"Was the vault on the layout Raoul passed on?"
"Sure. No reason not to. A lot of people already know about it. Snaga Ohme was proud of the contraption. He used to take special clients to see it. According to the Loti, Ohme once claimed he could detonate an atomic bomb next to it and the blast wouldn't so much as put a dent in the walls. He was exaggerating, of course, but probably not by much. What we didn't put on there was the security surrounding it, not to mention the vault's own internal security systems."'"
"And you say this . . . whatever it was . . . got past all that and inside the vault. What did it do once it was inside? Did it take the bomb?"
"Maybe it took it. Maybe it vaporized it. Maybe it ate it. We got the thing on vid. All I know is that one minute the damn bomb's there and the next it isn't."
"And this . . . thing . . . was responsible. Damn it, how do we know for sure?"
"Maybe we don't. We got two firm indications, boss: First, we registered an increase in the radiation level around the vault. Not much. But enough to make us suspicious, especially tracing the path the thing took. We examined the vault's superstructure. There'd been an alteration in the metal itself, a chemical change, enough to generate radioactivity. And only in that one place, directly in line with the path."
"That's the first. What was the second?"
Xris looked grim. "The bomb was moved."
"Moved?"
"Jostled, handled. Not far—a fraction of a fraction of a centimeter before it vanished. But enough to set off the alarm. That was the only alarm this thing did set off, by the way. And that was only because we've had the bomb surrounded by every conceivable type of sensing device, all sensitive enough to register a hair falling on it. The guards reacted instantly, entered the vault. They found nothing. Nothing except that the bomb was gone."
"The guards didn't see anything? Hear anything?"
"Now, that's another strange thing, boss. The guards didn't see or hear anything, but one of them reported feeling something. About a split second before the alarm went off. She said she felt as if she'd been shoved into a compression chamber. The feeling passed immediately. She shows no physical damage, no chemical alteration. No increase in radiation level, no aftereffects. But notice where she was standing, boss."
Dixter looked, gave a low whistle. The guard's position had been indicated on the diagram. She had been standing directly in the red-lined path.
"You mean whatever this was went right through her?" Dixter was aghast.
"Through her, through nullgrav steel vault walls, into the vault, and out again. Look, motion detectors pick it up here, on the opposite side. It passed on through the rest of the house, exited here, through another fortified wall. Back out into the garden, through the force field, and presumably back to wherever it came from."
Dixter passed his hand over his face, scratched his chin. "Do you realize what you're saying, Xris? This thing goes through solid steel walls with leaving so much as a trace, then actually manages to touch and move an object? Damn it, it's not possible!"
The cyborg chewed on the twist. "What can I say, boss? I agree completely. It's not possible. But it happened."
"It took the bomb. Through solid matter."
"Yeah, and ... I wonder if you've considered something else."
Xris lit the twist, puffed on it absently, flicked the ash to the floor. He stared at Dixter speculatively.
"What?" the admiral asked grimly.
"Whoever has that bomb now," Xris said, letting the smoke trickle slowly from his lips, "knows it's a fake."
The pain in Dixter's stomach jabbed him. He winced, pressed his hand to his side.
"Damnation," Dixter swore. He bent over the computer readouts, studied them, willing them to change, to make sense.
They didn't.
"What was that you said about ghosts?" Dixter asked suddenly, thinking back to something Xris had said earlier. "You said it was funny I should mention it."
"Oh, yeah. When Raoul was meeting with these jokers who bought the information, the Little One—you remember the Little One?"
"The empath in the raincoat."
"Yeah. Well, the Little One picks up on the name of an organization these guys are all carrying around in their heads. Ghost Legion. Ever heard of it?"
"No, but that doesn't mean much. You think there's a connection?" "It's one hell of a coincidence if there's not. These guys buy a layout of the house and grounds and three days later something goes right through us. Yeah, I'd say there was a connection."
"But, like you said earlier"—Dixter waved a hand—"if they have this type of capability, what did they need with layouts? Why bother?"
