Ghost Legion (68 page)

Pantha was watching him, and Sagan had the distinct impression the
sharp old man knew what the Warlord was searching for. Pantha placed
the tips of his fingers together, gazed at Sagan over them with an
amused smile, like a parent watching a child search the house for a
hidden birthday gift.

Go ahead
, he seemed to challenge silently.
Look all you
want. You'll never find it
.

Sagan, in answer, fixed his gaze on Flaim and kept it there.

". . . truly remarkable," the prince was saying. "Did
you see my cousin's face when you dragged Kamil up to me? I was
almost afraid for a moment you had gone too far, my lord. It occurred
to me that, caught up in the chivalrous mood of the moment, our
cousin might take it into his head to thwart my wicked design on the
woman he loves by killing himself. Which would have put an undoubted
crimp in my plans."

"There was little fear of that, Your Highness," said Sagan.
"Dion is not a fool."

"No, I don't suppose you would have lavished what time and care
on him as you did if he were. And I must admit, it all worked
marvelously. Taken up in the heat and excitement of the contest, he
reacted as you predicted. He lowered the guard on his mental
processes to concentrate on the physical. I was able to slip through
quickly and easily, penetrate his mind and discover the location of
the bomb. The dark-matter creatures have been dispatched and should
be back ..." He glanced at Pantha.

"Any moment now, Your Highness."

"They will bring it here," said Flaim, gesturing to a
marble stand that stood in the center of the room. "I am eager,
most eager, to see it. So is Pantha. He has made quite a study of it,
did he tell you, my lord?"

Sagan was not surprised. "Indeed, sir? You obtained information
on it from the Corasians, I presume."

Pantha nodded acknowledgment. "The information Abdiel was able
to glean from you, my lord."

Sagan did not like the reminder. Pantha was quick to notice. The
elderly man grew grave. "An evil man, Abdiel. I sleep sounder
nights knowing he is destroyed."

"Yet you're not above using the information he gained, no matter
how he gained it."

"As a scientist yourself, my lord, surely you would agree that
valuable information should not be wasted simply because it was
obtained in a manner we might not approve. After all, we owe our very
existence as Blood Royal, as genetically superior beings, to
experiments done by the Nazis in their concentration camps."

"Which might suggest something to somebody," Sagan
remarked.

Pantha frowned, wondering if he was being insulted. Then—
eyeing Sagan closely—the old man apparently decided that the
Warlord was making a joke and let it pass.

"Considering the way in which the information was obtained."
Sagan went on coolly, "didn't you fear that some of it might not
be accurate? That I might have deliberately lied to him?"

That was to be expected. But with my technical expertise-almost as
great as your own, my lord, or so I flatter myself—I was able
to determine what was workable and what was not. Something the
Corasians were never able to figure out, which was why they have not
been able to produce a space-rotation bomb of their own. I
discovered, for example, the cyborg's 'arming' device. I must say I
had a good laugh out of that. And you should see the monstrosity the
techno-moronic Corasians created because of it. I lacked only one
thing—"

"A working model."

"Yes. And now that is being supplied. I believe, mind you"—
Pantha raised a bony index finger—"that I could have
developed a working bomb myself. I am very close. But this will make
it all so much easier."

Sagan regarded the man intently, wondered if he was telling the
truth; if so, how much? Pantha was adept at keeping his thoughts
hidden; he had not used the bloodsword in years. Might have been
afraid to do so, after his disappearance. There was no way even Derek
Sagan could penetrate that old and cagey mind. But he guessed that
Pantha did have some knowledge of the bomb, though probably not as
much as he boasted, else why the desperate need to get his hands on
the real thing?

Which might make matters awkward. Still . . .

Sagan trampled his thoughts down swiftly, shoved them back inside his
mental strongbox. He could still feel Flaim's quick, jabbing probes,
like uncomfortable surges of electric current passing almost
continually through him.

An interruption came in the conversation. Sagan experienced the
unpleasant compressed sensation he had learned by now to associate
with the dark-matter creatures. At the very same instant, the
space-rotation bomb appeared out of nowhere, resting securely on the
top of the marble stand.

