A sniper, hidden in the woods, had apparently been waiting for just such a move. A single deadly beam sizzled into the cavern, struck Xris in the chest. The cyborg flew backward, landed heavily on the cavern floor.
The two women froze, immobilized, clinging involuntarily to each other. Xris lay motionless, his eyes closed, smoke rising from his burning shirt. The twist dangled from his flaccid lips. LED lights on the cybernetic arm flashed, the fingers twitched spasmodically.
"Oh, Xris . . ." Astarte pushed Kamil aside, tried to go back to him.
"This way, Your Majesty," called Captain Dhure. "Out front. Like I said, we don't want to hurt anybody, but we have a job to do. The next shot takes out your girlfriend here."
"Don't hurt her," Astarte commanded. She had stopped, turned around. "I will come with you."
"Don't go," Kamil whispered.
Astarte smiled reassuringly. "I am in the hands of the Goddess," she said softly.
Kamil was numb with shock, shivering. She couldn't say a word.
Astarte walked steadily out of the cave. But she had taken only a few steps when she staggered, swayed on her feet.
"Careful," called the captain, halting his men, who had been about to leap forward, "it may be a trick. You, girl"—he gestured with his rifle at Kamil—"help your mistress."
But Kamil was already there. She caught Astarte in her arms, lowered her to the ground.
"Are you hurt?" Kamil asked anxiously.
Astarte shook her head, made a weak attempt to sit up. "No ... I just felt faint____I'll be—"
Kamil's breath caught in her throat. She didn't know how she knew, except that she had helped her mother bring six baby brothers into this world. "You're pregnant!" she gasped.
"Hush!" Astarte gripped Kamil tightly. "Don't say anything. No one must know. The Goddess has told me. 'The baby may not be born .. .' Promise me! Swear by your God!"
"Just rest. Don't talk anymore." Kamil looked up at the captain of the commandos. She didn't know what these people wanted. Perhaps it would be best if they didn't know they had an additional prize, that the queen was carrying the royal heir. Was it Dion's child? Kamil swallowed hard, squeezed Astarte's hand.
"I promise," she said softly, swiftly. "Her Majesty is ill," she said to the captain. "She shouldn't be moved."
"We'll take good care of her. We have a medic on board." Captain Dhure was saying something into a commlink. Looking skyward, he made a lowering motion with his hand.
A dark shadow fell over them. A hovercopter was overhead. At the captain's signal, the craft tilted, began descending sideways down the side of the mountain, using blasts of air to push itself aw ay from the rocks.
"Help me to stand," Astarte ordered.
Kamil regarded her anxiously. "Should you?"
"Yes. The dizziness is past."
Kamil did as the queen commanded, assisting Astarte to her feet. The captain kept one eye on them, another on the cave, but even he must have been able to determine that the cyborg wasn't faking.
The hovercopter reached ground level. Air jets blasted around them, whipped up dust and smoke, spreading the fires among the trees. It was difficult to stand in the fierce wind. Astarte's long hair came undone, blew into her face.
Kamil brushed stinging bits of rock and sand from her eyes, tried to see. When the hovercopter touched down, Captain Dhure firmly but respectfully led Astarte toward it.
Feeling helpless and wretched, Kamil watched the queen depart. Astarte walked with dignity, one hand holding her hair back from her face in order to see. The commandos treated her with deference. The queen might have been making a royal junket.
Suddenly, on impulse, with no clear idea what she was doing or why, Kamil ran forward.
"Let me go with her!" she shouted above the roar of the air jets.
Captain Dhure eyed her dubiously.
"I'm her . . . her handmaiden," Kamil told him, saying the first thing that came into her mind.
Shieldmaiden . .. handmaiden.
The captain didn't have much time for consideration. Perhaps it occurred to him that the queen might be more tractable if she had a companion along. He agreed with a wave of his hand, and Kamil ran to the copter. The queen was already inside. One of the commandos assisted Kamil.
"What are you doing?" Astarte stared at her.
"I'm coming with you."
"You don't need to do this."
"Yes, I do," said Kamil fiercely, and turned her head away, ending the conversation.
She knew, without asking, whose child the queen carried.
