The Ecologic Envoy

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Gerard took another sip from his near empty glass. Even Persis-Dyann was silent. Nathaniel took advantage of the lull to finish the scampig and salad.

  “I regret my story has depressed you. Perhaps the lady is right. Certainly, there is no hard proof.”

  “In our business, Whaler,” said Gerard softly, “and since you’re still young, you may not always remember it, motivation and past actions are more important than scraps of proof. Hard proof often arrives just before the warheads. “

  “Our debt, Lord Whaler,” offered Naguti, rising, “but I must be heading back to my Legation. May I escort you, Lady Dyann?”

  “So far as our paths coincide.” Nathaniel struggled to his feet as the pair left. “Very nicely done, Whaler, but do you believe it?” asked the Frankan as soon as they were alone.

  “I’ve made it a bit more clear-cut than it really is, but, in essence, it’s all true. True, but complicated, and the stakes are far higher.”

  “I can guess why. Perhaps we are all fortunate Accord sent you and not another.” He rose. “I, too, must leave, but I appreciate your candor.”

  The portico was nearly empty by then, with only two other tables occupied. The Ecolitan caught the eye of the waiter.

  “All right is it if I return to my first table?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A Taxan brandy, please, and clear water.” He sat down and. stared out through the permaglass, watching the shuttle flares and the stars, so much thicker here than in the skies of the Rift planets, where an arm of blackness clove the center of the night heavens.

  The brandy arrived, but he ignored it, still drawing in the stars. It was like operating in a vacuum. Little or no feedback. Lord of the Forests! He didn’t know whether he’d touched the people he’d met or whether everything he did was blocked just outside his ability to observe.

  Perhaps the faxcasts or the morning faxtabs would show something. If they didn’t, he wasn’t sure what other studs he could press, what other people he could try to manipulate.

  Destruction was easy. It was the refraining from destruction that was hard.

  He picked up the brandy and watched the stars till past midnight.

  He was cold sober and holding an almost full glass of Taxan brandy when he stood again. Every other table besides his was set in morning gold. His was still in evening silver.

  As he strode back to the drop shaft and fifty levels down, he wondered, idly, whether he would find anyone waiting by or inside his door—whether an assailant or a Lady. Finding neither Sergel nor Sylvia, or their like, he locked up and slipped into the large bed alone, and into sleep.

  …XXV…

  Nathaniel woke early, and gratefully, out of a nightmare where Imperial battlecruisers fractured planets and where Ecolitans on black wings sowed death down the Milky Way, turning the stars dark as they stepped from sun to sun.

  A hot fresher helped begin to burn away the depression, as did the cup of liftea which followed from the tiny kitchen.

  He had not been standing in the shambles of the Envoy’s office, dressed in a set of crisp blacks he’d never worn before, for more than a few minutes before Hillary West-Coven scurried in from the front desk.

  “Sir… Lord Whaler, there are two fax crews outside, and they say you personally called them. Ms. Da-Vios isn’t here yet.” Her tone conveyed that he was personally responsible for some catastrophe and that Mydra could have avoided it had she been present.

  “Why, I did call them. Let them in, so fax the damage to our Legation they can. Talk with them I even will.”

  “Yes, sir. You will talk with them?”

  “If they desire such.”

  “But… but…” Seeing Nathaniel’s broad smile, she capitulated. “Yes, sir.”

  Nathaniel left his console to place himself firmly in front of the damage. The three women and one man who represented the media walked in. The two well-groomed women, with the hand-held directional cones and belt paks, were the commentators. The other two wore shoulder mounted fax units.

  “You’re Lord Whaler?” demanded the smaller of the two interviewers, who was dressed in a silver jumpsuit that flattered her slender figure and dark hair. “Lord Whaler, I am.” He beamed. “Fine. Please stand over there out of the first shots while we get a panover of the damage. Marse, start at the right and sweep up toward that hole. “Check-shot. Canning, two, three, and go.” The other interviewer nodded to her faxer, who followed the same pattern.

