There was a struggle in young Williams's face. He wanted desperately to argue. Perhaps he knew someone on Shelton's planets. Or maybe he was just a young warrior who longed for the glory of the charge, who lacked the patience to crouch down in the foxhole and wait. Dion, next to Maigrey, stirred restlessly. He must agree with the captain, Maigrey realized. Why is it always the young, who have the most to lose, who want to rush headlong to death?
Because they are immortal, Maigrey answered silently. Once, I was immortal. . . .
Williams managed to control himself and the meeting continued.
"I will not hide from you gentlemen the fact that we are in desperate need of manpower. The local systems can be of no help to us. They have put their own military on alert and will be providing for the defense of their own planets. The Lady Maigrey has offered a suggestion which I have considered and have decided to act upon. You know, of course, about the conflict being carried on between one Marek and the government of Vangelis. Marek called in mercenaries to assist him. Lady Maigrey proposes that we ask these mercenaries— particularly those who are fighter pilots—to join us."
"My lord, I must protest!" Captain Nada, of course. "Even if this scum could be scraped up out of the gutter and molded into some sort of viable fighting force, it would be impossible to trust them!"
"What do you mean, scum?" Dion was on his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him.
"That will do, Dion." Sagans tone was stern.
"Viable fighting force?" The young man was in a rage, past hearing. "They can outfight you, you fat—"
"Dion, sit down."
The Warlord did not raise his voice. It penetrated the young man's fury, however—that and Maigrey's cool fingers touching his forearm. Swallowing his wrath, Dion picked up his chair and sullenly returned to his seat.
"Perhaps with any other troop of mercenaries, I would agree with you, Captain Nada. But these are led by a man known to myself, to Lady Maigrey, and, I believe, to Admiral Aks."
The admiral nodded.
"His name is John Dixter. He held the rank of general in the old Royal Army. I have served with Dixter. He is a capable commander, a good judge of men. I can assure you that his people will be disciplined, skilled, and—if Dixter gives me his word-—I believe they can be trusted."
Maigrey stared at Sagan. What a commendation! It was no more than John deserved, but still— The knowledge made her uneasy. Any man Sagan rated that highly would be a man he would consider dangerous. She probed his thoughts but discovered them roped off, barricaded. She sensed duplicity; this wasn't the innocent overture for an alliance of desperation that it appeared. But, if not, then what? Surely, even Sagan, when driven into a corner and fighting for his life, would not expend his energy in taking potshots at an apparition from his past? Maigrey, frustrated, was suddenly sorry she had ever made the suggestion. She had the distinct impression that, somehow, she had played right into Sagan's hands.
"As you say, my lord, I know John Dixter," Admiral Aks was adding. "I know him from the old days. I agree with you, my lord, that he is a good officer and that he can be trusted. However, I do not think he will join us. His hatred and defiance of the Republic is well known. It is not a question of us trusting him, but of him trusting us." Aks made his speech smoothly; he'd been well coached.
"That is true, Admiral, and therefore I propose that we send this young man, Dion Starfire, to act as intermediary. The young man, as you have witnessed from his impassioned, if ill-timed and ill-mannered defense, is acquainted with John Dixter and those in his command. He will inform the mercenaries of our mutual danger and offer them our proposal of a temporary alliance."
Dions mouth fell open. He stared at Maigrey, then at Sagan. Maigrey was no help. She would have liked to tell the young man to refuse, but she had no grounds to do so, nothing but a vague feeling of disquiet. And we need the pilots! she reminded herself. We need their planes. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.
"Of course," the Warlord was continuing, "Starfire is a civilian I cannot order him to undertake this mission, but I would take it as a great personal favor if he would."
The Warlord smiled, the dark line of the lips lengthening.
By thy cold breast and serpent smile . . . Maigrey shivered.
Flushed with pride, stammering with confusion, aware of the cool, measured observations of the officers, Dion rose awkwardly to his feet, his chair scraping the deck.