He had not seen it since that fateful night Lady Maigrey had
convinced him—and others—she was planning to detonate it.
A trick, as it turned out. But a trick that had won Dion the prize.

Sagan, coming forward to look at the bomb, lifted his hand
involuntarily to the starjewel he wore around his neck. And, as he
did so, he saw Garth Pantha do the same; the old man's hand going to
his neck.

There gleamed the Star of the Guardian. A rare jewel, the secret of
whose creation died with the priests of the old Order of Adamant ...
and the triggering device on the space-rotation bomb.

Garth Pantha was in possession of a starjewel. Probably, aside from
Sagan's own, the last one in existence. How? Pantha had not been a
Guardian, and only the Guardians received the coveted, mystical
starjewel. Amodius, of course. He must have given his favorite this
valuable token of esteem and friendship. Or perhaps as payment for
removing the unwanted fruit of the king's sins.

Awkward indeed.

Flaim was gloating over the bomb like a doting mother over a new
baby—hovering near it, afraid to touch it. Pantha regarded the
prince with amusement.

"You may pick it up, Your Highness. It is quite harmless, when
not armed."

Flaim lifted the bomb gingerly. It did not look like what it was—the
ultimate destructive force in the universe. A solid crystal cube,
about ten centimeters in height and width, it might have been
mistaken for a lady's jewel box—of a rather bizarre design.
Embedded in the crystal was a pyramid made of pure gold. A small flat
computer keyboard containing twenty-six small keys was affixed to the
top of the crystal. The point of the pyramid connected to the
underside of the keyboard.

"Even when armed," said Sagan, "the correct code would
have to be entered in order to detonate it."

" 'The center cannot hold,' " quoted Garth Pantha.

Sagan cast him a swift glance.

"One of Abdiel's earliest acquisitions," Pantha explained,
almost apologetically. "Obtained first from the Lady Maigrey,
confirmed through yourself. I was not familiar with the quotation,
not being a student of ancient literature. However, I discovered it
in my files. One of Yeats's poems, I believe. A most apt quote,
considering the way in which the bomb works.

"The quarks of the atom pulled apart, the color bond which holds
them together stretched to its limit, the space between them rotated
in such a way that, upon release, the quarks rushing back together
collide, totally annihilating matter. In theory, it could tear a hole
in the fabric of the universe. Quite ingenious."

Sagan acknowledged the compliment with an oblique nod, all the while
wondering how the fact that Pantha knew the key to exploding the bomb
would affect his plans, not daring to give the matter thought. The
Warlord turned to the prince.

"You have the bomb now and the knowledge and the capability of
detonating it. In what capacity can I serve Your Highness?"

"Let us be seated," suggested Flaim, "and discuss this
comfortably." He replaced the bomb back on its marble stand,
gave it one more covetous glance, then sat down at a table. He
indicated chairs. Sagan took one located directly opposite the
electronically controlled and guarded door that was the room's only
entrance, only egress.

"You, my lord, will take command of the fleet," Flaim told
him. "I want to move ships into position in key areas of the
galaxy—Minas Tares, the Houses of Parliament, DiLuna's system.
I have taken your advice and disguised my ships to resemble those of
the Royal Navy. But I want to take no chances. I want to keep out of
detection range of any naval vessels. Can this be done?"

"Certainly, Your Highness."

"When the king's death is announced, my ships will then be ready
to move into position. I don't anticipate any trouble, except perhaps
from DiLuna . ..?" Flaim looked at Sagan questioningly.

"Astarte can handle her mother," Sagan responded. "The
queen is shrewd and ambitious. She wants her child to be king. I do
not foresee DiLuna or her allies giving you any difficulty."

"Excellent." Flaim leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"However, such a plan will require your entire fleet, Your
Highness," said Sagan. "We will not be able to spare even
one single ship to guard Vallombrosa."

