by Diana Palmer
It was true. Stern felt even sicker. He searched the crowds of uniforms, but he couldn’t pick out either Madeline or Strick. He wouldn’t get to say goodbye. He felt a lancing pain. By now, they’d know that he’d sold them out. He’d delivered them into the terror of Ahkmau. They would die, by his hand…!
“You surely feel no remorse,” the Rojok said suspiciously, reading his expression. “You were cloned to be loyal only to Mangus Lo.”
“As I am,” he said, turning to follow the officer away from the transports. “I was looking for someone.”
“For the commander of the Holconcom?” The officer laughed. “You will not find him. We received word from a contact in the palcenon that the Holconcom commander died aboard ship and was consigned to space. Mangus Lo even now has search vessels looking for his body.”
So the commander was that important, that even his body was valuable to the Rojok dictator. Interesting. He wondered why. He had to steel himself not to ask questions or send any more worried looks behind him. He felt an odd sadness at the loss of the Centaurian leader who had saved his ship and crew from what he would have deemed certain death at the hands of the Rojoks. No one knew that the situation had been created as a ploy to get the humans—and Stern—aboard Dtimun’s vessel so that it could be sabotaged and delivered up whole to the Rojoks. Dtimun hadn’t known that, though. He’d been saving a fellow space combatant. It was a noble act. It made Stern feel even worse, remembering. He drew in a quiet breath and walked out of the hangar.
Madeline Ruszel stepped through the airlock behind Strick Hahnson, her eyes searching the gray, military atmosphere of the hangar with restless apprehension. A former captain of the Amazon squads didn’t panic. But she knew more about Ahkmau than most of the other captives around her, because she’d once treated a victim of Rojok interrogation techniques. The victim had come from a battlefield, not the notorious Rojok death camp, but she’d lost sleep over his mutilation. They’d cut off his hands and feet while questioning him, one centimeter at a time while he screamed and gave up everything he knew. If he hadn’t been rescued by a SSC covert ops team, the Rojoks would have regrown the missing parts, reattached them and started the process all over again until they were certain he was empty of all useful intel. Not the most barbaric of the Tri-Fleet battle groups would even contemplate such a method of interrogation.
The formidable guard stations surrounded the blisters of the cells. They were three-level caricatures of modern architecture, gray-hulled and roughly finished, as though they’d been built carelessly and in a rush. They lined the entire outer perimeter of the complex and doubtless contained weapons to neutralize any prisoner who tried to escape.
The inner circle was a scramble of small, individual domes that looked as though they could accommodate up to twenty humans. They were interspersed with smaller domes that must have been guard stations. The minidomes had a privacy screen that circled them about one-third of the way from the bottom. The rest was transparent, allowing the guards to see every movement that went on inside. It was daylight now, and a reddish light burned through the heavy hyperglas dome over the entire complex of minidomes. Probably at night, Madeline thought uneasily, the prison spheres were bathed in artificial light. She had a mental image of how the hundreds of blister cells would look in the darkness. If they were solar powered, they might glow in the darkness, like jewels on the sand from an orbiting ship’s vantage point. If the Rojoks had any humanity, there would be some sort of ultraviolet shielding that acted automatically to filter out dangerous light. But she doubted it.
The atmosphere inside the complex had a strange odor, she noticed, as she and Hahnson and several other humans were marched toward the center ring of spheres. An odor that was musky, sweet and heavy and strangely dry. It was hot, too. Hotter than summer in the shade. She wondered what temperature the Rojoks would consider cold?
She wondered, too, what had happened to Dtimun, and to the four kelekom operators—and to the kelekoms themselves, those sentient beings with such fantastic psychic abilities. Komak had said he was making arrangements for their concealment. She hadn’t had time to ask how. Did the Rojoks know about them? Or did they, like most Tri-Fleet military people, think they were just some ancient legend? Of the Bellatrix crew, only Madeline had actually seen a kelekom. She hoped they would survive. They were so few.
Dtimun might be dead by now. And what of Komak? And Stern? She hated the idea that Stern had sold them out. She’d had to tell Hahnson. It was the final proof that their old captain was truly dead. The real Stern would have chewed through hullplates to get them out of captivity. They were deep in Rojok space. No rescue would be possible. It made the future grim.
The majority of the prisoners they met on the way to the cells were thin and their expressions were blank. Apparently there were shifts of captives, because these were being led out of one of the domes. There were about fifteen of them, emaciated and forlorn. Once, Madeline met the eyes of a dark-haired young captive Altairian soldier. They had the look of ancient tombs—a sad, cold darkness that was as empty as space. Dead.
