"Brigadier—" His aide entered.
"Ah, yes, glad you came in, Corporal. Make a note to show that vid to all personnel again, will you? The one about the dangers of entering restricted zones."
The corporal made a face. "Yes, sir. Brigadier, we've received a report that a long-range Scimitar has been sighted entering our orbit and has requested permission to land."
Haupt raised his eyebrows so far that they appeared ready to slide up and over the crown of his bald head. "A single long-range Scimitar? Alone?"
"It appears to be, sir."
"Not part of a fleet?"
"The fleet is not reported to be in the area, sir."
"How very strange." Haupt's eyebrows dropped down into a frown above the pinched nose. The brigadier didn't like anything strange. He glanced up, a glimmer of hope. "Perhaps it's in trouble?"
"I don't believe so, sir. It has put out no distress call."
"Who's aboard?"
"A Major Penthesilea, sir."
"Penthesilea. Never heard of him. "
The corporal spoke reluctantly, unable to withhold the bad news any longer. "She says she is a special courier from Citizen General Sagan, sir."
"Good God!" Haupt stared.
"Yes, sir," the aide agreed.
"I suppose I should be on hand to meet her," Haupt said, rising and casting a nervous glance in a mirror. Reassuring himself on the immaculate state of his uniform, he twitched his coat down, adjusted the stiff, high collar.
"Yes, sir. Should I turn out the band, sir?"
Haupt considered. "No, let's keep this low profile." The citizen general might be the darling of the media; however— from the scuttlebutt Haupt had picked up from HQ—Sagan was out of favor in higher places. Haupt didn't dare do anything to offend this powerful Warlord, but he didn't have to welcome Sagan's courier with fifes and drums, either.
The brigadier paused on his way out of his office. "You have,
I presume, verified this with Citizen General Sagan, haven't you, Corporal?"
"We're trying, sir, but we're having difficulty reaching anyone who knows anything about the situation. We keep getting passed to someone higher up—"
Haupt snorted. He disliked excuses. The corporal, aware of this, fell silent.
"Keep trying," the brigadier ordered and stalked off.
On the way to the landing area, Haupt tried to figure out why he was being honored with this visit. It boded nothing good, he decided. He knew perfectly well—everyone in the galaxy knew—that Citizen General Sagan never employed women on any business whatsoever, never permitted them to serve aboard his ship. To have broken that rule, to have made a woman a major and a special courier— Well! She must be some woman, the brigadier thought gloomily, and wondered what her speciality was—knives, poisons, perhaps explosives . . .
Arriving at the landing site, the brigadier discovered that the Scimitar had already touched down and that half the base had turned out to view the female who represented the Warlord. Most had probably heard word of her coming long before their commander, Haupt realized bitterly. Rumors spread like head lice on this base. Everyone from cooks to clerks to captains was standing around, gawking at the plane, commenting on the fact that it looked to have been in recent combat: gun turret wrecked, shields damaged, hull scorched.
So much for low profile.
"'Tention!" called out someone, spying the brigadier.
Everyone snapped to, trying to look as if they belonged here.
"You people, go about your business! Sergeant, disperse this crowd!"
A figure was climbing out of the battered Scimitar. Haupt hurried forward, placed himself at the bottom of the ladder. He had been attempting to picture the type of woman Derek Sagan might employ and was prepared for anything from a female gorilla to an Amazon with one breast missing. The slender female clad in a neat Galactic Air Corps flight suit came as somewhat of a surprise and a relief to him. Perhaps there'd been a mistake, his commlink operators had misunderstood. The woman appeared perfectly ordinary, he thought, watching her descend the ladder with practiced ease and skill. Arriving on the ground, she turned to face him.
Brigadier Haupt looked into her eyes, took the shock in the pit of his stomach. He'd served on an arctic planet once, a vast, frozen wasteland. The eyes reminded him strongly of that bleak planet—empty, cold. So chilled was he by the eyes that it was some moments before he noticed the dreadful scar that slashed the right side of her face.
His heart sank. Apparently no mistake had been made.
