Chapter 25
London House... 5 November 2001
Sloan looked around the crowded meeting room. He remembered it as a golden, cheery room, a favorite during his days as Ruling Precept, but with the great, mullioned windows shuttered against the afternoon sun, the honey colored paneling and velvet drapes had taken on an oppressively sinister feel. He took a deep breath, which didn't seem nearly deep enough, and studied the faces around the horseshoe-shaped table.
The entire Ruling Council was present, along with numerous "advisors" and sundry other high-ranking, desk jockeys.... They might as well have hung out a sign... "No peasants allowed."
One of Derek's former flames, Clare Spencer, occupied what had once been Sloan's own seat as Ruling Precept. He wondered... would she give Derek the benefit of the doubt or automatically assume the worst. On the surface their relationship had seemed to end amicably, but had it really? She had been a part of the tribunal that had tried to oust Derek a few years ago. She had scraped through with only a minor inconvenience to her career, but it had cost Sir Edmund Tremayne his position as Ruling Precept. William smiled at the thought. It had been that Derek-engineered debacle that had prized open Sloan's own way to the Ruling Precept's office. He'd often wondered if Derek had planned it that way.
Pretending to peruse his papers, he studied Clare's enigmatic face. Ever since her appointment, she had remained quietly in the background... bowing to Loxley Millard's position and allowing Cross to gain greater power. Was she under someone's thumb? What debts did she owe? She hadn't been one expected to rise to the level of London House. Had she been a hasty compromise candidate, he mused... selected to fill the void after his own mysterious disappearance. Had she been selected because she'd agreed to "lie down and play dead"?
Jesus... London House always had been a viper pit of political intrigue. How did they ever manage to fight the Darkside, when they were always so obsessed with fighting each other. Again he glanced around the table. His heart sank.... This kangaroo court would have Derek hung out to dry... and his pockets picked... by the end of the day. Though most of the Council were decent, caring human beings, they had tended towards academic and administrative careers... mere pawns... while the game-players ruled the chessboard. Not many "foot soldiers" amongst the lot, Sloan considered ruefully... not many who knew the "real" dangers to mind and soul... probably because most of those... the real warriors... died young, before elevation to the Council was an option. "Wonder how I've managed to last so long?" he muttered to himself.
The sound of the gavel roused him from his thoughts. Sir James Loxley Millard had risen from his seat at the center of the table. Again he banged sharply with the wooden mallet. "As President of the Ruling Council, I now call this extraordinary session to order." The old man's cut-glass accent rang round the claustrophobic chamber. The many whispered conversations yielded to silence.
"In time honored tradition...." He paused to clear his throat and cast a hard stare in Sloan's direction. "We have two litigants pleading their respective cases. Mr. Cross, our Chief Investigator, will be arguing for the permanent committal into a suitable mental facility of Dr. Derek Rayne, former precept of the San Francisco House, and the consequential termination of his seniority and position within the Legacy, as well as removal of his legal authority to act as the controller of the Luna Foundation. Since Dr. Rayne is unable to plead for himself, the Council has appointed William Sloan to act as his defending litigant."
Sloan was quickly on his feet. "Point of order, sir," he interrupted, leaning over the table. "It is my contention that this Council has no right to consider this issue.... Dr. Rayne voluntarily admitted himself to the hospital.... Only a legally constituted Medical Board has the jurisdiction to overrule that.... Moreover, neither this... nor any other Legacy body... has the authority to involve itself in the affairs of the Luna Foundation. The Legacy is a beneficiary of the foundation, not a part of its hierarchy."
"Sit down, Mr. Sloan," Loxley Millard said gruffly as he resumed his own seat. "A precept of your experience knows full well that we of the Legacy are bound by our own rules and conventions.... Those same rules were handed down by our founders... and have stood the test of time. When we are initiated into the society, we agree to submit ourselves to those rules... and it is by those rules that all are judged. For Derek Rayne to be beyond their jurisdiction he must leave the Legacy.... Considering his extensive 'arrangements', I suspect he would have already done so... had that been his desire. Do you wish act in his behalf now? Do you wish to withdraw the name of Derek Rayne from the rolls of Legacy membership?"
"No, dammit!" Sloan sat down angrily, knowing that Loxley Millard was right... Derek would have resigned, if he'd wished to do so. With a screech, he pulled his chair closer to the table. He had been sure that ploy would fail this early in the proceedings, but had felt obliged to try. He would keep trying... keep objecting... doing anything and everything to show those on the tribunal who might still be their own men... and women... how the cards had been stacked and played against Derek. Surely some had to be honest and fair, rather than dilettantes and money-grabbing kiss-asses.... Still, even the fair, would think with their heads, not their hearts... and Derek's position was extremely weak.
