House of the Wolf (Book Three of the Phoenix Legacy) (7 page)

For this reason, I hesitated at giving that order, but I had to face the fact that a special element of danger exists on Mars. With the possibility of failure in the habitat systems foremost in my mind, I ordered the evacuation of all but key Concord personnel from the ten Martian cities. I also ordered evacuation of all but key personnel allieged to the House of Daro Galinin and advised other Lords with holdings on Mars to do likewise.

I’m pleased to inform you that the evacuation is being carried out by Confleet, with the assistance of the Selasid InterPlan System fleets, in an orderly fashion, with very little panic or confusion. Terran, Polluxian, and Lunar Conpol units have been brought in to aid the Martian units in maintaining order and preventing potential looting in evacuated areas, and a full Confleet wing has been dispatched to assist in containing the violence still in progress.

I can also report at this time that the uprisings have been entirely contained in three Martian cities: Almath, Chryse, and Rubivale. Some violence still persists in other cities, but the worst of it is centered in Toramil, where Conpol and Confleet forces are concentrating on an offensive sweep to isolate the insurgents.

I would also like to mention that Lord Cameroodo has refused to leave Toramil or evacuate anyone allieged to his House, and in this he demonstrates a positive attitude that all citizens of the Concord would do well to emulate.

Let me assure you, strong measures have been taken to control these disturbances. There is no cause for panic or uncertainty. Above all, I must emphasize that the evacuation is a
temporary
measure, and primarily a
precautionary
one. And let me further assure you that the Directors and all Concord officials are keeping themselves alert and fully informed on every aspect of these disturbances, and that every available resource is being brought to bear to bring them to a swift conclusion.

I ask all citizens of the Concord to remain calm and to refrain from listening to, or spreading, unfounded rumors. We are passing through a troubled era in history, but the Concord has survived greater perils. The times demand courage and faith. The Concord wasn’t built by cowards and pessimists; courage and faith are our heritage from its founders, our forefathers. Remember, we are the forefathers of future generations. They must find inspiration in us as we do in our predecessors.

And now, I ask that each of you add your prayers to mine; I ask you to pray with me for an end to the dissension and for the restoration of order and reason.

May the All-God and the Holy Mezion grant us all peace.

(
Pan: Full view of office
.)

(
Music: Final chorus, Hymn of the Concord
.)

(
Cut to exterior: Fountain of Victory. Overlap and fade to studio and announcer
.)

ANNOUNCER
: You have just heard an address by the Lord Mathis Daro Galinin, Chairman of the Directorate. Stay tuned for an updated report on the Martian uprisings with a special feature on the arrival of the first evacuees in Concordia, Norleans, Coben, and Tokio.

“Cameroodo is collapsing! Mars will soon be lost, my friends! Lost! The Concord totters on the brink of chaos, and our time is coming!”

Predis Ussher gripped the railing of the comcenter deck with both hands as if to brace himself against the tangible power of the massed cheers that surged up from the sea of faces, beating against the stone walls, crashing against his ears like a tumbling surf. He stood alone on the deck, resplendent in his blue-and-gold uniform, looking out over the close-packed, blue-clad crowd, at the open mouths, the waving arms, the boundless joy and hope.

They were his. They
believed
.

Nearly five thousand men and women crowded the hangar, like a blue sea around the black islands of the ships that waited to lift off toward their destiny of conquest and victory.

The people were with him, one with him, extensions of his mind and body. Not even Erica Radek, standing near the deck, watching as she always did—not even she could quench his exaltation today, nor that of this multitude.

They were
his
, body and mind.

He raised his hands, and the sea subsided.

“My fellow members, the Lord Galinin asks the citizens of the Concord to pray, and well he might. He’ll
need
those prayers; he’ll
need
the All-God’s help. But for the Concord, it’s already too late. Mars is doomed! The evacuation has begun; the cities that once glittered in the midst of the red deserts will soon be as empty as the deserts themselves. Only Cameroodo, of all the proud Lords who held sway on Mars, remains to battle chaos to the end. He will not win that battle, my friends! He
cannot
win!”

The cheers exploded around him. His voice struck out into the rush of sound.

