The Morcai Battalion (25 page)

“Maddie!” a familiar voice called from nearby. “Wait for us!”

That voice! She whirled, her eyes alight with joy as she saw the three missing officers running toward her. There was someone being carried like a sack of
chovamecks
over Dtimun’s broad shoulder.

“Talk about timing!” she exclaimed. “Where were you?”

“In Mangus Lo’s flagship,” Stern grinned, sweating and gritty faced.

“The sandskimmer would not start, so we had to make our way here on foot,” Komak explained with a flash of green eyes.

Madeline glanced at the unconscious form over the Centaurian’s shoulder. Her eyes widened as she recognized the dumpy little form in Royal robes. “Mangus Lo?” she exclaimed, disbelieving. “You’ve got Mangus Lo?”

Dtimun nodded. “Stern and I reluctantly decided to leave him alive to face justice at the hands of the Council.”

“An unfortunate set of circumstances force me to contest that decision,” came a commanding voice from behind them.

Chacon and six of his men, armed with
chasats
, stood suddenly between the small group and the
Morcai
’s elevator tube.

“The war vote from the Council just came over our communications network,” Madeline told Dtimun sadly.

“A pity it did not come one day later,” Chacon said. “Put Mangus Lo down.”

Madeline stepped forward, right in front of the Rojok field marshal’s
chasat
. “Before you go any farther, Commander,” she told the tall Rojok, “look around you, please. Over there.”

Where she pointed, the
Freespirit
medics were loading over a hundred children onto the teleportation mat. Some had limbs missing. Others were so thin, their bones stuck through the flesh. All races were represented in that sad, young group. And the sight of it was enough to turn even a combat medic’s stomach.

“Multiply that by several million,” she persisted, her eyes steady on the Rojok’s face, “and see if your conscience can bear it. Even our own worst races don’t target children.”

The Rojok’s expression was rigid, expressionless. For one long minute, he hesitated. Wavered. Relaxed. He drew in a short breath.
“In exactly five solar minutes,” he told Dtimun, “I will hear of the war vote for the first time.” He glanced at Madeline with an odd twinkle in his slit eyes. “If I were you, I would run…very fast.”

She grinned at him, turned and rushed toward the ship, where the last of her patients was being brought up into the belly of the giant copper-hulled ship.

“I will remember what you have risked for the sake of these wretched survivors,” Dtimun told the Rojok field marshal. “As will they.”

“Would you have done less, Dtimun of Centauria?” Chacon asked with a knowing smile.
“T’cleemech.”

“
T’cleemech
, Chacon.”

Dtimun turned and carried the unconscious Rojok emperor into the elevator tube. Chacon’s men watched with unreadable expressions. It went without saying that they, his personal bodyguards, would have followed him straight into hell if he’d asked them to. They wouldn’t betray him to whatever authority replaced the tyrant Mangus Lo in the Rojok government.

Stern paused as he and Komak followed Dtimun. “Commander, if I were you, I’d get my ship the hell out of here,” he told Chacon. “In less than two standard minutes, there’s going to be a lot of noise and dust where
Ahkmau
once stood.”

“An improvement, I would think,” Chacon replied, eyeing the mounds of dead inmates that still lay in the red dust.

He turned, commanding and regal, as he led his men quickly toward the Rojok flagship that Mangus Lo had just, unwillingly, vacated.

The
Freespirit
lifted as the vator tubes locked shut on the
Morcai
.

Within seconds, the
Morcai
was airborne. Below it, a chain reaction of explosions sounded on the red desert, sending earth-shattering tremors to the distant chain of mountains beyond.

“Nice of the Rojok field marshal to let us go,” Stern commented when they were on the bridge.

“Do not be deceived,” Dtimun said from his command chair. “Chacon is first and foremost a soldier. He will honor the plight of the survivors and not, I think, attack the
Freespirit
. We, however, are fair game now. I do not expect the Rojok commander to hold anything back.”

“If we can outrun them,” Stern said, “we’ve got a fighting chance.”

“That depends on the results of Abemon’s survey on the ship’s condition. They cannot equal our normal speed, but they have firepower that we lack,” Dtimun said quietly. “Abemon, how are we?” he called to the Centaurian engineer.

Abemon looked up from his panel. “It’s a miracle that we even made orbit, sir,” he replied. “Some of the circuitry is fried. Weaponry’s still out.” He shook his head wearily. It had been a long day for the engineering and communication officers. “Sir, we lost five engineers and ten techs taking the ship back. I’m that many understrength—and it’s a big ship.”

“By
Simalichar
, why did you not say so earlier?” Dtimun demanded. His fist hit the intership comm switch on his console. “Personnel!”

“Sir!” came the instant reply.

“Run a check through your database and find me the name of every crewman, human or Centaurian, who has advanced training in ship engineering, regardless of his current assignment aboard ship.”

“Yes, sir. It will only take a moment.”

“How long do you estimate the repairs will take?” he asked Abemon.

“Impossible to say, sir,” Abemon replied apologetically. “These replacement parts we removed from the Rojok ships are inferior at best. We have to adjust them to make them fit, and that takes precious time. I can give you half power now, but that’s pushing it.”

“I’ll want two-thirds in fifteen minutes, engineer, and don’t tell me it’s impossible,” he added when Abemon opened his mouth to protest. “For me, the word does not exist. Weaponry section, report your progress,” he called to the Centaurian officer on his right.

The weaponry officer turned from his console. “We’re separating the main unit now, Commander. By the time engineering completes its repairs, we can give you one-third firepower,” he said proudly.

Dtimun cursed quietly in Centaurian, mumbling something about five soldiers with novapens being able to climb onto the hull and do better than that.

