The Forever Hero (68 page)

Despite the silence in the kitchen, Professor Stilchio looked from side to side, cleared his throat, finally touched the light plate and brought the illumination up to full.

He coughed.

In the corner next to the preservator was a shadow, an odd shadow. He tried to look at it, but his eyes did not want to focus.

A certain dizziness settled upon him, and he put his right hand out to the counter to steady himself.

“Professor.” The address came from the shadow he saw and could not see.

The academic cleared his throat again, but said nothing.

“Professor, you might look at the folder on the counter.”

Stilchio refused to look down, hoping the shadow might disappear. Slightly intoxicated on good old wine he might be, but shadows did not talk.

His right hand groped for more support and brushed something that slid on the smooth tiles.

In spite of his resolve, he looked down. By his right hand was an oblong folder.

“That folder contains an excellent short paper on the social implications of mass agriculture and its use in controlling populations and supporting centralized governments.”

“So…what…,” stuttered the professor, still trying to steady himself.

“It strikes us that it would be an excellent piece for the eccentricities section of the
Forum
.”

“I'm not…not exactly…approached…this way.”

“You have never published a single paper or article that suggested anything wrong with centralized agriculture or of government control of the food supply.”

“Who would help the poor?”

The government. If they are so interested in the poor, let them buy food for the poor. Better yet, let the governments stop blocking new biologic techniques that would let the poor feed themselves.”

“But—”

“Professor, time is short for you.”

Thunk!

Stilchio turned his head to gape at the heavy knife buried in the cabinet door by his head. His hand reached, then drew back as he saw the double-bladed edge, the mark, he feared, of the professional.

“You have been asked to do nothing which is not in keeping with your publicly professed ethics, nor which would in any way personally endanger you. The credentials of the writer are adequate, to say the least, and certified in blood. If this article is not published in the edition being released next week, the following edition will carry your obituary.

“You have a choice. Live up to your publicly quoted beliefs in free expression of ideas or die because you were a hypocrite at heart.”

“The police…”

“Can do nothing, nor will they. Would you care to explain that
while you were drinking, you were threatened for hypocrisy? Would anyone really ever believe you?

“Read the paper in the folder. You will discover no incendiary rhetoric, just facts, figures, and a few mild speculations. Tell anyone you were threatened over such a scholarly paper, particularly by this author, and they might lock you away or relieve you of your duties for senility or mental deterioration.

“Good night, Professor. We look forward to the next edition of the
Forum
.”

Stilchio stood absolutely still as a black shadow walked up to him and withdrew the knife, effortlessly, from the wood of the cabinet. Then, just as soundlessly, the shadow was gone through the archway and toward the front portal.

Finally, the kitchen was silent, the loudest sound the beating of the graying professor's heart.

His hands explored the wedge cut in the wood. His eyes glanced at the folder, then back at the cut, then toward the closed portal.

He walked, slow step by slow step, toward the dispenser, where he filled a goblet with ice water, where he stood, sipping at the chill water whose temperature matched the chill in his heart.

With a sigh, he edged back toward the folder on the counter, from which he extracted the short article. Studying the title page for a long moment, he sighed again. Then he turned to the first page of text.

He had hoped that the proposed article would have proved poorly written, propagandistic, or threatening. He doubted it was. He recognized the author, who was, unfortunately, deceased. Deceased, it was rumored, at the hands of the Barcelon government.

Another sigh escaped him as he turned to the second page.

His eyes darted back to the wedge-shaped cut in the cabinet, as if to wish the mark would disappear. It did not.

He looked back at the brown tiles of the floor.

Too old, he was too old to refuse to publish such an article. It was well written. While he disagreed with the conclusions, to publish it would only bring praise from his critics and allow him to claim impartiality. Not to publish it…he shivered, recalling the pleasant tone of the professional who had visited so recently.

Too old—he was too old to be a martyr, not when it would serve no purpose, not when no one would understand why.

He shook his head as he shuffled toward the console in his study.

The summer park at Londra, New Avalon, had its Speakers' Corner, as did all the public parks on New Avalon.

