The Lost King (5 page)

"Sorry," Tusk
muttered, moving hurriedly to pick it up.

He juggled the box
uncertainly for a moment, glancing around for a place to stash it.
Every square centimeter already had something in it or on it. Long
coils of electrical wire lurked like snakes in the corners. A pile of
clean clothes had been dumped in the center of the small circular
chamber that was the spaceplane's living area. Tusk shrugged and set
the box back down where it had been before. Dion stepped over it,
this time watching carefully where he put his feet.

Pulp mags, their lurid
covers spread out like the wings of exotic birds, roosted
everywhere—on the deck, piled in a hammock, their pages
fluttering in the soft whoosh of cool air blowing from the vents.

Following Dion's gaze,
Tusk picked up a mag whose cover portrayed in graphic detail an alien
love ritual and flipped through it. "Interesting articles in
this issue," the mercenary said, grinning, "on sociology.
You interested in sociology?" he asked, holding the mag out to
the kid. "You could take a look at it while I work."

Dion made no move to
touch it, but stood regarding Tusk with cool, unblinking blue eyes.

"Guess not,"
Tusk muttered, tossing the mag back onto the deck. "Uh, I'll try
to make you as comfortable as possible." The mercenary was
starting to grow warm about the ears and neck. "These
fighters"—he gestured around him—"weren't
really meant to be lived in, at least not for more than a few weeks
at a time. Know anything about spaceplanes?"

The boy didn't answer.

Tusk drew a deep
breath. "This is what's known as a long-range fighter. It's
called a Scimitar—that's from the way the bow's shaped, like
the blade of one of those fancy swords the guys in baggy pants were
always using back in the old days. This type of fighter's generally
based off a mothership, but they carry enough fuel to survive on
their own for up to a month if they have to. Not like short-range
fighters, which are faster, but have to refuel oftener. The Navy uses
these for convoy detail and scouting, mostly. Guarding the uranium
shipments, that sort of thing."

As Tusk talked, he
began quickly and efficiently stringing up another hammock next to
his. "The Scimitar normally carries a two-man crew."

Glancing at Dion, Tusk
had the uneasy feeling that he was not being heard so much as
absorbed. "Uh . . . what was I— Oh, yeah. Two-man crew.
Pilot and gunner. Gunner sits up top in the bubble during a fight."
Tusk gestured with his thumb. "XJ and I generally prefer to
handle this bird ourselves. XJ figured out how to reroute the gun
controls through its systems if we need to. But the guns can still
operate independently. Better that way, in fact. Leaves the computer
free to take care of emergencies. Sometimes I hire on a gunner. Maybe
I'll teach you, kid."

Tusk was babbling and
he knew it. He turned away from the scrutiny of those eyes. The kid
gave him the willies!

"Stow your gear
under there." The mercenary pointed to a row of metal storage
units covered with cushions, apparently serving double duty as a
couch. "There's the galley, the head, a shower." Tusk began
stuffing the mags, one by one, into the trash liquidator. "There's
a vid machine in the cockpit and—"

"Me," said
the voice they had heard when they had come on board. "I'm also
located in the cockpit, and I expect to be introduced!"

"Give the kid a
break, will you?" Tusk glared down another ladder that led below
the deck on which they were standing. "We had a long walk from
the warehouse. Go ahead and unpack, kid. Underneath where you're
sitting is—"

"I don't have to
put up with this," the voice snapped.

Everything went dark.

"Damn!" Tusk
stood up and cracked his head smartly on an overhead pipe. It was
dark as hyperspace and so quiet he could hear the boy breathing. Too
quiet. "Turn the air back on!"

"Not until I get
some respect," the voice answered. "And that's sealed shut,
too," it added smugly as Tusk made a move toward the hatch.

"All right! We're
coming for'ard. But not until you turn on the lights, you son of a—"

The lights flared,
nearly blinding them. Life-support began its comforting, purring hum.
Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Tusk motioned Dion to follow
him—warning the boy about the same overhead pipe—and slid
expertly down another, shorter ladder. Dion came after him,
descending one rung at a time, unable to slither down it like Tusk.

The boy looked around
for the source of the voice, but the cockpit was empty except for a
fascinating array of dials, controls, and flashing lights.

