Ghost Legion (80 page)

"They'd all grown disenchanted with the prince, especially when
they heard that the dark-matter creatures were running amuck. The
queen was able to persuade them to help her seize control of the
ship. They did so, without bloodshed. She's a remarkable woman,
Dion," Dixter said with enthusiasm, speaking before he thought.

He looked uncomfortable immediately after.

"Yes, sir," said Dion, smiling, "she is."

Kamil stood up suddenly from the co-pilot's chair where Dion had
ordered her to sit. "You belong there," she told him. "Tusk
.. . might need your help."

"Kamil ..."

"No, it's all right. Really." She smiled at him.

"Kid?" Tusk twisted around.

"Yes, I'm here," said Dion briskly.

He took the co-pilot's seat, continued talking to Dixter. "You
know, then, sir, what Sagan planned to do. How he switched bombs. He
was going to detonate the space-rotation bomb harmlessly, far, far
out in some remote part of the galaxy. But ... it didn't quite work
out."

Dion cleared his throat, his voice choked by the ache of fear and
dread inside him. "Flaim discovered the plan at the last minute,
went to Vallombrosa to try to stop Sagan. We escaped. My lord . . .
did not."

"Yes, son," said John Dixter. "I know. You see . . ."
He hesitated, rubbed his jaw.

"Tell me," Dion commanded. "What happened?"

"Vallombrosa's not there anymore, son. The planet's gone—as
though it had never been. Nothing left of it, that we can detect. Of
course, we can only scan it from a distance. We don't dare send in
recon planes. Not yet. Sagan was correct in his postulation that the
dark matter would contain the blast. He theorized that the dark
matter would act like a shield, prevent the chain reaction from
continuing throughout the galaxy. Destruction was confined to a
relatively limited area."

"To Vallombrosa."

"I'm sorry, son," Dixter said. "There's a possibility,
of course, that Sagan could have escaped. . . ."

Dion stood up.

Tusk glanced at him, shook his head, looked away.

Kamil reached out a hand to him. Dion didn't see it. He walked
blindly to the ladder, climbed it—apparently by feel
alone—disappeared up into what had once been the gunner's
bubble, was now the observation dome.

Dion sat in the bubble, staring out into space, its dark deadly
blackness sparkling with myriad roaring furnaces of suns. Immense
fires that give birth to life, sustained life, destroyed life. Viewed
from this distance, the suns were nothing but tiny white sparks in
the vastness of the universe.

In the vastness of the mind of God.

Vallombrosa. Valley of Ghosts. Gone as if it had never been. His
cousin. Gone, too.

Dion looked at his right palm. The five wounds were no longer
swollen, had ceased to pain him. Soon they would fade to nothing but
five white scars on his hand, for he would never use the bloodsword
again.

Derek Sagan.

Dion stared into the darkness and its coldly burning stars and
thought of the man whose darkness had cast a shadow over the king's
own life, a shadow that had forced Dion to close his eyes, look
inward, see his own darkness. Only then had he been able to open his
eyes, see beyond the darkness, to the light.

Well done, boy.

He heard the words echo in his mind, heard them again, as he had
heard them clearly that day of the duel. It was then that he had
known for certain that Sagan had not betrayed his oath, that he was
his king's Guardian, as he had sworn so long ago. It was this faith
Flaim had seen inside Dion, though his cousin had not been able to
recognize it. It was this faith that had, Dion supposed, cost Sagan
his life.

I can weep for him, Dion thought, but I can't grieve. As Maigrey
said, all is as it should be. There is a rightness about it, a
suitability. A fittingness, in the mind of God.

He knew it, though he couldn't explain how. It was as if a door had
opened and he had been permitted a swift glance inside before it
slammed shut again.

Cold fingers touched his hand; Kamil's hand closed over his. He drew
her up, into the bubble, to sit beside him. There was a lightness
about this, too. He couldn't grieve.

"She and Sagan are together again, aren't they?" Kamil said
softly.

"Yes," answered Dion.

"As we will be together . . . someday," Kamil said.

"Someday," Dion held her hand fast.

" 'You have loved and been loved,'" Kamil said, almost to
herself. "I understand now what he meant."

