Ghost Legion (5 page)

"A drop in barometric pressure—in certain areas only—and
a corresponding movement of the air in places where no air should be
moving."

"The drop in pressure accompanies the disturbance," Dixter
observed, studying the report. "So do the air currents."

"That's what convinced us we weren't crazy. We fed all this
stuff into the computer, had it chart the results. Take a look at
that. Look at the path it makes."

Dixter examined another document, transmitted by the cyborg—a
diagram of Snaga Ohme's vast estate. A line had been drawn in red, a
line that followed the movement detected by the various sensors.
Dixter stared at it; his jaw went slack.

"Ghosts, you said, boss," Xris commented.

The path started at an outside wall, went through a
nullgrav-steel-lined marble wall into the house, and traveled through
room after room, moving straight through walls, ceilings, floors. It
never deviated from its chosen course; no obstruction stopped it. It
headed straight in one direction: the vault.

"As you see, to even reach the house itself, this thing had to
pass through the force field that surrounds the estate, had to go
through the garden, where life expectancy is thirty seconds if you're
lucky. Motion detectors sensed movement in the garden, but they
didn't get any corroborating evidence from other detectors, and so
they didn't react, other than to register it.

"That's why it didn't trip any of the thousand or so booby
traps, not that they would have done any damage. Couldn't. The thing
moved too damn fast. It made it safely to the house, slid right
through a fortified exterior wall that could withstand a direct hit
from a lascannon and not buckle. Nothing stopped it. Nothing even
fazed it apparently."

"Was the vault on the layout Raoul passed on?"

"Sure. No reason not to. A lot of people already know about it.
Snaga Ohme was proud of the contraption. He used to take special
clients to see it. According to the Loti, Ohme once claimed he could
detonate an atomic bomb next to it and the blast wouldn't so much as
put a dent in the walls. He was exaggerating, of course, but probably
not by much. What we
didn't
put on there was the security
surrounding it, not to mention the vault's own internal security
systems."'"

"And you say this . . . whatever it was . . . got past all that
and inside the vault. What did it do once it was inside? Did
it
take the bomb?"

"Maybe it took it. Maybe it vaporized it. Maybe it ate it. We
got the thing on vid. All I know is that one minute the damn bomb's
there and the next it isn't."

"And this . . . thing . . . was responsible. Damn it, how do we
know for sure?"

"Maybe we don't. We got two firm indications, boss: First, we
registered an increase in the radiation level around the vault. Not
much. But enough to make us suspicious, especially tracing the path
the thing took. We examined the vault's superstructure. There'd been
an alteration in the metal itself, a chemical change, enough to
generate radioactivity. And only in that one place, directly in line
with the path."

"That's the first. What was the second?"

Xris looked grim. "The bomb was moved."

"Moved?"

"Jostled, handled. Not far—a fraction of a fraction of a
centimeter before it vanished. But enough to set off the alarm. That
was the only alarm this thing did set off, by the way. And that was
only because we've had the bomb surrounded by every conceivable type
of sensing device, all sensitive enough to register a hair falling on
it. The guards reacted instantly, entered the vault. They found
nothing. Nothing except that the bomb was gone."

"The guards didn't see anything? Hear anything?"

"Now, that's another strange thing, boss. The guards didn't see
or hear anything, but one of them reported
feeling
something.
About a split second before the alarm went off. She said she felt as
if she'd been shoved into a compression chamber. The feeling passed
immediately. She shows no physical damage, no chemical alteration. No
increase in radiation level, no aftereffects. But notice where she
was standing, boss."

Dixter looked, gave a low whistle. The guard's position had been
indicated on the diagram. She had been standing directly in the
red-lined path.

"You mean whatever this was went right
through
her?"
Dixter was aghast.

"Through her, through nullgrav steel vault walls, into the
vault, and out again. Look, motion detectors pick it up here, on the
opposite side. It passed on through the rest of the house, exited
here, through another fortified wall. Back out into the garden,
through the force field, and presumably back to wherever it came
from."

