Ghost Legion (69 page)

Look into my face; my name is Might-have-been;

I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "A Superscription"

It was a quiet night in the alcazar. Quiet as far as those guarding
the halls and corridors were concerned. There were, of course, the
usual disturbances, usual for a planet the dark-matter creatures
roamed: an entire shelf of books was thrown down in Pantha's library;
several dishes were broken in the kitchen; motion was detected in a
corridor, but no visual confirmation could be made by the guard who
went to inspect; a minor disruption occurred in the electrical system
of the communications room. The electricity shut off but then flashed
on practically before the system had time to register the
interruption. Again, on inspection, nothing untoward was found.

The guards shrugged, shook their heads, and muttered that they would
be glad to leave Vallombrosa.

The night was not particularly quiet for any of the rest of the
inhabitants of the alcazar, with the exception of Flaim, who slept
soundly and dreamed of glory. Pantha spent the night in his room,
studying computer analysis of the space-rotation bomb. By morning, he
was confident he could make another. Astarte, her regal facade
shattered, cried herself to sleep. Kamil sat up with the queen until
Astarte, worn out and exhausted, finally slept. Unhappy and restless,
Kamil lay down on her bed, staring into the darkness, drifting in and
out of a feverish doze, dreaming strange dreams of a woman with pale
hair and silver armor.

Pantha had provided Tusk with medication to ease the pain of his
injured head. Tusk swallowed the tablets, wished they could ease the
ache in his heart, and flung himself down dispiritedly on his bed.
His thoughts writhed in his brain like snakes in a pit. He didn't
trust Sagan, then he did. He would free Dion, then he wouldn't. He
was going to fly to Dixter for help, then he wasn't. He flipped and
flopped and was sorry he'd taken the medication. Pantha had warned
him—rather tersely—not to mix it with jump-juice.

Having at last decided gloomily that he was going to be up all night
and he better make the best of it, Tusk immediately fell sound
asleep. He was dreaming that a tall, dark figure loomed over him when
a strong hand, clapped tightly over his mouth, brought him to
heart-stopping wakefulness.

Tusk thrashed out. A weight like someone had landed a spaceplane on
his chest pressed him into the bed.

"Don't move!" cautioned a voice in his ear. "Don't
make a sound. Listen."

Tusk, recognizing the voice, did as it commanded. He had little
choice in the matter. His bruised lips, covered by the hand, hurt
like the devil. He could barely hear over the pounding in his ears.
Try as he might, he couldn't see a thing in the darkness.

"Make certain you board the king's ship tomorrow," the
voice breathed directly into Tusk's ear. "I understand that you
have become friendly with several members of the crew?"

Tusk nodded.

"Tell them that they are being sent on a suicide mission. Tell
them that the space-rotation bomb is aboard the ship and that Flaim
intends to detonate it, destroying the king and the crew. You will
convince them of the danger and persuade them to take over the ship.

"You will need proof. When Flaim and Pantha leave the ship, I
will discover where they've hidden the bomb. It will be armed and set
to explode when the ship reaches its destination. You will show the
bomb to your comrades. That should be proof enough."

And then the hand was gone, the voice was silenced, the dark form no
longer present.

Tusk lay still a moment, wondering if he'd been dreaming. But the
slowly subsiding racing of his heart was real; so was the fear, which
was rapidly being replaced by excitement and grim satisfaction. Now,
at last, he had something to do, something positive to do. It
wouldn't be easy, but if all else failed, he'd fly Dion off in the
Scimitar, shoot their way out.

They'd done it before.

Relaxing, sighing deeply, Tusk whispered a good-night to Nola, as he
always did, even when she wasn't lying beside him, then rolled over
and slept.

Dion lay awake all night, staring into the darkness. He, too, saw—or
thought he saw—the woman in silver armor.

"I made the right decision, didn't I, my lady?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but he didn't expect her to. After all, it had not
really been a question.