Constable Graham twirled his truncheon, smiling under the morning mist that was beginning to lift. Overhead, a few patches of blue appeared between the ragged gray clouds.

The constable slowed as he approached the paved area and the three public podiums. He studied the small crowd—less than fifty, and mostly university students on their midmorning class breaks.

Graham frowned as he saw that a number of the students were poring over identical leaflets. That was unusual, since most of the speakers were either expatriate politicians trying to recapture their glory days or political science students practicing for later campaigns. The reputation of the university was such that even a few of the younger sons of the first families of the Empire studied there. Few others could have afforded the jumpship passage costs.

Consequently, seldom was literature passed out. Even less often was it read.

The constable edged closer to the single speaker, seeing only a dark-haired young man, wearing the traditional and formal black university tunic.

“Power? I ask you—what is it? What is its basis? Power is the ability to control people's lives. Ah, yes, a truism. So simple. But look beyond the simplicity. Look beyond the mere words, beyond the obvious phrases. Ask what composes control.

“You need food. Whoever controls your food supply controls you. You need shelter. Whoever controls the providing of shelter controls you.

“Take that a step forward. Let us say a man gives you a handful of seeds. He says, ‘One of these will grow into a house that will provide shelter, and the rest will become plants to provide all the good food you will ever need.'

“I ask you, is this in the interest of any government?

“No! A thousand times, no!

“Just take the food. If each man or woman could grow his own with little effort, what need would there be for millions of hectares of land for farms, for government agriculture pricing policies. And if
each family grew their own food, how could the government ever produce enough of a surplus to maintain an army? Or a secret police force?”

Graham frowned again, letting his truncheon drop to his side.

“Rubbish,” he muttered under his breath, looking up at the student on the podium, who seemed too old to be anything but a senior graduate fellow. The policeman studied the man. He did not recall seeing the speaker in the park before.

“You!” demanded the speaker, and Graham stopped, held momentarily by eyes that flashed yellow. “You! Constable! Do you believe a government's purpose is to serve its people? Or should the people serve it by feeding its soldiers?”

Graham retreated without speaking, grabbing a leaflet from the first bench he passed.

“Come, Constable! If the government has no massive farmlands and no great agricultural surplus with which to support a nonproductive bureaucracy and an unnecessary army, how could it remain oppressive?”

“What about feudalism?” snapped another student.

Graham ducked away, leaflet in hand, glad of the reprieve and to escape from the yellow-eyed speaker.

“…feudalism was based on scarcity…on the fact that self-sufficiency was limited…outdated by modern communications and modern biologics…advances hidden away from you by the Empire…”

“Isn't that the same old conspiracy theory?”

“No conspiracy. People need organized society…need protection…but the lack of independence in obtaining the basics has left them at the mercy of government. It is no accident that repressive governments cannot exist on new frontiers, where individuals can support themselves or can readily leave. Repression exists where there are no alternatives…”

The constable continued away from the speaker, folding the leaflet and tucking it away to read later. It might actually be interesting. He resumed twirling his truncheon and checking the benches, absently noting the regulars and the newcomers, tipping his antique helmet to the few mothers and their small children as he neared the playground.

Idly, he wondered about the leaflet, about the quality feel of the paper. The whole business seemed strange.

He shrugged.

All the speakers had something strange about them, but the com
monwealth believed in free speech, always had, and always would, no matter how strange the students that flocked to the university. Even if they had yellow eyes and strange ideas.

Lyr checked the invoices again. She frowned, then tapped in an inquiry and analysis program.

“What is he up to now?” she muttered as she waited for the results. While she should have returned to reviewing the budget flow, she decided against it, arbitrarily, and let her thoughts wander as the analyzer sorted through the invoices and purchases made by the commander over the past year.

It could be her imagination. Then again, it might not be imagination at all.

From what she could tell, lately his efforts had moved from the research and new grants area far more into field testing and production, in some cases even into granting licenses.

All had generated substantial revenues and strange amounts of new contributions to the foundation; many of which were from entities she suspected were no more than aliases or ciphers from the commander himself.

