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TEAMS

A Terran Empire story

by Ann Wilson

Copyright (C) 1992 by Ann Wilson

Narvon III, 2277 CE

Marine Captain Jase Thompson enjoyed Evaluation Team duty, and this particular assignment appealed to what his team members called his warped sense of humor. This had started out as an odd one; it was the Archbishop of Narvon III, rather than its Baron or the System Count, who had pushed the panic button. He'd appealed to the Emperor for a battle fleet, with a full complement of Security and Combat Division Marines, claiming civil war was breaking out because of something that was turning Narvon System's "best people" into "bloodsucking servants of the Devil."

Captain Thompson had no idea what His Majesty thought about the situation, but he was skeptical, himself. Still, no one asked for that sort of intervention without some reason; it was up to the E-Team to find out whether the reason was valid, and if so what degree of intervention was really justified. He certainly didn't want to call in a fleet—no E-Team leader did—but he would if he had to. Then he'd hope that the Ranger or Fleet Admiral in charge overruled him; he didn't like thinking what military occupation could do to the occupied system. Not that the situation was likely to be that bad.

Thompson sighed, checking the clock and deciding he'd better get back to the bridge; the Koslov's Captain—Navy Lieutenant Inga Sanchez— should have the pre-landing surveillance reports for him by now.

She gave him a rueful shake of the head as he entered her small bridge. "It's peaceful as Terra down there, Jase. No trace of active weaponry, no civil disturbances our sensors can detect, no fires involving artificial substances—no nothing."

Thompson grinned. "Sounds good to me, Inga. What about news reports, entertainment broadcasts, that sort of thing?"

Sanchez grinned back. "Just as normal, except for a couple of oddities. The holos aren't carrying any 'casts of contact sports, and on a talk show, one of the guests had fangs; the others were acting a little nervous, but she was telling them how harmless she and the other `Kins of the Dragon' really were." Sanchez touched a control on the arm of her command chair. "Watch."

The Captain's monitor screen lit up to show several people seated in a group of comfortable-looking chairs around a low table, and Thompson repressed a chuckle. Talk shows seemed to be the same everywhere, he thought—then one of the guests caught his attention. She was attractive, wearing the uniform of a System Security officer—Chief of Detectives, from her badge—except that she was more than slim, she looked damned near starved.

"How do you feel about the Kins who were killed, Chief Kaufman, and what do you plan to do with the ones who killed them?" a man—Thompson guessed him to be the show's host—asked.

The woman shrugged slightly. "My personal feelings have no bearing; I plan to deal with them as I would with any other murderers, how else? I am an officer of the law."

"You don't have any desire for revenge? After all, the killings were rather … unpleasant."

The detective chief grimaced. "Yes, they were. But I can't take revenge, any more than I can feed on someone who doesn't want me to—it should be common knowledge by now that Kins feel any pain we deliberately inflict."

"But you can feed on someone who's not willing, or kill; Kins have done it."

"We can, yes; I've killed in the line of duty since I became a Kin, which was bearable because I knew that not killing would cause more harm later. And I did try to feed on someone who didn't want me, once—I suppose most Kins have—but I'd rather starve into coma than try that again. Thank the Prince I didn't really hurt him, but I did feel every bit of his terror."

"Looks like she's doing just that, too," Thompson commented. It didn't look like much intervention, if any at all, would be needed—not with the `servants of the Devil' appearing on talk shows trying to reassure people and looking like death warmed over. "What the hell do they do for food, then?"

Sanchez advanced the recording, then started playing it again. "—willing Donors," the detective chief was saying. "We feel pain we inflict deliberately, yes—but we can also project feelings. If somebody's willing to feed me, I can let … feel the satisfaction—even, if ----'s willing enough, the ecstasy—I do when I feed. And I certainly wouldn't take enough to hurt, or even to weaken,…!"

Sanchez shut off the recording. "You know, I believe her."

"So do I," Thompson said thoughtfully. "I do still have to investigate, of course, but I'd say from this that there's no crisis big enough to call in even a squadron for."

The E-Team's landing wasn't the covert operation Thompson had originally planned; instead, the Koslov called for clearance, and they landed at the main spaceport, where Thompson and his team disembarked in full uniform, complete with sidearms. He didn't particularly like weapons, but procedure called for E-Teams to carry them unless doing so would be more dangerous than not, which didn't seem to be the case here.

Landing openly, even an E-Team had to go through Customs and Health, which was routine enough until a tech told Thompson that he needed blood samples to test for susceptibility to the nosferatu pseudo-virus.

"What's that?" Thompson asked.

"What makes humans into Kins," the tech said, sounding as if he were telling them something they should already know. "If you're susceptible, and if the virus gets into your bloodstream, and if something seriously weakens your system more than twenty-four standard hours later, you turn into a Kin. The Count's orders are that anyone from out-system be tested and warned, so if they are susceptible, they can leave before exposure is possible." The tech shrugged. "Odds are none of you will be, though; no one I've tested has been, and so far it looks like only one percent—maybe less—are."

"We all have full-spectrum immunizations," Thompson pointed out.

"I know. But the pseudo-virus isn't one of the things full-spectrum works against."

"Okay." Thompson extended his arm and let the tech take his sample. When the rest of his team had followed suit, the tech sent them to a waiting room until the results were back, probably in less than an hour. Thompson posted the newest team member with their luggage, sent his second-in-command to a phone to make arrangements for them to be quartered in the System Palace, then told the rest to spread out and start up conversations with the others in the room, all of whom looked like locals.

Not that he really had to give them orders any more, he thought. All except Corporal Nkomo—who'd replaced Corporal van Breda, killed on an earlier mission—had been with him for at least four years; they were more of a family than a military unit, although they were careful to maintain protocol with anyone else around. Thompson knew he had a reputation for being overly concerned with his people's welfare, especially since he'd turned down promotion to stay with his team, but he preferred being called a mother hen to taking command of a larger unit that would give him less personal satisfaction.

While his people circulated, Thompson leafed through several of the newsjournals that seemed to be an inevitable part of every waiting room. He started with the oldest, published