The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  "Damn!" Tusk said, sliding down the ladder. "I thought I told you not to tell the kid."

  "Why not?" Dion's blue eyes turned on Tusk, their expression cold and suspicious.

  Tusk sighed. "Look, kid," he said, fumbling for words beneath that intense, penetrating gaze, "it's all speculation. Circumstantial evidence—"

  "And I'm a word processor!" XJ flashed. "Circumstantial evidence. We caught the kid standing over the body, the smoking gun in his hand!"

  "And the body's probably mine!" Tusk snapped. "You yourself said it didn't prove anything. I wasn't going to tell you, kid, until we had a little more to go on, that's all. And you promised not to tell him either!" he shouted at XJ.

  "I am not programmed to recognize a promise. Honor is merely a word in my spell checker. And I say we have plenty of information to go on! Look, this kid's mentor was a Guardian. I found his name right here—Platus Morianna. Platus's sister was also a Guardian, Maigrey Morianna. They were both in Sagan's squadron, both survived the holocaust that night. The Warlord, Derek Sagan, comes to this planet and he kills—"

  "XJ," Tusk warned, seeing Dion flinch.

  "Er, disrupts a planet to try to find you, kid. Your master, this Platus, dies to keep your whereabouts secret. The Guardians swore an oath to guard and defend the Royal Family with their lives. It all makes sense. Didn't this Platus ever tell you anything about himself, about the Guardians?"

  "About the Guardians, yes," Dion answered. "I learned their history. How they are all members of the Blood Royal, those people specifically bred to be genetically superior to others and therefore to have the ability to be good rulers. The idea came from the ancient philosopher Plato. He spoke about it in the Republic-. 'Then there must be a selection. Let us note among the guardians those who in their whole life show the greatest eagerness to do what is for the good of their country—'"

  "Uh, right. Plato," Tusk interrupted hastily. "Look, I'm going to go pay a visit to the head. Why don't you find something for breakfast, kid, and you"—he glared at the computer—"turn on the heat!"

  "I'm conservation-minded," XJ said.

  Tusk, with a muttered comment, clambered back up the ladder.

  "You know," Dion said, looking after him, "he'd be one, too, wouldn't he? A Guardian. A member of the Blood Royal. Genetically superior—"

  "—to earthworms," XJ scoffed. "He's royal, all right. A royal pain."

  "But his father—"

  "Just goes to show you, kid. Even science is fallible. Hungry? Grab a couple of those frozen food trays and pop them in the nuker."

  Tusk came back to find food cooked and waiting for him. Dion, sitting in the co-pilot's chair, was eating his meal slowly, but he was eating—a fact that Tusk noted with relief. The kid had gone all day yesterday without a mouthful. Because of that, Tusk never mentioned that he wasn't accustomed to starting his mornings with spaghetti and clam sauce. He'd have to remember to tell the kid that the trays marked B were for breakfast.

  "So, what else did your . . . er . . . mentor tell you?" Tusk asked, thinking that the spaghetti didn't taste half-bad. "About himself, I mean, not Plato's Republic."

  "Nothing," Dion answered, shoving the spaghetti around with a plastic fork. "I didn't even know he had a sister. He never mentioned her, he never mentioned friends, anyone.

  You, Tusk"—the blue eyes nailed him—"were the first person I've ever known him to talk to."

  "Hey, come on, kid," Tusk said, trying not to look worried. The more he heard about this, the less he liked it. "I mean . . . you must've gone to the grocery store, the hardware store, somewhere."

  "No, we didn't. We grew our own food or ordered what we needed over the computer. Supplies were delivered by helicopter."

  "You never went to school, to the vids even?"

  "No. I studied at home. And I've never heard of vids. What are they?"

  "They're . . . Well, never mind." Tusk scowled. This Platus had been scared, scared as hell. "So your mentor never talked to anyone. What about you? Kids your own age?"

  "I met some once, not too long ago. A group of scouts got lost, hiking through the outback."

  "And?" Tusk prompted.

  "And what? I didn't like them," Dion said shortly, his eyes on his plate.

