King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  A lull came in the fighting. Dion leapt up, ran hunched over, keeping low until he reached three humans and an alien crouched behind a trash masher. Their weapons swiveled, turned instantly on the figure emerging from the smoke. Dion kept his hands outstretched, lasgun in plain view. The men saw his jacket, checked their reflexive action, and relaxed.

  Dion joined them, somewhat at a loss. It was easy to say he was going to take command. He had never really considered how to do it. He decided the direct approach was the best and yanked the cloth away from his mouth.

  "I'm Dion Starfire, and I'm taking command."

  Energy bolts burst overhead, showering them with sparks.

  Everyone crouched down, then jumped up to fire back furiously. When this interlude ceased, the men settled back. None of them so much as glanced at Dion.

  Injured pride banished fear, anger hardened his voice. "I said I'm taking command!''

  "Shit," one said to another, "this is all we need."

  His buddy glanced at Dion. "The adults are busy, kid. Go play soldier somewhere else."

  Blood pounded in the boy's ears—the Blood Royal, he would realize if he had thought about it. Probably the hardest battle he would ever fight was right there, fighting for control of himself.

  "What we need"—Dion kept his voice calm—"is heavier equipment. Lascannons, grenades, '

  "Yes, sir." The alien spoke through its translator, snapping off a mocking salute with a thick, squishy arm. "I'll run right over to supply, sir!'

  The humans grinned at each other. A flare burst overhead. It was only a flare, but Dion didn't know that. Involuntarily, he ducked, cringed, waiting for the explosion. The mercenaries noticed, shook their heads in disgust, and continued peering through the smoke.

  "Damn!" one said, with sudden irritability. "Why the hell don't they just come on and get this over with?"

  Dion straightened up. "Listen to me! The equipment we need is right out there." He pointed straight ahead. "The enemy's abandoned a position not for from here—"

  "Yeah, and if you ask em nice, kid," one of the humans said, "maybe they'll quit shooting at us long enough for us to go out and gather it up!"

  Dion glared around in frustration, saw a burst of tracer fire coming from their right. "Who's over there? Some of our people?"

  One of the men shrugged, nodded without interest. Another brief, furious round of ineffectual shooting silenced all conversation. When it ended, the men hunkered down, faces tense, carefully blank.

  "I'll be back," Dion told them finally, frustrated. "Wait for me here."

  "Sure thing, General,' the alien said. The others didn't bother to reply.

  Dion jumped to his feet, ran the short distance between one group and the next. A staccato of laser fire erupted behind him, sending him crashing unceremoniously into three women, who had taken refuge behind a girder and what looked to be part of a plane's broken wing.

  They stared at him in astonishment as he barreled into their position.

  He'd learned his lesson. Crouching down in front of them, he gasped, "The men from over there sent me. We're making a sortie . . . out there . . . lascannon, grenades. Need . . . covering fire."

  "You got it," a woman said.

  "Can you see . . . signal . . . from there,"

  She grinned at him. "I can see that red hair of yours a kilometer off, kid. Go on back. Tell your buddies we'll make sure the marines keep their heads down."

  Dion nodded, his breath gone, then turned and ran back to the trash masher. He wondered that he wasn't feeling scared— certainly not the panicked, debilitating terror he'd experienced in his spaceplane. It was probably, he told himself, because he just plain didn't care anymore.

  His squad appeared highly surprised and not particularly pleased to see him again.

  "If it ain't the general." the alien growled.

  Dion ignored him. "Our people over there are going to give us covering fire. That is, they're going to give me covering fire. I'll go out alone if I have to, but I can't carry many guns back here by myself Are you with me?"

  Laser fire sizzled past him. He didn't dodge for cover. He felt reckless, exhilarated, immortal. He had meant what he said. He would go it alone if he had to.

  "Hell," one of the humans said to his companions. "We're all gonna die anyway. I say we go with him."

  "Now!" Dion shouted, and he was off. running flat out across the deck, jumping over wreckage and bodies.

  From somewhere to his right, he heard and saw flashes of flame; the women had spotted him, were giving him the covering fire they’d promised. He was halfway to his destination when he realized he had no idea if anyone was following him. Suddenly, the very air seemed to be exploding all around him. He crashed headlong into a crude barricade.

