Tusk, coming up behind him, took the opportunity to stare intently at the shirt, wondering what about it had attracted the boy's attention.
Actually, it wasn't a shirt so much as tunic. It was loose-fitting, obviously homemade, with a slit opening for the head and raglan sleeves. Some sort of fanciful design had been embroidered on the cloth with shiny silver thread. Beyond the fact that the tunic was handmade—and a clumsy job of sewing at that, thought Tusk, who was accustomed to mending his own clothes on long flights—there was nothing special about it. . . .
The decorative embroidery.
Around the neck, around the hem of the sleeves and the hem of the tunic itself glistened tiny symbols—eight-pointed stars.
Tusk's good mood evaporated.
"Open up, XJ! And say, what about the air cooler? It's hotter than hell's kitchen in here!"
"Do you realize how much fuel we use up running that system? And have you seen the prices on this planet?" the computer demanded. "Besides, the perfect temperature for a human being, nude, with no wind, is eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Which is the current interior temperature—"
"Fine. I'll hang around here nude!"
"Nude! You—!" XJ's circuits jammed, it was so outraged that it momentarily lost its voice. "I run a respectable plane! What would people think? Suppose General Dixter dropped in! And do you have any idea what they're charging us for electricity on this planet? It's criminal—"
The hatch whirred open. Dion pulled himself up and out. Tusk—his gaze fixed with a weird sort of fascination on the boy's tunic—followed more slowly. What was it? A sign to someone? Some sort of superstitious protective nonsense? I wonder if lasbeams would bounce off . . .
Tusk grinned at himself. You're headed for the edge. And you're letting the kid and that damn computer drive you there! It's a pretty design. That's all. A pretty design.
The two walked swiftly across the burning hot pavement. Tusk shot a glance at Dion's face, but he might have read more emotion in the concrete beneath his feet. Whatever the kid knew or was thinking, he was keeping it to himself.
I should dump him, leave him here, Tusk decided. He's an eighty-year-old man inside a seventeen-year-old body. And a cold and calculating old man at that. That "stand off, don't touch me" air of his sets my teeth on edge. To say nothing of the fact that he now knows as much or more about that damn spaceplane as I do! Speaks eighty languages, but only thirty fluently! Ha! Why did I let that electronic nightmare of mine talk me into this? I should have followed my instincts and gotten rid of the kid like I planned. I should have—
"Hey!" Dion tugged on the sleeve of Tusk's shirt and pointed. "Isn't that the direction you said the headquarters was?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry, guess I wasn't watching where I was going. I got a lot on my mind."
Quit kicking yourself. You didn't have to listen to XJ. Sure, life on board the plane would have been hell for a while, but the computer would've gotten over it eventually. It was your own damn curiosity got you into this. You had to know.
Well, he thought gloomily, now maybe you're gonna find out.
General Dixter's headquarters were easily visible once the two got out beyond the jumble of planes parked in the spaceport. Painted the same tan color as the arid, barren land surrounding it, the mobile trailer appeared—by some trick of the eye—to be close to the port. In actuality, it turned out to be about five miles away, as Tusk realized wearily when he and the boy set out walking. A hitched ride from a passing hoverjeep took them to their destination.
Dion looked with disfavor on the hand-painted sign over the door. He couldn't read the lettering but presumed it was regulation military—the language taught to all those who entered the Commonwealth's Armed Forces. Computer devised, the language had been designed primarily to develop manuals that could be read and understood by all races, but it had degenerated into a spoken language that was a crude mixture of military alpha—as it was called—and several major languages in the galaxy. Translators were far better for daily communication and were relied upon heavily, but this unofficial language had gained favor among the troops-—particularly the mercenaries, who had modified it to their own sort of cant.
"What does that say?" Dion asked, pointing at the sign.
"Oh, so's there's something you can't understand?" Tusk remarked, still preoccupied with his inner misgivings.
The boy's flashing blue eyes brought the mercenary up short.
"Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to be sarcastic. Just in a bad mood." Tusk felt his face grow warm and was thankful that his dusky skin hid his embarrassed flush. "The sign's written in grunt-speak. Says 'Army Headquarters.' It's no wonder your master never taught this to you. For one thing, it isn't recorded anywhere. For another, it's probably a lot different than what it was years ago. And for third, the Guardians were above this sort of thing. We grunts use it. That's where the name came from."
"Will you teach it to me?"
"I'll try." Tusk was dubious. "Only it really just sort of grows on you—"
"Like a virus?" Dion's voice was cool, but the mercenary— looking at the boy sharply—saw a smile in the blue eyes.
"Yeah." Tusk relaxed and grinned. Sometimes he had to admit he kind of liked this kid. "Yeah, like a virus."
The mercenary climbed up several rickety stairs and shoved open a screen door that had—from the smell—been recently repainted. Strolling inside with easy nonchalance, Tusk turned to say something to Dion and discovered he wasn't there. The boy was holding back, outside the door, his lips stretched taut, his face so pale the mercenary was half-convinced he could see through the translucent skin. It was as if the kid thought his life's fate were going to be decided in the next three minutes.
Catching hold of the sleeve of the boy's tunic, Tusk hauled him inside.
"Hi, Bennett. I'm Tusk, remember? Here to see the general," the mercenary said to a soldier seated at a desk.
Bennett's neatly pressed and immaculate uniform was in marked contrast to what the boy had seen the other mercenaries wearing—everything from loincloths to long, flowing robes, to nothing but scaly skin.
"One moment, sir."
The aide stood up from his desk. After giving Tusk a sharp, appraising glance and letting his eyes flick briefly and euriously over the boy standing tense and tight as a drawn bowstring at the mercenary's side, Bennett vanished into an adjoining room, carefully closing the door behind him.
Tusk strolled over to examine several maps that had been Velcroed onto fuzzy boards and hung on the wall. Though every window in the place was wide open, it was only slightly cooler inside than out, he noted, mopping sweat from his brow. The air-conditioning must have broken down again. An ancient fan standing on top of a file cabinet near the aide's desk whirled its blades industriously. The only apparent effect it was having, however, was to require that every scrap of paper be held down by a weight. The aide returned.
"The general will see you—" Bennett began formally, but his words were run over by the man himself, who came out of his office to meet them.
"Tusk! Where've you been?" Dixter grasped the mercenary's hand and shook it warmly. "I was told you requested our coordinates. But that was days ago! Didn't you Jump?"
"Into a war zone, sir?" Tusk shook his head.
Dixter grinned. "This isn't that much of a war. Still, it pays the bills. Come in. Come in. And your friend, too. How did you make out on Rinos 4? I heard from Ridion that you got caught in that mess—"
Dion—not expecting the general's sudden arrival—had leaned over the desk to examine the aide's computer. His face was averted when Dixter entered the room, and by the time the boy stood up and turned toward him, the general had started back into his office, his hand resting on Tusk's shoulder.
Tusk launched into a doleful account of flying his spaceplane smack into the middle of a civil war. The general was listening sympathetically, his eyes fixed on the mercenary. Dion slipped in behind Tusk and stood with his back to the wall. Wh
ile the two soldiers discussed the civil war on Rinos—in which, apparently, the general had considered taking part, then rejected as being a no-win situation—the boy studied both his surroundings and the man in charge.
The room in the general's trailer drew his attention first. Not because as a room it was anything extraordinary—it wasn't, being small and boxlike with two windows, a closet, and a large fan. What captured the boy's attention was that the walls were papered from ceiling to floor with antique maps and star charts. Dion had never seen so many maps or imagined that so many maps existed and could be gathered together in one space. Rolls of maps hung from hooks, maps were nailed to the walls or had been stuck up with masking tape. And some of the maps seemed—to Dion's fascinated gaze—to be clinging to the wood of their own volition.
Maps of star systems vied for attention with maps of planets, maps of countries, and—stuck up in a prominent place near the general's desk—a street map of some city. Hundreds more maps stood rolled up in corners or arranged in bundles on the floor. A whirring ceiling fan above the general's desk brought the maps to life. They whispered and fluttered and rustled like wild things.
