Authors: Margaret Weis
This new voice
offered him nothing. It appalled and terrified him, because it was a
voice that he didn't know how to question, a voice he didn't know how
to answer. It was still and small, yet he heard it clearly.
Wait, it
counseled. Wait.
". . . who
knew
The force of
those dire arms. Yet not for those,
Nor what the
potent Victor in his rage
Can else
inflict, do I repent or change ..."
John Milton,
Paradise Lost
Tusk ran his
finger around the tight collar of his dress uniform, attempting, for
the hundredth time, to ease its iron grip on his throat.
"Stop
that!" Nola hissed out of the corner of her mouth. Champagne
glass in hand, she smiled on the arriving guests.
"It doesn't
matter to you that I'm being slowly strangled!" Tusk retorted.
"Look at
Sagan's officers—Captain Williams, for example.
He
isn't
squirming around like a man with his head in a kij vine."
"Yeah,
well, maybe that's 'cause his uniform fits. This damn thing shrunk."
Tusk gave the collar a final vicious, hopeless tug.
"That's
impossible." Nola cast Tusk a cool, appraising glance. "If
anything, you've gained weight. All this high living."
Tusk opened his
mouth to make a smart rejoinder. Nola was not the tall and willowy
variety of human female. Her short, compact, muscular figure fought a
constant battle against pudginess. But she, as Dion's social
secretary, seemed to always find time to exercise. Tusk, as Dion's
road manager and unofficial guardian, always seemed to find himself
in a bar. Tusk looked down at his protruding gut that had once been
hard and flat as sheet metal, and gloomily snapped his mouth shut.
"Champagne?"
offered a waiter.
Tusk snarled. A
look sent the man and his tray of crystal glasses dashing off
hurriedly into the crowd.
The banquet
chamber, located in the diplomatic section aboard
Phoenix II,
was slowly filling with officers and the Warlord's guests.
Baroness DiLuna
arrived, escorted by four of her female guards, all clad in armor.
The metal, specially made for them, fit close and tight to their
strong, lithe bodies, gleamed like a fish's skin, and left one breast
bare, as was the custom among the female warriors. They kept apart,
flashing eyes staring boldly and disdainfully at all the men. The
only person in whom they seemed to take any interest at all was Nola,
who found that interest extremely disconcerting.
Bear Olefsky
entered the vast room, seemed to fill it with his hairy,
leather-covered body, and rumbling, booming laughter. His two sons,
taller and broader than their father by a half meter in all
directions, followed after him, grinning sheepishly at the women and
accidentally trampling a midshipman.
Rykilth and his
party of vapor-breathers wafted into the room. Faint,
breath-snatching whiffs of their poisonous atmosphere seeped out of
their helms, causing those standing near to cough and gasp. Captain
Williams put in a hurried, quiet call to the bridge to increase air
circulation in the banquet hall.
Warlord Sagan
strolled about, red and gold as flame, speaking to his guests and
darting shadowed glances at the door.
His Majesty, the
king, had not made an appearance.
Tusk lifted his
chin, tried to stretch out his neck. Leaning down, he whispered in
Nola's ear, "Let's get married."
"Sure,"
she said, smiling at Captain Williams, who bowed effortlessly,
gracefully, and smiled back.
"I mean
let's get married now, tonight," Tusk said urgently. "That'll
be our excuse to leave."
Nola turned,
stared at him. "You're serious."
"Damn
right." Tusk drew near, caught hold of her hand. "There's
gonna be war—"
"You don't
know that for sure." Nola looked troubled.
"The hell I
don't! They've been talkin' nothing else for three days, building the
kid up for it, shoving him into it. Hell go along, he's got no
choice. And I ... I just don't want to be around when it happens."
"I never
knew you to run from a fight before, Tusk."
The voice
belonged to General Dixter, standing slightly behind and to one side
of the couple.
Tusk had been so
intent on his conversation, he hadn't noticed the older man's
approach. He realized how his words must have sounded, frowned, and
shook his head. On second thought, he decided he'd have a glass of
champagne. He reached out to a passing waiter, snagged one, gulped
the bubbling liquid.
"I'm no
coward, but there's no percentage in getting involved in a fight that
can't be won, sir."
"On the
contrary, Dion has a very good chance of winning," Dixter
observed.
