Civilians

“THEY BROUGHT THEIR slaves with them, eh?”

“Yes, sir—from a dozen different species, at least.” Major Dromio laid a stack of reconnaissance pictures on the desk in front of Admiral Vancouver. “Our Khalia have been busy boys.”

The admiral nodded, his mouth a grim line. “Pirates have always taken prisoners for slaves. Well, we won’t add ourselves to their trophy case.” He frowned down at the reconnaissance pictures, each one showing a clothes-wearing animal tagging along after a Khalia. “The scout made it back in one piece?”

“Yes, sir. If they found out he was there, they didn’t even try to do anything about it. Not a single shot.”

The admiral nodded. “Well, we can’t be sure. That might have alerted them, and they might be waiting to sucker us in. When we hit, we’ll hit fast, Dromio.” He pointed at one of the pictures. “This one here?”

“Yes, sir. The computer analyzed all the pictures and found slaves of this race in ninety-three percent of them—ninety-eight percent of all the ones that had sentient beings in them. There are more of them than of all the other slave species put together—22.7 times more, the computer says.”

The admiral frowned at the picture of the alien, foreshortened by altitude. It was squat and humanoid, but covered with a bright coat of many colors. “Why would the Khalia have brought so many of that one species?”

Dromio shrugged. “Must be damn good servants.”

“Or victims.” The admiral slid the pictures back into a pack and squared it on the desktop. “Tell the troops to avoid shooting civilians if they can, Major.”

“Yes, sir.” The Major’s mouth tightened as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “It won’t be easy. They’re all over the place.”

The admiral shrugged. “There will always be a few civilians caught in the crossfire. Just keep their numbers down.” He set the pictures aside and pulled over the meter-wide view of the provincial capital. A smile creased his face. “Well. How nice of them to make it easy for us. All the important buildings stand out like sunflowers in a cornfield.”

Dromio winced at the homeliness of the simile. “Not quite all, sir. There’s one of the timber and stucco structures that has a flock of antennas on top.”

“Yes, and a transmitting tower next to it. Must be the communications center.” The admiral pursed his lips as he studied the blowup. “I would have thought the Khalia would have tried to update their homes a bit more. After all, they’ve been stealing enough currency to buy all the construction equipment they want.”

“Yes, sir. Intelligence’s guess is that they devoted all their resources to expanding their navy. They only put up a new building when it was absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, it’s not as though they had invented the FTL drive themselves. That’s still the best guess, isn’t it?”

“Guess, yes—that they stole the FTL drive—or impounded it—from a spacer that had to make an emergency landing.”

The admiral’s shoulders shrugged with amusement. “Why not? Those thieves have stolen everything else they’ve ever come across.”

“Yes, sir. The xenologists are pretty sure their culture hadn’t moved past pre-industrial when they found it.”

The admiral nodded. “No, of course their buildings would still be frame and stucco. So detail your best troops to take the state-of-the-art buildings.”

“Yes, sir. The power plant’s an old one, though.”

“Odd.” The admiral frowned. “I’d expect them to keep updating power stores. Maybe they have some respect for tradition . . . well, send in the regiment from Cirwat. If those city tigers can’t take it, no one can;”

“Yes, sir. How about the com center?”

The admiral shrugged. “No need for anything heavy; the Khalia seem to be naturally authoritarian. They won’t know it’s important.” He touched the array of antennas with a forefinger. “I want that platoon from Galath detailed to take it. Half of them are electronics techs.”

“Half of everybody is, on Galath—and the other half are still in school. What else can you make but circuit gear, when your only natural resource is sand?”

“. . . and Fedor’s platoon will take the com center.” Captain Rakoan looked up from the map and around at the faces of his lieutenants. “Any questions?”

They were quiet for a moment. Beyond them, the assault troops shifted restlessly, muttering to one another and chewing mild stimulants. A few were trying to keep card games going, but their hearts weren’t in it.”

The blond boondock woman straightened up “looking determined” and Rakoan braced himself. “Lieutenant Morna?”

