Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  All comers to the Exile Cafe entered through the lobby—a small room decorated in red velvet with a long, curved blond-wood desk, an android greeter who probably doubled as bouncer, and banks of vidscreens and cams. The vidscreens showed those who were inside the bar to those outside; the cams showed those who were outside to those inside. Those in the private rooms remained private.

  Cynthia and the 'droid clerk exchanged greetings and she was informed of the house rules, which she apparently knew already. She had her eyeball scanned, and the 'droid made a call, and then they were all invited to walk inside. Tusk, listening with one ear, heard nothing to make him nervous.

  He and Link, escorted by Cynthia, walked into a sensory deprivation chamber that effectively mixed him up so thoroughly once he was inside that he had no notion of how to find his way back out. He wondered what would happen if he tried to exit through the entrance, and decided that the chamber might well deprive him of more than his senses.

  An android waiter, built to resemble a human male down to the last detail—which could be determined by the bulge in his G-string—approached Cynthia and greeted her by name.

  "Well-programmed," said Link to Tusk.

  "Yeah, but for what?" Tusk returned.

  "You name it" said Cynthia, smiling. She arched a friendly eyebrow. "This way, gentlemen "

  The waiter led them through the bar, with its crowds of humans and aliens and bright multicolored globes that seemed to illuminate everything until yon wanted to see something. Faces were distorted by the weird play of light against shadow. Tusk wouldn't have recognized Nola if she'd been sitting at the table across from him, so there was no point in searching the place for someone he knew. The tables were arranged in a maze. The flickering lights made him almost dizzy, but not quite; the shad-ows disoriented him completely. He had no idea which way was front, back, up, or down.

  "No such thing as a fast getaway in this joint," said Link in Tusk's ear.

  Tusk grunted.

  The android—whose body was thoughtfully and tastefully-painted with luminous paint, or they would have lost him completely—led the way to an anti-gravator. Cynthia stepped inside, was immediately floated upward. Tusk sailed up after her, Link drifting up beside him. The waiter ascended after them either keeping an eye on them or on Cynthia.

  She caught hold of a ring on what Tusk counted as the eighth floor, pulled herself over to a door. She motioned. They followed. Emerging from the lift, they entered a long, narrow corridor flanked by innumerable locked doors. She marched them down the corridor. Coming to a door, she stopped, waited.

  A cam mounted over the door scanned her eyeball. The door slid open, revealing what looked like a room in an expensive hotel, except that it had no bed, only a desk with several chairs around it, a vidscreen on the desk, a couch, a table. Another closed door led to what was probably a bathroom. A tall and handsome dark-haired man in uniform stood by a large window, staring down at the bar about eight floors beneath. At the sound of the door, he turned, smiled.

  "Mendaharin Tusca," said Cynthia. "Captain Richard Dhure. Go right on in," she added. "I'll be back to pick you up when the interview's over."

  "This is Captain Link," said Tusk, getting a firm grip on Link's arm. "Captain Link, meet Captain . . . what was that?"

  "Dhure," said the captain, smiling in a warm and friendly manner. "Glad to meet you, Captain Link. Just come on in, will you, Tusca? Cynthia will escort Captain Link to his interview—"

  "Sorry," said Link, his arm draped over Tusk's shoulder. "But we can't be separated. We're twins. It wouldn't be good for us. Upsets our psyche."

  "Twins?" said Captain Dhure, eyeing them.

  "Mom was white, dad was black," explained Tusk. "They wanted one each—to match."

  "I see." Dhure grinned, playing along. "Well, you gentlemen won't be apart for long. Cynthia, Captain Link is going to be late for his interview." The smile was still there, but the tone indicated the game was over.

  Link shrugged, let his arm fall. "See you, bro."

  "Yeah," said Tusk, with a grim glance at Dhure. "If I don't, I'll come looking for you."

  "Same here. Well, I guess it's you and me, sweetheart," said Link, sauntering on down the corridor after Cynthia. "Couldn't wait to get me alone, eh?"

  Tusk stood in the doorway, determined to be as uncooperative as possible, curious to see what the captain would do. Instead of pulling a lasgun and threatening to blast him—which is what Tusk had expected—Dhure left his post by the window, crossed over to Tusk, shook hands.

