by M. K. Wren
With Noreurope and western Ruskasia subdued, Andrasy was free to join Ballarat in the Sudamerikan campaign, and finally DelCampina and Iquito were forced to surrender. They did so in 2896 on the twentieth anniversary of Ballarat’s election to the Chairmanship of the Directorate of the Holy Confederation.
Those were a fateful twenty years that changed the course of history and made the Holy Confederation the dominant power in the civilized world. Those years were also the prime of Patric Ballarat’s life, and I wonder if at fifty-seven he wasn’t beginning to feel a little weary. And I wonder if it didn’t occur to him that during his twenty years as Chairman, he had spent very little time in Conta Austrail, instead delegating his duties there to his brother Hugh under the title of VisChairman. His long absences from Conta Austrail were perhaps his greatest error. But the campaign wasn’t over, and the worst was still to come.
Ballarat had yet to meet the Minister-Keffe (as he styled himself, although the “Keffe” is often translated as “Chief”) Tsane Valstaad. And Tsane had had twenty years to prepare his Sudafrikan Union for that encounter.
CHAPTER VII
Augus 3253
1.
“Oh—your guest room is empty again.”
Erica nodded, looking up at Valentin Severin as she paused at the open doorway of the office.
“Yes, that bird has flown. I think I’ll move our other bird in now so I can get to know him better.”
“Jael?”
“Yes. Our very rare bird.” She switched off the reading screen on her desk and leaned back. “Would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, Val?”
“Of course.” She went to the ’spenser by the door, and Erica watched her with almost maternal pride.
A born leader. Erica had recognized that special quality without the aid of personality profiles, even though it was still in potential; she was only twenty-five. Val Severin had the physical attributes: she was tall, and some atavistic need in the human psyche was satisfied with height. And she was attractive, with long tawny hair, quick green eyes, strong features that made an indelible imprint on the memory. Val had attracted the Society’s attention while exercising her talent for leadership—and betraying her dangerously liberal ideals—by attempting to organize what she brazenly called a “social protest” group among the Fesh in the House of Hamid, where she was a stattech. Fortunately, the Phoenix reached—and recruited—her before she attracted Lord Lazar Hamid’s attention.
She crossed to the desk with two cups, handed one to Erica, then sipped at the other.
“Alex has started GT?”
“Yes, but we’ll be seeing him occasionally. He’s shown an inordinate interest in psychosociology, and far be it from me to discourage that. We need a good field man in PS.”
Val frowned. “But I thought he was going into FO.”
“Really?” Erica tasted her coffee, adding nothing to that vague inquiry.
“Well, I suppose I thought since he was a Confleet Academy graduate, he’d naturally go into FO.”
“Emeric Garris probably will steal him away from me, unfortunately.” She gave a rueful laugh, keeping her tone light. “Did Alex tell you he was in Confleet?”
Val hesitated. “Well, no, I guess it wasn’t Alex who told me.”
Erica studied her expression and tone; there was no hint of subterfuge.
“Val, if Alex didn’t volunteer that information, I’d like to know where you heard it. It’s no great secret, but I wouldn’t want him to think everything he said here could become public property in Fina.”
“No, of course not.” Her frown relaxed into a smile. “Oh, now I remember. It was Fer Ussher. About five days ago I was at Jan and Nina Barret’s apartment when Fer Ussher dropped in. He said something about how fortunate we were to have a Confleet captain and an Academy graduate. I guess he didn’t know how tight-lipped Alex is. He assumed I knew, since I was helping with his screening.”
Fer Ussher had undoubtedly made other assumptions about what Val Severin might know concerning their new recruit—if it were likely that he would pass the screening and prove acceptable for membership, for instance.
Erica only nodded absently, commenting, “As a councilor Fer Ussher has access to basic background information on new members, of course. What did he think of our Outsider?”
“Mm. Well, I don’t know. He didn’t mention him.”
“By the way, you can go down to HS 9 and tell Jael he’ll be moving into new quarters. I’ve already talked to Dr. Hamlin. And you may as well bring Jael back with you.”
“You seem especially interested in this new member, too. Another PS recruit?”
