Sword of the Lamb (32 page)

Rich only nodded. “Thieves and traitors. Catchphrases are dangerous, Father. Those are your words. And scapegoating is even more dangerous; far more dangerous. It too often lets the real culprits escape unnoticed and unpunished.” Then he sighed. “No, the Concord won’t bargain with us. Not until it has no choice. The Phoenix is working toward that day, and it
will
come, or there may be no civilization left to haggle over.”

“No doubt the Phoenix will see to that if we won’t surrender to your demands.”

Rich’s head moved in a negative motion against the cushions of his chair.

“I think I made it clear that the very reason for our existence is to prevent a third dark age. When we haggle, it will be over the means of maintaining civilization. I know you think we’ll never come to terms, and you may be right, but if you are, it will be because the Concord fails before the Phoenix is strong enough to force it to the bargaining. I expect no converts now. I only hope that later, and it may be years later, what I’ve said here will be remembered.” He looked at Alexand, a mute sadness in his eyes. “The seeds I sow may never take root, but I was the only one who could sow them in this particular ground.”

This particular ground. Alexand looked at his father, his uncomprehending anguish turned to implacable obduracy. This sterile ground. Perhaps Galinin offered more fertile ground, but he was an old man, and Phillip Woolf was heir to the Chairmanship.

“Rich, you said you had
two
purposes.” Alexand’s eyes were drawn to his mother. She was watching Rich, and perhaps he’d already explained part of his second purpose, but not all of it. The plea for understanding was too naked in her eyes.

Rich’s gaze was drawn to her, too, but his reply was directed to Alexand.

“Yes, I have another purpose, and it’s the more important of the two. Remember that. And remember that I’ve given it long and careful consideration. My purpose is the arrest and subsequent trial and execution—the martyrdom and apotheosis—of Richard Lamb.”

“Arrest and—” Alexand put his glass down on the arm of his chair; it had almost slipped from his hand. And he held on; held his trembling muscles in check; held back the cry of pain until finally he could think again and even maintain a certain level of detachment.

“Your arrest. Then it’s the SSB Maxim has been instructed to wait for. Who called them?” He didn’t realize he was looking at his father when he asked that question.

Rich said, “I did, Alex. Not directly, and not ‘them.’ Specifically, Commander Quintin Bary.”

Alexand felt the dizziness coming again.

“Please, Rich . . . why?”

“I’ll explain, but first let me assure you—all of you—that everything possible has been done to protect the House.”

Woolf folded his arms, as if that were necessary to contain his disgust. “We could use some assurances, but I doubt—”

“Phillip. . . .” Galinin was frowning slightly. Woolf raised an eyebrow, then subsided into grim silence.

Rich watched this exchange, then continued calmly, “First, understand that my apotheosis
must
take place in Concordia for maximum effectiveness. As the old saw has it, everything begins in Concordia. More people pass through this city in a day than in a month in any other city. They come from the farthest reaches of the Two Systems, and return there, carrying the news of Concordia with them. The importance of Concordia as a news distribution center will become apparent later. As for my arrest, an anonymous tip went to Commander Bary this afternoon stating that Richard Lamb, an agent of the Phoenix, is in Concordia. This was to give him a rationale for my arrest, since my association with the Society isn’t known. A few hours ago, he received another tip on his personal ’com seq so that there’s no record of it. He was told where he would find me and when.” Then, noting their uneasy frowns, “Don’t worry about Bary. First, you’re all aware that he was born a Woolf Fesh and owes his present position to the House; he’s still a loyal servant to Woolf, even if he wears the SSB face-screen. But the Phoenix doesn’t depend on apparent good faith. Bary has been conditioned.”

“Conditioned!” Woolf couldn’t contain that expression of chagrin. “A commander in the SSB—”

“Yes. Father.” Rich smiled faintly. “Military and police psychic types are generally highly susceptible to conditioning. At any rate, he’ll say nothing to anyone about the tip. He’ll come here, arrest me, and take me to the SSB Central DC. But once he leaves the Estate, he’ll experience a sort of memory lapse. He won’t remember where he found me, or the actual wording of the tip. But he won’t be left empty-headed, so to speak; he’s been provided substitute memories, and they’ll be exact and clear.”

