Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  "How was that, Pantha?" Flaim asked when he was finished. He glanced around. '"Where's Pantha?"

  "He was called to the bridge, an urgent summons," said Sagan. "The speech was quite good. Your Highness. You played down the death of the Usurper, I noticed." An oblique glance at Dion, who sat unmoving, expressionless.

  "I took your advice, my lord. As you said, some may still have a soft spot in their hearts for my cousin." Flaim nodded politely in Dion's direction. "They wouldn't stand for seeing him executed, but if he dies in battle . .." The prince shrugged.

  Sagan nodded in understanding. The three were seated in Flaim's private quarters aboard the "ghost" ship. Only two people, Flaim and Pantha, had access to these quarters—an arrangement similar to one Derek Sagan had once used aboard the Phoenix. Now the former Warlord was relegated to a small berth in the officer's part of the ship. He stood looking out the steelglass window at Vallombrosa, still in sight, and permitted himself the luxury of memory.

  He was—as he had always been before a battle—calm, relaxed. His senses were heightened. All objects in his sight seemed sharp-edged, bathed in bright light. He could hear words unspoken, attune himself to the thoughts of those near him, keep his own thoughts shrouded in darkness. All was going well, according to plan. Tusk and his Scimitar were safely aboard; the Warlord had ascertained as much. He could trust Tusk to handle his end—the mercenary had a powerful incentive and he was a good man. Dependable, like his father.

  Sagan had now only to wait and be patient, something he'd never been very good at when younger. He glanced down at his arm. Hidden beneath the knife-edged crease of the sleeve of his uniform (disguised as that of an admiral of the Royal Navy) were countless scars. Self-inflicted wounds, intended to remind him of his own mortality, his own frailty, intended to remind him of his duty to God. Patience. Yes, he had learned patience.

  Or at least he had learned to conceal his impatience.

  Garth Pantha entered through the large double doors.

  "My friend!" Flaim began exuberantly, stopped at the expression on the elderly man's face. "Something's gone wrong, hasn't it? What?" He rose to his feet, leveraging himself out of his chair with a shove of his hands. "What is it? Wait. Call the guards to escort my cousin back—"

  Pantha halted the prince's command with a swift gesture. "Your cousin should stay, my prince. He ... may be needed."

  Flaim answered with a frown. "What is it, then? Speak. What's wrong?"

  "The dark-matter creatures, Your Highness."

  Flaim glanced involuntarily in the direction of a large vault. "Not the space-rota—"

  "No, not that," Pantha interrupted hastily. "I ... I really don't know how to tell you this, my prince. It is all . . . most inexplicable. I don't understand ..

  "Just tell me!" Flaim snapped.

  "We have received a report—it has gone galaxy-wide, Your Highness—that the system of Bidaldi, in the center of the galaxy, has been attacked by a mysterious force. From all indications it appears that every major city in the Bidaldi system was destroyed by horrific nuclear war. Yet there were no explosions, no radiation. Buildings have been leveled, people killed. The death toll, Your Highness, is said to be in the millions."

  "Dear God!" murmured Dion softly.

  No one else spoke, all silent, pondering.

  "Bidaldi is a populous system." Dion was the first to break the silence. "And a wealthy one. They are located in the center of a Lane convergence. And they are peaceful. They have no enemies—

  "Everyone has enemies," Flaim returned. "What does this have to do with us?"

  Pantha wiped sweat from his face; his wrinkled black skin glistened. He swallowed, tried to speak, paused to lick his lips. "Your Highness .. . I'm afraid it has everything to do with us."

  Flaim stared at him. "No!" he protested, aghast. "You can't be serious! The dark-matter creatures?"

  "All evidence points to it, Flaim," said Pantha. The man looked suddenly ancient. He sat down heavily in a chair. His hands shook. "I have studied the data as it came in. Due to the fact that we're tapped into the Royal Naval channels, I was able to intercept the navy's official communications. Instruments on Bidaldi recorded wild and inexplicable fluctuations in the gravitational readings. These are all now back to normal. Survivors report people dropping dead of no apparent cause. And there is more evidence. I would not tell you this, my prince, if I was not absolutely certain." Pantha shook his head. "There can be no doubt, I'm afraid. The dark-matter creatures attacked and destroyed Bidaldi."

