The Lost King (21 page)

Dixter's voice was deep
and resonant and when he laughed—which he was doing now at the
expense of Tusk—it was hearty, infectious laughter. But though
the laughter was genuine, his mirth did not seem to reside within him
permanently but only visited from time to time. When the laughter was
gone, the man's face was grave and solemn, though with a lingering
smile in the brown eyes.

"Tusk," John
Dixter said, clapping his hand on the mercenary's shoulder, "I
think you were lucky to have escaped alive. Next time, heed my
warning."

"Yes, sir,"
Tusk said ruefully, shaking his head over his misfortune.

"And now,
introduce me to your friend. I thought you traveled alon—"

Dixter turned to the
boy, his face set into a smile of welcome.

Dion, facing the
general, saw the smile slip. The hand the general had raised to
extend in greeting halted, the fingers clenched involuntarily. A look
of recognition came to the man's eyes. Dion's heart leapt; the boy
half-expected Dixter to greet him by name.

Dion started eagerly
forward, lips parted to speak, when he saw himself once again a
stranger in the general's eyes. Dixter's expression grew cool.
Although he did not continue his sentence, he shook hands firmly,
politely, and impassively. Turning away from them, the general
circled around to take a seat behind his desk. He paused a moment,
keeping his back to them, to stare at a map, perhaps giving himself
time to regain his composure. When he sat down and faced them, he
looked directly at Tusk.

"Please." He
gestured at the chairs.

Tusk glanced
meaningfully at Dion, and the boy knew he had not mistaken the
general's reaction to him. Brief as it was and now well covered, it
had been too obvious to miss. Tusk had noticed it, too. The mercenary
took a chair opposite the general's desk. Dion sat down but the next
moment he was standing up again without even knowing what he was
doing.

"Sit, kid,"
Tusk shot out of the corner of his mouth and Dion subsided back onto
the edge of his seat.

"What did you say
the young man's name was?" Dixter asked, his eyes on Tusk,
speaking of the boy as if he weren't in the room.

"Dion, sir,"
the mercenary said. "No last name."

John Dixter nodded, not
seeming surprised. With an effort that was obvious, he kept his eyes
leveled on Tusk.

"Is this young man
a friend? Surely you haven't brought him to fight. He's hardly old
enough—"

"He's seventeen,
sir," Tusk interjected.

"Seventeen."
The general coughed. His eyes darted to Dion, then shifted to a map.

"And, no, sir, the
kid's not a friend. That is, he is a friend, but that came later."
Tusk was nervous and getting confused. "I guess you could say
I'm the boy's guard—" He stopped, his tongue frozen to the
roof of his mouth.

"Guardian,"
suggested General Dixter softly.

"No!" Tusk
slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair with such force that he
winced in pain. "No, sir," he amended belatedly.
"Chauffeur. That's more like it." Drawing a deep breath,
Tusk glanced at Dion and decided to plunge into the atmosphere that
had suddenly grown chill and dark. "The fact is, sir, that I
brought the kid here to meet you on purpose. I— We, the kid and
I, were hoping you could help us. We left Syrac Seven about three
parsecs ahead of Lord Sagan—"

John Dixter's eyebrows
raised. He held up a warning hand and Tusk fell instantly silent.

"Bennett!"
the general called.

The aide appeared in
the doorway.

"Drive into town
and see if Mr. Marek has arrived. He should have been in contact with
me before this. He may be having trouble finding transport."

"Yes, sir."
Bennett turned to go.

"And lock the
outside door when you leave. I don't want to be disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

The aide left, shutting
the door to the office behind him. Tusk opened his mouth but Dixter
frowned and shook his head. No one said a word until they heard the
front door close. Rising to his feet, the general opened the office
door a crack and peered out. He motioned Tusk to check the windows.

Satisfied that they
were alone, Dixter returned to his seat. "A Warlord, Tusk,"
he said, shaking his head. "I thought you had more sense!"

"It wasn't my
fault, sir. This kid's . . . uh . . . mentor needed to get the boy
off-planet quick and he came to me."

"By accident? He
chose you at random?"

"No." Tusk
sighed. "Because of my father."

