Ghost Legion (36 page)

He took his seat in- the pilot's chair. The plane was now within
instrument range of the planet. Whatever was going to happen should
happen now. He was either going to be permitted to find out the truth
... or he was going to be stopped.

Sagan waited, alert, tense. He was not particularly fearful. Whatever
it was, whoever it was, wanted him here. He had, in a sense, received
an invitation to this party. But there was always the chance (however
slight) that he had miscalculated, misjudged this person, the entire
situation. It could be that the Warlord was wanted . . . wanted out
of the way.

And here he was, in an unarmed spaceplane. It didn't even have any
shields. Although from what he'd seen (or not seen) of these
"ghosts," shields were not likely to offer any protection.

He was well within range. His instruments were picking up and
recording data on the planet known as Vallombrosa. Nothing had
happened to him. He stood up, roamed about the small plane, returned
to the galley. In his preoccupation, he'd let the tea steep too long.
It was bitter. He poured it out, started to make another pot.
Glancing over at his instruments, studying the preliminary findings,
he smiled grimly, nodded.

He was being given the chance to draw aside the curtain, to open the
lid on the box. He was being given the chance to see the truth.

Vallombrosa was itself deserted. But there was life, life that was
not on the planet. Space stations circled it, huge space stations,
each probably capable of housing thousands of people.

A Valley of Ghosts that was really quite lively.

And then Sagan, drinking his tea, noticed the anomaly.

The planet was unusually dense, far denser than it should have been,
according to calculations based on its size and composition. The
gravitational gradient was also way off. Surface gravity was
noticeably higher than that of a planet of compara-ble size. What was
more interesting, the gravity was fluctuating wildly. The gravity
around a planet such as this should have been relatively even,
smooth, with only occasional variations created by the flow of magma
beneath the surface. By contrast, the gravity around this planet was
erratic, dipping and surging like a storm-tossed sea.

Sagan ran more computations, double-checking his data. He had no
doubt. Information on this anomaly was the material Pantha had
originally entered in his log.

It was also the information he had deleted. The explorer had lied,
deliberately falsified the records. He had made the planet appear
ordinary, less than ordinary. He had made no mention of the anomaly.

And now Sagan was beginning to understand why. He began to transmit
the collected data back to Admiral Dixter. Sagan presumed the
"ghosts" would allow him to do this, wouldn't jam his
signal. The time for—the need for—secrecy must be nearly
at an end.

Transmission concluded, he sank back in the pilot's chair, with its
cracked plastic and exposed bits of foam rubber, and stared unseeing
at the flashing numbers, the instruments that were continuing to
gather and spew forth data. The discovery, its terrifying import, the
sudden rush of understanding as piece after piece of die puzzle
locked into place, overwhelmed him with its enormity.

Warlord Derek Sagan was not a man to be easily overwhelmed. He rubbed
his palm, which had begun to itch and burn, moved his fingers to
touch the starjewel that he wore, once again, around his neck.

A light began to flash on the console. Communication was being
established with the planet. Blips on his screen indicated the
presence of several spaceplanes, probably escorts.

"Welcome, my lord Sagan," said the voice, a voice he'd
heard often in his dreams and thus had no difficulty recognizing,
"welcome to Vallombrosa—Valley of Ghosts."

Ghosts, indeed.

Places you are tied down to—none. People with a hold on
you—none. Men you step aside for—none.

The Magnificent Seven

The hotel on Ceres was high class, one of those four-star joints in
the galaxy guidebooks. It catered to off-worlders, too, apparently,
Xris noted, standing in line at the reception desk. The enormous
lobby—replete with a fountain of dancing water adorned by
musical metal spheres that soared and dipped in the air above the
fountain—could have been used as a Catalog for Life-forms in
the Milky Way.

Some sort of convention was taking place, judging by the name tags
plastered on the lapels, scales, skin, and fur of the breasts, heads,
feet, and tails of the individuals walking, creeping, or crawling
through the lobby and adjacent meeting areas and ballrooms.

