“What if I don’t?”
“Then you will be either dead or out of business and luck.” Gerswin’s flat tone conveyed absolute certainty.
“How will that stop Megalrie?”
“He’s not about to take on a system government, especially if he’s still making a profit. Besides, he’ll figure that eventually the inefficiency in a government operation will drive prices up, and his profits will follow.”
“You seem sure that Megalrie will see it that way.”
“Megalrie will see it that way.” Gerswin smiled, and he could tell it was not a friendly expression because Jasnow shrank back in his captain’s chair. “He will.”
Gerswin stood.
“Get through to Chancellor Gorin. I know you can. Be as candid as necessary. Gorin will buy the idea. Right now, he’ll buy anything, and even if this doesn’t give him the election next year, it will give him and his wife more than a year’s high salary from her position.”
“But—“
“But what? You’ve got less than a day to make the deal and make sure it goes public. Make sure that Megalrie’s man Reillee gets the information as well. If you don’t put this together, you’ll have nothing.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I’m selling out to you. That gives you absolute control. If you want to gamble, be my guest. It’s your life.”
Jasnow shivered. “You think so?”
“Have I been wrong before?”
“No.”
“Then I’d suggest you follow through. In the meantime, I’ll be completing the transactions to transfer my interest to you and setting up the form for you to follow in turning Bestmeat over to the government.”
Jasnow pursed his lips, finally shrugging as he turned.
As soon as Jasnow left, Gerswin began to program the transactions necessary and to arrange the fund transfers to the shielded account in the local Halsie-Vyr office.
Shortly, he would use the private exit for his flitter and the trip back to the producing wastelands he had bought for next to nothing years earlier, back to the small strip and bunker where the Caroljoy waited while being repowered.
Too bad he wouldn’t have a chance to check out all the plantings on all the scattered lands, the ones that neither Jasnow nor the staff knew about.
Once the secret was out, there would probably be a government effort to destroy all the meatplants not under government control. The thousands of plantings would probably thwart that, and if not on Westmark, then on the half-dozen other planets where Bestmeat operated.
XVIII
AS EYE, HE could almost convince himself that his duty was clear. The gray-haired and rail-thin man flicked the console to standby and rubbed his forehead before leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.
The more he studied the fragmentary background, the surprisingly sketchy Service records, the more convinced he was that Calendra had been right—assuming the mysterious individual he had mentioned to the Emperor had indeed been Gerswin. There was more to MacGregor Corson Gerswin than met the eye, far more. And yet . . .
“. . . who could disagree with his goals, at least in the abstract . . . ,” muttered the man charged with the ultimate control of Imperial security.
If it had been Gerswin who destroyed the Assassin’s Guild, could he, especially as Eye, fault that destruction? Hardly. If it had been Gerswin who used the tacheads to smash the tie between the oligarchs and the secret police on El Lido, had not the results been in both the interests of the Empire and the average El Lidan?
Without Gerswin’s support and work for the OER Foundation, would all the foodstuffs and medical advances from biologics have occurred so soon?
Eye sighed. Even worse, except for Gerswin’s connection with the damned biologics foundation, there was no proof. Endless probabilities poured from the Eye Service stat-system, but no hard proof. Not that proof was a limit to Eye.
As Earl of Selern, he was reluctant to employ the full power of his Intelligence office without some shred of hard evidence. Calendra had acted without proof and without rationale too often, and look where that had led.
To complicate matters more, the majority of the probabilities, except for the propaganda negatives associated with the use of nuclear warheads, indicated that the actions attributed to Gerswin and his range of aliases supported, or apparently did not harm, the Empire. Virtually all were politically popular.
Eye frowned without moving his head. His instincts told him a different story. Gerswin was not out to harm the Empire, at least not in the short tun, but the man jumpshifted under different stars. If you could call him a man. He also appeared to be one of the handful of known biological immortals. How long Gerswin could retain function or sanity was another question.
Selern took a slow and deep breath, touched the screen, and scripted a compromise.
Should Gerswin himself, under his own identity, dock in Imperial facilities or main systems territory, he would be detained and restrained for a full investigation.
Eye smiled wryly. Gerswin might well escape, but that would provide proof of sorts, and no one had ever escaped the frill might of the Empire, even with the equivalent of a small warship.
Besides, he needed to report some action to the Emperor.
XIX
GERSWIN STUDIED THE readouts on the data screen. The snooper he had left in orbit just beyond the Terminia had relayed the latest.
The EDl twitches indicated that the Terminia was being readied for orbit-out, probably as soon as a shuttle from Haldane arrived.
“Relay indicated approach to target.” The Al’s voce was as impersonally feminine as ever.
“Characteristics of object approaching target?”
“Object indicated as armed shuttle, class three. Characteristics and energy signature match within point nine probability.”
“Stet. As soon as object departs target proximity, deploy full shields.”
“Stet.”
