The Morcai Battalion. Diana Palmer

Only empty space was left.

      “We leave no vessel behind where the enemy might salvage tech,” Komak explained.

      Stern’s eyebrow jerked carelessly. “She was a good ship,” he said quietly, and wondered why he didn’t feel a sense of loss for his command vessel.

      Komak drew to attention and jerked his head in a salute. “Commander, Dr. Madelineruszel,” he continued, running her names together again, “has requested supplies of morphadrenin and medical assistance. I informed her that we carry no medics, but…”

      “Dr. who?” Dtimun asked, frowning slightly.

      “The female with hair like sunfire,” Komak explained. “She is a medic among the humans. I have given her the mess hall on deck four for her surgery. Dr. Hahnson has the supply sector on deck four. The other crewmen of the Bellatrix await assignment. I did not know where to place them.”

      “Maliche, can no one function without using my brain?” the alien exploded with darkening eyes. “Ascertain their specialties and place them in the appropriate departments!”

      “The morphadrenin?” Komak persisted, apparently not put off by his superior’s bad humor.

      Dtimun actually seemed to flush with anger. “I carry on my person nothing save the communicator ring you see on my forefinger,” he told the younger alien. “I am not a walking ordnance store! Show the mutinous female where the synthesizer is located and acquaint her with its use!”

      “Yes, Commander.”

      “And make the humans aware that they must not come in contact with the kelekoms,” he added at once. “They carry unknown bacteria that might harm the machines.”

      Stern’s eyes almost popped. “Bacteria…”

      “The kelekoms are our, how do you say, supercomputers,” Komak explained at once. “They are living, self-repairing biological entities, and they are extremely sensitive to alien bacteria. If they become ill, they do not work.”

      Stern blinked, only half understanding what he was being told. This technology was far in advance of anything the Tri-Fleet had.

      “Tell Hahnson I will expect him to keep his medics in line, and out of the way of my crew,” Dtimun told Stern.

      The comment almost flew by Stern. He frowned. “Hahnson?”

      “He is chief of your medical staff, is he not?” Dtimun replied.

      “No, sir,” Stern told him. “Dr. Ruszel is.”

      Dtimun stared at him blankly. “The female? A female commands your medics?”

      Stern cleared his throat. “Sir, I do understand that Centaurian social structure is far different from our own. We don’t differentiate between male and female in our military. We’re mentally neutered to the degree that ’relationships’ between enlisted personnel are impossible. Even if they weren’t, it’s the only death penalty left on our books.”

      “Your military is mad,” Dtimun said flatly. “Women have no place in combat.”

      “If you tell that to Madeline Ruszel, make sure you have a running head start,” Stern murmured, tongue-in-cheek. “She started out as a member of our Amazon Commandos. In fact, she captained a squad of them.”

      Dtimun shook his head in disbelief. “How many other females do you have in your complement?”

      “We had thirty-six, but our entire Amazon unit was wiped out during the Rojok encounter,” Stern said quietly. “Madeline’s taking it hard. She went through training with the unit’s commander.”

      “Which does not answer my question,” Dtimun shot back.

      “We have one female in our crew, sir—Dr. Ruszel.”

      “She is quite lovely,” Komak said.

      Dtimun’s eyes darkened and he glared at the younger alien. “You have your orders. Obey them!”

      “Yes, Commander.” Komak saluted and turned. His eyes gave a green laugh as they met Stern’s. “Is his great affection for me not obvious?” he teased. “He…”

      “Domcan h’ab leche!” Dtimun thundered in Centaurian.

      “Yes, Commander!” Komak disappeared down the escape ladder, but his eyes were still laughing when he left the bridge.

      Dtimun turned to Stern. “Come with me.”

      Stern followed the tall alien into what appeared to be a briefing room of some sort. It was bare except for an oval desk and a smattering of chairs secured to the deck. Apparently the Centaurians also had trouble with occasional gravity failures. They were an infrequent but annoying nuisance on SSC ships.

      Dtimun perched himself on the edge of the desk and folded his arms over his broad chest as he studied Stern. “The nearest route to Trimerius,” he began, “will still require five solar days’ travel. During that time, certain things will be expected of you and your men.”

      “Such as?” Stern asked.

      “The majority of the Holconcom were reared in a clonery.” He waited for the shock to leave Stern’s face before he continued. “They have never known touch, save in battle. I know little of humans, but it is said that you are a physical race. Take care that none of you lay hands on the Holconcom, either in sport or anger. To do so could easily provoke a massacre. Second, I expect no interference from your personnel in the routine of this vessel. Conversation will be held strictly to military necessity. Nor will I tolerate idle wandering in the corridors. While aboard this ship, your men will adhere to its disciplines. All personnel will run from post to post, and the first man I catch using a ship’s elevator tube will be brigged.”

      “May I ask what the elevator tubes are for?” Stern asked with growing irritation.

      “For transport of casualties, Captain, and heavy equipment.” He glanced at a viewscreen on the desk and his huge eyes darkened to a somber, angry blue-gray. His fist slammed at a switch on the console. “Degas, your lightsteds are at one-half capacity. Explain!”

      The alien was speaking in his own tongue, but the machine simultaneously translated Centaurian into Terravegan Standard to Stern’s amazement. Perhaps the briefing room was constructed to allow conversation between alien races of different tongues.

      “If you please, Commander, I had just started to contact you,” the Centaurian officer said quickly. “My tramaks register a fleet of Rojok vessels closing in from several deshcam away in all directions, all sending out force nets to mesh the distance between them!”

      “Well, Mister?” Dtimun demanded, eyeing his comtech over the viewscreen.

      The Centaurian officer met those accusing eyes levelly. “We are cut off from Trimerius, Commander,” he said matter-of-factly. “The Rojok fleet is attempting to press us into their advance lines. Once that is accomplished…”

      Dtimun nodded. “Yes,” he said, cutting the officer off midsentence.

      The thought of capture by the Rojoks was oddly satisfying to Stern. He caught himself before a smile flared on his face, and wondered at the unfamiliar feelings that had begun to race through his mind; alien, traitorous feelings that frightened him. Strange, he thought, how those feelings had suddenly and completely replaced his earlier headaches. He hadn’t been the same since they lifted from the Peace Planet.

      “Tekar, can you beam a message through that net?” Dtimun asked his comtech on the bridge.

      Another alien face came into view on the screen. “No, Commander,” came the reply. “Our strongest megabeams cannot pierce the molecular density of the barrier.”

      Before Dtimun had time for another question, Madeline Ruszel came storming into the briefing room, her flowing auburn hair sweaty in spite of the cool atmosphere, her green eyes blazing. Stern ground his teeth together