Ghost Legion (23 page)

"Not voluntarily," Tusk growled, still standing.

"You want an explanation. I'll give it to you. You're in no
danger. In thirty minutes, if you want, you'll be free to walk out of
here with money in your pocket to make up for the inconvenience.
Cynthia will take you and Captain Link back to your plane, pick up
Don. The four of you will shake hands, and that will be that. Just
hear me out. That's all I ask. It could be well worth your while."

Tusk stood, irresolute. He could continue to act like a jerk and get
exactly nowhere—that much was obvious. He'd showed them all
what a tough guy he was. Now maybe it was time to give in, learn
something that might help Dixter. At least that's what he told
himself not wanting to admit that he didn't have a whole hell of a
lot of choice in the matter.

"All right," Tusk said, sitting down and stretching his
legs, "I'm listening Thirty minutes."

Actually it took about ten. The deal they offered was good— but
not too good. Big bucks generally meant big risks and didn't amount
to anything if the money ended up covering your funeral expenses.

"We're in need of experienced pilots," said Dhure. "Combat
trained. We're starting to feel threatened from a few powerful
neighbors. We have the spaceplanes and the people to fly them, but
every single person in the corps is a rookie. From commanders on
down. Never fired a shot. In short, what we need are veterans to come
in and teach us how to do things."

"Let me get this straight," said Tusk. "You got planes
and you got pilots but your pilots have no combat training?"

"Right." Dhure nodded, tilted his chair back. "I know,
it doesn't make much sense. But, face it, there are a lot of
plausible explanations. Let's suppose that somewhere back in old
Earth's history—say maybe around 1960—that a computer
malfunction leads to a big nuclear disaster—millions of people
dead, more dying slowly of radiation poisoning, the environment
poisoned for decades. People are terrified. They ban all nuclear
reactors, prevent the building of atomic power stations. They get so
scared that they shut down NASA. No more rocket launches and no more
computer science. What would have happened?"

"Some of the planet might be left by now?"

"And about a bizillion of us squatting on our little square
patch of it," said Dhure.

Tusk shifted in his chair. "So you're saying that this is what
happened to your home planet—uh, pardon me, but I didn't catch
the name."

"Vallombrosa. Don't suppose you ever heard of it."

"No, can't say that I have," Tusk answered, unable to
figure out a way to say
Yes, I've heard of it and you're lying
through your teeth
that wouldn't get him killed. "So you're
saying that this is what happened?"

"Something like that," Dhure hedged. "Our history is
complicated. I'll lend you a book on it sometime, if you're really
interested."

"Thanks." Tusk waved a hand vaguely toward what he assumed
might be the center of the galaxy. "You know, of course, that
the Royal Navy will come in and offer you protection."

"We prefer to handle our own affairs. Every system has the right
to defend itself."

True enough, Tusk remarked to himself, but not to declare war on your
neighbors, Captain Dhure, which is probably what you're planning. But
that's not my problem.

"What I don't understand is, why go to all this trouble? To get
me and Link, I mean."

"Because you're the best, Tusca," said Dhure. "We've
seen your record. We want you."

"Yeah, I know I'm great," Tusk said modestly, "but
there are at least a million—well, say maybe fifty
thousand—other pilots out there as good as me. And you wouldn't
have had to shoot 'em to get 'em to come." He put his hand
tenderly over his injured arm.

"I'm really sorry about that," said Dhure sincerely. "That
was a test."

"A test!"

"Yes. We heard you'd lost your nerve. We were told that the
action you saw a few years ago had taken it out of you. We heard you
were on the juice, good for nothing except ferrying salesmen. I'm
happy to know our reports weren't true. You handled yourself
extremely well under fire."

Tusk sat, eyeing Dhure. "You want to dance?"

Dhure stared. "I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if you wanted to dance."

A slight frown creased the captain's forehead. "Maybe I'm
missing something, but—"

Tusk shrugged, sat back in his chair. "You've been bobbing and
weaving and dodging so much I figure we might as well have some music
to go with it."