He was still awake when the twin suns lifted up over the walls of the
alcazar and the guards came to his door.

The rattle of a key sounded in the door lock. Astarte and Kamil
looked at each other. Astarte held out her hand. Kamil took hold of
it. They stood waiting. The door opened. Dion, accompanied by armed
guards and Flaim, entered the room,

He looked at Astarte. "I am being permitted to say good-bye to
you, madam," he told her quietly.

Astarte's lauded beauty was gone. She was small and crumpled, her
eyelids heavy and red and swollen from weeping, her lips gray and
colorless. They trembled when she spoke. Her hair was disheveled,
uncombed.

But despite the fact that they were in a prison cell surrounded by
armed guards, and he was about to be killed and she was about to
become the wife of his murderer, she was still queen and he was king
and they had an audience.

Astarte drew herself up with dignity, cast an imperious glance at
Flaim. "Please, leave us alone."

"Certainly," said Flaim. "The guards will be right
outside the door, should either of you require anything." The
prince turned to Kamil. "You acquitted yourself with remarkable
courage yesterday. I therefore give you a choice—life or death.
You may either stay with the queen and enter her service permanently
or you may travel with the king."

"Stay with Astarte, Kamil," said Dion swiftly. "I want
you to."

"Please. Kamil." Astarte turned to her. "Please, stay
with me."

"No." said Kamil, not looking at either of them. "I'm
going with the king."

"Kamil—" Dion began, his face troubled.

"If you don't mind," Kamil interrupted, speaking to Flaim,
"I think I would like to leave now."

Flaim was all sympathy and understanding. "We are boarding the
Royal Flagship. The guards will be happy to escort you."

Her back rigid, Kamil walked out of the room without saying a word to
either person she left behind.

"Her Majesty will be traveling in my flagship," Flaim told
Dion. "I will do everything in my power to make her journey
comfortable. We will be returning to Minas Tares. It would be best
for the queen to be in the palace when word comes of the tragedy.
And, of course, I want to be near at hand."

Dion made no response. Flaim turned to leave. Pausing, he turned
again, came back.

"Damn it, cousin! Don't make me do this! Abdicate the throne. Go
live with that girl. Most men would give their lives for love like
hers. What's being king compared to that?"

"My duty," said Dion. "My responsibility." He
glanced at Flaim. "You understand. It's what we were born to,
bred to. What would our lives be without it?"

"Nothing, of course." Flaim regarded him with admiration.
"You are right, cousin. I do understand. Forgive me. I won't
trouble you about it again.

"Five minutes," he said, and shut the door behind him.

Dion and Astarte looked at each other, shy and awkward as they had
been on that first unhappy night together. Then Dion reached out his
hands to his wife.

"Can you forgive me for being a blind fool?" he asked.

She clasped hold of his hands, held on to him tightly. "Only if
you can forgive me for being a selfish monster."

He gathered her close. He had never noticed before how fragile she
felt in his arms, yet how strong.

"It was my mother's fault, for coercing you into this marriage,"
Astarte whispered.

"I used to think so," Dion replied. "But now I'm not
certain. Maybe some god ... or goddess had a hand in this."

He stroked her hair. This was the first time he'd ever seen it
mussed. "Astarte," he said softly, "as hard as my
death will be, it will be easy compared to your life."

"Don't ..." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Hush, listen to me. You could escape this marriage. Flaim won't
pursue it. He'll have too many other concerns. I could urge you to do
this, but I'm not going to.

"You possess power—the power of your faith, the power of
being yourself. The people admire you. You can use this power to
glove my cousin's iron fist. He won't like it. He'll fight you. But
he won't be able to stop you. Work long and hard, slowly and subtly
and you will build up a resistance to my cousin's tyranny that will
be invincible. Perhaps, in years to come, you can overthrow him."

"With the help of our child."

"Our child. My only regret ... is that I will never . . ."
Dion faltered, his strength failing him for a moment, "never see
. . ."

