The Lost King (62 page)

Sagan's plane was blown
backward by the force of the explosion that tore the hatch from the
brain. The concussive blast nearly caused him to lose consciousness,
but Maigrey was there to strengthen his limp hands and infuse her
mind into his. He came to himself, regained control, and the two sped
away. A second explosion—much larger than the first—tore
the heart out of the brain.

Corasian fighters
swarmed around them, but it was suddenly a swarm that had lost all
guidance. Some of the enemy ground to a halt—waiting, perhaps,
for instructions that would never come. Others continued the attack
but with a mindless fanaticism that made them easy targets. Others
appeared to have no idea where they were or why they were here and
drifted about aimlessly. The solid fist had opened, and there was a
chance, now, that Sagan and his forces could cut off the wriggling
fingers.

But the Guardians had
hit only one arm of the multi-limbed monster. The battle continued to
rage; the planned retreat was going well. Rather too well.

Sagan needed to see, to
think. He soared far out beyond the battle lines, Maigrey following
him. Those few Corasians chasing them gave up and turned back,
seeking other, slower, easier prey.

Maigrey said nothing.
Absorbed completely in planning his new strategy, Sagan appeared to
have forgotten her existence. She was just as glad. The strange and
awful sensation, that "enhancement" or whatever it had
been, was fading, draining from her like blood from a severed artery.
She was suddenly shaking and exhausted and chilled to the bone. She
couldn't breathe and nearly yanked off the smothering helmet.

"Aks! Did you see
that?"

"We saw the
explosion, my lord. And we're receiving the data you transmitted now.
Congratulations, my—"

"Belay that
nonsense! I'm shifting strategy. Stop the retreat! Strengthen the
front lines, throw everything we've got at the enemy. Keep them busy,
Aks!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Alert the
reserves, including the mercenaries. Send them after the brain. I'm
coming in."

"Yes, my lord."

The Warlord broke off
the transmission. He glanced out his viewscreen at the Scimitar
hovering at his wingtip, and his eyes narrowed.

"My lord."
Maigrey's voice was calm and sounded strange, unrecognizable, even to
her. "Final count: you owe me two. When you return to
Phoenix
,
you will find one of your Honor Guards, a man named Marcus, has been
placed under arrest and is awaiting execution for disobeying your
orders. He's a good soldier. I ask that you set him free with a full
and complete pardon."

"So that's how you
managed to escape. I know this Marcus. He is, as you say, a good
soldier and one I would hate to lose. Very well, my lady, I grant
your request. And the other life I owe you?"

"My own. Let me
go, Sagan. You've got the boy. I can't matter to you now."

"And where will
you go, Lady Maigrey?"

"Back there. To
the fighting. They need me. I'm a good pilot." There was no life
in her voice, in her thoughts. There was, it seemed, no life left in
her.

"Don't be a fool,
my lady. Your plane's taken damage; you wouldn't last ten minutes."
He paused, probing her mind. "But that's what you want, isn't
it? You're afraid, my lady. You're scared. That was just a taste of
what we could accomplish together, you and I! Of the power we could
control! Just a taste. And you liked it, didn't you, my lady? You
want more!"

She didn't respond.
Everything was so still between them it seemed he could hear her
breathe, hear the beating of her heart.

"This debt I owe
you, Lady Maigrey, is like the genie's last wish. You shouldn't
squander it."

"What do you mean,
my lord?"

"I mean, my lady,
that there are other lives in your keeping—lives besides your
own. Lives that, perhaps, mean more to you than your own. And now, my
lady, I have no time left to waste on you."

The Warlord's white,
spearheaded plane sailed swift and true for
Phoenix
. He left
her behind. The choice was hers.

Maigrey, after a
moment's bitter struggle, cursed God and followed him.

Dion found the action.
And it wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

He was surrounded.
There were so many of the enemy, coming at him from so many different
directions, that he couldn't count them. He fired and fired until his
hands ached from the physical strain of operating the guns. He stared
at the target screen, trying desperately to align the blips in the
little box as he'd been taught, but his eyes burned from fatigue, the
box wobbled and seemed to expand and elongate in his blurred vision.
The blips were in and out too fast. He couldn't react quickly enough.
The ship took hit after hit and shivered and shook around him.

