King's Test (11 page)

His squad
appeared highly surprised and not particularly pleased to see him
again.

"If it
ain't the general." the alien growled.

Dion ignored
him. "Our people over there are going to give us covering fire.
That is, they're going to give
me
covering fire. I'll go out
alone if I have to, but I can't carry many guns back here by myself
Are you with me?"

Laser fire
sizzled past him. He didn't dodge for cover. He felt reckless,
exhilarated, immortal. He had meant what he said. He would go it
alone if he had to.

"Hell,"
one of the humans said to his companions. "We're all gonna die
anyway. I say we go with him."

"Now!"
Dion shouted, and he was off. running flat out across the deck,
jumping over wreckage and bodies.

From somewhere
to his right, he heard and saw flashes of flame; the women had
spotted him, were giving him the covering fire they’d promised.
He was halfway to his destination when he realized he had no idea if
anyone was following him. Suddenly, the very air seemed to be
exploding all around him. He crashed headlong into a crude barricade.

And there,
hurling themselves after him—the alien landing right on top of
him—was his motley squad. His first command.

Dion pushed the
grunting, heavy body of the alien off him and peered over the edge of
the barricade. He saw two lascannons surrounded by three dead
marines. Two of the bodies had grenades attached to their belts.

"Hunh! Not
bad, kid," one of the men commented.

Dion caught his
breath, started to rise to his feet. The man grabbed hold of him,
dragged him down. "Begging the general's pardon, but those
cannons have to be carried just right or they sorta blow up in your
face. We'll get em. You cover us, you and Ned here. '

"Ned!' The
alien wheezed with what Dion assumed was laughter. "That's what
they call me. Can you believe it? Ned!" It shook its skinless,
bony head.

"Hold the
fort. General," the man advised, and before Dion quite knew what
was happening, his squad was off.

Dion jumped up
from behind the barricade, firing his lasgun wildly. The alien opened
fire. Its strange weapon— designed to fit its three-fingered
hand—shot a burst of energy bolts that nearly blinded the boy.
Something exploded near him; stinging pain shot through his left arm
and was promptly forgotten.

His men grabbed
the lascannon and as many grenades as each could carry, stuffing them
down the fronts of their flak jackets, and came running back,
stumbling beneath the weight of the heavy cannon. They headed for the
trash masher. Dion and the alien slowly retreated. The women covered
them, keeping up almost continuous, deadly fire.

"Run for
it!" The women shouted at him.

Dion ran, the
alien pounding along beside him. Someone caught hold of Dion, pulled
him down. The young man looked around, dazed, and was amazed to find
himself behind the trash masher. His lungs burned; he gulped air.

One of the men
had also managed to snag a canteen. He drank sparingly, offered it to
Dion.

"What next,
General?"

Dion took hold
of the canteen, started to take a drink, and was afraid suddenly he
might be sick. He handed it back.

"Get
together as many of you as you can. Move out . . . that direction.'
He waved his left hand vaguely, saw a gaping hole in the flak jacket
he was wearing, noticed blood trickling down his fingers. He wondered
whose it was. "The controls . . . for hangar bay. We've got . .
. capture them. Open . . .' He was having trouble catching his
breath. "Escape."

"Gotcha.
How'll we know where the controls are?"

Dion forced his
mind to slow down, not gallop past details. "Flares," he
said, remembering the burst overhead that had scared him. "Flares,"
he repeated.

He staggered to
his feet.

"Hey,
General. You've been hit. You better rest a minute—"

Dion shook his
head. He didn't have much time.

"Thank
you," he said politely to his first command, and went off to
find Tusk,

The men watched
until the red hair was lost in the smoke. Then they hefted their
equipment, prepared to obey orders.

"Wait a
goddam minute' How old do you suppose that kid is?" one asked.

"Dunno.
Maybe sixteen, seventeen, his buddy answered.

"You got
any idea why we re doing this?"

"No."
All of them, Ned included, shook their heads.

"Me
neither. Except ..." the man paused, pondered, "I think
maybe its the eyes. They sort of burn right through a guy . Any of
you ever seen eyes like that?"

