the opposite bulkhead. A viewscreen was activated which covered the width and length of half the command sector. The Bellatrix hung there in black space like a charm suspended by a chain. A flash of bluish-green light shot out from the Morcai’s copper hull and enveloped the sleek star-cruiser. Then, there was a violent red explosion that came and passed without a sound. Only empty space was left.

  “We leave no vessel behind where the enemy might salvage tech,” Komak explained.

  Stern’s eyebrow jerked carelessly. “She was a good ship,” he said quietly, and wondered why he didn’t feel a sense of loss for his command vessel.

  Komak drew to attention and jerked his head in a salute. “Commander, Dr. Madelineruszel,” he continued, running her names together again, “has requested supplies of morphadreni
n and medical assistance. I informed her that we carry no medics, but…”

  “Dr. who?” Dtimun asked, frowning slightly.

  “The female with hair like sunfire,” Komak explained. “She is a medic among the humans. I have given her the mess hall on deck four for her surgery. Dr. Hahnson has the supply sector on deck four. The other crewmen of the Bellatrix await assignment. I did not know where to place them.”

  “Maliche, can no one function without using my brain?” the alien exploded with darkening eyes. “Ascertain their specialties and place them in the appropriate departments!”

  “The morphadrenin?” Komak persisted, apparently not put off by his superior’s bad humor.

  Dtimun actually seemed to flush with anger. “I carry on my person nothing save the communicator ring you see on my forefinger,” he told the younger alien. “I am not a walking ordnance store! Show the mutinous female where the synthesizer is located and acquaint her with its use!”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “And make the humans aware that they must not come in contact with the kelekoms,” he added at once. “They carry unknown bacteria that might harm the machines.”

  Stern’s eyes almost popped. “Bacteria…”

  “The kelekoms are our, how do you say, supercomputers,” Komak explained at once. “They are living, self-repairing biological entities, and they are extremely sensitive to alien bacteria. If they become ill, they do not work.”

  Stern blinked, only half understanding what he was being told. This technology was far in advance of anything the Tri-Fleet had.

  “Tell Hahnson I will expect him to keep his medics in line, and out of the way of my crew,” Dtimun told Stern.

  The comment almost flew by Stern. He frowned. “Hahnson?”

  “He is chief of your medical staff, is he not?” Dtimun replied.

  “No, sir,” Stern told him. “Dr. Ruszel is.”

  Dtimun stared at him blankly. “The female? A female commands your medics?”

  Stern cleared his throat. “Sir, I do understand that Centaurian social structure is far different from our own. We don’t differentiate between male and female in our military. We’re mentally neutered to the degree that ’relationships’ between enlisted personnel are impossible. Even if they weren’t, it’s the only death penalty left on our books.”

  “Your military is mad,” Dtimun said flatly. “Women have no place in combat.”

  “If you tell that to Madeline Ruszel, make sure you have a running head start,” Stern murmured, tongue-in-cheek. “She started out as a member of our Amazon Commandos. In fact, she captained a squad of them.”

  Dtimun shook his head in disbelief. “How many other females do you have in your complement?”

  “We had thirty-six, but our entire Amazon unit was wiped out during the Rojok encounter,” Stern said quietly. “Madeline’s taking it hard. She went through training with the unit’s commander.”

  “Which does not answer my question,” Dtimun shot back.

  “We have one female in our crew, sir—Dr. Ruszel.”

  “She is quite lovely,” Komak said.

  Dtimun’s eyes darkened and he glared at the younger alien. “You have your orders. Obey them!”

  “Yes, Commander.” Komak saluted and turned. His eyes gave a green laugh as they met Stern’s. “Is his great affection for me not obvious?” he teased. “He…”

  “Domcan h’ab leche!” Dtimun thundered in Centaurian.

  “Yes, Commander!” Komak disappeared down the escape ladder, but his eyes were still laughing when he left the bridge.

  Dtimun turned to Stern. “Come with me.”

  Stern followed the tall alien into what appeared to be a briefing room of some sort. It was bare except for an oval desk and a smattering of chairs secured to the deck. Apparently the Centaurians also had trouble with occasional gravity failures. They were an infrequent but annoying nuisance on SSC ships.

  Dtimun perched himself on the edge of the desk and folded his arms over his broad chest as he studied Stern. “The nearest route to Trimerius,” he began, “will still require five solar days’ travel. During that time, certain things will be expected of you and your men.”

  “Such as?” Stern asked.

  “The majority of the Holconcom were reared in a clonery.” He waited for the shock to leave Stern’s face before he continued. “They have never known touch, save in battle. I know little of humans, but it is said that you are a physical race. Take care that none of you lay hands on the Holconcom, either in sport or anger. To do so could easily provoke a massacre. Second, I expect no interference from your personnel in the routine of this vessel. Conversation will be held strictly to military necessity. Nor will I tolerate idle wandering in the corridors. While aboard this ship, your men will adhere to its disciplines. All personnel will run from post to post, and the first man I catch using a ship’s elevator tube will be brigged.”

