"Yes, Doctor," another voice responded. Boots rang on steel; there was the clink of armor. Someone was talking into a commlink.
Dixter squirmed around as best he could, opened his eyes a slit, and focused on the guard, on the lasgun he wore at his side. There'll come a time when they have to release me from my bindings—escort me to the bathroom, for example, he thought. A lunge . . . the guard taken by surprise . . . firing at me at point-blank range . . .
It would all be over in a flash.
Brisk hands took hold of him, turned him deftly from his side onto his back. Dixter made a reflexive attempt to jerk his arms free, but the metal cut into his flesh, bruised his wrists.
"Now, now," the doctor said, "we'll injure ourselves if we keep that up. Best. Belax."
Dixter glared up into a weasel-nosed face, a high forehead topped by slicked-back, thinning hair, and a smile that was right out of the medical books—either under the chapter labeled "Bedside Manner" or the one titled "The Outward, Visible Signs of Rigor Mortis."
"I'm Doctor Giesk," the man continued. "You sustained a rather nasty bump on the head, with subsequent concussion, but you're going to be fine . . . er"—the doctor glanced at a name overhead—"John. Now, let's have a look at you."
"Is that why you drugged me?" At least that's what he wanted to say. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The words came out an unintelligible mumble.
"Water? Is that what we want, John? The drugs do leave a rather foul taste in our mouth, don't they? Just a moment, though, until I've examined you."
Bound hand and foot, Dixter had to submit to being poked and prodded, having bright lights flashed painfully in his eyes, and hearing this weasel call him by his given name.
"Here, now, let's see if we can keep some water down—"
Dixter averted his face. "Giesk," he said thickly, talking slowly, forcing his swollen tongue and stiff lips to form the words. "I remember that name. Weren't you sentenced to be executed on Mescopolis?"
The doctor raised a deprecating eyebrow. "That trial was a travesty of justice. Now, open wide—"
Dixter gagged, coughed, and continued talking. The words came easier all the time. "Experimenting on the bodies of patients who weren't exactly dead yet. I believe that was the charge, wasn't it?"
Giesk sniffed. "Laymen take such a narrow-minded view of research. The advances I made in medical technology have yet to be matched—"
A steel panel slid aside. The centurion posted in the room came to attention, saluting, fist over heart.
"That will do, Giesk." The Warlord entered, followed by his Honor Guard. "How is the patient?"
"As well as can be expected, my lord. He has a small crack in the occipital—"
"Thank you, Giesk." Sagan made a gesture with his hand. "You have leave to step outside for a moment, Doctor."
"Yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord."
"Captain, take your men, wait for me in the corridor. I am not to be disturbed."
"Yes, my lord." The centurion wheeled, marched his men out. The steel panel slid shut behind them. The Warlord advanced to the controls, sealed it.
Dixter's body tensed; one of the muscles in his legs shook with an involuntary tremor. He forced himself to lie still, feeling the sweat chill on his body.
Sagan came back to stand by the bed, moving slowly, taking his time. To divert his thoughts from what he guessed would be an unpleasant few moments, Dixter studied the Warlord curiously. The face was stern and grim as ever, but the general noted that the lines were deeper, darker, the eyes more shadowed. The tight skin sagged around the jaw, denoting fatigue, the high-planed cheekbones seemed to have sunken. He was clad, not in his customary armor, but in soft, red robes that fell in long folds from a golden pin done in the shape of a phoenix, clasped at the shoulder.
"Water?" The Warlord lifted a plastic bottle that had been fitted with a tube for drinking.
"No." Dixter swallowed painfully, shook his head.
"It may be a long interview," Sagan said wryly.
The general reconsidered, nodded. The Warlord held the bottle to Dixter's lips. Dixter took a long pull, swallowed, took another to moisten his mouth and lips. "Thank you," he muttered gruffly.
The Warlord replaced the bottle on the bedstand. stood silent, staring down thoughtfully at the general. Sagan's right arm bent at the elbow, rested against his abdomen. The left arm was extended, held in relaxed posture at his side.
"They tell me you have a high resistance to the interrogation drug, John Dixter."
