King's Sacrifice (13 page)

Dion had been
prepared for anything except this. He stared at the Warlord in
astonished silence, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

"Admiral
Aks will be in command of the fleet," Sagan continued. "Aks
is not particularly bright, but he has sense enough to know his
limitations. He is a skilled and experienced commander, you can rely
on him. I would suggest to His Majesty that he select General John
Dixter to serve as commander in chief of both land and air operations
in my absence."

Sagan's eyes
flicked sideways, acknowledged the general's presence briefly,
coolly. No love lost, but grudging respect.

What the devil
does this mean? Dixter wondered.

Apparently, he
wasn't the only one trying to figure out what was going on. The
Warlord paused, waited for Dion to say something. But Dion obviously
didn't know where to begin.

The rock wall of
defiance was crumbling. He had realized, as had everyone in the room,
that this was no trick. The Warlord was in earnest.

"I have
already made the necessary arrangements. It remains only for you,
sire, to give the final orders. I have placed Agis, captain of the
Honor Guard, in charge of His Majesty's personal safety.

"In
capacity as adviser, I suggest that for the time being His Majesty
rely on the wisdom, if not necessarily the common sense"—Sagan's
mouth twisted slightly—"of Bear Olefsky. He is bullheaded
and rough-edged, but his great mound of flesh conceals a shrewd
knowledge of men and their thinking. As for DiLuna and Rykilth, use
them, get from them what you can, but do not trust either of them.
Never betray weakness to them. Once they smell blood, they will tear
you to pieces. Never let them forget that you are their king.
Farewell, sire."

The Warlord
bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and started for the door.

"Wait!"
Dion found his voice. "You can't do this! Where are you going,
my lord? When will you be back?"

"I cannot
say."

"You're
leaving me alone?"

The Warlord
spoke in a low and bitter voice. He did not turn around. "Not
alone. God is with Your Majesty."

The door slid
open. Sagan walked out. The door slid shut behind him;

No one moved or
or said a word.

Out in space,
the pulsar flashed, once every two seconds; reminded Dixter of the
knowing wink of some gigantic eye.

The following
morning, early, the allies were escorted to their ships. Admiral Aks
and Captain Williams were both present, ostensibly to see them off,
in reality to make certain that they had no time to talk privately
among themselves. The Warlord's sudden departure was common
knowledge. Where he was going and why was not.

"Keep those
three from putting their heads together, monitor every word, and get
them off this ship fast," had been Sagan's final instructions.

Surrounded by
their own escorts, a guard of honor, sent by His Majesty, and ship's
personnel, the three met only briefly in the hangar to say their
formal farewells. DiLuna was stem, frowning. Rykilth was "fogged
in," as the saying went among vapor-breathers, his face
completely shrouded by a thick, swirling mist. Olefsky, however,
positively smirked.

"What are
they talking about?" Aks asked his captain in a low voice. The
admiral appeared to have slept badly. He was endeavoring to overhear
what was being said, but the noise inside the hangar and a dull,
throbbing ache in his temples was making it difficult.

"Horse
racing, sir," said Williams in a whisper. The captain looked
grim. He had not slept at all.

"Horse
racing?" Aks stared. "Is that all? Are you certain?"

The two sidled a
step or two closer.

"And did
you hear who won the last race?" the Bear was asking, smoothing
his beard.

DiLuna's voice
had a sharp edge. "Subspace transmission was garbled. I couldn't
be certain I caught the name correctly."

"You did,"
said Olefsky, "and you each owe me one hundred golden eagles."

Rykilth's mist
turned an ugly shade of greenish yellow. "Your horse has yet to
cross the finish line."

Aks blinked in
astonishment. "How very strange," he murmured. "But,
then, perhaps it's one of those mechanical 'droid horses. ..."

"It matters
not!" Olefsky roared. "When one horse drops out of a
two-horse race, the contest is ended, as we agreed." The Bear
held out a huge hand. "Pay."

