Lights on the remote flickered, flashed on, went out, came back on, dimmed a moment, but the computer hung in there. Cool air began to blow into the cabin once again.
"Where . . . where am I?" asked XJ feebly.
"If we're finished with the theatrics," Sagan said grimly, "and if there's any water, I'm going to take a shower." He was still pulling plastiskin off his face.
"There's . . . there's water, m-my lord," stammered XJ, a glitch fluttering its audio. "Lots of water. More water than you could possibly want ... ever."
The Warlord stripped off the remains of Lazarus Banquo, then squeezed himself into the small shower unit.
Tusk, trying hard to keep a straight face, went back down to the cockpit. XJ followed, the remote unit breathing down Tusk's neck.
"Why didn't you tell me?" the computer demanded, seething. "I could have shorted out! I think I did melt down two whole boards. Was that ... is that ... Derek Sagan?"
"Yes," said Tusk, flipping switches.
"Alive?" XJ's lights blinked nervously. "I mean . .. you saw him, too, didn't you?"
"Alive as I am," said Tusk. "Maybe more. The sight of him just about sent me six feet under."
"He won the plane from Link? Sagan . . . owns us?"
"Shhh! Keep your voice down. You might say we were his all along," Tusk muttered. Hearing the water begin to run, he breathed a little easier.
"This is your fault," said XJ in gloomy tones. "I know it is. What does he want with you?"
"Us," Tusk corrected. "You remember that Ghost Legion business?"
"Ghost Legion . .." XJ's light brightened. "They offered us a job. They were willing to pay good money—"
"We'll be lucky if we live to cash the check. I don't know much about the deal. He"—Tusk glanced back nervously at the shower door—"wouldn't tell me the details. But it has to do with Dion. The kid's in some kind of danger and—"
"From Sagan?"
"Jeez! Keep quiet, will you?" Tusk broke out in a cold sweat. "No, not from Sagan. At least Sagan says it's not from him. Damn, I wish I knew what was going on!"
"So who had the plane bugged? Did Sagan do that?"
Tusk shook his head. "Naw. He warned me about it. I don't know who, for sure, but I could make a guess—"
"The Ghost Legion."
"It's got to be. They asked me questions about Dion. I thought I'd convinced them that he and I had called it quits, but either they didn't believe me or ..."
"Or what?"
"Or Sagan convinced them otherwise He got me into this on purpose."
"Because you could help Dion?"
Tusk was quiet a moment, then—after another glance at the shower door—he said Softly, "Maybe because I can get to Dion. I know if I was Dion, I wouldn't let the Warlord within a light-year of me."
"You think Sagan's setting you up for the galaxy's biggest sucker? If so, he's come to the right place."
Tusk mulled this over. "I thought so, at first. Part of me still does. But part of me doesn't. You saw that elaborate scheme he cooked up to keep from being spotted himself. He fooled me—"
"I knew who he was. All along," XJ protested. "Recognized him the moment he appeared on the screen. I was just putting you on—"
Tusk ignored the computer. "And he's been living in the disguise for who knows how long? All that padding must weigh a metric ton. To say nothing of sitting cramped in that chair for hours on end, unable to move, his face all covered with plastiskin. ..
"Yeah, yeah," XJ snapped. "I'm in tears. So what's his story?"
"According to what I can piece together, Dion's in danger from this Ghost Legion. We're going to join, go along with their scheme, get Dion out in the end. At least that's what I think the Warlord's got in mind. He wouldn't tell me much."
"A double agent. Now, there's a good career move. If one side misses, the other's bound to get you. And you agreed to go in on this with him, didn't you?"
"What the hell choice did I have?" Tusk demanded bitterly. "They bugged the plane. Some woman followed me here— from home, XJ. From home."
"You're sure we're not getting paid?"
Tusk glared, didn't answer.
"I don't like this," said XJ.
