A Scatter of Stardust Read Free Page A

Argonne had failed.
    He was a coward. The warriors of the Pentarch do not run. They are either victorious or dead, and he was neither. He had fled the battle while he still had life, still had a ship responsive to his commands, still had an enemy large in his sights. He could have fought until his body and vessel joined the others in incandescent ruin but he had chosen to run.
    He was still running.
    He groaned as he lay on his couch before the controls, breathing red-misted air which stank of burning and tasted of char. Beneath a ruby patina his face was a mask of pain. The numbing hypnotic techniques had failed when he needed them most. He was quite alone. The Hatachi beam which had pulped the lower part of his legs had caught his apprentice with undeflected force. The red mist in the air was his flesh and blood jarred to instant molecular disruption. The rest of him sprawled on his couch, naked bone flecked with red and gray, plastic clothing smeared with slime. He was amused. The skull bore a cheerful smile.
    Argonne could not appreciate the humor. He frowned through his pain as he listened to the voice of the ship. Always before it had whispered with a soft, almost inaudible humming, a smooth, smug satisfaction. Not even when entering battle and the hum had deepened to a feral purr had it screamed as it did now. But never before had the ship been so badly hurt.
    And neither had Argonne.
    He sank his teeth into his lower lip, adding a small pain to the greater, concentrating on the cruel impact of his teeth in an effort to minimize the molten agony of his legs. He fumbled at the arm of the couch, pressed a familiar button, felt again the sick despair as the needle which should have brought oblivion failed to respond. Painfully he reached forward and wiped the instruments of their ruby film. Sweat made temporary trails over his face as he read their message.
    The ship needed help.
    Argonne gripped the sides of his couch and tensed the muscles in shoulders, back and arms. He heaved and tasted fresh blood as he fought the pain from his legs. Twice more he tried before admitting defeat. Sagging he gave up the struggle. He wiped his face and looked at the red wetness on his palm. He choked on the misted air. He was careful not to look down at his legs.
    “I’m sorry,” he said to the ship. “I can’t do it. I can’t help you.”
    It wasn’t because he didn’t know how.
    Broken, battered and bleeding as the ship was he could still have helped. He could have blown away the contaminated hull, sealed the control room, changed the air filters, cut out the distorted power drive and repaired the seared insulation. He could have healed the crippled vessel and given back to its computer nominal control. He had been trained to do that and he still retained his knowledge. But to use it he needed both dexterity and mobility. He still had dexterity. He had lost his mobility.
    There was nothing he could do.
    He was a failure as well as a coward.
    The scream of the ship was a justified accusation. He blinked at the stinging of his eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just can’t help you. I’m crippled. I can’t move. Please, you must understand.”
    Weakly he sagged back against the couch on which he lived and slept. He didn’t blame the ship for screaming. It had reason to scream.
    And so did he.
    *
    He couldn’t remember the landing. He didn’t know what star this planet circled or what slot had opened between dimensions to permit their entry but they must have landed, for the screaming was gone, the air was clean and he was no longer lying before the controls.
    He was lying on a bed of cloud beneath a roof of purple in a room simply but tastefully furnished with vaguely familiar things. A bureau he had used at the academy? The books he had once owned when young? A painting he had cut from a magazine? He frowned and looked down at himself. He wore a single garment caught over one shoulder, belted at the waist, ending