Ghost Legion (7 page)

"Perhaps in a moment," Dixter said, raising his hand. He
continued to smile, but the tense expression was back. "I didn't
call just to visit, though God knows it's been long enough since we
have. Too long. I get busy...."

He ran his hand through his graying hair, then came back abruptly to
business. "I need information, Tusk. I want you to do a little
investigating for me. I'm interested in knowing more about a group
that calls itself the Ghost Legion. It may be a terrorist group, it
may be a paramilitary— What is it? You know something?"

"Sure, sir. I'm surprised you haven't heard about them. They've
been advertising. I got some electronic mail from them. Link, too.
They're looking for starpilots."

"Indeed," Dixter murmured, his forehead creasing in a
slight frown.

"I guess you haven't been paying much attention to the Help
Wanteds lately, sir," Tusk said.

Dixter was lost in thought, didn't appear to have heard. When he
caught on, he looked rueful, smiled again. "No. No, I haven't.
You think that's where they found your name?"

Tusk looked startled. "I suppose. I never gave it much thought.
I get lots of mail."

"Mostly threatening to cut off our water," XJ commented.

Tusk shot the computer a vicious glance.

"What's their line?" Dixter asked. "Who are they?
Where are they from? I don't suppose you'd have a recording of their
message?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do, sir. You see, it sounded like a
pretty good deal and, well, things haven't been going real great
around here, what with Nola being pregnant again and all, and,
well,"—Tusk appeared embarrassed—"I thought I
might look into it."

He began to sort through his vid files, kept talking as he searched.

"According to their pitch, sir, these people live on a
technologically underdeveloped planet that's suddenly come into a lot
of wealth—some valuable type of resource—and they're
afraid that bigger, stronger neighbors will try to muscle in. This
Ghost Legion—that's what they call themselves—is looking
to hire pilots to help them defend their planet."

"But the Royal Navy would provide them protection, if they had a
legitimate grievance."

Tusk shook his head. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you know how
that works. The Royal Navy can't intervene until a planet's been
attacked. By that time, it's generally too late. Plus, you can't stay
there forever. You've got a whole damn galaxy to watch. Who's going
to mind the store when you're gone? Every planet's got the right to
maintain its own defense, sir."

"Of course," said John Dixter, preoccupied. "What's
the name of this planet?"

"I forget, sir. Something strange. I can send you the recording.
..."

"Yes, I'd like to see it." He frowned. "You
and
Link.. .."

"What's wrong with that, sir?"

"I don't know. It seems odd, that's all. You each received the
mail separately? Not under the name of the shuttle service you run?"

"Yeah, that's right. Mine came through XJ, here. My system at
home is . . . uh . . . out of commission."

The computer made a rude noise.

"And Link's came through his own spaceplane. . . ." Tusk
gave a low whistle. "You know, there
is
something odd
about that, sir. I never thought about it before. They sent it to
Link's plane. He hasn't flown that plane in two years. Can't. Some
loan shark's got a lien on it. But he's rigged up a betting system on
his computer—you put in the horse, it figures the odds. It
works about twenty percent of the time, like you might expect for
Link. He keeps changin' the program. Anyway, he was fooling with it
when he found this Ghost Legion ad."

"Damn right, it's odd," Dixter said grimly. "How did
they get your names and numbers? 1 never gave them out. You must have
known that, Tusk. Too many of you were wanted men."

"Yeah. The late and unlamented Derek Sagan would have given a
starship to get his hands on those files. Speakin' of which, maybe—"
"No," said Dixter. "All his old files on you
mercenaries were purged after his death. No one—"

"Excuse me, sir," XJ interrupted, "but there could be
a completely logical and innocent explanation. Both Tusk and Link
hold pilot's licenses on this planet. It is quite conceivable that
this Ghost Legion simply sent out this flier to that mailing list.

Tusk shook his head. "We're both registered under the business.
It would have come addressed to 'Tusk's Link to the Stars.' It
didn't. It came directly to me and directly to Link You've got me
curious now, sir. I'll do some checking."

Dixter nodded. "Good. That's what I was hoping for. Be discreet.
You're interested in finding out about the job, nothing more. Do you
keep up with any of the others from the old out fit?"

