Ghost Legion (24 page)

Link wasn't so lucky. Letting out a shriek, he jerked his feet off
the console, shot out of his chaii; and began hopping around the
lower deck, slapping frantically at his tingling legs.

"Jeez!" he swore, glaring at the computer. "What'd you
do that for? You damn near fried me!"

"No boots on the console!" snapped XJ.

"Damn! I knew there was something I meant to do," Tusk said
in a low voice, being careful to keep from touching any metal. "I
meant to ask how much Cynthia wanted for Mrs. Mopup."

"And that was that, sir," Tusk said a week later. He'd
returned safely to Vangelis, was making his report to John Dixter.
"They thought I had an in with His Majesty. When they found out
different, they lost their enthusiasm over me real quick."

"Do you suppose they believed you?" Dixter asked, dubious.

"They got no reason not to," said Tusk quietly.

Dixter was silent a moment, studied him intently. "I'm sorry,
son. I assumed you understood. Dion thought, for your own
protection—"

Tusk felt his skin burn. "Forget it, sir. I'm the one who should
be apologizing. It's all right. Really. And, anyway, it looks like he
was right."

"Yes, it looks that way." Dixter sounded unconvinced, but
he couldn't argue with the facts and so he let it go, moved on to
other subjects. "This Ghost Legion. Did they say anything about
it? Why the name, for example?"

"Cynthia told me. It's 'cause they call their spaceplanes Gray
Ghosts. I'd score 'em zero for originality, but nothing worse."

"It sounds plausible," Dixter admitted. "And that man—
Captain Dhure. He told you the planet's name was Vallombrosa."

"Yeah, I didn't call him on that one. Couldn't very well let him
know I'd been checking up on him, though it would have served him
right, all the checking they'd done on me. My guess is you look for a
planet on the opposite side of the galaxy from Vallomwhatever and
you'll find someone getting ready to go to war against someone else."

"You're probably right," said Dixter thoughtfully. "Still
. . ."

"Yes, sir?"

The admiral shook his head. "Nothing. Thanks for the
information, Tusk. Report to me immediately if you hear from them
again."

"Don't think there's much chance of that, sir. Unless they want
to sell me a vacuum cleaner." Tusk grinned.

"I wouldn't be so certain," said Dixter, and ended the
transmission.

But in that he died, he died unto sin once; but in that he liveth, he
liveth unto God.

The Bible,
Romans 6:9

It was morning in the Abbey of St. Francis. Bells rang, calling the
brothers to prayer. Slowly, devotedly, the robed and hooded
figures—priests, monks, novitiates, and lay brothers—
left whatever tasks they were performing and entered the cathedral to
join together in praise of the Creator, to ask His blessing on this
new day. At the close of service, the small news of the religious
community was given out by Prior John and daily problems and other
matters were voiced and dealt with. The brethren were dismissed to go
to breakfast, then continue about their duties.

But on that day, one of their number was missing.

"Where is Brother Penitent?" demanded Prior John.

No one knew. No one had seen him. He had not been to breakfast, to
take in silence his cup of milk and an orange and a wedge of
fresh-baked bread, to sit apart in a corner that had become his own.
His absence from a meal was not unusual, however; he was known to
fast on frequent occasions, to mortify his flesh as a gift to God.
But he had never, though weak from self-enforced hunger, missed a day
of work.

Ordinarily Brother Penitent would have been about his duties—lifting
sick and infirm brethren in his strong arms, bathing them, changing
bed linens, or digging in the garden, fighting the never-ending
battie against weeds that, like evil, were rooted out of one place
only to flourish in another.

Or perhaps he might be working in the dark subterranean basement,
repairing die giant machines—a mystery to most of the
brethren—that maintained the abbey's life-support systems,
critical in a world of domed cities, stinging dust-laden wind, and a
sun that did not warm the garish red-rock landscape.

Today Brother Penitent had not gone to his work, had not re-ported to
Prior John to find out what task was to be assigned to him. Not once
in the three years since he had been in the monastery had Brother
Penitent neglected his duties. Silent, grim, he often drove himself
until he was on the verge of exhaustion, indomitable will alone
aiding his weary footsteps back to his comfortless cell. He would
stop working only when the bells called him to his prayers.