Dhure threw back his head and laughed. "Damn, I
do
like
you," he said when he could speak. "I guess I asked for
that. All right, cards on the table. I admit it. We were disappointed
when you didn't respond to our ads. And, yes, we
did
go out of
our way to get hold of you. You have one rather special qualification
which could make you extremely valuable to us."

"My good looks or my winning personality?" Tusk guessed.

Dhure began tracing a circle on the desk with his right forefinger,
all the while looking at Tusk.

"How's your friend—the king?"

So that's it. Dixter was right. "Okay, I guess," Tusk said,
shrugging. "If you believe the vids."

"Let's say I don't." Dhure was still friendly, but there
was an edge to him now. The smile was on his mouth, not in his eyes.

The circle he was drawing closed in a little tighter. "Of your
own personal knowledge. Off the record, of course."

"Oh, of course. Let's see. The last time me and the wife were in
the palace, which was ... mmmm ... a week ago Thursday. We'd taken
the yacht out for a spin and thought we'd drop by the palace and
raise a glass of the bubbly with our good buddy His Majesty—"

"Cut the crap, Tusca."

"You cut it." Tusk sat up straight, feet on the floor.
"Sure, I knew the king. When he wasn't a king. Now he is and
it's different. Maybe you think that because I helped put him on the
throne he gives me permission to sit my ass down in the Royal
Presence. But that only happens in books. We said good-bye to each
other three years ago and we meant it."

"Even after the so-called 'miracle healing'? A lot of your
friends have mentioned that in connection with you—"

"Healing!" Tusk snorted. "Good doctors and a better PR
agent."

"You're saying it didn't happen?"

"Hell, how should I know? I was mostly dead! When I woke up I
was in all kinds of pain, had tubes stuck up every part of me that
was readily available and a few that they had to work at, and some
machine was doin' my breathin' for me. That sound like a goddam
miracle to you?"

"That wasn't quite the way we heard it. ..

"No, well, I don't suppose it was. Tubes up your butt don't make
the nightly news. Miracle healings do."

"One reason you and the king split, eh." Dhure looked
deeply sympathetic. "He tried to get you to play along. But you
obviously still keep in contact. He sent you a baby gift—"

"His secretary signed the card and spelled my name wrong."
Tusk bounded up, suddenly angry, slammed a hand on the desk. "And
where the hell do you get off, spying on me and my family?"

"Easy, Tusca, easy," Dhure said in soothing tones.

Tusk drew in a seething breath. Shutting his mouth over a few more
choice remarks, he jammed his hands in his pockets, took a turn
around the room. He looked at the solid steel walls, at the bar below
with its eerie shadows, and reminded himself that a killer vacuum
cleaner had hold of his plane and that, somewhere else, Cynthia had
hold of Link. And they knew too damn much about Nola....

By the time he'd made the circuit, returned to the desk, he was
breathing almost normally, only shaking slightly. After all, he
reminded himself, you've been expecting something like this in regard
to Dion. It was only a matter of time. You know what to do.

"Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you," Tusk said to Dhure in a
low voice, hands tight fists in his pockets. "But if you're
expecting me to cut some deal for you with His Majesty, you can
forget it. I'm the last person the king'd listen to. Honest, I'd hurt
your cause more than help it."

Dhure said nothing, but it was obvious he wasn't buying.

Tusk drew in a deep breath, let it out. "You ever see any plays
by a guy named Shakespeare? Yeah, well, me neither. But one day the
wife watches one on the educational channel. Says we should get
cultured, because of the kid, you know. Well, there was this one.
Henry the Fourth or Fifth or something like that. Anyway, it was
about this prince, who was a really cool guy and went out drinkin'
and partyin' every night with all his friends—until the day he
turned king. And that day all his friends came up to him and were
getting ready to clap him on the shoulder and congratulate him and he
turned to one of them, to the man who'd been his best friend, and
said, 'I know thee not, old man.' That's how they talked, back then."

Dhure said nothing. He'd quit drawing the circle. His hand was still.
The room was still.

" 'I know thee not, old man,' " Tusk repeated softly,
staring at the shifting shadows in the bar below. "That's what
the king said to his friends. He was ashamed of them, you see. They
reminded him of what he'd been, and he couldn't stand that."

