Ghost Legion (53 page)

"He was considerably upset. He is opposed to kidnapping under
most circumstances, and he has a high opinion of Her Majesty—"

"I don't mean that," Xris snapped. "I mean did he get
any . .. you know—
feelings ...
about who sent the goddam
message!"

Raoul's eyes opened wide, evincing astonishment. "My, my, we are
irritable." He paused a moment, glanced down at the Little One.
"Is that so?" He looked back at Xris. "Well, well,
well. Now I understand. I am sorry, friend Xris. I did not mean to
unduly try your patience. Yes, the Little One did receive a sort of a
feeling from the message. The Little One is of the opinion that the
message could have quite possibly come from Lord Sagan."

"Quite possibly?" Xris repeated. "Just what the hell—"

The Little One lifted his head; the two bright eyes were once again
visible. Xris wondered what all that sympathetic "well,
well-ing" had been over and just exactly what Raoul was sorry
about.

"Skip it," he said, mulling things over.

Sagan's body had never been recovered, nor any remnants of his
spaceplane. Not that one usually found remnants of a plane after the
Corasians had finished with it. Or body parts either. But Xris had
always wondered. He'd always assumed that it would take a lot more
than a bunch of lava-brained aliens to do in Derek Sagan.

"So let's suppose that Sagan is alive." He put the
proposition to Raoul, who tried hard to look interested. "And he
sent this message, using his old code number because that's the only
one he knows, yet making it clear that he doesn't expect me to get
curious about who sent it or why.

"Which I'm not," he added reassuringly, glancing around the
room, just in case. Derek Sagan was one person the cyborg didn't
intend to cross—dead or alive. "It's none of my business.

"But this about the queen," he continued. "This is my
business."

Her Majesty was paying him to hang around on Ceres, in case she
needed help with the king's mistress or to return the young woman to
her home or whatever other plan Astarte had dreamed up. Women. Xris
decided that never in his entire life would he understand them.

He recalled a conversation he'd had with her on their way back to
Ceres after leaving the Academy.

"I know what I'd do if this were my wife's lover," he'd
said, looking down at the comatose Kamil.

"Oh?" Astarte had regarded him with maddening calm. "Did
your wife have lovers?"

"Huh?" Xris had stared at her. "We're not talking
about me—"

Astarte had merely shrugged. "You brought it up. Shall I tell
you what I think about your wife? That she has loved no one in her
life but you. She still loves you. And you risked your life to save
her from a horrible death. How wonderful you must have looked to her,
alone and frightened in that terrible place. Like an angel. . . ."

At that point, Xris had walked out.

"W hat shall we do, friend Xris?" Raoul prodded the cyborg
out of his reverie. "Are we to take this seriously? Should we
alert the king? Warn Her Majesty—"

"It's not that simple," Xris muttered. He stood up, took a
twist from his pocket, stared at it, shoved it back. Walking over to
the window, he parted the curtain a centimeter, looked outside. "We
can send a message to His Majesty through Dixter. Though I'm not sure
what good that will do. His Majesty's there, the queen's here."

Raoul glanced in some astonishment around the room.

"In the Temple of the Goddess on Ceres," Xris explained.

"Oh ..." Raoul smiled. "I see."

"Yeah. And that's the problem. The only people who can get
inside that temple are holy types. Priests and priestesses, that
sort."

"Not us?" Raoul was disappointed.

"No, not us."

"A pity. I did so want to meet Her Majesty. She has a trick of
putting on liquid eyeliner.. . . I've attempted to emulate it, but I
cannot seem to get it to look the way she does. I was going to ask
her—"

"Some other time," said Xris dryly.

"I suppose. . . . Could we get a message to her? You must be in
communication—"

"Her Majesty communicates with me. Not me with her. Especially
now. These are Holy Days or something like that. The High Priestess
is incommunicado."

"What about her mother, the baroness? A woman of great physical
prowess. I've always imagined she'd be good with whips. .. ."
Raoul sighed.

Xris was thinking, and it wasn't about Adonian "imaginings."
People made vids out of those.

