jacket
he was wearing, noticed blood trickling down his fingers. He wondered
whose it was. "The controls . . . for hangar bay. We've got . .
. capture them. Open . . .' He was having trouble catching his
breath. "Escape."
"Gotcha.
How'll we know where the controls are?"
Dion forced his
mind to slow down, not gallop past details. "Flares," he
said, remembering the burst overhead that had scared him. "Flares,"
he repeated.
He staggered to
his feet.
"Hey,
General. You've been hit. You better rest a minute—"
Dion shook his
head. He didn't have much time.
"Thank
you," he said politely to his first command, and went off to
find Tusk,
The men watched
until the red hair was lost in the smoke. Then they hefted their
equipment, prepared to obey orders.
"Wait a
goddam minute' How old do you suppose that kid is?" one asked.
"Dunno.
Maybe sixteen, seventeen, his buddy answered.
"You got
any idea why we re doing this?"
"No."
All of them, Ned included, shook their heads.
"Me
neither. Except ..." the man paused, pondered, "I think
maybe its the eyes. They sort of burn right through a guy . Any of
you ever seen eyes like that?"
None of them,
including Ned. who had six eyes of his own. ever had.
Dion squad moved
out.
Chapter Eight
. . . quod
vindicta
Nemo magis
gaudet quam femina.
... no one
delights more in vengeance than a woman.
Juvenal, Satires
"I don't
need any help, thank you. No, I'm not hurt!"
The MP couldn't
hear the words but he understood the gesture. Watching through a
viewscreen in the corridor outside the hangar bay, he saw the pilot
wave off assistance and extricate herself from the smashed-up
Scimitar. Emergency crews swarmed over it, checking for potential
fires, radiation leaks.
"Why did
you bother?" One of the crewmen appeared to be shouting. A
hulking cyborg encased in a protective suit, he twiddled a robotic
arm at what was left of the spaceplane.
The pilot
removed her helmet, said something that would seem to be, from the
movement of her lips, "It beat walking!"
The cyborg was
highly amused at the response.
Exiting the
hangar bay, the pilot entered the corridor. The MP drew his men up in
ceremonial form, awaiting her arrival. The woman saw them. They
saluted, she saluted, fist over her heart. Her face was smeared with
grease and soot, her pale hair had drifted free of its confining
braids, her flight suit was punctured and stained with blood. Though
she appeared bone-weary, she stood straight, shoulders squared.
"I am Lady
Maigrey Morianna. Where is Captain Williams? I want to speak with
him."
The MP was
completely taken aback by this request, and somewhat confused.
Escaping prisoners, such as this woman was purported to be, didn't
generally arrive on board a ship and demand to see the captain.
"Captain
Williams is . . . uh . . . unavailable at the moment, your . . .
ladyship. The current emergency situation ... If I could be of
assistance ..."
Maigrey fixed
the MP with a scrutinizing gaze. He was conscious of undergoing some
sort of evaluation. Apparently he passed, for she nodded once,
gravely.
"Yes,
officer, thank you. Has the latest shuttle arrived from Phoenix?"
"I don't
know, my lady." He hedged for time. "I can check—"
"Please do
so. There is a felon on board, a murderer. I am responsible to my
lord for his capture."
The MP spoke
into the commlink in his helmet. The woman stood nearby, tapping her
foot impatiently, a slight frown creasing her forehead over the
delay.
"Captain
Williams," the MP said quietly.
"Williams
here."
"I have
Lady Morianna, sir. She has asked to speak to you."
"To me?
What the deuce for?"
"She says
she's been sent here by Lord Sagan to capture a felon, a—a
murderer, sir."
"But she's
an escaped prisoner!" Williams sounded rattled. According to
reports, the battle with the mercenaries wasn't going well.
"Yes, sir.
Have you been able to contact Lord Sagan, sir?"
"No."
Williams snapped the answer.
