The Endless Twilight

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  VI

  THE FLITTER CIRCLED the holding west of the thin and glittering green river that split the neatly and mechanically cultivated synde bean fields.

  The few buildings, obviously used for storage and machine repair, stood at the top of a gentle rise, scarcely more than thirty meters higher than the gentle rolling hills covered with the rust brown of the synde beans about to be harvested.

  Gerswin, in the right front seat of the four-seat flitter, could see from the indentations in the hilltop that other structures had been removed.

  “This was the original estate house of the Gwavara’s, but when the grandfather of the present colonel married Vylere’s daughter and consolidated the holdings of both families, the estate house was moved to Vylerven. That’s about one hundred kays east,” added Constanza Cerdezo, who sat directly behind Gerswin, providing a running commentary.

  The silver-haired land agent reminded Gerswin more of a dowager aunt than the sharp-dealing professional the other two agents had warned him to steer clear of.

  “Why is this available?”

  “It is considered too remote, and the production levels have fallen considerably in the last four or five years. Neglected shamefully.”

  “Not much scenery here,” groused Gerswin.

  “That is true, but as I indicated earlier, were you to indicate a firm interest in this land, and your client’s desire to maintain and improve it, the Ministry of Forests and Agriculture Development would look most favorably upon your application to purchase, say, twenty thousand squares of the adjoining forest reserve. With the stipulation that your client retain all but a small fraction in forest, of course. Still, two percent of twenty thousand squares is four hundred squares, and that would be adequate for any estate house, landing field, roads, and local produce gardens.”

  “And the normal fee for consideration?”

  “I would suggest something in the range of five thousand credits, with a deposit of one million credits on the forest reserve application.”

  Gerswin didn’t bother to ask if the deposit were refundable. Whatever she said, in practice, no deposit for special consideration would ever be returned.

  “Could we swing over and see the forest reserve lands you’re talking about? I’ve seen maps and holos, but there is no substitute for seeing the actual parcels.”

  “Forest reserves are protected from overflights,” the pilot stated baldly.

  “How can I recommend RERTA buy something I have not seen?”

  “You could rent a landcruiser,” suggested the pilot.

  “That would take days,” complained Gerswin. “And I still would not have the sweep, the overview necessary.”

  “I sympathize, Ser Corson, but the regulations are regulations.”

  “Regulations are regulations, I know, but isn’t there some exception, some variance, for special circumstances?”

  “Ah, an exception permit,” offered the pilot. Then his voice fell. “But you must apply in advance.”

  Gerswin shrugged and turned to Constanza Cerdezo. “Have you any suggestions?”

  “Ser Corson, must you overfly the whole parcel, or merely see it from the air?”

  “Perhaps if I could see at least part of it from the air, I could decide whether more flights were necessary, and then I could decide whether to apply for an exception permit.”

  Constanza addressed the pilot. “Michel, can you fly the demarche line?”

  “Ah, yes, Sher Cerdezo. If I inadvertently stray . . . the fine is five hundred credits.”

  Gerswin picked up the hint. “Michel, I can understand your concerns about such delicate piloting. Should you inadvertently stray onto the wrong side of the line, I will be responsible for the monetary fine. If you are successful, as I know you will be, and you are not fined, the five hundred credits that would go to the government will be your bonus.”

  “Ser Corson and Sher Cerdezo, I will do my best.”

  The flitter banked left and swung toward the low hills thirty kays west of the old Gwavara holding.

  As they neared the low hills, covered with a uniform dark green carpet of trees, with scattered clearings that appeared more as gray smudges, Gerswin thought he saw a faint line of smoke.

  “Is that smoke?”

  The pilot and Constanza both stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and the pilot swallowed.

  “Ser Corson, why do you ask?”

  “It seemed strange. Everywhere else the air is so clear. Even in the forests outside Illyam. First smoke I’ve seen.”

  “Perhaps it is smoke.”

  Michel brought the flitter around heading southward, along the gently curved line separating the rising and treed hills from the cultivated fields. Between the trees and the bean fields ran a dust-covered and narrow road. For fifty meters on each side of the road the ground was grassy, the grass a purple-tinged gold.

  From his viewpoint, Gerswin studied the forest reserve. The low trees were gray-trunked, the foliage more purple-olive-green than the green of New Augusta or even of New Colora. He could see no towering monoliths, but a regularity in height, despite the obviously irregular and natural growth spacing of the individual trees.

  Several distant glimmers, either lasers or light reflected from polished metal, twinkled in the distance, from what looked to be the second or third line of the hills that rose gradually as their distance from the cultivated area increased.

  About the reflections Gerswin said nothing.

  “The smoke . . . ?” he asked.

  “Ah, yes, the smoke . . . it may be smoke.”

  Gerswin turned to Constanza. “Perhaps I understand. Even in the most ideal of societies, there are those who would not work for what they receive, who would rather live like savages . . .”

  He could sense the relief in the pilot and the land agent, which indicated he was either off-track totally or had reassured them with his observation.

  “Yes, Ser Corson,” answered Constanza, “we do have a few of those. And occasionally their campfires go out of control.”

