The Lost King Page 6

  "Listen to me, kid, and listen good!" Tusk shoved Dion's head back into the dirt. "A man just gave up his life for you. Are you gonna make that mean something?"

  Dion struggled, but it was a struggle against fate, against the forces of destiny, and, after a moment, he ceased. Closing his eyes, he relaxed and nodded.

  "Good," Tusk muttered. Watching the boy warily, he let loose his hand from Dion's mouth and lifted his knee from the young man's chest. "We're in the bottom of some sort of ditch in back of your house," Tusk breathed into Dion's ear. "The Warlord's still inside. Any second this place is going to be lousy with marines. We've got to make ourselves real scarce, real fast! You understand?"

  Dion nodded again, his hand reaching to rub his head.

  "C'mon, kid!" Tusk grunted, hauling him to his feet "I didn't hit you that hard. Keep low."

  Dion stood up cautiously, glancing around to get his bearings. They were in the bottom of the deep ravine in back of the house, safely concealed for the time being. But they wouldn't be hidden long; he could hear voices coming from the house. One voice he recognized, the voice of the man who had killed Platus. Dion made a move toward the embankment.

  "Wrong way, kid!" Tusk's hand closed over the boy's arm.

  Dion's hps pressed together; his eyes burned with the ache in his heart. Jerking his arm out of Tusk's grasp, the boy turned and began to run down the dry creek bed, running as hard and fast as he could, running away from the house, away from the red and golden lights, away from the blood, spilling down silver armor. . . .

  Caught flat-footed by Dion's sudden movement, the mercenary scrambled to keep up with the boy. "Kid's a goddam jackrabbit!" Tusk stopped once to risk a look back over his shoulder, but he could see nothing except the lip of the embankment and the flaring lights of the shuttlecraft.

  "Just a matter of time, though. Hey, kid!" He panted, catching up with Dion. "This ditch . . . take us ... all the way . . . into town?"

  Dion shook his head, his only answer. Tears blown back by the rushing wind in his face made dirt streaks across his cheeks. He gestured abruptly and obscurely, never slowing his pace over the uneven ground. Tusk had no idea what the boy meant. The mercenary could only hope the kid knew where he was going. Putting his head down, Tusk concentrated on keeping his legs pumping, his breath coming.

  "Down!" Tusk grabbed hold of Dion and pulled the boy into the shadow of a sand-blasted sign that welcomed travelers to the port city, advised them of the town's population, and issued invitations to buy real estate.

  Hoverjeeps roared past, their air blasts sending up choking clouds of sand that rolled around the boy and the mercenary.

  "What is it?" Dion asked, coughing. "What does it mean?"

  "The Warlord's army." Tusk squinched his eyes shut against the stinging sand. "He's declared martial law, gonna take over the town. Ten to one he's lookin' for you, kid." The dust settled. He gazed thoughtfully after the jeeps that were speeding toward the lights of the port city.

  "What are you smiling about, then?" Dion cast the mercenary a bitter glance. "This means I'm finished—"

  "This means you've got a chance," Tusk corrected, his smile broadening into a grin. "C'mon. You'll see."

  Back in familiar territory once more, Tusk led Dion into the outskirts of the town, the two keeping to back alleys and side streets. Rounding a corner, they nearly walked into a hover-jeepload of marines being deployed at one of the major intersections. Sirens wailed, red lights flashed.

  Pulling Dion back into an alley, Tusk whispered, "Watch!"

  A local police squad car pulled to a screeching stop only centimeters from the hoveijeep.

  "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" the cop demanded, climbing out of the squad car and confronting one of the marines.

  "Warlord Derek Sagan has declared martial law over this planet. This city is now under our control." The centurion held out his hand. "I'll need to see your identification."

  "Identification?" the cop repeated in disbelief. He yelled over his shoulder, "Charley, call for some backup! Look, you!" The cop returned his attention to the marine and drew his service revolver, an old projectile weapon. Syrac Seven had entered the space age, but had not gone to extremes. "I think you're the ones better fork over some I.D. Stop that right there! Keep your hands where I can see 'em. Those're real fancy clothes you're wearin'. I'd hate to blast a hole right through the heart."