  "Uh-huh," Tusk said, munching garlic bread and exchanging glances with the computer's electronic eye. He noticed that XJ was being unusually quiet and that the computer was surreptitiously recording every word the boy said. "So, why didn't you like them?"

  "Look, what does it matter?" Dion tossed his half-empty plate to one side on the control panel and stared out the viewport at the stars, his arms folded tightly across his chest. "I didn't like them, that's all."

  "Just trying to be sociable, kid," Tusk said easily. "We're going to be spending a lot of time cooped up together and there's not much to do around here except sleep or talk. So, these kids," he continued, seeing the boy's stiff shoulders begin to relax, "what did they think of you?"

  Dion shrugged. "They seemed . . . awed, I guess."

  Tusk closed his eyes. Awed. Yes, that was the word. He could understand, he could imagine. It explained the feeling he got every time he looked at the kid. There was something about Dion that made you want to step back away from him, to think twice about touching him. It was the blue eyes, Tusk decided. That intense, brilliant blue gaze that stared not at you but clean through you. Tusk tossed his food tray in the trash liquidator. From the taste in his mouth, he might have been chewing the plastic plate.

  Dion sighed suddenly, and ran his hand through the mane of red-golden hair, brushing it back from his face with his fingers. The brilliant red-gold color was the only warm spot in the cabin. Huddling deeper into his down-lined flight jacket, Tusk shot the computer a vicious glance.

  "I can see what you're leading up to," Dion said suddenly. "Platus told me we led the lives of solitary scholars, unspoiled by contact with those who wouldn't understand us. But we were really leading the lives of fugitives, weren't we? We were hiding."

  "It looks that way, kid. And with good reason, apparently. I mean, after what happened and all."

  "It fits." Dion stared out into the ever-changing star patterns. "I knew I wasn't any relation to him. He always told me the truth about everything and so I rarely asked him anything about myself. It seemed to cause him pain and I never— He was so good to me, I—"

  Dion's voice faltered. Shaking his head, he forced back his emotions, and when he spoke, his tone was steady. "But one time, about a year ago, I pressed him. I don't know what made me do it. I felt angry and tight inside and I didn't care if I hurt him. I wanted to hurt him, in fact!" His hand clenched. "I didn't know myself. I felt like some kind of monster—"

  "Puberty," XJ remarked knowingly.

  "That's what Platus said." Dion almost smiled. "Afterward, I apologized. He apologized, too, for losing his patience."

  "What did he say about you?"

  "When we were arguing, he lost his temper and told me never to bring up the subject of who I was again. You see this necklace I wear-—this ring?"

  Dion pulled it out from beneath the collar of his shirt. Tusk leaned over and looked at it. It was an unusual one. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything like it. A circlet made of tongues of carved flame opals, it burned with a bright red and orange and purple fire. Tusk felt relieved; he'd half-expected to see the royal crest or something.

  "I've worn it ever since I can remember. Platus told me that there'd been many times when he was tempted to rip this off and throw it away. Something this insignificant shouldn't signify what a man is or what he becomes. A man's past isn't important. What is important is who a man is now and what he plans to become in the future."

  "So, what are your plans?" Tusk asked, thinking he could have argued with good old Platus over that one.

  Dion gave a brief, bitter laugh. "Plans! I have no idea who I am, where I come from, why I was born. All I know is that a man I loved and honored and respected gave his l
ife for me. What can I give back?"

  He swiveled in the seat, turned to stare directly at Tusk. "Someone expects me to give something, that's obvious." Dion paused. When he spoke next, his voice had an odd quality—a coolness about it that startled the mercenary. "There's one person who knows who I am—Derek Sagan."

  The mercenary choked. "Sure," he said when he could talk. "He'd probably be real glad to tell you, too! Right before he stood you up against the wall and shot you."

  "Incorrect data," XJ informed him. "They don't do that now, not with vaporization chambers and other, more efficient—"

  "Oh, dry up!"

  "Do you think he'd do that?" Dion asked casually, staring down at the instruments and idly running his hands over them.

  Tusk grunted. "I take it you never heard news reports, never talked about politics?"

