King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  "Your Majesty—" he cried. Light flashed behind him. His chest exploded; he pitched forward on his face and lay in a pool of blood.

  All was chaos without, order within. The assembled Guardians might have been politely waiting for their king to dismiss them. A few had risen to their feet, but most kept their seats, stunned, disbelieving. Their eyes were on His Majesty. The king sat in silence.

  Sagan pointed at the dead soldier. "Many more will die like this man, Your Majesty. You can halt this madness. Give up your throne. You will be taken to a place of safety, given a fair trial for crimes committed against the people."

  Amodius Starfire stirred in his seat. His back straightened; his head lifted. For the first time in his life, Maigrey thought, watching him through dry, burning eyes, he truly looked a king.

  "We hold our rulership through the divine authority of God, Lord Sagan. We cannot give away that which is not ours to give."

  No one cheered, applauded, or spoke. Those who heard him were too moved for speech. But, one by one, they shoved back their chairs and rose to their feet in a silent show of respect and support more convincing than noisy clamor.

  Support. None of them armed. Trapped . . . like rats.

  Slowly, surreptitiously, her movements concealed behind the body of the king, Maigrey inserted the needles of the bloodsword into the palm of her hand. Danha and Stavros did the same. And so, she saw, looking down the length of the table, did her peace-loving brother, his face wincing at the unaccustomed pain.

  "I told you he would be stubborn, Commander Sagan."

  The voice came from the doorway at the end of the aisle. A man, dressed in a casual business suit, surrounded by numerous armed bodyguards, entered the hall. "I am Peter Robes, Your Majesty, President of the newly formed Galactic Democratic Republic. Interim President, of course, until we hold free elections."

  "We have captured the vid station," reported another man, who had apparently entered behind Peter Robes. Due to his short, stooped stature, this second man wasn't visible behind the bodyguards surrounding the President. The guards, whose strange calm and dead eyes caught Maigrey's attention, stepped aside, allowed the man to pass between them. He was clad in magenta robes. Large nodes swelled from the back of a head that appeared too large for his thin body.

  "Abdiel!" Maigrey whispered, the sight of the priest striking her an almost physical blow.

  "The news has gone out to the planets in the galaxy," Abdiel announced. "The monarchy is crushed. A new order is rising out of the ashes of the old. If you do not want that report to have a literal meaning, Amodius Starfire, I suggest you do as the people require."

  "Abdiel!" Maigrey whispered again.

  Several years ago, the Order of Dark Lightning had abducted and imprisoned both her and Sagan in an attempt to study the mind-link. The two escaped the priests, finally, but Abdiel—their leader—had succeeded to a certain extent, having forcibly and horribly linked himself to each through the needles he'd had implanted in his own body. Like it or not, a part of each of them belonged to Abdiel, a part of him was within each of them.

  Maigrey's eyes, involuntarily, sought Sagan’s and his met hers. She knew, in that glance, that he was as surprised as she was to see Abdiel . . . and far more angry.

  Peter Robes and the mind-seizer, accompanied by several of the oddly somnambulant guards, proceeded down the aisle toward the head table. Platus hurried to stand beside his sister. He was eyeing the soldiers worriedly, his expression awed and tinged with horror.

  "Maigrey-—"

  "Shhh!" she hushed him.

  Sagan had glanced behind him at the approaching group. His face dark, he took a hasty step nearer the king, pitched his voice low. "Your Majesty, do as they ask. If you are reasonable about this, you and your family will come to no harm." His hand clenched in his earnestness. "I pledge vou this with my life!"

  "We have the feeling you are risking that life in making us this offer, Lord Sagan," the king said with a soft, sad smile. "And we are glad to think you have some regard for the oath of allegiance you took, to know that you are not wholly lost to evil. But we must refuse. We will not submit to the mockery of a trial. As king by divine right, we have only one Judge and it is to Him and Him alone we will answer."

  The struggle in Sagan’s soul was not reflected in his face, beyond a further darkening of the eyes, a tremor in the muscles of his clenched jaw. Maigrey, who saw within him, was witness to the war, and it was more fierce, more desperate than any other life-and-death encounter she had ever seen. She had been at his side in many another deadly contest; this one he chose to fight alone. The battle came swiftly to an end.

