“A full cohort?”
“That many?”
“Commander…you are asking that about the most ambitious project anyone ever tried?”
“But one hundred plus arcdozers? Are there that many in the entire Empire? We’ve got thirty—not much better than scrap. Each year, there’s less in the way of supplies.”
“You’ve been here a long time, Commander. It’s sometimes easy to forget the size of the Empire.” She paused, as if amazed that she had dared to correct him, then completed in an even softer tone. “Think of it this way. If each system only needed ten, the total number in the Empire would still exceed 5,000. New Glascow probably builds or refits close to a thousand annually.”
The commander nodded. “You’re right. Too parochial. Problem isn’t the total resources of the Empire, but the diminishing surplus available for out-bases and lower priority activities.”
The gray-suited commander pursed his lips tightly, frowned. Only after the silence had dragged out for several minutes did he smile. As he smiled, the commander could see the technician trying not to shiver at his expression, and, not certain why, he barked a laugh, either at her or to distract her, or both.
“Since there are so many, then we’ll just request them.” His smile faded, and he stepped back from the console. “Put in a request for two full cohorts, to be delivered six standard months from now. Code it priority red.”
“But…Commander. No one here has the authority for a priority red.”
“Fine. Code it as a ‘recommended priority red.’ I can certainly recommend, can’t I?”
“The form doesn’t allow it.”
“Put in priority red where the level code is. Note that it’s a recommendation in the remarks section.”
“Yes, Commander.”
He could smell the scent of fear, could almost feel the questioning in the mind of the black-haired petite technician.
“Wondering whether the old man has gone jump-struck? Thinking I’m sealing my fate? Could be. But only fifteen of thirty dozers are operable, and half of those are cripples. There’s a freeze on parts and fusactors, and the only things with enough power to do the job are dozers. So we need them, and we’ll get them.”
The technician glanced back at the screen, but did not move her hands from her lap.
“Go ahead, Evyn. Recommended priority red, with copies to everyone you can think of.”
“Copies?”
He nodded.
“That way, they won’t be surprised when the Emperor gives them to us.”
Her eyes widened farther, if possible.
For no reason that Gerswin could fathom, the look in her eyes reminded the commander of the look in Lerwin’s eyes, the look when the medical diagnosis on little Jurrell had come in. How many years ago had that been? How many years? Corwin had been four then, and Jurrell had barely been walking, a little over a year old. Gerswin could still recall, could still sometimes see, the darkness behind Kiedra’s eyes, although Ellia’s birth had helped.
Gerswin kept from shaking his head.
“Not crazy, Evyn,” he temporized. “Just planning.”
He smiled a hard smile again, in spite of himself. This time he saw her shiver.
Still, she lifted her hands and began to code in his request.
The request was the first step, the sole easy part. Getting the dozers would be harder. But with all the cutbacks in the fleet ships, not impossible. No, not impossible.
He smiled again, and turned, heading back toward his own office.
LXVII
For the fifth time in as many minutes, the man in the undress black uniform of a senior commander in the Imperial Interstellar Survey Service glanced over at the blank screen of the single room’s faxset. Then he stared out the narrow window.
Not that the view was wonderful. On any other planet besides New Augusta, a visiting commander would have rated at least a small suite in senior officers’ quarters. On New Augusta, it was rumored there were more admirals than battlecruisers in the I.S.S.
The rumors were true, particularly if they included the Imperial “retired reserves,” those members of the Imperial and high court families who had served a single tour of active duty and then been “retired” to the Emperor’s Reserve Corps. The I.R.C. had a small squadron of its own, permanently based in Gamma sector, in which the titled and untitled members of New Augustan society served their reserve time.
Gerswin laughed out loud, thinking about a corvette captained by a reserve fleet admiral, with a full admiral as an exec, and where senior commanders served as seconds in comm or drive billets.
With the laugh, he looked again at the blank screen, then at the narrow window, and stood, stretching, in his blacks.
He eased toward the thin pane of armaglass through which he could view the courtyard. While the window did not open, he could almost imagine the scents from the garden that ran down the center of the quadrangle. From his second floor vista, he could estimate what the view of the rows and rows of silverflowers spilling out over green leaves might be from the higher floors, particularly from the suites with the balcony terraces.
His room was dim, partly because he had damped the polarization to cut the glare from the midafternoon sun, and partly because, with the interior lights off and a single window not much wider than a man, there wasn’t that much light to begin with. Add to that a color scheme based on dark green, highlighted with thin silver slivers, said to be the favorite of His Highness J’riordan D’Brien N’Gaio, and the room made Gerswin think of evening, even at dawn.
“Will you, someday, go forth in green evenings, Commander?” he asked himself sardonically, before turning from the garden view back toward the screen.
Three days he’d been waiting so far, just for her to return. While he had quietly inquired about her schedule when he had left Old Earth, she had been scheduled to be on New Augusta. Now the days mounted up, and it would be harder and harder to justify additional days in a duty status, as opposed to leave. More important was the return jump-ship schedule. Three days, that was how long she had overstayed her planned return date, and no one could say when she would be returning.
