She'd been scared, at first; there were so many, it seemed hopeless. But now her fear was gone. She didn't feel anything. She was too tired. The situation wasn't hopeless to her anymore. It just simply wasn't real. It was all happening to someone else—to someone whose arm muscles were going limp from fatigue, whose hands ached from the strain, whose eyes hurt from the constant, blinding flares of exploding death. Nola, watching this person, felt a moment's brief pity for her.
Below, Tusk fought controls that jumped and bucked and threatened to tear his arms from their sockets. His flight suit was soaked with sweat; he would have traded a starjewel for a drink of cool water. Above him, the gun's firing was so constant that he didn't even hear it anymore, couldn't remember a time when he hadn't heard it. The nightmare flight went on and on. Corasians materialized out of the blackness, their planes forever coming at him. He couldn't see Red Squadron anymore—if it still existed. He dimly remembered hearing death screams, registered that it was someone he knew, but he couldn't think, couldn't care.
"Hang on, Tusk!" Link's voice, ragged with fatigue, was somehow still cocky. "It's just you and me now."
Time and again, the two pilots fought off attack, their only hope of staying alive resting with each other. Constant tracer fire lit the interior of the Scimitar bright as if they'd come up on a sun.
"My new paint job!" the computer mourned.
A Corasian popped up in front of them. Laser fire seared into the Scimitar. The plane rocked. Tusk was slammed violently against his restraining straps, nearly breaking his right shoulder.
"One more hit like that," XJ shouted, "and you can kiss that left shield good-bye!"
"Keep quiet a moment," Tusk ordered. He licked perspiration from his lips, wondering why his heart was beating painfully and his mouth felt as if he'd been chewing on his socks. "What's wrong? Something's wrong, XJ! I can hear it!"
"No, you can't," the computer said slowly. "It's the gun. It's quit firing. Shield's gone—"
"Nola!" Tusk fumbled at the restraining straps.
"Are you insane? Sit down, you maniac! That fighter's coming back around! I've got the guns under control. Rian's not dead. The bubble wasn't penetrated. I can register a heartbeat and she's breathing. If you want to keep her alive, you better pull yourself together!"
Tusk subsided, reluctantly, back into his seat. He stared out the viewport that was smeared with carbon scoring, making it practically impossible to see anything. "The kid! Where's the kid?"
"Lost him," XJ said quietly. "About fifteen minutes ago, during that last attack. There was nothing you could do."
The guns, manned by the computer, began firing. The Corasian dodged the tracer fire and dove in on them.
"Link!" Tusk shouted desperately.
"Got one of my own!" Link gasped. "I—"
There was a shattering explosion. The spaceplane rocked.
"Are we hit?" Tusk demanded.
"No," XJ said, its audio awed. "It was the enemy. They're both . . . gone."
"Tusca. Mendaharin Tusca," came a voice over the mercenary's headset.
Tusk was so relieved he nearly broke down and cried. But—recognizing the voice—he kept himself under strict control.
"Tusca here, sir."
"'My lord,' not 'sir'!" hissed the scandalized XJ.
Two planes came into partial view through his filthy viewport. Sleek and smooth, shaped like spearheads, they were glorious light in the midst of darkness, calm in the center of chaos, life-bringers to the dead. Tusk had to remind himself that it was Derek Sagan.
"The boy, sir." Tusk tasted defeat. "We lost him. I'm sorry."
"I can see him, Tusca," said a cool, feminine voice. "I have him in my mind."
"There's something wrong with him. I don't think he's hurt—at least not physically. He was talkin' real funny—"
"We're going after him," the Warlord said. "You needn't worry about him. You are to be commended for your bravery, Captain Tusca, you and . . . ?"
"Link, sir," came the mercenary's cocky reply.
"I note both planes have taken extensive damage. Captain Link will no doubt want to return to Defiant, but you, Tusca, might want to consider returning to Phoenix."
"Sir?" Tusk couldn't think. Exhaustion was seeping in, taking over his mind and body.
The Warlord's voice sounded exasperated. "The enemy brains have nearly been eliminated or their effectiveness reduced. It appears that we are on the verge of winning this battle. I'm offering you a commission, Mendaharin Tusca. In my personal command."
