The Silent Warrior

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Capital grants?” asked Lyr with the horror of the financial professional who avoided use of capital whenever possible.

  “The goals of the foundation are to pursue biological technology. What if extensive laboratory or production capability could not be obtained without actually building it?” He waved a cloaked arm. “Premature at the moment. Job now is research. Later, the capabilities.”

  Lyr kept worrying her lower lip. The answers made sense. And she certainly couldn’t object to the trustee, anonymous as he might be, who was also her superior, having access to less than a third of the fund income when he reported to her what was spent.

  That left one unanswered question.

  “What about the Reserve Fund? That’s nearly twenty percent of the assets, and I have no control there at all.”

  “Reserves may be converted by the trustee without your approval, but only for the purchase or acquisition of buildings, facilities, permanent transportation equipment, or property.”

  “Does that give me any control?”

  “Only indirectly. The more the trustee spends, the less he has. The more he spends, the more you control. Call it a balance of power.”

  “Sort of. But he could replace me at any time.”

  “He could. And the founders could replace him. Or the Empire. if he ever should break Imperial law.”

  Lyr stopped worrying her lower lip. She still didn’t have the satisfaction she wanted, but she had some answers, and some implications that were even more far-reaching. The assets of the foundation were far greater, far greater, than she had been led to believe when the unknown hawk-eyed man had interviewed her and given her the job. And the emphasis on long-range contingency planning for capital grants and expenditures indicated a more action-oriented mentality behind the foundation than was usually the case.

  She looked at the screen. Was the man in black a founder? Or the trustee? Who were they? Imperial family? Court? Commercial? Or an Ethics Conscience Fund set up by a manufacturing consortium?

  “Any other questions?”

  She realized she had said nothing, caught as she had been in her own thoughts.

  “Uhhhh . . .” The nonsense syllable escaped her, and she clamped her lips shut. What else could she ask?

  “Nothing. Not yet.”

  “Check with you later.”

  The screen blanked, without even a good-bye.

  Lyr frowned, almost biting her lower lip. Was she being co-opted? What was she managing? Or more precisely, for what end was she managing the foundation?

  “You worry” she said, wanting to express her feelings aloud, “but you don’t have a thing to point to. Except that the people who set this up don’t want to be publicly identified. Have you been asked to do anything shady? Haven’t they been overly concerned about insuring that all the legal formalities are complied with?”

  She looked at the blank screen, then at the blank walls. In the operating plan for the year was an amount reserved for decorating the office, however she wanted. An amount large enough to do it quite nicely, even extravagantly, although she could certainly reduce that if she wanted. Altering the plan was well within her discretion, but she suspected it had been a polite way of letting her know that she was welcome to decorate as she pleased.

  “You already have more control over your job than many of your contemporaries will have in their whole careers.”

  She stopped the monologue, ran her upper teeth side-to-side over her lower lip.

  She knew one other thing. Without a better reason, a great deal better reason, she wouldn’t walk away from the money, the title, and the mystery. Not now, maybe not ever.

  But she worried at her lower lip as her hands dropped to the console keyboard and the financial projections.

  XIII

  HIRO’S FEET WERE beginning to hurt. The new C.O. had insisted on walking through every single hangar and viewing every single stasis dock. Every single one, including some Urbek Hiro himself had never seen in his ten years at Standora.

  Hiro had tried to steer the senior commander around the Delta complex entirely, which shouldn’t have been all that difficult since the only ground level entry was through the back of the last hangar in the flitter repair section.

  Senior Commander MacGregor Gerswin had just pointed to the portal and said, “To Delta complex.”

  It had not been a question, and Captain Urbek Hiro had just nodded.

  Unlike most new commandants, Commander Gerswin had either committed the entire plan of the base to memory or was personally familiar with it. Neither possibility appealed to Hiro.

  Three steps behind the senior commander, the captain shook his head.

  The senior commander frowned, and for the moment appeared nearly as old as a senior commander should. His hand jabbed at the pile of assorted metal parts in the corner of the dusty hangar.

  “And that?”

  “Sort of an unofficial spare parts inventory, Commander.” Hiro repressed a sigh. He had hoped the new chief would be as easygoing as the last. According to the records, and to his HQ sources, senior commander Gerswin had close to a century in Service, and was the senior commander of the I.S.S. With that sort of record, Hiro had expected a silver-haired, lightly wrinkled man ready to enjoy a graveyard tour.

  Commander Gerswin looked more like a thirty-five-year-old, fast track deep selectee, but one of the medical techs had informed Hiro, off the record as usual, that the senior commander was indeed the senior commander.

  “Captain Hiro. Correct me if I’m wrong, but some of these parts belong to Beta class scouts. The I.S.S. hasn’t had a Beta class scout in service since before I joined.”

  “Yes, ser. I’ll have them removed.”

  The commander patted Hiro on the shoulder. The captain couldn’t stop the quiver.

  “No. Don’t remove them. Might find them useful. But not in a heap. Have them sorted and categorized, those that are serviceable.”

  “What . . . I beg your pardon, ser?”