"Good," said Loxley Millard, "then we shall proceed.... Mr. Cross... if you please."
Sloan glanced down the table and was rewarded with a small, encouraging nod from Fr. Thomas, the only vote he could truly count on. Seated beside the old priest, he noticed the Vicomte de Foix, scribbling away on a notepad. Now there's the biggest dilettante of the lot!... Probably planning his next holiday, Sloan thought bitterly.
Across the gulf, seated at the table's opposite wing, Cross cleared his throat, rose, and shuffled his papers. Finally, he pushed his glasses back up his nose and began to speak. "Firstly, let me assure you, members of the Council... and everyone present... that I take no pleasure in the facts I lay before you. To have such an illustrious member of the Legacy... from such a significant lineage... and long career... reduced to such a state is a tragedy."
Continuing, Cross looked Sloan full in the face. "A tragedy that might have been averted... if only Dr. Rayne's friends... and collaborators... had seen beyond their narrow, vested interests... and had arranged for him to be examined by Legacy medical practitioners... when the early symptoms of his illness were first manifested... instead of 'protecting' him and allowing him to run amok."
The Scotsman frowned. "But we are... where we are... and it will be my painful duty to describe the disintegration of a fine Legacy servant. I will present evidence that Dr. Rayne has frittered away vast sums of money on a home for juvenile prostitutes and drug addicts... a home he 'unwisely' shared with them... all underage, I might add... at the cost of his good reputation.... Evidence that he began to shirk his duties as a Legacy precept and allowed his House to suffer as a consequence. He absurdly got caught up in cheap... pornographic, television acting... behavior that I still, personally, find unbelievable."
Cross reached for a glass and took a large sip of water. His voice then took on a scandalised tone. "He actually appeared naked on television... numerous times."
Sloan bit back a smirk. What a condescending, little prig, he thought. He glanced around the Council and was pleased to see at least one or two of the members smiling at the thought of Derek Rayne, nude TV star.
The vicomte looked up from his note pad. His still youthful, freckled face bore an expression of absolute sincerity. "His costume was, at least, historically accurate.... That is... when he was wearing one...."
"I'm not sure about that," Fr. Thomas considered, aloud. "He looked like a gunslinger to me."
"Well...," de Foix countered, retaining his straight face and dry, historian's tone. "You must admit that... clothed or not... he did carry it off with a certain... panache... and... I may dye my hair red.... All the ladies found the shade quite fetching."
"I'm surprised they noticed," came a guffaw from the gallery seats behind Loxley Millard.
"Please continue, Mr. Cross," the Council's president directed, glaring round the table.
Cross nodded and collected his thoughts. "Dr. Rayne consorted with Ian Kincaid, a known traitor, expelled from this organisation. He recklessly put his own life at risk, stupidly allowing himself to be kidnaped... tortured... and possibly infected with the AIDS virus. He put the lives of his staff and his own family in jeopardy whilst they endeavored to rescue him.
"All of these sorry facts show the slow and steady disintegration of his mind... and the onset of the illness... which after his foolhardy participation in regrettable psychic, drug linked experiments in his youth... was almost inevitable.
"To his credit," Cross conceded, "Dr. Rayne appears to have recognised his predicament, even if his friends did not. He admitted himself into Wells Ward... a psychiatric establishment funded by the Luna Foundation... and the Legacy... for the housing of the victims of those same unfortunate, psychic experiments."
Cross laid his files on the table, then turned to directly face the Council. "I can produce evidence to support all these facts and have as my main witnesses the medical staff of St. Michael and St. George Hospital, who will testify to the fact that since his admission to Wells Ward, Dr. Rayne's mental state has deteriorated to such an extent that after violent, psychotic episodes, he has since lapsed into a semi-vegetative state from which he will not recover. He is incapable of functioning as a precept.... He is incapable of functioning as Chairman of the Luna Foundation." Cross paused. "In fact, he is totally incapable of acting in any capacity... as a functioning human being."
"Actually his 'acting' wasn't at all bad," Sloan muttered, apparently to himself, but intending that everyone would hear. He was gratified to note the wry smiles. That was the chink in Cross' armor. Hammer away at the Scotsman's pomposity and, perhaps, those with open, cynical minds would vote against him simply for the hell of it.
"This is not a laughing matter," Cross snapped angrily. His blue eyes flashed in Sloan's direction.
"The funding which the Luna Foundation controls is crucial to the Legacy's financial survival....
Without it we will be crippled... and as primary beneficiaries of a trust established by Winston
Rayne, specifically to fund this organization... we, legally and morally, have the right to present
our case... without interruption."
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