Ghost Legion Page 5

  Some children are frightened by the bogeyman or ghosts or the monster that lives in the closet. Young John was terrified of the dark and ghoulish nemesis known in the Tusca household as the Collection Agent.

  Reaching the dentist-office level of the Scimitar, Tusk slid his arms out of the straps of the backpack child carrier lowered his son silently and stealthily to the deck, and put his finger to his lips.

  "XJ," called Tusk, trying to sound nonchalant. "There been any calls for me?"

  "One. It was— What's that?"

  "What's what?" Tusk asked innocently. Winking at his son, the pilot walked over to the bar, began to clang bottles together loudly. "We're low on scotch.. .."

  "Someone else is breathing," stated XJ irascibly. "And I detect the distinct smell of wet diaper. You've brought that brat of yours in here!"

  Young John sat on the deck, thumb in his mouth, waiting patiently to make his move. The son of a starpilot and a former TRUC driver turned guerrilla fighter, John Tusca knew the value of a diversion and was waiting until the shooting started.

  Tusk was about to deny the charge, then changed his mind. "It's only for an hour or so. Nola's got a doctor's appointment and we couldn't get a sitter. And he's not wet. He's potty trained now. At least most of the time. Who called?"

  "I'm not saying," the computer snapped. "This is not Ding-dong School. Remove the little twerp and we'll discuss business."

  "Damn it, XJ! My kid's not a 'twerp' or a 'brat.' He's my son—a person, just like me—"

  "Now there's a recommendation!" XJ gave a mechanical snort.

  "—and he needs to be treated with respect!" Tusk finished loudly. "You're gonna give him an inferiority complex or something, talking about him like that. Babies can understand a lot more than we think they can. Now, who the devil called? Was it important?"

  "Extremely. Urgent, in fact. And I admit the brat makes more sense than you do, most of the time, but he doesn't belong on my plane. He touches my buttons," XJ complained peevishly.

  "I'll touch your buttons!" Tusk stalked over to the railing that separated the bridge from the plastileather-and-used-carpet lounge area and peered down into the cockpit. "What do you mean, your plane? We're partners—you and me and Link And damn it, XJ, if a client called and we miss a run because you're—"

  "A run?" XJ sputtered. "How're you going to make a run with junior there? 'Sorry, folks, we can't make the jump to lightspeed. It gives the baby hiccups. I was never so humiliated! It's a wonder I didn't short out."

  "Would you forget that? He was real little then. Nola'll be back any minute. Now, who called? Was it Lovason? He said he might have an important drop to make later on in the week—" "No, it was not Lovason. And why'd you have to go and get pregnant again anyway? Jeez, don't you two ever do anything except—"

  This diversion was better than expected. Young John made his move. Keeping low, so as not to draw fire, crawling on belly, elbows, and knees, he made it all the way across the deck to one of the settees. Then there came a lull in the firing. John pulled himself upright, sat with his back against the settee, had his thumb in his mouth by the time his father glanced around. "John, where— Oh, there you are. Don't mess with that." John regarded his father with the expression of blank and baffled innocence that is a small child's first line of defense.

  "Okay, there's a good boy. He's not bothering anything, XJ, so don't get your circuits in a knot. As for why we got pregnant again, if it's any of your goddam business, which it isn't, Nola's not getting any younger, and the doctor said if we wanted—" A panel in the bottom of the settee slid open. Young John reached in his hand. His pudgy fingers found the cookie, wrapped around it, conveyed it to his mouth. He munched on it silently, under the cover of friendly fire.

  "Don't give me that," XJ was saying. "I think you two just screwed up, no pun intended. And how you expect to feed another mouth, when you've got creditors lined up from here to Hell's Outpost, not to mention the fact that they've canceled your medical insurance—"

  "Canceled the insurance?" Tusk gaped. "When? How?" "Stop jabbering. The insurance company likes to be paid. They're funny that way."

  Tusk groaned. "Was that due this month? I thought—" "No, you didn't That's your problem. Besides, it was due two months ago. And if you think I'm—" XJ stopped in mid-sentence. The computer's tone altered. "Yes, my lord. Yes, good talking to you again, my lord. He's here now, my lord. Just this moment stepped in. Please hold for a second, my lord, and I'll put him right on."

