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  Only it wasn't there. He'd tost his ship. Oh, he would win the battle, this battle. But there would be another. He knew his foe now. knew the true foe—an old man in the magenta robes, an old man Sagan had accidentally glimpsed in a transmission to Peter Robes. The Warlord understood that the fight with this enemy would be a fight to the death. And Sagan wasn't at all certain he had the ability, the strength, the cunning to win.

  The Warlord sighed, raised his head, opened his eyes. He reached out his hand, slowly removed the white cloth from the steel tray. Lifting the syringe, he stared at it a moment, then pressed it against the skin of his upper forearm.

  Crouched in a doorway in the main part of the ship, listening to the drums beating the retreat, Maigrey watched men dash up and down the corridor. She wasn't out of danger yet. Dressed in the body armor that outlined every curve of her form, her long pale hair sliding out of its braid, she would be easily recognizable in a ship on which no women served. To say nothing of the fact that the men all knew her, knew her to be Sagan's prisoner.

  Fortunately, it was dark, emergency lights only were in operation. Harsh white beams gleamed at intervals, forming pools of light in the corridors, leaving most of the area in shadow.

  Now or never. Maigrey left her doorway, walking hunched over, her hand to her face. Keeping to the shadows, she flitted down the passageway, heading for the flight deck. What she would do once she got there was open to question.

  She literally stumbled over her answer, tripped over a dead body.

  Lying in a particularly dark portion of the ship, the man had gone unnoticed by those passing by who might have aided him. He’d been a pilot, Maigrey noted from the bulky flight suit, the helmet that he'd dropped when his strength gave out. She refrained from thanking the Creator—she could never be thankful for a man's death—but she did bless His guidance that led her down this particular passage.

  She dragged the body into a dark corridor, keeping clear of the pools of light, and stripped the flight suit from the corpse.

  The drumbeats continued, would continue until the drummers themselves left their posts. Maigrey heard them, felt them, the vibrations thrumming through her body. She had no doubt that she would hear them in her dreams. How much time? Thirty minutes, her mental clock told her. The corridor rocked, tilted. The ship was drifting, no longer under control.

  The drumbeats ceased. The ship was almost deserted now. The silence echoed more loudly than the noise before it. Her fingers, slippery with blood, shook as she tried to release the clasps on the flight suit. Each second might be the last. Maigrey grit her teeth, forced herself to stop thinking about it.

  A huge metal fragment embedded in the man's chest cavity had been his death. He hadn't sustained that injury flying. He must have been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It made her wonder what the flight deck was like, what damage it had taken. Still, the evac ships had to be going out. . , .

  Maigrey struggled into the flight suit, pulled it over her body armor, fastened it up tightly. It was too big; she felt huge and bulky as an elephant. Picking up the man's helmet, she started to put it on, then paused. Reaching down, she closed the staring eyes.

  " 'Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis. " she murmured softly. " 'Rest eternal grant them, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them.'"

  My lady! came a voice.

  It sounded so near! Maigrey leapt up in fright, whirled around, Sagan wasn't there. The voice was in her head, in her being. She drew a shivering breath, reprimanded herself. The Warlord couldn't be anywhere near. He couldn't leave the bridge. She should have remembered that.

  Ignoring him, shutting her mind to his probing, she dipped her hand in the soot and blood and spilled oil that coated the deck and smeared the gunk over her face. Putting on the helmet, Maigrey hurried back out into the main corridor.

  But she couldn't shut out his voice entirely.

  We will meet again, my lady, you and I.

  Chapter Five

  Presume not that I am the thing I was . . .

  William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part II, Act V, Scene 4

  Dion landed his spaceplane on Defiant without incident, helpfully guided by the destroyer's flight controllers.

  "Remember, he told the computer, once they were aboard and the docking bay doors were shutting behind him, "make certain that fuel light is malfunctioning. ''

  "I'm not programmed—"

  "Think again. You made certain that the transmitter was malfunctioning for the Warlord, didn't you?"

  The computer did not respond, but Dion noted that a red light appeared over the fuel gauge.

