The Lost King (27 page)

"Nola Rian,"
Tusk said, "you're beautiful!"

"Not only that,"
she said, grinning up at him shakily, "I'm the best goddam TRUC
driver
you'll
ever meet!"

When the stars threw
down their spears . . .

William Blake, "The
Tyger"

Dion hung around
outside the communications van, fidgeting, jittery. The hot early
morning sun blazed down on the tarmac, evidently warming it up for
the truly hot afternoon sun. Sweating, his clothes sticking to his
body, the young man crouched in a scrap of shade cast by the GHQ
building and waited for word of Tusk. Gadgets and devices on top of
the van revolved swiftly or slowly rotated or just pointed straight
into the air. Dion watched them until he was half-mesmerized by the
movement. Odd, disjointed thoughts flashed in and out of his mind in
time with the rotations.

A month ago, I wouldn't
have been able to believe I was doing this . . . Tusk left me his
spaceplane. If he doesn't come back, I'll . . . He'll come back. I
shouldn't be thinking things like that, the bad luck word. At least I
didn't say it aloud. Platus would laugh. Our joke, the bad luck word.
Dear God! What was it I said that killed him? No, stop it. Don't
think about it. ... I could fly the plane, I know I could. I did for
a while that time back when we first came out of the Jump. Tusk said
I handled it like a pro, too. Maybe Dixter'd let me fly with the
others. I could avenge Tusk . . . That's stupid. Nothing's happened
to Tusk, nothing's going to. And they wouldn't be likely to let a kid
with no training up there. Shoot yourself in the foot and we're all
dead, that's what Tusk would say. I— Someone's coming out.
Running. Something's happened. Something's wrong.

Dion was on his feet,
following the soldier dashing from the van. The boy slammed into the
GHQ office right behind the man, nearly taking the door from its
hinges. Bennett's eyebrows jumped up into his hairline with such
force it was a wonder they didn't scalp him.

"The general—"
the soldier said.

Bennett nodded,
motioned to the office, and fixed Dion with a stern gaze. Dixter,
hearing the commotion, came out, nearly colliding with the soldier
coming in.

"Sir, radar's
picked up what looks like a squadron of bombers closing in—"

"Nukes?"

"No, sir. Nothing
that sophisticated. Looks like a bunch of the old garbage scow model,
sir."

"That figures.
They'll dump whatever they've got on us. Well, this means we're
getting our hands slapped. I take it the TRUC mission was successful,
then?"

"Yes, that was my
next report. There was one casualty—"

"Casualty?"
Dion stepped forward.

Bennett was packing up
the portable computers and obviously preparing for a hasty departure.
But he managed to clear his throat and frown at the interruption,
pausing in his work as if expecting to be asked to toss the young man
out on his ear.

"Captain Myrna—"

Dion heaved a sigh and
missed the rest of the report. Dixter issued several orders that made
little sense to the boy, who didn't understand what was going on.
Bennett was shutting down systems and unplugging plugs and packing
things away with an efficiency which indicated this was all routine
procedure. The soldier left and Dixter turned to enter his office,
then seemed to remember and looked over at Dion with a smile that was
kind but preoccupied.

"Tusk's all right.
They made it through safely and hooked up with the Warlord's
tankers."

At that moment, what
sounded like the throaty howl of some wild animal rose in pitch to
the wail of the three Furies. The awful sound made the hair stand up
on Dion's arms.

"Air raid alert,"
Dixter said, by way of explanation. The man's eyes, fixed on the boy,
narrowed. "What the hell do I do with you? Bennett?"

"Almost finished
here, sir. Your office—"

"Yes, yes. I'll
take care of it. We've got time. We spotted them early."

"Please, sir,
what's happening?" Dion broke in.

The siren's wail was
unnerving and yet oddly exhilarating. The ground began to shake and
he saw out the window some of the spaceplanes powering up and heading
for the takeoff zone.

"Bombing run. A
damned nuisance, that's all. We'll have the planes off the ground,
but itU tear hell out of the tarmac. Have to find a new location.
Bennett—"

"I have one, sir.
Do you want—"

"No, go out there
to the van and relay it to commlink." Dixter moved toward his
office. "Come with me, boy, while I get ready to roll—"

"Bombs."
Tusk's plane. XJ. But all Dion said aloud was, "Bombs."

