Ghost Legion (75 page)

"I still find it strange that the creatures are not around here,
keeping an eye on it, so to speak."

"How do you know they're not around?" Flaim asked. "They
refused to answer your first communications, even when you tried them
from Vallombrosa."

"The ship's sensor readings would indicate their presence.
Nothing." Pantha shook his head. "Absolutely nothing."

"Perhaps they don't know what the bomb is. You didn't tell them
when you sent them for it—"

"They know," Pantha said grimly. "They knew the first
bomb they took was a fake, though they brought it back anyway. They
sense the power."

"Even though it's not armed?"

"The power is still there. Arming the bomb accelerates it, moves
it higher on the scale. I don't like this. I wonder what they're up
to. .. ."

Flaim suddenly sucked in a breath. His face went white, the blood
draining from it all at once, as if a vein in his throat had been
cut.

The prince hurled himself at Dion. Grabbing hold of him, Flaim spun
him around, flung him back against the steelglass.

The two stared at each other, a duel waging between them not the less
deadly because it was fought in silence, without weapons.

"Pantha," Flaim commanded, hands clenched to fists, "arm
the bomb."

"Now, Your Highness?" Pantha was staring at the prince in
shock. "But Lord Sagan—"

"Damn Lord Sagan!" Flaim cried. Foam flecked his lips. "You
fool, don't you understand? Arm the bomb!"

An expression of horror contorted the old man's face.

"My God!" he whispered.

He grabbed hold of the crystal cube with its glittering gold pyramid.
Yanking the starjewel from around his neck, breaking the chain that
held it, Pantha attempted to fit the jewel into the bomb.

His palsied hands trembled; he could not make the jewel fit. Flaim
swore savagely. Pantha managed, by dint of sheer force of will, to
control his shaking long enough to thrust the starjewel into the
bomb. He punched in the code, stared at it— grim, intent. And
then he hurled the bomb to the floor.

Tusk's heart stopped. Blue-yellow flame burst before his eyes and he
thought for a horrifying instant that the bomb had gone off. When he
could see again, he realized that it was his overheated brain that
had gone nova, not the bomb. It was lying on the floor at the old
man's feet.

Now that he could think semirationally, Tusk remembered that the bomb
couldn't explode just on impact. He stared at the crystal cube.
Suddenly, at last, he was beginning to understand.

"You are right, my prince," Pantha said, disbelief and
anger cracking his voice, "this bomb is harmless.
This
bomb is the fake."

Oh, God of battles, steel my soldiers' hearts . . .

William Shakespeare,
King Henry V
, Act IV Scene i

The bomb's a fake. The damn thing's a fake! We're not in any danger
of being blown up. We never were.
This
is the signal. Tusk
latched onto the first large chunk of coherent thought that bobbed
past.

This is the signal!

Now
is when I'm supposed to take over the ship!

He almost laughed out loud.

"I think we know why Lord Sagan has not yet returned,"
Flaim remarked.

"He switched bombs," said Pantha blankly.

"It "had to be him, of course."

"He switched bombs!" Pantha repeated, as if he still
couldn't believe it.

"I should have destroyed the fake! I thought it might prove
useful . . . when we developed bombs of our own. I never supposed,
never imagined . . ."

"The disruption in the electrical system . . ." Pantha
continued the bitter litany. "And the fact that the dark-matter
creatures were not here, on board ship. I wondered . . ." His
fist clenched. "But I should have known!" He looked up,
dazed. "And how did you know, Flaim?"

"My gentle cousin!" Flaim was staring at Dion. "I saw
this in his mind, the day we fought that stupid duel. He had faith,
you see. I couldn't believe it. I
laughed
at it. You
simpleton, I told him. After everything Sagan's done to you . . . and
still you trust him.

"Have you considered that your trust may be misplaced, cousin?
It is just possible that Derek Sagan has betrayed us both. Used us to
recover what he lost."

Dion made no response.

Flaim turned from him with a curse. Dion took advantage of the moment
to cast a swift, questioning glance at Tusk: What is Sagan's plan?

Tusk poured himself another drink. I wish the hell I knew—

A strong hand grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around. Flaim stood
in front of him, practically toe-to-toe.

"What do you know about this?" Flaim demanded coldly. "What
is Sagan's plan?"