  The young man was met by a harassed junior officer. Obviously annoyed at being forced to cope with a childish prank during a crisis, the officer was at the same time painfully aware that this child was in the Warlord's favor.

  Apparently, thought Dion, the man hadn't received updated information.

  "Come along, young man, don't dawdle." The officer was brusque. Catching hold of the sleeve of Dion's flight suit, he propelled the boy down a corridor. "I have informed Lord Sagan of your safe arrival. I was afraid he might have been concerned.'

  "I'm sure he was." Dion kept a straight face. 'Did you speak directly to him?"

  "Of course not," the officer snapped, shoving his way through a crowd of men who had just been evacuated from Phoenix. "I don't have the authorization. You've been assigned temporary quarters. They're in the brig, I'm afraid—"

  "The brig!' Dion jerked his arm away from the man's grasp. "Did Lord Sagan order—"

  "Sorry," the officer said, casting a sidelong glance at the young man, "but that's all the space we have available." He laid firm claim to Dion's arm. "First I'm to escort you to the— Now what the devil's the matter?"

  "I feel , . . faint. . . ."

  Dion's eyes rolled back in his head; his knees buckled. Tall and muscular, the seventeen-year-old was bigger than the officer, whose own knees began to give beneath the young man's weight. The officer hung on grimly, propping Dion up, shouting for help. Two marines came to his assistance. Between them, they dragged the stumbling young man out of the crowded passageway into what appeared to be a large storage closet and deposited him on a pile of rags. Dion closed his eyes, leaned his head against a mop.

  "Medic!" The officer was shouting into his commlink.

  "You won't get one, sir," said one of the marines. "They're all at the fighting. "

  "I don't need a doctor," Dion managed to gasp. "I . . . get these spells sometimes. I need rest, that's all.'

  The officer regarded him dubiously. "Can you walk?"

  "No. It wouldn't be good for me. I'm . . . I'm afraid I’d . . , pass out." Dion's head lolled back against the mop handle. "Just let me lie here a moment."

  "Look, you need us, sir?" The marine appeared edgy. "Our unit's been ordered to D deck."

  The officer scowled, tugged at a scraggly mustache. "No, go on," he said finally, with ill grace.

  The marines left, boots pounding on the deck, their equipment rattling.

  "I've got my own duties to attend to." The officer glared at Dion accusingly. "I can't stay here and baby-sit you."

  "There's no need. sir. I'll be all right. I need rest . . . if I could just rest ..."

  The officer examined the young man. Dion didn't have to put on much of an act. He didn't feel that good and he knew he must look terrible. The Corasians' torture, the shock of discovering Sagan had betrayed his friends, of discovering Sagan had betrayed him—all must have left marks on his face. They had on his soul.

  "I'll send someone to fetch you," the officer said in a somewhat gentler tone, turning on his heel. "Stay right here.

  Don't go anywhere. There's fighting on this ship. You don't want to blunder into it.'

  "No, sir. Thank you, sir. "

  The officer disappeared. Dion jumped to his feet, cat-padding to the door of the closet, looked out. He waited until he saw the man vanish down a
corridor, then headed in the opposite direction. Rounding a corner, he caught sight of the two marines who'd helped him. He plunged into the crowd, and followed them.

  Defiant was in a state of chaos. Evac ships, arriving from the crippled Phoenix, disgorged loads of men. Phoenix's marines were sent immediately to reinforce the embattled troops fighting the mercenaries, but the warship's pilots, clerks, cooks, and everyone else were left stranded, not knowing what to do or where to go. Officers roamed about trying to find someone who knew something about anything. In the confusion, no one gave Dion a second glance.

  The young man let the crowd carry him along. He lost sight of the first two marines, but others were heading in the same general direction and he figured he was going the right way. Eventually he found a landmark—a mess hall—and placed it on the mental blueprint of Defiant he was carrying in his head. Yes, he was close . . . very close.

