House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy)

by Wren, M. K.

  Finally, Alex said, “Ussher will go to Selasis.”

  Ben looked up at him, then pulled in a deep breath. “Probably. That’s our working premise, anyway.”

  Jael said, “I wonder if he didn’t set up his in-lines with old Cyclops a long time when.”

  Ben shrugged listlessly. “Alex, we’ve got every available agent looking for him, but right now that’s not very many. We’re concentrating on the Selasid estate and the hangar and warehousing facilities in Leda.” He paused, jaw muscles tensing. “All our agents have orders to kill on sight.”

  Alex nodded. “I’d like to talk to Erica. She could give us some idea how much he can tell Selasis—how well his conditioning will hold.”

  “I talked to her. Only had time for a fast run-through. She says there are two negative factors. First, it would be voluntary revelation; that tends to loosen conditioned restraints. Second, she diagnoses him as a paranoid schizophrenic, and she doesn’t know what effect that’ll have on conditioning. Her guess is his conditioning won’t hold on anything having to do with you, and that covers a lot of ground. But basic conditioning probably will hold. In other words, he probably can’t tell Selasis where Fina is, but he can spill the lot on who you are and what you intend to do. At least, in general terms.”

  Alex’s eyes were drawn to the screens. Andreas on the deck, his audience rapt.

  “Ben, Ussher may be able to tell Selasis about my intentions in more than general terms. He took enough Phoenix commutronics equipment with him to set up a small comcenter, and he knows all the frequencies and codes; he can tap any Phoenix transmission. All we can do is conduct as much of our business as possible in the next few hours without any kind of radio or vidicom communication, but we can’t avoid it entirely. For one thing, I’ll need monitoring and MT contact with the Concordia chapter.”

  Jael folded his arms and said firmly, “You can’t toss that, brother. We aren’t sending you into the Directorate Hall without a door.”

  “I’m not suggesting I go in without one, Jael. We’ll just have to use our personal ’com seqs when we can, and hope we can successfully jam the frequencies Ussher has access to, or hope we find him before he reaches Selasis.” He hesitated, frowning; it was like entering a fencing match without knowing how high the charge on his opponent’s foil was set. “Ben, can Ussher tell Selasis that we’re sure of Karlis’s sterility?”

  Ben considered that a moment, and not happily. “He did manage to slip some monitors past us occasionally, and there was something we picked up once, something he said to Hendrick. He called Karlis ‘Orin’s pretty eunuch.’ ”

  Alex nodded. “Then he knows.” The opponent’s probable charge set was approaching lethal level. He checked his watch. “I’ll be lifting off for Concordia in a few minutes. Jael, you’ll be—”

  “Alex, can’t you hold off for a while?” Ben asked. “Maybe we can corner Predis in Leda before he finds a ride to Concordia.”

  “He may already have found a ride. The passenger lines are shut down, but the Leda IP port isn’t entirely closed. A Selasid freighter or charter could lift off any time. No, Ben, a delay would only give Ussher more time to reach Selasis, and Selasis more time to make his plans.”

  Ben accepted that finally. There was no real choice.

  “I’ll do what I can here, and we’ve got some top people in the Concordia chapter. We’ll try to keep you out of trouble.”

  “And the Phoenix, too, I hope. Jael, you’re in command here. Leave a skeleton crew in the COS HQ and trans everyone else back. They’ll be needed here.”

  He nodded. “What about the old Ser’s ‘guests’?”

  “Send them home as soon as possible; back to their Estates.”

  “And your Lady and heirs?”

  Alex took a deep breath. “Send them home, too. Here. Home to Fina.”

  6.

  The Lord Mathis Daro Galinin looked up over the six screens and across the cluttered surface of his desk to the chair where First Commander Lear Aber of Confleet sat stiffly erect, as if he were at attention, or as if the black uniform, weighted with gold braid and epaulets, allowed him no laxity.

  “Commander, it isn’t up to me to comment on the advisability of sending another Confleet wing to Centauri. That decision is yours.”

