Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  D'argent?"

  "You do have the appointment with Mendaharin Tusca this morning, sir. Shall I cancel it, as well?"

  Dion relaxed, sat back in his chair, smiled tiredly. "I'd forgotten that was today. The first time he's come to visit in three years. No, don't cancel Tusk. Plan on serving luncheon."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you've summoned the prime minister?"

  "He will be here this afternoon, Your Majesty."

  "You better schedule a news conference for early this evening." Dion rubbed the palm of his right hand, scratched at the inflamed scars. "We should have an announcement for the press by then."

  "Yes, sir. Would Your Majesty like more hot tea?"

  "Thank you," Dion said absently.

  The teacup beside him was still full, its liquid cold and un-tasted. D'argent whisked it away, returned with a steaming pot of tea, another one of coffee for the Lord of the Admiralty, and the Lord Admiral himself.

  Dion rose to meet him. The two shook hands.

  "Any news, sir?" the king asked.

  "No, Your Majesty," Dixter answered heavily. "I'm sorry."

  Sighing in frustration, Dion sat back down. D'argent poured the tea and the coffee, waited a moment to see if there would be anything else, then departed, gliding silently from the room.

  "The baroness has effectively cut Ceres off from the rest of the galaxy," Dixter continued. "All transgalactic shipping has been halted, all spaceplanes grounded. No one is allowed to land on the planet or leave it. Communications with the outside, including her own systems, have been severed. Of course, this makes a certain amount of sense if there truly was a conspiracy to murder the queen—"

  "But not me!" Dion said angrily, slamming his hand on the desk, causing his tea to slosh over the rim of the cup into the saucer. "She has no right to refuse to communicate with me!"

  "Rightly or wrongly, Dion," said Dixter, "DiLuna blames you for what has happened—"

  "What has happened?" the king demanded, frustrated. "Do we even know? How is Astarte? Is she safe, well? Does DiLuna have any idea who made the attack? If there even was an attack—"

  "There was," Dixter said grimly. "That's been confirmed by all our sources."

  "Then why does DiLuna blame me?"

  Dixter's expression was grave. "The baroness has just issued a communique. It came as I was leaving. I brought it along." He handed a printed transcript to the king.

  Dion read it. His face registered shock, disbelief. He reread it more slowly, then looked up at Dixter.

  "Xris? The Xris we know? The cyborg who helped the Lady Maigrey, who risked his life to save Tusk? No, I can't believe it!"

  "Nor can I. But he's been arrested, charged with the crime, tried, and convicted. DiLuna doesn't waste time. I'm surprised he hasn't been executed by now."

  Dion studied the communique in perplexity. " 'The queen is in retreat, praying for the souls of the dead.' " He looked up, glowering. "We must find out the truth. What the hell are those undercover people of yours doing?"

  "They're our best, Dion," Dixter said gently. "But there are problems. The incident took place inside the Holy Temple. It was immediately sealed off. Our people aren't priests or priestesses. They have no way to get inside, would probably be killed if they tried. This is a serious offense. Blood was spilled on sacred ground. The people of Ceres are angry and afraid. Afraid of the Goddess's wrath."

  "To say nothing of DiLuna's," Dion muttered.

  "That, too." Dixter smiled wanly.

  "If only I knew Astarte was safe! If only I could talk to her!" Dion started to rub his right palm again, forced himself to stop. He clasped his hands tightly together on top of the desk. "I should have been there. I should have been with her. It was my place."

  "There was nothing you could have done—" Dixter began lamely.

  "But you agree, I should have been there," Dion said quietly. "At least I'd know the truth about what happened, instead of being kept in the dark. The baroness wouldn't be able to make me look like a fool. Though that's precisely what I've been."

  Standing up, he walked over to the window, stared out of it. Tourists swarmed over the sidewalk below. A small cluster of them had their heads craned, looking upward, gawking at the top floors. Their guide was undoubtedly informing them that His Majesty was at work behind those steelglass windows this very moment.

  "I thought I had it all under control. Everything was going along fine, I thought—because that's what I wanted to think. Talk about passion blinding you. It blinded me to duty, responsibility, honor. I've hurt Astarte. And I never meant to. She didn't deserve it. If she was cold and distant, whose fault was that? I shut her out of my life deliberately, then blamed her for slamming the door when she left."

