Authors: Margaret Weis
It won't make
any difference.
She was tired,
so very tired. But she had to keep going. To quit now was to make it
all worthless.
Maigrey scaled
the ladder leading up the side of the spaceplane, dropped down
through the open hatch.
"Who's
there? Who is that?" a mechanical voice demanded. "Halt or
I'll shoot!"
Harsh lights
switched on, blinding her. Cameras whirred; glass eyes placed in the
overhead focused in on her.
"A female!"
The computer sounded disgusted. "Another female! Trust Tusk!
Someday I'm going to sew his fly shut! Look, you hussy, this isn't
the ladies' powder room. You turn right at the end of the hall and—"
"Is that an
XJ-27 model?" Maigrey cocked her head, listening.
"What if it
is?" the computer snapped suspiciously.
"The model
that was the most advanced ever developed? The model that was known
for its independent thinking, its high degree of logic, its
infallible judgment, its vast technological knowledge combined with
an extremely sensitive nature and agreeable personality?"
"Could be."
The computer sounded mollified. "Who's asking?"
"If so,
then I am truly fortunate. My name is Maigrey Morianna. I am in
desperate need and to find an XJ-27 model in my hour of extreme
peril—"
"Maigrey
Morianna!" The computer was awed. Its lights flickered.
"The
Maigrey Morianna? Member of the famed Golden Squadron?"
"I was,
once, long ago."
"My lady!
Come for'ard! Make yourself at home. Excuse the mess. Tusk
insists
on leaving his underwear lying around! Don't trip over those tools.
Mind your step. Don't bump your head against those overhead pipes.
Just kick those boots under the storage compartment. Excuse the
blood, I haven't had time to mop up. ..."
Maigrey walked
through the living quarters of the long-range Scimitar, scaled the
ladder with practiced ease, jumped down into the Scimitar's small
two-man cockpit.
"Forgive my
earlier rudeness, ma'am," XJ said in formal tones. "I've
been forced to keep low company, of late, and I fear it has rubbed
off on me. Flying with a pilot of your skill and expertise will no
doubt serve to remind me that I was destined for a higher calling
than constantly saving Tusk—that third-rate Galactic Republic
Space Corps dropout—from his own mistakes."
Maigrey
carefully kept her expression grave. If she began to laugh, she'd
break down and cry. She slid into the pilot's chair.
"I've never
flown one of these types of Scimitars before, XJ. I'll be relying on
you to assist me."
"I will be
honored, ma'am—I mean, your ladyship. Will there be anyone else
accompanying us? Such as the previously mentioned dropout?"
Maigrey bit her
lip, mumbled something.
"I beg your
pardon, your ladyship?"
"I said no,
XJ. No one else."
"No. . .
The computer's lights dimmed. It whirred to itself, started to speak,
made a blurping sound, and instantly cut itself off. The words
forgive me, slight malfunction flashed across the screen.
"XJ?"
Maigrey looked at it worriedly.
"No
problem. I'm back." The computer's audio was extremely
nonchalant, casual. "Not that I care in the slightest, your
ladyship, but if anything's happened to that good-for-nothing former
partner of mine—I'm referring, of course, to Mendaharin Tusca—I
should record it in my files."
"Nothing's
happened to Tusk, XJ," Maigrey said gently. "He's flying
out with Dion. He was kind enough to loan you to me for just a short
while. You two will soon be back together again—"
"Don't do
me any favors, your ladyship!" XJ's lights winked cheerfully
again. "Will we be blasting off shortly?"
"As soon as
possible."
"Then I'll
just take this opportunity to reprogram life-support to suit your
needs. How many respirations do you take a minute?"
"Fourteen,
under stress," Maigrey answered, studying the plane's controls.
"Ah,"
XJ purred, "a true professional! At last!"
Maigrey was
exhausted, that was the problem. Exhausted and hungry. She hadn't
slept in God knew how long. She hadn't eaten anything except that
horrid veg-bar that tasted like rock and was about as digestible. Her
tears were a nervous response, triggered by lack of sleep and low
blood sugar. She tried to stop them, but they kept coming.
