And so our scene must to the battle fly . . .

William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV, Chorus Bright white light blossomed around Tusk. He stared into it, awed, blind.

"I always heard," he said to himself, "that when you die, you move toward a white light. This is it. They're right. It is kinda pretty."

A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, but there was no pain. He waited to be absorbed into the light, to move off down the tunnel, to be welcomed by . . . oh, say, his father, maybe.

The heavy weight lifted from his chest. A shadow loomed before his dazzled eyes. A voice spoke. It wasn't his father, it was a woman.

Well, thought Tusk, this is almost as good. So long as she leaves before Nola gets here.

The woman leaned close to him and spoke again.

"Just what the hell were you trying to do?"

Tusk was confused. From all he'd heard, people weren't supposed to talk that way up here. The woman slapped him across the face.

Yep, he was definitely in the wrong place.

"Wake up. Snap out of it."

And now he noticed that the bright light had gone out. He had a brief and extremely unpleasant sensation of being rolled down a narrow black tube. He hit bottom and the impact jolted him awake. Alarms were buzzing raucously; the sound stabbed into his head. He looked up. Three people stood over him.

"I'm alive," he said, hoping for confirmation.

"No thanks to you," Cynthia snapped. "Of all the idiots- I had everything under control and then you-" Seething, unable to complete a sentence, she glared at him, then turned away "We better shut off those damn alarms. We'll have every guard in the place down on us. Don, explain what's going on to the bridge. ... I don't know. Make up something. You're good at that. Rick and I'll drag the bodies inside."

Tusk-still lying on the deck, still trying to figure out what had happened-watched dazedly. Perrin, on his way to the commlink, stepped over Tusk, grinned.

"Want a drink? You look like you could use one."

Dhure gave him a nod and half-salute as he walked past. He and Cynthia began dragging the smoking bodies of the guards into the prince's quarters.

"At least these weren't any of our guys," Cynthia said.

"We would have had to take them out anyway," Dhure commented. The last of the bodies was inside. He glanced down at the blood and bits of charred flesh left lying on the deck, shook his head. "There's a few more fanatics like them left on board, too. We don't have much time."

"Shut the doors," Cynthia ordered.

Perrin was on the commlink, talking to the ship's commander in soothing tones. Dhure walked over to Tusk, squatted down beside him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so." Tusk felt gingerly all over his body, couldn't find any holes. With Dhure's assistance, the mercenary staggered to his feet.

Cynthia glared at him again. "What the devil did you go and jump me for anyway? I'm on your side!"

"And how the devil was I supposed to know that?" Tusk demanded irritably, remembering. His hands started to shake. No, he said to himself angrily. Not now! "You could have given me the high sign-"

"Not with .. ." Cynthia stopped. "Not with Flaim watching," she said quietly. She didn't look a whole lot better than he felt. "I intended to get you out of here, past the guards. Then we were going to meet up with Don and Rick and-"

Tusk patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I had visions of myself locked in some damn cell disrupter-"

"What's done is done." Cynthia cut him off, must have got her wires crossed, sir," Don's voice drifted over to them. "The damn thing went berserk. .. ."

Tusk grinned. "Good ol' Mrs. Mopup."

Cynthia smiled, but her smile didn't last long. She shook her head and sighed. Her gaze went involuntarily to the crystal cube with its golden pyramid, lying on the floor.

"It's not . . . not the real one?"

"So they say." Tusk wasn't about to go take a better look. "Anyone got an extra lasgun I can borrow?"

Cynthia popped open Mrs. Mopup's chest cavity, produced a lasgun and holster. "There's another beam rifle in here, as well. Disassembled. But it wouldn't take long-"

"No, thanks." Tusk shook his head. "I got a couple in the Scimitar."

"Damn, this is an ugly thing." Dhure, squatting down beside the crystal cube, was careful not to touch it. "You sure it's fake?"'

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," Tusk said grimly. "Pantha seemed to think it was a phony and my guess is he wouldn't have gone off and left it if it wasn't, but I wouldn't touch it. Especially the jewel."

The starjewel was lying on the floor, tangled in its chain. The glittering gem, carved of a rare gemstone by a process long kept secret by the High Priests of the Order of Adamant, was now dead and forgotten, as the priests themselves were dead and forgotten.

" A starjewel could never be accidentally lost or misplaced,' " Tusk said, hearing the echo of his father's voice, " 'but if it is willfully given up by its owner, it will start to die.' There's supposed to be a curse on anyone who takes a jewel that isn't rightfully his or her own."

"Who would want it?" Cynthia asked with a shudder.

The jewel's fiery heart was already beginning to flicker and diminish. Soon it would turn black and hideous to look upon. Tusk thought of his father's starjewel. It had shone clear and bright, its white light shining cold and pure amid the consuming flames of his funeral pyre. Even when the body had been reduced to ash, the jewel was unharmed, untouched. They had placed it in his tomb with the burial urn.

"Yeah," Tusk said, "who would want one?" Reaching down, he picked up the small metal disk, the bloodlink. He stuffed it in a pocket, buckled on the holster. "Can you get me flight clearance? Or do I have to shoot my way out?"

"You can get clearance." Don Perrin sauntered over, a glass of scotch in his hand. "The commander thinks Prince Flaim is still on board. His Highness is too busy to talk right now. So I'm relaying His Highness's commands. I'll tell the flight deck you're leaving the ship on His Highness's orders. Where did they all go anyway?"

"Vallombrosa," Tusk said, heading for the doors.

"And that's where you're going, isn't it?" Cynthia said.

"It's my job to rescue the king," he said.