  And Kamil, he added to himself, brooding. I love her. I'd lay down my life for her. Yet I hurt her, too. I hurt her as surely as if I'd run the bloodsword through her. All for my own selfish desires. I should have been strong enough, loved her enough to let her go.

  "Now everything is falling apart," he continued aloud. "I'm as bad as my uncle. How can I expect to bring order and sta-bility to the kingdom if I can't bring it to my own life?" he finished bitterly.

  "Don't be too hard on yourself, son," Dixter admonished. "You're young. You're human—"

  "No," Dion countered, glancing around. "I am Blood Royal. I am a king. Kings don't have the luxury of being young, human, in love. Nor can they afford the luxury of self-pity." He stared gloomily out the window.

  "No, they can't," Dixter said bluntly. "Let's face it, Your Majesty, DiLuna could be making things a lot worse for you. Where's the war she threatened? She said she was going to declare her systems independent, yank her representatives out of parliament. Has she done any of that? No. And I almost wish she had."

  "Why?" Dion turned to him.

  "I think it's a bad sign. DiLuna's not acting out of anger. She's reacting—out of fear. And as long as I've known her, I've never known her to be afraid of anything."

  "All the more reason to find out the truth!" Dion clenched his fist. "If we sent in warships—"

  Dixter shook his head. "There'd be a fight; at the very least a confrontation. Any attempt to force her hand will only make matters worse. We have to be patient. And you have to set the example, Your Majesty. Six major systems had dignitaries on Ceres for the festival. Clergy, ambassadors, government officials—all being detained on the planet 'for their own protection,' according to DiLuna. That includes the archbishop, by the way. The systems are edgy about this. If they see that you're starting to panic—"

  "—we could end up with a galactic conflict." Dion sighed, frustrated. "I'll be patient. I'll continue to work through diplomatic channels. It's all I can do, I suppose." He stared unseeing out the window, thinking, trying to find some other way. Dixter was silent, letting the king consider the matter. "Xris! Of all people!" Dion repeated. "What was he doing there? Did he tell you?"

  Dixter shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. Except that he had advance knowledge of the attack. He contacted me that very day, said someone had sent an anonymous warning, in code, to his men at Snaga Ohme's. Warned that an attack might be made on the queen. Strange thing about that warning, though. The code used was Derek Sagan's old code."

  "Sagan:" Dion turned to face Dixter. "But how— Why—"

  "I have no idea, son." Dixter looked exhausted. He hadn't slept in three nights. "Except that I do recall telling Sagan that Xris and his team were working for us—independently. I told him if he needed help—unofficial help—he could contact them."

  Dion was chilled. "That means that my cousin may be behind this." He considered, then shook his head in frustration. "No, it doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. Why would my cousin want to murder Astarte? What could he hope to gain by such a heinous action? The people love her. . . ."

  "There's something else, too, Your Majesty," Dixter said. "The attacks on the outposts. They may be connected."

  Dion left
the window, came back to his desk, sat down. "Connected? How? Your coffee's cold, sir. Let me warm it for you."

  He reached for the coffeepot with his right hand. Seeing the hand for the first time in the light, Dixter stared.

  "My God, son! What happened?"

  Dion glanced at his palm. The five puncture wounds were swollen; ugly red streaks extended from them like the rays of a small, fiery sun. "I have 110 idea. But it's been getting worse. The pain and the burning is almost unbearable."

  "The bloodsword—"

  "I haven't used the bloodsword, not since Sagan advised me against it. The dreams have been getting worse, too. I see my cousin. See him so clearly. . . ."

  Dion's hand was shaking. He set the coffeepot back down with a sharp clatter, almost dropping it. "What about the outposts?"

  "Three have been attacked. All in one area, as I told you."

  "Around Vallombrosa."

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  Dion looked back at his hand. "And you said there was something strange about these attacks—"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. Reports are beginning to come in. We've interviewed the survivors. They said it was like . . . like . . ." Dixter hesitated.

  "Like what?"

