The Lost King (28 page)

There were new works to
be read, although she didn't much care for the modern authors who had
surfaced after the second Dark Ages. They seemed to think that if
they didn't reduce a reader to a state of hopeless depression they
hadn't written a novel. This led her to wonder what the Warlord had
been reading. It might give her a clue to his plans. Despair had not
reduced her to inaction, and an hour spent at her computer enabled
her to access the ship's library file.

She and Sagan did not
share a similar taste in novels—he considered them, with few
exceptions, frivolous—she was interested to note he had been
rereading Plato's
Republic
and Machiavelli's
The Prince
,
an odd combination and one she found disquieting. Several recent
historical texts and commentaries brought her up to date on the
current galactic political situation, plus she found a fascinating
technical text written by the Warlord himself describing his
development of the long-and short-range Scimitars. When Maigrey had
completed that one, she had no doubt that she could fly the planes
with ease.

Music was her best
source of consolation. She had dreamed music in her exile, waking to
find melodies running through her head, trapped in silence. Now she
could fill her life with music. Always alone, with her music the
prisoner found she could bear loneliness.

What Maigrey could not
bear was a reawakened love—a love she thought she had conquered
but which she realized had always been and would always be a part of
her. Her love of spaceflight.

Spaceflight was a lover
whose charm was in his mystery, his excitement, his danger—a
lover who cared nothing for the one who loved him. His beauty could
pierce the heart, his cold could freeze the blood. He drew you to
him, made you his own, then killed without pity, without mercy.

Aboard
Phoenix
was a small lounge located on a deck in a part of the ship set aside
for the use of visiting diplomats or planetary governors or members
of Congress on some of their "fact-finding" missions. Sagan
had little use for diplomats, less use for planetary governors, and
no use at all for junketing Congressmen. This portion of the ship was
therefore rarely used, off-limits to all nonauthorized personnel.
Maigrey had wandered into it during one of her restless roamings and
had discovered that the view from the vast steelglass windows was
breathtaking.

Her guards, of course,
reported. "My lord, should she be allowed here?"

Sagan, after some
thought, gave his permission. Maigrey returned to the lounge often to
watch the spectacular panorama of the ships of the fleet traversing
space, their tiny, bright, twinkling man-made lights dwarfed and made
humble by the black void through which they sailed.

"This fleet could
have been yours," Maigrey said to herself—the only person
to whom she was allowed to talk. "This galaxy could be yours!
You have the power, the strength, the will to make it yours!"

The specter appeared
before her suddenly and now she could put a name to it.

It was herself. It
stretched out its bony hand and in it was a crown.

Maigrey quit going to
the diplomat's lounge.

"My lord, we are
within communication's range of the planet Vangelis."

"We are not close
enough that they can detect our presence?"

"No, my lord,"
Captain Nada replied. "Not with this planet's limited
technological capabilities. Vangelis is a "C" rating, my
lord." ["A" is the highest—a planet whose people
have developed intergalactic travel. Class "B"—interstellar
travel, relatively close to home. Class "C"—interplanetary
travel within one's own solar system, and so on down to "X,"
which had been the classification of what was now the penal colony of
Oha-Lau.]

"Thank you,
Captain Nada. Send for the Lady Maigrey."

"Yes, my lord. And
where will the prisoner be brought?"

"Here, Nada. To
the bridge."

Captain Nada's lips
pursed, the folds of his pudgy cheeks sucked inward. He was
displeased. Prisoners, especially royalists, had no business upon the
bridge of a Republic warship. Not that Nada believed seriously for
one moment that they were in any danger from this middle-aged woman.
It was the principle of the thing. The captain had no choice—now—but
to carry out his orders. He would, however, put this in his report.

Nada descended from the
navigation bridge to communications below. "Have Citizen
Morianna brought to the bridge."

The captain refused to
refer to her by that abhorrent title of a nobility that was dead and
gone. It was bad enough, being forced to "my lord" this and
"my lord" that. The words sometimes stuck in his craw.
Every time he said them, they left a bad taste in his mouth. A
message was handed to him. Reading it, Nada returned to the bridge.