  “May I ask what the elevator tubes are for?” Stern asked with growing irritation.

  “For transport of casualties, Captain, and heavy equipment.” He glanced at a viewscreen on the desk and his huge eyes darkened to a somber, angry blue-gray. His fist slammed at a switch on the console. “Degas, your lightsteds are at one-half capacity. Explain!”

  The alien was speaking in his own tongue, but the machine simultaneously translated Centaurian into Terravegan Standard to Stern’s amazement. Perhaps the briefing room was constructed to allow conversation between alien races of different tongues.

  “If you please, Commander, I had just started to contact you,” the Centaurian officer said quickly. “My tramaks register a fleet of Rojok vessels closing in from several deshcam away in all directions, all sending out force nets to mesh the distance between them!”

  “Well, Mister?” Dtimun demanded, eyeing his comtech over the viewscreen.

  The Centaurian officer met those accusing eyes levelly. “We are cut off from Trimerius, Commander,” he said matter-of-factly. “The Rojok fleet is attempting to press us into their advance lines. Once that is accomplished…”

  Dtimun nodded. “Yes,” he said, cutting the officer off midsentence.

  The thought of capture by the Rojoks was oddly satisfying to Stern. He caught himself before a smile flared on his face, and wondered at the unfamiliar feelings that had begun to race through his mind; alien, traitorous feelings that frightened him. Strange, he thought, how those feelings had suddenly and completely replaced his earlier headaches. He hadn’t been the same since they lifted from the Peace Planet.

  “Tekar, can you beam a message through that net?” Dtimun asked his comtech on the bridge.

  Another alien face came into view on the screen. “No, Commander,” came the reply. “Our strongest megabeams cannot pierce the molecular density of the barrier.”

  Before Dtimun had time for another question, Madeline Ruszel came storming into the briefing room, her flowing auburn hair sweaty in spite of the cool atmosphere, her green eyes blazing. Stern ground his teeth together and waited for the explosion.

  “I’ve got people dying down there!” she raged at Dtimun without preamble, bracing her legs as if preparing for a hurricane. “I can’t resupply any morphadrenin because your damned synthesizer absorbed some bacteria from my fingers when I touched it, and it’s sick. Sick! What the hell kind of machines are you using on this bloody space-going whale? And that’s not all! My life monitors are malfunctioning from some kind of magnetic interference, and I…!”

  “Baatashe!” the alien thundered, staring down the furious exobiologist with angry brown eyes that silenced her immediately, to Stern’s amusement. “By Simalichar, hold your tongue before I have you spaced! If you have a request to make, make it in understandable tones and not in the language of a hashheem from a pleasure dome!”

  Her mouth opened slightly, and her green eyes dilated. But she regained her composure at once and stood her ground. “All right, sir,” she said, emphasizing the “sir.” “I need
access to a working synthesizer because my morphadrenin is exhausted and my patients cannot withstand delicate invasive surgery without it. I also need a mute-screen to mask the magnetic interference that’s disrupting my life monitors. Because this,” she added, indicating the bionic panel in the creamy skin of her wrist under the sleeve of her green uniform, “can’t be five places at once to read vitals. Furthermore, my medics are going into their thirty-second straight standard hour without sleep or rest, and two of them have already collapsed on me. In short, sir, if this ship doesn’t make Trimerius within one solar day on the outside, we’re going to lose every bloody alien casualty we’re transporting and maybe the humans in Hahnson’s medical complement as well!”

  “We cannot make Trimerius in one solar day,” Dtimun said in a deceptively gentle tone, “nor one solar month, nor one solar millennium. Because, Madam, we are gradually being surrounded by a fleet of Rojok vessels and we are cut off from Tri-Fleet Headquarters.”

  “Surrounded?” she echoed numbly.

  “Yes. Surrounded.” The Centaurian sighed angrily, as if the prospect of impotence was beyond acceptance or even belief. “No one ship, even this one, could penetrate the force net of the Rojok fleet and survive. They now seem intent on capture rather than destruction or they would already have fired on us. And that,” he said in a chillingly soft voice, “I will not permit, even if it means destroying the Morcai myself.”

  Stern glanced at the Centaurian, puzzled. “Why so much flurry over one lone ship?” he asked pointedly. “They have the Jaakob Spheres and the Centaurian princess. What’s left?”

  The alien ignored the question. He turned back to the comm unit and addressed his navigator. “Degas, how many ships are they throwing against us?” he asked the comtech.