Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (41 page)

“Did her answers satisfy you?”

Thea shook her head, her frown more marked.

“No, that’s why I finally tested her with a lie. She told me she’d talked to Frer Jamed at the cathedron in Helen. As it happens, I know the Frer.” She glanced at Adrien and added, “Through lettapes, mostly, although he has visited the convent. At any rate, I asked the young woman if Frer Jamed had recovered from the illness that made him limp so badly, and she said he had. I then asked if he still used a cane, and she said, ‘Yes, but only occasionally.’ ”

Adrien asked tensely, “And what was the truth?”

“Frer Jamed never had an illness that made him limp, nor did he ever use a cane. I don’t know why she lied, but I know she did. That’s why I denied her entrance. It may have nothing to do with you, and I don’t wish to alarm you, but I thought I should tell you about it.”

Adrien nodded absently. “Thank you, Sister.”

Thea was silent a moment, watching her; then she turned to look down into the play court.

“It’s nearly time for the morning play period. I’m so happy you enjoy working with the children. Sister Marain says you’ve been a great help to the teachers.”

Adrien roused herself and smiled. “I’m glad, but I’ve been helped if anyone has.”

“A mutual blessing, then. My dear, are you feeling well?”

“Yes, I am. I had my weekly examination yesterday, and all three of us are in excellent health.”

“I know about your state of health; the reports always come to my desk.” She sighed. “I suppose I’m worried about your state of mind, but unfortunately I seem to be quite helpless there.”

“No, Sister, that isn’t true.” Adrien reached out for Thea’s hand. “You’ve been so kind and done so much for me, I can never repay you.”

Thea smiled. “Don’t be concerned about repaying
me
. Your gratitude belongs to the Holy Mezion and the All-God. Give your thanks to Him in whatever manner satisfies you.” She reached up to pull her veil down. “Now, I must be about my business. Remember, my door is always open. Lord Bless, Sister.”

“Lord Bless.”

Adrien lowered her own veil, watching Thea walking away through the patterns of light and shadow. The sweet tones of the chapel chimes sounded, and she knew that within seconds the court would be alive with the rush of running feet and childish laughter. But for a moment she didn’t move.

She was thinking of the applicant Thea had turned away, a young woman who lied to her. The lie might have been motivated by some personal quirk; she might have been entirely innocent of malign intent. But Adrien trusted Thea’s instincts. The woman might also have been seeking entry to the convent for one reason: to find the Lady Adrien Eliseer.

She started down the colonnade; her hands, locked together under her sleeves, were cold.

The young woman might have been sent by Selasis, and that was frightening enough, but another possibility was equally unnerving: she might also have been sent by the Phoenix; by Alexand. But there was no way to be sure.

She quickened her step, looking down into the courtyard, filled now with exuberant children. Thank the God for the children, for these brief interims of distraction.

Alexand
. . .

She was almost running, as if she could flee the ever present shadow of fear.

Alexand, find me
. . . .

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

SUBFILE: LECTURE. BASIC SCHOOL 14 MARCH 3252
GUEST LECTURER: RICHARD LAMB
SUBJECT: POST-DISASTERS HISTORY
:
THE MANKEEN REVOLT (3104–3120
)

DOC LOC #819/219–1253/1812–1648–1433252

Unlike Pilgram and Ballarat, Lionar Mankeen did not have a Colona or Almbert, which no doubt contributed to his downfall. The Orthodox Church stood solidly opposed to him, and it was the Archon, Bishop Nicolas III, who first called Mankeen the “Heretic Lord.” Nicolas also passed a blanket excommunication edict on anyone who worked or fought in his behalf, and although this had little effect on Elite partisans—who were generally more concerned with their fortunes in this world than in the next—it did have a great impact on the Fesh and explains in part why a majority of them remained loyal to the Confederation.

But Mankeen had a formidable ally of another kind, a military mastermind, First Commander of Confleet, Scott Cormoroi.

The question arises, inevitably, why would a man of mature years (Cormoroi was fifty-seven at the beginning of the Revolt) and a history of distinguished service to the Confederation, which had won him not only the respect of his peers and subordinates, but numerous decorations and the highest rank possible in Confleet—why would such a man turn traitor to the Confederation and lend his talents to the cause of rebellion? Obviously he wasn’t as happy in his work as he was successful at it, and the roots of his dissatisfaction go back to his youth.

Scott Cormoroi was born into the house of Albin Reeswyck, his father a ranking tech in Reeswyck’s research department. Cormoroi’s brilliance was evident in childhood, and his parents went to great lengths to procure educational opportunities for him. Thus at sixteen he was enrolled in the University in Norleans on a House studies grant. By the time he was twenty, he had a doctorate in biochemistry, a tech rating of eight, and a guild degree of one. It was at that point in his scientific career that he was conscripted in a tax levy to Confleet.

