The Lost King (9 page)

The city, the world . .
.

He wanted to reach out,
grab hold, hang on. But there was nothing to hold on to. He was
caught, held, immobilized in fate's grasp ... in the Scimitar's seat
... by the strong, uncaring grip of the security arms.

And then all life was
gone. He stared into black, vast space, its stars shining bright and
cold as the star Platus wore around his neck. . . .

"Damnation!"
Tusk swore.

A screen on the
instrument panel had come to life, even as everything around the boy
had seemed to die.

"I knew Sagan made
improvements since we left, XJ, but— Damn!" Tusk swore
again. "How the hell did he get his ships deployed this fast?"

"What do you mean?
What's wrong?" Dion sounded strange to himself, as if his own
voice had been left down below with the rest of his life.

"Warlord's got the
blockade going already. Blasted place is crawling with planes!"

"Told you so!"
XJ said in gloomy satisfaction.

"No you didn't, so
don't start—"

"I have it on
file!" the computer returned smugly. "Scimitar closing,
Mach thirty—"

"I see it."

"Where's the gun
turret?" Dion asked eagerly. "I can shoot!"

It was a lie, but he
wanted to kill something, anything. He wanted to end the hurt, the
anger, the fear. Blow it up in a fiery ball that would take him, too.

The computer's lights
flashed wildly.

"Calm down, XJ!"
Tusk ordered. "Thanks for the offer, kid, but . . . uh . . .
that gun's kinda complicated equipment and . . . well ... to be
honest, I'd rather face ten of those characters out there than have
one amateur sitting above me with an itchy trigger finger. I mean,
you shoot your foot up there and we're nothing but a gleam in
someone's eye—and that only for about ten seconds."

"Besides," XJ
added, "not even Tusk is dumb enough to try to fight his way out
of this one. Are you?"

From the irresolute
expression on Tusk's face, Dion thought that the question might be
debatable, but the mercenary glanced at the computer screen and
grunted.

"Ten seconds and
he'll be in range . . . and so will we," the computer reported.

A slow smile spread
over Tusk's lips. "The drunken pilot!"

The computer's lights
flickered in derision. "That old trick? What is this—a
nostalgia trip?"

"We got nothing to
lose. I've flown blockade duty, so have you. No matter how sharp they
look there's bound to be the normal amount of confusion."

"I want to go on
record that I am opposed—"

"Go on record as
any damn thing you like, just do what you're supposed to. There must
be a Lane around here—"

"There is. Come to
this heading—"

A series of number
appeared on the computer screen.

"What—"

"Keep your mouth
shut, kid," Tusk said, his slender fingers flying over buttons.
XJ hummed to itself industriously.

"Military
channel?" Tusk asked, glancing up to see the other Scimitar
closing fast.

"Open. This is the
latest code update. Cost us a bundle. It better be right—"

The commlink crackled,
announcing that the other pilot was about to contact them.

"Halt and iden—"
Tusk began, a split second ahead of the other Scimitar pilot.

"Halt and—"

"—tify your
shelf." Tusk slurred.

"—identify
yourself," echoed the pilot, sounding slightly confused. "I
repeat, Scimitar. Identify yourself."

"I asked you
first," Tusk roared belligerently.

"What's your
number, Scimitar? I can't read your markings—"

"I can't see
yoursh either." Tusk belched. "They're all kinda fuzzy."

"Give the
password."

"Yeah, you'd like
that, wouldn't you?" Tusk sneered. "Sell that for a couple
thousand gold eagles on the smuggler's market."

"Who's your
commanding officer, mister?"

"A sonuvabitch.
Whose yours?"

"Excuse me, sir—"
XJ cut in.

"Stay out of
this!" Tusk smacked the computer on the side of its box.

"You enjoyed
that!" XJ stated accusingly in an undertone. "Excuse me,
sir!" The computer turned up its audio so that it could be heard
clearly by the other pilot. "Scimitar out there! Don't shoot!"

"Who are you?"

"Shipboard
computer, sir. I hereby report my pilot unfit for duty."

"You filthy—"
Tusk mumbled obscenities.