  The once-over of the damage was followed with detailed close-ups of the two blast areas.

  Nathaniel stood at one side, feeling somewhat neglected.

  “Ms. West-Coven,” asked the smaller interviewer, “can you tell us what happened?”

  “One instant we were working. The next there was an explosion, and Lord Whaler came flying from his portal there. I remember seeing him standing there just before the blast, and I guess he was lucky. He was walking out when it happened.”

  “That was his office?”

  “Yes.”

  Nathaniel cleared his throat, but no one was paying any attention. Both faxers were training their units on Hillary. “How did it happen?”

  For the first time, Hillary looked bewildered. “You’d better ask the Envoy.”

  “Lord Whaler. Stand right there.” The Ecolitan complied meekly. The media commentators were more peremptory than the bureaucrats. “Do you know why the Legation was bombed?”

  “Someone does not want the trade treaty. When I first arrived, attacked was I. Now comes the bomb.”

  “Isn’t that stretching things?”

  “Aren’t you being overdramatic?” Nathaniel shrugged as expressively as he could and pointed to the blast-torn wall. “That. That is not dramatic?” The faxers were off Nathaniel. The smaller commentator wound the segment up. “That’s the story at the Accord Legation. Trade talks, an explosion following an attempted assassination. Frian Su-Ryener for Galactafax at the Accord Legation.”

  The taller woman positioned herself by the worse section of the bulging wall and smiled.

  “For the second time in as many days, violence in New Augusta. Yesterday, the S. refused to comment on why a fully armed agent was assaulted here in the capital. Last night, this explosion, and an Envoy who wears the diplomatic blacks. The rumored assailant of the S. agent also was reported to wear black.

  “Now we learn that trade talks with the Empire are involved, and the Envoy involved has already been attacked once before. Why? Whatever it is, it’s sparked the first bombing in New Augusta in three decades. This is Kyra Bar-Twyla for Faxstellar.”

  “Is that right about the S.?” Hillary asked. “Worse than that,” interrupted the other commentator, “if you believe the rumors. Defense had five agents in the area, and three don’t know what happened and two are now walking nuts.”

  “No confirmation,” clipped the taller one, “no story.” They both nodded to their faxers, and the four left as quickly and abruptly as they had arrived.

  “What did they mean?” the Ecolitan asked Hillary. “There’s some rule by the Ministry of Communications. You have to have at least two witnesses to any rumor you fax, and three or two plus documentation if you present a fact and if it involves official Imperial business.”

  “You know that rule from where?” Hillary was spared a response by the arrival of Mydra. “Lord Whaler, do you think it was wise to let those… those… rumormongers in?”

  “Wise, I know not. But what would they have said if I had said no?”

  “You may have a point there, but sensationalism could affect the trade talks.”

  Nathaniel nodded politely and waited until the two were looking at him.

  “Later, I think, we should talk. Right now, some communications I must make. Repairs, will they be made?”

  Mydra retreated to her console without acknowledging the question.

  The Ecolitan sat back down behind his own console and began to compose a faxletter for transmission to the
Legations of the independent majors, the Federated Hegemony, and the Fuardian Conglomerate. When it was completed, he buzzed Mydra. “Yes, Lord Whaler?”

  “In my console stored is a communication I need improved for transmission. As soon as possible in the formal way.”

  “I’ll get right to it.”

  “See it I would like before you send it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As she was completing the text, he wandered out into the staff office and began to peer over her shoulder at the text screen. Much as he had suspected, the message bore little resemblance to what he had set out originally. “Forgot you the part about Haversol.”

  “So I did. Do you think you should mention such an unpleasant incident so bluntly?”

  “Find you a more politic way to express, and pleased I would be.”

  He waited as she revised the language. “Need the part about the appearance of delay causing misunderstandings that could be avoided. Say it most politely, as you do.” Mydra nodded.

