The Lost King (22 page)

"Skip that. Match
Tusk with Guardian."

"Searching."
Almost immediate. "One match. Platus Morianna, Guardian, met
subject Tusk on Syrac Seven—"

"I entered that
information myself."

The computer was not
intimidated by its commandant's growing ire. "Search concluded,
sir."

"Very well."
Sagan had expected as much, but he felt annoyed all the same. "Next."

"Search linking
subject called Tusk, known as Mendaharin Tusca, to second
circle—those people closely associated with persons known to be
Guardians. Search revealed-—"

The computer paused in
mid-report; some glitch in the system caused it to hesitate two or
three seconds on occasion before continuing to function. The
specialists aboard ship blamed it on system overload and advised
Sagan at least every other ship's day that the problem had been
solved. Tomorrow, he would pay them another visit.

"—one
match."

"Indeed?" The
Warlord was surprised.

"Subject known as
John Dixter. Age fifty-two. Deserter.

Former general in the
Royal Army. Youngest man ever promoted to rank of general by personal
authority of—"

"Enough."
Sagan knew Dixter's history better than the computer. His thoughts
went to his prisoner aboard the
Phoenix
. "This is how the
poet says journeys end, isn't it, my lady? Computer."

"Sir."

"Current location
of John Dixter. Search files on mercenaries and their activities, all
sectors. I want that report priority one."

A Bach fugue thundered
around him. Sagan picked out the central melody and followed it
through the various convulusions and diversions, keeping hold of it
in his mind—one silken thread woven into a harmonic tapestry.

"Search complete."

"Reveal."

"Current location
of John Dixter is on Vangelis, planet number—"

"I know it. Skip."
He knew it very well, but why? Vangelis. It was in his sector, but
that didn't mean much. There were hundreds of inhabited planets in
his sector and he didn't know the names and numbers of all of them.
Vangelis was connected with something, something important. Hastily
he searched his memory but couldn't find it.

"A recent war has
developed between one Marek, Douglas, Ph.D. Engineering—"

"Skip."

"—and the
local planetary government over control of the uranium mines."

"Policy."

"We are operating
under the standard policy of nonintervention with the provision that
if the uranium shipments are interrupted we have the right to move in
and place the planet under martial law."

A mining planet. Why
would he be familiar with a mining planet?

"Search. Anything
at all involved with Vangelis."

"Working."
The answer was a long time coming. The Warlord thought the computer
had, in fact, ceased to function and was about to give the
specialists their fright for the day when he heard, "Search
complete."

"Reveal."

"Vangelis is the
site of an experiment being conducted by Snaga Ohme, classification
Red. Further information can be obtained only by your voice command
override—"

"End of need."

Sagan stared at the
blank screen. Vangelis. Experiment. Snaga Ohme.

Obsessions. That's what
they did to you. His obsessive search for the boy, his discovery of
Maigrey had driven Ohme's project completely from his mind. And he
prided himself on his discipline—physical and mental! Of
course, there was no particular reason why he should have kept it in
his mind. All was arranged; he assumed it was proceeding as planned.
Ohme wasn't particularly trustworthy, but the Adonian was almost as
fond of money as he was of himself. Ohme's last report had been
satisfactory and there wasn't another report due for another
half-cycle. Still, Sagan should have kept informed. He certainly
should have known that war on that planet was imminent.

John Dixter. Deserter.
Royalist. The night of the coup, Dixter had fought with the Royal
Army. He'd been captured and held prisoner, but he'd managed to
escape. Most thought the general had slipped through Sagan's fingers.
None knew that the Warlord had deliberately opened his hand.

If there was anyone to
whom Maigrey might have run after her disappearance, it would have
been John Dixter. Sagan kept the man under close watch, but Maigrey
never came to him, never contacted him. Dixter turned to mercenary
work and was quite successful at it. The Warlord could have closed
his fist, crushed the mercenary leader anytime he wanted. But he
chose not to. John Dixter was a good commander. He and his
mercenaries performed a useful function, kept small fires from
flaring into major conflagrations.