None of them,
including Ned. who had six eyes of his own. ever had.

Dion squad moved
out.

. . . quod
vindicta

Nemo magis
gaudet quam femina.

... no one
delights more in vengeance than a woman.

Juvenal,
Satires

"I don't
need any help, thank you. No, I'm not hurt!"

The MP couldn't
hear the words but he understood the gesture. Watching through a
viewscreen in the corridor outside the hangar bay, he saw the pilot
wave off assistance and extricate herself from the smashed-up
Scimitar. Emergency crews swarmed over it, checking for potential
fires, radiation leaks.

"Why did
you bother?" One of the crewmen appeared to be shouting. A
hulking cyborg encased in a protective suit, he twiddled a robotic
arm at what was left of the spaceplane.

The pilot
removed her helmet, said something that would seem to be, from the
movement of her lips, "It beat walking!"

The cyborg was
highly amused at the response.

Exiting the
hangar bay, the pilot entered the corridor. The MP drew his men up in
ceremonial form, awaiting her arrival. The woman saw them. They
saluted, she saluted, fist over her heart. Her face was smeared with
grease and soot, her pale hair had drifted free of its confining
braids, her flight suit was punctured and stained with blood. Though
she appeared bone-weary, she stood straight, shoulders squared.

"I am Lady
Maigrey Morianna. Where is Captain Williams? I want to speak with
him."

The MP was
completely taken aback by this request, and somewhat confused.
Escaping prisoners, such as this woman was purported to be, didn't
generally arrive on board a ship and demand to see the captain.

"Captain
Williams is . . . uh . . . unavailable at the moment, your . . .
ladyship. The current emergency situation ... If I could be of
assistance ..."

Maigrey fixed
the MP with a scrutinizing gaze. He was conscious of undergoing some
sort of evaluation. Apparently he passed, for she nodded once,
gravely.

"Yes,
officer, thank you. Has the latest shuttle arrived from
Phoenix?"

"I don't
know, my lady." He hedged for time. "I can check—"

"Please do
so. There is a felon on board, a murderer. I am responsible to my
lord for his capture."

The MP spoke
into the commlink in his helmet. The woman stood nearby, tapping her
foot impatiently, a slight frown creasing her forehead over the
delay.

"Captain
Williams," the MP said quietly.

"Williams
here."

"I have
Lady Morianna, sir. She has asked to speak to you."

"To me?
What the deuce for?"

"She says
she's been sent here by Lord Sagan to capture a felon, a—a
murderer, sir."

"But she's
an escaped prisoner!" Williams sounded rattled. According to
reports, the battle with the mercenaries wasn't going well.

"Yes, sir.
Have you been able to contact Lord Sagan, sir?"

"No."
Williams snapped the answer.

So the rumors
must be true, the MP thought. They were trying to keep the lid on,
but it was obvious all these men being transferred from
Phoenix
to
Defiant
weren't reinforcements. The Warlord must be in
serious trouble.

Maigrey's
foot-tapping grew louder. Tucking her helmet beneath her arm, she
lightly touched the MP on the arm. "We should hurry, before my
prisoner loses himself in the crowd. "

"Yes, my
lady. I'm attempting to get the information now. Begging the
captain's pardon," the MP continued, talking to Williams in an
undertone, "but if Lord Sagan
did
send the woman, then
shouldn't we do what we can to assist—"

"And what
if he didn't?" Williams returned, perplexed and frustrated. "We
may well be assisting her to waltz right out of here."

"Yes, sir."
The MP offered the captain a modicum of silent sympathy. Williams
might be damned if he did what the woman wanted, could very well be
damned if he didn't.

Distant voices
sounded in the background, competing for the captain's attention.
"Carry on, Sergeant," be said finally in a harassed tone.
"Arrest this prisoner, then take both him
and
the lady to
the brig. If she protests, tell her that it's for her own safety."

"Yes, sir."
The MP turned back to Maigrey. "The last shuttle has docked on
Able deck, my lady. Down this corridor and to our left."

