The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  Dixter's eyes narrowed, his lips tightened. His hands ceased their task and lay flat and unmoving on top of the map. "Go on."

  "There was a child born that night, sir. To a Princess Semele Starfire, wife of the king's younger brother. Seventeen years ago. The kid, here, is seventeen. His master was a Guardian. What we figure is—"

  "Don't!" Dixter slammed his hands on the desk. The map rolled up with a snap. The word exploded among them like a grenade. Dion—nerves taut and stretched—fell back, grabbing the arms of his chair. Tusk started and stared at the general in astonishment.

  Dixter licked his lips. "Don't speculate further, Tusk! Don't ask me for information. I can't tell you anything, I wasn't at the palace that night."

  "Damn it!" Dion shot to his feet. Leaning over the desk, he confronted the general. "You know who I am! Or you think you do! Tell me!" His hands clenched to fists. "Tell me!"

  Shocked, Tusk tried to grab hold of the boy, but Dion jerked free.

  General John Dixter was not, it seemed, to be intimidated by flaring blue eyes. A smile twisted his lips, as if he were reliving old memories. It was almost as if he had been under such angry scrutiny before.

  "Platus told you nothing?" Dixter asked.

  "Not even my real name!"

  "Then, Dion," the general said regretfully, in a tone that left nothing open to argument, "he must have had a good reason."

  "You recognize me! I see it in your eyes."

  Dixter's face hardened. "Don't try my patience, young man." Emphasis on the word young made Dion flush in anger and shame. "What I may know or guess is so minimal that it would only confuse the issue. Besides, to speak of it would be to betray a confidence. A confidence made to me by someone very dear." The general began, once more, to unroll the map. "Someone who was dying."

  "Sir," Tusk said, getting to his feet. "I apologize—"

  "No," Dion interrupted, suddenly and uncannily calm. "Sir, it is I who apologize. You are right, of course. I'm sorry, I behaved like a child. And I'm sorry to have brought back painful memories."

  John Dixter smoothed out the map, holding it in place with an ashtray, two dirty glasses, and a staple gun. "I accept your apology, Dion. Pilot's briefing tonight at 2200, Tusk."

  He bent his head, studying the map. The two were obviously dismissed. They left, Tusk careful to shut the door behind them.

  When they had gone, Dixter raised his head, the map forgotten. Staring at the chair where the young man had been sitting, the general seemed to see the afterimage of the boy on his retina—as if Dion had been made of flame.

  Chapter Thirteen

  So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet

  Derek Sagan sat before his computer, his gaze intent upon the screen. He was alone in his private quarters aboard Phoenix. Located on a level separate and apart from the rest of the ship, his chambers could be accessed only by an elevator whose controls were set to respond to his voice command. All others, with the exception of Admiral Aks and the Warlord's own personal guards, had to request the Warlord's permission to enter.

  Fear didn't keep the Warlord isolated, as it did some rulers in the galaxy. He had fears—all men do—but his fear was nebulous, internal, buried deep like a piece of shrapnel in an old wound. He never felt it—the sliver was never debilitating—but he knew it was there and he knew that someday something would jar it loose and it would do its damage. Sagan was afraid of nothing and no one over which he could exert control. His need for privacy, his need to be alone with his thoughts, his work, and also his prayers and meditations to an outlawed deity kept him aloof from the men under his command.

  He knew this did him no harm with them. He was of the Blood Royal, he had been born knowing how to manipulate people. He never appeared before them unless he was in full dress armor. Not only did the shining metal look impressive, but it concealed as well as protected. A face covered by a helmet never shows fatigue or pain. A gleaming breastplate hides the slight thickening of the waistline. Sagan could always appear invincible—at least to the enemy without. As to the enemy within . . .

  The Warlord waited patiently for the computer to complete its search. The crisp notes of a Bach partita played in the background, the intricate patterns aligning and altering and realigning themselves in the portion of his mind attuned to them. Bach was one of the few composers he admired, whose music he enjoyed. The mathematical order and precision appealed to him.

