Ghost Legion (3 page)

"You're not going to tell them!" Xris snapped, taking
another twist out of his pocket. He thrust it into his mouth, didn't
bother to light it. "Better get used to this place 'cause I'm
locking you in here. Don't worry. I'll send Harry for you in the
morning. He'll let you out in time to wash your hair and put on your
makeup. By which time I'll be long gone."

"On your way to Corasia, by yourself. A suicide mission. And to
rescue one person—"

Raoul glanced down at the Little One, who—undeterred by Xris's
fierce warning stare—apparently said something to his partner
in whatever mysterious way they managed to communicate.

"Your wife," said Raoul softly.

"Tell him he's lucky I don't stuff him in there," Xris
snarled, pointing to the trash.

"How have we deserved this of you, Xris Cyborg?" Raoul
asked. The Loti's eyes filled with tears. "What faith have we
broken with you that you do not keep faith with us? How have we
failed you?"

"Shit!" Xris took the twist out of his mouth, threw it on
the floor. "Don't start crying. In the first place this is
personal, none of your goddam business. In the second place, I don't
need you. Any of you, but especially I don't need a whacked-out
poisoner and a snoop! I'll take care of this little matter and I'll
be back before you know I'm gone. You can tell that to the others.
Tell them I'm taking some time off, a well-deserved vacation."

Raoul opened his peach-colored lips.

"Not another word!" Xris warned. "Or by God I will
stuff him in the trash. And you with him." He leaned back on the
console. "Now, make your report."

Raoul exchanged glances with the top of the fedora, which was about
all that could now be seen of the Little One. Apparently deciding
that Xris meant what he said, the Loti removed a lace hankie from his
blue beaded evening bag dabbed his eyes—careful not to disturb
his mascara—and then spread the hankie carefully over the
control panel to dry.

"We met, as arranged, at the Exile Cafe. They had arrived ahead
of me, by two days. An expensive room, near the top. I had the
impression that they had never been there before, but naturally I did
not ask."

"Who are they?"

"John Does. Nobodies." Raoul raised a disdainful plucked
eyebrow. "Experienced starpilots. The Little One says they have
military backgrounds, some mercenary work, nothing of interest. They
gave me their names, of course, but the Little One says that the
names were false."

"And who are they working for?"

"They claimed to be members of a prodemocracy organization
unhappy with the return to a monarchy. The Little One says that, too,
is false. They have no strong political beliefs as would be manifest
if they were dedicated members of such an organization. Instead, they
were acting a part, repeating what they had been told to say."

Xris took out another twist, examined it absently, shifted his gaze
to the Little One. "He pick up on any real names? Places?"

"A group calling itself the Ghost Legion. The thought crossed
the mind of each person at various times. Does that nomenclature mean
anything to you, Xris Cyborg?"

Xris shrugged. "Could be anything from a paramilitary
organization to a dance troupe. I'll pass it along. These characters
you met were obviously just flunkies. Did you get any land of a line
on the people higher up?"

"Something rather strange. I led the discussion to commanders,
leaders." Raoul flushed a delicate pink. "I am afraid I was
forced to denigrate you and your leadership capabilities, Xris
Cyborg. If anything of what I said should happen to come back—"

Xris waved his good hand. "Think nothing of it What'd you find
out?"

"The Little One descried a name."

"Yeah? And?"

Raoul lifted himself on his patent leather dancing pumps, swayed
forward, and whispered "Starfire!" in breathless, dramatic
tones.

Xris lit his twist, took a puff.

Raoul waited, regarded the cyborg expectantly.

Xris took the twist out of his mouth. "Yeah? So?"

Raoul's purple-lined eyes opened wide. "Do you not find that
odd, Xris Cyborg?"

He snorted. "That you're talking about commanders and these
former military pilots think of their king? The commander-in-chief?"

"But they are plotting to overthrow him, Xris Cyborg. Why would
they think of him?"

"Ever heard of a guilty conscience?"

Raoul stared blankly.

The cyborg shook his head. "Skip it. Was what you offered them
satisfactory?"