Dixter passed his hand over his face, scratched his chin. "Do
you realize what you're saying, Xris? This thing goes through solid
steel walls with leaving so much as a trace, then actually manages to
touch and move an object? Damn it, it's not possible!"

The cyborg chewed on the twist. "What can I say, boss? I agree
completely. It's not possible. But it happened."

"It took the bomb. Through solid matter."

"Yeah, and ... I wonder if you've considered something else."

Xris lit the twist, puffed on it absently, flicked the ash to the
floor. He stared at Dixter speculatively.

"What?" the admiral asked grimly.

"Whoever has that bomb now," Xris said, letting the smoke
trickle slowly from his lips, "knows it's a fake."

The pain in Dixter's stomach jabbed him. He winced, pressed his hand
to his side.

"Damnation," Dixter swore. He bent over the computer
readouts, studied them, willing them to change, to make sense.

They didn't.

"What was that you said about ghosts?" Dixter asked
suddenly, thinking back to something Xris had said earlier. "You
said it was funny I should mention it."

"Oh, yeah. When Raoul was meeting with these jokers who bought
the information, the Little One—you remember the Little One?"

"The empath in the raincoat."

"Yeah. Well, the Little One picks up on the name of an
organization these guys are all carrying around in their heads. Ghost
Legion. Ever heard of it?"

"No, but that doesn't mean much. You think there's a
connection?" "It's one hell of a coincidence if there's
not. These guys buy a layout of the house and grounds and three days
later something goes right through us. Yeah, I'd say there was a
connection."

"But, like you said earlier"—Dixter waved a hand—"if
they have this type of capability, what did they need with layouts?
Why bother?"

"Maybe they're trying to tell us something, boss. Send us a
message. Maybe we got caught in our own trap."

Dixter shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

Xris took the twist out of his mouth, tossed it onto the floor. "Let
me know when any of this makes sense, will you, boss?"

Dixter was thinking. "I suppose the next step is to investigate
this Ghost Legion. Will you—"

"Sorry, boss. Count me out. I've got ... other business."

"Xris, this is important," Dixter said quietly.

"So's my business. I'm leaving tonight, as a matter of fact."

"I could order you to stay for complete debriefing. I could have
you arrested."

"Wouldn't be pleasant for either of us, boss. Besides"—Xris
smiled ruefully—"I'm about as debriefed as I can get. The
others, too. I've sent you my complete report, plus Raoul's and the
Little One's, plus the reports of everyone else in this place. Damn
machines saw more than any of us. Spend your time debriefing them.
Like I said, I'm leaving."

"I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate... ."

A series of beeps came over the commlink—the cyborg's
mechanical arm, Tunning through a routine systems check. Xris made a
few minor adjustments, looked back at Dixter.

"Yeah, all right, boss. I could use your help, in fact. I plan
to make a quick trip out of the galaxy. If your perimeter patrols
spot me, I'd appreciate it if they didn't shoot me, either on the way
out or on the way back."

"You're going into Corasia?"

Xris took a twist out of his pocket, studied it with interest.

Dixter tried again. "This wouldn't have anything to do with
those humans taken prisoner during the raid on the Nargosi outpost,
would it?"

Xris lit the twist, drew the smoke into his lungs, blew it back out.

"I can't give you permission to go behind enemy lines, Xris,"
Dixter said gravely.

"Fine, then. Skip it. Forget I said anything."

"Are you going alone? You can at least tell me that much."

Xris considered; apparently decided he could. "I was. But that's
all changed—thanks to Raoul and his big lip-glossed mouth. The
whole team's going. Though what the hell I'm going to do with a
poisoner and an empath is beyond me."

Dixter thought the matter over. "If someone could rescue those
people . .." He nodded. "I'll pass the word along. Nothing
official, of course. I can't do that."

Xris looked intently at Dixter, actually almost smiled. "Thanks,
boss."

Dixter shook his head. "You know the odds. If you get into
trouble, I'll have to deny I ever heard of you. The treaty and all
that."

Xris grinned. "If we get into trouble, you won't need to bother.
Nobody'll ever hear of us again. Though I wish I could stick around
and help you on this other job. Damnedest thing I ever saw—or
didn't see. I could give you the names of some good people ..."

