The Warlord leaned forward, looked across her to Admiral Aks, who was seated on her left.
"Any word on that Scimitar, Admiral?"
"Scimitar, my lord?" Aks, having imbibed two glasses of wine, almost missed his cue. "Oh, the one belonging to the deserter, Tusca. Yes, my lord. We have located its position on Vangelis and are currently monitoring it."
"Circumspectly, I trust."
"Yes, my lord, of course. As you commanded."
"And where did it finally set down?"
"In a small valley in the midst of a large mountain range. An excellent site, well fortified."
"John Dixter is a good general. Marek chose wisely when he selected him to lead this little insurrection." All Maigrey could see of the Warlord were his hands. They held a knife and were cutting into a piece of meat with deft, swift slicing strokes. "John Dixter. I believe you knew a John Dixter at one time, didn't you, my lady?"
The food was ash in Maigrey's mouth, the wine vinegar. She put the table napkin to her lips, fearful that she would choke. Plutarch relates that Portia, the wife of the traitor Brutus, killed herself by snatching burning charcoals out of the fire and putting them into her mouth. Maigrey knew then in what agony the woman had died. She tasted fire. She felt stifled, her throat burned. Tears stung her eyes.
Sagan's thought touched her. They know I was your commander, lady. Don't disgrace me by crying!
Anger gripped Maigrey with a cool, steadying hand. Sagan had taught her the techniques of withstanding torture and torment, even as cruel as this. Disgrace him? She wouldn't disgrace herself.
"I once knew a John Dixter, my lord. But it is a common name in the galaxy."
Beneath the table where he couldn't see, Maigrey's hand clenched, her nails digging into her flesh. The steward would later find traces of blood upon the linen napkin.
"It would be a remarkable coincidence if the son of Danha Tusca were to be found with another John Dixter, a John Dixter who was not a friend of the members of the famed Golden Squadron. It is a common name, but this time, my lady, I am convinced that it belongs to a most uncommon man."
"If it is the same John Dixter, my lord, then he was a loyal commander, both to his king and to those whose honor he held in his care—those whom he commanded. I agree with you. He is an uncommon man. Certainly I know no other like him."
Very deliberately, the Warlord laid down both fork and knife, forming a cross upon his plate, a tradition among priests.
"Admiral Aks, you will send a squadron of marines to the planet's surface and arrest, in my name, the deserter known as Tusk and the royalist John Dixter. I want Tusca for questioning, but Dixter is expendable. If he resists, terminate him."
"Yes, my lord." The admiral made as if to rise from his seat. A lieutenant of the marines, who was also a guest, looked somewhat startled, but started to do the same.
"Leave Dixter out this, Sagan!" Maigrey said softly. "He had nothing to do with us!"
"I warned you long ago, lady, what your friendship might cost that man. You have only yourself to blame."
Maigrey stood up, hoping, as she did so, that she would find the strength to stay on her feet. The linen napkin slid from her lap and fell unheeded to the floor. "If you will excuse me, my -'lord, gentlemen."
There was much fumbling, clattering of tableware and scraping of feet, and a few coughs; the woman had caught most of the men in mid-mouthful. Admiral Aks held her chair. The other officers did her the honor of standing. Last of all, the Warlord rose slowly.
Maigrey could not see his face, but she could see the light of the starjewel, reflected coldly in his shadowed eyes. Catching hold of the gem, she wrapped her hand around it tightly, quenching the blue-white glow, and left the room without a word.
"Will she do it, my lord?" Aks inquired in a low voice.
"Yes. She must, she has no choice. I have made it a matter of honor."
Honor? Aks had seen the woman's face when John Dixter was mentioned. In the admiral's opinion, honor had very little to do with the matter. But, whatever the reason, the Warlord appeared to have won this contest. Aks glanced at Sagan to see if he could detect an expression of satisfaction on the stern face.
If there was, the shadows hid it extremely well.
Chapter Twenty
Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek . . .
George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Manfred"
"The kid handled the plane like a pro, sir. Oh, sure, he did some minor damage on landing, but that's to be expected with a first-timer, though to hear XJ carry on, you'd think the kid'd run the plane into the ground and brought it out again on the other side of the planet."