  “Yes, my lord. I realize it’s an inordinately large expenditure of men and matériel, and we’re reduced to conscripts in the reserves now.” Aber’s hands seemed to twitch on every fifth word. “However, I feel we must be in a position to deter or effectively deal with further attacks in the Centauri System should they occur.”

  Galinin nodded, his eyes straying to the screens before him. Reports from Centauri. The clock panel told him the hour, local time, in the major cities on every planet and satellite in the Two Systems. It was 05:30 in Leda, 09:30 in Helen, and 21:30 in the subterranean cities of Danae, Semele, and Thymbris. And in Concordia. He had been at this desk almost continuously since the reports of the first attacks came in from Centauri, more than eleven hours ago, watching the statistics of ruin accumulate on the screens, and he was too numb to feel anything; he was beyond despair.

  And Lear Aber—a man who usually made decisions quickly and with a certain brazen confidence—Aber was at a loss now, shuffling about verbally and mentally, helpless and hopeless. As Aber continued enumerating the pros and cons of sending more ships to Centauri, Galinin sighed; another old man’s sigh. He found his thoughts turning constantly to Rich, who had given all that was left of his life for the Phoenix. Would he condone this taloned Phoenix unleashed in Centauri?

  Perhaps he would accept it. Galinin wasn’t yet so numbed that he didn’t recognize its political implications.

  The small PubliCom screen on his desk caught his eye. A newscaster questioning Isador Drakonis about his “kidnapping.” The ’caster seemed disappointed with Lord Isador’s answers. Galinin had already heard them: he and his family had been treated well, and no demands had been made of them, nor any conditions imposed on their release. Galinin had those answers from him, as well as Eliseer and Hamid’s first born, Kasmer—Lady Falda was under sedation—when he spoke with them after they were returned to their Estates three hours ago. He found the implications in that puzzling.

  He frowned as he turned off the vidicom.

  “Commander, I leave it to you to decide what proportion of your forces you wish to concentrate in Centauri, but let me remind you that the Martian situation isn’t entirely resolved yet, and this new crisis has set off violent reactions—” He stopped, distracted by the intercom buzz. Selig’s face appeared on a screen.

  “What is it, Master Selig?”

  “Uh . . . my lord, I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a Major Ransom of the SSB here. He has a message from SSB Central Control. Priority-One, my lord.”

  Galinin frowned irritably. More official panic, no doubt. Selig had managed to divert most of the flood of queries and demands from Concord officials and nervous Lords, but he couldn’t ignore that Pri-One rating.

  The Chairman could, however, if he chose to, and Galinin was on the verge of refusing the message when the name Selig had used finally came through to him.

  Major Ransom of the SSB . . .

  Ransom.

  A coincidence, of course. Still . . .

  “Very well, Selig, send him in. Commander, I hope this won’t take long.”

  Aber nodded distractedly, not even bothering to look around as the doors opened, but Galinin was intent on the man who entered, inwardly cursing the face-screen: the SSB image of anonymity. Nothing could be read in the shadow face under the black helmet, nothing in the figure under the black cloak. The only indication that a human being existed under all that anonymous black was the fact that he’d removed one glove; he wore a flat-stoned ring on his left hand, and it did seem to be a living human hand.
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br />   “My lord . . .” He stopped in front of the desk, bowing to Galinin, giving Aber a respectful nod.

  And that was curious. A salute wasn’t mandatory between members of the military and police, but when one was ranked First Commander, it was customary.

  Galinin asked, “You have a message for me, Major?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He reached under his cloak with his left hand and took out a plaseal packet. “I was instructed to wait for a reply.”

  “Very well.” Galinin was all too familiar with these SSB packets. Tamper-proof seals keyed for him, detailed indentification of the source and messenger, an earspeaker with the tape already inserted. As he placed the ’speaker in his ear, he studied the messenger, standing patiently at attention.

  Ransom.

