Ghost Legion (21 page)

"It was our policy, if the patient was stable, to permit her to
go on outings with her brother. These were always short in duration,
only a few hours at the most, and the time was spent on her brother's
private yacht. At first, I must admit, we were reluctant to permit
these outings, but no harm ever came of them. In feet, the patient
seemed to derive some good from them.

"One month, about five years before the Revolution, the brother
came as usual, took his sister away, spent the day with her as usual.
She returned in remarkably happy spirits. I thought nothing of it
until, during routine tests, I noticed a marked change in the woman's
blood chemistry. She was pregnant."

Fideles started, appalled. Wherever he thought the tale might have
been heading, he had not expected this. "Surely not ..." He
fell silent, unable to voice aloud the dreadful suspicion.

"I am afraid so, Holiness," said the doctor quietly. "The
woman admitted to us quite freely that her brother was the baby's
father. Their incestuous relationship had been going on for years,
ever since she had seduced him when she was eighteen. She had always
before taken precautions to avoid getting pregnant. It had occurred
to her, however, that her brother had not married for love of her. He
needed an heir, and she had decided that she would give him one,
assuming—in her unbalanced mental state—he could easily
contrive to legitimatize the birth.

"We were horrified. And to his credit, so was the woman's
brother. Of course, we sent for him, told him what had happened.
Ashamed, wretched, he nearly collapsed—he himself was fifty at
the time and suffered from a heart condition. He was obsessed with
his sister, you see; an obsession strengthened by the fact that she
was locked away from him.

"We recommended abortion—for the mother's sake, since we
could no longer give her the chemicals she needed to ease her
condition without risking harm to the unborn child. The brother
refused to give his consent. He believed that this pregnancy was a
punishment, a judgment from God on his sins. The brother promised to
care for the infant when it was born. Then he left. He did not visit
his sister, though she was wild to see him. He never came to her
again."

The doctor stared out the window; her face grew grave.

"That was a terrible time. The worst I would ever know, until
the Revolution. All during her pregnancy, the woman had to be kept
under constant surveillance, often physically restrained, to prevent
her from harming herself or others. At first her thoughts were
centered on her brother. Then, fortunately—or so we thought at
the time—she focused her attention on her unborn child. The
mention of her baby would often calm her when nothing else would.

"The birth was difficult for her. But the child—a boy—was
healthy and strong. We informed the brother immediately, as we had
promised, and the day following the baby's birth a man—one of
the brother's most loyal and trusted friends— arrived to take
the baby away.

"Perhaps his removal of the baby was all for the best." The
doctor sighed. "I knew the child could not be left in the
mother's care, of course, but her mental condition had seemed to
improve during the later stages of her pregnancy, and I was hoping
that maybe a few months spent with her baby might ef-feet a permanent
change for the better. I still think it might have. I was never to
know.

"I resumed the woman's chemical treatment immediately, but the
difficulty of the delivery, the trauma of losing her baby and her
dearly loved brother, were too much. Though we did everything
possible, she wasted away before our eyes and eventually died."

The doctor looked around at them all. None had moved or spoken,
beyond Fideles's brief exclamation of shock.

"As you might guess," the doctor said softly, "I held
myself responsible. The tragedy haunted me. I submitted my
resignation, but the administrators persuaded me to stay on. Then
came the Revolution. I was not on duty that night, when the soldiers
entered the hospital. They rounded up all the patients and staff
members, loaded them aboard shuttles, and took them God knows where.
To their deaths, we were told later. Certainly I never saw or heard
of any of them again.

"I was warned that they were searching for me, since my mother
was Blood Royal. I was so despondent, I considered turning myself in.
A very dear friend convinced me that I had no right to throw away my
life, which could be of service to others. The only way to save
myself was to put the past completely out of my mind. I did so. He
and I fled off-planet. We were married; I changed my name, acquired a
new identity. I refused to let myself think about the past, until I
was forced to do so, when the young king came to power."

