Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  As it was, he staggered back against it, crashing into the blinds, nearly bringing them down on his head. He gulped for air, couldn't find any. His chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

  "You're dead!" Tusk wheezed.

  "Not quite," Sagan said. He walked over to Tusk, reached out his hand.

  Tusk made a good attempt at climbing backward up the wall. "Don't! No—"

  The Warlord took hold of the pilot's black arm.

  Tusk gasped, flinched, expecting to feel corpselike fingers dragging him down into a marble crypt. But the hand that touched him was warm, its grip strong. Shivering, Tusk stared at it, his mouth opening and shutting.

  "Flesh and blood," said Sagan grimly. Steering Tusk to a chair, he thrust him down into it. "Here, drink this." The Warlord grabbed a bottle, poured something in a glass, put it in Tusk's hand.

  Tusk nearly dropped it. After fumbling with the glass for a moment, he tossed the contents down thankfully. He had no idea what it was, but the fiery burn in his throat stabilized him, though he was still confused as hell. He began to catch his breath, decided maybe he wasn't having a heart attack, after all. Just a stroke.

  He picked up the bottle. His hand was shaking too much to hit the glass; he sloshed the liquor all over his pant legs. Tossing the glass, Tusk lifted the bottle to his lips, took another drink, and found he could actually look at Sagan without shuddering.

  "Where's B-Banquo?" Tusk mumbled, his lips almost too numb to form the words.

  Sagan cast a significant glance through the open door to the bedroom.

  Tusk, peering that direction, saw the empty air-chair, a pile of clothes and padding, and a plasticskin mask, lying on the bed. He looked back at Sagan ... and understood.

  "Holy shit," he whispered in awe, and gulped another drink.

  Sagan took the bottle, set it back on the desk. "We have important business to discuss, Mendaharin Tusca. I want my partner' sober."

  "Your . . . partner . . ." Tusk stood up unsteadily, supported himself on the edge of the desk.

  Sagan walked over to the window, began checking the vicinity. The Warlord was dressed in military fatigues—pants only— his chest and arms were bare. Tusk gazed in semi-drunken fascination at the scars on the man's arms and back and chest. Battle scars, some of them; others appeared to have been self-inflicted.

  "Yes, partner," said Sagan. Making certain the blind was securely shut once again, he turned to face Tusk. "Rather appropriate, don't you agree? Seeing that it was my Scimitar to begin with. I'm buying back my own stolen property."

  "This ... this was a setup!" Tusk burbled. "You swindled Link ... on purpose!"

  "Indeed." Sagan seated himself on the edge of the desk. "Sit down. We have a great deal to discuss. Perhaps you should breathe into a paper bag...."

  Tusk muttered something pertaining to paper bags and their ultimate fate in the universe and collapsed back into the chair. He stared at Sagan, unable to believe, yet forced to believe; completely unable to comprehend.

  "You're not dead," he said at last in wonder.

  "I thought we settled that," Sagan remarked with some asperity.

  "Yeah, yeah. Just ... just give me a minute, will you? You're not dead and you're half-owner in my plane. Not some clown named Lazarus Banquo who never existed, but you—Lord Sagan. Christ!"

  Tusk put his head in his hands, shut his eyes. This procedure didn't help. When he opened them again, Derek Sagan was still sitting on the edge of the desk. "What the hell's going on here? Why the disguise? Why the setup? Does Dion know? This has something to do with him, right?"

  Sagan almost smiled. The muscles at one corner of his mouth twitched; the dark eyes warmed briefly.

  "Yes, this has something to do with Dion. You might say it has everything to do with Dion. You are going to enter the palace, Mendaharin Tusca, and abduct the king."

  Tusk gawked, stared, then laughed,. "What's the punch line?"

  "No joke," said Derek Sagan. "I am serious. Deadly serious. You don't think I'd spend day after day wearing that disguise"—he glanced in disgust at the remains of Lazarus Banquo—"if I not serious?"

  Now Sagan did smile, but the smile was dark and mocking. "Come, come, Tusca. You were about to agree to indenture yourself to the odious Mr. Banquo in return for the privilege of keeping your beloved plane. You will simply indenture yourself to me. Either that or pay me the cash you owe me."

