Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (29 page)

After Mankeen, the Concord’s resources were for many years solely invested in the process of recovery; there was nothing left for new stellar voyages, nor any interest in such undertakings. The Concord couldn’t even spare any concern for Centauri, where over three million people lived. The recovery period took the better part of a century, the terminal date generally given as 3200, when the last Solar colony was reestablished—Shang’s mine complexes on Charon. That was just fifty-two years ago, and eight years later the Concord was again at war, this time with the Peladeen Republic. That lasted only two years, but like all wars it was costly and totally engaged the Concord’s resources.

Finally, in 3218, humankind once more turned its eyes to the stars, but the spirit of speculation no longer impelled Lords to seek profits beyond the Two Systems. The new Sirius A, Procyon A, and the Kruger 60A and B, Van Maanen’s star, and Altair expeditions—and there were ten altogether—were sponsored by the Concord and paid for out of Concord taxes, and it was only with Concord assistance that the Sirius A outposts were reestablished by the Houses that originally planted them, and Cameroodo established outposts on Procyon A One and Two. All of them have since been abandoned as unprofitable. Now our only stake in the stars beyond Centauri consists of research stations under the aegis of the University on Sirius A One and Procyon A One.

The quietus was dealt the Concord’s stellar explorations by the disastrous Altair expedition in 3241 when the ship
Felicity
and her crew of fifty disappeared. No one knows what happened; SynchCom transmissions simply ceased after a routine check-in. A Confleet Corsair sent to find
Felicity
—after a delay of a month while the rescue ship was fitted with suitably powerful MAM-An generators—reported no sign of
Felicity
anywhere near her last known position, then itself vanished from human ken.

A daunting experience, granted, but it doesn’t explain why the Concord stopped reaching for the stars. A more realistic explanation is simply that the quest proved unprofitable. At least that’s been the reason offered by the Directorate majority each time they voted down tax levies for further stellar explorations. Yet, despite the high-transportation costs, mining of various ores on the planets where outposts had been established promised to be very lucrative once the initial investment was recovered. But apparently the Lords didn’t feel they could afford to wait for long-term profits, and perhaps that’s because too many have suffered declining revenues as a result of the increasing incidence of Bond uprisings, either through direct losses, or rocketing taxes, or the resulting economic recession now endemic in the Concord.

But the real explanation for the Concord’s failure to rise to the challenge of the stars is a pervading indifference to it. A year ago, on the tenth anniversary of
Felicity’s
voyage. I expected to see something commemorating the event on vidicom; perhaps some retrospective documentary, or at least a passing reference on the newscasts. But there was nothing. It was as if the
Felicity
had never existed.

An ominous index, that indifference. Any civilization that turns its back on its frontiers is in grave danger, and the Concord can claim no golden age for that reason. The arts have flourished, to be sure, particularly in the last twenty years, which is in part a response to affluent patronage, and there is evident in the arts an innovative spirit that offers some hope, even if it springs from a limited segment of the Fesh, not the rulers of our civilization. But there has been no correlative innovative spirit in science since Mankeen, and that is a result of the Concord’s indifference to its frontiers.

Not indifference; it’s more than that.

Fear.

We always come back to that. More precisely, fear of change. Change has come to be equated solely with destruction and with loss of power by those now in possession of it. That’s the real reason the Concord turns its back on its frontiers, that it refuses to look out to the stars in hope of reaching them. Such an accomplishment would inevitably create change, and there’s no way to predict the nature or scope of it. The Concord—or, rather, its Lords, and only they have the power to make such decisions—would rather forfeit the rich potentials in stellar exploration than accept the concomitant changes that would inevitably result.

If the Phoenix is successful, if we do achieve Phase I, that must be one of our primary goals: to turn the Concord’s eyes once again to the stars.

“Why can’t you go to the Lord Galinin?” Adrien didn’t look at her father as she asked the question; her gaze was fixed on the electroharp in her lap. In the sun-lighted room, the soft tones sang plaintively from under her fingers.

