The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit. Diana Palmer

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.