The Lost King (3 page)

The dock foreman was
surprised. The stranger's face underwent a subtle change, but it did
not register fear or nervousness. It reflected only the quiet sorrow
of the faded blue eyes.

"Yeah?" Tusk
slouched, hands on his hips, in front of the foreman.

"Visitor."
The foreman jerked his head.

Tusk glared at the
stranger.

"You're not from
the collection agency, are you? Look, man, you guys can't hassle me
at my place of employment! That's the law—"

"N-no," the
stranger stammered, obviously taken aback. "I am not from a . .
. um . . . collection agency." The blue eyes went from Tusk to
the foreman and back to Tusk again. "Is there someplace private
where we can talk?"

The foreman waved his
hand at a nearby empty warehouse.

Why am I being such a
nice guy? he wondered. I've been standing in the sun too long. It's
affecting my brain.

He watched as the two
walked away, heading for the warehouse, and tried for the life of him
to figure out what was going on. The sadness on the stranger's face,
the flicker of desperation in his eyes, fell across the foreman's
thoughts like the shadow that had fallen across his clipboard. The
foreman didn't sympathize with others; his own problems were a
full-time occupation. But it occurred to him that life was really
tough sometimes.

A bellow from the
catwalk above broke into the foreman's musing. Looking up, he saw
that the ship's captain had returned.

"Ah, blow it out
your porthole," the dock foreman muttered dispiritedly. Casting
a final glance at Tusk and the stranger, he turned and walked away.

Trudging along beside
the stranger, studying him suspiciously, Tusk saw the sadness, but
not the desperation. Not yet. The man walked with his eyes averted,
his head bowed. The long blond hair was blown back from his face by
the wind and it was easy to see from his expression that whatever the
strange's thoughts were, they weren't happy.

And whatever this has
to do with me can't be good, Tusk concluded, feeling his stomach
muscles tense and a tiny shiver prickle the back of his neck.

The two men entered the
warehouse. Cool shadows washed over them; the noise of the dock was
swallowed by the silence of the huge, empty building. Grimly, Tusk
turned to confront the stranger.

"We're here. So
talk."

The man did not reply,
but gazed intently into the shadows, his head cocked as though he
were listening.

"If you're looking
for rats, you've come to the right place," Tusk said. "That's
all you'll find here."

To Tusk's surprise, the
stranger smiled wanly. "I am not looking for rats." He
unsnapped the collar of his blue work shirt.

Sunlight streamed
through an open doorway. Beckoning Tusk to step into the shadows, his
blue eyes on the door, the stranger drew forth an object that hung
from his neck on a silver chain and had been hidden by the shirt. No
light touched it, yet the jewel—carved in the shape of an
eight-pointed star—burned with a radiance that might have come
from the flames of a thousand suns.

Tusk stared at it, his
hand moving reflexively to touch the small silver object he wore in
his earlobe. It, too, was an eight-pointed star. Sighing, he shook
his head.

"Damn!"

"You recognize
it?"

"Hell, yes, I
recognize it. What do you want?"

"Pardon me."
The man's voice was gentle but earnest. "I must know for
certain. What is your real name? From where do you come?"

"Mendaharin Tusca.
I'm from the planet Zanzi where my late father was a member of the
Senate. Highly respected, my father. Unlike his son. He was once a
Guardian, whereas I'm a—

"Hush!" The
stranger grasped Tusk's swarthy arm with a strength the young man
found impressive. "That word should not be spoken!"

Glaring at the
stranger, Tusk jerked free of his grip. "What? Guardian? Why?
Because it tends to lead to nasty consequences?"

The man lowered his
eyes. "I heard about your father. I am sorry."

"Yeah, well, he
asked for it." Tusk glanced out to where the dock foreman was
involved in a heated altercation with a ship's captain. "Look,
man. I need this job. Don't get me fired. What do you want? Make it
quick!"

The man smiled again at
this. "You won't be needing this job, Mendaharin Tusca. My name
is Platus. Platus Morianna. How much did your father tell you?"

Tusk frowned. Like the
dock foreman, he found himself drawn by this man into doing things he
wasn't accustomed to doing. Things like talking about his father ...
or even thinking about him.

"Not much. He was
in pretty bad shape at the end."

