Folding the handkerchief carefully in half, then in half again, the Warlord tucked it in the palm of his left glove, treating the square of plain, serviceable cotton as a treasured and valued artifact.
The lieutenant shot the captain a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye, but Williams could offer no help. He was thankful only to see that his lordship's humor had measurably improved.
"When will he regain consciousness, Giesk?" Sagan asked, rising to his feet.
"Not for some time, I would guess, my lord. I must relieve the pressure on the brain and then—"
"I'm to be informed the moment he is able to speak. Keep him in isolation, bound hand and foot. You men"—Sagan gestured to two of his centurions, who never left his side— "accompany Giesk. I want a twenty-four-hour guard over this prisoner. Attend to it personally."
"Yes, my lord."
Corpsmen gently slid the litter beneath their patient and activated its controls. Its jets breathed out a cushion of air and it whirred forward.
"Not too fast, not too fast," Giesk ordered, eyeing it critically.
The corpsmen knew their jobs, however, and the litter glided ahead smoothly and evenly. A touch guided it in the correct direction, and it floated off, sailing serenely above the wreckage and the dead, moving with far more ease than those forced to follow it afoot.
"One other of the mercenaries was captured alive in this area, my lord. He's conscious, if you would like to speak with him." The lieutenant made a peremptory motion and two marines came forward.
Marching between them, stance correct, posture rigid as that of his guards, was a middle-aged man in a slightly soiled but neatly pressed, old-fashioned uniform of a style that had not been worn since before the revolution. He stood stiffly at attention, his gaze fixed at a point somewhere to the left of Sagan's left: shoulder.
"Your name?" the Warlord said, a ghost of a smile on his tight lips.
"Bennett, sir, aide to General Dixter."
"Rank?"
"Sergeant major, sir."
"How did the 'general' receive his injury, Sergeant Major? It's rather peculiar, considering the fierce fighting, that he should be suffering from nothing more severe than a bump on the head."
"My name is Bennett, sir. Rank: sergeant major."
The ghost of the smile became more visible, though the Warlord's voice remained grave. "I believe you could answer that question, Sergeant Major, without giving aid and comfort to the enemy."
Bennett appeared to consider the matter, his chin thrust forward. The man's eyes shifted for the first time to regard the Warlord directly. "I struck him, sir."
"You did?" Sagan appeared considerably startled.
"Yes, sir. I could see he was determined on dying, sir, and that couldn't be allowed."
The Warlord's gravity increased. "I am afraid he won't be particularly grateful to you for saving him, Sergeant Major. He will be 'questioned,' of course."
"Yes, my lord." A nerve twitched in Bennett's jaw; a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead.
"However, you could spare him a very unpleasant hour, Sergeant Major. You remember Lady Maigrey Morianna, don't you, Bennett?"
The aide's eyes shifted, left the Warlord's face, traveled again to the point beyond his shoulder.
"You met her on Vangelis," Sagan continued. "You would recognize her, of course, if you saw her again. And you did see her again, didn't you, Sergeant Major?" The Warlord drew nearer to the man. The aide's jaw clenched, but he remained standing stiff, unmoving. "She came here, didn't she? She spoke to John Dixter. What did they discuss, Bennett? Where was she going? What did she intend to do? Was the boy, Dion, with her?"
"My name is Bennett, sir. Rank: sergeant—"
The marine lieutenant struck the aide in the face. "The Warlord asked you a question, dog."
Bennett reeled beneath the blow, rocked back on his feet. His guards caught and held him. Shaking his head muzzily, licking a trickle of blood from a cut lip, he slowly resumed his correct posture, his eyes staring into nothing. "My name is Bennett. Rank: sergeant—"
"That will do, Lieutenant," Sagan said, seeing the marine's fist double. "We have more effective methods. Take him away."
"Interrogation chamber, my lord?"
"Certainly. There's no hurry, however." The Warlord fingered the hem of the handkerchief that protruded from his glove. "I believe I know most of the answers."
"'Scuse me, Cap'tn." A grizzled sergeant, head of the burial detail by his red sash, edged his way in front of Williams.