"I see."
Dixter's expression was grave.

"Apparently, the
Warlord is after the kid."

"How do you know?"

Briefly, concisely,
Tusk related what happened the last night on Syrac Seven. He told
about Dion's return to his home, the encounter the boy witnessed
between Sagan and Platus, the takeover of the planet by the Warlord's
forces.

"We had to pull
the drunken pilot routine to get past the blockade."

"They got a good
look at your plane?"

"I'm afraid so,
sir. Probably pictures, too."

John Dixter, for the
first time since they'd sat down, turned his eyes directly on Dion.
Troubled, perplexed, the general stared intently at the young man,
his penetrating gaze pinning him to the wall like another map.

"Your mentor,
Dion. What was his name?"

"Platus. Platus
Morianna."

Dixter's expression
didn't change, but he leaned his head on his hand, slowly rubbed his
forehead.

"You knew
him—Platus," Dion said.

"Yes, I knew him."
Dixter placed his hands on the desk, folded them, the fingers clasped
tightly. "I knew them all. The Golden Squadron."

"It seems everyone
knew him except me!" the boy said bitterly, "and I lived
with him all my life!"

"So he never said
anything—?"

"No. I didn't know
he'd been a Guardian until Tusk told me."

"And you don't
know, then, if any of the others are still alive?"

"One is, sir."
Tusk inserted.

The unspoken name cast
a palpable shadow over the general's face. "Yes," he
answered.

"Sagan. You mean
Derek Sagan, don't you?" Dion said. "The Warlord who killed
my— Who—" Dion bit his lip, swallowed. "But
what about the others—like Tusk's father—?"

Dixter lifted a
cautionary finger. "Don't mention that aloud, young man. I'm the
only one who knows the truth about him . . . that he is the son of a
Guardian."

"Not the only one
now," the mercenary muttered beneath his breath.

"Stavros,"
Dion was saying. "The Warlord said something about Stavros—"

"One of them."
Dixter kept his hands folded. The knuckles were turning white. "What
did he say about Stavros?"

"Only that Sagan
thought he had shut the man's transmission down in time. It was
Stavros who warned Platus that the Warlord was coming, I think. And
the Warlord said something about Stavros holding out three days. ..."
The boy's voice sank.

"He's dead,"
John Dixter said. "They're all dead now, I suppose." The
lines in his face grew deeper and more pronounced. Finally, shaking
his head, he unclasped his hands and began to unroll a map that lay
on his desk.

"So," he
continued more briskly, "how can I help you. Tusk?

I don't know what can I
do against the Warlord. I try my best to keep clear of his path. Sit
down, boy. You're safe enough for the time being." This to Dion
who was jumping up out of his chair again. "Sagan will take no
interest in Vangelis. Not as long as the uranium shipments keep going
out, and I intend to see that they do. But your time is short. As you
say, Tusk, he has pictures of your plane, descriptions of you from
the planet's surface. The Warlord is no fool. He's probably
discovered your real name, my friend."

"We didn't come
for help, sir. Not exactly." Tusk shifted uncomfortably in his
seat. Lowering his voice, he glanced out the open window, then sat
forward, mistrusting—it seemed— even the sand that blew
in. "You see, sir, we've been trying to figure out why Sagan
wanted the kid enough to kill for him. And we found a curious piece
of information in some files that XJ . . . er . . . appropriated from
the Warlord's computer. Nothing more than a history tape, but it
recorded all the events of the night of the coup."

Dixter's eyes narrowed,
his lips tightened. His hands ceased their task and lay flat and
unmoving on top of the map. "Go on."

"There was a child
born that night, sir. To a Princess Semele Starfire, wife of the
king's younger brother. Seventeen years ago. The kid, here, is
seventeen. His master was a Guardian. What we figure is—"

"
Don't!
"
Dixter slammed his hands on the desk. The map rolled up with a snap.
The word exploded among them like a grenade. Dion—nerves taut
and stretched—fell back, grabbing the arms of his chair. Tusk
started and stared at the general in astonishment.

Dixter licked his lips.
"Don't speculate further, Tusk! Don't ask me for information. I
can't tell you anything, I wasn't at the palace that night."

