The Lost King (24 page)

"Nothing, sir."

The lines around the
elder man's eyes crinkled, the corner of the lips deepened into the
folds of the cheek-—a weary smile of understanding. Tusk, his
eyes on his shoes, didn't notice and there was no indication of
sympathy in Dixter's crisp voice.

"You're the only
gunner I've got who's had experience with these new models. Not only
that, but you're intelligent and imaginative and not prone to shoot
your way out of a problem if there's a more logical solution."

The general wiped his
hand over his perspiring face. Even at night, the heat lingered. "I
guess you and the rest think I'm a damn fool." He glanced at the
other mercenaries heading back to their ships or the bars or the
nearest ante-up game. "But I can't emphasize too much the
importance of getting this shipment through without causing any more
of an incident than we can help. I chose you for one reason, Tusk. I
trust you." Dixter laid his hand affectionately on the man's
shoulder. "Don't let me down."

The general gave the
mercenary a nod that was friendly, yet indicated that the subject was
closed and would only be reopened at considerable peril.

Tusk ducked his head.
"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Now, come to my
office. You'll meet your driver."

Dixter withdrew his
hand from Tusk's shoulder and turned his attention to Bennett, who
had been hovering at his shoulder with a clipboard, papers, and
obviously important news. The two walked rapidly on ahead. Dion,
slowing his pace to follow at a discreet distance, discovered that
Tusk had come to a complete standstill.

"I don't like
this," Tusk muttered. "Not one damn bit!"

Dixter's trailer was
crowded, noisy, and hot. People were coming and going constantly,
mostly from a large white van that was mobile field communications
and carried an assortment of various monitoring and transmitting
equipment mounted on the top.

"They're in touch
with Marek, picking up his troop reports, probably listening in on
the government forces transmissions," Tusk explained.

Dion nodded, attempting
to look wise. His gaze shifted to another van, parked next to the
first. This one was smaller and much newer. Unlike the other van, no
one was coming into it or going out of it. It appeared to be
operational, however; lights glowed from instruments on the van's
roof, where several long, gleaming metal tubes pointed fixedly at the
sky.

"What's that one
doing?" Dion asked.

Tusk gave him a swift,
sharp glance. "Monitoring the fleet."

"The Warlord?"

"Uh-huh."

Dion stared at the van,
his fingers tingling, a shiver that was half-pleasurable and
half-chilling crawling over his skin.

"C'mon, kid. It's
not polite to keep a general waiting."

"Maybe I should
stay out here."

Tusk looked at Dion,
looked at the van, and, shaking his head, got a firm grip on the
young man's arm. "I know what you're thinkin', kid, and it ain't
healthy."

Dion glared at him,
trying unsuccessfully to break free of the mercenary's hold. "What
do you mean?"

"One man knows who
I am'? or words to that effect? Yeah, Sagan knows, all right, but are
you willing to risk your life and mine and Dixter's and the lives of
everyone else around here to find out?"

"You're wrong! I
wouldn't do anything like that! I'm not stupid. Besides," the
boy added coolly, twisting free, "I already know the truth."

"Yeah." Tusk
grinned. "XJ told me. I got to hand it to you, kid, you threw a
lightning bolt into that computer. XJ hasn't had a shock like that
since we got caught in a zapping crossfire on Delta Venus. C'mon."
The mercenary heaved a sigh. "Let's get this over with."

Dion allowed himself to
be persuaded. He cast a backward glance at the van. He hadn't really
been plotting what Tusk suspected him of plotting. In fact, he hadn't
consciously thought of it at all until Tusk brought it up.

Consciously thought of
it.

The plan must have been
in his subconscious, however, because the minute Tusk accused him of
trying to communicate with the Warlord, Dion recognized the idea and
knew it for his own and knew he had rejected it for all the reasons
Tusk had mentioned. Which meant that Tusk knew Dion better than Dion
knew himself. The boy found this disconcerting.

The two shoved their
way inside GHQ, trying—along with two other pilots—to
enter the door as two humans and an alien were trying to get out.
Fighting his way inside, Dion was smothered by the heat, the noise,
and the crush of people. He didn't like crowds. He felt himself
apart, separate, distinct from other people.