“Galinin seeks aid of the All-God, but I ask you, who does the All-God choose to favor? The Concord? Can you doubt whom the All-God chooses to bless when within twenty-four days of our offensive, Mars has erupted in violent uprisings demanding a concentration of Conpol and Confleet forces unprecedented since the War of the Twin Planets? The Concord is staggering, fighting with every available resource to save Mars. What will be left to join the battle to save Centauri? What except a shattered remnant of its vaunted fleets? And we will strike like a storm, without warning. We will rouse the silent, enchained masses, and they will swell our ranks by thousands, by millions! The people of Centauri will rise up and say to the proud Lords of the Concord—
no more
! We will live in your chains no more! We will set ourselves free, and the Republic will live again! The Peladeen did not die! Freedom did not die! Freedom is the Phoenix, the immortal bird rising from the ashes of death! The Republic of the Peladeen lives; it lives in victory!”

He lifted his arms, calling up the thunder of straining voices, turning slowly to encompass them in the beatitude of his outstretched hands, his head thrown back, flame-hued hair seemingly tossed in the storm wind.

And he shouted, “
Victory
!”

They took up the word hungrily, letting it give shape to their formless clamor, and as each voice found the word, it became a rolling, rhythmic tide, the three syllables pounding out in crashing cadences, drowning everything except that one word, drowning even Predis Ussher’s unleashed laughter.

“
Victory! . . . Victory! . . . Victory! . . . Victory
! . . .”

The white beads slipped through her fingers, one by one, her lips moved, tolling the silent minutes with prayers.

Val Severin knelt in the first row of pews, and before her the chapel altar vanished into distanced shadows; tiers of gilt saints and seraphim winged into the hallowed darkness that swallowed up the light of the altar candles. There wasn’t even enough light to trace the interlaced arches to their culmination above her, and in the cavernous spaces meant to hold the echoes of the orchestral organ, there was no sound except the whispers of her penances.

Her knees ached unmercifully against the stone floor, and yet she wondered sometimes if she didn’t unconsciously seek these hours of prayer penances. The solitude in this chapel was different from that of her small room; less constricting spatially, at least.

And easier. Face it, she admonished herself bitterly, in that room the transceiver was waiting, and she never thought she’d dread her few nocturnal minutes with Jael, but she did now, because every call meant admitting another day of failure.

I’m slipping, brother, slipping over the edge. Hold on to me. For the God’s sake, give me your hand. . . .

Forty days and nights behind these walls, twenty-six since Sister Betha’s death, since Alex Ransom’s surrender to pain and grief. And twenty-two until Concord Day. She tolled the days with her prayers, pale, lightless beads, moving one by one through her fingers, and with every day she felt herself slipping nearer the edge of some incomprehensible abyss—

“Sister Alexandra?”

The voice took her breath. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching. In all this huge silence, not a sound had reached her mind.

Sister Herma. That precise, clipped inflection was unmistakable. She stood in the aisle at the end of the pew. Val looked up at her, wondering as she always did what kind of face hid behind that veil.

“Yes, Sister Herma?”

“Did you know it’s past curfew?”

I
am
slipping, Val thought distractedly. She hadn’t even heard the chapel chimes ringing the curfew hour.

“No . . . I didn’t realize . . .”

“I think you’ve done penance enough to satisfy the All-God, my dear. You’d best get to bed now.”

Val rose, teeth set against the pain in her knees. At the aisle, she genuflected toward the altar, touching the first two fingers of her right hand to her forehead, then her heart, executing every movement carefully with Sister Herma looking on. Then she turned and nodded respectfully.

“Good night, Sister Henna. Lord bless.”

“Good night.” A hesitation just long enough for Val to take three steps up the aisle. “Sister Alexandra . . .”

Val turned warily. “Yes, Sister?”

“You know, my dear, I’ve been wondering if—well, if you’ve really found your answer at Saint Petra’s. Many young women who come here find the convent
isn’t
the answer for them, and there are so many ways to serve the All-God and the Holy Mezion outside the convent.”

