King's Test Read online

  Kings Test

  Star of the Guardians, Book 2

  Margaret Weis

  To Raoul and the Little One

  I've been waiting at these damn

  RR tracks since midnight!

  Where are you?

  And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that is the sort of test—and see what will be their behavior; like those who take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors of some kind, and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly than gold is proved in the furnace. . . . And he who at every age, as a boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the trial victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the State. . . .

  But him who fails, we must reject.

  Plato, The Republic

  Book I

  Avenging Angel

  Proud, art thou met? Thy hope was to have reached

  The height of thy aspiring unopposed The throne of God unguarded, and his side Abandoned at the terror of thy power . . Fool! . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter One

  All of the above.

  One possible answer, multiple-choice test, circa 1990

  Outside, in the passageway that ran parallel to the hangar deck, the Warlord waited—silent, patient. The corridor was dark; he’d ordered the lights shut down. It was empty. He'd sent his retinue about their business, relayed a soothing message to the admiral to the effect that he, at least, was back aboard.

  The Warlord was needed on the bridge, needed desperately. Phoenix had sustained heavy damage in her battle with the Corasian fleet. Concern was growing over the continued safety and effectiveness of the ship's nuclear reactor. Aks was receiving garbled reports that another Corasian vessel had been sighted coming out of hyperspace. And he'd been repeatedly harassed by hysterical transmissions from the Adonian weapons dealer, demanding to speak to the Warlord and no one else.

  Sagan leaned up against a wall, crossed his arms over his idlest. counseled patience, and waited.

  A door leading from the hangar deck opened noiselessly; a lithe figure was briefly outlined against the light behind her. Pale hair gleamed with an almost hallowed radiance.

  Quiet as the shadows around him, the Warlord strode across the corridor.

  Maigrey was aware of him. Her hand went to the bloodsword, but Sagan's was faster. His fingers closed over her forearm with a crushing grip and he shoved her back hard against the steel wall.

  "So, my lady, you gave the boy his courage. Dion is gone?"

  The light of the starjewel was the only light in the corridor. The bluish white brilliance illuminated Maigrey's face. The skin was translucent, lifeless, the gray eyes dark and empty, sighted in on a battle with him to death.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. he's gone, she said warily.

  "To Defiant, to warn John Dixter of my treachery" Sagan almost smiled.

  "I'm not certain. I hope so." Maigrey stared a: him in sudden understanding. "There was nothing wrong with the communications aboard the spaceplane, was there, my lord'

  "Nothing that I couldn't have fixed, ray lady.

  Sagan could faintly see blood pulse in the livid scar on her cheek. The tense muscles in her arm that held the bloodsword relaxed in his grip.

  "Naturally, since you were the one who broke it The message about the mercenaries being held prisoner on Defiant was a ruse."

  "Not exactly, my lady." Sagan reached out his hand, touched the scar on her cheek with his fingers. He felt her tremble at his touch. She tried to draw away from him. but there was nowhere to go. He had her backed up against the wall. "Captain Williams has these orders, given before I left: If the Corasians are defeated, John Dixter is to be taken prisoner and immediately executed. The mercenaries who survived the battle with the Corasians are to be killed the moment they return— So help me, lady, try that again and I'll break your arm!"

  Maigrey, breathing heavily, subsided. The Warlord regarded her grimly, intently, and when certain that she was once more under control—if not his control, then at least her own—he continued.

  "You will be pleased to know, Maigrey, that Williams bungled those orders. Dixter has escaped and joined his people. The mercenaries have barricaded themselves on two hangar decks. They are currently under siege.

  Maigrey jerked her arm free of his grip. "You've sent Dion headlong into a raging battle! You knew that when you baited him!"

  "The bloodiest kind of battle, my lady. Men trapped, cornered, fighting for their lives. "

  "What is this, my lord, another test? This one could him killed!"

  "Yes, my lady, another test. But not for Dion."

  Sagan continued to regard her gravely, opening his mind, opening his heart. Maigrey listened and understood, stared at him in bewildered disbelief.

  "You're testing God!"

  "If this boy is truly the Lord's anointed"—Sagan's lip curled slightly—"then He will watch out for him.' Wincing in pain, the Warlord flexed his arms, reached around to massage the back of his neck.

  "Come, now, my lord! I didn't hit you that hard." But she knew how he felt. Every bone, every muscle in her body ached. We re getting old, she thought. Wearily, she returned the bloodsword to its scabbard. But she kept her eyes on him.

  The two stood in silence, watching each other, wary of the least move, the indrawn breath, the flicker of an eyelid.

  "You're going to try to go after him, aren't you?" Sagan reached out his hand, took hold of the starjewel she wore around her neck, studied it with a contemptuous air. "You're going to play Guardian. ..."

  He was near, too near, as near as he'd been to her aboard the Corasian vessel. What had happened there had been a mistake, but a natural one. They’d both been in danger, they'd depended on each other, they'd defeated their enemies, triumphed, as they had triumphed together so long ago. She remembered the heat of his body, the flame of the shared power. He was so close to her now, she could feel the vibrations of the steady, strong beating of his heart.

