Authors: Margaret Weis
"Bennett,
sir, aide to General Dixter."
"Rank?"
"Sergeant
major, sir."
"How did
the 'general' receive his injury, Sergeant Major? It's rather
peculiar, considering the fierce fighting, that he should be
suffering from nothing more severe than a bump on the head."
"My name is
Bennett, sir. Rank: sergeant major."
The ghost of the
smile became more visible, though the Warlord's voice remained grave.
"I believe you could answer that question, Sergeant Major,
without giving aid and comfort to the enemy."
Bennett appeared
to consider the matter, his chin thrust forward. The man's eyes
shifted for the first time to regard the Warlord directly. "I
struck him, sir."
"You did?"
Sagan appeared considerably startled.
"Yes, sir.
I could see he was determined on dying, sir, and that couldn't be
allowed."
The Warlord's
gravity increased. "I am afraid he won't be particularly
grateful to you for saving him, Sergeant Major. He will be
'questioned,' of course."
"Yes, my
lord." A nerve twitched in Bennett's jaw; a trickle of sweat ran
down his forehead.
"However,
you could spare him a very unpleasant hour, Sergeant Major. You
remember Lady Maigrey Morianna, don't you, Bennett?"
The aide's eyes
shifted, left the Warlord's face, traveled again to the point beyond
his shoulder.
"You met
her on Vangelis," Sagan continued. "You would recognize
her, of course, if you saw her again. And you did see her again,
didn't you, Sergeant Major?" The Warlord drew nearer to the man.
The aide's jaw clenched, but he remained standing stiff, unmoving.
"She came here, didn't she? She spoke to John Dixter. What did
they discuss, Bennett? Where was she going? What did she intend to
do? Was the boy, Dion, with her?"
"My name is
Bennett, sir. Rank: sergeant—"
The marine
lieutenant struck the aide in the face. "The Warlord asked you a
question, dog."
Bennett reeled
beneath the blow, rocked back on his feet. His guards caught and held
him. Shaking his head muzzily, licking a trickle of blood from a cut
lip, he slowly resumed his correct posture, his eyes staring into
nothing. "My name is Bennett. Rank: sergeant—"
"That will
do, Lieutenant," Sagan said, seeing the marine's fist double.
"We have more effective methods. Take him away."
"Interrogation
chamber, my lord?"
"Certainly.
There's no hurry, however." The Warlord fingered the hem of the
handkerchief that protruded from his glove. "I believe I know
most of the answers."
"'Scuse me,
Cap'tn." A grizzled sergeant, head of the burial detail by his
red sash, edged his way in front of Williams.
"Yes,
Mackenna, what is it?"
"We was
wonderin' what to do with them there bodies. The bodies of the enemy,
sir."
"Toss them
out the hatch," Williams said, not particularly liking the
reminder.
Who was it,
Sagan wondered, who advised commanders to accord the bodies of the
enemy the respect you accord your own dead? Rommel?
"Belay
that," he ordered. "They fought bravely and well. And, when
all is said and done, they were victorious. They will be read into
the deep, the same as our men."
"Aye, aye,
me lord." The sergeant saluted, a crooked grin showing his
approbation. Lumbering off, he shouted, "We're to do right by
'em. I told ye so, ye lubbers!"
Sagan remained
standing in thoughtful silence, turned to Captain Williams.
Knowing the
unfortunate moment had come, the captain blenched and struggled to
retain his composure.
"And now,
Captain, I believe we should discuss how most of the mercenaries you
had trapped on Delta deck managed to escape."
The noise in the
hangar bay almost precluded talking. Cranes hoisted the skeletal
remains of spaceplanes into waiting motorized bins. The remains would
be sent to the lower decks to be scavenged for parts or melted down
for their metal.
Captain Williams
was forced to shout to make himself heard and, after twenty minutes
of talking, his voice was hoarse, nearly gone.
"The
control room for Delta deck has two entrances, my lord. One on the
portside, leading to the hangar bay, the other on starboard, facing
the main part of the ship. The entrance onto the hangar bay was
sealed and heavily guarded."