"We just received
this communication, my lord. The Scimitar has been sighted."

"Where?"

"Vangelis, my
lord. It is with mercenary forces under the command of one"—Nada
was forced to refer to some hastily scrawled notes "—John
Dixter, a so-called general in the employ of the rebel Marek. As you
suggested, my lord, the government ordered bombing runs made on all
mercenary spaceplane squadrons currently operating in the area. The
Scimitar left the planet's surface and was sighted by an employee of
a private concern. We were unable to get the name."

"That's not
important." Sagan knew the name—the Adonian, Snaga Ohme.
The oligarchs were not the only ones on Vangelis to have received
orders from the Warlord. "Was the sighting confirmed?"

"Yes, my lord. A
fighter was sent to verify. It did so and tracked the spaceplane back
to its new landing site. The fighter maintained its distance, as you
commanded, my lord, and did nothing to arouse Tusca's suspicions."

"You hope it did
nothing. My commendations, Captain."

Characteristically,
Sagan made no mention of the fact that he had been the one to put his
dogs on the correct trail. Turning on his heel, he started to walk
away.

"But, my lord!"
Nada stared after him. "What are your orders?"

"Orders, Captain?
You have my orders. My orders stand."

"I was not
referring to that, my lord. We are maintaining our current position
in deepspace. I was referring to the deserter, Tusca. Shouldn't I
send a squad to arrest him, my lord?"

"Have you gone
deaf. Captain?
My orders stand
. You will do nothing. And make
no mention of this in the hearing of Lady Maigrey."

Nada's cheeks sucked
in, puffed out. His brows would have met over his nose in a frown had
they not been kept apart by a roll of fat. This smacked of intrigue.
Admiral Aks had hinted that this search for a deserter was being
performed with the President's knowledge and approval. Nada wondered,
however. He knew the Warlord was in communication with someone on the
planet. These communications were coded Red, which meant that no one,
not even the admiral, could understand them. Was this a proper action
for a citizen of the Republic who lived, after all, to serve the
people? One of the tenets of the revolution had been "No secrets
from the people!"

Believing in this tenet
strongly, Captain Nada had made certain secret reports himself to the
President. The reports had been well received. It was about time, he
thought, that he make another.

The main viewport
aboard
Phoenix
was a gigantic porthole, its diameter over one
hundred meters in length. Several decks bisected the viewport—the
relaxation lounge for the crew looked out of the lower part of the
circle, the lounge for officers was on the deck above that, the
porthole's top formed an arched window that extended from deck to
overhead in the Warlord's chambers. The bridge had the benefit of the
view from the viewport's very center.

The traditional
"captain's walk" on the bridge was a narrow catwalk built
in front of the gigantic porthole so as to obtain full benefit of the
magnificent view. The "captain's walk" was suspended above
the command center of the ship and it allowed those privileged enough
to set foot upon it the privacy sacred to the workings of their
mighty brains. At the same time, it enabled them to keep themselves
appraised of all the functions of the ship that were being controlled
and monitored on the deck below them.

On a flagship, the
captain's walk could be somewhat crowded, since both captain and
admiral came here to stroll about and enjoy the panorama of suns,
double suns, nebulae, distantly seen galaxies, comets, asteroid
belts, insignificant planets, moons. On a flagship such as
Phoenix
,
with a marshal present in addition to a captain and an admiral, the
three might find themselves bumping into each other on the catwalk
had not protocol dictated that whenever a marshal was using the
walkway, no one else was allowed on it except by invitation.

Pacing the bridge
alone, Lord Derek Sagan caught a glimpse of pale hair on the deck
below. Pausing in mid-stride, he watched the woman walk toward him,
and for the first and only time in his life Sagan regretted his
sarcastic speech to the admiral. Seeing Maigrey, he understood why
work came to a halt in her presence, why his men could do nothing
except stare.

