The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  After a considerable wait, during which the young man became so absorbed listening to the conversations around him and trying to make sense of the military jargon that he forgot his uneasiness, Bennett shouted into the packed room. "Tusk!"

  More pushing and shoving, and finally the two left the heat and the noise and entered Dixter's office, which—by comparison—was almost cool and almost quiet. Bennett shut the door.

  General Dixter sat behind the desk. Across from him, sitting in a chair, reading a mag, was a woman. She looked up when they entered, then turned back to her reading. Obviously, she wasn't impressed.

  "Tusk, come in. Dion. Sit down."

  The general nodded in welcome. If he was surprised that the mercenary had brought the young man with him, he didn't indicate it by word or gesture. Dixter appeared to have forgotten there was anything the least strange about Dion— either that or the load of more urgent matters had shoved it all to the back of his mind.

  "Tusk, this is your TRUC's driver, Nola Rian. Nola, this is Tusk, your gunner. You two will be our first team."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Truckin', got my chips cashed in . . .

  The Grateful Dead, "Truckin' "

  It wasn't that Tusk had anything against women. Tusk liked women, liked them very well, in fact. Tusk respected women. There'd been several excellent female pilots in his flight school. When a woman was in another spaceplane, flying next to his, she wasn't a woman anymore. She was a pilot. What Tusk didn't like was having a woman in the same plane, having a woman as a partner. That made him nervous. He was always inclined, when with a woman, to feel protective and fuss over her. Leap in front of her with his drawn sword—that sort of thing. And that sort of thing could get you killed.

  So now he was not only being forced to ride shotgun on a TRUC, he was going to have to share his duties with a female. Not seeing how matters could get much worse unless the Warlord should suddenly happen to stroll through the doorway, Tusk gave a sickly grin, extended his hand, and said the first dumb thing that came to mind.

  "You don't look much like a TRUC driver."

  Actually Tusk was thinking that this Nola Rian looked more like a TRUC. She had a short, compact, square-shouldered body, with the muscular arms required to handle the cumber some, unwieldly freight haulers. Nondescript brown hair, cut short in a no-nonsense fashion for comfort in the heat framed a pert face freckled by the Vangelian sun. Green eyes, flecked with brown, glanced at Tuck without interest and she kept her hand to herself. What he said had been meant as a compliment, but she apparently took it differently.

  "You don't look much like a deserter," she replied.

  Was that an insult? Tusk couldn't make up his mind. Mulling it over, he took back his hand before she bit it.

  "Sit down, please, and let's get on with this," Dixter ordered. Tusk hunched himself into a chair. Nola moved away from him. Dion remained standing in a corner, unnoticed, he thought, until he happened to catch Dixter's gaze shifting somberly from the papers on the desk to the young man.

  I was wrong. I'm on his mind, Dion said to himself. He's thinking about me more than his war. Look directly at me, damn you! Who is it you see? What do you fear?

  But by the time the words flicked through Dion's mind and before his eyes could connect with the man's, General Dixter had turned his attention back to his two reluctant recruits.

  "Nola Rian is one of the best drivers around, Tusk. She comes highly recommended by the mining authorities. Over four hundred flawless runs. Tusk is one of my best gunners, Rian. He's also one of my most trusted men. You two will make a good team."

  Tusk and Nola were eyeing each other with all the friendly intent of two starving mountain lions standing over a fresh kill.

  "You will make a good team," Dixter repeated, his voice hardening. "This is the first shipment. If anything happens to it, there may not be any more. If you get out safely, it might demonstrate to the government how useless it is to try and stop us. Rian, do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir." Nola sat up straighter, squaring her jaw, which— in Tusk's opinion—was the last thing her jaw needed.

  "Tusk?"

  "Yes, sir. Any idea what they'll send up against us?"

  Dixter nodded, slowly. "According to Marek's intelligence reports, the government's typical of most small-planet oligarchies. They've got a wide assortment of fighters, long-and short-range, mostly old needle-noses from the days of the monarchy."

  Dixter paused, and Tusk tensed. "Yes, sir. What else?"

  "A very modern, very sophisticated torpedo launcher. Brand-new."

  Tusk's jaw dropped. "Where'd they get that?"

