King's Test (13 page)

"How's
Nola?" Tusk demanded.

Link shrugged.
"No better. No worse. Some woman's with her now."

Tusk glanced
back through the tangle of wreckage that sheltered the wounded, saw a
form that looked vaguely familiar to him. "Who is it?"

"Dunno. She
came charging in here while you and the kid were out scrounging. What
have you got there?"

"A beam
rifle." Tusk tossed the heavy weapon to Link. "A couple of
grenades. The kid's got the flares. I'm gonna go back and check on
Nola."

"Sure. That
woman was asking about you and the kid anyway."

Tusk stared
through the smoke, eyes narrowed. "Son of a bitch!" he
whispered. "Kid!" He reached out, caught hold of Dion—who
was continuing to try to talk to the general.

"Ouch!"
Dion winced. "That's my hurt arm, Tusk, for God's sake! Shush!
What was that, sir?" Listening, the boy's face grew intent,
frowning. "No, sir. We've discussed this before. I'm the only
one who can make this plan work. Yes, sir. I'll do what I can. We'll
wait for your signal. Out."

"Dion!"
Tusk said urgently, tugging at the boy and pointing at the woman bent
over the unconscious Nola. "Look who's here! That's—"

"I know who
it is," Dion said, glancing at the woman, then looking away.
"General Dixter's forces are moving into position. He'll send us
word when they're ready. It'll take me ten minutes to cross the enemy
lines and get around to the Delta's control room entrance. Give me
that long, then you—"

"Dion,"
Tusk interrupted. "She's waving. She wants to talk to us."

Dion paused; the
full lips tightened. "I know what she wants. General Dixter just
told me." He thought a moment, seeming irritated at the
interruption. "All right. C'mon."

The two crouched
low, crawled over machine parts and ducked around several large metal
crates. The wounded lay on piles of flak jackets, crude beds of
polystyrene packing, or the bare deck. Some were feverish, others
moaning or twisting in pain. The woman walked among them, resting her
hand on foreheads, whispering soft words. Tusk saw several grow more
quiet at her touch.

"Lady
Maigrey," Tusk said.

She straightened
from bending over a patient, turned, and smiled, extending her hand.
"Tusca."

The fingers he
touched were cool to his sweating hands, her grip firm. Her gaze
shifted from him to Dion, standing slightly behind his friend. The
smile faded; the woman's gray eyes darkened, bleak as the steel
bulkhead surrounding them.

"Dion,"
she said, extending her hand to the young man.

He ignored it,
his pallid face expressionless. "My lady," he said
formally. "Congratulations on your . . . escape." His hp
curled in a slight sneer.

"Dion! What
the hell's gotten into you—" Tusk began angrily.

Maigrey silenced
him with a glance. "Dion, I hoped you would understand—"

"I
understand!" Dion's wild red-golden hair bristled like a lion's
mane, shining and bright in the smoke-filled darkness. "He sent
you to bring me back, didn't he? Didn't he?"

"You silly
boy." Maigrey spoke with a deadly calm that flattened out the
waves of the battle raging around them, making Dion and Tusk feel as
if they were in the eye of a storm. "He could have brought you
back without so much as lifting his hand."

Dion blinked,
lips parted. A slow flush crept from his neck to his face. "Why
. . . why—"

"Figure it
out for yourself," Maigrey answered. "We don't have much
time. I came to find you, take you with me."

"Where?"
Dion was immediately suspicious.

"I can't
tell you, not here." Maigrey glanced sidelong at Tusk. "Not
because I don't trust you!" Her hand once again caught hold of
the mercenary's, and he was startled to feel how cold her touch had
grown. "God forbid! It's just . . . the less you know, the
better."

"You're
right there, lady," Tusk said to himself. "Except it's a
little late. I already know too much."

Dion had
regained his composure, continued to speak formally, as to a
stranger. "I know where you're going, my lady. General Dixter
told me. I'm sorry, but I can't accompany you. This is my plan, you
see. I'm the only one who can pull it off. The general told me you
needed a spaceplane," he added quickly, overriding her attempt
to speak. "I was thinking, if it's all right with Tusk, you
could use his."