“Galinin!” Eliseer paced the salon restlessly. “Adrien, there’s no
proof
. Nothing but rumor. And Dr. Perralt heard of an outbreak of a virulent type of—well, something like the rumors suggest. But that
proves
nothing.”

Lady Galia looked up from her tribroidery frame, the incessant movement of her hands never stopping, her black eyes turned impatiently on Adrien.

“It
can’t
be more than a rumor. Lord Orin wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to hide it if Karlis
is
. . .” She averted her eyes modestly. “If he
has
been . . . permanently affected by some illness.”

Adrien struck a minor chord. “Wouldn’t he, Mother?”

“Of course not! How would Karlis provide an heir!”

“Well, certainly not personally.” She watched her own hands, and the flash of the ruby and sapphire ring; still on her right hand. It should be on her left. The other ring, sapphire and emerald for Badir Selasis, was in her bedroom; she only wore it for public appearances.

Lady Galia was staring at her. “Adrien, what
are
you suggesting?”

“
I’d
provide the heir, Mother.” She looked up and laughed at her shocked expression. “I’d be impregnated by artificial insemination. Of course, the Board of Succession disapproves of it, but I can’t believe that would discourage Selasis from keeping a sperm reserve for—”

“Adrien!” Galia Eliseer’s face was crimson.

“Oh, really, Mother, open your eyes.”

Lord Loren turned abruptly. “Adrien, I won’t tolerate this disrespect for your mother.”

That cut deep. He had never used that chiding tone with her, and it gave her a profound sense of loneliness. And how was she to tolerate her mother’s disrespect for
her
? Her prim ignorance, her complacent myopia?

Adrien looked down at the ’harp, her fingers seeking the threads of a melody in a minor key. She was thinking of Harlequin. Blind Harlequin, who had taught her this melody long ago in Concordia in those halcyon days when Alexand had first been her Promised. Harlequin was dead now; he had followed his Lady to the grave.

“Father, you, at least, should be able to look at this with open eyes. If the rumors
are
true, do you think Orin Selasis would admit defeat so easily?” She stopped mid-phrase, cutting the sound off with the flat of her hand. “His first born and
only
male heir impotent and sterile.”

“Adrien!” Again, the shocked protest from Lady Galia.

“It’s the
words
that disturb you, isn’t it, Mother?— not the truth behind them. You don’t like to think about that. But
I
must think about it, just as I’ve thought about how Janeel became pregnant again after she was warned a second birth might kill her. And it
did
kill her. I must consider Lord Orin’s present dilemma and how he’ll solve it. I’ll bear Karlis an heir, however the conception is managed, but think about my position once that child is born. I’ll
know
it wasn’t naturally conceived; I’ll know Karlis’s dreadful secret. And you can plan your mourning wardrobe now. If Selasis runs true to form, I’ll die in childbirth, like Janeel.” She put the ’harp aside and rose to go to the windowall and stare out into the garden. “But you always looked good in black, Mother.”

Adrien heard the scrape of the chair, Lady Galia’s gown rustling.

“Loren, for the God’s sake,
talk
to her!” Then the explosive sigh. “
I
can’t. ’Zion knows I’ve tried.”

Then Eliseer’s voice, placating, but distracted, “All right. Galia, I’ll talk to her. Don’t be upset.”

“Upset!” When she talks so—so blatantly of . . .” Another sigh. Adrien waited for the next words. “Loren, I have a throbbing headache. I’m going to my suite.”

“I’m sorry, dear. You’d better call Dr. Perralt.”

The rustle of her gown again. “I think I will.” Her retreating steps, and finally the door closed on a silent room.

It might have been empty for the sound of it, but Adrien could sense her father behind her, watching her. She stared out into the garden; a garden full of Terran flowers, solace for Lady Galia. It reminded Adrien of Concordia, of the rose garden, of Alexand. She pressed her hand to her waist.

She knew the truth existing within her. She would need confirmation, but in her mind there was no doubt. It made all her arguments a lie, in a sense; she would mother no heir for Karlis. But the lie was only in the reason for her jeopardy, not in the jeopardy itself.

