by M. K. Wren
Finally, Rich took a long, trembling breath, and the silence dissolved.
“Perhaps I will give you a cause.”
It hit like the shock of a foil striking home, that quiet statement, even to the reactive tightening of muscles. Those words, that hint of a promise, might mean nothing under other circumstances, but Alexand couldn’t believe that now; the conviction wouldn’t be shaken that they did mean something, and something tangible and specific.
“Rich, what . . . what do you mean?”
But Rich shook his head, his eyes closing wearily.
“I told you I’d reached a point of decision today; I was forced to it. But I can’t explain it now. I can only ask you to be patient, and perhaps . . . to forgive me.” He paused, frowning. “I suppose I’m trying to warn you, or rather prepare you for something.”
“Then can’t you tell me what it is?”
“A separation. That’s all I can tell you now.”
A separation. The word created a cold hollow around itself. As if Confleet weren’t enough—what else could separate them?
Rich reached out for his hand, and that small movement seemed an immense effort.
“Alex, I’ll never let myself be separated entirely from you. I need you too much, and I think you’ll need me. Perhaps we’ll just be walking different paths.” There was an unspoken plea behind his eyes, a plea for patience. The hectic light was wavering.
Alexand nodded. “You and I will always walk the same path, Rich. We’ll talk about it later. But you must do whatever you want to do—whatever you feel you must do.”
“I promise you this much: my decision—you’ll know about it; you’ll understand.” He sighed, his breath coming out as if forced by the weight of his sagging muscles. “I’ve so little stamina. Alex, when—how long can you stay? I mean, before you must go back to Sidny?”
“I’m not returning to Sidny until I’m sure you’re fully recovered, and if anyone wants to bring me before a court-martial for that—well, so be it.”
Rich managed a brief laugh at that. “Well, I don’t intend to take that long at recovering.” After a moment he looked across the room at Harlequin. “How long has he been here?”
“Nearly five hours.”
“He’d play until he starved to death if someone didn’t stop him.”
“I’ll stop him. Now, go to sleep. Please.”
Rich nodded; his eyes were already closed.
Alexand had every intention of going directly to bed once Rich was asleep and he’d sent Harlequin away. But he found it difficult and finally impossible to leave Rich. He felt himself in a kind of vacuum, and the solitude of his own room, even as a thought was intolerable.
Loneliness.
A simple thing, and there were no answers for it.
But he could draw up a chair by the bed and look out over Rich’s motionless figure to the lights of Concordia. He could tell himself that Rich might wake with another nightmare, that he might need him.
But there would be no more nightmares this night; Rich wouldn’t need anyone.
Alexand knew that he needed Rich, even his silent, sleeping presence. There was so little time left.
6.
Rich watched Fenn Lacroy attach a small disk to the readout console. No doubt it served the same purpose as the flat, black instrument he always had at hand during these private dialogues. Jamblers; insurance against monitors.
The school room was silent except for a Bachanti Chorale playing softly on the speakers. There would be no interruptions. Rich had made the school his personal domain, and his privacy was respected by everyone, including his parents. They might come here, but generally they gave him warning. Alexand wouldn’t feel that necessary, but he was safely in conference with his father and Galinin.
“How are you feeling, Rich?” Lacroy asked, inserting a tape spool that seemed to come magically into his hand into the console.
“Very well, Fenn, and three days bound to that bed was quite enough for me.”
“I’m sure it was, but it served its purpose. You look well. These are the extrapolation sequences you asked about; the latest series.”
Rich guided his nulgrav chair to the console. “I appreciate being allowed to see them.”
“HQ wanted you to see them.”
Rich looked up at him speculatively, then turned to the screen and studied the abstracted patterns and graphs one by one. There were alternative and cognate series covering time periods ranging from ten to fifty years. From a scholarly point of view, he found himself again amazed; the ex seqs were beautifully drawn.
And their common factor—the catalytic factor—was Alexand.
Rich studied them for a full half hour, with Lacroy looking over his shoulder. When he came to the end of them, he leaned back and said dully, “No doubt the last series would result in what would be called the ‘Woolf Wars.’ ”
Lacroy perched on the console counter, frowning. “You mean the possibility that Alex and his father would be in opposite camps in a political-military confrontation. As I understand it, that seq means an alliance between Lord Phillip and Selasis against Alexand. I find that hard to swallow.”
Rich nodded, staring at the screen and the cold, objective symbols. Translated, they spelled horror and grief.
“So would Alex and Father—now. But Selasis will always be a contender, and a three-way battle is untenable. Two of the contenders inevitably join against the third. Fenn, there’s nothing here on the Eliseer line.”
“Only because it had no bearing on these seqs. We haven’t given up on it, but the odds get worse every year. You know about the rumors of a Robek-Eliseer match?”
He frowned at that. “Adrien and Alton Robek?”
“Yes. It’s still in the rumor stage, but we caught another rumor that’s more encouraging. Selasis may be looking to Shang for a bride for Karlis. Janeel Shang, Lord Sato’s granddaughter by his first born.”