Tusk's jaw
dropped. "Kid—"

Dion hurried on.
"You and Nola can fly out with me. It would be safer anyway. I
have the codes and clearance. Well use the 'captured prisoner'
routine. The one you told me about, that you used when you got caught
by those pirates on the outer fringes ..."

"Yeah,
yeah. I know." Tusk looked at the lady, waiting for her to take
charge, end the argument, end Dion's wild scheme, put the boy firmly
in his place and march off with him in tow.

The woman's
gray-eyed gaze never left Dion's face. It grew shadowed, troubled, as
if she were hearing voices from within. At length, the gray eyes
turned to Tusk. The pain in them seared him.

"I know
giving up your plane will be a great sacrifice for you, Mendaharin
Tusca. But I would appreciate it greatly. My mission is . . . most
urgent."

He saw something
else in her eyes, something she was saying to him and him alone. Her
hand went to her throat, tugged at a chain she wore around her neck.
Tusk knew what was attached to that chain—the Star of the
Guardians. His father had worn one like it. Tusk's hand went to the
gem he wore in his left earlobe, a tiny replica. He knew then what
the woman was asking of him.

The very thing
he'd tried to avoid all his life had come running around full circle
to slam right into him.

Dion nudged him,
reminding him they were running out of time.

"Sure, you
can take the plane, my . . . my lady." Tusk cleared his throat.
"I'm glad to get rid of it. I got to warn you about that
computer, though—"

"Thank you,
Tusca!" Maigrey clasped his hand tightly.

Damn it, I
didn't agree to the other! Tusk wanted to protest, but the words got
garbled. He choked and coughed.

Dion was already
preparing to leave, picking up a beam rifle, divesting himself of the
leather flak jacket he'd been wearing over his Galactic uniform. "Ten
minutes, Tusk," he reminded him.

"Yeah,"
Tusk grunted.

"Meet me at
the control room. Can you get Nola there?"

"I'll
manage," Tusk said briefly.

Dion glanced
over at Maigrey, who stood regarding him quietly. The young man
seemed at a loss to know what to say; the woman didn't offer him any
help. Finally, flushing scarlet, Dion mumbled "Thank you"
in a voice that was practically unintelligible. Turning abruptly, he
left.

Tusk set the
timer on his watch. "We better get going, my lady. I'll escort
you to my plane—"

"There's no
need." Maigrey shook her head. "You stay with your friend
as long as you can."

"How is
Nola?" Tusk asked, his gaze going to the young woman lying
beneath a bloodstained jacket. "She looks better. Were you able
to do anything for her?"

"Not much,
I'm afraid." Maigrey sounded suddenly tired. "I've sent her
into a mild hypno-trance. It will ease her pain and reduce the body's
stress, but she needs medical attention."

"She's
liable to get it real soon," Tusk said gloomily.

Maigrey laid her
hand on his arm. "Have faith in Dion. God is with him."

"Do you
believe that?" Tusk demanded, looking directly into the gray
eyes.

The woman
paused; the gray eyes darkened, wavered. Then, with a small
half-smile, she looked straight at him. "I have to," she
said simply. "You're his Guardian now, Tusca—"

"No—"

"You can't
deny it, Tusca, any more than you can deny your black skin, your
brown eyes. Like those, this is your heritage. It was yours the day
you were born. You think I'm abandoning him . . ."

Tusk felt his
black skin grow uncomfortably warm. "No, of course not. I'm—"

"What I'm
doing is for him. If Sagan succeeds—" Maigrey broke off,
seemed confused. "I'm sorry, Tusca!" she said, shaking her
head. "I'm sorry. God be with you."

He watched her
thread her way through the obstacles and the enemy fire. He could
still feel, though, the chill touch of her hand on his arm.

"Sorry!
Yeah, you're sorry!" he said to her bitterly. "Sorry for
what? The pain? The responsibility? The fact that I was born to it,
that I never had a choice? All right, so that isn't quite true. I had
choices. I could have ignored my father's dying request, could have
told the kid's Guardian to go take a flying leap, could have ditched
Dion any number of times, any number of places. Like XJ says, it's a
hell of a big galaxy. But I didn't.

"I can't be
his Guardian!" Tusk shouted after her, suddenly. "It's like
guarding a . . . a . . . damn comet!"