He seemed uneasy with the growing attention he received, and particularly when he learned that his own name had appeared in the listing of commercial magnates of the Empire (unrecognized section).

Lyr smiled wryly. She had no doubts that the total holdings of the commodore she still thought of as a commander were more than sufficient to place him well up among the barons of the Empire.

She had mentioned that, once.

“You had better hope that no one puts that together, then, for both your sake and mine.”

“Why?” she had asked, but he had not answered the question, as he often did not when the inquiry revolved around his personal activities.

Cling
.

She looked down at the screen as the results from the analyzer program began to print out.

As each statistic appeared, she nodded, smiling faintly as the figures confirmed her suspicions.

“Conclusion?” she tapped out.

“Probability of terraforming operation being developed with biologic technology exceeds point seven. No evidence of delivery vehicles included.”

She frowned at the last. What would be needed for such a delivery system?

Her mouth dropped open as she recalled an obscure fact—one that Gerswin had mentioned more than once. The Empire had originally forbidden terraforming because it had been thought that the development of the techniques had been what had devastated Old Earth. While the prohibition had technically lapsed, the attitude had probably not.

She scripted another inquiry, hovering over the screen for the analyzer's response.

Cling
.

Tapping the keyboard studs, she watched as the conclusion scripted out.

“Without foundation data, probability of successful analysis of terraforming project is less than point two within five standard years. Exact calculation of future probabilities impossible, but trends analysis would indicate that successful analysis by outside sources possible within ten standard years and approaches unity in less than thirty years.”

No wonder the man seemed driven, almost as if he knew his projects would be discovered.

But what were they? What planet or planets did he want to terraform? What planet would appeal to a hawk-eyed immortal?

Lyr shivered, not certain she wanted to know the answer to the question she posed. She did not frame another inquiry for the analyzer.

Instead, her hands framed the sequence to delete the entire file she had created.

Black the ship was, and streamlined in the ancient tradition that predated the Federation that had predated the Empire that would precede the Commonality of Worlds. Black the ship was, and with a nonjump speed that indicated a scout. Black with the full-fade dark finish that no eye could grasp in the dimness of space.

The pilot ignored the lunar relays and their inquiries, flashed well clear of the geosynch station for the High Plains port, and dropped the scout into a high-temp entry that would have vaporized most ships that attempted it, and one which required a deceleration beyond the physical limits of most ships and pilots. Such a deceleration was impossible for contemporary ships, with their automatically linked shields and gravfields.

The scout's full power was tied to the shields during entry. Using the gravfield would have diverted too much energy from the deceleration, particularly since the streamlined configuration of the scout was far from optimal for a gravfield inside an atmosphere.

The lunar detectors lost the scout in less than half a descent orbit, and the geosynch station picked it up later and lost it sooner.

“Scout, characteristics…high-speed entry…”

The entire data package was light-stuttered to the entry port operations at High Plains, filed in the lunar relay banks, and ignored in both locales.

The scout pilot, pressed into the accel/decel couch, looked to be perhaps thirty standard years, blond, curly-haired, and wore a dark olive uniform without insignia.

His fingers alone reacted to the data screen and the data inputs flashing before him.

A dull roar and rumble marked his passing through the clouds, that, and the puzzled look on the face of a duty operations technician.

“Captain's luck! Unauthorized entry, and they both lost it. Not even a hint of descent area. How are we supposed to find it?

“Old war scout, from the profile. Refugee, smuggler, or…” He paused because he could not think of a realistic alternative with which to complete the sentence.

Finally, he posted up the entry for the operations officer, who
would have the final responsibility for action, not that Major Lostler could do much with neither locale nor down time. Then he punched the entry into the log, and completed his duties by relaying the bulletin to the other Recorps subposts.

He smiled briefly. Smuggler or refugee, what could the one or two people in a small ship do, particularly with no energy sources left anywhere but in Recorps territory?

By the time the scout had settled into the twisted ecological nightmare that had once been called Northern Europe, the tech had dismissed the reported unauthorized entry as insignificant.