Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (16 page)

The pills. His hand went to his pocket, encountering the hard cylinder. He was still too weak, and a deep breath would start the coughing. Erica had supplied him with antivirals, and he had added a few drenaline tablets from his own supply.

Ben’s inventory went on. “House badges for Hamid, Drakonis, and Eliseer. You have your choice. I’ve got three alternate idents for you.”

Alex nodded. “Let me have the Eliseer badge.”

That called up a brief, questioning look, then Ben gave him the cloth disk, and Alex attached it to the shoulder of his cloak. When the edges were smoothed down, it looked exactly as if it had been sewn in place.

“Stun darts, con-rads, ear ’ceivers, minicorders, jamblers, montector, conditioning aids, aural and visual . . .”

“I’d better have one of the visual mod-stims, Ben. The ring. The light beam works faster for me.”

Ben gave him the ring, with its milky, cabochon lens/stone, then searched through the items on the bed and handed him a small, flat case.

“Iris lenses, Alex. Use the brown ones. I put brown on all your ident. They’ll be looking for blue.”

Alex took the case and went to the mirror. He inserted the lenses, blinking them into place, then returned to look over Ben’s shoulder.

“Extra MT fixes, wallet and ident cards . . .” Ben handed him the wallet, checked the plasex ident cards, and gave him one of them. “Here, that’s your Eliseer ident.”

The wallet, suitably worn, was filled with the kind of odds and ends a man forgets to throw out, and two hundred ’cords. Alex put the ident card in its slot, wondering if he’d ever have an opportunity to make use of it. Not today. The ident, the tickets, everything, would pass the closest SSB inspection, yet it was a waste of effort on Ben’s part. But Alex couldn’t explain that to him now.

Ben asked, “You have the contact info on Vandyne memorized?”

“Yes. ’Com seq, 5-396-342. Code opening, ‘You must be busy,’ etc. Have you contacted Jael?”

“I told Harv to fill him in, and I’ve alerted Dr. Perralt and Kahn Telman.”

Alex nodded, studying the contents of the case critically. Ben took another item from the bed and handed it to him, an X
¹
laser in a spring sleeve sheath.

“It doesn’t have a hell of a lot of power, Alex, but at close range it’s enough.” Then, as Alex strapped the sheath on his left wrist, he frowned. “When did you become a left-hander?”

“Whenever I use a gun, Ben. Fenn Lacroy’s tutelage.”

Protect your right hand, Ser Alex. . . . Learn to use your whole body, Ser Alex. . . . You’re too strongly right-handed, Ser
—

His mind kept wandering. He hadn’t thought of Fenn for years, hadn’t thought of . . .

“Anything else?” Ben was frowning at the suitcase.

“No, it looks good.”

Ben slid the lid of the false bottom into place, then filled the remaining space with clothing—from his own closet—and finally closed the suitcase and set the locks.

“Alex, you press this hinge here to activate the destruct mechanism on the false bottom. There’s an airtaxi waiting on the roof to take you to the IP port. Loren Eliseer is due there just before your ship lifts off, so the terminal will be jammed with Conpol and Eliseer guards, but there’ll be plenty of crowd—reporters and oglers. That’ll give you an advantage in spite of the extra uniforms. They’ll be busy with his Lordship.”

Alex looked at his watch and picked up the suitcase. “I’d better be going.”

“Sure. Don’t miss your ship. And that’s no joke. Pollux won’t be exactly healthy for you with both the SSB and Predis after you. The shuttle is your only way off.”

Alex nodded. Ben was wrong, but he didn’t correct him. There
was
another way, another ship that would leave Leda and arrive in Helen at approximately the same time as the passenger shuttle: Adrien Eliseer’s private planethopper.

The
Bel
. Another straying memory. He knew the little ship, could even pilot her himself, and had once long ago. Long ago in that other time, that other life.

He was approaching another nexus of timelines, and perhaps it was an error, the decision that brought him to it. Ben would regard it as an error, even a betrayal. But it wasn’t his decision. Alex faced him, seeing his downcast eyes, his rough-hewn features rigid.

“Ben, be careful. And keep an eye on Erica.” He put his hand out, and the pressure of Ben’s handclasp revealed more than his tense features.

“Don’t worry about us. We can stay on top of things here. For a while, at least. Alex . . .” His breath came out in a long sigh. “Just take care of yourself, damn it.”

