The Lost King (8 page)

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, but
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.