The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit

The commander rejoined her shortly, clearly pleased.

“I’m glad you’re happy, sir,” she said. “I’m hoping to get drunk enough not to mind the taste of the canapés...”

“Do not dare embarrass me here,” he bit off.

She gave him a wry look. “Would I do that, sir?”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Hey, look at the sweet little lady,” came a heavily accented, drunken voice from beside her. A fat little Terravegan in an expensive suit sidled up to her. “Aren’t you pretty?”

The voice belonged to the Terravegan ambassador, Aubrey Taylor. Highly positioned politicians weren’t bound by the neutering policy of the military. They could, and did, amuse themselves with women of all species. They, of all Terravegans, even chose where they wanted to marry.

Madeline gave him a cold look. Taylor glanced at the Cehn-Tahr beside her. “Some weird, unlawful combination, aren’t you?” he asked with disgust. “Does she know that trying to mate with you would kill her?” He sidled closer and put an arm around her. “But you’d do just fine with me...!”

She jerked back from him just as Dtimun made an odd rumbling noise, in the back of his throat. Madeline didn’t understand what it was, but she risked his temper by kicking him, covertly, in the leg. He made another sound, dismayed and angry. Madeline turned quickly and pretended to stumble. Her foot shot out efficiently, just covertly enough to trip the ambassador and knock him flat on his rear.

“Oh, my goodness, Ambassador Taylor, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed loudly, and rushed to his side as he sat up on the floor, cursing. “Sir, I’m very sorry!” she exclaimed. “I turned too fast and tripped over my big feet! I’m not used to skirts.”

“You clumsy cow!” Taylor raged. “I ought to...!”

“You don’t recognize me, do you, sir?” she asked Taylor quickly as the commander stepped forward angrily and heads turned toward them at the ambassador’s loud exclamation. “I’m Dr. Madeline Ruszel, medical chief of staff of the Holconcom. The commander is my C.O.” She indicated Dtimun, who was glaring at the ambassador with eyes a color she couldn’t quite classify. His posture was oddly threatening.

“Commander?” Taylor blinked. He looked from one face to another and registered his surprise. He struggled to his feet. “What are the two of you doing here, dressed like that?” he demanded.

“Covert ops, sir,” she whispered to Taylor.

He swayed a little, then blinked. “Covert...? Oh. Oh!” He put his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

“That’s right, sir,” she agreed, forcing a smile. “Shhhh.”

He blinked. He was clearly over his limit. “I get it. Well, carry on, carry on!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m all right. Just tripped!” Taylor told his colleagues as he turned away from Madeline and stumbled toward the buffet table. “Will somebody get some more ice? These drinks are hot! Have to drink, this food is inedible!”

Muffled conversation began again. The Altair ambassador was even bluer with anger. Dtimun took the opportunity to leave the room, followed closely by Madeline.

They were outside, heading for the skimmer, when a curt laugh escaped him. “I should have you court-martialed,” he muttered. “The problem is deciding which charge to press—striking a superior officer or assaulting a diplomat.”

She grinned. “The diplomat deserved far more than that, sir,” she commented. “Sorry I kicked you, but I was afraid you meant to add to the ambassador’s condition.”

He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t admit that his temper had almost slipped its bonds when the drunk human had dared to put his hands on Ruszel. It was a behavior that was of some concern to him. It had not happened before with Ruszel. He was uncertain why it was happening now.

The skimmer lifted and moved off toward the Cehn-Tahr embassy.

Madeline was looking at him oddly. She was recalling what Taylor had said; that shocking comment that made no sense.

Dtimun read it in her thoughts, but he said nothing. The ambassador was quite correct. If he attempted to mate with Ruszel, with his genetically enhanced strength, he would kill her instantly. But he couldn’t speak of that to her. It was forbidden. Intimate contact was, of course, impossible. He looked down at her, at her radiant beauty, and had to force his eyes away. She was unlike females of any race he had ever encountered. He found her intriguing. But that still did not explain his violent reaction when Taylor touched her. It was disturbing. It was not a military response. It was a very personal one.

“Anyway, the sushi was nice,” she remarked, for something to say.