  “Captain Hiro. I don’t like messes. Not terribly fond of people who try to cover up. But Standora is nearly a junkyard. You know it, and I know it. Rather have a museum than a junkyard. Least that’s good for something.”

  Hiro shook his head again, so imperceptibly it was scarcely visible. The senior commander made no sense at all. He avoided thinking about it by lifting his eyes from the discolored plastone floor to the open hangar end. Outside, the sun had disappeared behind the thick gray clouds that usually formed by midafternoon of every day.

  The new commandant’s laugh—like a series of short barks—shook Hiro’s disintegrating composure further.

  Across the hangar one of the idle techs had lifted her head from the unused console where she had been dozing. As she saw the silver triangles, she came to her feet and began to wipe off the console with brisk strokes. The fact that it had no screen did not deter her sudden enthusiasm.

  “Look at that, Hiro,” added the commander in a softer voice. “People need something constructive to do.”

  Hiro didn’t like the idea of something constructive to do at all. Not at all. But he smiled, as he had learned to do so many years earlier.

  “I also don’t like being humored, Captain.”

  Hiro could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his back. What in the Emperor’s mangy name had they sent him? And why?

  “I understand, ser. I understand.”

  The senior commander did not respond, instead stepped up his pace through the hangar, heading for the empty stasis docks outside.

  XIV

  GERSWIN CHECKED THE time. 2303 standard Imperial.

  Easily, almost lazily, he moved to the locker and began pulling on the black uniform stored in the back of the bottom drawer.

  When he was finished, he studied his image in the mirrored back of the locker door, aware that even his own eyes wanted to avoid the indistinctness of the full-fade black uniform. Only his eyes were uncovered.

  After palming t
he light stud, he eased into the narrow space between the portal frame and the wall, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and waited.

  Shortly he could hear the muffled feet of the four, slow step by slow step, as they approached his temporary quarters.

  He grinned in the darkness.

  Click. Click.

  The portal irised open, and a dim sliver of light pierced the room, followed by a searing yellow glare.

  Thrummm! Thrumm! Thrumm!

  Three stunner bolts, wide angle, blanketed the small room.

  “Mange!”

  “Gone!”

  Rather than leaving, as professionals would have, the four crowded in through the portal.

  Gerswin noted the heavier bulk of Hiro as the last inside.

  Striking with the silence of unseen black lightning, Gerswin garroted Hire, with his forearm, while knocking the captain’s knees and legs from under him. The quick, brute-strength maneuver left the heavy captain unconscious in seconds.

  Gerswin dropped the maintenance tertiary and dispatched the pair next before him with alternate hands.

  “What—“

  The cry of the fourth man died as Gerswin’s elbow crushed his throat.

  The senior commander, still scarcely breathing heavily, tapped the portal shut, relocked it, and tapped the light plate.

  The three dead men—Morin, Zorenski, and Vlaed—all had stood close to a head taller than Gerswin. The hawk-eyed commander nodded, rearranged two of the bodies. Next, Gerswin pulled the unconscious form of Hiro around so that the maintenance captain was propped against the side of Gerswin’s bunk.

  “Uhhh . . .”

  Last, Gerswin picked up the stunner, already set to the setting that was lethal at short range. Lifting Vlaed’s body, he stood, supporting the dead man in front of him, and waited for Hiro to react.

  Hiro’s eyes opened, and he grabbed at the side of the bunk. He looked, wide-eyed, at the dead man, who with open eyes had a stunner leveled at him, then scrambled toward the weapon.

  Thrummm! Thrumm!

  Gerswin changed a few patterns in the floor scuffs, avoiding all four bodies, and removed the black uniform, easing himself into a robe, and wiped the butt of the stunner he had used on Hiro clean before he finally unlocked the portal.

  Brinnng!

  He leaned down and picked up a second stunner and stood against the wall waiting for the response to the alarm.

  “Ser?”

  The security rating decided against touching his weapon as he measured the C.O. leaning against the wall and looking at the carnage on the deck.

  “Captain Hiro came charging in here to warn me about an attack. Before he could make me understand what was happening, those three”—and Gerswin gestured toward the three bodies beyond Hiro—“charged in. Hiro took them all on, but they got him.”

  “Yes, set. If you say so, ser.”

  “Not only do I say so, D’Ner,” Gerswin said, picking the rating’s name off his tunic, “but that’s exactly what the retinal images will show, and what all the evidence will indicate.”

  Not only that, reflected Gerswin silently, but the disclosure that the commandant had discovered the illegal diversion of funds from the Imprest Fund and the selling of unused maintenance spares would certainly bolster the fact that the three were guilty of attempted murder, or would have been, had not the courageous Captain Hiro stopped them.

  Hiro, of course, had been careful to keep himself above the illegalities.

  D’Ner saluted. “Yes, ser.”

  Gerswin looked down at the four, then back at D’Ner.

  “Let’s get this taken care of, D’Ner. We’ve got a base to run, and one that’s supposed to repair ships.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  D’Ner’s shiver was not lost on the commandant, who smiled at the security tech.

