by M. K. Wren
“Rich, you said you had two purposes.” Alexand’s eyes were drawn to his mother. She was watching Rich, and perhaps he’d already explained part of his second purpose, but not all of it. The plea for understanding was too naked in her eyes.
Rich’s gaze was drawn to her, too, but his reply was directed to Alexand.
“Yes, I have another purpose, and it’s the more important of the two. Remember that. And remember that I’ve given it long and careful consideration. My purpose is the arrest and subsequent trial and execution—the martyrdom and apotheosis—of Richard Lamb.”
“Arrest and—” Alexand put his glass down on the arm of his chair; it had almost slipped from his hand. And he held on; held his trembling muscles in check; held back the cry of pain until finally he could think again and even maintain a certain level of detachment.
“Your arrest. Then it’s the SSB Maxim has been instructed to wait for. Who called them?” He didn’t realize he was looking at his father when he asked that question.
Rich said, “I did, Alex. Not directly, and not ‘them.’ Specifically, Commander Quintin Bary.”
Alexand felt the dizziness coming again.
“Please, Rich . . . why?”
“I’ll explain, but first let me assure you—all of you—that everything possible has been done to protect the House.”
Woolf folded his arms, as if that were necessary to contain his disgust. “We could use some assurances, but I doubt—”
“Phillip. . . .” Galinin was frowning slightly. Woolf raised an eyebrow, then subsided into grim silence.
Rich watched this exchange, then continued calmly, “First, understand that my apotheosis must take place in Concordia for maximum effectiveness. As the old saw has it, everything begins in Concordia. More people pass through this city in a day than in a month in any other city. They come from the farthest reaches of the Two Systems, and return there, carrying the news of Concordia with them. The importance of Concordia as a news distribution center will become apparent later. As for my arrest, an anonymous tip went to Commander Bary this afternoon stating that Richard Lamb, an agent of the Phoenix, is in Concordia. This was to give him a rationale for my arrest, since my association with the Society isn’t known. A few hours ago, he received another tip on his personal ’com seq so that there’s no record of it. He was told where he would find me and when.” Then, noting their uneasy frowns, “Don’t worry about Bary. First, you’re all aware that he was born a Woolf Fesh and owes his present position to the House; he’s still a loyal servant to Woolf, even if he wears the SSB face-screen. But the Phoenix doesn’t depend on apparent good faith. Bary has been conditioned.”
“Conditioned!” Woolf couldn’t contain that expression of chagrin. “A commander in the SSB—”
“Yes. Father.” Rich smiled faintly. “Military and police psychic types are generally highly susceptible to conditioning. At any rate, he’ll say nothing to anyone about the tip. He’ll come here, arrest me, and take me to the SSB Central DC. But once he leaves the Estate, he’ll experience a sort of memory lapse. He won’t remember where he found me, or the actual wording of the tip. But he won’t be left empty-headed, so to speak; he’s been provided substitute memories, and they’ll be exact and clear.”
Woolf was pale, too stunned to speak, but Galinin recovered after a moment and even managed a rueful laugh.
“I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or frightened by such efficiency and capability, Rich.”
“Impressed, I hope. At least impressed that we’re doing everything possible to protect the House. And I’ve had larynx alteration and fingerprint removal, which precludes standard identification. The only possibility is that someone might recognize my face, but recognition depends a great deal on expectation. As evidence of that, I was never once recognized in my six years at the University. And no one will expect Richard DeKoven Woolf in an SSB DC, especially not when—” he paused, glancing at his mother, “—when the records will show that he died tonight. And remember, I haven’t made a public appearance—as Richard Woolf—since I was thirteen.”
Woolf retorted, “But you admit there is a chance someone might recognize you. Do you realize what Orin Selasis could do with that?”
“He could ruin DeKoven Woolf and Daro Galinin, but with the precautions we’ve taken that risk is so minimal as to be nonexistent. My trial and execution will attract no attention—unless you interfere in any way. If you do, I warn you, you’ll increase the risk to the point of real danger.”
“But that risk won’t exist if you aren’t arrested.”
