Nola hushed. Tusk released her slowly. "Too late." Moving to the controls, he activated the exterior commlink. "Yeah? Who is it?"
"Anselmo!" came a gruff boom. "Someone's been here, asking 'bout you."
"What'd you tell im?"
"What you said. But I don't think he believed me."
"He didn't," interjected a voice, another voice, a different voice.
"I think you better come out here, Tusk," Anselmo added. "Now! He's got a gun on me."
"I apologize for the use of force, Dion Starfire," the messenger said in an expressionless tone, gazing at them with empty eyes. He slid the lasgun neatly back into a holster worn in the small of his back. "But the owner persisted in lying to me."
"How did you find us?" Tusk growled.
Dion, glancing around, wondered how anyone in the civilized universe could have found them. Towering above their heads, a bright purple neon sign, reading anselmo's wrecking & savage co, blinked on and off against the noxious green sky. Beneath the neon, a billboard read: 10 square hectometers of clean tested reliable used parts. we pay top $$$ for late model wrecked spaceplanes, rvs, shuttles, droids and bots. you smash 'em, we cash 'em.
"Why are we parked in a junkyard?" Dion asked Tusk quietly.
"Hell, kid, it's a great cover. Used to be," Tusk said, eyeing the messenger suspiciously. "I asked how you found us."
"That is not relevant. I am to take you to the Lady Maigrey immediately. Will you come?"
"Like hell it's not relevant! What's the deal, Anselmo?" Tusk sidled close to the junkyard owner, a large human of indeterminate race, almost as big around as he was tall.
"Lady Maigrey! Is she all right? Is she in danger?" Dion approached the messenger.
"She is, for the moment, safe and well," the messenger replied, his eyes fixed on Dion, perhaps seeing him, perhaps not. "The situation changes as we speak. You should waste no more time."
Anselmo was talking in low tones to Tusk. "I caught the creep pokin' 'round the yard this morning. How he got over the fence, I don't know. It's hot and the juice is on. Anyhow, I told 'im we wasn't open, and fer him t'come back this afternoon. He asks me if I seen a plane matchin' that description." Anselmo waved an enormous hand in the direction of Dion's spaceplane. "I told him we didn't have no wrecked plane like that in stock, and without so much as a how-do-you-do he pulls out that friggin' blaster, starts threatenin' to blow holes in people's stomachs."
"Well, you were safe enough there," Tusk said. "The laser beam isn't made that could penetrate your gut! So you led him right to us, eh, Anselmo?"
The messenger, overhearing, turned his blank face toward the mercenary. "What he does not tell you, Mendaharin Tusca, is that he offered to find a plane matching the description I gave him if I paid for it in advance."
"Look, it doesn't matter how he found us," Dion began impatiently. "We have to go—"
Tusk flashed Anselmo a vicious glance. The big man grunted and shrugged flabby shoulders. "Business is business, Tusk. Speaking of which, you owe me ten kilners."
"Ten!" Tusk gaped.
"A night."
"You thief! I'll be damned if I'll pay—"
"Tusk!" Dion glowered at his friend. "Go ahead and—"
"You'll pay," Anselmo said calmly. "I'm still the cheapest set-down around. In fact, I'm the only set-down around. You can't go nowhere else. Everyone's full up. Big party this weekend. Snaga Ohme's. People comin' in from all over the galaxy."
Nola caught her breath. "Snaga Ohme!"
The messenger shifted his vacant gaze to her. "You know of Snaga Ohme?"
"Uh, sure." Nola giggled nervously. "Every girl knows about Snaga Ohme. He's in all the mags. I'd forgotten that this planet is where he lives! I'd love to see his house!" She stepped near Tusk, entwined her hand in his, squeezed it tightly. "Who's that holo star he's been going around with lately? You know, the one I showed General Dixter."
"Dixter?" Tusk stared at her, puzzled. "Dixter never went to a holo in his life—"
"Yes, dear," Nola purred, digging her nails into his flesh, "you know the one I mean! The one he just went wild over . . . with the long blond hair. ..."
Dion heaved an irritated sigh, turned to face the messenger. "Let's go."
The messenger nodded slowly. "Your friends are coming?"
