King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  Derek Sagan was a tall man; his strides were normally long and powerful. He walked swiftly through the ship, making certain he moved no faster than usual, though the seconds ticked away inside him like the pumping of his heart. Men caught dashing through the corridors in panicked haste came upon their commander strolling purposefully, with measured stride, and slowed their pace.

  The Honor Guard were at their posts outside the double doors, which were splendidly decorated with a golden phoenix rising from flames. The phoenix was about to fall again, would have to rise again. Sagan wondered briefly if he had the strength.

  "I'm not to be disturbed," he told the captain of the guard, who wasted no words in replying but nodded once and placed his men at the door, weapons ready. The Warlord, seeing all was satisfactory, entered his quarters and sealed the door shut behind him.

  He paused for a moment, glancing around his rooms. He had few personal objects. He preferred to live a Spartan existence. Those objects he did own were valuable, priceless, rare. His hand lingered fondly on a breastplate supposed to have belonged to Alexander, a helm that had been Caesar's. All would be destroyed. There wasn't time to save them, room to pack them. Evac ships were notoriously unfit to handle a complete evacuation. Whatever space these took up might mean a man left behind.

  All but one. Sagan's hand passed swiftly over the valuable artifacts, stopped at a glass case in which were placed several curious objects, including one that most observers would have overlooked or—if they noticed—wondered why it was here at all. It was given no special prominence. Indeed, it seemed almost to have been placed here by accident.

  The Warlord doubled his fist, smashed it through the glass. Shards cut his flesh; he didn't flinch or appear to notice. Impatiently, he brushed aside precious jewels that had been gifts of a long-dead king. Sagan's fingers closed over a battered, shapeless, well-worn leather scrip—plain, without marking, and obviously ancient. Reverently, he drew it forth, smoothed it out with his hand. Blood from the cuts on his flesh smeared across the leather, Sagan ignored it. His blood had fallen on it before, sanctified it.

  The vidscreen beeped persistently; a lighted button flickered in the darkness of his quarters. Snaga Ohme was on-line and waiting.

  Let him wait, the Warlord thought. He has time, I do not.

  Carrying the scrip, Sagan walked through his quarters, coming to stand before what was presumed by everyone aboard, Admiral Aks included, to be a vault holding the wealth of several major systems. A security device, specially designed by the Warlord, prohibited entry. Five sharp needles protruded from a pad located to the right of the door. The five needles were arranged in a pattern that matched the scars of five puncture wounds on the palm of the Warlord's right hand. The wounds were fresh, their edges slightly inflamed; he'd used the bloodsword during his battle aboard the Corasian vessel. Sagan impaled his hand on the five needles.

  A virus identical to the virus in his sword flowed into his veins. The virus was deadly to anyone lacking Sagan's genetic structure, which meant that the virus was deadly to anyone except the Warlord. The door slid open. He entered; the door slid shut and locked. Sagan stood, not in a vault, but in a chapel, whose existence, if it had been known, would have meant his death.

  The darkness inside the vault was intense, no artificial light permitted. Sagan did not need light. He knew by touch and instinct the location of every object in the chapel. Kneeling on a black silk cushion before the black obsidian altar, the Warlord spread the battered scrip upon the cold stone. His movements were deft, no wasted motion. Yet he was unhurried, reverent, calm. He was almost tempted to stay, linger in the soothing, incense-scented darkness until death took him.

  He heard, through the sealed door, the insistent beep of the computer. Snaga Ohme, the bomb. Sagan's weapon, the rulership of the galaxy. The temptation to eternal rest passed swiftly.

  The Warlord's hands ran over the altar, knowing exactly what he sought and where to find it. He grasped a silver dagger whose hilt was an eight-pointed star and slid it into a plain leather sheath, placed the sheath into the scrip. Wrapping a silver chalice decorated with eight-pointed stars in black velvet, he thrust it into the scrip. He lifted a small, silver bowl, poured out the rare and costly oil it contained, letting it run down the sides of the obsidian altar, and added the bowl to the scrip.

  Finally, a small rosewood box containing a starjewel, his starjewel, gone unregarded for years, but important now for what it would be, not for what it had been.