Platus had never had access to maps like these. Dion's gaze went hungrily to systems whose names he recognized yet had never seen mapped out. He could live in this room for a year and never grow bored, he thought. Wondering idly how many of these worlds the general had visited, Dion turned from the maps to study the man.
John Dixter's tanned face was seamed and lined, gray streaked his hair at his temples and his receding hairline made a high, lined forehead seem even higher. His rugged outdoor life made it difficult to tell his age from his appearance, but Dion guessed him to be in his early fifties. Of medium height, the general's upper body was firm and muscular, with only a hint of softening around the waistline. His brown eyes, caught in a web of fine wrinkles, were clear and sharp and penetrating and seemed accustomed to scanning great distances. His uniform, unlike that of his aide's, was rumpled and creased and looked vaguely as if it had been slept in. (Dion was to discover later that this was precisely the case. When the general was too busy to return to his own quarters, he often slept in the trailer, on a cot stored in the closet.)
Dixter's voice was deep and resonant and when he laughed—which he was doing now at the expense of Tusk—it was hearty, infectious laughter. But though the laughter was genuine, his mirth did not seem to reside within him permanently but only visited from time to time. When the laughter was gone, the man's face was grave and solemn, though with a lingering smile in the brown eyes.
"Tusk," John Dixter said, clapping his hand on the mercenary's shoulder, "I think you were lucky to have escaped alive. Next time, heed my warning."
"Yes, sir," Tusk said ruefully, shaking his head over his misfortune.
"And now, introduce me to your friend. I thought you traveled alon—"
Dixter turned to the boy, his face set into a smile of welcome.
Dion, facing the general, saw the smile slip. The hand the general had raised to extend in greeting halted, the fingers clenched involuntarily. A look of recognition came to the man's eyes. Dion's heart leapt; the boy half-expected Dixter to greet him by name.
Dion started eagerly forward, lips parted to speak, when he saw himself once again a stranger in the general's eyes. Dixter's expression grew cool. Although he did not continue his sentence, he shook hands firmly, politely, and impassively. Turning away from them, the general circled around to take a seat behind his desk. He paused a moment, keeping his back to them, to stare at a map, perhaps giving himself time to regain his composure. When he sat down and faced them, he looked directly at Tusk.
"Please." He gestured at the chairs.
Tusk glanced meaningfully at Dion, and the boy knew he had not mistaken the general's reaction to him. Brief as it was and now well covered, it had been too obvious to miss. Tusk had noticed it, too. The mercenary took a chair opposite the general's desk. Dion sat down but the next moment he was standing up again without even knowing what he was doing.
"Sit, kid," Tusk shot out of the corner of his mouth and Dion subsided back onto the edge of his seat.
"What did you say the young man's name was?" Dixter asked, his eyes on Tusk, speaking of the boy as if he weren't in the room.
"Dion, sir," the mercenary said. "No last name."
John Dixter nodded, not seeming surprised. With an effort that was obvious, he kept his eyes leveled on Tusk.
"Is this young man a friend? Surely you haven't brought him to fight. He's hardly old enough—"
"He's seventeen, sir," Tusk interjected.
"Seventeen." The general coughed. His eyes darted to Dion, then shifted to a map.
"And, no, sir, the kid's not a friend. That is, he is a friend, but that came later." Tusk was nervous and getting confused. "I guess you could say I'm the boy's guard—" He stopped, his tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth.
"Guardian," suggested General Dixter softly.
"No!" Tusk slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair with such force that he winced in pain. "No, sir," he amended belatedly. "Chauffeur. That's more like it." Drawing a deep breath, Tusk glanced at Dion and decided to plunge into the atmosphere that had suddenly grown chill and dark. "The fact is, sir, that I brought the kid here to meet you on purpose. I— We, the kid and I, were hoping you could help us. We left Syrac Seven about three parsecs ahead of Lord Sagan—"
John Dixter's eyebrows raised. He held up a warning hand and Tusk fell instantly silent.
"Bennett!" the general called.
The aide appeared in the doorway.
