"Thank you, Agis," Dion interrupted. "You have done your duty."
But the fingers that had almost touched the girl began to tremble, then curled in on themselves. His hand clenched to a fist, dropped nervelessly to his side.
"I can't."
A bead of sweat trickled down from beneath the red hair, slid down his temple. "I'm sorry," he said without a voice. "I can't. Forgive me."
"No! Please!" The girl screamed, clutched at Dion.
Agis, acting as he should have acted two minutes earlier, firmly hauled her to her feet and hustled her out of sight.
Tusk heaved a sigh that was mostly relief, part something else he didn't like to admit. It was so easy to believe in Dion. Or perhaps it was easy to want to believe in him.
This was not the time for metaphysical musings, however. He had to get the king out of here. Tusk's main goal now was the limo and he didn't care how they reached it or what they might look like on the evening news. The fire had died in Dion, the candle's flame snuffed out, leaving him cold and brittle and hard as ice.
Climbing into the waiting limo, the king sat bolt upright in the backseat, looked at nothing, said nothing. He had withdrawn far into himself in what Tusk had come to recognize as a defensive posture, a soldier under attack hunkered flat at the bottom of his foxhole.
"Get us the hell out of here," Tusk ordered the driver.
Chapter Three
Glorious the comet's train . . .
Christopher Smart, A Song to David
Air locks opened with a soft sigh. The cool, purient air of a vessel in space bit into the nostrils, made sweat-damp skin shiver. The silence of near-empty corridors, which resounded only with the calm and measured tread of a military machine going about its business, eased the pounding ache in Tusk's temples. Dion relaxed, lines of stress eased from his face. His eyes brightened, he almost smiled. The mercenary was about to suggest a nap when the officious Bennett rounded a corner and confronted them.
Tusk saw immediately what was up, attempted a diversion. A glance sent Nola into action.
"Bennett," purred the young woman, sliding her hand over the sergeant-major's arm, "how have you been? How's die general? Did you see Dion on the vid—?"
Safe under this friendly covering fire, Tusk was steering the king down an intersecting corridor. Nola might as well have thrown herself in front of a tank, however. Bennett rumbled right over her.
"Your Majesty, General Dixter's compliments, and could he solicit the honor of your presence and that of Major Tusk in the comm, sir."
Tusk's opening maneuver had failed. The enemy had broken through his front fines and was advancing, leaving Nola standing alone, shaking her curls in the corridor. Tusk hurled himself into the breach.
"Look, Bennett, we had a pretty rough time down there. The kid here's about finished and I'm not much better. Tell Dixter we'll report to him in the morning. ..."
The creases in the sergeant-major's face went almost as rigid as the knife-edged creases in his neatly pressed uniform.
Bennett could well remember the days when Tusk had been just another mercenary pilot under Dixter's command, Dion a mere civilian passenger. A shift in the tide of the affairs of men had floated Dion to the top, raised Tusk to the status of major under the Warlord's command, and sent General John Dixter drifting into the shoals of uneasy alliance with a former deadly foe and rival. Bennett coped with the changes as he had coped with every other upheaval he'd encountered as aide to General Dixter—the sergeant-major preferred change to regulations and acted accordingly. But he could not forebear, by tone and manner, registering his disapproval of the entire situation and he could not help exulting in his occasional victory.
He sniffed. A corner of a clipped-mustached lip twitched. "Lord Sagan," he said in an undertone. Eyes on the bulkheads, he spoke to no one in particular.
"Damn," Tusk swore beneath his breath, thinking it possible, even at this point, that Dion might not have heard, might yet be persuaded to go to his quarters and rest.
Unfortunately, accustomed as he was to shouting commands on the parade ground, the sergeant-major's voice carried quite well.
Dion had gone white as sunrise on an ice-locked moon.
"Kid—" Tusk began, but the king had turned, was advancing down the corridor, heading toward the communications center aboard ship. Bennett, Captain Agis, and the ever-present centurion guard followed closely behind.
Tusk stood in the corridor, stared grimly after them. The thought came to him that by taking this particular corridor to the left, instead of the right, he would arrive at a lift that would whisk him to the flight deck. There he would find his spaceplane and his irritating, sarcastic, disrespectful, and sorely missed partner, XJ-27.