  It must be a coincidence. Not that he’d be surprised if it weren’t. He was past surprise today. And the man’s voice; there was something disarmingly familiar about it. Galinin leaned back, resting his hands on the carved arms of his chair, as the tape began.

  “To the Lord Mathis Daro Galinin, Chairman of the Directorate . . .”

  Even at those introductory words, Galinin felt a chill settling between his shoulder blades. It was the messenger’s voice.

  “. . . Curiosity will no doubt prevent you from sounding any alarms at this point. I hope wisdom will induce you to maintain the same attitude when you’ve heard this out. I’ve come in the name and hope of peace. As for my identity, I’m sometimes called the Brother of the Lamb, a name I know to be familiar to you. I wish to speak with you alone, my lord, in the interests of peace. That’s all I ask, and that’s the only reason I’m here. I assure you, you’ll be quite safe. If it were my intention to harm you, I wouldn’t bother to identify myself at all, or give you so much opportunity to signal for help, or waste your time with this little dissertation. I must warn you that I’m quite safe, too. If you choose to alert anyone to my presence, I’ll simply cease to be present. Nothing would be gained for either of us.

  “If anyone else is in your office now, I must ask you to send them away and, to further insure our privacy, to switch off all monitors and recorders. I’m well acquainted with your monitoring system, including the backup panel in the compartment under the intercom console. I must also ask you to turn off the peripheral shock screens if they’re on.

  “My lord, I come in peace, and I come in the Name of the Lamb. I beg of you, have faith enough to hear me out.”

  The tape ended with a faint click, and Galinin became aware of the pressing silence in the room. And he’d been right about one thing: he was past surprise, and far past personal fear.

  There was something ironically ludicrous about the whole situation. A man dressed in SSB black, calling himself the brother of a saint, delivering a message that could only come from the enemy without uttering a word aloud, and in the presence of Commander Aber, who sat muddling in his own indecision, oblivious to it all.

  The messenger still stood at attention, an enigma in black, and any inclination to laughter of any kind faded; Galinin felt within him a vague uneasiness like a premonition, a cognizance on a level too far below the rational to make sense.

  He allowed himself another long sigh as he removed the ’speaker and turned to Aber.

  “Commander, something important has come up, and I must deal with it immediately. When you’ve reached a decision on your future course of action in Centauri, let me know.”

  Aber came to his feet and bowed. “My lord, I’ll be in touch with you within the hour.” He glanced at the messenger, then marched to the doors.

  Galinin opened them with the control on his desk, closed them behind him, then reached for the intercom. The messenger didn’t move, and Galinin knew he wouldn’t until his demands for privacy were met.

  “Master Selig, I will accept no calls, and I want no interruptions for any reason until further notice.”

  Selig blinked, then nodded dutifully. “Of course, my lord.”

  Galinin then methodically turned off every monitor, including the backup system. The peripheral shock screens weren’t on; they seldom were. He noted that the messenger leaned forward slightly to make sure of them.

  “I assume, Major, you wish the doors locked?”

  “Yes, my lord. Who’s on guard at your private entrance?”

  Galinin laughed. The door behind his chair was quite invisible, he knew, and its existence, with the corridor that connected it to a lift giving access to a private landing roof, he had always considered a well kept secret.

  “At this time Captain Tedlock is on duty. He’s from my House guard, and he’s there because I have ample reason to trust him. Now, Major, your terms have been met. Will you introduce yourself to me?”

  He took off his helmet with his left hand, then pushed the cloak back from his shoulders. The uniform under it wasn’t SSB black, but a light blue decorated with silver braid. He made a formal bow, a hint of irony in it, as there was in his tone when he said, “First Commander Alex Ransom, Fleet Operations, the Society of the Phoenix.”

  Galinin leaned back, smiling faintly.

  “I see the SSB let a large fish slip through its nets when they lost you, Commander. If I say it’s a pleasure to meet you, don’t think I’m being facetious. I’ve found you of some interest.”

  “So has the SSB, my lord.”

