by Wren, M. K.
“J-Jael . . . I—I didn’ mean . . . brother, gimme a say, f’ the God’s sake!”
“I laid edict,” Jael pronounced coldly, the long blade of his knife catching the distant lights. “I called this woman friend and sister. Blood edict, Ibo.”
Blood edict. Val suddenly realized what he meant by those words. They had only seemed picturesque before. She tried to protest, but her voice failed her. One end of the tunnel was crowded with half-naked men; the Brothers, unmoved and unconcerned. Only curious. Alex stood at the other end, a gun in one hand, but he raised the other hand, palm down, a gesture that told her not to interfere.
A sudden movement brought her attention back to Ibo with a spinning wrench. The sheath at his side was empty, the knife in his hand, driving toward Jael. She was only a meter away and focused intently on them, but she couldn’t be sure exactly what happened. Ibo’s knife seemed to find its mark. In the grappling of their bodies, she heard a wretching cry, and thought in a moment of horror it might be Jael’s. Yet when they separated, it was Ibo’s knife that clattered to the floor, fell gleaming and clean at her feet, and it was Ibo who sprawled at Jael’s feet.
And it was Jael’s knife that was buried to the hilt in Ibo’s heart.
Val stared at the knife, and only when she heard a buzz of comment and low-pitched laughter did she realize she was trembling. She looked up at the Brothers, at their callous, mirking faces, and she was suddenly angry.
“All of you have assignments—get back to work!”
That crisp order was met with calculating silence, and she saw their eyes shift from her to Jael.
But he seemed unaware of their attention as he leaned down with leisurely unconcern, pulled his knife from its grisly sheath, and wiped the blade on Ibo’s pants. When he straightened, he looked up at the waiting Brothers and frowned irritably, as if he were surprised.
“What the hell’s gone down with you gutless—Go with! you heard the Ferra. Back to work. Except you, Heber.” He balanced at Val. “I’ll need Heber for a short job, if you don’t mind.”
This was all for her benefit, she realized, and took her cue. Heber,” she said coolly, “you’re excused until Jael is through with you.”
The man stepped forward a little warily, and, as if that were signal, the rest of the Brothers turned away with a murmur of comment to go back to their work. Jael returned his knife to its silver-embossed sheath as Heber approached.
“Take Ibo upside and dig him in, Heber. Get a surface suit at the hangar lock. When it’s done, report to the Ferra for work.”
Heber leaned down and lifted Ibo’s body to his shoulder, carrying the burden as indifferently as he might a rock.
“This sister’s quick, Jael. A straight blade.”
Jael didn’t smile. “Hold that thought in, brother.” Then as Heber moved off down the passageway, “Val, I’m sorry.”
She looked around at Jael, and it was hard to believe this was the same man who had called Ibo to account; his dark eyes reflected only regret now. But it was for her, not for Ibo. She wondered why that didn’t bother her more, that he could kill to easily. But Jael was born to that; it was a requisite to survival in his world.
The only thing that amazed her was that he was also capable of devotion to a cause as abstract and hopeless as the Phoenix, that he could speak well and knowledgeably on almost any object from politics to music, that he had the bearing and manners, in spite of his Outsider colloquialisms, of a born gentleman, and that he was capable of this concern for her feelings.
She glanced toward the sleeping quarters where the Brothers were already hard at work. “Thanks for reestablishing my authority.”
“You did all right for your own.” He paused, searching her face. “Heber called you a straight blade. From him, that’s a compliment.”
“What does it mean?”
“It implies courage. And . . . competence, I suppose.”
Competence.
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard, seeing that knife hilt-deep in Ibo’s heart, placed with extraordinary precision. They would call Jael a straight blade, too.
“Val . . .” A short, regretful sigh, then, “I was afraid something like this would come down finally.”
“I know. I’ve been very careful, but—” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Anyway, you had no choice about Ibo. He’d have killed you.”
Jael’s gaze was direct, yet it still seemed masked.
