King's Test (10 page)

"Not nearly
enough, son. Dixter let the boy down gently. "We can't get
everyone off. We managed to knock out the tractor beams, so once ray
people escape, they'll be in the clear. But someone has to stay
behind, tight the rearguard action, keep the bay doors open. We—

A violent
explosion rocked the hangar deck. Men and women leapt to their feet,
grabbing weapons, taking up positions. Dixter looked ahead toward the
front of the hangar bay. Dion stared hard, but it was impossible to
see around the numerous spaceplanes. some of them wrecked, others
obviously ready and waiting to go. "Bennett, the field radio '
Dixter’s aide was there, equipment on hand, Dixter spoke into
the small, compact unit. "Moore, what's going on?"

"They've
blown the main hatch, sir. We're all set for em up here. Lilly says
give her fifteen minutes more and she'll have those bay doors wide
open.

"Right,
Good luck. Out, " Calmly ignoring a series of small explosions
and an answering burst of lascannon fire, the general turned to Dion.
"What's it like on Delta? We lost contact with them a long time
ago."

"Chaos,
sir. No one's in command. Small groups, scattered around. They think
you're dead. They've lost all hope. . . ."

"Hope."
Dixter shook his head. The brown eyes, in their maze of wrinkles,
looked suddenly faded, weary.

'"Only the
dead are without hope, sir,'" Dion said.

Dixter smiled,
remembered where he'd heard that saving before. "Yes, but as
Maigrey would add, they have other benefits. Well, young man, what do
you propose to do? I see you've got something in mind."

Dion flushed.
"I'd like to go back there, sir. Take command."

"Take
command ..." Dixter was looking at Dion but the general was, in
reality, seeing Dion's uncle, seeing a king who had never, a day in
his life, truly taken command. Same blood, but in the old king it had
moved sluggishly. In this boy it burned.

"I've got
an idea. sir. I think it has a chance of succeeding and I really
don't have time to explain it. I'll need a field-phone." Dion
leaned down, picked one up.

"Here, now,
young man!" A shocked Bennett reached out to snatch his
equipment back.

Dixter laid a
quieting hand on his aide's arm, turned away, motioned Bennett to
attend.

"Let him
have it," the general said softly.

His aide stared
at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious, sir! He's ... a
child!"

"Alexander
the Great was fifteen when he fought his first war. Take a good look
at him, Bennett."

The aide glanced
reluctantly around. The blue eyes were hard as glare ice. The
youthful face was pale, composed and frozen as a snowbank. The
shining red hair of the Starfires, disheveled, running rampant, shone
like a pillar of flame.

"After
all," Dixter murmured, talking more to himself than to Bennett.
"Dion
is
a prince. And if God's with that young man, then
maybe He'll be with my people. And if He's not"—the
general shrugged—"what do we have to lose?"

"A
fieldphone," Bennett observed crisply. "And that is an
extremely expensive—"

Dixter grinned,
clapped his aide on the back. "Put it on my tab. Wry well, young
man. You can take your radio. Here you go. Need anything else?"
He was unable to conceal his ironic-tone.

Fortunately Dion
was too pent up and excited to notice. "No, sir. Thank you."

Another
explosion, this one much closer, caused them all to duck, sent a
shower of sparks over the general. Bennett hastily brushed them off
the uniform, lamenting over numerous burn holes. Given the rumpled,
slept-in, soot-, sweat-, and blood-stained state of his uniform,
Dixter couldn't tell that a few holes made much difference.

"You better
get going, son. No . . . no good-byes. It's bad luck."

"Yes, sir.
Thank you. sir. I—" Dion held out his hand. The general
shook it gravely. "I'll see you soon, sir."

Tucking the
fieldphone into a pocket of his flight suit, Dion made his way
through the tangle of wreckage and bodies, returning to the pilot
ready room and the corridor linking Charlie deck with Delta.

"An
interesting young man," said Dixter, watching him go. "A
pity I won't be around to see what happens to him."

"Your
computer has not given the correct code response, Scimitar. Halt and
identify yourself."

