First, they doctored him, which was welcome; his wounds were not as extensive as Lord Ralgha's, but they pained him. He had assumed drugs; he had feared torture. The humans administered neither, although they were as thorough as any expert Kilrathi interrogator. He assumed, when they questioned him for a long time about religion and clan-customs, that they had instruments trained on him and were establishing a base-line for truth. It was a reasonable thing to expect; even prey-species knew that physiological changes accompanied untruths.
Finally, he told them his assumption, in the vague hope that it would make them come to the point.
There were three humans doing the questioning, besides the six guarding him; they sat behind a table or console whose face he could not see. One of them laughed, that peculiar barking sound the humans used to express pleasure; the face-skin of the other two assumed various degrees of wrinkling. He understood just enough of the human tongue to make out what the first one said.
"I told you we wouldn't fool this cat for long," he said. "He's the equivalent of an ensign at the least, and fools don't last long in their Fleet."
He turned to Kirha, and continued in Kilrathi that was almost acceptable. "Save us both a lot of time, if you would, warrior Kirha. Recite a tale that would be told to a cub, so that we can get a base-line, then we'll just ask you a few questions and you can go to your new quarters."
His new prison, he suspected. Nevertheless, he told them one of his favorite stories from childhood, the tale of "How Clan Ishta Got Its Stripes."
Oddly enough, telling the familiar story, even to these hairless ones, relaxed him. So when the first human said, "Our thanks, warrior, that was excellent, and fine tale-telling as well," he was able to respond with a gracious nod and wait for the real questions to begin with something like calm.
They soon found out for themselves that he had no military secrets of any kind—or at least, nothing that could not be discovered from the ship itself. As he had told Hunter, junior officers were permitted to know nothing more than they absolutely needed for their functions. And they found that his loyalty was now bound completely to Hunter.
They had a great deal of difficulty understanding that, and questioned him over and over, using different ways of asking the same thing, as if to trap him. Or—just perhaps—they were making sure that there was no loophole in the language that would permit his loyalty to slip. That was annoying, but to be expected. Even the interrogators of the Kilrathi sought such linguistic traps when they questioned warriors about their loyalty to their officers and Emperor.
Finally they must have decided that his oath was unbreakable, and told him that he would be taken to "somewhere safe."
Safe for whom? he wondered, but told them tiredly that he could do nothing without his liege lord's permission. He had thought they understood this by now, but evidently they did not. He had to repeat it to them several times, in the tones one reserved for cubs, that he could do nothing without Hunter's permission.
Finally the first one made a sound of surprise, as if he suddenly understood something.
"I've got it—" he said to the other two in the human tongue. "Look, he's not being stubborn, this is the part of the honor-code that protects him from being abused or exploited, and protects him from being used against his lord. You see what I mean?"
The second shook his head from side to side, but the third bobbed his head up and down. "This way we can't order him to do anything against his lord without Hunter knowing about it. He won't act, even if the act seems harmless, because he can't know for certain that it is harmless."
"Exactly," said the first. "And we also can't poison him or lock him away without Hunter knowing about it. Or at least, if we killed him or locked him away, his lord would presumably notice the fact that he didn't come looking for orders after a while."
The second one made one of those skin-wrinkling expressions, and growled, "All right then, get that (unknown) (unknown) rocket-jockey in here so he can give the (unknown) cat his (unknown) orders!"
Kirha presumed that the words he did not know were expletives, and filed the sounds away for later.
There was some talk on the ship's intercom, and the second one took over from the first, growling into the microphone, "I don't care if he's (unknown) the Admiral! Get him down here before I have him court-martialed!"
Presently, Hunter appeared, flushed and out-of-breath. He ignored the three interrogators, except for a sketchy salute. They seemed contented to be ignored, something that would not have been tolerated among Kirha's people.
"Now what's the matter?" Hunter asked unhappily, his face-skin very wrinkled indeed. "Do you have any idea what you dragged me away from? I had the most incredible—" he shook his head. "Never mind. What do you want? You're making me crazy, I hope you realize that."
Kirha ignored the last sentence as irrelevant. Hunter was already crazy; all humans were, it was a given. One did not have to be sane to be intelligent, or a worthy opponent. In feet, it often helped a warrior to be a little crazy. "You must tell me what you want me to do now, my lord," he said earnestly. "I have followed your orders, and now you must give me new ones."
"It has to be me?" Hunter replied, sounding as weary as Kirha felt. "Why can't you just do what—"
"Yes, my lord," Kirha told him firmly. "You must tell me personally exactly what you wish me to do."
Hunter made a strange, strangled sound.
"Do it, St. John," the first man said. "And make sure you cover everything he needs to do. Specifically and explicitly. Right down to when and what he can eat. And eliminate. And anything else he might need to do."
Kirha let his fur fluff a little with relief. Here, at least, was one human who understood.
