The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  "What is it, Aks? Spit it out and let's get it over with so that I can return to my work."

  "My lord, Lady Maigrey is—or was—an extremely good pilot."

  One of the best, as she said. She should be; I trained her."

  Yes, my lord. And you have said yourself we need every skilled pilot. After all, you're allowing the young man to join a squadron. I was thinking that the lady might be useful—"

  "And I should swallow my pride and allow her to come with us? Absolutely not, Aks. I will have enough trouble with the enemy in front of me. I don't want to have to worry about one behind."

  "But surely, my lord, Lady Maigrey realizes how important you are to victor, over the Corasians! She wouldn't dare risk harming you:"

  "Yes, Aks, you're right. She wouldn't harm me. She would in fact, do all she could to protect me . . . during the battle."

  The Warlord leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, fatigued from reading. His vision had always been perfect, better than perfect. But now he noticed he had to hold documents out away from him to bring the letters into focus. He was past due for an eye examination; Giesk had been nagging him about it. There were corrective drops that could be used. Corrective drops!

  The Warlord shut down the computer. "We made a good team, she and I. A good team." He was silent, staring far distant. The years of grim resolve, of vengeance and bitterness erased their dark lines. His face smoothed, he looked almost young.

  The ship's bells rang, chiming the hour, and the present charged in to banish the past. Sagan's expression hardened. "It's after the battle, Aks, when the lady could prove an infernal nuisance."

  Light dawned. The admiral understood and nodded agreement. "You mean the orders concerning Defiant, my lord?"

  "Yes, Aks. The orders concerning Defiant."

  In her quarters—the quarters that were suddenly small and cramped as the secret holds in a smuggler's ship—Maigrey paced restlessly back and forth, back and forth. She had resolved to be calm, when the guards first brought her back. She had resolved to sit down, eat her lunch, read Jane Austen, relax, and listen to Rigoletto.

  Lunch was splattered on the wall, Jane Austen was under the bed, and Maigrey'd consigned Verdi to hell.

  How dare Sagan say such a thing to me? No oath you have not broken! How dare he! Twisting her fingers, she walked ten steps from the head of the bed to the computer desk, ten steps from the computer desk to the head of the bed. He can trust me. He knows he can trust me! This was punishment, then. The ultimate punishment. He can't kill me, but he'll wound me again and again with—

  The door to her chambers slid open. Maigrey whirled, thinking it was Sagan, for he was the only one who ever dared entered without announcing himself. Perhaps he'd changed his mind. She'd sensed him wavering. . . .

  It was one of the centurions, however, and he was dragging, by the shoulders, the limp body of her other guard.

  "If you could operate the control, my lady," the centurion said coolly, hauling his companion's feet inside, having some difficulty maneuvering in the confined space between the door and the bed. "Shut the door."

  Maigrey, completely mystified, did as she was requested. The door slid shut.

  "Is he sick? Did he pass out? Shall I call Dr. Giesk?"

  "Don't call anyone, my lady. If you'd lift his feet, we could put him on the bed."

  Maigrey took hold of the unconscious man's feet and helped to hoist him up onto the bed. Moving to look at him, she saw the bruise, forming at the base of the man's neck, just above the collarbone, and she turned to look at the guard.

  "What's going on, centurion?"

  "Thank you for trusting me, my lady."

  "Trust, hell! As Sagan said, I could send you into a brain seizure before you could draw your next breath. I'm not the one in danger here. You are. What's going on?"

  The centurion glanced at his unconscious companion. "'Lord Sagan is just. He won't punish another for my crime."

  "What crime?" Maigrey was growing exasperated.

  "If you would look in your closet, my lady."

  Maigrey took a step backward, moved out of the guard's path, and gestured. "You look."

  The centurion, half-smiling, though his face was grave and serious, stepped in front of her and opened the closet door. Reaching inside, he brought out a flight suit, complete with squadron patches, and a helmet.

  "You'll find the boots in there, too, my lady. I'm afraid they're probably going to be rather large. I got them as small as I could, but we don't have many men who wear your size. "

  Maigrey sat down, suddenly, and hoped the bed was beneath her.