"Brigadier General— What was the name?" the woman asked.
"Haupt," he said, and involuntarily started to salute, then realized that generals did not salute majors. Generals especially did not salute majors who had not saluted them first. This major had not saluted him and obviously had no intention of so doing.
Haupt was extremely angry. Warlord or no Warlord behind her, this officer was bound by the same rules of military conduct as all the rest of them. Rules that had been cherished through centuries, rules that propagated respect for a superior. The brigadier would have upbraided the woman on this, would have issued a verbal reprimand, but he found himself faltering and strangely tongue-tied in the grave, intense gaze of the woman's gray eyes.
"I am Major Penthesilea," the woman said suddenly, and held out her right hand. "How do you do?"
Haupt was completely nonplussed. He stared at the slender, taper-fingered hand whose nails were trimmed short like a man's. He had the oddest sensation that he was expected to kiss the smooth, white skin, as he would have been expected to in the old, prerevolution days. And then the woman turned the hand over. Haupt saw the five marks on the palm and every ounce of fluid in his body seemed to drain from it.
Only three more years to retirement, a pension! Good God, had it been too much to ask? Haupt lifted his bulging-eyed gaze from the palm and stared forlornly at the woman.
"My-—my lady—" he began, but she shook her head swiftly, slightly. Apparently, this was to be their little secret. Haupt felt sick. "M-major," he said loudly, and was rewarded with a smile that was pale as a winter sun. "Welcome . . . welcome to Laskar." He had no idea what he was saying.
"Thank you, sir." She took his limp and unresisting hand and shook it firmly.
Haupt had touched warmer corpses and disengaged himself from her grip as quickly as possible. "I—I have quarters prepared for you. If you would come this way—"
"Thank you again, sir, but I intend to remain aboard my spaceplane during my stay here. Security reasons. I'm certain you understand."
He didn't, but that was of no consequence. Whoever this ghost was who had risen out of the past where the Blood Royal (with the exception of Derek Sagan) were supposed to be dead and buried, she could live in a coffin if she chose to do so. At least until Haupt figured out what was going on.
"Yes, my . . . Major."
"Is there somewhere we can speak in private?" she asked.
"My office," Haupt said faintly.
The woman nodded,- and the two walked back across the compound toward the base. En route, Haupt was pleased to note his people going about their duties, although there certainly seemed to be an unusually high number of personnel involved in duties around the landing zone this evening. He saw that the major returned the salutes accorded the two officers, but he also noted that she used the Warlord's salute— fist over heart—rather than the regulation hand to hat brim.
It was an extraordinarily hot night on Laskar, Haupt thought, feeling sweat trickle down the back of his uniform. He could envision the large, unsightly spot it must be making. A glance showed him that the woman, clad in the bulky flight suit, appeared cool, completely unaffected.
"Would you care for a drink first, Major? The officers' club—"
The woman shook her head. "The matter is one of extreme urgency, sir."
"I am at your comman—" Haupt paused. A brigadier was never at a major's command. He saw the half-smile on the curved lips in
crease slightly, saw it touch and twist the scar on the right side of the face.
Who in the name of God ... or the devil . . . was she?
The major said nothing more to him. Haupt noted her eyes taking in every detail of the base as they walked, much—it occurred to him—like one who is on reconnaissance in enemy territory. The brigadier kept silent, thinking back to the days before the revolution, trying to figure out who this woman was.
Penthesilea—an alias, of course. The brigadier had a smat-tering of literary background. He was fond of reading. It was—outside of a glass of sherry before bed—his only form of relaxation. He realized why the name Penthesilea had conjured up visions of Amazons in his mind. Penthesilea had been an Amazon queen who had fought at the battle of Troy and who, according to legend, was loved by Achilles.
It was not a tale calculated to comfort Haupt, who was wondering if the woman had chosen the name at random or if it had other, deeper connotations. The brigadier wished to heaven he'd paid more attention to gossip in the old days. He knew nothing about Derek Sagan's background, other than that he had betrayed his king and comrades for the sake of the revolution.
