by Wren, M. K.
He went to her and held out his left hand. When her hand rested in his palm, bird-light, warm with life, he said softly, “Welcome to exile, Adrien.”
She smiled at that, looking around her, up to the black dome of stone, then finally back to him.
“I’ve been in exile, Alexand. Say welcome home.”
3.
3 Octov.
Alex crossed the park in the central plaza, moving at a slow, shuffling pace, the hood of his Bondman’s cloak drawn up. Under the helions, the trees cast mottled shadows on the pavement. It was night in Helen, but still two hours before the compound curfew.
The trees looked too green in the lights; mutated Terran trees that had forgotten seasons here where life was shielded from winter. In Concordia the trees would still be showing the bones of their branches, misted in the vibrant hues of spring. The city would be decking itself for Concord Day.
But there would be no ceremonies in the Plaza this year.
It was hard to imagine that. Of all the symptoms of failure in the Concord—and he was acutely aware of all of them, from the bankruptcy declaration made by the House of Alfons Stedmark yesterday, to the temporary closure of the University in Leda resulting from the student riots there the day before, to the abortive Conpol conscription mutiny in Saopallo the week before, the 107 Bond uprisings erupting in the Two Systems during the last month, and today, the food riots in the refugee camps in Stanbul and Norleans, two of the hastily organized centers for housing the millions of refugees from Mars, where a semblance of order was only now beginning to emerge from the rubble of planet-wide disaster—yet he found the cancellation of the Plaza ceremonies most disturbing. As an event, it was trivial, but as a symbol, it was staggering. A capitulation to fear.
And only a few weeks ago, Phillip Woolf had been attacked and wounded in the Hall of the Directorate. That index he still couldn’t regard objectively.
He glanced up, then fixed his eyes on the pavement. An Eliseer House guard was approaching. Alex concentrated on his role, depending on peripheral vision and his ears to warn him if the guard made any unexpected moves, but he passed without even a break in step. Alex looked around at him, then quickened his pace as he moved out of the park.
He felt more anxiety tonight than he ever had in this compound, Eliseer’s Estate Compound A. It wasn’t the guard. It was something intangible, something pendant in the air like a vaguely familiar odor. There were only a handful of Bonds in the plaza tonight, yet two hours before curfew, it should be crowded, and the few Bonds he saw were quiet, almost furtive, scurrying hurriedly down the paths.
The fear had reached even into the Eliseer compounds.
The chapel loomed ahead, golden light gleaming in its narrow windows, and it seemed a warm and inviting haven. There were few havens left.
Once inside, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light and his senses adjust to the other-world aura of the place, savoring the pungent odors of candles and incense. A few worshipers knelt in the pews or at the altars along the side walls, but Malaki wasn’t among them. Alex reached up with his left hand and unfastened the medallion. A new clip had been affixed to the medal itself so he could remove it and replace it on the chain with one hand. He turned the medallion so the lamb was uppermost and walked down the aisle toward the vigilant image of the Mezion above the altar, paused to bow to it, then went to the door of Malaki’s visitation room. The response to his knock came without hesitation.
“Come in.”
Malaki was standing at the table in the center of the small, candle-smoked room that was so much a miniature of the chapel in its austerity and primitive decorations. The shelves lining one wall were filled with jars of roots, herbs, and varicolored powders, and the Shepherd was grinding dried leaves with a mortar and pestle; the rhythmic grating stopped as the door closed behind Alex, and Malaki’s age-scored features lighted with recognition. He put his pestle aside and came around the table, while Alex held out his left hand and the medallion.
“Malaki, I come in the Name of the Lamb.”
The Shepherd knelt, took his hand and pressed it to his forehead, and when he straightened, a tremulous smile was on his lips.
“My lord, it’s been so long.” Then, when Alex pushed back his hood, “You’ve been ill.”
Alex went to a chair by the table and eased into it. “Yes, I’ve been ill, my friend, but I’m recovering.”