Gerswin took a sip from the open-topped glass of water, then swallowed the remainder of the water before standing up and heading into the fresher section to relieve himself.
The next few hours were going to be interesting, more than interesting, to say the least.
Gerswin had strapped into the accel/decel shell couch and was wondering if the Terminia would ever depart.
“Terminia, clearing orbit.” The transmission was on the orbit control band.
“Happy jumps, Terminia.”
“Shields up,” announced the Al. “Target vector tentatively set at zero seven zero Haldane relative, plus three point nine.”
“Close to within one hundred kays, same heading.”
“Closing to one hundred kays. Estimate reaching closure point in five standard minutes.”
The two-gee surge in acceleration pressed Gerswin back into the shell.
He touched the console and reviewed the numbers again, pursing his lips. The maneuver should work.
At times such as these, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to have added offensive weapons to the Caroljoy. Probably no one would have discovered them, not the way he had operated, but the penalty risks were too high for the benefits.
Privately owned and armed jumpships were one thing the Empire was deadly serious about. So serious that entire Service squadrons had been deployed for years to track a single pirate. Since ship and jump costs were so high to begin with, and since the energy costs of avoiding the Service made any commercial piracy infeasible, and since the I.S.S. hadn’t had that much to do since the mistake known as the Dismorph Conflict, there weren’t any pirates. Not that lasted long.
Gerswin sighed as he waited.
While he had once “borrowed” the Duke of Triandna’s yacht, with the help of the Duchess, that woman who he had known only as Caroljoy on a single warm night until long afterward, he had not considered himself a pirate. After all, he had only been carrying out the Emperor’s promises. Even if the Emperor hadn’t really wante
d to supply those arcdozers for the reclamation on Old Earth. Even if the dozers had only been to buy time for the devilkids as they struggled to reestablish a foothold on Old Earth. Even if they were all dead or dying by now. Even if . . .
He shook his head violently. He needed to finish the business at hand. The sooner he could get it over with the better.
“Change heading to parallel target at distance of one thousand kays.”
“Changing heading.”
Gerswin waited until the readouts indicated the return to a parallel course.
His fingers began the rough computations that he could have left to the ship’s AI.
“In one standard minute, commence maximum acceleration with internal gee force not to exceed five point five gees. Maintain for point five standard hour.”
“Stet. Maximum acceleration possible with internal gee force not to exceed five point five gees. Will maintain for point five standard hour.”
Gerswin waited for the force to press him back into the control shell, almost welcoming the physical pressure as a test with set and understandable limits.
“Commencing acceleration.”
“Stet.”
Test or no test, by the time the half hour ended, Gerswin felt sore all over.
“Stop acceleration. Maintain internal gee field at one standard gravity. Maneuver the ship back at full acceleration along target course line. Suggest forty-five-degree heading change for two minutes, followed by a reverse two-hundred-twenty-five-degree sweep turn.”
“Recommend Kirnard turn.”
“Proceed Kirnard turn,” Gerswin affirmed. Damned AI! That was what he had wanted to begin with.
He wanted to come back in on the reciprocal course with as much velocity as possible. His generators would take at least twice the strain as those of the Terminia, perhaps more, since the other yacht was reputed to be filled with luxuries, and luxuries meant energy diversions.
“Interrogative closure time.”
“Time to CPA estimated at point two five standard hour.”
“EDI lock?”
“Negative on EDI lock. EDI trace available.”
“Time to intercept?”
“Inquiry imprecise.”
Gerswin frowned. Damned AI! He wondered if the AI had a sense of self-preservation.
“Interrogative. Are we confirmed on head-on-head reciprocal courses?”
“That is negative.”
Gerswin sighed.
“Change course to maintain reciprocal courses. I want a head-on-head intercept.”
“Probability of physical contact exceeds point zero zero five.”
“I suspect so. Interrogative time to intercept.”
“Point one five stans.”
Gerswin waited, confirmed the AI verbal reports with the actual data on his own screen.
“Probability of physical contact exceeds point zero one.”
“You may make any course changes necessary to maximize survival and minimize contact after screen contact.”
“Stet. You are relinquishing control to AI?”
“That is negative. Negative. Allowing emergency override after screen contact to avoid physical impact.”
“Stet. Override only after screen contact.”
“Only after defense screen impact,” Gerswin corrected.
“After defense screen impact,” parroted the AI.
Gerswin could feel the sweat seeping out of his palms as he tightened his harness and leaned back in the shell couch.
He checked the fingertip controls, checked and waited.
“Time to contact?”
“Point zero five.”
Gerswin wanted to wipe his forehead.
“Divert all power to defense screens. Minimal gee force.”
“Diverting all power.”
The control-room lights dropped to emergency levels, and the whisper of the recirculators dropped to nothing. Gerswin felt light in the shell as the internal gees dropped to roughly point one as the power from the gravfield generators was poured into the defense screens.
“Target commencing course change.”