"Gorbag the Jarun, Reefer. I think I could get hold of them You
want to know if they got the same mail, huh, sir?"

"Yes. And, Tusk, I'd think twice about signing up with them."

"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why, sir."

"I wish to God I knew," Dixter said.

Tusk waited a moment, to see if anything more was forthcoming. It
wasn't.

"Yeah. Well, sir, maybe I can help. I'll be in touch, soon as I
find out anything."

"Thank you. I'll transmit my private access number. It's on a
scrambler, so don't worry about eavesdroppers. The government will
pay you for your time and reimburse you for any expenses. Give Nola
and young John my love."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"And Tusk, be careful."

"Sure, sir," said Tusk, startled.

Dixter's image faded. Tusk sat, staring at the screen in wonder.

"What the hell's up, you suppose?"

"Beats me. Doesn't sound like it's going to make us much money,
though," added XJ gloomily. "And when I think of what it's
going to cost us, getting hold of those reprobate friends of yours.
They're all probably in prison somewhere—"

"Quit complaining. Dixter said he'd reimburse us."

"That's true. He did say that, didn't he?" The computer's
lights gleamed. "If we handle this right, we can soak the Royal
Treasury for a bundle."

"Yeah, then
I'll
be the one in prison."

"At least that would stop this endless cycle of baby production.
Speaking of which," XJ cut in before Tusk could yell, "Nola's
outside the spaceplane. She's been shouting at you for the last five
minutes."

"Damn!"

Now that Tusk was paying attention, he could hear her. Getting up
from the pilot's chair, he climbed the ladder into the living
quarters and headed for the second ladder that led up and out of the
spaceplane.

"And take your brat with you!" XJ yelled.

Tusk grunted something it was probably just as well the computer
didn't hear. Catching hold of young John, Tusk tucked his son under
his arm and nimbly climbed the ladder.

"Bye, Grandpa." The toddler waved at the plane's interior.

"Grandpa!" XJ repeated in disgust. "Still, the kid
is
going to need a role model."

The computer slid the hatch shut. Left alone, XJ took a quick
inventory, made a note.

"Buy more cookies."

Best image of myself and dearer half

—John Milton,
Paradise Lost

Tusk emerged into the bright sunshine of Vangelis, blinked and paused
a moment to adjust his eyes after the spaceplane's cool and shadowy
interior. Then he slid down the ladder, young John tucked under one
arm, the toddler jouncing and grinning at the fun of the descent and
the sight of his mother, waiting for them on the tarmac below.

"He's not a sack of potatoes, you know," said Nola,
rescuing her son from his precarious position. "What if you
slipped?" She hugged the child, presented her cheek to her
husband to be kissed.

"I never slip. I'm surefooted, like a panther." Tusk
grinned, kissed her, patted her rotund stomach. "What'd the
doctor say?"

Nola looked at him quizzically. Her nose wrinkled, which sent her
freckles dancing across her face. "I think you better sit down.
Maybe we should wait until we get home."

"Can't. Got some work to do. Dixter called. What'd the doctor
say?"

"Dixter? General Dixter?" Nola was amazed. "What did
he want?"

"Tell you later. Now, what—"

"All right. But let's get the kid out of the sun. Besides, I
have to go to the bathroom."

"We can go back in the plane . . . Oops, no. Sorry, I forgot."
Tusk patted his wife's stomach again. "You're as big as a cruise
liner. I don't remember you being this big with John. Here, we can go
to the clubhouse. Get a beer."

"You can have a beer." Nola sighed. "Water for me."

They walked across the baking hot tarmac, heading for the small
prefab hut that was known semi-sarcastically as the clubhouse. Tusk
and Link kept the plane in a private spaceport lo-cated on the
distant outskirts of Mareksville, one of the planet's larger and more
prosperous cities. The spacesport was run-down, its tarmac cracked
and broken. It had no hangars—not that Tusk and Link could have
afforded the luxury of a hangar anyway— and no lights. Since
most of those who utilized this runway didn't care to be seen, this
last was not an inconvenience.

