"Look, I don't get this," said Tusk, rising slowly to his feet, careful to keep his hands in plain sight. Mrs. Mopup had him covered all the way. "What's going on? Why hijack us? Link and I aren't the curious type. We'd have taken you wherever you wanted to go, no questions asked."
"Probably not," said Don, fiddling with the liquor dispenser. "Hell's Outpost? The Exile Cafe?"
Tusk stared; his jaw went slack.
"Just think of us as your friendly neighborhood recruiting officers," added Cynthia, heading for the Scimitar's cockpit. "Coming, Commander Perrin?"
"Sure thing, Captain Zorn." Don paused to hand Tusk his empty glass. "I think you're out of scotch."
Chapter Fifteen
Draw near with faith, and take this holy Sacrament to your comfort; and make your humble confession to Almighty God ...
Book of Common Prayer, "The Invitation"
Sister Superior was a brisk, business-suited woman, who greeted the archbishop at the front entrance to the hospital with a firm handshake, as if she were greeting any brother of the Order, not its titular head.
In keeping with the sister's mysterious and urgent request that he make his visit anonymously, Fideles was cloaked and wore plain and simple robes. He had removed all vestments and other symbols that might indicate his high ranking in the Church and kept his hood up over his head so that he would not be recognized. Fortunately, brothers of the Order of Adamant were frequent visitors to the hospital; the staff was too busy to pay them much attention.
Sister Superior could not quite hide her surprise and displeasure at the sight of the roughly garbed, silent brother accompanying the archbishop.
"Perhaps, Father, your companion can rest in the coffee shop while we conduct our business," she suggested, pointedly.
"Thank you, Reverend Mother, but I require Brother Penitent to be witness to this meeting," said the archbishop.
Sister Superior frowned, but made no further argument in the presence of the staff and patients. She gave them a hurried and perfunctory tour of the sanitarium on the way to her office, which was located on an upper floor. It was sunny and airy, like the rest of the large and imposing building.
"Quite impressive," said the archbishop upon entering. "You appear to have an excellent facility here, Reverend Mother."
"Thank you, Holiness. Please be seated." Sister Superior indicated several comfortable chairs, arranged in an informal grouping near one of the windows. "Will you have something to drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of water? Although I would forgo the water, if I were you. It tastes of iodine."
Her voice had a nervous edge. She was obviously upset and preoccupied, as evidenced by the fact that, although she offered them coffee, she had evidently neglected to make any. The machine was turned off, the pot cold and empty.
Noting the archbishop's gaze and slight smile, Sister Superior shook her head. "I'm sorry. I drink tea myself. I meant to brew a pot this morning.... It will only take a moment—"
"Thank you, I don't care for anything right now, Reverend Mother," Fideles said.
Sister Superior looked to Brother Penitent, who merely shook his head.
"Then, if you will excuse me a moment ..." She walked to the office door. "Sister Irene, you may take your luncheon break now. Shut the outer door, will you? We're not to be disturbed."
Closing her own door, she took the trouble to lock it securely, then returned to sit in a chair opposite that of the archbishop. Her hands twisted together; her face was tense, strained.
Fideles cast a glance at Penitent, hoping to gauge what he thought of this extraordinary behavior. The brother's face was, however, averted from the light, further concealed by the shadow of the deep cowl. He kept his eyes lowered, his hands folded in his sleeves, and seemed oblivious to what was going on around him.
Sister Superior looked at him again, frowned again. Sitting forward on the edge of her chair, she turned to address the archbishop. "Forgive me for appearing to question your decision, Holiness, but, as I indicated in my message to you, this matter is of an extremely delicate and highly sensitive nature. I cannot emphasize this enough."
Her fist clenched as she spoke. Her face, in the light, was drawn and haggard. She blinked a little too often, probably from a lack of sleep.
Fideles grew more and more uneasy.
Sister Superior was not, according to reports, a woman who would be easily agitated. Upon receiving such an extraordinary summons from her, the archbishop had examined her record. She had been a hospital administrator before joining the Church, following His Majesty's reestablishment of the Order.
Having received her ordination into the priesthood, she had been assigned to take over the sanitarium, which was suffering from lack of funds and mismanagement.
In the two years since she'd joined the staff, she had turned things around completely. She was reputed to be tough, efficient, pragmatic. And here she sat, on the edge of her chair, obviously shaken to the very core of her being.
Fideles was forced to clear his throat before he could reply. "I appreciate your concern, Reverend Mother, but I have a special reason for wanting Brother Penitent present. I cannot explain, but I answer for his discretion."
"But you have no idea what this involves, Holiness—"
Fideles raised his hand. The gesture was a mild one, but it was enough to remind the sister that she was arguing with her superior.
"Very well," she said abruptly and ungraciously. "Before I tell you why I summoned you, Holiness, I must relate something of the background of the hospital. It may seem irrelevant, but it has a bearing on what you will shortly hear.