Dixter entered his
office. "You can ride with us. It's a little bumpy—the
shocks in this damn thing need overhauling but there never seems to
be time. I—"

He glanced around
behind him. The kid was gone.

Dixter charged out of
his office to find Bennett, returning from relaying the air base's
new location to the communication's van, backed up against the
doorjamb. From his indignant expression, it seemed the aide had been
nearly run down.

"Dion?" the
general demanded.

Bennett pointed.

"Damn!"
Dixter exploded, realizing where the boy was going and what he was
planning to do. He headed for the door only to find his aide standing
respectfully but firmly in his path.

"Get out of my
way."

"Excuse me, sir,
but were you going to attend to the breaking down in your office or
shall I? We have less than fifteen minutes, sir."

"That damn kid—"

"Yes, sir. Begging
your pardon, sir, but it would be physically impossible, without
stimulants, for someone your age to catch up with someone his age.
I'll just go take care of your office—"

"You know damn
well I can't stand anyone pawing through my papers. Don't look so
smug. I'm not going to forget that crack about my age. Where's my
driver?"

"Warming up the
engines, now, sir."

"Use the cab's
link. See if you can establish communication with that spaceplane
before the kid tries to take off. If you can raise him, tell him to
let the fools pound it into dust. We'll get Tusk a different one.
This'll work out better anyhow, the Warlord will lose him."

"Yes, sir."
Bennett was out the door.

Dixter entered his
office, shut his computer down, and began to pack up everything that
wouldnt survive rattling around in a trailer lurching over the desert
at high speeds. The roaring of spacecraft blasting off was deafening,
even this distance from the launch zone. The ground shook and several
maps slid from their places on the walls. Dixter glanced out the
window. Through the blowing dust and drifting smoke, he could see
what looked like red hair streaming in the wind— flame burning
in the desert.

"What the devil's
that quote?" Dixter said aloud. '"The Lord went before them
by night in a' what—pillar of salt? No. Pillar of five. 'To
lead them.' What put that into my mind? Blasted kid's going to get
himself killed. Tusk'll never forgive me. I said I'd take care of
him. Why didn't I go after him? That's the quote:

"'. . . and by
night in a pillar of fire.'"

Dixter finished his
work. Straightening, he looked back out the window. The boy was gone.

"And that's why,"
he said to the patch of vivid burning color he could see in his mind,
"I guess, kid, I really don't think you're destined to be
pounded to pulp by some third-rate oligarch. I almost wish you were.
I think it a be easier—on all of us."

Coughing, blinking in
the stinging dust raised by the blasting force of the spaceplanes,
Dion ran half-blindly through the smoke, searching for someone to
give him a lift. He found a hoverjeep filled with pilots in the same
predicament as himself. It was already starting to move by the time
he reached it. Shouting for them to wait was out—he couldn't
hear himself think, let alone talk. He hurled himself forward and
landed on the jeep's back end with a thud that knocked the wind out
of his body. One of the passengers grabbed hold of him, hanging on to
him just as the jeep roared into life and hurtled through the air.

There was nowhere to
sit; Dion clung to the flat back of the jeep, the woman'd who'd
caught him keeping hold of his arms so that he didn't fly off. The
wild ride ended before he quite knew what was happening. The woman
let go of him before the jeep stopped. Dion slid off the back, landed
face-first in the dust. He was up and running without giving himself
time to find out if he was hurt. The siren wailed and sobbed; the
sound was in his blood, surging through his body.

He scaled the outer
ladder to the spaceplane, fumbled with the hatch, and nearly fell in
head over heels when XJ opened it for him. Slithering down the
ladder, he bounded through the living quarters, jumped down to the
bridge, and threw himself into the pilot's seat.

"Prepare for
takeoff," he managed to gasp. Breathing was like a sharp knife
being driven into his side.

The lights blinked;
life-support made a kind of coughing sound.

"My circuits
shorted out," XJ snapped. "I thought you said prepare for
takeoff."

"Don't you hear
that . . . damn siren!"