"Was that what it was?" he inquired politely. "I thought you'd sent in comedians to entertain me."
"Yes, I understand you found it all quite amusing. 'Questo e luogo di lacrime!' Do you recognize the quote?"
Dixter shook his head.
"I thought you might. It's from the Lady Maigrey's favorite opera-Tosca, by Puccini. 'Questo e luogo di lacrime!' This is a place for tears!' Cavarodossi, the hero, has been arrested by a powerful baron and brought to his torture chambers. The hero—like you—considers his arrest a laughing matter. The baron warns him with that line of what is to come. Quite a fascinating opera, Tosca. Puccini's audiences didn't know what to make of it. There were no suffering kings and queens, to which they were accustomed. No. Only a singer and her lover and the libertine baron, who tortures her lover while Tosca is forced to watch."
Dixter had the impression Sagan was saying something important here, something dangerous, but the general's brain seemed to be still chasing butterflies, for he could make nothing of it. He shifted restlessly beneath the blankets.
Sagan noted the movement, eyed the man speculatively. "We are both soldiers, Dixter. We've known each other a long time. There may be animosity between us, but there is also—I believe—respect?"
"It was an old dictum of yours, Sagan. Respect your enemy," Dixter said heavily, making a feeble gesture with his bound hand. "That . . . trap. It was all for my benefit, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was all for your benefit, but don't flatter yourself, General. You didn't do anything clever. You simply asked too many questions. After all, what did it really matter to you who supplied that torpedo boat to the Vangelis government?"
Dixter sighed. "You could have dealt with me anytime. Captured me—"
"When? Prior to the battle? No, I needed your people to help me win it. After, if you remember, I had you arrested. Your people freed you. You might say they brought their doom upon themselves."
"You would never have let them go."
Sagan shrugged. "Perhaps not. At any rate, I succeeded in my objectives. All of them."
Questions burned on Dixter's lips, but he didn't dare ask them. Patience, he counseled himself, fidgeting beneath the blankets, trying to ease the cramp in his leg. Looking up, he saw the Warlord watching him intently, a slight smile on the thin lips. The general had the uncomfortable impression that every thought passing through his head had been duly noted by those dark, shadowed eyes.
"You discovered information on Vangelis concerning the alien, Snaga Ohme. You passed that information along to the Lady Maigrey, didn't you?"
Dixter blinked, kept his expression bland. "I don't recall that the subject ever came up between us."
"Come, come, John Dixter. You don't expect me to believe that you two spent all that time together alone on Vangelis discussing old times." The Warlord's left hand lowered to the bed; the fingers began to idly run back and forth over the sheets near the general's bound arm.
"That's it, I'm afraid, Derek." Dixter smiled pleasantly. "We had a lot to talk about. It had been a long time since we'd seen . . . each other. . . ." His voice died. He was silent, remembering.
"We've interrogated your aide," the Warlord continued, as if he hadn't heard. "What's the sergeant major's name? Bennett?"
Dixter's head snapped up. "Bennett doesn't know anything! Let him go. It's me you want!"
"Oh, you'll have your turn, John Dixter." Sagan's hand moved from the sheet to the general's boun
d arm. His fingers brushed against the skin, their touch hot against the man's cold flesh.
Dixter flinched involuntarily, gritted his teeth.
"But not just now. Not just yet." The Warlord opened his right hand. A crumpled, bloodstained handkerchief slowly unfolded in the harsh light like the petals of a flower. Dixter, caught off guard, stared at it, realized too late his recognition must be obvious on his face.
"Maigrey seems to have left this behind," Sagan said. "I will return it to her ... at my earliest opportunity."
"No need." Dixter kept his voice even. "It's not hers. It's mine."
"All the more reason for her to cherish it." The Warlord's fist closed over the handkerchief, crushing it.
This is a place for tears. . . . The libertine baron, who tortures her lover while Tosca is forced to watch. Suddenly Dixter understood what was to be his fate, how he would be used. Slowly, he shook his head.
"Maigrey's a soldier. She's seen men die before."
