Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  "You have made your point. All has been attended to. Any debris found floating in space will confirm the tragedy: The royal flagship blew up, lost, with all hands on board."

  "A pity about the crew," Sagan commented.

  "Yes, I will lose some good people. But they have all pledged to give their lives to me. I shall miss the ship more." Flaim sighed, frowned. "I can get men far more cheaply and easily than a naval vessel."

  "If all goes well, Your Highness, you will soon have the Royal Fleet under your command," Sagan reminded him.

  "True." The prince glanced again at the bomb and smiled. "I do not foresee anything going wrong, do you, my lord?"

  "Certainly not, Your Highness."

  "Pantha, have we forgotten anything? Any final details we need to discuss?"

  "No, my prince. Your orders have been issued. By tomorrow morning, all will be in readiness. This is the last night you will spend on Vallombrosa, Flaim," Pantha added in a softened tone.

  Flaim stood up. Reaching out his hands, he grasped hold of the old man's. The moment was special between them. Sagan politely moved away to give them privacy, walked over to stand near the door.

  "The goal we have worked for all these years is within sight, my friend," Flaim said. "The crown is almost within my grasp. I am reaching out for it, even now. Do not think me ungrateful when I say I never want to return to Vallombrosa. It is you who have always taught me that we never look back, only ahead."

  "I know. Flaim. I know," Pantha said softly. He looked around the room and shook his head. "Many were the hours I sat here and stared in hatred at these walls. I—who had roamed a galaxy, who had riches and wealth beyond belief— had imprisoned myself inside a chill and dismal cavern.

  "I thought I would go mad in those early days," he continued. "Oftentimes I sat here bitterly regretting the fact that I hadn't died in that fake explosion. And then you would toddle into the room." Pantha looked at Flaim with a sad and wistful smile. "Excited about some discovery—a bug, a rock, a half-dead flower. You were a beautiful child, strong, healthy, intelligent. I would tell you everything I knew—the scientific names, the chemical composition—and you understood, young as you were.

  " 'What a king you will be,' I would say as I lifted you into my arms. "What a magnificent king.' No, Flaim, my son"— Pantha had tears in his eyes—"I do not ever want to return to Vallombrosa either. There were too many times I thought I would die here. Still, its memory will be blessed."

  Sagan, embarrassed, cleared his throat.

  "Your Highness—"

  Flaim turned a tear-streaked face, looked somewhat ashamed. "Forgive me, my lord. Of course, you have duties to attend to. You don't want to stand around watching Pantha and I make fools of ourselves. You have leave to go."

  Sagan bowed, turned toward the door.

  Flaim activated the control. The door slid open. The Warlord walked out. The door shut and sealed behind him.

  Sagan took a moment to study it from the outside, then, nodding to himself, left with what he had come planning to obtain—a complete knowledge of how the door operated, including its security devices and alarms.

  He had already checked on the other two doors he would need to open this night. Both were simple—plain and ordinary bolt locks. Returning to his room, the Warlord lay down upon his bed, prepared to slip into the quiet meditative state that was, for him, more restful than sleep.

  And much safer.

  Fortunately, Flaim would have a lot on his mind tonight. Composing himself for rest, Sagan reflected on the fact that sentiment was a ruinous emotion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Look into my face; my name is Might-have-been;

  I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell.

  Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "A Superscription"

  It was a quiet night in the alcazar. Quiet as far as those guarding the halls and corridors were concerned. There were, of course, the usual disturbances, usual for a planet the dark-matter creatures roamed: an entire shelf of books was thrown down in Pantha's library; several dishes were broken in the kitchen; motion was detected in a corridor, but no visual confirmation could be made by the guard who went to inspect; a minor disruption occurred in the electrical system of the communications room. The electricity shut off but then flashed on practically before the system had time to register the interruption. Again, on inspection, nothing untoward was found.

  The guards shrugged, shook their heads, and muttered that they would be glad to leave Vallombrosa.

