Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire"

The lone spaceplane flew upon its strange journey, heading deliberately for a part of space in which no life existed. A part of space that was, according to record, uninhabitable, unsuited for the maintenance of human life, one that had never even nurtured alien life.

The spaceplane itself was unprepossessing in appearance, being one of those simple, cheaply but well-made volksrockets valued by traveling salesman, rock-star groupies, and missionaries. This particular spaceplane had obviously, from its religious markings, been used by a missionary of the Order of Adamant in the early, pre-Revolution days. It was unarmed, of course, and was badly in need of exterior maintenance, having been resurrected from a wayside combination space museum and petting zoo.

It had taken seventy-two hours for Sagan to locate the plane, on Omega 11, make necessary repairs, and refit it with the special and complex instruments delivered by courier from Admiral Dixter. Sagan had not slept those seventy-two hours. He was impelled by an urgency that had no tangible source, but was like a nagging tug at his sleeve, a foot tapping impatiently.

I am waiting for you, a voice seemed to say, but I will not wait long.

Sagan had worked in solitude, careful not to attract the attention of Omega's inhabitants. He had put away the clergyman's habit and vestments, which might have excited comment. Dressed in military fatigues purchased from an army surplus store, he looked like any other aging spacer, who had taken it into his head to build a rocket ship in his garage. Omega 11 was a middle-class suburban planet, circling a much larger more important planet-Omega 12-and its people were not inclined to be overly curious. A group of neighborhood chil-dren, lining up in a vacant lot to watch the volksrocket being towed to the spacesport, had been Sagan's only audience.

He traveled hyperspace to as near Vallombrosa as the Lanes would take him, left them at the same point the explorer Garth Pantha had left them on his journey. Sagan had entered Pantha's old log (part of the courier's delivery from Admiral Dixter) into the spaceplane's computer. It was a voice log, deliberately recorded by Pantha for playback on his own vidshow. Sagan listened to the entire log often; the gravelly voice with the honey drawl became a familiar companion on the long trip, as familiar to him as the notes of Bach's Concerto No. 2 in F, one of the several "Brandenburg Concertos" he had brought to fill the silence that was now so terribly silent.

He listened to Pantha's narrative with the ear of one who not only enjoyed music but who subconsciously analyzed musical cadences and intricate patterns. Hearing the log over and over again, Sagan was interested to note that, at one point in the narrative, Pantha's discourse grated on the ear, as if the conductor and entire orchestra had skipped a measure.

"Computer, analyze voice patterns," Sagan commanded. "Specifically, was this section of the voice log data entered at the same time as the rest of the log?"

The computer's response was negative. The original log entry had been erased and this entry substituted. The splicing had been expertly done. Sagan himself had not noticed it at first. Constant repetition, familiarization with the rhythms and patterns of Pantha's speech, and the Warlord's own finely tuned musical ear had caught the slight discrepancy.

The original log entry concerning Vallombrosa had been altered by Pantha, presumably at a later date. He had entered his initial discovery of Vallombrosa and information concerning it in his log; then he had, for some reason, altered the log.

Sagan sat back in the pilot's chair, leaned his elbows on the armrests, placed his fingertips together, and gazed out over them at tiny specks, like glittering dust, that were as Vallombrosa's suns.

"Why did you alter it? What did you discover that you decided to keep hidden? Or perhaps not completely hidden. Perhaps you gave us a clue. The name. Vallombrosa. Vale of Shades. Valley of Ghosts. You told us that much-a clever little joke for your own private amusement."

He pondered on the problem long, considering this, discarding that. One of the first things he threw out was the information gathered from the unmanned space probes. That information was false, he decided, although how it had been altered, who or what had found the means to tamper with the probes without revealing themselves to the probes was a fascinating problem. At length he gave up trying to solve it and went to bed. He would have answers tomorrow, for he would, by his calculations, be near enough to the planet to take his own readings-unless something decided to tamper with him.

The next day, something did.

His first indication of the strange presence came moments before he would reach the point where his instruments could begin long-range scanning of the planet. He was standing in the small galley, brewing a pot of oolong tea (a luxury he had denied himself during his years at the abbey) when he experienced a most remarkable and unusual sensation.

He felt compressed, as if each bone and muscle in his body were being compacted, as if his limbs were now made of lead, as if every gram of body weight was suddenly equivalent to a kilogram. The sensation passed immediately, almost before his brain could register it, and he might have ignored it except that there was an odd deja vu quality about it, as if it had happened to him before.