"Number four
shield can't hold, sir," the computer reported in its stupid,
mindless calm. "Number two is down. I'm effecting repairs—"

"Don't bother,"
Dion said through lips that had gone numb. He couldn't move his
mouth, he couldn't move his hands, and he understood now the terrible
meaning of the term "scared stiff."

He was going to die,
horribly, awfully. Blown apart out here in the cold void.

"You got yourself
into one hell of a mess, kid!"

Squadron Leader's
exasperated voice rang in Dion's ears and he nearly wept in relief.

The enemy blips on his
screen were joined by other blips, friendly blips, and the enemy
blips began to disappear. Dion's courage returned, now that he wasn't
alone. He began to return the fire.

"This is Blue Two.
Enemy coming in, Squadron Leader."

"I see them.
There's too many. Pull ba—"

The scream tore through
Dion's head, seeming to rip out his brains—the high-pitched,
gurgling wail of a man dying in slow agony. It was mercifully ended,
cut short by a shattering explosion, but the screaming went on and
on.

It was Dion. He was
screaming and he couldn't make himself stop. Blue Two was saying
something, yelling something, but it made no sense, and then Blue Two
was gone. Debris slammed into Dion's ship, and he was rolling over
and over, spiraling through the blackness.

Take the helm, sir,"
the computer commanded.

Dion had quit
screaming; he had no voice left. His throat was raw. He tasted blood
in his mouth. But the silent scream went on inside him. He stared at
the panel in front of him, at the wildly flashing red alarm lights,
at the stars outside the viewscreen that were revolving madly, and he
was stable and it was the world beyond that was spinning out of
control.

"Take the helm—"

"I can't,"
Dion whispered. His hands fell limply in his lap. He stared out the
viewport. Nothing made sense. He had no idea what any of these myriad
dials were telling him. The flashing lights were painful to his eyes
and he squinched the lids tightly shut. "I don't know how."

"Shall I take
over, then, sir?"

"Yes."

The word was inaudible.
Shivering, Dion curled up in the pilot's chair, his knees to his
chin, his arms dangling between his legs. He couldn't breathe for
dry, heaving sobs.

The computer took
command of the plane, brought it back under control. But it had no
idea where to go.

Four Corasians,
spotting it, had a place for it.

"And that's it,"
General Dixter said, speaking from the bridge of
Defiant
,
talking to his people in the hangar bays through a two-way vid
hookup. "Our orders have been changed. We go after these
'brains,' as the Warlord calls them. You've seen the diagrams. You
know how and where to hit them. I won't ask for questions because I
couldn't answer them. You know as much as I do."

The mercenaries were
silent, an ominous silence. Then. Link, stirring, voiced their
opinion. "I don't like it, sir. It's a suicide run."

There were murmurs of
assent.

"Each of you is an
independent operator." Captain Williams cut in, appearing on the
screen. "You are free to leave."

The contrast between
the two generals was marked. Dixter's uniform was rumpled as usual.
Tusk wondered how the general managed it. Uniforms that Bennett had
pressed until the creases were so sharp they were practically lethal
wilted the moment John Dixter put them on. He never buttoned the
collar and would have neglected to put on his stars and medals (wom
unofficially), but that Bennett insisted. By contrast, Captain
Williams's black, red-trimmed uniform was immaculate, not a thread
out of place. He stood stiff and rigid as if he expected the Warlord
to call an inspection any moment. And the captain wasn't, Tusk noted,
smiling.

"None of you
mercenaries has to be here," Williams stated. "You can
leave now—"

"—like the
cowardly scum we are. Right, Captain?" Tusk demanded.

"The Warlord has
conferred upon you a compliment. He has given you this assignment
because you're—"

"—expendable,"
Link shouted.

Captain Williams
regarded them with cold, grave contempt. "
Our
men are the
ones currently expending their lives while you sit here safely on
your—"

"That will do,
people." Dixter came back on the screen, his face was flushed
red. His people could hear the anger and embarrassment in his voice.
The mercenaries exchanged covert glances, looking and feeling like
small children who had been rude to a great-aunt. Most appeared
ashamed; a few, however, remained sullen.