Too slowly, he added to himself, with a flare of annoyance at the weakness in his legs. This was his first appearance as the Brother; only a beginning. A schedule had been drawn. In the next ten days, he would make forty such visitations. He’d been relieved to learn that neither Jael nor Erica had yet seen Malaki, instead concentrating on the more unstable Hamid and Drakonis compounds. This seemed a fitting beginning; it was a Rightness.
“Please, be seated,” Alex said. “Have you been well?”
Malaki went to his chair behind the table. “The Holy Mezion smiles still on these old bones. But you . . .” He frowned as his sharp eyes moved from Alex’s face to the black glove. “You’ve been injured.”
“Yes, Malaki.”
“What kind of injury?”
His tone was so oddly businesslike, Alex almost smiled. “It’s a laser wound, but—”
“A moment, my lord.”
Alex watched curiously as Malaki went to this herbal shelves and, after a brief search, returned to his chair and proffered a small jar.
“My lord, this is an ointment for burns, but it’s also helpful with laser wounds. The mixture was given me by Father Josha, who came before me in this chapel. He had it from Father Ra, and he . . . well, nobody knows who first made it. I think you’ll find it will ease the pain a little.”
Alex took the jar and studied it. The clear plasex showed a milky paste with a pale green cast. He put it in an inside pocket of his cloak, and said, “Thank you, Malaki. Something to ease pain is a blessing always.”
“A simple remedy made by a simple man.” He smiled faintly. “But try it before you put it aside.”
“I will. I’m not as skeptical as some; I don’t underestimate your ‘simple’ remedies, and I’m grateful for this one.” He paused, taking a long breath, letting his sober attitude serve as a warning. “My friend, I’ve come to you with sorrowful news tonight. I’ve told you before that a time of war may be coming.”
Malaki sighed and thrust his hands into his sleeves. “That time is near, then?”
“Yes. Eleven days. It will begin on Concord Day.”
“The Holy Mezion help us all.” He closed his eyes in a silent prayer, and when he looked up at Alex again, asked, “Who will make this war?”
“A . . . false prophet. I know him, and he’s an evil man. Nothing he says can be taken as truth.”
Malaki hesitated, his eyes shadowed in their deep sockets. “Who will this false prophet make war against?”
“Not you or your people; not the Bonds. He’ll say he battles for you, as Lionar Mankeen did, but in fact he only makes war to fulfill his own ambitions. He makes war against the Concord.” Then, seeing that made no sense to Malaki, he added, “He makes war against the Lords; all the Lords.”
“Against . . . the Lords? But that’s a mortal sin.”
“So it is, but this man is infested with a Dark Spirit. I’ve come to warn you that when this false prophet begins this war, he’ll try to make all the Bonds in Centauri join in the revolt and take up weapons with him against the Lords.” He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “Malaki, that must not happen. You know it would mean bloodshed and suffering for everyone. Lord Eliseer has been kind and just to you and your flock. You cannot let them rise against him or the Concord.”
The old man blinked, still bewildered. “But why should we rise against Lord Eliseer? How can this man, this Dark Spirit, make us do so?”
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br /> “By lies, by illusion, by false miracles. In the confusion and alarm of war, people won’t stop to think; they’ll act out of fear, and this man has devised a means of rousing the Bonds that will seem supernatural. On Corcord Day all through the compounds voices will come from out of nowhere, from the very air. At least, that’s how it will seem. He wants you to think these voices come from the Beyond, but they come from him, and there’s a simple and mechanical explanation for them. The voices will come from microspeakers.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a standard speaker. “Listen to this, Malaki.”
The Shepherd frowned intently at the small disk while it blurted its message:
“This is the voice of the Brother. It’s a recording made on a device similar to those used daily by the Fesh and Elite to carry messages.”
Alex shifted the rewind ring, then handed the speaker to Malaki.
