that was his answer, remained a moment to exchange meaningless
pleasantries.
His mind was not
on the polite words, spoken in the language that sounded rather like
a hydraulic leak. His mind was on Sagan. What was he plotting? Why
was Rykilth aboard Phoenix and not in galactic sector
twenty-four, where he belonged?
"Baroness
DiLuna, Your Majesty, Warlord of sector sixteen." Sagan, moving
along gravely at his king's side, continued the introductions.
Another powerful
Warlord, another whose sector had seceded from the Galactic
Democratic Republic. Strong, swaggering, DiLuna ran a ship crewed
exclusively by women, many of them her daughters. Various Baron
DiLunas came and went. Always young, always handsome, they lived to
service the baroness. These men were provided one year of sublime
pleasure, anything and anyone aboard DiLuna's ship was theirs for the
asking. After that year, the barons were "retired." No one
ever knew what happened to them, the ceremony of retirement, like the
ceremony of marriage, was performed in strictest secrecy, a mystery
sacred to the baroness and her women. The following night, however, a
new young man warmed DiLuna's bed.
Dion, thinking
of all this, understood the woman's sardonic smile and did not take
offense at the coldness of her greeting. He may have been king but he
was, after all, only a man, an inferior being, who served one useful
purpose only. His face grew warm at the thought.
DiLuna's smile
broadened, perhaps she read his mind. He saw what he immediately
assumed to be glances exchanged between the woman and Lord
Sagan—obviously there was one man DiLuna respected.
Dion's anger swelled and served him well, burning away his
embarrassment.
"Bear
Olefsky, ruler of the planetary system of Solgart."
"Aye,
laddie, well met again!"
No formalities
of bowing and scraping for Olefsky. Arms like the limbs of sheltering
oaks clasped Dion to a breast rock-solid and big as a mountain. He
was nearly stifled by the smells of cowhide and sweat; a trophy of
human hair, dangling from the leather armor, tickled his nose; the
skull of a small animal (he hoped it was an animal) dug into his
cheek.
Dion extricated
himself from the embrace, did what he could to recover both his
dignity and the breath that had been squeezed out of his body. He
felt his anger begin to cool, he could see what was transpiring.
These people were the three most powerful in the universe, next to
Sagan. He had brought them here to pledge the king their allegiance
publicly, for the first time.
Out of the
corner of his eye, Dion saw they were under the close scrutiny of
vidcams; Sagan's public relations people were hard at work, recording
this historic meeting for posterity and the GBC.
Dion's eyes
sought those of the Warlord's, but couldn't see them, shadowed by the
helm. The two moved away from the line of dignitaries, continued down
the aisle of living statues.
"Very
impressive, my lord," Dion remarked out of the side of a mouth
that was smiling left and right. "But we need to talk. Alone.
Now."
"Your wish
is my command, sire."
The response was
correct, proper, and the sarcasm was like acid falling on Dion's
flesh. Neither said another word. The ceremonies were concluded, the
troops thanked and dismissed. Admiral Aks and his junior officers
acted promptly to herd their guests back to the diplomatic portion of
the ship.
The king,
accompanied by his apparently attentive lord, headed for the elevator
that led to the Warlord's private quarters.
"An
interesting young man," said DiLuna. She despised men, but was
accustomed to sizing them up for breeding purposes, "I'd bed
him." A high compliment from the baroness. "What do you
think, Rykilth?"
"He's
lasted longer in the contest than I'd expected," observed the
vapor-breather through his translator.
"The scars
of his battles are plain upon him," Olefsky agreed. The huge
warrior glanced back at the two figures, one tall and gleaming in
gold, the other shorter, red hair
pleasantries.
His mind was not
on the polite words, spoken in the language that sounded rather like
a hydraulic leak. His mind was on Sagan. What was he plotting? Why
was Rykilth aboard Phoenix and not in galactic sector
twenty-four, where he belonged?
"Baroness
DiLuna, Your Majesty, Warlord of sector sixteen." Sagan, moving
along gravely at his king's side, continued the introductions.
Another powerful
Warlord, another whose sector had seceded from the Galactic
Democratic Republic. Strong, swaggering, DiLuna ran a ship crewed
exclusively by women, many of them her daughters. Various Baron
DiLunas came and went. Always young, always handsome, they lived to
service the baroness. These men were provided one year of sublime
pleasure, anything and anyone aboard DiLuna's ship was theirs for the
asking. After that year, the barons were "retired." No one
ever knew what happened to them, the ceremony of retirement, like the
ceremony of marriage, was performed in strictest secrecy, a mystery
sacred to the baroness and her women. The following night, however, a
new young man warmed DiLuna's bed.
Dion, thinking
of all this, understood the woman's sardonic smile and did not take
offense at the coldness of her greeting. He may have been king but he
was, after all, only a man, an inferior being, who served one useful
purpose only. His face grew warm at the thought.
DiLuna's smile
broadened, perhaps she read his mind. He saw what he immediately
assumed to be glances exchanged between the woman and Lord
Sagan—obviously there was one man DiLuna respected.
Dion's anger swelled and served him well, burning away his
embarrassment.
"Bear
Olefsky, ruler of the planetary system of Solgart."
"Aye,
laddie, well met again!"
No formalities
of bowing and scraping for Olefsky. Arms like the limbs of sheltering
oaks clasped Dion to a breast rock-solid and big as a mountain. He
was nearly stifled by the smells of cowhide and sweat; a trophy of
human hair, dangling from the leather armor, tickled his nose; the
skull of a small animal (he hoped it was an animal) dug into his
cheek.
Dion extricated
himself from the embrace, did what he could to recover both his
dignity and the breath that had been squeezed out of his body. He
felt his anger begin to cool, he could see what was transpiring.
These people were the three most powerful in the universe, next to
Sagan. He had brought them here to pledge the king their allegiance
publicly, for the first time.
Out of the
corner of his eye, Dion saw they were under the close scrutiny of
vidcams; Sagan's public relations people were hard at work, recording
this historic meeting for posterity and the GBC.
Dion's eyes
sought those of the Warlord's, but couldn't see them, shadowed by the
helm. The two moved away from the line of dignitaries, continued down
the aisle of living statues.
"Very
impressive, my lord," Dion remarked out of the side of a mouth
that was smiling left and right. "But we need to talk. Alone.
Now."
"Your wish
is my command, sire."
The response was
correct, proper, and the sarcasm was like acid falling on Dion's
flesh. Neither said another word. The ceremonies were concluded, the
troops thanked and dismissed. Admiral Aks and his junior officers
acted promptly to herd their guests back to the diplomatic portion of
the ship.
The king,
accompanied by his apparently attentive lord, headed for the elevator
that led to the Warlord's private quarters.
"An
interesting young man," said DiLuna. She despised men, but was
accustomed to sizing them up for breeding purposes, "I'd bed
him." A high compliment from the baroness. "What do you
think, Rykilth?"
"He's
lasted longer in the contest than I'd expected," observed the
vapor-breather through his translator.
"The scars
of his battles are plain upon him," Olefsky agreed. The huge
warrior glanced back at the two figures, one tall and gleaming in
gold, the other shorter, red hair
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