Ghost Legion (61 page)

"No," said Dion, rising, looking after his friend in
concern. "Security reasons, of course. They're laserproof
steelglass, like on the old
Phoenix."

"Able to withstand a bomb blast, I suppose," Tusk muttered.
He was standing with his back to Dion, working at something with his
hands, working swiftly and deftly, to judge by the motion.

"Yes, something like that." Dion took a step forward across
the sculptured carpeting, decorated with the royal seal. "Tusk—
are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," said Tusk, turning around. His voice was steady now,
his demeanor calm. Sunlight glinted off a metal object he held in his
hand—an object he pointed at Dion. "You are."

Dion stared in disbelief. "What are you talking about? Tusk, if
this is some kind of joke—"

"No joke, kid," said Tusk grimly. "And just hold it
right there, will you? You see this?" He exhibited the object in
his palm. It had been the snake belt buckle, was a belt buckle no
longer. "You remember that gun you used to try to kill Sagan
that night at Snaga Ohme's? The one Abdiel designed to get past the
Adonian's security?"

"Yes." Dion stared at his friend.

"This is something like it. Almost. Runs off a little tiny nuke
cell in my watch." Tusk held up his wrist. "Not as fancy or
as powerful as the gun you carried, but this one works the same way.
Except that it only fires in one direction—where I point it."

"Are you going to use it on me?" Dion asked steadily.

He couldn't believe he was this calm. None of this was real—that
was the reason. None of this made sense. He was waiting for Tusk to
laugh and tell him that the gun was really a chocolate bar. . ..

"Are you going to kill me?" Dion persisted.

"No, kid. We need you alive. But I'll use it on anyone who
thinks they'd like to try being a hero. Like that secretary of yours,
for instance. Or maybe Cato or Crassus or any of the rest of the
boys.

"You see, kid," Tusk continued, keeping the gun aimed at
Dion, "we're going to be taking a little trip. Now, you can make
this real easy and safe for everyone concerned, or you can cause
trouble. In which case, a lot of people will die. Including your
wife," he added.

And now everything began to come together.

"I could kill you right now, Tusk," said Dion quietly.

"Yeah, I know," Tusk said, glancing around the room. "You
got all these fancy security devices, hidden lasguns and so forth.
What is it—one word and I'm a dead man?" He shook his
head. "But you won't."

"No, you're right, I won't," said Dion softly. "I
couldn't. That's why they chose you, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Tusk with a brief bitter laugh, "that's
why they chose me."

"Whose idea was it?"

"Sagan's."

Dion sighed. His shoulders slumped. He began to massage his burning,
aching right hand. "And Astarte? She's safe?"

"So far," Tusk said. "Kamil, too."

"Kamil!" Dion looked up swiftly. "How—? No!
That's not possible... ."

"It is, lad," said Tusk, almost gently. "I know. I saw
her. I . . . uh . .. talked to her."

"Dear God!" Dion murmured in agony. "What have I done?
What have I done?"

He leaned against his desk for support, stared down unseeing at the
objects on it. Then he focused on one of them. Smiling wanly, he
reached out. . . .

"Steady," warned Tusk, moving a step closer.

"It's . . . nothing," said Dion. He picked up a small blue
leather box. Flicking it open, he held it out for inspection. "You
see? Nothing."

Tusk looked inside. A spasm of pain crossed his face. Keeping the gun
aimed at Dion, he took the small eight-pointed star out of the box.
He stared at the star; then, slowly, deliberately, he closed his hand
over it.

"What a sucker I used to be."

He shoved the earring in his pocket.

"Come on, Your Majesty," he said harshly, waving the gun.
"Quit stalling. And don't think I'm gonna get sentimental,
either. What went down between us was a long time ago. Times have
changed. So have you. So have I."

Dion shook his head. "It won't work, Tusk. I'm not going with
you. I don't know what my cousin wants from me, but he won't get it.
These men, my guards"—the king glanced toward the
door—"are pledged to die—not for me, but for what I
represent. I'm not just a person, Tusk. I'm the king."

