Ghost Legion (17 page)

"Yes." Dixter copied it, spelled it back.

"That's it." Tusk nodded. "Mean anything to you?"

"No, but then who knows what language it's in? I'll run it, let
you know what I find out. And "Tusk ..." Dixter's tone was
serious, his face grave. "Let me know if they contact you
again."

"You think they will, sir?" Tusk was astonished. "Why
should they? It's obvious I didn't fall for their little scam."

"I know. But it wouldn't surprise me. Take it easy, son. My love
to Nola and the baby." Dixter's image vanished from the screen.

"Wonder what he thinks we've tied into?" Tusk muttered,
staring at the blank screen. "Sounds more like a case for the
Better Business Bureau than a Lord of the Admiralty."

"Who knows?" said XJ. "Maybe he doesn't have enough
wars to keep him busy these days. What was that crap about having a
job lined up?"

Tusk was feeling better. He could almost see. "No crap. Looks
like we have work. Steady."

"No! Steady work! You better back up all my systems. I may black
out from the shock."

"Some women contacted Link yesterday, wants us to transport her
and a partner a couple times a week to Akara."

"Rough place. What're they carrying?"

"Briefcases." Tusk glowered. "That's all you need to
know. And that's what you'll put in the log."

"Sure thing. You know me. Tact and discretion are the tag end of
my serial number."

Tusk snorted. "Tact and discretion, my ass. The only place
you'll find those two words is in your spell checker. Say," he
added in wheedling tones, "I could sure use a cuppa coffee. How
about makin it for me ..

"Go soak your head," snapped XJ.

"Sir John Dixter would like to see you, Your Majesty," said
D'argent, entering the king's office with morning tea "He says
that it is urgent."

"Can we fit him in?" Dion glanced up from reading a
condensed report on the rapidly deteriorating situation in the star
system of Muruva, where six planets had just overthrown the
dictatorial rule of a seventh. Unfortunately, each one of the planets
had decided that now that they were free, they could freely butcher
their other five neighbors, and they were proceeding to do just that.

D'argent consulted the schedule. "You have two meetings
scheduled this morning—one with the Muruvan ambassadors and one
with the representatives of the League of Underdeveloped Planets."

Dion considered briefly. "I'll see the Muruvan ambassadors. Put
off the representatives of the league until this afternoon. Back up
all my other afternoon appointments an hour."

"The news conference that we're beaming to Muruva, sir? Shall I
reschedule?"

"No, I need to come down hard on the Muruvans and I need to do
it fast, before the fools nuke each other." Dion glanced at the
time. "Send in my advisers on Muruva, then send in the
ambassadors. And if they start fistfights in the antechamber like
they did at the spaceport last night, call Cato and have him clap the
paralyzers on them. I won't put up with this nonsense."

"Yes, sir," replied D'argent, smiling faintly. He glided
silently out of the office.

Later that morning, seven angry and quarreling Muruvan ambassadors
were ushered into His Majesty's presence and— after a
conference—seven chastened and thoughtful ambassadors were led
out.

John Dixter watched them go. They were harried and flustered. The
king was cool and even grimly smiling.

"Are we sending in troops. Your Majesty?" asked Dixter,
taking a seat, refusing any refreshment.

"They have thirty days," said Dion, "to settle their
differences peacefully. If not then we'll keep the peace for them.
And the first thing we'll do is end all outside interference in their
affairs."

"Blockade," said Dixter.

"The major trading partners have all agreed to honor it. The
Muruvans could find themselves in serious economic trouble if they
don't shake hands and make up. My advisers tell me that the Muruvans'
hatred for one another doesn't extend as far as their wallets. I
think it's deeper than that, but we'll see what transpires. I take it
you have further information on that matter we previously discussed?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter spent a moment leaving Muruva,
assimilating this thoughts. "I heard from Tusk."

The admiral repeated his conversation with the mercenary. Dion
listened in silence, absently rubbing the scars on the palm of his
right hand. If Dixter noticed this, he pretended he didn't.

"So why not have Tusk and Link check this out, my lord?"

"Because they're too close, Your Majesty. Too close to you,"
answered Dixter.