3 Avril. Less than a month before the wedding.

Alexand had tried to stop it. The Elite were in turmoil with the rumors. She believed them because Dr. Lile assured her Alexand did, and for a time she took hope that the marriage might be stopped, that she might avoid the more dangerous course—both for herself and the House— that the marriage would force her to.

But that hope died now. Her father wouldn’t ask for a Board of Succession inquiry. The galling irony of it was that the truth that inquiry would reveal would destroy Bakdir Selasis and free her, and her father—the Concord itself—of that ever present threat. Yet because it was wrapped in rumor, it wouldn’t even stop this marriage.

She took a deep breath, composing herself as she turned to face her father. And she wanted to weep. He looked suddenly old, all the vigor drained from him, the quiet self-confidence vanished. He had made so many good decisions during his tenure as First Lord of Camine Eliseer, it seemed unfair that this decision was costing him so dearly.

He said stiffly. “It was never my intention to make you unhappy, Adrien. You know that.”

She watched him as he moved to the windowall, taking up a position a few paces from her; he seemed reluctant to come too close.

“I know, Father, and I’m well aware of the advantages this union seems to offer the House. And I know the consequences if you attempt to renege on the contracts. I understand your position entirely.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. You’ve always been very astute in political matters. Perhaps that makes it easier for you to understand—” He hesitated, staring blindly into the garden. “—to understand that I can’t make a serious accusation against Karlis Selasis on the basis of a rumor.”

Adrien nodded, a bitter smile shadowing her mouth.

“It seems ironic that Selasis could demand medical confirmation of my virginity, yet you can’t demand similar confirmation of Karlis’s virility.”

“Adrien, for the God’s sake!”

“Do the frank words disturb you, too? They’re not ladylike, I suppose.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, but even there they wouldn’t stay still.

“It’s a matter of . . . of custom. One doesn’t challenge a Lord’s virility without very good reason.”

“Especially not Orin Selasis’s first born.”

“Under no circumstances would such a challenge be made lightly, and no one challenges Selasis on
any
ground unless they’re very sure of themselves. Look at Gorimbo and L’Ancel. They challenged him on matters relating to his franchises, something far less important and personal to him, and both are broken men, Lords only in name, if even that. L’Ancel’s wife committed suicide within a year, his son disappeared without a trace; into the Outside, they say. And Gorimbo—his nephew, Orongo reluctantly pays the cost of maintaining him in a mental hospital. Adrien, don’t you see, don’t you understand what I’d be risking on the basis of a rumor that might not be true?”

“Won’t you consider talking privately with Galinin?”

“I’m sure he’s already heard the rumor, and if he thought there was any substance to it. he’d initiate a Board inquiry without
my
prompting.”

“Wouldn’t it be as logical to assume he’s waiting for you to make the first move?”

“Why should the Chairman wait for
me
to move first?”

Because you have a daughter about to be wed to this monstrous eunuch
. She didn’t voice the answer; it was too much an accusation. Instead, she turned and walked slowly back to her chair. She didn’t sit down, but stood silently, brushing her fingers over the strings of the ’harp.

She heard his footsteps moving hesitantly toward her.

“I don’t want you to think I’m balking out of—of stubbornness. I have no choice. Adrien; no choice at all.”

For him it was true. She felt very much alone now.

“All right. Father.” She turned to face him. “I understand your position. Now I want you to understand mine.”

“Your—what do you mean?”

“Simply this: I won’t jeopardize you or the House by personally challenging Karlis’s virility, nor will I make any attempt to avoid the wedding, or embarrass the House in any way. For your sake, the wedding
will
take place.”

He stared at her in stark bewilderment. “Adrien, what in all the worlds are you—”

“You may choose to believe Karlis still capable of siring an heir, but I don’t, and I intend to take what measures I deem necessary to save my life. I’ll do nothing until after the wedding, and even then I’ll take every precaution to make sure Lord Orin realizes I’m acting independently, without your consent or knowledge. I intend to make myself the focus of his wrath, not Eliseer.”

