King's Test (21 page)

It was not a
tale calculated to comfort Haupt, who was wondering if the woman had
chosen the name at random or if it had other, deeper connotations.
The brigadier wished to heaven he'd paid more attention to gossip in
the old days. He knew nothing about Derek Sagan's background, other
than that he had betrayed his king and comrades for the sake of the
revolution.

Haupt ushered
the woman into the outer office. The corporal leapt to his feet,
saluting. The major returned it with grave dignity.

"Sir,"
the corporal reported, "we have still been unable to contact
Citizen General Sagan—"

"Sagan?
Does this have to do with my arrival?" The major turned her gray
eyes on Haupt.

Hot blood crept
up the brigadier's neck, reddening his already warm face. He wondered
angrily why he was being made to feel like a traitor over what was a
perfectly routine procedure.

"Major,
I—that is, I hope it doesn't seem like—"

"Nonsense,
sir," the woman said crisply. "Of course an intelligent
officer such as yourself would have taken care to verify my story.
Have you reached my lord?"

"No,
Major," the corporal answered. "I'm getting the runaround—"

The woman came
near Haupt. Resting her slender, chill fingers gently on his arm—he
could feel the cold touch through the cloth of his uniform—she
leaned near him.

"My mission
is dangerous and highly secret. There are those who would prevent me
from completing it and who would stop at nothing in order to
accomplish their objective. I cannot order you to break off
attempting to contact Lord Sagan, sir. I can only advise you,
General, that it would be extremely unwise to broadcast my presence
on this base throughout the universe." The gray eyes were the
hue and hardness of the barrel of a beam rifle. "My lord would
not be pleased."

Haupt shivered.
"Blast it, Corporal, I've told you repeat-edly that you keep the
air-conditioning too cold in here. Turn up the thermostat! The major
and I will be in conference. Hold my calls."

"Yes, sir.
Right away, sir."

"And I see
no reason to disturb the citizen general over this matter."
Haupt gestured to his office with one hand. Placing the other stiffly
behind his back, elbow bent, he made a fluttering motion with his
fingers to his aide.

The corporal
saw, understood, and, as soon as the door had closed behind the two,
left the room and headed directly for the communications center.

"Now,
Major," Haupt said, settling himself behind his desk. The woman
was seated in a chair in front of him. "What can I do for you .
. . and the citizen general?"

"I am here
to make contact with an alien named Snaga Ohme. Do you know him?"

"Ohme?"
Haupt's jaw sagged.

"Yes. Snaga
Ohme. An Adonian, dealing in weapons."

"I know
him. Everyone in the galaxy knows him. May I ask what—"

"No, you
may not." The major smiled; her voice softened. "The less
you know about this, the better, sir."

Haupt rose
nervously to his feet, walked to the window, and stood staring out at
the garishly lit sky. The green sun had set, and Laskar had come to
life, its neon lights blazing, turning night in the city streets to
kaleidoscopic day. The brigadier clasped his hands behind his back,
clenched his fingers tightly. He'd thought he'd had it figured out.
The woman was an imposter, of course. A spy. Her trick to try to
persuade him not to contact Sagan had been unbelievably transparent.
She was probably one of those damn royalists Haupt had heard about.
He'd intended to stall her until the citizen general could be
notified.

What was she
after? Military secrets, computer access codes, perhaps. Any number
of things . . . except Snaga Ohme. That made no sense. . . .

"Brigadier,"
the woman said. "Time is pressing."

Haupt glanced
around. "What is it you want me to do, Major?"

"It's very
simple. Contact Ohme. Tell him that I am here and who has sent me.
Arrange a meeting with him for me. The alien knows you. I presume he
likes to maintain good relations with the army. He will do what you
request."

Haupt returned
to his desk, sat down, and picked up a computer stylus. He ran his
fingers up and down it, an unconscious, nervous habit. "Why,"
he asked in a low voice, "doesn't the citizen general arrange a
meeting for you with the alien himself?"

The pupils of
the gray eyes dilated; the gray was like a cloud of debris around a
black hole. Haupt felt himself caught, sucked into the empty vortex.

