Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy)

by Wren, M. K.

  “I understand all signals are relayed from this station to the sec-comcenter upstairs, Sargent. Does that include pickup from individual cell monitors?”

  Kile glanced up, his hand poised on the intercom switch. Duty urged him to notify Macintire of a change in the shock screen status, but an acute awareness of military etiquette and Alex’s supposed rank distracted him.

  “Uh . . . yes, sir. It includes both audio and visual on every cell.”

  Ben was inside the cell; he’d be ready for trans within seconds. Alex wasn’t concerned with the monitors now. The shock screens—he had to reach the main control switch.

  “Does the sec-comcenter monitor the cells all the time or on a random basis?”

  “On a random basis, sir, but with the two stations here on full-time monitoring, there’s no risk of anyone getting past us.” He looked toward the corridor station uneasily. “Excuse me, sir, but I’ll have to notify Sargent Macintire about the cell screen.”

  “Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

  Alex swallowed at the dryness of his throat and moved a few steps around the railing, careful to keep his posture relaxed. The shock screen switch was close, and there was little time left, but if he could reach that switch without alerting Kile, it would mean a few extra seconds of reaction time, a few extra seconds for the trans to be made before the alarms sounded.

  “Sargent Macintire,” Kile said crisply into the intercom mike, “cell eleven shock screen off for inspection by Leftant Bently, SSB CC.”

  Alex rested his elbows on the railing, his right hand only half a meter from that vital switch.

  There was no response from Macintire, who sat in blank-eyed oblivion.

  Kile frowned irritably. “Sargent Macintire, do you hear me?”

  Inside the cell, Ben had Andreas, listless and unresisting, on his feet, supporting him with both arms in a close embrace that would bring him into the MT transmission field. Time was running out; someone in the sec-comcenter or Paten and Torenz would realize something was wrong, that one of the “inspectors” was behaving in a highly unusual manner.

  “Sargent Macintire!” Kile’s voice had a tight edge, but his attention was still focused on the corridor station.

  Alex’s hand moved; a casual movement, neither too fast nor too slow, that didn’t attract Kile’s eye. He reached the switch.

  He looked away from Kile only long enough to nod to Ben.

  “Mac! For the God’s sake, what’s wrong?”

  Ben’s hand was near his face, the brief order spoken too quietly for Alex to hear. Even the rush of air into the vacuum of their disappearance was barely audible.

  But Kile was suddenly on his feet. “Hey! What the hell—”

  Kile’s left hand shot out to the console, and with the shattering scream of alarms, he launched himself across the railing.

  Alex tried to sidestep, but Kile was on top of him, bearing him down to a jarring collision with the floor. The alarms drowned out the sounds of the brief struggle, drowned out every conscious awareness except that of passing seconds, and finally Alex rolled free. Under the shriek of alarms he heard the pounding of footsteps from the hall. He stumbled to his feet, lost his balance and fell to his knees. Kile, still on the floor, had his gun out of its holster.

  Alex reached for his own gun—at his left side.

  And it wasn’t there.

  The mental adjustment took only a fraction of a second; he aimed for Kile’s gun, his arm extended in a tense line. A fraction of a second too late.

  The gun was hurled from his hand, the beam seared through flesh and muscle from his knuckles to his shoulder. He staggered blindly to his feet, the floor lurching under him.

  “Trans . . .” His voice seemed only a hoarse whisper. Guards were pouring into the DC. He had to stay on his feet, had to—

  “Trans—NOW!”

  7.

  The scream of alarms ceased abruptly; he crumpled against a solid wall.

  “Commander! Are you—oh, Holy God. . . .”

  The Cave of Springs.

  He was slipping into darkness, rocked by pulsing waves of pain. His eyes went out of focus when he looked down at his right arm; his stomach cramped with nausea.

  The sleeve hung torn and ragged, cut away by the beam that coursed up his arm. And that arm seemed a piece of horror that was foreign to him; an appendage that might be worn as a macabre, obscene joke. Flesh laid open, seared black, flecked with meaty read, and, at his wrist, the charred bones exposed under the burned tendons.