"But not one she loves." The Warlord leaned near. "And it will take you a long time to die, John Dixter. A long time."
Dixter was master of himself now. Calmly, he looked up. "Watching a man she loves die with honor may be easier for her than watching one she loves live in dishonor."
The thrust hit home, though Dixter knew it only by the flicker of fire in Sagan's dark eyes, not by any change in the man's stance or facial expression.
"You refuse to cooperate, John Dixter?"
"What else did you expect, Derek?" Dixter was tired. His head ached, he wanted this conversation to end.
"I leave you with one final thought. I know where Lady Maigrey has gone, what she plans. But an enemy awaits her on Laskar, one of which she knows nothing. The foe she will face on that planet is one far beyond her strength. I wonder if she realizes ..."
The Warlord fell silent, his thoughts and his attention turned inward, as if listening for some faraway voice. Apparently he didn't hear it, for his attention snapped back to Dixter. "Any information you could give me about what she knows, what she plans to do, might enable me to save her—"
"Save her! You're almost as funny as your other clowns, Sagan. Thanks for the attempt to raise my level of musical knowledge." Dixter leaned his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes. "Shut the door on your way out, will you?"
The Warlord remained standing near him. Dixter could almost feel the dark eyes on him, could almost feel them try to peel the skin from him, to see inside. The mental flaying was nearly as painful as a physical one. It took an effort to keep his eyes shut.
And then Sagan was gone. Dixter heard the whisper of the robes against the deck, the slap of an open palm against the controls, the soft whoosh of the panel sliding open.
Bobes rustled; Sagan had turned. "I'll leave you with a name. I'm sure it's one you'll recognize: Abdiel."
He walked away. The booted feet of the centurion resuming his duties entered. The panel slid shut.
John Dixter opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.
He's lying! he told himself desperately. It's nothing but a trick, a trick to make me talk. Abdiel is dead. . . .
Dixter's hands clenched. The metal bonds cut into his flesh, leaving red spots of blood on the sterile sheets.
Outside the general's cell, Dr. Giesk and the Warlord observed the man's agony through one-way steelglass.
"Shall I order another injection, my lord? We might have much better success this time."
"No, there's no need," Sagan said, turning away, borrowing another quote from the Baron von Scarpia. " 'Morde il veleno.'"
"My lord?"
" 'My poison is working.' "
Chapter Three
. . . there was a way to Hell, even from the gates of heaven.
John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress
"Like I was saying, Tusk, Dixter's alive! The Warlord's holding him hostage aboard Defiant."
"Hostage for what?" Tusk demanded irritably, not liking Link's superior attitude.
Link tilted back in his chair, planted his boots on the table, and spread his hands. "You got me!" he said, looking over at Dion and winking.
Dion had leapt to his feet. "What if—"
"Forget it, kid. Just forget it!" Tusk leaned over, muttered savagely to Link, "Why the hell did you bring that up in front of him?"
"He's got a right to know." Link folded his hands over his chest, fingers intertwined. "Well, well! Look who's here!" he added, grinning. Nola stood framed in the doorway. "Aren't we looking lovely today."
"Shove it, Link," the woman said.
"How's your shoulder?" Tusk asked.
"It hurts. Dion, there's some character down below says he's got a message for you."
"For me?" Dion frowned.
"The Warlord," Tusk said, rising to his feet. "C'mon, Link. Well deal with the—"
"Have them bring him up," Dion ordered.
"Kid, I—"
"Have them bring him up, please."
Nola shrugged, disappeared. Tusk scowled, but said nothing, and marched over to stare out the slit in the wall that represented a window.
The mercenaries had returned to the stone fortress on Vangelis. Some had argued against going back there. Sagan himself had been to the fortress. He knew exactly where it was, what its defenses were like. But it was precisely these defenses that argued for it. Built on top of a cliff jutting up from the flat desert floor, the fortress allowed those within an unobstructed view of the land for kilometers around it. A mouse would have been visible, making its small way across the barren rock beneath the cloudless cobalt blue sky.
