Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (20 page)

T
HE CONSOLE BUZZED.

“Admiral, there’s some disturbing news you ought to know.”

“Such as?”

“Well…it’s hard to explain,” stammered the Commander on the other end of the screen. “It looks like an epidemic, but there hasn’t been one…here…in ages…not with the air recirculators and purifiers.” Her eyes dropped along with her voice.

“What sort of epidemic? How widespread? New Augusta? Planetwide?”

“Not exactly, Admiral. Not exactly. So far ninety percent or more of those reported cases are Defense Ministry personnel.”

The Admiral looked squarely into the screen. The indirect lighting of her office had gradually brightened as the day had waned. The touches of gray in her dark hair looked silver, simultaneously gave her a harder appearance.

“Let me know if anything changes or if the outbreak should spread.”

She broke the connection.

The most senior officer of the Ministry of Defense of the Empire of Light stood away from her console, away from the five banners fanned on the inner wall, away from the gilt-framed honors on the side wall, and turned to look at the horizon to the east.

She wondered if Accord’s sun, invisible to the best of Terran optical telescopes, including the orbital observatory, would be above or below the visual horizon, were it visible.

“Accord…one man,” she whispered softly. “One man.”

The goal of a lifetime was gone. Perhaps she had never had it. Perhaps her daughter had been right all along.

She studied the plains grass below, then the darkening sky to the east.

Finally, she squared her shoulders and turned back to the console.

There was more to the Empire than the Rift, and more to the Ministry than the Eleventh Fleet.

Her fingers unstacked the messages, and she began to scan them as they flashed across the screen.

T
HE
E
COLITAN
E
NVOY
stood by the swivel and studied the plush office for at least the tenth time in the last hour.

The day had been long. No one had faxed. No messages on trade had arrived. No fax commentators had followed up on any previous events. Perhaps all the quiet had been for the best. Just in the past few hours had reports of a mysterious illness at the Ministry of Defense begun to surface.

The fax commentators had announced the tower was closed until the entire structure could be totally sterilized, and that all victims were being treated in isolated facilities. So far, there had been nearly a hundred fatalities, out of ten thousand cases discovered.

Nathaniel shook his head.

It had been so easy, and the Empire had been so secure in its smugness…and would probably continue to be—except for the few who knew. Knowing the ways of empires, he wondered if that knowledge would die with its possessors, until a generation from now no one would remember and Accord would again be faced with the same dilemma. Why did it always take sheer power?

Restraining power was always the hardest part. It would have taken far less effort to have decimated the entire population of New Augusta than it had to engineer the limited impact on the Ministry of Defense.

The private line buzzed, interrupting his self-probing.

He jabbed the accept stud.

“Lord Whaler.” He hated using the “Lord,” and it was all he could do to refrain from the simple “Whaler” he would have preferred.

The caller was Marcella Ku-Smythe. Nathaniel had never given her his private number, not that he recalled, at least.

“Lord Whaler?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering, upon reflection, how you saw the trade talks progressing.”

He shrugged, wondering what she wanted. “I have done what I could do to persuade the Empire. I hope those who count are persuaded, but after the strangeness with Mr. Weintre…”

“What strangeness?”

“Mr. Weintre, the Information Specialist, disappeared some days ago. When he was recently found, his memories were gone.”

“All of them?” Despite the question, her inquiry was matter-of-fact, as if she knew the answer and wanted to get to something else.

“He thinks he is eighteen standard years.”

Marcella’s always perfect hair was not, but slightly disarrayed, and a faint smudge showed beneath her left eye.

“I see.” She stopped, and the tip of her tongue touched her upper lip. “Lord Whaler…”

“Yes?”

“I feel that there may have been some misunderstanding. In no way would the Ministry of Commerce wish anything but a speedy resolution to the trade talks, and one which would be of mutual benefit.”

Nathaniel almost whistled. He was getting the closest thing to an apology possible from the always-efficient Marcella.

“Dear Lady,” he lied, “no misunderstanding. Your position and your efforts toward meaningful trade agreement have always been recognized, and for that I thank you and wish you well.”

While her face remained composed, the Ecolitan could sense her relief through the screen.

“At the same time,” he continued, “so far have I not seen any movement from the Empire.” He shrugged again. “And without such movement…”

“While I cannot promise anything personally, Lord Whaler, I would suspect that your terms are being studied carefully and that within a short time the Empire will respond positively and much along the lines you originally suggested. You have been most persuasive, I understand. Most persuasive.”

