Ghost Legion (74 page)

"He's Blood Royal," Tusk returned grimly. "In case
you've forgotten. Those goddamn genetic wonders can do tricky
things." He relaxed, once more on their side. "Look, I
believe you, but Lord Sagan's got this idea in his head and I won't
have any peace myself tonight unless I can go back and tell his
lordship that, yeah, I saw the king—I mean the Usurper—and
he's sleepin' like a babe.

"What'll it hurt? You open the door, let me walk in, have a few
words with him to make sure it
is
him. You'll have me locked
in there."

He pointed to the commlink. "Lord Sagan's order'll be comin'
over in a minute." Tusk paused, frowned. "Or maybe you're
questioning his lordship's—"

"No, no," said the guard, looking tense. "Like you
said, you'll be locked in there. I guess it couldn't do any harm.
Give me your lasgun, though."

Tusk unbuckled it, handed it over. To do otherwise would seem
suspicious. He even submitted to being scanned and hand searched. Not
finding any other weapons, the guards passed him through, unlocking
the door by a series of complicated code commands they took care Tusk
couldn't see.

The room was dark. Dion was lying in bed, eyes closed. Light from the
corridor illuminated his face and Tusk had a sudden memory of the
first night Dion had spent aboard the Scimitar. Tusk remembered
seeing him lying in the hammock in exactly the same position. One arm
over his forehead, the flaming red-gold hair spilling out from
beneath it. His breath-ing was deep and even. He was sleeping
soundly, without worry, without fear. It seemed a shame to wake him.

The room went all blurry. Tusk blinked his eyes.

"Shut the door," he said, voice harsh.

"Not too long," the guard responded. Then he added, "It
sure as hell looks like him."

"Yeah, well, it would, wouldn't it?" Tusk snapped.

He hit the controls himself, left the guard to figure that one out.

Dim light from stars and one of Vallombrosa's moons lit his way.
Dion's hair, in the starlight, was the dark crimson of fresh blood.
Tusk stood beside the bed. His mouth was dry. He wondered suddenly
what the hell he was going to say.

Reaching out his hand, he started to shake Dion's shoulder.

"Yes, Tusk. What is it?"

"You're awake," Tusk said inanely.

Dion sighed, sat up, shook his hair out of his face. "1 heard
you come in. I was dozing, I guess. I wasn't sure if it was you or
part of a dream I was having. What is it? What do you want?"

When he'd first spoken, Dion had sounded like his old self. Like
nothing had happened between them. But now, with the questions, his
voice was cold, suspicious. The blue eyes glinted, white starlight
reflecting off diamond-hard edges.

"I don't have much time." Tusk was having trouble
breathing. "Look, kid, I got to tell you—"

The door whipped open. Light flared. Half-blinded, Tusk slid around,
his hand going instinctively for his lasgun seconds before he
recalled that he wasn't wearing it and that reaching for it would
look all wrong. He shifted the move to bring his hand to his eyes,
squinting and peering.

"What the—"

"Is that the Usurper?" the guard asked. He didn't sound
sarcastic. Coming up behind him were six more guards. All had beam
rifles. Three were pointed at Dion. Three were pointed at Tusk.

"Yeah, it's him," Tusk answered. He started to edge his way
out the door. "Guess I'll be heading back to make my report—"

"Don't move," said the guard. To Dion. "Get dressed."

"Why?" Dion asked calmly.

"Prince Starfire wants to see you. Be quick about it."

"Do you mind if I have some privacy?" Dion asked coldly.

The guard considered it, then shook his head. "You"—he
ordered Tusk—"out."

"Not until I hear from Lord Sagan," Tusk said. Leaning
against a bulkhead, he crossed his arms over his chest, made it clear
he wasn't moving.

The guard wasn't likely to shoot one of Sagan's henchmen, at least
not without orders from someone higher up. The guard shut the door,
left Tusk and Dion alone.

Dion dressed with exemplary care. Tusk, attempting to look put upon
and disgruntled, wondered morosely how Dion had managed to keep the
black uniform clean and pressed. He even added the purple sash, the
lion's-head pin, and other royal accoutrements that had been,
previous to this, stored away in a borrowed box.

He knows, Tusk realized suddenly. He knows.

