Ghost Legion (73 page)

"The money will be transferred to your account," Sagan was
saying. "If you take my advice, Lieutenant, you will not lend
him any more. Tusca is an irresponsible drunkard, but he does have
his uses. You are due to go on duty shortly, you said. There is a
small service you can render me. I have a prisoner to transfer.

"The name is Olefsky, Maigrey Kamil. ..."

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny Shall here inhabit . . .

William Shakespeare,
Richard II
, Act IV, Scene i

"How do I get myself into these messes?" Tusk asked of no
one in particular. "I was born under an unlucky star, as mother
used to say. She was right. A goddam eight-pointed star."

He found and disposed of the inconvenient guard, who was still
unconscious in Kamil's quarters. Tusk hoisted the man to his feet,
dragged him out of the room and through the ship, expressing loudly
what he thought about guys who couldn't hold their jump-juice.

The guard—restunned—was now taking a long nap in Tusk's
shower stall.

Tusk continued commiserating with himself. "This whole damn end
of the galaxy's about to blow sky high and I'm doing
Mutiny on the
Bounty.
If I was smart, I'd say the hell with this, the hell with
all of em, and fly my black ass off this floating time bomb."

The thought appealed to him and he toyed with it.

"Sagan says Dion won't go along with it," Tusk remarked to
the door of the lift taking him to the officer's quarters. "Well,
Kamil's got a point. One good clunk over the head would stop the
arguing real quick. As for warships? What's a few dozen warships?
Hell, the kid and I took on the whole Corasian galaxy."

Tusk luxuriated in this scheme for the few seconds it took the lift
to whisk him upward.

What the hell? It passed the time.

He located Cynthia's room. She was out, but an electronic message
flashing across the memo screen above the hand scanner advised all
interested parties that Captain Zorn could be found in the officer's
club.

Tusk had pumped himself up to make his presentation. Now he sighed
like a deflated balloon. He'd have to delay their talk until he pried
Cynthia out of the bar, steered her somewhere private. Fortunately,
he knew how to manage that. He just hoped Nola would understand.

Arriving at the club, which looked like every other officer's club on
board a naval vessel, Tusk peered around until he finally spotted
Cynthia's blond head. She was sitting at a booth in the back of the
club, practically hidden in a shadowy corner. Perrin and Dhure were
with her.

"Figures!" Tusk muttered gloomily. "I suppose the
prince himself'll come waltzin' in here next."

The three were deep in conversation, leaning over the table, their
heads together. The music was loud, thumping through the metal deck.

Tusk was strongly tempted to take a detour to the bar for a quick one
to help his nerves. He'd been trying to ignore the fact that his
hands had started shaking the moment he'd walked off the lift. He
glanced at the time.

No time. He continued heading for the table. Whatever it was these
three were discussing, it must be serious. None of them heard him
approach, or even noticed him until he was standing right in front of
them.

"Hullo," he said.

He might have tossed a grenade into their midst. Cynthia jerked up,
her startled face white against the dark leather of the high-backed
booth. Perrin upset his glass, spilled his scotch. Only Dhure
retained his accustomed calm. He nodded at Tusk.

"What can I do for you, Tusca?"

"Could I buy you all a drink?" He sat down, though no one
had asked him to or particularly appeared to want him.

Cynthia and Perrin exchanged glances, and Tusk was suddenly struck by
one of those flashes of insight that flares like lightning from the
murky clouds of the subconscious. He had no idea what they'd been
discussing, but he knew instinctively there was trouble and trouble
might play into his hands if he was careful . . . very careful.

He took a seat next to Cynthia, gave his order to Dhure, who slid his
card into the drink dispenser, punched in a rum and cola (a drink
Tusk couldn't stand; he wouldn't be tempted to overindulge;. Dhure
handed the drink over. Tusk drank a gulp, kept control of his facial
muscles to avoid grimacing.

"So, what's up?" he asked, playing nervously with his
glass. "You guys look kinda off center."

All three exchanged glances this time. Then Cynthia said cautiously,
"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" Tusk countered, taking another gulp that went
down the wrong pipe.

They waited until he had finished half-strangling himself then
Cynthia—after still another round of glances with her
cohorts—shrugged. "You might as well know, I suppose.
It'll be all over the ship by morning."

