Authors: Margaret Weis
"Look,
Bennett, we had a pretty rough time down there. The kid here's about
finished and I'm not much better. Tell Dixter we'll report to him in
the morning. ..."
The creases in
the sergeant-major's face went almost as rigid as the knife-edged
creases in his neatly pressed uniform.
Bennett could
well remember the days when Tusk had been just another mercenary
pilot under Dixter's command, Dion a mere civilian passenger. A shift
in the tide of the affairs of men had floated Dion to the top, raised
Tusk to the status of major under the Warlord's command, and sent
General John Dixter drifting into the shoals of uneasy alliance with
a former deadly foe and rival. Bennett coped with the changes as he
had coped with every other upheaval he'd encountered as aide to
General Dixter—the sergeant-major preferred change to
regulations and acted accordingly. But he could not forebear, by tone
and manner, registering his disapproval of the entire situation and
he could not help exulting in his occasional victory.
He sniffed. A
corner of a clipped-mustached lip twitched. "Lord Sagan,"
he said in an undertone. Eyes on the bulkheads, he spoke to no one in
particular.
"Damn,"
Tusk swore beneath his breath, thinking it possible, even at this
point, that Dion might not have heard, might yet be persuaded to go
to his quarters and rest.
Unfortunately,
accustomed as he was to shouting commands on the parade ground, the
sergeant-major's voice carried quite well.
Dion had gone
white as sunrise on an ice-locked moon.
"Kid—"
Tusk began, but the king had turned, was advancing down the corridor,
heading toward the communications center aboard ship. Bennett,
Captain Agis, and the ever-present centurion guard followed closely
behind.
Tusk stood in
the corridor, stared grimly after them. The thought came to him that
by taking this particular corridor to the left, instead of the right,
he would arrive at a lift that would whisk him to the flight deck.
There he would find his spaceplane and his irritating, sarcastic,
disrespectful, and sorely missed partner, XJ-27.
"Tusk, what
is it?" Nola twined her fingers through his, squeezed his hand.
"I'd be a
fugitive again," Tusk mused. "But, hell, I've been a
fugitive most of my life. I could find work. There's always a war
being fought somewhere, specially now that the Republic's falling
apart. Or maybe turn my hand at smuggling. That pirate we ran into—"
"You can't
leave him, Tusk," said Nola softly.
"I can
leave anybody I damn well please!" Tusk retorted.
"He's got
Sagan, he's got Dixter, he's got a whole fuckin' regiment of
armor-plated bootlickers—"
"He hasn't
got a friend, Tusk. Only you. You're the only one who cares about
him. Not about a king, not about some piece in a huge galactic game,
not about a chance for revenge, a chance to restore some long-lost
ideal of ages past—but
him
. Dion." Nola moved
nearer, slid her arm around Tusk. "You remember Dion, don't you?
The seventeen-year-old kid you rescued on Syrac Seven? The kid who
threw up the first time he flew your plane? The kid who was scared
spitless his first time in combat?" Her voice altered subtly.
"The 'kid' who saved our lives on
Defiant
?"
"I know, I
know. Lay off, Nola—"
"It's why
the Starlady made you his Guardian, Tusk—"
"Yeah, then
what does she do? Walks off. Drops outta sight. Leaves us to take the
flak—"
"That's not
fair. You can't judge her, Tusk. You don't understand."
"Damn
right, I don't understand! I don't understand anything except
I'm
the one who's always around.
I'm
the one who watched them
stick a crown on that kid's head, then start driving nails into him."
"He put the
crown on his own head. It was his choice."
"After they
held it up and showed him how bright and fancy it was and let him try
it on and told him how great he looked in it and how well it fit and
groveled at his feet and messed with his mind. Who knows what ideas
that evil old man gave him, sticking needles into him—"
"Don't,
Tusk." Nola paled, swallowed. "Don't talk about that time."
"Sorry,
sweetheart." Tusk sighed, put his arm around her and hugged her
close. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories." He
was silent a moment. "I'm scared for him, Nola."
"I know,
dear."
"That's why
I want to run sometimes. I don't see anything good coming outta this.
Like sittin' in a theater, watching a vid, and knowing how it's going
to end—"
"You
don't
know how it's going to end."
