by Wren, M. K.
He pushed himself up into the corner of the bed-ledge, body curled into a foetal position against the walls. It was only then that he recognized the sound of footsteps. The cadenced beat was so far away it was almost inaudible, but that was what had awakened him, not the nightmares.
The terror gripped him, and with it came another spasm of coughing. Even when that subsided, it was still some time before he could stop gasping for air so he could hear.
Booted feet. No sound of naked feet.
A new chill enveloped him; he clenched his teeth to stop their chattering, and stared out the doorway through the shimmer of the shock screen at the blank segment of corridor. The booted feet were almost at the door. But something was different. He held his breath, concentrating on that ominous cadence.
There were more than two pairs of footsteps.
He was afraid to close his eyes. He pressed back against the converging walls, listening with every cell, hope giving the terror a cutting edge. Hope that they weren’t coming for him, that they would move like shadows past his door.
Three pairs of footsteps. But there were always two when they came for him. Only two. Perhaps they weren’t coming for him. Perhaps . . .
The black shadow-figures filled the doorway, and his vision dimmed under the pressure of his pulse.
The sound of footsteps had ceased. In the silence, he let his breath out in a searing sigh. Perhaps he wouldn’t survive another interrogation.
He didn’t move. He waited, hearing the click as the shock screens went off, watching two of them respectfully step aside while the other entered the cell. Then a second followed the first, while the third waited outside the door.
“This the one, Sargent?” The first shadow-man loomed over him, turning his faceless head to the second.
“Yeh: 17–073. That’s him, Major.”
“He’s in bad shape,” the major commented, as if it were a matter of inconvenience to him.
The sargent shrugged. “Well, we thought he was . . . uh, terminal, sir. That’s the word we had.”
“Central Control says otherwise. Can he walk?”
“I can walk.”
He wondered even as he spoke why he said that. He wasn’t entirely sure he could walk, and what drove him to make that assertion of his existence, his humanity? It would make no difference in the end.
The major hesitated, then gave a curt laugh. “He talks, too. Did he break?”
“Him? No. He’s Phoenix.”
“Maybe they’ll have better luck where he’s going.” His tone turned clipped and flat. “All right, you. If you can walk, you’ve got some walking to do. On your feet.”
It must be pride, he thought, as he swung his legs over the side of the ledge and levered himself to his feet. What else would make him defy the contempt beyond contempt in that cold, indifferent voice? What else would make him set his mind to the game again, the game of holding back the screams through another interrogation?
But the major had said. Where he’s going. . . .
He flinched as the major’s hand closed on his arm, expecting the jolt of a charged glove, but there was nothing except the hard grip of his hand.
The sargent asked, “You want cuffs, Major?”
He laughed. “I think I can handle this one without cuffs.”
They started down the corridor, the beat of boots echoing around him. The ritual had been changed, and he didn’t know what to expect or dread. He was only sure there was something to dread.
The major was his only attendant as the door opened onto the landing roof. It was night beyond the white glare of helions lighting the roof. The sound—a pervading, undefined, rumbling hum—was an assault on his ears so accustomed to sterile silence. He felt the beginnings of a coughing spasm and swallowed hard, his throat aching, his breath coming in burning gasps. The price of pride.
Then major stopped as another shadow-man approached. “Where’s my ’car, Leftant? Damn it, I ’commed from the secstation.”
“Just a moment, sir. I’ll check.”
“Hurry it up. I’ve got a ship to catch.”
The leftant disappeared somewhere. The air seemed damp and chill. The shivering set in again, and he felt himself swaying, but the major’s firm grip on his arm kept him upright. And that irrational pride. He looked out beyond the roof. A city; lights stretching in all directions, motes of ’cars darting above against the dim stars of an unfamiliar night sky.
How did he knew it was unfamiliar? What sky would be familiar?
“Hold on.” The major’s voice, his hand guiding him forward, toward the open center of the roof. “Just hold on a little longer.”