  "I'd never heard of a Warlord until . . . until—" Dion frowned and changed the subject. "I studied government, but it was all abstract. Platus said he was inadequate to teach anything else. Oh, I knew there were other planets out there and that something governed them, but it never mattered much what. It all seemed so far away, so far removed from us."

  Tusk cleared his throat. "Government. Well, you see, kid—" The mercenary scratched his head. "The monarchy was around for a century or so. Each planet was ruled by a member of the Blood Royal and all the Blood Royal swore allegiance to the king—also a member of the Blood Royal. It was a good system, I guess, for a while—"

  "Benevolent monarchy." Dion nodded wisely. "The best form of government, according to—"

  "Yeah, yeah"—Tusk waved a hand—"benevolent whatever. Anyway, what it comes down to, I guess, is that if the king's good everything's fine, but if he isn't you're in a hell of a mess."

  "And this Starfire wasn't a good king?"

  Tusk squirmed. Hell, they might be talking about the kid's uncle! "Uh, he was okay, I guess—"

  "He was weak, wishy-washy," XJ cut in. "Dumped every thing in the lap of the God. 'If the Creator wills it —that sort of philosophy. Without the Guardians to cover for him, Starfire wouldn't have lasted as long as he did."

  "So there was a revolt," Tusk said, taking over the lesson. "A guy named Peter Robes—a professor of political science at some university—got together with Derek Sagan and some of the other high-level malcontents in the armed forces and staged a coup. Now the galaxy's run by—ostensibly—a democratically elected Congress. It's got some fancy name, but everyone calls it just that—the Congress. When they call it anything polite, that is. The Congress is so divided that the President, Robes, is the real power. You see, following the overthrow of the king and the Royal Family, Robes divided the galactic empire up into one million sectors. Each sector elects two members to sit on the Congress. Each has an equal vote in how the government's run."

  "Democracy," Dion said. "A democratic form of rule."

  "Yeah, that's what they promised. And I guess that's what it looks like, on the surface. As time went by and the Congress couldn't get much done, what with half the members running for reelection and the other half arguing among themselves, Robes began to acquire more and more power just so that someone could get something done.

  "Now some people want the Congress abolished and all power consolidated in the hands of the President. Others want the President abolished and everything put in the hands of the Congress. And you know what some others want?" Tusk propped his feet up on the control panel, his gaze fixed on the tangle of wires above his head.

  "What?"

  "They want the good old days. They want a king. They're starting to think they made a mistake. Life was pretty great, back then, when they didn't have to think about who to vote for, didn't have to make all these decisions. There's a lot more royalists around than you might think, kid. And their numbers're growing. If the true heir was to turn up . .

  "The Congress would kill him," Dion said, fiddling with a dial.

  "Or the President, or both at once. I know I would, if I were in their shoes!"

  "I wouldn't," XJ struck in. "And, hey, kid, don't mess with the equipment. No, I wouldn't bump off the true heir. Not as long as the true heir minded his manners, of course. Think about it—what would be more impressive than the true heir appearing on prime time, putting his arm around Peter Robes's padded shoulders and swearing that there's nothing like the good old democratic system, after all. Get out and vote for the candidate of your choice. Throw in a few remarks about how the king was a money-grubbing, power-hungry elitist and how the Republic's made for life, liberty, and the—"'

  "Whose life?" Tusk demanded. "Certainly not the heir's if one of the Warlords steps in and wipes out the Congress."

  "Are there any powerful enough to do that?" Dion asked.

  "Sagan, for one. At least that's the rumor."

  "Mrrft!" XJ made a noise that the boy was later to learn was the computer's approximation of a snort. "No way."

  "Well, maybe not yet," Tusk amended. Sneakily, he shed the leather flight jacket, hoping the computer wouldn't notice. XJ had apparently become so interested in the conversation it hadn't realized that Tusk had readjusted the thermostat.

  "So what do I do? Rot in some military school?" Dion put his finger on a button, then suddenly snatched it back. "Ouch!"

  "Told you not to touch those, kid," the computer said. "Small electrical charge. Won't hurt you. This time."

  "Uh, well, you see, kid, we've decided not to take you to the military school, after all—" Tusk began.

  "You could be worth your weight in gold," XJ remarked.