  "Like being attacked by ghosts."

  "Ghosts again!" Dion swore softly in frustration.

  "Yes, ghosts again. There was no warning. No one saw any-thing coming. Suddenly metal buildings were crushed like beer cans. Spaceplanes crumpled into twisted rubble. The ground split wide open. And then . . . nothing."

  "No strike force, no assault, no landing."

  "Nothing," Dixter reiterated. "But there could have been. The outpost is finished, useless. All land-based weapons systems were either destroyed outright or their electrical systems so badly scrambled that they're unable to function. All shields were knocked out." He shook his head. "A group of kindergartners could have marched into that base and taken it over."

  "And no enemy was ever sighted?"

  "No, Your Majesty. There were several interesting and instructive points in the attack: wild gravity fluctuations, people reporting feeling 'heavy' or 'compressed,' slight changes in radiation levels . . ."

  "And all the outposts attacked are located near Vallombrosa. My cousin's come out of hiding, it seems." Dion rubbed at his hand. "Sagan was right. I should have used the space-rotation bomb."

  "That was never a consideration and you know it."

  "My inherent weakness," Dion said bitterly.

  Dixter shifted uneasily in his chair. "Speaking of Sagan, have you heard from him?"

  "No. Not a word."

  "You don't think he's . . ." Dixter hesitated.

  "What? Shifted allegiance? You said he sent a warning about the queen—"

  "Maybe he sent it. And it didn't arrive in time for us to do anything. That may have been a cover."

  "I wonder—did I ever really have his allegiance to begin with? Where was he when I first became king? When I needed his advice and counsel? He simply . . . walked off. Left me to struggle with all this alone."

  "I think he had his own struggle, son," Dixter said.

  "A struggle he may have lost," Dion said grimly.

  A faint buzz sounded. A red light flashed on a panel at Dion's right hand, below eye level.

  "Security alert." Dion flicked on the commlink. "Captain Cato. What's going on?"

  "Security reports a disturbance in the tourist area, Your Majesty. Some drugged-up Loti left the group and wandered into a secured area. He's been apprehended." "Loti!" John Dixter was immediately attentive. "That's odd. Captain, this is the Lord Admiral. Do you recall a Loti by the name of Raoul? He worked for Snaga Ohme."

  "Good God!" Dion murmured.

  "The Adonian? Yes, my lord."

  "Would you recognize him?"

  "Of course, my lord. There aren't many like him, thank goodness."

  "Find out if he's the one they caught down there. Report back immediately."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Was Raoul with Xris on Ceres?" Dion asked.

  "He could well have been," Dixter answered.

  The two men said nothing further, waited in uneasy silence until the call came through.

  The king answered swiftly.

  "It's Raoul, Your Majesty," returned Cato. "He insists on talking to you."

  "Bring him straight up. The back route."

  "Yes, sir."

  Long minutes passed, longer than the ticking clock counted them. A portion of the wall at the rear of Dion's office slid open. Cato entered, half-leading, half-carrying a stumbling, weakly moving Adonian.

  Dion thought that at first the centurion had made a mistake. This wasn't Raoul! The Loti's usually sleek black hair was ragged and unkempt, trailed over his face. The pink velvet costume was rumpled and torn and covered with ominous splotchy stains. His painted-nailed hands shook; his whole body shook. Cato lowered him gently into a chair.

  "Raoul?" Dion asked in disbelief.

  "It's him, sire," said Cato, speaking in a soft voice, as if the Adonian mustn't hear. "Though it took me a while to make sure. He's been through hell, from the looks of him. I wanted to take him to the infirmary, but he keeps saying he has to see you."

  "Yes," said Raoul, lifting his head. The movement, it seemed, took a great effort. "Yes, I had to see you, Your Majesty." He closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body. His hands twitched.

  "Summon the doctor," Dion ordered Cato.

  "No, Your . . . Your Majesty," interposed Raoul weakly. "Thank you, but . . . no. It . .. wouldn't help. It's the drugs, you see. Or rather the lack thereof." The Loti's eyes were shadowed, red-rimmed. But they were focused, clear, and in pain. "I have come from Ceres—" His words were broken off by a spell of coughing.

