"Well, then, Captain," Nola sang out, shaking her curls and grinning—undaunted—at Williams, "I guess we better come to your rescue."
There was laughter and cheering.
"Yeah, we'll go out there and take care of 'em!" they shouted. "Don't worry, Capt'n Williams! We'll bring your babies home!"
The captain broke off the communication. The mercenaries were dispersing, hurrying to their planes. Tusk put his arm around Nola and hugged her tight.
"Thanks, Rian."
"You looked like a whipped pup. I had to say something. I think you're all half-scared of that man. But he puts his trousers on one leg at a time, same as you do," Nola teased.
"First his teeth, then his trousers. I think you just want to get into his trousers, that's what I think."
There was no cutting edge in Tusk's remark. It was halfhearted, dispirited. Nola, missing that spirit, crowded closer. "It's going to be easy, Tusk. Nothing to it. After all, the Warlord and the Starlady took out one of those things and there was only two of them. We'll have Link and all the others.
Tusk didn't tell her about the Blood Royal, about the phenomenal power. He didn't tell her about the Golden Squadron, about a group of pilots whose exploits were, to this day, legendary.
"Yeah," he said at last, with a light laugh. "It's gonna be simple. So simple that I think XJ can handle the guns. Look, Nola, I'm worried about the general. I don't like leavin' him here, alone, with that toothy bastard on the bridge. Why don't you go up there with him?"
"He's not alone. He's got Bennett—"
"Bennett!" Tusk snorted. "What help's he gonna be if something goes wrong? He might slice up a few men with the sharp crease on his pants leg—"
Tusk, stop it. I'm going with you." Holding on to his arm, using it to pull herself up, Nola stood on tiptoe and planted a lass on his ear. "Besides, XJ's got all the calculations worked out for the change in life-support with me aboard. You know how upset he'd get if he had to refigure all that again."
"Yeah," Tusk said, but he wasn't happy. He started heading for his plane.
Nola moved around to stand in front of the mercenary, blocking his way. "Tusk," she said, looking into the dark brown eyes, "you don't think I'm going to be a liability to you, do you? That's not the reason you re trying to get rid of me?"
Tusk reached out, put his hands on her arms. "Nola, I'll be honest. It's gonna be like Link said, a suicide run—"
"I know. And would you rather face death together or apart?"
Tusk paused a moment, thinking. When he spoke, he knew at last he meant it. "You give me . . . something, Nola. I don't know what. All I know is that when I'm with you I can do things I never thought I could do. If there's any way to beat this thing, it'll take us together to do it. And I guess if we gotta go out, well go out together."
Tusk, you smooth-talker! Jeez, no wonder you never manage to hang on to women!" Link, coming up from behind deftly slid his arm around Nola's waist. "Stick with me, sweetheart. I'll show you the galaxy."
Nola gently, firmly pushed Link's arm away, entwined her hand in Tusk's. "I love you!" she whispered.
Tusk shook his head and sighed, softly.
Chapter Twelve
. . . Loved I not Honor more.
Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"
"XJ, you infernal—!" Tusk ignored the ladder, swung down through the hatch, and dropped lightly onto the deck below. "XJ!" he shouted in a rage. "What did they do to my plane?"
The interior of the spaceplane was dark; the computer— conserving energy-—had shut all systems down. It was unbearably hot and stuffy inside. Tusk beat on the bulkheads, stamped on the deck with his heavy combat boots.
Slowly, the lights flickered on, cool air began to circulate through the cabin. Nola, uncertain that she wanted to get involved in this domestic squabble, waited at the top of the open hatch, affecting to be deeply interested in watching Link, who was next to them, ready his spaceplane for takeoff.
"Ah," XJ said, "I see you've noticed the new paint job. We're regulation now!"
"Regulation if we were in the Galactic Democratic Republic Air Corps! Which we're not!" That was the gist of Tusk's sentence, after it had been filtered through the foul language. The pilot was frothing at the mouth. Nola began to hum loudly to herself.
"You even had them paint my goddam number back on, you—you misbegotten son of a vacuum tube—!"
"Vacuum tube!" The computer, shocked senseless, turned up its volume to the max. A high-pitched whine shrilled through the Scimitar. Tusk howled and clapped his hands over his ears.
