Authors: Margaret Weis
Dragging her
hair out of her face, she forced herself to concentrate. Time was
running out. Sagan's shuttle had landed at Fort Laskar. He had not
sent his men immediately to seize her. Fortunately, she guessed,
protocol must be maintained at all costs. He would be expected to pay
a courtesy call on the brigadier general.
Besides, there's
no hurry, Maigrey told herself bitterly. Sagan knows I'm not going
anywhere!
"Have you
completed the rest of your analysis?" she asked the computer.
"Yes, your
ladyship. A remarkable piece of work. I congratulate the maker."
"I'm sure
he'd be pleased," Maigrey said dryly.
"It is, as
you surmised, your ladyship, a space-rotation bomb, also known as a
color bomb—"
"I
know
what it is! Is it functional?"
"Eminently,
your ladyship." XJ sounded ominous.
"Can it be
destroyed by any means?"
"Armed? Not
without the possibility of setting it off."
"I
understand. Run through the following simulation: With the starjewel
in place, could you detonate the bomb if you were given the correct
code sequence?"
"Working."
The computer
returned, no longer glib but quiet, subdued.
"Yes,
ma'am."
"And if the
bomb is not armed, could any outside force detonate it?"
"No,
ma'am."
"I must be
absolutely certain. If, say, this spaceplane were to explode right
now, what would happen to the bomb?"
"Nothing,
except it'd have a lot of melted, twisted metal wrapped around it.
Not to mention pieces of us," XJ added, but it had turned down
its audio.
"Good. I—
Hush!"
Was that the
sound of booted footsteps outside, on the concrete? Maigrey resisted
firmly the temptation to open the panel covering the viewscreen.
"Now, computer, I am locking in the next commands." She
suited her actions to her words, performing the complicated sequence
that removed all element of choice from the computer's mind. "You
will obey without question."
"Yes, your
ladyship." It seemed to Maigrey as if the computer's audio had
developed a slight tremor.
"If anyone
other than myself makes any attempt to take the bomb from this plane,
you will self-destruct, blow up this plane and anyone inside."
"Yes,
ma'am."
"You will
give the bomb only to myself, with proper voice pattern
identification and also—" Maigrey hesitated only slightly,
"and also visual sighting of the starjewel, the jewel known as
the Star of the Guardians. You have the jewel's picture and chemical
structure and analysis on file. I recorded it this morning. It has to
be
my
jewel, no other."
Sagan had his,
of course, but each starjewel, carved from a separate gemstone, was
the tiniest bit different. The differences were almost imperceptible,
nothing that would affect the jewel's physical properties, more
ethereal, nebulous, difficult to define. Legend had it that the
starjewel absorbed a part of the soul of its owner, which accounted
for the romantic myth (never proven to anyone's satisfaction) that
the jewel's inner light faded, the gemstone went dark, when the owner
died.
"Yes, my
lady." XJ paused, then added, "Two men are standing outside
the plane, my lady."
"Are they
attempting to board it?"
"No, my
lady. They're just standing there, waiting."
"Identification?"
"Honor
Guard, my lady. Lord Sagan's crest."
"Thank you,
XJ." It was all to be very dignified: no armed guards, beating
on the hatch with their rifle butts, no threats to blow up the plane.
Two men, waiting.
Maigrey rose to
her feet. She would return the favor. She could afford to be
magnanimous. She was, after all, the victor.
Maigrey climbed
down the ladder from the spaceplane, came face to face with the
centurions, who stood rigidly at attention. Numerous onlookers had
gathered around the plane to gape and stare and exchange the latest
gossip. The space-base, honored by the presence of a Warlord, was lit
brightly as day. The harsh white light reflected off the ceremonial
helms of the Honor Guard, glinted on ornate breastplates, which were
decorated with a phoenix rising from flame.
Complete Roman
panoply—ancient, archaic, impractical in a world whose people
could move through space faster than the speed of light, yet somehow
stolid and reassuring. Caesar's troops had worn it when they marched
to what they had supposed was the end of their tiny world. Sagan's
troops wore it marching into what was now a tiny universe. Mankind
had survived all these thousands of centuries, survived its own
follies, its own stupidities, its own greed and prejudices.
