"Things were looking so good, back then—"
"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make it. We'll be fine." He thought about the medical insurance—or lack of it. "We'll be fine," he said again. "We've been in worse situations than this."
"Yes, but usually people were shooting at us," Nola said, teasing.
Tusk didn't laugh, however. He was staring at the half-full beer bottle, moving it back and forth restlessly on the tabletop. Nola knew the signs.
"Tusk—" she began, but at that moment son John came over, demanding orange juice.
Nola gave the child a drink, then caught hold of him as he was about to toddle off, examined him closely.
"Tusk, you've been feeding him cookies! And you know what sweets can do to his teeth!"
"No, I haven't!" Tusk protested.
"Well, someone has," said Nola severely. She turned the boy around for exhibition. "Look at this. Cookie crumbs all down the front of his shirt. And here's half of a cookie stuffed into his pants."
"It wasn't me," said Tusk, surveying the incriminating evidence. "Maybe it was Nan at the Laundromat."
"Who gave you the cookies, Johnny?" Nola asked, lifting the child into her lap.
Caught by the enemy, young John made a valiant effort to protect his source.
"Pinball," he said—a new word and one of which he was inordinately proud. He looked hopefully at his father, attempting at the same time to squirm out of the interrogator's grasp. "Daddy play."
"Not now." Tusk reached out and ruffled the child's thick black hair. "Maybe later."
"John, who gave you the cookies? No, no more orange juice. Tell mama."
So it was to be torture. John eyed the orange juice that had been scooted across the table, just out of reach. He left his comrade to his fate.
"Dranpa," said the child, reaching out his hands for the bottle.
"Grandpa?" Nola stared at Tusk. "Who's he talking about?" She gave John a drink of juice.
"Beats me," said Tusk, puzzled. Then, "I know. XJ!"
"You're kidding!"
"Why, that hypocritical old fart. Going on and on about how much he hates the kid and slipping him cookies on the sly." Tusk rubbed his hands. "This is too good. I'll hang on to this. Maybe catch XJ in the act. He'll owe me big on this one!"
"When you do, let me know. I'm going to have a little talk with 'Dranpa.' There you go, Johnny. Go play." Nola set the child down on the floor, absentmindedly ate the rest of his cookie. "What's wrong, Tusk?"
He glanced up. "Tell mama?" He smiled at her.
"Or no more beer." She took hold of the can, smiled back.
"I was thinking about starting work again," Tusk said, not looking at her.
Nola paled a little beneath the freckles. "You mean mercenary work?"
Tusk nodded. Lifting his beer, he drank it, made a face. "Damn stuff's warm."
"Is that what Dixter called you about?"
"Yes. No. Well, sort of. He wants me to check out this organization he heard about. The Ghost Legion. I told you about them, showed you the vid they sent."
"Yes, but you're not seriously considering going?" She looked at him anxiously.
Tusk took her hand again. "We're up against it, sweetheart. I found out today that we don't have any medical coverage—"
"Oh, Tusk .. ." Nola sighed.
"Just one job. Until we can get back on our feet."
"But what about Link? The plane? He's half-owner. . . ."
"They're mainly interested in pilots. I'll leave Link the plane. He can continue the business. He doesn't need me to run it. The customers like him. You and XJ can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't gamble away all the profits."
"But if Dixter wants you to check this Ghost Whatzit out, he must think there's something wrong with it."
"Naw. Just routine."
Not for the first time, Tusk blessed his ebony complexion. If he'd been a white-skinned human, he'd have been red to the eyeballs and Nola would have spotted his lie in an instant.
As it was, she was staring at him, hard. "Routine, huh? Dixter has a staff of a couple of thousand people, not to mention spies of every shape, race, and nationality, and he comes to you to run a routine check?" Her eyes narrowed. "There's something you're not telling me."
"I swear. Just routine. Maybe he heard we were hard up and wanted to throw some bucks our way. This Ghost Legion's offering big money, Nola. Big, big money. More'n I could earn in a year. And it'd be all ours. No splitting it with Link. We'll invest it, live off it until we get the business going again."
