The Lost King (63 page)

"You even had them
paint my goddam number back on, you—you misbegotten son of a
vacuum tube—!"

"Vacuum tube!"
The computer, shocked senseless, turned up its volume to the max. A
high-pitched whine shrilled through the Scimitar. Tusk howled and
clapped his hands over his ears.

"If this wasn't an
emergency," XJ reverberated over the tooth-jarring sound, "I'd
shut you down and let you roast!"

The altercation
resounded throughout the hangar deck. People were turning to stare at
them. Several began laughing.

Flushing deeply, her
freckles completely disappearing, Nola slithered down the ladder into
the Scimitar.

"—and"—XJ
dealt a final, triumphant blow—"there was no charge for
the paint!"

Tusk gabbled, his mouth
working. His eyes were bloodshot; sweat beaded on the black skin.
Nola quickly put her hand over his mouth.

"Tusk! Everyone's
laughing at us!"

Her remonstrance was
unnecessary. The mercenary seemed to have lost completely the power
of coherent speech.

"It's all right,
XJ!" Nola called out. "The shock threw him off, but Tusk's
thought it over now and he thinks it was a ... a brilliant move on
your part. Here, he'll tell you himself. Tusk, say something."
Tentatively, Nola moved her hand.

"No charge for the
paint!" Tusk hissed through clenched teeth. Nola quickly muffled
him.

"What was that?"
XJ snapped suspiciously.

"He said, 'No
charge for the paint!' He's ecstatic, really . . . overwhelmed. Words
can't begin to express—"

"I could think of
a few that could!" Tusk managed to snarl. Nola gripped his mouth
tighter.

"—express
his deep appreciation to you, XJ. He's speechless!" Nola gave
Tusk a warning glance. "Aren't you?"

"Yeah!" Tusk
muttered, breathing heavily. "Speechless."

"Well, if that's
the way you really feel—" The computer, mollified, turned
down the volume.

Tusk headed for the
bridge, noticed Nola wasn't following. "Where you going?"

"Up in the bubble,
where it's quiet." She grinned at him.

"Wait a minute,
Rian." Tusk caught hold of her hand. "Take care of
yourself."

"I'll be taking
care of both our selves! Bye."

Placing her fingers on
her lips, she kissed them, then transferred the kiss to him. Tusk was
inclined to make the kiss much more interesting, but Nola wriggled
out of his grasp. Laughing, she dashed up the ladder and was out the
hatch before he could catch her. He could hear the bubble that
covered the gun turret swing open, hear her settling into her seat.

Tusk, sighing again,
slid down the ladder into the cockpit.

"I was going
through my files," XJ-27 stated, "and I can't find where
this Nola Rian of yours listed her next-of-kin. Could you ask—"

"Shut up!"
Tusk yelled savagely, striking the computer a blow that split his
knuckles. "Just shut up!" Sucking the blood from his hand,
he began his preflight check.

"Sorry," XJ
said.

It wasn't until later,
when the signal was given and the mercenaries were finally
spaceborae, that Tusk realized it was the first time he'd ever known
the computer to apologize.

He took it as a bad
sign.

"Damn! Would you
look at that! Makes me want to puke."

Link's voice echoed in
Tusk's headset. The pilot peered through his viewport into the
blackness. He could see plenty of things that made him want to throw
up—planes exploding, the great dark hulk of the Corasian
mothership moving ponderously closer—but nothing else out of
the ordinary for a battle zone. "What? Where?"

"Right forty-five.
That gorgeous spaceplane being hauled off by those bastards!"

Tusk saw, finally, and
he whistled. "That Scimitar's a beauty, all right. Must be a
prototype. I've never seen one like it."

"Let's take it
away from them, Captain Tusca," came the synthesized voice of an
alien, the number three man in the squadron.

"Negative. Get
serious. First, we're under orders to hit those brain things, and
second, how're you gonna take it away? Ask 'em real nice to let you
have it? They'll let you have it, all right. Between the eyes."

The Corasians, noting
they were under hostile surveillance, continued towing away their
prize, but they had brought their guns to bear on the approaching
mercenaries.

"There's only four
of them," Nola pointed out from the gun turret, "and six of
us."

"Red Squadron,
keep back, outta range," Tusk ordered. "You're a good shot,
Rian, but not that good. We'd take the Scimitar out, too!"

