King's Test (28 page)

"Somewhere,
I've seen eyes like that. ..."

The memory was
gone, however, not to be discovered hiding in the shadows, leaving
behind only a smell of smoke and flame and the vague feeling of dread
that always kept her from working harder to find it.

And Sagan was
coming.

Maigrey circled
around the hoverjeep, rifle ready, keeping an almost paranoid watch.
No one, nothing bothered her. She brushed aside the ashes of what had
once been her black robes, climbed into the jeep, and checked on the
bomb. It rested on the seat, its crystal serenely sparkling in the
nauseous green glow of the Laskarian twilight.

Carefully,
Maigrey removed the tracking device, tossed it down on top of the
body of one of the Adonian's henchmen. Ohme would at first figure his
plan had succeeded; the jeep was incapacitated. Eventually, however,
he'd begin to wonder why his men hadn't returned. As for whoever
would wonder about the other four ... or the other one . . .

Maigrey shook
her head.

Sagan was
coming.

She reprogrammed
the jeep's controls, steered the vehicle around the flaming truck,
sped oif down the highway. She could see Fort Laskar in the distance.

"Please,
God, just a little more time. Just give me a little more. ..."

O God! I could
be bounded in a nut-shell, and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.

William
Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act II, Scene 2

"My God,
Tusk! What's that?" Nola rolled over inside the sleeping bag,
clutched at the mercenary lying curled up beside her.

Tusk groaned,
pulled the upper part of the down-filled bag over his head. "The
kid. Nightmare. He had a couple on Vangelis, after the battle."

Another scream
echoed through the spaceplane. Dion shouted incoherent words and they
could hear him panting for breath, as if he were running a long
distance.

"Go to
him," Nola ordered, shaking Tusk's bare shoulder.

"You go to
him," the mercenary mumbled into the pillow. "Women are . .
. better . . . comforting, nurturing."

"I can't,
Tusk," Nola whispered, drawing back, staring into the darkness.
"I—I'm afraid of him."

Another scream.
"Shut the eyes! Why are they staring at me like that? Shut the
eyes!" Dion gasped for breath.

"And I'm
not?" Tusk demanded. "All right! All right! I'm going. I
guess I'll have to if I'm gonna get any sleep! How the devil do you
get out of this damn thing?"

In his struggle
to escape the sleeping bag, Tusk sat up too quickly and struck his
head on the console under which he and Nola slept. Swearing volubly,
he crawled out, hands groping for a nuke lamp. He found it, turned it
on, and swore again, the harsh white light stabbing painfully into
his sleep-gummed eyes.

"Kid, hey,
kid! Take it easy!" Tusk called, lurching barefooted through the
small plane and into the cramped compartment where the pilot bunked.
He played the light around until be located the bed, nothing more
than a shelf that could be stowed when the plane was cleared for
action.

Dion, bathed in
sweat, was sitting up. His eyes were wide open; he stared straight
ahead into the darkness, made frantic motions with his hands.

"Shut the
eyes!" he cried feverishly, grasping at air. "Shut them
shut them shut them ..."

Tusk sat down on
the edge of the bunk. "Kid—"

Dion gave a yell
that stood Tusk's hair on end and grabbed the mercenary by his
shoulders with bruising strength.

"Dion!
Ouch! Damn it! Leggo of me. C'mon! Snap out of it." Tusk clamped
his hand firmly on the young man's jaw and shook his head back and
forth.

Dion jerked
free. Eyes wide in terror, he went for Tusk's throat. The mercenary
dropped the nuke lamp. It bounced to the deck and rolled around on
the uneven surface, setting the dark shadows dancing like witches at
a revel. Suddenly Dion blinked, stared at Tusk in the flitting light,
sobbed, and went limp in the mercenary's arms.

Tusk sighed and
held the boy close, hands ruffling the sweat-damp hair. "It's
okay," he said, patting the heaving shoulders awkwardly. "It
was just a dream."

"I'm
sorry." Dion pulled back stiffly. His face was white as the
flaring light, the hair color distorted from flaming red to bronze.
Purple shadows circled the blue eyes, his lips bled— he'd
bitten through them. "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep. It won't
happen again." He lay back on the bare bed, the pillow having
slipped to the floor.

Tusk picked up
the nuke lamp, glanced at a digital clock which displayed several
times—space time, ground time for a particular planet . . .
"Hell, it's too late to go back to bed now. It's mid-afternoon,
Laskar ST."

