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  "Oh, I know who you are." The young pilot smiled grimly. "The Warlord's Starlady. I saw you fight Lord Sagan. The major will figure out who you are, too, eventually. And when he does, he'll kick himself. He could have made a lot more money off you than he will off that jewel."

  "Yeah." Maigrey was examining both spaceplanes, only half-listening. "Look, kid. We don't have much time. This first plane's not in too bad shape. I think I can get it as far as Defiant, at least. Come with me—" Reaching out, she laid her hand on his arm.

  He moved away from her touch, shaking his head. "No! I need this flight. I'll prove I can handle myself this time! I'm off the jump-juice. And maybe this'll make up for—" The young pilot checked what he had been about to say. Turning, he headed for the Scimitar,

  I could club him, knock him out, drag him aboard my plane. Maigrey thought. How many other young hotheads has that bastard major "helped" to escape or desert? How nam have died? She could hear, some distance away, an evac ship warming its engines, preparing for takeoff. She and this kid were probably among the last few remaining on Phoenix. Her gaze went to Sagan's plane, which was ready, waiting.

  After all. I've got my own problems, she reminded herself ! have responsibilities and—

  "Oh, hell!" Maigrey ran after the pilot, caught him as he was scrambling up the ladder of the charred and battered plane,

  "Don't try it!" She shouted to be heard over the roar of the engines, the gong warning everyone to clear the area, the shivering rattle of the hangar bay doors, preparing to open. "Come with me:'

  The young man either didn't hear or he was pretending he didn't. He waved his hand to her jauntily, climbed down into the cockpit.

  Well, I did what I could, Maigrey told herself gloomily. Maybe he has a chance.

  Lowering herself into the cockpit of her own plane, she began to swear out loud. The outside hadn't looked bad. Inside was a mess. The pilot's chair was soaked with blood. The charred and blackened control panel gave Maigrey an idea how the blood got there. She wondered what instruments the on-board explosion had knocked out, hoped it was nothing absolutely essential. At least the fact that the pilot had been able to make it back with his crippled plane was a good sign.

  The engines fired, and though Maigrey had no instruments to tell her if they were functioning properly, they sounded okay The hangar bay doors were sliding open. No one was manning the controls, but the doors would open automatically when engines were fired. Her computer programming was malfunctioning, she discovered, and the starboard shields were jammed, wouldn't operate.

  "Wrecker One, this is Wrecker Two. Can you copy? Over."

  This is nothing to joke about!" Maigrey snapped. Fool kid. He better start taking this seriously.

  "Sorry, sir. " He chuckled. "I mean, lady."

  "You fly on out ahead of me." Maigrey tried to soften her tone. What he needed to hear was confidence, not the echo of her own worries and fears. "And stay close in case you—in case either of us gets into trouble. "

  "You can count on me, lady."

  The young man's spaceplane swooped out. Maigrey watched it climb, saw it begin to turn a lazy backward roll—

  God, no!

  "Level off!" She fought to keep her voice calm, to keep from screaming at him.

  The plane continued to roll over, performing a slow, graceful, deadly loop.

  "I can't!" The young pilot's voice cracked in terror. "The controls won't respond!"

  "You have to override the—

  "I'm going to eras—"

  The Scimitar smashed into Phoenix's hull, exploded.

  To die in a ball of fire.

  Maigrey pressed her lips tightly together. She had to keep her attention focused on her own flying. It would take all her skill and nerve to make it as far as Defiant. Leaving Phoenix, she didn't look behind her, kept her gaze purposefully averted from the charred and smoking blotch on the hull.

  Veering away from the Corasian ship, she tried to get a fix on Defiant. The destroyer was out of visual range; Sagan must have warned it off. But Maigrey located it on her scanner and, after some difficulty with the computer, managed to set her course.

  Now all she had to do was hang on and fly.

  "Creator," she whispered, shivering in the cold that was creeping through the hole in her flight suit, "give me the major who sent that kid to die. That's all I ask. Give him to me."

  Chapter Seven

  We took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incarnate,

  William Shakespeare, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act V, Scene 1

  "He's coming around, sir."