Rich’s eyes narrowed, turning cool and remote. “I must give you another warning, Father. Check with the SSB. You’ll find Phoenix agents are adept at escape. There are even instances on record in which they seemed to literally disappear. You can’t hold me or hide me. If you try to stop me, my arrest will simply take place elsewhere. Your only hope is to kill me outright now, and in that you’d probably be unsuccessful, even if you were capable of it. And I can’t believe you are.”
For a time the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Woolf seemed frozen, his face ashen, and Elise’s voice impinged on the silence, soft as some lonely night wind.
“Oh, Rich, I still don’t understand.” Her eyes had the nacreous sheen of pearls, and as much life. And there was sorrow in Rich’s eyes as he looked at her.
“Mother, forgive me the grief I inflict on you, but I must go through with this. I must.”
“But it—it will mean a public execution.”
“Yes, and as I intend to confess my so-called crimes freely, at least in general terms, my execution will occur within a few days. But Mother, don’t let that prospect alarm you. I have very little time left. You know that. My doctors estimate a week, possibly a month, but no more. This is what I want; there’s a reason for it. But your concern is personal, and perhaps it would be easier for you to accept if you knew I feel no dread. Only an anticipation of . . . relief.”
Elise had turned away, but now her eyes, still bitterly dry, sought and found Rich’s.
“Relief from . . . pain, Rich?”
“Yes. It has to do with the circulation, they tell me. It’s been bearable until recently, but it’s becoming uncontrollable. Nothing is so dehumanizing as pain. If I didn’t have a purpose in seeking public execution as a means of final relief, I’d resort to soporifics; in fact, I’d have had it over by now. But remember, Mother, I’ve planned all this carefully and, I might add, it was accepted by my friends in the Phoenix with great reluctance. I believe in the Phoenix with all my heart and soul, and I want my death to serve my cause. It’s all that’s left me to give.”
“Rich, I don’t yet understand how your . . . death will serve your—”
“I’ll tell you how!” Phillip Woolf’s voice ripped into the quiet, exposing the ragged edges of his rage. “It’s quite simple, Elise! Basic politics. Every revolution needs a martyr, and your son has set out to provide his cause with a suitable martyr! And what a perfect candidate he is!” Woolf laughed, and the sound was frightening. “A crippled martyr! Imagine it as he’s carried to the execution stand. Now, there’s an image to arouse pity—and wrath. And the wrath will be directed against the cruel and heartless Concord. That he was a traitor will be forgotten. All the mobs will remember is that pitiful—”
“Phillip!” Elise stared at her husband incredulously. “How could you—”
“How could I? Your son is the traitor here! Ask him how he could do what he’s done. Don’t you understand? When the Bonds come raging for our blood, it will be to revenge the death of Richard Lamb. That’s his purpose—to give the Phoenix a catalyst. He could set off a bloodbath to make the Man-keen Revolt look tame by—”
“No! I won’t believe that—not Rich!”
“Why not? You think he’s still your loving child? He’s
a man, and he made his choice. He chose this damned Society. That’s the cause he believes in with all his heart and soul. A band of thieves and traitors—and catchphrases be damned! The enemy, Elise!”
“He told you the Phoenix doesn’t—”
“Elise, I know a hell of a lot more about the Phoenix than you do.”
“But I know my son! Apparently you’ve forgotten, or you never knew him.”
“For the God’s sake, stop it!” Alexand rose abruptly, hands clenched at his sides. “ ‘He’—‘your son’—you talk about Rich as if he weren’t even here. This is the VisLord Richard DeKoven Woolf; in any other context that alone would assure him the courtesy due a Lord’s son. And this is a scholar and scientist, a recognized expert in his field. And this is an extraordinary human being capable of compassion and . . .” He stopped, his breath coming out in a long sigh, and turned away, toward the fire. The dizziness again.
He’d exchanged one nightmare for another, and neither made sense. And his father—
Alexand found himself met with a stranger in his father. Galinin had as much reason to feel betrayed, yet he displayed none of that acid antagonism. What had happened to Phillip Woolf?
