Ghost Legion (40 page)

Kamil stopped by her dormitory room, ostensibly to drop off her books
and change her clothes after morning classes. But her main reason for
returning, though she tried hard to pretend to herself it wasn't, was
to check to see if some message had come from Dion. She had not heard
from him since the night he'd told her Astarte had left him, when he
had to return at once, do what he could to contain the damage.

"I cannot permit the scandal," he had said to Kamil,
holding her in his arms as if he would shield her from the blow he
himself was forced to strike. "It could bring down the throne.

"Why can't they stay out of my personal life?" he'd
demanded impatiently. "People who wouldn't give a damn if I
ordered the destruction' of a million of their fellow citizens would
rise up and howl for my blood on hearing that my wife has left me!"

Kamil had been confused, frightened—for him, he looked so
dreadfully pale. Thinking back on it, she couldn't remember what
she'd said, or if she'd said anything coherent. And the next moment,
he'd kissed her, fiercely, despairingly, murmured something about
this being their final good-bye.

Then, "I can't bear it!" he'd whispered, his cheek pressed
against hers. "I can't bear to let you go!"

But he had let her go, and she had let him go.

Days had passed, and she hadn't heard a word. She'd monitored the
news broadcasts, watched the gossip mags anxiously, but discovered
nothing. And at length she had begun to breathe easier, though her
heart was heavy enough to cut off her breathing altogether. For if no
scandal broke, then Dion had managed to salvage his marriage. Her
good-bye to him had been a final one, after all.

Kamil told herself she didn't want to hear from him, that it was
better to end it clean, swift, like a laser beam through the heart.
But she couldn't stop herself from hastening back to her room,
looking first thing at her answering machine. She couldn't stop
herself from feeling the aching pain, disappointment, when there was
no message there.

This day, she had given herself a stern lecture.

"It's over. You're only hurting yourself by carrying on like
this. You haven't eaten in three days. You damn near failed that last
calc test. A fine spacepilot
you'll
make!" she scolded
herself derisively. "You're being weak and silly, longing for
something you can never have, letting it ruin your life.

"I won't. Today I won't look at that stupid machine. I'll
sensibly put down my books and sensibly change my clothes and
sensibly eat lunch and then, sensibly, I'll go work in the rose
garden. And tonight, when I go to the library, I'll sensibly study. I
won't hide in the stacks and cry."

Entering the small room, firm with resolve, strong with purpose, she
tossed her books on her bed and started to change her clothes,
looking everywhere
except
at the answering machine.
Unfortunately, the denim jeans and work shirt she wore when working
in the garden were hanging over the back of a chair that happened to
be standing beside her desk, on which rested the machine.

Kamil was about to shut her eyes and try to snag her clothes without
looking at the device when she told herself that this was stupid,
irrational behavior for an adult. She walked over to the chair
calmly, calmly and sensibly picked up the shirt and jeans, and
promptly dropped them on the floor.

The light was flashing over "mail."

Kamil's heart jumped, actually ceased to beat for an instant, leaving
her suddenly dizzy and light-headed.

"My mother," she said in a trembling voice. "Of
course, that's all it is—a letter from mother. I'll be glad to
hear from . . . mother."

Firmly she depressed the button, waited with impatience for the
machine to process the electronic impulses, translate them into hard
copy. The paper began to slide out. Kamil glanced at it. She had
actually managed to convince herself that she would see her mother's
gigantic, bold scrawl.

But the letter was typewritten, like a form letter. Her hopes rose,
though she did her best to trample them back down. For security
reasons, Dion always sent his letters to her this way, to make them
look like any other everyday piece of mail. And then Kamil saw, at
the end, a handwritten note. It was only a few words, but she
immediately recognized the writing. Shivering, she clasped her hands
together tightly to keep herself from snatching up the paper before
the message was complete. And then, even when it was finished, she
waited a moment to pick it up.

"He's writing to tell me it's over. That's kind of him. Good for
me. Closure, as my psychology professor would say. I need this for
closure. Then I can put this behind me and go forward." Kamil
drew a deep breath, let it out, and read the letter.