  “Commander, let me help you!”

  Dr. Lind. Other faces floated in a gray haze behind him.

  “No.”

  Alex pulled his cloak around him, hiding the arm, that piece of his body that didn’t belong to him any more.

  But the pain was all his.

  He moved haltingly out of the MT chamber into the comcenter. He had an illusion of moving under the sea, pushing against the resistance of the water, every sound garbled, every image wavering and pale. And the pain moved with the currents, coming in long waves.

  Andreas. He would not surrender until he saw Andreas. Until he was sure. Eight months; he must be sure. . . .

  “Brother, hold on to me.”

  Alex heard the voice and turned to his left, trying to bring his eyes into focus. Jael, asking no questions, slipping his arm around his body, taking his weight, and letting Alex draw strength from him. The waves of pain ebbed enough for him to make sense of what was happening around him.

  A homecoming. All the exiles were gathered, laughing, talking, shouting, even weeping, and Andreas Riis was at the heart of it, taking each hand in turn, laughing with them. Erica was at his side, vainly trying to contain the overwhelming press of enthusiasm, caught up in it herself, her cheeks streaked with tears. Ben was in it, too, but his eyes were moving, reflecting only a little of their joy. He shouted to someone, but the words were lost in the jubilation.

  Alex knew Ben was looking for him, but he didn’t have the strength to call to him. All his remaining energies were concentrated on Andreas, on his facial expressions, on the fragments of his words.

  “. . . Dr. Lyden! Did you work out the error on the alpha sequence?”

  Lyden’s answer was lost. Alex strained for Andreas’s voice.

  “. . . always had faith, Erica, even if I couldn’t remember what I was having faith in. Ben! So it was you. How long has it been . . . ?”

  Jael’s voice was close to Alex’s ear, yet the words seemed infinitely distant.

  “Brother, you pulled the gim, close and clean. Rest easy now.”

  “No, not . . . yet. Andreas. . . . I must . . . talk to him.”

  A fear was growing within him; fear for that wound; fear that it might be mortal. Somewhere in the subaqueous world outside himself, there was a cessation in the hectic voices and movements, and Andreas was looming toward him through the milling school of faces.

  “Alex, there you are. I wondered . . .”

  Jael’s hand went out, intercepting Andreas before he could embrace Alex. But Alex saw nothing except Andreas’s face, searching every line of it, searching his eyes for the light that had always been hidden in their depths, finding it still there.

  “Alex?” His smile faded into anxious query. “Alex, you’ve been hurt.”

  “Yes. Andreas, are you . . . are you all right?”

  “They were very careful to keep me in good health. As for my mental state—well, I have a great deal to catch up with, and I don’t even know where I am. But I’m quite clear, Alex. I’m all right.”

  “Thank the God . . .” The pain came in a new surge that cut his breath off momentarily.

  “Brother, it’s done.” Jael’s voice, quiet but insistent. “Come on, we’ll get you to the old Ser’s infirmary.�
��

  Erica seemed to materialize out of the tidal mists, her gray eyes full of fear now, still wet with tears of joy quenched. Alex was aware of an anxious quiet, the sounds of jubilation silenced, the homecoming spoiled. But it didn’t matter. Not even the pain mattered. Andreas was free—

  “Commander!” A voice dim in his ears. “ ‘Zion, its—Commander!”

  The monitors. Only a few meters away. The voice wafted on the currents, carrying an uncomprehended alarm. Something that had nothing to do with Andreas, or himself, or that arm. It was still covered; no one could see it.

  Ron Letz at the PubliCom screen. That was the voice Alex heard. His time sense was dysfunctioning; even sound seemed slowed by the miasma in which he was immersed.

  He managed to form the words. “What is it, Letz?”

  “A special news brief. It’s the Lady—”

  “You damned fool!” Ben lunging through the crowd, pushing Letz aside; Ben reaching for the controls, turning off the screen.

  But not soon enough. In the split-second before it went dark, Alex saw a face on it; recognized it.

  Adrien.

