Ghost Legion (10 page)

He was silent, pondering. Then—shrugging—he shook off the
cold spectral touch that seemed to be brushing the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry, my lord. This is all irrelevant."

"Maybe not," said Dixter dryly. "You see, Your
Majesty, they were successful."

Dion stared. "They successfully raided Snaga Ohme's! That's not
possible. Why, that would take an army, and even then—"

"It wasn't an army, Your Majesty. We don't know what it was, to
be honest. No one saw it. No one heard it. Nothing except the bomb
was removed. No one was hurt. The reports have been analyzed, but all
I've been getting back from the so-called experts are theories, some
more far-fetched than others. Everything from a new type of probe to
microscopic spacecraft to ghosts. I've transferred the files to you.
You can read for yourself."

"They stole the bomb?"

"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty."

Dion sat in silence a moment, absorbing. "They know now they
were tricked, that it was a trap. They know now the bomb wasn't real.
And since the real bomb wasn't there, they'll keep searching for it."

"And they've shown us, sire, that there's not anywhere they
can't go."

"But, my lord, as XJ used to say, it's a hell of a big galaxy.
They could look for centuries and not find it. What have they
accomplished? Besides letting us know they're after it?"

"That may be all they wanted to do, sire."

"But what for? What do they gain?"

Dixter rubbed his brow. "Let's say that you're a killer who's
committed the perfect crime. No one can trace you. But when the
detective starts getting close, you begin to feel pressured. You
begin to imagine flaws and you go back and try to cover them up. And
that's
what gives you away."

"Thanks for the analogy," Dion said dryly.

Dixter flushed. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I was reading Nero
Wolfe last night and this idea came into my mind."

"So you think they're hoping to pressure us into making another
move? Pressure us into making a mistake?"

Dixter sighed. "To be honest, Your Majesty, I haven't a clue
what they're hoping to do. But that seems the most logical."

"What have you done, then?"

"We're still investigating. But I've gone outside of official
channels. I've asked Tusk to look into it."

"Tusk?" Dion smiled, memory flooding over him. "How is
he? And Nola? And the baby? Your godson, if I remember right."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter was pleased to be reminded.
"Healthwise, they're all fine. Financially, it's a different
story."

"I was afraid that would happen, once he got involved with Link.
So Tusk is trying to track down this Ghost Legion."

"Doesn't need to. They tracked him down. They're advertising
openly, apparently. Looking for pilots. That's all in the report."

"Hitting a little close, aren't they, sir? Though I haven't seen
Tusk in years; but if they know he was once connected with me—"

"Maybe, sire. Maybe not. It might be coincidence. Tusk wasn't
the only one. They contacted Link, too." Dixter's mouth twisted
wryly.

"But how did they get those names? You kept those files secret,
as I remember."

"Yes, that's another strange thing. Those files
were
secret."

"The security leak again."

"Had to be."

"And then they use them blatantly, openly." Dion shook his
head. "That doesn't make sense. What's Tusk doing?"

"He's going to act as if he's interested, see who they are, what
they're offering."

The commlink buzzed.

"Yes, D'argent?" Dion answered.

"Begging your pardon for the interruption, sir, but it is time
we were going."

"Yes, D'argent. Thank you."

John Dixter was already getting to his feet. "I'm sorry to have
to drop this on you before your trip, Your Majesty. But I thought you
should know."

"I'll study those reports while I'm en route. You'll inform me
immediately about what Tusk finds out."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The king escorted the admiral to the door. Once there, Dixter paused,
started to speak, hesitated.

"What is it, sir?" Dion asked. "You've got something
else on your mind. You have, ever since you came in here."

"Just a suggestion, Your Majesty." Dixter looked at the
king intently. "I think you should discuss this with the
archbishop."

Dion stared incredulously. Then he laughed. "The archbishop? Are
you buying in on this ghost theory, my lord? Do you think we should
call in an exorcist?"

"No, Your Majesty," said John Dixter gravely, "but I
think Archbishop Fideles knows someone who should be called in."

