The Forever Hero

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  S

  The card was stiff, formal, and nearly antique stationery, with a single name embossed in the upper left-hand corner. The name? Patron L. Sergio Enver.

  The man with the blond and silver braids frowned. He’d assumed that Enver was related to the commercial baron Enver who had founded Enver Enterprises. Certainly the local Enver office had been accommodating when he had faxed for confirmation.

  “Yes, Ser Willgel. You are on the patron’s calendar. At 1000.” That was all they had said, as if that had explained everything. Either that, or they did not know any more than he did, which made the matter more mysterious than ever, particularly since he had never expected a response from the routine inquiry he had made of a number of newer enterprises.

  Because the Appropriate Technology Institute was five small rooms in the back of a rented warehouse, Willes Willgel had arrived early and sat waiting for the mysterious Patron Enver.

  He checked the time. One standard minute until his appointment, not that promptness meant anything to the commercial barons. Willgel knew he could be waiting hours after his scheduled time, and he dared not complain. He was the one asking for funding.

  The former professor sighed, aware as he exhaled of how thin he had gotten, of how baggy his tunic felt.

  “Ser Willgel? Would you come this way?” A stocky woman stood by a closed portal.

  Willgel leapt to his feet, then swallowed a curse at his own eagerness, and forced himself to walk slowly the four meters to the portal. He frowned, and tried to wipe it away, but failed. He worried more about the promptness of the patron than if he had been summoned later.

  “Unless the patron asks you to remain, you have ten standard minutes. Do you understand?”

  Willgel nodded. “I will do my best.”

  “Go ahead. He’s waiting.” The dark-haired greeter did not return the nervous smile that finally came to Willgel’s lips, but gestured toward the opening portal.

  Willgel crossed through the gateway and into the office in three strides, head bobbing from side to side on a too-long neck as he tried to take in everything.

  The office was large, but not imposing. The wall to his left was covered with a blue-black fabric on which was reproduced a night sky which Willgel had never seen before, from a system farther out in the galaxy, apparently, where the stars were more widely scattered. The ceiling was a faintly glowing gold, while the sheer gold curtains covered the full-wall windows to his right and directly before him. Standing straight in front of him was a smallish man, with tight-curled silver-gray hair and yellow eyes.

  Beside him stood two modernistic armchairs, and behind the patron was a combination desk and console, where all surfaces were covered with a tight-grained ebony wood.

  “Sergio Enver,” offered the patron. “Have a seat, Ser Willgel.”

  His voice, while a light baritone, filled the office.

  Willgel sat.

  Enver did not. He stepped back until he was leaning against the wooden desk, a functional piece with no apparent projections besides the console itself.

  “Your proposition did not explain what you meant by ‘appropriate’ technology. How would you define it?”

  “That is probably the most difficult challenge the Institute faces, Patron—”

  “Harder than fund-raising?” asked the baron, lips quirking.

  “Others raise funds easily. I, obviously, do not. But no one has really defined what technologies are appropriate to man, or to society, or whether differing societies should seek differing levels of technology, and what those levels should be.

  “Put that way, what are the parameters of an appropriate technology?”

  Willgel swallowed. “I’ll try to be as succinct as possible. As you know, Patron, man’s drive for more and better technology lies far back in history. Underneath that drive is the unspoken assumption that more technology is better and that improved technology will result in a better life for mankind. The problem with applying technology broadscale is that the benefits are uneven. Mass production of communications consoles may improve people’s lives by allowing them more freedom in how and where they work and live. Use of technology in agriculture to concentrate control of production in the hands of a few at a cost which prevents competition allows economic control by a small elite. A standardized communications network allows a richer cultural life, but reinforces the possibility of social control by a few.”

  “Wait.” The patron held up his hand. “Generalizations address no real problems. You have also not defined what you mean as ‘better.’ Is ‘more appropriate’ better? Why do you think that certain types or applications of technology are better or more appropriate than others?”

  Willgel licked his lips, then licked them again. Outside of the fact that Enver was generally linked into biologic technologies and was a major agricultural supplier, he really hadn’t been able to determine what the patron’s economic interests were.

  “I take it that your need for funding is warring with your ethics,” observed the commercial magnate dryly. “If you don’t wish to offend me, you might consider that intellectual dishonesty offends me more than attacks on my income or products.”

  Willgel swallowed again. “I see, Patron.”

  “Do you? I wonder. Go ahead, Professor, and try to get to the point.”

  Willgel coughed.

  “As you suggested, I was leading to the question of appropriateness. ‘Better’ and ‘appropriate’ are tied together, because both are value judgments. Personally, I find that a technology or a use of technology that increases individual freedom is better than one that restricts it. A technology that radically decreases liberty, even if it reduces costs of products, is not.”