They approached
the area, the captain gesturing as he spoke. Now that he had come to
the crisis point, Williams was calm. It had happened; nothing could
change the outcome. He could accept his fate—court-martial,
disgrace, perhaps death. He even found himself looking forward with
anticipation to his Warlord's reaction to the bizarre tale the
captain had to unfold.
"The
mercenaries managed to take us by surprise on Charlie, my lord.
Immediately after they freed Dixter from the brig, they attacked the
control room and held it, despite incurring heavy casualties. Those
on Charlie were organized, acting under Dixter's leadership. Those on
Delta were not, making no concerted attempt at the beginning to take
the control room. They were fighting for their lives. Then, according
to the officers I questioned, something happened to alter the
situation. Someone was able to take command, bring them together."
"The Lady
Maigrey," the Warlord said, in a chill tone that went through
the captain like splintered glass, "whom you had managed to
capture, then lost."
Williams paled,
but maintained his composure. "At first I thought so, my lord,
but not now. Not now."
Sagan snorted,
unconvinced. They reached the control room, entered it from the
hangar bay side. Numerous bodies, both marines and mercenaries, lay
on the deck.
"We had our
forces deployed in this area. The mercenaries came at us in what we
assumed was a final, last-ditch, suicidal assault. We held them off
easily, sir."
"You
held!"
Sagan gazed at the captain in cold, narrow-eyed disbelief.
"Yes, sir."
William motioned to two guards, who were standing on either side of
the sealed door. One activated it, and the door slid aside. "If
you would go into the control room, my lord." The captain stood
back, deferentially, to allow the Warlord to precede him.
Entering, Sagan
stopped, stared. "My God!"
The hatch sealed
behind him, shutting off the noise from the hangar deck, leaving them
in deathly silence. The control room was small, almost all available
space taken up by the instruments and equipment used to control the
various functions of the machines on the hangar deck. And now, almost
every centimeter—overhead, deck, desktops, computer screens,
control panels—was spattered with blood. Chairs with gigantic
holes shot in them lay overturned on the deck. Bodies—some shot
in the back—sprawled over the equipment or leaned up against
the bulkheads.
"I thought
I should leave it the way we found it, sir," said Williams
quietly. "I thought you should see it. These men were
technicians, sir. None of them was armed."
"Yes,"
Sagan said. Brows contracted, his face gave no indication of his
thoughts, but it seemed, from the shadowed eyes, that—battle-hardened
as he was—the sight of the carnage affected him.
"I had
posted guards in here, of course, my lord. One of them is alive,
though I don't know for how long. I've heard his report, my lord. I
respectfully submit that you hear it yourself."
In one corner,
blood had gathered into a large pool that sloshed up gently against
the bulkhead with the movement of
Defiant.
Sagan turned his
gaze to Williams, who met the eyes stoically, unflinching.
"Yes,"
the Warlord said, "I would like to hear it."
The wounded
soldier struggled to rise when he saw his captain and the Warlord
approach his bed. Sagan laid his hand upon a bandage-webbed shoulder,
applying gentle pressure, easing the man back down. Despite the
doctor's best efforts, the mattress beneath the man was soaked in
blood. Crimson patches were beginning to stain the fresh bandage web
that had been sprayed across the chest.
"Lie easy,
Private"—Sagan glanced at the name above the bed—"Amahal.
I understand you've made your report to Captain Williams already. I
would like to hear it myself, if you feel up to it."
"Yes, my
lord." The man's voice was weak. His eyes had the crystalline
stare of sedation, but they were focused and clear, and though his
words came slowly, they were coherent. The nerve block was strong; it
had ended the pain but left the mind clear and in a relaxed state.
Such drugs were not widely used; they tended to be highly addictive.
That wouldn't be a problem for the young soldier.
"I was sent
to guard the control room, my lord. There were three of us. We were
watching the fighting on the deck. You could see it . . . from the
viewport—" The soldier coughed, choked. A male nurse moved
swiftly, turning the man's head, holding a pan underneath the mouth
to catch the flow of blood. Williams averted his face, left to answer
a call from the bridge. The Warlord waited patiently.
"Is that
better so?" the nurse asked softly.
"Yes,"
the soldier whispered.
