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Madeline’s teeth clenched. “And he’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”
Edris only nodded.
Madeline turned with a sigh. Dtimun was glaring down at her with both hands locked behind his back, looking stern and unapproachable.
“Shall we lengthen the period of your confinement to the base by two standard weeks?” he asked.
“Now, sir, why would we want to do that?” Madeline asked innocently.
He pursed his lips. “From now on, I intend to have your equipment bag searched every time we leave the ship.”
She groaned.
He nodded curtly, turned and jogged off down the corridor.
Edris, wisely, didn’t say a word. Dr. Ruszel’s face was almost as red as her hair with bad temper.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_79852100-25f7-5ad0-8992-359d6365fd2d)
MADELINE WAS CATCHING up on reports on her virtual desk when a flash came in from Admiral Lawson.
She answered it at once. “Yes, sir?” she said respectfully.
He grimaced. “I hate to have to ask you to do this, Ruszel,” he replied, “but everybody else cut me off the minute I mentioned a personal dispatch I needed to send to Dtimun...” He waited. She didn’t protest. He grinned. “I knew you had the guts to do it.”
She sighed. “Everybody else is afraid of him, especially lately,” she confided. “He’s been in a sour mood. Not my fault,” she added at once. “I haven’t done a thing to upset him.”
Lawson reserved judgment on that, but he didn’t say so. “I’m flashing the dispatch to you. Top secret. Eyes only. I can’t trust anyone else to transport it.”
She blinked when it appeared, in solid form, in her cyberreconstitutor “in” tray. “Sir, you couldn’t flash it to the C.O.?”
He shrugged. “I could, if he’d answer his unit. He won’t.” His face tautened. “He won’t like the dispatch, but I have to give it to him. You’ll find him at the Cehn-Tahr embassy, by the way, getting ready for some big reception at the Altair center. He’s not happy that he has to go and represent his government. Their own ambassador refused to go and was recalled.”
She pursed her lips. “My, my, imagine that. It must be something big.”
“Something. Get going. He’ll be leaving shortly. If you have to chase him down to the Altair embassy, the Altairians will never let you through the door in uniform.”
“They’d have to,” she commented, “because I’m not changing my uniform for skirts even for diplomacy’s sake.”
He chuckled. “I don’t blame you. Not a lot of human females in the Holconcom,” he added with a grin. Her place as the only female in that crack unit made him proud.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, smiling back.
He cut the connection. She looked at her screen with dismay. There were eight reports left to do. It was going to be a long night, she thought as she disabled the unit. But, hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.
* * *
SHE HAD TO GET a military skimmer to the embassy. The building was, like most things Cehn-Tahr, smooth and rounded and elegant, a fantasy of blue and gold lights, the colors of the Cehn-Tahr Imperial Royal Clan. She dismissed the robot transport and walked up the steps, declining the vator tube. She wondered how much trouble she was going to have getting inside the embassy. Humans weren’t exactly welcome here, even if a whole detachment of them served with the Holconcom.
A uniformed sentry waited at the door. With a hopeful smile, she started to present her arm, with its ID chip, but he saluted her at once and activated his comm unit.
“Dr. Madeline Ruszel of the Holconcom to see the commander,” he spoke into it.
Her surprise was visible. She hadn’t realized that she was known here. There was a long pause.
“Send her,” came the terse reply.
Madeline grimaced. “Oh, boy,” she said to herself. “He’s not in the mood for company.”
“It is the Altairian reception,” the sentry confided. “None of us like the Altair delegation...”
A rush of angry Cehn-Tahr poured forth from the comm unit.
“Yes, sir!” the sentry said into his unit, motioning Madeline through the door with a clenching of teeth and a look of apology.
Poor guy, she thought.
“You are not required to pass time with my subordinates,” came an angry, deep voice into her mind. “Why are you here?”
“You won’t like it,” she thought back.
“Lawson and his dispatch,” he muttered, adding a few choice words in his own tongue.
“Sir!” she protested, because she recognized some of them.
