Authors: Margaret Weis
"I am distressed
to hear this, Derek," the President said with a slight shrug of
the shoulders beneath his expensive, tailored business suit. "You
are, of course, aware that this man was wanted for public trial—"
"I was aware of
that!" Sagan snapped. He was tired, his control slipping. "Mr.
President. As in the case of the Guardian Stavros, I deemed this
death necessary."
There, let them chew on
that, he thought, watching with grim satisfaction the quick range of
emotions pass over the President's face. Robes removed disappointment
and tried on anger; but immediately discarded it—one was rarely
angry with a general who controlled one-twentieth of your military
forces. The President settled upon mildly threatening.
"I trust you will
make the reasons known in your full report, Citizen General—a
report which we will expect to be receiving from you immediately.
Have you other news?"
"Not at this time,
Mr. President."
Robes's bright blue
eyes narrowed, regarding Sagan intently. "Very well, Citizen
General. Thank you."
"Mr. President."
The screen went dark,
but Sagan remained standing before it, waiting with as much patience
as he ever waited for anything. He knew it wouldn't be long. Robes
was noted for quick, decisive action.
Within moments—just
as long as it would take to clear a room of thirty people—the
screen came back to life.
"Sagan. Thank you
for waiting."
The Warlord made no
response. The President was alone, the room empty. "Activate
scrambler."
That was to be
expected, considering the delicate nature of the discussion. Reaching
down, Sagan depressed a button. The annoying buzzing in his ears told
him that their conversation could now be held in strictest security.
The words spoken by each man were being transmitted in coded audio
impulses that could be understood by only these two alone. Although
it was highly unlikely that anyone could be monitoring their
conversation from the tight security of the sealed Cabinet Room or
from the equally tight security aboard
Phoenix
, this
conversation was far too dangerous to take even the tiniest fraction
of a chance.
"Continue,"
the President said. Now that they were alone, he did not bother to
control the eagerness of his expression. "Was he the one you
suspected? Did he have the boy? Is the boy with you?"
"I regret to
report that the boy escaped, Mr. President. However"—Derek
raised his bandaged hand, seeing the look of eagerness tighten to
anger—"I know who has him. I have a description of the
craft in which they fled. The alert has gone out to all sectors. But,
more important, I have now another, surer means to locate the boy. I
have no doubt that he will soon be within our grasp."
"I am glad that
you
have no doubts, Derek," Robes said in a low voice.
"As for leaving this in the hands of reckless bounty hunters—"
"If I may be
permitted to continue, sir, I will elaborate."
Frowning, the President
tapped a manicured fingernail on the table. He had no choice but to
listen, and both he and his Warlord knew it. Sagan also knew he would
be made to pay for this insubordination at some later date, but he
would worry about that later.
"I have discovered
the whereabouts of Lady Maigrey Morianna."
The Presidential
fingernail paused, the emotions on Robes's face were unreadable as he
absorbed this unforeseen information, rapidly assimilating in his
mind what it might mean to him.
"Indeed? I had no
idea she was still alive."
"I knew."
It was a flat answer,
carefully delivered. But the President was quick to catch it.
"Yes," he
said thoughtfully, "you must have known. She was . . . rather
special to you once, wasn't she, Derek?"
Sagan disdainfully
declined to answer such an impertinent question. His face
dispassionate, he regarded the President with the cool gaze of one
who waits patiently for a colleague to have his little joke and then
get on with the business at hand.
"No, no, my
friend. I was not referring to
that
!" Robes said with a
sly smile. "I refer to the fact that you two were . . . what did
they call it?" He made a graceful gesture with his hand. "Mental
. . . mental. ..."
"Mind-linked,
sir."
"Yes, mind-linked.
That was it. Quite a fascinating phenomenon. It occurred, as I
recall, only between those of the Blood Royal, and infrequently at
that. But tell me, Derek, if the woman was not dead, how is it that
she has escaped you all these years? The mind-link is not affected by
distance."
"No, sir."
Sagan discovered he had to steel himself to discuss the matter. He
had not supposed it would be this difficult. "The mind-link is
not affected by distance or by anything else in this universe
except—"
He checked his words.
"But I will not take up your time with medical and
parapsychological details, Mr. President. Suffice it to say that
seventeen years ago, the mind-link between Lady Morianna and myself
was severed. It has now been reforged. She can no longer hide from
me. I know where she is."
"Then you must
apprehend her at once, Derek," the President said, placing his
hands palms down upon the table.
"She is on a
planet located somewhere in Sector X-24, sir. General Ghia's sector.
I will need some time to search out the planet—"
"I will make the
necessary arrangements with Ghia." The President made a decisive
gesture. His next words came hesitantly; he was considering each
carefully. "I assume that since you are aware of her, she is
also aware of you—"
"Yes, sir. But
there is nothing to fear. She will not escape me."
"I remind you,
Derek, that her brother escaped you— through death."
"I am aware of
that, sir. You forget, my lord, I know this woman. She is a Guardian.
The last of the Guardians. As long as the boy lives, her vow to
protect him will bind her to this life."
"You know this to
be true? You are in contact?"
"No, Mr.
President." Sagan was beginning to lose patience. His body
ached, he needed rest, and there was still work to be done to prepare
for his journey. Yet he had to put up with this. "The mind-link
is still very fragile. I sense her presence in this universe, as she
senses mine. It grows hourly, but she is fighting against it. Only by
direct and constant contact will I be able to break down her strong
mental barriers. We have time, however. Should she try to take her
life, there is one who will stop her."
"And who is that?"
"God, Mr.
President."
Sagan had the weary
satisfaction of seeing Peter Robes shift uncomfortably in his chair.
The President adjusted the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, straightened
his tie, and cleared his throat. To an avowed atheist, as were all
good democrats, this bold reference to a god who didn't exist was
embarrassing.
