by Wren, M. K.
Finally, the hand moved to the ’screen ring; finally, the shadow vanished.
“Alexand . . .”
The name came out on a long breath, a sigh of spent fear.
Galinin looked into a face he had never, even in despairing fantasies, hoped to see again, never asked of fate or the God to see, relegating this possibility to the absolute realm of the impossible.
Now I can die content.
He couldn’t explain why that thought came to mind, and he didn’t try. Only one thing was important now. Alexand. Alexand alive. That he wore the uniform, declared himself a member and leader of the Phoenix was important only in that it was part of the fact of his presence, of his living.
That fact changed everything: the crisis in Centauri that brought him here, brought him to life; the chronic crises that wracked the Concord, that Galinin knew himself no longer capable of containing; even the future of the Concord. He saw everything in a new light now, although he couldn’t have explained that, either; not in terms that could be expressed in words.
The medallion in his hand had been a gift to Alexand from his brother, from a saint. And now Rich, by his brother’s hand, offered this gift to his grandfather, the gift of hope, to a generation preceding him for generations to come.
“Grandser?”
An asking whisper, and Galinin reached out to him, embracing him, resorting to laughter, the surrogate of tears.
“Alexand—oh, Alex, thank the God!”
Even when they drew apart, Galinin still found it difficult to do more than stare into his face, to absorb every detail of it, the familiar shapes and the unfamiliar lines and shadows that were the toll of the last five years. The resemblance to Phillip was even more marked now, and that thought roused him to a harshly pragmatic awareness of their present situation, and to an aspect of it he hadn’t yet considered.
“Alex, does your father know . . .” Alexand seemed to withdraw, but it wasn’t antagonism Galinin caught in his eyes before they became coolly expressionless; only regret. That was reassuring. “No, of course you haven’t told him yet. But he’ll have to know soon.”
“Yes, Grandser, but I must leave it to you to . . . to prepare him for the shock.”
He nodded. “That would be best, although it won’t be easy for him. Still, he’s changed, Alex. He’s changed.”
“Yes. I know.”
Galinin paused, assessing his flat tone. He looked down at the medallion, then pressed it into Alexand’s hand, gazing at it lying in his palm for a moment, until his hand closed over it, and he reached up to replace it on the chain at his neck, then fastened the collar of his uniform.
Galinin took a deep breath and pulled the slump out of his shoulders.
“Well, I suppose we should get down to business. You haven’t taken the incredible risk of walking into the Chairman’s office alone simply to renew old acquaintance.”
Alexand laughed at that, but it faded quickly into an introspective half smile.
“You’re an extraordinary man, Grandser.”
“Am I, now? Come, let’s sit by the windowall. I’m sick to death of that desk.” Then, seeing Alexand’s frowning glance toward the windowall, “It’s set on one-way opaque. All the people out in the Plaza can see is a dim glow, which assures them that their Chairman is at least awake.”
Galinin took the nearest chair, lowering himself into it with a caution that seemed to be an adjunct of age more than a physical necessity. He watched Alexand, noting the cant of his body to the left, the careful positioning of his right arm. That was a physical necessity.
“How am I so extraordinary, Alex? Because I don’t balk at finding you resurrected in that uniform? Well, perhaps that’s because I don’t find the uniform surprising once I accept your resurrection. And I’ve had a few years to think about Rich. The first envoy. That was when you made your decision about the Phoenix, wasn’t it?”
Alexand hesitated, his eyes focused inward, then he nodded silently, and Galinin found himself nodding, too, undoubtedly over the same shattering remembrances.
“I’ve been thinking of Rich all day, through all the . . .” Then he frowned, leaving the thought unfinished.
Alexand took it up. “Through all the destruction and death? Would Rich approve of that?”
“I . . . wondered that, yes.”
Alexand looked down into the Plaza, and Galinin’s gaze followed his. The white expanse was dotted with dark clusters of people, and there seemed something ominous about them, although most were simply standing, looking up at the Hall. Galinin wondered what they were waiting for. Answers, or perhaps a catalyst. And perhaps it was here.