"If this wasn't an emergency," XJ reverberated over the tooth-jarring sound, "I'd shut you down and let you roast!"
The altercation resounded throughout the hangar deck. People were turning to stare at them. Several began laughing.
Flushing deeply, her freckles completely disappearing, Nola slithered down the ladder into the Scimitar.
"—and"—XJ dealt a final, triumphant blow—"there was no charge for the paint!"
Tusk gabbled, his mouth working. His eyes were bloodshot; sweat beaded on the black skin. Nola quickly put her hand over his mouth.
"Tusk! Everyone's laughing at us!"
Her remonstrance was unnecessary. The mercenary seemed to have lost completely the power of coherent speech.
"It's all right, XJ!" Nola called out. "The shock threw him off, but Tusk's thought it over now and he thinks it was a ... a brilliant move on your part. Here, he'll tell you himself. Tusk, say something." Tentatively, Nola moved her hand.
"No charge for the paint!" Tusk hissed through clenched teeth. Nola quickly muffled him.
"What was that?" XJ snapped suspiciously.
"He said, 'No charge for the paint!' He's ecstatic, really . . . overwhelmed. Words can't begin to express—"
"I could think of a few that could!" Tusk managed to snarl. Nola gripped his mouth tighter.
"—express his deep appreciation to you, XJ. He's speechless!" Nola gave Tusk a warning glance. "Aren't you?"
"Yeah!" Tusk muttered, breathing heavily. "Speechless."
"Well, if that's the way you really feel—" The computer, mollified, turned down the volume.
Tusk headed for the bridge, noticed Nola wasn't following. "Where you going?"
"Up in the bubble, where it's quiet." She grinned at him.
"Wait a minute, Rian." Tusk caught hold of her hand. "Take care of yourself."
"I'll be taking care of both our selves! Bye."
Placing her fingers on her lips, she kissed them, then transferred the kiss to him. Tusk was inclined to make the kiss much more interesting, but Nola wriggled out of his grasp. Laughing, she dashed up the ladder and was out the hatch before he could catch her. He could hear the bubble that covered the gun turret swing open, hear her settling into her seat.
Tusk, sighing again, slid down the ladder into the cockpit.
"I was going through my files," XJ-27 stated, "and I can't find where this Nola Rian of yours listed her next-of-kin. Could you ask—"
"Shut up!" Tusk yelled savagely, striking the computer a blow that split his knuckles. "Just shut up!" Sucking the blood from his hand, he began his preflight check.
"Sorry," XJ said.
It wasn't until later, when the signal was given and the mercenaries were finally spaceborae, that Tusk realized it was the first time he'd ever known the computer to apologize.
He took it as a bad sign.
"Damn! Would you look at that! Makes me want to puke."
Link's voice echoed in Tusk's headset. The pilot peered through his viewport into the blackness. He could see plenty of things that made him want to throw up—planes exploding, the great dark hulk of the Corasian mothership moving ponderously closer—but nothing else out of the ordinary for a battle zone. "What? Where?"
"Right forty-five. That gorgeous spaceplane being hauled off by those bastards!"
Tusk saw, finally, and he whistled. "That Scimitar's a beaut
y, all right. Must be a prototype. I've never seen one like it."
"Let's take it away from them, Captain Tusca," came the synthesized voice of an alien, the number three man in the squadron.
"Negative. Get serious. First, we're under orders to hit those brain things, and second, how're you gonna take it away? Ask 'em real nice to let you have it? They'll let you have it, all right. Between the eyes."
The Corasians, noting they were under hostile surveillance, continued towing away their prize, but they had brought their guns to bear on the approaching mercenaries.
"There's only four of them," Nola pointed out from the gun turret, "and six of us."
"Red Squadron, keep back, outta range," Tusk ordered. "You're a good shot, Rian, but not that good. We'd take the Scimitar out, too!"
"That's an idea, Tusk! Aim for the Scimitar. Blow it up! That way they wouldn't get hold of it!"
"Negative, Link. The pilot might still be alive."
"If he is, he'll thank us!" Link's tone was grim.
"He should have a chance to put in his vote. XJ, see if you can raise that Scimitar."