Maigrey saw the
flares through her tears—blurred flashes of red exploding in
the smoke-filled gloom of the hangar bay. She barely saw, through her
tears, the hangar bay doors open. She barely found, through the
tears, the right switches to manipulate, the correct buttons to push.
Fortunately, the
computer was able to handle most of the takeoff procedure. Maigrey
sat back, crying silently, and let XJ manage.
The Scimitar
glided out of the hangar, swooped into starlit blackness. Other
mercenaries flew beside her; voices crackled over the commlink,
trying to raise her.
"Shut it
off," she told XJ.
"But there
are enemy planes, your ladyship—"
"They won't
bother us."
And they didn't.
Hovering at a safe distance, Sagan's pilots watched the mercenaries
escape and did nothing to stop them.
The line between
them was unreeling, but no matter how far from him she traveled, it
would never snap. Out in space, through her tears, from the corner of
her eye, she saw what appeared to be—from that distance—a
tiny spark. The spark flared, expanded, became a gigantic ball of
flame.
A small sun. For
an instant—another star. Another star in a myriad of stars.
And then it was
gone, and the place where it had been was left that much darker by
contrast.
No good-byes.
It brings us luck. . . .
"There
isn't any luck for us, John. There never was," she said, and
tasted the bitter salt of her tears on her lips. "Good-bye."
In what distant
deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he
aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
William Blake,
"
The Tyger
"
The ventilation
system aboard
Defiant
was rapidly clearing the hangar bay area
of smoke. Crews were dismantling and hauling off wrecked spaceplanes,
mopping up blood. The injured had already been removed. The burial
detail was at work, tagging corpses, removing the personal effects,
recording names and numbers. The bodies of the marines lay in neat,
ordered rows, waiting to be zipped into bags and consigned to the
deep. The bodies of the mercenaries had been dragged off to one side
and lay in a heap until someone received orders on what to do with
them.
The Warlord
placed the toe of his boot beneath the shoulder of one of the dead
mercenaries, flipped it over, studied the face. The corpse was that
of a black-skinned male, but not, apparently, anyone Sagan
recognized, for he turned away from it without interest.
"They're
all dead, then?"
"Yes, my
lord, with few exceptions. We offered them a chance for surrender,
but they refused."
"There was
no need to surrender, Captain," the Warlord remarked coolly.
"They were winning."
"Yes, my
lord."
Captain Williams
wasn't watching his footing, stepped in a puddle of blood, slipped,
and nearly lost his balance. A lieutenant of the marines, marching
stolidly along at the captain's side, reached out a hand and saved
his superior officer from an embarrassing fall. Williams flushed, dug
his finger into the collar of his dress uniform in an attempt to
loosen it. He felt as though he were strangling.
"But there
were some survivors?" Sagan asked.
"Yes, my
lord. We received your orders concerning the parties in whom you were
interested. I passed the word to the marines."
The Warlord
looked at the lieutenant, invited him to speak. The marine officer
was young, but hard and sharp as a bayonet. He had taken over command
from his dying captain. His men had done their duty, fought well, and
any blame for the failure of the "containment" could be
laid squarely on the shoulders of the unfortunate captain of the
Defiant.
Very little awed or impressed the young marine
officer, including, obviously, talking to his Warlord.
"I followed
orders, sir, and issued descriptions of those wanted for questioning
to my men. And I consider it damn lucky to have discovered even one
of them alive."
"You're to
be commended, Lieutenant," Sagan said.
"Thank you,
sir, but I can't take the credit," the marine said stolidly.
"One of his own people saved the man's life. He's over here,
sir, if you would care to see him. We've been awaiting your orders
concerning him."
The Warlord
indicated that this would suit him. Glancing around, he said
irritably, "Where's Giesk? Doctor, are you coming?"
The doctor, who
had stopped to study one of the corpses with professional interest,
lifted his head, looked around vaguely. "Did someone call me?
Oh, yes, my lord! Right behind you, my lord."