  Dixter scraped a grizzle-bearded cheek with his hand. "I wish I knew." His face was grave. "I wish I knew."

  Tusk started to say something, caught Dixter's flickering eyelid, glanced at Nola, and kept quiet.

  The door opened. Bennett stuck his head around the comer.

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a message from Mr. Marek—"

  "Right. Anything else?"

  Dixter swept a questioning glance at Tusk and Nola, who both shook their heads. Chairs scraped. Tusk stood back to let Nola pass in front of him.

  "See you in the morning," he said in a friendly tone.

  "0400." For the first time, she looked at him directly. Her green eyes were very green. "Be on time."

  Slinging a handbag over her shoulder, she stalked out the door without a backward glance. Tusk and Dion, following her out of the crowded HQ, saw her set off alone with confident ease across the tarmac. Her walk was straight-backed, with wide strides. She didn't look like the type who was easily stopped by obstacles and obviously enjoyed going through them, rather than around them. She didn't look the type to sit quietly and do exactly what she was told.

  "Damn," Tusk growled.

  0400 hours.

  Tusk zipped up his flight jacket, Dion watching with envy.

  "I don't suppose—"

  "No," Tusk said shortly. "I got enough problems." He grabbed his helmet and began to climb up the ladder leading out of the spaceplane.

  "Same arrangements as usual?" XJ called out.

  Tusk paused a moment. "No. Put the kid's name in. Okay with you?"

  "Sure," the computer said. "He doesn't swear! Good flying," XJ added when it was fairly certain Tusk was out of the plane and couldn't hear.

  "What did that mean?" Dion asked suspiciously, staring sulkily at the closing hatch.

  "What did what mean?" XJ crackled. "And make it short. I'm going to shut down for the rest of the night."

  "What arrangements that have to do with me?"

  "Oh, that. Disposition of property after death. Tusk's just made you his heir. Not much to inherit. Half-ownership with me in this crate. At least now. Tusk's old man was pretty well fixed and left his mother a bundle. I suppose when she dies Tusk will be pretty well heel—"

  Grabbing an old jacket of Tusk's, Dion climbed out of the plane. He could see, in the harsh white of the nuke lights, the hoveijeep waiting to take Tusk to the TRUC launching site, which was located near the mining operations. Standing around it were General Dixter and three other people Dion didn't recognize.

  Swiftly he clambered down the ladder and, keeping to the dark shadows held back by the pools of light, made his way across the tarmac.

  "These are your escort pilots, Tusk. Nigol from Anwar 33."

  Tusk and the alien, whose thick hide required no protection, touched hand and claw.

  "Captain Link Jones."

  "Link." Tusk held out his hand. "Where're you from?"

  "Less said the better, eh, Tusk?" The handsome pilot grinned and shook hands.

  "And Captain Mirna Anrim, Ahna 2335."

  A grim-faced woman shook hands with Tusk without comment.

  "All flying Scimitars," Dixter continued. "All under your command, Tusk. They'll stay with you until you're within range of the fleet's tanker. Then the fleet's own fighters will have you under cover. If
the government forces try something, it won't be under the guns of the Warlord. The TRUC driver has instructions to unload and get back here quickly. Everybody clear?" The pilots nodded. Dixter handed out sealed envelopes. "Inside you'll find the rendezvous point. Don't open these until you're airborne. Any change will be transmitted to you in the code you'll find inside. Anything you want to add, Tusk?"

  The mercenary shook his head, and the pilots left for their fighters. Dion moved nearer. Dixter had seen him and hadn't said anything, so the young man assumed it was all right for him to stay.

  "Tusk, a word with you."

  The general, glancing at Dion, made an oblique motion for the boy to join them and led Tusk away from the jeep so that its driver couldn't overhear their conversation.

  They walked over to the security fence surrounding the tarmac. Dixter stepped into a pool of light. He looked tired; his eyes blinked with the burning that comes from lack of sleep.

  "Tusk, we picked up a Priority Code One signal from the Warlord's flagship. They've issued a Class A seize and apprehend for you. They have your description, including a vid— your old military I.D.—and your plane's description down to the last carbon streak and rivet.'

