King's Test (8 page)

"This
should mean I'm on Tusk's side of the battlefield." Dion
squirmed around, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone—anyone—through
the smoke and flame. A lascannon opened fire behind him. Twisting,
keeping his head down, he looked back, thought he recognized a scaly
greenish gray hide.

"Jarun!"
he shouted, and immediately went into a fit of coughing, the smoke
filling his lungs.

The firing
ceased.

"Did you
hear something?" The voice sounded oddly mechanical, and it took
Dion a moment to realize it was coming from a translator device.

"Yeah, I
thought so." The other voice was human. "Who the hell'd be
out there?"

"Jarun!"
Dion yelled desperately.

"We hear
ya! And you got just three seconds to convince us why we shouldn't
fry your hide!"

"It's Dion!
I'm looking for Tusk!"

A long
green-gray tentacle snaked out, wrapped itself around Dion's boot,
and pulled the young man across the deck. A human hand grabbed hold
of his collar, dragged him behind a hastily built barricade
consisting of several large metal barrels.

Lying on his
back, breathless, Dion stared into the four eyes of the Jarun, the
two eyes of a human, and the single barrel of a beam rifle.

"It
is
the kid," the Jarun said through his translator, his actual
voice sounding like numerous screeching cats fighting inside a well.

"What kid?"
the human demanded, holding the weapon aimed at Dion's head.

"Friend of
Tusk's. He's okay. "

"Yeah? What
the hell's he doin' dressed up like one of the Warlord's pet
monkeys?"

"It's a
long story, Reefer, put down the gun. Hey, kid. Next time, don't
crawl under the belly of a plane for cover. One laser hit in the fuel
tank and—" The alien made a sound that approximated the
screeching cats hitting bottom.

Dion glanced
back, gulped, and nodded. "Where's Tusk?"

"Hell,
kid"—Reefer aimed the gun back in what Dion supposed was
the general direction of the enemy—"I don't even know
where I am. You know, Xrmt?"

"No."
The Jarun fired a searing beam into smoke-filled darkness.

"How about
General Dixter?"

"Dead,"
Reefer said shortly.

"Dead!"
Dion gasped, feeling as though someone had punched him hard in the
stomach.

"Cut in two
by a beam rifle."

"Naw, that
was Colonel Mudahby," the Jarun protested.

"Heard it
was Dixter," Reefer argued, A laser bolt slammed into a metal
beam overhead, showering sparks all around them, Dion scrunched down
as flat as possible on the deck, resenting the very pockets on his
flight suit that wouldn't let him flatten down farther,

"Dixter got
blown apart by a grenade."

The Jarun fired.
Reefer fired.

Dion started
breathing again. These two had no idea what was going on! Again he
remembered what he'd overheard about the battle from Captain
Williams's conversation with Admiral Aks. If Dixter was anywhere,
he'd probably be on Charlie deck.

"Any idea
how to reach the others?" Dion shouted over the firing.

"What
others?"

"Our people
fighting on Charlie deck!"

"What deck
we on?"

"Delta,"
Dion began, then realized his questions were futile. Closing his
eves, he tried to envision the situation. The alien must have landed
his RV facing the front of the hangar. That was standard procedure.
Which meant Charlie deck had to be somewhere to his left.

"Thanks,"
he said, and crawled off under the protective cover of the Jarun's
fire.

Moving to his
left, he saw that he had guessed correctly. The huge hangar bay doors
towered over him, sealed shut, trapping those inside. The smoke was
thinner back here, the firing was not as concentrated, and Dion
risked standing upright. Rubbing his bruised knees, he reacclimated
himself and started forward.

A whistling
sound sent him diving beneath the wreckage of something—he
couldn't tell what in the smoke. A hand caught hold of him around the
neck, flipped him over onto his back.

"Damn! It's
a Galactic pilot! Say your prayers, ass-licker!"

The blade of a
combat knife gleamed above him. Dion shouted, struggled wildly. A
black arm shot out and stopped the knife's descent.

"Link, you
bloodthirsty S.O.B.! It's Dion!"

"Tusk!"
Dion could have burst into tears. He grabbed hold of the mercenary
thankfully.

"I'll be
damned!" Link tossed the knife in the air, caught it expertly,
and tucked it back in his boot. "Sorry, kid. Thought I had a
live one."

