The Lost King (61 page)

"The brain's
weakness is at the bottom," the computer reported, confirming
for Sagan what he saw on the screen. "A large hatch located
there"—visually enhanced on the screen— "provides
the only means of entrance and egress. That particular portion of the
brain is not shielded." The computer rotated the diagram. "An
attack coming from directly beneath the brain and centered on the
hatch itself, which is the only portion not shielded, has a chance of
succeeding. The hatch is approximately one meter in diameter."

"Defense systems?"

"Yes, sir. Gun
emplacements around the hatch—"

"I seel"
snapped the Warlord. "What kind of firepower would it take to
penetrate the shields?"

"Working."
The computer hummed to itself for several tense seconds, then
returned, "The shields are extremely strong, sir. Perhaps
concentrated lascannon fire, sir, from
Phoenix
—"

"—would take
out everything, including our own forces." He could pull back
his planes, turn to the big guns. But Sagan had run those
calculations both through the computer and his own mind. If he pulled
back the fighters, the Corasian mothership would enter the game,
moving up to pound the Warlord's fleet. He would counterattack, of
course, but . . . massive and ugly, the Corasian mothership could
absorb unbelievable punishment. Sagan had calculated he must lose two
ships of the line immediately, without being able to inflict anywhere
close to corresponding damage on the enemy. After that, it would be a
matter of constant bombardment until
Phoenix
either fell
victim to a lucky shot or ran so low on energy that life-support
would fail. Those who had survived the battle would die horribly of
asphyxiation.

So all the Warlord had
to do was blow up a hatch one meter in diameter surrounded by guns.

"Computer,
transmit all of that information by my private code back to
Phoenix
.
And add this: Fighters forming outer defensive perimeter around the
brain are converging on us, leaving the brain unguarded. I judge
there to be about twenty. I suggest, therefore, that a feint made by
one squadron would draw off the defenders and allow another squadron
to penetrate the unguarded perimeter and attack. This strategy may
work only the first few times it is attempted, for I submit that the
Corasian computers have undoubtedly developed the ability to 'learn'
from their mistakes."

The Warlord paused.
There were still some few seconds until he would join with the enemy.

"Computer, my
personal log, uncoded and send a copy by 'accident,' to the main
files. 'In the event of my death, this message is to be transmitted
to the marshals, to the members of the Congress of the Commonwealth,
and to the news media. I, Derek Sagan, accuse Peter Robes, President
of the Republic, of being a traitor to the people. I submit that he
'leaked' technological secrets to the Corasians, that he knew of
their preparations for war and did nothing to stop them, that he
deliberately invited this attack on the galaxy.

""What his
motives might be, I can only venture to guess, but I further submit
that a war causes people to rally around their leader and, in their
fear, assign him whatever powers he wants. I have little doubt but
that President Robes will demand virtual dictatorial power in order
to deal with the threat. I further submit that the galaxy's greatest
danger is not from without, but from within.''

Within twenty-four
hours, everyone on board
Phoenix
would have read that message.
Sagan had little time for elation, however. Within twenty-four hours,
unless he found some way to stop the enemy, everyone on board
Phoenix
would likely be dead.

The Corasians struck
with fury, their intent now not to capture but to kill. The Scimitars
rolled and twisted and dodged, always swinging back in to maintain
battle formation, forming a wedge—the Warlord on the point—that
pushed steadily toward the target. Then one wingman was gone,
exploding in a ball of fire that took out two Corasians with him.

Sagan's screen showed
him the enemy—small blips that dove down on him with all the
finesse of a pack of wild dogs. Zigzagging in and out of the swarm,
he kept up almost constant fire; they were jammed so closely together
it was impossible not to hit something.

But it was like
removing water from a bucket drop by drop. A sudden silence on his
commlink let him know he'd lost his other wingman. He was closer to
the target and getting closer all the time, and the number of the
blips surrounding him had decreased markedly. There were only four
left, two in front of him and two circling around behind him. But
these four had him and there wasn't—Sagan realized with cold
anger—a damn thing he could do about it.

