Xris glared at Raoul.
The Loti gave him a charming, pouting smile. "Don't blame me. I have no idea what is transpiring. And I am not responsible. Perhaps it is, as you said, an act of God."
The cyborg cursed beneath his breath, released the Loti. "Nothing I can do or say will keep you from telling them, will it?"
"Nothing short of murder, Xris Cyborg."
"Try that hp gloss trick on me again and—"
"Xris!" Harry sounded tense.
"Yeah, I'm coming. I'm coming. And I've got the empath."
The cyborg was on the move. Raoul, rubbing his bruised jaw and making certain his velvet had not been damaged, flitted after him. The Little One trotted alongside, moving as fast as his short legs and the long hem of the raincoat, which was continually tripping him up, permitted.
"Why do you want the empath?" Xris spoke into his commlink. He was heading for the elevator and the upper levels of the late Snaga Ohme's mansion. "What's going on? What have you got?"
"If you ask me," Harry said grimly, "I think it's ghosts."
Chapter Three
. .. toward his design, moves like a ghost.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act II, Scene i
Sir John Dixter, Lord of the Admiralty, sat in his resplendent suite of offices, located on the top floor of the newly constructed Royal Military Headquarters building, and gazed out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view was breathtaking, magnificent, and all other laudatory adjectives. The Glitter Palace, His Majesty's royal residence, stood directly opposite. Its multifaceted crystal walls—strong and stalwart—sparkled radiantly, with jewellike beauty, in the sunlight. And directly beneath the palace, its shining mirror image, reflected in the rippling surface of a cobalt-blue lake, shimmered and danced.
From his vantage point, Dixter could see the entire city of Minas Tares. It was lunch hour, and many of the government workers were in the streets, taking their noon meals in the restaurants and wine bars, spending their brief noon hour shopping, conducting business, or dropping by the day-care centers to play with their children.
The winding, artfully designed streets were crowded, but the crowds were orderly, went about their business or pleasure quietly. Directly below his window, a well-shepherded group of tourists stood gawking at the palace. Tourists were permitted on King's Island, but they were closely monitored, herded about in small groups and permitted entry only to certain areas.
A monorail system provided transportation to and from City-Royal, a bustling metropolis located about ten kilometers from King's Island. The two were separated by a bay, connected by-monorail. Most of those who worked on King's Island lived in City Royal, which was also the jumping-off point for tourists.
Dixter eyed the tourists closely—as closely as possible from twenty stories up. He scanned the crowd for the one who might attempt to edge away from it, to sidle off down a back street . . .
His nose practically pressed against the windowpane, the ad-miral realized what he was doing, flushed and glanced around swiftly, hoping Bennett had not seen him.
John Dixter was being paranoid and he knew it.
"But then, I have reason to be," he murmured, easing up on himself, remembering the Revolution—a time he hadn't paid attention to small details and his world had exploded in flames around him. That had been twenty-some years ago. But John Dixter would never forget.
When His Majesty Dion Starfire first came to power three years ago, it had been recommended that King's Island be transformed into a security zone, barring entry to everyone except those who had business there. Twenty years ago, John Dixter had seen the Glitter Palace in flames, its walls covered with blood, and he had been inclined to favor such precautions. Dion had adamantly refused. He would not separate himself from his people; he would not become some godlike figure perched high on a mountain peak, speaking to them through the vidscreen.
His Majesty liked to travel and was constantly on the move. And wherever he went, he drew enormous crowds and was always as accessible as it was possible for a man surrounded by armed guards and burdened with a tight, down-to-the-second traveling schedule to be accessible. He often held public audiences on the worlds he visited, inviting those with grievances or petitions to present them in person.
This hour with the public was an hour from hell for the Royal Guard, responsible for the king's life, despite the fact that people admitted into the Royal Presence were carefully screened—generally by their own governments in advance of His Majesty's visit—and searched practically inside out for weapons.
"I put my trust in God," Dion told an unhappy Dixter when the admiral had made his formal protest.