Lutane Morna looked him square in the eyes. “You don’t really think we should do this, do you, sir?”

The question took Rakoan by surprise—questioning orders was unheard of, especially when battle was minutes away. “Whether I think we should is beside the point, Lieutenant! Just take your Galathians down to Bay Four and get them ready to take that com center!”

“Sir.” Lutane pulled a brace and saluted, her face wooden.

Rage flared in Captain Rakoan at the covert defiance, especially aboard a destroyer on its way down to drop them in the assault zone. He almost reminded’ her that her beloved Galath had sold her and her squad down the river when it sent them to the Fleet, and she would blasted well do as she was told or be blasted, period—but he managed to catch his temper at the last second and remembered what a last-minute showdown could do to morale. The important thing was to get Lieutenant Morna and her platoon to do the job, not to make her blindly obey. He converted his blast of rage into a sigh of resignation. “No, Lieutenant, we don’t have total information about Target. But we’re pretty sure it’s the Khalia’s home world, even if we don’t know. We do have reconnaissance pictures up to our gills, and that’s almost as good as having a spy on the ground. Which we can’t have, of course.”

“No, sir.” Lutane shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t have anyone from any of the species that are down there, sir.”

“No, we don’t.” Rakoan shrugged. “So what do we do, Lieutenant? Stand around doing nothing, while the Khalia gut ship after ship and leave them to drift into port with cargoes of corpses?”

“Well, of course not! But . . .”

Rakoan waited.

“ . . . we do what we can with the information we’ve got,” Lutane finished lamely.

“And attack Target,” Rakoan concluded. “But since we both know we don’t know enough, Lieutenant, be on the watch for surprises, eh?”

Lutane straightened. “Yes, sir!”

“Particularly surprises from the squat humanoids with the feathery scales.” Rakoan scanned the faces of all his lieutenants. “Intelligence says they’re slaves—but if they are, the Khalia brought one hell of a lot of ‘em!”

“Yes, sir.” Lutane felt her insides loosen with relief; somebody else had noticed! “What else could they be?”

“Allies.” Rakoan’s face hardened. “And it could be that everyone of those featherheaded fetchers is a veteran soldier, ready to jump your troops the second their backs are turned!”

“And ready to jump the Khalia if they see an opening?”

Lutane’s eyes glowed.

“Maybe,” Rakoan said slowly. “Maybe we can divide and conquer—but we don’t know that, yet. And our assault might just make them pull even more tightly together. So watch your back, Lieutenant!”

“Yes, sir!” But Lutane frowned. “So we really ought to try to learn more before we go in?”

Rakoan closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he said, “Maybe we should. But the admiral says we’re going in now, so we’re going in now! Because for you, Lieutenant, the Fleet may be just an exciting place to visit—but for me, it’s home! And my world and my universe, too, so whatever the admiral says, I’ll do! And so will you, because I’ll be right behind you and your fellow lieutenants when we hit the dirt! Understand?”

“Sir!”

“All right.” Rakoan straightened into a brace. “Go tell your platoons what they’re doing. Dis-miss!”

The lieutenants stiffened, saluted, and turned away to their troops. For her part, Lutane went with determination—Rakoan had voiced her own doubts, and answered them. In spite of her questions, she knew what it was like landing an assault force on the enemy’s ground; she’d joined up when the Nietszean rebels had tried to take over Galath, and had been in on the end of it, chasing them back to their home province and going in to mop up their army and bring in the ringleaders. So she also knew what it was like to have every civilian turn out to be a soldier in retirement, or a soldier in training.

The floor lurched, and Lutane grabbed at it stanchion, waiting till the floor and her stomach settled. Her gaze darted to her troops, and she saw, with a glow of pride, that not one of them had landed on the floor. She let go of the stanchion and went on to them.

“Plasma bolt, sir?” Darby asked as she came up.

Lutane nodded. “They missed, though, sergeant.”

One of the troopers brayed a laugh, quickly smothered; Lutane glared at him, then turned back as Darby said, grinning, “Reckon so. An they’d’a hit us, we’d’a heard it.”

