Читать книгу The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit - Diana Palmer - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMADELINE WAS CATCHING up on reports on her virtual desk when a flash came in from Admiral Lawson.
She answered it at once. “Yes, sir?” she said respectfully.
He grimaced. “I hate to have to ask you to do this, Ruszel,” he replied, “but everybody else cut me off the minute I mentioned a personal dispatch I needed to send to Dtimun...” He waited. She didn’t protest. He grinned. “I knew you had the guts to do it.”
She sighed. “Everybody else is afraid of him, especially lately,” she confided. “He’s been in a sour mood. Not my fault,” she added at once. “I haven’t done a thing to upset him.”
Lawson reserved judgment on that, but he didn’t say so. “I’m flashing the dispatch to you. Top secret. Eyes only. I can’t trust anyone else to transport it.”
She blinked when it appeared, in solid form, in her cyberreconstitutor “in” tray. “Sir, you couldn’t flash it to the C.O.?”
He shrugged. “I could, if he’d answer his unit. He won’t.” His face tautened. “He won’t like the dispatch, but I have to give it to him. You’ll find him at the Cehn-Tahr embassy, by the way, getting ready for some big reception at the Altair center. He’s not happy that he has to go and represent his government. Their own ambassador refused to go and was recalled.”
She pursed her lips. “My, my, imagine that. It must be something big.”
“Something. Get going. He’ll be leaving shortly. If you have to chase him down to the Altair embassy, the Altairians will never let you through the door in uniform.”
“They’d have to,” she commented, “because I’m not changing my uniform for skirts even for diplomacy’s sake.”
He chuckled. “I don’t blame you. Not a lot of human females in the Holconcom,” he added with a grin. Her place as the only female in that crack unit made him proud.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, smiling back.
He cut the connection. She looked at her screen with dismay. There were eight reports left to do. It was going to be a long night, she thought as she disabled the unit. But, hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.
* * *
SHE HAD TO GET a military skimmer to the embassy. The building was, like most things Cehn-Tahr, smooth and rounded and elegant, a fantasy of blue and gold lights, the colors of the Cehn-Tahr Imperial Royal Clan. She dismissed the robot transport and walked up the steps, declining the vator tube. She wondered how much trouble she was going to have getting inside the embassy. Humans weren’t exactly welcome here, even if a whole detachment of them served with the Holconcom.
A uniformed sentry waited at the door. With a hopeful smile, she started to present her arm, with its ID chip, but he saluted her at once and activated his comm unit.
“Dr. Madeline Ruszel of the Holconcom to see the commander,” he spoke into it.
Her surprise was visible. She hadn’t realized that she was known here. There was a long pause.
“Send her,” came the terse reply.
Madeline grimaced. “Oh, boy,” she said to herself. “He’s not in the mood for company.”
“It is the Altairian reception,” the sentry confided. “None of us like the Altair delegation...”
A rush of angry Cehn-Tahr poured forth from the comm unit.
“Yes, sir!” the sentry said into his unit, motioning Madeline through the door with a clenching of teeth and a look of apology.
Poor guy, she thought.
“You are not required to pass time with my subordinates,” came an angry, deep voice into her mind. “Why are you here?”
“You won’t like it,” she thought back.
“Lawson and his dispatch,” he muttered, adding a few choice words in his own tongue.
“Sir!” she protested, because she recognized some of them.
He stepped into the hallway. She almost didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t just the absence of facial hair that made him look different—he hadn’t regrown the beard and mustache he’d sported when the complement of the Morcai ended up in Ahkmau and Madeline had shaved him to disguise his face. It was his clothing that was different. He was wearing robes of blue and gold, the imperial colors, in some fabric as sleek as silk. The robes clung to the muscular lines of his body and draped over one shoulder to touch the floor at the tip of his highly polished black boots. He looked...different. Elegant. Regal. It was the first time she’d ever seen him out of a Holconcom uniform in the nearly three years she’d been part of the Morcai’s crew.
* * *
“HE SENT YOU,” Dtimun said with faint hauteur. “Why?”
“Because everybody else hid under a desk,” she muttered. She held out the dispatch.
A flash of green amusement touched his eyes. “You were afraid of me, too, at first.”
“That was years ago, sir,” she reminded him. Her own eyes twinkled. “As soon as I realized that the Cehn-Tahr didn’t eat humans, I stopped worrying.”
He chuckled. He read the dispatch. His lips made a thin line. “More predations on our forward supply transports. I cannot turn the Morcai into an escort ship. Lawson will have to find another way.”
“That was the job the Altairians were doing,” she reminded him. “Then the Terravegan ambassador, Aubrey Taylor, ticked them off and they withdrew their support vessels.”
“Taylor is what you humans call a bigot,” he replied.
