“Second, we need someone to blame, and it can’t be Merhlin. How could we admit that some unknown power can do what we can’t, that they knew what we couldn’t guess? So whom do we blame to get on with the job?”
“No one, ser. We will blame the anarchists and claim that the Guild and the anarchists collided. We have taken steps to round up the necessary accessories, and we will. And, in the future, enemies of the government can be tagged as anarchists, like those who murdered six thousand people at Iredesium.”
“It might work,” reflected Eye. “It might at that. But don’t collect too many dissidents. We can’t have this seen as a pretext to tighter social control.”
“What about Merhlin?” asked the Admiral of the Fleet.
“We keep looking, quietly. I don’t think we’ll find him or her. Merhlin got what he or she or they wanted. But people forget. Especially, they forget faceless tragedies. Who got seared at Iredesium? Assassins, cold-blooded killers, and playboys and joy-girls. Who’s going to feel sorry for them for long? How can you create outrage about them?”
LII
Click. Click. Click.
The single set of footsteps echoed in the sub-zero chill of what would have been dawn, had the sun not been lost behind clouds that filtered fine snow over the hills and frozen lakes.
Click. Click.
The footsteps halted on the smooth stone before a marble wall. On the wall were rows of gray metal plaques, each the color of gun metal glinting in the dim light.
The man’s eyes centered on the last three plaques, picking out the names.
“Corson MacGregor Ingmarr.”
“Mark Heimdall Ingmarr.”
“Allison Illsa Ingmarr.”
He repeated the names to himself silently, then continued to stand, looking at the three names, ignoring the long rows of plaques above them, ignoring the blank space of the stone below them.
An occasional flake of snow drifted in from his left, under the flat marble roof and between the square and smooth columns that up-held the stone edifice, but he paid the weather no attention.
The wind whispered, ruffling and shuffling the snow that covered the grass and walks around the lone structure.
The gray of his jacket and the gray of his trousers gave the impression of a ghost visiting other ghosts, a spirit paying his respects to other spirits.
Outside, the fine snow falling from the dawn began to thicken, until the hills surrounding the family memorial were less than white shadows, though they lurked but a kilometer from the mount on which the mausoleum stood.
The visitor glanced toward the brighter light of the east and surveyed the falling snow and the shrouded hills, his eyes seeming to burn through the white veil to see the slopes beyond the trees, and the lakes beyond the rocks. Then, as if dismissing the winter, he returned his attention to the wall, and to the three last plaques upon it.
Finally he turned, and his shoulders dropped momentarily, and he faced west, staring out over the line of footprints nearly filled in by the drifting and dropping snow, footprints that would lead him back to another shadow of the past, a ship that belonged to a time predating even the construction of the centuries-old monument and mausoleum within which he stood.
Click. Click. Click.
Without a word, without a gesture, the visitor walked back across the stone slabs of the floor, down two wide marble steps, and into the snow, into the snow that cloaked him, that hid him and the hills toward which he walked.
LIII
The admiral shifted his weight in the chair, waiting for his ultimate superior to appear behind the antique desk. His eyes took in the single Corpus Corps guard, as well as the sparkle to the air between him and the desk that indicated an energy barrier.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
Click, click, click.
The man whose steps preceded him eased his tall and lanky but stooped frame through the portal and into the recliner behind the ancient artifact that had no screen.
“You requested this meeting, Admiral.”
“Yes, sire, I did.”
“Begin.”
The admiral cleared his throat as quietly as possible. “I requested a private meeting because I cannot support my concerns with hard evidence, and because I cannot trust those who would normally provide such hard evidence.”
“You do not seem to trust our Eye Corps.”
“No, ser.”
His Imperial Majesty Keil N’Troya Ryrce Bartoleme IV waited for the Admiral of the Fleet to continue.
“You know that a Service hellburner was employed on Iredesium. What you may not know was that a single weapons pack of nuclear torps was diverted from New Glascow nearly twenty years ago. That represents the only loss of nuclear weaponry in the entire history of the Service. I have no choice but to believe that the hellburner used on Iredesium had to come from New Glascow. I also find it rather difficult to believe that a private group, or even a planetary system, would keep such weaponry either unused or unadvertised for nearly twenty years.
“Further, sire, I have to ask what group is the single group that has challenged successfully the Eye Corps over the past century.” The admiral shrugged. “I have no answers, sire, and my surmises cannot be verified, or probably even asked as questions, but I thought you should know.”
“We appreciate your concern, and your candor. That is an issue in which the Prince has expressed some interest. I would appreciate it, Admiral, if you would contact Ryrce directly in the future, should you have further inspirations or any factual support for your theory.”
The admiral wanted to wipe his steaming forehead, but did not. Instead he waited.
The Emperor stood.
“We are not displeased. We also appreciate your sense of tact. Therefore, your effrontery will not be punished, and we urge you to continue your direction of the Service with the same sense of dedication you have so far shown.”
