"What did she say?" Sagan asked abruptly.
Kamil hadn't meant to mention that. She flushed and stammered, embarrassed. "You—you're going to think I'm crazy. She wasn't real. How could she be real? I haven't slept in nights. And sleep deprivation causes hallucinations. They're very. ..."
He took a step toward her. "You saw her?"
"I ... I thought I did."
Kamil was too frightened to try to argue further. He was so intense, rigid; his eyes seized her, wrung her soul.
"What did she say?" He laid distinct emphasis on each word, as if he forged each out of steel, linked them together in an iron chain.
Her throat and mouth were dry. She swallowed again. The expression on his face, the look in his eyes were terrifying.
"She said, Love is the one part of us death cannot kill.' "
He closed his eyes and sighed. The sigh was deep and anguished, drawn up from some dark part of his being.
Kamil caught a glimpse of it on his face—savage and hopeless. Shuddering, appalled, she lowered her head, unable to look at him, his pain too intense for her to bear.
Only when she heard him moving purposefully about the cabin did she dare look again. He had gone into an adjoining room. The door slid shut behind him. Kamil waited, nervous, apprehensive. That look of his, that terrible look, like one past hope Suppose she'd been wrong; Maigrey had been wrong. Suppose he'd sent Tusk off to certain death. . . .
The Warlord returned. He was clad in a flight suit.
"Put your helmet back on," he ordered, lifting it and handing it to her.
She tried to, but her hands were shaking. She fumbled with the strap. He watched her impassively, made no move to assist.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
"Leave," he said.
"Leave the ship?" She stared, aghast "Leave Dion here to die! No! I won't come! I won't let you—"
"You have a choice, young woman," he interrupted, the chill in his voice effectively silencing her. "Either come with me now or I will kill you now. I dare not let you remain behind. Left on your own, you have the power to do too much mischief." He laid heavy, ironic emphasis on the words "on your own."
Kamil was in no doubt that he meant what he said. And although she was prepared to give her life for Dion, she wasn't quite ready to do so now.
"I'll go," she answered meekly.
"Keep silent. Follow my lead. Don't question anything I say or do." He handed her back the lasgun. "You know how to shoot that, I presume?"
Kamil stared at it, stared up at him. "Yes, my lord." Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
He nodded. "Switch it off stun. From now on, if you have to shoot, you will have to kill."
She did so. She could kill him now. He was unarmed. He had turned away from her; his hand was on the door control. Kamil raised the gun.
But she couldn't fire.
She had heard stories about the charismatic power of the Blood Royal. How they could subvert, charm, persuade. Did he hold her in thrall by some form of genetically engineered enchantment? Or perhaps it was just common sense, telling her that she was lost if she killed him now. Perhaps it was an unseen hand, laid on her own.
Perhaps it was die voice, soft, like music.
Kamil thrust the gun in the holster.
Sagan opened the door, propelled her out, one strong hand firm on her shoulder. The guards snapped to attention.
"The money will be transferred to your account," Sagan was saying. "If you take my advice, Lieutenant, you will not lend him any more. Tusca is an irresponsible drunkard, but he does have his uses. You are due to go on duty shortly, you said. There is a small service you can render me. I have a prisoner to transfer.
"The name is Olefsky, Maigrey Kamil. ..."
Chapter Four
Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny Shall here inhabit . . .
William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act IV, Scene i
"How do I get myself into these messes?" Tusk asked of no one in particular. "I was born under an unlucky star, as mother used to say. She was right. A goddam eight-pointed star."
He found and disposed of the inconvenient guard, who was still unconscious in Kamil's quarters. Tusk hoisted the man to his feet, dragged him out of the room and through the ship, expressing loudly what he thought about guys who couldn't hold their jump-juice.
The guard—restunned—was now taking a long nap in Tusk's shower stall.
Tusk continued commiserating with himself. "This whole damn end of the galaxy's about to blow sky high and I'm doing Mutiny on the Bounty. If I was smart, I'd say the hell with this, the hell with all of em, and fly my black ass off this floating time bomb."
The thought appealed to him and he toyed with it.