PHOENIX MEMFILES: DEPT HUMAN SCIENCES:
BASIC SCHOOL
(HS/BS
)

SUBFILE: LECTURE. BASIC SCHOOL 15 FEBUAR 3252
GUEST LECTURER: RICHARD LAMB
SUBJECT: POST-DISASTERS HISTORY
:
PANTERRAN CONFEDERATION (2903–3104
)

DOC LOC
#
819/219–1253/1812–1648–1523252

I wonder sometimes why historians arc so enamored of “golden ages.” Almost every textape on Post-Disasters history delights in telling us when our Golden Age occurred, bracketing it neatly with the dates 2903 and 3104. It is, unlike so many historical periods that shade indeterminately from one era to the next, beautifully demarked with the founding of the PanTerran Confederation at the beginning, and the Mankeen Revolt at the end. Perhaps it
was
a Golden Age, but it is also simply the lifespan of the PanTerran Confederation. (That was always its formal title, although after the establishment of the extraterrestrial colonies, it became simply the Confederation in general usage. Only historians and teachers or students of history have to worry about differentiating it from its predecessor, the Holy Confederation.)

“Golden” or not, it was certainly an age of great change, but again most of the changes were technological, not social. The Confederation in 2903 was a planet-bound culture moving in slow, cumbersome vessels and machines powered by surface-collected solar energy stored and concentrated in Darwin cells, its airships bound to an altitude of a kilometer, and its marine vessels dependent for part of their motive power on sails. Yet within a century—in the year 3000, to celcbrate the Trimillennium—the initial step toward the stars had been made. It was made, incidentally, in almost exactly the same type of ship, with the same type of chemically fueled rocket propulsion system that carried the first man to Luna before the Disasters.

The twin inventions of MAM-An and nulgrav made museum pieces of the first Lunar ships within half a century and provided the mechanics and power for voyages to the more remote stepping stones of the Solar planets and satellites. Then Orabu Drakon made his entrance upon the stage of history with his principles of synchronilal metathesis and chrono-spatial eversion, tongue- and mind-muddlers that meant little to the average person of his time until they were translated into SynchShift, and the Confederation made the leap to the stars.

If Lord Patric Eyre Ballarat in the year of his death, 2920, could have been transported into the future, say to the year 3084, when the first colony was established in the Centauri System (that would be a time-leap of 164 years), he wouldn’t have recognized this world as the same one in which he had lived.

Or would he?

To be sure, these inventions I’ve mentioned, plus the many others that grew out of them or developed simultaneously, had drastically altered architecture, transportation, communication—almost every aspect of everyday life. Human population had doubled, and cities burgeoned in every inhabitable area of Terra, not to mention the colonies on Luna, Mars, Ganymede, Callisto, Titan, and Triton. The number of landed Houses had also doubled and industrial Houses tripled, and the Confederation—that is, the administrative entity—had become a power unto itself with its own Bonds and Fesh born into allegience to it. It had built a new capital on beautiful Phillip Bay, and the major industrial Houses made it a megacity with their estate/factory complexes crowding the periphery of the administrative hub. The city was called Victoria, then; it was renamed Concordia after the Mankeen Revolt precipitated the formation of the Concord.

An incidental historical sidelight is that the city of Melborn, on whose ruins Victoria was built, had been the capital of a Pre-Disasters “state” named Victoria. But Adalay and the early Confederation Lords were oblivious to the site’s history; they chose the name to commemorate the Confederation’s victory in subduing the rest of Terra.

But back to Ballarat, magically transported to the Confederation of 3084. Would it all seem so strange to him? He knew about Victoria—the construction began in 2905—and we know he left his self-imposed exile to see it two years before his death. No doubt it changed a great deal in over a century and a half, but he would certainly recognize the Plaza, the Hall of the Directorate, and the Cathedron. And he’d have no trouble recognizing a Bond compound, and he would know exactly what to expect of any individual on the basis of his class. Bonds were still very much Bonds, and Fesh were Fesh, and, although the term “Elite” was just coming into vogue in 3084, he would know a Lord when he met one and understand entirely his position and function in this new world. Even more telling, Ballarat would recognize the House names of almost every Lord then sitting on the Directorate.

And what if one of you were to make a similar chronoshift a little more than 160 years
backward
to the year 3084?

