The red light on his panel flashed its warning that the enemy had him in their sights. He was caught. It was maddening, frustrating that all his grand designs and plans should end in such ignominy. He feinted, dove, twisted. The enemy clung to him like evil hornets. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had chosen his own fate. Wellington's officers, protesting their general's refusal to seek safety during the battle of Waterloo, had pleaded with him.
"Sir, what are your orders for us if you are killed?"
"Follow my example," was the general's answer.
Follow my example.
Gritting his teeth, bracing himself for the blast that would reduce his body to specks of blood and fragments of charred bone and burned flesh, Sagan fired at the Corasians in front of him and commended his soul to God.
A powerful explosion rocked his ship. The Corasian blew apart in a blinding flash, but that alone couldn't account for the jolt he'd just taken. And Sagan's plane wasn't, according to his instruments readings, hit. He knocked out the second enemy diving down for its attack, and was preparing to turn his attention to the two behind him when he realized, looking at his screen, that there weren't two blips behind him. There was only one, and it, according to the data, was a friend.
Sort of.
My lord, came the voice in his mind.
Sagan blinked away a trickle of sweat running into his eyes.
My lady.
Blue Squadron was so far from the fighting that they could barely see what was going on. They heard, from the reports, that their planes were sustaining heavy casualties and it was difficult to tell if the current retreat was the one that had been planned or if it was truly a rout.
Squadron Leader spent his time filing a detailed report on the insane behavior of pilot number six. The others in the squadron maintained a grim, tense silence, knowing well why they were there, who was the cause of it, and resenting him bitterly.
Dion, meaHwhile, toyed with the computer.
"Sir, I think you should know that I am aware of what you are attempting to do and I consider it my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time and mine. There is no possible way that you can get rid of me, sir. Nor do you really want to, sir, for if I go, then all functions of this spaceplane will cease to operate."
"Now, that's not quite true, computer," Dion said softly, continuing to work. "You see, you told me that you were a new modification, only been added a few days ago. I've come to the conclusion that you're like a virus that's been injected into the system. I think it's possible that I can remove you and the plane's original computer will be around to take over after you're gone. Hey, what are you doing?"
"I've sent a distress signal, sir, to Squadron Leader. Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you are obviously unhinged."
"Blue Four!" It was Squadron Leader, sounding angry and exasperated. "Now what's your problem?"
"I wish to report that—" the computer began.
Dion depressed a key, sat back, and waited.
"That . . ." The computer blinked frantically, trying to save itself. "Unfit—" it whispered, and died.
Everything went dark for a split second, but before Dion had time to panic or to consider that he might have made a terrifying error, all systems switched back on.
"Blue Four, what the hell—"
"Everything back to normal, sir," the computer reported, but Dion thought he noticed a subtle difference in the tone of the mechanical voice.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Your computer, sir."
There was no doubt about it. Dion could hear it. Respect! Programmed, perhaps, but respect!
"Blue Four, respond! That's an order!'
"You'll obey my commands, computer?" Dion intended to make certain.
"That is my primary function, sir," the computer said, sounding slightly puzzled. "I trust I've given you no cause to doubt—"
"No! None! None at all," Dion hastened to reassure it. "Uh, this is Blue Four reporting, Squadron Leader. An electrical malfunction, but it's been repaired."
"What's happened to your computer, Blue Four? It's supposed to be responding."
"Knocked it right out, sir. But, as I said, it's all been repaired—"
"Blue Four! I'm ordering you to report back to Phoenix—"
"Computer, shut off the transmission."
"Shutting off, sir."
"Now"—Dion took the controls—"let's go find some action!"
"Blue Four? Name of a name!" Squadron Leader swore savagely. "Has everybody in this squadron lost their fuckin' minds?"
"Blue Two to Squadron Leader. What's going on, sir? I just saw the kid head out—"
"The damn kid's shut down his computer and he's going off the devil knows where."
"Should we go after him, sir?"
"Hell, yes, we go after him! You heard the Warlord's orders. And you better hope," Squadron Leader muttered beneath his breath, his plane soaring to catch Dion's, "that if anything happens to that kid it happens to us first."
Chapter Eleven
I could not love thee, Dear, so much . . .
Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"
You owe me one, my lord.
I have no time for games, my lady.
I'm not playing games, my lord. I'm in deadly earnest, and if you think about it, you'll understand why.
The Scimitar and the spearheaded plane of the Warlord's spiraled upward, both noting that other enemy planes, having been alerted to the danger, were being called back from the front lines to deal with an annoyance in the rear.
Maigrey held her breath. Sagan's thoughts were dark and jagged-edged. He was facing defeat. The action he contemplated was risky, desperate; it would probably mean his death, an empty sacrifice. He would be robbed, even of his glory. Derek Sagan, defeated by the Corasians, a loser. History never deals kindly with losers.
"What are your orders . . . Commander?" Maigrey requested out loud.
His pain, his fear, his anger ... his regret touched her. Long ago, when they had been close, very close, his pain had been her pain, her joy had been his joy. A tear slid down her cheek. Following the path of the scar, it seeped into the corner of her mouth.
