The dead ship routine. They'd used it before, but never against Corasians. Maigrey couldn't stand it. Her hand hovered over the controls; she was within a centimeter of snatching them up and inserting the needles into her flesh. A bone-jarring thud and then a jolt. The spin stopped, nearly jarring the teeth out of her head.
Glancing to her left, fearful to move too much, Maigrey saw Sagan's plane tumbling wildly through space and saw it, too, come to an abrupt and sudden stop as an enemy tractor beam locked on to it. Slowly, like her plane, Sagan's was being dragged inside the mothership. Maigrey started to breathe a sigh, but caught herself. She didn't dare make even that much noise. The Corasians had opened the city gates and were wheeling in the wooden horse. Hiding inside, she had to be very, very quiet.
Closing her eyes, Maigrey banished fear, banished anger, banished love. She centered herself and then she pulled herself from her body and walked into her mind and took all visible, outward signs of life with her.
Chapter Fourteen
Character is what you are in the dark.
Earl Mac Rauch, Buckaroo Banzai
Blazing flame and hideous night. The creatures plucked at Dion with steel pincers, gouged and tore his flesh, and herded him before them like a sheep to the slaughterhouse. Their horrid bodies burned inside plastic shells—that fire was the only light and he'd rather be struck blind than look at it any longer. He stumbled through a corridor and down another, some part of his mind registering where he was going, where he'd been, acting on old instinct, acting according to how Platus had taught him. He held on to the bloodsword tightly.
Synthesized voices questioned him: Tell us how the plane operates. Tell us this, tell us that!
He couldn't. He wasn't being heroic. He didn't know. His mind had shut down. He couldn't have told them how a dry-cell battery operated.
Claws gripped him, lifted him, and he was lying on a steel table in a small room, lit only by the fire of their bodies.
Tell us, yes? Now, you tell us!
Clamps closed over his wrist and ankles. A whirring, buzzing sound went off near his right ear. He twisted his head to see, fear churning inside him. His captor's pincerlike hand had been removed. In its place was a razor-edged round saw blade. Dion couldn't cry out. He grasped the bloodsword tightly, but it wasn't going to matter.
The saw blade zinged, lowered, and cut off his arm.
A thin filament of consciousness attached Maigrey to reality. She felt the spaceplane settle and was aware of noise, aware that sensor probes were investigating the plane, confirming— no doubt—the presence of a human corpse. Slowly, she brought herself back to life, steadily increasing her heartbeats per minute, agonizing in silence at the tingling pain of blood resuming its flow. These were the tense moments, the moments when you were helpless. If the sensors were still on, still registering, the enemy would know they'd been tricked, know that what seemed dead was really very much alive.
Maigrey opened her eyes, looked—without moving her head, without moving a muscle—out the viewport. She could see the red-orangish glow given off by the Corasians trundling about, the flaming molten mass of body and mind encased in clear plastisteel robots. Impulse energy operated the hands that had taken their civilization from crawling across the ground to blazing paths among the stars.
Corasians are not particularly frightening to look at unless you've seen the robot body suddenly open wide, the burning molten mass slide out and go in search of food. Maigrey had seen it; she'd seen the Corasians devour trees, plants, humans, anything with life energy. She counted six of them in this area, surrounding her plane, and she shuddered.
Moving slowly, with excessive caution and in absolute silence, Maigrey inserted the needles that were the plane's controls back into her palm. The spaceplane—all parts of it—were now a part of her, an extension of herself. The Corasians apparently suspected nothing.
The last time she'd flown the dead plane routine had been, what—eighteen years ago? During the so-called Battle of the Celestial Throne. A well-meaning scientist had programmed several million droids on his particular planet to have only one object—that of making human life forms absolutely happy. The droids attempted to do just that, but had eventually come to the unfortunate conclusion that the only truly happy human was a dead human. Even then the frustrated droids weren't certain humans were happy, but at least they didn't appear to have any more complaints. The droids set out to bring happiness to the galaxy.