Alexand said, “Rich would’ve despised it, but he would have—and did—recognize it as unavoidable, as I do, as the General Plan ex seqs always have, and as I think you will. If we only had to deal with you, it probably wouldn’t have been necessary, but unfortunately we must take into consideration the Directorate and the Court of Lords. There was no alternative for achieving Phase I, and without that . . .” He frowned on a long sigh. “We can only balance the casualties in Centauri today against the casualties of a third dark age. I wonder if they can even be calculated. We did not lightly turn to war as a means to our ends. We are not makers of war by choice or philosophy.”
“I can believe that of you, Alex, as I did of Rich.”
“Then believe it of the Phoenix, Grandser. I beg of you— believe it.”
There was a plea in his words, but in his eyes an uncompromising challenge and a forcefulness that like the unfamiliar lines in his face had also been acquired in the last five years.
Finally, Galinin said, or rather admitted, to himself as much as to Alexand, “I do believe it. I wasn’t convinced when Rich came as your first envoy, but now . . .” Then he shrugged, making his tone lighter as he noted, “Perhaps the pacific nature of your philosophy explains why Eliseer and Drakonis and Hamid’s family were released from your ‘protective custody’ unharmed.” Alexand only smiled, ignoring the questions underlying that, and Galinin added, “You have the Directors baffled with that move, you know. They expected them to be used as hostages.”
“We never even considered that. It would arouse antagonism on a personal level among the Directors, and we’ll have enough impersonal antagonism to contend with.”
“True, which brings us back to the matter of the terms of your negotiations with the Directorate.”
“Yes, but before we get to that, there are a few things you must know about, Grandser.” He paused, tight lines forming around his mouth. “The first is a warning. Treachery among ‘traitors.’ It may destroy us all and all our hopes.”
“Treachery?” Galinin frowned. “Is this the treachery that put you and Dr. Riis in the hands of the SSB?”
“Yes. In over half a century, the Phoenix has harbored only one traitor. Extraordinary, isn’t it? But one may be enough. He escaped us, and this was only a few hours ago. Our Security and Intelligence agents have orders to kill him on sight if they find him, and that’s the first time in our history such an order has been given.”
Galinin stopped himself when he began unconsciously tugging at his beard. “How does his escape threaten the Phoenix or any of our hopes?”
“For one thing, one of our top psychoscientists diagnoses him as a paranoid schizophrenic. For another, I am the focus of his mania. I robbed him of the Phoenix and destroyed all hope of realization of his ambitions.”
“That would make him a formidable antagonist. If he vents his mania on you, how will he do it?”
Alexand’s mouth curved in a bitter smile. “By again betraying me to my enemies. If you grant me amnesty as an envoy, the SSB will no longer qualify as such, so he must betray me to Selasis, who is my enemy—and the Society’s— as much as he is yours.”
Galinin frowned, fee
ling out the grim implications in this warning.
“You said you robbed this man of the Phoenix. Can I be sure you speak for the whole of the Phoenix now?”
“Yes. For a reunited Phoenix with the wounds of schism healed.”
Galinin gave him an oblique glance. “I appreciate your admission of the existence of a schism. And your warning.”
Alexand reached under the cuff of his right sleeve. “Now the second item you must know about before we go on—and this is a much happier revelation.”
It was an imagraph he’d taken from his cuff. He studied it a moment with an oddly pensive smile.
“Grandser, I have another ghost to present to you.” He handed him the imagraph. “Adrien is still very much among the living. Master Hawkwood made an error; he didn’t succeed in killing her.”
Galinin took the imagraph, wondering why it didn’t come as more of a shock that Adrien was alive. Perhaps having accepted one ghost, a second seemed quite matter of course.