  Dion poured a glass of water. Cato passed it to the Loti, assisted him while he drank it.

  "How did you manage to escape, Raoul?" John Dixter asked, after a glance at Dion. "All flights are grounded."

  Raoul gave a wan smile. "There is always a way for one of my talents." He drew a deep breath. "Brother Daniel . . . helped me. He has been arguing with . . . the baroness. Trying to convince her to . . . tell you the truth. But she's afraid. So afraid. Brother Daniel said . . . you had to know. And so I came."

  He could no longer continue talking. He grimaced, gasped in pain. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

  "The doctor could give you something—"

  "No!" Raoul grasped hold of Dion's arm, held on tightly. "No, I . . . must make certain ... I tell this right."

  "What is the truth, then, Raoul?" Dion asked sternly. "What did Brother Daniel send you to tell us?"

  Raoul shook the black hair out of his face. "The queen has been taken hostage."

  "Hostage?" Dixter repeated, seeing Dion too stunned to speak. "Who did it?"

  Raoul's gaze held fast to the king, never leaving Dion's face. "I don't know. DiLuna knows, but she won't say. They told her .. . they told her they would kill the queen if word got out. And so the baroness . . . made up this story. Xris . . . Xris was there. He tried to stop—" Raoul choked, coughed again.

  "Xris tried to stop them," Dion filled in the pause.

  "They shot him and, unfortunately, they hit one of the few remaining human parts left to him." Raoul blinked his eyes rapidly. "He clings to life. He is stubborn that way. But he has not yet regained consciousness. Brother Daniel says that the baroness is using the cyborg as some sort of goat—"

  "Scapegoat?" Dion suggested.

  "Perhaps. I don't know. Very little of this has any meaning for me. You . .. note the absence of my partner?" Raoul glanced at the empty space beside him. He even reached out an unsteady hand to touch something that wasn't there.

  Dion remembered the small, raincoated figure, the battered hat. The Little One,'' he said softly, at last beginning to understand. "Is he ... He isn't ..

  "Not dead!" Raoul said swiftly. "Not yet. But perhaps . .. while I am gone." He closed his eye
s again, shivered. "Brother Daniel promised he would stay with him and . . . wouldn't let him be afraid. You had to know. And I was the only one to come."

  "Thank you, Raoul," Dion said, putting his hand over the Loti's trembling wrist. "You have performed an invaluable service. I'm sorry about Xris. Sorry about the Little One. If there is anything I can do—"

  "You could come to them!" Raoul clung to Dion. "Your hands are the hands of the healer."

  Dion looked grim. "I doubt if the baroness would permit it."

  "She will. She must. Brother Daniel will talk to her!"

  "Perhaps," said Dion thoughtfully. He exchanged glances with Dixter. "Perhaps that would be the best way, sir. She could hardly refuse an errand of mercy. I will see what can be done, Raoul. Now, if you'll go with Cato to the doctor—"

  "I thank you, Your Majesty, but no." Raoul stood up. He nearly fell, put out a hand to steady himself on the back of the chair. He warded off Cato's assistance. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be rude. But I'm going back."

  "Back? Back where? To Ceres?" Dion shook his head. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but that's not possible. The planet's under a self-imposed blockade. There's no way."

  "For a person like me," said Raoul simply, "there is always a way. It may not be legal, but there is a way. I promised him, you see. I promised him I would come back quickly."

  He appeared stronger, as if he were gathering up the various fragments of himself, putting himself back together. He even touched his hair, made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to smooth it. "It was . .. nice seeing you again, Your Majesty. I will tell Brother Daniel you are coming."

  Turning, he launched himself across the floor, heading for the front entrance.

  Cato looked at Dion questioningly.

  Dion motioned with his hand. "Take him out the back. Have some of your men keep an eye on him. Don't interfere with him—unless he tries to kill someone," the king added, remembering Raoul's dubious talents.

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  Cato caught hold of Raoul, steered him gently around a couch, headed him in the direction of the disguised door. Raoul suffered himself to be led, gave Dion a sad, sweet smile as he departed.

  "So my cousin is holding the queen hostage," Dion said grimly when the two were alone.