VOLTRON-X Book Eight: Hunter By: C. Schultz Romelle fought, but the prince was too strong for her. Pinning her to the couch with an arm like iron across her throat, Lotor ripped away her flimsy garment and forced her again. She bit and clawed at him like a wild thing, but refused to scream or cry, for pain only amused him. Enjoying himself, he went on and on, ravaging both mind and body until she was too exhausted to struggle more. When he'd spent himself at last, Lotor rolled off and got to his feet. Giving her a single, contemptuous glance, he snapped, "Clean yourself up." Then, adjusting his clothing, her master left the bedchamber. Anguished and sore, Romelle curled up on the couch and began to cry. In the long months since her capture he'd done this nearly every day, making her curse the beauty that he found so compelling. Her sobs grew harder, wracking her bruised body with their terrible force. But crying solved nothing. "Goddess, help me!" She plead, uncoiling a bit and stretching her arms out toward the crimson ceiling. "Give me vengeance, or death, but do not leave me here, Lady! Please....., please help me!" Desperate for a way out, Romelle looked around at the familiar, hateful room. It was large, almost auditorium-sized, and hung with tapestries of black wool. The floor was covered in black and grey tile, brightened here and there by blood-colored area rugs. Beside the couch she huddled upon, the room contained a massive clothes press, a few chairs, and an ornately carved wooden desk. Across the room, a row of narrow windows let in the cold, smoggy air and acid snow of Galra's brief summer. Not much light, though. For illumination and warmth a few torches burned low in iron sconces, casting a sullen red glow that birthed long, quivering shadows. There were weapons upon the west wall, most of them broken. Trophies, Lotor had boasted, taken from hundreds of defeated enemies. Avok's sword was there, snapped in half, and mounted beside her father's shattered armor. Lotor had warned her once that if she touched any of his trophies, he'd cut off her hands. Today, she meant to defy him. Pulling the black coverlet off of the couch, Romelle wrapped it about herself and drifted over to the trophy wall. She stopped in front of Avok's broken sword. Slowly, her hand went forth. Romelle's fingers brushed the sweat-stained leather of the hilt, traced the intricate royal crest upon the pommel. Avok and Bandor had fallen in battle. Could she do less? Coming to a swift decision, Romelle pulled the sword off of the wall. It was big, and very heavy. The blade had been snapped about a foot from the point, so that it ended now in a warped, slanting hook. Steeling herself against the weight, she swung it about a few times, tested the edge with her thumb. It was still more than sharp enough to kill Lotor with. The cover slipped from her shoulders as she practiced a few slices and parries. That would never do. Using the sword as a crude shear, she cut a slit in the blanket for her head, and two more for her arms. In a matter of minutes, she had a robe, belted around her narrow waist with a strip of leather. Her father's blood-stained armor was much too large for her. Only the spiked gauntlets fit. Needing something of his to carry into battle, she drew them on, flexing her hands to work the stiffness out of the metal-sewn leather. That done, she scanned the trophy wall again, but failed to find anything of Bandor's. Lotor had told her that he'd been transformed into a beast man and destroyed by the Voltron Force. Tears threatened to flow again as she thought of her red-headed little brother. She had his memory, at least. It would have to do. She didn't want anything of Lotor's, but there was at least one area where the trophy wall could not help her. She needed shoes. Otherwise, the sharp, volcanic landscape would slice her feet to ribbons. Shuddering with revulsion, Romelle went to the clothespress and opened the heavy wooden doors.. There, neatly lined up beneath his uniforms, were many pairs of stout leather boots. Too large, to be sure, but that could be remedied by stuffing them a bit. Then, armed, dressed and shod, Romelle Kirrisian of Pollux headed for the door. Lotor's suite was quite large, and she blundered about a bit before realizing that the prince wasn't in any of his rooms. That left the rest of the palace. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She meant to die, or be avenged this day; what difference did it make where? Hand upon the metal latch, Romelle opened the hall door. A pair of guards turned toward her, startled. They relaxed a bit upon seeing nothing but the prince's bed slave. Their mistake. Romelle drove her broken sword through the nearest soldier's throat. He collapsed, gurgling blood. The other man started forward, gun drawn. She kicked it out of his hand, then smashed the sword across his face, fracturing his skull. He went down, as well. Pausing to scoop up his laser pistol, Romelle slipped away. Clinging to shadows like the assassin she meant to become, the princess snuck through the palace. She'd been searching for about an hour when the alarms started; apparently, they'd found the guards. "Goddess," she whispered fiercely, "I do not care what becomes of me. If I am to die today, so be it. But let it be with his blood upon my sword!" Soon, Lotor's henchmen swarmed the palace, armed and alert. Romelle evaded them for awhile, then found herself boxed in at the end of a blind corridor. At one end of the hall, five guards advanced toward her, weapons drawn. At the other end, a metal-barred window looked out over a high, probably deadly drop. The guards grinned at her, slit-eyed and cruel. Holding out a hand as if cajoling a puppy, one of them said, "Graksta- dokk, Tzezrah. Dak tar snog-ulk rittar!" At which the others poked each other in the ribs and laughed. Romelle grew cold as she realized that Lotor had promised her to whoever could catch her. These vermin thought they'd just won a little free R and R. Backing steadily, Romelle raised her pistol. She would not be able to finish them all before they shot her, but she wasn't going to fall into their hands, no matter what. Thinking of Avok and Bandor, and her royal parents, Romelle pulled the trigger again and again. Her back hit the big window. The rusted latch sprung open suddenly She tumbled out over the edge, caught the sill and hung out over a terrible drop. Shouting angrily, the surviving guards raced up the hall toward her. Romelle closed her eyes, held her breath, and let go. ____________________________________________________________ It was a long drop, and a painful one. The side of the castle sloped, rather than being vertical, so she bounced and skidded the entire way down, losing a great deal of skin and breaking a few bones in the process. When she reached the ground at last, Romelle's first thought was for her weapons. Raising herself up a bit on the arm that wasn't fractured, she looked around. The sword lay about eight feet away, to her left. The pistol had fallen into a crack nearby. Gritting her teeth, Romelle forced herself to rise. There was something very wrong with her legs, and her right side burned like fire with every breath. She was alive, though, and free. And where there was life, there remained the possibility of revenge. All she had to do was find shelter of some sort, then make contact with the other escaped slaves. They existed, she knew, for the guards often cursed what they called 'the wild ones'. It was to these that she must go if she wanted to survive. Moving very slowly, Romelle fetched her pistol out of the crack, then limped over to the sword. Perhaps it was just a reflection of Galra's tired old sun, but the blade looked blood-tinged. Pulling it free of the icy gravel, Romelle smiled grimly. 'Consider that a promise,' she sent, though the prince was probably too far away to sense her thought. Not far enough for her tastes by half, though. Turning her back upon the ugly palace, Romelle began hobbling toward the wildest, most broken-looking stretch of landscape. Every step was a major, gasping effort. She would need a crutch, the princess realized, if she hoped to get far. Suddenly she heard a sound that froze the blood in her veins- the harsh, gurgling roar of a Galran hound. Then another, and another still, all giving cry as they picked up her scent. It seemed that escape was not to be so easy as she'd hoped. Biting her lip, Romelle forced herself to hurry. The noise of the beasts grew louder. Then she began to hear, amid their growls and roars, the sound of their masters' commands. Romelle looked wildly around for a place to hide, or water to lay her scent. The ground sloped away to the west, descending into mist and bubbling mud. Maybe there..... A laser bolt clipped her shoulder, melting the blanket to her flesh and raising an instant, black-edged sore. Romelle cried out, slipped and fell, just missed being struck again. The hounds were so close now that she could smell their rank stench. Somehow she scrambled to her feet and broke into a lurching run. Thinking, 'Please, please, please, please....,' she made for the misty place. Another laser bolt sizzled past, this one scorching her right thigh. Voices, cold and menacing over the pounding of her heart and gasping roar of her labored breathing. "Redekt, Pstokrag! Grev-tok rittar tzuk sl Valkrover Lotor!" "Grod, vokt!" They were almost upon her. Romelle stopped, put her back to a twisted pillar of stone, and raised her slim pistol. She would run no further. The hounds rushed her in a slavering pack; hideous, crocodile-jawed nightmares with scaley hides and stiffly bristled necks. She blew the head off of the nearest baying horror. Then something..... happened to the others. Like eggs in a microwave oven, they simply exploded, sending bits of bloody flesh flying in every direction. The first of the Galran huntsmen to blunder into the swamp suffered likewise, erupting messily all over his fellows. The others stopped dead, tense and silent. One of them tugged at the leader's sleeve, hissing, "Tsedk, Valk Vraghur, rekmok chaa Tzezlokt! Rekmok chaa Tzezlokt!" The huntmaster struck away his hand. Making a careful show of putting away his weapon, he began slowly backing out of range. Seconds later, the survivors were gone. Romelle