Needless to say, he wasn’t happy about it, but made the best of it and did very well as a soldier, working his way up through the ranks to the top in a little more than twenty years. No doubt he found it relatively easy, considering his intelligence index. Confleet was at that time—as it is today—more a policing than a military force, but it didn’t have to sink to making war on Bonds. Its main adversary was the Outsider pirate clans that preyed on interplanetary shipping—as they do today. Cormoroi learned everything Confleet could teach him about the principles of military strategy, approaching it as someone else might chess or calculus, and he added a great deal in tactical theory. He also reorganized Confleet on every level and made it a highly efficient organization, and thus unique among Confederation bureaucracies. Cormoroi was also notably sympathetic with the men in his command, since most of them were, like him, conscripts; only a quarter of Confleet’s personnel at that time were volunteers or born Confederation. He went to the Directorate on many occasions to make personal appeals for higher salaries for his men, for improved and better organized facilities for dealing with battleline injuries, for increased pensions for both the disabled and the retired. He also made promotion more accessible to non-Academy personnel, set up grievance boards to which a ’Fleeter could apply anonymously without fear of reprisals from his immediate superiors, and was prone to frequent unannounced visits to even the most remote Confleet bases to see for himself what conditions were on them. It’s also said of Cormoroi that he was a strict disciplinarian, but scrupulously fair in his judgments.

A paragon of commanders, it would seem, and it isn’t surprising that the loyalty of his troops was such that he could with confidence offer Lionar Mankeen half of Confleet, men and machines, and
more
than half its officers.

Less than a month after the debacle of the tax rebellion of 3102, Cormoroi met secretly with Mankeen and made exactly that offer. They weren’t strangers. During Mankeen’s Age of Rights tour of duty with Confleet (that custom was initiated by Ballarat during the Wars of Confederation) he was assigned as an aide in Cormoroi’s office, and although their relationship wasn’t close, the potential for the strong friendship that eventually grew between them was already there.

Mankeen and Cormoroi made their fateful alliance, and a week later there was another secret meeting at which Mankeen presented Cormoroi to twenty of his staunchest Elite allies. On the strength of Cormoroi’s offer of a fleetarmy—one that would simultaneously deprive the Confederation of half its armed forces—the Emancipation League began to take on solidarity.

Some accounts—notably Alric Berstine’s in
The Mankeen League from Within
—tell us that Mankeen and some of his more hotheaded Lordly allies were ready to declare open war immediately, but it was Cormoroi who persuaded him to accept a more cautious and reasonable course. There followed nearly two years of covert preparation and organization, both in the ranks of Mankeen’s League and in Confleet. The process was carried out with an amazingly successful degree of secrecy. At one time there were reports, some of which reached the Chairman, Arman Galinin, that a conspiracy might be forming in Confleet, but no proof was discovered, and Cormoroi was never once suspected of being involved in any way.

There was more awareness and concern for the burgeoning Elite conspiracy, but since none of the suspected Lords took any action that could be regarded as unlawful or subversive, Galinin was helpless to stop the formation of the rebellious conspiracy. In fact, it’s questionable whether he was actually fully aware of the scope of the conspiracy or how imminent a threat it was. He had already induced the Directors to forgive and forget the tax rebellion. The guilty Lords had been brought to heel and the taxes paid, however unwillingly, and the following year the levies were met without the necessity of armed persuasion. Galinin no doubt hoped the rebellion had been nipped in the bud.

He was disabused of that fallacy when in May of 3104 he learned of the meeting of 302 First Lords—nearly a third of the Court of Lords—at the Mankeen estate in Mosk where, after three days of deliberation, the Lords signed the Charter of the Emancipation League.

Galinin called it the Mankeen League, its signatories traitors, and after reading a copy of the Charter—which was sent to him by Mankeen to serve as a declaration of intent and war—ordered Confleet to mobilize and, in conjunction with local Compol units, to take by force the treasonous Lords and confiscate their holdings.

Confleet mobilized, of course, but not in the anticipated manner. Scott Cormoroi had made meticulous preparations for this day, feeling out the leanings of his officers and as far as possible his troops, transferring those he called “loyal” (and the Confederation called “rebel”) to strategic positions, concentrating them in five of Confleet’s ten wings. Galinin’s mobilization order didn’t even reach most of the Confederationist officers, and the orders received by the rebels implemented a detailed plan that deployed a quarter of the ships to protective guard on League Lord holdings, another quarter to hidden bases in the Ural Mountains where they were kept in reserve, while the remaining half was deployed to attack Confleet bases on every inhabited planet and satellite in the Two Systems. The Mankeen Revolt was under way, and Arman Galinin found himself with only half his armed forces, and those in total disarray, without a commander or even a firm chain of command.

