Authors: Margaret Weis
"I'm doing
my duty," she told them, and her voice was jarring, discordant,
echoed through the halls whose stones knew only the sound of prayer
and soft, muted discussions of the necessary, the mundane.
Ashamed, she
glanced sideways at the tall priest, to see if he was angry at her,
but the hood was pulled low over his head, she could not see his
face. He said nothing, continued on. Bowing her head, she followed.
They descended a
flight of stairs, came to the
dortoir,
the living quarters,
turned into a hallway that was dark, narrow. Maigrey could touch the
walls on either side of her by barely extending her arms. She had
only to reach up to brush her fingers against the ceiling. The tall
monk was forced to stoop as he moved along.
It was difficult
to see. The monk carried a thin white taper, but its fragile flame
wavered and glimmered in the gentle draft created by their movement.
What light it did shed was eclipsed by the priest's body, engulfed in
the shroudlike folds of his robes. He knew where he was going, could
have undoubtedly walked it blind. Maigrey tripped and stumbled, for
though the stone was worn smooth by countless feet, the floor was not
level, dipped and rose unexpectedly. Her armor clashed and clattered.
They passed
countless wooden doors, all of them shut. No light gleamed from
beneath, no sound came from the still and silent rooms. They had
almost reached the end of the hallway, when the priest halted.
Maigrey had no
need to ask which door. She knew. She looked at the priest, seeking a
sign, reassurance, approval. He stood quietly, his face hidden,
offering no comfort, no urging. The choice was hers.
Sighing softly,
Maigrey pushed gently on the wooden door. It swung open.
A man, clad in
robes, knelt before an altar. He kept his back to her, though he must
have heard her enter, for her armor made a silvery ringing sound. She
knew him, however, by the long black hair that fell over his
shoulders, knew him by the pain in her heart.
Standing
straight and tall, silver armor illuminating the room more brightly
than moonlight, she spoke to him.
"Lord Derek
Sagan, I call you to fulfill your oath. I call you to the service of
your king. "
He remained
kneeling long moments, then, finally, he rose and turned to face her.
His face was grim and forbidding and dark and in his eyes was the
bitter reproach she'd felt the moment she'd entered his sanctuary.
She sensed him about to refuse and she was frightened, wondering what
she would say to persuade him, having nothing to offer him in
exchange for this peace but despair, terror, death. . . .
His gaze
shifted.
"Father,"
he said, and the fire of his reproach glimmered and died, even as the
flame of the candle the monk carried wavered and guttered out.
The only light
in the darkness shone from Maigrey's silver armor.
Sagan looked
back to her, sighed deeply.
"You should
not have come," he said.
Agis and Brother
Daniel stood beside the bier, watching. Agis felt increasingly
uneasy, nervous. He kept his hand on his dartgun, glanced continually
around.
"The
enemy's near," he muttered. "I can feel them ..."
"Not
without," said Brother Daniel. The priest had his eyes on the
still, unmoving figure on the bier. "But within."
Agis stared at
him questioningly, not understanding.
"My lord is
dying," the priest responded. "My lady fights to hold him
to this life, but her heart is not in the battle. How could it be?
Fear for herself, fear for him—"
"She must
save him!"
"Yes,"
said Daniel sadly. "She must. She knows it, and I think she
will. But her choice is bitter.
Kyrie eleison
. Lord have
mercy. Lord have mercy on them both."
Agis had once
visited a world of oceans and tides and he was reminded suddenly of
standing upon the shore and watching a wave crash upon the beach. He
saw again the water rush away from him, and take—so it
seemed—the world with it. Sand, pebbles, shells, seaweed, were
sucked away from beneath his feet and he remembered experiencing the
strange sensation that he was next, that the wave would catch hold of
him and draw him out to vanish beneath the green water.
But then another
wave came, returned the water, returned the shells and sand and
seaweed, sent them back to him, brought life flooding over his feet
that stood in the sand. And so it would continue, always.
"It is
over," said Brother Daniel softly.
Maigrey laid her
head on Sagan's chest.