"No," said the cyborg at length. "Obviously Sagan—or
whoever sent that damn message—doesn't want this spread all
over the galaxy. And what could we say anyway? What have we got? A
voice from the grave. DiLuna would laugh us off the planet."

He gave the matter more thought, made a decision. "I'll send a
report to Dixter. See what he says. He may know something about this
from his end. Then we'll
try
to get an audience with the
queen."

Now that his mind was made up, Xris began to move with his customary
speed. "We'll head back to the spaceport; my plane's parked
there. I'll contact Dixter, pick up weapons. Speaking of which, you
boys armed?"

"The usual," said Raoul, smiling.

"I don't think poison lip gloss is going to come in handy."
Xris grunted. "What about him? He got that blowgun of his?"

"The Little One always carries it about his person. He finds it
gives him a secure feeling. So much anger in the universe ..."

"Yeah, it's a problem, all right. Bernard said you've made some
improvement in shooting a lasgun."

"So long as the target is fairly large and makes no sudden
movements, I have been known to come extremely close." Raoul
rose to his feet, paused to study his shapely calves anxiously in the
mirror. "Does that spot show?"

"You look lovely," the cyborg assured him, herding him and
the Little One out the door.

"Thank you, friend Xris. As to the shooting," continued
Raoul, considerably charmed with the subject, "I must admit I do
believe I am improving. Lately, on the target range, I have only hit
myself twice, the Little One once, and Bernard three times. I believe
that is a personal best."

"Stick to lip gloss," Xris advised.

Large crowds lined the roads leading up to the mountain to the
temple. This day of the week long festival celebrating the coming of
spring was the day for the Procession of the Children. Everyone in
the temple city was -present to witness the parade of the Goddess's
chosen, winding its slow and solemn way to the temple proper.

The parade was not, as one might suppose, a parade dedicated to the
celebration of youth. All mortal beings are considered children of
the Goddess. Those taking part in the procession (the only ones
permitted inside the sacred precinct on this day) were the priests
and priestesses who served the Goddess. They came from all over the
galaxy, wherever the Goddess was honored. Each wore his or her own
native dress and, as there were also many alien species in the
parade, the procession was always a colorful and educational event.

Everyone attended. Businesses were closed. Transportation in and
around and over the city of Ceres came to a virtual standstill. All
major routes were blocked off. People lined the streets. Hover
traffic was prohibited, ostensibly in keeping with the sacred nature
of the day, in reality to prevent midair collisions over the parade
route.

Xris reached the spaceport before air-space was shut down. In his
ship, he made a quick call to Dixter, who was vague when it came to
Derek Sagan, but emphatic in urging the cyborg to get to the
temple—fast. And that, unfortunately, proved impossible.
Airspace was now off-limits and ground traffic was backed up for
kilometers. Xris commandeered a motorcycle, drove it as near the
temple as possible. (Raoul, clinging to Xris tightly; the Little One,
adhering to Raoul's back like a leech, was ecstatic.) When even the
motorcycle got bogged down, Xris abandoned it. The three took to
their feet.

The cyborg's strength cleaved a path through the throng, though he
made few friends along the route. He pushed, shoved, and occasionally
lifted people bodily out of his way. Those who thought at first they
were going to be angry over being manhandled quickly changed their
minds when they saw the sunlight shining off the cyborg's steel hand.
Raoul and the Little One followed in the wake left by Xris's passing,
stumbling over feet and legs and offering a babbling, ever-flowing
stream of apologies.

"And these people call themselves religious!" Raoul stated,
his cheeks and ears flushed red with exertion and indignation. "I've
never
heard
such language! The Little One is quite shaken."

Xris glanced down at the small figure, saw that the fedora was
trembling, the raincoat shivering. Raoul had hold of one of his
friend's arms, was half-supporting, half-dragging him along.

"Tell the Little One I'm sorry, but I don't have time to be
polite." Xris paused a moment to scan the situation.

They had reached the main road leading from the city to the temple.
The head of the procession was still several meters behind them,
moving along at a slow pace. The temple was in front of him.