  The night was not particularly quiet for any of the rest of the inhabitants of the alcazar, with the exception of Flaim, who slept soundly and dreamed of glory. Pantha spent the night in his room, studying computer analysis of the space-rotation bomb. By morning, he was confident he could make another. Astarte, her regal facade shattered, cried herself to sleep. Kamil sat up with the queen until Astarte, worn out and exhausted, finally slept. Unhappy and restless, Kamil lay down on her bed, staring into the darkness, drifting in and out of a feverish doze, dreaming strange dreams of a woman with pale hair and silver armor.

  Pantha had provided Tusk with medication to ease the pain of his injured head. Tusk swallowed the tablets, wished they could ease the ache in his heart, and flung himself down dispiritedly on his bed. His thoughts writhed in his brain like snakes in a pit. He didn't trust Sagan, then he did. He would free Dion, then he wouldn't. He was going to fly to Dixter for help, then he wasn't. He flipped and flopped and was sorry he'd taken the medication. Pantha had warned him—rather tersely—not to mix it with jump-juice.

  Having at last decided gloomily that he was going to be up all night and he better make the best of it, Tusk immediately fell sound asleep. He was dreaming that a tall, dark figure loomed over him when a strong hand, clapped tightly over his mouth, brought him to heart-stopping wakefulness.

  Tusk thrashed out. A weight like someone had landed a spaceplane on his chest pressed him into the bed.

  "Don't move!" cautioned a voice in his ear. "Don't make a sound. Listen."

  Tusk, recognizing the voice, did as it commanded. He had little choice in the matter. His bruised lips, covered by the hand, hurt like the devil. He could barely hear over the pounding in his ears. Try as he might, he couldn't see a thing in the darkness.

  "Make certain you board the king's ship tomorrow," the voice breathed directly into Tusk's ear. "I understand that you have become friendly with several members of the crew?"

  Tusk nodded.

  "Tell them that they are being sent on a suicide mission. Tell them that the space-rotation bomb is aboard the ship and that Flaim intends to detonate it, destroying the king and the crew. You will convince them of the danger and persuade them to take over the ship.

  "You will need proof. When Flaim and Pantha leave the ship, I will discover where they've hidden the bomb. It will be armed and set to explode when the ship reaches its destination. You will show the bomb to your comrades. That should be proof enough."

  And then the hand was gone, the voice was silenced, the dark form no longer present.

  Tusk lay still a moment, wondering if he'd been dreaming. But the slowly subsiding racing of his heart was real; so was the fear, which was rapidly being replaced by excitement and grim satisfaction. Now, at last, he had something to do, something positive to do. It wouldn't be easy, but if all else failed, he'd fly Dion off in the Scimitar, shoot their way out.

  They'd done it before.

  Relaxing, sighing deeply, Tusk whispered a good-night to Nola, as he always did, even when she wasn't lying beside him, then rolled over and slept.

  Dion lay awake all night, staring into the darkness. He, too, saw—or thought he saw—the woman in silver armor.

  "I made the right decision, didn't I, my lady?" he asked.

  She didn't answer, but he didn't expect her to. After all, it had not really been a question.

  He was still awake when the twin suns lifted up over the walls of the alcazar and the guards came to his
door.

  The rattle of a key sounded in the door lock. Astarte and Kamil looked at each other. Astarte held out her hand. Kamil took hold of it. They stood waiting. The door opened. Dion, accompanied by armed guards and Flaim, entered the room,

  He looked at Astarte. "I am being permitted to say good-bye to you, madam," he told her quietly.

  Astarte's lauded beauty was gone. She was small and crumpled, her eyelids heavy and red and swollen from weeping, her lips gray and colorless. They trembled when she spoke. Her hair was disheveled, uncombed.

  But despite the fact that they were in a prison cell surrounded by armed guards, and he was about to be killed and she was about to become the wife of his murderer, she was still queen and he was king and they had an audience.