"I assume so. They examined the layouts to make certain all was
there. But the Little One says that they lacked the technical
expertise to truly understand what it was they were looking at."

"That's what we counted on. These guys are just the middlemen.
Their job is to transport the goods to the experts. I hope you sold
your soul dearly?"

"They were quite munificent," remarked Raoul, with a smile
and a fluttering motion of his hands toward the beaded bag. "I
will, of course, deposit this in the corporate account. After we
deduct our expenses, of course."

"Of course," Xris said dryly. "I suppose that new
outfit of yours is on the list. Kind of subdued for you, isn't it?"

Raoul looked down solemnly at his crushed purple velvet toreador
pants, mauve hosiery, and matching purple sequined jacket.

"I thought I should present a serious image. I should look
earnest in my desire—"

"—to betray king and country." Xris grinned, stuck
the twist in his mouth. "So this is what the well-dressed
traitor is wearing this year. Any indication of when they plan to
strike?"

"The Little One says they intended to transmit the information
we provided to another location, have it checked over."

"That should keep em busy awhile. Where do they plan to send
it?"

"The Little One was unable to ascertain. A coded sequence. I
doubt if these people know where they're sending it."

"Probably not. Well, we got a fish on the line. I hope this
makes Dixter happy." He paused. Raoul was shaking his head,
regardless of the harm the movement did to his hairstyle. "What's
the matter?"

"I find it difficult to believe that any group would attempt to
attack this facility. My former employer, the late Snaga Ohme, used
to say that not even the renowned forces under the command of the
dead Warlord Derek Sagan could lay siege to this place with any hope
of achieving success."

"Your former employer was right." Xris cast an approving
glance around. "It might be harder to break into His Majesty's
palace, but I doubt it. Shields and the force field protect us from
air attack. Life expectancy on the outer grounds is thirty seconds—if
you watch where you step. Inside, we can pick up fleas crawling
across the floor. Yeah, your former employer knew how to build a damn
fine house for himself. Still, not even all this fancy technology
kept
him
alive. He let his guard down once, maybe, but once
was all it took."

"Yes, that is true." Raoul sighed and flashed a blissful
smile. "And so we appear to let our guard down and wait to see
who lunges at us."

"That's what we were hired for. Damn dull, if you ask me, but I
couldn't very well say no to the Lord of the Admiralty."

Xris began packing up his gear—specially designed missiles that
fired from either a gun or his cybernetic weapons hand. He'd
developed them three years ago, when he'd been hired by the Starlady
to fight Corasians. The missiles had worked then, saved their lives.
He'd modified them, refined them, sold his design for them to the
Royal Military. He was a wealthy man now. Which was good, since it
was going to take a large portion of that wealth to get him into and
out of Corasia alive.

"When are you leaving?" Raoul asked, watching the cyborg's
preparations.

"Tonight."

"The others will notice you are gone."

"By the time they do, it won't matter. Might as well make
yourself comfortable. You may be here for a while."

"This is not in the contract, Xris Cyborg" said Raoul,
seating himself on the edge of the control panel. Taking a small
mirror from the beaded bag, the Loti studied himself in it frowned
slightly. He removed a silver tube from the bag opened it and began
to trace a peach-colored line around his lips. "You are always
very insistent on the contract."

"There's a clause about an act of God in the contract,"
Xris told him. "Look it up. Besides, you don't need me for this
job. Hell, you got half the Royal Military out there, the other half
on call. Tell Lee he's in charge. Nothing's going to happen. Whoever
they are, they won't be ready to make their move for a long, long
time. Shit, it'll take them a military month to figure out those
phony layouts we provided. By then I'll be back—"

"You won't be back," said Raoul complacently. He regarded
the cyborg from beneath languidly drooping, half-closed, purple
eyelids. "Not if you go alone. You don't have a chance. You will
die. And so will she."

Xris said nothing.

Raoul sat on the control panel, swinging his shapely legs back and
forth. The empath was huddled underneath a fake fiberglass boulder.
He looked remarkably dejected, hopeless, despairing.

