The Morcai Battalion (10 page)

It was a question his friend couldn’t answer. He grimaced. “Let the C.O. worry about pursuers. I’m only concerned with getting you back on your feet.”

Stern gave him an appraising look. “How do you propose to do that?”

Hahnson picked up a laserdot syringe and showed it to him. “A mind stimulator,” he said. “It targets memory.”

For some reason Stern was reluctant to let the medicine be injected. He pushed it away. “Let’s…let’s wait a day or two, until I feel stronger. Can we do that?” It was imperative that he retain his clarity of thought. Something very important was about to happen.

“We can wait,” Hahnson agreed. But he wondered what was going on behind Stern’s black eyes. He was going to have to talk to Madeline, and quickly.

Madeline was making final adjustments to a programming bank as she finished the delicate genetic mending of an Altairian’s torn thigh muscle. She shot an amused glance at two Centaurian engineers who were watching her with open curiosity.

“This process isn’t totally unknown to you, is it?” she asked, puzzled by their continuing watchfulness.

The younger of the two struggled for the Terravegan Standard verbs to express himself in Madeline’s language. “We—how is it said?—will never have seen a female in military uniform, Dr. Madelineruszel,” he explained, giving her two names a typical Centaurian compounding. “Or a female trained as you are to perform medical procedures.”

Abandoning the complicated operation for an instant, she gaped at them. “Never? Well, what do your females do?” she exclaimed.

The shorter of the two shrugged. “Some, the most gifted, create offspring, and rear them. Others compose great works of music, or write poetry, or make paintings. Still others involve themselves in political occupations or manage industries essential to our culture. None go to war,” he added. “It is considered to be a threat to the continuity of our race, that if our females risk themselves in war, they would contribute to our own extinction as a race.”

She blinked, astonished.

“In a time long past,” the taller one added, “it is said that many of our females were great warriors. The old emperor, Tnurat Alamantimichar, came from a strict culture which denied women any place in public life. Only in recent years has their position in politics and business been modified.”

“There were riots,” the shorter one said abruptly.

Madeline hid a smile. No wonder, she thought. She studied them curiously. “The Holconcom are clones, aren’t they?”

They nodded. “All of us have our roots in cloneries, where our donors were chosen from the best mental and physical specimens in our culture. We know little of civilian life, however.”

“Neither do I,” she confessed. “Among my people, there is no distinction between male, female, and
berdache
—our three genders.”

“Three genders?” the older Centaurian asked, surprised.

She nodded. “The
berdache
mates within its own gender, but has the rights and privileges of the other two genders. Equality is our most precious right. Our soldiers come from breeders.”

“But you must have clones, also?”

She grimaced. “Yes. We have clones.” She gave them a sympathetic
glance. “But our society is less enlightened than yours in this one area. Civilians and military alike treat clones badly.”

The tall one gave a green laugh with his huge eyes. “Only our Holconcom is made up completely of clones, save for our commander. The emperor has been known to order a public
escareem
, a trial, for civilians who dare to patronize us. We have full equality under our law.”

She smiled, privately curious about why Dtimun was himself not a clone. “A shame that we don’t all have it.”

“The Holconcom have never been mixed with other facets of our military, not even with the nonclones of the regular divisions, whose strength is vaguely comparable to our own. Brawling is strictly forbidden because of our physical superiority to other soldiers. It is the one reason we will not be able to mix with the humans for very long, I think. Your people are a physical race. They will try to test us, as we have already seen happen with tragic results.”

“Tragic, indeed,” she mused quietly.

There were other words for it, as well, she thought later, when she ran up on a scathing disagreement between two of the
Bellatrix
’s complement.

“…tell you, we’re going to be slaughtered,” one of them muttered. “A whole damned fleet of Rojoks ships is closing in on us, and our captain won’t even fight for us!”

“You got that right,” his companion agreed darkly. “Stern won’t fight for us, and these cat-eyes won’t lift a finger to help us. Inhuman alien devils, I think…!”

“You’d better think about your jobs and spend less time griping,” Madeline said shortly, glaring at them. “Or I’ll have both of you thrown in the brig. Is that clear?”

They snapped her a salute. “Yes, sir,” they chorused.

“We can’t fight the Rojoks and each other at the same time,” she reminded them.

“That black-hearted alien killed Muldoon!” one of them said shortly. “Let the Rojoks have them!”

“We’re all on the same ship,” she returned curtly. “If the Centaurians die, so do we.”

They didn’t have a comeback for that. She was about to add to the statement when the audio kicked in.

“Dr. Ruszel, sick bay, stat!”

She turned and took off at a trot, closing her mind to some insulting remarks her shipmates were muttering behind her. She only hoped that if it came to a fight, the humans would resolve themselves to the situation.

Mentally she cursed the size of the ship and the lack of suitable facilities for use as a sick bay. Sixty critical patients of all races, stuffed into one medium-size mess hall. Strick’s facilities were even smaller and he had a like number of severely injured patients. The ambulatory were confined to two other storage units aboard ship, where they spent their time caring for the children with minor injuries. No spare ambutubes. No medical stores except what an alien synthesizer could imitate. Overworked personnel, a hostile ship’s company, and one exobiology chief to cope with clones of half a dozen alien cultures. Why, in the name of the seventh nebula, didn’t this Holconcom warship carry a medical unit? Was it conceit or pure apathy? The audio paged her once more, and she ran faster.

“The trap,” Mangus Lo shot at his tall advisor before the younger Rojok could enter the private chamber. “How does it progress?”

“All is well, your Excellence,” the advisor said smugly. “The Cen
taurian vessel is making for Benaski Port, but our ships are slowly closing in on it. It is only a matter of time.”