"Maybe and maybe not," Tusk said, beneath his breath,
taking care that they all heard him.

Cynthia raised an eyebrow.

Tusk shook his head. "I'll tell you later. You first."

"You've heard already, then. About Bidaldi?"

Tusk stared "Bidaldi? No, what's Bidaldi got to do with
anything?"

"It's been attacked," said Perrin, and for the first time
since Tusk had met him, good old Don wasn't smiling. Tusk considered
it a distinct improvement. "Pretty near wiped out, from the
reports we've heard."

"Attacked?" Tusk was truly astounded. "Who attacked
it? Not Corasians. The Bidaldi system's in the center of the galaxy—"

"The Ghost Legion," said Dhure.

Tusk blinked. "I get it. We went to war and nobody bothered to
tell me."

"Not us," Cynthia said, lowering her voice, casting a
cautious look over her shoulder. "The real Ghost Legion. The
dark-matter creatures."

"Is the prince out of his goddam mind?"

"Keep your voice down," Dhure advised.

"His Highness didn't have anything to do with it!" Cynthia
flared. 'The creatures acted on their own. He's as upset about it as
anyone."

"Yeah. I'll bet he is," Tusk said. He lifted the drink, but
his hand began to shake, so he was forced to set it back down- He was
really putting himself into the part.

"Don't you dare—" Cynthia began angrily, but Dhure
flashed her a look, and she subsided.

"What's wrong, Tusca?" Dhure asked with that maddening
calm. "You look like you've heard some bad news yourself.
Obviously not about Bidaldi."

"Naw, though it all fits now. All makes sense." Tusk
twirled the glass around and around in the puddle of condensation
that had collected beneath it. "I got to tell someone." He
lifted his eyes, met theirs. "Though it could get me in a hell
of a lot of trouble"

He laughed, a cracked laugh that he cut off quickly. "Yeah, as
if I could be in
more
trouble. Or any of us could." He
was silent a moment, considering, decided just to plunge ahead. "You
got any idea what mission this ship's on?"

"We're going to stop a Corasian attack," began Dhure,
apparently having elected himself spokesman.

"I mean the real mission," Tusk said.

Everyone looked at everyone else again. Then they all looked at Tusk.

Tusk mopped his forehead with his sleeve. "You've heard of the
space-rotation bomb?"

They all nodded.

"Did you know it's aboard?"

Nobody said anything.

"Yeah," he went on, with another nervous laugh, "it's
on board all right. And tomorrow morning, sometime around breakfast,
it's going to go off."

The silence was so intense Tusk could have sworn he heard the ice in
his drink melt. "Makes sense, when you stop to think about it.
Takes care of the dark-matter creatures. And the king. And those of
us who know the truth about Bidaldi."

"Usurper," Cynthia corrected automatically. "I don't
believe it," she said flatly.

"How did you hear this, Tusca?" Dhure asked coolly. "Lord
Sagan tell you?"

Tusk snorted. "Sagan wouldn't tell me the password to get into
hell. Not that I'm likely to need it. I figure I'm a shoo-in. I'm his
flunky. About to be his ex-flunky. Let's just say"—the
mercenary slid the glass back and forth over the table—"that
I overheard something I shouldn't have."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Me?" Tusk raised his head. "I'm gettin' the hell out
of here. I was on my way to my plane, in fact, when I thought . . .
Well, you guys have treated me okay. So I figured I'd give you the
tip-off. And now"—Tusk breathed a sigh—"I'm
outta here. Adios. It's been fun."

He stood up.

"You're not going anywhere, Tusca." Perrin said quietly.

Tusk put his hand on the lasgun. "Don't try stopping me—"
"Not me. The order just went out. All planes are grounded. No
one leaves without His Highness's permission."

Tusk sat back down. "That does it, then. The tomb's sealed.
What's the reason?"

"Security. With the Usurper on board. Lord Sagan's orders."

That bastard! Tusk thought. So this is how much he trusts me. Or
maybe this is all part of the scheme. This is how he gets to be king.
Double-crosses all of us.

