"I'll manage," Tusk said briefly.
Dion glanced over at Maigrey, who stood regarding him quietly. The young man seemed at a loss to know what to say; the woman didn't offer him any help. Finally, flushing scarlet, Dion mumbled "Thank you" in a voice that was practically unintelligible. Turning abruptly, he left.
Tusk set the timer on his watch. "We better get going, my lady. I'll escort you to my plane—"
"There's no need." Maigrey shook her head. "You stay with your friend as long as you can."
"How is Nola?" Tusk asked, his gaze going to the young woman lying beneath a bloodstained jacket. "She looks better. Were you able to do anything for her?"
"Not much, I'm afraid." Maigrey sounded suddenly tired. "I've sent her into a mild hypno-trance. It will ease her pain and reduce the body's stress, but she needs medical attention."
"She's liable to get it real soon," Tusk said gloomily.
Maigrey laid her hand on his arm. "Have faith in Dion. God is with him."
"Do you believe that?" Tusk demanded, looking directly into the gray eyes.
The woman paused; the gray eyes darkened, wavered. Then, with a small half-smile, she looked straight at him. "I have to," she said simply. "You're his Guardian now, Tusca—"
"No—"
"You can't deny it, Tusca, any more than you can deny your black skin, your brown eyes. Like those, this is your heritage. It was yours the day you were born. You think I'm abandoning him . . ."
Tusk felt his black skin grow uncomfortably warm. "No, of course not. I'm—"
"What I'm doing is for him. If Sagan succeeds—" Maigrey broke off, seemed confused. "I'm sorry, Tusca!" she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. God be with you."
He watched her thread her way through the obstacles and the enemy fire. He could still feel, though, the chill touch of her hand on his arm.
"Sorry! Yeah, you're sorry!" he said to her bitterly. "Sorry for what? The pain? The responsibility? The fact that I was born to it, that I never had a choice? All right, so that isn't quite true. I had choices. I could have ignored my father's dying request, could have told the kid's Guardian to go take a flying leap, could have ditched Dion any number of times, any number of places. Like XJ says, it's a hell of a big galaxy. But I didn't.
"I can't be his Guardian!" Tusk shouted after her, suddenly. "It's like guarding a . . . a . . . damn comet!"
No matter. She didn't hear him. But at least he felt better having said it. He heard someone call his name, saw Link waving to him frantically. Tusk glanced down at his watch. It was almost time. Sighing, he knelt beside Nola, made her as comfortable as he could, envying her now tranquil, untroubled sleep.
Derek Sagan walked the corridors of his dying ship. Safety's window had closed some time ago. He had only minutes to reach his plane if he was to put the necessary distance between himself and the ball of fire that would soon be Phoenix. Yet he walked, he did not run. His last act, before leaving the bridge, had been to bid farewell to the engineers staying behind.
The press would have a field day with this. He'd be a hero to some, a coward to many others. He'd won the battle, driven the Corasians from the system, sacrificed his own ship in a clever strategy to destroy the enemy. But unless he destroyed himself at the same time, threw himself on the burning pyre, his enemies would yell "Foul!" Strange how the public didn't consider a man a hero unless he'd given his life for a cause. Many times, it took twice as much courage to live as to die.
But he would live. And he intended to make a great many people regret it.
The stimulation drug caused the Warlord to feel as if he'd had a good night's rest and an excellent meal. He had shaken off the depression which had afflicted him earlier, put it down to fatigue. He could walk the corridors of his empty ship, know that he was walking them for the last time, and his mind was able to dwell on the future, not the past.
His plans were vague—he couldn't, didn't want to define them as yet. He was playing a game of living chess and too many pieces were running rampant on the board. His queen had disappeared. His pawn, the boy, had been sent out to the front ranks to do battle. It would be up to Sagan to keep his pawn and make use of him or sacrifice him to the end. His bishop, Snaga Ohme, was nursing thoughts of playing both sides against each other. The Adonian would have to be taught a lesson. What his opponent was plotting was unclear, but at least now Sagan could see the face of the enemy.