“Touch that depression in the center. There—” He waited while the speaker repeated its message. “You see, it’s only a mechanical device.”
Malaki nodded as he returned the speaker.
“I’ve seen such things; the Fesh sirras use them. So this is how the false prophet hopes to make my flock rise up against Lord Eliseer?”
“Yes, except the speakers he’ll use are so small twenty would fit in this one. Hundreds of them have already been hidden in the compounds, and they’ll be activated not by touch, but by a radio beam from a great distance. You can understand how it will seem to your flock; the voices will apparently come from nowhere urging them by all they hold sacred to kill and destroy, to set themselves free.”
Any promise in that word didn’t reach Malaki, not when it was equated with death and destruction.
“I see,” he said dully.
“You must warn your flock, Malaki, and I leave it to you to tell the other Shepherds in the Eliseer compounds here in Helen. My time is short, and I won’t be able to talk to all of them myself.”
“I’ll tell them, my lord.”
“When you do, and when you warn your flock, you must be very careful. If you talk too openly of war or microspeakers, the guards might hear of it. They’ll call in the SSB, and you might be questioned. You can only tell them your source of information is the Brother, but that won’t make the questioning easier. For one thing, my friend, the SSB considers me imaginary.”
Malaki managed a faint smile at that, but his dismay at possible involvement with the SSB made it brief.
“It is said that truth has many faces, each as true as the other. I’ll find a way to warn my flock . . . carefully.”
“You must reach all of them. Concord Day will be a holiday; they’ll be free for the day, and you won’t be able to reach them then. They must be warned ahead of time.”
“They will be. What should I tell them to do?”
“They must ignore the voices as if they didn’t exist. The guards will probably order all Bonds to their quarters when the war begins, and they must obey. They must do exactly as they’re told, or the price will be paid in blood.”
“They’ll obey.”
Alex let his eyes close briefly. “I hope so.”
Malaki leaned toward him, watching him anxiously. “My lord, are you . . . ?”
“I tire easily, Malaki, but my strength returns. Don’t be concerned about me.”
“I won’t. You’re Chosen of the Mezion, and He watches over you. Still, I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer.”
“Perhaps it’s a Testing.” He paused then, sorting the mixed scents of candles, incense, and herbs. At some time, many times, Rich had sat in this same place, smelling the same warm scents, generation upon generation, past and future, coming together in memory and hope in this small, flame-lit room.
And in another room a few hundred kilometers away, buried under the star-lit desert, Adrien lived. She lived, and with her their pledge to generations past and future; their sons.
They were real to him now. He had held them, awkwardly with one arm, felt the pulse of life in them, heard their cries and the sounds meant for laughter, seen the light of cognizance, however potential, in their cloudy blue eyes, recognized already the signature of individuality in their faces and behavior even though they were such uncanny mirror images of each other.
There were three people in all the worlds whom he wanted to know about those infants, whatever happened on Concord Day. Phillip Woolf was one, Mathis Galinin the second, and the last was the Elder Shepherd Malaki, who had been a faithful friend to Rich, the first born’s namesake, and to Adrien, their mother.
But at length Alex rose. He couldn’t tell Malaki now; he couldn’t even tell him Adrien was alive, although he knew how much the old man had grieved for her. The danger of attracting SSB attention in the process of warning his flock was too real to be ignored. The Brother rewarded his faithful with the risk of agonizing interrogation and probably death. What would the omniscient Mezion think of that kind of justice?
He knew what the Brother thought of it, but Alex Ransom had no choice. Malaki would know about Adrien, about the twins, but not now.
Not until after Concord Day.
“Malaki, I must go. If we don’t meet again, I ask this boon of you: Remember my words as you remember my brother’s.”
Malaki rose, and there was a solemn grace in his posture, an inherent dignity; his somber gaze was fixed on Alex.
“I can’t forget you or your brother. Your words will be remembered as his words are, and if we don’t meet again in this world, we’ll meet in the Beyond, the Mezion willing.”