"Dion, XJ-27,"
Tusk said, pointing to what looked like a large blue box perched on
the side of a control panel. The box's blinking lights, buttons, and
audio grid gave it the facial expression of a startled monkey.
"XJ-27, meet Dion."

"Kid got a last
name?" the computer asked.

Tusk glanced sharply at
Dion, saw the blood drain from the boy's face.

"No. And leave it
at that, okay?"

"Hah!, I will not!
What if the kid croaks and we have to notify next of kin?"

Tusk sucked in his
breath.

"Sit down, kid,"
the computer ordered hastily, before Tusk could explode. "Punch
in your vital stats for my records. Follow the instructions on the
screen. I won't be here. I got work to do. I don't suppose you know,
offhand, how many respirations you take per minute?"

"I don't. I'm
sorry."

They were the first
words Dion had spoken since he and Tusk had left the warehouse. The
boy stood behind a chair, staring at the computer.

"That figures!"
XJ's lights flashed irritably. "How'm I supposed to reprogram
life-support if you stupid humans don't know—"

"Uh, I'm going to
go finish that welding, XJ," Tusk said, climbing back-up the
ladder. "Fix yourself whatever you want to eat, kid, if you're
hungry. If you're sleepy, lie down, take a nap. Watch a vid, read a
mag—"

Dion heard the man
continuing to talk his way up the ladder, onto the living deck, up
the other ladder, and outside the hatch. And then it was quiet.

Slowly, the boy sat
down before the computer screen. A keyboard slid out of nowhere,
appearing at his fingertips. Words flashed on the screen, scrolling
past Dion's eyes.

NAME. LAST NAME FIRST.
FIRST NAME LAST:

MOTHERS FULL NAME:

FATHERS FULL NAME:

DATE OF BIRTH:

PLANET OF ORIGIN:

Dion stared at the
screen, his fingers resting, unmoving, on the keys.

Name. Last name
first. First name last.

Tusk tightened the
loose bolt, his jet wrench whirring it into place, practically fusing
it to the metal. He thought briefly of what it would take to get the
bolt off again, then put it out of his mind. At least it was on,
that's all that mattered for the time being. Lying in the darkness
beneath his fighter, Tusk yawned and considered stealing a short nap
under the belly of the plane, where XJ couldn't see him.

"Ouch!" A
mild electrical jolt tingled through Tusk's body. "What the—
Ouch! Stop that!"

Sliding out from
beneath the spaceplane, he blinked in the bright beam of light being
aimed at him. XJ fired another tiny probe, hitting Tusk in the knee.

"I'm out, damn
it!" Glaring at the holes burned into his pants, Tusk made an
angry swipe at the computer's remote unit. It bobbed nonchalantly out
of his reach. "What is it? The circuitry ready to test?"

"Forget the
circuitry," the computer replied. 'The kid's gone."

"Kid?" Tusk's
mind, intent upon his damaged deflector shields, couldn't recall for
an instant what kid was gone or why he should be worried if one was.
Then he remembered and swore earnestly and with feeling.

"Colorful, but
does nothing to alleviate the situation," XJ commented. "And
may I point out that the use of foul language is the typical response
of the uneducated and unimaginative human, who has a limited
vocabulary—"

"You were supposed
to be looking after him!"

"Who the hell died
and made me his mother?" The computer beeped in indignation. "I
had that blasted circuitry you fried to reroute! Besides, I was
watching him—sort of. One minute the kid's sitting at the
keyboard and the next he flies into a rage and storms out. Right when
I got life-support reprogrammed, too. I— What in the—"

A brilliant flare of
light, blazing like a comet, streaked across the night sky.

Only there were no
comets due in this solar system for the next hundred years.

"Name of the
Creator!" Tusk breathed, staring up at the fiery arcs of
blue-white flame. "The Warlord!" The mercenary broke into a
run, dashing around to the front of the spaceplane.

"Where are you
going?" XJ demanded, floating after him.

"The kid."

The remote's lights
blinked wildly. "Now your brain's fried as well as your
circuits! We're deserters! We got a hot spaceplane! We'll be doing
good to get off this rock ourselves!"

