Ghost Legion (47 page)

"Excellent. We must not move too soon. We don't want to make our
cousin suspicious. We will see what Lord Sagan brings us."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"You know, it's a pity—" Flaim took a bite out of the
apple. "Pah!" He spit it out. "Rotten."

"You were saying, my prince?"

"What? Oh, yes. As Sagan said, it is a pity that we cannot use
the strange dark-matter creatures as our secret police. What
excellent spies they would be! Unseen, unheard. We could send them to
keep watch over Lord Sagan."

"Flesh-and-blood spies must serve the purpose there, my prince.
Though I doubt that they'll bring us back much useful information, if
they manage to keep track of him at all. Derek Sagan may be a shadow
of the man he once was, but that shadow is still quite formidable."

"The creatures could be told to follow him."

"True, but what would that accomplish, my prince? It would be
like sending a human to spy on the doings of a beehive. The
dark-matter creatures cannot understand our languages. In fact, they
have only a very limited concept of us as sentient beings. Always
remember, Flaim, the creatures have no care for us. They use us, we
use them—an alliance of mutual convenience, nothing more."

Flaim shrugged. "I bow to your judgment, my friend. And now I
must return to the alcazar. I have been gone far too long as it is.
Will you remain here until the Warlord has departed, then supervise
the dismantling of this?' Flaim gestured to the tent, the
surroundings.

"Certainly, my prince. When that is done, I will join you."

Flaim pressed the hand of the older man. "Thank you, my friend.
Your help has been of inestimable value."

Pantha, obviously pleased and touched, clasped the younger man's
hand. Flaim departed, walking out of the tent with long, confident
strides. He tossed the apple into the bonfire as he passed.

Give me the crown.

Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin,

On this side my hand, and on that side yours.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well

That owes two buckets, filling one another,

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other, down, unseen, and full of water.

That bucket down and full of tears am I,

Drinking my griefs, while you mount up on high.

William Shakespeare,
Richard II,
Act IV, Scene i

I knew, and know my hour is come, but not

To render up my soul to such as thee ...

George Gordon, Lord Byron,
Manfred

The screen door slammed.

"Tusk! Where are you? Tusk!" Nola shouted.

"I'm giving the kid a bath," came Tusk's voice and a
splash.

Nola threw the grocery sack she carried in the general vicinity of
the kitchen table and headed for the small bathroom, located at the
far end of the house. Reaching the door, she paused to catch her
breath.

"Yeah, what?" Tusk squatted on the floor next to the
bathtub. Water glistened on his face, trickled down his arms. Young
John, seated in the tub, lifted up a small bucket filled with water.
Grinning gleefully at his mother, he proceeded to upend it, deluging
himself and his father.

"Jeez, this kid must be part dolphin—"

"Tusk ..." Nola tried again.

Tusk looked up. "What the—" He jumped to his feet.
"You've been
running?
In this heat? You thinkin of tryin
out for a marathon? What sorta weird hormone's attacked you now?
Here"—he put the lid down on the toilet seat—"Sit
down. John, don't do that—"

"Tusk!" Nola grabbed hold of his arm, pinched him to
emphasize the serious nature of what she had to say. "I stopped
by the store ... to get the milk for lunch ..." She gasped for
breath.

"Yeah, so?" Tusk glanced back at his son. "John, damn
it, I've told you— Look at the mess you've made!"

"It's Link, Tusk!" Nola persisted. "He's in the Seldom
Inn, in a high-stakes ante-up game. (John, your father told you not
to do that.) I heard it from Rozzle. He stopped me as I went past his
office. He tried to call, but since the phone's been disconnected
..." Nola brushed back her sweat-damp curls. "Link's
losing, Roz said. Big time."

"So what else is new?" Tusk grunted. He grabbed a towel,
wiped off his face, then began mopping up the floor.

Nola leaned against the door frame. "Link's bet the spaceplane,
Tusk. His half of it."

Tusk froze, towel in hand, water dripping on the floor. He stared at
her.

"It's true, dear," she said bleakly. "Roz said he'd
try to hold things off as long as possible, but it may already be too
late. You better hurry."

Standing up, Tusk tossed the towel on the floor. "That son of a
bitch!"

