King's Test (12 page)

"Sir—"
one of the MPs began.

"Bloody
outrage—" the major howled.

"I insist—"
the medic shrieked.

"Clout him
one if he doesn't shut up!" the MP bellowed, and, being rather
vague as to his pronoun, he had the satisfaction of seeing everyone
in the immediate vicinity relapse into sudden silence.

Deciding that
the best thing to do was to get his prisoners out of here, the MP
turned to Maigrey. "My lady, if you will accompany—"
He stopped talking, mouth open, but no words came out.

The woman was
gone.

General Dixter's
forces, trapped on Charlie deck, had surrounded the control room and
were keeping the marines at bay by holding the entrances into the
hangar bays against them. Dixter's main fear was that Williams would
use brain-gas, a chemical which rendered an enemy immobile by either
knocking him out or, in some extreme cases, killing him. The marines
had masks to protect themselves against the gas; the mercenaries did
not. If the marines used brain-gas, the battle would be over.

Williams had, in
fact, received the supply of brain-gas he'd requested from
Phoenix,
but he had been prevented from using it. Brain-gas was generally used
out in the open air. Computer analysis had revealed the possibility
that, released inside a small area, the poisonous fumes might be
sucked inside
Defiant's
ventilating systems, plunging everyone
aboard ship into an inadvertent siesta. The marines, unable to use
the gas, were forced to rely on small-arms fire and grenades. Rockets
and mortars were out, they might puncture the hull. And so the
mercenaries had a chance. Inside a small control room, their computer
expert—a heavy set woman named Lilly—ignored the fighting
swirling around her, worked diligently at wresting command of the
hangar bay doors away from central control.

The mercenaries
who still had planes to fly were gathered in the ready room.

"I need
volunteers," Dixter told them, "to stay behind, hold the
control room, keep the tractor beams out of commission."

Humans, aliens
exchanged glances. Everyone knew that those who stayed behind were
doomed—a quick death if they were lucky, a prisoner of the
Warlord if they weren't. Everyone knew, too, that their general was
staying behind, that he wouldn't abandon his people. There was a
sudden surge of people forward, clamoring and shouting to volunteer.
General Dixter was nearly trampled in the rush.

"Thank you
all," he said when he could speak, his voice choked by his
emotion. "But many of our comrades have already died, trying to
gain for you the ability to leave. Every one of us captured or killed
from now on is a victory mark for the Warlord. I want as many of you
to leave as possible." Dixter waved down the protests. "Listen
to me!" He had to shout to be heard. "I just received
word"—he held up his fieldphone—"that our
people on Delta deck are starting to push the marines back. As soon
as you are safely gone, those of us staying behind will help our
friends on Delta. There'll probably be enough planes to take us all
off. We'll meet at the rendezvous."

"Hey,
General," Gobar called out, "the Warlord promised to pay
us! When do we get our money?"

The mercenaries
laughed, Dixter joining in. "I'll send him a bill."

"We'll
wring our pay out of him. Drop by drop. You can be sure of that,
sir," a woman said quietly, and the laughter died to an ominous
silence.

Dixter glanced
around at his people, tried to think of something to add, but only
shook his head. Bennett, monitoring the fieldphone, hurried over to
confer. Those who had served with the general a long time took a
certain grim delight in noting that the aide's usually immaculate
uniform was somewhat rumpled and had a spot of grease on one knee.

"You know,"
one said solemnly, gazing at Bennett, "just to see that—it's
almost been worth it."

Dixter turned
from his aide and faced his people. "Lilly's done it! The
controls are ours! Move out. Hurry, we don't have much time."

No one stirred.

Dixter's
expression grew stern; the graying brows came together. "That's
an order."

Reluctantly, his
people did as they were commanded, trooping out of the ready room,
plunging into the smoke-filled hangar bay. But every one of them took
a small bit of the precious time available to shake hands or at least
touch—as if for luck—their general. He said something to
each, wished them Godspeed, promised time and again to meet them at
the rendezvous point—with their payroll.

"If you're
not, sir, we'll be back for you," each promised.

