Ghost Legion (70 page)

"I will take it upon myself to thwart the enemy's plans and
drive them back to their own galaxy. When the people of the galaxy
learn that I have saved them, they will be only too eager to grant me
any demands that I might make upon them. And I will demand to be made
king. That's what I will say to them."

"Won't they wonder why the Usurper is on board?"

Flaim shrugged. "I don't trust him out of my sight."

"And when we flee the ship?"

"We're inspecting the fleet."

Preparations were made to leave orbit. Everything was in readiness.
Lord Sagan had arrived on board, as had Dion. Flaim ordered his
cousin and Lord Sagan to join the prince in his cabin to hear the
speech.

The prince made his speech over the vidcom, to the cheers and
applause of the assembled crew. None of them had any doubt at all but
that Flaim Starfire would soon be king and that their fortunes would
be made.

"How was that, Pantha?" Flaim asked when he was finished.
He glanced around. '"Where's Pantha?"

"He was called to the bridge, an urgent summons," said
Sagan. "The speech was quite good. Your Highness. You played
down the death of the Usurper, I noticed." An oblique glance at
Dion, who sat unmoving, expressionless.

"I took your advice, my lord. As you said, some may still have a
soft spot in their hearts for my cousin." Flaim nodded politely
in Dion's direction. "They wouldn't stand for seeing him
executed, but if he dies in battle . .." The prince shrugged.

Sagan nodded in understanding. The three were seated in Flaim's
private quarters aboard the "ghost" ship. Only two people,
Flaim and Pantha, had access to these quarters—an arrangement
similar to one Derek Sagan had once used aboard the
Phoenix
.
Now the former Warlord was relegated to a small berth in the
officer's part of the ship. He stood looking out the steelglass
window at Vallombrosa, still in sight, and permitted himself the
luxury of memory.

He was—as he had always been before a battle—calm,
relaxed. His senses were heightened. All objects in his sight seemed
sharp-edged, bathed in bright light. He could hear words unspoken,
attune himself to the thoughts of those near him, keep his own
thoughts shrouded in darkness. All was going well, according to plan.
Tusk and his Scimitar were safely aboard; the Warlord had ascertained
as much. He could trust Tusk to handle his end—the mercenary
had a powerful incentive and he was a good man. Dependable, like his
father.

Sagan had now only to wait and be patient, something he'd never been
very good at when younger. He glanced down at his arm. Hidden beneath
the knife-edged crease of the sleeve of his uniform (disguised as
that of an admiral of the Royal Navy) were countless scars.
Self-inflicted wounds, intended to remind him of his own mortality,
his own frailty, intended to remind him of his duty to God. Patience.
Yes, he had learned patience.

Or at least he had learned to conceal his impatience.

Garth Pantha entered through the large double doors.

"My friend!" Flaim began exuberantly, stopped at the
expression on the elderly man's face. "Something's gone wrong,
hasn't it? What?" He rose to his feet, leveraging himself out of
his chair with a shove of his hands. "What is it? Wait. Call the
guards to escort my cousin back—"

Pantha halted the prince's command with a swift gesture. "Your
cousin should stay, my prince. He ... may be needed."

Flaim answered with a frown. "What is it, then? Speak. What's
wrong?"

"The dark-matter creatures, Your Highness."

Flaim glanced involuntarily in the direction of a large vault. "Not
the space-rota—"

"No, not that," Pantha interrupted hastily. "I ... I
really don't know how to tell you this, my prince. It is all . . .
most inexplicable. I don't understand ..

"Just tell me!" Flaim snapped.

"We have received a report—it has gone galaxy-wide, Your
Highness—that the system of Bidaldi, in the center of the
galaxy, has been attacked by a mysterious force. From all indications
it appears that every major city in the Bidaldi system was destroyed
by horrific nuclear war. Yet there were no explosions, no radiation.
Buildings have been leveled, people killed. The death toll, Your
Highness, is said to be in the millions."

"Dear God!" murmured Dion softly.

No one else spoke, all silent, pondering.

