Both sides were people, people like the girl who had driven him, people like Sylvia, like Marcella, even people like Janis Du-Plessis, who set in motion the bureaucracies that created the violence that appalled them.
The high flare of a shuttle in the distance over the port winked like an evening star early in the sky and was gone.
The shadows over the hills lengthened, and the lights in the other towers glowed stronger, and the sun dropped. He supposed he should finish what was necessary, what he could.
Some could wait until morning; some could not. Seen in perspective, the whole thing was obvious. The Secession itself had created a terrible convulsion for the Empire. Fifty odd systems ripping themselves away, using the Accord grievances as an umbrella for a myriad of reasons, denying the government that had helped them stand alone.
In the beginning, the Empire had hesitated to use maximum force, planet busters, because of the closeness of the ties. It’s hard to murder your cousin because he wants to stand alone, and the internal political outcry that had risen after the First Fleet had busted Sligo had rendered that option unusable.
Four hundred years later, no one thought in those terms. Accord’s allies had gone their own way, some to their own small empires, big enough to give the old Empire pause. And Accord was considered Outie, an outland system. Relations were minimal, sometimes nonexistent, and the question of attacking “relatives” was moot. Twelve generations of Imperial schoolchildren had been raised with horror stories about Accord.
If the Empire decided to use force, no public outcry would be raised, and Accord could count on few allies. In return, the Institute could send out the death ships, and if everyone was lucky, perhaps ten percent of the population of a thousand systems might survive.
The Accord House of Delegates ignored the enormous growth in the massive destruct weaponry of the Empire. The Empire was totally ignorant of the potential biological and ecological disasters created by the Institute and already dispersed to where not even total destruction of the Accord Coordinate systems could stop the rain of lingering death.
From what he’d seen, neither side would believe the other’s power, although Accord had acknowledged the Empire’s fleets somewhat. So what could he do?
He turned to the console and punched out the office number of Courtney Corwin-Smathers, leaving his own screen blank.
“Courtney here. What’s wrong with your visual?”
“Whaler here. Call off the dogs, Courtney. You’ve made your point. The preliminary terms have been registered officially with External Affairs, and you’ll have to coordinate with Janis Du-Plessis, but I think you can handle that.”
“The other thing you should know is that Defense is also playing. We don’t need that, and neither do you.”
“Oh…?”
“I still will have to stay around, making polite speech after polite speech, and committing Accord to nothing until you get your ions flared. Or do you have a better suggestion?”
“Your prudence is commendable, if belated, but Ms. Ku-Smythe might request a quiet elimination if the S. or the Ministry of Defense haven’t already done so.”
“That’s a chance I’ll have to take.” He tapped the stud and cut the connection. His next call went to Marcella’s direct office line. He got a recording with a smiling face.
“I am out at the moment. If you would leave a message, I will return your screen when I return.”
“Whaler here. The Ministry of Defense has decided to shove Commerce directly out of the picture by eliminating me. You might also be interested to learn Alia Herl-Tyre paid off some of my Legation staff to stall you. At the same time, Defense exploded my office and removed one of my staffers. External Affairs thinks you played them for nulls.”
Again leaving his own screen blank, he tapped out Sergel’s private number, and got another recording requesting a message.
“Sergel. You’d better be gone tomorrow, or on your way, or have a damned good story. The External Relations staff knows you played them false, and the Ministry of Defense knows you failed.”
He tapped out another number, with a blank screen. He didn’t have a private number, but the External Relations Committee number for Alia Herl-Tyre. Another recording. “Ms. Herl-Tyre. My name is Nathaniel Whaler, and we haven’t met. Sergel Weintre used to work for the Legation, until he claimed that you were paying him to spy on us, and we discovered that he was also being paid by the Ministry of Defense to spy on you as well as us. “Under the circumstances, thought you’d be interested.” With a sigh, he leaned back and touched the wide belt, running his fingers along the side, splitting the layers and removing a thin flimsy.