"The sanitarium is an old structure, dating back about seventy years. The building and grounds are fine enough now, but back then, I'm told, they were considered magnificent. The hospital was originally built to serve exclusively the needs of the Blood Royal, who—by reason of their special genetic makeup—could not very well go to ordinary medical facilities. The night of the Revolution, almost a hundred members of the Blood Royal were staying here. That night, the sanitarium was surrounded by the Revolutionary Guard. Those members of the staff who were not Blood Royal were told to go home. When they returned to work the next day, the patients and the rest of the staff were gone. They had been 'relocated.'
"After the Revolution," continued the sister, "the sanitarium was taken over by the government and run with the usual bureaucratic inefficiency, from which we're slowly trying to recover."
"You appear to be doing an excellent job," said Fideles politely.
Sister Superior responded with a curt nod, obviously too intent on her story to even appreciate the compliment.
"Last week, a patient came to us. A woman in her late sixties. She is dying. She knows she is dying. She is a doctor and has correctly and accurately diagnosed her own condition. There is no cure. She knows that, too. She has only a few weeks of life remaining and came to us in order to spend them in what peace painkillers can offer.
"A common enough story, you might think. But there are circumstances that make it odd. The woman has traveled a great distance to reach us. She had been living on a world light-years from this one. There are excellent medical facilities on her own world. In fact, the doctors there are far more familiar with the treatment of this malady—which is indigenous to their region—than we are. She came here for a reason, however. She had, you see, once worked at this hospital, prior to the Revolution."
"Is the doctor Blood Royal?" Fideles asked.
"No," answered Sister Superior, startled by the question. "Of course not. All the Blood Royal are dead, with the exception of His Majesty, God save him."
"God save him," echoed Fideles.
Sister Superior appeared to be slightly rattled by the unexpected question, which had scattered her thoughts. She was silent a moment, forced to collect them.
"We wondered, naturally, why the woman had gone to such lengths to return here, having undertaken what for her, in her condition, must have been a painful
and uncomfortable trip. She replied that she always remembered her days here fondly, and that she wanted to be buried here. But she was disturbed by something, disturbed to the point that it was rendering our treatment of her ineffectual. She refused to talk to the staff psychiatrist, but when she found out I was a priest, she asked to make her confession to me. I agreed. I heard her confession and"—Sister Superior sighed, her hands twisted together again—"it was after I heard it that I sent for you."
"But, Reverend Mother," said Fideles somewhat sternly, "if this secret was imparted to you during confession, you may not repeat it, even to myself."
"I am aware of that, Holiness," Sister Superior said quietly. "And that is why I have prevailed upon the doctor to tell you her story herself. Her illness and suffering have left her confused; she is not certain whether what she knows is important or not. I have convinced her that, in my opinion, it is of the utmost importance. She has, therefore, agreed to talk to you. I will take you to her room."
Again the emphasis upon you, again another sharp look at the lay brother. Fideles also looked at Penitent, silently inquiring whether or not he would accompany them.
Aware of the scrutiny, Penitent lifted his head. His face shocked Fideles. The skin was pale, the lips compressed into a straight, grim line. He nodded once and stood up.
The archbishop rose, indicated their readiness to proceed.
"This way, then," said Sister Superior. Pausing at the door, she whispered, more to herself than to them, "I pray God I am doing the right thing."
Memories of his days serving as nurse aboard the Warlord's battleship Phoenix returned to Fideles forcibly when they entered the sickroom, brought back by the clean, sharp smell of antiseptic and alcohol, of crisp, sterile sheets. The patient was in a private room, located in a nearly empty corridor. She was sitting up in a wheelchair that had been rolled over to provide her a view out the window. On the spacious lawns below, a group of convalescent children were enjoying the warm day. Sunlight streamed in. A nurse sat nearby, reading a book.
The patient was calm, at ease. When they entered, she looked around at them and smiled. The archbishop moved forward, offered her a few words of blessing and of comfort, which she received with a gentle nod and murmured thanks.
Sister Superior dismissed the nurse, shut the door. All was quiet in the room, save for the distant laughter of the children outside.
"Would you be more comfortable in bed, Doctor?" asked Sister Superior.
"No, thank you, Reverend Mother. I prefer to stay here until the sun goes down."
The three drew up chairs to sit near her. The doctor did not evince surprise at the presence of the silent lay brother, nor did she appear daunted at the prospect of telling her story to no less a personage than His Holiness the archbishop. She had made her peace with God and had that ethereal, distant look of one who has left the shores of this life, is slipping away slowly to another.
"They take beautiful care of me here," she said, smiling at the sister, who was fussing with the pillows, refilling a water glass. "I am content. I'm glad I came back. Glad to see the place filled with life, doing good work once more. I remembered it . . . the night after. Empty. Silent. So very silent."
None of them said a word. Sister Superior ceased her ministrations, took a chair. The dying woman looked around at them.
"I was afraid, when I first came here. But I am not afraid any longer."
"It is quite natural for us to fear death—" began Fideles.
The doctor shook her head. "No, it wasn't death I feared. I've known I am dying a long time, long enough to come to terms with my illness. It was him. I was afraid of him. But he can't reach me now. The gulf that separates us is too wide."
