The room went all blurry. Tusk blinked his eyes.
"Shut the door," he said, voice harsh.
"Not too long," the guard responded. Then he added, "It sure as hell looks like him."
"Yeah, well, it would, wouldn't it?" Tusk snapped.
He hit the controls himself, left the guard to figure that one out.
Dim light from stars and one of Vallombrosa's moons lit his way. Dion's hair, in the starlight, was the dark crimson of fresh blood. Tusk stood beside the bed. His mouth was dry. He wondered suddenly what the hell he was going to say.
Reaching out his hand, he started to shake Dion's shoulder.
"Yes, Tusk. What is it?"
"You're awake," Tusk said inanely.
Dion sighed, sat up, shook his hair out of his face. "1 heard you come in. I was dozing, I guess. I wasn't sure if it was you or part of a dream I was having. What is it? What do you want?"
When he'd first spoken, Dion had sounded like his old self. Like nothing had happened between them. But now, with the questions, his voice was cold, suspicious. The blue eyes glinted, white starlight reflecting off diamond-hard edges.
"I don't have much time." Tusk was having trouble breathing. "Look, kid, I got to tell you—"
The door whipped open. Light flared. Half-blinded, Tusk slid around, his hand going instinctively for his lasgun seconds before he recalled that he wasn't wearing it and that reaching for it would look all wrong. He shifted the move to bring his hand to his eyes, squinting and peering.
"What the—"
"Is that the Usurper?" the guard asked. He didn't sound sarcastic. Coming up behind him were six more guards. All had beam rifles. Three were pointed at Dion. Three were pointed at Tusk.
"Yeah, it's him," Tusk answered. He started to edge his way out the door. "Guess I'll be heading back to make my report—"
"Don't move," said the guard. To Dion. "Get dressed."
"Why?" Dion asked calmly.
"Prince Starfire wants to see you. Be quick about it."
"Do you mind if I have some privacy?" Dion asked coldly.
The guard considered it, then shook his head. "You"—he ordered Tusk—"out."
"Not until I hear from Lord Sagan," Tusk said. Leaning against a bulkhead, he crossed his arms over his chest, made it clear he wasn't moving.
The guard wasn't likely to shoot one of Sagan's henchmen, at least not without orders from someone higher up. The guard shut the door, left Tusk and Dion alone.
Dion dressed with exemplary care. Tusk, attempting to look put upon and disgruntled, wondered morosely how Dion had managed to keep the black uniform clean and pressed. He even added the purple sash, the lion's-head pin, and other royal accoutrements that had been, previous to this, stored away in a borrowed box.
He knows, Tusk realized suddenly. He knows.
Dion moved over to Tusk. Hand on his arm, he put his mouth to Tusk's ear. "The room is bugged. What were you going to tell me?"
"Good-bye," Tusk said quietly.
Chapter Five
Surely some revelation is at hand . . .
William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"
"Why have you brought him?" Flaim demanded of the guards, staring at Tusk. "I didn't send for this man."
The captain looked to Garth Pantha.
"I did, Your Highness," Pantha said quietly. "He obtained entry to your cousin's room, saying something to the effect that Lord Sagan was fearful your cousin had escaped. The guard on duty let him in, but reported the matter to his superior, who reported it to me, shortly after I arrived back on board. I didn't like the sound of it. I believe we should hear his story."
"Very good, Captain. That will be all." Flaim waited until the guards had gone, then looked at Tusk intently. "Lord Sagan thought my cousin had escaped?"
"Yeah. I mean, yes, Your Highness," Tusk stammered.
The mercenary would have given his Scimitar, with his right arm thrown in for good measure, to know if Cynthia had talked, maybe told Pantha. Tusk had to keep shoveling, however, even if what he was pitching turned out to be dirt from his own grave.
"You know how Lord Sagan gets," Tusk continued. "Well, maybe you don't. Paranoid's a good word for it. Comes up with these wild ideas. Dreams em, he says. He had a dream that he saw the kid, that is the king, here—or rather the Usurper— walk smack through a locked door. Now, he figures that, being Blood Royal, the kid, that is the king, I mean the Usurper, just might be able to—"
"That will do," Flaim interrupted coolly. "I will ask Lord Sagan when he arrives what he 'figured.' "
"You've sent for him?" Pantha asked. "I thought you said he'd left the ship to place the fleet on alert status."
