Dion was on his feet, following the soldier dashing from the van. The boy slammed into the GHQ office right behind the man, nearly taking the door from its hinges. Bennett's eyebrows jumped up into his hairline with such force it was a wonder they didn't scalp him.
"The general—" the soldier said.
Bennett nodded, motioned to the office, and fixed Dion with a stern gaze. Dixter, hearing the commotion, came out, nearly colliding with the soldier coming in.
"Sir, radar's picked up what looks like a squadron of bombers closing in—"
"Nukes?"
"No, sir. Nothing that sophisticated. Looks like a bunch of the old garbage scow model, sir."
"That figures. They'll dump whatever they've got on us. Well, this means we're getting our hands slapped. I take it the TRUC mission was successful, then?"
"Yes, that was my next report. There was one casualty—"
"Casualty?" Dion stepped forward.
Bennett was packing up the portable computers and obviously preparing for a hasty departure. But he managed to clear his throat and frown at the interruption, pausing in his work as if expecting to be asked to toss the young man out on his ear.
"Captain Myrna—"
Dion heaved a sigh and missed the rest of the report. Dixter issued several orders that made little sense to the boy, who didn't understand what was going on. Bennett was shutting down systems and unplugging plugs and packing things away with an efficiency which indicated this was all routine procedure. The soldier left and Dixter turned to enter his office, then seemed to remember and looked over at Dion with a smile that was kind but preoccupied.
"Tusk's all right. They made it through safely and hooked up with the Warlord's tankers."
At that moment, what sounded like the throaty howl of some wild animal rose in pitch to the wail of the three Furies. The awful sound made the hair stand up on Dion's arms.
"Air raid alert," Dixter said, by way of explanation. The man's eyes, fixed on the boy, narrowed. "What the hell do I do with you? Bennett?"
"Almost finished here, sir. Your office—"
"Yes, yes. I'll take care of it. We've got time. We spotted them early."
"Please, sir, what's happening?" Dion broke in.
The siren's wail was unnerving and yet oddly exhilarating. The ground began to shake and he saw out the window some of the spaceplanes powering up and heading for the takeoff zone.
"Bombing run. A damned nuisance, that's all. We'll have the planes off the ground, but itU tear hell out of the tarmac. Have to find a new location. Bennett—"
"I have one, sir. Do you want—"
"No, go out there to the van and relay it to commlink." Dixter moved toward his office. "Come with me, boy, while I get ready to roll—"
"Bombs." Tusk's plane. XJ. But all Dion said aloud was, "Bombs."
Dixter entered his office. "You can ride with us. It's a little bumpy—the shocks in this damn thing need overhauling but there never seems to be time. I—"
He glanced around behind him. The kid was gone.
Dixter charged out of his office to find Bennett, returning from relaying the air base's new location to the communication's van, backed up against the doorjamb. From his indignant expression, it seemed the aide had been nearly run down.
"Dion?" the general demanded.
Bennett pointed.
"Damn!" Dixter exploded, realizing where the boy was going and what he was planning to do. He headed for the door only to find his aide standing respectfully but firmly in his path.
"Get out of my way."
"Excuse me, sir, but were you going to attend to the breaking down in your office or shall I? We have less than fifteen minutes, sir."
"That damn kid—"
"Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but it would be physically impossible, without stimulants, for someone your age to catch up with someone his age. I'll just go take care of your office—"
"You know damn well I can't stand anyone pawing through my papers. Don't look so smug. I'm not going to forget that crack about my age. Where's my driver?"
"Warming up the engines, now, sir."
"Use the cab's link. See if you can establish communication with that spaceplane before the kid tries to take off. If you can raise him, tell him to let the fools pound it into dust. We'll get Tusk a different one. This'll work out better anyhow, the Warlord will lose him."
"Yes, sir." Bennett was out the door.
Dixter entered his office, shut his computer down, and began to pack up everything that wouldnt survive rattling around in a trailer lurching over the desert at high speeds. The roaring of spacecraft blasting off was deafening, even this distance from the launch zone. The ground shook and several maps slid from their places on the walls. Dixter glanced out the window. Through the blowing dust and drifting smoke, he could see what looked like red hair streaming in the wind— flame burning in the desert.
"What the devil's that quote?" Dixter said aloud. '"The Lord went before them by night in a' what—pillar of salt? No. Pillar of five. 'To lead them.' What put that into my mind? Blasted kid's going to get himself killed. Tusk'll never forgive me. I said I'd take care of him. Why didn't I go after him? That's the quote:
"'. . . and by night in a pillar of fire.'"
Dixter finished his work. Straightening, he looked back out the window. The boy was gone.
"And that's why," he said to the patch of vivid burning color he could see in his mind, "I guess, kid, I really don't think you're destined to be pounded to pulp by some third-rate oligarch. I almost wish you were. I think it a be easier—on all of us."