"They'd obviously rather stay here and discuss holo stars—"
"We're coming, kid." Tusk glared at the messenger. "I guess you don't mind if we take our weapons, since you say there's likely to be danger."
The mercenary indicated his own blaster. Nola was armed with a needle-gun. Dion wore the bloodsword awkwardly, still unused to it. The handle, suspended from his belt, bounced on his thigh and he continually put his hand over it to stop the movement. The messenger flicked a glance over the conventional weapons. His gaze lingered longer on the bloodsword, but it evoked no spark of life or interest, nothing beyond another slow nod.
"Weapons would be advisable."
"Oh, glad you think so. Now, Anselmo, if you'll excuse us—"
"Cash." Anselmo planted his large body—a substantial obstacle—in Tusk's path. "A week in advance. And something extra for the inconvenience."
"What inconvenience?"
"Of having a gun stuck in my belly!"
Tusk, scowling, fished a purse out of one of the numerous pockets of his desert fatigues, slapped several bills into the junk dealer's grime-encrusted palm. Tusk started to walk off, but the hand closed over his shoulder with a grip like one of Anselmo’s own wrecking machines.
"Not that I don't trust you," the dealer said, and began slowly counting the money.
Dion and the messenger walked on ahead toward a small copter, parked on the flat, green-tinted Laskarian terrain.
"Very well." Anselmo tucked the bills into a greasy wallet, thrust it into a cavernous pocket. "Be sure and don't make a mess, will ya?"
"Yeah. Ill keep my particular spot of the junkyard neat and tidy. Say, Anselmo," Tusk said conversationally, leaning near the junk dealer, all the time keeping one eye on the messenger, "you know everyone in, on, or around this planet. You ever seen that guy before?"
Anselmo grunted, shook his head. "And if I never see him again, it'll be too soon. When you come back, Tusk—if you come back—don't bring the stiff with you." Waddling off, the junk dealer rolled through the junkyard's fence gate, slammed it shut behind him.
Tusk started to follow Dion, but Nola yanked him back.
"Now what?" he asked irritably. "C'mon, will ya?"
He tried to drag her forward, but Nola was a strong woman, her short, compact body difficult to dislodge once she planted her feet.
"Look, sweetheart," Tusk said in wheedling tones, "we can't let Dion and the corpse just waltz off—"
"Will you listen to me a minute?" Nola hissed. "Go on. Start walking, if you must, but move slow. That Snaga Ohme he was talking about! He's the one I was investigating for General Dixter!"
"Huh?" Tusk still had holo stars on his mind.
"The weapons genius, on Vangelis! The one who was in touch with Lord Sagan! I found out that this Ohme character had been on Vangelis, working on some sort of top-secret project. I told Dixter what I found out. He never said any more to me about Ohme and when I asked the general, he got that kind of funny, tight-lipped look on his face and told me to forget I'd ever heard the name. That was right before the battle with the Corasians."
"So that's it!" Tusk said bitterly. "It's all beginning to make sense. That's why Sagan turned on us. He didn't want us, he wanted Dixter, and he had to make it look good so no one would suspect. And Dixter knew it. That's why he warned us to be ready. And now Sagan's got him! Damn! I knew we shouldn't have left!"
Tusk halted, looked irresolute, as if contemplating turning around, going back.
"Tusk," Nola whispered, "it might be coincidence that brought Dion here, to the planet where Snaga Ohme lives. It might be coincidence caused that messenger to actually exhibit some type of life-form
response when the name Ohme was mentioned—"
"Yeah," Tusk cut in, "and I might be chairman of the Derek Sagan for Dictator fund-raising committee! But why the kid?"
"I don't know. But if Dixter is still alive, like Link said, we might be able to do him more good here than anywhere else. Not to mention keeping an eye on Dion. I think we should be careful, though. Real careful," Nola added. The two had started walking again and were nearing the 'copter. Dion was waiting for them, impatience visible in every straight-edged line of his body.
"Yeah, I think you're right," Tusk said, and closed his hand reassuringly over his lasgun. "Wait a minute, though," he added with a low whistle. "How the hell did that creep know my real name?"