  "Search complete, sir," came the mechanical voice.

  "Reveal."

  "Search linking one Mendaharin Tusca of Zanzi to persons known as the Guardians revealed Danha Tusca, former senator of the planet Zanzi, deceased in—"

  "Next," ordered Sagan.

  "Nothing further on Mendaharin Tusca."

  "Match with the name Tusk."

  "Searching." A pause. "Search complete."

  "Reveal."

  "Search of some seventy thousand subjects known as Tusk—"

  "Yes, yes."

  "—discovered one whose birth date, planet of origin, and DNA match with subject known as Mendaharin Tusca. Military service—"

  "Skip that. Match Tusk with Guardian."

  "Searching." Almost immediate. "One match. Platus Morianna, Guardian, met subject Tusk on Syrac Seven—"

  "I entered that information myself."

  The computer was not intimidated by its commandant's growing ire. "Search concluded, sir."

  "Very well." Sagan had expected as much, but he felt annoyed all the same. "Next."

  "Search linking subject called Tusk, known as Mendaharin Tusca, to second circle—those people closely associated with persons known to be Guardians. Search revealed-—"

  The computer paused in mid-report; some glitch in the system caused it to hesitate two or three seconds on occasion before continuing to function. The specialists aboard ship blamed it on system overload and advised Sagan at least every other ship's day that the problem had been solved. Tomorrow, he would pay them another visit.

  "—one match."

  "Indeed?" The Warlord was surprised.

  "Subject known as John Dixter. Age fifty-two. Deserter.

  Former general in the Royal Army. Youngest man ever promoted to rank of general by personal authority of—"

  "Enough." Sagan knew Dixter's history better than the computer. His thoughts went to his prisoner aboard the Phoenix. "This is how the poet says journeys end, isn't it, my lady? Computer."

  "Sir."

  "Current location of John Dixter. Search files on mercenaries and their activities, all sectors. I want that report priority one."

  A Bach fugue thundered around him. Sagan picked out the central melody and followed it through the various convulusions and diversions, keeping hold of it in his mind—one silken thread woven into a harmonic tapestry.

  "Search complete."

  "Reveal."

  "Current location of John Dixter is on Vangelis, planet number—"

  "I know it. Skip." He knew it very well, but why? Vangelis. It was in his sector, but that didn't mean much. There were hundreds of inhabited planets in his sector and he didn't know the names and numbers of all of them. Vangelis was connected with something, something important. Hastily he searched his memory but couldn't find it.

  "A recent war has developed between one Marek, Douglas, Ph.D. Engineering—"

  "Skip."

  "—and the local planetary government over control of the uranium mines."

  "Policy."

  "We are operating under the standard policy of nonintervention with the provision that if the uranium shipments are interrupted we have the right to move in and place the planet under martial law."

  A mining planet. Why would he be familiar with a mining planet?

  "Search. Anything at all involved with Vangelis."

  "Working." The answer was a long time coming. The Warlord thought the computer h
ad, in fact, ceased to function and was about to give the specialists their fright for the day when he heard, "Search complete."

  "Reveal."

  "Vangelis is the site of an experiment being conducted by Snaga Ohme, classification Red. Further information can be obtained only by your voice command override—"

  "End of need."

  Sagan stared at the blank screen. Vangelis. Experiment. Snaga Ohme.

  Obsessions. That's what they did to you. His obsessive search for the boy, his discovery of Maigrey had driven Ohme's project completely from his mind. And he prided himself on his discipline—physical and mental! Of course, there was no particular reason why he should have kept it in his mind. All was arranged; he assumed it was proceeding as planned. Ohme wasn't particularly trustworthy, but the Adonian was almost as fond of money as he was of himself. Ohme's last report had been satisfactory and there wasn't another report due for another half-cycle. Still, Sagan should have kept informed. He certainly should have known that war on that planet was imminent.