  "Who is it?" Tusk asked, sliding down the ladder into the cockpit. "My lord who?"

  He cast one worried glance over his shoulder at the baby, but young John was leaning with his back against a settee, staring at nothing with the grave intensity of two years. His mother would have noticed that he was far too quiet and well-behaved to be up to anything good. His father congratulated himself on how adept he was at child-rearing. He couldn't understand why Nola always complained about John getting into things he wasn't supposed to. Tusk never had that problem.

  He sat down in the pilot's seat to take the incoming call.

  Young John reached back into the secret compartment, took two cookies.

  "General Dixter," said XJ, sounding subdued. "Pardon me, Sir John Dixter. On the viewscreen."

  "General Dix—" Tusk made a strangled sound. "Was he the one—? You didn't tell—? Sir!"

  The Lord of the Admiralty appeared on the screen, gorgeous and almost unrecognizable in white uniform, decorated with stars, rows of gleaming medals, gold braid on the shoulder, all of which made him look imposing, severe, and unfamiliar. This was not the general Tusk had served under during his years as a mercenary, not the man who'd sat in that hot trailer in the middle of the desert, drinking Laskarian brandy and talking about a king's child, born on a night of fire and blood.

  "General! Sir!" Tusk jumped to his feet, saluted. He was acutely aware of his own sweat-soaked fatigues.

  "He's addressed as 'my lord,' fool!" XJ intoned in a low audio that, nevertheless, carried quite well.

  "I—I mean m-my lord," Tusk stammered.

  Dixter smiled, the same warm and generous smile Tusk remembered, the smile that always had something a little sad about it. "Belay that, Tusk. We've known each other too long for that."

  Now Tusk saw the cheese pastry stain on the Lord of the Admiralty's lapel, the coffee stain on the right elbow. Tusk relaxed, grinned, and sat down.

  "Good to see you, sir," he said.

  "It's good to see you, Tusk. Damn good." Dixter himself appeared to relax; the brown eyes in their maze of wrinkles warmed. "How's Nola?"

  "Fine, sir. She'll be along any minute. You can say hello.

  Well, no, you can't. I forgot. She can't squeeze through the hatch. We're . . . er . . . expecting again."

  "Are you? Congratulations! And how's my godson?"

  "Growing like a weed, sir. I can get him, if you'd like—"

  "No, you don't!" snapped XJ. "Don't bring that rug rat down into my cockpit!"

  "Oh, stow it!" Tusk started to stand up again, always proud to show off his son.

  "Perhaps in a moment," Dixter said, raising his hand. He continued to smile, but the tense expression was back. "I didn't call just to visit, though God knows it's been long enough since we have. Too long. I get busy...."

  He ran his hand through his graying hair, then came back abruptly to business. "I need information, Tusk. I want you to do a little investigating for me. I'm interested in knowing more about a group that calls itself the Ghost Legion. It may be a terrorist group, it may be a paramilitary— What is it? You know something?"

  "Sure, sir. I'm surprised you haven't heard about them. They've been advertising. I got some electronic mail from them. Link, too. They're looking for starpilots."

  "Indeed," Dixter murmured, his forehead creasing in a slight frown.

  "I guess you haven't been paying much attention to the Help Wanteds lately, sir," Tusk said.

  Dixter was lost in
thought, didn't appear to have heard. When he caught on, he looked rueful, smiled again. "No. No, I haven't. You think that's where they found your name?"

  Tusk looked startled. "I suppose. I never gave it much thought. I get lots of mail."

  "Mostly threatening to cut off our water," XJ commented.

  Tusk shot the computer a vicious glance.

  "What's their line?" Dixter asked. "Who are they? Where are they from? I don't suppose you'd have a recording of their message?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact I do, sir. You see, it sounded like a pretty good deal and, well, things haven't been going real great around here, what with Nola being pregnant again and all, and, well,"—Tusk appeared embarrassed—"I thought I might look into it."

  He began to sort through his vid files, kept talking as he searched.