I don't belong, he
thought. I'll never belong.

After a considerable
wait, during which the young man became so absorbed listening to the
conversations around him and trying to make sense of the military
jargon that he forgot his uneasiness, Bennett shouted into the packed
room. "Tusk!"

More pushing and
shoving, and finally the two left the heat and the noise and entered
Dixter's office, which—by comparison—was almost cool and
almost quiet. Bennett shut the door.

General Dixter sat
behind the desk. Across from him, sitting in a chair, reading a mag,
was a woman. She looked up when they entered, then turned back to her
reading. Obviously, she wasn't impressed.

"Tusk, come in.
Dion. Sit down."

The general nodded in
welcome. If he was surprised that the mercenary had brought the young
man with him, he didn't indicate it by word or gesture. Dixter
appeared to have forgotten there was anything the least strange about
Dion— either that or the load of more urgent matters had shoved
it all to the back of his mind.

"Tusk, this is
your TRUC's driver, Nola Rian. Nola, this is Tusk, your gunner. You
two will be our first team."

Truckin', got my chips
cashed in . . .

The Grateful Dead,
"Truckin' "

It wasn't that Tusk had
anything against women. Tusk liked women, liked them very well, in
fact. Tusk respected women. There'd been several excellent female
pilots in his flight school. When a woman was in another spaceplane,
flying next to his, she wasn't a woman anymore. She was a pilot. What
Tusk didn't like was having a woman in the same plane, having a woman
as a partner. That made him nervous. He was always inclined, when
with a woman, to feel protective and fuss over her. Leap in front of
her with his drawn sword—that sort of thing. And that sort of
thing could get you killed.

So now he was not only
being forced to ride shotgun on a TRUC, he was going to have to share
his duties with a female. Not seeing how matters could get much worse
unless the Warlord should suddenly happen to stroll through the
doorway, Tusk gave a sickly grin, extended his hand, and said the
first dumb thing that came to mind.

"You don't look
much like a TRUC driver."

Actually Tusk was
thinking that this Nola Rian looked more like a TRUC. She had a
short, compact, square-shouldered body, with the muscular arms
required to handle the cumber some, unwieldly freight haulers.
Nondescript brown hair, cut short in a no-nonsense fashion for
comfort in the heat framed a pert face freckled by the Vangelian sun.
Green eyes, flecked with brown, glanced at Tuck without interest and
she kept her hand to herself. What he said had been meant as a
compliment, but she apparently took it differently.

"You don't look
much like a deserter," she replied.

Was that an insult?
Tusk couldn't make up his mind. Mulling it over, he took back his
hand before she bit it.

"Sit down, please,
and let's get on with this," Dixter ordered. Tusk hunched
himself into a chair. Nola moved away from him. Dion remained
standing in a corner, unnoticed, he thought, until he happened to
catch Dixter's gaze shifting somberly from the papers on the desk to
the young man.

I was wrong. I'm on his
mind, Dion said to himself. He's thinking about me more than his war.
Look directly at me, damn you! Who is it you see? What do you fear?

But by the time the
words flicked through Dion's mind and before his eyes could connect
with the man's, General Dixter had turned his attention back to his
two reluctant recruits.

"Nola Rian is one
of the best drivers around, Tusk. She comes highly recommended by the
mining authorities. Over four hundred flawless runs. Tusk is one of
my best gunners, Rian. He's also one of my most trusted men. You two
will make a good team."

Tusk and Nola were
eyeing each other with all the friendly intent of two starving
mountain lions standing over a fresh kill.

"You
will
make a good team," Dixter repeated, his voice hardening. "This
is the first shipment. If anything happens to it, there may not be
any more. If you get out safely, it might demonstrate to the
government how useless it is to try and stop us. Rian, do you
understand?"

"Yes, sir."
Nola sat up straighter, squaring her jaw, which— in Tusk's
opinion—was the last thing her jaw needed.

"Tusk?"

"Yes, sir. Any
idea what they'll send up against us?"

Dixter nodded, slowly.
"According to Marek's intelligence reports, the government's
typical of most small-planet oligarchies. They've got a wide
assortment of fighters, long-and short-range, mostly old needle-noses
from the days of the monarchy."

