Authors: Margaret Weis
Dion turned back
to the viewscreen. General Dixter came to stand by his side.
A flash of
light, white-hot, blinding in its intensity, flared in the
viewscreen. The planet became a fireball, burned, for an instant,
brightly as a star.
Then darkness.
God save the
king.
The man and
woman walked the long and echoing hallways of the Glitter Palace,
trailing in the wake of a velvet-coated footman, who, after a journey
of what seemed like several kilometers, turned them over to a
velvet-coated chamberlain, who cast an extremely shocked and highly
disapproving look at the man's flak jacket and battle fatigues and
was on the verge of refusing them admittance.
"We're
expected," growled the man, fishing around in the pockets of his
flak jacket. Finally, after much fumbling (the chamberlain's face
becoming increasingly frozen), the man produced a card with His
Majesty's seal—a golden, lion-faced sun.
"Mendaharin
Tusca and Nola Rian," said the man, pointing to the names
engraved on the invitation. "That's us."
"I see,"
said the chamberlain, glancing askance at a ketchup stain and a ring
left by the bottom of a bottle on the invitation that appeared to
have served time as a coaster.
"They have
security clearance," reported the footman.
The chamberlain
indicated, by his expression, to consider this a vast mistake. He
said only, "This way, if you please," turned and headed for
the massive, double doors, made of steel, emblazoned with the king's
seal.
Two members of
the Honor Guard (now Palace Guard), wearing the same Romanesque armor
as always, blocked the door, beam rifles across their chests. At the
chamberlain's approach, they relaxed their watchful stance, stepped
aside.
Tusk recognized
both men, having served with them aboard
Phoenix.
He started
to greet them. Both merely glanced at him, however, and that
scrutiny, he realized, was to make certain that he posed no threat.
They didn't remember him.
The chamberlain
threw open the double doors with a flourish. Feeling considerably
uncomfortable, wishing that he hadn't come, Tusk entered what he
presumed were the king's private quarters.
The Glitter
Palace had stood abandoned and empty for nineteen years, was now
currently undergoing extensive restoration. The royal antechamber—an
enormous room, once extraordinarily elegant and beautiful—had
been among the most heavily damaged during the Revolution. The room
was being returned to its former glory, but repairs would take some
time.
Although most
traces of the workmen had been cleared away in honor of today's
ceremony, drop cloths covered the paintings hanging on the walls. The
crystal chandeliers, swathed in cotton, looked mummified.
Multicolored bunting had been hung in an attempt to hide the
scaffolding.
Tusk looked
around, curious. "My father must have stood here, where I'm
standing."
He could almost
see his father, dressed in the blue ceremonial robes of a Guardian,
robes that had been too short on the tall, muscular Danha Tusca,
striding about this room, arguing in his booming voice, laughing his
booming laugh.
There had been a
time when that ghost would have intimidated Tusk, made him angry,
guilty. But now Tusk could look on the ghost with only a melancholy
sadness and he could, at last, bid it farewell and wish it rest.
"They've
had six months to work on the place," said Nola, trying not to
seem awed. "You'd think they'd be further along by now."
Six months since
the fleet had returned in triumph from the Corasian galaxy, escaping
unscathed after a now-epic battle. Six months since President Peter
Robes had been discovered in his private office, dead, having melted
his skull with the self-inflicted blast of a lasgun, his suicide
recorded—horribly—for posterity on the security cams.
The vid pictured
him rambling, almost incoherent, screaming that "his mind was
dead, the voice gone." And then he'd shot himself. The news
media interviewed every -ologist, -analyst, -iatrist, and talk-show
hostess in the galaxy and, while all had opinions, no one could say
precisely what Robes had meant by this bizarre statement. All
concluded that the President had received advanced warning from his
extensive and secret spy network that Dion Starfire had discovered
extremely damaging information linking Robes with the Corasians. The
knowledge of his impending disgrace and certain impeachment led to
the unbalanced mental state that led to his suicide.