The Seldom Inn was a combination bar and motel located near the
spaceport. Its customers were generally traveling salesmen, bored
convention goers, commercial pilots on layovers, and private pilots
who wanted some pleasant diversion. The Seldom Inn offered this in
the form of cheap liquor; cheap food; moderately priced, moderately
clean rooms; and a gambling casino—which is where the owner
made his profits.

The owner, Rozzle Dozzle, was a tall, stringy man who looked as if
he'd hung himself out to dry in the sun twenty years ago and
forgotten to take himself back in. One of the wealthiest men in town,
Rozzle dressed in pretty much whatever came to hand when he got up in
the morning and was constantly being mistaken for one of his own
janitorial staff— which mix-up appeared to afford him
considerable amusement.

He had the reputation of being a fair employer and a good neighbor,
so that if he ran a few rigged tables, employed a few slick dealers,
fleeced a few strangers out of their credits, no one in town much
minded. The locals knew which games to avoid. Rozzle was lenient as
far as bar tabs were concerned and he always made certain regular
customers left when they'd had enough. He was well liked and he could
tell you within two numbers of the right of the decimal point how
much money he'd made during his lifetime.

Tusk dashed in the inn's front door, vaulted the reception desk,
nearly knocking down the startled clerk, and plunged into Rozzle's
office.

"Where the hell is he?" Tusk shouted.

Rozzle jerked a thumb. "Upstairs. Sorry, Tusk. I tried my
damnedest. You know how Link gets when he's been drinkin'.

And Banquo's been buyin jump-juice for him like they was goin to take
it off the market."

"Link up there?"

"Yeah. Tusk, wait."

Rozzle was on his feet. He could move fast and, from dealing with
juicers over the years, he was stronger, tougher, and more tenacious
than he looked. Catching hold of Tusk's arm, he gave it a few good
twists and a jerk to bring the mercenary to his senses.

"I got some good customers up there. Friends of mine. I can't
let you go barging in, makin a scene."

Tusk struggled ineffectively in Rozzle's grip, but finally gave up,
was forced to cool from rapid boil to simmer.

"You okay?" Rozzle eyed him dubiously.

"Yeah!" Tusk rubbed his arm. "Yeah, I'm all right. Can
I go up?"

"Long as you don't start bustin up tables."

"Not tables. Heads. One head." Tusk clenched his fist.

"Link's a big boy, Tusk." Rozzle touched a button, spoke a
few low words into a commlink. "He don't need his mommy."

"He needs a keeper!" Tusk glowered.

"I've fixed it. Just tap twice, softly, on the door. The
Redhead'll let you in. And, Tusk. Look out for this Banquo. He's the
big winner so far."

"Banquo?" Tusk screwed up his face. "I know him?"

"Naw. He's new around here. Came in last night. He don't look
like much, but I got a feeling he's trouble."

Tusk nodded gloomily and headed for the upper floors.

Rozzle gazed after him, shook his head. "Tusk, my friend, meet
your new partner."

Tusk tapped twice, softly, on the door. Rozzle's wife, known as the
Redhead, a woman as round and short as he was tall and thin, and one
of the best dealers in the business, opened the door.

The room was filled with tobacco smoke and the stale, sour smell of
sweat. Sunlight filtered in through the cracks of a drawn window
shade. A harsh nuke light shone down from the ceiling on a green
baize-covered table.

"Game's over, I'm afraid, Tusk," the Redhead said quietly.

Tusk, had no need to ask who'd lost. Link sat slumped in dejection,
his elbows on the deal table, his head in his hands.

Stalking across the smoke-filled room, Tusk grabbed hold of his
erstwhile partner, shook him.

"What the hell have you done?"

"I was hot, Tusk. Hot. I couldn't lose." Link didn't look
up. "Then ... you know how it goes. The cards went against me. I
figured, though ... only a matter of time." He stretched out his
unsteady hand for a half-empty glass of jump-juice.

Tusk knocked the glass out of his reach, sent it smashing to the
floor.

"Hey, no trouble." The Redhead waddled over.

"Then get him the hell outta here!" Tusk swore bitterly.

"Come on, pumpkin," the Redhead crooned. With an expert
hand, she levered Link up out of the chair, steered his stumbling
footsteps toward the door.