shrank back against the pillar, her hand white-knuckle tight on the pistol's grip. She was alone with something powerful enough to destroy an entire pack of savage hounds, and frighten off their well-armed Galran masters. The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she sensed a sudden spike of psionic energy. Was she, too, about to explode? She held her breath.. A handful of seconds went by. Nothing...., nothing...., then a sudden, rough push at her thoughts. She was being probed. Romelle bit her lip, forced herself to remain passive and silent. It was like playing dead while being snuffed over by a hungry bear who was trying to decided whether she was worth the bother of eating. Fortunately, it was rather suddenly over. The mighty presence withdrew, leaving her still alive, and in one piece. She breathed again, dared risk a look around. Tall pillars of acid-etched stone broke the mist's smooth surface here and there. Grey mud belched sulphurous bubbles, squirmed with pale insects and worms. Half-hidden by smog, Galra's bloated red wound of a sun crept slowly across the sky. "H- hello?!' Romelle called out, "Is someone there?!" For she sensed that she was still being watched. Her observer chose not to respond, however. Instead, she saw another hound. At first she though that it was one of the pack that had hunted her. Then she noticed that it was smaller than the others had been, with a twisted spine and a missing right foreleg. There was nothing wrong with the rest of its armament, though. Its crocodile jaws were lined with sharp teeth, ending in two sets of tusks that projected across each other like a pair of scissors. At the nether end, a broad, scaley tail lashed about, sporting a set of retractable, poisonous barbs. Its feral eyes glowed red, while the razor-edged bristles upon its neck and shoulders stood dangerously erect. Scimitar claws adorned all three feet. To call the thing deadly was a laughable understatement. Yet, it did not attack. Pretending that it was one of her father's great mastiffs, Romelle put away the pistol and held out her hand. "Here, Lad," she called softly. "Come." The hound's stiff ears swivelled at the sound of her voice. Its head cocked to one side. Uttering a sort of yodel, it looked back over its shoulder at an invisible companion. Then, while her eyes were still on the hound, something leapt from a nearby pillar to the ground four feet in front of her. Startled, Romelle shrieked. "Merciful Goddess!" It was a human man; very tall, and broad shouldered. Dressed in an odd assortment of captured uniform and body-armor pieces, face half-hidden by long, black hair, he looked as savage and dangerous as his dog. Romelle made an earnest attempt to meld with rock, grinding herself backward against the pillar. "Who.... Who are you?" she whispered. Dark, slightly slanted eyes narrowed by way of reply. The hound loped up to stand at his side, uttering curious little yoops. He put a hand upon its ugly head, and the monster quieted instantly. Leaning forward a bit, he reached out. Romelle flinched, but all he did was touch her laser burned shoulder. She winced, saying, "Please, that hurts." He withdrew his hand, but said nothing. More, his mind was so tightly shielded that she could sense no thoughts at all. She made a foolish mistake, then. Using the royal gift, Romelle attempted to push past his shields and learn something about her rescuer. But the instant that her mind touched his, he reacted as though she'd pulled a gun. Snarling, he back handed her with brutal, nearly skull-crushing force. Romelle collapsed at his feet, unconscious. He stared at the female for a long while, uncertain what was to be done.. She was wounded, as Hund had been. And like Hund, would not survive without a sheltered place to rest, and food. She troubled him. Neither prey, nor enemy, she was outside of his experience. Hund seemed to trust her, though. The hound prodded her crumpled form with his snout, then looked up, clashing armored jaws hopefully. Silencing Hund with a sharp grunt, he leaned down, lifted the female off of the muddy ground by one arm, and slung her over his shoulder. Thus burdened, he returned to the cave. ____________________________________________________________ The emperor's summons took Lotor completely by surprise. Coming, as it did, on the heels of his beast man's defeat and the loss of his slave girl, the demand was most suspicious. Nevertheless, he donned a fresh uniform and parade armor, strapped on his laser sword, and set off for Zarkon's throne room. The elderly chamberlain tried to stop him from entering again, claiming that the emperor was holding court. The man was becoming tiresome. Momentarily, Lotor considered killing him. Then he calculated the oldster's blood-price, and decided that a two minute orgy of violence wasn't worth thirty-five gold marks to him. Slaves provided every bit as much satisfaction, at a much more reasonable price, .......and prisoners were free. Sneering, he shoved the old man aside and forced his way into the throne room. There were several hundred people there, of at least twenty different species. Most of them were kneeling, or performing whatever equivalent best suited their anatomy. With some of the more exotic aliens, it was very hard to tell whether one was receiving homage or being flipped off. Lotor tended to shoot those on general principle. Better safe than sorry, after all. Upon the dais itself, Zarkon lounged on his rock crystal throne. Haggar occupied her usual position at his side. Standing upon the high platform's second landing, a lovely woman, Felarr, by the look of her, was addressing the emperor. Barging through the line of petitioners with cool arrogance, Lotor strode to the base of the throne, knelt, and said, "Sire, you requested my presence?" A calculated insult, that. The emperor never requested. He commanded. Lifting a hand to silence the Felarra, Zarkon scowled down at his son. He had intended their conversation to be private, but as his heir had all the brains of a sturg, and had interrupted an important audience, the emperor decided to give him a little lesson in humility. "Yes, I ordered you here, Lotor," he responded coldly. "Skrugging idiot! What are you doing disporting yourself with slaves, stirring up the entire palace, and getting my guards and hunting dogs killed, when Arus remains unconquered?! Have you crept away like a whipped slave because they've out-fought you, or because they've locked away all of the wine and wenches ?! Well?! Speak up!" Lotor flushed wrathfully. His hands itched to seize a sword and slash the old reptile's ugly head from that squat body. Breathing hard, he managed to grate out, "I've another plan ....., Sire." His father glared at him, making it obvious by the way his crest flickered that he thought very little of the crown prince's plans. "Explain," he demanded contemptuously. Lotor squirmed. The Felarra bared her fangs in a little half smile, obviously enjoying his humiliation. The fact that she was beautiful, with a fuzzy white pelt, golden cat-eyes, and long, tangled magenta hair, only made things worse. As levelly as possible, he replied, "I've come into a great deal of information about the planet's defenses, Sire, which I intend to use against them very soon." Zarkon snorted. "They'll just change their codes, Fool! Your information is worthless!" "I think not, Sire. My source was presumed dead, so the Sk'roven have no idea that I know any of this." Leaning forward, he lowered his voice dramatically, and added, "The secret of Voltron is mine. Within the Ter-Drokhzt*, Sire, Arus will fall! I stake my head, my title, and a fortune of........ of fifty-thousand radium marks upon it!" (* a thirty-day ) Zarkon leaned back a little, stroking a clawed thumb along the bridge of his flat nose. Matters couldn't have worked out better if he'd planned it himself. "Very well, Lotor. Within the Ter-Drokhzt. Otherwise, I will have you gutted and hung for the vultures." Rising to the challenge, his son bared sharp canines in a savagely confident grin. "Don't invest in chains just yet, Father. You'll need to save your marks for my triumphal entrance and victory feast." "Or Oig'n 's." Zarkon purred. "I can save all kinds of money by having your body cast into the pit, where the dogs will dispose of it for me. One Ter-Drokhzt, Lotor; no more." Then dismissing his furious son with a careless flick of the fingers, the emperor said, "You have my leave to go." ____________________________________________________________ It was Keith's turn at monitor duty. It had been a long, eventful day, and he was tired. The lions had aided the villagers to clear space in the blasted forest for a new settlement, one fortunately located, and oriented to receive the blessings and good influences of the east and south, while blocking the curses and dire influence of the west and north. Or so they'd said. Sounded like crazy superstition to Keith. He'd kept his mouth shut about it, though, merely operating Black as ordered, with a smile on his face to hide the boredom. Patting back a yawn, he rose to go get another cup of coffee, wondering whether it would be worth it to try beating Lance's score at Final Rupture. Somebody walked into the room as he was pouring the sour dregs of the pot into a ceramic mug. It was Bandor. Keith gave him a little salute. "Good evening, Your Highness," he said with a smile. The prince returned the gesture. Didn't smile, though. Since the business with the Avok beast, he'd grown ever more driven and serious. "Good evening, Commander," he replied. "I have a proposal to make." Keith blinked. It was awfully late, and he was pretty ragged out, but just what the hell did this have to do with him? Whatever his own feelings for A'lara might be, they hardly mattered given the difference in their status. "Uh...., don't you think you should be proposing to her, not talking to me about it? I've never had any influence over 'Lara. Nobody does, really. She does what she wants, most of the time." Bandor frowned, clasped his hands behind his back. "What has A'lara got to do with.....? Oh. I see. You misinterpret my use of the word 'proposal', Commander. If the princess and I ever wed, it will be because our advisors decide that it is best for both royal houses. The only