King's Test (3 page)

"I am the
only one who can save you, Peter, my dear."

Robes shivered;
his teeth ground together. Sweat trickled down his face; his muscles
were stiff, rigid. He made a choked, swallowing sound. The hand in
the old man's clenched tightly into a ball, a fist.

Abdiel continued
patiently stroking the fingers and slowly Robes relaxed, his hand
opened, revealing the palm. Abdiel studied the palm's smooth surface
a moment, then delicately began stripping away the plastic flesh,
laying bare five red puncture marks. The marks were old, the scars
healed over, seeming not to have been used in a long time.

"You,
Peter, will put yourself 'in my hands,' if you'll forgive my little
joke." Abdiel laughed, a dry chuckle. "You will give
yourself to me, completely, unreservedly. You will become my
'disciple.' In return, my dear ..."

"Yes!"
Robes cried out in a ghastly voice. "What do I get in return?"

"Whatever
you desire, my dear. You can continue to be President of this galaxy.
Or, if you are growing tired of putting up with the nonsense of these
senators and representatives, you can proclaim yourself dictator,
king, emperor. With my guidance, my wisdom, my power, you can become
anything you want." Abdiel drew the hand near him, pressed it
against the soft magenta robes. "Or you can continue as you are,
without my help. You can deal with Derek Sagan. You can handle the
upstart prince. You can prevent the civil war that will tear the
galaxy apart and end your political career forever!" Abdiel
gently patted the hand he held. "You do see clearly, don't you,
my dear, the divergent paths before you?"

Robes closed his
eyes. He was shivering as with a fever. His right hand had closed
again over the marks on the palm—the marks that designated him,
in reality, one of the Blood Royal. The marks that had once been a
badge of honor. The blood-sword, the weapon of the Blood Royal,
inserted its needles into those marks, injected a genetically coded
virus and a flood of micromachines into the body that aligned the
weapon directly with the brain, allowing the user to control the
sword with his or her own mental processes. It gave the user
heightened mental powers, as well. And it let two people, connected
through the use of the bloodsword, share their minds with each other.

Once marks of
honor, the scars on my palm have become marks of shame! Robes
thought. I should break his grip on me, order the old man out of my
office. He's given me the choice! A choice.

But the defiance
drained from the President; his shoulders slumped in despair. Abdiel
always gives you a choice, Robes realized. It makes you more surely
his when you come to him of your own free will.

The President
kept his hand shut fast. Too much was going wrong, too fast. The
situation was bad and growing worse. Systems—wealthy, powerful
systems—threatening secession. The opposition party swelling in
strength and numbers. His own popularity slipping. His advisers had
told him, only last week, that, unless the situation changed, he
couldn't win another election. That was why he'd started this
war—destroy Sagan, bring everyone running home to their
President in panic.

But the only one
running in panic was Peter Robes.

Slowly,
trembling, the President bowed his head, opened the palm of his right
hand. Abdiel aligned the five needles in his left palm to the five
red wounds on Robes's right.

The President
did not lift his head, did not look up.

Smiling, Abdiel
inserted the needles into the man's flesh.

Robes cried out
with the pain; his body jerked convulsively as the virus, the
micromachines flowed, not from a bloodsword, but from the body of the
old man, giving his mind direct access to Robes's, to the brain, to
the conscious, to the subconscious.

Abdiel probed
and penetrated, plunging deeper and deeper into the President's mind,
learning its secrets, learning what caused pleasure . . . what caused
pain. Though he had given in, Robes's mind fought instinctively,
struggled to defend itself against invasion, but wherever Abdiel
encountered resistance, he pressed harder. The old man now knew too
much. The punishment for defiance was terrible, arising as it did
from Robes's own inner being.

Eventually,
Peter Robes gave in. He surrendered himself utterly.

Abdiel sucked
the man's mind dry. From now on, whenever he wanted, he would be able
to manipulate Robes. The man was under his complete and total
control. Gently, Abdiel withdrew the needles. Five small pools of
blood on the President's palm glistened in lamplight.