"My lord. I— It would be my honor. What about sending Lady Maigrey with me? I really don't know General"—Captain Nada snorted at the use of this title and the Warlord cast him a swift, frowning glance—"Dixter all that well, but he and the Lady Maigrey were friends—"
"An excellent suggestion," Sagan answered gravely, "but I find her ladyship's presence on this ship necessary. She has fought the Corasians before. I value her advice. She will remain here—safely, I assure you."
Dion opened his mouth to argue, felt Maigrey's hand on his, and said instead, "Very well, my lord."
"You will leave at once, when this meeting is ended. There is no time to be lost. Gentlemen, I have told you everything I can. If you have questions, ask them now. All ships are to be rigged for silent running until the battle begins. No ship-to-shore transmissions are to be either sent or received. Communication between ourselves will be handled by courier. The enemy can see us, there's no need to let him hear us, as well. Oh, and by the way, Captain Nada, I'm afraid this means President Robes will have to miss his daily reports. He'll be annoyed, but then, this is war and we must all make our little sacrifices."
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile . . . The lines of Byron's poem, Manfred, came to her.
The officers looked at each other, puzzled, not knowing what this meant. Nada knew. The captain's eyes bulged with outrage; his choleric face was purple. He sputtered, attempted to stare down the Warlord, to bluster his way out. But as far as Nada was concerned, Sagan had sealed off all the exits. The eyes, shadowed by the helm, ran their steel gaze right through the wretched man. Nada slumped back in his chair. The purple faded from his face, leaving it the color of the underbelly of a dead fish.
The silence became acutely uncomfortable. Admiral Aks, acting on a subtle cue, responded with a question. Sagan replied and the conversation lapsed into clarification and discussion of strategy and tactics. Dion, leaning forward in his ehair, listened with eager, intense excitement. Maigrey settled back and let her head hurt. Only when the talk switched to spaceplanes, and in particular the Scimitar, did she pay close attention. And then she had to be careful not to allow Sagan to notice.
By that most seeming virtuous eye . . .
The meeting ended. Chairs scraped, the officers were on their feet, some hoping to talk further to the Warlord, others speaking into their commlinks, commanding their shuttles to be readied. Captain Nada, without a word to anyone, slunk out of the room. No one made any attempt to speak to him. It was obvious to all of them that he was out of favor with the Warlord. From now on, Nada was nothing.
Maigrey stood up. The Warlord cast her a glance, commanding her to stay. She would have liked to remind him that she, too, was a civilian, and therefore not subject to his command, but she supposed that wasn't really true. She couldn't remember a time when her life had been at peace. She'd seen her first battle when she was five years old, perched on the back of her father's horse. She was and always had been a warrior.
Maigrey started to sit down, saw Dr. Giesk edging his way through the crowd toward her, and hastily moved to join Dion, who was standing near the Warlord. Giesk was, fortunately, captured by a captain who wanted to discuss a pain he'd been suffering in his left side.
With practiced ease, Sagan spoke with those who had legitimate questions and politely dismissed those who merely wanted to insinuate themselves into his notice. Maigrey lost track of the conversation. How did the rest of the Manfred poem go?
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy . . .
Admiral Aks, remembering his duties
, recalled the more persistent questioners to theirs and personally escorted them from the conference room. When the three were alone, the Warlord turned to Dion.
"Your Scimitar is being readied. Can you leave within the hour?"
"I can leave now, this moment, my lord!"
Dion flamed with eagerness, excitement. His eyes were on the Warlord. Maigrey recognized the look of admiration in them; she'd seen it reflected often in her own.
By the perfection of thine art
Which pass'd for human thine own heart . . .
Sagan glanced at Maigrey. It was nothing more than a glance, he said nothing, not even in his thoughts. But she knew it for what it was—his trumpet call of victory.
What was he plotting? Dear God, what was he up to?
"I have had placed in your spaceplane a complete report on the situation. I've provided John Dixter with full information on the status of my fleet, on my strength, numbers, everything. That should convince him, if nothing else will, that I am to be trusted.