Val stared through the haze of her veil, restraining the impulse to tear away that other veil. Herma wanted to put her out of Saint Petra’s. She was suggesting with her usual blunt subtlety that Val leave voluntarily.

Never
.

She almost spoke the word aloud. You’ll have to throw me out first. Not until I’ve accomplished my mission here, until
I’ve
finished with Saint Petra’s, until . . .

She said meekly, “Sister Herma, I’m here because I found no other way that satisfied me to serve the All-God and the Holy Mezion. I’m sorry I seem to cause you so much trouble; I don’t mean to, and I’m trying to learn the ways of Faith.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are, my dear, but it seems to be so difficult for you.”

“I never expected it to be easy, but I haven’t given up, and I would hope the Holy Mezion hasn’t given up on me so soon. He always answers my prayers with hope.”

Herma’s sigh whispered in the shadows. “Then that’s as it should be. Good night, Alexandra. Lord bless.”

Val bowed her head and turned. “Good night, Sister Herma.”

She felt the eyes behind that veil on her every step of the long passage up the aisle. She walked circumspectly, restraining the overwhelming urge to break into a run, to escape those unseen, all-seeing eyes, her hands clasped under her sleeves, so tightly interlocked, they tingled numbly. The distance seemed lengthened by the night shadows; demons of frustration and fear seemed to flit on the periphery of her vision. At length she reached the ponderous, carved-wood doors that pivoted on rumbling hinges, willfully resisting her trembling muscles. She heard a muffled whimper as she pushed them shut, and didn’t at first realize it was in her own throat. The doors closed with a dull thud, and she stood with her back against them, both hands in fists pressed to her forehead, shivering as if the darkness were cold; the veil suffocated her.

I’m slipping, slipping. Jael—oh, Jael, help me. . . .

Her hands locked on her koyf; she jerked it off with the veil and cape, tossing her hair free. Before her, the long, arched hall, dimly lighted at amber intervals with stabile shimmeras, stretched to a dark infinity, and she began running toward it, koyf and veil clenched in one hand, the other holding back the snare of skirts, the beat of her footfalls quieted by the soft-soled shoes.

The shimmeras made dull streaks on her retina, her heart pounded ever faster with her footsteps, the habit beat about her legs, billowed behind her. The stairway. Soft footsteps pounding against stone, jarring through bone and flesh from heel to skull. The stairs turned. For every level, three right-angle turns. Stone steps, dished with dead footsteps; two centuries of dead footsteps.

Three turns. An empty, soundless hallway. Three more, step upon step. Hot pain shot along her leg muscles, hissed out with every breath; the amber lights jigged in the reddening shadows. Three more turns to the third level. Nine steps; turn. Three steps; turn. Nine more to make the holy number three sevens.

Jael, brother . . . help me
.

She faltered on the seventeenth step, fell on the eighteenth, hands bruised on the twenty-first, and that was all that stopped her head from smashing against the stone tier.

She lay in a heap of pain, every panting breath burning, her cheek against the stone, cold and wet with tears. It was a long time before she could hear anything for the pounding of her heart and her gasping breaths; a long time before she could be sure no one else had heard the intolerable sounds of running feet, of panting breath, of weeping.

If Sister Herma heard it, if she found her here like this—

Val pulled herself up slowly into a sitting position on the top step and put her back against the stone wall while she delved into a pocket for a handkerchief.

To hell with Sister Herma.

At any rate, it was past curfew. Henna and the other Sisters charged with maintaining the purity of Saint Petra’s novices would have completed their curfew rounds. They never made a second check.

Val wiped her tear-wet face and blew her nose as quietly as possible. She was still shaking and her eyes felt swollen shut.

Panic. It was that simple, and this wasn’t the first time it had gotten the best of her. She was walking a tightrope with the medication: calmers to keep her from going hysterical; drenaline to keep her going in general, to compensate for the sleep lost every night while reviewing monitored conversations or to stubborn insomnia.

Val rested her head against the wall and looked down the empty, doorless hall. At a distance of five meters, a shimmera cast a gloomy pool of light. Finally, she pulled her skirt up over one knee; a watch was strapped there. She couldn’t depend on the chapel chimes; occasionally she needed to know minutes, not just hours.