  John Dixter. Deserter. Royalist. The night of the coup, Dixter had fought with the Royal Army. He'd been captured and held prisoner, but he'd managed to escape. Most thought the general had slipped through Sagan's fingers. None knew that the Warlord had deliberately opened his hand.

  If there was anyone to whom Maigrey might have run after her disappearance, it would have been John Dixter. Sagan kept the man under close watch, but Maigrey never came to him, never contacted him. Dixter turned to mercenary work and was quite successful at it. The Warlord could have closed his fist, crushed the mercenary leader anytime he wanted. But he chose not to. John Dixter was a good commander. He and his mercenaries performed a useful function, kept small fires from flaring into major conflagrations.

  And now, John Dixter might be even more useful.

  Leaning back in the chair whose shape and contours had been specially molded to fit his body, Sagan played the central theme of his melody and heard the echoes of the expansions.

  If Tusca didn't know the identity of his young passenger, surely he must suspect. Platus must have been forced to tell him part of the truth, if not the whole, in order to get him to accept the responsibility. And wasn't it likely that, saddled with this burden, Tusca would turn to a friend? A friend who knew the Guardians, a friend who might be able to answer any unanswered questions?

  It was worth a try.

  At his signal, the entry door to his room slid aside and one of the Honor Guard appeared, fist over his heart.

  "My lord?"

  "Pass the word for Admiral Aks."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The centurion vanished, the door slid shut. Sagan could have summoned the admiral over the ship's commlink, but he preferred to keep this strictly confidential, especially with Maigrey aboard. He intended to spring this on her like a land mine, shatter her with the explosion.

  The door slid aside and the guard appeared.

  "Admiral Aks, my lord."

  The admiral entered.

  "That was quick," Sagan commented. He moved his hand over a beam of light and the Bach ceased. The Warlord had never been able to cultivate a taste for fine music in the admiral.

  "I was on my way to see you, my lord."

  "What about?"

  "The Lady Maigrey, sir."

  "Lady Maigrey?"

  "Yes, but it can wait. What was it you wanted of me, my lord?"

  "That can wait. What of the lady?"

  Aks flushed and appeared slightly embarrassed. "I'm not certain quite how to put this, my lord, but—"

  "Just spit it out, Aks, and don't waste my time."

  "Yes, my lord. The fact is, my lord, that the lady is . . . er . . . damaging morale."

  "Morale?"

  This was not unexpected. Sagan was relieved to discover it was nothing more serious. Then he was angry at himself for being relieved. It meant that he was uneasy about her and he should have taken precautions enough to have precluded uneasiness. Yet even as he told himself this he told himself as well that he could never take enough precautions.

  "Well, what has she done, Aks? She's not making speeches in the gym, calling the men to king and country?"

  "Oh, no, my lord!" Aks looked shocked. "I would never permit such a thing. Your own orders—"

  "It was a joke, Admiral."

  "Ah, yes, my lord." Aks did not appear to consider the subject one for levity.

  "Well, what has she done?"

  "She has been walking around the ship, my lord."

  "I gave her permission to walk around. She's under guard at all times and permitted to speak to no one."

  "Yes, my lord. She doesn't need to speak."

  "No, she wouldn't," Sagan muttered, but it was beneath his breath and the admiral didn't hear.

  "She has only to appear on deck and everyone quits working. They can't help themselves. I've felt it myself, my lord, and I'm not an imaginative man."

  "One of your more endearing qualities, Aks."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "It wasn't a compliment. Please continue your report. I was not aware that the lady's beauty was so entrancing."

  Aks was accustomed to such verbal barbs. His skin was coated with his own self-worth; he lacked the imagination to feel pain. "No, my lord. That isn't the problem. The men say it's like a ghost walking the corridors. She freezes the blood. No one can talk. No one can work. All the men seem to be able to do is to look at her. That terrible scar—"

  Aks could not repress a shudder, and consequently did not see the darkness gather on Sagan's face. He heard it, however, in the answer to his complaint.