“No. He wouldn’t have killed me. I could’ve taken Ibo down without the blade. He called me on a blood edict, Val.” He paused, watching her. “I suppose that rubs wrong, bul blood edicts are seldom called.”
She nodded numbly. “I can understand that.”
“Then maybe you can also understand why I had to—” He took a deep breath, looking down the tunnel toward the comcenter. “No, I don’t expect that to square up for you.”
She stared at him, realizing with a dull shock that it mattered to him whether she understood; it mattered a great deal.
“Jael, I’d be less than honest to say it didn’t bother me to see someone killed right in front of me, but I know the Brotherhood isn’t bound by laws that would suit the average Fesh. I understand.”
He looked around at her, testing the veracity of that with the instincts bred into him. For a long while, he didn’t move. Then he leaned close and kissed her gently.
When he drew away, he laughed and said, “I’m asking fate, after seeing you pull a man down.”
“You seem to be upright.”
He studied her with a hint of a smile that was more apparent on his eyes than his lips. Then he nodded, as if the matter were resolved and in that sense finished.
“Val, you have your ’com on touch?”
She felt for it in her pants pocket and nodded. “Yes.”
“Keep it on emergency alarm, and next time hit that first. Don’t you wear a gun?” He took her right hand and pushed the sleeve back from the spring sheath, then looked up at her with a resigned sigh.
“Jael, I just . . . didn’t have time to use it.”
He laughed. “You had time; it just never came into your head. But your way was better.” He pulled her sleeve down but didn’t release her hand. “I don’t see any more face-offs here, but if something does come down, don’t step slow. The Brothers came up in a hard school; hold back, and it might mean your life, and I’m not sure I could bear under wearing black for you.”
She was close to tears, and the only words she could think of were, “Thank you.”
“Go with, sister.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze, then turned and walked away down the passage toward the comcenter. “Fortune, Val.”
She smiled to herself, watching him.
“Fortune . . . brother.”
4.
Predis Ussher strode down the corridor, reveling in the press of bodies and voices around him. He clasped the hands stretched out to him, giving each man or woman a smile, meeting each pair of eyes directly. He took in their words as dry earth absorbs grain. He was earth—no, he was a wind. He was a wind sweepng the waters, shaping their masses with the invisible waves of his own power.
It had been good. FO’s Hangar 1, the only place in Fina large enough for that jubilant crowd. The words had come light; he felt them welling from within him, from the source of that exhilaration, the potent source of power. Halfway through, he gave up the memorized speech and let the words come free, trusting the power within him.
. . . the long gestation draws to an end, and the time of parturition is near. Not a birth, my friends, but a rebirth. We will all take part, we will all be witness to a miracle, the miracle of rebirth, the rebirth of freedom in Centauri! The Phoenix will rise from the ashes of disaster; the Phoenix will be born again, and its talons will strike into the flesh and hearts of the slave ma
sters. The Phoenix will take under its soaring wings all those bound in the cruel chains of slavery, will cast off those chains, and the unshackled masses will rise on the wings of the Phoenix into the light of freedom! The Republic of the Peladeen will be born again and the slave masters cast out! Our time is near! The Phoenix will live again. . . .
It had been good. As he worked his way toward the lifts the echo of the sound was still in his ears—cheers from thousands of straining throats, a sound like the rush of surf pounding at the walls of the hangar cavern. He was the wind, whipping that sea to storm intensity, a storm of joy and hope and faith.
They believed.
That was what counted. Riis and his endless ex seqs. The old prophets said faith could move mountains, but you couldn’t build faith out of computers, and computers never moved anything.
When at length he reached the lift that took him up to the Communications section, he left most of the crowds behind, and he felt some of his exuberance slip away. There were still some who doubted; less than three thousand had come to this meeting, fewer than the first. Still, that was enough. In time, there would be more; in time, there would be no doubters.
