Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  John Dixter watched them go. They were harried and flustered. The king was cool and even grimly smiling.

  "Are we sending in troops. Your Majesty?" asked Dixter, taking a seat, refusing any refreshment.

  "They have thirty days," said Dion, "to settle their differences peacefully. If not then we'll keep the peace for them. And the first thing we'll do is end all outside interference in their affairs."

  "Blockade," said Dixter.

  "The major trading partners have all agreed to honor it. The Muruvans could find themselves in serious economic trouble if they don't shake hands and make up. My advisers tell me that the Muruvans' hatred for one another doesn't extend as far as their wallets. I think it's deeper than that, but we'll see what transpires. I take it you have further information on that matter we previously discussed?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter spent a moment leaving Muruva, assimilating this thoughts. "I heard from Tusk."

  The admiral repeated his conversation with the mercenary. Dion listened in silence, absently rubbing the scars on the palm of his right hand. If Dixter noticed this, he pretended he didn't.

  "So why not have Tusk and Link check this out, my lord?"

  "Because they're too close, Your Majesty. Too close to you," answered Dixter.

  Dion shook his head. "You honestly believe that someone would go to all this trouble just for the chance of getting hold of Tusk? To do what?"

  "I think that may be part of it, sire. What their objective is, I can't tell you. I can't even venture a guess. One thing I do know, Gorbag isn't working for any of the Outer Systems. I checked."

  "So you think . . . what?"

  "I think this is how the 'scam' works. These Ghost Legion representatives contact pilots and offer to make a deal if they'll fly to Hell's Outpost. They've got to figure that only those seriously interested or desperate enough will fork over a thousand eagles and make that trip. Already, you see, they're culling their list.

  "Once the pilots reach Hell's Outpost, the representatives look them over. Probably gather all sorts of information, scan their planes, that sort of thing. Then they feed the pilots these weird coordinates. If the pilot swallows it, they've got him or her. Probably meet them once they get there, if they don't, like Gorbag, they see to it that he's offered another job. And when he takes it, they intercept him, make it worth his while to join up."

  "Again I ask you, my lord," Dion persisted, "to do what?"

  "I don't know, sire, but they're up to something, following Tusk's lead on Gorbag, I did some checking on the other people I had under my command. All of them have received this same message. About a hundred of them flew to Hell's Outpost. Since then, they either took the Ghost Legion up on their offer—in which case they left one night and never came back—or they took other jobs and—same scenario—they've now dropped out of sight. But they're sending home money. Lots of money."

  "Someone's building his or her own space corps."

  "Looks that way. And it's big. And selective. They've only taken the best. Some people went to Hell's Outpost and are now wandering around in plain sight looking for work. Never got a call. And this Ghost Legion didn't use my list alone. They've apparently searched the galaxy."

  "And could you hide a force that big?"

  "Easily, Your Majesty. Especially on someplace like this planet Tusk found. Off Lanes, on the outer fringes. A hunk of cold rock. Not even the Corasians would be interested in it. And that's how it checks out. I studied the reports. But as Tusk says, there are a few things odd about it."

  Dixter referred to notes. "It was discovered thirty years ago by the famous space explorer Garth Pantha. You wouldn't remember him; you were too young. But almost everyone my age would, who watched the vids. Pantha was not only a damn fine spacepilot, but a brilliant physicist and natural scientist, and"— Dixter smiled—"one hell of a charmer.

  "He was a celebrity. Had his own vid show. Because of his celebrity status, he moved in high circles. Very high circles. He was a favorite of your uncle's. King Amodius made Pantha a knight of the realm."

  "Then he was Blood Royal."

  "Yes. But the really interesting thing about Pantha was not the living of his life, as the poet says, but the manner of his leaving it. He died in some sort of mysterious space accident about eight years before the Revolution. The galaxy was stunned by the news. His death made headlines for days after. They even had a final transmission, showing him calmly reporting that he'd had engine failure and requesting assistance. But since he was way out in some remote part of space, he knew no one'd reach him in time. He said good-bye to his wife and family. It was a real heartbreaker.