Woolf was pale, too stunned to speak, but Galinin recovered after a moment and even managed a rueful laugh.

“I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or frightened by such efficiency and capability, Rich.”

“Impressed, I hope. At least impressed that we’re doing everything possible to protect the House. And I’ve had larynx alteration and fingerprint removal, which precludes standard identification. The only possibility is that someone might recognize my face, but recognition depends a great deal on expectation. As evidence of that, I was never once recognized in my six years at the University. And no one will expect Richard DeKoven Woolf in an SSB DC, especially not when—” he paused, glancing at his mother, “—when the records will show that he died tonight. And remember, I haven’t made a public appearance—as Richard Woolf—since I was thirteen.”

Woolf retorted, “But you admit there
is
a chance someone might recognize you. Do you realize what Orin Selasis could do with that?”

“He could ruin DeKoven Woolf and Daro Galinin, but with the precautions we’ve taken that risk is so minimal as to be nonexistent. My trial and execution will attract no attention—
unless
you interfere in any way. If you do, I warn you, you’ll increase the risk to the point of real danger.”

“But that risk won’t exist if you
aren’t
arrested.”

Rich’s eyes narrowed, turning cool and remote. “I must give you another warning, Father. Check with the SSB. You’ll find Phoenix agents are adept at escape. There are even instances on record in which they seemed to literally disappear. You can’t hold me or hide me. If you try to stop me, my arrest will simply take place elsewhere. Your only hope is to kill me outright now, and in that you’d probably be unsuccessful, even if you were capable of it. And I can’t believe you are.”

For a time the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Woolf seemed frozen, his face ashen, and Elise’s voice impinged on the silence, soft as some lonely night wind.

“Oh, Rich, I still don’t understand.” Her eyes had the nacreous sheen of pearls, and as much life. And there was sorrow in Rich’s eyes as he looked at her.

“Mother, forgive me the grief I inflict on you, but I must go through with this. I
must
.”

“But it—it will mean a public execution.”

“Yes, and as I intend to confess my so-called crimes freely, at least in general terms, my execution will occur within a few days. But Mother, don’t let that prospect alarm you. I have very little time left. You know that. My doctors estimate a week, possibly a month, but no more. This is what I want; there’s a reason for it. But your concern is personal, and perhaps it would be easier for you to accept if you knew I feel no dread. Only an anticipation of . . . relief.”

Elise had turned away, but now her eyes, still bitterly dry, sought and found Rich’s.

“Relief from . . . pain, Rich?”

“Yes. It has to do with the circulation, they tell me. It’s been bearable until recently, but it’s becoming uncontrollable. Nothing is so dehumanizing as pain. If I didn’t have a purpose in seeking public execution as a means of final relief, I’d resort to soporifics; in fact, I’d have had it over by now. But remember, Mother, I’ve planned all this carefully and, I might add, it was accepted by my friends in the Phoenix with great reluctance. I believe in the Phoenix with all my heart and soul, and I want my death to serve my cause. It’s all that’s left me to give.”

“Rich, I don’t yet understand how your . . . death will serve your—”

“
I’ll
tell you how!” Phillip Woolf’s voice ripped into the quiet, exposing the ragged edges of his rage. “It’s quite simple, Elise! Basic politics. Every revolution needs a martyr, and your son has set out to provide his
cause
with a suitable martyr! And what a perfect candidate he is!” Woolf laughed, and the sound was frightening. “A
crippled
martyr! Imagine it as he’s
carried
to the execution stand. Now, there’s an image to arouse pity—and wrath. And the wrath will be directed against the cruel and heartless Concord. That he was a
traitor
will be forgotten. All the mobs will remember is that pitiful—”

“Phillip!” Elise stared at her husband incredulously. “How could you—”

“How could
I
? Your son is the traitor here! Ask him how
he
could do what he’s done. Don’t you understand? When the Bonds come raging for our blood, it will be to
revenge
the death of Richard Lamb. That’s his
purpose
—to give the Phoenix a catalyst. He could set off a bloodbath to make the Man-keen Revolt look tame by—”

“No! I won’t believe that—not Rich!”

“Why not? You think he’s still your loving child? He’s a man, and he made his choice. He
chose
this damned Society.
That’s
the cause he believes in with all his heart and soul. A band of thieves and traitors—and catchphrases be damned! The
enemy
, Elise!”

