King's Test (59 page)

"Jeez!"
Nola huddled near him, shivered. "Who is he? Or rather,
what
is he?"

"Professional
killer," Tusk said, checking his weapon for the fourth time to
make certain it was charged. "Sagan could always afford the
best."

"You've
heard of this . . . Spara-character, then?"

"No. And
I'll bet those who have aren't alive to tell about it."

"But that
means us!" Nola said, alarmed.

"You
betcha, sweetheart." Tusk patted her hand reassuringly.

"But he
said he was supposed to take us to Sagan!"

"He didn't
say in what condition. One. Two. Three ..."

"Oh. Tusk!
Let's just leave! Now. No one would know."

"I thought
about it." Tusk paused in his count, glanced around. "But
we're a long way from nowhere. No transport. No water. No shelter.
And you can bet the breed's got a vehicle hidden near here. He'd find
us easy enough. Naw, we re better off—"

"—risking
our lives, waiting for Dion. That's the real reason you're staying,"
Nola snapped.

"Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine. Maybe. So what?" Tusk avoided looking at her,
focused on a target.

"He
abandoned us, that's what! Threw us to the wolves!"

Tusk scowled.
"He didn't know we were prisoners."

"The hell
he didn't!"

"Damn it,
Nola—"

"Aren't you
supposed to be counting?"

Women! Tusk
seethed. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. She drives me crazy sometimes! It's
like . . . like she could see inside me! And she has no goddam
business inside me! Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Or somewhere around
there.

"They're
moving!" Nola reported, peering up over the boulder.

A zombie had
apparently discovered his dead companions and raised the alarm. Other
zombies came running. They stood in a knot around the corpses,
flashing nuke lamps into the darkness, debating in cool,
dispassionate voices what was best to be done.

"You stay
here," Tusk told Nola. He strapped the lasgun around his waist.
Fumbling in the assassin's bag, he came up with a couple of grenades,
thrust them into his pockets. "I'm gonna try to get closer."

Nola's hand
closed over his, squeezed it tightly. "I'm sorry, Tusk. I
shouldn't have said that about Dion. It's just that I'm scared—"

Tusk stared down
at the ground. Then, sighing, he took her in his arms, held her
close, rubbing his jaw in her curly hair. "Yeah. Me, too. I got
to admit I don't see a way out of this one yet. We got the devil on
one side and zombies on the other. But if we do get out of this, Nola
Rian," Tusk added, tilting her face and kissing her on the nose,
"I may just have to marry you."

"Yeah?
Well, I may just have to marry you back! So there. What's the count?"

"Oh, who
the hell gives a damn? Ninety-nine. One hundred. Happy? Good, I'm
off. Take care of yourself, Rian."

"You, too,
Tusca."

The mercenary
kissed her swiftly on the cheek, patted her rump, and darted away
among the rocks. Nola lifted her beam rifle, balanced it on the top
of the boulder, looked down the heat-seeking sight, taking careful
aim. The mind-dead had apparently reached a decision. Several were
detailed off to search and began making their way into the ravine.
Others returned to their work, leaving the bodies of their comrades
lying on the ground.

Catching
movement out of the corner of her eye, Nola thought she saw a
hunched-over shape slip under the belly of the shuttlecraft. She
couldn't take her attention from the mind-dead to look more closely,
however, and the next time she snatched a glance in that direction,
the shape was gone.

She adjusted the
sights, brought her first target carefully into focus. This wasn't
exactly her idea of a romantic setting for a marriage proposal. And
it would be difficult to come back here to celebrate their
anniversaries.

But it would
certainly make one hell of a good story to tell the kids. . . .

I am settled,
and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat.

William
Shakespeare,
Macbeth,
Act I, Scene 7

The below-ground
levels of Snaga Ohme's estate were vast playrooms for children fond
of deadly toys. Innumerable target ranges allowed potential buyers to
observe firsthand Ohme's newest weapons and improvements made on the
old. The target ranges varied in shape and size, from small, compact
chambers designed for the testing of hand weapons to gigantic,
cavernous fields carved out beneath the surface that shook with the
simulated blasts of lascannons.