The nurse
removed the pan, lifted a cloth soaked in cooling liquid, and started
to cleanse the man's face. The Warlord took the cloth from the
nurse's hands.
"Go on,
soldier," he said, deftly wiping the pink-frothed hps. The
wounded private shook his head feebly, embarrassed at his Warlord's
performing such a menial task.
Wringing out the
cloth, Sagan laved the man's feverish forehead and temples. The
private shivered, flushed faintly with pleasure at the attention, his
livid skin regaining a mockery of the life that was seeping from him.
"We heard
... a banging on the hatch behind us. We thought it was . . .
reinforcements. Baker opened it and . . . and there was a ... a kid,
my lord."
Sagan's hands
jerked. Abruptly, he returned the cloth to the waiting nurse.
"A 'kid,'
soldier?"
"A young
man, my lord. He couldn't have been more than . . . sixteen or
seventeen. He had red hair and he . . . was wearing a flight suit.
Like he was dressed up for a costume party . . . maybe. He was
holding this beam rifle ..."
The private's
voice faded. A spasm of pain contorted the face. The male nurse
moved, bringing up a hypodermic. The Warlord closed his hand over the
nurse's arm, stopping him.
"Continue,
private."
"Baker told
him . . . to go . . . play . . . somewhere else. The kid didn't say
anything. He stepped inside, raised the rifle, and . . . fired."
Sagan removed
his hand from the nurse's arm.
"The eyes
..." the private whispered, his own widening in awe and horror.
"I saw his eyes ..."
The nurse
started to administer the drug, saw it wouldn't be necessary. The
froth on the ashen lips lay undisturbed. The Warlord murmured
something beneath his breath.
"
Requiem
aeternam dona eis, Domine
—"
"—
et
lux perpetua luceat eis
." The nurse's voice slid beneath
Sagan's.
The Warlord
glanced at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them were alone. A
screen concealed the dying man from his fellows.
"I am one
of the Order, my lord," the nurse said in a soft, low voice.
"Many of us are, who serve in this capacity."
"The Order
is dead, officially banned," Sagan said coldly.
"Yes, my
lord," the male nurse replied. Slim, cool fingers rested for an
instant on Sagan's left arm where, hidden beneath the body armor,
self-inflicted scars cut deep into the flesh. "If you ever need
us, my lord."
Drawing a sheet
up over the body, the nurse moved on to his next patient.
His words were a
whisper across the Warlord's confused thoughts. Sagan doubted, after
a moment, if he'd even heard it or had, in his exhaustion, imagined
it.
Williams
returned, looked at the Warlord questioningly. Sagan knew he should
make some response, but he felt stupefied from the news, his fatigue,
the aftereffects of the stimulation shot that made him feel worse
than he had before. Age was beginning to tell. He was, what . . .
forty-eight? Not old at all for the Blood Royal, who generally lived
far into their hundreds.
"I will
burn up before then," he said to himself. Time was sliding
through his fingers, like the liquid from that pink-stained cloth.
Youth . . .
He could see
Dion, standing in the entrance to the control room, the young man's
eyes blue as flame.
"You
understand now, my lord?" Williams asked in a quiet tone. They
had arrived back on the bridge.
"Yes,"
Sagan said. "I understand. What happened to . . . the young
man?"
"He
apparently escaped in the confusion, my lord." Williams's mouth
twisted, aware he was further damning himself.
"With the
Lady Maigrey?"
"No, my
lord. I don't believe so. The young man was spotted marching down the
corridor, his gun trained on a black-skinned male. No one stopped
him. After all, my lord, he was wearing our own uniform. We know he
returned to his spaceplane. An officer reported seeing the young man
and his prisoner helping a third, apparently wounded, person into the
spaceplane. All three were wearing uniforms. The young man knew the
correct codes and had the proper clearance."
Williams spread
his hand deprecatingly. "By the time we received your
instructions to take him prisoner, my lord, it was too late. His
spaceplane had already been allowed to take off."
"You can
relax, Captain." Sagan stretched, trying to ease the cramped
muscles in the small of his back. "You won't receive a
commendation for your actions, but you won't be penalized for them,
either. You were up against forces beyond your ability to
comprehend."