The king had smiled when he spoke, and so Dixter wasn't certain whether His Majesty was being reassuring or ironic.
The admiral was serious. "Begging your pardon, sit" he said in a low tone, "but I knew another long who used to say that."
Dion had reached out, placed his hand on the hand of his old friend. "God watches over me, sir."
"That may be true," Dixter later remarked to Cato, captain of the Royal Guard, when they were discussing the matter: "But who is watching over God?"
"Derek Sagan," said Cato with a shrug.
The story made its way around the barracks and was greatly appreciated by the Royal Guard, most of whom had served under the deceased Warlord. Dixter himself had smiled at the captain's witticism, though he rather thought that Cato had been more serious than otherwise.
"I will not be seen living in fear," His Majesty had stated on his first ascending to the throne. "My intent is to project an image of calmness, tranquillity. If the people see that I and my family feel secure, unafraid, then the people will feel secure, unafraid. I must be seen to be in control of my present and of my future."
And it had worked. It was working. Dion had seized control of the reins of state and was hanging on to them grimly. He had established a constitutional monarchy, formed a parliament. Each day was a struggle, however. Each day brought some new crisis for the young king. Each day it seemed he might lose his grip, be jounced from the saddle to fall in the mud. And there were many riding behind him, waiting to trample him when he fell.
"And he loves it," said Dixter now to himself.
As the days progressed he watched the young king in awe, amazed that someone in his early twenties could act and think with the wisdom of far older years. Dion knew when to bring quarreling factions together, knew when to keep them apart. He knew when to talk, when to keep silent. Knew when to threaten, to bully; knew when to plead, cajole. Politics never wore him out. It acted on him like a stimulating drug. He would emerge from a grueling session looking refreshed, invigorated, while others in attendance would come out weary, drained, exhausted.
The tour guide below was pointing out the location of the king's private rooms, describing the myriad luxuries in a rapid-fire monotone, machine-gunning the tourists with accounts of the royal china, the royal silverware, the royal tablecloths and bed linens, the royal jewels, the royal shoes, royal this and royal that and royal so forth. The tourists, ducking beneath the hail of statistics, looked up at the faraway windows in awe.
Dixter looked at the windows in musing sorrow.
It was behind those windows, when Dion was away from the cams and the vids and the media, away from the "balm, the scepter and the ball, the sword, the mace, the crown imperial... as Shakespeare termed it in Henry V, that the drug wore off the reaction set in. It was there, in his home, where he faced his most difficult challenge. The young man who, at twenty-one, could bring warring star systems together in peace could not manage to spend fifteen minutes together peacefully with his wife.
The door opened noiselessly. Dixter's aide-de-camp, Bennett, glided into the room, unobtrusively began to set to rights everything the Lord of the Admiralty had knocked askew.
"Magnificent view, my lord," remarked Bennett, noting Dixter's fixed stare.
"Is it?" Dixter blinked, looked at what he had be
en looking at. "Oh, yes. I suppose it is." He smiled ruefully. "You'll never guess what I was seeing Bennett."
"No, my lord," said Bennett in tones which indicated that though he might not be able to guess, nothing would surprise him.
"I was in that trailer on the planet Vangelis. Sitting in that little cubicle of an office, looking out over the tarmac. Do you remember?"
"I remember the heat, my lord."
"Was it hot? Yes, I suppose it was. I didn't notice the heat. We'd been in hotter places."
"True, my lord." Bennett continued his tidying up, rearranging chairs that had been moved during a conference, emptying coffee cups, whisking away paper napkins.
"I was thinking about that day Tusk brought him in to see me. 'Dion' he said his name was. He didn't know his last name. I remember that red-gold hair, those blue, blue eyes. Do you know, Bennett—when I think back on that moment, it seems to me that everything in my life was gray up until then. I don't remember seeing colors before then. Not for years." He sighed, rubbed his eyes, which ached from staring fixedly into the sun's glare.