“Alexand, I couldn’t be happier if . . .” He frowned at the square of film. There was Adrien, smiling out at him, even lovelier than he remembered her, and in her arms—
Galinin blinked and brought the imagraph closer. She was holding two infants, each a mirror image of the other, one straining toward a wail of complaint, the other obliviously asleep.
“Alexand, what—they’re . . . they’re yours? Oh, Holy God. But when . . . how . . .?”
He laughed. “I’m still nearly as astounded as you, Grandser. They’re three weeks old, and I didn’t even know about them until they were born, but that’s a long story, which I don’t have time to recount now.” He leaned forward and gestured toward the imagraph. “That’s Richard, the first born, on the right, and on the left, Eric. Or perhaps it’s Rich on the left and Eric on the right. I still get confused.”
Galinin laughed, staring transfixed at the imagraph. “I can understand that. Well, they’re . . . very handsome. Oh, Alex, think of it—Elise’s grandsons.”
“Your great-grandsons,” he said softly.
“Yes. My great-grandsons. Well, now I can—” Galinin stopped, frowning. He’d almost said it aloud. Now I can die content. A strangely morbid thought.
Still, mortality is a fact of life.
Perhaps he was so much aware of his own mortality because he’d been given in Alexand, and now in his sons, a sense of posterity that had long been absent from his thoughts. And he felt no dread for his mortality now, none of the old, exhausting sense of futility. These two infants, like the fact of Alexand’s living, changed everything, and Galinin was close to tears, so overwhelming was the new sense of hope, a sense of the reality of a meaningful future.
He gazed at the imagraph, then, frowning in preoccupation, rose.
“Excuse me a moment. There’s something I must have Selig do, and he may as well get started on it.” He went to the desk without waiting for any comment Alexand might have made; he was too intent on his purpose. At the desk, he switched on the intercom. “Master Selig, are you alone?”
Selig looked anxiously out at him from the screen. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Somewhere in your files there must be a proper documentary form for a Chairman’s decree of amnesty to an envoy of the enemy.”
“Uh . . . why, yes, my lord. I don’t recall ever having need for . . . for such a document, but I’m sure—”
“Find it, and prepare it in quadruplicate, or whatever is necessary. The name of the decreed envoy will be Alex Ransom, First Commander of Fleet Operations, the Society of the Phoenix.”
Selig dutifully wrote it out, but he couldn’t conceal his astonishment. Just as dutifully, he asked no questions, except, “When I have the document prepared, shall I bring it in for your signature, my lord?”
“No, I’ll ’com you when I’m ready. Thank you, Selig.”
Alexand had risen to stand at the windowall. As Galinin returned to his chair, he looked around at him, eyes reflecting amazement, and beyond that, wondering gratitude.
“Grandser, you haven’t even heard the terms yet.”
Galinin shrugged. “Well, then, perhaps we should get to that—unless you have more surprises for me.”
“I do have something else. An offering I make to you personally, not to the Directorate.”
“Something under the table to insure my support?”
“That doesn’t seem to be necessary. It’s more in the nature of something to free you to offer support. To free you of Selasis. Grandser, Karlis Selasis is sterile. Yes, the rumors are true. I can’t provide proof, however; not the kind acceptable to the Board of Succession. But you don’t need proof; the Chairman can demand a Board investigation without presenting evidence. The proof will present itself in a simple physical examination.”
Galinin felt his pulse quickening, and for a time he could only look up at Alexand, searching his face for an answer that was there, yet he still had to ask the question.
“Alexand, are you sure beyond a doubt?”
“I’m sure. I wouldn’t offer it otherwise.”
“No, of course not.” He sagged back into his chair, staring at the imagraph still in his hand. “If only I’d had the courage . . . I came so close to ordering a Board investigation before the wedding.” But that, he reminded himself, was weeping over birds flown. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The Directorate is meeting tomorrow morning—as you’re no doubt aware. I’ll present you as an envoy then, and I think that would be a very auspicious time for the Board to get my investigation order.” He laughed caustically. “I hope I don’t miss seeing Orin’s face when the news reaches him.”
