The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit. Diana Palmer

CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       GLOSSARY AND CHARACTERS

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      BATTERED AND SORE, Dr. Madeline Ruszel stood at attention in front of the Holconcom commander, Dtimun. The tall alien perched on the edge of his liquiform desk with his arms crossed, glaring at her. His cat-eyes, which changed color to mirror his mood, were the dark brown of anger.

      She knew she looked unpresentable. Her red Holconcom uniform was stained with synthale and her own blood. She was disheveled and bruised. Her long, wavy reddish-gold hair was in a tangle all the way to her waist, and also sweaty from her recent activities in the base officers’ lounge. Contacted by the base military police unit, after her apprehension, Dtimun had ordered Ruszel brought to the Morcai, the flagship of the integrated Cehn-Tahr and human commando unit known as the Holconcom.

      He hadn’t said a word since she arrived, with bruises just coming out on the soft skin of her face, around one of her green eyes. She’d been standing at attention for several minutes, waiting for the explosion. Holconcom were forbidden to engage in brawls. That included not only the Cehn-Tahr complement, but the humans as well. The elite and feared military unit had, unknown to the human commanders of the Tri-Galaxy Fleet, genetically engineered superior strength, plus microcyborg enhancers that made brawling extremely dangerous. Besides that, Madeline was a combat surgeon. By constitutional galactic law, medical personnel were denied that sort of recreation.

      Of course, they were also denied the use of sidearms. Madeline tried to conceal the one she was carrying tucked in her waistband, under her tunic, from the alien’s penetrating gaze.

      Finally, he spoke. “You are out of uniform, madam,” he growled, indicating her uniform, unbuttoned at the throat.

      She raised one hand and quickly fastened the button.

      “And you are carrying a firearm,” he continued. “Firearms are forbidden to medical personnel. You are a doctor.”

      Technically, she wasn’t only a doctor of medicine, but an internist in Cularian medicine, an anthropological group which included the Cehn-Tahr—or Centaurians, as they were incorrectly known by humans—and their worst enemies, Rojoks. In her past, Madeline had captained an Amazon commando squad and had routinely carried a service weapon. But she wasn’t going to push her luck by reminding him of that fact, given the state of his temper. His expression might be benign, but his elongated slit-pupiled cat-eyes were still brown. Grimacing, she tugged the Jebob disruptor from her belt, stepped forward and laid it gently on the desk beside him. She returned to attention.

      “Would you care to explain the purple discoloration around your left eye?” he added.

      “It’s called a black eye,” she informed him merrily. “That would be from Flannegan’s fist. Sir.”

      He made a rough sound deep in his throat and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I assume that you do have some justification for throwing Flannegan through the expensive antique glass patio doors at the officers’ club?”

      She brightened, although she still hadn’t quite met his eyes. “Yes, sir!”

      “Which is...?” he prompted.

      “Flannegan called you a cat-eyed benny-whammer. Sir,” she added formally.

      He just stared at her, as if he had doubts about her sanity.

      “How can I justify the dignity of your position aboard the Morcai,” he began solemnly, “as the only female, human or otherwise, ever to serve aboard her, when you spend hours in various bars across the base embarrassing both the Holconcom and me?”

      She shook her head. “Sir, the honor of the unit was at stake,” she said earnestly. “You must see that we...” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I, had to defend your honor.”

      “We.” His eyes grew darker.

      “Me. I. Myself.” She gathered speed.

      “And Stern,” he guessed, “and Hahnson and Komak.” The other two human officers, Captain Holt Stern and Dr. Strick Hahnson, were Madeline’s longtime comrades. Komak, a Cehn-Tahr, was Dtimun’s second in command.

      She met his eyes, aghast. “Sir, I never said that...!”

      He drew in a breath. “It is useless to try to deceive me.”

      She straightened even more. “I’m really very sorry, sir,” she said. “I waded in to punish Flannegan, and his buddies in the First Fleet attacked me. I was outnumbered, so the others intervened to save me from them.”

      “A pity,” he muttered darkly, “that they are not here to save you from me.”

      “I was about to say that myself, sir,” she returned brightly. Her green eyes were twinkling, despite all her efforts to appear sincere.

      The humor was contagious, apparently, because his cat-eyes flared into a green smile, if only briefly, before the angry brown returned.

      “Brawling,” he scoffed. “Not only does it reflect poorly on your profession, but you have no business displaying a firearm to the entire base.”

      “I had to relieve Flannegan of the firearm, sir—he’d taken it from a Jebob officer and he was using the grip to batter my head.”

      His eyes narrowed. “I will remind you once more that medical personnel are not allowed sidearms. Lawson insists on it, and so do I.”

      Her green eyes glittered at him defiantly. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not going into a combat situation unarmed, whether or not Admiral Lawson likes it.”

      Dtimun stood up, shaking his head. “Your previous combat history as a captain with the Amazon Division is at war with your professional credentials as a healer. It will lead to grief.”

      “I always hide the firearm, sir,” she assured him.

      He turned, scowling, and gave her a long look that took in the nice fit of her red Holconcom uniform. There were no pockets. Neither was there room for a weapon. “Should I ask where you hide the firearm?” he questioned unexpectedly.

      She gave him a horrified look. “Sir!” she exclaimed with mock embarrassment.

      “At least reassure me that all of your Cehn-Tahr crewmates removed their microcyborgs before you engaged in this senseless slaughter,” he replied, trying to salvage something from the encounter. This was a deliberate deception, also. The microcyborgs were strength-enhancers, used by the Cehn-Tahr clones of the Holconcom. But their contribution to Dtimun and Komak’s physical superiority was minute. Dtimun and Komak were not clones. The humans had no idea of the real nature of the Cehn-Tahr.

      “Komak collected them the minute Flannegan called you a cat-eyed...called you a name,” she amended quickly, “and I threw a bar stool at him,” she assured him with a muffled grin.

      He let out a long sigh and waved a hand at her. “Get out of my office,” he muttered. “And stay out of the base officers’ club until I give you official permission to return there.”

      “Yes, sir!”

      “And, you are grounded until further notice.”

      “Yes, sir!”

      He glared at her as she started to leave. “Take that weapon and give it back to Flannegan. And if I catch you carrying a firearm into combat,” he began with the threat in his tone and his posture, “I will stand you up in