proposal will be from one set of palsied old men to another. Surely you realize by now..., royalty exist to be manipulated for the good of the people. We're public symbols, not individuals." News to him, but, "I do now, I guess. What's the proposal?" "Well, it occurred to me, after listening to A'lara talk about the former pilot of the Blue lion, that it might make sense for each lion to have a back-up pilot. That way the loss of a single man, or woman, wouldn't be so critical. As I understand it, Steven's death...." "Sven," Keith corrected firmly, folding his arms across his chest. "His name was Sven, and, uh..., he was a good friend. Bandor nodded, his face softening a little. "I am sorry for your loss, Commander. I know what it is to lose one whom you care about. Sven's death was unfortunate for many reasons, not the least being that the Galrans came perilously close to shattering the team by killing just one man. What I'm getting at is simply this: if you have one or two back-up pilots for every lion, you will never again be so vulnerable." Keith considered the idea. "Makes sense," he admitted. "Let me think it over, and get back to you on it. You interested in being trained on a lion, by any chance, Highness?" Bandor shook his head. "No, thank you, Commander. I'm recruiting men for a new fighter wing. I'm calling it the Red Hand squadron, and its objective is the destruction of Emperor Zarkon, and all of his vile works." "Tall order for one squad," Akira ventured. Bandor gave him a long, serious look. "Commander," he said, "my family lies unavenged, and until I have Zarkon's head to bring back to Pollux and set upon their monument, I will not rest." Thinking, 'Damn, he sounds like Lance!' Keith answered, saying, "I hear you." They shook hands, and then Bandor left for his suite, looking very old and tired for such a young, young fellow. ____________________________________________________________ Romelle awoke to find herself in a low cave of some sort. A small fire of twigs burned nearby, shedding a warm, leaping glow. The cheerful blaze illuminated the knobby walls and ceiling of red stone, and the packed clay floor. Her bed was a stack of Galran uniforms; dreadfully torn and slashed, most of them. Confused, the princess sat up, bracing herself to withstand a pain that never materialized. Looking herself over, Romelle discovered that her wounds had been bound and cleansed, her arm set. The departing clouds of medicine still fuzzed her thoughts a bit, but not badly enough to matter.. "Blessed Lady!" she murmured. "How long have I been unconscious?" And, more importantly, who had tended her grievous injuries so well? Galrans? Escaped slaves? That terrifying savage from the swamp? Romelle shook her head. The last possibility was particularly unrealistic, she thought. After all, it was he who had knocked her senseless in the first place. Probably he'd left her for dead, and someone else had found her and treated her wounds. The slaves, she decided, it had to be. She'd fallen in with the very people she'd needed to find. But where were they? Getting to her feet, Romelle headed up the low passage, stooping a little to avoid bumping her head on the ceiling. After a time the tunnel dog-legged, and there was no more light. Romelle hesitated. She was a bold girl ( anyone growing up with Avok and Bandor for brothers would have to be ) but she wasn't stupid. Creeping through an unknown, pitch black cave was foolishly dangerous. There could be pits, or loose boulders, or she could just get lost. The princess made up her mind, then. It wasn't wise to push the goddess too far, especially when her rescuers were likely to return at any moment. So it made all sorts of sense to turn back, and Romelle really meant to......., after another few steps. Clinging to the wall and creeping as nervously as a tight-rope walker, Romelle slipped around another bend in the passage. There was pale, wavery light there, from a crack in the vaulted ceiling. Curious, the princess crept within, looked around, and gasped. Armor; heaps of it, and weapons. Guns, swords, throwing disks, and other, less easily identified instruments of mayhem were piled in great careless stacks. And, while they weren't mounted upon the wall, as Lotor's had been, Romelle had no doubt that they were trophies, just the same. She stepped further into the chamber, did a slow 360. At a conservative guess, there had to be two hundred weapons there. She smiled. The slaves had been very busy. A sound at her back made her jump. Romelle pivoted, saw the hideous Galran hound again, and just behind, its master. Alright, not the slaves, then. She took a small step backward, then forced herself to stand firm and look him in the eye. Avok had told her once that it was important not to show fear when facing a predator. The hound did a sort of shimmy, lashing his tail from side to side with such vehemence that he threatened to topple off of his one foreleg. The man just stared, wary and still as a big cat scenting trouble. "Well," she joked lightly, more to break the silence than to get a response, "At least someone is happy to see me." Encouraged, the hound stretched its neck, bringing that horrendously armed muzzle within a foot of her. Its nostrils quivered as it tested her scent. Cautiously, Romelle put forth a hand, and let the beast sniff her fingers. She almost screamed when a long, slimy tongue like a purplish worm shot out of its mouth and wrapped several times about her wrist. Thankfully, it didn't bite, seeming more intent on a friendly hello than finding out what she tasted like. At a thought from its master, the hound released her wrist.. She wiped the slime off on her makeshift robe and ventured a smile. "It seems that I owe you my life," Romelle began, a little uncertainly. "Thank you for driving away those guards, and healing me." When her rescuer failed to respond, she tried another tack. Gesturing around the chamber at the piled trophies, she asked, "Are all of these yours?" Again, nothing. Romelle pressed on, and as she talked, tried to get a feel for the quiet stranger who had saved her life. "My name is Romelle," she offered, pointing to herself. "Romelle Kirrisian of Pollux." It was very odd. Although he was listening to the sound of her words, his mind was totally neutral; as if he didn't know they were supposed to mean something. "Do...., you have a name?" Instead of answering, he turned and started back up the passage. When she hesitated in the trophy chamber, he paused to look back at her, dark eyes narrowing. A brief, wordless sending brushed her thoughts. It seemed that she was to follow. "All right, I'm coming." The princess scurried after him, still talking. "Well, since you're not going to tell me your name, I'll give you one. Let's see......, You look......, You look a bit like an Arusian man I spoke with just before everything happened. He was named 'Sven', I think. So, if you don't mind, I'll call you 'Sven'." His only reaction to the name was a brief backward glance, guarded and remote. Moving onward, he led her through about a mile and a half of passage, setting an athletic pace that Romelle did her best to match, wounds, aches and all. But after awhile she became too tired to keep up, and had to rest. "Wait," she gasped, setting her back to the tunnel wall and sliding down. "Sven, please wait a moment....., while I catch......, my breath." He stopped when she did, keeping his distance, but watching her closely. Romelle studied him in return, noting that though his hair was quite long, he had no beard and seemed fairly clean. He wasn't much older than she was, the princess decided, and rather handsome in a rough and surly sort of way. She wondered what could possibly have brought him to such a state, for he didn't seem totally uncivilized, nor heartless. He'd cared enough to save her, at any rate. "You're feral, not wild," she announced. " Feral means 'returned to a state of savagery'. Wild means you've been an animal all you life. The last bit definitely doesn't suit. I've never heard of a true savage who shaved, wore clothes, or bothered much about baths. So you'll doubtless be relieved to learn that you're not truly wild." Impatient, he tugged at her mind with that wordless command, again. Romelle shook her head, putting on her best, most imperious princess airs. "No, Sven. I cannot go on just yet. I must rest a bit longer, and regain my strength. Otherwise, you will be forced to carry me the rest of the way." The hound wandered over and nudged her gently with band-saw jaws that could have shredded a concrete block. Used to him by now, Romelle picked the least hazardous spot she could find (the scaly area right between his stiffly pointed ears) and gave him a little pat. "And what should I call you?" she wondered aloud, in the syrupy voice women often used when speaking to pets or children. Surprisingly, she was answered. There was a flash of something from Sven, as though a door had cracked open ever so briefly. Very gruff, very low and unpracticed, he grunted: "Hund." Romelle jumped a little, then smiled. "So you do talk," she exclaimed triumphantly. But the door in his mind had closed again, and all was darkness. He merely tugged at her thoughts again, impatient to be on his way. Rested now, she obeyed. They traversed another mile of low, twisted passage, sometimes almost crawling, sometimes wading chest deep in black water as cold and still as the grave. The water was slightly astringent and lifeless, bubbling a little when it touched her bare flesh. "No wonder you stay so clean," she murmured. "This water is acidic! Must be snow melt." They went on and on. At one point the passage opened out, becoming a slender ledge at the very top of a vast, apparently bottomless cavern. Icicles of stone dripped from the ceiling, white, violet and pink. Across the way, water in great sheets cascaded along the far wall, flowing over an emperor's ransom in fire opals. Enraptured by the cold, sterile beauty of the place, Romelle failed to watch her footing. She misstepped at a slippery bit, and almost plunged to her death. Quick as a hawk, Sven thrust an arm out and hauled her back from the edge. He had a very powerful grip, but not a painful one, and he released her the instant she was safe. After months of Lotor's savagery, such kindness