"I assure you, sir, the matter was trivial. You do not need to concern yourself. It is my duty to take care of such routine emergencies and keep you free from worry, sir."
Dion wondered just what a "routine emergency" might be but decided not to ask. He felt somewhat intimidated by this cold, impersonal, and authoritative computer and decided he would ask the Warlord to have it reprogrammed. He'd prefer something with more personality, like XJ-27, which brought his mind back to Tusk again.
"What are we waiting for?" Dion demanded irritably.
"The signal to take off, sir. We're one of the last squadrons to leave, sir."
"Well ... is there any way I can find out what's happening?" Dion had the feeling the war was going to end without him ever having been in it.
"Yes, sir. Visual on this monitor. Audio on this channel."
Dion looked and listened, but all he saw was a confusing blob of blips converging, dispersing, appearing, and disappearing. The audio was loud and equally confusing to him, though he supposed it must be making sense to somebody. He asked himself, suddenly, if he should really be going out there. It had all been exciting, like a game, when Lord Sagan took him to this shining new plane. Dion had seen the looks of envy on the faces of the other pilots, the carefully expressionless faces on the men of his squadron. He had exulted in his heady status, but now—listening to the tense, cool voices of men fighting for their very lives, fighting to keep a heinous enemy from their doorstep—Dion felt ashamed, inexperienced, and frightened.
"I don't belong here! This is crazy. Sure, I've flown before, but not as much as I led Sagan to believe. Why didn't I tell him the truth? Or maybe he knew the truth. He seems to know everything. Maybe this is a test. Another one of his goddam tests!"
"Sir, your pulse rate has climbed to an unacceptable level. Blood pressure and body temperature are both rising, sir. If you will look at the EKG monitor on your left—"
"I don't need to look at it! I wouldn't know what it meant, anyway! Damn it, when are we going to get out of here? Can't you cool it off in this cockpit?"
"My readings indicate that the temperature is quite comfortable for those of your species. And I must insist, sir, that you take steps to lower your pulse rate immediately. Otherwise I shall have to declare you unfit for duty."
"All right, all right."
Dion remembered Platus's training in meditation techniques. Leaning back, drawing in a breath, he let it out slowly through pursed lips, drew in another, and tried to send his fear out along with the impure air. That worked, to a certain extent. But what worked even better was the thought of what XJ would be saying right now to this fascist computer. Dion grinned and felt better.
"Tusk understands. It just caught him by surprise, me being a king and all. I guess he never really believed in it. I wish I could have stayed and talked to him back on Vangelis. We'd have worked everything out. But I had my duty to the Warlord. Tusk's a soldier. He understands. I'm sure he understands."
Was it your duty that kept you from visiting Tusk and Link and General Dixter and the others on Defiant? a part of him replied.
"I wanted to, I really did."
That was more true than he knew. Dion was lonely, desperately lonely on board Phoenix. Seeing Tusk had made his loneliness worse. He remembered with longing and regret the fun of being with Tusk and Link; of drinking stale beer in that hot, smelly cafe; of listening to the two try to outdo each other in tales of heroism; of watching them flirt—more or less successfully—with the local women. He remembered warmth, camaraderie, good-natured teasing about his flaming red hair.
"Are you doing it again, sir?"
"Doing what, computer?"
"Talking to yourself, sir?"
"Yes, and if you don't like it, you can short yourself out!"
"My internal security systems prevent me from carrying out that order, sir."
Outlaws. Deserters. A failed, broken-down general. Hardly suitable companions for the heir to the galactic empire. Sagan had never said so in those words, but by talking to Dion about how a prince should be "a fox to discover the snares and a lion to terrify the wolves," the young man understood that he was being raised a lion and the lion always travels alone.
He recalled another passage Sagan had quoted to him: "Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowards, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely. . . ."An ancient writer on statecraft named Machiavelli had said that. Dion found it strange that Platus had never required the boy to read him.
Of course, you couldn't quite call Dixter fickle or false, or term Tusk a coward. Dion wasn't certain, therefore, that he quite accepted such a cynical view. Certainly Platus wouldn't have. But then, Platus had believed in man, not in God. Sagan believed in God. And himself.
