The Lost King (23 page)

The lights went out.
Dion, having been prepared for this, was safely stretched out in his
hammock. He heard the other sandal hit the wall.

"If you are quite
through with your tantrum," XJ said, peeved, "I would
appreciate knowing what is going on. You've left me stuck here for
hours. Our only neighbor is an outdated NICAR unit in that beat-up RV
next pad over. It talks in numbers, when it talks at all."

"The kid will fill
you in." Tusk was fumbling around in the darkness. "Where're
the towels? I'm taking a shower."

"Not in here,
you're not. All systems shut down except lights and air. Saves money.
Go use Dixter's water. The towels are where you always stow them, in
the third compartment down, just below the dehydrated fruit. Remember
to hang it up on the line outside. I don't want to find a wet towel
on the deck in the morning!''

Snarling an obscene
rejoinder, Tusk thumped and bumped around the cabin. Dion heard a
compartment slide open and hit something. There was a curse.
Apparently, Tusk had been standing too close. The lights in the ship
just barely flickered on and Dion saw a hunched-over Tusk, rubbing
his shin and hauling out a frayed piece of cloth. The abused sandals
flapped again on his feet. He wrapped the towel around his naked
loins and limped up the ladder and out of the plane, still swearing.

Dion realized in
admiration Tusk hadn't repeated himself once in his long string of
curses.

"I, personally, am
shocked," the computer said. The lights came back on. "Now,
then, kid. Tell old uncle XJ all about it. Are you the long-lost
prince of our dreams?"

"Yes, I am,"
Dion said, leaning his head back on his hands.

"You
are
?"
The lights flashed in a wild, strobelike effect. "Did Dixter say
that?"

"No." Dion
shrugged. "But I know from the way he acted He recognized me. He
knew Platus and Stavros and Derek Sagan. And he was at the palace
that night. Oh, he says he wasn't, but he's lying. There's a lot he
knows that he's not telling." The boy yawned until his jaws
cracked. The thin air and the excitement and the long day were
getting to him. "I: makes sense."

"Well, well."
The lights dimmed as XJ recovered from the shock. "Maybe so, but
the general didn't actually
say
anything."

"He didn't need
to," Dion countered. He settled himself more comfortably in his
hammock, moving slowly so as not to set it swinging. "I know. I
am."

"I hate to ask
this, because it's admitting the occurrence of an improbable
situation, but what does Tusk think?"

"We didn't discuss
it." Dion had tried. Tusk had refused. The boy felt a return of
his irritation.

XJ hummed to itself,
assimilating the information, and decided to change the subject. "So,
what's this about Tusk and a TRUC?"

"I'm not sure."
Dion yawned again and shifted in his bed. Tired, he felt nervous and
keyed up, his muscles jerked, and he couldn't get comfortable. "I
understood only a little of the briefing. They all talk in a
different language. Tusk explained most of it to me on the way back.
Dixter introduced a human named Marek—I think that was it.
Apparently he used to own the uranium mines in some country—I
can't remember its name. He was a type of corporate feudal lord, it
sounds like. The mines've been in his family for generations. Anyway,
about two years ago, there was a civil war and the government of this
country fell into the hands of an oligarchy. They nationalized the
mines and sent Marek into exile. Marek was well liked by his people
and the government was careful to treat him nicely. He went
peacefully—not wanting to prolong the fighting, which was
disrupting the economy—and he might have been willing to stay
where they had sent him, which was on a planet somewhere on the
fringes of this system. The government gave him a percentage of the
income, anything he wanted to keep him happy and away from the mines.

"But then Marek
got word that his miners were being mistreated. Production was
falling off, profits were dropping. The miners walked off the job.
The government sent in troops and there was bloodshed. Marek heard
talk that the Warlord would step in if the uranium shipments were
halted and place the country and maybe the whole planet under
military control—"

"Which means kiss
your ass good-bye," XJ interrupted.

"I guess it means
kissing the profits good-bye, at least," Dion said, smiling
slightly. "And nobody wants that, not Marek, not the miners, not
the government. But nobody's willing to back down."