Dixter paused, and Tusk
tensed. "Yes, sir. What else?"

"A very modern,
very sophisticated torpedo launcher. Brand-new."

Tusk's jaw dropped.
"Where'd they get that?"

Dixter scraped a
grizzle-bearded cheek with his hand. "I wish I knew." His
face was grave. "I wish I knew."

Tusk started to say
something, caught Dixter's flickering eyelid, glanced at Nola, and
kept quiet.

The door opened.
Bennett stuck his head around the comer.

"Begging your
pardon, sir, but there's a message from Mr. Marek—"

"Right. Anything
else?"

Dixter swept a
questioning glance at Tusk and Nola, who both shook their heads.
Chairs scraped. Tusk stood back to let Nola pass in front of him.

"See you in the
morning," he said in a friendly tone.

"0400." For
the first time, she looked at him directly. Her green eyes were very
green. "Be on time."

Slinging a handbag over
her shoulder, she stalked out the door without a backward glance.
Tusk and Dion, following her out of the crowded HQ, saw her set off
alone with confident ease across the tarmac. Her walk was
straight-backed, with wide strides. She didn't look like the type who
was easily stopped by obstacles and obviously enjoyed going through
them, rather than around them. She didn't look the type to sit
quietly and do exactly what she was told.

"Damn," Tusk
growled.

0400 hours.

Tusk zipped up his
flight jacket, Dion watching with envy.

"I don't suppose—"

"No," Tusk
said shortly. "I got enough problems." He grabbed his
helmet and began to climb up the ladder leading out of the
spaceplane.

"Same arrangements
as usual?" XJ called out.

Tusk paused a moment.
"No. Put the kid's name in. Okay with you?"

"Sure," the
computer said. "
He
doesn't swear! Good flying," XJ
added when it was fairly certain Tusk was out of the plane and
couldn't hear.

"What did that
mean?" Dion asked suspiciously, staring sulkily at the closing
hatch.

"What did what
mean?" XJ crackled. "And make it short. I'm going to shut
down for the rest of the night."

"What arrangements
that have to do with me?"

"Oh, that.
Disposition of property after death. Tusk's just made you his heir.
Not much to inherit. Half-ownership with me in this crate. At least
now. Tusk's old man was pretty well fixed and left his mother a
bundle. I suppose when she dies Tusk will be pretty well heel—"

Grabbing an old jacket
of Tusk's, Dion climbed out of the plane. He could see, in the harsh
white of the nuke lights, the hoveijeep waiting to take Tusk to the
TRUC launching site, which was located near the mining operations.
Standing around it were General Dixter and three other people Dion
didn't recognize.

Swiftly he clambered
down the ladder and, keeping to the dark shadows held back by the
pools of light, made his way across the tarmac.

"These are your
escort pilots, Tusk. Nigol from Anwar 33."

Tusk and the alien,
whose thick hide required no protection, touched hand and claw.

"Captain Link
Jones."

"Link." Tusk
held out his hand. "Where're you from?"

"Less said the
better, eh, Tusk?" The handsome pilot grinned and shook hands.

"And Captain Mirna
Anrim, Ahna 2335."

A grim-faced woman
shook hands with Tusk without comment.

"All flying
Scimitars," Dixter continued. "All under your command,
Tusk. They'll stay with you until you're within range of the fleet's
tanker. Then the fleet's own fighters will have you under cover. If
the government forces try something, it won't be under the guns of
the Warlord. The TRUC driver has instructions to unload and get back
here quickly. Everybody clear?" The pilots nodded. Dixter handed
out sealed envelopes. "Inside you'll find the rendezvous point.
Don't open these until you're airborne. Any change will be
transmitted to you in the code you'll find inside. Anything you want
to add, Tusk?"

The mercenary shook his
head, and the pilots left for their fighters. Dion moved nearer.
Dixter had seen him and hadn't said anything, so the young man
assumed it was all right for him to stay.

"Tusk, a word with
you."

The general, glancing
at Dion, made an oblique motion for the boy to join them and led Tusk
away from the jeep so that its driver couldn't overhear their
conversation.