It had been seventy-two hours since the mercenaries had managed to escape the Warlord's trap. Their spaceplanes dotted the landscape around the fortress proper. They took up positions inside and waited grimly for Sagan to come and finish them off.
He hadn't shown up, however, and Tusk had been spending a lot of his time wondering why. Now, with Link's news, he had a good idea. Sagan didn't need to bother. He had captured their general and the Warlord knew that Dixter's people would never allow him to remain a prisoner.
Perhaps this "character's" arrival was the opening of negotiations.
Fidgeting, Tusk left the window, paced the stone floor. Located on the upper level of the fortress, the room was large and open to the air, since rainfall was so scarce as to be practically nonexistent. A battered wooden table stood in the center, surrounded by chairs in various stages of dilapidation. Link took his lasgun from its holster, casually placed it on the table in front of him.
"Tusk?" Nola's voice.
"Yeah, we're ready. Bring him in."
The door was shoved open. Nola and two of the mercenaries entered, escorting a hooded and robed figure between them.
"We spotted him coming in a 'copter. We'd have shot him down, only he broadcast he was a messenger. We scanned him and the chopper before we let him land. Both clean, no explosives. Once he was on the ground, he said he had a message for the kid here."
The mercenaries held the man by the arms, not gently. The man stood quietly, calmly, unmoving. His face, except for the eyes, was hidden behind the folds of a kaffiyeh; not unusual, the headgear was worn by many in the deserts of Vangelis.
There was something odd about the eyes, Tusk thought. He'd never seen eyes so completely devoid of expression.
He leaned over to Dion. "The guy's blind!"
Dion regarded the messenger intently.
"I'm Dion Starfire. What message have you brought me?"
The man reacted to the sound of the voice much like a person who is blind. But, turning to face Dion, the messenger's eyes focused on the young man and it was obvious that he could see. He didn't, however, appear to be much interested.
A 'droid? Tusk wondered. No. 'Droids had more life programmed into them than this.
"My message is for Dion Starfire," the man said in a voice that was even, calm, and flat. "Alone."
"We're his friends," Tusk growled, sitting down, making it cle
ar he intended to stay seated.
Dion's frown deepened, the blue eyes gleamed in the brilliant sunshine pouring into the room, the red hair seemed ablaze. "Nola isn't feeling well. Link, will you and the others take her downstairs?"
"Dion," Tusk leaned over to whisper, "admittedly this creep doesn't look like much, but we might need some backup." He added aloud, "Link, you stay—"
"Link, please take Nola back to the sick bay."
Nola seemed about to protest. Link was on his feet, apparently prepared to humor the kid, but looking at Tusk for command. Tusk saw Dion's jaw clench, saw the expression of imperious, almost petulant decision harden the youthful face.
"The kid's the boss," Tusk said, feeling uncomfortable, not certain how to handle this new side of the young man. "The message is for him, after all."
Link, shrugging in his easy, nonchalant manner, took his gun from the table, thrust it into its holster. He detoured around the messenger, who did not move and who might have been mistaken for one of the room's wooden support posts.
"Come, my dear. I'll put you to bed." Link grinned, slid his arm around Nola's waist.
Nola cast a troubled glance over her shoulder at Tusk but allowed herself to be led away. The other mercenaries followed.
"Tusk, check the door."
"What the— Kid, they're your friends!"
"Please check the door."
Tusk, grumbling, rose to his feet to do as he was told and was startled to find Link lounging just outside.
"I thought you went with Nola," Tusk said.
"She gave me the brush. She's been bitchy ever since she got hit. I figured I might hang around out here, make sure you two didn't get into any trouble."
"Uh, thanks, but I ... uh ... I'd really appreciate it if you looked after Nola."
"Sure. I'm easy." Link sauntered off.
Tusk, frowning, puzzled, returned to the room. "What do you make of that?"
"Simple." As Dion spoke to him, his eyes remained fixed on the messenger. "How do you think he knew the Warlord was holding Dixter?"
Tusk stared at him, gawking. "Link? A spy! No! C'mon, kid!"
Dion didn't respond. He signaled Tusk to be silent, spoke to the messenger.
King's Test Page 13