  Tusk was on his feet. "You know I can't. You knew that when you cooked up this scheme. Trying your old tricks again. Still trying to get hold of the crown for yourself. Well, you can count me out. I'll blow up the damn plane first. I'll blow myself up with it. Go to hell. Go back to hell "

  Tusk made an unsteady lurch for the door. He had nearly reached it, was astonished that he had come this far and was still alive, when Sagan spoke.

  "That was what I was hoping you would say."

  Tusk stopped, half-turned, looked around. "What do you mean by that?"

  "His Majesty is in deadly peril, Tusca. Together, you and I are going to try to save him. But we will be playing a dangerous game."

  Sagan sounded sincere, Tusk had to give him that. Yet Derek Sagan was Blood Royal. He had the gift. He could be charming when he wanted, sound sincere when he wanted. When it suited his purpose.

  The Warlord rose to his feet, reached into the pocket of his fatigues.

  "Take it slow," Tusk said, hand on the lasgun he wore at his belt.

  Sagan drew forth a small plastic computer disk. He held it up for Tusk to see.

  Tusk kept his hand on his gun, made no move to take the disk.

  The Warlord walked over to Tusk, slapped the computer disk into his palm.

  "This is the deed to my half of the Scimitar. It's yours, Mendaharin Tusca. Free and clear. Take it and walk out that door. I won't stop you. I doubt if I could stop you," added Sagan wryly. "I'm not the man I once was."

  Turning, he walked back over to the window, lifted one of the blinds, looked out. Tusk could see the scars on the man's back, as if he'd been struck repeatedly with a whip.

  "Like hell you're not," Tusk muttered beneath his breath.

  He juggled the disk, flipped it up and down. He knew it, recognized it. It was the deed, all right. The Scimitar was his again. All his. He could walk out that door this minute, except he knew now he wouldn't, and he knew Sagan knew.

  "All right. If we're doing this for Dion, he must have given you some message for me, some little something that would make me know this is all legit.... We have a code, you see ..."

  The earring. He would have sent the small earring made in the shape of an eight-pointed star. Tusk's father had given it to him, to remind Tusk of a vow—a call to serve a monarchy in exile. He'd answered that call, reluctantly, but he'd answered. The call had changed his life. He'd given the star to Dion, the last time he and Tusk had met.

  If you ever need me ... Tusk had told him.

  "Dion didn't send me," Sagan replied. "He doesn't know anything about this, and he mustn't. That's part of the game. They sent me to recruit you. It was my—"

  "They who?"

  Sagan was irritated. "You're not stupid, Tusca. I don't hire stupid people and once, for some misguided reason, I hired you. Who do you think 'they' are?"

  "That outfit that calls itself the Ghost Legion? I'll give 'em credit. They're well-named. They dug you up from somewhere."

  "What did you say?"

  "Nothing, nothing." The more Tusk thought about this, the less sense it made. He shook his head, baffled. "So it is the Ghost Legion? They sent you to get me?"

  "It was my idea, I must admit, but I allowed them to think it was their own. You are going to join Dion's enemies, Tusca. You must convince Dion that you are a traitor."

  "Yeah, and maybe you're the traitor!" Tusk's head was throbbing. "I don't like this. I don't like any of it. How do you expect me to trust you? You had my father murdered. Damn near killed me—" He stopped. It had suddenly occurred to him th
at maybe he should be finding out a few things, pass them on to Dixter . . .

  "Look, sir, my lord, if you'd give me more details, then I could decide few myself."

  Sagan did not turn around. He shook his head.

  "This is just dandy." Tusk swore. "You don't trust me. I sure as hell don't trust you—"

  "It's not that, Mendaharin Tusca," Sagan interrupted, still keeping watch out the window. "You have a pregnant wife, a child. I presume you don't want them involved. Though," he added in a lower voice, "some people already think you know too much. Come here." He motioned toward the window.

  Tusk hesitated a moment, then stepped forward.

  "Look outside," Sagan said.

  Suspecting a trick, Tusk peered out through the chink in the blind. "What the hell am I looking at beside a whole lotta concrete?"

  "The woman sitting on the bench out in front of the grocery store fanning herself. Do you know her?"

  Tusk looked at her intently—again. She'd thrown away the pop can. "No." He shrugged. "That doesn't mean a lot. We do a roaring tourist trade around here—"

  "She knows you," Sagan said coolly. "She followed you here."