"Despite the fact that you saved his life?"

"You do know a lot, don't you?" Tusk glowered.

"Evidently not enough."

"Yeah, well, don't you get it yet? The 'healing' made us even,
then. His Majesty doesn't owe me a damn thing. And I don't owe him."

"I see." Dhure started drawing the circle again.

Tusk sat back down in the chair. Tense, wary, he kept his eyes on the
captain.

"Gosh. That's too bad." Dhure looked up with another
sympathetic smile. "The young man's head swelled once they put
the crown on it, eh?"

"Something like that," Tusk mumbled.

"You can't blame us for trying. It never hurts to have
connections. We could have used a friend in high places. Still, at
least we're left with one hell of a pilot. What do you say, Tusk? Do
we have a deal?"

"If I say no, what happens?"

"We're sorry, of course. But you go back to the wife and kid and
we go back to looking for good pilots."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Well, then. No. Thanks and all that. But no."

Dhure looked mildly disappointed. "We'd be willing to wait until
after the baby came, of course."

"It's not that. You said I lost my nerve. I don't think so, but
... well, it's hard to explain... . Getting shot at just isn't fun
anymore. You know what
is
fun? Givin my kid a bath. Taking him
to the zoo, carrying him home in my arms when he falls asleep."

"I understand." Dhure stood up.

Tusk did, too. Quickly.

The captain held out his hand. "Sorry to lose you, Tusca. You'll
find a little something in your spaceplane to compensate you for your
time and trouble. If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach
us."

"Thanks." Tusk shook hands, somewhat dazed.

"You can just go right on out. Cynthia'll be waiting in the
corridor to take you back."

Dhure nodded, sat down at the desk. Turning on a computer, he
commanded it to delete the file on one Mendaharin Tusca.

Tusk walked out the door. Cynthia was waiting for him, along with
Link.

"No go?" she said.

"Sorry," said Tusk.

"Me, too." She sighed, smiled. "I'll walk you back to
the exit. You can find your way from there, can't you?"

Tusk supposed they could. He glanced at Link. The pilot shook his
head. Neither said a word—except good-bye to a still smiling,
still friendly Cynthia—until they had reached their spaceplane.

Don was gone. So was the scotch. And so was Mrs. Mopup.

Tusk and Link sat and stared at one another.

"What the hell was that all about?" Link demanded.

"Ten thousand credits," said XJ smugly. "He was going
to make it five, but I insisted on ten. On account of your injury.
And mental stress."

"What mental stress?" Tusk asked irritably.

"
My
mental stress! I'm the only one with a brain. Ten
thousand credits. In the account. I checked. They're good for it.
Best week's work you two losers ever did, either of you. So what'd
they'd want?"

"Two damn good pilots," said Tusk.

"No, really. What'd they'd want?" XJ persisted.

Tusk grinned, then looked back at Link. The grin faded. "A
direct line to the king."

"That was it, then." Link was disappointed. "You
sure?"

"Hell, yes, I'm sure. Didn't they ask you about him?"

"Naw. That's a shame, too, 'cause he and I are real close
friends."

"Come off it, Link." Tusk snorted. "This is me,
remember?"

"So!" Link was belligerent. "Just because you two had
a falling out doesn't mean he's forgotten his old pal Link."

"Yeah, how many times have
you
been invited to the palace
lately?"

"Well, the king's a busy guy. Plus that crowd he hangs around
with—dukes and earls and stuff. He knows they're not my type.
You ready to shove off?"

"Sure," said Tusk. "Unless you got more business—"

"Nope. They offered me a good deal—even raised the ante to
try to get me to join—but I said no, thanks. I figured you'd
never agree, what with Nola and all, and I couldn't go off and leave
you in the lurch, could I?"

Tusk grunted. "You couldn't go off and leave me stuck with a
pile of debts and no money without me coming looking for you is what
you mean."

"Well, that, too." Link grinned. Leaning back in the
co-pilot's chair, he put his feet on the console.

The lights flickered. A humming sound ran through the metal. Tusk
snatched his hands back from the control panel just in time.