“Or felt it,” a corporal muttered.

“We won’t,” Lutane snapped. “Our computer’s got the records of a hundred battles like this one in it. But if we’re close enough to feel the shock waves from their bolts, we’re close to landing, too. Stand to!”

The men and women stood, grim-faced, shouldering their packs and checking their weapons. Lutane walked down their line, glance flicking over each soldier from head to toe, checking to be sure all was in order. It was, and she felt that glow of pride again. She came back to the center of the line just as the boat lurched again and caught the stanchion just in time to save herself from the embarrassment of a tumble in front of her platoon. She recovered and said, just loudly enough to be heard above the noise of other platoons getting ready, “Okay. There’s no point in my giving you a pep talk; you know why we’re here. You’ve all heard how many ships the Khalia have taken, and what they’ve done to the people on them. Don’t expect any mercy from them, and don’t give any, either-—they’ll surrender, sure, but they’ll stab you in the back if they get a chance. Just hit hard, and keep hitting.”

Then she was quiet, glaring at the hatch in front of them.

After a moment, her troops began muttering to one another. Somebody laughed, quietly, and Lutane felt an impulse to pray. In the nick of time, the transport hit dirt.

It hit gently, as such things go, but flexed knees and handholds were all that kept the soldiers from slamming to the deck. A crash behind them told them that one veteran wasn’t as salted as he’d thought.

Then the hatch dropped away from them, and Lutane shouted, “Out!”

They shot out of the transport and hit the dirt in a semicircle as slugs peppered the hull behind them and troops slammed out of the transport all around its perimeter. It helped a little, knowing that three other transports were landing at the compass points around the city, so that the enemy couldn’t devote its full attention to any one of them. It helped, but not much.

Then the transport’s cannon began roaring, and Lutane shouted, “Now!” Her platoon surged to their feet and charged out under the transport’s covering fire.

They hatched out of their egg like a thousand dragons, spawn of death spewing streams of bullets before them. The company spread out in a wave, firing at all and any near them in the city square. Khalia answered fire from the rooftops and doorways. Here and there a ricochet struck home, and a Khalian soldier toppled out with a death shriek almost too high to hear, but just right for abrading Terran nerves. The slaves were caught in the open and fell like stones—and they were all featherheads. Lutane felt her heart sink, but shot forward with her platoon. “Watch out!” she barked as they came up near a fallen featherhead. “It might be armed!”

Delacroix stitched the body with a stream of bullets.

Lutane caught her breath; it hadn’t been necessary. Or had it? But then they were beyond the corpse and charging in among the shadows of the houses, and she cried, “Halt!”

A rifle barked overhead, and one of her soldiers screamed, falling.

“Doorways!” Lutane shouted, and the platoon jammed into nooks and crannies. Something snapped, and the back of Lutane’s nook crashed open, spilling soldiers onto a wooden floor. Lutane whipped about, rifle up and ready, covering her troops.

It was a sparsely furnished, almost bare room, but lighter areas on the walls showed where ornaments had been. All that was left now was a table and chairs, massively built and plain, but rubbed to a gloss. The featherheads around it were scrambling to their feet, backing away, two small ones, a medium-sized one, and a wide one, spreading his hands out, trying to cover the other three who retreated behind his bulk, cowering against a wall. Lutane couldn’t read his facial expressions.

“Lieutenant,” Gorman asked, “do they always shiver like that?”

“I don’t know any more about them than you do, Gorman,” she answered, “and I don’t think any of our people do.”

“I don’t see any weapons,” Olerein said.

“They got forks next to their plates, if that’s what those slabs are,” Delacroix pointed out.

Gorman made a noise of disgust. “Its paws are better weapons than that.”

Something snored by overhead. Lutane went back and ducked her head out for a quick look. As she ducked back in, she studied the afterimage; Terran fighters wheeled across the sky, cannon blasting at Khalian patrol boats. But underneath them, Terran grav floaters moved. She risked another peek, and saw a floater drift over the rooftop across from her, where the sniper had fired from. His rifle stuttered, giving Lutane a hard smile; the weasel didn’t lack guts. But his machine gun wasn’t going to do much good against the floater’s armor plate.