They weren’t all soldiers in this camp, either. As she watched, a small blur of blue skin shot between the small domes, to be brought up short, suddenly, in front of Madeline’s group of prisoners.
The boy was Altairian, about the age of the clone she and Dtimun had managed to save aboard the Morcai. His huge, hunted eyes bulged as he looked, terrified, from one Rojok soldier to another. His gray prison utility suit hung from his thin body. There was a nervous, desperate trembling in his long, tapered arms and legs, in the thin tentacle fingers that moved like leaves in a strong wind. Beads of sweat dribbled down his long face as he panted for breath, like a small furbearer being chased by a galot, one of the legendary Centaurian feral jungle cats, which were said to contain a genetic link to the evolved race.
The Rojok guard in the lead made a sound that would have passed for laughter in a human. His six-fingered hand went out toward the boy, and Madeline almost smiled herself, already seeing that alien hand tousling the silvery mat of hair on the child’s head. It was such a natural thing to do. Most soldiers, of all races, had a weakness for children. She was still nursing the smile when she realized that the Rojok’s hand had moved slightly, and was now holding the child’s head aloft. The crumpled, small torso lay bleeding on the absorbent hypoturf that covered the sand in the dome, the neck neatly sliced through by a cutting beam from a small chasat that Madeline hadn’t even seen concealed in the guard’s hand.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. For the first time in her life, she knew the taste of terror. Even her military background had not prepared her for the sight of an unforgivable atrocity.
With utter contempt, the Rojok tossed the child’s head into a nearby collection tube and led on toward the individual prison cells.
Madeline and Hahnson were two of the first to be called, from a list in one of the Rojoks’ hands. The guard produced a sonic pen and, leveling it at the nearest dome, produced a two-foot slit in the circumference—just enough to let the humans inside through it.
Madeline, Hahnson, Engineering officer Lieutenant Commander Latham Higgins, Astrogator Ole Crandall, Communications Specialist Hugh Jennings, Komak and three other vaguely familiar Centaurian officers, plus one ailing Holconcom being borne in by his comrades, were rudely forced into the cell. The slit opening was immediately fused and the humans and the Centaurians stood facing each other like athletic teams looking for weaknesses.
“Well, Komak,” Hahnson said with a weary grin, “do you think we can survive each other while we work on a printout of our conditions for surrender for the Rojoks?”
Komak’s huge eyes made a green smile for the human. “After what Madelineruszel has accomplished,” he said, meeting her curious gaze, “that might be made possible.”
“I don’t understand,” Hahnson replied, growing more curious as he watched the play of eyes.
“Have you not noticed our poor fallen
comrade, Strickhahnson?” he asked, dropping to one knee beside the unconscious red-uniformed Centaurian.
“By God!” Hahnson broke out after a brief scrutiny of the bedraggled, shaven alien on the hypoturf floor of the cell. The beard was gone, giving him a totally strange appearance. He looked much younger, even though the thin mustache remained, and some of his usual authority was missing because the great eyes were closed. But it was, despite the lack of insignia on his uniform, most definitely the commander of the Holconcom lying there.
“You really should have brigged this crewman, Komak,” Madeline said matter-of-factly with a look that belied her casual remarks. “Getting sauced in the middle of general quarters! But he’ll sleep it off, I guess. I’ll give him an injection to bring him around.”
Desperately she hoped the others around her would get the message. Most certainly, the cell was linked to an AVBD at the guard cell. One word, one look, could cost the commander his life. And while the Centaurians would never betray him, she wasn’t dead sure about the other three humans in their cell, especially after Dtimun had publicly spaced Muldoon. The Irishman had many friends among the crew.
Higgins stared at the unconscious alien for a minute, then at Madeline. “Damned slacker,” he muttered derisively. “He ought to be ashamed of himself!”
“I’m sure he’ll admit the error of his ways when he comes around,” Astrogator Crandall said with a grin, following Higgins’s lead. “And if he does it again, sir, we’ll hang him up on the wall and shoot Greshams at him.”
“Not a bad idea, Komak, but he’s your officer,” Higgins said to the alien, shaking his head. “Bad lapse of discipline on your part.”