  And there, hurling themselves after him—the alien landing right on top of him—was his motley squad. His first command.

  Dion pushed the grunting, heavy body of the alien off him and peered over the edge of the barricade. He saw two lascannons surrounded by three dead marines. Two of the bodies had grenades attached to their belts.

  "Hunh! Not bad, kid," one of the men commented.

  Dion caught his breath, started to rise to his feet. The man grabbed hold of him, dragged him down. "Begging the general's pardon, but those cannons have to be carried just right or they sorta blow up in your face. We'll get em. You cover us, you and Ned here. '

  "Ned!' The alien wheezed with what Dion assumed was laughter. "That's what they call me. Can you believe it? Ned!" It shook its skinless, bony head.

  "Hold the fort. General," the man advised, and before Dion quite knew what was happening, his squad was off.

  Dion jumped up from behind the barricade, firing his lasgun wildly. The alien opened fire. Its strange weapon— designed to fit its three-fingered hand—shot a burst of energy bolts that nearly blinded the boy. Something exploded near him; stinging pain shot through his left arm and was promptly forgotten.

  His men grabbed the lascannon and as many grenades as each could carry, stuffing them down the fronts of their flak jackets, and came running back, stumbling beneath the weight of the heavy cannon. They headed for the trash masher. Dion and the alien slowly retreated. The women covered them, keeping up almost continuous, deadly fire.

  "Run for it!" The women shouted at him.

  Dion ran, the alien pounding along beside him. Someone caught hold of Dion, pulled him down. The young man looked around, dazed, and was amazed to find himself behind the trash masher. His lungs burned; he gulped air.

  One of the men had also managed to snag a canteen. He drank sparingly, offered it to Dion.

  "What next, General?"

  Dion took hold of the canteen, started to take a drink, and was afraid suddenly he might be sick. He handed it back.

  "Get together as many of you as you can. Move out . . . that direction.' He waved his left hand vaguely, saw a gaping hole in the flak jacket he was wearing, noticed blood trickling down his fingers. He wondered whose it was. "The controls . . . for hangar bay. We've got . . . capture them. Open . . .' He was having trouble catching his breath. "Escape."

  "Gotcha. How'll we know where the controls are?"

  Dion forced his mind to slow down, not gallop past details. "Flares," he said, remembering the burst overhead that had scared him. "Flares," he repeated.

  He staggered to his feet.

  "Hey, General. You've been hit. You better rest a minute—"

  Dion shook his head. He didn't have much time.

  "Thank you," he said politely to his first command, and went off to find Tusk,

  The men watched until the red hair was lost in the smoke. Then they hefted their equipment, prepared to obey orders.

  "Wait a goddam minute' How old do you suppose that kid is?" one asked.

  "Dunno. Maybe sixteen, seventeen, his buddy answered.

  "You got any idea why we re doing this?"

  "No." All of them, Ned included, shook their heads.
>
  "Me neither. Except ..." the man paused, pondered, "I think maybe its the eyes. They sort of burn right through a guy . Any of you ever seen eyes like that?"

  None of them, including Ned. who had six eyes of his own. ever had.

  Dion squad moved out.

  Chapter Eight

  . . . quod vindicta

  Nemo magis gaudet quam femina.

  ... no one delights more in vengeance than a woman.

  Juvenal, Satires

  "I don't need any help, thank you. No, I'm not hurt!"

  The MP couldn't hear the words but he understood the gesture. Watching through a viewscreen in the corridor outside the hangar bay, he saw the pilot wave off assistance and extricate herself from the smashed-up Scimitar. Emergency crews swarmed over it, checking for potential fires, radiation leaks.

  "Why did you bother?" One of the crewmen appeared to be shouting. A hulking cyborg encased in a protective suit, he twiddled a robotic arm at what was left of the spaceplane.

  The pilot removed her helmet, said something that would seem to be, from the movement of her lips, "It beat walking!"

  The cyborg was highly amused at the response.

  Exiting the hangar bay, the pilot entered the corridor. The MP drew his men up in ceremonial form, awaiting her arrival. The woman saw them. They saluted, she saluted, fist over her heart. Her face was smeared with grease and soot, her pale hair had drifted free of its confining braids, her flight suit was punctured and stained with blood. Though she appeared bone-weary, she stood straight, shoulders squared.

