by M. K. Wren
“No. Thank you, Dr. Radek.”
Of course not. She watched him put his helmet on the table and drape his cloak over the back of the chair, then sink into it. unfastening the stiff collar of his uniform. She turned to the ’spenser and touched out a number sequence, waited until a plasex cup slid out of the slot, then took it with her when she went to the other chair.
“I call you Alex because we tend toward first names here, and because I know I must get used to calling you that, as you must get used to hearing it, but you embarrass me with that formal Doctor Radek. Please—just Erica.”
He smiled politely. “Erica it will be, then.”
“Good. Now, you probably have a few questions, but I can’t answer them all tonight. For one thing, you’ll need some rest. I understand you mustered out at 06:00. It’s nearly midnight now, and that makes for a long day. Alex, among other things I’m a qualified physician and, as such, I’m prescribing this for you.” She leaned forward and handed him the cup. “It’s a liquid concentrate. The flavor isn’t exactly up to gourmet standards, but it has other attributes, such as enough food value to keep the average man going for a full day. And it stays down more easily than solid food.”
His eyes flashed up to hers, then he laughed softly. “A good recommendation. Thank you.”
“It will be up to me to assess your acceptability and potential as a member. I don’t like my data distorted by factors such as physical depletion. Anyway, I have a few frustrated maternal instincts that surface occasionally. Now. I’ll give you a chance to ask some of those questions.”
A direct gaze; a speculative scrutiny, then, “I won’t burden you with too many questions tonight. I realize you won’t be sure of my acceptability until I’ve passed your screening, and I don’t expect you to answer the real questions now, so perhaps I should start with the usual questions, such as, Exactly where am I? Geographically, that is.”
“You’re in the southern hemisphere of Pollux, latitude about twenty-five degrees, longitude thirty degrees west of the Leda meridian. You’re on—or, rather, under—the island of Fina, a name which also applies to our little community. It’s one of a number of small islands at the southern tip of the West Pangaean continent. We’re near the Comargian Straits between the Selamin Sea and the Polluxian Ocean.”
He eyed her obliquely. “That suggests more questions, such as how did I get from my touch-down point near the equator to twenty-five degrees south in the ten minutes in which I was drugged? But I assume that’s one of the questions you can’t answer now, or I wouldn’t have been drugged.” He smiled in response to her brief laugh, then, “At least I’m oriented spatially now. Can you tell me what I have to look forward to in the near future?”
“In the near future, yes. I’ll oversee the necessary testing and screening here. I have an assistant, by the way: Val Severin. But she’ll only help with the objective tests. Any area where your identity might be even indirectly exposed, I’ll handle myself. I’ll also give you your basic conditioning and some initial orientation. When I’m through with you, you’ll go on to General Training, which lasts from one to three months, depending on a new member’s background and prior experience. In GT you’ll learn the Phoenix in detail, its history and goals, the functions of every department and unit—every aspect of it. You’ll study survival arts, role-playing and disguise, physical and mechanical defense, memorization and conditioning techniques, and we have a number of technical devices for defense or intelligence work you’ll have to master. You’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”
His smile was forced. As he leaned forward to put down his empty cup, she saw a flash of gold at the open collar of his uniform. Rich’s medallion. So many reminders.
“And after General Training?”
“You’ll be assigned to a particular department.”
He laughed, and she heard the brittle edge in it. “No doubt Confleet’s training will serve me in good stead there. You do have some use for a Confleet-trained . . . soldier.” He spoke that last word with bitter irony.
“Yes, we have some use for soldiers. Rich told you about the military engagement in the General Plan ex seqs. We’re building our fleet in preparation for that, and your training may be useful there. We don’t attract many people skilled in military arts. In fact, you’re the first Confleet Academy graduate we’ve had.”
He seemed to consider that a moment, then turned his chair and studied the console wall. “My contacts in Concordia told me the possibility always exists that I might fail the screening.”
It was a question, and she answered it without forcing him to be explicit.
“If you should fail, we’ll know within two or three days. In that case, your ejection capsule will turn up on an island near your ‘crash’ site, having miraculously functioned at the last minute. Your radio equipment will be burned out, and you’ll be in a state of mild shock with a total memory lapse covering the last few days. We always consider the possibility that an applicant might have to be returned, so to speak, and plan his disappearance with that in mind.”
“Returned.” He seemed to study the word, the mask of containment slipping, exposing a bleak dread. “If I’m returned, how will you deal with me as a potential Mankeen?”
That came from Rich. She met his intent gaze calmly.
“I don’t know. But you won’t fail the screening.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’ve quite a fund of information on you. You and the Phoenix are working toward the same goals and can establish a mutually beneficial symbiosis. My only concern was a negative reaction on your part toward your father.”
A cold, fleeting light behind his eyes; she recognized the pain in it and found that reassuring. It hadn’t been translated into hatred.
“You speak of that concern in the past tense.
“Yes. You’ve already virtually eliminated it with your accusation against Karlis Selasis.”
He smiled, apparently pleased that she recognized the implications in that.
“For nearly four years I’ve had Karlis’s company forced on me by Confleet. Call it retribution.”