He stepped into the hallway. She almost didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t just the absence of facial hair that made him look different—he hadn’t regrown the beard and mustache he’d sported when the complement of the Morcai ended up in Ahkmau and Madeline had shaved him to disguise his face. It was his clothing that was different. He was wearing robes of blue and gold, the imperial colors, in some fabric as sleek as silk. The robes clung to the muscular lines of his body and draped over one shoulder to touch the floor at the tip of his highly polished black boots. He looked...different. Elegant. Regal. It was the first time she’d ever seen him out of a Holconcom uniform in the nearly three years she’d been part of the Morcai’s crew.
* * *
“HE SENT YOU,” Dtimun said with faint hauteur. “Why?”
“Because everybody else hid under a desk,” she muttered. She held out the dispatch.
A flash of green amusement touched his eyes. “You were afraid of me, too, at first.”
“That was years ago, sir,” she reminded him. Her own eyes twinkled. “As soon as I realized that the Cehn-Tahr didn’t eat humans, I stopped worrying.”
He chuckled. He read the dispatch. His lips made a thin line. “More predations on our forward supply transports. I cannot turn the Morcai into an escort ship. Lawson will have to find another way.”
“That was the job the Altairians were doing,” she reminded him. “Then the Terravegan ambassador, Aubrey Taylor, ticked them off and they withdrew their support vessels.”
“Taylor is what you humans call a bigot,” he replied.
“I could think of a few better names,” she murmured. Taylor had been vicious in his verbal attacks on the Cehn-Tahr, and the Amazon Division as well. He thought women in combat were a disgrace. She pursed her lips as she looked up at Dtimun. “You and Taylor should get along. He doesn’t think women have any place in combat, either. I hear he’s going to the Altairian reception, too—probably to tick off even more of their military. Pity you can’t think of some way to irritate him even more than you did when you withdrew his transport privileges on Cehn-Tahr vessels. Sir.”
He gave her an odd, intense scrutiny. “Sadly for you, I can think of a better way. You will accompany me to the reception.” He clapped his hands. Two younger men in uniform ran up and saluted. “Take Ruszel to the weavemaster and have him weave her robes to wear to the Altair reception. Tell him he has ten standard minutes.”
“Robes? Reception? I will not...!” she burst out.
“Does Lawson know that you brew contraband coffee in your med lab?” he interrupted smugly.
Her mouth stayed open. She closed it. “Admiral Lawson does it, too,” she began.
“He is an admiral.” He looked at his immaculate fingernails. “I understand the penalty is revocation of all base privileges for a period of four standard months.” He eyed her with evident amusement.
She glared at him. But she saluted, turned and followed the younger soldiers upstairs. She really hoped he was reading her mind on the way.
* * *
EXACTLY FIFTEEN STANDARD minutes later, she made her way down the winding staircase. Dtimun was looking at messages on his small virtual unit. He heard her steps—amazing, since the whole embassy was carpeted—and turned. His expression was too complex to classify, like the warping colors in his eyes.
She was enveloped in silken blue robes with gold trim. The robes covered her discreetly from her neck to her toes. The neck of the robes was draped in back just to the beginning of the creamy skin over her shoulder blades, displaying her nape. Her long reddish-gold hair had been pulled up and pinned in draping curls from a position high on her head by the weavemaster’s assistant, who had also applied the lightest touch of makeup. She looked elegant. Regal. Beautiful.
She felt awkward. She moved the rest of the way down the steps, watching carefully so that she didn’t trip over the unfamiliar skirts. “Next time could you just shoot me in the foot when you want to punish me, sir?” she asked.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You would grace a palace, madam,” he said quietly. He drew in a long sigh. “It is a great pity that there are so many differences between our species.”
She frowned. “Not that many,” she protested.
He laughed bitterly. “You have no idea. Come. We cannot be late.”
He moved in front of her and then stood aside at the door to let her exit first. There was a long, elegant diplomatic skimmer at the top of the steps, floating in midair, waiting for them. They entered quickly, standing by the rail, as the doors closed and the flyer zipped to the next row of buildings where the Altair embassy was located.
“I know where we could start a brawl,” she murmured to herself, provoking him.
His eyes cut around to meet hers. “I know where we could find a brig.”