The centurion
knew, then, that his lord was dead. He unbuckled the bloodsword from
his waist, made ready to lay it on the bier, as his lord would have
wanted. He took a step forward, stopped.
Sagan drew a
deep breath, let it out in a sigh. He put his arm around Maigrey,
held her close, pressed her to him.
"You should
not have come," he said.
Hail, holy
light, offspring of Heaven . . .
John Milton,
Paradise Lost
"Lady
Maigrey's spaceplane," reported Tusk, his Scimitar making a low
pass over the broken planet's barren surface. "And I recognize
the junker. It belongs to that assassin, Spara-something-or-other."
"He saved
our lives," Nola reminded him.
Tusk grunted.
"Only because he had more use for us alive than dead. I don't
know who those other planes belong to, probably those commandos the
lady hired."
"This must
be the place," said Dion. "Make one more orbit. Scanners
reading anything, XJ?"
"All the
weird energy levels bouncing around here, and you want me to find a
few measly humans!" the computer scoffed. "Ask me next time
to look for a lit match in a forest fire."
"Scimitar."
A voice came over the commlink. "Scimitar, this is
Galaxy
Belle
. Can you read me?"
"Verified,"
reported XJ. "Transmission's coming from the liner."
"Yes, we
can read you," Tusk said. "We've been tryin' to raise you—"
"I had to
check you out, first. This is the captain. Corbett, Tomi. And I want
to talk to whoever's in charge."
"Captain
Corbett," Dion began. "I am—"
"Shut up! I
don't care who you are. I was told a goddam fleet was coming to pick
us up. I suppose you're it?"
"No,
Captain. There has been a change in plans. I am Dion Starfire, in
command of the fleet. It's currently stationed on the Corasian
perimeter."
"That does
me a hell of a lot of good!"
"I will
transmit their coordinates to you. I suggest, Captain," Dion
continued, "that you make the Jump as soon as possible.
I'm carrying
with me the space-rotation bomb and I may be forced to detonate it.
In that eventuality, the fleet will be warned in advance to make the
Jump into the Void. You should be with them. XJ, transmit the
coordinates."
Silence on the
other end, then the captain's voice came back, strangely altered.
"I don't
understand. You mean . . . something's happened to them down there?"
"Have you
received the coordinates?" Dion asked, ignoring the question.
"Yeah, I
got them." Silence again, then, "I don't suppose there'd be
any way I could help?"
"Thank you,
Captain, but you have a responsibility to your passengers—"
"Those rich
bastards. This is probably the only good they've ever done for anyone
else in their lives, and wouldn't you know, they had to be
unconscious to do it."
The captain's
voice sounded odd, thick and slurred. Tusk looked at Dion, rolled his
eyes, raised an eyebrow. "Jump-juice. "
"Captain,"
Dion repeated, "have you received the coordinates?"
"Yeah, I
got them. And I heard that. I'm not on the juice. It's that damn drug
your friends gave me. It's wearing off, though. Don't worry. I'll
make the Jump. I'm programming for it now. That goddam fleet better
be there—"
"They will
be," Dion promised.
"Look, one
thing before I go. Have you . . . Have you heard any word from . . .
anybody that went down there. If they're okay, I mean? One in
particular ..."
Dion waited for
the captain to finish, but the voice trailed off.
"No,"
he said finally. "I'm sorry. I haven't."
"That's all
right." After a pause. "It wouldn't have worked out
anyway."
The transmission
abruptly ended.
"How
strange." Dion frowned. "I hope she can operate the ship
safely—"
"I would
like to remind everyone that it is actually her computer who is
running the ship," stated XJ in lofty tones, "and the
computer who will be in charge of the Jump. Any human involvement is
strictly superfluous—the only reason Tusk has managed to live
this long."
XJ waited smugly
for Tusk to attempt a verbal riposte.
Tusk said
nothing. He stared at the controls, silent, thoughtful. Nola reached
out, took his hand, twined his fingers through hers.
"Hey, Tusk,
it was a joke," said the computer.
Tusk didn't
answer.
"Look,
Tusk, I'm sorr—"
"Jeez!"
The mercenary leapt to his feet. "Don't do that!"