The red light on his
panel flashed its warning that the enemy had him in their sights. He
was caught. It was maddening, frustrating that all his grand designs
and plans should end in such ignominy. He feinted, dove, twisted. The
enemy clung to him like evil hornets. At least he had the
satisfaction of knowing he had chosen his own fate. Wellington's
officers, protesting their general's refusal to seek safety during
the battle of Waterloo, had pleaded with him.

"Sir, what are
your orders for us if you are killed?"

"Follow my
example," was the general's answer.

Follow my example.

Gritting his teeth,
bracing himself for the blast that would reduce his body to specks of
blood and fragments of charred bone and burned flesh, Sagan fired at
the Corasians in front of him and commended his soul to God.

A powerful explosion
rocked his ship. The Corasian blew apart in a blinding flash, but
that alone couldn't account for the jolt he'd just taken. And Sagan's
plane wasn't, according to his instruments readings, hit. He knocked
out the second enemy diving down for its attack, and was preparing to
turn his attention to the two behind him when he realized, looking at
his screen, that there weren't two blips behind him. There was only
one, and it, according to the data, was a friend.

Sort of.

My lord
, came
the voice in his mind.

Sagan blinked away a
trickle of sweat running into his eyes.

My lady
.

Blue Squadron was so
far from the fighting that they could barely see what was going on.
They heard, from the reports, that their planes were sustaining heavy
casualties and it was difficult to tell if the current retreat was
the one that had been planned or if it was truly a rout.

Squadron Leader spent
his time filing a detailed report on the insane behavior of pilot
number six. The others in the squadron maintained a grim, tense
silence, knowing well why they were there, who was the cause of it,
and resenting him bitterly.

Dion, meaHwhile, toyed
with the computer.

"Sir, I think you
should know that I am aware of what you are attempting to do and I
consider it my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time and
mine. There is no possible way that you can get rid of me, sir. Nor
do you really want to, sir, for if I go, then all functions of this
spaceplane will cease to operate."

"Now, that's not
quite true, computer," Dion said softly, continuing to work.
"You see, you told me that you were a new modification, only
been added a few days ago. I've come to the conclusion that you're
like a virus that's been injected into the system. I think it's
possible that I can remove you and the plane's original computer will
be around to take over after you're gone. Hey, what are you doing?"

"I've sent a
distress signal, sir, to Squadron Leader. Forgive me for saying so,
sir, but you are obviously unhinged."

"Blue Four!"
It was Squadron Leader, sounding angry and exasperated. "
Now
what's your problem?"

"I wish to report
that—" the computer began.

Dion depressed a key,
sat back, and waited.

"That . . ."
The computer blinked frantically, trying to save itself. "Unfit—"
it whispered, and died.

Everything went dark
for a split second, but before Dion had time to panic or to consider
that he might have made a terrifying error, all systems switched back
on.

"Blue Four, what
the hell—"

"Everything back
to normal, sir," the computer reported, but Dion thought he
noticed a subtle difference in the tone of the mechanical voice.

"Who are you?"
he asked.

"Your computer,
sir."

There was no doubt
about it. Dion could hear it. Respect! Programmed, perhaps, but
respect!

"Blue Four,
respond! That's an order!'

"You'll obey my
commands, computer?" Dion intended to make certain.

"That
is
my
primary function, sir," the computer said, sounding slightly
puzzled. "I trust I've given you no cause to doubt—"

"No! None! None at
all," Dion hastened to reassure it. "Uh, this is Blue Four
reporting, Squadron Leader. An electrical malfunction, but it's been
repaired."

"What's happened
to your computer, Blue Four?
It's
supposed to be responding."

"Knocked it right
out, sir. But, as I said, it's all been repaired—"

"Blue Four! I'm
ordering you to report back to
Phoenix
—"

"Computer, shut
off the transmission."

"Shutting off,
sir."

"Now"—Dion
took the controls—"let's go find some action!"

"Blue Four? Name
of a name!" Squadron Leader swore savagely. "Has everybody
in this squadron lost their fuckin' minds?"

