Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (6 page)

But all that was remote here; more remote than distance or hours. He was wondering if some of these candles were lighted for Saint Richard the Lamb. There was a sense of Rich’s presence here that was almost tangible. The Bonds wouldn’t be surprised if Rich appeared in the flesh here, and Alex doubted he’d be, either.

The old woman came to her feet, a slow, cautious process, then shuffled to the back of the chapel, past Alex, and out the door. He didn’t move, and she seemed unaware of him. The door closed with a gust of rain-scented wind.

Esaph still knelt at the main altar, so much a part of his surroundings, he seemed carved or painted. Alex reached under his cloak and unfastened the medallion, then walked down the center aisle toward the altar. The soft-soled shoes silenced his footsteps; the Shepherd didn’t hear him. Alex stopped two meters behind him and waited. Esaph was extraordinarily sensitive; he would sense his presence.

It was less than a minute. Esaph’s grizzled head came up, then he rose and slowly turned. His wrinkle-webbed features were the color of mahogany. There was no fear in them; he was only momentarily surprised.

Alex extended his hand, the medallion exposed in his palm, the lamb uppermost. He never showed them the wolf.

“I come in the Name of the Lamb.”

Esaph sighed. “It’s the Brother.”

“Yes, Esaph.”

The Shepherd sank to one knee, and Alex closed his hand around the medallion, turning the back of his hand out as Esaph pressed it against his forehead. He still found that gesture of respect hard to accept. But it wasn’t only for him; it was also for the Lamb.

Esaph rose, studying him. “Are you well, my lord?”

That form of address was also hard to accept, but—again—it was only an expression of respect.

“Yes, Esaph, I’m well. And you?”

“The Holy Mezion still blesses my long years. Can I bring you some refreshment, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” He bowed to the stern-eyed image of the Mezion, then sat down on the dais step, waiting for the Shepherd to sit down beside him. “I find refreshment enough in simply being here.”

Esaph’s tone was faintly puzzled. “I’d think you’d find refreshment where you come from.”

“Where do you think I come from?”

“I . . . don’t know. Perhaps the Beyond Realm.”

Alex shook his head. “I’ve told you, I’m as human as you. Aren’t you a man, Esaph? A human being?”

“Yes, but not to be spoken of with the Brother.”

“All men are brothers in the Mezion’s eyes, so you and I are brothers. I don’t come from the Beyond, only a different place. Still, it’s part of this world.”

Esaph nodded, more in acceptance than understanding.

“Saint Richard, your brother, said much the same thing.”

Alex turned away, gazing at the flame-lighted image of Saint Thea. Midwife of death. There was a brief silence, then he said, “Esaph, we’ve spoken together often, and I’ve had a great deal to say to you. You remember my brother’s words?”

“Of course. He was a wise man and a saint.”

“If I should die, will my words be remembered as my brother’s are?”

The Shepherd pulled in a quick breath. “Your words will be remembered.”

“I trust you and your fellow Shepherds to see to that.”

“We won’t fail you. But why do you speak of death? Are you under the Shadow?”

Alex’s eyes moved again to the image of Saint Thea. “Sometimes I think that’s where I live.”

“You’re troubled tonight, my lord.”

“Yes, but less troubled than when I came here.” He smiled at the Shepherd, but it slipped away from him. “Esaph, if you remember nothing else I’ve said, remember this: There may be a time of war coming, but the Bonds must take no part in it, no matter who tempts or threatens them. The way of the Blessed is peace. That is the will of the Mezion. If this time of war comes and any of your people so much as raise a hand, the Mezion will punish them. The Purge after the Fall of Peladeen will seem a children’s game in comparison.”

Esaph was old enough to remember the Purge; there was fear in his eyes.

“Have you seen this in a vision, my lord?”

Alex hesitated, and an image came unbidden into his mind—the fields of Alber.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen a vision.”

“Will this . . . this time of war come soon?”

“I don’t know. I told you I’m not a saint; my visions are imperfect. But if it comes, remember my brother, and remember me. Remember one word: peace.”

Esaph’s answer was nearly a whisper. “I’ll remember.”