Maigrey smiled
at him, a peculiar, crooked smile. He had the distinct and uncanny
impression that she'd heard every word. He hesitated, feeling
suddenly extremely uncomfortable, wondering if he shouldn't contact
the captain again. But what would he say? No, he would do what he'd
been ordered to do. That was always safe.

Gesturing to his
men, who fell in behind him, the MP and the woman proceeded down the
passage. They rounded a corner, ran into a large group of
white-coated men, medicbots bearing litters, and other personnel from
the hospital shuttle. Another group from
Phoenix
emerged into
the corridor at the same time from a different direction, creating an
immediate logjam of bodies and 'bots.

"That's
him!" Maigrey pointed.

"Seize
him!"

The MPs
floundered through the crowd, pushing and shoving. Grabbing hold of
the major, they clapped him in fuse-irons. Those who had been
standing near the wretched man disappeared immediately, having no
desire to be held guilty by association. The major protested loudly
and volubly, too loudly. The MP had been around a long time. He'd
seen the major's expression when the man first felt the fuse-iron
close over his wrist. He wasn't surprised or shocked, as an innocent
man would have been. The major's face had darkened, brows contracted
in swift and sullen anger. The MPs hauled him to the lady and their
own officer. Seeing them, the major rearranged his features, looking
and sounding highly offended.

"By the
gods, Sergeant, I'll have your stripes for dinner! What's the meaning
of this?" His face was blotchy; his eyes protruded from beneath
a thick forehead.

"The
officer is acting on my orders, Major." Maigrey spoke quietly.
She'd been standing quietly. The major hadn't even noticed her.

The major
blustered and blew, then his gaze went to the woman's torn and
bloodied uniform, then to the features. The MP, watching closely, saw
the bluster fizzle out, saw the blood drain from the major's cheeks,
his jaw working.

"I—I
don't know what's going on—"

"Surprised
to see me alive? Or perhaps you think I'm a ghost? You must have a
lot of ghosts haunting you, Major."

The man
recovered his senses, said what he should have said in the first
place, except now it merely made matters worse. "You're
arresting the wrong person, officer. This woman was a prisoner aboard
our ship. I tried to capture her, but she got away from me and flew
off in a wrecked Scimitar before I could stop her!"

The MP was
elbowed from behind. Whipping around, he glared over his shoulder.

"Sorry,
sir!" stammered a red-faced marine, who'd been shoved into the
MP. A steady stream of men and equipment continued to surge through
the narrow passageway. The MP and his men were impeding the flow.

"Let's move
along," the MP began. "We can discuss this in the—"

"The charge
is murder," Maigrey interrupted. "One count, probably
others will surface on investigation. Inform my lord that I will be
in touch with him concerning this matter."

The MP
considered. Whatever else is going on, this man is obviously guilty
of something, he thought. I'll be safe in hauling him off, dumping
him in the brig for a while. "Yes, my lady. Take him below,"
he ordered his guards.

"Bitch!
I'll see you in hell!" Nearly escaping his captors, the major
made a lunge at Maigrey.

Deftly, she slid
her hand into his front shirt pocket. The MP saw something sparkle
brightly before her fingers closed around it. The major's guards
wrestled him back.

"And now,
my lady"—the MP reached out to take hold of her—"if
you will accompany me—"

"Officer!"
A medic shoved his way between the two of them. "Officer, what
the devil are you doing? Clear this area! My stretcher bearers can't
get through! These men are critically wounded!"

The major,
swearing at the top of his lungs, continued struggling. "You
can't do this to me! I'll have you up on charges! Every last one of
you! I'll see you terminated!" He was a big man; the MPs were
having trouble holding on to him. The shouting was drawing a crowd of
curious onlookers.

"I insist
that you clear this area! Clear this area!" The medic danced
around, waving his arms and yammering.

The flow in the
corridor bottled up. Some men tried to shove past, others stopped and
craned their heads, hoping to catch a glimpse of the latest crisis.
In the distance, at the end of the corridor, a group of marines
appeared, trundling a canister of brain-gas down the passage.

"Hey!"
the sergeant of the marines shouted. "Clear this area! We gotta
get through!"