"Just keep out of my way, lady. And stop sniveling!" His voice thundered in her headset.
Maigrey could see the target on her own computer screen, but she could see it more clearly in his mind. And how the devil did he expect her to blow her nose beneath her helmet? "Don't be a fool, Sagan. You can't take it alone. Let me go ahead of you and knock out the gun emplacements."
The Corasians were zooming in; Sagan was turning, preparing to make his run at the target.
"Go ahead . . . Gold Two."
Another tear, her eyes swam. Their old squadron, two of them left, was making its final run. The last flight of the Guardians. And no one would ever know. This was foolish, undisciplined. Swallowing her tears, indulging in one more sniff (she could almost hear him grit his teeth), Maigrey dove down on the enemy.
A Corasian fighter appeared on her left, visible both on her screen and out of the corner of her eye. She paid no attention to it, trusting to her partner. A briefly seen flash confirmed her faith.
"We're even, lady."
This was an old game of the squadron's. It had become a joke; they owed their lives to each other countless times over. And then one day the joke hadn't been funny.
Maigrey was beneath the bell (or on top of it, considering that there was neither up nor down out here). The enemy's guns had her in their sights and were swiveling around to bear.
"Beginning my run."
"I'm with you, my lady."
His voice was soft, hypnotic in her ears or in her mind or in both; she heard it yet she didn't hear it. A strange and awesome sensation crept over her. She was herself and she was him. He was himself and he was her. They were one and they were two—all barriers down, souls, minds flowing together. Light meeting darkness, creating a third force with a nature both terr
ible and beautiful.
It was her skill that flew the plane, his keen eye that found the target, his hand that fired, her hand that guided. Shells burst around her, but she was invincible. Nothing could harm her. She had the target in her sights but it seemed to her dazzled mind that the gun emplacements dissolved and vanished before the energy bolts from her guns ever struck it.
Swiftly she pulled out, away from the enemy. Sagan was right behind her, and she was with him, guiding his plane, waiting breathlessly until the precise moment to strike.
Two Corasians were diving down on Sagan. Maigrey couldn't consciously remember firing, but they blew apart, both of them, and it was as if they had done so at her express command. Sagan had seen them but paid no attention to them. It was not that he had confidence in his partner: he no longer had a partner. They were an entity. He continued his run, drawing closer and closer, and Maigrey wanted to scream from the tension, but she only breathed, "Now!" and he fired, or perhaps not.
Sagan's plane was blown backward by the force of the explosion that tore the hatch from the brain. The concussive blast nearly caused him to lose consciousness, but Maigrey was there to strengthen his limp hands and infuse her mind into his. He came to himself, regained control, and the two sped away. A second explosion—much larger than the first—tore the heart out of the brain.
Corasian fighters swarmed around them, but it was suddenly a swarm that had lost all guidance. Some of the enemy ground to a halt—waiting, perhaps, for instructions that would never come. Others continued the attack but with a mindless fanaticism that made them easy targets. Others appeared to have no idea where they were or why they were here and drifted about aimlessly. The solid fist had opened, and there was a chance, now, that Sagan and his forces could cut off the wriggling fingers.
But the Guardians had hit only one arm of the multi-limbed monster. The battle continued to rage; the planned retreat was going well. Rather too well.
Sagan needed to see, to think. He soared far out beyond the battle lines, Maigrey following him. Those few Corasians chasing them gave up and turned back, seeking other, slower, easier prey.
Maigrey said nothing. Absorbed completely in planning his new strategy, Sagan appeared to have forgotten her existence. She was just as glad. The strange and awful sensation, that "enhancement" or whatever it had been, was fading, draining from her like blood from a severed artery. She was suddenly shaking and exhausted and chilled to the bone. She couldn't breathe and nearly yanked off the smothering helmet.
"Aks! Did you see that?"
"We saw the explosion, my lord. And we're receiving the data you transmitted now. Congratulations, my—"
"Belay that nonsense! I'm shifting strategy. Stop the retreat! Strengthen the front lines, throw everything we've got at the enemy. Keep them busy, Aks!"
"Yes, my lord."
"Alert the reserves, including the mercenaries. Send them after the brain. I'm coming in."
"Yes, my lord."
The Warlord broke off the transmission. He glanced out his viewscreen at the Scimitar hovering at his wingtip, and his eyes narrowed.
"My lord." Maigrey's voice was calm and sounded strange, unrecognizable, even to her. "Final count: you owe me two. When you return to Phoenix, you will find one of your Honor Guards, a man named Marcus, has been placed under arrest and is awaiting execution for disobeying your orders. He's a good soldier. I ask that you set him free with a full and complete pardon."
"So that's how you managed to escape. I know this Marcus. He is, as you say, a good soldier and one I would hate to lose. Very well, my lady, I grant your request. And the other life I owe you?"
"My own. Let me go, Sagan. You've got the boy. I can't matter to you now."
"And where will you go, Lady Maigrey?"
"Back there. To the fighting. They need me. I'm a good pilot." There was no life in her voice, in her thoughts. There was, it seemed, no life left in her.
