Ghost Legion (37 page)

"A fair question," she said after a moment's thought and
cool appraisal. "You may sit down." She made a regal
gesture. "Don't smoke."

Xris had taken a twist out of his pocket. Now he looked at it, looked
at her, then stuck the twist back in his pocket again. The queen
walked over to the window. Parting the curtains, she glanced out.

"There's no one out there, Your Majesty, unless you were
followed," Xris offered.

"No, I wasn't followed," said the queen. "I'm my
mother's daughter, after all."

This meant nothing to Xris, beyond the fact that she said it with a
hard and bitter edge to her voice. She let the curtain fall, turned
back to face him.

"I heard His Majesty speak of you. He told me the story of how
the Lady Maigrey hired you and your team. How you went with her into
that terrible moon in the Corasian galaxy. How you risked your own
life to save the life of Tusca. His Majesty's best friend. You helped
the Lady Maigrey. She trusted you. It occurred to me, when I needed
help, that I could trust you, as well."

The wine-colored eyes lifted to meet his. She was breathtaking. Xris
would have taken off his cloak—had he owned a cloak—thrown
it in the mud at her feet. Hell, he would have thrown himself into
the mud at her feet, begged her to walk on him. But he reminded
himself sternly that business was business and he'd better keep this
on a business footing—which meant standing on his own two.

"Look, Your Majesty, the Lady Maigrey and I had a deal, a
business deal, a contract—"

"You will be well paid, of course," said Astarte, with a
slight smile. "I regret that I cannot give you a written
contract, but there must be no record of our involvement. I am going
to be asking you to do certain things and you will not know precisely
why, nor will I be able to tell you. Is this going to be a problem?"

She was cool, very cool. This was some sort of test and "yes"
wasn't the right answer.

"So long as you're not going to ask me to do anything that would
make me a traitor," Xris said bluntly. "I live by my own
rules, generally; I'm my own boss. I've been known to bend the law
when I thought it needed bending, or break it on occasion—"

"Such as this last trip you made across enemy lines?"
Astarte asked, interrupting. "To rescue your wife, wasn't it?
Did you succeed? I hope you did. That was a strong point in your
favor."

Xris stared at her, his brain feeling the way his body felt when his
battery pack shut down—helpless, paralyzed. He opened his
mouth, but no words came out. The silence was broken instead by a
series of small beeps. Lights flashed—his weapons arm,
undergoing a routine systems check.

"I'm sorry." Astarte said, not even glancing at it. "I
shouldn't have interrupted you. You were saying?"

Xris had no idea. All he could remember was the substance. "I
wont do anything to hurt the king," he said harshly. "He's
all right I think he's doing an okay job. If you have anything like
that in mind, sister you better pick up your hat and gloves and start
walking."

He was rough on her, purposefully so. Her face flushed, but not in
shame.

"I am not your sister. Nor will you address me as such."
Astarte's voice lowered; she looked almost sad. "What I hire you
to do will not harm His Majesty. You might say, in a way, it will
save his life. Or what he values more than life."

She said the last in a soft tone, so soft only the cyborg's augmented
hearing could have registered it. She began to droop, wilt like a cut
rose. Had Xris's arms been flesh and blood instead of metal, he might
have taken her into those arms, patted her on the back, told her to
have a good cry. Had she been flesh and blood, instead of queen of
the galaxy, she might have done so.

As it was, Xris shifted uncomfortably, began fiddling unnecessarily
with the controls on his cybernetic leg.

She asked, in the same low tone, "Did you rescue your wife?"

"Yes," Xris said briefly.

Astarte waited a moment, giving him a chance to add details,
something he'd never do as long as his artificial heart kept pumping
what passed for blood through his body. But he did wonder what had
prompted the question, which must have been tripping on the heels of
whatever thoughts had gone before it.