  The crowd came to a sudden halt, everyone bunching up together, peering over each other's heads, yelling and shouting, demanding to know what was going on. Those standing near Dion began to look at him oddly, and he realized that he was a fish out of water—a pilot in the midst of marines.

  "There's real fighting going on up ahead, fly-boy," said one. "You better spread your wings and flap out of here. "

  Others joined in, giving him additional advice on what he could do and where he could do it. A sergeant's head was swiveling his direction.

  "Isn't th-this the way to the ready room?" Dion stammered, backing up, bumping into men who shoved him good-naturedly and gave him advice on where to find the ready room—none of the locations suggested likely to be on this plane of existence. Dion extricated himself from the mass and tumbled down a corridor that merged with the one in which he'd been standing. This passage was empty, probably because it led nowhere directly. An elevator stood at the end.

  Dion headed for that, not knowing what else to do, his cheeks and ears burning from the various comments, shouted after him. It took forever for the elevator to arrive. When it did, he ducked into it hurriedly and let the doors shut on him, sighing in relief. Here, at least, it was quiet. He could think.

  "What level?" the elevator inquired.

  Dion ignored it, tried to think what to do now. After all, he hadn't really expected to just walk into a raging fight. He might have known, if he'd thought about it, that the battle zone would be cordoned off.

  The elevator adopted a more insistent tone.

  "What level?"

  Dion called up the blueprint in his mind. Yes, that was a possibility. "One,' he answered, and the elevator descended with a speed that left his stomach up on fourteen.

  Arriving at the bottom, in the very bowels of the ship, Dion emerged from the elevator into an uncomfortably warm, steamy atmosphere, and was startled to realize he had landed in the laundry.

  The pungent smell of chemical solvents made his nose twitch: he sneezed violently. Men bustled about their business—washing, drying, folding, pressing. It wasn't as trivial an operation as it looked to a shocked Dion. Clean, sterile sheets were needed for sick bay; the doctors and male nurses needed clean surgical gowns.

  All Dion could think was that on the decks above, men saw their own life's blood soak their clothes.

  "And will the wine stain come out of the captain's dress shirt?" he muttered to himself.

  He glanced around, getting his bearings. He'd mistaken the corridor he'd been in, had taken the wrong elevator. Making the necessary corrections, he continued on his way, ignoring the looks of blank astonishment that met him. Apparently, the godlike pilots of the Galactic Democratic Republic Space Corps never descended into the laundry. No one spoke to him or detained him, however. These men had their own problems, their own responsibilities. An obviously lost, possibly deranged cadet wasn't one of them.

  Dion found himself in a tangle of corridors—narrow, cramped, dark, and foul-smelling. Innumerable pipes wheezed and rattled; coils of electrical wiring dropped down from the overhead like snakes. He kept going, following the plan in his mind, and came eventually to his destination—a freight elevator.

  His one fear: that the elevator'd been shut down in the emergency. His one hope: that in the confusion no one would have remembered it. Other freight elevators would be in use, hauling up heavy equipment used in the fighting. But not this one. Not one that led directly to Delta deck, not unless the mercenaries themselves decided to put it into operation.

  He hit the elevator control, saw it light, and heard, with relief, a jolt and the hiss of hydraulics. The heavy-duty lift moved slowly, ponderously. Dion glanced up and down the corridor, fearful of being discovered. He hit the control again, knowing that it wouldn't hurry the elevator and that hitting it would do nothing but relieve his own frustrations. But if it didn't get here soon, if he thought too much about what he was doing, he might just turn and walk away. Finally the elevator hit bottom, doors opening with a screech Dion was certain Captain Williams must have heard on the bridge.

  He jumped inside. "Delta deck, level one . . . no, two. Level two," he corrected.

  Nothing happened.

  "Delta deck, level two!' Dion repeated loudly.

  The elevator remained unmoving. The boy swore, thinking it had malfunctioned, until he saw the control box near the double doors. It operated manually. Surging forward, he jammed his hand on the button, nearly lost his footing as the elevator lurched upward. Centimeter by centimeter it crept. Dion's heartbeat increased proportionate to the levels they passed. He had only the vaguest idea of what he would face when it stopped and the doors opened, and he realized then, rather late, that his only weapon was the bloodsword. Not a very effective weapon in a firefight, even if he had been properly trained in its use.