The Warlord arrived at his spaceplane. His Honor Guard was there, waiting for him. Instantly he glanced around the hangar bay, prey to a strange impression. Yes, Maigrey had been here. It was as if he could scent her perfume lingering in the area, hear the echo of her voice. Where had she gone? What was she planning? Would she complicate his game or make it easier for him to win? At least he knew she hated and feared their mutual enemy as much as he did. Unfortunately, however, she didn't—at the moment—know who that enemy was.
Sagan entered the spaceplane, the Honor Guard squeezing in behind him. It was a tight fit; all three were large-muscled, well-proportioned men, and the spaceplane's cockpit had been designed to hold only himself and perhaps one co-pilot comfortably. He activated all systems, checked to see all was functioning, taking his time. The Honor Guard kept quiet. Discipline forbade them speaking unless spoken to. Their faces were impassive, but, glancing behind him, Sagan could see sweat beading on their foreheads, tongues pass nervously over dry lips.
The Warlord permitted himself a wry smile and fired the plane's engines. He took off, leaving Phoenix with only one final, backward glance. His hand rested on the leather scrip he had placed at his side.
The Corasian mothership, looming near, didn't bother to fire on him. A single small spaceplane would be nothing but a speck of dust to them, intent as they were on capturing their larger prize.
Sagan punched in the coordinates for Defiant, sat back and relaxed, concentrated on his flying. The game was, for the moment, out of his hands. He had just one move to make, a move involving a knight, a move that would ensure the queen's good behavior.
"Defiant, this is the Warlord. Pass this message to Captain Williams. I am on my way. Take no further action against the mercenaries until I arrive."
This is all far too easy, Maigrey told herself.
She had reached Tusk's Scimitar without difficulty and though she'd been cautious, keeping under cover, she had the impression she could have marched up to it beating drums and clanging cymbals. The marines continued their assault, but she recognized that most of the fireworks were being set off for effect. The marines were waiting. What for?
A new commander.
Sagan. Like the patient fisherman, who feels the tiniest nibble flow through the line, Maigrey felt the Warlord's coming in her blood. The line connecting them tensed, trembled.
I should warn John. Yes, that's it. Warn John!
She started to search for someone to take a message, stopped.
It won't make any difference.
She was tired, so very tired. But she had to keep going. To quit now was to make it all worthless.
Maigrey scaled the ladder leading up the side of the spaceplane, dropped down through the open hatch.
"Who's there? Who is that?" a mechanical voice demanded. "Halt or I'll shoot!"
Harsh lights switched on, blinding her. Cameras whirred; glass eyes placed in the overhead focused in on her.
"A female!" The computer sounded disgusted. "Another female! Trust Tusk! Someday I'm going to sew his fly shut! Look, you hussy, this isn't the ladies' powder room. You turn right at the end of the hall and—"
"Is that an XJ-27 model?" Maigrey cocked her head, listening.
"What if it is?" the computer snapped suspiciously.
"The model that was the most advanced ever developed? The model that was known for its independent thinking, its high degree of logic, its infallible judgment, its vast technological knowledge combined with an extremely sensitive nature and agreeable personality?"
"Could be." The
computer sounded mollified. "Who's asking?"
"If so, then I am truly fortunate. My name is Maigrey Morianna. I am in desperate need and to find an XJ-27 model in my hour of extreme peril—"
"Maigrey Morianna!" The computer was awed. Its lights flickered. "The Maigrey Morianna? Member of the famed Golden Squadron?"
"I was, once, long ago."
"My lady! Come for'ard! Make yourself at home. Excuse the mess. Tusk insists on leaving his underwear lying around! Don't trip over those tools. Mind your step. Don't bump your head against those overhead pipes. Just kick those boots under the storage compartment. Excuse the blood, I haven't had time to mop up. ..."
Maigrey walked through the living quarters of the long-range Scimitar, scaled the ladder with practiced ease, jumped down into the Scimitar's small two-man cockpit.
