Deathstalker Legacy (58 page)

“All that lives is holy,” said the robot.

“So I’m told,” said Finn.

 

Douglas Campbell put aside his Crown and kingly robes when he went to see Donal Corcoran, the only survivor of the Terror’s arrival. He had a strong feeling that the official trappings of King and Speaker wouldn’t get him anywhere with a man who everybody agreed was now as crazy as a bag of weasels.

No one was quite sure exactly what was wrong with Donal Corcoran. Two doctors had actually threatened to fight a duel over their diagnoses, until Douglas had his men forcibly separate them. Corcoran exhibited definite symptoms of hysteria, delusion, depression, compulsive-obsessive disorders, mania, and mood swings so rapid you could get serious whiplash just trying to follow them. His intellect was intact, but strangely warped, his thoughts often chasing abruptly off in directions that even the most experienced scientific observers had trouble following. His emotions were clearly out of control. He laughed and cried a lot, sometimes simultaneously, for no obvious reason, and his reactions to some people and conditions could be violently extreme. To himself, as well as others. The doctors doped him with every medication under the sun, to no useful effect. He could be quiet and calm and lucid; and then the theories he expressed on the possible nature of the Terror gave even the most hardened analysts nightmares.

Several doctors had had to retire from the case, hurt, three had retired to start their own religions, and one had had a mystical epiphany and a sex change. Everyone currently working with Donal Corcoran got hazard pay. Direct exposure to the man was strictly limited, and all admittance papers to the institution where he was being held were stamped ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

No one had expected Corcoran to survive his dreadful experiences unscathed, of course. But it was becoming more and more vital that the nature and extent of his change be understood, before the Terror appeared again. Douglas in particular needed to know whether Corcoran’s unique condition was the result of stress, strain, and shock . . . or whether Corcoran was the inevitable result of even long-range contact with the Terror. The populations of the attacked Rim worlds had been driven insane by the presence of the Terror’s appalling heralds, but Corcoran had been right at the edge of the solar system, racing towards hyperspace and safety. He should have been out of range, and safe . . . but he had looked back, through his probes, and seen the Gorgon. He had looked into the face of the Medusa. Could just that have been enough to make Corcoran into something other than human? Douglas needed to know.

He had other worries too. All across the Empire, worlds in the line of the Terror’s projected approach path were spending every credit they had, or could borrow, on upgrading their planetary defense systems to the maximum limit. They were buying attack ships, weapons and orbiting mines and force shields, and every defensive and offensive safeguard known to Humanity. Some were even pinning their hopes on strange unproven devices of alien origin. The Rim worlds’ defenses had been no use at all, but then, they’d been far short of state of the art.

When the Recreated were freed from their awful state by the blessed Owen, their humanity and their planets restored in a moment, they were of course hundreds of years behind everyone else. And even after two centuries of determined self-improvement, and a hell of a lot of Imperial grant money, they still hadn’t caught up entirely. So an awful lot of worlds were planning to protect themselves with cutting-edge weapons tech, and to hell with what it cost them. What did the future matter? If the Terror came and found them wanting, none of them would have a future.

Douglas wasn’t convinced any of this would help. Neither were most of these worlds’ representatives in the House. But if it kept people busy, and offered them a modicum of hope and security . . . better economic stupidity than mass panic. Douglas, however, remembered the most important lesson of Empire. First: know thine enemy. So he decided he needed to see Donal Corcoran for himself, hear what the man had to say firsthand. He didn’t tell the House. They’d just throw a major hissy fit at the prospect of the King putting himself into possible danger, and order him not to go. So he decided not to worry them, and go anyway. He didn’t even tell Anne.

Armed guards, heavy-duty tanglefields and force shields, and even a few portable disrupter cannon guarded the asylum holding Donal Corcoran, as much to keep people out as keep him in. The media had been using every trick in the book to try and get to him, and there were any number of fanatical groups and individuals ready to use any method to force their way in. Some wanted to kill Corcoran, in case he was somehow infected by the Terror and had brought its evil back with him. Some claimed he was a judas goat, leading the Terror to its prey. Some wanted to worship him, for being touched by God. Some wanted to kidnap and interrogate him, in the hope of learning useful information about the Terror, which they could then sell to the threatened worlds. And a few wanted to marry him. People will do the craziest things . . . if they’re scared enough.

