King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "Brother Fideles," Maigrey said suddenly, straightening, facing the priest, "do you know what kind of people go into Corasia? Scum. The stuff that sinks to the bottom of the pot, the dregs of human and alien life. Do you know why they go there? Two reasons: One, they have nowhere else to go, which means that they've done things that have put them outside the laws of man and God. Two, they want money so badly that they're willing to do anything to obtain it.

  "Those are the kind of people who get into Corasia safely, the kind who do business there. And that's the land, Brother Fideles, we're going to be . . . only worse."

  "I understand," said Fideles, eyes lowered. "God will be with us."

  "No, He won't!"

  Crossing the deck, Maigrey caught hold of the collar of the young man's shirt, gave it an expert twist, and jerked his head up so that he was forced to stare directly into her face. "Where we are going, God left long ago, if He was ever there at all, which I doubt. You don't believe me, now, but you will, Brother. You will."

  If Fideles so much as blanched, twitched, if his eyelids flickered, Maigrey had decided to leave him—sign from God or no sign from God. She would turn him over to the Honor Guard, have them lock him in the brig, where he could pray to his heart's content. But he met her gaze calmly, listened to her calmly, his face serious, expression firm and resolved.

  "I may be a priest, my lady, but that doesn't mean that I am weak or a coward. I'm used to hardship. I've seen pain and suffering. I've proved my mettle in battle, under fire. I proved my mettle to my lord. You can rely on me, my lady. And if I choose to bring God along," he added with a quiet smile, "I'll see to it that He doesn't get in your way."

  "Very good, Fideles." Releasing her hold on him, Maigrey smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. "You even looked at me when you spoke. There may be hope for you yet. Now, just try to stop shaking every time I touch you, and we'll get along fine."

  "Yes, my lady." Fideles swallowed. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  Maigrey turned back to resume her packing. "We need another name for you. I don't suppose they called you 'Fideles' below decks?"

  "No, my lady. I was known as Daniel."

  "Well, Daniel, you're headed for the lions' den. Yes, Captain," she said in answer to a call over the commlink. "Enter."

  The double doors slid open, Agis walked inside. The doors slid shut, sealed. Maigrey yanked the ties of the duffel bag closed. She did not look up.

  "Is the man I requested here, Captain?"

  "He's here, my lady."

  Maigrey raised her eyes, saw Agis standing alone before her. He saluted, fist over his heart.

  "I hope he will suit, my lady."

  "He has suited me in the past," Maigrey said gravely. She noticed that though he wore his armor, he had removed his harness and the crested helm. "Agis meet Daniel. He will also be accompanying us."

  The two men looked at each other, examined each other, nodded. If the centurion was surprised or disturbed at this choice of companion, Maigrey was pleased to see that he kept his doubts to himself.

  "Now, gentlemen, here is the scenario. I am Lady Maigrey, an outlaw with a price on my head, willing to do anything to escape being brought to justice, on my way to join forces with the notorious Lord Sagan. You, Agis, are a former centurion who has forsaken your sworn duties and come with me, I suppose, because you are desperately in love with me."

  "Yes, my lady." Agis grinned.

  "And you, Daniel?" Maigrey paused. "What about you?"

  "I'm a renegade priest of the Order of Adamant, who broke my vows and fled the brotherhood to escape punishment. Because I've been initiated into their secrets, the Order's punishment would be severe," said Daniel cheerfully. "I'm sure they'd kill me."

  "I'm sure they would," Maigrey said dryly. She lifted the duffel bag.

  "I'll carry that, my lady." Agis took the bag from her, slung it over his shoulder. "Where to?"

  "My lord's spaceplane," said Maigrey, drawing a deep breath. "We're going to make ourselves truly outlaws. We're going to run the blockade."

  0400. The changing of the watch. An unshaven and bleary-eyed Admiral Aks—an unusual sight on the bridge at this hour—paced back and forth on the captain's walk, a slender bridge that spanned a gigantic viewscreen, opening onto the panorama of stars glittering in the vast deep.