Tusk grunted. "
They're
pledged to die for you; it comes
with the job. But what about all these other people you got livin in
this mother castle? How many are there—a few hundred? And what
about this city? Another coupla thousand? Men, women, little kids?
They pledged to die for you?

"You heard about what happened to those military outposts? I
give the signal and the same thing happens here, Your Majesty.
Buildings squashed like some giant something stepped on 'em. Quakes
that go clear off the damn scale. I've seen the 'ghosts' work, kid. I
saw one of the outposts get hit. It's weird. Kind of spooky. The only
sounds you hear are the screams of the dying."

"Ghosts?" said Dion.

"His Highness calls 'em strange dark-matter creature? They do
his bidding. The blood that was spilled in the palace the night of
the Revolution will be nothing compared to what the creatures will do
if he unleashes them. And two of the bodies they'd find in the rubble
will be your wife's and Kamil's."

"I don't have much choice, then, do I?" Dion said in quiet
defeat. "What does my cousin want with me?"

"Family reunion, maybe," said Tusk. "I don't know. And
I don't care. My job is to bring you. That's it."

"I can't just leave, disappear...."

"You won't. You're going to Ceres, to be with your wife. A
religious retreat. Give thanks for her 'escape from death.' We'll
arrange a live broadcast to the galaxy once we're on board ship. And
don't worry. You won't be gone long. A coupla days ought to wrap this
business up.

"Now"—he motioned with the gun at the commlink—"tell
your secretary you're leaving, coming with me for oltl time's sake.
We'll use the back route, take the unmarked limo to the spaceport.
You'll be doing the driving. Tell your chauffeur we won't be needing
him today."

"You've done your homework, I see," said Dion, reaching for
the commlink.

"Not me. Derek Sagan. I think he knows you better'n you know
yourself, kid." Tusk grunted, gestured again. "Talk. And
don't try anything fancy."

"D'argent, I'm . . . going to be out of the office for a while.
I need some time to myself. Tusk and I are going to the spaceport to
see the old Scimitar. Inform the Prime Minister that I'll meet with
him tomorrow. And call off this evening's press conference."

"Very good, sir," came D'argent's cool voice. "And
shall I reschedule your five o'clock appointment with Mr. Gold?"

Dion hesitated, glanced at Tusk.

The mercenary regarded him grimly.

"No," the king said, after a moment. "No. I will be
back in time to meet with ... Mr. Gold."

He ended the communication, straightened, stood up.

"What was that Gold business?" Tusk asked suspiciously.
"Some type of code?"

"Yes. D'argent suspects something's wrong. He's highly
intuitive. If I'd said to him "Yes, reschedule'—"

"—the room'd be crawling with guards. Only they'd be dead
guards before long. This secretary won't do anything on his own, will
he? Won't decide to be a hero?"

"No, D'argent obeys my commands. Besides, I've told him
everything was all right."

Tusk continued to regard Dion with doubt. "I hope you're telling
the truth. For all our sakes."

"Tusk—" Dion began.

Tusk glowered, frowned, motioned toward the hidden door. "Get
movin', kid."

"You will address me as 'Your Majesty,' " Dion said.

"Yeah? Well, maybe not for long." Tusk's grin was stiff,
like rigor mortis had set in. "I just found out what the word
usurper
means. Oh, and bring the bloodsword. His Highness's
orders."

The secret panel slid open. The king, carrying the bloodsword, walked
through it.

Tusk followed along closely behind.

God save the king! Will no man say, amen?

William Shakespeare,
Richard II,
Act IV, Scene i

Once on board the Scimitar, Tusk barely spoke to Dion. The mercenary
spent most of his time flirting with his attractive copilot,
introduced to the king as Captain Cynthia Zorn. XJ was also quiet and
appeared to be in low spirits, an unusual condition for the
loquacious and irascible computer. Tusk attributed this to the
sustaining of a recent shock that had disrupted its systems.

The Scimitar had changed, too. The hard-fighting spaceplane now
resembled a spacegoing motel. Dion recognized hardly anything about
it, except the cockpit. And he wasn't allowed there.

