Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (3 page)

“It would seem that Richard Lamb, whoever he was, and whatever his reasons, has done the Concord a great service. Doctor, I appreciate the fine work you’ve done on this project.”

“Thank you, my lord. It was my pleasure to be of service.” He paused, shifting his weight toward the edge of his chair. “My lord . . . uh, there
was
another item I encountered on this project that you might find of interest. You see, in the process of interviewing the various Shepherds, my staff and I came across another—well, would-be saint, I suppose; one associated with Saint Richard. I don’t know the actual relationship, but this person calls himself the Brother of the Lamb, referring to Saint Richard, of course.”

“The Brother—” Galinin stared at Gilcris, and it was a moment before he remembered to bring his features under rein. “What did you find out about this new saint?”

“Nothing in the way of factual data, and apparently he isn’t yet classified as a saint, but as a holy man. He’s most influential in Centauri, but he was also mentioned by Shepherds in the Solar System.”

“What did they say about him?”

“Very little, actually; no hint of his real identity. None of them know him by any name except the Brother.”

“Does that indicate an actual blood relationship?”

“I doubt that. It’s a matter of record that Lamb was an orphan, raised by the Sisters of Faith. Of course, this man may have told the Bonds a blood relationship existed if it served his purpose.”

“And what
is
his purpose?”

Gilcris shrugged helplessly. “It would seem it’s simply to reinforce Lamb’s message. The Shepherds say he speaks of peace and often quotes Saint Richard.”

“Is he seen frequently?”

“Apparently not. I gather he simply appears in the chapels at odd intervals and speaks only to the Shepherds.”

Galinin sagged back into his chair and consciously stopped his hand from going to his beard. Perhaps the Phoenix had found a way of maintaining their indirect influence over the Bonds, and that was disturbing. With Rich, he knew what he was dealing with.

The Brother
. Why that? Why not the acolyte? Or the disciple?

Galinin sighed again and looked across at Gilcris.

“Doctor, you’ll recognize the need to investigate this Brother more thoroughly. Someone might try to take advantage of Lamb’s influence, but with less benign intent. I want you to look into it further, and report to me as soon as you have conclusive data. And I want the work you’ve done in correlating data on Bond uprisings continued. However, I realize that would be too much of a burden for you along with your regular duties. I’d like you to set up a permanent research facility. You may choose the staff and organize it as you see fit, and I’ll make sure you have adequate funding. I’ll have Master Selig draw up the necessary authorizations today.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Gilcris beamed proudly. “I’ll do my best to carry out your wishes to your satisfaction.”

“I’m sure you will, and I’m sure I’ll be more than satisfied.” He rose, and Gilcris all but hopped to his feet. “I’ll look over the material in the case as soon as possible and let you know if I have any further questions.”

“Call on me at any time. Good day, my lord.” He bowed, then fluttered away across the golden carpet. Galinin touched the doorcon on the desk, catching a glimpse of Selig at his desk and a cluster of waiting Concord officials and House liaisons.

Galinin closed the doors, leaving the intercom on no-call status, then walked slowly to the windowall. The Fountain was on now, and the execution stand was already being dismantled. That called up another sigh. Three human lives had been snuffed out while he talked to Avery Gilcris.

But that conversation took the edge from that realization. Rich had had his apotheosis, and now his ashes were scattered throughout the Two Systems, and his words—those fragile, intangible, powerful abstractions—had done more to maintain peace in the Concord than all Conpol’s and Confleet’s lethal and very tangible machines.

At length, he turned and walked back to his desk, a frown drawing his white brows together.

The Brother.

He wondered why he felt an irrational chill at that.

First Commander Alex Ransom surveyed the scene, the wake of catastrophe, from the comcenter deck in Hangar 1. He gripped the railing with both hands, and a weaker material would have snapped under the pressure.

The Solar Fleet had taken a devastating blow, and the beaten survivors were limping home to Fina. The Rhea base didn’t have the facilities to deal with a disaster of this magnitude.