"Maybe they're trying to tell us something, boss. Send us a message. Maybe we got caught in our own trap."
Dixter shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."
Xris took the twist out of his mouth, tossed it onto the floor. "Let me know when any of this makes sense, will you, boss?"
Dixter was thinking. "I suppose the next step is to investigate this Ghost Legion. Will you—"
"Sorry, boss. Count me out. I've got ... other business."
"Xris, this is important," Dixter said quietly.
"So's my business. I'm leaving tonight, as a matter of fact."
"I could order you to stay for complete debriefing. I could have you arrested."
"Wouldn't be pleasant for either of us, boss. Besides"—Xris smiled ruefully—"I'm about as debriefed as I can get. The others, too. I've sent you my complete report, plus Raoul's and the Little One's, plus the reports of everyone else in this place. Damn machines saw more than any of us. Spend your time debriefing them. Like I said, I'm leaving."
"I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate... ."
A series of beeps came over the commlink—the cyborg's mechanical arm, Tunning through a routine systems check. Xris made a few minor adjustments, looked back at Dixter.
"Yeah, all right, boss. I could use your help, in fact. I plan to make a quick trip out of the galaxy. If your perimeter patrols spot me, I'd appreciate it if they didn't shoot me, either on the way out or on the way back."
"You're going into Corasia?"
Xris took a twist out of his pocket, studied it with interest.
Dixter tried again. "This wouldn't have anything to do with those humans taken prisoner during the raid on the Nargosi outpost, would it?"
Xris lit the twist, drew the smoke into his lungs, blew it back out.
"I can't give you permission to go behind enemy lines, Xris," Dixter said gravely.
"Fine, then. Skip it. Forget I said anything."
"Are you going alone? You can at least tell me that much."
Xris considered; apparently decided he could. "I was. But that's all changed—thanks to Raoul and his big lip-glossed mouth. The whole team's going. Though what the hell I'm going to do with a poisoner and an empath is beyond me."
Dixter thought the matter over. "If someone could rescue those people . .." He nodded. "I'll pass the word along. Nothing official, of course. I can't do that."
Xris looked intently at Dixter, actually almost smiled. "Thanks, boss."
Dixter shook his head. "You know the odds. If you get into trouble, I'll have to deny I ever heard of you. The treaty and all that."
Xris grinned. "If we get into trouble, you won't need to bother. Nobody'll ever hear of us again. Though I wish I could stick around and help you on this other job. Damnedest thing I ever saw—or didn't see. I could give you the names of some good people ..."
"Thanks, but I have someone in mind. You know him, in fact. Tusca. Former Scimitar pilot. You rescued him from the Corasians—"
"During that job we did for the Starlady. Yeah, I remember. You know, boss, it's mostly because of Lady Maigrey I'm doing this other. Something she said to me. She had a way of sticking to your mind."
"She did indeed," said John Dixter. "Godspeed, Xris."
"Same to you, boss."
The image of the cyb
org vanished. The vidscreen went blank. Dixter stood staring at it a long time without moving. Then he wiped his hand across his face again, grimaced at the pain in his stomach. He stuffed the printouts under his arm, to be studied again at his leisure, coded the information contained in the computer under the highest possible security, then summoned back the operator.
"Have that new material in there gone over by experts," he ordered.
"Yes, sir. What type of experts, sir?"
Dixter pondered, frowning. "Damn it, I don't know!" He exploded, frustrated. "Expert experts. We seem to be inundated with them around here. Maybe they can do something useful for a change."
The officer stared at him, startled. The admiral was noted for being easygoing, unflappable.
Dixter drew a deep breath, raised his hand in a mollifying gesture. "I . . . I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to bark at you. My guess is we're dealing with some type of newfangled probe. Start there. Oh, and bring in a parapsychologist."
The captain raised her eyebrows. "Parapsychologist, sir?"
"Yes." Dixter smiled. "Parapsychologist. A person who studies the supernatural."
