The Lost King Page 3

  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.

  "Yeah? Whatever." Tusk was obviously anxious to end the conversation. "I'll meet you here—"

  "Remember—tell no one of your plans. Let as few see you or know what you are doing as possible. We will be waiting. Tonight. 1800." Pulling an old leather pouch out of a torn pocket of his blue jeans, Platus handed it to the mercenary. "Here. That should take care of everything, I believe."

  Tusk took the pouch, hefted it, heard the chink of coin, and stood balancing it in his hand irresolutely as Platus began to walk rapidly for the warehouse door.

  "Say, wait a minute," Tusk called out. "My father said that if you guys ever did need me, things would be pretty bad. Desperate, in fact. I got a feeling that describes the situation?"

  Platus stopped and glanced around. "It does."

  Tusk sauntered up to him. "One question."

  "I do not promise to answer."

  "Who's after the kid? I mean, it's obvious. You're getting him off Syrac Seven 'cause he's hot. And it might help if I knew who it is we're running from."

  "Yes, it would." Platus smiled his sad smile. "I planned to tell you tonight. A Warlord wants the boy."

  "A Warlord! You guys don't make small enemies. I figured as much, though. It's all tied in with my father somehow, isn't it?"

  Platus did not reply.

  Tusk tried again. "All the Warlords, or one in particular?"

  "There is one who is most dangerous. You know who he is, I do not think I need speak his name. But avoid them all."

  "Okay. Now. Why do the Warlords want the kid? What could a seventeen-year-old—"

  Platus's face went ashen. "Ask no more! For your own protection! Just . . . take the boy where you will and leave him! I wish I could believe Someone will be watching over him, but my faith died long ago. Now I must go and prepare him for his journey. Good-bye, Mendaharin Tusca."

  Platus fled, almost running.

  "Hey, you!" Tusk yelled angrily after the man. "Quit calling me by that name!"

  Standing in the shadows of the warehouse long after Platus had gone, Tusk stared after him, pondering everything he'd said—and what he hadn't. All the Warlords chasing one pimply-faced kid. Which meant, of course, that Congress wanted the teenager. Which meant—what? Nothing that made sense to Tusk. Scowling, the mercenary's hand went to the silver ornament in his earlobe, the ornament that matched the shape of the jewel Platus wore around his neck.

  Swearing bitterly, Tusk kicked an empty wooden crate with such force that it split apart.

  "You're still here, ain't you, Danha Tusca?" he shouted into the empty, echoing darkness. "Dead and buried, you're still reaching out, still trying to run my goddam life!"

  Chapter Three

  Tears were for Hekabe, friend, and for Ilion's women, Spun into the dark Web on the day of their birth, But for you our hopes were great . . .

  Plato

  Twilight came to the docks earlier than to the rest of the town. The huge freighters swallowed up the sun, casting their shadows over the dockyards. The afterglow of sunset lit the sky, the docks became intense patches of extremely bright light alternated by pools of sharp-edged darkness. Every few hundred meters, a security lamp shed its harsh white radiance over the ugly gunmetal-gray paint of the ships' hulls; some of the more recent arrivals were still splotched black with the so-called space barnacles that would take work crews days to remove. Outside the circle of light, the shadows were thicker by contrast.

  The dock crews had gone home for the day, the sailors— those who had shore leave—were in the bars, and the docks were relatively quiet. The footsteps of the watchman making his rounds rapped against the cement, his voice occasionally called out a greeting or a question to one of the guards on board the freighters. The wind that shrieked incessantly on Syrac Seven during the day was nothing but a teasing breeze by night. Faint sounds of raucous laughter drifted from the bars along the wharf. Those unfortunates burdened with guard duty glanced longingly in that direction and muttered beneath their breaths.

  "I hope that Platus fellow didn't get himself lost!" Tusk looked impatiently, for the sixth time, at the glowing digits of his watch. Dressed in a dark fatigue suit, the mercenary was little more than a shadow himself in the early night. He had taken up a position just inside the warehouse door, being careful to keep out of a circle of light cast by a lamp above the entrance. Every now and then he poked his head around the huge corrugated iron wall, keeping vigil, being certain of seeing before he was seen.