Dion sighed. "I don't have faith in God, man, or myself!"
"We have received the signal to take off, sir. Please sit back and relax. I am programmed to handle everything. Is your seat belt properly fastened, sir? We cannot lift off unless your seat belt—"
"It's fastened, damn it! You're handling everything? Just what the hell do I get to do?" Dion shouted.
"Hell? Repeat the command, sir. That is not in my files. Repeat the command, sir."
Chapter Nine
A horrid front of dreadful length and dazzling arms . . .
John Milton, Paradise Lost
"General Dixter! You look terrible, sir, begging the general's pardon. Can I get you something?"
"Thank you, Rian. Bennett and the ship's surgeon between them have taken care of me."
"Nola's right, sir," Tusk added. "You should be in bed. There's nothing much going on now—"
"I'm shot full of stimulus. If I went back to bed I'd float about three meters off of it. I've been to the bridge, spoken to Captain Williams."
"Have you noticed that he smiles all the time?" Tusk demanded of no one in particular.
"He has lovely eyes and very nice teeth, " Nola commented.
"What do his teeth have to do with anything? They're probably not his, anyway."
"Oh, nothing." Nola shrugged and grinned, crinkling the spray of freckles that spattered across her nose. "Except maybe that's why he smiles a lot. To show off his teeth."
"I know where I'd like to see his teeth." Tusk's fist clenched. "Comin' out the other side of his head. Jeez, Nola, why do you always have to—"
"That will do, Tusca," cut in Dixter, wiping his hand across his sweating face. He swayed where he stood. Bennett hurried solicitously to his side, but the general irritably waved his aide away and latched on to a control panel to steady himself. "I'm calling a meeting of all pilots and their crews, now."
"Here, sir?"
"Yes, here," Dixter said, smiling faintly. The knuckles on the hand holding on to the control panel were chalk white. "I doubt seriously if you could pry me loose."
The mercenaries on Defiant had been given access to two flight decks—Charlie and Delta. The decks were adjacent, but when the ship was cleared for action and the blast doors were in place, the decks were cut off from each other, the mercenary force split cleanly in two. Captain Williams had offered Dixter's people the use of berths aboard Defiant—there were extras available, since the usual contingent of fighter pilots had been transferred to other ships of the fleet. The general firmly and politely turned down the offer. He didn't like having his people spread out all over the ship, for one thing. He didn't like the feet that the doors to these berths could be sealed shut at the captain's command, for another. Dixter and his troops bivouacked on the hangar decks, much to the disgust of the Defiant's flight crews.
Dixter had accepted Williams's offer of updated equipment and parts for his planes. The mercenaries either did the repairs and modifications themselves, or in cases where the equipment was unfamiliar, they breathed down the backs of the mechanics installing it. Tusk threw XJ into a state of near meltdown by dropping casual comments on the wonders of the
new on-board computer systems the Warlord had developed and hinted broadly that he was considering having one installed. XJ spent nine-tenths of its time in its remote, prowling its perimeters, keeping a paranoid eye on the mechanics and zapping any who inadvertently came too near.
The humans and aliens of Dixter's Outlaws, as they came to call themselves, spent their time on board Defiant tinkering with their planes, cooking, gambling, squabbling among themselves or with the flight crews, and loving. Nola Rian had signed on as Tusk's gunner.
"You don't think I'm brave enough, do you?" Nola had said, with a toss of the short brown curls, when this subject first came under discussion.
"Of course I do. I've seen you in action, remember? It's just—"
"Then you don't think I can learn to operate the gun. This sophisticated equipment is too complicated for a girl from a backwater planet."
"Come off it, Nola! I could teach you to operate the gun. Nothing to it. It's just that it's going to be dangerous. It's not only the Corasians we're gonna have to watch, it's the Warlord, too. Dixter doesn't trust him. Neither do I. The Starlady warned us—"
"The Starlady? She's wonderful, isn't she, Tusk? So tall and slender and regal-looking, with hair like morning mist. If I were tall and slender would you take me with you?"