  "Really glad to meet you at last, Tusca," he said. "Come in."

  With gentle pressure, he led Tusk into the room, steered him over to the desk, and indicated a chair. The door automatically shut and locked behind them.

  "Please, be seated. Can I get you anything? Something to eat, drink? It's on our tab, of course."

  "And you know what you can do with it," said Tusk, refusing to sit down. "What the hell is going on?"

  "Thirty minutes," said Dhure, spreading his hands. "That's all I ask. Surely, since you came this far—"

  "Not voluntarily," Tusk growled, still standing.

  "You want an explanation. I'll give it to you. You're in no danger. In thirty minutes, if you want, you'll be free to walk out of here with money in your pocket to make up for the inconvenience. Cynthia will take you and Captain Link back to your plane, pick up Don. The four of you will shake hands, and that will be that. Just hear me out. That's all I ask. It could be well worth your while."

  Tusk stood, irresolute. He could continue to act like a jerk and get exactly nowhere—that much was obvious. He'd showed them all what a tough guy he was. Now maybe it was time to give in, learn something that might help Dixter. At least that's what he told himself not wanting to admit that he didn't have a whole hell of a lot of choice in the matter.

  "All right," Tusk said, sitting down and stretching his legs, "I'm listening Thirty minutes."

  Actually it took about ten. The deal they offered was good— but not too good. Big bucks generally meant big risks and didn't amount to anything if the money ended up covering your funeral expenses.

  "We're in need of experienced pilots," said Dhure. "Combat trained. We're starting to feel threatened from a few powerful neighbors. We have the spaceplanes and the people to fly them, but every single person in the corps is a rookie. From commanders on down. Never fired a shot. In short, what we need are veterans to come in and teach us how to do things."

  "Let me get this straight," said Tusk. "You got planes and you got pilots but your pilots have no combat training?"

  "Right." Dhure nodded, tilted his chair back. "I know, it doesn't make much sense. But, face it, there are a lot of plausible explanations. Let's suppose that somewhere back in old Earth's history—say maybe around 1960—that a computer malfunction leads to a big nuclear disaster—millions of people dead, more dying slowly of radiation poisoning, the environment poisoned for decades. People are terrified. They ban all nuclear reactors, prevent the building of atomic power stations. They get so scared that they shut down NASA. No more rocket launches and no more computer science. What would have happened?"

  "Some of the planet might be left by now?"

  "And about a bizillion of us squatting on our little square patch of it," said Dhure.

  Tusk shifted in his chair. "So you're saying that this is what happened to your home planet—uh, pardon me, but I didn't catch the name."

  "Vallombrosa. Don't suppose you ever heard of it."

  "No, can't say that I have," Tusk answered, unable to figure out a way to say Yes, I've heard of it and you're lying through your teeth that wouldn't get him killed. "So you're saying that this is what happened?"

  "Something like that," Dhure hedged. "Our history is complicated. I'll lend you a book on it sometime, if you're really interested."

  "Thanks." Tusk waved a hand vaguely toward what he assumed might be the center of the galaxy. "You know, of course, that the Royal
Navy will come in and offer you protection."

  "We prefer to handle our own affairs. Every system has the right to defend itself."

  True enough, Tusk remarked to himself, but not to declare war on your neighbors, Captain Dhure, which is probably what you're planning. But that's not my problem.

  "What I don't understand is, why go to all this trouble? To get me and Link, I mean."

  "Because you're the best, Tusca," said Dhure. "We've seen your record. We want you."

  "Yeah, I know I'm great," Tusk said modestly, "but there are at least a million—well, say maybe fifty thousand—other pilots out there as good as me. And you wouldn't have had to shoot 'em to get 'em to come." He put his hand tenderly over his injured arm.

  "I'm really sorry about that," said Dhure sincerely. "That was a test."

  "A test!"

  "Yes. We heard you'd lost your nerve. We were told that the action you saw a few years ago had taken it out of you. We heard you were on the juice, good for nothing except ferrying salesmen. I'm happy to know our reports weren't true. You handled yourself extremely well under fire."

