"You know the Corasian lust for modern technology, 'General' Dixter." Sagan managed to surround the man's rank with audible quotation marks, causing Tusk—at one point—to clench his fist and stir in his chair. Dixter laid a hand remonstratingly on the arm of his friend. "We are the largest fleet— Let me amend that. We are now the only fleet in this quadrant. I am basing my calculations on the enemy's past actions, of course, but I have received no information about the Corasians which leads me to believe that they have changed in seventeen years. If anything, their need for modern advancements, for parts to repair their aging ships, is undoubtedly more acute."
Dixter nodded his head slowly. He tapped a pen gently on the table. The Warlord's argument was sound, logical, and Maigrey knew John didn't believe it for an instant. She sensed that Sagan understood this, as well.
Tap, tap, tap. The general's pen made the only sound in the room.
"Sir?" It was one of the aliens, speaking through a translator.
"Colonel Glicka," Dixter replied, still not taking his eyes off the Warlord, but ceasing to tap the pen.
"I don't trust him. I say we let him fight it out on his own." This was how the statement came across. Maigrey, who understood the language, heard it in much more colorful and graphic terms. Dion understood it, too, apparently, for he flushed up to his eyes and glanced nervously at Sagan.
The Warlord's cold contempt didn't thaw, wasn't warmed even by anger. "I don't trust you either," he responded, in the alien's own language. "And you can do what you damn well please. I don't need you. We'll fight, with or without you. But remember this. If we're defeated, then so are you—without even firing a single shot. If we fall, they'll come for this planet, they'll come for you. And you'll face them alone. Translate that for me, Starfire, so that everyone understands."
Dion, caught by surprise, did as he was told, somewhat haltingly, stumbling over the words. The mercenaries glowered in anger, the aliens' tentacles twitched, but nobody said anything. Whatever emotions John Dixter was feeling, he wasn't showing, except to glance—once—down the table at Lady Maigrey. He raised an eyebrow; she could only answer with a small shrug. Both were marveling at Sagan. The Warlord was doing the mercenaries the favor of allowing them to die for his cause.
"And what is the arrangement you propose?" Dixter asked.
"You, 'General,' your staff, your pilots, and their space-planes will be taken aboard Defiant, commanded by Captain Williams. This is presuming, of course, that you would prefer to fight as a unit, rather than having your men dispersed among my squadrons?"
"Of course. And who is to be in command?"
"You, 'General,' will be under my command. Your men, however, will look to you for their orders. Current squadron leaders among your pilots will maintain their own authority."
Dixter frowned. The pen resumed its tapping.
"You're not a pilot, General Dixter," the Warlord said in cool tones. "You're a ground soldier. You have only limited knowledge of space warfare, of its tactics and strategy. I include you because I am well aware that your people would not consider any other arrangement. But I must insist that you place yourself completely under my command."
Again the Warlord's reasoning was logical, made perfect sense. Maigrey, feeling a pain in her hands, looked down and saw she was tensely, nervously, and unconsciously twisting her fingers.
General Dixter tapped the pen, marking his words. "I would agree to those terms only if those of my people who have broken any of the Republic's so-called laws are given unconditional pardons."
"Very well," Sagan said. "I agree."
That was too quick, too easy. The general laid down the pen, sat a moment in silence, then slowly rose to his feet.
"Thank you, Lord Sagan. My officers and I will confer—"
"Over what? I've made my terms, 'General.' Take them or leave them. Time moves and so does the enemy."
"I understand. This won't take long. I've arranged for luncheon to be served in the next room—"
"Thank you, 'General,' but I follow strict dietary rules. I never eat food that has been prepared by strangers. I will return to my shuttlecraft to await your decision."
There was a scraping of chairs and everyone rose to their feet or whatever appendages were used for standing. Dixter made a deprecating gesture. "Your absence will be regretted, of course, Lord Sagan." The general's gaze shifted to the end of the table. "Perhaps her ladyship would honor us with her presence?"
