The Lost King (54 page)

"The only
explanation the scientists can come up with is that the explorers
were seized by a collective madness—a group paranoia. This
theory has received support from rather sinister evidence. It appears
that—locked inside their safe fortress— the explorers
proceeded to slaughter each other."

"I can understand
why," Maigrey murmured, pausing to look around.

The wind howled and
shrieked and tore at the hood covering her head. Dust devils raced
each other across a barren rock floor, orange clouds scudded across a
cobalt blue sky. No wonder those early explorers, coming from years
of living in a sterile, controlled, and protected environment, had
imagined demon hordes massing to attack them and, after years in this
forbidding and wind-blasted place, had found the demons in their own
minds.

Sagan cleared his
throat. Touched neither by beauty nor awed by desolation, he was
impatient to get on with business. Checking a sigh, Maigrey clutched
the hood of her cloak, cursed the long velvet skirts that were
tangling her feet, and struggled forward against the wind.

Steep and narrow
stairs, cut into the side of the fortress's rock wall, led up into
the fortress proper. At the top of the stairs, Dion stood, waiting to
meet them. He must be tired, Maigrey thought. He had returned to the
ship after his meeting with Dixter, made arrangements with the
Warlord, and then flown back to finalize the details with the
mercenaries. It was unlikely he'd had a chance to sleep in the span
of a ship's day and night. But if he were fatigued, she could see no
outward sign beyond a slight translucence of the marble complexion
that made the blue veins beneath his eyes stand out more clearly. The
wind tossed his red-golden hair, a bright flare of color against the
gray stone walls. It seemed as if a flaming torch lit their way.

"My lady. My lord.
Captain Williams. General Dixter and his party are waiting your
arrival, my lord. If you will follow me. My lady?"

Dion held out his arm.
Maigrey accepted it, and he led the way into a colonnade whose stone
columns cut the wind and provided shade from the hot sun while still
allowing the paranoid observer the opportunity of keeping watch on
the barren land around him. Sagan's party traversed this porch for a
lengthy distance, Dion and Maigrey leading, Lord Sagan and Captain
Williams following behind, and the eternal Guard of Honor
rhythmically marching in the rear.

"Where's Captain
Nada?" Dion whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"He was taken ill
last night," Maigrey answered, her face hidden by the folds of
her brown cloak. "A very sudden illness, but one that was not, I
believe, totally unexpected."

Dion stared at her,
shocked, then cast an oblique glance back at the Warlord. "You
mean—"

"'You bets ver
money and you takes yer chance.' Nada backed the wrong horse."

"What?"

"Nothing, Dion.
Never mind."

The colonnade led them
through a series of arched doorways that took them deeper into the
fortress. It was cool, out of the sun, and quiet, away from the
incessantly shrieking wind. Dion brought them to a doorway larger
than the rest and halted.

"If you will wait
here, my lord," he said, "I will announce you."

Sagan waved his hand;
he was involved in a conversation with Captain Williams. Maigrey,
left alone, removed the hood from her head and shook out her hair,
wishing she'd thought to bring a mirror and a hairbrush. Such things
never occurred to her until it was too late. She was anxiously doing
her best to smooth down her pale, fine hair and shake the dust from
her cloak when she caught Sagan's eye. A crimson flush mantled her
face. She was primping like a girl before her first date.

Her hand went to the
scar on her cheek, and she was disappointed in herself to discover
her heartbeat increasing; the fingers against her skin were chill,
her face burning.

John's an old friend.
Just an old friend. It's been seventeen years, after all. I've
changed. Her hand touched the scar. He's changed, too. Probably
married, with ten kids. . . .

Dion returned. He had
hold of her arm and was leading her somewhere. Maigrey had an
indistinct impression of a large room and movement: numerous
people—humans and aliens— rising to their feet from
around an oblong wooden table. But it was all a blur because he was
standing in front of her and his eyes were on her and he had changed,
but then again, he hadn't. He took her hand in his and bowed low and
she must remember who and where she was and so she could only squeeze
his fingers tightly and say with her eyes what she wanted very much
to say aloud.