  “Aren’t those definitions arbitrary?” asked the patron. “You are stating that decentralization and greater freedom are ‘better’ than centralization and a possibly higher standard of living. What about interstellar travel? What about the need for defense against outsiders? What about the great cramped artistic communities of the past? What about the still unsurpassed technology of crowded Old Earth?”

  “Perhaps I am arbitrary,” answered Willgel with a shrug that ignored the perspiration beading on his forehead. “The problem with larger and more concentrated societies, Patron, is that they require increasingly more complicated social codes or laws, or both, and more social restrictions, to maintain order and to avoid violence. Human beings are distressingly prone to violence and disorder. Further, increasingly concentrated societies create concentrated wastes. Higher technology can support more humans in a smaller area, which spawns a greater and more toxic waste problem, which requires, in turn, a higher level of technology to handle. And for what purpose?”

  The scholar plunged on. “While you can argue that the creation of jumpships requires high technology, and that interstellar society requires the communications they supply, it is harder to argue that low population societies like Barcelon really require the centralized control of agriculture and communications for either order or food. History has shown that a moderate number of privately owned agricultural enterprises is normally more successful than large and highly concentrated ones. History has also shown that centralized, but non-government communications systems are more successful—both in terms of maintaining freedom and lower costs—than are government monopolies or the anarchy of small competitors. If you will, there is a level and a type of technology ideally appropriate to each human culture or subculture. Our mission is to define what those types and levels might be, along with the ramifications.”

  Willgel paused to catch his breath, then waited as he watched Sergio Enver nod.

  “What happens if your Institute declares that the current use of technology on Barcelon amounts to totalitarian slavery and the Barcelon government protests to the Empire? Or if you declare that the Imperial policy of using synthetics is creating a totally inappropriate toxic waste problem that is diverting unnecessary energy resources for ongoing cleanup? What if
the Empire decides to ban your publications?”

  Willgel smiled. “We are a long ways from either. First, we must study the energy and personnel parameters for critical technologies, balance the input and output against the wastes and other diseconomies, and then pinpoint areas of diminishing returns, where the use of more high technology may not produce commensurate benefits.”

  “Diminishing returns? A jumpship is certainly an example of diminishing returns for a small system. But I wouldn’t advocate doing away with them.”

  “No. But you would not advocate building millions, either, I suspect.”

  Abruptly, Enver straightened and stood away from the desk/console combination.

  “There are a considerable number of fallacies in your reasoning, Ser Willgel, as well as monumental naivete in the implications of what you propose. I have neither the time nor energy to disabuse you of the fallacies, nor to better inform you on some hard realities.”

  Willgel could feel his face fall.

  “But the core of your reasoning is sound. So is the Institute, although I would suggest that you need some solid crusaders and true believers to spread the word. Pick up your draft authorization on the way out. And, Ser Willgel,” added Enver as he walked around the console.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you not only do those studies, but that you publish them. Circulate them, and—I shouldn’t have to tell a former professor—get as much of the academic community involved as possible. A good idea circulated and discussed in the schools is worth a million brilliant ones buried in the archives. Good day.”

  Willgel shook his head and turned. Such a brief discussion, if he could call it that. Enver had given him the impression that the patron had already considered much of what was only speculation on Willgel’s part. Willgel shivered.

  The portal closed behind him as he stood in the dimmer green confines of the outer office once more.

  “Ser Willgel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your authorization.”

  Willgel walked to the console where the stocky woman sat. She handed him a single sheet.

  He took it and read it. Then he read it a second time, and a third before he lowered it.

  One hundred thousand creds! For one year. One year. Renewable at two hundred thousand for a second if published standards and educational efforts met the technical standards of the patron.

  Willgel didn’t pretend to understand. For whatever obscure reasons he might have, Patron L. Sergio Enver had decided that there should be a strong Appropriate Technology Institute, one with technical excellence and a strong outreach program.

  Willgel let himself smile as he held the authorization. Technical excellence and outreach—backed by sound reasoning. Enver had made it all too clear that he wouldn’t stand for studies or reports that said nothing, or for fuzzy definitions.

  The former professor wondered whether the baron fully understood what such an Institute was capable of, given time and some financial support.

  His stride lengthened as he marched down the corridor to the public tube train that would take him back to the warehouse and his budding Institute.

  XIV

  The heavyset professor trudged from the entry portal into the small sitting room that opened onto the high balcony overlooking the University Lake.

  “Who…who…” Her mouth grasped at the words as she saw the curly-haired man sitting in the recliner, sipping from one of her antique wine glasses.

  “Professor Dorso, I believe.”

  “Uh…who…what are you doing in my home?”

  “I apologize for the intrusion.” His voice was light, but compelling, and his hawk-yellow eyes glimmered in the twilight dimness. “I’ve come to collect.”

  “Collect? What in Hades are you referring to?”

  “Roughly twenty years ago, you accepted a modest grant from the OER Foundation. In return, you promised to develop a certain line of biologics based on your published works, and to hold that material until called for, up to fifty standard years, if necessary. I have come to collect.”