Brother Penitent always stopped to pray, falling to his knees
wherever he might be. But he never entered the great cathedral. Not
once in three years had he set foot inside its holy walls. He shunned
it, rather; went out of his way to avoid it, would refuse to do any
work inside it. Not even Archbishop Fideles had been able to prevail
upon Penitent to accept God's forgiveness and enter His house.

Which is one reason why Brother Penitent had become known
unofficially among the other brethren as the Unforgiven.

Today, however, he had not even been seen at his prayers.

This break in their daily regimen caused a small flurry of excitement
among the brethren, similar to the day the dome's seal had cracked
and permitted the outside bone-chilling and poisonous air to hiss
into the abbey. Brothers scattered in all directions, searching the
grounds and buildings, and none reported finding their missing
brother. Finally one of the young novitiates thought to look through
the small iron grille in the door of Brother Penitent's cell. The
novitiate, wide-eyed, returned to Prior John and reported what he had
seen.

Brother Penitent was discovered sitting on his bed in the cramped and
narrow cell in the
dortoir
of the monastery, staring at the
palm of his right hand and talking to nothing but the empty air.

"What do You want of me?" They could hear him shout, his
voice tense, frustrated. "What do You want of me? I have nothing
left to give!"

Archbishop Fideles sat in his office, behind his desk, staring not at
his hand but at a communique he held in his hand. The communique had
been delivered by special courier, a royal courier who was waiting
for the archbishop on his return from his trip to the hospital.

Disturbed and deeply troubled by the strange tale of the doctor,
Fideles viewed the Royal Seal on the courier's missive with
misgiving. His Majesty was very much on the archbishop's mind, and
now to discover that the king had been trying in vain to reach the
archbishop seemed an ominous coincidence.

If it
was
coincidence.

The archbishop read the communique—which was marked classified,
top-secret—in perplexity. It was a compilation of reports
dealing with incidents far removed from and unrelated to the business
of the Church: a mysterious invasion of the house of the late Adonian
weapons dealer, Snaga Ohme; an attempt to steal the space-rotation
bomb by a group calling itself Ghost Legion; a report from a
Mendaharin Tusca that he'd been contacted by said Ghost Legion; the
abduction and return of said Tusca; a mysterious planet known as
Vallombrosa; a famed explorer ...

"
Grand Dieu!
" breathed Archbishop Fideles, dropping
the communique to the desk and staring at it in perplexity.

"Holiness?" A rap on the door, a timid voice breaking in on
his thoughts.

The abbey did not hold with such modern conveniences as commlinks or
intercom devices or even telephones, except for communication with
the outside world, deemed necessary to the head of a far-flung Order.
Within the abbey walls, business was carried on much as it had been
carried on centuries earlier—by word of mouth.

"I left orders not to be disturbed," called Fideles
harshly. He never spoke to anyone harshly.

"I ... I know, Holiness. Forgive me." Brother Petra sounded
rattled. "But this is ... an emergency ... Prior John ..."

"It's about Brother Penitent, Holiness." Prior John's stern
tones came through the door. A man of extreme self-importance, the
prior ran the affairs of the abbey with implacable efficiency. He
considered his own affairs must naturally take precedence over any
others. "Our brother is acting very strangely. Stranger than
usual," the prior thought fit to add.

"What now?" Fideles sighed and cast a reproachful glance
heavenward, for which he immediately asked forgiveness. Catching hold
of the missive, not sorry to forget it for the moment, he slid it
into the drawer of his desk. "Enter; with God's blessing"

Prior John swept inside.

"Yes, what is it?" asked Fideles, now truly concerned at
the sight of the priest's set and rigid face. "Is our brother
taken ill?"

"I think he has gone mad, Holiness," stated the prior
solemnly. "If you remember, I advised against his admittance. We
knew nothing about him, about his past, his background—"

"It was my decision, as I again remind you, Prior. A decision
that, as head of this Order, I had every right to make." Fideles
spoke impatiently, sharply. "Tell me what has happened!"