"Damn it!"
Dion shot to his feet. Leaning over the desk, he confronted the
general. "You know who I am! Or you think you do! Tell me!"
His hands clenched to fists. "Tell me!"

Shocked, Tusk tried to
grab hold of the boy, but Dion jerked free.

General John Dixter was
not, it seemed, to be intimidated by flaring blue eyes. A smile
twisted his lips, as if he were reliving old memories. It was almost
as if he had been under such angry scrutiny before.

"Platus told you
nothing?" Dixter asked.

"Not even my real
name!"

"Then, Dion,"
the general said regretfully, in a tone that left nothing open to
argument, "he must have had a good reason."

"You recognize me!
I see it in your eyes."

Dixter's face hardened.
"Don't try my patience, young man." Emphasis on the word
young
made Dion flush in anger and shame. "What I may
know or guess is so minimal that it would only confuse the issue.
Besides, to speak of it would be to betray a confidence. A confidence
made to me by someone very dear." The general began, once more,
to unroll the map. "Someone who was dying."

"Sir," Tusk
said, getting to his feet. "I apologize—"

"No," Dion
interrupted, suddenly and uncannily calm. "Sir, it is I who
apologize. You are right, of course. I'm sorry, I behaved like a
child. And I'm sorry to have brought back painful memories."

John Dixter smoothed
out the map, holding it in place with an ashtray, two dirty glasses,
and a staple gun. "I accept your apology, Dion. Pilot's briefing
tonight at 2200, Tusk."

He bent his head,
studying the map. The two were obviously dismissed. They left, Tusk
careful to shut the door behind them.

When they had gone,
Dixter raised his head, the map forgotten. Staring at the chair where
the young man had been sitting, the general seemed to see the
afterimage of the boy on his retina—as if Dion had been made of
flame.

So all life is a great
chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single
link of it.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
A Study in Scarlet

Derek Sagan sat before
his computer, his gaze intent upon the screen. He was alone in his
private quarters aboard
Phoenix
. Located on a level separate
and apart from the rest of the ship, his chambers could be accessed
only by an elevator whose controls were set to respond to his voice
command. All others, with the exception of Admiral Aks and the
Warlord's own personal guards, had to request the Warlord's
permission to enter.

Fear didn't keep the
Warlord isolated, as it did some rulers in the galaxy. He had
fears—all men do—but his fear was nebulous, internal,
buried deep like a piece of shrapnel in an old wound. He never felt
it—the sliver was never debilitating—but he knew it was
there and he knew that someday something would jar it loose and it
would do its damage. Sagan was afraid of nothing and no one over
which he could exert control. His need for privacy, his need to be
alone with his thoughts, his work, and also his prayers and
meditations to an outlawed deity kept him aloof from the men under
his command.

He knew this did him no
harm with them. He was of the Blood Royal, he had been born knowing
how to manipulate people. He never appeared before them unless he was
in full dress armor. Not only did the shining metal look impressive,
but it concealed as well as protected. A face covered by a helmet
never shows fatigue or pain. A gleaming breastplate hides the slight
thickening of the waistline. Sagan could always appear invincible—at
least to the enemy without. As to the enemy within . . .

The Warlord waited
patiently for the computer to complete its search. The crisp notes of
a Bach partita played in the background, the intricate patterns
aligning and altering and realigning themselves in the portion of his
mind attuned to them. Bach was one of the few composers he admired,
whose music he enjoyed. The mathematical order and precision appealed
to him.

"Search complete,
sir," came the mechanical voice.

"Reveal."

"Search linking
one Mendaharin Tusca of Zanzi to persons known as the Guardians
revealed Danha Tusca, former senator of the planet Zanzi, deceased
in—"

"Next,"
ordered Sagan.

"Nothing further
on Mendaharin Tusca."

"Match with the
name Tusk."

"Searching."
A pause. "Search complete."

"Reveal."

"Search of some
seventy thousand subjects known as Tusk—"

"Yes, yes."

"—discovered
one whose birth date, planet of origin, and DNA match with subject
known as Mendaharin Tusca. Military service—"