The Sword In The Stone Read online

The Turgdorians looked at each other, then gave dual sympathetic snorts. A streak of mist sailed through the air, causing the alien on her right to flinch. A moment later, he realized his over-sized ear, the same dimensions as a human hand, lay on the table in front of him.

  “I asked a simple question. I expect a simple answer.”

  While his friend howled in pain, the other Turgdorian snorted in the affirmative.

  “What did you do with the scientist?”

  The Turgdorian to her left was about to turn and see if he should answer when he noticed Lancelot’s hand twitch and a tiny flicker of vapor appear where the Meursault promised an unseen blow.

  He snorted a series of noises that were translated into Lancelot’s helmet as, “We jumped from portal to portal, stealing different vessels at each stop, to make sure nobody was following us.”

  “Where did you end up?”

  The Turgdorian couldn’t help himself. He grimaced and remained silent. A moment later, he too was missing an ear. It thudded on the table next to where his drink had been. Like the first Turgdorian, he also began to bellow in outrage and pain.

  In her calmest voice, Lancelot said. “I already know you sold the scientist to Arc-Mi-Die. You aren’t betraying him by telling me what I want to find out.”

  As she spoke, her placid speech was translated by the voice modifier in her helmet to sound slightly robotic, completely unemotional. The result, which she fully appreciated, was that she sounded even more cold and brutal than someone who was yelling or losing their patience.

  “Now,” she said, “tell me where you exchanged him. Where was the delivery point? Who picked him up?”

  She was ready for the Turgdorians to make a last ditch attempt at some form of attack. She was also prepared to bring one or both of the Meursaults down if they did.

  In her helmet, after the Turgdorian’s grunts were analyzed, Lancelot heard them say, “An android by the name of J did the swap. On the planet Sceptor-Major.”

  “Okay,” Lancelot said, taking a step away from them. “I’m going to go now. I fully appreciate that you could be lying to me. I hope for your sake that you aren’t. I found you once; I can find you again. Do not forget that.”

  Both Turgdorians grunted that they were telling the truth.

  Without another word, Lancelot turned and exited the bar.

  14

  The lack of representatives in the Great Hall made it seem even more cavernous than usual. When the Round Table wasn’t in session, the empty room resembled a colony without any people within its containment field. The doors opened and instead of hundreds of officials and just as many support androids filing in, only Hector, Cash, and Cimber entered. None of them spoke until the doors to the Great Hall were once again closed, the echo of their presence dissipating in the vast room.

  Cimber’s mouth moved as if he were silently talking to himself and he paced back and forth in irritation. When he realized how irate he had become, he placed both hands on the edge of the Round Table to force himself to be still.

  “Why did you call us here?” Cash said. “What happened?”

  “The parade was bad enough,” Cimber hissed. “Neither of you saw what happened afterward, though.”

  Cash, having calmed down following the celebration, seemed unimpressed. “More cheering, I expect.”

  Cimber gripped the table until the veins bulged from his hands. “They offered him a crown.”

  Until the words were spoken, Hector had been caught up in appreciating the vast expanse of the room around them. Upon hearing his fellow representative, his throat constricted and he found it difficult to breathe.

  “Who did?”

  “The people. The fools cheering for him in the streets. They started a chant while Julian was standing atop the capital steps. They yelled that he should become the Leader of the Round Table.”

  “What did he say?”

  Cimber shook his head and growled. “He waved the notion away.”

  “See?” Hector said. “That’s not so bad.”

  Cimber’s voice grew louder. “Which only made them call for him to accept it a second time.”

  “And?”

  “And again he denied them. A third time they called for him to lead the galaxy, and a third he rejected the idea.”

  Hector let out a sigh of relief. His shoulders, which had been raised and tense, lowered back to his sides.

  Cash wasn’t as relieved, though. “What did the others around Julian do?” His tone lowered. “Specifically, Octo and Winchester.”