Radek. She fostered doubt; she radiated it as he radiated promise. She had only to pass in a hall, to enter a room, and a pall of doubt spread like some heavy, noxious gas. She’d been at the meeting, standing near the comcenter deck, but her presence never suggested support; she was only there to watch him. Without a word, she made that clear. To watch; to analyze; to dissect his psyche with those penetrating, emotionless, tensteel eyes.
She must be dealt with, and Venturi, too. All in good time.
They thought he was blackmailed into impotence with those microspeakers. Well, perhaps they were right for the time being. It would at least confuse the members to hear about—what did Radek call it? The Ransom Alternative.
But the time would come when the name of Ransom would be so despised, he wouldn’t dare set foot in Fina, much less offer himself as a candidate for Phase I. The time would come when Phase I would be meaningless, when the Phoenix burst from its rocky tomb and made the entire Centauri System its own, when the Peladeen Republic again ruled Centauri as it was destined to do.
He turned into the anteroom outside his office, too preoccupied to be consciously aware of his surroundings.
“Fer Ussher?”
His secretary, Caren Regon. She was standing by her desk, her plain features transformed and glowing, and he felt his exhilaration returning. She believed. Her eyes were wide with awe, and it was for him. She believed, and there were plenty more like her.
Her cheeks colored self-consciously. “I—I don’t know how to tell you how . . . moved I was by what you said at the meeting. We’re so lucky to have you. I mean, with Dr. Riis and Commander Ransom gone. I don’t know what would happen to us—to the Phoenix—if it weren’t for you.”
Riis and Ransom. Would they never forget? But Ussher held on to his smile.
“Thank you, Ferra, but I’m only doing my small part for our cause; the cause of freedom.” He pressed the lock by his office door, then said as the screens clicked off, “Ferra Regon, I’d like to see the requisition sheets from Dr. Tomas, please.”
“I’ll bring them in to you. Just a moment.”
While she called up the file, he left the doorscreens off and went to his desk, humming to himself.
They’d forget. Riis and Ransom would become only dim memories. They’d forget, and they’d believe. And those who didn’t—well, they could only be regarded as traitors to the cause. He studied his appointment list. Hendrick. He must talk to Rob about the new laser modifications.
The quiet, sourceless voice triggered a cold shock of adrenaline that was literally paralyzing.
“Elor Peladeen commanded a force comparable to a thousand Corsair TCs, five thousand Corvets, and nearly ten thousand Falcons . . . .”
That voice. He needed no identification. It was the voice that haunted his nightmares. Ransom.
“. . . Peladeen was battling the Concord when it was at approximately half its present level in armament and manpower. . . .”
A speaker! Another microspeaker—where was it? He stared around the empty room, his face a mask of chagrin and rage.
“. . . Predis, how do you propose to drive the Concord out of Centauri with the paltry resources at your command, when Peladeen with his vast fleets failed?”
“Stop it!”
The cry came from his throat unexpectedly, reverberating in the quiet; he wasn’t even aware of it. He was on his feet searching, tossing aside piles of vellum, sending a forgotten cup of coffee flying in an explosive spray.
“. . . and remember, Predis, I still live, and Andreas Riis still lives . . . .”
It was here—it had to be here! Somewhere close—God, it seemed to be inside his head! He spilled out the contents of the drawers with shaking hands.
“. . . Andreas Riis lives, and he will return to Fina when the true faithful of the Phoenix free him. He will return. Think on that, my Lord Peladeen . . . .”
He swept the desktop clean in one violent movement. “Damn you! Damn you!”
Ransom! He’d pay for this! He’d pay—
“Fer Ussher?”
And Venturi. He was in on this; he had to be. A microspeaker. Where the hell was it? He’d pay, too, and Radek. They’d all pay—
“Fer Ussher, what’s wrong?”
He froze, suddenly aware of the silence in the room, aware that the voice had stopped, aware of the debris that littered the floor, and, most of all, aware of Caren Regon standing in the doorway, a sheaf of transcript film in her hand, staring at him incredulously.
“Didn’t you hear it? That voice, damn it! You must’ve heard it. His voice.”