“Dear Lady, I do appreciate your call and your courtesy in keeping me informed.”

“Thank you, Lord Whaler.”

The screen blanked.

The Ecolitan frowned. Beneath the facade, the Lady had been upset. Upset indeed.

Then it clicked. Obviously, her mother the Grand Admiral had briefed her on the warning and on the ensuing epidemic. Perhaps the information would last more than a generation. Perhaps…but all he could do was wait. Wait and hope.

He decided against any more great debates, mentally filed the information, and locked up his office to retire to his private quarters.

Dinner would be whatever he could get out of the tiny kitchen, followed by a full night’s sleep. Sleep he was shorter on than food.

Still…after he finished the small salad and meat patty smothered in a too-sweet sauce, he sat and watched the tower lights from the small and private study, punctuated as they were by the occasional shuttle flare, until he was tired enough to head for his bed.

He woke refreshed, despite the recurrence of the nightmares about the death ships and the Imperial fleet.

This time, the Imperial Fleet Commander had been Marcella Ku-Smythe, except she’d been older and black haired. Doubtless, his subconscious was picturing her mother, Admiral Ku-Smythe.

What was her father like?

He dismissed the question as he got out of bed and staggered into the kitchen for a cup of liftea.

A melon supplied by hidden means followed the liftea.

Next came the hygienarium and a complete fresher.

After dressing, he settled behind the small console in the private study of his quarters, turning to watch the early morning clouds scatter and the golden sun lift a silver dew off the towers. As he looked out through the wide window, he marveled at the fact that the day was basically his.

No matter how he’d gotten steamed up about things, the Empire was on its weekend break, and negotiations would not be held. Period.

At the Institute, somehow, he’d never gotten into the habit of a regular division between work and play.

Still…his time on New Augusta would be limited. Should he go sight-seeing?

Alone? With whom?

Would Sylvia consider showing him some sights?

He recovered her card from his pouch and studied it, checking the time on the console.

Too early to call anyway.

He passed the next hour by studying the figures on the trade balances, mentally calculating the amount of increased Imperial tariffs Accord could absorb and which of its own tariffs Accord could realistically drop below the levels in the proposal to the Empire.

The parameters were simple enough, but he’d have to wait for the actual negotiations to see what the Empire might accept, assuming that Marcella was right and that he would see some progress in the next few days.

He put the papers back into his datacase and stretched.

Finally, after letting his fingers stray toward the console and onto the keystuds and pulling them back twice, he punched out the New Augusta directory on the screen, requesting the listing for Sylvia Ferro-Maine.

A single number was listed, Private Tower Orange.

He tapped out the number, wondering if she would stay on the screen once she saw his face.

The faxscreen chimed four times, but there was no answer and no recording.

Could she actually be at work?

He tried the Senator’s office.

“Senator Helmsworth’s office.”

The face that appeared on the screen was another woman, black, with curly brown hair, strong nose, and flashing teeth.

“Lord Whaler, from the Accord Legation. I was looking for Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“Just a moment, Lord Whaler.”

Sylvia appeared shortly, wearing her casual yellow-striped tunic, the top two buttons undone, and with her dark hair loose.

“Working are you?”

“We work most days, Lord Whaler.”

“Is there any chance that I could persuade you otherwise? To show me a few sights later in the day?”

“I’ll be tied up until early afternoon.”

“That would be fine. Early afternoon, I mean. Should I meet you somewhere?”

“Why don’t I meet you at your Legation around 1400. You have a duty officer who can call you?”

“There is one. Always,” he added ruefully.

“Then at 1400, dear Envoy.”

Nathaniel found himself staring at a blank screen.

He leaned back.

In the meantime, what could he do? Why was he so restless?

He let his eyes traverse the console.

Stir the pot with a few more anonymous tips?

He smiled. Snooped or not, his hidden watchers couldn’t stop his communications.

“Sam,” he began on the keyboard, “have you heard the latest about the Envoy from the black planet? His staff is losing their minds. At least one did, wiped all the way back to age eighteen, poor fellow. He’s the one who visited the Envoy’s office just before the fireworks exploded. Rumor has it that he was on three separate payrolls, and only one was Accord’s.”

Nathaniel knew it was weak, but it would keep Sam’s mind on the Accord issue and might get a phrase or two in the gossip section. He sent it off and found himself pacing around the study, which felt too small, looking at the time on the console, wanting 1400 to arrive.

He debated running through a workout but rejected the idea.