  "We were just given the report, the centurion continued. "The enemy has emerged from hyperspace. They're within instrument, though not visual, range. You have time, but you should hurry, my lady."

  Seeing that Maigrey wasn't moving, the centurion laid the suit across the back of a chair, set the helmet on top of it, and turned to retrieve the boots and other gear. "I've arranged for you to be in Dion's squadron, my lady. I thought you would prefer that."

  Maigrey's lips moved and, after a moment, coherent language came out. "What's your name, centurion?"

  "I am called Marcus, my lady."

  "Marcus, you heard your lord's command. You've signed your own death warrant. Why are you doing this for me?"

  "Begging your ladyship's pardon"—Marcus glanced at her gravely—"but I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing this for my lord. You'll be able to help him out there, won't you, my lady."

  "Yes," Maigrey answered, though it hadn't been a question. "Yes, assuredly."

  "Many men will give their lives for my lord this day," Marcus said, with a peculiar smile. "I'm just doing it a little differently, that's all."

  Drums sounded, the heart-stopping noise terrifying and exhilarating. Sagan didn't like sirens sounding the call to battle. He stationed drummers on every deck. The beat of the drum acted on modern man as it had acted on his ancient ancestors—it stirred the blood, quickened the pulse. The lights dimmed, power was being channeled to where it was needed most, all nonessential equipment would be shut down, including the galleys. It would be cold meals from now on, for those lucky enough to have time to eat.

  "There's the signal, my lady. I'll leave you to dress."

  Maigrey reached out, grasped hold of the helmet, and held it in hands that had no feeling in the fingers. She could hear the boom of blast doors slamming shut.

  "I'm sorry I won't be able to take you to the flight deck, my lady. But I shouldn't be found away from my post."

  "I know where it is, thank you," Maigrey murmured. "Level sixteen."

  "Blue Squadron." Marcus, standing at the door, paused.

  He wasn't a young man, Maigrey noted. He must have served Sagan long and well for many years. She saw herself, reflected in his clear brown eyes.

  "Blue seems appropriate, doesn't it, my lady? Almost as if God Himself had chosen it."

  Maigrey looked down at the blue velvet dress. "Yes," she said softly, "as if God Himself."

  "Good flying, my lady." Marcus saluted.

  "God be with you," she replied, more from force of habit than because she knew what she saying. But when she spoke, she saw the centurion bow his head as if to receive a benediction. The door opened, and he was gone.

  The door slid shut. Except for the centurion on the bed who would be unconscious for a long, long time, Maigrey was alone. The drums beat, commanding haste. Fingers shaking, she swiftly stripped off the blue velvet dress. Looking at it long and hard, she rolled it into a ball and tossed it heedlessly into a corner of her room.

  Whatever happened, she would never wear that dress again.

  Blue Squadron, she repeated to herself, wriggling into the lightweight flight suit. She studied herself critically in the mirror. Fortunately, the suit was bulky and hid her shape. With the helmet covering her face and head, the commlink mechanizing her voice, no one would ever suspect.

  "Blue Squadron," she repea
ted, her excitement mounting. Hurriedly she twisted the long, pale hair into a braid. "Well, it isn't Gold, but it'll do. Lord help us all! It'll do!"

  Chapter Eight

  And dream and dream that I am home again!

  James Elroy Flecker, "Brumana"

  The din in the hangar deck was appalling, overwhelming. Huge winches, hauling the spaceplanes into position, rumbled, screeched, and whined. Bouts of hammering and the hissing of laserwelds were punctuations and accompaniments to shouted commands, shouted demands to repeat the commands, and fluent cursing in any number of languages. Droids squeaked and beeped and were in the right place at the wrong time and were kicked and cursed and sent away and ordered back and appeared to look on all this human confusion with a certain metallic smugness. Amid the confusion, some of the pilots stood in small knots, talking together while waiting for their planes; others stood by themselves, thinking last thoughts of someone far away. Some conferred with their crew chiefs. Others walked around the plane, inspecting it, going over it in minute detail, for when it came right down to it, for all the sophisticated technology, their lives might depend on a bolt staying bolted.