Dion moved over to Tusk. Hand on his arm, he put his mouth to Tusk's
ear. "The room is bugged. What were you going to tell me?"

"Good-bye," Tusk said quietly.

Surely some revelation is at hand . . .

William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

"Why have you brought him?" Flaim demanded of the guards,
staring at Tusk. "I didn't send for this man."

The captain looked to Garth Pantha.

"I did, Your Highness," Pantha said quietly. "He
obtained entry to your cousin's room, saying something to the effect
that Lord Sagan was fearful your cousin had escaped. The guard on
duty let him in, but reported the matter to his superior, who
reported it to me, shortly after I arrived back on board. I didn't
like the sound of it. I believe we should hear his story."

"Very good, Captain. That will be all." Flaim waited until
the guards had gone, then looked at Tusk intently. "Lord Sagan
thought my cousin had escaped?"

"Yeah. I mean, yes, Your Highness," Tusk stammered.

The mercenary would have given his Scimitar, with his right arm
thrown in for good measure, to know if Cynthia had talked, maybe told
Pantha. Tusk had to keep shoveling, however, even if what he was
pitching turned out to be dirt from his own grave.

"You know how Lord Sagan gets," Tusk continued. "Well,
maybe you don't.
Paranoid's
a good word for it. Comes up with
these wild ideas. Dreams em, he says. He had a dream that he saw the
kid, that is the king, here—or rather the Usurper— walk
smack through a locked door. Now, he figures that, being Blood Royal,
the kid, that is the king, I mean the Usurper, just might be able
to—"

"That will do," Flaim interrupted coolly. "I will ask
Lord Sagan when he arrives what he 'figured.' "

"You've sent for him?" Pantha asked. "I thought you
said he'd left the ship to place the fleet on alert status."

"He should be back by now. Captain Zorn has gone to locate him."

Cynthia, huh? Tusk thought. So she was here, talking to His Highness.
Well, that's torn it.

Tusk waited for the prince to have him arrested, hauled off', put in
irons, but Flaim turned away, no longer interested. He had his own
worries, apparently. The prince's face was grim. Whatever was going
on, he wasn't happy about it. Neither was Garth Pantha. The elderly
man sat hunched in a chair. He looked worn out, almost ill.

And Sagan's not gonna be any too thrilled to hear that I was caught
talking to Dion, Tusk said to himself gloomily. And just what the
hell has Sagan been doing all this time anyway? When is this signal
of his going to come—not that I can do much about it when it
does. And what is the goddamn signal?

Then Tusk remembered the bloodlink attached to his wrist. Lifting his
left hand, he wiped his sweating face slowly.

"If you're counting on me seizing control of this goddam ship,
you're in for a major surprise," he said softly into the small
round metal disk implanted in his flesh. "A major, major
surprise. I must have failed. Cynthia must have talked. Yeah, we're
all in for a surprise. A bizillion-megaton surprise—"

Flaim was looking over at him.

Tusk coughed loudly, ceased talking. He'd said all he needed to say
anyway. And speaking of a bizillion megatons, there it was. Sitting
on a glass-topped table, like a goddam crystal knickknack.

The space-rotation bomb.

The last time Tusk had seen it, he and Dion had been transporting it
for safekeeping to Bear Olefsky's planet. Tusk stared at the bomb.
His mouth, his entire body seemed to go dry. Had Dion seen it? Tusk
shifted his gaze to the king.

Dion was standing at the steelglass viewscreen, staring out at
Vallombrosa. How often had Tusk watched Dion stand like that—hands
clasped behind his back, eyes on distant stars, communing with who?
Himself, his reflection—a pale ghost in the steelglass—or
a God he had only just come to know? How could he be so calm? He must
have seen the damn bomb. He had walked right past it.

Tusk was suddenly tempted to pick up the crystal cube and hurl it
with all his strength into the wall. A stupid move. He wouldn't
accomplish anything—the impact wouldn't hurt the bomb in the
least—and before he could get his hands on it he'd likely be
dead.

Flaim was armed with his bloodsword. Garth Pantha sat in the chair
opposite and though the old man didn't look too good—sort of
gray and shriveled—he could probably still handle that lasgun
he was wearing. Not to mention guards posted outside who could be
within shooting range in three seconds flat.

