Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Tusk grunted. "You couldn't go off and leave me stuck with a pile of debts and no money without me coming looking for you is what you mean."

  "Well, that, too." Link grinned. Leaning back in the co-pilot's chair, he put his feet on the console.

  The lights flickered. A humming sound ran through the metal. Tusk snatched his hands back from the control panel just in time.

  Link wasn't so lucky. Letting out a shriek, he jerked his feet off the console, shot out of his chaii; and began hopping around the lower deck, slapping frantically at his tingling legs.

  "Jeez!" he swore, glaring at the computer. "What'd you do that for? You damn near fried me!"

  "No boots on the console!" snapped XJ.

  "Damn! I knew there was something I meant to do," Tusk said in a low voice, being careful to keep from touching any metal. "I meant to ask how much Cynthia wanted for Mrs. Mopup."

  "And that was that, sir," Tusk said a week later. He'd returned safely to Vangelis, was making his report to John Dixter. "They thought I had an in with His Majesty. When they found out different, they lost their enthusiasm over me real quick."

  "Do you suppose they believed you?" Dixter asked, dubious.

  "They got no reason not to," said Tusk quietly.

  Dixter was silent a moment, studied him intently. "I'm sorry, son. I assumed you understood. Dion thought, for your own protection—"

  Tusk felt his skin burn. "Forget it, sir. I'm the one who should be apologizing. It's all right. Really. And, anyway, it looks like he was right."

  "Yes, it looks that way." Dixter sounded unconvinced, but he couldn't argue with the facts and so he let it go, moved on to other subjects. "This Ghost Legion. Did they say anything about it? Why the name, for example?"

  "Cynthia told me. It's 'cause they call their spaceplanes Gray Ghosts. I'd score 'em zero for originality, but nothing worse."

  "It sounds plausible," Dixter admitted. "And that man— Captain Dhure. He told you the planet's name was Vallombrosa."

  "Yeah, I didn't call him on that one. Couldn't very well let him know I'd been checking up on him, though it would have served him right, all the checking they'd done on me. My guess is you look for a planet on the opposite side of the galaxy from Vallomwhatever and you'll find someone getting ready to go to war against someone else."

  "You're probably right," said Dixter thoughtfully. "Still . . ."

  "Yes, sir?"

  The admiral shook his head. "Nothing. Thanks for the information, Tusk. Report to me immediately if you hear from them again."

  "Don't think there's much chance of that, sir. Unless they want to sell me a vacuum cleaner." Tusk grinned.

  "I wouldn't be so certain," said Dixter, and ended the transmission.

  Chapter Seventeen

  But in that he died, he died unto sin once; but in that he liveth, he liveth unto God.

  The Bible, Romans 6:9

  It was morning in the Abbey of St. Francis. Bells rang, calling the brothers to prayer. Slowly, devotedly, the robed and hooded figures—priests, monks, novitiates, and lay brothers— left whatever tasks they were performing and entered the cathedral to join together in praise of the Creator, to ask His blessing on this new day. At the close of service, the small news of the religious community was given out by Prior John and daily problems and other matters were voiced and dealt with. The brethren were dismissed to go to breakfast, then continue about their duties.

  But on that day, one of their number was missing.

  "Where is Brother Penitent?" demanded Prior John.

  No one knew. No one had seen him. He had not been to breakfast, to take in silence his cup of milk and an orange and a wedge of fresh-baked bread, to sit apart in a corner that had become his own. His absence from a meal was not unusual, however; he was known to fast on frequent occasions, to mortify his flesh as a gift to God. But he had never, though weak from self-enforced hunger, missed a day of work.

  Ordinarily Brother Penitent would have been about his duties—lifting sick and infirm brethren in his strong arms, bathing them, changing bed linens, or digging in the garden, fighting the never-ending battie against weeds that, like evil, were rooted out of one place only to flourish in another.

  Or perhaps he might be working in the dark subterranean basement, repairing die giant machines—a mystery to most of the brethren—that maintained the abbey's life-support systems, critical in a world of domed cities, stinging dust-laden wind, and a sun that did not warm the garish red-rock landscape.