Correct code
response. Maigrey swore beneath her breath, something she'd been
doing a lot lately, she noted. What the devil was going on? Why had
they changed the damn codes
³
Then she remembered. Some of
the mercenaries, Dion’s friend Tusk among them, flew stolen
Scimitars. They'd been given the codes when they were on the side of
the angels, when they were fighting
for
Sagan in his fight
against the Corasians. It was only logical for him to order the codes
changed now that they were fighting against the Warlord. It wouldn't
do to let the wolf into
Defiant'
s fold.

"Well, I am
the wolf," Maigrey said to herself grimly. "And I'm
landing, code or no blasted code," She pondered, deciding on her
strategy. Maintain the disguise, bluff her way through . . . The hell
with it. She was too damn tired. Tired and, now that she thought of
it, hungry.

"Listen to
me, whoever you are and whatever rank you are and," she added,
voice tight and cold, "you better take a good look at that rank
because you're not going to be a lieutenant or a corporal or a
sergeant much longer unless you obey my command. I am Lady Maigrey
Morianna and I arn flying a plane that's shot to hell. Even if I did
know your friggin code, which I don't, since I've been fighting the
Corasians, the only thing my computer could do with it is exactly
what I'd like to do with it and what we'll both be happy to do with
it if and when we get the opportunity to meet you."

She drew a deep
breath, let it out, almost purred, "Now, you will give me that
landing clearance, won't you?"

Maigrey sat
back.

A pause, then a
voice came. "You have been cleared for landing, your ladyship.
Emergency equipment standing by."

"Thank you.
And I want an armed detail of MPs waiting to meet me."

"Repeat
that last—"

"You heard
me." Maigrey switched him off. Better to keep him unbalanced,
not give him time to go trotting off to some superior officer, who
might remember that though she was a privileged prisoner, Maigrey was
a prisoner nonetheless and it wouldn't be proper form to put an armed
detail under her command. Hopefully
Defiant
would be in such a
state of confusion, they'd react automatically to her authority
without thinking about it. If not—or if Sagan managed to get
through to them first—she might very well find the armed detail
waiting to take
her
into custody.

Maigrey touched
the red mark on her skin, the mark left by the starjewel's chain. She
called up a mental image of the jewel. The crystal shone clear,
radiant, lit from within by its own inner white-blue light. Calming,
soothing, it reminded her of a Will greater, more powerful than her
own.

Maigrey pressed
the points of the imaginary starjewel against her cheek, closed her
eyes. She could almost feel tiny pinpricks tingle through her nerves.
She followed them, going deep within herself to a place that was dark
and empty, a place that harbored no emotion, a place of oblivion.

When she
emerged, a few moments later, she was rested, calm. She had her plan;
she knew exactly what she must do.

She was only
sorry she hadn't thought to have the armed detail bring along a
chicken sandwich.

Dion dashed back
through the pilot ready room—this time shutting off the lights,
keeping low. He hesitated entering the corridor. Letting the door
slide open only a crack, he listened, peered out.

Nothing. It was
still silent, still empty. He drew a breath and charged down the
passageway. At the entrance to Delta deck, he pressed the controls,
dove headlong inside when the door slid open. Landing on his stomach,
he slammed up hard against a pile of rubble. Never again would he let
himself get hit from behind.

The fighting on
Delta appeared, by the sound of it, to be heavy but sporadic. Bursts
of laser fire came from all directions. The smoke was so thick it was
impossible to see anything, and breathing was difficult. Dion ripped
a piece of fabric from the shirt of a dead mercenary lying next to
him. The young man tied it around his nose and mouth. Crude, but it
would keep out the worst of the fumes.

His flight suit
with its Galactic Air Corps markings was a danger. Yet, hopefully, it
would also prove his salvation. He couldn't abandon ft, though he'd
been nearly killed twice because of it. The dead had another gift to
offer him. Stripping the flak jacket from the body, Dion pulled it on
over his flight suit. The jacket was heavy and hot over the already
bulky flight suit, but it beat getting shot by his own people.

Lying prone, he
considered the situation. Being pilots, the mercenaries were armed
mainly with hand weapons—small lasguns, perhaps a beam rifle
here and there. The marines had lascannons, grenades. The mercenaries
were fighting in detached groups, each intent on its own survival. If
they could be made to unite, if they had heavy weaponry . . .

