by M. K. Wren
Again, he didn’t wait to see his order carried out; he fixed a cold eye on the captain.
“You are aware, Captain, that you’ve broken a cardinal law of the Concord?”
He went white. “I—I don’t understand, my lord.”
“The Galinin Rule, part of the Civil Standards Code formulated by the Lord Benedic Galinin. No agent of the Concord will interfere with Bond religious practices and rites unless they constitute a threat to the security of the Concord. I fail to see that giving them the body of this unfortunate man presents any kind of threat. It would normally be surrendered to anyone who claimed it without a thought.”
Alexand didn’t look down as he spoke of the body; he hadn’t allowed himself to look at Rich from the moment he made his presence known. He heard Zekiel approaching with the acolyte and another Bond, but he didn’t turn.
The captain’s eyes shifted uneasily. “I—I didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t think. This is exactly how the Alber uprising in Canadia began, and you almost had another here. It was this man—” He glanced back at Zekiel, “—this man whom you treat with such contempt, Zekiel—a Bond—who averted a disaster here, not you.” He paused to give the captain a few seconds more to consider his fate, then, “Ignorance is no excuse, Captain, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, assuming you’ll take a lesson from this experience. Clear the guards from the Plaza; they’re hardly necessary now.”
“Yes, my lord.” It came out with an audible sigh of relief. He hurriedly took out his transceiver, and Alexand turned away. Zekiel was gazing at him as if he were witnessing a miracle. No doubt they would call it that, this unexpected intervention. The will of the Mezion.
And, finally, Alexand looked down at the motionless figure on the stretcher. He heard again the echoing rattle of locks.
Like a sea bird lying on some forsaken beach with the seeking edges of the waves, embroidered with foam, curling around its sand-burdened wings. Yet even in this ruin—the remains—that ugly and bitterly accurate word—of Richard DeKoven Woolf, there was an echo of the beauty he wore in life, as the graceful contours of the sea bird’s wing echoes a remembrance of flight.
“Zekiel, who was he?”
“He is called Richard the Lamb, my lord. He abides now in the Beyond Realm with the Blessed. Perhaps he’s only gone home.”
“Was he in truth a holy man?”
“Yes, my lord. It is said the holy light of the Mezion burned in him. Too much of a burden for a mortal man, I think; it took all the strength from his body.”
Alexand swallowed against the searing dryness in his throat, his eyes moving again to that silent flesh. He pulled off his cloak and knelt by Rich’s body and carefully crossed his frail hands on his chest. There was none of that paradoxical strength in those hands now.
Rich—dear God, Rich, I loved you. . . .
He unfurled the cloak, black side outward, scarlet flashing briefly, and draped it over that still form, feeling the dull snap of yet another lock closing on the chamber in his mind as he drew the black cloth over his brother’s face.
“My lord! What are you—”
Alexand rose abruptly, silencing the captain’s perplexed objection with a cold look. Then he turned to Zekiel.
“I suffered a loss of my own only a few days ago. There’s grief enough in that to share.” He felt his mental focus shifting dangerously and squared his shoulders. “Take him, Zekiei. Take . . . your saint.”
“Yes, my lord.” The Shepherd nodded to the other Bonds, and they lifted the shrouded stretcher, the acolyte pausing long enough to gaze at Alexand, amazement vying with gratitude, before they moved away hurriedly.
Alexand watched them, the gulf of loneliness widening with their every step, and he was entirely unprepared when Zekiel, his eyes glistening with unnoticed tears, sank to his knees and took his hand, then pressed it to his forehead.
“You are of the Blessed, my lord. Peace be.”
Alexand stared at him, past comprehending that gesture or the words, shaken and literally shaking, as the Shepherd rose. Finally, he found his voice.
“Peace be, Zekiel.”
The old man turned, following in the wake of Rich’s body off the stand and through the silent, awed remnants of the crowd. As the spare procession worked its way out of the Plaza, the last of the guards filed back into the Hall of the Directorate.
And at the other end of the Plaza, the Fountain of Victory came to life, a renascent tracery of white against the blue winter sky.