The pilot wasn’t taking any chances, though; his own guns spoke. They stopped, and Lutane held her breath. Then an amplified voice boomed down, “Sniper cleared. Take the street.”

“Up!” Lutane barked, and her troops scrambled to their feet and jogged out. Lutane looked back and gave the cowering featherheads a mock salute. “Sorry we couldn’t stay.” She pulled the door shut as she followed her troops.

The floater drifted ahead of them, firing as it went.

“Don’t think he’s doing everything for you,” Lutane called. “There’re still windows.”

Sobered, the platoon sprinted out, dodging from doorway to doorway in a staggered, always moving line. At its head, Ranton ducked into a niche and yelled in surprise as two rifles barked. Then a Khalian toppled into the street, and Ranton staggered out, hand pressed to his side, eyes bulging.

Lutane dashed up and caught him, lowering him back into the doorway and howling, “Medic!”

“They’re following close, Lieutenant,” Belguire called. “They’ll have you in a minute or two, Ranton.” Lutane ripped his shirt open as she yanked the anesthetic bulb from his belt and shoved it into his hand. “Spray the wound with that. The bleeding’s steady; you’ll last till they’re here. Good luck.”

Her answer was a grimace of pain, and she dodged back out, frog-hopping from doorway to doorway, helplessness clawing at her gut. She wouldn’t know whether or not he’d made it till an hour or two after it was all over. With a mental effort, she put it behind her and dodged for the next doorway, glancing up at the rooftops as she did. Ahead of her, the array of antennas loomed larger, closer.

Close up, the half-timbered building seemed to loom over them; Lutane had to remind herself that it was only three stories high. Three streets debouched onto the plaza surrounding the building; they were in the central one.

“Grelli; take your squad over to the left-hand street and set up a covering fire,” Lutane ordered. “Jollin, take your people over to the right.”

The two sergeants nodded and turned back to the alleyway, beckoning to their squads.

“What’ll the rest of us do, Lieutenant?”

“What do you think we’re going to do, Olerein?” Lutane snapped. “Have a tea party, of course!”

Olerein’s face set into a regulation mask, and Lutane felt a moment’s anger at herself for letting go like that—but it had been a dumb question.

Gunfire broke out from her right, Grelli’s position. Thirty seconds later, Jollin’s squad cut loose. Muzzle flashes showed at third-floor windows.

“All right, hotshot!” Lutane turned to Olerein. “Get those snipers!”

Olerein’s eyes narrowed. He dropped to sitting position, rested his elbow on his knee, took deliberate aim, and squeezed off a shot. The windowpane shattered, and the platoon whooped with glee. Then stucco dust geysered next to another window, and the pane broke on the third, as Grelli and Jollin got their own snipers working.

“Stay here and pin down that middle window, Olerein!” Lutane snapped.

“Wha . . . ! Lieutenant, I . . .”

“Do it! Everybody else—now!”

Lutane dashed out, sprinting in zigzags toward, the big central door. The last two squads followed close. Occasional ricochets rang to either side of them, but the Khalian snipers didn’t dare stick their heads out far enough to take proper aim.

Lutane jerked to a halt three feet in front of the door and started pouring automatic fire into the lock. Her squads slammed up right behind her and started stitching the hinge side.

“Hold!” Lutane cried. “Back!” She readied herself and slammed a kick into the lock. The door crashed down, and she sprayed the doorway with bullets. Answering fire from inside filled her ears with racketing, but her squad leaders ducked out to add their fire to hers. Pain blazed in her left arm and she knew she’d taken a hit, but braced her elbow against her belt and held the trigger down with her other hand.

Then the hammering stopped, and Lutane ejected the clip with a curse. She slammed in a new one just as the gunfire inside lessened, and her squad leaders leaped in. The move startled Lutane, so she was a step or two behind them, her squads streaming in after her.