The 'copter, driven by the messenger, chopped through the hot and arid Laskarian air. Seated in front, Dion caught a glimpse of a large spacebase off in the distance to the right. Tusk, behind him, informed him that the base was Fort Laskar. Glistening tall buildings on their left marked the location of the city of Laskar. They glided over its outskirts. The streets were empty, dead as the messenger's eyes.
"It looks abandoned," Dion remarked.
"What?" Tusk bawled over the noise of the rotor.
"It looks abandoned!"
"Hell, kid, it's mid-afternoon!" Tusk shouted.
Dion tried to look as if this made sense. The 'copter swerved away from the city and flew over open country. The only sign of civilization was a long ribbon of highway, stretched out along the desert sand. The highway appeared as abandoned as the slumbering city, except for a billowing curl of black, oily smoke rising up into the cloudless sky.
"Something's on fire!" Dion pointed.
"Tanker truck," Tusk said, leaning out at a perilous angle in an attempt to see.
Their pilot flew the copter over the highway, avoiding the smoke. He pointed at a vast expanse of lush green, springing up suddenly out of the sand. "The estate of Snaga Ohme."
Dion barely glanced at it. Tusk and Nola appeared to take a great deal of interest in it, however, and the young man wondered idly what it must be like to be a famous celebrity, have your face splashed on mags and vids, people dying to know what you ate for breakfast, whom you slept with after lunch.
If I were king— Dion stopped, almost laughed out loud. King! What right do I have to be thinking about regaining the throne, the throne my uncle lost through weakness and indecisiveness, the throne my own father never lived to see.
Kings are made, not born. So Sagan told me. And all I've made thus far is a mess of everything. I disobeyed orders, led a squadron of brave men into trouble, and then didn't have the guts to lead them out. They died, because of me. I was captured by the Corasians, forced Sagan and Maigrey to come to my rescue, nearly got all three of us killed.
Oh, sure, I was responsible for pulling the trapped mercenaries together on Defiant, I thought up the plan for helping them escape. I guess you could say I risked my life, single-handedly attacking the control room.
Attack. Most of the men weren't even armed. The ones who were didn't even bother to aim them. Kid. Go run along and play, kid. They didn't take me seriously. Well, at the end, they took me seriously. Dead serious ... all of them. Dead.
"Kid!" Tusk's hand was on his shoulder. He was shaking him, yelling in his ear. "You okay? You look kinda green. Never rode in a chopper before, huh? If you're gonna be sick, lean your head out over the side—"
Dion did as he was told, deposited most of his breakfast on the Laskarian landscape below. Tusk hung on to the back of his shirt collar to keep him from falling out.
His Majesty the King.
The 'copter set down on a flat, barren, rock-floored canyon in an area referred to either as the middle of nowhere or the middle of Laskar and amounting to about the same thing. The messenger had seemed to take a circuitous route, perhaps to show them the sights, or perhaps to make it difficult to ever find this place again. Dion had quickly lost his bearings and he gathered, from what he could overhear of a muttered conversation between Tusk and Nola on landing, that the mercenary hadn't done much better.
A building erected on the sun-baked rock looked extremely incongruous and out of place. It was built out of a strange concoction of flat rectangular panels—each panel the same exact width and length.
"It looks like it's made out of playing cards!" Nola said with a giggle.
"Prefab." Tusk grunted, staring at it.
"What's that?" Dion asked.
"A home away from home. Made for those who don't like to leave their comforts behind. Those panels can be hauled aboard just about any middling-sized transport—a shuttlecraft, for example. The panels're super-fused cardboard. Lightweight, tougher than wood, almost as hard as steel. They snap together and, when they're up, they'll stay up for years. Kind of an odd place, though, " Tusk suggested quietly, "for the Lady Maigrey to be. Don't you think so, kid?"
Dion studied the house stacked up in the desert. It was windowless, doorless, quiet. Several other copters stood on the landing site near where he and his companions had touched down. A large shuttlecraft was parked nearby. The green sun, slipping toward the horizon, cast long shadows that moved across the house of cardboard, making it appear to change in shape—growing longer, then shortening, then taller, then sinking. The house seemed more alive than anything around it.