  When it was completed, the faxtext from the acting Legate of Accord was a polite, understated account of the difficulties faced by one Nathaniel Whaler, with even politer implications about how precedents unfavorable to all non-imperial systems could be set if current patterns continued.

  It has to be good, thought Nathaniel. Mydra doesn’t like it a bit.

  “Show me, please, how it is sent.” Mydra touched several studs, and the dispatch plate turned red. She did not touch it. Nathaniel bent over and tapped it. “Do you not finish by this?” he asked naively. “That’s right, Lord Whaler.”

  He watched while she sent off the other twenty-three, knowing she was getting frustrated by the surveillance.

  He retired to his console to authenticate the routine correspondence. The debris had been removed, but the repairs had not been started nor were any workers in evidence.

  After running through the material, he decided to see if anything he had attempted to plant had showed up in the faxtabs. At the three buzzes from the console as it burped forth the faxtab, Mydra looked up sharply at him through the open portal. She seemed to relax as she saw him lean back in the big swivel and began to read.

  The factual side of the news hadn’t changed that much. The First Minister of Orknarli protested the “maneuvers” of the Fifth Fleet. Repercussions of the synde bean shortage on Imperial trade balances. Ministry of Defense requests for greater funding. Prince Heuron dedicates H. M. S. Gold Prince, flagship of the newly dedicated Eleventh Fleet.

  Scandalous Sam was at the end of the faxtab, and Nathaniel hesitated a moment before checking the gossip, not sure he wanted to see if any of the bait was there.

  Explosive news… should we tell you which diplomat had his office explode… after seeing a very special assistant… and yet he’s so very hard to see… Which playboy of the court rolled his airchair over his chef? And don’t forget…

  Nathaniel let the flimsies drop. Unless the Imperials were onto every innuendo. Scandalous Sam’s gossip needed a few more kicks to keep the interest in the Imperial treatment of Accord going.

  At 1153, his private line buzzed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mydra go bolt upright. “Lord Whaler?”

  “The same.”

  “Alexi Jansen, here, and my valued assistant for External Trade, Janis Du-Plessis. I understand there has been some confusion, some rather strange occurrences.” Jansen was a big blond man with skin the color of leather, and he laughed as he finished the sentence. “Of that, some,” admitted Nathaniel. “I do hope we can help.”

  “Our proposal submitted to Ms. Du-Plessis, and rapid consideration of those terms would be helpful.” Nathaniel shrugged as dramatically as he could. “What can I say? Come for trade, get explosions. Come to talk, and…”

  “Lord Whaler,” commented Janis Du-Plessis, “we hope we can clear these up as soon as possible.”

  “Janis, here, told me about your visit. It seemed rather unusual, but she checked up on things, and that guard… he was wiped. Strange.”

  “Guard? Wiped? I had difficulties but did not understand the reasons.”

  Nathaniel shook himself and smiled into the screen. He went on, “Your courtesy I surely appreciate and look forward to hearing from you.” The Ecolitan half bowed. Alexi Jansen bowed in return. “When we have finished an analysis of your proposal. Lord Whaler, we’ll be back to you.” The screen images blanked.

  Nathaniel cleared his throat loudly and thoroughly, stood away from the swivel, and strutted over to the open portal where he could peer down at Mydra. “Mydra? Where is Sergel?”

  “I don’t know. Lord Whaler.”

  “He is supposed to be an Information Specialist, and never do I see him.”

  “I’ll try to locate him, but I imagine he’s quite busy at the moment.”

  “And busy doing what?” The Ecolitan turned and marched back to his swivel, clearing his throat again for effect.

  He had decided he should be somewhat unreasonable, at least some of the time, and occasionally petty until he could see how things were shaking out.

  Dropping himself into the swivel, the black and green swivel, with an audible thump, he twisted the chair to watch the low clouds swirl above the towers. At the angle he chose, he could keep an eye on Mydra without seeming to. The layout of the office had been designed to let her keep tabs on him, and the thought that he could reverse it gave him some small amusement as he saw Mydra keying things out using her console.