  Tusk's shoulders hunched. "So they did make me when we left Syrac."

  "It gets worse, I'm afraid. There's a price on your head, my friend. Ten thousand golden eagles."

  Tusk, staring at him, gasped.

  "Ten thousand! Damn! For that kind of money I'd turn myself in!"

  Dixter smiled wearily. Dion glanced at them in confusion, only partially understanding, biting his tongue to keep from interrupting.

  "What about the kid?"

  "Nothing. You at least achieved that much, Tusk—you and Platus. My guess is that Sagan either doesn't know he's with you or he has no idea what the boy looks like and can't put out a description."

  Tusk nodded in gloomy satisfaction.

  "You still want me on this job, sir?" he asked calmly. "Or is this my pink slip?"

  "No, I need you. You're not flying your plane and there's no reason for you to leave the TRUC. When you arrive at the tanker, let Rian handle the docking and do all the talking. They know her, after all. You stay on board, out of sight of the vid sensors. Keep your helmet on, your mouth shut. They may have—probably do have—voice prints. You should feel flattered. Sagan's spent a lot of time and money on you."

  "And what happens when I get back, sir?" Tusk didn't seem to appreciate the compliment. "I can't just sit here, for God's sake!"

  "I'll work on that. Leave it to me," Dixter said reassuringly.

  "As if you don't have enough to think about, sir," the mercenary said ruefully. He ran his hand through his wiry black hair, tugged at the silver earring.

  "Don't worry, Tusk. Concentrate on this job for now." Dixter clapped him on the back—a gesture Dion had come to recognize as one of dismissal. "Good flying. Give Nola Rian my regards."

  "Yeah. I mean, yes, sir." Tusk, not appearing happy, turned to find Dion standing in front of him.

  The mercenary started and instantly manufactured a smile. He apparently hadn't been aware of Dion's presence and he cast a reproachful glance at Dixter. "You here, kid? You ought to be in bed."

  "I just wanted to say"—Dion couldn't untangle the skein of words that twisted in his mind—"good flying," he finished lamely. He held out his hand.

  Tusk smiled. Taking the boy's hand, he gripped it firmly, then—consigning Dion to Dixter with a glance—the pilot loped off, climbed into the hoverjeep, and disappeared into the night.

  "What does that mean, sir?" Dion asked. "A Class A seize and apprehend?"

  Dixter stood unmoving, staring fixedly into the darkness. A flare of blinding light and a fiery, deafening roar as one of the fighters took off prevented the general from answering. He waited until all three planes were airborne, following their progress aloft with his eyes until they were nothing but flaming dots in the heavens before he spoke.

  "It's used only for the most dangerous class of criminals— those who are considered a serious threat to the Republic. There were only a few names on that list, and now Tusk's has joined them."

  "What names, sir?"

  Dixter turned shrewd, narrowed eyes on him. "You know them, Dion. You don't have to ask me. Danha Tusca, Anatole Stavros, Platus Morianna, Maigrey Morianna—"

  "Who?" Dion stared at the general. "Who did you say—"

  Dixter, obviously sorry to have spoken, didn't reply. Turning to leave, he stepped out of the light and Dion could no longer see his face. "There's only one name you have to worry about, young man, that of Mendaharin Tusca." Dixter's voice came out of the night and was soft and bitter as the darkness. "Because all the others are dead."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Put the pedal to the metal!

  Trucker slang, circa 1970.

  "Where've you been?" Nola pounced on him. "We're thirty minutes behind schedule!"

  "The general had some last-minute instructions," Tusk replied.

  The two stood eyeing each other grimly, then Nola, lips pulled tight, hit a button and the TRUC's heavy door heaved itself shut with a rumble that shook the gigantic vehicle. Tusk, when viewing the thing from the outside, had come to the conclusion that it looked like a squat, rectangular warehouse some joker had decided to levitate.

  "Follow me," Nola ordered, leading the way down a metal-lined corridor.

  Tusk did so, noting that the puffy flight suit she was wearing did nothing for her figure. He didn't like short women, anyway. He couldn't stand brunettes. Tall willowy blondes— especially blondes who had more sense than to drive TRUCs for a living-—were more his style. Gloomily, he stared around him, oppressed by the sense of several hundred tons of metal-encased rock riding on his tail.