He pursed his lips. “Yes. We prefer our meat and fish raw as well.” He wasn’t adding that they could eat them whole, as any feline predator could.

She paused and looked up at him with open curiosity.

“Stop there,” he said in her mind. “Some questions are taboo, even among Clan. We are forbidden to speak of cultural habits to any outworlder. Even a Holconcom physician,” he added with a smile in his tone.

“We do know some things about your species,” she ventured.

“From your black market videos?” he asked with amused green eyes.

She gasped. “Sir!” she protested, flushing. “It has to be a breach of some sort of ethics for you to walk in and out of my mind!”

He chuckled. “Of course it is. But, then, madam, I have a reputation for bending the law.”

She had to admit that. It had saved their lives in many desperate situations, too.

“As for probing your mind, that is not intentional. I read only what lies on the surface.”

She gave him a demure look. “Good thing. I don’t fancy a court martial if you dig too deep,” she said with a gamine grin.

He repressed a laugh and changed the subject. “Ambassador Taylor’s behavior should be reported,” he said instead.

“Oh, please, sir, be my guest,” she invited. “If I report him, I’ll be mopping bathrooms, excuse me, heads, out on the Rim in the farthest outpost he can find for the rest of my military career.”

He laughed. “Surely not.”

“Afraid so. He, like all the politicians, has immense power in our society. It’s something we have to live with, in the military.”

“I might drop a word in Lawson’s ear,” Dtimun pondered. “He, too, has connections in high places.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea, sir.” She laughed. “But it is rather amazing, how much he seems to know about your race,” she commented.

He didn’t answer. It was just as well that it didn’t occur to her to wonder why Taylor had such intimate knowledge of a race he purported to hate, which was the Cehn-Tahr. Although it was the Rojok dynasty into which Taylor had been initiated, for some years now. Rojoks, both allies and enemies to the Cehn-Tahr in times past, knew a great deal about their culture, and would share that knowledge with even a human who was working for them. Madeline didn’t know, and he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to admit how correct Taylor’s remarks had been.

He was brooding. She could sense it; and not about the ambassador’s behavior. He wasn’t heading toward the skimmer. He seemed to have forgotten it was waiting for them.

“Sir, there’s something more,” she began hesitantly, wary of his hot temper. “It wasn’t just having to sub for your ambassador at the Altairian embassy.”

He turned and glared at her.

“Oh, right, it’s okay for you to wear ruts in my mind, but I can’t discuss what’s going through yours. Sir,” she added. She cocked her head and looked up at him quietly. “Something is really disturbing you. I’m not prying. But if there was any way I could help, I would,” she added very gently.

He hesitated. For once, his expression was almost vulnerable. His eyes narrowed, deep blue with solemn thought. “You are remarkably perceptive, Ruszel.” He drew in a long breath and when he spoke, it was only in her mind.

“We have, in my culture, a day of remembrance when we honor the dead. It takes place in the Hall of Memories on Memcache. But if we are too far away, we observe the ceremonies here, on Trimerius.” His tone in her mind was somber. “I place a glow stone, a virtual collection of music, verses, poetry, for each of my two brothers.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”

“This happens in war. The youngest was close to me. It is...difficult.” He straightened. “I would be glad of the company.”

Her eyebrows arched. “You mean, I could go with you?” He nodded. “But, sir, isn’t it against the law?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

She caught his mood and smiled back.

“Come.” He led the way to the skimmer. A few minutes later, they landed at the Cehn-Tahr embassy. He led her down a long hall. All along the way, Cehn-Tahr soldiers bowed respectfully and saluted.

He glanced at her confusion. “They bow to me,” he said. “However—” and he sounded amused, in her mind “—they salute you.”

“Me?” she faltered.

“The Holconcom’s human warwoman,” he explained. “They find you fascinating. In fact, a group of our elite troops on Memcache refer to you almost in reverent tones. Considering their prejudice against humans, the behavior is remarkable.”

She was left speechless. He noticed that, and smiled.