Dixter smiled. The general would have liked to point out to Tusk how paternal the mercenary was sounding, but, looking at the eight-pointed star glittering in the man's ear, Dixter kept quiet. That might be striking a little too close to the heart. Better to forget the past; maybe it'd go away.
"I've had him up a few times since in that reconditioned Scimitar you found for us, sir. It's about to melt XJ's microchips. I caught him trying to break into the other plane's computer files to see what was going on."
"How's the boy doing?"
Tusk pulled thoughtfully and absentmindedly at the earring. "It's just plain weird, sir. Now, I've never trained pilots or anything, but I remember my own trainer flights and this kid is uncanny. There's a helluva lot of things to do when you're flying. Things not to do, too. Just figuring out how to add what the computer's telling you with what your instruments are telling you and what your eyes are telling you—when most of the time the three don't agree—takes a military year. You get to do it by instinct, but that doesn't come except with experience."
The two were standing in one of the modular hangars that had just been constructed on their airfield. An alien had its RV in for work and at that moment a generator roared into operation, followed by the sound of furious banging and hammering. Shaking his head, coughing in the fumes, Dixter led the way outside.
"The kid already has the instinct," Tusk shouted over the noise. "It's like he had it before he ever set foot in the plane. No, maybe that's not right. It's more like he absorbs everything all at once and processes it and, bam! It's all right there for him. He knows exactly what to do and how to react. I've never seen anything like it, sir."
I have, John Dixter said to himself. It's bright and beautiful, Tusk, and the flames will reduce you to ashes. It's what happens when we dare to love a god.
"I gave him an old Scimitar pin of mine. The boys and I made it a regular ceremony, sort of like they do in the Air Corps. You'd've thought I crowned him king—"
Dixter raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry, sir," Tusk grunted. "Bad metaphor, Uh, say, General. The real reason I came. Where has . . . uh . . . Nola—that is, Ms. Rian—been keeping herself these last few days? We were going to get together to discuss some . . . uh . . . technical modifications on the TRUC before we take out the next shipment."
"Technical modifications." Dixter kept a straight face. "I see. Well, Tusk, I don't think we have to worry about flying shotgun on any more of the shipments. Not since you made scrap metal of that torpedo boat. We'll keep sending escorts, but I doubt they'll run into any trouble. And speaking of the torpedo boat, that's where Nola is. Marek and I got to wondering about that fancy device and I sent Rian to do a little investigating. Nothing dangerous, Tusk, so don't get your shorts in a knot. She'll poke around a few files, eat at a few TRUCer diners, ask a few questions. She knows just about everybody in the industry. This is strictly between us, all right?"
"Yes, sir." Tusk appeared somewhat shamefaced. "Thank you, sir. That's all I wanted to know."
The alien had ceased his work for the moment to search for a tool. The noise temporarily subsided.
"While I've got you, here's the new flight schedule." Dixter removed a computer printout from an antiquated file folder he was holding and handed it to the pilot. "See that everyone gets a copy. I'm glad to he
ar Dion is keeping occupied— Well, well. Speak of the devil."
"Tusk! I've looked all over for you! Say, can Link and I— Oh, sorry, General Dixter. I didn't see you!" Dion came dashing around the corner of the hangar building and pulled up short at the sight of the general.
"That's all right. We've finished. See you at the briefing tonight, Tusk."
"Yes, sir. What is it, kid?"
Dixter, walking away, heard Dion say something about provisions and Link giving him a ride into town. Heading back to his headquarters, the general's mind ran over everything Tusk had told him about Dion. Dixter understood and was wishing he didn't when he heard a wild yell behind him.
Turning, he saw Tusk waving his arms and shouting. Dion lay sprawled on the tarmac on his feet.
"What happened?" Dixter ran up.
"My God! I don't know, sir. One minute he was standing there talking and the next he pitched down on the ground. Look at him, sir!" Tusk clutched Dixter's arm. "D'you ever see anything like that?"
