The Morcai Battalion. Diana Palmer

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      “My pleasure,” the alien replied icily. “Consider it done. By Simalichar, what manner of creatures are you humans, that you dress your women as men and send them into combat to die?”

      “Barbarians,” Madeline said sweetly. “Sir,” she added in a drawl guaranteed to provoke him.

      The alien stared at her for a long moment, during which she mentally reviewed what she knew about Centaurians to make sure they didn’t eat humans.

      The officer turned away. “Komak!” he called sharply.

      A younger, red-uniformed Centaurian ran to his commanding officer and saluted. “Yes, Commander?”

      “Take Marcon’s body to the ship and have it urned.” His tone was deceptively gentle. His eyes were unnerving to Madeline. “Inform Tnurat Alamantimichar and the Council of his death, and of Lyceria’s capture.”

      “It will be done as you say.”

      The tall alien moved out into the throng of ambulifts. His gaze missed nothing as they wandered restlessly around the ruins. “These casualties will be lifted, of course?” he asked deliberately.

      Madeline saluted, hating herself for what she was about to say. But her sense of outrage was stronger than her sense of loyalty. “Sir, Captain Stern ordered us to leave them here….”

      “Yes, I did,” Stern growled, glaring at her. His head throbbed suddenly. He touched his hand to it. “We don’t have the space to lift them,” he added tightly. “The damned Rojoks swiped the Jaakob Spheres, in addition to the carnage they did here. I have to get the surviving sci-archaeo scientists and their data banks back to HQ. These clones—” he emphasized the word as if it were dirty “—will have to wait.”

      The alien glared down at him. “A life is a life,” he said coldly. “You will not leave these wounded behind. I will transport them myself.”

      “Transport them, hell!” Stern’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’m in command here. This is a Terravegan Strategic Space Command rescue operation, and you don’t touch those pilgrims without authorization from the Tri-Galaxy Council!”

      “By Simalichar!” The alien’s eyes dilated and darkened even more. “You have no authority here save what I allow you! The Holconcom are here by Council request.”

      “I don’t care if the tooth fairy sent you,” Stern countered hotly. “This is my operation and until I get authorization from SSC HQ, it’s going to be handled my way!”

      “Mister,” the alien said irritably, “you are a pain in the…so you need authorization, do you?” he added. “I’ll show you my authorization. Holconcom!”

      Even before the sharp command died on the air, Stern found himself surrounded by nine red-uniformed Centaurians in attack formation, slightly crouching, with eyes that chilled like a fever. A soft, low growl began to rise from the unit. It made the hair on the back of Stern’s neck stand up.

      “This,” the Centaurian officer said shortly, “is my authorization. Interfere at your own risk.”

      Stern palmed his Gresham and activated it. “Your choice,” he replied.

      “Hold it! Hold it!” Strick Hahnson came puffing up, stepping out of nowhere to get between the two antagonists. “Stern, put up the Gresham,” he said breathlessly. “You’re outranked, and if you need verification for that, I can give it. I fought with this officer in the Elyrian uprising. Captain Holt Stern, this is Dtimun, commander-in-chief of the Holconcom.”

      Stern hesitated, but only for an instant, before he deactivated the Gresham and put it away. The throbbing started again in his temples.

      “I know you, Strick Hahnson,” Dtimun said in recognition, and extended his arm. The darkness in his eyes had paled into a warm shade of light brown.

      Hahnson gripped forearms with the alien. “I know you, Dtimun. You carry your years well.”

      “At the moment, they lie heavily upon me. Marcon is dead. Lyceria is almost certainly a captive of the Rojoks. And your captain,” he growled, eyeing Stern, “proposes the desertion of these survivors, most of whom are Jebob and Altairian nationals, allies of the Centaurian Empire. The Rojoks will most certainly come back to finish what they started here, and these wounded will be slaughtered. I will not have an interplanetary incident on my hands because of one officer’s warped sense of duty. I will transport them aboard the Morcai.” He turned to his men, who were still crouching, still faintly growling. “Holconcom, degrom c’hamas!”

      The Holconcom stood erect at once, spread out among the ambulifts, and began to move them toward the Centaurian scout.

      “Now, just hold it a minute!” Stern began.

      Hahnson caught his arm and drew him quickly aside, with Madeline right beside him. She hadn’t said a word, too angry to open her mouth at the treatment she’d received from the alien.

      “Holt, there’s been enough killing,” he said gently. “Dtimun was fond of Marcon, and his temper is legend. He’ll call the Holconcom down on you for little more than breathing. Let it go.”

      Stern sighed with frustration. His eyes went past Dtimun to the clones in the ambulifts. Something stirred inside him, remembering the alien’s words. A life was a life—but, even an artificially created one? Was it entitled to the same rights as a naturally born being? For a moment, a soft compassion touched the eyes that lingered on the tortured bodies of the alien children. Then, with the returning pain in his head, it was gone.

      “You read too damned many space legends, Strick,” he told Hahnson. “They’re just a bunch of cat-eyes to me. But all right. All right, dammit, I don’t have time to argue. I’ve got to get my people back home before the Rojoks come back and catch us on the ground. Medics! Let’s move out!”

      Stern walked away.

      Madeline looked up at Hahnson quietly. “He’s not himself,” she said. “I had to tell the Holconcom commander that he was planning to abandon these wounded. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.”

      He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled. “It’s okay, kid,” he said, using the pet name that was against regulations.

      She grinned up at him. “You’re a nice old man.”

      He chuckled. “I’m only ten years older than you, hotshot,” he returned.

      She started to reply, but the alien commander was suddenly looking at her. The impact of his eyes was a little frightening, even to an exobiologist who specialized in Cularian medicine, to which group Centaurians belonged. She’d studied Centaurians in textdiscs in medical school. But as she was learning, textdiscs were no match for personal encounters. She found him intimidating.

      Odd, the sudden pull of her mind, as if it was being examined. She shook herself. She was definitely getting fanciful, and she had work to do. She turned and went back to the ambutubes, doing what she could to sedate the most wounded.

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