Sword of the Lamb (3 page)

Rovere was close enough now to hear their voices. Rich was saying, “Alex, you’re bluffing. You think I won’t trade queens with you?”

Alexand laughed, and Rovere thought how different the quality of it was from his brother’s. Rich was still capable of the uninhibited laughter of childhood, but with Alexand there was a hint of constraint; it had always been there.

“I think your king will be in check in another move if you do.” He studied the board a moment longer, then withdrew his hand.

“But I have you now. Rook takes bishop and check; then queen takes queen and check again, and if your knight takes my rook, my pawn moves to the last rank and—”

“Oh, ’Zion!” Alexand straightened and threw up his hands in mock resignation. “All right, I’ll concede, but don’t—” He stopped, aware of Rovere, the brief hesitation displayed by both boys indicative of surprise; they were expecting their father.

“Lector Theron, good morning,” Rich said. He hastily folded the board, which made a box to hold the pieces.

“Good morning, Rich. Alex, it sounds as if you were thoroughly outmaneuvered.”

Alexand laughed and, like Rich, his surprise had given way to warm welcome. He asked, “Isn’t Father coming?”

“No, he won’t be coming after all. Please, sit down, Alex, and we’ll get on with our lesson for the day.”

Alexand moved silently to sit down beside Rich, while Rovere lowered his stiff-jointed bulk to the bench next to theirs. He studied them, feeling already the emptiness of loss. He’d never married or had children, and these boys were as dear to him as if they were his own.

Both had the Woolf coloring: black hair and intense blue eyes, although there was an echo of Elise in the sensitive curves of Rich’s mouth and his deep-set, long-lashed eyes. He was slight for his age; that was the only outward manifestation of the disease when he was seated. But the nulgrav crutches were propped against the bench beside him, an ever present reminder.

And Alexand, fifteen, at that turning point on the verge of maturity, the remarkable resemblance he bore to Phillip Woolf becoming increasingly evident, the aquiline planes, evocative of the Black Eagle of the House crest, emerging from the gentler contours of childhood. He had Woolf’s lean grace, too, even in the awkward midst of adolescence, this due in part to the rigorous physical training Woolf insisted upon as an integral part of his education. And already there was in Alexand’s eyes a hint of Woolf’s wary, aloof, faintly cynical cognizance of the realities of life.

Rovere sighed. He would miss these boys—Holy God, he would miss them. Especially Rich.

It had been his pleasure to make Rich’s life, short as it must be, as full as possible with the joys of the mind, and Rich had responded beyond his expectations. He had long ago closed the two-year age gap between himself and Alexand and in many areas surpassed him. Both were a teacher’s delight, curious and quick, a constant challenge. And he’d learned from them, learned something of the human potential for love in the sentient rapport between these brothers.

Finally Rovere said, “Today we’ll have a short review of history; a verbal test of your understanding.”

At that, Alexand frowned slightly. “I thought we were going into Drakonian physics today.”

Rich laughed. “Alex has been doing extra work on that. He just wants to show off.”

“Then he’s probably outstripped me, Rich, on that subject. No, today we’ll consider history.”

Rich’s eyes lighted with anticipation; he’d assimilated Rovere’s interest in history and its sister study, sociology. To Alexand, all subjects seemed of equal interest, each a challenge to be overcome. But he was distracted now, more intent on his teacher’s face than on his words.

He knew. Rovere sighed; somehow Alexand knew something was wrong.

“All right, boys,” he began firmly. “I’ll give you a date, and I want you to tell me why it’s important.” He took a scriber and lightpen from a pocket in the voluminous folds of his robes and at the top of the screen wrote their initials. “A point for every correct answer. That is, the
first
with the correct answer. Ready?”

Rich was leaning forward attentively. “I’m ready.”

Alexand only nodded, putting his back against the railing, his smile fading when he was out of Rich’s line of sight.

“Very well, then,” Rovere said, “
A.D.
1945.”

Rich answered quickly, “The first controlled nuclear reaction. A nuclear bomb.”

Rovere marked the point. “Very good. Which of the old ‘nations,’ as they were called, was that bomb used against?”

