The Lost King Read online

  "That is understandable, my lord. But how did you recognize the somewhat unusual method he used to effect his escape?"

  "The drunken pilot? I taught that little trick to his father."

  Aks coughed uncomfortably. The conversation had gone hill circle, it seemed. Back to the Guardians again.

  "Didn't you make the connection, Aks? Tusk. Who else but Mendaharin Tusca—"

  "The son of Danha Tusca!"

  The Warlord's mouth twisted into a bitter smile that had a trace of pride about it. "He taught his son well. One of my old squadron. But then, they were the best. . . ."

  The faint sound of bells could be heard ringing throughout the ship, keeping the time as they had for centuries. Impatiently, Sagan shook his head. "This is getting us nowhere and I must contact the President within the hour, while the Cabinet's still in session. Admiral, I want you to make preparations to transfer your flag to Eagle."

  "My lord?" Aks looked startled.

  "Relax, Aks, I'm taking this ship and breaking off from the fleet. Have Nada set a course for Sector X-24."

  "That's in General Ghia's sector, my lord."

  "I am aware of that, Admiral. That's my I want you to remain behind to handle this. It will involve skilled diplomacy. Ghia will be angry no matter what you say, but he'll get over it. I'll clear it through the President. You will tell Ghia that I am on special assignment, sent to bring a political prisoner of the highest importance to justice. You need say nothing more than that. Ghia's no fool. He knows of my 'obsession,' of my 'bloodthirsty lust for revenge,' as the press puts it."

  Aks regarded his lord with admiration. "So you have found her."

  "Yes, Aks, I have found her," Derek Sagan said quietly. "And now, I believe you have a great deal of work with which to occupy yourself?"

  "Yes, my lord." Admiral Aks bowed and, taking the not too subtle hint, left the committee room.

  Alone, Sagan walked slowly to a control panel beneath the huge screen. Removing his glove, he started to place his hand on the grid that would scan his DNA and verify his identity, allowing him to open the direct access channel to the Cabinet Room. But Sagan paused, considering what he would say. Not that words would much matter. He knew how the President would react. Still, the Warlord would have his arguments on record.

  Abruptly he placed his hand upon the grid.

  The screen began to glow faintly.

  "Identification verified," came a synthesized female voice. "Derek Sagan, marshal of Sector M-16. Do you desire access to the President?"

  "I do," Saga replied. "Priority One."

  "One moment while your request is forwarded."

  The screen's glow continued to brighten. Removing his hand, Sagan again ran it through his hair. He was not attempting to smarten his appearance before his commander. Far from it. The cool air felt good on his scalp. He rotated his arm, attempting to loosen the tight muscles bunched up in the back of his shoulders. Exercise in the gym, a hot bath, and a rubdown. He wished he'd been able to relax first, but the Cabinet was in session only once a day and he'd cut the timing close as it was.

  The blank screen came to life with a suddenness that never failed to catch Sagan by surprise. Thirty humans and aliens seated at a long oval table had their attention more or less focused on a screen of their own.

  "You stand now before the duly appointed members of the Cabinet of the Galactic Democratic Republic, Citizen General Derek Sagan," the female voice said. "You may proceed."

  Sagan glanced along the length of the table, scanning the thirty faces that stared back at him. Some he recognized, others he did not. That wasn't unusual. He hadn't been in contact with the cabinet for months and there was bound to have been changes. The President liked fresh blood. Sagan's gaze went to the thirty-first face—a face he knew well. The President of the Republic. Wasn't Robes's about due to run for reelection? Sagan did some hasty mental calculation. That could have an effect on his actions.

  "Greetings, Citizen General."

  "Mr. President."

  Robes sat in the center of the group gathered around the table. His hands were clasped casually in front of him; his friendly, open face was smiling. Blond and tan, Robes appeared frank, honest, ingenuous. Sagan was among those who knew the cold, calculating genius beneath the actor's mask.

  "You must have important news for us, Derek," the President said, his words enhanced by the charming smile that had won him so many elections. "Please, don't keep us in suspense!"

  Sagan cringed. As President, this man had the right to call him by his given name, but this familiarity had always irritated the Warlord and he found it grew more irritating as time passed. What were you, Robes, before I put you into power? A political science professor at a small university.

  "I hereby inform the cabinet members and you, Mr. President, that the Guardian Platus Morianna is dead."

  There was a murmur of disapproval from around the table. Robes's expression changed with facile ease from charmed to disappointed. Only Sagan saw the flicker of danger in the eyes.

  "I am distressed to hear this, Derek," the President said with a slight shrug of the shoulders beneath his expensive, tailored business suit. "You are, of course, aware that this man was wanted for public trial—"

  "I was aware of that!" Sagan snapped. He was tired, his control slipping. "Mr. President. As in the case of the Guardian Stavros, I deemed this death necessary."

  There, let them chew on that, he thought, watching with grim satisfaction the quick range of emotions pass over the President's face. Robes removed disappointment and tried on anger; but immediately discarded it—one was rarely angry with a general who controlled one-twentieth of your military forces. The President settled upon mildly threatening.

