Dion
risked standing upright. Rubbing his bruised knees, he reacclimated
himself and started forward.
A whistling
sound sent him diving beneath the wreckage of something—he
couldn't tell what in the smoke. A hand caught hold of him around the
neck, flipped him over onto his back.
"Damn! It's
a Galactic pilot! Say your prayers, ass-licker!"
The blade of a
combat knife gleamed above him. Dion shouted, struggled wildly. A
black arm shot out and stopped the knife's descent.
"Link, you
bloodthirsty S.O.B.! It's Dion!"
"Tusk!"
Dion could have burst into tears. He grabbed hold of the mercenary
thankfully.
"I'll be
damned!" Link tossed the knife in the air, caught it expertly,
and tucked it back in his boot. "Sorry, kid. Thought I had a
live one."
"Can't say
I'm glad to see you here, kid." Tusk gripped Dion's arm tightly,
smiled grimly. "But I'm glad to see you're alive."
Dion couldn't
answer; smoke, leftover terror, and shock robbed him of his voice. He
stared at his friends, stunned by what he saw. Tusk's face was drawn
and haggard; he seemed to have aged a decade. The ebony skin
glistened with sweat, his eyes were red-rimmed. Blood streaked his
face, his lips were cracked and blistered. Link, crouched nearby,
managed a grin, but it looked ghastly through a mask of blood and
soot. The horrible reality of their desperate situation hit Dion in
the pit of his stomach.
"Where's
Nola?" the young man managed to ask, clearing his throat. "She
flew with you, didn't she?"
"Best damn
gunner I ever had." Tusk jerked a thumb behind him. Dion peered
over his shoulder to see a woman huddled on a pile of flight jackets,
her head swathed in bloody bandages.
"She'll be
all right," Link said, noting Dion's sudden pallor.
"Yeah,"
Tusk grunted. "Nice quiet prison cell. Do wonders for her."
The two
mercenaries exchanged glances. The boy wasn't fooled. He knew there'd
be no prison cell. He'd heard Sagan's orders. The mercenaries were to
be executed. He knew then that Tusk and Link knew it, too.
"Where's
Dixter?" Dion shouted.
A lasgun beam
slanted through the darkness.
Tusk and Link
raised up, fired in the beam's direction. A brief but furious
exchange ensued, then ceased. Link rolled over on his back, wriggled
into a more comfortable position.
"Hell, kid,
Dixter's d— Ouch! Damn it. Tusk. Wliat'd you kick me for?"
"Dixter's
on Charlie deck," Tusk said, not looking at Dion,
Tusk's heard the
general's dead, Dion realized.
Link was
carefully inspecting his gun. Smoke drifted overhead. Lethal beams
streaked through the darkness. An explosion, then someone screamed—a
high, piercing note that was suddenly cut off. Behind him, Dion heard
Nola moan. The woman stirred fitfully. Tusk crawled back to her,
gently pulled his flight jacket up over her shoulders. Dion followed
him.
"Who's in
charge around here?" he demanded.
"No one,
kid. Each of us is on his own, just trvin' to stay alive. I don't
even know how many of us are left."
"Listen,
Tusk, I heard Captain Williams talking to Admiral Aks. This battle
isn't going well for the Warlord's forces. And I've been thinking.
They don't dare use any heavy artillery— mortars and
rockets—inside the ship. They can't cram too many men into this
confined space or they'll start shooting each other. You're not
outgunned and you can’t be that far outnumbered. If you made a
concentrated push right now, tried to go for the hangar bay
controls—"
Tusk snorted in
derision. "Thanks for droppin' by, kid. You better get back to
your friends, now. Tell the Warlord I said he can take a flying
leap—" Where Tusk recommended the Warlord could leap was
lost in a blast from Link's lasgun.
"Tusk, I—"
Dion began desperately.
"Look,
kid!" Tusk grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit. "It's
hopeless. Dixter's dead. We're all going to die. I don't know what
you're doin' here, but you got a Galactic uniform on. You can get
out. You better do it!'