Douglas wasn’t crazy enough to go in there alone. He’d felt the need for specialist help on this one. So he contacted the oversoul, and they sent him a top-level telepath to assist and protect him. This turned out to be a tall strapping brunette who dressed in sweeping black silks, and sported jet black lips and heavy eye makeup. She also wore a bandolier of silver throwing stars, carried a disrupter on her hip, and had steel-toe-capped boots. She was at least a head taller than Douglas, and radiated so much sheer presence that when she walked into a room it felt like everyone else had just left. Running. Her name was Crow Jane, her gaze was disturbingly direct, and she had a voice just dripping with rough, smoky sensuality. If nothing else, Douglas was pretty sure she’d get Corcoran’s attention.

“If you’re going to talk to the survivor, you’re going to need heavy-duty protection,” Crow Jane said, very directly, even before they’d finished shaking hands. “We’re not going to take any chances with this guy. I’ve been studying the reports. I don’t think it’s safe for normal minds to spend too much time in his company. Madness on this scale can be contagious. Especially when it’s something new.”

“Really? How interesting,” said Douglas, just to be saying something. “I’ll have to depend on you, then, to keep his thoughts out of my head. I need to get some answers out of him. What do you think our chances are?”

“Oh, we’ll get answers,” Crow Jane said easily. “Whether they’ll mean anything, though . . . Just because he believes what he’s saying when he says it doesn’t make it true. Or useful. The reports say he likes to talk, in fact they often have trouble stopping him. The trick is to get him to respond to what you’re saying. And I hate to disappoint you, but there’s going to be distinct limits to what I can see of his thoughts. I doubt very much that he’ll be able to keep me out, but . . . what’s in his head may make sense only to him. And I can’t risk digging too deep, or too long. Madness is dangerous. Insanity can be very . . . seductive. It can suck you in. I could end up trapped inside his head, unable to get out. So if you ask me to do something, and I say no; don’t push. And if I say we have to go; we go, at speed. Is that clear?”

“I asked for a top-level telepath,” said Douglas.

“And that’s what you got. Most espers wouldn’t go anywhere near Donal Corcoran, and quite rightly. They’d probably end up with their brains dribbling out of their ears. I can protect you from him, and I should be able to peek past his defenses. Settle for that.”

“I need information from him. Things only he knows.”

Crow Jane shrugged. “He won’t be able to knowingly lie to me, but I can’t make him tell me what he doesn’t know.”

“How about things he may have chosen to forget, because they’re too painful or too frightening?” said Douglas.

“Depends how deep he’s buried them. Some traumas can be so painful, so terrible, that the victim would rather die than remember. I can push him in the right direction, but . . . I’m an esper, not a miracle worker. Despite what some of the tabloid media shows would have you believe.”

Douglas sighed. “It’s going to be a long, hard morning, isn’t it?”

“Got that right,” said Crow Jane.

 

Douglas’s authority and charm got them through the various levels of security at the asylum fairly quickly, until he and Crow Jane ended up in the quietly comfortable office of Corcoran’s current analyst, Dr. Oisin Benjamin. It was a bright and cheerful office, with sunshine streaming through the open window. It had the usual desk and couch and book-lined walls, and everything was plush and cozy and agreeable. In fact, the only uncomfortable thing in the office was Dr. Benjamin. His handshake was weak, his smile was unsteady, and he had a slight but definite twitch in one eye. Not uncommon signs in someone who’d been exposed to Donal Corcoran on a regular basis. The doctor responded a little to Douglas’s practiced charm, but Crow Jane clearly upset him. Especially when she sat cross-legged in midair rather than perch on the straight-backed visitor’s chair. After that, the doctor did his best to ignore her and direct all his remarks to Douglas. They sat facing each other across Dr. Benjamin’s desk, while the good doctor fiddled constantly with a lethal-looking letter opener.

“Donal Corcoran,” he said abruptly. “Yes. A very unusual man. Quite remarkable. And, so far, entirely unresponsive to every traditional form of treatment. He’s not interested in therapy. Hell, after time with Donal, most of our therapists require therapy. Medication doesn’t work. We’ve dosed him with every drug we’ve got and a few we imported specially, on dosages that would mellow out a Grendel, and he just laughs at us. He has a very unsettling laugh. Like he knows things we don’t. Things no sane man would want to know. We’ve had him here for, what, ten days now? And we’re still no nearer understanding what’s wrong with him. Whatever he saw, or felt, out there on the Rim, your Majesty; he can’t or won’t tell us. And we have no way of making him.”