It should be noted that the rebel officers had orders from Cormoroi to explain to their men exactly what was happening before any hostilities occurred, and any who didn’t wish to take part in the revolt were left behind at their bases. It should also be noted that only ten percent of the ’Fleeters in the five rebel wings took that alternative.

“Ah! The wanderer returns!” Amik went so far as to move his feet from the plush footstool, flourishing the smoking wand of his cigar holder. “Jael—bragnac for your weary commander. The Marsay Cabray.”

Alex laughed, but it wasn’t at Amik’s welcome. It was his own sense of irony at the contrast between this exotic sanctum of Amik’s and the spare Bond chapels where he’d spent most of the last two weeks. He’d returned within the hour from a tour of Shepherds in the Solar System.

Jael had left a message at the COS HQ: “Val and I having supper with the old Ser. Trans in when you can.”

Alex had known what to expect; Amik lived up to his title of Lord of Thieves in every sense. On one side of the room the drapes were drawn to reveal a circular dining room, the table set with platinade, graced with fresh flowers and scented tapers. The music was a complex Miskaya
Fuguetta
: that would be Jael’s choice. Amik reclined in his usual chair, swathed in brocaded velveen and jeweled chains, his pudgy fingers glittering with rings. Val Severin was sitting near him, radiant in a full-length gown of soft green that complemented her eyes and fair hair, and Jael was richly garbed in dark brown trousers and formal boots, with a brocaded doublet of deep ochre. He looked every centimeter the Lord’s first born.

And Alex, in an inelegant and travel-worn slacsuit, felt momentarily out of place. He smiled faintly at that, then took Jael’s offered hand, a little surprised at the intensity of his pleasure in seeing him again.

“Jael, how are you?”

“Well enough, brother, and welcome.” He handed him a small, stemmed glass. “Here—smooth out the creases.”

Alex took the glass, but only inhaled its aroma now.

“Thank you. Amik, I’ll always be grateful for your excellent taste. Valentin, you’re a delight for weary eyes.” He laughed as her cheeks colored prettily.

“If I offer any delight for the eye, you have Jael to thank; he provided the unaccustomed luxury of this gown. But don’t worry, Alex, I won’t have time to get spoiled. This gathering is a welcoming party for you and a farewell party for me.”

Alex raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jael. “A farewell? I came directly from the hanger. You’d better bring me up to date.”

Amik interrupted testily, “This was intended to be a civilized evening, my friend, with civilized conversation. If you must muddle the atmosphere with business, at least sit down. I loathe craning my neck.”

Alex sank into a chair, commenting drily, “You might save yourself some neck-craning if you could contain your curiosity about our business. So, Jael, what prompts this farewell party?”

Jael took a chair near Val. “You give it over to him, sister. It’s yours by rights.”

Val sent Amik an uneasy glance; she’d never become accustomed to discussing Phoenix “business” in his presence, despite Jael’s assurances that Amik was well conditioned. But when she turned to Alex, a faint smile lighted her eyes.

“Alex, I managed to pass Sister Thea’s X-ray eye. I begin my novitiate tomorrow.”

He was too tired; he felt his control slipping and laughed with relief because he was close to weeping.

“Oh, Val—thank the God. You’re the third agent we’ve tried to get into Saint Petra’s. Congratulations are in order. And a toast.” He raised his glass and, when she followed suit, admonished, “Enjoy that. Novices get nothing but curds and flat bread. Something like that.”

She laughed. “I hope it isn’t that bad.”

“So do I, for your sake. Jael, anything on Hawkwood?”

“One of the hounds sniffed him up at the ’train terminal in Tremper, but old Bruno slipped him.”

Alex frowned. “Tremper? There’s a Faith convent there, too. When was that?”

“Two days ago.”

“Damn. He could be anywhere by now.”

“I know, but Tremper isn’t Saint Petra’s, and we have an eye inside now.” He glanced at Val. “At least, we will have, unless the old Supra gets an itchy nose.”

Alex smiled at her. “Val, Master Jeans would be proud of you. This isn’t an easy role.”

“Jeans would be astounded. But, Alex, getting into the cloister doesn’t mean I’ll find Lady Adrien immediately.”

Jael nodded. “It won’t be a downhill slide. There are nearly three hundred nuns, and they’re always veiled, even inside the cloister, and Val will have to step light if she doesn’t want to start the Supra’s nose itching.”