A buyer could
not only test the latest models, he could test his own skill. Ohme's
ranges were built to accommodate the faint of heart, who could shoot
away blithely at rows of holographic ducks, or the more bloodthirsty
and daring, who could do battle with robots built to resemble
Corasians, vapor-breathers, the barbaric warriors of Olefsky's
system, the tentacled aliens of Andares 17, the drug-hyped street
gangs of Laskar, or the members of Galactic Democratic Republic armed
forces—currently one of the most popular displays.

Steelglass
windows permitted viewers the chance to watch the "killings."
Soundproofing in the ranges kept the noise level down. It was an
eerie sight, thought Maigrey, walking the corridors, surrounded by
the flare and flash of battle, and hearing nothing except the
laughter or applause of some of the observers.

She paused to
view Rykilth, the vapor-breather, doing battle on board a
representation of a Corasian vessel. Ohme's set was quite accurate,
Maigrey noted, having recently been on board a Corasian vessel
herself. She shuddered at the memory and when the fiery orange
plastisteel body of a Corasian appeared, attacking Rykilth from
behind, Maigrey's hand closed involuntarily over the bloodsword.

Rykilth's
partner, a Warlady who had been introduced to Maigrey as Baroness
DiLuna, caught sight of the vapor-breather's danger and shouted a
warning. Rykilth turned and fired his weapon—a new-model
lasgun. The Corasian kept coming, however. Maigrey grinned, though
with a shiver. She'd made thje same mistake herself. Rykilth had
neglected to change the polarity on the weapon; the Corasian absorbed
the energy blast, actually increasing in strength. Rykilth "died"
the next moment; a mechanical voice registered a "kill" for
the Corasian. The spectators were noisily appreciative.

"Quite a
lifelike simulation, don't you agree, Lady Maigrey?" Snaga Ohme
stood at her side.

"Extremely.
You appear to be familiar with our enemy. Some might say a little too
familiar." Maigrey glanced up at him, saw the starjewel, black
and ugly on his chest. She returned her attention to the target
range. The Baroness DiLuna, an extremely skilled shot, had just taken
out the Corasian.

"I have my
contacts, my sources. Highly reliable, as you can see. They should
be, of course. I pay them enough. It might surprise you to know, Lady
Maigrey, that our government comes to
me
for information."

"Nothing
about you would surprise me, Adonian," Maigrey returned.
Rykilth, during his "dead" phase, discovered that his
weapon was useless and would be for a full thirty seconds. The
vapor-breather scrambled for cover as the orange glow that always
preceded a Corasian attack lit the target range.

"Not even
to know that I am willing to discuss the return of your starjewel?"
Snaga Ohme said offhandedly.

Maigrey folded
her arms across her chest, kept her gaze fixed on the game. "Indeed?"

"I've
become bored with it, frankly." Ohme twiddled the jewel
carelessly. It was all Maigrey could do to keep from throttling him.
"It created a nice little sensation this evening, but that's
worn thin. It's abhorrent to look at, and a few people have been
terribly put off by its hideous aspect." Ohme leaned near her,
lowering his voice. "I suppose Sagan's offer still holds?"

Maigrey was
about to reply, but the Adonian nudged her. "Too many people
around to discuss this now. Your boyfriend's made himself rather
unpopular with certain top government officials tonight and I have
numerous defense contracts on the line. We'll talk in private. In an
hour, go to Green level. One of the target ranges will be closed and
locked, an 'Out of Order' sign posted on it. Four long presses on the
entry button and two short will gain
you
admittance, however."
The Adonian bowed, with a charming smile. "I look forward to
ending our differences. Lady Maigrey."

He left her to
join the throng surrounding the victorious baroness, who had just set
a new record for number of Corasians killed in a limited time span.
The chagrined Rykilth was forced to endure the crowd's jeers, which
he took with his usual ill grace, the fog in his bubble turning a
noxious shade of yellow. Vapor-breathers were not known for their
sense of humor.

"What do
you think, centurion?" Maigrey asked Marcus. They moved away
from the Corasian target range, proceeding at a slow pace down the
corridor.

"I think
the last place I'd be in an hour, my lady, is on Green level at a
target range marked 'Out of Order.'"

