"Briefing?" XJ perked up. "Let's hear it. What's going on?"
Tusk's answer was a snarl and a sandal flung against the side of the cabin wall.
"My, my, we're in a pet, aren't we? It isn't the money, is it?" XJ was suddenly alarmed. "Not one of those die-now, pay-later plans?"
"You know Dixter better'n that," Tusk grumbled. Sitting on his bunk, he wrestled with the other sandal. "The money's okay. Fact, it's damn good. It's what I got to do to earn it."
"Ah, then—" XJ sighed contentedly.
"Drive a damn TRUC!" Tusk began to swear. "I'm a fighter pilot, not a friggin' Teamster—"
The lights went out. Dion, having been prepared for this, was safely stretched out in his hammock. He heard the other sandal hit the wall.
"If you are quite through with your tantrum," XJ said, peeved, "I would appreciate knowing what is going on. You've left me stuck here for hours. Our only neighbor is an outdated NICAR unit in that beat-up RV next pad over. It talks in numbers, when it talks at all."
"The kid will fill you in." Tusk was fumbling around in the darkness. "Where're the towels? I'm taking a shower."
"Not in here, you're not. All systems shut down except lights and air. Saves money. Go use Dixter's water. The towels are where you always stow them, in the third compartment down, just below the dehydrated fruit. Remember to hang it up on the line outside. I don't want to find a wet towel on the deck in the morning!''
Snarling an obscene rejoinder, Tusk thumped and bumped around the cabin. Dion heard a compartment slide open and hit something. There was a curse. Apparently, Tusk had been standing too close. The lights in the ship just barely flickered on and Dion saw a hunched-over Tusk, rubbing his shin and hauling out a frayed piece of cloth. The abused sandals flapped again on his feet. He wrapped the towel around his naked loins and limped up the ladder and out of the plane, still swearing.
Dion realized in admiration Tusk hadn't repeated himself once in his long string of curses.
"I, personally, am shocked," the computer said. The lights came back on. "Now, then, kid. Tell old uncle XJ all about it. Are you the long-lost prince of our dreams?"
"Yes, I am," Dion said, leaning his head back on his hands.
"You are?" The lights flashed in a wild, strobelike effect. "Did Dixter say that?"
"No." Dion shrugged. "But I know from the way he acted He recognized me. He knew Platus and Stavros and Derek Sagan. And he was at the palace that night. Oh, he says he wasn't, but he's lying. There's a lot he knows that he's not telling." The boy yawned until his jaws cracked. The thin air and the excitement and the long day were getting to him. "I: makes sense."
"Well, well." The lights dimmed as XJ recovered from the shock. "Maybe so, but the general didn't actually say anything."
"He didn't need to," Dion countered. He settled himself more comfortably in his hammock, moving slowly so as not to set it swinging. "I know. I am."
"I hate to ask this, because it's admitting the occurrence of an improbable situation, but what does Tusk think?"
"We didn't discuss it." Dion had tried. Tusk had refused. The boy felt a return of his irritation.
XJ hummed to itself, assimilating the information, and decided to change the subject. "So, what's this about Tusk and a TRUC?"
"I'm not sure." Dion yawned again and shifted in his bed. Tired, he felt nervous and keyed up, his muscles jerked, and he couldn't get comfortable. "I understood only a little of the briefing. They all talk in a different language. Tusk explained most of it to me on the way back. Dixter introduced a human named Marek—I think that was it. Apparently he used to own the uranium mines in some country—I can't remember its name. He was a type of corporate feudal lord, it sounds like. The mines've been in his family for generations. Anyway, about two years ago, there was a civil war and the government of this country fell into the hands of an oligarchy. They nationalized the mines and sent Marek into exile. Marek was well liked by his people and the government was careful to treat him nicely. He went peacefully—not wanting to prolong the fighting, which was disrupting the economy—and he might have been willing to stay where they had sent him, which was on a planet somewhere on the fringes of this system. The government gave him a percentage of the income, anything he wanted to keep him happy and away from the mines.