  "How is he?" John Dixter crouched down on his haunches, his hand ruffled Dion's mane of red-gold hair. The general moved aside, allowing room for Bennett, his aide, carrying a medical kit. Bennett's deft hands examined the young man, felt the lump behind Dion's left ear.

  Dion groaned, blinked, and tried to sit up. Dixter gently but firmly pushed him back down.

  "Well, young man, you very nearly gave your life for the Galactic Democratic Republic. If Bennett hadn't recognized you, Gobar would have broken your neck. "

  "General Dixter!' Dion stared at the man. "They told me you were dead!"

  "Not yet," Dixter said dryly. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like my head's going to split open!"

  "You re lucky, son. You made an excellent target, wandering around that well-lighted room in full view of God and everyone."

  "Just a bump, sir, ' Bennett said.

  "No concussion?" Dixter asked in low tones.

  "I don't believe so, sir. The skin isn't broken." Bennett dumped two pills in Dion's hand. "Take these."

  "What's this?"

  "Aspirin."

  "Sorry, son," Dixter said, seeing that the boy looked disappointed. "But it's the only painkiller we've got. We ran out of anything stronger." He glanced at several blanket-covered forms lying on the deck nearby.

  The young man followed his gaze, flushed, accepted the pills, and swallowed them. He sat up. trying to act as if nothing was the matter with him.

  "Have you won, sir?" Dion asked, looking around the hangar bay. Everything was quiet, the mercenaries standing or sitting around in small groups, talking together in low tones.

  "No, no. Far from it. The proverbial lull before the storm, I'm afraid." Dixter smiled tiredly, rubbed his stubbled jaw. "We managed to push the marines back, sealed off all the entrances by jamming the controls. But they'll be bringing in the heavy stuff soon, probably brain-gas—"

  "And you're just sitting around, waiting for them?" Dion struggled to his feet.

  "Not much else we can do, son." the general replied coolly . "Actually, however, our computer experts are working on overriding the locking systems on the hangar bay controls. The pilots have their planes ready to go. All we have to do is buy ihem a little more time. Now, tell me. How in the name of the Creator did you get here?"

  "I . . . came from Delta deck. Over there. " Dion waved a hand vaguely,

  "I meant how'd you get away from the Corasians? Last I heard, Tusk said you'd been captured."

  Dixter watched the young man's face intently, saw him grow pale. Dion was obviously debating whether to answer or not, perhaps decided that some explanation was due. "I was captured. It ... it was pretty bad. Sagan and the Lady Maigrey came after me, rescued me. Then. I heard that Sagan had double-crossed you, that he'd gone back on his word and ordered you and Tusk and everyone captured. Maigrey sent me to warn you. I stole a plane and . . . here I am. Guess I'm late, huh?" He stole a glance at Dixter, apparently hoping the general wouldn't ask any more questions.

  Fortunately, Dixter had something else on his mind. "Maigrey sent you? Where is she?"

  Dion put a hand gingerly to the lump behind his ear. winced in pain. "I left her on Phoenix, sir. I asked her to come with me," The young man frowned. "But she said she had to stay , . . with him."

  The general heard the young man's bitter emphasis, understood the implication. "She stayed behind
to protect you? To keep . . . urn . . . him from following you?"

  "So she said. It's just that—I saw the two of them together and . . . and. well, never mind."

  Dixter watched the expressive face, knew—by experience— what the young man must be feeling. The general wished he could help Dion, but he had his own pain to deal with.

  Funny. Dixter thought, I thought I'd come to terms with the pain years ago. I wish ! could see her again, one last time. There are a lot of things I'd like to say. . , . But maybe its better this way. She was always superstitious about good-byes.

  Dixter reached out, took Dion's hand, shook it. "It's good to see you again, son. know you're alive. If you could take hack a message to her from me—"

  "What do you mean, sir? 'Take back a message. Dion ceased wrestling with his private hell, understood that he had entered another's. He looked up in alarm. "You can send it yourself. You said the planes were ready to go —

  "Not nearly enough, son. Dixter let the boy down gently. "We can't get everyone off. We managed to knock out the tractor beams, so once ray people escape, they'll be in the clear. But someone has to stay behind, tight the rearguard action, keep the bay doors open. We—

  A violent explosion rocked the hangar deck. Men and women leapt to their feet, grabbing weapons, taking up positions. Dixter looked ahead toward the front of the hangar bay. Dion stared hard, but it was impossible to see around the numerous spaceplanes. some of them wrecked, others obviously ready and waiting to go. "Bennett, the field radio ' Dixter’s aide was there, equipment on hand, Dixter spoke into the small, compact unit. "Moore, what's going on?"