  The watchman rarely came this direction. He was more concerned about the freighters and the goods that stood on the docks than an empty warehouse. Still, he might take it into his head to glance this way, and Tusk was worried about the middle-aged tenor and the kid. The mercenary supposed they'd have sense enough to keep to the shadows, but the more he thought about the refined voice, the
desperate eyes, the trembling fingers— Tusk shook his head, gritted his teeth, and made ready to leap out and grab them at first sight.

  Tusk leapt all right, but it wasn't out. It was up. A touch on his shoulder nearly sent him straight into the rafters of the warehouse. His lasgun was in his hand in a split second, his body twisting, elbow ready, to debilitate his assailant with a blow to the gut. A deft block countered his elbow jab, and a firm hand closed over his, relieving him of his weapon.

  "It is Platus," said a voice as Tusk's body tensed and he prepared to fight for his life. "Forgive me. It was not that I did not trust you, but I had to make certain you were not followed. Here is your weapon."

  Tusk's heart slid from his throat back down to his chest. His breathing began to return to near normal. Snatching back his lasgun, he jammed the weapon in its holster. He was shaking all over.

  Platus's hand patted his shoulder "Excellent reflex time. I almost could not disarm you. Of course, it has been a long while since I—"

  "Where's the kid?" Tusk growled. He wasn't in the mood for a discussion of his reflex time.

  "Dion. Come forward. I want you to meet Mendaharin Tusca. He will be taking you on ... on your journey."

  A young man, barely visible in the shadows, stepped into a circle of light that streamed from a lamp outside the warehouse door. The harsh light illuminated the boy's face and body with an eerie, otherworldly glow that seemed, by a trick of the eye, to come from some enchanted source within him rather than from any mundane source without. Expecting a typical teenager—gangly, awkward, maybe a little sullen—Tusk experienced a shock almost as great as when Platus touched him from the darkness.

  The boy was tall and walked with head held high, his well-muscled body moved with an athlete's grace. His skin was fair, his eyes were a deep, clear blue. Red-golden hair— blazing like Syrac's sun—sprang from a peak on the boy's forehead, and fell to his shoulders, framing the finely chiseled face in a wild, glistening mane.

  The boy's gaze met Tusk's with unwavering steadiness. Tusk noted the strong chin, the proud stance, the slightly parted lips. If the kid was frightened by this strange and sudden journey into the night, he was keeping that fear to himself. Tusk let out his breath in an unheard whistle.

  He'd been scoffing at this whole business. After all, what possible interest could the Congress have in a scrawny seventeen-year-old kid? This Platus was paranoid, jumping at shadows. Now, after seeing this boy, Tusk was beginning to revise his opinion. There was something unusual about this young man; something fascinating and compelling, something dangerous. It was the eyes, he decided. They were too thoughtful, too grave, too knowing for seventeen.

  Who the devil was this kid? He didn't belong to Platus, that was certain.

  "I've lived as long as I have because I've followed my gut feelings," Tusk said to himself. "And now I've got a gut feeling I should bid everyone good night, sweet dreams, and get the hell out of here. "

  But just as he was starting to speak those words, Platus moved to stand beside the boy. The light beamed off the glittering jewel he wore around his neck and, for a brief instant, it shone like a small star in the darkness of the warehouse. Tusk's hand moved to tug at his earlobe, then stopped halfway. Growling, he glanced about in the darkness.

  "All right, Father, back off!"

  "What?" Platus glanced about in alarm. "To whom are you talking?"

  "The kid. I said, 'Better keep out of the light.'"

  Catching hold of the boy's sleeve, Tusk pulled him into the shadows. He could feel the boy's body tense like a cat's, coiled, ready to spring.

  "So, Dion," Tusk continued, feeling jittery. "You got a last name?"