He couldn't begin to guess what she had in mind. If he'd been
watching the vids, reading the mags, keeping up with the latest
gossip, he might have been able to figure it out. Too bad Raoul and
the Little One weren't with him. Raoul would have known what was
coming down. The Adonian could have named every garment in the
queen's wardrobe, complete with accessories. And the little empath
would have been invaluable. Not that it took an empath to sense that
beneath the purple velvet mantle of royalty, sophistication, and
power, this queen, who had—presumably—the resources of a
vast empire at her disposal, was desperate, afraid, alone.

Which meant she'll pay big, he told himself. And he'd probably earn
it. From what he remembered from college history class, those who got
mixed up in court intrigues did not live long and happy lives. But
that was a small consideration; almost no consideration at all.
Xris's life wasn't so great that he'd turn down good money to prolong
it.

Flesh-and-blood women. They could be grateful to a ma-chine that
saved them, but never love one. No matter what they said.

He'd been silent so long that Astarte was looking anxious, apparently
thinking he was still having doubts about her. "I swear to you,
by the Goddess whom I serve, that I would never ask you or anyone to
harm the king." She laid her hand on his arm. Her
flesh-and-blood hand. His cybernetic arm. "You must believe me."

Xris smiled, shrugged. "Sure. Okay. I believe you. Feels
strange, doesn't it, Your Majesty?" he added. "You expect
it to be warm, like normal flesh."

"I didn't," she replied. "Also included in your file
were complete diagrams showing how you've been put together. I
studied them extensively."

Xris regarded her thoughtfully. Maybe he'd been wrong about her. Her
touch was just as cold to his sensors as his own metal. Maybe colder.

She removed her hand, slowly, and turned away. Picking up her gloves,
she put them on, smoothed them out. She then lifted her wide-brimmed
hat, placed it on her head—this time looking at herself in the
mirror—and adjusted the veil.

"All women in mourning on this planet must hide their faces for
thirty days. You have your own spaceplane. Where is it parked?"

"Spaceport Central. Gate 16-X. Look, Your Majesty, now that you
know that you can trust me and I know that I can trust you, why don't
you tell me what's going on?"

She tied the veil around her neck. "We will leave now, taking
the monorail to the spaceport. You are a transport pilot in my
employ. My lover died off-world. I have hired you to bring her body
back home for burial."

"Nice cover story, but I mean, what's really going on?"

"No. Not now. Not here." She glanced around at him. "Maybe
not ever. You will follow orders."

Astarte looked back at herself made a minor adjustment to the hat.
"When we reach the spaceport, you will go straight to the plane.
I will gain clearance for our departure, as well as our return. The
journey will be short: forty-eight hours. I will make all the other
arrangements, including having the coffin loaded onto your plane."

"Coffin, huh? What's in it? Are they likely to X-ray it?"

"Nothing is in it. I told you. We are going to pick up my
lov-er's body. Are you ready?" She turned to face him, her head
back, chin tilted.

Xris took a last, quick swallow of the jump-juice, stuck the bottle
back into his luggage. Since that was the only item he'd unpacked, he
was ready. He pulled a twist out of his pocket, stuck it in his
mouth.

"You will not smoke," she said.

Xris eyed her, considering.

"Royal command?"

"If you want to think of it that way."

"Huh-uh. And speaking of royal commands, just what or who's
going to be in the coffin coming back, Your Majesty?"

He couldn't see her face. The veil concealed her features, hid them
behind an intricate pattern of lacy black net. But he could see the
coral lips part in a cool smile.

"That depends on you," she said. "And now we should
go. Time is critical."

She turned, faced the door, stood waiting expectantly for him to open
it for her.

Xris opened it.

She walked out, head high, without a backward look. She assumed he
would follow.

"Damn," Xris muttered, half-exasperated, half-admiring.

He looked at the twist in his hand. Shrugging, he took the rest of
the pack out of his pocket, tossed it on the floor, and followed.
He'd been meaning to quit anyway.

King: Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?

Warwick: When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

King: The Prince hath taken it hence. Go, seek him out. Is he so
hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death?

