The Lost King (53 page)

"At ease. Tusk.
Sit down."

Feeling bleak and
empty, as if he'd found something precious he'd lost only to discover
it had never been his, Tusk subsided into a chair and sat, fidgeting.

Dion radiated a
self-conscious self-importance that was both attractive and
repellent. It seemed to the mercenary as if the kid had raised his
shields, was protecting himself from attack.

Dixter took his seat
behind his desk. The night air was crisp and chill. Bennett, entering
the room, brought cups of coffee; the steam rose from them in
spirals. Before he left, the aide switched on a small space heater.

Dixter, sipping his
coffee, looked intently at Dion and said nothing.

The young man suddenly
appeared embarrassed, uncertain where to begin.

"So, uh, kid,
how'd you escape?" Tusk asked.

"I didn't,"
Dion said. "The Warlord sent me."

Dixter held very still,
then slowly set the coffee cup down on the desk.

"Tusk, you know
what to do."

"Yes, sir."
The mercenary was rising to his feet. "I'll alert—"

"No, wait!
Please!" Dion reached out his hand, grabbed hold of Tusk's arm.
"Listen, it isn't like that! I haven't betrayed you! I wouldn't.
Lady Maigrey wouldn't, either." He held up the metal case.
"Please, look at what's in here. Then you'll understand."

"Lady Maigrey?"
Dixter's expression didn't change, but the lines on his face seemed
to stand out more noticeably. "What about Lady Maigrey?" He
didn't look at the case the boy held out to him.

"I've seen her,
sir. I've been with her. You're right, sir. Everything you said about
her. A comet. Flaming ice. Only she's so sad. So unhappy. I wish—"
Dion stopped, drew a deep breath, and kept silent.

Dixter stared,
unseeing, at the steam rising in a long, thin, unbroken line from the
coffee. "She's alive."

"Yes, sir. It was
her idea that I come to you, her suggestion. Please, sir, read what
I've brought."

Dixter took the
proffered case, laid it down on the table. Dion leaned over and
punched in a combination on the locking device. There was a click, a
whir, and the case's lid opened. Inside were a few sheets of paper,
bearing the official letterhead of the Republic, and a computer disk.
Lifting the papers, the general began to read.

Tusk, watching the
man's face, saw the flesh around the hoes sag and grow haggard, the
skin go pale beneath its weathered tan. Eaten alive by curiosity,
barely able to contain his impulse to snatch up the papers, Tusk
tried to contain himself by swallowing a large gulp of coffee. He'd
forgotten it was hot and yelped in pain, the steaming liquid burning
his throat, tongue, and the roof of his mouth. The mercenary hastily
covered his mouth, but the general never looked up.

Dixter's coffee
gradually grew cool. He didn't notice, didn't touch it. He read the
papers carefully—there were only three; Sagan was always
concise—and then replaced them carefully in the case.

"So that's what's
been going on." The general picked up the disk, but made no move
to insert it into his computer. He tapped the disk against the top of
his desk.

"Please, sir,
what's
been going on?" Tusk pleaded.

"Two days ago, we
intercepted a series of distress signals being sent from a remote
system on the fringes to any warships in the vicinity. They were in
code; we couldn't make out what was being said or where it came from.
And then they ceased. Shortly after that, there was a flurry of
transmissions from the
Phoenix
back to headquarters. Again in
code, but one of our operators, who used to serve aboard the
battleship
Diana
, said she thought
Phoenix
was in
direct contact with the President himself."

"Yes, sir,"
Dion said. "As you see in the report, it's all there. What the
President said—"

"What's all there?
Sir, for God's sake—"

"The Corasians,
Tusk," Dixter answered. "They've invaded the galaxy.
They've attacked and taken Shelton's system. Sagan believes that
they're preparing for an all-out assault on the galaxy. He thinks
they'll strike this direction next. The War lord has been ordered by
President Robes to make a stand and, if unable to stop the enemy
here, then he is to do as much damage to them as possible."

"Holy shit,"
Tusk said reverently and with awe.

"Lord Sagan"—the
general's voice was expressionless, impassive—"has asked
for our help."

Tusk scowled. Reaching
for his coffee, his hand jerked and he spilled it over his legs.
"Hah! That explains it, then. It's a trap, sir."