A soldier strapped Kamil securely into her seat. Another wrapped a blanket around the queen.
Captain Dhure climbed in. "Take 'er up," he told the pilot. "You patched through to the baroness? Yeah, put her on. Baroness, this is Captain Richard Dhure, Ghost Legion. We've taken your daughter hostage. ... No, you listen to me, Baroness. Her Majesty is fine and she'll stay fine so long as you follow our instructions. We had hoped to keep this low-profile, but your people ruined that.
"This is what you tell the press: An assassination attempt was made today against Her Majesty, the queen. The attempt was foiled. The queen is safe and she has gone into hiding on this planet until you are assured that all the people involved have been captured . .."
The copter lifted up, its motion erratic and jerky as it fended off the rocks. The noise of the jets drowned out whatever Dhure was saying. Kamil had heard enough anyway.
Clinging tightly to the sides of the seat, she stared down at the ground, which was falling away rapidly beneath her. Fires burned. Smoke was spreading through the temple gardens. Other hovercopters were whirring overhead, dropping down to pick up the remainder of the commando force left on the ground. They wouldn't be picking up all of them. She saw a few bodies, probably from Xris's rockets. Their retreat was swift and easy; no one made any attempt to stop them. The commandos left their dead behind.
Crowds had gathered in the temple gardens, were staring up at them. Kamil could see a small procession descending down the mountainside. It was led by the bright robes of the archbishop. Following after came the flamboyant pink of the Adonian, and beside him two healers bearing a litter holding a small raincoated body.
Other priests and healers were scaling the mountainside. They'd find Xris. Find him dead ... alive ...
And Astarte was carrying Dion's child.
Kamil suddenly began to cry.
A gentle hand, cool fingers, brushed against hers. Kamil wanted to shake the hand off, but its touch was comforting, eased the bleak unhappiness, the pain, the anger.
Kamil clasped her hand over Astarte's, held on fast.
Neither woman spoke. Below, in the temple gardens, smoke drifted among the trees like ghosts.
Chapter Six
The King has killed his heart.
William Shakespeare, Henry V, Act II, Scene i
Tusk climbed out of the Scimitar's hatch, descended slowly down the ladder, taking in everything around him as he went. He'd landed the spaceplane on a hangar deck in a warship, a ship of the same type and variety as the old Phoenix. The hangar bay was now shut and sealed. Breathable air was filling the chamber, and an honor guard was marching out across the deck to welcome them.
"At least that's what I hope they're doing," Tusk said to himself. He loosened his lasgun in its holster, marked places in the hangar bay he could use for cover.
The honor guard drew themselves up in formation, raised their weapons in salute, did not appear prepared to gun anyone down. Two officers stepped forward, bowed with utmost respect to Lord Sagan, who had left the plane first. They were all now waiting for Tusk.
Reaching the deck himself, Tusk was less than pleased to recognize his two former passengers—Commander Perrin and Captain Zorn.
"Welcome aboard, Tusca," said Cynthia with a cool smile and a firm handshake.
"Got any more scotch?" asked Don, broadly winking.
Tusk watched his hand clench into a fist—
apparently of its own volition; knew that in about three seconds that fist would be giving good ol' Don something to wink about. Seeing Lord Sagan watching him without seeming to be watching him, Tusk forced a grin, uncurled his fingers, and permitted Don to wring his hand practically off at the wrist.
"How's the vacuum cleaner business?" Tusk asked.
"The vacuum—?" Don blinked, then his booming laugh echoed through the hangar bay. "Oh, you mean Mrs. Mopup? Ha, ha. That's a good one." He clapped Tusk on the shoulder. "She's fine. Just fine. She'll appreciate you asking."
"I'm so glad that you've decided to join us," said Cynthia. She turned back to Sagan and, unless Tusk was mistaken, the woman was regarding the Warlord with far more than professional interest. "My lord," she said in softer tones, "His Highness has asked that you would attend him immediately in the royal quarters. Commander Perrin will escort you there. I will take Commander Tusca to his quarters."
"I am at His Highness's command," said Sagan with a slight inclination of his head.