"Well, then,
Captain," Nola sang out, shaking her curls and
grinning—undaunted—at Williams, "I guess we better
come to your rescue."

There was laughter and
cheering.

"Yeah, we'll go
out there and take care of 'em!" they shouted. "Don't
worry, Capt'n Williams! We'll bring your babies home!"

The captain broke off
the communication. The mercenaries were dispersing, hurrying to their
planes. Tusk put his arm around Nola and hugged her tight.

"Thanks, Rian."

"You looked like a
whipped pup. I had to say something. I think you're all half-scared
of that man. But he puts his trousers on one leg at a time, same as
you do," Nola teased.

"First his teeth,
then his trousers. I think you just want to get into his trousers,
that's what I think."

There was no cutting
edge in Tusk's remark. It was halfhearted, dispirited. Nola, missing
that spirit, crowded closer. "It's going to be easy, Tusk.
Nothing to it. After all, the Warlord and the Starlady took out one
of those things and there was only two of them. We'll have Link and
all the others.

Tusk didn't tell her
about the Blood Royal, about the phenomenal power. He didn't tell her
about the Golden Squadron, about a group of pilots whose exploits
were, to this day, legendary.

"Yeah," he
said at last, with a light laugh. "It's gonna be simple. So
simple that I think XJ can handle the guns. Look, Nola, I'm worried
about the general. I don't like leavin' him here, alone, with that
toothy bastard on the bridge. Why don't you go up there with him?"

"He's not alone.
He's got Bennett—"

"Bennett!"
Tusk snorted. "What help's he gonna be if something goes wrong?
He might slice up a few men with the sharp crease on his pants leg—"

Tusk, stop it. I'm
going with you." Holding on to his arm, using it to pull herself
up, Nola stood on tiptoe and planted a lass on his ear. "Besides,
XJ's got all the calculations worked out for the change in
life-support with me aboard. You know how upset he'd get if he had to
refigure all that again."

"Yeah," Tusk
said, but he wasn't happy. He started heading for his plane.

Nola moved around to
stand in front of the mercenary, blocking his way. "Tusk,"
she said, looking into the dark brown eyes, "you don't think I'm
going to be a liability to you, do you? That's not the reason you re
trying to get rid of me?"

Tusk reached out, put
his hands on her arms. "Nola, I'll be honest. It's gonna be like
Link said, a suicide run—"

"I know. And would
you rather face death together or apart?"

Tusk paused a moment,
thinking. When he spoke, he knew at last he meant it. "You give
me . . . something, Nola. I don't know what. All I know is that when
I'm with you I can do things I never thought I could do. If there's
any way to beat this thing, it'll take us together to do it. And I
guess if we gotta go out, well go out together."

Tusk, you
smooth-talker! Jeez, no wonder you never manage to hang on to women!"
Link, coming up from behind deftly slid his arm around Nola's waist.
"Stick with me, sweetheart. I'll show you the galaxy."

Nola gently, firmly
pushed Link's arm away, entwined her hand in Tusk's. "I love
you!" she whispered.

Tusk shook his head and
sighed, softly.

. . . Loved I not Honor
more.

Richard Lovelace, "To
Lucasta, Going to the Wars"

"XJ, you
infernal—!" Tusk ignored the ladder, swung down through
the hatch, and dropped lightly onto the deck below. "XJ!"
he shouted in a rage. "What did they do to my plane?"

The interior of the
spaceplane was dark; the computer— conserving energy-—had
shut all systems down. It was unbearably hot and stuffy inside. Tusk
beat on the bulkheads, stamped on the deck with his heavy combat
boots.

Slowly, the lights
flickered on, cool air began to circulate through the cabin. Nola,
uncertain that she wanted to get involved in this domestic squabble,
waited at the top of the open hatch, affecting to be deeply
interested in watching Link, who was next to them, ready his
spaceplane for takeoff.

"Ah," XJ
said, "I see you've noticed the new paint job. We're regulation
now!"

"Regulation if we
were in the Galactic Democratic Republic Air Corps! Which we're not!"
That was the gist of Tusk's sentence, after it had been filtered
through the foul language. The pilot was frothing at the mouth. Nola
began to hum loudly to herself.