"I tried to alert
the deck crew before we took off," XJ continued in injured
tones, shouting to be heard over Tusk's swearing. "But they
refused to listen to a mere computer. This isn't the first time this
has happened. He sucks up the jump-juice before every flight, and
frankly I'm getting sick and tired—"

"Who's his
commanding officer?"

"I have no idea
because one night in a drunken fit—"

"Name, rank, and
charge-card number," Tusk leered into the commlink. "That's
all yer gettin' outta me!"

"—he erased
the name from my memory banks," XJ continued loudly.

"I'll have to
report this. Stand by."

"I've had about
enough!" Tusk was yelling angrily. "You're not gonna take
me alive!"

"He won't shoot,
will he?" the pilot asked nervously.

"No, sir. I have
the guns under my control," XJ replied.

"I'm reporting
this. Wait—"

Dion strained his ears.
In the background, he could hear the pilot talking. "I've got a
Scimitar here, long-range, out of position. Pilot appears to be
inebriated. Yes, sir. Computer confirms. No, I can't read the
numbers. Covered by carbon scoring." The voice faded, then
returned. "Yes, sir."

While this conversation
was ongoing, a series of numbers flashed on XJ's screen. Looking at
them intently, Tusk flicked his hands over his control panel and
nodded just as the pilot's voice crackled back.

"I have been
ordered to escort you to the docking bay where a tractor beam will be
locked on and you—"

"No, Commander,
you idiot!" XJ screeched in such real-sounding panic that Dion's
heart lurched into his throat. "Not that button!"

A brilliant flare of
color seared the boy's eyes. His entire body turned inside out—skin
peeled back, living organs laid bare, bones exposed.

He felt one last
horrible moment of sickening fear. . . .

"You okay, kid?"

Dion opened his eyes to
see Tusk's face hanging over him. The boy was lying stretched out in
one of the hammocks.

"I'm all right,"
he mumbled. His head ached and he put his hand to it. "What
happened? Were we hit?"

"Naw, just the
Jump. Does that to people sometimes. Sorry I couldn't warn you, but I
didn't dare risk giving us away. Feels like you're being turned
inside out, doesn't it?"

Dion started to nod,
but that only made his head hurt worse.

"Don't worry.
You'll get over it. Each Jump gets a little easier."

"Where are we?"

"A long way from
home, kid. The Lanes. Know what those are?"

Memories of lessons
with Platus returned. The early morning breeze blowing through the
open windows carried the spicy smell of sage and wildflowers. The
wind flipped the pages of the books, raffled the young pupil's
red-golden hair, stirred the thin blond hair of his teacher.

Dion closed his eyes,
averting his head.

"Not feelin' so
good, huh? Better get some sleep, kid. I'm gonna take a shower."

A warm, firm hand
closed over the boy's, giving it anawkward squeeze. Then the hand was
gone. Boots scraped across the metal deck. Dion heard Tusk pull open
one of the storage containers and begin to rummage around in it.
Burning tears crept from beneath the boy's eyelids. Rolling over, he
muffled his face in his pillow.

"Damn you,
Platus!" he cried. He bit into the fabric, trying to stop the
sob that welled up in his throat. "Damn you!"

Across the small cabin,
Tusk exploded in a barrage of obscenity. "My shorts! They're all
tied in fuckin' knots! XJ! You ..."

Darkness closed over
Dion, and he wept.

But the age of chivalry
is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has
succeeded . . .

Edmund Burke,
Reflections on the Revolution in France

The Warlord's shuttle
landed on
Phoenix
without ceremony—no lines of troops
drawn up to salute him, no drums, bells, or whistles as was practiced
on other ships of other Warlords in the galaxy. Four of his Honor
Guard preceded him from the ship, lining up at the door two on either
side, clenched fists over their hearts. After he had passed, they
fell smartly into step behind him, following him as he crossed the
deck of the landing dock. No one else in the dock or in any of the
corridors of the ship into which the Warlord walked appeared to take
the least notice of the fact that their commanding officer—military
lord of one entire sector of the galaxy—was walking past.

Derek Sagan had no
patience with waste. Men concerned with other duties stopping their
work, snapping to attention, and saluting every time he came into
view was a waste of time and energy not to be tolerated. It was a
show of false respect. He'd know men salute an officer to his face
and shoot him in the back at the first opportunity.