  While he couldn’t see the screen itself, she was faxing a number of individuals, from what he could tell.

  At one point, her back stiffened, and he figured she’d been told something she hadn’t expected. After that she made two or three more calls.

  With a snapping movement that flipped out the back of her short black and tan tunic, she stood and entered his office.

  Nathaniel returned his full attention to the storm clouds outside, watching the white-gray tops of the cumulus clouds race toward the patches of blue above. “Lord Whaler?”

  He swiveled back from his window view and put both feet on the floor directly behind his console. “Yes, Mydra?”

  “I can’t seem to locate Mr. Weintre.”

  “Was he not in someone’s custody the day before last?”

  “You had him released.”

  “Fruit a little rotten can only get more rotten… it is hard to translate sayings into Panglais, but you understand?”

  “A partly spoiled fruit can only rot? Is that what you meant? What does that have to do with Mr. Weintre?”

  “Sergel has gotten rotten. First, a little trouble, now perhaps more trouble. Who guards troublemakers?”

  “Here in the tower, the Diplomatic Police.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  Nathaniel had a solid idea where Sergel was: in the hands of “specialists” at the Ministry of Defense who would be questioning him thoroughly, mind-probing him in depth. But the Ecolitan didn’t want to voice that, just lead her along that track. “The Imperial Monitors.”

  Nathaniel shrugged to indicate his ideas were exhausted and went on as if to change the subject. “All the difficulties we have, Mydra, and the Envoy from another system last night told me military people caused his problems. Is that possible?”

  “Everyone likes to blame the Eagles, Lord Whaler, but they stay out of New Augusta for the most part.”

  Nathaniel shrugged again. From the momentary gleam in her eyes, she’d gotten the thought he’d wanted to plant, the military aspect of Sergel’s disappearance and the Legation’s troubles.

  “I understand. Force Command is strong on Accord, and I wondered if the military was also on New Augusta.”

  Mydra gave him a smile that was equally warm and patronizing.

  “The Empire’s not quite like any place else in the galaxy, I suspect. Lord Whaler.”

  “How true. Yet people are people.” He looked out the window and leaned back again. “Not always do I say well what I think. Panglais i
s a lovely language but too flowery for a simple teacher of trade and economics. I came to New Augusta hoping people would see that agreement is possible always and that all lose when war comes.

  “When the more powerful is stubborn, the small fight. Knowing they will lose, they fight, and before they perish, many would poison the water the victors would drink. Fighting is always so.”

  Nathaniel looked at Mydra, efficient in her brown and tan.

  “A scholar could express that better. The point is the same. Your Empire is… complex… many towers, many Ministries, many people, many battlecruisers, many troops. Accord is simple. Few people, few ships. The only defense we have is the power to destroy the ecologies of the galaxy, strewing death across the suns before we perish.” He shrugged. “Can I tell the Empire, with thousands of ships, that little Accord can sow such vast death? Who believes? Can I tell our House of Delegates, who know they can sow such death, that the Empire does not believe? To prove our power, must millions die? And so, I sit and talk, sit and hope. Hope they have not forgotten.” He looked blankly out the window. The room was silent. The clouds swirled outside, and Nathaniel watched. Watched, hoping the snoops had gotten it all, hoping that Mydra had understood it all, and hoping that both thought he wasn’t playing to the unseen audience.

  “Lord Whaler,” Mydra asked softly, “may I go?” He nodded.

  The waiting was the worst, whether it was waiting in the darkness of space, in a full-blanked needle-boat, knowing that another needle-boat waited, knowing that whoever moved first was dead, or whether it was lying flat in the jungle outback of Trezenia, listening for the slight change in pitch of the treehoppers’ song to signify someone, something, was out there moving, or whether it was sitting behind a modernistic console waiting, debating whether to lake stronger action, when too strong an action might unleash the disaster that needed to be contained.