"Damn it, you two are just plain weird!" Tusk looked from
one cousin to the other. "How the hell should I know what his
plan is?"

He grinned, shrugged. Now that the worst was over, he felt
unbelievably calm. "Let's face it, Your Highness, if you were
Derek Sagan, would you tell me
your
plans?"

"He does have a point," Pantha observed dryly.

"He does." Flaim regarded Tusk grimly. "But I don't
believe him. However, we will soon discover the truth." He
activated the commlink, but before he could say a word, a voice came
over.

"Your Highness! I must speak to you. I have news about Lord
Sagan."

"Cynthia!" Tusk whispered. Maybe there was hope, after all.

"Enter!" Flaim commanded.

She came in, a beam rifle in her hand. Her expression was grim,
tense. She didn't even look at Tusk. He swallowed his hope, poured
himself another.

"Your Highness! The fleet has made the Jump! They've all gone
into hyperspace! Lord Sagan's orders. Was this by your . . ."
Cynthia had been about to say
command
but the prince's look of
astonishment, kindling to white-hot fury, answered her question.

"The queen's ship?" Flaim could barely speak coherently.

"Yes, Your Highness." Cynthia swallowed, licked her lips.
"And it was apparently given instructions to change course—"

"Damn
¹
" Flaim exploded. It seemed for a minute
as though the blast of his rage might tear him apart, but he managed
to contain the damage, pick up the pieces. He rounded on Dion. "You
have very little reason to smile, cousin. A minor setback that will
soon be put right."

He turned to Cynthia. "This man"—Flaim gestured at
Tusk—"is to be placed under arrest. He is a traitor."

Cynthia responded instantly moved to stand beside Tusk. He lowered
his head, rubbed the back of his neck, tugged casually at his left
earlobe.

Dion stood near the viewscreen. He had not moved. His thoughts were
far away, perhaps with his queen and his unborn child. But he was
paying more attention than he appeared. He had been watching Tusk
obliquely and now, catching sight of the seemingly insignificant
gesture, the king began rubbing his right palm.

"Take him to interrogation," Flaim was continuing. "I
want to know . . ." The prince paused, as if uncertain how to
proceed.

"Yeah, what is it you want to know, Your Highness?" Tusk
interjected loudly. "The location of the
real
space-rotation bomb? Not the phony—"

"The prisoner is not to talk, Captain Zorn," Flaim
interrupted. "Unless he has something to say."

"Not the phony bomb, like the one you found—"

Cynthia slammed the butt of the beam rifle into Tusk's stomach. The
blow doubled him over. She struck him again in the back of the neck,
sent him crashing to the deck. And suddenly Pantha was on top of him.

"He's wired. He has to be! Yes!" Pantha caught hold of
Tusk's wrist. He ripped out the metal disk, leaving five tiny spots
of blood glistening on Tusk's black skin.

Pantha held the disk for the prince to see. "A bloodlink! He's
been in contact with Sagan this entire time! And . . . Your
Highness!" the old man cried, straightening. "I
know
where the bomb is. Where it has to be! In the alcazar."

"Bah!" Flaim snarled impatiently. "Sagan could have
hidden it anywhere—"

"From us, yes, but
not
from the dark-matter creatures!
They would keep close watch on the bomb. And
they
are still on
Vallombrosa. Therefore the bomb is still on Vallombrosa."

Flaim paused to consider this, apparently decided it made sense.
"What will the creatures do if he removes it?"

"I have no idea, Your Highness. They might try to stop him. They
might simply accompany him to his next destination."

"Would they seize it from him if you ordered them?"

"Perhaps," said Pantha hesitantly, "but you must
remember, Flaim, that the creatures are no longer taking orders from
you. In fact, I begin to think that they have been
using
you.
They used you to locate the bomb for them—"

"They brought it back to me, to Vallombrosa."

The logical place. Here they would be able to keep it safe. They paid
no attention to you when it seemed you were about to leave. They knew
the real bomb was staying behind. I do not think—"

"Enough! I understand," Flaim snarled, irritated, his ego
bruised and hurting. "So they were using me. Answer my question!
Will the creatures recover the bomb?"

