Authors: Margaret Weis
Ceremony
complete, both men relaxed.
"Is there
anything I can do for you, Agis?"
"No, thank
you, Cato. My affairs are in order. Serve His Majesty well."
"Of
course." Cato hesitated. "The men will understand—"
"Then I
trust they will keep their damn mouths shut," Agis said,
grinning. He reached out his hand.
"They
will." Cato took his comrade's hand, pressed it warmly. "Good
luck, sir. My respects to his lordship."
"Good luck
to you . . . Captain."
"Thank you,
sir," said Cato softly. Saluting a final time, he left.
The door sealed
shut, and Agis began preparing for his journey.
"Brother,
wake up." Maigrey shook the young man gently by the shoulder.
Fideles blinked,
sat up, looked around in confusion. Seeing Maigrey standing by the
bed, he flushed, and hastened to scramble off the couch and to his
feet.
Maigrey pointed
to a pile of clothes, draped over a chair. "You can't go with us
dressed in monk's robes. Have you ever worn body armor before?"
Fideles's face
flushed with pleasure.
"No, my
lady," he answered.
"It fits
skintight. It's hard to put on, if you haven't got the knack. If you
need help—"
"Thank you,
my lady." Fideles's face went crimson, he stared at the floor.
"But that won't be necessary. I'm sure I can manage."
"Very well.
There's time for a shower, if you want. Dry off thoroughly, then
cover your body with talcum powder. The armor will slide on easier.
You can change your clothes behind the screen."
The young man's
flush deepened.
"Thank you,
my lady," he said. Taking the clothes and the body armor, he
tucked them under his arm and disappeared into the head.
Maigrey smiled
when he couldn't see her, but her smile ended in a sigh. She sighed
again when the young priest emerged from behind the screen.
He had
apparently succeeded, after a struggle, in putting on the armor, for
he walked as stiffly and looked as uncomfortable as a man in a body
cast. That didn't worry Maigrey. With wear, the priest would soon get
used to the strange, tight, squirmy feel of it. But . . .
"God help
us," said Maigrey, eyeing the young man in exasperation.
"I'm sorry,
my lady," said Fideles, glancing down at himself.
In an effort to
disguise the priest, make him look like an outlaw, Tusk had rummaged
out a pair of faded, dark-colored blue jeans, an old, ragged
sweatshirt, a leather flight jacket, and a pair of combat boots.
Brother Fideles, with his slim body, frank and open face, and long
blond hair that fell over his shoulders in gentle waving curls,
looked exactly like a priest trying to disguise himself as an outlaw.
"Tie your
hair back. That will help some. And for heaven's sake, don't blush
and stare at your shoes every time a woman talks to you!"
"I'm sorry,
my lady." Fideles's face grew redder than before. "I—I've
never been around many women."
"No, I
don't suppose you have," said Maigrey, biting her lip, not
knowing whether to laugh or cry. "Well, just do the best you
can. Maybe, like the body armor, you'll get used to us eventually."
"But are we
going to be meeting many women, my lady? I thought—"
"You
thought we were going to sail into the Corasian galaxy without a care
in the universe, trusting in God to protect us?"
"Well, not
exactly—"
"We
wouldn't get as far as the outer perimeter. We have to have a reason
for being there, Brother. A reason for them not to blast us out of
the stars ... or worse. We have to, therefore, fit in with the humans
who travel there."
"Do humans
travel there?" Fideles asked, eyes glancing up at her in
astonishment, immediately lowering again.
"Oh, yes.
The Corasians are quite fond of humans, human flesh particularly."
Maigrey said
nothing more. Let him think about that one. She turned away, busied
herself with packing items in a duffel bag. She had changed her
clothes, was dressed all in black, black leather pants, tucked into
high black boots; a black, high-collared, long-sleeved tunic, belted
around her waist. Occasionally when she moved, there came from
beneath the black the flash of shining silver armor. She wore the
blood-sword, attached to its scabbard, on her right hip.
"Brother
Fideles," Maigrey said suddenly, straightening, facing the
priest, "do you know what kind of people go into Corasia? Scum.
The stuff that sinks to the bottom of the pot, the dregs of human and
alien life. Do you know
why
they go there? Two reasons: One,
they have nowhere else to go, which means that they've done things
that have put them outside the laws of man and God. Two, they want
money so badly that they're willing to do anything to obtain it.