  "The Royal Space Corps sent out rescue planes, but when they reached his last known coordinates there was nothing there. Some time later, they found the wreckage of his space-craft. Of course, no one ever knew what really happened, but Pantha'd always said that if he was marooned in space facing a slow death, he'd end it with a bang. And that's likely what he did."

  "I see," said Dion thoughtfully. "And when he died was he near the Ghost Legion's coordinates?"

  "No, Your Majesty," said John Dixter. "Nowhere in the area."

  Dion frowned. "Then I fail to see ..

  "I know, I know." Dixter sighed, rubbed his hand across his face. "It doesn't seem to get us anywhere. And maybe Garth Pantha doesn't have a damn thing to do with any of this. But as Tusk said, there's something odd about all this. Pantha discovered scores of new planets, new systems. And he gave lots of them names. It made good copy for his vid show. And this one he called Vallombrosa, which is one of the old languages— Italian, I think. It means—"

  "Vale of Shades," said Dion.

  Dixter stared. "I'm impressed, Your Majesty. You came up with that faster than the computer did."

  "The computer didn't study with Platus," said Dion, smiling at the memory. "Milton. Paradise Lost. Satan 'called his legions, Angel forms, who lay entranced thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in Vallombrosa ...' Vale of Shades."

  "Or, as we would say today, 'Valley of Ghosts,' " said John Dixter quietly.

  Dion looked up. "Ghosts again."

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter was grim. "Ghosts again."

  "And you consider this important?"

  "I think it's damn important. Look at what's gone on. The Ghost Legion seeks information about Snaga Ohme's. Ghostly somethings evade the very latest in security devices and break into Snaga Ohme's. The Ghost Legion is recruiting and, for all we know, hiring the very best spacepilots. And they give as coordinates a dead planet called the Valley of Ghosts by a dead explorer."

  The admiral leaned forward, illustrated his words with a motion of his index finger on the desk. "And what really scares me is that no matter where we start the circle, Dion, it ends up with you. The space-rotation bomb, Tusk and Link—even the fact that Pantha was once friends with your family. I don't understand it, I admit that. But I don't like it. Somewhere there's a key. We're missing it. I think we need to find that key, and find it fast."

  "And you're suggesting ... ?"

  "Talk to Archbishop Fideles, son. Ask him to pass this information on to . . . whoever might be interested." Dixter spoke earnestly, forgetting they weren't both back in that trailer on Vangelis. "I mean"—the admiral flushed red—"I mean Your Majesty."

  Dion smiled. "It sounded good to hear you call me son. It's been a long time." He fell silent. The smile faded. The room grew darker. A cloud, passing over the sun.

  At length Dion sighed and raised his head, looked at Dixter. "How did you know?"

  "Know what?" Dixter asked mildly.

  "That he's still alive." It was obvious, from the inflection, that they weren't discussing the archbishop.

  Dixter rubbed his grizzled jaw. "I didn't, Dion. Nothing certain. Call it a hunch. Or deduction. Derek Sagan considered suicide a mortal sin. And he wasn't the type to subconsciously put himself in the way of death. He was too good a fighter. His instincts would keep him alive, if
nothing else. No, I never did believe Sagan died in our escape from Corasia. He meant us to think he died. And if he is alive, there'd be only one place he'd go, in the end—to the place where he began."

  Dion nodded slowly. "Yes, that's how I figured it. I even asked Fideles about Sagan once, the day of the coronation. I said, point-blank, 'Have you had any word from Lord Sagan?' "

  "What was the archbishop's answer?"

  " 'He is with God,' Fideles told me. And then I asked, 'Is he dead?' But Fideles refused to tell me any more."

  Dixter shrugged. "I'd say that pretty well confirms it."

  "But where does this get us?" Dion argued. "If Sagan has forsaken the world, then he might as well be dead."

  "Unless he hasn't truly forsaken it, Your Majesty. Unless he's part of this conspiracy."