Gunfire erupted from their right, and Lutane screamed, “Down!” as she threw herself prone. Soldiers screamed and fell behind her, and she cursed as she fired at the dim, elongated shadows lurking in a small, square room—they’d given her a sucker punch; they’d slacked off their firing to make her think she’d taken out all of them. Then, when her squads were in a point-blank range, they’d cut loose with everything they had.

It would be all they ever had, she decided grimly, as she thumbed down to semi-automatic and started picking targets. The Khalian in her sights jerked and fell; so did its mates, as her squad cut them down. The air was filled with their almost supersonic death cries, thin whines on the edge of hearing, tearing human heads apart . . .

Then the whines stopped. Automatic doors clashed closed, and Lutane leaped up firing at the heavy portal where the little room had been. A dozen automatics joined hers, and the door turned into a grating. “Cease fire!” She bellowed.

The entry hall went quiet.

“They got away,” somebody snarled.

“Just make sure they don’t come back. Sergeant Murghesh, set a guard on that door.” Lutane looked around her, counting dead furry bodies. There were ten of them—and six of hers.

Enilho knelt over Kazruitin, setting a stitch-strip over a raw hole in her breast, then spraying it with plastic skin. Lutane felt a sympathetic ache and moved toward them. “You gave her anesthesia?”

Enilho nodded. “First thing, Lieutenant—the whole bulb.” He finished spraying the plastic flesh, set the container back in her belt, and folded the slit uniform blouse back over her chest. “She’ll last till the medics get her.” He thumbed the beacon on her belt, and it started blinking.

Lutane nodded, feeling her heart sinking. “Any other casualties who aren’t dead?”

Belardin shook his head. “She’s the only one who didn’t go right off, Lieutenant.”

“Seven down.” Lutane hefted her rifle. “Let’s make it worth it to them. Clear the stairs.”

Soldiers started dragging Khalian corpses off the steps.

“Hold still, Lieutenant.” Murghesh ripped away Lutane’s sleeve and pulled an anesthetic shot from her belt. She sprayed the wound, then peeled back the edges to inspect. Dimly, Lutane felt the pain, but it wasn’t her arm it was happening to. “Clean wound,” Murghesh said. “The bullet went through, and it just missed the artery.” She slapped a patch on the underside and sprayed in the anesthetic. It smarted a little, but the bleeding stopped. Murghesh slapped a patch on the top. “Maybe we should call you a medic.”

“All right, so I’m, a medic.” Lutane twitched her arm loose impatiently. “I’m good for a few more rounds, Sergeant—and I have some troops to avenge.”

“Thought you already had.” Murghesh glowered down at the Khalian corpses. “Stupid bastards! They got what they had coming.”

“Not so stupid.” Lutane frowned. “They gambled and lost, that’s all. They suckered us in. When their mates on the stairs were dead, the ones in the lift stopped shooting. We figured they were all dead, and came in. When we were inside, the rest cut loose. But if they didn’t get most of us in, the first few seconds, they’d had it—and they knew it.”

“But they made it up in the lift!”

“No—the lift made it up,” Lutane corrected. “I very much doubt there was anything left alive in it—and if there was, it sure as hell can’t do any fighting.” She rubbed her temples. “Still, we can’t know that. We just have to figure they reinforced the guard up top.”

Guilt shadowed Murghesh’s eyes. “We shoulda waited for your call, huh?”

“Yeah.” But Lutane was glowering up the stairs. “But as you said, it was a stupid move. More than stupid—it was suicidal.”

Murghesh shrugged. “They must have figured they didn’t have a chance against us any other way.”

“And they were right—there were just too many of us for them.” Lutane scowled. “I’d have tried their trick, too, suicidal or not.” She stared down at the corpses.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?” Murghesh asked carefully.

Lutane pointed. “Only two of ‘em are wearing bandoliers.”

Murghesh followed her gaze. “That mean they were officers?”

“No, it means they were soldiers.” Lutane pointed. “The other ones are only wearing armbands.”