  Tusk sat, eyeing Dhure. "You want to dance?"

  Dhure stared. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I asked if you wanted to dance."

  A slight frown creased the captain's forehead. "Maybe I'm missing something, but—"

  Tusk shrugged, sat back in his chair. "You've been bobbing and weaving and dodging so much I figure we might as well have some music to go with it."

  Dhure threw back his head and laughed. "Damn, I do like you," he said when he could speak. "I guess I asked for that. All right, cards on the table. I admit it. We were disappointed when you didn't respond to our ads. And, yes, we did go out of our way to get hold of you. You have one rather special qualification which could make you extremely valuable to us."

  "My good looks or my winning personality?" Tusk guessed.

  Dhure began tracing a circle on the desk with his right forefinger, all the while looking at Tusk.

  "How's your friend—the king?"

  So that's it. Dixter was right. "Okay, I guess," Tusk said, shrugging. "If you believe the vids."

  "Let's say I don't." Dhure was still friendly, but there was an edge to him now. The smile was on his mouth, not in his eyes.

  The circle he was drawing closed in a little tighter. "Of your own personal knowledge. Off the record, of course."

  "Oh, of course. Let's see. The last time me and the wife were in the palace, which was ... mmmm ... a week ago Thursday. We'd taken the yacht out for a spin and thought we'd drop by the palace and raise a glass of the bubbly with our good buddy His Majesty—"

  "Cut the crap, Tusca."

  "You cut it." Tusk sat up straight, feet on the floor. "Sure, I knew the king. When he wasn't a king. Now he is and it's different. Maybe you think that because I helped put him on the throne he gives me permission to sit my ass down in the Royal Presence. But that only happens in books. We said good-bye to each other three years ago and we meant it."

  "Even after the so-called 'miracle healing'? A lot of your friends have mentioned that in connection with you—"

  "Healing!" Tusk snorted. "Good doctors and a better PR agent."

  "You're saying it didn't happen?"

  "Hell, how should I know? I was mostly dead! When I woke up I was in all kinds of pain, had tubes stuck up every part of me that was readily available and a few that they had to work at, and some machine was doin' my breathin' for me. That sound like a goddam miracle to you?"

  "That wasn't quite the way we heard it. ..

  "No, well, I don't suppose it was. Tubes up your butt don't make the nightly news. Miracle healings do."

  "One reason you and the king split, eh." Dhure looked deeply sympathetic. "He tried to get you to play along. But you obviously still keep in contact. He sent you a baby gift—"

  "His secretary signed the card and spelled my name wrong." Tusk bounded up, suddenly angry, slammed a hand on the desk. "And where the hell do you get off, spying on me and my family?"

  "Easy, Tusca, easy," Dhure said in soothing tones.

  Tusk drew in a seething breath. Shutting his mouth over a few more choice remarks, he jammed his hands in his pockets, took a turn around the room. He looked at the solid steel walls, at the bar below with its eerie shadows, and reminded himself that a killer vacuum cleaner had hold of his plane and that, somewhere else, Cynthia had hold of Link. And they knew too damn much about Nola....

  By the time he'd made the circuit, returned to the desk, he was breathing almost normally, only shaking slightly. After all, he reminded himself, you've been expecting something like this in regard to Dion. It was only a matter of time. You know what to do.

  "Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you," Tusk said to Dhure in a low voice, hands tight fists in his pockets. "But if you're expecting me to cut some deal for you with His Majesty, you can forget it. I'm the last person the king'd listen to. Honest, I'd hurt your cause more than help it."

  Dhure said nothing, but it was obvious he wasn't buying.

  Tusk drew in a deep breath, let it out. "You ever see any plays by a guy named Shakespeare? Yeah, well, me neither. But one day the wife watches one on the educational channel. Says we should get cultured, because of the kid, you know. Well, there was this one. Henry the Fourth or Fifth or something like that. Anyway, it was about this prince, who was a really cool guy and went out drinkin' and partyin' every night with all his friends—until the day he turned king. And that day all his friends came up to him and were getting ready to clap him on the shoulder and congratulate him and he turned to one of them, to the man who'd been his best friend, and said, 'I know thee not, old man.' That's how they talked, back then."