Hunter sat down. Kirha raised his ears to show his attentiveness. "All right, Kirha," Hunter said, heaving out his breath. "Let's take this from the top. First, go with these people to the place where Ralgha is. Eat what they give you, if it's acceptable and if you're hungry, and if it isn't acceptable, then tell them what you want. Sleep when you're tired. After a few days, someone will come to take you to Confed High Command…"
Ralgha hoped that Kirha would be all right. Was the youngster flexible enough to accept the addition to his loyalties? His first loyalty would always be to Ralgha of course; until Ralgha took back that oath, the boy would be his before he was Hunter's. But this seemed the best and surest way to keep Kirha safe. Provided it didn't tip him over the edge with too much change, too much stress, too soon.
At least these humans had enough honor to respect a surrender and a safe-conduct. That was encouraging and promising as well. They had not subjected him to any indignities; he could probably assume they would not subject Kirha to any either.
In fact, thus far they had given him more courtesy than his own people had; they had tended to his injuries, taken him to a quite comfortable room, with chairs actually adapted for the use of beings with tails, and had left him with water and a promise of drink and food later. He could use both; the strain was beginning to tell on him.
Rest would be even more welcome, but for all three, he would have to wait until these humans had satisfied themselves concerning him.
He had several moments to reflect—but he was too tired to think, much. The rush of fighting-hormones that had borne him up was spent, and now he felt every year of his age, every cut and bruise, every now-broken and once-broken bone, every old scar that pulled fur and skin a little too tight.
He longed, suddenly, for home; for the rolling hills covered with grass, for the bitter scent of merrgha leaves and the munching of the herd-beasts. For the simple life of a Herdmaster, with no concerns of Empire, only the prosperity of his family.
But before he could mire himself in regrets, the door slid open, and two humans stepped through it, followed by two armed guards. By Kilrathi standards, the uniforms the humans wore were pathetically plain, but there were enough of the paltry things that passed for decorations of honor on these two to denote some imp
ortance among the humans of this ship.
Ralgha was somewhat surprised when they both addressed him in his own language, until he saw the tiny translator-units attached to their belts. Expensive technology, that—which denoted both their importance and his.
"This is Captain Thorn, kalrahr of the Tiger's Claw, Lord Ralgha," said the younger of the two. "I am Colonel Halcyon, leader of the squadron you surrendered to."
Ralgha nodded, but did not rise. These humans were important, but did not outrank him. Besides, he didn't want to make them nervous, and rising to his full height might do just that. He was tall, even for a Kilrathi, and still in his warrior-prime. But it was good to see the kalrahr of the squadron here; it indicated that the humans took honor seriously. This Colonel Halcyon, like a good liege-lord, was taking responsibility for what his oath-bound warriors did.
The two humans did not seem perturbed, but took seats opposite Ralgha. The guards moved to stand silently beside the entrance. "I'm here to assure you that we take your safe-conduct seriously, sir," Colonel Halcyon said. "I stand personal surety for it, in feet. Your young liegeman will be joining you when we are finished speaking, and you may verify that we have caused him no harm for yourself."
Ralgha blinked gravely, but with a sense of satisfaction. It was good; these humans did understand honor and decency, then.
"But we all know that you must have come to us, bringing your ship, with your own agenda," Captain Thorn said. The man had a deep, tight voice; Ralgha could hear it even through the flat tones of the translator. "Let us be honest with each other, Lord Ralgha. This is the first time that any of your people has exchanged anything with ours—except an exchange of fire. There must be something that you want from us."
This was a little more abrupt than Ralgha preferred, but such directness was not altogether unexpected. He tilted his head to one side.
"I do want something from you, human," he replied. "I want something from your alliance; something only you can give."
Carefully, slowly, with Halcyon and Thorn asking equally careful questions, he explained the situation on Ghorah Khar; the Emperor, seemingly so power-drunk that he no longer worried about the welfare of his people, and the advisors who continued to urge war upon him, when war gained them nothing, not even the good-will of the war-god. How, after all, could Sivar approve of a war that held no true victories? How could the god approve of a war in which, increasingly, the highest number of deaths were among the women and children—and in accident, not in combat. Such deaths meant nothing to Sivar—and they impoverished the Kilrathi, destroyed the hope held in the blood of the young.
Then, only when he was certain that the humans understood as much as they could, did he speak of the rebels—and made certain that they knew that there were no few of the priestesses of Sivar among them. He had to digress long enough to make them aware of the important positions the all-but-invisible females held among his people—that just because the humans never saw them, they were by no means powerless and unimportant. In fact, the day-to-day administration of government and estate-management could never succeed without them. And they were prominent in the rebel cause, with ample opportunity for concealing insurrection.
Finally, he flexed his shoulders and took a sip of water, then said, simply, "We have done all we can. We need help." There he stopped, every carefully-crafted word spent. He had said what he came to say. Now, it remained for the humans to make their move.
He was not expecting an immediate offer of aid, so he was not disappointed when Halcyon and Thorn exchanged looks that he could not read, and Thorn made a coughing sound.
"You have to understand that we cannot speak for Confederation High Command," Thorn said, so slowly that Ralgha suspected he was choosing each word with the greatest of care. "We can give recommendations, we can give you support—but we do not make the decisions that will affect the entire Confederation."
"No more than would the Emperor accept such a promise if I had made it," Ralgha agreed. "We are all subject to the decisions of those who outrank us. But you can speed my cause, if you choose. You can even force the issue, I suspect. More than that, I would be willing to wager that your word will carry far more weight with your superiors than you will admit."