Coughing, blinking in the stinging dust raised by the blasting force of the spaceplanes, Dion ran half-blindly through the smoke, searching for someone to give him a lift. He found a hoverjeep filled with pilots in the same predicament as himself. It was already starting to move by the time he reached it. Shouting for them to wait was out—he couldn't hear himself think, let alone talk. He hurled himself forward and landed on the jeep's back end with a thud that knocked the wind out of his body. One of the passengers grabbed hold of him, hanging on to him just as the jeep roared into life and hurtled through the air.
There was nowhere to sit; Dion clung to the flat back of the jeep, the woman'd who'd caught him keeping hold of his arms so that he didn't fly off. The wild ride ended before he quite knew what was happening. The woman let go of him before the jeep stopped. Dion slid off the back, landed face-first in the dust. He was up and running without giving himself time to find out if he was hurt. The siren wailed and sobbed; the sound was in his blood, surging through his body.
He scaled the outer ladder to the spaceplane, fumbled with the hatch, and nearly fell in head over heels when XJ opened it for him. Slithering down the ladder, he bounded through the living quarters, jumped down to the bridge, and threw himself into the pilot's seat.
"Prepare for takeoff," he managed to gasp. Breathing was like a sharp knife being driven into his side.
The lights blinked; life-support made a kind of coughing sound.
"My circuits shorted out," XJ snapped. "I thought you said prepare for takeoff."
"Don't you hear that . . . damn siren!"
"You're hyperventilating. Stick your head in a paper sack and take a deep breath. It's just another scramble. Happens two, three times a day—"
"It isn't . . . either! Bombers—"
"Bombers! Real ones? C'mon, kid. I'll get in my remote. You carry me, that way I can shut down. We'll head for those rocks—"
A round remote unit, bristling with electronic eyes and wiggly little arms that had been perched near the edge of the instrument panel suddenly came to life and landed with a plop in Dion's lap.
"No!" Lifting up the remote, Dion glared into what he assumed was its camera lenses and shook it. "We're going to take off, save Tusk's plane. Either that, or we sit here and get bombed."
Which wasn't a bad idea. Dion grabbed the bottle of jump-juice. Tilting it to his li
ps, he took a swig and gasped as the foul-tasting stuff burned down his throat. It seemed to help his breathing—once he could breathe-—and the pain in his side went away.
The remote unit flashed eratically and emitted a series of loud, static-laced sounds that were, however, perfectly understandable. Tusk would have been impressed.
"I'm going to tell him you said that." Dion grinned shakily and took another drink. This stuff wasn't bad, once you got used to it. Tucking the bottle under one arm, he went to work. The remote whirred viciously to itself for another second, then hopped back to its perch. The computer's blank face came back to life, lights flashed on the control panel, and he heard the clanging sound of the hatch sealing shut.
"They're coming in," XJ said. "I've got 'em on my screen."
Dion jammed a helmet on his head, strapped himself in, and tried to remember what to push and what to flick in what order. His hands had quit shaking, but the tips of his fingers had gone numb.
There was a jarring thud and the ground seemed to lift up around them. Dion stared at the instrument readings. "What did I do? I didn't do anything—"
"It was a bomb, you idiot!" XJ was practically howling. "Ignore it. Just get us the hell outta here! Push that one and there, no, to the left. That one! Damn Mendaharin Tusca to the Correlian gasworks. Noooo! Yes, yes! That's it! And—"
The spaceplane's engines rumbled. Tremendous forces flattened the boy back in his seat. The jump-juice surged up from his stomach and into his mouth and he completely missed his first takeoff because he was leaning over the arm of the chair, heaving up his guts.
The bombers saw the spaceplane fly up right in front of them but they let it go past. Once a plane was off the ground, it was beyond their reach. They had their orders and those orders didn't come from the government, as Dixter had assumed.
Up in the heavens, far above the planet's surface, a hunter waited to see what prey his dogs flushed out of the brush.
Chapter Eighteen
So pale, so cold, so fair.
"St. James Infirmary Blues"
Maigrey had no idea how much time had passed since she had been taken aboard the Phoenix. Prisoners lose a sense of time, even when they are able to experience day and night— one runs into the next and a day is as long as a month, a month as short as a day. Maigrey's days were routinely, interminably, endlessly the same. She was allowed to walk about the ship, but not allowed to speak to anyone, not even the centurions who guarded her.
It is easy to be courageous during brief and terrifying moments of crisis. The body leaps with a surge of adrenaline, the mind dances with brilliance. When the danger is over, you are a hero and can't say how or why. But to face danger day after day; to keep up your courage hour after tedious hour; to sleep with fear and wake up with fear; to live in constant doubt, both of the future and of yourself, drains the body and the soul.
Maigrey obeyed the commandment for silence not out of defiance, as the Warlord supposed, but out of despair. The trumpet sounded the end of each day and began the next and every time Maigrey heard the notes she thought, "Tomorrow he will ask me about the boy. Today he will ask me about the boy." But Sagan never did. He didn't speak to her at all, never came near her. But he was aware of her, as she was aware of him. A haunting fear took ghostly form and stalked her.
What does he want from me, if not the boy? she wondered. Could it be I've mistaken him, misjudged him, misread him? Fatal. Fatal.