  "Nonetheless she will continue to be allowed the freedom of the ship. It suits my purposes that she do so. As for the effect she is having on the men, she is fighting me the only way she has at her command. I admit that this is a different kind of enemy from those we usually face, but she is an enemy and the men must react accordingly. I presume that if the Corasians boarded the ship the men would not stop working to stare at them?"

  "No, my lord. But—"

  "Any work stoppage is a breach of discipline and is to be punished as such. Is that understood, Aks?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "I want you to set a course for the planet Vangelis. Routine. I don't want any undue alarm. There's a war going on there, Admiral. Put it out that we're concerned with the uranium shipments getting through. The information's on the computer. Read up on it."

  "Yes, my lord." Aks waited for further orders, suspecting that this wasn't the real reason for the diversion from their normal course.

  "I want the description of that Scimitar of Tusca's and the offer of the reward for information concerning it circulated in the area."

  "You have reason to believe it's there, my lord?"

  "John Dixter's there, Aks. I think it highly likely that we will find not only the Scimitar there but the boy as well. Such are the results of my deductions." The Warlord glanced at the admiral, who was regarding his lord in silence. "Now is the proper moment, Aks, for you to say, 'Gad, Holmes, you're brilliant!'"

  "Holmes, my lord? I'm not certain who—"

  "A literary allusion, Aks. Don't let it concern you."

  The admiral didn't. It had been on his tongue to ask the Warlord why he hadn't used the lady to locate the boy. After all, that was one reason she'd been brought aboard. But Aks had seen Sagan's face upon his return from the planet of Oha-Lau. The admiral did not bring up the subject.

  The Warlord leaned back in his chair, fixed his dark-eyed gaze on his admiral.

  "Have you ever considered the workings of the universe, Aks?"

  The admiral frowned. Aks disapproved of these philosophic ramblings. They invariably led Sagan to a discussion of unlawful topics.

  "Our illustrious leader, President Robes," Sagan continued, "would say, no doubt, that it is random chance which seems to be bringing all these people together again. A sociologist would figure up the stats and chart the probabilities and
see in it the herd instinct. But I believe it is the will of the Creator, Aks. He is bringing us all together for a purpose."

  "Yes, my lord."

  By merely agreeing to such a thing the admiral made himself liable to treason. But Aks had seen long ago that the Warlord's path was veering off the smooth, well-traveled road and heading into a dark and dangerous wilderness. The admiral was not a gambler but he knew the wisdom of the saying "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," and a man does not have to have to be imaginative to be ambitious. Aks never thought about chance. He knew nothing about sociologists. He didn't believe in a higher purpose or this mystical god. He did, however, believe in Derek Sagan.

  The Warlord made a gesture. The music started—Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier.

  Aks knew that he was dismissed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I love my truck . . .

  Glen Campbell, "I Love My Truck"

  The hatch beneath Tusk's hand opened so quickly he nearly fell inside head first.

  "Where've you been?" demanded a voice from the darkness.

  "Turn on the lights!" Tusk snapped, slithering down the ladder.

  Dim lights flickered on in a circle around the center of the spaceplane's interior. Dion followed Tusk, the young man repressing a strong desire to see if he could slide down the ladder, heels on the rungs, as did the pilot. A fine sight he'd look if he failed, tumbling in a heap on the deck.

  "Do you know what time it is?" XJ said in a querulous voice. "You've been gambling. I heard about the game—"

  "We went to see Dixter," Tusk muttered, struggling to pull a sweat-soaked shirt off over his head, "and then I took the kid around to meet a few people and to show him some of the other planes. Then we went to the briefing." He snapped his lips shut on the word as if he'd like to bite it in two, hurled the shirt in a corner. Tugging on a sandal, trying to yank it off, he hopped about the cabin on one foot.