King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  The mercenaries who still had planes to fly were gathered in the ready room.

  "I need volunteers," Dixter told them, "to stay behind, hold the control room, keep the tractor beams out of commission."

  Humans, aliens exchanged glances. Everyone knew that those who stayed behind were doomed—a quick death if they were lucky, a prisoner of the Warlord if they weren't. Everyone knew, too, that their general was staying behind, that he wouldn't abandon his people. There was a sudden surge of people forward, clamoring and shouting to volunteer. General Dixter was nearly trampled in the rush.

  "Thank you all," he said when he could speak, his voice choked by his emotion. "But many of our comrades have already died, trying to gain for you the ability to leave. Every one of us captured or killed from now on is a victory mark for the Warlord. I want as many of you to leave as possible." Dixter waved down the protests. "Listen to me!" He had to shout to be heard. "I just received word"—he held up his fieldphone—"that our people on Delta deck are starting to push the marines back. As soon as you are safely gone, those of us staying behind will help our friends on Delta. There'll probably be enough planes to take us all off. We'll meet at the rendezvous."

  "Hey, General," Gobar called out, "the Warlord promised to pay us! When do we get our money?"

  The mercenaries laughed, Dixter joining in. "I'll send him a bill."

  "We'll wring our pay out of him. Drop by drop. You can be sure of that, sir," a woman said quietly, and the laughter died to an ominous silence.

  Dixter glanced around at his people, tried to think of something to add, but only shook his head. Bennett, monitoring the fieldphone, hurried over to confer. Those who had served with the general a long time took a certain grim delight in noting that the aide's usually immaculate uniform was somewhat rumpled and had a spot of grease on one knee.

  "You know," one said solemnly, gazing at Bennett, "just to see that—it's almost been worth it."

  Dixter turned from his aide and faced his people. "Lilly's done it! The controls are ours! Move out. Hurry, we don't have much time."

  No one stirred.

  Dixter's expression grew stern; the graying brows came together. "That's an order."

  Reluctantly, his people did as they were commanded, trooping out of the ready room, plunging into the smoke-filled hangar bay. But every one of them took a small bit of the precious time available to shake hands or at least touch—as if for luck—their general. He said something to each, wished them Godspeed, promised time and again to meet them at the rendezvous point—with their payroll.

  "If you're not, sir, we'll be back for you," each promised.

  Dixter only smiled. At the very end of the line stood a bloodied, disheveled, and weary-looking woman dressed in the uniform of a Galactic pilot. Reaching out, she clasped his hand, spoke wistfully.

  "John, I'm starved. You wouldn't happen to have a chicken sandwich on you?"

  Dixter glanced at her, looked hard at her, stared at her in disbelief.

  "My God!" he murmured. Throwing his arms around the woman, he hugged her close. Neither said a word, each clinging to the other.

  Maigrey let go of him, took a step back. "Go on with your work. I'll wait here for you."

  When the last of the pilots was gone and all those leaving were safely aboard their planes, those who were staying behind took shelter in the ready room. Bennett made certain the entrance was locked and sealed. The hangar bay doors shivered, then began to open. The rumbling vibrations shook the deck. The planes' engines fired, many of the smaller ones blasting off before the doors were more than hallway up.

  Those waiting in the ready room with Dixter called the planes off. "There goes Ratazar."

  "Who's that behind her?"

  "Spike-hand Pete. And K'um and his twin brother."

  "They're shot up pretty bad. I hope they make it."

  "They'll make it. They would, just to spite me. I got a forty-eagle bet with him says we never see each other again! . .

  "Sir, " Bennett's voice came level and quiet over the roar of the engines of the departing planes, "we've lost contact with the control room."

  Dixter glanced through the steelglass viewport at the hangar bay doors. There were still numerous planes waiting to take off.

  Bennett saw the concern, understood. "Lilly said—before the connection went—that she had managed to jam the controls open. It will take the enemy some time to fix them, sir, I should imagine."

  "Yes. Thank you, Bennett." Dixter's lips pressed together tightly, grimly. He leaned his head on his hand, massaged his forehead.

  "There's nothing more you can do now, sir. Why don't you sit down, let me bring you a cup of coffee? The machine over in the corner is still operational."

  "He's right, John," Maigrey said, coming up from behind. She rested her cheek against Dixter's shoulder. "Come, sit down."

  Most of the mercenaries in the room remained crowded at the viewport. A few sank down to rest, thankful for the respite, knowing it wouldn't last long.

  Maigrey brought up two metal desks, placed them side by side. Wriggling out of the bulky flight suit, she dumped it on the deck and seated herself at the desk's attached chair. Dixter joined her.

  "You look awful," she told him cheerfully.

  "You look worse." Dixter smoothed back a strand of her pale hair. "You're covered with blood. Are you hurt?"

  "It's not mine." Maigrey wiped her face with her hand and stared at her fingers ruefully.

  "Anyone I know?"

  She smiled, shook her head. "Wishful thinking. The Warlord is alive and as well as can be expected, considering his ship's been shot out from underneath him."

  Dixter appeared grave. "So we've gone through all this just to be destroyed by the Corasians?"