  "From my home?"

  "From your home. They know where you live. They've had you under surveillance for a week now."

  Tusk eyed Sagan. "You did this to me."

  "You did this to yourself, Tusca. When you befriended a seventeen-year-old boy and helped make him a king."

  Tusk peered back out at the woman. It was odd, her sitting there like that in the middle of the day. "Meaning to say that I'm already involved, no matter what I decide."

  "Perhaps." Sagan shrugged. "Perhaps not. They might forget about you ... about your wife and child...."

  Tusk took another look at the woman on the bench. Irritably, he snapped the blind shut.

  "This has all happened too fast. You gotta give me some time."

  "We don't have time," said the Warlord. "They are watching you. I don't believe they have penetrated Banquo's disguise, but they'll soon figure out who I am and then they'll start watching me. This room is the one safe place where we can talk without being overheard."

  "There's the Scimitar. ..."

  Sagan shook his head.

  Tusk stared at him. "You're saying they've got it bugged? Naw, that's crazy!"

  Sagan lifted an eyebrow. "Is it? Think back. Have you had any customers in the last two weeks?"

  Tusk tried to think. He was beginning to feel as if he were sinking deeper and deeper into dark water.

  "No. Business hasn't been all that great," he said glumly. "Hell! Wait a minute, though. They decided we weren't what they had in mind, but they went on board, took a look around ... Shit!

  "If you're right, I'm already in this." Tusk glowered. "I'm in this up to my goddam neck. And I still think you're responsible!"

  The Warlord had no comment. A slight smile tugged at his lips; it did not warm the eyes.

  Tusk turned on his heel, walked toward the door. He had his hand on the handle, was opening the door when Sagan spoke.

  "If you go home, they'll grab you, your wife and your child. They can't afford to leave witnesses. On the other hand, if you and Lazarus Banquo leave now, we can board the Scimitar and be off-planet before they know what's happened. Once we're away, you can send a message to your wife, warn her to flee to a place of safety."

  Tusk stood a moment, then he yanked open the door, stalked out of the room, slammed the door shut behind him. Clutching the computer disk in his hand, he tromped angrily down the hall, took the fire stairs instead of the elevator, came storming out into the front lobby.

  Rozzle was standing at the reception desk. "I'm sorry, Tusk. If there's anything . . ."

  Tusk walked over to the front entrance. "Did Link get home all right?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "Yeah, I had one of the girls drive him. Tusk, I—"

  Tusk's eyes flicked in the direction of the woman seated in front of the grocery store. She sat fanning herself in the heat, looking up and down the road as if she were waiting for someone.

  Turning, he walked back to the desk. "Rozzle, do me a favor. Send a message to Banquo. Tell him I've gone to get our Scimitar ready for liftoff. He can meet me there whenever he's ready."

  Rozzle grimaced, shook his head. "That fat bastard. Sure, I'll tell him. Look, Tusk, again, I'm really sorry . .."

  "Forget it," Tusk said grimly. "It's not your fault."

  He left the motel, walked across the parking lot. Climbing into the jeep, he kicked it into gear, drove off. He took a quick glance in the rearview mirror.

  The woman was gone.

  Chapter Two

  By a knight of ghosts and shadows

  I summoned am to tourney

  Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end.

  Anonymous, "Tom O'Bedlam"

  "Open up, XJ!" Tusk bawled, banging on top of the Scimitar's hatch. "Hurry up! I'm about to fry out here in the sun!"

  The hatch whirred open slowly. Tusk tumbled down the ladder. The Scimitar's interior was dark and sweltering hot.

  "Tusk, is that you?" came an irritable voice, which sounded as if it had been awakened from a nap.

  "Jeez, turn the air on, will you?" Tusk said mopping his brow with his shirttail. "It's like a goddam oven in here!" "If you think I am going to waste fuel—" "Shut up and do it," Tusk growled, in no mood to argue. "We've got a—" he swallowed, "new owner and he—" "What?" XJ screeched.

  "You heard me," said Tusk, glancing around the plane nervously. He knew he wouldn't be able to spot the listening devices, but he couldn't help looking. "Link lost his share of the spaceplane in an ante-up game. The new owner's coming to ... uh ... take it out for a spin. So get ready for liftoff. Oh, and while you're at it"—he tried to sound casual—"run the routine system check for bugs."

