Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  There was a time when a woman had to fight to save what was valuable not only to her, but to those who trusted in her.

  The alabaster statue regarded Astarte with clear, empty eyes. Astarte had hardly ever looked at this side of it; she knew every line and carved fold in the garment on the other side. She had often thought this side cold and hard; it reminded her too much of her own mother. Now she saw that if the Goddess was cold, it was because She had to freeze her heart against sympathy for those who would do Her people harm. If She was hard, it was armor against the wounds that She must both give and take.

  Astarte stared at the Warrior a long time, then, sighing, turned the statue back around. She felt warmed, comforted by the familiar sight of the Mother. Lifting a sprig of dried sage, she crushed the leaves in her palm, scattered them in a small brass dish, and set them on fire. She breathed in the sweet incense, wafted some of the smoke over to the Goddess with her hand.

  "Blessed Mother," Astarte prayed, "thank you for the vision. I do not understand, but I will heed its warning. Praise to your unspoken name."

  She lifted a small brass lid, placed it over the smoking sage, quenched the smoke. Slowly, reaching out her hand, she turned the statue back around. The Warrior stared back at her with the empty eyes of one who must kill.

  Astarte sat back on her heels. She had never made an offering to the Warrior and, though she knew what was required— blood—she could not bring herself to make it.

  "I know what you want me to do," she said to the Warrior. "You want me to spy on him. You want me to have him followed. You want me to turn men loyal to him into his betrayers. Or if that isn't possible—and I pray to the Goddess it would not be—then you would have me hire a snake to slither after him. And then what? You demand photos of the two of them. Pictures of their lovemaking, laid upon this altar. You would have me confront him. You want the anger, the shame, the hatred. Hating me, hating himself.

  "This is not me," she said to the Warrior, pleading with those empty eyes to understand.

  They did not. You don't love him, they said.

  "No, but I honor him," she explained. "Respect him."

  She would have loved him; she had started to love him. But that was over now.

  When had she first begun to love him? Perhaps in those early months of marriage,, which were like a dream to her now. Two strangers, forced together by circumstance, forced to play a never-ending role upon a stage before the devouring eyes of billions. Finding themselves maintaining the roles, even when the curtain was down, the stage empty, except for themselves upon it.

  During that time, she caught glimpses of the man behind the mask, the man beneath the crown, the man inside the purple robe. Strong, decisive; and at the same time weak, vulnerable, tormented by inner doubt. Making decisions, making right decisions, and a part of him amazed when he was right. Punishing himself severely on those rare occasions when he was wrong. Learning from his mistakes and going on, fearful of making more, yet always finding the courage to continue.

  She was beginning to love him. She wanted him for her own, and it was then that she realized he was unattainable. She could not win his love, because it belonged to someone else. And now his love for this other woman, which had so long been platonic, had been consummated. Astarte knew it as well as if she had seen them together.

  The danger was great. He was one more step removed from her and, if this went on, he would be lost to her—and to his people—forever. The child he had just fathered this night would not be born. Or if it was, it would belong to another. Perhaps the man in the vision. ...

  "What, then, am I to do? I must save him." Astarte's hand went to her belly again, slid inside her robe to press against her bare flesh. He was not the only one she had to save.

  The empty eyes of the Warrior held no answers, or else held answers she rejected. Their cold stare was unnerving. Impulsively, Astarte reached out to turn the statue back around. Halfway, she stopped. She had never seen it like this before. The Warrior and the Mother, standing back to back. To nurture and defend, to fight and care. Was it possible? Was this what the Goddess was telling her?

  Lessons of DiLuna returned to her daughter. Astarte recalled nights spent listening to the warrior women talk. A warrior did not always rush forth to meet the enemy, weapons raised, screaming defiance. Sometimes it was best to retreat, to seem to surrender, to fall back and let the enemy come to you.

  Astarte pondered. Her plan was hazy, not yet clear in her mind, but it could work. And then she understood suddenly why it would work.

