The Morcai Battalion (5 page)

Holt Stern called his officers together in a briefing room near the improvised medical stations and delivered Dtimun’s ultimatum. The reaction was predictably unfavorable.

“Like being captive on a slaver,” a weaponry officer grumbled.

“Aye, and it’s not even our fault,” Declan Muldoon, the aging engineer, agreed with a harsh glance at Stern.

“If there’s any fault,” Stern said loudly, “it’s the Rojoks’. Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck here for the next three solar days and we’ll make the best of it. I want our boys kept in line. Do it with words if possible, brig them if you have to. I don’t want any trouble on our side.”

There were irritated looks all around. Stern could feel their eyes measuring him, and the unfamiliar hostility infuriated him.

“You shudna let that cat-eyed terror yank us off the
Bellatrix
and blow her up,” Muldoon said reproachfully. “We could have got her to port.”

Stern glared at the Irishman, then at each man in turn. “The past is dead, gentlemen. I’m in command here, and you’ll follow orders or I’ll brig the lot of you. Is that clear?”

Muldoon lowered his mutinous eyes, but his face only grew redder.

“I’ve had reports of grumbling and even threats being overheard,” he told them. “If you’ve got a problem, you tell me, and I’ll handle it. Who’s first?”

Higgins stood up. “Sir, before I became your exec, I was trained to be an astrogator, and they’ve assigned me to the weapons deck. I’m not complaining, maybe there’s no room for another astrogator
in their navigation sector, but I’m getting a lot of static and hard looks from the Centaurian execs. I don’t know their technology, and no one will explain it to me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Stern looked around. “Anyone else?”

“Yes, sir.” Jennings, the comtech, rose. “The communications exec’s got me polishing the consoles wearing space gear. He says I’m a walking bacteria bank and he won’t let me touch his precious equipment unless I’m properly attired. I started toward the
kelekom
unit but he stopped me outside the door. He said something about me giving his
kelekoms
germs. Sir, what the hell kind of cyberbionics do they use to run this crazy ship?”

A brief skirl of laughter passed through the crew and they relaxed a little. Stern remained rigid. “They use living machines,” he said, “highly vulnerable to our bacteria. Do what they tell you.”

Madeline Ruszel stood up. “Dr. Hahnson and I are currently practicing medicine,” she said, “in a glorified storage room and what seems to be a mess hall,” she added with a wince. “The Centaurians are still trying to use the mess hall and storage facilities with our sterile fields in operation and surgery being performed.”

“I’ll take care of the problem,” Stern assured her.

Muldoon stared at the dark-eyed captain. “Sure, and what’ll you do about them cat-eyes struttin’ around like they was kings and making one big joke out of us? One of those SOBs threw a damplegraft at me and made noises like a mugwort when I fell trying to catch it. I canna press two hundred pounds of metal! I almost threw a punch at the…”

“Keep your hands off the Centaurians,” Stern told him. “That goes for the rest of you, as well. If you mix it up with the aliens, it’ll be your necks and I don’t have the authority to countermand the commander’s orders. All I could do is wave at you when he kicked you out the airlock. It’s his ship.”

“Thanks to you,” an anonymous voice muttered.

Stern ignored it. “If that’s all?” He waited, but only a sullen, resentful silence met his ears. “All right. Dismissed.”

Madeline was the last of the
Bellatrix
department heads to leave the compartment. She turned at the door. “You made a mistake, Stern,” she said.

“What kind of mistake?”

“Telling the men you wouldn’t back them up. It does nothing for morale, and theirs is just about shot. They’re being bullied by the Centaurians. You’ve as much as said you won’t stop it.”

“Why lie?” he asked blankly.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you? I’ve never known you to back away from a fight, even when you were outmatched!”

“Maybe I’m tired,” he said coldly, resenting the words.

“Maybe you’d better pull yourself together before you get the bloody lot of us killed,” she snapped back. She turned and left without another word.

Stern glowered after her. She irritated him. They all did. The humans were suddenly as distasteful to him as the aliens.