Dion's laughter died. He kept his expression carefully blank. "I
can't think to whom you're referring, but I'll keep your suggestion
in mind. Thank you for coming, sir."

Dixter was about to say something else, but the cool glitter of blue
eyes warned that further discussion would not be welcome.

The door slid open. D'argent was there. King and Lord of the
Admiralty exchanged farewells. D'argent escorted Dixter to the outer
door.

Dion returned to his office. The door slid shut. He leaned back
against it, began to rub the five scars on the palm of his hand.

They had begun to pain him, of late.

. .. dead,

Breathless and bleeding on the ground.

William Shakespeare,
Henry IV,
Part One, Act V, Scene iv

Tusk drove his wife and slumbering child back to the small house. A
monetary gift from His Majesty—in recognition of the heroic
services of both Nola Rian and Mendaharin Tusca—had enabled
them to buy it. The house now had a second mortgage, in order to make
a down payment on a new anti-grav drive on the Scimitar.

At least, thought Tusk, steering the battered hoverjeep over the
cracked tarmac of the spaceport, the money he made from this job of
Dixter's should take care of next month's house payment. After that
... well, something would turn up.

Parking the jeep was always an adventure. Its air cushion system
occasionally malfunctioned, causing it to shut off abruptly. When
this happened—as it did now—the craft dropped to the
ground with a bone-jarring thud. Certain his spine was sticking up
through his skull, Tusk climbed painfully out of the jeep, clambered
up the Scimitar's hull to the hatch.

"That brat with you?" XJ asked suspiciously when Tusk slid
down the interior ladder.

"No, he's taking a nap," Tusk answered. It was on the tip
of his tongue to ask for a cookie, but he choked it back. That bit of
information was worth a fortune. He'd wait until he needed something
badly, then spring his knowledge of the cookie scam on the
unsuspecting "grandpa."

He continued his search through his disk library; looking for the
disk the Ghost Legion had sent him. It would be toward the back,
behind the entertainment disks he kept for the passengers.

"Heard from Link?" he asked the computer.

"He checked in to see if there were any runs to make. I said we
had a line of customers from here to Akara, and he said fine, he'd go
back to sleep. Late night." XJ sounded ominous.

Tusk grunted. He found the disk, inserted it into the machine. "You
didn't say anything to him about Dixter, did you?"

"You want to see a fool? Look in a mirror," the computer
snapped. "Don't look this direction." It lapsed into gloomy
silence.

Tusk ignored it, watched the vid, studied it carefully this time. It
was the standard pitch. A very professional, but mild-mannered
officer—Captain Dallen Masters, by name—assured Tusk by
name (computer-programmed drop-in) that he (Captain Masters) had
heard wonderful things about Tusk's ability as a pilot, which is why
Tusk had been sent this invitation, which had gone to only a select
few in the galaxy. Captain Masters would be both pleased and proud if
Tusk would consider joining their ranks. Captain Masters assured
him—Tusk—that he (Masters) lived for nothing more than to
fly with him—Tusk.

"That's interesting," Tusk muttered, watching. "He
used only my alias, not my full name."

"So?" XJ-27 had entered its remote unit. It hovered near
the vidscreen, tiny arms wiggling, lights flickering. "What does
that prove?"

"I dunno." Tusk shrugged. "That Dixter was right, that
they picked up the names from his old files of pilots for hire. If
they'd found me, say, through the Warlord's official files I'd have
been listed by my full name: Mendaharin Tusca, Captain—"

"Deserter." XJ cackled. "AWOL. Wanted for questioning
in connection with theft of Scimitar. Reward for information leading
to apprehension and conviction. They're looking for a few good men,
not a few good convicts."

"What the hell does that matter? That's ancient history now.
Sagan's dead and the past is dead with him. Besides"—Tusk
puffed out his chest—"those of us who risked our lives to
fight the evil dictatorship are heroes now. I've got the Royal Star."

"You're a royal pain. You stumbled into that mess ass backward,
which was the only way you managed to survive. That and the fact that
I was around to pull your ass out—"

"Shut up. They're gonna give an info number here in a minute.
Make sure you get it down."