At almost precisely the same instant, sensor alarms sounded. He looked swiftly about the interior of the small spaceplane. Movement caught his eye-the breviary lying on his nightstand rose into the air, then fell back down. The book had moved only the barest fraction of a centimeter, but the book had certainly moved.

Forgetting the tea, Sagan advanced to the console, to eagerly examine the instruments, which were not standard equipment on a volksrocket. Whatever had been in his plane was now apparently gone. All instrument readings-from motion detectors to heat sensors-were back to normal. But there had been something on board. It had left its trace. He began to compare the data with the readings taken from the security devices guarding the dwelling place of the late Snaga Ohme.

Sagan studied again Xris's vid report (compliments of Dixter), and he understood why the odd feeling of being compressed had seemed familiar to him. It had happened before- only not to him. He came to that part of Xris's report, played it back.

"Now, that's another strange thing, boss," the cyborg was saying. "The guards didn't see or hear anything, but one of them reported feeling something. About a split second before the alarm went off. She said she felt as if she'd been shoved into a compression chamber. The feeling passed immediately. She shows no physical damage, no chemical alteration. No increase in radiation level, no aftereffects. But notice where she was standing, boss."

According to Dixter's files, the guard had been standing right in the path the "ghosts" had taken to enter the sealed vault. Sagan reran the report, time and again, matched it with his own instrument readings.

Xris: "The first we know we're being invaded, the motion detectors inside the house start registering movement. Like you see there."

Sagan's own motion detectors had picked up movement inside the spaceplane.

Xris: "A drop in barometric pressure-in certain areas only- and a corresponding movement of the air in places where no air should be moving."

Sagan's instruments registered the same.

Xris: "The thing moved too damn fast. It made it safely to the house, slid right through a fortified exterior wall that could withstand a direct hit from a lascannon and not buckle. Nothing stopped it. Nothing even phased it, apparently."

It had passed through the hull of a spaceplane-not a plane intended for combat, admittedly, but one meant to withstand the rigors of space travel.

Xris: ". . . We registered an increase in the radiation level around the vault. Not much. But enough to make us suspicious, especially tracing the path the thing took. We examined the vault's superstructure. There'd been an alteration in the metal itself, a chemical change, enough to generate radioactivity. And only in that one place, directly in line with the path."

Sagan examined the plane's superstructure, the console's, the nightstand on which the breviary rested. An increase in radioactivity.

Xris: "The bomb was moved."

Dixter: "Moved?"

Xris: "Jostled, handled. Not much-a fraction of a fraction of a centimeter before it vanished. But enough to set off the alarm."

And the book had moved. Another man might have doubted his own senses, told himself he was seeing things, but Sagan had no such self-doubts. He had trained himself to be observant, had trained himself to trust those observations once he'd analyzed them. He knew he hadn't been seeing things. Ghostly hands had touched that book. The same ghostly hands that had touched the fake bomb.

The same ghostly hands that had, apparently, touched him. He was beginning to get a faint glimmer of what might have happened to the space probes.

He took his seat in- the pilot's chair. The plane was now within instrument range of the planet. Whatever was going to happen should happen now. He was either going to be permitted to find out the truth ... or he was going to be stopped.

Sagan waited, alert, tense. He was not particularly fearful. Whatever it was, whoever it was, wanted him here. He had, in a sense, received an invitation to this party. But there was always the chance (however slight) that he had miscalculated, misjudged this person, the entire situation. It could be that the Warlord was wanted . . . wanted out of the way.

And here he was, in an unarmed spaceplane. It didn't even have any shields. Although from what he'd seen (or not seen) of these "ghosts," shields were not likely to offer any protection.

He was well within range. His instruments were picking up and recording data on the planet known as Vallombrosa. Nothing had happened to him. He stood up, roamed about the small plane, returned to the galley. In his preoccupation, he'd let the tea steep too long. It was bitter. He poured it out, started to make another pot. Glancing over at his instruments, studying the preliminary findings, he smiled grimly, nodded.

He was being given the chance to draw aside the curtain, to open the lid on the box. He was being given the chance to see the truth.

Vallombrosa was itself deserted. But there was life, life that was not on the planet. Space stations circled it, huge space stations, each probably capable of housing thousands of people.

A Valley of Ghosts that was really quite lively.

And then Sagan, drinking his tea, noticed the anomaly.

The planet was unusually dense, far denser than it should have been, according to calculations based on its size and composition. The gravitational gradient was also way off. Surface gravity was noticeably higher than that of a planet of compara-ble size. What was more interesting, the gravity was fluctuating wildly. The gravity around a planet such as this should have been relatively even, smooth, with only occasional variations created by the flow of magma beneath the surface. By contrast, the gravity around this planet was erratic, dipping and surging like a storm-tossed sea.

