King's Sacrifice (3 page)

"How'd he
look?"

"Fantastic.
As always."

"What's it
like outside?"

Nola shook her
head. "A mob. There've been reports of rioting."

They reached an
elevator bank. Two centurions stood guard, keeping people away. Doors
opened. Agis ordered his men forward. Dion followed, stepping into a
ring of armored bodies. Tusk and Nola crowded inside. The doors slid
closed, shutting out the noise in the hallway. Damnably cheerful
music enveloped them.

"There must
be a million people jamming the streets and the route to the
spaceport," said Nola in subdued tones.

The elevator
whisked downward. The centurions stood stolidly around their king,
eyes forward, faces expressionless.

"I know how
important it is for His Majesty to be seen." Tusk was clearly
unhappy. "I know we need shots of this on the nightly news. But
all it takes is one nut with a lasgun—"

"You're
doing it again," said Nola.

"What?"

"Talking to
yourself."

"No one
else'll listen to me."

"I'll be
all right, Tusk." Dion smiled at his friend reassur-ingly from
behind the barricade of armor-plated chests and shoulders.

Tusk saw the
smile, but he also saw the pallor of Dion's complexion beneath the
makeup, saw the sag in the jaw muscles, the droop of the shoulders.
Exhilaration was draining from him. He looked tired, on the verge of
exhaustion.

Hell, he should
be tired! He's been running on sheer momentum for a couple of
military-time months, now, Tusk thought bitterly.

Like Warden had
said, only a few months ago, Dion Starfire had been a redheaded kid
without a last name living on an obscure planet with a poet,
pacifist, atheist. Tusk sometimes wondered what that boy might have
become, if Lord Sagan hadn't arrived that fateful night? A microchip
salesman? Happy at home with the wife and 3.5 kids?

No. Tusk stole
another glance at Dion. Not with the fever of the Blood Royal burning
in his veins, the lust for power, the desire to guide, direct,
control, protect, the need to rule that had been bred in him over
countless generations. It would have come out, one way or the other.
Fate. Destiny. A "mandate from heaven."

Overnight, over
one
night, Dion had become a "galactic sensation."
Romantic, young, handsome, charming, he was the darling of the media.
And he was shrouded in mystery, which made him more alluring. The
murder of Snaga Ohme, the rumor of a horrific doomsday weapon, the
change in Lord Sagan from ruthless exploiter to guiding father
figure, the sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance of
Lady Maigrey. The press couldn't quit talking about it all.

The elevator
jolted gently to a stop. A pause before the doors opened. Everyone
tensed. Dion straightened his shoulders, shook the red hair out of
his face, warmed himself at some inner fire. His jaw tightened,
smoothing out lines of fatigue. The charming smile curved hps that
must be almost numb from constantly smiling; the flame was rekindled
in the blue eyes.

Tusk, watching
Dion force himself to come back to life, could have sat down and
wept.

The elevator
doors opened. Dion stepped out, Tusk emerged on one side of the king,
Nola at the other. The centurions massed around them. The press
surged forward. Nuke Lights blinded them, voices shouted at them. The
centurions forged their way through the crowd with practiced skill,
having practiced this maneuver hundreds of times under Agis's
direction. Keep His Majesty moving, keep him safe, but let him be
seen.

Tusk—jostled
and hassled and elbowed and stepped on— thought with longing of
his mercenary days, when he'd done nothing more strenuous than dodge
nuclear missiles.

Dion waved and
smiled and gave every appearance of having gone deaf as hundreds of
questions were hurled at him. Tusk came in for the overflow, replied
"no comment" until he was certain his tongue would dry up
and fall out of his mouth. He stopped only long enough to extricate
Nola from the hands of a reporter who was offering her part ownership
in a small resort planet if she'd only give him the "inside
story."

The centurions
marched through the marble and plastisteel lobby of the GBC building
at double-quick time, trampling only a minimal number of reporters on
the way, and thrust open steelglass doors that were letting in a
flood of brilliant sunlight.