"Not without the
kid." Tusk clambered up the ladder and dropped down through the
hatch of the spaceplane, XJ whirring angrily behind.

"Forget the kid!
We got the money. And not much at that, mind you. Barely enough for
the parts and the fuel. I had to—"

"It isn't the
money." Flinging clothes around the cabin, Tusk found the pants
he'd been wearing that afternoon and, after a rapid search of his
pockets, came up with the battered leather pouch. He opened it
feverishly.

"There's no money
left in there," the remote said, its tiny arms wiggling. "I
already checked."

"I know there's no
money left!" Tusk shook his fist at the computer. "And I've
told you to keep your metal hands out of my pants!" He found a
scrap of paper, pulled it out, and read it. Stuffing the paper into
his shirt pocket, he grabbed his lasgun and started back up the
ladder.

"I've caught you
trying to hold out on me before! This is an equal partnership,
remember that!" The remote bobbed along after Tusk as he pulled
himself up through the hatch and dropped over the side of the
spaceplane onto the ground. "You never should have accepted this
job without consulting me. It's a breach of our contract. I'll see
you in court!

"And what do you
mean it isn't the money?" XJ yelled. "Since when has it
ever been anything else?"

But Tusk had
disappeared into the night.

XJ-27 went out as far
as the remote's limited range allowed it to go.

"Maybe his
brain'll kick in." XJ peered into the darkness, waited several
minutes for Tusk to return. But, probing as far as its sensors
ranged, the computer picked up no trace of the mercenary.

Gleeping to itself
irritably, XJ returned to the spaceplane, where it relieved its
frustration by tying all of Tusk's clean underwear into knots.

Benedictus qui venit
in nomine Domini.

Requiem Mass

Blessed is he who comes
in the name of the Lord.

Though Dion had been to
town rarely, he reached the outskirts of the small port city without
getting himself lost. Platus taught that all of life is a great
chain, the nature of which can be known from only a single link. Thus
he had trained Dion to be observant of everything around him, no
matter how small or insignificant. Recognizing the various landmarks
he had unconsciously imprinted upon his mind, the boy was able to
retrace his steps with ease. He jogged through the empty streets,
pausing occasionally to get his bearings, and soon reached the city
limits. Once outside the town, he was in the broad, flat plains and
he relaxed. Dion had explored this land since boyhood and knew every
tree and bush.

The young man increased
his speed, running over the sun-baked terrain at a smooth, easy pace.
He was enjoying the exercise, letting it slowly unwind the coiled
spring of his emotions. One of Syrac's two moons had risen and shone
brightly in the sky, lighting his way. There was no clearly marked
trail through the outback, but the land was flat, with only a few
scrubby bushes, stunted trees, Mid ravines to avoid. Within an hour,
he came within sight of the isolated dwelling where he and Platus
lived.

Light shone from one of
the windows. That was not unusual. Platus often stayed up reading
until late into the night He heard music—a boy soprano's clear
voice cut achingly through Dion's heart.

"
Dona eis
requiem
." Grant them rest.

Dion increased his
speed. He glanced behind him, but only out of instinct, not because
he was truly afraid of being followed. The mercenary had his money,
that was probably all he cared about.

Nearing his home, Dion
noticed the blazing blue-white flash of light streak across the sky.
It intrigued him but didn't even cause him to break stride. Never
having seen one of the Warlord's massive ships before, Dion had no
idea what it was, and assumed it must be an unusually large meteor.
At any other time, such a phenomenon would have fascinated him. He
and Platus would have marked where it landed and gone out the next
day in search of it. But tonight Dion had no interest in the heavens.
Platus had some explaining to do.

The boy's earliest
memories were of this small house and the quiet, gentle man who had
been not only father and mother to Dion, but teacher as well. The two
had lived a secluded life, shunning contact with the outside world.
Dion had not missed the world particularly. He'd been around children
his own age a few times and thought them silly and stupid. The boy
was perfectly content with his life—or would have been but for
one thing.

He had no idea who he
was or, still more important,
why
he was.

"You must be
patient, Dion," Platus told him, time and again, in the mild
voice that grew strained and tense whenever the boy brought up the
subject. "There are reasons for what I do, though I cannot
explain them. When and if the time comes for you to know, then it
will be revealed to you."