The Forever Hero

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He placed the already-stiffening figure on the white stone of the single upright bench and turned, plodding out toward the gate that was frozen ajar only slightly wider than a body width.

  This time, he did not turn back. In time, had there been anyone out in the ice storm, they would have seen a silver-gray ghost with glittering yellow eyes and hair like yellow flame vanishing into the storm from whence he had come. But no one was abroad, and he vanished as silently as he arrived.

  Click. Click. Click.

  XLIX

  Gerswin slammed the console stud.

  A single flitter and the spares for one dozer. One dozer. Period.

  He shook his head and called up the justification that had arrived with the inadequate spare parts.

  “Req. 1(b) three(3) class delta flitters, mod. B(4).

  “Sup. One(1) class delta flitter, mod. B(3), per ConsComp Reg. D-11(b), as modified Alstats 11-yr.”

  While as Operations officer Gerswin did not know the exact content of the Alstats message referenced, he had a good idea of how it had been applied to Old Earth, and the fact that all Old Earth Base requisitions had been cut by two thirds did not surprise him. Virtually everything but trace element foodstuffs had been cut back over the last three years, and from what he could tell from the few supply ships, all the out-bases were being shorted, some worse than Old Earth.

  Right now, though, the base needed equipment. There wasn’t any metal, nor any native power source to speak of, except the wind, and maybe, near the coasts, some sort of tidal power. The sun shone a fraction more, according to the records, than it had thirty years earlier, the first time detailed records had been entered, but until the ecology could be returned to its pre-collapse state or some approximation thereof, and the particulate-based cloud cover reduced, solar power was out as any sort of reliable alternative.

  Gerswin sighed. Everything wound together in a web.

  He needed more dozers to reclaim the land and re-establish a usable ground cover and a solid agriculture base. Each dozer required support equipment, personnel, spare parts, and the power to maintain them. Imperial deployed technology was based on fusactors, handy unitized fusion reactors easily produced by any technologically advanced system and impossible to produce anywhere else. Most important, fusactors were expensive to transport. Since an arcdozer was essentially a moving fusactor, the Empire disliked shipping them to distant points. Finally, since fusactors were unitized, once assembled, they were almost impossible to repair and were designed to melt into an impermeable bloc within their own shielding in cases of malfunction.

  Without dozers, he couldn’t reclaim. Without reclamation, the base couldn’t support itself, except slightly above subsistence level, because Imperial technology was all geared to either fusion power or high-energy synthetics.

  Without local metals, which no longer existed except in deep deposits or in-system asteroids unreachable without high energy technology, the locals had no way to develop substitutes with which to rebuild their planet and their society.

  Gerswin didn’t have enough dozers to continue full-scale reclamation more than a tour or so into the future, and that was assuming rather optimistic projections. And so far, the base had just begun to make a dent in reverting the ecology.

  “So you worry…”

  He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud until he heard the echo of his words in the small office.

  He frowned.

  The Empire wouldn’t close down Old Earth Base yet, but with the resource commitment it required, he could see the supply lines getting tighter and tighter, year after year.

  “What can you do? Order more equipment they won’t send you? Exaggerate the requirements along with everyone else? Then they’ll cut everyone back farther.”

  He flicked off the screen and stood, stretching, looking at the lighter gray square where Vlerio’s holoview of his wife’s estate house had covered half the wall opposite the console.

  His steps circled the console.

  The old exec, Byykr, had understood some of the problem. But Byykr was gone, and Commander LeTrille was merely going through the motions. Commander Manders understood, but was too tired to start a fight with the Imperial bureaucracy, although, Gerswin admitted to himself, Manders usually took his recommendations.

  What good was a recommendation when you couldn’t get what you needed and didn’t know what else to recommend?

  What did Old Earth need?

  Metal, power, and arable land.

  The arable land might be possible before too long. Acreage had increased to the point where at subsistence level it would support most of the scattered Noram population, assuming the produce could even be distributed. But the land still required a sponge grain scavenge crop every third year.

  The power was barely adequate and completely dependent upon the Empire. One possibility existed—coming up with an oilseed plant that could be refined to approximate synthetic fuels—but that required more land, reduced food crop yields, and demanded a refining technology which would require metals and power.

  He shook his head.

  “Face it, Gerswin. You don’t know enough. You can’t figure your way out of this one.”

  As for the metal—unless they could literally mine something…

  His eyes glinted, and he sat down at the console, flicking it back on and beginning to punch in the numbers, the requests for data.

  Finally, when all the requests had been routed, he sat back in the swivel.

  Then he laughed.

  “It works, or it doesn’t.”

  With that, he stood and walked over to the small wall locker, from which he removed his set of practice knives and sling, plus the quarterstaff.

  He whistled three double notes, then stopped before touching the exit stud and stepping out.

  “Marliss, I’m going to get some exercise. Should be back in less than an hour.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The major refrained from frowning. The man, a former shambletown youth, was fresh from recruit training and nearly cowered every time Gerswin looked at him.