No one, except a harried-looking bellman, gave Xris so much as a
raised eyebrow—unusual for the cyborg, whose acid-burned face
and metal body parts, with their flashing LED lights, generally rated
stealthy sideways glances, outright suspicious glares, or pitying,
averted eyes. And the bellman, once he had been convinced that Xris
had only one piece of luggage and that he would carry it himself,
disdainfully turned his attention to the next, presumably tipping,
customer.

"Single room. Name of Xris," said the cyborg when he
reached the desk.

Another indication of a high-class joint—real live clerks. None
of this stick-your-card-in-a-machine-and-get-a-room-for-the-night
business.

The clerk handed over a key (an antique, honest-to-God key), along
with the information that the room was paid for and all expenses
would be covered.

Xris took the key and shouldered his way through the crowd in the
lobby. His room was located on the ground floor—as he always
specified. He never knew when he might have to makea quick exit and
at such times it was damn inconvenient to stand around waiting for
the elevator.

He entered his room, gave it the once-over for listening devices,
hidden cams, explosives—the usual precautions. Finding it
clean, in more ways than one, he opened his luggage case, took out a
bottle of jump-juice, poured a jigger full into one of the water
glasses, and continued his inspection.

Taking care to keep from being seen, he drew aside the window
curtain. French doors opened onto a small, walled-off patio. Beyond
that was an ornamental garden, graced with fountains and fancifully
pruned shrubbery. In the distance, on the horizon, he could see the
tops of mountains, bathed with a soft pink twilight tinge. The view
was spectacular, but Xris wasn't noticing such things as mountains or
flower beds. He was considering escape routes, possible sites for an
ambush, hiding places for eavesdroppers or more sinister types.

The room appeared secure and was in a good, though not great,
location. Xris was pleased, not particularly surprised. He'd done
enough work for John Dixter to know that the admiral would be careful
about such details. It was simply that the location for this meeting
was so damn odd. Why rendezvous on Ceres? The message hadn't
specified, but then, it wouldn't. Special code. Highest priority.
Payment already deposited in his account. Xris wasn't even certain it
was Dixter who had called him, yet who else would could it be?

Either Dixter ... or the king.

Xris grinned at that one, shook his head. Taking out a twist, he
stuck the black and noxious cigarette in his mouth and lit it. A
swallow of jump-juice, then he yanked off his long-range weapons
hand, packed it away in the specially designed compartment in his
cybernetic leg. Taking out another weapons hand—this one
designed for short-range work, tight, close quarters, all noise kept
to a minimum—he attached it to his arm, checked it over to make
sure all systems were operational.

He was sitting comfortably in his chair, drinking the jump-juice,
when a particularly large and raucous group of conventioneers tramped
past his room. He might have paid no attention except that his acute,
enhanced hearing caught the faint sound of soft footfalls, perhaps
using the others for cover, stop outside his door. There was silence
a moment, then a knock—a swift, sharp rap.

"I didn't order room service," Xris called.

Nothing. No response.

Xris shifted slightly in his chair.

The knock was repeated.

"I said, I didn't order room service." He raised the
volume.

The correct response was, "Maintenance. Here to fix your vid."

The knock was repeated again, more sharply, peremptorily. It was
beginning to sound irritated.

Xris adjusted his augmented vision in an attempt to see through the
door, but the door and wall were shielded to prevent just such an
occurrence. This
was
a high-class joint. He was glad Dixter
was paying the bill.

Xris concentrated on his other senses. He didn't hear anything that
sounded threatening—the whine of power packs charging up, or
the slight
snick
made by the loading of a bolt gun. The
silence meant next to nothing, however. The poisoner, Raoul, for
example, could very quietly kiss you to death.

"Who is it?" Xris tried, for variety.