"If you come back alive," Nola said somberly.
If I don't, there's the death benefits they've promised to pay to the surviving family members, was what Tusk almost said, but he snapped his mouth shut. More than half-afraid she might see in his eyes what he was thinking (she'd done that to him, more than once), Tusk took this opportunity to excuse himself.
"I'm going to the head."
He stayed in there long enough to change back into the old jaunty, devil-may-care Mendaharin Tusca, former mercenary who'd defeated a powerful Warlord, defeated evil aliens from a distant galaxy, helped put a king on his throne. Yep. Those had been the days. Just him and XJ-27. As long as he'd had money enough to buy jump-juice and spare parts for his spaceplane, Tusk hadn't given a damn about anything. Now he had a wife, a child, two more kids on the way. . . . It'd be good to go back, just for a little while.
Coming out, he found Nola sitting in the chair, holding her son in her overlarge lap, singing to him quietly. Tusk stopped a moment to look at them. John was yawning, rubbing his eyes fretfully. It was nap time. Nola laid his head against her breast, began to rock him back and forth. He struggled against sleep a moment, then gave in. His eyelids drooped. Nola lay her cheek against the curly head, held her child close.
Tears stung Tusk's eyes. He couldn't believe how much he loved her, how precious she was to him, how precious his son was. Yeah, he'd beaten a Warlord, been a king-maker. But who'd fought at his side? She had. The thought of leaving her, leaving his son, leaving them both for a long time, maybe forever . . .
He turned abruptly, put a coin in the machine, got another beer. He held on to it tightly, drew a couple of deep breaths, drank a swallow to clear the choking sensation in his throat.
Back to the old life. The old, lonely, empty life.
Going over to Nola, he put his hand on her shoulder, pulled her close to him. She pressed her head against his thigh.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, stroking her hair.
She wore her hair clipped short because of the heat. He thought back to the first time he'd seen her, sitting in Dixter's sweltering office. Short, pudgy, freckle-faced, snippy ... Tusk had taken an immediate dislike to her. She hadn't thought much of him.
Nola was smiling.
"I was thinking about the time when we were on Sagan's ship, getting ready to fight the Corasians. I was thinking about what you said to me." She raised her head, looked up at him. "Do you remember? You said, 'All I know is that when I'm with you, I can do things I never thought I could do. If there's a way to beat this thing, it'll take us together to do it.'"
She couldn't go on. Lowering her head over the baby's, she began to cry.
"Don't," he whispered. "Don't, sweetheart."
"Damn hormones!" she sobbed.
"I won't go," Tusk said, bending down to put his arms around her and around his slumbering son. "Not without you. I don't know what made me think I ever could."
Chapter Six
. . . married past redemption.
John Dryden, Marriage a la Mode
Dion Starfire stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying his reflection. He observed himself critically, carefully adjusting the sleeves of the black uniform jacket to permit only a proper fraction of white shirt cuff to show beneath them. The knife-edged crease of his black trousers fell in a correct line to the tops of the high-gloss black shoes. The jacket was darted in at the waist, emphasizing
the king's fine physique.
He shook out his red-gold hair, thick and luxuriant. He wore it long, rampant, like a lion's mane. The red hair had become his symbol; that and the lion-faced sun. The two were often combined by political cartoonists. Red hair was quite the fashion these days. The galaxy over, young men were wearing their hair long and having it dyed.
He could see, in the mirror, the reflection of the servbot approaching, carrying a purple sash.
"No," Dion told the 'bot, not taking his eyes from his image. "I'm not wearing either that or the medals today."
"Very good, sir. May I inquire if His Majesty plans to wear the full regalia for the formal dinner?"
The servbot had been programmed at the finest training facility for gentleman's gentlemen in the galaxy. It was familiar with all forms of etiquette practiced galaxy-wide, could recommend the proper neckwear for any occasion, knew what wine went with what dish, kept His Majesty's social calendar for the next five years in its computer brain, and would kill on command.
"Yes. The media will be there."