"A meeting between Dixter and myself can be held on the planet's surface. Neither he nor any of his people need come on board the ship. Should he be willing to discuss my proposal, I am certain that the Lady Maigrey would be pleased to take part in the final negotiations."
Sagan looked at her for her approbation. What could she say? "Yes, of course, my lord."
By thy delight in others' pain . . .
"Do you have any message for me to take General Dixter, my lady?" Dion turned; his blue eyes were intense, enflamed.
"Perhaps Lady Maigrey would prefer to give you her message in private," Sagan suggested. His eyes burned with a darker fire.
And by thy brotherhood of Cain . . .
"That will not be necessary, my lord. Dion, ask John— General Dixter—if he recalls the human impersonator on Laskar."
Dion looked disappointed. At his age, he'd been expecting Elizabeth Barrett Browning. This message would tell John what he needed to know. As for the other, it was too late for that. It always had been.
Maigrey was suddenly extremely tired. "If you no longer need me, my lord—"
"No, my lady. Thank you. Come, Dion. I'll walk you to your ship. I've had a few modifications installed—"
I call upon thee! and compel
Thyself to be thy proper Hell!
Perhaps, after all, she'd go back to the bar.
Chapter Four
Here comes the prince.
William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part II, Act V, Scene 2
Bwaamp! Bwaamp! Bwaamp!
The blaring siren blasted Tusk out of his hammock. Enemy alert! He dropped the mag he'd been reading, stumbled forward, and fell over an empty bottle, stubbing his toe. Swearing, he hopped across the deck. The plunge from his quarters on the upper deck to the cockpit on the lower was a harrowing experience, but he made it almost safely. His body acted while his mind attempted to fight its way up from the fogs of jump-juice and he was seated in his chair in the cockpit, flipping switches and muttering commands, before it occurred to him that something wasn't quite right.
For a base that was under enemy attack, the night was remarkably peaceful and quiet.
"Hey! What the hell's going on?" Bwaamp! Bwaamp! Bwaamp! "And shut that damn thing off!"
The siren faded away with a deathlike rattle in its throat. There was something wrong with it. Tusk had always meant to fix it. but had just never gotten around to it. He didn't really use it all that much, anyway. It was his own private invention, to get him going in case of an emergency.
"Goddam it," Tusk swore, peering outside the viewport and seeing the other spaceplanes in the encampment sitting dark and silent, their pilots undoubtedly peacefully relaxing. "There had better be ten thousand enemy fighters bearing down on us right now, XJ, or so help me I'll drop a bomb on you myself!"
"There's no attack," the computer stated.
"No attack! Then what was this? Just a little test for my nervous system?" Struggling to his feet, Tusk shook his fist at the blinking-eyed, monkey-faced computer. "I'll tell you how my nervous system is! It's shot to hell! My pulse rate's one-ninety! I think I'm having a goddam heart attack!" The mercenary staggered across the deck and over to the ladder. "I'm going back to bed."
"Dixter wants you," XJ said.
"It can wait till morning."
"This is morning. 0200 hours. And it can't wait. The kid's back."
Tusk had his foot on the first rung of the ladder. The metal was cold on his bare flesh. He paused, and in the silence he could hear his heart thumping in his chest.
"The kid?" He looked over at XJ. "Dion?"
"What is this, a nursery? How many kids you think we got stashed around here? Yeah, of course, Dion. He—"
But Tusk didn't listen, didn't hear. Scrambling up the ladder, he hit the deck running, dragged on a pair of jeans, stuck his feet into his sandals, hauled a disreputable shirt over his head, plunged his head and face into a sink full of cold water, and was up the ladder and out the hatch before XJ could complete his harangue.
The computer, left behind, comforted itself by replaying a vid tape it had just made of Tusk leaping out of his hammock when the siren went off.
Tusk saw lights in the general's trailer and quickened his pace. He knocked on the door, barely waiting for a reply before he flung it open. A bleary-eyed Bennett was brewing coffee.
"The general sent for me?"
"In there." Bennett nodded. "The general will be here in a moment." The aide cast a stern and disdainful glance at Tusk's outfit. "He is dressing."