"It is I who would be honored, General Dixter," Maigrey said, coming forward, walking around the Wariord.
"An excellent idea, 'General.' Lady Maigrey can answer any additional questions that might occur to you. I trust it will be satisfactory to you if she relays your decision to me? I see no need for us to meet again."
"Most satisfactory," John Dixter said. Reaching out, he took Maigrey's hand in his and drew it through his arm, unobtrusively pressing it close.
"I remind you again of the shortness of time, 'General.'"
"You will have my answer within two hours."
"'General.'" The Warlord inclined his head.
"Lord Sagan." Dixter answered, not bowing. "Dion, I hope you will stay with us?"
"Yeah, kid, I haven't had a chance to talk with you," Tusk said, the first words he'd spoken.
"Starfire, there are matters I would like to discuss, if you are free," Sagan said.
Dion's blue eyes went from one to another. Slowly he began to rub the palm of his right hand. "Some other time, I guess, Tusk. Excuse me, General."
"Certainly, son," Dixter said, his voice and his expression grave.
The Warlord turned on his heel. Dion walked out with him, Captain Williams accompanying them. The Honor Guard snapped to attention, fists over their hearts, as the three passed. When the three had left the room, the guard followed. Their booted footsteps could be heard echoing along the colonnade.
"This way, my lady," Dixter said formally, leading Maigrey down a hallway that branched off the colonnade. The other mercenaries seemed slow in following. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Maigrey saw Tusk impeding their path, putting himself in dire danger of being trampled by a large and obviously hungry alien.
"Strict dietary rules?" Dixter muttered to her as they walked slowly along.
"He prefers not to be poisoned," Maigrey said, smiling.
Dixter smiled in turn, and Maigrey saw that though the smile smoothed some of the lines in the rugged face she knew so well, it didn't erase them all. Some were too deep. The two walked on in silence.
"Where's the dining room?" she thought to ask, after a moment.
"Back there," he said. "Are you hungry?"
"No. Not at all."
"Neither am I."
An archway at the end of the hall led them into what had apparently been a pitiful attempt at a garden, built out on the top of the cliff. High stone walls protected it from the savage winds. Sunlight poured down from the sky, but the life-giving fire had obviously been too concentrated, too bright. The soil was baked nearly as hard as the rock walls. The blazing sun must have withered anything those early settlers had tried to grow.
But now it was late afternoon, nearly twilight, and the garden was cool, the shadow of the walls stealing softly across the barren soil.
Dixter drew Maigrey into a far corner. Keeping hold of her hand, he turned to face her. "He didn't leave a guard on you."
Maigrey lowered her head; her hair fell forward. But John Dixter was accustomed to this trick of hers. Reaching out, he caught hold of the pale hair and drew it back from her face, causing her to look up at him.
"He knows I won't leave. He knows I can't."
"Dion?"
"Yes," she answered, and wished with all her heart that her answer was the truth.
Then she saw that it didn't matter. It had never mattered. John knew, he understood, better than she did. He clasped his arms around her and held her close. Maigrey laid her head on his breast and felt, for the first time in her years
of exile, that she had come home.
Chapter Six
Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
Emily Dickinson, "My life closed twice before its close"
"All these years, Maigrey, I thought you were dead!"
"I'm sorry, so sorry for the grief I caused! But I had to disappear, vanish completely. You were my closest friend, John. Sagan was bound to watch you!"
Dixter moved his hands to her forearms, gently smoothing the blue velvet fabric. "I remember this gown ... or one like it. Torn, blackened, stained with fire and with blood." Pausing, he drew a deep, shivering breath. "You might have trusted me, Maigrey."
"Trust you!" Reaching up her hand to his face, Maigrey slowly traced the lines upon the weathered skin. "Don't you know yet, my dear friend, the person I was trying to escape? The person I trusted least? The person who, to this day, I dare not trust?" Her hand moved from John's face to her own, her fingers tracing the scar upon her cheek. "I took that person and I buried her in a place where I thought no one would ever find her again!"