"But then Marek got word that his miners were being mistreated. Production was falling off, profits were dropping. The miners walked off the job. The government sent in troops and there was bloodshed. Marek heard talk that the Warlord would step in if the uranium shipments were halted and place the country and maybe the whole planet under military control—"
"Which means kiss your ass good-bye," XJ interrupted.
"I guess it means kissing the profits good-bye, at least," Dion said, smiling slightly. "And nobody wants that, not Marek, not the miners, not the government. But nobody's willing to back down."
"I get the picture. They're all holding a gun on each other; meanwhile, the Warlord steps up and shoots them all in the back."
"Yeah, and the government's got the shakiest hand, according to Marek. The oligarchs can't agree on anything. The people are fed up and there's a group all set to move in and take control. Tusk thinks Marek's involved in that, too, but Dixter has drawn the line at helping him overthrow the government. All we're doing, I guess, is making sure the uranium shipments keep going out while Marek tries to regain control of the mines."
"That's why Dixter's lived as long as he has. Mercenary generals like him start overthrowing governments, and we'd find the Congress breathing down our necks. While we still had necks," XJ added as an afterthought. "Who's likely to try to stop the uranium?"
Dion yawned again. He was finally relaxing and wished the computer would keep quiet. "According to Marek, there's one or two in the government who think that the Warlord taking over might not be such a bad thing. Sagan would be so grateful, he'd leave them in power—"
"Uh-huh. So grateful he'd put them in the cellular disrupter. Sagan can't stomach a traitor. Kind of funny, when you stop to consider that—depending on how you look at it—he's got a good chance of winning the Traitor of the Century award."
There was no answer.
"How much did Tuck lose?" XJ asked gloomily.
"Twenty-seven gildons," Dion murmured.
"How much did you tell XJ I lost?" Tusk asked, leaning over in his chair to whisper to Dion.
"Twenty-seven gildons."
"Good kid!" Tuck whistled in relief. Pulling out his well-worn wallet, he thumbed through a fat stack of plasticene bills and, pulling two out, handed them to the boy. "Here's your cut. I got to admit that system of yours really works. Now if there was just some place aboard the plane where I could hide my stash so that—"
"Attention!" Bennett's crisp voice silenced conversation. There was a scrapping and scrabbling as the mercenaries got to their feet or claws or whatever it was they stood on, each informally saluting General Dixter in his or her or its own way, each with the utmost respect.
Walking across the tarmac, the general motioned for them to be seated, and those that used this form to rest their bodies did so, while others leaned back on gigantic tails, slithered to the ground, or—like the six floating Kandar—bobbed slowly up and down in mid-air.
Due to the intense heat during the day, pilots' briefings were held outdoors, in the relative cool of the Vangelian night. Camp stools were drawn up on the still-warm concrete. Harsh lights illuminated the pilots and their fighters. Force fields surrounded the airstrip. Security was tight.
Dixter nodded in greeting, his brown eyes flicking over each, silently acknowledging and thanking each for his, her, or its presence. The gaze included Dion, and the young man thought he noticed the tired lips widen in a small smile that remained when the general began to speak.
"Knowing how rumors spread around this outfit, I guess you don't need me telling you that Marek deployed his ground forces today. He's taken over the mines. You probably know more about it than I do by no
w, so I'll skip the details."
Appropriate laughter and nodding of heads. Dixter's smile left, his face returning to business.
"We have nothing to do with the ground end of things," he said.
Dion, remembering the maps on the walls, raised an eyebrow at this. Maybe not, but Dixter was certainly keeping himself well informed. Peeking curiously into mobile field communications, Dion'd seen numerous people monitoring radios and transferring information onto computers. Walking from one to the other, staring at the constantly changing light-maps on the huge screens, Dixter studied them and discussed them in low voices with his officers.
A thought occurred to the boy. If the general was this well equipped with modern technological advancement, why the old paper maps on the walls? Why the obviously loving care given to them? Perhaps, Dion answered himself, because Dixter's entire life is where he's been, not where he's going.
"Repeat!" Dixter's stern voice caught the boy's wandering attention. "This better sink in. The uranium shipments will get through. After me."