DiLuna pulled a
purse made of tiny steel rings out from her belt, weighed the
jingling purse in her hand, eyed the Bear thoughtfully. With a sudden
flashing smile, she tossed the gold to Olefsky.

"A paltry
sum, after all, considering the amount of prize money at stake. In
fact, I think I may enter a horse of my own."

"I might do
the same." Rykilth gave a nasty laugh that came over the
translator as a metallic squawk. "I don't think much of that
colt of yours, Olefsky. I doubt if he'll last the season. My guess is
that he'll come up lame and we'll be forced to put him down."

"He's had
good trainers. And he proved himself in his first outing," the
Bear said complacently. "Pay up. Cash, not credit."

One of the
vapor-breather's eyes was suddenly visible, glowering at Olefsky
through the mist. Incoherent gargling sounds came over the
translator. Rykilth began to fumble stealthily among the myriad
small, zippered pockets and compartments of his flight suit.

"Tightfisted
as a vapor-breather," Aks commented in an undertone, shaking his
head.

Rykilth removed
and deliberately counted out (twice) ten well-worn and obviously
well-loved bills, each stamped with ten golden eagles. Slowly,
reluctantly, fog roiling in his helm, he handed them over, then
turned and stalked angrily to his shuttle.

DiLuna,
laughing, bid Olefsky a safe journey, cast Williams and Aks a
disdainful glance, and headed for her shuttle. Olefsky stuffed the
bills into his fur-topped boot, thrust the purse inside his leather
armor. He turned to Aks and Williams, who were trying hard to look as
if they hadn't heard a word.

"The
fog-sucker may be right. Still, my money on the colt. I like his
bloodline." The Bear winked. "Wouldn't you agree, Admiral?"

"I have no
idea what you are talking about," Aks returned stiffly.

Olefsky seemed
to find this funny. Rounding up his hulking sons, he lumbered off to
his shuttlecraft. His booming laughter vied with the roar of the
engines warming up for takeoff.

"The galaxy
is falling apart around them, and all they can talk about is horse
racing!" Aks glared after the three indignantly.

"And yet,
sir," said Williams with a tired smile, "it has been called
the sport of kings."

. . . then the
queen stole away . . . and great penance she took, as ever did sinful
lady in this land, and never creature could make her merry. . . .

Sir Thomas
Malory,
Le Morte dArthur

The Academy, it
was called; named for a garden near Athens where Plato taught.
Eighteen years ago, it had been a place where the children of the
Blood Royal came to learn how to be rulers.

The Academy was
far from Athens, far from Old Earth, light-years from almost any
civilized planet in the galaxy. Such isolation had been chosen
purposefully. The planet had to be safe from the threat of any type
of war, either local or solar in nature. There were no major
population centers on the planet, for the same reason, and also to
discourage outside interference or distractions that might tempt
students away from their studies. Only one small village was located
near the Academy, and it had sprung up to serve the Academy's needs.

Those
responsible for selecting the location of the school in which the
human children of the Blood Royal were to be educated decided that,
in addition, the planet on which the Academy was located must be a
planet similar in nature to Old Earth. Since so much of human culture
emanated from Earth, it was deemed valuable to the students to
experience an Earth-like environment. It is difficult to understand
the lines of Shakespeare, "In me thou see'st the twilight of
such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west ..." if you come
from a planet with three suns, eternal days, and no nights, or
perhaps from a planet where the sun is so far distant that it is
tantamount to having no sun at all.

The Academy had
two separate and distinct campuses— one for girls and one for
boys. The courses taught in each were identical in all respects. The
educators had decided to separate the sexes due to the feet that
females tended to assimilate knowledge fester than males at a young
age. When the students were older, in their teen years, they attended
school together, mainly for purposes of socialization. These boys and
girls, when they became men and women, would be rulers of planets,
perhaps entire solar systems. Alliances formed at this age could
prevent wars in the future.

Few aliens
attended the Academy. There were other schools, located on other
planets, where children of the genetically superior of alien races
were sent to complete their education. The Academy for humans was the
largest, however. It was humans, with their proclivity and ability
for rapid breeding, their burning ambition, and their insatiable
curiosity, who had become the major force in the galaxy.