Prior John, chastened by the rebuke, drew himself up straight,
clasped his hands together over the front of his surplice. "Brother
Penitent did not report to his work this morning. I sent the others
to look for him, to find out what was amiss. One of the novitiates
discovered Brother Penitent still in his cell. He did not answer to
the young man's knocks.

"When I arrived, I found our brother sitting on his bed talking
to himself, apparently oblivious to my presence outside his door.
Thinking he was sick, naturally I took it upon myself to enter."
He paused, perhaps waiting for approbation.

"Naturally," said Fideles dryly. "And what did Brother
Penitent do?"

"He leapt to his feet, like a man possessed, Holiness."
Prior John gave every appearance of never being able to recover from
the shock. "And he yelled at me in a thundering voice, with such
a black look on his face that I thought he was going to strike me."

"Did he?" asked Fideles, growing more and more alarmed.

"No," said Prior John, sounding disappointed. "But he
spoke to me in the devil's tongue. Undoubtedly using profane
language. I consider it fortunate that I did not understand him."

God keep me from choking this man,
prayed Fideles, eyeing the
prior grimly. Aloud he said, "I doubt if Brother Penitent would
take our Creator's name in vain. Perhaps, if you could remember what
the words were, I could make some sense of them—"

"Fortunately, Holiness, I have a good ear." Prior John
repeated the words, with an expression that left no doubt he
considered that he was placing his soul in jeopardy by merely
pronouncing them.

The words came out garbled, but Fideles understood them easily,
having spent a year of his life in the Warlord's service on board a
ship of war. The language was Standard Military, a jar-gon used by
soldiers of all races and nationalities—both human and alien.

What is the meaning of this intrusion, Captain?
was the phrase
Brother Penitent had shouted at the astonished prior. I
did not
send for you. Return to your duties.

What was happening? Was the prior right?
Was
Brother Penitent
going mad?

"Where is our brother now?" Fideles asked, concerned,
preparing to go to him.

But Prior John was not to be hurried with his tale, of which he
was—as usual—the hero. "I managed to calm him.
Otherwise, I do not know what violence he might have done to himself
or to others. I spoke to him sternly. I have never been one to coddle
him. I reminded him of his duty to me—his superior. At this, he
grew sullen, refused to answer my questions. Therefore, I brought him
to you. He is waiting in the chamber outside. But I thought it right
to prepare you—"

"For God's sake, man!" cried Fideles, jumping up, slamming
his fist on the desk. "Stop driveling and send him in!" He
shoved past the shocked and disapproving prior, hastened to the door,
and threw it open.

Brother Penitent, hood drawn low over his face, hands folded in his
sleeves, stood silent and unmoving in the antechamber. Brother Petra,
looking nervous and extremely unhappy, huddled in a corner, as far
from the supposed madman as was possible to get.

"I will deal with the matter now, Prior," Fideles said,
regaining control. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention.
Please forgive me if I spoke sharply to you, but I am certain you can
understand my concern for our brother's welfare."

The offended prior bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and stalked out
the door.

Brother Penitent entered the office. Archbishop Fideles spoke a few
words to Brother Petra, who left immediately and—to judge by
his expression—gratefully. Shutting the outer door to the
antechamber, Fideles returned to his own office, shut his own door,
and locked it.

He faced the brother, who kept his head bowed, said nothing. The
archbishop found himself at a loss for words, had no idea where to
begin or how to continue if and when he got started. He could, he
decided at last, only trust to God to lead him.

"What is troubling you, Brother Penitent? I hope you know that
you can trust me."

The lay brother did not respond.

Fideles moistened his dry mouth. "Please, sit down."

The brother did not move.

"I'm glad you came," the archbishop continued. "I was
going to send for you. I have received a communique from His Majesty,
the king."

Brother Penitent raised his head. The eyes were dark, but no longer
empty. The eyes asked, as plainly as if he had spoken aloud,
What
has that to do with me?