  "No. Sagan may have lost the battle but he's going to win the war. He's using the old fire ship maneuver—moving Phoenix in close to the Corasian vessel; when it blows, it'll take them with it."

  Bennett returned with coffee. "All the planes are away safely, sir."

  Dixter smiled; light touched the faded brown eyes. The mercenaries in the ready room cheered.

  "And I heard you say you were hungry, my lady," the aide added, depositing several foil-wrapped bars in front of Maigrey. "These were all I could find, I'm afraid."

  "Blessings on you!" Maigrey said fervently, tearing open the foil, revealing a congealed mass of something that appeared to be highly nutritious and completely inedible. She sniffed at it, grimaced. "Veg-bars. Oh, well. You want one?"

  "No," Dixter said hastily, shaking his head. "I had to live on those things for a year, once. When I was on the run."

  Maigrey bit into the bar, chewed it, swallowed. Her gaze wandered to the people in the room. She sighed, shook her head. "I—I feel responsible."

  Dixter reached out his hand, took hold of hers, held it fast. "You're not, Maigrey. My people made their own decisions to come. We did what we set out to do; we defeated the Corasians. You warned us of Sagan's treachery and we were ready for him: That's the reason we were able to hold out this long. I don't suppose," he added with a half-smile, sipping at his coffee, "that you stopped by just for lunch? What is it you need? A plane? You're leaving me again."

  A crimson flush stained Maigrey's pale face, the scar on her cheek was livid white against the flushed skin, the hand in his began to tremble. "I wish I could stay! If I had my choice I would be with you and fight him until . . . until—" Her fingers clenched; her nails dug into his flesh. "But I can't! I've found out something about—" She glanced around furtively. "About . . . what we talked about on Vangelis."

  Dixter appeared alarmed. The lines in the weathered face deepened. Leaning near, he spoke in an undertone. "Ohme?"

  "Hush! Yes." She nodded, drew him closer. "I think there's a way to . . . deal with it. But I must do it myself. Soon! And that's why I can't—I can't—"

  "I understand, Maigrey. I do." John lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it gently.

&nbs
p; Maigrey lowered her head, rested her scarred cheek on his hand. He felt her tears trickle down between his fingers. Stroking back the pale hair, he brushed aside wispy ends escaping from the loosened braid. An explosion shook the deck. Heads lifted, people half-rose to their feet.

  "Coffee break's over, I'm afraid." Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, Dixter handed it to Maigrey.

  She wiped the tears and blood from her face, her tone brusque and matter-of-fact. "I need a spaceplane. A sound one. One that will get me to . . . where I need to be."

  "The only planes you'll find are on Delta deck. And a fierce battle is raging over there, from what I've heard."

  Maigrey waved that aside. "And Dion? Have you seen him? I hoped to find him with you."

  "Yes, I've seen him. He's leading the assault on Delta."

  "What?" Maigrey stared. "Have you gone mad, John Dixter?"

  The general raised his hands, defending himself against her accusing gray eyes. "It was his idea, lady, not mine." Slowly, tiredly, he stood up. "Although I admit I went along with him."

  "He's only a child!" Maigrey bounced to her feet, confronted him.

  "If you and Sagan are right about him, Maigrey, he's a child of the Blood Royal," the general said quietly.

  Maigrey opened her mouth, paused, swallowed her angry words, shook her head in despair. "You're right, John. And Sagan's right, too, damn him! Testing God!" She met John Dixter's eyes, tired but shrewd in their maze of sun-tightened wrinkles. "You could come with me."

  "Yes," he acknowledged.

  "But you won't," she said softly.

  He shook his head, smiling at her.

  Carefully, Maigrey tucked the handkerchief back into the breast pocket of his rumpled uniform, then kissed the weathered cheek. Another explosion, this one nearer, set the desks rattling, spilled the coffee. Dixter tilted her chin up, put his finger over her lips.

  "No good-byes. It brings us luck," he said. "Come on. It's time we moved out."

  Drawing the bloodsword from its scabbard, Maigrey meticulously fit the metal prongs into the five red marks on the palm of her right hand. "Yes, it brings us luck," she said, but only to herself.

  Chapter Nine

  In every parting there is an image of death.

  George Eliot, Scenes from Clerical Life

  "This scheme of yours is crazy. You know that, don't you?" Tusk asked.

  "What have we got to lose?" Dion returned, scrambling down the side of Tusk's Scimitar. Lasgun in hand, the mercenary covered him from below.

  "Nothin'. That's the only reason I'm going along with it. What did XJ have to say?" Tusk nodded at the Scimitar, referring to his irascible computer-partner, standing guard inside.

  "That flares cost one and a half crowns apiece and I wasn't to waste them," Dion said, grinning.

  Laser fire streaked around them. The two flattened themselves against the plane. Keeping low, they dashed back to rejoin Link and the other mercenaries Dion had recruited. An explosion sent them diving for cover.

  "Shit," Reefer swore, peering through the smoke, "the bastards blew up my plane.'

  "You can fly out with me," Link offered. Standing up, he fired a volley, ducked back down again when it was returned.

  "I've got the flares, General Dixter, sir." Dion was speaking into the fieldphone. "I've contacted everyone I could find, sent others out to spread the word. We're ready when you are."

  "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 arg
ument, 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?"