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

by Wren, M. K.

  “Our problem,” Ussher continued, “is to find ways to let the Fesh and Bonds know who we are and what our purpose is. Once they understand that, once they realize we’re fighting for their freedom, that our attack isn’t directed against them, but against their masters, they’ll fall in behind us. The time is right; they’re desperately searching for leadership, for someone to show them how to strike off their chains. We’ll offer that leadership.”

  Marien nodded. “Yes, but how can we make our purpose clear to them?”

  Again, that warm, tolerant smile. “Very simple. We must shut down the PubliCom System facilities as soon as the offensive begins. Shutting down the Woolf systems will be difficult, of course, but I’m convinced that with careful planning we can do it.”

  John M’Kim was frowning again, gnawing at feasibility. “That will work very well for getting our message to the Fesh. When the attack begins, they’ll turn on their vidicoms immediately to find out what’s happening. But what about the Bonds? We can’t reach them through vidicom.”

  “You’re right, John,” Ussher admitted soberly. “We can’t reach them through any written means, either, and we haven’t enough people to give them the message directly. For the answer to this problem, I’ve turned to my research staff in Communications. We’ll plant microspeakers ahead of time in all the Bond compounds. Then, at the onset of the offensive, we can activate them by radio. It won’t be necessary for any of our members to enter the compounds during the offensive.”

  Ben almost laughed. Ussher had taken a lesson from the microspeakers that had plagued him the last few months. But it was strange that he could speak of this ploy so freely, as if he recognized no relationship between this method of reaching the Bonds and the disembodied voices that had so often sent him into livid rages.

  M’Kim seemed satisfied, even impressed. “Yes, that would be quite effective with the Bonds. Voices from the Beyond, and all that.”

  Erica’s quiet voice brought every eye into focus on her.

  “I assume, Predis, that you’ve considered the fact that you’ll have to overcome the influence of Saint Richard the Lamb and the Brother?”

  Ussher hesitated. He knew it wouldn’t be politic to speak too carelessly of Richard Lamb here.

  “With all due respect to Richard Lamb, whom we all loved and admired, his influence with the Bonds obviously hasn’t succeeded in stopping the uprisings, although it may have limited them to some degree; I’d be the first to give him credit. As for this ‘Brother’. . .” He shrugged expressively. “Well, we know the Bonds are apt to confuse the real world with the . . . uh, spiritual. But when it comes to a choice between slavery or freedom, the real world will take precedence. It always has.”

  Ben found that puzzling, too, but only because of the suggestion that the Brother was a figment of Bond imagination. Alex had tried to keep his identity as the Brother secret, but Ben had evidence that Ussher knew about it. Certainly, he knew the Brother wasn’t imaginary.

  The other councilors were satisfied, and Erica offered no further rebuttal. She never let herself be drawn into an argument.

  Ussher was answering a question from Barret now. “After the initial attack, our course of action depends on the Concord’s response. It’s my conviction that a second offensive won’t be necessary; they’ll be ready to bargain with us. The Concord is already suffering too many internal stresses; it can’t afford a war with Centauri.”

  He was becoming more expansive with every word, and Ben braced himself for another oration.

  “My fellow members, the Concord is disintegrating from within. Consider the events of the last week alone. There was the outbreak in one of the new Special Detention compounds, which were the Concord’s only answer to Fesh revolt. Of course, all of us recognized those SD compounds as a dangerous symptom when they were established last year.”

  Ben’s jaw clamped tight. It was Erica Radek who had brought the dangers inherent in the SD compounds to the attention of “all of us.”