Dion
risked standing upright. Rubbing his bruised knees, he reacclimated
himself and started forward.
A whistling
sound sent him diving beneath the wreckage of something—he
couldn't tell what in the smoke. A hand caught hold of him around the
neck, flipped him over onto his back.
"Damn! It's
a Galactic pilot! Say your prayers, ass-licker!"
The blade of a
combat knife gleamed above him. Dion shouted, struggled wildly. A
black arm shot out and stopped the knife's descent.
"Link, you
bloodthirsty S.O.B.! It's Dion!"
"Tusk!"
Dion could have burst into tears. He grabbed hold of the mercenary
thankfully.
"I'll be
damned!" Link tossed the knife in the air, caught it expertly,
and tucked it back in his boot. "Sorry, kid. Thought I had a
live one."
"Can't say
I'm glad to see you here, kid." Tusk gripped Dion's arm tightly,
smiled grimly. "But I'm glad to see you're alive."
Dion couldn't
answer; smoke, leftover terror, and shock robbed him of his voice. He
stared at his friends, stunned by what he saw. Tusk's face was drawn
and haggard; he seemed to have aged a decade. The ebony skin
glistened with sweat, his eyes were red-rimmed. Blood streaked his
face, his lips were cracked and blistered. Link, crouched nearby,
managed a grin, but it looked ghastly through a mask of blood and
soot. The horrible reality of their desperate situation hit Dion in
the pit of his stomach.
"Where's
Nola?" the young man managed to ask, clearing his throat. "She
flew with you, didn't she?"
"Best damn
gunner I ever had." Tusk jerked a thumb behind him. Dion peered
over his shoulder to see a woman huddled on a pile of flight jackets,
her head swathed in bloody bandages.
"She'll be
all right," Link said, noting Dion's sudden pallor.
"Yeah,"
Tusk grunted. "Nice quiet prison cell. Do wonders for her."
The two
mercenaries exchanged glances. The boy wasn't fooled. He knew there'd
be no prison cell. He'd heard Sagan's orders. The mercenaries were to
be executed. He knew then that Tusk and Link knew it, too.
"Where's
Dixter?" Dion shouted.
A lasgun beam
slanted through the darkness.
Tusk and Link
raised up, fired in the beam's direction. A brief but furious
exchange ensued, then ceased. Link rolled over on his back, wriggled
into a more comfortable position.
"Hell, kid,
Dixter's d— Ouch! Damn it. Tusk. Wliat'd you kick me for?"
"Dixter's
on Charlie deck," Tusk said, not looking at Dion,
Tusk's heard the
general's dead, Dion realized.
Link was
carefully inspecting his gun. Smoke drifted overhead. Lethal beams
streaked through the darkness. An explosion, then someone screamed—a
high, piercing note that was suddenly cut off. Behind him, Dion heard
Nola moan. The woman stirred fitfully. Tusk crawled back to her,
gently pulled his flight jacket up over her shoulders. Dion followed
him.
"Who's in
charge around here?" he demanded.
"No one,
kid. Each of us is on his own, just trvin' to stay alive. I don't
even know how many of us are left."
"Listen,
Tusk, I heard Captain Williams talking to Admiral Aks. This battle
isn't going well for the Warlord's forces. And I've been thinking.
They don't dare use any heavy artillery— mortars and
rockets—inside the ship. They can't cram too many men into this
confined space or they'll start shooting each other. You're not
outgunned and you can’t be that far outnumbered. If you made a
concentrated push right now, tried to go for the hangar bay
controls—"
Tusk snorted in
derision. "Thanks for droppin' by, kid. You better get back to
your friends, now. Tell the Warlord I said he can take a flying
leap—" Where Tusk recommended the Warlord could leap was
lost in a blast from Link's lasgun.
"Tusk, I—"
Dion began desperately.
"Look,
kid!" Tusk grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit. "It's
hopeless. Dixter's dead. We're all going to die. I don't know what
you're doin' here, but you got a Galactic uniform on. You can get
out. You better do it!'
Dion
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