“No, Ben will probably grab him for SI, but he might be interesting as a source of data for PS.”
Val smiled. “If you can translate the jargon. He’s . . . quite amazing, though.”
Erica’s eyes narrowed. Val’s tone indicated a very personal response. “He is amazing, Val. An Outsider with convictions of a nature to induce him to join us is nearly unbelievable.”
“Maybe he’s really a spy for old Amik, the Lord of Thieves.”
Erica laughed at that; there were ironies in it only she could appreciate.
“I’ll give that possibility some thought, Val.”
“Not much, I’ll bet.” She started for the door. “I’ll go down to HS 9 and retrieve our rare bird.”
PERSONAL FILE: E. RADEK CASE NOTES: 6 AUGUS 3253
SUBJECT: ALEX RANSOM
Alex has completed his first five days in GT, and he’s made the program I thought would be so demanding pale in comparison to his demands on himself. I’ve talked with him three times: the first two were rather inconclusive, but yesterday’s conversation was more satisfying, although he’s still blocking on his mother’s death. He was particularly interested in the rumors of a match between his father and Sandro Omer’s daughter, Olivet. Omer is the only one of the Directorate fence riders not yet aligned by marriage, and a Woolf-Omer alliance would tend to tip the balance of power in favor of Galinin and Woolf:
Alex regarded the match as a solid probability on the basis of Omer’s tie-breaking vote yesterday on the Woolf succession to the Chairmanship. He’s convinced that Omer voted with the Galinin-Woolf faction because he’d like to see a grandson of his in the Chairmanship eventually. That isn’t guaranteed him, however. The Directors actually only voted on the question of whether to demand a new Declaration of Succession to the Chairmanship. That proposal was turned down, thanks to Omer, which means Galinin’s Declaration still stands as written—a relief to us, but less than a total victory for Woolf. He is still heir apparent to the Chairmanship, but there’s no provision in the present Declaration for any heirs of his not born of Galinin’s eldest daughter. The Directors are simply leaving the matter open to be decided at a future date, which will be when either of the factions is confident of a solid majority. Shang and Fallor, despite their marriage commitments to Selasis and Robek, would still be fence riders if the issue were forced at this point, and neither faction wants to risk an irremediable loss, so a tacit truce is in effect. We can only hope Lord Alexand’s resurrection can be accomplished before the truce is broken.
Alex discussed all this with no overt emotional reaction. His mother’s death has given impetus to the submersion of Lord Alexand. He’s fallen into the habit of referring to his father as “Lord Woolf,” and his grandfather as “Lord Galinin” or “the Chairman.” This isn’t studied; the impersonal forms of address seem to come most naturally to him now. That depersonalization hasn’t extended to Rich, but I don’t expect it to, and I’m grateful for that. Without Rich I’m not sure it would be possible to keep Alexand alive in Alex Ransom.
2.
Except for Leon Sarnov, the instructor, Jael was the last to leave the classroom, but not because of any reluctance to depart. His ten classmates were all Second Gens, the oldest no more than sixteen, and undoubtedly the imminent opening
of the dining rooms sped their exodus. Maybe Sarnov was hungry, too, or just glad to get loose from his youthful class. He made his exit with a minimum of words, even if they were friendly enough.
But they were all friendly, all the members, and on this his first day in GT, Jael the Outsider was having a hard time getting used to that. Where he came up, a new face pulled nothing but long looks, and wariness was a fundamental state of mind.
He leaned against the wall by the doorway and the sign reading BASIC SCHOOL/GENERAL TRAINING 12: MEMORIZATION AND RECALL TECHNIQUE. That ingrained wariness was implicit in his posture, and even though he considered himself entirely relaxed, there was in his lean body the ready grace of a predator, quiescent, but ever potential. That watchful readiness was also evident in his dark features—features that revealed his negroid heritage in the flared nostrils, dark hair, and heavy-lidded eyes, opaguely black, reflective, giving a misleading impression of somnolence.