  "New owner—! Link lost—! Bugs—" XJ's circuits were overloading. The computer sizzled and crackled incoherently. "There are no bugs on my plane. He won't find so much as a cockroach—"

  Tusk swung himself down into the cockpit. Crouching over the computer, he hissed, "Listening devices, you RAMless idiot! Run the routine program!"

  "Routine program? What routine—" Tusk gave the computer a swift thump. "Oh!" XJ's lights blinked viciously. "That routine program. Why didn't you say so? Not that I'll find any—I'll be damned."

  Tusk grunted. Collapsing into the chair, he lowered his aching head into his hands.

  "You want me to get rid of them?" XJ asked in subdued tones.

  "No," Tusk snarled, "I want to keep them for pets!"

  "Gee, aren't we in a mood today?" XJ said loftily.

  There was silence, then the report. "All clear. Who planted them— What in the name of ROM are you doing?"

  Tusk was staring at himself in one of the steel panels, poking and pulling at his skin.

  "I think I am," he said.

  "Am what? Crazy? Yeah, I could have told you—"

  "No. My skin. I think I've turned white." Tusk put his nose to the steel plate, ran his hands over his face.

  "Would you at least try to make sense?" XJ demanded irritably. "What happened to the plane? Who's the new owner? Someone with a brain, I trust."

  "I've heard about things like this," Tusk said, examining his hands. "People have a sudden shock. Their hair turns white overnight—"

  "Hair turns white! Hair! Hair! It happens to hair, not to skin, you moron. What happened to the plane?" XJ howled.

  "Link got in an ante-up game—" Tusk began.

  "Is that him?" XJ interrupted, shocked.

  "Who?"

  "The new owner. Outside. I can't believe this—"

  "Switch on the cam," Tusk said, sounding nervous.

  An image appeared on the vidscreen. It was Lazarus Banquo, in his air-chair, jetting across the tarmac.

  Tusk jumped to his feet. "Open up the cargo bay. We'll get him on board through that."

  "Shall I rig up a winch?" asked XJ sarcastically. />
  Tusk whipped around, glared at the computer. "You might be interested to know that he owns the half of the plane that has you in it."

  "I'm not surprised," XJ retorted. "An intelligent, sensible-looking gentleman like that would immediately recognize my talents—"

  Tusk left to open the cargo bay.

  "A fine-looking plane, sir. Fine-looking,'' said Lazarus Banquo, rubbing his hands together. Safely ensconced inside the Scimitar, he drove his chair around the passenger compartment. "I see you've made a few improvements—"

  "We took care of the bugs," Tusk interrupted. "You can ... uh ... make yourself comfortable now."

  Without waiting for a response, he headed again for the cockpit and began running through his systems check. He could hear, up above, what sounded like a balloon deflating.

  "Well be ready for liftoff in about thirty minutes. Sorry it's taking so long, but I had all the systems shut down to save on fuel—"

  "My idea, sir," the computer chimed in, talking in dulcet tones. "You'll find we run an extremely efficient ship, Mr. uh ... I don't believe we have been introduced. Who is this gentleman, Tusca?"

  XJ sent a mild electrical jolt through Tusk's fingers.

  "Ouch! Jeez!" Tusk snatched his hand back. "You—!" He paused, then said sweetly, "I'm pretty busy right now, XJ. Why don't you go up and introduce yourself to our new owner?"

  "I'll just do that." XJ popped into its remote unit.

  Small arms wiggling, it soared up from the cockpit and into the Scimitar's main cabin. Tusk stood up to watch.

  "How do you do, sir? I am XJ-27 and I'm the one who really runs—"

  XJ's optics flared. It gave a wild eep, then, with a strange sound—a sort of an electronic gargle—the remote went dark and crashed to the deck with a thud.

  The lights went out; air-conditioning and life-support systems shut down. Tusk fumbled for a nuke lamp. Switching the beam on, he climbed up the ladder, flashed the light around.

  Lord Sagan stood on the deck. XJ's remote unit lay at his feet, wobbling back and forth. Then it slowly rolled to a stop.

  "My God," said Tusk, awed, "I think you've killed it."

  The Warlord actually smiled.

  "If that's the case, I have an FNCB 67 in my volksrocket. We can make the transfer—"