the old outfit. Find out
if any of them have followed up on this, maybe even gone through with
it, joined up. I'll do some checking on my end. Let me know what you
discover. Keep my name and His Majesty's out of this. You're doing
this strictly on your own."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No, I think that covers everything."
"Uh, excuse me for asking, sir—I know you're busy and all—
but how is Dion? His Majesty, I mean."
"Fine, Tusk. I spoke to him this morning, advised him of what
you're doing. He sends his regards to you and Nola."
"Does he?" Tusk brightened, felt warmed. "Well, uh,
send ours back. Regards. However you're supposed to say that to a
king."
Dixter very carefully did not smile. "I will, Tusk. Let me know
what you find out. ASAP"
The image faded.
"He looks tired," said Tusk.
"He always looks tired. He's looked tired ever since we've known
him."
"I wonder what the hell's going on. What he knows that he's not
telling. Dangerous, he says, but he doesn't say why. And the king
himself's involved. Not much like the old days. The Dixter in the old
days would have told us everything."
"Must have been a Dixter I didn't know," XJ retorted. "Most
of the time the general said shoot this' and we shot it. Or it shot
us. We never asked why, just how much. You're getting
old. Old and soft."
Old and soft. Cookie crumbs. A small, freckled, chocolate-complected
face on Nola's breast. Her swollen belly. Twins.
Shoot it. It shoots us. The pain. The bright, blinding explosion. The
bright, blinding pain ...
"I said, should I wake up Link?" XJ repeated loudly.
Tusk stirred. "Yeah. Go ahead. And find out how much money he
lost last night. Not that he'll tell you the truth."
XJ busied itself. In the background Tusk could hear the buzz of a
commlink, hear Link's muffled, sleep-slurred response. "Yeah?
Wha? Wha' time 'sit?" The computer's strident, snappish answer.
Tusk sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the blank
vidscreen. The ensuing irritable conversation between Link and the
computer was nothing more than a drone in his mind, like the drone of
the ship's engines on a long flight. At first it was all he heard;
then he didn't hear it at all. XJ spoke to him two or three times
before he realized the computer had—so to speak—returned.
Tusk shifted his gaze to the monkey-face box that was XJ-27. "You
say something?"
"I said, you're glad Dixter let you off the hook."
"Glad?" Tusk repeated, as if he didn't understand.
"You're glad Dixter didn't send you on this job. I heard that
sigh you gave. And don't tell me it was a sigh of regret. I know
better."
A tingle started at the base of Tusk's spine, down in his buttocks.
It crept up his back. His heart started to race; he began to sweat,
to breathe too fast. He put his hand to his chest, a hand that shook,
felt the scar tissue, tough and roped, beneath his fatigues. He was
always surprised to feel it, always surprised to feel solid bone
instead of mush. He was always surprised to look down at his hand and
not find it covered with blood.
He didn't remember much about that time: the time Abdiel's mind-dead
had blown a hole in his chest; the time Xris the cyborg had carried
him back aboard the plane; the time Dion had healed him in what the
church was now calling a bona fide miracle. Tusk didn't remember much
of anything, but something inside Tusk did. It remembered at night,
in his sleep; it remembered at times like this: it remembered now.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed hold of his flight jacket, and pulled
it on, though it was scorching hot in the mid-aftemoon sun. He could
have cooked a full-course breakfast on the metal hood of the
hoverjeep and he was shivering with chills.
"Where're you going?" XJ demanded. "We have work to
do."
"I'm doin' it. I'm going to Link's."
XJ whirred in anger. "You can get juiced just as well here as
you can there."
Tusk stopped, gritted his teeth, tried to stop the tremors. He wasn't
at all
if any of them have followed up on this, maybe even gone through with
it, joined up. I'll do some checking on my end. Let me know what you
discover. Keep my name and His Majesty's out of this. You're doing
this strictly on your own."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?"
"No, I think that covers everything."
"Uh, excuse me for asking, sir—I know you're busy and all—
but how is Dion? His Majesty, I mean."
"Fine, Tusk. I spoke to him this morning, advised him of what
you're doing. He sends his regards to you and Nola."
"Does he?" Tusk brightened, felt warmed. "Well, uh,
send ours back. Regards. However you're supposed to say that to a
king."
Dixter very carefully did not smile. "I will, Tusk. Let me know
what you find out. ASAP"
The image faded.
"He looks tired," said Tusk.
"He always looks tired. He's looked tired ever since we've known
him."
"I wonder what the hell's going on. What he knows that he's not
telling. Dangerous, he says, but he doesn't say why. And the king
himself's involved. Not much like the old days. The Dixter in the old
days would have told us everything."
"Must have been a Dixter I didn't know," XJ retorted. "Most
of the time the general said shoot this' and we shot it. Or it shot
us. We never asked why, just how much. You're getting
old. Old and soft."
Old and soft. Cookie crumbs. A small, freckled, chocolate-complected
face on Nola's breast. Her swollen belly. Twins.
Shoot it. It shoots us. The pain. The bright, blinding explosion. The
bright, blinding pain ...
"I said, should I wake up Link?" XJ repeated loudly.
Tusk stirred. "Yeah. Go ahead. And find out how much money he
lost last night. Not that he'll tell you the truth."
XJ busied itself. In the background Tusk could hear the buzz of a
commlink, hear Link's muffled, sleep-slurred response. "Yeah?
Wha? Wha' time 'sit?" The computer's strident, snappish answer.
Tusk sat with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the blank
vidscreen. The ensuing irritable conversation between Link and the
computer was nothing more than a drone in his mind, like the drone of
the ship's engines on a long flight. At first it was all he heard;
then he didn't hear it at all. XJ spoke to him two or three times
before he realized the computer had—so to speak—returned.
Tusk shifted his gaze to the monkey-face box that was XJ-27. "You
say something?"
"I said, you're glad Dixter let you off the hook."
"Glad?" Tusk repeated, as if he didn't understand.
"You're glad Dixter didn't send you on this job. I heard that
sigh you gave. And don't tell me it was a sigh of regret. I know
better."
A tingle started at the base of Tusk's spine, down in his buttocks.
It crept up his back. His heart started to race; he began to sweat,
to breathe too fast. He put his hand to his chest, a hand that shook,
felt the scar tissue, tough and roped, beneath his fatigues. He was
always surprised to feel it, always surprised to feel solid bone
instead of mush. He was always surprised to look down at his hand and
not find it covered with blood.
He didn't remember much about that time: the time Abdiel's mind-dead
had blown a hole in his chest; the time Xris the cyborg had carried
him back aboard the plane; the time Dion had healed him in what the
church was now calling a bona fide miracle. Tusk didn't remember much
of anything, but something inside Tusk did. It remembered at night,
in his sleep; it remembered at times like this: it remembered now.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed hold of his flight jacket, and pulled
it on, though it was scorching hot in the mid-aftemoon sun. He could
have cooked a full-course breakfast on the metal hood of the
hoverjeep and he was shivering with chills.
"Where're you going?" XJ demanded. "We have work to
do."
"I'm doin' it. I'm going to Link's."
XJ whirred in anger. "You can get juiced just as well here as
you can there."
Tusk stopped, gritted his teeth, tried to stop the tremors. He wasn't
at all
Similar Books