“Uh . . . the States of Noramerika?”

“Is that correct, Alex?”

“No. It was used
by
the States of Noramerika against—I think it was called Japan. The islands held by the House of Matsune.”

“Alex gets the point. Now, another date: 2030.”

Rich took this question. “That would be the beginning of the Decades of Disaster. The Great Drought.”

“And how long did it last?”

“The Disasters or the Drought?”

Rovere smiled. “Both.”

“Well, the ending date for the Disasters is usually given as 2060. That was the year the last Prime Minister of Conta Austrail died. And the Drought . . .” That trailed out in a sigh, and Alexand took advantage of his hesitation to offer the answer.

“The ending date for the Drought is 2040.”

Rovere marked a point for him. “Correct. Of course, all Disasters dates tend to be rather arbitrary; we know so little about the period, really. One date we’re fairly certain of, though, is 2044.”

Rich put in, “That was the Nuclear Wars.”

“Yes, and how long did
they
last?”

“I don’t know. Some textapes say three weeks, others say three months.”

Alexand looked out at the city and noted absently, “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Weeks or months. With the kind of weapons they were using, days would be enough.”

Rich nodded and added, “What a terrible time to have to live in. Or die in.”

That was typical of both of them, that empathetic response, and something else that made them such remarkable students. Rovere had lectured for many University history courses, but seldom had he encountered students who so consistently saw dry history in terms of personal experience, and certainly few Elite students showed that capacity; their training so often tended to make them incapable of empathy.

“Yes, it was a terrible time,” he said, “and the Nuclear Wars were only a small part of it. There was the Pandemic—some of the diseases we can’t even identify today—and the mutant plagues and, always and above all, starvation. And, of course, the ultimate plague, anarchy. But humankind had only itself to blame for its suffering. You don’t burden a small planet with ten billion people, or befoul it with lethal chemicals and just plain sewage, or squander its resources as if they were infinite, without paying the price.”

Alexand turned his clear gaze on Rovere. “But there was no justice in it. The people guilty of most of the overproliferation and exploitation didn’t pay the price. They were safely dead before the Disasters.”

Rovere nodded. “True, but justice is a human invention—not a natural law—and it’s rare even in human interactions. To be at all objective about the Disasters, you have to think of them in natural terms. Human beings forced a natural reaction to their excesses, and that reaction included the annihilation of seventy-five to ninety percent of the human population.” He paused, lips pursed on a frown. “But it
was
a terrible time, and I can’t help agreeing, Alex, that there was no justice in it. Now, on with history and our test. We’ll skip over the depths of the Second Dark Age and stop at another date: 2560.”

“Bishop Colona,” Rich replied.

“Good, but what in particular about Colona?”

Rich raised an eyebrow. “The . . . well, vision, or whatever.
The Revelations
. He instituted Mezionism.”

Rovere repressed a smile at that hint of agnostic skepticism. The Woolfs carefully maintained every appearance of religious devotion in public, but Phillip Woolf didn’t expect—or want—his sons to accept anything on blind faith in private.

“All right. Another date: 2571.”

A long pause. Both boys frowned, looking first at Rovere, then at each other. Finally, Rich ventured, “The Holy Confederation of Conta Austrail?”

Rovere didn’t comment. “Alex?”

“No, that was later—2585; 2571 was probably a good year for fishing or potatoes.”

Rovere laughed. “Alex gets the point, Rich.”

Rich objected, “You didn’t say you were putting in unimportant dates.”

“But you should know whether a date has significance. Now, the Holy Confederation united all the feudal enclaves and holds of Conta Austrail under two banners: that of Colona’s Orthodox Church of the Holy Mezion and—a bonus point—what Lord?”

Rich responded quickly, as if to make up for his lost point, “Lord Even Pilgram.” Then he added, “But the Holy Confederation wasn’t exactly under
his
banner.”

Rovere shifted his weight and rested one elbow on the railing. Old limbs seemed to become cramped so easily. Or perhaps it only became more noticeable with age.

“I stand corrected, Rich. Yes, the Holy Confederation was actually a rather loose alliance, but it provided a stable framework for societal development, and particularly technological development. Another date: 2761.”

