The Forever Hero (32 page)

“The dozers are only a symbol, as are the promises of pumps and purifiers.”

The senior commander frowned at the screen a last time before blanking his calculations. What would they say, those for whom he had made the choice? Those who would be forever grounded or forever exiled?

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, letting it out with the sigh of a hot flitter touch-down.

He could only hope that the few young and Imperial-born officers who had reelected to remain in the Service would be quietly rereviewed once they left Old Earth, since he had made sure that the record showed they had had no part in whatever had occurred.

If the Service was inflexible enough not to…he shook his head.

None of the choices were easy, and even the best of dreams sometimes faded.

He stood and took a step toward the portal, his eyes flicking from one corner of the commandant's small quarters to the other, from the pale gray of the right, with its built-in locker, closet, and console, to the pale gray of the left, with bunk and flat walls.

His own decision had been made before it had been offered, for he had no other choice. Already he had stayed too long, and it was time for change. He could not come home until it was no longer home for him, but for all men and women.

If he stayed, the Service and Imperial hatred would focus on Recorps. At least, it might, and that he could not risk.

“Hope is so fragile, and for now, the dozers will help…”

He picked up both packets off the console, then slashed a line across one, the one with the new symbol at the top, and placed his signature across the bottom of the second.

Two kit bags—all that he intended to take—stood by the portal.

His fingers found their way to the console, which lit and focused on nothing as he tapped out the codes he wanted.

The commander's face snapped into view.

“Captain.”

“Just Commander Gerswin, Lerwin.” He paused. “It's all yours. Your command will take effect immediately, and you'll have to work
out the reorganization plan to get the best out of what you have. You know who they are.”

The other nodded, his hawk-green eyes never leaving Gerswin's.

“Don't say I understand, but if that's it, that's it.”

“Someday, it will become more clear. Lived with it so long I never bothered to explain. Little late now.”

Neither said anything as the moments stretched out.

“You're the captain now. Make sure you are.”

“And you?”

“Just say that I had no choice. They know whose idea it was. For me to stay would cost everyone too much. So I have no choice. Besides, my work's not done.”

“No choice. That's the best way to put it. Keep them on edge against the Empire, and they'll need that to begin with.”

The senior commander agreed, but did not nod this time.

“You're the captain,” he repeated. “Whatever you think best.”

“Now?” asked the new captain.

Even through the screen, Gerswin could see the incipient signs of age, the faint lines around the eyes, the heavier muscles. Lerwin would outlive the Imperials, had already outlived some before showing any age, but he would not see the rebirth for which he worked. Even Corwin might not see that, assuming Corwin followed in his parent's footsteps.

Corwin…Gerswin scarcely knew the child, and had seldom even seen his sister Ellia. With the growth of the children, while she did her job well, Kiedra had turned her personal side inward to Lerwin and Corwin and Ellia. Like all devilkids, reflected Gerswin sadly.

“Now?” asked Lerwin again.

“Shortly. I leave on the next shuttle.” Gerswin frowned. “Afraid I left you in the lurch. My file keys are on the commandant's console. Everything's there. Try and do a better job for your successor, Lerwin.”

“You did fine, Captain.”

“Thanks, but we know better. I'll be down in ten plus.”

Gerswin tapped the console once, and the image of the commander who would be listed as the first Commandant of Recorps faded from the screen.

Gerswin was ready to go, but he stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting. Lerwin needed the time to round up the remaining devilkids. They all needed to see him enter the shuttle, needed to see the departure, to understand that he could no longer stand behind them.

Lerwin needed the visual image of his departure also. While there was no ritual such as a change of command, because the old Command had been abolished, and the new one was not in place, they all needed some sort of ceremony to mark the end of the old era and the beginning of the new.

The senior commander, his short and curly blond hair untouched with silver, his hawk-yellow eyes as fierce as ever, his face unlined, smiled at the blank wall. The sole imprint of the years had been the slight sharpening of his features—that, and the hint of blackness that lingered behind his eyes like a reminder of the eternity itself.

He picked up the kit bags himself, though he could have had them carried to the shuttle, and tabbed the portal. As it irised open, he stepped through into the main corridor and the omnipresent but faint scent of ozone.