The President abruptly
changed the subject.
"You stated that
Lady Maigrey will be of help to you in finding the boy. I fail to
understand how, if she is swom to protect him."
"She is a
visionary, sir. She can visualize events as they are transpiring.
Once the mind-link is reforged, I will 'persuade' her to contact the
boy."
"She is not a
woman who can be easily persuaded, if I remember her correctly."
"There are ways.
You forget, I know her. I know her well," Sagan repeated. The
words left a bitter taste in his mouth, as though he had drunk
tainted water.
Perhaps the President
heard this, even through the scrambler. Or perhaps he saw the grim,
dark expression on the already grim face, shadowed by a weariness
that came from struggling not so much with outer conflict as with
inner.
"I congratulate
you, Derek," Robes said, his hands coming together on the
tabletop, fingertips meeting. "It seems that at last, after all
these years, our long search is ended. It will be a splendid day when
we can bring this royalist to public trial and remind the populace of
the injustices they suffered under the monarchy. Her execution should
end once and for all this talk of—"
"May I offer my
advice, sir?" Sagan broke in.
"Since when have
you ever felt the need to ask permission, Derek?" Robes said
acidly, irritated at having his flow of thought stopped.
"Allow me to kill
her swiftly and quietly when I am finished with her. She is of the
Blood Royal, bred to exert a power over the minds and hearts of
others. I warn you, if you give her access to the public, she will
turn your trial into a royalist forum and make herself a martyr."
The President's face
flushed in anger. The hands on the table slowly clenched. "I
have put up with a great deal from you today, Derek. I have allowed
you to interrupt me. I have endured references to a religion now
known by all to be weak-minded superstition and the practicing of
such by all"— he emphasized the word—"considered
a traitorous act. I tolerate this in you, Derek, because of my
gratitude for the help you have given me in the past and because you
are one of the best of my military commanders. But you are only one,
Derek. You are one . . . and I am many. Remember that. And never tell
me again how I am to run my government."
"Yes, Mr.
President."
"When you have
gleaned the necessary information from this woman, she is to be
brought to the Congress, fit to stand trial. At such time, you will
deliver the boy as well. I don't suppose you have any advice for me
concerning him?"
"No, Mr.
President."
"Very well. Thank
you, Citizen General." The President raised his right hand, palm
outward in a salute. "The People."
Sagan raised his right
hand. The screen was dimming rapidly. The scrambler carried his last
words, but not the image of the curled lip or the flare of contempt
in the man's eyes.
"The People."
Whereto answering, the
sea, Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper'd me through
the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp'd to me the low
and delicious word death . . .
Walt Whitman, "Out
of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"
Oha-Lau was one of two
planets belonging to a small star located in Sector X-24 on the very
fringes of the galaxy. The star was noted on the great interstellar
space maps by the configuration of QWW31648XX, this indicating its
position in the galaxy, the number of planets with some type of life
forms, the type of the life forms, and so forth. In point of fact,
this number told anyone who knew how to interpret it that this was a
star of very little importance. Of its two planets, only one
contained life, and it had nothing that would benefit the galaxy at
large. The planet's climate was tropical, the land overrun with flora
and fauna so varied that botanists had given up categorizing it once
they discovered most of it was inedible. (Some of it, in fact, had
eaten the botanists.)
The natives of the
planet of QWW31648XX, were human and, so scientists believed, had
arrived on the planet centuries before during the second Dark Ages,
one of Earth's early colonization periods. That they had come here by
accident was almost certain, for why should anyone come on purpose?
It was presumed that, sick and tired of wandering among the stars,
they had landed their craft here and obliterated all traces of the
repressive civilization they had been fleeing.
In essence—as
Sagan told Captain Nada, who did not understand the literary
reference—the sailors threw the breadfruit trees overboard and
went native. They named their planet Oha-Lau, which means
"Forgotten." It is presumed the name did not apply so much
to those early travelers themselves as to their attitude toward where
they'd originated.
Safe from the ravages
of galactic progress, the descendants of those early immigrants led a
peaceful existence. They lived in harmony with the lush tropical
environment, hunted strange beasts with spears and bows, and dwelt in
huts made of woven grass. They danced and feasted and sought, always,
to appease the glittering lights in the night sky. For there was a
legend, ancient as the dimmest memory of their ancestors, that out of
the glittering lights would come doom for the people of Oha-Lau.
Therefore, when
anyone—man or alien, scientist, soldier, or smuggler—landed
on Oha-Lau in his fire-tailed bird, the natives treated him with
respect, fulfilled his every wish, and hustled him off their planet
as speedily as possible. There were few extraterrestrial visitors to
Oha-Lau, but on occasion the outside universe did make its presence
known. The scientists, of course, spent time on Oha-Lau when its
intelligent life-forms were first discovered. Every type of -
ologist
known to man arrived, confounding the innocent natives with their
light-blinking boxes and questions that seemed to mostly concern the
coming of age of young women. A military patrol landed once, but
promptly left upon ascertaining that these people weren't interested
in fighting each other, much less anybody else. And no planet, no
matter how insignificant, is ever below the notice of—as they
deemed themselves— interplanetary entrepreneurs.
Oha-Lau did possess one
thing of value—to the jewelers if not to the scientists or the
military. This was moonrith—a semiprecious gem, much prized in
the galaxy for its soft, translucent beauty. Any daring, enterprising
businessman who happened to find his way to Oha-Lau generally left
with enough moonrith to grant him three months of high living. Those
who entertained ideas of returning with mining machines and
geologists were invariably disappointed, however, for the natives
maintained stolidly that they had no idea where the moonrith could be
located. The entrepreneur who entered the jungle in search of it
never returned.