He shook his head as if to clear it. Other thoughts were shaping themselves in his mind. It would be soon, now. He had duties to perform, a mission to accomplish. Let the humans whine while they could. A slow, alien smile touched his lips.

The massive Tri-Galaxy Council chambers had the feel of an eons-old tomb. Tri-Fleet Admiral Jeffrye Lawson, a Terravegan native, sat numb and rigid in his solitary chair, unmoving in the maelstrom of motion around him.

The gray-haired old warhorse eyed the diplomats with quiet contempt. The stoic neutrality of the majority here in the costly war was responsible for casualty lists that left him sleepless and haggard. Idealists, the lot, he thought bitterly. Establishing “Peace Planets” like the colony on Terramer while the Rojoks were building better ships and bigger armies and sending hunter squads to terrorize the New Territory by killing colonists. The neutral solar systems didn’t even have the guts to send representatives of their various governments to Terramer, at that; they’d sent clones. In this universe, clones had no social status whatsoever, despite the best efforts of activists. They were property, at the mercy of governments that had no mercy.

Above the heads of the member delegates, Lokar, the Jebob chairman of the Council, stood quietly at his raised podium. In his thin, blue-skinned hands he held the small communidisc that had heralded an emergency session in the middle of Trimerius’s night.

Around Lawson, diplomats in various state of national dress were hurrying into their seats around the circular chamber. In seconds, all eyes were on Lokar’s long face.

“As you were told,” Lokar began in a gently accented voice, translated by the prompter into an uncountable number of languages and dialects that fed directly into each member’s implanted receiver, “the communication I hold is from the Imperial Dectat of Centauria—the seat of the one hundred twenty planet empire of Tnurat Alamantimichar.”

Lawson grimaced and moved restlessly in his chair, waiting for the patient old Jebob to continue in the sudden death hush of the assembly. Just the mention of Tnurat’s name was enough to cause panic.

“I will activate the message.” Lokar laid the disc on the dais and touched it with his sonar ring.

Tnurat Alamantimichar’s deep, powerful voice filled the chamber. No image came with it. Only high military and political leaders had ever seen him. The emperor’s reputation for privacy was legend, like his military. “At 1600 hours Terravegan standard time this day,” he began, “the Rojok federation decimated Terramer. Among the dead is my son, Marcon. My daughter, Lyceria, is presumed to be a captive of the Rojoks. This Council,” he said accusingly, “guaranteed the safety of my children as diplomatic observers on Terramer. The guarantee was worthless. The Holconcom, after rescuing one of your Tri-Fleet ships from attack, was cut off behind enemy lines and communication discontinued. Before contact was lost, I was informed that the Jaakob Spheres were also in Rojok hands.”

There were murmurs among the councilmen. Lawson cursed under his breath. It was a disaster. The Spheres gave the Rojoks the key to the DNA of every Tri-Fleet member race. With them, the Rojoks could engineer viruses to target each specific race. But, even worse, there was one tiny strand of DNA which encoded the history and military capability of each one, as well. These secrets were not even shared with outworlders. Old Lokar had persuaded the Tri-Galaxy Federation members to include that secret in the Jaakob Spheres, guaranteeing their safety. They had been carried aboard the diplomatic observers’ ship for safekeeping. What a joke! Safekeeping, indeed.

“I demand,” Tnurat continued, “that the Council retaliate for this atrocity. If such retaliation is not forthcoming, the Dectat will act in a declaration of war on the neutral member planets of the Council. I allowed the limited use of my Holconcom as forward scout support for the Tri-Galaxy Fleet in response to a plea from your Admiral Lawson, after the latest Rojok incursion into Tri-Fleet territory. Now I ask, no, I demand, that the Council, including the neutral worlds, send armed units to support my government’s troops in a declaration of war on the Rojok tyrant Mangus Lo. The alternative is that you will fight not only the Rojok, but the Centaurian Empire, as well. The vanguard of our military is the Holconcom,” he added in a soft threat. “Some of you may remember how they put down revolutions in our planetary space. And how they deal with enemies. The choice is yours. Help me rescue my daughter and stop Mangus Lo’s aggression, or face the consequences. I will expect a reply within one standard hour.”