  Dion was silent. His hand nibbed the scars, back and forth, back and forth. He was looking at Dixter but not really seeing him. In his mind he had returned to that ghastly moon of death, to the last time he'd seen Derek Sagan standing at Maigrey's bier.

  "No," said Dion after a moment. "I can't believe that. You were there. You saw what he suffered. When she died, part of him died, too."

  "Maybe it grew back," Dixter suggested dryly.

  Dion frowned, displeased.

  The admiral shook his head, sighed. The memory was a painful one for him as well.

  "I saw Sagan then, Dion. But I also saw him twenty-odd years ago, too, when he led the revolution that overthrew the crown. If he wasn't directly responsible for the deaths of the king and your parents, Derek Sagan was the moving force behind it. And there was no question but that he tortured and murdered Tusk's father and any of the rest of the Guardians he could lay his hands on. Including—" Dixter stopped, glanced at the king, fell silent.

  "Including Platus," said Dion grimly. "I know. I was there. I watched. . . ." He stared back again, in time. "Odd. Platus quoted Milton that very night. . . ."

  "Full circle," Dixter muttered.

  Dion shook his head. "No, I won't believe it. But," he added, forestalling Dixter, "I will discuss the matter with the archbishop. Not that I think we'll find out anything. He's a man of the cloth, not a man of the sword."

  "You never know," said Dixter, standing up, preparing to take his leave. "Not so long ago, Archbishop Fideles was Brother Daniel, a nurse on Phoenix. He served on a ship of war, and while he may not have wielded a sword himself, he knew and understood those who did. He's not as unworldly as some people believe. Tell him that you yourself are in danger, Your Majesty. You . .. and the galaxy. I think he'll help."

  "Aren't you exaggerating?" Dion asked, smiling.

  "No, son," said Dixter solemnly, this time not bothering to correct himself. "I'm not."

  The admiral bowed and left. Dion sat a long time at his desk, then touched a switch. "D"argent, I want to speak to the archbishop, the Abbey of St. Francis."

  But D'argent was forced to report to His Majesty that the archbishop was gone from the abbey and no one had any idea where he was or how he could be reached.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

  And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

  Still threatening to devour me opens wide,

  To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Actually, Archbishop Fideles had not yet left the monastery when the king's summons came through. The archbishop was scheduled to leave and would have been on his private space transport, but his plans had been disrupted by an unexpected visitor.

  Fideles had sent the brother who served as his aide off on an errand to pick up a breviary the archbishop had forgotten, and so the outer office was empty and Fideles was alone when the respectful knock came at the closed door.

  The archbishop had his hand on the door's handle, having been just about to walk out. Thinking it was the aide misunderstanding instructions to meet the archbishop at his transport (the aide was an extremely devout brother, who tended to have his thoughts on heaven rather than on his more mundane and worldly duties, and was thus often and easily confused), Fideles flung open the door, a mild rebuke on his lips.

  He was astounded to find not the wide-eyed and abashed Brother Petra ("Oh, dear. I was to meet Your Excellency at the transport, wasn't I?") but one of the lay brothers—those who had come to the abbey to dedicate their lives to the service of God but who, for various reasons, would never be permitted to take the vows or perform the duties of a priest.

  The brother stood in respectful silence, his head bowed, his arms folded into the sleeves of the cassock that was frayed and threadbare—cast-off clothing from other brothers. It was not required of the lay brother that he dress in such humble garments; he chose to do so himself Nor was it required of him that he keep his cowl pulled low over his face or shun the company and conversation of his brethren. That too, he had taken upon himself, just as he took upon himself the hardest, most grueling, difficult, and demeaning tasks in the abbey.

  Fideles was too astonished by the sight of this brother, standing in his doorway, to speak. Despite the fact that he could not see his face, the archbishop knew the man immediately, knew him by his above-average height and the extraordinary girth of chest and shoulders—though somewhat thin from fasting— visible beneath the shabby robes.

  He was called Paenitens—the Penitent One. That was his formal name among the brethren. Privately, he was known as the Unforgiven. He had another name, too, his true name. But that name was known to only two people, himself and the archbishop, and to God.