"We should be thankful," Dion said, his eyes on the stars.
"What happened to them would have happened to us. We would have
been torn apart by anger, fear, misunderstanding. We would have ended
up hating each other. Hating ourselves. That won't happen to us now.
When we say good-bye . .."

He faltered. Her hand pressed his, giving him courage.

He continued on steadily. "When we say good-bye, it will be with
love and trust."

"Kid?" Tusk peered up at them from down below. "Sorry
to interrupt, kid—I mean, Your Majesty. I guess I better get
used to saying that. I've made contact with Her Majesty's ship. The
queen's anxious to see you. The captain wants to know when you're
planning to come aboard and should he lay in a course for Ceres or
back to Minas Tares? And Dixter needs to talk to you about the
Corasian attack."

Dion rose. "Her Majesty and I will be going to Ceres. We're
going to give thanks. To both God and the Goddess."

"Sure thing, kid," Tusk said. "I mean, Your Maj—
Oh, the hell with it. You know what I mean." He disappeared back
down into the cockpit.

"Yes," said Dion softly. "I know what you mean."

He turned to Kamil. "Good-bye," he said, kissed her gently,
and left.

"Good-bye," she told him, after he had gone.

Heaven's last, best gift . ..

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

"You'll come to visit us—Astarte and I. You and Nola and
your family."

"Royal command?" Tusk grinned.

"Yes." Dion replied gravely. "Royal command."

"Sure, we'll come," Tusk said, and meant it.

"Often."

"Well, as often as we can. What with the business ..." He
sighed, ran his hand through his tightly curled hair, cast a harried
glance around the Scimitar. "Back to vacuum cleaner salesmen, I
guess."

Dion smiled as if he knew a secret, started to say something, then
shook his head. "Good-bye, Tusk."

The mercenary started to shake hands, but Dion clasped his friend in
his arms.

Tusk patted Dion on the back. "Good-bye, kid. Good luck."
He paused, then said awkwardly, "I wish ... I wish it all could
have turned out different. . . ."

"All is as it was meant to be, Tusk," said Dion quietly.

"Yeah, I guess so." Tusk sounded dubious. Backing off, he
wiped his nose, turned his head away.

Dion looked over at Kamil, who had been standing near him, silent,
waiting. He reached out his hand. She took it. They held fast to each
other for the length of a heartbeat.

She smiled at him, reassuring. "You better go," she said.
"They're waiting for you."

Their hands parted.

Dion climbed swiftly up the ladder leading out of the Scimitar. At
the top, he paused, took one last look around.

"Good-bye, XJ," he called.

There came a sort of a croak and a wheeze. The lights flickered and
went out. The hatch whirred slowly open.

Standing in the darkness, Tusk heard the roar of the crowd on the
flight deck of
Flare
, cheering the appearance of their king.
When the lights came back on, Dion was gone.

"Well," said Tusk to himself with a sigh, a smile. "That's
that."

The ceremonies were over. The crowds had dispersed. XJ was in a high
state of indignation.

"I've never seen such a mob! It's .. . unmilitary. And some fool
reporter actually had the nerve to sit his fat fanny down on my wing!
He won't do that again soon. I sent about sixty volts through him."

Tusk grinned, shook his head. "We've got clearance. Lay in a
course for the Academy. And then—home."

Kamil sat beside him in the co-pilot's chair. She was brisk and
purposefully cheerful. "I've already got the course plotted,
Tusk. I needed ... something to do." Her smile slipped a moment,
but then it was back. "You're sure you don't mind taking me back
to school? I know how eager you are to see your family—"

"No trouble at all, kid. It's on the way."

"Admiral Dixter on line," the computer reported.

The admiral's face appeared on the vidscreen.

"We got His Majesty safely delivered, sir," Tusk reported.
"Any word on the Corasians?"

"We've arranged a welcome-to-the-galaxy party. A surprise party.
I don't think they'll be bothering us for a long, long time."

"Good, good," Tusk said, nodding. "I ... I don't
suppose, you've heard from Nola?" he asked wistfully.

Dixter's grim face relaxed in a smile. "As a matter of fact, I
have. After you told me where you thought she might be hiding, I made
contact with Marek. Nola's fine, other than being worried about you.
Your son's fine. And speaking of Nola, . . . Tusk, this may not be
the time to bring this up, but there's something I'd like you to
think about.