“He
told
you the Phoenix doesn’t—”

“Elise, I know a hell of a lot more about the Phoenix than you do.”

“But I know my son! Apparently you’ve forgotten, or you never knew him.”

“For the God’s sake, stop it!” Alexand rose abruptly, hands clenched at his sides. “ ‘He
’—‘your
son’—you talk about Rich as if he weren’t even here. This is the VisLord Richard DeKoven Woolf; in any other context that alone would assure him the courtesy due a Lord’s son. And this is a scholar and scientist, a recognized expert in his field. And this is an extraordinary human being capable of compassion and . . .” He stopped, his breath coming out in a long sigh, and turned away, toward the fire. The dizziness again.

He’d exchanged one nightmare for another, and neither made sense. And his father—

Alexand found himself met with a stranger in his father. Galinin had as much reason to feel betrayed, yet he displayed none of that acid antagonism. What had happened to Phillip Woolf?

No human being is exempt from fear
. . .

That was at the heart of everything. Fear. That cancerous plague that robbed human beings of their humanity.

Behind Alexand’s closed eyes a ghastly montage of images flickered with the red light of the fire, and his stomach convulsed with nausea.

Fourteen. He’d been directly involved in fourteen Bond uprisings in the last three years, and the Two Systems had been rocked with over two hundred serious enough to require Confleet intervention. He returned to his chair, sinking heavily into it, unaware that it was his own drawn, pale features that prompted the quiet around him.

He said, “Father, don’t you understand what’s happening? The Phoenix isn’t our enemy. We have only one enemy: the fear that’s swallowing up the Concord. It’s a sickness, a contagious disease, and it’s on the verge of pandemic.”

Woolf stared at him and seemed to be grasping at the words, attempting to put them in a context of reason, and Alexand saw a crack in the stone wall of resistance.

Then he saw the crack sealed.

“You’re talking nonsense, Alex. We haven’t time to waste on philosophical bleatings.”

Alexand flinched openly before he got himself under control. Time. His father didn’t understand time. Perhaps because he didn’t understand death. He hadn’t seen enough of it.

Alexand turned to Rich, and found his luminous eyes fixed on him.

“Rich, what is it you hope to accomplish with your . . . martyrdom?”

Rich took a long, slow breath. The fires still burned, banked, behind his eyes, but his pupils were reduced to pinpoints. Morphinine. Yet he was still in pain.

“Alex, you know I don’t intend to leave a legacy of violence, nor would the Phoenix tolerate that. My purpose is to create a legacy of peace.”

Woolf stiffened. “
Peace
! Holy God, do you take us all for fools?”

Galinin’s voice came rumbling from the recesses of his chair. “Phillip, I want to hear what Rich has to say. This isn’t the time to give way to emotions.”

Woolf’s rigid posture didn’t relax but, after a tense hesitation, he said curtly, “Very well, Mathis.”

Galinin studied him, frowning, then with a sigh turned to Rich, and behind the ingrained skepticism lurked a shadow of his own grief.

“Peace, Rich? Surely you realize your execution might trigger violent reactions.”

“I’ve been preparing for it for the last year, Grandser. A certain danger does exist, but I’ve done all I could to negate it, and I believe the risk is worth taking in light of the potential benefits that might result from it.”

Alexand looked at Galinin, saw his furrowed brow as he considered that. But he
was
considering it; he was listening.

“ ‘Peace’ is a large word.”

Rich nodded. “Indeed. To be realistic, all I hope to accomplish is to discourage the tendency to violent reactions among the Bonds. It might give the Concord a few more years before the internal pressures reach an explosive point. These uprisings—and the term is very apt—are in no way organized or purposeful; not yet. They’re simply eruptions; intense pressures suddenly unleashed, comparable to geological phenomena. The Fesh generally instigate them, although they aren’t aware of it. It might be an unjust punishment or a deprivation, a relatively minor incident, but in certain situations the Bonds’ response to it may be quite violent. The Fesh in turn react with greater violence, initiating an uncontrollable reactive cycle. It can
only
be stopped at the beginning. I can’t influence Fesh behavior, but I may be able to minimize the inevitable reactions of the Bonds, to stop the cycle at the outset—in some cases, at least.”