"Thanks, but I have someone in mind. You know him, in fact.
Tusca. Former Scimitar pilot. You rescued him from the Corasians—"

"During that job we did for the Starlady. Yeah, I remember. You
know, boss, it's mostly because of Lady Maigrey I'm doing this other.
Something she said to me. She had a way of sticking to your mind."

"She did indeed," said John Dixter. "Godspeed, Xris."

"Same to you, boss."

The image of the cyborg vanished. The vidscreen went blank. Dixter
stood staring at it a long time without moving. Then he wiped his
hand across his face again, grimaced at the pain in his stomach. He
stuffed the printouts under his arm, to be studied again at his
leisure, coded the information contained in the computer under the
highest possible security, then summoned back the operator.

"Have that new material in there gone over by experts," he
ordered.

"Yes, sir. What type of experts, sir?"

Dixter pondered, frowning. "Damn it, I don't know!" He
exploded, frustrated. "Expert experts. We seem to be inundated
with them around here. Maybe they can do something useful for a
change."

The officer stared at him, startled. The admiral was noted for being
easygoing, unflappable.

Dixter drew a deep breath, raised his hand in a mollifying gesture.
"I . . . I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to bark at you. My
guess is we're dealing with some type of newfangled probe. Start
there. Oh, and bring in a parapsychologist."

The captain raised her eyebrows. "Parapsychologist, sir?"

"Yes." Dixter smiled. "Parapsychologist. A person who
studies the supernatural."

"I know what one is, sir," said the officer stiffly.

"Then no doubt you'll be able to find me one, Captain."

"Very good, sir," said the officer, mystified.

Dixter left the commroom and bumped into Bennett, who had been
hovering near the door.

"Are you feeling quite well, my lord?"

"Not particularly," Dixter growled. He sat down at this
desk, began rummaging around among the papers.

"The antacid tablets are in the top drawer to the right, my
lord."

Dixter grunted, found the tablets, ate two, munched on them
disconsolately. "Get hold of Tusk."

"I beg your pardon. Who, my lord?"

Relaxing, the pain in his stomach subsiding momentarily, Dixter
managed a grin. "You know who, Bennett. Don't give me that look.
I'm not planning to run off and start the old mercenary trade again.
Not that I don't think of it sometimes," he added wistfully.

Bennett sniffed. His regulation mustache quivered in disapproval.

Dixter shook his head, shook off memories. "I need Tusk to do a
job for me, that's all."

Bennett appeared resigned. "Do you have any idea where
Mendaharin Tusca can be located, my lord?"

"Last I heard from him, he was living on Vangelis, running a
shuttle service with that blowhard . . . what was his name . . .
Link."

"Vangelis, my lord." Bennett lifted an eyebrow. "Odd,
that you happened to be discussing that very planet in rather
nostalgic terms this morning, isn't it, my lord?"

"Just get hold of Tusk."

"Very good, my lord. And you will remember to change your
jacket, won't you, my lord?"

Dixter glowered. Bennett left, stiff-backed, expressing silent
disapproval. The Lord of the Admiralty remained seated at his desk,
not changing his jacket, risking his aide's ire. The insides of
Dixter's mouth were chalky with the taste of antacid. He picked up a
cup of cold coffee, swished the liquid around, swallowed it. Too bad
he couldn't coat the inside of his head with soothing relief.

Bennett was back. "Sorry, my lord, but phone service to the
residence of Mendaharin Tusca has been disconnected."

"Tell the phone company this is the Lord of the Admiralty
calling extremely urgent, and that they jolly well better connect it
back up again," Dixter snapped.

"I informed them of that, my lord. They said that the service
was disconnected for nonpayment of a considerable sum owed to them.
The equipment was repossessed, removed from the premises."

Dixter grimaced. The antacid was apparently under counterattack from
the cold coffee and, by all indications, was fighting a losing
battle. "Try XJ, then."

"My lord?"

"XJ-27. Tusk's shipboard computer. Find the call number under
Interplanetary Vehicle licensing and registration. Tusk's a legit
businessman now. He'd have to be licensed."