And now, John Dixter
might be even more useful.

Leaning back in the
chair whose shape and contours had been specially molded to fit his
body, Sagan played the central theme of his melody and heard the
echoes of the expansions.

If Tusca didn't know
the identity of his young passenger, surely he must suspect. Platus
must have been forced to tell him part of the truth, if not the
whole, in order to get him to accept the responsibility. And wasn't
it likely that, saddled with this burden, Tusca would turn to a
friend? A friend who knew the Guardians, a friend who might be able
to answer any unanswered questions?

It was worth a try.

At his signal, the
entry door to his room slid aside and one of the Honor Guard
appeared, fist over his heart.

"My lord?"

"Pass the word for
Admiral Aks."

"Yes, my lord."

The centurion vanished,
the door slid shut. Sagan could have summoned the admiral over the
ship's commlink, but he preferred to keep this strictly confidential,
especially with Maigrey aboard. He intended to spring this on her
like a land mine, shatter her with the explosion.

The door slid aside and
the guard appeared.

"Admiral Aks, my
lord."

The admiral entered.

"That was quick,"
Sagan commented. He moved his hand over a beam of light and the Bach
ceased. The Warlord had never been able to cultivate a taste for fine
music in the admiral.

"I was on my way
to see you, my lord."

"What about?"

"The Lady Maigrey,
sir."

"Lady Maigrey?"

"Yes, but it can
wait. What was it you wanted of me, my lord?"

"
That
can
wait. What of the lady?"

Aks flushed and
appeared slightly embarrassed. "I'm not certain quite how to put
this, my lord, but—"

"Just spit it out,
Aks, and don't waste my time."

"Yes, my lord. The
fact is, my lord, that the lady is . . . er . . . damaging morale."

"Morale?"

This was not
unexpected. Sagan was relieved to discover it was nothing more
serious. Then he was angry at himself for being relieved. It meant
that he was uneasy about her and he should have taken precautions
enough to have precluded uneasiness. Yet even as he told himself this
he told himself as well that he could never take enough precautions.

"Well, what has
she done, Aks? She's not making speeches in the gym, calling the men
to king and country?"

"Oh, no, my lord!"
Aks looked shocked. "I would never permit such a thing. Your own
orders—"

"It was a joke,
Admiral."

"Ah, yes, my
lord." Aks did not appear to consider the subject one for
levity.

"Well, what has
she done?"

"She has been
walking around the ship, my lord."

"I gave her
permission to walk around. She's under guard at all times and
permitted to speak to no one."

"Yes, my lord. She
doesn't need to speak."

"No, she
wouldn't," Sagan muttered, but it was beneath his breath and the
admiral didn't hear.

"She has only to
appear on deck and everyone quits working. They can't help
themselves. I've felt it myself, my lord, and I'm not an imaginative
man."

"One of your more
endearing qualities, Aks."

"Thank you, my
lord."

"It wasn't a
compliment. Please continue your report. I was not aware that the
lady's beauty was so entrancing."

Aks was accustomed to
such verbal barbs. His skin was coated with his own self-worth; he
lacked the imagination to feel pain. "No, my lord. That isn't
the problem. The men say it's like a ghost walking the corridors. She
freezes the blood. No one can talk. No one can work. All the men seem
to be able to do is to look at her. That terrible scar—"

Aks could not repress a
shudder, and consequently did not see the darkness gather on Sagan's
face. He heard it, however, in the answer to his complaint.

"Nonetheless she
will continue to be allowed the freedom of the ship. It suits my
purposes that she do so. As for the effect she is having on the men,
she is fighting me the only way she has at her command. I admit that
this is a different kind of enemy from those we usually face, but she
is an enemy and the men must react accordingly. I presume that if the
Corasians boarded the ship the men would not stop working to stare at
them?"

"No, my lord.
But—"

"Any work stoppage
is a breach of discipline and is to be punished as such. Is that
understood, Aks?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I want you to set
a course for the planet Vangelis. Routine. I don't want any undue
alarm. There's a war going on there, Admiral. Put it out that we're
concerned with the uranium shipments getting through. The
information's on the computer. Read up on it."