  The idea just might appeal to someone, and the scale was modest enough. A mere two fusactors to power a river reclamation plant.

  He remembered what Mahmood had said about drainage. If all those metals were still being leached into the waters, then they’d have to end up in the major drainage rivers.

  Now…If the ecologists and the engineers could figure out how to make it work and package it, and if Manders bought the idea…

  He shrugged. If not, he’d try something else.

  He straightened the leathers of the sling and whirled it experimentally as he touched the southeast interior exit portal, easing himself and the staff through. He needed more work with the quarterstaff, but Zyleria was on leave, and she was the only one with real training in handling it as a weapon.

  He stepped through the outer portal and into the chill outside air.

  Plick. Plick. Plick.

  The scattered rain droplets hit his flight suit, the last from the passing dark shower under the overclouds, and were gone with a gust of wind.

  Gerswin turned west, toward the area he used for his practice with what both Vlerio and Matsuko had called “primitive” weapons.

  The key was hope. If he could convince the Empire that certain investments would reduce the long-term costs, and that the improvements would begin fairly soon, he had a chance. No Emperor really wanted to be the one to abandon Old Earth, but it would be harder and harder to get more than a token commitment in the years ahead.

  He glanced at the lower hills to the west where the first generation pines had been planted. Trees—they would help. Then some oilseeds; a source of metals—not much, but enough to keep things going for a while, and time.

  Crack!

  The first stone smacked into the center target head.

  Crack!

  Crack!

  L

  Gerswin blinked and studied the figur
es on the console again.

  Old Earth Base was getting shorted again. Transport costs were attributed by the mass-cube ratio multiplied by the energy cost. The farther a destination drop, the higher the imputed cost. Although the out-base runs were supposed to be rotated so that every base was assigned the first, second, third, or fourth drop in roughly equivalent numbers, Gerswin could find no record of Old Earth ever having been assigned first or second drop order. The effect was to increase the energy costs. Yet Old Earth was not listed on the “hardship” destination drop port list, which would have allowed a greater cost ratio.

  While the I.S.S. picked up all the costs from its overall transport budget, and not from each base’s budget, the political implications bothered Gerswin. If it had only been the mass-cube energy cost assignments, he would not have been so concerned, but the same sort of calculations had been employed in determining costs for foodstuff supplies, personnel transfers, spare and replacement parts, and even for dietary trace elements. The composite gave a picture of Old Earth Base as either inefficient or exceedingly expensive to operate or both.

  Gerswin pursed his lips.

  Added to that were the actual personnel assignment policies, which tended to order either low performers or troublemakers to Old Earth. Although he doubted that anyone was trying to close down the base, or that someone was benefitting from the current allocation practices, there was no doubt in his mind that no one in the I.S.S. hierarchy was able or willing to stand up for Old Earth, even to suggest simple fairness in an allocation system that failed to account for any of the special problems the reclamation effort faced.

  Cling!

  “Gerswin.”

  “Major, five minutes before your meeting with the commandant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gerswin tapped the console and stood, straightening his tunic, shrugging his shoulders to relieve the tightness caused by too many hours in front of the screen. With a last shrug, he left his own space and covered the short length of corridor that separated him from the commandant’s slightly more elaborate office.

  Manders was standing beside his console, which was switched off, as Gerswin swept in.

  “Good afternoon, Greg.”

  “Afternoon, ser.”

  “What landspout did you tangle with now? You have that look, the one that spells trouble.”

  “That obvious?”

  “With you? Yes.” The senior commander sighed, then gestured toward the swivel across the console from him. The older man sank into his own chair.

  “Now…Can I do anything about your problem?”

  “Don’t know. Thought I’d ask.” Gerswin frowned. “Just finished an analysis of the outship cost-formulas. Do you know why we’re always last drop, or next to last drop, but why they don’t classify us as hardship or special circumstance?”

  “Commander Byykr brought that up once, shortly before he retired. I do not recall the reasons, but I do know that he looked into it rather thoroughly. I’ll have it checked on and get back to you. No sense in your doing anything more until you see what, if anything, he did.”

  Manders cleared his throat. “Not sure it makes any difference in any case, since the shipping costs aren’t tabbed against our account.”

  “Not in the budgetary sense, Commander. Presents a one-sided holo. Shows Old Earth as a conventional base with twice the operating/transport costs of other comparable bases.”

  “Are you suggesting that is deliberate, Greg?”

  “No, ser. More likely that there’s no champion at headquarters. It’s not that anything’s wrong. More that Old Earth deserves a special category and hasn’t gotten it.”

  Manders looked over at the wall holo of the Academy Spire, mirrored in Crystal Lake.

  Gerswin did not follow his glance. He knew the holo well enough. If it were not a duplicate of the one which had hung on Commander Byykr’s wall, it was close enough that the differences were insignificant.