  Today Brother Penitent had not gone to his work, had not re-ported to Prior John to find out what task was to be assigned to him. Not once in the three years since he had been in the monastery had Brother Penitent neglected his duties. Silent, grim, he often drove himself until he was on the verge of exhaustion, indomitable will alone aiding his weary footsteps back to his comfortless cell. He would stop working only when the bells called him to his prayers.

  Brother Penitent always stopped to pray, falling to his knees wherever he might be. But he never entered the great cathedral. Not once in three years had he set foot inside its holy walls. He shunned it, rather; went out of his way to avoid it, would refuse to do any work inside it. Not even Archbishop Fideles had been able to prevail upon Penitent to accept God's forgiveness and enter His house.

  Which is one reason why Brother Penitent had become known unofficially among the other brethren as the Unforgiven.

  Today, however, he had not even been seen at his prayers.

  This break in their daily regimen caused a small flurry of excitement among the brethren, similar to the day the dome's seal had cracked and permitted the outside bone-chilling and poisonous air to hiss into the abbey. Brothers scattered in all directions, searching the grounds and buildings, and none reported finding their missing brother. Finally one of the young novitiates thought to look through the small iron grille in the door of Brother Penitent's cell. The novitiate, wide-eyed, returned to Prior John and reported what he had seen.

  Brother Penitent was discovered sitting on his bed in the cramped and narrow cell in the dortoir of the monastery, staring at the palm of his right hand and talking to nothing but the empty air.

  "What do You want of me?" They could hear him shout, his voice tense, frustrated. "What do You want of me? I have nothing left to give!"

  Archbishop Fideles sat in his office, behind his desk, staring not at his hand but at a communique he held in his hand. The communique had been delivered by special courier, a royal courier who was waiting for the archbishop on his return from his trip to the hospital.

  Disturbed and deeply troubled by the strange tale of the doctor, Fideles viewed the Royal Seal on the courier's missive with misgiving. His Majesty was very much on the archbishop's mind, and now to discover that the king had been trying in vain to reach the archbishop seemed an ominous coincidence.

  If it was coincidence.

  The archbishop read the communique—which was marked classified, top-secret—in perplexity. It was a compilation of reports dealing with incidents far removed from and unrelated to the business of the Church: a mysterious invasion of the house of the late Adonian weapons dealer, Snaga Ohme; an attempt to steal the space-rotation bomb by a group calling itself Ghost Legion; a report from a Mendaharin Tusca that he'd been contacted by said Ghost Legion; the abduction and return of said Tusca; a mysterious planet known as Vallombrosa; a famed explorer ...

  "Grand Dieu!" breathed Archbishop Fideles, dropping the communique to the desk and staring at it in perplexity.

  "Holiness?" A rap on the door, a timid voice breaking in on his thoughts.

  The abbey did not hold with such modern conveniences as commlinks or intercom devices or even telephones, except for communication with the outside world, deemed necessary to the head of a far-flung Order. Within the abbey walls, business was carried on much as it had been carried on centuries earlier—by word of mouth.

  "I left orders not to be disturbed," called Fideles harshly. He
never spoke to anyone harshly.

  "I ... I know, Holiness. Forgive me." Brother Petra sounded rattled. "But this is ... an emergency ... Prior John ..."

  "It's about Brother Penitent, Holiness." Prior John's stern tones came through the door. A man of extreme self-importance, the prior ran the affairs of the abbey with implacable efficiency. He considered his own affairs must naturally take precedence over any others. "Our brother is acting very strangely. Stranger than usual," the prior thought fit to add.

  "What now?" Fideles sighed and cast a reproachful glance heavenward, for which he immediately asked forgiveness. Catching hold of the missive, not sorry to forget it for the moment, he slid it into the drawer of his desk. "Enter; with God's blessing"

  Prior John swept inside.

  "Yes, what is it?" asked Fideles, now truly concerned at the sight of the priest's set and rigid face. "Is our brother taken ill?"