The Warlord was wearing the long black cassock of a priest of the Order of Adamant. Tusk had wondered at first at the change of costume—Sagan had dressed in fatigues during the trip across the galaxy. The cassock's long skirts were cumbersome and—to Tusk's mind—implied weakness. But now, standing on the hangar deck, Tusk revised his opinion. The black-robed man stood out in sharp contrast to the uniformed soldiers surrounding him. And the robes didn't imply weakness so much as latent power, a mysterious power that awed, frightened, and—apparently—attracted.
"Will you be dining with His Highness tonight, my lord?" Cynthia asked.
"I am entirely at His Highness' disposal," Sagan answered.
"Then perhaps I shall see you there, my lord," Cynthia replied, smiling.
Sagan bowed and walked off with Commander Perrin. The Warlord didn't give Tusk a backward glance.
"Just delivering the goods, aren't you?" Tusk said to Sagan's back, somewhat bitterly. It was all part of the act, of course, and Tusk had to admit that their entrance had played well. But somehow he hadn't expected his costar to walk off stage and leave him to face the audience alone.
The honor guard tromped after Lord Sagan. Tusk was left with Cynthia. He smiled at her and hoped his smile didn't look as sick as he felt.
"This way, Commander," Cynthia said formally. Though she was automatically returning Tusk's smile, her eyes had strayed once more to Derek Sagan.
And though Tusk was a happily married man, he couldn't help but feel somewhat slighted. My God! Sagan had to be sixty, at least!
"What'd you call me—Commander?" Tusk forced a laugh that he was afraid sounded forced. "I thought we were close friends. After all, you did shoot me—"
"I didn't shoot you," said Cynthia, looking at Tusk with more interest.
"Well, your vacuum cleaner shot me," Tusk amended.
"Not the same." Cynthia moved close, twined her arm around his, drew him along. "If I'd shot you, you would have remembered it."
Jeez, this woman moved fast. Not five seconds earlier, she would have been lifting Sagan's skirts. Now her hips were rubbing against Tusk's as they walked along, side by side (practically cheek to cheek). Maybe she's been ordered to move fast, Tusk thought, which thought effectively shriveled any desire he might have felt. He grinned, gulped, and tried to look as if he were enjoying himself.
Only when they reached his quarters did it occur to him that he had no idea where he was. He hadn't bothered to keep track of where he was going and it was a hell of a big battleship. That was stupid. Damn stupid. And he prided himself on being levelheaded, skilled!
"Uh, this may sound dumb," he said, "but . . . where are we?"
Cynthia laughed pleasantly. The compliment had not been lost on her. "Officer's quarters. B deck." She led him to a door. "If you want, I'll draw you a map."
She drew him inside the small berth, shut the door behind them. At this point, Tusk expected to have to put up a fight for his honor. He fully intended to, of course; he was a happily married man. But, somewhat to his disappointment, Cynthia merely took a turn about the room, making certain everything was in order.
Smoothing out a wrinkle in a perfectly flat, smooth, and wrinkleless blanket, she said casually, "You've known Lord Sagan a long time. What do you think of him?"
Tusk dumped his gear on the deck, shrugged. His insides were tying themselves up in square knots. What the hell was she after?
"Nobody knows Derek Sagan," he said, which was, after all, the truth. "Least of all me."
"You served under him." Cynthia sat down on the bed.
Tusk sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed. "Way under him."
"You went AWOL—"
"Look, you know my life history. I don't see—" "But because of the Usurper—"
"Who?" Tusk stared.
"The Usurper. Dion Starfire. Because of him, you and Sagan became friends."
"Not friends," said Tusk. "Never friends." He laid emphasis on the word and knew he meant it.
Cynthia looked surprised. "But you came with him—"
"Because I needed the cash. Plain and simple."
"We offered you cash."
"Yeah, and shot me in the bargain. Are you here to interrogate me, Captain?"
"Call me Cynthia, please," she said. "And you can't blame us for being curious about why you changed your mind."
"And maybe making sure I did change my mind." Tusk was growing angry, found himself resenting the fact that she didn't trust him. Not that she should trust him, but, damn it, she didn't know that! "If you're wondering how much money His Highness is paying me, I guess you better take that up with him."