  Captain Williams stood rigid, motionless at the far end of the walk. The captain was often on the bridge at the changing of the watch, particularly when the ship was under full alert. But alert status had been downgraded, since it was now common knowledge that Lord Sagan was not to be found on Phoenix. His Majesty, the king, had actually opened up friendly negotiations with the Galactic forces.

  An ensign, receiving a communication, looked startled, reported, "Captain, a group of heavily armed men have commandeered Lord Sagan's spaceplane! They're threatening to kill anyone who tries to stop them from taking off!"

  The Admiral stopped his pacing. He and Williams exchanged glances.

  "Attempt to raise it," ordered the captain.

  "No response, sir. Their computer says that if they don't receive clearance for takeoff, they'll blow up this ship. Sir"— the ensign looked extremely puzzled—"reports from the han-gar deck indicate that Lady Morianna and Agis, the captain of the Honor Guard, are the ones who took the plane."

  "Indeed?" Williams raised an eyebrow. "Well, we can't have them blowing up the ship. Grant them clearance."

  "Yes, sir." A momentary pause. "Plane's away, sir."

  "Excellent. Now, communicate to her ladyship that unless she returns to Phoenix immediately, she will be fired upon."

  "Yes, sir. No response, sir."

  "Ah," said Williams. He cleared his throat, stood tapping his foot on the deck.

  "Shall I give the order to fire, sir?"

  Williams appeared to consider the matter. "What's the spaceplane's current location?"

  The officer provided it. "The plane's apparently heading for the Lanes, Captain."

  "Undoubtedly." The captain and the admiral both stepped to the viewscreen, looked out.

  "The plane is very near the ships of the Galactic Democratic Navy," remarked Williams.

  "It would be a pity if we were to fire on the stolen spaceplane and hit one of their cruisers, particularly during this stage of negotiations," stated Admiral Aks.

  "An excellent point, sir. Hold your fire," Williams ordered.

  "Yes, sir," said the mystified ensign. "Galactic Navy planes moving to intercept. Her ladyship is opening fire."

  The admiral and the captain and everyone who could sneak a glance from his duties stared out the viewscreen, at the battle that, from this distance, appeared to be between one child's set of toys and another. The play turned deadly. Tracer fire from the spaceplane disintegrated one of the Galactic planes opposing it, crippled another. Other planes flew frantically to join the battle, but by that time Maigrey had locked in a course. The Lane was clear. She made the Jump, her plane vanished from sight.

  "They've gone into hyperspace, sir."

  A ragged cheer echoed through the bridge.

  Williams, frowning, turned around. "Belay that nonsense. Lieutenant, put those men on report."

  "Hangar deck reports two men knocked unconscious, sir; taken to sick bay. Sir," the ensign added, highly astonished, "one of the men with her ladyship has been identified as that nurse who went AWOL. ..."

  "This is a disgrace!" Williams snapped. "I want everyone involved put on report. Show in the log that the spaceplane was stolen and that we made every effort, short of risking the lives of those who might be in the line of fire, to recapture it. And now, I must go and explain the situation to General Pang."

  Williams smoothed his uniform, straightened his collar, pulled at his cuffs.

  "And I," said the admiral gravely, "must report this unfortunate incident to His Majesty."

  The two officers left the bridge. The crewmen looked at each other, grinned, and returned to their duties.


  The lieutenant, leaving the bridge to file his report, glanced out the viewscreen. "Good luck, my lady," he said beneath his breath.

  General Dixter—a glass of green Laskarian brandy in his hand—stood at his own much smaller viewscreen, waiting. A spaceplane, darting suddenly through space, caught his attention. He focused on it, tensed, watched the attempt to intercept, saw the flash of red fire, the white burst of the explosive hit.

  And then the plane was gone from view, as if someone had switched off a light.

  John Dixter was left alone in the darkness.

  "Good-bye, Maigrey," he said quietly to the stars.

  Chapter Four

  The stroke of midnight ceases, And I lie down alone.

  A. E. Housman, Parta Quies

  "You about ready, kid?" Tusk entered Dion's quarters.

  "Yes. I'm packed. I just have to change my clothes."