  “Think about it, D’Ner. For what earthly decent purpose would three like those be dressed in dark clothes and sneaking into any quarters? And why would they be carrying stunners?”

  D’Ner bit his lower lip, then looked up. “When you put it that way . . .”

  Gerswin shook his head slowly. “Tell me, D’Ner . . . how long has Technician Morin been holding off the completion of the repairs and improvements to the regular commandant’s quarters?”

  D’Ner frowned. “I don’t understand, ser.”

  “Not up to you, D’Ner. Up to the Board of Inquiry. But you deserve to know. Put it in question form. Could this kind of attack take place if the commandant’s regular quarters had been ready? With all the security checks?”

  “No . . . no, ser.”

  “Why weren’t they ready? Did it have anything to do with the fact that Morin was in charge of the day-to-day work?”

  It did. Hiro had put Morin in charge, which had been one of the things that had alerted Gerswin in the first place.

  “Never thought about it . . . .”

  “Well . . . damage done already. Lost a good officer . . . and I owe the captain a great deal. Hope the Board of Inquiry can get to the bottom of the whole thing.” He let his voice turn cold as he finished.

  D’Ner shivered, glanced at the cold eyes of the commandant, as if to say he was not sure whether he would rather face the commander or the Board of Inquiry, then glanced out the portal as he heard the steps of the security reserves.

  “In here . . .” The security technician’s voice was faint, but firm. “In here.”

  Gerswin handed the stunner to D’Ner. His face was impassive.

  XV

  Who are the men who own the skies?

  A tall man, a thin man, a mean one.

  A man who has no heart, and one who has no eyes.

  A man who laughs, and one who never dies.

  Do no women own the skies?

  A tall one, a thin one, a mean one?

  A woman who has no heart, one who has no eyes?

  A laughing woman, or one who never cries . . .

  . . . you cannot own the skies and stars.

  You cannot prison them with bars . . .

  And yet, a steel-crossed heart,

  with ports that never part,

  with daggers from his eyes,

  has let the captain hold the skies.

  And who will melt the steel away?

  Who will steal the daggers’ day?

  Who will split the clouds in two,

  and with her heart the stars pursue?

  Fragments from The Ballad of

  the Captain (full text lost)

  Songs of the Mythmakers

  Edwina de Vlerio

  New Augusta, 5133 N.E.C.

  XVI

  THE LIEUTENANT WALKED quickly, as if he were trying to outdistance Gerswin.

  “Just ahead, Commander. Just ahead.”

  Torn between a sigh of exasperation and a smile of amusement at the young supply officer’s nervousness, Gerswin kept his face impassive.

  “All the security systems in place, Hursen?”

  “Yes, ser. Checked them this morning.” The dark-haired man did not look back as he followed the walkway through a right angle turn and toward the massive open stone archway.

  Through and over the archway, the wide sweep of the rejuvenated but antique commandant’s quarters dominated the crest of the low hill.

  The hill itself had been raised at the “suggestion” of Standora Base’s first commanding officer, in order to allow him to view the entire base from his quarters.

  The two men halted before the archway, an archway that concealed the low level personnel screen that ringed the entire grounds, gardens and all.

  “You have to go through first, Commander. The screen is keyed to you.”

  “Just me?”

  “For now. You could add anyone you wanted. Did you have anyone in mind?”

  Even as the words escaped the lieutenant’s mouth, Gerswin could see the young man swallow hard, as if he wished to take the words back.

  Gerswin could not quite hide his grin,
nor the smile in his voice.

  “Don’t worry, Hursen. There isn’t anyone like that.”

  The smile left his face as he considered the import of the words. No one like that—no, there wasn’t. Not now.

  Caroljoy was dead. Dead, for all the memories, and so was their son, the one he had not even known. Three memories of her—once scarcely out of girlhood, for all her warmth and wanting. Once as a Duchess, aging, but still warm and vital. And once as a dying woman, not even in person, but captured in cold print and foundation incorporation charters.

  He shook his head. Twice. Only twice had they been together in a century. And twice had not been enough.

  He had spent more time with some casual lovers. And those casual affairs had sometimes been too much, far too much.

  He shook his head and looked up at the all too imposing quarters he would occupy, quarters that were obviously left from the days of earlier Imperial expansion, days when the energy had been abundant and cheap, and when every base had been another attempt to recreate the glory of the Empire’s rising sun.

  Like the day itself, Gerswin reflected with a wry twist to his lips, the Empire had moved into its afternoon.

  “Commander?”

  “A moment, Lieutenant. A moment.”

  When he stepped through the archway, he did not immediately key the release to allow his supply officer through, but paused and surveyed the formal garden to his right, and the clipped green velvet of the lawn as it sloped down and away from the pathway that hugged the artificial ridgeline, as it led to the wide stone steps that waited to greet the commander.

  On the other side of the quarters, he recalled, was the truly imposing main entrance, designed to accept groundcars of size and splendor. Even if none had been seen at Standora Base in more than half a century.

  The formality recalled Triandna to him, clear as the single time he had been there, clear as that day he had seen Caroljoy the second time and learned he had lost the son he had never known.