  "I know Dion. Deep inside, he despises the deception. He's fought against this illicit love; that was why he remained faithful to me for so long. But he is human. In the end, his love for her proved too strong. During one of those times when he was weak, vulnerable, one of those times when he sought shelter, she was there. He turned to her."

  Astarte would have been less than human herself if she did not feel the twinge of jealousy's cruel bite. She thought of him in bed with his lover, of the kisses and caresses given to her that his wife had never known, of pleasure taken with his eyes open. Astarte was the Warrior then, could have watched her enemy's body sliding off her sword and known the emptiness of the statue's alabaster eyes.

  An emptiness that would always be with her.

  "No," she said, "I can't think about that. Not now. Not ever. If I let that poison work on me, it will kill me." She pressed her hand against her stomach. "Kill us all."

  She offered thanks once again. Dousing the candle, she rose to her feet. She felt comforted, her decision made. It would be painful, painful for both of them. But she would be merciful as she could, keep her strokes swift and clean, end it quickly.

  Chapter Twelve

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre . . .

  William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

  Tusk crept slowly out of the hoverjeep, moving carefully so as not to jar his aching head. Squinting—the dark sun-goggles were still permitting far too much sunlight to burn into his eyeballs—Tusk fumbled around the outside of the Scimitar until his hands closed over the ladder rungs, then he crawled slowly up the ladder to the Scimitar's hatch.

  "XJ, lemme in!"

  The roar reverberated around inside his skull like lasgun fire, ricocheting off four walls. He groaned and lay sprawled on the hatch. It was still early morning, but Vangelis' broiling sun was already heating up the spaceplane's shining metal surface. Sweat rolled down Tusk's body. It occurred to him that if he lay here any longer, he'd fry like a piece of raw meat on a griddle.

  "XJ, damn it, you know I'm out here!" Tusk pleaded. "I'm not feelin' too good. I feel kinda like I might throw up. . .."

  "Not on my paint!" snapped the computer.

  The hatch whirred open. Tusk lowered himself gratefully into the cool darkness, descended cautiously down the ladder, placed his foot gently on the deck. Even then the vibration sent waves of pain crashing over his head.

  "Juiced," said XJ in disgust.

  "Shud'up," Tusk mumbled.

  Holding one hand over the goggles in case they should slip and permit even the dim lights shining inside the plane to pierce his brain, he stretched his other hand out in front of him and groped his way to one of the couches. Bumping into it, he fell onto it with a groan.

  "You didn't go home last night," stated XJ.

  Tusk made a brief circuit of his memory. "Shit," he said, sitting up and regretting it instantly. "I didn't, did I?"

  "Don't worry. I called Nola, told her where you were."

  "You did?" Tusk sank back down, pleasantly surprised.

  That didn't last long. The more he thought about XJ being nice to him, the less he liked it. He dragged himself to a sitting position again.

  "What do you want from me?" he croaked, hanging on to the couch for dear life.

  "Jeez, you're so suspicious. Can I . . . can I get you a cold compress?"

  "Stop it!" Tusk snarled, bounding to his feet. He put his hand
on his head to keep it from blasting off. "So I had the shakes yesterday! Big deal. It happens. See if you can reach Dixter."

  "I try to be nice. And this is the thanks I get." XJ sulked. "Next time, I wont call. I'll let you go home to Nola. I hope she skins you alive—"

  "Anything'd be better than this. How can something that makes you feel so good turn around and make you feel so awful? It's like God's standin' there with His hand out saying, 'Glad you enjoyed yourself. Now pay up.' "

  "Philosophy. From a juicer. It's what I live for."

  "Shut up. And while you're shutting up, get hold of Dixter."

  "Dixter! Hah! You expect me to believe that you and Link actually discovered some useful bit of information last night? What'd you do, peel the label off the jump-juice bottle and find a prize underneath?"

  "Just call Dixter, damn it." Tusk moaned. "And turn the lights off while you're at it."

  Clinging to the railing, he lowered himself into the cockpit, fumbled his way to his chair. He lurched into it, rested his elbows on the console, lowered his head to his hands.