"You don't see me dancin' around the fiickin' plane, do you?" Tusk demanded. He glanced back at the shower door again. "But I came up with a plan on the way here. I pretend to go along with Sagan, pretend like I'm working with him, keep an eye on him, find out what's going on. If anything looks funny, well ... I'm in a position to warn Dion. The way I got it figured is that I'll be pretending to be workin' for Sagan, pretending to be against Dion, when all the time I'll really be workin' for Dion, pretending to be working for Sagan, pretending to be against Dion."
"You call that a plan?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't. I call it Let's Pretend There's Intelligent Life on this Spaceplane."
The water in the shower gurgled, spit, and dribbled to a stop.
"I could transmit a message to Dixter." XJ spoke so softly Tusk almost couldn't hear. "Sagan would never know."
"Yeah," Tusk whispered, "that's what I was thinking. But we got to figure out what to say ... Tell him—Wait! Shush."
The shower door opened. The Warlord stepped out, toweling himself off. He walked toward the cock-pit."
"Just about ready. Uh"—Tusk looked around—"what do you go by these days? I mean, what should I ... we . .. call you?"
" 'My lord' will be satisfactory," replied Sagan, again almost smiling. "And when you meet the king's first cousin, you will refer to Prince Flaim as His Highness or His Royal Highness."
Tusk's jaw sagged.
"First cousin?" XJ's lights flickered in suspicion. "What first cousin? I know the genealogy of the Starfire family better than I know my own. Which, in case you're interested, I'm a direct descendant of a Unix-5000—"
"Shut up!" Tusk snarled. "Or you'll be an ex-direct descendant. What were you saying, my lord? The kid's got a first cousin? How? Where?"
"I'll spare you the lurid details. Suffice it to say that Amodius had a son—illegitimate, no rightful claim to the throne."
"But he wants it anyway." Tusk brightened. "And we're going to stop him!"
"No," Sagan replied coolly. "We're going to assist him. Keep telling yourself that. Over and over and over. I want you to be able to repeat it in your sleep."
"I don't think I'll be getting much sleep," Tusk muttered.
Sagan turned away, went to get dressed. "Lay in a course for Vallombrosa. Let me know when we're ready to make the Jump."
"Yes, my lord."
Glancing up, to make certain Sagan wasn't watching, Tusk began to type:
message to john dixter. I'm being
"John Dixter is your son's godfather, I believe," said Derek Sagan. His voice floated down from the aft section of the spaceplane.
Tusk's fingers froze on the keyboard.
"Yeah." His throat constricted. He swallowed, tried again. "Yes, my lord," he managed. Sweat trickled down his collarbone.
"It would be a pity if something were to happen to him. Or his godson. Once we're out of orbit, you will send a message to your wife. I'll tell you what to say."
"Yes, my lord."
How the hell did he know? Tusk wondered bleakly. He couldn't have overheard XJ asking about Dixter. It's not possible. Not even for the Blood Royal. He knows what I'm thinking. That's what it is. He just plain bloody well knows what I'm thinking!
Words flashed across the computer screen.
i don't like this. i want to go on record as saying-I don't like this!
"Put me down for one of the same," Tusk said softly.
Very, very softly.
Chapter Three
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pains that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And life, a Fury slinging flame.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "In Memorium A.H.H."
Mai
grey restlessly walked the vast halls of heaven, paced them back and forth, back and forth until the shining beings— whose patience is purportedly unending—heaved martyred sighs as they went about their duties.
Knowing the mind of God meant less than nothing to her now. She wanted desperately to know what was going on in the mind of Derek Sagan. And so, she left the beautiful, starlit halls (to the vast relief of those who dwelt there) and entered the physical plane, the land of the living, to take up her nightly vigil.
One with the darkness, she glided inside the Scimitar. The spaceplane was traveling the Lanes, which meant the occupants could sleep, leave the watch to the computer. Tusk slept restlessly, as he always did without Nola's comforting form beside him.
Maigrey glanced at him fondly, if somewhat worriedly, then took her place beside Sagan's bed.
He slept soundly, no longer disturbed by intrusive dreams, doubts, or indecision. He lay on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other lying across his chest. His breathing was deep, steady, even. He had made his choice, for good or for evil.