  "Oh, so that's it!" Dion said, flushing angrily. "You can sell me to the highest bidder—"

  "That's not it!" Tusk snapped. "I promised, remember? And I may not be good for much else, but I keep promises." He gave the computer a swift kick beneath the console. "I promised that Platus of yours that I'd take care of you. We ought to try to find out for certain—if we can—who you are and . . . and—" Tusk's eyes brightened. He sat forward excitedly in his chair. "And, by the Creator, I know someone who might be able to help us!"

  "Who?" Dion asked sullenly, sucking his injured fingers.

  "Someone who was on Minas Tares the night of the revolution! John Dixter. He's fighting a war on Vangelis. We're already on course for the planet, aren't we, XJ?"

  The computer muttered something unintelligible.

  "You really think he can help?" Dion was still regarding the mercenary suspiciously.

  "Sure!" Tusk said with more confidence than he felt. "Dixter was a general in the Royal Army. Barely escaped the revolution with his life and now he earns his living by selling his military expertise to those who can afford him. And that's not just anyone. He's good, kid. Real good. Fair and honest, too. Besides, you'll probably see some combat. And what's military school compared to the real thing?"

  "I guess you're right." Dion relaxed. Sighing, he shook out the mane of red-gold hair. "I'm sorry, Tusk. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions—"

  "Think nothing of it, kid. Now, XJ and I got a lot of work to do around here. Why don't you go up and . . . uh . . . play some more of that harp stuff for us?"

  "You like it?" Dion appeared pleased.

  "You bet!"

  Stuffing his plastic dish into the trash liquidator, Dion climbed the ladder that led back up into the living quarters of the Scimitar. Within moments, the weird music of the light strings reverberated through the small cabin.

  "Liar!" XJ said.

  "Shut up," Tusk muttered, gritting his teeth.

  Chapter Ten

  One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  "My lord, we have landed."

  "Yes. Thank you, Captain."

  The information was unnecessary. The Warlord's shuttle did not touch down with such smoothness that landings went unnoticed. This landing had been a particularly rough one, the shuttle having been forced to blast away a large portion of jungle growth to create a clear area in wh
ich to set down the craft. Despite that, branches splintered, trees cracked, vines slithered past the steelglass windows before the shuttle came to a bumpy, bone-jolting stop.

  Why the Warlord had chosen to land in this overgrown jungle when there was a large smooth area near a principal village was a mystery to the shuttlecraft's commander. He had obeyed orders, however, and hoped that Sagan would take into account the difficulties of setting down by night in heavily wooded terrain when it came time for the commander's next review.

  The captain of the centurions left the bridge and hastened to post himself at the hatchway to await orders. He was considerably startled to find no one there. Following landing, the Warlord was invariably on his feet, standing by the hatch, waiting with obvious impatience for pressure seals to release, the hatch to slide open, the ramp to slide out. But now he was not there. He was nowhere to be seen.

  His uneasiness increasing, the captain waited a few nerve-racking moments to see if the Warlord would make his appearance. When he did not, the captain made his way to Sagan's quarters aboard the shuttlecraft. It was the officer's duty, after all, to inform his superior that they had arrived on-planet, in case the Warlord had not noticed that vine-looped tree trunks now replaced the stars outside his view port.

  The Honor Guard stood alert and rigid outside the entrance to Sagan's quarters, and if the centurions had been exchanging wondering glances between themselves before their captain's arrival, they immediately assumed a formal impassivity in the presence of the commander of the ring of steel they formed around their lord. The captain could not forbear casting them a questioning look. One raised an eyebrow and his left shoulder. They didn't know what was going on either. The captain entered the compartment.

  The Warlord sat by himself in moonlit darkness. The moonlight glistened off the moisture-slick boles of the trees and their huge, dripping wet leaves outside Sagan's viewport, shone brilliantly on the silver scabbard of a sword—one of the legendary bloodswords-—lying across the Warlord's knees. His hand rested on the hilt. Seen by moonlight, the Warlord's face was a series of deep cleft marks scored into rock, all slanting downward. The eyes were abstracted, staring intently at nothing, and the captain realized that the Warlord's body may have been in this compartment but his soul was not.