PART 2: METAMORPHOSIS
PHOENIX MEMFILES: DEPT HUMAN SCIENCES:
SOCIOTHEOLOGY (HS/STh)
SUBFILE: LAMB, RICHARD: PERSONAL NOTES 10 AVRIL 3253
DOC LOC #819/19208–1812–1614–1043253
I’ve just returned from a pleasant hour spent on the observation deck on Level 14. I wonder that the Communications personnel don’t get weary of seeing me pass the camouflaged antennas (and how much like prehistoric creatures they seem, stranger to my eyes than the inhabitants of this alien world) to reach the deck where I can look north, east, south, and west for such a long and refreshing distance from the lofty apex of Fina.
Yet it’s a rather limited view, really, confined almost entirely to water. Our island makes up the foreground, and if weather conditions are right, you can see the nearer islands off the West Pangaean continent to the northwest, the Comarg Archipelago to the south, with fiery little Orifel spewing impatient sparks on its southwestern extremity. But the Selamin Sea makes up most of this vista, and I’d be satisfied with that if no land were visible at all.
A scrap of a poem has lodged in my memory, while its writer’s name is forgotten.
Our mother sea, fair mother sea,
Cradle of life, inventor of death,
Who makes no ceremony for either. . . .
I always think of those lines when I look out at that vast, flat panorama—flat, yet sometimes I think I can discern the curve of the planet—and I always think of the Pacific Ocean on Terra as I remember it from a similar high vantage point looking east toward the Barrier Reef.
And sometimes I wonder if a large percentage of the other members who seek out this vantage point aren’t Terran. I think it must be especially true when Fina is in Pollux’s night. Then the subtle differences of color in the sea and atmosphere are masked; then only the scents from the island foliage and one’s consciousness of the lighter gravity are all that makes this sea alien, and one becomes accustomed to the scents, and the body adjusts to the slight difference in gravity within a week.
Tonight our arbitrary Terran Standard Time night was in phase with Pollux’s night, and the sky was clear with only a few billowy clouds to make shadows and reflections on the immense, shimmering span of the sea, silk and silver all in one, never in two instants the same, yet profoundly constant. On the island’s shores the surf breaks in long sighs, each comber trailed by a lacy train of foam.
There, indeed, is comfort for the displaced children of Terra. Until we look up at the sky.
If humankind had been bom on Pollux, I wonder if we’d ever have voyaged to the stars. They’re so rarely visible here, except as a vague powdering, with Alpha Centauri B dominating the night sky half of every year. That’s a sight my Terran senses still balk at: a pinpoint that lights the entire sky, making the nights dim imitations of day. Even when B is in Pollux’s day sky, it’s “moon” Castor brightens a good part of the remainder of Pollux’s nights. I find myself longing for clear Terran nights when the sky is a well of incredibly distant suns, and you feel that if you look into it too long, you’ll fall upward into that glittering abyss, and the thought holds no fear, only vaulting elation.
Tonight Castor set early near Orifel, but B still lighted the western sky. I searched for Proxima, and I’ve been told where it should be, but I’ve never
been able to find that dim, red dwarf with my unaided eye. I’ve never been able to find the Sun—my Sun—either in Pollux’s bright nights.
But all that is the mewling complaint of a homesick Terran. I wish sometimes I’d been bom on Pollux so I might appreciate it properly.
I remember my first glimpse of Pollux when my ship emerged from SynchShift and hurtled toward the twin crescents of Pollux and Castor. Our course was such that for a while Pollux seemed to rise over Castor, and it was one of those awesome images that fix themselves indelibly in memory. Then, as we left Castor behind and approached Pollux, I thought how beautiful it must have seemed to the men who first saw it nearly two centuries ago, a blue world with its white calligraphy of cloud. Like Terra.
