Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

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 parlayed 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