  "I trust you will make the reasons known in your full report, Citizen General—a report which we will expect to be receiving from you immediately. Have you other news?"

  "Not at this time, Mr. President."

  Robes's bright blue eyes narrowed, regarding Sagan intently. "Very well, Citizen General. Thank you."

  "Mr. President."

  The screen went dark, but Sagan remained standing before it, waiting with as much patience as he ever waited for anything. He knew it wouldn't be long. Robes was noted for quick, decisive action.

  Within moments—just as long as it would take to clear a room of thirty people—the screen came back to life.

  "Sagan. Thank you for waiting."

  The Warlord made no response. The President was alone, the room empty. "Activate scrambler."

  That was to be expected, considering the delicate nature of the discussion. Reaching down, Sagan depressed a button. The annoying buzzing in his ears told him that their conversation could now be held in strictest security. The words spoken by each man were being transmitted in coded audio impulses that could be understood by only these two alone. Although it was highly unlikely that anyone could be monitoring their conversation from the tight security of the sealed Cabinet Room or from the equally tight security aboard Phoenix, this conversation was far too dangerous to take even the tiniest fraction of a chance.

  "Continue," the President said. Now that they were alone, he did not bother to control the eagerness of his expression. "Was he the one you suspected? Did he have the boy? Is the boy with you?"

  "I regret to report that the boy escaped, Mr. President. However"—Derek raised his bandaged hand, seeing the look of eagerness tighten to anger—"I know who has him. I have a description of the craft in which they fled. The alert has gone out to all sectors. But, more important, I have now another, surer means to locate the boy. I have no doubt that he will soon be within our grasp."

  "I am glad that you have no doubts, Derek," Robes said in a low voice. "As for leaving this in the hands of reckless bounty hunters—"

  "If I may be permitted to continue, sir, I will elaborate."

  Frowning, the President tapped a manicured fingernail on the table. He had no choice but to listen, and both h
e and his Warlord knew it. Sagan also knew he would be made to pay for this insubordination at some later date, but he would worry about that later.

  "I have discovered the whereabouts of Lady Maigrey Morianna."

  The Presidential fingernail paused, the emotions on Robes's face were unreadable as he absorbed this unforeseen information, rapidly assimilating in his mind what it might mean to him.

  "Indeed? I had no idea she was still alive."

  "I knew."

  It was a flat answer, carefully delivered. But the President was quick to catch it.

  "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "you must have known. She was . . . rather special to you once, wasn't she, Derek?"

  Sagan disdainfully declined to answer such an impertinent question. His face dispassionate, he regarded the President with the cool gaze of one who waits patiently for a colleague to have his little joke and then get on with the business at hand.

  "No, no, my friend. I was not referring to that!" Robes said with a sly smile. "I refer to the fact that you two were . . . what did they call it?" He made a graceful gesture with his hand. "Mental . . . mental. ..."

  "Mind-linked, sir."

  "Yes, mind-linked. That was it. Quite a fascinating phenomenon. It occurred, as I recall, only between those of the Blood Royal, and infrequently at that. But tell me, Derek, if the woman was not dead, how is it that she has escaped you all these years? The mind-link is not affected by distance."

  "No, sir." Sagan discovered he had to steel himself to discuss the matter. He had not supposed it would be this difficult. "The mind-link is not affected by distance or by anything else in this universe except—"

  He checked his words. "But I will not take up your time with medical and parapsychological details, Mr. President. Suffice it to say that seventeen years ago, the mind-link between Lady Morianna and myself was severed. It has now been reforged. She can no longer hide from me. I know where she is."

  "Then you must apprehend her at once, Derek," the President said, placing his hands palms down upon the table.

  "She is on a planet located somewhere in Sector X-24, sir. General Ghia's sector. I will need some time to search out the planet—"

  "I will make the necessary arrangements with Ghia." The President made a decisive gesture. His next words came hesitantly; he was considering each carefully. "I assume that since you are aware of her, she is also aware of you—"

  "Yes, sir. But there is nothing to fear. She will not escape me."

  "I remind you, Derek, that her brother escaped you— through death."

  "I am aware of that, sir. You forget, my lord, I know this woman. She is a Guardian. The last of the Guardians. As long as the boy lives, her vow to protect him will bind her to this life."

  "You know this to be true? You are in contact?"

  "No, Mr. President." Sagan was beginning to lose patience. His body ached, he needed rest, and there was still work to be done to prepare for his journey. Yet he had to put up with this. "The mind-link is still very fragile. I sense her presence in this universe, as she senses mine. It grows hourly, but she is fighting against it. Only by direct and constant contact will I be able to break down her strong mental barriers. We have time, however. Should she try to take her life, there is one who will stop her."

  "And who is that?"

  "God, Mr. President."

  Sagan had the weary satisfaction of seeing Peter Robes shift uncomfortably in his chair. The President adjusted the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat. To an avowed atheist, as were all good democrats, this bold reference to a god who didn't exist was embarrassing.

  The President abruptly changed the subject.

  "You stated that Lady Maigrey will be of help to you in finding the boy. I fail to understand how, if she is swom to protect him."

  "She is a visionary, sir. She can visualize events as they are transpiring. Once the mind-link is reforged, I will 'persuade' her to contact the boy."

