Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  "I resumed the woman's chemical treatment immediately, but the difficulty of the delivery, the trauma of losing her baby and her dearly loved brother, were too much. Though we did everything possible, she wasted away before our eyes and eventually died."

  The doctor looked around at them all. None had moved or spoken, beyond Fideles's brief exclamation of shock.

  "As you might guess," the doctor said softly, "I held myself responsible. The tragedy haunted me. I submitted my resignation, but the administrators persuaded me to stay on. Then came the Revolution. I was not on duty that night, when the soldiers entered the hospital. They rounded up all the patients and staff members, loaded them aboard shuttles, and took them God knows where. To their deaths, we were told later. Certainly I never saw or heard of any of them again.

  "I was warned that they were searching for me, since my mother was Blood Royal. I was so despondent, I considered turning myself in. A very dear friend convinced me that I had no right to throw away my life, which could be of service to others. The only way to save myself was to put the past completely out of my mind. I did so. He and I fled off-planet. We were married; I changed my name, acquired a new identity. I refused to let myself think about the past, until I was forced to do so, when the young king came to power."

  The doctor's gaze shifted to Penitent, as if she thought he might be the only one to understand.

  "A few months ago, when I learned I was dying, I began to have dreams about the wretched woman and her child. I saw the boy in my dreams—not as he was, a babe in arms—but as a man. He came to me, night after night. He said nothing, but he cast a shadow over my soul, blotted out the light. He stood before me, his hand uplifted, and I knew that he was blocking my way to the next life. I could not die in peace until I made my peace with him. The only way I can help him is to tell my story. I am the only one left alive who knows it, you see."

  "But surely the hospital's records—" Fideles began.

  "We falsified them," said the doctor. "The brother commanded it, and he had the power and the authority to see to it that his command was carried out. And it was not a great crime." The doctor smiled wanly. "We merely wrote unknown in the space under Name of Natural Father. We did it for our patient's sake, not for his. If someone had found out the truth, she might have been in terrible danger. As it turned out, it didn't matter. All records were destroyed. All those who knew the truth disappeared the night of the Revolution."

  The doctor exhaled softly, turned to the archbishop. "Holiness, I want ... I must . . . tell you the truth. I want to tell you the name. I have not told anyone else except the sister, during my confession. She convinced me that I should reveal this to you."

  She glanced at Sister Superior, who indicated her agreement.

  Fideles had formed an idea, but he couldn't believe it, hoped against hope that he was wrong. It was too ghastly, too dreadful.

  "Of course I will hear it, if this will give you ease...."

  "I must tell you first, Holiness, that I have kept silent all these years because to do otherwise would have been to betray the oath I took when I became a doctor to keep my patients' secrets in confidence. I kept the secret while both of them still lived. But they are dead now, and no harm can come to them if I continue to keep their secret . . . and great harm might come to the living."

  "I understand, Doctor," said Fideles, an aching of dread in his breast.

  He looked at Penitent, wondered what he was thinking, but the robed figure sat unmoving, hands folded in his sleeves, head covered and face concealed in the shadows.

  "The woman's name was Jezreel. Her brother's name was Amodius," said the doctor calmly, quietly. "Amodius Starfire. Late king, former ruler of the galaxy."

  They all sat still and quiet, souls subdued, troubled by the sad and sordid tale of incestuous love, tragic death, denial, and concealment. They continued to remain motionless, each involved with inner thoughts or—in the archbishop's case—a prayer to God to forgive the sins of those He held now in His care, until the doctor began to cough and exhibit signs of extreme fatigue. The reverend mother was on her feet immediately, administering medicine, assisting her patient back into her bed.

  "We will take our leave," said the archbishop, about to stand up.

  A burning touch on his wrist caused him to flinch. He looked down, astonished, to see Brother Penitent's fingertips on his forearm.

  The lay brother's face was hidden in the shadows. His voice, when he spoke, was low and halting. "A question."

  "I am sorry, Brother," began Sister Superior, "but you see that the doctor is quite unable—"

  The doctor put aside the sister's ministering hands. "I can answer," she said. "What is it, Brother?"