"That's an idea,
Tusk! Aim for the Scimitar. Blow it up! That way they wouldn't get
hold of it!"

"Negative, Link.
The pilot might still be alive."

"If he is, he'll
thank us!" Link's tone was grim.

"He should have a
chance to put in his vote. XJ, see if you can raise that Scimitar."

"Sure thing. Hey,
dude in the fancy plane—"

"Shit! You don't
talk to one of the Warlord's pilots like that. Let me do it!"
Tusk wrested the commlink from the computer. "Scimitar
prototype. This is—" Swallowing hard, the pilot gave his
old Air Corps number, now painted in shining red on the side of his
plane. "I can see that you're in trouble." The mercenary
paused, perplexed, wondering how to continue.
Would you like us to
blow you up
? just didn't seem tactful. "Uh ... is there
anything we can do to help?"

"Tusk?" came
a voice in his headset. "Is that you?"

"Dion?" Tusk
gasped.

"Maybe it's a
trick," Link warned.

"That's the kid,"
the computer said. "Voice analysis confirms."

"Dion! Are you
hurt? How bad?"

"They died, Tusk.
They all died. I heard them ..."

"What's the matter
with him? He sounds funny. XJ, run damage assessment on that plane.
Kid, are you hurt?"

"Some superficial
damage," the computer reported. "One shield's about gone,
but nothing penetrated. The kid can't be injured too badly. Probably
shaken up—"

"Sounds like he's
in shock," Nola guessed.

"Sagan was right,
Tusk." The boy's voice was empty, lethargic. "'Kings are
made, not born.' I've let them down— Platus . . . your father.
All those who died for me. I heard them die. And it was my fault."

"My God!"
Link gave a low, ominous whistle.

"
We're
the
ones who let you down, kid." Tusk was desperate, couldn't think
of anything else to say. "Me. Dixter. The Warlord. The Starlady.
All of us. It was too much, too soon. I'm a total bastard, kid. I'm
sorry for the way I acted—"

"Tusk, we got
company comin'. Comin' in, Mach five. Whatta we do?" Link's
voice softened. "Give the word. I'll take care of it. One shot.
He'll never know."

"No!" Tusk
shouted harshly.

"I don't feel any
better about it than you do, old friend, but think about what he'll
face if he's still alive when those monsters get him aboard that
ship."

Tusk knew. He knew
better than Link, for Danha Tusca had fought the Corasians and he'd
told his stories to his son. The mercenary swallowed and wiped sweat
from his face. "XJ. Put me through to the Warlord."

"Oh, sure,"
the computer retorted. "And next I'll patch you through to the
President. Who else would you like to talk to? The Secretary of
Galactic Affairs? or the Treasury Depart—" Tusk gnashed
his teeth. "Listen to me, you—"

"Calmly,"
Nola hinted.

The mercenary snapped
his mouth shut, drew a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "You
know, XJ, I wouldn't have even asked that of another computer. But a
computer who once raided Sagan's personal files, a computer who got
me a free paint job, a computer who figured out that Dion was king—
Well, I figure a computer like that could get hold of God Himself if
it had to!"

"Oh, screw it!"
XJ muttered. "Hang on a minute till I unravel their new codes—"

Tusk breathed a sigh,
but he was too worried to feel elated at his victory. Another bad
sign.

"Red Squadron,
this is Squadron Leader. We've got a new objective. I've called for
the Warlord. We're gonna keep track of the Scimitar till we hear from
him. Kid, can you hear me? We're gonna stay with you—"

His words were
interrupted by an explosion. A Corasian was diving straight for them.
Tusk swerved and dodged, hearing overhead the whirring of motors, the
hissing sound of Nola's lasguns firing at the enemy.

Over the commotion,
Tusk listened anxiously for the boy's reply, but there was only
silence.

Prior to his arrival on
Phoenix
, the Warlord had advised the crew that his spaceplane
had sustained damage, as had that of his number two man. The deck was
cleared for a crash landing, a wise precaution that proved
unnecessary. Sagan brought his plane in and set it down without
incident.

His number two man
wasn't quite so fortunate. The Scimitar literally fell apart on
landing, skidded across the hangar deck, and crashed into a girder.
Rescue bots went into action, putting out fires, ripping off the
hatch, preparing to extricate an injured pilot. The crew was amazed
when the pilot climbed out of the cockpit unhurt, still more amazed
when the pilot yanked off 'his' helmet and shook out a long braid of
pale hair that fell limply down the back of the flight suit.