"Forgive my earlier rudeness, ma'am," XJ said in formal tones. "I've been forced to keep low company, of late, and I fear it has rubbed off on me. Flying with a pilot of your skill and expertise will no doubt serve to remind me that I was destined for a higher calling than constantly saving Tusk—that third-rate Galactic Republic Space Corps dropout—from his own mistakes."
Maigrey carefully kept her expression grave. If she began to laugh, she'd break down and cry. She slid into the pilot's chair.
"I've never flown one of these types of Scimitars before, XJ. I'll be relying on you to assist me."
"I will be honored, ma'am—I mean, your ladyship. Will there be anyone else accompanying us? Such as the previously mentioned dropout?"
Maigrey bit her lip, mumbled something.
"I beg your pardon, your ladyship?"
"I said no, XJ. No one else."
"No. . . The computer's lights dimmed. It whirred to itself, started to speak, made a blurping sound, and instantly cut itself off. The words forgive me, slight malfunction flashed across the screen.
"XJ?" Maigrey looked at it worriedly.
"No problem. I'm back." The computer's audio was extremely nonchalant, casual. "Not that I care in the slightest, your ladyship, but if anything's happened to that good-for-nothing former partner of mine—I'm referring, of course, to Mendaharin Tusca—I should record it in my files."
"Nothing's happened to Tusk, XJ," Maigrey said gently. "He's flying out with Dion. He was kind enough to loan you to me for just a short while. You two will soon be back together again—"
"Don't do me any favors, your ladyship!" XJ's lights winked cheerfully again. "Will we be blasting off shortly?"
"As soon as possible."
"Then I'll just take this opportunity to reprogram life-support to suit your needs. How many respirations do you take a minute?"
"Fourteen, under stress," Maigrey answered, studying the plane's controls.
"Ah," XJ purred, "a true professional! At last!"
Maigrey was exhausted, that was the problem. Exhausted and hungry. She hadn't slept in God knew how long. She hadn't eaten anything except that horrid veg-bar that tasted like rock and was about as digestible. Her tears were a nervous response, triggered by lack of sleep and low blood sugar. She tried to stop them, but they kept coming.
Maigrey saw the flares through her tears—blurred flashes of red exploding in the smoke-filled gloom of the hangar bay. She barely saw, through her tears, the hangar bay doors open. She barely found, through the tears, the right switches to manipulate, the correct buttons to push.
Fortunately, the computer was able to handle most of the takeoff procedure. Maigrey sat back, crying silently, and let XJ manage.
The Scimitar glided out of the hangar, swooped into starlit blackness. Other mercenaries flew beside her; voices crackled over the commlink, trying to raise her.
"Shut it off," she told XJ.
"But there are enemy planes, your ladyship—"
"They won't bother us."
And they didn't. Hovering at a safe distance, Sagan's pilots watched the mercenaries escape and did nothing to stop them.
The line between them was unreeling, but no matter how far from him she traveled, it would never snap. Out in space, through her tears, from the corner of her eye, she saw what appeared to be—from that distance—a tiny spark. The spark flared, expanded, became a gigantic ball of flame.
A small sun. For an instant—another star. Another star in a myriad of stars.
And then it was gone, and the place where it had been was left that much darker by contrast.
No good-byes. It brings us luck. . . .
"There isn't any luck for us, John. There never was," she said, and tasted the bitter salt of her tears on her lips. "Good-bye."
Chapter Ten
In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
William Blake, "The Tyger"
The ventilation system aboard Defiant was rapidly clearing the hangar bay area of smoke. Crews were dismantling and hauling off wrecked spaceplanes, mopping up blood. The injured had already been removed. The burial detail was at work, tagging corpses, removing the personal effects, recording names and numbers. The bodies of the marines lay in neat, ordered rows, waiting to be zipped into bags and consigned to the deep. The bodies of the mercenaries had been dragged off to one side and lay in a heap until someone received orders on what to do with them.
The Warlord placed the toe of his boot beneath the shoulder of one of the dead mercenaries, flipped it over, studied the face. The corpse was that of a black-skinned male, but not, apparently, anyone Sagan recognized, for he turned away from it without interest.