"Tusk, what is it?" Nola twined her fingers through his, squeezed his hand.
"I'd be a fugitive again," Tusk mused. "But, hell, I've been a fugitive most of my life. I could find work. There's always a war being fought somewhere, specially now that the Republic's falling apart. Or maybe turn my hand at smuggling. That pirate we ran into—"
"You can't leave him, Tusk," said Nola softly.
"I can leave anybody I damn well please!" Tusk retorted.
"He's got Sagan, he's got Dixter, he's got a whole fuckin' regiment of armor-plated bootlickers—"
"He hasn't got a friend, Tusk. Only you. You're the only one who cares about him. Not about a king, not about some piece in a huge galactic game, not about a chance for revenge, a chance to restore some long-lost ideal of ages past—but him. Dion." Nola moved nearer, slid her arm around Tusk. "You remember Dion, don't you? The seventeen-year-old kid you rescued on Syrac Seven? The kid who threw up the first time he flew your plane? The kid who was scared spitless his first time in combat?" Her voice altered subtly. "The 'kid' who saved our lives on Defiant?"
"I know, I know. Lay off, Nola—"
"It's why the Starlady made you his Guardian, Tusk—"
"Yeah, then what does she do? Walks off. Drops outta sight. Leaves us to take the flak—"
"That's not fair. You can't judge her, Tusk. You don't understand."
"Damn right, I don't understand! I don't understand anything except I'm the one who's always around. I'm the one who watched them stick a crown on that kid's head, then start driving nails into him."
"He put the crown on his own head. It was his choice."
"After they held it up and showed him how bright and fancy it was and let him try it on and told him how great he looked in it and how well it fit and groveled at his feet and messed with his mind. Who knows what ideas that evil old man gave him, sticking needles into him—"
"Don't, Tusk." Nola paled, swallowed. "Don't talk about that time."
"Sorry, sweetheart." Tusk sighed, put his arm around her and hugged her close. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." He was silent a moment. "I'm scared for him, Nola."
"I know, dear."
"That's why I want to run sometimes. I don't see anything good coming outta this. Like sittin' in a theater, watching a vid, and knowing how it's going to end—"
"You don't know how it's going to end."
"I've got a pretty good idea," Tusk said gloomily. "I know the director, and he doesn't believe in happily ever after. Speaking of Sagan, I guess I'd better go see if I can deflect the latest hammer blows. Where'll you be?"
"I'm going to soak in a hot shower and wash my hair. Meet you in the bar?"
"Yeah. Order me a double and have it waiting. I'll need it," Tusk predicted grimly and stalked off, down the corridor, away from the lift and the flight deck and his spaceplane and freedom.
Nola watched after him, sighed. "Oh, Tusk, I wish you understood. Those nails are passing right through Dion. You're the only one they're hurting."
Afraid of being late, Tusk beat it to the comm at a dead run, only to discover on arrival, hot and out of breath, that John Dixter was the sole person—besides the men on duty— present.
Tusk glanced nervously a
bout the room, its hundreds of blinking glass eyes staring outward, reflecting back what they saw, keeping watch on people and events around the galaxy. Operators sat at their posts, monitoring, transmitting, speaking in myriad languages, listening to myriad more. The different images on the various screens shifted rapidly; it made Tusk dizzy to watch, reminded him uncomfortably of the fact that time and events were rocketing forward, out of control, like a spaceplane with a malfunctioning hyperdrive.
"Is it over?" he demanded. Despite his rebellious talk, he couldn't help but feel queasy at the thought of missing one of the Warlord's summons.
"No, no," said Dixter in a soothing tone. He smiled slightly, sympathetic. "Hasn't started yet."
"But Bennett—"
"I sent him after Dion early. Give His Majesty a chance to change his clothes, freshen up . . ."
"Arm himself."
"Yes, that, too," Dixter replied quietly.
Tusk sighed, mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform, completely forgetting to use the standard regulation-issue handkerchief tucked neatly, according to regulations, into his cuff. He saw Dixter's eyebrow raise, saw him glance at the stain on Tusk's sleeve, and it occurred to the former mercenary, belatedly, that he, too, would shortly be in the Warlord's presence.