Cynthia rose languidly to her feet. Coming over to stand in front of Tusk—which put him at about eye level with her extremely slender waist and softly rounded stomach—she rested her hands lightly on his shoulders.
"Don't be mad, Tusk. I know what His Highness is paying you. It's less than you deserve." She ran one long fingernail slowly up his neck, under his chin, tilted his head back, forcing him to look at her. Her lips pursed, she leaned over him. "The reception takes place at 1800. That's about an hour from now. It'll give you time to shower and shave. Dress uniform. You'll find yours in the closet there. I hope it fits." She ran her hands over his shoulders. "I think 1 remembered your size pretty well. I'll be back to escort you."
Placing her finger playfully on his lips, she turned and walked out of the room. The door shut behind her.
Tusk remained seated in the chair, unable to move. For a minute he was afraid he was going to get the shakes. His shirt was soaked with sweat; he was shivering. He went over every word, tried to see if he had slipped up anywhere. No, it all rang true. Or did it? Maybe he shouldn't have gotten angry. Maybe that had been too much. Or maybe not enough. Maybe he should have stormed around, punched the wall.
"Every minute! Every hour I'm around her, around any of them, I'll have to watch myself watch every goddam word I say!" He flung himself back in the chair, accidentally banged his head on the wall. "How the hell did I get myself into this?"
It was when he found himself tugging on his earlobe, tugging at an earring that wasn't there, an earring in the shape of an eight-pointed star, that Tusk said several bad words and went to take a shower.
He'd have to look up that word—Usurper.
Tusk had forgotten how much he detested dress uniforms. Ordinarily they either choked him or pinched him or an interesting combination of both. This one didn't do either. It was worse. It was a one-piece nightmare that slid over him like a second skin, and he knew the moment he squirmed into it that this second skin and his original skin weren't going to get on well at all. He was still wriggling uncomfortably when a buzz came at the door.
"Me," said Cynthia, and walked in.
"You got something against privacy around here?" Tusk demanded, scratching at his left arm. He'd made an attempt to lock his door, discovered it wouldn't.
"You got something to h
ide?" Cynthia returned. She ran her gaze appreciatively over Tusk's lithe, firm body. "No, I'd say you didn't. We're very informal around here, Tusk. I don't suppose Derek Sagan would approve. He was a strict disciplinarian, wasn't he? Which might be nice under some circumstances." She paused a moment, smiled slightly, then shrugged. "But that isn't Prince Flaim's style."
Back to Sagan again. What was going on? Was she hoping to play each of them off the other? Fishing for information? Or was she simply a woman in love?
Tusk studied himself gloomily in the mirror. He looked like his young son, decked out for the night in his stretchy pajamas. The thought made Tusk desperately homesick. He hoped Nola and John were okay. He'd only talked to them once—via Rozzie—right after they'd left Vangelis, prior to making the Jump. At Sagan's "advice," Tusk had told Nola about Link losing the plane to Lazarus Banquo.
"I'm going to go with Banquo," he'd said, "and try to work out a deal to get my Scimitar back."
It was the first time in his life he'd lied to her, and he knew she knew he was lying. He'd been thankful Rozzie didn't believe in vidphones; at least he hadn't had to try to feed her that line face-to-face. He had heard in her voice that she was scared—not for herself, but for him. Remembering that he'd been followed from their house, Tusk tried to impress on Nola that she needed to be a little bit scared for herself.
It hadn't been easy, with Sagan breathing down his neck, but Tusk had managed to tip her off. At least he hoped she'd gotten the message.
"I'm sorry I'm not going to be able to go to Marek's party tonight, sweetheart," he'd told her. "But you go and take John with you. He can wear that bunny rabbit costume you made him. You know, the one with the tail. The jeeps at the spaceport. Drive careful, sweetheart. Love you."
He'd signed off quickly, before she could say anything. Marek wasn't having a party. But he did have a vacation villa up in the mountains, one he'd been trying to get Nola and Tusk to use for a holiday. And she was bound to pick up on the word "tail" and his warning to "drive careful," since John didn't own a bunny rabbit costume.
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