"I understand,"
Platus said with a sigh.

"Do you? Well, I
wish you'd explain it to me!" Tusk rounded on the man and had
the satisfaction of seeing him fall back a pace. "By the time I
reached home, the Warlord's men had already taken him away. They
brought him back a day later—or what was left of him. Name of
the Creator!" Tusk swore, his fist clenched. "I wish I'd
been there when they came for him!"

"Be thankful you
weren't! There was nothing you could have done."

"At least I'd have
given them a fight. I had to sit . . .sit there and watch him die!"
Angrily, Tusk turned his head from the stranger's sympathetic gaze.

"I know, and I am
truly sorry." Platus reached out a hesitant hand that Tusk
ignored. "I realize this is painful, but I must know what your
father said to you about— That is, I received a message from
him—"

"I followed his
death promise, if that's what you mean."

"And that was?"

"To use this
planet as my base. Check in, every few weeks no matter where I was,
to see if there were any messages. Messages! Who from? Who to? What
about? I never knew. And for the last five years I've either lived on
this hell-blasted planet or, when my line of work took me off it,
I've left word how I could be reached. Which hasn't been exactly
safe, since I'm a wanted man."

"Yes. I know."
Again the wan smile. "I've known, these last five years. You
see, I am the one from whom you've been waiting to hear. But now,
Tusk, you must vanish. Disappear completely. Obliterate all trace of
your ever having been here before you leave."

"Leave? Look, man.
I haven't said I was going anywhere!" Tusk pointed out, crossing
his arms across his chest.

"No, you haven't."
Platus ran a fine-boned hand through his long hair. "I
apologize. My mind— I cannot think. I cannot function. Bear
with me, Tusca, please."

The blue eyes fixed on
Tusk with a pleading look, and the young man saw the desperation. He
turned, seemed about to walk off; exasperated, he turned back. Platus
reached out his hand. Tusk inched away. "Go on," he said.

"For your
protection as well as mine, I cannot tell you why you are doing what
I am going to ask you to do. I can only ask you to do it. If you
agree, it will fulfill the death promise. You need never come back to
this planet again. In fact, it would be better if you did not."

Tusk waited without
speaking, his face impassive.

Drawing a deep breath,
Platus continued. "I need you to take a young man, my ward, off
this planet. Immediately. You must leave tonight, if possible."

"It isn't. I
damaged my spaceplane landing on Rinos in the middle of a civil war.
I'm not working out here on the dock for the exercise. I need money
for parts—"

"That can be
supplied!" The desperation was creeping from the eyes into the
refined voice. "If you have the parts, how long?"

"A few hours, I
guess." Tusk shrugged, squinting out at Syrac's sun. "Working
all night, I could leave by moming."

Platus was silent, his
face drawn and pale. Tusk kept his expression hard, although he
couldn't help but feel sorry for this guy, who was obviously in deep
trouble.

Trouble that's being
passed right along to me. Tusk realized gloomily.

"I guess that will
have to do. But I will bring the boy to you tonight. He will be safer
with you than with me."

"Uh-huh. Danger
just follows you guys around, doesn't it? A fact I pointed out to my
father when he tried to hang that jewel around my neck."

"But you are a
mercenary, or so I understand," Platus remarked, the slight
smile returning at the young man's vehemence. "You seek out
danger—"

"And get paid for
it! Well paid. Look, Platos, or whatever your name is, let's get one
thing straight." Tusk jabbed a finger wamingly. "I'm doing
this for one reason only—to get rid of a ghost that's been
hounding me. You see, I was a disappointment to my father. Why? I
joined the Galactic Democratic Republic's Naval Air Corps. The old
man blew up. Accused me of siding with the enemy. As if there was an
enemy anymore! Or there wouldn't be if guys like him didn't keep
waving around a bloodstained crown. The revolution was seventeen
years ago! It's all over now. Or it should be.

"Like I said"—Tusk
drew an angry breath—"the old man couldn't forgive me for
that. And then they murdered him. Then I murdered him, I guess. No,
wait a minute"—this as Platus attempted to interrupt—"I
don't want to go into it. Let's just say that I'm not doing this for
your, precious jewel or the Guardians or your dead king or any of the
rest of that romantic crap. I'm doing this because maybe it'll square
me with him. You understand?"