  “And the Ministry of Forests and Agriculture Development is spread so thin that it would welcome someone who could protect and manage a small section of the forest reserve?”

  As he asked the question, the flitter passed a small clearing, and Gerswin thought he saw the charred remnants of three identical houses side by side before the view was obscured by the flitter’s stub wing and the intervening trees.

  “There have been other lease/purchases granted on that basis.”

  Gerswin nodded, thinking more about the sight of three identically burned ruins in a small clearing.

  “I take it that in normal circumstances, building in the forest reserves is not allowed? That is true on most worlds, I believe.”

  “That is true on Byzania as well. How else could a reserve remain a reserve if any savage could . . . build a . . . dwelling . . . anywhere he wanted?”

  Gerswin noted the hesitancy in word choice and filed it mentally for future reference.

  “Who actually protects the forests? The Ministry of Forests and Agriculture Development?”

  “Protects?”

  “Keeps people out, makes sure that savages don’t destroy the trees, that sort of thing.”

  “All protection is the responsibility of the Chief of Staff. Any guard duty, whether at the shuttle port, or in the forest reserves, is the duty of the armed forces.” That was from the pilot.

  “So your armed forces are concerned with both the prevention of crime and the protection of natural resources?”

  “Ser Corson, we have little crime here on Byzania. Surely you have already noticed that.”

  Gerswin had noticed that and said so before changing the subject.

  “How far would twenty thousand squares go?”

  Constanza had a map on the console screen in front of Gerswin, and with her instructions and the map, he could see how the combined holding would indeed be a most attractive property. Most attractive.


  Attractive as it would be, he thought he also understood Sher Cerdezo’s game.

  RERTA would apply for the forest reserve purchase, and the government would turn it down. The deposit would be forfeit, unless RERTA could bring pressure to bear, in which case the deposit would become the processing fee or the equivalent. Whatever the eventual result, RERTA would be out an additional 1,005,000 credits, of which a large share would probably go to Sher Cerdezo.

  A further refinement would be the requirement that RERTA purchase the estate land before it could apply for the forest reserve purchase. If the forest reserve purchase failed to go through, the foundation, in RERTA’s ostensible name, would have overpriced farming land, unless it resold at a loss, possibly through Sher Cerdezo.

  He almost smiled.

  The locals played rough, too tough to be ultimately successful, particularly if a few experienced Imperials moved in.

  Gerswin could see another smoky patch in the forested distance, which he ignored, as well as a longer flash of light from the same general direction.

  He could not ignore the three combat skitters, presumably carrying troops for which they were designed, which zoomed through a low ridge between two hills and spiraled up into a holding pattern above the smoldering patch in the reserve.

  “Forest fire?” he asked blankly.

  “I do not know,” answered the pilot.

  “Nor I,” chimed in Constanza.

  They both lied. Gerswin did not press the issue, but merely studied the skitters for a moment before turning his head to look at another area of the forest reserve.

  “Most attractive land parcels, Sher Cerdezo. Most attractive.”

  “Do . . . do you think your client might be interested?”

  “RERTA might indeed be interested. There are several other possibilities I have yet to investigate.”

  “I doubt that they measure up to this.”

  “They may not. If so, then I can honestly report that this is the most attractive.” Gerswin looked at the pilot. “If there is nothing else you think I should see . . .”

  “Of course. Michel, let us return Ser Corson to Illyam.”

  Gerswin leaned back as if to relax, then sat up and half turned in his seat.

  “Sher Cerdezo . . . you are so familiar with so many of these estates. Almost as if you had . . .” Gerswin looked down and did not complete the statement .

  “. . . as if I had been raised on one?”

  “My apologies if I have created some awkwardness.”

  “No.” She laughed, and the laugh was the practiced easy kind that comes to those who make it their stock in trade. “My origins would be obvious to anyone raised on Byzania, even without the name Cerdezo. My uncle was once the prime minister—before he had an unfortunate accident while hunting turquils in the western reserve.”

  “Then you moved to Illyam, away from the memories?”

  “They are good memories, but times change. I enjoy the city life, and the chance to meet off-worlders now and again. When one has a small household, one has no need for estates, and what I have is adequate, more than adequate, for my needs.”

  “I did not mean to pry.”

  “No, Ser Corson. You did not intrude. You understand a great deal more than most off-worlders, and for that understanding I am grateful.”

  Gerswin turned back to stare out the front of the armaglass canopy at the dim blotch on the brown horizon, the dim blotch that would become Illyam.

  No matter how he turned the problem over in his mind, he couldn’t see any quick solution. Not one that didn’t point the finger at one MacGregor Corson long before he could track down what he needed.

  That left the option of action, and of using others to force the issue before his cover was thoroughly shredded.

  All he could do was wait until touchdown. Wait and hope that there wasn’t a welcoming committee yet, not that he expected one until the locals had figured out how to get their hands on as much hard currency as possible.

  As he expected, there was no greeting party when the flitter landed at the shuttle port, not if he excluded the small groundcar that waited for Sher Cerdezo at the edge of the tarmac where Michel had set the flitter down.