  "I am Lady Maigrey Morianna. Where is Captain Williams? I want to speak with him."

  The MP was completely taken aback by this request, and somewhat confused. Escaping prisoners, such as this woman was purported to be, didn't generally arrive on board a ship and demand to see the captain.

  "Captain Williams is . . . uh . . . unavailable at the moment, your . . . ladyship. The current emergency situation ... If I could be of assistance ..."

  Maigrey fixed the MP with a scrutinizing gaze. He was conscious of undergoing some sort of evaluation. Apparently he passed, for she nodded once, gravely.

  "Yes, officer, thank you. Has the latest shuttle arrived from Phoenix?"

  "I don't know, my lady." He hedged for time. "I can check—"

  "Please do so. There is a felon on board, a murderer. I am responsible to my lord for his capture."

  The MP spoke into the commlink in his helmet. The woman stood nearby, tapping her foot impatiently, a slight frown creasing her forehead over the delay.

  "Captain Williams," the MP said quietly.

  "Williams here."

  "I have Lady Morianna, sir. She has asked to speak to you."

  "To me? What the deuce for?"

  "She says she's been sent here by Lord Sagan to capture a felon, a—a murderer, sir."

  "But she's an escaped prisoner!" Williams sounded rattled. According to reports, the battle with the mercenaries wasn't going well.

  "Yes, sir. Have you been able to contact Lord Sagan, sir?"

  "No." Williams snapped the answer.

  So the rumors must be true, the MP thought. They were trying to keep the lid on, but it was obvious all these men being transferred from Phoenix to Defiant weren't reinforcements. The Warlord must be in serious trouble.

  Maigrey's foot-tapping grew louder. Tucking her helmet beneath her arm, she lightly touched the MP on the arm. "We should hurry, before my prisoner loses himself in the crowd. "

  "Yes, my lady. I'm attempting to get the information now. Begging the captain's pardon," the MP continued, talking to Williams in an undertone, "but if Lord Sagan did send the woman, then shouldn't we do what we can to assist—"

  "And what if he didn't?" Williams returned, perplexed and frustrated. "We may well be assisting her to waltz right out of here."

  "Yes, sir." The MP offered the captain a modicum of silent sympathy. Williams might be damned if he did what the woman wanted, could very well be damned if he didn't.

  Distant voices sounded in the background, competing for the captain's attention. "Carry on, Sergeant," be said finally in a harassed tone. "Arrest this prisoner, then take both him and the lady to the brig. If she protests, tell her that it's for her own safety."

  "Yes, sir." The MP turned back to Maigrey. "The last shuttle has docked on Able deck, my lady. Down this corridor and to our left."

  Maigrey smiled at him, a peculiar, crooked smile. He had the distinct and uncanny impression that she'd heard every word. He hesitated, feeling suddenly extremely uncomfortable, wondering if he shouldn't contact the captain again. But what would he say? No, he would do what he'd been ordered to do. That was always safe.

  Gesturing to his men, who fell in behind him, the MP and the woman proceeded down the passage. They rounded a corner, ran into a large group of white-coated men, medicbots bearing litters, and other personnel from the hospital shuttle. Another group from Phoenix emerged into the corridor at the same time from a different direction, creating an immediate logjam of bodies and 'bots.

  "That's him!" Maigrey pointed.

  "Seize him!"

  The MPs floundered through the crowd, pushing and shoving. Grabbing hold of the major, they clapped him in fuse-irons. Those who had been standing near the wretched man disappeared immediately, having no desire to be held guilty by association. The major protested loudly and volubly, too loudly. The MP had been around a long time. He'd seen the major's expression when the man first felt the fuse-iron close over his wrist. He wasn't surprised or shocked, as an innocent man would have been. The major's face had darkened, brows contracted in swift and sullen anger. The MPs hauled him to the lady and their own officer. Seeing them, the major rearranged his features, looking and sounding highly offended.

  "By the gods, Sergeant, I'll have your stripes for dinner! What's the meaning of this?" His face was blotchy; his eyes protruded from beneath a thick forehead.