There had been
children present in the Academy the night of the Revolution. What had
happened to these children, whose parents were slaughtered in the
royal palace on a distant planet, far away?

President Peter
Robes, unwilling to be known as another Herod, issued a statement
that the children of the Blood Royal were being taken to a location
where their minds could be "reformed" and they could be
"assimilated" into the general population. Vids were
broadcast showing the children, clutching their small bundles of
clothing, boarding huge transports. The children looked somewhat
dazed, having been awakened in the middle of the night, but a few
managed to smile and wave on cue. The assimilation process must have
worked extremely well, for not one of those children was ever heard
of after that night.

The Academy's
grounds were extensive, its buildings numerous, designed in a
classical motif. Rolling, densely wooded hills, where soft mists
settled in the cool mornings, often hid one hall from the other.
Trails connected each. Students walked to classes, exercise being
considered an important aid to learning. Gardens flourished.
Everyone, from the headmaster to the smallest child, worked in the
gardens, cultivating not only vegetables for dinner, but a knowledge
of and appreciation for plant life. As for its libraries, no vaster
collection of knowledge had been known to exist since the great
library in Alexandria.

Following the
Revolution, Congress voted to turn the Academy into a school for the
people. Professors were hired, students flocked to sign up. Merchants
moved to the area, planning to establish a city nearby, prepared to
meet the needs of students and faculty. President Robes himself cut
the ribbon that opened the campus to all and sundry (who could afford
the high tuition).

All and sundry
soon departed. No one stayed beyond the second semester. Strange
rumors circulated. Strange things happened. No plant would grow in
the garden. The buildings began to fall apart: windows cracked for no
apparent reason, roofs developed leaks in the most unexpected places.
Books disappeared from the library the moment anyone wanted to read
them. It rained endlessly, terrible thunderstorms, the likes of which
no one could remember.

In vain,
President Robes pleaded with students and professors to remain. No
one did. One professor of advanced mathematics, a noted disbeliever
in "psychic phenomenon" did research and announced that, in
her opinion, the air was bad for the health. Too much oxygen.

The property was
too valuable to give up, however. The Academy was, at various times
after that, a low-income housing development, a retirement community,
a luxury resort and health spa. All failed dismally. The poor
abandoned it and took to the woods, the retired people fled in the
night, the luxury resort never opened. Eventually, Congress, tired of
pouring money into worthless projects, gave up. The Academy was
forgotten, its gardens left to run wild, its buildings empty and
abandoned . . . except for those of the dead who were rumored to walk
them at night.

And, now, one
living person, who walked them by day.

The Warlord's
space shuttle set down at what had once been the Academy's spaceport.
The port was not large, meant to accommodate only one or two craft at
a time. Visitors had not been encouraged; children rarely or never
went home for holidays or any other reason. Parents, it was believed,
had generally an unsettling effect on their offspring.

His Lordship's
Honor Guard marched down the shuttle's ramp and onto a tarmac that
had fallen into disrepair. Grass and weeds sprang up through large
gaps in the concrete surface. The spaceport's communications tower
had been long abandoned. Its foundation was cracking, most of its
windows were broken out. Its guidance equipment no longer scanned the
skies, no longer paid any attention to the heavens.

One other
spaceplane, a long-range Scimitar, was parked at the edge of the
landing strip. A canvas cover had been drawn over the plane to
protect it from the weather and the planet's wildlife. It had
obviously been there many months. Grass grew over its wheels.
Autumn's leaves drifted down around it. The Warlord, scrutinizing the
plane carefully, thought he detected bird's nests near the region of
the cockpit.

Sagan gestured
to Agis, who stepped forward with alacrity.

"My lord."

"My
respects to the Lady Maigrey. Inform her that I have arrived on
planet and that I await the pleasure of her company in"—Sagan
paused, considering—"in the headmaster's rose garden."