The steady pulse of the pumps was an insistent undercurrent in the welter of sound—the rumbling of nulgrav generators, the blasts of guidance jets from the ships, the whining hum of towcars, the hiss and thud of magnetic hooks shooting out on their tensteel cables—but the floor of the hangar was still awash with sea water carried in by the ships, making unsteady footing for the swarming ground crews and medsquads. They moved with frantic urgency, and the timbre of their shouted questions and orders verged on panic.

And perhaps it was time, Alex thought grimly, that they felt the goad of panic. Three years of small triumphs bought at small cost because of the cautious tactics that the crews complained of so bitterly, and they’d learned nothing from those triumphs but overconfidence.

Alex stared at the seared and broken hulls. Thirteen Falcons and six Corvets lost or damaged. The Solar Fleet that had cost so much in time and effort was in one encounter crippled. It would be months in recovering. And some things were beyond recovery. Lives. Nearly fifty lives lost.

His gaze moved to his right, fixing on the hulking leviathan painted brown and glaring green with the sleeping-bear crest of Badir Selasis like an eye near the bow. It occupied nearly a quarter of the length of the hangar and loomed too large to be moved through the tunnel into Hangar 2. A First Line freighter carrying a valuable cargo; a prize, indeed. But its price had been high.

The echoing clank of the lock gates brought his attention into focus on the entry tunnel. Another Corvet was moving into the hangar, water sheeting off her hull.
Gamin
. Her port side was ripped with a crumpled gash, the port steering vanes crushed. Towcars and crews and red-suited medsquads scurried out to meet her, while she staggered, then slewed to an abrupt halt, canted over on her side.

Alex listened to the voices emerging from the earpiece of his headset. He was on the ADCon frequency—Approach and Docking Control—and what he was hearing pulled his brows together in a frown; what he was seeing pleased him no more. There were only two towcars working unsuccessfully at trying to right
Gamin
.

He switched on his headset mike. “Lanc, give me an interconn with
Gamin
.”

A faint click, then, “Simon on line.”

“Captain, this is Ransom. What’s your stat?”

“Ground guidance is out, sir. We can’t—”

“All right, stand by. Lanc?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where the hell is Camron?”

“Major Camron’s in Hangar 2 berthing the
Hopewell
.”

“Connect me. And tell
Loriel
there’ll be an entry delay.” Another click. “Major Camron?”

“Yes, sir, this is—”

“Get two more towcars to the entry tunnel.
Gamin’s
disabled.”

“But I won’t have a crew avail—”

“Clear the entry area, Major.
Loriel
’s coming through with a damaged hull; she may not be able to hold against the water pressure.”

Alex touched the mike switch and cut Camron off, staring fixedly at the stretcher-laden medsquads. At least
Loriel
was the last of the Solar Fleet ships. Then he turned and strode into the comcenter, barely giving the door time to open. His entrance produced a hush among the techs at their screens and consoles.

Captain Lanc looked up from his comconsole, then turned away, but not before a faint sigh escaped him. There wasn’t a trace of expression in Commander Ransom’s face. It was that lack of outward evidence of anger that brought Lanc’s sigh. When Ransom frowned, there was nothing to worry about.

“Mistra Bayrd.”

“Yes, Commander?” A young woman turned from her intent study of the radar projection chamber.

“Is the splash-down area still clear?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a three-ship Second Line freighter fleet clearing the Comarg IP. They’ll be over the screened field in seven minutes.”

“A scheduled flight?”

“Yes, sir. On time and no extra escort.”

“Captain Lanc, are you on line with
Loriel
?”

“She’s holding. Wait—” He listened to his earspeaker, then turned a frequency dial. “Tunnel area’s open, sir.
Loriel
, PNX ADCon on line. You’re clear for entry.”

Alex turned, looking out into the hangar until he saw the black, shark-like bow of the Corvet emerging from the lock tunnel.

“Lanc, tell Commander Barret to report to me in my office as soon as he turns
Loriel
over to the ground crews.” He spun on his heel and left the comcenter.

“Yes, sir.” Lanc sighed again. He wouldn’t relish being in Jan Barret’s shoes right now.

Alex stood behind his desk, facing the screens mounted on the wall. All of them were focused on the hangars; the mirrored walls of the small room reflected distorted images of disaster. He wasn’t wearing his headset, but his desk comconsole was on receive.