  "Brother Penitent!" said Fideles, marveling. "I ... I am extremely glad to see you!"

  Extremely amazed to see you would have been nearer the truth, but Fideles trusted God would forgive him the lie. Never before had Penitent sought his archbishop. Generally, the lay brother went out of his way to avoid a meeting. Fideles could not recall the last time they had spoken, though he had often seen the silent, unsociable man working at his solitary labors about the abbey.

  "I am pleased, very pleased, to see you, Brother," the archbishop repeated, somewhat flustered. "I have long wanted to speak with you, but now, I am afraid, is not a good time. As you see, I was just on my way off-planet. The matter is quite urgent or else I— I'm really afraid I cannot take time—"

  "I am aware of this, Holiness," said the lay brother. Talking seemed to require an effort of him, as if speech were a power not often used, almost forgotten. "That is why I came. I must speak with you now, before you leave."

  The archbishop was already late, but he found he could not refuse this dark and commanding presence any more than he could have refused Death, if he'd discovered that grim figure standing in his doorway.

  "Certainly, Brother," Fideles said.

  Dropping his small article of luggage on the floor, the archbishop stood aside, allowing the brother to enter the office. Fideles started to shut the door when a hand emerged from the rough robes, prevented him. Penitent glanced around behind him, into the empty outer chambers.

  "We will be alone?" he asked.

  "Yes, I believe so. I forgot my breviary and Brother Petra has gone to fetch it. He is supposed to meet me at the transport..."

  Brother Penitent nodded silently, stepped inside the room, and stood waiting in silence, unmoving, hands again clasped beneath the sleeves of his cassock. Fideles shut the door and returned to his desk.

  "Please be seated, Brother," said the archbishop. Placing his hands on the desk, he was about to sit down himself.

  "There is not time, Holiness," intoned the brother.

  Fideles levered himself back to a standing position. He was suddenly worried and alarmed, certain some dire catastrophe had befallen. "What is it, Brother? What has happened?"

  The lay brother did not respond to the question directly, did not appear to want the waste of words that would be required.

  He said only, "You must take me with you, Holiness."

  Abbo
t Fideles was completely and totally confounded. He was also troubled. "Brother," he said, his refusal reluctant, "were it any other occasion, I would, of course, be glad for your company, but I have agreed to undertake this mission in secret and I—"

  "I know the secret, Holiness." Brother Penitent's tone was low, his shoulders bowed, as if he bore some heavy burden. "I know where you are going and why."

  "That is not possible," said the archbishop.

  Brother Penitent did not appear to hear him, continued speaking relentlessly. "You have been requested to come immediately to a sanitarium run by the Sisters of Magdelen on a planet in the Central Systems. The sister superior herself contacted you directly, convinced you that the matter was of the utmost urgency and should be kept confidential, even to the extent of prohibiting you from telling anyone where you are going or why."

  "How do you know this?" Fideles demanded, amazed both at the knowledge and the calm with which Brother Penitent recited it. "The message was sent through private channels."

  Again the words came slowly to Brother Penitent's lips. "Let us say ... God revealed it to me."

  "Did He?" asked Fideles, struck by the hesitating manner of a man who had never in his life hesitated to do or face or say anything.

  Brother Penitent reached up his hand, slowly and deliber-ately removed the cowl, lifted his head, fixed his eyes upon the archbishop. The man's face was so deeply lined it appeared to be scarred. His black hair was streaked with gray and fell lank and long and unkempt on his shoulders. His mouth was thin-lipped, mirthless. But it was the eyes that arrested Fideles, caused his heart to wrench with pity. The man's eyes were empty, dark. The archbishop remembered those eyes when they had been vibrant, burning, alive.

  Brother Penitent said simply, "Let us say that He did."

  Uneasy, bewildered, the archbishop pondered what to do and, trying to find some clue, studied the brother standing before him. Fideles became aware of a tension within Penitent, a tautness that made the man's body quiver.