Maigrey attempted to exorcise the ghosts by turning to old friends, long-lost friends—books. She had been without books during the entire time of her exile. Old favorites were rediscovered and enjoyed as much as or more than when she'd read them years ago. How, she wondered, could she have ever deserted Mr. Micawber?
There were new works to be read, although she didn't much care for the modern authors who had surfaced after the second Dark Ages. They seemed to think that if they didn't reduce a reader to a state of hopeless depression they hadn't written a novel. This led her to wonder what the Warlord had been reading. It might give her a clue to his plans. Despair had not reduced her to inaction, and an hour spent at her computer enabled her to access the ship's library file.
She and Sagan did not share a similar taste in novels—he considered them, with few exceptions, frivolous—she was interested to note he had been rereading Plato's Republic and Machiavelli's The Prince, an odd combination and one she found disquieting. Several recent historical texts and commentaries brought her up to date on the current galactic political situation, plus she found a fascinating technical text written by the Warlord himself describing his development of the long-and short-range Scimitars. When Maigrey had completed that one, she had no doubt that she could fly the planes with ease.
Music was her best source of consolation. She had dreamed music in her exile, waking to find melodies running through her head, trapped in silence. Now she could fill her life with music. Always alone, with her music the prisoner found she could bear loneliness.
What Maigrey could not bear was a reawakened love—a love she thought she had conquered but which she realized had always been and would always be a part of her. Her love of spaceflight.
Spaceflight was a lover whose charm was in his mystery, his excitement, his danger—a lover who cared nothing for the one who loved him. His beauty could pierce the heart, his cold could freeze the blood. He drew you to him, made you his own, then killed without pity, without mercy.
Aboard Phoenix was a small lounge located on a deck in a part of the ship set aside for the use of visiting diplomats or planetary governors or members of Congress on some of their "fact-finding" missions. Sagan had little use for diplomats, less use for planetary governors, and no use at all for junketing Congressmen. This portion of the ship was therefore rarely used, off-limits to all nonauthorized personnel. Maigrey had wandered into it during one of her restless roamings and had discovered that the view from the vast steelglass windows was breathtaking.
Her guards, of course, reported. "My lord, should she be allowed here?"
Sagan, after some thought, gave his permission. Maigrey returned to the lounge often to watch the spectacular panorama of the ships of the fleet traversing space, their tiny, bright, twinkling man-made lights dwarfed and made humble by the black void through which they sailed.
"This fleet could have been yours," Maigrey said to herself—the only person to whom she was allowed to talk. "This galaxy could be yours! You have the power, the strength, the will to make it yours!"
The specter appeared before her suddenly and now she could put a name to it.
It was herself. It stretched out its bony hand and in it was a crown.
Maigrey quit going to the diplomat's lounge.
"My lord, we are within communication's range of the planet Vangelis."
"We are not close enough that they can detect our presence?"
"No, my lord," Captain Nada replied. "Not with this planet's limited technological capabilities. Vangelis is a "C" rating, my lord." ["A" is the highest—a planet whose people have developed intergalactic travel. Class "B"—interstellar travel, relatively close to home. Class "C"—interplanetary travel within one's own solar system, and so on down to "X," which had been the classification of what was now the penal colony of Oha-Lau.]
"Thank you, Captain Nada. Send for the Lady Maigrey."
"Yes, my lord. And where will the prisoner be brought?"
"Here, Nada. To the bridge."
Captain Nada's lips pursed, the folds of his pudgy cheeks sucked inward. He was displeased. Prisoners, especially royalists, had no business upon the bridge of a Republic warship. Not that Nada believed seriously for one moment that they were in any danger from this middle-aged woman. It was the principle of the thing. The captain had no choice—now—but to carry out his orders. He would, however, put this in his report.
Nada descended from the navigation bridge to communications below. "Have Citizen Morianna brought to the bridge."
The captain r
efused to refer to her by that abhorrent title of a nobility that was dead and gone. It was bad enough, being forced to "my lord" this and "my lord" that. The words sometimes stuck in his craw. Every time he said them, they left a bad taste in his mouth. A message was handed to him. Reading it, Nada returned to the bridge.
"We just received this communication, my lord. The Scimitar has been sighted."
"Where?"
"Vangelis, my lord. It is with mercenary forces under the command of one"—Nada was forced to refer to some hastily scrawled notes "—John Dixter, a so-called general in the employ of the rebel Marek. As you suggested, my lord, the government ordered bombing runs made on all mercenary spaceplane squadrons currently operating in the area. The Scimitar left the planet's surface and was sighted by an employee of a private concern. We were unable to get the name."
"That's not important." Sagan knew the name—the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. The oligarchs were not the only ones on Vangelis to have received orders from the Warlord. "Was the sighting confirmed?"
"Yes, my lord. A fighter was sent to verify. It did so and tracked the spaceplane back to its new landing site. The fighter maintained its distance, as you commanded, my lord, and did nothing to arouse Tusca's suspicions."
"You hope it did nothing. My commendations, Captain."
Characteristically, Sagan made no mention of the fact that he had been the one to put his dogs on the correct trail. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away.
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