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Authors: Diana Palmer
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Mourjey broke in. “If the Rojoks have them, they hold the key to the complete obliteration of every member race of the Council. The military information alone which they contain will guarantee our defeat. I’m sure some of you remember slavery?”
The Rigellian delegate pursed his yellow lips. “Some of us also remember the Great Galaxy War,” he said quietly. “Another like it and some of us would be obliterated regardless.”
“Freedom has a price,” Lawson said philosophically. “But fighting Rojoks isn’t your only option now. You have a choice between fightingthe Rojoks or fighting the Rojoks and the Centaurian Empire as well. Would any of you care to match the cream of your military forces against the Holconcom?”
There was a long silence, interspersed with urgent whispers. Council members glanced at each other in obvious apprehension.
Lokar spoke for them. “Some of us have also suffered the penalty for provoking the Holconcom, 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
The Rigellian delegate pursed his yellow lips. “Some of us also remember the Great Galaxy War,” he said quietly. “Another like it and some of us would be obliterated regardless.”
“Freedom has a price,” Lawson said philosophically. “But fighting Rojoks isn’t your only option now. You have a choice between fightingthe Rojoks or fighting the Rojoks and the Centaurian Empire as well. Would any of you care to match the cream of your military forces against the Holconcom?”
There was a long silence, interspersed with urgent whispers. Council members glanced at each other in obvious apprehension.
Lokar spoke for them. “Some of us have also suffered the penalty for provoking the Holconcom, 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
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