He had little time to feel nostalgic for the old days, however.
Safely out in deep space, certain that they were not being followed,
the Scimitar joined up with a warship. Dion was received on board
without either honor or ceremony. He was immediately escorted to a
communications room. There he was handed a prepared script, which he
was told to read as written. Any deviation and he would face
reprisals of an unspecified nature.

He had no intention of rebelling. Giving the matter serious thought
during his trip on the Scimitar, Dion decided that the best way was
to go along with his cousin, make the required broadcast. To do
anything else would start rumors flying, set the media wondering and
speculating, and cause panic among major systems already unnerved by
the supposed attempt on the queen's life. Dion could count on Admiral
Dixter and the prime minister to deal with situations which might
arise in the king's absence. Meanwhile, he would deal with this
family matter.

A family matter. That was how he came to view it. An ugly, dark,
insidious inheritance, bequeathed to him by his unfortunate uncle.
The sins of the fathers, visited upon the heads of the unsuspecting
sons. This hadn't been Dion's fault, but it was now his
responsibility. A family matter. He was the only one capable of
dealing with his cousin.

"Capable ..," Dion repeated with a twisted smile. He looked
at his right hand, the inflamed scars. "He rages inside me,
taunting, teasing, provoking, constantly probing my mind for its
secrets. And what do I do in return? How do I affect him? A shadow on
his mind perhaps, nothing more than that. I can't do more!" Dion
argued. "I can't focus on him."

The king stared at his reflection—a ghostlike image wavering in
the steelglass, insubstantial and ephemeral against the cold
blackness of space. "He slid into my mind through the cracks,
through the self-doubts, the constant questioning, the inner turmoil.
And he has none of these. His mind is honed and sharp and unflawed.
It is a weapon he can use with skill and agility. Like a weapon, it
lacks compassion. But what has compassion ever brought me," he
questioned bitterly, "except sleepless nights?

"He is the epitome of the Blood Royal, the perfect rider:
soulless, uncaring, practical, fearless. He is what Sagan wanted me
to be," Dion added with a grim, disparaging look at his pale,
flat twin in the glass. "And my lord has apparently now found a
king he can honor.

"But surely
you
don't honor my cousin, do you, Lady? He
isn't what you meant for me to be." His voice softened. He
thought of Maigrey, appearing to him in her silver armor, her hand
upraised in warning. "Yet where are you? Why don't you come to
me now, as you came to me once before? Surely this isn't what You
want a king to be?" he asked of the impenetrable, eternal
darkness. "Surely this isn't what You intend? Will You help me?
Support my cause?"

He waited, listening for the still small voice within to bring
comfort, reassurance.

Nothing. Silence.

"Very well," said Dion after a moment. He clenched his fist
over the scarred and wounded palm. "This is a family matter,
left for me . . . alone."

Dion made his broadcast, told the people their king was going on a
private religious retreat, assured them he would be gone for only a
few days, asked for their prayers and their un-derstanding. It was a
good speech, touching, well written, and sounded very much as though
Dion had constructed it himself. The cadence, the rhythm, the music
of the words, the declamation of a thought, all these might have been
Dion's. But they weren't. They were Flaim's.

Having never known any close blood relations, Dion had never been
forced to question what part of him was truly himself and what part
he owed to genetics. He had always imagined, fondly, that he was a
unique and singular creation. Now suddenly he was confronted with the
disquieting fact that perhaps he was merely one in a long, long line.
. . .

When the broadcast was complete, the warship entered the Lanes, made
the Jump to Vallombrosa.

An armed guard escorted Dion from the warship to the fortress palace
of the prince located on Vallombrosa. The king was shown to his
quarters—a suite of rooms located deep in the interior of the
strange, labyrinthine building, which had no reason or logic to its
design but appeared to have been scooped up and thrown together by
the children of giants.

His rooms were large and chill and sparsely furnished. His door
locked on the outside. Guards stood in front of it.

Dion was gazing bleakly at his uncomfortable surroundings when the
guard thrust open the door.

An elderly black man entered. He bowed politely, introduced himself
as Garth Pantha, the prince's aide and mentor. Pantha was respectful,
deferential, and asked Dion if he would be so kind as to favor them
with his presence before dinner.

"Your wife," Pantha added gravely, "is most anxious to
see for herself that you have arrived safely."