  Last on the altar lay robes made of finest black velvet. Sagan lifted the fabric, brought the hem to his lips, kissed it as he'd been taught. He thrust the robes of a priest of the outlawed Order of Adamant into the leather scrip that once belonged to Hugues de Payens, founder of the Knights Templar, and cinched its drawstring tight.

  Rising, the Warlord shoved the cushion aside with his booted foot. The vaults door opened, and he walked out, making certain to seal it after him. Soon, he thought grimly, I won't have to put up with this secretive nonsense. Soon, I will do what I please. President Peter Robes and the Galactic Congress be damned. Sagan walked over, sat down before the vidscreen. Its digital clock reminded him of the waning minutes.

  "Yes, Ohme, what is it? Be brief, I don't have much time."

  The Adonian's handsome face appeared on screen. He was impeccably dressed in the latest and most costly evening wear—black jacket, white tie, a vest of shimmering rainbow-thread. He made a graceful gesture, jewels flashed.

  "Gad, darling! I've just heard. It's the reason I called, as a matter of fact. Sorry to hear you re about to be blown up, but then war is hell, isn't it, sweetheart?"

  "What do you want, Ohme?" Sagan was fast losing patience,

  "I find it rather embarrassing, speaking of such crass considerations at a time like this, but—since you asked—I'd like my money. I've laid out a considerable amount for this bauble of yours—"

  "You know our deal. Cash on delivery."

  One of the Adonian's plucked eyebrows rose. A smile crossed the curved lips. He leaned back in his chair, his hand fluttering, languid, jewels flashing. "Darling boy, what I'm about to say seems cruel, but business is business, after all. Let's be reasonable, Derek. How can I deliver the bomb to you when you're about to be annihilated? I want to be paid . . . now. Transfer the money into my account. "

  "When I have the bomb, you will have the cash."

  "No, no. That won't do at all, I'm afraid." Snaga Ohme sighed delicately. "I had hoped approaching death would make you more tractable. I really can't afford to wait any longer. I am giving you fair warning, dear boy. If I'm not paid, I shall put the bomb on the open market. Highest bidder. First come, first served, so to speak."

  "You are passing a death sentence on yourself, Snaga Ohme."

  The Adonian smiled charmingly, flicked his hands. The light from the jewels danced and sparkled. "Boom, darling!" Laughing, he ended the transmission.

  Derek Sagan rose to his feet. He slung the scrip over his shoulder, drew on his ceremonial red and gold cape, its capacious folds neatly hiding the scrip from the eyes of the curious.

  I'll deal with Snaga Ohme later, he thought. Right now, I have a battle to fight and to win.

  Maigrey divined Sagan's intent only when he aimed the lasgun on her. She had just seconds to alter her electromagnetic aura to absorb the impact of the stunning ray. Hastily raised, her defenses were weak and, though the full force of the blow was dissipated, it hit her like a giant fist, slamming into her body.

  Probably just as well, she thought, lying on the deck, struggling to cling to consciousness. I could never have acted convincingly enough to fool Sagan otherwise.

  It was a temptation, once her eyes were closed, to leave them closed, to sink into dark oblivion, let it ease the pain of body and mind. She dared not move, lest they realize she was shamming, and her fatigue nearly made the decision for her. She was aware of Sagan's touch, heard his words as in a dream. Voices became submerged in a steady str
eam of warmth and quiet that was slowly stealing over her. stealing her away with it. Someone, probably Admiral Aks, thoughtfully covered her with a blanket. This simple kindly gesture nearly made Maigrey cry again; she had to bite her lip hard to keep back the tears.

  Drowsy, she let her mind float free. Like iron drawn to the magnet, it hovered near Sagan's. Preoccupied with the danger, his mind was absorbed in his plans, his plots, his ideas, his fears. The Warlord did not notice the lady's presence so near him. She was light, airy, a hint of subtle perfume in his nostrils, the flutter of a butterfly wing on his skin. She was aware of everything he did, every thought he had.