Rich considered the possibility, trying not to take too much hope from it.
“If Selasis commits himself to Shang, that would take the pressure off Father on the Fallor match. And he’s getting a great deal of pressure from Lord Charles lately. Perhaps he’s heard the rumors, too, and wants the contracts signed while he still has some leverage. Does Father know about the Shang-Selasis rumors?”
“Yes.”
No doubt Fenn had made sure of that. Rich looked at the screen once more, then turned away and guided his chair across to the windowall. Beyond the protective, verdant grove was a world, and worlds, with numberless potential time bombs ticking toward their individual zero hours, and his brother was one of them. But the eucalypts whispered in the wind, heedless of the season, wearing their eternal green even on the verge of winter.
Fenn joined him at the windowall, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice the trees or the season.
“Rich, I know how you feel about Lady Adrien and Alex, but the odds are still against them unless something unexpected happens in the near future. Eliseer won’t hesitate if Robek offers a match.”
Rich stared out into the grove. “I know. You said your HQ wanted me to see those ex seqs. Why?”
“Well, we’ve been watching Alex since the day he was born, of course, and since the Galinin-Ivanoi assassinations we’ve been especially concerned about him.”
Rich sighed. “So have I, and I recognized most of the potentials in those ex seqs long ago. A great deal depends on Father, of course.”
“Of course.”
“By your carefully noncommittal tone,” Rich said, with an oblique smile, “I assume you’re wondering if I’m also aware of Father’s increasingly reactionary attitudes.”
“He’s still my Lord, and I respect him, but—”
“I know. He’s still my father, and I not only resp
ect him, but love him.” Rich paused, pulling in a long breath. “But I’m not blind. Nor am I blind to Alex’s potential. I’m especially worried about this damnable Confleet business. Three years of active duty, Fenn; three years to risk involvement in Bond uprisings, to risk—” he stopped, overwhelmed by memories, still so fresh, and by an encompassing fear. “—to risk death for a tired old custom.”
He forced his thoughts into focus again. “So the Phoenix recognizes Alex’s potential as a disruptive factor. Why tell me about it?”
“Because we’re also aware of your influence with him.”
Rich shook his head decisively. “You can’t look to me to avert any catastrophe Alex might precipitate. The chances are I won’t be here when a crisis arises. I can’t ignore my fate. I hope the Phoenix isn’t making that error.”
Lacroy looked down at the floor. “No.”
“I’ll do what I can, but if the Phoenix regards Alex as a threat, it must be prepared to offer him an alternative course of action—something other than making a new Mankeen of himself.”
“But . . . what alternative can we offer?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I’ll do what I can, but now I must consider an alternative for myself or, rather, draw my plans.” He seemed to feel a chill as the leaves turned concurrently, tugging at the branches, in the fitful wind.
Lacroy asked warily, “Your plans, Rich?”
“You know what I mean. We’ve discussed it before, and I’ve made my decision. I can no longer satisfy myself with half measures.”
Lacroy nodded, turning to look out the windowall, but his expression displayed less affirmation than that nod.
“Did the Selasid uprising have anything to do with your decision?”
“Of course it did, Fenn.”
“Maybe you should give yourself a little more time.” His tone was casual, but he couldn’t meet Rich’s eyes.
And Rich smiled at that. “No, I don’t need more time; I’ve wasted enough as it is. The decision is made.”
“But it will mean leaving—” he sighed, still looking beyond the windowall. “—leaving your parents and . . . and Alexand.”
The wind gusted, freeing a shower of leaves.
“I’ve given that due consideration, particularly leaving Alex. But it won’t be a total separation. In fact, little more than Confleet has already imposed on us. However, I still insist that my one stipulation be met. No—there was a second: only those who must know who I am will be told; I will protect the House.”
Lacroy finally looked around at him, and it was obvious that he was still uncomfortable with the decision.
“I’ve discussed your stipulations with HQ. Only three people there will be involved. You can trust them, and they’ll take contingency conditioning.”
“And my first stipulation?”
“That . . . didn’t go down so easy, but you’re an exception to almost all our rules. It was accepted. You’ve had security conditioning, but you’ll still have to watch what you say.” “Of course, and it isn’t as much of a risk as it might seem. I’m sure your contacts at HQ know it’s worth taking. Alex may be Chairman one day.”
“It was considered worth taking.” Fenn paused, his big hands flexing unconsciously. “Rich, are you sure—”
“Yes. I’m sure.” His flat tone cut off further argument, and finally Lacroy’s doubt gave way to acceptance.
“I guess I should be whooping for joy, but maybe I’m too much a part of . . .”
“The family?” Rich nodded. “It won’t be easy for anyone.”
“Least of all you.”
Rich didn’t respond to that, instead turning his chair and crossing to his desk.
“The research professorship is the best cover alternative, Fenn. How long will it take to set it up?”
“I don’t know exactly. Probably about a month.”
“Good. Let me know as soon as possible.” He began sorting through a stack of tape spools. “A month. That should give me time to finish this thesis.”
Lacroy followed him to the desk, frowning absently. “When does Alex return to Sidny?”