  Dixter's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Tusk?"

  Tusk lifted his head with an effort. "Oh, hullo, sir."

  "Hello, son." Dixter was slightly taken aback by the sight of Tusk sitting in the spaceplane in the dark wearing sun-goggles. "Hard night?" he asked sympathetically.

  "Yeah, you'd think I'd learn." Tusk remembered the goggles, took them off. He rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat. "Hang in there with me a minute, sir. Now, let's see. Where did I leave off? Did I tell you that Link got this same message?"

  Dixter nodded.

  "Yeah, right. I went over to his place last night. He answered the message, same as I did. And he got exactly the same instructions, the only difference being that his name was inserted in all the right places. If he wants to join this Ghost Legion, he's got to go to Hell's Outpost."

  "I see."

  "Link's like me. He figures this stinks like last week's mackerel. So we try to get hold of Gorbag. Last we knew, he was living on Jarun, where he was born. Well, he was out, but we talked to his mate. She says that yeah, he got one of these vids, too, and it was exactly the same message, except that they used a Jarun pilot instead of that Captain Masters to make the pitch.

  "Well, you know Gorbag, sir. Nothing scares him. So he flies off to Hell's Outpost to take a look."

  "When was this?" Dixter asked.

  "About three months ago, Standard Military Time. He came home madder'n hell. Said it was a scam." Tusk shook his head. "Like he couldn't see this coming? But then old Gorbag never was too bright. Says he met these pilots and they wined him and dined him or whatever you do with a Jarun and then they gave him some more coordinates and told him to be there ASAP.

  "So he waddles on back to his plane and runs the coordinates and finds out—surprise, surprise—that it's a planet in some godforsaken part of the galaxy that's nowhere near a Lane. And, according to the star charts, the world is nothing but a hunk of dead rock floating in space with no living thing on it, not so much as a bowl full of organic soup."

  Tusk's stomach lurched. He was sorry he'd brought that up. He paused a moment for his insides to settle down, wiped sweat from his forehead. Dixter waited patiently.

  "Where was I?" Tusk mumbled.

  "Soup," said XJ helpfully. "Get it while it's hot."

  Tusk glared at the computer. "Anyway, that's what the Jarun found. He went back to the Exile Cafe, to tell these pilots he didn't think this joke was so funny and maybe bounce them around on their heads some to relieve his hurt feelings and, of course, they were long gone. So he's out of fuel and a thousand golden eagles and feels like a damn fool."

  "But that's all," said Dixter.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then, Tusk, what's the point? They took him for a thousand eagles, but that's an elaborate scam to only pull in that much. They didn't set him up to be hijacked way out there by himself in space; they must have surely known he'd run the coordinates before he flew them."

  "Beats me, sir." Tusk massaged his aching temples.

  "I'd like to talk to Gorbag. You have his number?"

  "Sure, sir, but he's not there."

  "Not there?"

  "No, sir. Shortly after this, he got a call from a planet on the Corasian perimeter. They're all nervous as a stepped-on cat after that Corasian attack on the outpost. Hiring mercenaries right and left to back up their own defenses. He flew off to join up.

  "I see. Has his mate heard from him?"

  "Naw. But he's been sending home his paycheck and so she figures he's okay."

  "But he hasn't talked to her, hasn't told her where his is?"

  "No, sir, but why would he? She knew where he was going. She's got no reason to think he's not there. And if the Corasians are sniffing around, you guys in the navy are bound to want to keep a lid on transmissions."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right. Still ..." Dixter's voice trailed off.

  Tusk looked at the admiral in concern. "You want us to do anything else, sir? Link's offered to go check it out. We can't leave right now, of course, 'cause we got a job lined up, but—"

  "No," said Dixter, shaking his head. "No, I doubt if you'd find out any more than we already have and it might prove—" He stopped, frowned again. "Don't do anything. And don't mention any of this, will you?"

  "Sure, sir." Tusk shrugged.

