Authors: Margaret Weis
"Tusk,
that's enough." Dixter's voice was whip-sharp, the voice of the
old desert-days HQ. It flicked across Tusk, brought him to his
senses. He lowered his head, stared at his boots.
"I'm sorry,
sir. I know how much you think of her and I didn't mean to get into
that. It's none of my business. ..."
"Damn
right, it isn't," Dixter said coldly.
Tusk lifted his
head, defiance in his tone. "But I've seen what it's done to
you, sir. You can't blame me for being upset."
Dixter glowered
at the mercenary in grim and furious silence, but was obviously
finding it difficult to be angry with someone whose only fault was
that he cared.
Tusk saw the
anger seep out, like blood from a wound, saw it replaced by pain and
deep sorrow, and felt far worse than before. He knew, then, that much
of what he'd said John Dixter must have been thinking; the man
wouldn't have been human otherwise. Somehow or other, he'd come to
terms with it. Because he loved her.
"Go ahead,
sir," Tusk said. "Kick me. Kick me good and hard. Or, if
you'll excuse me, I'll just go into a corner and kick myself—"
"That won't
be necessary," Dixter said, one corner of his mouth twitching.
He paused, grave, indecisive, then sighed, made up his mind. "Son
. . ."He clasped a hand on Tusk's shoulder. "I—"
The operator
looked in their direction. "Lord Sagan in five minutes, sir."
Dixter did not
even glance over. "Inform His Majesty."
"Yes, sir."
"Tusk"—Dixter
looked at him earnestly—"I don't have time to explain and
I'm not certain I could anyway. I'll say this once, and then the
subject will be closed forever between us. I've known Maigrey over
twenty years. I've loved her, it seems, longer than that. I loved her
when I thought she was dead and lost to me forever.
"I
know
her, Tusk. She didn't just 'leave.' She fled. She ran away. She's
trying desperately to escape."
"Escape?"
Tusk thought it over. "Yeah, I can understand. That old man,
that Abdiel ... I heard he gave her a rough time. And she outsmarted
him, tricked him. He can't be happy about that. Yeah, I guess it
makes sense—"
"Tusk!"
Dixter sighed in exasperation. "Maigrey's not running from
Abdiel. She never ran from an enemy in her life. Yet all her life
she's been running, trying to escape the one enemy who has the power
to ultimately defeat her."
"Who's
that? Sagan?"
"No, son.
Herself."
Tusk saw the
mingled pain and love on the general's face, saw the pain the love
had cost. The mercenary was forced to clear his throat of a sudden
husky sensation that clogged his windpipe.
"I think I
understand, sir. I ran around in that wire wheel myself not long
back." His hand went to an earring in his left earlobe, an
earring fashioned in the shape of an eight-pointed star. "Odd,
though. It was the lady who helped me climb out."
"It's
always easier to help others than ourselves, son."
"Yeah, I
guess that's right. Anyway, sir, I'm sorry about what I said. I
wasn't thinking—"
"What
did
you say, anyway?" Dixter smiled. Reaching out, he took
Tusk's hand and pressed it warmly. "I can't seem to remember. It
must not have been all that important."
"Lord Sagan
on vidscreen three, sir," reported the operator.
The door to the
comm slid open. Dion entered, followed by a fussing Bennett—clothes
brush in hand—and the omnipresent Honor Guard.
Dion had changed
to the same severe black uniform worn by Tusk and Dixter, worn by all
the officers aboard the Warlord's ships. No insignia of rank
glittered on the collar or banded his sleeve. A sash of purple satin,
attached at his left shoulder, tied at his waist, banding his chest
was the mark of his royal stature. That and the brooch, made of gold,
with the face of a lion whose mane was the rays of the sun. The
lion's eyes were blue sapphires. The brooch had been a gift from the
Warlord.
The Honor Guard
drew up in a line, snapped to attention.
General Dixter
bowed, grave and dignified. "Your Majesty."
Tusk bowed as
well, clumsily. He'd practiced and practiced, Nola coaching him, but
he could never quite make it come off with ease and grace. The
atmosphere in the comm changed, crackled with energy and tension, as
if that red hair of Dion's was a generator that sent a jolt of
current through everyone present. He fed them. It was exhilarating,
exciting to be in his presence.