She made a face. “I hate parties.”
“No more than I do, I assure you,” he returned stiffly.
They arrived at the Altair embassy and he stood aside to let her precede him. At the door, two blue-skinned officers were waiting to validate invitations.
“See, they have two guards at their doors. You only have one,” she said under her breath.
“One Cehn-Tahr suffices to keep out any number of intruders,” he replied. “Be quiet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He extended his invitation, indicated Madeline and was admitted to the flashy, neon-accented ballroom of the Altair embassy by vator tube.
“Fancy,” she mused, looking around.
“I have seen ragged carnivals with better taste.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You have?” she asked with pure mischief.
He glared at her.
“Commander Dtimun,” the Altairian ambassador said as he joined them. He was smiling, but cool. “I did not expect so high ranking an official at my poor reception.”
“Our ambassador was called away unexpectedly,” Dtimun said formally.
“And your companion...human? How...unorthodox. But she is lovely,” he added, giving Madeline a long look.
Madeline thought of planting her fist right in his teeth.
“Madam!” Dtimun said aloud.
She cleared her throat, flushed and smiled at the Altairian. “How kind of you to say so, sir,” she said.
He nodded and returned the smile.
“You do not recognize Dr. Ruszel?” Dtimun commented.
The ambassador did a comical double take. “Dr. Ruszel?” He peered closer and caught his breath. “No, I did not recognize you, Doctor. Forgive me.”
“I am out of uniform,” she sympathized with a cold glance at her commander.
“We are honored to have the Holconcom’s medical chief of staff among us,” he replied. “Please, enjoy our hospitality.”
“Thank you.”
Dtimun jerked his eyes toward the buffet table, a blatant hint that she was to leave him alone with the ambassador. She excused herself and set out to sample what she could stomach of the buffet. She sighed sadly when she realized that most of the dishes were what humans would describe as sushi. Not that she didn’t like it, when they docked at oceanic continents. But the Altairian idea of sushi came from sea lizards of a particularly poisonous species. She helped herself to a glass of synthale and nibbled on a dish of what she hoped was ground nuts.
The commander rejoined her shortly, clearly pleased.
“I’m glad you’re happy, sir,” she said. “I’m hoping to get drunk enough not to mind the taste of the canapés...”
“Do not dare embarrass me here,” he bit off.
She gave him a wry look. “Would I do that, sir?”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Hey, look at the sweet little lady,” came a heavily accented, drunken voice from beside her. A fat little Terravegan in an expensive suit sidled up to her. “Aren’t you pretty?”
The voice belonged to the Terravegan ambassador, Aubrey Taylor. Highly positioned politicians weren’t bound by the neutering policy of the military. They could, and did, amuse themselves with women of all species. They, of all Terravegans, even chose where they wanted to marry.
Madeline gave him a cold look. Taylor glanced at the Cehn-Tahr beside her. “Some weird, unlawful combination, aren’t you?” he asked with disgust. “Does she know that trying to mate with you would kill her?” He sidled closer and put an arm around her. “But you’d do just fine with me...!”
She jerked back from him just as Dtimun made an odd rumbling noise, in the back of his throat. Madeline didn’t understand what it was, but she risked his temper by kicking him, covertly, in the leg. He made another sound, dismayed and angry. Madeline turned quickly and pretended to stumble. Her foot shot out efficiently, just covertly enough to trip the ambassador and knock him flat on his rear.
“Oh, my goodness, Ambassador Taylor, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed loudly, and rushed to his side as he sat up on the floor, cursing. “Sir, I’m very sorry!” she exclaimed. “I turned too fast and tripped over my big feet! I’m not used to skirts.”
“You clumsy cow!” Taylor raged. “I ought to...!”
“You don’t recognize me, do you, sir?” she asked Taylor quickly as the commander stepped forward angrily and heads turned toward them at the ambassador’s loud exclamation. “I’m Dr. Madeline Ruszel, medical chief of staff of the Holconcom. The commander is my C.O.” She indicated Dtimun, who was glaring at the ambassador with eyes a color she couldn’t quite classify. His posture was oddly threatening.