But this one night's rest could not make up for a score of wakeful nights. Their mark was on him. His face, strong and hard when awake, was haggard in repose, his eyes sunken. Only the lips, drawn to a thin, straight, dark line, remained tight, firm. Whatever purpose he had, whatever resolve he'd made, he would carry it through to the end.
" 'Broken old man,' " said Maigrey softly, recalling Flaim's derisive description, and she sighed in frustration. "I should be used to this. You never did explain anything to us. We were your squadron, your Golden Squadron. You expected us to obey orders, to react instantly to your command, without necessarily knowing why or what you had in mind. Because of the mind-link, I knew more than the others did about your plans. But there were times when you caught me by surprise. And though it was sometimes irritating, sometimes terrifying for us, we understood."
"Yeah, John, I'll getcha a drink of water," Tusk mumbled suddenly, starting to climb out of his bed.
"Go back to sleep!" XJ snapped.
"Sure thing, sweetheart." Tusk nodded obediently, crawled back onto the fold-out couch, wrapped his arms around a cushion, shut his eyes.
"I'm not your— Oh, forget it." XJ went back to work.
Maigrey was silent, until she was certain Tusk had fallen back to sleep. She moved nearer to Sagan, lowered her voice, until it was no more than a sigh from a shadow.
"It was second nature to you to keep as much of yourself locked away as possible. You told us what you thought we needed to know, nothing more. You couldn't trust. Not even us, who'd grown up with you. Not even me, who loved you."
She reached up to touch the scar on the flesh she wove from her memory of life. "In a way, I suppose, it was a compliment. You had faith in us to come through when you needed us. And we had faith in you. And it worked. All but once, when you took our loyalty too much for granted.
"I chose Amodius, my king, then—poor, unworthy king that he was. I was his Guardian, I had pledged my allegiance to him. And so had you. And when you saw that Abdiel meant to kill the king, you offered to guard him—a man you hated and despised—with your life.
"Surely you would do the same for Dion. You helped raise him, my lord. Not from boyhood to manhood, but from ordinary to divine. You found the spark within him and kindled it, and now it burns clear and bright; not a consuming holocaust, but a shining beacon, for all to follow.
"You can't be taken in my Flaim, despite the test. ... I know you're not. I know you're not," she repeated angrily, to silence some inner, arguing voice.
But the voice refused to be silenced. She faltered, wavered.
"But then what is your plan, my lord? Tell it to me this once. Don't let me go into battle half-blind! I see only the feint outline. .. . Why, why is it necessary for you to bring the two of them together?
"The risk you run is enormous, and what do you hope to accomplish? There are alternatives. You could go to Dion, warn him again of his peril, tell him what you've discovered, urge him to use the space-rotation bomb. ..."
Maigrey paused. "Use it against thousands of innocent people, whose only fault is that they are captive to one man's corrupt ambition." She sighed. "All right, so that's out."
She pondered. "You could warn him to take precautions against his cousin. To increase his bodyguard threefold, never stir from the palace, shut himself up like a hothouse plant. Yes, there's a solution. He'd lose the throne as surely as if he'd died on it. He might as well die on it.
"But is it wise for the two to confront each other? I don't understand, my lord. I don't understand. And I'm frightened."
She bowed her head. If the dead could cry, the touch of her tears, falling on his still hand, would have wakened him.
"You have a right to be angry. I feel your anger as I feel the temptation burn within you. How easy it would be to give up, let go, fall. How much more difficult to struggle on through the darkness alone, without the hope of light.
"I tried to give you hope, my lord. I tried to let you know you aren't alone, but I failed."
Maigrey reached out her hand to touch his. One thought, one wish, one command and she could wrench herself free of her ethereal bonds, plunge across the gulf, feel, clasp, hold. She could talk, listen, answer, reassure.
One spoken word ...
The dark door swung open. The dark path appeared before her. The dark landscape of terror and travail and sorrow stood etched against a hideous sunrise.
Maigrey shrank beck Her hand fell to her side.
"How bitter is this separation. How vast and cold and empty the gulf that keeps as apart. I could cross it, but at what terrible risk ... to us both.