"This way, if you please." The messenger waved a polite hand toward the house.
"Is the Lady Maigrey in there?" Dion stopped him.
The messenger presented a face barren as the rock on which he stood. "Not precisely," he said.
"What do you mean?" Dion felt a pang of fear and was immediately furious at himself. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blaster in Tusk's hand, Nola coolly leveling the needle-gun. Dion groped for the bloodsword, closed his hand around the hilt. "We're not taking another step until you tell us what's going on!"
"I will tell you what you want to know, Dion Starfire," shouted a voice.
A man stood in the doorway of the cardboard dwelling. He was clad in magenta robes and gave the impression, by being bent and stooped, of great age. But his movements were swift, his voice strong. He started toward them, covered the distance between Dion and the house with surprising speed. Reaching the young man, coming to stand in front of him, the man drew the magenta-colored hood from his head.
Dion had seen many strange life-forms in the galaxy, seen aliens considered disgusting to the human eye—people with eyeballs where their feet should be, people with heads in the general vicinity of their stomachs, people who looked somewhat like broccoli that's taken a turn for the worse. But Dion had never seen anything more loathsome than the sight of this man. Involuntarily, he took a step backward.
The old man's bald head perched on a scrawny neck that seemed as if it might snap beneath the weight. Patches of peeling skin, cracked and dry, dotted his domed forehead. Two large nodes swelled outward from the base of the head at the back and a series of welts ran along the major nerve paths up the neck, the face, around the skull. Despite the fact that the temperature where they stood must be well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, Dion noted that the old man, though clad in extremely heavy woolen robes, shivered as with a chill.
The old man stretched out a bony left arm in a gesture of welcome. Welts twined up the arm like snakes. When he moved it, bits of decaying skin flaked off, fell unheeded to the ground.
The old man spoke humbly, reverently. "Welcome to my house . . . Your Majesty."
Chapter Eleven
Journeys end in lovers meeting.
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 3
"I have the schematic, your ladyship."
"You do? Bring it up!" Maigrey had been pacing the small cockpit of the spaceplane, four steps one way, four another. She nearly leapt at the computer when XJ spoke, then clutched the back of the pilot's chair and leaned over to look intently into the screen.
A three-dimensional view of the crystal space-rotation bomb appeared, show
ing in detail its complex circuitry and construction.
"Rotate it a hundred and eighty," Maigrey instructed.
The computer obeyed.
"Back again ninety."
The bomb on the screen obligingly turned. Maigrey viewed it from all possible angles, top and bottom. Suddenly, with an indrawn breath, she sank down into the pilot's chair.
"My God!" she whispered. "What have I done?"
"What have you done?" XJ demanded nervously, not liking her tone, not at all liking the fact that this powerful bomb was in the computer's spaceplane.
"That's why Snaga Ohme wanted it back. Not to sell it to someone else, but to use it himself! And I gave him the means! Dear God. Dear God!"
"You gave him the means to arm the bomb?" XJ asked, shocked, completing Maigrey's somewhat fragmented statements. "Are you certain, your ladyship? Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I've analyzed the bomb and run through every conceivable armament device known to man and alien, plus several that I just came up with myself, and nothing.
Absolutely nothing. Therefore I don't see how it's possible—"
"Try this, XJ." Maigrey lifted the stylus, drew a shape on the screen, inserted the shape into the schematic drawing. It fit perfectly. "And this chemical composition." She read it off.
"By gum!" XJ said, stunned. "That's it! You have one of those eight-pointed whoozles and you put it into the bomb and blam! But what are these things? Just a moment, I'm running it. They're . . . they're . . . Oh. Oh, my." The computer lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.
"Yes," Maigrey said wearily. "A starjewel. The Star of the Guardians. It's absolutely perfect, the one substance Sagan could be almost completely certain no one but he himself possesses. Except me, of course. And where was I when he was designing this bomb? Far away, no possible threat. Until I return and then I am a threat, if I find out about the bomb, and then John Dixter, my poor John, stumbles on the information, and then . . . and then . . . and then what do I do? I give my starjewel to the Adonian! Of course Snaga Ohme would recognize the jewel as the arming device. He built the damn bomb!"
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