"But at least I'd be doing something," Tusk muttered,
"Other than standing here, waiting to be blown back to my
original components."

The skin around the bloodlink itched. He jammed his hands into his
pockets to keep them from doing something stupid, like scratching at
the metal disk, drawing attention to it.

And then it popped into his head to ask brightly, "Say, Prince,
old chap, how much time have we got left?" Tusk was alarmed to
feel the words in his throat, knew he was going to blurt them out. He
gave another hacking cough, which startled everyone in the room.

"Got anything to drink?" he croaked.

Flaim cast him a disgusted look, motioned to a well-stocked bar in a
corner.

Tusk walked over, grabbed a glass, shoved it under a spigot, and hit
the first dispenser button he came to. Colorless liquid poured into
the glass, probably vodka. Tusk wasn't choosy at this point. He
picked it up, brought it to his lips.

After all, what the hell did it matter? Might as well go out with a
bang. Tusk stared at himself in the metal reflection of the drink
dispenser. His hand started to shake. He slammed the glass down,
sloshing vodka over his fingers. Dumping out the liquor, he filled
the glass with water, then discovered he couldn't drink it.

The double doors opened, Cynthia entered. She glanced at Tusk,
glanced swiftly away again.

"Where the devil is Lord Sagan?" Flaim demanded
impatiently.

"He has not returned yet, Your Highness. He's been to the other
ships. He left
Flare
about an hour ago. The fleet is on full
alert. I can only assume Lord Sagan is en route back here. He has not
responded to any of my attempts to contact him."

"Odd," Flaim said, frowning.

"Possibly not, Your Highness," Cynthia replied. "The
spaceplane Lord Sagan took has had trouble in the past with its
two-way communication."

"We do not need him, my prince," Pantha said. He motioned
the prince to come near him. He and Flaim spoke together, keeping
their voices down.

Cynthia remained standing at attention, but her eyes shifted to Tusk.
She didn't flush with guilt or look smug. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe
she hadn't given him away.

Tusk looked pointedly—very pointedly—at the
space-rotation bomb sitting on the glass-topped table. Cynthia
followed his gaze. Would she know what it was? The damn thing looked
so innocuous....

Acting bored, Tusk sauntered over to the table. "Say, this is
pretty fancy. What is it?" He reached out his hand.

"Don't touch that!" Pantha's hoarse shout startled even
Tusk, who had been expecting it.

He snatched his hand back. "Sure. No problem. I'll just go fix
myself another drink. Anyone else want one?"

Pantha didn't bother to answer. He turned back to Flaim, but Tusk
noticed that the old man moved his position to keep an eye on the
bomb.

Tusk strolled over to the bar. He had shown Cynthia—or rather
Pantha had shown her—that the crystal cube was something
special, something extremely valuable. Hopefully, Cynthia would add
the cube and Pantha's reaction together and come up with the right
answer.

He couldn't tell, by her expression, if he'd accomplished anything
other than draw attention to himself. Tusk poured himself a bourbon,
and this time he drank it.

"We will give Lord Sagan fifteen more minutes," Flaim told
Pantha at last. "Then we will proceed. Captain Zorn, return to
the flight deck, await my lord there. On his arrival, bring him here
immediately."

"Yes, Your Highness." Bowing, Cynthia left the prince's
presence. She did not so much as glance in Tusk's direction again.

Dion spoke, though he didn't turn around. "I take it that the
dark-matter creatures have refused to cooperate?"

"Pantha was finally able to communicate with them," Flaim
replied. "They have determined that we 'aliens' are a threat to
their existence. It seems that they discovered—we have no idea
how—Pantha's plans to build more space-rotation bombs. The
creatures will destroy all humanity first before they permit such a
thing."

"And so you will destroy them."

"No, cousin," said Flaim, with a smile, "
you
will destroy them."

"Unfortunately destroying myself at the same time."

"A terrible tragedy. One which the galaxy will mourn, even as
they proclaim you a hero. I have sent for Lord Sagan to arm the bomb,
set the detonation code. I thought you would like to witness that
small ceremony before I lock the bomb up in that vault and leave. At
least the knowledge that you are ridding the universe of these
murderous creatures should provide you with some comfort in your
final moments. What is it now, Pantha?" Flaim sounded irritated.

The old man was staring, frowning, at the bomb.