“What about his dreams?” said Douglas. “Do they tell you anything?”

“He doesn’t sleep,” said Dr. Benjamin. “Ever. In fact, according to my predecessors’ notes, Donal hasn’t closed his eyes since we got him here. Normally, such a long period of sleep deprivation would be enough to drive a man seriously psychotic, but with Donal . . . He says he won’t sleep, in case the Terror creeps up on him. It’s my belief he’s holding sleep at bay through sheer willpower. Which shouldn’t be possible, but, well . . . Donal does a lot of things he shouldn’t be able to do. He can hear what people are saying about him, even when they whisper. Even when they’re in the next room. And sometimes he gives answers to questions we haven’t even asked yet.”

Crow Jane perked up at that. “Has he been tested for telepathy, or other esper abilities?”

Dr. Benjamin still wouldn’t look at her, addressing his reply to Douglas. “We ran all the usual tests, of course. None of the results made a blind bit of sense.”

Crow Jane frowned. “Why didn’t you contact the oversoul? We would have sent you an expert.”

“Donal’s condition is extreme enough already, without exposing him to esper meddling!” snapped Dr. Benjamin.

“Ah well,” said Crow Jane. “As long as there’s a scientific reason . . .”

“But you have no objection to my seeing him?” Douglas said quickly. “With my associate?”

The doctor shrugged unhappily. “You must do as you think best, your Majesty. At your own risk, of course. I’ll call for someone to take you to Donal. As soon as his current visitor has left . . .”

Douglas looked at him sharply. “He already has a visitor? I was under the impression no one else had been cleared to see him!”

“Well, no, but this was Angelo Bellini. You know; the Angel of Madraguda himself. Charming fellow. Came all the way here, in person, just to make sure that Donal’s spiritual needs were being ministered to. He . . . gave me to understand that he had official consent. Doesn’t he?”

“No,” Douglas said grimly. “He bloody doesn’t.”

 

Donal Corcoran was being kept in a maximum-security psycho ward, though he probably didn’t realize that. People tended to add the word
probably
to whatever they said about Corcoran, because no one could be sure what he was and wasn’t aware of. It tended to vary, suddenly and without notice. Certainly his surroundings didn’t look like any kind of hospital ward, or cell, even though they were very definitely both. Corcoran was supposed to believe he was being looked after in a secure country manor house, with wide-ranging gardens for him to walk in. A lot of effort had gone into providing him with the illusion of freedom. In fact, most of it was comprised of holos, backed up with concealed force screens in case he tried to wander off. The illusion was really very convincing, backed up with state-of-the-art sight and sound, right down to all the correct scents of a garden in full bloom. Birds seemed to sing, insects seemed to buzz, and refreshing breezes came and went on a regular basis. Certainly the pleasant summer heat felt entirely convincing to Angelo Bellini as he strolled through the gardens with Donal Corcoran, talking quietly of this and that.

The Angel had come as a representative of the official Church; ostensibly to offer Corcoran spiritual comfort in his time of trial, but actually to try and enlist him into the Cause. If Corcoran could be persuaded to join and endorse the Church Militant, and thus Pure Humanity, the general public could then be persuaded to associate joining the new Church with standing against the Terror. Which could in turn be par-layed into increased political power. Angelo had come up with the idea all on his own. Bringing Corcoran into the new Church would be a major coup, for the Church Militant and for him. But it was proving . . . very hard work.

Corcoran didn’t always seem to hear what Angelo said to him, and even when he did his responses suggested he didn’t care. Physically, his presence was disturbing, and even actually distressing. Corcoran was still wearing his old spacer’s uniform, ragged and filthy, because he’d hospitalized the last three orderlies who’d tried to persuade him to change them for regulation hospital issue. He hadn’t washed or shaved or even combed his hair since he arrived, and he smelled really bad. He looked like a wild man, openly contemptuous of all the usual civilized proprieties. He talked in long, jagged speeches that tended to wander around the point without ever actually touching on it. He was constantly distracted by everything around him, and sometimes by things that weren’t, and Angelo was finding it an uphill struggle just to keep Corcoran’s attention. He tried to keep the strain out of his face and his voice, and persevered.