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. It was one reason he'd invited a former mercenary to serve as his adjutant. That and the fact that Mendaharin Tusca---or Tusk, as he was known--was Dixter's closest friend.
"An urgent call from RFComSec, sir."
"My lord, your appointment with His Majesty," Bennett murmured, hovering. Dixter hesitated. "Epsilon Red, sir," Tusk said. "Top priority. Urgent." Not even Bennett could argue with an Epsilon Red. 'Tll inform His Majesty that you're dealing with an emergency situation, my lord."
"Yes, thank you." Dixter frowned. Turning, he accompanied Tusk back through his office, out a door, down a corridor, and into the comm. A startling contrast--coming from the lemon-scented, highly polished oak-desk environment of the admiral's office to the cold bright electronic buzz of the central communications operations for the Royal Navy.
"Any idea what this is about?" Dixter asked Tusk.
"No, my lord." They had just entered the comm and Tusk always made an effort, when around other members of the Lord Admiral's staff, to use the correct form of address. "The commander insisted on speaking to you personally. It must be somethin' big, though. They've run up every flag they could find: Epsilon Red, level one, top priority, urgent, most secret. And the transmission's being scrambled from Hell's Outpost back again. They sure as hell don't want any eavesdroppers."
Dixter fished around in a pocket for his antacid tablets
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