With an obvious effort, the elderly ruler turned and departed, his feet clicking as he made his way across the tiles toward the exit portal.
The admiral let his breath out slowly, as evenly as he could.
LIV
Gerswin leaned forward on the control couch and checked the results displayed on the data screen again. According to every conceivable test, the plant produced a thread stronger and finer than any synthetic, needed no special fertilizers, and thrived in a wide range of climate and soil conditions.
The field tests, limited as they were, supported Professor Fyrio’s research and contentions, as did the limited evaluations Gerswin had commissioned from the University at New Avalon.
Gerswin shook his head. The problem wasn’t the biology, nor the data, but that none of the commercial enterprises or agricultural interests contacted quietly had shown any interest in what was principally an agricultural product suitable only for nonfoodstuff uses.
The damned plant would make someone a fortune, and no one was interested because there was “no real money” in agriculture.
The man in black stared at the data screen of the small ship, ignoring the larger pilot displays above and before him.
“What else can you do?”
“Inquiry imprecise. Please reformulate,” answered the AI in its clinically impersonal but feminine tones.
Gerswin ignored the standard request, then tapped the keyboard, his fingers flying across the arrayed studs.
“Set for blind torp. Route beta three. Code Delta with databloc trailer. Lyr D’Meryon.”
“Blind torp in position to receive. Ready to bloc feed.”
The pilot squared his shoulders and faced the scanner.
“Lyr. Need some basic information. Details are in the databloc attached. Need recommended corporate type business structure with voting control removed from the system where the business operates. Also need a list of systems permitting absentee ownership. Suspect it would include systems like Byzantia, El Lido, and Dorlian. Send a copy of the systems you come up
with to Infonet, my code, and request full background on them. I’ll pick up the final from my drop there.”
He paused, pursing his lips.
“Doesn’t make much sense, I know, but looks like we need demonstration ventures to prove profitability of biological products and solutions. The commercial types accept biotech for medicine and raw materials, but not for finished or semifinished products.
“Enough said for now.”
He tapped the closure, and hoped that she would read between the words.
With a sigh, he called up the information in the Fyrio files and began to reformat what he needed for the compressed databloc to accompany his transmission.
When he was finished, he coded it to the torp message.
“Torp pack complete. Send at max two.”
“Readying torp for max two path.”
Nodding, Gerswin indexed the research files for the information on protein. Somewhere, somewhere, he recalled a project on replicating animal protein structure with a common plant, a weed nearly, that had used Amardian/T-type genetic fusion.
“Torp released on max two path.”
“Amardian genetics,” he tapped into the keyboard.
Three cross-references appeared on screen five, the data screen.
“In-system contact. Two eight five at one point five, plus three radians. CPA two hundred kays, plus or minus twenty.”
“Interrogative classification.”
“Tentative identification in-system ore tug, class three. Low power orbit recovery.”
“Stet. File and report deviations.”
He returned his attention to the screen, and to the background on Amardian genetics research.
Wondering whether he could have been more efficient with a fixed headquarters, Gerswin paused, then shook his head. He’d have long since drowned in the reports, and who else could have tracked down what was important in the long run? This way, he could make decisions, request information, and move enough to avoid terminal boredom while, he hoped, the research grants began to generate the biological techniques needed so desperately by Old Earth.
In the interim, poor Lyr drowned in the reports.
Once he finished tracking down what he needed on the meat substitute possibility, it would be time to head for Aswan to reenergize and to take a break before returning to the tedious tracing and verifying that seemed to follow inevitably from each possible lead that his own research in the grant files showed up. For each hundred approved grants, perhaps ten held some promise, and of those with promise, one or two showed either commercial or technical possibilities.
On the other hand, after nearly forty years since he had insisted on innovative grants, the research product totals had become impressive. The foundation already had an impressive and growing income from some of those developments, nothing that yet matched the income generated by Lyr’s skillful manipulations of income and assets, but he could see when that had to come, perhaps sooner than Lyr expected.
His own thread venture, if it worked out, could conceivably add a great deal, since the potential was enormous, and since the license fees belonged to the foundation.
“Energy reserves below ten stans.”
He shook his head again. Might as well head for Aswan before finishing up. While the times were currently peaceful, he hated to let the ship drop into a low energy state, or to purchase power commercially. The fewer the records about unknown yachts or the Caroljoy that showed for Imperial Intelligence or other interested parties to pick up, the better. And the cheaper as well.
“Plot course line for jump points,” he ordered as he returned the genetics research to the files and centered himself in the control couch.
LV
Jorge Fugazey liked fax screens, a fact clear from the massive console and the more than thirty screens that angled gently upward around him from his control position.
His fingers played the control studs in lightning flashes, almost as quickly as his deep-set black eyes flickered from display to display.
He did not look up as the younger man approached.
