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.”