  Astarte drew herself up with dignity, cast an imperious glance at Flaim. "Please, leave us alone."

  "Certainly," said Flaim. "The guards will be right outside the door, should either of you require anything." The prince turned to Kamil. "You acquitted yourself with remarkable courage yesterday. I therefore give you a choice—life or death. You may either stay with the queen and enter her service permanently or you may travel with the king."

  "Stay with Astarte, Kamil," said Dion swiftly. "I want you to."

  "Please. Kamil." Astarte turned to her. "Please, stay with me."

  "No." said Kamil, not looking at either of them. "I'm going with the king."

  "Kamil—" Dion began, his face troubled.

  "If you don't mind," Kamil interrupted, speaking to Flaim, "I think I would like to leave now."

  Flaim was all sympathy and understanding. "We are boarding the Royal Flagship. The guards will be happy to escort you."

  Her back rigid, Kamil walked out of the room without saying a word to either person she left behind.

  "Her Majesty will be traveling in my flagship," Flaim told Dion. "I will do everything in my power to make her journey comfortable. We will be returning to Minas Tares. It would be best for the queen to be in the palace when word comes of the tragedy. And, of course, I want to be near at hand."

  Dion made no response. Flaim turned to leave. Pausing, he turned again, came back.

  "Damn it, cousin! Don't make me do this! Abdicate the throne. Go live with that girl. Most men would give their lives for love like hers. What's being king compared to that?"

  "My duty," said Dion. "My responsibility." He glanced at Flaim. "You understand. It's what we were born to, bred to. What would our lives be without it?"

  "Nothing, of course." Flaim regarded him with admiration. "You are right, cousin. I do understand. Forgive me. I won't trouble you about it again.

  "Five minutes," he said, and shut the door behind him.

  Dion and Astarte looked at each other, shy and awkward as they had been on that first unhappy night together. Then Dion reached out his hands to his wife.

  "Can you forgive me for being a blind fool?" he asked.

  She clasped hold of his hands, held on to him tightly. "Only if you can forgive me for being a selfish monster."

  He gathered her close. He had never noticed before how fragile she felt in his arms, yet how strong.

  "It was my mother's fault, for coercing you into this marriage," Astarte whispered.

  "I used to think so," Dion replied. "But now I'm not certain. Maybe some god ... or goddess had a hand in this."

  He stroked her hair. This was the first time he'd ever seen it mussed. "Astarte," he said softly, "as hard as my death will be, it will be easy compared to your life."

  "Don't ..." Her eyes filled with tears.

  "Hush, listen to me. You could escape this marriage. Flaim won't pursue it. He'll have too many other concerns. I could urge you to do this, but I'm not going to.

  "You possess power—the power of your faith, the power of being yourself. The people admire you. You can use this power to glove my cousin's iron fist. He won't like it. He'll fight you. But he won't be able to stop you. Work long and hard, slowly and subtly and you will build up a resistance to my cousin's tyranny that will be invincible. Perhaps, in years to come, you can overthrow him."

  "With the help of our child."

  "Our child. My only regret ... is that I will never . . ." Dion faltered, his strength failing him for a moment, "never see . . ."

  He couldn't speak. He could only hold on to his wife and she to him. Sadly, their silence said more than three years of spoken words.

  "Time to go, Usurper." The guard thrust open the door.

  Astarte drew back from her husband's grasp. Smoothing her hair, she stood tall and upright, her eyes dry, a smile on her lips. They might have been parting for the day's duties. She extended her hand. The fingers were chill, but the hand was steady.

  "God go with you, sire," she said softly.

  He took her hand, pressed it to his lips. "May the Goddess be with you, madame. And with our child."

  He turned and left her. The door shut behind him. She heard the key grate in the lock.

  "I won't cry," she said, pressing her hands over her womb. "I won't cry. I won't make myself sick. For the child's sake. Everything I do from now on will be for the child's sake."