"Can't say
I'm glad to see you here, kid." Tusk gripped Dion's arm tightly,
smiled grimly. "But I'm glad to see you're alive."

Dion couldn't
answer; smoke, leftover terror, and shock robbed him of his voice. He
stared at his friends, stunned by what he saw. Tusk's face was drawn
and haggard; he seemed to have aged a decade. The ebony skin
glistened with sweat, his eyes were red-rimmed. Blood streaked his
face, his lips were cracked and blistered. Link, crouched nearby,
managed a grin, but it looked ghastly through a mask of blood and
soot. The horrible reality of their desperate situation hit Dion in
the pit of his stomach.

"Where's
Nola?" the young man managed to ask, clearing his throat. "She
flew with you, didn't she?"

"Best damn
gunner I ever had." Tusk jerked a thumb behind him. Dion peered
over his shoulder to see a woman huddled on a pile of flight jackets,
her head swathed in bloody bandages.

"She'll be
all right," Link said, noting Dion's sudden pallor.

"Yeah,"
Tusk grunted. "Nice quiet prison cell. Do wonders for her."

The two
mercenaries exchanged glances. The boy wasn't fooled. He knew there'd
be no prison cell. He'd heard Sagan's orders. The mercenaries were to
be executed. He knew then that Tusk and Link knew it, too.

"Where's
Dixter?" Dion shouted.

A lasgun beam
slanted through the darkness.

Tusk and Link
raised up, fired in the beam's direction. A brief but furious
exchange ensued, then ceased. Link rolled over on his back, wriggled
into a more comfortable position.

"Hell, kid,
Dixter's d— Ouch! Damn it. Tusk. Wliat'd you kick me for?"

"Dixter's
on Charlie deck," Tusk said, not looking at Dion,

Tusk's heard the
general's dead, Dion realized.

Link was
carefully inspecting his gun. Smoke drifted overhead. Lethal beams
streaked through the darkness. An explosion, then someone screamed—a
high, piercing note that was suddenly cut off. Behind him, Dion heard
Nola moan. The woman stirred fitfully. Tusk crawled back to her,
gently pulled his flight jacket up over her shoulders. Dion followed
him.

"Who's in
charge around here?" he demanded.

"No one,
kid. Each of us is on his own, just trvin' to stay alive. I don't
even know how many of us are left."

"Listen,
Tusk, I heard Captain Williams talking to Admiral Aks. This battle
isn't going well for the Warlord's forces. And I've been thinking.
They don't dare use any heavy artillery— mortars and
rockets—inside the ship. They can't cram too many men into this
confined space or they'll start shooting each other. You're not
outgunned and you can’t be that far outnumbered. If you made a
concentrated push right now, tried to go for the hangar bay
controls—"

Tusk snorted in
derision. "Thanks for droppin' by, kid. You better get back to
your friends, now. Tell the Warlord I said he can take a flying
leap—" Where Tusk recommended the Warlord could leap was
lost in a blast from Link's lasgun.

"Tusk, I—"
Dion began desperately.

"Look,
kid!" Tusk grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit. "It's
hopeless. Dixter's dead. We're all going to die. I don't know what
you're doin' here, but you got a Galactic uniform on. You can get
out. You better do it!'

Dion shook
himself free of Tusk's hold. "I'm going to find Dixter. Okay if
I borrow this?' He took Nola's lasgun, started off through the smoke.

"Dion! Damn
it, kid—"

He heard Tusk
shout, but Dion didn't turn around. He’d spotted what looked to
be a way out.

Dion opened a
door, peered into a narrow corridor. According to the blueprint, this
corridor connected Delta deck with Charlie. The young man advanced
cautiously, weapon drawn, expecting a raging battle.

The corridor was
strangely, eerily quiet. No smoke, no signs of life or death. A door
at the end was labeled with a large C. Dion dashed toward it. his
heart in his throat. He hit the controls with his hand so hard he
bruised his palm.

The door slid
open. He darted inside, prepared to take immediate cover, and
blundered into a desk. The room was brightly lit; he couldn't see
anything after coming in from the darkness of the corridor. He shoved
the desk out of his way, but another step brought him up against
another desk. Blinking, he saw the place was filled with them!
Rolled-up star charts and a coffee maker humming to itself in a
corner gave him an idea where he was—a pilot's ready room.