"I get the
picture. They're all holding a gun on each other; meanwhile, the
Warlord steps up and shoots them all in the back."

"Yeah, and the
government's got the shakiest hand, according to Marek. The oligarchs
can't agree on anything. The people are fed up and there's a group
all set to move in and take control. Tusk thinks Marek's involved in
that, too, but Dixter has drawn the line at helping him overthrow the
government. All we're doing, I guess, is making sure the uranium
shipments keep going out while Marek tries to regain control of the
mines."

"That's why
Dixter's lived as long as he has. Mercenary generals like him start
overthrowing governments, and we'd find the Congress breathing down
our necks. While we still
had
necks," XJ added as an
afterthought. "Who's likely to try to stop the uranium?"

Dion yawned again. He
was finally relaxing and wished the computer would keep quiet.
"According to Marek, there's one or two in the government who
think that the Warlord taking over might not be such a bad thing.
Sagan would be so grateful, he'd leave them in power—"

"Uh-huh. So
grateful he'd put them in the cellular disrupter. Sagan can't stomach
a traitor. Kind of funny, when you stop to consider that—depending
on how you look at it—he's got a good chance of winning the
Traitor of the Century award."

There was no answer.

"How much did Tuck
lose?" XJ asked gloomily.

"Twenty-seven
gildons," Dion murmured.

"How much did you
tell XJ I lost?" Tusk asked, leaning over in his chair to
whisper to Dion.

"Twenty-seven
gildons."

"Good kid!"
Tuck whistled in relief. Pulling out his well-worn wallet, he thumbed
through a fat stack of plasticene bills and, pulling two out, handed
them to the boy. "Here's your cut. I got to admit that system of
yours really works. Now if there was just some place aboard the plane
where I could hide my stash so that—"

"Attention!"
Bennett's crisp voice silenced conversation. There was a scrapping
and scrabbling as the mercenaries got to their feet or claws or
whatever it was they stood on, each informally saluting General
Dixter in his or her or its own way, each with the utmost respect.

Walking across the
tarmac, the general motioned for them to be seated, and those that
used this form to rest their bodies did so, while others leaned back
on gigantic tails, slithered to the ground, or—like the six
floating Kandar—bobbed slowly up and down in mid-air.

Due to the intense heat
during the day, pilots' briefings were held outdoors, in the relative
cool of the Vangelian night. Camp stools were drawn up on the
still-warm concrete. Harsh lights illuminated the pilots and their
fighters. Force fields surrounded the airstrip. Security was tight.

Dixter nodded in
greeting, his brown eyes flicking over each, silently acknowledging
and thanking each for his, her, or its presence. The gaze included
Dion, and the young man thought he noticed the tired lips widen in a
small smile that remained when the general began to speak.

"Knowing how
rumors spread around this outfit, I guess you don't need me telling
you that Marek deployed his ground forces today. He's taken over the
mines. You probably know more about it than I do by now, so I'll skip
the details."

Appropriate laughter
and nodding of heads. Dixter's smile left, his face returning to
business.

"We have nothing
to do with the ground end of things," he said.

Dion, remembering the
maps on the walls, raised an eyebrow at this. Maybe not, but Dixter
was certainly keeping himself well informed. Peeking curiously into
mobile field communications, Dion'd seen numerous people monitoring
radios and transferring information onto computers. Walking from one
to the other, staring at the constantly changing light-maps on the
huge screens, Dixter studied them and discussed them in low voices
with his officers.

A thought occurred to
the boy. If the general was this well equipped with modern
technological advancement, why the old paper maps on the walls? Why
the obviously loving care given to them? Perhaps, Dion answered
himself, because Dixter's entire life is where he's been, not where
he's going.

"Repeat!"
Dixter's stern voice caught the boy's wandering attention. "This
better sink in. The uranium shipments will get through. After me."

The mercenaries
obediently chanted the chorus.

"Again. Louder.
The uranium shipments will get through."

Everybody said it
again, this time laughing.