“Good. Good.” The crippled little dictator made a net of his six fingers and watched them, hypnotized. “The Spheres, have our scientists made any progress in deciphering them?”

“There…there is a problem. The Council of the Tri-Fleet took precautions against just such an eventuality,” the advisor stated nervously. “The Spheres have been recorded in a Terravegan dialect which is completely unknown to our people. It is taking a great deal of time to even begin to translate them.”

“We have no time!” The dictator glared at the younger alien. “Already I have word that the Tri-Galaxy Council has issued a war vote against us! Within a handful of time periods, we will find ourselves fighting a multitude of races besides the humans! We must have the genetic codes of those races so that we can infiltrate them as we have already infiltrated the humans!”

“I have already said as much to our scientific staff,” the other alien returned. “Also, when we capture the Holconcom ship, we will obtain clones of additional races which can be used for study in our experimental station at
Ahkmau
.”

“Clones will be of doubtful use,” Mangus Lo growled. “Clones are genetically altered in most cases for the duty they are created to perform. A screen is used, as well, to prevent tampering with the basic DNA.” He smiled coldly. “You see, I am not so stupid as you assume!”

“Your Excellence, I did not mean to insinuate…!”

“Shut up.” The dictator’s eyes narrowed even more. “The Centaurian princess. Why have you not brought her to me?”

The advisor cleared his throat. “At this point, your Excellence, we are not absolutely certain that she was taken along with the Spheres.
The officer who told me of her capture has suffered an unfortunate amount of brain damage which might account for some fabrication. None of his men have reported seeing a Centaurian female aboard any of our vessels.”

“What?” The dictator came out of his seat like a striking serpent, his dusky complexion gone scarlet in anger. “You promised me that she was captive. You lied!”

The young alien paled. “Please, your Excellence, I imparted only the information I was given. If it was incorrect…!”

“Have your officer sent to
Ahkmau
, at once!”

“Yes, at once!”

Mangus Lo’s eyes narrowed. “And have your men search for the Centaurian princess. My instinct tells me that there is a plot underway. I will have the truth.”

“It will be done immediately!”

“And…”

“Yes, Excellence?”

“Send Commander Chacon to me.”

“At once! At once, your Excellence!” he echoed, his face drawn, his eyes brimming with terror. “By your leave…!”

Madeline’s senior medtech was waiting for her at the doorway of the makeshift exo sick bay, apprehension in his whole look.

“The last of the Altairian patients,” he said, not wasting words, following her to the ambutube that contained a small, blue-skinned girl with huge amber eyes. They were tortured, wet with tears of pain, looking up at her through the antiseptic green mist. She laid her wrist scanner over the small chest and engaged the nanodrive. Seconds later, the readings told a sad story.

“Myocardial infarction,” she muttered. “A massive one. Debucarbonal, stat!”

“There isn’t any, Doctor,” the medtech replied sadly. “The last of it went to the girl’s mother, before she died.”

“They’ll all die,” she murmured furiously, “unless we reach Benaski Port soon. All right, get me some of the Vegan touch-serum.”

“Gone,” he returned. “All of it, for the Cereboan child.”

“Well, how about…never mind, there’s no time. Get me the cardiovac!”

He handed it to her. She worked at the child’s thin chest with the pacer, trying desperately to stabilize the erratic heartbeat which was so faint as to be undetectable except with the scanner. But the pulse only increased. The child’s chest jerked, and a sharp cry passed her blue lips before she went unconscious.

“Defib!” she shot at her medic. “Get me a unit, stat!”

“Sir, there’s only one left and Hahnson has it…”

“Steal it! Beg, borrow. But get it!”

“On my way,” he said, rushing out.

She slammed the cardiovac onto the child’s chest and energized it again and again, feeling the uselessness of the action even as she took it. She was sweating with the effort, despite the maintained sixty-three degree Fahrenheit temperature in the compartment. Perspiration drained down her flushed face into her eyes, her mouth. Watching the child tortured her. The little girl’s face was twisted with pain, her skin ashen and drenched in cold sweat. Death was a sigh away. Never once did it occur to Madeline that this was a clone. She worked desperately to save the child.

Involuntarily she remembered Dtimun saving the little Jebob boy with nothing more than his touch. She wished that she had such a gift…!

A sound behind her brought relief. “Did you get the damned thing?” she shot over her shoulder. “Bring it here!”

But the face that moved into view had serene blue cat-eyes. “We will discuss your language presently,” Dtimun said calmly. “But for the moment, tell me the child’s condition.”

“If I don’t get a defib unit in twenty seconds,” she ground out, “her condition is going to be dead! What the hell kind of ship doesn’t have a medical department and even the most basic medical supplies…!”

While she cursed, he touched the child’s chest with long, golden-skinned fingers. The little girl took a sudden breath, let it out and her eyes opened, wide with surprise and delight. She smiled.

Dtimun smiled back.

Madeline snapped out of her trance long enough to check the little girl with the scanner. Her heart was perfect.

The door zipped up and the disheveled medtech ran in with the portable defibrillator in his hand. “I got it!” he panted victoriously.

“Take it back,” she murmured absently, her eyes still on the child.

“Back!” he exclaimed, his mouth open. “But I had to throw a punch at Hahnson’s medtech to get it…!”

“I’ll recommend you for a medal, too,” she agreed, glancing at him. “Give it back.”

He left, shaking his head.

Madeline stared at Dtimun with unconcealed curiosity. “That’s twice you’ve saved a patient for me, without drugs. How? Mental healing? Empathy?”

“Of a kind,” he said.

“Could you be a little more specific, sir?” she prompted. “I mean, I feel as if I’m practicing medicine with flint-knapped stone tools at the moment.”