Survived because
among the evil had been the noble, the honorable.
Or perhaps the
noble and honorable had survived in spite of themselves.
Maigrey squinted
in the harsh light, looked carefully at one of the rigid faces.
"Marcus, isn't it?"
The face,
relaxed its stern mien ever so slightly, pleased at being recognized,
remembered. "Yes, my lady."
"How are
you, Marcus?"
"Well,
thank you, my lady." Marcus flushed. His eyes avoided hers. "The
Warlord's compliments, my lady, and he respectfully requests your
presence in Brigadier General Haupt's office."
"In other
words, come to him immediately or I'll be shot?" Maigrey
murmured.
Marcus's flush
deepened. "Yes, my lady," he said quietly, flicking a
glance at her. His expression changed to one of concern. "You're
injured, my lady?"
Maigrey put her
hand to the jagged cut on her neck. In her haste, her excitement,
she'd forgotten about it. The blood had clotted, sealed the wound
shut, but it must look awful.
I must look
awful, she realized, glancing down at the body armor stained with
dirt and spattered with blood—some of it her own. She hadn't
brushed her hair or washed her face. But she had hung the bloodsword
around her waist. The starjewel should be around her neck. . . .
Maigrey clenched
her hand over the empty place on her breast, drew herself up
straight, shook the pale hair back over her shoulders.
"We must
not keep my lord waiting." She walked forward swiftly.
The centurions,
caught by surprise by her sudden move, almost had to run to catch up,
to the vast amusement of the watchers.
HQ was quiet, a
contrast to the crowds gathered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of
the legendary Derek Sagan. MPs were allowing only those on official
business to pass, and they gave Maigrey a close and scrutinizing
examination as if wondering what possible official business this
bloody and bedraggled female could have with his lordship. Her Honor
Guard was guarantee of passage, however. No one halted them.
Inside the
headquarters building, the MPs had been replaced by Sagan's own
personal guard. No one was allowed to enter these halls, official
business or otherwise. Marcus was halted, made to give a password,
though Maigrey knew that these men must know each other as well as or
better than brothers, having lived together for years. Sagan was
taking unusual precautions, and surely not on her account! What was
wrong?
Danger's knife
edge pricked Maigrey's skin, sent a tingle through her body.
The centurions
passed them on through Haupt's outer office—even his aide had
been replaced by the stern, grim-faced, uncommunicative centurions.
Another, different password met them at each doorway. Marcus knew
each one, never hesitated or fumbled. Each guard, with a respectful
salute—fist to heart—allowed them to pass.
Outside the door
to the brigadier's office stood the captain of the Honor Guard. He
took personal charge of Maigrey, begging her pardon respectfully for
the inconvenience and asking her to wait a moment while he announced
her. Opening the door, he stepped inside.
"The Lady
Maigrey Morianna."
"Show her
ladyship in." Sagan's voice, cool, calm, masterfull.
Maigrey'd been
hearing it in her head for hours now. Why should the blood burn in
her veins to hear it aloud?
The captain
returned, held the door open for her, bowed as she passed. Conscious
of an unnatural flush in her pale cheeks, of the dried blood on her
neck and on her armor, of her unbrushed, uncombed hair, Maigrey
strode past the captain without a glance and entered the office of
Brigadier General Haupt.
The brigadier,
resplendent in his dress uniform, jerked to his feet as if someone
had yanked him up by a string attached to his back. Maigrey barely
spared the man a glance. Sagan, too, rose to greet her, graceful for
his height, the red cape, trimmed in gold, falling in elegant lines
around him.
He wore his
parade armor, Roman in fashion, like that of his men. The helm held
in the crook of the left arm, cape floating behind him, he took
several steps forward, reached out his right hand and clasping
Maigrey's right hand, carried it to his lips.
Palm to palm.
The five scars made by the bloodsword in her hand pressed against the
five scars made by the bloodsword on his hand. A secret signal,
devised between them long ago, which warned of immediate, desperate,
imminent peril.