  “To concentrate known extremists and activists is obviously dangerous,” Ussher enlightened them, “and this week the Tokio SD compound erupted. Fifty guards were killed or injured as well as a thousand prisoners. And only yesterday Concordia was the site of another highly indicative incident. An explosive device was thrown into a contingent of Directorate Guards—and the Guard stands as a symbol of the Directorate itself in the minds of the people—killing ten outright, wounding another twenty-five. Add to the week’s events, the month’s events, and the year’s events. Add the staggering number of public executions of so-called agitators—that is, anyone who dares take action against tyranny and brutality. And these are Fesh, not Bonds. Bonds are disposed of without so much judicial ceremony. Add the passage of yet another measure to expand Confleet and Conpol. Add the number of minor Houses that have been bankrupted by crushing tax levies and swallowed up by major Houses. Add the economic recession that has crippled entire industries. Add the 120 Bond uprisings requiring Confleet intervention, the hundreds of ‘minor’ ones quelled by House guards at untold cost in death and suffering. Add the Ganymede uprising, a colossal disaster that took fifty thousand lives. Add all these and the hundreds of other indices I haven’t even touched on, and you have a picture of an archaic, stiffnecked, feudal system on the verge of collapse. My friends, the time is right for us. The Concord won’t take on the added burden of a war with us—a full-scale revolution—if it’s offered an alternative. The Concord will come to terms with us!” He rose slowly, and Ben could see the slight trembling of his hands.

  “My fellow members, I’m going to make a prediction. A few years ago, none of us would have believed this could come so soon, but history has its own laws of inertia; history is moving faster and faster, and it’s moving for us. This is my prediction, and I know in my soul I’m right. In half a year’s time, the Lord Galinin and the Directors will be meeting with a representative of the Phoenix. The proud Lords who brand us pirates and traitors will be coming to terms with the Phoenix, and by the God, they’ll be grateful to give us anything we ask for!”

  Ben could never explain what triggered him; he’d listened patiently to rhetoric in the same vein before, heard Ussher twist and select facts, heard him use the name and goals of the Phoenix callously, even heard similar predictions of ultimate victory.

  Ben couldn’t explain it, and neither could he control it. His chair crashed backward as he came to his feet. Ussher’s head snapped around, and Ben was beyond hiding his contempt; it was all he could do to restrain the urge to drive his fist into that mouth that sagged with surprise.

  “Predis, you unmothered fool! Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Rob Hendrick sprang to his feet, glaring hotly at Ben. “Listen, you have no right to—”

  Ben’s hands closed. “Hendrick, stay out of this, or so help me, I’ll smash that pretty face of yours to a pulp!”

  Hendrick sagged back into his chair while Marien Dyce chimed in with a shocked, “Ben, now, really!”

  Then M’Kim, “For the God’s sake, Ben, calm down! This is no time—”

  “Calm down? After that rousing oration? John, don’t you realize that speech was supposed to overwhelm us with enthusiasm and confidence?” Ben turned on Ussher, the meeting of their eyes a palpable clash; he almost expected a shower of sparks. “That speech was supposed to make us forget everything the Phoenix stands for and has sacrificed so many lives for. That speech was supposed to make us overlook the fact that, in spite of the Concord’s internal problems, it is still capable of smashing us in a military confrontation; to overlook the warning in the General Plan ex seqs that bargaining without the LR-MT is hopeless. And we’re supposed to forget that the Phoenix has worked for over fifty years to prevent the Bond revolt Predis is proposing. My fellow members . . . is it so easy to forget? Is it so easy to forget the real aims of the Phoenix? Is it so
easy to forget Andreas Riis and all he stands for? To forget that he’s still alive and waiting to be freed?”

  “Andreas Riis is dead!”

  For a moment Ben could only stare at Ussher, stunned by the terrible conviction in those words. Then his mouth twisted sardonically, shock swept away in renewed anger.

  “And what about Alex Ransom, Predis? Is he dead, too? You tried hard enough to kill him. You made three tries for him, but you failed on every one!”

  Ussher’s fist smashed down on the table.

  “Ransom deserted the Phoenix! He betrayed Riis and deserted! He’s a traitor! A deserter!”

  He believed every word of it. Ben was silenced again. Perhaps on some level, Ussher still recognized the truth, but now, at this time and place, he believed his own lie with a conviction that would not be shaken, and that conviction was more frightening than all his self-serving ambition.