"Sure thing. Hey, dude in the fancy plane—"
"Shit! You don't talk to one of the Warlord's pilots like that. Let me do it!" Tusk wrested the commlink from the computer. "Scimitar prototype. This is—" Swallowing hard, the pilot gave his old Air Corps number, now painted in shining red on the side of his plane. "I can see that you're in trouble." The mercenary paused, perplexed, wondering how to continue. Would you like us to blow you up? just didn't seem tactful. "Uh ... is there anything we can do to help?"
"Tusk?" came a voice in his headset. "Is that you?"
"Dion?" Tusk gasped.
"Maybe it's a trick," Link warned.
"That's the kid," the computer said. "Voice analysis confirms."
"Dion! Are you hurt? How bad?"
"They died, Tusk. They all died. I heard them ..."
"What's the matter with him? He sounds funny. XJ, run damage assessment on that plane. Kid, are you hurt?"
"Some superficial damage," the computer reported. "One shield's about gone, but nothing penetrated. The kid can't be injured too badly. Probably shaken up—"
"Sounds like he's in shock," Nola guessed.
"Sagan was right, Tusk." The boy's voice was empty, lethargic. "'Kings are made, not born.' I've let them down— Platus . . . your father. All those who died for me. I heard them die. And it was my fault."
"My God!" Link gave a low, ominous whistle.
"We're the ones who let you down, kid." Tusk was desperate, couldn't think of anything else to say. "Me. Dixter. The Warlord. The Starlady. All of us. It was too much, too soon. I'm a total bastard, kid. I'm sorry for the way I acted—"
"Tusk, we got company comin'. Comin' in, Mach five. Whatta we do?" Link's voice softened. "Give the word. I'll take care of it. One shot. He'll never know."
"No!" Tusk shouted harshly.
"I don't feel any better about it than you do, old friend, but think about what he'll face if he's still alive when those monsters get him aboard that ship."
Tusk knew. He knew better than Link, for Danha Tusca had fought the Corasians and he'd told his stories to his son. The mercenary swallowed and wiped sweat from his face. "XJ. Put me through to the Warlord."
"Oh, sure," the computer retorted. "And next I'll patch you through to the President. Who else would you like to talk to? The Secretary of Galactic Affairs? or the Treasury Depart—" Tusk gnashed his teeth. "Listen to me, you—"
"Calmly," Nola hinted.
The mercenary snapped his mouth shut, drew a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "You know, XJ, I wouldn't have even asked that of another computer. But a computer who once raided Sagan's personal files, a computer who got me a free paint job, a computer who figured out that Dion was king— Well, I figure a computer like that could get hold of God Himself if it had to!"
"Oh, screw it!" XJ muttered. "Hang on a minute till I unravel their new codes—"
Tusk breathed a sigh, but he was too worried to feel elated at his victory. Another bad sign.
"Red Squadron, this is Squadron Leader. We've got a new objective. I've called for the Warlord. We're gonna keep track of the Scimitar till we hear from him. Kid, can you hear me? We're gonna stay with you—"
His words were interrupted by an explosion. A Corasian was diving straight for them. Tusk swerved and dodged, hearing overhead the whirring of motors, the hissing sound of Nola's lasguns firing at the enemy.
Over the commotion, Tusk listened anxiously for the boy's reply, but there was only silence.
Prior to his arrival on Phoenix, the Warlord had advised the crew that his spaceplane had sustained damage, as had that of his number two man. The deck was cleared for a crash landing, a wise precaution that proved unnecessary. Sagan brought his plane in and set it down without incident.
His number two man wasn't quite so fortunate. The Scimitar literally fell apart on landing, skidded across the hangar deck, and crashed into a girder. Rescue bots went into action, putting out fires, ripping off the hatch, preparing to extricate an injured pilot. The crew was amazed when the pilot climbed out of the cockpit unhurt, still more amazed when the pilot yanked off 'his' helmet and shook out a long braid of pale hair that fell limply down the back of the flight suit.
The flight crews immediately set to work repairing the damage the planes had sustained, exclaiming over the amount and the extent, marveling that either one of the pilots had survived.
The two met in the corridor outside the hangar deck.