A low whisde came from the computer.
"Shut up!" Tusk ordered. "No—not you, sir. I was talking to my—my partner. Uh, thank you, sir—that is, my lord. It's not that I don't appreciate the honor, but I'm under General Dixter's command and . . . and I'm saying this real bad, but I guess I'll go back to Defiant—"
"Consider your decision well, young man." The Warlord's voice was grim, ominous. "My offer will not be repeated."
Tusk felt a chill grip his bowels, cramp his stomach.
"I understand, my lord. Thank you. But it wouldn't work out."
"You are much like your father, Tusca," Lady Maigrey said.
"Indeed he is," Lord Sagan added. "Danha Tusca suffered from a misguided sense of loyalty. Apparently it runs in the family."
"Thank the Creator. Farewell, Mendaharin Tusca. God be with you."
"Yeah. You, too, my lady," Tusk said.
The communication ended abruptly. The two gleaming white planes vanished, winking out of his line of sight. In a moment he could see them again, but they were distant and bright and cold as the other stars in the heavens.
"Link, we re heading back to Defiant." Tusk disentangled himself from his restraining harness. 'Take over the controls, XJ. I'm going to check on Nola. Nothing fancy. That goes for you, too, Link! Just get us back in one piece."
"Nothing fancy for me, old friend. I'm played out. Say, Tusk. I gotta tell you. That was a pretty great thing you did, turmne down the Warlord—"
"Great!" XJ was furious. "You can't eat 'great'! I say he's a big dope! You're a big dope, Men Da Ha Rin Tusca! We coulda made our fortunes! The Warlord would've given you a command of your own, probably made you a colonel. I could've had a new plane—like that one of the kid's—"
"Leave me alone, will you?" Tusk clambered up the ladder, snagging the emergency medkit on his way. "I'm worried about Nola."
"Oh, yeah? If you're so worried about her, why didn't you take Sagan up on his offer?" the computer demanded. "She could be getting class medical treatment now!"
"I wish I had!" Tusk stuck his head back through the hatch to shake his fist at the computer. "The Warlord purged all XJ-27 models!"
The word "purge" stuck in Tusk's throat. A chill crept up the back of his spine. Stupid. It's nothing. Someone standing on my grave. The mercenary shook himself out of it.
"I don't believe it!" XJ squeaked.
"Yep. Scrap heap. One of the mechanics aboard Defiant told me. Something about too much independent thinking."
Tusk pulled himself up into the bubble. Nola lay sprawled in the gunner's seat. Her flight suit was covered with blood. Splinters of metal filled the gun turret. A quick glance showed Tusk that the hit had torn a hole through the body of the spaceplane, not penetrating the bubble, but sending metal fragments whizzing around like thrown daggers.
Cutting away Nola's flight suit, Tusk sealed the wounds with plastiskin and managed to stop the bleeding, but he knew she suffered head injuries and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about that. He gave her a fix to alleviate shock. Cradling her in his arms, he sank down on the fragment-strewn floor of the gun turret and stared out the bubble.
The ranks of the enemy were obviously thinned, although numerous dogfights continued to rage. The mothership was launching a barrage of lascannon fire and torpedoes into the hull of Phoenix. Another cruiser was coming up to support her. Defiant had pulled back, out of the action. Tusk could see long hues at the
mercenaries returning to the ship.
"I can't comprehend it!" XJ's audio was thin and tinny sounding. "The tragedy! My fellow computers. Purged! Maybe I'm the last survivor—"
"God, we can only hope so!" Tusk smoothed back the blood-gummed curls from Nola's ashen face. "XJ, contact Defiant. Get in touch with Dixter."
Tusk could hear the computer raising the ship. He couldn't hear the response; something up in the turret had broken loose and was rattling loudly.
"Dixter's not available," XJ reported.
"Not available?" There was the chill again. "I don't like this. Are all our people going back?"
"Where the hell else they gonna go?" XJ demanded. "Half of "em are shot up. The other half got barely enough fuel to make it that far. Besides, Dixter's on that ship—somewhere."
Tusk shifted Nola slightly. Easing his lasgun out of its holster, he examined it, made sure it was fully charged, and laid it across his knees.