The mercenaries obediently chanted the chorus.
"Again. Louder. The uranium shipments will get through."
Everybody said it again, this time laughing.
"Once more, and this time, mean it. Your skins and your hides and your bubbles"—a glance at the bobbing Kandar— "depend on it. If even one TRUC is destroyed, we'll have the Warlord's battle cruisers down on us so fast you'll think bosk snails move at supralight. Repeat—the uranium shipments will get through!"
Grinning, everyone shouted it out with enthusiasm.
Dixter smiled and nodded. "Very good. Most of those in power around here don't want the Warlord on Vangelis any more than we do. But you've all heard Marek. He believes that this government might attempt to try to capture the uranium shipments and sell them directly to the Republic, concocting a story for the Warlord guaranteed to put them in a good light and Marek in eternal darkness. There's a lot more riding in that TRUC with you than uranium, Tusk."
"Yeah, like our payroll!" someone sang out from the back.
Everyone laughed and several leaned forward to pound Tusk on the back or shove him playfully. Tusk scowled darkly. He'd spent ten minutes in the general's office, trying to see Dixter to argue, but the general had been too busy.
"Three fighters will go up with each shipment. The TRUC Tusk is babysitting will be the first and the only shipment for the time being. I wish like hell we could send numerous TRUCs at the same time and split up the enemy's attack forces. But what with the strike and then the fighting yesterday, the deliveries are late as it is. The miners have been working day and night to load up just one, and therefore it has to get out. There is a piece of good news. The TRUC has been equipped with lascannons—on loan from the Warlord."
Everyone laughed.
"What's the joke?" Dion whispered to a sulking Tusk.
"The Warlord doesn't know he's loaned them."
Dion looked at him blankly.
"Stolen, kid. They're stolen. Like most of the rest of the equipment."
And like yourselves, Dion thought. He glanced about the group of pilots, remembering their varied histories as recited by Tusk during interludes in the card game. Some were deserters from the Galactic Democratic Republic's Armed Forces, who like Tusk had become disillusioned with life in the military. Some had been honorably or dishonorably discharged from the former and, accustomed to fighting and finding other jobs less fulfilling and less lucrative, had kept on doing what they knew best. Others were outlaws, on the run from planets, systems, bounty hunters, the Republic, or a variety of the above.
Each was known to Dixter, who personally interviewed every applicant wanting to join his team. Any human or alien who didn't live up to the general's high standards was paid off and told not to bother to come back. Dixter and his mercenaries soon developed a reputation not only for being expert soldiers but a disciplined and organized fighting force. The general was, therefore, able to carefully select the causes for which he and his people fought. After all, it was a cause that could conceivably cost them their lives.
"Those scheduled for the first run assemble at the location point at 0400. Tusk, report to me immediately following this meeting. The rest of you are dismissed."
Lurching to his feet, knocking over the camp stool on which he'd been sitting, Tusk hurried after Dixter. Dion followed, feeling a growing sense of excitement and exhilaration over the impending mission. The young man brushed aside the stinging gnats of guilt that assailed him whenever he heard, in memory, the gentle voice of Platus argue against warfare and violence. It seemed to Dion that they—Marek and Dixter—were in the right and the oligarchs in the wrong. Marek had tried to settle the dispute peacefully and had failed. Certainly Platus would have understood that. The young man was even mildly disappointed to find that Dixter had no plans to rush in, overthrow the government, and seize power.
Tusk had a head start and Dion, becoming entangled in the dispersing crowd, dashed up on Tusk's heels just as the mercenary was arguing his case.
"I'm a fighter pilot, sir, not a freight hauler. Let me fly escort. I'll be of more use—"
"I've made my decision, Tusk," Dixter said, striding across the tarmac toward the GHQ building. "I'm not asking you to fly the TRUC; you'll have a driver, one of the best in the business."
"Not fly it! Begging your pardon, sir, but then what the hell—"
"You're a skilled gunner, Tusk. You've got to handle the lascannon—"
"Riding shotgun!" Tusk swore.
"What was that?" Dixter paused in mid-stride, glancing at Tusk and raising his eyebrow.