"Laskar?"
Dion propped himself up on his elbows. "You mean we landed?"

"Yeah, I
brought us down last night, while you were asleep."

"Why didn't
you wake me?"

"What for?
Wake you up to tell you it's time to go to bed? Get serious, kid."

"But—"
Dion's face flushed. He sat straight, swung his legs over the side of
the bunk. "We could have gone out, started searching for—"

"No,"
Tusk said firmly. "No one goes roaming around Laskar in the tail
end of the night unless he's good and tired of living."

"Then we'll
go now—"

"Just cool
down your engine, kid. We got plenty of time. Nothin' opens till
after dark. " Tusk, fiddling nervously with the light, shining
it up and down and everywhere except on the boy, joined him, sitting
on the side of the bunk. "We got some time. Why don't you . . .
tell me what happened to you in that control room on
Defiant.
Yeah, I know. Nothin'. Hell, kid, I saw your face when you came outta
there! Blood on you from head to toe! You left bloody footprints when
you walked!"

Tusk felt the
tremor of the boy's shudder, put his hand on Dion's forearm. "They
say it helps, you know, if you talk about it—"

Dion sat
trembling, silent. Slowly, he shook his head, drew a deep breath, and
turned to look at Tusk, the blue eyes calm. "No. It wouldn't. I
know what's the matter. I'm weak. A coward. It's in the blood. Sagan
told me."

"That
traitor! That bastard! That . . . that ..." Tusk seethed, hot
words crowding into his mouth so fast he couldn't spit them out.

Dion rose to his
feet. "I'm going to take a shower. I'll fix breakfast when I'm
out. It's my turn."

"Breakfast?
I— You— I'll tell you where—"

The young man
ignored his ranting friend, squeezed his body into the tiny shower
stall, and slid the panel shut. Tusk's words were drowned out by the
sound of running water. The mercenary turned, kicked viciously at a
storage chest with his bare foot, and howled in pain.

"That was
bright," Nola commented, coming into the room, a bathrobe
wrapped around her short, stocky body. She screwed up her eyes
against the bright glare, crinkling the freckles spattered across her
cheeks.

"Forgot I
didn't have fuckin' boots on!" Tusk hobbled across the deck. "A
coward! That's what Sagan told the kid, huh? That son of a— If
he was here now I'd . . . I'd—"

"Kick him,"
Nola said softly, slipping her arm around Tusk.

He shook his
head, looked exasperated, then, sighing, clasped his arms around the
woman and hugged her tight. Holding her, he rested his chin lightly
on her head, breathing the fragrance of her curly, sleep-tousled
hair. "Why are we here, Nola? Why did we come? I tell you, I'm
scared More scared than I've ever been in my life, even when I
thought we were all gonna die on
Defiant."

Nola tilted her
head back, looked up into the dark brown eyes. "Then why don't
we leave, Tusk? You know the Starlady didn't send that message!
Dion'll be furious, but at least he'll be all—"

A pounding came
on the outside of the plane's hull.

Nola hushed.
Tusk released her slowly. "Too late." Moving to the
controls, he activated the exterior commlink. "Yeah? Who is it?"

"Anselmo!"
came a gruff boom. "Someone's been here, asking 'bout you."

"What'd you
tell im?"

"What you
said. But I don't think he believed me."

"He
didn't," interjected a voice, another voice, a different voice.

"I think
you better come out here, Tusk," Anselmo added. "Now! He's
got a gun on me."

"I
apologize for the use of force, Dion Starfire," the messenger
said in an expressionless tone, gazing at them with empty eyes. He
slid the lasgun neatly back into a holster worn in the small of his
back. "But the owner persisted in lying to me."

"How did
you find us?" Tusk growled.

Dion, glancing
around, wondered how anyone in the civilized universe could have
found them. Towering above their heads, a bright purple neon sign,
reading anselmo's wrecking & savage co, blinked on and off
against the noxious green sky. Beneath the neon, a billboard read: 10
square hectometers of clean tested reliable used parts. we pay top
$$$ for late model wrecked spaceplanes, rvs, shuttles, droids and
bots. you smash 'em, we cash 'em.

"Why are we
parked in a junkyard?" Dion asked Tusk quietly.