If Corasians, in their
horrible trundling mechanical bodies, had boarded his ship, Sagan's
men would have responded swiftly and efficiently, reacting as they
had been trained. But how were they to react to this? How were they
to react to the sight of that pallid face set in rigid calm, the
fixed, staring gray eyes? The only life visible in that face was the
blood that pulsed in the scar.

Sagan had won. The
woman who stood before him was crushed, beaten. But the Warlord felt
cheated in his victory. He didn't want a lifeless corpse. A corpse
wasn't useful to him, and he needed to make use of this lady. Somehow
he had to jolt the body back to life. The guards brought the woman to
the foot of the ramp ascending to the catwalk. The Warlord descended
to greet her.

Their eyes met—his
shadowed behind the helm, hers gray as the sea beneath a winter sky.
Two enemy commanders taking up position on opposite ridges, the field
of battle spread before them, each trying to spy out any weakness in
the other.

Sagan bowed, a courtly
gesture. "Lady Maigrey, a rosette nebula is currently visible
from the viewport. You shouldn't miss this sight. I would be honored
if you would join me." He held out his hand to her.

Both were fully aware
of the eyes of the crew watching them; both were reacting to the
crowd. This is what they had been born to. The tragedy of their lives
had been played out before thousands.

"Thank you, my
lord."

Very precisely and
coldly, she placed the tips of her fingers on his open palm and
walked up the stars beside him, making it quite apparent by her stiff
back and high-held chin that she was a prisoner obeying a command.
Her cheeks were flushed, there was a spark in the eyes.

The Warlord experienced
the elation of Dr. Frankenstein. The corpse was coming to life.

Glancing behind him,
Sagan indicated that the lady's guards were to remain below.
Together, in silence, he and Maigrey walked up the ramp. The murmured
low voices of the men watching was their applause. A sharp, biting
rebuke from Captain Nada recalled the crew to its duties, but both
lord and lady were aware they held their audience still.

Arriving on the bridge,
Maigrey removed her fingers from the Warlord's palm and stood staring
silently out the viewport, her hands clasped before her. Sagan
crossed his arms behind his back, beneath the folds of his cape, and
settled into a relaxed stance. Both gazed out at the nebula with such
rapt attention it seemed neither had ever seen one before. Neither
was—in reality—seeing this one now.

"It's beautiful,
isn't it, my lady?"

"Yes, my lord. I
know how highly you value beauty. What do you intend to do—blow
it up?"

The upper part of his
face was covered by his crested helmet, but Maigrey could see
clearly—though she was not looking at him—a faint smile
widen the lips that were a dark slash across his face. Like a severed
limb sewn back on the body, the mind-link—newly joined—was
still raw and bleeding at the edges, sensitive to the touch. Each
kept bandages wrapped around the wound, to hide it from the view of
the other, but this wasn't completely successful.

Maigrey had been six
years old by her planet's reckoning when the two of them had met and
their minds had first, by accident, been joined. Sagan had been
fifteen. The melding had lasted nearly twenty years before his sword
slashed it apart. Now, reestablished again, it was natural that,
however well protected, certain thoughts and feelings must seep
through.

"No. I think I'll
leave the nebula as it is, my lady. It serves a useful navigational
function. Because of it, in fact, I can tell you the name of the
planet over there." The Warlord pointed to a speck of light,
indistinguishable amid a myriad specks of light. "Vangelis."

Maigrey felt the probe
of his mind flick into hers, a surgeon's scalpel touching the wound.
Involuntarily she flinched. What did he want? What was on that
planet? Was it supposed to mean something to her? It didn't, but she
wasn't going to let him know that if she could help it.

"How interesting,
my lord. Named for the twentieth century composer, I presume?"

Music. She filled her
mind with music, one of the techniques their teachers had taught them
to use to enable them to retain a sense of their own identities.
Sagan could make out nothing in her mind except a cascade of bells
and swooping melody. Something by the very Vangelis of whom she'd
spoken, no doubt. The Warlord did not recognize it.