"Don't be a fool, my lady. Your plane's taken damage; you wouldn't last ten minutes." He paused, probing her mind. "But that's what you want, isn't it? You're afraid, my lady. You're scared. That was just a taste of what we could accomplish together, you and I! Of the power we could control! Just a taste. And you liked it, didn't you, my lady? You want more!"
She didn't respond. Everything was so still between them it seemed he could hear her breathe, hear the beating of her heart.
"This debt I owe you, Lady Maigrey, is like the genie's last wish. You shouldn't squander it."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"I mean, my lady, that there are other lives in your keeping—lives besides your own. Lives that, perhaps, mean more to you than your own. And now, my lady, I have no time left to waste on you."
The Warlord's white, spearheaded plane sailed swift and true for Phoenix. He left her behind. The choice was hers.
Maigrey, after a moment's bitter struggle, cursed God and followed him.
Dion found the action. And it wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.
He was surrounded. There were so many of the enemy, coming at him from so many different directions, that he couldn't count them. He fired and fired until his hands ached from the physical strain of operating the guns. He stared at the target screen, trying desperately to align the blips in the little box as he'd been taught, but his eyes burned from fatigue, the box wobbled and seemed to expand and elongate in his blurred vision. The blips were in and out too fast. He couldn't react quickly enough. The ship took hit after hit and shivered and shook around him.
"Number four shield can't hold, sir," the computer reported in its stupid, mindless calm. "Number two is down. I'm effecting repairs—"
"Don't bother," Dion said through lips that had gone numb. He couldn't move his mouth, he couldn't move his hands, and he understood now the terrible meaning of the term "scared stiff."
He was going to die, horribly, awfully. Blown apart out here in the cold void.
"You got yourself into one hell of a mess, kid!"
Squadron Leader's exasperated voice rang in Dion's ears and he nearly wept in relief.
The enemy blips on his screen were joined by other blips, friendly blips, and the enemy blips began to disappear. Dion's courage returned, now that he wasn't alone. He began to return the fire.
"This is Blue Two. Enemy coming in, Squadron Leader."
"I see them. There's too many. Pull ba—"
The scream tore through Dion's head, seeming to rip out his brains—the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a man dying in slow agony. It was mercifully ended, cut short by a shattering explosion, but the screaming went on and on.
It was Dion. He was screaming and he couldn't make himself stop. Blue Two was saying something, yelling something, but it made no sense, and then Blue Two was gone. Debris slammed into Dion's ship, and he was rolling over and over, spiraling through the blackness.
Take the helm, sir," the computer commanded.
Dion had quit screaming; he had no voice left. His throat was raw. He tasted blood in his mouth. But the silent scream went on inside him. He stared at the panel in front of him, at the wildly flashing red alarm lights, at the stars outside the viewscreen that were revolving madly, and he was stable and it was the world beyond that was spinning out of control.
"Take the helm—"
"I can't," Dion whispered. His hands fell limply in his lap. He stared out the viewport. Nothing made sense. He had no idea what any of these myriad dials were telling him. The flashing lights were painful to his eyes and he squinched the lids tightly shut. "I don't know how."
"Shall I take over, then, sir?"
"Yes."
The word was inaudible. Shivering, Dion curled up in the pilot's chair, his knees to his chin, his arms dangling between his legs. He couldn't breathe for dry, heaving sobs.
The computer took command of the plane, brought it back under control. But it had no idea where to go.
Four Corasians, spotting it, had a place for it.
"And that's it," General Dixter said, speaking from the bridge of Defiant, talking to his people in the hangar bays through a two-way vid hookup. "Our orders have been changed. We go after these 'brains,' as the Warlord calls them. You've seen the diagrams. You know how and where to hit them. I won't ask for questions because I couldn't answer them. You know as much as I do."
The mercenaries were silent, an ominous silence. Then. Link, stirring, voiced their opinion. "I don't like it, sir. It's a suicide run."
There were murmurs of assent.
"Each of you is an independent operator." Captain Williams cut in, appearing on the screen. "You are free to leave."
The contrast between the two generals was marked. Dixter's uniform was rumpled as usual. Tusk wondered how the general managed it. Uniforms that Bennett had pressed until the creases were so sharp they were practically lethal wilted the moment John Dixter put them on. He never buttoned the collar and would have neglected to put on his stars and medals (wom unofficially), but that Bennett insisted. By contrast, Captain Williams's black, red-trimmed uniform was immaculate, not a thread out of place. He stood stiff and rigid as if he expected the Warlord to call an inspection any moment. And the captain wasn't, Tusk noted, smiling.
"None of you mercenaries has to be here," Williams stated. "You can leave now—"
"—like the cowardly scum we are. Right, Captain?" Tusk demanded.
"The Warlord has conferred upon you a compliment. He has given you this assignment because you're—"
"—expendable," Link shouted.
Captain Williams regarded them with cold, grave contempt. "Our men are the ones currently expending their lives while you sit here safely on your—"
"That will do, people." Dixter came back on the screen, his face was flushed red. His people could hear the anger and embarrassment in his voice. The mercenaries exchanged covert glances, looking and feeling like small children who had been rude to a great-aunt. Most appeared ashamed; a few, however, remained sullen.
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