Beloved.

This marriage was a travesty from the beginning. I tried to save it.
As God is my witness (if He does indeed care about the follies of
mortals, which I must admit I doubt), then I have made every attempt,
short of abandoning my dignity as a human being, to reconcile with my
wife.

I know now that she does not want reconciliation. She wants only
power and she is using this means to try to wrest it from me. I have
no doubt her mother is behind this, but my wife goes along with it.
She may even be the instigator. I will not submit to their threats,
their coercion. It will mean war, something I have always tried to
prevent, but they have brought it on themselves.

I will divorce her. Then you and I can be married— what was
always meant to be.

We must be patient, however.

The letter was unsigned. But, at the bottom, in a postscript added
hastily, was this note in his handwriting.

I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.

"Oh, Dion!" Kamil cried, and burst into tears. "Now,
really, this is nonsense!" she said after a few moments. "First
you cry when he leaves you, now you cry when he says he wants to
marry you."

Drying her eyes, she blew her nose, then read through the precious
letter again and again.

" 'Threats' 'coercion.' Poor Dion. It must have been terrible
for him. He is truly angry. 'Her mother is behind this.' . . . Well,
I don't doubt that, from what Father has told me about the baroness.

"And we're to be married!" Kamil sighed.

She closed her eyes, letting the joy well up within her, wash over
her. Opening her eyes, she started to read through the letter again,
when her gaze fell upon the postscript.

I am sorry, my dear, but a queen cannot be a starpilot.

"A queen." The word came as a sharp jab. Kamil's joy began
to seep out, a trickle of fear seeped in. "Queen," she
repeated. Her hands, holding the letter, had suddenly grown cold. "I
can't be a queen! I won't be any good at it. Gracious, charming,
graceful. Always expected to say the proper thing at the proper
moment. Everyone watching me."

Kamil looked down at herself, sitting on the chair in her underwear,
which she only wore when she came to the Academy. Such female
underpinnings as bra and panties were considered superfluous on her
own planet. She looked at herself in the mirror, tried to picture
herself in one of the dresses she'd seen Astarte wearing—complete
with hat and gloves—and Kamil shut her eyes again. The image
was too ludicrous. She could imagine every one of her fourteen
brothers, lined up laughing at her.

And behind them, the rest of the galaxy.

"Now you
are
being silly!" She caught hold of
herself, gave herself a mental shake. "Dion loves me. I love
him. And now we're going to be together, our love out in the open,
for everyone to see. No longer hiding. No longer ashamed or afraid.
That's
what matters. Not what clothes I'll wear.

"I'll be a queen. I'll go to concerts and dedicate art galleries
and visit hospitals and wave and smile and smile and smile . . . in a
hat."

Kamil sighed. She rested one elbow on the desk, her head in her hand,
and started to read through the letter one more time.

A knock at her door and the simultaneous opening of that door caused
her to sit upright, give her wet eyes a quick swipe. She slid the
letter underneath the answering machine.

"Glad you're here," said her next-door neighbor, wandering
in and making herself at home on the bed. "My head's splitting.
If I have to look at another equation I'll jump out my window. You
want some lunch? I hear the food in the cafeteria's almost edible
today."

"No, thanks," said Kamil, devoutly wishing her next-door
neighbor on the next-door planet. "Rose garden time."
Hopping up, she grabbed hold of the denim shirt and put it on,
buttoned it hurriedly. "I'm behind on my hours. The calc test,
you know."

"You can go gardening after you eat."

"I'm not hungry. I don't know where you heard that rumor about
the food, but I walked past the cafeteria today. One smell was enough
to kill my appetite forever. Besides, I want to finish the weeding
before the afternoon sun gets too hot."

"All right. Go kill aphids. Whatever turns you on. By the way,
you've got the shirt buttoned up wrong."

"Damn!" Kamil swore, unbuttoned it, started over again. Her
eyes stung with tears, for no reason at all. Her fingers fumbled at
the buttons.