Maigrey picked up two disrupter grenades in her left hand and, fumbling at them awkwardly, managed to align the switches so that she could operate each with a flick of her thumb. She paused a moment to concentrate her mental processes and to hope, briefly, that somewhere on this god forsaken ship Derek Sagan was doing the same thing. Maigrey couldn't spare the time or the mental discipline needed to try to link up with him.
Swift as her thought, the hatch whirred open. Maigrey flicked on the grenades, bobbed up out of the hatch, tossed the grenades, and dove back down, closing the hatch behind her. Two near simultaneous explosions rocked the plane and pelted it with plastisteel debris and blobs of molten, flaming Corasian.
Maigrey opened her eyes and raised her head. Another grenade was in her hand, but she didn't need it, apparently. Everything had gone dark.
"An understatement," Maigrey muttered, shaken.
It was a darkness unlike any she had ever before encountered, a darkness that had no memory of light, could not even imagine light. The darkness blotted out sight, seemed capable of blotting out existence. Maigrey's hands groped for the reassurance of the control panel of the plane. She wouldn't have been much surprised if it had been swallowed up.
She found the switch for the interior lights and flipped them on, but they made her feel horribly exposed. Hastily, she made her instrument readings, then shut off the lights again. The atmosphere was safe to breathe. Corasians, in their robot bodies, could exist anywhere under any conditions. On board their ship, they didn't need oxygen-rich air, but their human-copied computers and other instruments—as well as their prisoners—did.
She removed the controls from her hand, feeling a reluctance to detach herself from the protection of the spaceplane. It was this damn darkness. It was unnerving. But she couldn't stay here forever. Those explosions were bound to have set off alarms. Hurriedly she removed her helmet and wriggled out of the bulky flight suit.
Beneath it, she wore a black, lightweight body armor that fit almost skin tight. It would not stop a direct laser hit; that wasn't necessary. The shielding capability of the bloodsword provided that. The armor offered protection against flying debris and projectile weapons, however, and it allowed her freedom of movement—something Maigrey had the distinct feeling she was going to need.
On her breast sparkled the Star of the Guardians.
The light of the starjewel always gleamed more brightly when in complete darkness. It glistened radiantly now, with a dazzling blue-white brilliance. Maigrey closed her hand over it, starting to hide it away beneath the body armor. But she found the light comforting. The enemy was bound to discover her with or without a beacon.
Her fingers lingered on the starjewel, and Sagan's voice came to her mind.
My lady?
Maigrey closed her eyes, weak with a relief she was extremely careful to keep hidden. Adrenaline, apparently, had reestablished the link between them.
My lord!
Where are you?
God only knows. No, I take that back. He probably doesn't. I can't see a damn thing now, but before the lights went out it looked as if I was in some sort of salvage hangar—where they bring planes to scavenge.
I'm in the same type of place. I have the impression I'm near you, my lady. Can you sense Dion?
Yes. I can sense him and you, my lord. You seem to be nearer to me than he is. The boy's some distance away and . . . and he's in terrible pain, Sagan. They're torturing him.
The quicker we move, the quicker we'll reach him. For the time bein
g, we must concentrate on each other. Our thoughts hnk us and will guide us together.
Like iron to a magnet, Maigrey thought.
Set your plane's controls to self-destruct in thirty minutes if you don't return to give the shutdown command.
So, that's your strategy. That's how you plan to destroy the mothership and us, too, if we don't succeed. Maigrey rigged the computer. Sagan's thoughts came to her. "Mark five, four, three, two, one." She repeated the countdown and on "one" set the computer's clock to read 1800, ticking downward. Her inner clock in her brain registered and began ticking along with the computer.
1799. 1798.
Before leaving, Maigrey inserted the needles of the bloodsword into her right palm. In her left, she could either carry a lasgun or a grenade. She'd never been that good a shot with her left hand, and so opted for the grenade. Pulling herself up out of the hatch, she dropped down over the side and landed heavily on the deck below.