"You mean the Usur . . ." Her voice died. She swallowed. "You've been on his side all along. You and Lord Sagan."

"It was Sagan's plan," Tusk said, shrugging. "I just did what I was told."

"I'm glad," Cynthia said suddenly. "I know it sounds silly, but even when you were supposedly on our side, I didn't much like you-betraying your friend like that."

"I didn't much like myself. You three are taking over this ship, right? What's your next move?"

"Mrs. Mopup will pay a visit to the bridge." Perrin stared into his glass, sloshed ice around. "Things could get real ugly."

"I doubt if it'll come to that," Captain Dhure said. "Once we explain what we know, the rest of the crew will listen to reason."

"And when they do, if you'll take my advice, you'll get this ship outta here. The real space-rotation bomb's down there"- Tusk gestured out the viewscreen toward Vallombrosa-"and the devil himself only knows what could happen. And, would you do me a favor? See if you can locate the queen. Take care of her, will you? If anything goes wrong . . . say Flaim manages to come out of this. . . ."

Dhure nodded. "Don't worry. I think we understand our prince a little better now than we used to. And ourselves even more. We'll see to it that Her Majesty's safe. It's the least we can do, to make up for what we did on Ceres."

"Thanks." Tusk nodded, turned to go. Then he paused, looked back at Cynthia. "Why did you do this for me? What made you change your mind?"

"I'm not sure. The creatures attacking Bidaldi. The other ships leaving and this one staying behind. The bomb on board, like you said. All of it happening just like you said. That. And him."

"Dion." Tusk guessed.

"The more I was around him ... I can't explain it. But he is king. Do you understand?"

"No,' said Tusk, shaking his head. "I never did."

"And you," she said. "I'm sorry I had to rough you up."

"I'm not," he told her, smiling. "I'm a happily married man." He touched his split lip. "This makes it easier to say good-bye. Take care of yourselves."

Careful to keep clear of Mrs. Mopup, Tusk edged his way around the vacuum cleaner and left the prince's quarters, heading for his Scimitar.

"Yeah, he is king," Tusk commented on his way out. "And I can't do a damn thing about it. Except maybe stop hating him for it." Wincing, he inserted the tiny needles of the bloodlink into his arm. "It's okay, my lord," he reported. "We've taken the ship. I'm on my way."

Chapter Nine.

Things fail apart . . .

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Flaim advanced, swinging the bloodsword in a flaming arc.

"Knock him off his feet, Kamil!" Maigrey's voice jolted through the young woman like an electric shock. "Dive! Roll into him!"

Kamil had no time to think, no time to prepare. She saw immediately the wisdom of the lady's plan and acted. Springing at him in a diving, twisting roll, Kamil drove her right shoulder into Flaim's knees.

Her move caught the prince off guard, took him completely by surprise. Flaim pitched forward. His swing went wild.

The Warlord started to turn, to fall back, as Kamil dashed forward. The arcing flame of the bloodsword struck him, but the blow was not lethal, as it would have been if Flaim had connected. The blade sliced into Sagan's left side.

He gasped in pain, put his hand over the wound. Blood spilled over his fingers. Smiling grimly, he banished the pain, forgot about it.

"Well done, my lady," he said, and started for the storage room.

Dion ran past him, hoping to stop the old man before he could reach the bomb.

"Pantha' Look out!" the prince shouted, struggling to regain his feet.

Pantha turned around, lifted the lasgun . . .

Dion slammed into the old man, grabbed Pantha's hand. The two rolled on the floor, wrestling for the gun.

Flaim started to go to his friend's aid, but Kamil lunged for him, grabbed hold of his leg, tried to drag him back down. The prince kicked at her savagely, endeavoring to free himself. Cursing, he lifted the bloodsword over her head.

"Drop it!" roared Tusk.

The mercenary stood in the doorway, peering into the flaring light, the baffling darkness, lie saw the blue flash of the sword, caught a glimpse of Kamil, her face bruised and bloodied, yet still clinging to Flaim.

"Drop it!" Tusk yelled again, and then he fired.

The sword's fight disappeared. Flaim shifted from attack to defense. Tusk's shot burst harmlessly on the prince's shield, but it gave Kamil time to get out of the way. She crawled on her hands and knees, then fell flat, limp, unconscious. Tusk dashed to help her, firing again, forcing Flaim to use his weapon to protect himself.

Pantha fought Dion with the strength of despair. But Tusk's shout and firing distracted him.

"Flaim?" Pantha tried to find his prince. His deathlike grip on the gun relaxed.

Dion wrestled it from him, jumped to his feet, and made a dash for the storage room.

Derek Sagan was there ahead of him. He held the bomb in a blood-stained hand.

"I'll cover you, my-" Dion began.

Sagan shouted in warning.

A blow smote Dion from behind, sent him staggering to his knees. Flaim hurtled past the king, bloodsword again flaring blue. He was no longer interested in Dion. The prince wanted the bomb-and his revenge on the man who had betrayed him.

Tusk stood protectively over Kamil, peering into the flaring light, trying desperately to see. His lasgun was raised, but he didn't dare shoot, for fear of hitting either Sagan or the king.

Dion was on his feet again. He surged forward, caught a confused glimpse of Flaim and Sagan, of blue fire reflected in the bomb's crystal . . .

And then darkness.

Dion halted so suddenly, he nearly fell over.

Nothing in the room but darkness. The prince and Sagan were gone.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," Tusk breathed in awe.

Splatters of blood marked the place where the two had- only seconds before-been standing. They had both disappeared, as if they had been swept up by the whispering shadows.