“It may not be quite so overwhelming,” Val put in. “We’re assuming Lady Adrien went in as a novice, and there are only thirty-five to forty novices.” Then, with a sigh, “
Only
, she says. That’s better than three hundred, though. Anyway, our—uh, HS chief has put me through an intensive course on Lady Adrien. I know her height and weight, and I’ve studied all the vidicom film available to get a feel for posture, gestures, that sort of thing, and I’ve heard every recording of her voice on file and had recognition conditioning on it.” She stopped, hesitating a little before she asked, “Alex, is there anything
you
can think of that might help me identify her?”

He let his head fall back into the cushions, wondering how to explain the subtle, intensely personal characteristics that would set Adrien apart. He could find her, despite the veils and habits, if he could get inside those walls.

“I . . . can’t help you, Val. Except . . .” He frowned. “She might be wearing a small ring. Two stones: ruby and sapphire.”

Val said softly, “Oh.” It was Jael who broke the silence that followed.

“There’s another problem, Alex. Val will need a way to prove to her she’s Phoenix and not one of Bruno’s shadow corps. Val’s going in under the name of Alexandra, and that might catch her ear, but she needs something Lady Adrien will tie with you, something that could
only
come from you.”

Alex was silent, numbed at the necessity of thinking back, of remembering. His hand moved unconsciously to his throat, and finally he opened his collar and unfastened the medallion. Four months ago he’d had three facsimiles made of it, of the side showing the lamb. It was his entroit into the confidence of the Shepherds, and the facsimiles were insurance against loss of the original. But they were in Erica’s office in Fina; he’d never used them. He hadn’t wanted to subvert the ritual of recognition by using an imitation. The Shepherds might not know the difference, but he would. But now perhaps this golden disk would serve as an entroit for Val into Adrien’s confidence.

Alex rose and crossed to Val, offering the medallion in the palm of his hand as he did to the Shepherds.

“Give her this. Tell her it was blessed by a saint.”

Val only stared at it at first; she remembered it and knew what saint Alex meant. He pressed it into her hand and returned to his chair, while she fastened the chain around her neck, then slipped the medallion under her bodice, out of sight.

“Be careful, sister,” Jael said lightly, “Alex would lose his right arm before that medal.”

“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

Alex said, “Be careful for yourself, Val. This venture could put you right in Hawkwood’s path.” He picked up his glass, glancing over the rim at Amik, who was listening intently, his deceptively somnolent eyes missing nothing. Alex took another swallow of bragnac; he was beginning to feel its effects, made all the more potent by an empty stomach and two weeks with little sleep. Or perhaps it was rekindled hope; a heady sensation.

“Amik, you’re a patient host. Bear with us a little longer. Jael, any reports from the Selasid Estate?”

“Nothing new. Lady Selasis is still ill, and Concordia hasn’t seen much of her except at a long slant.”

“Anything from . . . SI on Andreas?”

“No. He said he was tracking a strong lead, but nothing definite yet.”

Alex stared into the golden liquid. Adrien had been missing for four months, but now there was a solid hope for her. Andreas Riis had been missing for eight months and they could still be sure of only on thing: he was alive. The Concord hadn’t made a public announcement of successfully breaking the TAB, or of his death, or hinted that a trial and inevitable execution were impending.

Alex looked over at Jael. “Any new developments at the main HQ?”

“Nothing important. I talked to our HS chief today. You can scan the tapes later.”

“Then I think that concludes our business. We can turn to more civilized subjects now, and perhaps a more civilized custom—such as dining. Amik, are you going to let your guests expire from starvation?”

Amik laughed, grunting as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Never let it be said that a guest in the house of Amik went hungry. So. We’ll retire to the dining room, but with one stipulation: I won’t have my digestion upset with talk of business or problems of any sort.”

Alex rose, nodding acquiescence. “You have my word. Nothing but the most civilized conversation.”

“I’ll hold that in faith, friend.”

Amik’s stipulation was met, and for a full two hours the meal was uninterrupted by anything that might conceivably upset his digestion. It was only when the attentive servants were serving the caffay that Alex heard the buzz of his pocketcom.

He shrugged helplessly at Amik’s disgruntled sigh.

“My apologies to my gracious host,” he said as he rose. “I hope the interruption will be brief. Excuse me.”

Amik waved him away. “Go with! I should be satisfied with so long a time as this in peace.”

Alex put the ’com on hold until he was in the salon with the drapes pulled between him and the dining room. There was no image when he flipped the ’com open; the call was probably from Fina relayed through the COS HQ comcenter.