In many ways you’d find yourself very much at home. The shape and style of everyday objects would be different, but the function would be generally similar. You’d find some conveniences missing. Like the pocketcom. Modern trimensional vidicom was in the early stages of development, and the miniaturization requisite for devices like the common ’com was beyond the scope of commutronics at that time. However, any vidicom you did sec would have been manufactured by the house of DeKoven Woolf. And you would find the names on the Directorate as familiar as Ballarat would. More so, in a sense. Those names would be familiar to him as House names, not necessarily as Directors, although an heir of Adalay was on the Directorate in 3084. You would be familiar with seven out of the ten
not
just as House names, but as present-day Directors. That seems beyond belief when you consider that a shattering civil war stands between you and 3084. It would seem more reasonable that Ballarat would find the Directorate occupied by virtually the same Houses, not you. Yet our Directorate is the one that has remained nearly unchanged.

Think about that. Think about the underlying
un
changes it implies. I find it not only incredible, but frightening. It’s like a geologically active fault zone. If tension is released in small, continuous movements and tremors, there is, from a human standpoint, little danger. The dangerous faults are those that remain fixed for long periods with the subterranean pressures contantly mounting, but finding no release. The earth
will
move eventually; the pressures
will
be released. And the results can only be catastrophe.

“My lady, give us a smile!”

“. . . a white suède overtunic with . . .”

“Look at that pelisse. What kind of fur . . .”

“. . . Lord Loren intends to talk to Lord Selasis about . . .”

“My lady, when will your lord father return with the good news?”

The Lady Adrien Camine Eliseer was halfway across the central lobby of the InterPlan port terminal, and the remaining distance to the private hangar corridor seemed endless. She was feeling Pollux’s gravity, a physical burden that seemed to accentuate the mental one that oppressed her thoughts. But neither was evident in her posture or pace.

“. . . deny the rumors that a wedding is upcoming?”

“My lady, when will the announcement be made?”

The white fur pelisse moved with the rhythm of her long strides. The island of space that moved with her, isolating her from the bristling wall of mikes and imagraph lenses and vidicams, she owed to the six House guards surrounding her. Within the island, Lectris loomed on her right, half a pace back, and Mariet fluttered along at an equal distance on her left.

“. . . the banquet at the Eliseer Estate this Friday?”

The smile was as much a shield as the guards; a smile that would come across on vidicom and in imagraphs as direct and warm, but was entirely reflexive.

“. . . comment on the rumors that Lord Karlis intends to give you the Pink Selasid diamond as a betrothal gift?”

“Is it true your cousin, Lady Janeel Selasis, told you . . .”

The distance seemed to be stretching, but she wouldn’t hurry her pace. She moved steadily forward in her island of space, shielded by the guards, the reflexive smile, and a numbing indifference to the whole scene.

Only one aspect of her surroundings held her attention, and that only fleetingly: the long queues at the main entrance, and the unusual number of SSB officers in the terminal. She wondered what vital drama lay behind that.

“. . . ceremony take place in Helen according to tradition, or in Concordia?”

“Where will you go on the nuptial trip, my lady?”

The corridor was close, and it was off-limits to all but sanctioned personnel; off-limits to reporters. She noted the DeKoven Woolf badges they all wore as she reminded herself not to quicken her pace. She glanced at her watch. Only a minute and a half had passed since she left her father at the SS boarding ramp. 16:40. She should be home in Helen by now.

Two hours, she thought bitterly; two hours’ delay while Lazar Hamid made his lingering, fawning peace with her father now that the marriage was a certainty; two hours while she endured being “entertained” by Lady Falda Hamid.

As she approached the corridor, the port guards turned off the S/V and shock screens for her, eyeing the noisy mob of reporters warily. Their clamor became increasingly insistent. They were worried; she might slip out of reach of their vidicams and mikes. Which was exactly what she intended.

When she reached the corridor, she nodded to one of the port guards, and as the S/V screens went on behind her, putting a silencing haze across the corridor, she looked back and saw two SSB officers passing, their very presence serving to disperse the reporters.

“Captain Hamit?”

The House guardsman came to attention briskly. “Yes, my lady?”

“Why are there so many SSB men in the terminal today?”

“A gate check, my lady. I made a point of ascertaining their purpose in case it might have a bearing on your safety.”

“Very commendable of you. But why a gate check?”

“It seems the SSB had an anonymous tip that they might find an escaped felon here, an escapee from the Leda SSB DC, my lady.”

“From the Cliff? Well, good luck to him. then.”

Hamit stiffened. “My lady?”

She sighed, looking again at her watch. This was one reason she despised having servants underfoot, especially Fesh. With Lectris and Mariet she didn’t have to guard her tongue so much. Lectris generally didn’t know what she was talking about, and Mariet would only laugh with her.

“A little joke. Hamit. I was only amazed that anyone could escape the Cliff at all.”