A long, heavy silence fell over the room. Lawson watched idealism die in the eyes of the diplomats, giving way to what was undeniably fear.

The Terravegan ambassador stood up. “May I speak?” he asked Lokar.

“You may. I present the human ambassador from the Terravegan colonies, Giles Mourjey.”

“Honorable Chairman, members of the Council,” Mourjey began, his eyes sweeping among the male and female delegates of the Tri-Galaxy Council, one of whom was an imposing Centaurian female named Karimasa. “The only force standing against the Rojok invasion of the New Territory has been the Royal Legion of Terravega, with some small assistance from the Altairian and Jebob militaries. I think it goes without saying that the human regiments of the Tri-Fleet have made the larger sacrifice of men and women. You may also have heard of
Ahkmau
, the Rojok death camp, where two million human soldiers have been systematically tortured to death in Mangus Lo’s insane lust for galactic conquest. With all due respect, delegates, while you were pursing the idealism of interracial harmony with your clones on Terramer, the Royal Legion of Terravega’s Strategic Space Command was pursuing a different goal. It was enforcing the only war vote of any member planetary systems in this Council, standing against a bloodthirsty dictator who’s already enslaved two planetary systems that declared neutrality. The humans have been decimated by Rojok attacks in the New Territory!”

A dark green, slender delegate stood up quickly. “What he says is not true,” the delegate, a Vegan colonial, growled. “The Meg-Vegan High Council also issued a war vote and our Guards even now fight with the humans.”

“Yes, indeed, Ambassador,” Mourjey replied, “in rec halls on bases all over the three civilized galaxies, they fight
with
us. But on the battle lines, they turn around and run!”

The Vegan turned dusky under his green skin, but he didn’t deny the charge. Instead he sat down, smoldering.

Mourjey faced the Council. “Delegates, the human colonies are
getting damned tired of fighting this unholy war virtually alone. If it’s peace you want, if you hope to retain your own planetary systems, you’ll have to crawl out of your holes and fight for them! If you’d rather not involve yourselves in the danger, then by all means, go home and learn to speak Rojok. That is, if the Rojoks don’t take the New Territory before you have the time, and throw the lot of us into Mangus Lo’s sonic ovens!” He sat down.

Lawson swung around and got to his feet. “He’s right,” he said. “I’ve tried to tell you delegates that the conflict can’t rock on like this. I’ve only got five hundred thousand men left in the Strategic Space Command of my Royal Legion, out of the five million I started with. We’ve lost ships, we’ve lost supply transports, we’re even now patching comm units into neutral ships because we’re losing outposts by the day. I need help, or the Rojoks are going to grab the solar systems in the New Territory. If they do that, its mineral resources and colonization possibilities and water resources and fertile farming plains are going to be dead to us. Our overflow populations and dwindling energy and food stores will send some of us into oblivion as a race, and the Rojoks won’t have to fire a single shot to accomplish our demise.”

“You might also remember the Spheres that were captured by the Rojoks,” Mourjey broke in. “If the Rojoks have them, they hold the key to the complete obliteration of every member race of the Council. The military information alone which they contain will guarantee our defeat. I’m sure some of you remember slavery?”

The Rigellian delegate pursed his yellow lips. “Some of us also remember the Great Galaxy War,” he said quietly. “Another like it and some of us would be obliterated regardless.”

“Freedom has a price,” Lawson said philosophically. “But fighting Rojoks isn’t your only option now. You have a choice between fighting
the Rojoks or fighting the Rojoks and the Centaurian Empire as well. Would any of you care to match the cream of your military forces against the Holconcom?”

There was a long silence, interspersed with urgent whispers. Council members glanced at each other in obvious apprehension.

Lokar spoke for them. “Some of us have also suffered the penalty for provoking the Holconcom, and remember it well. Nor do I harbor concern for the Holconcom ship, which has been cut off by the Rojok vessels,” he added with an amused glance at the Centaurian delegate, whose fine lips pulled into a very human smile. “My sympathy, rather, is for the Rojoks. We will call a vote.”