She laughed. “I’ll call it an adroit political maneuver; one designed to protect DeKoven Woolf, and that assures me that you haven’t turned completely against your father.”
He nodded, and his long breath seemed an effort. “My ‘demise’ will put enough of a strain on the House. My purpose in joining you isn’t revenge against my father. I understand him and his motives. I simply can’t accept them. Rich said, or hoped, that I wouldn’t have to join a secret society to work for our . . . cause. But he was wrong. He blazed this path for me; I’m here for the same reasons he was.” The control was slipping again, and he rose, turning to study the console wall, putting his face in profile to her. “Tell me, what’s the function of an ex-Lord in the Phoenix—other than playing soldier, thanks to custom and Confleet?”
“I can’t answer that now, but Rich told you enough of our plans, and you are, in a very pragmatic sense, a student of politics. You can guess what we hope for you.”
“Phase I. I could be the foothold in the existing power structure, in which case the Phoenix will find it necessary to resurrect the Lord Alexand as its namesake resurrects itself.” He seemed for a moment even more weary and tense, then his mouth tightened. “Of course I’ll accept nothing less. Unfortunately, except for my Confleet training, I’m suited for no other function than Lordship, and perhaps that sort of ambition will make me unacceptable here, in spite of your apparent faith.”
Again, a question with no questioning inflection. She smiled a little at that.
“Do you intend to make yourself Lord of the Phoenix?”
“Ah. A point, and accepted. No. Rich called the Phoenix a tool; one that would serve his purpose by allowing him to become its tool. I’ll accept those t
erms.”
“No doubt the Society will also accept them. You realize, I hope, that it’s entirely possible that we may not be able to resurrect you.”
It was a test of sorts, even if it was a truth. His eyes glinted with amusement, recognizing both.
“The Lord Alexand will be resurrected. I was born to that. And there’s irony for you; born to resurrection or—”
Death.
He didn’t say the word, but she knew it, as she sometimes knew Rich’s thoughts. She studied the pale, tense features of this brother Rich had loved so deeply, her own grief encompassing his. Alexand would never be a saint like Rich. There were qualities in Rich that were absent in his brother, but the opposite was also true, and those qualities would be vital to the Phoenix in the next few years, to the Concord.
A silence was growing; she realized he was watching her and felt curiously defensive.
“Alex, you certainly gave the other councilors no hint of your determination to be resurrected. How do you explain your openness with me?”
He returned to his chair, seating himself with a little more care than would be normal for a man of his youth, and that couldn’t entirely be laid to the fact that he wasn’t used to Pollux’s lighter gravity.
“Didn’t I? I said I was willing to serve the Phoenix in the capacity for which I was best suited.”
“Ah, yes.” She smiled in retrospect.
“I doubt I’ll have any secrets from you after this screening process, so it would be futile for me to be less than honest with you. But the truth is, I can speak openly with you because you were a friend of Rich’s. I know that even if he never spoke your name. And I trusted his judgment; that’s why I’m here.” Then he added, “As for my reticence with the Council, there was a reason, although I doubt I’d have been less cautious under any circumstances. Before Rich—on that last night at the Estate—Rich said something that I could only regard as a warning. He said I might find it necessary to . . . ‘save the Phoenix as well as serving it.’ He also said that certain political principles pertain in any social context, and one is that power vacuums will always be filled.” His eyes were fixed intently on her. “When he first told me about the Phoenix he called it a power vacuum. Andreas Riis doesn’t fill that vacuum; he isn’t emotionally suited to the role. Who does fill it, Erica? Or, rather, who wants to fill it?”
She came close to smiling at that accurate assessment of Andreas, but his question quelled the inclination. She wasn’t ready to answer it yet. Alex Ransom had been in Fina less than an hour; he had a great deal to learn and a total personality reorientation to accomplish. She wouldn’t discuss that particular problem with him yet.
“Do you want to fill it, Alex?”
Briefly, a chill, Lordly impatience flashed in his eyes. Then he relaxed and laughed.
“Yes, I suppose so, but I don’t regard myself as the threat to the Society Rich implied, and perhaps I’m deluded in that. You don’t wish to pursue the subject of power vacuums.”
“No, Alex. Not yet.”
He nodded. “I’m capable of patience, although some people might not believe it, and I’m well aware that I can’t be a tool for the Phoenix, or it for me, unless I have the support of a majority of its members. That will take time; years, perhaps. Meanwhile, the Lord Alexand is dead.” He looked down at the ring on his right hand, and Erica wanted to weep, not at any evidence of grief elicited by that reminder of Adrien Eliseer, but at its absence.
“Alex, the Phoenix will do everything possible to keep the Lady Adrien free to honor the existing Contracts of Marriage with Woolf if we succeed in resurrecting you.”
He turned paler, and for a long time didn’t move; his eyes were turned on the ring, but they seemed incapable of sight. Finally, he looked across the table at her and said levelly, “I’m sure the Phoenix will bend every effort to keep Adrien free. The Woolf-Eliseer union was obviously important to you; you helped bring it about. But, from a personal point of view, I can only hope it will never be finalized.”