"If he's picking up on my mental state, no wonder," Xris
muttered, suddenly angry.

He stalked over to the sliding door, moving with his awkward gait,
trying to force the natural human part of his body to work faster, be
better than the stronger, indestructible mechanical part. He had
almost reached the door when Raoul slid off the control panel,
flitted over toward Xris. The Loti sidled near.

"A kiss for luck, my friend."

"No, you don't." Xris stiff-armed Raoul, shoved the Loti's
head against a wall, being careful to use his mechanical hand near
the Loti's mouth. "I know about the lip gloss, remember? What's
in it today?"

"A sleeping potion." Raoul gasped a little in pain, though
the smile never left his face. If anything, the smile was rather more
blissful. "You would not have slept long. We could have
discussed the matter. Please, do not crush the velvet. I—"

"Xris!" Harry's voice boomed out into the target range.
"You better get the hell up here! Our security monitors just
went berserk! And is that empath down there with you? Bring him
along."

Xris glared at Raoul.

The Loti gave him a charming, pouting smile. "Don't blame me. I
have no idea what is transpiring. And I am not responsible. Perhaps
it is, as you said, an act of God."

The cyborg cursed beneath his breath, released the Loti. "Nothing
I can do or say will keep you from telling them, will it?"

"Nothing short of murder, Xris Cyborg."

"Try that hp gloss trick on me again and—"

"Xris!" Harry sounded tense.

"Yeah, I'm coming. I'm coming. And I've got the empath."

The cyborg was on the move. Raoul, rubbing his bruised jaw and making
certain his velvet had not been damaged, flitted after him. The
Little One trotted alongside, moving as fast as his short legs and
the long hem of the raincoat, which was continually tripping him up,
permitted.

"Why do you want the empath?" Xris spoke into his commlink.
He was heading for the elevator and the upper levels of the late
Snaga Ohme's mansion. "What's going on? What have you got?"

"If you ask me," Harry said grimly, "I think it's
ghosts."

. .. toward his design, moves like a ghost.

William Shakespeare,
Macbeth,
Act II, Scene i

Sir John Dixter, Lord of the Admiralty, sat in his resplendent suite
of offices, located on the top floor of the newly constructed Royal
Military Headquarters building, and gazed out one of the
floor-to-ceiling windows. The view was breathtaking, magnificent, and
all other laudatory adjectives. The Glitter Palace, His Majesty's
royal residence, stood directly opposite. Its multifaceted crystal
walls—strong and stalwart—sparkled radiantly, with
jewellike beauty, in the sunlight. And directly beneath the palace,
its shining mirror image, reflected in the rippling surface of a
cobalt-blue lake, shimmered and danced.

From his vantage point, Dixter could see the entire city of Minas
Tares. It was lunch hour, and many of the government workers were in
the streets, taking their noon meals in the restaurants and wine
bars, spending their brief noon hour shopping, conducting business,
or dropping by the day-care centers to play with their children.

The winding, artfully designed streets were crowded, but the crowds
were orderly, went about their business or pleasure quietly. Directly
below his window, a well-shepherded group of tourists stood gawking
at the palace. Tourists were permitted on King's Island, but they
were closely monitored, herded about in small groups and permitted
entry only to certain areas.

A monorail system provided transportation to and from City-Royal, a
bustling metropolis located about ten kilometers from King's Island.
The two were separated by a bay, connected by-monorail. Most of those
who worked on King's Island lived in City Royal, which was also the
jumping-off point for tourists.

Dixter eyed the tourists closely—as closely as possible from
twenty stories up. He scanned the crowd for the one who might attempt
to edge away from it, to sidle off down a back street . . .

His nose practically pressed against the windowpane, the ad-miral
realized what he was doing, flushed and glanced around swiftly,
hoping Bennett had not seen him.

John Dixter was being paranoid and he knew it.

"But then, I have reason to be," he murmured, easing up on
himself, remembering the Revolution—a time he hadn't paid
attention to small details and his world had exploded in flames
around him. That had been twenty-some years ago. But John Dixter
would never forget.