"—tify your shelf." Tusk slurred.
"—identify yourself," echoed the pilot, sounding slightly confused. "I repeat, Scimitar. Identify yourself."
"I asked you first," Tusk roared belligerently.
"What's your number, Scimitar? I can't read your markings—"
"I can't see yoursh either." Tusk belched. "They're all kinda fuzzy."
"Give the password."
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Tusk sneered. "Sell that for a couple thousand gold eagles on the smuggler's market."
"Who's your commanding officer, mister?"
"A sonuvabitch. Whose yours?"
"Excuse me, sir—" XJ cut in.
"Stay out of this!" Tusk smacked the computer on the side of its box.
"You enjoyed that!" XJ stated accusingly in an undertone. "Excuse me, sir!" The computer turned up its audio so that it could be heard clearly by the other pilot. "Scimitar out there! Don't shoot!"
"Who are you?"
"Shipboard computer, sir. I hereby report my pilot unfit for duty."
"You filthy—" Tusk mumbled obscenities.
"I tried to alert the deck crew before we took off," XJ continued in injured tones, shouting to be heard over Tusk's swearing. "But they refused to listen to a mere computer. This isn't the first time this has happened. He sucks up the jump-juice before every flight, and frankly I'm getting sick and tired—"
"Who's his commanding officer?"
"I have no idea because one night in a drunken fit—"
"Name, rank, and charge-card number," Tusk leered into the commlink. "That's all yer gettin' outta me!"
"—he erased the name from my memory banks," XJ continued loudly.
"I'll have to report this. Stand by."
"I've had about enough!" Tusk was yelling angrily. "You're not gonna take me alive!"
"He won't shoot, will he?" the pilot asked nervously.
"No, sir. I have the guns under my control," XJ replied.
"I'm reporting this. Wait—"
Dion strained his ears. In the background, he could hear the pilot talking. "I've got a Scimitar here, long-range, out of position. Pilot appears to be inebriated. Yes, sir. Computer confirms. No, I can't read the numbers. Covered by carbon scoring." The voice faded, then returned. "Yes, sir."
While this conversation was ongoing, a series of numbers flashed on XJ's screen. Looking at them intently, Tusk flicked his hands over his control panel and nodded just as the pilot's voice crackled back.
"I have been ordered to escort you to the docking bay where a tractor beam will be locked on and you—"
"No, Commander, you idiot!" XJ screeched in such real-sounding panic that Dion's heart lurched into his throat. "Not that button!"
A brilliant flare of color seared the boy's eyes. His entire body turned inside out—skin peeled back, living organs laid bare, bones exposed.
He felt one last horrible moment of sickening fear. . . .
"You okay, kid?"
Dion opened his eyes to see Tusk's face hanging over him. The boy was lying stretched out in one of the hammocks.
"I'm all right," he mumbled. His head ached and he put his hand to it. "What happened? Were we hit?"
"Naw, just the Jump. Does that to people sometimes. Sorry I couldn't warn you, but I didn't dare risk giving us away. Feels like you're being turned inside out, doesn't it?"
Dion started to nod, but that only made his head hurt worse.
"Don't worry. You'll get over it. Each Jump gets a little easier."
"Where are we?"
"A long way from home, kid. The Lanes. Know what those are?"
Memories of lessons with Platus returned. The early morning breeze blowing through the open windows carried the spicy smell of sage and wildflowers. The wind flipped the pages of the books, raffled the young pupil's red-golden hair, stirred the thin blond hair of his teacher.
Dion closed his eyes, averting his head.
"Not feelin' so good, huh? Better get some sleep, kid. I'm gonna take a shower."
A warm, firm hand closed over the boy's, giving it anawkward squeeze. Then the hand was gone. Boots scraped across the metal deck. Dion heard Tusk pull open one of the storage containers and begin to rummage around in it. Burning tears crept from beneath the boy's eyelids. Rolling over, he muffled his face in his pillow.
"Damn you, Platus!" he cried. He bit into the fabric, trying to stop the sob that welled up in his throat. "Damn you!"
Across the small cabin, Tusk exploded in a barrage of obscenity. "My shorts! They're all tied in fuckin' knots! XJ! You ..."
Darkness closed over Dion, and he wept.
Chapter Six
But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded . . .
Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France
The Warlord's shuttle landed on Phoenix without ceremony—no lines of troops drawn up to salute him, no drums, bells, or whistles as was practiced on other ships of other Warlords in the galaxy. Four of his Honor Guard preceded him from the ship, lining up at the door two on either side, clenched fists over their hearts. After he had passed, they fell smartly into step behind him, following him as he crossed the deck of the landing dock. No one else in the dock or in any of the corridors of the ship into which the Warlord walked appeared to take the least notice of the fact that their commanding officer—military lord of one entire sector of the galaxy—was walking past.
Derek Sagan had no patience with waste. Men concerned with other duties stopping their work, snapping to attention, and saluting every time he came into view was a waste of time and energy not to be tolerated. It was a show of false respect. He'd know men salute an officer to his face and shoot him in the back at the first opportunity.
Sagan did not demand respect of his men. He commanded it by example. Discipline on his ship was severe, but he was hardest on himself. His word was law and when that law was broken his judgment was swift and often harsh—as it had been against the university he'd discovered harboring Stavros. Those under his command feared him as they feared God. (Perhaps more. The Creator, after all, was a nebulous being spoken of by priests who were no longer around. Derek Sagan was flesh and blood and in close proximity.) His men feared him, yet the most honored and valued position that could be held in this ship was to be selected as one of his own personal guard.
Sagan strode rapidly through the corridors, appearing to take little interest in his surroundings. Yet everyone knew that the eyes hidden by the shadow of his helm saw everything, noted every detail of shipboard operation from a scrap of food bar wrapper littering the metal deck to a malfunction light flashing its warning on a control panel. Men walked past him with studiously averted eyes, jaw muscles clenched, their bodies unconsciously straightening to achieve the stalwart posture of their Warlord. Sagan was proud of his ship and his men and he liked to see that pride reflected in both. Both—it seemed—went out of their way to please him.
A gesture from his gloved hand brought one of the guard forward. "Where is the admiral? He was informed of my arrival?"
"Yes, my lord. He is on the bridge. He thought he should remain there until the planet was secure."
"My compliments to the admiral, and request him and Captain Nada to meet me in the committee room with their reports."
"Yes, my lord."
The centurion fell back a pace behind the Warlord, relaying the message via the communications linkage in his helmet. Sagan continued walking. His boots rang on the metal deck, the red cape that denoted his high rank swelled out behind him.
The Warlord was essentially a guest on Phoenix, Admiral Aks's flagship. Aks was in command of the fleet, Captain Nada in command of the ship. Thus Sagan's polite usage of the word request. Everyone on board Phoenix knew the true meaning of the word, however. Both the admiral and the ship's captain were awaiting Sagan when he entered the committee room.
Sagan's official rank in the Republic was actuall
y Citizen General. His title was Marshal. There were numerous marshals scattered throughout the galaxy. Following the establishment of the democracy, the President had placed these commanders in charge of maintaining law and order—sort of an interplanetary police force. However, during the years of governmental confusion that naturally followed the revolution, several of the marshals began acquiring more and more power. (As Derek Sagan was once heard to observe, "If it's lying around loose, someone will pick it up.) The news media began referring to these generals as "Warlords.
The appellation was meant to be derogatory Derek Sagan took it as a compliment. Even after the political situation stabilized and the Congress and President had gained control, Sagan continued, despite howls from the liberal press, to refer to himself as "Warlord." His men addressed him as "my lord. " It sounded more suitable. Derek Sagan was, after all, of noble—if slightly unorthodox—birth.
"No interruptions," the Warlord informed his guards, who took their accustomed places outside the door.
The committee room was huge, one of the largest aboard ship. Several hundred crewmen could stand within its round walls and not feel the least cramped. It was empty of all furnishings; no viewport broke the vast sweep of black walls. The only object in the room was a large vidscreen located at one end.
"My apologies for bringing you here, Admiral, Captain," Sagan said as the door slid shut behind him. "I know this has been a long and tiring day for both of you. I must contact the President, however, and I want to hear your reports first. Then you may return to your duties or your rest, whichever I have taken you from."
Numerous small lights located in the ceiling could illuminate the room as brightly as day when necessary. The committee room was in relative darkness now, the need for conserving energy always uppermost in every captain's mind. Small pools of light shone at intervals, therefore, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. The admiral and Captain Nada stood in one pool of light in the center of the vast circular floor. Sagan stepped from bright light into darkness, where he was lost for several seconds, the sounds of his footsteps the only indication of his presence. Both the admiral and captain knew they were under his scrutiny. The admiral was relaxed. Captain Nada was not. Sweat beaded on the captain's lip and he swallowed several times. Nada was unhappily aware that his report was not a good one.
"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."
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