The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack Read online

  No, it hadn’t. Why else would there be so much room left over?

  Lutane nodded slowly. She was looking at the inside of what had been a public meeting hall of some kind, adapted for use as a com center.

  “Here, Lieutenant. We found an extra.”

  “Huh?” Lutane looked up just as a private shoved a chair toward her knees. “Oh. Thanks, Londol.” She folded into the chair, then had to fight to keep herself from folding, period. “You were a journalist back home, weren’t you, Londol?”

  “Yes, sir. I worked on the Galathian with Bullam over there.”

  “Well, the two of you, get busy being reporters again. Listen in on the com, then call in and get the details on how each unit won. Then assemble them for broadcast.”

  Londol smiled. “We know the process, sir.”

  Lutane just nodded wearily, and settled back to watch as the room quieted. There were comments back and forth between technicians, broken by occasional warbling announcements in Khalian—but aside from that, the com center was mostly quiet. Londol and Bullam settled themselves at desks and began making calls. Lutane listened idly, feeling a glow of accomplishment—and the regret of having killed sentients, no matter how vicious they’d been.

  After a while, she frowned, realizing that a pattern was building up. The units reporting in had taken terrible losses, between thirty and fifty percent, but the Khalia had been virtually annihilated, since they fought ferociously and refused to surrender. The only prisoners were the ones who were wounded too badly to fight back—and most of those would probably die in a few hours.

  But that wasn’t the case with their “allies,” as Captain Rakoan had called them. The featherheads were running at the first sign of a fight, which wasn’t surprising, since none of them seemed to be armed. They didn’t even carry belt knives. But they did have an appalling tendency to get caught in the cross fire, and there were more dead featherheads than dead Khalia.

  “Lieutenant!”

  Lutane looked up to see Olerein coming up to her. Then her eyes widened, and she came to her feet, because in front of Olerein marched two featherheads, hands pressed to their chests, trembling—and in front of them was a much smaller one, doing a good imitation of an earthquake. Lutane stared at the little one, remembering the two other little ones she’d seen in the featherhead house, and a lot of things began to make sense. She lifted her head and called, “Anybody speak featherhead?”

  The room was quiet. Then Londol said, “No Lieutenant.”

  Lutane cursed and yanked out her commset. “Lieutenant Lutane calling Captain Rakoan.”

  The plate glowed. Then Rakoan’s face appeared. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “We have some featherhead, prisoners, sir.”

  “Those we have plenty of, all sizes. Anything interesting about them?”

  Lutane eyed the aliens. “Guess not, sir; I was, uh, hoping you could, uh, spare, a translator.”

  “‘Fraid not, Lieutenant. The ones we have are all busier than a beekeeper without a mask. Let me know if you find out anything interesting; all right?”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir.” Lutane killed her commset and racked it as she looked up at Olerein. “I hate to give up my chair, but it’s the only thing to tie them to. Make ‘em sit down, Olerein. Londol!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring some rope.”

  She studied the featherheads as Olerein and Londol bound them. There wasn’t enough chair for the two big ones, but at least they had some support for sitting. She picked up the little one—it squalled frantically and struggled like an eel—and put it on the laps of the big ones just as Londol looped a rope around it. “Bring another chair as soon as you can find one, Olerein. Where’d you find ‘em?”

  “Ground level, Lieutenant. There’s a lift-tube at the back of the building . . .”

  “A lift-tube?” Lutane looked up, startled.

  “Yeah.” Olerein grinned. “We could have come up the back way and caught the weasels in a cross fire. But, the door that opens into the entry fits the wall so tightly we passed it by. Besides that, there’s just the room at the back, where I found these two. They were cowering in a corner, hugging each other.”

  Lutane’s eyes narrowed. “What else was in the room?”

  Olerein shrugged. “Just knives, ladles, pots, ovens . . .”

  “Food preparation.” Lutane scowled at the featherheads, who shrank in on themselves at the sight of her glare. “What have we got here, the cook, the butler, and the pot-boy?”

  Londol nodded, “That would make sense, sir. From the way they’re cowering, I’d sure say they aren’t soldiers.”

  “Yeah.” Lutane frowned and pulled out her commset. “Lieutenant Lutane to Captain Rakoan. Over.”

  The plate glowed to life, with Rakoan glowering out at her. “This had better be good, Lieutenant.”

  Lutane swallowed hard. “I hope so, sir. Remember your hypothesis, that the featherheads might be allies instead of slaves?”

  Rakoan frowned. “Of course.”

  “Well, mine are quaking in their boots, sir. I don’t see any way they could have been any kind of soldiers.”

  Rakoan’s frown softened to brooding. “Yeah. You’re not the only one who’s said that. In fact, everyone who’s taken featherhead prisoners says they’re scared gutless.”

  But Lutane heard a report coming in to Londol. “Wait, sir! The assault on the admin center?”

  “Successful, Lieutenant, though they took more than fifty percent casualties. They had to fight their way up those ramps, inch by inch. Why?”

  “Because of the stairs!”

  “Stairs? What stairs, Lieutenant?”