  It seemed a natural enough question, but the boy went stiff and rigid as if he'd been stabbed. Dion turned to confront Platus. The blue eyes caught the light, glittered cold and clear as the starjewel. Platus shook his head. The expression on his face was faintly apologetic, faintly stern, wholly uncomfortable. Dion smiled a thin, bitter smile and turned his back on them, folding his arms across his chest.

  What the hell was that all about? Tusk wondered irritably, liking this less and less.

  "Right, skip it. Most places I go, I don't use a last name either. Everyone calls me Tusk." He held out his hand.

  The boy turned, his face a struggle, seeking self-control. He achieved it, after a moment; his handshake was strong and firm. Tusk saw a brief, strained smile and a flicker of warmth in the eyes—gratitude, he knew, for not asking any more questions.

  After the introduction, the three stood staring at one another in the dark shadows of the warehouse.

  Tusk fidgeted. It was an awkward moment. Should he leave the two alone for a last good-bye, or would it be easier on everyone to just get the kid out of here? He had a decided preference for the latter. He'd left XJ in charge of the repairs while he came to pick up the kid and, though Tusk knew the computer could do a better job than he could of rewiring the complex electrical circuitry that had been damaged in the battle on Rinos, he still felt better keeping an eye on things.

  The silence was deafening. Tusk could hear it roar in his ears, and he started to say something that would probably be wrong but would at least get everyone moving when Platus stepped up to Dion. Reaching out, the man laid his hands on the boy's shoulders, holding him at arm's length.

  "You have given me so much. And I have given so very little in return. I cannot even give you a name, and you may never understand why. But, oh, Dion, I have loved you!" Platus drew the boy near.

  Dion's lips tightened, his blue eyes flashed, and he seemed about to break free of the man's hold. Suddenly the boy crumbled. His head sank down, his shoulders slumped. Platus gathered Dion into his arms, embracing him tightly. The young man threw his arms around Platus and buried his face in the man's shoulder with a sob.

  Tusk, watching, turned away. It wasn't the sight of the boy's tears that brought the sudden, bitter taste to his mouth. It was the sight of Platus's face—a pale mask in the reflected light.

  On that face, Tusk saw death.

  The mercenary had seen that look before. He had known those who had a premonition or whatever it was that they were going to die. And they'd gone into battle . . . and they'd died.

  Tusk felt an urgent need to get off this planet. He touched the boy on the shoulder.

  "Uh, kid. We better get moving. I still got a lot of work to do on the plane before morning."

  "Yes. He's right, Dion. You must go."

  Platus ran his hand lovingly through the boy's mane of red-gold hair, then pushed Dion away from him. Leaning down, he picked up a large duffel bag and silently handed it to the young man. Tusk walked over to the warehouse door, pretending to check around outside. In reality he was giving the kid time to wipe his eyes, blow his nose, and pull himself together.

  "Here are your clothes, some books—your favorites, plus a few you will need to continue your studies. I've included several lesson plans so that you can keep on as if I were—" Platus's voice sank, nearly failing him. "Your syntharp and your music is in there as well," he added with a tremendous effort of will.

  "I'll continue my work. And I'll let you know where I am, how I'm doing." Dion must have seen the look on Platus's face, too, though probably he didn't understand it. "You'll be all right?" the boy continued, speaking firmly, as if his words could make it so. "You'll let me know when I can come home?"

  "Yes."

  Tusk heard the lie in the older man's tone, he heard the love, the anguish. Turning from the doorway, the mercenary walked over and took hold of Dion's arm.

  "C'mon, kid. Back to the plane. We got a lot to do before sunrise."

  "So this is the passenger," a synthesized voice commented tinnily as Tusk and Dion lowered themselves through the hatch into Tusk's spaceplane. Ignoring the ladder, Tusk dropped lightly onto the deck below. Dion was forced to climb slowly and awkwardly down the narrow steel rungs.

  "C'mon, for'ard," Tusk said, motioning. "I'll show
you where to stow your gear. Watch out," he cautioned, pointing to a maze of tubing and steel beams and gauges overhead. "Low clearance."

  Crouching, trying to get a close look at the complicated instruments he'd read about only in his books, Dion took a step forward and stumbled headlong over a toolbox.

  "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."