“Oh.” He smiled politely. “Yes, it
is
amazing, but I was told this man is a Phoenix agent.”

She frowned at that, then turned away. “Hamit, you and your men may return to the estate now. Lectris, Mariet, we must be going.”

She stepped onto the pedway, ignoring Hamit’s bow and crisp, “Yes, my lady.” The ’way carried her down the corridor, away from Hamit, the guards, the crowds beyond the screens. She closed her eyes. Lectris and Mariet rode the ’way behind her; they couldn’t see her face.

The icecap retreat. There was no real reason to go directly to Helen. The banquet was four days away, and her mother didn’t need her to help with the preparations. Social affairs were Lady Galia’s forte. Still, she’d probably complain about Adrien’s “deserting” her, but Adrien could muster no concern for that. A few days at the retreat was little enough to ask in light of the purpose of the banquet.

She opened her eyes, refreshed even in the decision, then stepped off the ’way and walked down a short side corridor to the private hangar where
Bel
waited. The door opened as she approached.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

She smiled for the two guards flanking the door.

“Hello, Sargent Jeffers.” The man on her right was unfamiliar. At her expectant look, he snapped to attention and bowed.

“My lady, Sargent Lors Samsen, at your service.”

“Ah, and with flair.” Then she frowned slightly, noting the bruised, swollen cut on his lower lip; it was recently acquired. “But I think you should go the the port infirmary and have someone look at that cut.”

He blinked. “What cut, my—”

His hand went to his lip, following the direction of her gaze, and he paled, his eyes suddenly glazed. Adrien felt a chill. He was stunned and bewildered, and the reaction seemed genuine. Apparently he hadn’t been aware of the cut until she mentioned it, yet it must have been painful.

“Sargent, what happened? Did you fall?”

“I—I must have, my lady.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Well, I . . . I’m not sure. But it’s nothing, my lady. Please, don’t be concerned.”

She glanced at Jeffers, who seemed as bewildered as Samsen. Not that it mattered. Some sort of brawl, probably, that they considered none of her business. Still, Samsen’s reaction was odd. He seemed so honestly confused. She brought out a reassuring smile.

“Do have it taken care of, Lors.” Then her smile came more easily as she looked toward the looming silver ellipse of the
Bel
. “Where’s Jamison?” Two mechtechs hovered around the open lock, but the pilot was nowhere to be seen.

Sargent Jeffers said. “Master Jamison is already in the condeck, my lady.”

She crossed the hangar, Lectris and Mariet following dutifully. Overhead, the roof panels were drawn back for liftoff, and the low hum of the
Bel’s
nulgrav generators seemed to make itself audible through her feet, rather than her ears. The techs bowed as she approached.

“She’s all revved and ready, my lady,” one of them said.

“Good, Tim, and high time. Close the lock after us, please. We’ll leave as soon as Jamison has clearance.”

“Yes, my lady. Have a good trip.”

She walked up the sloping ramp with trembling urgency.
Bel
itself was haven enough, and within two hours she’d be at the icecap retreat. But she must remember to ’com Dr. Perralt. He’d be worried about her.

The thud of the closing lock was a welcome sound.
Bel
had only three compartments: the condeck, a tiny bedroom in the rear, and this sitting room, a small space warmed with draped walls and plush carpets, furnished with two couches, a vidicom console, and autospenser. But these comforts didn’t interest her. Solitude was all she asked now.

The bedroom door was closed. She frowned at that, but was distracted by a thump and Lectris’s stumbling lurch, then Mariet’s laughter.

“There goes old Nimble-foot again.”

“Mariet,” Adrien said sharply, “you’re not always so nimble yourself.” A reminder of an admonition she’d made privately to Mariet often enough: Don’t tease Lectris.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” she said contritely.

“It’s Lectris you should apologize to.” Adrien paused, watching Lectris lean down to pick up the object he’d stumbled over. A small traveling case. He put it out of the way by one of the couches with no hint of curiosity about it.

The condeck door opened, and Adrien’s smile came on automatically as Jamison bowed to her.

“How are you, my lady?”

“I’m well, Jamison. I’m sorry for the delay, but Father and I got somewhat entangled with the Hamids.”

He smiled obliquely. “I’m sorry for your sake, my lady. For the delay, that is. Are you ready for liftoff now?”

“More than ready. Oh—is that your suitcase?”

He hesitated, looking toward the couch where she’d pointed, then back at her, frowning uneasily.

“What suitcase, my lady?”