He looked at his watch: 17:10. Val was late. He shifted his weight, frowning slightly as he watched the people passing him in the corridor, most sending him curious but open glances. The walls redoubled their images in vague reflections. He understood the purpose of the textured, mirror-finished walls so ubiquitous in Fina, but they only plucked at his nerves. He didn’t like constantly catching shadows at the edges of his vision only to find they were his own reflections.
Then he straightened, a smile pulling at his lips. Val was hurrying down the hall toward him. He watched her, enjoying the sweep of her long strides. A green-eyed Fesh sweet, straight as a rule; top-grade goods, and an eye-holder. And perhaps a heart-holder. He thought with a sigh that it was just as well he’d be out of Fina soon.
“Jael, I’m sorry I’m late,” she said a little breathlessly when she reached him. “Come on, we’d better get to the gym. Jobe said he’d wait for us.” Then, as they started down the corridor together, “Oh—you’ll get to meet Alex, too.”
Another group of Second Gens was leaving the gymnasium as they entered. A mixed group, Jael noted, both boys and girls, and he knew they’d just finished a hand-to-hand combat class. The gym was obviously a converted cave chamber, a big room with the rock walls sprayed with white plasment. The last of the Second Gens were nobbing with a middle-aged man going a little thin and gray in the hair. But he moved well; he kept himself on top. That would be Jobe Howe, head of Physical Training, and once SportsMaster in the House of Drakonis.
Val confirmed the guess with her introduction, although she left off any name dressing that went with Howe’s pre-Phoenix life. For Jael, the only name dressing was “our newest member.”
Howe offered a smile and a hand. “Jael, glad to meet you. As soon as your partner gets here, I’ll put you through a few paces. No use starting you with beginner’s exercises if you’re ready for advanced level.”
Jael was a little put off by the term “partner,” but decided Howe must mean Alex Ransom, the other newest member.
“Alex should be here in a few minutes,” Val assured Howe, “but I’ve got to get back to HS 1. Jael . . .” Her eyes met his, then moved away, but her smile stayed with him. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Val. You’ll be hearing from me.”
She walked to the door, which wasn’t at all unpleasant viewing. There she met a man coming in and stopped to talk with him briefly before she departed.
“Here he is,” Jobe said. “He’s way past beginner’s level, by the way. I’ve worked him in with a special SI review class.”
Jael studied his “partner” curiously, and at first that’s all it was: mild curiosity. Fesh, he read, from a distance; maybe that was just the regulation slacsuit and his manner with Val—reserved, polite, friendly with no ulterior motives. Jael didn’t change his mind until after Howe made the introductions, although something about Ransom’s face was hackling him even then.
Howe, oblivious to Ransom’s slight frown, called him ex-Captain Alex Ransom, and that was one on with the haircut, a little short for most Fesh.
Jael asked, “You were a ’Fleeter?”
Ransom raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” He was going to add a question, but Howe cut that off.
“All right, you two go get stripped down, and I’ll run you through a practice match to see what you can do. You’ll find sports trunks in the dressing room. Alex, you know where they are.”
Jael followed Ransom, and before they reached the dressing room door, Jael had suddenly tallied it; he knew who Alex Ransom was. At first he doubted the tally; his mind was playing games on him. But while they undressed and put on the close-fitting trunks, Jael watched him—without once getting caught out at it—and finally he had to believe. Yet neither Val nor Howe had given any sign that they had it tallied.
Jael knew he was getting an eye-over, too, but Ransom wasn’t getting caught out, either. He asked casually, “How did you know I was an ex-’Fleeter, Jael? Does it show?”
“Yes.” He folded his slacsuit on a bench, smiling at Ransom’s questioning look. “I knew you weren’t a Pole or Shad, so that leaves Confieet. House guard ranks don’t carry any heft; Jobe wouldn’t tie the rank with you if it was just House power.”
Ransom laughed. “Logical. What’s a ‘Pole’? Conpol?”
“Yes. Sometimes they’re called ‘Polers.’ ‘Shad’ is tongue for SSB. I’m an Outsider, Alex; you’ve caught that.”
“I’ve caught it, and your reputation preceded you.”