"Drive into town and see if Mr. Marek has arrived. He should have been in contact with me before this. He may be having trouble finding transport."
"Yes, sir." Bennett turned to go.
"And lock the outside door when you leave. I don't want to be disturbed."
"Yes, sir."
The aide left, shutting the door to the office behind him. Tusk opened his mouth but Dixter frowned and shook his head. No one said a word until they heard the front door close. Rising to his feet, the general opened the office door a crack and peered out. He motioned Tusk to check the windows.
Satisfied that they were alone, Dixter returned to his seat. "A Warlord, Tusk," he said, shaking his head. "I thought you had more sense!"
"It wasn't my fault, sir. This kid's . . . uh . . . mentor needed to get the boy off-planet quick and he came to me."
"By accident? He chose you at random?"
"No." Tusk sighed. "Because of my father."
"I see." Dixter's expression was grave.
"Apparently, the Warlord is after the kid."
"How do you know?"
Briefly, concisely, Tusk related what happened the last night on Syrac Seven. He told about Dion's return to his home, the encounter the boy witnessed between Sagan and Platus, the takeover of the planet by the Warlord's forces.
"We had to pull the drunken pilot routine to get past the blockade."
"They got a good look at your plane?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. Probably pictures, too."
John Dixter, for the first time since they'd sat down, turned his eyes directly on Dion. Troubled, perplexed, the general stared intently at the young man, his penetrating gaze pinning him to the wall like another map.
"Your mentor, Dion. What was his name?"
"Platus. Platus Morianna."
Dixter's expression didn't change, but he leaned his head on his hand, slowly rubbed his forehead.
"You knew him—Platus," Dion said.
"Yes, I knew him." Dixter placed his hands on the desk, folded them, the fingers clasped tightly. "I knew them all. The Golden Squadron."
"It seems everyone knew him except me!" the boy said bitterly, "and I lived with him all my life!"
"So he never said anything—?"
"No. I didn't know he'd been a Guardian until Tusk told me."
"And you don't know, then, if any of the others
are still alive?"
"One is, sir." Tusk inserted.
The unspoken name cast a palpable shadow over the general's face. "Yes," he answered.
"Sagan. You mean Derek Sagan, don't you?" Dion said. "The Warlord who killed my— Who—" Dion bit his lip, swallowed. "But what about the others—like Tusk's father—?"
Dixter lifted a cautionary finger. "Don't mention that aloud, young man. I'm the only one who knows the truth about him . . . that he is the son of a Guardian."
"Not the only one now," the mercenary muttered beneath his breath.
"Stavros," Dion was saying. "The Warlord said something about Stavros—"
"One of them." Dixter kept his hands folded. The knuckles were turning white. "What did he say about Stavros?"
"Only that Sagan thought he had shut the man's transmission down in time. It was Stavros who warned Platus that the Warlord was coming, I think. And the Warlord said something about Stavros holding out three days. ..." The boy's voice sank.
"He's dead," John Dixter said. "They're all dead now, I suppose." The lines in his face grew deeper and more pronounced. Finally, shaking his head, he unclasped his hands and began to unroll a map that lay on his desk.
"So," he continued more briskly, "how can I help you. Tusk?
I don't know what can I do against the Warlord. I try my best to keep clear of his path. Sit down, boy. You're safe enough for the time being." This to Dion who was jumping up out of his chair again. "Sagan will take no interest in Vangelis. Not as long as the uranium shipments keep going out, and I intend to see that they do. But your time is short. As you say, Tusk, he has pictures of your plane, descriptions of you from the planet's surface. The Warlord is no fool. He's probably discovered your real name, my friend."
"We didn't come for help, sir. Not exactly." Tusk shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lowering his voice, he glanced out the open window, then sat forward, mistrusting—it seemed— even the sand that blew in. "You see, sir, we've been trying to figure out why Sagan wanted the kid enough to kill for him. And we found a curious piece of information in some files that XJ . . . er . . . appropriated from the Warlord's computer. Nothing more than a history tape, but it recorded all the events of the night of the coup."
The Lost King Page 15