Not moving from where he sat—at an angle to the door, on the
opposite side of the room from the door—Xris shifted his glass
from his right hand to his left—his weapons hand. Propping his
feet up on the bed, he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"I am not room service. Let me in!" demanded a voice, with
a hint of anger.

Xris was more curious now than worried. No hired gun worth the price
of a bolt would stand outside his victim's room beating on the door.
Yet this was obviously some kind of setup. An agent from Dixter or
the king would have known the proper code response.

"Come on in, then," Xris called, hitting the manual remote
control. "I've unlocked it."

Anyone intent on killing him would have to first locate him in the
room, react to the fact that he was seated and not standing, then
shoot at an angle—and all the while Xris would have the killer
in his sights, in easy range of a deadly little poisoned dart that
could be fired from the third knuckle of the cyborg's weapon's hand.

The door slid open. A woman entered.

She was short, for a human female, dressed in a smart black suit,
expensive, well tailored, with a long, fingertip-length black jacket
and a knee-length skirt revealing remarkable legs. She wore a black,
wide-brimmed hat, trimmed in a black lace veil that covered her face.
The ends of the veil were wrapped around her neck. Her hands were
encased in soft black kid leather gloves.

The door shut behind her. The woman remaining standing just inside
it, the veiled face turned expectantly toward Xris. She said no word,
and it took Xris a moment to figure out what the hell was going on.

She was waiting expectantly for him to stand up, to rise when she
entered the room.

He knew, then, who she was, if not how or why. Even though her face
was hidden by the veil, there was no mistaking that dignified, regal
stance, with the head slightly thrown back, the chin tilted upward.
Things began to make sense, even as they didn't.

Xris thought he deserved a moment to recover from the shock. At
length, setting down his drink (and deactivating the dart in his
hand), he rose to his feet.

"Your Majesty," he said.

The queen appeared not displeased to be recognized. She unwrapped the
veil from her face with graceful, deliberate motions, took off the
hat, and carefully placed it upon the foot of the bed. She did not
glance in the mirror—as nine out of ten women Xris knew would
have, to pat their hair back in place-but seemed to take it for
granted that she would look extraordinary, whether her hair was
mussed or not.

And she did . . . look extraordinary.

Xris was impressed. He had seen Astarte, queen of the galaxy, on the
vids, of course, but he had always figured that the cams were careful
to capture her good side or that she'd hired a damn fine makeup
artist. This woman was all over good sides and, as far as Xris could
tell (and he'd become something of an expert, from hanging around
Raoul), the queen wore very little makeup. The rose dusting on the
high cheekbones, the coral-brushed lips, the port-wine eyes did not
come from over the cosmetic counter.

"You're not surprised I knew who you were," Xris commented,
to see what she would say.

"Of course not. You must have deduced that I would be the only
person—other than His Majesty—capable of retrieving data
on you from the classified files." The queen was pulling off her
gloves with the same careful, deliberate motions. "Admit-tedly,
I do not have security clearance; I am a royal consort and therefore
have no military command status. However, it was quite simple for me
to obtain access to .. . certain computers. And then it was only a
matter of time and patience before I found what I was seeking.

"There, sir. Have I supplied you with enough information to
satisfy any doubts? I trust the answer is yes," she went on,
before Xris could reply, "because I won't tell you any more. I
may have need to resort to this stratagem again and I wouldn't want
you to spoil it for me."

She laid the gloves on the table, stood regarding Xris with a
forthright, direct look that was cool, businesslike, and extremely
disconcerting. She barely came to the cyborg's shoulder. His
mechanical hand could have crunched her like a bug, yet she obviously
had no doubt who was in command of the situation. And, according to
her, it wasn't Xris.

He found his voice, which seemed to have seized up on him, and
shrugged.

"It's not up to me to say whether Your Majesty does or doesn't
have the right to poke around in your husband's classified files, but
I would be interested in knowing how you happened to go looking for
me. Or did Your Majesty just start at the bottom of the alphabet and
pick the first name you came across?"