Haupt ushered the woman into the outer office. The corporal leapt to his feet, saluting. The major returned it with grave dignity.
"Sir," the corporal reported, "we have still been unable to contact Citizen General Sagan—"
"Sagan? Does this have to do with my arrival?" The major turned her gray eyes on Haupt.
Hot blood crept up the brigadier's neck, reddening his already warm face. He wondered angrily why he was being made to feel like a traitor over what was a perfectly routine procedure.
"Major, I—that is, I hope it doesn't seem like—"
"Nonsense, sir," the woman said crisply. "Of course an intelligent officer such as yourself would have taken care to verify my story. Have you reached my lord?"
"No, Major," the corporal answered. "I'm getting the runaround—"
The woman came near Haupt. Resting her slender, chill fingers gently on his arm—he could feel the cold touch through the cloth of his uniform—she leaned near him.
"My mission is dangerous and highly secret. There are those who would prevent me from completing it and who would stop at nothing in order to accomplish their objective. I cannot order you to break off attempting to contact Lord Sagan, sir. I can only advise you, General, that it would be extremely unwise to broadcast my presence on this base throughout the universe." The gray eyes were the hue and hardness of the barrel of a beam rifle. "My lord would not be pleased."
Haupt shivered. "Blast it, Corporal, I've told you repeat-edly that you keep the air-conditioning too cold in here. Turn up the thermostat! The major and I will be in conference. Hold my calls."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
"And I see no reason to disturb the citizen general over this matter." Haupt gestured to his office with one hand. Placing the other stiffly behind his back, elbow bent, he made a fluttering motion with his fingers to his aide.
The corporal saw, understood, and, as soon as the door had closed behind the two, left the room and headed directly for the communications center.
"Now, Major," Haupt said, settling himself behind his desk. The woman was seated in a chair in front of him. "What can I do for you . . . and the citizen general?"
"I am here to make contact with an alien named Snaga Ohme. Do you know him?"
"Ohme?" Haupt's jaw sagged.
"Yes. Snaga Ohme. An Adonian, dealing in weapons."
"I know him. Everyone in the galaxy knows him. May I ask what—"
"No, you may not." The major smiled; her voice softened. "The less you know about this, the better, sir."
Haupt rose nervously to his feet, walked to the window, and stood staring out at the garishly lit sky. The green sun had set, and Laskar had come to life, its neon lights blazing, turning night in the city streets to kaleidoscopic day. The brigadier clasped his hands behind his back, clenched his fingers tightly. He'd thought he'd had it figured out. The woman was an imposter, of course. A spy. Her trick to try to persuade him not to contact Sagan had been unbelievably transparent. She was probably one of those damn royalists Haupt had heard about. He'd intended to stall her until the citizen general could be notified.
What was she after? Military secrets, computer access codes, perhaps. Any number of things . . . except Snaga Ohme. That made no sense. . . .
"Brigadier," the woman said. "Time is pressing."
Haupt glanced around. "What is it you want me to do, Major?"
"It's very simple. Contact Ohme. Tell him that I am here and who has sent me. Arrange a meeting with him for me. The alien knows you. I presume he likes to maintain good relations with the army. He will do what you request."
Haupt returned to his desk, sat down, and picked up a computer stylus. He ran his fingers up and down it, an unconscious, nervous habit. "Why," he asked in a low voice, "doesn't the citizen general arrange a meeting for you with the alien himself?"
The pupils of the gray eyes dilated; the gray was like a cloud of debris around a black hole. Haupt felt himself caught, sucked into the empty vortex.
"Do you really want to know my lord's secrets?" she asked in a soft voice.
Haupt shuddered. He'd heard rumors about Derek Sagan. The rebel angel, who had once shone as brightly in the heavens as the morning star, was plotting to rise up and challenge the gods. That, at least, was the current talk around HQ.
Three years to retirement. Haupt ran his hand over his bald head. He had a house picked out on a planet far away from this one, located in the heart of the galaxy. He'd planned to buy a dog, one of those artificial kind that was programmed to behave. . . .
"Brigadier, sir." The aide's voice over his desklink broke in on his thoughts.