  The elevator began to slow, not anywhere near the correct level. Dion panicked.

  "They'll find me and this time I won't be able to fake a fit. That officer must have discovered my absence by now. The entire ship will be on alert, looking for me!" The young man pressed back against the wall, hidden in the shadows, the bloodsword in his hand. But the elevator continued moving. When it did come to a stop, the digital numbers read d.2. Dion sighed in relief.

  The doors slid open. He remained where he was, flat against the wall, watching, waiting. He knew from the blueprint where he should be, knew what he should see before him—he should be directly above Delta deck. A maze of platforms, connecting catwalks, winches, and hoists, this area was used by maintenance personnel and engineers. Dion considered it unlikely that anyone on either side would think of posting a guard at the entrance to a freight elevator, but he waited warily to make sure.

  He couldn't see anyone, but that wasn't saying much. He couldn't see anything very well. Smoke, rising from the deck below, burned his eyes, making them water. The noise level was appalling—explosions, rocket bursts, screams. . . .

  Dion darted out of the elevator, heard the doors grind shut behind him. He was standing on a platform made of solid steel that extended out several meters in front of him, ending in a railing. A crisscrossing network of catwalks branched out from the platform, hurtling into a smoke-filled darkness lit by occasional flaring bursts. He could barely see the hulking shapes of the gigantic machinery used to raise and lower the spaceplanes into position.

  Back on Phoenix, Dion had watched the service crews walk the narrow catwalks, and marveled at their agility, envied their jaunty confidence as they performed feats of acrobatic skill thirty meters or more above his head. Just looking at them gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He never imagined he'd be joining them.

  The young man removed the bloodsword from his hand, winced slightly as the needles pulled out of his flesh, leaving spots of blood behind. He wiped his palm on his flight suit and edged his way forward, peering hesitantly over the railing. He needn't have worried about the drop making him giddy or someone down below spotting him. He couldn't see a thing except smoke and flame.

  Pain shot up his arm. Dion looked at
his hand, saw it clenched around the metal railing, the fingers white with the strain. He wondered if he was going to have to pry himself loose. He thought of Tusk, somewhere down there.

  "Anything's better than being stuck up here alone!' Dion told himself. He released his hold on the railing and crept onto the catwalk, crawling forward on his hands and knees.

  He'd been pounding himself on the back over his ingenuity in finding this means of sneaking into the battle zone. But now. with smoke choking him, groping blindly along a catwalk that was maybe a meter wide, with nothing beneath him but a long fall to an extremely hard deck, he wondered if he'd been so smart. His eyes were streaming, the smoke burned his lungs.

  He coughed, blinked back tears, and almost fell from his perch. This wasn't working.

  "Before long, I'm going to get too light-headed to continue. I have to get off of here. "

  Unable to see where he was going, he bumped headlong into a support beam and clutched at it thankfully. His hands closed over what felt like ladder rungs, leading up and down. He swung himself down. His feet came into fumbling contact with the ladder, and he began his slow descent.

  Halfway there, it occurred to him that he was an ideal target. All it would take was one marine to look in his direction—

  "No," he said suddenly, glancing at his outfit. "One of the mercenaries. Fuck it! I'm dressed in a goddam regulation Space Corps flight suit, complete with insignia. Chances are I'm going to be shot by my own friends! I could take it off," he added with a surge of hope that immediately died. He was wearing regulation body armor underneath.

  Cursing himself for not having thought of this sooner, Dion slipped, lost his footing, and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. He landed heavily on the deck below.

  Jolted by his fall, he huddled near the protective beam, peered through the smoke-filled shadows, and tried to figure out where he was and in what direction to move. No direction appeared particularly pleasant or healthful. The zip/flash of lasguns sizzled past, crisscrossing all around him. He couldn't tell who was firing at whom.