Ghost Legion Read Online Free PDF Page A

life, despite the fact that people
admitted into the Royal Presence were carefully screened—generally
by their own governments in advance of His Majesty's visit—and
searched practically inside out for weapons.
    "I put my trust in God," Dion told an unhappy Dixter when
the admiral had made his formal protest.
    The king had smiled when he spoke, and so Dixter wasn't certain
whether His Majesty was being reassuring or ironic.
    The admiral was serious. "Begging your pardon, sit" he said
in a low tone, "but I knew another long who used to say that."
    Dion had reached out, placed his hand on the hand of his old friend.
"God watches over me, sir."
    "That may be true," Dixter later remarked to Cato, captain
of the Royal Guard, when they were discussing the matter: "But
who is watching over God?"
    "Derek Sagan," said Cato with a shrug.
    The story made its way around the barracks and was greatly
appreciated by the Royal Guard, most of whom had served under the
deceased Warlord. Dixter himself had smiled at the captain's
witticism, though he rather thought that Cato had been more serious
than otherwise.
    "I will not be seen living in fear," His Majesty had stated
on his first ascending to the throne. "My intent is to project
an image of calmness, tranquillity. If the people see that I and my
family feel secure, unafraid, then the people will feel secure,
unafraid. I must be seen to be in control of my present and of my
future."
    And it had worked. It was working. Dion had seized control of the
reins of state and was hanging on to them grimly. He had established
a constitutional monarchy, formed a parliament. Each day was a
struggle, however. Each day brought some new crisis for the young
king. Each day it seemed he might lose his grip, be jounced from the
saddle to fall in the mud. And there were many riding behind him,
waiting to trample him when he fell.
    "And he loves it," said Dixter now to himself.
    As the days progressed he watched the young king in awe, amazed that
someone in his early twenties could act and think with the wisdom of
far older years. Dion knew when to bring quarreling factions
together, knew when to keep them apart. He knew when to talk, when to
keep silent. Knew when to threaten, to bully; knew when to plead,
cajole. Politics never wore him out. It acted on him like a
stimulating drug. He would emerge from a grueling session looking
refreshed, invigorated, while others in attendance would come out
weary, drained, exhausted.
    The tour guide below was pointing out the location of the king's
private rooms, describing the myriad luxuries in a rapid-fire
monotone, machine-gunning the tourists with accounts of the royal
china, the royal silverware, the royal tablecloths and bed linens,
the royal jewels, the royal shoes, royal this and royal that and
royal so forth. The tourists, ducking beneath the hail of statistics,
looked up at the faraway windows in awe.
    Dixter looked at the windows in musing sorrow.
    It was behind those windows, when Dion was away from the cams and the
vids and the media, away from the "balm, the scepter and the
ball, the sword, the mace, the crown imperial... as Shakespeare
termed it in Henry V, that the drug wore off the reaction set
in. It was there, in his home, where he faced his most difficult
challenge. The young man who, at twenty-one, could bring warring star
systems together in peace could not manage to spend fifteen minutes
together peacefully with his wife.
    The door opened noiselessly. Dixter's aide-de-camp, Bennett, glided
into the room, unobtrusively began to set to rights everything the
Lord of the Admiralty had knocked askew.
    "Magnificent view, my lord," remarked Bennett, noting
Dixter's fixed stare.
    "Is it?" Dixter blinked, looked at what he had been looking
at. "Oh, yes. I suppose it is." He smiled ruefully. "You'll
never guess what I was seeing Bennett."
    "No, my lord," said Bennett in tones which indicated that
though he might not be able to guess, nothing