"I know what one is, sir," said the officer stiffly.
"Then no doubt you'll be able to find me one, Captain."
"Very good, sir," said the officer, mystified.
Dixter left the commroom and bumped into Bennett, who had been hovering near the door.
"Are you feeling quite well, my lord?"
"Not particularly," Dixter growled. He sat down at this desk, began rummaging around among the papers.
"The antacid tablets are in the top drawer to the right, my lord."
Dixter grunted, found the tablets, ate two, munched on them disconsolately. "Get hold of Tusk."
"I beg your pardon. Who, my lord?"
Relaxing, the pain in his stomach subsiding momentarily, Dixter managed a grin. "You know who, Bennett. Don't give me that look. I'm not planning to run off and start the old mercenary trade again. Not that I don't think of it sometimes," he added wistfully.
Bennett sniffed. His regulation mustache quivered in disapproval.
Dixter shook his head, shook off memories. "I need Tusk to do a job for me, that's all."
Bennett appeared resigned. "Do you have any idea where Mendaharin Tusca can be located, my lord?"
"Last I heard from him, he was living on Vangelis, running a shuttle service with that blowhard . . . what was his name . . . Link."
"Vangelis, my lord." Bennett lifted an eyebrow. "Odd, that you happened to be discussing that very planet in rather nostalgic terms this morning, isn't it, my lord?"
"Just get hold of Tusk."
"Very good, my lord. And you will remember to change your jacket, won't you, my lord?"
Dixter glowered. Bennett left, stiff-backed, expressing silent disapproval. The Lord of the Admiralty remained seated at his desk, not changing his jacket, risking his aide's ire. The insides of Dixter's mouth were chalky with the taste of antacid. He picked up a cup of cold coffee, swished the liquid around, swallowed it. Too bad he couldn't coat the inside of his head with soothing relief.
Bennett was back. "Sorry, my lord, but phone service to the residence of Mendaharin Tusca has been disconnected."
"Tell the phone company this is the Lord of the Admiralty calling extremely urgent, and that they jolly well better connect it back up again," Dixter snapped.
"I informed them of that, my lord. They said that the service was disconnected for nonpayment of a considerable sum owed to them. The equipment was repossessed, removed from the premises."
Dixter grimaced. The antacid was apparently under counterattack from the cold coffee and, by all indications, was fighting a losing battle. "Try XJ, then."
"My lord?"
"XJ-27. Tusk's shipboard computer. Find the call number under Interplanetary Vehicle licensing and registration. Tusk's a legit businessman now. He'd have to be licensed."
Having known Tusk nearly as long as he'd known the general, Bennett appeared to have his doubts, but he left on his assignment. Dixter wasn't feeling any too confident himself. He was already starting to contemplate, with a certain amount of enjoyment (if he didn't count the space travel, which he detested), flying to Vangelis to talk to Tusk in person, when Bennett returned.
"I managed to reach the computer, my lord. Tusca is not available at the moment. It appears that he is ... um ... babysitting. The computer promised to have him contact you when he puts in an appearance. I gather he is expected at any moment, my lord."
"Good. Thank you, Bennett. Let me know when that call comes through."
"Yes, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?"
Dixter sighed. There was something else, but he didn't know whether to do it now or wait until he had more information. He decided he'd better do it now.
"Set up an appointment for me with His Majesty."
"Very good, my lord. Knowing His Majesty's busy schedule, I probably cannot arrange a meeting sooner than tomorrow. Will that be suitable, or should I say it is an emergency?"
"No, that'll be suitable." Dixter was relieved.
It wasn't an emergency, not really. Some sort of weird probe had penetrated their security, had walked off with the space-rotation bomb hidden in the late Snaga Ohme's vault, and by now probably knew that the bomb they had stolen was nothing more than an interesting paperweight. His elaborate entrapment scheme had partly failed, partly succeeded. He knew now, for certain, that someone was after the bomb. He also knew that there was a breach in the navy's own security.