Lawson saluted Lokar and left the chamber. He knew when he left what the outcome would be. He only regretted that it had taken so many lives, and Tnurat Alamantimichar’s threat, to open the eyes of those diplomatic moles. So many human lives, so many atrocities…

Then he remembered the reference to the Holconcom rescue operation. He permitted himself a tiny smile. The
Bellatrix
. It had to be. And Captain Holt Stern and his crew were alive after all. But for how long? Humans and Holconcom together, in a confined space, under pressure. The Holconcom would slaughter them with little provocation. They knew nothing of humans. Only Dtimun had any real experience of them, and he was notorious for his dislike of the entire species. His heart sank. Perhaps it would have been more merciful for the humans if a Rojok blast had claimed the
Bellatrix
with all aboard!

The harsh sound of Rojok voices brought Lyceria back to consciousness. Waves of vertigo wound through her head as she tried to sit up on the bed. She peered through the dim light toward the door. Behind it, a flood of Rojok voices rushed in at her. Three voices; one obliging and placating, one defensive, one harsh and threatening.

The autodoor zipped up. One lone Rojok entered the small cubicle. He walked with authority. He was tall, reddish-skinned, hard-muscled. His long shock of blond hair was neatly trimmed, flowing down over the high collar of his black, long-sleeved uniform jacket. His slacks followed powerful legs down into heavy black boots. His slit-eyes peered at her from a lean, stern face that showed no emotion. His sleeves displayed a pattern of
mesag
marks that denoted high rank, as did the long hair, which only officers were permitted to wear. He had faint scars on his face, and lines around his eyes. He was a warrior.

Lyceria stood up, only a little intimidated, preparing herself for whatever was to come. “Am I now to be taken to
Ahkmau?
” she asked.

A flicker of shock touched the alien face. The Rojok’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tautened proudly. “It is not the custom of the Rojok,” he said in perfect Centaurian accents, “to condemn royalty to the death camps.”

“No?” A tiny smile touched her full lips. “I was told that if I did not comport myself as expected, I would be placed there.”

The Rojok glared toward the door where the other two aliens stiffened, quickly saluted and moved back a safe distance. In different circumstances, the action would have been amusing to Lyceria.

When he looked back at her, his eyes were still narrow with fury. “No more threats will be made against you. You have my word.”

“It is said,” she replied, “that the word of a Rojok is as the wind.”

“Is it also said of the word of Chacon?”

Her eyes flashed brown at the Rojok as she recognized him from textdiscs. Here was no ordinary soldier. This was the most powerful field marshal of the Rojok army, the most famous of them all.

“You!” She stepped forward, momentarily forgetting the required dignity of her station. “Murderer of women and children! Torturer of boys!”

A muscle in his cheek flinched. “The attack on Terramer was perpetrated without my knowledge,” he stated flatly. “As was the murder of your brother. Those responsible will be punished.”

“And what punishment will return my brother to me, Commander Chacon?” she asked bitterly. “Tell me that.”

“I cannot undo what was done. Atrocities are frequently committed in the name of war, by all soldiers.” His eyes softened slightly. “Come. You will be provided more suitable quarters.”

“In your prison, no doubt.”

He watched her quietly, with eyes as deft as a hunter’s aim. “Your bitterness is understandable. But bitterness is an acid. Beware, lest it eat you alive.”

“Grief is not shared with outworlders,” she told him.

“Not among Rojoks.” He stood aside to let her pass. “Have you eaten?”

“I care for nothing,” she replied. Inside, her ribs felt near collapse from the three-day fast.

“You will eat,” he said, “or you will be fed forcibly. Do you understand? I will not allow you to commit suicide.”

“Allow?” She looked at him defiantly, with brown anger coloring her pupils. “And do you think to dictate to me?”

He smiled. A thin, self-confident smile that was disconcerting. “Until the war is over, at least. You are a political prisoner. As such, you will tolerate my ‘dictates.’”

“And the consequences?” she chided. “Shall you send me to
Ahkmau?
”

“If you continue to oppose me, you may be sent to my harem,” he warned mockingly.