It’s so hard not to think of it that way. Like Terra. I remember thinking of it from a cartographer’s point of view, thinking how convenient it was that all its land masses were in one hemisphere except for a finger of the West Pangaean continent and three plume series of islands in the huge midst of the Polluxian Ocean. And I remember thinking of the two continents of East and West Pangaea as echoes out of Terra’s geologic history, megacontinents not yet split by the massive shifts of internal convections, but showing incipient rifts in the Pangaean Straits, the Caucasias Mountains, and the Sahra Rift, with the Selamin Sea indicating a rift already accomplished. But obviously the men who named the two continents “Pangaea” had the same thought, and that, like so many of Pollux’s place names, demonstrates the Terran proclivity for drawing parallels with Terra.
Yet this is an extraordinarily beautiful planet in its own right, and as unique as Terra. The stellar explorations beyond Centauri taught us that. To be sure, I’ve seen very little of it except for Fina and views from the cities where my work takes me. Via MT. That’s one thing I fear about the MT, it tends to isolate us from awareness of our physical world. But I’ve seen enough of Pollux and its flora and fauna to delight me: the singing trees, the delicate airriders of netvines, the flying blossoms of floroptera, the iridescent glory of glassgrass in the spring in the Paneast Deserts, the solemn groves of rockwood on the Comarg Peninsula that dwarf even the huge karri trees of Conta Austrail. I’ve watched the migration of sporowhales through the Comargian Straits, the phosphorescent breeding frenzy of the spidery seanova on Fina’s beaches, and the homing flight of flocks of dipnoptera from sea to mountain forest. I’ve seen the awesome tidal bores in the Pangaean Straits and the black, wind-honed monoliths of the Needles rising out of the endless white saltpans near Omega, felt the ground tremble at the Cataracts of the Amazonia near Riollegro, and walked in the lacy shadows of the fernarbor forests around Hallicourt. It’s a beautiful planet, and I can only hope those born to it will feel for this new Eden what I feel for Terra. It is as much a home and sanctuary for humankind as Terra, and those who live on it should feel the same reverence for it.
Terra’s children didn’t always show that reverence, and I hope Pollux’s children won’t forget Terra’s history, won’t forget the cost of irreverence. That’s also part of my ambivalence for Pollux. I look at it and see the Eden that Terra once was, and I remember the hideous scars on her fair face left by the Disasters and the century preceding them: the scars of war—the least of them, really—the scars of exploitation, the willful fouling of what was then our only nest; the dead rivers and lakes, the poisoned plains, the sterile valleys, the razed forests, the numberless species—entire species—indifferently or rapaciously snuffed out; the mindless multiplication of population with no concern for its demands on the planet, or for the suffering of the billions of human beings thus condemned to die horribly of disease and starvation.
Terra rid herself by the cruel processes of nature of the worst of the burden imposed on her by human ignorance and avarice simply by ridding herself of most of the human population. Terra is still our blue, watery, fertile mother world, but she’ll never be the same. Pollux is figuratively still a virgin, and I hope her human inhabitants Won’t forget Terra’s history, or forget that planetary rape is a crime that will, inevitably and inexorably, be punished.
Thus I looked out over the Selamin Sea tonight, sought in vain in the twilight night sky for my Sun, and longed for Terra, for a scarred Eden, and I thought, Oh, you children of this new Eden, honor your mother. She deserves your reverence, and in the end will tolerate nothing less.
CHAPTER VI
July 3253
1.
Dr. Erica Radek’s gray eyes moved in a circuit, taking in the five people seated with her at the round Council table. The seventh chair was empty; Ben Venturi was at the other end of the room hovering over the monitors.
This meeting was an error, but neither she nor Ben had succeeded in convincing Andreas Riis of that. He didn’t understand the capacities of the human mind in the pursuit of power.
Dr. Radek understood them; she was trained for that. Now, as Andreas outlined the situation, she studied the other councilors, analyzing eye movements, gestures, postures. Yet she seemed to be listening attentively, just as she seemed entirely at ease. She wore the practical slacsuit that was standard garb in Fina, and indulged her feminine vanity only in the arrangement of her silver hair: thick, shining braids coiled at the crown of her head, emphasizing her long neck and the patrician features that hinted at uncommon beauty in her youth.