  Ben said softly, “The God help us, Predis, you’re insane.”

  The air seemed to vibrate in the sudden silence. No sound, no movement, no one seemed to breathe. Ussher went white, his hair blazing against his pallid skin, his body taut, as if it would snap at the slightest touch.

  “Venturi, no one says that to me! You’ll swallow that one day, I promise you. You’ll choke on it!”

  “If I do, Predis, everyone will know who garroted me.”

  He turned away and looked down at Erica, vaguely surprised to see a brief, wistful smile where he might have anticipated recrimination for his loss of control.

  “I have business in Leda, Erica. I’ll be back tonight.” He didn’t wait for her response, but turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  And Predis Ussher’s eyes never strayed from him until the doorscreens snapped on after him.

  2.

  Ben paused at the windowall, looking out at the glittering night vista of Leda; the gibbous Castor made a golden path across the waters of the Pangaean Straits. A beautiful view, and an expensive one, but an SSB major could afford such luxuries. Still, it was a waste of ’cords; he had little time to enjoy it.

  He turned and surveyed the bedroom carefully. The “body” was tucked in the bed, set to radiate the proper amount of infrared, as well as sounding alarms and activating hidden vidicams if its delicate “skin” was touched. The comconsole was programmed to detour all incoming calls to his quarters in Fina or his pocketcom. The sensors that surrounded and filled the apartment were all activated.

  He glanced at his watch. Mike Compton would be on the MT now. Before he darkened the windowall, he took a last look out, wondering what the view of Leda would be like after Ussher’s full-scale military offensive.

  Six months. 1 Januar. A new year.

  Ussher was insane. It had been foolish to tell him so, but it was true.

  True or not, Ben thought irritably as he waved off the lights, it had been an error to lose control. He must talk to Erica tonight. He took out his transceiver as he crossed to the inner wall and felt along the plasment for the faint depression. Then, when a section of the wall slid back silently, he stepped into the chamber behind it and switched on the ’ceiver.

  “Mike? Are you clear?” He set the timers on the shock screens and closed the door while he waited for the response.

  “Clear, Ben. Ready for trans?”

  “Yes, go ahead—”

  He froze, every muscle springing taut; his hand flashed to the holster on his hip.

  The answer to his first question should have been, “The weather’s fine.”

  He had his laser out when he felt the faint shock of the trans, then he was blinking in the blaze of light in the Fina MT chamber.

  There were two of them, face-screened, one turning away from the control console, the other in front of him, between him and the open door into the corridor, an X2 in his hand.

  Ben fired, aiming for the gun, even as he ducked and lunged, head down; the heat of a beam breathed lightly over his shoulder. They hit the floor together, and Ben felt the air crushed out of his lungs. He rolled with his attacker, straining to bring his gun up, his hand exploding in pain as the second man kicked it away.

  The corridor—the fire alarms. . . .

  He gripped clothing and flesh, fumbled for leverage, and heaved his assailant’s body between him and the other man, heard an angry cry of pain.

  “You hit me! You hit me!”

  Ben scrambled to his feet and plunged into the corridor, only to be thrown down as a hurtling body leapt on his back. He tried to turn, to pull the man under him, and took the impact of the fall on his shoulder.

  A hand closed over his mouth, stifling his cry at the pain in his left side, a pain so intense, his body jerked in uncontrolled muscular spasms, and he knew he had only a few seconds of consciousness left him. He thrust his elbow back, felt flesh smash against bone; the momentary loosening of his assailant’s grip was enough. He twisted free, his right arm snapped down, the X1 was in his palm, and his finger closed on the firing button.

  The hall echoed with screams of agony, but Ben only understood that the threatening shadow had fallen away. He moved the beam in a searing arc upward, toward the ceiling, toward the heat sensors. The fire alarms began shrieking; the very air shivered with the sound as he swayed to his feet and staggered across the hall to put his back to the wall, ready for the next attack.