Dion twisted
around, stared through the murk, ignoring the stinging smoke in his
eyes. Impatiently, he blinked back tears. Had he found what he'd been
seeking? The young man risked leaving his cover, crawled forward a
meter or so to make certain. Yes! He clenched his fist in excitement
and slithered his way back to the rubble.

Dion waited,
watched until he located the position of gunfire nearest him, coming
from the front of the hangar bay, a position he hoped was still being
held by the mercenaries. If not, well, he had the flight suit on
under the jacket. He supposed he could always say the jacket was on
because he felt cold.

A lull came in
the fighting. Dion leapt up, ran hunched over, keeping low until he
reached three humans and an alien crouched behind a trash masher.
Their weapons swiveled, turned instantly on the figure emerging from
the smoke. Dion kept his hands outstretched, lasgun in plain view.
The men saw his jacket, checked their reflexive action, and relaxed.

Dion joined
them, somewhat at a loss. It was easy to say he was going to take
command. He had never really considered how to do it. He decided the
direct approach was the best and yanked the cloth away from his
mouth.

"I'm Dion
Starfire, and I'm taking command."

Energy bolts
burst overhead, showering them with sparks.

Everyone
crouched down, then jumped up to fire back furiously. When this
interlude ceased, the men settled back. None of them so much as
glanced at Dion.

Injured pride
banished fear, anger hardened his voice. "I said I'm taking
command!''

"Shit,"
one said to another, "this is all we need."

His buddy
glanced at Dion. "The adults are busy, kid. Go play soldier
somewhere else."

Blood pounded in
the boy's ears—the Blood Royal, he would realize if he had
thought about it. Probably the hardest battle he would ever fight was
right there, fighting for control of himself.

"What we
need"—Dion kept his voice calm—"is heavier
equipment. Lascannons, grenades, '

"Yes, sir."
The alien spoke through its translator, snapping off a mocking salute
with a thick, squishy arm. "I'll run right over to supply, sir!'

The humans
grinned at each other. A flare burst overhead. It was only a flare,
but Dion didn't know that. Involuntarily, he ducked, cringed, waiting
for the explosion. The mercenaries noticed, shook their heads in
disgust, and continued peering through the smoke.

"Damn!"
one said, with sudden irritability. "Why the hell don't they
just come on and get this over with?"

Dion
straightened up. "Listen to me! The equipment we need is right
out there." He pointed straight ahead. "The enemy's
abandoned a position not for from here—"

"Yeah, and
if you ask em nice, kid," one of the humans said, "maybe
they'll quit shooting at us long enough for us to go out and gather
it up!"

Dion glared
around in frustration, saw a burst of tracer fire coming from their
right. "Who's over there? Some of our people?"

One of the men
shrugged, nodded without interest. Another brief, furious round of
ineffectual shooting silenced all conversation. When it ended, the
men hunkered down, faces tense, carefully blank.

"I'll be
back," Dion told them finally, frustrated. "Wait for me
here."

"Sure
thing, General,' the alien said. The others didn't bother to reply.

Dion jumped to
his feet, ran the short distance between one group and the next. A
staccato of laser fire erupted behind him, sending him crashing
unceremoniously into three women, who had taken refuge behind a
girder and what looked to be part of a plane's broken wing.

They stared at
him in astonishment as he barreled into their position.

He'd learned his
lesson. Crouching down in front of them, he gasped, "The men
from over there sent me. We're making a sortie . . . out there . . .
lascannon, grenades. Need . . . covering fire."

"You got
it," a woman said.

"Can you
see . . . signal . . . from there,"

She grinned at
him. "I can see that red hair of yours a kilometer off, kid. Go
on back. Tell your buddies we'll make sure the marines keep their
heads down."

Dion nodded, his
breath gone, then turned and ran back to the trash masher. He
wondered that he wasn't feeling scared— certainly not the
panicked, debilitating terror he'd experienced in his spaceplane. It
was probably, he told himself, because he just plain didn't care
anymore.