"A three-point landing, my lady, does not mean that you take out the deck, the bulkhead, and the overhead," was Sagan's first comment.
Maigrey's hair was damp with sweat and straggled over her face. Blood from a cut on her forehead trickled down into one eyebrow. Tears made tracks in the grime on her face. She didn't bother to glance at Sagan, but stared straight into a wall.
"Am I being sent back to my cell, my lord?"
"No, my lady. I can't afford to lose any more of my men. You'll come with me to the bridge where I can— Well, what is it, Aks?" The admiral rounded a corner. He must have been waiting to meet them. The Warlord halted, impatience expressed in every line of his body. "Have the mercenaries gone out? Are the 'brains' under attack?"
"Yes, my lord, but—"
"What, Aks? Don't stand there dithering!"
The admiral was staring at Maigrey, his eyes wide. "I—I was going to report, my lord, that the . . . uh . . . lady has escaped. ..." His voice trailed away.
"Report noted." The Warlord resumed walking, nearly running the admiral down. Sagan's strides were long and rapid. Noting Maigrey lagging wearily behind, he caught hold of her by the arm to hurry her along. Angrily, she started to jerk her elbow free of his grasp when she suddenly gasped and came to a stop.
"What now, my lady?" Sagan snapped. He had nearly dragged the woman off her feet. She didn't seem to hear, but stumbled against him like one suddenly gone blind.
"Very bad news, my lord." Admiral Aks was hurrying to catch up. He licked his tongue over his lips as if he would like to sweeten bitter words. "The mercenary, Tusca, has been trying to reach you. It seems young Starfire broke away from the squadron and got himself into trouble—"
Sagan swore vilely, viciously—an unusual break in the man's iron discipline and one indication, to those who knew him well, of nerves stretched taut, of stress taking its toll on body and mind.
"The Corasians have him," Maigrey whispered, seeing in her mind the four enemy fighters locking their tractor beams onto the unresisting Scimitar. Blinking, she came back from the awful vision to stare at Sagan. "It's that damn plane you gave him! That technological wonder! You might as well have given him to them!"
The Warlord said nothing.
Maigrey broke free of his grip. Backing a step away from him, she iooked up into his face. He had removed his helmet, but he might well have kept it on. It seemed she looked into steel.
"
Or maybe you did give him to them! That's it, isn't it, my lord? Dion isn't turning out to be the puppet you thought. He's got a mind of his own, a will of his own. He wants to be king!" Maigrey turned on her heel, started back down the corridor, back toward the hangar deck. "I'm going after him."
Sagan took a step to follow. She heard his footfall and whirled to face him. The bloodsword flared blue in her hands.
"So help me God, my lord—try to stop me and I'll kill you."
She was poised, calm, and resolute. There was no doubting her words. Sagan held perfectly still, his hands raised where she could see them.
"Admiral Aks." The Warlord turned his head slightly.
"My lord."
"The second Bloodspear is available?"
"It can be made so at once, my lord—"
"Good. Have it readied"—the Warlord spoke with grim irony—"for my lady."
"Yes, my lord!" Aks murmured.
"I'll be going out in mine. Aks, I'm leaving you in command. You have my orders."
"But, my lord! I was going to tell you! The mothership is moving up to—"
"Deal with it, Aks." The Warlord strode past Maigrey, who watched him warily, keeping on her guard. He paused, standing so near her that the heat from the weapon began to melt and blacken the fabric of his flight suit.
"My lady," he said coldly, "I'll meet you in hell!"
Turning, he continued walking down the corridor, heading back toward the hangar deck.
Maigrey straightened, shut down the blade, and replaced it in its scabbard. Wearily, she dragged the hair out of her face, wiped her hand across her eyes and forehead—smearing the blood and grime—and started to follow the Warlord.
The corridor suddenly slanted, the walls shook. Maigrey stumbled backward, Admiral Aks fell to his knees.
Phoenix was under attack.
Tusk's squadron clung tenaciously to Dion's Scimitar. The Corasians kept the plane in tow, dragging it nearer and nearer the mothership. Wave after wave of enemy fighters dove at Red Squadron, trying to dislodge them from their position. Nola kept up a constant stream of fire; she could feel the heat from the lasgun through her gloves.
The Lost King Page 46