  "I think he has gone mad, Holiness," stated the prior solemnly. "If you remember, I advised against his admittance. We knew nothing about him, about his past, his background—"

  "It was my decision, as I again remind you, Prior. A decision that, as head of this Order, I had every right to make." Fideles spoke impatiently, sharply. "Tell me what has happened!"

  Prior John, chastened by the rebuke, drew himself up straight, clasped his hands together over the front of his surplice. "Brother Penitent did not report to his work this morning. I sent the others to look for him, to find out what was amiss. One of the novitiates discovered Brother Penitent still in his cell. He did not answer to the young man's knocks.

  "When I arrived, I found our brother sitting on his bed talking to himself, apparently oblivious to my presence outside his door. Thinking he was sick, naturally I took it upon myself to enter." He paused, perhaps waiting for approbation.

  "Naturally," said Fideles dryly. "And what did Brother Penitent do?"

  "He leapt to his feet, like a man possessed, Holiness." Prior John gave every appearance of never being able to recover from the shock. "And he yelled at me in a thundering voice, with such a black look on his face that I thought he was going to strike me."

  "Did he?" asked Fideles, growing more and more alarmed.

  "No," said Prior John, sounding disappointed. "But he spoke to me in the devil's tongue. Undoubtedly using profane language. I consider it fortunate that I did not understand him."

  God keep me from choking this man, prayed Fideles, eyeing the prior grimly. Aloud he said, "I doubt if Brother Penitent would take our Creator's name in vain. Perhaps, if you could remember what the words were, I could make some sense of them—"

  "Fortunately, Holiness, I have a good ear." Prior John repeated the words, with an expression that left no doubt he considered that he was placing his soul in jeopardy by merely pronouncing them.

  The words came out garbled, but Fideles understood them easily, having spent a year of his life in the Warlord's service on board a ship of war. The language was Standard Military, a jar-gon used by soldiers of all races and nationalities—both human and alien.

  What is the meaning of this intrusion, Captain? was the phrase Brother Penitent had shouted at the astonished prior. I did not send for you. Return to your duties.

  What was happening? Was the prior right? Was Brother Penitent going mad?

  "Where is our brother now?" Fideles asked, concerned, preparing to go to him.

  But Prior John was not to be hurried with his tale, of which he was—as usual—the hero. "I managed to calm him. Otherwise, I do not know what violence he might have done to himself or to others. I spoke to him sternly. I have never been one to coddle him. I reminded him of his duty to me—his superior. At this, he grew sullen, refused to answer my questions. Therefore, I brought him to you. He is waiting in the chamber outside. But I thought it right to prepare you—"

  "For God's sake, man!" cried Fideles, jumping up, slamming his fist on the desk. "Stop driveling and send him in!" He shoved past the shocked and disapproving prior, hastened to the door, and threw it open.

  Brother Penitent, hood drawn low over his face, hands folded in his sleeves, stood silent and unmoving in the antechamber. Brother Petra, looking nervous and extremely unhappy, huddled in a corner, as far from the supposed madman as was possible to get.

  "I will deal with the matter now, Prior," Fideles said, regaining control. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Please forgive me if I spoke sharply to you, but I am certain you can understand my concern for our brother's welfare."

  The offended prior bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and stalked out the door.

  Brother Penitent entered the office. Archbishop Fideles spoke a few words to Brother Petra, who left immediately and—to judge by his expression—gratefully. Shutting the outer door to the antechamber, Fideles returned to his own office, shut his own door, and locked it.

  He faced the brother, who kept his head bowed, said nothing. The archbishop found himself at a loss for words, had no idea where to begin or how to continue if and when he got started. He could, he decided at last, only trust to God to lead him.

  "What is troubling you, Brother Penitent? I hope you know that you can trust me."

  The lay brother did not respond.

  Fideles moistened his dry mouth. "Please, sit down."

  The brother did not move.

  "I'm glad you came," the archbishop continued. "I was going to send for you. I have received a communique from His Majesty, the king."

  Brother Penitent raised his head. The eyes were dark, but no longer empty. The eyes asked, as plainly as if he had spoken aloud, What has that to do with me?