"He should be back by now. Captain Zorn has gone to locate him."
Cynthia, huh? Tusk thought. So she was here, talking to His Highness. Well, that's torn it.
Tusk waited for the prince to have him arrested, hauled off', put in irons, but Flaim turned away, no longer interested. He had his own worries, apparently. The prince's face was grim. Whatever was going on, he wasn't happy about it. Neither was Garth Pantha. The elderly man sat hunched in a chair. He looked worn out, almost ill.
And Sagan's not gonna be any too thrilled to hear that I was caught talking to Dion, Tusk said to himself gloomily. And just what the hell has Sagan been doing all this time anyway? When is this signal of his going to come—not that I can do much about it when it does. And what is the goddamn signal?
Then Tusk remembered the bloodlink attached to his wrist. Lifting his left hand, he wiped his sweating face slowly.
"If you're counting on me seizing control of this goddam ship, you're in for a major surprise," he said softly into the small round metal disk implanted in his flesh. "A major, major surprise. I must have failed. Cynthia must have talked. Yeah, we're all in for a surprise. A bizillion-megaton surprise—"
Flaim was looking over at him.
Tusk coughed loudly, ceased talking. He'd said all he needed to say anyway. And speaking of a bizillion megatons, there it was. Sitting on a glass-topped table, like a goddam crystal knickknack.
The space-rotation bomb.
The last time Tusk had seen it, he and Dion had been transporting it for safekeeping to Bear Olefsky's planet. Tusk stared at the bomb. His mouth, his entire body seemed to go dry. Had Dion seen it? Tusk shifted his gaze to the king.
Dion was standing at the steelglass viewscreen, staring out at Vallombrosa. How often had Tusk watched Dion stand like that—hands clasped behind his back, eyes on distant stars, communing with who? Himself, his reflection—a pale ghost in the steelglass—or a God he had only just come to know? How could he be so calm? He must have seen the damn bomb. He had walked right past it.
Tusk was suddenly tempted to pick up the crystal cube and hurl it with all his strength into the wall. A stupid move. He wouldn't accomplish anything—the impact wouldn't hurt the bomb in the least—and before he could get his hands on it he'd likely be dead.
Flaim was armed with his bloodsword. Garth Pantha sat in the chair opposite and though the old man didn't look too good—sort of gray and shriveled—he could probably still handle that lasgun he was wearing. Not to mention guards posted outside who could be within shooting range in three seconds flat.
"But at least I'd be doing something," Tusk muttered, "Other than standing here, waiting to be blown back to my original components."
The skin around the bloodlink itched. He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep them from doing something stupid, like scratching at the metal disk, drawing attention to it.
And then it popped into his head to ask brightly, "Say, Prince, old chap, how much time have we got left?" Tusk was alarmed to feel the words in his throat, knew he was going to blurt them out. He gave another hacking cough, which startled everyone in the room.
"Got anything to drink?" he croaked.
Flaim cast him a disgusted look, motioned to a well-stocked bar in a corner.
Tusk walked over
, grabbed a glass, shoved it under a spigot, and hit the first dispenser button he came to. Colorless liquid poured into the glass, probably vodka. Tusk wasn't choosy at this point. He picked it up, brought it to his lips.
After all, what the hell did it matter? Might as well go out with a bang. Tusk stared at himself in the metal reflection of the drink dispenser. His hand started to shake. He slammed the glass down, sloshing vodka over his fingers. Dumping out the liquor, he filled the glass with water, then discovered he couldn't drink it.
The double doors opened, Cynthia entered. She glanced at Tusk, glanced swiftly away again.
"Where the devil is Lord Sagan?" Flaim demanded impatiently.
"He has not returned yet, Your Highness. He's been to the other ships. He left Flare about an hour ago. The fleet is on full alert. I can only assume Lord Sagan is en route back here. He has not responded to any of my attempts to contact him."