He couldn't speak. He could only hold on to his wife and she to him.
Sadly, their silence said more than three years of spoken words.

"Time to go, Usurper." The guard thrust open the door.

Astarte drew back from her husband's grasp. Smoothing her hair, she
stood tall and upright, her eyes dry, a smile on her lips. They might
have been parting for the day's duties. She extended her hand. The
fingers were chill, but the hand was steady.

"God go with you, sire," she said softly.

He took her hand, pressed it to his lips. "May the Goddess be
with you, madame. And with our child."

He turned and left her. The door shut behind him. She heard the key
grate in the lock.

"I won't cry," she said, pressing her hands over her womb.
"I won't cry. I won't make myself sick. For the child's sake.
Everything I do from now on will be for the child's sake."

She sank to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer. "Blessed
Goddess, you fought at the side of the heroes at Troy, you brought us
safely through the heavens to our world, you sustained us through the
dark times when all seemed hopeless. Blessed Goddess, send angels to
fight at my husband's side—"

The key rattled in the lock. Thinking it might be Flaim coming to
escort her to the ship, Astarte sprang to her feet. She drew herself
up haughtily.

"You have leave to enter," she said, for form's sake only.
The door was already opening.

"Tusca!" She gasped, startled.

Entering the room, Tusk crossed over to her. "Dion thought you
might like this to remember him by."

He pressed something into her hand and winked—at least she
thought he winked. It was hard to tell; one eye was swollen almost
shut. Before she had time to ask a question or say a word, he was
gone.

Astarte opened her palm. In it lay a silver earring, formed in the
shape of an eight-pointed star.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide
is
loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence
is
drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity....

William Butler Yeats,
"The Second Coming"

Things fell apart ...

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

Vallombrosa was now truly a ghost planet. The alcazar was deserted,
stood empty beneath the double suns. All personal effects, all data
files (primarily Pantha's) had been transferred secretly to the
Flare.

Her Majesty the queen was also transported to
Flare,
to be
taken back to Minas Tares. Those who observed her noted that she was
pale, but calm and composed. It was well known that the royal
marriage had not been a particularly happy one.

The space-rotation bomb was taken aboard the ship carrying His
Majesty. Pantha himself carried the bomb aboard, concealed in the
same box that held the two bloodswords.

The brief interruption of the electricity to the door of the
communication room during the night had been reported to him. He was
at first concerned, but finding on investigation that nothing had
been disturbed, that the space-rotation bomb was still there, he
decided that it must have been the dark-matter creatures.

"They have an extreme interest in the bomb," Pantha told
Flaim as they traveled to what Flaim was terming, between themselves,
the "ghost" ship. "They were probably checking on its
safety."

Flaim was displeased. "I don't like to think of them getting
close to it. They won't harm it, will they?"

"They didn't harm it transporting it to you, my prince. I told
them that we intend to destroy the bomb in a distant part of the
galaxy, far from their own world. They intimated their satisfaction."

"They won't be happy when we build another."

"Precisely why we
won't
build it on Vallombrosa. I doubt
if they'll ever discover it. They wouldn't have known of this bomb if
I hadn't warned them of it.

"They are really rather provincial beings, I believe. Attached
to their own homeland, with no ambitions or design on any others. As
long as they can be assured Vallombrosa—and by extension their
own world—is safe, they will be content."

Arriving on board the "ghost" ship, Pantha took the bomb to
Flaim's quarters. Here they would leave the bomb, armed, the code
punched in, to tick away the seconds of the lives of everyone on
board.

"What will you tell the crew?" Pantha asked.

Flaim smiled. "My speech is all prepared. I will tell them that
we are embarking on a great enterprise, one that will carry them to
eternal glory. I have obtained secret intelligence, gleaned from the
dark-matter creatures, warning of an impending Corasian invasion. Not
even the Royal Navy knows of this threatened attack—which will
be the truth; the Corasians are still in their own galaxy.