  The professor collapsed into the other chair with a plumping sound, the synthetic leather squeaking under her bulk.

  “My god! My god!”

  “Did you develop what you promised?” The man’s tone was neutral.

  “I…worked…just took the drafts…never questioned…but no one ever came…wondered if anyone ever cared.”

  He had stood so quickly she had missed the motion, so quickly she had to repress a shudder and failed. Taking a deep breath, then another, she could smell an acrid odor, a bitter smell, a scent of fear. Her fear.

  “Did you ever attempt the work?”

  She began to laugh, and the high-pitched tone echoed from one side of the room to the other.

  Crack!

  The side of her face felt numb from the impact of his hand.

  She stared up at the slender man. For some reason, her eyes tried to slide away from his body, and she had to concentrate on his face. Hawk-yellow eyes, short and curly blond hair, sharp nose, a chin neither pointed nor square, but somewhere in between—he could have been either an avenging angel or a demon prince. Or both at once.

  “I did what I promised.” Her voice was dull. “You don’t know what it cost. You couldn’t possibly understand. Don’t you see? If I had failed…if I had died…but I didn’t. I was right…and I couldn’t tell anyone.”

  His face softened without losing its alertness. “You will be able to. Before too long. Wish I could have come sooner. All of us pay certain prices. All of us.”

  “How soon? When?” wheezed the professor as she struggled to sit upright.

  He handed her a thin folder. “Study these specifications. I would like to have your spores packaged that way.”

  He held up his hand to forestall her objections before she could voice them.

  “The fabrication group you are to use is listed on one of the sheets. I have already set up a line of credit for your use. Your authorization is included, and I will confirm that tomorrow.

  “I want it done right. That’s why you’re in charge. That was also in your contract.”

  The woman sank back into her recliner, her eyes half-glassy.

  The stranger turned and gazed out at the now-black waters of the University Lake, beyond the dim lights of the balcony, where the twilight submerged into the clouded start of night itself.

  After a moment, he touched the panel. The armaglass door slid open, and a hint of a breeze wafted in, nearly scentless, except for the trace of water hyacinths underlying the cool air.

  “Shocks…we all get them,” he mused. “Things are not what they seem. Memories from the past appear as real people. People who were real disappear as if they never existed. Work overlooked becomes critical after it seems forgotten…”

  Abruptly he turned and stepped back before her.

  “Look at the last sheet.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  He laughed, a harsh bark, and touched the light panel, watching as the illumination flooded the room, as she fumbled with the sheets from the folder.

  “Oh…oh…that much! Why?”

  “Look at the date.”

  “Five weeks from now? After twenty years?”

  “That’s for payment for your work, for your supervision in building the equipment. Turn it over.”

  The professor slowly turned over the uncounterfeitable credit voucher drawn on Halsie-Vyr. The amount represented ten years’ salary. On the reverse was a short inscription.

  She read it once, then again.

  “I can? I really could?”

  He smiled, faintly, understanding that the recognition would be worth more than the massive credit balance she would receive.

  “The actual release form is also in the packet. If you complete the work on schedule, you will be able to publish your work immediately, including all the earlier research results, and the ATI Foundation will undertake its wide-scale distribution.
”

  Her hands trembled as she methodically went through the sheaves of sheets, looking for the single release form, finally pulling it out, checking the authentications. Her dark brown eyes flickered from the certificate to the stranger and back to the certificate. Back and forth.

  He turned again to the lake and beheld the darkness surrounded by the lights of the University Towers. Where the waters were clear of the hyacinths, reflections of the lights twinkled like the stars hidden above the clouds.

  “Who are you?” Now her high voice was steady.

  “I am who I am, Professor. No more and no less.” He did not turn away from his view of the darkness and the reflected lights in the black waters beneath the balcony.

  “You won’t tell me.”

  “No. Except that I represent the foundation. That’s what counts. That and the fact that your work will be spread throughout the galaxy. It will be. My purposes are more immediate and selfish.”

  She pursed her lips, and her brow wrinkled, as if she were trying to remember something.

  “Even so, it can’t be that quick.”

  “I know. And we should have recognized the value of what you did earlier. At least we have now.”

  He turned back and faced her, looking down as if from an immeasurable height.

  “The packet tells you where the packaged materials should be delivered.” He frowned, as if debating with himself. “Would you be interested in other biologically related research? Completing some unfinished projects from notes, fragmentary materials?”

  “That would depend.”

  “The conditions would be the same. Not that way,” he interrupted himself. “All results could be released within a year of completion, whether or not it was picked up or used. Each project would be separately compensated, and well.”

  “Provided that I could start my own organization, with independent facilities, I would be very interested.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re interested, work up a proposal. Send it to the foundation. Probably be accepted. Plenty of work.”