"Yes, my lord."
Aks waited for further orders, suspecting that this wasn't the real
reason for the diversion from their normal course.

"I want the
description of that Scimitar of Tusca's and the offer of the reward
for information concerning it circulated in the area."

"You have reason
to believe it's there, my lord?"

"John Dixter's
there, Aks. I think it highly likely that we will find not only the
Scimitar there but the boy as well. Such are the results of my
deductions." The Warlord glanced at the admiral, who was
regarding his lord in silence. "Now is the proper moment, Aks,
for you to say, 'Gad, Holmes, you're brilliant!'"

"Holmes, my lord?
I'm not certain who—"

"A literary
allusion, Aks. Don't let it concern you."

The admiral didn't. It
had been on his tongue to ask the Warlord why he hadn't used the lady
to locate the boy. After all, that was one reason she'd been brought
aboard. But Aks had seen Sagan's face upon his return from the planet
of Oha-Lau. The admiral did not bring up the subject.

The Warlord leaned back
in his chair, fixed his dark-eyed gaze on his admiral.

"Have you ever
considered the workings of the universe, Aks?"

The admiral frowned.
Aks disapproved of these philosophic ramblings. They invariably led
Sagan to a discussion of unlawful topics.

"Our illustrious
leader, President Robes," Sagan continued, "would say, no
doubt, that it is random chance which seems to be bringing all these
people together again. A sociologist would figure up the stats and
chart the probabilities and see in it the herd instinct. But I
believe it is the will of the Creator, Aks. He is bringing us all
together for a purpose."

"Yes, my lord."

By merely agreeing to
such a thing the admiral made himself liable to treason. But Aks had
seen long ago that the Warlord's path was veering off the smooth,
well-traveled road and heading into a dark and dangerous wilderness.
The admiral was not a gambler but he knew the wisdom of the saying
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," and a man does not have
to have to be imaginative to be ambitious. Aks never thought about
chance. He knew nothing about sociologists. He didn't believe in a
higher purpose or this mystical god. He did, however, believe in
Derek Sagan.

The Warlord made a
gesture. The music started—Bach,
The Well-Tempered Clavier.

Aks knew that he was
dismissed.

I love my truck . . .

Glen Campbell, "I
Love My Truck"

The hatch beneath
Tusk's hand opened so quickly he nearly fell inside head first.

"Where've you
been?" demanded a voice from the darkness.

"Turn on the
lights!" Tusk snapped, slithering down the ladder.

Dim lights flickered on
in a circle around the center of the spaceplane's interior. Dion
followed Tusk, the young man repressing a strong desire to see if he
could slide down the ladder, heels on the rungs, as did the pilot. A
fine sight he'd look if he failed, tumbling in a heap on the deck.

"Do you know what
time it is?" XJ said in a querulous voice. "You've been
gambling. I heard about the game—"

"We went to see
Dixter," Tusk muttered, struggling to pull a sweat-soaked shirt
off over his head, "and then I took the kid around to meet a few
people and to show him some of the other planes. Then we went to the
briefing." He snapped his lips shut on the word as if he'd like
to bite it in two, hurled the shirt in a corner. Tugging on a sandal,
trying to yank it off, he hopped about the cabin on one foot.

"Briefing?"
XJ perked up. "Let's hear it. What's going on?"

Tusk's answer was a
snarl and a sandal flung against the side of the cabin wall.

"My, my, we're in
a pet, aren't we? It isn't the money, is it?" XJ was suddenly
alarmed. "Not one of those die-now, pay-later plans?"

"You know Dixter
better'n that," Tusk grumbled. Sitting on his bunk, he wrestled
with the other sandal. "The money's okay. Fact, it's damn good.
It's what I got to do to earn it."

"Ah, then—"
XJ sighed contentedly.

"Drive a damn
TRUC!" Tusk began to swear. "I'm a fighter pilot, not a
friggin' Teamster—"