Civilians
Christopher Stasheff
“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?”