"You okay?" her neighbor asked. "You look kind of
green."

"Fine. Really, I'm fine." Kamil bent down to pull on her
jeans. "Uh, you better get going. The molded gelatin salad'll be
all gone."

"Only if the gods are merciful!"

The next-door neighbor wandered out. Kamil shut and locked the door.
Turning around, she thought at first she would lie down on her bed
and cry until she had all tears out of her system.

"No," she said suddenly. "I won't! I never used to
cry. I wonder what's come over me? No, I will go sensibly and calmly
to work in,the roses, get all dirty and sweaty and tired. And then
I'll come back here and take a hot shower and go sensibly and calmly
to bed."

Before she left, she started to sensibly destroy the letter. Dion had
admonished her to destroy all the mail he sent her. But she
discovered she couldn't. This was too precious. She had the strange
feeling that if she destroyed it, she might end up destroying her
hope. Folding the missive, she kissed it and placed it over her
heart, in the pocket of her denim shirt.

The headmaster's rose garden was deserted this time of day—one
reason Kamil chose to work in it. In the mornings, classes of art
students roamed its picturesque paths, making drawings of the famous
statues—Michaelangelo's
Pieta
and Rodin's
The
Burghers of Calais
—or painting the first early spring
flowers. In the late afternoons, the rose garden was a meeting and
wandering place for couples of all ages. In the early evenings,
before dinner, the headmaster sometimes invited chosen members of the
student body to join him in the garden for sherry.

But hardly anyone ever visited the garden in the afternoon. During
this hour, the headmaster took his nap—an institution that had
become almost sacred to the Academy residents. No one dared disturb
the headmaster's nap.

Vehicles approaching the house cut their engines and coasted down the
long and winding drive. Students passing anywhere near nudged one
another and lowered their voices. The nap even became a time-telling
device. Such and such would be done or people would plan to meet at
the "nap time."

The most remarkable thing about this was that the headmaster, the
meekest and mildest of men, had no idea that his own private and
personal nap had become a campus institution. His housekeeper—one
Ms. Magwitch—ruled the house wherein the headmaster slept, and
it was she and her umbrella—an instrument long and highly
underrated as a lethal weapon—who first imposed the reign of
silence.

One delivery person had been foolish enough to ring the doorbell,
which noise supposedly roused the headmaster from his slumbers (such
that he actually blinked, turned his head, and murmured, "What?").
The poor delivery man was met at the door by the infuriated Magwitch,
complete with umbrella. The delivery person still shuddered when he
spoke of it.

Kamil had arranged a truce with Ms. Magwitch, to the effect that
Kamil would be allowed to work in the garden during nap time provided
that she used no shears or rake or any other loud instruments of
destruction. Kamil had agreed. Most gardening chores are best done by
hand anyway.

The roses were not yet in bloom, but new growth was shooting up and
so were the weeds. Dead stalks had to be trimmed, while certain
bushes, which appeared about to succomb to last winter's frost, were
given tender care and a word of encouragement.

Kamil paused in her labors, stood up to rest her back, which ached
from bending over the flower beds. Though the roses were not
blooming, other planets were. The garden was celebrating spring. The
vivid reds and yellows of the tulips and daffodils, the deep purples
of the lilacs, set against the bright greens of newborn leaves, was
like an exuberant shout of joy after winter's long silence.

Kamil felt like shouting herself, and only the awful image of
Magwitch and the umbrella kept her decorously silent. The garden was
a blessed place to her, bringing back wonderful memories of the night
she and Dion had first expressed their love for each other. Now it
would be doubly blessed, for it was here that they would be married.
She would be his, he would be hers, they would be one.

Kamil spread her arms wide.

"I will marry you, Dion," she pledged softly to the spring
and the azure sky and flaming sun and the new life all around her. "I
will marry you and love you and—"

Strong hands grabbed her arms in a firm grip, twisted them painfully,
forced them behind her back. Strong hands tied a thick piece of cloth
around her mouth, yanked it between her teeth, gagging her.