Shocked,
wondering, suspicious, Maigrey flinched at the touch of the lips, the
hand that felt unnaturally hot to her chilled flesh.
"My lady,
forgive me for revealing your true identity without your permission,
but I felt that we no longer need to use the alias of Major
Penthesilea."
"As you
will, my lord," she replied aloud, then, silently, the thoughts
flashing between them swiftly as the glancing of their eyes.
What
is this? What's going on? Some kind of trick? If so, it won't work!
She watched intently for a gleam of triumph, a smile of derision.
She saw,
instead, fear.
No trick, my
lady.
He released her
hand, made her a grave bow, half-turned, and moved back to stand
before Haupt's desk. The Warlord lifted an object from the desk,
displayed it to Maigrey. "Remarkable piece, isn't this, my lady?
When did you get it, Haupt? It's quite new, I believe."
The brigadier
appeared highly startled. "Why, y-yes, Citizen General," he
stammered. "It was presented me as a gift from the—the
President himself. M-marking my retirement."
"I didn't
know you were retiring, Brigadier," Sagan said pleasantly.
"I . . .
d-didn't either," Haupt stammered. Drops of sweat on his bald
head shone at every pore. He started to sit down, caught himself,
and, flushing, jerked back to his feet.
"Do you
have any idea what this is, Haupt?" Sagan inquired, holding the
object on his palm.
"A
paperweight?" said the wretched brigadier.
"Made of
bloodstone." Sagan held the object directly beneath the overhead
fluorescent light. "Bloodstone carved in a perfect ball, mounted
on an obsidian base. Bloodstone, my lady."
Maigrey couldn't
say a word. Her throat had constricted painfully, it ached and
burned, her tongue was swollen, her mouth dry. Sagan shot her a sharp
warning glance and she knew she had to say something. If what he was
intimating was true, they were being watched, every word they spoke
was being overheard. But it took an effort to make her numb lips form
words.
"How . . .
how interesting, my lord," she said faintly.
This
is
a
trick!
she told him silently, accusing.
He can't possibly be
alive! He died following the revolution. You had him assassinated!
His death was in your records!
Your death
was also in my records.
Sagan turned to face her, the bloodstone
in his hand between them, demanded without words,
Look at me, my
lady, and tell me that this is a trick.
Maigrey had no
need to look at him. She'd already seen. Much, too much, was
explained. Memory was forcing aside the dark curtain, a hand rising
from the grave, trying to drag her back to that terrible time.
"My lady is
not well." A strong arm was around her, holding her, supporting
her. The floor had unaccountably wandered out from beneath her feet.
"Captain, a glass of water!" Sagan eased her into a chair.
"Brandy,"
Maigrey corrected. "Neat. No ice."
The Warlord eyed
her intently, managed a grudging smile. "Brandy, then," he
said.
The captain
entered with a glass—a small one, Maigrey noted—of green
liquid, placed it on a table at her right hand, and left the room,
shutting the door behind him.
Sagan bent over,
picked up the bloodstone paperweight that he'd dropped to catch
Maigrey, returned it gravely to the brigadier's desk. Haupt, who knew
something was going on but had no idea what, seemed much inclined to
fall into his chair but was forced to remain standing as long as his
commander stood. Sagan, however, put him out of his misery.
"Please be
seated, Brigadier."
Haupt sank
thankfully down into his chair, rested his hands limply on his desk,
and stared at the paperweight.
Maigrey drank
the green brandy slowly, in small sips, the welcome warmth of the
fiery liquid restoring life to her body None of them spoke, not even
the two who could do so mentally. Maigrey knew their listener could
hear words, but she was trying to remember—it had been almost
seventeen years ago—if he could eavesdrop on their thoughts.
"Are you
feeling better, my lady?" Sagan asked with grave politeness.
"Yes, my
lord, thank you. I apologize for my weakness. This wound is minor,
but ... it pains me sometimes." Her hand trembled; she set the
glass down quickly.
"Your
meeting with Snaga Ohme went successfully?"
She glanced at
him swiftly, replied coolly, "I am generally successful in
anything I undertake, my lord."