The code system was crude, but unbreakable without either the flimsy, which would last for less than a standard hour after he touched it, or the Prime’s personal diary, of which there was one copy. The system was one way, but that didn’t matter.
After the ten minutes it took him to code what he needed, he picked up the draft and opened the door from his private quarters to his office. The walls to the staff office still were jagged and bulged in places, although the steel portal door remained untouched.
He palmed the plate, and the portal irised open. The deserted staff section had the lighting at half bright. He slipped behind Mydra’s console, congratulating himself on his professional ease until he barked his knees as he pulled the chair up to the console. The first job was to send the message to the Prime. He accessed the direct comm line, feeling the charges ring higher and higher as the message ran out.
He hoped it would get there, and since the Legation was paying for the direct shot, it had a chance.
He staggered out from behind Mydra’s console and back to his own office.
The next step would be trying to break the media blackout on the talks, which he suspected was due to their dull sound, rather than any conspiracy. After all, what self-respecting faxcaster in the capital of the Empire was interested in tariff and exchange terms negotiations between the Empire and a former colony, particularly when the Ministry involved hadn’t told anyone and when the others didn’t want anyone to know?
From the New Augusta directory, He got the numbers for Galactafax and Faxstellar.
“Greetings. I am the Accord Trade Envoy, Nathaniel Whaler. And a statement to make on the bombing of our Legation I have.”
“The what?” asked the duty faxer at Galactafax. “The bombing of our Legation by forces opposing the talks on trade—”
“Hold it! Hold it! Let me catch it all on flux. First, who are you? For the record?”
“Envoy Nathaniel Whaler, Acting Legate and Trade Envoy for the Legation of Accord.” He paused and cleared his throat. “This very afternoon, my office was bombed. Two devices. Bystanders, several were hurt. Good faith we came in, but the Imperial Senate and Imperial Ministries respond not, but question who has jurisdiction. No one pays attention.”
“Hang on there, Lord Whaler. Let me see if I have this straight. You were invited here for trade talks. The Imperial Senate and the Ministries are arguing over jurisdiction, and this afternoon your Legation was bombed, and people were injured. Is that the idea?”
“Essentially correct, that is. Diplomatic Police come, say they will look. Nothing happens.”
“You mentioned a jurisdiction problem… ”
“External Affairs should have control, but has done nothing. Commerce Ministry presses for answers but has no jurisdiction. Most confusing. Senate External Relations Committee staff is also interested, and Senator Helmsworth and the S. I. I., are involved somehow, I am told.” The Ecolitan wondered if he were carrying it all too far, but the young man on the other end was drinking it all in.
“The S. I. I…. S. I. I.? You mean the S., the Imperial Intelligence Service?”
“That is what I understand.”
“Lord Whaler, where can we reach you?”
“At the Accord Legation is where.” He gave the office and the private line, not wanting Mydra blockin
g the calls if the faxers waited until morning.
He repeated the process with the young woman who answered for Faxstellar. Her reaction was much the same.
Within twenty minutes, a distinguished-looking woman from Galactafax had gotten back to Nathaniel.
“Marjoy Far-Nova, Lord Whaler. I’ve seen the tape of your announcement, but I wondered if you could possibly supply a few more details for us about the trade talks and any possible connection this might have with the bombing.”
“Connection I know not. Here I am, poor Envoy, wanting to ease relations with Empire. Here am I, empowered by my government to reduce some tariffs and eliminate others. But for this, right after we circulate proposals, my office is bombed. The situation is strange, but whom should I tell?”
“Let me get this down. After you circulated your trade proposals, your office was bombed. At the same time, no one in the Empire seems willing to act except those who you think should not be involved. Is that it?”
Nathaniel could only shrug and gesture to the bulging wall to his right.
Shortly thereafter, he went through a similar performance with the call back from Faxstellar, declining to speculate beyond the facts.
Once again, he headed to the deserted staff office and Mydra’s console, this time not banging his knees as he sat down.