"Yeah,
that's what I mean, sir," the mercenary mumbled, face in his
glass. He looked up, met Dixter's shrewd, weary eyes. "If he
wins, he loses. I got to admit I don't know much about bein' a king,
but it seems to me that it must be hard to keep your seat on a throne
that's slippery wet with the blood of a billion or so of your own
subjects."
Dixter nodded
slowly, understanding. "But he doesn't have many alternatives,
Tusk. He's pretty well chained himself to the rock."
"Yeah,
well, maybe he has and maybe he hasn't. All I know is I don't have to
hang around and watch the eagles swoop down and rip his guts out.
C'mon, Nola, what do you say? Williams'll marry us. It's the least he
can do after trying to kill us. Dixter can stand up with us and we'll
get the kid, too. Make him forget about all this for a while. It'll
be like old times. Then we can take XJ and the spaceplane, fly to
Zanzi. I should see my mother again before she forgets what I look
like—"
"Tusk!"
Nola squeezed his hand, stemmed the flood. "I'll marry you
anywhere, anytime you say. I'll go anywhere, any place you want,
anytime you want. Okay?"
"Okay."
Tusk sighed, relaxed, tugged at the earring in his left ear. "Okay.
Okay with you, sir?"
"I'd be
honored," Dixter said gravely. "You should talk to Dion,
though. Don't spring it on him like a land mine. Which, by the way,
was what I came over to ask you. Have you seen Dion? He should have
been here by now."
"No."
Tusk grunted. "Last I saw of him was this afternoon. He looked
terrible, like he hadn't slept in days. I told him to go lie down,
take a nap. Maybe that's what happened, sir Maybe he just fell
asleep. I could go check—"
"No need.
Someone else is looking for him, too," said Nola softly.
Lord Sagan had
turned from a conversation with Rykilth to speak a few words to Agis.
The centurion left the room. The crowd had grown quiet, except for
patches of desultory conversation started by Admiral Aks,
conversation that went nowhere and straggled on to an uncomfortable
end. DiLuna stood among her women, arms crossed beneath her bare
breast, making no attempt to conceal her impatience or suspicions.
Olefsky was patting his stomach and looking hungry, an alarming
prospect to those who recalled the ravages committed by the big man
when he wasn't fed on schedule. The vapor-breather's fog had turned a
nasty shade of orange.
The Warlord
resumed his discussion with Rykilth smoothly, acting as if nothing
were amiss. His voice carried in the silence, the deep baritone calm,
level, even. Those who knew him read his anger in the still, unmoving
folds of the red cape, in the rigid muscles of war-scarred arms, of
the barely shivering red feather crest on the golden helm.
Agis returned.
Everyone in the room fell silent, straining to see and hear, waiting
with the eager, nervous intensity of an audience who senses that one
of the players has abandoned the script and is launching out on his
own.
"I don't
like this," Tusk muttered. "Something's happened to the
kid—"
"Shh!"
Nola dug her nails into his flesh.
The centurion,
who, it seemed, would have preferred delivering his line off-stage,
spoke to his lord in a subdued undertone, made a slight motion with
his head toward the door.
The Warlord, an
old trooper, apparently realized that such a bit of bad theater would
merely increase the audience's excitement, draw out the tension.
Better to end it and ring down the curtain swiftly.
"Captain,"
said Sagan, his deep voice maintaining a pleasant tone, God alone
knew through what effort of will, "did you inform His Majesty
that we eagerly await his arrival?"
Agis took his
cue, delivered his line in a crisp, disciplined monotone.
"His
Majesty regrets that extreme exhaustion confines him to his quarters
this evening. He trusts his guests will enjoy themselves—"
There might have
been more to the message, but the captain, facing his Warlord,
suddenly seemed to find it difficult to deliver.
No one moved or
spoke or even seemed to breathe. The Warlord continued to stand
still, but the folds of the cape began to stir, as if ruffled by a
hot wind. One hand, the right one, clenched, unclenched, then slowly
became a fist. He walked suddenly and swiftly from the room, his cape
flaring crimson behind him like a tidal wave of blood.
"That's
torn it," said John Dixter heavily.
"Does this
mean we don't get fed?" Bear Olefsky thundered.
