Ghost Legion (52 page)

"I thought you had given this up," Flaim complained,
irritated. "I grow quite tired of this."

"I had hoped these latest injections ..."

"I haven't taken them," Flaim interrupted. He looked
exasperated. "I should think you would be grateful I am not prey
to this weakness. After all, look where such uncontrolled appetites
led my father."

"To your birth!" Pantha countered. "Was that such a
bad result?"

"No, but only because of
your
quick thinking and smooth
talking, my friend. Otherwise, God knows what Amodius would have done
with me. I am what I am, Pantha—asexual. I accepted the fact
long ago. You should, too. What am I missing?"

"Pleasure—"

Flaim smiled derisively. "Two naked bodies, rubbing together for
an hour or so? An animalistic urge that we've never quite overcome,
designed purely to induce us to procreate."

He put his fingertips together, held them to his lips. "True
pleasure, Pantha. True pleasure comes with imposing my will on
another. Forcing even the most powerful to submit themselves to my
dominant authority. That excites me. That stirs the fire in my brain,
if not necessarily my loins."

"Such fire will not provide you with an heir," Pantha
observed, displeased.

Flaim waved an uncaring hand. "Artificial insemination."

"You have no seed. You are sterile."

"Then I will come up with a suitable donor," Flaim said
impatiently. "The father who raises the child is more important
that the father who creates it, as you have long told me. As you
yourself are living proof. What has brought all this up again?"

"The child would not be Blood Royal."

"That is not necessarily a drawback." Flaim stretched his
legs to the fire. "I would not want a child as strong as myself,
as ambitious. One could never trust such a child. When it grew up, I
would be constantly looking over my shoulder. What was it Henry IV
termed his son, Prince Hal—his 'nearest and dearest enemy.' I
want a cowardly, timid child, who will be afraid to take the
crown—even from my stiff, cold corpse."

"Such a child would hardly make a good ruler, my prince."

"It won't need to be. I will leave a galaxy ringed around with
steel and fire, ruled by darkness. The Corasians will control the
outer planets. The dark-matter creatures will maintain control over
the Corasians and any other potentially dangerous elements in my own
population. The people, who have no inkling that the Corasians have
been brought here solely for my benefit, will be so fearful that they
will literally beg me to declare martial law.

"I shall do so, of course, by establishing a vast, all-powerful
military. By the time my supposed heir takes over at my death—which
we all hope will be in the far, far-distant future—he will have
little to do but smile and look gracious and keep his fist clenched."

Flaim's allies—Corasians! An ingenious plan. Maigrey was forced
to compliment the prince. You permit these monsters to enter the
galaxy, give them a few insignificant planets in payment, let them
conquer a couple more every so often, just to make the Corasians
happy and the people frightened. Fear keeps everyone cowering under
the bed, keeps their eyes shut to what you are really doing.

"But all that is in the future," Flaim was saying. "Back
to the present. The message." He held up the paper. "Guess
what it says."

"I cannot, my prince."

"Lord Sagan. He has found Mendaharin Tusca, convinced him to
join us. They are on their way here now, as we speak."

"And you believe him?" Pantha inquired testily.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because as you well know, my prince, our spies lost all contact
with Derek Sagan. They reported Tusca had lost his ship in a poker
game and was forced to take up company with a quadriplegic named
Lazarus Banquo—"

"Lazarus Banquo!" Flaim began to laugh.

Pantha frowned, looked displeased.

"Lazarus Banquo," Flaim explained. "Now I understand.
It was Sagan all along, of course. Don't you get the joke? I find it
really quite funny—"

"I don't," Pantha retorted. "Sagan had some reason for
assuming this bizarre disguise—"

"Of course he did. Millions know the Warlord by sight. But who
would think to see him in a wheelchair? I begin to reconsider, my
friend. Derek Sagan is not the broken-down old man I took him to be."

"No. This proves that he is considerably more dangerous."

"To my enemies, Pantha. To my enemies. And my 'nearest and
dearest' enemy—my cousin Dion—is almost within my grasp."

"That remains to be seen," said Pantha, unconvinced. "And
it brings up another point. You are so cautious of your unborn heir,
my prince, what will you do with your cousin—the one person who
could be a serious threat to you?"