He turned to stare into the major’s screened face. There was no hard edge in his tone; it was oddly solicitous. It didn’t make sense. . . .
The sound of the approaching ’car startled him. He couldn’t locate it at first. Above him. He looked up and saw it hurtling toward the roof on a crash trajectory.
“Hey! Damn it, what—” The major’s chagrined exclamation was drowned in the rushing whine of the ’car, the explosion of jet brakes.
He was falling, the hard, white surface coming up at him; he couldn’t breathe. Footsteps tumbled around him, he heard a cry of pain. It wasn’t his. Shouts and meaningless thuds. The shriek of sirens. His vision was too blurred to tell him what the shifting patterns of light and dark meant.
Hands clutched at him, pulling him into the ’car. The door snapped shut; he fell into the cushions as the ’car lurched into the air. Then the coughing began again and ended this time in that welcome oblivion.
4.
Predis Ussher frowned from behind his desk as the doorscreens clicked off. Ferra Regon knew better than to let anyone past that door without notifying him. Then he sighed with disgust. Rob Hendrick.
“For the God’s sake, Rob, you might at least—”
“Predis, he’s here!” The doorscreens clicked on behind him, and he glanced back as if it startled him, then crossed to the desk, his dark features pasty. “Ransom is here in Fina!”
“He’s what?” Ussher came to his feet, his face as pale as Hendrick’s. “That’s impossible.”
“I just heard from Bridger down in the pharmacy—”
“Wait! Just be quiet!” He reached for the comconsole, his hands shaking as he switched on the jambler circuit. “Damn it, Rob, will you ever learn to watch your mouth? Now, what about Ransom?”
Hendrick licked his lips nervously. “He’s in the infirmary. Venturi pulled him out of the Cliff somehow. Holy God, he must’ve been here for hours, but we don’t have anybody in the infirmary on the night shift or on the MT.”
“You’re sure it’s Ransom?”
“Of course I’m sure! Bridger talked to one of the medtechs. I guess he’s in bad shape, but he’s here—and alive.”
“Damn!” Ussher sank into his chair, his hands curled into fists. “Twenty-six days, Rob! He was on Level 6 for twenty-six days. We’ve never had anyone survive interrogation that long. Where’s Venturi now?”
“He was in SI a few minutes ago. I checked with Mills.”
“And Radek?”
“She’s in the infirmary with Ransom.”
“Playing nursemaid, I suppose. Who do we have on the day shift in the infirmary?”
“One medtech, but she got a special assignment in the prisoner ward this morning; direct order from Dr. Calder.”
“Then they know she’s with us. That order came from Radek.” He consciously relaxed his hands, frowning speculatively. “You say Ransom’s in bad shape? How bad?”
“Viral infection, malnutrition; the usual. But he’s in no danger of dying. Not now, anyway.”
“Mm. Still, after twenty-six days on Level 6, a relapse wouldn’t be unreasonable.”
�
�But we can’t get anyone into the infirmary until—”
“Relax, Rob. Let me worry about that. I suppose the news of his return is common knowledge by now.”
“Hell, it went out with the shift change.”
Ussher nodded absently. “We aren’t done yet. We’ve had nearly a month, and Riis is still—” He paused. “Unless Venturi’s turned up something on him, too.”
Hendrick shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, then, that still gives me a majority on the Council, and perhaps Ransom won’t be . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, his lips drawn in a faint smile.
Hendrick waited a few seconds, then asked, “What about Barret? Ransom had him programmed like a robot.”
Ussher laughed. “Don’t worry about Jan. Or Ransom.” He was still smiling as he reached for the intercom. “Ferra Regon?”
A brief pause, then Caren Regon’s plain, squarish face appeared on the screen. “Yes, sirra?”
“Contact the councilors. Tell them I’m calling a meeting at—” He checked his watch; it was 12:10, “—at 13:00.”