Cling!
The screen chimed but once before the commander had crossed the room and punched the acknowledgment stud. Hawk-yellow eyes peered at Nitiri’s image on the screen.
“Yes? No?”
“Too easy,” returned the senior rating, who wore the technicians’ counterpart of the I.S.S. undress blacks. “Her social secretary deferred. I insisted she ask the Duchess herself. The Duchess took the call personally.”
“And…?”
“Senior Commander Gerswin? From Old Earth, I presume? I would be more than happy to receive the commander personally late this afternoon. At six, Mister Nitiri.”
Gerswin frowned.
“That’s what she said?”
“Word for word.”
Gerswin pursed his lips.
“I’ve arranged for a flitter to the estate. At the officers’ gate, 1725. Satisfactory, Commander?”
“Yes. More than satisfactory. Thank you. See you then.”
“No, ser. Protocol.”
“Alone?”
“She said personally. Means you.” Nitiri looked levelly through the screen at his commanding officer.
“All right.” Gerswin paused. “Thanks…again.”
“My pleasure, Commander. And good luck, ser.”
“Need it, I think…,” Gerswin mumbled as he concluded the transmission and edged toward the window once more.
For some time he surveyed the green and silver garden, motionless at the armaglass.
At last, he turned and sat down on the couch that doubled as a bed. After easing off his boots, he stretched out on the cushions, narrow as the space was configured as a sofa.
Three hours to go. What would she say? What could he say?
He regarded the ceiling, blinking occasionally, letting his eyes traverse the sooth translucency
that gave the impression of ivory depths.
For a time he regarded nothing, letting his thoughts drift.
For an even shorter time, he dozed.
Finally, he sat up and began to strip off his clean uniform to shower and to don an immaculate set of blacks.
At 1720, senior Commander Gerswin arrived at the visiting officers’ transportation gate.
“Commander Gerswin?”
“Yes?”
“Ser, I hope you don’t mind…”
“But?” asked Gerswin.
“The Duke of Triandna has sent his own personal flitter for your transportation, and I took the liberty of rescheduling the Service flitter you had requested.”
“Fine.”
“It’s the lavender one, straight ahead.”
The flitter the technician pointed out shimmered in a cream and lavender finish that could only have been obtained with lustral plating.
Rather than the military steps into a cockpit, or handholds to a canopy, the passenger flitter offered a side portal opening into a small salon, furnished with a settee and two chairs, lavender hangings and a low table. Behind the hangings, Gerswin glimpsed a single pilot, uniformed, unsurprisingly, in lavender and cream.
“Commander,” announced the pilot, standing and stepping around the hangings, “please make yourself at home. I know you’d be more comfortable up here, but in the interest of space, this was configured without a copilot’s station.”
“Appreciate the thought,” answered Gerswin, as he settled into the chair that gave him the best view of the small cockpit.
The pilot resumed his position.
Shortly the aircraft lifted smoothly, without a shudder, but, reflected the passenger, a trace heavily.
At 1755, the flitter touched down, and the passenger portal swung open.
“End of the line, Commander. I’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready to return.”
“Appreciate that. You have any military background? Nice handling there.”
“A bit. I did a tour with Blewtinkir. That left me mustered out, fit just for domestic transport, but it’s not a bad job. Duke and Duchess are better than most here on New Augusta.” There was a faint pause. “See you later.”
Gerswin took the hint and exited.
At the far side of the landing stage stood another functionary, female, young, black-haired, and nearly as tall as he was, also garbed in the apparent ducal colors of lavender and cream.
“Senior Commander Gerswin?” Her voice held a tone of uncertainty.
“The same. Were you expecting someone else?”
“No, but…”
“I suppose I don’t look my age.”
“The Duchess is expecting you, ser. If you would follow me.” She turned as if she expected he would fall in line.
Gerswin smiled, but said nothing further to the woman, who either had a far different picture of what to expect of Commander Gerswin, or who did not believe he was himself.
The exterior gray glowstone walk led to a gentle ramp of what appeared to be glowstone tiles, but the ramp, which ended at an open and arched doorway, seemed to grab at his boots and legs.
“There’s a restrainer field here. The faster you try to move, the more it slows you. If you came through the portal running, it would be like hitting a bulkhead.”
Gerswin nodded but said nothing, noting the military phrasing of her veiled warning.
Inside the portal, the gray glowstones continued as the floor of an open-walled corridor running through the center of the villa, room after room opening away from the cream columns of the hallway. Gerswin dropped his eyes momentarily, wondering how the glowstones could be so gray and yet add illumination.
His eyes came up in time to stop him in front of a painting done in some sort of old-fashioned oils. The canvas was a good three meters wide and taller than he was.
He ignored the incongruity of an oil painting depicting a space battle and, instead, read the golden plate at the bottom of the severe but gilded frame.
“Death of H.M.S. Graystone, Battle of Firien’s Star, Dismorph Conflict, 3121 N.E.C.”
Gerswin stepped back a pace and studied the painting again, ignoring his guide.