She gazed at him numbly. He had looked directly at it, and now he asked in perfect innocence, “What suitcase?” And Jamison wouldn’t play games with her. I’m going mad, she thought, remembering Sargent Samsen’s cut lip and nonplused uncertainty. But Mariet saved her from further doubt of her sanity.

“
That
suitcase.” she said, wide-eyed. “It’s right—”

“Mariet. that’s enough.” Again Adrien’s tone was sharp: Mariet too often took liberties that antagonized the Fesh servants. Then she smiled at Jamison. “I’m sorry to burden you with setting up a new navcomp program, but I’ve decided to go to the icecap retreat instead of returning to Helen.”

He smiled at that. “It’s no burden, my lady. I programmed for the retreat, too—just in case. We can leave immediately. I checked Port Control for clearance when I saw you come into the hangar. But perhaps you should be seated during liftoff.” He bowed and glanced just once in the direction of the suitcase, still puzzled, then withdrew to the condeck.

“We’re going to the retreat, my lady?” Mariet’s face was alight with anticipation. She loved going to the retreat because she was mistress
domaine
there.

“Yes, for a day or two.” Adrien smiled, thinking how hard it was to be annoyed with Mariet in spite of her teasing Lectris or her brashness with the Fesh.

It would be incomprehensible, even shocking, to most of her peers, but Mariet seemed more a sister to her in some ways than her true sisters. And it was ironic, perhaps, that Mariet even looked more like her than her own sisters, despite the Shang family resemblance between herself and Patricia. Mariet had been chosen as her attendant in part because of the similarity in physical measurements; she also served as her mannequin.

The rising hum of the nulgrav generators roused her. “At any rate, it will give Lectris a chance to work on his rock garden.”

He grinned shyly at that. “If the weeds haven’t taken it over, my lady.”

“In that case, you’ll have some time to reclaim it. Now, we’d better get settled for liftoff.” She slipped off the fur pelisse and draped it over her arm, wondering if it was the vibrations of the ship or her own trembling she felt. “I’m going into the bedroom to rest. You may use the vidicom and ’spenser if you wish.”

They took seats, ready for liftoff. As Adrien turned and touched the doorcon, her gaze strayed to the suitcase. Then she stepped into the bedroom, the door closed behind her, and darkness enveloped her. But she didn’t turn on the light. The pelisse slipped unnoticed to the floor, and she leaned back against the door, hands pressed to her face, shivering with the mounting vibrations.
Bel
was escaping the bonds of Pollux.

There were no tears. She was alone in the dark where tears needn’t be hidden, yet she had none. It was only fear; she still had to fight the fear sometimes, even when her mind was fixed on the goal and she knew what she must do.

Orin Selasis would wish he’d married Karlis to Candis Hamid before it was over; he’d learn that a daughter of Eliseer is more than a granddaughter of Shang.

There was a shift in the tone of the vibrations: the MAM-An generators warming up.
Bel
would be free soon.

Then she stiffened, eyes wide, staring like the blind into the dark.

A sound. But it was gone. Or perhaps she couldn’t hear it for the generators, or for the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

There. Again. A stirring, and—someone breathing. She wasn’t alone in the darkness.

The terror was paralyzing; she ached with it. It took an effort of will to move her hand slowly along the wall to the light control, and the light was as blinding as the dark.

On the floor. A strange, dark shape, like a shadow, no face; that was a shadow, too, behind a face-screen. He lay on his side, right hand curled limply near his head. The hand was ungloved; flesh and blood.

Call Lectris, you fool
.

But she only stared at this apparition, and perhaps she didn’t call for help because she was wondering again about her sanity.

No. This apparition, however irrational in itself, might explain Samsen’s and Jamison’s strange reactions. What had Hamit said? An escapee from the Cliff;
a Phoenix agent
. Conditioning. That’s what they called it; a kind of hypnotic control over the mind, over perception and memory.

Lectris—for the God’s sake, call Lectris
.

Still she ignored the dictates of cautious reason and approached the sprawled shadow-form slowly. She couldn’t hear his breathing now. Was he dead? She wondered at the pang of regret she felt at that, then the relief when she knelt beside him and he stirred, pulling in a shuddering breath. The man was ill; dreadfully ill. Her mouth tightened. She knew something of the treatment given prisoners in the Cliff.

Then again she froze, staring fixedly at his hand. A fine, gold chain was entwined in the long-boned fingers. And a disk of gold. Her hand moved to the medallion, no conscious mental impetus guiding it.

A baying wolf. On the other side would be a lamb.

She turned it over.

“Holy God . . .”