almost undid her. "It seems that I must thank you again," she whispered, fighting the urge to cry. "That is twice you have given me my life." He led on. Eventually they reached the end of their journey, a narrow fissure in the passage wall through which the warm gleam of campfires could be glimpsed. Sven indicated with a jerk of his head that she was to go through. Hesitantly, Romelle approached the crevice and peeked out. There were people on the other side; Humans, Felarr, Rimox, even a few Galran cross-breeds. They'd knocked together a rude settlement; smokey, dirty, and full of rough, beaten-looking folk. Big-biceped women huddled at one end of the encampment, skinning a large, dead animal with knives and bloody hands. A few dirty children pawed through the settlement's refuse heap, nosing about disconsolately for something to eat. Romelle's cheek twitched. Somehow she'd visualized the escaped slaves living a grim (but clean) fugitive life, not scraping by like rats (which there were plenty of, by the way). These folk weren't the stuff that vengeance required. They were no more than strayed cattle. She turned away from the crack, only to find that Sven was already halfway up the passage. "Wait! Sven, wait for me!" she hissed, scrambling after him. He turned at the sound of her hurrying footsteps, regarded the female with deep displeasure. He'd brought her to her own kind; creatures just as noisy and troublesome as she was. Why would she not go? She caught up with him, yammering more of those barks and hums that sometimes formed pictures in his head, but usually just hurt. It seemed that he was stuck with her. ____________________________________________________________ When Lotor burst in on Haggar, she was at her mirror again. Hastily, the witch drew her hood back over her face and head, shadowing features that might have been a little smoother, a trifle less distorted. A trick of the light, perhaps. The prince noticed nothing. Still smarting over his public humiliation, he was on fire with purpose. "Haggar!" The witch bowed, apparently humble as the lowest slave. "Yes, My Prince?" Her voice was like steam hissing from a ruptured pipe. Zarkon's tall heir knocked one of her tables over in his single-minded hurry. Arcane chemicals and herbs mingled on the stone floor, producing a truly vile stench. Something writhed, came to life in one of the puddles, and began to grow. Lotor's boot crushed it out of existence an instant later.. He announced, "I will attack Arus again within the week. When I launch the assault, I want every single male sk'rova of fighting age already flat on his back, or dead." Haggar nodded slowly. "You wish me to brew a plague for you, Sire?" Lotor leaned forward intently, projecting such raw aggression that the witch backed away a bit. "I want black, vile, choking death, Witch- the sort that they cannot fight with a robot! I want the plague to destroy the men of the Voltron Force and the Polluxan starfighters, without harming the females. Understood?!" He didn't want his beautiful future queen harmed or scarred in any way, or his future harem, either. The witch answered grimly. "I can do this, My Prince, but such a specifically targeted plague will have to be incubated inside a host body, not just released into the air." Lotor rubbed at the side of his jaw. "They will be suspicious of a nameless stranger," he mused. "But another Sk'rova prince would be welcomed into the fortress without a second thought." Coming to a sudden decision, he said, "I will host the disease, Witch. But you must make certain that it does me no harm." Reaching into his belt pouch, Lotor drew forth a tiny, spider-shaped biomech and tossed it at Haggar. Before she could react, it ate its way through her robes and flesh, leaving nothing visible but a tiny red light. Gasping, she grabbed for the thing, to claw it forth, but Lotor stopped her. "I wouldn't, Witch. Removed by anyone but me, the device will detonate.. It is bound to my life force. If I die, the device will release a corrosive poison into your system within fifteen seconds of my final breath." Haggar composed herself, burying hate and rage beneath a layer of numbing ice. Instead of lashing out with a spell or summoning a horde of mighty demons, she bowed again. "I will brew the disease tonight, My Prince. Return in the morning, and I will make you its carrier." Lotor allowed himself a triumphant sneer. "What, no nonsense about payment this time, Old Hag? You must want to get even older!" He turned to go, calling over his shoulder, "Tomorrow morning, Witch. Have it ready, or I'll find myself a better spell-caster!" Haggar watched him go, cold murder in her heart. ____________________________________________________________ Two days later, Lance and A'lara were training together, watched from below by Lord Koren, Keith, Hunk and Pidge. They were out in the desert, far from the castle and its vulnerable citizens. "Come on, 'Lara," Keith whispered, watching tensely as Blue just barely evaded Red's plasma bolt, "Fight back!" It wasn't going well. Afraid to give her hot-tempered lion his head, the princess was too busy struggling for control to pay much attention to Lance. The gunner was having a field day. With savage delight he fired so many shots, and so close, that Blue was scorched in a double-dozen places. "What's the matter, Baby Doll?!" Lance taunted over the comm, "Can't take it?" He fired a couple of stingers, followed up by a burst of photon energy that temporarily blinded the girl. She clutched at her head and screamed, as Lance continued to mock her. "Come on, Princess," he called out, "show me something, or get the hell out of the cockpit! You're putting me to sleep over here!" Forgetting himself, Lance whipped Red around and cut loose with her plasma bolt at point-blank range. It struck Blue amidships, blasting a huge, sparking wound in the lion's side. The big warcraft dropped from the sky like a stone, trailing fire. "Oh, my God!" Keith flung his fieldglasses away, pivoted and ran for his lion. Hunk and Pidge were right behind him. At the speed A'lara was dropping, if she hit the ground she'd break every bone in her body. Lance had looped Red over, and was trying to get close enough to fix a tractor beam on the plummeting Blue lion, but it didn't look like he was going to make it in time. Then a third ship shot across the sky and grappled the princess's lion. With tractor rays and impellers it braked Blue's fall, absorbing the injured warcraft's momentum and bringing him to a gentle touchdown. Blue collapsed onto the golden sand and slumped over on his side, leaking hydraulic fluid and plumes of shimmering energy. The mysterious ship, a sleek grey arrowhead, landed close by. Its canopy popped open and a uniformed young man emerged, tall and muscular, with long, bluish hair and a rather pretty face. He leapt to the ground and raced over to the blue lion before Keith and the others could arrive. Seconds later he had braved his way into Blue's smoke-filled cockpit, and emerged again, carrying the limp, unconscious princess. He laid her onto the sand a safe distance away from the blue lion, then began chafing her hands and patting her face, looking terribly concerned. Hunk almost knocked him flat, growling, "Get away from her before I jerk a knot in your head! Don't you know no better'n ta move someone who could have a spinal injury?!" The fellow surged upright, shoving LaChance away. "Unhand me, you fat peasant!" "Sure 'nuff, Little Lady, just as soon as you make me!" Snarling, the stranger reached for his sword, prompting Hunk to swing his medkit back for a crushing blow. Keith got between them, ice-cold and furious. "Stand down, both of you!" He shouted. "Hunk, put that kit down before you hurt somebody! And as for you," Akira turned to face the arrogant stranger, as Red landed a few hundred yards away. "We appreciate your help, but we'll take it from here. Move along!" Pidge bounded over in a series of incredible leaps, covering thirty feet with each jump. Koren was far behind him, limping and floundering in the loose, glassy sand. The stranger's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "It doesn't appear that you've done very well thus far, sergeant," he sneered. Akira's teeth ground together. "Major," he grated fiercely. "It's Major Keith Akira, Galaxy Alliance Army." By this time, Lance had arrived. The gunner stalked over to stand beside Keith. Looking the effeminate stranger up and down, he said to Keith, "Who's your girlfriend, Commander?" This time the sword was out and ignited, its fiery tip burning less than an inch from Lance's throat. The gunner was too quick to be skewered like that, however. He leapt backward and drew his sidearm. "You want some?!" Lance snarled. "Come on then, Pretty boy! Come and get it like you want it!" He would have fired, but the revived princess pattered up and yanked on his arm. "Stop it, Kurogane!" She commanded. "Would you kill the man who saved my life?!" "...As you tried to kill Her Majesty?" Koren seconded angrily, puffing up last of all. "Wait a minute," Keith cut in, "Lance didn't try to kill anybody! It was a friendly fire incident! These things happen in training!" Lowering his voice with an effort, Akira added, "Now everybody just calm down. Lance, put up your gun." Calvin indicated the stranger with a jerk of his sharp chin, saying, "Him first!" But the handsome fellow had already doused and sheathed his sword. Taking A'lara 's little hand in his own, he bent low over it, murmuring, "How relieved I am to see that you are all right, Princess! I would never have forgiven myself had any harm come to you." When not taut with rage, his voice was silky and caressing as oiled bath water. A'lara blushed, but didn't remove her hand. "Thank you," she whispered, raising big blue eyes. It gave her a naughty thrill to realize that her shockingly improper pilot's uniform revealed her whole figure. As he had no servant to introduce him, the smitten princess decided to dispense with formalities. "I am A'lara D'Arus," she said to him, smiling warmly. "And you are welcome on my world, Sir." He returned her smile, with just a hint of masterful arrogance that sent a pleasant little shiver through her. "I am Bokar, Prince of Tarn," he replied. "I had heard that there was a resistence movement