Ghost Legion (8 page)

"Or no more beer." She took hold of the can, smiled back.

"I was thinking about starting work again," Tusk said, not
looking at her.

Nola paled a little beneath the freckles. "You mean mercenary
work?"

Tusk nodded. Lifting his beer, he drank it, made a face. "Damn
stuff's warm."

"Is that what Dixter called you about?"

"Yes. No. Well, sort of. He wants me to check out this
organization he heard about. The Ghost Legion. I told you about them,
showed you the vid they sent."

"Yes, but you're not seriously considering going?" She
looked at him anxiously.

Tusk took her hand again. "We're up against it, sweetheart. I
found out today that we don't have any medical coverage—"

"Oh, Tusk .. ." Nola sighed.

"Just one job. Until we can get back on our feet."

"But what about Link? The plane? He's half-owner. . . ."

"They're mainly interested in pilots. I'll leave Link the plane.
He can continue the business. He doesn't need me to run it. The
customers like him. You and XJ can keep an eye on him, make sure he
doesn't gamble away
all
the profits."

"But if Dixter wants you to check this Ghost Whatzit out, he
must think there's something wrong with it."

"Naw. Just routine."

Not for the first time, Tusk blessed his ebony complexion. If he'd
been a white-skinned human, he'd have been red to the eyeballs and
Nola would have spotted his lie in an instant.

As it was, she was staring at him, hard. "Routine, huh? Dixter
has a staff of a couple of thousand people, not to mention spies of
every shape, race, and nationality, and he comes to you to run a
routine
check?" Her eyes narrowed. "There's
something you're not telling me."

"I swear. Just routine. Maybe he heard we were hard up and
wanted to throw some bucks our way. This Ghost Legion's offering big
money, Nola. Big, big money. More'n I could earn in a year. And it'd
be all ours. No splitting it with Link. We'll invest it, live off it
until we get the business going again."

"If
you come back alive," Nola said somberly.

If I don't, there's the death benefits they've promised to pay to
the surviving family members
, was what Tusk almost said, but he
snapped his mouth shut. More than half-afraid she might see in his
eyes what he was thinking (she'd done that to him, more than once),
Tusk took this opportunity to excuse himself.

"I'm going to the head."

He stayed in there long enough to change back into the old jaunty,
devil-may-care Mendaharin Tusca, former mercenary who'd defeated a
powerful Warlord, defeated evil aliens from a distant galaxy, helped
put a king on his throne. Yep. Those had been the days. Just him and
XJ-27. As long as he'd had money enough to buy jump-juice and spare
parts for his spaceplane, Tusk hadn't given a damn about anything.
Now he had a wife, a child, two more kids on the way. . . . It'd be
good to go back, just for a little while.

Coming out, he found Nola sitting in the chair, holding her son in
her overlarge lap, singing to him quietly. Tusk stopped a moment to
look at them. John was yawning, rubbing his eyes fretfully. It was
nap time. Nola laid his head against her breast, began to rock him
back and forth. He struggled against sleep a moment, then gave in.
His eyelids drooped. Nola lay her cheek against the curly head, held
her child close.

Tears stung Tusk's eyes. He couldn't believe how much he loved her,
how precious she was to him, how precious his son was. Yeah, he'd
beaten a Warlord, been a king-maker. But who'd fought at his side?
She had. The thought of leaving her, leaving his son, leaving them
both for a long time, maybe forever . . .

He turned abruptly, put a coin in the machine, got another beer. He
held on to it tightly, drew a couple of deep breaths, drank a swallow
to clear the choking sensation in his throat.

Back to the old life. The old, lonely, empty life.

Going over to Nola, he put his hand on her shoulder, pulled her close
to him. She pressed her head against his thigh.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, stroking her hair.

She wore her hair clipped short because of the heat. He thought back
to the first time he'd seen her, sitting in Dixter's sweltering
office. Short, pudgy, freckle-faced, snippy ... Tusk had taken an
immediate dislike to her. She hadn't thought much of him.

Nola was smiling.

