Dalshon

Chapter 21

Carla put on the black armor of a Minbari warrior over her Anla'shok uniform. That made the armor almost fit right, since she had lost so much weight after being shot in the stomach.

The shoulder pieces were always a little big for her. But she did not particularly care how she looked. This was space armor, not the normal shipboard armor. It looked similar, but it was designed for zero-G combat. They were going down to a planet, but it was a planet of cold vacuum. The raider base may or may not still have atmospheric integrity, but even if it did, her troops might have to blow out a few walls.

Her helmet was a custom job, since it had to fit a round human head. She had only had it on once before, when she tried it on in the ship's armory right after the repair and refit in the spacedock at Minbar. Whoever had designed it—someone in the worker caste, no doubt—had molded on what he or she considered aesthetically pleasing head spikes. Wearing this, at first glance, she appeared Minbari.

Carla tried not to let it bother her as she attached her Pike to her belt and pulled a heavy energy rifle off the wall. She glanced over at Firuun and the other warriors, also donning space armor. It reminded her of the boarding action on Babylon 5. Everything came full circle in so many ways.

They went out into the base. Carla picked one of the shorter warriors to take point. She wanted to be able to see over him, and she was next.

She assigned rear guard to Firuun, and not just because he was tall. In many ways rear guard was the most dangerous position, the most likely to be attacked by the kind of enemy who was clever enough to lie in wait and let the rest of the company pass, or sneak up on them while they were halted. She wanted their best fighter in that position.

That was bush thinking, Carla knew, and unlikely to happen in the cover-free confines of space installation. But it was sound Gropo tactics nonetheless.

The moved out, opening doors and clearing rooms as they progressed down one corridor after another. The main parts of the base were abandoned. Or at least, all the fighters were out in the ships.

The sharp-eyed youngster on point held up a fist: Marine hand signals. Carla's mouth quirked in brief amusement as the Minbari column halted instantly. Then the point man pointed to a door that was slightly ajar.

She gestured, and two of her warriors peeled off to stand on either side of the door, beam rifles held at the ready. A third member of her crew aimed a scanner at the door, and indicated it was free of booby traps.

Then they charged through the door. The room was full of equipment and steam. Three humans in white uniforms held blades. Kitchen knives, Carla realized.

"Hold your fire," Carla ordered. "Noncombatants." That was a terrible risk, she knew. If any of the cooks were a trained knife fighter, at this range he could probably take out one of her men before they could shoot him, if he sprang suddenly. But for all she knew these three might be slaves or captives of the raiders. Or, just ordinary hired cooks.

Carla switched to English. "Drop the knives. You won't be harmed."

Two of the humans dropped the kitchen knives immediately and put their hands up. The third quivered, looking like he was trying to work up his courage to charge. "Minbari don't take prisoners," he squeaked.

"Yes they do," Carla snapped. "Haven't you heard of—" she stopped herself. There was nothing about her personal experiences that anyone would find remotely reassuring. "Don't let the armor fool you, I'm human, I'm a Ranger, and I'm in charge. Drop the knife. Now."

He moved forwards, knife still in hand, and the one of the warriors shot him. He flew back into a stove and fell to the ground, the knife clattering out of his hand.

"Alright, tie these two in and secure the room."

Her crew obeyed in silence. They fastened the two surviving cooks' hands behind them and put them on a lead, linked one to the other, and to one of the crew. One warrior knelt and checked to be sure the man on the ground was dead.

Carla told the two humans in the chefs' uniforms, "Whether you're prisoners or rescuees we'll figure out later. But for now, just do as you're told and you'll be OK. We're taking you with us. Keep quiet."

"All secure, Captain."

"Form up and move out."

The warrior with the two cooks on the leash kept them in front of him in the middle of the column. The rest of the team went on as before, clearing rooms one by one as they went through the raider base.

They did not find another living being until they came to the row of cells. The point man shot the guard before Carla could even bring her rifle up. 'Youthful reflexes,' she thought.

One of the others checked the dead guard, a Drazi, and lifted her key-box. The Minbari warrior pressed the big button on the key-box and all the cell doors popped open. The crew cleared the rooms as usual, but there was no one in them. Until they got to the end of the row.

Then the warrior rushed out of the cell screaming. The rest of the crew took up defensive positions.

The young Windsword pulled off his helmet, fell to his knees and vomited. "No danger, Captain. Sorry. Sorry. It's just a dead body." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and put his helmet back on. "I—I thought I saw it move. That's all. Just jumpy. Sorry, Captain."

Carla motioned for the rest of the crew to stay out as she checked out the cell. There was a deflated body on the floor, like an empty vac suit. Its skeleton lay next to it, thicker than a human's and with spines in places a human would not have them. The flesh and the skeleton were joined at the neck, the head intact. The dead eyes blinked.

Carla started and nearly screamed herself. 'Jumped out of my skin', she thought, a singularly inapt metaphor.

She approached the body. The eyes tracked her. He was still conscious.

"Comac." Her voice was slightly unsteady.

"C—"

"Yes, it's me, Carla Punch. The Fleet got your signal. We won."

He tried to speak again, but though his lungs must still be functioning, or he would be dead already, he did not have any control over them. He could not push breath through his throat to make sound.

Comac had been deboned. Like a trout.

She was aware of the irony of Comac dying by torture, but there was no answering triumph within her. He was just a pathetic dying being.

Whoever had done this had no intention of letting him go afterwards. He was not going to recover and go back to his ship. Carla glanced over the deflated flesh, and saw an old scar on the bottom of one foot. A scratch scar, very much like the baltor mar scars on her own body.

Carla realized how he must have gotten the idea to use the shoreline creatures. She could see it, almost like a vision: a Minbari child running barefoot on the beach, wandering into the tidepools. He had stepped on a baltor mar. And nearly crippled himself scratching at it, judging by the scar.

Carla knelt down beside his head. She opened the faceplate of her helmet, and sang. The Song of the Dalshon.

Then she pulled a utility knife and severed his spinal cord. Carla detached his throat from his pulmonary tube, and watched his eyes glaze over. She put the knife away, reached out with her gloved fingers, and gently closed his eyes.

End of Chapter 21