She hesitated. “Very well, but Commander Barret is out on a mission, you know; his scheduled arrival time is . . . let me check. 13:30. And Fer M’Kim is in Helen arranging for some electronic components for the new MTs.”
“Oh. Yes, I’d forgotten.” His fingers began an impatient tattoo on the desk. “The meeting will be at 14:00, then. Dr. Hendrick will contact M’Kim and Barret via SynchCom. The other councilors are all here in Fina, I believe. And make it clear that this is an important meeting.”
“Yes, sirra. Oh—have you heard the good news? Commander Ransom is—”
“I know. Take care of this immediately, Ferra Regon, so the councilors can make their plans for the meeting.”
She blinked at his sharp tone, then nodded. “Yes, Fer Ussher, I will.”
He cut off the intercom and leaned back, the muscles of his jaw working.
“Good news! You’d think the Phoenix couldn’t function without Ransom to punch the keys. Fools—all of them! Rob, you’d better get over to the SynchCom transmi——no, wait.” He frowned, then, “No. First, I want you to talk to Val Severin. Radek’s probably still in the infirmary, so Val won’t have any trouble slipping out. When you get it set up, come back here. I’ll have instructions for you.”
Hendrick sighed and started for the door. “All right.”
“And don’t waste any time.”
He cast a brief, resentful glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Predis.”
“I’m not worried, Rob.” Ussher smiled. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
5.
“For all intents and purposes, Predis is in control of the Phoenix.”
Erica spoke calmly, sitting on the bed beside him, her hands folded in her lap, but the grief was there behind her cloud-gray eyes; grief for hope, for the Phoenix. Alex reached out and touched her hand, noting the deepened lines striating her forehead. Scars of anxiety. She had aged more in the last month than in all the years he’d known her.
Ben Venturi was standing on the other side of the bed, his narrowed eyes fixed on a passing medtech. The cubicle was walled with S/V screens set on one-way opaque, but every time someone passed he watched them suspiciously. On his forehead was another kind of scar—or, rather, a wound. It was covered with a bandage and had been received by Major Venturi in the line of duty while attempting to prevent the escape of a prisoner from the SSB DC in Leda. Commander Benin was putting his name in for a special service citation.
Alex closed his eyes, knowing neither Ben nor Erica would make any demands of him, nor be surprised at his silence. He had a great deal to assimilate in the short span of time since he’d awakened and Erica had spoken the personal code word that brought him out of the TAB, another and more profound awakening.
He had been a prisoner for twenty-six days, and Andreas was still in SSB hands, and Predis Ussher had stepped into the vacuum he had himself created, firing the members with dreams of glory that transformed shock and despair into hope. It wasn’t surprising that they accepted him so readily. They didn’t know how the vacuum came about; they were only grateful that someone was there to fill it, to give them purpose and direction, and they were especially grateful when the rumors began circulating that Ussher was the son of Elor Peladeen.
It was all inevitable and predictable; basic politics.
Alex frowned and took a slow, testing breath. The searing edge was gone, but he hadn’t yet attempted to stand, and he was acutely aware of the weakness in every muscle. A Polluxian variant of a Terran virus, Erica said. Nothing serious, if properly treated; a few antivirals would have stopped it. But without treatment . . .
He consciously shut off the memories. They were all too clear, even the memory of not remembering.
Ussher hadn’t quite succeeded in killing him, but that was scant consolation. He’d had nearly a month to establish himself as a leader in the eyes of the members, and Andreas Riis, the only person who could conceivably challenge his leadership without precipitating a disastrous schism, was in SSB hands somewhere. Castor, probably. Ben couldn’t be sure.
And Alex lay in Fina’s infirmary, every breath a relief because of the absence of pain. Full recovery was only a matter of a few days’ rest. Yet he wondered if he’d be allowed that.
He looked at the clock on the bedside table: 12:40.