  "The name of the man who took the child. You know that as well, don't you? You would not have given up the baby to a stranger."

  "You are right," said the doctor readily, though she seemed perplexed by the question. "We knew the man by name and by sight. And we ran various tests, to double-check his identity—eye scan, DNA analysis. He was who he said he was. Not that we had much doubt. He was quite well-known. His name was Pantha. The famous planetary explorer. Garth Pantha."

  Brother Penitent said nothing more. The doctor lay back on her pillows, weary but at peace.

  Fideles rose, came to stand beside her, rested his hand on her wasted one. "You have done what was right. 'O send out thy light and thy truth, that they may lead me. . . .' Dominicus tecum. God be with you, daughter."

  "He is, Holiness. And," the doctor added, looking up at him intently, "you have my permission to tell the king, if you think it wise."

  "Rest now," said Sister Superior gently.

  Fideles followed the reverend mother out of the room. Brother Penitent came silently behind, his hands once again folded in the sleeves of his robes. Outside, in the corridor, Sister Superior sent the nurse back to sit with the patient.

  The hallway was empty; the three were alone.

  The Reverend Mother looked from the archbishop to the lay brother. She clasped her hands tightly. "What do you think, Holiness?"

  Fideles sighed, shook his head. "I believe her. Watching her, listening to her—it is difficult not to. Still, parts of it seem hardly creditable. The man in the dream—"

  "Hallucination," said Sister Superior. "Such things are not uncommon, considering the nature of this disease. Add to that a guilty conscience, a terrible secret that has obviously been preying on her mind."

  Brother Penitent stirred. Fideles looked at him hopefully, thinking he might have something to say that would clarify this strange tale. But Penitent remained silent.

  "Is there any way to verify her story?" Fideles asked, glancing again at Brother , Penitent.

  He made no response.

  Sister Superior shook her head. "I don't see how. As she said, the records were destroyed, and they had been falsified to begin with. I know this is presumptuous of me to ask, Holiness, but will you tell the king?"

  "I do not know, Reverend Mother," said Fideles. "I cannot see that spreading such a tale would serve any useful purpose. I must ask for God's guidance in this matter."

  Sister Superior nodded once, abruptly. "I will add my prayers to yours, Holiness. I will show you out now. This way, please."

  The reverend mother took leave of them at the front entrance.

  "God be with us," she said.

  "May He indeed," responded Brother Penitent grimly and unexpectedly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course of the dice. . . I play my game to the end in spite of words . . .

  Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

  The flight to Hell's Outpost was uneventful, not because Tusk wanted it to be, but because he didn't have any choice in the matter. He spent most of the trip lounging around on either the couches or the beds that the couches converted into, admiring Cynthia's skills as a pilot and Don's ability to drink scotch, all the while trying to forget
that a vacuum cleaner would just as soon shoot him as sweep the rugs.

  Tusk had endeavored to figure out how Mrs. Mopup worked, hoping in this way to be able to come up with a plan to thwart the lethal little 'bot. But he was forced to give up. If he'd had access to XJ-27, he might have accomplished the task, but he wasn't permitted anywhere near the cockpit: It upset Mrs. Mopup.

  Near as Tusk could figure out, the 'bot apparently locked on to him and Link in a manner similar to that of a heat-seeking missile. But how could it tell the difference between the two of them and good old Don and Cynthia? Was it really distinguishing between certain body temperatures, heartbeats, brain waves ... a combination of all three . . . none of the above? Tusk hadn't a clue.

  He couldn't discuss it with Link; the two of them were only permitted to talk together for a few moments each day. They were forced to sleep in shift's—one awake while the other slept, presumably so as not to task Mrs. Mopup's patience. Although, Tusk noted sourly, the 'bot had given every appearance of being fully capable of dealing with both of them.

  "Oh, yes, quite capable," said Don, downing scotch. "But it puts a strain on her."

  Don and Cynthia continued to be friendly, outgoing, willing to talk about anything except the only subjects in which Tusk was interested: Who are you really? Why are you doing this? And what exactly is it that you're doing?