The darkness was a living, breathing entity. It wrapped around her, smothered her. It had weight and form, and she involuntarily stooped and ducked her head, though she knew perfectly well that she was standing in a vast, wide-open hangar. The starjewel shone brightly but did not illuminate. She activated the bloodsword. Guided by its pulsating light, she made her way through the wreckage.
Cables, like snakes, wrapped around her ankles or dangled from the overhead. Sharp bits of twisted metal jutted up out of the wrecked deck. She moved as quickly as she could by the sword's dim light, not daring to cause it to shine brighter for fear of expending too much of her own energy. Consequently she stumbled and tripped and once stepped in a sticky substance that clung to her boot.
"Dead Corasian!" Maigrey almost gagged and, with a final lunge, reached a doorway.
Here she halted to catch her breath, shake her hair out of her face, and reconnoiter.
A long, wide corridor with smooth decks designed to accommodate the wheeled robots stretched off to her right and to her left. Sagan was to her left, she sensed, and moving toward her. Dion was somewhere to her left and straight ahead, within the heart of the ship.
The corridor was empty, and Maigrey was puzzled. She had expected Corasians to be whizzing to the hangar deck to investigate the explosion. But then she considered. No, why would they? To them it must seem nothing more than a malfunction of one of the dead planes they'd salvaged. As for loss of life, a few cells of the massive body had simply winked out. The enemy had other, more urgent problems—such as the attacking fighters, the bombardment of Phoenix, and the torturing of captured pilots.
Dion was still linked to the bloodsword. Through it, Maigrey shared his pain and fear and suffering. It was dreadful, and it took all of her discipline to shove it into a corner of her being and firmly ignore it. Risking a little more light so that she could see where she was going, she began moving rapidly, warily, down the corridor.
Nothing blocked her way; the deck remained level, the corridor bent around at a slight angle. She was moving nearer and nearer Sagan; she could feel, in fact, his mounting impatience for her to reach him. The corridor took a sharp turn to the right. She followed it and nearly collided with two Corasians emerging from a doorway.
Maigrey had the advantage. Although taken by surprise at the enemy's sudden appearance, she had been expecting trouble and was prepared to fight. The Corasians were caught with their wheels locked, as the saying goes.
The bloodsword slashed a blue streak and a robot head went hurtling through the air, struck a wall, and blew up. Maigrey's return stroke cleaved the plastisteel body of the second Corasian, but not, apparently, before it had found time to sound the alarm. Klaxons dinned in her ears. She could sense Sagan fuming.
You're wasting time, my lady!
What the hell was I supposed to do?
The first Corasian had toppled over. Still alive, it was unable to operate its body and was rolling helplessly about like an overturned turtle. The second, however, had broken free of its split case and was oozing out of the plastisteel. Its orange, fiery mass moved at alarming speed, slithering across the deck for her feet Maigrey slashed at it with her sword and was astounded to see it keep coming. If anything, it flamed more strongly!
"Sagan!" she gasped, stumbling backward.
Change the polarity! Negative energy! Switch to the shield!
Of course. She should have thought of that. But then it'd been seventeen years and she'd never actually fought one of these creatures face to face.
Maigrey activated the sword's shielding beam and, at its touch, the Corasian blackened and hissed and began to smoke.
To your left, my lady! Sagan instructed. I've found a corridor that leads to the boy! Swiftly!
Maigrey dashed down the passageway and saw, suddenly, to her right another corridor opening into hers. It was lit by orange light reflecting off the metal walls—an orange light that was growing rapidly brighter. She could hear the whirring and clicking of robot bodies. To reach Sagan, Maigrey would have to pass the opening of the corridor. She would be an easy target with no hope of cover.
I see them, my lady. Come to me.
Side by side. I'll be with you. Trust.