“What are you thinking of? Holy God, have you gone mad?”

“Is it madness to want to live? Father, I
will
do what I must to save my life, but I want to assure you that in doing so, I’ll protect Eliseer in every way I can.”

“But what do you mean? What do you intend to do?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“If you’re worried about monitors here—”

“I’m not. I’d be glad for Lord Orin in particular to monitor this conversation. I want him to know that whatever I do, it will be entirely on my own initiative. You’ll have no part in it, and no control over it.”

“Adrien . . .
please
. . . ”

She looked at him, and she could feel no resentment or anger. He was caught in a dead end, suffering unfathomed agonies of doubt and fear. She took his hand and, out of the depths of her own fear, called up a smile.

“That’s all, Father. I only wanted to warn you.”

He didn’t understand, not any part of it. She read that in his uncertain frown as he looked down at her hand, at the ring.

“Oh, Adrien, if only . . . ”

“Don’t dwell on ‘if onlys.’ Remember, you’re Lord of Camine Eliseer first. After that, you’re my father. And I love you.”

He took her in his arms, holding her as if she were a child in need of comfort, but she knew he was more in need of comfort than she.

“Adrien, no man could be more blessed in his daughter than I am.”

Sister Thea had left the convent of Saint Petra’s of Ellay only twice in her seventy years. The first occasion wasn’t literally a departure; she was born outside the convent. No one knew where, or how she came to be left a few days later on the altar of the lock chapel. The Sisters of Faith didn’t question such deliverances; they were too common.

The second occasion was a true departure. On her fiftieth birthday, she voyaged across the light years to the Cathedron of Concordia where the Reverend Eparch and High Bishop ordained her Sister Supra of Saint Petra’s. That was twenty years ago, and she’d never had any inclination to venture beyond the locks of Saint Petra’s again. What she wished to know of the outside world was available in book- and textapes or on vidicom, and she watched the newscasts and educational programs conscientiously. She sent her charges into that world regularly, and it was her responsibility to prepare them for it.

Now Sister Thea stood at the oriel window in her study, taking advantage of a break in her afternoon schedule. From this window high in the cloister, she looked out over the children’s play court, the school, the dormitories, the hospital—except for the cloister, the largest building in the convent—the clusters of residences for Church Bonds and Fesh, the warehouses and maintenance buildings, and beyond them the farm plots, squared out with green hedgerows and interspersed with wooded glades. The flora was almost entirely Terran; the first trees had been planted at the convent’s founding and had flourished and grown to majestic maturity. That it was a microcosm of Terra had come home to her only on her one short visit to the mother planet.

Beyond this green microcosm and its protective ’bubbles, she could see a stretch of horizon and the Barrens, stark in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The pygmy forests had moved north, she noted, in their annual migration, leaving the low hills around Saint Petra’s naked. No sign of human existence was visible from the convent, although it was only an hour’s flight over the shoulder of Mount Dema to the south to the town of Oriban.

The languid quiet of the afternoon was broken with a sound so melodious, and so expected, it only made her smile and look down into the play court. The sound was the chiming of the hour from the triple spires of the cloister chapel. It was followed by a rush of footsteps and laughing shouts as the children plunged pell mell into the court for the afternoon play period.

The chapel chimes had shaped time in the convent for nearly two centuries. The chapel was the oldest structure here, nearly as old as human history on Castor, and built of white marlite in contrast to the pinkish stone of all the other buildings, the stone quarried at the foot of Mount Dema.

The Sisters of Faith maintained three convents on Castor; one in Helen, another in Tremper in the southern hemisphere, but Saint Petra’s was the largest and the oldest, and Sister Thea knew—through vidicom and imagraphs—that none of them were graced with any buildings so solemnly beautiful as the cloister chapel of Saint Petra’s of Ellay. Yet for her, the real heart of the convent was below her—the children laughing, dancing out the age-old rituals of their games.

The Sisters of Faith served the unwanted children of the worlds and, when necessary, their mothers. That was why the hospital was the second largest structure in the convent. It was a maternity hospital.