  "She is not a woman who can be easily persuaded, if I remember her correctly."

  "There are ways. You forget, I know her. I know her well," Sagan repeated. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, as though he had drunk tainted water.

  Perhaps the President heard this, even through the scrambler. Or perhaps he saw the grim, dark expression on the already grim face, shadowed by a weariness that came from struggling not so much with outer conflict as with inner.

  "I congratulate you, Derek," Robes said, his hands coming together on the tabletop, fingertips meeting. "It seems that at last, after all these years, our long search is ended. It will be a splendid day when we can bring this royalist to public trial and remind the populace of the injustices they suffered under the monarchy. Her execution should end once and for all this talk of—"

  "May I offer my advice, sir?" Sagan broke in.

  "Since when have you ever felt the need to ask permission, Derek?" Robes said acidly, irritated at having his flow of thought stopped.

  "Allow me to kill her swiftly and quietly when I am finished with her. She is of the Blood Royal, bred to exert a power over the minds and hearts of others. I warn you, if you give her access to the public, she will turn your trial into a royalist forum and make herself a martyr."

  The President's face flushed in anger. The hands on the table slowly clenched. "I have put up with a great deal from you today, Derek. I have allowed you to interrupt me. I have endured references to a religion now known by all to be weak-minded superstition and the practicing of such by all"— he emphasized the word—"considered a traitorous act. I tolerate this in you, Derek, because of my gratitude for the help you have given me in the past and because you are one of the best of my military commanders. But you are only one, Derek. You are one . . . and I am many. Remember that. And never tell me again how I am to run my government."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  "When you have gleaned the necessary information from this woman, she is to be brought to the Congress, fit to stand trial. At such time, you will deliver the boy as well. I don't suppose you have any advice for me concerning him?"

  "No, Mr. President."

  "Very well. Thank you, Citizen General." The President raised his right hand, palm outward in a salute. "The People."

  Sagan raised his right hand. The screen was dimming rapidly. The scrambler carried his last words, but not the image of the curled lip or the flare of contempt in the man's eyes.

  "The People."

  Chapter Seven

  Whereto answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not,

  Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,

  Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death . . .

  Walt Whitman, "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

  Oha-Lau was one of two planets belonging to a small star located in Sector X-24 on the very fringes of the galaxy. The star was noted on the great interstellar space maps by the configuration of QWW31648XX, this indicating its position in the galaxy, the number of planets with some type of life forms, the type of the life forms, and so forth. In point of fact, this number told anyone who knew how to interpret it that this was a star of very little importance. Of its two planets, only one contained life, and it had nothing that would benefit the galaxy at large. The planet's climate was tropical, the land overrun with flora and fauna so varied that botanists had given up categorizing it once they discovered most of it was inedible. (Some of it, in fact, had eaten the botanists.)

  The natives of the planet of QWW31648XX, were human and, so scientists believed, had arrived on the planet centuries before during the second Dark Ages, one of Earth's early colonization periods. That they had come here by accident was almost certain, for why should anyone come on purpose? It was presumed that, sick and tired of wandering among the stars, they had landed their craft here and obliterated all traces of the repressive civilization they had been fleeing.

  In essence—as Sagan told Captain Nada, who did not understand t
he literary reference—the sailors threw the breadfruit trees overboard and went native. They named their planet Oha-Lau, which means "Forgotten." It is presumed the name did not apply so much to those early travelers themselves as to their attitude toward where they'd originated.

  Safe from the ravages of galactic progress, the descendants of those early immigrants led a peaceful existence. They lived in harmony with the lush tropical environment, hunted strange beasts with spears and bows, and dwelt in huts made of woven grass. They danced and feasted and sought, always, to appease the glittering lights in the night sky. For there was a legend, ancient as the dimmest memory of their ancestors, that out of the glittering lights would come doom for the people of Oha-Lau.

  Therefore, when anyone—man or alien, scientist, soldier, or smuggler—landed on Oha-Lau in his fire-tailed bird, the natives treated him with respect, fulfilled his every wish, and hustled him off their planet as speedily as possible. There were few extraterrestrial visitors to Oha-Lau, but on occasion the outside universe did make its presence known. The scientists, of course, spent time on Oha-Lau when its intelligent life-forms were first discovered. Every type of -ologist known to man arrived, confounding the innocent natives with their light-blinking boxes and questions that seemed to mostly concern the coming of age of young women. A military patrol landed once, but promptly left upon ascertaining that these people weren't interested in fighting each other, much less anybody else. And no planet, no matter how insignificant, is ever below the notice of—as they deemed themselves— interplanetary entrepreneurs.

  Oha-Lau did possess one thing of value—to the jewelers if not to the scientists or the military. This was moonrith—a semiprecious gem, much prized in the galaxy for its soft, translucent beauty. Any daring, enterprising businessman who happened to find his way to Oha-Lau generally left with enough moonrith to grant him three months of high living. Those who entertained ideas of returning with mining machines and geologists were invariably disappointed, however, for the natives maintained stolidly that they had no idea where the moonrith could be located. The entrepreneur who entered the jungle in search of it never returned.