  "According to their pitch, sir, these people live on a technologically underdeveloped planet that's suddenly come into a lot of wealth—some valuable type of resource—and they're afraid that bigger, stronger neighbors will try to muscle in. This Ghost Legion—that's what they call themselves—is looking to hire pilots to help them defend their planet."

  "But the Royal Navy would provide them protection, if they had a legitimate grievance."

  Tusk shook his head. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you know how that works. The Royal Navy can't intervene until a planet's been attacked. By that time, it's generally too late. Plus, you can't stay there forever. You've got a whole damn galaxy to watch. Who's going to mind the store when you're gone? Every planet's got the right to maintain its own defense, sir."

  "Of course," said John Dixter, preoccupied. "What's the name of this planet?"

  "I forget, sir. Something strange. I can send you the recording. ..."

  "Yes, I'd like to see it." He frowned. "You and Link.. .."

  "What's wrong with that, sir?"

  "I don't know. It seems odd, that's all. You each received the mail separately? Not under the name of the shuttle service you run?"

  "Yeah, that's right. Mine came through XJ, here. My system at home is . . . uh . . . out of commission."

  The computer made a rude noise.

  "And Link's came through his own spaceplane. . . ." Tusk gave a low whistle. "You know, there is something odd about that, sir. I never thought about it before. They sent it to Link's plane. He hasn't flown that plane in two years. Can't. Some loan shark's got a lien on it. But he's rigged up a betting system on his computer—you put in the horse, it figures the odds. It works about twenty percent of the time, like you might expect for Link. He keeps changin' the program. Anyway, he was fooling with it when he found this Ghost Legion ad."

  "Damn right, it's odd," Dixter said grimly. "How did they get your names and numbers? 1 never gave them out. You must have known that, Tusk. Too many of you were wanted men."

  "Yeah. The late and unlamented Derek Sagan would have given a starship to get his hands on those files. Speakin' of which, maybe—" "No," said Dixter. "All his old files on you mercenaries were purged after his death. No one—"

  "Excuse me, sir," XJ interrupted, "but there could be a completely logical and innocent explanation. Both Tusk and Link hold pilot's licenses on this planet. It is quite conceivable that this Ghost Legion simply sent out this flier to that mailing list.

  Tusk shook his head. "We're both registered under the business. It would have come addressed to 'Tusk's Link to the Stars.' It didn't. It came directly to me and directly to Link You've got me curious now, sir. I'll do some checking."

  Dixter nodded. "Good. That's what I was hoping for. Be discreet. You're interested in finding out about the job, nothing more. Do you keep up with any of the others from the old out fit?"

  "Gorbag the Jarun, Reefer. I think I could get hold of them You want to know if they got the same mail, huh, sir?"

  "Yes. And, Tusk, I'd think twice about signing up with them."

  "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why, sir."

  "I wish to God I knew," Dixter said.

  Tusk waited a moment, to see if anything more was forthcoming. It wasn't.

  "Yeah. Well, sir, maybe I can help. I'll be in touch, soon as I find out anything."

  "Thank you. I'll transmit my private access number. It's on a scrambler, so don't worry about eavesdroppers. The government will pay you for your time and reimburse you for any expenses. Give Nola and young John my love."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "And Tusk, be careful."

  "Sure, sir," said Tusk, startled.

  Dixter's image faded. Tusk sat, staring at the screen in wonder.

  "What the hell's up, you suppose?"

  "Beats me. Doesn't sound like it's going to make us much money, though," added XJ gloomily. "And when I think of what it's going to cost us, getting hold of those reprobate friends of yours. They're all probably in prison somewhere—"

  "Quit complaining. Dixter said he'd reimburse us."

  "That's true. He did say that, didn't he?" The computer's lights gleamed. "If we handle this right, we can soak the Royal Treasury for a bundle."

  "Yeah, then I'll be the one in prison."

  "At least that would stop this endless cycle of baby production. Speaking of which," XJ cut in before Tusk could yell, "Nola's outside the spaceplane. She's been shouting at you for the last five minutes."

  "Damn!"

  Now that Tusk was paying attention, he could hear her. Getting up from the pilot's chair, he climbed the ladder into the living quarters and headed for the second ladder that led up and out of the spaceplane.