  Galinin laughed appreciatively, but he was wondering why he still had his face-screen on. The glove on Ransom’s right hand drew his attention; it wasn’t a regulation SSB glove. That in turn reminded Galinin of the salute Ransom hadn’t given Aber, and the fact that he used his left hand exclusively.

  “Pendino.” Galinin found himself smiling again. “You were wounded in the course of rescuing Dr. Andreas Riis.”

  “An interesting conjecture, my lord.”

  “Indeed. At any rate, I’m duly impressed. I must also admit I’m impressed with your skills as a tactician in view of today’s events in Centauri. But you said you’ve come here in the interests of peace.”

  “I’ve come to ask you, as the Chairman, to grant me official recognition as an envoy of the enemy.”

  “I see. And as an envoy of the enemy you wish to initiate negotiations with the Directorate?”

  “Yes, my lord. That was the purpose of today’s ‘events’ in Centauri. To bring the Concord to the bargaining table with the Phoenix so that we may, in the age-old custom of merchants and princes, haggle over the fate of civilization.”

  Galinin’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He remembered very well when he had last heard those words, remembered who had spoken them.

  “You’re the second envoy the Phoenix has sent me, although I’m not sure the first could be described in exactly that term.”

  “Richard Lamb was very much an envoy, my lord.”

  “You . . . were a friend of his?”

  A long pause, then, “Yes, my lord. I was a friend.”

  Something in his tone gave Galinin an atavistic sensation of rising hackles; something about his voice. He knew that voice.

  “Well, Commander, thanks to your first envoy all this isn’t entirely unexpected—although it’s still a shock. However, you must be aware that if I choose to grant you envoy status, I’ll be in effect aligning myself with you and the Phoenix in the eyes of some of the Directors, and considering the precarious balance of power at the moment, that could be disastrous for me. I’m willing to take that risk, even to put the Chairmanship on the line—and that’s what it will come to—in the name and hope of peace, but only if I have some confidence in what, and with whom, I’m inadvertently aligning myself.”

  “I know, my lord, and one of my purposes here is to outline the terms the Phoenix will present to the Directors and to assure you the risk is worth taking.”

  “Very well. But I’ll find i
t difficult to muster any confidence if I’m forced to make judgments of a face-screened man.”

  “I . . . don’t expect you to do so, my lord.” His left hand moved toward his neck, yet with a constrained hesitancy Galinin found disturbing. Why did he seem so reluctant to show his face?

  “My lord, I live a somewhat . . . schizoid existence.”

  “If you mean ‘Alex Ransom’ isn’t the name you were born with, I assumed that, and I don’t ask another.”

  “But it’s the name I was born with . . .” An uncertain pause, then, “The name will be evident in my face, and it will inevitably be a shock for you, my lord, but I don’t know how to prepare you for it, except . . .” He was unfastening his collar, and Galinin expected the face-screen to go off, but it didn’t. He had something in his hand; he put it on the desk.

  “The Brother identifies himself to the Shepherds with this talisman.”

  Galinin looked down and saw a small disk of gold. Then he surged to his feet, staring at it, a painful constriction binding his chest, choking off his breath. He reached out for it, turned it over in a shaking hand.

  The wolf and the lamb. Rich’s gift to his brother, and his brother’s most precious possession.

  Yet no one, except those closest to Alexand, had known about this medallion, known what it meant to him. From the day it was given to him, he had always worn it. It wasn’t among the effects sent the family from Confleet; no one expected it to be. Alexand would have been wearing it when he died.

  Galinin looked up at Commander Alex Ransom, standing expectantly silent, hands at his sides, perfectly still. He looked at the one exposed hand, the dark skin, the long bones; a hand with the power in it to make machines or make music.

  He became aware of a peculiar resentment inspired by the barrier of space created by the desk, that pretentious fortress behind which he seemed condemned to spend his life. He moved haltingly around it, feeling his way, every breath an effort. When at length he stood close enough to touch this silent enigma he said in a level tone that surprised him, “You may turn off your face-screen.”