The hatch whirred shut.
Dion heard Tusk climb into the cockpit. A moment later the mercenary's face appeared, peering up at him.
"You okay up there, lad?"
"If you don't expect me to move quickly," Dion retorted. "I'm wedged in here so tight you're going to have to pry me out with a crowbar!"
"You'll move quick enough if they start shooting at us," Tusk predicted. "Okay, Nola, take the co-pilot's seat. Now, XJ, you know what to do."
"Have you ever noticed," stated the computer irritably, "that we never fight our way out of trouble, anymore. We drink our way ..."
"Just shut up and do what you're supposed to do," Tusk snapped viciously. "This drunk routine was Dixter's idea, by the way."
"Figures," said XJ. "Leave it to the general to know your one strong point."
"Would you two stop it and get us out of here!" Dion demanded. "I've lost all feeling in my feet!"
"Sure thing, boss. Hit the engines, XJ. Kid, tell us what's goin' on from your angle."
The spaceplane's engines started with a roar, the deck on which Dion was sitting began to vibrate, nearly jarring the teeth out of his head. He kept watch out the viewscreen.
"The flight crews are waving their arms and running over here. There go the alarms," he added needlessly. The horn blasts nearly deafened them all. The men on the hangar deck were making frantic hand signals, warning Tusk to shut his engines off. "Too late. The red lights're flashing! There they go!"
As a safety precaution, the hangar bay doors opened automatically within a prescribed time period after a spaceplane's engines were fired. The alarms and flashing lights advised everyone on the deck that the atmosphere and pressure were about to be reduced and it would be advisable to clear the area.
"Scimitar, this is deck control. Just what the devil do you think you're doing?" came a stern voice over the commlink.
"S-sorry," slurred Tusk. "Hit the wrong . . . Nola, get off me. Yeah, sure I like that, sweetheart, but ... oh, yeah. I really like that!"
Sounds of breathless laughter and kissing.
"The doors are starting to open, Tusk," reported Dion.
He could see Tusk's legs only from the knees down. The mercenary was lying on his back on the console. Nola, leaning over him, was kissing him on the neck. Each had their hands—not on each other—but on the control switches.
"Deck control!" XJ came on. "Would someone get these drunken idiots off my plane?"
"We'd be happy to, computer, as soon as he shuts down his engines!" returned deck control.
"Hangar bay doors open!" Dion reported. "You're clear!"
"Yes, sir," said Tusk. "Shutting down now, sir. I—Oh, shit!"
The spaceplane took off with a blast and a burst of speed that flattened Dion back against the bulkheads and sent Tusk and Nola flying. The Scimitar shot out of the hangar deck and swooped into space.
Dion grabbed hold of the seat of the gunner's chair, which was about level with his nose, and managed to pull himself up. Looking down below, he saw a black hand and arm reach up from the deck, grab hold of the console. Tusk emerged from underneath, grim-faced and red-eyed with fury.
"What's the matter, Tusk?" said XJ, lights flickering innocently. "You didn't want maximum acceleration?"
"You sonuva—"
"No swearing! I got us out of there, didn't I?"
"Yeah. Most of us. If you don't count my guts. They're still lyin' on the flight deck. Nola, you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shaken." Nola got to her feet. Her eyes were wide. She put her hand to her head. "Wow! That was some ride."
"Kid?" Tusk peered up into the gun turret. "You okay?"
"If you don't count the fact that my spine's on the outside of my skin instead of the inside, I'm dandy. Now what?"
"Get the gun ready. We're not outta this yet. We're comin' up on the blockade. XJ, find us a Lane. And here comes someone to look us over."
"Act one. Scene two," stated the computer. "Places, everyone. ..."
Dion drew in a deep breath, his fingers closed nervously over the lascannon's handgrips, his thumbs located the firing buttons. A spaceplane zoomed into view. He located it in his sights.
"Got it."
"Good. Don't get an itchy trigger finger, kid. The last thing we want to do is cause a stir. XJ, keep the shields down. We want to look like butter wouldn't melt on our afterburners. Hopefully, we'll just ease on out of here."
The Galactic pilot issued a warning.