William Shakespeare,
King Henry IV,
Part Two, Act IV Scene v

Twelve hours had passed since the voice had welcomed Sagan to the
Valley of Ghosts. Twelve hours and no further communication. He spent
the time retrieving more data on the planet, its double suns, and its
artificial moons—the orbiting space stations.

The lid was off the box; one mystery was solved—only to find a
nest of boxes inside. Thousands of people, concealed from the
knowledge of the rest of the galaxy. Easy enough to spirit away one
bastard child. But an entire civilization? It was not difficult
figuring out what had happened to the probes. The "ghosts"
that had moved the breviary had undoubtedly "moved" the
probes as well. But how do you keep thousands of people silent? How
do you keep them from saying to the rest of the galaxy, "We're
here!"?

A strong leader could do it. A leader to whom all were unswervingly
loyal, faithful. One of the Blood Royal. . . .

At least Sagan was no longer alone in space. Activity in the area had
picked up. Sleek fighter planes, of a new design based on his old
Scimitar, flashed past every hour or so, keeping an eye on him. At
one point he caught a glimpse of a fleet of warships and support
craft. Visual observation showed him very little: the flash of
sunlight off a ship's prow, occasional streaks of tracer fire, the
winking of running lights. His monitors gave him a detailed
description, however. The numbers were impressive, consisting of
battle cruisers, tankers, carriers, supply ships. Impressive, but not
that
impressive. It was not a force large enough to conquer a
galaxy. Nor did it appear well trained or well organized.

A particularly ragged formation flew past. Sagan caught himself on
his feet, his face grim, his hand on the commlink controls, about to
give the pilots a brief lesson in flying. Recalling where he was—what
he was—he stopped himself. Sitting back in his chair, he smiled
over old memories.

But the smile was twisted by pain, a sweet honey drink laced with
bitter poison—temptation, longing, sudden ardent desire. Once
more he was on the old
Phoenix,
standing before the viewscreen
on the bridge, watching the exercises, filming in impotent rage,
shaking his head at some piece of stupidity, holding his breath over
near disaster averted at the last minute, finally taking his
spaceplane out himself and showing by example what he wanted, feeling
that inner satisfaction when some terrified recruit overcame fear and
confusion and actually did what he was supposed to do—that was
life. That had been his life. And it could be again; Sagan recognized
a shining red apple when he saw one. He didn't need to see the
grinning serpent coiled around it.

He stared at the wheeling, flashing planes, the huge mothering ships
that would receive their children home. In that life there was noise.
In that life he would no longer hear the roaring silence.

And in that instant, it all vanished.

Ships, planes, stars, sun, planet. Everything went black around him.
He darted a swift look at his instrument panel, but whatever was
happening to him was sending the instruments berserk.

It happened too fast for fear. His first and most immediate reaction
was: "What the—" A shattering crash cut that brief
thought short.

The impact sent him sprawling across the console, knocked the breath
from his body. The sharp edges of various knobs and switches jabbed
into him, bruising and cutting him. The volksrocket jolted and
jounced, then lurched to a stop that was as sudden as the initial
impact, slammed Sagan into the steelglass viewscreen.

The plane wobbled, then settled to rest. The Warlord lay where he was
for a moment, dazed and shaken. Gradually he recovered his breath.
His head began to throb in pain. He shoved himself up off the
console. Putting his hand to his scalp, he felt blood, warm and
sticky.

He sank into a chair, to give himself time to recover and try to
assess what had happened. A glance out the viewscreen showed him it
was night and he was on land ... or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
The lights on his plane shone on the leaves and thick boles of
several huge trees—probably what he'd crashed into. Instrument
readings, now back to normal, indicated that he was definitely on
land. Judging by the strange gravitational fluctuations being
recorded, he was on Vallombrosa. But how he'd arrived here in such a
short time from outer space made for extremely interesting
speculation.

Thinking back on the entire startling few moments, he had the
distinct impression that his plane had been snagged, flung through
time and space like a rock from a slingshot.

Well,
demanded a voice in his mind,
are you coming?