  “It was absurd,” Cimber said, shaking with anger. “Those two should be hung for what they did.” He closed his eyes to try and calm himself but it did no good. “They encouraged him to accept the people’s call!”

  All of the air left Hector’s lungs. “Did Julian put them in their place?”

  Cimber shook his head. “He laughed and tried to act as if the whole thing was embarrassing, but you could tell he loved the reaction from the crowd and from the representatives calling for him to lead.”

  “Good man,” Hector said under his breath.

  Cash smacked the table in front of him. “Good man? For encouraging the crowd? For laughing instead of telling them in no uncertain terms that the Round Table shouldn’t have a leader?”

  Hector offered a gentle smile, unaffected by his friend’s lapse. “A lesser man would have been swept up by the cheers. Julian showed the type of man he is by not giving in to their moment of weakness.”

  “That’s not all,” Cimber said, leaning against the table for support. “Octo and Winchester gave him the Sword in the Stone, in front of everyone, and said it was proof Julian was supposed to rule.”

  If Hector wasn’t elevated in the air by a disk of energy, his legs would have buckled.

  “That’s not possible.”

  Ever since the battle in the blood tunnels, word had spread that Vere CasterLan had left a Meursault blade embedded in stone, miles beneath the surface of Edsall Dark. Treasure hunters had gone in search of it. However, the tunnels stretched for hundreds of miles and many of them had collapsed in multiple places, which made their exploration nearly impossible and had caused many a treasure hunter to perish in search of the sword. Hector never thought anyone would actually find it.

  “Oh, it’s possible,” Cimber said. “I was there. I saw it. Octo told the crowd that it was rumored that whoever possessed the Sword in the Stone was meant to lead the Round Table.”

  “That’s not true!” Hector said. “It’s the same sword Vere had, and there wasn’t even a Round Table back then. Not to mention, that’s the first I’ve heard of some supposed legend.”

  Cash rubbed at his temples to calm the headache that was causing him to groan in frustration.

  Hector said, “It must have been a replica.”

  Cimber shook his head and sighed. “A replica that can also vanish and leave streaks of vapor where it passed in the air? Impressive replica.”

  15

  After defending Julian’s honor, Hector left the Great Hall. Cash and Cimber remained, silent and brooding. Only after the thick double doors closed again, sending another prolonged echo through the chamber, did they speak.

  “Hector isn’t able to see the danger of the situation,” Cimber said.

  “It’s understandable; he’s known Julian for a long time. They were in the academy together. I’ll tell you this, though: the people are doing themselves a great disservice by holding the name of a general above someone like Hector.”

  A pitter-patter began high above them as drops of rain sprinkled down on the roof of the Great Hall. Within seconds, the skies opened above the city and the rain poured down, filling the giant room with the hum of running water over top them. The only windows in the Great Hall were high above the table where the representatives sat. The little bit of access to the outside world revealed constant flashes of lightning.

  “It’s a strange time we live in,” Cash said. “The people finally have what they’ve wanted and look how fast they’re willing to give it away.”

  “This can’t end well. The Round Table simply cannot become the same type of monster we defeated in order to bring the galaxy together.”

  Cash smiled. “The people hold Julian as some sort of god-like being. They don’t realize he’s just a man like any other man. He’s no mightier than you or I and especially not Hector. Maybe we just need to give them time to see that.”

  All of Cimber’s anger was gone. In its place was despondency. “I’m already hearing rumors that Octo and Winchester will formally introduce a motion to have Julian lead the Round Table. They might as well put a crown on his head without his approval.”

  “I know what they’ll say: ‘But Julian is no tyrant; he would never let the Round Table move away from what it was intended to be.’ It’s a false argument, though. No one should lead the Round Table. Not a man of pure heart, but especially not someone who just went across the galaxy to force more planets to join us.”

  Cimber opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  “Out with it,” Cash said. “It’s just the two of us. Nothing you say will leave this room.”