Hiere was no time, no choice. She caught her breath and lunged forward, running headlong down the corridor, straight toward the approaching enemy. Flicking on the grenade, she hurled it into the corridor as she sped past. The shattering explosion nearly blew her off her feet. She was thrown up against a bulkhead. Pushing herself away from it, shaken but unhurt, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that she had killed some but not all. The orange light was still hideously bright. The robots fired. Flaming bolts flared around her. A flash of pain tore through the flesh of her left arm.
The iron to the magnet.
A strong hand caught hold of her and pulled her close within the circle of a protecting arm. Sagan raised his sword, the shield activated, deflecting the blasts. Maigrey pressed her body against his, giving him room to maneuver the sword, careful to deactivate her own. Sagan's arm tightened around her almost convulsively. In a moment, they would have to fight. He would release her and she would take up her position at his side. But for this brief instant they were once again each other's best comfort, each other's best hope.
Maigrey could hear his heart beating in his chest, feel the lean hard muscles of his thighs taut against her, the bone and sinew and muscle of his encircling arm. And the enhancement came back, enveloping them, surging through them, bursting around them like a glittering shower of stars.
Well, she thought shakily, so it hadn't been adrenaline that had linked them after all.
"Across the corridor!" he ordered, somewhat breathlessly, and almost shoved her away from him.
Maigrey acted on the split-second of his thought and was ready. Her bloodsword flared to life. Sagan leapt forward, charging the enemies, and Maigrey was at his side. She never touched one, she swore it, but a concussive blast shattered the plastisteel robot bodies bearing down on them and suddenly the corridor was silent and intensely, blindingly dark.
Maigrey caught a sobbing breath and waited impatiently for her eyes to adjust, although she knew it wouldn't make any difference. It would still be just as dark. A flash of pain that wasn't her own made her flinch,
"Dion!" she whispered. "We're . . . losing him!"
Sagan caught her by the elbow. "This way. Down the corridor. I found it . . ." He, too, was short of breath.
. . before you brought the . . . army down us."
Another passageway opened up to their right and Maigrey felt, like a cool wind blowing against her cheek, a sense of the boy emanating from it.
But, behind them, the darkness was growing steadily brighter.
They ran for it. Maigrey's legs ached, her breath burned in her throat and tore through her lungs. The mystical power, it seemed, enhanced the mind but not the body, and there was only so much strength the mind could lend to muscles that had been doing their duty for forty-plus years and seemed to think they deserved
better than this.
The knowledge that they were nearing Dion and her own determination not to let Sagan know she was in any way weak spurred Maigrey to keep up with the Warlord nearly step for step. If she noted that he was running slower than he used to or heard him begin to labor for breath himself, she was too scared, too exhausted to register the fact.
"Stop!" Sagan came to a halt so suddenly that Maigrey stumbled into him. He steadied her, his arm around her waist. "Listen, I hear him."
Maigrey leaned against the Warlord, straining to hear above the pounding of blood in her ears. It wasn't a cry, but it might have been a silent scream. She wasn't certain whether she heard it in her head or in her heart.
"There!" She pointed down the corridor to a half-open door on their right. "That room."
"The one with the bright orange glow," Sagan said.
The light behind them was growing brighter, now that they had stopped, and she could hear, too, the whirring of wheels.
"Can you see him, my lady?"
Maigrey closed her eyes, trying to calm her fear and excitement enough to concentrate. The vision came to her almost immediately, however. She'd forgotten about the enhancement.
"He's lying on a steel table, like a surgical table. There are four . . . no . . . seven Corasians in the room with him. Two at the foot of the table, two on his left, one on his right, and two at the head. His feet are toward the door."
"Four will have their backs to us." Sagan reached to his belt, detached a lasgun, and handed it to her. "Aim high. I hope to God the boy won't sit up."
"I don't think he can," Maigrey murmured. She glanced at the gun and shook her head. "I'm not a very good shot, voa know."
The Lost King Page 48