  The pilots were tense, but it was a good tension laced with excitement and eagerness. After months of boring space travel, enlivened only by the occasional police action and endless maneuvers, anything—even the prospect of being blown to cosmic dust—was a welcome change. They tolerated the infernal noise level, yelling to be heard over it, putting on their helmets and speaking through their commlinks, or just shaking their heads in exasperation and walking off. One pilot, however, was having difficulty restraining herself from dancing.

  Swathed in the bulky flight suit, her head encased in the helmet that she dared not remove, Maigrey was lost and confused, fearful that someone would discover who she was and whisk her back to Sagan, and she couldn't ever remember being happier. It was as if she heard, after years of banishment, the anthem of a beloved homeland. She was in such a flurry, she had to force herself to calm down and spent a few moments in silent prayer and meditation. It would never do for her to give herself away by inadvertently lowering the guard on her thoughts, allowing Sagan to discover her. Hopefully he would be too busy with his own numberless responsibilities to pay any attention to a woman he must assume was fuming safely in her own quarters.

  Now, where was Blue Squadron?

  It is a basic rule that if you're ever somewhere you're not supposed to be and you don't want to get caught being there, you must look like you belong. Walk purposefully and swiftly and always carry something in your hand. Picking up a stray clipboard a crew chief had left lying around, Maigrey tucked it under her arm and began shoving through the crowd, muttering imprecations at anyone who got in her way and darting swift glances left and right in search of her squadron. This was rapidly getting her nowhere, however. Blue Squadron was not to be seen, and time was running out.

  "Hey," she demanded angrily, stopping to confront a flustered mechanic. "Did they relocate Blue Squadron?"

  "Where the hell you been?" The mechanic glared at her. "Sure they relocated it. What did you expect? Bay Six." He gestured with a greasy thumb.

  Nodding her thanks, Maigrey congratulated herself on her ploy and hurried to Bay Six. Ducking beneath the wing of a Scimitar, she stepped out into the open and nearly ran her helmet right into Sagan's broad shouldered back.

  Maigrey retreated, hiding in the shadow of a winch, and leaned weakly against a girder until she was able to breathe again and convince her heart it belonged in her chest and not in her throat.

  "It's what you get for being so smug," she said to herself, sweat rolling down her forehead, dribbling down her neck and into her suit. She didn't dare remove the helmet to wipe it away. "Of course, that was why they relocated Blue Squadron. Dion's flying in it. Marcus told you that, if you'd been paying attention. But now," she added, heart rate and blood pressure returning to near normal, "what the devil is Sagan doing here?"

  A large crowd was gathered around the Warlord. It was easy to keep out of sight. Hovering on the fringes, Maigrey saw a flaming patch of red-gold and recognized Dion. And then she saw why Sagan was down here when, with the enemy in sight, he should have been ten other more important places. The serpent was bombarding Eve with yet another apple.

  Maigrey drew in a deep breath of longing, let it out with a sigh that fogged up her helmet. She wasn't the only one. Every pilot standing around Bay Six was gazing with envy and desire at the glistening, sleekly shining, newly redesigned and modified Scimitar. Maigrey, in her studies, had come across this updated version in the files, but she had no idea the Warlord had built a prototype.

  "I test flew it," she overheard one pilot say to another. "It's a beauty. Got more moves than a six-legged dancing girl."

  "Why's the Warlord giving it to a kid?"

  "Not a kid. The kid. That's the true heir. The one we're gonna set back on the throne." The men put their heads together, their voices dropping.

  Damn, Maigrey thought, was everyone on this ship talking sedition? She edged her way closer to overhear.

  "I'm glad I'm not in Blue Squadron. They're being sent out to babysit. The Warlord wants to let the kid get close enough to the fire to feel the heat but not get scorched."