"They might take the bomb from Sagan, my prince," Pantha
said gravely, "but I doubt very much if they would give it to
you. You must go after it yourself."

"I can never reach the alcazar in time. It will not take Sagan
long to retrieve the bomb and then leave."

"You can, Your Highness, if the creatures transported you. There
would be a risk, but you could be there in seconds."

"An excellent idea. Talk to them, Pantha!" the prince
urged, with mounting excitement, increasing anger. "The
creatures may not be here, but they are certainly listening. Convince
them to take me back to Vallombrosa. Wait! Perhaps we could simply
tell them to stop him—"

"I would not advise it, Your Highness." Pantha was halfway
out the door. "Their idea of stopping him might be to drop the
alcazar on top of him . . . and the bomb."

"Promise them anything. Tell them I'll
give
them the
space-rotation bomb, if that is what they want. It is the man I
want." Flaim ground the words with his teeth, as if he were
grinding flesh.

Lying on the deck at Cynthia's feet, Tusk looked at Dion. The king
had not moved, stood rubbing his palm. Tusk rolled over on his back.

"Yeah, Your Highness, I guess you
are
kinda eager to get
your hands on Lord Sagan. No one's ever played you for a sucker
before, have they? So now you and the dark-matter boys are heading
down to Vallombrosa—"

"Shut him up!" Flaim ordered irritably.

Cynthia walked over to carry out instructions, raised her foot to
kick him in the mouth.

Tusk rolled, lunged, made a grab for Cynthia. The instant Dion «w
Tusk move, the king sprang at Flaim, grappling for the bloodsword.
His hands closed over the hilt. Flaim's hands closed over Dions
wrists. The two struggled.

Tusk got his hands around Cynthia's ankle, tried to drag her foot out
from under her. He might as well have tried to pull a steel beam out
of the deck. Cynthia knew this move, apparently She smashed the heel
of her free boot down hard on Tusk's hands, breaking his grip and
maybe his fingers, kicked him in the face for good measure.

Turning from an agonized Tusk, Cynthia took a moment to determine the
status of the battle between the cousins. She latched onto Dion from
behind, dragged him off Flaim, flung the king backward.

Dion staggered, regained his balance, surged forward once again.

Cynthia lifted the beam rifle, fired.

The blast caught the king in the chest, sent him reeling into the
couch. He collapsed onto the cushions, hung there a moment. His limp
body slid from the couch to the deck.

"Kid!" Tusk made a feeble attempt to reach him.

Cynthia planted her foot on his chest, pinned him to the deck.

"You haven't killed him?" Flaim demanded harshly. "I
may need him."

"No, Your Highness. My rifle was set on stun."

Flaim smiled grimly, drew several deep, heavy breaths. "Excellent."

Tusk's skull throbbed with pain. His mouth was split open; his jaw
ached, his hand hurt. Cynthia's back was to the prince. She was
looking down at Tusk. He searched her face, hoping for some sign,
some softening of the tight-clenched jaw, a flicker of the eyelid.

Nothing. She wasn't looking
at
him, apparently, but through
him.

Tusk blinked rapidly, tried to focus his blurred eyes. It was a
struggle to remain conscious, and then he wondered why he bothered.
He'd done all he could, and that hadn't been much. He'd failed.

So what else was new? Just one more failure in a long series of
failures. At least this one was likely going to be his last. . . .

"Your Highness!" Garth Pantha came bursting back into the
room, his robes whipping around his ankles. "The creatures are
considering. They insist on speaking to—"

He stopped, stared in blank astonishment.

The prince was hauling Dion to his feet. The king was groggy, but he
was conscious, appeared unhurt.

Flaim motioned to Pantha to come assist him. "We'll take my
cousin with us. Sagan won't do anything rash if he sees that the life
of his precious king is in danger."

The prince had firm hold of Dion by one arm, Pantha took the other.
Looking dazed and faint, Dion sagged limply between the two.

"What about Tusca, Your Highness?" Cynthia asked.

"Take him to interrogation. Find out what you can. Then, if he's
not dead yet, kill him."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Tusk shut his eyes. Death sentence, huh? He really ought to do
something about that. And he would, when he woke up . . . He heard
Pantha and Flaim leave, dragging Dion with them. He heard the soft
whoosh of the doors opening, sliding shut. .. .