"Sagan says Dion won't go along with it," Tusk remarked to the door of the lift taking him to the officer's quarters. "Well, Kamil's got a point. One good clunk over the head would stop the arguing real quick. As for warships? What's a few dozen warships? Hell, the kid and I took on the whole Corasian galaxy."
Tusk luxuriated in this scheme for the few seconds it took the lift to whisk him upward.
What the hell? It passed the time.
He located Cynthia's room. She was out, but an electronic message flashing across the memo screen above the hand scanner advised all interested parties that Captain Zorn could be found in the officer's club.
Tusk had pumped himself up to make his presentation. Now he sighed like a deflated balloon. He'd have to delay their talk until he pried Cynthia out of the bar, steered her somewhere private. Fortunately, he knew how to manage that. He just hoped Nola would understand.
Arriving at the club, which looked like every other officer's club on board a naval vessel, Tusk peered around until he finally spotted Cynthia's blond head. She was sitting at a booth in the back of the club, practically hidden in a shadowy corner. Perrin and Dhure were with her.
"Figures!" Tusk muttered gloomily. "I suppose the prince himself'll come waltzin' in here next."
The three were deep in conversation, leaning over the table, their heads together. The music was loud, thumping through the metal deck.
Tusk was strongly tempted to take a detour to the bar for a quick one to help his nerves. He'd been trying to ignore the fact that his hands had started shaking the moment he'd walked off the lift. He glanced at the time.
No time. He continued heading for the table. Whatever it was these three were discussing, it must be serious. None of them heard him approach, or even noticed him until he was standing right in front of them.
"Hullo," he said.
He might have tossed a grenade into their midst. Cynthia jerked up, her startled face white against the dark leather of the high-backed booth. Perrin upset his glass, spilled his scotch. Only Dhure retained his accustomed calm. He nodded at Tusk.
"What can I do for you, Tusca?"
"Could I buy you all a drink?" He sat down, though no one had asked him to or particularly appeared to want him.
Cynthia and Perrin exchanged glances, and Tusk was suddenly struck by one of those flashes of insight that flares like lightning from the murky clouds of the subconscious. He had no idea what they'd been discussing, but he knew instinctively there was trouble and trouble might play into his hands if he was careful . . . very careful.
He took a seat next to Cynthia, gave his order to Dhure, who slid his card into the drink dispenser, punched in a rum and cola (a drink Tusk couldn't stand; he wouldn't be tempted to overindulge;. Dhure handed the drink over. Tusk drank a gulp, kept control of his facial muscles to avoid grimacing.
"So, what's up?" he asked, playing nervously with his glass. "You guys look kinda off center."
All three exchanged glances this time. Then Cynthia said cautiously, "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" Tusk countered, taking another gulp that went down the wrong pipe.
They waited until he had finished half-strangling himself then Cynthia—after still another round of glance
s with her cohorts—shrugged. "You might as well know, I suppose. It'll be all over the ship by morning."
"Maybe and maybe not," Tusk said, beneath his breath, taking care that they all heard him.
Cynthia raised an eyebrow.
Tusk shook his head. "I'll tell you later. You first."
"You've heard already, then. About Bidaldi?"
Tusk stared "Bidaldi? No, what's Bidaldi got to do with anything?"
"It's been attacked," said Perrin, and for the first time since Tusk had met him, good old Don wasn't smiling. Tusk considered it a distinct improvement. "Pretty near wiped out, from the reports we've heard."
"Attacked?" Tusk was truly astounded. "Who attacked it? Not Corasians. The Bidaldi system's in the center of the galaxy—"
"The Ghost Legion," said Dhure.
Tusk blinked. "I get it. We went to war and nobody bothered to tell me."
"Not us," Cynthia said, lowering her voice, casting a cautious look over her shoulder. "The real Ghost Legion. The dark-matter creatures."
"Is the prince out of his goddam mind?"
"Keep your voice down," Dhure advised.
"His Highness didn't have anything to do with it!" Cynthia flared. 'The creatures acted on their own. He's as upset about it as anyone."
"Yeah. I'll bet he is," Tusk said. He lifted the drink, but his hand began to shake, so he was forced to set it back down- He was really putting himself into the part.
