The House of Delegates of Accord, not known for its extravagance, had accepted quarters in the Diplomatic Tower and had sent only three people to New Augusta: the Legate, the Deputy Legate, and an Information Specialist. Just prior to his arrival at the circumlunar station, the copilot of the Muir had handed Nathaniel a stellarfax.
WTHERSPOON EN ROUTE ACCORD FOR CONSULTATIONS. WHALER CONFIRMED ACTING LEGATE DURATION. Sgn. RESTINAL, DM, IC.
The rest had been confirmation codes. So now he was standing in the entry of a Legation he was in charge of, looking at a cleric/staffer/receptionist who had never seen him but who worked for him, theoretically, but who was paid by the Empire. And just before that, the message had been delivered by splinter gun that someone wanted him dead. Hardly the most encouraging beginning. Nathaniel drew out his credentials folder and presented it to the young woman.
She took it, with a hint of a smile, studied it briefly, then greeted him more officially with a gesture that was nearly a half bow, half curtsy.
“At your service, Lord Whaler.” Her greeting was in the old American of Accord, but with an accent and a stiffness that demonstrated practice, but not fluency.
“And I at yours, in the service of the Forest Lord and the Balance of Time,” he returned in the archaic format that was no longer used, even in the deepest forests of Accord. White he spoke, he studied the woman’s face. She did not understand.
“I don’t speak Old American as well as I should,” she admitted in Panglais, the standard tongue of the Empire. With her long red hair, freckles, and boyish figure, she might have reached his shoulder.
“I understand. You are called?” asked Whaler in the accented Panglais he had decided to use.
“Heather Tew-Hawkes, Lord Whaler. Would you like to see your quarters?”
“Shortly.”
He took another look around the entry hall. Small and crowded with the three hanging lamps, the long couch, an imitation strafe chair, the tea table with the faxmags on the lower shelf, and the entry desk itself before the closed interior portals which presumably opened onto the rest of the Legation.
“The rest of the staff I would like to encounter,” he announced.
“Yes, sir. You know that Legate Witherspoon has returned to Harmony. The Deputy Legate, Mr. Marlaan, had already taken leave. And Mr. Weintre is out for the day.”
Forest Lord! What was going on? All the natives from Accord were fleeing like troks at his arrival.
“I see. The rest here will I see… and my office… before I go to my quarters. Can you arrange for my… my… ” Apparently struggling with the Panglais word, he pointed to the field packs. “Yes, sir. We can take care of them.” Heather gave him a questioning glance before speaking again, tossed her flowing red hair back over her shoulder with a flick of her head.
“Will you be having any assistants coming from Accord?”
Odd question right off the bat, reflected the Ecolitan. “Final arrangements will I announce shortly,” he temporized. Heather handed him a small folder. “You might want to look through that first. Lord Whaler.”
The file was scripted in the Old American of Accord and outlined the names and functions of the staff. At the end was a map of the Legation spaces.
He glanced through it quickly, storing the information for full recall later. “Read this later, I will. You may begin.” Heather touched a stud on the console at her desk, and one of the doors behind her opened.
Nathaniel stepped through after memorizing the location of the panel stud that actuated the entry.
The Accord Legation occupied half the three hundredth level of the Diplomatic Tower. Heather led the way through the spaces. The tower was divided into four wings joined by the central lift/drop shafts. The official working spaces of the Legation were in the west wing of the tower. Nathaniel’s office and the trade talks section had been placed at the right, almost into the north wing of the tower. A spacious private suite adjoined his office, and both were on the outer edge of the tower, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the hills to the west.
In turn, the trade talks staff suite adjoined his office. His private quarters could be entered from his office or through a separate door, since the private apartment was actually in the north wing.
Because the tower was actually a square, the north, east, south and west designations really indicated onto which public corridor an office or private quarters opened. All the Accord natives from the Legation had their quarters on the three hundredth level, but the local staff lived elsewhere. Wherever they could or wherever they wanted? Which? wondered the Ecolitan without asking.
“This is the travel/visa/quarantine/health section,” stated Heather without taking a breath.
A man and a woman, obviously high-paid professionals, looked up from their consoles.
“Harla, Derek, this is Lord Whaler, the Trade Envoy and Acting Legate in the absence of Legate Witherspoon. Lord Whaler, Harla Car-Hyten and Derek Per-Olav.”
“Pleased am I to meet you,” announced Nathaniel in Panglais.
“And I you,” the two chimed in ragged unison. “How long for Accord have you worked?”
“Three standard years.”
“Just over a year.”
“Why for a foreign Legation do you work?”
“The Empire itself has a limit to the number of, if you will, travel generalist professionals that it can use,” answered the woman, Harla Car-Hyten, “and takes only the most experienced. Working for Accord provides a solid foundation. We have to work somewhere.”
“Accord is far enough out on the Rift,” added Derek, “that we get to learn more than with an inner system.”
And, thought Nathaniel, with the small number of tourists and the restrictive policies of the Delegates and of the Empire itself, the work couldn’t be all that demanding.