Robes had long
ago lost consciousness. Abdiel rested the President's limp and
unresisting head back against the chair,

"You are
mine," Abdiel said, running his fingers along the sweat-dampened
forehead,"my dear."

We took him for
a coward . . .

William
Shakespeare,
Two Gentlemen of Verona
, Act V, Scene 1

The battle
against the Corasians was straggling to its inglorious end. Abdiel's
awarding of the victory to Warlord Sagan was perhaps a bit premature.
One giant enemy moth-ership had been destroyed, but another had come
out of nowhere (or hyperspace, which amounted to the same thing) and
had launched an attack against Sagan's command ship,
Phoenix.

Dion, from his
vantage point in space, could see that
Phoenix
was taking
heavy damage. The other ships of the line hovered near but had not
been called to assist. Dion wondered why, then concluded that Sagan
undoubtedly wanted the honor of destroying the enemy himself.

Dion knew why
one ship wasn't fighting the Corasians.
Defiant
was no longer
a hunter. It had been turned into a trap, whose jaws were set to
close over Dion's friends—by orders of Lord Derek Sagan.

"Sir,"
the irritatingly calm voice of the shipboard computer broke in on the
young man's thoughts, "your bodily function signs are
registering a debilitating level of stress—"

"Shut up,"
Dion said.

Whoever was
winning or losing this battle, the young man knew that he,
personally, had lost.

Sagan despised
him. Not that what the Warlord thought mattered. The feeling was
mutual. Dion despised Sagan with a hatred all the more bitter for
being tangled up with admiration.

But this time,
at least, I managed to outsmart him, the young man thought in gloomy
satisfaction. My coward act fooled him completely. I can't take any
of the credit, though. Sagan's already convinced I'm worthless. I
merely confirmed his faith in me. Yeah, I fooled him good!

Who am I
kidding? I didn't fool Sagan. I only fooled myself. The cowardice
wasn't an act. This . . .
this
is the act. And I didn't
escape. He tossed me aside. He let me go because I don't matter
anymore. Who wants a king who leads his people into battle, gets
scared and runs away?

"Enemy
approaching," the computer announced. "Locking on to
target—"

"No!"
Dion jerked the controls, wrenched the spaceplane in a steep climb.
He looked around frantically, peering out the viewscreen. He couldn't
see any enemy plane! Was it coming up on him from behind? "Where
is it?" he demanded, voice cracking in panic.

"Now out of
range and not following in pursuit. Is your targeting scanner
malfunctioning, sir? You should be able to locate the blip—"

Dion felt a hot
flush suffuse his skin. "No, th-the scanner is . . . functioning
. . . just fine." I'm the one who's not!

"Sir,
perhaps you are not aware of the most current data we have received
on the enemy. Most of the Corasian central computer systems have been
knocked out, leaving the small, individual enemy planes operating on
their own without guidance from their commanders. Since Corasians are
almost totally dependent on computerized guidance, these small
planes, such as the one we just
fled
from"—was it
Dion's imagination, or was the computer actually putting a sneering
emphasis on the word—"are practically helpless—"

"Obey your
orders." Dion licked his dry, cracked lips. "I don't have
time to swat flies." That sounded well, it would sound well to
anyone listening in on him. Sagan would be, of course. Probably the
Warlord was laughing, remarking to Admiral Aks right now, "The
boy's a coward. What can you expect?"

"Maintain
course to
Defiant
," Dion instructed. I have to warn my
friends, he added to himself. Warn them that a man they trusted, a
man they admired and believed in, is nothing but a treacherous,
despicable liar!

"Sir, your
heart rate is at an extremely dangerous level—"

"The hell
with my heart rate!" Dion didn't need to see the flashing
digital readouts to know he was falling apart, crumbling inside. He
counseled calm, recalled Maigrey's advice.

Think about his
friends. Their danger. They were the ones who mattered. He had to
reach them in time, warn them of Sagan's plan to capture them,
execute John Dixter.

"Computer,
when we reach
Defiant
, broadcast the emergency landing
signal—"

"Begging
your pardon, sir, but there's no need for that. Simply utilize the
standard transmission—"

"What do
you mean, no need? The transmitters not working! Sagan tried using it
to contact ..." Dion's voice died.