on Arus, which I had come to join...., but no one told me that there was anything here as fascinating as yourself, Princess." A'lara 's knees turned wobbly, and she giggled like a school girl. "You flatter me, Sir." Lance rolled his eyes disgustedly. "I think I'm gonna puke!" he muttered to Keith. "Don't tell me she can't see through that phoney!" Akira frowned, trying to control his jealousy. The princess obviously found Bokar totally charming, a fact which ate at his insides like acid. "What're you talking about?!" he growled. "That so-called prince! He's a fake!" Hunk and Pidge drew closer. The big man rumbled softly, "How do you know?" Lance shrugged, eyes never leaving the simpering pair. "Can't say. I just get feelings about sh*t like this. Always have. And that Pukar's as phoney as a Martian treasure map!" Koren and A'lara were certainly falling for it, though. They were all but offering Prince Bokar the keys to the kingdom. Whispered Pidge, "We'd best find a way to reveal him, then, before the princess gets hurt." Lance snorted. "Screw the princess! I'll kick his ass just for the fun of it!" A'lara summoned the men over with an imperious little flip of her hand. "At least she didn't whistle....," Lance grumbled as they stomped over to join her. "Prince Bokar," 'Lara began, "these are the pilots of the Voltron Force, my friends and guardians. This is their leader, Kogane Akira, who is known as Keith." Akira managed to grunt something halfway polite in response to Bokar's frigid nod. The princess went on. "This is the second in command, Kurogane Isamu, called Lance...," Bokar turned slightly, giving A'lara 's hand a possessive squeeze. "It was a long and dangerous journey to your beautiful world, Princess. If you don't mind, might I meet the help some other time?" "Of course, how thoughtless of me! Let us return to the fortress at once. Would...., would you care to fly with me?" Over the sound of his own teeth grinding, Keith muttered, "Kill him...., I'm gonna kill him!" Lance leaned over and hissed out of the corner of his mouth, "Not if I get there first, Cap." It was a long, tense flight home. ____________________________________________________________ Slowly but surely, Romelle was learning. Which plants could be eaten, and which not. Which game trails led to drinkable water, and which to the lair of some horrid monster. Which tunnels were safe, and which were prone to collapse. Her silent companion was an excellent teacher and, in his own peculiar way, a good friend. Once he got used to her presence he became fiercely protective, and even playful, deliberately startling her sometimes just to watch her rage. He didn't like to be touched, though, and he had a furious, unpredictable temper which he never lost in her direction, or the hound's. The Galrans suffered mightily, though. In just a few days he slaughtered at least fifteen guards and soldiers, sometimes even venturing into the royal city after his prey. One day he and Hund failed to return from such a hunt. Romelle waited for half a day, and all that long, sleepless night. Then she rose up in the morning, collected her weapons, and set off after him. There was no physical trail to follow, but she could scan for his thoughts. Concentrating fiercely, the princess was able to reach his mind. The thoughts were feeble and broken. Either he was extremely far away, or very weak. Romelle hurried her pace, wishing that she had more than just a half-charged pistol and a broken sword with her. She followed the whisper of his thoughts out of the caves, through the marsh and into the pit of skulls. And there, limping along with a bloodied Hund at his side, she found him. Romelle stuffed the pistol into her robe and rushed forward with a glad cry. "Sven! Oh, Sven, you're all right! Thank the Lady!" But his eyes were dull and unfocused, his flesh hot and dry. 'Poison,' she thought, with a sudden, terrible chill. Not even seeing her, Sven stumbled. Romelle caught him before he could fall. Taking his arm, she drew it across her shoulders and helped him walk. Meanwhile, Hund whimpered anxiously and nudged her. The hound was deeply scratched in several places, and his tail bitten nearly through. Obviously, they'd been in a fight with something big. "Who won?" she asked the wounded beast, because she hated silence. Hund yipped and clashed his long jaws. "Hurrah for our side! Now to get you boys back to safety...," They barely made it. Toward the end Sven was leaning on her so heavily that Romelle could barely move. Somehow, she kept going, and urged her feverish companion to do the same. "Come along then, Sven, just a bit further. Just over that rise there.....," Her grip slipped, and he started to fall. "No! No you don't! Please, Sven, you're my only friend! You can't leave me here alone!" He surprised her by responding, mumbling something that sounded like 'ya-ha' , though she couldn't be certain she'd heard him right. They made it home at last, and Romelle helped Sven to stretch out by the fire. Adding more sticks to the blaze, the princess fetched water from the pure seep at the back of the cave, and gave him a drink. He lost consciousness soon afterward, slipping into coma so cold and deep that she could barely feel his heart beating. Timing his breaths, Romelle found that they were coming about once a minute. The fever vanished, leaving him chilled as a corpse. Romelle never hesitated. Building up the fire, she removed his clothing, laid down at his side, and arranged her blanket-robe to cover them both. As Hund curled up at his back, the princess drew Sven into a warming embrace. By goddess and flame, she swore that she wasn't going to lose him. ____________________________________________________________ It was another tedious state banquet. A'lara seemed to love them. She was dressed in a long gown of powder blue, and had shimmering jewels woven into her long, golden hair. The candle and torch light made her creamy skin glow, and turned her wide eyes into depthless pools of clear blue. Keith had eyes for no one and nothing else, barely hearing Lance's snide comments, hardly tasting Nana's crunchy pasta with peanut-pepper sauce. And the princess was similarly absorbed...... in Bokar. She smiled at him constantly, laughed at all of his lame jokes, even let him hold her hand under the table. Keith wanted to die. He didn't have Lance's witty arrogance, or Sven's drop-dead good looks, and he wasn't a prince. He was just a soldier; deeply, painfully in love. Lance watched his commander for a few moments, shook his head and turned to Hunk, who was shoveling away his fifth plate of peanut-butter pasta. "Hey, Gargantua!" the gunner hissed. "Forgive me for interrupting feeding time, but we'd better break up the happy couple over there, before Keith stabs himself with a butter knife, or something." Hunk pondered this for a moment, crunching up the last peppery mouthful.. "He's in love with her, ain't he?" the medic guessed at last. "I'd say that's a given, yeah. And since Pukar's likely to be in 'Lara 's frilly pink pants by this time tomorrow if we don't stop him, I say we make some trouble in paradise. You with me?" "Long as nobody gets hurt, you're on. What about Pidge?" Lance considered briefly. "Nah. He's transparent as hell. Besides, we may need a reliable alibi.. Better keep him out of it." Ignoring Koren's long, bombastic speech, the two friends put their heads together and began to make plans. Matters were given an urgent twist when His long-winded Lordship announced: "And, in view of Prince Bokar's tremendous heroism and good family, Her Highness and I have decided to formally offer him a position on the Voltron Force, as its leader, and pilot of the blue lion!" Everyone applauded but the team. Lance vaulted from his seat. "Oh, hell no! No way am I flying with Prince Fancy-Panties!" Shocked out of his depression, Keith leapt up and dumped a pitcher of fruit wine over Lance's head. Forcing a smile, the commander seized his second's arm and began hauling him out of the banquet room. "Sorry folks! It's time for his medication. We'll just be going now!" Painfully conscious that every eye in the room was skewering them like bait fish, Keith dragged the sputtering Lance through the grand doors. Once outside he slammed the gunner up against the wall and growled, "Dumb-ass! What're you trying to do?! Get us all tossed in the dungeon?!" Lance slapped his arm aside, raging, "For chrissake, am I the only one who sees what's happening here?! Pukar's maneuvering his way into the force, the princess and the council so he can take this planet's defenses apart!" But Keith wasn't buying it. He jerked his second up by the collar and said, "Lance, drop it! I don't like him either, but I'm not that goddam paranoid!" He would have added more, but Hunk lurched through the doors just then, nearly flattening them. Pidge and Xiomara followed more sedately. Barely glancing at them, Lance shook off Keith's grip, muttering, "I'm telling you, man- Something here stinks like a wet dog, and it ain't Hunk's after shave! I aim to find out what Pukar's up to whether you like it or not......, Commander." Calming himself, Keith tried reason. "Look, a lot of people have come here to join the resistance; Bandor, Xiomara, Mallory....., and quite a few of them are learning to fly the lions.. Why single Prince Bokar out?" "Dude, you're blind! All of you! The man's a snake.....