"Those are
the kind of people who get into Corasia safely, the kind who do
business there. And that's the land, Brother Fideles, we're going to
be . . . only worse."
"I
understand," said Fideles, eyes lowered. "God will be with
us."
"No, He
won't!"
Crossing the
deck, Maigrey caught hold of the collar of the young man's shirt,
gave it an expert twist, and jerked his head up so that he was forced
to stare directly into her face. "Where we are going, God left
long ago, if He was ever there at all, which I doubt. You don't
believe me, now, but you will, Brother. You will."
If Fideles so
much as blanched, twitched, if his eyelids flickered, Maigrey had
decided to leave him—sign from God or no sign from God. She
would turn him over to the Honor Guard, have them lock him in the
brig, where he could pray to his heart's content. But he met her gaze
calmly, listened to her calmly, his face serious, expression firm and
resolved.
"I may be a
priest, my lady, but that doesn't mean that I am weak or a coward.
I'm used to hardship. I've seen pain and suffering. I've proved my
mettle in battle, under fire. I proved my mettle to my lord. You can
rely on me, my lady. And if I choose to bring God along," he
added with a quiet smile, "I'll see to it that He doesn't get in
your way."
"Very good,
Fideles." Releasing her hold on him, Maigrey smoothed the
wrinkles from his shirt. "You even looked at me when you spoke.
There may be hope for you yet. Now, just try to stop shaking every
time I touch you, and we'll get along fine."
"Yes, my
lady." Fideles swallowed. Sweat trickled down his forehead.
Maigrey turned
back to resume her packing. "We need another name for you. I
don't suppose they called you 'Fideles' below decks?"
"No, my
lady. I was known as Daniel."
"Well,
Daniel, you're headed for the lions' den. Yes, Captain," she
said in answer to a call over the commlink. "Enter."
The double doors
slid open, Agis walked inside. The doors slid shut, sealed. Maigrey
yanked the ties of the duffel bag closed. She did not look up.
"Is the man
I requested here, Captain?"
"He's here,
my lady."
Maigrey raised
her eyes, saw Agis standing alone before her. He saluted, fist over
his heart.
"I hope he
will suit, my lady."
"He has
suited me in the past," Maigrey said gravely. She noticed that
though he wore his armor, he had removed his harness and the crested
helm. "Agis meet Daniel. He will also be accompanying us."
The two men
looked at each other, examined each other, nodded. If the centurion
was surprised or disturbed at this choice of companion, Maigrey was
pleased to see that he kept his doubts to himself.
"Now,
gentlemen, here is the scenario. I am Lady Maigrey, an outlaw with a
price on my head, willing to do anything to escape being brought to
justice, on my way to join forces with the notorious Lord Sagan. You,
Agis, are a former centurion who has forsaken your sworn duties and
come with me, I suppose, because you are desperately in love with
me."
"Yes, my
lady." Agis grinned.
"And you,
Daniel?" Maigrey paused. "What about you?"
"I'm a
renegade priest of the Order of Adamant, who broke my vows and fled
the brotherhood to escape punishment. Because I've been initiated
into their secrets, the Order's punishment would be severe,"
said Daniel cheerfully. "I'm sure they'd kill me."
"I'm sure
they would," Maigrey said dryly. She lifted the duffel bag.
"I'll carry
that, my lady." Agis took the bag from her, slung it over his
shoulder. "Where to?"
"My lord's
spaceplane," said Maigrey, drawing a deep breath. "We're
going to make ourselves truly outlaws. We're going to run the
blockade."
0400. The
changing of the watch. An unshaven and bleary-eyed Admiral Aks—an
unusual sight on the bridge at this hour—paced back and forth
on the captain's walk, a slender bridge that spanned a gigantic
viewscreen, opening onto the panorama of stars glittering in the vast
deep.
Captain Williams
stood rigid, motionless at the far end of the walk. The captain was
often on the bridge at the changing of the watch, particularly when
the ship was under full alert. But alert status had been downgraded,
since it was now common knowledge that Lord Sagan was not to be found
on
Phoenix.
His Majesty, the king, had actually opened up
friendly negotiations with the Galactic forces.