"Let's be careful going in there, XJ. Real careful."
Chapter Thirteen
Who shall tempt . . . the dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss?
John Milton, Paradise Lost
The white, spearheaded planes mingled with the debris of a wrecked brain. The battle had changed in nature and scope. The Corasian mothership, seeing defeat being snatched from the jaws of victory, had moved up to challenge Phoenix. The Warlord's ship was taking grueling punishment and was being forced to endure it without returning a shot, fearful of hitting its own planes.
Scimitars dove at the mothership, darting through withering fire to inflict what small amount of damage they could on the enemy's heavily shielded black hull. How the Corasian computers were analyzing this bizarre strategy was anyone's guess. Certainly it would be impossible for the "body" to comprehend that the Warlord was risking victory in order to protect the one.
Maigrey herself wondered at Sagan's motives. Knowing him as she did, she found it difficult to accept that he would throw away everything he'd worked so long and hard to achieve in order to rescue the boy. He must have some ulterior design, some stratagem in mind, but—aside from using the fighters as cover for their own assault on the enemy—Maigrey couldn't discern Sagan's plans. The exhilarating and frightening bond that had joined them when they fought the brain had been broken, cleaved in two.
Where they were going, in the dark night they were entering, they would have only each other. Sagan was furious at Maigrey. She was wary and suspicious of him. Their minds were shielded as heavily as their planes. Neither could penetrate the other; they communicated through mechanical means. Unless something changed, they were walking into certain death.
Maigrey knew it and wondered uneasily how she felt about it. She didn't trust herself. She had sought this final escape into oblivion for so long! And, she had to admit, she would rather die than experience that terrifying "joining" again. She also had to admit she would rather die because she longed for that joining with every fiber of her being.
With such power as the enhancement brought them, he and she could rule the universe and no one could stop them. Whenever she relived that moment, pleasurable pain, like liquid fire, burned in her veins, constricted her heart, and snatched at her breath. Her hands shook, her body trembled, and she longed to cry out that she was with him, they were one as they had been one so long ago. Only not even then, not in their youth, had they experienced power as they had known together in those flame-tinged moments of battle against the enemy.
Maturity. Age and the wisdom it brings. Definitive goals. Reality taking the place of airy and insubstantial dreams. Cold steel emerging from the ashes of youth's hot passions.
"What about the boy, my lady?"
Sagan had not spoken to her since they had left Tusca, and his voice jolted through her like electricity. Her spaceplane, guided by her mind, reacted, shivering like a leaf in a wind. Angry at herself, she latched on to discipline firmly, as a drowning man clings to a piece of wood.
"Dion won't respond to my attempts to raise him."
"Nor to mine."
"But I'm able to touch his mind through the ring. He can understand me, my lord."
"What's his mental state?"
"Not good. Frightened, guilt-ridden, overwhelmed by everything that's happened to him. Just what you might expect from someone captured and wounded by the enemy. And then, of course, there are the Corasians. ..."
"Spare me your wit, lady."
"I count myself at fault, my lord. I forgot what it was to be young . . . if I ever really knew."
"Are you through wallowing?" Sagan demanded.
Maigrey couldn't help smiling, and felt better. "Yes, my lord."
"Good. Contact the boy and instruct him to connect with the bloodsword. He's not to use it, he's not to fight them. The Corasians will want to keep him alive; they'll need to know everything they can about his plane. Tell him to submit to them, but to keep his hand firmly attached to the sword. They won't be able to wrest it away."
No, the bloodsword could never be taken from a living person. It could be removed only from a corpse. Maigrey knew how Corasians "questioned" those they captured.
"We'll be able to keep in contact with him through the sword, even if he loses consciousness," Sagan continued. "I don't suppose that brother of yours taught the boy any techniques to withstand torture."
"I seriously doubt it."
"Then instruct the boy to use meditation, submerge his mind, sink beneath the pain. The bloodsword will aid him, but you don't need to tell him so."
"There's a danger in that, my lord. We might not get him back," Maigrey pointed out.
"That will be my problem."
"He may not listen to me."
"That problem, my lady, is yours."