And they fed off
him. Drained him.
Those in the
comm who could leave their duties rose and bowed respectfully. Those
who couldn't darted glances at him out of the corners of their eyes,
hoping for a look, a smile, before turning back to their work.
Dion gave them
what they wanted. He smiled, gracious, yet aloof, a perfect blend.
How does he know where to draw the line? Tusk wondered, marveling.
How does he know what to say and how to act and how to command the
respect of these men, men like Agis, men double his age? When had he
learned it? How had Tusk missed it?
Or had he missed
it? No, he admitted. He was a part of it himself. Had been, all
along. Something the general told him a long time back returned to
Tusk.
"We've
flown too close to the comet," he said to himself. "Now
we're trapped, just one more spark in the fiery tail streaking
through the heavens, being carried along behind a brilliant,
beautiful, flaming ball of ice. He flashed into our lives, and before
we could help ourselves, we were lit by his light, warmed by his
fire, swept up in the wild ride through the stars. Yet where will the
ride end?"
The face of the
Warlord appeared on the screen. Immediately, everyone in the room
tensed. The buzz and hum of voices hushed, those who could broke off
communications or, forced to continue speaking, they did so in tones
barely above a whisper. Tusk had the insane impression that even the
lights in the room dimmed, the temperature seemed to drop measurably.
Thus does the atmosphere change, the crowd fall silent and come
alert, when the two combatants enter the arena.
Dion was on his
guard, treading warily, knowing the first slip, the first sign of
weakness, and he would be lying facedown in the dust, his opponent's
boot on his neck. Tusk could see the strain of the contest take its
toll, could see Dion's jaw muscles tighten to hold his chin firm, the
fingers of one hand twitched spasmodically.
Tusk's fist
clenched. Damn it, he
would
hit someone! Right when he got out
of here. Too bad Link wasn't aboard. . . .
An elbow prodded
Tusk in the ribs.
"You're
being watched," Dixter shot out of the corner of his mouth with
an oblique glance at various cams stationed throughout the room.
Tusk grunted,
scowled, but forced himself to calm down. He was somewhat comforted
by the sight of Dixter. The general remained standing at his ease,
lounging against a table, arms folded across his chest, his uniform
collar undone. (His aide Bennett was futilely endeavoring, by
semaphore messages from his eyebrows, to remedy the collar
situation.) Dixter's eyes were on Dion, a half smile played on the
general's hps.
He's picked the
winner. But how can he be sure?
Comets, after
all, are held in their orbit by far stronger suns.
Hell trembled as
he strode . . .
John Milton,
Paradise Lost
Aboard
Phoenix II,
Warlord Derek Sagan stood alone on the bridge;
Admiral Aks having retreated as far from his lord as was physically
possible in the cramped surroundings. Sagan was angry, extremely
angry, and it was conducive neither to one's health nor well-being to
be too near the Warlord when he was in this mood. The admiral would,
in fact, have been in another, far-distant part of the ship had not
Sagan requested his presence.
The heat of the
Warlord's fury seemed to radiate from his ceremonial armor, the
golden breastplate fashioned in Roman style, decorated with the
phoenix rising from flames. The wretched ensign charged with the task
of transmitting his lord's image and anger to another part of the
galaxy was sweating as if he were sitting in front of a blast
furnace.
"We have
established contact, my lord," reported the ensign.
Numerous
vidscreens came to life, revealing, from every conceivable angle, a
communications center in a spaceship light-years away. One of the
shots panned wide, to provide a view of everyone in the room. Others
were more selective, focusing in on certain individual faces.
One screen held
the image of a young man with flaming red-golden hair, who appeared
defensive, defiant. Another portrayed a black man, sullen and angry,
and, next to him, an older man, in his early fifties, who seemed
slightly amused by the whole proceeding. Sagan's gaze flicked to each
of these in turn.
"Your
Majesty." Sagan's head inclined slightly in what passed for a
bow, the shadowed-eyed gaze focused on Dion. "I trust you are
well after the rigors of this day?"