"Do you
really want to know my lord's secrets?" she asked in a soft
voice.

Haupt shuddered.
He'd heard rumors about Derek Sagan. The rebel angel, who had once
shone as brightly in the heavens as the morning star, was plotting to
rise up and challenge the gods. That, at least, was the current talk
around HQ.

Three years to
retirement. Haupt ran his hand over his bald head. He had a house
picked out on a planet far away from this one, located in the heart
of the galaxy. He'd planned to buy a dog, one of those artificial
kind that was programmed to behave. . . .

"Brigadier,
sir." The aide's voice over his desklink broke in on his
thoughts.

"I ordered
you to hold my calls!" Haupt snapped.

"Begging
your pardon, but I thought you should hear this, sir. We have
received a message from Citizen General Sagan."

Haupt cast a
swift glance at the woman, saw the gray eyes narrow in irritation.

The brigadier
glared at the unfortunate corporal on the desklink screen. "You
were ordered not to disturb the citizen general—"

"I didn't,
sir," the man said, and there was a ring of truth in the voice.
"The message came in just this moment."

Haupt looked at
the major, saw her sitting at her ease, composed, calm. She might
have been carved of ice.

"Well, what
is the message, Corporal?"

If it was to
have her arrested, he hoped his aide had been intelligent enough to
have sent an armed guard.

"Citizen
General Sagan to Brigadier General Haupt: 'By my command, you are
hereby ordered to render all aid and assistance to Major Penthesilea
as requested by her.' End of communique, sir."

"Is this
verified?" Haupt demanded.

"Yes, sir.
The citizen general's own private code."

Haupt breathed a
sigh, turned to the woman. "Well, Major, of course I will—"
He stopped, his words forgotten.

The woman's face
had gone livid. The only blood visible in the ashen skin pulsed in
the scar. Haupt rose swiftly.

"Major,
you're not well! Can I get you—"

"Nothing,
thank you," she said through lips that didn't move. "Please,
just do as I have requested. Contact Ohme. Time grows short. Very
short indeed." The last was a whisper. She didn't look at him
but stared straight ahead, her eyes unfocused, seeing nothing.

Mystified, yet
secure in the knowledge that he was acting on orders and could not be
held accountable by anyone, including himself, Haupt motioned to his
aide.

"Corporal,
put through a call to the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. "

Sparafucil mi
nomino.

Sparafucile is
my name.

Giuseppe Verdi,
Rigoletto

"My lord. "
The voice of the captain of the shuttlecraft came over the commlink.

"Yes,
Captain?"

"A small
spaceplane has requested clearance to dock. Shall we proceed?"

"Has it
given the correct code response?"

"Yes, my
lord."

"Allow it
to come in. Have a guard meet the pilot in the docking bay. Bring the
pilot to my quarters immediately."

"Yes, my
lord."

"Oh, and
Captain. Leave the pilot his weapons. He would not give them up
without a struggle, and I don't have time to try to reason with him."

"Yes, my
lord." The officer did not sound happy.

"He will
not harm
me
, Captain, and—so long as he is not
crossed—he will harm none of the crew. No one is to harm
him
on pain of death. Is that understood?"

"Very good,
my lord." The captain's voice clicked off.

The Warlord
paced the quarters of his shuttlecraft, the cramped space. The crew
of the shuttle had listened to him walk the night away, his booted
footsteps sounding regular and steady until they became like the
beating of their own hearts and they heard them no longer.

Eighty-four
hours had passed since this game had begun. Sagan once again
envisioned his pieces on the chessboard, studied every play his
opponent could possibly make, and, after long hours, was satisfied
that he had each covered, his own strategy mapped out. He relapsed
into a chair, sipped at a glass of cool water, and composed himself
to meet his visitor.

Sagan felt the
slight jolt of the docking, the other ship attaching itself
barnaclelike to the shuttlecraft. A whoosh of air locks, the clanging
bang of hatches opening and shutting.

"My lord,"
came a voice.