  Gerswin observed the military style of the landing, which confirmed another of his suspicions.

  As Michel shut down the thrusters, Gerswin stretched, began to unbuckle his belt harness.

  “Uhnnnn . . .”

  The pilot slumped forward over the stick, his beret sliding off his head and onto the control board.

  “What . . . what happened?” asked Gerswin, swiveling away from the outside view and leaning over the pilot.

  “Michel!” added Constanza Cerdezo.

  Gerswin pocketed the pilot’s credentials and universal credit card as he laid the man back and across the seat.

  “He’s breathing . . . heartbeat seems all right . . .” Gerswin looked at the land agent. “Is there . . . I mean . . . how do you call for an emergency health vehicle?”

  “Perhaps we should take him to the dispensary in my groundcar,” suggested the land agent. “By the time—“

  “Good idea.”

  Gerswin fumbled around with the controls more than necessary before locating the door and steps release and activating them.

  As the canopy slid back and the doorway opened and steps extended, the groundcar purred toward the flitter.

  Gerswin edged the limp pilot to the doorway, climbed out, and gave the impression of staggering as he lifted the man into his arms and over his shoulder. With one hand on the single railing, he lurched down and toward the olive drab of the groundcar.

  The driver wore the standard armed forces uniform and had leapt out to stand by the open front door of the car, his right hand on the butt of the holstered stunner.

  “Sher Cerdezo, what happened?”

  “Michel collapsed right after landing. He breathes, but he is not conscious. Can we take him to the dispensary?”

  “That would be no problem.” The driver raised his eyebrows as he surveyed Gerswin.

  “We’ll just bring Ser Corson with us, Waldron. He is a client of mine, but Michel is the important thing.”

  As they talked, Gerswin eased the pilot’s form into the rear seat, and pulled himself in as well, shutting the door behind him. Waldron seated Sher Cerdezo before returning to the wheel to begin the trip toward the dispensary.

  “Medical, medical, this is Waldron. Pilot Michel unconscious. Request emergency team upon arrival.”

  As the car whined toward the low building that was the dispensary, Gerswin could see a glide stretcher and two white-clad figures waiting under the emergency entrance’s portico.

  No sooner had the groundcar come to a halt than the armed services medical technicians were easing Michel out and onto the stretcher.

  The way they handled the unconscious pilot verified another of Gerswin’s suspicions.

  As the medical team bundled Michel off, Waldron turned in his seat so that he half faced Constanza, in the front, and Gerswin, in the rear.

  “What really happened to Michel?”

  Gerswin could have taken offense and been in character, but decided against it. Waldron was more than a driver. More like Constanza’s jailer.

  “He just fell forward. One minute he was fine. The next minute he was slumped on the controls.”

  “Before or after the doorway was opened?”

  “Before, I think,” answered Gerswin. “I wasn’t looking at him at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was considering what I would do with the land parcels that Sher Cerdezo had shown me.”

  “Did you see anything, Sher Cerdezo?”

  “No. I was picking my case up from the floor. When I looked up, Ser Corson was looking at the groundcar. Then Michel groaned and fell forward.” She glared at Waldron. “And if you are through treating us . . . like trainees . . . would you be so kind as to take us back?”

  “Of co
urse, Sher Cerdezo. Of course. And what about Ser Corson?”

  “Unless you have any great objection, he comes with me. Michel’s seizure stopped us from completing our business.”

  Waldron said nothing as he squared himself in his seat, seemingly oblivious to the lady’s biting tongue. The whine of the electrics increased, and the car pulled away from the dispensary. The front glass darkened automatically as the car turned into the late afternoon sun.

  Constanza sat straight, facing forward, silent. Gerswin followed her example, hoping he had read the lady correctly.

  As the electric vehicle pulled up the long circular drive to a house—which, while appearing modest by the standards of the larger estate holders, would have been the envy of many an Imperial functionary—Gerswin had to wonder in what sort of splendor had Constanza Cerdezo grown up. She had referred to her quarters as small and modest.

  At the portico waited two other men, both of whom wore livery that marked them as servants, but both with the manner of military personnel.

  Before the car pulled away, Gerswin turned as if to help the white-haired lady from the front seat. One of the guards had already opened the door for her.

  “Sher Cerdezo, I am not familiar with this section of Illyam. Once we are completed, finished, is there some sort of transportation?”

  “I am sure that Waldron would be more than happy to drive you back to your hotel.”

  “Most assuredly,” said Waldron, smiling broadly.

  At the smile, Gerswin hastily revised his plans again.

  “My study would be best,” said Constanza, “since I have my console and the larger maps there.”

  Gerswin followed her through the double doors and through the hardwood-floored foyer to another doorway on the right and a smaller hallway, with rough-finished white walls. At the end was the study, a long high-ceilinged room with rows and rows of built-in wooden bookcases, nearly all filled with old-style books, on the right, or the exterior wall. On the left was a nearly solid expanse of glass looking into the low gardens of the central courtyard.

  “Might I borrow your console for a moment or two?” asked Gerswin.

  “Certainly. I will get the maps out.”