The lieutenant
led the way to what had once been a pilot's ready room. A gaping hole
had been blasted through a wall; the viewport was shattered. Several
metal desks had been melted and fused together. Others lay scattered
about upended or had been blown apart completely. Numerous bodies,
mostly of dead mercenaries, were being removed.
"They made
their stand here, sir," the lieutenant said. "Their numbers
were few by this time—"
"Yes, since
most of them had already made good their escape," Sagan
interrupted.
The wretched
Williams could say nothing. The lieutenant remained cool. After all,
it hadn't been his fault.
"Yes, sir.
This way. Watch your step, my lord. Those wires are still hot."
Two marines
stood guard over a man who lay unconscious on the deck. They had done
what they could to make him comfortable and covered him with a
blanket, but he had not been moved. Saluting, the marines stepped
aside.
"Giesk."
Sagan motioned.
The doctor
hurried forward, bent down over his patient, prodding and poking and
peering. Whipping open a case, he produced a semeitor, a diagnostic
machine, attached several leads to the man's head, and spent some
time studying whatever information they were transmitting.
"Well,
Giesk?" the Warlord demanded, with an impatience
uncharacteristic of him. The stimulation shot was wearing off. He
could use another, but was damned if he'd ask for it.
"He'll
live, my lord. A mild concussion, but otherwise uninjured." The
doctor glanced around at the burned and mangled bodies lying nearby.
"He was extremely lucky, I'd say."
"He won't
consider himself lucky," Sagan murmured. Bending down, he
examined the man closely. "What's this?" Lifting one of the
flaccid arms, he attempted to pry something from between the fingers.
Though unconscious, the man held the object fast and it took the
Warlord some effort to remove it. He held it up. The others looked at
it curiously, were disappointed when they saw what it was.
"A
handkerchief, my lord," the lieutenant said, seeming to feel
called upon to make an identification.
The Warlord
appeared highly gratified by his discovery. He smoothed it out upon
one knee, noted that it was damp and stained with blood.
"Whose
tears did you dry with this, John Dixter?" Sagan asked in an
undertone, audible only to Giesk, who wasn't paying the least
attention.
Packing up his
semeitor, the doctor began fussing over his patient, tucking the
blanket around the shoulders and unnecessarily warning the
litter-bearers—who had been standing by—to move slowly
and not jostle him.
Folding the
handkerchief carefully in half, then in half again, the Warlord
tucked it in the palm of his left glove, treating the square of
plain, serviceable cotton as a treasured and valued artifact.
The lieutenant
shot the captain a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye,
but Williams could offer no help. He was thankful only to see that
his lordship's humor had measurably improved.
"When will
he regain consciousness, Giesk?" Sagan asked, rising to his
feet.
"Not for
some time, I would guess, my lord. I must relieve the pressure on the
brain and then—"
"I'm to be
informed the moment he is able to speak. Keep him in isolation, bound
hand and foot. You men"—Sagan gestured to two of his
centurions, who never left his side— "accompany Giesk. I
want a twenty-four-hour guard over this prisoner. Attend to it
personally."
"Yes, my
lord."
Corpsmen gently
slid the litter beneath their patient and activated its controls. Its
jets breathed out a cushion of air and it whirred forward.
"Not too
fast, not too fast," Giesk ordered, eyeing it critically.
The corpsmen
knew their jobs, however, and the litter glided ahead smoothly and
evenly. A touch guided it in the correct direction, and it floated
off, sailing serenely above the wreckage and the dead, moving with
far more ease than those forced to follow it afoot.
"One other
of the mercenaries was captured alive in this area, my lord. He's
conscious, if you would like to speak with him." The lieutenant
made a peremptory motion and two marines came forward.
Marching between
them, stance correct, posture rigid as that of his guards, was a
middle-aged man in a slightly soiled but neatly pressed,
old-fashioned uniform of a style that had not been worn since before
the revolution. He stood stiffly at attention, his gaze fixed at a
point somewhere to the left of Sagan's left: shoulder.
"Your
name?" the Warlord said, a ghost of a smile on his tight lips.