  "But why? What do they possibly hope to gain? You said they weren't ambitious!"

  "I didn't think they were! And it doesn't look as if they've gained anything. They have abandoned the planet, apparently." Pantha lowered his head into his hands. "After they wreaked havoc on it, maimed and slaughtered, they just left...."

  "Perhaps they're not ambitious," said Dion slowly, considering. "Or if they are, ambitious only for their own survival. You taught them, cousin, how easy we flesh-and-blood mortals are to destroy. The bomb taught them to fear us. Perhaps their only goal is to see to it that we will not be a threat to them again."

  Flaim cast him a swift, baleful glance. Going to the commlink, he contacted the guards standing duty outside the door. "Return the Usurper to his quarters."

  Pantha lifted a haggard face. "The people will be expecting their king to make a public pronouncement on the tragedy. If he doesn't, they will suspect something is wrong—"

  "I'll deal with that when the time comes!" Flaim said angrily. "Guards, take him."

  Dion stood up to leave. "The creatures have slipped from your leash, cousin—if they were ever really on one. How much longer before they turn on you?"

  The king left, the guards marching him back to his quarters that were, in essence, his prison. Once he was gone, Flaim began pacing the room.

  "This is intolerable! If I am linked to this disaster, it could ruin me."

  Wheeling, he came to stand in front of Pantha. Gripping the old man by his shoulders, Flaim jerked him to an upright position. "You have to talk to them. Now! Find out what the devil is going on! Tell them to stop immediately. Tell them . . ." Flaim fell silent.

  "My prince?" Pantha looked at him.

  "Hush, wait. . . . My lord." Flaim turned to Derek Sagan.

  The Warlord stood before the viewscreen, staring out at Vallombrosa. He had said nothing at the news, which appeared to have made very little impression on him. Now he looked deferentially around at the prince.

  "Your Highness?"

  "My lord, if the space-rotation bomb was exploded here on Vallombrosa, would it destroy the creatures and their world utterly?"

  "Without a doubt, Your Highness. The creatures know that, which is why they fear it. It would be a shame, however, to lose such valuable allies. . . ."

  "Yes, that is true," Flaim replied, frowning. "They are an integral part of my plans. Well, we will consider that only as a last alternative. Pantha, you must go and speak to them."

  "I would be careful what I said to them, sir," Sagan remarked. "I would do nothing to make them nervous or afraid-"

  "I quite agree, my lord," Pantha said grimly.

  Pantha left the prince's quarters. Flaim continued pacing.

  Damn it all! Sagan swore silently, bitterly. All was going too well. I should have expected this to happen, seen it coming. Of course the creatures would be fearful, suspicious, wonder what is going on. It is natural that they make their fear known, but I didn't suppose they would show this much cunning. Obviously they know more about our psychology than Pantha credits them. And what will Flaim do about it?

  He glanced over at the prince, who was deep in thought— and not being very careful of his thoughts. Sagan could follow every twist and turn.

  So that is your the solution, Prince. The Warlord had to admit it was a sensible solution, though it certainly made things damn complicated for himself.

  The doors opened. Pantha entered.

 
Flaim looked up, startled. "That was quick. What did they say?"

  "I was unable to contact them, my prince." Pantha appeared troubled. "Which is strange, considering—"

  "Damn the considering!" Flaim shouted impatiently. "What do you mean you can't contact them? Won't they answer?"

  "No, Flaim," said Pantha quietly, a hint of rebuke in his deep voice. "They will not. They are not in the ship's vicinity. Perhaps if I returned to the planet's surface ..."

  Flaim struggled inwardly, finally regained a modicum of self-control. "Do so, then. Leave now. You can take my shuttle. I will expect you back this night."

  Pantha shook his head. "Your Highness .. . this may take some time. Consider that communication with the creatures is, under the best of circumstances, difficult . . ."

  "At 0600, then," Flaim said. "That will give you all night. We dare not wait longer. Damn it, Pantha, if you were able to deduce the dark-matter creatures were responsible for the slaughter on Bidaldi, others may do so."