“And I hope I’m with you.”
“Yes, well, I suppose we must put our grim anticipation aside for now. Is that the last of your surprises?”
“If there are more, they’ll be surprises to me, too. So on to the terms.” He settled himself in his chair again, facing Galinin. “These things generally fall into three categories: threats, offers, and demands.”
“Mm. Well, you may as well begin with the threats.”
“That seems to be the accepted order. First, we threaten a continuation of hostilities. Obviously we can’t maintain hostilities indefinitely on an overt military level, but you don’t know our limits there, and we can maintain them indefinitely on a covert subversive level, a far greater threat, since we’re already well entrenched in every branch of the Concord.” Then Alexand turned to the windowall, putting his face in profile to Galinin, and there was an inexplicable transformation, a forbidding coldness in his eyes as unnerving as it was unexpected.
He said, “The second threat is the Brother.”
Galinin stared blankly at him. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve gone to the trouble of informing yourself about the Brother; you know the extent of his influence among the Bonds.” He looked around, regarding Galinin with chill detachment. “I’ve preached submission and peace to the Bonds all these years, but I can as easily preach resistance and revolt, and I can make it, in their eyes, a holy war.”
“Alexand! You—I can’t believe you’d do that. You know what it would mean.”
“Anarchy? A third dark age?” He shrugged negligently. “Well, my lord, we’re already well along that path.”
Galinin was incapable of responding to that, a part of his mind assuring him it couldn’t be true, another reeling with the realization of a monstrous error in judgment. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, that air of casual ruthlessness vanished, and Alexand shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted with memories.
“No, Grandser, the Brother will never preach war. His power is a gift of the Lamb. I’ll admit that to you, but to no one else. The other Directors will have to deal with a warmongering Brother as a very real possibility.”
Galinin took a deep breath. �
�Well, you make it a very convincing possibility.”
“It must be convincing. At any rate, that concludes the list of threats. As for the offers, some are the obverse of the threats, of course. A cessation of hostilities on all levels and the pacific influence of the Brother. We also offer the rather abstract potential of the Phoenix as an ally, as a repository of knowledge, a research institute, and a data gathering and interpretation facility. As such, it has no parallel in the Concord. It’s an incalculably valuable tool.”
“Yes, I believe that, but it is a rather abstract concept.”
“True. As abstract as the real aims of the Phoenix—something that will not enter into the negotiations. But we have some offerings that will demonstrate the value of our intellectual and technological capabilities in concrete terms.” He reached into a pocket hidden under his belt, took out a tape spool, and handed it to Galinin. “You can scan this at your leisure. It contains descriptions and specifications for various processes and devices ranging from centrifugal ore separators, to power systems amplifiers, to a modified electroharp. In all, there are 1,200 items. They’ll be distributed by the Board of Franchises, and there’s at least one for every House suitable for development under existing franchises.”
“Very politic,” Galinin commented wryly as he pocketed the spool. “That should make the Phoenix a bit more palatable to the Court of Lords.”
“And the Directors. They haven’t been excluded from the largesse. We also have another invention to offer, but it isn’t listed on that spool.” He paused, looking directly at Galinin. “The matter transmitter.”
“Ah. Then it is something more than a myth.”
“You know it is. Its potentials as a strategic weapon are obvious—and perhaps it should be listed among our threats.”
Galinin tilted his head to one side, studying Alexand. “And the Phoenix is willing to surrender this weapon to the Concord?”
Alexand smiled coolly. “Not to surrender it; to offer it in exchange for what we want. And the MT is much more than a weapon. It’s one of those profound inventions, like nulgrav or SynchShift, that will change the very shape of civilization. It will be a far more practical method of moving goods and passengers over interplanetary or interstellar distances than anything now in existence. And, Grandser . . .” He hesitated, smiling to himself. “Andreas . . . Dr. Riis, who birthed this profound invention, is a man of almost romantic vision. He sees the MT as humankind’s door to the stars.”