  "They've blown the main hatch, sir. We're all set for em up here. Lilly says give her fifteen minutes more and she'll have those bay doors wide open.

  "Right, Good luck. Out, " Calmly ignoring a series of small explosions and an answering burst of lascannon fire, the general turned to Dion. "What's it like on Delta? We lost contact with them a long time ago."

  "Chaos, sir. No one's in command. Small groups, scattered around. They think you're dead. They've lost all hope. . . ."

  "Hope." Dixter shook his head. The brown eyes, in their maze of wrinkles, looked suddenly faded, weary.

  '"Only the dead are without hope, sir,'" Dion said.

  Dixter smiled, remembered where he'd heard that saving before. "Yes, but as Maigrey would add, they have other benefits. Well, young man, what do you propose to do? I see you've got something in mind."

  Dion flushed. "I'd like to go back there, sir. Take command."

  "Take command ..." Dixter was looking at Dion but the general was, in reality, seeing Dion's uncle, seeing a king who had never, a day in his life, truly taken command. Same blood, but in the old king it had moved sluggishly. In this boy it burned.

  "I've got an idea. sir. I think it has a chance of succeeding and I really don't have time to explain it. I'll need a field-phone." Dion leaned down, picked one up.

  "Here, now, young man!" A shocked Bennett reached out to snatch his equipment back.

  Dixter laid a quieting hand on his aide's arm, turned away, motioned Bennett to attend.

  "Let him have it," the general said softly.

  His aide stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious, sir! He's ... a child!"

  "Alexander the Great was fifteen when he fought his first war. Take a good look at him, Bennett."

  The aide glanced reluctantly around. The blue eyes were hard as glare ice. The youthful face was pale, composed and frozen as a snowbank. The shining red hair of the Starfires, disheveled, running rampant, shone like a pillar of flame.

  "After all," Dixter murmured, talking more to himself than to Bennett. "Dion is a prince. And if God's with that young man, then maybe He'll be with my people. And if He's not"—the general shrugged—"what do we have to lose?"

  "A fieldphone," Bennett observed crisply. "And that is an extremely expensive—"

  Dixter grinned, clapped his aide on the back. "Put it on my tab. Wry well, young man. You can take your radio. Here you go. Need anything else?" He was unable to conceal his ironic-tone.

  Fortunately Dion was too pent up and excited to notice. "No, sir. Thank you."

  Another explosion, this one much closer, caused them all to duck, sent a shower of sparks over the general. Bennett hastily brushed them off the uniform, lamenting over numerous burn holes. Given the rumpled, slept-in, soot-, sweat-, and blood-stained state of his uniform, Dixter couldn't tell that a few holes made much difference.

  "You better get going, son. No . . . no good-byes. It's bad luck."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you. sir. I—" Dion held out his hand. The general shook it gravely. "I'll see you soon, sir."

  Tucking the fieldphone into a pocket of his flight suit, Dion made his way through the tangle of wreckage and bodies, returning to the pilot ready room and the corridor linking Charlie deck with Delta.

  "An interesting young man," said Dixter, watching him go. "A pity I won't be around to see what happens to him."

  "Your computer has not given the correct code response, Scimitar. Halt and identify yourself."

  Correct code response. Maigrey swore beneath her breath, something she'd been doing a lot lately, she noted. What the devil was going on? Why had they changed the damn codes3 Then she remembered. Some of the mercenaries, Dion’s friend Tusk among them, flew stolen Scimitars. They'd been given the codes when they were on the side of the angels, when they were fighting for Sagan in his fight against the Corasians. It was only logical for him to order the codes changed now that they were fighting against the Warlord. It wouldn't do to let the wolf into Defiant's fold.