No, Dixter hadn't. And he'd seen just about every kind of casualty that could happen to a living being. The boy lay on his back, looking straight up intently at something no one else could see, seemingly listening to something no one else could hear. And he was answering. Or thought he was. His lips moved.
A chill went through Dixter, starting in his gut and spreading through his body. He glanced around. They were attracting a crowd, of course. Any distraction was welcome to break the monotony of war, which had been likened to drinking jump-juice and water—one shot of gut-wrenching excitement mixed with a glassful of boredom.
"The kid's having some sort of fit. Get a blanket, you men. Don't just stand there gawking. Make a litter and we'll carry him to my office. I suppose the rest of you haven't anything better to do than stand here?"
"Look. sir. He's trying to say—"
"Shut up, Tusk!" Dixter commanded in a low voice, bending over the boy, seemingly to help him but in reality to shield him from curious eyes.
The men dashed up with the blanket and gently transferred Dion from the concrete to the makeshift stretcher. The general covered him well, to keep him warm, and managed at the same time to slip the blanket up over his mouth. A startled Bennett ushered the men into Dixter's inner office, shoving maps and files off an old battered couch that occasionally doubled as a bed. Laying the boy down on the couch, they made him comfortable, and Bennett cleared the office of those who would have been more than happy to hang around and wait for the kid to either come to or kick off. Dixter sent Bennett on a search for a medic and locked both the door to the outer office and that to the inner when his aide had left.
"He's coming to himself, sir," Tusk reported.
Dixter returned in time to see Dion shove aside Tusk's restraining arms and try to sit up. The red-golden hair burned like flame. The boy's eyes were a startling blue against his pale face. Looking up at Dixter, he reached out clutching hands.
"Leave! We've got to leave! Sagan knows!"
"What the hell—" Tusk stared at him.
"Hush." Dixter gently pried loose the fingers that seemed to be trying to rip his shirtsleeve from his arm and sat down beside the boy. "Steady, son. You're not making sense. Tell us what happened."
"There isn't time!" Dion glanced around fearfully. Sweat trickled down the boy's face. "We've got to leave! Sagan's coming. Didn't you hear her, sir?"
"The kid's been in the jump-juice again," Tusk muttered.
"Shh. Calm down, Dion. Everything's under control. The Warlord isn't coming yet and we'll be ready for him when he does."
"Where is she?" the boy demanded. "Did you send her away? I was going to ask her—" he paused, frowning, "ask her something. I can't remember. Get her back! Get her back here!"
"Sufferin' Crea—"
"Tusk, keep quiet and get him some water."
Dion glared at the general angrily. Dixter was firm, his face grim. "Here, Dion, drink this." He held out the water and the boy finally did as he was told and seemed calmer when he'd drunk it down.
"Now listen to me, son. Look around you. Don't you remember what happened? You were standing outside the hangar. You asked Tusk about going into town with Link—"
Dion's eyes widened; he stared around confusedly. "Yes, that's right. How'd I get— What—"
"You passed out. The boys carried you in here. But you didn't faint, did you? You weren't really unconscious."
"No." Dion felt limp and drained. He lay back on the couch, his head propped up on a roll of maps. "Then you didn't see her? She wasn't here?"
"Who, son?"
"The woman! I was talking to Tusk and . . . then . . . she was standing right in front of me! She was ... so real! She was as close to me as you are now, sir. She said, 'Sagan knows where you are! He's coming after you. If you need help, you can trust John Dixter. God be with you. " Dion frowned. "But then you couldn't have seen her, or she would have told you herself instead— Sir, are you all right?"
Dixter sat back on his heels. The general's face muscles were rigid, his skin was gray, the eyes staring at Dion were like the eyes of a corpse—wide open but unseeing. Tusk jumped up.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Dixter ignored him. Tusk, glancing from the general to the kid, muttered, "I think we could all use a drink," and headed for the bottom drawer of the general's battered desk.
"What did she look like?" Dixter's question was almost unintelligible. His mouth barely moved. Dion answered it only because he heard it more with his heart than his head.
"She was dressed in a blue gown—a blue that kind of shimmered when she moved. She wore a beautiful jewel, shaped like a star. Her hair was long and straight and fell from a part in the center of her head down either side of her face."