But when the guards opened the door into a huge indoor conservatory, with trees and plants which were, presumably, native to Memcache, she found her voice. “It’s incredible,” she whispered as the doors closed behind them. The species of plants and trees were unfamiliar, but gloriously beautiful.

“A taste of home,” he remarked.

They approached a huge statue of a galot. This one was jet black with glowing green eyes. “Magnificent,” she thought, fascinated.

“Cashto, from whom we obtained some of our genetic material many ages ago.” He looked down at her. “You will not speak of this.”

“No, sir,” she promised. Later, she would recall these confidences with curiosity. He had said it was taboo to speak of culture with outworlders.

He turned back to the statue. He pulled three softly glowing pastel stones from a platform on one side of the statue, placed them on the other side and spoke words of remembrance in the Holy Tongue, which was spoken only by Cehn-Tahr elite—and which Ruszel would not understand. If he had been alone, he would have pulled up the images of his brothers. But that would be unwise. Ruszel had an excellent memory. He stepped back from the altar and stood quietly for several minutes. Ruszel, beside him, didn’t make a sound. While she’d lost comrades—in fact, her whole Amazon unit from the Bellatrix during the Rojok attack three years earlier—she’d never lost a family member. Well, except for Hahnson, on Ahkmau. She had his clone now, and he had Hahnson’s memories. It was infinitely sad to remember the original Hahnson’s death. She could only imagine how hard it was for the commander, to lose two brothers. The pain must be terrible.

“Quite,” he remarked. He was staring at Cashto’s statue, which towered over both of them under a spread of leafy trees. “Are you religious, Ruszel?”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I am, although not in any conventional sense,” she replied. “I’ve seen enough unexplained recoveries in my career not to discount miracles. There has to be something far more powerful than we are. Even science has its limits.”

He only nodded, as if her answer satisfied the question.

He led the way back out, lost in his own memories, his own pain. He had placed a stone as well for a woman he lost on Dacerius, decades ago. That was a memory he would not share with his companion.

She noticed that he placed three glowing stones at the altar, but she put the thought away. It wasn’t her business. However, she was very curious about the purpose of Dtimun’s visit to the embassy, when he hated Altairians.

He glanced down at her. “You wonder why we went to the reception.”

She nodded.

“The Altairians have a treaty with the Nagaashe, a race who live on a world near our borders. They have great stores of Helium 3, which we employ in reactors to provide heat and cooling for our cities. Our resources of this element are diminishing, but the Nagaashe will not trade with us. After many decades of diplomatic persistence, the Altair ambassador has agreed to present our case to the Nagaashe,” he added. “But considering the usual speed of their negotiations, I fear the treaty will not be created in my lifetime.”

“Who are the Nagaashe?” she wondered.

He smiled. “So many questions whirling in your mind, Ruszel. But answers must wait. Thank you for accompanying me.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a real choice, sir,” she pointed out, and he chuckled. She made a face. “And their idea of synthale is an abomination.”

“They do not consume alcoholic beverages in their culture,” he reminded her.

“No wonder!”

He laughed. He motioned for one of the young officers. “Show Dr. Ruszel to the room where she left her uniform, and then accompany her back to the medical center.”

“Sir,” she protested. “I can hardly be in danger during that short hop...”

He held up a hand. “I do not trust Taylor,” he said flatly. “You are one of my officers. I will not have you troubled by drunk politicians, regardless of their so-called power. Do as I say.”

She sighed, but she saluted. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded. His eyes roamed over her one last time, openly appreciative of her delicate beauty and the excellent fit of the robes she was wearing. But all at once, his expression became distant. He walked away without looking back.

* * *

MADELINE WONDERED FOR days about Taylor’s odd remark, that Dtimun would kill her if he tried to mate with her. She couldn’t find any reference to Cehn-Tahr customs or culture in any of her resources. In desperation, she key holed Hahnson, who knew more than anyone in her acquaintance about the aliens.

She told him what Taylor had said in his drunken state. “What did it mean?” she asked.

Hahnson only smiled blandly. “How would I know?”

She glowered at him. “You know a lot. You knew that Cehn-Tahr mark their mates.”