  "You didn't happen to get hold of those coordinates they gave Gorbag, did you?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact we did, sir." Tusk was pleased with himself. "The Jarun had 'em filed in his log. His mate looked it up, gave them to us. I'll have XJ transmit them."

  "Thanks, son. Thanks for everything. You and Link both."

  "Happy to be of assistance. You know, sir," Tusk added, just as Dixter was about to sign off "something did strike me as kinda funny about this."

  "Yes, what?" Dixter was back and interested.

  "It's probably not important—"

  "Doesn't matter. Tell me."

  "That planet. When we looked it up in the files, we found out it had a name. Not a number, like you'd suppose with a hunk of worthless rock. But a name. Someone'd gone to the trouble to name the damn thing."

  "What did they call it?"

  "Val ... Valum .. . What the devil was that?" Tusk reached into one pocket of his work shirt, fished around, came up empty. He dove into the other pocket. "I wrote it down, 'cause I knew I'd never remember. Yeah, here it is. I'll spell it. V-a-l-l-o-m-b-r-o-s-a. You got that?"

  "Yes." Dixter copied it, spelled it back.

  "That's it." Tusk nodded. "Mean anything to you?"

  "No, but then who knows what language it's in? I'll run it, let you know what I find out. And "Tusk ..." Dixter's tone was serious, his face grave. "Let me know if they contact you again."

  "You think they will, sir?" Tusk was astonished. "Why should they? It's obvious I didn't fall for their little scam."

  "I know. But it wouldn't surprise me. Take it easy, son. My love to Nola and the baby." Dixter's image vanished from the screen.

  "Wonder what he thinks we've tied into?" Tusk muttered, staring at the blank screen. "Sounds more like a case for the Better Business Bureau than a Lord of the Admiralty."

  "Who knows?" said XJ. "Maybe he doesn't have enough wars to keep him busy these days. What was that crap about having a job lined up?"

  Tusk was feeling better. He could almost see. "No crap. Looks like we have work. Steady."

  "No! Steady work! You better back up all my systems. I may black out from the shock."

  "Some women contacted Link yesterday, wants us to transport her and a partner a couple times a week to Akara."

  "Rough place. What're they carrying?"

  "Briefcases." Tusk glowered. "That's all you need to know. And that's what you'll put in the log."

  "Sure thing. You know me. Tact and discretion are the tag end of my serial number."

  Tusk snorted. "Tact and discretion, my ass. The only p
lace you'll find those two words is in your spell checker. Say," he added in wheedling tones, "I could sure use a cuppa coffee. How about makin it for me ..

  "Go soak your head," snapped XJ.

  "Sir John Dixter would like to see you, Your Majesty," said D'argent, entering the king's office with morning tea "He says that it is urgent."

  "Can we fit him in?" Dion glanced up from reading a condensed report on the rapidly deteriorating situation in the star system of Muruva, where six planets had just overthrown the dictatorial rule of a seventh. Unfortunately, each one of the planets had decided that now that they were free, they could freely butcher their other five neighbors, and they were proceeding to do just that.

  D'argent consulted the schedule. "You have two meetings scheduled this morning—one with the Muruvan ambassadors and one with the representatives of the League of Underdeveloped Planets."

  Dion considered briefly. "I'll see the Muruvan ambassadors. Put off the representatives of the league until this afternoon. Back up all my other afternoon appointments an hour."

  "The news conference that we're beaming to Muruva, sir? Shall I reschedule?"

  "No, I need to come down hard on the Muruvans and I need to do it fast, before the fools nuke each other." Dion glanced at the time. "Send in my advisers on Muruva, then send in the ambassadors. And if they start fistfights in the antechamber like they did at the spaceport last night, call Cato and have him clap the paralyzers on them. I won't put up with this nonsense."

  "Yes, sir," replied D'argent, smiling faintly. He glided silently out of the office.

  Later that morning, seven angry and quarreling Muruvan ambassadors were ushered into His Majesty's presence and— after a conference—seven chastened and thoughtful ambassadors were led out.