"Yes, Mackenna, what is it?"
"We was wonderin' what to do with them there bodies. The bodies of the enemy, sir."
"Toss them out the hatch," Williams said, not particularly liking the reminder.
Who was it, Sagan wondered, who advised commanders to accord the bodies of the enemy the respect you accord your own dead? Rommel?
"Belay that," he ordered. "They fought bravely and well. And, when all is said and done, they were victorious. They will be read into the deep, the same as our men."
"Aye, aye, me lord." The sergeant saluted, a crooked grin showing his approbation. Lumbering off, he shouted, "We're to do right by 'em. I told ye so, ye lubbers!"
Sagan remained standing in thoughtful silence, turned to Captain Williams.
Knowing the unfortunate moment had come, the captain blenched and struggled to retain his composure.
"And now, Captain, I believe we should discuss how most of the mercenaries you had trapped on Delta deck managed to escape."
The noise in the hangar bay almost precluded talking. Cranes hoisted the skeletal remains of spaceplanes into waiting motorized bins. The remains would be sent to the lower decks to be scavenged for parts or melted down for their metal.
Captain Williams was forced to shout to make himself heard and, after twenty minutes of talking, his voice was hoarse, nearly gone.
"The control room for Delta deck has two entrances, my lord. One on the portside, leading to the hangar bay, the other on starboard, facing the main part of the ship. The entrance onto the hangar bay was sealed and heavily guarded."
They approached the area, the captain gesturing as he spoke. Now that he had come to the crisis point, Williams was calm. It had happened; nothing could change the outcome. He could accept his fate—court-martial, disgrace, perhaps death. He even found himself looking forward with anticipation to his Warlord's reaction to the bizarre tale the captain had to unfold.
"The mercenaries managed to take us by surprise on Charlie, my lord. Immediately after they freed Dixter from the brig, they attacked the control room and held it, despite incurring heavy casualties. Those on Charlie were organized, acting under Dixter's leadership. Those on Delta were not, making no concerted attempt at the beginning to take the control room. They were fighting for their lives. Then, according to the officers I questioned, something happened to alter the situation. Someone was able to take command, bring them together."
"The Lady Maigrey," the Warlord said, in a chill tone that went through the captain like splintered glass, "whom you had managed to capture, then lost."
Williams paled, but maintained his composure. "At first I thought so, my lord, but not now. Not now."
Sagan snorted, unconvinced. They reached the control room, entered it from the hangar bay side. Numerous bodies, both marines and mercenaries, lay on the deck.
"We had our forces deployed in this area. The mercenaries came at us in what we assumed was a final, last-ditch, suicidal assault. We held them off easily, sir."
"You held!" Sagan gazed at the captain in cold, narrow-eyed disbelief.
"Yes, sir." William motioned to two guards, who were standing on either side of the sealed door. One activated it, and the door slid aside. "If you would go into the control room, my lord." The captain stood back, deferentially, to allow the Warlord to precede him.
Entering, Sagan stopped, stared. "My God!"
The hatch sealed behind him, shutting off the no
ise from the hangar deck, leaving them in deathly silence. The control room was small, almost all available space taken up by the instruments and equipment used to control the various functions of the machines on the hangar deck. And now, almost every centimeter—overhead, deck, desktops, computer screens, control panels—was spattered with blood. Chairs with gigantic holes shot in them lay overturned on the deck. Bodies—some shot in the back—sprawled over the equipment or leaned up against the bulkheads.
"I thought I should leave it the way we found it, sir," said Williams quietly. "I thought you should see it. These men were technicians, sir. None of them was armed."
"Yes," Sagan said. Brows contracted, his face gave no indication of his thoughts, but it seemed, from the shadowed eyes, that—battle-hardened as he was—the sight of the carnage affected him.
"I had posted guards in here, of course, my lord. One of them is alive, though I don't know for how long. I've heard his report, my lord. I respectfully submit that you hear it yourself."