"Maigrey, don't!"
"But it didn't work, you see! I cried out to him and he found me because I wanted to be found. I betrayed everything Stavros and Tusca and Platus died to keep from betraying. I brought him the boy and here I am, still with him, still dancing up and down the hall, hand in hand, in time to some infernal music!"
"Hush, my dearest, hush! We won't talk about it anymore. For seventeen years, Maigrey, there hasn't been a day gone by that I didn't love you."
She blinked her eyes, sniffed, and glanced around as if she thought someone might have left a box of tissues in the garden. John fumbled in his pocket, brought out a handkerchief, and handed it to her.
"Here, I brought an extra."
Maigrey smiled, wiped her eyes, and, glancing up at him through lowered lashes, said teasingly, though her voice was muffled and half-choked, "So there isn't a wife and ten children somewhere?"
"A wife? What kind of life is this"—Dixter waved his hand back toward the fortress—"for a woman?"
"For a woman who loved you? Come now, John. Like Mrs. Bagnet, she would have put on her gray cloak and shouldered her umbrella and followed you across the sundering seas. I wish you would have married." Maigrey stepped back, moved away from him. "You make me feel guilty. I've left your life like this garden—barren, empty. I never meant to do that—"
Dixter, following her, caught her and drew her near. "I knew what I was doing. I wasn't some kid, having my heart stolen. I was a man and I gave my love to you freely and willingly. I knew precisely what I would get back in return. You were always honest with me, and your friendship was enough, Maigrey. More than enough. I knew my rivals, you see—"
"Rivals? Plural? There were never that many!"
"There were two. Him and one other."
Maigrey, leaning against him, rested her head on his cheek. She followed his gaze; both looked down upon the Warlord's shuttlecraft, sleek and glistening in the fiery sunlight.
"Who was the other?" she asked softly.
"The one I feared most. The one I could never hope to displace."
Maigrey glanced up at him, puzzled.
"Out there." Dixter looked up, straight up, into the heavens.
The day was waning, the sky was still light, but a nearby planet sparkled in the distance.
"Ill prove to you how well I know you, Lady Maigrey. You're not here with me now. You're up there, trying to figure out how you're going to get hold of a spaceplane and fight the Cor—"
"John Dixter! Quiet!" Maigrey clapped her hand over his mouth. She cast a furtive glance back down at the shuttlecraft.
Dixter laughed, suddenly, and Maigrey laughed, and the laughter—as it always does between lovers—drew them closer. But the laughter died quickly, too quickly, and it left them clinging together, but with an empty feeling, like lost children who hold each other out of fear.
"Why did you ask him that question, John?"
Maigrey's eyes were on the shuttlecraft.
"About how he knew the Corasians would strike this particular small section of the galaxy?"
"Yes."
"A question, first, for you, Maigrey. Did he tell me the truth when he answered it?"
"About the technology? Yes?"
"But not all the truth."
Maigrey clasped her hands over John's, held them tightly. "They're flinging him to the starving wolf pack that's on their heels."
"Why? He's the Republic's most skilled commander, a valued leader—"
"And one of the wolves. According to Robes, the most dangerous wolf of all. "
John nodded, rubbing his cheek against hers. Her pale, fine hair caught in the stubble of his late-day growth of beard. "I guessed as much."
"What do you mean?"
Dixter appeared slightly embarrassed. "As usual, I seem to have walked into the right place at the wrong time. Have you ever heard of an Adonian named Snaga Ohme?"
"No, but don't look so surprised. My social life has been somewhat restricted lately. I don't get around like I used to."
"How can I describe Snaga Ohme? Like most Adonian males, he's incredibly handsome. He has three passions in his life—himself, rare jewels, and weapons. His collection of black fire diamonds is said to be the finest in the galaxy."
"The Royal Family's collection was the finest," Maigrey protested.
"He bought the Royal Family's collection."
"Bought!" Maigrey stared. "But ... it was priceless!"