  Closing her eyes to him, Maigrey wrenched the starjewel, the Star of the Guardians, from his grasp, held it clasped fast in her hand.

  His breath was warm on her chilled skin. She pressed back against the wall, averted her face. His hand touched her cheek, the terrible scar slashing down from her temple to the corner of her lip.

  "You're going to try to get away from me, mother that sniveling boy, rescue an old lover, when—together—we could have so much. ..."

  Red emergency lights flooded the chamber. Drum rolls broke the silence, beating the tattoo, sounding the call to man battle stations.

  A centurion, one of Sagan's own personal guard, came clattering down the corridor. Finding his lord and the lady in extremely close proximity, the guard skidded to a halt, coughed in embarrassment, and looked as if he wished the ship's hull would crack open, suck him into deepspace.

  "Well, what is it?" the Warlord snapped, turning away from Maigrey.

  She sighed, held on to the jewel tightly, its eight sharp points piercing the flesh of her palm.

  The centurion kept his eyes fixed firmly on the bulkheads "A Corasian warship is bearing down on us. my lord. Admiral Aks respectfully requests your presence on the bridge.

  "I'll inform the admiral that I am coming. You escort my lady back to her prison cell. "

  The Warlord started down the corridor, checked his stride. Glancing back, he put his hand to his bruised neck. No my lady. On second thought, I'll be damned if I let you out of my sight. Ever again." He held out his hand. "My lady?"

  Maigrey slowly let go of the jewel. She would find a way to escape. In the confusion of the forthcoming battle, with Sagan's attention necessarily elsewhere, escap
e would be easy. It was the leaving that would be difficult. She laid her hand in his. They walked together down the corridor, walked calmly through the red flaring light, the drumbeat warning of approaching peril, battle, death.

  Perhaps, she thought, suddenly chilled. Dion is God's way of testing us!

  Chapter Two

  This is servitude, To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Peter Robes, duly elected President of the Galactic Democratic Republic, entered his private office, located behind his public one. The office was dark, shades closed against the early morning sun, and smelled of leather and polished wood and old books. His secretarial 'bot trailed behind him, murmuring reminders of appointments in its soft and calming voice. Robes nodded, making mental notes of each.

  "First meeting, military chiefs of staff," the bot informed him.

  An emergency session called to deal with the Corasian threat to the galaxy. That meeting won't be difficult, mere dissimulation, Robes told himself. I'll have to exhibit concern, of course, but not too much. Concern alleviated by . . . confidence. Yes, that will do nicely. Concern to keep them on their toes. Confidence to show that I trust them to protect the fair citizens of the republic.

  "Next!" he snapped.

  "Top economic advisers," the 'bot replied.

  Robes sighed, frowned. This one would be more difficult. The galactic economy was in shambles. The deficit was larger than the number of inhabited planets, the people rebelling at the mind-boggling tax rate. But that isn't my fault, he reassured himself. What am I supposed to do about it? The Congress blocks me at even7 turn. Mindless bunch of idiots!

  Fortunately, this threat of war should settle them nicely. I'll ask for emergency powers to deal with the current alarming situation. As for those fools threatening to secede over the tax issue, we'll see how fast the sheep run from the fold when they hear the wolf's prowling about!

  "When have you scheduled the press conference?"

  "1200 hours, Mr. President. The major networks are carrying it live ..."

  The media ate this stuff up—vids of ghastly aliens flaming across the screens of billions of terrified galactic viewers. Voters, who would be more than happy to give their President anything he wanted. . . .

  Pausing in front of a large mirror that hung just inside the office doorway, the President flicked a switch marked interior lighting. Bulbs surrounding the mirror flared. Robes studied his tie and his facial expression at the same time, wondering whether to change either for the day's business.

  He wanted to reflect worry, but not anxiety. A slight wrinkling of the forehead, therefore, and a touch of puffiness beneath the eyes would do nicely. He tightened the corners of his lips to indicate he was giving the problem serious attention, then allowed the lips to relax slightly to exhibit absolute confidence in his chosen leaders. Neatly combed hair would represent discipline and authority to the military chiefs of staff and the economic advisers. He would have to remember to tousle his hair slightly for the press conference, to prove he was merely one of the people.

  The President pressed a button, turned from the mirror to a vidscreen to see himself as he would look on camera. The face was fine. The tie wouldn't do. It was too dark, too somber for the vids. Yanking it off, he tossed it over his shoulder to the 'bot.

  "Bring me something in a subdued purple, with a very fine gold thread running through it. Keep this one for tomorrow, when I announce the news of Citizen General Sagan's death. "

  "Wishful thinking," came a soft voice.

  The voice startled the President, startled the 'bot. Its clawlike hands, grasping a lasgun, were lining up on its target.

  The thought crossed Robes's mind that all he had to do was allow the bot to carry out its programmed response and he would be rid of that soft voice forever. He quashed the temptation frantically, with a fearful glance at the source of the soft voice.

  "Halt!" he shouted, more loudly than he'd intended. His voice cracked.

  The bot obeyed instantly, lowering the weapon. Gliding near Robes, it murmured officiously, "This meeting is not on your schedule, Mr. President."