  The young man removed the lion-head pin, began to strip off the dress uniform and royal regalia he'd worn for the press conference. Folding them carefully, he thrust them into the rucksack. It wasn't the same sack Platus had given him when he'd bid him farewell that night on Syrac Seven, but it was similar. Perhaps because of Tusk's presence, it reminded Dion of that night.

  "What's the official government reaction to the press conference?" he asked abruptly.

  "About what you'd expect. Robes said that the notion Sagan'd been abducted by some evil genius was . . . let's see if I can remember it exactly. 'What you'd expect of an eighteen-year-old youth who imagines himself in a fairy tale.' I gotta admit I kinda like that one." Tusk grinned, then sobered. "The bad thing is that they've put out a reward on the Starlady. 'Armed and dangerous.' Which means every bounty-hunting scuzz between here and the Copernicus system will be gunning for her."

  "It's what she wanted." And at least I didn't have to do it, Dion added silently. He yanked too hard on one of the straps of the rucksack, tore it off.

  "Hey, kid, don't take it out on the equipment," Tusk remonstrated quietly. "You may be living out of that sack a long time. From what I've heard about this godforsaken planet of Olefsky's, he's somewhere back in the twelfth century. He doesn't even have indoor plumbing, the Bear claims it's for wimps. I guess runnin' out in the snow to go to the head in the middle of the night in your altogether with the temperature at thirty below is supposed to make you tough."

  Dion couldn't help smiling. He relaxed, felt better. "I know it would make me tough. Either that or make me think twice about drinking beer after dinner. Besides, his theory must work. You've seen Olefsky."

  "Flesh mountain? Though I gotta admit most of him's solid. You know what his kid told me? On the day he becomes a 'man,' each of his sons has to kill an ox with one blow of his fist, then carry the carcass home over his shoulders. And women have to go through the same type of ritual. But they probably go easy on girls. I hear he has a daughter," Tusk added ominously.

  Dion laughed, zipped himself into a flight suit. "Most likely she gets two hits on the ox, then only has to drag it home."

  "Most likely we won't be able to tell her from the ox!" Tusk shook his head.

  "What are you two talking about? What girl killed an ox? Heavens, Dion, aren't you packed yet? You men. I've been ready for hours." Nola entered the young man's quarters. "XJ sent me to look for you. The computer's about to have a meltdown. Claims he's had life support on for an hour now and you're wasting fuel."

  "I'll waste him," Tusk muttered. "The kid's ready to go anyhow. Put your helmet on. No one's supposed to recognize you. The boys out there got their orders?"

  "Of course. The centurions will continue to post guard as if I'm still inside my quarters. Food will be brought to my room and one of them will eat it. I'm not making any public appearances due to my deep concern over the current dangerous situation."

  "Good." Tusk rubbed his hands. "Well, I guess we're olf, like a herd of mad turtles as my dad used to say."

  "You're enjoying this," Nola accused him.

  "Damn right, sweetheart. No more tight collars and droid reporters. No more Captain Williams with his perfect teeth and pressed pants. I'm back to what I do best." He put his arm around her. "Lovin' and fightin'."

  Dion grabbed the helmet. "I thought we were going," he said coldly. Seeing the two of them happy together, watching them exchange glances that he knew were bedroom glances, overhearing whispered words that he knew were bedroom words twisted him up inside.

  "Where's General Dixter?" he asked more calmly, trying to untie the knot of anger and envy that was tightening his gut. "Already on board?"

  Nola's expression was grave. "He's not going with us, Dion."

  "Not going? But—"

  "Look, kid," Tusk intervened. "You know how the general hates space flight. Cooped up in that little spaceplane that's barely big enough for the three of us, he'd last about a day."

  "He's been with us so long, I was counting on him for advice—"

  "Dixter says you'll do fine, Dion," interrupted Nola gently. "He has every confidence in you. You've been trained by the best, he says."

  "He thinks he should stay aboard Phoenix, in case that flippin' Galactic general gets a wild hair up her nose and decides she wants to board the ship."

  "Probably a good idea." Dion sighed. One more gone. "I'll go say good-bye—"

  "I think the idea was that he'd avoid good-byes, kid. He's had about one too many, if you know what I mean."

  Dion nodded, hefted the pack.

  "Helmet," said Tusk.