"Everything has its price. The new President needed warships, guns, missiles—"
"Ohme?;
"Yes, he's a genius when it comes to designing weapons. He demands and gets top gilder. One—one, mind you—of his combination palatial homes, warehouses, and firing ranges is located on the planet Laskar. I've seen it. It's immense. There're major metropolitan areas that are smaller in size than his estate.
"Now, let me tell you, Maigrey, about this little altercation in which we've been involved. You can't even call it a war. It barely made headlines on the evening news on this planet. No one else in the galaxy's ever heard of it. A bunch of miners are sick of being shoved around by a bunch of goons. Marek is a good man; he's not ambitious. He wanted his people treated fairly, wanted control of his mines back.
"The goons call out the local militia, which is solidly mired in the twentieth century—guns that fire bullets, some nuclear missiles that they're all scared as hell to use, thank God, and bombers that drop things that go boom in the night.
"And . . . one brand-new, never-been-used, ultramodern, fully equipped, and very, very expensive prototype torpedo launcher. Comes completely assembled with—as an added bonus—a highly professional killer captain and a well-trained, highlv professional killer crew—all off-world."
"My God!"
Maigrey leaned back against the wall, rubbing her arms. The evening wind was chill, and she had forgotten her cloak. Dixter, hands thrust into his pockets, stared thoughtfully out at the shuttlecraft.
"Yes, I thought that was rather peculiar. If it hadn't been for Tusca's son, that launcher would have ended Marek's war before it began. We couldn't have kept the uranium shipments going out, and you know how touchy Sagan can be about keeping his ships powered. But that's only the beginning. I began getting reports that my soldiers were finding the most remarkable weapons lying around the battlefields—weapons so modern that most of the local boys couldn't figure out how to use them and so they just ditched them."
"Somebody on this planet's scared."
"Of what? Of us? Mercenaries with a price on our heads? I decided I better do a little sleuthing, find out who was behind this and what he, she, or it was up to before something really nasty happened. But about that time, it became obvious to everyone that Marek was going to win. The oligarchy was in a shambles—rioting in the streets, chaos, confusion—and when I could clear away the rubble, it was too late. He'd packed up and gone."
"Snaga Ohme?"
"Yes. The Adonian weapons dealer. He was here on this pile of rock; he'd been here for almost two years working on some sort of project that was so top-secret not even the people who worked for him knew what was going on. He used a uranium shipping company as a front—which put him in contact with Phoenix."
Maigrey shook her head. "That would be natural—"
"So you would think. But contact was infrequent, transmitted in code, and as far as my people were able to determine, not one ounce of uranium was ever sent from this company to Phoenix or anywhere else that anyone could ever discover."
"So you've discovered the wolf's teeth," Maigrey murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the shuttlecraft.
"Let's theorize: Sagan's already got his own army and navy. He hires Snaga Ohme to provide him with weapons. He wins the support of a few of the other 'marshals' by offering to restore the true heir to his throne—"
"Would they support him?"
"Yes, I think so. Your old friend Olefsky would, for one."
"Bear Olefsky!" Maigrey grinned. "I didn't know he was still around. And I'm not certain whether he'd join with Sagan or knife him."
"He might not support Sagan, but what about Dion?" John Dixter suggested mildly.
Maigrey grew serious, thoughtful. "Yes, Bear would give his life for Dion if he were convinced the boy was genuine. So the Warlord has weapons. ..."
"If Ohme hadn't panicked, if he'd sat tight and not blown his cover, I would never have discovered his operation. I'll bet Sagan could wring the Adonisn's handsome neck. So now I know the Warlord's secret. The question is, does he know I know?"
Maigrey nodded her head. "He knows. You're a threat, John, a dire threat. He must get rid of you. And I've led him right to you!"
"You? You didn't—"
"Yes, I did! It was my idea! Coming to you, asking for your help. You've got to get away! Escape him—"
John caught hold of her wrists, held her fast. "Very well," he said quietly. "Ill run. On one condition-that you come with me."
The Lost King Page 40