"I was thinking about the time when we were on Sagan's ship,
getting ready to fight the Corasians. I was thinking about what you
said to me." She raised her head, looked up at him. "Do you
remember? You said, 'All I know is that when I'm with you, I can do
things I never thought I could do. If there's a way to beat this
thing, it'll take us together to do it.'"

She couldn't go on. Lowering her head over the baby's, she began to
cry.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't, sweetheart."

"Damn hormones!" she sobbed.

"I won't go," Tusk said, bending down to put his arms
around her and around his slumbering son. "Not without you. I
don't know what made me think I ever could."

. . . married past redemption.

John Dryden,
Marriage a la Mode

Dion Starfire stood in front of the full-length mirror, studying his
reflection. He observed himself critically, carefully adjusting the
sleeves of the black uniform jacket to permit only a proper fraction
of white shirt cuff to show beneath them. The knife-edged crease of
his black trousers fell in a correct line to the tops of the
high-gloss black shoes. The jacket was darted in at the waist,
emphasizing the king's fine physique.

He shook out his red-gold hair, thick and luxuriant. He wore it long,
rampant, like a lion's mane. The red hair had become his symbol; that
and the lion-faced sun. The two were often combined by political
cartoonists. Red hair was quite the fashion these days. The galaxy
over, young men were wearing their hair long and having it dyed.

He could see, in the mirror, the reflection of the servbot
approaching, carrying a purple sash.

"No," Dion told the 'bot, not taking his eyes from his
image. "I'm not wearing either that or the medals today."

"Very good, sir. May I inquire if His Majesty plans to wear the
full regalia for the formal dinner?"

The servbot had been programmed at the finest training facility for
gentleman's gentlemen in the galaxy. It was familiar with all forms
of etiquette practiced galaxy-wide, could recommend the proper
neckwear for any occasion, knew what wine went with what dish, kept
His Majesty's social calendar for the next five years in its computer
brain, and would kill on command.

"Yes. The media will be there."

The blue eyes, the Starfire eyes, with their intense and startling
gaze, the reflected eyes regarded him—the real him— with
a cold and unblinking stare. It occurred to Dion that they didn't
know him; the eyes might have been staring at a stranger. They didn't
know him any better than he knew them.

His own reflection. Everywhere he went, that's all he saw. In
mirrors, in people's eyes, in camera lenses. On screens, on monitors.
In mags, in the vids. Flat, without depth, dimension. Distant, cold,
unreachable, untouchable. Unreal. A shadow . . . colorized.

The door to his dressing room opened behind him. Dion saw it open in
the mirror, saw the reflection of the person entering. His wife. She,
too, was perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They rarely saw each
other when each was not perfect.

He did not turn around, kept his eyes on the eyes in the mirror.

"Good morning, madam," he said, with a politic smile.

"Good morning, sir," Astarte replied coolly, with a very
slight lowering of her eyelids, a slight bow of the elegant head.

Formalities must be observed, with others present, even if it was
only a servbot. Reporters had attempted to conceal cams in such 'bots
before now. Though the odds on one succeeding were extremely slim,
their Majesties knew better than to take chances.

Astarte entered the room, stood gazing at Dion in silence, a cosmetic
smile on her lips, a look in her eyes that her husband knew well.

"That will be all, Simmons. I'll be leaving within the hour.'

"Very good, sir. Your Majesties." The 'bot flickered its
lights in deference to the king and queen and trundled out of the
dressing room, gently and unobtrusively closing the door behind it.

"You're leaving this morning?" Astarte demanded once they
were alone. "Where are you going?"

"I beg your pardon, madam." Dion, adjusting his cuffs,
spoke to her reflection. "I requested D'argent to provide you
with a copy of my travel itinerary. If he hasn't done so, I will—"

"Oh, he's done so." Astarte said with a sigh, folding her
slender arms across her chest.

Dion shrugged, as if he couldn't understand the fuss. "Then you
know I am traveling to the Academy, for the formal dedication
ceremony. I am the founder. It is my duty."

"I know
where
you're going. . . ."

"Then why did you ask, madam?"

"We could have gone together," Astarte said quietly.

A slight flush stained Dion's pale cheeks. He glanced down, away from
his reflection, made a pretense of buttoning one of the golden
buttons on his cuff.