  "I haven't forgotten." He fit it over his head. "That look okay?"

  Tusk inspected him. Nola tucked wisps of red hair up in the back.

  "I'll meet you on the flight deck. We're not supposed to be seen together."

  Dion settled the pack on his shoulder, left his quarters. The Honor Guard, pretending he was just another pilot, did not salute him. But one said, in an undertone that was barely picked up by even the helmet's sensitive monitors, "Good luck to Your Majesty."

  Dion stopped, glanced around. "Cato, isn't it? You've been promoted?"

  "Yes, Your—sir," he said, remembering he was supposed to be speaking to just another pilot.

  "Where's Agis? I hope nothing's happened to him."

  Cato's face remained impassive. "He went AWOL, sir. He took the news about his lordship very hard. Very hard indeed."

  "Ah, I see. You understand your orders, Captain?" he asked in an undertone.

  "Perfectly, Your Majesty."

  "Then, carry on. Remember, you haven't seen me."

  Dion continued on down the corridor alone.

  "Here they come," said XJ gloomily. "I want to go on record as saying that I don't approve of this."

  "Duly noted," Dion answered.

  Now that he was back inside the spaceplane, listening to the computer's complaining, excitement tingled through him, burned away his unhappiness. He was suddenly extremely glad to be going somewhere, extremely glad to be doing something, eVen if he did face the possibility of being blown to cosmic dust.

  A thud hit the side of the spaceplane. The sound of unsteady feet came clomping up the ladder, followed by a pounding on the hatch and a raucous voice, shouting, "Open up in there! you mechanical sonuvabitch!"

  XJ's lights flashed in irritation. "Drunk again? I'll fix you, you rummy—"

  The computer caused the hatch to drop open with unexpected swiftness. Tusk, leaning on it, slipped and tumbled through headfirst. He landed heavily on the deck on his back, dumping most of the contents of a bottle of champagne over himself on the way down.

  XJ chuckled to itself loudly.

  Tusk, groaning, got to his feet, shook his fist in the computer's general direction. "You didn't have to do that!"

  "I'm a true thespian," returned the computer loftily. "I get into my part."

  "Oh, Tusk, honey!" came Nola's voice. "Can you come . . . give me a little help!" She giggled. "I can't seem to make my feet work right. ..."

  "Be right there, schwe
etheart!" Tusk bawled. Turning his head, his voice suddenly sober, he gave Dion the high sign. "Okay, kid, it's your move. Everybody should be watchin' us, but keep your head down anyway."

  Dion nodded. «

  Tusk, singing loudly, champagne bottle in hand, clambered unsteadily back up the ladder. Dion slipped up another ladder, one that led to the gun turret looated above the Scimitar's cockpit. A bubble of steelglass, the gun turret was plainly visible to everyone on the hangar deck. Dion, careful to keep his head down, wedged his body into a tight, cramped shadowed space between the seat and gun, and wondered, as tightly as he was stuck in here, how he was ever going to get out again.

  Wriggling about some, trying to keep the circulation from leaving his legs, he peeped up over the rim of the viewscreen to watch the proceedings outside the spaceplane. As Tuck had said, everyone on the hangar deck was watching and laughing at the drunken newlyweds.

  Nola, champagne glass in hand, was endeavoring to climb the stairs leading up into the spaceplane. She couldn't seem to find the first rung. Staring at it with the serious, intense concentration of one who sees ten rungs where there should be only one, she lifted her foot, placed it firmly on thin air, and nearly fell over on her nose.

  She paused to consider the matter, drank off about half the champagne while thinking about it, and tried again. This time she didn't even come close and staggered across the flight deck. Several helpful flight crew members caught her and aided her back to the spaceplane.

  "Hey, you're gettin' pretty friendly with my wife!" Tusk snarled, leaning out over the hatch, waving the champagne bottle. "Just back off! Here, honey. I'll lend you a hand."

  The flight crew hoisted Nola, giggling madly, onto their shoulders and gave her a boost up the ladder. Tusk caught hold of her, dragged her on board by the well-rounded seat of her pants. The two disappeared precipitously down through the hatch, accompanied by the sound of breaking glass and wild laughter.