The king and his
entourage stepped out onto a marble-columned colonnade. A thunderous
roar greeted Dion's appearance. Tusk stopped a moment to adjust his
eyes to the bright sun, cast a glance around to make certain the
centurions were repositioning themselves. Blinking, he looked down
the long flight of wide marble steps they'd have to traverse to reach
the jet-limo waiting for them on the bottom.

"Shit,"
said Tusk, and added a few more epithets for good measure.

Beside him, he
felt Dion's body tense.

Thousands of
people crowded the steps, held back by a living wall of GBC security
agents, local police, the local military, and anyone else this planet
had been able to draft into service. Thousands more jammed the street
in front of the GBC building, thousands more hung out of windows or
stood on rooftops of buildings surrounding them.

Tusk was used to
the crowds; they might have been ants for all the notice he took of
them, It was the sight of what was on the steps that drove him to use
language that would have fried XJ's circuits.

"How the
bloody hell could they have let this happen?" Tusk raved. "They
were warned, the bastards! We told them over and over—"

"Tusk,"
interrupted Dion. "Stop it. Robes's people arranged this on
purpose. It's obvious. They want to see what I'll do."

"What will
you do?" Tusk asked grimly.

"Walk down
the steps," Dion answered.

On the steps,
directly in the path the king must take to reach the limo, lay or sat
or stood Misery. The blind, hearing the cheers, stretched out
pleading, groping hands. The deaf, seeing their salvation, cried out
in voices that they couldn't hear. The mute cried out in voices no
one could hear. The crippled raised themselves up from pallets spread
upon the stairs. Dying children, pushed forward by frantic parents,
held small bouquets of flowers clutched fast in pitifully thin fists.
All the unfortunates left behind by the advancements in medical
science stood waiting for something larger, something more wonderful.

Tusk was busy
marshaling his forces and his thoughts at the same time. "Here's
what we do. We keep moving. We don't stop for anything. Agis, deploy
your men on either side of the king. If someone gets in the way, move
them. Be as gentle as you can—the damn robotcams are gonna
record every second of this—but move them."

Dion gestured.
"Let's go."

He descended the
stairs. The crowd, held back by the police, heaved and surged and
roared. Their noise could not drown out the pleas, the wails, the
fervent prayers of the sick and the dying who had been permitted (and
encouraged) to move near. The king smiled and waved, but Tusk saw the
smile had gone tight, rigid, the blue eyes were dark as deepspace.
They moved like a funeral procession down the steps. A descent into
hell might have been easier.

The centurions
performed their difficult task well. Aware of thousands of electronic
eyes that would carry this scene to billions of living eyes, they
gently eased the blind out of the way, gently moved aside the beds of
the cripples, gently lifted and carried children back to their
mother's arms.

Dion was halfway
down the steps. Pleas were changing to wails of bitter
disappointment. Prayers to curses. His breathing grew short, he
licked his lips. Tusk edged his way near him. They were almost at the
bottom. The guards around the limo had the doors open. The driver was
set, ready to take off.

A young woman
broke free of the crowd. She darted around the centurions, lunged
straight at Dion, came up against Agis's solid, armor-shielded body.
He took firm hold of her, but perhaps moved by pity or the feet that
she went limp in his grasp, his grip on her eased. She slid out of
his hands like quicksilver and flung herself on the cold stone
directly in Dion's path.

"Don't
shoot!" he commanded, seeing the centurions' las-guns aimed
directly at the woman.

Wise move,
thought Tusk, who could see bow
that
would play on the
vidscreens.
Centurions Incinerate Hapless Teenager.
But he was
shaking so he couldn't get his weapon back in its holster.

The girl knelt
at Dion's feet and raised her hands in supplication.

Tusk took one
look at her, felt his insides twist up, and hastily averted his eyes.

She had a lithe,
graceful figure, pretty light brown hair, and a face out of a bad
drug trip. Agis hurried forward, caught hold of her by the arm,
started to drag her off bodily.

"Stop!"
Dion commanded in a voice that was like no voice Tusk had ever heard
come from a living man.

The captain,
startled, stared at Dion.

"Let her
go, Agis," the king commanded.

The captain
obeyed reluctantly. A 'droid reporter remote appeared out of nowhere,
glass eyes winking. One of the centurions handled the reporter
efficiently, sent it clanging and banging down the marble steps. It
rolled into the crowd and was immediately dismembered and scavenged
for its parts.