The flight crews
immediately set to work repairing the damage the planes had
sustained, exclaiming over the amount and the extent, marveling that
either one of the pilots had survived.

The two met in the
corridor outside the hangar deck.

"A three-point
landing, my lady, does not mean that you take out the deck, the
bulkhead, and the overhead," was Sagan's first comment.

Maigrey's hair was damp
with sweat and straggled over her face. Blood from a cut on her
forehead trickled down into one eyebrow. Tears made tracks in the
grime on her face. She didn't bother to glance at Sagan, but stared
straight into a wall.

"Am I being sent
back to my cell, my lord?"

"No, my lady. I
can't afford to lose any more of my men. You'll come with me to the
bridge where I can— Well, what is it, Aks?" The admiral
rounded a corner. He must have been waiting to meet them. The Warlord
halted, impatience expressed in every line of his body. "Have
the mercenaries gone out? Are the 'brains' under attack?"

"Yes, my lord,
but—"

"What, Aks? Don't
stand there dithering!"

The admiral was staring
at Maigrey, his eyes wide. "I—I was going to report, my
lord, that the . . . uh . . . lady has escaped. ..." His voice
trailed away.

"Report noted."
The Warlord resumed walking, nearly running the admiral down. Sagan's
strides were long and rapid. Noting Maigrey lagging wearily behind,
he caught hold of her by the arm to hurry her along. Angrily, she
started to jerk her elbow free of his grasp when she suddenly gasped
and came to a stop.

"What now, my
lady?" Sagan snapped. He had nearly dragged the woman off her
feet. She didn't seem to hear, but stumbled against him like one
suddenly gone blind.

"Very bad news, my
lord." Admiral Aks was hurrying to catch up. He licked his
tongue over his lips as if he would like to sweeten bitter words.
"The mercenary, Tusca, has been trying to reach you. It seems
young Starfire broke away from the squadron and got himself into
trouble—"

Sagan swore vilely,
viciously—an unusual break in the man's iron discipline and one
indication, to those who knew him well, of nerves stretched taut, of
stress taking its toll on body and mind.

"The Corasians
have him," Maigrey whispered, seeing in her mind the four enemy
fighters locking their tractor beams onto the unresisting Scimitar.
Blinking, she came back from the awful vision to stare at Sagan.
"It's that damn plane you gave him! That technological wonder!
You might as well have given him to them!"

The Warlord said
nothing.

Maigrey broke free of
his grip. Backing a step away from him, she iooked up into his face.
He had removed his helmet, but he might well have kept it on. It
seemed she looked into steel.

"Or maybe you
did
give him to them! That's it, isn't it, my lord? Dion isn't turning
out to be the puppet you thought. He's got a mind of his own, a will
of his own.
He
wants to be king!" Maigrey turned on her
heel, started back down the corridor, back toward the hangar deck.
"I'm going after him."

Sagan took a step to
follow. She heard his footfall and whirled to face him. The
bloodsword flared blue in her hands.

"So help me God,
my lord—try to stop me and I'll kill you."

She was poised, calm,
and resolute. There was no doubting her words. Sagan held perfectly
still, his hands raised where she could see them.

"Admiral Aks."
The Warlord turned his head slightly.

"My lord."

"The second
Bloodspear is available?"

"It can be made so
at once, my lord—"

"Good. Have it
readied"—the Warlord spoke with grim irony—"for
my lady."

"Yes, my lord!"
Aks murmured.

"I'll be going out
in mine. Aks, I'm leaving you in command. You have my orders."

"But, my lord! I
was going to tell you! The mothership is moving up to—"

"Deal with it,
Aks." The Warlord strode past Maigrey, who watched him warily,
keeping on her guard. He paused, standing so near her that the heat
from the weapon began to melt and blacken the fabric of his flight
suit.

"My lady," he
said coldly, "I'll meet you in hell!"

Turning, he continued
walking down the corridor, heading back toward the hangar deck.

Maigrey straightened,
shut down the blade, and replaced it in its scabbard. Wearily, she
dragged the hair out of her face, wiped her hand across her eyes and
forehead—smearing the blood and grime—and started to
follow the Warlord.