"A straight," Link said to no one in particular. "I
had a goddam straight. How the hell'd he beat a goddam straight?"

Two other players, who didn't look any too happy themselves, gave
Tusk a glance, then filed out of the room. The big winner remained
behind, gathering up plastic credits, golden eagles, and paper cash.

He was a grossly overweight man with a coarse, jowly face, stubbly
with a few days' growth of dark beard. He had tiny pig eyes, almost
buried beneath layers of fat. But these eyes— when they turned
on Tusk—were remarkable for their calculating shrewdness. And
the man either had been involved in a terrible accident or was born
with severe handicaps. He couldn't walk; he rode in what was commonly
know as an air-chair—a sophisticated wheelchair that traveled
on cushions of air.

He had use of one hand and arm, apparently, for it was this hand that
was scooping up the cash, depositing it in a bag attached to the arm
of the chair. The other hand was immobile, locked in a fixed position
over a computer keypad attached to the chair. His head and neck were
held upright by a brace. He could not move his head, but was forced
to swivel about in the chair to look directly at anyone, a movement
which he made with startling speed. The fingers—surprisingly
thin and long, considering the grossness of the body—flicked
rapidly over the keypad. A synthesized voice spoke.

"You're Tusk, I take it?"

"Yeah," said Tusk morosely, shoving his hands in the
pockets of his jeans. "That's me."

"I'm your new partner, sir," the mechanical voice told him.
"Lazarus Banquo."

Tusk glanced again at the leering man, found he didn't much like
looking at him, and glanced away. "Can't say that I'm pleased to
meet you."

"No, sir, I don't suppose you are." Banquo made a sound in
his chest, a sort of gurgling belch that was, perhaps, a chuckle.

His clothes were expensive, but they hadn't been washed in some time,
to judge by the remains of various meals that adorned his tie and
shirtfront. Judging by the smell, Banquo hadn't bothered to wash
himself either.

Tusk took a step or two closer to the window. "Look, Mr. Banquo,
I'll level with you. You didn't get yourself much of a prize. Our
shuttle business is really just gettin' off the ground—"

"A veritable pun, sir! I appreciate it." Again the belching
chuckle.

"Yeah, well." Tusk yanked the window open, drew in a deep
breath. "Glad you got a sense of humor. Anyway, business hasn't
been that great. We've got a few debts and now, without a co-pilot
... I mean I take it you don't—"

"No, sir. Wouldn't dream of it. Capital. That's all I'm
interested in, sir. Liquidate. Turn into cash. Nothing beats cash,
sir. Nothing!" Banquo's good hand squeezed the money bag he
held.

Tusk looked around grimly. "That's kinda what I had figured. I
can't buy you out right away. But I could pay you some each month..
.."

"A fair offer, sir, but not one I'm prepared to take. There's a
consortium on planet ... well, I won't say where ... but they would
offer me a hundred thousand eagles for my share of that Scimitar this
minute, sir. This minute.

"Of course, sir," Banquo added with a jowly grin, "where
my half goes, your half goes, sir. But they would be willing to pay
you the same amount."

"A hundred thousand ... Are you crazy?" Tusk stalked over
to stand in front of the obese monstrosity, glared down at him. "It's
worth fifty times that amount! One hundred times!"

"Then pay me, sir," Banquo said, the grin swallowed in
layers of fat. The pig eyes were suddenly cold and dangerous.

"Pay me what my half is worth now, sir, and we will part
company."

"You goddam bastard. You got Link drunk, then cheated him. I'll
lay money those cards were—"

"Come, come, my dear sir," Banquo intervened. "Say
nothing that you may regret later. We are, as it seems, at an
impasse. Notwithstanding the wise advice of Solomon, we cannot very
well cut the spaceplane in two. However, I begin to see the
glimmerings of a solution. Escort me to my suite, where we may talk
in peace."

The grotesque man clutched the bag close to him. "I feel rather
nervous carrying this much cash. I have seen several unsavory
characters running loose in this establishment."

"Look in a mirror," Tusk advised him, but he did so under
his breath.

Banquo activated the air jets and the chair rose up off the floor and
carried the hefty, immobile body out of the room. Tusk tagged along;
he hadn't much choice.