The young Centaurian’s eyes flashed green for an instant. Madeline had to stifle a smile. It was what she’d hoped for; the confinement turned the warring humans and Centaurians of the Morcai’s crew into just crewmates facing an ordeal. They couldn’t fight the Rojoks and each other. The humans had decided, without a word being spoken, that they would protect the commander of the Holconcom. The enemy of my enemy, she quoted silently, is my friend.
“Indeed,” Komak replied. “Perhaps we may rehabilitate him, though, Strickhahnson.”
A long look passed between them. “It’s going to take a miracle to accomplish that, I fear,” he said quietly.
“Byclearius of Domageddon said that miracles are the by-product of stubborn faith,” Madeline told them with a weary smile. “And I always did like a good fight.”
“What a splendid opportunity you have for one at the moment,” Hahnson replied. “How about giving our friend here something to help dry him out?”
“It would be a step in the right direction, wouldn’t it?” she asked, dropping down beside the Holconcom commander. She activated her wrist scanner. “How about checking that synthesizer on the bulkhead to see what kind of supply banks it has?”
“I’ll bet you it won’t give us the time in Standard,” Hahnson said dubiously as he studied the compact but aging old supply computer. “It looks like a holdover from the Great Galaxy War.”
Komak knelt on the other side of his commander, looking across the massive chest at Madeline. “You may require assistance. However,” he added with a level look, “it may be more feasible to wait for a more opportune time to…dry out…our companion. So long as he is…comfortable.”
Madeline studied the impassive golden-hued face, the solemnity in the young alien’s gracefully elongated eyes. Odd, how human Komak could seem at times. His skin was lighter than the rich gold of the commander’s complexion, and his eyes had an odd shape. She blinked. She must be stressed out to question his background when it was well-known that the Centaurian emperor Tnurat Alamantimichar had put to death every single member of his race—and there were only a very few—who crossed racial lines to mate. Komak stared at her and frowned, then blinked. He started to speak but abruptly averted his eyes, almost as if he’d sensed her odd thoughts.
She lowered her gaze to the rise and fall of Dtimun’s chest and read her wrist scanner. She nodded slowly. He was stable, for the moment. “He’s just dead drunk,” she murmured. “There’s nothing worrying about his condition.”
“Then, whenever it pleases you, we may consider reviving him,” Komak said.
“We can hold him down for you, if you need help,” Higgins said with a wide grin. “Crandall and I are old hands at handling unruly drunks. We’ve been picking each other off barroom floors for years.”
“I know,” Madeline replied, tongue-in-cheek. “I’ve been doing it with you for years, too.”
They both laughed.
“Excuse me?” Komak asked, listening intently.
“She was a captain in the Amazon Division,” Higgins told the alien. “We used to get in brawls regularly with the Second ParaWing Division. You might not believe it to look at her, but the doc here can press her own weight and heave an adversary right out through a hyperglas wall when she’s in the mood.”
Komak’s eyes flashed green. “It cannot be so!”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t let the guy sideline Higgins,” she pointed out. “He’s too good an exec.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Higgins chuckled.
“Your military allows you—allows females—to fight, physically fight, with male soldiers?” Komak found this idea incomprehensible.
“It doesn’t exactly allow it,” she replied. “But our military authorities see no difference between us, genderwise. We’re mentally neutered, Komak,” she added. “There’s no sexual fraternization among space soldiers. It’s the only death penalty left on the books.”
“Not that we need a law for it,” Hahnson added easily. “We don’t feel physical attraction to each other. It’s the price we pay for military service.”
“When you are discharged, then?” Komak asked, as if he was really curious.
“We aren’t,” Madeline told him. “We serve until we’re too old to be useful, then we’re transferred to the rimscouts or to interstellar medical units like the Freespirit, which crosses battle lines in war to treat combatants.”
“You will never be permitted to mate and breed?” Komak asked, horrified.
Madeline and Hahnson gave him a blank look. “They have state breeders for that,” she answered for both of them, “genetically selected and used as base pairs for population revitalization. Some are used to create clones, which are used for…” She grimaced. “Forgive me, Komak, but they’re used in our society as spare parts. Clones have no political or military status in the Tri-Fleet. They’re hardware.”
Komak actually paled. “Barbaric!”
“Considering the reverence clones inspire in your society,” Hahnson said to the alien, “I can understand your distaste. We don’t like the way clones are treated, either, but it would require a revolution to stop it.” He shrugged. “Nobody wants to repeat the mistakes of the Great Galaxy War. Our entire society was almost destroyed by the very clones we created to protect our cities.”
“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 fac
e 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.