An ensign,
receiving a communication, looked startled, reported, "Captain,
a group of heavily armed men have commandeered Lord Sagan's
spaceplane! They're threatening to kill anyone who tries to stop them
from taking off!"
The Admiral
stopped his pacing. He and Williams exchanged glances.
"Attempt to
raise it," ordered the captain.
"No
response, sir. Their computer says that if they don't receive
clearance for takeoff, they'll blow up this ship. Sir"—
the ensign looked extremely puzzled—"reports from the
han-gar deck indicate that Lady Morianna and Agis, the captain of the
Honor Guard, are the ones who took the plane."
"Indeed?"
Williams raised an eyebrow. "Well, we can't have them blowing up
the ship. Grant them clearance."
"Yes, sir."
A momentary pause. "Plane's away, sir."
"Excellent.
Now, communicate to her ladyship that unless she returns to
Phoenix
immediately, she will be fired upon."
"Yes, sir.
No response, sir."
"Ah,"
said Williams. He cleared his throat, stood tapping his foot on the
deck.
"Shall I
give the order to fire, sir?"
Williams
appeared to consider the matter. "What's the spaceplane's
current location?"
The officer
provided it. "The plane's apparently heading for the Lanes,
Captain."
"Undoubtedly."
The captain and the admiral both stepped to the viewscreen, looked
out.
"The plane
is very near the ships of the Galactic Democratic Navy,"
remarked Williams.
"It would
be a pity if we were to fire on the stolen spaceplane and hit one of
their cruisers, particularly during this stage of negotiations,"
stated Admiral Aks.
"An
excellent point, sir. Hold your fire," Williams ordered.
"Yes, sir,"
said the mystified ensign. "Galactic Navy planes moving to
intercept. Her ladyship is opening fire."
The admiral and
the captain and everyone who could sneak a glance from his duties
stared out the viewscreen, at the battle that, from this distance,
appeared to be between one child's set of toys and another. The play
turned deadly. Tracer fire from the spaceplane disintegrated one of
the Galactic planes opposing it, crippled another. Other planes flew
frantically to join the battle, but by that time Maigrey had locked
in a course. The Lane was clear. She made the Jump, her plane
vanished from sight.
"They've
gone into hyperspace, sir."
A ragged cheer
echoed through the bridge.
Williams,
frowning, turned around. "Belay that nonsense. Lieutenant, put
those men on report."
"Hangar
deck reports two men knocked unconscious, sir; taken to sick bay.
Sir," the ensign added, highly astonished, "one of the men
with her ladyship has been identified as that nurse who went AWOL.
..."
"This is a
disgrace!" Williams snapped. "I want everyone involved put
on report. Show in the log that the spaceplane was stolen and that we
made every effort, short of risking the lives of those who might be
in the line of fire, to recapture it. And now, I must go and explain
the situation to General Pang."
Williams
smoothed his uniform, straightened his collar, pulled at his cuffs.
"And I,"
said the admiral gravely, "must report this unfortunate incident
to His Majesty."
The two officers
left the bridge. The crewmen looked at each other, grinned, and
returned to their duties.
The lieutenant,
leaving the bridge to file his report, glanced out the viewscreen.
"Good luck, my lady," he said beneath his breath.
General Dixter—a
glass of green Laskarian brandy in his hand—stood at his own
much smaller viewscreen, waiting. A spaceplane, darting suddenly
through space, caught his attention. He focused on it, tensed,
watched the attempt to intercept, saw the flash of red fire, the
white burst of the explosive hit.
And then the
plane was gone from view, as if someone had switched off a light.
John Dixter was
left alone in the darkness.
"Good-bye,
Maigrey," he said quietly to the stars.
The stroke of
midnight ceases, And I lie down alone.
A. E. Housman,
Parta Quies
"You about
ready, kid?" Tusk entered Dion's quarters.
"Yes. I'm
packed. I just have to change my clothes."
The young man
removed the lion-head pin, began to strip off the dress uniform and
royal regalia he'd worn for the press conference. Folding them
carefully, he thrust them into the rucksack. It wasn't the same sack
Platus had given him when he'd bid him farewell that night on Syrac
Seven, but it was similar. Perhaps because of Tusk's presence, it
reminded Dion of that night.