The doctor's gaze shifted to Penitent, as if she thought he might be
the only one to understand.

"A few months ago, when I learned I was dying, I began to have
dreams about the wretched woman and her child. I saw the boy in my
dreams—not as he was, a babe in arms—but as a man. He
came to me, night after night. He said nothing, but he cast a shadow
over my soul, blotted out the light. He stood before me, his hand
uplifted, and I knew that he was blocking my way to the next life. I
could not die in peace until I made my peace with him. The only way I
can help him is to tell my story. I am the only one left alive who
knows it, you see."

"But surely the hospital's records—" Fideles began.

"We falsified them," said the doctor. "The brother
commanded it, and he had the power and the authority to see to it
that his command was carried out. And it was not a great crime."
The doctor smiled wanly. "We merely wrote unknown in the space
under
Name of Natural Father.
We did it for our patient's
sake, not for his. If someone had found out the truth, she might have
been in terrible danger. As it turned out, it didn't matter. All
records were destroyed. All those who knew the truth disappeared the
night of the Revolution."

The doctor exhaled softly, turned to the archbishop. "Holiness,
I want ... I must . . . tell
you
the truth. I want to tell you
the name. I have not told anyone else except the sister, during my
confession. She convinced me that I should reveal this to you."

She glanced at Sister Superior, who indicated her agreement.

Fideles had formed an idea, but he couldn't believe it, hoped against
hope that he was wrong. It was too ghastly, too dreadful.

"Of course I will hear it, if this will give you ease...."

"I must tell you first, Holiness, that I have kept silent all
these years because to do otherwise would have been to betray the
oath I took when I became a doctor to keep my patients' secrets in
confidence. I kept the secret while both of them still lived. But
they are dead now, and no harm can come to them if I continue to keep
their secret . . . and great harm might come to the living."

"I understand, Doctor," said Fideles, an aching of dread in
his breast.

He looked at Penitent, wondered what he was thinking, but the robed
figure sat unmoving, hands folded in his sleeves, head covered and
face concealed in the shadows.

"The woman's name was Jezreel. Her brother's name was Amodius,"
said the doctor calmly, quietly. "Amodius Starfire. Late king,
former ruler of the galaxy."

They all sat still and quiet, souls subdued, troubled by the sad and
sordid tale of incestuous love, tragic death, denial, and
concealment. They continued to remain motionless, each involved with
inner thoughts or—in the archbishop's case—a prayer to
God to forgive the sins of those He held now in His care, until the
doctor began to cough and exhibit signs of extreme fatigue. The
reverend mother was on her feet immediately, administering medicine,
assisting her patient back into her bed.

"We will take our leave," said the archbishop, about to
stand up.

A burning touch on his wrist caused him to flinch. He looked down,
astonished, to see Brother Penitent's fingertips on his forearm.

The lay brother's face was hidden in the shadows. His voice, when he
spoke, was low and halting. "A question."

"I am sorry, Brother," began Sister Superior, "but you
see that the doctor is quite unable—"

The doctor put aside the sister's ministering hands. "I can
answer," she said. "What is it, Brother?"

"The name of the man who took the child. You know that as well,
don't you? You would not have given up the baby to a stranger."

"You are right," said the doctor readily, though she seemed
perplexed by the question. "We knew the man by name and by
sight. And we ran various tests, to double-check his identity—eye
scan, DNA analysis. He was who he said he was. Not that we had much
doubt. He was quite well-known. His name was Pantha. The famous
planetary explorer. Garth Pantha."

Brother Penitent said nothing more. The doctor lay back on her
pillows, weary but at peace.

Fideles rose, came to stand beside her, rested his hand on her wasted
one. "You have done what was right. 'O send out thy light and
thy truth, that they may lead me. . . .'
Dominicus tecum.
God
be with you, daughter."

"He is, Holiness. And," the doctor added, looking up at him
intently, "you have my permission to tell the king, if you think
it wise."

"Rest now," said Sister Superior gently.