Tusk pulled up, hung dead in space, shields down, vulnerable. He had the lights on bright in the cockpit, the pilot would be able to see him clearly. The gun turret's lights were off, however. The enemy pilot wouldn't see anyone up there.
Dion sat in the darkness, hands on the gun, palms sweating, breath coming short and fast.
"Scimitar, where're you off to in such a hurry?" The challenging pilot's voice was female, sounded friendly and extremely bored. "Hell, you shot outta there like you had one of those damn hypermissiles up your ass."
"Aw, my computer's fucked up. It's one of those old XJ-27 models and it's gettin' senile. Doesn't know its disk drive from a hole in the ground anymore."
"I'll get you for that," XJ promised in a low tone.
"Gee, that's too bad," the pilot commiserated. "When you get it replaced, try the M-13. Fast, efficient, no back-talk . .
"M-13!" XJ was shocked. "That ramless mass of microchips. Why, I—"
"Shhhush!" Tusk growled. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for the tip."
"Anytime. I'm always here. "
"Blockade duty's no fun," Tusk said sympathetically.
"Damn right. Back and forth. Up and down. Round and round. Fuck it! The only excitement we've had in a week was when the Lady made a run for it. Heard she got away, too."
"Yeah. Good riddance, I say. Damn troublemaker. But now that she and that hard-ass Sagan are gone, maybe the kid'll settle down and get his head screwed on right."
"What kid? You mean the boy who would be king? Do you know him?"
"You might say that. My name's Tusk," said Tusk modestly. "Maybe you've seen me on the vids."
"Tusk! Sure, I've seen you. Seen 'His Majesty,' too. What a cutie! Say, some of the girls and I've been wondering. Is that hair of his for real or is it a transplant?"
Nola's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. Tusk grinned, glanced up at an appalled Dion, and winked.
"Naw, it's real. Hey, maybe if they call off this blockade crap, I could arrange for you to meet him."
"Could you? That'd be great. They might as well call this off. Everybody we were trying to keep penned up's already got out. Except for the king. And I don't suppose he's planning to go anywhere."
"Shit, no," said Tusk. "He's a nice kid and all that, but he's got no backbone."
"Not anymore!" Dion shifted around in his seat trying to ease the pain of his bruised spine.
"He's locked himself up in his room. Sulking, refuses to come out. That's why I left. Couldn't take the whinin'. Me and the wife here . . . This is Nola. Say 'hello,' Nola."
"Hello," Nola sang out sweetly and waved her hand.
"And you are . . . ?" Tusk asked.
"Epstein, Judi. Lieutenant. Yeah, come to think of it, I saw where you got yourself married. What a pity. You're not a bad-looking guy yourself."
"I think I'm going to short out," muttered XJ.
"Just find us a goddam Lane, will you?" Tusk ordered below his breath.
"I have it already! And I'd just like to add that the M-13 couldn't have come up with it this fast. On the screen ..."
"Like I was saying," Tusk continued, "me and the wife here thought we'd slip away, grab ourselves some R and R. Things have been kinda tense the last few days. There's a little planet I know of, about two light-years from here—white sand, blue water, green trees . . . orange sky, but then you can't have everything. We thought we'd take a cruise out thataway. Soak up some rays."
"But that's outs
ide the perimeter."
"Sure, yeah, but what the hell difference does it make? You said yourself they're gonna call off this stupid blockade any day now. We just leave an hour or so early, that's all."
"I don't know ..."
"Lock her in, kid," Tusk said grimly.
"Oh, Tusk!" Nola reached out, grabbed hold of his hand. "We can't shoot her! We know her name!"
"I don't like it any better than you, sweetheart, but if we blow this chance, we'll never get another one. Kid?"
"Don't worry," Dion said coolly. "In my sights."
"What about it, Epstein?" Tusk asked, trying to keep his voice light and cheerful. "No one'll ever miss us. When I get back, maybe His Majesty will be over his snit and I'll get him to throw a party."
"And I'm invited?"
"You betcha," Tusk said. He squeezed Nola's hand.
"All right, then. No one's paying any attention to us. Get going, and if you ever decide you're tired of being married, Tusk, give me a call."
