certain he could make it up the ladder. "Look, I want to
see for myself what they tell Link. You try to reach Gorbag the
Jarun, Reefer, and any of the rest of the old outfit you can think
of. Make it casual. Like we're checking this Ghost Legion out, just
to see if it's as good as it looks."
"You're getting old," XJ repeated. "Old and soft. You
were glad."
Tusk climbed the ladder, stomped up the rungs, felt the metal vibrate
beneath his fingers. XJ had the hatch open by the time Tusk reached
it.
"Call Nola, will you? Tell her I may not be home for dinner."
"Old," muttered XJ. "Old and soft."
The computer waited until it could no longer register the sound of
the whining clunk of the hovercraft's engine. Then it raised Nola on
the commlink.
"This is me, Nola. Tusk won't be home for dinner tonight. . . .
Yeah, he's got the shakes again. Bad this time. He's gone over to
Link's. . . . Over a year. It was that job Dixter wanted him
to do. . . . Naw, Tusk's not gonna do it, but it looked like for a
while he might. . . . What? Oh, sure, it figures, Dixter. Dion. No
wonder. Brought it all back... . Me? Of course I was sympathetic and
tactful! Tact is my middle name. I told him he was getting old
and soft. . .. No, he didn't say anything. ... What? Twins? Oh, great. Fine. Yeah, that's just dandy. Look, if you two haven't
figured out what's causing this yet, I'll be happy to buy you a
manual!"
XJ ended the transmission with a vicious click. "Twins!"
the computer repeated in a gloomy tone, and immediately called up the
computerized grocery service, ordered out two cases of cookies.
Chapter Eight
There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and
here's some for me ...
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene v
Three years ago, and almost eighteen years before that, the Academy
had been a ghostly place. Once it had been an institution of learning
for the children of the Blood Royal. Brought here at an early age,
the children, whose genetically altered bloodlines gave them special
talent for leadership (or at least that had been the plan), were
raised in an atmosphere dedicated to learning.
The site had been chosen with care. The Academy was built on a planet
whose atmosphere and environs were as close to old Earth
(pre-devastation Earth) as the designers could possibly find and far
from all major cities, trade routes, and any other type of disturbing
influence.
Built among rolling, thickly forested hills, the Academy's halls and
libraries and classrooms stood solemn and quiet, each connected with
the rest by winding paths which led through groves of towering oak
and poplar and aspen, gardens of flowers and vegetables (the students
and professors were required to grow much of their own food),
rambling brooks and placid lakes.
Following the downfall and purge of the Blood Royal during the
revolution, the Academy was abandoned. Attempts at various times to
use the buildings and grounds for other purposes—from public
housing to a retirement center—had all failed. It was rumored
to be haunted, if not by genuine, chain-rattling ghosts, then by the
ghosts of childish voices reciting Shakespeare or the multiplication
tables, ghosts of youthful voices discussing quantum mechanics or, in
the spring, Walt Whitman and D. H. Lawrence. Perhaps it really was
only the rubbing of tree limbs, one against the other, that created
the odd sounds, but no one could stay on the Academy grounds long
without hearing them. Most left, immediately.
But now all that had changed.
One of Dion's first official acts, following his coronation, had been
to reestablish the Academy, open it as an institution of higher
learning for any student creatively gifted, academically talented
enough to qualify for admission.
Old buildings had been lovingly renovated, new buildings added, their
designers careful to coordinate them with the old. Grants were
established, many in the names of those who had died in the fight to
end the corrupt
see for myself what they tell Link. You try to reach Gorbag the
Jarun, Reefer, and any of the rest of the old outfit you can think
of. Make it casual. Like we're checking this Ghost Legion out, just
to see if it's as good as it looks."
"You're getting old," XJ repeated. "Old and soft. You
were glad."
Tusk climbed the ladder, stomped up the rungs, felt the metal vibrate
beneath his fingers. XJ had the hatch open by the time Tusk reached
it.
"Call Nola, will you? Tell her I may not be home for dinner."
"Old," muttered XJ. "Old and soft."
The computer waited until it could no longer register the sound of
the whining clunk of the hovercraft's engine. Then it raised Nola on
the commlink.
"This is me, Nola. Tusk won't be home for dinner tonight. . . .
Yeah, he's got the shakes again. Bad this time. He's gone over to
Link's. . . . Over a year. It was that job Dixter wanted him
to do. . . . Naw, Tusk's not gonna do it, but it looked like for a
while he might. . . . What? Oh, sure, it figures, Dixter. Dion. No
wonder. Brought it all back... . Me? Of course I was sympathetic and
tactful! Tact is my middle name. I told him he was getting old
and soft. . .. No, he didn't say anything. ... What? Twins? Oh, great. Fine. Yeah, that's just dandy. Look, if you two haven't
figured out what's causing this yet, I'll be happy to buy you a
manual!"
XJ ended the transmission with a vicious click. "Twins!"
the computer repeated in a gloomy tone, and immediately called up the
computerized grocery service, ordered out two cases of cookies.
Chapter Eight
There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and
here's some for me ...
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene v
Three years ago, and almost eighteen years before that, the Academy
had been a ghostly place. Once it had been an institution of learning
for the children of the Blood Royal. Brought here at an early age,
the children, whose genetically altered bloodlines gave them special
talent for leadership (or at least that had been the plan), were
raised in an atmosphere dedicated to learning.
The site had been chosen with care. The Academy was built on a planet
whose atmosphere and environs were as close to old Earth
(pre-devastation Earth) as the designers could possibly find and far
from all major cities, trade routes, and any other type of disturbing
influence.
Built among rolling, thickly forested hills, the Academy's halls and
libraries and classrooms stood solemn and quiet, each connected with
the rest by winding paths which led through groves of towering oak
and poplar and aspen, gardens of flowers and vegetables (the students
and professors were required to grow much of their own food),
rambling brooks and placid lakes.
Following the downfall and purge of the Blood Royal during the
revolution, the Academy was abandoned. Attempts at various times to
use the buildings and grounds for other purposes—from public
housing to a retirement center—had all failed. It was rumored
to be haunted, if not by genuine, chain-rattling ghosts, then by the
ghosts of childish voices reciting Shakespeare or the multiplication
tables, ghosts of youthful voices discussing quantum mechanics or, in
the spring, Walt Whitman and D. H. Lawrence. Perhaps it really was
only the rubbing of tree limbs, one against the other, that created
the odd sounds, but no one could stay on the Academy grounds long
without hearing them. Most left, immediately.
But now all that had changed.
One of Dion's first official acts, following his coronation, had been
to reestablish the Academy, open it as an institution of higher
learning for any student creatively gifted, academically talented
enough to qualify for admission.
Old buildings had been lovingly renovated, new buildings added, their
designers careful to coordinate them with the old. Grants were
established, many in the names of those who had died in the fight to
end the corrupt
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