Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall (42 page)

With a curse, the dean kicked the tracker in the side of the head, grabbing up the rifle as it rolled free. Swinging about, he fired. It was a weapon from the shuttle and the bullet struck the nester pony in the shoulder. The horse reared up with a scream, Dusty falling free, and the horse collapsed as it returned to ground, its shattered leg failing it.

Blade was already off it and running. He threw a morning star which zithered through the air, tearing the cloth of the dean's robe through the flank as he ran. But it did not faze the man himself as he tried to gain the shuttle ramp.

Dusty cried out, "Marshall! The shuttle!"

A whistle split the air. The cries of a thousand voices rang out as the armies poised to war began their attacks. Drakkar hit the ground beside Dusty, hauling her up by the elbow and throwing her at Marshall's feet.

Dubois and Reynolds, in the shuttle, began pulling the ramp up manually. The dean caught the lip of it, firing as he went in. Reynolds went down with a crimson blossom and a shrill cry. The dean paused long enough to club Dubois with the rifle stock as he passed him.

Blade jumped and caught the ramp. He hung for a moment unnoticed and levered himself over the edge. He could hear screams and shots within the vehicle. Unfamiliar with it, he could only move in the direction of the mayhem.

But the dean was familiar with it. Familiar enough to know that the thrusters were positioned toward the main front where the Mojavans would rush the mesa. All he had to do was fire them up and his war would be done, a thousand men wiped out in the blast. The nesters and longshippers who died here also would be martyrs to his cause.

He could explain everything to the longship once this was over.

A shadowy figure blocked the corridor. The dean fired, it toppled. He stepped over the bleeding body, going aft, always seeking the main bridge. With a triumphant cry, he found it.

* * *

Drakkar put his body between the girl and the commander. He pulled a vial from his ammunition belt and reloaded his rifle. He fired once, carefully, putting a wall of flame between the nesters and himself. Ketchum had gotten to his knees, using the massive front tires of the shuttle for protection.

Dusty reached for Drakkar's arm. "Where's Thomas?"

"He's gone after the dean. They're both in the shuttle."

She felt sick to her stomach. "Marshall—"

He took her in his arms. "Are you all right?"

She could only nod. Smoke and blood filled the air as well as the cries of the victorious and the dying. And then the shuttle roared to life.

"My God," said the commander. "He knows how to fire the thrusters!"

The vehicle began to shudder as it warmed up. It trembled, straining for life, and its tires began to slowly turn. Ketchum was caught under them. His cry of pain burst into silence as he disappeared.

Blade stalked after the dean. He found one body, checked it, found a steady pulse, and stepped over it. Then as he passed an alcove, he saw a woman pressed into it, her hands covering her face in desperation. He clapped his free hand upon her wrists.

"Who are you?"

"K-kerry."

He thought over what Dusty had told him, frowning. Then, "The medic? A healer?"

"Yes."

"Down that way, behind me, there's someone who needs you. But first . . . did you see him? Which way did he go?" The gigantic vessel trembled about him, thrumming with energy.

The woman's eyes got big. "The bridge," she said. "The controls!"

"Which way?" Blade said, not too patiently.

She pointed with a trembling hand. He went. * * *

The dean had torn off his black robes. Beneath them he wore a simple shirt and jeans and boots—the shirt straining across his back muscles and across his flanks where handles of fat still rode. He heard Thomas' whisper-soft entry into the cabin.

"Ah," the man said. "I should have known." He reached for the rifle resting against an instrument panel.

"I should have killed you," Blade said, "the day Charles Warden came home and had his gills cut out because you made him feel ashamed of them."

The dean smiled. "And I did try to have you killed. But now I have you to thank for this. So perhaps it was meant you should die today instead of those years ago."

"I think," Blade responded, "that I can throw this knife before you can pick up that rifle."

The dean did not lose his smile. "I have no intention of picking up the rifle yet," he said. "I have an army to fry first." With a harsh laugh, he moved several levers on the board.

The shuttle roared out, erupting with power, shuddering with a thunderous noise. Thomas thought he could hear high-pitched screams under the blast. He moved, but the dean had sprung back from the instrument panel, a longknife in his hand, poised to fight.

"I am Gerald Conklin," the dean said. "And I have lived and fought in more
dojos
than you could ever imagine. I was alive when the Earth died. I let my frustrations handicap me, cloak me in fat, but adversity has taken all that away from me. If you want me, come and get me."

He had good moves. Thomas had to give him that. He thought he saw his last vision of Lady pass before his eyes with the first pass of the knife blade. In the cramped quarters, the dean had the reach on him. He defended, moved, and retreated. The shuttle continued to tremble underneath their feet, its roar muted.

They both attacked at once, high, and the longknives clashed. Blade could hear the complaint of his edge nocking upon the other. They both showed their teeth and shoved each over backward.

Then the dean moved swiftly. He had a feral grace that Thomas could only admire, and fear, in the close quarters. He felt himself backing back out in the corridor where the dean might still have allies behind Thomas. The notion made him careless. The dean connected.

His jacket saved most of the flesh of his underarm. Thomas bit back his pain and said only, "Bad hit, that. Not well placed to blood me."

"That will come," the dean said. He was breathing heavily. Sweat dotted his forehead.

Thomas found something to smile about. The dean might remember his moves very well—but his body was not used to exerting them.

He tossed his knife to his other hand. "Is this a fair fight? Because if it is, then I ought to tell you I'm ambidextrous—and that I use throwing stars as well as knives." He ran his hand under his collar and filled it with the weapon.