"I've got a
pretty good idea," Tusk said gloomily. "I know the
director, and he doesn't believe in happily ever after. Speaking of
Sagan, I guess I'd better go see if I can deflect the latest hammer
blows. Where'll you be?"
"I'm going
to soak in a hot shower and wash my hair. Meet you in the bar?"
"Yeah.
Order me a double and have it waiting. I'll need it," Tusk
predicted grimly and stalked off, down the corridor, away from the
lift and the flight deck and his spaceplane and freedom.
Nola watched
after him, sighed. "Oh, Tusk, I wish you understood. Those nails
are passing right through Dion.
You're
the only one they're
hurting."
Afraid of being
late, Tusk beat it to the comm at a dead run, only to discover on
arrival, hot and out of breath, that John Dixter was the sole
person—besides the men on duty— present.
Tusk glanced
nervously about the room, its hundreds of blinking glass eyes staring
outward, reflecting back what they saw, keeping watch on people and
events around the galaxy. Operators sat at their posts, monitoring,
transmitting, speaking in myriad languages, listening to myriad more.
The different images on the various screens shifted rapidly; it made
Tusk dizzy to watch, reminded him uncomfortably of the fact that time
and events were rocketing forward, out of control, like a spaceplane
with a malfunctioning hyperdrive.
"Is it
over?" he demanded. Despite his rebellious talk, he couldn't
help but feel queasy at the thought of missing one of the Warlord's
summons.
"No, no,"
said Dixter in a soothing tone. He smiled slightly, sympathetic.
"Hasn't started yet."
"But
Bennett—"
"I sent him
after Dion early. Give His Majesty a chance to change his clothes,
freshen up . . ."
"Arm
himself."
"Yes, that,
too," Dixter replied quietly.
Tusk sighed,
mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform, completely
forgetting to use the standard regulation-issue handkerchief tucked
neatly, according to regulations, into his cuff. He saw Dixter's
eyebrow raise, saw him glance at the stain on Tusk's sleeve, and it
occurred to the former mercenary, belatedly, that he, too, would
shortly be in the Warlord's presence.
Tusk groaned and
began to try to twitch his uniform coat into place, brush off his
trousers. He gave his black boots a quick shine by rubbing them
against the backs of his pant legs. This did nothing for the
appearance of his uniform, seen from behind, but he wasn't likely to
be presenting his posterior to the Warlord.
Not that it
wasn't a temptation. Tusk couldn't help grinning at the thought.
Looking up, he saw Dixter watching the proceedings with amusement.
Tusk felt his
skin grow warm.
"XJ would
be proud of you," Dixter said gravely.
"Yeah,
well, gotta keep up appearances," Tusk muttered. A shining steel
bulkhead reflected his image back to him. He gave himself a quick
once over, couldn't help but wonder—at first glance—just
who the hell this character was.
The stern,
chilling lines of the black uniform, its stiff, high collar and
smooth, adhesive-flapped front closing trimmed with red piping and
glittering major's insignia, were light-years away from the
many-times-washed, army-surplus fatigues Tusk had been accustomed to
wearing. Looking at himself, he had a momentary wish that wherever
those fatigues were, he was with them.
The jet-black
color of the uniform was too near the ebony-black color of his skin;
it was difficult to tell—other than by the bloodred lines of
the piping—where the uniform left off and Tusk began. Sometimes
he had the feeling he was
all
uniform, nothing remained of
himself. Even the fit reminded him constantly that he was in the
Warlord's service: uncomfortable, rigid, with a tendency to grip him
too tightly about the neck. Tusk felt himself continually short of
breath, had fallen into the habit of tugging at his collar in an
ineffectual attempt to loosen it.
He regarded
himself with a small measure of contempt and a large amount of
self-pity. Turning away, he saw that Dixter's amusement had broadened
into a wide smile.
"You're
beautiful," he assured Tusk.
"Oh, stow
it . . . sir,"Tusk mumbled in return, casting the general a
bitter, envious glance.
He didn't know
how Dixter managed it He wore the same type of severely tailored
uniform that Tusk wore, yet Dixter always appeared comfortable—his
uniform wrinkled and rumpled, the collar undone (the top button
missing in action), general's stars half falling off.