The constitution
made provision for the takeover of the government, but it took some
time to discover who the vice president actually was and then, when
they found his name, no one could recall having seen him in several
years. Meanwhile, allegations surfaced concerning the corrupt
activities of the Cabinet members. Several prominent Congressmen were
revealed to have been in Robes's pay. The government collapsed, the
galaxy was in chaos. The last act of the Galactic Democratic Republic
was to make a humble appeal to Dion Starfire, rightful heir, to
accept the crown and restore order.
Dion Starfire
accepted. This day marked his coronation and his wedding.
"Do I look
all right?" Nola asked, trying to catch a quick glimpse of her
reflection in a shining steelglass wall.
"Hell, yes.
Would you quit worrying? It's the kid, remember?"
"No, it
isn't," said Nola gravely. Reaching out, she took hold of Tusk's
hand. "Not anymore."
Tusk, who knew
what she meant, said nothing, looked uncomfortable.
"His
Majesty will see you now."
Another set of
double doors, guarded by yet another pair of centurions, opened. Tusk
and Nola, hand in hand, entered.
This room, the
private office of the king, was—in contrast to the stark, bleak
antechamber—warm and inviting with just enough elegance to
remind the visitor that he was in the presence of royalty.
Tusk had a
fleeting, confused impression of dark, polished wood, shelves of
books, sumptuous leather furniture, greens and browns, rich carpet,
soft lighting.
Behind a massive
desk, ornately carved, sat a man. He was engaged in perusing numerous
documents that had, by their stiff and unrelenting whiteness, an
official look about them.
Tusk and Nola
entered the room, stood feeling rather lost. The secretary who had
ushered them inside urged them forward with a graceful and silent
gesture. Venturing around the desk, the secretary bent down, said
something to the man in a low voice. The man nodded.
"Leave us,"
he said.
The secretary,
bowing, removed himself, exiting by a side door.
The man raised
his head, saw Tusk and Nola, and smiled.
Tusk had known
him at first by the red-golden hair that fell in thick and luxuriant
waves over the shoulders of the formal dress, military-cut uniform.
He knew him now by the intense blue eyes that were always somehow
startling when Tusk looked into them after a long absence. Memory
faded the color, he supposed. Perhaps it was simply difficult to
believe that eyes could be that clear, that vibrant, that . . . blue.
But if it hadn't
been for the eyes and hair, Tusk had the feeling he wouldn't have
known him. This wasn't, as Nola had said, "the kid."
Dion rose to his
feet, came around the desk, his hand outstretched in greeting. His
face was thinner than Tusk remembered, graver, more serious, solemn.
He seemed older and, Tusk thought confusedly, taller. When he spoke,
his voice sounded deeper, different.
"Nola,
Tusk," Dion said, taking each of them by the hand. "I'm so
glad you could come. I hope you've changed your mind and will stay
for the ceremony tonight?"
"No, uh,
thanks, ki—" The word stuck in Tusk's throat. Feeling his
face burn, he amended it. "Your Majesty. We've got to be
clearing out of here. You see it's . . . well ..."
"Tusk's
mother's birthday is tomorrow," Nola broke in nervously, "and
Tusk's missed so many of her birthdays that we thought it would be
nice if he could be there. ..."
Both of them
stammered, tongue-tied, realizing their excuse was lame, not knowing
how to make it sound better.
Tusk was
suddenly conscious of his hand—sweaty, clammy, still clasped in
Dion's hand that was warm and dry and strong. The mercenary broke the
grip, started to thrust his hand in his pocket, decided that this
wouldn't be polite, dropped his hand to his side.
"I
understand," said Dion, and something in his voice told Tusk
that he truly did understand.
"Probably
more than I do," Tusk muttered to himself.
He was finding
it difficult to look directly into those bright blue eyes, as if he
were staring into the sun. He shifted his gaze around the room.
"Nice place
you've got here, Your Majesty." The formality was coming easier.
"Yes,"
said Dion with a smile. "I seem to spend too much time in it,
however. I miss flying. I don't suppose I'll be doing much of that
now. I'm keeping my Scimitar pin, though," he added, fingering
the small silver pin that looked shabby and out of place on the
elegant, gold-trimmed collar.
