Ghost Legion Read Free Page A

see them, hear
them out, act as if nothing was up, give them their orders, send them
away.
    He hit the switch, opened the door.
    The two entered. Xris shut the door behind them.
    "We'll talk in here," he said. "I can seal it off."
    Raoul nodded complacently. Raoul would have nodded complacently if
Xris had told him he was intending to blow off his head. Raoul was an
Adonian—a human race noted for then-beauty. He was also a Loti,
so called because he lived, thrived, and survived on mind-altering
drugs. He drifted through life in a state of euphoria, never
frightened, never upset, never disturbed by anything. At least, that
was how Raoul claimed he lived.
    Xris was beginning to wonder.
    During the past three years, Raoul had worked with Xris, been one of
the team. They'd handled several dangerous assignments and Xris had
seen Raoul in action, seen the Loti react to the unexpected swiftly,
alertly—too swiftly and too alertly for a doped-up Loti. And
yet he never lost the glassy-eyed gaze, the vacuous expression, the
isn't-the-world-a-beautiful-place smile. Not even when it seemed
likely that they were all about to die.
    Raoul glanced around in bored fashion as he minced inside the target
room, shuddered delicately. "A Corasian meat locker. How truly
ghastly."
    Purple-drenched eyelids fluttered. He smoothed his long black hair,
which had been ruffled by the slight breeze created by the opening of
the door. "You do find the most remarkably ugly places in which
to play your games, Xris Cyborg."
    Xris shrugged. Pulling out a particularly noxious form of cigarette
known as a twist, he stuck it in his mouth, lit it, breathed in the
foul-smelling smoke. "A little target practice, that's all."
    He was aware of a sudden change in Raoul's partner, known only as the
Little One. Two bright and intense eyes shifted their curious gaze
from the target range to Xris's face.
    If Raoul was a mystery, his partner was an enigma.
    No one had ever seen the Little One; no one had ever heard him speak.
No one knew his race, creed, color. All anyone had ever seen of him
was the raincoat, a pair of small humanoid hands, and those
penetrating eyes—the only portion of the small creature's face
visible from between the pointed collar of the overlarge raincoat in
which the empath habitually enveloped himself. All topped by a
battered fedora.
    Xris couldn't even say for sure that the Little One was a he, except
that Raoul termed him a he. But, given the Loti's own androgynous
state, Xris wasn't at all certain Raoul knew the difference.
    The Little One was getting too damned interested in Xris's insides.
    The cyborg did what he could to adjust his thought pro-cesses, but
this wasn't as easy as adjusting a cybernetic leg or hand. Too bad.
His brain should be a machine, like the rest of him.
    Erase. Shut down. Switch off.
    No more pain. No more hurt. Disk drive empty.
    "Too bad your late boss didn't set up a target range for
poisoners," he commented, taking a drag on the twist.
    "What an extraordinarily interesting idea," said Raoul,
struck. "Still, I don't quite see how it could have been
possible—considering the quiet nature of my profession—to
create that atmosphere of violence and excitement that you all seem
to find so attractive—"
    Raoul paused at this point, glanced down at the Little One. The Loti
looked back at Xris, and the shimmering, drug-vacant eyes didn't
appear to be quite as vacant as the cyborg would have liked.
    "The Little One says you are not seeking thrills this day, Xris
Cyborg," said Raoul, flipping his black hair over his shoulders
with a graceful motion of his delicate hands.
    He looked around at the target range, at the elaborate sets designed
to replicate perfectly the inside of a Corasian "meat"
locker, at the scoreboard that registered two kills for the
Corasians, at the dummy—dressed to resemble a human
female—lying huddled on the floor of the cell.
    "You are practicing here