Fideles followed the reverend mother out of the room. Brother
Penitent came silently behind, his hands once again folded in the
sleeves of his robes. Outside, in the corridor, Sister Superior sent
the nurse back to sit with the patient.

The hallway was empty; the three were alone.

The Reverend Mother looked from the archbishop to the lay brother.
She clasped her hands tightly. "What do you think, Holiness?"

Fideles sighed, shook his head. "I believe her. Watching her,
listening to her—it is difficult not to. Still, parts of it
seem hardly creditable. The man in the dream—"

"Hallucination," said Sister Superior. "Such things
are not uncommon, considering the nature of this disease. Add to that
a guilty conscience, a terrible secret that has obviously been
preying on her mind."

Brother Penitent stirred. Fideles looked at him hopefully, thinking
he might have something to say that would clarify this strange tale.
But Penitent remained silent.

"Is there any way to verify her story?" Fideles asked,
glancing again at Brother , Penitent.

He made no response.

Sister Superior shook her head. "I don't see how. As she said,
the records were destroyed, and they had been falsified to begin
with. I know this is presumptuous of me to ask, Holiness, but will
you tell the king?"

"I do not know, Reverend Mother," said Fideles. "I
cannot see that spreading such a tale would serve any useful purpose.
I must ask for God's guidance in this matter."

Sister Superior nodded once, abruptly. "I will add my prayers to
yours, Holiness. I will show you out now. This way, please."

The reverend mother took leave of them at the front entrance.

"God be with us," she said.

"May He indeed," responded Brother Penitent grimly and
unexpectedly.

Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course of
the dice. . . I play my game to the end in spite of words . . .

Charles Dickens,
Little Dorrit

The flight to Hell's Outpost was uneventful, not because Tusk wanted
it to be, but because he didn't have any choice in the matter. He
spent most of the trip lounging around on either the couches or the
beds that the couches converted into, admiring Cynthia's skills as a
pilot and Don's ability to drink scotch, all the while trying to
forget that a vacuum cleaner would just as soon shoot him as sweep
the rugs.

Tusk had endeavored to figure out how Mrs. Mopup worked, hoping in
this way to be able to come up with a plan to thwart the lethal
little 'bot. But he was forced to give up. If he'd had access to
XJ-27, he might have accomplished the task, but he wasn't permitted
anywhere near the cockpit: It upset Mrs. Mopup.

Near as Tusk could figure out, the 'bot apparently locked on to him
and Link in a manner similar to that of a heat-seeking missile. But
how could it tell the difference between the two of them and good old
Don and Cynthia? Was it really distinguishing between certain body
temperatures, heartbeats, brain waves ... a combination of all three
. . . none of the above? Tusk hadn't a clue.

He couldn't discuss it with Link; the two of them were only permitted
to talk together for a few moments each day. They were forced to
sleep in shift's—one awake while the other slept, presumably so
as not to task Mrs. Mopup's patience. Although, Tusk noted sourly,
the 'bot had given every appearance of being fully capable of dealing
with both of them.

"Oh, yes, quite capable," said Don, downing scotch. "But
it puts a strain on her."

Don and Cynthia continued to be friendly, outgoing, willing to talk
about anything except the only subjects in which Tusk was interested:
Who are you really? Why are you doing this? And what exactly is it
that you're doing?

The two knew a lot about Tusk—that much became obvious almost
immediately after they'd left Vangelis.

Keeping a wary eye on the ever-observant Mrs. Mopup, Tusk was
lounging near the cockpit as close as he could get—which was
standing on the deck above it, staring down at it wistfully.

Cynthia had just ordered a subdued and chastened XJ to find a Lane
that would take them to Hell's Outpost.

Tusk, overhearing, spoke up. "Say, my wife's gonna be worried as
hell when I'm not back tonight like I was supposed to be. Why don't
you let me call her, tell her I'm going to be late? You two can
listen in on the conversation. She's six months pregnant and—"