Sagan ran more computations, double-checking his data. He had no doubt. Information on this anomaly was the material Pantha had originally entered in his log.

It was also the information he had deleted. The explorer had lied, deliberately falsified the records. He had made the planet appear ordinary, less than ordinary. He had made no mention of the anomaly.

And now Sagan was beginning to understand why. He began to transmit the collected data back to Admiral Dixter. Sagan presumed the "ghosts" would allow him to do this, wouldn't jam his signal. The time for-the need for-secrecy must be nearly at an end.

Transmission concluded, he sank back in the pilot's chair, with its cracked plastic and exposed bits of foam rubber, and stared unseeing at the flashing numbers, the instruments that were continuing to gather and spew forth data. The discovery, its terrifying import, the sudden rush of understanding as piece after piece of die puzzle locked into place, overwhelmed him with its enormity.

Warlord Derek Sagan was not a man to be easily overwhelmed. He rubbed his palm, which had begun to itch and burn, moved his fingers to touch the starjewel that he wore, once again, around his neck.

A light began to flash on the console. Communication was being established with the planet. Blips on his screen indicated the presence of several spaceplanes, probably escorts.

"Welcome, my lord Sagan," said the voice, a voice he'd heard often in his dreams and thus had no difficulty recognizing, "welcome to Vallombrosa-Valley of Ghosts."

Ghosts, indeed.

Chapter Six.

Places you are tied down to-none. People with a hold on you-none. Men you step aside for-none.

The Magnificent Seven The hotel on Ceres was high class, one of those four-star joints in the galaxy guidebooks. It catered to off-worlders, too, apparently, Xris noted, standing in line at the reception desk. The enormous lobby-replete with a fountain of dancing water adorned by musical metal spheres that soared and dipped in the air above the fountain-could have been used as a Catalog for Life-forms in the Milky Way.

Some sort of convention was taking place, judging by the name tags plastered on the lapels, scales, skin, and fur of the breasts, heads, feet, and tails of the individuals walking, creeping, or crawling through the lobby and adjacent meeting areas and ballrooms.

No one, except a harried-looking bellman, gave Xris so much as a raised eyebrow-unusual for the cyborg, whose acid-burned face and metal body parts, with their flashing LED lights, generally rated stealthy sideways glances, outright suspicious glares, or pitying, averted eyes. And the bellman, once he had been convinced that Xris had only one piece of luggage and that he would carry it himself, disdainfully turned his attention to the next, presumably tipping, customer.

"Single room. Name of Xris," said the cyborg when he reached the desk.

Another indication of a high-class joint-real live clerks. None of this stick-your-card-in-a-machine-and-get-a-room-for-the-night business.

The clerk handed over a key (an antique, honest-to-God key), along with the information that the room was paid for and all expenses would be covered.

Xris took the key and shouldered his way through the crowd in the lobby. His room was located on the ground floor-as he always specified. He never knew when he might have to makea quick exit and at such times it was damn inconvenient to stand around waiting for the elevator.

He entered his room, gave it the once-over for listening devices, hidden cams, explosives-the usual precautions. Finding it clean, in more ways than one, he opened his luggage case, took out a bottle of jump-juice, poured a jigger full into one of the water glasses, and continued his inspection.

Taking care to keep from being seen, he drew aside the window curtain. French doors opened onto a small, walled-off patio. Beyond that was an ornamental garden, graced with fountains and fancifully pruned shrubbery. In the distance, on the horizon, he could see the tops of mountains, bathed with a soft pink twilight tinge. The view was spectacular, but Xris wasn't noticing such things as mountains or flower beds. He was considering escape routes, possible sites for an ambush, hiding places for eavesdroppers or more sinister types.

The room appeared secure and was in a good, though not great, location. Xris was pleased, not particularly surprised. He'd done enough work for John Dixter to know that the admiral would be careful about such details. It was simply that the location for this meeting was so damn odd. Why rendezvous on Ceres? The message hadn't specified, but then, it wouldn't. Special code. Highest priority. Payment already deposited in his account. Xris wasn't even certain it was Dixter who had called him, yet who else would could it be?

Either Dixter ... or the king.

Xris grinned at that one, shook his head. Taking out a twist, he stuck the black and noxious cigarette in his mouth and lit it. A swallow of jump-juice, then he yanked off his long-range weapons hand, packed it away in the specially designed compartment in his cybernetic leg. Taking out another weapons hand-this one designed for short-range work, tight, close quarters, all noise kept to a minimum-he attached it to his arm, checked it over to make sure all systems were operational.