In one corner, blood had gathered into a large pool that sloshed up gently against the bulkhead with the movement of Defiant. Sagan turned his gaze to Williams, who met the eyes stoically, unflinching.
"Yes," the Warlord said, "I would like to hear it."
The wounded soldier struggled to rise when he saw his captain and the Warlord approach his bed. Sagan laid his hand upon a bandage-webbed shoulder, applying gentle pressure, easing the man back down. Despite the doctor's best efforts, the mattress beneath the man was soaked in blood. Crimson patches were beginning to stain the fresh bandage web that had been sprayed across the chest.
"Lie easy, Private"—Sagan glanced at the name above the bed—"Amahal. I understand you've made your report to Captain Williams already. I would like to hear it myself, if you feel up to it."
"Yes, my lord." The man's voice was weak. His eyes had the crystalline stare of sedation, but they were focused and clear, and though his words came slowly, they were coherent. The nerve block was strong; it had ended the pain but left the mind clear and in a relaxed state. Such drugs were not widely used; they tended to be highly addictive. That wouldn't be a problem for the young soldier.
"I was sent to guard the control room, my lord. There were three of us. We were watching the fighting on the deck. You could see it . . . from the viewport—" The soldier coughed, choked. A male nurse moved swiftly, turning the man's head, holding a pan underneath the mouth to catch the flow of blood. Williams averted his face, left to answer a call from the bridge. The Warlord waited patiently.
"Is that better so?" the nurse asked softly.
"Yes," the soldier whispered.
The nurse removed the pan, lifted a cloth soaked in cooling liquid, and started to cleanse the man's face. The Warlord took the cloth from the nurse's hands.
"Go on, soldier," he said, deftly wiping the pink-frothed hps. The wounded private shook his head feebly, embarrassed at his Warlord's performing such a menial task.
Wringing out the cloth, Sagan laved the man's feverish forehead and temples. The private shivered, flushed faintly with pleasure at the attention, his livid skin regaining a mockery of the life that was seeping from him.
"We heard ... a banging on the hatch behind us. We thought it was . . . reinforcements. Baker opened it and . . . and there was a ... a kid, my lord."
Sagan's hands jerked. Abruptly, he returned the cloth to the waiting nurse.
"A 'kid,' soldier?"
"A young man, my lord. He couldn't have been more than . . . sixteen or seventeen. He had red hair and he . . . was wearing a flight suit. Like he was dressed up for a costume party . . . maybe. He was holding this beam rifle ..."
The private's voice faded. A spasm of pain contorted the face. The male nurse moved, bringing up a hypodermic. The Warlord closed his hand over the nurse's arm, stopping him.
"Continue, private."
"Baker told him . . . to go . . . play . . . somewhere else. The kid didn't say anything. He stepped inside, raised the rifle, and . . . fired."
Sagan removed his hand from the nurse's arm.
"The eyes ..." the private whispered, his own widening in awe and horror. "I saw his eyes ..."
The nurse started to administer the drug, saw it wouldn't be necessary. The froth on the ashen lips lay undisturbed. The Warlord murmured something beneath his breath.
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine—"
"—et lux perpetua luceat eis." The nurse's voice slid beneath Sagan's.
The Warlord glanced at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them were alone. A screen concealed the dying man from his fellows.
"I am one of the Order, my lord," the nurse said in a soft, low voice. "Many of us are, who serve in this capacity."
"The Order is dead, officially banned," Sagan said coldly.
"Yes, my lord," the male nurse replied. Slim, cool fingers rested for an instant on Sagan's left arm where, hidden beneath the body armor, self-inflicted scars cut deep into the flesh. "If you ever need us, my lord."
Drawing a sheet up over the body, the nurse moved on to his next patient.
His words were a whisper across the Warlord's confused thoughts. Sagan doubted, after a moment, if he'd even heard it or had, in his exhaustion, imagined it.
Williams returned, looked at the Warlord questioningly. Sagan knew he should make some response, but he felt stupefied from the news, his fatigue, the aftereffects of the stimulation shot that made him feel worse than he had before. Age was beginning to tell. He was, what . . . forty-eight? Not old at all for the Blood Royal, who generally lived far into their hundreds.