Sagan and the general
were being introduced as strangers; easier far than sorting out the
tangled relationships of years past, trying to explain them to most
of those present. Any constraint and coolness present between them
could be put down to a very natural distrust and antipathy between
those who represented—ostensibly—law and order and those
who represented defiance. All very ironic, considering Sagan's
ambitious designs.

One person managed to
distract Maigrey's thoughts from John Dixter, and that was a young
man introduced to her as Tusk. He came into focus sharply. He was not
much like his father in his build—Danha Tusca had been a
heavy-set, broad-shouldered man. Maigrey remembered meeting Dan-has
wife, once, long ago, and saw that the young man took after her—slim,
fine-boned, well-developed muscles filling out a compact frame. Tusca
lacked his father's resolute and solid presence, too. There was
trouble in the young man and, noting the eight-pointed star he wore
displayed prominently in his left earlobe and the concerned and
frowning glances he darted at Dion, Maigrey guessed she knew some of
what was gnawing at him.

Introductions
performed—everyone cooly polite if not exactly cordial—those
present took places around the table by order of rank. The Honor
Guard posted themselves at the door. Maigrey found herself seated at
the bottom of the table, far from the general, which was probably
just as well for the presence of mind of both of them.

The meeting opened with
the Warlord going over the situation, describing the Corasian attack
on Shelton's system, emphasizing—Maigrey noted—the
horrors inflicted on an innocent populace. He told the mercenaries
precisely what he knew of the enemy's plans, and informed the general
of the President's order that the Warlord put himself and his men "in
harm's way."

Sagan's manner was
condescending, contemptuous; he might have been here to clap them all
in irons, rather than asking for their help to save his life. Maigrey
saw the mercenaries' reactions—lips tighten, brows darken,
alien tentacles coil in anger. But John Dixter was relaxed, listening
attenively, his face softening into a wry smile. She breathed easier.
He knew Sagan; he understood what this was costing the man.

There was some angry
muttering when the Warlord concluded, but none of the mercenaries
spoke, all waiting for their commander to reply. Dixter sat silently,
contemplatively for several moments, his eyes fixed on Sagan. The
Warlord's gaze was on the general, each attempting to see how far he
could penetrate into the other's skull.

"Your report was
most thorough and concise, Lord Sagan," Dixter said suddenly,
never taking his eyes from the Warlord. "I have only one
question. How is it that you are so certain the Corasians will attack
at this point in the galaxy?"

"You know the
Corasian lust for modern technology, 'General' Dixter." Sagan
managed to surround the man's rank with audible quotation marks,
causing Tusk—at one point—to clench his fist and stir in
his chair. Dixter laid a hand remonstratingly on the arm of his
friend. "We are the largest fleet— Let me amend that. We
are now the only fleet in this quadrant. I am basing my calculations
on the enemy's past actions, of course, but I have received no
information about the Corasians which leads me to believe that they
have changed in seventeen years. If anything, their need for modern
advancements, for parts to repair their aging ships, is undoubtedly
more acute."

Dixter nodded his head
slowly. He tapped a pen gently on the table. The Warlord's argument
was sound, logical, and Maigrey knew John didn't believe it for an
instant. She sensed that Sagan understood this, as well.

Tap, tap, tap. The
general's pen made the only sound in the room.

"Sir?" It was
one of the aliens, speaking through a translator.

"Colonel Glicka,"
Dixter replied, still not taking his eyes off the Warlord, but
ceasing to tap the pen.

"I don't trust
him. I say we let him fight it out on his own." This was how the
statement came across. Maigrey, who understood the language, heard it
in much more colorful and graphic terms. Dion understood it, too,
apparently, for he flushed up to his eyes and glanced nervously at
Sagan.

The Warlord's cold
contempt didn't thaw, wasn't warmed even by anger. "I don't
trust you either," he responded, in the alien's own language.
"And you can do what you damn well please. I don't need you.
We'll fight, with or without you. But remember this. If we're
defeated, then so are you—without even firing a single shot. If
we fall, they'll come for this planet, they'll come for you. And
you'll face them alone. Translate that for me, Starfire, so that
everyone understands."