“Day after tomorrow.” Rich paused, staring down at the spools. “At dawn.”
7.
Tuck vainly attempted to stifle a yawn as he closed the suitcase. “Will you be taking anything else with you, my lord?”
Alexand turned from the windowall, where a glow of pink in the east augured the approaching dawn.
“No, Tuck, that’s all.”
The vidicom was still on; he’d been watching an early newscast. He started for the comconsole to turn it off, but paused as he passed the foil case on the wall. The matched pair of foils gleamed: Toramil tensteel with his initials woven into the design on the damascened guards; beautiful blades, perfectly balanced for his hand. They had been Fenn Lacroy’s gift to him at Age of Rights.
The gift had been overwhelming, not only because he knew the cost of foils of this quality, but because Fenn had been so proud. Alexand had left for Sidny a week later.
That was his first departure for the Academy. In the long months he’d owned these foils, they’d seldom been used.
“My lord, shall I call Fer Hilding to bring your ’car to the roof?”
Alexand roused himself and went to the comconsole. “No, I’ll call him.” He glanced at the door into Rich’s room, open as it always was, but in a sense closed with sound and vision screens. “I won’t need you for anything else, Tuck. Thank you, and I’m sorry to get you up so early.”
“Don’t worry yourself about that, my lord.” He bowed and added, “The Holy Mezion be with you on your journey. Peace be.”
Alexand hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Peace.
He heard the door close behind Tuck and the word echoed hollowly in his mind. Tuck knew where he was going, and must have been at least vaguely aware of the meaning of the images glowing on the vidicom screen, three square meters of three-dimensional, full-color disaster—scenes from the Handyne uprising that erupted yesterday in Edbor. Yet Tuck left him with that blessing, and meant it, as hope or prayer, to his soul.
Peace be.
He stared at the screen. The Gorimbo compounds in Sahrafrika now. The uprisings seemed to come in clusters, as if the savage violence of one sent out sparks even across the deeps of space to ignite others. The Concord had enjoyed a month-long hiatus before the Selasid uprising, then, within less than a week, there had been five more major uprisings. The first of these had been in Toramil in the Cameroodo Estate compounds, and in that there was a certain irony, since Cameroodo was Selasis’s staunchest Directorate ally.
Earlier in the newscast, another item had been mentioned, almost casually: the Directorate at its meeting tomorrow would be considering another proposed Confleet expansion. Conpol was also asking for more funds, and the commander of the SSB would make a personal appeal for more men and money. After this week of revolts, the requests would undoubtedly be granted. It would mean higher taxes to sharpen the bite of economic recession, more tax Bonds and Fesh allieged to the Concord, more minor Houses on the brink of bankruptcy. Yet it would be done; the Directors would see no alternative.
And another item the ’caster had passed off even more casually: yesterday the Directors had voted against funding the proposed Confleet-University exploratory expedition to Altair, as Alexand had anticipated they would. The fate of the Felicity apparently hadn’t entered into the decision; it wasn’t even mentioned, and, paradoxically, it was Orin Selasis—who stood to profit most, at least initially, from the expedition, since his House would build the ships for it—who spoke out most strongly against it. But it was Charles Fallor’s comment that the ’caster quoted in reporting the Directorate’s refusal to fund the expedition. “We’ve got trouble enough in the Two Systems. Why
go to Altair looking for more?”
Alexand turned off the vidicom and sat down at the comconsole. He inserted a blank lettape spool absently, wondering why the rejection of the Altair expedition weighed so heavily in his thoughts. Not because he had volunteered for it; that had only been a gesture, and he had never expected anything tangible to come of it, never anticipated traveling to that mystery-veiled star. At least . . .
No. He had expected nothing of it. He was wondering, too, how his father voted on that issue, and thinking of his meeting with his father and Mathis Galinin two days ago.
Alexand had again been only an observer, and the subject of discussion had again been the Galinin-Woolf-Robek resolution. They had decided against presenting it to the Directorate this week as planned. Later, perhaps, when the political climate was more amenable. Alexand had wondered—silently—if they believed that was likely to occur in the near, or even distant, future.
He frowned, the clock on the console providing a reminder. His farewells to his parents had been said last night, and he insisted neither of them hold dawn vigil for his departure. He’d also asked that of Rich, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave without some final message. He touched the “record” switch, watching the light go on, listening to the faint hum, but after a silent minute he turned it off again; his mind seemed suddenly blank. The quiet voice behind him startled him.
“If you’re trying to compose something for me, save yourself the trouble.”
He turned. Rich was coming through the door joining their rooms, floating in the nulgrav chair. He was still in his night clothes, but he wore a cloak over them as if he were prepared to brave the morning chill outside.
Alexand said, “I’ll gladly save myself the trouble. Did I wake you?”
“With the S/V screens on the door?” He laughed at that. “Of course not. But if you hoped to avoid me this morning, that’s unfortunate. I didn’t intend to allow you that.” His tone was light, yet there was a purpose hidden behind the nonchalance; a sober and deep purpose.