  A gesture brought the centurion's men to back him up.

  "I am certain, officer, that you recognize the insignia of Warlord Sagan."

  "Warlord again. You mean Citizen General Sagan, don't you?" The policeman, seeing himself outnumbered, retreated behind the open door of his squad car, but kept his gun trained on the soldiers, his partner covering him. "We got rid of lords seventeen years ago. And if he is here, he can just clear out. We run our own affairs on Syrac Seven. Now drop those weapons."

  "The cooperation of the police has been requested." The centurion was well trained; he was keeping his patience. "Contact your superior—"

  "Dispatch reports these guys are all over town!" the cop's partner yelled. They've started a fight in one of the bars by the docks!"

  Two more police cars, sirens wailing, came roaring around the corner. The centurions looked to their lieutenant, who was speaking into the commlink in his helmet.

  Catching hold of Dion's arm, Tusk winked and pulled him down the alley. "See what I mean? Keep walking, nobody's gonna notice us." He was trying hard to ignore the pain of a stitch in his side.

  "Will there be a fight?" Dion asked.

  They left the altercation behind them. Pausing to catch his breath, Tusk leaned against a graffiti-covered brick wall, keeping well out of the light of a nearby street lamp.

  "Hell, no. In an hour, the police'll find out that there really is a Warlord on this planet! Then the cops'll be crawling around, licking his boots. But we got that hour. Tired?"

  "No."

  The boy's face, reflecting the nearby light, was white. The long red-golden hair, damp with perspiration, clung to his brow and his cheeks. Gray smudges beneath the lids darkened the blue eyes. But the eyes themselves glittered hard as glare ice.

  "Well, I'm about done for!" Tusk mopped sweat from his face. "And we still gotta get our balls out of this sand trap. You play golf, kid?"

  "Shouldn't we be going?" Dion said coldly.

  "Just a sec." Bending over, hands on his knees, Tusk tried to ease the pain in his side. With a groan, he straightened. "It's not very far. And I'm not as young as I used to be—"

  "How old are you? Twenty?" Dion snapped, his gaze flitting up and down the dark alley.

  "Twenty-six. Black skin doesn't age like that pasty white stuff of yours. But I thought ... I was in shape!" Tusk finally caught his breath. "Don't tell XJ. He'll blame it on the jump-juice. Look, when we get to the RV parking lot where the plane's stashed, we'll go in the back way. Climb the fence. The Warlord probably won't have men there yet, but that'll be one of the first places they'll search. With luck, we'll be long gone by then."

  Dion nodded and started to walk in the direction Tusk indicated, when the mercenary caught hold of him.

  "I sort of came in on the tail end of things with . . . uh . . . your master and the Warlord. I don't suppose you heard anything about why a Warlord as powerful as Derek Sagan wants you bad enough to . . . uh"—Tusk was about to say kill a man but the sight of Dion's rigid face made him change his mind—"disrupt a planet."

  Dion stared straight ahead. "Let go of me."

  "I'm sorry." Tusk backed off. "I understand. I guess it doesn't matter. Just one of those little pieces of information I can live for a real long time without knowing."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the red and golden hoverjeeps pull to a stop at the end of the street. "At least I hope so!" he amended.

  "XJ? You got the circuitry fixed?"

  Tusk slid down the ladder into the body of the spaceplane. Dion followed quickly, b
ut almost not quickly enough. The hatch was shutting while he still had his hand on the rim and he just managed to snatch back his fingers in time to keep them from being smashed to a pulp. Engines fired. A tremor shook the plane, causing Dion to slip on the ladder, and land heavily on the deck.

  Tusk was already in the cockpit; Dion saw the top of his curly-haired head disappear down the ladder and then every thing went dark.

  "All systems shutting down for launch," the computer announced. Dion stood crouched on the deck, afraid to move. Red emergency lights flickered on, casting an eerie glow, making everything in the plane seem strange, less real than a dream. The boy groped his way forward, and had reached the ladder leading into the cockpit when a black shape suddenly loomed up in front of him.