  "The communique was addressed to me," continued Fideles, "but I don't believe it was intended for me." He drew in a deep breath, looked at the brother intently. "His Majesty intended it for Lord Derek Sagan."

  "Derek Sagan is dead," said Brother Penitent quietly, impassively.

  The archbishop reached out his hand, laid it upon Penitent's forearm. He felt bone and muscle, strong still, from backbreaking, self-imposed labor. Within, he felt the quiver, the tension.

  "I do not think so," said the archbishop with a faint smile, "for he spoke, just now, to the captain of his guard."

  The man's face was unnaturally pale, gaunt, haggard. The eyes were red-rimmed, from lack of sleep, and sunken in their sockets. Fideles was fearful, at first, that Penitent would attempt to continue the deception, but at last the dark eyes closed in resignation, the head bowed.

  Suddenly, frowning, he looked up.

  "How did the king know?" His voice was hard with suspicion.

  "I did not betray you, my lord," said Fideles.

  Sagan's mouth twisted. Fideles realized suddenly that he'd used the old title. My lord. It came easily, too easily. Fideles knew then how often he had started to address Sagan by it, been forced to bite it back. The air of authority, of command, welled out from underneath the habit of humility and meek compliance. Sagan wore the robes with sincerity, of that the archbishop had no doubt. But there was no denying who and what he was, what he had once been.

  "Dion is Blood Royal, Brother," Fideles added, flushing selfconsciously. "You know more about what extraordinary qualities that gives him than I do, but I believe I have heard it said that the Blood Royal have an affinity for each other. And the two of you were close...."

  Sagan remained standing, head bowed again, considering. Then he raised his head, looked at Fideles. The eyes' redness made them appear that much darker by contrast. And they were no longer empty. In their depths, a fire burned.

  "Would you bring the Warlord back to life?" he asked, and lifted a warding hand when Fideles would have answered. "Think well, Holiness—for if you resurrect him, you bring him back with all his faults—"

  "And all his virtues," said the archbishop earnestly. "It is not my hand that draws you back, Brother, but God's."

  Saga gave a bitter laugh. "I wonder."

  "You said He spoke to you, told you of—"

 
; "I lied." Sagan smiled grimly, turned his right hand, palm up, to the light.

  Five scars that looked like puncture wounds marred the man's hardened and callused palm. The scars were obviously old, yet now they were red and swollen and oozed a clear liquid.

  Fideles know what had created the scars. They were made by the bloodsword, by five needles on the sword's hilt that penetrated the skin, flooding the body with micro machines that connected brain and nerves to the sword, creating a weapon that responded as swiftly as thought.

  "I don't understand, my lord!" Fideles stared at him. "You destroyed the bloodsword! Years ago. I saw you throw it into the fiery water myself. And when you entered the Order, you took a vow before God never again to lay your hand on tools of violence.. .."

  "Look at it, Holiness," Sagan demanded harshly. "Look at the marks of my past. And I ask you again, will you bring the Warlord back to life?"

  Fideles did not understand what was going on, but he was wise enough to know that there were some things he was not meant to understand. He had come a child to the Order. He did not remember hearing his mother's voice, or his father's; he remembered hearing only God's. His faith had been tested in many ways and though he had slipped on the path and fallen more than once, he had always risen to his feet and continued on, bruised and hurting, but stronger for his struggles. Young as he was—and he was now only in his early thirties—these Strug-gles were why he had been chosen by the king to restore the Church, to bring worship of the Creator back to those who had previously been informed, by an "enlightened government, that He was a myth.

  Fideles took the man's hand, the scarred hand, in his own. The flesh was chill, as if, in truth, he touched the hand of a corpse. He looked at the scars, the scars of war, of violence, of ambition. And on top of those scars, fresh scars—calluses, rubbed by the wooden handle of a shovel, raw from scrubbing floors, thin from fasting.

  "These wounds are on the surface, Brother. I see those in your soul and they are still open and bleeding. You've sought to heal them with prayer, with overwork, with self-denial and self-abuse. ..