  "Then I cannot save you, Your Majesty." Sagan's voice was soft and bitter.

  The king nodded calmly. "There is only One who can save me, Lord Sagan, and it is into His hands that I commend my soul."

  "May He have mercy on that soul, Your Majesty," Sagan said coldly.

  The soldiers, with their strange, dead eyes, were taking up positions around the room. They were human, male and female. Each differed from his or her comrades in height, weight, color of hair, skin, eyes. But they all, somehow, managed to look as much alike as if they'd been born of the same parents. It was the expression on their faces, Maigrey decided at last, studying them carefully, as her commander had taught.

  Know your enemy.

  "Maigrey!" Platus said urgently. "Do you know what those people are?"

  "Androids," she answered, then frowned and shook her head. "No, droids have more life. ..."

  "They're alive, Maigrey," her brother continued in a hollow voice. "At least they were. Their minds are no longer their own. They belong to him!"

  The horrible enormity of the situation appalled her. What had she said about an ordinary army?

  Others in the hall must have arrived at the same conclusion. Abdiel whirled suddenly, confronted a member of the Blood Royal seated in a chair near the aisle.

  "It didn't work, did it, Duchess?" the mind-seizer said in the pleasantest possible voice. "Your little mind-games won't work with my people. You cannot seduce them. You cannot captivate them with your charismatic charm. You cannot hypnotize them. You cannot implant subliminal suggestions. You cannot penetrate their subconscious. Why? Because they have no subconscious. Their minds are one, and that one mind is mine."

  Abdiel placed his left hand caressingly, palm down, upon the woman's shoulder. The left hand jerked, pressing hard against the woman. The duchess screamed, a high-pitched note of agony, limbs convulsing, nerve impulses disrupted, gone wild. Abdiel removed his hand; the bright light gleamed for an instant on the five needles protruding from his palm. The woman slumped forward on the table, unconscious.

  "Anyone else want to experiment on my people?" Abdiel glanced around. "I welcome all challenges."

  Sagan advanced a step to stand beside Peter Robes. Maigrey could hear their conversation. Derek was not bothering to keep his thoughts from her now.

  "Why did you allow him to come?" Sagan was demanding. "This wasn't part of the plan!"

  "But quite an improvement, don't you think, Derek?" Peter Robes asked, with a cool smile. "You yourself were concerned with the possibility the Guardians would resist—"

  "Let them!" Sagan was pale with fury. "The palace is surrounded by my troops and those of the revolutionary army. The Guardians can resist all they want, but they have nowhere to go! Minas Tares is completely cut off—"

  So he has troops, Maigrey realized, the dull, throbbing ache in her heart spreading throughout her body. The palace surrounded, under siege. It will become our prison . . .

  Or our tomb.

  Sagan turned on his heel, made a gesture with his hand. A soldier, wearing the insignia of a phoenix rising from flames, entered the room through a side door. He saluted Derek Sagan, awaiting orders.

  Sagan said something to him in a low voice. The commander saluted and stood to one side.

  The self-proclaimed President and his entourage had reac
hed the royal table by now. Sagan turned to face Robes and Robes alone. Sagan's glance flicked over Abdiel, did not acknowledge the mind-seizer's presence. To do so would have been dangerous, would have given Abdiel power over him that, even now, Sagan was perhaps struggling to evade. Maigrey didn't know. She could no longer penetrate the shadows.

  "Your Majesty," Derek Sagan said, dark eyes now intent upon his king, "will you step down?"

  Maigrey stood behind the king, waiting for his answer, knowing what it must be, part of her applauding him, part of her wishing it otherwise.

  It all seemed unreal to her, reminded her of a time she had attended a performance of Julius Caesar. She knew the story before she entered the theater, knew the plot, the tragic outcome. Yet she had wanted—against all common sense and reason—the play to end happily.

  "Listen to the soothsayer!" she cried silently. "Don't go to the Senate."