Leading the procession were prominent people from all over the
galaxy. Last year, the king himself had attended, walking the path
with the rest of the faithful, endearing himself to the crowd. This
year, pressures of state had forced His Majesty to forgo his
appearance, but the prime minister was in attendance, as well as
numerous members of the Galactic parliament, other religious leaders,
and dignitaries and potentates from all over the galaxy.

The doors to the temple were open to receive them. Temple guards
stood on the stairs; priests were on hand to welcome the faithful
inside. Astarte, queen and High Priestess, was not visible. According
to Dixter, she would be somewhere inside the temple proper, spending
the day in devout prayer. She would not be seen at all, would not
greet her guests until after sundown, when all would assemble in a
large arena on the temple grounds.

"Now that we are here, friend Xris," said Raoul as he
en-deavored to soothe the wounded feelings of the Little One, "what
do we do?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Xris stated, eyeing the
situation with mounting frustration.

There was no way, absolutely no way—that Xris could see—to
get inside. A reporter tried it, waving something in the air and
jabbering about a press pass. One of the temple guards strong-armed
the man, turned him over to the baroness's army. The reporter was
hustled away without ceremony. The last Xris saw of the man, he was
being made to eat his press pass. The cyborg swore beneath his
breath, took out a twist, stuck it in his mouth, and began to chew on
the end.

"Surely the queen is safe for the moment," Raoul commented.
"No one would attempt anything in this mob, under the eyes of
the galaxy." He cast a significant glance at the staring lenses
of innumerable remote vidcams that hovered over the heads of the
crowds.

"Who knows? If it was some sort of terrorist group, they'd like
nothing better than to be splashed all over the vidscreen. Dixter
took it seriously enough."

"He promised he would endeavor to warn Her Majesty of her
danger," Raoul shouted, raising his voice to be heard above the
roar of the crowd.

"I doubt if he'll meet with much success. No intrusion from the
physical realm is allowed to interfere with the holy ceremonies, or
something like that."

"What?" Raoul yelled.

Xris shook his head.
Forget it,
he mouthed.

The procession was nearing the temple. The crowd surged forward. The
baroness's troops—guarding the parade route— shoved the
people back. The Little One was bowled over and nearly trampled.
Raoul hauled his friend to his feet. Xris caught hold of both of
them, dragged them close to him. No one came too near the cyborg.
Those who did gave the metal arm and leg—with their flashing
lights and ominous beeping sounds—a startled glance and backed
off as far as they could.

The head of the procession moved slowly toward them. In the vanguard
was a double line of robed and hooded men and women, singing a hymn
of praise to the Goddess, carrying fruits of Her bounty in their arms
as offerings. Behind them marched the dignitaries. Among them,
expressing his respect and reverence for a religion that had, in the
old days, rivaled his own, walked the archbishop of the Order of
Adamant. The days of animosity and intolerance between the two
religions were over and, though certain radical members of each group
continued to cause strife, the majority of clerics in both orders
worked hard to maintain peace.

"Too bad we did not think to disguise ourselves," yelled
Raoul in the cyborg's good ear.

Xris looked down at his own steel weapons hand, glanced at the
lip-glossed and rouged Adonian, and snorted. "What as? Dancing
girls?"

Raoul appeared about to comment on this, but the Little One suddenly
tugged urgently on his sleeve. The raincoated arm lifted and a small
hand emerged pointing at the passing group of singing men and women
now filing inside the temple door. Raoul cocked his head toward his
friend, then sidled close to the cyborg.

"Friend Xris," he said in a low, urgent tone, "the
Little One tells me that those clerics are not thinking holy
thoughts. They are hostile and full of evil intent."

"What?" Xris looked down at the empath. "Is he sure?
You said he was shaken up—"

"He is certain," said Raoul. The drugged slur had
disappeared from the voice; the shimmering eyes were actually in
focus. "He says they carry weapons of destruction beneath their
robes."

"And they're marching right into the temple!" Xris swore in
frustration. "And here we stand."