  The cabin they entered was tiny, meant for brief journeys into space and back. Brusquely, Tusk shoved the woman aside to get a look. Two people would have been a tight fit under normal circumstances, and the huge lascannon mounted in the center further restricted movement. Reaching up a hand to scratch one's head would be a task that called for serious precalculation.

  "It's designed for function, not speed," Nola snapped, shoving Tusk aside in turn with a deft hip and shoulder movement that slammed him face-first into a bank of toggle switches.

  "Function!" Tusk snorted. "I know that's something I always look for when some S.O.B.'s shooting torpedoes at me!"

  He regretted his statement as soon as he said it. He couldn't see her face—her back was turned to him—but he heard the woman catch her breath, saw the hand clutching the back of the pilot's seat tremble. With difficulty, Tusk wormed his way around to face her.

  "Look, Rian. I—"

  "Get your helmet on!" She slid away from him. "We're thirty-five minutes behind schedule."

  Wondering how he got himself into this and deciding to blame it all on XJ, Tusk pulled on his helmet, snapped the chin strap with a vicious click. He took a few moments to inspect the lascannon, not because he needed to, but because the delay was obviously irritating Nola Rian. The cannon was a newer model than the ones with which he was familiar, but he noted and highly approved all the changes in design and smiled in grim satisfaction. At least something was going right!

  Leaning back in his seat, Tusk watched the woman's hands move skillfully over the instrument panel. He had only the vaguest idea of what she was doing. The TRUCs were anti-grav driven vehicles, and though Tusk knew something about them on principle he had never operated one.

  Glancing out the thick steelglass windscreen, he saw the crew scrambling to clear the area as Nola gave a thumb's up to indicate they were ready to go. A rumbling—barely heard through the TRUC's thick metal shields—indicated that the overhead doors to the silo where the monstrous vehicles were housed were slowly sliding open. Nola activated the anti-grav field and slowly and silently the ungainly monster rose up into the air. Absorbed in the remarkable and unexpected beauty of seeing the ground fall slowly away from him, inste
ad of blasting up off it like a bolt of perverse lightning striking out at heaven, Tusk was startled to feel an ice-cold touch on his hand.

  Turning, alarmed, expecting a crisis, he discovered Nola reaching out to him, not an easy task considering the lascannon mounted between them. Her eyes, seen through the visor of the helmet, were pretty eyes—sparkling green, wide, with a fringe of brown eyelashes beneath pertly slanting dark brown eyebrows.

  "Tusk—" she swallowed, seeming to have difficulty finding the moisture in her mouth necessary to talk, "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry—about being such a . . . such a bitch—"

  "Hey, no. You weren't—"

  "I was," she said feelingly. "Last night and this morning both. And you didn't do anything to deserve it— Well, maybe that crack about not looking like a TRUC driver. But I'm sensitive about that. I was fat when I was a kid and they used to call me TRUC. Maybe it's one reason I took up driving them. Now I'm babbling. First a bitch, then a babbler. The truth is, Tusk, I'm scared. So scared it took all my bitchiness this morning to keep me running to the head and throwing up."

  "Rian, hush, take it easy," Tusk said, catching hold of her hand and squeezing it. "Jeez, your fingers are like ice. Hell, you got a right to be scared. I'd be worried about you if you weren't!"

  "I've flown through cosmic dust storms and never lost either my nerve or my cargo," Nola continued, gripping Tusk's hand tightly. "These TRUCs could fly through the side of a mountain and come out intact. But cosmic storms don't shoot at you—"

  "You're gonna do fine, Rian. And everything's gonna be all right." Tusk hoped the helmet obscured the expression on his face. "They wouldn't dare shoot at us. Think of the repercussions. Reporters crawling all over them."

  The green eyes crinkled in the corners. "Uh-huh. There's always the chance that whoever got that fancy new torpedo boat is planning to use it as a prop for filming a war vid. Right?"

  Before Tusk, somewhat taken aback by her perspicacity, could think up an answer, the woman had turned her attention to steering or whatever one did to maneuver the vehicle, if one maneuvered it at all.