A Matter of Honor Part 5

"Appreciate it." Dawson broke that connection, immediately punched in another number.

"Communications, Commspec First Carlson, sir," came the reply.

"This is Major Dawson. Can you get me Ranger Medart, Security priority?"

"It'll take a couple of minutes, sir. I'll have to patch through the Chang to his lander."

"That's fine--just do your best."

Ranger James Medart was stretched out on a lawn lounger, basking in the warmth of Irschcha's sun only meters from the lander that was now serving him as a vacation cabin. Convalescent leave had its good points, he thought drowsily. He hadn't been this relaxed since before the war--and not often then. Laying here in swim trunks, it was hard to believe he'd been d.a.m.n near torn in half not much more than two months ago.

But he had been, trying to help one of the then-enemy, a gray-skinned Traiti. Oh, well. The war was over, thanks to Steve Tarlac, and the Traiti were Imperial citizens, while he was supposed to be concentrating on recovering his strength. He stood, called to the lander. "I'm going for a swim."

A blond head looked around the edge of the lander's open hatch.

"Right, sir. I just got my suit on; I'll play lifeguard."

"Whatever you say, Nevan." Medart sketched a salute, grinning at the young Sandeman warrior who was one of his bodyguard. Then he turned, taking a running dive into the Colvis Reserve's main attraction for humans, Clear Lake.

He swam straight out, with a leisurely sidestroke that took him in the direction of the resort across the lake. He had no intention of going that far, or of seeing anyone except his bodyguards; a week in a tank of rapid-heal, followed by over a month of therapy and constant attention, left him with a strong desire for some privacy.

He'd been swimming for perhaps half an hour, enjoying himself thoroughly, when he heard Nevan calling him. The warrior wouldn't interrupt his swim without good reason; he waved acknowledgement and headed for sh.o.r.e, wondering what was up.

Nevan didn't look too happy, the Ranger thought as he waded out of the lake, and that was a bad sign. "What is it?"

"A call from the Planetary Palace, sir, security priority. Major Dawson is on the screen."

"d.a.m.n. All right." Security priority was never good news; Medart wondered just how bad it was this time. He accepted the towel Nevan was holding out, began drying himself as he went to the lander and climbed in. Then he dropped the towel, grabbed his uniform shirt from a hanger by the door, and put it on before going to the lander's comscreen. "What's up, Major?"

Dawson repeated what Corina had told him, adding, "Sergeant Orloff said she was definitely the one being attacked, sir. I asked for a mindprobe to be run on the attacker."

Well, Medart thought with brief regret, there went his leave. Couldn't be helped, though. "Good work. Hold off on Losinj; I'd rather not probe someone trying to help us unless there's no other choice." He grinned, wolflike. "If somebody thinks she's worth killing to keep her from us, she's got to be valuable--I'll be there in about two hours, and I'll stop by Interrogation before I join you. Medart out."

Dawson switched off, looked at Corina. "I'm curious about one thing.

Why didn't you call instead of coming in? If you're right, we'd have gotten the information sooner, and you'd have been safer; I could have sent a squad of Marines to escort you here for protection. You'd have been in no danger."

"I am afraid that is not the case, Major. In the first place, there was no place I could call from. In the second, if the Order wishes me dead, there is no safety for me anywhere on Irschcha."

"I don't know," Dawson said skeptically. "All I've really heard about the White Order is that they rule this planet with some sort of strange power they refuse to talk about. I think you're underestimating the Marines."

"Talent is not discussed outside the Order, except with potential initiates," Corina said. "At least it has not been until now; I must inform you of what they can do. It is you who underestimate them."

Dawson shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I don't have the authority to deal with a major rebellion; you might as well wait till Ranger Medart gets here, and tell him."

Corina nodded, and Dawson went back to the report he'd evidently been studying when she was brought in. She tried a probe of him, finding a weak, almost-nonexistent mind-screen. It was not a real barrier, and her reasons were compelling, so she probed deeper. Human mind patterns were too murky to make this sort of thing a pleasure, but she scanned anyway, for information about this Ranger Medart. She knew, as did everyone, about Rangers in general--that they were the Sovereign's representatives, wielding Imperial authority at need--but she had to know about this specific one.

Dawson, unfortunately, knew little. Although he did serve aboard Medart's cruiser, he was not very familiar with the Command Crew or Ranger. All she could get was his feeling of respect, bordering on awe--much, she thought, the way she had felt about Thark until this morning.

Dawson did not expect any trouble from the Order here inside the Palace, she noted, and found herself agreeing. Thark was not likely to risk compromising the Crusade by a frontal attack now. There would probably be an attempt, though, to have her returned as a criminal, as the Sanctioner had threatened.

Perhaps an hour pa.s.sed before the intercom chimed. Dawson answered, and Corina overheard Captain Daley's report.

