Free Ghost Legion by Margaret Weis

startling
gaze, the reflected eyes regarded him—the real him— with
a cold and unblinking stare. It occurred to Dion that they didn't
know him; the eyes might have been staring at a stranger. They didn't
know him any better than he knew them.
    His own reflection. Everywhere he went, that's all he saw. In
mirrors, in people's eyes, in camera lenses. On screens, on monitors.
In mags, in the vids. Flat, without depth, dimension. Distant, cold,
unreachable, untouchable. Unreal. A shadow . . . colorized.
    The door to his dressing room opened behind him. Dion saw it open in
the mirror, saw the reflection of the person entering. His wife. She,
too, was perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They rarely saw each
other when each was not perfect.
    He did not turn around, kept his eyes on the eyes in the mirror.
    "Good morning, madam," he said, with a politic smile.
    "Good morning, sir," Astarte replied coolly, with a very
slight lowering of her eyelids, a slight bow of the elegant head.
    Formalities must be observed, with others present, even if it was
only a servbot. Reporters had attempted to conceal cams in such 'bots
before now. Though the odds on one succeeding were extremely slim,
their Majesties knew better than to take chances.
    Astarte entered the room, stood gazing at Dion in silence, a cosmetic
smile on her lips, a look in her eyes that her husband knew well.
    "That will be all, Simmons. I'll be leaving within the hour.'
    "Very good, sir. Your Majesties." The 'bot flickered its
lights in deference to the king and queen and trundled out of the
dressing room, gently and unobtrusively closing the door behind it.
    "You're leaving this morning?" Astarte demanded once they
were alone. "Where are you going?"
    "I beg your pardon, madam." Dion, adjusting his cuffs,
spoke to her reflection. "I requested D'argent to provide you
with a copy of my travel itinerary. If he hasn't done so, I will—"
    "Oh, he's done so." Astarte said with a sigh, folding her
slender arms across her chest.
    Dion shrugged, as if he couldn't understand the fuss. "Then you
know I am traveling to the Academy, for the formal dedication
ceremony. I am the founder. It is my duty."
    "I know where you're going. . . ."
    "Then why did you ask, madam?"
    "We could have gone together," Astarte said quietly.
    A slight flush stained Dion's pale cheeks. He glanced down, away from
his reflection, made a pretense of buttoning one of the golden
buttons on his cuff.
    "Yes, my dear, I thought of that. I sent my secretary to discuss
the schedule with your secretary. D'argent reported back to me that
there were conflicts—"
    "My secretary! Your secretary!" Astarte came to stand
beside him, looked at him, not at the mirror. "Why don't we ever
talk to each other? I could have rearranged things, put some things
off, rescheduled. Nothing was that important. We could have traveled
together." She put her hand on her husband's arm.
    Dion flinched away from her touch, moved a step away from her. He
realized what he'd done only when he saw her hand hanging immobile in
the empty space between them. He saw her face ... in the mirror.
    Astarte was beautiful. He looked at her reflection and knew she was
beautiful. Her long, shining black hair was worn in the twists and
coils that had some sort of religious significance—he didn't
know what, he'd never asked—and perfectly framed her small,
delicate oval face. Her eyes were wide and the color of port wine,
made dark by the long, black lashes. Her mouth was perfectly formed,
the lips sensually curved. She was full-breasted, slender-waisted,
with slim hips. She was short in stature, but extremely
well-proportioned, and, by careful attention to her clothes, appeared
taller than she was.
    The daughter of a warrior mother—DiLuna, ruler of the wealthy
and powerful star system of Ceres—Astarte had not been at all
what Dion had expected when he had married her, sight unseen, almost
three years previous. Her