The Lost King Page 4

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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."

  "And if that time never comes?" Dion asked impatiently.

  "Then you will not know and you must accept it. What does it matter, anyway, who your parents were? It is who you are that is important in this life."

  Maybe that answer had been good enough for Dion once. But not now. Not when he was being sent off who knew where. Seeing the lights of his home gleaming softly in the distance, Dion couldn't believe that Platus had actually expected him to go meekly away with that crazy mercenary and his uncouth computer. It just didn't make sense! Platus never did anything on impulse. He always planned everything. Why, only the first of this week, he and Dion had gone over what they intended to study in the upcoming months. They'd laid out the garden, even argued as usual over whether to put in radishes, which the boy loved and Platus detested. And, as usual, the radishes had won.

  Then, two days ago, Platus had been called to town to receive an interplanetary space transmission. He refused to let Dion accompany him, though it was the first time the boy had known his master to receive such a message. When Platus returned, his face was ashen, he had aged years. He would not discuss the matter but was silent and withdrawn. That afternoon, he told Dion to begin packing—the boy was leaving Syrac Seven.

  Dion was now so close to the house he could begin to pick out the details of the simple dwelling. Suddenly the boy stopped running, a curse on his lips that would have done Tusk proud. Of course! Platus was in danger!

  "That's why I'm being sent off!" he said aloud. "I've been a fool, thinking only of myself! I saw it in his face when he said good-bye. Only I was wallowing so deep in self-pity I couldn't get my head out of the muck long enough to think."

  The boy started running again, fear lending impetus to his stride. Why his gentle master, who revered life so highly he wouldn't even use mousetraps, would be in danger was beyond Dion's comprehension. But then he began to consider. How much did he know about Platus? Nothing—as little as he knew about himself. The man hadn't an enemy in the world. He didn't have any friends in this world, either.

  In this world. The space transmission. It wasn't an enemy in this world. It was coming from somewhere beyond.

  Dion glanced up into the heavens and stumbled, nearly falling. He'd never seen a real space shuttle before. He'd seen only photographs in textbooks that were more than twenty years old. He was seeing one now, he knew, and it was bigger and more beautiful than anything he could have imagined.

  The moonlight glinted off a beaked prow painted red and gold and resembling the mythical phoenix. Decorated with images of fire and feathers, its sleek wings extended out from its body. Traces of flame flared in the air, its engines having just been shut down. The shuttle was gliding to a soft, air-cushioned landing—a landing that would take it within a kilometer of Dion's house.

  An oppressive sense of uneasiness that grew stronger the nearer the shuttlecraft crept toward the ground swept over Dion. Mingled with this unease was an overwhelming curiosity. Slowly, the young man moved forward, keeping instinctively to the shadows of a huge spike-cactus.

  The boy longed to rush ahead and confront this mystery directly, but Platus's training made him stop and carefully consider his next action. No, it was far better to keep hidden, at least for the time being. Should his help be required, an element of surprise was always good. And besides, Dion told himself grimly, his excitement starting to mount, it would give him a better chance of learning something about his master . . . and perhaps about himself.

  A gully—the remnant of a dried-up creek bed—ran beneath the house. Dion scrambled down the bank, treading silently over the flat, rock-strewn ground. The gully led him into his own backyard. He'd lost sight of the shuttlecraft; the gully's sides were steep. But he could see the craft's lights shining, bathing the land for miles around in a garish red and orange glow.

  Dion kept to the ditch until he judged he must be almost parallel to the garden. It would be easy to pad through the soft, newly tilled soil without anyone hearing him. Catching hold of the weedy bushes and tree roots that stuck out from the dirt sides, he pulled himself up the bank and peered cautiously over the lip of the gully.

  He could now see the front half of the shuttlecraft clearly. The back part was being blocked by the house, standing between him and the craft. Watching, he saw a hatch open. Bright white light streamed out, broken by silhouetted figures of men. These parted, and one taller than the rest—wearing a feather-crested helmet and a long, flowing cloak—emerged from the lighted hatchway and walked down the gangplank that extended from the hatch to the ground.

  Although he couldn't see the figure clearly, Dio
n could see light gleaming off the man's helmet. The man was moving toward the house. He was apparently alone. No one was with him. This man was coming to see Platus. A meeting. Platus was meeting with this man! That was the reason Dion had been sent away. Like a child told to leave the room so that the grown-ups could talk!

  Anger burned away Dion's uneasiness. I'll find out what's going on, and then I'll—I'll— Well, I'm not certain what I'll do but I'll do something!

  The man emerged from the dark shadow cast by the shuttle's wing. The bright running lights of the spacecraft illuminated him. Curious, Dion studied the man approaching the house, wondering who he was. The boy caught his breath at the magnificence of the sight. The man's armor reflected the red and golden light. He himself might have been rising out of the flames like the phoenix. He was tall; Dion had never seen a man quite so tall or so muscular. His helmet was burnished gold, as was his breastplate—all done in the style the boy recognized as being copied from the days of ancient Rome. A red plume ornamented the helm, the feathers glistened in the light. The red matched the flame red of his cloak, the cloth sparkling here and there with golden trim. The boy couldn't see the man's face—it was lost in shadow. The man walked with long, swift strides, moving so rapidly his cape floated out behind him in the still evening air. There was intense, serious purpose in every line of his body.

  The man drew nearer to the house, and was lost to Dion's view. This was the boy's chance, for the house would prevent the man from seeing him. Crawling up over the edge of the bank, Dion dashed through the garden, heedlessly trampling the neat rows of newly planted seeds, dodging the stakes that carefully labeled each one.

  A light shone in the window of the living room. The night was warm, the window was open, the bamboo shades raised. Dion crept close. A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience at the thought of spying on Platus, but he swiftly rationalized it. His master might be in danger, after all. Dion could help best by remaining hidden.