  She sank to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer. "Blessed Goddess, you fought at the side of the heroes at Troy, you brought us safely through the heavens to our world, you sustained us through the dark times when all seemed hopeless. Blessed Goddess, send angels to fight at my husband's side—"

  The key rattled in the lock. Thinking it might be Flaim coming to escort her to the ship, Astarte sprang to her feet. She drew herself up haughtily.

  "You have leave to enter," she said, for form's sake only. The door was already opening.

  "Tusca!" She gasped, startled.

  Entering the room, Tusk crossed over to her. "Dion thought you might like this to remember him by."

  He pressed something into her hand and winked—at least she thought he winked. It was hard to tell; one eye was swollen almost shut. Before she had time to ask a question or say a word, he was gone.

  Astarte opened her palm. In it lay a silver earring, formed in the shape of an eight-pointed star.

  Book Four

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre

  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

  Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

  The best lack all conviction, while the worst

  Are full of passionate intensity....

  William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

  Chapter One

  Things fell apart ...

  William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

  Vallombrosa was now truly a ghost planet. The alcazar was deserted, stood empty beneath the double suns. All personal effects, all data files (primarily Pantha's) had been transferred secretly to the Flare.

  Her Majesty the queen was also transported to Flare, to be taken back to Minas Tares. Those who observed her noted that she was pale, but calm and composed. It was well known that the royal marriage had not been a particularly happy one.

  The space-rotation bomb was taken aboard the ship carrying His Majesty. Pantha himself carried the bomb aboard, concealed in the same box that held the two bloodswords.

  The brief interruption of the electricity to the door of the communication room during the night had been reported to him. He was at first concerned, but finding on investigation that nothing had been disturbed, that the space-rotation bomb was still there, he decided that it must have been the dark-matter creatures.

  "They have an extreme interest in the bomb," Pantha told Flaim as they traveled to what Flaim was terming, between themselves, the "ghost" ship. "They were probably checking on its safety."

  Flaim was displeased. "I don't like to think of them getting close to it. They won't harm it, will they?"

  "They didn't harm it
transporting it to you, my prince. I told them that we intend to destroy the bomb in a distant part of the galaxy, far from their own world. They intimated their satisfaction."

  "They won't be happy when we build another."

  "Precisely why we won't build it on Vallombrosa. I doubt if they'll ever discover it. They wouldn't have known of this bomb if I hadn't warned them of it.

  "They are really rather provincial beings, I believe. Attached to their own homeland, with no ambitions or design on any others. As long as they can be assured Vallombrosa—and by extension their own world—is safe, they will be content."

  Arriving on board the "ghost" ship, Pantha took the bomb to Flaim's quarters. Here they would leave the bomb, armed, the code punched in, to tick away the seconds of the lives of everyone on board.

  "What will you tell the crew?" Pantha asked.

  Flaim smiled. "My speech is all prepared. I will tell them that we are embarking on a great enterprise, one that will carry them to eternal glory. I have obtained secret intelligence, gleaned from the dark-matter creatures, warning of an impending Corasian invasion. Not even the Royal Navy knows of this threatened attack—which will be the truth; the Corasians are still in their own galaxy.

  "I will take it upon myself to thwart the enemy's plans and drive them back to their own galaxy. When the people of the galaxy learn that I have saved them, they will be only too eager to grant me any demands that I might make upon them. And I will demand to be made king. That's what I will say to them."

  "Won't they wonder why the Usurper is on board?"

  Flaim shrugged. "I don't trust him out of my sight."

  "And when we flee the ship?"

  "We're inspecting the fleet."

  Preparations were made to leave orbit. Everything was in readiness. Lord Sagan had arrived on board, as had Dion. Flaim ordered his cousin and Lord Sagan to join the prince in his cabin to hear the speech.

  The prince made his speech over the vidcom, to the cheers and applause of the assembled crew. None of them had any doubt at all but that Flaim Starfire would soon be king and that their fortunes would be made.