No matter. She
didn't hear him. But at least he felt better having said it. He heard
someone call his name, saw Link waving to him frantically. Tusk
glanced down at his watch. It was almost time. Sighing, he knelt
beside Nola, made her as comfortable as he could, envying her now
tranquil, untroubled sleep.

Derek Sagan
walked the corridors of his dying ship. Safety's window had closed
some time ago. He had only minutes to reach his plane if he was to
put the necessary distance between himself and the ball of fire that
would soon be Phoenix. Yet he walked, he did not run. His last act,
before leaving the bridge, had been to bid farewell to the engineers
staying behind.

The press would
have a field day with this. He'd be a hero to some, a coward to many
others. He'd won the battle, driven the Corasians from the system,
sacrificed his own ship in a clever strategy to destroy the enemy.
But unless he destroyed himself at the same time, threw himself on
the burning pyre, his enemies would yell "Foul!" Strange
how the public didn't consider a man a hero unless he'd given his
life for a cause. Many times, it took twice as much courage to live
as to die.

But he would
live. And he intended to make a great many people regret it.

The stimulation
drug caused the Warlord to feel as if he'd had a good night's rest
and an excellent meal. He had shaken off the depression which had
afflicted him earlier, put it down to fatigue. He could walk the
corridors of his empty ship, know that he was walking them for the
last time, and his mind was able to dwell on the future, not the
past.

His plans were
vague—he couldn't, didn't want to define them as yet. He was
playing a game of living chess and too many pieces were running
rampant on the board. His queen had disappeared. His pawn, the boy,
had been sent out to the front ranks to do battle. It would be up to
Sagan to keep his pawn and make use of him or sacrifice him to the
end. His bishop, Snaga Ohme, was nursing thoughts of playing both
sides against each other. The Adonian would have to be taught a
lesson. What his opponent was plotting was unclear, but at least now
Sagan could see the face of the enemy.

The Warlord
arrived at his spaceplane. His Honor Guard was there, waiting for
him. Instantly he glanced around the hangar bay, prey to a strange
impression. Yes, Maigrey had been here. It was as if he could scent
her perfume lingering in the area, hear the echo of her voice. Where
had she gone? What was she planning? Would she complicate his game or
make it easier for him to win? At least he knew she hated and feared
their mutual enemy as much as he did. Unfortunately, however, she
didn't—at the moment—know who that enemy was.

Sagan entered
the spaceplane, the Honor Guard squeezing in behind him. It was a
tight fit; all three were large-muscled, well-proportioned men, and
the spaceplane's cockpit had been designed to hold only himself and
perhaps one co-pilot comfortably. He activated all systems, checked
to see all was functioning, taking his time. The Honor Guard kept
quiet. Discipline forbade them speaking unless spoken to. Their faces
were impassive, but, glancing behind him, Sagan could see sweat
beading on their foreheads, tongues pass nervously over dry lips.

The Warlord
permitted himself a wry smile and fired the plane's engines. He took
off, leaving
Phoenix
with only one final, backward glance. His
hand rested on the leather scrip he had placed at his side.

The Corasian
mothership, looming near, didn't bother to fire on him. A single
small spaceplane would be nothing but a speck of dust to them, intent
as they were on capturing their larger prize.

Sagan punched in
the coordinates for
Defiant,
sat back and relaxed,
concentrated on his flying. The game was, for the moment, out of his
hands. He had just one move to make, a move involving a knight, a
move that would ensure the queen's good behavior.

"Defiant,
this is the Warlord. Pass this message to Captain Williams. I am on
my way. Take no further action against the mercenaries until I
arrive."

This is all far
too easy, Maigrey told herself.

She had reached
Tusk's Scimitar without difficulty and though she'd been cautious,
keeping under cover, she had the impression she could have marched up
to it beating drums and clanging cymbals. The marines continued their
assault, but she recognized that most of the fireworks were being set
off for effect. The marines were waiting. What for?

A new commander.

Sagan. Like the
patient fisherman, who feels the tiniest nibble flow through the
line, Maigrey felt the Warlord's coming in her blood. The line
connecting them tensed, trembled.

I should warn
John. Yes, that's it. Warn John!

She started to
search for someone to take a message, stopped.