“The Mezion willing. Thank you for your help and your faith, my friend.”
“It’s your due, my lord.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s a gift, and I’m profoundly grateful.” He turned and crossed to the door. “Peace be, Malaki.”
The door slid open, and as he passed into the amber gloom of the chapel, he heard Malaki’s parting, “Peace, my lord.”
4.
Alex was breathing hard when he transed aboard Phoenix One. Vic Blayn was near the MT, waiting; he snapped an order over his shoulder.
“Sargent Hansen, accelerate for SynchShift. Random course. Commander, are you all right?”
Alex nodded as he stepped out onto the condeck, automatically scanning the screens before he looked back at Mike Compton on the MT console.
“Mike, you have fast reflexes. Thanks.”
Compton gave him a crooked smile. “I’ve had a little practice on this thing, sir.”
Blayn was still frowning at his commander, thinking how incongruous he looked in the maroon Drakonis Bond cloak.
“Sir, what happened?”
“Luck, Vic; the worst kind. Lord Drakonis made an unscheduled inspection tour of the compound.”
“Damn. The place was full of guards, I suppose.”
“Yes. Before you reach SS entry, I want Mike to trans me to the Cave. The LR-MT experiment is scheduled in a few minutes. I want to be there.”
Blayn checked the SynchShift countdown clock. “There’s plenty of time before we reach entry. I ordered SS because we picked up a scan on a Confleet patrol. Did any of the Drakonis guards see you?”
“Quite a few, as a matter of fact. It gave me a chance to test my legs sprinting. I was stopped for an ident check outside the chapel.” He studied the radial scanners, absently reminding himself that he must take another analgesic. “I won’t be at the COS HQ long, then I’ll trans back to Danae; I have two more compounds to visit there today. Mike, check with Bergon. He’ll have to set up an MT fix for me again.”
“Yes, sir. The apartment will probably be safe. He said he’d be clear for two hours.”
“Good. Are you oriented for the Cave?”
“Any time you’re ready.”
“I’m ready. Vic, give me an all cle
ar when you’re out of SS.” He stepped into the MT cubicle, frowning across at the radar screens. “That patrol is pulling up on you.”
“I know. We’re . . . ninety seconds from SS.”
“Then I’d better be on my way. All right, Mike.”
“Yes, sir. Transing—”
Compton’s voice was cut off, replaced by a roomful of voices. As Alex left the Cave of Springs MT, Jael was the first to greet him, extending his left hand in welcome.
“Well, brother, we wondered if you’d make it.”
Alex searched the intent crowd gathered around the monitoring consoles.
“I was wondering myself for a few minutes. Where’s Andreas? Oh—there he is. What about Ben and Erica?”
“They’re both neck deep in Fina, and there’s nothing they can do for this gim.”
Alex nodded, but his attention had shifted to the tunnel leading to the sleeping quarters; Val Severin and Adrien were emerging. Adrien was wearing a slacsuit, and her hair was tied at her neck out of her way; a towel was tucked into her waistband, and as she came in, she was wiping her hands on it. The midday meal was just finished.
Alex knew how she occupied her time while he transed across space from one Bond chapel to the next, or even when he returned to the COS HQ to immerse himself in continuous working conferences with the exile staff. He could manage eight working hours a day now if he remembered to stop for at least one full hour of rest. Adrien’s time was to a large extent taken up with the twins, but if any of the exiles expected her to spend her free time sitting idly waiting to be served, as they might think befitted her title, they soon discovered their error. She insisted on paying her way here with work, and further insisted on what was generally termed scullery duty. She was qualified for nothing else, she informed Mistra Cromwel, and she could free those who were qualified to concentrate on the real work of the COS HQ. And so the Lady Adrien Eliseer Woolf spent her days in a cave, cooking, scouring, laundering, and seemed quite content with it all.