and remember it well. Nor do I harbor concern for the Holconcom ship, which has been cut off by the Rojok vessels,” he added with an amused glance at the Centaurian delegate, whose fine lips pulled into a very human smile. “My sympathy, rather, is for the Rojoks. We will call a vote.”
Lawson saluted Lokar and left the chamber. He knew when he left what the outcome would be. He only regretted that it had taken so many lives, and Tnurat Alamantimichar’s threat, to open the eyes of those diplomatic moles. So many human lives, so many atrocities…
Then he remembered the reference to the Holconcom rescue operation. He permitted himself a tiny smile. The Bellatrix. It had to be. And Captain Holt Stern and his crew were alive after all. But for how long? Humans and Holconcom together, in a confined space, under pressure. The Holconcom would slaughter them with little provocation. They knew nothing of humans. Only Dtimun had any real experience of them, and he was notorious for his dislike of the entire species. His heart sank. Perhaps it would have been more merciful for the humans if a Rojok blast had claimed the Bellatrix with all aboard!
The harsh sound of Rojok voices brought Lyceria back to consciousness. Waves of vertigo wound through her head as she tried to sit up on the bed. She peered through the dim light toward the door. Behind it, a flood of Rojok voices rushed in at her. Three voices; one obliging and placating, one defensive, one harsh and threatening.
The autodoor zipped up. One lone Rojok entered the small cubicle. He walked with authority. He was tall, reddish-skinned, hard-muscled. His long shock of blond hair was neatly trimmed, flowing down over the high collar of his black, long-sleeved uniform jacket. His slacks followed powerful legs down into heavy black boots. His slit-eyes peered at her from a lean, stern face that showed no emotion. His sleeves displayed a pattern of mesag marks that denoted high rank, as did the long hair, which only officers were permitted to wear. He had faint scars on his face, and lines around his eyes. He was a warrior.
Lyceria stood up, only a little intimidated, preparing herself for whatever was to come. “Am I now to be taken to Ahkmau?” she asked.
A flicker of shock touched the alien face. The Rojok’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tautened proudly. “It is not the custom of the Rojok,” he said in perfect Centaurian accents, “to condemn royalty to the death camps.”
“No?” A tiny smile touched her full lips. “I was told that if I did not comport myself as expected, I would be placed there.”
The Rojok glared toward the door where the other two aliens stiffened, quickly saluted and moved back a safe distance. In different circumstances, the action would have been amusing to Lyceria.
When he looked back at her, his eyes were still narrow with fury. “No more threats will be made against you. You have my word.”
“It is said,” she replied, “that the word of a Rojok is as the wind.”
“Is it also said of the word of Chacon?”
Her eyes flashed brown at the Rojok as she recognized him from textdiscs. Here was no ordinary soldier. This was the most powerful field marshal of the Rojok army, the most famous of them all.
“You!” She stepped forward, momentarily forgetting the required dignity of her station. “Murderer of women and children! Torturer of boys!”
A muscle in his cheek flinched. “The attack on Terramer was perpetrated without my knowledge,” he stated flatly. “As was the murder of your brother. Those responsible will be punished.”
“And what punishment will return my brother to me, Commander Chacon?” she asked bitterly. “Tell me that.”
“I cannot undo what was done. Atrocities are frequently committed in the name of war, by all soldiers.” His eyes softened slightly. “Come. You will be provided more suitable quarters.”
“In your prison, no doubt.”
He watched her quietly, with eyes as deft as a hunter’s aim. “Your bitterness is understandable. But bitterness is an acid. Beware, lest it eat you alive.”
“Grief is not shared with outworlders,” she told him.
“Not among Rojoks.” He stood aside to let her pass. “Have you eaten?”
“I care for nothing,” she replied. Inside, her ribs felt near collapse from the three-day fast.
“You will eat,” he said, “or you will be fed forcibly. Do you understand? I will not allow you to commit suicide.”
“Allow?” She looked at him defiantly, with brown anger coloring her pupils. “And do you think to dictate to me?”
He smiled. A thin, self-confident smile that was disconcerting. “Until the war is over, at least. You are a political prisoner. As such, you will tolerate my ‘dictates.’”
“And the consequences?” she chided. “Shall you send me to Ahkmau?”
“If you continue to oppose me, you may be sent to my harem,” he warned mockingly.
Had she known how, she would have blushed. A mingling of color touched her eyes, and she hid them from him. Dtimun would teach this Rojok choapha manners. Among other lessons the Holconcom would provide.
Stern was still nursing hostility when he went into the mess hall with Madeline and Hahnson two “days” later. The tension in the room was so thick it could have been filleted.
The compartment was filled to capacity, with humans and Centaurians sitting uncomfortably integrated at the long tables. The close quarters bred tension.
The ship was still running from the oncoming net of Rojok ships, which it had managed to avoid with amazing tactical skill. Stern was beginning to believe the C.O.’s reputation for eluding superior forces. Apparently there was some sort of technology in use that was able to broadcast false ion trails to lead the Rojok ships astray. How long that would continue to work was anyone’s guess. Meanwhile, hope was growing that the vessel would make neutral Benaski Port in time.
The situation aboard the Morcai, however, was growing desperate. In the past twenty-four standard hours, disaster had been averted by seconds on every deck. The mixture of aliens and humans grew more explosive by the minute. Thanks to the translators, the humans understood enough Centaurian to realize that they were being chided, denigrated and insulted with every other breath. The Holconcom were eloquent about their distaste for having to share quarters with those they thought of as inferior beings. They abused the humans for being unable to meet the same physical challenges as the Centaurians. They chided them for their lack of stamina. The humans, on the other hand, knew that the Centaurians were clones, and treated them with contempt. Among human colonies, clones had no status, no rights, and were frequently kept in cooling tanks in suspended animation and used as spare parts for their originals.
Some of the Centaurians had to move out of their quarters to accommodate the unexpected guests aboard their vessel. The humans got in the way of routine. They didn’t understand Centaurian discipline, they didn’t follow the protocols, and they acted as if they owned the ship. Stern made no attempt to smooth things over. Hahnson had, but his misgivings grew when he noticed how careless Stern’s attitude was to the growing danger. He’d mentioned it to Komak, who frowned and commented that perhaps a word to Dtimun would be wise. The exec offered to speak to his