"Odd," Flaim said, frowning.
"Possibly not, Your Highness," Cynthia replied. "The spaceplane Lord Sagan took has had trouble in the past with its two-way communication."
"We do not need him, my prince," Pantha said. He motioned the prince to come near him. He and Flaim spoke together, keeping their voices down.
Cynthia remained standing at attention, but her eyes shifted to Tusk. She didn't flush with guilt or look smug. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she hadn't given him away.
Tusk looked pointedly—very pointedly—at the space-rotation bomb sitting on the glass-topped table. Cynthia followed his gaze. Would she know what it was? The damn thing looked so innocuous....
Acting bored, Tusk sauntered over to the table. "Say, this is pretty fancy. What is it?" He reached out his hand.
"Don't touch that!" Pantha's hoarse shout startled even Tusk, who had been expecting it.
He snatched his hand back. "Sure. No problem. I'll just go fix myself another drink. Anyone else want one?"
Pantha didn't bother to answer. He turned back to Flaim, but Tusk noticed that the old man moved his position to keep an eye on the bomb.
Tusk strolled over to the bar. He had shown Cynthia—or rather Pantha had shown her—that the crystal cube was something special, something extremely valuable. Hopefully, Cynthia would add the cube and Pantha's reaction together and come up with the right answer.
He couldn't tell, by her expression, if he'd accomplished anything other than draw attention to himself. Tusk poured himself a bourbon, and this time he drank it.
"We will give Lord Sagan fifteen more minutes," Flaim told Pantha at last. "Then we will proceed. Captain Zorn, return to the flight deck, await my lord there. On his arrival, bring him here immediately."
"Yes, Your Highness." Bowing, Cynthia left the prince's presence. She did not so much as glance in Tusk's direction again.
Dion spoke, though he didn't turn around. "I take it that the dark-matter creatures have refused to cooperate?"
"Pantha was finally able to communicate with them," Flaim replied. "They have determined that we 'aliens' are a threat to their existence. It seems that they discovered—we have no idea how—Pantha's plans to build more space-rotation bombs. The creatures will destroy all humanity first before they permit such a thing."
"And so you will destroy them."
"No, cousin," said Flaim, with a smile, "you will destroy them."
"Unfortunately destroying myself at the same time."
"A terrible tragedy. One which the galaxy will mourn, even as they proclaim you a hero. I have sent for Lord Sagan to arm the bomb, set the detonation code. I thought you would like to witness that small ceremony before I lock the bomb up in that vault and leave. At least the knowledge that you are ridding the universe of these murderous creatures should provide you with some comfort in your final moments. What is it now, Pantha?" Flaim sounded irritated.
The old man was staring, frowning, at the bomb.
"I still find it strange that the creatures are not around here, keeping an eye on it, so to speak."
"How do you know they're not around?" Flaim asked. "They refused to answer your first communications, even when you tried them from Vallombrosa."
"The ship's sensor readings would indicate their presence. Nothing." Pantha shook his head. "Absolutely nothing."
"Perhaps they don't know what the bomb is. You didn't tell them when you sent them for it—"
"They know," Pantha said grimly. "They knew the first bomb they took was a fake, though they brought it back anyway. They sense the power."
"Even though it's not armed?"
"The power is still there. Arming the bomb accelerates it, moves it higher on the scale. I don't like this. I wonder what they're up to. .. ."
Flaim suddenly sucked in a breath. His face went white, the blood draining from it all at once, as if a vein in his throat had been cut.
The prince hurled himself at Dion. Grabbing hold of him, Flaim spun him around, flung him back against the steelglass.
The two stared at each other, a duel waging between them not the less deadly because it was fought in silence, without weapons.
"Pantha," Flaim commanded, hands clenched to fists, "arm the bomb."
"Now, Your Highness?" Pantha was staring at the prince in shock. "But Lord Sagan—"
"Damn Lord Sagan!" Flaim cried. Foam flecked his lips. "You fool, don't you understand? Arm the bomb!"
An expression of horror contorted the old man's face.
"My God!" he whispered.