"Once more, and
this time, mean it. Your skins and your hides and your bubbles"—a
glance at the bobbing Kandar— "depend on it. If even one
TRUC is destroyed, we'll have the Warlord's battle cruisers down on
us so fast you'll think bosk snails move at supralight. Repeat—the
uranium shipments
will
get through!"

Grinning, everyone
shouted it out with enthusiasm.

Dixter smiled and
nodded. "Very good. Most of those in power around here don't
want the Warlord on Vangelis any more than we do. But you've all
heard Marek. He believes that this government might attempt to try to
capture the uranium shipments and sell them directly to the Republic,
concocting a story for the Warlord guaranteed to put them in a good
light and Marek in eternal darkness. There's a lot more riding in
that TRUC with you than uranium, Tusk."

"Yeah, like our
payroll!" someone sang out from the back.

Everyone laughed and
several leaned forward to pound Tusk on the back or shove him
playfully. Tusk scowled darkly. He'd spent ten minutes in the
general's office, trying to see Dixter to argue, but the general had
been too busy.

"Three fighters
will go up with each shipment. The TRUC Tusk is babysitting will be
the first and the only shipment for the time being. I wish like hell
we could send numerous TRUCs at the same time and split up the
enemy's attack forces. But what with the strike and then the fighting
yesterday, the deliveries are late as it is. The miners have been
working day and night to load up just one, and therefore it
has
to get out. There is a piece of good news. The TRUC has been equipped
with lascannons—on loan from the Warlord."

Everyone laughed.

"What's the joke?"
Dion whispered to a sulking Tusk.

"The Warlord
doesn't know he's loaned them."

Dion looked at him
blankly.

"Stolen, kid.
They're stolen. Like most of the rest of the equipment."

And like yourselves,
Dion thought. He glanced about the group of pilots, remembering their
varied histories as recited by Tusk during interludes in the card
game. Some were deserters from the Galactic Democratic Republic's
Armed Forces, who like Tusk had become disillusioned with life in the
military. Some had been honorably or dishonorably discharged from the
former and, accustomed to fighting and finding other jobs less
fulfilling and less lucrative, had kept on doing what they knew best.
Others were outlaws, on the run from planets, systems, bounty
hunters, the Republic, or a variety of the above.

Each was known to
Dixter, who personally interviewed every applicant wanting to join
his team. Any human or alien who didn't live up to the general's high
standards was paid off and told not to bother to come back. Dixter
and his mercenaries soon developed a reputation not only for being
expert soldiers but a disciplined and organized fighting force. The
general was, therefore, able to carefully select the causes for which
he and his people fought. After all, it was a cause that could
conceivably cost them their lives.

"Those scheduled
for the first run assemble at the location point at 0400. Tusk,
report to me immediately following this meeting. The rest of you are
dismissed."

Lurching to his feet,
knocking over the camp stool on which he'd been sitting, Tusk hurried
after Dixter. Dion followed, feeling a growing sense of excitement
and exhilaration over the impending mission. The young man brushed
aside the stinging gnats of guilt that assailed him whenever he
heard, in memory, the gentle voice of Platus argue against warfare
and violence. It seemed to Dion that they—Marek and Dixter—were
in the right and the oligarchs in the wrong. Marek had tried to
settle the dispute peacefully and had failed. Certainly Platus would
have understood that. The young man was even mildly disappointed to
find that Dixter had no plans to rush in, overthrow the government,
and seize power.

Tusk had a head start
and Dion, becoming entangled in the dispersing crowd, dashed up on
Tusk's heels just as the mercenary was arguing his case.

"I'm a fighter
pilot, sir, not a freight hauler. Let me fly escort. I'll be of more
use—"

"I've made my
decision, Tusk," Dixter said, striding across the tarmac toward
the GHQ building. "I'm not asking you to fly the TRUC; you'll
have a driver, one of the best in the business."

"Not fly it!
Begging your pardon, sir, but then what the hell—"

"You're a skilled
gunner, Tusk. You've got to handle the lascannon—"

"Riding shotgun!"
Tusk swore.

"What was that?"
Dixter paused in mid-stride, glancing at Tusk and raising his
eyebrow.