“Ransom on line.”

“Alex, are you clear?” It was Ben Venturi.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“Fina, but I’m transing to the Cave as soon as I can get to the MT room.”

There was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice, and Alex felt his pulse quicken.

“Ben, what is it?”

“Thank the God and say a couple of prayers that I’m right—I think I’ve found Andreas. We’ll have to get an agent in for positive ident, but every piece of information fits. Alex, I’ll stake my life on it. We’ve
found
him.”

“Where—no, wait.” He took a deep breath, bringing his mind and body under tight rein. “Jael and I will meet you at the COS HQ. Ten minutes.”

He didn’t wait for Ben’s response, but snapped the ’com shut as he strode to the drapes and pushed them back.

“Jael, we have to get back to the Cave.”

Jael rose, black eyes intent, and after a moment a tight smile pulled at his lips.

“Finally,” he said.

Alex didn’t take time to wonder how Jael read the truth in his face.

Finally, indeed.

Mike Compton was manning the MT console at the COS HQ. He cocked his thumb in the direction of the conference room, and Alex crossed the stone floor, Jael keeping pace with him, both too preoccupied even to scan the monitoring screens. In the conference room, Ben had a portable reading screen set up on the table. He rose, offering a hand, his rugged features home for a smile that seemed a stranger there.

“Alex, how was your research expedition?”

Alex laughed; Ben still referred to his work among the Shepherds as “research.”

“It was a propaganda mission, but informative.” His smile faded as he studied Ben’s face; he still hadn’t regained his color or all the weight lost during his recovery from the laser wound. “How are you, Ben?”

“I’m too damned relieved to feel anything but great. Jael, you look fit as a Lord—and dressed for the part.”

Jael smiled crookedly as he moved around to study the image on the screen.

“Oh, I’m fit enough, Ben, but I thought I was off the line for the night. What’s come down on Andreas?”

Ben seated himself in front of the screen, and Alex, looking over his shoulder, saw an aerial view of what seemed to be a Confleet base. From the landscape and ’bubbles, he guessed it to be on Castor.

Ben said, “If I haven’t gone clear over the edge, this is where we’ll find Andreas. Pendino. It’s a small base; Class C. Damn, there are ten thousand like it in the Two Systems. Pendino’s a repair depot, mainly, but they have a small active fleet. It’s about twenty-five hundred kilometers northwest of Helen.” His hand went to the controls, and a series of images flickered across the screen until he stopped at a map with Helen in the center. “Here—in the middle of this open patch of the Barrens between the Troyan and Polyon Mountains. The only civilization closer than Helen is a few Eliseer mine complexes in the mountains.” Then he switched back to the aerial view of the base. “I’ll give somebody credit—a Class C Confleet base is the last place I’d look for Andreas. Almost the last place I
did
look. I didn’t expect the SSB masterminds to run the risk; the detention centers are so short on security systems. But it was worth the risk just because we didn’t expect it. Besides, keeping him on Castor meant less transportation; they knew our best chance of getting a lead on him was in transit. I think the only reason they moved him off Pollux was to make us think he was on his way to Terra. We almost took that bait, too.”

Alex gazed at the screen, the image layered with the images of memory. Andreas Riis with his aesthete’s face, his probing eyes, and that pervading gentleness that had been his undoing. Andreas was somewhere in that complex of slab-like buildings and mushroom hangars. At least, he
might
be.

“What led you to Pendino, Ben?”

He leaned back, turning his palms up. “That’s a long story, but the key was the psychocontrollers. We knew they’d call in the best to work on Andreas’s TAB, so we’ve been tracing the movements of the top SSB PCs. Of course, they covered their tracks damn well, but we finally caught enough leaks to realize there’d been an unusual number of ranking PCs visiting Pendino in the last eight months, so we took a closer look at it.”

Alex shifted his gaze to Ben, almost reluctant to take his eyes from the stark scene.

“But you don’t have positive identification yet?”

“No imagraphs or VPs, but I got a look at the DC files—and nearly lost one of our best agents in FleetComm. Anyway, one prisoner hits you right between the eyes. Prisoner number 10-273. Confleet DCs are generally used for ’Fleeter disciplinary problems until they see the error of their ways or sober up. That usually means a few days or weeks at the most. But 10-273 has been in for
eight months
. He was registered
two
days after Andreas was arrested. Then I saw a medical requisition for 10-273 for copadine. It’s an anticoagulant: not something the average ’Fleeter would take. Erica says Andreas has used it for years; that or similar drugs. The number 10-273 is interesting, too. Conpol, Confleet, and the SSB all have a code system for classifying their prisoners.”