The girl paid no
attention to the reporter or to anyone else around her. What remained
of one eye focused on Dion. What might have been her mouth opened.
Tusk fought to keep from gagging. And he'd seen it all . . .or
thought he had.

"What
happened to you?" Dion asked her gently.

"My planet
was at war. The bombs. The chemicals, the fires . . ." She
reached her fingers to claw at her ravaged face. "It wasn't my
fault! But not even my own mother can stand to look at me! I tried to
kill myself, but they brought me back. And now I know why. You will
help me. I see it in your eyes. You're not disgusted by me. You are
sorry for me. I was beautiful, once, like you are beautiful. Heal me,
my liege. Heal me."

What the devil's
wrong with us? Tusk demanded of himself savagely. Have we all been
turned to stone? Changed into statues? He looked at Agis, who knew
very well that he should have disobeyed Dion's command and taken the
young woman away. He looked at Nola, saw tears streaming down her
face. He looked at himself, stricken dumb, limbs gone nerveless. Why
can't we move? What are we waiting for?

For a miracle.

Dion's skin was
so pale it was almost translucent, the flame burning in him was
bright and pure and holy. It will devour him, consume him. He lifted
his hand, started to lay it on the girl's horribly grotesque face.

"Your
Majesty." Agis spoke in a soft undertone, using the military
argot of the barracks that the girl wouldn't be likely to understand,
"I would be remiss in my duty to Your Majesty if I did not
remind him of Lord Sagan's advice—"

"Thank you,
Agis," Dion interrupted. "You have done your duty."

But the fingers
that had almost touched the girl began to tremble, then curled in on
themselves. His hand clenched to a fist, dropped nervelessly to his
side.

"I can't."

A bead of sweat
trickled down from beneath the red hair, slid down his temple. "I'm
sorry," he said without a voice. "I can't. Forgive me."

"No!
Please!" The girl screamed, clutched at Dion.

Agis, acting as
he should have acted two minutes earlier, firmly hauled her to her
feet and hustled her out of sight.

Tusk heaved a
sigh that was mostly relief, part something else he didn't like to
admit. It was so easy to believe in Dion. Or perhaps it was easy to
want
to believe in him.

This was not the
time for metaphysical musings, however. He had to get the king out of
here. Tusk's main goal now was the limo and he didn't care how they
reached it or what they might look like on the evening news. The fire
had died in Dion, the candle's flame snuffed out, leaving him cold
and brittle and hard as ice.

Climbing into
the waiting limo, the king sat bolt upright in the backseat, looked
at nothing, said nothing. He had withdrawn far into himself in what
Tusk had come to recognize as a defensive posture, a soldier under
attack hunkered flat at the bottom of his foxhole.

"Get us the
hell out of here," Tusk ordered the driver.

Glorious the
comet's train . . .

Christopher
Smart,
A Song to David

Air locks opened
with a soft sigh. The cool, purient air of a vessel in space bit into
the nostrils, made sweat-damp skin shiver. The silence of near-empty
corridors, which resounded only with the calm and measured tread of a
military machine going about its business, eased the pounding ache in
Tusk's temples. Dion relaxed, lines of stress eased from his face.
His eyes brightened, he almost smiled. The mercenary was about to
suggest a nap when the officious Bennett rounded a corner and
confronted them.

Tusk saw
immediately what was up, attempted a diversion. A glance sent Nola
into action.

"Bennett,"
purred the young woman, sliding her hand over the sergeant-major's
arm, "how have you been? How's die general? Did you see Dion on
the vid—?"

Safe under this
friendly covering fire, Tusk was steering the king down an
intersecting corridor. Nola might as well have thrown herself in
front of a tank, however. Bennett rumbled right over her.

"Your
Majesty, General Dixter's compliments, and could he solicit the honor
of your presence and that of Major Tusk in the comm, sir."

Tusk's opening
maneuver had failed. The enemy had broken through his front fines and
was advancing, leaving Nola standing alone, shaking her curls in the
corridor. Tusk hurled himself into the breach.