The computer
didn't respond; its lights flickered.

"The
transmitter
is
working," Dion said, stunned. "It's
been working all along!"

"There was
a malfunction, sir. But it has now been corrected."

"Malfunction,
huh? Just what was the nature of the malfunction?"

"Highly
technical, sir. You wouldn't understand."

"You're
right there. I don't understand. ..."

He could hear
the voice.
Lord Derek Sagan to Captain Michael Williams. Battle
won. You may proceed with the extermination of the mercenaries as
planned. Take no prisoners. . . ,

And the
computer's response.
Transmission failed, sir.

It was a setup!
Sagan had known Dion would respond to any threat to his friends, to
John Dixter, Tusk, Link, Nola . . . The Warlord had conned him with a
phony message! No such order had really been transmitted. What was
this? Another one of Sagan's little tests'"'

Dion sagged over
the control panel, shaking with anger, disappointment.

I'll probably
arrive on
Defiant,
find Dixter and Tusk guzzling beer and
laughing at me, he thought.
Well, well, kid. You passed the test.
You were going to come to our rescue. You're not a coward, after all.
Not a complete coward, anyway. I'll bet your ego feels a whole lot
better, doesn't it, son
? A hearty slap on the back.
We're real
proud of you, boy. Now, run along back home. . . .

I have to find
out the truth! I have to know what's going on! Dion reached for the
water bottle, drank, spit it out on the deck. The water tasted stale,
like blood.

This is the
Warlord's private plane I stole! Dion realized suddenly. He sat bolt
upright. The communications must tie in with Sagan's own personal
channel.

"Open the
Warlord's channel," he commanded.

The computer's
lights flared. "Sir, I—"

"I don't
want to talk on it." Dion said in mollifying tones. "I just
want to listen. You've been ordered to obey me, haven't you? Just in
case I had guts enough to play in his game?"

"The
channel is now open, sir."

"Keep
quiet!" Dion whispered. He clamped his lips shut, silencing even
his breathing, cursing the background noises of the spaceplane that
he hadn't noticed until this moment. It occurred to him that maybe
some sort of indicator would flash aboard
Phoenix,
alert the
Warlord that he had an eavesdropper. Dion half-expected at any moment
to hear Sagan's baritone, irritably commanding him to stop
interfering in the affairs of the adults.

Gradually, after
listening several moments to an appalling level of noise, Dion
realized that no one aboard
Phoenix
was likely to hear him
breathing. They wouldn’t be likely to hear him if he shouted.
The channel was dead, silent, when suddenly a voice came on.

"This is
Captain Williams. I want to speak to Lord Sagan."

The voice
sounded strange, high, tense, agitated. Dion had trouble recognizing
the young, personable, and highly ambitious captain of
Defiant.

"His
lordship is not available, Captain Williams. I will transfer you to
the admiral."

"Aks here."

"I must
speak to Lord Sagan!"

"Captain
Williams"—Admiral Aks’s voice didn't sound much
better than that of his junior officer—
"Phoenix
is
under fire from a Corasian destroyer. We've taken a direct hit. Our
situation is critical. What the hell is your problem?"

Captain Williams
was silent long moments. When he spoke, his voice was carefully
modulated. "This is my problem. As you are aware, John Dixter
managed to escape detention. He and his people have barricaded
themselves on two hangar decks. I am currently fighting a full-scale
pitched battle against a force of well-trained mercenaries who are
quite prepared to die and take my ship and my crew with them!"

"We are
aware of the situation, Captain. Lord Sagan was informed of your
unfortunate blunder before he left on his mission to rescue young
Starfire. He presumed, Captain Williams, that you were capable of
repairing your error—"

"Begging
your pardon, Admiral," Williams cut in, "but I have no time
right now to listen to criticism of my actions. My report will be
made in full to yourself and Lord Sagan, provided we live through
this. I am essentially being forced to fight a land battle aboard a
starship, and we are not equipped to handle this sort of action. I
repeat: I need reinforcements, I need brain-gas—'