"Hell, kid,
it's a great cover.
Used
to be," Tusk said, eyeing the
messenger suspiciously. "I asked how you found us."

"That is
not relevant. I am to take you to the Lady Maigrey immediately. Will
you come?"

"Like hell
it's not relevant! What's the deal, Anselmo?" Tusk sidled close
to the junkyard owner, a large human of indeterminate race, almost as
big around as he was tall.

"Lady
Maigrey! Is she all right? Is she in danger?" Dion approached
the messenger.

"She is,
for the moment, safe and well," the messenger replied, his eyes
fixed on Dion, perhaps seeing him, perhaps not. "The situation
changes as we speak. You should waste no more time."

Anselmo was
talking in low tones to Tusk. "I caught the creep pokin' 'round
the yard this morning. How he got over the fence, I don't know. It's
hot and the juice is on. Anyhow, I told 'im we wasn't open, and fer
him t'come back this afternoon. He asks me if I seen a plane matchin'
that description." Anselmo waved an enormous hand in the
direction of Dion's spaceplane. "I told him we didn't have no
wrecked plane like that in stock, and without so much as a
how-do-you-do he pulls out that friggin' blaster, starts threatenin'
to blow holes in people's stomachs."

"Well, you
were safe enough there," Tusk said. "The laser beam isn't
made that could penetrate your gut! So you led him right to us, eh,
Anselmo?"

The messenger,
overhearing, turned his blank face toward the mercenary. "What
he does not tell you, Mendaharin Tusca, is that he offered to find a
plane matching the description I gave him if I paid for it in
advance."

"Look, it
doesn't matter how he found us," Dion began impatiently. "We
have to go—"

Tusk flashed
Anselmo a vicious glance. The big man grunted and shrugged flabby
shoulders. "Business is business, Tusk. Speaking of which, you
owe me ten kilners."

"Ten!"
Tusk gaped.

"A night."

"You thief!
I'll be damned if I'll pay—"

"Tusk!"
Dion glowered at his friend. "Go ahead and—"

"You'll
pay," Anselmo said calmly. "I'm still the cheapest set-down
around. In fact, I'm the
only
set-down around. You can't go
nowhere else. Everyone's full up. Big party this weekend. Snaga
Ohme's. People comin' in from all over the galaxy."

Nola caught her
breath. "Snaga Ohme!"

The messenger
shifted his vacant gaze to her. "You know of Snaga Ohme?"

"Uh, sure."
Nola giggled nervously. "
Every
girl knows about Snaga
Ohme. He's in
all
the mags. I'd forgotten that this planet is
where he lives! I'd
love
to see his house!" She stepped
near Tusk, entwined her hand in his, squeezed it tightly. "Who's
that holo star he's been going around with lately? You know, the one
I showed
General Dixter."

"Dixter?"
Tusk stared at her, puzzled. "Dixter never went to a holo in his
life—"

"Yes,
dear," Nola purred, digging her nails into his flesh,
"you
know the one I mean! The one he just went wild over . . . with the
long blond
hair. ..."

Dion heaved an
irritated sigh, turned to face the messenger. "Let's go."

The messenger
nodded slowly. "Your friends are coming?"

"They'd
obviously rather stay here and discuss holo stars—"

"We're
coming, kid." Tusk glared at the messenger. "I guess you
don't mind if we take our weapons, since you say there's likely to be
danger."

The mercenary
indicated his own blaster. Nola was armed with a needle-gun. Dion
wore the bloodsword awkwardly, still unused to it. The handle,
suspended from his belt, bounced on his thigh and he continually put
his hand over it to stop the movement. The messenger flicked a glance
over the conventional weapons. His gaze lingered longer on the
bloodsword, but it evoked no spark of life or interest, nothing
beyond another slow nod.

"Weapons
would be advisable."

"Oh, glad
you think so. Now, Anselmo, if you'll excuse us—"

"Cash."
Anselmo planted his large body—a substantial obstacle—in
Tusk's path. "A week in advance. And something extra for the
inconvenience."

"What
inconvenience?"

"Of having
a gun stuck in my belly!"

Tusk, scowling,
fished a purse out of one of the numerous pockets of his desert
fatigues, slapped several bills into the junk dealer's
grime-encrusted palm. Tusk started to walk off, but the hand closed
over his shoulder with a grip like one of Anselmo’s own
wrecking machines.