“I thank you,” he finished politely as he turned to continue the tour of the official spaces. “Lord Whaler, Ms. Da-Vios.”
Mydra Da-Vios was the Empire-supplied and paid “office manager” who had been Witherspoon’s personal clerk and who would supervise the staff of his trade talks section, according to the briefing file which had been dictated by Witherspoon himself before he had left. That was the same folder Heather had handed Nathaniel right after he’d arrived.
Mydra looked up at him from her console openly but did not attempt to stand. Brown eyes so dark they verged on black, short dark brown hair, and a plain brown tunic piped with yellow, cloaked her with an air of competence. “Any questions you might have?” he asked. While his question was partly a pleasantry, her answer might give him a lead. So far everyone was acting as if he were to be humored, not that he’d done much to discourage the impression.
“Mr. Marlaan did not convey how the talks would be structured or staffed. While I have detailed another assistant, I do not know if this is the proper arrangement nor with whom I should coordinate further.” Nathaniel kept his mouth shut, while nodding gently. Heather’s question about staff made sense, too much sense. So did Marlaan’s position as Deputy Legate. The briefing officer at the Institute had concluded that Marlaan’s psy-profile wasn’t suited to being a mere executive officer type. Yet Marlaan had stayed in New Augusta through a second tour, against all odds.
Mydra was asking politely who was going to do the real work, implying that it couldn’t be Nathaniel. “Lord Whaler?” prompted Mydra. “The current arrangement is proper.” He smiled again. ‘“Would you like to see your office and quarters. Lord Whaler?” interrupted Heather softly. “That would be pleasing.”
The corner office was bigger than he had expected from the plans in the folder Witherspoon had left, with a large reclining desk swivel surrounded by an impressive communications console. The recliner easily could have swallowed a man twice Nathaniel’s size.
On the inside wall of the office away from the panoramic window, was a conference table flanked with upholstered chairs. The far interior corner contained cabinets and counters, includin
g a fully equipped autobar.
The casements to the portals, one to the office, the other to the private quarters, were the heavy-duty type, indicating that the doors were likely to have endurasteel cores under the wood veneer.
Interesting, thought Nathaniel. Is that to keep someone out or me in? Heather pointed to the far door. “That’s to your private quarters. The locks will key to your palm print, if you’ll just touch each of them right now.”
Heather gave him a quick tour and explanation of the near-palatial quarters—separate private den/library with comm console, bedroom complete with oversized bed and sheensilk sheets, a guest room, a compact kitchen, two complete hygienariums, a dining room with space for eight at table, and a living room centered on a full wall window overlooking the lower towers of New Augusta.
“If you need anything, Lord Whaler, just let me or Mydra know. If I’m not on desk duty, whoever is will take care of you. If you want to eat here, just order up dinner from main service. The number is in the folder, but tower information can also provide it. If you feel more adventurous, you might try the Diplomat’s Club in the dining area. It’s reserved for Legates, Ambassadors, and Envoys.” Nathaniel nodded.
“Tomorrow’s the last day of the week, and some of the staff had already arranged leave, since you weren’t expected until next week. But I’ll be in early if you need anything.”
“Too kind you are, but if I question, I will call.” Heather left through his private office. Really make you feel like some kind of idiot, don’t they? Are all Empire women like that?
He wandered through the rooms, apparently just taking it all in, looking at this and that, occasionally picking up an old-fashioned bode, a miniature fire-fountain, touching a cushion, his fingers straying to his old style wide belt from time to time.
The multitector in the belt registered four snoops, but from the energy level and the pattern, all but one were audio… The one in the living room was video as well.
Probably more sophisticated equipment on the way, not ready because I arrived early, he mused. Or snoops good enough that I can’t detect them.
Nathaniel put the datacases in the study, lugged the field pack into the bedroom and began to unpack. Some of the diplomatic blacks he’d never even worn, except when they’d been fitted at the Institute. Several of the outfits were special, but not in any way an Imperial would suspect from either a visual inspection or an energy scan.
In theory, all he had to do was present some terms of trade, bargain a bit, and see what developed, while staying alive and in one piece. That was theory. Practice usually required a great deal more effort.
…IX…
The screen buzzed twice.
“Corwin-Smatheis,” answered the Staff Director, as she tapped the acceptance.
The faxscreen remained blank, but the green signal panel lit. The dull gray of the screen indicated either a blank screen call or the caller’s inoperative screen.
“You alone?” The mechanical tone signalled that the caller was using a voice screen. “Yes.”
“The Senator should take an interest in the Accord affair. External Affairs is outgunned, by those who control the guns especially.”
“The Accord affair?”
Too late, the director realized that the connection had already been broken. Why Accord? Why a blind call? Virtually anyone could make such a vidfax call. More interesting was the fact that it had come in on her private line, unlisted and unregistered either in the official listings or the office’s confidential listings.
The S.? Or could it be a double blind, with someone trying to set up the Senator? Or discredit Courtney herself?
She frowned, then tapped a call panel. The portal at the far end of the office irised open and shut behind the woman who entered. “Yes, Courtney?”