Stern felt the sensors pulse under his fingers at the helmsman’s console he was occupying, replacing the Holconcom helmsman who had died on Enmehkmehk, and he scowled as his eyes briefly touched the starmaps. “Rojoks!” he muttered.

Before he could comment further, one of the ship’s four
kelekom
operators walked onto the bridge, his
kelekom
transported by clinging to the front of his uniform and glowing a soft green color.

“Commander,” the operator said with a salute, “we have detected a wing of Rojok fighters coming after us.”

Dtimun’s eyes colored a solemn blue as he studied the
kelekom
. He closed his eyes for an instant. When they opened, they were a darker shade. He nodded, and as if he and the
kelekom
had communicated somehow.

“There is another matter,” the operator added sadly. “We have lost Koras, and with him the youngest of our
kelekoms
. It is dormant. I think it may not survive.”

Dtimun only nodded. “His courage will be noted. Do what you can for the unit.”

“Yes, sir.” The operator left the bridge.

“As I expected, the truce dissolved only seconds ago, and Chacon’s
ships are in full pursuit.” He glanced at Stern curiously. “How can you read starmaps so well when part of our power is drained and you have no direct link to the charts?”

Stern shrugged. “I learned to fly by instinct. I rarely look at a sensor screen or a starmap. I follow paths I can see in my mind. I suppose I sensed the ships—” He broke off, embarrassed.

Dtimun smiled. “It is how we ourselves navigate, Stern,” he replied, “with the help of the
kelekoms
. Cut your speed to sublight and come about to 234 Brichtlar Scale. Let’s try evasion first.”

“Aye, sir,” he said, feeling the surge of power under his hands as he made the adjustments on the console. It was a dream of a ship, he thought, the excitement making his dark eyes shimmer as he felt the mammoth ship respond to his fingers. Pilots spent their lives and careers praying for one fling at the controls of such a precision piece of equipment. It would, most likely, be the last time he ever sat at the controls of a ship, he thought bitterly. Clones weren’t admitted to the pilot rolls. The thought took some of the pleasure out of his maneuvers, but he managed to ignore it. Like Komak said, better to flow with the current than to fight against it and go under.

He made the correction quickly, neatly, and the great ship reduced speed. But the engines were sluggish, and the process took much longer than would have been normal.

His eyes went to the sensors. He grinned. “They flew right over us,” he laughed.

Dtimun’s eyes gave a soft green smile. “Abemon, I’ve bought you a few more seconds. I expect results.”

The young Centaurian nodded. “You’ll get them, sir.”

Komak came up the access ladder and joined his commander by the main console. “The casualties are managing well, although Made
lineruszel is using some very strange words in connection with the Rojok prison guards.”

“No doubt. And Lyceria?” Dtimun asked, standing up.

Komak lifted his shoulders in a facsimile of a shrug. “She remains in her compartment. I think she mourns for her brother, Marcon.”

“And more, perhaps,” the
Morcai
’s commander said quietly, moving to the side of his spool chair.

“Commander!” Stern called. “I’m picking up six Rojok starfighters on my sensors, coming at us sublight on intercept!”

Dtimun whirled. “Abemon?”

“No chance, sir,” the engineering officer said in a grim tone. “We’ve got to have another five minutes, minimum.”

“Weaponry!” Dtimun called. “Status?”

“We’ve got your one-third firepower, sir,” the officer replied. “It won’t cut through the Rojok force shields, but it might be enough to hold them off until we can do better.”

Dtimun sat down in the command chair, deep in thought. “Stern,” he said quickly, “cut power to zero.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t repeat orders on this bridge, Mister!”

“Yes, sir!” Stern said sharply, and complied.

“Divert all unnecessary power to the weaponry units and defensive shields,” Dtimun added, his fingers going simultaneously to the intership switch.

“Security!”

“Yes, Commander,” came the reply.

“Send two of the Holconcom to the brig. Should the ship be taken, their orders are to kill Mangus Lo.”

“They are on the way, Commander.”

Dtimun broke the connection with a glance at Stern. “They may
recapture this ship, by some miracle,” the alien said. “But, by
Simalichar
, Mangus Lo won’t live to see it!”

Stern nodded agreement, his eyes going to the starmaps as he tried to unravel the Centaurian’s flurry of orders. It was an old strategist’s trick, playing helpless to draw an enemy into firing range.

But the
Morcai
didn’t have that kind of firepower now. Could Dtimun be trying to buy more time for repairs? But speed wouldn’t help, either. They couldn’t outrun the Rojoks from a standing start, even with two-thirds engine capability.

“They’re coming on the screen,” Stern said quietly, his eyes following the colored spheres on his sensor net.

Dtimun’s eyes began to smile greenly as the six Rojok fighters moved into position, facing the
Morcai
.

“Sir, there’s a message coming in from the Rojok lead ship,” Jennings, the communications officer, said.

“Ignore it.”

“But, sir, they say we have one minute to…”

Dtimun gave the young human communications officer a single look, silencing him instantly.

Seconds wobbled by like centuries. The bridge was utterly quiet, except for the audible breathing of the crew. Stern kept his eyes locked on his sensors. If only they had enough power to blow those blasted Rojoks out of space! What the devil was Dtimun up to, anyway?

A movement of lights on the screen alerted him. “Commander, they’re throwing magnabeams on us!” he said quickly.

“How many?”

“Just the three lead ships.”

Dtimun nodded. “Stern, give me half power. Abemon, match the Rojok magnabeams and exert one-third again as much pull against them.”

Abemon looked puzzled, but he switched the power on. “Done, sir.”

“They’re hitting us with three more magnabeams,” Stern remarked. “We can’t pull away, now.”