"Damn it, Nola, you come up with the weirdest notions. I don't want you tall and slender. I like you short and pudgy. Well, you know what I mean. Why do you do this to me? I don't want you along because I don't want anything to happen to you, you little fool!"
"Well, I feel the same way! I don't want you to go because I don't want anything to happen to you!"
"But it's my job, Nola—"
"And if you hired me, it'd be my job, too. And we'd be together. But, if you don't want me because I'm short and pudgy—"
"I never said that—"
"—other people happen to think differently. Link's already asked if I'd be interested in being his co-pilot."
"His co-pilot! That bastard doesn't have room for a co-pilot. His ego's so big it takes up the whole cockpit!"
Which, of course, settled everything. The only one left to convince had been XJ, who was totally opposed to having a female gunner until Tusk assured him that Nola was working for nothing, after which assurance the computer came up with all kinds of statistics proving that the female of the human species reacted better under stress than the male.
When the enemy was sighted, the alert was sounded, but Defiant was not yet on full alert status. The ship was hanging back, out of the forefront of the battle. There had been considerable activity around the Defiant's hull, work crews swarming over it day and night, seeming to be trying desperately to affect repairs. There was nothing at all wrong with Defiant, but Sagan hoped the Corasians would think there was. Though he didn't expect them to remove the ship from their calculations altogether—the aliens were too intelligent for that old trick—the Warlord did hope that they would at least refigure the equation and come up with the wrong answer.
"As you know, for we've gone over the game plan, we're to sit out the first half," Dixter told his assembled Outlaws. "When the enemy's been knocked around pretty good and they've used up—hopefully—all their substitutes and their time-outs, then we go in."
"I don't like it, sir!" This was Colonel Glicka, the alien with the tentacles who'd been at the meeting. "I think it's a trap. The Warlord's going to leave us cooped up here to be slaughtered like pigs in a barrel."
"Pigs in a barrel?" Link said, nudging Nola, who giggled.
"It's the only way the translator knew how to translate the metaphor," Tusk snapped.
"Metaphor!" Link whistled. "Wow, this boy's been to college."
"Damn it, Link, I'm— Sorry, sir."
Tusk caught Dixter's stern eye and subsided, squatting back down on the desk and contenting himself with glowering at the handsome, grinning Link. Nola shook out her curls, glanced at Tusk from beneath a fringe of dark lashes, and giggled again.
"It's a classic battle plan, people. One used successfully by Philip of Macedon against the Greeks, more recently by Zachis Zelben against the off-worlders in System Qsub046. You hit the enemy with a solid front. They push and suddenly the front's middle begins to give and sag, drawing the enemy in deeper and deeper with a planned retreat. When the enemy's trapped in the center, you bring up your left and right flanks, send in reinforcements. I hope that translated all right? It's like catching a cat in a sack. We're the strings."
He glanced at the alien, who wiggled a tentacle but still looked unhappy. The mercenaries said nothing, but exchanged grim glances. They knew that the cat was, in reality, a tiger and they were trying to catch it in a very small bag.
"Understood? Any questions? Then, dismissed. Go to your planes and await my signal. Tusk, a word." The general motioned. Tusk loped forward.
"I'll take care of Nola," called out the irrepressible Link. "Don't hurry back."
"I'll wait for you, Tusk. Right here," Nola said.
Smiling at Tusk, she deliberately shrugged off Link's encircling arm.
Man, Tusk thought, a guy never knows where he stands. Maybe that was the attraction. After all, I don't really like short, pudgy women. . . .
"Yes, sir?"
The general relinquished his hold on the control panel and, glancing at the Defiant's work crews, who were still busy around the planes, Dixter drew Tusk to one side.
"Tusk, I'll be relaying commands to you and the others from the bridge. Pass the word: Be careful going out and coming back. Got that?"
"Yes, sir. Do you really think he's going to try something, sir? The Warlord gave us a pardon, after all, and, I mean, whatever else Derek Sagan may be, he's known to be just and honorable. He keeps his word. I think we're worried about nothing."
