The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit. Diana Palmer

      “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.