  But there was none. A blurred shadow; a man running into the MT room. Ben held the gun in both hands, the beam hissing until his trembling muscles failed, and the gun fell to the floor.

  Shouts and footsteps moving toward him, the sounds dim against the alarms. He felt himself sliding down the wall, one hand at his side, blackened with charred cloth and flesh, and he thought the shrieking was his own. His vision was gone; he wasn’t aware of hitting the floor except for the intensification of the pain. The footsteps and voices were close, but he couldn’t move.

  He wondered if Ussher had sent someone to finish the job.

  “Ben! Holy God—somebody call a medsquad!”

  Haral Wills . . . thank the God. . . .

  “Willie—”

  “Don’t talk, Ben. We’ll have a medsquad here in a few minutes.”

  “Willie, take care of . . . Erica. . . .”

  3.

  Alex Ransom walked slowly up the hangar ramp, thinking that he was exchanging one black vault for another—the black vault of space for a vault of stone.

  Halfway up the ramp he stopped and looked down into the hangar. It was silent now; the crews and techs had retired for a well earned rest, the flurry of excitement occasioned by their homecoming had died, and the COS HQ staff returned to their duties.

  The foray had been productive as well as distracting. His eyes moved over the black hulls of the Falcons. There were four of them now. Capturing the fourth with a meager fleet of three had been no small feat. There was personal satisfaction in that, and more in the knowledge that eventually he could return Amik’s ships with no concern for rent or farther bargaining.

  He looked up at the rock walls and ceiling, knowing he should be in the comcenter. Jael forwarded only high-priority news to him when he was away from the COS HQ; there would be endless minor events and decisions to consider. But he didn’t move to answer the imperative of duty; not yet.

  It was a paradox that he felt less confined here than in the comcenter which, if smaller, was still more open. The sheened hulls of the Falcons overwhelmed this space, making the chamber seem cramped, and in spite of the helions mounted around the ceiling, making it seem darker. Perhaps these shark-sleek black hulls had a smell of space about them, a residue of voyages in unconfined dimensions of space and time.

  Andreas Riis had become a prisoner of the SSB five months and two weeks ago.

  It had the weight of eons in it.

  And one month and twenty-ei
ght days ago, Adrien had disappeared, for all intents and purposes, into vacuum.

  It was beginning to tell on him, these multiple anxieties accruing endlessly over days and weeks and months. It was a medieval torture; an emotional rack.

  All the exiles felt it. It was a miracle that the thirty-four men and women confined in these rocky chambers could even tolerate each other by now. But there had been no clashes, no flares of temper, no hints of dissatisfaction. They were a select group, separated in the centrifuge of doubt and dissension in Fina. They understood the Phoenix; they knew why they were part of it, and why there were here.

  And they had faith. He felt the pull of tension in his shoulders. They had faith in Commander Alex Ransom.

  As if to bring that point home, his ’com buzzed, and it both startled and annoyed him. The face in the small screen was Jael’s.

  “Alex, I’m in the comcenter. You’d better get up here.”

  A moment of paralysis; fear and doubt. No hope. Jael’s tone left no room for that.

  “On my way, Jael.”

  He took the remainder of the ramp in long strides, then crossed the comcenter, acknowledging the greetings of the monitoring crew with only a brief nod, his eyes automatically scanning the screens. Jael was at the microwave console, headset on.

  “Yes,” he said into his mike, “all right, Erica, but Alex is right here. You’d better line him in.”

  Alex reached for a headset from the counter and hurriedly hooked it over his ear, signaling Jael to stay on.

  “Erica? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Alex . . . thank the God you’re back.” That voice, farther away than distance, sounding in the hollow of his ear; it had a ragged edge to it now. “It’s Ben, Alex, he—”

  “Ben? What happened to him?”

  “I’ll explain, but first, he’ll be all right. He was badly hurt, but he’ll recover. He has some broken bones in his right hand and a laser wound in his chest. It’s serious, but not critical. An ambush was set up for him in the Fina MT terminal.”