  "Kid? Oh, there you are."

  Grabbing hold of him by the shirt collar, Tusk yanked the boy down the ladder, literally tossing him into a chair.

  "Sit and keep quiet!"

  Bruised and shaken, more tired than he would admit, Dion sat, nursing a cut on his hand inflicted by a sharp metal edge on the ladder. Leaning over in front of the boy, Tusk hit a button. Sturdy plastic arms swung up from below the chair and clamped firmly over Dion's thighs and upper body. The boy nearly jumped out of his skin, but realized after a moment that the arms were only fastening him securely. He was not being made a prisoner.

  In the seat beside him, Tusk was busy flipping switches and checking readings.

  "Scared?" he asked, taking time to glance at his passenger and noting the clenched jaw muscles, the hands curled over the armrests of the chair.

  "No." Dion forced himself to relax.

  "Had any brains, you would be," XJ remarked.

  "I asked you about the circuitry," Tusk said to the computer. "Or has your audio gone bad?"

  "I heard you."

  "Well, why didn't you answer?"

  "Ignorance is bliss."

  "Look, dammit, can we launch, or is something going to short out?"

  "Tusk," XJ said, "have you ever reflected on the fact that life is an endless series of questions? Why are we born? Where are we bound? Can we launch, or is something going to short out?"

  Tusk muttered beneath his breath.

  "No swearing!" the computer snapped. "You know how it irritates me. Here, you better listen to this. At least it will give you something constructive to swear about if you must resort to such—"

  Words trailing off, the computer's voice was replaced by an official-sounding human.

  "General Grounding Order. Repeat. General Grounding Order. Corasian vessels have been sighted near this quadrant. The forces of the Galactic Democratic Republic have placed the planet Syrac Seven under martial law by order of Warlord Derek Sagan until the current emergency situation is alleviated. Until such time as this report of enemy alien craft can be confirmed, all spacecraft are hereby grounded for their own protection—"

  "Corasians?" Dion shouted over the drone of the official voice. "Who are they?"

  "A bunch of weird alien life-forms who live in the galaxy next door," Tusk answered. "Real nasty types. Scary bastards. And one hasn't been seen in this galaxy in eighteen years. Just an excuse, kid. The Warlord always used it when we needed to put some planet's government back on the straight and narrow. Frightens the whatever out of the populace."

  "In case your government should require your services," the official voice continued, "all pilots of private spacecraft are hereby ordered to report immediately to the nearest command post with identification papers—"

  "Yeah, yeah!" Tusk flicked a switch. "We see the picture. Shut that twerp off, XJ, and let's get out of here before they get organized. You got a fix on the Warlord's flagship?"

  "Yes." Coordinates flashed across the computer screen. "You think you can avoid something that big?"

  Scowling, Tusk read the coordinates, made adjustments accordingly, and barked instructions to the computer, who barked right back. Both were absorbed in their work, leaving Dion unnoticed, for which the boy was grateful.

  Sitting back in his chair, he had time to think about what had happened, and almost instantly he regretted it. Memory returned, beating at him with dark wings. Closing his eyes, he heard the voices, the conversation. He saw the swords flash, silver and golden, he saw the flow of dark blood, Platus's body sag to the floor.

  Anger stirred in Dion. How could you do this to me? he demanded of Platus silently, tears stinging his eyelids. How could you die? How could you leave me like this, not knowing? Why? Why? His fists clenched. Bitter bile flooded his mouth, he thought he might be sick.

  Pride made him swallow the hot liquid and choke back the tears sliding down his throat. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, and he opened his eyes. He would forget everything, concentrate on the danger they were facing. Tusk's words came back to him. A man just gave up his life for you. You gonna make that mean something?

  It was suddenly very important to Dion to escape.

  "Will they try to stop us?" He tried to speak casually.

  "I don't think they'll line up and give us a rousing huzzah as we leave. You ready, XJ?"

  "Beginning system check."

  "What will they do to us? Shoot us down?" Dion persisted.

  "Well, now, that depends," Tusk said, glancing at the boy. "That's why I asked you if you had any clue what the Warlord wants with you. Might make a big difference."