  But Caesar had gone and would go, every time, because he was Caesar.

  "We will not treat with usurpers," Amodius Starfire said with perhaps more dignity than he had ever spoken in his life, "and we order you to leave our court on pain of death."

  The Guardians cheered in defiance. The mind-dead, who had posted themselves among the tables and lined the walls, raised their weapons and brought them to bear upon the crowd. Silence fell, suddenly, ominously.

  Abdiel glided to the President's side. "I believe it is time, Mr. President, for you to speak to the galaxy's citizens. An escort is waiting to convey you to the vid station."

  Peter Robes turned his head slowly, looked about the hall. The Guardians—men and women, human and alien, some young, some old, some wise, some fools, some honest, some corrupt—all, at the moment, knew what was coming and faced it with quiet courage. Robes's own must have failed him, then. Maigrey saw the face, with its plastic good looks, quiver; the strong line of the jaw began to melt and sag.

  "The king—that is, Citizen Starfire and . . . and the Guardians—are all to be imprisoned," Robes said, clearing his throat. "Those are my specific orders, Abdiel. Specific orders. I will convene a tribunal—

  "Of course, Mr. President." Abdiel bowed solemnly, scratching at his hand, with its decaying patches of skin.

  "Remain here to see those orders carried out, Mr. President," Derek Sagan challenged him. "The citizens have waited this long. They can wait a moment or two longer to know that the former king and his court are safely imprisoned."

  Robes stood, glancing from one to the other, undecided, irresolute. His jaw worked, but no words came. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his cheek. The plastic mold was beginning to melt.

  The attention of the three traitors was focused on each other. Maigrey took advantage of the opportunity to exchange covert, meaningful glances with her squadron. She and Danha drew near His Majesty. If they could convey him safely out of this room, take him to the royal chambers, they could barricade themselves, withstand a siege. . . .

  The powerful Danha Tusca was detaching the bloodsword, leaving his hands free to guide and support his feeble king.

  A doddering old fool, you called him, Maigrey said to Danha through the linkage of the sword. And you'll probably give your life to try to save him.

  He is my king! returned Danha with fierce pride.

  The air crackled. The Guardians were striking, using the strength of their combined mental powers to disrupt the electricity. Maigrey had a fleeting impression of a blue aura surrounding her, surrounding the courtiers. The lights of the chandeliers flared, then went out, plunging the room into darkness.

  All hell broke loose.

  Laser fire flashed; Abdiel's mind-dead began shooting indiscriminately into the crowd. The Guardians were on their feet, overturning tables, erecting their own barricades. Some tried to run for the exits, others spoke into commlinks, calling for bodyguards that would never answer their masters' call or any other save that of their Creator.

  Maigrey had only an indistinct impression of what was happening in the hall. She and Danha moved swiftly to the king, Stravros and Platus standing guard behind them. The mind-dead had switched on nuke lamps. The harsh, white beams searched through the darkness, seeking out their prey.

  "Your Majesty," Maigrey said urgently. "Hurry! We must take you out of here!"

  Starfire did not move. He was staring out at the chaos with eyes that were fixed, glazed. His body had gone strangely stiff and rigid; saliva drooled from a corner of ashen lips.

  Maigrey and Danha looked at each other helplessly. They dared not lay rough hands on their sovereign, but this was an emergency and it was obvious that their king was ill. Maigrey heard Sagan shouting orders. Fires were springing up throughout the hall. Smoke hung in the air.

  "Your Majesty!" She made one more try. Danha was ready, strong arms flexing.

  A nuke lamp's light caught them, found them. Laser fire flashed past her, the heat burning the hand that lay upon the shoulder of her king.

  The beam seared a hole through the golden crown, penetrated cleanly out the back of the skull. The king didn't make a sound; the expression on his face never changed.

  By the light of the nuke, Maigrey saw Abdiel watching with satisfaction. He thought his mind-dead had killed the king. Maigrey, removing her trembling hand from the rigid shoulder, knew differently. She had seen his face. Amodius Starfire had been dead before the beam struck him.