"I agree
with you." Maigrey paused, staring at nothing in thoughtful
silence. Shaking her head, she sighed. "But, in an hour, that's
where we'll be. I
will
have the starjewel back."

"You
shouldn't go alone—"

"I won't. I
will inform my lord to meet us there. Well, gentlemen," Maigrey
added, purposefully cheerful. "We have an hour to kill."

Dion nursed the
pain of his aching jaw, nurtured the seed of rage. It sent down roots
into his darkness, sucked up jealousy and thwarted pride, fed off
ambition. The plant grew rapidly, its thick stem twisting and
writhing inside him, its fruit sweet to the taste, cloying to the
senses.

But the visions
it produced appalled and sickened some weak part of him. He firmly
trampled that part down, kicked the dirt over it. Absorbed in the
care and feeding of his fury, he struggled to free himself from the
crush of people who surrounded him, babbling incoherently at him. He
couldn't hear what they said, couldn't understand.

Shoving the
grasping, greedy hands aside, Dion fled, searching for someplace
where he could be alone, where it was quiet and he could breathe. He
plunged into an elevator, told it to go up . . . up above the mob, up
into the clear air. He had no idea where he was, where he was going.
When the elevator stopped and the door opened, he emerged into a
hallway and saw that it was empty. Dion could almost have wept in
relief.

He sank down on
a bench, reveled in the silence. The night air flowed in from an open
window, ruffled his hair, cooled his burning skin, filled his aching
lungs. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall.

His rage
blossomed, and though the flower it bore was unlovely to look at and
foul to smell, Dion reached out his hand to pluck it. The weak part
inside him made him hesitate. This wasn't his idea of being a
king—murders, lies, double-dealing. But it would all be for the
best, he reminded himself. I'll make it up. Evil is just to get me
started. In time, I can afford to be good.

A voice roused
him from his dark dreaming. Glancing down a corridor, he saw the
shining armor of the Warlord's centurions.

So, Dion said to
himself, I didn't come here of my own volition. You led me here, drew
me here, just as you drew me to you on
Phoenix.
Well, I may
not have come here on my own, but I'll leave that way.

The young man
fingered reassuringly the buckle of his belt, rose to his feet, and
walked down the hall. He was nervous, but not afraid. Instead he felt
eager, elated, excited. He would prove to them all that he was strong
enough to be king.

The hallway was
long and, in contrast to the rest of the lavish house, was barren and
sterile in appearance. Doors on either side of him were shut and
locked. He looked through the occasional pane of glass, saw desks and
computers and scraggly plants, fizzing drink machines, coffee makers.
Offices. Signs on the doors labeled them: Accounting, Billing,
Inventory Control, Secretarial. All closed for the night. Here was
where the Adonian conducted his business.

The centurions
moved from their positions the moment the boy drew near them, walking
farther down the hall. Though they had not glanced in his direction
and appeared to be unaware of his presence, Dion knew himself to be
under their careful scrutiny, guessed that they were leading him
somewhere. The young man's hand clenched painfully over the belt
buckle. He'd play their little game. Play it to the bitter end.

The hallway
turned at a sharp, ninety-degree angle. Dion left the light of one,
entered the darkness of another. This hall was lit only by a
purple-blue light gleaming out from a bank of steelglass windows.
Halfway down the hall, standing in front of the windows, was the
Warlord, the light reflecting off his golden armor. Dion was forcibly
reminded of the night Sagan had come to his house, of the night
Platus had died by this man's hand.

The nervous,
eager excitement drained from the boy, leaving him empty, calm. He
could do this.

Dion drew level
with the steelglass windows and still Sagan had not turned to look at
him. The young man knew the older man was aware of his presence. He
followed the Warlord's gaze, looked through the windows. Behind the
steelglass were large screens, banks of computers, and other
complicated instruments. These rooms, unlike the empty offices, were
filled with men and women, monitoring, adjusting.

The Warlord
gazed at them intently.

"In there,"
he said to Dion, starting a conversation as though they'd been
talking together for an hour, "is the heart of the Adonian's
estate. In there, they control the force field, the sentinels at the
gate, the electronic surveillance equipment in the mansion, the
murderous devices used to welcome unwanted guests. An interesting
room, don't you think, my liege?"