  “The ones in this building, sir! The admin center was one of the new ones, wasn’t it?” She rushed on, not waiting for an answer. “And our com center is, one of the old buildings! It has stairs!”

  Rakoan was turning thunderous. “Explain the import of this contrast, please, Lieutenant. What difference does it make if they’ve updated their architecture?”

  “Because they would have had no reason to change from stairs to ramps, sir! None of the Khalia ships we’ve captured have ever had stairs—and their bases, haven’t had them, either! Khalia have very short legs; ramps are much more convenient for them! They probably never even invented stairs!”

  Rakoan straightened, understanding coming into his eyes. “Assuming you’re right, Lieutenant . . .”

  “If I’m right, the building I’m in wasn’t built for Khalia! They captured it and converted it, but. the stairwells didn’t give ‘em room for ramps, so they had to suffer with the steps or put in a lift.”

  Rakoan nodded slowly. “That makes sense, yes. But I still don’t see its import.”

  “Then think about this one with it—why aren’t there any Khalian juveniles here? Or teachers? Or nursemaids?”

  Rakoan began to look thoughtful. He reached off-plate to key a pick-up, “All stations that have wrapped up hostilities, report. Have you found a juvenile Khalian? Out.”

  Lutane waited on tenterhooks as the other platoons reported in, one by one. Finally, Rakoan looked up at her, his expression dark. “Not a single juvenile, Lieutenant—and of course, no Khalian responsible for taking care of one. Would you like to . . .”

  “But there are featherhead juveniles, sir! I’ve got one! How many have the other platoons found?”

  Rakoan frowned and keyed the unseen pick-up again. “All stations report. Have you found small-sized featherheads?”

  Lutane held her breath as the seconds ticked by and tinny voices buzzed through the plate.

  “Out.” Rakoan looked up, nodding heavily. “None of the troops in any of the public buildings have found any small featherheads, but the ones who are conducting the house-to-house search have found a lot.”

  “Have they found any K
halia?” Lutane burst out.

  Rakoan frowned and admitted, “Only a few. And in those houses, the featherheads have been huddled in fear.”

  Lutane frowned. “They aren’t cowering in the houses where there aren’t any Khalia?”

  “Not really. When our troops break in, they run for cover—then they cower.” He sighed. “I see your point, Lieutenant—the featherheads aren’t Khalian allies. Command was right—they’re slaves.” He frowned. “But I still say there’re way too many of them. Why would the Khalia have imported so many slaves of this one race?”

  “Yes, sir. There are so many, many more of them, than of any other species—and vastly more than there are Khalia.”

  Rakoan sighed and shrugged. “I suppose it’s not all that unlikely for slaves to outnumber the masters, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir, but not at interstellar freight rates. FTL ships have to be the single most expensive way of importing labor ever developed.”

  “Where else do you think the Khalia would get their servants?”

  “From every ship they’ve conquered,” Lutane answered, “as excess baggage—but not as the primary cargo. If they were, there wouldn’t be any more of the featherheads than of any other race. And I don’t think the Khalia are so swollen with booty as to be able to bring in that many more of anyone species—with their children, too.”

  “So maybe the children were born here. After all, what’re . . .” Rakoan broke off, his eyes widening.

  “Yes, sir.” Lutane nodded. “The Khalia got bored with stealing ships and moved on to bigger and, better things. This time, they hijacked ‘a whole blasted planet!”

  Rakoan nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. “And if they did, then the featherheads aren’t allies or imported slaves.”

  “No, sir.” Lutane shook her head. “They’re the natives.”

  The papers said the name was Neuton Bedfort Smythe. To Isaac Meier he represented a greater threat than the Khalia. Smythe was the special investigator appointed by the Alliance Council to investigate the “Target Fiasco.” He was currently at the Admiral’s desk, the heels of his shoes scraping gouges in a redwood desktop (that had been imported from Earth at Admiral Meier’s personal expense) while he was randomly accessing the files and reading them.

  “Just trying to get the feel of it,” the special investigator had explained. The grapevine (admirals listen to it as well; that’s why they are admirals) was saying that he was looking for atrocities. The Admiral had a private theory that waste was first on the special investigator’s list. Senators like waste; finding it makes the taxpayers happy. Happier yet as they were still smarting under the recent increase required to finance the expansion of the Fleet to a wartime establishment.

  Even though all this interfered with his preparations for the final attack on the real Khalian home world, Admiral Meier had to admit the Council’s dissatisfaction was justified, if ironic.

  Politicians always look for the quick fix, for the easy, and more importantly, cheap solution. Some of those fools on the Strategy Board had been only too willing to tell the Council what they wanted to hear.

  The attack on Target had been billed as the final solution to the entire Khalian problem. Instead it had unquestionably demonstrated that problem to be ten times as serious as was previously thought. Now the Strategy Board looked like fools, and he had to deal with Smythe.

  With a resigned sigh, the aged Admiral settled back and slaved his console to the one Smythe was using. Now he could be aware of what the investigator was viewing. Meier was relieved when the next file accessed was labeled Medical Corps. No chance of trouble there, not even a combat unit.