  "The king is dead. Long live the king!" Danha's voice roared in her ears.

  King. Augustus. Semele . . .

  "Semele!" Maigrey activated her bloodsword, jumped off the dais, and started running for the side door. Her left hand was badly burned, but she didn't feel any pain. Just as she didn't feel any pain her heart. She was numb now, and she concentrated on staying that way. The moment would come when she would feel . . .

  Or maybe not. If she was lucky, she'd be dead.

  The fires blazed out of control. Smoke and darkness made it difficult to see and to breathe. Maigrey had moved so swiftly, she had left the rest of her squadron behind. She halted, waiting for them to catch up, knowing she couldn't manage alone. The bloodsword shielded her from laser blasts. When her squadron joined her, she started toward the door and had nearly reached the exit in safety when a voice whispered inside her head.

  Stop her! Stop her, Derek Sagan. She has betrayed you!

  Turning, reluctantly, involuntarily, halted by a force she could not control, Maigrey looked around, saw Abdiel pointing at her.

  "Maigrey!" Sagan's outraged voice rose over the tumult.

  She was empty of all feeling, all emotion, even that of fear. Like her king, she was dead before she had died.

  Turning on her heel, she ran, left Sagan behind.

  Chapter Five

  Mount, mount, my soul, thy seat is up on high . . .

  William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V, Scene 5

  The revolutionary army had degenerated into a mob, roaming the palace, looting, burning, killing. Most were drunk, either with liquor or power, and were completely out of their officers' control. The Guardians cut their way through these with ease, most of the soldiers reluctant to tackle victims that had the skill and means to fight back. It was far easier and more fun to catch some soft lord in his chambers, butcher him, and then have a little sport with his lady wife.

  Maigrey kept her purpose clear in her mind, its light guiding her through the dreadful darkness, shining like the starjewel on her breast. She hoped the soldiers had not yet reached the upper levels of the palace. She and her squad would be able to rescue the crown prince—now king—and Semele.

  The palace was a maze of secret passages, built mainly for the fun and amusement of the royal family and their guests. But some of the secret passages had practical uses, such as the one that led from the upper levels of the palace to an underground spaceport. These provided escape for the royal family from the glare of vidcam lights and the constant hounding of reporters. Of course, the secret passages weren't really all that secret; everyone in t
he palace knew about them. Including Sagan. Maigrey hoped he would be too preoccupied with his massacre to remember them.

  Occasionally, the Guardians ran into the men under Sagan's command, soldiers of his new army. The Guardians avoided these. Sagan's centurions were sober, well disciplined, dangerous. They had already taken control of the palace computer center and were rapidly spreading out to seize and hold other areas of strategic importance.

  Too late, too late, too late, was the whispered message of Maigrey's heart. Resolutely, she ignored it.

  Reaching the elevators to the upper levels, the Guardians slowed, advanced cautiously. This area of the palace was quiet, and they had come to learn that quiet and order generally meant Sagan's troops were in control. The hallway was brightly lit. Either power had been restored to this area of the palace or it had never been lost. Stavros, pressing flat against a wall, risked a look down the hallway where stood the bank of elevators leading to the upper levels. He pulled back swiftly, his face grim.

  "Sagan's soldiers, all right. Two of them guarding each lift. There must be twenty of them, at least."

  "There's always the stairs," Danha suggested.

  "Thirty flights!" Maigrey shook her head. "We don't have time!"

  "Maigrey," Platus began reluctantly, "if they've captured the elevators, then they must have gained the upper—"

  "Shut up!" she snapped at him. "Shut up and let me think!"

  The three men exchanged glances, said nothing. Danha was covered head to toe in blood; his blue robes were sodden with it. He had acquired a lasgun, using it in his left hand. Platus looked gray and ill, held only his sword. He had fought when he'd been forced to, not so much to save his own life as to protect that of his comrades. Mostly he had attempted to keep the enraged Danha from venting his anger in mindless, savage slaughter. Stavros, wielding his sword and another captured lasgun, had been efficient, effective.

  "We can fight twenty men," Danha pronounced, the blood-lust burning in his eyes.