Finally, he turned and studied Jan Barret, who stood on the other side of the desk at grim, haggard attention. Alex regarded him with purposeful detachment. He felt no anger; he was past that. What he felt at the moment was closer to sympathy, but Barret would see no hint of that.

“Commander Barret, would you care to tell me what happened?” His tone was flat, as was Barret’s when he replied.

“Yes, sir. I took a fleet of ten Corvets and thirty Falcons out, our objective a Selasid First Line freighter carrying arms and commutronics equipment for the Confleet base on Charon. We had their SynchShift emergence coordinates, but what we—what I didn’t know was that the Charon base was sending out twenty Falcons to meet the freighter.”

“When did you find out about them?”

“When they lifted off Charon. At that point, we were only five minutes from the emergence rendezvous.”

“I see. And you proceeded with the original plan?”

“Yes, sir. Our navcomp calculations gave us forty-five minutes before the Falcons would be in range.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Alex repeated with no inflection. “And how long did your navcomp calculations indicate it would take to accelerate back to SS speed after you emerged?”

“I . . . eighteen minutes, sir.”

“Which gave you a grand total of twenty-seven minutes to accomplish your mission.”

“Yes, sir, but the freighter only had a six-Falcon escort.”

“Since they were expecting twenty Falcons from the Charon base, that shouldn’t have surprised you.”

“It didn’t. I meant that I thought it feasible to take the freighter in that time, considering how small their escort was, and we did . . .” He finally averted his eyes. “We did take it.”

Alex let that ride for perhaps three seconds, then, “I assume something disrupted your twenty-seven-minute schedule.”

“The escort Falcons were carrying heavier guns than usual. I’d estimate X
⁸
s. That’s way out of line for Falcons. They’re too light for anything over an X
⁶
.” Barret’s hands began an unconscious clenching movement at his sides. “When we captured the freighter, three of our Corvets and six Falcons were disabled, and it took longer than I expected to disengage. I realized the Charon fleet would be in range before we could reach SS speed, so I sent Captain Straas with the
Magna
and three Falcons to draw off the Confleet ships while the rest of our fleet retreated.” His hands closed and stayed in tight fists. “I hoped Straas could distract the Falcons without engaging them, that he could continue acceleration into SS.”

“But only two of his Falcons managed to get into SS. The maneuver bought you perhaps a minute of time; enough to save part of your fleet, but not enough for you to avoid engagement with the Confleet Falcons.” Alex gave a short, bitter laugh. “
Engagement
. You were in full retreat. All you could do was take the losses and keep accelerating.”

Barret made no response, his eyes unfocused, unblinking.

Alex said slowly, “Twenty-seven minutes. Commander, didn’t it occur to you that was a very narrow time limit?”

“I . . . knew it would be close.”

“Obviously. But I’ll concede that it fell within the limits of feasibility. You left no margin for error or the unexpected, but still you might have carried it off, and if you had, you’d be enjoying a hero’s welcome now.”

Barret’s eyes came into focus on Alex. “Would you be offering me any medals?” There was no bitterness in the question, nor did it need an answer.

Alex’s response was equally rhetorical. “Why not? Isn’t success all that counts?”

“I might have thought that once.”

Alex walked around to the front of the desk and leaned back against it, feeling Barret’s despair like a tangible weight.

“So. The lesson comes home at last. Conservative tactics lack drama, but we can’t afford unnecessary risks. At least you handled the situation well
after
attempting the capture within that narrow time limit.”

Barret said dully, “I doubt Captain Straas and his men would be impressed with that.”

“Jan, the decision to send Straas to divert the Charon fleet was perfectly sound under the circumstances.”

“But
I
created the circumstances.” He was silent for the space of half a minute, then his hand went to the double-starred insignia pinned to his collar, the insignia of Second Commander that he had for the last three years worn so proudly. Then, with it held in his hand, he said. “Sir, I’m well aware that I am solely responsible for this disaster, and in view of that, I’m tendering my resignation from FO.”

Alex ignored the offered insignia and straightened, frowning irritably.