Sagan touched a
pad on a console on the arm of his chair. A panel slid aside. Two of
his Honor Guard stood framed in the entryway. Between them was what
appeared to be a large bundle of rags. At a hand gesture from the
Warlord, the bundle became animated and slouched into the room. The
centurions saluted and, pivoting, took up position outside the
chamber. Sagan touched the pad and the panel slid shut. Another touch
sealed it.

The bundle shook
itself, much like a dog, and a head emerged from the midst of the
rags, somewhere near the top. A pair of the bright black gleaming
eyes, one eye positioned considerably higher on the face than the
other, glanced swiftly about the room. Hands, strong and
quick-fingered, groped their way through the rags like talons
protruding from a bird's feathers. The man had, on entering, moved
with a shuffling slouch that gave evidence of a crooked, humped back.
Seeing from his survey of the room that he and the Warlord were
alone, the man straightened, adding a good five inches to his height,
and shuffled forward.

"Sagan
Lord," the man said.

"Sparafucile,"
acknowledged the Warlord. He waved a commanding hand. "Sit down.
We have much to discuss."

Years past, in
what was now known as the second Dark Ages, scientists working
underground in hidden laboratories had conducted genetic experiments
designed to produce members of both human and alien species who were
physically and mentally superior to the rest of their kind. Out of
these experiments had come successes—such as the Blood Royal.
Out of these had come failures. Most of the failures had been
mercifully destroyed. A few had escaped or been allowed to live for
continuing research purposes. It was these failures who were
undoubtedly this man's ancestors.

At least so
Sagan surmised. No one knew for certain, but he deemed it likely. The
misshapen face, the unusual strength, the exceptional intelligence,
the amoral nature came from ancestors who themselves had come from
test tubes. Dr. Giesk had brought the "half-breed," as the
man was known, to the Warlord's attention and Sagan had been quick to
recognize the breed's talents. Well aware that money can buy such a
man but will not buy his loyalty, the Warlord had not bought the
breed, but had, in a way, adopted him. Sagan fed the breed, clothed
him, protected him from his numerous enemies, listened to the
category of his wrongs. The Warlord had even given the breed a name—a
thing the breed's own wretched mother had not bothered to do.

Sparafucile
belonged to his lord, body and soul ... if the breed owned a soul.

"It is very
dark in here, Sagan Lord," the breed observed, still standing.
He spoke in a hoarse, sibilant whisper that had the odd
characteristic of being as loud and distinguishable as normal
conversational tones, if slightly more disconcerting.

"I cannot
imagine the dark offends you," the Warlord answered.

"No, no."
Sparafucile smiled, an expression that was not pleasant. The smile
did ghastly things to his face, one cheekbone being considerably
higher and more protruding than the other. The upturning of the thick
wide lips caused the left eye—the lower of the two—to
shut nearly all the way, giving the smile the appearance of a leer.
"I like the darkness. It aids and abets me. But I don't like
this darkness. I think this darkness reflects your mood, Sagan Lord."

"Perhaps."
The Warlord was lenient, indulgent with his favorite. He motioned
again. "Will you be seated?"

"Thank you,
Sagan Lord." The words spoken were not servile, but given with
respect. The half-breed turned slowly and shuffled slowly to a chair
opposite that of the Warlord. Seating himself, he stretched out long
legs encased in soft leather boots, folded his hands comfortably over
his rags, and appeared to fall asleep. This appearance of lethargy
had fooled many in the breed's time, most to their later regret. A
striking snake was not swifter or deadlier than Sparafucile.

"Refreshment?"

The half-breed
shook his head.

"Your
report, then."

"In what
order, Sagan Lord?"

"Chronological."

The breed
shrugged, paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "Twenty-four
hours ago, Abdiel land on Laskar."

The Warlord's
face did not change expression, but the fingers of the right hand
clenched over the arm of the chair on which it rested. Sparafucile
noticed, while seeming not to notice. Only the glitter of the eyes
could be seen from within the rags.

"He build a
quick-build"—Sagan understood this to mean a prefab
structure—"in small desert ravine twenty kilometers from
house of the Adonian, Snaga Ohme."

"How near
is Abdiel to Fort Laskar?"