"I ordered you to hold my calls!" Haupt snapped.
"Begging your pardon, but I thought you should hear this, sir. We have received a message from Citizen General Sagan."
Haupt cast a swift glance at the woman, saw the gray eyes narrow in irritation.
The brigadier glared at the unfortunate corporal on the desklink screen. "You were ordered not to disturb the citizen general—"
"I didn't, sir," the man said, and there was a ring of truth in the voice. "The message came in just this moment."
Haupt looked at the major, saw her sitting at her ease, composed, calm. She might have been carved of ice.
"Well, what is the message, Corporal?"
If it was to have her arrested, he hoped his aide had been intelligent enough to have sent an armed guard.
"Citizen General Sagan to Brigadier General Haupt: 'By my command, you are hereby ordered to render all aid and assistance to Major Penthesilea as requested by her.' End of communique, sir."
"Is this verified?" Haupt demanded.
"Yes, sir. The citizen general's own private code."
Haupt breathed a sigh, turned to the woman. "Well, Major, of course I will—" He stopped, his words forgotten.
The woman's face had gone livid. The only blood visible in the ashen skin pulsed in the scar. Haupt rose swiftly.
"Major, you're not well! Can I get you—"
"Nothing, thank you," she said through lips that didn't move. "Please, just do as I have requested. Contact Ohme. Time grows short. Very short indeed." The last was a whisper. She didn't look at him but stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused, seeing nothing.
Mystified, yet secure in the knowledge that he was acting on orders and could not be held accountable by anyone, including himself, Haupt motioned to his aide.
"Corporal, put through a call to the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. "
Chapter Five
Sparafucil mi nomino.
Sparafucile is my name.
Giuseppe Verdi, Rigoletto
"My lord. " The voice of the captain of the shuttlecraft came over the commlink.
"Yes, Captain?"
"A small spaceplane has requested clearance to dock. Shall we proc
eed?"
"Has it given the correct code response?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Allow it to come in. Have a guard meet the pilot in the docking bay. Bring the pilot to my quarters immediately."
"Yes, my lord."
"Oh, and Captain. Leave the pilot his weapons. He would not give them up without a struggle, and I don't have time to try to reason with him."
"Yes, my lord." The officer did not sound happy.
"He will not harm me, Captain, and—so long as he is not crossed—he will harm none of the crew. No one is to harm him on pain of death. Is that understood?"
"Very good, my lord." The captain's voice clicked off.
The Warlord paced the quarters of his shuttlecraft, the cramped space. The crew of the shuttle had listened to him walk the night away, his booted footsteps sounding regular and steady until they became like the beating of their own hearts and they heard them no longer.
Eighty-four hours had passed since this game had begun. Sagan once again envisioned his pieces on the chessboard, studied every play his opponent could possibly make, and, after long hours, was satisfied that he had each covered, his own strategy mapped out. He relapsed into a chair, sipped at a glass of cool water, and composed himself to meet his visitor.
Sagan felt the slight jolt of the docking, the other ship attaching itself barnaclelike to the shuttlecraft. A whoosh of air locks, the clanging bang of hatches opening and shutting.
"My lord," came a voice.
Sagan touched a pad on a console on the arm of his chair. A panel slid aside. Two of his Honor Guard stood framed in the entryway. Between them was what appeared to be a large bundle of rags. At a hand gesture from the Warlord, the bundle became animated and slouched into the room. The centurions saluted and, pivoting, took up position outside the chamber. Sagan touched the pad and the panel slid shut. Another touch sealed it.
The bundle shook itself, much like a dog, and a head emerged from the midst of the rags, somewhere near the top. A pair of the bright black gleaming eyes, one eye positioned considerably higher on the face than the other, glanced swiftly about the room. Hands, strong and quick-fingered, groped their way through the rags like talons protruding from a bird's feathers. The man had, on entering, moved with a shuffling slouch that gave evidence of a crooked, humped back. Seeing from his survey of the room that he and the Warlord were alone, the man straightened, adding a good five inches to his height, and shuffled forward.
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