Jael crossed his arms, eyeing Ransom obliquely. “Did it? Well, I don’t mind if people here know about me. It’s easier, really; I don’t have to watch my mouth so much. Anyway, I lined in on you early on.” There was nothing in Ransom’s steady gaze to hint at whether he was wondering how far Jael had lined in on him. “I mean, I was sure you weren’t a Pole or Shad. I can smell them out ten meters underground. That’s part of survival training in the Outside.”
“Now you have me worried about the rest of Outside survival training.” Alex was smiling with that, and as he started for the door he added, “I have a feeling Jobe doesn’t know what he’s getting me into.”
The gym was empty now except for Howe, who was waiting for them at the far end by the mats, each five meters square, designed to break the hardest fall, even if they were only ten centimeters thick.
“This’ll be a practice match,” Jobe said. “That means you stop short of actual injury. Otherwise, there aren’t any rules. We aren’t in this for the sport of it. When you have to use anything you learn here, there won’t be any referees counting points. This match’ll be two falls out of three, and a fall means a throat hold. I don’t care how you get it. Oh—there is one rule: When I call stop, you’d damn well better stop. I don’t want anybody getting hurt. Any questions? All right—have at it!”
Jael had already sized Ransom for heft and reach, and he knew he was up against top training. Better than Jobe ever dreamed, probably. And Jael was still wondering if Jobe didn’t realize—
Ransom didn’t waste time circling. He moved in fast, backing his body hold with a hooking motion of his foot that nearly sent Jael flat when he twisted free of the body hold. But the foot hook put Ransom off balance, and Jael doubled over, rolling to the mat, slamming into his legs. And it should have worked; Ransom should have gone to the mat on his back, open for Jael’s next move. Instead, Jael found himself on his back, and Ransom on top of him. But he didn’t get a throat hold. Not then. Jael pulled his chin down, his elbows up in front of him, and wrenched his body around under Ransom’s, then, before Ransom could try for a hold on the back of his neck, Jael arched his back upward, pushing from his toes, and that threw Ransom just enough to give Jael a chance to twist out from under and get to his feet.
But that was an error, and it came from reading his opponent wrong. Most Insiders would automatically try to get upright, too, and on equal footing, but Ransom didn’t bother. He got a lever point behind Jael’s knee, and agai
n they were both down on the mat, and again Ransom was on top, but this time his hands were locked on Jael’s throat, thumbs pressed lightly against his larynx.
“Stop!” Howe was hovering close, concerned perhaps that either of them might get too enthusiastic, but he was worrying over air. Ransom backed off and got to his feet, a laughing light in his eyes that Jael liked. He wasn’t laughing at Jael, or with triumph; it was simply pleasure in meeting a challenge, and as he pulled himself to his feet, Jael was thinking that the old Ser would enjoy this. Jael the Outsider wrestling, all holds on, with—
But this was one of many ironies Jael had encountered in Fina that his father would be deprived of enjoying.
“First fall to Alex,” Howe said. “So, show me what else you can do. Ready? Go to it!”
The second fall was longer in coming; they had each other sized better now. Jael lost count of the number of times they went down, and he was feeling the strain, breathing with his mouth open, sweat threatening his vision. But he was getting a feel for Ransom’s moves, noting the pace and style of them, noting occasionally the flat-handed slices that could have broken bones if this weren’t a practice match. Jael didn’t get him in a floor clinch. They were both on their knees in a straining embrace when Jael finally slipped in with a back-of-the-neck hold, and Howe shouted, “Stop!”
They disengaged while Howe acknowledged the second fall to Jael, both using the time to catch their breath.
“Even on,” Howe noted. “Ready? Go to it!”
It was an education, Jael was thinking, and they both had learned each other’s weaknesses and strengths by now. The third fall was even longer coming than the second. They had reached an apparent impasse—circling warily, lunging for a hold, going down to grapple on the mat, pulling free to start circling again. Jael’s muscles ached unremittingly, and there seemed no end in sight; they were too evenly matched, both physically and mentally. But Jael recognized one advantage that neither his opponent nor their erstwhile referee did: Alex Ransom was a gentleman born; he played by the rules, even when the game had no rules.