Sagan did not demand
respect of his men. He commanded it by example. Discipline on his
ship was severe, but he was hardest on himself. His word was law and
when that law was broken his judgment was swift and often harsh—as
it had been against the university he'd discovered harboring Stavros.
Those under his command feared him as they feared God. (Perhaps more.
The Creator, after all, was a nebulous being spoken of by priests who
were no longer around. Derek Sagan was flesh and blood and in close
proximity.) His men feared him, yet the most honored and valued
position that could be held in this ship was to be selected as one of
his own personal guard.

Sagan strode rapidly
through the corridors, appearing to take little interest in his
surroundings. Yet everyone knew that the eyes hidden by the shadow of
his helm saw everything, noted every detail of shipboard operation
from a scrap of food bar wrapper littering the metal deck to a
malfunction light flashing its warning on a control panel. Men walked
past him with studiously averted eyes, jaw muscles clenched, their
bodies unconsciously straightening to achieve the stalwart posture of
their Warlord. Sagan was proud of his ship and his men and he liked
to see that pride reflected in both. Both—it seemed—went
out of their way to please him.

A gesture from his
gloved hand brought one of the guard forward. "Where is the
admiral? He was informed of my arrival?"

"Yes, my lord. He
is on the bridge. He thought he should remain there until the planet
was secure."

"My compliments to
the admiral, and request him and Captain Nada to meet me in the
committee room with their reports."

"Yes, my lord."

The centurion fell back
a pace behind the Warlord, relaying the message via the
communications linkage in his helmet. Sagan continued walking. His
boots rang on the metal deck, the red cape that denoted his high rank
swelled out behind him.

The Warlord was
essentially a guest on
Phoenix
, Admiral Aks's flagship. Aks
was in command of the fleet, Captain Nada in command of the ship.
Thus Sagan's polite usage of the word
request
. Everyone on
board
Phoenix
knew the true meaning of the word, however. Both
the admiral and the ship's captain were awaiting Sagan when he
entered the committee room.

Sagan's official rank
in the Republic was actually Citizen General. His title was Marshal.
There were numerous marshals scattered throughout the galaxy.
Following the establishment of the democracy, the President had
placed these commanders in charge of maintaining law and order—sort
of an interplanetary police force. However, during the years of
governmental confusion that naturally followed the revolution,
several of the marshals began acquiring more and more power. (As
Derek Sagan was once heard to observe, "If it's lying around
loose, someone will pick it up.) The news media began referring to
these generals as "Warlords.

The appellation was
meant to be derogatory Derek Sagan took it as a compliment. Even
after the political situation stabilized and the Congress and
President had gained control, Sagan continued, despite howls from the
liberal press, to refer to himself as "Warlord." His men
addressed him as "my lord. " It sounded more suitable.
Derek Sagan was, after all, of noble—if slightly
unorthodox—birth.

"No
interruptions," the Warlord informed his guards, who took their
accustomed places outside the door.

The committee room was
huge, one of the largest aboard ship. Several hundred crewmen could
stand within its round walls and not feel the least cramped. It was
empty of all furnishings; no viewport broke the vast sweep of black
walls. The only object in the room was a large vidscreen located at
one end.

"My apologies for
bringing you here, Admiral, Captain," Sagan said as the door
slid shut behind him. "I know this has been a long and tiring
day for both of you. I must contact the President, however, and I
want to hear your reports first. Then you may return to your duties
or your rest, whichever I have taken you from."

Numerous small lights
located in the ceiling could illuminate the room as brightly as day
when necessary. The committee room was in relative darkness now, the
need for conserving energy always uppermost in every captain's mind.
Small pools of light shone at intervals, therefore, leaving the rest
of the room in deep shadow. The admiral and Captain Nada stood in one
pool of light in the center of the vast circular floor. Sagan stepped
from bright light into darkness, where he was lost for several
seconds, the sounds of his footsteps the only indication of his
presence. Both the admiral and captain knew they were under his
scrutiny. The admiral was relaxed. Captain Nada was not. Sweat beaded
on the captain's lip and he swallowed several times. Nada was
unhappily aware that his report was not a good one.