Bennett cast a surreptitious glance at his commander. Others addressed him as "Sir John" or "Lord Dixter," but to Bennett he was always the "general," just as he had been for the fifteen or so years the sergeant-major had been in Dixter's service.
Bennett had memories of his own. He looked at John Dixter, resplendent in his uniform that had at least out immaculate. A uniform decorated with medals—medals of honor awarded him by innumerable star systems, primary among them being the lion s-head sun that had been pinned onto his chest by the young king's own hand. Dion's first official act.
Bennett looked around the enormous office, took in the desk that was practically as large as the trailer on Vangelis to which the general had been referring. The sergeant-major thought back to the first time he'd met John Dixter, in a bar on Laskar. It had been shortly after the Revolution. As a suspected royalist, Dixter was on the run. There was a price on his head. He made his living as a mercenary, operating out of Laskar. This bar was the only bar on Laskar Dixter ever entered. The only bar where he ever got truly drunk. That night, Dixter told Bennett—a complete stranger—why.
In this bar, years before the Revolution, John Dixter had met the one woman he would ever love—the Lady Maigrey. The one woman he could never have, for she was Blood Royal and John Dixter was . . . ordinary. He told Bennett how he had loved her, how he'd lost her the night of the Revolution. What he hadn't told Bennett, what the general had not foreseen, was that years later he would find her again.
Only to lose her again.
Perhaps it was just as well he hadn't foreseen. Dixter was drunk enough that night as it was.
And so the sergeant-major had carried the general home that night and had not left his side since. Remembering Dixter then—dressed in a faded, tattered uniform, slumped over the bar—and seeing him now, Lord of the Admiralty, Bennett was forced to blink back a most unmilitary moisture in his eyes. The sergeant-major marched across the room, cleared his throat with a loud harrumph, and stared hard at the general.
"What is that stain on your uniform, my lord?"
Dixter glanced vaguely in the direction of his aide's disapproving gaze. "Where? Oh, that. Coffee, I would imagine."
"You appear to have set your elbow in it, my lord."
"It's those confounded small cups. Like drinking out of an eggshell. I can't get a grip on that fancy gold-plated handle and I end up sloshing coffee into the saucer. Then I hit it with my arm. ... What the devil are you doing?"
"You will have to change jackets, my lord."
"For a little coffee stain?"
"And the cheese pastry on your lapel, my lord."
"Confound it, Bennett, I'm not scheduled to see anyone—"
A trilling whine interrupted. Bennett was forced to leave off struggling with his general in order to answer the phone. While he did so, Dixter left the window, returned to his desk. He took the opportunity to dip a napkin in a glass of water, rub ineffectually at the stain.
Bennett's eyebrows telegraphed his disapproval, but he was prevented from saying anything until he ended the conversation.
"Urgent communique coming in for you, my lord. Your personal access code."
Dixter frowned, stuffed the napkin in the water glass, and headed for the commlink room. Very few people in the galaxy had access to the admiral's personal access code, which provided the highest level of security available. An urgent message from one of them boded nothing good.
Entering the commlink room—located adjacent to his office—Dixter dismissed the personnel working there, shut and sealed the door. Bennett, with a long-suffering sigh, remained behind in the general's office to mop up the spilled water.
Dixter gave his identification, provided voice and hand print and DNA scan to gain access to the message. The descrambling took several seconds, during which the general waited with grim patience. He had a good idea who was calling and wished he'd thought to take an antacid tablet after breakfast.
A man's face appeared on the vidscreen—a bald head, acid-splashed skin, overhanging forehead, and deep, shadowed eyes—one real, one cybernetic. The burning sensation in Dixter's stomach increased.
Xris nodded curtly as Dixter's image registered on the cyborg's own screen. No preliminary, time-wasting formalities for the cyborg. He was direct and to the point.
"Something took the bait, boss."
"They made an attempt? Did you catch them?"
Xris grimaced. "You might say they ended up catching us, boss. Swallowed us hook, line, pole, and boat. The good news is you were right on two counts—you've got a leak and someone is after the bomb. The bad news is—they found it. Something entered the vault. Took the bomb."