"Once he's abdicated the throne? Once he's meekly handed over
the crown?" Flaim laughed. "Who would want the weakling
back? Who would follow his tattered, yellowed standard? Besides, as
we've discussed, it will be necessary to keep our cousin around to
make it all look legitimate. Blood is thicker than water, that sort
of thing. We will set our cousin up in the alcazar here—trot
him out every year as our adored relation. And speaking of relations,
now that phase one's objective has been achieved, I believe we should
implement phase two."

"The queen's—"

"Hush, my friend." Flaim glanced back into the shadows.
"Who knows who is listening?"

Pantha looked startled, then rather anxious. "My prince, surely
you don't truly believe—"

Flaim began to laugh again.

"Ah," said the old man, "you're teasing me."

"I can't help it, Pantha! You take everything so seriously.
Besides, if there really are ghosties and ghoulies out there, what
can they do to stop me? What can any of them do?"

The two men rose. Flaim carefully banked the fire, to keep the embers
glowing preparatory to building the blaze up again in the morning.

"A long day," he said, clapping the older man on the
shoulder. "Good night, my friend. Sleep well."

The prince turned toward the part of the room that was now, with the
fading firelight, left in deepest shadow. "Good night to you, as
well, Lady."

Grinning, he walked with Garth Pantha out the door.

Maigrey huddled alone in the darkness, a disembodied spirit afraid to
make herself visible even to herself.

"The living scaring the dead," she whispered. "Not as
farfetched as you think, old man. This prince of yours terrifies me."

We're not going to a church social.

The Magnificent Seven

Half-asleep, Xris lounged on his bed in the high-class hotel room on
Ceres, watching a vid through a hazy cloud of tobacco smoke. The vid
was a B-grade police thriller, with a premise as phony as the hero's
hair. Xris had been a Fed himself, before the "accident"
left him more machine than man, and he'd gotten a few laughs watching
the hero break more laws in catching the criminal than the criminal
had broken in the first place. They had reached the hovercopter chase
sequence when the phone buzzed.

Xris activated the vidscreen to see who was calling.

A message came up on the screen:
Sorry, the caller isn't dialing
from a vidphone
.

The phone continued to buzz. Xris picked up the handset, held it to
his ear, said nothing.

Total silence at the end of a completed connection would be extremely
disconcerting to most callers, especially those who had no business
calling. But not this particular caller.

"Xris Cyborg," came the lilting, drugged voice.

Xris exhaled softly. "Raoul.''

"And the Little One."

"Of course. One sixteen." He hung up.

After several minutes—longer than it would have taken
ordinarily but, depending on what drug Raoul had ingested that
morning, the Loti might be having difficult)' reading the room
numbers—there came a knock at the door.

Xris walked over, answered it. He didn't even bother to glance
through the small peephole to make certain of his visitors' identity.
He didn't need to. Raoul's perfume wafted through the closed door,
began a contest to see which could smell worse—the perfume or
the foul odor of the twist's smoke. Xris gave it even odds, opened
the door.

"Xris Cyborg." Raoul blinked, as if amazed to see him.
Perhaps where he was, why he had knocked.

The Loti flipped his long silky black hair over his shoulders with a
deft move of his delicate hands. He was dressed in crushed pink
velvet knee breeches, tied with pink ribbons over a pair of white
hose, ending in black dancing pumps. An orange velvet doublet,
slashed open here and there to reveal puffs of pink silk, completed
his ensemble. A pink lace bow was tied around his neck.

"Charming," said Xris. The Loti liked to be complimented on
a new outfit.

"Thank you," Raoul replied, smoothing his hair.

He drifted into the room. (Now that the two were in dose proximity,
the perfume easily felled Xris's tobacco smoke.) The Little One
shuffled along behind his friend. The long raincoat—which
seemed to grow shabbier every time Xris saw it—dragged on the
floor. Two bright eyes stared out at the cyborg from beneath the rim
of the battered fedora.