  True enough. Sagan thought to himself. Dixter already has reason to suspect Vallombrosa. It will be only a matter of time before he reaches a similar conclusion—if he hasn't done so already The admiral must have discovered by now that the king isn't taking a holiday on Ceres.

  Sagan frowned. I hope to God the entire Royal Navy isn't about to descend on us.

  "What do you think, my lord?" Flaim asked abruptly.

  "I agree with Pantha's earlier statement. The king's silence on this tragedy on Bidaldi will look extremely odd," Sagan said, hoping to buy time. "People will begin to ask questions."

  "You had better hurry, Pantha," Flaim said. "Report back to me in the morning. As for the king's silence, he may soon be forever silent. My lord, contact the commanders of the fleet. Tell them that plans have been altered. We will remain in orbit around Vallombrosa until tomorrow morning, at which time they will receive further orders."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  Sagan was glad to leave. He needed to be alone, to think this out. He moved through the ship, part of him oblivious to its familiar sights and sounds, part of him paying close attention to them, noting all that went on around him. But he did not go immediately to the communications room to contact the other commanders, as he had been ordered.

  Sagan took a detour to the flight deck. He was, he told the officer on duty, making a surprise inspection. All pilots were to report to their craft. The word went out, the pilots came running. The Warlord made his tour. On one occasion, he stopped to upbraid the hapless pilot of an old Scimitar on the condition of his plane.

  "All hell's broken loose. The timetable's moved up," Sagan said in a low undertone as he ducked beneath the Scimitar's belly.

  "To when?" Tusk whispered.

  "Tomorrow morning."

  Tusk gawked. "Tomorrow! You can't be—"

  "Have that attended to immediately, Commander," Sagan said loudly.

  "Yes, my lord." Tusk saluted, managing to look as if he'd just been chewed up and spit out. Not difficult, considering what he'd just learned.

  "Tomorrow morning!" he repeated, groaning, when the Warlord had continued on. "Shit!"

  Chapter Two

  Death be not proud ...

  For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

  Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

  John Donne, Holy Sonnets

  Kamil sat on the hard bed in the tiny cubicle that was her prison cell, going over her plan time and again in her head. She was going to escape, rescue Dion, find Tusk and make him fly them out of here. The middle part of her plan was good, so was the end—flawless as far as she could judge. Free Dion. Fly away. It was getting to the middle and the end that was proving difficult. Before she could free Dion, she had to free herself. And she couldn't get out of her room.

  An armed guard stood posted outside her door. Kamil had observed him closely when he brought in and later took away her untasted evening meal. She'd had some vague idea of jumping him at that point, but she'd been daunted by both his physical size, which was impressive and, more important, his cold disinterest in her. He would obviously just as soon kill her as look at her.

  He was an older man, in his forties, one of the prince's trusted inner circle. He was a battle-scarred veteran, looked as if he'd fought his way to the galaxy's center and back.

  Frustrated, Kamil flung herself down on the bed, which was already rumpled from her fevered thrashings. She had to save Dion, whether he wanted saving or not.

  "He's thinking all wrong," she said to the wall. "He isn't thinking at all. He's acting out of emotion. When he's free from danger, away from Flaim—away from Derek Sagan," she added grimly, "Dion will see everything clearly. He may be mad at me at first." she admitted, "but he ll eventually come to see that I've done the right thing."

  She would save Dion from himself ... if only she could get out her door.

  Lying on her bed, she made plan after plan, only to discard them all. At last, tired from running frantically around and around on the wheel that never seemed to take her away, Kamil closed her eyes. She couldn't remember when she'd slept last ... or eaten anything. The wheel began to turn slower and slower. Now it was rocking back and forth, back and forth. She had the impression someone was in the room with her, though the door hadn't opened.

  Kamil wasn't frightened. She'd seen this person before.

  "Where have you been?" Kamil demanded accusingly.

  "Here, all the time," was the mild response.

  "Then why haven't you helped us? A godmother has a sacred duty to her godchild. Why don't you help me?"