"Don't you dare—" Cynthia began angrily, but Dhure flashed her a look, and she subsided.
"What's wrong, Tusca?" Dhure asked with that maddening calm. "You look like you've heard some bad news yourself. Obviously not about Bidaldi."
"Naw, though it all fits now. All makes sense." Tusk twirled the glass around and around in the puddle of condensation that had collected beneath it. "I got to tell someone." He lifted his eyes, met theirs. "Though it could get me in a hell of a lot of trouble"
He laughed, a cracked laugh that he cut off quickly. "Yeah, as if I could be in more trouble. Or any of us could." He was silent a moment, considering, decided just to plunge ahead. "You got any idea what mission this ship's on?"
"We're going to stop a Corasian attack," began Dhure, apparently having elected himself spokesman.
"I mean the real mission," Tusk said.
Everyone looked at everyone else again. Then they all looked at Tusk.
Tusk mopped his forehead with his sleeve. "You've heard of the space-rotation bomb?"
They all nodded.
"Did you know it's aboard?"
Nobody said anything.
"Yeah," he went on, with another nervous laugh, "it's on board all right. And tomorrow morning, sometime around breakfast, it's going to go off."
The silence was so intense Tusk could have sworn he heard the ice in his drink melt. "Makes sense, when you stop to think about it. Takes care of the dark-matter creatures. And the king. And those of us who know the truth about Bidaldi."
"Usurper," Cynthia corrected automatically. "I don't believe it," she said flatly.
"How did you hear this, Tusca?" Dhure asked coolly. "Lord Sagan tell you?"
Tusk snorted. "Sagan wouldn't tell me the password to get into hell. Not that I'm likely to need it. I figure I'm a shoo-in. I'm his flunky. About to be his ex-flunky. Let's just say"—the mercenary slid the glass back and forth over the table—"that I overheard something I shouldn't have."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Me?" Tusk raised his head. "I'm gettin' the hell out of here. I was on my way to my plane, in fact, when I thought . . . Well, you guys have treated me okay. So I figured I'd give you the tip-off. And now"—Tusk breathed a sigh—"I'm outta here. Adios. It's been fun."
He stood up.
"You're not going anywhere, Tusca." Perrin said quietly.
Tusk put his hand on the lasgun. "Don't try stopping me—" "Not me. The order just went out. All planes are grounded. No one leaves without His Highness's permission."
Tusk sat back down. "That does it, then. The tomb's sealed. What's the reason?"
"Security. With the Usurper on board. Lord Sagan's orders."
That bastard! Tusk thought. So this is how much he trusts me. Or maybe this is all part of the scheme. This is how he gets to be king. Double-crosses all of us.
Tusk's hand went nervously to the tiny device he wore embedded in his left wrist. A "bloodlink," Sagan had termed it, a communications device that drew its energy from Tusk's own body. He was, after all, half Blood Royal. The device was crude, but then—as Sagan had put it—so was Tusk.
I could ask. . . . Tusk was tempted. I could find out . . . not that he'd tell me. And what would I gain? I'm still trapped on this mother death ship!
"You can't be right," Cynthia said suddenly, startling Tusk. He wondered for a minute how she'd known what he was thinking about. But she was puzzling out her own loyalties, it seemed. "Flaim Starfire gave those orders. He's on board this ship himself. He wouldn't blow himself up!"
"You bet he won't," Tusk growled. "He'll be on the first plane off this crate. That's the plan. You watch. This is how'll it'll play. First, the fleet'll get orders to hit hyperspace. Then His Highness'll leave, catch the last ship out. And we're left behind on our lonesome, with that damn bomb ticking our lives away."
Tusk saw them exchange glances again. His gaze fixed morosely on his glass of watery rum and cola. He had them on the hook. All he had to do was reel them in. But sometimes that was the toughest part.
"I got an idea," he said.
Again, silence. Again, the eyes.
"The king—I mean the .. . uh ... Usurper—knows how to disarm the bomb. When His Highness and the fleet are gone, we free Dion, let him disarm it. And we take over the ship."
"But that would be mutiny," Cynthia protested. "We'd be traitors."