Alex pulled himself to his feet, feeling the dull ache of exhaustion in every muscle now.

“Tell your flock, Esaph.”

The Shepherd also rose, gazing somberly at him.

“I’ll tell them, my lord.” Then he bowed, again making that hand-to-forehead obeisance. When he straightened, Alex rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Good night, my friend. We’ll talk again.”

“Good night. May the Holy Mezion send you comfort, my lord.”

“Thank you, Esaph.” He bowed to the ikon of the Mezion, then turned and walked silently down the aisle to the door. It was still raining outside.

The SSB Administration and Detention Center in Leda was popularly known as the Cliff—even among some of its lower-echelon personnel—an appellation derived only in part from its architectural style. It was one of the tallest buildings in Leda, and from his office on the top level, Commander Hubert Benin had a spectacular view of this largest city in the Centauri System and to the south, the Selamin Sea, and to the east, across the Pangaean Straits, the cloud-veiled ramparts of the Coris Mountains.

Commander Benin was standing at the windowall, but the view from the top of the Cliff held no interest for him. His lips were compressed, his hands, clasped behind his back, worked spasmodically. Leftant Altin’s tone was even more restrained than usual.

“Commander Benin, sir, the prisoner.”

He didn’t turn. “Have him brought in, Altin. I may as well have a look at this—this
prize
Haver’s sent me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Benin wasn’t aware of Altin’s quiet voice as he relayed the order via the office intercom.

“Damn his soul!” He turned, fixing the hapless leftant with a cold glare. “Hallicourt gets Riis, and what do
I
get? His
chauffeur
, for the God’s sake. If Cornel Haver had any sense of—of propriety, he’d have called me in on this. Damn it,
I’m
his senior officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’ll pay for this. He thinks it’ll put another chevron on his shoulder, but he just may end up with
none
!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why the hell did that tip go to the Hallicourt unit? Why—” He stopped, frowning. “Did Haver send a VP ident on the tip?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it won’t help much, though.”

Benin scowled at him. “Larynx alteration? No record, as usual?”

“There was a record, sir, but apparently the Phoenix has devised some means of disrupting the VP computers.”

“Impossible!”

“Yes, sir. However, the voice on that tip was identified as belonging to someone now deceased; that’s direct from Concordia Central Control. The recording was also determined to be a probable patch, but a very good one.”

“Holy God, patched tapes made by
ghosts
!” Benin turned as the door opened, finding a new focus for his indignation.

The prisoner was flanked by two face-screened guards, each with a hand locked around one of his arms, each carrying a charged lash. Benin crossed the room slowly, his lead-colored eyes fixed on him. The man was definitely Phoenix.

Hubert Benin wasted little time speculating on the mental processes of his prisoners; he left that to the psychocontrollers. But occasionally, he wondered what it must be like for these Phoenix agents with the amnesia block.

Damn them! If he could ever break
one
of them . . .

“So, this is Cornel Haver’s offering to me. Altin, didn’t he have
any
information on him?”

“Only his name, sir. The one given in the tip.”

“
That
doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

Benin studied the prisoner, finding nothing in his face or attitude to calm his choler. The man
had
to be afraid; the amnesia block didn’t make them forget how to be afraid.

Phoenix. Madmen, all of them.

Then he paused. There was something familiar about this man, particularly around the eyes. Cold blue; arched, black brows; a gaze that was disturbingly direct.

“Altin, are you sure we have no records on this man?”

“Not under the name given us, sir.”

“I suppose he’s had print removal.” Benin reached for the man’s hand to check for the telltale smoothness of fingers and palm. “They always—
damn
!” He stumbled backward as the prisoner’s fist shot out, nearly smashing into his face.

“Sir, are you—”

“
Yes
, I’m all right, Altin!” He drew himself up, tugging impatiently at his uniform, lips curling in distaste as the guards brought the prisoner under control. It was incredible. The man was giving them a hard run. Obviously, he had training; such things were reflexive and didn’t require memory on a conscious level. It was futile, of course, but what boggled his mind was
why
the man would resist. He didn’t even know who he was. It was insane.

Benin glared at the prisoner, but he was unconscious now, sagging between the guards.