“A bit of gossip I picked up,” he said evasively. He lifted an eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d leave the subject strictly alone.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to. But it’s intriguing. We know so little about their culture, their behavioral traits. We know a lot about Rojoks, but they have reptilian DNA. Cehn-Tahr are supposed to be descended from felines.” She gave him a wry look. “I’m no geneticist but I’m not stupid, either. They have eyes that change color...nobody else in the galaxies does. And they may have feline traits, but the only way you get galot DNA is to be injected with it.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Strick, we’ve been friends for a long time,” she persisted. “Can’t you tell me anything?”

He averted his face. “Some mysteries are best left unsolved,” he said flatly. “Now how about giving me your opinion on this new treatment for Altairian flu?”

Diverted, she turned to the virtual display. Since there was no way to satisfy her curiosity, she let the subject drop. For the time being. Privately, she wondered about the window her commanding officer had given her into his culture, something he’d never discussed with her in almost three years. It had been intriguing, and flattering, that he shared the remembrance ceremony with her. She really wondered why, when it was such a breach of custom. As she’d promised, however, she hadn’t said a word to Hahnson about that, even if she had picked his mind on Cehn-Tahr mating habits.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WAR, LIKE all wars, had periods of monotony and boredom. It also had sudden spurts of urgency. This was one. The Rojoks had landed an advance force on a planet in the Dibella system and were preparing a staging area for a far larger command. Lagana was the largest continent on the planet; a rich source of clean water and foodstuffs, of which the Rojok supply lines were desperately in need.

Dtimun called in all off-duty personnel and set a course for the planet. The Dibella system was a link in a chain leading to the home planets of the Tri-Galaxy Council members. The advance, which was small at the moment, had to be stopped and the staging area destroyed. Lawson, for once, didn’t oppose the commando mission. Madeline had wanted to take Edris Mallory along on the mission, even if she’d had to conceal her on board. But once the Morcai put down on Lagana, the Dibella system’s fourth planet, she was glad she hadn’t. It was no milk run. There was a considerable Rojok presence in a staging area near one of the continent’s major cities—although on this jungle world, that meant a population of less than two hundred souls. The Rojoks obviously planned a takeover here, and had just landed troops with that intention, in two makeshift camps. The resources of the planet were extensive.

Dtimun called a briefing before the Holconcom left the ship. He pulled up a virtual map in the center of the room and indicated the Rojok staging area.

“We must destroy their communications equipment first. Jennings.”

“Yes, sir!” the human comm chief said, saluting.

“This will be your job. Coordinate with Komak’s forward unit.”

“Yes, sir!” Jennings grinned. On a human ship, he’d never have been allowed in combat. Communications personnel of Jennings’ command rank were not allowed on away missions in the Terravegan military. But here, duty descriptions were different. He loved these assaults; odd for a communications guy, Madeline thought amusedly.

Dtimun glanced at her and his eyes flashed green as he read the thoughts in her mind.

“You must take your bodyguard with you,” Komak told the C.O. abruptly.

Dtimun gave him an odd look.

Komak didn’t back down. “You must.”

Dtimun sighed. “Very well.” He indicated the four Holconcom who performed that function. “You will come down with me.”

The ranking officer in the small unit saluted.

Madeline found it unusual that Dtimun agreed to Komak’s suggestion. Often, the younger Cehn-Tahr had premonitions about difficult missions. Apparently, he had one about this one. Strange, because it was such a small Rojok command. But, Madeline thought, might as well err on the side of caution. She studied Dtimun covertly as he outlined the order of battle. She recalled him in sweeping robes at the Altair embassy. He had looked...very nice.

His eyes shot around and pinned her.

“Sorry, sir,” she thought at once, and forced her mind back to military thoughts. These irrational flashes were starting to get the better of her.

* * *

THEY HAD HOPED to land undetected, but the Rojoks had new state-of-the-art sensors and they worked. The minute the scout ships touched down, the Rojoks were waiting for them.