Erica was taken by surprise, and that was rare.
“Why?” she asked flatly.
“Because the Lady Adrien, unfortunately, loves me. I’m sure you’re aware of that, and equally aware that I love her. Yet I’ve inflicted the agony of grief for my death on her.”
“You might have told her your plans. We couldn’t monitor or control all your communications.”
“Yes, but I had a taste of that these last three years with Rich—of knowing; of wondering every day if he was alive or in the hands of the SSB. And I had personal contact with him periodically. That wouldn’t be possible for Adrien and me. Would the Phoenix risk setting up a line of communication with her simply to indulge my needs or desires? Of course not. So Adrien would be in limbo, worse than mine with Rich because there would be no end to it.” His eyes closed, but only briefly. “With Rich my terrors were limited by his inevitable death, but for Adrien there would be no end. I considered this the lesser of two unforgivable evils.”
A terrible decision to be forced to make, Erica thought bleakly, and a worse decision to live with once made. But few members reached HS 1 without making similar decisions. She’d made her own.
“That doesn’t tell me why you hope the marriage won’t take place.”
He frowned distractedly. “Love turns to hatred so easily. Betrayal is usually the agent. I saw it in my father. He was wrong in thinking himself betrayed by Rich, but I have betrayed Adrien. Yet I still love her and always will. Consider our marriage, Erica, if it should take place. She can only despise me for my betrayal, and I can only love her and be daily stretched on the rack of my guilt and her contempt. Not a pleasant prospect.”
Erica started to protest that he might be underestimating the Lady Adrien in thinking her incapable of forgiveness, but the protest died on her lips.
Why? From all the evidence available to her, and that from Rich was dependable and detailed, Alex had never underestimated Adrien Eliseer. He recognized her potential from the moment they met. Why did he underestimate her now?
She sighed, feeling suddenly weary to the bone.
It was simple enough, and she knew beyond a doubt he believed every word he said. He had to. It was the lesser of evils for him, too. He couldn’t tolerate maintaining a virtually hopeless hope over months and years, as he was afraid Adrien couldn’t tolerate the uncertainty about his fate, and so he killed that hope as he killed the Lord Alexand for Adrien, in one clean, compassionate, agonizing blow.
His reactions to Adrien Eliseer would have to be studied, but only under deep conditioning. She wouldn’t challenge his solution to this problem on a conscious level, or say anything that might revive the hope he’d killed. For the Phoenix, it was a workable solution to a potential problem: a division of his loyalty. For Alex Ransom, it was the only merciful solution, because the odds were very high against that hope ever being realized.
“Alex, I’m sorry.”
He seemed to weigh those words, and finally nodded mutely. Then he methodically removed Adrien’s ring and the sapphire his mother had given him.
“I’m not willing to give these up, but I can’t wear them. The one is obvious identification; the other—” He studied the sapphire briefly before he put it on the table. “It’s a little ostentatious for a Fesh ’Fleeter.” He noted the direction of her glance and touched the medallion at his throat. “This I won’t part with. It can’t identify me; the symbolism is too personal.”
She nodded as she took the rings and put them in her pocket, out of his sight.
“All members are assigned voice-lock boxes for personal valuables. Until that’s done, I’ll keep these in my office; they’ll be safe there.”
He looked down at his naked hands, in that drawing her eye to them. Strong hands, she thought, unusual in a man who never had, and never would, earn h
is living by manual labor. She noted the bandage again, but didn’t ask about it because those strong hands were trembling; she saw that before he folded them together to hide that indication of his physical and emotional state.
But his voice was still level; under control. Everything under control.
“Will I have access to vidicom newscasts here?”
“Of course. You aren’t that much of a prisoner. You’ll also have access to our viditape library, as well as five music bands.”
“Life isn’t so spartan here, after all.”
“We have to make life bearable or the confinement becomes overwhelming. We also have means of entertaining ourselves—a theater group, choral and instrumental ensembles—and we’ve some talented artists and poets in our ranks.”
His interest in that was only polite; he was gazing at the doorway of the room she always referred to as the “guest room,” his temporary quarters. She knew even before he started to rise that he had said all he intended to tonight, and it was a great deal more than she had expected.
He pulled himself to his feet, pausing as Erica rose.
“You’ve been very patient with my questions, Erica, and your answers should suffice for tonight. Thank you.”
They would suffice because he was finding it too difficult to maintain that studied calm; he wanted to be alone. She nodded and led the way into the guest room, waving on the light as she entered.
“You’ll have more questions, and the answers will come in time. Oh—there’s a tape on your comconsole that will provide some of the answers; at least, about Fina and to a degree the Society. There’s not much to show you about your quarters; it’s all rather self-evident.” She frowned slightly. “Alex, perhaps you should have a sedative tonight.”
“No.” The response was too quick, open overtones of fear in it. He called up a smile. “Thank you, Erica, but I don’t take sedatives.”
She didn’t question that; not now. She rested her hand lightly on his arm, feeling his tension at that touch. It wasn’t a reaction to her personally, she knew; he simply wasn’t accustomed to casual physical contact with relative strangers.