“Father…,” ventured the thinner man, who also had angular features and dark eyes. The son did not vibrate with the focused intensity of his sire, though most men and women would have paled beside either.
“Screen six alpha—the flashing one, Duran. Your source was correct, long past correct. He has retired from the Service, but still collects an annuity. Signifies that he is still alive. You can act—if you choose.”
“Choose? What choice do I have? You have expressed interest in the Daeris connection, and Helene has made it clear. Quite clear. That leaves a choice?”
The performance behind the consoles came to an abrupt halt as the older Fugazey tapped two control plates in succession.
“Never said you had to contract with Helene. Only that you choose a social and economic equal with a strong family. You chose her, without my advice.”
The son shrugged. “Given the alternatives…”
“Study the dossier on this man, Duran. Reconsider what you must do. Do not decide before that. More there than meets the eye. Data missing that should not be missing.”
Baron Fugazey watched as a red light flashed next to one screen, then another, and a third.
“Who can stand up to me, especially with your support?”
“About half the barons in the Empire,” noted the elder with a sour turn to his mouth.
“But he is not a baron, not even a magnate.”
“Titles are not everything, Duran.”
The baron shifted his weight uneasily as the number of red lights on the screens beside and behind him continued to increase.
“I have met the Honorable Alhenda Strackna Daeris, Duran,” added the older Fugazey. “She crossed paths with the man once before, and neither the Strackna nor the Daeris connections were adequate. I said you had my backing and, right now, I will not back down if you wish to continue, but I do ask that you review the files and reconsider…reconsider whether you must have Helene.”
“I will. It won’t change things, but I will.”
Duran snapped his jaw shut with a quick motion and turned away too quickly to see the frown that crossed his father’s face. Then, too, he had never looked to see the shadows under the eyes nor the tightness with which the angular Fugazey features were bound.
The baron watched his son’s back as the man who was scarcely beyond his student years marched out through the portal coded only to admit immediate family.
The warnings on more than a dozen screens were flashing red and amber by the time the baron returned to his manipulations.
LVI
Gerswin was surprised to find a message torp waiting for him at the Ydris drop. Not astounded, for occasionally Lyr had used it for information that she thought pressing or of particular interest. But for the torp to be waiting at Ydris meant that she had sent more than a few.
He wanted to cut short the formalities with the port captain to retrieve the torp, since it belonged to the foundation, though sent by the Imperial Service, and find out why Lyr was searching him out.
The captain, a correct lady by the name of Isbel Relyea Herris, shared the tendency toward formality that the senior tech of the Fleurdilis had always exhibited, although Isbel insisted she had no relations to whoever had served in the Imperial Forces.
“Wouldn’t, have it! No self-respecting Ydrisian would ever serve for that conglomeration of bullies and apologists for the commercial thugs that comprise the Empire. Yourself excepted, Commander.”
“No need to except me, Isbel. That assumes I was one of the bullies in Imperial Service.”
“No assumption. Fact. Your name’s no more Shaik Corso than that scout’s the private yacht she’s registered, apparently registered, as.”
Gerswin had raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Scout’s too old and too well rebuilt for the Impies to have done it. And they wouldn’t think of using an old design. New is always bet
ter for them. You’re too young to have been senior and retired. That leaves few options. You’re independently wealthy, or you freelance, or both.
“You’re successful, and that means experience. Wealth doesn’t buy experience. Leaves age or Impie service.
“Since you’re not that old, you have to have Impie service. Besides”—and her eyes twinkled—“you wear everything so properly, even shipsuits. Like uniforms.”
Gerswin shrugged. “What can I say? Certainly sounds so much more impressive than my own poor background, and who am I to instruct the always correct port captain?”
He inclined his head. “But I do have a few matters…”
“I know. Anytime someone sends a private torp, it’s urgent or Hades-fired close. You’re excused. Shaik, and cleared into Ydris again. But I’d feel more comfortable calling you ‘Commander.’”
“You, Isbel, can call me anything you wish, even if it is not totally accurate.”
“Break orbit, Commander.” She smiled nonetheless as Gerswin collected the torp pack and arranged for the torp itself to be carted to the Caroljoy.
He retreated to the ship as quickly as possible.
Once back inside the scout, he dropped the torp pack into the console.
Lyr’s face, straight features, and carefully combed sandy hair filled the screen.
“I still can’t get used to talking to a blank screen, Commander, but I thought you ought to know what’s going on. I hope you have a chance to pick up one of the torps I’ve sent before Baron Fugazey surprises you.”
She squared her shoulders and brushed back a strand of hair.
Gerswin realized that it was gray, not silver, nor dyed, and shook his head. He thought of her as always there, and unchanging. While she might be there for a long time to come, given Imperial medical technology, she was not unchanging nor immune from the aging process. He wondered if she were the type whom a complete rejuvenation would benefit as he refocused on what she was saying.
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