  "The officer is acting on my orders, Major." Maigrey spoke quietly. She'd been standing quietly. The major hadn't even noticed her.

  The major blustered and blew, then his gaze went to the woman's torn and bloodied uniform, then to the features. The MP, watching closely, saw the bluster fizzle out, saw the blood drain from the major's cheeks, his jaw working.

  "I—I don't know what's going on—"

  "Surprised to see me alive? Or perhaps you think I'm a ghost? You must have a lot of ghosts haunting you, Major."

  The man recovered his senses, said what he should have said in the first place, except now it merely made matters worse. "You're arresting the wrong person, officer. This woman was a prisoner aboard our ship. I tried to capture her, but she got away from me and flew off in a wrecked Scimitar before I could stop her!"

  The MP was elbowed from behind. Whipping around, he glared over his shoulder.

  "Sorry, sir!" stammered a red-faced marine, who'd been shoved into the MP. A steady stream of men and equipment continued to surge through the narrow passageway. The MP and his men were impeding the flow.

  "Let's move along," the MP began. "We can discuss this in the—"

  "The charge is murder," Maigrey interrupted. "One count, probably others will surface on investigation. Inform my lord that I will be in touch with him concerning this matter."

  The MP considered. Whatever else is going on, this man is obviously guilty of something, he thought. I'll be safe in hauling him off, dumping him in the brig for a while. "Yes, my lady. Take him below," he ordered his guards.

  "Bitch! I'll see you in hell!" Nearly escaping his captors, the major made a lunge at Maigrey.

  Deftly, she slid her hand into his front shirt pocket. The MP saw something sparkle brightly before her fingers closed around it. The major's guards wrestled him back.

  "And now, my lady"—the MP reached out to take hold of her—"if you will accompany me—"

  "Officer!" A medic shoved his way between the two of them. "Officer, what the devil are you doing? Clear this a
rea! My stretcher bearers can't get through! These men are critically wounded!"

  The major, swearing at the top of his lungs, continued struggling. "You can't do this to me! I'll have you up on charges! Every last one of you! I'll see you terminated!" He was a big man; the MPs were having trouble holding on to him. The shouting was drawing a crowd of curious onlookers.

  "I insist that you clear this area! Clear this area!" The medic danced around, waving his arms and yammering.

  The flow in the corridor bottled up. Some men tried to shove past, others stopped and craned their heads, hoping to catch a glimpse of the latest crisis. In the distance, at the end of the corridor, a group of marines appeared, trundling a canister of brain-gas down the passage.

  "Hey!" the sergeant of the marines shouted. "Clear this area! We gotta get through!"

  "Sir—" one of the MPs began.

  "Bloody outrage—" the major howled.

  "I insist—" the medic shrieked.

  "Clout him one if he doesn't shut up!" the MP bellowed, and, being rather vague as to his pronoun, he had the satisfaction of seeing everyone in the immediate vicinity relapse into sudden silence.

  Deciding that the best thing to do was to get his prisoners out of here, the MP turned to Maigrey. "My lady, if you will accompany—" He stopped talking, mouth open, but no words came out.

  The woman was gone.

  General Dixter's forces, trapped on Charlie deck, had surrounded the control room and were keeping the marines at bay by holding the entrances into the hangar bays against them. Dixter's main fear was that Williams would use brain-gas, a chemical which rendered an enemy immobile by either knocking him out or, in some extreme cases, killing him. The marines had masks to protect themselves against the gas; the mercenaries did not. If the marines used brain-gas, the battle would be over.

  Williams had, in fact, received the supply of brain-gas he'd requested from Phoenix, but he had been prevented from using it. Brain-gas was generally used out in the open air. Computer analysis had revealed the possibility that, released inside a small area, the poisonous fumes might be sucked inside Defiant's ventilating systems, plunging everyone aboard ship into an inadvertent siesta. The marines, unable to use the gas, were forced to rely on small-arms fire and grenades. Rockets and mortars were out, they might puncture the hull. And so the mercenaries had a chance. Inside a small control room, their computer expert—a heavy set woman named Lilly—ignored the fighting swirling around her, worked diligently at wresting command of the hangar bay doors away from central control.