The Endless Twilight

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That’s all you want?”

  “Ser Wadrup, it seems a great deal to me. You give up your name, your family. You give up any fixed home for years to come. In return,

  I supply the necessary funding and the factual information to supplement what you already know.”

  “Hardly a great loss for me. My family is still working in the pump works on New Glascow, and I haven’t been home in nearly ten years. I never had enough money to concentrate on what I believe in.” Wadrup paused. “I’m not sure I like the charade of freeing myself.”

  “If you have a better way of getting the message across without ending up in prison again, I’m willing to listen.” The man in black stood. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Wadrup listened. He could hear another voice, impersonally feminine, cool, clear, nearly icy. He shivered. Compared to that tone, the man in black seemed to radiate heat.

  “Interception course. Probability approaches point seven.”

  “Lift one radian. See what they do.”

  “Lifting one.”

  Wadrup wondered who the pilot was, if she were the narrowfaced cold woman who had acted as the guard for the counsel who had secured his release.

  “Ser Wadrup. Some evasive action is necessary.” The black-clad man returned, reached across Wadrup, and took the empty cup, placing it in one of the wall receptacles. He returned to the graduate student.

  “Please straighten yourself. Like this.”

  Wadrup found the harness around himself again.

  “For your own safety, no matter what happens, do not try to release the harness. Your success in doing so could guarantee your own death.”

  The unknown man disappeared again.

  Wadrup listened, not moving, but straining to make out the conversation between the pilot and his captor/rescuer.

  “Interrogative time to jump.”

  “One point one.”

  “Margin for jump in five minutes.”

  “Less than point eight.”

  “Not worth it. Intercept probability?”

  “Point nine without evasion.”

  “Intercept probability with evasion within standard stress envelope?”

  “Point five.”

  “Probability within personal envelope?”

  “Imprecise inquiry.”

  “Intercept probability with evasion maneuvers within pilot’s personal stress envelope.”

  “Less than point zero five.”

  Wadrup heard a clicking, realized that someone was strapping into a harness.

  “Commence evasion.”

  An invisible piston crushed Wadrup into the bunk, squeezing, squeezing, until he felt the darkness rush over him.

  Time passed. How much he did not know as he drifted between sleep, unconsciousness, pressures, and a half daze.

  Then, once more, he could hear the inhumanly clear voice of the pilot before he was fully alert.

  “Passenger is awake.”

  “Monitor. Interrogative time to jump.”

  “Three point five minutes.”

  “Screens?”

  “Negative on screens. Patroller is at one point three.”

  “That’s beyond range.”

  “Affirmative. Tentatively identified as class two.”

  “Probability of identification is climbing, isn’t it?”

  “Please clarify.”

  “Fewer patrollers, but more seem to be looking for us. Can you verify or offer statistics?”

  “Statistically unverifiable. Variables too extensive. Gross number of patroller contacts up ten percent in last five standard years.”

  “Must be my imagination. Here we go.”

  The room turned simultaneously black and white around Wadrup, and he felt as though an electric shock had passed through his body. The moment of jump lasted no time at all, even while that instant of timelessness stretched and stretched.

  Another shock, another white and black flash, and the crew room returned to its familiar metallic coloration.

  “How far out are we?”

  “Estimate three plus hours to orbit. Screens clear.”

  “Call me if anything shows, or if any abnormality reaches point zero five on the anomaly index.”

  “Stet. Will alert at point zero five on the anomaly index.”

  Wadrup turned his head toward the whispering sound of lightfooted boots and watched as the shadowy black figure swept into the crew room.

  “Sorry for the delay, Ser Wadrup.”

  Snick.

  Wadrup stretched as he shrugged himself loose from the webbing of the restraint harness.

  “Who are you?” Wadrup asked.

  The other shook his masked head. Despite the fuzziness of the image the man in black presented, by looking from the corners of his eyes, the graduate student could get a better idea of the general motions of the man.

  “All right. What are you?” Wadrup rephrased the question.

  “You could call me a man with a mission. Won’t tell you the mission except to say that the present attitude of the Empire, its systems, and those across the Arm threatens that mission. That’s where you come in. You and a few others have been recruited to speak out, to give the people some ideas and some hope. If you will, to get the next generation’s opinion leaders to think. To be receptive to change. That’s what I hope.”

  “Nothing small, I see. Merely to change the thought patterns of millions in tens or hundreds of systems.”

  “No. Nothing small. But we have some time. Time and the fact that we are right.”

  This time Wadrup shook his head. He still knew next to nothing. Or did he?

  Ignoring the black-clad figure across from him, Hein Wadrup added up what he knew.

  The man was wealthy, wealthy enough to own and equip a highspeed scout as a personal yacht. He was not interested in personal luxury. He was able to find people like Hein Wadrup for his own purposes, which meant some sort of organization. He was opposed by at least some system governments, and he did not want Hein to see his face, which meant he was not totally unknown.