He half-shook his head. Someday, sometime, the closed buildings would not be necessary. Nor the fortresslike or half-buried construction. Already, the new town construction was halfway there, though the residents were far hardier stock than the average Imperial. The landspouts were less frequent in the reclaimed areas around the base. Elsewhere, they raged scarcely abated, and those “elsewhere lands” comprised the majority of the globe.

Gerswin's steps did not resemble those of a senior commander with more than eighty years' service. Quick and light, his feet, even at a walk, scarcely seemed to touch the pale and milky gray of the plastone floor tiles.

He slowed as he approached the last turn in the corridor before the Operations center.

Had Lerwin had enough time?

He shrugged. If necessary, he could prolong good-byes and remarks until they all straggled in.

The portal stood open. Inside the center, the entry console was vacant. Only a single technician manned the duty console, and the corridor leading down to the departure portals was also vacant. So was the tunnel to the hangar-bunker that served the shuttle.

The shuttle from the
Relyea
was grounded in beta two, and Gerswin picked up his pace as he entered the sloping tunnel. After about fifty meters the tunnel slope flattened before beginning the gradual ascent toward the hangar-bunker.

As he stepped through the last portal into the hangar, he straightened.

“Ten'stet!”

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The ceremonial volley of the ancient long guns caught him off guard as it continued.

All eight of the remaining devilkids, four on a side, in full-dress Service uniform, stood at attention. They formed an honor guard between him and the open port of the waiting shuttle.

Behind them, also in full dress, was Lerwin, and it had been Lerwin's voice that had given the commands.

Gerswin stood, waiting.

“Captain,” began the new commandant, “there will be a commandant of Recorps here on Old Earth who will succeed you. And he will have a successor, as will his or her successor. But there is only one Captain, and there will be only one Captain from Old Earth. Either here, or out among the Imperial stars.”

“Ten'stet!” another voice barked.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Any words, Captain?”

Gerswin swallowed. Hard. Waited.

Finally, he cleared his throat.

“You all understand. Remember what we did. More important, remember why. Time will make it easy to forget. I'll be back, one way or another, but it may be a long cold trip. It's all in your hands, and you have a big job. The biggest ever tackled.” He paused. “We know it can be done. I did what I could, but the biggest part is up to you, and I know you're up to it. You can do it. You just have to forget the past and get on with it.”

He turned to Lerwin and saluted.

“Your command, Commander. Your command. Permission to depart?”

“Your command, Captain. Always your command. We may hold it for you, but it will always be yours. Good luck…from all of us…for all of us.”

Lerwin returned the salute.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Gerswin waited until the last volley died away before bending to retrieve the two kit bags. He lifted them and marched through the eight devilkids and across the plastarmac toward the shuttle.

Once inside the lock, he set down the bags, turned, and gave a last salute before the shuttle ports closed.

A long trip so far…and a longer one that was just beginning.

Technically, the room was not supposed to exist, for it appeared neither on the official floor plans of the Admiralty, nor in any of the references, nor even in the classified briefing materials provided to the Admiral of the Fleets.

The Admiral of the Fleets knew of the room with its unique equipment, as did the man called Eye. That they did was obvious from their presence within.

The interior walls were not walls, but an arrangement of polygons upon which other equipment remained focused. The soft flooring was designed as well to resist echoes and any duplication or recording of the proceedings.

The admiral wore dress blacks, as he often did. The three others around the table were garbed in black full-fade cloaks with privacy hoods. The man called Eye was distinguished only by the seat he had taken at the head of the five-sided table.

“You called the meeting, Admiral.” The scratchy tone of the voice indicated that Eye employed a voice distorter.

“I did. I have a commission. The file is there.” He pointed to the blank cover of the folder on the table in front of Eye.

No one said a word as the Intelligence chief read the material, then passed it to the figure on the right, who in turn scanned the contents before passing it back to the last Intelligence controller.

“We have some questions,” began Eye. The hooded heads of the other two nodded in agreement.

“Questions yet?”

Eye said nothing, and with the face lost in the shadows of the hooded cloak, the admiral wondered if he had pushed too far.

Finally, Eye cleared his throat, and his distorted voice, low and even, responded.

“We probably know more about the subject than you do. We considered him as a candidate for Corpus. We chose not to pursue the matter, and based on your material, I would agree that choice was probably wise.

“For many of the same reasons, we are concerned about reopening any possible involvement here, and question the advantage to the Service of doing so.”

“Would you feel free to explain?” the admiral asked, not pleading, but with his tone making the other aware that he was asking so far, not demanding.