"You can count on it!" Tusk said.
Nola slugged him in the arm. "Don't sound so damn enthusiastic."
The enemy spaceplane veered off. Dion relaxed, slumped over the gun. He was surprised to find himself trembling.
Tusk approached the Lane. "Ready to make the Jump, XJ? You strapped in up there, kid? Here we go . . ."
The first time Dion'd made the Jump, he'd blacked out. He was used to it, now. He no longer lost consciousness. He only ended up feeling nauseous and with a splitting headache.
"We made it," announced Tusk. "Everyone breathe easy."
Dion slid down out of the gun turret, landed on the deck of the cockpit. Three of them were a tight fit. He squeezed past Tusk and Nola, made his way slowly up the ladder to the small sleeping quarters, and crawled into one of the hammocks.
"You okay, kid?" Tusk sounded worried.
"Yes, I'm okay."
"You know, Nola . . . I'm gonna kinda miss that planet with the white sand and the blue trees and the green sky ..."
"Orange sky," Nola whispered.
Dion heard a rustling sound, as of two flight suits pressing closely together. He lay in his hammock and stared into the shadows above his head and thought about killing someone whose name you knew and whether or not his hair looked fake and why he hadn't stopped Maigrey from going after Sagan and how much it hurt to be alone.
Always alone.
Chapter Five
. . . we cannot make our sun stand still . . .
Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress
"'Gloria in excelsis Deo.
"'Et in terra pax hominibus bonea voluntatis. Laudamus te. Benedicimus te. Adoramus te.'"
Maigrey sat in the back of the chapel, in the darkness, listening to Derek recite the prayer. The chapel was cold, being unheated, and empty, except for the two of them. Derek avoided the formal Sabbath prayer services, led by a priest of the Order of Adamant and attended by most of the student body and teachers of the Academy. Sagan preferred to pray alone, though the priest—a good, gentle man—often tried to change the boy's mind and draw him into the life of the Church on campus. Sagan politely, coldly refused. Maigrey understood, if no one else did. Derek knew himself to be close to the Creator. It annoyed him to be in company with those who merely mouthed the credo, forgot the responses, and woke up when the service ended.
He prayed, therefore, in solitary aloofness, although he didn't mind Maigrey, on the times she decided to accompany him. She sat in the very back pew, far from where he knelt at the altar. She never spoke, never interrupted. But she listened and it seemed to her as if his prayers carried her nearer a God whom she knew only by reputation, and then only by having heard her father's soldiers take His name in vain.
" 'Glory to God in the highest.
" 'And on earth peace to men of goodwill. We praise Thee. We bless Thee. We adore Thee.' "
Her presence went unnoticed, it was to him like the presence of the wind that stirred against his cheek, the air that was breathed into his lungs. And his presence was to her . . .
"My lady." A hand touched her on the shoulder. "We're near the rendezvous."
Maigrey woke with a start, confused for a moment. She was not in a chapel, but in a spaceplane, yet she still heard the fluid chanting of a long-dead language.
"Thank you, Agis," she said, sitting up.
"Coffee?"
"Yes, please."
Agis brought her a steaming cup of a hot liquid that passed for coffee, but always seemed to taste faintly of hydraulic fluid.
"'Glorificamus te. Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriaum tuam.
"'We glorify Thee. We give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory.'"
Agis glanced at Brother Fideles—Daniel, Maigrey had to remember to think of him now—and shook his head, shrugging. "I'm surprised you could sleep through that."
Maigrey sipped the coffee. "I was so tired . . . and the prayers were like part of my dream ..."
She fell silent, remembering, but the memories hurt, and she shook them off. The present, that's all that mattered. Not the past. Not the future.
"Any sign of a spaceship?" she asked Agis.
"No, my lady. But we're early yet. You have time for a shower and breakfast." -
A hot shower sounded wonderful. Breakfast did not, but she had to eat. A throbbing of her temples and a slight dizzy and disoriented feeling were her body's insistent reminder that she had avoided food the last twenty-four hours.
" Domine Deus, Rex caelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens.