“Match it. Continue head-on-head intercept.”
“Probability of physical impact approaching point one without course change.”
“Understood. Maintain intercept course until full defense screen impact.”
A drop of sweat lingered in Gerswin’s left eyebrow, tickling, but refusing to drop. He wrinkled his brows, but did not move.
“Screen impact.”
Whhhrrrrrr!
Gerswin was thrown sideways in his harness for an instant.
The lights flickered, then came back up to normal levels.
“Course alteration in progress.”
“Turn it into another Kirnard turn.”
“Stet. Converting to Kirnard turn.”
“Status report.”
“Number two main screen generator is down. All other systems functioning within normal parameters.”
“Interrogative target status.”
“Target has stopped acceleration. Negative screens. Negative EDI track.”
“Interrogative turn status.”
“Completing Kirnard turn.”
“Fly by target. Drop torp probe for confirmation of target status.” “Stet. Full instrumentation check with torp probe. Note. Torp probe is last probe.”
“Understand last probe. Reload on Aswan.”
Gerswin finally wiped his soaking forehead.
The impact of the Caroljoy’s heavy screens should have blown every screen generator in the Terminia. Milliseconds later, the Caroljoy’s screens would have impacted the Terminia itself, with enough of a concussive impact to fragment everyone and everything within the hull.
That had been the theory. The torp probe would either confirm or deny the results. Too bad the Caroljoy’s only operating launch tubes were limited to message torps or their smaller equivalents. But he’d been through that debate with himself before. Probably better that he had no easy way to launch the remaining tacheads and hellburners. Then again, the thirteen remaining nuclear devices would probably outlast both Gerswin and the Caroljoy. After El Lido, and the expression on Rodire’s face, he had no desire to launch mass death again, even in support of the greater life his biologic efforts represented.
As he was coming to appreciate, the best use of force was on a wide and diffuse scale. The Empire found it easy enough to recognize direct threats, but not those without an overt focus, such as the changes in society that his biologic innovations were beginning to bring.
No . . . the tacheads and hellburners represented the past, and best they remain in the past and unused in the future.
He pulled at his chin as he straightened in the control couch and returned his full attention to the display screens before him.
“Probe away.”
“Stet.”
Gerswin remained flat in the shell, just in case something went wrong.
He could see the end of the road ahead. Before too long, even the slow-moving Empire would begin to put the pieces together, to understand what he was attempting. Soon, all too soon, it would be time to fold his tent before they understood the implications or traced his real purposes back to Old Earth.
“Just what are your real purposes?” he asked himself in a low voice.
“Query not understood.”
“That makes two of us.”
He waited for the report from the torp readouts.
“Probe results. Negative screens. Negative EDI traces. Free atmosphere dispersing from target hull. Heat radiation unchecked and dropping.”
Gerswin took a deep breath. End of Baron Megalrie. End of Terminia. Beginning of end for Gerswin’s Imperial activities.
“Stet. Can you recover probe?”
“Negative.”
“Set course to nearest early jump point. Full screens available. One gee.”
“Understand fullest possible screens. One gee course to early jump point. Es
timate arrival in one point one.”
“Understood.”
Gerswin unstrapped himself and swung out of the shell. While the system energy monitors would doubtless pick up the energy burst created by the screen collision, no one was going to find the dead hulk of the Terminia, not at the tangent created by the collision. Gerswin shook his head, not wanting to dwell on the yacht’s crew, not wanting to think about the ever-mounting implications, not wanting to think about the decisions lying in wait ahead.
The peaceful years were over, assuming they had ever been. Assuming that such peace had not been a recently acquired personal illusion.
The disappearance of the baron would be linked to Gerswin, as would all the other probabilities for which there was little or no proof.
He sighed.
Commodore MacGregor Corson Gerswin could never appear again in Imperial territory, at least not under his own name. And it wasn’t likely to be long before all of his other identities would also be targeted, assuming that the baron’s efforts had not meant that he was already under indirect Imperial attack.
No, the peaceful years were over, for a long time to come, if not forever.
XX
DESPITE THE SILENCE in the kitchen, Professor Stilchio looked from side to side, cleared his throat, finally touched the light plate and brought the illumination up to full.
He coughed.
In the corner next to the preservator was a shadow, an odd shadow. He tried to look at it, but his eyes did not want to focus.
A certain dizziness settled upon him, and he put his right hand out to the counter to steady himself.
“Professor.” The address came from the shadow he saw and could not see.
The academic cleared his throat again, but said nothing.
“Professor, you might look at the folder on the counter.”
Stilchio refused to look down, hoping the shadow might disappear. Slightly intoxicated on good old wine he might be, but shadows did not talk.
His right hand groped for more support and brushed something that slid on the smooth tiles.
In spite of his resolve, he looked down. By his right hand was an oblong folder.
“That folder contains an excellent short paper on the social implications of mass agriculture and its use in controlling populations and supporting centralized governments.”
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