Shoving desks
aside, he headed for a steelglass viewport that must face out onto
Charlie deck. Dion pressed his nose against the steelglass, expecting
to see the same chaos he'd left on Delta: smoke, laser bursts, tracer
fire. He recognized the mercenaries' spaceplanes, but the only signs
of combat were trailing wisps of smoke being sucked into
Defiant'
s
ventilation system.

"Charlie
deck!" he muttered. "It has to be! But what's happened?"

The fighting's
ended! Which means—

Dion's knees
felt weak. He sat down suddenly at a desk, stared out onto the deck,
searching for people, seeing no one. That's it, then. They're all
dead.

"What
should I do?" he asked himself bleakly, feeling empty, drained.
"Go back to Tusk. I can at least help him and Nola and Link
escape, take them off in my spaceplane. Hell. That wouldn't work.
They'd never leave. But I could. I could escape. Get out while I can,
like Tusk said. No one would ever know. . . .

"Yes . . .
he would," Dion said softly. "Sagan would know. He
always
knows! And. once again, he'd know that I ran. He'd figure I was
scared.

Dion rose to his
feet. "Let him find my body with the bodies of my friends.
I'll—"

Out of the
corner of his eye. he saw the man, saw the gun. . . .

Pain . . . and
then nothing.

Have you built
your ship of death. O have you?

"
The
Ship of Death
," D. H. Lawrence

Disguised as a
pilot—a wounded pilot, her "borrowed" flight suit
covered with blood—Maigrey hoped, in the confusion. to make her
way onto one of the evac ships. She arrived on one of
Phoenix's
flight decks and hovered in the background. keeping to the shadows,
watching, appraising the situation. Time was running out, maybe
another fifteen minutes left in the safety window. But this, she
discovered, had not been one of her better ideas.

First, there was
no confusion. No panic. Each man, apparently. had his own assigned
place on his own assigned ship. The men—those who were left,
and there weren't many— were proceeding on board the evac ships
in the well-drilled orderly fashion she might have expected of
Sagan's crew. Second, disguised as a pilot, she had no idea what her
assigned station was. Gnawing on her lip, swearing beneath her
breath, she watched for several minutes, hoping to see some breakdown
in discipline, wondering if she couldn't bluff her way on board by
claiming she had been knocked out, missed her own evac ship.

No. that would
draw attention to her. Sagan had undoubtedly alerted the guards to
her disappearance. They'd be watching for her.

"The
hospital ship,' Maigrey muttered. She recalled Sagan saying something
about using his own shuttle to transport wounded. The wounded
wouldn't have any assigned stations! She glanced down at the bloody
hole in the front of her flight suit and headed immediately, at a
run, for the hangar where Sagan's shuttle was kept.

Arriving there,
she remembered just in time that she was supposed to be injured and
stopped outside the entrance to the hangar to get into her role. Of
course, once she got onto the shuttle, there'd be the problem of the
medics wanting to examine her.

"One worry
at a time." Maigrey was just about to press her hand over the
bloodstained rip and stagger forward when the door shot open.

In front of her
stood Sagan's own personal sleek white spaceplane. The plane he would
use to leave the ship.

Maigrey recoiled
back into the shadows. This is the last place ! need to lie! she
thought wildly. The Warlord could arrive at any moment. But how the
hell else can I get oft?

A heavy hand
grasped her by the shoulder.

Maigrey's breath
stopped. It's not Sagan! her mind reassured her. She would have
sensed his presence. But it took her heart a moment to catch up with
her brain’s logic. She stared through her helmet at the hand,
its fingers scraping roughly against her neck.

The hand was
large, clean, too clean for a man on board a fighting ship.

"Rogers!"
came a voice from the general proximity of the hand.

Maigrey turned
to face the man, jerking free of the hands grip in the same movement.
The hand’s owner was like his appendage—large and too
neat, too clean. His uniform had a small smudge of soot on one
sleeve; otherwise it was spotless, not even wrinkled. Whatever hole
he'd found to hide in must be a good one.

"Major,"
she said, remembering in time that—according to the insignia on
the uniform—she was a captain, and saluting. The helmet's face
shield, though clear, would distort her features; the dirt and blood
she'd smeared on her skin would help make recognition difficult,
especially in the semi-darkness.