"Yes, my dear, I thought of that. I sent my secretary to discuss
the schedule with your secretary. D'argent reported back to me that
there were conflicts—"

"My secretary! Your secretary!" Astarte came to stand
beside him, looked at him, not at the mirror. "Why don't we ever
talk to each other? I could have rearranged things, put some things
off, rescheduled. Nothing was that important. We could have traveled
together." She put her hand on her husband's arm.

Dion flinched away from her touch, moved a step away from her. He
realized what he'd done only when he saw her hand hanging immobile in
the empty space between them. He saw her face ... in the mirror.

Astarte was beautiful. He looked at her reflection and knew she was
beautiful. Her long, shining black hair was worn in the twists and
coils that had some sort of religious significance—he didn't
know what, he'd never asked—and perfectly framed her small,
delicate oval face. Her eyes were wide and the color of port wine,
made dark by the long, black lashes. Her mouth was perfectly formed,
the lips sensually curved. She was full-breasted, slender-waisted,
with slim hips. She was short in stature, but extremely
well-proportioned, and, by careful attention to her clothes, appeared
taller than she was.

The daughter of a warrior mother—DiLuna, ruler of the wealthy
and powerful star system of Ceres—Astarte had not been at all
what Dion had expected when he had married her, sight unseen, almost
three years previous. Her mother was a tall, long-limbed warrior
woman, strong as most males, fierce, proud, a hard bargainer. Most of
her numerous daughters (DiLuna scorned to give birth to a male child)
were like their mother.

Astarte was different. Perhaps this difference was because she was
High Priestess for her people. Or perhaps she'd become High Priestess
because of the difference. Dion didn't know. Again, he hadn't asked.
She was the embodiment of womanhood, the nurturing mother.

With nothing to nurture.

Dion knew immediately where this quarrel was leading—the same
place their quarrels always led. The bedroom.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out, madam. I was only going by
what D'argent told me. What your secretary told him. Perhaps next
time. And now, if you will excuse me, I have several calls to make
before I leave."

He started toward the door. He took two steps, but she was there in
front of him, her hand on his arm. This time he forced himself to
hold still.

"Yes, madam," he said, trying to keep irritation from
showing its edge in his voice, "what is it you want? I fear you
must be quick—"

"Why haven't you been in our bed for a month, Dion?" she
demanded. Her eyes were wide, trying to draw him inside. "Why?"
She tightened her grip.

Dion, mindful of the reflection, gave a practiced smile. "You
know how busy I've been, madam. I'm up until all hours. I know you're
busy, too. I don't want to disturb you—"

"Disturb me! I talk of making love to you and you talk of
'disturbing' me! We will never have a child if you are not a husband
to me."

"I've been a husband to you, madam," Dion said, breaking
free of his wife's grip. Turning from her, he reached for a pair of
white gloves that he'd almost forgotten. He began to pull one on.
"For one and a half, two years, I performed my duty faithfully."

"Duty!" Astarte repeated, following him, forcing herself
into his line of sight. "That's what it is to you—duty!"

"And what is it to you?" he asked quietly, lifting his gaze
from the gloves.

"I—" Astarte began, but she stopped. Tilting back her
head, chin high, she stared at him, said nothing.

Dion nodded, picked up the other glove. "We discussed this on
our wedding night. You don't love me, madam. I don't love you. We've
never made a secret of that to each other. This was a political
marriage, made for the sake of uniting the galaxy. Your mother got
what she wanted. I got what I wanted—"

"But what about me?" Astarte asked softly.

Dion raised his head again, glanced at her briefly. His mouth twisted
in a bitter smile. "You are queen of the galaxy, my dear."
He turned from her again, ready to leave. "And now, if you will
excuse me—"

Astarte again caught hold of his arm, pulled him around to face her.
"We are the talk of the media. 'When will a royal heir be born?'
'Almost three years, and the queen is not pregnant.' 'Is it him?' 'Is
it her?' 'The king undergoes medical tests.' The queen undergoes
medical tests.' 'Nothing is wrong with either of them.' Nothing
except that we sleep in separate bedrooms!"