"Yes," Platus
answered.

"Yeah, well. Just
so you don't expect too much from me. There's a bar in town called
the Screamin' Meemie. We'll meet there—"

"No!" Platus
shook his head. "Too open. Too many people."

Tusk could have
cheerfully throttled this bastard. He shoved his itching hands into
the pockets of his khaki shorts. "Well, how about here? The
docks'll be empty. The night man stays down near the ships. No one
comes after hours."

Platus cast a
considering look around the warehouse. "Very well."

"Good. Now where
am I supposed to take this kid?"

The man's blue eyes
widened. A slow flush spread over his pale face. "I . . . really
do not . . . know." Platus sounded helpless. "I never
thought— You see, I did not expect things to take such a
drastic turn this suddenly. I thought at least I would have time
to—to make arrangements. But I haven't. I was caught
unprepared." He ran his hand through his hair again, combing it
back with trembling fingers. "Why did they give this to me? Of
all of them, I was most unsuitable!"

Tusk sat down on a
crate, staring at Platus in blank astonishment.

"Man! No wonder
there was a revolution. You're just like my father. Idealistic.
Impractical. I'm a fighter! What the devil am I supposed to do with a
kid?"

Platus sighed. "I
do not know." He twisted his thin hands in distraction. "I
do not know."

"Hell! I'll think
about it. Wait here. I gotta go take care of business."

Figuring he might do
something he'd be sorry for—like slug this fool in the
mouth—Tusk loped off in search of the dock foreman.

Alone, Platus stood in
the shadows of the warehouse, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.
He felt time creeping up on him, its hands reaching for his neck.

"The young man is
right," Platus murmured. "We were idealistic, impractical.
Some of us, at least. I was, I know. I wanted only to be left alone
with my music, my books. Why couldn't they understand? I wasn't a
warrior. I wasn't like my father. Maigrey took after him. She was
most suited for this responsibility. But that was impossible. At the
end, I was the only one left.

"I could send the
boy to her." Platus began gnawing on the knuckles of one hand.
"I know she is still alive. But if I know that, then so does he!
So I cannot send the boy to her!" Platus clutched his head. His
thoughts were running in circles, like a mouse on a wheel. "She
was the one who told me to do this. And then she left me! Left me
alone to bear the burden!" He sighed wearily and wiped chill
sweat from his forehead. "She fled to protect us. She could have
put us all in deadly peril. Yet the peril has come anyway, and now
who is left?"

Platus called the roll
of that famed elite corps. Maigrey— vanished. Danha Tusca—dead.
Anatole Stavros—dead.

Derek Sagan—

Softly, unconsciously,
Platus began to sing in a tenor that was thin and reedy yet perfectly
in tune. "
'Libra me, Domine, de morte aetema in die ilia
tremenda
—' Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on
that dread day." Abruptly, he cut himself off. "That
music's in my head! I mustn't keep singing it aloud, though. Dion
will recognize it, suspect—

"Hey, man, I could
hear you clear outside! Jeez, what a weird song." It was Tusk.
"Gave me the creeps, echoing around in here like that. What was
it, anyway?"

"A requiem. A mass
for the dead."

"Jeez, you're a
creepy guy!" Tusk felt a shiver crawl over him and hurried on to
business. The sooner he was rid of this character, the better.
"Listen, I had an idea. How old is the kid?"

"Seventeen."

"Hot damn! What
about a military school? I got a friend who runs one. He owes me a
favor. I could get the kid in easy."

"A military
school," Platus repeated, swallowing hard. "What irony!
What bitter irony—"

"Look-"
Tusk's dark eyes narrowed.

"I know!"
Platus wiped his hand across his mouth. "lime grows short."
The blue eyes looked intently into the young man's face. "Very
well. I trust you, Mendaharin Tusca."

"Trust
me
?
I'm a deserter! A thief—"

"Why did you leave
the service?" Platus interrupted.

"Let's say I
didn't like what it paid."

"Didn't like what
it paid, or didn't like what you had to do to earn that pay? You have
a great deal of your father in you, Tusca. More than you will admit.
Danha Tusca was a man of honor and courage and—what is more
important— compassion. I turn the boy over to you. The boy . .
. and much more, perhaps," Platus added, but only to himself.