  The two knew a lot about Tusk—that much became obvious almost immediately after they'd left Vangelis.

  Keeping a wary eye on the ever-observant Mrs. Mopup, Tusk was lounging near the cockpit as close as he could get—which was standing on the deck above it, staring down at it wistfully.

  Cynthia had just ordered a subdued and chastened XJ to find a Lane that would take them to Hell's Outpost.

  Tusk, overhearing, spoke up. "Say, my wife's gonna be worried as hell when I'm not back tonight like I was supposed to be. Why don't you let me call her, tell her I'm going to be late? You two can listen in on the conversation. She's six months pregnant and—"

  "Yes, we know," said Cynthia, watching numbers flash past her; XJ meekly provided the required information. "A real shame, too. Oh, not that she's pregnant. Congratulations and all that. But the timing was bad. You see, we have a high regard for your wife. She was on our list of recruits, but the pregnancy forced us to cross her off."

  "There'll still be a spot open for her, if she wants to go back to work after the kids come," said Don, relaxing in the copilot's chair.

  "Uh, thanks, but I think she saw enough 'work' during the counter-revolution to last her the rest of her life. Same with me, if you take my meaning," Tusk added, but either they didn't or they were deliberately ignoring him or it didn't make any difference to them one way or the other.

  Cynthia told XJ to prepare for the Jump. Don leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the console—thereby breaking one of the computer's most inviolable laws, second only to leaving wet towels on deck.

  Tusk glanced at XJ, saw its light flare. The computer made a sort of electronic, strangled, choking sound, but at that moment Mrs. Mopup emitted a short, sharp buzz. XJ's lights flickered in a moment of wild indecision, then blinked dismally and went out.

  "That call?" Tusk urged. "Before we hit hyperspace? My wife's gonna be real worried. . . ."

  "No, she won't," said Cynthia. "We already prepared a message to send to Nola, recorded in your voice, saying that you've had trouble with the Scimitar and that you'll be stranded on Akara until you can raise the money for spare parts."

  "Recorded? My voice?" Tusk gaped. "When'd you do that?"

  "The same time we got all the rest of the information on you that we fed into Mrs. Mopup," said Don. "Fix me another, will you?" He held out his empty glass to Tusk. "I'll take bourbon, since you ran out of scotch."

  Gloomily, Tusk took the glass and stomped sullenly over to the liquor dispenser, his fleeting hope of getting a message to Admiral Dixter gone. The moment she heard his voice—his real voice—Nola would have known immediately something was wrong and Tusk, with a few well-chosen words, could have given his wife a pretty good idea what. She would have put in a call to Dixter and, while Tusk couldn't think of a whole hell of a lot the Lord of the Admiralty could do to help, still, he'd have known where Tusk was and maybe what was going on— even if Tusk didn't.

  But now . . . Yeah, they'd done their homework. Tusk was always having to lay over on some planet or another to make repairs. Nola wouldn't think to question it. She probably wouldn't even call; interplanetary communication cost money and she wasn't the insecure type of wife who needed to hear her husband's voice every night before she went to sleep. Nor was she the least bit jealous.

  All of which made for a fine marriage, Tusk thought, but is damn inconvenient when you've been hijacked.

  He resolved then and there to work out a series of coded communications with Nola when—and if—he made it back. This wouldn't do him a lot of good now, but devising them kept him busy during the Jump, after which he could do nothing but lie on his uncomfortable bed and fume and try to think of some way of tricking Don into dropping a wet towel on the deck.

  "You ever been to Hell's Outpost?" Tusk asked Link during one of the few times during the day they were permitted to talk together. (Cynthia referred to it as the "happy hour.")

  "Nope," said Link. "Got more sense."

  Tusk could have debated that one. Considering the fact that, from what he'd heard, there were no gambling casinos on Hell's Outpost, he decided Link was probably telling the truth.

  "You?" Link asked.

  Tusk shook his head. "Never any reason to." He cast a mean-ingful glance at Don. "I've never been that desperate. And I don't intend to start."