  THE CENTRAL LIFE-MONITOR screen lit up, pinpointing the positions of soldiers down on Target wearing Fleet medical monitors in their gear. Even as the dots glowed into life, some of them began blinking distress, and just as quickly, others went blue. By watching, one could map out where action was taking place, and where the Fleet was losing ground. As positions stabilized, the medical ships moved in to pick up the survivors who were not able to get to their personnel carriers on foot. And the bodies of those that didn’t survive. It was the Fleet tradition to bring back every combatant, alive or dead, for reasons of honor, if not because of what the Khalians did to those left behind.

  Hospital ships were supposed to be inviolate in battle. Elizabeth Blackwell, though unarmed herself, had an escort of three heavily armed battle cruisers to make that so. The Elizabeth, as the main hospital ship, had a complement of over six hundred doctors, researchers, diagnosticians, and technicians on board and standing by.

  Sixty scooters—medical shuttles—were already flashing their way between the ship and the battle, carrying away the Fleet’s wounded and dead. Each worked its own territory which overlapped slightly with that of its nearest neighbors, so that no wounded man would go untended.

  The streamlined scooters, at just under twenty-five feet in length, were among the smallest ships employed by the Fleet. They consisted mostly of engine, fuel, and powerful boosters designed for easy, rapid landing and takeoff. They were sprinters, not intended for long trips. The small cabin contained a compact primary care unit where a doctor could sustain life in up to sixteen beings while they were evacuated to a full-service hospital.

  Inducer units were as much standard issue on a scooter as in the hospital ships. They were used during surgery to put a subject under without chemical anesthesia by broadcasting relaxing alpha waves to the lower centers of the brain, and did not interfere with normal dreaming of REM sleep. Violent or distressed patients often lay under its influence to halt manic spirals of energy. And it was common practice for doctors to use the device on themselves when running long, irregular shifts. It relaxed them enough to get in a little shut-eye. In fact, for anyone used to its effects, it would work almost instantly.

  The computer woke Dr. Mack Dalle up from under the inducer in his research laboratory. He had crawled under for a much-needed nap when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to, sleep because of the excitement and anxiety surrounding the coming battle. Which, obviously, must be going on right now. He pushed the square metal hood up and lurched over to his intercom. “Dalle,” he grunted into the audio pick-up, almost falling against the switch in the effort to turn the com unit on. Six hours of sleep, the holographic analog clock face informed him. Almost his normal allotment, though induced sleep tended to be more restful. He felt as though he had been under for over eight.

  “Can you wake up, Mack?” a female voice requested from the unit. The color monitor screen resolved into the image of a human woman with large brown eyes and dark blue hair streaked with white.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mack said, stifling a yawn and giving her his whole attention. Commander Iris Tolbert, herself a neurochemist, and a good friend of Mack’s, had been assigned as dispatcher of the Medical Shuttles for the assault against Target. “Just inducer sleep. I’m fine.”

  “Good. I need a pilot,” she told him, looking as if she was under great strain. “Scooter FMS-47 is not responding to signal, and I haven’t been able to raise the scooter-jockey, Leodli Schawn. The computer reports no life forms on board except a couple of critical patients who were reported by Leo herself. Fleet controller refuses to lend me a pilot to retrieve a medical shuttle, so I’m forced to deprive myself of the services of a doctor.” Commander Tolbert let one corner of her mouth go up in a sour half-grin. “You.”

  “Whatever you say,” Dalle said matter-of-factly, moving out of the viewscreen’s range. He assembled clean medical coveralls from a storage cabinet and made for the small bathroom attached to the lab suite. He caught sight of himself in the mirrors over the line of scrub sinks and groaned. He looked like a terminal patient himself. Bags under his eyes, lines around his mouth, hair ruffled into a shock. He swiped at his hair with one hand.

  “I say we have to get those soldiers aboard,” Tolbe
rt’s voice said, fiercely. “You won’t have time even for a shower,” she commanded, guessing his thoughts. “You’ll go down with Dray Kavid in FMS-38. I’ve called the flight deck. He’s expecting you, so you’d better get a move on. Tolbert out.” The screen went blank just as Dane moved in front of it. With a sigh, he stepped out of his sweat-smelling off-duty jumpsuit and reluctantly pulled the white flight coverall up over his tall, thin frame. The suit was stenciled on both chest and back with the stylized red caduceus of the Medical Corps. On his way out of the lab suite, he called Stores for an extra diagnosti-kit to be waiting for him at the launch bay.

  * * *

  The scooter shot away from the Elizabeth like a waterbug on a pond, frictionless. In the distant blackness around Target, Dalle could see the tiny rectangles of other scooters moving to and fro, silver in the planet’s reflected corona.

  “The battle is gone from our sectors,” Kavid told him. He was a somber black-haired pilot with some paramedical training, and a lot of experience in bussing live freight. “Half the scooters are still hovering. God, the place is full of those stupid feather-faces. If they’re not staring at you in droves, they’re getting in the way. They live here, you know? It’s been all over the waves. They’re the native life form, and they’re greedy little buggers. I caught one of the short ones trying to make off with my medikit. They’ll steal anything.”