No human being is exempt from fear . . .
That was at the heart of everything. Fear. That cancerous plague that robbed human beings of their humanity.
Behind Alexand’s closed eyes a ghastly montage of images flickered with the red light of the fire, and his stomach convulsed with nausea.
Fourteen. He’d been directly involved in fourteen Bond uprisings in the last three years, and the Two Systems had been rocked with over two hundred serious enough to require Confleet intervention. He returned to his chair, sinking heavily into it, unaware that it was his own drawn, pale features that prompted the quiet around him.
He said, “Father, don’t you understand what’s happening? The Phoenix isn’t our enemy. We have only one enemy: the fear that’s swallowing up the Concord. It’s a sickness, a contagious disease, and it’s on the verge of pandemic.”
Woolf stared at him and seemed to be grasping at the words, attempting to put them in a context of reason, and Alexand saw a crack in the stone wall of resistance.
Then he saw the crack sealed.
“You’re talking nonsense, Alex. We haven’t time to waste on philosophical bleatings.”
Alexand flinched openly before he got himself under control. Time. His father didn’t understand time. Perhaps because he didn’t understand death. He hadn’t seen enough of it.
Alexand turned to Rich, and found his luminous eyes fixed on him.
“Rich, what is it you hope to accomplish with your . . . martyrdom?”
Rich took a long, slow breath. The fires still burned, banked, behind his eyes, but his pupils were reduced to pinpoints. Morphinine. Yet he was still in pain.
“Alex, you know I don’t intend to leave a legacy of violence, nor would the Phoenix tolerate that. My purpose is to create a legacy of peace.”
Woolf stiffened. “Peace! Holy God, do you take us all for fools?”
Galinin’s voice came rumbling from the recesses of his chair. “Phillip, I want to hear what Rich has to say. This isn’t the time to give way to emotions.”
Woolf’s rigid posture didn’t relax but, after a tense hesitation, he said curtly, “Very well, Mathis.”
Galinin studied him, frowning, then with a sigh turned to Rich, and behind the ingrained skepticism lurked a shadow of his own grief.
“Peace, Rich? Surely you realize your execution might trigger violent reactions.”
“I’ve been preparing for it for the last year, Grandser. A certain danger does exist, but I’ve done all I could to negate it, and I believe the risk is worth taking in light of the potential benefits that might result from it.”
Alexand looked at Galinin, saw his furrowed brow as he considered that. But he was considering it; he was listening.
“ ‘Peace’ is a large word.”
Rich nodded. “Indeed. To be realistic, all I hope to accomplish is to discourage the tendency to violent reactions among the Bonds. It might give the Concord a few more years before the internal pressures reach an explosive point. These uprisings—and the term is very apt—are in no way organized or purposeful; not yet. They’re simply eruptions; intense pressures suddenly unleashed, comparable to geological phenomena. The Fesh generally instigate them, although they aren’t aware of it. It might be an unjust punishment or a deprivation, a relatively minor incident, but in certain situations the Bonds’ response to it may be quite violent. The Fesh in turn react with greater violence, initiating an uncontrollable reactive cycle. It can only be stopped at the beginning. I can’t influence Fesh behavior, but I may be able to minimize the inevitable reactions of the Bonds, to stop the cycle at the outset—in some cases, at least.”
Alexand was beginning to understand now, and perhaps he had recognized the true character of the light consuming this frail husk when the word holy came to mind.
Galinin asked, “How can you exert any influence over the Bonds by offering yourself up for execution?”
“Partly by providing an example of submission and acceptance, but it goes deeper. In order to understand it, you must know something of Bond religion.”
“Well, then—” Galinin smiled faintly. “—inform me.”
Rich smiled in response, and a subtle rapport seemed to exist between them: Galinin skeptical with the bitter wisdom of his years, but listening, still listening; Rich transcendently calm, in his voice the patience of raindrops against the armored flanks of mountains. Alexand gazed fixedly at his pallid face, almost disembodied in the shimmering light.