“I could think of a few better names,” she murmured. Taylor had been vicious in his verbal attacks on the Cehn-Tahr, and the Amazon Division as well. He thought women in combat were a disgrace. She pursed her lips as she looked up at Dtimun. “You and Taylor should get along. He doesn’t think women have any place in combat, either. I hear he’s going to the Altairian reception, too—probably to tick off even more of their military. Pity you can’t think of some way to irritate him even more than you did when you withdrew his transport privileges on Cehn-Tahr vessels. Sir.”
He gave her an odd, intense scrutiny. “Sadly for you, I can think of a better way. You will accompany me to the reception.” He clapped his hands. Two younger men in uniform ran up and saluted. “Take Ruszel to the weavemaster and have him weave her robes to wear to the Altair reception. Tell him he has ten standard minutes.”
“Robes? Reception? I will not...!” she burst out.
“Does Lawson know that you brew contraband coffee in your med lab?” he interrupted smugly.
Her mouth stayed open. She closed it. “Admiral Lawson does it, too,” she began.
“He is an admiral.” He looked at his immaculate fingernails. “I understand the penalty is revocation of all base privileges for a period of four standard months.” He eyed her with evident amusement.
She glared at him. But she saluted, turned and followed the younger soldiers upstairs. She really hoped he was reading her mind on the way.
* * *
EXACTLY FIFTEEN STANDARD minutes later, she made her way down the winding staircase. Dtimun was looking at messages on his small virtual unit. He heard her steps—amazing, since the whole embassy was carpeted—and turned. His expression was too complex to classify, like the warping colors in his eyes.
She was enveloped in silken blue robes with gold trim. The robes covered her discreetly from her neck to her toes. The neck of the robes was draped in back just to the beginning of the creamy skin over her shoulder blades, displaying her nape. Her long reddish-gold hair had been pulled up and pinned in draping curls from a position high on her head by the weavemaster’s assistant, who had also applied the lightest touch of makeup. She looked elegant. Regal. Beautiful.
She felt awkward. She moved the rest of the way down the steps, watching carefully so that she didn’t trip over the unfamiliar skirts. “Next time could you just shoot me in the foot when you want to punish me, sir?” she asked.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You would grace a palace, madam,” he said quietly. He drew in a long sigh. “It is a great pity that there are so many differences between our species.”
She frowned. “Not that many,” she protested.
He laughed bitterly. “You have no idea. Come. We cannot be late.”
He moved in front of her and then stood aside at the door to let her exit first. There was a long, elegant diplomatic skimmer at the top of the steps, floating in midair, waiting for them. They entered quickly, standing by the rail, as the doors closed and the flyer zipped to the next row of buildings where the Altair embassy was located.
“I know where we could start a brawl,” she murmured to herself, provoking him.
His eyes cut around to meet hers. “I know where we could find a brig.”
She made a face. “I hate parties.”
“No more than I do, I assure you,” he returned stiffly.
They arrived at the Altair embassy and he stood aside to let her precede him. At the door, two blue-skinned officers were waiting to validate invitations.
“See, they have two guards at their doors. You only have one,” she said under her breath.
“One Cehn-Tahr suffices to keep out any number of intruders,” he replied. “Be quiet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He extended his invitation, indicated Madeline and was admitted to the flashy, neon-accented ballroom of the Altair embassy by vator tube.
“Fancy,” she mused, looking around.
“I have seen ragged carnivals with better taste.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You have?” she asked with pure mischief.
He glared at her.
“Commander Dtimun,” the Altairian ambassador said as he joined them. He was smiling, but cool. “I did not expect so high ranking an official at my poor reception.”
“Our ambassador was called away unexpectedly,” Dtimun said formally.
“And your companion...human? How...unorthodox. But she is lovely,” he added, giving Madeline a long look.
Madeline thought of planting her fist right in his teeth.
“Madam!” Dtimun said aloud.
She cleared her throat, flushed and smiled at the Altairian. “How kind of you to say so, sir,” she said.
He nodded and returned the smile.
“You do not recognize Dr. Ruszel?” Dtimun commented.
The ambassador did a comical double take. “Dr. Ruszel?” He peered closer and caught his breath. “No, I did not recognize you, Doctor. Forgive me.”
“I am out of uniform,” she sympathized with a cold glance at her commander.
“We are honored to have the Holconcom’s medical chief of staff among us,” he replied. “Please, enjoy our hospitality.”
“Thank you.”
Dtimun jerked his eyes toward the buffet table, a blatant hint that she was to leave him alone with the ambassador. She excused herself and set out to sample what she could stomach of the buffet. She sighed sadly when she realized that most of the dishes were what humans would describe as sushi. Not that she didn’t like it, when they docked at oceanic continents. But the Altairian idea of sushi came from sea lizards of a particularly poisonous species. She helped herself to a glass of synthale and nibbled on a dish of what she hoped was ground nuts.
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.