Xris shut the door. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Very nice," said Raoul approvingly, glancing around the
room. He sat down in a chair, made himself comfortable, crossing his
legs at his shapely ankles, and began to blissfully contemplate a
minuscule speck staining his white hose. "Look, a spot. That oaf
who bumped up against me at the reception desk. Beast."

Raoul sniffed and, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror
opposite, pulled out a tube and touched up his Up gloss.

Wondering idly if Raoul was wearing the poisoned variety, Xris
resumed his seat on the bed. The cyborg knew it was useless to try to
hurry the Loti. Raoul would tell his own story in his own way and in
his own time. The Little One, meanwhile, curled like a dog at Raoul's
feet. The bright eyes vanished behind the raincoat's turned-up
collar. He, she, or it (Xris still had no idea) was apparently going
to sleep.

"I am certain you are wondering why we have transported
ourselves this vast distance across a galaxy to speak to you in
person, Xris Cyborg," began Raoul, licking one slender finger
(making certain not to mar the lip gloss) and rubbing it on the
invisible spot on his white hose. "Not that the Little One and I
do not deem it a pleasure to once again see you, friend Xris."

Xris lit a twist, inhaled, breathed out, nodded, and waited.

Having gotten rather distracted, the Adonian paused a mo-ment to
collect his thoughts—tantamount to trying to catch butterflies
without a net. Raoul glanced down gratefully at his companion, who
had not spoken a word—aloud.

"Thank you for reminding me. Yes, that was it. We were residing
with our comrades in the home of our late employer, Snaga Ohme—our
comrades send their regards as well, Xris Cyborg. As I was saying, we
were residing in the dwelling of our late employer, Snaga Ohme, when
we received a most important message, highest priority, code number .
. ." Raoul paused, looked vague, fluttered a hand, "I can
never remember those silly numbers. At any rate, you may take my word
for it that the message was considerably urgent."

He regarded Xris with limpid eyes.

"What was the message?" Xris asked, puffing on the twist.

Raoul's eyelids fluttered. He was wearing pink eye shadow. "Ah,
yes. The message. Her Majesty, the queen, is in extreme danger.
Possible kidnapping attempt."

"Son of a bitch," said Xris. He took the twist out of his
mouth. "Who'd the message come from? And why didn't you just
transmit it? You wasted maybe a day, day and a half getting here—"

"Ah, there is a reason for that, Xris Cyborg," interrupted
Raoul, and the Loti's eyes were suddenly, disconcertingly sharp and
shrewd. "The sender was most emphatic in insisting that this
message be presented to you in person. We were therefore forced to
assume that the sender did not want to take even the smallest chance
that this message might be intercepted."

"Okay, I can see that. Who sent it? Dixter?"

Raoul shook his head. The silky hair slid down his shoulders. He
brushed it carefully back. "We do not know who sent the
message."

Xris stared, then frowned. "That's impossible. You said it was
coded. Surely either Lee or Harry remembers the code numbers,"
he added with a sarcasm that he knew would be completely lost on the
Adonian. "And if you didn't know who sent it, then why the
devil—"

"Devil!" Raoul smiled in delight. "One might consider
that appropriate." He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, one might.
As a matter of fact, Bernard recognized the code number, Xris Cyborg
though it had been many years since he had seen it. The code number
belongs to the late Lord Derek Sagan."

Xris would have raised an eyebrow, both eyebrows, except that he
didn't have any eyebrows, only acid burns on his bald head. "Son
of a bitch," he said again, speculatively. He put the twist back
in his mouth.

"Bernard's precise words," said Raoul gravely.

"Must be a hoax."

"How is that possible, Xris Cyborg? Would anyone else have known
Lord Sagan's code number?"

"Lady Maigrey knew it."

"Ah, yes, well . .." Raoul replied, momentarily downcast.
"I grew to be quite fond of the Lady Maigrey. So did the Little
One. I trust she forgives us the unfortunate incident during which we
once attempted to poison her. It was in the champagne. My late
employer, Snaga Ohme, did not trust her. A disagreement over the
precise ownership of the space-rotation bomb—"

What this had to do with anything was beyond Xris. He interrupted the
Adonian's ramblings. "Does the Little One have any feelings
about this message?"