  For a moment he blacked out, but didn’t fall. Adrien. A news brief. Why?

  “Turn on that screen.”

  Ben gazing at him in stricken appeal. “Alex, please . . .”

  “Turn it on!” He started toward the console, but Jael held him back.

  “It can wait, brother. For the God’s sake—Alex!”

  He pushed Jael away, teeth clenched against a cry of pain, swayed the few measureless steps to the console. Beyond the quiet in the cavern he heard a sound. A dull thunder; a beating of wings; black wings. His left hand went out, caught the edge of the console counter, and that was all that kept him from falling.

  The switch. His right arm wouldn’t move. He would fall without his left hand braced on the counter, and his right arm wouldn’t move. He would pay any price in agony, but it refused to function.

  “Turn it on!” He stared at the black space. “Jael!”

  Jael was still at his side. His hesitation was brief, even if it seemed endless. Finally, his hand went to the controls. He said nothing.

  The image was a blur of color. Alex fought to bring it into focus, finding the effort of simultaneously assimilating the words nearly beyond him.

  Concordia. The DeKoven Woolf Estate. He was seeing himself on the screen; himself in that other world, that other time. Adrien was at his side in a gown of gossamer gold, a blue diamond at her throat. The betrothal ball. . . .

  It was incomprehensible, as were the next images. The cathedron in Helen. Adrien on Karlis Selasis’s arm, walking down the steps to the ’car . . . falling; fainting.

  “. . . her marriage to Lord Karlis Selasis. The Lady Adrien’s tragic death is reported to be a suicide. . . .”

  Suicide.

  He stared at the screen; a newscaster wearing an expression of earnest concern. The dull thunder was louder now. Black wings beating against steel bars.

  “. . . according to sources within the House of Badir Selasis, the Lady Adrien’s last words were, ‘Alexand, wait for me. . . ..’ Referring, it is assumed, to the late Lord—”

  “No!”

  Alex reached for the controls with his left hand and almost fell. Jael caught him, snapped an order to someone. The screen went dark.

  Suicide. Wait for me. . . .

  That was malicious, sordidly malicious, the product of a malign mind.

  He turned, searching the vague blurs for one face, finding it close to him.

  “Erica, what . . . what happened?”

  Unjust, bitterly unjust that he should demand that answer of her. She deserved no part of his grief; she’d already shared too much of it. Perhaps that was why he turned to her now.

  “Alex, we’re not sure yet. You must understand—”

  “When? When . . . did you . . . ?”

  “Only a few hours ago. You’d already lifted off for Pendino. We still don’t have the full story, and we can’t be sure—”

  “Val—what did . . .” The pain was pulling at him as if he were in a centrifuge; he could barely hear for the pounding thunder. “What did Val say?”

  “One of the novices at Saint Petra’s was . . . killed. But the Conpol investigators took the Supra’s word on the identification without question. Alex, we don’t have positive identification of the victim yet.”

  Suicide . . . the Lady Adrien’s tragic death . . . sources within the House. . .

  “But Selasis does, Erica. Selasis does! The Moon Princess . . . Elda Ternin—is she alive?”

  Erica’s eyes clouded, and it seemed a long time before she answered.

  “Our agents couldn’t save her. It happened too fast.”

  “She’s . . . dead, then.”

  Erica’s voice, aching and tight. “Yes, Elda’s dead.”

  “Adrien is dead.” He was surprised he could speak the words, surprised it could be expressed so simply.

  “Alex, Selasis might have made a mistake—”

  He stared at Erica. Did she think Selasis would order Elda killed if he weren’t sure beyond the least doubt?

  It was coming. He heard the rasping clamor under the thunder. He pushed away from Jael, away from Erica, and for a span of seconds or hours or days, time had no relevancy, stood swaying in the wind of those unseen wings, looking up into megatons of revolving blackness.

  The Lord is my shepherd . . .

  Adrien is dead.

  And why was it that the image that shaped itself against the blackness wasn’t Adrien’s face, but Rich’s?

  He leadeth me beside the still waters . . .