"Bidaldi is a populous system." Dion was the first to break
the silence. "And a wealthy one. They are located in the center
of a Lane convergence. And they are peaceful. They have no enemies—

"Everyone has enemies," Flaim returned. "What does
this have to do with us?"

Pantha wiped sweat from his face; his wrinkled black skin glistened.
He swallowed, tried to speak, paused to lick his lips. "Your
Highness .. . I'm afraid it has everything to do with us."

Flaim stared at him. "No!" he protested, aghast. "You
can't be serious! The dark-matter creatures?"

"All evidence points to it, Flaim," said Pantha. The man
looked suddenly ancient. He sat down heavily in a chair. His hands
shook. "I have studied the data as it came in. Due to the fact
that we're tapped into the Royal Naval channels, I was able to
intercept the navy's official communications. Instruments on Bidaldi
recorded wild and inexplicable fluctuations in the gravitational
readings. These are all now back to normal. Survivors report people
dropping dead of no apparent cause. And there is more evidence. I
would not tell you this, my prince, if I was not absolutely certain."
Pantha shook his head. "There can be no doubt, I'm afraid. The
dark-matter creatures attacked and destroyed Bidaldi."

"But why? What do they possibly hope to gain? You said they
weren't ambitious!"

"I didn't think they were! And it doesn't look as if they've
gained anything. They have abandoned the planet, apparently."
Pantha lowered his head into his hands. "After they wreaked
havoc on it, maimed and slaughtered, they just left...."

"Perhaps they're
not
ambitious," said Dion slowly,
considering. "Or if they are, ambitious only for their own
survival. You taught them, cousin, how easy we flesh-and-blood
mortals are to destroy. The bomb taught them to fear us. Perhaps
their only goal is to see to it that we will not be a threat to them
again."

Flaim cast him a swift, baleful glance. Going to the commlink, he
contacted the guards standing duty outside the door. "Return the
Usurper to his quarters."

Pantha lifted a haggard face. "The people will be expecting
their king to make a public pronouncement on the tragedy. If he
doesn't, they will suspect something is wrong—"

"I'll deal with that when the time comes!" Flaim said
angrily. "Guards, take him."

Dion stood up to leave. "The creatures have slipped from your
leash, cousin—if they were ever really on one. How much longer
before they turn on you?"

The king left, the guards marching him back to his quarters that
were, in essence, his prison. Once he was gone, Flaim began pacing
the room.

"This is intolerable! If I am linked to this disaster, it could
ruin me."

Wheeling, he came to stand in front of Pantha. Gripping the old man
by his shoulders, Flaim jerked him to an upright position. "You
have to talk to them. Now! Find out what the devil is going on! Tell
them to stop immediately. Tell them . . ." Flaim fell silent.

"My prince?" Pantha looked at him.

"Hush, wait. . . . My lord." Flaim turned to Derek Sagan.

The Warlord stood before the viewscreen, staring out at Vallombrosa.
He had said nothing at the news, which appeared to have made very
little impression on him. Now he looked deferentially around at the
prince.

"Your Highness?"

"My lord, if the space-rotation bomb was exploded here on
Vallombrosa, would it destroy the creatures and their world utterly?"

"Without a doubt, Your Highness. The creatures know that, which
is why they fear it. It would be a shame, however, to lose such
valuable allies. . . ."

"Yes, that is true," Flaim replied, frowning. "They
are an integral part of my plans. Well, we will consider that only as
a last alternative. Pantha, you must go and speak to them."

"I would be careful what I said to them, sir," Sagan
remarked. "I would do nothing to make them nervous or afraid-"

"I quite agree, my lord," Pantha said grimly.

Pantha left the prince's quarters. Flaim continued pacing.

Damn it all! Sagan swore silently, bitterly. All was going too well.
I should have expected this to happen, seen it coming. Of course the
creatures would be fearful, suspicious, wonder what is going on. It
is natural that they make their fear known, but I didn't suppose they
would show this much cunning. Obviously they know more about our
psychology than Pantha credits them. And what will Flaim do about it?

He glanced over at the prince, who was deep in thought— and not
being very careful of his thoughts. Sagan could follow every twist
and turn.