Rich began, “First, you must recognize the efficacy of direct verbal communication, not only from one person to another, but from one generation to another. In personal communication, the Bonds aren’t at all inconvenienced by their technical disadvantages. Many of them are quite mobile in their assigned tasks, and they act as couriers. It’s slower than vidicom, but any news of importance to them makes the rounds eventually. You must also understand that Bond religious and social structures cannot be separated. Religion is all they have; the source and means of enforcement of their social and moral codes. It was a wise decision to leave them that. The survival of the Concord to this point is probably chiefly attributable to the Galinin Rule and the wisdom of your forebear, Grandser. And I’m not deceived by your show of ignorance about Bond religion.”
Galinin shrugged. “Still, you’re the expert here.”
“My one redeeming virtue. At any rate, the efficacy of direct verbal communication across time is what I’m leading up to. And the Holy Words. The Holy Words is far more than a verbal equivalent of our Holy Writ; it’s an incredibly voluminous body of ritual, myth, magic, parable, poetry, and moral dogma, and it’s transmitted entirely by verbal communication from one generation to the next through the Shepherds. They’re phenomenal; walking memfiles. We depend so much on mechanical mnemonic devices, we have no concept of the quantity of information the human mind is capable of storing unaided. Some of their sources predate the Disasters, and generally very little is lost in transmission. I once went to some trouble to track down one passage quoted by a Shepherd. It was an exact quote from an ancient translation of the Pre-Disasters Judeo-Christian Bible. Parts of it are incorporated into our Holy Writ, but not this passage. There are five surviving copies of the old paper-page form of that book, and that’s where I found the passage, locked in the vaults of the Archives where it hasn’t been accessible to Bonds, even if they could read, for centuries.”
Galinin raised an eyebrow. “Yet this Shepherd gave you a verbatim quote?”
“Yes.” Rich glanced at Woolf, noting his growing restiveness. “I offer this example of the Shepherds’ ability to retain and transmit information accurately over long periods
because it’s extremely important. The Shepherds are moral references. In case of doubt, a Bond has only to ask a Shepherd, and he’ll dredge up a quote from the Words to dictate the proper mode of behavior under any given set of circumstances. The Bonds depend entirely on the Shepherds for moral guidance, and they in turn depend on the Holy Words. For instance, family disputes are discouraged because Saint Catarin of Lima laid the dictum, ‘The ties of blood are sacred to the Holy Mezion; who raises his hand against his kindred, raises his hand against the Mezion and shall be so doomed.’ Saint Catarin is three centuries in her grave, but her words still set limits to behavior. The power in the dictum is implicit in the last part: ‘. . . shall be so doomed.’ The Bonds have a very concrete vision of life after death; it’s perhaps more real to them than this life, which is typical of a subject people. The dead go to the Realm Beyond the Farthest Star, where the Mezion and the myriad saints reside. The good live like Lords, of course. Evildoers are confined to Nether Dark, which is comparable to a compound detention center. Sometimes these ‘Dark Souls’ escape to infest the living.” He paused, smiling. “That’s how they explain Orin Selasis, the ‘Dark Lord.’ ”
Galinin laughed. “That’s as good an explanation as I’ve heard.”
“It’s a highly functional philosophy. But my point is that the threat of punishment in the afterlife is very tangible to them. They accept communication between this life and the next as casually as we accept SynchCom transmissions, and they think the saints are out there constantly watching them, and any moral deviation is duly noted and ultimately punished. This puts a great deal of leverage behind the words of long-dead seers and saints.”
“I think, Rich,” Galinin said slowly, “I’m beginning to understand your purpose.”
Woolf, standing with his feet slightly apart, every line of his body bespeaking reined tension, said, “It’s becoming quite clear, Mathis, and I find my fears not in the least allayed by this scholarly dissertation.”
Fears. Alexand almost laughed. Always back to that. He stared into the fire, into the flickering images of disaster, of nightmare, while Rich replied levelly, “The possibilities are frightening, Father. I’m surprised no one has taken advantage of them before, and I’m deeply concerned that someone will.”