Compromising, he sat down back in front of the console and accessed historical information on New Augusta, deciding to see if he could learn anything new while he waited.

Surprisingly, the Empire apparently had no problem with open library files. The index alone was massive. That whetted his interest and encouraged him to dig in.

“Buzz!”

He barely resisted the urge to jump before tapping the plate on the screen.

“Lord Whaler?”

Heather was on the screen.

He looked for the time. 1407.

“Yes?”

“A lady in the reception area says you are expecting her.”

“Ms. Ferro-Maine? Ah, yes. I’ll be there shortly.”

He shut down the screen. So far he’d gotten through the founding of New Augusta and the events leading up to the creation of the Empire from the wreckage of the Second Federation.

Realizing he was still in a set of undress greens, he retreated to his bedroom for a quick change to a tan tunic and matching trousers.

Sylvia rose when he entered the reception area. Since the morning, she had changed into a short-sleeved, dark blue tunic trimmed with white, with corresponding slacks. The color imparted a fragile, almost elflike cast to her face.

“I understand you were hard at work.”

“Just background research. Not work.”

“Please don’t tell Courtney that,” she mock-pleaded.

“Our secret.” He looked over at Heather and shrugged. “When I will be back, I do not know.”

“Don’t worry, Lord Whaler.” The redhead smiled. “You need to enjoy yourself.”

As they stepped out into the corridor, he turned toward Sylvia. “Where would you suggest we begin?”

She came to a stop and faced him.

“What do you have in mind this time?”

He ignored the hint of bitterness in her tone.

“To look, to sightsee, perhaps to have some dinner at a place you suggest. Just to enjoy the afternoon. Or did I not make myself clear?” he asked.

“I wasn’t sure. Wanted to know where we stood. Have you seen the fire fountains at the Gallery?”

“I knew of neither. Where?”

“Let’s go. We’ll take the drop and the tunnel train. The Gallery is where the most noted art from all through the Empire is displayed. They change exhibits almost daily, and some of it is fascinating. There’s also a section of pre-Imperial art dating back to the dawn.”

She reached for his hand and half skipped, half ran down the corridor toward the drop shaft.

With the pace she set, it seemed only minutes before he was being dragged into the Gallery.

The circular main hall was larger than the receiving hall where he had met the Emperor and more than twice as high. In the center a bronze wall, fully three meters high, circled an area fifty meters across.

Behind and above the wall the fire fountains played, colors inter-weaving, shimmering, rising, falling—the rough image of a dying angel, superseded by the angry red bursts that suggested the usurpation of grace by a demon and the fall of the demon in turn.

Green, green, the first real green he had seen inside the corridors and tunnels of New Augusta, showered up in the eternal triumph of spring, measured in instants, followed by the darker green of summer and the red and gold of fall, the gold fading into the dead white of winter.

Standing there, entranced, the corners of his eyes filled with his reaction to the green images and the flow of seasons.

“You miss Accord?”

“Yes. You have so many endless tunnels and walled-away vistas from the towers where one can see, but not touch.”

She reached over and touched his hand.

“Let’s go see the old Hall of Sculpture.”

Again, she skipped off, catching him off balance as he watched her dancer’s gracefulness leaving him flat-footed.

He had to remind himself that she had once been and still might be an agent of the Imperial Intelligence Service.

No, he corrected, doubtless still was. How else could she have gotten the materials which gained them access to the Defense Tower?

“This one dates from before the age of atomic power. It’s called the Thinker.”

“They had trade negotiations then, I see.”

“Less of the diplomat, dear Envoy, and more of the artist.”

“I cannot draw even straight lines.”

Sylvia drifted toward the next sculpture, a representation of a man breaking out of a sphere. Nathaniel studied the markings on the sphere momentarily before understanding, belatedly, that the sphere was Terra and that the markings were the outlines of the continents.

The sculptor had captured a steely look of determination, one that the Ecolitan had seen more than once on the faces of his Institute troops, along with the hint of hope, a suggestion of something faraway and unattainable.

“
Flight
, circa 100 A.E.F.F. Sculptor unknown. Recovered from ruins at DENV.”

The Ecolitan nodded. Sylvia, on her way to the next figure, didn’t fully appreciate what the artist had meant. He did. Maybe that was the problem between the Empire and Accord. The Empire stood for containment, whether in New Augusta’s corridors or within the sector boundaries drawn from star to star.

He left
Flight
and rejoined Sylvia at the next statue, a dancer poised on one toe, impossibly balanced on that single point.