“Sir, I’m sorry.” One of the guards, his tone fearfully apologetic. “He was so fast—”

“And you were so
slow
! Altin, call Psychocontrol.”

“Yes, sir. Will you send him directly to them?”

“Yes.” Benin dismissed the guards with a wave of his hand. “Take him to Level 6.”

He didn’t respond to their salutes as they departed; his back was to them. He went to the windowall and scowled at the vista of Leda.

“Altin, I want that man classified terminal.”

The leftant nodded absently. “Yes, sir. I’ll—uh, pass the word.”

“Val, call that last report from the Concordia PS research unit, please.” Erica Radek was studying Valentin Severin closely, even though her gaze was turned on the reading screen on her desk.

Val was at the memfile console. “That would be last week’s report?”

“Yes.”

Val checked the ’file index, and punched the document locator sequence, then turned to Erica.

“It’s ready for your screen.”

“Thank you, Val.” She switched her screen to the report, frowning over the lines of fine print and columns of statistics, but the activities of certain Fesh students at the University in Concordia didn’t occupy her full attention.

She was thinking about Val, sifting the data of posture, vocal nuances, facial expressions, and trying to remember when she’d first become aware of the change in Val, a restraint in her attitude, a sensed antagonism. And Erica was wondering about her own objectivity. Perhaps she was getting a little paranoid lately.

Val came to look over her shoulder, and Erica leaned back and gestured toward the screen.

“I’m afraid we have a serious problem on our hands with the University students.”

“The radical liberal movement?” Then, at Erica’s nod, “Is it confined to Concordia, or are the other Universities showing any symptoms?”

Erica smiled faintly at that term. “Well, I’m sure there are symptoms, but so far they’ve only manifested themselves in diagnosable form in Concordia.” Then she sighed. “Freedom. What a word. Humankind would be better off if it had never been invented; it’s so misleading. I have no doubt that within the year the radical liberals among the students in Concordia will be united under a common banner. This young man—” She touched the controls, the screen blurring until she stopped at an imagraph of a thin-faced, dark-haired youth. “Damon Kamp. Sociophilosophy student, family upper-class Independent Fesh, intelligence index near genius level. But he’s a very dangerous young man. An evangelist, and a skilled one. He also has a taste for power, and beyond that, he’s highly unstable emotionally.”

Val studied the face on the screen. “A dangerous combination in one man, Dr. Radek.”

That was one of the things that was bothering her, Erica realized. Lately, Val showed a tendency to address her as “Dr. Radek,” even in private, yet they’d been on first-name terms for years.

But Erica didn’t comment on that. “Yes, but it’s not an unusual combination. Kamp is an archetype, really, so true to form, one can predict his behavior with some accuracy.”

“An archetype?”

“A messiah. The species is ubiquitous in any social stratum, any historical period, any
where
, and they’re particularly effective in relatively closed systems. They’re attractive to youthful idealists, of course, and capable of inspiring classic fanaticism and inducing their followers to deny entrenched moral codes even to the point of betraying family and friends.”

She happened to be looking up at Val at that moment, and what she saw stopped her. Val’s muscles seemed to go rigid, and her face reddened; a strong emotional reaction that she was obviously trying to conceal. Yet it was so anomalous. What was there about those comments on Damon Kamp that . . .

. . .
betraying family and friends
.

Those were the catalytic words. But why? Val had never suffered serious guilt reactions toward her family as a result of joining the Phoenix, and there was nothing else in her history that could be considered a betrayal of them.

Friends. Betraying
friends
.

Erica concentrated on the screen to mask her own emotional reaction. Perhaps the subject of Damon Kamp was worth pursuing. She touched the controls, stopping at another imagraph: Kamp addressing a crowd of students.

She said, “I’m sure Kamp will emerge as a leader for the radicals. He has a talent for leadership. He speaks well and offers simplistic solutions with powerful emotional appeal, and believes what he says so thoroughly, he can turn even skeptics into believers.
Active
believers.” Even without looking directly at Val, she could feel her increasing tension. “If there were any way he could be silenced, I’d recommend it, but the Concordia unit is convinced it can’t be done short of harming him in one way or another.”