  "I know," Robes returned irritably, to cover his fright. "I—I won't be long. "

  "Security will have to be informed—"

  "No! That won't be necessary. That is"—forestalling the bot's response—"I'll handle security myself."

  "Very good, Mr. President."

  The 'bot continued on about its duties. It smoothed out and hung the discarded necktie on a tie rack inside a small dressing room attached to the office. Whirring to the desk, it touched a button on a hidden panel. Vertical blinds parted, flooding the room with sunlight.

  Robes could now see his visitor, who had seated himself near the window. Magenta robes, fancifully decorated by a streak of black lightning, were, at first glance, all that captured the attention. The man inside the robes, being old, of small stature, and fragile-boned, was nearly swallowed alive by the folds of fabric, the vibrant color. The eyes—too large for the old man's bulbous head—were so widely open they seemingly had no lids against the dazzling light.

  The 'bot continued its duties. It exchanged yesterday's wilted flowers for today's fresh ones, started the coffee maker, switched on soothing music. Robes remained standing by the mirror, finding comfort in the solid reality of his own reflection. He tugged nervously at his shirtsleeves.

  "Send it away," said the soft voice.

  "That will be all for now," said the President.

  The 'bot instantly turned and headed for the door.

  "I will wait outside," it said.

  Robes cast a glance at the magenta-clad figure, saw the head move slightly.

  "No, I have other tasks for you to perform. Go to the war room and bring me the updated reports—"

  "I could call them up for you on the computer—"

  "Damn it! I don't like repeating my words and I don't like being contradicted! I instructed you to go to the war room. Now do so!"

  "I wasn't being contradictory, Mr. President. I was merely acting as I have been programmed, offering you the most efficient method of obtaining information—"

  "Yes, yes." Robes discovered he was sweating. Now he'd have to change his shirt! "I'm sorry I raised my voice. The military edit everything that goes into my file. I want the reports directly as they come in. "

  "I will need to use your clearance code, sir."

  "Then use it, damn—" Robes caught himself. He was swearing at a machine. Extremely bad form. And this was being recorded for posterity. The bot whirred out the door. "Thank you," the President said, rather lamely.

  "Don't forget the press conference, Mr. President. 1200 hours. Excuse me, I have neglected to bring you your tie, sir." The bot switched direction. Pivoting on its wheels, it headed for the dressing room.

  "I've changed my mind," Robes said hastily. "I want one that is . . . blue on the edges, deepening to purple down the middle."

  The bot whirled. "You don't have one like that in your collection, sir."

  "No? Then you'll have to stop and pick one up. There's a haberdashery on the corner of Freedom and Fifth—"

  "Very good, Mr. President."

  The bot slid out of the room, the door closing behind it. Robes placed his hand over a control panel and the door sealed shut. He now had complete privacy—at least as complete as a highly placed public figure was allowed. His bodyguards could always get inside, of course. Which reminded him.

  Crossing over to his desk, not without an uneasy glance at the motionless magenta figure by the window, Robes sat down in his leather chair and summoned security. An image of a' uniformed, grim-faced woman appeared on his vidphone.

  "Yes, Mr. President?"

  "I'm having a meeting in my office. I've activated the seal. I'm not to be disturbed."

  The woman's eyes shifted away from his, glancing at a screen to her right. "We have no record of anyone entering your office, Mr. President.
" A muscle in her jaw twitched, her eyes shifted again, she began moving a hand stealthily across her desk. "I trust all is well, sir."

  "Everything's fine! I—I mean, all is well that ends well. " He remembered in time to give the correct code response. Otherwise, in the next ten seconds, he would have been surrounded by a S.W.A.T. team. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his forehead. He'd have to redo his makeup. "I'll explain later. Thank you."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  The vidphone image faded with the woman's voice. Robes stared at the blank screen, avoided lifting his gaze for as long as possible. "You did that on purpose!" he spoke in hollow tones. "That and the way you're dressed! Why do you do this to me?" His fists clenched on the top of the desk.

  "Only the harmless amusements of an old man, my dear. So little pleasure is left to me these days. Surely you won't deny me the occasional, harmless practical joke?"

  "A joke that nearly got you shot!" Robes felt suddenly rebellious. He had three difficult meetings to face today, and now, in addition, he would have to manufacture some lie to placate security.

  "Oh, I hardly think so." The old man shifted position in his chair, turned to face Robes directly.

  The President raised his head, determined to stare the old man down, assert some authority. But the sunlight was too bright. Robes couldn't see the old man's face for the radiance surrounding him. The brilliance made his eyes water, and he looked back at his clenched fists.

  "Peter, Peter, I understand," the old man said solicitously. "You always tend to exaggeration when you're under stress. I make allowances. That fleeting thought you had—allowing the 'bot to kill me? Stress, of course. I assure you, my dear, I'm not in the least offended. "

  Robes's fists suddenly unclenched, his hands went limp. "I—I'm sorry, Abdiel. It's this damn invasion—"

  "—which both you and I know is not really an invasion at all. More of an invitation, wouldn't you say? I trust this conversation isn't being recorded. "