The style was as restrained as the medium. At first glance it merely showed an I.S.S. scout in space, several energy beams focused on her screens, with a starry background. One star, with a distinctly green tinge, was brighter than the others without seeming larger. The scout’s screens glimmered with the unhealthy orange tint that preceded total screen collapse.
Gerswin noted another oddity. The canvas was unsigned, and though he was not expert, the obvious quality of artistry of the work evoked an intense sense of impending doom. At least, it did to him.
He shook his head.
“Well, you are an I.S.S. officer, it seems.”
Gerswin frowned at his escort, who stood waiting.
“Every one of you, the good ones, sees the pictures and stops. Some of them sigh. Others, like you did, shake their heads sort of sadly.”
Gerswin looked at the oil again.
That battle had taken place nearly fifty years earlier, about twenty-five years after he’d finished his training on New Colora and gone to Old Earth. Firien had been one of the few Dismorph successes, before they’d been ground down by the sheer might of the Empire. He’d read the analyses and couldn’t fault the Dismorph tactics. The Imperial tactics could be and had been faulted by virtually every independent military analyst within and without the Empire. That particular battle had cost a number of senior admirals their careers, not to mention the loss of lives and ships. Follow-ups had not been without losses, either, Gerswin recalled…one very personal…He pushed the thoughts of Faith back, but his eyes remained on the canvas, though unfocused, for a time.
Gerswin brought himself back to the present and regarded his guide.
“The picture is a mystery to everyone now in service here, except the Duchess, and, of course, one presumes, His Grace. She commissioned it, but from whom and for what reason no one else knows.” The guide looked down the corridor before continuing. “She hoped you would see it.” Again, the guide glanced around, before continuing even more softly, “And it’s said that the only open argument between Her and His Grace was over the placement of the canvas. That was before my time.”
Gerswin took a third long look at the scene.
The junior lieutenant who had commanded the scout had received the Emperor’s Cross, he recalled—posthumously.
The senior commander resisted the urge to shiver, although the corridor was not at all cool.
“Her receiving chambers are to the right.”
“You’re not coming?”
“No. You’re expected alone. Her Grace can summon anyone instantly, of course.”
Gerswin nodded. He would have expected no less.
“Thank you.”
He turned and walked toward the indicated portal, the open one framed in cream hangings.
The room inside was not the immense chamber he had anticipated from viewing the rooms through which he had already passed. Rather it was more like a rustic summer study, with white plaster-swirled walls, dark wooden floors covered with rich wine-patterned carpet. The wall farthest from the portal was entirely of armaglass and overlooked the sweeping west lawn and the shadows of the late, late afternoon.
The lady stood behind a carved but simple bleached wooden desk with flowing lines.
Her hair was white, but her face was unlined, and her figure as slender as it had been the one night he had known her nearly eighty standard years earlier.
Gerswin inclined his head, willingly, as he had done to no one from the day he had left the Academy.
“My lady.”
“Caroljoy, Commander. Caroljoy.”
“You know I did not know. Not then.”
“I didn’t want you to. Nor do I regret it now.”
She moved around the desk, gently, gracefully, but with the deliberate grace of a
n older woman who understood her fragility, and settled herself on the loveseat.
“Sit down, please.” Her eyes were still clear. Still bright.
Gerswin sat, shifting his weight on the firm cream silk cushions to face her.
“Your face is a little sharper, I think, and there’s a bit more muscle to your upper body, but you haven’t changed much at all.”
“Nor have you.”
“Spare me the polite necessities, Commander dear. For all the capabilities of Imperial medical technology, I know what I am. And that’s an old woman. Perhaps a lovely old woman, but an old one.”
Gerswin opened his mouth, and she held up her hand.
“Oh, I know. I’ll be around for years yet. I’m not in the grave. Not even close, but I’m old. You…you’re still young, and you may be for centuries yet to come, from the look of you.
“I don’t know which is worse, dear Commander, but now I’m content.”
He did not attempt to answer, or to question, but sat, waiting in the deep afternoon light filtered by the tinted armaglass, watching, and studying the still-fine features he had only seen before etched in the darkness, etched in his memories as if it had been yesterday.
His vision blurred momentarily, and he blinked, shook his head.
“You do remember. I’m not surprised. Not surprised, but gratified.” She paused.
Gerswin swallowed, and waited for her to go on.
“What did you think of the painting?”
Gerswin could feel the chill in his spine.
“Impressive…sad…Almost a memorial, I would think.”
“That’s important, particularly for you. Though you wouldn’t know why.”
Gerswin shook his head again. So much was unsaid, so much implied.
“I’ve sent for some tea, and I would appreciate it if you would join me.”
“Pleased to.”
“You’re still the quiet one. Can you still whistle that odd and two-toned singing?”
He nodded, feeling as shy as he had so many years earlier.
“Don’t give it up.”
“I don’t whistle much now, not in company.”
“Would you mind terribly?”
The commander smiled, a tentative smile, a smile as if more than eighty years had been wiped away for a moment. He cleared his throat, made two gentle sounds, and began the melody she had been the first to hear, the only one to hear completely.
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