The Lost King (10 page)

"Captain,
proceed." The voice resounded from the darkness.

"Yes, my lord."
Nada cleared his throat. "The planet Syrac Seven is completely
secure, my lord. Martial law is in effect. Reports of the sighting of
an enemy invasion force have been transmitted to the heads of each of
the governments of the planet and all have given us their complete
support."

"Yes, yes,
Captain," Sagan responded with a touch of impatience. "What
of the blockade?"

Nada heard an unusual
tenseness in the Warlord's voice and the captain wondered what had
happened down below. It was known that one of the Guardians had been
located and executed on Syrac Seven, but Guardians had been executed
before without the need for sending the entire civilian population of
a planet into a state of panic. And now Sagan talking of contacting
the President! It didn't make the captain's news any easier to
deliver, particularly when he knew nothing about what was
transpiring.

Nada glanced at his
admiral, but Aks remained staring straight ahead, leaving his captain
without support. There was little love lost between these two. Aks
was an old friend of Sagan's, devotedly loyal to his lord. Nada was a
staunch democrat.

"The blockade was
successful, my lord, with . . . um . . . one exception."

Nada paused, struggling
to keep command of his voice. The Warlord had not moved, but the
captain knew his lordship was displeased, knew it by the very fact
that Sagan had not moved, that not a finger twitched, not a fold of
cape stirred.

"Several pilots
attempted to fight, my lord. As you ordered, we did not return fire
but surrounded them and each was forced to land. They were arrested
and are being held as you requested on the planet's surface for
interrogation. First reports indicate that most of them are ordinary
criminals, my lord, wanted for a variety of offenses."

"The one
exception, Captain Nada."

"One of our pilots
reported contact with a long-range Scimitar—"

"Long-range!"
Sagan broke in. "Why were those deployed?"

"They weren't, my
lord, and that made our man suspicious. Upon being requested to
identify himself, the long-range pilot was discovered to be
intoxicated and was further reported unfit for duty by his shipboard
computer. The plane's markings were obscured by heavy carbon scoring
and so could not be identified through usual channels. Our pilot
informed the pilot of the Scimitar that he would be escorted back to
base when—"

The Warlord, hands
behind his back beneath his cape, stepped into a pool of light.
"—when the Scimitar, having maneuvered itself into
position during the conversation, found an open Lane and made the
Jump."

"Why, yes, my
lord!" Nada stared at his lordship in amazement. "That's
exactly what happened."

"I assume the
standard data on the plane was recorded?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Have photographs
relayed to Syrac Seven and show them to the inhabitants of the city
closest to where the Guardian lived—"

"Begging your
lordship's pardon," Nada said, somewhat stiffly, "but that
has already been done. The plane was identified by the owner of an RV
lot where it had been parked. It belonged to a young man known only
as Tusk. The Scimitar was one of ours—stolen, of course. The
young man apparently lived in the plane. He was a dock worker, but
the lot owner was under the impression that this was only a temporary
job. The young man dressed like a mercenary and would often disappear
for several months at a time, always returning to the planet with
money."

"Had he said
anything about leaving?"

"No, my lord,
apparently not. According to the lot owner, this Tusk had rented the
lot for several months and spoke of spending the time making
necessary repairs to his plane. The lot owner stated that he was
extremely surprised when Tusk appeared yesterday afternoon, paid his
overdue rent in gold, and said he would be leaving the next morning
before dawn. The landlord was suspicious and stated that he had
considered reporting the matter to the police."

"Suspicious of
what?"

"The gold, my
lord. He had never seen coinage like it and he thought they might be
counterfeit."

"He didn't report
it?"

"No, my lord. He
knew the police had more important matters to worry about."

"In other words,
he found out the coins were genuine."

"Precisely, my
lord."

Nada began to gain
confidence. If it had not seemed too impossible, the captain could
have sworn he thought he saw Sagan's tight-lipped mouth relax in a
smile, just visible beneath the helmet.

"Do you have a
description of this young man?"

"Yes, my lord. He
is human, black-skinned, age approximately twenty-six, and he wears—"

"A silver earring
in the shape of a star in his left earlobe." Derek Sagan spoke
softly, almost to himself.

"My God, my lord!"

Captain Nada looked
stunned. He had heard rumors of the Warlord's extrahuman mental
abilities, but he had never seen them displayed and truly believed
they were no more than rumor. But this . . . this was—

"Put out a report
at once, Captain. To all sectors. The black human known as Tusk—full
name Mendaharin Tusca— originally wanted for desertion from the
Navy of the Galactic Democratic Republic, is now wanted for
questioning by the Revolutionary Congress. Tusca is to be captured
alive. Make that understood—especially to those trigger-happy
bounty hunters. As a deserter, there must be a reward already offered
for him. Find out what it is and quadruple it. But no bounty will be
paid if he's brought in dead or in any condition that renders him
useless to us. The same applies to the passenger he's carrying. "

"Passenger?"
Nada raised his eyebrows, then caught the Warlord's cold-eyed stare.
"Yes, my lord. Is—is there a description of the passenger
as well?"

"A boy, about
seventeen," Sagan said in low tones, one hand tapping restlessly
against his thigh. "He might possibly have— No, belay
that. Don't put out any description at all on the passenger." He
raised the gloved hand. "I want it emphasized. Taken alive!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Thank you,
Captain. You are dismissed."

"Yes, my lord.
Thank you, my lord."

Bowing, fist over his
heart, Captain Nada left the committee room. When the door had closed
behind him, Sagan yanked off the war helmet and ran his hand through
his long, damp hair.

"The captain takes
you for a phenomenon," Admiral Aks remarked, the first words he
had spoken since the Warlord entered the room. "I must admit
that I, too, am impressed—"

"Bah!" Sagan
shrugged, then winced and began to tug irritably at the tight
bandages that had been hastily wrapped around his left forearm. The
movement brought the hem of his red robe into the full light, and Aks
noticed that the usually glittering gold border was soaked in blood.

"The Guardian
resisted," Aks said, his gaze on the stain and on his lordship's
wound.

"The fool impaled
himself on my sword!" Sagan said with an impatient gesture that
brought another grimace of pain. "I'm getting too old for this,
Aks."

"Nonsense, my
lord." At age sixty, the admiral was older than his Warlord by
twelve years and considered the subject of old age an indelicate one,
if not positively insulting. "You've had no rest for twenty-four
hours. You're tired, that's all."

"Twenty-four
hours. The day was, Aks, when twenty-four hours without sleep was
nothing to me. But those times are gone . . . like so much else."
He fell silent, the tanned face dark and brooding.

Aks shifted
uncomfortably. His lordship invariably fell into these dark moods
after an encounter with one of the Guardians. The slightest
infraction brought a snarl of anger. Men walked on tiptoe in his
presence. Aks hoped devoutly that all this would end soon.

"And so you
believe the boy is traveling with this . . . Mendaharin Tusca?"
Aks brought the conversation back to official business.

"Of course!"
Sagan flexed the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. "Nada
thinks I'm exhibiting my mystical powers but it's a matter of simple
deduction. A dock worker suddenly pays his landlord off in golden
coins of a type never seen before on this planet. Not only that, but
the mercenary escapes Syrac Seven at the earliest opportunity. He has
the boy, you may be certain."

"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.