  The two walked away, continuing on to their own urgent duties. The crowd was dispersing, the Warlord hurrying off, probably heading for his own spaceplane. Maigrey had read about the Bloodspear, as he called it, and she longed to see it. It was a plane designed to function like the bloodsword, operating off the pilot's mental and physical impulses. The plane literally became a pilot's additional appendage, reacting directly to a thought instead of wasting time translating thought into motion. Sagan would be out there fighting, leading the battle, and—

  "I'll be babysitting!" Maigrey sighed. Well, she was a Guardian, after all. Her hand stole to the starjewel she wore concealed beneath the flight suit. She had pledged her life to her king. She would do her duty. Perhaps this was why God had brought her here.

  "Spoilsport," she muttered, and went off to find plane number six.

  "You the substitute for Captain Hefter?"

  "Yeah." Maigrey nodded, going through the routine of checking out the aircraft. Blue Squadron, it turned out, was one of the last to take off. Surreptitiously she watched Dion climb into the cockpit, his face illuminated by excitement. She wished she could speak to him, but she didn't dare risk it. Eve and the serpent were getting far too chummy.

  "What's the matter with the captain?" asked the crew chief.

  "Mumps."

  "Mumps? At his age?" The crew chief shook his head.

  "He was swelled up so, he couldn't get his helmet on."

  "That a fact? Hey, you're feelin' all right, ain't you, Capt'n— Capt'n— What's your name?"

  "Penthesilea."

  Maigrey hoped devoutly she hadn't come across a flight mechanic who was also heavily into the Trojan Wars. Sagan would recognize the name, but he was—please God—far away.

  The man shrugged.

  "I ain't even gonna try to pronounce that one, Capt'n. There something wrong with your voice?"

  "Laryngitis," Maigrey said huskily. "Slight touch. I'll be fine. Things look good here. Guess I'll go aboard."

  "Good flying, Capt'n." The crew chief torched his hat in respect. "What did you say that name was again?"

  "Penthesilea."

  "That's a strange one."

  Shaking his head, the crew chief walked off to the front of the Scimitar to confer with one of his men.

  Penthesilea. An Amazon queen who had brought her women to fight for Troy. Inside the plane, Maigrey relaxed into the pilot's seat, shut the hatch, sealed it, and began to believe she might actually pull this off. She'd never been inside a Scimitar before, but she'd spent her months on Phoenix preparing for just such a moment. She'd read every scrap of information, played through all the simulations. It wouldn't take her long at all to get accustomed to the feel of the plane in flight. H
umming to herself the triumphal march from Aida, she activated the computer, introduced herself as Captain Penthesilea, and began running through the preflight checks.

  Penthesilea. She was rather pleased with herself for using that name—her old code name. It had come glibly to her tongue; she hadn't thought, until the crew chief asked the question, what she would give as an alias. Everything on board checked out. There was nothing to do now but sit and wait for the command.

  Penthesilea. The Amazon queen stands on the walls of Troy, taunting the Greek hero, Achilles, on the field of battle below. Her women shout for her to come down; she is in the line of fire. But Penthesilea has come to the siege of Troy for the honor and the glory, as has Achilles, and she scorns the pleas that she return to safety. Achilles draws his bow and fires at her, but even as he looses the arrow, he knows that he will slay the only woman he could ever love.

  Funny, it had been years since she's thought about that old legend. Maigrey was suddenly extremely annoyed with herself that she'd thought of it now.

  Dion eased himself into the cockpit of the new Scimitar and looked around with delight.

  "I wish Tusk could see this," he said before he thought, and he immediately felt a twinge, like a toothache, only this pain was in his conscience, not his molars.

  "It's all Tusk's fault anyway," he muttered.

  "Repeat the command, sir. That is not in my files. Repeat the command, sir."

  "Sorry, computer. Just ignore it. It wasn't a command. I was talking to myself."

  "Yes, sir. Will you be doing that often, sir?"

  "No, computer. This was an accident. It slipped out. Now let's go through the preflight check."

  "I've already done that, sir."

  "Oh. And, uh, does everything . . . check out?"

  "Of course, sir. What didn't, I fixed."

  "What do you mean, what didn't, you fixed? What didn't? What did you fix?"