He set it for a voice scrambled tape and began to speak. “To Scandalous Sam, the Gossip Man of New Augusta… Have you heard about the awful runaround they’re giving that poor Envoy from Accord? They bombed his office, not once, but twice. And none of the Ministries will talk. His staff has been profiteered… and you should listen in on the snoop network, like Sylvia, Marcella, Alia, Courtney, and a few others do. One even we dare not name. His calls are blocked by his own staff. Call him, and they tell you he’s behind in returning his screens. He doesn’t know it yet. More to follow… ”
Nathaniel wound it up and sent it off into the local faxdelivery.
A similar set of faxes went to other sources, as well as a scholarly letter under his own name to the pure print media.
That done, he closed down Mydra’s console, trying to leave it exactly as he found it.
He was hungry, and officially and unofficially, all he had to do for a while was wait and play dumb.
He locked the portal into his private quarters and headed for the hygienarium, where he stripped and took a steaming fresher. He dressed slowly, choosing a dress green outfit and a rich, matching green cloak.
According to the belt multitector, the clothes weren’t snooped or tagged, but the snoops outside his private entrance were fully functioning.
After a quick walk to the lift shaft, he took the slow outside lane all fifty levels up to the Legate’s private dining rooms. The head waiter was ready, this time. “Lord Whaler… a pleasure to see you. Table in the main dining room or the portico?”
“The portico, if you please.”
Through the wide expanse of unbroken permaglass he could see the shadows of the towers, their lights like beacons, and the dark outlines of the hills beyond. He was seated at a table for two at one end of the windowside tables.
Not much on the silver printed menu appealed to him, but he finally settled on the scampig with a salad, and liftea. The liftea arrived immediately. Either he looked tired or the staff had been briefed on the fact that liftea came first on Accord, not last.
He sipped the tea, watched the lights glitter, took in the occasional shuttle flare in the evening sky.
“I beg your pardon.” The man’s voice was lightly accented Panglais. Nathaniel pegged the speaker as Frankan. He looked up to see a man standing by the table. The Ecolitan rose, half bowing. “At your service,” he responded in Frankan. “You honor me,” replied the other diplomat in his own tongue. “Not many would immediately recognize my background or make the effort. But none of the formal nonsense. May I introduce myself?” He presented a diplomatic I.D. and miniature credentials identifying himself as Gerard De Vylerion, Legate of Frank. “Gerard De Vylerion, soon to be returning to Wryere.” Nathaniel sat and gestured to the seat across from him. “Nathaniel Whaler, Envoy from Accord and acting Legate,” he continued in Frankan.
“You do know Frankan. I must confess I knew who you were. After this afternoon, everyone wanted to talk to you, but your Legation indicated you were out of touch.” Nathaniel motioned for De Vylerion to go on. “I’ve been here five standard years, full tour, and I’ve never heard of violence against a Legation. There aren’t even any records. What did you do? Was it an accident?”
“Accident? No, I doubt it was an accident. I was leaving my office when they exploded. Two, one right after the other. We informed the Diplomatic Police, who came and went.”
Nathaniel shrugged. “Nothing so mysterious was happening. We circulated preliminary proposals, and I felt that everyone who was interested should be informed. I did not want to say much about the explosions until I had a chance to think.”
“I could not be that calm,” answered the Frankan Legate, sipping from the glass he had brought with him.
“I waited to see if there were any reaction. But I will wait only so long.”
“And?”
“I finally told the faxcasters. Was that how you found out?”
“No. My staff told me of an explosion on the three hundredth level, and I asked a friend of a friend. He told me an accident had occurred in the Accord Legation.”
“No. Not an accident. Someone does not like what I am doing. Someone does not want, apparently, a peaceful trade treaty.”
“Lord Whaler—a friend of mine. Lord Naguti, from Orioiarii, is also interested.” The Frankan gestured to his larger table where two others, a man and a woman, sat. “We could join you, but… ”
“Alas, I see my table is too small.” The Ecolitan got up, beckoned to the waiter. As the man approached, he turned to De Vylerion, “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but we would be honored. Have the waiter serve you at our table.”