Dion, caught by
surprise, did as he was told, somewhat haltingly, stumbling over the
words. The mercenaries glowered in anger, the aliens' tentacles
twitched, but nobody said anything. Whatever emotions John Dixter was
feeling, he wasn't showing, except to glance—once—down
the table at Lady Maigrey. He raised an eyebrow; she could only
answer with a small shrug. Both were marveling at Sagan. The Warlord
was doing the mercenaries the favor of allowing them to die for his
cause.

"And what is the
arrangement you propose?" Dixter asked.

"You, 'General,'
your staff, your pilots, and their space-planes will be taken aboard
Defiant
, commanded by Captain Williams. This is presuming, of
course, that you would prefer to fight as a unit, rather than having
your men dispersed among my squadrons?"

"Of course. And
who is to be in command?"

"You, 'General,'
will be under my command. Your men, however, will look to you for
their orders. Current squadron leaders among your pilots will
maintain their own authority."

Dixter frowned. The pen
resumed its tapping.

"You're not a
pilot, General Dixter," the Warlord said in cool tones. "You're
a ground soldier. You have only limited knowledge of space warfare,
of its tactics and strategy. I include you because I am well aware
that your people would not consider any other arrangement. But I must
insist that you place yourself completely under
my
command."

Again the Warlord's
reasoning was logical, made perfect sense. Maigrey, feeling a pain in
her hands, looked down and saw she was tensely, nervously, and
unconsciously twisting her fingers.

General Dixter tapped
the pen, marking his words. "I would agree to those terms only
if those of my people who have broken any of the Republic's so-called
laws are given unconditional pardons."

"Very well,"
Sagan said. "I agree."

That was too quick, too
easy. The general laid down the pen, sat a moment in silence, then
slowly rose to his feet.

"Thank you, Lord
Sagan. My officers and I will confer—"

"Over what? I've
made my terms, 'General.' Take them or leave them. Time moves and so
does the enemy."

"I understand.
This won't take long. I've arranged for luncheon to be served in the
next room—"

"Thank you,
'General,' but I follow strict dietary rules. I never eat food that
has been prepared by strangers. I will return to my shuttlecraft to
await your decision."

There was a scraping of
chairs and everyone rose to their feet or whatever appendages were
used for standing. Dixter made a deprecating gesture. "Your
absence will be regretted, of course, Lord Sagan." The general's
gaze shifted to the end of the table. "Perhaps her ladyship
would honor us with her presence?"

"It is I who would
be honored, General Dixter," Maigrey said, coming forward,
walking around the Wariord.

"An excellent
idea, 'General.' Lady Maigrey can answer any additional questions
that might occur to you. I trust it will be satisfactory to you if
she relays your decision to me? I see no need for us to meet again."

"Most
satisfactory," John Dixter said. Reaching out, he took Maigrey's
hand in his and drew it through his arm, unobtrusively pressing it
close.

"I remind you
again of the shortness of time, 'General.'"

"You will have my
answer within two hours."

"'General.'"
The Warlord inclined his head.

"Lord Sagan."
Dixter answered, not bowing. "Dion, I hope you will stay with
us?"

"Yeah, kid, I
haven't had a chance to talk with you," Tusk said, the first
words he'd spoken.

"Starfire, there
are matters I would like to discuss, if you are free," Sagan
said.

Dion's blue eyes went
from one to another. Slowly he began to rub the palm of his right
hand. "Some other time, I guess, Tusk. Excuse me, General."

"Certainly, son,"
Dixter said, his voice and his expression grave.

The Warlord turned on
his heel. Dion walked out with him, Captain Williams accompanying
them. The Honor Guard snapped to attention, fists over their hearts,
as the three passed. When the three had left the room, the guard
followed. Their booted footsteps could be heard echoing along the
colonnade.

"This way, my
lady," Dixter said formally, leading Maigrey down a hallway that
branched off the colonnade. The other mercenaries seemed slow in
following. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Maigrey saw Tusk
impeding their path, putting himself in dire danger of being trampled
by a large and obviously hungry alien.