"The dark-matter creatures will guard it, such as it is."
Flaim glanced around the room with disfavor. "I, for one, do not
intend to ever come back here. All my people will come with me. The
one thing I regret is the loss of the ship that will be carrying the
king."

"We discussed other options," Sagan said. "Are you,
perhaps, reconsidering?"

"No, no, my lord. You're absolutely right. Any other way of
disposing with His Majesty would look far too suspicious. The ship
has been fitted out to match the king's royal flagship. The crew has
even been issued copies of official naval uniforms—not that
there will be enough left of them to identify. If what you say is
true, the blast will vaporize them."

"It is never wise to take chances, Your Highness. You must
remember that this bomb has, for obvious reasons, never been tested.
We are not certain precisely what it will do. It would be a shame to
have your hopes dashed by the discovery of a fragment of a body clad
in the wrong uniform."

"You have made your point. All has been attended to. Any debris
found floating in space will confirm the tragedy: The royal flagship
blew up, lost, with all hands on board."

"A pity about the crew," Sagan commented.

"Yes, I will lose some good people. But they have all pledged to
give their lives to me. I shall miss the ship more." Flaim
sighed, frowned. "I can get men far more cheaply and easily than
a naval vessel."

"If all goes well, Your Highness, you will soon have the Royal
Fleet under your command," Sagan reminded him.

"True." The prince glanced again at the bomb and smiled. "I
do not foresee anything going wrong, do you, my lord?"

"Certainly not, Your Highness."

"Pantha, have we forgotten anything? Any final details we need
to discuss?"

"No, my prince. Your orders have been issued. By tomorrow
morning, all will be in readiness. This is the last night you will
spend on Vallombrosa, Flaim," Pantha added in a softened tone.

Flaim stood up. Reaching out his hands, he grasped hold of the old
man's. The moment was special between them. Sagan politely moved away
to give them privacy, walked over to stand near the door.

"The goal we have worked for all these years is within sight, my
friend," Flaim said. "The crown is almost within my grasp.
I am reaching out for it, even now. Do not think me ungrateful when I
say I never want to return to Vallombrosa. It is you who have always
taught me that we never look back, only ahead."

"I know. Flaim. I know," Pantha said softly. He looked
around the room and shook his head. "Many were the hours I sat
here and stared in hatred at these walls. I—who had roamed a
galaxy, who had riches and wealth beyond belief— had imprisoned
myself inside a chill and dismal cavern.

"I thought I would go mad in those early days," he
continued. "Oftentimes I sat here bitterly regretting the fact
that I hadn't died in that fake explosion. And then you would toddle
into the room." Pantha looked at Flaim with a sad and wistful
smile. "Excited about some discovery—a bug, a rock, a
half-dead flower. You were a beautiful child, strong, healthy,
intelligent. I would tell you everything I knew—the scientific
names, the chemical composition—and you understood, young as
you were.

" 'What a king you will be,' I would say as I lifted you into my
arms. "What a magnificent king.' No, Flaim, my son"—
Pantha had tears in his eyes—"I do not ever want to return
to Vallombrosa either. There were too many times I thought I would
die here. Still, its memory will be blessed."

Sagan, embarrassed, cleared his throat.

"Your Highness—"

Flaim turned a tear-streaked face, looked somewhat ashamed. "Forgive
me, my lord. Of course, you have duties to attend to. You don't want
to stand around watching Pantha and I make fools of ourselves. You
have leave to go."

Sagan bowed, turned toward the door.

Flaim activated the control. The door slid open. The Warlord walked
out. The door shut and sealed behind him.

Sagan took a moment to study it from the outside, then, nodding to
himself, left with what he had come planning to obtain—a
complete knowledge of how the door operated, including its security
devices and alarms.

He had already checked on the other two doors he would need to open
this night. Both were simple—plain and ordinary bolt locks.
Returning to his room, the Warlord lay down upon his bed, prepared to
slip into the quiet meditative state that was, for him, more restful
than sleep.

And much safer.

Fortunately, Flaim would have a lot on his mind tonight. Composing
himself for rest, Sagan reflected on the fact that sentiment was a
ruinous emotion.