Dion shook his head. "You honestly believe that someone would go
to all this trouble just for the chance of getting hold of Tusk? To
do what?"

"I think that may be part of it, sire. What their objective is,
I can't tell you. I can't even venture a guess. One thing I do know,
Gorbag isn't working for any of the Outer Systems. I checked."

"So you think . . . what?"

"I think this is how the 'scam' works. These Ghost Legion
representatives contact pilots and offer to make a deal if they'll
fly to Hell's Outpost. They've got to figure that only those
seriously interested or desperate enough will fork over a thousand
eagles and make that trip. Already, you see, they're culling their
list.

"Once the pilots reach Hell's Outpost, the representatives look
them over. Probably gather all sorts of information, scan their
planes, that sort of thing. Then they feed the pilots these weird
coordinates. If the pilot swallows it, they've got him or her.
Probably meet them once they get there, if they don't, like Gorbag,
they see to it that he's offered another job. And when he takes it,
they intercept him, make it worth his while to join up."

"Again I ask you, my lord," Dion persisted, "to do
what?"

"I don't know, sire, but they're up to something, following
Tusk's lead on Gorbag, I did some checking on the other people I had
under my command. All of them have received this same message. About
a hundred of them flew to Hell's Outpost. Since then, they either
took the Ghost Legion up on their offer—in which case they left
one night and never came back—or they took other jobs and—same
scenario—they've now dropped out of sight. But they're sending
home money. Lots of money."

"Someone's building his or her own space corps."

"Looks that way. And it's big. And selective. They've only taken
the best. Some people went to Hell's Outpost and are now wandering
around in plain sight looking for work. Never got a call. And this
Ghost Legion didn't use my list alone. They've apparently searched
the galaxy."

"And could you hide a force that big?"

"Easily, Your Majesty. Especially on someplace like this planet
Tusk found. Off Lanes, on the outer fringes. A hunk of cold rock. Not
even the Corasians would be interested in it. And that's how it
checks out. I studied the reports. But as Tusk says, there are a few
things odd about it."

Dixter referred to notes. "It was discovered thirty years ago by
the famous space explorer Garth Pantha. You wouldn't remember him;
you were too young. But almost everyone my age would, who watched the
vids. Pantha was not only a damn fine spacepilot, but a brilliant
physicist and natural scientist, and"— Dixter smiled—"one
hell of a charmer.

"He was a celebrity. Had his own vid show. Because of his
celebrity status, he moved in high circles. Very high circles. He was
a favorite of your uncle's. King Amodius made Pantha a knight of the
realm."

"Then he was Blood Royal."

"Yes. But the really interesting thing about Pantha was not the
living of his life, as the poet says, but the manner of his leaving
it. He died in some sort of mysterious space accident about eight
years before the Revolution. The galaxy was stunned by the news. His
death made headlines for days after. They even had a final
transmission, showing him calmly reporting that he'd had engine
failure and requesting assistance. But since he was way out in some
remote part of space, he knew no one'd reach him in time. He said
good-bye to his wife and family. It was a real heartbreaker.

"The Royal Space Corps sent out rescue planes, but when they
reached his last known coordinates there was nothing there. Some time
later, they found the wreckage of his space-craft. Of course, no one
ever knew what really happened, but Pantha'd always said that if he
was marooned in space facing a slow death, he'd end it with a bang.
And that's likely what he did."

"I see," said Dion thoughtfully. "And when he died was
he near the Ghost Legion's coordinates?"

"No, Your Majesty," said John Dixter. "Nowhere in the
area."

Dion frowned. "Then I fail to see ..

"I know, I know." Dixter sighed, rubbed his hand across his
face. "It doesn't seem to get us anywhere. And maybe Garth
Pantha doesn't have a damn thing to do with any of this. But as Tusk
said, there's something odd about all this. Pantha discovered scores
of new planets, new systems. And he gave lots of them names. It made
good copy for his vid show. And this one he called Vallombrosa, which
is one of the old languages— Italian, I think. It means—"

"Vale of Shades," said Dion.

Dixter stared. "I'm impressed, Your Majesty. You came up with
that faster than the computer did."