“Ben, when’s that Council meeting?”
“14:00. It’d be sooner, but Jan’s out on a mission and M’Kim’s in Helen. Predis wants a solid majority on hand.”
“No, just a full audience.” Alex touched the controls and tipped the bed up further, absently noting the bandages on his wrists; burns from the shock cuffs. “I’m afraid Predis will consider his bargain with you no longer binding. Alive, I’m more of a threat to him than those microspeakers. He’ll call your bluff on that now and hope he can discredit me thoroughly enough to negate them if you do activate them. And that’s a last-ditch measure; we can’t use it now. You know that, and Predis knows it. What he doesn’t know is that I intend to be at that Council meeting to defend myself. I think I can at least cast some doubt on his ‘evidence’ and convince him that it’s in his best interest to confine our differences of opinion to the Council room—‘for now.’ And for us, that means until we get Andreas back to Fina.”
Ben considered that and Finally gave a caustic laugh.
“Well, if you can make it to the meeting, you won’t have to say a damn word. Anybody who takes one look at you will know you haven’t been on vacation. Who’s going to believe this was the SSB’s reward to you for giving them Andreas?” Then he sobered, his eyes going to slits. “But Predis has another option you haven’t mentioned for dealing with you.”
Alex nodded. “Yes. He can kill me.” He pressed his hands to his eyes. His skin still had the hot, dry feel of fever. “He might be desperate enough to try it, too, although it would be a hell of a risk for him.” Then he let his head fall back against the pillows, and the constriction in his chest was more than illness. “Ben, the important thing now is to find Andreas. We must find him. Everything hinges on that. You’ve had no luck through Central Control?”
Ben shook his head. “Every lead we’ve had ran into a blank wall. But as long as he’s alive, he’ll leave tracks of some kind. We just haven’t found them yet.”
“Was there a public announcement about his arrest?”
“Of course. You didn’t expect them to sit on that? But there’s been nothing on him since then, and that’s the surest sign we have that he’s still alive. They won’t execute him without plenty of fanfare.”
“No. Erica, can they break his conditioning?”
She shrugged uneasily. “It might be done through stimulus response patterns, but it would be a long, exacting process
. They’ve never had the patience for it. But they can’t use their usual methods on Andreas without running the risk of killing him, so they might be forced into patience.”
“Still, it gives us some time. What’s Predis doing about the LR-MT?”
Ben responded bitterly, “What can he do? I don’t think he had that one figured; he probably thought all the equations were in the memfiles. Lyden and Bruce are still working on it, but even they admit there’s not much hope without Andreas.”
“I assume Rob Hendrick took Andreas’s Council seat.”
Ben slumped down on the end of the bed. “Of course. We warned Andreas about Rob, damn it.”
Alex didn’t comment on that. “Erica, have you any idea how Predis managed to bring Val Severin into his camp?”
“Yes.” Her eyes had a stony sheen now. “We monitored a conversation between Predis and Rob. It’s despicable, really. Val’s so vulnerable in some areas.”
“What do you mean?”
“Predis commissioned Rob to get Val—well, romantically involved. Rob thinks himself quite a blessing to women, and she’s capable of very intense emotional responses. Rob’s taken full advantage of that. She’s totally converted; she’ll believe anything he tells her. If she knew how he really feels about her . . .” Erica sighed wearily. “As I said, we monitored a conversation. Rob was telling Predis about the . . . fringe benefits of his ‘assignment’ in very graphic terms.”
Alex was silent. Despicable, indeed. Val Severin didn’t deserve that.
“Erica, have you a recording of that conversation? Perhaps Val should have her eyes opened.”
“But she has to be ready for it, Alex, or we’ll lose her entirely.”
“Does she know you’re aware of her divided loyalties?”
“No. Ben and I thought it best not to unmask her. For one thing, we know she’s involved with the monitoring and can watch her. And I don’t consider her a lost cause.”