Her eyes went wider. “Voice? I don’t understand.”
“Just now—you had to hear it!”
“I—I was outside. I didn’t hear anything, except . . .” She paused, gazing distractedly at the littered floor.
Ussher’s eyes narrowed, and the seed of suspicion took root in his mind.
“Except what, Ferra Regon?”
She was trembling; it was evident even from this distance. Why was she so nervous?
“Except . . . your voice.”
Of course, he was thinking, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. And, in a way, he hadn’t. He hadn’t seen her for what she was, hadn’t recognized her as the most obvious suspect. All the monitors and microspeakers that had been planted in the office—it never occurred to him to suspect Caren Regon, the faithful secretary, the staunch supporter, the believer.
“Now I understand,” he said coldly. “Of course you didn’t hear it. That’s part of the plan, isn’t it?”
The transcript films slipped out of her hands and scattered silently on the carpeted floor.
“Fer Ussher, what do you mean?”
“You’re part of it! I should’ve known. But I trusted you, Ferra. I trusted you!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please—”
“Don’t you?” He laughed bitterly. “Is this one of Radek’s plots to make me think I’m going mad? Oh, she’d like that. She’d love to get at me, to get a my mind. But it won’t work!”
“Oh, Holy God . . .” She was frightened now; he could see that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fer Ussher. Please believe me!”
He stiffened, every muscle taut. He’d been so intent on her he’d forgotten the open doorway, and now he saw a cluster of curious faces at the anteroom door. He forced his features into a semblance of calm, sinking into his chair, gripping the arms to control the shaking of his hands. The effort of keeping his voice level made his throat ache.
“Ferra Regon, I won’t discuss it further. You’ll be transferred to anoth
er subdepartment tomorrow; one where you’ll be quite useless to your friends.”
“What friends? Fer Ussher, what have I done?”
“Keep your voice down! Go get your desk cleared out. You’ll be notified of your new assignment tomorrow morning. You’re dismissed for the rest of the day.”
For a long time she didn’t move, and her hopeless, even accusing gaze, was strangely distrubing. But he knew that was part of the plan, too; Radek’s plan. But it hadn’t worked. It had only succeeded in revealing their agent.
“I said you’re dismissed, Ferra Regon!”
She moved finally, turning to the door, only nodding silently when he added, “Tell Alan Isaks I want to see him in five minutes. And close the doorscreens.”
She looked back at him once before the screens went on, but he was already busy restoring order to his desk.
Five minutes. He gathered transcripts, tapes, memo sheets off the floor and stuffed them with no concern for order into drawers. Alan Isaks. Yes, he’d be the best choice. It should have been done long before. He should have known better than to trust a woman in such a vital position. Isaks was a Second Gen; his mother was one of Rob Hendrick’s stattechs, and if Rob wasn’t letting his ego get out of hand again, she harbored a secret affection for him.
He went to the door to pick up the transcripts Regon had dropped, consigned them to a desk drawer, then arranged the intercom and reading screens on top of the desk. The door chime sounded. He pulled his chair up to the desk and sat down, taking a long breath while he composed his smile. Not too much; just enough to put Isaks at ease. He reached for the intercom.
“Come in.” Then, when a dark, sober-eyed young man came hesitantly into the room, “Ah, Alan, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Fer Ussher. Was there some . . . problem?”
“Yes, Alan, there was a problem. You see, Ferra Regon—well. I’m afraid she’s been under a great deal of strain lately. Perhaps I’m to blame for that. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t realize how much I was asking of her.” He hesitated just long enough before adding, “She . . . she’s ill.” Then, lowering his voice slightly, “Alan, you may have heard part of our . . . well, a little disagreement in here. Now, I wouldn’t want anyone to think badly of Ferra Regon. She served the Phoenix and me to the best of her ability for nearly ten years. However, in all fairness to her, and out of concern for her well-being, I was forced to ask her to transfer to another position where she won’t be subject to such severe pressures.” He paused for another long sigh. “I’m afraid she didn’t take the decision well.”