Murghesh shrugged. “I heard the Khalia weren’t big on clothes, anyway.”

“Yeah, but they need some kind of rank insignia—and that’s all these ones had. They were reloading out of those boxes of clips, there.” Lutane pointed. Murghesh looked and saw plastic cases stacked along the edge of the stairs. “Then what were the rest of ‘em?”

“Communication technicians. They only had two guards stationed here, so the signal corps had to take defense stances as soon as the alarm went up.”

“Comes to the same thing—all Khalia are soldiers.” Murghesh shrugged.

“Yeah,” Lutane muttered. “Kinda makes you wonder if there’re any Khalian civilians anywhere.” She had a brief, dizzying vision of newborn Khalia marching past with rifles on their shoulders.

Murghesh shrugged. “This is their home world. They’ve probably got more hidey-holes than a honeycomb. Nice to know we took ‘em by surprise, though.” Then Murghesh’s eyes widened as she caught the implication. “That mean we got ’em all? That there’re no more Khalia upstairs?”

“No.” Lutane nodded at the corpses, her eyes hard.

“Khalia do things by dozens, and only eight of those ten bodies belong to the building.”

“Four more stationed upstairs?”

“Right.” Lutane lifted her rifle with a wince. “Only four—but they’re cornered, and they know they’re dead. They’re going to be trying to take as many of us with them as they can.” She started up the stairs. “Let’s get them.” She jumped back a split second before the stairs exploded with a hail of bullets.

“Lieutenant! How come you’re still alive!?!” Murghesh was white as a sheet.

“Cause I was pretty sure they were up there. I would’ve been, if I were one of ‘em.” But Lutane was frowning up the stairwell, her brow creased in thought. Stairs . . . there was something subtly wrong about that, about the fact that the building had stairs. But what?

She shrugged the thought aside. There was a little matter of a battle, here.

“How the hell do we get through that?” Bonor grunted.

“We don’t.” Lutane stepped back, slinging her rifle.”

“Lieutenant! How about the lift?”

Automatically, Lutane shook her head. “We’d open the door and find ourselves staring down a pair of rifle barrels—that is, if they didn’t manage to turn off the power and strand us between floors.” She turned to Murghesh. “Sergeant, hold this door with your squad. If anything comes down, blast it.”

“Yes sir.” Murghesh frowned, but she took up station, rifle leveled at the stairs—a gaze leveled at Lutane. “But what’s Nol’s squad doing?”

“Going up the outside.” Lutane turned to the door, nodding to Nol. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

Nol herded his people outside, excitement flickering in his eyes. Lutane wished the rest of his squad looked the same. For that matter, she wished she did.

She stepped out to see Olerein’s rifle leveled at her. When he saw who it was, he dropped his sights as though a marlin had taken his bait. “Lieutenant! What . . .” Then he remembered what might be behind her, and his rifle swept up again.

“At ease.” Lutane stepped up to him: “Take off your booster pack and give it to Monsan.”

Frowning, Olerein unbuckled’ his pack and swung it around. “Whatever you’re gonna do, Lieutenant, you need me along. I’m . . .”

“ . . . the best shot in the platoon, and I need you here to make those weasels keep their heads down,” Lutane finished. “Don’t talk, Olerein.” She turned away to the rest of his squad. “Doyle, Brill, Canche, Folar! Give your packs to Nol’s squad!”

Reluctantly, the soldiers helped their mates into the booster packs. Nol already had one, of course-they were standard issue for officers and NCOs. But only half of the privates had them; HQ hadn’t planned on whole squads having to lift.

“Shouldn’t my squad go along, Lieutenant?” Olerein asked.

Lutane shook her head. “There’re only five windows on that top floor, Olerein. Two soldiers to a window, that’s all we need. You just make sure the bastards don’t lean out to fire down at us.”

Olerein grinned like a mountain wolf. “They’ll stay down, Lieutenant.”

“We won’t.” Lutane looked up at Nol and his squad.