  Cimber scanned his surroundings even though he already knew the Great Hall was empty of anyone else.

  He leaned closer to Cash. “I’ll drive an ion knife through Julian before I allow him to turn the Round Table into another empire. If the time comes, I hope you’d do the same.”

  16

  There was no telling how long it had taken. Maybe one minute. Maybe ten. But the result was the same: Lancelot’s Type III Burst shuttle wasn’t there when she got back to the landing deck.

  “I told you your ship wouldn’t be here unless you paid someone to watch it,” the same wi
nged alien said in the form of squawks that were translated inside Lancelot’s helmet. The alien fluttered nearer to her but stopped far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to withdraw a sword or lance and slash him in half.

  Lancelot stood in place, looking at the empty spot where the vessel had been. All four legs of her armor were straight-legged and rooted to the ground. The winged alien probably misinterpreted the stance as one of anger. To the contrary, Lancelot simply had a lot of thinking to do and needed to figure out her next move.

  Mortimous’ friend, the robed woman who sometimes appeared to her, had warned her of this very thing, telling her to be cautious and that the galaxy is filled with humans and aliens who will try to take advantage of her at every step.

  Lancelot’s exact response to the comment had been, “I’ve defeated everyone I’ve ever met. I think I can handle myself on some third-world colony.”

  The cloaked woman was probably smiling right now, wherever she was.

  The winged alien had, of course, also tried to warn her. Could anyone blame her for being susceptible to some amount of treachery after living a sheltered life inside an asteroid? For the first time since leaving the Carthagens in the Orleans sector, Lancelot had the feeling she might be better suited staying amongst the floating rocks.

  She closed her eyes, knowing the winged alien wouldn’t be able to tell because of the tinted lenses on her helmet. Silently, so the creature wouldn’t hear, she imagined talking to Mortimous and his friend.

  So, I suppose you’re pretty satisfied. You tried to warn me and I didn’t listen.

  Neither of the veiled figures responded.

  What am I supposed to do now? I wouldn’t mind a suggestion.

  Nothing.

  Re-opening her eyes, she focused on the alien. A million scenarios played out in her head.

  In one, she pierced one of the alien’s wings with a lance to ensure he couldn’t get away. Then she would interrogate him and he would confess to being part of a crime syndicate that stole ships from hapless visitors and would tell her where to find her shuttle.

  In another scenario, the winged alien was just a concerned citizen and told her, without needing to be hurt, who had stolen her ship and where they could be found. Her Meursaults would teach the thieves a lesson.

  More realistically, her ship was already out in space on its way to a chop-shop that would remove any traceable identifications. She would get side-tracked from her mission of finding Arc-Mi-Die only to spend months looking for the shuttle.

  After blinking, she broke out of her daydream and realized the winged alien was staring at her the way he would if she had suddenly turned into a statue in front of his eyes.

  “I need a ship,” Lancelot said.

  A series of squawks were translated as, “Buddy, I know you do.”

  Ignoring the condescension, Lancelot turned and looked at the rest of the spaceport. “I’m not from around here. What do you suggest?”

  The winged alien scratched his chin. “Well, a transport leaves here twice a day, but you have to be willing to go where it’s going. Or, if you have quite a bit of money on you, you could hire a pilot to take you where you need to go.”

  “Do you know of a good pilot?” Lancelot asked, subtly scanning all around her at anyone else looking to mess with her.

  The winged alien jerked a hand over his shoulder. A Rocknon pilot, a creature that slithered across the ground on a hundred legs, was going back to a small space jet. Further off, a Ren, his pilot’s jacket covering most of his fur, began to board what looked like a small junker that wouldn’t be safe passing through any portal. The winged alien was gesturing to the ship next to that one. In the distance, a human whistled as he made his way to the vessel. The craft’s poor condition and the way the pilot conducted himself made Lancelot scoff.