  The chapel didn't surprise her. She knew of its existence as she knew of his existence. One would have been deficient without the other. The leather scrip belonging to a forgotten knight was an old friend; Maigrey'd been present during the ceremony when Sagan had received it from the brothers of the Order of Adamant. The other objects—the dagger, the dish, the chalice—were as much a part of him as the Star of the Guardians was a part of her. She was only mildly surprised at the existence of the rosewood box. He had renounced the Star of the Guardians, betrayed it. disgraced it, but he couldn't give it up.

  His voice, coming to her muffled, seemed filtered through a thick, rose-tinted mist.

  Yes, Ohme, what is it? Be brief, I don't have much time.

  Ohme! Snaga Ohme! The name was like a sharp pinprick, a glass of cold water tossed on her face. She regained consciousness instantly, too instantly and not carefully, to judge by the jingle of armor, the guard turning to look at her. Maigrey concentrated on lying perfectly still, and the guard turned away. She had to make certain she didn't betray herself to Sagan, had to keep her thoughts from touching his with too heavy a hand. Unaware of her, discounting her. he'd let his guard down.

  I am giving you fair warning, dear boy. If I'm not paid, I shall put the bomb on the open market. Highest bidder. First come, first served, so to speak.

  And why shouldn't I be the one to buy it?

  The thought was like a jolt of electricity through Maigrey's body. She began to shiver uncontrollably and huddled more closely beneath the blanket. Excitement was a magic elixir, burning away aches and fatigue and despair. She was gulping it down so fast she felt dizzy, drunk. Calm, she counseled. Calmly.

  First, Sagan, She'd been careless, he might have read her thoughts, come storming through the ship to stop her.

  No, he was furious at the alien; his mind was in a turmoil. He himself was endeavoring to proceed with calm. He couldn't waste time on her. What was she, anyway? Helpless? A prisoner?

  Not for long. Not for long.

  Could it be accomplished'3 Could she really deal for the bomb? It would be difficult, but the beginning of a plan, the vague shape and outline, was forming. Yes, it was feasible. All she had to do was get away. And that should be relatively easy, in a ship about to die.

  The most dangerous part of her plan would be the next few-seconds, escaping from her guards, slipping off the bridge. She could fight; she had the bloodsword. But that would call attention to her and, more important, she didn't have the time, Sagan was already on his way back.

  Maigrey concentrated, marshaling her mental forces, summoning the power. The Blood Royal. Genetically bred over centuries, designed to rule, to lead. Theirs was a magic capable of logical definition, scientific mysticism.

  What could you do, if you wanted. my lady? Dion had asked her once.

  What could I do? I could split the bulkheads open. I could short out all the electrical systems. I could make each man in this bar rise up and slay himself.

  So she had told the young man and she'd told him the truth. But none of that would be necessary right now, not that she had the energy to try bulkhead splitting or mass murder. Mass hypnosis was far less taxing and would accomplish the same objective.

  Maigrey stirred beneath the blanket, sighed, and seemed to settle herself more comfortably. As she hoped, each man near her turned to stare at her. Fortunately, none touched her. One started toward her. but the centurion shook his head, gestured him back with weapon drawn. Admiral Aks glanced in her direction, said something indistinguishable and unimportant to a lieutenant standing near, who also looked in her direction.

  No man noticed or realized that when he looked at her he was caught, that he stood frozen, immobile, hypnotized. The effect lasted only a split second. No one remembered it afterward. Each man turned away with an image in his mind of a woman lying unconscious beneath a blanket on the deck at their feet. So powerful was the image that, when the woman rose to her feet, the man's mind refused to believe what his eyes insisted upon. Faced with two distinct and contradictory images, the brain of each man on the bridge chose the strongest, rejected the seemingly impossible.

  Walking softly, moving fluidly as a ghost, Maigrey glided away and no one on deck knew she had gone.

  The bridge was almost completely dark and nearly empty of its personnel. All lights except for running lights and those on the computers, instruments, and vid equipment had been shut down. The ferocity of the barrage the ship was currently sustaining indicated to the Warlord that Phoenix was drawing nearer the Corasian vessel with every passing second. A glance at the instruments confirmed his observation.