“Spread out all around the building. I’ll take four troops up to the two windows on this side.” Lutane pointed up. Nol followed her gaze, nodding. “You take six up on the far side,” the lieutenant went on, “but don’t fire until after you hear our burst stop.”

Nol frowned at her, puzzled. “Just do it,” Lutane grated.

“Yes, sir,” Nol said stiffly, and strode away toward his sixty percent.

Lutane watched him go, simmering. Who cared if he was angry or not? As long as he followed orders.

Nol bawled at his squad, and Lutane waited, chewing at her gut instead of her lip. At least ulcers didn’t show when you were out for R & R; that was some consolation.

“Ready,” Olerein told her.

Lutane nodded. “Up!” She pressed the pressure patch between her breasts, and jets roared as lox and hydrogen ignited, sending the squad up in a cloud of mist that wreathed the tower. Not the safest way to travel, Lutane thought dizzily, but effective, effective . . .

Then she realized that Pachue was tilting. “Straighten out!” she called, but the private heeled over and headed for the ground. “Cut out!” Lutane screamed.

Pachue couldn’t have heard her, but must have understood the look on Lutane’s face, because her jets died. Below her the squad scattered, pulling back into a circle as momentum turned Pachue upright again; When her head was at two o’clock, Lutane slapped her fist into her own chest, hoping Pachue would understand the impromptu sign. It must have gotten through, because the jets roared out again, breaking the kid’s fall just in time. She hit hard, but she remembered to fold at the knees, and Lutane turned back to the com center with a sigh of relief. Too bad they had to have replacements, but everyone had to be green once.

It left Lobrin without a partner, though. Lutane thumbed her altitude jet, swooping over to him, then straightening up again just as they reached the window. “Back!” Lutane called, and they both flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the window, throttling their’ jets down to maintain altitude, just as a fountain of bullets sprayed out of the window. Exactly what she herself would have done, Lutane thought grimly, and waited for a pause in the stream of bullets. It came, and she dodged into the embrasure, jamming the trigger down. Lobrin was a quarter-second behind her, but he matched her to the beat when she ducked back out again, loosing another geyser of bullets from inside the building. That was all it took, though; the defenders had had to turn back to Lutane’s side, and Nol’s troops at the opposite windows poured in hot lead as though the building was a crucible. Lutane waited, and waited;, the hail of bullets seemed to go on, and on, and on . . .

Finally it stopped. The com center was quiet.

Very quiet.

Somebody had to take the chance. Lutane ground her teeth. What are lieutenants for, anyway?

She spun through the window, rifle blazing—and let the burst die.

Four Khalia lay on the floor—all around. What was left of their bodies was hamburger, with a few jigsaw puzzle pieces thrown in.

Her stomach heaved, and she just barely managed to choke it back down, lifting her glare to the com gear. There was a lot of smoke rising, but a few consoles seemed intact.

“Come on in,” she called. “Don’t look down.”

Nol ducked in, then Lobrin at Lutane’s back, then the rest of them. Some looked at the floor, and looked away again quickly, turning a delicate shade of chartreuse. Maybe, Lutane thought, that was why they called new troops “green.”

The veterans could have taken it, but they had sense enough not to look. Porthal and Elab went straight to the two intact consoles, frowning down at the dials and sliders.

“Can you figure it out?” Lutane demanded.

Porthal nodded slowly. “Take a little experimenting, Lieutenant—but this grille is either a mike or a vent, and that meter’s either amps or volts.”

Elab didn’t speak; he was already kicking aside the tilt-board and pulling a chair over.

Lutane stared. A chair? What was a chair doing here? The Khalia’s tilt-board backrests, sure—but why would there be chairs in the com center, too?

Later. Speculate after the job’s done. Lutane pressed the patch on her bracelet and talked into the mesh. “Everybody in. Squad one, hold the door and the stairwell. Squads two and three, search the building by the square foot. If there’s anything bigger than a gnat, I want it dead.”

“Yes, sir,” her bracelet answered in duplicate.