The blue eyes, the Starfire eyes, with their intense and startling gaze, the reflected eyes regarded him—the real him— with a cold and unblinking stare. It occurred to Dion that they didn't know him; the eyes might have been staring at a stranger. They didn't know him any better than he knew them.
His own reflection. Everywhere he went, that's all he saw. In mirrors, in people's eyes, in camera lenses. On screens, on monitors. In mags, in the vids. Flat, without depth, dimension. Distant, cold, unreachable, untouchable. Unreal. A shadow . . . colorized.
The door to his dressing room opened behind him. Dion saw it open in the mirror, saw the reflection of the person entering. His wife. She, too, was perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They rarely saw each other when each was not perfect.
He did not turn around, kept his eyes on the eyes in the mirror.
"Good morning, madam," he said, with a politic smile.
"Good morning, sir," Astarte replied coolly, with a very slight lowering of her eyelids, a slight bow of the elegant head.
Formalities must be observed, with others present, even if it was only a servbot. Reporters had attempted to conceal cams in such 'bots before now. Though the odds on one succeeding were extremely slim, their Majesties knew better than to take chances.
Astarte entered the room, stood gazing at Dion in silence, a cosmetic smile on her lips, a look in her eyes that her husband knew well.
"That will be all, Simmons. I'll be leaving within the hour.'
"Very good, sir. Your Majesties." The 'bot flickered its lights in deference to the king and queen and trundled out of the dressing room, gently and unobtrusively closing the door behind it.
"You're leaving this morning?" Astarte demanded once they were alone. "Where are you going?"
"I beg your pardon, madam." Dion, adjusting his cuffs, spoke to her reflection. "I requested D'argent to provide you with a copy of my travel itinerary. If he hasn't done so, I will—"
"Oh, he's done so." Astarte said with a sigh, folding her slender arms across her chest.
Dion shrugged, as if he couldn't understand the fuss. "Then you know I am traveling to the Academy, for the formal dedication ceremony. I am the founder. It is my duty."
"I know where you're going. . . ."
"Then why did you ask, madam?"
"We could have gone together," Astarte said quietly.
A slight flush stained Dion's pale cheeks. He glanced down, away from his reflection, made a pretense of buttoning one of the golden buttons on his cuff.
"Yes, my dear, I thought of that. I sent my secretary to discuss the schedule with your secretary. D'argent reported back to me that there were conflicts—"
"My secretary! Your secretary!" Astarte came to stand beside him, looked at him, not at the mirror. "Why don't we ever talk to each other? I could have rearranged things, put some things off, rescheduled. Nothing was that important. We could have traveled together." She put her hand on her husband's arm.
Dion flinched away from her touch, moved a step away from her. He realized what he'd done only when he saw her hand hanging immobile in the empty space between them. He saw her face ... in the mirror.
Astarte was beautiful. He looked at her reflection and knew she was beautiful. Her long, shining black hair was worn in the twists and coils that had some sort of religious significance—he didn't know what, he'd never asked—and perfectly framed her small, delicate oval face. Her eyes were wide and the color of port wine, made dark by the long, black lashes. Her mouth was perfectly formed, the lips sensually curved. She was full-breasted, slender-waisted, with slim hips. She was short in stature, but extremely well-proportioned, and, by careful attention to her clothes, appeared taller than she was.
The daughter of a warrior mother—DiLuna, ruler of the wealthy and powerful star system of Ceres—Astarte had not been at all what Dion had expected when he had married her, sight unseen, almost three years previous. Her mother was a tall, long-limbed warrior woman, strong as most males, fierce, proud, a hard bargainer. Most of her numerous daughters (DiLuna scorned to give birth to a male child) were like their mother.
Astarte was different. Perhaps this difference was because she was High Priestess for her people. Or perhaps she'd become High Priestess because of the difference. Dion didn't know. Again, he hadn't asked. She was the embodiment of womanhood, the nurturing mother.
With nothing to nurture.
Dion knew immediately where this quarrel was leading—the same place their quarrels always led. The bedroom.
"I'm sorry things didn't work out, madam. I was only going by what D'argent told me. What your secretary told him. Perhaps next time. And now, if you will excuse me, I have several calls to make before I leave."