He was sitting comfortably in his chair, drinking the jump-juice, when a particularly large and raucous group of conventioneers tramped past his room. He might have paid no attention except that his acute, enhanced hearing caught the faint sound of soft footfalls, perhaps using the others for cover, stop outside his door. There was silence a moment, then a knock-a swift, sharp rap.

"I didn't order room service," Xris called.

Nothing. No response.

Xris shifted slightly in his chair.

The knock was repeated.

"I said, I didn't order room service." He raised the volume.

The correct response was, "Maintenance. Here to fix your vid."

The knock was repeated again, more sharply, peremptorily. It was beginning to sound irritated.

Xris adjusted his augmented vision in an attempt to see through the door, but the door and wall were shielded to prevent just such an occurrence. This was a high-class joint. He was glad Dixter was paying the bill.

Xris concentrated on his other senses. He didn't hear anything that sounded threatening-the whine of power packs charging up, or the slight snick made by the loading of a bolt gun. The silence meant next to nothing, however. The poisoner, Raoul, for example, could very quietly kiss you to death.

"Who is it?" Xris tried, for variety.

Not moving from where he sat-at an angle to the door, on the opposite side of the room from the door-Xris shifted his glass from his right hand to his left-his weapons hand. Propping his feet up on the bed, he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"I am not room service. Let me in!" demanded a voice, with a hint of anger.

Xris was more curious now than worried. No hired gun worth the price of a bolt would stand outside his victim's room beating on the door. Yet this was obviously some kind of setup. An agent from Dixter or the king would have known the proper code response.

"Come on in, then," Xris called, hitting the manual remote control. "I've unlocked it."

Anyone intent on killing him would have to first locate him in the room, react to the fact that he was seated and not standing, then shoot at an angle-and all the while Xris would have the killer in his sights, in easy range of a deadly little poisoned dart that could be fired from the third knuckle of the cyborg's weapon's hand.

The door slid open. A woman entered.

She was short, for a human female, dressed in a smart black suit, expensive, well tailored, with a long, fingertip-length black jacket and a knee-length skirt revealing remarkable legs. She wore a black, wide-brimmed hat, trimmed in a black lace veil that covered her face. The ends of the veil were wrapped around her neck. Her hands were encased in soft black kid leather gloves.

The door shut behind her. The woman remaining standing just inside it, the veiled face turned expectantly toward Xris. She said no word, and it took Xris a moment to figure out what the hell was going on.

She was waiting expectantly for him to stand up, to rise when she entered the room.

He knew, then, who she was, if not how or why. Even though her face was hidden by the veil, there was no mistaking that dignified, regal stance, with the head slightly thrown back, the chin tilted upward. Things began to make sense, even as they didn't.

Xris thought he deserved a moment to recover from the shock. At length, setting down his drink (and deactivating the dart in his hand), he rose to his feet.

"Your Majesty," he said.

The queen appeared not displeased to be recognized. She unwrapped the veil from her face with graceful, deliberate motions, took off the hat, and carefully placed it upon the foot of the bed. She did not glance in the mirror-as nine out of ten women Xris knew would have, to pat their hair back in place-but seemed to take it for granted that she would look extraordinary, whether her hair was mussed or not.

And she did . . . look extraordinary.

Xris was impressed. He had seen Astarte, queen of the galaxy, on the vids, of course, but he had always figured that the cams were careful to capture her good side or that she'd hired a damn fine makeup artist. This woman was all over good sides and, as far as Xris could tell (and he'd become something of an expert, from hanging around Raoul), the queen wore very little makeup. The rose dusting on the high cheekbones, the coral-brushed lips, the port-wine eyes did not come from over the cosmetic counter.

"You're not surprised I knew who you were," Xris commented, to see what she would say.

"Of course not. You must have deduced that I would be the only person-other than His Majesty-capable of retrieving data on you from the classified files." The queen was pulling off her gloves with the same careful, deliberate motions. "Admit-tedly, I do not have security clearance; I am a royal consort and therefore have no military command status. However, it was quite simple for me to obtain access to .. . certain computers. And then it was only a matter of time and patience before I found what I was seeking.

"There, sir. Have I supplied you with enough information to satisfy any doubts? I trust the answer is yes," she went on, before Xris could reply, "because I won't tell you any more. I may have need to resort to this stratagem again and I wouldn't want you to spoil it for me."

She laid the gloves on the table, stood regarding Xris with a forthright, direct look that was cool, businesslike, and extremely disconcerting. She barely came to the cyborg's shoulder. His mechanical hand could have crunched her like a bug, yet she obviously had no doubt who was in command of the situation. And, according to her, it wasn't Xris.