Following the
explosion, Admiral Aks and his officers hastened to do what they
could to put out the flames and contain the damage. Dinner was
announced, waiters scurried in with food. The officers guided the
guests to their tables, tried, as far as possible, to temper anger
and distrust with wine and baked chicken.
"Baroness,"
said the admiral, offering her his arm with nervous gallantry, "if
I might have the honor—"
"Thank you,
no, " DiLuna replied coolly. "My staff and I will dine in
our quarters. Have food sent to us and make certain my shuttle is
prepared for takeoff at 0600 hours."
"I'm
certain Lord Sagan will be speaking to you before then—"
"I'm
certain he'd better," DiLuna returned with a cat-eyed smile. She
leaned nearer the disconcerted admiral. "If Sagan has no further
use for his king after tonight, tell him to send the young man to me
for a year. I like what Dion's made of. He'll breed fine daughters.
Oh, and tell Sagan not to damage any of the young man's vital parts."
The baroness
gathered her women together and left, leaving the admiral to stare
gloomily after them, mop his sweating forehead.
Bear Olefsky,
pacified by the smell and sight of food, snagged a passing waiter,
took over a tray of plates intended for numerous guests, and settled
himself with a contented sigh into one of the specially built chairs
designed to accommodate his massive body.
"Ale,"
he grunted, sweeping the wineglasses to the floor.
The Bear
motioned to his sons to seat themselves and they began to consume
chicken.
Rykilth, trailed
by an apologetic Captain Williams, paused at the table. He held out a
three-fingered hand.
"I'll
trouble you for my money, Olefsky."
Olefsky grinned,
shook his head. His teeth crunched bones. "It is not over yet,
my friend. By my balls, it's not over yet!"
General Dixter
took advantage of the confusion to draw Tusk and Nola out the door,
slipped unnoticed into the corridor.
"What the
hell do you thinks going on, sir?" Tusk demanded, looking
worried and confused.
"I'm not
sure, but my guess is that Dion was told to come to the banquet
tonight and announce that we were going to war. Not only didn't His
Majesty do what he was supposed to do, he made the Warlord look like
a fool in front of powerful allies."
"Did you
see Sagan's eyes when he walked out?" Nola shuddered.
"There may
be murder done before this night is out," Dixter said grimly. He
began moving at a brisk pace down the corridor. "Don't run,
Tusk! It'll draw attention. Keep calm. Which way's the elevator to
Dion's quarters? Down here? I always get turned around in these damn
ships!"
"Yes, sir."
Tusk slowed, forced himself to move and act with a semblance of
normalcy. But the two men took long strides. Nola, with her short
legs, had to almost run to keep up.
"We're
gonna be too late, you know that, sir," the mercenary predicted
ominously.
"I'm not so
certain. Sagan was caught completely off-guard. He didn't expect Dion
to defy him, obviously wasn't prepared for it. Raise XJ. Tell the
computer to have the Scimitar ready for takeoff. The men we left:
behind on
Rat
are loyal to Dion. They'll support him, back his
cause. We could stand off Sagan a long time—"
"XJ!"
Tusk was shouting into his commlink on his wrist. "XJ, it's me,
Tusk. Make ready for takeoff—"
"Tusk?"
came an irascible, mechanical voice. "Tusk who?"
"Tusk who?
I'll give you Tusk who! XJ, this is no time for your—"
"I used to
know a Tusk," the computer continued. "Lousy pilot.
Couldn't fly his way out of his shorts. I took care of the guy, made
him the big shot he is today, and what thanks do I get? None.
Nothing. Not so much as a—"
"XJ!"
Tusk roared, shook the commlink. Men stopped, stared at him
curiously.
Dixter took hold
of the mercenary's arm, steered him into the elevator. "XJ-27,
this is General John Dixter. We have an emergency here. Alert status:
red. Do you copy?"
"Yes, sir.
General Dixter, sir." XJ was instantly subdued. "Sorry,
sir. Didn't know you were present."
"Can you be
ready for takeoff in ten minutes?"
"Yes, sir.
But it won't do any good, sir."
Dixter and Tusk
exchanged glances. Nola sighed, shook her head, slumped back against
the side of the elevator.
"What do
you mean, XJ?"
"Order just
came through, sir. We're grounded. No planes being permitted to take
off."