  “I’ve had some of this conversation before, Greg, with Commander Byykr, and there’s a bit more to this than meets the eye. I just can’t remember why at the moment.” He turned back toward Gerswin. “Now. There’s something rather more personally important you should know.”

  “Something I should know?”

  The senior commander turned in his swivel. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.” He paused. “About the Hildebard?”

  “Know she didn’t arrive as scheduled,” responded the major, still standing.

  “Sit down.”

  Gerswin eased into the swivel.

  “Do you know the implications?” The base commander leaned back in the padded swivel. His office was the only one in the entire base with comfortable chairs for visitors.

  “Equipment shortages…espeically turbine fans. Hardest to get around. Morale problems for Imperials due for transfer…general feeling of being abandoned.”

  “There are a few other difficulties, Greg.” The commander paused theatrically.

  Gerswin frowned. Commander Manders had used his first name twice in minutes. The familiarity was unusual. It was also a message, and the ramifications were even more unexpected.

  “The new executive officer?”

  Old Earth Base had already gone without an official and permanent executive officer for more than six months, and not a few of the duties had fallen in Gerswin’s lap, in addition to his own responsibilities as Operations officer.

  “That’s the second most important.”

  Forcing himself to avoid frowning, Gerswin tried to figure out what Manders was hinting at. Usually, the commander was direct, sometimes sarcastically so in private, and the guessing game implied that it was important for Gerswin to come up with the answer.

  “All right,” began the major. “Assuming the Hildebard is a casualty, another three months is the minimum before we get another transport. If High Command can juggle the schedules. Nine months is double the time for critical replacements. Means a rush courier, breaking regulations, or promotion from base cadre.”

  He shook his head as the implication hit. “Only one officer here meets minimum standards, ser.”

  The commander nodded in return. “That’s right. The message torp that arrived today confirmed that. There’s more, Commander.”

  Gerswin swallowed at the cavalier announcement of his promotion. Promotions to commander were nearly impossible for non-Imperials to get these days, with the cutbacks in ships, and the reliance on smaller and smaller craft and their lower operating costs.

  “More?” He knew the statement sounded stupid as he said it and tried to follow on. “That sounds like it means unpleasant news of some sort.”

  Manders snorted. “And for what are executive officers being groomed, Commander? Think a bit, Greg.”

  The combination of sarcasm and the gentler use of his name momentarily stopped Gerswin from saying anything.

  “Base command. They need you somewhere else?”

  “I wish that were true. My stress profile is edging up into the red. That’s the real problem.”

  Gerswin nodded. If Manders was being pushed off the edge, which his generally low key approach, his willingness to delegate, the pressures must be more than Gerswin realized. Either that, or the senior officer pool was thinner than the Empire let on.

  “You’re nodding. Would you care to share your thoughts?”

  “Just a guess, really. But XO and CO are high stress positions here. Require tech knowledge, quick decisions. Weather makes it combat environment without combat. Project is long term. Requires engineering no one has ever tried, and no quick way to verify results. Material failures are high. Few officers interested or qualified.”

  This time, the base commander nodded.

  “You’re right. The new exec was one of only two out-base commanders or majors within the qual envelope.” Manders grinned wryly. “That leaves one major, or should I say, commander, Greg, who fits.”

  “In the entire Service?”

  Ma
nders shook his head.

  “Not necessarily, but among those who can be reassigned. What good does it do to move a qualified officer from one spot to another if the replacement officer needs the same qualifications?”

  “I see. There were others, but you’d have to replace them.”

  “Right. you could be transferred to Bolduc, losing the advantage of your local experience, and the exec there promoted to exec here, and the Service would lose two experienced people…not to mention the transfer costs, and the ships…”

  Gerswin pursed his lips. It made a certain sad sense, especially if the Empire really didn’t want to plow too much into Old Earth.

  “What about you?”

  Manders laughed a laugh that was half-sardonic, half-chuckle. “In simple terms, they told me to dump everything I could on you in the next year, and to keep my stress levels down. In other words: Manders, survive until your executive officer knows enough to take over, because there isn’t anyone else, and we don’t have the ships and people to pull you out.”

  The new commander looked down at the tiles and the worn carpet.

  “Stupid to project ahead, but doesn’t that imply that every base commander will have to be either Old Earth born or trained here? Or someplace equally tough?”

  “Not stupid. Unfortunately true, as far as I can see. My own records indicate there may be as many as five or six who could succeed you.”

  “The devilkids?”

  Manders nodded. “And perhaps the two pilots from The Hebrides.”

  “Understand their home environment’s as rough as anything around here, and just as cold.”

  The base commandant stood and turned to the console. He picked up a hard-copy flimsy and handed it to Gerswin.

  “That’s the text.”

  Gerswin scanned it, observing that he was indeed promoted to commander, permanently, and effective immediately, in order to take over duties as executive officer, Old Earth Base. Evaluations on his performance would be submitted via torp quarterly, vice-annually. The expected transfer/retirement date of the current base commander was hereby extended six months.