  Kamil was fretting, whining like a sick child. But she felt like a sick child, frightened and alone. Two tears crept out from beneath her eyelids. "Don't just stand there and look at me, Lady. I need you! I have to save Dion ..."

  "You won't save him by crying," she said.

  Kamil started, was suddenly wide awake, thinking she'd heard a voice.

  "If you're determined to do this, get up," the voice commanded, and it was clear and cool as the lake near Kamil's home. "You haven't much time."

  Slowly, Kamil sat up. Slowly, she opened her eyes. A woman clad in shining silver stood beside the bed. Long, pale hair fell over silver armor. Gray eyes were cool and clear as the voice; a scar marred the right side of her face.

  Kamil blinked, rubbed her hands into her eyes. When she opened them again, the woman was still there.

  "Lady Maigrey," Kamil whispered.

  The woman inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  "You .. . you've come to help me?"

  "Advise you," Maigrey corrected. "I am prohibited from direct interference or involvement. However"—she smiled slightly; the smile twisted the scar on her face—"since you are my godchild and since, as you say, the duty is a sacred one, I am allowed a certain amount of mice and pumpkins."

  "Mice and pumpkins . . ." Kamil echoed, confused, not understanding. If this was a dream, she should insist on it making more sense.

  "Never mind." Maigrey went on briskly, "What is it exactly you are trying to do?"

  Kamil found herself explaining her plan. "Am I doing the right thing?" she asked, in conclusion. "Will this work?"

  Lady Maigrey shook her head. "I cannot say. I do not see the future, nor would I be allowed to tell you if I did. Free will and all that," she added, with a rueful smile. "You must decide for yourself whether or not to take this risk. For, child, the risk is very great, the danger very real."

  "I know," said Kamil somberly, staring down at her clenched hands. She looked back up at the lady. "But it will be worth it. I have to save him. If I can do that, whatever happens to me doesn't matter. You know, Lady," she urged persuasively. "You understand. You were in love like this when you were alive. Or so my father told me."

  "When I was alive? ..." Maigrey repeated softly. "Love is the one part of us death cannot kill."

  "I'm sorry, Lady." Kamil was touched by the woman's sorrow. "Derek Sagan's betrayed yo
u, as well as Dion. If he—"

  "Are you going to try to escape?" Maigrey interrupted coldly. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to sit and chat?"

  "No, I'm ready." Kamil left her bed. But now she was feeling nervous. Her stomach fluttered; her hands began to sweat. She glanced uneasily at the door. "What . . . what do I do?" She wiped her hands on the white gown she still wore.

  "Scream," Maigrey instructed. "Scream loudly and like you mean it. The guard will enter, his gun drawn. I don't suppose you happened to notice if he was right- or left-handed?"

  "N-no," Kamil stammered, trying to think back. "I believe .. . right-handed."

  "If you had never seen him, knew he was human, you would assume he was right-handed and trust in the odds. As it turns out, this man is left-handed, so you would have lost. Get into the habit of looking, observing," Maigrey admonished her pupil. "You never know when such information could mean the difference between life and death. Stand over there. By the door."

  Kamil did as she was told. Her heart was racing; her stomach had gone from flutters to upheavals. She was afraid she might be sick. She couldn't disgrace herself in front of this gray-eyed woman, however. She clenched her fists, dug her nails into her flesh, and looked at Maigrey attentively.

  "When you scream, he will enter with his weapon drawn.

  You will have a split second to react. You are on his left-hand side. Grab his gun, yank it from his hand, and shoot him."

  "Shoot him," Kamil repeated through numb lips.

  "Shoot him," Maigrey said firmly. "He will probably have the weapon set on stun, but you can't count on it, so make up your mind right now that you are going to kill him. That way, if you do, it won't come as a shock."

  "Kill him," said Kamil. She thought of him, of that hard face, and she banished the memory quickly. "Kill. Yes, I'm going to shoot, kill."

  "Good. You've fired a lasgun before?"

  Kamil nodded, thinking back to Xris. She grew calmer, glad to be reminded of that time. She'd come through that action all right. He'd praised her, in fact. "Yes, I've fired a lasgun before. Xris said—"