The onslaught was fierce. Two Rojok squads armed with kremoks, the new rapid-firing plasma rifles that fried internal organs, tore through the human infantry like fire through forests. Madeline saw two soldiers she’d served with since basic training go down, dead before they hit the ground. She checked them, anyway, but it was far too late for any medical technique to bring them back other than as clones, a living death in Terravegan society. She rose and moved quickly to the sound of plasma fire, forcing herself to be professional, not to let her emotions get the better of her. She had to tend to the living.

The medical research facility on Camcara was developing a counterweapon, a chemical screen that would be woven into the newest uniforms issued to the SSC. Madeline had adapted the technology for the Holconcom and Dtimun had authorized the addition and made it standard issue. But the uniforms were still in quality control tests.

Some of the commando squads were still using the older chasats, and one of those units had wedged itself between Dtimun and his bodyguard in the thick, muggy green jungle of vines and plants that covered this continent. Madeline cursed as she tried to move past a tangle that resembled a spiderweb. Then she remembered the illegal Gresham she’d tucked in the small away kit over one shoulder. She pulled it out and activated the power pack. With that, she cut through the vegetation in no time. She pressed ahead. The urgency grew as she heard the thum-thum sound of chasat fire close by.

“Ruszel!” She heard the ranking member of Dtimun’s four-man bodyguard unit in the tissue-thin monitor pasted just behind her ear.

“Yes!” she spoke into the matching monitor that rested like part of the skin at her lips.

“The commander has been hit!”

For an instant, the world went black. She was very still. “Critically?”

“Unknown. We saw him go down. Afterward, he did not move. We cannot get to him from our position. He has not answered our comms.”

“Where is he?” she asked tautly.

He gave coordinates. She didn’t speak to her comrades, who were mopping up the Rojok attack force. She motioned her medics toward three wounded Cehn-Tahr and then, with her heart racing at her throat, she sprinted toward the position where the commander was located. She didn’t dare think about his injury. With his greatly modified strength, if he was unconscious...!

Terror welled up in her. She didn’t see where she was going, she only ran, seeing the coordinates in the ether display that popped up from its concealment at the corner of each eye, produced by a film of circuitry which she wore over her corneas. She followed the blip, her illegal Gresham ready to fire. She wasn’t going to be captured. The C.O.’s life might depend on her, if he was still alive.

If he was still alive. She felt the words, like knives. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be! She realized suddenly that if he died, the light would go out of the world. There was nothing that would make up for his loss.

Forbidden thoughts, she told herself, and she must clamp down on them at once. She was a doctor, and a patient was waiting. That was what she needed to be thinking about.

She rushed through a cover of native vegetation and saw the commander flat on his back with two Rojok soldiers standing over him, chasats drawn.

She yelled, commanding their attention before they could fire. As they turned, surprised, she took them down in a heartbeat with two quick blasts and never even paused to check, to make sure they were no longer a threat. She was a dead shot, especially under combat conditions, having been battle-tested as a child.

“Sir!” She slid onto her knees at his side, her wrist scanner already busy, searching out clues to his condition. “Sir?”

The members of his bodyguard suddenly came running from the direction of the worst fighting. Their uniforms were torn and one had a bloody arm.

“Why did you leave him?” she raged at them from a face as red as her hair. “Your job is to protect the commander, not to act as regular combat troops!”

In her mind a familiar, furious voice made itself heard. “Remember who you are, madam!” it demanded.

Her eyes turned to his. They were open, brown with pain and anger, but open and alive. She was shaking. She hadn’t even realized it.

“Remember who you are,” the angry voice sounded again in her mind. “Pull yourself together! You disgrace the uniform with this display of hysterics.”

She forced her mind to work, her body to relax. Her face reverted to its usual serene expression. “I beg your pardon,” she told his bodyguard in her usual, measured tones. “I spoke out of turn. We lost some of the Terravegans in the first wave, two of whom I had served with for years. It...affected me.”

“No apology is necessary, Ruszel,” the ranking bodyguard officer spoke for all of them. “We were pinned down in a gulley and could not get to the commander in time. Had you not been armed, the Rojoks would have killed him.”

“What...Rojoks?” Dtimun gritted as she opened his tunic and revealed a penetrating chest wound. “And what do you mean, had Ruszel not been armed?” he demanded, his angry voice gaining strength.