"We are ghosts to each other now, my lord. Echoes of a voice, memories of a touch....
"I can't stay with you. The temptation to touch you, to talk to you, is too great. I'll return to the alcazar. As Prince Flaim said, ghosts make wonderful spies. Wonderful, though ineffective."
She sighed. Her shadowy hand lay over his real one. "If you call on me, my lord, I will answer, if you need me, I will come to you."
His fingers moved slightly, as if in response, as if he would reach out to hold her.
But she was gone.
The alcazar of Prince Flaim Starfire would have been classified as one of the wonders of the galaxy—had anyone else in the galaxy ever seen it (and been able to return to report of it). It was an enormous fortress, built entirely of the stone of Vallombrosa, stone that was the color of bleached bones. And not one wall stood perpendicular to another. On first seeing the alcazar most people mistook it for a naturally occurring rock formation put to practical use.
Closer observation would force them to reconsider. The fortress was far too well made to have been built by Nature, who tends to overlook details like doors, windows, and leaky roofs.
Though crudely and oddly constructed, the alcazar was solid. It might look as if half a mountain had been ripped out to form it, the rock smashed together and molded like clay. But the walls were solid, the joints tight, the rooms, with their crazily slanting floors, snug and dry. It was, in fact, the ideal fortress— strong as half a mountain, indistinguishable from the whole of the mountain.
The alcazar was constructed, but not by human hands. It had been "built," if one could use such a term, by the dark-matter creatures. It had been built by ghosts.
As to those who lived in the alcazar, or who orbited above it in the space stations, Valley of Ghosts was a most appropriate name, for the population of Vallombrosa was made up, for the most part, of those whom others in the galaxy had come to think of as ghosts.
When Garth Pantha returned to Vallombrosa, he was protector to a future monarch who had no subjects. But Pantha had foresight enough to know that one day, when Flaim was old enough to make a bid for power, he would need a loyal and willing population to back him up. And so Pantha began recruiting people to come to Vallombrosa.
He couldn't recruit them openly, of course,
without tipping his hand, making himself and his strange dark-matter creatures known to the rest of the galaxy. His problem: How to bring people here who had no idea where they were going and who would be happy to stay here for years, living on space stations, isolated and cut off from the rest of civilization. Who would be desperate enough?
His answer: People on the verge of destruction. People facing imminent annihilation, hopeless people at the point of certain death, who would be grateful to the man who came to their rescue. Innumerable mysterious disappearances over the years were not mysteries on Vallombrosa.
Take, for example, the vanished population of Otos 4, which led to the intergalactic war with Rylkith and his vapor-breathers. The gigantic city of Otos 4 was under siege from its alien neighbors. The humans, on the verge of starvation, had been transmitting frantic appeals for the rest of the galaxy to come to their aid. King Amodius dithered, not wanting to start what he knew would be an intergalactic war.
Meanwhile, Garth Pantha arrived in Otos 4 in secrecy, under the protective cloak of the dark-matter creatures. He arranged for the entire population to be taken out of the city, again by the machinations of the creatures.
When the vapor-breathers landed, they found Otos 4 completely deserted. Not a living soul left. A billion people gone without a trace. Of course, no one believed the vapor-breathers. The galaxy assumed that Rylkith had destroyed all the humans in the city, which led to war.
Now, after all these years, Maigrey realized that Rylkith had been telling the truth.
"How many thousands died in that war for nothing?" she asked herself.
The deaths did not trouble Garth Pantha. The war was a perfect cover for his recruiting, as were all disasters, man-made or otherwise. The battleships that disappeared without a trace, the cruise ships in distress who were never heard from again, the planets whose suns were about to go nova. The people were all snatched from die jaws of certain death, whisked here, to this peaceful and beautiful—if strange—world.
Of course, they paid a price. They were not permitted to leave Vallombrosa, nor to have any contact whatsoever with the galaxy outside their world. And they could not live on the plan-et's surface, but were forced to reside in space stations which they either built or "acquired" from other planets.
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