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

by Wren, M. K.

“But why? Alex, you’re as bad as Ben sometimes. Really, there’s no cause for concern.”

  “Andreas, you can’t go alone, and there’s no one in Fina or all the worlds I’d trust with your life.”

  “Not even Ben?”

  Alex laughed. “He’s an exception. He’s also in a vital position in the SSB. We can’t jeopardize that. Anyway, if anything goes wrong, we’ll need him to extricate us. Besides, I’d enjoy the trip. Considering how long I’ve been on Pollux, I’ve seen damned little of it.”

  Andreas managed a smile at that, but Erica was on the verge of protesting when the door chime distracted her. She checked the vis-screen.

  “It’s Ben.”

  Their eyes shifted in unison to the door as Ben Venturi came in, sparing them a brief, abstracted smile.

  “Sorry I’m late; couldn’t get loose any sooner. How are you, Andreas?”

  “I’m all right. And you?”

  Ben laughed. “My ulcers are on the rampage again, but that isn’t surprising. Alex, you have everything organized in the hangars?”

  “Not entirely, but I called a break for supper.” He paused, then turned to Andreas. “Well, now that we’re all here, I understand you have something to tell us.”

  Andreas looked up, and it seemed to take a moment for him to realign his thoughts.

  “I’ve been so distracted, I nearly forgot about it. It’s the LR-MT. I’ve been working on a new approach. A modification of an old one, actually, but a vital modification. I had a readout on the final equations today.”

  Alex folded his arms, trying to read behind the veneer of practiced objectivity. And there was hope there. Andreas might try to rein it, as he did, but it was there.

  “A vital modification? What does that mean?”

  “Alex, we have our breakthrough.”

  Alex felt the chill of pallor in his cheeks. Breakthrough. For Andreas to use that word—

  “Please, Andreas, put that in terms I can deal with.”

  “I don’t know exactly what that means. All I can tell you is that I’m sure of the general principles. The problem now will be to translate the equations into mechanisms; designing and setting up equipment for experimentation.”

  Alex closed his eyes and the words slipped out, “Thank the God. We’re running out of time.”

  Andreas frowned at that. “We’re a long way from working models capable of practical loads. It’ll be two to four years before we can offer it to the Concord.”

  Alex’s jaw tightened, the tension taking on a sharper edge now. “Is there any way you can speed that timetable?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t know what problems we’ll encounter. Alex, we’ve waited over fifty years for this—we can wait a few more.”

  “I’m not so sure of that. There are too many crisis factors in existence in the Concord to consider, and still others within the Phoenix. You’re aware of them.”

  Andreas sighed. “Yes.”

  There was a short silence. It was Ben who broke it.

  “Andreas, you haven’t said anything about this breakthrough to anyone except Dr. Lyden and Dr. Bruce?”

  “Of course not.” He frowned with a hint of annoyance. “I’ve been very careful to observe your security procedures, Ben, and I’ve run all the computer sequences myself with an automatic erase. There’s no record of the full equations.”

  Ben nodded, his anxiety unalleviated. Andreas honestly believed he observed the security procedures to the letter, but he was all too prone to carelessness in periods of intense concentration.

  “All right, but remember, we’re in trouble if Predis finds out about this. He’s been biding his time all these years, but he’ll have to make his move once he knows we have the LR-MT.”

  “Yes, I . . . realize that, Ben.”

  Alex knew the cost of that admission; he felt the same resigned weariness. But Andreas wasn’t capable of Alex’s consuming contempt for the man who would jeopardize the Phoenix to make himself a Lord. Nor was Andreas capable of imagining how far Ussher might go to effect his dreams of glory.

  Alex frowned at his watch. “Andreas, I have to get back to the hangars. You can tell Ben about our excursion to Holy Carma.”

  Ben came alert at that. “Your what?”

  “Andreas will explain it. Ben, will you be in your Leda apartment tonight? I’d like to use your MT terminal.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re off on one of your sociological research trips tonight?”

  “Yes. It’s too important to neglect.” Especially now. And now he understood that qualification.

  “I’ll switch off the alarms. You can use it even if I’m not there.”

  “Thanks. Erica, is the corridor clear?”

  She checked her screen. “Yes.”

  He paused at the door. “Andreas, the Shepherds say every gift has its price. We’ve been given a gift of new hope. We’ll have to accept the cost.”

  4.

  A warm rain rattled at the roof. The hour was late, past the compound curfew, and the chapel was nearly empty. At a small altar along the side wall, a hooded, bent old woman knelt, arms crossed, work-worn hands resting on her shoulders, her face illuminated by the votive candles.

  Alex studied her from the shadows at the back of the chapel. A beautiful face, open and guileless as a child’s, yet seared with a lifetime of births and deaths. Her lips moved in prayer, her curiously innocent eyes gazed out of sunken sockets at the image of the saint above the altar.

  Saint Thea, regarded as a midwife of sorts; she assisted the passage of the faithful from this world into the next.

  He always felt a certain time/space disorientation in these chapels, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation. It was due in part to their uniformity. This chapel could be anywhere in the Two Systems. Even in Montril, another remote experience from that other world. They were all built on the same simple design: rectangular spaces walled and floored in plasment with barrel-vaulted ceilings, and tall, narrow windows serving more to let light out of the chapels than into them. Even in the style of the ikons decorating the walls there was a high degree of consistency.

  The only light now was that of candles, amber-warm, casting rich brown shadows, a light that gave flickering life to the ikons over the side altars and lent an equivocal depth to the grim, omniscient image of the Mezion above the main altar. There the only other worshiper in the chapel knelt; Esaph, Elder Shepherd of Eliseer’s Leda smelter Compound B.

  Alex’s gaze moved back to the old woman. On the sleeve of her cape was the blue-and-silver winged-horse crest of Eliseer. He closed his eyes.

  He was standing at the rear of the chapel, a shadow among shadows, the hood of his cloak drawn up. He listened in the darkness behind his eyes to the thrum of the rain. Autumn. A stir of remembrances that never became recognizable images; autumn rains on another world where seasons had more meaning. He was waiting for the old woman to leave, but he wasn’t impatient. This place stilled impatience. It was a place outside time, or a little pocket of time dragging behind, collecting the residue of centuries.

  He’d come here so exhausted walking was an effort, come with his mind teeming with hectic memories. The hours in the hangars and the comcenter, the decisions and demands, the press and pressure of people, the whines and cracks of machinery shrieking and hammering against the stone-bound vaults. And the oppressive, whispering quiet of the infirmary, the haunted, haunting eyes of survivors facing a vacuum in their lives.

  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 f
eet, 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.

  5.

  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, t
his 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.”