So the rumors
must be true, the MP
he was wearing, noticed blood trickling down his fingers. He wondered
whose it was. "The controls . . . for hangar bay. We've got . .
. capture them. Open . . .' He was having trouble catching his
breath. "Escape."
"Gotcha.
How'll we know where the controls are?"
Dion forced his
mind to slow down, not gallop past details. "Flares," he
said, remembering the burst overhead that had scared him. "Flares,"
he repeated.
He staggered to
his feet.
"Hey,
General. You've been hit. You better rest a minute—"
Dion shook his
head. He didn't have much time.
"Thank
you," he said politely to his first command, and went off to
find Tusk,
The men watched
until the red hair was lost in the smoke. Then they hefted their
equipment, prepared to obey orders.
"Wait a
goddam minute' How old do you suppose that kid is?" one asked.
"Dunno.
Maybe sixteen, seventeen, his buddy answered.
"You got
any idea why we re doing this?"
"No."
All of them, Ned included, shook their heads.
"Me
neither. Except ..." the man paused, pondered, "I think
maybe its the eyes. They sort of burn right through a guy . Any of
you ever seen eyes like that?"
None of them,
including Ned. who had six eyes of his own. ever had.
Dion squad moved
out.
Chapter Eight
. . . quod
vindicta
Nemo magis
gaudet quam femina.
... no one
delights more in vengeance than a woman.
Juvenal, Satires
"I don't
need any help, thank you. No, I'm not hurt!"
The MP couldn't
hear the words but he understood the gesture. Watching through a
viewscreen in the corridor outside the hangar bay, he saw the pilot
wave off assistance and extricate herself from the smashed-up
Scimitar. Emergency crews swarmed over it, checking for potential
fires, radiation leaks.
"Why did
you bother?" One of the crewmen appeared to be shouting. A
hulking cyborg encased in a protective suit, he twiddled a robotic
arm at what was left of the spaceplane.
The pilot
removed her helmet, said something that would seem to be, from the
movement of her lips, "It beat walking!"
The cyborg was
highly amused at the response.
Exiting the
hangar bay, the pilot entered the corridor. The MP drew his men up in
ceremonial form, awaiting her arrival. The woman saw them. They
saluted, she saluted, fist over her heart. Her face was smeared with
grease and soot, her pale hair had drifted free of its confining
braids, her flight suit was punctured and stained with blood. Though
she appeared bone-weary, she stood straight, shoulders squared.
"I am Lady
Maigrey Morianna. Where is Captain Williams? I want to speak with
him."
The MP was
completely taken aback by this request, and somewhat confused.
Escaping prisoners, such as this woman was purported to be, didn't
generally arrive on board a ship and demand to see the captain.
"Captain
Williams is . . . uh . . . unavailable at the moment, your . . .
ladyship. The current emergency situation ... If I could be of
assistance ..."
Maigrey fixed
the MP with a scrutinizing gaze. He was conscious of undergoing some
sort of evaluation. Apparently he passed, for she nodded once,
gravely.
"Yes,
officer, thank you. Has the latest shuttle arrived from Phoenix?"
"I don't
know, my lady." He hedged for time. "I can check—"
"Please do
so. There is a felon on board, a murderer. I am responsible to my
lord for his capture."
The MP spoke
into the commlink in his helmet. The woman stood nearby, tapping her
foot impatiently, a slight frown creasing her forehead over the
delay.
"Captain
Williams," the MP said quietly.
"Williams
here."
"I have
Lady Morianna, sir. She has asked to speak to you."
"To me?
What the deuce for?"
"She says
she's been sent here by Lord Sagan to capture a felon, a—a
murderer, sir."
"But she's
an escaped prisoner!" Williams sounded rattled. According to
reports, the battle with the mercenaries wasn't going well.
"Yes, sir.
Have you been able to contact Lord Sagan, sir?"
"No."
Williams snapped the answer.
So the rumors
must be true, the MP
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