  "And take your brat with you!" XJ yelled.

  Tusk grunted something it was probably just as well the computer didn't hear. Catching hold of young John, Tusk tucked his son under his arm and nimbly climbed the ladder.

  "Bye, Grandpa." The toddler waved at the plane's interior.

  "Grandpa!" XJ repeated in disgust. "Still, the kid is going to need a role model."

  The computer slid the hatch shut. Left alone, XJ took a quick inventory, made a note.

  "Buy more cookies."

  Chapter Five

  Best image of myself and dearer half

  —John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Tusk emerged into the bright sunshine of Vangelis, blinked and paused a moment to adjust his eyes after the spaceplane's cool and shadowy interior. Then he slid down the ladder, young John tucked under one arm, the toddler jouncing and grinning at the fun of the descent and the sight of his mother, waiting for them on the tarmac below.

  "He's not a sack of potatoes, you know," said Nola, rescuing her son from his precarious position. "What if you slipped?" She hugged the child, presented her cheek to her husband to be kissed.

  "I never slip. I'm surefooted, like a panther." Tusk grinned, kissed her, patted her rotund stomach. "What'd the doctor say?"

  Nola looked at him quizzically. Her nose wrinkled, which sent her freckles dancing across her face. "I think you better sit down. Maybe we should wait until we get home."

  "Can't. Got some work to do. Dixter called. What'd the doctor say?"

  "Dixter? General Dixter?" Nola was amazed. "What did he want?"

  "Tell you later. Now, what—"

  "All right. But let's get the kid out of the sun. Besides, I have to go to the bathroom."

  "We can go back in the plane . . . Oops, no. Sorry, I forgot." Tusk patted his wife's stomach again. "You're as big as a cruise liner. I don't remember you being this big with John. Here, we can go to the clubhouse. Get a beer."

  "You can have a beer." Nola sighed. "Water for me."

  They walked across the baking hot tarmac, heading for the small prefab hut that was known semi-sarcastically as the clubhouse. Tusk and Link kept the plane in a private spaceport lo-cated on the distant outskirts of Mareksville, one of the planet's larger and more prosperous cities. The spacesport was run-down, its tarmac cracked and broken. It had no hangars—not that Tusk and Link could have afforded the luxury of a hangar anyway— and no lights. Since
most of those who utilized this runway didn't care to be seen, this last was not an inconvenience.

  No government claimed the land on which the spaceport stood, so it was outside any government regulations. Occasionally it would occur to some newly elected official that it might be a good idea if the spaceport were shut down, but the people of Vangelis—having only recently overthrown a tyrannical oligarchy—were strong in the belief that a good government— like good children—should be seen and not heard.

  This time of day, the clubhouse—which consisted of a soft-drink machine, a beer machine, one human WC, one alien WC, numerous wooden tables and wobbly-legged chairs, and several ancient pinball machines—was empty. The beer was cold, the place was moderately clean and moderately air-conditioned. At least it was cooler inside than out. But then, as Tusk said, an oven would be cooler inside than out.

  Nola went to the bathroom. Tusk got himself a beer, his wife a bottle of water, and the kid fruit juice that would mostly end up on his shirt. John toddled happily among the chairs that were like a jungle to him, pushing them under the tables and pulling them out, returning to his parents whenever in need of a drink.

  "So what did the doctor say?" Tusk was beginning to get worried.

  Nola sat down, placed her sunburned freckled brown hand over her husband's smooth-skinned black hand, and looked him in the eye.

  "Twins."

  Tusk's jaw dropped.

  " 'Fraid so, darling," Nola said briskly. "They run in your family. Your mother told me so, last time she came to visit. So it's all your fault."

  "Twins," repeated Tusk dazedly.

  Nola's expression softened. She stroked his hand. "I'm sorry, dear."

  Tusk forced a smile. "Hell, like you said, it's my fault—"

  "No, I don't mean about that. I'm sorry for having this baby. These babies. Now, of all times." "We both agreed, remember? And I was there during the proceedings. A major participant." Tusk kissed his wife, took hold of her hand, squeezed it tightly. "I'm thrilled, honey. I really am."