Dixter sat at
his ease, rump propped on one of the control panels, where he'd been
chatting casually with the operator waiting to receive the vid signal
from the Warlord's ship,
Phoenix II.
The general might have
been back in his old HQ in the desert of Vangelis, except for a few
minor changes that no one who hadn't know him a long time would have
noticed, someone like Tusk.
Looking at
Dixter closely, as the general turned to answer a question from the
operator, Tusk saw the older man's hair had gone a little grayer, the
lines in the face were a little deeper, die brown eyes in their maze
of wrinkles were a little tireder, a lot older. The deep suntanned
brown of the skin, obtained after a life of living and fighting on
land, would never completely fade, but the tan had gone sallow after
months of being confined aboard a spaceship. And there was a faint
pallor beneath the tan and the puffiness about the eyes of a man who
never feels himself at ease traveling the frigid, black void of
space.
Tusk's envy
evaporated, replaced by concern and a growing, smoldering anger. For
two plastipennies, he'd grab the general and get the hell off this
ship and away from the whole fuckin' mess. Tusk was fired up, he
could have blasted off himself without benefit of a rocket. He loped
across the deck, the words were on his hps, he was—in his
mind—already flying out of the hangar when Dixter turned back
to face him. One look at the mild brown eyes, and Tusk's energy
drained from him.
Dixter wouldn't
leave, any more than Tusk—when it came down to it—would
leave. Only what held them wasn't precisely the same.
Tusk drew
closer, lowered his voice. "Any word from the Lady Maigrey,
sir?"
Dixter shook his
head. "No." One word, but it held all the pain a man could
conceivably hold and go on living.
"Begging
the general's pardon, but damn it all to hell!" Tusk's anger
found a vent. "One minute she's there and the next she's not,
without so much as a 'so long, wasn't it fun, let's do it again
sometime.' No, sir! I gotta say this, get this off my chest. If I
don't, I—I might hit somebody!"
Noting the
fierce expression on the mercenary's face, Dixter closed his mouth on
die remonstrance he had been about to utter. He signaled Tusk to
contain himself for the moment, rose to his feet, and led the way to
the center of the room, which was empty and as quiet as the center of
the comm could ever be.
Backed by die
low buzzing hum of countless voices and the frequent bleeps of
computers, Tusk launched into his grievances. Dixter listened
patiently, his eyes fixed on the young soldier who'd become dear as a
son to him, with only an occasional straying glance toward the door
or to the operator waiting for Sagan's call.
"If die
lady were here, she'd put a stop to about three fourths of the stuff
that's goto' on. She'd take the kid to hand and help him understand
what's happening instead of trying to bully him and telling him 'do
this' and 'don't do that' and 'don't ask questions, just do as you're
told.' But, no! Right when things start gettin' tough, she runs out."
A dark line,
appearing between Dixter's brows, and a glint to the usually mild
eyes halted Tusk a moment. But he'd gone too far to quit now, the
damage had been done. He had to continue, try to explain himself.
"It wasn't
like she was captured or carried off or Lord Sagan did away with her
or anything. She left of her own free will! I know, sir. I was there,
on base, the morning after the army took over Snaga Ohme's place. I
was with Lord Sagan when he returned and they brought him word that
the lady'd taken a spaceplane and beat it. I saw him, I saw his
face."
Tusk paused,
frowning. "He was mad. Hell, mad isn't the word." He shook
his head. "I'm not sure there is a word for what he was. I'd
swear I saw steel walls start to melt and drip all over the floor.
And what does he do? Turn out the guard? Send out patrols?"
"Tusk-"
Dixter tried to break in.
"Nothin'!"
Tusk was past listening. "Not a goddam thing. In one second he
goes cold as he was kot and says, 'Very well, my lady, maybe it's
better this way,' or words to that effect."
Tusk, if I—"
"And now,
it's been six months. All hell's breaking loose. Two actors battling
for the same role. The kid got it and now he's out on center stage,
putting on a show for an audience that's come mainly to see this play
turn into a tragedy, then they can all have a good cry and go home.
And meanwhile, Sagan's working backstage to bring down the curtain on
the first act. And when it comes up again, guess who's gonna try to
step in and take the lead! And my lady's off somewhere, doing God
knows what. And as for how she treated you, sir—"