  "Well, I am the wolf," Maigrey said to herself grimly. "And I'm landing, code or no blasted code," She pondered, deciding on her strategy. Maintain the disguise, bluff her way through . . . The hell with it. She was too damn tired. Tired and, now that she thought of it, hungry.

  "Listen to me, whoever you are and whatever rank you are and," she added, voice tight and cold, "you better take a good look at that rank because you're not going to be a lieutenant or a corporal or a sergeant much longer unless you obey my command. I am Lady Maigrey Morianna and I arn flying a plane that's shot to hell. Even if I did know your friggin code, which I don't, since I've been fighting the Corasians, the only thing my computer could do with it is exactly what I'd like to do with it and what we'll both be happy to do with it if and when we get the opportunity to meet you."

  She drew a deep breath, let it out, almost purred, "Now, you will give me that landing clearance, won't you?"

  Maigrey sat back.

  A pause, then a voice came. "You have been cleared for landing, your ladyship. Emergency equipment standing by."

  "Thank you. And I want an armed detail of MPs waiting to meet me."

  "Repeat that last—"

  "You heard me." Maigrey switched him off. Better to keep him unbalanced, not give him time to go trotting off to some superior officer, who might remember that though she was a privileged prisoner, Maigrey was a prisoner nonetheless and it wouldn't be proper form to put an armed detail under her command. Hopefully Defiant would be in such a state of confusion, they'd react automatically to her authority without thinking about it. If not—or if Sagan managed to get through to them first—she might very well find the armed detail waiting to take her into custody.

  Maigrey touched the red mark on her skin, the mark left by the starjewel's chain. She called up a mental image of the jewel. The crystal shone clear, radiant, lit from within by its own inner white-blue light. Calming, soothing, it reminded her of a Will greater, more powerful than her own.

  Maigrey pressed the points of the imaginary starjewel against her cheek, closed her eyes. She could almost feel tiny pinpricks tingle through her nerves. She followed them, going deep within herself to a place that was dark and empty, a place that harbored no emotion, a place of oblivion.

  When she emerged, a few moments later, she was rested, calm. She had her plan; she knew exactly wha
t she must do.

  She was only sorry she hadn't thought to have the armed detail bring along a chicken sandwich.

  Dion dashed back through the pilot ready room—this time shutting off the lights, keeping low. He hesitated entering the corridor. Letting the door slide open only a crack, he listened, peered out.

  Nothing. It was still silent, still empty. He drew a breath and charged down the passageway. At the entrance to Delta deck, he pressed the controls, dove headlong inside when the door slid open. Landing on his stomach, he slammed up hard against a pile of rubble. Never again would he let himself get hit from behind.

  The fighting on Delta appeared, by the sound of it, to be heavy but sporadic. Bursts of laser fire came from all directions. The smoke was so thick it was impossible to see anything, and breathing was difficult. Dion ripped a piece of fabric from the shirt of a dead mercenary lying next to him. The young man tied it around his nose and mouth. Crude, but it would keep out the worst of the fumes.

  His flight suit with its Galactic Air Corps markings was a danger. Yet, hopefully, it would also prove his salvation. He couldn't abandon ft, though he'd been nearly killed twice because of it. The dead had another gift to offer him. Stripping the flak jacket from the body, Dion pulled it on over his flight suit. The jacket was heavy and hot over the already bulky flight suit, but it beat getting shot by his own people.

  Lying prone, he considered the situation. Being pilots, the mercenaries were armed mainly with hand weapons—small lasguns, perhaps a beam rifle here and there. The marines had lascannons, grenades. The mercenaries were fighting in detached groups, each intent on its own survival. If they could be made to unite, if they had heavy weaponry . . .

  Dion twisted around, stared through the murk, ignoring the stinging smoke in his eyes. Impatiently, he blinked back tears. Had he found what he'd been seeking? The young man risked leaving his cover, crawled forward a meter or so to make certain. Yes! He clenched his fist in excitement and slithered his way back to the rubble.

  Dion waited, watched until he located the position of gunfire nearest him, coming from the front of the hangar bay, a position he hoped was still being held by the mercenaries. If not, well, he had the flight suit on under the jacket. He supposed he could always say the jacket was on because he felt cold.