The dean's hooded eyes narrowed. Their color stayed flat and dark. "You're a freak," he said. "Something that should never have been brought to life. I'm surprised your mother didn't strangle you the moment you passed her knees—"

Thomas threw. The dean moved incredibly quickly. The wicked device passed him and sliced deep into the cabin well where it stuck. Before Thomas could react to the miss, the dean rushed him.

The man collared him with his longer reach and Blade nearly panicked to find the knife at his throat.

"Stop," he cried, and the dean hesitated. He could feel the wild thunder of the man's beating heart against his back.

"Not in here," Thomas said. "I'm the Marked Man. The nesters will have to
see
you kill me—or they'll never follow you anywhere again. Never." The edge bit into his throat.

Then the dean stopped. "You're right." He began to shove Thomas down the corridor, back toward the ramp.

The wounded in the corridor had been removed, bright, shiny slick spots marking their presence. Thomas saw them, but the dean did not, intent upon the nearly closed ramp. He slammed his side into the controls.

The ramp began to open. As it did, the sound of warfare reached them clearly. The doorway opened onto a scene of slaughter, hand-to-hand combat, men bent at impossible angles, fighting for their lives. The dean let out a harsh, wordless cry and the fighters stopped. They turned to see what was happening.

Thomas threw his weight to the side. The dean slipped into a pool of crimson, going to his knees. Blade jumped him, going for the knife, and the two of them tumbled down the ramp to the ground. He wrestled the knife away and faced the dean bare-handed.

The dean let out a bellow like a bull and charged him. Thomas met him with a fist. Conklin took it solidly on his jaw, rocking back on his heels. Then he swung himself. Thomas moved, taking the blow on his shoulder. The dean stepped back and dropped into a graceful stance. There was blood in his grin.

Thomas dodged the kick, swung around, and met the blow. Their wrists jarred as they met. He leapt back and kicked as well, low this time, going for the dean's kneecap or thigh. He connected. The older man reacted with a grunt and a half-hobble out of the way.

They mixed punches again. Thomas took one in the gut that reminded him that breathing couldn't be taken for granted. As his stomach clenched and ears rang, he dodged out of the way of the next blow. His fist found the lower back kidney.

The dean went to one knee in pain. Thomas kicked out, lashing an uppercut. The dean fell back and lay panting. He wasn't getting up easily.

"Thomas!" It was Dusty's voice. He looked out, saw the woman kneeling in the dirt, her commander protecting her. She had a look on her face that reminded him of Lady.

He looked back to the dean. The man lay prone, heaving for breath. Thomas spat to the side of him. "I'm taking you back," he said. "To the Seven Counties. Undoubtedly it'll be my pleasure to execute you." He looked up, meeting Drakkar's eyes.

Thomas turned his back on the dean and went to retrieve his knife from the shuttle.

Dusty screamed. He turned to see Marshall, the black man who reminded him of Gray Walton, taking the knife throw meant for him. It went through his throat.

Drakkar moved. He caught the dean and brought him to his knees. He raked his spur across the man's throat in a blur. "This is for the boys and Alma," he said harshly.

The dean began to choke on the bitter poison. Drakkar dropped him into the dust.

Thomas went to Dusty and the dying commander. Dusty's hands were soaked with his blood as she tried to stop the severed arteries and windpipe.

"Help me!" she begged. "You told me you have powers. In the name of God, help me!"

Thomas looked down. Lady had those powers, not he. He was battered and nearly broken. "I can't—"

Marshall raised a hand to his wrist and squeezed it with rapidly fading strength. His attempts to breathe gurgled wetly.

"Ah, hell," Thomas said. He laid his hands over Dusty's, closed his eyes, and tried to use his Intuition. Death is the other side of life, as disappointment is the other side of hope. He carried both those sides inside of him. Gillander had always told him that. He was not a half-man, a shadow man, walking the earth.

Prove it.

Was it easier to reach for death than life? He'd always said that dying was easy. It was living that was difficult.

It was knitting torn arteries. Darning slashed windpipes. Imagining the gush of spilling blood to slow, to clot. Skin to close. Life to get busy defeating death.

"My God," Dusty said. "Look what you've done."

He opened his eyes and lifted his hands. The dark man lay alive before him, a ghastly pink scar across his throat.

"Sloppy work," Thomas said. "Lady'll be upset with me." He wiped the blood on his jeans. He looked up. Drakkar had the nesters pulled back, a contingent of his father's men at his side.

"Let them go," he said.

Drakkar cocked his head.

Wearily, Thomas got to his feet. He felt drained of power. His body ached all over and his left sleeve was sodden with blood. His, this time. "Go back to your camps," he shouted. "The Marked Man sends you home! With water rights!" He moved aside so that the long-shippers could get to their commander and lift him on a stretcher.

Marshall whispered hoarsely, "Not enough fuel, Dusty."

She mopped his forehead. "Don't talk."

"I have to!" The commander pushed her hand away. "We can't go back now . . . and we can't help the
Challenger."

Thomas sat mutely, biting his lip against the pain of having his arm bandaged by the soft-spoken woman he'd met in the corridor. She'd recovered enough of her composure to stitch him up with a needle that stung like fire and was now wrapping him tight enough to cut off circulation. He listened to the redhead talk with her commander. He still liked the sound of her voice.

"Help her? What's wrong?"

"She's breaking up. Just like the
Gorby.
And the
Maggie■ "

The man called Dubois wore a rakish white turban of bandage. He looked up. "When did you find this out?"

"Early this morning. I couldn't . . . tell you. Sun said for us to find some place for the
Challenger
to put down. He said . . . they couldn't wait much longer."

Thomas spoke. "You've had a rough welcome here, but we want you."

Dusty looked at him in surprise, then smiled. "Enough to fight over us."

He shrugged. "We're only human."

She punched Dubois lightly in the shoulder. "Get Sun onscreen."