"Blue Two to
Squadron Leader. What's going on, sir? I just saw the kid head out—"

"The damn kid's
shut down his computer and he's going off the devil knows where."

"Should we go
after him, sir?"

"Hell, yes, we go
after him! You heard the Warlord's orders. And you better hope,"
Squadron Leader muttered beneath his breath, his plane soaring to
catch Dion's, "that if anything happens to that kid it happens
to us first."

I could not love thee,
Dear, so much . . .

Richard Lovelace, "To
Lucasta, Going to the Wars"

You owe me one, my
lord.

I have no time for
games, my lady.

I'm not playing
games, my lord. I'm in deadly earnest, and if you think about it,
you'll understand why.

The Scimitar and the
spearheaded plane of the Warlord's spiraled upward, both noting that
other enemy planes, having been alerted to the danger, were being
called back from the front lines to deal with an annoyance in the
rear.

Maigrey held her
breath. Sagan's thoughts were dark and jagged-edged. He was facing
defeat. The action he contemplated was risky, desperate; it would
probably mean his death, an empty sacrifice. He would be robbed, even
of his glory. Derek Sagan, defeated by the Corasians, a loser.
History never deals kindly with losers.

"What are your
orders . . . Commander?" Maigrey requested out loud.

His pain, his fear, his
anger ... his regret touched her. Long ago, when they had been close,
very close, his pain had been her pain, her joy had been his joy. A
tear slid down her cheek. Following the path of the scar, it seeped
into the corner of her mouth.

"Just keep out of
my way, lady. And stop sniveling!" His voice thundered in her
headset.

Maigrey could see the
target on her own computer screen, but she could see it more clearly
in his mind. And how the devil did he expect her to blow her nose
beneath her helmet? "Don't be a fool, Sagan. You can't take it
alone. Let me go ahead of you and knock out the gun emplacements."

The Corasians were
zooming in; Sagan was turning, preparing to make his run at the
target.

"Go ahead . . .
Gold Two."

Another tear, her eyes
swam. Their old squadron, two of them left, was making its final run.
The last flight of the Guardians. And no one would ever know. This
was foolish, undisciplined. Swallowing her tears, indulging in one
more sniff (she could almost hear him grit his teeth), Maigrey dove
down on the enemy.

A Corasian fighter
appeared on her left, visible both on her screen and out of the
corner of her eye. She paid no attention to it, trusting to her
partner. A briefly seen flash confirmed her faith.

"We're even,
lady."

This was an old game of
the squadron's. It had become a joke; they owed their lives to each
other countless times over. And then one day the joke hadn't been
funny.

Maigrey was beneath the
bell (or on top of it, considering that there was neither up nor down
out here). The enemy's guns had her in their sights and were
swiveling around to bear.

"Beginning my
run."

"I'm with you, my
lady."

His voice was soft,
hypnotic in her ears or in her mind or in both; she heard it yet she
didn't hear it. A strange and awesome sensation crept over her. She
was herself and she was him. He was himself and he was her. They were
one and they were two—all barriers down, souls, minds flowing
together. Light meeting darkness, creating a third force with a
nature both terrible and beautiful.

It was her skill that
flew the plane, his keen eye that found the target, his hand that
fired, her hand that guided. Shells burst around her, but she was
invincible. Nothing could harm her. She had the target in her sights
but it seemed to her dazzled mind that the gun emplacements dissolved
and vanished before the energy bolts from her guns ever struck it.

Swiftly she pulled out,
away from the enemy. Sagan was right behind her, and she was with
him, guiding his plane, waiting breathlessly until the precise moment
to strike.

Two Corasians were
diving down on Sagan. Maigrey couldn't consciously remember firing,
but they blew apart, both of them, and it was as if they had done so
at her express command. Sagan had seen them but paid no attention to
them. It was not that he had confidence in his partner: he no longer
had a partner. They were an entity. He continued his run, drawing
closer and closer, and Maigrey wanted to scream from the tension, but
she only breathed, "Now!" and he fired, or perhaps not.