No government claimed the land on which the spaceport stood, so it
was outside any government regulations. Occasionally it would occur
to some newly elected official that it might be a good idea if the
spaceport were shut down, but the people of Vangelis—having
only recently overthrown a tyrannical oligarchy—were strong in
the belief that a good government— like good children—should
be seen and not heard.

This time of day, the clubhouse—which consisted of a soft-drink
machine, a beer machine, one human WC, one alien WC, numerous wooden
tables and wobbly-legged chairs, and several ancient pinball
machines—was empty. The beer was cold, the place was moderately
clean and moderately air-conditioned. At least it was cooler inside
than out. But then, as Tusk said, an oven would be cooler inside than
out.

Nola went to the bathroom. Tusk got himself a beer, his wife a bottle
of water, and the kid fruit juice that would mostly end up on his
shirt. John toddled happily among the chairs that were like a jungle
to him, pushing them under the tables and pulling them out, returning
to his parents whenever in need of a drink.

"So what did the doctor say?" Tusk was beginning to get
worried.

Nola sat down, placed her sunburned freckled brown hand over her
husband's smooth-skinned black hand, and looked him in the eye.

"Twins."

Tusk's jaw dropped.

" 'Fraid so, darling," Nola said briskly. "They run in
your family. Your mother told me so, last time she came to visit. So
it's all your fault."

"Twins," repeated Tusk dazedly.

Nola's expression softened. She stroked his hand. "I'm sorry,
dear."

Tusk forced a smile. "Hell, like you said, it's my fault—"

"No, I don't mean about that. I'm sorry for having this baby.
These babies. Now, of all times." "We both agreed,
remember? And I was there during the proceedings. A major
participant." Tusk kissed his wife, took hold of her hand,
squeezed it tightly. "I'm thrilled, honey. I really am."

"Things were looking so good, back then—"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make it. We'll be fine." He
thought about the medical insurance—or lack of it. "We'll
be fine," he said again. "We've been in worse situations
than this."

"Yes, but usually people were shooting at us," Nola said,
teasing.

Tusk didn't laugh, however. He was staring at the half-full beer
bottle, moving it back and forth restlessly on the tabletop. Nola
knew the signs.

"Tusk—" she began, but at that moment son John came
over, demanding orange juice.

Nola gave the child a drink, then caught hold of him as he was about
to toddle off, examined him closely.

"Tusk, you've been feeding him cookies! And you know what sweets
can do to his teeth!"

"No, I haven't!" Tusk protested.

"Well, someone has," said Nola severely. She turned the boy
around for exhibition. "Look at this. Cookie crumbs all down the
front of his shirt. And here's half of a cookie stuffed into his
pants."

"It wasn't me," said Tusk, surveying the incriminating
evidence. "Maybe it was Nan at the Laundromat."

"Who gave you the cookies, Johnny?" Nola asked, lifting the
child into her lap.

Caught by the enemy, young John made a valiant effort to protect his
source.

"Pinball," he said—a new word and one of which he was
inordinately proud. He looked hopefully at his father, attempting at
the same time to squirm out of the interrogator's grasp. "Daddy
play."

"Not now." Tusk reached out and ruffled the child's thick
black hair. "Maybe later."

"John, who gave you the cookies? No, no more orange juice. Tell
mama."

So it was to be torture. John eyed the orange juice that had been
scooted across the table, just out of reach. He left his comrade to
his fate.

"Dranpa," said the child, reaching out his hands for the
bottle.

"Grandpa?" Nola stared at Tusk. "Who's he talking
about?" She gave John a drink of juice.

"Beats me," said Tusk, puzzled. Then, "I know. XJ!"

"You're kidding!"

"Why, that hypocritical old fart. Going on and on about how much
he hates the kid and slipping him cookies on the sly." Tusk
rubbed his hands. "This is too good. I'll hang on to this. Maybe
catch XJ in the act. He'll owe me big on this one!"

"When you do, let me know. I'm going to have a little talk with
'Dranpa.' There you go, Johnny. Go play." Nola set the child
down on the floor, absentmindedly ate the rest of his cookie. "What's
wrong, Tusk?"

He glanced up. "Tell mama?" He smiled at her.