* Whoa!" For just a moment the world had seemed to spin around Lance, and his friends to recede like the tide. "What's wrong?!" Keith snapped, too angry to be much concerned. "Nothing, I just...., Nothing." The plague had begun to work. ____________________________________________________________ The poison released its grip sometime early the next morning. Only when she knew for certain that he'd be all right did Romelle allow herself to sleep. He awoke somewhat later, tired but well. He found the noisy female beside him, and Hund at his back. Both were asleep. Overly warm, he raised himself up a bit, and looked down at Romelle. Sometimes...., when he dreamed....., he saw another face, a little like hers, in a place with bright colors and clean snow, where the air didn't stink, or burn his skin. The visions troubled him, for he couldn't recall ever having seen that face, those things.. As far as he knew, he'd been born in a cold, dark room on an ugly world and grown up fighting. Romelle didn't fit into his life, didn't belong here. He wanted to get her away, send her back to the brightly colored dream world, but he didn't know how. Sensing his regard, Romelle woke suddenly. "Sven...?" She whispered, stretching a bit. His concerned expression was familiar. Romelle frowned, trying to remember. It came to her all at once. "The man on the screen, from Arus control....! You ARE him!" They looked at each other for a long moment, then clasped hands, completing a gesture that had begun months ago, when they were millions of miles apart. A warm charge raced through them both at the touch, bringing knowledge. Swiftly and softly, she whispered, "I love you," then pulled him closer and proceeded to prove it. ____________________________________________________________ Prince Bokar was headed for A'lara 's quarters, striding through the hall as confidently as if he were already her husband. Lance and Hunk watched his progress narrowly, from the deep shadow at the base of an emerald pillar. Ignoring a sudden, severe bout of nausea, Lance muttered, "Okay, wait till he's alongside, then you grab one arm and I'll grab the other. We'll take Prince Lotsahair upstairs for a little good cop - bad cop." Hunk glanced down at his skinny friend in frank puzzlement. "Do what?" "Never mind! Just act like a wild man. Rough him up a little." "We ain't gonna hurt him, are we? 'Cause I don't..." "Nah," Lance shook his head, eyes never leaving the arrogant figure of Bokar. "We're just gonna scare him enough to propel his butt the hell off of Arus. Just act crazy, and let me do all the talking. Got it?" "Yeah, okay." The prince drew closer, came abreast of their position. Leaving their covert at a fast walk, Lance and Hunk overtook Bokar, seized an arm each, and began muscling the startled prince toward the back stair. Bokar opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again as Hunk's hairy hand clenched dangerously tight upon the back of his neck. The big man growled, "We're goin' for a walk, Little Lady, so you'd best stay quiet and get to steppin' ." Lance managed to look both shocked and concerned. "Hunk!" he admonished his bad-cop friend, "Not so rough! His Royal Daintiness isn't going to give us any trouble, are you Pretty Boy?" "Release me at once, you skrugging.....!" "Uh-uh-uh," Lance tsked, tightening his grip on the prince's arm. "Language!" Then Keith and Koren entered the hall, ruining everything. The commander stopped short, sized the situation up, and snapped, "Just what the hell do you two think you're doing?!" Lance released the Prince. "Us?!" he asked, innocent and wide-eyed as a baby rabbit. "Why, we were just escorting His Highness, here, outside for a breath of fresh air. He was looking a little peaked." Bokar struggled free of Hunk's slackened grip, snarling, " Koren, I demand that these peasants be arrested immediately! They dared to lay hands on me... ME! As though I were a common criminal! I want them locked in chains and hung for the.... and executed!" Lance, who could never pass up the opportunity to say something obnoxious, laid a hand over his heart as though overcome with emotion. "Why Pukar," he simpered, "You DO care! ...gasp... I'm getting a warm fuzzy," Turning to Hunk he extended his arms and gushed, "Hold me!" Ignoring the trickster, Lord Koren bowed low before Bokar, and apologized. "Your Highness, the behavior of these two warriors was inexcusable, and on behalf of all Arus, I tender my sincerest apologies! They will be sternly dealt with." To Keith he said, "Commander, I remand these men into your custody, to be punished as you see fit." Perhaps Lord Koren, too, was wondering what had brought Bokar to this part of the fortress at this time of the night. At any rate, it was obvious that Lance and Hunk were not about to be executed. Lance shrugged and grinned, leaning against a pillar to hide how weak he was feeling. "Guess we'll have to reschedule our talk, Your Highness," he drawled. Bokar fingered the sword which hung at his left side. "I guess we will," he replied, ice-blue eyes seething with balked fury.. ____________________________________________________________ Lying contentedly in the warm circle of Sven's arms, Romelle forgot her need for revenge, briefly. That she was here, safe and warm with the man she loved, was enough. He rubbed a hand over her smooth, bare shoulder, pausing where a circle of whitish scars marred the pale flesh. They looked like tooth-marks. Following his glance, Romelle shook her head, whispering, "That doesn't matter anymore. Nothing that he did matters; not now." Only, it did. As long as she and Sven were on Galra, as long as Lotor lived and breathed a free man, her happiness and love were in jeopardy. She had to find a way to escape, for herself, for Sven, for all the slaves and prisoners on this benighted world. Question was, how? Burying her face against his shoulder, she murmured, "Tomorrow. I'll think about it tomorrow. Today I don't want to think about anything but you." ____________________________________________________________ Lance didn't sleep that night. He had no sooner settled into bed, and begun to drift off than choking fumes filled his quarters. A heavy, searing mist hissed from the vent and oozed its way across the floor toward his bed, slow and deadly as a serpent. Gagging and coughing, his eyes swollen nearly shut by the burning gas, Lance flung off the covers and staggered for the door, only to find it locked from the outside. Thinking quickly, he ripped off his tee-shirt and tied it over his mouth and nose. Then he began pounding on the door and shouting for help. He was coughing blood by the time Keith and Hunk were able to muscle open the door and drag him out. Hunk tore away the tee shirt and pressed an oxygen mask to his blistered face, but his lungs were so full of blood and fluid that it was almost impossible to breathe. The big medic had an answer for this, though. Muttering, "No sir. I ain't losing no more patients," Hunk located his last vial of universal antidote and pumped Lance full. The toxic gas was swiftly neutralized, allowing LaChance to inject a medicated mist into the gunner's air supply. After awhile, Lance was able to sit up, and his breathing eased a little. Keith squatted down beside him. "I checked out your quarters," he said in a low, grim voice. "Looks like someone slipped a mustard gas cartridge into your air vent. Whoever it was, was playing for keeps. If you'd been asleep, you'd have died." Lance cleared his singed throat, rasped bad-temperedly, "Whattaya mean, 'whoever'?! Bokar did it!" Keith sighed gustily. He wasn't feeling well, and Lance's unrelenting paranoia about Prince Bokar was starting to get on his nerves. "Lance, we've got as many enemies as there are Galrans in the empire. It could just as easily have been Haggar, or Lotor, or a thousand other psychos. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll have him placed under guard." "Guard, hell!" Lance muttered, head between his knees as he struggled for breath. "I'd like to take that boy hunting sometime, just the two of us.." Hunk had been watching his commander rather closely as the two men spoke, noting his unhealthy pallor and clammy-looking skin. Giving Lance a quick, consoling pat on the shoulder, the big man said, "Siddown and let me scan you real quick, Boss. You're looking sorta common." "I'm fine, Hunk; I've just got a little...." "SIT." One didn't argue with three-hundred-thirty pounds of determined medic. Keith sat. Hunk reset his scanner and waved it slowly over his commander's body. Comparing the data with Lance's readings, he grunted, "How ya been feeling?" "Well, I've really been too busy to...." "Cut the crap and give me the symptoms, Boss." Startled, Keith complied. "Uhh, a little nauseous, I guess, and kind of weak, headachey, sore.... like the flu. Satisfied?" LaChance did not reply immediately. Instead he scanned himself, then waved Pidge over and repeated the procedure. "Huh! He ain't got it." "Got what?" Keith demanded irritably. "Hunk, what's going on?" The big man looked up from his data, deadly serious. "Boss, I'm gonna need to scan a few more test subjects before I'll declare anything, but, uh.... we got a bug, and it ain't the flu. Something real nasty's floating around in your bloodstream, and Lance's, and mine. It's missed Pidge, though. If my readings are accurate, we got us an epidemic." "Shit." "Uh-huh." Keith ran a hand through his hair. "Something local that we haven't built up antibodies for?" "Could be, or a bug brought in by one a' the refugees, or Bandor's folk..... you name it. There're so many folks coming and going around here lately, from so many different worlds, that it's hard to say for certain." Packing up his supplies, the medic continued, "I'm gonna go back to the clinic with these readings, see what I can come up with. You all may as well come too. Pidge, since you ain't infected yet, I want you to go down to the...." The young genius shook his head, saying, "I'm going with you, Hunk. You'll need help analyzing the data, and I'm the only one who knows how to talk to the computer. If you try to stop me, I'll just wait until you collapse, and do it anyway, only I'll be further behind on a cure." Then Keith stepped in, speaking more patiently to Pidge than he would have to Lance or Sven. "Pidge, I understand that you're worried, but you can help best by not getting sick. If Lance and Hunk and I are out of the picture, Arus is going to be attacked again; count on it. It's just a question of when. We need you healthy, and able to organize the defenders, and that means that you have to stay away from us. Get it?" "I suppose," the boy grudgingly allowed. "I'll go tell Bandor and 'Lara." "Good man. Let's just hope that there are enough healthy people left to defend the fortress when Zarkon makes his move." ____________________________________________________________ Romelle had a plan, or the beginnings of one, anyway. She would go to the slave camp, recruit a small strike force, steal a ship, and escape to Arus with Sven and as many others as she could carry. Seemed workable enough. Burying a couple of peeled roots beside the cook fire to roast for supper, the princess gathered up her