He grabbed hold of the crystal cube with its glittering gold pyramid. Yanking the starjewel from around his neck, breaking the chain that held it, Pantha attempted to fit the jewel into the bomb.
His palsied hands trembled; he could not make the jewel fit. Flaim swore savagely. Pantha managed, by dint of sheer force of will, to control his shaking long enough to thrust the starjewel into the bomb. He punched in the code, stared at it— grim, intent. And then he hurled the bomb to the floor.
Tusk's heart stopped. Blue-yellow flame burst before his eyes and he thought for a horrifying instant that the bomb had gone off. When he could see again, he realized that it was his overheated brain that had gone nova, not the bomb. It was lying on the floor at the old man's feet.
Now that he could think semirationally, Tusk remembered that the bomb couldn't explode just on impact. He stared at the crystal cube. Suddenly, at last, he was beginning to understand.
"You are right, my prince," Pantha said, disbelief and anger cracking his voice, "this bomb is harmless. This bomb is the fake."
Chapter Six
Oh, God of battles, steel my soldiers' hearts . . .
William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV Scene i
The bomb's a fake. The damn thing's a fake! We're not in any danger of being blown up. We never were. This is the signal. Tusk latched onto the first large chunk of coherent thought that bobbed past.
This is the signal!
Now is when I'm supposed to take over the ship!
He almost laughed out loud.
"I think we know why Lord Sagan has not yet returned," Flaim remarked.
"He switched bombs," said Pantha blankly.
"It "had to be him, of course."
"He switched bombs!" Pantha repeated, as if he still couldn't believe it.
"I should have destroyed the fake! I thought it might prove useful . . . when we developed bombs of our own. I never supposed, never imagined . . ."
"The disruption in the electrical system . . ." Pantha continued the bitter litany. "And the fact that the dark-matter creatures were not here, on board ship. I wondered . . ." His fist clenched. "But I should have known!" He looked up, dazed. "And how did you know, Flaim?"
"My gentle cousin!" Flaim was staring at Dion. "I saw this in his mind, the day we fought that stupid duel. He had faith, you see. I couldn't believe it. I laughed at it. You simpleton, I told him. After everything Sagan's done to you . . . and still you trust him.
"Have you considered that your trust may be misplaced, cousin
? It is just possible that Derek Sagan has betrayed us both. Used us to recover what he lost."
Dion made no response.
Flaim turned from him with a curse. Dion took advantage of the moment to cast a swift, questioning glance at Tusk: What is Sagan's plan?
Tusk poured himself another drink. I wish the hell I knew—
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around. Flaim stood in front of him, practically toe-to-toe.
"What do you know about this?" Flaim demanded coldly. "What is Sagan's plan?"
"Damn it, you two are just plain weird!" Tusk looked from one cousin to the other. "How the hell should I know what his plan is?"
He grinned, shrugged. Now that the worst was over, he felt unbelievably calm. "Let's face it, Your Highness, if you were Derek Sagan, would you tell me your plans?"
"He does have a point," Pantha observed dryly.
"He does." Flaim regarded Tusk grimly. "But I don't believe him. However, we will soon discover the truth." He activated the commlink, but before he could say a word, a voice came over.
"Your Highness! I must speak to you. I have news about Lord Sagan."
"Cynthia!" Tusk whispered. Maybe there was hope, after all.
"Enter!" Flaim commanded.
She came in, a beam rifle in her hand. Her expression was grim, tense. She didn't even look at Tusk. He swallowed his hope, poured himself another.
"Your Highness! The fleet has made the Jump! They've all gone into hyperspace! Lord Sagan's orders. Was this by your . . ." Cynthia had been about to say command but the prince's look of astonishment, kindling to white-hot fury, answered her question.
"The queen's ship?" Flaim could barely speak coherently.
"Yes, Your Highness." Cynthia swallowed, licked her lips. "And it was apparently given instructions to change course—"
"Damn1" Flaim exploded. It seemed for a minute as though the blast of his rage might tear him apart, but he managed to contain the damage, pick up the pieces. He rounded on Dion. "You have very little reason to smile, cousin. A minor setback that will soon be put right."
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