Even at two in the morning, Bennett managed to look as if he could go on parade in the next twenty seconds. His uniform was crisp, shoes polished, hair combed. Tusk did note, however, that the aide had missed buttoning a button, third from the top, on his shirt. Bennett wasn't infallible. There was, after all, justice in the universe. Tusk shoved open the door to the general's office.
"Kid!" he cried, bounding into the room and preparing to fling his arms around the boy.
Only it wasn't a boy who stood facing him. Tusk stopped, staring, confused and uncertain. He would have as soon flung his arms around an open flame.
Dion came forward, an eager light in his blue eyes, to shake the mercenary's hand. "Tusk! How are you? How's XJ?"
"Fine," Tusk mumbled.
He eyed the young man—the black and red-trimmed uniform, the sword on his hip. The wild flame-gold mane of hair had been neatly trimmed and slicked down.
Tusk pulled up a chair. Dion resumed his seat. On his lap he held a slim metal case—the type used for carrying important documents. Tusk recognized the symbol that stood in raised relief on the outside of the case—a phoenix, rising from flames. The mercenary crossed one leg over the other, uncrossed it, scratched his head, and wished Dixter would get here.
"You seen the general, k— Dion?" he asked, after a moment.
"No. I just landed a few minutes ago." The young man looked apologetic, glancing at Tusk's disheveled appearance. The smell of jump-juice was strong in the air. "Did I take you from a party? I hadn't expected it to be the middle of the night. It was only the middle of the afternoon when I left the ship. "
"Ship's time." Tusk was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "I wonder if that coffee's ready yet." He stood up and started for the door, only to fall back as it opened and General Dixter stepped through.
Tusk saluted, hand to his forehead. Dion saluted, too, fist over his heart. Dixter looked at the young man, noticing everything Tusk had noticed. He smiled slightly, his eyes remaining grave.
"I'm not a Warlord yet, Dion," he said.
The young man looked startled, then, realizing what he'd done, he hastily relaxed his salute and held out his right hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess I got into the habit."
General Dixter took the young man's hand, but he did not shake it. Instead, he turned it palm up, to the light. The skin was marred by five red swollen marks.
"At ease. Tusk. Sit down."
&nb
sp; Feeling bleak and empty, as if he'd found something precious he'd lost only to discover it had never been his, Tusk subsided into a chair and sat, fidgeting.
Dion radiated a self-conscious self-importance that was both attractive and repellent. It seemed to the mercenary as if the kid had raised his shields, was protecting himself from attack.
Dixter took his seat behind his desk. The night air was crisp and chill. Bennett, entering the room, brought cups of coffee; the steam rose from them in spirals. Before he left, the aide switched on a small space heater.
Dixter, sipping his coffee, looked intently at Dion and said nothing.
The young man suddenly appeared embarrassed, uncertain where to begin.
"So, uh, kid, how'd you escape?" Tusk asked.
"I didn't," Dion said. "The Warlord sent me."
Dixter held very still, then slowly set the coffee cup down on the desk.
"Tusk, you know what to do."
"Yes, sir." The mercenary was rising to his feet. "I'll alert—"
"No, wait! Please!" Dion reached out his hand, grabbed hold of Tusk's arm. "Listen, it isn't like that! I haven't betrayed you! I wouldn't. Lady Maigrey wouldn't, either." He held up the metal case. "Please, look at what's in here. Then you'll understand."
"Lady Maigrey?" Dixter's expression didn't change, but the lines on his face seemed to stand out more noticeably. "What about Lady Maigrey?" He didn't look at the case the boy held out to him.
"I've seen her, sir. I've been with her. You're right, sir. Everything you said about her. A comet. Flaming ice. Only she's so sad. So unhappy. I wish—" Dion stopped, drew a deep breath, and kept silent.
Dixter stared, unseeing, at the steam rising in a long, thin, unbroken line from the coffee. "She's alive."
"Yes, sir. It was her idea that I come to you, her suggestion. Please, sir, read what I've brought."
The Lost King Page 38