"Do what?"
XJ's lights blinked in astonishment.
"Apologize
to me! Shit! Now I know my time has come! Damn computer, apologizin."
"I did
nothing of the sort!"
"You were
about to. I heard you start to say 'I'm sorry'—"
"I'm sorry,
all right!" XJ shouted, turning up its audio, nearly deafening
everyone within earshot. "Sorry I ever set my optics on you, you
sorry excuse for a spacepilot."
"That's
better," said Tusk, looking relieved, sitting back down."
"XJ, land
the plane," Dion ordered.
"One more
orbit, kid. I don't like the looks of that landing site. And I'm
picking up lots of strange energy readings."
"The
landing site's flat rock, XJ. And you said yourself that the energy
levels made it impossible to read anything."
"Look, lad,
listen to the voice of reason, the voice of intelligence, which,
considering the present company you're keeping, means that you listen
to my voice. Call General Dixter. Send for the fleet. Send for the
marines. Send ten thousand or so soldiers down that rat hole. Let
them take care of this mind-seizer."
"It
wouldn't work, XJ. Abdiel could make himself appear as ten thousand
different things to ten thousand different people, if he wanted. He'd
escape, slip away, or maybe even make the ten thousand turn on each
other. No. Sooner or later, I have to face him. Lady Maigrey knew it.
Dixter knew it. Tusk knows it. That's why he's here with me."
"He's here
with you because he's a big boob. As I told him when he got us into
this in the first place. A sack of gold coins. That's what we got for
taking you on, kid. And the money wasn't much, either, what with the
bottom dropping out of the gold market. When I think of what it's
cost us since then—"
"Land the
goddam plane!" Tusk roared.
Bleeping
irritably to itself, the computer started the landing cycle.
They didn't say
anything to each other as the plane touched down. They went about
their tasks in silence. When those tasks were finished, they found
things to do that didn't need to be done. There was too much to say
and no one quite knew how to begin saying it, except to themselves.
Nola went up
into the bubble, again, to test the gun that didn't need testing now
any more than it had needed testing ten minutes previous. Instead she
sat there, alone, staring out at the stars.
"I want
kids, Tusk," she said, talking to her reflection in the bubble.
"I want a whole bunch of them, rug-rats, running around, driving
us crazy, keeping us up all night. Though God knows what they'll look
like, poor things. What with my freckles and your nose. And they can
play vidgames with Grandpa XJ. We'll be a family. A family ..."
Tusk punched
buttons on the console, running systems checks that did nothing
except irritate the computer.
"Soon as we
leave here," he promised himself, "I'll take Nola to meet
my mother. They'll like each other. Nola complains all the time she
never has any other women to talk to. They could talk about . . .
women things. And what're those? You know, sitting in gun turrets,
blowing people to pieces; lying, wounded, on a pile of bloody flak
jackets; landing far behind empty lines; detonating bombs."
Tusk sighed,
rubbed his eyes. "You know, women things."
Dion removed
Maigrey's starjewel from an inner pocket, intending to place it into
the space-rotation bomb. He started to do it quickly, keeping his
gaze averted from the unlovely object. But he paused, forced himself
to look at it, look at it deliberately, long and hard.
"I remember
the first time I saw her, the first time I saw the starjewel. It
gleamed with a radiance that seemed to come from its own bright
heart, or maybe hers. But now the heart is dead. The jewel's turned
black. Not the shining black of jet or obsidian, not the warm black
of ebony, not the cold empty black of outer space or the shades of
black that make up the night. It is the black of decay, rot,
gangrene.
"'The taint
in our blood,' as Maigrey used to say. But if the bomb were
detonated, the starjewel would, for one brief second, shine more
brilliantly than any sun.
"And so
would all the fallen angels."
Dion placed the
starjewel in the bomb, typed in the code sentence that would detonate
it, the line from a poet's dark vision of a second coming. He typed
it all except for the last letter of the last word.
The center
cannot hol_ .
The three went
on with their work. And it occurred to each of the three, as each
continued to do what didn't need to be done, that when they did
finally speak to each other, it would be to say good-bye.