“And watch out for booby traps!” Lutane snapped. She lowered her arm and turned about slowly, surveying the big, open room. There—the lift. It was over against the side wall, doors open—and filled with dead, bloody bodies. Lutane nodded with grim satisfaction—she’d been right. The last Khalian alive downstairs had pushed the up button, and died as the lift rose.

She turned back to Nol’s squad. “Anybody with a strong stomach, help me throw this mess into a tarp and find the mops and buckets. Everybody else, get busy repairing equipment.”

She shouldn’t have left it open like that. It came down to Nol and herself on the cleanup crew.

The floor was so clean that it glared. The equipment had stopped smoking, and the soldiers had started to repair it.

“All set?” Lutane asked.

Porthal nodded. “It works, Lieutenant. Long-wave and medium-wave audio. Video, too, but there’s nothing to feed into it yet.”

“We’ll find the pick-ups soon enough,” Lutane assured him. “Okay, power up.” She raised her voice. “Who speaks Weasel?”

“Here.”

“I do, Lieutenant.”

“Me, too.”

“Okay. You three, over to the pick-ups.”

The three’ troopers came over and sat down next to the signal operators.

“Send this out broadcast,” Lutane said. “This city has been conquered by the Terran Fleet . . .”

“Uh, Lieutenant?”

“I know, I know, we don’t know for sure that we’ve conquered anything more than this center! But we’re after propaganda, not news. Just broadcast it, Private.”

“Yes, sir . . .”

“All civilians are to remain indoors until further notice. Do not obey orders from any Khalian. Instead, report their locations to the nearest Terran soldier.” Lutane frowned in thought for a moment. She had to make it sound like a good deal for the slaves. “Citizens, rejoice! The conqueror is vanquished; your freedom is won!”

“Yes, sir.” The translators turned back to their pick-ups and eyed the operators, who scowled at their panels for a moment, then nodded. The translators began to talk in falsetto, trilling syllables. Lutane watched them for a few minutes with grim satisfaction, then lifted her big commset and keyed in Captain Rakoan’s code. She waited impatiently until the little plate lit up with his face, frowning.

“Lieutenant Morna?”

“Yes, sir. Objective accomplished—we’ve taken the com center.”

“Yes, I heard your broadcast. You might want to add to it that the other platoons have taken their objectives, too.”

“Yes, sir.” Lutane felt her belly weaken with relief and realized that, at the back of her mind, she’d been haunted by the possibility of being a Terran island in the middle of a Khalian sea.

“How many enemy have you taken?”

“None, sir. They all died fighting.”

Rakoan nodded as though he had expected it. “That seems to be the rule. Your fellow officers only took two alive, and they’re so badly mangled that we may not get anything out of them. Any noncombatants?”

“No, sir.” Lutane frowned, realizing for the first time that there hadn’t been any slaves in the building.

Rakoan nodded again. “That’s the pattern. Featherheads in the houses, slaves of all species in the streets—but none in the objective buildings.”

“Slaves wouldn’t have anything to do with running the place, anyway,” Lutane said cautiously.

“No, but I would have expected a few of them to be in the government buildings, just as servants.” Rakoan frowned, brooding on the question for a moment. Then he shrugged it away. “Well. There’ll be time enough to find out why when we’ve mopped up. Well done, Lieutenant. Listen in on the com and pick out the details to broadcast.”

“Yes, sir. Out.”

Rakoan’s picture vanished. Lutane racked her commset on her belt, and turned to frown out over her new domain. Something niggling at the back of her mind had become clear—the fact that the com equipment wasn’t placed to full efficiency in the room. The consoles were set around in a horseshoe which made sense for a single officer in charge—but the horseshoe sat in the center of a rectangle, with all kinds of room between it and the walls. Even allowing for technicians needing access for repair, there was still way too much space left over. That, plus Rakoan’s comment about the lack of slaves, ignited an insight—she was looking at a conversion. Sure, the original building predated interstellar technology—but presumably, it would have had the same kind of function in the early industrial civilization that preceded it.

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 Khalia?” 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.”