Dixter only
smiled. At the very end of the line stood a bloodied, disheveled, and
weary-looking woman dressed in the uniform of a Galactic pilot.
Reaching out, she clasped his hand, spoke wistfully.

"John, I'm
starved. You wouldn't happen to have a chicken sandwich on you?"

Dixter glanced
at her, looked hard at her, stared at her in disbelief.

"My God!"
he murmured. Throwing his arms around the woman, he hugged her close.
Neither said a word, each clinging to the other.

Maigrey let go
of him, took a step back. "Go on with your work. I'll wait here
for you."

When the last of
the pilots was gone and all those leaving were safely aboard their
planes, those who were staying behind took shelter in the ready room.
Bennett made certain the entrance was locked and sealed. The hangar
bay doors shivered, then began to open. The rumbling vibrations shook
the deck. The planes' engines fired, many of the smaller ones
blasting off before the doors were more than hallway up.

Those waiting in
the ready room with Dixter called the planes off. "There goes
Ratazar."

"Who's that
behind her?"

"Spike-hand
Pete. And K'um and his twin brother."

"They're
shot up pretty bad. I hope they make it."

"They'll
make it. They would, just to spite me. I got a forty-eagle bet with
him says we never see each other again! . .

"Sir, "
Bennett's voice came level and quiet over the roar of the engines of
the departing planes, "we've lost contact with the control
room."

Dixter glanced
through the steelglass viewport at the hangar bay doors. There were
still numerous planes waiting to take off.

Bennett saw the
concern, understood. "Lilly said—before the connection
went—that she had managed to jam the controls open. It will
take the enemy some time to fix them, sir, I should imagine."

"Yes. Thank
you, Bennett." Dixter's lips pressed together tightly, grimly.
He leaned his head on his hand, massaged his forehead.

"There's
nothing more you can do now, sir. Why don't you sit down, let me
bring you a cup of coffee? The machine over in the corner is still
operational."

"He's
right, John," Maigrey said, coming up from behind. She rested
her cheek against Dixter's shoulder. "Come, sit down."

Most of the
mercenaries in the room remained crowded at the viewport. A few sank
down to rest, thankful for the respite, knowing it wouldn't last
long.

Maigrey brought
up two metal desks, placed them side by side. Wriggling out of the
bulky flight suit, she dumped it on the deck and seated herself at
the desk's attached chair. Dixter joined her.

"You look
awful," she told him cheerfully.

"You look
worse." Dixter smoothed back a strand of her pale hair. "You're
covered with blood. Are you hurt?"

"It's not
mine." Maigrey wiped her face with her hand and stared at her
fingers ruefully.

"Anyone I
know?"

She smiled,
shook her head. "Wishful thinking. The Warlord is alive and as
well as can be expected, considering his ship's been shot out from
underneath him."

Dixter appeared
grave. "So we've gone through all this just to be destroyed by
the Corasians?"

"No. Sagan
may have lost the battle but he's going to win the war. He's using
the old fire ship maneuver—moving
Phoenix
in close to
the Corasian vessel; when it blows, it'll take them with it."

Bennett returned
with coffee. "All the planes are away safely, sir."

Dixter smiled;
light touched the faded brown eyes. The mercenaries in the ready room
cheered.

"And I
heard you say you were hungry, my lady," the aide added,
depositing several foil-wrapped bars in front of Maigrey. "These
were all I could find, I'm afraid."

"Blessings
on you!" Maigrey said fervently, tearing open the foil,
revealing a congealed mass of something that appeared to be highly
nutritious and completely inedible. She sniffed at it, grimaced.
"Veg-bars. Oh, well. You want one?"

"No,"
Dixter said hastily, shaking his head. "I had to live on those
things for a year, once. When I was on the run."

Maigrey bit into
the bar, chewed it, swallowed. Her gaze wandered to the people in the
room. She sighed, shook her head. "I—I feel responsible."

Dixter reached
out his hand, took hold of hers, held it fast. "You're not,
Maigrey. My people made their own decisions to come. We did what we
set out to do; we defeated the Corasians. You warned us of Sagan's
treachery and we were ready for him: That's the reason we were able
to hold out this long. I don't suppose," he added with a
half-smile, sipping at his coffee, "that you stopped by just for
lunch? What is it you need? A plane? You're leaving me again."