"If the bomb is set to go off like Tusk says," Dhure pointed out "then we're the ones who've been betrayed."
Cynthia's face hardened.
Tusk had the feeling it was time to leave, let them flop and wriggle on the hook for a while. If he stayed longer—in his "unnerved" state—it might start to look phony. Besides, suddenly he wanted very much to be out of that room. The bar was starting to seem extremely small.
"Where are you going?" Perrin asked as Tusk stood up.
"Beats me," Tusk said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe back to my plane. Maybe wait till morning, try to make a break for it. If you guys aren't in this with me ..."
He looked around. Cynthia was defiant. Perrin wouldn't meet his eyes. Dhure only shook his head, but whether he meant no, he wasn't in this, or yes, he was, but he had to convince the other two, Tusk couldn't decide.
Figuring he'd done all he could—and far more than he'd expected—he said "Be seein ya" and left.
He kept walking until he was far enough away from the lounge that none of the three were likely to find him. He had no clear idea where he was going, though he knew well enough where he wasn't—his quarters or his spaceplane. If the three decided against him, turned him in as a traitor, those would be the first places the guards would search.
Rounding a corner, Tusk looked up and stiffened. Two guards stood at the end of the corridor in front of a sealed door.
"So that's what you had in mind," he said, meaning himself.
Dion's prison cell.
The guards hadn't noticed him yet. Tusk ducked down an adjacent corridor, flattened himself against the bulkheads. Did Dion know what was going on? Had he any idea? Had Sagan told him?
"No," Tusk answered that question quickly enough. "Of course not." He looked at his watch—0300 hours. He didn't have much time.
Dion should know. He had a right to know. He needed to be prepared. Surely it couldn't make any difference now. Flaim probably wasn't going to be wanting to try out his bloodsword technique any time soon.
"And besides," Tusk said somberly, admitting the real reason, "if anything does go wrong, I don't want him to die thinkin he's alone."
/>
Emerging from the corridor, he strode rapidly down the hall toward the king's cell.
The guards knew Tusk by sight from the alcazar. One, in fact, had assisted the mercenary back to his room the night he'd been "drunk."
Tusk grinned, to show they were all friends.
"You sober tonight?" the guard asked.
"Yeah. I'm on duty." Tusk grimaced; then he looked at them expectantly. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You're supposed to let me inside there."
"Sorry, friend. Orders are: No visitors."
Tusk shook his head, swore. "Now, goddam it. Talk about inefficient. . . . They were supposed to let you guys know. Lord Sagan sent me. Word is that the Usurper's escaped."
One of the guards laughed. The other shook his head. "Hell, I think you are drunk. Unless he's turned himself invisible and can walk through a nullgrav steel door, he's still in that room where I left him an hour ago. Safely tucked in bed."
"He's Blood Royal," Tusk returned grimly. "In case you've forgotten. Those goddamn genetic wonders can do tricky things." He relaxed, once more on their side. "Look, I believe you, but Lord Sagan's got this idea in his head and I won't have any peace myself tonight unless I can go back and tell his lordship that, yeah, I saw the king—I mean the Usurper—and he's sleepin' like a babe.
"What'll it hurt? You open the door, let me walk in, have a few words with him to make sure it is him. You'll have me locked in there."
He pointed to the commlink. "Lord Sagan's order'll be comin' over in a minute." Tusk paused, frowned. "Or maybe you're questioning his lordship's—"
"No, no," said the guard, looking tense. "Like you said, you'll be locked in there. I guess it couldn't do any harm. Give me your lasgun, though."
Tusk unbuckled it, handed it over. To do otherwise would seem suspicious. He even submitted to being scanned and hand searched. Not finding any other weapons, the guards passed him through, unlocking the door by a series of complicated code commands they took care Tusk couldn't see.
The room was dark. Dion was lying in bed, eyes closed. Light from the corridor illuminated his face and Tusk had a sudden memory of the first night Dion had spent aboard the Scimitar. Tusk remembered seeing him lying in the hammock in exactly the same position. One arm over his forehead, the flaming red-gold hair spilling out from beneath it. His breath-ing was deep and even. He was sleeping soundly, without worry, without fear. It seemed a shame to wake him.
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