Tusk remembered
when and how Dion had come by that pin, was forced to blink his eyes
rapidly to keep the room from dissolving in a blur.
Nola gave Tusk a
prod in the ribs, jerked her head toward Dion. "What we came
for?" she prompted.
"Uh, yeah."
Tusk cleared his throat. "Uh, I never got around to thanking you
for . . . uh . . . saving my—"
The side door
opened a crack, the secretary glided in, ostensibly to lay another
document on His Majesty's desk. But a glance from beneath lowered
eyelids was obviously a reminder that His Majesty had other people to
see this day.
Dion received
the reminder with a cool look, turned back to Tusk, stopped him
before he could go on.
"I'm the
one who owes you, Tusk. You don't owe me anything."
They stood
looking at each other, the silence awkward. The secretary gave a
polite cough.
"Look, uh,
we got to be going," said Tusk.
Dion accompanied
them to the door. He seemed to want, at the last moment, to detain
them. To hang on. "What are your plans, now? I'll never forgive
you for turning down that commission in the Royal Navy."
"Yeah,
thanks, but well, Nola and me, we figure it's time to settle down.
Maybe raise a few kids. We're going to Vangelis. Nola has her old job
back, drivin' a TRUC for Marek. He won that war of his, you know. And
me. Well, XJ and I are takin' over a taxi route, shuttlin' passengers
between planets, that sort of thing. Link's comin' in as a partner,"
"Link?"
Dion was startled, dubious.
"Yeah. He's
a blowhard and an A-number-one jerk, but he's not a bad sort,
underneath. I know how far I can trust him and how far I can't and
I'd rather have someone like that than someone I don't know at all.
And he and XJ get along."
"How is
XJ?"
They'd reached
the door to the office.
"He's
speaking to me again," Tusk said, shaking his head. "Which
is more than he'd been doing. He's convinced I faked that whole bit,
getting wounded and everything, just to weasel out of paying him off.
You wouldn't believe the hell he's put me through since then,"
he added gloomily.
Dion laughed.
The secretary
slid around them, between them, opened the door. The Honor Guard
snapped to attention. The chamberlain loomed, waiting to whisk them
away.
Tusk fumbled in
the pocket of his flak jacket.
"I know you
got a whole army to protect you now, so I don't suppose you'll be
needin' me. But if you ever do . .
He brought out a
small object, almost invisible to sight, handed it to Dion, placing
it on the palm of the right hand, the palm scarred with the five
marks of the bloodsword.
"Just send
this. I'll know what it means."
Dion had no need
to look to see what it was. He recognized, by feel, the small earring
shaped in the form of an eight-pointed star that Tusk had worn as
long as he'd known him.
"Thank
you," said Dion, closing his hand over it.
Tusk looked up
into the blue eyes and the sun's fire warmed him. He smiled. No more
needed to be said.
Nola, at his
side, was weeping softly.
"Good-bye,
Tusk," said Dion. "The best of everything to you both."
The double doors
shut.
"Good-bye,
kid," Tusk answered softly.
"His
Majesty will see you now, Sir John."
"That's
you, milord," said Bennett in an undertone, trying futilely to
twitch several of the more obvious wrinkles out of Dixter's uniform.
"Who? Oh,
um, yes." John Dixter brushed away his aide's solicitous hands.
"And I've told you not to call me that," he added in an
aside, walking toward the double doors.
Bennett kept up
with him until the last possible moment, making swift grabs at
invisible bits of lint.
"It's your
proper tide now, milord." The aide caught hold of a dangling
silk braid and looped it back up over one shoulder.
"It's not
official yet."
"It will be
by tomorrow, milord," Bennett said stiffly, "and we should
get into the habit."
"First Lord
of the Admiralty," the secretary announced. "Sir John
Dixter."
The Honor Guard
came to attention, saluted smartly. Dixter returned their salute,
entered the king's presence. The doors shut behind him.
Bennett looked
after him with fond exasperation, began pacing the antechamber in
regulation step, whistling a military march.
"That
tide's not official yet," Dixter protested.
"It might
as well be," Dion answered, rising from his desk. "You're
only two sword taps on the shoulders away from it."