Her gaze rested briefly on Andreas Riis, and she sighed. She couldn’t be angry with him, even recognizing the dangers he courted in calling this meeting. As chairman of the Council, the decision was his to make, and this development was not only unprecedented, but vitally important to the future of the Society. It was reasonable enough that the full Council should be apprised of it.
At least she’d argued him into asking contingency conditioning of the councilors. That would limit their capacity to talk about, or act upon, anything transpiring here.
Half a saint, Rich had called Andreas, and all a scientist in the fullest meaning of the word; the face of an ascetic, his hair white—although it had been dark when Erica first came to Fina, as hers had been—his eyes startlingly black, quick, questioning, yet gently naive; a genius who regularly dealt in concepts far beyond the scope of most minds, yet he didn’t understand something so simple as ambition.
Her eyes shifted to the man who sat on Andreas’s right, separated from her by Ben Venturi’s empty chair. Predis Ussher, Chief of Communications. And perhaps a Lord’s son. She watched Ussher, noting the tight lines around his mouth, the narrowing of the indigo eyes that provided a striking color contrast to his long, red hair. He was on his guard; there was little to be read in his face.
Her gaze moved to Andreas’s left, to Emeric Garris, Commander of Fleet Operations, whose features were all too readable. He was skeptical; a wily old soldier whose face bore the scar of a past battle in a white line angling across his right eye.
On Emeric’s left, John M’Kim sat frowning, arms folded, narrow shoulders tense. The eternal accountant, head of Supply and Maintenance. His thin face displayed suspicion and vague bewilderment. Andreas was talking about something that couldn’t be reduced to orderly columns of figures, and M’Kim was uncomfortable.
They were all uncomfortable, even Marien Dyce, Chief of Computer Systems, whose sturdy figure and matronly features always made her seem immune to uncertainty. A charter member like Andreas and Emeric Garris; half a century in Fina, but the old thinking habits still held. She could only regard this development with misgivings, but no doubt she’d respond with some awe in the Lord’s presence. They were all Fesh at heart. Even Predis Ussher.
Erica looked toward the monitors at Ben Venturi. He stood with the weight of his rangy body balanced equally on both feet. Tense. She’d long ago become accustomed to seeing Major Venturi’s black SSB uniform in this stronghold of the Phoenix—he didn’t always have time to change on his way to or from his SSB duties in Leda—but at the moment he looked very much the part: the short-cropped d
ark hair, the broad, tough face with the slightly flattened nose, the gray-green eyes with their habitual squint of suspicion.
Ben was worried, and with good reason. But it was his nature to worry; it was one of the attributes that made him so successful at his double life. Major Venturi was also Commander of Security and Intelligence for the Phoenix. Erica saw the reactive tightening of his shoulders, the unconscious tilt of his head toward the ’ceiver in his ear.
“Andreas, he’s in contact with the flagship. Emergency frequency.”
Erica said, “Switch it to the room speakers, Ben.”
His hand moved to the console, and the speakers came to life with a shirr of static. It wasn’t necessary to ask for silence; the only sounds emerged from the speakers, a disembodied dialogue interspersed with dots and dashes of static. She listened intently, eyes closed against visual distraction.
The flagship was still in SynchShift, but the Scout was in another continuum, plummeting toward the night-shadowed face of Pollux’s Selamin Sea. It would touch down at a point near the equator, out of range of Fina’s radar screens. Only one of the voices interested her, although she automatically assessed Commander Todd’s for any suspicion or doubt. There was none. Captain Woolf’s performance was faultless, and she smiled to herself, thinking that Master Jeans would grasp avidly at such talent for his theater group.
“Scout to flagship. Are you receiving?”
“Yes, Captain. Can’t you hear me?”
“The ejection switch. Commander, it—it’s jammed.”
Not too much fear displayed yet; there was more anxiety in Todd’s voice.
“Your altitude—what’s your altitude?”
“Altitude twenty thousand meters. Dropping. I’m . . . it’s nineteen-five—”