So that is your the solution, Prince. The Warlord had to admit it was
a sensible solution, though it certainly made things damn complicated
for himself.

The doors opened. Pantha entered.

Flaim looked up, startled. "That was quick. What did they say?"

"I was unable to contact them, my prince." Pantha appeared
troubled. "Which is strange, considering—"

"Damn the considering!" Flaim shouted impatiently. "What
do you mean you can't contact them? Won't they answer?"

"No, Flaim," said Pantha quietly, a hint of rebuke in his
deep voice. "They will not. They are not in the ship's vicinity.
Perhaps if I returned to the planet's surface ..."

Flaim struggled inwardly, finally regained a modicum of self-control.
"Do so, then. Leave now. You can take my shuttle. I will expect
you back this night."

Pantha shook his head. "Your Highness .. . this may take some
time. Consider that communication with the creatures is, under the
best of circumstances, difficult . . ."

"At 0600, then," Flaim said. "That will give you all
night. We dare not wait longer. Damn it, Pantha, if
you
were
able to deduce the dark-matter creatures were responsible for the
slaughter on Bidaldi, others may do so."

True enough. Sagan thought to himself. Dixter already has reason to
suspect Vallombrosa. It will be only a matter of time before he
reaches a similar conclusion—if he hasn't done so already The
admiral must have discovered by now that the king isn't taking a
holiday on Ceres.

Sagan frowned. I hope to God the entire Royal Navy isn't about to
descend on us.

"What do you think, my lord?" Flaim asked abruptly.

"I agree with Pantha's earlier statement. The king's silence on
this tragedy on Bidaldi will look extremely odd," Sagan said,
hoping to buy time. "People will begin to ask questions."

"You had better hurry, Pantha," Flaim said. "Report
back to me in the morning. As for the king's silence, he may soon be
forever silent. My lord, contact the commanders of the fleet. Tell
them that plans have been altered. We will remain in orbit around
Vallombrosa until tomorrow morning, at which time they will receive
further orders."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Sagan was glad to leave. He needed to be alone, to think this out. He
moved through the ship, part of him oblivious to its familiar sights
and sounds, part of him paying close attention to them, noting all
that went on around him. But he did not go immediately to the
communications room to contact the other commanders, as he had been
ordered.

Sagan took a detour to the flight deck. He was, he told the officer
on duty, making a surprise inspection. All pilots were to report to
their craft. The word went out, the pilots came running. The Warlord
made his tour. On one occasion, he stopped to upbraid the hapless
pilot of an old Scimitar on the condition of his plane.

"All hell's broken loose. The timetable's moved up," Sagan
said in a low undertone as he ducked beneath the Scimitar's belly.

"To when?" Tusk whispered.

"Tomorrow morning."

Tusk gawked. "Tomorrow! You can't be—"

"Have that attended to immediately, Commander," Sagan said
loudly.

"Yes, my lord." Tusk saluted, managing to look as if he'd
just been chewed up and spit out. Not difficult, considering what
he'd just learned.

"Tomorrow morning!" he repeated, groaning, when the Warlord
had continued on. "Shit!"

Death be not proud ...

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

John Donne,
Holy Sonnets

Kamil sat on the hard bed in the tiny cubicle that was her prison
cell, going over her plan time and again in her head. She was going
to escape, rescue Dion, find Tusk and make him fly them out of here.
The middle part of her plan was good, so was the end—flawless
as far as she could judge. Free Dion. Fly away. It was getting
to
the middle and the end that was proving difficult. Before she could
free Dion, she had to free herself. And she couldn't get out of her
room.

An armed guard stood posted outside her door. Kamil had observed him
closely when he brought in and later took away her untasted evening
meal. She'd had some vague idea of jumping him at that point, but
she'd been daunted by both his physical size, which was impressive
and, more important, his cold disinterest in her. He would obviously
just as soon kill her as look at her.

He was an older man, in his forties, one of the prince's trusted
inner circle. He was a battle-scarred veteran, looked as if he'd
fought his way to the galaxy's center and back.

Frustrated, Kamil flung herself down on the bed, which was already
rumpled from her fevered thrashings. She had to save Dion, whether he
wanted saving or not.