"You're
hyperventilating. Stick your head in a paper sack and take a deep
breath. It's just another scramble. Happens two, three times a day—"

"It isn't . . .
either! Bombers—"

"Bombers! Real
ones? C'mon, kid. I'll get in my remote. You carry me, that way I can
shut down. We'll head for those rocks—"

A round remote unit,
bristling with electronic eyes and wiggly little arms that had been
perched near the edge of the instrument panel suddenly came to life
and landed with a plop in Dion's lap.

"No!" Lifting
up the remote, Dion glared into what he assumed was its camera lenses
and shook it. "We're going to take off, save Tusk's plane.
Either that, or we sit here and get bombed."

Which wasn't a bad
idea. Dion grabbed the bottle of jump-juice. Tilting it to his lips,
he took a swig and gasped as the foul-tasting stuff burned down his
throat. It seemed to help his breathing—once he
could
breathe-—and the pain in his side went away.

The remote unit flashed
eratically and emitted a series of loud, static-laced sounds that
were, however, perfectly understandable. Tusk would have been
impressed.

"I'm going to tell
him you said that." Dion grinned shakily and took another drink.
This stuff wasn't bad, once you got used to it. Tucking the bottle
under one arm, he went to work. The remote whirred viciously to
itself for another second, then hopped back to its perch. The
computer's blank face came back to life, lights flashed on the
control panel, and he heard the clanging sound of the hatch sealing
shut.

"They're coming
in," XJ said. "I've got 'em on my screen."

Dion jammed a helmet on
his head, strapped himself in, and tried to remember what to push and
what to flick in what order. His hands had quit shaking, but the tips
of his fingers had gone numb.

There was a jarring
thud and the ground seemed to lift up around them. Dion stared at the
instrument readings. "What did I do? I didn't do anything—"

"It was a bomb,
you idiot!" XJ was practically howling. "Ignore it. Just
get us the hell outta here! Push that one and there, no, to the left.
That one! Damn Mendaharin Tusca to the Correlian gasworks. Noooo!
Yes, yes! That's it! And—"

The spaceplane's
engines rumbled. Tremendous forces flattened the boy back in his
seat. The jump-juice surged up from his stomach and into his mouth
and he completely missed his first takeoff because he was leaning
over the arm of the chair, heaving up his guts.

The bombers saw the
spaceplane fly up right in front of them but they let it go past.
Once a plane was off the ground, it was beyond their reach. They had
their orders and those orders didn't come from the government, as
Dixter had assumed.

Up in the heavens, far
above the planet's surface, a hunter waited to see what prey his dogs
flushed out of the brush.

So pale, so cold, so
fair.

"St. James
Infirmary Blues"

Maigrey had no idea how
much time had passed since she had been taken aboard the
Phoenix
.
Prisoners lose a sense of time, even when they are able to experience
day and night— one runs into the next and a day is as long as a
month, a month as short as a day. Maigrey's days were routinely,
interminably, endlessly the same. She was allowed to walk about the
ship, but not allowed to speak to anyone, not even the centurions who
guarded her.

It is easy to be
courageous during brief and terrifying moments of crisis. The body
leaps with a surge of adrenaline, the mind dances with brilliance.
When the danger is over, you are a hero and can't say how or why. But
to face danger day after day; to keep up your courage hour after
tedious hour; to sleep with fear and wake up with fear; to live in
constant doubt, both of the future and of yourself, drains the body
and the soul.

Maigrey obeyed the
commandment for silence not out of defiance, as the Warlord supposed,
but out of despair. The trumpet sounded the end of each day and began
the next and every time Maigrey heard the notes she thought,
"Tomorrow he will ask me about the boy. Today he will ask me
about the boy." But Sagan never did. He didn't speak to her at
all, never came near her. But he was aware of her, as she was aware
of him. A haunting fear took ghostly form and stalked her.

What does he want from
me, if not the boy? she wondered. Could it be I've mistaken him,
misjudged him, misread him? Fatal. Fatal.

Maigrey attempted to
exorcise the ghosts by turning to old friends, long-lost
friends—books. She had been without books during the entire
time of her exile. Old favorites were rediscovered and enjoyed as
much as or more than when she'd read them years ago. How, she
wondered, could she have ever deserted Mr. Micawber?