weapons and slipped away from the cavern. The fact that Sven and Hund were away hunting simplified matters greatly. She expected to be home again by the time they returned, though it didn't quite work out that way. ____________________________________________________________ The cavern was dark and cold, the air still and clammy. In such surroundings his prey stood out like a torch. Knowing his mind, the hound left by a different passage to cut off the beast's retreat. Sven waited until Hund was in place, then stalked forward by scent and feel, wary and silent as a tiger. He heard a sudden flurry of noise. Not the right sort, though. Rather than fleeing, the creature was struggling madly. Something was very wrong. He paused, sorted out the scent and heat impressions that came to him. There- the heavy, musky stench of food-beast. And there water, earth, blood, and Hund. But there was metal, too, nearly disguised by the smell of his prey, and an almost-cold trace of Enemy. They weren't here now, but they had been. It was a trap. Sending a warning to Hund, Sven began backing stealthily out of the cavern. Then another rush of scents came to him, together with a keen whisper of frightened thoughts. The Enemy was approaching. Those within range he could destroy with his mind. But the rest would then know where he was, and call air ships to drop fire and thunder, destroying the cavern, and him. Sven decided not to let them. There was a narrow side passage he knew of, but had never explored. Summoning Hund with a brief thought, he put forth his mind and released the food-beast from its chains.. There would be other hunts, and he hated to see the creature fall before the burning lights of the Enemy. As it slithered off, Sven padded over to the secret way, and slipped through. Hund followed; a red-eyed shadow with sabered fangs. It was a tight fit, little more than a twisting fissure in the dark rock, but big enough to admit man and hound. They slunk away unnoticed, quickly putting half a mile between themselves and the cavern. Meanwhile, the Enemy continued its cautious advance, not realizing that he had already escaped. Sven stopped when they were just at the edge of his range, and stood waiting. Then, when most of them had gathered within the cavern, he struck. Sagging beneath three hundred tons of stone, the cave roof was weak there, and he knew just where to push. Lashing out with a lightning-swift thought, Sven triggered a massive cave in. The roof fractured and collapsed with a ground-shaking roar, burying the shrieking hunters alive. That done, he turned away and started down the long passage. ____________________________________________________________ Once it took hold, the plague spread swiftly, striking just about every man over twelve years of age on the planet. It began with nausea, high fever and body aches, then dug its claws in, bringing swollen joints, flooded lungs and delirium. The clinic was soon full to capacity, with still more patients lying in the halls. They were kept alive by the superhuman efforts of Hunk, who was fading fast, himself. Keith and Lance were already unconscious, fighting for air like landed fish. LaChance drew hundreds of blood samples and tested every sort of local bacteria and plant life, to no avail. Nothing seemed to slow the course of the sickness. All he could do was keep injecting himself with stimulants, and arrange to make his delirious patients as comfortable as possible. He hoped to heaven that Pidge was having better luck. Watching from the shadows, Prince Bokar allowed himself the faintest of smiles, then triggered a small signaling device and sauntered off to find A'lara. ____________________________________________________________ The passage divided. One way smelt sour and close, the other musty and dank. Disliking the sour way, Sven turned right, though it took him deeper than he'd ever wandered. He walked a long time, hurtling deep crevices and wading through black, swift streams. Once or twice he kicked something that rang like metal and turned out to be a corroded weapon, or bit of armor. Sometimes there were bones, dry and old as the rock that engulfed them. Hund snapped one of these off and carried it about in his long jaws, pleased to have found a new toy. Then, just as he had begun to think that the vile passage would never end, it opened out into a tremendous gallery. Sven paused, reached out with his mind to touch his surroundings. He'd foiled more than one Enemy trap that way in the past, spotting cleverly hidden dead falls and strangling nooses meant to bring him down. Nothing of the sort this time, though. Instead, he sensed strong walls, and a high, arching cave roof. The floor was rough and slanted, broken by sharpened pillars of rock like jagged teeth. Harmless enough. Then he noticed something peculiar. One of the walls held a massive prisoner. It was metal, not flesh, but shaped like a giant man. Half embedded in the stone wall, the fore part projected outward as though trying to escape its rocky cage. Stranger still, it emitted a broken, wavering noise that troubled him greatly, for he didn't just hear it, he felt it inside his head. He should have left then, but the faint mental whisper held him fast. Glancing down, Sven saw that Hund had settled to the dirt floor to gnaw at his splintered bone-end. The hound did not appear worried. What harm could there be in learning more? Cautiously, Sven ventured forward, confused by the strange memories that flooded his mind: a small room, with a seat in it, and many lights and dials. Not a trap-room, like the one he'd been born in, but somehow the place he belonged. For just an instant, he saw light-speckled darkness, and something long, sleek and deadly just visible through the..... canopy? He heard someone speaking in a hauntingly familiar voice: " *** looking *** fight ****, Loki? " Aloud, he whispered the sounds that came to his head, not understanding them, but knowing that they were right. "Roger that...., Bull." In that moment Sven realized that this giant man-thing was meant to fly, and that he had once been able to control it. That once he'd been able to..... to 'pilot'... anything that flew. Another voice flitted through his thoughts, briefly. "Now landing, that's another story....!" Then the fleeting impressions began to fade, and with them the words. Soon 'Loki' was all that he remembered. Frustrated, Sven lashed out with his thoughts, snapping four of the nearest rocky pillars and cracking the roof. Hund came to his side then, growling softly. He quieted the beast with a touch, still staring at the thing in the wall. Romelle, he decided. The female understood words, would know what to do about the Loki. He would fetch her here, and let her show him how to make it fly again. ____________________________________________________________ Keith drifted in and out of consciousness, at one point waking just enough to see that A'lara was at his bedside, touching a cool hand to his forehead. Her big blue eyes were troubled and soft. The commander managed to smile at her, thinking that it was worth being sick, to have her look at him that way. "You.... look like an angel....," he whispered. She smiled back, and the softness in her eyes grew deeper, briefly. ____________________________________________________________ 'Bokar' stepped through the door, smiling nastily. Immediately, A'lara jumped to her feet, pink with embarrassment. She wasn't supposed to sit upon a man's bed. Even a sick man. "Good morning, My Princess," Bokar said. "I have come for you." "Come for.....? But I'm not going anywhere, Bokar. I am needed to help with the patients." The prince shook his head. "You should be worrying about nothing more serious than how to please me, Tzezrah." Then, as the beginnings of recognition filled her huge eyes, he added, "The time has come for an end to disguises." The prince touched a jeweled stud on his belt, and his Bokar semblance melted like a dream, revealing another, fiercer, man. "Lotor!" A'lara 's little hand flew to her lush mouth. Her eyes widened. "But how did you...?" Striding forward, the handsome, evil prince seized hold of her arm. "As I believe I mentioned once before, Tzezrah, I never fight fair. Now come, my fleet is in orbit, ready to cinder this world as soon as we are safe aboard my flagship." The princess twisted free, slapping Lotor across his face with all the force she could muster. For just an instant he was dangerously silent, as her hand print burned red upon that comely, arrogant visage. Then he grinned, hauled her up against him bruisingly tight, and pulled her head back by its cascading golden hair. His mouth descended upon hers, driving the breath from her body and the thoughts from her mind. He parted her lips with his own, and kissed her in the manner she'd tried so hard not to dream about. Not quite against her will, her arms went about his broad back. Despite herself, she wanted him so desperately that it hurt. After a long moment, Lotor lifted his head and whispered, "Taming you is going to be a real pleasure, my little wildcat!" Coming back to reality with a sharp snap, A'lara kneed him in the groin and tried to run. He caught up with her in two strides, seized her arm again, and began dragging her from the room. "NO!" The princess screamed. "Dammit, let me go! HELP! Someone help me!!" Her shrieks penetrated Keith's feverish delirium. " 'Lara...?" he whispered. ____________________________________________________________ A hundred parsecs away, Romelle soon found herself in similar straits. Not all of the soldiers that had been hunting her lover were killed by the cave in. Two of the survivors caught her halfway to the slave camp, and decided to cut their losses and run. After all, returning to their lord with his escaped slave would at least buy them their lives. They surprised her at a branching passage, wrestling her to the ground before she could quite bring her pistol to bear. Her electric lamp clattered to the floor and rolled away, but did not go out. Twisting and writhing, Romelle tried to draw her sword, meaning to slay her attackers. But one of the Galrans pinned her arms above her head before she could reach it. The other began patting her down for weapons, his scaly hands lingering at their work. His breath was hot and foul. The