Dillon transited with the scrawny young woman and the trooper to a balcony perched to one side of a giant stone cube. When they arrived, she released them both and slid down the banister like a professional dancer. Or a thief. The guard ordered Dillon to descend the stairs in a more orthodox manner.
Dillon took his time, studying what he assumed was a battlefield garrison HQ. It had the orderly bedlam of a tight and efficient troop. He watched a transit team arrive with a clutch of prisoners whose terror-stricken expressions suggested they had no idea what had just happened to them. Which was interesting, as it suggested a world where transiting was unknown. He had to assume this was an outpost world. But if so, how did a military group form itself around a transit squad?
The lumpish guard pointed him to a spot directly below the balcony. A stone guardrail ran down the room’s center. The chamber reminded Dillon of a police station. The guard watched him carefully but kept his weapon pointed at his feet.
“Where are we?” Dillon asked.
“We wait for the commander.” The guard held up a hand to Dillon’s next question. “He asks the questions, not you.”
The warning carried no heat, so Dillon said, “Okeydokey.” And went back to rubbernecking.
The room was maybe sixty feet to a side. The shuttered windows were set along one wall that also contained broad double doors. The high ceiling and walls and floor were all carved from the same porous stone, more grey than yellow but pleasant to look at. Dillon wondered if the room had started life as a cave, for the corners were not completely symmetrical and the ceiling light-fixtures dangled from what appeared to be stumps of stalactite.
He asked the guard, “Are we underground?”
“We are indeed, good sir, and you must thank your lucky stars that’s the case. For this planet has no atmosphere of its own. None whatsoever!” The man who approached was only slightly older than Dillon, and despite his dusty and unkempt appearance, he carried himself with the air of a prince. He had flashing grey eyes and hair more russet than red. “Are you from the Human Assembly?”
“Sort of.”
“What a grand response! ‘Sort of.’ I take it you are not the Assembly’s official Examiner?”
“I’m a lieutenant with the Praetorian Guard,” Dillon replied. “Sort of.”
“I positively adore a man who can bend his words! Flavor and nuance are essentials to surviving tight spaces and wooing ladies, no?”
“Absolutely,” Dillon replied, liking the man already. “I’m Dillon.”
“And I am Vance. An honor to meet you.” He gave a courtly bow. “What sort of capacity brings you here to our corner of Aldwyn?”
The crowd that had grown around them consisted of young faces, none older than the officer who addressed him. Most were grinning, save for the girl who had brought him here and a taller woman now standing beside her. The woman’s cautious intelligence, her taut awareness, and the way the others gave her space suggested to Dillon that here stood another officer. She was also quite attractive, if one liked their ladies as beautiful as a polished blade.
Dillon did not respond to Vance, because the crowd parted and the team’s leader stepped forward. There was no question as to who Dillon now faced. He was no older than any of the others. But he carried himself with the bitter strength of a man either born or determined to rule. Dillon doubted the officer had slept in days.
The man nodded a greeting to Vance and asked, “What have you learned?”
“His name is Dillon, he’s with the Praetorian Guard, and he’s an unofficial representative of the Assembly. Sort of.” Not even his superior officer’s presence could stifle Vance’s affable good cheer. He said to Dillon, “Allow me the distinct pleasure of introducing Commander Logan. And this is my fellow officer, Subaltern Nicolette.”
Logan demanded, “How do you come to speak our language?”
“We’re prepped in advance of all landings, sir.”
“In what way?”
As Dillon opened his belt pouch, both Vance and the guard stepped in front of their commander. Dillon liked that, how they instinctively protected their chief, even if it meant risking their own safety. He slowly extracted the small case, opened the lid, and unfolded the device. “It’s called a language headset. You wear it while you’re asleep.”
Logan accepted the device, inspected it briefly, then handed it back. “How do you know your superiors won’t indoctrinate you with something other than a new tongue?”
Dillon folded the device and slipped it back into the box. “You don’t.”
“A dangerous implement,” Vance said.
“Almost as risky as transiting,” Dillon replied.
“As what?”
“Transiting. What we did to get here.”
Logan and his officer exchanged looks. “We call it ghost-walking.”
“I like that name,” Dillon said. “A lot.”
Nicolette stepped up to Logan’s other side and asked Dillon, “Why are you here?”
“I’m a spy.”
Logan’s smile transformed his features, erasing the harshness, at least for a moment. “Should you be telling me this?”
“Not if you’re my enemy,” Dillon replied. “But I’m pretty sure you’re not.”
Logan seemed to find that amusing as well. “Explain yourself.”
“I’ve been sent here to find a weapon.”
“What sort?”
“I have no specifics. We don’t even know if it actually exists.”
“This ‘we’ being the Praetorian Guard,” Logan said.
“Right.”
Vance offered, “It must be quite a device, to have the Praetorian Guard send a spy.”
“It is,” Dillon assured him. “If it exists.”
“Describe it,” Logan ordered.
“I was specifically not given details, because nothing concrete is known. But the rumors suggest it has the capacity to break through the shields that transiters create with the same energy they use to shift from place to place.” Their lack of surprise made him ask, “You can do this too?”
Nicolette demanded, “Why does this surprise you?”
“It’s just . . . we were told no one in this system could transit—ghost-walk.”
Their mirth was shared by all. Logan asked, “This transit energy can also be developed as a weapon?”
Dillon thought the guarded manner of their gazes suggested they already knew the answer. “Many different weapons.”
Logan asked, “You will show us?”
Though it would mean breaking about a dozen regs, Dillon did not hesitate. “Absolutely.”
Vance asked, “And what if we were to tell you that we possess the weapon your Praetorians seek?”
“Then I’m a dead man,” Dillon said, and matched his smile.
Logan asked, “So a rumor of this weapon brought you here to this wandering planet.”
“The merchant’s hut where your squad found me—he was a spy for the Assembly. He claimed the weapon exists and offered enough evidence to raise the alarms. Why did your squad enter that hut, by the way?”
“The squad clearing the area found a group of our foes gathered outside,” Vance replied, then pointed to the thin woman. “Sidra checked it out.”
The commander was clearly unimpressed. “You have been sent on a fool’s errand.”
“What makes you say that, sir?”
Vance replied, “Because ghost-walking has not existed in this system for over a thousand years.”
Nicolette added, “Long enough for ghost-walkers to become legends. Most people do not believe they ever existed.”
Which explained the prisoners’ terrified expressions. “And yet here you are,” Dillon said.
Both officers glanced at Logan, who replied, “Even so, there is no use for such a weapon as you describe.”
Dillon asked, “Mind if I stick around, you know, just in case?”
“You are wasting your time,” Logan replied. “Will there be more like you?”
“Not unless you want,” Dillon replied. “Not unless you invite them.”
“Which I most certainly do not. Is that clear?”
“Crystal. Sir.”
Logan inspected him with an officer’s gaze, probing far beneath the skin. “Why should I trust you?”
“I’ve been completely honest with you,” Dillon replied. “And who knows? I may be able to offer some support.”
“Then you may stay, under two conditions. First, you remain under guard at all times, and do not ghost-walk unless given express permission.”
“Agreed,” Dillon said.
“And second, you teach my ghost-walkers your methods of combat.”