A number began to flash repeatedly on the screen. Captain Dallen
Masters implied that he wouldn't truly consider life worth living if
he didn't hear from Tusk in the immediate future, if not sooner. He
signed off with a dignified salute.

"You get that number?"

"Yeah, I got it. This better be a toll-free call."

"It is. Besides, Dixter said he'd reimburse us." Tusk
headed for the cockpit.

"That's true," remarked XJ.

Tusk turned, glared at the remote. "You're not planning to
charge Dixter for a toll-free call, are you? Because if you are—"

"The thought never flashed across my circuit boards,"
protested XJ-27, lights blinking in indignation. "I see it
occurred to you, though."

"It did not. I know how you think." Tusk took a seat in the
pilot's chair. "You connected yet?"

"Connecting now. Here it comes. Feel free to talk as long as you
want," added XJ, unusually magnanimous. "After all, we're
not paying for it."

"Yeah, but I bet Dixter does," Tusk said, but he said it
under his breath.

"It wants to know what language you want to communicate in,"
reported XJ.

"Standard military," said Tusk.

Captain Masters himself appeared on the screen. "Thank you for
calling the Ghost Legion," came the clipped voice. "We are
now accepting recruits. If you are a licensed starpilot, interested
in adventure and the chance to earn more money than you ever dreamed
possible, transmit one thousand golden eagles to the account number
now being entered into your computer and we will send you the
coordinates to which you will report for evaluation. The sum pays for
processing your records and is not refundable. Begin transmission
now."

The image flashed off, the screen went blank. Tusk whistled.

"One thousand birds. Whew. I guess they want to make sure you're
serious. Well, what are you waiting for? Send it."

"Have you been at the jump-juice again?" XJ nearly shorted
itself out. "We haven't got one golden eagle, much less one
thousand in the account— Well, I'm fried."

"What?" Tusk sat forward, alarmed.

"There's ten thousand eagles in that account. I would swear
that—"

"Dixter," said Tusk, leaning back and folding his arms.

"Oh, yeah. What
am
I thinking of?" XJ's lights
beamed. "Why, this'll buy me that new software—"

"Send the damn money, will you?" Tusk ordered.

"Thank you . . . Tusk." Captain Masters returned to the
screen. "We have received your payment of one thousand golden
eagles. You will report to the coordinates now being transmitted to
your computer. One of our representatives will meet you on arrival.
According to our calculations, based on your current location in the
galaxy, we estimate that the trip will take you"—slight
pause—"a military-time week.

"If you have not arrived by midnight on the"—another
pause, then he gave a date which was exactly a week from the day Tusk
was calling—"we must assume that you are not interested
and your appointment will be canceled. To arrange for another
appointment after this date will require payment of an additional one
thousand eagles.

"We look forward to meeting with you, Tusk."

The image faded.

"Did he send coordinates?" Tusk asked.

"Yep. Give me a minute." XJ was silent; then it exploded in
a mechanical snort. "Jeez, what a scam. I wish I'd thought of
this one."

"Why? What are the coordinates? Where do they take us?"

"Hell's Outpost."

"You're kidding." Tusk frowned, stared at the blank screen
thoughtfully. "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I ran the damn things twice. It's on the edge of
the galaxy. Do you realize"—the computer did some quick
calculating—"that if we wanted to get there by that date
we'd have to leave now. I mean within the next hour, and even
that
would be cutting it fine. It's a scam. A quick way to earn a
thousand golden eagles. I wonder what happens to the poor slobs who
fall for it."

"Maybe we'll find out," said Tusk. "Get hold of
Dixter."

"You're not serious?"

"Just do it," Tusk said, wondering uncomfortably what Nola
would say if he called with,
Hey, sweetheart, I'm leaving,
blasting off for Hell's Outpost, send you a postcard, love ya, babe.
Bye.
The thought made him wince.

"I've got him," XJ reported.

Tusk sat up straight. "That was fast."

"He gave us his direct number. Went straight through."

Dixter's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Tusk? What have you
found out?"