Dion sat in the pilot's seat, staring at the hull of the mothership looming closer, staring at the beak-nosed planes towing him nearer and nearer, staring at it all and seeing none of it. His gaze had turned inward and the dark horrors he saw in his own soul made those without pale by comparison.
Dion . . .
The voice came from the ring, his mother's ring that he wore around his neck. It seemed to him that the voice had been calling to him a long time, trying to penetrate despair's infinite shadow. He was sick of the voice. It irritated him, a pricking of pain that disturbed his comfortable numbness. Dion reached up his hand, slowly and lethargically wrapping cold fingers around the ring of flame, ready to jerk it off, snap the chain, throw it from him.
Dion, we're here. We're with you. The Guardians, we're here to protect our king.
"King!" Dion laughed. "King of cowards! King of fools!" His hand closed over the ring. "I failed the test. I know it now. You just didn't want to tell me."
No, you haten't failed. Not yet.
"Not yet? I suppose you're going to say this is another one! Another test to pass! What this time? Courage? I've flunked that Maybe stamina, fortitude? See how much pain I can endure? I've flunked that, too. I've had enough."
All your life you will be tested, Dion. Some you'll pass, some you'll fail. You'll learn from both. If you have the courage to keep fighting, put your hand on the hilt of the bloodsword. Don't resist your captors. You can't win against them. Submit to them. It will be terrible for you, but center your mind on us and we will come to you.
Dion blinked; cognizance returned. The black hull of the mothership filled the viewport. The spiders were bringing him to their queen. Her huge gaping maw opened wide to suck him inside, suck him dry. It was dark inside—horribly, unbelievably dark. Fear crackled through him; the will to live had returned, and with it debilitating panic.
God, I'm such a coward!
Your hand on the sword! came the urgent voice in his mind. Your hand on the sword.
The plane was moving more rapidly now, or perhaps movement just seemed swifter because of the nearness of the mothership. Dion thought for a moment he couldn't obey the voice. The right hand that grasped the necklace was paralyzed. But fear proved friend as we
ll as foe. Adrenaline loosened his fingers, moved his shaking hand to the sword. He withdrew the hilt from the scabbard. The plane's interior lights shone on the five sharp needles protruding from the side of the handgrip. The darkness outside the plane grew thicker and denser. The needles gleamed.
The lady's words sounded good, but he didn't believe them. She was only offering him an excuse. He had only to drop the sword and he would die—die a hero.
Angrily, tears welling up in his eyes, Dion jabbed the needles into the palm of his hand. The pain was intense, the virus streamed into his bloodstream, and he cried out, but he held on to the sword tightly.
The maw absorbed him and boomed shut behind him, and all the lights in the universe went out.
"He's done it, my lord," Maigrey said wearily. "He's taken the bloodsword."
"Yes, I can sense him now. His mental attitude isn't good."
"No, he's too young to know that sometimes it takes more courage to live than to die."
"A lesson I hope you've taken to heart, my lady."
"I'm going in there for him, my lord."
"But you're going in there with me, my lady."
"I'll be right at your side, my lord, you may be certain of that."
"I hope so, for your sake, my lady. I wouldn't trust you anywhere else . . . say at my back, for instance. Start your rifn."
Maigrey's plane rocketed out from behind the brain, soaring upward with such ferocious speed that she didn't pay any attention to where she was going and two Scimitars had to scramble to get out of her way. She attacked the Corasian mothership wildly, blindly, not remembering that this was a feint. She needed to vent her rage, wanted most desperately to destroy something. She was only sorry she couldn't do it with her bare hands.
Explosions bursting around her plane literally knocked sense back into her. Her plane rocked and bucked and began to spin. Instinct screamed to her to bring it back under control. Maigrey yanked the needles from her hand, fearing she wouldn't have the discipline to remain attached to the plane. The computer automatically took over, and Maigrey had to force herself to shut down all systems, including the plane's life-support, and rely solely on those in her helmet and flight suit. For a terrifying few moments, she spun wildly. The other fighters had been warned to watch for the maneuver and to keep clear, but it seemed to Maigrey that she must careen either into one of them or the enemy.
The Lost King Page 47