Rich hesitated over that, looking at Alexand, who answered, “The invention of the Darwin cell. It was an energy storage and amplification device that made surface-collected solar energy a really viable power source.”

“Indeed, and powered the industrial renaissance, which led to . . . what?”

Alexand said in an oddly flat tone, “The Wars of Confederation.”

Rovere studied him a moment, then nodded. “True, but not immediately. Rich—any comments?”

“Well, there was a long period of exploration and trade with cultures outside Conta Austrail. None of them were as advanced technologically, but the contacts and trade gave most of them a boost along that line before Ballarat appeared.”

“You’re anticipating me. I was going to ask who is regarded as the father of the PanTerran Confederation.”

Rich laughed. “Lord Patric Eyre Ballarat, 2839 to . . . uh, 2920.”

Rovere in turn laughed as he marked the point. “Exactly. The Wars of Confederation were a prelude to the PanTerran Confederation, of course.” He glanced at Alexand as he added, “Large-scale political unions are inevitably spawned by war, and the PanTerran Confederation was certainly large scale since it included the entire planet. How long did the Wars last?”

Alexand had the answer to that. “Twenty-seven years: 2876 to 2903.” Then he asked, “Why is Ballarat called the father of the Confederation? He didn’t have much to do with it after he finished conquering the world.”

“A figure of speech, I suppose. You’re right; Ballarat retired in something of a huff after the Wars when the Lords of the old Holy Confederation balked at making him their emperor. But there’s some justification for crediting him with paternity of the PanTerran Confederation. His Articles of Union, which were enacted at the beginning of the Wars, established the basic outlines of the Confederation and, for that matter, the Concord. That included the Directorate, for instance, and its power to tax, to maintain a police force and an army independent of the Houses.”

Rich frowned introspectively. “I wonder why the Lords wouldn’t make him an emperor. I mean, you’d think when he’d just conquered a world for them, the time would be right, that they’d give him almost anything he asked for.”

From the grove came the sardonic laugh of a kookaburra, and it seemed appropriate. “Well, Rich, it seems that Ballarat was a better conqueror and administrator than politician. Basically, I think the Lords were afraid of him. Afraid of innovation, of losing their own power.”

Alexand commented, “Some things don’t seem to change.”

Rovere hesitated, finding the cynicism underlying that disturbing.

“No, Alex. In fact, our power distribution systems haven’t changed appreciably since Ballarat, and that was—what? Three centuries ago.”

“Nor has the class system.”

True enough, Rovere thought, although he recognized a tendency to generality there that glossed over subtleties of development. Alexand apparently sensed his reservations and added, “I mean, even the
names
of the three basic classes haven’t changed since Ballarat: Bond, Fesh, and Elite. The only difference is that now there’s no hope of advancing from one class to another; there
was
in Ballarat’s time.” Then he smiled faintly, as if to mask his emotional intensity. “Did they have the Outside and Outsiders in his time?”

Rovere gave that a laugh. “Of course, but those terms didn’t become popular until the late PanTerran Confederation period. There are always those who live outside the laws and moral codes of any society. They seem to be a social necessity in some sense; at least, most societies have made room for them, left them an area of existence in one way or another. But let’s return to the PanTerran Confederation. And I’ll leave off the ‘PanTerran.’ That was generally dispensed with after the extraterrestrial colonization phase. It’s been called the Golden Age. Now, what about the year 3000, the Trimillennium? What, other than humankind’s survival through approximately six thousand years of recorded history, is special about that date?”

Rich was first with the answer to that. “The Lunar landing; the first since the Disasters.”

“Good.” Alexand, he noted, was showing signs of preoccupation. Rovere recalled his attention with, “Alex, a bonus point if you can tell me when humankind
first
set foot on Luna—before the Second Dark Age.”

“About . . . 1970.”

Rich put in, “It was 1969, to be exact.” To which Alexand only shrugged, and Rovere smiled as he marked the point under Rich’s initial.

“All right. What about 3052?”

Rich was ready with, “That was the year Ela Tolstyne’s
Treatise on Matter/Anti-Matter Interactions
was published.”

“Yes, and that led to what two key developments?”