"'O Lord God, heavenly King, God the Father almighty.'"
"Pardon me, my lady," Agis said in an undertone, with a glance at the priest, "but he's not going to do that when we're in action, is he?"
Maigrey hid her smile. "No, Agis. He has, if you remember, served on a ship of war. He was commended for his bravery under fire when Phoenix was attacked by the Corasians."
Agis raised a skeptical eyebrow, and returned to the cockpit. The spaceplane was operating on automatic pilot, flying to coordinates Maigrey had entered before going to sleep. Which had been, she realized, taking off her clothes, eighteen hours ago.
Maigrey had lived and fought in close quarters with men all her life and had learned the trick of undressing without really undressing. She noticed, however, that Daniel, occupying the same cramped quarters as herself, saw her starting to disrobe and brought his prayers to a speedy conclusion.
Rising to his feet, a faint flush on his cheek, the priest hurried forward, to join Agis in the cockpit. Maigrey smiled, shook her head, wrapped herself in a robe, and locked herself in the tiny shower stall.
The thin trickle of hot water, pouring over her face and hair and body, relaxed her. Closing her eyes, she stretched forth a mental hand, reached out to touch Sagan. Her mind touched nothing. Only his life force remained. She imagined herself locked in a pitch-dark room. She could feel, with her hand, the floor, solid beneath her. But the room itself was empty. She groped about, hoping to touch something, anything. . . .
A stinging pain stabbed her consciousness, as if, in the darkness, she pricked her fingers upon a needle. Maigrey snatched her mind back, shocked, frightened.
Abdiel—attempting to reach her through Sagan.
Which meant that he had Sagan, he'd "joined" with him. Maigrey shuddered, almost gave up in despair. She recovered quickly, realized that Abdiel was stumbling about in the same dark room as herself. Sagan wasn't there. He had withdrawn far, far into his innermost being. She imagined what it would be like, trying to delve into that darkness, trying to bring him back. Resolutely, she pushed the thought out of her mind.
The present—remember, Maigrey? she reminded herself. We're a long way from that point yet.
He was alive. That was what counted. She had never been able to define precisely how she knew he was alive, how she'd known for seventeen years of self-imposed exile, hiding from him, that he was alive. It was hearing footsteps not your own walking beside you. It was feeling the b
eat of another's heart in tandem with your own. It was hearing clearly a voice speak when everyone around you was silent.
The soap slipped from her fingers. Maigrey swore softly beneath her breath. In the small shower stalls, one had to be practically a contortionist to pick anything up.
What would it be like, she wondered suddenly, retrieving the soap, to lose that life force within hers? What would it be like for her—alive—if he were dead?
The water flowing over her went suddenly cold. Maigrey shut it off abruptly. Soap stung her eyes, she'd neglected to rinse her face. Fortunately her towel was close at hand. She toweled herself off vigorously, rubbing life back into her skin.
The loneliness, for the one left behind, would be unbearable. Separation might not have been difficult to endure during that early time when Sagan'd first found her again on Oha-Lau, during that time before the mind-link had been truly reestablished. But now, they'd grown closer than ever, bound by chains of darkness, chains of adamant. If the chains were broken, the one left behind, the one left living, would have to carry the weight alone.
"My lady!" Agis rapped on the door. "Ship in sight."
"I'll be right there."
The present. The present.
Maigrey wrapped the towel around her hair, hurriedly put on her robe—after a brief struggle with her arm in the wrong sleeve—then hastened forward to the cockpit. The metal deck was ice-cold beneath bare feet, but, as usual, her boots had disappeared. Probably slid under the pull-down bunk.
Standing on one foot, clutching her robe around her, she stared out the viewscreen at the ship that was creeping toward them through the starlit backdrop of space.
Maigrey took a close look at the ship, then glanced at Agis. She saw his jaw muscles stiffen, his expression remain carefully blank. Good, she thought. He recognizes it. This must be the right one. But best to make certain.
She did not attempt to establish verbal contact with the ship, but sent out a general signal, nothing but a meaningless numerical sequence. Collected, translated using the correct key, the numerical sequence would be transformed into music, a line of music from the opera Rigoletto.
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