He started toward the door. He took two steps, but she was there in front of him, her hand on his arm. This time he forced himself to hold still.
"Yes, madam," he said, trying to keep irritation from showing its edge in his voice, "what is it you want? I fear you must be quick—"
"Why haven't you been in our bed for a month, Dion?" she demanded. Her eyes were wide, trying to draw him inside. "Why?" She tightened her grip.
Dion, mindful of the reflection, gave a practiced smile. "You know how busy I've been, madam. I'm up until all hours. I know you're busy, too. I don't want to disturb you—"
"Disturb me! I talk of making love to you and you talk of 'disturbing' me! We will never have a child if you are not a husband to me."
"I've been a husband to you, madam," Dion said, breaking free of his wife's grip. Turning from her, he reached for a pair of white gloves that he'd almost forgotten. He began to pull one on. "For one and a half, two years, I performed my duty faithfully."
"Duty!" Astarte repeated, following him, forcing herself into his line of sight. "That's what it is to you—duty!"
"And what is it to you?" he asked quietly, lifting his gaze from the gloves.
"I—" Astarte began, but she stopped. Tilting back her head, chin high, she stared at him, said nothing.
Dion nodded, picked up the other glove. "We discussed this on our wedding night. You don't love me, madam. I don't love you. We've never made a secret of that to each other. This was a political marriage, made for the sake of uniting the galaxy. Your mother got what she wanted. I got what I wanted—"
"But what about me?" Astarte asked softly.
Dion raised his head again, glanced at her briefly. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "You are queen of the galaxy, my dear." He turned from her again, ready to leave. "And now, if you will excuse me—"
Astarte again caught hold of his arm, pulled him around to face her. "We are the talk of the media. 'When will a royal heir be born?' 'Almost three years, and the queen is not pregnant.' 'Is it him?' 'Is it her?' 'The king undergoes medical tests.' The queen undergoes medical tests.' 'Nothing is wrong with either of them.' Nothing except that we sleep in separate bedrooms!"
; "There are ways, madam." Dion was carefully maintaining patience, control. "We've discussed this before. Artificial insemination—"
"That is against my religion!" Astarte shouted at him. "You know that!"
"It's not against mine," Dion returned. "And keep your voice down."
"Let them hear!" Astarte waved her hand toward the door. "Let the whole palace hear! A child must be born of the union between husband and wife. Not between wife and test tube! And that is another thing. You promised you would advocate the worship of the Goddess. You promised you would help encourage her worship throughout the galaxy. Another promise broken! Like your promise to be faithful to your wife."
Dion's face paled in anger; his eyes shone bright and hard and they had gone ice blue, like a frozen lake beneath winter clouds. He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
"I have been faithful to you, madam," he said, his voice shaking with tension, the need to remain in control. "You know I have."
"With your body, maybe, sir." Astarte released her hold on him suddenly, pushed him, as if she were flinging him away. "Not with your soul."
Dion stared at her. His lips compressed tightly, holding back words he might have been tempted to speak. She gazed at him, head tilted upward, her chin thrust slightly forward. Slowly she straightened, stiffened. Her arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze did not falter. It was Dion who lowered his eyes. Giving a stiff, cool nod, he turned and opened the door, stepped out into the hallway. —
Two sets of the Royal Guard came to attention—the King's Guard, who stood outside His Majesty's door and accompanied him wherever he went, and the Queen's Guard, who did the same for Her Majesty.
Returning their salute, Dion placed himself in the center of their ranks. The guards closed in around him and proceeded down the corridor, heading for His Majesty's private suite of offices.
Astarte remained in the dressing room, staring after him. The women who formed the Queen's Guard (warriors from Astarte's own planet) kept their faces immobile, impassive, as had the men who formed the King's Guard. All pretending they had not heard.
When the rhythmic tread of booted feet had faded, when the king had entered his own private lift, to be whisked away to the public part of the Glitter Palace, Astarte finally left the room. The Queen's Guard closed around Her Majesty, the tall forms of the female warriors towering over their diminutive ruler.
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