  Adrien is dead.

  And why was it that the sound of bright laughter he heard wasn’t Adrien’s, but his mother’s? Elise Galinin Woolf with her bronze hair trapping the sunlight.

  He restoreth my soul . . .

  Adrien is dead.

  A death is one bead on a prayer chain; to read each bead is to read every death you have ever known, every death you will ever know.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

  Adrien is dead.

  The last bead is your own death.

  Adrien is dead.

  The pain came in sudden, brutal surges, and it could no longer be called pain. It was agony, and he knew it, knew the look of it; he’d seen enough of it. The shuddering of flesh, the wracking muscular spasms, the gaping mouth, every breath a choked cry. The black angel beat at its cage, smashing its pinions against the steel bars. The locks were shivering to powder. They would not hold.

  . . . my cup runneth over . . .

  A sanna for my passing, my friends. Gentle hands easing him down, whispering voices floating him into darkness. The wind blew chill through the caverns of his skull. He found Rich; found him lying forever locked in a frozen piece of time, like a sea bird, broken and still.

  Where was Adrien?

  Did she lie somewhere, a Selaneen doll smashed on some obdurate pavement? All he could see was her hand, that ivory hand that seemed born of the imagination of an artisan of a vanished dynasty.

  The locks did not hold.

  You’re free! Damn you—you’re free!

  He cried out, screamed in terror, but every sound was silenced in vacuum.

  Glossary—General Terms

  ACOLYTE: (Bond Religion) A student and assistant to a Bond Shepherd; acolytes are chosen by the Shepherds and generally succeed them on their deaths.

  AGE OF RIGHTS: Age of legal maturity for Elite; it is celebrated on the twentieth birthday.

  AIRCARS: Short-range, airborne vehicles powered by nulgrav and generally operated on Trafficon grids. Most personally owned ‘cars belong to the Elite or t
he Concord or Church, although they may be flown by Fesh in their work. Only fifteen percent of the Fesh own ‘cars, the remainder depending for personal transportation on Robek Transystems air taxis, subtrains, or intercity shuttles.

  Types of aircars:

  AIRDRAY: A large vehicle designed for transporting freight. ‘Drays range in capacity from ten to 100 dekatons.

  AIRSCOOTER: A small open ‘car with a maximum seating capacity of four, generally operated within factories, mines, etc.

  AIRSHUTTLE: A vehicle used for transporting large numbers of people. ‘Shuttles range in capacity from fifty to 200 passengers.

  AIRTAXI: Two- to six-passenger rental ‘cars equipped with voice-responsive autonav systems. ‘Taxis are activated automatically when money is placed in a designated slot. Cost of ‘taxi rental is based on the distance traversed.

  ALLEGIANCE: A permanent indentureship to the House (or to the Concord or Church) into which Bonds or Fesh are born; that is, the House to which their parents, particularly fathers, are “allieged.” The latter term is generally used in reference to Fesh; Bonds are termed “Bonded” to a House. “Allegiance shifts” from one House to another, or to the Concord or Church, are enacted only on approval of the First Lord of the House.

  ALLEGIANCE BADGE: A small cloth insignia bearing the crest of the House (or of the Concord or Church) to which a Fesh or Bond is allieged; generally worn on the left shoulder of an outer garment, such as a cloak or cape.

  ALL-GOD: The supreme deity of the Mezionic pantheon.

  ANTISEP SHEET: (Medical) A thin plasex sheet chemically treated to act as an antiseptic barrier for the protection of open wounds prior to treatment.

  AQ: Aptitude Quotient. A statistical profile, based on standardized test scores, of an individual’s vocational aptitudes.

  ARCHIVES: An agency of the Concord authorized to file and preserve historic documents and to serve as a data storage and dispersal center for public records and documents. It has close ties with the University System and its Library, but is a discrete agency.

  ATMOBUBBLE: An energy field in which the charged interface forms a “bubble” that contains interior atmosphere while excluding exterior atmosphere (or vacuum); it may also be used to selectively exclude particular radiation wavelengths.