The king was
outwardly composed. But Aks saw the shoulders stiffen beneath the
purple sash, the blue eyes narrow, intent on the eyes of his
opponent, searching for the slight shift in focus that would tell
where would fall the first blow. The admiral shook his head, caught
himself hoping that some minor crisis would arise, call him from the
bridge.
"I'm
getting too old for these games," he said silently. "They're
not fun anymore."
Dion's tone was
cool and controlled. "Yes, Lord Sagan, thank you for asking. I
am tired, but otherwise well."
"I am
pleased to hear it, sire. I have important matters to discuss with
Your Majesty, but first I beg your indulgence. I must take
disciplinary action against one of your guard. I am sorry Your
Majesty is forced to witness such an unpleasant proceeding, but the
matter cannot be delayed. Discipline must be maintained. Agis, stand
forward."
The captain of
the Honor Guard, eyes facing front, stepped to the viewscreen, fist
over his heart in salute.
"Captain,
repeat to me your orders regarding any person who approaches His
Majesty."
The Warlord's
gaze was, ostensibly, on his unfortunate captain, but Sagan's
eyes—Aks saw—were in feet watching the vidscreen that
showed him the face of the king, a face that had gone extremely rigid
and pale.
"My lord,"
answered the captain, standing at attention, "my orders are to
prevent said person from coming anywhere near His Majesty."
"And yet,
this very day, a person was able not only to come near His Majesty
but to detain His Majesty in conversation. Is that true, Captain?"
"Yes, my
lord." The cords in the man's neck stood out like iron rods.
"You were
derelict in your duty, Captain."
"Yes, my
lord."
"What is
your excuse, Captain?"
"I have
none to give, my lord."
"Captain
Agis did his duty. He attempted to prevent the young woman from
speaking to me." Dion's clear voice rang out like a silver bell
commanded him to let her approach."
Sagan bowed. "It
is good of Your Majesty to try to defend this officer. Nevertheless,
Agis had his orders."
"Yes, Lord
Sagan," returned Dion, "and his orders came from his king."
Aks could have
sworn he heard the clash of steel. He saw them toe-to-toe, pushing
against each other, neither prepared to give ground. Suddenly,
unexpectedly, die Warlord broke free, fell back a pace.
"Captain,
you are fortunate that His Majesty, in his gracious magnanimity, has
intervened in your behalf. No disciplinary action will be taken
against you this time. I advise, Captain, that you do not fail His
Majesty again."
"No, my
lord. Thank you, my lord."
"Do not
thank me, Captain. Thank your king."
No blade of
ordinary steel could possibly attain the sharp cutting edge of the
Warlord's tone. The blade's point was not held to the guard's throat,
however, but to Dion's. Sagan had a high regard for his officer, he
knew perfectly well the circumstances under which Agis had acted, for
he had watched it all on his own private monitor from cams concealed
at various locations, including one in the captain's breastplate and
another in the lion pin worn on the king's own breast.
Dion had managed
to deflect the first attack. He was not about to let down his guard,
however. His adversary had seemed to weaken perhaps, only to draw him
into a foolish move.
"Your
Majesty, certain matters have arisen that require your immediate
attention. With your permission, I will make arrangements with the
commander of your vessel to transport you back to
Phoenix.
I
respectfully advise that you should leave within the hour."
Dion frowned.
"My Lord Sagan, I have appointments, commitments."
"Begging
Your Majesty's pardon, but I have taken the liberty of canceling your
appointments and commitments. The matter is extremely urgent."
Dion's face
flushed, the blue eyes flared. He retained control of himself,
however. "I will speak to you in private, my lord."
His image
disappeared momentarily from the screen. Aks made an oblique,
peremptory gesture with his hand and every man whose duties did not
absolutely require him to be on the bridge left in discreet and
thankful haste. Dion returned, alone. Flame-red hair, flame-blue
eyes, the light of his being was almost blinding, causing Aks to
avert his gaze, as if he stared into a sun. But the glow reflected
off die Warlord, was unable to penetrate the shadowed darkness.
"I'm
the one being disciplined. Is that it, my lord?" Dion demanded.
The Warlord did
not respond.
"I could
have healed that young woman!" Dion persisted, angered at
Sagan's silence. "I know it! I felt it inside me, the—the
energy. You should have let me! You should have let me!"