  “Oh, he’s very good,” the winged alien said. “Thrice Won is his name. Great pilot. Even better ship. Much better than it looks. He and his co-pilot are famous for evading an entire squadron of—”

  The winged alien stopped mid sentence because Lancelot was already walking toward the human and his ship.

  “Thanks,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

  “You know, it would be polite to tip me for my help,” the winged alien shouted. When he didn’t get a response, he gave a loud squawk of irritation and fluttered away.

  The closer Lancelot got to Thrice, the better an assessment she was able to make of him and his ship. The human pilot looked to be in his early thirties and had a swagger of someone supremely confident in everything he did. The fact that he was willing to call attention to himself by whistling when everyone else on Crantive-8 wanted to remain in the shadows spoke to either his abilities or ego or both. He wore a leather jacket like the ones of old that were now relics of the past. A holster was strapped to either hip, each with a blaster ready to withdraw.

  “Thrice Won,” Lancelot called as she strode across the platform.

  The pilot’s pace slowed but he continued whistling as he approached his ship. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a vessel that can get me to Sceptor-Major.”

  “Well, the Ronan can get you there faster than any other ship nearby,” he said, nodding to the vessel behind him. Thrice gave an even bigger grin and added, “Or any ship that’s not nearby, for that matter.”

  Lancelot turned her attention to the Ronan. It was twice as large as the shuttle she had arrived on. It looked like it either had cockpit’s on both corners of the front of the ship or else had some sort of attack drone that could break away from the vessel during combat. Being in front of it, she couldn’t see what kind of engines it had but she trusted it was indeed fast.

  “When will the ship be ready for flight?”

  Thrice laughed. “Slow down, partner. We haven’t even talked money yet. You’re going to have to be awfully rich for me to want to take you to Sceptor-Major instead of finishing the run I’m currently on.”

  The pilot’s grin never waivered when he spoke, not even when Lancelot got within ten feet of him.

  “I think you misunderstood,” Lancelot said. “I need a ship. Not a pilot.”

  Thrice chuckled and flashed a brilliant smile. He might have even winked. Not because he was dumb—he knew he was being threatened—but because he was going to enjoy what came next.

  Lancelot fancied herself as having the quickest reflexes in the galaxy. But what she realized right after Thrice gave a genuinely amused laugh at her comment, was that she was only the fastest draw of anyone who had been to the Orleans asteroid field. Outside Orleans, the galaxy revealed once again that she wasn’t as prepared for an intergalactic search as she might have liked. If she were, she would have been familiar with the reputation Thrice had earned as not only a pilot but as a gunfighter.

  His hand was at his hip, a blaster drawn and focused on her, even before she knew what was going on. Three streaks of laser flashed in front of her face before she had a grip on her own weapons. One hit squarely in the middle of her chest. The next struck the chin of her helmet, and the last hit the center of her armored forehead. If it wasn’t for her blast-proof protection, each of the three perfectly aimed shots would have killed her.

  Lancelot cursed herself for being in awe of not only his speed but also his marksmanship. Without another word, her vibro lances were out and extended and her Meursaults were leaving vapor trails by her sides.

  Thrice backpedalled, sending perfectly aimed blasts at each of her knees, each elbow, everywhere he could think of to find a weakness in her armor.

  Seeing that the shots weren’t slowing Lancelot down, the pilot said, “Temple, I could use a hand.”

  Before Lancelot had time to think of who or what a Temple was, a wall of force rammed into the side of her and sent her skidding across the ground. She tried to get to her feet but was tossed through the air again. With a crash, she landed on her back, twenty feet away from where she had been.

  She would have had a better chance of gathering her senses and assessing whatever was tossing her around if it weren’t for Thrice, who was so accurate with his blasters that he was able to hit the visor of her helmet, one shot after another. Not only did it send blinding light that distracted her, the pinpoint mastery would eventually degrade the integrity of one spot of her armor. No battle gear, no matter how well-made it was, could withstand an indefinite amount of blasts.