"No, it isn't!"
Dion protested earnestly. "Lady Maigrey
saw
them in a
vision! Lord Sagan could have killed her, but he didn't because of
the invasion! You have to believe me, sir!"

"I believe you,
son. I heard the distress calls myself."

Dixter lapsed into
silence. He kept tapping the disk on the table. It was the only sound
in the night. Snick, tap, snick. Tusk, gritting his teeth, thought he
might crawl out of his skin if that noise didn't stop.

Dixter rose slowly to
his feet. The space heater was pumping out hot air and it was growing
uncomfortably warm in the small office. Without thinking of what he
was doing, the general switched on a fan, and stood staring out the
window, into the night.

Dion prodded. "Lord
Sagan wants to meet with you, sir, to discuss the alliance. It has to
be soon. We have a little time, he thinks, but not much. All the
details, statistics, everything he knows about the enemy force is on
that disk. The meeting can take place on this planet, anywhere you
choose. Lady Maigrey will be there."

"She will?"
Dixter turned his head around, looked at the young man over his
shoulder. The fan whirred softly.

Tusk was on his feet.
Going over to stand near the general, he spoke in a low undertone.
"Sir, he's wearing one of those damn swords. You saw the marks
in his hand. I know something about them; my father had one. It can
do weird things to your brain—"

Dion stood up. His face
was pale, resolute. "General Dixter, sir, I want to tell you
something. You and Tusk, both."

The men turned to face
him, Dixter's expression thoughtful, Tusk scowling and unhappy.

"I know who I am,
sir. I have a last name. It's Starfire."

Dixter nodded. Tusk
coughed and started to make some remark, but the general halted him
with a slight gesture.

"That means that
I'm king. The people in this galaxy are my people, my responsibility,
given to me by God. I can't, I won't allow them to be hurt without
doing everything I possibly can to protect them!"

King! Of what? That
square foot of floor space you're standing on, maybe! Grow up! Get
real! Tusk wanted to laugh out loud, laugh long and bitterly, and put
an end to this. But the laughter never made it past his gut. He saw
the young man's face, saw the intensity in the bright blue eyes,
heard the earnest, serious tone in the hopelessly young voice. Tusk
felt the flame, felt the fire.

"I don't believe
this!" The mercenary plopped down in Dixter's chair and glared
at everyone in range. "I don't believe any of this!" But he
did, and that was the problem.

The general laid a hand
on Tusk's shoulder, its firm grip comforting. Dixter's words,
however, were to Dion.

"There's one thing
I don't understand, Your—" the general paused; he'd almost
said
Your Majesty
and meant it— "er . . . young
man. How can Lord Sagan be so certain the Corasians are going to
strike out in this direction?" He waved a hand at the stars.
"There's a million other possible routes—"

"I think Lord
Sagan had better explain that to you himself, sir." Dion
flushed. "I sat in on the discussion, but I really don't
understand. Will you, at least, agree to a meeting, sir?"

Dixter said nothing.
The fan whirred. The heater pumped out hot air. The general
absentmindedly opened a window. Cold wind flowed into the room.

Turning, Dixter gave
Dion a sudden, sharp, quizzical look. "Lady Maigrey must have
sent me a message. What did she say?"

Dion licked his lips.
"It's kind of strange, sir. Not, perhaps, what you might
suppose—"

"Dion, her
message."

"Sir, she
said"—the young man shrugged—"to remember the
human impersonator on Laskar."

The general switched
off the fan. Tusk, sitting at the desk in his shirtsleeves, had goose
bumps on his black skin.

"I'll agree to the
meeting."

Dion looked startled,
then relieved, then elated. "You will, sir? Where? When?"

"Tomorrow. 1200
hours." Dixter walked over to a map, studied it, and put his
finger on a spot. "Here. Take down the coordinates." He
read off longitude and latitude.

Dion repeated them
excitedly. "I have them. I won't forget. I'll go back now and
tell him . . . and Lady Maigrey. Goodbye, sir. And thank you! Thank
you!" He shook Dixter's hand heartily. "Tusk? You'll be
there tomorrow, won't you?"