  He couldn’t be too old, because he wouldn’t be able to accept high-acceleration evasive maneuvers, and his tolerances were higher than Hein’s. He was also totally at home in the small ship, which meant a great deal of experience.

  Wadrup frowned, shifted his weight, and dived at the man, hands reaching for the privacy mask.

  Thud!

  Wadrup sprawled on the deck. Before he could shake his head to clear it, he could feel the man’s hands lifting him back onto the bunk, hands that conveyed the feeling of immense strength. Yet the man was obviously shorter and more slender than Wadrup.

  “Ser Wadrup, even in your best condition, you would find your moves inadequate.” He laughed, a single harsh bark. “Are you interested in my proposition? Or would you rather that I drop you off at the next port?”

  “Next port?”

  “New Avalon. I will supply the transportation free, but, of course, I could not bring your passport and universal ID, for reasons we both understand.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “No. On New Avalon you would be perfectly free to stay. The Monarchy does not allow extradition. You would be safe, also, since they do not permit foreign agents.”

  “But I’d be stuck!”

  “Ser Wadrup, I rescued you at great cost, with some risk, transported you to a place of safety, and am willing to let you go without any strings. I offered you a simple business proposition. You may accept or refuse. In any case, you are alive and free, and you would be neither by now had you stayed under the care of the authorities of Barcelon.”

  Wadrup bit his lip. He couldn’t deny any of it.

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “I want a totally free decision. I will be here on New Avalon for several days. In the meantime, I will give you, say, one hundred credits. If you are interested in the proposition I made, contact me through the port. I will be registered u
nder the name of DeCorso. If not, consider yourself a fortunate young man.”

  Wadrup frowned.

  “In the meantime, I have some things to do. Please remain here. The narrow doorway across from you contains a small but adequate fresher, which you may use.

  “The second locker contains those belongings of yours Ser Villinnil’s staff were able to locate, including some clean clothes.”

  Wadrup looked up to see him passing through the archway and stopping to touch something. A flat metal wall extended from the archway, turning the crew room into a well-equipped cell.

  “Strange . . . strange . . .”

  The thought of getting clean again overruled more intellectual considerations, and he headed for the fresher. He’d have to give the stranger’s proposition a fair evaluation, but not for a while, maybe not until he had the chance to see the situation on New Avalon.

  XVI

  “TELL ME AGAIN.” Baron Megalrie’s voice dropped to the soft silkiness that was a telltale warning to those who knew him.

  The Vice President of Marketing knew the tone also.

  “Yes, Baron. We cannot meet the competition. Bestmeat—that is the firm—is selling to the restaurant distributors and the food centers for twenty percent less than we are.”

  “Our markup is more than twenty percent,” observed the Baron in the same silky tone, looking pointedly at the real wood of the conference table, then brushing an imaginary speck from the left forearm of his long-sleeved crimson silk-sheen tunic.

  “That was my first reaction, Baron.” The red-haired man swallowed hard. “Statistics pointed out, however, that the twenty percent level was the maximum profit-maximizing level for Bestmeat. That is, low enough to take the roughly forty percent of the Westmark trade we don’t have absolutely controlled, but high enough—“

  “Spare me the basic economics, Reillee. To what obscure point are you leading?”

  “Through happenstance, sheer happenstance, you understand, it came to my attention that Bestmeat was banking more than five million credits a standard month in their investment account alone.”

  “What firm?”

  “Halsie-Vyr, Baron.”

  The baron’s voice dropped even lower. “And how much did this happenstance information cost you?”

  “It was happenstance—“

  “Reillee . . .”

  “Five thousand.”

  The baron stared levelly at Reillee.

  “We have several problems, Reillee. You didn’t pay enough for that information. That means everyone will know shortly that you were concerned. We will return to that problem later.”

  He glanced behind Reillee at the closed portal, then stared at the red-headed man.

  “Can I draw the conclusion that since Bestmeat is not out directly to ruin us, which seems unlikely with their heavy profit margin, that they have some new meat source or process that means they actually can undercut our ranches and mutated beef aloes? Can I draw that conclusion?”

  “Yes, Baron.”

  “Do you know what that source is?”

  “I have reports, Baron.”

  “And you do not trust them?”

  “No, Baron.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they all say that Bestmeat has developed a special kind of plant that produces protein better than the best meat steaks.”

  “Yes, that would be hard to believe.”

  Reillee tugged at his tunic, looked at the conference table, then at the baron. He was unable to keep his eyes focused on the commercial entrepreneur’s dark orbs and dropped his glance.

  “And what success have you had in solving this problem?”

  Reillee did not answer.

  “Where are your successes?”

  By now, the baron’s voice had dropped so low that it had lost its silkiness, so low that it was a rasping knife cutting through the conference room.

  “There . . . are . . . none.”

  “Can you explain why not?”

  Reillee gave a shrug, as if to indicate the matter had passed well beyond his control.

  “Because, Baron, it seemed clear that price cuts would not work. We still are banking a profit. We cut prices and run in the red, while Bestmeat cuts their prices and runs in the black.”

