Chapter 5

He was crucified, and crowned with a crown of thorns. Who had they done that to? Somebody long ago, on Terra. His arms were drawn out stiffly, and hurt; his feet and legs hurt, too, and he couldn’t move them, and there was this prickling at his brow. And he was blind.

No; his eyes were just closed. He opened them, and there was a white wall in front of him, patterned with a blue snow-crystal design, and he realized that it was a ceiling and that he was lying on his back. He couldn’t move his head, but by shifting his eyes he saw that he was completely naked and surrounded by a tangle of tubes and wires, which puzzled him briefly. Then he knew that he was not on a bed, but on a robomedic, and the tubes would be for medication and wound drainage and intravenous feeding, and the wires would be to electrodes imbedded in his body for diagnosis, and the crown-of-thorns thing would be more electrodes for an encephalograph. He’d been on one of those robomedics before, when he had been gored by a bisonoid on the cattle range.

That was what it was; he was still under treatment. But that seemed so long ago; so many things--he must have dreamed them--seemed to have happened.

Then he remembered, and struggled futilely to rise.

“Elaine!” he called. “Elaine, where are you?”

There was a stir and somebody came into his limited view; his cousin, Nikkolay Trask.

“Nikkolay; Andray Dunnan,” he said. “What happened to Elaine?”

Nikkolay winced, as though something he had expected to hurt had hurt worse than he had expected.

“Lucas.” He swallowed. “Elaine ... Elaine is dead.”

Elaine is dead. That didn’t make sense.

“She was killed instantly, Lucas. Hit six times; I don’t think she even felt the first one. She didn’t suffer at all.”

Somebody moaned, and then he realized that it had been himself.

“You were hit twice,” Nikkolay was telling him. “One in the leg; smashed the femur. And one in the chest. That one missed your heart by an inch.”

“Pity it did.” He was beginning to remember clearly, now. “I threw her down, and tried to cover her. I must have thrown her straight into the burst and only caught the last of it myself.” There was something else; oh, yes. “Dunnan. Did they get him?”

Nikkolay shook his head. “He got away. Stole the Enterprise and took her off-planet.”

“I want to get him myself.”

He started to rise again; Nikkolay nodded to someone out of sight. A cool hand touched his chin, and he smelled a woman’s perfume, nothing at all like Elaine’s. Something like a small insect bit him on the neck. The room grew dark.

Elaine was dead. There was no more Elaine, nowhere at all. Why, that must mean there was no more world. So that was why it had gotten so dark.

He woke again, fitfully, and it would be daylight and he could see the yellow sky through an open window or it would be night and the wall-lights would be on. There would always be somebody with him. Nikkolay’s wife, Dame Cecelia; Rovard Grauffis; Lady Lavina Karvall--he must have slept a long time, for she was so much older than he remembered--and her brother, Burt Sandrasan. And a woman with dark hair, in a white smock with a gold caduceus on her breast.

Once, Duchess Flavia, and once Duke Angus himself. He asked where he was, not much caring. They told him, at the Ducal Palace.

He wished they’d all go away, and let him go wherever Elaine was.

Then it would be dark, and he would be trying to find her, because there was something he wanted desperately to show her. Stars in the sky at night, that was it. But there were no stars, there was no Elaine, there was no anything, and he wished that there was no Lucas Trask, either.

But there was an Andray Dunnan. He could see him standing black-cloaked on the terrace, the diamonds in his beret-jewel glittering evilly; he could see the mad face peering at him over the rising barrel of the submachine gun. And then he would hunt for him without finding him, through the cold darkness of space.

The waking periods grew longer, and during them his mind was clear. They relieved him of his crown of electronic thorns. The feeding tubes came out, and they gave him cups of broth and fruit juice. He wanted to know why he had been brought to the Palace.

“About the only thing we could do,” Rovard Grauffis told him. “They had too much trouble at Karvall House as it was. You know, Sesar got shot, too.”

“No.” So that was why Sesar hadn’t come to see him. “Was he killed?”

“Wounded; he’s in worse shape than you are. When the shooting started, he went charging up the escalator. Didn’t have anything but his dress-dagger. Dunnan gave him a quick burst; I think that was why he didn’t have time to finish you off. By that time, the guards who’d been shooting blanks from that rapid-fire gun got in a clip of live rounds and fired at him. He got out of there as fast as he could. They have Sesar on a robomedic like yours. He isn’t in any danger.”

The drainage tubes and medication tubes came out; the tangle of wires around him was removed, and the electrodes with them. They bandaged his wounds and dressed him in a loose robe and lifted him from the robomedic to a couch, where he could sit up when he wished; they began giving him solid food, and wine to drink, and allowed him to smoke. The woman doctor told him he’d had a bad time, as though he didn’t know that. He wondered if she expected him to thank her for keeping him alive.