The mercenary didn't
look up. "Yeah, tomorrow."

Dion gazed at him
worriedly, a frown creasing his forehead. He started to reach out, to
touch him, but Dixter shook his bead. "Hell be all right, son.
Just give him time. You better go. The Warlord will be waiting for
you."

"Yes, sir. You're
right. I'll go. Thank you again, sir."

Dion, with a last
glance behind him at Tusk, saluted— correctly, this time—and
left the office. "Good-bye, Bennett. It was good to see you
again."

They heard Bennett's
cool, correct reply, the door opening and closing. The aide peered
in.

"Do you need
anything, sir?"

"Enter this into
the computer, Bennett," Dixter said, handing him the disk. "No
hurry. Let me know when I can call it up. And arrange for a meeting
of all pilots at 0600."

"Yes, sir."
Bennett glanced at Tusk, slumped over the desk. The aide raised his
eyebrows questioningly. Dixter shook his head, and Bennett, taking
the disk, left.

Outside, through the
open window, came the sounds of a spaceplane preparing for takeoff.

Tusk looked up. "What
the devil does a human impersonator have to do with this?"

"Interesting."
Dixter mused. "An interesting message. I wonder ..."

"Sir?"

"The human
impersonator of Laskar was an alien with an obsession about being
human. It hated us and at the same time longed to be one of us. This
obsession degenerated into madness. The alien had the ability to
shift its form. It would become human in appearance and entice
humans—men and women both—into having sex with it. In the
middle of the act, the alien would change back to its original body.
It was so loathsome and hideous that its victims would sometimes kill
themselves rather than have to live with the knowledge that they'd
been making love to a grotesque and horrible monster."

Tusk shook his head,
too muddled to try to understand, wondering obliquely what this said
about the general's sexual habits.

"Kind of a strange
message, isn't it, sir?" Tusk spoke guardedly. Glancing around,
he hoped to catch sight of the brandy bottle. "From a woman you
haven't seen in years?"

The general smiled.
"No, not really. She's just letting me know who I'm climbing
into bed with."

Tusk gave up the
search. Suddenly, he understood.

"Sir," he
said in a low voice, "we could always snatch the kid away from
him—"

Leaning on the
windowsill, Dixter stared out into the night, at Dion's spaceplane,
soaring into the darkness in a shower of flame.

"Keep away from
him, Tusk. Keep back ... or you'll get burned."

"Begging your
pardon, sir, but it's already hotter'n hell."

The general grinned.
Turning from the window, he fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a key,
and tossed it to the mercenary. "Third drawer on your left.
We'll drink a toast." He waited until Tusk pulled out the
bottle, wiped out two glasses with the tail of his shirt, and poured.
Dixter raised his glass. "I give you His Majesty. God save the
king."

Tusk scowled. "That's
not funny, sir."

"I didn't mean it
to be."

Tusk held the glass in
his hand, stared into it, then suddenly slammed it down on the desk.
Brandy slopped over the rim, flooding a map. "Excuse me, sir. I
got a lot to do."

He flung open the door
and stormed out, nearly knocking down Bennett, whose eyebrows shot up
to the crown of his bald head.

"Sir," the
aide said, "I've input that file you wanted. You'll find it
under 'Sagan.'"

"Thank you,
Bennett. That will be all."

"Yes, sir."

The aide left, gently
closing the door. Dixter lifted his glass to the heavens and silently
drained it.

Love bade me welcome,
but my soul drew back . . .

George Herbert, "Love"

For the meeting between
the mercenaries and the Warlord, Dixter had chosen the site of an old
deserted fortress built into the top of a cliff on a part of Vangelis
considered desolate even for that barren planet.

"It's a remnant of
early stellar exploration," commented Lord Sagan, emerging from
the shuttlecraft and staring up at it through the swirling dust. "The
fortress is somewhat of a mystery to archaeologists. The planet was
lifeless when humans first discovered it. Why, then, did those early
explorers feel the desperate need to build this gigantic fortress?
Who did they think they were protecting themselves against?" He
gestured. From horizon to horizon, the land was empty. "There
was nothing out there to attack them."

"Why did they,
then?" Maigrey asked, accepting his arm to aid her steps over
the rough and uneven terrain.