Probably a breach of etiquette, thought Nathaniel, but the chance to spread a little distrust of the Empire was too much to resist.
“Tables I will be changing,” he told the waiter in Panglais, “and there would I like to be served.” The waiter nodded and retreated to his post. The other two stood as the Ecolitan approached. “Lord Naguti, acting Legate from Orknarli, and Lady Persis-Dyann. This is Lord Whaler, Envoy from Accord.”
“I speak no Orkaiarlian,” Nathaniel explained in Panglais, “but more fluent am I in Frankan, Old American, or Fuardian.”
“We all understand Frankan,” clipped Lady Persis-Dyann, who seemed too young and too sharp-featured to be an Imperial Lady.
“Then I will continue in Frankan,” observed Nathaniel, switching languages with relief. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Persis-Dyann, and you, Lord Naguti, although under somewhat surprising circumstances.”
“Lord Whaler has just informed me,” added De Vylerion smoothly, “that not only was his Legation bombed, but that no one seemed terribly interested. He called the faxcasters himself.”
“Oh?” asked the Lady. “Most interesting,” mused Lord Naguti. Nathaniel took a sip of his tea. “I’m puzzled,” he began slowly. “I arrived thinking progress would be slow but steady and that a trade agreement could be worked out. It’s not that big a problem. It deals with certain microtronics. But nothing happened. So I requested audiences and began direct contacts. Remember, the Empire requested us to come. I was perhaps too aggressive. Yesterday, it begins to appear someone does not want a treaty. Today, there is an explosion in my office.”
He looked around the table. Naguti was nodding. Persis-Dyann seemed bored, and De Vylerion wore an expression of mild interest. He stopped and waited.
“If the treaty’s so minor, why would anyone want to stall it?” asked Persis-Dyann.
“My thoughts exactly,” answered Nathaniel. “That leads to an interesting point. Haversol came to New Augusta to negotiate and had the same trouble.
Now… the similarity I cannot prove, but… ” Naguti nodded again.
“You men all talk in mysteries,” observed the Lady. “Not so mysterious. Lady Dyann,” responded Naguti. “The Imperial Fleet attacked and reduced Haversol because Haversol refused to negotiate with the Empire. If what Lord Whaler says is true, negotiations were stalled by the Empire to give the impression of Haversolian recalcitrance and to give the Empire the option of using force.”
“And because it was veiled in semilegality, the Federated Hegemony, the Accord Coordinate”—and there the Frankan De Vylerion inclined his head toward Nathaniel— “the Fuardian Conglomerate, and the other independent systems chose not to make an issue of a minor planet like Haversol.”
“That is true,” added Nathaniel, leaning back from the table as the waiter delivered his roast scampig. “Another disturbing thought occurs. Haversol was a minor system, and no one protested. Not even Accord, I admit, at least not beyond a simple protest. But Accord is not, shall I put it bluntly, the most admired of the smaller multisystem governments. And so, if the Empire creates a technicality on which to base the use of force against Accord, who will protest?”
Nathaniel cut into the roast scampig, wrinkling his nose as the steam escaped.
“Isn’t that basing a lot on assumptions?” cut in the Lady.
Nathaniel wondered which Ministry had bought her. Despite her sharp nose and piercing eyes, she was attractive and had a nice figure beneath the gold-trimmed brown tunic.
“Assumptions, yes,” he continued after swallowing, “but could you explain why there have been two attempts on my life, including exploding my office, and bribes to my staff?”
“Bribes to your staff?” Naguti asked. “A minor official, but I caught him and actually got a written confession that an Imperial Ministry was paying him to spy. Not unusual, I would guess, although since the Empire supplies most of my staff, I would question why they would need to approach him.”
“What do you think, Neri?” De Vylerion asked. “I think we may all have a problem. While I earnestly hope that the incidents which had befallen Accord and Lord Whaler are merely isolated coincidences, I have grave doubts that they are. You know, don’t you, that the Fifth Fleet was dispatched yesterday to reinforce the Sector Governor on our borders?”
The Ecologic Envoy Page 14