"Three years ago, His Majesty offered you a commission in the
Royal Navy. I know you turned it down, but I wish you'd reconsider. I
could use an adjutant, Tusk. Someone I could trust. Someone His
Majesty can trust. I'm not that many years away from retirement—"

"Whoah!" Tusk sat back, stared at the vidscreen in alarm,
even terror.

"I don't mean you'd take over right away," Dixter said,
smiling. "I expect to be around a while. Quite a while. Say at
least another twenty years. But when I do leave, I'd feel better
knowing you were the one who'd be sitting in my chair."

Tusk was in a state of shock. So was XJ apparently. For once, neither
of them had anything to say.

"You don't have to give me your answer now, son," Dixter
advised, seeing that Tusk was in no shape to talk anyway. "Discuss
it with Nola. You'd have to move to Minas Tares, of course. But it's
a beautiful city. Nola would like it here. And the children would
have the very best educational opportunities. Like I said, think it
over."

Tusk tugged on his left earlobe. The eight-pointed star earring was
back, a gift from a grateful Astarte.

"I know this is gonna sound weird, sir. But, if I took it—and
I'm not saying I am—but if I did, would there uh ... be a place
somewhere for Link? He's a jerk and an ass and a blowhard, but he's a
pretty good pilot and if he had somethin to occupy his mind other
than cards and the juice, I think he might turn out okay."

"I believe we could find a place for Link," Dixter said
gravely.

"Now, just a minute." XJ had also recovered. "Excuse
me, sir, but you haven't mentioned the most important factor. How
much does this job pay us? Are uniforms included? What about cleaning
and pressing? And am I going to have to be reprogrammed for military
protocol, because I—"

"You!" Tusk exploded. "
Us?
If I do take this,
you're going into dry dock with the Scimitar and maybe, if you're
lucky, I'll take you out in sixteen years when it's time to teach
young John how to fly—"

"Dry dock!"

The lights on the ship went dark. Life support shut down.

"Dry dock," the computer repeated in ominous tones. "If
you ever want to see any kind of a dock again, Men-da-ha-rin Toosca,
you'll forget you ever said those two words in my hearing.

"As for commissioning
you
," the computer continued,
seething, "it's obvious that the admiral's doing that simply in
order to get me."

The lights came back on. The soft whir of life-support began again.

"I'm getting tired of this spaceplane anyway," XJ went on
peevishly. "It's never been the same since you 'remodeled' it. I
think I'd like a desk job. Yes, that would be a good place for me.
Right on top of your desk, at your fingertips. Feel free anytime,
Admiral, to step in and ask my advice. Tell His Majesty, too. I
imagine you both will be coming to consult me frequently.

"As for you, Tusk, I'll answer your phone calls and screen your
visitors. ..."

Tusk groaned, laid his head on his arms on the console.

"Excuse me, Admiral Dixter." Kamil was deferential, abashed
at being in the presence of such a great man.

"You're Olefsky's daughter, aren't you?"

"Maigrey Kamil, sir," she said, relaxing, attracted by the
warmth in his eyes, reassured by the sad, faint smile that touched
his lips when she spoke her name. "I was wondering if you knew
... if you had any information. The cyborg, Xris, and the little
empath . . . they were hurt on Ceres. . . ."

Dixter nodded. "I just passed this message on to His Majesty.
Archbishop Fideles informs me that Xris is recovering. And the Little
One has pulled through. Raoul bought lime-green toreador pants to
celebrate."

"That's good," she said, smiling. "I'm glad. Give them
both my best. And tell Xris that someday, I may take him up on his
offer."

"I'll do that. Your father and mother send their love, by the
way. They said to tell you they were both very proud of you. And
Kamil," he added, "there's an opening in flight school for
you—anytime you're ready."

Kamil flushed with astonishment, pleasure. "Truly, sir?"

"You come with the highest recommendation," the admiral
said. "From His Majesty."

Kamil's eyes filled with tears. Mumbling something about leaving Tusk
and Dixter to talk in private, she hastily left the cockpit, climbed
the ladder leading up to the main cabin.

Once alone, she thought she was going to cry.

"No," she said, resolutely. "I won't. This is what I
wanted."