"Just finished that mind-probe you asked for, Pat. He was trying to kill Losinj, all right. His orders came from Senior Valla; she told him Losinj was betraying the Order. He also knows about the existence of a Crusade, which is what they call this rebellion. I couldn't get any details, though. And when he woke up, he somehow managed to knock out a couple of my technicians without even touching them. I had to hit him with another stunner, and I'm going to keep him under until I get orders to the contrary."

"Uh-huh, that confirms what she told me. He probably doesn't have enough rank to know any details. Was he the only one?"

There was a grim laugh from the intercom. "Hardly! From what I got, every Order member on Irschcha is either out to kill her themselves or report her whereabouts to the Sanctioners so one of them can do it."

"Thanks, Joanie, that's a big help." Dawson switched off the intercom and turned to Corina. "That exonerates you, Ms. Losinj. There's no more need to confine you." He touched a switch on the desk, and the restraining straps retracted into the armchair.

"Since I am proven innocent, may I have my blade back?" Corina couldn't keep a note of pleading out of her voice.

Dawson looked at her sharply. "It means that much to you? Well, I don't see why not; take it."

"I thank you." Corina retrieved the blade, ran her fingers gently along it before returning it to its sheath, and resumed her seat. She sensed the Marine's puzzlement, and decided she should try to explain.

"It is a part of me, in a way. Having it in someone else's possession makes me quite uncomfortable."

Dawson shook his head. "I don't understand. I know it means you're an adult, but it's just a knife."

"It is more," Corina said, her ears twitching. "My mind pattern--" She broke off at Dawson's blank look. "It is an Irschchan thing," she said apologetically. "I fear I cannot explain it well."

"Or I don't have the background to understand." Dawson gave her a lopsided smile. "Ranger Medart will; whether or not I do isn't really important." He turned his attention back to his report.

Corina took that opportunity to think. She was, she had to admit to herself, still more than a little frightened. It was less fear for her life now, as it had been when the Sanctioners captured her; it was more nervous apprehension about her future. She could not remain on Irschcha, she knew. If she did, as she had told Dawson, she would be killed.

But then where could she go? What could she do? Her peaceful life had not prepared her for this kind of situation, suddenly caught in the midst of a rebellion. Things were happening too fast, overwhelming her. She wasn't sure what to expect from the Ranger, either. He'd said she had to be valuable; what had he meant?

Urr . . . there was nothing she could do now but wait, as patiently as she could, until he arrived.

The next hour went slowly. Corina's patience, not one of her strongest points at best, was almost exhausted when the door behind her slid open. Dawson stood, coming to attention; Corina turned, to see if she should stand as well. She hadn't quite made it around when a calm voice said, "As you were."

She sat back as Dawson resumed his seat. The newcomer was Ranger Medart; he propped himself on one corner of the desk, crossing his arms, and the two studied each other. Medart was good-looking for a human, Corina thought, though not really outstanding in any way but one: he moved with almost Irschchan grace, something unusual in a human male, especially considering this one's 180-cm height.

She'd seen pictures of him, of course; one Ranger or another was usually in the news. So his appearance was familiar: medium build, youthful-looking thanks to anti-agathics despite graying hair at the temples and an age--about 75, if she remembered correctly--when an Irschchan would be preparing for death. The plain forest-green uniform was familiar too, with pants bloused over black boots and the wide pouched gun-and-equipment belt, its only decoration the platinum star-in-circle badge of his rank.

He was more impressive in person than on the holos, Corina decided.

His cool blue eyes seemed almost able to see into her, and even without trying, she could sense him; he seemed to radiate an aura of quiet competence like nothing she'd felt before. It surprised her momentarily, then she twitched an ear, amused at herself. He was a Ranger, after all, not an ordinary human. Her curiosity aroused, she tried a quick probe--to be stopped by a mind-shield that was clearly both unconscious and well above novice level. An unusual human indeed, she thought, intrigued.

Medart allowed her scrutiny, studying her at the same time. Despite their upright stance and lack of tails, Irschchans invariably reminded him of the Siamese cats he'd raised when he was a youngster in Texas.

This one was no exception. Tawny fur, thick and soft, covered everything except her palms and the soles of her feet, though it was marred now by slight scorching on her right arm and a bloodstained area just below her throat. Her alert, pointed ears only increased her resemblance to the remembered Siamese, but he knew the brain which lay between those ears was fully equal to a human one. While it was hard to read Irschchan expressions, Medart liked the steady look in this one's jade-green eyes.

He did think they looked faintly ridiculous in kilt and sporran, but that had become the Irschchan mode of dress almost as soon as MacLeod, a man aggressively proud of his Scots heritage, appeared in one at the official welcoming ceremony. Too bad; it not only detracted from their graceful appearance, in his opinion, but it made telling male and female apart almost impossible. For humans, at least, he thought with a silent laugh. The Irschchans themselves seemed to have no difficulty.