He wished he could read their faces, their body-language; he could read herd-beasts more easily than these humans.
Finally, Thorn hid his mouth behind his hand for a moment, and coughed again. "You could be correct," he said, "Although I would not care to test that." Halcyon nodded, and Thorn continued. "We will do what we can."
"Meanwhile, we must assure ourselves of you," Halcyon said. "We will send you to Confederation High Command to plead your case in person on the next available ship. And in the meantime, the Captain and I would appreciate it if you would permit us to perform a chemical interrogation on you. You understand, you can object to this if you wish, but in that case it will be that much longer before you can come before High Command."
"Of course," he replied blandly, thinking how clever they were. They would not force drugs upon him, yet if he would not agree, they would—must!
—suspect him of being a Kilrathi agent.
"I hope that your healers and interrogators are sufficiently familiar with Kilrathi metabolism to keep me from damage," he continued, keeping his voice perfectly calm. "I see no reason to refuse such an—invitation—so long as you are sure of that. I would like to be away from this system as soon as may be, at any rate. It is likely to become most uncomfortable here before long."
There was no mistaking the look of startlement on both their faces; in every species Ralgha had ever encountered, widened eyes and rapid blinking meant surprise.
"Ah—why do you say that?" Halcyon asked. Carefully.
Could they not know?
Perhaps not. Perhaps they were not aware of how important religion was to his people. Perhaps they had intercepted communications about the coming ceremony, but had no idea what it meant.
Perhaps he had better enlighten them.
"We are about to celebrate the most important religious ceremony of the year," he told them. "This is the Sivar-Eshrad ceremony. Every Kilrathi warship that can be released from duty will be coming here, intending to fight. And I must tell you, they will fight with a ferocity such as you have not seen before."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as the silence lengthened, until all he heard was the sigh of the ventilators.
"The site of the Holy Dedication must be taken by warfare," he continued, after much thought. "Conflict itself hallows the site; the more conflict, the holier the site, and the more pleasing in the eyes of Sivar. The results of such conflict are the appropriate sacrifices and servants for the ceremony—the sacrifices being those of the enemy killed in the fighting. Every warrior in our Empire hopes he may bring many sacrifices to Sivar's honor, and so every warrior that can will be here."
Ralgha opened his eyes, and noted that the humans had turned several shades paler. He assumed this meant that they were more than alarmed, they were horrified. And well they might be. There was an armada on the way, full of warriors keying themselves up to a berserker frenzy.
No matter what they had faced before this, it would be nothing compared to the fighting they would see now.
"I am not certain how to respond," Thorn said at last. "Thank you for the warning."
The humans exchanged more unreadable glances, then Thorn rose. "I must contact Confederation High Command," he said. "I trust you'll excuse me."
With that he left, without waiting for a response. Not that Ralgha blamed him. This had apparently come as something of a shock, and not a pleasant one.
"What of yourself, Lord Ralgha?" Halcyon asked. "Were you intending to participate in this massacre?"
Ralgha's ears curled back. "Since the death of my hrai, I do not care about the gods."
"Hmm." Halcyon was silent for a long moment. "I suppose that leaves it to me to escort you for questioning," Halcyon said at last. Ralg
ha simply rose, signifying agreement by the simple act. Halcyon rose immediately, and the guards that had been waiting silently beside the door, like so many immobile statues, suddenly came to life.
Halcyon gestured smoothly, and as the door slid open, Ralgha preceded him through it.
They walked together through the corridors of the ship, as Ralgha reflected that there were few differences between a base-ship of any species, so long as they were bipedal. His crew could probably walk in here—and if everything was labeled—have it cruising anywhere in the galaxy within a day. Three days, and they could probably fight with it.
Perhaps it was that he was so tired; perhaps that he was lost in thought. Perhaps that, now that his task was fundamentally over, he had relaxed his guard. For whatever reason, he was unprepared for violence.
Yet violence came to him.
One moment, he walked beside Halcyon, hoping that when he reached the human healers, they would see a little more to his wounds as well as drugging him. One of their kind had done his best to patch up the wounds the Kilrathi had sustained in the takeover of their own ship, but Ralgha's injuries still pained him. That was all that he was thinking of, the moment he walked into the corridor.
The next moment, he was on the deck, knocked there by Halcyon, and heat scorching past his ears told him that someone had just tried to kill him.
In the next breath, the human guards had leapt upon the man, who shouted and waved his gun wildly as he went down beneath them.
Ralgha climbed slowly to his feet, and watched dispassionately as the human guards put restraints upon their fellow. From some of the glances thrown his way, he guessed that no few of them wished that the restraints were going on someone else—and that if the crazed human had succeeded in killing him, they would have been much happier.
Expected. But it made him feel even lonelier.
Meanwhile, Halcyon was attempting to apologize for the crewman's attack, speaking so quickly that the translator stuttered and squawked attempting to keep up with him.
"He just lost his family to the bas—to the attack on Goddard Colony," he concluded. "He hasn't been the same—"
Wing Commander: Freedom Flight Page 10