Dixter stared, shocked. "Good God, man! That's not possible! And you let them get away—"
Xris grunted. "Hold on, boss. You've got to hear me out.
You'll get my full report in writing, but I thought I better deliver it first in person. Let you know I'm sober."
Dixter attempted to contain his impatience. "What happened?"
Reaching into his pocket, the cyborg drew out a twist, stuck it in his mouth, lit it.
"We made the transfer, moved the space-rotation bomb from the palace to Snaga Ohme's. You know how it went from your end. Top secret. Same from ours. As you and I arranged, Raoul let it be known among certain circles here on Laskar that he was for sale. A couple of people wanted to buy, but they turned out to be just after information on new product lines.
"Then we hit dirt. These guys weren't interested in the latest in plasma grenade launchers. They wanted blueprints of the house, details about the security systems. Raoul gave them the stuff, enough of it real to look good to an expert. Not real enough to use. I don't know why they needed it. Any of it." Xris drew in smoke. "Waste of their money, our time."
"Obviously not," said Dixter dryly. "It worked for them. You must have made a mistake, Xris, given them too much real information."
The cyborg snorted, blew smoke through his nose. "I don't get paid to make mistakes, boss. Hell, I could have given them a layout of the inside of Raoul's head and it would have been one and the same. Take a look at the monitor readings. They should be coming through by now."
Dixter walked over to another machine, studied the information that was being transmitted hallway across the galaxy.
He stared at it, frowned. "Print it," he ordered the computer, unwilling to believe what he saw on the screen.
The printout was no different, however. He studied it wordlessly, then looked back at the cyborg. "If it were any other man, I'd say you were seeing ghosts...."
"Ghosts." Xris stubbed the end of the twist out on the console. "Funny you should mention ghosts. Look, if it makes you feel any better, boss, we didn't believe it either. We figured, like you are, probably, that the equipment must have malfunctioned. We checked it, more than once. It's working fine."
The cyborg stopped, took
another twist from his pocket, but he didn't light it. He stared at it, switched the stare to Dixter. "And then we found proof. You want it from the beginning?"
Dixter sighed, rubbed his forehead, nodded.
Xris continued. "Front gate security saw, registered nothing. Same with the entrance—all the entrances. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The first we know we're being invaded, the motion detectors inside the house start registering movement. Like you see there."
"But how can you be sure? There's no corroboration from the other monitors, is there?"
"Nothing on visual, nothing on audio."
"What confirms it?"
"A drop in barometric pressure—in certain areas only—and a corresponding movement of the air in places where no air should be moving."
"The drop in pressure accompanies the disturbance," Dixter observed, studying the report. "So do the air currents."
"That's what convinced us we weren't crazy. We fed all this stuff into the computer, had it chart the results. Take a look at that. Look at the path it makes."
Dixter examined another document, transmitted by the cyborg—a diagram of Snaga Ohme's vast estate. A line had been drawn in red, a line that followed the movement detected by the various sensors. Dixter stared at it; his jaw went slack.
"Ghosts, you said, boss," Xris commented.
The path started at an outside wall, went through a nullgrav-steel-lined marble wall into the house, and traveled through room after room, moving straight through walls, ceilings, floors. It never deviated from its chosen course; no obstruction stopped it. It headed straight in one direction: the vault.
"As you see, to even reach the house itself, this thing had to pass through the force field that surrounds the estate, had to go through the garden, where life expectancy is thirty seconds if you're lucky. Motion detectors sensed movement in the garden, but they didn't get any corroborating evidence from other detectors, and so they didn't react, other than to register it.
"That's why it didn't trip any of the thousand or so booby traps, not that they would have done any damage. Couldn't. The thing moved too damn fast. It made it safely to the house, slid right through a fortified exterior wall that could withstand a direct hit from a lascannon and not buckle. Nothing stopped it. Nothing even fazed it apparently."
Ghost Legion Page 3