Ghost Legion (20 page)

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.