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Authors: Margaret Weis
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the Laundromat."
"Who gave you the cookies, Johnny?" Nola asked, lifting the
child into her lap.
Caught by the enemy, young John made a valiant effort to protect his
source.
"Pinball," he said—a new word and one of which he was
inordinately proud. He looked hopefully at his father, attempting at
the same time to squirm out of the interrogator's grasp. "Daddy
play."
"Not now." Tusk reached out and ruffled the child's thick
black hair. "Maybe later."
"John, who gave you the cookies? No, no more orange juice. Tell
mama."
So it was to be torture. John eyed the orange juice that had been
scooted across the table, just out of reach. He left his comrade to
his fate.
"Dranpa," said the child, reaching out his hands for the
bottle.
"Grandpa?" Nola stared at Tusk. "Who's he talking
about?" She gave John a drink of juice.
"Beats me," said Tusk, puzzled. Then, "I know. XJ!"
"You're kidding!"
"Why, that hypocritical old fart. Going on and on about how much
he hates the kid and slipping him cookies on the sly." Tusk
rubbed his hands. "This is too good. I'll hang on to this. Maybe
catch XJ in the act. He'll owe me big on this one!"
"When you do, let me know. I'm going to have a little talk with
'Dranpa.' There you go, Johnny. Go play." Nola set the child
down on the floor, absentmindedly ate the rest of his cookie. "What's
wrong, Tusk?"
He glanced up. "Tell mama?" He smiled at her.
"Or no more beer." She took hold of the can, smiled back.
"I was thinking about starting work again," Tusk said, not
looking at her.
Nola paled a little beneath the freckles. "You mean mercenary
work?"
Tusk nodded. Lifting his beer, he drank it, made a face. "Damn
stuff's warm."
"Is that what Dixter called you about?"
"Yes. No. Well, sort of. He wants me to check out this
organization he heard about. The Ghost Legion. I told you about them,
showed you the vid they sent."
"Yes, but you're not seriously considering going?" She
looked at him anxiously.
Tusk took her hand again. "We're up against it, sweetheart. I
found out today that we don't have any medical coverage—"
"Oh, Tusk .. ." Nola sighed.
"Just one job. Until we can get back on our feet."
"But what about Link? The plane? He's half-owner. . . ."
"They're mainly interested in pilots. I'll leave Link the plane.
He can continue the business. He doesn't need me to run it. The
customers like him. You and XJ can keep an eye on him, make sure he
doesn't gamble away all the profits."
"But if Dixter wants you to check this Ghost Whatzit out, he
must think there's something wrong with it."
"Naw. Just routine."
Not for the first time, Tusk blessed his ebony complexion. If he'd
been a white-skinned human, he'd have been red to the eyeballs and
Nola would have spotted his lie in an instant.
As it was, she was staring at him, hard. "Routine, huh? Dixter
has a staff of a couple of thousand people, not to mention spies of
every shape, race, and nationality, and he comes to you to run a routine check?" Her eyes narrowed. "There's
something you're not telling me."
"I swear. Just routine. Maybe he heard we were hard up and
wanted to throw some bucks our way. This Ghost Legion's offering big
money, Nola. Big, big money. More'n I could earn in a year. And it'd
be all ours. No splitting it with Link. We'll invest it, live off it
until we get the business going again."
"If you come back alive," Nola said somberly.
If I don't, there's the death benefits they've promised to pay to
the surviving family members , was what Tusk almost said, but he
snapped his mouth shut. More than half-afraid she might see in his
eyes what he was thinking (she'd done that to him, more than once),
Tusk took this opportunity to excuse himself.
"I'm going to the head."
He stayed in there long enough to change back into the old jaunty,
devil-may-care Mendaharin Tusca, former mercenary who'd defeated a
powerful Warlord, defeated evil aliens from a distant galaxy, helped
put a king on his throne. Yep. Those had
"Who gave you the cookies, Johnny?" Nola asked, lifting the
child into her lap.
Caught by the enemy, young John made a valiant effort to protect his
source.
"Pinball," he said—a new word and one of which he was
inordinately proud. He looked hopefully at his father, attempting at
the same time to squirm out of the interrogator's grasp. "Daddy
play."
"Not now." Tusk reached out and ruffled the child's thick
black hair. "Maybe later."
"John, who gave you the cookies? No, no more orange juice. Tell
mama."
So it was to be torture. John eyed the orange juice that had been
scooted across the table, just out of reach. He left his comrade to
his fate.
"Dranpa," said the child, reaching out his hands for the
bottle.
"Grandpa?" Nola stared at Tusk. "Who's he talking
about?" She gave John a drink of juice.
"Beats me," said Tusk, puzzled. Then, "I know. XJ!"
"You're kidding!"
"Why, that hypocritical old fart. Going on and on about how much
he hates the kid and slipping him cookies on the sly." Tusk
rubbed his hands. "This is too good. I'll hang on to this. Maybe
catch XJ in the act. He'll owe me big on this one!"
"When you do, let me know. I'm going to have a little talk with
'Dranpa.' There you go, Johnny. Go play." Nola set the child
down on the floor, absentmindedly ate the rest of his cookie. "What's
wrong, Tusk?"
He glanced up. "Tell mama?" He smiled at her.
"Or no more beer." She took hold of the can, smiled back.
"I was thinking about starting work again," Tusk said, not
looking at her.
Nola paled a little beneath the freckles. "You mean mercenary
work?"
Tusk nodded. Lifting his beer, he drank it, made a face. "Damn
stuff's warm."
"Is that what Dixter called you about?"
"Yes. No. Well, sort of. He wants me to check out this
organization he heard about. The Ghost Legion. I told you about them,
showed you the vid they sent."
"Yes, but you're not seriously considering going?" She
looked at him anxiously.
Tusk took her hand again. "We're up against it, sweetheart. I
found out today that we don't have any medical coverage—"
"Oh, Tusk .. ." Nola sighed.
"Just one job. Until we can get back on our feet."
"But what about Link? The plane? He's half-owner. . . ."
"They're mainly interested in pilots. I'll leave Link the plane.
He can continue the business. He doesn't need me to run it. The
customers like him. You and XJ can keep an eye on him, make sure he
doesn't gamble away all the profits."
"But if Dixter wants you to check this Ghost Whatzit out, he
must think there's something wrong with it."
"Naw. Just routine."
Not for the first time, Tusk blessed his ebony complexion. If he'd
been a white-skinned human, he'd have been red to the eyeballs and
Nola would have spotted his lie in an instant.
As it was, she was staring at him, hard. "Routine, huh? Dixter
has a staff of a couple of thousand people, not to mention spies of
every shape, race, and nationality, and he comes to you to run a routine check?" Her eyes narrowed. "There's
something you're not telling me."
"I swear. Just routine. Maybe he heard we were hard up and
wanted to throw some bucks our way. This Ghost Legion's offering big
money, Nola. Big, big money. More'n I could earn in a year. And it'd
be all ours. No splitting it with Link. We'll invest it, live off it
until we get the business going again."
"If you come back alive," Nola said somberly.
If I don't, there's the death benefits they've promised to pay to
the surviving family members , was what Tusk almost said, but he
snapped his mouth shut. More than half-afraid she might see in his
eyes what he was thinking (she'd done that to him, more than once),
Tusk took this opportunity to excuse himself.
"I'm going to the head."
He stayed in there long enough to change back into the old jaunty,
devil-may-care Mendaharin Tusca, former mercenary who'd defeated a
powerful Warlord, defeated evil aliens from a distant galaxy, helped
put a king on his throne. Yep. Those had
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