“Would you please dig up anything that’s pending with regard to Accord, probably something to do with Commerce or Defense, I would guess.”
“The Senator’s off on another crusade?”
“No… trying to figure out whether he should be.” The dark-haired woman turned to go. “Sylvia,” added the director, “you might ask some of your former colleagues if they’ve heard anything. Nothing classified, you understand, just rumors, odd information.”
“I’ll do that. How soon?”
“Yesterday, if you can.”
The portal closed behind the staffer, and Courtney Corwin-Smathers leaned back in the swivel, ignoring the softly blinking lights on the console that had automatically prioritized the pending messages.
She wondered who Sylvia really worked for. Certainly it wasn’t just for the Senator, for all the salary she drew. Still for the S.? Halston, the old devil Admiral?
She tapped her fingers on the genuine gorhide antique blotter. Should she key in Du-Plessis? Shaking her head in response to her own question, she touched the top console stud to call up the messages awaiting her.
…X…
Standing in front of the hygienarium mirror, Nathaniel straightened the collars of his formal dress blacks. The uniform displayed no ornamentation. Buttons, belt, and boots were all black. The square belt buckle bore a green triangle, and his formal gloves were a paler shade of green.
He half wished that he had some sort of insignia to put on his collars, as so many of the military and diplomatic personnel from other systems seemed to have.
The irony of it struck him even as he thought of it, and he grinned at himself in the mirror. Not in New Augusta an eight-day and wanting some tinsel to dress himself up.
With a last look at his wide-angle, full-length reflection, he turned and waved off the lights.
Once out of his private quarters and into his office, he palm-locked the quarters’ portal, then walked across the dark green carpet to the console. The message light was unlit.
Outside, through the window, he could see dark and swirling clouds, scarcely much above him, and some of the towers’ tops were lost in the mist. Hoping that the rain wasn’t an omen of the day to come, he marched through the portal into the staff office.
“Good morning, Lord Whaler.” Mydra greeted him as the portal whispered open.
“A good day also to you,” he replied, trying to remember to keep his syntax suitably tangled. “The honor guard should be here shortly.”
“An honor guard for me? Unbelievable that seems, for a poor tumbler of figures such as me.”
“A matter of protocol.”
“I know, but for a professor unbelievable it seems.” At the far side of the office sat Hillary West-Coven before her console, industriously plugging figures in. Nathaniel hadn’t figured out what she did, unless it was some sort of backup for Mydra.
Waiting in the silence that had followed his last remarks, Nathaniel looked over the staff office again. Three consoles: one which was vacant, one for Mydra, and the last for Hillary. All the consoles were pale green, which toned in with the institutional tan fabric covering the walls and with the deeper green of the carpet. The office retained a faint scent of pine, or a similar conifer, though no greenery was insight.
No pictures hung on the walls, unlike the other staff offices in the Legation.
He shifted his weight, looked down at Mydra, and asked, “What did you before I arrived on New Augusta?”
“I’m in charge of Legate Witherspoon’s office normally, but we didn’t see any sense in doubling up on personnel, since he will be absent for some time, or so I was told”—she paused— “and since you will be assuming some of his duties.”
Nathaniel nodded, his eyes lifting as Heather stepped through the portal from the corridor leading back to the receiving room.
“Mydra… oh. Lord Whaler.” With a flip of her long red hair back over her shoulder, she finished, “Your escort has arrived.”
“Thank you.”
Nathaniel swung the genuine black gorhide folder containing his official credentials under his arm and marched across the staff office to follow Heather, hunching the pale green glo
ves in his left hand to give the impression he was clutching them tightly.
He reached the reception area right behind Heather. “Tenhutt!” snapped the squad leader. Four Imperial Marines in their formal red tunics and gold trousers stiffened even straighter.
“Lord Whaler, sir?” questioned the leader, who couldn’t have been as old as most of the first year Ecolitans Nathaniel had been training less than two standard months earlier.
“The very same I am.”
“Yes, sir. Would you please, sir, please allow us to escort you to your audience with the Emperor?”
“Honored I would be.”
From that, Nathaniel decided he was the one to lead the parade and marched out.
The Imperial Marines, caught by his sudden departure, slipped into quick-step and fell in behind him before he was ten meters down the corridor to the drop shaft.
Not too bad, he decided. But he wondered how they would have held up in the outback of Trezenia.
Nathaniel marched right into the highspeed drop lane without hesitation. The four Marines angled themselves into a hollow square above him, allowing each to cover a quarter of the shaft.
They carried stunners, and each wore a belt commpak. Two electrocougars waited in the private concourse. The first was crimson and displayed the Accord flag on a staff over the left front wheel panel. The second car was, surprisingly, a dull brown.
One of the escorts held the rear door of the crimson vehicle open for the Ecolitan. After seeing him seated and closing the door, the Marine eased into the front seat across from the driver, a woman Marine. Belatedly, on noting the driver, Nathaniel realized that at least one of his escorts had been female.
The Ecologic Envoy Page 3