Dixter glanced over the mercenary's shoulder and saw Nola, waiting for Tusk, her face cheerful and smiling. She and Tusk both knew about the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. The other mercenaries, if they didn't know the Adonian weapons dealer by now, knew about the torpedo launcher. They all know that something big was coming down.
"You're right, Tusk," the general said, forcing his aching facial muscles into a smile. He clapped the mercenary on the back. "It's the space sickness. Or maybe it's these stimulants. I'm jumping at my own shadow. But just let's be safe, okay? Don't take orders from anyone but me."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No, go ahead. You've got someone waiting for you."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Tusk grinned, saluted, and hurried off.
Dixter watched the young man rejoin the young woman, saw their arms steal around each other, their heads lean together. He could almost hear Tusk's voice whispering, "The old man sure is jumpy!"
Tusk doesn't know—none of them know—that this is all my fault, Dixter reflected. Why the devil couldn't I have left well enough alone? But, no, I had to go snooping around. Ah, well, the general reminded himself. Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. In Sagan's eyes, we had probably doomed ourselves simply by being on that planet.
"Sir.' It was Bennett, hovering.
"Yes, Bennett?"
"Captain Williams's compliments, sir, and would you come to the "bridge?"
Bennett's tone was approving. Captain Wililams had been extremely respectful and polite. The captain may have been the scion of a corrupt and rotting system of government, he may be hand in glove with the Warlord, which—as Bennett knew—his general considered tantamount to being hand in glove with the powers of darkness, but Captain Williams, at least, knew how to talk to a general.
"Bennett, did you ever notice that Captain Williams smiles a lot?" General Dixter asked, wending his way through the corridors of Conquest.
"Captain Williams has exceptionally fine teeth, sir."
So does a shark, John Dixter thought.
Lord Sagan watched, from his white, spearheaded fighter, squadron after squadron lift in deadly grace from Phoenix and the other two ships of the line. Each fight
er shot out in perfect formation, with the exception of one in the last squadron— Blue Squadron. The Warlord saw Dion's plane operating smoothly: he would have been vastly surprised otherwise. He had programmed the computer to do everything, including making certain the boy's nose was wiped.
It was another plane in the squadron that was behaving oddly—number six. When leaving the flight deck, it had gone into a forward roll, nearly crashing against Phoenix's hull! The pilot's skillful handling had saved the plane, but Sagan was inserting a note into his computer to put that pilot on report. He stared at the Scimitar closely. There was definitely something odd about that plane! Something . . . familiar.
"My lord," came the communication. "All squadrons away. Red Squadron and Green have both engaged the enemy."
The Warlord shifted his attention to the battle being fought before his eyes. Other citizen generals would have remained on Phoenix, observing the battle on a gigantic lighted computer screen, seeing the planes as small blips, and issuing orders accordingly. Lord Sagan had tried such a command post once, after President Robes had assured him that a citizen general was far too valuable to his galaxy to risk losing him in battle. Sagan had ended by putting his fist through the screen and ordering his fighter.
If he had been Philip of Macedon, he would have been sitting on his horse atop a high ridge, watching the heave and surge of bodies below. As it was, his fighter was positioned high in space, his escorts hanging motionless at his side, watching the small sparks—the divine sparks, as Maigrey would have said—flare and flicker or flare and burst and die.
The dance, from his sealed-off and closed-up vantage point, was performed in eerie silence.
Would it make a difference, Sagan wondered briefly, if we heard the screams of the dying? Would wars end if we had to listen? He supposed not. Philip had certainly heard enough screams during his lifetime as a conqueror. And at the end, he'd heard his own.
Sagan shook his head. The Warlord's philosophic musings were cut short. The Corasian mothership was in sight.
The huge, black, ugly, missile-shaped vessel floated ponderously into view, visible only in that she was a blot against the stars. Corasians have no need for lights. They don't have eyes, can't see, and do not waste energy lighting a ship. The Corasians operated strictly by computer signal, computer command. It had been the computer which gave the aliens the means to conquer the stars.
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