"They're all dead, then?"
"Yes, my lord, with few exceptions. We offered them a chance for surrender, but they refused."
"There was no need to surrender, Captain," the Warlord remarked coolly. "They were winning."
"Yes, my lord."
Captain Williams wasn't watching his footing, stepped in a puddle of blood, slipped, and nearly lost his balance. A lieutenant of the marines, marching stolidly along at the captain's side, reached out a hand and saved his superior officer from an embarrassing fall. Williams flushed, dug his finger into the collar of his dress uniform in an attempt to loosen it. He felt as though he were strangling.
"But there were some survivors?" Sagan asked.
"Yes, my lord. We received your orders concerning the parties in whom you were interested. I passed the word to the marines."
The Warlord looked at the lieutenant, invited him to speak. The marine officer was young, but hard and sharp as a bayonet. He had taken over command from his dying captain. His men had done their duty, fought well, and any blame for the failure of the "containment" could be laid squarely on the shoulders of the unfortunate captain of the Defiant. Very little awed or impressed the young marine officer, including, obviously, talking to his Warlord.
"I followed orders, sir, and issued descriptions of those wanted for questioning to my men. And I consider it damn lucky to have discovered even one of them alive."
"You're to be commended, Lieutenant," Sagan said.
"Thank you, sir, but I can't take the credit," the marine said stolidly. "One of his own people saved the man's life. He's over here, sir, if you would care to see him. We've been awaiting your orders concerning him."
The Warlord indicated that this would suit him. Glancing around, he said irritably, "Where's Giesk? Doctor, are you coming?"
The doctor, who had stopped to study one of the corpses with professional interest, lifted his head, looked around vaguely. "Did someone call me? Oh, yes, my lord! Right behind you, my lord."
The lieutenant led the way to what had once been a pilot's ready room. A gaping hole had been blasted through a wall; the viewport was shattered. Several metal desks had been melted and fused together. Others lay scattered about upended or had been blown apart completely. Numerous bodies, mostly of dead mercenaries, were being removed.
"They made their stand here, sir," the lieutenant said. "Their numbers were few by this time—"
"Yes, since most of them had already made good their escape," Sagan interrupted.
The wretched Williams could say nothing. The lieutenant remained cool. After all, it hadn't been his fault.
"Yes, sir. This way. Watch your step, my lord. Those wires are still hot."
Two marines stood guard over a man who lay unconscious on the deck. They had done what they could to make him comfortable and covered him with a blanket, but he had not been moved. Saluting, the marines stepped aside.
"Giesk." Sagan motioned.
The doctor hurried forward, bent down over his patient, prodding and poking and peering. Whipping open a case, he produced a semeitor, a diagnostic machine, attached several leads to the man's head, and spent some time studying whatever information they were transmitting.
"Well, Giesk?" the Warlord demanded, with an impatience uncharacteristic of him. The stimulation shot was wearing off. He could use another, but was damned if he'd ask for it.
"He'll live, my lord. A mild concussion, but otherwise uninjured." The doctor glanced around at the burned and mangled bodies lying nearby. "He was extremely lucky, I'd say."
"He won't consider himself lucky," Sagan murmured. Bending down, he examined the man closely. "What's this?" Lifting one of the flaccid arms, he attempted to pry something from between the fingers. Though unconscious, the man held the object fast and it took the Warlord some effort to remove it. He held it up. The others looked at it curiously, were disappointed when they saw what it was.
"A handkerchief, my lord," the lieutenant said, seeming to feel called upon to make an identification.
The Warlord appeared highly gratified by his discovery. He smoothed it out upon one knee, noted that it was damp and stained with blood.
"Whose tears did you dry with this, John Dixter?" Sagan asked in an undertone, audible only to Giesk, who wasn't paying the least attention.
Packing up his semeitor, the doctor began fussing over his patient, tucking the blanket around the shoulders and unnecessarily warning the litter-bearers—who had been standing by—to move slowly and not jostle him.
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