  Murmured voices of crewmen relaying information and the pounding of the explosions that rattled the hull were the only sounds. Most of the crew had been ordered off. Sagan, glancing at the vidscreen, could see the evac ships beginning to pull away. He knew the Corasians could "see" them, as well. He allowed himself a moment of congratulation.

  "All appears to be in order, Admiral. You have carried out your instructions well. We have less than an hour left in the safety window. Take the men remaining and proceed to your ship."

  Aks was clearly unhappy. "Are you leaving now, as well, my lord?"

  "No, Admiral. Someone must stay aboard to guide Phoenix as near the Corasian ship as possible. I will take that duty upon myself "

  "I respectfully request permission to remain with your lordship."

  "Permission denied. Do as you are ordered, Admiral. Captain Williams can use some assistance on Defiant. Meet me there. I shall be on board within the next forty minutes."

  Aks started to argue, caught the Warlord's weary, shadowed gaze, and said softly, "Yes, my lord." He turned to leave, stopped, and motioned to a steel tray covered with a white cloth. "Dr. Giesk left that for you, my lord. A stimulation shot. I believe. "

  Sagan's lip curled in disdain. The Blood Royal needed no such artificial stimuli. He could retreat into his own being, find the strength he needed within.

  Admiral Aks bowed without a word and prepared to leave the bridge, taking the remainder of the crew with him. All were reluctant to go. Many cast pleading glances at their Warlord, glances that were met with a gaze as cold and hard as adamant. Soon the bridge was deserted except tor the two silent Honor Guard standing watch over Lady Maigrey—lying unconscious on the deck—and the Warlord.

  Sagan turned the ship's outer cameras away from the Corasian ship and onto Phoenix, seeing his ship through the eyes of his enemy. It appeared dark, lifeless—a dead thing floating in space. Most of the evac boats were speeding away. He saw his own shuttle pulling out. He must remember to commend his captain, who had ordered the Warlord's crest on the side of the vessel lighted. Corasians have no "eyes" but their sensitive sighting devices would be certain to note Sagan's phoenix emblem. They must assume the Warlord was on board, beating a strategic retreat.

  Sagan made a slight change in course, giving the ship the appearance of an abandoned wreck, drifting at random. The Corasians had ceased their fire on the flagship and were beginning to turn their attention to the attendant smaller destroyers, intending to cripple them and salvage what was left, Sagan could picture the Corasians gloating over their prize. When the battle was ended, they would lock a tractor beam on to Phoenix and tow it back to their galaxy, take it apart, and use the technological advances to enhance their o
wn out-of-date fleet.

  This prize, however, had a surprise inside. Sagan glanced at the time, though he had no need to do so. His inner, mental clock kept it for him to the millisecond. At a dead run, it would take him fifteen minutes to reach his spaceplane. His centurions and Lady Maigrey would need to leave ahead of him. He walked over to his men, who came to attention, saluting, fist over heart. Their faces were impassive, calm. One could never have told, from their expressions, that they were the only ones left on board a ticking time bomb, "Escort the Lady Maigrey to my spaceplane. 1—" Sagan looked down. The deck was empty. Aghast, he raised his head, confronted his men. "Where is she?"

  "Right there, my lord. She never moved, never stirred. We were worried—" The centurion followed Sagan's angry gaze, blinked, and gasped. "My lord! I swear—"

  "Never mind! Report to my spaceplane!"

  "My lord, we—"

  "Go!" Sagan roared.

  The centurions fled, booted feet pounding on metal, the echoes sounding unnaturally loud and eerie in the silence.

  Maigrey was gone. Probably to Defiant, planning to rescue the boy, save John Dixter. Or was she? Something nagged at Sagan's mind. He couldn't touch hers; the barriers were up, the shadows thick and heavy. He sensed shapes in the shadows, however, and what he saw vaguely disquieted him.

  He didn't dare risk a transmission to Defiant. He could only-trust that the Creator was with him,

  Sagan slumped into a chair. He was tired. It was frightening, how tired he was. His neck hurt, where Maigrey’d struck him down on board the Corasian vessel. The muscles were beginning to stiffen. The Warlord closed his eyes, leaned back. Calm. Peace. Serenity. Look within and find the strength you need.