"Nothing, sir."
The lines around the elder man's eyes crinkled, the corner of the lips deepened into the folds of the cheek-—a weary smile of understanding. Tusk, his eyes on his shoes, didn't notice and there was no indication of sympathy in Dixter's crisp voice.
"You're the only gunner I've got who's had experience with these new models. Not only that, but you're intelligent and imaginative and not prone to shoot your way out of a problem if there's a more logical solution."
The general wiped his hand over his perspiring face. Even at night, the heat lingered. "I guess you and the rest think I'm a damn fool." He glanced at the other mercenaries heading back to their ships or the bars or the nearest ante-up game. "But I can't emphasize too much the importance of getting this shipment through without causing any more of an incident than we can help. I chose you for one reason, Tusk. I trust you." Dixter laid his hand affectionately on the man's shoulder. "Don't let me down."
The general gave the mercenary a nod that was friendly, yet indicated that the subject was closed and would only be reopened at considerable peril.
Tusk ducked his head. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"Now, come to my office. You'll meet your driver."
Dixter withdrew his hand from Tusk's shoulder and turned his attention to Bennett, who had been hovering at his shoulder with a clipboard, papers, and obviously important news. The two walked rapidly on ahead. Dion, slowing his pace to follow at a discreet distance, discovered that Tusk had come to a complete standstill.
"I don't like this," Tusk muttered. "Not one damn bit!"
Dixter's trailer was crowded, noisy, and hot. People were coming and going constantly, mostly from a large white van that was mobile field communications and carried an assortment of various monitoring and transmitting equipment mounted on the top.
"They're in touch with Marek, picking up his troop reports, probably listening in on the government forces transmissions," Tusk explained.
Dion nodded, attempting to look wise. His gaze shifted to another van, parked next to the first. This one was smaller and much newer. Unlike the other van, no one was coming into it or going out of it. It appeared to be operational, however; lights glowed from instruments on the van's roof, where several long, gleaming metal tubes pointed fixedly at the sky.
"What's that one doing?" Dion asked.
Tusk gave him a swift, sharp glance. "Monitoring the fleet."
"The Warlord?"
"Uh-huh."
Dion stared at the van, his fingers tingling, a shiver that was half-pleasurable and half-chilling crawling over his skin.
"C'mon, kid. It's not polite to keep a general waiting."
"Maybe I should stay out here."
Tusk looked at Dion, looked at the van, and, shaking his head, got a firm grip on the young man's arm. "I know what you're thinkin', kid, and it ain't healthy."
Dion glared at him, trying unsuccessfully to break free of the mercenary's hold. "What do you mean?"
"One man knows who I am'? or words to that effect? Yeah, Sagan knows, all right, but are you willing to risk your life and mine and Dixter's and the lives of everyone else around here to find out?"
"You're wrong! I wouldn't do anything like that! I'm not stupid. Besides," the boy added coolly, twisting free, "I already know the truth."
"Yeah." Tusk grinned. "XJ told me. I got to hand it to you, kid, you threw a lightning bolt into that computer. XJ hasn't had a shock like that since we got caught in a zapping crossfire on Delta Venus. C'mon." The mercenary heaved a sigh. "Let's get this over with."
Dion allowed himself to be persuaded. He cast a backward glance at the van. He hadn't really been plotting what Tusk suspected him of plotting. In fact, he hadn't consciously thought of it at all until Tusk brought it up.
Consciously thought of it.
The plan must have been in his subconscious, however, because the minute Tusk accused him of trying to communicate with the Warlord, Dion recognized the idea and knew it for his own and knew he had rejected it for all the reasons Tusk had mentioned. Which meant that Tusk knew Dion better than Dion knew himself. The boy found this disconcerting.
The two shoved their way inside GHQ, trying—along with two other pilots—to enter the door as two humans and an alien were trying to get out. Fighting his way inside, Dion was smothered by the heat, the noise, and the crush of people. He didn't like crowds. He felt himself apart, separate, distinct from other people.
I don't belong, he thought. I'll never belong.
The Lost King Page 17