  "You guys got the wrong idea," said Don. He always joined them during happy hour, along with Mrs. Mopup, who planted herself in between the three of them and held their drinks on a tray. "Sure, I know Hell's Outpost has a bad rep, but in reality it's a convenient, quiet, and safe place to do business. There are only two prerequisites: If you go expecting to be hired, you've got to be the best, and if you go expecting to hire the best, you've got to have cash."

  "Hire to do what, though?" Tusk grunted.

  "Whatever needs to be done," Don said, shrugging. "Nothing all that bad. Cynthia and I—we don't look like shady characters, do we?"

  Cynthia, relaxing in the pilot's seat, reading a fashion mag, looked up at Tusk and smiled in a warm and friendly manner.

  "Naw." Tusk waved a hand. "Just damn near murdered us. Not to mention kidnapping, hijacking, and God knows what else you have in mind."

  "More bourbon?"

  Tusk handed over his glass. Don filled it, helped himself. Sitting back down, he rested his glass on top of Mrs. Mopup, grinned.

  "I swear. You got us all wrong. What've you lost? A week's time. You've had a nice little paid vacation. You're rested, relaxed—"

  "Wait a minute. What was that again? Paid?" Link perked up.

  "Well, sure. We intend to make this worth your while."

  "If we play the game. . . ."

  "Tusk, my friend"—Don leaned forward, earnest, sincere, honest as any vacuum cleaner salesman—"you don't even have to roll the dice. We just want you to listen to us. We want the chance to make you an offer."

  Make you an offer.

  Words Tusk was to hear again, almost exactly twenty-four hours later, on Hell's Outpost, in the Exile Cafe.

  Tusk wasn't certain what he'd expected Hell's Outpost to be like, but on arrival he was disappointed. He'd been imagining (no matter what good old Don said to the contrary) a sin city similar to Laskar, where anything or anyone could be had for a price and every morning when you woke up you checked to make certain someone hadn't stuck a knife in your ribs the night before.

  Hell's Outpost, located on the fringes of the galaxy, was as Don had said, a quiet, safe, and convenient place to conduct business. People went there on business—serious business. They didn't have the time for nonsense.

  The mai
n structure located on the cold, gray, and atmosphereless moon was a building known as the Exile Cafe. Shaped like half a giant egg upended on the moon's surface, the cafe was a collection of rooms—also shaped like half-eggs—built around a central large bar area. The rooms were private—extremely private. People paid a lot of money to conduct business in these rooms in private. -

  In the bar area sat other people, who were there for various private reasons of their own. Some of them were looking for work. Others had work and were looking for the means to complete it. Still others were just resting. People in the rooms could view the people in the bar by means of vidscreens. Different colored lights on the tables indicated whether or not the person being viewed was available for hire or merely passing time between jobs.

  Weapons were permitted inside the Exile Cafe—a person had the right to advertise his/her skills. But the weapons were not to be used. That was the law and it was broken on penalty of immediate death. As far as anyone knew, the law had never been broken.

  Aware of this, Tusk toyed with the idea of giving Don and Cynthia the slip once they got into the cafe. How could they stop him? But he was forced to abandon the idea. First the law was good only inside the cafe and it was a long and lonely walk there and back.

  "A lot could happen to a guy," said Cynthia.

  Second, Don and Mrs. Mopup were staying on board Tusk's Scimitar.

  "We'll keep an eye on it for you. I'd hate like hell for you to come back and find out something'd happened to your spaceplane," said Don, settling into the pilot's seat, his feet on the console, a glass of scotch (he'd restocked in the Exile Cafe) in his hand. "Mrs. Mopup and I'll take good care of it. Don't worry about a thing. Enjoy yourself."

  "Thanks," Tusk muttered, and exchanged glances with Link, who shrugged and shook his head.

  So much for that idea.

  As they entered the atmosphere dome, shed their pressurized suits, and stored them in lockers, Tusk had to admit he wasn't certain he'd have gone through with ducking out anyway. By now he was damn curious to know what was going on. And he was even beginning to get the feeling he might not only live through it, but maybe even profit by it.