“His personality is stable, except under extreme stress. Under such stress, he will lose all sense of restraint, common morality, and go for the jugular. His level of stress is higher than anyone ever tested, however, which offers us all protection. His reflexes are naturally better than any single agent, possibly by a factor of two or three, and he has spent at least the last fifty stans teaching himself virtually every single personal weapon known.

“He is adept at circuit design, is probably a good journeyman systems breaker, and is one of the best pilots in Service history. We checked the drives of the
Sanducar
after she was returned. Although they tested normally, indications were that the grav governors had been reset to a higher tolerance, then returned to normal. Given any amount of time, he could do the same to any ship. We do not know what level of acceleration he could tolerate and still function at peak efficiency, but it is high enough to give him an insurmountable edge over any ship fast enough to pursue…”

The admiral nodded, not quite impatiently.

“…also has contacts within the Court able to gain him an open portal to any installation. With his skills, only access would be necessary.”

“But the man sleeps, doesn't he?”

“He may. Remember there are at least eight other so-called devilkids fully trained, most of whom have similar skills, who remain within Recorps. All are fanatically loyal to him, and he has charged them with carrying out the reclamation effort on Old Earth. That means that they are effectively neutralized at this time.”

Eye's hood lifted, and although the admiral could not see the man's eyes, he felt a chill in spite of himself.

“Don't you see, Admiral,” asked the Intelligence head, “where this all leads? Do you understand why I am reluctant to take on a commission that could lead to eight totally unrestrained fanatics declaring war on us? It could take a full battle group to catch and subdue each. And for what? Because your subject made you look silly? His actions are centered on one planet. Those actions are considered idealistic by the majority of the Imperial citizenry, by the majority of the Court, and probably by the majority of the I.S.S. officer corps. Further, he has removed himself from the scene in order to prevent any reprisals at him from affecting the reclamation effort. With all that, you ask that we stir up the mess by trying to remove him?”

“Yes. No individual should be bigger than the Empire. No individual should be able to manipulate public sentiment to break Imperial laws with impunity.”

“He didn't, Admiral,” added Eye, his voice even softer. “He renounced any claim to return to his planet, even in death. For someone that dedicated, that is punishment. Perhaps not what you wish, but punishment nonetheless. More important, it is regarded as punishment by the majority of the older devilkids. Some of the more recently commissioned officers, as you know, still opted for the Service, and I seriously hope you rereview their records and expunge the Board of Inquiry findings.”

The last sentence was nearly a command, and the admiral stiffened. “Are you telling me what to do?”

Eye shook his hooded head. “No. Just hoping you would understand all the factors Intelligence must consider. The man wants to restore his planet. He used force only when necessary and went to elaborate lengths to avoid injury to Imperial personnel. He willingly gave all the credit to the Emperor, and I might add that such news was worth a plus ten week rate for nearly a month. The Emperor knows that and appreciates it.”

“But he stood the Service on end.”

“That I doubt. He did upset the High Command. The Service is alive and well.” Eye cleared his throat. “Do you want us to deal with the problem?”

“Yes.”

Eye turned to the figure on his left.

“Clause five,” suggested the cloaked figure, and even with the voice distorter, the softness of tone suggested that the speaker was a woman.

Eye returned his attention to the admiral, whose fingers drummed on the table with scarcely concealed impatience.

“We will solve the problem in our own way, subject to clause five of our charter.”

“That means…?”

“We undertake to solve the problem, either within or without the solution suggested, subject to the Emperor's personal review.”

“Which means?” asked the admiral again.

“It means, Admiral, that I will not undertake an ill-advised removal action surely geared to cause severe casualties to both Eye section and the Service, as well as public relations and public opinion reversals of the first order, just to soothe the wounded pride of the High Command. Because you feel so strongly, however, I will take ac
tion to insure that the Emperor is protected. If my decision is incorrect, I will be removed. Removed, not replaced.”

Eye nodded to the figures who flanked him.

The admiral's eyes widened, trying to focus on all three figures simultaneously, on the way the two at Eye's sides lifted their robed hands, with the strange devices.

“No—”

The admiral could feel the sudden constriction in his chest, feel the alternative waves of red and black washing up over him.

“Get him back to his office, and call a medical tech. I believe the admiral is suffering a massive heart seizure, poor man.”

Clause five
. That was the admiral's last thought.

Clause five
.