"The computer didn't study with Platus," said Dion, smiling
at the memory. "Milton.
Paradise Lost.
Satan 'called his
legions, Angel forms, who lay entranced thick as autumnal leaves that
strew the brooks in Vallombrosa ...' Vale of Shades."

"Or, as we would say today, 'Valley of Ghosts,' " said John
Dixter quietly.

Dion looked up. "Ghosts again."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter was grim. "Ghosts again."

"And you consider this important?"

"I think it's damn important. Look at what's gone on. The Ghost
Legion seeks information about Snaga Ohme's. Ghostly somethings evade
the very latest in security devices and break into Snaga Ohme's. The
Ghost Legion is recruiting and, for all we know, hiring the very best
spacepilots. And they give as coordinates a dead planet called the
Valley of Ghosts by a dead explorer."

The admiral leaned forward, illustrated his words with a motion of
his index finger on the desk. "And what really scares me is that
no matter where we start the circle, Dion, it ends up with you. The
space-rotation bomb, Tusk and Link—even the fact that Pantha
was once friends with your family. I don't understand it, I admit
that. But I don't like it. Somewhere there's a key. We're missing it.
I think we need to find that key, and find it fast."

"And you're suggesting ... ?"

"Talk to Archbishop Fideles, son. Ask him to pass this
information on to . . . whoever might be interested." Dixter
spoke earnestly, forgetting they weren't both back in that trailer on
Vangelis. "I mean"—the admiral flushed red—"I
mean Your Majesty."

Dion smiled. "It sounded good to hear you call me son. It's been
a long time." He fell silent. The smile faded. The room grew
darker. A cloud, passing over the sun.

At length Dion sighed and raised his head, looked at Dixter. "How
did you know?"

"Know what?" Dixter asked mildly.

"That
he's
still alive." It was obvious, from the
inflection, that they weren't discussing the archbishop.

Dixter rubbed his grizzled jaw. "I didn't, Dion. Nothing
certain. Call it a hunch. Or deduction. Derek Sagan considered
suicide a mortal sin. And he wasn't the type to subconsciously put
himself in the way of death. He was too good a fighter. His instincts
would keep him alive, if nothing else. No, I never did believe Sagan
died in our escape from Corasia. He meant us to think he died. And if
he
is
alive, there'd be only one place he'd go, in the end—to
the place where he began."

Dion nodded slowly. "Yes, that's how I figured it. I even asked
Fideles about Sagan once, the day of the coronation. I said,
point-blank, 'Have you had any word from Lord Sagan?' "

"What was the archbishop's answer?"

" 'He is with God,' Fideles told me. And then I asked, 'Is he
dead?' But Fideles refused to tell me any more."

Dixter shrugged. "I'd say that pretty well confirms it."

"But where does this get us?" Dion argued. "If Sagan
has forsaken the world, then he might as well be dead."

"Unless he hasn't truly forsaken it, Your Majesty. Unless he's
part of this conspiracy."

Dion was silent. His hand nibbed the scars, back and forth, back and
forth. He was looking at Dixter but not really seeing him. In his
mind he had returned to that ghastly moon of death, to the last time
he'd seen Derek Sagan standing at Maigrey's bier.

"No," said Dion after a moment. "I can't believe that.
You were there. You saw what he suffered. When she died, part of him
died, too."

"Maybe it grew back," Dixter suggested dryly.

Dion frowned, displeased.

The admiral shook his head, sighed. The memory was a painful one for
him as well.

"I saw Sagan then, Dion. But I also saw him twenty-odd years
ago, too, when he led the revolution that overthrew the crown. If he
wasn't directly responsible for the deaths of the king and your
parents, Derek Sagan was the moving force behind it. And there was no
question but that he tortured and murdered Tusk's father and any of
the rest of the Guardians he could lay his hands on. Including—"
Dixter stopped, glanced at the king, fell silent.

"Including Platus," said Dion grimly. "I know. I was
there. I watched. . . ." He stared back again, in time. "Odd.
Platus quoted Milton that very night. . . ."

"Full circle," Dixter muttered.

Dion shook his head. "No, I won't believe it. But," he
added, forestalling Dixter, "I will discuss the matter with the
archbishop. Not that I think we'll find out anything. He's a man of
the cloth, not a man of the sword."