Read The Lost King for Free Online

right?" the boy
continued, speaking firmly, as if his words could make it so. "You'll
let me know when I can come home?"
    "Yes."
    Tusk heard the lie in
the older man's tone, he heard the love, the anguish. Turning from
the doorway, the mercenary walked over and took hold of Dion's arm.
    "C'mon, kid. Back
to the plane. We got a lot to do before sunrise."
    "So this is the
passenger," a synthesized voice commented tinnily as Tusk and
Dion lowered themselves through the hatch into Tusk's spaceplane.
Ignoring the ladder, Tusk dropped lightly onto the deck below. Dion
was forced to climb slowly and awkwardly down the narrow steel rungs.
    "C'mon, for'ard,"
Tusk said, motioning. "I'll show you where to stow your gear.
Watch out," he cautioned, pointing to a maze of tubing and steel
beams and gauges overhead. "Low clearance."
    Crouching, trying to
get a close look at the complicated instruments he'd read about only
in his books, Dion took a step forward and stumbled headlong over a
toolbox.
    "Sorry," Tusk
muttered, moving hurriedly to pick it up.
    He juggled the box
uncertainly for a moment, glancing around for a place to stash it.
Every square centimeter already had something in it or on it. Long
coils of electrical wire lurked like snakes in the corners. A pile of
clean clothes had been dumped in the center of the small circular
chamber that was the spaceplane's living area. Tusk shrugged and set
the box back down where it had been before. Dion stepped over it,
this time watching carefully where he put his feet.
    Pulp mags, their lurid
covers spread out like the wings of exotic birds, roosted
everywhere—on the deck, piled in a hammock, their pages
fluttering in the soft whoosh of cool air blowing from the vents.
    Following Dion's gaze,
Tusk picked up a mag whose cover portrayed in graphic detail an alien
love ritual and flipped through it. "Interesting articles in
this issue," the mercenary said, grinning, "on sociology.
You interested in sociology?" he asked, holding the mag out to
the kid. "You could take a look at it while I work."
    Dion made no move to
touch it, but stood regarding Tusk with cool, unblinking blue eyes.
    "Guess not,"
Tusk muttered, tossing the mag back onto the deck. "Uh, I'll try
to make you as comfortable as possible." The mercenary was
starting to grow warm about the ears and neck. "These
fighters"—he gestured around him—"weren't
really meant to be lived in, at least not for more than a few weeks
at a time. Know anything about spaceplanes?"
    The boy didn't answer.
    Tusk drew a deep
breath. "This is what's known as a long-range fighter. It's
called a Scimitar—that's from the way the bow's shaped, like
the blade of one of those fancy swords the guys in baggy pants were
always using back in the old days. This type of fighter's generally
based off a mothership, but they carry enough fuel to survive on
their own for up to a month if they have to. Not like short-range
fighters, which are faster, but have to refuel oftener. The Navy uses
these for convoy detail and scouting, mostly. Guarding the uranium
shipments, that sort of thing."
    As Tusk talked, he
began quickly and efficiently stringing up another hammock next to
his. "The Scimitar normally carries a two-man crew."
    Glancing at Dion, Tusk
had the uneasy feeling that he was not being heard so much as
absorbed. "Uh . . . what was I— Oh, yeah. Two-man crew.
Pilot and gunner. Gunner sits up top in the bubble during a fight."
Tusk gestured with his thumb. "XJ and I generally prefer to
handle this bird ourselves. XJ figured out how to reroute the gun
controls through its systems if we need to. But the guns can still
operate independently. Better that way, in fact. Leaves the computer
free to take care of emergencies. Sometimes I hire on a gunner. Maybe
I'll teach you, kid."
    Tusk was babbling and
he knew it. He turned away from the scrutiny of those eyes. The kid
gave him the willies!
    "Stow your gear
under there." The mercenary