Tusk's hand went nervously to the tiny device he wore embedded in his
left wrist. A "bloodlink," Sagan had termed it, a
communications device that drew its energy from Tusk's own body. He
was, after all, half Blood Royal. The device was crude, but then—as
Sagan had put it—so was Tusk.

I could ask. . . . Tusk was tempted. I could find out . . . not that
he'd tell me. And what would I gain? I'm still trapped on this mother
death ship!

"You can't be right," Cynthia said suddenly, startling
Tusk. He wondered for a minute how she'd known what he was thinking
about. But she was puzzling out her own loyalties, it seemed. "Flaim
Starfire gave those orders. He's on board this ship himself. He
wouldn't blow himself up!"

"You bet he won't," Tusk growled. "He'll be on the
first plane off this crate. That's the plan. You watch. This is
how'll it'll play. First, the fleet'll get orders to hit hyperspace.
Then His Highness'll leave, catch the last ship out. And we're left
behind on our lonesome, with that damn bomb ticking our lives away."

Tusk saw them exchange glances again. His gaze fixed morosely on his
glass of watery rum and cola. He had them on the hook. All he had to
do was reel them in. But sometimes that was the toughest part.

"I got an idea," he said.

Again, silence. Again, the eyes.

"The king—I mean the .. . uh ... Usurper—knows how
to disarm the bomb. When His Highness and the fleet are gone, we free
Dion, let him disarm it. And we take over the ship."

"But that would be mutiny," Cynthia protested. "We'd
be traitors."

"If the bomb is set to go off like Tusk says," Dhure
pointed out "then
we're
the ones who've been betrayed."

Cynthia's face hardened.

Tusk had the feeling it was time to leave, let them flop and wriggle
on the hook for a while. If he stayed longer—in his "unnerved"
state—it might start to look phony. Besides, suddenly he wanted
very much to be out of that room. The bar was starting to seem
extremely small.

"Where are you going?" Perrin asked as Tusk stood up.

"Beats me," Tusk said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe
back to my plane. Maybe wait till morning, try to make a break for
it. If you guys aren't in this with me ..."

He looked around. Cynthia was defiant. Perrin wouldn't meet his eyes.
Dhure only shook his head, but whether he meant no, he wasn't in
this, or yes, he was, but he had to convince the other two, Tusk
couldn't decide.

Figuring he'd done all he could—and far more than he'd
expected—he said "Be seein ya" and left.

He kept walking until he was far enough away from the lounge that
none of the three were likely to find him. He had no clear idea where
he was going, though he knew well enough where he wasn't—his
quarters or his spaceplane. If the three decided against him, turned
him in as a traitor, those would be the first places the guards would
search.

Rounding a corner, Tusk looked up and stiffened. Two guards stood at
the end of the corridor in front of a sealed door.

"So that's what you had in mind," he said, meaning himself.

Dion's prison cell.

The guards hadn't noticed him yet. Tusk ducked down an adjacent
corridor, flattened himself against the bulkheads. Did Dion know what
was going on? Had he any idea? Had Sagan told him?

"No," Tusk answered that question quickly enough. "Of
course not." He looked at his watch—0300 hours. He didn't
have much time.

Dion should know. He had a right to know. He needed to be prepared.
Surely it couldn't make any difference now. Flaim probably wasn't
going to be wanting to try out his bloodsword technique any time
soon.

"And besides," Tusk said somberly, admitting the real
reason, "if anything
does
go wrong, I don't want him to
die thinkin he's alone."

Emerging from the corridor, he strode rapidly down the hall toward
the king's cell.

The guards knew Tusk by sight from the alcazar. One, in fact, had
assisted the mercenary back to his room the night he'd been "drunk."

Tusk grinned, to show they were all friends.

"You sober tonight?" the guard asked.

"Yeah. I'm on duty." Tusk grimaced; then he looked at them
expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You're supposed to let me inside there."

"Sorry, friend. Orders are: No visitors."

Tusk shook his head, swore. "Now, goddam it. Talk about
inefficient. . . . They were supposed to let you guys know. Lord
Sagan sent me. Word is that the Usurper's escaped."

One of the guards laughed. The other shook his head. "Hell, I
think you are drunk. Unless he's turned himself invisible and can
walk through a nullgrav steel door, he's still in that room where I
left him an hour ago. Safely tucked in bed."