  "How?"

  "Obvious, kid. If he wants you dead they'll shoot us down. If he doesn't, they'll try to capture us alive. I really hope, kid," Tusk added fervently, "that you got some sort of sentimental value!"

  "System check complete," XJ reported.

  "And?"

  "Ignorance is—"

  "Oh, stow it! Start launch sequence. You all set, kid?"

  The deck began to vibrate beneath Dion's feet Then everything was vibrating—the chair, his teeth. . . . Blood spilling over silver armor. . . . The garden trampled, its neat, orderly rows destroyed. What would grow, now, without care and nurturing? Left on its own . . .

  "And go!"

  The breath expelled itself from Dion's body; the force of lift-off pushed him back into the seat, pulled his skin tight across his bones, forced his lips into an unnatural grimace. Looking at himself in the reflection in the steelglass opposite, he saw his face grinning like a skull. For an instant he couldn't breathe and he began to panic, fearing suffocation.

  The frightening sensation was over in an instant. The lights of the city fell away from him with dizzying swiftness. Everything was falling away from him, too fast . . . too fast . . .

  The garden, the house ...

  Falling out from under him.

  The city, the world . . .

  He wanted to reach out, grab hold, hang on. But there was nothing to hold on to. He was caught, held, immobilized in fate's grasp ... in the Scimitar's seat ... by the strong, uncaring grip of the security arms.

  And then all life was gone. He stared into black, vast space, its stars shining bright and cold as the star Platus wore around his neck. . . .

  "Damnation!" Tusk swore.

  A screen on the instrument panel had come to life, even as everything around the boy had seemed to die.

  "I knew Sagan made improvements since we left, XJ, but— Damn!" Tusk swore again. "How the hell did he get his ships deployed this fast?"

  "What do you mean? What's wrong?" Dion sounded strange to himself, as if his own voice had been left down below with the rest of his life.

  "Warlord's got the blockade going already. Blasted place is crawling with planes!"

  "Told you so!" XJ said in gloomy satisfaction.

  "No you didn't, so don't start—"

  "I have it on file!" the computer returned smugly. "Scimitar closing, Mach thirty—"

  "I see it."

  "Where's the gun turret?" Dion asked eagerly. "I can shoot!"

  It was a lie, but he wanted to kill something, anything. He wanted to end the hurt, the anger, the fear. Blow it
up in a fiery ball that would take him, too.

  The computer's lights flashed wildly.

  "Calm down, XJ!" Tusk ordered. "Thanks for the offer, kid, but . . . uh . . . that gun's kinda complicated equipment and . . . well ... to be honest, I'd rather face ten of those characters out there than have one amateur sitting above me with an itchy trigger finger. I mean, you shoot your foot up there and we're nothing but a gleam in someone's eye—and that only for about ten seconds."

  "Besides," XJ added, "not even Tusk is dumb enough to try to fight his way out of this one. Are you?"

  From the irresolute expression on Tusk's face, Dion thought that the question might be debatable, but the mercenary glanced at the computer screen and grunted.

  "Ten seconds and he'll be in range . . . and so will we," the computer reported.

  A slow smile spread over Tusk's lips. "The drunken pilot!"

  The computer's lights flickered in derision. "That old trick? What is this—a nostalgia trip?"

  "We got nothing to lose. I've flown blockade duty, so have you. No matter how sharp they look there's bound to be the normal amount of confusion."

  "I want to go on record that I am opposed—"

  "Go on record as any damn thing you like, just do what you're supposed to. There must be a Lane around here—"

  "There is. Come to this heading—"

  A series of number appeared on the computer screen.

  "What—"

  "Keep your mouth shut, kid," Tusk said, his slender fingers flying over buttons. XJ hummed to itself industriously.

  "Military channel?" Tusk asked, glancing up to see the other Scimitar closing fast.

  "Open. This is the latest code update. Cost us a bundle. It better be right—"

  The commlink crackled, announcing that the other pilot was about to contact them.

  "Halt and iden—" Tusk began, a split second ahead of the other Scimitar pilot.

  "Halt and—"