Brother Penitent, not saying a word, reached out his hand, took hold of the woman's right hand in his own, and turned it palm up to the light. Sister Superior was taken aback, looked shocked at this strange proceeding. But the doctor made no complaint, did not try to remove her hand.
"No, Brother," she said. "I am not Blood Royal. But my mother was."
Penitent released her hand, sat back in his chair.
Fideles, understanding, not understanding, felt chilled.
"I was a doctor here, in the years just prior to the Revolution. I specialized in mental disorders among the Blood Royal. Yes, there were mental disorders, though the Blood Royal themselves always refused to admit it. Probably just as well, since they were rulers of most of the inhabited worlds in the galaxy. They dared not show any weakness. Because of the need for secrecy, therefore, we went to great lengths to protect our patients' identities, to avoid scandal on their home planets.
"One day, a patient came to us who demanded even greater security than that we already practiced. She was brought into the sanitarium in the dead of night. Masked and heavily cloaked, she was taken immediately to a private suite of rooms which had been fitted up especially for her. Only four people knew her name: the hospital administrator, myself, and two trained nurses who traveled with her. She rarely left her room. No one else in the hospital ever even saw her.
"The woman was in her twenties when she came to us. She was Blood Royal, extraordinarily beautiful, and quite insane. A chemical imbalance in her brain drove her into violent, frenzied rages. She had, in fact, committed murder. The crime was hushed up. Few knew of it. But the family realized then that they could no longer care for her. And so she was brought here.
Her illness could be treated, but only by the constant administration of corrective drugs. And due to the wild fluctuations of the chemicals in her body, she had to be carefully monitored, the drugs continually altered and modified to produce the desired effect.
"When she was stable, the woman was brilliant, charming, captivating. When the drugs ceased to have any effect, she degenerated into a murderous beast. There was no hope of a cure. Her family had no choice but to have her locked away.
"The woman was permitted visitors, however. She had only one—her brother. He was some twenty years older, but completely devoted to her. Their parents had been in their middle years when she was born. Both parents had died in her youth. She and her brother had been everything to each other. He visited her once each month, without fail, though he was a- busy man. These visits—which had to be cloaked in secrecy—must have wreaked havoc on his personal life. But he loved her and she adored him. She lived each month for the day he spent with her.
"We thought their relationship touching, beautiful. None of us knew, until too late, that it was black, corrupt at heart."
The doctor paused, took a sip of water. Outside, the sun was sinking behind a stand of fir trees. Long shadows stretched over the green lawn. The children were taken indoors.
"It was our policy, if the patient was stable, to permit her to go on outings with her brother. These were always short in duration, only a few hours at the most, and the time was spent on her brother's private yacht. At first, I must admit, we were reluctant to permit these outings, but no harm ever came of them. In feet, the patient seemed to derive some good from them.
"One month, about five years before the Revolution, the brother came as usual, took his sister away, spent the day with her as usual. She returned in remarkably happy spirits. I thought nothing of it until, during routine tests, I noticed a marked change in the woman's blood chemistry. She was pregnant."
Fideles started, appalled. Wherever he thought the tale might have been heading, he had not expected this. "Surely not ..." He fell silent, unable to voice aloud the dreadful suspicion.
"I am afraid so, Holiness," said the doctor quietly. "The woman admitted to us quite freely that her brother was the baby's father. Their incestuous relationship had been going on for years, ever since she had seduced him when she was eighteen. She had always before taken precautions to avoid getting pregnant. It had occurred to her, however, that her brother had not married for love of her. He needed an heir, and she had decided that she would give him one, assuming—in her unbalanced mental state—
he could easily contrive to legitimatize the birth.
"We were horrified. And to his credit, so was the woman's brother. Of course, we sent for him, told him what had happened. Ashamed, wretched, he nearly collapsed—he himself was fifty at the time and suffered from a heart condition. He was obsessed with his sister, you see; an obsession strengthened by the fact that she was locked away from him.
"We recommended abortion—for the mother's sake, since we could no longer give her the chemicals she needed to ease her condition without risking harm to the unborn child. The brother refused to give his consent. He believed that this pregnancy was a punishment, a judgment from God on his sins. The brother promised to care for the infant when it was born. Then he left. He did not visit his sister, though she was wild to see him. He never came to her again."
The doctor stared out the window; her face grew grave.
"That was a terrible time. The worst I would ever know, until the Revolution. All during her pregnancy, the woman had to be kept under constant surveillance, often physically restrained, to prevent her from harming herself or others. At first her thoughts were centered on her brother. Then, fortunately—or so we thought at the time—she focused her attention on her unborn child. The mention of her baby would often calm her when nothing else would.
"The birth was difficult for her. But the child—a boy—was healthy and strong. We informed the brother immediately, as we had promised, and the day following the baby's birth a man—one of the brother's most loyal and trusted friends— arrived to take the baby away.
"Perhaps his removal of the baby was all for the best." The doctor sighed. "I knew the child could not be left in the mother's care, of course, but her mental condition had seemed to improve during the later stages of her pregnancy, and I was hoping that maybe a few months spent with her baby might ef-feet a permanent change for the better. I still think it might have. I was never to know.
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