Tusk groaned and began to try to twitch his uniform coat into place, brush off his trousers. He gave his black boots a quick shine by rubbing them against the backs of his pant legs. This did nothing for the appearance of his uniform, seen from behind, but he wasn't likely to be presenting his posterior to the Warlord.
Not that it wasn't a temptation. Tusk couldn't help grinning at the thought. Looking up, he saw Dixter watching the proceedings with amusement.
Tusk felt his skin grow warm.
"XJ would be proud of you," Dixter said gravely.
"Yeah, well, gotta keep up appearances," Tusk muttered. A shining steel bulkhead reflected his image back to him. He gave himself a quick once over, couldn't help but wonder—at first glance—just who the hell this character was.
The stern, chilling lines of the black uniform, its stiff, high collar and smooth, adhesive-flapped front closing trimmed with red piping and glittering major's insignia, were light-years away from the many-times-washed, army-surplus fatigues Tusk had been accustomed to wearing. Looking at himself, he had a momentary wish that wherever those fatigues were, he was with them.
The jet-black color of the uniform was too near the ebony-black color of his skin; it was difficult to tell—other than by the bloodred lines of the piping—where the uniform left off and Tusk began. Sometimes he had the feeling he was all uniform, nothing remained of himself. Even the fit reminded him constantly that he was in the Warlord's service: uncomfortable, rigid, with a tendency to grip him too tightly about the neck. Tusk felt himself continually short of breath, had fallen into the habit of tugging at his collar in an ineffectual attempt to loosen it.
He regarded himself with a small measure of contempt and a large amount of self-pity. Turning away, he saw that Dixter's amusement had broadened into a wide smile.
"You're beautiful," he assured Tusk.
"Oh, stow it . . . sir,"Tusk mumbled in return, casting the general a bitter, envious glance.
He didn't know how Dixter managed it He wore the same type of severely tailored uniform that Tusk wore, yet Dixter always appeared comfortable—his uniform wrinkled and rumpled, the collar undone (the top button missing in action), general's stars half falling off.
Dixter sat at his ease, rump propped on one of the control panels, where he'd been chatting casually with the operator waiting to receive the vid signal from the Warlord's ship, Phoenix II. The general might have been back in his old HQ in the desert of Vangelis, except for a few minor changes that no one who hadn't know him a long time would have noticed, someone like Tusk.
Looking at Dixter closely, as the general turned to answer a question from the operator, Tusk saw the older man's hair had gone a little grayer, the lines in the face were a little deeper, die brown eyes in their maze of wrinkles were a little tireder, a lot older. The deep suntanned brown of the skin, obtained after a life of living and fighting on land, would never completely fade, but the tan had gone sallow after months of being confined aboard a spaceship. And there was a faint pallor beneath the tan and the puffiness about the eyes of a man who never feels himself at ease traveling the frigid, black void of space.
Tusk's envy evaporated, replaced by concern and a growing, smoldering anger. For two plastipennies, he'd grab the general and get the hell off this ship and away from the whole fuckin' mess. Tusk was fired up, he could have blasted off himself without benefit of a rocket. He loped across the deck, the words were on his hps, he was—in his mind—already flying out of the hangar when Dixter turned back to face him. One look at the mild brown eyes, and Tusk's energy drained from him.
Dixter wouldn't leave, any more than Tusk—when it came down to it—would leave. Only what held them wasn't precisely the same.
Tusk drew closer, lowered his voice. "Any word from the Lady Maigrey, sir?"
Dixter shook his head. "No." One word, but it held all the pain a man could conceivably hold and go on living.
"Begging the general's pardon, but damn it all to hell!" Tusk's anger found a vent. "One minute she's there and the next she's not, without so much as a 'so long, wasn't it fun, let's do it again sometime.' No, sir! I gotta say this, get this off my chest. If I don't, I—I might hit somebody!"