A crimson flush
stained Maigrey's pale face, the scar on her cheek was livid white
against the flushed skin, the hand in his began to tremble. "I
wish I could stay! If I had my choice I would be with you and fight
him until . . . until—" Her fingers clenched; her nails
dug into his flesh. "But I can't! I've found out something
about—" She glanced around furtively. "About . . .
what we talked about on Vangelis."

Dixter appeared
alarmed. The lines in the weathered face deepened. Leaning near, he
spoke in an undertone. "Ohme?"

"Hush!
Yes." She nodded, drew him closer. "I think there's a way
to . . . deal with it. But I must do it myself. Soon! And that's why
I can't—I can't—"

"I
understand, Maigrey. I do." John lifted her hand to his lips,
kissed it gently.

Maigrey lowered
her head, rested her scarred cheek on his hand. He felt her tears
trickle down between his fingers. Stroking back the pale hair, he
brushed aside wispy ends escaping from the loosened braid. An
explosion shook the deck. Heads lifted, people half-rose to their
feet.

"Coffee
break's over, I'm afraid." Fishing a handkerchief out of his
pocket, Dixter handed it to Maigrey.

She wiped the
tears and blood from her face, her tone brusque and matter-of-fact.
"I need a spaceplane. A sound one. One that will get me to . . .
where I need to be."

"The only
planes you'll find are on Delta deck. And a fierce battle is raging
over there, from what I've heard."

Maigrey waved
that aside. "And Dion? Have you seen him? I hoped to find him
with you."

"Yes, I've
seen him. He's leading the assault on Delta."

"What?"
Maigrey stared. "Have you gone mad, John Dixter?"

The general
raised his hands, defending himself against her accusing gray eyes.
"It was his idea, lady, not mine." Slowly, tiredly, he
stood up. "Although I admit I went along with him."

"He's only
a child!" Maigrey bounced to her feet, confronted him.

"If you and
Sagan are right about him, Maigrey, he's a child of the Blood Royal,"
the general said quietly.

Maigrey opened
her mouth, paused, swallowed her angry words, shook her head in
despair. "You're right, John. And Sagan's right, too, damn him!
Testing God!" She met John Dixter's eyes, tired but shrewd in
their maze of sun-tightened wrinkles. "You could come with me."

"Yes,"
he acknowledged.

"But you
won't," she said softly.

He shook his
head, smiling at her.

Carefully,
Maigrey tucked the handkerchief back into the breast pocket of his
rumpled uniform, then kissed the weathered cheek. Another explosion,
this one nearer, set the desks rattling, spilled the coffee. Dixter
tilted her chin up, put his finger over her lips.

"No
good-byes. It brings us luck," he said. "Come on. It's time
we moved out."

Drawing the
bloodsword from its scabbard, Maigrey meticulously fit the metal
prongs into the five red marks on the palm of her right hand. "Yes,
it brings us luck," she said, but only to herself.

In every parting
there is an image of death.

George Eliot,
Scenes from Clerical Life

"This
scheme of yours is crazy. You know that, don't you?" Tusk asked.

"What have
we got to lose?" Dion returned, scrambling down the side of
Tusk's Scimitar. Lasgun in hand, the mercenary covered him from
below.

"Nothin'.
That's the only reason I'm going along with it. What did XJ have to
say?" Tusk nodded at the Scimitar, referring to his irascible
computer-partner, standing guard inside.

"That
flares cost one and a half crowns apiece and I wasn't to waste them,"
Dion said, grinning.

Laser fire
streaked around them. The two flattened themselves against the plane.
Keeping low, they dashed back to rejoin Link and the other
mercenaries Dion had recruited. An explosion sent them diving for
cover.

"Shit,"
Reefer swore, peering through the smoke, "the bastards blew up
my plane.'

"You can
fly out with me," Link offered. Standing up, he fired a volley,
ducked back down again when it was returned.

"I've got
the flares, General Dixter, sir." Dion was speaking into the
fieldphone. "I've contacted everyone I could find, sent others
out to spread the word. We're ready when you are."