Keeping the operation under as much secrecy as it would have been for real, he'd used Xris's commandos to transport a fake space-rotation bomb to a new, supposedly more secure location. As he'd figured, the information that the bomb had been moved had been leaked. Someone had known where it was and how to go after it. But his plans for catching the informant and his or her cohorts had failed.
Or had it?
"Ghost Legion," he muttered.
Bennett had returned and was hovering again. "The meeting with His Majesty is scheduled for tomorrow, 0800. And now, my lord, about that jacket—"
"Screw the damn jacket!" snarled Dixter. He reached for the printouts, knocked over the coffee cup, spilled coffee on his pants.
Chapter Four
What beckoning ghost .. . invites my step ...
Alexander Pope, Elegy to an Unfortunate Lady
Tusk climbed, hand over hand, up the ladder that led to the Scimitar's hatch. He stopped once about halfway up to adjust the child carrier he wore strapped to his back and to admonish the small child inside.
"Remember, be quiet and don't touch anything. Grandpa XJ doesn't like it."
The child nodded solemnly, wide-eyed at the prospect of treading on sacred and forbidden ground. It was not often he was allowed inside the Scimitar. The bright lights and myriad buttons and dials—some of them actually on his level—were too great a temptation for two and a half. Then there was the disembodied voice, the awful and mysterious Grandpa XJ, who was the god of the Scimitar, who had power over light and air and a certain sealed compartment beneath the plastileather sofa.
Tusk reached the hatch located on the top of the spaceplane, and pounded on it. "Open up, XJ. It's me."
The hatch whirred open with a suddenness that surprised Tusk, who had been expecting an argument or at least a barrage of sarcastic remarks from the computer. Flashing one last warning glance at the toddler, Tusk crawled through the hatch and descended into the spaceplane.
Those who had flown in this plane three years earlier—His Majesty among them, as proclaimed by an engraved plaque bolted to the bulkheads (Link's idea)—would not have recognized it now. Once a fighting warbird, the Scimitar had undergone a remarkable and expensive transformation, was now (as Nola put it) a cockatoo.
The bubble on top, which had once been the gun turret was the "observation dome." Only one passenger could sit up there and "observe" at a time, and that was a rather tig
ht fit due to the fact that the gun was still in place, though Tusk had built a cabinet around it and it now masqueraded as a drink holder. But the observation dome was popular with travelers and was one of the spaceplane's selling points.
The sleeping area—once a repository for tools and mags and vids, coils of wire, empty bottles of jump-juice, and a couple of hammocks suspended from the overhead—was now "homey and inviting" as Link termed it, though Tusk thought privately it looked like the waiting room in a dentist's office.
The weapons storage compartments were plastileather settees. The deck had been carpeted (used). A large-screen vid provided entertainment for the space-weary traveler. Link would have added an artificial fireplace, for "ambiance," but Tusk had threatened to throw him out the airlock if he did. The only improvement of which Tusk thoroughly approved was the new wet bar. He took care to keep it well stocked, much to XJ's ire. The computer ceased to grumble, however, after discovering how much profit they made off liquor sales.
Unfortunately, that was the only area in which they were showing a profit. Business was good. The swift-flying shuttle was popular with those who either needed to be somewhere in a hurry or wanted to get there without customs and immigration taking notice of them on arrival. Such people were willing to spend extra to obtain one or the other convenience, or both. With careful money management and sound investments, "Tusk's Link to the Stars" (as Nola had cleverly dubbed it) could have made its two owner-operators comfortable, if not wealthy.
But Link's idea of a sound investment was a hot tip on a horse in the seventh. Tusk's notion of money management was to spend what he had when he had it and to save it when he didn't. Nola could have handled the accounting, but she was working full time, trying to raise a toddler, and pregnant again. XJ-27 yammered and raved and ranted about their bleak financial state, but unless the customer paid with credit, the computer could rarely get its microchips on the money. And most of their customers paid in cash, to leave no record of the transaction.
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