Noting the fierce expression on the mercenary's face, Dixter closed his mouth on die remonstrance he had been about to utter. He signaled Tusk to contain himself for the moment, rose to his feet, and led the way to the center of the room, which was empty and as quiet as the center of the comm could ever be.
Backed by die low buzzing hum of countless voices and the frequent bleeps of computers, Tusk launched into his grievances. Dixter listened patiently, his eyes fixed on the young soldier who'd become dear as a son to him, with only an occasional straying glance toward the door or to the operator waiting for Sagan's call.
"If die lady were here, she'd put a stop to about three fourths of the stuff that's goto' on. She'd take the kid to hand and help him understand what's happening instead of trying to bully him and telling him 'do this' and 'don't do that' and 'don't ask questions, just do as you're told.' But, no! Right when things start gettin' tough, she runs out."
A dark line, appearing between Dixter's brows, and a glint to the usually mild eyes halted Tusk a moment. But he'd gone too far to quit now, the damage had been done. He had to continue, try to explain himself.
"It wasn't like she was captured or carried off or Lord Sagan did away with her or anything. She left of her own free will! I know, sir. I was there, on base, the morning after the army took over Snaga Ohme's place. I was with Lord Sagan when he returned and they brought him word that the lady'd taken a spaceplane and beat it. I saw him, I saw his face."
Tusk paused, frowning. "He was mad. Hell, mad isn't the word." He shook his head. "I'm not sure there is a word for what he was. I'd swear I saw steel walls start to melt and drip all over the floor. And what does he do? Turn out the guard? Send out patrols?"
"Tusk-" Dixter tried to break in.
"Nothin'!" Tusk was past listening. "Not a goddam thing. In one second he goes cold as he was kot and says, 'Very well, my lady, maybe it's better this way,' or words to that effect."
Tusk, if I—"
"And now, it's been six months. All hell's breaking loose. Two actors battling for the same role. The kid got it and now he's out on center stage, putting on a show for an audience that's come mainly to see this play turn into a tragedy, then they can all have a good cry and go home. And meanwhile, Sagan's working backstage to bring down the curtain on the first act. And when it comes up again, guess who's gonna try to step in and take the lead! And my lady's off somewhere, doing God knows what. And as for how she treated you, sir—"
"Tusk, that's enough." Dixter's voice
was whip-sharp, the voice of the old desert-days HQ. It flicked across Tusk, brought him to his senses. He lowered his head, stared at his boots.
"I'm sorry, sir. I know how much you think of her and I didn't mean to get into that. It's none of my business. ..."
"Damn right, it isn't," Dixter said coldly.
Tusk lifted his head, defiance in his tone. "But I've seen what it's done to you, sir. You can't blame me for being upset."
Dixter glowered at the mercenary in grim and furious silence, but was obviously finding it difficult to be angry with someone whose only fault was that he cared.
Tusk saw the anger seep out, like blood from a wound, saw it replaced by pain and deep sorrow, and felt far worse than before. He knew, then, that much of what he'd said John Dixter must have been thinking; the man wouldn't have been human otherwise. Somehow or other, he'd come to terms with it. Because he loved her.
"Go ahead, sir," Tusk said. "Kick me. Kick me good and hard. Or, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go into a corner and kick myself—"
"That won't be necessary," Dixter said, one corner of his mouth twitching. He paused, grave, indecisive, then sighed, made up his mind. "Son . . ."He clasped a hand on Tusk's shoulder. "I—"
The operator looked in their direction. "Lord Sagan in five minutes, sir."
Dixter did not even glance over. "Inform His Majesty."
"Yes, sir."
"Tusk"—Dixter looked at him earnestly—"I don't have time to explain and I'm not certain I could anyway. I'll say this once, and then the subject will be closed forever between us. I've known Maigrey over twenty years. I've loved her, it seems, longer than that. I loved her when I thought she was dead and lost to me forever.
"I know her, Tusk. She didn't just 'leave.' She fled. She ran away. She's trying desperately to escape."
"Escape?" Tusk thought it over. "Yeah, I can understand. That old man, that Abdiel ... I heard he gave her a rough time. And she outsmarted him, tricked him. He can't be happy about that. Yeah, I guess it makes sense—"
King's Sacrifice Page 3