princess drove a thought like an iron spike into his mind, shattering it. Then, with a deep-throated roar, Hund barreled into the stunned man and ripped out his throat. The other soldier raised his weapon to shoot the hound, who was tearing at the bloody corpse like a starving lion. He never got off the shot. Appearing out of nowhere, Sven smashed him into the tunnel wall and began to beat and kick him with such animal fury that the Galran was soon splintered and broken beyond recognition. Even then he wouldn't quit. Lifting the shattered corpse, he suspended it from a rocky outcrop, then slapped bloody handprints upon the wall all around his kill. Somewhat unsteadily, Romelle got to her feet and hurried over. "Sven...!? Sven stop, please!" She grasped his shoulder, thinking to haul him away from the body, but hadn't the strength to move him. Snarling, he turned on her, fist raised to strike her down as he had the guard. Romelle did not flinch, though tears had begun to slip from her hazel eyes. "Stop this, please," she whispered. "I love you." The blow never landed. She reached up, took hold of his clenched hand, and gently pulled it down. Her fingers twined with his, and slowly, Sven's savage, animal rage ebbed away. As his mind came back, he pulled her close and buried his face in her red-gold hair. At first she paid no attention to the sounds he was making, too relieved just to have him back to worry about a few grunts. But then... "Sven, listen to yourself...," she said softly. "Darling, you're speaking! The shock must have jarred your memory!" Startled, he held her away. Almost, it seemed that she was right. His thoughts had somehow turned into sounds. Very cautiously, he asked her, "Are.... you...... ?" But the word he was looking for slipped sideways, vanishing into the dark hole that someone had burned in his brain. Romelle was listening closely enough to guess what he meant, though. "...Hurt?" she finished. "You want to know if they hurt me?" Tremendous concentration dredged up, "Ja." She smiled up at him, pushed some of the long, black hair off of his serious face. "I'm fine, Love. You got here before any real harm was done. Thank you." Her smile turned into a puzzled frown then as she sensed the importance of his next question. "What is it?" Sven thought for a bit, tried very hard to turn his impressions of the cavern and frozen machine man into words. "Loki," he said at last. "Inte... fly.... for rock." It was no good, though. He couldn't explain what he'd seen. Before he could become dangerously frustrated, Romelle interrupted. "You've found something?" she hazarded, dabbing at the oily-dark blood on his hands with a folded cloth. Sven nodded slowly. "Ja. Loki." In the front of his mind she saw stars, and a long, deadly starfighter that could transform into a man. "Show me." Then, pausing just long enough to summon Hund, they headed for the trapped combot. ____________________________________________________________ Lotor dragged A'lara outside the fortress to his waiting bat-fighter, his grip so tight that he almost broke her wrist. "Let me go!" she screamed, planting her daintily slippered feet. If he got her aboard, all was lost, the princess realized. Arus would be destroyed, and she would be made the chained queen of a psychotic despot. "I'm not going anywhere with you!" By way of answer, Lotor paused a moment and slapped her on the backside like a newly purchased bed slave. "You're incredibly spirited," he stated, grinning. "I can't tell you how I look forward to crushing that." Screaming with frustrated rage, A'lara drove at his eyes with sharp little fingernails like the claws of a cat. He swatted her aside, more amused than angry. "It will be many months before I tire of you," Lotor taunted. "Many long and pleasurable months!" His boasting was interrupted by a cold, stern voice; Keith, trying very hard to hide how weak he actually was. "Damn, I'm tired of your mouth," the commander growled. "And I thought Lance was bad!" He was leaning against the fortress wall, pistol in hand. Beside him Lance and Hunk did their best not to wobble too obviously. Lotor snorted. "How very pathetic," he sneered. "The three of you have crept from your death beds to defend the queen of Galra!" "Nah, " Keith responded, pushing away from the wall and raising his weapon. "Just to kick your ugly ass." Lotor drew his own sidearm, only to have it blown out of his hand by Lance. "GROTS-SKRUG!" the prince bellowed. The big, cauterized hole in his right hand sizzled faintly, leaking greasy steam. Before the Sk'roven could shoot again, he hauled A'lara up against him as a shield. "Hold your fire or I'll break her neck!" he roared, eyes glowing like a cat's. Keith's weapon wavered, but Lance only smiled. "You're kidding, right?" Another laser bolt shrilled through the air, vaporizing three fingers on Lotor's remaining hand without touching the princess. Cursing, Lotor flung her aside and dove for his ship. "Dude, I'm a sniper!" Lance called out. "Don't bother running, you'll just die tired!" His next shot would have taken off the prince's head, but Hunk seized his arm. "Lance, hang on! He's gotta be the vector!" "What?!" "The disease! He's the only adult male in the fortress not affected, so he's gotta be the ve... the carrier, which means we need 'im alive!" "Gotcha, Big Fella!" Lance and Hunk both lunged for the fleeing prince, but they were weak and slow. Then Nana appeared. Charging in like a bull, she roared, "Pardon me, Highness, but your presence is required in the dungeon!" Before he could dodge, the nursemaid lashed out with a beefy arm and clothes lined Lotor just shy of his craft's boarding ramp. He flipped completely over and crashed to the stone courtyard, stunned. Nana was upon him in a split second, followed moments later by Lance. Hurrying over, Hunk readied a needle and struggled to find a good vein while the nursemaid and gunner pinned his snarling subject to the ground. Ignoring them, Keith staggered over to A'lara and offered her a hand up.. Smiling tremulously, the girl embraced him. "Thank you, Commander," she whispered. It was now or never. Perhaps because he was deathly ill and had absolutely nothing to lose, Keith became bold. Holding her just a bit away from him, he gazed into A'lara 's eyes and said, "I'm not a prince, and I'm not all that exciting. I haven't got an empire to offer you, and the only title I've got, you gave me. But.... uh..., I love you, 'Lara, and everything I am and have... is yours." The princess's eyes softened. "That is the greatest treasure I could I could ever hope for, My Warrior." Slowly, a little hesitantly, he bent his head and kissed her. Lance looked up from hog-tying his royal highness, and saw what was happening. "Well, all right!" he wheezed, a little breathlessly, "Cap's gettin' some!" The two leapt apart like scalded cats. A'lara blushed beneath Keith's tender gaze. Ignoring Lance and Nana, he grinned at her. "Figured I'd better tell you how I feel before you find someone else to lose your head over," Keith joked playfully. Hunk surged to his size nineteens, waving a hypodermic full of Lotor's immunity-laden blood like a trophy. "Got it!" he boomed. Hauling Lotor up by his tightly bound arms, Lance exulted, "And I've got you, Sunshine! Now whattaya say we go finish that little talk......?" But the prince disappeared in a sudden burst of light, spirited away to his father's throne room by Haggar's subtle magery. Uncertain what had become of their prince, Lotor's fleet tucked tail and warped back to Galra. Frustrated, Lance kicked at the wall. "Godammit! " he coughed. "Not again! Next time I'm just gonna blow his f**king head off! Then he can teleport anywhere he damn well pleases, and die!" ___________________________________________________________ Romelle played her light over the giant machine, picking out guns, lasers, missile ports, and painted lettering. The thing was ancient, obviously, and very alien. Worse still, it seemed to be phased halfway into the living rock, as though a hyperspace jump had gone bad, materializing craft and pilot two-hundred feet below the surface of Galra. It looked like a total loss. For something to say, the princess asked, "You flew one of these?" Sven's assent was wordless, a mere brush against her mind. There was more, though, and this part he struggled to say aloud. "This.... and..... lejon blue." Lejon? Could he mean Lion? He wasn't just a palace functionary, then, or even a mere fighter pilot. He was a lion pilot, and a member of the Voltron Force. But that meant...., Romelle's heart froze as she realized that his folk were probably searching for him, and would take Sven away from her if they found him. "No," she whispered fiercely. "They shan't have you!" After all, they'd left him here to be hunted by Lotor's guards like an animal. They didn't care for him as she did. Aloud, Romelle asked, "Can you free the craft and fly it away from this place, Love?" He considered for a moment. Away from the cavern he would have said no, but here, with the fighter's augmentation, he almost felt that he could do it. For Romelle, he was willing to try. "Ja." The princess smiled, and caressed his handsome face. "Then we shall soon be free, my Sven. And once we've rallied my people and rescued the slaves....., we'll be avenged. " ____________________________________________________________ Transported across interstellar distances in the mere blink of an eye by Haggar's spell, Lotor materialized before Zarkon's throne, still trussed like a slave. The audience hall was packed with folk that day, and every one of them saw what happened next and treasured it in the hearts. The emperor got to his feet, slow and ponderous as an ancient dragon. "This......?! This is the great victory I was promised?!" he snarled. "You skrugging IDIOT!" Drawing back his booted foot, Zarkon kicked his struggling son off the crystal dais and down the stairs. Turning to glare at the nearest of his high officers, the emperor growled, "Take this worthless sk'ruvugkt to the dungeon and chain him well! Tomorrow he feeds the vultures!" The officer snapped out a brief order, watched as his men dragged the bellowing prince away. Upon the dais, unnoticed by anyone, Haggar bowed her head and smiled. ____________________________________________________________