"What color was her hair?"
"Damn! Where's the bourbon?" Tusk was banging drawers. "Brandy. That'll do. Here, sir!" He sloshed a thick viscous green liquid in a glass and handed it to the general. "Drink it, sir. You don't look good."
Dixter didn't touch the glass, didn't even look at Tusk.
"Her hair's hard to describe, sir. It wasn't golden, it was lighter than that. But it wasn't pure white. It was—"
"Sea foam," Dixter said so softly that the boy leaned forward to hear. "The color of sea foam against blue water."
"I don't know, sir," Dion murmured, beginning to shiver. "I've never seen the sea."
"Go on."
"There . . . was a scar on her face—"
"General, sir! Where the hell's Bennett!" Tusk leapt for the door.
"No!" Gritting his teeth, Dixter stood up and made his way over to his chair. He lowered himself into it and closed his eyes. "I'm fine. Don't call anyone, Tusk. Don't let anyone in." He motioned for the brandy. "I'll take that now."
Tusk, looking dubious and half-determined to disobey, shoved the tumbler across the table.
Lifting the glass to his lips, the general managed a twisted smile. "The pain's an old one." He swallowed the fiery green liquid, gulped, and drew a deep breath. "The scar. Did it run . . . like this?" Slowly, as if he were inflicting the wound on himself, Dixter drew his hand along the right side of his face from the cheekbone to the corner of the lips.
"Yes!" Dion threw off the blanket and sat up. "Who is she? Do you know her? I have the feeling I should. There was something familiar about her, but—"
Tusk motioned him to be quiet.
Dixter was staring at the glass in his hand. For a moment, he rolled the glass around between his fingers, watching the green brandy coat the sides, then he tossed the rest of the liquor down the back of his throat.
"I know her. Or rather, I knew her. She's dead. She's been dead these seventeen years."
Rising from behind his desk, Dixter walked over to stare out the window of his mobile headquarters. It was cooler, down in the flat bottom of the mountain bowl that he'd selected as their new site of operations. The fans no longer kept the maps rustling. But the maps seemed to stir anyway, as if whisp
ering to themselves.
"Shit," Tusk said and reached for the brandy bottle. "Begging your pardon, sir."
Dixter drew a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped chill sweat from his face. Turning, he sat back down at his desk. Tusk passed the bottle. The general studied it, as if wondering if it was real or a figment of his imagination. He looked at Dion.
"And you recognized her. You thought she looked familiar."
"She reminded me of someone—"
"I'm not surprised. Platus. Your mentor. I never thought they looked that much alike. But other people did. She was his sister."
"Maigrey Morianna!" Tusk coughed and blinked back tears. The green brandy of Laskar was potent stuff. It made jump-juice taste like lite beer. "My father talked about her some.
Uh, I hate like hell to ask this, sir, but just how sure are you that she's dead?"
"I didn't see the body, if that's what you mean," Dixter answered with a wry smile. "But I was sure, all the same." The eyes, from their web of wrinkles, looked at the wall and saw right through it, clear back through space and time. "She was scared, and I'd never seen her scared of anything. She disappeared in the night. She gave me the slip, stole a plane, and tried to get off-planet. The press reported that she'd been shot down over Minas Tares." Dixter poured and drank brandy. "I never heard from her again. Yes, I believed she was dead. Why not? Everybody else was."
"Then, sir, do you think there's a chance that she's alive? Maybe what the kid saw wasn't a ghost. Maybe she was using that telepathic projection stuff that the Blood Royal used to use on each other. And if that's true"—Tusk peered nervously out the window—"then shouldn't we be doing something? Like leaving?"
"Where would you go?" Dixter's words were glazed with liquor. "If Sagan knows where we are, you can bet that he's waiting somewhere up there for you, probably just out of range. That bombing run. I wondered about that. Why bother? Unless you want the quail to leave the thicket."
Tusk got to his feet, heading—somewhat unsteadily—for the door. "That reconditioned Scimitar. I'm taking it. C'mon, kid. We can make Mannheim XI by 0600—"
The Lost King Page 23