"I will burn up before then," he said to himself. Time was sliding through his fingers, like the liquid from that pink-stained cloth. Youth . . .
He could see Dion, standing in the entrance to the control room, the young man's eyes blue as flame.
"You understand now, my lord?" Williams asked in a quiet tone. They had arrived back on the bridge.
"Yes," Sagan said. "I understand. What happened to . . . the young man?"
"He apparently escaped in the confusion, my lord." Williams's mouth twisted, aware he was further damning himself.
"With the Lady Maigrey?"
"No, my lord. I don't believe so. The young man was spotted marching down the corridor, his gun trained on a black-skinned male. No one stopped him. After all, my lord, he was wearing our own uniform. We know he returned to his spaceplane. An officer reported seeing the young man and his prisoner helping a third, apparently wounded, person into the spaceplane. All three were wearing uniforms. The young man knew the correct codes and had the proper clearance."
Williams spread his hand deprecatingly. "By the time we received your instructions to take him prisoner, my lord, it was too late. His spaceplane had already been allowed to take off."
"You can relax, Captain." Sagan stretched, trying to ease the cramped muscles in the small of his back. "You won't receive a commendation for your actions, but you won't be penalized for them, either. You were up against forces beyond your ability to comprehend."
The statement was reassuring, though hardly complimentary. Williams's face reflected the knowledge that he had just seen all hopes of a swift and meteoric rise in his career plummet to the ground. He swallowed his protests, however; afraid, perhaps, of succumbing to a sudden "illness" as had the late Captain Nada.
"I wonder, my lord," Williams said instead, "why he did it."
"Did what, Captain?" Sagan's thoughts were far away, reaching out, probing.
"The senseless butchery, my lord! There was no need. He was armed. He'd caught them completely by surprise."
"Perhaps he tried. What would your men's response have been, Captain, if he'd asked them to open that hangar bay, allow the mercenaries to escape?"
Williams didn't hesitate. "They would have refused, my lord."
"There's your answer, Captain. First they insult him, then they won't take him seriously."
Williams remained unconvinced. "
He could have insisted, coerced them. Most likely they would have done what he wanted. A man tends to, when he has a beam rifle pressed up against his skull. It was the act of a madman, my lord."
No, Sagan thought, it was the act of a young man who's mad as hell, frustrated as hell, and scared as hell. And he won! He pulled it off, by God! There might be more to that young man than I first suspected.
"You've activated the tracking device aboard the craft, of course."
"Yes, my lord. The plane has gone into hyperspace, but we will have a firm fix on it when it emerges and touches down."
"Excellent. And what of the Lady Maigrey?"
"Our belief is that she escaped with the other mercenaries, my lord. That call I received in sick bay was from the aide, Bennett's, interrogators. The sergeant major proved extremely stubborn, but my men were eventually able to learn that the lady was here and she was in contact with John Dixter. They spoke together in private at some length. Bennett was able to overhear them. The lady referred to a conversation she and the general had on Vangelis. She said, and I quote, my lord, I think I have found a way to deal with it.'"
"Anything else?"
"Dixter's response was a single word."
"And that was?"
Williams turned his back on the crew on the bridge. The Warlord did the same, both staring out the viewscreen at the remnants of Phoenix and the Corasian vessel, burning off the starboard bow.
"A word that he did not recognize. A rather unusual word. It sounded like 'ohme,' my lord."
Sagan glanced at the captain sharply, wondering if Williams truly did not know what he had just said. The Adonian weapons dealer was notorious, his name figuring prominently in the vidmags and among those interested in acquiring the capability of blowing their neighbors into small pieces. What was not supposed to be generally known was that the Warlord was dealing with him. Such knowledge had cost Nada his life.
This captain's face remained impassive, however. If Williams knew, he wasn't letting on—which had been Nada's mistake.
Not a bad officer, this captain, Sagan decided. I might forgive his stupidity ... in time.
"Excuse me, my lord." One of the centurions advanced. "There is an urgent transmission for you—"
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