  Dhure said nothing. He'd quit drawing the circle. His hand was still. The room was still.

  " 'I know thee not, old man,' " Tusk repeated softly, staring at the shifting shadows in the bar below. "That's what the king said to his friends. He was ashamed of them, you see. They reminded him of what he'd been, and he couldn't stand that."

  "Despite the fact that you saved his life?"

  "You do know a lot, don't you?" Tusk glowered.

  "Evidently not enough."

  "Yeah, well, don't you get it yet? The 'healing' made us even, then. His Majesty doesn't owe me a damn thing. And I don't owe him."

  "I see." Dhure started drawing the circle again.

  Tusk sat back down in the chair. Tense, wary, he kept his eyes on the captain.

  "Gosh. That's too bad." Dhure looked up with another sympathetic smile. "The young man's head swelled once they put the crown on it, eh?"

  "Something like that," Tusk mumbled.

  "You can't blame us for trying. It never hurts to have connections. We could have used a friend in high places. Still, at least we're left with one hell of a pilot. What do you say, Tusk? Do we have a deal?"

  "If I say no, what happens?"

  "We're sorry, of course. But you go back to the wife and kid and we go back to looking for good pilots."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  "Well, then. No. Thanks and all that. But no."

  Dhure looked mildly disappointed. "We'd be willing to wait until after the baby came, of course."

  "It's not that. You said I lost my nerve. I don't think so, but ... well, it's hard to explain... . Getting shot at just isn't fun anymore. You know what is fun? Givin my kid a bath. Taking him to the zoo, carrying him home in my arms when he falls asleep."

  "I understand." Dhure stood up.

  Tusk did, too. Quickly.

  The captain held out his hand. "Sorry to lose you, Tusca. You'll find a little something in your spaceplane to compensate you for your time and trouble. If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach us."

  "Thanks." Tusk shook hands, somewhat dazed.

  "You can just go right on out. Cynthia'll be waiting in the corridor to take you back."

  Dhure nodded, sat down at the desk. Turning on
a computer, he commanded it to delete the file on one Mendaharin Tusca.

  Tusk walked out the door. Cynthia was waiting for him, along with Link.

  "No go?" she said.

  "Sorry," said Tusk.

  "Me, too." She sighed, smiled. "I'll walk you back to the exit. You can find your way from there, can't you?"

  Tusk supposed they could. He glanced at Link. The pilot shook his head. Neither said a word—except good-bye to a still smiling, still friendly Cynthia—until they had reached their spaceplane.

  Don was gone. So was the scotch. And so was Mrs. Mopup.

  Tusk and Link sat and stared at one another.

  "What the hell was that all about?" Link demanded.

  "Ten thousand credits," said XJ smugly. "He was going to make it five, but I insisted on ten. On account of your injury. And mental stress."

  "What mental stress?" Tusk asked irritably.

  "My mental stress! I'm the only one with a brain. Ten thousand credits. In the account. I checked. They're good for it. Best week's work you two losers ever did, either of you. So what'd they'd want?"

  "Two damn good pilots," said Tusk.

  "No, really. What'd they'd want?" XJ persisted.

  Tusk grinned, then looked back at Link. The grin faded. "A direct line to the king."

  "That was it, then." Link was disappointed. "You sure?"

  "Hell, yes, I'm sure. Didn't they ask you about him?"

  "Naw. That's a shame, too, 'cause he and I are real close friends."

  "Come off it, Link." Tusk snorted. "This is me, remember?"

  "So!" Link was belligerent. "Just because you two had a falling out doesn't mean he's forgotten his old pal Link."

  "Yeah, how many times have you been invited to the palace lately?"

  "Well, the king's a busy guy. Plus that crowd he hangs around with—dukes and earls and stuff. He knows they're not my type. You ready to shove off?"

  "Sure," said Tusk. "Unless you got more business—"

  "Nope. They offered me a good deal—even raised the ante to try to get me to join—but I said no, thanks. I figured you'd never agree, what with Nola and all, and I couldn't go off and leave you in the lurch, could I?"