  “Reillee, your ingenuity seems limited.”

  “Yes, Baron, I know. I tried to block their suppliers by invoking the sole source clause with all of ours, but they don’t deal with anyone who deals with us. I invoked the emergency power clause, and they jumpshipped their own generators in.

  “I used the brotherhoods to deny local labor, and they brought in outsiders under the free work laws, and paid them higher wages. That left the brotherhoods most unhappy, and we had to match the Bestmeat wage levels. I pulled off the construction workers for their new employee housing, and they used some new techinique to grow houses—“

  “Grow houses?”

  “I don’t believe it either, but all four Infonet agencies came up with the same reports. And they did get the housing built, and to standards as well. It’s virtually solid wood.”

  “Solid wood? Real wood?”

  “That’s right.”

  The baron looked away from the trembling Reillee, then touched the wide band on his wrist.

  The portal behind the Vice President of Marketing, Westmark System Division, opened. A thin and dark man with hooded and heavy eyelids, in a dark blue tunic and trousers, stepped inside the conference room.

  “Ahmed, Mr. Reillee. Mr. Reillee has outlined a problem to me. He will outline it to you. If he has done everything he has said he has done, then he has done all that I could expect. Please check on it.

  “If Mr. Reillee has done all these things, or even most of them, he deserves a ten percent bonus for calling this to our attention, and you need to take the necessary further steps. If not, Mr. Reillee needs a new occupation, and you will do what is necessary. In either case, I expect your ingenuity will be required. Please do take care of it.”

  Reillee looked down. Ahmed nodded, and the baron stood.

  “There is a problem on Haldane. After tomorrow, I will leave. Problems, problems. Such is the life of a Baron of the Empire: I will expect a report from each of you to be torped to headquarters within two standard weeks.”

  Reillee turned, realized that Ahmed was waiting to follow him, and departed. The special assistant followed as closely as a shadow, and as darkly.

  The baron frowned at the closed portal.

  XVII

  GERSWIN SCANNED THROUGH the report.

  Should he follow his instincts and strike directly at the heart of the problem? Or should he let nature take its course?

  Megalrie would certainly attempt a strong-arm operation—that was his style. And it would be one with maximum force. Finesse was not the baron’s trademark, nor was personal involvement. One of the baron’s special assistants would take care of it.

  Gerswin tapped out the codes for access to the financial status and projections. Then he studied the figures.

  If Bestmeat of Westmark were folded, left beached and belly-up, he could pull out roughly 100 million credits, but Megalrie would destroy the hytanks and the land under cultivation. On the other hand, if he could turn over the operation to someone, he could still come out with about fifty million credits and the chance for the operation to survive.

  To fight Megalrie directly would take too many resources and, more important, too much time and visibility at a time when the Empire was becoming too interested in biologics. To remove the latest special assistant would only postpone the baron’s final actions.

  Gerswin shrugged. The answers were obvious, not that he had much choice. He could not fight Megalrie, nor could he allow the baron to win.

  According to the report, Megalrie was about ready to leave for Haldane on his yacht, the Terminia.

  He tapped out another code on the console screen.

  “Ser Jasnow’s office—oh, yes, Shaik Corso.�
�

  The screen blanked, and Jasnow’s face appeared.

  “Yes, Shaik?”

  “Like to talk to you. In person. Now.”

  “Ah . . .” Jasnow’s thin and pale cheeks became thinner and paler as he sucked them in.

  “Now,” repeated Gerswin.

  “I will be there.”

  Jasnow blanked the screen before Gerswin did.

  Gerswin laughed mirthlessly.

  Within minutes, Jasnow was marching through the portal with an air of offended dignity that only an academic convinced of his own importance could have matched.

  “Ser Corso—“

  “Quiet.”

  Gerswin motioned to the chair across the console from him. “Sit down.”

  Jasnow sat.

  “I would not have asked you if it were not important. Also aware that you have snoops in my office. Hope you are the only one with access to the cubes, for your sake.

  “Now, Baron Megalrie is about to try another strong-arm operation on us, and this time it will be something impressive, like a power satellite misfocusing on one of our plants, or on this building.”

  Jasnow’s white face paled even further.

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “He will. Therefore, in the interests of your survival, here is what you will do. You offer Chancellor Gorin control of Bestmeat, Westmark, to the government. It will be run as the same sort of public corporation as the linear rail system and the water system. With you as president. That will give him the popular support he has lost with the collared crew. His wife is a nutritionist. She will be offered the position, paid as well as you are, as consulting nutritionist for the State.”

  “As much as—“

  “Right. If you want to keep your neck and your job.”

  “What if she weren’t a nutritionist?”

  “You’d offer her something equally exalted and highly paid.” Gerswin paused. “Everyone will know it’s a package deal, and everyone will know why you did it, and some will even be amazed that you had the common sense to do it. This way, though, you get to retain your considerable salary for a while, at least, and an operating corporation and fancy title.”